#weekday snippet

[emjayeingray]

Weekday snippet! Thanks so much for tagging me for my first snippet post @imsiriuslyreading 🫶

This is a super short one because I only just started writing this little idea I had yesterday----

Remus took another drag, feeling the incessant need to calm his nerves. It didn’t matter that they shared a flat together, or even that they saw each other every single day, seeing a text from Sirius would always send his body into a sort of excited anticipation. There was some heartache there too, but Remus tried to shove that feeling into the darkest part of himself. Suffocating it from the light in hopes that it would wither away on its own. 

It hadn’t.

It was very inconvenient to be unequivocally head over heels in love with your best friend of 9 years. 

----And that's it! I'm super excited to keep working on this idea.

Tagging @libertuune, @multiimoments, @cancerravenclaw @eniaos, @lyrabriddle , @cauldroncakesandwine and anyone else who would like to participate <3

[birchbow]

==> Snaketroll: snag hot older girlfriend and get absolutely topped

Yeah alright. Done and done, apparently.

Your name is VERATO UDERAK, and you're pretty sure you've just been successfully SEDUCED. You definitely always assumed that your WEALTH OF SECRETS AND INTRIGUE would keep you from ever being taken by surprise and lead to you being the primarily guiding party in whatever PALE RELATIONSHIP you eventually managed to establish, but instead you just got absolutely cold-cocked by a STONE-COLD BADASS. Emotionally-speaking.

Her name is Chayal Rishet, and she's a PROFESSIONAL LAUGHSASSIN of impressive renown. She's compelled you through several weeks of dedicated SECRET-SNIFFING and RUMOR-MONGERY just to learn the name and sign to her face, and when you proved yourself a CAPABLE CONTORTURENIST and tracked those things down she showed up at your door and made it clear she thinks you're PRETTY MOTHERFUCKING PITIFUL. In a HOT WAY.

So, anyway, now you're pinned to your couch.

Verato: Assesssss the situation :oY

==> Her body and bearing ==> Her face and affect ==> Her history and reputation

[itsphantasmagoria]

Weekday Snippets

Thanks for tagging me @appleslightning ❤️❤️❤️

The ones on the right are smut and are heeeeeavily cropped lol

Tagging whoever wants to do this! (I am tired and brain cells aren’t colliding right now)

[peofun1]

WIP Wednesday innit

this one takes place when they're third years, with Sakura as the head of Bofurin and Suo as one of his four kings.

I'm busy with some other projects atm so this probably won't be finished for a while, but I thought I might post a little bit anyway :P if you read the end of my last fic and thought "okay but what if Suo got captured by an enemy team for REAL?" boy have I got good news for you about this fic

[madaboutmunson]

Word game: Love with Wiggins

“You friends with my uncle then?” Eddie tries, and he almost snaps his head around when the reply is immediate.

“Oh yes! Way- I mean, Mr Munson is a fantastic pal.” Higgins enthuses and then quickly corrects himself. There is another clearing of his throat.

This is what Luke Skywalker felt when he found out who his father was. Fantastic pal? Pal? What the fuck?

But Eddie beings to experience something worse than realisation. He’s curious.

“I didn’t even know you were friends,” Eddie says, a little weirded out.

“Oh,” Higgins says disappointedly, “He hasn’t mentioned me to you?” Eddie’s fingers tighten around the wheel again. What the hell was happening right now? Eddie chooses to ignore how much that sounds like someone realising their love is unrequited. No. No, this is not what he thinks is happening. He remembers now. Of course, he means the school stuff. 

“Well yeah, of course, he’s mentioned you when you’ve called about me,” Eddie laughs and shakes his head, “You know all those meetings with the three of us, and sometimes an extra teacher, to bring forth the ‘evidence’” Eddie makes air quotes whilst still holding onto the wheel with the remaining fingers.

Then there is a small laugh from Higgins, “He never did listen to any of it though, did he? Always team Eddie,” And the fondness dripping off those words almost makes Eddie want to slam on the breaks and vomit somewhere, not just out of repulsion but also because he’s just been reminded of all those times Wayne’s backed him against all odds, against all comers. It must be that that makes the words fall out of his mouth.

“Until today,” Eddie grumbles.

[sammaggs]

🚨🚨 This is one of the first M/M gay kisses on scripted North American television 🚨🚨

and I frankly am of the opinion that this should be studied in queer theory classes in schools!!

due South’s Mountie on the Bounty Part 2 aired March 22, 1998 and includes the infamous “Buddy Breathing” scene, featuring THIS underwater kiss between Paul Gross’s Benton Fraser and Callum Keith Rennie’s Ray Kowalski. And it’s one of the first times anybody—ANYBODY—got away with it.

8min 20sec in and yes it’s that dark for a reason baby

For date- and network-specific relevancy, the commonly-accepted first M/M gay kisses on network TV are usually listed as

Dec. 6 1998 on That 70’s Show, where a gay Joseph Gordon-Levitt forces himself on Topher Grace (here at 2:24),

with the first popular and passionate gay M/M kiss between canonically queer characters on network TV not airing until Dawson’s Creek in 2000.

There were a few others before this in ‘94: two straight men as a joke on Friends, an unscripted kiss on The Real World (cable), and a real scripted gay kiss on (Paul Gross-starring) Tales of the City which aired on public broadcaster PBS, nearly getting them defunded. But prime time network TV, we’re usually looking at December of ‘98.

Which is why t’s definitely worth noting that Mountie on the Bounty Pt. 2 aired over 8 months before the episode of That ‘70s Show in March 1998!

So why can’t we count it as THE first? Well, it’s complicated. In the U.S., seasons 3 and 4 of due South were relegated to syndication on basic cable network TNT (typically at, like, 1 P.M. on weekdays).

But this absolutely DID air on CANADIAN prime time network television on CTV, and it DID still air on syndicated U.S. TV (important enough to warrant a TV Guide write-up!), so that’s why I’ve classified it the way I have.

Imagine the absolute balls it took to write, get network approval for, shoot, and air without censorship, an M/M slash LIFE-GIVING KISS on TELEVISION (cable or not) in the year 1998. HUGE. (And, of course—spoiler warning for a 30-year-old television show—Fraser and Kowalski ride off into the sunrise together at the end of the series, and they got away with that, too.)

Paul Gross, the man that you are,

(Also huge thank you to @systematic-and-somehow-tragic who tracked down the 1997 TV Guide from whence I drew this snippet. Set ‘em up, knock ‘em down!)

[childrenofcain-if]

Hello beautiful Author!! I hope u are doing well! So basically I am a religious follower of your blog and uuugghh!!! This story is so beautifully crafted like the script the writing style the plot even the characters seem larger than life. Honestly u have my tremendous respect and admiration.... Also I am totally in love with cedric!! angsty adorable and hot. So since today is my birthday I decided to treat myself to a snippet ... Can u please write a fluff scene where in the future after marriage yk after C achieved his dream how would M!C react to find out that F!MC is pregnant. What kind of dad would he be and how would he handle the news especially if it's a girl. (PS: I love you okay? U rock!!! ❤❤😘)

the morning started like most mornings did in your household. the sunlight filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows of your manhattan penthouse, muted by the heavy curtains cédric insisted on keeping drawn just enough to keep the room from feeling exposed.

he was already in the kitchen when you woke up, sleeves rolled to his elbows, reading glasses perched on the edge of his nose as he frowned at his ipad.

it was a weekday, which meant cédric was doing what cédric did best: handling things.

the man could command a room full of board members or negotiate a multi-billion-dollar deal, but he always took his mornings slow, like it was his personal rebellion against the world which demanded his attention. the smell of coffee hung thick in the air, and you could hear him muttering under his breath—half in french, half in english—as he skimmed over some report.

he looked up when he heard your footsteps. the cold glint in his pale green eyes softened the way they always did when he saw you.

“good morning, mon amour,” he said, setting the ipad down as if the numbers and charts weren’t important anymore.

you smiled at him, but there was a nervous flutter in your chest that didn’t quite dissipate.

“good morning,” you greeted back, making your way to the counter. “we need to talk.”

his brow furrowed, just slightly, in that way that meant his mind was already cataloging possible scenarios. you wondered if he was running through a mental checklist: a problem at work, an overdue bill, a delayed package. he was always looking for answers before you even finished your question.

“what’s wrong?” he asked, voice low and calm, but his hand twitched where it rested on the counter.

you hesitated, suddenly unsure how to say it. for someone who had spent years speaking in boardrooms and drafting persuasive arguments, the words felt clumsy in your throat.

“there’s nothing wrong, per se,” you began, and you saw the tension in his shoulders ease—just a fraction. “it’s just... i’m pregnant.”

the silence that followed was heavy, but not uncomfortable. it was like the air had stilled, waiting for his reaction.

cédric blinked. once, twice. then he stepped back, leaning against the counter as if the weight of your words had hit him square in the chest. his mouth opened, then closed again. he looked—if you hadn’t known him better—younger. like a boy caught off guard, unsure of whether he was allowed to feel what he was feeling.

“you’re...?” he started, and then he stopped himself. his hand went to his hair, brushing the dark brown strands back, a nervous habit he’d never managed to shake. “you’re sure?”

you nodded, suddenly shy. “i took three tests. all positive. i was going to wait until we were both home later tonight, but—”

“no, no, now is perfect,” he interrupted, his voice sharper than he intended, like he was scolding you for even considering keeping it from him. he shook his head, and you could see the beginnings of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “mon dieu.”

cédric laughed then, a sound so rare and so unguarded it made your chest ache. it was a laugh of disbelief, of joy, of sheer and unrestrained emotion. he crossed the kitchen in two long strides and pulled you into his arms, holding you so tightly you could feel his heart pounding against your ribs.

“je t’aime,” he murmured into your hair. “je t’aime, je t’aime, je t’aime.”

you clung to him, laughing through the tears that had started spilling down your cheeks.

***

cédric’s reaction to the pregnancy didn’t end that morning. over the next few weeks, he threw himself into preparing for the baby with the same intensity he brought to his work. he was meticulous, obsessive even, researching everything from cribs to car seats. he vetoed three potential pediatricians before you’d even had a chance to meet them, insisting that only the best would do.

but it wasn’t just about the logistics. cédric was unexpectedly tender, in a way that made your heart twist. he read parenting books in bed at night, one hand on your growing belly as he absently stroked his thumb over the fabric of your pajamas. he brought you tea without being asked, stocked the pantry with your favorite snacks, and refused to let you carry anything heavier than a shopping bag.

when you found out the baby was a girl, it felt like the world completely shifted for him.

“it’s a girl,” you had informed him, holding the ultrasound picture out to him.

he took it from your hands carefully, as if it were made of glass, and stared at it for a long moment. his expression was unreadable, but you could see the way his fingers trembled, just slightly.

“a daughter,” he said, the words thick in his throat. “our daughter.”

you nodded with a small smile, watching him carefully. “how do you feel about that?”

he didn’t answer right away. instead, he set the picture down on the table and turned to you, his eyes burning with an intensity that made you shiver.

“i’m going to protect her,” cédric said, his voice low and fierce. “from everything. from everyone. she’ll never have to wonder if she’s loved. she’ll never have to fight for what’s hers.”

“i can already see it,” you teased gently, trying to lighten the mood. “you’ll be the dad who scares off all her partners.”

“damn right i will,” he said, his smile returning. “she’s going to know her worth. and if anyone tries to undermine that—” he didn’t finish the sentence, but the murderous look in his eyes said enough.

you leaned forward, cupping his cheek and drawing him back to you. “she’ll know her worth because of you,” you said softly. “because of how much you’ll love her.”

“and her mother,” he added, his voice barely above a whisper.

he kissed you then, slow and lingering, and when he pulled back, his hands settled gently over your stomach.

you reached for his hand, squeezing it tightly. “she’s going to be so lucky to have you.”

cédric shook his head, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “no,” he said softly, his gaze dropping to your belly. “i’m the lucky one.”

***

as the months went on, cédric proved himself to be everything you’d hoped for and more. he was attentive to a fault, sometimes to the point of driving you mad with his insistence on helping you. ehen the baby kicked for the first time, he was right there, his hand pressed against your stomach, his eyes wide with wonder.

when your due date finally arrived, he was the calmest one in the delivery room. he held your hand through every contraction (even when you almost broke his bones), whispered words of encouragement in your ear, and refused to leave your side, even when the nurses told him to give you space.

and when your daughter was finally born, cédric was the first to hold her, much to your father’s exasperation. he cradled her tiny, wrinkled body in his arms, his expression soft and awestruck.

“she’s perfect,” he whispered, tears streaming down his cheeks.

you smiled, exhausted but deliriously happy. “she has your eyes.”

“and a head full of your hair,” he said, his voice breaking.

in that moment, you knew without a doubt that he would be the kind of father who would move mountains for his daughter. he would be firm but fair, protective but not overbearing, and endlessly devoted to her happiness.

as he rocked her gently, humming a lullaby under his breath, you realized that this—your little family—was everything you’d ever wanted. and as much as you knew about how cédric wasn’t very good at expressing his emotions, it was clear as day right now that nothing would ever compare to the love he had for the two of you.

[pinenutpbj]

Several Sentences Wednesday

Tagged by @prevalent-masters who just fed us well with their western AU, thank you!

Since I already posted something caustin on Sunday, I think it’d be nice to have a clegan snippet on a weekday? Anyway, here’s Gale having feelings in my Algeria fic:

“Going somewhere, Major?” Benny calls out as Gale passes by.

“Not really,” Gale answers. “Might as well have a look at the breakfast today.”

“Well, I wouldn’t bother,” Benny says, returning to his letter without interest. It’s Brady who catches his attention before he leaves and says, “Bucky is with the mechanics in the tent.”

“Yeah,” Gale acknowledges vaguely, continuing across the airfield, his sheepskin tucked under his arm, feeling oddly like he's walking into battle without a weapon.

His feet bring him to the tents, close enough to see where Bucky’s situated. John wears only a singlet and shorts, his sunglasses hung low on his neckline, marking the vertex of the parabola formed by the cord against his chest. His red fez is tucked in his shorts pocket, his hands planted on his hips. He looks calm. Put-together. He wasn’t down in the lowest of the three squadrons.

The local troop mechanic next to him is a new face to Gale, around Lemmons’s age, probably younger. They stand beside each other with an unfathomable closeness. Amid the rhythmic clanking of tools against metal, the boy says something into John’s ear; in return, he gives him an encouraging slap on the back.

Tagging @shipstorms, @constanthaunt and @irregularcollapse if y'all wanna play :)

[usedpidemo]

Acquainted (Red Velvet Yeri)

(Thank you for the commission! I hope it's to your liking.)

You’re just about ready to head off to sleep when you check the group chat. This is your nightly tradition. These strangers, now your closest friends despite the anonymity, are active and in good spirits, as usual. Outside of your weekday 9-to-5, these few moments are the most interesting parts of your day, and you just so happen to join during a particularly lively conversation:

> [22:48:01] yerimiese: (posts a link to a red velvet album article)

> [22:48:14] flutter mane: :sanapog:

> [22:48:23] silksong sulker: k-pop is saved

> [22:48:33] wonyoung cockjuicer: ew red velvet

> [22:48:37] wonyoung cockjuicer: wonyoung can peg me tbh

> [22:48:39] irene’s tokki: Bae J:floshedjiggle::floshedjiggle:hyun

> [22:49:06] milf hunter: :floshed:

> [22:49:11] milf hunter: gape sugalo

So of course, you chime in as well.

> [22:50:12] You: lets get it, new rv fancams

You’re in no mood to chat for longer than five minutes, but before you head offline, you receive a private message from your closest friend:

> yerimiese: so when are you in korea again?

> You: Next week, why?

> yerimiese: nice. why don’t we meet up, that would be dope as fuck

> You: You’re in Korea? 

> yerimiese: yeaaaah? why wouldn’t i be? 

> You: I thought you’d be doing other schedules abroad

> yerimiese: nah sm definitely won’t fly us out to film an mv. cheap ass bastards ㅋㅋㅋ

Yerimiese then sends you a video link. It’s a Yeri fancam, her weapon of choice. Your conversations began with small, intimate talks about your personal life, soon transpiring into open fapping, degrading, and casual lewdness with each other. Despite the usually depraved nature of your messages, you both continued sharing snippets of your day to day lives. That’s how close you’ve grown as friends.

> You: Well i’m very tired, today was a long day at work, had to work overtime. No time to lewd, sorry

> yerimiese: it's alright. you did well today

Yerimiese sends you a pic this time. It’s an event; the internet can’t load any quicker. You’re hungry, impatient, dying. Whether it’s intentional or not, the photos she sends whenever you’re tired or stressed out are hotter than her usual swimsuit or photoshoot reel. You’ve shared enough about your daily routine to her that a camera crew might as well be recording you.

It’s nothing out of the ordinary; a simple candid pic of herself lying in bed, her face perfectly cropped out of the background, showing nothing but her body on full display in front of the huge mirror, dressed in skimpy black panties and a white shirt  that accentuates her shapely breasts. As usual, she’s not wearing a bra; you can clearly see her hard nipples demanding all of your attention.

> yerimiese: no need to send a dick pic tonight if you don’t feel like doing it 

You can’t help it. Tired as you are, you feel obligated to send her one. Luckily, every pic she sends is more than enough to make you instantly hard. It feels more guilty not to be turned on, rather. 

It’s a mostly quick and painless affair, powerful enough to put you out of commission within minutes. Even though you’re mentally checked out, Yerimiese’s sexy body is too hot not to crank one out. Taking a pic of your erect cock as you pump yourself to her is second nature; sending it on sticky fingers after you’ve spurted all over your phone and blankets is a different story. There’s no other way to put it, she was the perfect reprieve from the day’s exhaustions—a perfect high note to go out on.

> yerimiese: fuck you’re THROBBING THROBBING tonight :ningasm: your dick looks so damn nice. i can taste your cum through the screen

> You: Happy now? 

> yerimiese: more than, and then some. I wish you were here right now so you could feel how wet I am

> You: Just wait. I can’t wait to fuck you hard. Goodnight

> yerimiese: goodnight

> yerimiese: :tukkwithkiss:

—————

The next time you’re able to communicate with her, you’re one day away from being in Korea. In that period, you’ve been inactive in the group chat because work. What welcomes you back is a barrage of lewd photos and Yeri fancams.

> yerimiese: see you tomorrow :chuupeek:

It’s an open secret that you know she’s Kim Yerim. Yes, that Kim Yerim of Red Velvet fame. It was a giveaway right from the first explicit photo she sent you; those tits in a tight, petite package couldn’t have belonged to anyone other than hers. That, and the fact that her username is the same as her Instagram handle, and that she has a photo of herself in the group as a display pic. How she would end up stumbling into your private K-pop server objectifying her body and her profession is one of life’s biggest mysteries, yet here she is, giving you a very personal look into her shapely figure, better than any fancam and photoshoot could ever provide. To others, she’s merely a casual acquaintance, but to you, she can freely open up herself.

Mainly because you’re one of three people in the group chat that still cares about Red Velvet.

Her latest sent photo is relatively tame; a tight fitting white silk sundress, and the skirt is virtually nonexistent, her panties practically out in the open. Luckily for you, she seems to be sitting down, but not in her usual living room. The notion that this is what welcomes you to Korea, that you’ll be balls deep inside an idol’s pussy right when you land—it ruins you. 

Almost. 

An airport guard manages to break your deep train of thought. “Sir! No phones please,” he sternly commands, saving you from total disaster; you’re inches away from walking straight through a metal detector with your phone in hand, the belt around your pants, and some spare coins lying deep in your pocket after you bought some traditionally expensive bottled water. Luckily, no one manages to see the photo—and even if they did, she’s still smart enough to cut out her face, leaving nothing else to your imagination. 

If there’s one thing you’ve learned about immigration and airport security, it’s that there’s little need for repetition. You go through security four times. At the entrance, after the check-in counter, then within your departure gate, and even before boarding your flight—repetitive. It’s frustrating enough to tell Yerim, to which she responds with more lewd photos of herself. 

> yerimiese: yeah ive been there before ㅋㅋㅋ

> yerimiese: how long’s ur flight?

> You: About 13 hours

> yerimiese: cali?

> You: Yes

> yerimiese: kinda random, but seulgi misses los angeles

> You: How come? 

> yerimiese: something about an ex-boyfriend that i didn’t know about until the other day ㅋㅋㅋ i bet she’ll be jealous when she hears about you coming over just to clap my cheeks ㅋㅋㅋ she’d wish it was her bf instead of you

> You: does she know about this?

> yerimiese: of course not LOL i bet you’d rather fuck her instead of me, so she’ll never know. smh.

> You: That’s not true ur my RV bias since day one!

> yerimiese: stop lying LMAO i don’t blame you tho seulgi has some really toned legs and a nice slappable ass XD anyway, i’m gonna send you something to pass the time while ur onboard

> You: If it’s a masturbating clip i swear to god

> yerimiese: fuck you got me LOL

> You: Goddamit if anyone finds out on a plane of all places…

> yerimiese: i still can’t get over your clip of you jerking to me. i can taste your dick. you’re depriving me by leaving me out to dry for a week ㅋㅋㅋ

> You: You’ve been touching yourself to that clip for a week??

> yerimiese: can’t help myself, album prep has been tiring and i haven’t really found any opportunity to relax in the meantime

> You: I’ll be there soon, just wait a bit longer

> yerimiese: can’t trust me with that, i’m very close to making a huge mess of my hotel room ㅋㅋㅋ

> You: You’re in a hotel?

> yerimiese: just to meet you! I won’t be able to meet you at the airport (duh, idol dating shit), so this is the next best thing. just message me when you’ve landed here, okay?

> You: Sure

—————

It’s ingrained deep within Yerim’s mind. A core memory. If her phone could present count how many times she’s played the clip, it would be over a thousand. 

It’s very straightforward. A 45 second clip of someone masturbating between the sheets, pressing their erect cock against their phone with a brightened image of a scantily clad woman on the screen. But it’s not just any woman, it’s her. She’s pleasuring herself to the idea of a man jerking off to her. She’s following his rhythm, timing the pace her fingers rub her clit to the tempo of the man’s cock pumping to her zoomed-in breasts. 

And she’s mere minutes removed from a conversation with that exact same person.

Slumped against the hotel room walls, her bliss spirals out of control rapidly. Her legs are instinctively spread wide, juices already leaking through her panties and spilling to the floor; that’s how used they are to Yerim’s impulses to pleasure herself. In those brief moments, she imagines how the next few days play out, skipping past the formalities and pleasantries and going straight to the fucking. She moans and shouts as if that very man’s cock is penetrating her pussy hard at this very moment. Her other hand bashes the wall, tongue screaming streams of profanities, as if he’s manhandling her, using her to his personal delight.

“Fuck! Suck those fucking tits!” she screams, slipping one strap of her sundress down to pinch her own tit, enhancing the illusion. Her phone rings; in her mind it's functionally a vibrator. He’s come fully prepared, and she’s riding high knowing that this person is doing exactly what he said in their private messages from the very start.

Yerim drags her fingers along her clit violently, desperate to reach climax, the realization that this is her third orgasm of the day way beyond her. The evidence can be found everywhere: on the soiled bed sheets and in the smell of the shower; she envisions herself getting railed in those parts of the room, and then some—essentially turning the entire hotel room into the backdrop for all of the things he’d do to her: fingers around her throat, sunk into her ass, until it’s red and hurting, the way she’d quiver and cream all over his throbbing cock. Her neediness has no limits; it even breaks past her very own personal quarters, the loudness of her own self-induced pleasure drawing concern from occupants nearby.

Only after the blissful haze of orgasm does everything fall back in place. That repetitive knock on the door is a huge wake up call. Yerim’s eyes widen. 

“Shit.”

She checks her fingers—they’re coated in copious amounts of slick—and after a little further inspection, she realizes the aftermath.

“Shit. Shit. Shit.”

—————

Being honest about yourself, you couldn’t have asked to feel hornier at a worse time than this. Thirty thousand feet high up in the air, stuck in economy class because you don’t get paid enough to deal with the bullshit back in the office. Using your one of two allowed leaves in the year for a trip to see a girl you’ve mostly known online, and it isn’t even paid. To make things worse, there’s no layovers—just a point-to-point flight from San Francisco to Seoul. 13 hours.

And boy, is the ride absolutely miserable.

By what you might as well call divine intervention, you’re conveniently seated between a nun and a little girl—the two worst kinds of people to be alongside with. No, not because they’re annoying or anything like that; aside from the girl getting up every thirty minutes from her window seat to get something from her parents across the aisle, you’re practically barred access to your glorified archive of lewd Yerim pics. Opening them up with a kid barely in the first grade beside you is openly asking for trouble.

And the few times you get up for a lavatory break, you can’t get yourself going. There’s always someone at the door every five minutes. 

Eight hours deep into the flight, you look over your shoulder, catch one of the male flight attendants sneak inside one of the vacant lavatories with a fellow stewardess while everyone’s fast asleep. Fucking sickening. That should be you with Yerim right now.

When you arrive on the other side of the planet, you’ve gotten only a couple hours’ worth of sleep. You almost fumble your passport at immigration, getting them mixed up with a slew of business and membership cards. Then there’s your forgetfulness working against you, remembering you need some kind of pocket Wi-Fi, and now you have to spend a little more to get back online. It’s a mess, and it wasn’t that long since you were in Europe for a seminar, where these things were merely second nature to you.

At least you remembered that VPNs exist. You message Yerim on the taxi ride out of the airport, unsure of where to begin.

> You: Just got out of immigration

> yerimiese: fuckin finally! 

> yerimiese: you got a place to stay here?

> You: Not yet

> yerimiese: don’t bother, lemme send you my hotel address, you can stay here

Of course you don’t know Korean, despite the constant back and forth with Yerim for months. Learning’s been on the backend of your itinerary, and has never been your top priority, even now. You show the cab driver the address, who merely looks at you and the phone with a particularly vacant and dumbfounded expression, as if you’re stupid for not planning this out—which, in that regard, he’d be correct.

When you finally arrive at the hotel, only one message stands between you and finally meeting Yerimiese, once and for all.

> yerimiese: I’ll be at the poolside, third floor. can’t wait to meet you :P

And that’s exactly where you end up going. Forget that you’re lugging two whole bags and a traveler’s backpack on your shoulders; you drop them off at the front desk, expecting the staff to have a clue of what’s going on and what’s about to happen.

Stepping out into the poolside, it’s a completely barren sight. It’s three in the afternoon on a Tuesday; most people probably aren’t even booked, let alone in this supposed five-star hotel. You don’t really question whether she’s being serious or not, the evidence was in the previously sent photos; you’re dying to meet her at this point. 

And as if perfectly timed for dramatic effect, a woman emerges from beneath the waters, shaking off the wetness from her damp hair.

Yerim casually swims over the deep waters’ edge, without a care in the world, let alone your presence quietly shadowing over the large pool. Even halfway submerged, you can make out the outline of her shapely bust and hourglass figure, tightly hugged by a pink swimsuit. She was sultry and intoxicating to gawk at from candid photos, but seeing Yerimiese herself in the flesh, that’s when the realization hits you: this is happening.

And you can’t move a muscle, let alone react from the actualization that you’re right in front of her. Even as the waves of water splash on your new loafers, you simply observe. It’s creepy, it’s morally dubious, but it’s one in a million. You’re taking in every moment, every second; soak it all in, you’ll never get an experience like this ever again. 

You should be friends by now, if your definition of friendship means sharing explicit body photos and exchanging devious intentions about how you’ll fuck each other online or how much cum you’ve given to each other. But when she turns in your direction—catching you casually observing her, your hands tucked away in your coat’s pocket, grinning like a little kid— it’s back to square one.

Like the very first time.

Yerim takes all the time in the world to wade over from the other side of the pool, her smile growing closer as she approaches you. She lifts her eyebrows, expecting you to make a first move, to which you barely open your mouth, and ultimately only a deep breath, a stilted sigh, comes out.

Well, this is awkward.

Yerim giggles. You’ve previously heard her loud moans and cries, but a genuine laugh—this was your first. She never hops on calls in your group chat, most likely because idol shit, as she often refers to her line of work. Her laughter, her energetic expression—it’s as perfect of a translation to real life as it is online, and embodies the idol Yeri you know on screen. 

“How long have you been standing there?” she asks, trying—and failing—to suppress more of her laughter.

Your answer is concise, but doesn’t seem quite right. “A while.”

In reality, about five minutes. You probably won’t be there any longer when she props herself out of the water with her strong elbows. Water cascades down her shapely figure, thicker and meatier than it's ever been, more than what the cameras and pictures present. She’s truly the entire package, through and through. 

She walks over to her sunlounger, granting you a nice peek of her ass peeking through her skimpy swimsuit before she wraps herself with a towel. Apart from that, your only other notable observation is that she’s soaking wet, even bundled up. That, and also: she’s barefoot. No sign of slippers or any footwear—she willingly walked on what appears to be scorching cobbled floors.

“I would give you a big hug right now, but you know—” she comments, looking down at her drenched self, pool water endlessly dripping down to her feet. Even if she isn’t soaking wet, you’d still be frozen in place, or even worse, some eagle-eyed stranger or Dispatch reporter catch you in secret and you both end up on national news the very next day.

“Yeah, yeah, it’s fine,” you say, trying to dodge Yerim’s eyes. “I left my stuff at the front desk. I should probably go and grab them.”

“Smart.” Yerim sizes you up, nodding in amazement at how you’ve managed to get yourself past the entrance. “See you upstairs, then? Room 1015.”

—————

The difference between you and Yerim couldn’t be any more obvious.

Granted, you’re fresh off a 13 hour flight, followed by an hour's travel from the airport to a five-star hotel in the heart of Seoul. Yerim had all the time in the world to prepare, and yet when she emerges from the bathroom in nothing but a modest bathrobe and her dark hair bundled up, she’s never looked better. 

Facing an idol in such a haggard condition, it gives you an underlying feeling of shame. And if you’re being completely honest, if not for your cock, she’d probably be repulsed and call security on you.

But there's no security in sight. Just you, just yeri, the two of you standing in this room - which is, for the most part, quite nice. Multiple bedrooms, a lovely view of the city beneath you, and all sorts of amenities and features you’ll never get to use—you half expect her members to come in later, but perhaps for your sake, you’re better off with just her and her alone.

When Yerim begins to talk, she rambles. She goes on about the status of the next album, discussions about a possible solo debut, her relationships with her members—conversations about topics that you never really had online. It was mostly dirty talk and lewd captions. At best, you knew each other at a surface level, but here she is, sharing everything from her heart like you’ve been lifelong friends since day one.

You let her. She’s as charismatic as what she portrays on screen, and her sass is no different than the private messages she sends you. There’s not a single dull moment whenever Yerim speaks. Though you know her mostly for her body, her personality is what has you sticking around.

You wonder if she feels the same way about you.

“So, how’d you find out about us?” Yerim asks, after blabbering for a while, and you genuinely believe she’d keep going till nightfall. Close enough. Five minutes away from five in the afternoon, and you’d already spent the last hour and a half listening to a personalized podcast from her. You hope she doesn’t notice the plate of bulgogi on the table now completely empty.

“Well, a friend was a K-pop fan and had an extra ticket when you toured here,” you say, casually, slumped on the sofa. “Forgot how long that was—” you pause, “five years ago?”

“Five years? Five years since we went to America?” Yerim appears flabbergasted, face in utter disbelief at the passage of time. The realization causes her to stand from her chair. You’d be too after listening to her drone on endlessly. “Fuck.”

“SM! Give us a fucking world tour already!” she screams, pretending she’s inside the company building and you’re an executive in the room. Watching her snarkiness come to life never ceases to amuse you. You’ll let her go on for as long as she needs to; she’s entertaining in such a unique and charming way that it disarms you.

“Argh, sorry, you know me.” She suddenly stops, faces you, arms crossed, mocking up a pout. “Look at me suddenly losing my shit for no good reason.”

“Are your members used to this?”

That didn’t come out right.

She bats an eyelid. On her face is a mild, blank look of displeasure. That didn’t come out right. 

“Used to what?”

“Well, uh, I—I mean—”

You gulp your throat.

“Stop.”

Then, an air of awkward silence. Her eyes quickly scan you, lazing on the sofa.

“Let’s just get to fucking each other right now.”

—————

It isn’t that you’ve forgotten the one purpose you’re there to begin with, it’s that Yerim is very, very impulsive. One moment, upset at her company for doing the bare minimum for her group and her career, the next she’s using you as an outlet to release her frustrations. It’s a good thing your first impression of her was that she was very busty, because otherwise, the other description you had of her was—simply put—bratty.

You’re on your back, plopped against one of the beds, completely caught off-guard by her show of strength. Eyes rolled to the back of your head, you find Yerim already at the bed’s edge, loosening the belt around her waist, quickly disrobing herself within seconds. It’s nothing new; you’ve seen glimpses of her nude figure in pictures, imagined many scenarios where you’ve got your hands on her, but this—to see her completely bare in the flesh—is new. 

This is different. 

“Just so you know,” you mutter, frantically panting, your heart jumping, as Yerim undresses in front of you, “I haven’t actually had sex before.”

Just like that, the mood instantly changes. She stops. Abruptly.

“What?” 

Her mouth drops—again. Might as well stay agape. 

You consider retracting your statement. It was a joke, you’d say, something to get her even more aroused, fired up. The sex would be wilder, hotter than anything your fantasies would conjure. Then again, you wouldn’t be in this exact situation if you weren’t so chronically online, simping over pop idols like a kid about to enter puberty.

“I guess that’s to be expected,” she comments, snarkily, grabbing the edges of your pants, daring to rip them off you. “That’s fucking life, baby!” 

If you were in her shoes, obsessively waiting for someone with equally unhinged horniness, expressing precisely how you’d get fucked every single time you’d send a remotely lewd photo, you’d feel just as disappointed. You can tell by her partially scornful expression: she’s been fantasizing this moment as much as you have, too. You can’t blame her, but you kind of expected her to anticipate this; after all, you connected in a private group chat that’s been sexualizing her, of all places. 

Surely the signs of virginity were right there.

“At least this is real,” she says, leaning her head forward while cupping your growing bulge poking through your trousers. Your tip, at full mast, mere inches away from her chin, instead of a little phone screen. She’s pushing you around, growing slightly more mischievous and uncontrollable with the prospect of throwing someone like you around instead of the opposite. Something her members may have taught and ingrained in her. 

It isn’t quite the picture you expected from all the erotic snapshots and clips she’s been sending you. Every photo and video, designed to rouse the filthiest and wildest of your thoughts, was an act, a ruse to let your guard down, to give you this fixed headcanon that you can toss her around like she’s your personal plaything and object of pleasure. Instead, she’s using you for her own desires and wants.

It’s not that you don’t want her to use you and fuck you like this, it’s how completely in control she is that has you reeling, leaves you in a dizzy spell.

“I was gonna let you use my pussy and fuck me to ruin,” she says, playfully rolling her eyes, teasing and mocking. Her hand grips around the denim of your bulge, and it fucking stings. You’re sucking on loose air. “But since we have a virgin over here, I’m gonna do whatever I want.”

The implied connotation is what terrifies you, and no, it isn’t the revelation that Yerim isn’t a virgin—you assumed that much—but the notion that you were gonna have free reign over her cunt that has you contemplating some deep, long forgotten life decisions that set you back years. Their consequences are now starting to show.

She releases her ironclad grip on your pants, frees you of your obstructive clothing, both trousers and boxers down to the floor. Your hard cock springs free, terribly aching, already red and sore from her suffocating clench, and already leaking bursts of precum. The last day and a half hasn’t been kind to your cock.

To add insult to injury, she makes this licking motion with her tongue, aimed at your tip, but relents at the last minute. It leaves your throbbing cock aching harder, without any point of relief. The teasing sight almost renders you unconscious, and sends Yerim into a laughing frenzy. 

“Remember when I said I could taste your cock?” she says, chuckling. It’s not playful in the slightest—quite the opposite, in fact. It’s sinister. “I’ll wait a little longer to taste it. Don’t worry.”

Not the most reassuring of words, especially when you’ve got your hands tied—at least, not yet. Actually, you appreciate that she isn’t going to milk your cock dry just yet; when you finally look past the situation at hand, you come to treasure her chest. Her shapely chest, freely bouncing while she bounces her thick body on your lap—keep doing that, you say inside your mind, letting your wandering gaze soak in the unreal scene. 

She notices your intrigued eyes, rising and falling in rhythm with her tits. Subtlety was never your intention, and she probably knows from experience, as she says she does. Fixated attention is how she gets herself off, based on how she seems to respond to the lewd messages you’ve sent her in the past, and it shows when she repeats some choice remarks back to your face:

“I’d kill my boss to fuck those tits right now, you’re so goddamn sexy.”

She grips a hand around your throat, another down to the buttons of your shirt, pulling them apart. 

“Let me be your personal titty towel.”

Halfway there.

“I’d suck on your tits first, go down on your delicious pussy, then fuck that wet hole of yours three times straight.”

Just like that, you’re both even. Equal in nakedness.

You’re unsure whether it’s the sight of Yerim asserting her dominance over you, tits all up in your face with a devious smirk as she bares you down to your essentials that’s leaving you short on air, or if it’s the hand cautiously coiled around your neck. Either option seems sensible enough. This is how she lives in your head rent free, just being her sassy, sexy self. Even repeating some of the same particularly questionable lewd things you’ve written to her sounds hot with her brazen tone. 

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” she raises an eyebrow, leaning her head close, as if demanding an answer. 

Really, there’s no multiple choice here. Of course you nod.

She rolls her hips upward, inches her body across yours little by little, til her dripping pussy completely shadows your view. Her hand grabs the back of your head, meaty thighs pressing between your face. Now you’re truly suffocating. Even with the rather shameful admission, she rolls her crotch on your lips, expecting you to know what to do. No words, just the expectant grind of her crotch on your face, her wet folds opening up for you to take them.

Then, she begins moaning. 

Admittedly, the closest you’ve had to trying out oral is using your phone as an outlet for your tongue whenever she sends a boob photo. Thankfully, your inexperience doesn’t show when you first dip your tongue inside her folds, getting your first taste of pussy. Saltier than you expected, but fuck, you’d be lying if you think it wasn’t completely intoxicating—everything you hoped for, and more. 

It incites a few expressive reactions from Yerim—some loud, others quieter—with the end result usually a sharper, deeper grind of her waist on your face, splaying her cunt for you to devour. You’ve got one hand pressed on her ass, holding her plump flesh down while the other is at her mercy, pulled by hers, forced to squeeze her breast. You won’t complain. Not when her cries of pleasure motivate you to push yourself harder.

You repeat this addictive cycle, stretch moments into minutes, minutes into hours. Even when you’ve drained her completely, you’ll still be craving for more of her; that’s how hungry she’s made you. Your tongue meets her clit, and it draws out this especially sharp whine that she’s never hit once. Not on a track. Not anywhere. She swears up a storm, juxtaposed between soft, gentle pleas of “yes, more, and you’re so good.” 

In return, you take more of her, soak yourself in the continuous downpour of her slick juices freely flowing all over your mouth and tongue. As her pleasure escalates, her fingers tighten their grasp on your head, grab your tousled hair. You add soft, intimate kisses between streaks of licking her folds, and they send the young idol writhing, shaking atop you. Her words have been reduced to nothing but short, needy bursts of “please.” Even in this uncontrollable state, she gyrates her hips around you, rhythm steady, but more determined than ever to let herself go.

By the way her pussy throbs, you’re certain she’s a few critical points away from climax. It doesn’t change your plans, not one bit. You continue to lap at her sensitive folds, bask in her intoxicating heat, purposefully teasing her clit. She won’t demand that you end her —not this quickly, not when you’ve magically learned the art of giving oral to a woman under short notice.

You slowly work her through it. Your tongue dives into her slick entrance, deeper than it's ever been so far. The overpowering sensations send ripples that reach even the foundations of the bed, unlike anything it’s ever felt. Even in the wild throes of bodily pleasure, Yerim has enough willpower to stay in character, delivering a demand in her usual playful, fast talking tone. “Please do it! I’m going to cum!”

You contemplate the thought, completely drunk in her divine taste yourself, but you oblige. 

Your tongue sticks to her bud, and it causes this instantaneous, elaborate chain reaction. Yerim cries a sharp cry, waves of orgasm washing down all over her body. She stops in her tracks, completely rigid, mouth wide open, and this torrential gush of slick and orgasm swamps you, drowning you so deep that it's nearly fatal. Her thighs involuntarily clench tighter, too, and you’re temporarily trapped in your own pocket dimension, impossible to clean with all the cum left behind, especially on the sheets.

The most surprising observation from her orgasm is how suddenly calm it becomes. Only the sound of your tongue licking her clean can be heard, and it’s nothing but a gentle rustle. She hangs her head up, face completely flushed, catching needed oxygen in her lungs, letting the aftermath of her climax pass over. 

While her breath normalizes, she lifts herself up, moves to the side of the bed. In her wake, she’s left behind a drenched lake of slick around your face, leaking down to the muddled sheets beneath you. 

“Well,” she says, panting and pausing for air. “There goes the other bed.”

It doesn’t take rocket science to figure out what she meant. Even when you’re still mindlessly occupied by the sticky residue around your lips. You let out this muffled exhale, designed to be a laugh, but it backfires in your face. Amused, she giggles on your behalf.

“Not bad.” Yerim smiles at you. Charming and cute, a contrast to what had just transpired. “I thought you said you never had sex?”

It takes you a moment before you answer back, “I haven’t. You just taste really good.”

“You still have some left on the edges of your face,” she comments, her eyes mesmerized by how much she’s cum all over you. “Let me help you clean that up.”

And she helps, but not in a conventional way. She lifts you from the bed by your torso, then submerges you again, this time at the mercy of her bosom. You’ve got your arms wrapped around her waist while you’re kissing and sucking on her Yerim’s  tits, not exactly tidying up, but creating a larger mess that no amount of tongue cleaning can resolve. 

In the meantime, she whispers in your ear some of your more—questionable—comments:

“They need to give her a solo debut with a very sexy concept and trust me, I’ll be the guy who breaks the world record for jerking off if they do that.”

“It must feel heavy to carry them all the time. Let me lend a hand to you.”

“The only thought I had inside my mind when I saw her is every member would milk her 3x a day so that they don’t have to go outside and buy milk to eat cereal to the point they would just drink it from the source.”

You stop. You give her this strange, confused look. Even you couldn’t believe you said that.

“Did I actually say that?”

“Yes!” she replies, quick and straightforward, unable to hide her enthusiasm, while brushing your hair. “Not gonna lie, that sent me to the floor. I was laughing so hard, Irene ran in to check up on me!”

To make things worse, she flashes this wide, toothy grin that makes you regret your life choices. 

“God. I don’t wanna drink anymore.”

“Hey, if there’s any consolation, you wouldn’t be sucking on my tits and eating me out now if you never made that comment,” she says, caressing your chin and giving you a peck on the lips. As if it’s still not one of the most out of pocket comments you’ve ever made about anyone, let alone a celebrity—and you weren’t fully yourself.

“Relax. Don’t think about it too much.” Yerim pushes you back down to the bed, crawls atop you, meeting your lips again for an intimate kiss. Your hard cock, which has been left unattended for quite a while, captures your attention—and especially hers. “Lean back for me, will you?”

You comply. Involuntarily, your legs straighten, but Yerim pushes them apart, places herself at center view, seemingly ready to take you in her mouth. It makes sense; a woman with a mouth that runs like hers probably only stops when there’s cock stuffed inside them. The theory proves to be plausible when she gives your sensitive tip a delicate, yet dangerous lick, her eyes glinting at you with renewed vigor and lust.

“I told you I’d have a taste of that cock,” she says, half smug, half seductive, gloating with her brows. Your tenseness slightly recedes—until you realize your cock’s moving past her lips, in the direction of the space between her cleavage. “I didn’t say I wanted to suck on it.”

And she was right—not once has she ever expressed her desire to choke, gag, deepthroat on it. 

You grit your teeth, watching your cock disappear between her shapely tits, with Yerim personally making sure you comfortably fit like a glove. You fold. It’s snug. Hot. Breathtaking.

“Fuck, Yeri,” you mutter, closing your eyes as her inviting warmth leaves you weak in the knees, trembling. You don’t realize you’ve used her stage name over her real name. “God—”

“Does this feel like everything you wanted?” she asks, tone sultry and triumphant. A little slide up sends you into a frenzy.

You nod—even though there’s no other available options. The erotic image in front of you is permanently seared into your head: Kim Yerim, popular idol and to an extend, your ‘friend with benefits,’ grinning like a maniac, slowly fucking your cock between her tits, coated with your saliva, sweat, and copious amounts of precum. To think your little crude messages on a random forum would have such long term and drastic consequences such as this.

Not that you’d want to make sense of it all, especially when she gets into a rhythm. Sliding her breasts up and down, she’s delicate, intentional, and masochistic; you’re on the receiving end of how she felt when you were slowly eating her out. She’s dangerous, teetering between the line where your cock can be safe between her bosom and where she can break you in half. You’re already falling apart—and fast.

“Holy shit, Yerim. Fuck.” 

Each word you deliver is long and drawn out, especially the profanities. Heavenly music to her ears. She’s out of reach where you can pull by her hair, so you settle for the sheets instead. Your gaze wanders, travels everywhere but in her direction, because you don’t need to see the tortuous scene happening between your legs. Looking at the descending sun, this is probably the last time you’ll see the sun set in your life.

Her eyes challenge you to look at anywhere from her. Panting frantically, you find yourself at the mercy of Yerim’s whims, your cock fading and swelling into view, sticky and wet, gushing cum all over her tits. The sight drives you further mad, has you making sounds that have never been recorded—ever. She takes you in, delights in your suffering, eager for you to say the magic words.

“Ready to cum? I know you want to cum.” 

Even under duress, you’re not ready to fold just yet. There’s a little stubbornness inside you fighting back, pulling all the stops to keep you from surrendering to Yerim’s demands. You close your eyes, grip on the sheets even tighter, control your breathing, but it’s too little too late. You can only do so much with two hands.

“Cum for me.”

You hold onto a particularly deep breath, desperate to cling to whatever dying vestiges of control there is left, but your fate has already been sealed from the moment you’ve allowed your cock to enter her chest.

“Yerim, I—”

The exhale you release is the most relieving and satisfying. With it, comes out a rope of thick, creamy cum splashed all over her neck and chest. The aching, violent sensation doesn’t stop; more seed spills between the warmth of her cleavage. In one fell swoop, you feel all of your energy sapped from you, leaving you completely weak and powerless. 

In the gap between your climax and post-orgasm haze, you wonder if she’ll take some of your cum in her mouth, with the way she looks at your cock as it throbs beneath her chin. No. She lets it drip down her perfect naked body with a sticky white sheen that glows under the natural light piercing through the hotel’s window. 

“Just like that, hm,” she comments, casually flicking the last of your withering orgasm and cum with her wrist. She lathers the slick on her fingers on her shoulder, then places some into her mouth for a taste. 

After you regain a semblance of normalcy—after Yerim’s finished entertaining herself with your cum, staring at her coated body and fingers with curious interest—she rests her elbows on your knees, in the process of relearning how to bend. You sink back against the headrest, watch as the fading sun glimmers on an idol like her, destined to shine for every occasion possible—on the stage and under the afterglow of sex. She smiles, bright and wide, taking you in, as you are.

There’s something brewing, especially in the tender few minutes that follow. Something special, something more than just a spark. 

“So—” Yerim runs a sticky finger on your knee, dangerously close to stirring up your cock again. “You wanna try anal with me next?”

You pause. Widening your eyes, staring back with a look of disbelief. Just when you’re about to open your mouth to reply, she adds:

“Kidding. You do know that you’re gonna have to delete those tweets and comments, right? If they find out you’re here, you’re fucked. And I mean, a thousand times worse than now.”

—————

(A/N: This was an absolute joy to write. The nature of the request meant I could go very meta with it. About time we get a proper Red Velvet full album, so perfect timing! If you're able to figure out some of the references and easter eggs, then you, my friend, are too engrossed in the Tumblr K-pop male reader smut lore. Thank you for reading!)

(P.S. If you want to have your own story/idol written, you can ask for a commission :D)

[metalomagnetic]

Snippet Canis Major

Voldemort remembers the other Sirius. Also, a little glimpse at Orion/Walburga, because I never tire of this toxic couple.

(-)

Usually, it was Arcturus or Pollux that showed up when their children got in trouble. Cygnus, especially, was often in trouble, so Pollux’ face was the most familiar to the students.

In Voldemort’s sixth year at Hogwarts, Atticus Bulstrode, the Head Boy, invited Walburga to Hogsmeade, the last in a lengthy string of boys asking her out. Only this time, she accepted.

When he heard, Orion challenged him to a formal duel. Atticus laughed, rolled his eyes at his fourteen years old opponent.

“Quick!” He was shaken awake by Abraxas, in the middle of the night.“Orion is killing Bulstrode in the trophy room! You have to stop him!”

He reached them just in time, he disarmed Orion, and rushed Bulstrode to the Hospital Wing, where they found Dumbledore asking the Matron for a sleeping potion.

Atticus was lucky- Dumbledore was more often than not away from Hogwarts, chasing Grindelwald, rumour went, but he was there that night, apparently suffering with insomnia.

The professor kept Atticus alive until the Healers from St Mungo arrived and took the boy with them.

“It wasn’t me,” he said, hurriedly, stained in Bulstrode’s blood, lingering in the Hospital Wing. Dumbledore peered at him from under his half-moon glasses. Dumbledore always liked to blame everything on him. “I only brought him here after-”

“I know,” Dumbledore assured him.

The next morning Atticus’ father came thundering, his yells easily heard from where Voldemort was spying, near the Headmaster office.

He wondered if maybe this will be the time when a Black actually suffers consequences. After all, Bulstrode’s name was ancient, they were a rich, influential family, and surely, at least on account of that, Dippet would do something more than detention and points taken, which was the usual punishment for Blacks.

Only, this time it wasn't Arcturus that came to fix his son's issues.

It was the infamous Sirius Black. A tall man, with wide shoulders, long black hair hanging around his face, deep circle under his too intense eyes, mouth twisted in a snarl. Orion walked behind him, his gaze fixed on his older relative. Voldemort watched them, hidden by a pillar. Orion never seemed small; he carried himself with such arrogance and pride, his head held so high he seemed a foot taller than he was. Yet right then, Orion looked small, trailing after his grandfather, quietly, as Voldemort observed them disappear up the stairwell leading to the Headmaster's chambers.

They left Dippet’s office not even a quarter of an hour after they entered it.

As soon as they emerged from it, the gargoyles closing the door behind them, old Black slapped Orion, the noise echoing down the hallway.

“Next time you pull something like this, do it on a weekday, you fool! If I’m woken up again at this ungodly hour on your account on a Sunday, you will be very sorry for it.”

“Yes, Grandfather,” Orion answers, in that unfazed tone of his.

The old man narrows his eyes. “What was it about, anyway? How did he provoke your ire?”

A second worth of silence. “He tried stealing from me.”

Orion gets hit again, harder this time. The heavy family ring rips the skin at the corner of his left eye, and that pure blood of theirs makes an appearance.

“Then why does he still have hands?” the old man hisses, enraged. “If someone attempts to take what is yours, you cut off their hands, boy!”

He slaps Orion again, just as harshly.

“Yes, Grandfather.” Orion doesn't take his eyes off his grandfather, doesn't wipe away the blood running down his cheek, his hands held behind his back.

Sirius Blacks huffs in displeasure, before turning on his heels and marching down the hallway. “Weakling,” he mutters.

Nothing happened to Orion. Not even the usual detention. No points taken.

Sirius Black insisted it was a formal duel, that the challenge had been accepted, and it was all done honourably, Slughorn told Voldemort, when he called him into his office to give him the Head Boy badge, temporarily, until Atticus recovered and would be able to return to Hogwarts and his duties.

“When Armando reminded him duels are illegal at Hogwarts, formal or not, Mr Black said rules are just words on parchment; that he’s a wizard, and he follows laws of magic, not of men.” Slughorn sighs, rubs at his temples, and then he takes a caramel out of his newest bribe-sweets bag that Abraxas gave him. “He told Mr Bulstrode that if he wants justice, then he should challenge him to a duel, and solve it like wizards ought to. Of course, Mr Bulstrode has more than one brain cell, so he refused and let it go.” He sighs again, points a sugar coated finger at Tom. “This is why I always told you not to seek trouble with Blacks. We’re lucky he’s apparently taken to drinking lately, locked up in his Manor, that he lets Arcturus handle most of their affairs, who is much milder and reasonable. But, once in a while, he gets out and you do not wish to run afoul of him.”

No one in the common room talked of it; only Walburga complained she was looking forward to going to the newly opened teashop in Hogsmeade, and demanded to know what was Orion’s problem with Atticus.

“A Quidditch thing,” Orion told her, with a shrug. “Don’t worry, Waly. I’ll take you to Madam Puddifoot’s.”

“I don’t want to go with my baby cousin, don’t be ridiculous! Malfoy, you will take me!”

Abraxas backs away, slowly. “I can’t, Walburga. I’m busy, I have to study,” he says, hastily, when Orion glares at him from behind Walburga.

It was the only time mild-tempered, well behaved Orion did something so outrageous that his unhinged grandfather had to come and solve it, so it was the only time Voldemort saw the man.

[gioia-writes-and-others]

🦐🦐 MIXED FRIED mode ON !!! 🦐🦐

aka WRITING SHARE! (it's been a while!)

In the spirit of "fuck it we ball" AND breaking that unhealty habit of overthinking and procrastinate posting here a few snippets of a scene that gave me quite the headache....and still does 😒

Not the whole scene because....reasons (spoilers?)

Special THANK for the tag to :

@aintgonnatakethis for WIP Weekend

@theeccentricraven for Nine lines Nine people

@willtheweaver for Seven Sentence Sunday Someday and another one on Sunday (not me though 😂)

and @wintersennwritings for WIP Weekend Weekday

Snippets DRAFT ZERO - The scarred angel (Ashley Knox trilogy) AND some art under the cut

CW : blood, injuries,possible torture, swearing, murder

The screen showed what looked like a fingerprint magnified multiple times over.

The red cursor blinked and bit down pixels, the trajectory defined by the code scrolling across the screen generating the necessary electrical impulses, worked like any eraser tool in a graphic software leaving behind large patches of black.

"It's empty now....." the man wearing a white lab coat muttered, basically to no one but himself, squinting through his spectacles at the output on the screen.

His quite imposing stature forced him to sit slightly slouched forward.

Bony pale fingers switched continuously from mouse to keyboard without him taking his eyes off to what on-display.

Except... it wasn't empty.

.......

.............

One of the two men standing behind White-coat snorted through the handkerchief fabric concealing his nose and mouth :

"What the fuck? He'll trash all those fucking wires you stuck on his head, why you don't sedate the bastard?"

...........

..............

White-coat chin pointed towards the glass wall that separated them from the gruesome scene : "Shut him down." he instructed the two men, voice neutral and fingers keeping up the typing on the keyboard.

It was the second man's turn to snort as he walked briskly towards the glass door, pulling out a gun from behind the waist band.

The door had barely swung open when the silent blow brought the subject's ordeal to an end, sending splotches of red blood and gray matter all over the wall next to him.

...........

..................

The two men pulled the plastic coat that covered part of the walls up to the floor underneath the chair, opened the shackles and shoved down the corpse that hit the floor with a heavy thud, rolled it inside the tarp folding the exceeding haphazardly and started to drag the whole thing, one to each side.

"Next time fix that better, would you?" the first one complained loud enough through the fabric.

The other grumbled back something unintelligible, an unlit cigarette dangling between his lips.

Just few minutes before his hand had found the lighter in his pocket to lit it up.

It would had help to bare with the fetor coming from God knows where, since the bastard on the chair was still alive at that point.

But White-coat's stern look, the only moment where the fucker had dignified them with a glance, had stopped him midway.

Clearly this fucker had to be immune to the miasma.

So now, as his comrade was pissing him off, he came back to him that it really did suck they couldn't get rid of this White-coat ass too.

Because the orders, of course.

.............

............

When they passed next to the desk where he was abusing his keyboard White-coat instructed : "Bring the next in." still not taking his eyes off from the screen, tone flat.

Both men barked out a groan.

"Fuck man, are you telling me we have to cover it all up again?" blurted out Thug-number-one through the hankie.

At that White-coat finally snapped out from his work.

He tilted his head and in a nervous reflex adjusted his spectacles on the bridge of his nose, like he hadn't fully acknowledge the presence of the two thugs in the lab with him until that very moment.

.....

.......

The two men finally reached the corridor that leaded to the outside.

.........

"I'm telling you, this whole thing is rubbing me all wrong." Thug-number-two grumbled again.

Thug-number-one nodded, fucking finally getting rid of the hanky and using it to drab dry the sweat from his brow.

"This son of a bitch is fucking heavy" he chin pointed to the roll tarp "Pick up the next one skinny, shall we?"

Out in the open on the truck's cargo bed were piled up several other corpses already, summarily wrapped in a mess of blood-stained tarp, the layers not to discourage swarms of buzzing flies that lift in the air as the men made an ultimate effort to lift and dump the last dead man's body with the others.

...........

For a while the only noise came from the flies buzz feasting and the sandy dust scrunching under the soles as the two enjoyed - fucking finally - a well deserved smoke, back leaned against one side of the truck in the only very thin sleeve of shadow.

Then Thug-number-two broke the silence : "The asshole said 'another one'." he tsked.

............

Another bunch of seconds trailed while both drag on their cigarette and exhaled smoke then Thug-number-two prompted again : "You know what this shit's about at least?"

At that Thug-number-one made a face, his resolution to keep quiet instantly out : "What? You don't know?"

"Know what?"

"New business man!"

Thug-number-two arched a brow, skeptic.

Thug-number-one insisted eagerly, enjoying the sudden authority that came from being the only one aware of what's going on : "Fuck, man, I'm telling you! All this shit? Progress, man!"

Thug-number-two gave him an unimpressed look : "Fuck progress, has Moreno said that?" he almost pouted.

"Man, are you against progress?" Thug-number-two mocked him.

The other shrugged : "Fuck off!" he muttered averting his gaze, then spat on the ground and sucked on the cigarette keeping silence, all to underline his contempt.

Thug-number-one toke his time and let his comrade sunk in his bad mood for a bit, then chucked the butt in the dust, snuffed it with the heel and conceded : "Moreno didn't say shit".

He straightened up and adjusted the belt under his prominent stomach : "I've picked things up by myself. See all that crap now, computers and stuff?"

The other gave him the eye, but clearly enough he wanted to know.

...

............

Also working some art for one of my OCs, Frank Morales....not there yet in the way I imagine him but wip

(The girl is not happy about it....😅)

Aight, let's tag some people (np) + OPEN TAG and a drink 🍻☕🍷☕ 🍹🍻

@kiennwrites @gaslightwestern @onravenshill

@falco-underscore-77 @bonnibelleangelica @ncashmanfiction

@the-golden-comet @legalownerofufoemoji @dragoninatrenchcoat

@bluefiredesire @aalinaaaaaa @illarian-rambling

@lunaeuphternal @zackprincebooks @wyked-rebellion

@vesanal @jev-urisk @badscientist

@peach-the-gospel @jacobwren @inadequatecowboy

@orphanheirs @riveriafalll @saturnine-saturneight

@cowboybrunch @words-after-midnight

@letterboxd-in @angofwords

@deanwax @thecomfywriter @leahnardo-da-veggie

@lychhiker @avaseofpeonies @alinacapellabooks

@mapplesand @kaeru483 @dnschmidt

@keeping-writing-frosty @ryns-ramblings @aspiring-dreamer

@rivenantiqnerd @pertweefan1970 @agirlandherquill

@innerthoughtsmonologue

@noxxytocin @moltenwrites

[kikidoesfanfic]

Okay it's Wip... Weekday?

I have two Big Bangs going and I can talk about one of them now! So chuck me an emoji or two!

🐸 Steve Big Bang - to make me write and I'll share either redacted or a random snippet from elsewhere

🎲 Steddie Big Bang - Post the 'Billy Incident' Hellfire adopts a pet jock (Steve)

[spidrgirl]

MILES MORALES X READER

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Masterlist: here ➼

Pairing: Miles Morales x sweet girlfriend ᥫ᭡

Synopsis: Part two of the headcanons I made of miles (1610) x his sweet girlfriend, but this includes snippets of before you two started dating!

Genre: fluff

Word count: 801

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅

crushing stage:

➳ you and miles would barely have any classes together. maybe one or two throughout the day, but those classes sleays felt too short for him. so, miles would change his route to class just to see you. the few seconds he would see your pretty face in the hallway was enough for him to get through the day. was enough for him to get that warm fluffy feeling in his stomach.

"oh, i dunno. i just dont wanna be in class right now" he'd shrug whenever you asked him why he took the long way to his classes.

but really, it was just an excuse to see you. just to feel your soft hands whenever he'd dab you up in the hallway.

➳ miles isn't the shy type when it comes to flirting. he hugs you longer than the others, holds your hand a bit longer than necessary when shaking it, and purposefully reaches for the same items you are just so he can feel your skin brush against his.

it's safe to say that this boy is touch starved.

➳ miles and you would probably be friends before he develops a crush on you. so he'd always deny any rumors of him liking you, saying you guys were 'just friends' even though he wanted to be everything but that.

"n-no. she's just a friend, nothing else" he'd stammer, even though he's clearly nervous about it.

➳ miles looks for your eyes during any group conversation. yes, there are about 5 other people in your friend group, but your voice is the only one he cares about hearing. your eyes the only ones he wants to look into.

he can't help but try to fight back a smile when you glance at him during these conversations, and even more so when you talk to him specifically.

➳ miles draws you in his sketchbook. but not only pictures of you where he thought you looked actually beautiful, but just quotes of funny things you said that might've stuck with him, or random notes of things you mentioned liking.

he'll never let you find it though, keeping it locked up in the top shelf of his closet. he'd die of embarrassment if you ever saw what was in it, afraid you'll think he's a weirdo of some sort.

talking stage:

➳ miles stays on the phone with you late at night. he loves hearing your pretty voice telling him what you did that day, and all the things you laughed about in third period.

➳ miles makes more of an effort to spend time with you. yes, you guys did frequently hang with eachother whenever the opportunity presented itself, but even then those hangouts were short because of whatever spidey-business he had going on that day or some general day to day distractions.

but once he realizes that whatever you guys having going on between you could be something serious, he starts making more plans with you. sometimes ditching spending time with ganke just to see you.

➳ your weekdays aren't what they used to be anymore once you and miles start talking. at first, you used to just get ready and then leave with your parental guardian as they drove you to school.

but after you guys start talking, you had to get ready for school an extra fifteen minutes early because miles wanted to walk with you to school. sometimes taking you to the local bodega to get your favorite snacks, or ordering your favorite coffee for you at the small coffee shop in the city.

➳ miles makes an effort to get to know your parents/family. your family absolutely adores him though, so he has no trouble getting in close with them. but he still gets nervous and worries about making a good impression.

"you think they'll like me?" he'll whisper to you, not trying to seem obvious about how nervous he's feeling.

you assure him that they will, which doesn't fully convince him until he starts to get to knos them. they laugh and smile with him, making jokes and jus generally treating him as if hes just part of the family.

➳ miles picks up the phone every. single. time. you call him. without fail, this boy is always looking to be there for you no matter how big or small your needs are. whether it be at seven in the morning, at eleven o'clock at night, he's going to pick up that phone.

"yes ma'am?" he'll answer, his voice laced with the tiniest hint of worry.

➳ miles morales passes the orange peel theory. no more needs to be said.

➳ miles is obsessed with the idea of asking you out. making you his girlfriend. he works everyday to give you the proposal he thinks you deserve. asking some of his female friends to help him learn to make bouquets of flowers that of course include your favorite color, asking some of your family some of the things you're interested in and adding them to the basket of things that he's made for you.

he's increasingly nervous when he asks you, he does it somewhere private so he isn't faced with public humiliation if you were to reject him.

but to his own amazement, you smile and tell him that yes you will infact be his girlfriend.

"really? i mean, you aren't just saying that?" he'll say slowly, wanting to make sure that this is real. that you were actually just as into him as he was into you.

dating stage:

➳ he calls you a variety of pet names. i personally think he'll stick with the basic ones, stuff like 'babe' or 'bae', or just shortened variations of your name.

but once you guys get more comfortable with eachother, he'll call you stuff like 'princess'. he finds stuff like 'mi amor' or anything starting with 'my/mi' corny, so he'll stray away from those.

➳ miles isnt afraid to let the world knows that he's your boyfriend. infact, he's extremely cocky with the fact that he managed to pull someone as goregous as you. he constantly brags to anyone who'll stand to listen about how he has the honor of being your boyfriend and how he's never met anyone like you before.

"my girlfriend is so pretty. i miss her so much man" he'll mutter, to which everyone around him will groan in annoyance because you're all he talks about.

➳ miles writes your name everywhere. your name is plastered over every homework assignment, every cover of every notebook, on the back of some abandoned building where he graffitied your initials together. it's written in sharpie on his wrist.

he wants to be reminded of you every second of the day, as youre his entire world.

➳ he'll take pictures of things that remind him of you. flowers that are your favorite color? *snap*, he's taken a picture of it. a rock thats shaped in the same shape of your birthmark? *snap*. a leaf that's the same color as your eyes? *snap*.

➳ miles has a harder time being away from you than whats considered normal. of course, its natural and completely okay to miss your partner when you are apart, but miles is so dramatic with it.

he'll groan in bed and look at pictures of you two together, wondering when he'll get to see you again. he'll replay voice messages that you sent him just so he can hear that voice he loves so much.

"oh my god i fucking miss her" he'll say to himself while throwing his phone aside so he can bury his face in his pillow, trying to forget about you.

➳ miles will gush about you to tia rio, blabbing about how pretty you are and all the things you said that made him smile. she'll just smile, grateful that her little boy has found someone that can make him as happy as she always wished he could be.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅

☆

☆

☆

#tags #milesmorales #milesmoralesupremacy #milesmoralesfluff #acrossthespiderverse !!

[redheadsramblings]

WIP Weekday

So I've been getting very behind in my tags replies recently.

Mostly cause the muse is not playing nice and has been in fact kicking me around the yard.

But I have woken up today determined to do something about it.

That and I actually managed to write something for my current WIP How A Rowan Became A Rook. I haven't written a lot, but it's enough to show.

So I was tagged by @thequeenofthewinter @serbarris @andthekitchensinkao3 and @theyearningghoul

Have a snippet of Lace yelling at Varric from Chapter 17

----------------------------

“She disappeared Varric! Just poof and she was gone! Like a ghost or a spirit or Maker knows what they have in Nevarra! She could be anyone or anything, and you didn’t think! What, did she bat her eyes at you, and you just brought her along? ALL BECAUSE YOU HAVE A NEED TO HELP ANYONE WHO LOOKS AT YOU SADLY! YOU COULD HAVE BEEN EATEN BY A DEMON!!”

Lace had started gesticulating wildly the more she spoke, her voice was rising with each sentence, as was she, Varric noted, ending with her on her feet waving her hands in the air and yelling at him. Which wasn’t an unusual situation, though it usually took a bit longer to get there than this. 

He sighed loudly into the silence that followed her tirade, which by the look on her face was the wrong thing to do, but he held up a hand to stop her before she got going again. Thanking the Maker that it worked, he attempted to try to explain in a way that would calm her worries. Not fears, he wasn’t stupid enough to call them that, at least not to her face.

----------------------------

It's a bit clunky and defo needs some polishing, but I wrote something! 🎊✨🙌

This is my other WIP

It's a hexagon cardigan inspired by Rowan and Emmrich

No tags because the brain gremlins have joined the muse and are being mean but if you see this and want to tag me in anything you're working on please do 🥰

[garbinge]

Interruptions

Carmy Berzatto & Platonic!F!Reader // Richie Jerimovich x F!Reader

Word Count: 1.3k A/N: I know it's been A MINUTE since I updated this. Here's a little snippet, I promise I still have a few more chapters/thoughts to tell in this universe.

Warnings: All my fics are 18+ regardless of content. Stress? Like a little? But really just fluff and banter. Other fics from this universe

“I hate when you chop like that, you’re gonna cut your fingers off.” Carmy was staring down as you chopped up the root vegetable. 

“Carmen Berzatto, what are the rules.” You spoke it less like a question and more of a demand as you stopped chopping to point the knife at him before going back to the task at hand. 

“Rules don’t count when I’m trying to save you a trip to the ER!” He raised his voice even though he was leaning back on your bar stool in defeat. 

“I’ve chopped an onion before, I’ll be fine.” You went back to dicing, no care in the world that he had raised his voice, it was just how you two communicated sometimes. 

“You’ve also nicked yourself and made me wrap your finger up while you went in and out of consciousness on my couch.” That sentence was spoken with more humor behind it, in a very ‘I told you so’ way without anything to have even happened to warrant it. 

“It wasn’t that bad, I didn't even need stitches.” You rolled your eyes and turned to the stove to toss the onion into the hot oiled pot. 

“Doesn’t change the fact that you passed out like twice.” Carmy whispered it into his water as he smirked. You looked over your shoulder and squinted your eyes to be met with a laughing Carmy as he drank his glass of water nearly empty. 

“So what brings you to interrupt my dinner?” You were turning back around quickly moving onto the next step as you prepared the meal.

“It’s 3 in the afternoon.” Carmy frowned and tilted his head. “Didn’t think I’d be interrupting anything.” 

“Says the man who gets up at 6 AM to start prepping at his restaurant.” You had him there. But this wasn’t normal behavior for you, it was a random weekday, there had to be a reason you were prepping and cooking this early. 

“Well, I’ll tell you one thing, I didn’t come here to argue.” He was smirking again. 

“So?” You were moving to drop the short ribs into the pot to sear them. 

“You’re making short ribs?” He was now curious, getting up off the seat and moving to the stove where you were to take a look at what you were doing. 

“Yes, I am.” You said it and then turned to see him alarmingly close so you took your shoulder and pushed him slightly. “Stop backseat chefing.” 

“Backseat chefing?” He laughed as he said it, fumbling backwards a little bit. 

“Carm.” You turned to him, hand on your hip. It was just his name but he knew what you meant by it. 

“Right, sorry. I came by to see–” He was fumbling on his words now. “I came by to see if I could borrow your car.” 

You closed your eyes and he immediately thought you were going to be mad. He hadn’t exactly been the best friend as of lately, and he knew that, it’s why it took him exhausting every other option before coming to you. 

“You’ve been here messing with my flow because you need my car?” Your eyes were now open and staring at him. “My keys are on the counter, you don’t need to do the courtesy shit with me, Carm, jesus.” You were turning back to the pot and flipping the short ribs over on the other side. 

“I just know things have been–” he was moving to grab the keys and turned mid sentence to see you not even paying attention, more concerned with the meal in front of you and he smirked. 

Seeing how the tables were turned–you were normally the one interrupting him on the stove. You don’t need to do the courtesy shit with me. Those words repeated in Carmy’s head, he was so anxious to ask you the favor because of how things had been but in the midst of all of that, he completely forgot that despite anything, you were his best friend. 

“Don’t even wanna know where I’m going?” He continued to move and grab the keys. 

“No, but call Sugar if you need bail because I’m on do not disturb tonight.” It was spoken as you continued the dance around the kitchen, going through your list in your head, checking things off, adding things. 

Before Carmy could ask why, there was a knock and then suddenly the door was opening and Richie’s voice filled the apartment. “What I tell you ‘bout leaving this door unlocked? You got crazies like two doors down from you and not to mention that guy who lives below you always gets so drunk he thinks your apartment is his.” He was fully unaware of his surroundings, he was locking the door and placing his bags on your kitchen table which was rarely ever used as anything but a place to drop things. 

“That’s my fault.” Carmy spoke up which made Richie’s head turn quickly. 

“Yea, Carmy’s fault.” You were still so deep in cooking you would have agreed with anything at that point.  “Came by to borrow my car.” Carmy jingled the keys and Richie nodded. 

“Don’t call us for bail. We’re busy tonight.” 

“I heard.” Carmy awkwardly smiled, assumptions filling his brain that he didn’t want to think twice about. With that, he had made his way to your door to leave. “Alright, have a good night.” 

Neither you or Richie answered, too occupied in your own stuff to realize. 

“You’re nervous, I can tell you’re nervous.” Richie spoke up as he unpacked the bags of wine and snacks. 

“Well, someone who's potentially going to help me start this whole coffee thing legitimately is going to be here in 3 hours and they kind of got my whole life in their hands so yes, I’m nervous.” 

“Nah, don’t talk like that. They don’t have your whole life in their hands. You have somethin’ fuckin’ great for them. Don’t let them or any asshole take your power like that. You got this shit.” Richie always had the best pep talks. Short, to the point, and filled with just the right amount of curses to make the message punch.

Still, you turned to argue with Richie, being on edge for the night to come had you ready to give him an attitude but then you saw him. He had a button up shirt on, slacks, shoes that people wore to church on his feet. 

“Holy shit.” You mumbled and looked at him. 

“I wear suits now.” He looked down and shrugged before looking back up at you. “Although, I left the suit jacket, felt like that was a little too much for an apartment dinner.” 

"I like the leather anyways." You were still a little shocked your words were a little monotone as you spoke still taking in the sight of Richie. It’d been a couple days since you saw him, he had been busy with staging, you talked every night on the phone, but you hadn’t seen him. “You been readin’ that book.” You smiled at him knowing he had been reading the hospitality book ever since he started at that five star restaurant downtown. It was something you teased him for regularly. 

“Fuck you, yea I been readin’ that book.” And that was Richie’s typical response with a smile on his face and speaking it through a laugh. He approached you, reaching his hand up to your face and planting a quick kiss to your lips then peppering you with a couple more before landing one more that lasted a little longer and said so much without saying anything at all. 

“If the book is teaching you that, keep reading” You whispered as you leaned your head against his. Then suddenly, every nerve inside you set off alarms in your mind. “I’m gonna crash and burn tonight.” You changed topics and took a deep breath, letting the anxiety fill your head again. 

“No you won’t and if you do, I’m officially certified in fire safety so you won’t burn for long.” He was teasing but it was what you needed in that moment to let the anxiety find another home than your head right now. Richie then wrapped his arms around you in an embrace before he gave you one final squeeze and pulled away. 

“Alright, chef. Where d’ya need me?”

--------------------------------------------------------

The Bear Taglist: @drabbles-mc @justreblogginfics @quixscentsposts @dadbodfanatic-x @adorable-punk-superheroes @lodeddiperrodrick @isalver @captainweasleybarnes @musicwithteeth @fancyvoidtragedy @shinebright2000 @knight4xmas @gills-lounge @navs-bhat @cosmicak @kmc1989

[covertleathers]

Seven Sentence WIP Weekday

Thank you @thedissonantverses for the tag!

I hope everyone's week is going well. I am tagging some lovely folks (no pressure to post!) @corvus-frugilegus @hyperions-light @erin-unknown @postcardsfromheapside @virusq @himluv

I'm including a snippet from Chp3 of Boogie in Murderland :>