alcohol implications

Cut - Jimin (M)

Reader x Jimin

Genre(s): Angst // Smut

Word Count: 3.8k

Author: Ash

Summary: He drowned himself in alcohol and tobacco, praying that it would help ease the ache, but how could it when nothing could intoxicate him as well as she could? Her touch and empty promises of love was all it took to reel him back in time and time again. No matter how many times she hurt him, he would still be wrapped around her sinful little finger.

Notes/Warnings: Use of alcohol, tobacco and implications/mentions/viewings of cheating - This fic is inspired by the M/V for Cut by iamnot (can be found here)


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On Skin

Summary: Phil is a writer. Dan, his muse. AU slightly inspired by The Picture of Dorian Grey but not really. Told over the course of a year, through simple, at some times awful, prose.

A/N: I was given this wonderful prompt by krazy4fandoms to write a oneshot about Dan painting on his arms to cover old self harm scars, and I tried writing it as a high school au, but I hated how it was going so I deleted everything and wrote something at 4 am and woke up and read over what I had written and actually liked it. 

Genre: This is honestly so cheesy and fluffy with like very light angst.

Warnings: Alcohol consumption, brief implications of sex/friends with benefits situation, self harm mentions, very pretentious flowery writing

Word Count: 5k

September

Inspiration, inspiration, no inspiration. No muse, no lyric, no scene to spark a movement in Phil’s mind. The air has been dead, too warm, electrically warm. Phil has always preferred the cold, the destitution of a silent snowstorm. It’s those nights that he writes words like sweet poetry, when he’s acutely aware of his impending death and very afraid by the blunt quiet of the snow outside. When he sits down with a cup of steaming tea and glances out into the afflicted night, the starkness of the dark producing a certain lachesism, a want for the snow to pile up and suffocate the living world, just to feel so numb, so painstakingly numb that blades could pierce the skin and no tears would be shed. Those are the nights that produce Phil’s resplendent words, the flowery and the pretentious that the public swallows like sugary narcotics.

But it’s been summer for far too long, and the heat melts away his thoughts. He sees the emails from the agents, asking where his next piece is, pushing him to work faster, but they spur him to no productivity.

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My brother just pulled me aside and said “you’re not going to go out with your friends for your 21st, right? You’re going out with us. You can come to Portland, it’ll be fun. You’re up for that, right?” And I feel so much better about him moving away I’m touched almost to the point of tears, I love all my brothers so much