#ackermanbitch

[heartpascal]

me pulling up to your account whenever the slightest inconvenience happens to read every single joel fic

HELP. i cannot tell you how much of a laugh and giggle i had at this image. and you have got me kicking my feet rn you are so kind. i am glad the fics can be of use to you!!! i am truly honoured 🫶

hoping to have something out in the near future for you guys (but mostly you bc of this ask specifically). sending you sm love.

[jen-with-a-pen]

for the ask game: 6, 15, 21, 24 >:D

🥹🥹🥹 crying in the club rn I didn't think anyone would even ask anything

6. why did you do that?

Because I felt like it.

15. are you a parent?

Not to a human child but a fur child! My kitty cat is my toddler stuck in a four-legged body that meows.

21. (my lucky number!) Something you've kept since childhood?

Funny answer: ✨trauma✨

Serious answer: my baby books, stuffed animals, and blankies

24. if we were together rin a rooftop what would we be doing?

I'm picturing the rooftop from How I Met Your Mother. Dancing, people watching, venting and screaming. Most likely dancing, though.

(added 50 bc I saw ur last ask 😂)

50. can I tag you in random stuff?

YES MA'AM PLEASE!! I love interacting with mutuals on here and appreciate any ounce of acknowledgement in my direction for anything and everything 😅

[romirola]

I love it when you do micro story requests, you are amazing at them 🙌 how about number 15 (trembling hands) with David and Angel? Thank you!

Hi, @ackermanbitch and Anon! Thanks for your prompts! Since I decided to combine your prompts, so I doubled the 10 sentence limit to 20. Hope you enjoy!  

Rating: G; 20 Sentences; Prompts: Micro-story, “comfort food,” “trembling hands,” David/Angel

Read on AO3!

[moondirti]

taglist reblog ; part one

follow @moondirti-archive and turn on post notifs to be notified of future updates!

@ashjbu @its-cat-eyes @lavnderluv @22carolina08 @chocolat3pudding @fucknuggets420 @storyteller-le @royalpurplehuskies @vernon-dursley @ohantonia @vngelis @brucewaynesturtleneck @goldstars-to-all @swissy23 @aisyakirmann @kocasoda @starrfragment @@rei-vi @mbapbaesluvr @strangerfromketterdam @reypolaris @reddeaddepressed @@one17 @feyrespaintings @kuinnoa @omeletteattack @the-omnipotent-phlowr

@coacaiyne @tis-niki @arcanaaaa @cookiezxx @flourescence @sleepgod182 @k01k @iceaesthiexs @96jnie @simplysolo @bruhciarati @kato-ptris @luuvbuzz @wolfiepirate @quin-tarte @a1isswrld @bluestuesday @xstxrgirlx @tessmess69 @geminigengar @ackermanbitch @superflymaterial @okkotsufav @angel-eyes05 @kiamewrites @boo-ghostplayer @thesadvampire @happyant3 @peachoasis @dontletyourchildrenwatchthis @jonkentsglasses

animalic (3)

← chapter two

pairing: miguel o'hara x f!reader rating: mature word count: 2.2k summary: he's got a plan that neither of you like warnings: enemies to lovers, predator/prey dynamics, biting, bondage, temporary paralysis, concussions notes: this was supposed to be longer but the cut off at the original point was super awkward. this chapter is super exciting for all you fang lover out there <3

You really can’t catch a break. 

The city bustles with a verve rivalling your own, a kaleidoscope of luminescence dancing upon the glass facades of its skyscrapers. Their spires pierce the ink-dark cloak of night, and if you weren’t so busy running for your life, you’d stop to admire the way their aviation obstruction lights mimic the stars back home. 

(Everything has a trade off, you suppose. You remember what it was like as light pollution gave away to reveal the cosmos above, the beauty of it lost upon your own grief.)

Now, it’s fear – clinging like a shadowy spectre to your heels. The pavement is unforgiving beneath you, each step sending a jolt of energy through your bones. Despite it, you can’t go any faster. Sidewalks crowd with the humdrum of everyday life – people filtering out from work and bodegas, dressed in a slightly odd fashion, their clothes a reminder of your unfamiliar landscape. Car horns blend into one another, providing an unsteady tempo to the race of your heart. 

It’s disorienting, all of it. Times like these, you wish you’d been given the opportunity to hone your abilities. Stamina, flexibility. Web shooters in particular would have proved handy in avoiding the bustle of the ground. 

Of course, he has that advantage on you too. 

You can’t see Miguel, but you sense his proximity. It prods you, nipping at your flesh in a constant assault, intensifying goosebumps and raising hairs. Your spider sense usually doesn’t last this long, solely serving as a warning for immediate danger. Yet that’s just what he is, immediate. Dangerous. Predatory eyes track your every move, sourced from all directions. He’s everywhere; atop buildings, within alleys. Neon signs morph into twisted apparitions; serrated talons, red skulls. 

How did he track you down so fast? 

The day pass? 

You wonder if he’d brought back-up – whether there are other spider-heroes here who trust in his noble cause. Your anxiety triples, and passerby’s begin to warp too. Their hurried footsteps now strike discordant notes, amplifying your isolation. You think you see some tense their wrists, or unbutton their coats, ready to reveal their tailored suits and ensure the capture you’ve managed to evade thus far. 

It’s luck. It’s only ever been luck, and that fact changes depending on who you ask. You’ve never outsmarted him, never disabled him. You just so happen to have the power of being a pain in his ass. 

Something itches at you, though. A nagging sense of foreboding. His presence in the past has spurred chagrin, annoyance, and – admittedly – arousal. But the genuine terror that lights your nerves now is new. Perhaps because you understand him, are far more familiar with his pride than most. The logical part of you can predict that he won’t let you off so easily, not after your stunt with the kiss. You won’t – can’t – get away this time, even if it damn well nearly kills him. 

Any hope you had of a bargain dissipates, rolling back from shore and into the depths of an elusive sea. You jerk the rubber band off your wrist, throwing it into some undisclosed corner.

In a then desperate bid to throw him off, your path loses cohesion. Like a leaf seized by a tempest, you turn based on split-second instinct, weaving through the labyrinth of New York’s grid. Your body sways in frenzy, bolstered by pure adrenaline, which works to dim everything else. Your ribs haven’t fully healed yet – they’d taken a pretty bad beating upon your last fight with Miguel – but you can barely feel the ache as you focus purely on the task at hand. 

Your determination surges, recklessness taking hold of your rationale. Veering abruptly, you just about collide with the racing line of cars that flow at a green light. In fact, you think you do. Your skin prickles, and a taxi runs straight through you, blearing a loud honk all the while. Some vehicles break off, drifting around your form at the last minute. In your peripheral, you can see the glowing red of your pursuers web, stretched across the gap between two apartment complexes. 

Chest tightening, your breathing loses depth at the sight, shallowing to leave room for the distress that torrents up your system. You clamber up on the hoods of parked cars, using a mast arm pole to propel yourself forward. It’s a fruitless effort. You know it’s too late – have known it since he walked into that convenience, prowling in search of one thing. 

(A lion only catches its prey a quarter of the time. But that twenty-five percent?)

Your ankle is the first victim to his hardwearing web, wrapped in the silk and pulled out from underneath you. The back of your head smacks into the concrete below, a high pitched ring reverberating through your skull upon impact. The collision sends a shock wave of pain throughout your being, and in that harrowing moment, everything stutters to a crawl. Spots speckle behind your clenched eyelids, metallic warmth flooding your mouth.

Well, fuck. 

To add insult to injury, your atoms rip apart and splice into one another, a consequence of your abandoned day pass. The glitch aggravates the headache that begins to pound at you. You’d allowed yourself to forget how bad it could be. 

The willpower that had just played a forefront in your mind steadily starts to trickle out, absorbed by your humiliation and the ground below. 

“You really gonna give up that easily?” 

Yes. 

You make a point to never lie to yourself. In truth, you won’t ever get enough of Miguel’s cadence. Deep and resonant – it smoulders with a charred ruggedness. Commanding attention, rumbling like distant thunder, an unmistakable authority woven into each word. Yet, even amidst the rough contours, there lingers a softness, a subtle grace that soothes the edges of his threats. 

(Sharp claws, sharp teeth, sharp cheekbones. Soft voice.)

More webs bind you, erupting from an unclear point to circle your legs, chest, and secure your arms behind your back. You’re diminished to little more than an aggravated caterpillar, ensnared in a spider’s web. And, just as his little game of bondage draws to a close, said spider stalks within view, splitting through the crowd that quickly forms around the commotion. 

With his mask on, he stands as completely impenetrable. You, on the other hand, try to reduce your quivering the best you can, afraid of relaying how truly pathetic you feel. 

“Maybe I’m biding my time.” You bite back, calling on a complete bluff. “I’m sure you know how good I am at that?” It’s a low blow. Even if you could control when and where to phase out, you wouldn’t get very far before he catches up to you again. 

But Miguel doesn’t waver in his closing in – not until he towers over you, looking down at your incapacitated state. Space buckles under the gravity of his existence; you, too, can feel yourself sinking, drawn in closer by the credence that bubbles off him in flares. You wish you had a cover – your pair of makeshift goggles, a face mask, anything that could elevate you to a degree relative to his. But you’re bare, figuratively naked, and you’ve never hated him more. 

He lingers, assessing you, weighing his options. The moment he turns to survey the mass of people who look on inquisitively, you wiggle upward into a sitting position, then throw your head forwards, aiming for his crotch. His wrist gets in the way, though, blocking your pitiful attack on his only defenceless area. Your forehead cracks against his dimensional travel watch, shattering its screen. 

“Tu puta madre!” Miguel hisses, snapping back to survey the gadget while you begin to slink away. He seems to have an eye on you, however, because you’re tugged back just as soon as you make the effort.

Like a naughty cat. You shift uncomfortably at the thought. 

“Are you gonna spend all night deciding what to do with me, then? I have plans, even if you don’t.” 

“Plans. I have plans alright.” The low timbre of his threat slices you where it hurts.

With a calculated flex of his shoulders, he crouches down, gathering the webs around your arms. They serve as leverage when he hauls you upward, exercising his muscles – of which you’d suspected had been padding up to this point – with one swift motion. The world upends on itself, nausea enveloping your senses with its oppressive weight. It allows space for little else; not the uncertainty, not the trepidation. You divert all your efforts on keeping your scarce lunch down, accepting the possibility of a concussion by product of his less-than-refined manhandling. 

The journey to wherever he takes you is not at all long enough for you to recover. Before you know it, he’s busting through the creaky door of an empty storelot, carelessly tossing you to the floor. Your vision doubles. 

Yeah. Definitely a concussion. 

Like you could afford one right now. 

“You’ll stay, and you’ll listen.” He points an accusatory finger. 

“Sure. Until I’ve had enough, that is.” 

“And where would you go, exactly?” 

“Nice try, O’hara. Like I’d tell you,” Snickering, you let your head roll to face the ceiling. The action sends you back to earlier, to the robbery you’ve been seeking to suppress. How careless you’d been, letting your fortune to date trick you into thinking that any collateral was safe too. You’d killed that woman. You. “Maybe I’ll fall right through the floor. That way, you’ll never have to worry about seeing me again.” 

The notion makes him pause mid-pace, hands on his hips, tilting his head to look at you with what you imagine is the most earnest glare. The air bobs, suspended in static tension, a crackling constant that only unravels once he seems to make up his mind. 

Marching forward, he drags you along with him to a nearby wall, upon which he then pushes you upward until you have to look down to meet his eyeline. Your bound legs kick forward, but the struggle hardly affects him. 

“I didn’t want to resort to this.” 

You assume he means treating you like a toddler does its shiny new toy, hurling you across this playpen of a city. “You really didn’t have to, then.” 

He stays quiet, fists clenching tighter around you. 

“I suppose we’re past the courtesy of letting the other recover from the last fight before starting a new one? My forearm is still fucked, thanks to you. Maybe if you’d given it some time, I would’ve proved more of a challenge today.” Your words, whilst never your most steadfast allies, betray you in lieu of this restlessness, tumbling forth with unruly incoherence.

Miguel reaches up and slips his mask off. Your mouth moves faster. 

“Okay, I get it. The fate of the multiverse and all that. I’ll listen, whatever you want, but at least try and make the lecture original.” 

His hand cups your jaw, tightening around your chin to firmly guide it upwards. Your throat stretches taut at the motion, its smooth expanse spread across the wall – an evening repast for a party of one. The imagery breaks down an all too sobering realisation into fragments small enough for you to register. His talons rest against your cheek, bordering perilously close to your waterline. 

Traces of that patchouli aftershave hit you. His skin looks especially bronzed in the dark, highlighted at the edges from the phosphorescence outside. His curls droop where they’re plastered to a sweat slicked hairline. 

You can’t help it. Your gaze flickers down to those plush lips.

Fuck. Fuck. It’d felt so good to kiss them. 

Please let this just be a kiss. 

“O-Or go with the… the usual, y’know. I don’t–” 

Miguel lunges, sinking his fangs into the fleshy sinew of your neck.

Christ.

Your jaw hangs open, but no breaths filter in. Shock wedges itself at the site of his bite, implacable, steadfast as a barrier between logic and uninhibited emotion. Your reasoning plays no part in this, provides absolutely no valuable contribution to the series of reactions you undergo. 

It’s physical, first. The cold slither of paralytic venom distends through your nerves, neurotoxins striking their functions, rendering them useless beyond the point of sensation. Which, you’d say, is the cruellest part. Miguel’s poison doesn’t stop you from feeling anything; not the puncture, nor the burn. You can truly feel it, trekking its graceful path to all muscles in your body, taking hold of the tissue, suppressing their vitality. Your back arches, your body doing its very best to fight what it cannot prevent. It cracks up your bone, down your spine. Your toes unfurl, fingers loosening to hang lamely at your side. 

And, when you lose all executive authority over yourself, you’re pulled in to centre on his mouth again. His canines slowly retract, tongue taking their place. It’s warm – so fucking warm – and dextrous, covertly lathering the blood that beads down your nape. 

Your last proper breath is wasted on a whine; a loud, keening, absolutely wanton whine. After it, you can do nothing but hold your flat inhales to cycle in as much oxygen as possible – diaphragm weak, your resolve weaker.

Miguel draws away, letting you slump to the floor, heavy and just as useless as a sack of flour. He wipes the excess carmine from his chin, kneeling to regard your glassy eyed stare. 

“Fall through now, and you’re as good as dead.” 

(You might as well already be.)

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(tags will be in a reblog; if you were not tagged then i couldn't get your url to work!)

[let-keigo-smash]

ok good, stay hydrated! I know being a hero doesn't allow a lot of time to yourself but keep in mind, you do deserve a day off 😡

Ugh, don’t I know it. 

I DO get regular days off, though that’s mainly because particularly difficult villain fights tend to deplete my feathers. I’d say I probably get a good few days off every...hmm...two weeks? 

It’s why my wings are so small whenever I’m spotted in casual clothes. Because I’m on leave while they regrow.

I always try to get the most out of those days off. Go restaurant hopping, buy new merch, visit a spa or two. Ya know, the usual vacation stuff.

[archieimagines]

Imagine ranting to Din while he repairs the Razor Crest.

finally, it’s written! this request has been sat on my list for a while, so to those who requested it, thank you for your patience! requested by: @ackermanbitch​ and an anon! written by: archie support me on ko-fi!

this is inspired by @yournewwriter‘s gentle prompts: moving you by the waist.

If there was one thing you could do, it was talk.

At first, Din hated it. He hated how you’d walked into the Crest like it was your home when he was only offering you a lift to a nearby system, he’d hated how you’d talked the whole time… and he hated how he’d accidentally grown fond of you.

He became glad to offer you a temporary place by his side when your situation shifted and you needed a residence, but there was no way he was expecting you to stick around for this long and still have so many stories to tell.

Somehow, tuning into your rambles both passed the time and helped him focus. He could fly easily with your words taking up a different space in his brain, and all the hours felt so much shorter, like he’d been travelling the universe beside you. You somehow kept him cheerful and engaged, even in the tough times. You had a natural knack for knowing what kind of story to tell, how to echo and fix his moods with your own experiences, which gave him an outlet for his own emotions. 

And that’s how it was right now, his mood utterly foul as he worked on repairing the Crest after a sticky run-in, but his scowl was placed on hold. Or at least, directed to Mr Narvo, your old, snail-esque colleague in that restaurant on Corellia.

“I swear, I hadn’t done a thing wrong. The order was correct, I did everything to match what the stupid customer had asked for, but he really just-- You know what?” You wandered by him as you talked, frustrated and pacing as all the irritation from working at that restaurant came right back. “I think he’d decided that it would be a bad day for me already. He slithered in and just knew he was gonna try and get me fired.”

You paused your pacing, facing the beskar-clad warrior as he retracted an arm from inside the ship’s panel.

“-And he just kinda blinked at me. You know that eye thing?” Your hands, which had been flapping around animatedly, lifted to hold invisible spheres above your head. “Like the antennae lean forward and just look at you and squint and- honestly it’s so annoying because I can feel how he’s judging me but like? At least my eyeballs aren’t half a metre above from my head, right?”

“Right,” came Din’s voice as he dipped into a toolbox, proceeding to reach back into the side of his ship and twist some valves. His voice was a dry monotone, but he hadn’t once told you to shut up yet, so that was all you needed to continue your spiel.

“Right! So I just- I don’t mean to be rude, but I kinda do- I couldn’t keep it in, okay?” Din halted your pacing and handed you the metal tool, reaching into the Crest again. “… I told him to go stick his eyeballs in the dishwasher.”

Din paused. He turned to look at you. You were almost sure he’d tell you that it was a low blow, or that it wasn’t worth such a threat, but his modulated voice rose with a question. “And did he?”

“Wh- No, Din. Why would he-“

He shrugged one shoulder, stepping away to rummage in the toolkit once more. “That guy was purposely villainizing you, day after day. The least he could do would be-“

“If the universe was a decent place he’d be blinking bubbles, I know,” you chattered on, wandering once again. “But unfortunately, the universe is horrible, Narvo is still out there terrorising colleagues and-“ You stopped dead, peering down at the helmeted man, busy with his tools. “He got me fired.”

Din stopped his hands, visor raised up at you. Of course you couldn’t see his expression, but you didn’t need to as his disbelief met your ears. “It worked?”

“I know!?” You toyed with the tool, the weight falling from hand to hand, gripping it with each as if to decide which hand would better suit hitting Narvo in the eyeball with it, mouth running a mile a minute all the while. “He went straight to the manager, clearly he’d been building up some bullshit case of all the things I’d apparently done wrong— which I always had a particular reason for, by the way, and they were never even against the rules—”

The irritation still buzzed in your veins, even if it was months ago. What started as your attempt to take Din’s mind off the frustration from a damaged ship had turned into a surprise therapy session that seemed to uproot some sort of inferiority complex, and now you were just airing out your issues without even being aware of Din bustling around you.

“Like, I’m a good worker, you know? I take pride in that because I actually care about what I put into the universe, I strive to make this shitty place better for the people, unlike Narvo. He was just there to feed his own-”

Gentle hands on your waist had you startled, and your gaze shot up to the visor, eyes wide and an unmistakable heat to your cheeks. He’d never touched you like this before.

You couldn’t help leaning into his hold, heart beating like crazy-

A gentle pressure from one hand had you stepping aside, and then it was gone.

He leant past you, reaching into the metal hood of the ship. You’d parked right in front of it without even noticing, far too wrapped up in the fury of your tale.

“Keep going,” he spoke, and you fumbled to find your words again, fiddling with the tool in your hands.

“Wh- What was I saying again?”

A gloved hand reached back to take the tool from your hands. “He was just feeding his ego by preying on you. It’s better to keep away from characters like that.”

Your stride finally came back to you and the story continued in your mind, but the sure flutter in your chest was going at full force. “Right, I learned that by now.”

“You want me to put a hit on him?”

You scoffed. “Din, please. …But if we stop off at Corellia, he’ll shit himself when he sees me with a Mandalorian.”

A soft breath of laughter, so quiet you almost missed it. “Then that’s our next stop.”

[huntingingoodwill]

taglist for jc boy boy (thanks hotties): 

@literishdegree99

@annisse

@queenofkings1212

@lfdeinet 

@kattreffic  

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you’re! ruining! date! night! (j.c.)

masterlist

send requests for my 1.3k sleepover!

requested by: anon

prompt: "i've waited so long for this."

a/n: main atrocity in this is the reader using a fork to eat korean fried chicken instead of a gloved hand. i stand by the hc that jonathan is vegetarian all week except for fridays where he gets a free pass. please enjoy.

“I’ve waited so long for this.” Jon’s breath was warm against your shoulder as he sighed into it. He pressed his nose into the crook of your neck, his dark, dishevelled hair brushing against your jaw. 

Your nose scrunched at the ticklish sensation, laughter bubbling in your throat as you leaned away. His arms locked themselves around your waist, circling you in even as you tried to squirm out his grasp. 

“Maybe,” You began, adding oil to the saucepan, tilting it and watching as the liquid lazily circled around its surface, “You wouldn’t have to wait so long for date night if you didn’t insist on spending every night working late at Arkham.” 

“Don’t get smart with me.” He deadpanned, chest rumbling against your back as he grumbled. 

“Oh,” You sighed, overly saccharine in your sarcasm. “No one could ever be smarter than you, darling.” 

You felt him tense behind you, arms growing still around your waist. 

“Oh Jon, I was just teasing! I hope you aren’t gonna get into one of your moods again-” You sighed, trying to placate him when he cut you off, clapping his hand over your mouth. 

He lifted his finger to his lips, bright blue eyes alert as they darted around the room.

“He’s here.” He whispered, eyes turning toward the front door of his apartment. 

Slowly, he raised his arm, fingers feeling across the wall until he found the light switch. Click. The apartment plunged into darkness. You glanced at Jon, watching as he clenched his jaw, steeling himself as the pale, cold moonlight streaming in through the window casted him in its glow. 

He lifted his hand from your lips, pushing down on your shoulder. You followed his prompt, crouching down, shrouded by darkness in a shadowy corner of his kitchen. 

His gaze never leaving the front door, he smoothed a reassuring hand over your hair as you, tucked your legs into your chest, trying to make yourself as small as possible. 

He crept toward the door, feeling for his briefcase as he stepped through the living room. He took his time, opening the black, leather case open at a painstakingly slow speed. The click of its closures cut through the silence, the air thick with tension. He felt for a vial of his toxin, feeling its cool glass in his clammy hand. He reached for his mask, slipping it over his head. 

He reached out for the door knob. You watched, silencing yourself, hand held over your mouth. You could feel your laboured breath against your palm. 

His fingers barely grazed the door knob before it burst open, Batman’s silhouette illuminated in the light of the dingy hall. You rolled your eyes. This guy again. 

“Looks like I found you, Dr. Crane.” He growled, swinging at Jon. 

Jon managed to dodge the first one, but the next one caught him in the jaw, and you winced as you watched him bob backward, almost stumbling to the floor as he blinked away the pain. 

Bruce used that moment of vulnerability, shoving him against the wall with such force the window rattled in its pane. 

“You’re going away for a long, long ti-!” Bruce’s raspy voice trailed off into a squeak as you crept up behind him from the kitchen, bashing him on the head with your saucepan. 

“You’re!” Smack. “Ruining!” Bang. “Date!” Whack. “Night!” You screamed, using all your might to hit him on the head, over and over. 

He became very still, blinking, and you worried for a moment that you’d get out of this in cuffs, and he’d only sustain a couple of light bruises. 

Then, dazed, he fell to the floor. 

You huffed, wicking sweat away from your brow as his heavy body laid sprawled out on the floor. Your chest heaved from exertion, and, suddenly exhausted, you allowed the pan to slip out your hand, clattering to the floor. 

You fell into Jon’s arms as he wrapped his arms around you, smoothing down your hair. 

“I’m too tired to cook.” You grumbled into his shoulder. “I think I can’t, anyway. The pan’s dented. My poor pan.”  

“I’ll get you a new one.” Jon cooed, gently rocking back and forth as the two of you stood, wilting into each other’s arms, ignoring the unconscious body on the floor. 

You sighed, cheek pressing into the sharp bone of Jon’s shoulder as you nodded down at Bruce. 

“What do we do? Date night’s ruined. And there’s the matter of him, of course.” 

“No,” Jon said, putting his hands on your shoulders. “It’s not ruined yet. I know what to do.” 

“Hm..?” Bruce grumbled, the fog that clouded his eyes, making the world around him a blur, slowly lifting as he blinked away sleep. “Huh…what…? Where- Crane!”  He yelled, registering where he was. 

“Rise and shine, sleepyhead!” You smiled, your voice so bright it cut through the throbbing pain blooming all across Bruce’s head. You sauntered over from the front door, kicking it shut with your heel as two bags of takeaway hung off your hands, swinging with every step you took. 

You set down the boxes on the dining table, three places already set: you, Jon, and a last minute setting for Bruce, tied up to the dining room chair. 

His arms strained against the rope, and he struggled, only succeeding in rocking the wooden chair back and forth, its legs squeaking across the floor. 

Jon came over, two beer bottles in hand. He held one up to his mouth, pulling the cap off with his teeth, the sound of the fizzy drink sizzling from the bottle. 

“Cool, huh?” You gushed to Bruce, keeping your hands busy as you opened up the takeaway boxes. The greasy, fragrant smell of Korean fried chicken filled the air. “It’s one of his most redeemable qualities.” You cooed, laughing as Jon rolled his eyes. 

“Hush.” He mumbled, bringing the other bottle to his lips. 

“That, and I broke the bottle opener.” You whispered. 

You skewered a piece of the tender chicken with a fork, wagging it in front of Bruce. 

“Here comes the choo choo train! No?” You frowned as Bruce glared at you, gaze dripping with derision. 

“C’mon, I promise it’s good! Say ahhhhh!” You exclaimed. 

Bruce inhaled, taking a deep sigh, wishing he had chosen a different career path. 

“Ahhh.” He grumbled, opening his mouth and allowing you to feed him a piece of chicken, chewing irritatedly. 

“Good job.” You smiled. 

You turned to Jon, catching his eye as he raised an eyebrow at you. 

“Don’t be jealous.” You quipped, a cheeky smile growing on your face. You stabbed another piece of chicken onto the fork, making your way over to Jon. 

You slid into his lap, feeding him a piece before throwing your arms around his neck, planting a kiss on his stubbled cheek as he hummed gratefully. 

“Ew.” You heard a voice grumble behind you, turning to see a disgusted Bruce, all but forced to watch your displays of affection. 

“You’re the one who interrupted our date night!” You laughed, Jon’s hands wrapping around your waist. 

“Get a room.” He huffed. 

“You’re in our apartment!”

[ntxclay]

was gifted a vibrator yesterday by my EX at my graduation party

@ackermanbitch lost her shit when i told her

[heartpascal]

i want u to know i read ur fics when im sad. like they kind of make me more sad sometimes but in a comforting way so thank u for all ur hard work

i cannot tell u how much i lvoe thsi :( i also do things that make me more sad when i’m sad!! sometimes write fics which make me sad!!

you are so kind this is so <3

[liebgotts-lovergirl]

💌 not that we interact much but i wanna know anyway HBAHBS 🤨

Hi!! I associate you with:

✿ Pedro Pascal

✿ The relatable writer feel when you desperately want to work on a WIP bc you feel like writing but your brain goes "No, not That One" 😭

✿ That feeling of pride when someone Likes + Reblogs something from you & you're like "Omg someone who Gets It" 🤌🏼

✿ For some reason, your URL just sticks in my brain. Like Ik you actually have an actual name but when you cross my dash, I'm never like "Oh there's Gracie", I just like refer to you as Ackermanbitch in my head bc I just like the sound of it, idek man 💀😭

Thanks for the Ask!! 💖

[jen-with-a-pen]

EEEE thank you for the tag @jadedvibes !!!

No pressure tags: @rookthorne @traitorjoelite @late-to-the-party-81 @ackermanbitch @viperbarnes

names aesthetic -- I call this "damn bitch, you live like this? ☀️

rule: go to Pinterest, search “[your name] core aesthetic” and create a moodboard from the first nine images. no need to mention your name!

thanks for the tags: @rhettabbotts @therebeccaw @teacupsandtopgun and @gretagerwigsmuse

tagging: @joaquinwhorres @andallthatmerrymishigas @drew-garfi @withahappyrefrain @jadore-andor @phoebe-danvers @spidervee @bobfloydsbabe @liraketo @inklore @maladaptivexxdaydreaming

[romirola]

hey romi! i saw the prompts list and was wondering if you wanted to do 41 with angel/david? i think whatever you decide to do with it could be really cute :D

Hi, @ackermanbitch and Anon! Thanks for your prompts! Since I decided to combine your prompts, so I doubled the 10 sentence limit to 20. Hope you enjoy!  

Rating: G; 20 Sentences; Prompts: Micro-story, “comfort food,” “trembling hands,” David/Angel

Read on AO3!

[dawbi]

@ackermanbitch i hope you like this 💕

i match you with …

song : give me a kiss by lolo zoüai

[let-keigo-smash]

omw to beat up your boss so you can have a week of relaxation and self care-

Good luck with that! If you actually manage to get past all the suits to the Commission President, I’ll visit you in jail~! :D

[missdawnandherdusk]

Will You Go With Me?

Neville X Reader

Summary: Ginny turns Neville’s proposal to the Yule Ball, and you go to comfort him finding yourself in quite a situation.

A/n: I have no idea where this came from but boy is it PRECIOUS. It’s soft and fluffy and cute and Neville is just the best. It’s just a drabble so about 1k words, but so precious. 

I was in the common room curled up with a book when I watched the events unfold before me and there was nothing that I wanted more than to curl up in my book and to not witness them.

“So, Ginny,” Neville dared to approach the fiery redhead, “I was thinking that maybe, you know that if you’re uh, not going to the Ball... with anyone yet, maybe that possibly you and I could go... maybe?” Stumbling over his words, he as flushed to the color of her hair, presenting a flower that he had no doubt grown himself. The tangible awkwardness could be cut with a knife.

“Wow,” Ginny stood, flustered. “That’s... totally sweet of you. But uh... someone else already asked me, sorry,” She left quickly after that and Neville sank down to the nearest couch, twirling the flower between his fingers.

I got up, setting my book down. Neville and I never really talked before. He was in some of my classes and when we were paired together, he’d keep his head down and barely say a word. I left something to be desired.

“Hey Neville,” I approached slowly. 

“Sorry I’ll move,” He stood immediately.

“No, wait, hang on,” I reached out for him. “Sit,” I gestured as we both took our place. I... um, just wanted to say that I saw what happened with Ginny and I think it was totally unfair,” His unsteady hazel eyes flashed to mine. “Any girl in the school would be lucky to go to the Ball with a guy as nice as you,” I offered a smile and stood.

“Really? You mean that?” He looked hopeful.

“I do,” I went to go back to my book. To be fair I should have seen it coming.

“Will you go with me?” He offered his flower out, catching me off guard. He asked again. “Will you go to the Ball with me?”

“...Yes.” With a hesitant smile I took the flower he offered.

“Awesome,” The light shining in his eyes was something that I couldn’t dare take away. “I’ll uh... pick you up at six?” I nodded and he left the common room leaving me to my thoughts.

To tell the truth, I never planned on going with anyone to the Ball. I had a few friends who were going, and we were going as a crew. It was easy and nothing to stress about. I looked at the flower in my hands and smiled to myself. Maybe it wouldn’t be so awful to go with Neville. I just didn’t know anything about him.

“Oh, thank Merlin,” Ginny rushed back into the common room. “I’m so glad you said yes. I felt just awful,”

“I... yeah. It’ll be fun,” I smiled. “Neville is a sweet guy,”

It was the next day that I ran into a dilemma McLaggen in the common room. The Gryffindor Seeker had no insecurity as he walked up to me amidst the other students. It had been no secret that McLaggen had been trying to initiate something with me over the past few years. If he wasn’t so egotistical and bigoted, I might have said yes.

“So, Y/l/n,” He grinned. “Go to the ball with me,” He didn’t make it a question. 

“Oh, uh, someone already asked me,” I gave.

“Who? Longbottom?” He laughed. “You can’t be serious. Ditch the nerd and go with a real man,”

From across the room my eyes met Neville’s. In despair, he shook his head and left the common room like a bat out of hell. My heart fell, clearly distracted.

“I doubt that’s you,” I snapped. “Keep dreaming McLaggen. At least Neville was a gentleman when he asked.” I pushed past him and the ruffling that out little scene caused in the common room and went to look for Neville.

The corridor was empty. Looking to the left and right, the cold night gave no answer as to which way Neville went. Muttering to myself, I took a chance of where he might be. Maybe I knew something about him after all.

“Neville?” I asked the greenhouse softly. “Are you in here?”

There was a rustling in the corner. A stool scraping against the tile floor.

“Neville, I want to talk,” I pleaded, making my way over to the sound. I found him hunched over a notebook, focused on the lines his pencil made.

“You want to go with McLaggen,” He didn’t look up. “I get it,”

“No,” I corrected. “Even if I did want to go with the sleaze ball,” I muttered offhand. “I still made the promise to you, and I’m not going to break that promise,”

He finally looked up.

“Really?” He seemed genuinely surprised.

“Yeah,” I smiled, taking the seat beside him. “You have to give yourself some more credit Neville. You really are a sweet guy,”

“You barely know me,” He mumble.

“Yeah... I thought that too. But I found you here didn’t I? That’s gotta count for something,”

“I suppose it does,” Neville smiled up at me. “You really turned McLaggen down?”

“Yes,” I laughed, gaze falling and catching sight of his paper. “Did you draw this?” I was amazed. It was a perfect replica of the flower he had given me.

“Uh, uh, yes,” He stammered, growing red.

“Can I see it?” I asked, raising an eyebrow, delighting in how flustered he always got. He slid the paper toward me, bashful.

“This is incredible,” I ran my finger over the sketch. “What kind of flower is it? The one you gave me? I’m not very good at plant names unless they’re the common ones,” I admitted.

“Anemone coronaria,” Neville said matter-of-factly. “It originates from the Mediterranean and its name comes from the Greek meaning wind. They come in a lot of colors based on what soil you use, I’m partial to the white ones, but that’s just...me.” He caught my eye as he ended, growing flustered again. “Sorry I tend to rant. I know plants aren’t all that interesting,”

“I think they are,” I reached out and covered his hand with my own. “Neville?” His eyes met mine, “Will you go to the Ball with me?”

“Wh—I—okay,” He stammered, grinning at his lap. “I’d love to,”

.

masterlist

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more like this:

neville dating headcannons

pride and prejudice

.

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[ntxclay]

why is @ackermanbitch calling me a WHORE for responding to a message from my fwb that only contained ‘pspspsps’