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.
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.
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.
This was requested by an Anon! I chose incorporate something a close friend showed me. You can always google the Black Forest. It’s beautiful! I hope you all enjoy this! <3 <3
Word count: 308
(gifs is not mine)
When Gabriel told you he had a surprise for you, you were suspicious of the archangel. He normally played pranks on you when he said he had something planned. You held his hands, which were over your eyes. He said it would be better if you didn’t know where you were going.
Gabriel took his hands away from your eyes, letting them adjust to their new surrounding. As you looked around, you mouth simply dropped open. Crimson leaves covered the terrain around you like a blanket, covering the ground. There wasn’t much black asphalt exposed on the path before you. Mostly naked trees bordered the path as if it were a fence to the actual forest. The fresh crisp air almost took you by surprise.
One of Gabriel’s wings wrapped around your body, making sure you weren’t cold. “Do you know where we are [Y/N],” Gabriel asked, a small smirk on his lips. You shook your head, glancing over at the archangel. Any words that you tried to say would get caught in your throat. “We’re in Germany, and this is the Black forest.”
Summary: It’s plotless, and I’m surprised I got it done on time. It gave me some trouble, but I eventually I found inspiration and wrote something I’m happy with.
Characters/Relationships: Dean, Baby
Word Count: 550
Song: Groovin’ by the Young Rascals
I can’t imagine anything that’s better The world is ours whenever we’re together There ain’t a place I’d like to be instead
The smooth of the leather under his calloused fingers, the cool metal handle and the homey creak of the door hinges, the hum of the air conditioning and the satisfying rumble of the exhaust, the stereo playing his favorite albums, the soft-enough cushion of the seats for travel and sleep, the empty back bench perfect for wrappers, weapons, and friends, the memories etched into metal, soaked into upholstery threads, seen in the rearview mirror, the rides alone and the rides with a dimple-cheeked brother, laughing and sipping god-knows-what drink, rambling on about something academic, his voice filling the empty space in Dean’s heart, the sheen of the hood in daylight, the sleek of the body in moonlight, the familiarity of every detail brought to his memory, running his hands across her form, the head-turner, the attention-getter, the car that no FBI agent would actually be allowed to drive
The way she took care of them, the perfect getaway, the racing speed, the limits he knew so well, the way she shone as a beacon as they ran from monsters, the deep intake of breath as he fell into the seat and turned the key in the ignition, danger disappearing in the rearview mirror, the place to keep all their tools, to hide their life of violence, the one who could never judge, but held every secret, every death, every mistake, every nightmare, quietly in the trunk
The only constant in his life, the one place he called home, his safety, his hobby, his love poured into one inanimate object, an object that was loved more than any other in the universe, the wrecks, the screeching tires and crunching metal, blood on glass, on leather, the mountain of work to rehabilitate her, the time he spent that wasn’t wasted, busy work that meant something, work that kept his mind focused and pain at bay, work that pulled him through grief and fear, the nights in her backseat tangled with someone else, fog on windows, breath on cheeks, fonder memories balancing out the nightmares, the perfect space for two, the space that was simultaneously a bed, a kitchen, a living room, a bedroom, and sometimes a car
His favorite pastime, black rubber against black asphalt, signs and trees and fields racing by, music setting the scene, the wind whipping through his short hair, air rushing across his scalp, no one else in the front seat, just he and she together, cruising, breaking speed limits, taking in the scenery, clearing his head, sunshine reflected off the hood, the lean of his body in tight turns, gas pedal down, back against the seat, freedom and peace, the only place where his possibilities were open, any road, any turn, any city, any state, she could take him there
The most significant object in his life, a car for the ages, a home until he died, a ride until he passed into the next life, a friend until he left this world, more than a car, more than a classic, more than transportation, more than a home, more than a family heirloom, an object that saved people, that carried two heroes through their adventures, a hero in her own right, her own place in the universe, a symbol of selflessness and a relic of legends
Klaine one-shot - “The Crypt Keeper’s Boy” (Rated PG13)
Blaine Anderson (not his real name) wandered into Gethsemani Cemetery as a child, escaping the man who slaughtered his entire family in their sleep. Blaine was taken in by the residents of the cemetery, and raised by Kurt, the vampire Guardian of Gethsemani Cemetery. But Blaine is no longer a toddler. It is time for him to leave.
But can he leave the only home he’s ever known, along with the family who raised him?
Especially his caretaker, Kurt? (5776 words)
Written for @vampireisabitstrong@todaydreambelieversfic gift exchange prompt - A ‘Graveyard Book’ AU: Blaine wanders into the Graveyard as a toddler, and is met by Kurt, the graveyard’s protector and resident Vampire. The graveyard folk raise Blaine as their own, give him the freedom of the graveyard, and all the while he stays within the gates and grounds, he is safe and protected from whatever he was running from when he first passed through the gates as a child. In this version, though, Blaine grows closer to Kurt as he grows up, and it is Kurt that takes him outside of the gates in the end, back into the world. (Ideally, the graveyard folk would be made up of other Glee Club members. Up to you who the Big Bad is, and what they did that made Blaine leave his home as a child and toddle into the graveyard to begin with!)
I’ve been writing this forever. I had to read the book to write it. I’ve changed it a million times, and I still don’t think I’ve gotten it right, but there’s nothing more I can do to improve it. So, here it is … and I’m sorry. :/
Kurt watches Blaine shake the die in his cupped hands, taking
far too long on this one roll at this point in their game.
“Blaine,” he says with a slight clearing of his throat. “I
don’t want to throw you off your groove but could you be a gem and toss that die
already? We don’t have all night.”
“Why?” Blaine asks, stalling in order to shake the die a few
seconds longer. “Do you have somewhere else you need to be?”
Kurt glares at Blaine, silently scolding his young ward for
behaving like a common smart ass, but becomes bewitched by the mild note of
teasing in his eyes.
“Not tonight,” Kurt says dryly, the kind of dry that conceals,
like a blanket of dead leaves on the forest floor hiding scores of life
underneath. “But next week I do have an appointment, so I’d rather not be