#wildharp

Thank you! These two are based on Doctor Who:

Panem Falls No More - passionately_curious aka mitchesbcray

A Stuffed Box - feeding_geese

And this one’s based on Supernatural:

We hit a bump and my head bangs against the bus window, again, shocking me awake from the restless bit of sleep I’ve been trying to get since we left Toronto two hours ago. It doesn’t help that the near blizzard outside is freezing my pane of glass, or that the midnight bus is technically two hours behind due to weather, or that Peeta-fucking-Mellark is the only source of warmth while also being the sole crushing weight pushing me against the fucking cold window.

No, it doesn’t help that Peeta-fucking-Mellark’s wide expanse of chest and shaggy blonde hair is currently tucking me tightly against the glass while his hands curl around my waist and his knee nudges against mine. I’m trapped, you’d say.

I mean, I guess it serves me right for agreeing to go to the hockey game tonight in the first place. I wasn’t big on university sponsored trips really, but it was his birthday and how could I deny him seeing his favourite team get absolutely smashed by their rivals for the super low price that the student government had arranged?

Honestly, I probably couldn’t deny Peeta-fucking-Mellark anything.

Except a pillow tonight when we get home. They’re all mine tonight.

“Ughhn,” I grunt, my body shaken by another unnecessary bump in the road. I feel Peeta’s head bounce against my breast and his arms clench around me tighter.

Here’s a list of foolish things I’ve learned I’ll do for my partner: Travel four (technically now six) hours to see men shoot around a puck; be used as a human body pillow; freeze; -

“Ow!” The weight of Peeta’s body presses into me as the bus shifts on the road and my head whacks against the glass.

Add ‘possible concussion’ to that list, please.

Spending my time brainstorming ideas of just how this man can pay me back, it takes me a few moments to even realize that his arms have slacked from their grip before I look down and meet the most ridiculously blue eyes I’ve ever seen.

“Hi,” He whispers, looking up at me through his impossibly long eyelashes as his head rests against my shoulder. I can’t help but grin back at him. I’m such a sucker.

“I think I have a concussion,” I joke as his eyes widen and he pulls away, his hands flying to my head and gently pulling it forward for examination. The laughter falls out of me lightly turning into a sigh as his fingers let loose my braid before winding along my skull.

“What’d you do?” He asks, his fingers finding the bump I didn’t even realize I had until I jerk away from the pressure of his touch. When I meet his eyes with mine, it’s only concern that fills his gaze.

“Oh, I didn’t think I actually had something – I just – I hit my head against the window, I guess,” I reply, my own hand snaking up and feeling lightly against the bump. A hiss escapes me as my fingers ghost over it before I drop my hands to my lap.

“You hit the window? And that happened?” His voice is disbelieving.

“Well, I did have the weight of two torsos to support for the soft landing,” I counter and his crooked smile falls below his scruffy Movember beard.

“I’m sorry,” He offers quietly, his hand moving up to gently brush against my cheek. I let myself relax into the feel of his calloused palm and close my eyes, reveling in his body heat. I’m so distracted by curling myself closer that I nearly jump when his lips find mine in the dark.

He slides against me slowly, languidly, his tongue moving past my lips with no resistance as his hands slip from my chin to my shoulders, to my ribs, to my hips. The moment seems to last forever, our breaths mingling when we pull back to suck in air if only to rejoin a second later. I let my own hands move until my fingers are locked in his belt loops, my body turning on the bench until my knee is tucked under me and my frame is leaning forward into his.

“Ehem,” Someone clears their throat over Peeta’s shoulder and I snap back, my body nearly crashing into the window as I catch sight of the guy’s face. I can’t help the scowl I give when the man leering at us moves into the in-transit bathroom, waggling his eyebrows. Peeta only laughs as the door clicks shut before launching towards me again.

This time it’s more urgent, his fingers squeezing the flesh of my hips while his chest presses against mine. I’m gasping for air when he pulls my left leg from the floor and stations it over his hip, effectively drawing us tightly together.

I swear I let out a squeak as the bathroom door opens and the guy from earlier laughs before walking back up the aisle between the seats. Peeta joins him for a moment before I slap his chest, sharing my scowl with him for his behaviour.

“What! You were enjoying it!” He grins sheepishly as his hands rub up and down my legs. I try to stay firm, try to hold the scowl in place, but it’s the patchy blonde scruff and the lights from the oncoming traffic reflected in his eyes that gets me. Every. Fucking. Time. “Come on, tell me to stop and I will,” He whispers, leaning in against my ear so that his breath escapes against my neck.

I pull back slightly and stare him down, challenging him in the game I know he’s trying to start. I won’t give in. Not first, anyways.

His hands are the first to move, slipping under my shirt and drifting up my stomach towards the underwire of my bra. Keeping eye contact, I smirk and push my chest out, daring him to cup my breast. He doesn’t back down. Instead his fingers push forward and under the soft cotton before unexpectedly tweaking my nipple quickly. I gasp, my hips jerking forward abruptly as he laughs before returning his mouth to my neck.

“I love the way you smell,” He murmurs against my skin, his nose trailing along my collarbone as his hands gently knead my breasts. My lungs gasp quietly for air, the feeling spurring me on as his lips find my shoulder and his teeth softly nip my skin. “I love how you taste too.”

He presses on further, his right hand moving from my chest and dipping down until it traces along the top of my jeans. I can’t stay still after that. Letting my own hands loose from the loops I drop one to his ass cheek before squeezing tightly. He jumps at the feeling, his laughter tickling me as he moves impossibly closer. Peeta-fucking-Mellark has a fantastic ass, I tell you.

But I don’t stop there. I let my other hand wander, moving against the skin of his stomach until it brushes through the spattering of hair that leads below his belt. I follow it deftly, familiarly, and slide my hand until it cups the front of his jeans.

“Fuck,” He hisses at my touch. I can feel how excited he is, how hard he’s getting beyond the fabric that separates my hand from him.

“I like the smell of you too.” My words ghost against his forehead as I press kisses to the scar above his brow. “I like the feel of you under my hands. In my hands,” I whisper and drag his zipper down slowly before snaking my hand into his jeans. He jerks and thrusts up into my grasp, his teeth biting where my shoulder and neck connect.

I take that as a sign and move carefully, my hand wrapping around his length and pulling slowly within the tight confines. It seems to be enough though as his lips return to mine in a sloppy kiss filled with distraction and heat.

Gasping into his mouth, I quickly become aware of the way his hand is now pressing against the apex of my thighs, his palm pushing against me with every jerk of my hand. I can feel the dampness growing – my body reacting to his touch. In return I slip him loose and pull back from our frenzied kisses, my tongue wetting the palm of my hand slowly as he watches with a darkened gaze.

My hand drops back down to him slowly, first my fingers, then my palm, wrapping and dragging upwards with a steady pull that has him lifting his hips.

After that it’s a blur. His own fingers move into my pants and dip into my folds despite the awkward angle, his forefinger pressing against my clit with abandon as our tongues battle and my hand moves against him. It doesn’t take long for him to break from our kiss and grunt lowly, his body tensing as his forehead tucks against my shoulder. I try to capture every last drop of him, careful of the mess, before I lose myself in my own feeling of bliss as his fingers finally push inside and work in time with his palm. My body jerks wickedly as I come, my toes curling in my boots, before I slowly lean forward against his chest.

“That was – “ I try, breathless. He nods against me, pulling his hand out and using it to tuck himself back in his pants. From somewhere he hands me a Kleenex and I take a moment to wipe my palm clean before slipping it into the garbage baggy provided.

“So good,” He affirms. I feel his hands tangle in my hair, bringing my mouth to meet his softly before he pulls me against him. “Try to get some sleep. Away from the window.”

I nod against him and close my eyes, finally relaxed and warm.

Might as well add that to the list as well, ‘give public orgasms in return for sleep (and orgasms)’.

turn on, as long as like?????????????? it's not white bro w/ all his tribal things or something ridic like this you know and like don't just have tattoos picked from a wall 

for the most part turn on? i'm a bit indifferent really in the piercing, and i'm not really into the whole body modification subculture but like whatever pierce and let pierce there's specifics with me and what i like i guess

Because I'm really hard on myself and the pressure I feel from society/my peers/people above me is honestly suffocating. Not good enough not pretty enough not smart enough not fast enough just overall not enough.

Right now in my life I'm drowning in it and all the gross feelings wrapped in it all I want a tattoo that says "enough" because fuck everyone else I'm enough for myself