Terminal - Stiles Stilinski

Originally posted by sombraguerreira

Summary: (Y/N) tells Stiles about her terminal illness.

I snuggle deeper into Stile’s arms as I try to soak everything in. I don’t want to forget any of this. I can smell his musky cologne, feel his warmth on my side, hear his heart beating and his heavy breathing. I look up at him and study his face. His tousled hair looked messy but still sexy and cute at the same time. His lips were pursed and his eyebrows furrowed a he looked intensely at the tv screen. I stayed there, studying him and memorising every bit of him that I could. God I love him. Everything about him. The way he always asks to be the little spoon, how protective over me he is, the way he sings along to songs even if he has no clue what the lyrics are, his face when he’s concentrating really hard, the way he looks right before he falls asleep - so vulnerable and peaceful. 

“What are you lookin at?” Stiles smirks and turns his head towards me before seeing the frown I have on my face. “Woah. Hey, whats up?” He shifted his body to face me completely and paused the movie. I go to open my mouth but nothing comes out. I close it again and begin to cry. “Woah, woah woah. (Y/N), you can tell me anything, you know that. Of course if you don’t want to you don’t have to but I’m here, okay? Always”. Tears begin to fall more rapidly as Stiles encases me in a hug.

“Thats the thing. I don’t know if I’ll always be here.” I say and Stiles pulls away.

“Are you… wanting to break up with me?” He asked softly, obviously hurt.

“No. Never. I just - Stiles, I need to tell you something. I’m so sorry that I didn’t tell you when I found out but…” I trailed off. 

“What is it.”

“Stiles, I’m sick. Like, really sick. It’s a degenerative illness that basically rots my brain. Meaning eventually I’m going to forget you. Not only you but everything. All my friends, family, us. And it doesn’t stop there. The disease will keep eating away at my brain until I’m…” I take a deep breath too afraid to finish. 

“Does it hurt?” Stiles asks after a little while. I smile a soft yet broken smile and nod my head slowly. Stiles begins to cry as its finally sunk in. We had planned everything together. Where we were going to college, where we were going to live, our kids names, everything. “Where? Where are you hurting?” I brought his hand to my head and snuggle into it as his thumb wipes away my tears. 

“I’m so sorry Stiles. After everything with your mum I didn’t want to have to put you through something like this again. Which is why I have to go.” I whispered.

“What? No, you’re not leaving me. Please, (Y/N). I need you and you need me”.

“I don’t want you to remember me the way I’m going to be. I want you to remember me how I am now. I want you to remember our first kiss, our first date… our first other things” I giggles and he left out a laugh before sniffling and wiping away his tears.

“I love you so much” He whispered as he stared at me.

“I love you too.” I kissed him deeply. 

“But, surely theres something we can do. I can get Scott to give you the bite. He’d do it. You’re one of his best friends.”

“I wouldn’t want to force that upon him. And what would happen if it didn’t work? I’d die and everyone would carry around a guilt for the rest of their lives. Plus, I don’t want that life. After high school I want us to settle down and live peacefully. I don’t want to spend my whole life running.”

“Then why are you now?” Stiles whispered, hurt. I sighed.

“Stiles, I can’t put you through it. I love you too much.”

“And I love you too much to abandon you when you need me. Stay. Please.” I wrap my arms around Stiles’ waist and hug him tightly. 

Hey everyone! I’ve left it a little bit open ended for your imagination. You have no idea how much I just wanted to write something like ‘(Y/N) got the bite and it worked and they lived happily ever after’ but unfortunately thats not how all stories end. This scenario could be a real life issue for someone. My love goes out to not only everyone reading this but all those that are fighting. Keep fighting and stay strong xx

Thomas Sully (American, born England; 1783–1872)
Oil on canvas
The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York

Watch Me Babygirl [pt.5]

[pt.1] [pt.2] [pt.3] [previous part]

Summary: Jungkook is your brother’s annoying best friend. You can’t stand him but he just can’t resist teasing you. How far will he actually go?

Warnings: slight language and some suggestive content

You walked sleepily towards the kitchen to grab a bottle of water or maybe make some coffee, you’d make up your mind when you got there. You ran your hand through your hair, tousling it further.

Yawning, you stepped into the kitchen, the tile sending a shock through you, cold against your bare feet.

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Camera and Action

Written for @impalaimagining for donating to my Supernatural Seattle 2017 Gift!

Pairing: Sam x Reader

Word Count: 2,368

Warnings: sex tape, dirty talk, oral sex (male and female receiving), deepthroating, tongue fucking, random sex prompts, loud sex, rough sex, dom!Sam, possessive!Sam, slight ownership!kink, unprotected sex (WRAP IT BEFORE YOU TAP IT)

Summary: Things have been pretty vanilla in the bedroom, so Sam and the reader decide to kick things up a notch by making a sex tape.

“What’s something we haven’t done?”

You raised your head off of your boyfriend’s chest. Sam was looking down at you, his eyes half-closed. His face was calm, and his lips were kiss-swollen from your passionate makeout session. His chocolate hair was tousled and slightly messy (from thirsty minutes of you running your fingers through it), and you brushed a few stray locks away from his eyes as Sam pulled you farther up so that your head was resting on his shoulder.

“What?” You turned your head, nuzzling his jawline affectionately.

Sam flushed pink at the brush of your nose against his skin. “Just wondering, what haven’t we done in the bedroom?”

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a little like writing or loving

for nursey week, day 2: “surprise or simplicity.”

“If that pen explodes in your mouth,” Dex says from the bathroom doorway, “I am not gonna feel bad for you.”

Derek startles–and does drop the pen out of his mouth–and looks up. “What?”

Dex cocks a brow at him, flicking off the bathroom light and flopping down on the hotel bed next to Derek’s. “You’ve had two pens explode in your mouth from chewing on them like that,” he says. His red hair is wet, tousled from where he must’ve run his hands through it after his shower, and he rolls onto his stomach, propping himself on his elbows to look at Derek. “What’re you glaring at, anyway?”

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until the very end. 

it is a phrase whispered into the hands of lovers, into shoulders, into embraces and cuddles and love. it is a promise, an oath, a vow of protection and loyalty and bravery, binding a tousled dark head to a vibrant red.

until the very end. 

it is a man roaring, “lily, take harry and go!” it is the raising of a wand, the scrambling of feet, the wail of a child, a green flash. it is the thud of a body as it hits the ground, the clattering of glasses against the floor.

until the very end. 

it is a son, standing in the woods, facing Death. it is a father, addressing his child from the other side of a precipice, murmuring assurances to a new set of green eyes, a pledge he will not break–not this time. it is unbearable fear and pounding grief and bursting pride. 

until the very end. 

it is a hero, emerging from the ashes; a phoenix, reborn. it is the triumph of a battle won, the defeat of a madman, the breaking of a spell. it is the fulfillment of a wish, a promise, a vow born of love and bound by love.

until the very end. 

This is what a blessing looks like. 



 Being Brock Rumlow’s daughter and flirting with the Winter Soldier and sneaking him goodies when no one’s looking.

 ••• Requested by Anon •••

Your father had left you with a switchblade and a firearm when he had left you alone in your apartment with the infamous assassin. He had told you not to speak to him or even look in his direction, but your father obviously didn’t know you that well if he actually thought you’d listen to him.

The man - the Winter Soldier your father had called him - was seated in the corner of your living room, completely still, staring straight down the hall at your front door. He had tousled dark brown hair, which was thick and lustrous, but looked as if it hadn’t been washed in days. His eyes were a mesmerizing deep ocean blue that were set in a chilling glare that, were he looking right at you, made you feel like you were standing in the nude in a vicious hailstorm, where every chunk of ice was a frosted dagger cutting down into your skin.

Silence lingered in the air. You felt almost claustrophobic where you sat awkwardly on your couch, waiting for your father to return and take his business elsewhere, but as time ticked by you felt the anxiety leap up into your throat. Jumping up suddenly, you left the gun and your cold coffee mug behind as you made your way over to the fridge. You could feel the Winter Soldier’s eyes on you as you moved around. Grabbing two bars of chocolate from the fridge door, you marched over to him and threw one of the chocolates his way.

He caught it with ease; his mechanical arm darting out to catch it before it hit him square in the face. 

“You don’t have a peanut allergy, do you?” You asked to him, hopping onto the table in front of him, obscuring his view of the front door. “Peanuts and chocolate are definitely one of my favourite combinations.”

You crossed your legs and unwrapped your chocolate. He didn’t make a move to eat his, and instead furrowed his brow and met your intense gaze with his own. 

“Did you know that there’s a chemical in chocolate called phenethylamine that stimulates the nervous system and triggers the release of pleasurable opium-like compounds known as endorphins? It also occurs whenever someone is in love - gives you a happy, giddy feeling.” You said, biting into your chocolate and wiggling your eyebrows at him in a dopey flirty way.

The Soldier’s eyes left yours for a moment and he slowly unwrapped the chocolate you had given him. A sense of accomplishment consumed you as he lifted the sweet up to his lips and bit off a corner. You almost missed the tiny amused smile he wore as his eyes met yours again.

And I discovered all sorts of things that I could do if I had had the opportunity to do it. So I said ‘yes!’, with enormous temerity, and a certain amount of fear, and an element of excitement. We approached the scripts. I said, ‘But you’ve asked me to do Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes. These aren’t Sherlock Holmes - Doyle’s stories.’ I mean, the adapters had gone so far away. And the script editor said, ‘Jeremy, you’re here to act. Just get on with it’. And I tipped the table over and my Dover sole landed in his lap. And that was the beginning of the tousle. I used to take the whole canon with me to…the beginning of each film, and fight for Doyle. After about a year and a half I said, 'Listen, if you don’t start taking care of me I may lose interest’, because it was such a tousle. But than Granada Studios stepped in and were so remarkable and wonderful and gave me two weeks rehearsal instead of the one. So the first week I could fight for Doyle and the second week I could work with my fellow actors. And that’s basically how it’s been ever since.

Jeremy Brett

(November 1991 interview, on deciding that he wanted to play Holmes, after rereading the entire canon).

Strokes Like Speech - Jughead x Artist!Reader

This was requested so here you go! Hope you enjoy! :)

Originally posted by maclexa-bane

Your eyes flit up to Jughead, who’s seated a few tables away from you at Pop’s. You take in the tousled black hair that escapes his grey beanie, roving your eyes over his face and torso before looking back down at the sketchbook in your hands. You start to map out his features, hoping that you’ll be able to do him justice, humming to yourself quietly. You carry on in this manner for a few minutes, your pencil moving across the page with practiced ease, at least, until you look up and see Jughead looking straight at you. His frown deepens as he narrows his eyes, and you drop your gaze back to your sketchbook on the table.

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