It always takes time to sort yourself out after a reaping, even a relatively pleasant one. That’s why, even though you’d like to rejoin Sam, Amanda and Lexi in the cafeteria, you head back to the dorms.
You don’t feel any different after. Some legends say that you eat the souls of the dead, praying on them for sustenance. You’d like to say that Reapers never do that, that they never commit such a heinous crime, but you’ve been around long enough to know better than to lie. There are words for Reapers who eat, none of which you’d dare say here. Names give things power and eaters get more than their fair share to begin with.
You shiver under the blazing sun and try to turn your mind to more pleasant topics.
You are halfway back to your room, when you see Ms. Jan, Mr. T and Principal Finn rushing towards the animal husbandry building. Mr. T’s upset enough that his mane has burst free of his button-down shirt though he’s the only one of the three so affected. Ms. Jan, all banshee characteristics gone, is composed as she leads the group, strides long and purposeful. Principal Finn is listening to her seriously, his wheelchair rolling over the grass easily, with a grim expression on his face.
This is, of course, until he sees you.
You keep your expression blank as Principal Finn says something to Ms. Jan and Mr. T, gesturing for them to go on, and then directs his motorized wheelchair towards you.
Eren is the spark before a fire. He’s stormy skies and starting fights. Birds flying overhead and comic books read underneath the blankets at night. Freshly baked chocolate chip cookies and t-shirts that fit just right. Lazy days spent in the sun, daydreaming. Laughing too loud and crying too much. Giving life 110% and setting the world on fire.
Mikasa is a rose, beautiful and dangerous. She’s romance novels and red lipstick. Vanilla and violin music. Flowers in springtime and strawberries. Courage and hazelnut coffee. Hearts made of glass and bones made of steel. Unconditional love and unrequited longing. Words better left unsaid and well-kept promises. Caring so hard that it physically hurts.
Armin is sunshine, warm and comforting, intense and blinding. He’s blanket forts and imaginary lands with no borders. He’s treasure maps and paper airplanes. Books with worn spines and messy handwritten notes scratched in the margins. Warm sweaters and earl grey tea. Ocean breezes and shattered windows. Crossword puzzles and candlelight. Yelling at a wall until your voice gives out, even when no one can hear you.
Levi is the eye of a hurricane. He’s 100-year-old trees swaying in the breeze and combat boots scuffing along the asphalt. Black tea and black coffee. Hands that can kill and eyes that can severe. Holding on too tight and reaching for your hand just as you walk away. Dry eyes and bleeding hearts. Calm and collected chaos, desperately held together with bandaids and string.
Hanji is a streak of lightning lighting up the night. They’re experimenting with the mind and listening with the heart. Test tubes and textbooks. Off-the-wall trivia facts and laughing too loud. Phone calls at 3 a.m. and classroom pranks that go just too far. Not sleeping nearly enough and needing caffeine like oxygen. Hugs that say more than words and words that could out-do Shakespeare. Twisting the world upside down and every which way to find its best angle.
Erwin is a shooting star, blazing bright and gone too soon. He’s hot coffee and fires crackling in the hearth welcoming you home. Paperwork and pens that have a tendency to disappear. Pine trees and the hoot of owls in the night. Watching a thunderstorm from the window and giving your umbrella to someone without one on the street. Responsibility and hope. Dreams and peanut butter sandwiches. Smiling through the pain so others won’t give up.
Annie is a frozen lake, untouched and enchanting, but chillingly lethal. She’s dark red lipstick and ballads about losing yourself. Cold hands and combat boots. Leather jackets and ball gowns. Soft guitar melodies and stargazer lilies. Winter mornings and angels pressed into the snow. Denial and desire. Knight’s armor and lover’s lips. Reaching out for someone’s hand, but pulling back before they notice.
Bertholdt is the ocean, vast and beautiful and deep and deadly. He’s sweaters warm from wear and hands covered in ink. Reserved silence and soft, unsolicited smiles. Purple skies before it storms and crying in the shower. Ice cream at 2 a.m. and piano ballads played in empty chapels. Books with dog-eared pages and happily ever after reluctantly scribbled out. Attentive ears and guilty heart. A candle burning, soothing and warm and about to tip and ignite the world in flames.
Reiner is the clash of two swords meeting in the air. He’s a knight in shining armor and a dragon waiting for its prey. Walking through the woods and running through the rain. Caramel and cinnamon. Campfires and ghost stories and soothing words when the ghosts overstay their welcome. Inspirational words and exemplary acts. Broken mirrors and masquerade masks you forget to take off. Heroic dreams and disappointing finales. Holding the world on your shoulders without knowing who’s holding you.
Jean is a rain storm, steady and calm. He’s button up shirts and skinny jeans. Rock music and writing love poems on the bus. Too much coffee and hair that takes hours to make it look natural. Cheap beer and nights you remember in a blur of smiles and kissing. Holding hands and keeping promises. Staying up late and talking until morning. Sunrises and autumn leaves falling. Words left unsaid and regrets piling higher each day. Hope of a generation scoffed every night after breaking your back to make the world a better place
Connie is laughter carried on the wind. He’s sunshine and beach days with your friends. Milkshakes and board games. Cheesy puns and cheesier pick up lines. Spring flowers and summer showers. T-shirts and harmless teasing. Toy soldiers and children laughing. Kind eyes and bloodied hands. Crumpled pictures of family members and tear-stained letters never sent. Hugs that lift your spirits and jokes that clear your mind. Young heads confused and hearts a mess, and legs that never stop moving.
Sasha is the melody of a song, peaceful and filled with memories. She’s taking chances and jumping off the high dive holding your best friend’s hand. Autumn leaves and hot chocolate. Freshly baked bread and mac and cheese at midnight. Good morning texts and falling asleep before saying goodnight. Dancing in the rain and seeing shapes in every cloud. Nightmares that cling once you wake up and exacting revenge on your cheating boyfriend’s car. Pushing through the pain and smiling through it all. Following your inner compass.
Marco is sunshine, warm on your skin. He’s running through the woods in spring and tumbling through the leaves in fall. Contagious smiles and fearsome disapproval. Chocolate and cuddling late into the night. Cinnamon and early morning pancakes. Coffee that’s all sugar and singing in the shower. Loving too hard and too fast. Experienced innocence and brutal honesty. Bruised and bloodied body and blazing, bright eyes. True kindness and blind loyalty. Too good for this world.
Ymir is shadows, both cruelly mocking the light and lovingly, silently following after you. She’s harmless teasing and hurtful silence. Staying out too late and waking up too early. Whiskey burning your throat and dark chocolate soothing the pain. Horror films and nightmares that don’t stop when you open your eyes. Photos with faces scratched out and love notes framed in photo albums. Hearts hidden behind walls and and claws out to play. Loving so fiercely it threatens to swallow you whole.
Historia is a windstorm, growing steadily more deadly by the minute. She’s lemonade and mid-afternoon naps in patches of sunlight. Disney princesses and Tarantino films. Christmas lights and diaries with locks. The smell of roses and the feeling of silk on your skin. Floral skirts and high heels. Tiaras and swords. Midnight thunderstorms and veiled smiles. Burned letters and bad decisions. Hugs that last just long enough and hands held far too tight. A tight-rope walker you can’t bear to tear your eyes from.
You twist in sweat soaked sheets, your body writhing next to Sam as a dream flickers to life behind your closed eyes.
The bunsen burner is a burnished silver and far larger than any you’ve ever seen before, the flames a brilliant blue and strong as they lick upward. You reach over to turn the base, to feed it with oxygen. At once, the fire becomes golden and takes the shape of a flower head. You watch the many petals became more distinct, folding outward, radiating light and warmth. It’s the most beautiful flower you’ve ever seen, more fleeting than any other, yet seemingly eternal.
So i was one of those lower-class-take-hand-me-downs kind of kids when I was in elementary school (still am, but whatever) and it was my first semi-chilly winter. It got all the was diwn to 52 (and for Florida back then it was “freezing”) and I had to use this big cotton trench coat from my older cousin. It had a faux leather exterior and thick cotton inside, really comfortable, really nice. It was so big on me that it dragged on the ground about 2 inches.
But one day I was walking from the main building on the way to recess with my 3rd grade class when this brat (let’s call her Brianna) When Brianna purposefully stepped on the back of my jacket. Next thing I know, my nose is slamming into the cracked, broken black asphalt of the basketball court. And alot of blood follows.
I know she did it on purpose, she was laughing. So i wiped the blood off of my face and threw some grit and stone at her from where I hit the ground.
My teacher got my friend to take me to the nurse, the nurse gave me an ice pack and napkin (to stop the blood) and called my mom to pick me up. Good memories.
From prompt #89 — “Are you happy?” “Yes, very.” “Good… that’s good. That makes me happy.”
Eddie could remember vividly the first time he saw Richie shatter like a drinking glass upon hardwood floor.
He remembered the way Richie tried to swallow up his sobs as he choked out the details of his own missing poster—it was as if there were hands around his neck and fingers against his throat. The smaller boy could only tell whose voice it was by the rosy red lips that shaped the sputters—the sounds themselves were ones he’d never heard come out of Richie.
This is it, I think, this is it, right now, the present, this empty gas station, here, this western wind, this tang of coffee on the tongue, and I am patting the puppy, I am watching the mountain. And the second I verbalize this awareness in my brain, I cease to see the mountain or feel the puppy. I am opaque, so much black asphalt.
Swoops suggests the road trip
off-hand, between topics of a stream-of-consciousness conversation they’re
having on a bus to Boston. Kent is leaning on Swoops’ shoulder and has been for
the last hour. Nobody questions it anymore. They’ve been in each other’s
pockets since last summer, and if they’ve suddenly started to gravitate a
little closer than before, well, nobody asks and they’re not telling. But
there’s always an open seat for Kent next to Swoops, or vice versa, whenever
the team is on a bus or a plane or at a restaurant or hanging out at someone’s
house yelling abuse over a non-hockey sports game that few of them really care
It’s as close to open acceptance
as they’ll get, short of coming out. Swoops is willing to grab it with both
hands and push the boundaries of acceptable PDA as much as Kent and their
respective careers will allow.
Kent is leaning on Swoops’
shoulder and Swoops is leaning against the window of the bus. The arm-rest
between them has been pushed up so Kent can squeeze close and Swoops can put an
arm around him. Kent’s voice has gotten drowsy and his responses slow. When
Swoops says, “You wanna take a road trip this summer?” he gets a sleepy
mumble in reply.
“Yeah. Pack up the bare minimum
and just hit the road. Drive ‘til we get somewhere. Sleep in bad motels
and cheap campgrounds.” He realizes that he’s absentmindedly stroking Kent’s
arm with the tips of his fingers. It’s blatant affection but he can’t seem to
“…You wanna take a road trip
in your SUV?” Kent asks. “That’s like going to a drive-in in a limo.”
“We’ll rent something. It
doesn’t even have to be a car,” he adds, thinking out loud. “My aunt did a
cross-country thing with her biker group.”
Kent gives a light snort against
Swoops’ shirt. “You’d need a motorcycle license.”
“I’ve got one. Just haven’t
ridden for a while.”
Swoops thinks he can feel Kent’s
smile. “You? Really?”
“Yeah? Why, you think I’m
“No. Just, I don’t know. You
don’t seem the type. You’re so straight-laced.”
fucked you in a supply closet in the Vegas Hockey Arena, Swoops thinks. I fucked you ‘til you couldn’t speak; ‘til you were so sweaty
and shaking so badly that I almost dropped you. What he says
is, “I’m full of surprises.”
I want you to take all the photos you can. Take photos of mundane things, of the black puddles in asphalt after storms and of the white blooms of dogwood trees, take photos of your family watching TV. Imagine you are shooting the b roll for a documentary that won’t be made for a century. Let the future see the world as it once was, before we broke the puzzle and bent the pieces.
Characters: Sam Winchester x reader, Dean Winchester (mentioned) Word count: 1357 Warnings: angst, arguing, accident, minor injuries, hospital, making out??, swearing, fluff Request: Could you do a piece for Sam X reader where they get into a fight and the reader storms off, and leaves in one of the cars to get into a car crash while driving in anger? Like not super major but enough to hurt them and maybe break a bone or two? Please and thanks! ☺️ A/N: Thanks for the request, nonnie! <3 I’ve actually had this done for like two weeks, but I didn’t like the way it turned out for some reason, so I was really nervous about it. I’m still not 100% satisfied, but now I’m just going fuck this and posting it… (GIF not mine)
“No. Sam. Seriously. I get why you want to protect me! I get that you don’t want me to get hurt. I don’t want you to get hurt either. But you can’t just make me stay home all the time. I’ve stayed behind on two hunts already. Not another one.” I dumped my cup and plate in the sink.
“You almost died last time, y/n!” He was towering over me, his expression a mixture of frustration and fear.
I sighed heavily, walking around him and to the door of the kitchen. “You know that when you start hunting, you pretty much sign your life away, okay? I mean come on. You and Dean have died hundreds of times. I half died that one ti-” I stopped talking for a second as Sam gave me a look. “Okay. Bad point… But either way. You can’t just stop me from going out there and helping save people from shit they don’t even know about!”
Sam started to say something, but I walked into the hall without another word.