(via https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3PX2CRtDnH8)

Song of the night 😛


These are the albums (released this year) that I enjoyed most:

#1. Ne Obliviscaris – Portal of I

#2. A Life Once Lost – Ecstatic Trance

#3. Gojira – L’Enfant Sauvage

#4. Meshuggah - Koloss

#5. The Broderick – Free to Rot, Free of Sin

#6. Make Them Suffer – Neverbloom

#7. Ceremony - Zoo

#8. The Chariot – One Wing

#9. Devin Townsend Project - Epicloud

#10. Architects - Daybreaker

anonymous asked:

Oh god I’d read anything you decided to write, if I had to pick though I’d be curious to know how you’d headcanon the following scenario: flashback to the first time Hopper and Joyce meet after he settles back in Hawkins following her daughter’s death, and the flashback is linked to a situation happening in the present time.

You will love again (the stranger who was your self)

[A/N: On Ao3 || Title from “Love after Love” by Derek Walcott || big ups to @abbykomskaikru for her encouragement and edits as I attempt to write in this new fandom]

Hawkins is the same as always, even if he isn’t.

He spends his days wandering the same tidy streets of his youth, driving down the same quiet country roads; spends his nights chasing drink after drink in the same bars he used to walk past as a kid.

There’s that same ache in his chest he always felt when he lived here before.

But that ache had been a vague, dull kind of pain that had pushed him to leave, to go, to run as far and as fast as he could once he turned 18.

This ache is different.

It expands from the center of his chest, ripped and cavernous, a throbbing sort of pain that never dulls, never fades, no matter how many whiskey bottles he goes through.

He wonders if it will kill him. Wonders, on those empty, lonely nights when the pain of loss cuts jagged across his heart, why it’s taking so long.

Keep reading

“I also seemed to realize that a beautiful scene, once it had existed, would always be. The present loss was just a matter of separation in time, and this separation I felt could be overcome. An inextinguishable revelation had struck; the universe showed a different structure. In this structure our lives do not just pass through time in such a way that a moment in time or a station in life once past is lost.”

Fei Xiaotong from “A World Without Ghosts,” From the Soil (University of California Press, 1992)

anonymous asked:

hi i have a super super important question: in the your hogwarts au picture, calamity does not appear to be wearing any house swag. does the green shirt mean she's in slytherin? also what house is everyone else in?

the House Swag usually comes in the form of scarves, ties, socks and sweatervests, and Calamity is just too damned cool for all these things. She’ll wear whatever she wants and she’ll wear it with pride. She’s in Gryffindor though; when the Hat tried to explain why, she was like “yeah yeah yeah ok” and dismissed it. Doesn’t need anyone to tell her who she is, she knows already.

Kitty: Gryffindor. She’s unafraid in most all situations, and if she ever is afraid, she’s quick to put it past her and work towards the greater good. She’s been through a lot in life but never once lost her backbone and resolve.
Paula: a bit of an enigma, but she’s a Ravenclaw! She’s very quick to analyze and deduce a situation (remember the whole “kitty stopped in the middle of something, kitty is in jeopardy, lessgo), and she’s a great teacher; she really likes to help people learn in any way possible.
Ichabod: Also a Ravenclaw, because he can truly appreciate knowledge for the sake of knowledge, the application of it, aaaaaaaand because he really really pleaded with the Sorting Hat. He values his own intelligence and he wants to display it (his runner-up was Hufflepuff).
Corn: A Gryffindor for sure. Bravery isn’t just doing things others are afraid to do, it’s doing things YOU’RE afraid to do. And Corn is afraid of most things and has been his whole life, but he keeps taking on every day as it comes and facing his fears the absolute best he can. That’s true courage.
Wrip: SUUUUCH a Slytherin. She knows how to get what she wants, how to make people think what she wants them to think. In her own words, she’s “good at getting folks to do things”. She’ll look out for her people, but only her people. Everyone else is not so important.
Vinkle: A Hufflepuff, who both fits the stereotype and defies it. On one hand, he’s the one most easily deemed harmless and not-so-important (as Hufflepuffs often are), on the other, he’s lazy and doesn’t show any surefire alignment in anything. He actually could have been in any Hogwarts house; he’s cunning and sly if he wants to be, clever and witty, chivalrous (sometimes in a bad way) and unafraid to take on problems, and family-oriented and hard-working (just look at his garden!) in the end, he got Hufflepuff, because it was most convenient.
Huey: A Ravenclaw, surprisingly and unsurprisingly. He’s got quite a unique way of thinking and he’s very creative (not everyone would think “oh no my friend is sad bc his crush doesnt like him back. I know! I’ll CONSTRUCT A GIANT PUPPET TO SCARE THEM AS A REVENGE for some reason.”), fx he thought of using the tuning fork as a dousing rod (to find things, which made his runner-up a Hufflepuff, but ultimately his creativity and wit won).

Writing Prompt Masterpost V2

Alternate Universes
-‘The Bed Song’
-High School
-Pretend Couple
-Canadian Shack
-Secret- Siblings
-Modern royalty
-Accidentally read their diary
-Rockstar and groupie
-Book club

-Met at comic con
-1920s con artists
-Running from the police
-Rebels against the government
-Internet friends

-Time traveling
-Struggling artists

Starter Sentences

-“_______…. what a beautiful name.”

-“Did your parents hate you?”

-“Don’t call me _______ ever again.”

-“I hate being called _______.”

-“I have a nickname for a reason.”

-“I want to know your name.”

-“I think your name is beautiful.”

-“My full name is _______.”

-“My name is actually ______… I lied before.”

-“That’s a stupid name.”

-“That’s your real name?”

-“What’s your full name?”

-“What’s your middle name?”

-“What’s your name?”

-“Who the hell lies about their name, of all things?”

-“Why don’t you like your name?”

-“You have the best name.”
-“You look like a _______.”

-“Do not die on me.”

-“Dying in your arms, the best way to go out.”

-“Hang in there, please.”

-“How are things going to be 'better this way’ if I just leave you here to die?”

-“I’m not going to let you die on me.”

-“I’m not going to make it.”

-“It’s been a privilege knowing you.”

-“Just let it be, maybe things are better this way.”

-“Please do not leave me now.”

-“Stay awake, please.”

-“There’s not even a hospital nearby, just let me die.”

-“You’re going to live, it’ll all be okay.”

-“You cannot die on me!”

-“You don’t need to act so tough and then not say something when you get hurt like this.”

-“You keep going and leave me here.”
-“Was..I not good enough?”

-“Why would you say that?

-"Was it something I did?

-"Was it..something I said?”

-“How could you?”

-“I don’t miss you..”

-“I miss you so much, my heart bleeds when I think of you..”

-“It’s my flt..”

-“I should have been there.”

-“I’m..so..so sorry I couldn’t protect you.”

-“You’re dead to me.”

-“Maybe he was right.”

-“Maybe she was right.”

-“I’m not worth your while, am I?”

-“Am I so insignificant?”

-“I need you.”

-“It’s your choice, now you have to live with it.”

-“I want to be once again with you.”

-“You choose the road, love. And I’ll make the vows.”

-“You had it coming.”

-“You only have yourself to blame.”

-“I only have myself to blame.”

-“I have only tears to shed.”

-“My heart is black and my mind is darkness..”

-“The truth is, we’re both frds.”

-“At least you had good intentions.”

-“He was too strong.”

-“I hate this life.”

-“Once something is truly lost, one can never get it back again.”

-“You had better start believing in nightmares, you’re in one.”

-“Don’t worry about my falling limbs and broken heart, my stitches feel no pain. I love you, that’s all that matters.”

-“You just have to let it go.”

-“Some things happen, and there is nothing you can do about it.”

-“This the end.”

-“Scream all you want, no one can hear you.”

-“No one can save you now.”

-“Rest in peace.”

-“You will never see the light again.”


-“Just let me die.”

-“Just leave me behind.”

-“I won’t say it to him, but he’s got us beat.”

-“There is still a way to defeat you.”

-“Fine, knock yourself out. I mean it.”

-“You’re not a cat. You’re a rat.”

Miscellaneous Muse Situations

-Possession of copious amounts of an illegal substance.
-Homicidal maniac for 8 hours.
-In high school again, whatever that entails. 8 hours. If currently is in high school, now he/she is over 25.
-Sociopath. If already a sociopath, he/she becomes empathetic to everyone.
-Dealing with a deadly heart defect that could potentially kill him/her
-Gravely wounded in battle and needs to be cared for.
-Unrelentingly shy
-Has an alien creature attached to his/her spine with a symbiotic connection to his/her brain allowing it to control movements and basic thoughts.
-A monk/nun/priest of some religious order or at least suddenly devoutly religious. If already devoutly religious, now he/she is a blatant sinner.
-Has a split personality. When one personality is awake, the other is unconscious.
-Vivid hallucinations both ditory and visual.
-Inherits something huge from a dead family member
-Suffers from anxiety-induced short-term memory loss.

Miscellaneous Plot Ideas

-A lonely person sells their soul to Satan to be their friend. And Satan just rolls with it until he realizes at the time of their death he genuinely likes them. Since he can’t renege on the contract he takes them to Hell and puts them in a high position of power. Demons hardened by millenia of torture now have to answer to a shy, self-conscious, quiet, depressed, lonely person who has unintentionally become Satan’s #1

-Superhero series where they have powers that 100% contradict their personalities.

-Dude that rejected by a hot girl and tries to win her over and at the end it turns out the hot girl is a lesbian and she had a crush on this chubby girl the dude totally rudely rejected earlier and the two super cute girls smooch and the dude cries and no one gives a shit

-A young gay dragon being forced to explain to his dad why he’s only kidnapping princes

-Fantasy setting but in modern times. Elves on smart phones and taking pictures for their instagram. dwarves getting into console wars and calling each other casual gamers. mages casting dangerous spells for the vine.

-Everything is black and white until you meet your soulmate

-Wonder whose arms you would run and fall into, if you was drunk in a room with every person you have ever loved and who in that room would still catch you.

- A character with braces during the apocalypse and the entire plot of the story revolves around their search for an orthodontist who is still alive and they sort of accidentally save the world in the process

-A human getting pissed at their vampire boyfriend so they put in a silver sterling tongue stud and bracelets and earrings and their vampire boyfriend is just standing five feet away like “babe. c’mon.”

OTP Stuff

-bubble baths

-holding hands

-feeding each other desserts

-comforting each other

-being silly babies

-falling asleep in each other’s arms

-Build-A-Bear and making bears that look like each other.

“World Without Ghosts”

(An essay by Chinese sociologist Fei Xiaotong, written around 1943 or 44)

Accepting an invitation from the University of Chicago, I went there to work on my book “Earthbound China.” After I arrived, a secretary showed me to room 502 on the fifth floor of the Social Sciences Building and asked politely if it would do for an office. When I noticed the name “Robert Park” in the brass card-holder on the door, the alert secretary hurried to say, “I was waiting until you decided before putting your name up.”

“Don’t change the name. I like that one,” I told her. But she could hardly have understood why.

Robert Park had been my teacher. He came to Yenching University [in Peking in 1932] when I was an undergraduate there. Though I was just an ignorant student, I absolutely worshipped him—except for the old man’s perverse insistence on teach­ing at 7 a.m. and never missing a class or even coming late, which meant I had to skip breakfast to get there on time. For better or worse, his course determined the direc­tion my life has taken in the ten-odd years since, and to him should go the credit or the blame. The founding father of the Chicago school of sociology, he maintained that sociology should take as its subject understanding human nature. Perhaps I liked him because he wanted me to read novels and not sociology textbooks. More than reading novels, he urged going and personally experiencing different kinds of life. Ten years later I still follow this teaching. On this trip to the United States, I had hoped to go hear his classes again. But I was busy with other things, and it was half a year before I got to Chicago, and the old professor had already gone south to escape the Chicago cold. And so it happened that I was put in his office.

This arrangement, whether accidental or not, was full of meaning for me. I had been an unremarkable student in Professor Park’s class, a matter for some regret, and ten years later, though still without achievements, I remained eager for a word of praise from the teacher. I was secretly happy that, sitting in the chair he had used, I would surely absorb something of his spirit, and hoped to write a book that would compensate for my earlier failure to be worthy of the pains he had taken in rising so early all those mornings to teach us. There is here a sort of historical causal connection: because of a past memory the present takes on a significance greater than anything in the current situation. My strong desire to have the name left on the door arose out of a need for concrete, living, moving history. I felt that if the nameplate, the old books lining the walls, even the air in the room were not disturbed, then, surrounded by this lingering past, perhaps in a few months I would see a draft of “Earthbound China” on the table. But if these were disturbed, all might be lost.

This, in fact, is the “tradition” of which I have written in an earlier article. Tradi­tion need not be an obstacle to innovation. True, it has its bad side. When old peo­ple, with the various privileges and respect that have been accorded them in the past, prevent any change in the status quo, that is a bad aspect of tradition. But it is also undeniable that everything new is born out of that which is old. These ties of kinship should not be obliterated, and recognizing them gives to the connection between old and new the significance of succession and continuity. If we can develop this kind of feeling for history, I believe the world and mankind will be richer. When we go on a trip into the country, we can enjoy the scenery merely as a present phe­nomenon; if we have left there earlier memories worth recalling, this can bring on a pleasant nostalgia; and if this is a historical site, our feelings arc further enriched because of what others did there. People do not live only in the here and now; life is not just a string of moments. We need history, for it is a wellspring of inspiration. When we take tradition in this way, that is another aspect of it.

Sometimes I think the world is very strange. We in the Orient accept tradition, but what we seize on is its bad side. The West seems to want to disregard it, with the result that the good side is lost too.

Of course, it is not entirely true that Westerners purposely disregard tradition. For the most part, they all know much more about the history of their own coun­try than I do. Every child who goes to New York has to go gaze at the huge Statue of Liberty and then on the way back visit the church that George Washington fre­quented. In Washington, D.C., there are the hundred-foot-tall Washington Monument, the Lincoln Memorial, and now the Jefferson Memorial. Buildings just a few hundred years old are preserved as historical monuments. On a personal level, Americans keep diaries and write autobiographies. I have elsewhere described how on Thanksgiving the year before last my host brought out a big pile of his fathers diaries. At Professor Redficlds house, Mrs. Park especially wanted me to see the pictures of Redfield ancestors in a corner of the living room. On Professor Ogburns staircase wall were neatly lined up generation after generation of ances­tor portraits. Perhaps because at a dinner party I had once expressed the view that Americans lack any feeling for history, all the friends I came into contact with were particularly anxious to correct my misapprehension by showing me their concern for their ancestors. All this is true, but still I feel their regard for tradition is to a greater or lesser extent conscious, intellectual, and artificial. It is not the same as ours. The reason I feel this way is that I have found Americans do not have ghosts.

When tradition is concrete, when it is a part of life, sacred, something to be feared and loved, then it takes the form of ghosts. This is equivalent to the state­ment by Durkheim that God is the representation of social cohesion. As I write this, I feel in my heart that Chinese culture in its essence is rather beautiful. To be able to live in a world that has ghosts is fortunate. Here let me relate some personal experiences.

When I was a boy, because the family was in decline … we lived in a big old building of which at least half was closed off awaiting uncles who seldom came home, and in another part of which were dark rooms that had never seen sun­light. … In these dark and desolate rooms, there were more places for ghosts than for people This environment was already sufficiently frightening, but in addi­tion not a day passed when people did not talk of ghosts to scare or amuse us children I am not exaggerating when I say that to a child like me brought up in a small town, people and ghosts were equally concrete and real….

Because I grew up half in a world of ghosts, I was particularly interested in them. Gradually my fear changed to curiosity and then to attraction, to the point that I even feel a little sorry for people raised in a world without ghosts. The thing that felt most strange to me during almost a year of living in America was that no one told me any stories of ghosts. I do not want to overpraise such a world, but I will admit that children who grow up in it are more comfortable than we and do not have to live with fear in their hearts all day long. But perhaps there is a heavy price for this, a price I would be unwilling to pay.

The beginning of my gradual change in attitude toward ghosts occurred the year my grandmother died. One day not long after her death, I was sitting in the front room looking toward her bedroom. It was almost noon. Normally at that time Grandmother would go to the kitchen to see how the lunch preparations were coming along, soon after which lunch would be served. This had been a familiar sight for me, and after her death the everyday pattern was not changed. Not a table or chair or bed or mat was moved. Every day close to noon I would feel hungry. To my subconscious mind the scene was not complete without Grand­mothers regular daily routine, and so that day I seemed to see her image come out of her bedroom once more and go into the kitchen.

If it was a ghost I saw, it was the first one in my life. At the time I felt nothing unusual, for the scene was so familiar and right. Only a little later when I remem­bered that Grandmother was dead did I feel upset—not frightened, but sad the way one feels at a loss that should not have occurred. I also seemed to realize that a beautiful scene, once it had existed, would always be. The present loss was just a matter of separation in time, and this separation I felt could be overcome. An inex­tinguishable revelation had struck; the universe showed a different structure. In this structure our lives do not just pass through time in such a way that a moment in time or a station in life once past is lost. Life in its creativity changes the absolute nature of time: it makes past into present—no, it melds past, present, and future into one inextinguishable, multilayered scene, a three-dimensional body. This is what ghosts are, and not only did I not fear them, I even began to yearn for them.

I cannot get used to people today who know only the present moment. To take this moment as [the sum of] existence is a delusion. Our every act contains within it all the accumulated history from the beginning of the universe right down to the present, and this every act will determine the destiny of endless future generations. If the present moment, fragmentary, abstract, false, is taken for life, this life will necessarily be shallow and base and even empty—since the moment cannot last, one might as well indulge oneself and revel, for when the instant is gone what is left?

American children hear no stories about ghosts. They spend a dime at the “drugstore” to buy a “Superman” comic book. This “Superman” is an all-knowing, resourceful, omnipotent hero who can overcome any difficulty. Let us leave aside the question of what kind of children this teaching produces; the point worth not­ing here is that Superman is not a ghost. Superman represents actual capabilities or future potential, while ghosts symbolize belief in and reverence for the accumu­lated past. As much as old Mrs. Park, trying to lessen the distance between East and West, might lead me over to the corner of the living room to look at faded photographs, it was the Redfields little boy who showed me the heart of American culture, and it lay in Superman, not ghosts.

How could ghosts gain a foothold in American cities? People move about like the tide, unable to form permanent ties with places, to say nothing of other people. I have written elsewhere of the gap between generations. It is an objective social fact that when children grow up they no longer need parental protection, and the reflection of this in the family is childrens demand for independence. Once when I was chatting at a friends house, his daughter sat with us chain-smoking. The father happened to remark that it was senseless to smoke like that, but she paid no heed and afterwards told me that she was eighteen, it was none of the old mans business, smoking was her own affair. Eighteen is an important age for a girl; after that her parents need not support her, but neither can they tell her what to do.

I also know an old professor whose son teaches in the same university as he but lives apart from him—which might be all right, but he seldom even visits. During the war they could not get a maid and it made my heart sick to see the professors wife, old and doddering, serving a guest coffee with shaking hands.

When I was staying at the Harvard Faculty Club, I noticed sitting at the same table every morning a white-haired old gentleman who lived upstairs and who from his looks was not long for this world. Whenever I saw him I felt outraged. He must have been a famous professor who had educated countless people and worked hard for society. Now old and failing, cast out of the world into this building, with­out relatives even to care for him much less give him pleasure, he might as well have been dead. One day he said softly to the waitress, “I don’t know if I’ll be able to make it down the stairs tomorrow.” Afterwards I asked her where his home was, but she did not know the answer and only shook her head. In America, when children grow up they have their own homes, where their parents are mere guests.

Outside the family there is certainly much social intercourse, but dealings with people are always in terms of appointments. On my office desk is an appointment calendar marked in fifteen-minute intervals with a space for a persons name beside each. Apart from business there are various kinds of gatherings, but if you go to one you will find it is no more than social pleasantries: a few words with this person, a few words with that one—it is hard even to remember their names. I cannot say all Americans pass their lives like this. But I once asked a fairly close acquaintance how many friends he had whom he could drop in on at any time without a previous engagement. Counting on his fingers, he did not fill one hand. In fact, unless they have business or an engagement they spend most of their time at home, where they don’t much like to be disturbed by guests. At any rate, friends warned me not to go barging in on people all the time.

With interpersonal ties like these, naturally they seldom see ghosts after death. Moreover their movements are so easy and they have contacts with so many peo­ple, that there seldom comes about the kind of relationship I had with my grand­mother, living interdependently for a long time, repeating the same scenes, so that these scenes came to seem an inalterable natural order. Always being on the move dilutes the ties between people and dissolves the ghosts.

As to attachments to places, that is another thing that made me uncomfortable in America. Not the beds and mattresses, for I believe there are none more com­fortable than those of the Americans, but the constant moving around that year was the cause of my discomfort. I visited many places, but when I think of them now it seems I went nowhere, for I felt no particular attachment to any place as all were alike, differing only a little in the height of the buildings. The cities are all more or less the same, at least for a traveler: you get off the train and your bags are taken by a black man who everywhere wears the same type of cap (you may not encounter this kind of man, but you will not encounter any other); you take a similar taxi to a similar hotel—no matter what hotel, if you have stayed anywhere once, you will not feel it unfamiliar. The hotel rooms are all comparable, some big­ger and some smaller, but none lacking a bathroom, a cold-water tap, a Simmons mattress, and nice stationery and envelopes. Since it is the same everywhere, you can never take away a particular impression from any hotel.

Hotels are not exceptions; it is basically the same with homes in American cit­ies. Moving house is no more difficult than changing hotels; a phone call is all it takes. Move here, move there—the houses are about the same. In New York I thought of renting a house and visited ten possibilities in succession. In the end I said to the friend who was accompanying me, “Why bother to see each one? Why not draw straws?” Moving here and there dilutes peoples ties with houses.

Whenever I return to my native place, I go to see the house I lived in as a child. I have lots of questions about the tung tree and the loquat tree; the tung tree still has my name carved on it. In London, where people do not move so frequently, I still remember where I lived on Lower Station Road and Ridge Avenue [?]; while I was in the United States I heard that the old buildings there had been bombed, and it made me feel bad for several days. In America, at least for me, no house has yet produced such a feeling.

I cannot get used to the way lights illuminate all the parts of a room either. Liv­ing in such rooms gives you a false sense of confidence that this is all of the world, that there is no more to reality than what appears clearly and brightly before your eyes. I feel the attitude of Westerners toward the unknown is very different from that of Orientals. They think of the unknown as static, waiting for people to mine it like an ore—not only not frightening, but a resource for improving life in the future. They are very self-assured. We Orientals feel some measure of reverence for the unknown; our reverence for fate makes us content with our lot, makes us aware of human limitations, and keeps our eyes fixed on the humanly attainable. I cannot assert that this attitude is ultimately due to the form of the houses we live in as children, but I believe that my own early feelings of uncertainty toward the big kitchen and the back garden and my fright toward the closed-off rooms have still not dissipated, but only expanded into my view of the universe. If many people in traditional China had similar experiences, then these experiences may have deter­mined the basic structure of our traditional attitudes toward people and things.

In a world without ghosts, life is free and easy. American eyes can gaze straight ahead. But still I think they lack something and I do not envy their lives.

M. H. Boroson here. I don’t agree with everything in this piece, but I find it fascinating. I used a passage from it at the opening of The Girl with Ghost Eyes, and I wanted to share the rest of Dr. Fei’s brilliant essay.

anonymous asked:

nsfw widowtracer? Lena seems to lways be written as a bit of bumbly fool falling all over herself for Widowmaker. Let's her actually have her act a bit like the legendary pilot she actually is, you know, ego the size of the sun and prolly slept with half of the RAF. xD

I tried, maybe, to be a bit poetic with this one but I am so out of practice. Nevertheless I hope you enjoy it :)

Keep reading

A High That Lasts Forever

Summary: Louis completely loses himself on stage. Only Zayn knows how to bring him back.

Warnings: Gay sex, fingering, over-stimulation, blowjobs, etc.

I dunno if this makes sense, but enjoy anyway :D


Zayn’s eyes flickered over at Louis.

Something wasn’t right.

It was weird. Just under an hour ago, the boy was completely throwing himself into his performances.

And now, back in his and Zayn’s hotel room, he stood, almost frozen.

The only movement coming from him was the bare swinging of his arms, which were slung at his sides, and the occasional blinking of his blown out eyes.

“Lou?” Zayn whispered, becoming gradually terrified at his friend’s state.

The boy’s head snapped towards Zayn.

Zayn slowly and hesitantly made his way over to Louis, holding the kid’s arms and looking into his wide, full pupils. 

“Are you okay Lou?” Zayn whispered, utterly taken aback by Louis. 

It was silent for a few seconds. “N-need you.” Louis whined, pulling Zayn close. “Please, Z, need you.”

Swallowing dryly, Zayn studied Louis, and then it slowly dawned on him.

Louis wouldn’t normally be so energetic on stage. But tonight, his performances just got the better of him.

It happened once to Niall, and then Harry, back during the X Factor, when they had to take of them and bring them back to life once they’d lost themselves on stage.

And now, it was happening to Louis.

And the others were out at a club.

And that meant that Zayn had to bring Louis back all on his own.


“Lou, I-I don’t know what to do.” Zayn said, panicking. 

The smaller boy looked hopelessly into his friend’s eyes, falling to his knees. “Let me- Please-.” All Zayn could do was watch as Louis fiddled with his buckle, pulling his jeans and boxers down.

It wasn’t weird for them to do this, and if it was the way to bring Louis back, then who was he to turn it away?

Louis wrapped a hand around Zayn’s base, taking his tip between his parted lips, swirling his tongue across Zayn’s slit, all the while looking up with  those blown eyes, driving Zayn wild.

He could get used to this.

Bobbing his head along Zayn’s cock, Louis took him in an inch deeper every now and again, Zayn’s hands threading through Louis’ soft hair.

“Louis. Shit. Fuck.” Zayn groaned, his tip hitting the back of Louis’ throat, muscles clenching, tightening, working around him.

Zayn was careful, only thrusting in so much and at a certain pace. And when Louis pulled off, he looked down in confusion, his legs almost buckling at Louis’ face: red, puffed, abused

“Z. N-need- More- Please.” Zayn was still confused, wanting to help Louis out of his mindset. “W-want me to fuck you?” He asked, stroking Louis’ cheek and trying to take control. 

The boy below him nodded eagerly, looking up at Zayn. “Yes. God yes, please.” Louis whined, standing to his feet. 

“Right, okay, fuck.” Zayn muttered. “Get naked Lou, and get on the bed, on your back.” He ordered, Louis going off to oblige. 

Zayn took a minute to comprehend the situation, thinking of how he was going to bring Louis back. He shrugged out of his clothes and found some lube in his case, eyes focusing on Louis flushed, naked body.

“Good boy, such a good boy.” Zayn whispered, the bed dipping as he knelt between Louis’ stretched legs, slicking three fingers up. 

Louis’ eyes were still blown, like he was completely out of it and only Zayn could help him. “Gonna finger you, K?” The dark-skinned boy said softly, pushing Louis’ knees up to his chest.

Nodding, Louis bit his lip, letting his head fall to the pillows, fingers curling into the sheets beside him.

Zayn let out a shaky breath, knowing that Liam would be perfect to handle a situation like this. But Liam wasn’t here now, and thankfully, Zayn remembered how they brought Harry and Niall back, so he decided he’d be fine. Hopefully.

A wet, slick finger was quickly pushed into Louis’ tight hole. Zayn focused on the boy’s face, studying every twitch and movement of his features. 

Zayn worked the finger for a while, twisting the digit to search for Louis’ spot. When a heavy whine left the boy’s lips, Zayn knew, giving his prostate a few more brushes.

Quickly working in a second and third finger, Zayn wrapped a hand around Louis’ cock, giving it a few strokes whilst moving his fingers around his prostate, watching the boy throw his head back.

“Zayn. More- Please- Moremoremore.” Louis panted, rocking his hips on Zayn’s fingers, craving for more pleasure.

The dark-skinned boy moaned at Louis’ words, nodding. He pulled his fingers free, ignoring the whine that fell from his friend’s lips.

Slicking up his cock, Zayn scooted closer to Louis, pressing his tip to his entrance. “Please Z, please, please.” Louis whimpered, as if it were a mantra in his head. 

And just like that, Zayn bottomed out, sliding in all the way and groaning at every feeling Louis’ hole was giving him.

“God. Fuck, Zayn. Please. Shit.” Louis rambled, his whole body feeling the pleasure.

Zayn just groaned in reply, wanting desperately to move but knowing that taking it slow will bring Louis back.

“Just relax babe, you need to relax.” Zayn murmured, leaning down to press his hot, flushed body against Louis’, catching the boy’s lips with his own.

Louis nodded sheepishly, his hole widening slightly around Zayn, telling him that he’d relaxed. “Good boy.” Zayn whispered, Louis’ cock straining against his stomach. 

Zayn’s hands snaked down to Louis’ soft hips, digging n slightly. He pulled out an inch, then gently pushed in, angling his thrust just right so his cock brushed against Louis’ prostate.

The two moaned in unison.

“Zayn. Please.” Louis begged, wrapping his arms around Zayn’s neck, blunt nails digging into the skin. 

Zayn nodded, realizing he hadn’t actually moved for a while. His fingers dug harder into Louis’ hips, gently pulling out almost all the way then pushing back in slowly. 

He did it again, over and over, swallowing the noises coming from the boy below him. His hands moved from Louis’ hips to where ever, roaming the boy’s body as his teeth worked his neck, jaw, lips, collarbone and nipples. 

Unsurprisingly, Louis was a writhing mess. His body was slick with sweat, hair ruined and sticking to his head. His mouth never closed, whimpers and moans falling continuously and his hands dragged along Zayn’s back, across his biceps and over his chest and abdomen. 

Zayn’s thrusts were hard and fast, each one balls and deep as his tip snapped into Louis’ prostate. The boy rambled on an on at how he was soclose,justalittlemore,pleasezayn.

His hands going back to Louis’ slender hips, Zayn groaned heavily, lowly as he spilled into the boy, filling his tight walls to the brim. 

And that was it.

Louis came apart, even more than he already had, coming harder than ever in his life between them as Zayn rode out his high, thrusting into Louis sloppily, planting his seed deep inside him. 

The room fell silent, just the sounds of heavy breathing filling the air. Zayn wrapped an utterly Louis into his arms, flipping them carefully so Louis’ body smaller body rested into Zayn’s larger one.

The latter reached out and found the covers, pulling them over himself and Louis as his cock slipped out, Louis too spent to realize. 

All he’d have to do now was take care of Louis, let him sleep and allow his own body to bring him back. 

He was fairly proud of himself, for completing such a difficult task, without any of the others.


Imagine #123 I want you back (Pt. 3)

There will be a few parts of this imagine, hope you will like it. It was requested long ago. Please understand that I have exams now so I won’t be able to update every day. (Part 1) (Part 2)

I got out of bed, luckily, my hangover was not bad, and I just had a strong apatite. Therefore, I walked down in the kitchen and made myself a toast, since I was home alone today.

I got on the sofa and started watching a football game until suddenly my phone rang,


“Ney, me and Jo are coming over,” Gil said.

“Sure, see you.”

They were always around, but they were like my brothers.

Once they walked inside, they brought with themselves some food and sit down.

“What’s up?” Gil asked and grabbed out his hamburger.

“I woke up just half an hour ago, you two, about last night?”

“Nothing, actually it was not as good as I expected it to be.” Jo said getting his console to play the Xbox.


“You talked to her?” Gil asked suddenly.

“You know I did.”

“I mean today.” He rolled his eyes.

“No, I didn’t.” I said upset, because I wanted to talk with her, make her realize that I still regret the fact that I lost her.

“Why not, you should.” Jo said.

“I know I should, but she won’t listen to me, she is done. She is expecting a baby from another man guys.” I said getting angry.

“And what if it was not planned, what if he left her, maybe she is alone. You should ask her.” Gil insisted.

“Gil, she hates me.”

“I don’t think so. Listen I have to go now, see you later.” Gil suddenly walked up and left not even saying where he was heading.

Meanwhile Jo and I played FIFA for like two hours until we decided to invite some other friends tonight and make a private party that would make it up for last night’s nightmare.

We went to the groceries grabbed some bottles of alcohol and snacks, Jo called all of our best friends and everyone was excited about it. Since I just got back from Barcelona two days ago, I had to find a way to meet with everyone before traveling back.

When we were back, Gil joined us. He looked upset; I was not used to see him like that.

“Where were you bro?” I asked when we were alone in the kitchen, while Jo went under the shower.

“Actually Neymar… I was with (y/n)…”

“You are kidding right?” I looked at him shocked, not expecting that answer.

“She is not pregnant Ney.”

“Wait what?”

“It was just another rumor; she was not with anyone else since you two broke up.”

“Oh man, I don’t even know what to say.” I said smiling, but confused of this news, since I had no idea what that meant for me, for us.

“Ney, she said she wants to move on, she said she needs more in her life.” Gil said as if that was a bad news.

“I need her back Gil, I need (y/n). I am nothing without her.”

“What are you planning to do now?”

“I don’t know, but I can’t live without her.”


I was finally back home and my head was a mess. Talking with Gil made everything worse; it was as if my scar opened once again. Just a few minutes ago, I was happy about moving on and telling Gil that Neymar is not part of my life anymore, yet here I am now crying.

Being once again closer to Neymar’s life made me realize how much he means to me, but how much he actually hurt me.

Neymar was my true love, but he cheated on me and that is not what a person that loves you back the same way does. That is the only thing I had to tell myself whenever I felt the need to go back to him and stop myself. The only thing that made me realize the truth. Yet the only thing that made me burst in tears just at the thought.

I laid on my bed, I felt empty, I felt like everything in my life once again lost its meaning.

Hearing that Neymar still loves me confused me, because I didn’t know what to do. I knew what was right for me, but I could not ignore how those words made me feel.

My friends would always say that I need to be strong, that I need to show him I am better off without him. However, I am not, but also I am not a toy to play with.

“Why couldn’t you just stay away like you did these 11 months…”

The next day I woke up, I was back in reality. It was Monday, which meant I had to go back to university, time to get ready for my final exams. I was just a few exams away from ending and graduate.

When I was in class waiting for the professor, my friends told me more about the party that every one of them found so amazing, meanwhile I found it the worse party ever.

“Is (y/n) in this class?” Suddenly a student asked at the door.

“I’m here,” I said, as I looked at him confused. He had flowers in his hand and he couldn’t stop smiling.

“This is for you” he said and walked away not mentioning who send it to me.

“It’s the cute guy from the party, I’m sure!” My friend said as I looked around to find a note. However, there was no need to find it, because there was only one person that knew how much I liked this kind of flowers, that they are my favorite.

“Here look!” My friend found a note,

“Um dia vai sentar numa cadeira de balanço,
vai lembrar do tempo em que tinha vinte anos,
vai lembrar de mim e se perguntar
Por onde esse cara deve estar?
E eu vou estar, te esperando

(One day, you’ll sit in a rocking chair
 will remember the time you were twenty,
 will remember me and wonder:
 ‘Where has this guy been?’.
  And I, I’ll be waiting for you)

“It’s the song! Luan Santana sings it, what is the name again?”

“Te esperando” I said quietly as I remembered it was the first song Neymar sang to me when he got a karaoke pack as a present.

“You have any idea who could it be?”

“No.” I said and walked out of the class, to put the flowers in a vase that luckily was in the toilets and left them there.

“Neymar?” My best friend walked inside quietly and placed her hand gently on my shoulder. I felt like it was better not to say anything so I just nod my head.

“He wants you back? I know it’s your choice, but… It’s been almost a year (y/n)”

“I know.”

“You love him, it’s obvious, but he hurt you… a lot.” She was always nice, and always right, but I usually did not listen to her advices, and I always regretted that.

“I wanted him to fight for me you know… Just yesterday, I wanted him to fight for me. And now he is. So why am I not happy about it?” I said staring at the note.

“Because you are afraid (y/n), because you don’t trust him anymore. You need to do what you think will be the best for you; no one will judge you for your choice. We all just want you to be happy again.” She smiled as she kissed my cheek and left.

Now I was standing alone in front of the mirror with the note Neymar gave me, but not for long…

I tear it in thousands of pieces, as he did with my heart.

“Sometimes you gotta listen to your brain just to save your heart.

                                                                   Yet it hurts like hell.”

anonymous asked:

that doesnt take away from how sam LEFT dean in purgatory. and season six? RIDICULOUS!!! sam went off with ruby, too, and drank the demon blood even when dean told him not to. and, uh, APOCALYPSE!!! do you even remember that? it was all sam's fault, too. sam doesn't get to tell dean he's untrustworthy!!! SAM SHOULD JUST GET OVER HIMSELF ALREADY!!!! GEEZ!!!!

Ah. Round two. This is always the best part. I’d like to commend you on your bravery, firstly. It’s highly surprising and slightly disturbing to see someone stick up for their opinion on opponent turf.

Sam did leave Dean in Purgatory. Because Sam didn’t know it was Purgatory. He’d thought Dean to be dead, capitalized and underlined and highlighted. He didn’t do it intentionally or out of spite, anon. Think about what you’re saying; you are blaming Sam for a completely understandable decision to live his own life once he lost everything. Even his sanity, at that point. Sam grieved and he moved on. Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do, to let them live their afterlives in peace?

Did you just mention season six? Sam, in case it had slipped your attention, did not have a soul. This, in turn, caused him to have absolutely no ability to empathize or feel. And, to negate anything you may further say about soulless!Sam, he stuck with Dean. 

Ruby. Ah, yes, 95% of the Sam hater’s excuses come from here. Imagine losing a brother, best friend, and idol all in one day, because of you. This person walks into a bar, sits beside you, and you begin talking. It’s nice, social interaction. You’ve missed it since you isolated yourself after you lost your… well, everything. Suddenly, you recognize this person! This person saved your life way back in the day, and this person also saved your brother, too. This person, whom has saved your life, saves your life again, a little while later. They propose an idea; revenge on the evil guy who killed your… again, everything. You’re sick with grief, suicidal without that drive, and drunk 99.7684% of the time. Revenge is all you live for. This person sweeps in, convinces you of their worth, manipulates you to do everything they want you to, gets you addicted to a substance that can kill you, and then dumps you to the curb. 

Ruby was a mistake of Sam’s. But it’s not unforgivable. Sam’s more than apologized, dedicated all of time to paying penance for it, and suffered ten fold. Sam has paid his dues yet he continues to overpay. Dean told him not to in the worst possible way; “It means you’re a monster, Sam.” “If I didn’t know you, I would wanna hunt you.”

“It was all Sam’s fault.” Excuse me. I hadn’t realized Castiel was the one who let Sam out of the panic room so he could go to Ruby. I didn’t realize Zachariah had changed that voicemail into something that would push Sam over the edge. I completely missed how Lilith broke 64 seals! Wow, I didn’t know Ruby had manipulated Sam all along! Whew, I even managed to skim over how Dean was the one who broke the first seal! 

Otherwise, what you’re telling me. The apocalypse was not all Sam’s fault.  

Sam doesn’t get to tell Dean he’s untrustworthy after Dean violated him? I’ve read on another blog, and I will track down the link (EDIT; it’s the first meta in waterbird13’s meta tag! I will later provide a link!), that ‘if this were rape, Gadreel would be the one doing the job and Dean would be the one holding Sam down.' That sums up the entire situation.

Sam can’t get over himself. His opinion of himself has scratched the bottom of the barrel so hard it’s dug deeper than the Grand Canyon. It is impossible to cross a scar like that unless you make a bridge. Nobody is funding the production, so, there’s no bridge. Not even a frame. The water’s digging it even deeper, too.

If you were trying to insinuate that, than I do agree with you. But, however, if you’re trying to say Sam’s prideful… The guy doesn’t even take credit for stopping the apocalypse and defeating Lucifer. He gives that, too, to Dean.