but now he leaves a bitter taste

Jungkook seems to pick your friend over you. [pt.3]

Jungkook ♡ Reader

Genre ⇢ Angst 

Word Count ⇢ 1,652

[pt.1] [pt.2] [pt.3] [pt.4 Ending]

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Anything, just don't go

Ivar x Reader 

Warning: Angst, Violence, Some blood, guys its ivar

A/N: Idk, Im not sure that this came out very well, feedback is very appreciated :)

Requests?

Originally posted by rickdixonandthefandomlifeposts

 "WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE ?!“ You ducked quickly, barely missing the ceramic mug that came flying towards your head. "Is that all you can do ?” You taunted him, your own anger impeding you from thinking rationally. Ivar looked like a wild animal, you could almost see the foams of anger around the corners of his mouth. He roared, his eyes closing tightly and his hands clenching around his favorite axe. Panic instantly flooded through you. 

This was bad, very very bad. 

You had always known Ivar to bee very violent, especially after having witnessed him kill one of your peers when you were just a small child. Nevertheless, he had never hurt you before, in all this time that you have grown up together. You’ve had the nastiest of arguments, but never had he touched his axe while yelling at you. Yet this time was different. 

Your heart was beating loudly, but the adrenaline that brought both the bravery and stupidity of anger was still pumping through your veins, you hated him at the moment. You were so mad, your hands were aching to bash his head into the wall, break his nose, slam the door and wreck the room. 

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❣ ML S2 SPOILERS AHEAD ❣

Another thing that bothers me about Gabriel is like…his complete disregard for his son’s safety like?? All of Adrien’s classmates have been akumatized…and while some of them may be ridiculous…others pose a significant threat. Timebreaker for instance–nearly murdered (in essence) Chat Noir. Granted he probably didn’t/doesn’t know his son’s secret identity, but the rest of the class almost evaporated from existence. I’m sure he’s well aware Adrien spends most of his day with his class and could easily become a casualty due to his antics. That or he can at least sense his son’s presence.

He could have been crushed by Stoneheart, diminished by Pixelator, mauled by Animan, literally thrown off the Eiffel Tower by Volpina (yeah he was an illusion, but I wouldn’t put it past her to do it).

“But Ladybug reverses it all anyway, so is it really an issue?” …Yeah…he’s banking on LB and CN losing…so she can’t reverse anything…I mean…

Then he pulls the frantic; “Adrien! My son! Where is he? I want him to be safe!” bs. I genuinely think he panics to a degree when Adrien disappears…but only when it’s not by his hand (Christmas Ep.). Again, the way he feels the need to dictate and control his son is upsetting.

3

Whenever you saw Emma and Hook around each other either alone or with a larger group, your mood declined heavily. You could go from an idle conversation with Snow and Hook, to complete silence when Emma showed up. In your mind you couldn’t compare to her ocean blue eyes, lovely blonde locks, and bright smile that lit up an entire room. No, in your mind you weren’t even on the scale from one to ten compared to Emma Swan.

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ballade to the dawn (m)

idol & songwriter au | christmas collaboration 

pairing: taehyung | reader
genre: angst and fluff
word count: 11.014
warnings: sexual content


Even if the last vestiges of winter are faintly gracing the outside, the day feels colder than it has ever been.

The timing is painfully amusing, you think. Winter has always been a part of you and Taehyung — you first laid your eyes on him through a thick veil of twinkling snowflakes, the first words you exchanged were over a cup of hot chocolate, and the first kiss he gave you was under the umbrella that protected you from a gentle blizzard. You love him just like you love winter, with its stinging cold and achingly dry wind; and even if it burns you sometimes, you can’t help but long for the signs of sunlight, so graceful above the snow coated ground. So unearthly and exquisite, just like him.

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Noises

content: After hearing some suspicious noises coming out of Dean’s bedroom the night before, Sam decides to confront his brother.

word count: 2,088


“Dean, we need to talk.”

Sam’s voice sounds very serious while he leans against the kitchen counter and folds his stupidly long arms in front of his chest, glaring at his older brother with the familiar I-don’t-support-your-life-choices look. He doesn’t even waste his time with a “Good morning” or something similar and that’s always a bad sign.

Dean, however, isn’t really impressed by that. He places the bacon onto the hot pan at a leisurely pace, ignoring Sam completely, until he finally shoots a quick glance over his shoulder.

“And what’s so important at 7 a.m.?”

Sam huffs impatiently. “You know!”

Dean rolls his eyes. “No, I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking.”

Sam fidgets uncomfortably as if he’d rather be somewhere else and doesn’t want to have this discussion at all. And then he starts to gesticulate, flailing his limbs in Dean’s vague direction, and performs a very complicated dance with his eyebrows.

“How about we talk about last night?”

Quite suddenly Dean’s attention is grabbed, but he keeps himself from acting like a deer in the headlights. Instead he clears his throat and asks, a bit croaky, “What do you mean?”

“Well, just look at you!” Sam says, pointing at Dean’s face with an accusatory expression. “There is that stupid grin I’ve seen so many times and I think it’s even worse than ever before. And let’s not even mention that huge hickey on your neck.”

Dean ducks his head and tries forcefully – and highly unsuccessfully – to fight back a blush.

Damn.

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Steve is ten when he starts to see patterns swirling at the bottom of tea cups, bits and pieces of loose leaf tea that escape the strainer when his grandmother tips the pot into his delicate pink china cup with gold embroidery. She always gives him the same cup, but he wants the one that is white on the outside, deep olive on the inside, decorated with sweeping silver crows. He’s too young for tea, too brash, but she fills his cup and sits in her old chair and seats him across from her on her dipping floral couch with a glint in her eye that always makes him feel like she knows something, makes him feel dizzy.

His tea leaves shape like falling crows, monster teeth, chrysanthemums in early frost. A dagger that makes him think of a girl in his class, a girl he thinks of fondly, a rose with many thorns. Two different dragons. A large dog.

He’s twelve and runs his hands along the slats of every fence he passes, lets the pads of his fingers linger a little too long on the aged knots and rings of dead ceder and oak. There is something he understands.

He’s fourteen and fall tree leaves remind him of spinning dizzy and eleven, closing his eyes as he lay in dry red-orange piles in the forest and felt the world turn until his body, made him feel like he knew things he couldn’t. Now, he knows things he can’t, sees them before they happen if he thinks real hard and runs his hands over rough bark, holds his breath over his cups, closes his eyes in candlelight. His grandmother is dead but his mother inherited her china, uses it for her morning tea.  

He’s sixteen and plays basketball for the rush, the way it leaves him breathless, the way all sports seem to shake something in his chest, make him feel clear. The weight of a basketball or a baseball bat give him something solid to squeeze between his palms. He knows which team will win, knows it the way he knows which girls will let him kiss them, and tries not to let the losses burn before they happen, tries to ignore the feeling of knowledge he’d rather tuck away.

He’s seventeen and Nancy Wheeler is who he sees in his dreams, bottom lip pink, eyes sparkling, defiantly clicking back at the monsters at her heels, an image he thinks must be a metaphor, but he feels it sinister in his blood, sees more dragons in his cups, senses vines crawling up his throat when he sleeps and filling his teacups with dense, chaotic black. There are no insights when he looks, just something unknown, something that plasters all over the inside of his white cup with an olive green inside, decorated with swooping silver crows.

He meets monsters and understands. He meets them because he feels bad, has a feeling, knows things he shouldn’t, knows Nancy feels things for Jonathan from the way she now holds Steve’s hand. He can feel something pulsing in her blood. He tastes bitter tartans, fights for her life anyway.

He’s eighteen and lets betrayal sting him for all his knowledge. He knew her love would be bad. It’s worse.

His dreams have long begun to fill with large dogs and the crunching of fall leaves. Behind closed eyes he sees mean blue eyes and dripping jowls, feels hot breath on his neck.

A Camaro careened into the parking lot one morning, weeks ago, and spat out a boy that reminded Steve of petrichor, the clean shake after lightning in a storm.

Billy’s mouth is mean. His fists are worse. Steve sees bruising on his hands when he runs his fingertips over the fences when he walks at night. He sees split lips and feels the ghost of a hot mouth.

He’s nineteen when he runs his hands over Billy’s arms, scrapes his nails over cold flesh and goosebumps. Their feet stumble in the damp red-orange underbrush of fallen leaves and mid-autumn dew as Billy pushes him back into an old oak and bites his words silent, paws at his waist and huffs hot on his neck.

Steve runs one hand over rigid bark and slides the other under Billy’s hitched-up sweater and feels nothing but open mouths, nothing but warmth.

A Taste of Heaven

Character(s): Reader X Minhyuk, Dasom getting married to jooyoung (?) idk

Genre: fluff, romance, friendstolovers!au, smut

Warning(s): sweet talk?

Length: 6.8k

Summary: In which Lee Minhyuk causes you way more stress than you ever signed up for.


You first meet Lee Minhyuk in kindergarten, halfway through the year. He seems pretty nice upon first glance, smile a little too creepy but hey, it’s kindergarten. You figure he’s probably been sniffing too much Elmer’s glue or maybe he ate one of the plastic eggs from the housekeeping play section. All things aside, he’s still pretty nice. He has a rock collection and one of them is named Casserole which is coincidentally your favorite food and you have a pet leaf you’ve named Goat which makes Minhyuk giggle.

“Goat is a weird name,” he tells you between barely hidden snickers, fat fingers coming to cover his mouth as you both run to the slide on fumbling legs.

“Yeah, well, Casserole is a yummy food but rocks aren’t yummy. I would know. I tried eating one last year and mommy cried and took me to the doctor,” you inform him expertly as you climb the ladder up to the slide.

You beat him up the slide and a whoop leaves your mouth as you slide down, but Minhyuk’s smile is long gone when he lands on the wood chips behind you softly. His face scrunches up, reddening, and snot leaks from his nose as he blubbers something about ‘mean girls who are mean’ and runs away from you.

You don’t really care because he made fun of Goat’s name and what kind of person does that, honestly, but a little guilty feeling settles into your stomach when you see him sniffling during lunch, poking at his chicken nuggets.

So right after school ends, you go out front and pick him the prettiest rock from the playground, stumbling back on your little legs.

“Here,” you pant, dropping the rock on Minhyuk’s desk and bending over to hold your knees. “I got him for you. His name is Bleach because mommy yelled at me one time when i picked up a bottle and tried to drink it. Like how she got when I ate the rock.”

Minhyuk looks up at you, a little pout on his lips that slowly morphs into a beam that makes his eyes sparkle.

“Really? For me?” He asks, hands clasped together underneath his chin.

You nod, a little surge of relief flowing through you at the sight of his smile.

“Thanks! I’ll bring you a leaf and you can name it Bro because we can be bros now!”

You frown at him, shaking your head, “Bros is for brothers which are boys, but yuck, I’m not a boy.”

Minhyuk shakes his head vehemently, face pulled into a serious expression, “My mommy and daddy told me that those are gender erstro-stero-stereotypes.” He sticks his tongue out of his mouth as he enunciates the syllables.

“What’s that?” You ask, confusion marring your features.

“I don’t really know but they told me that it means that we can call each other whatever we want as long as it makes us happy,” he tells you with a thoughtful expression. “Oh! But not bad words! One time, my big brother, Kihyun, said a bad word and oooooh,” he does a little jig as he bounces on his toes. “My mommy got really mad at him.”

You nod solemnly at this, “My mommy said that “govnurnment” will find us if we say those words and that the sky might fall.”

Minhyuk gasps at this, one hand clutching his chest.

And thus begins your friendship with Lee Minhyuk.

It turns out he lives in the apartment down the hall from yours which means playdates every weekend which slowly turn into sleepovers. Your parents love him to the ends of the world and back and it’s a little infuriating.

In the third grade he sends you a note via some kid named Jooheon who has dimples so deep you could swim in them for days. 

The note reads, “I like u, do u like me, check yes or no (pls yes).”

You smack him on the playground and that’s the end of that.

In the seventh grade, Minhyuk fills out a little, still lanky, but now his legs are nicely proportioned to his torso and his smile is a little more bright and a little less creepy. Girls notice this too, but Minhyuk is still awkward around them, swerving three feet into the opposite direction when he spots a girl in proximity. You tease him endlessly about this, telling him he’s never going to find his love because he’ll be too busy running away from her.

Come the ninth grade, Minhyuk grows a little taller and suddenly becomes a little more cocky with the girls. This leaves a bitter taste in your mouth for some reason, and this taste only intensifies when he gets a girlfriend he spends most of his time with. She’s pretty, with a cute little nose and sharp, mono lidded eyes. Her smile is bright and cheery and matches Minhyuk’s in a way that makes your blood boil.

“Hi, I’m Seulgi!” She announces herself one rainy afternoon, Minhyuk’s arm wrapped loosely around her waist as she waves excitedly at you. “Minhyuk and I are dating and I know you two are best friends so I wanted introduce myself!”

Your eyes narrow at Minhyuk who looks somewhat nervous. “Dating?”

Minhyuk nods firmly at you, “Yeah, I asked her out today. No problem with that, right?”

Your heart twists a little uncomfortably in your chest and your stomach tightens. Nodding at Minhyuk and hastily sticking your water bottle into your bag, you shoot him a strained smile. “Of course it’s okay. Why wouldn’t it be okay? Everything is okay. In fact, everything is so okay I don’t remember what not okay is like. Ha. Ha.”

They break up a few months later but that weird feeling in your chest comes back every time you see her. Minhyuk doesn’t seem too heartbroken in all honesty and she ends up dating Jooheon a couple weeks after. He doesn’ even act all that surprised, truthfully.

You have a movie night at your house with ice cream and chicken nuggets because even ten years later, Minhyuk loves chicken nuggets. He leans into your shoulder and tells you it’s no big deal, because Seulgi “isn’t a mean person’. The night ends with you feeling even more confused because your heart still does the clenching thing when Minhyuk says her name but it also has started doing this weird skippy thing when he comes close to you and oh god when he hugs you goodnight you forget to breathe.

High school passes and you come to terms with the fact that Minhyuk has a nice smile that isn’t creepy and he has pretty hands and really pretty lips and a good, sweet personality and maybe, just maybe, you’ve somehow ended up liking Lee Minhyuk.

Maybe you like like him.

But Minhyuk is a little dense and never notices and you’re too terrified to tell him yourself because of that one time in the third grade you rejected him. So it just stays a secret. Except Minhyuk is the only one who can’t tell. And everyone else makes suggestive jokes and teases you about it. And Minhyuk still doesn’t know.

Getting over your best friend is hard and it’s even harder when it’s Minhyuk, especially when you both decide to go to the same college. So when he asks you to live together during that time, there’s not much you can say except yes because you’ve always been a little weak for Minhyuk.

Living with him is awful, you realize just a week later.

Now that there isn’t a whole apartment between the both of you, he just comes barrelling through your door at random times, screaming about who knows what. He also leaves his pants all over the place. Just his pants. They’re hanging off the lampshades sometimes or draping across the back of the sofa and one time you even find them dangling from the ceiling fan. Turn out, he just likes flinging his pants around the room because pants ‘constrict the creativity flow, which is essential for a lit major.’

It’s awful.

Sometimes he stumbles out of his room early in the morning, in boxers and a loose t-shirt and he mumbles a rough ‘good morning’ as he pours a cup of coffee. His voice is throaty, laced with tiredness and if you could physically bathe in it, you would. And sometimes he gets cold in his room as night so he pushes into yours with a blanket wrapped around his head and snuggles in next to you.

This is even more awful.

It’s a ride through hell.

Lee Minhyuk is your best friend of fifteen years and now, at the age of twenty, you refuse to develop any feelings for him.

This is easier said than done.

The situation isn’t helped when your older sister, Dasom, calls you to tell you that she’s getting married in a week, not two months.

“Minhyuk!” You call, following the smell of chicken nuggets to his room. He sits in the middle of his bed, blankets pooled at the foot of the bed while he dangles his head off the side, half a chicken nugget hanging out his mouth.

“Yes, cutie?” He replies, crooking his head as he stares at your upside-down form.

“Dasom’s getting married to Jooyoung in a week and mom wants you there. Your parents are coming, too,” you tell him, moving into his room.

“A week? I thought the wedding was in another two months!”

You roll your eyes, crossing your arms over your chest. “Right, well, I’m pretty sure something must have happened for the wedding to be pushed back. My mom called it ‘special circumstances’. My bet is that Dasom got pregnant.”

Minhyuk snorts, sitting up only to fall back and lay on his bed, “Yikes, sounds like this’ll be a fun wedding.”

A sinking feeling settles in the pit of your stomach as you move to sit next to him, resting your head on his shoulders. Another day of listening to your mother rant about how horrible Jooyoung is and your father’s irritated grumbles about Dasom’s future.

“Oh, come on,” Minhyuk says, jiggling his shoulder, “there’s no way it’ll be that bad. Weddings are supposed to be fun!”

You glare at him from where your head rests, eyes rolling up. “It won’t be. Jooyoung’s mom is rude and snobbish, and mom and dad think Jooyoung’s family isn’t good enough for ours.”

Minhyuk just nods sympathetically, grinning at you, “I think you should create a diversion.”

“A diversion?”

“Yeah, like you find something that’s so completely shocking neither family even has time to think about how much they hate each other.” Minhyuk nods to himself, as though commending himself on a plan well thought out.

You crinkle your nose, wracking your brain for an an idea when Minhyuk snaps his fingers, bringing his face close to yours with a proud smile.

“Pretend you’re dating me.”

It takes approximately five and a half seconds for the thought to sink into your head before you choke, hacking your way through profuse rejections and vehement denials.

“Oh, come on,” Minhyuk says, bouncing up and down a little, “it’s not like we have to stay together. This is purely for appearance’s sake.”

You nod agreeing with Minhyuk, because yes that makes total and absolute sense, but your heart also wrenches a little for some godforsaken reason.

You chalk it up to heartburn and for the rest of the day, you ignore the way your heart seems to swell whenever you’re around Minhyuk.

Minhyuk somehow forgets that weddings include formal wear, as in a suit, so six hours before the wedding you both shuffle out to the department store located one too many bus stops away. His justification is that university students have no reason to use suits and therefore “they are useless”.

Be that as it may, you refuse to show up at the wedding with him dressed in the suit he bought for high school graduation.

“So what color do I get?”

You sigh, rifling through the racks of suits, “Minhyuk just pick a simple suit.”

He seems to think that all suits are the same size because the first one he steps out of the dressing room in hangs embarrassingly over his frame. The sleeves fall over his lithe wrists, just the tips of his fingers poking out and the shoulders droop awkwardly. He looks like he’s mid-puberty.

You pinch the bridge of your nose, sighing. “Change of plans. I pick a suit and you wear it.”

Minhyuk nods as you pluck a black suit off one of the racks and pass it to him. “There are sizes, Minhyuk. That’s why I asked for your measurements.”

“That’s why I asked how to pick!”

You don’t even bother supplying him with a response, pushing him into one of the dressing rooms and turning to sit in one of the empty chairs near the big mirrors. Minhyuk grunts few times, complaining from inside the room about starchy fabrics and too tight collars as you laugh, inspecting your fingernails. A rack of ties hang beside you, colorful prints and dark, solid colors. You trace the tips of your finger over each tie, plucking out a soft pink one, satisfied with how well it matches with your dress.

The swish of the curtains swinging open is the first thing you register before you look up and oh-

Minhyuk stands, one hand pushed into his pocket, the other fiddling with the lapels of the suit jacket, one knee cocked. His brown hair is swept back from his face, tousled from what you assume are his fingers raking through it. He looks breathtaking and you gulp a little bit, voice caught in your throat for a moment.

“N-nice, you -you, you look nice.”

Minhyuk’s fingers graze over the fabric, his eyes locked on you, hints of a smirk playing at the corners of his lips. “You think so?”

You force back the impure thoughts budding in your mind and manage a stiff smile, sending him a wink. Minhyuk’s cheeks redden and he coughs into his fist, mumbling something about you being too cute for your own good. You’re not exactly sure why that makes you blush and fluster when you hear that but you spend the next ten minutes hacking up a lung while Minhyuk asks you if you’re okay.

You nod and it’s another day of ignoring the fact that Lee Minhyuk looks amazing in both sweatpants and a suit.

So when you get back home, you make a beeline for your bedroom, eyes refusing to grant Minhyuk any glances.

It’s stifling in your room, surrounded by the smell of Minhyuk’s cologne and mental flashes of his suit, the white collar of his dress shirt unbuttoned, fingers latching onto the tie to wriggle it loose.

You find it nearly impossible to rid yourself of the intrusive thoughts, flinging yourself into your bed. Solace comes in the form of your fingers sneaking down your jeans, pushing your panties aside as you rub at your folds, fingers flicking against your clit. Your eyes flutter shut as you arch your back, mouth opening in a silent moan, thoughts of Minhyuk running through your mind. His fingers pass fleetingly through, thoughts of how well those long fingers could work you open, pressing against all the right spots.

Your fingers twirl around the bundle of nerves, mind now delving into the ways his tongue could make you feel, swiping over your folds, pushing into you. You can picture him pressing you into the sheets, lips burning trails all over your body, leaving light hickeys on the unmarred skin, his voice raspier as he grunts into your ears. Minhyuk could fill you up so well, taking his time with making you feel good, leaving you writhing and satisfied. 

You imagine his face when he cums, mouth open and face twisted in an expression of pure ecstasy. It’s what finally has you unraveling around your own fingers, voice breathy as a whisper of his name slips through your lips.

You lie there in your bed, limp and spent for a good fifteen seconds before the weight of what you’ve done washes over you. Your cheeks burn with embarrassment of having just gotten off to the mere thoughts of your best friend, quickly wiping your fingers clean with the tissues on your bedside table.

A sudden loud rap comes from your door and Minhyuk’s voice wafts through, sugary and sweet. “Are you dressed yet? The wedding starts in about two hours.”

Your voice catches in your throat for a quick second, a garbled croak sounding from your lips first. “I-I mean almost!”

Minhyuk groans from the other side and you can almost picture the pout on his lips. “Well, hurry up!”

It takes you only a few minutes to slip on the dress, light pink and soft and airy, the most comfortable one you could find. You forsake the comfort of your feet, however, for high heels, teetering a little as you stand  from your chair.

Minhyuk’s hand is still shoved into his pocket when you step out, but this time his eyes are locked on the watch on his wrist as he stares at it intently, tapping his foot on the hardwood floor, little irritated clacks resonating. You clear your throat a little, eyes widening when you see that he’s cleaned up, swept the strands of his hair to the sides, the tie properly knotted around his neck, a small pink rose tucked into the pocket of his suit. Your breathing stutters a little and a silence follows, Minhyuk’s eyes widening as he looks at you, scanning your body up and down as he drags his tongue over his cracked lips in a quick swipe.

“H-hey, you look nice - like good- like really good, you look really good,” he stammers, rubbing the back of his neck shyly, the skin flaming a right red. Minhyuk clears his throat once, twice, holding out his elbow. “Shall we, m’lady?” He seems to be able to compose himself enough to step closer, instead, lacing your fingers together.

“It’s what real couples do,” he says when you glance at him inquisitively, but his cheeks are a telling pink as he looks away.

The moment your step into the church your eye lock on your mother, fanning herself with the wedding pamphlet in one hand, the other swishing a glass of red wine. Her face is twisted into an irritated expression, lips thin and wrinkled. Your father is slouched over the table, glasses perched low on the bridge of his nose as he traces the tip of his finger over the rim of his wineglass. He looks more glum than anything else, eyes occasionally flitting up to eye the white, lily-covered aisle and flower decorations with a heavy sigh.

“Minhyuk!” Your mother exclaims, face lighting up the second she sees him. She opens her arms wide, a smile splitting her frown, “I’ve missed you so much!”

Your father even seems happier, clapping Minhyuk on the back with enough force to nearly knock him over. “How’s college going, Minhyuk?”

“Oh, I’m sure he’s at the top of his class, just like in high school!” Your mother gushes, hands clasped together in happiness. Minhyuk just smiles, wrapping an arm around your mother’s waist and planting  a kiss on the crown of her head. She giggles, leaning into his shoulder.

Your cross your arms over your chest, eyebrows furrowed.

“Hi, mom. It’s me. Your daughter.”

Your mother spares you a glance before turning back to Minhyuk, “Yes, sweetheart, I know. Believe it or not, I was there when you were born.”

You barely have enough time to splutter back an offended reply before Dasom comes barging in, eyes glinting with anger, her dress swinging back and forth dangerously.

“Where are my calla lilies?” She nearly screams, shoving Minhyuk aside.

He stumbles, nearly crashing into the table as she huffs, slamming her hand down onto the table. A sort of fury ignites in your chest as you latch one of your hands onto Minhyuk’s elbow, tugging him close. “Hands off my boyfriend.”

Minhyuk looks back at you, his face unreadable.

Dasom’s expression shifts from anger to utter confusion as she turns to look at you, mouth open. “What did you say?”

The anger inside of you dwindles, your rash actions catching up to you. “Uh-I mean-uh”

“We’re dating.” Minhyuk announces, moving his elbow out of your hand to instead interlace your fingers together. “I’m here to provide support for my girlfriend’s family.”

Dasom chokes.

Minhyuk’s whisks you out of the church after that, calling out a cheerful ‘be right back!’ over his shoulder. You can hear your parents fumbling for words, half-finished sentences and garbled sounds.

When you go back in moments later, this time equipped with knowledge from google (how to fake a relationship), your parents are more composed. You mother is seated in one of the high stools, your father right next to her. Her legs are crossed, fingers wrapped around the stem of the wineglass, swishing the red liquid as she eyes you with a cold, calculated look.

“So,” she begins, the second you both step closer, “when did this happen?”

Minhyuk speaks up, one hand pressed against the small of your back, “We’ve been dating for about a month, but we didn’t want to make it a big deal.”

“Of course it’s a big deal,” your mother exclaims, the wine sloshing dangerously in the glass. She shifts her gaze to glare at you, “I can’t believe you kept the son-in-law of my dreams hidden from me all this time!”

“What.”

She rolls her eyes, turning to look at your dad, “Do you see this? She kept this hidden for an entire month!”

Your father grunts a little, squaring his shoulders, “We all love Minhyuk sweetheart, why wouldn’t you just tell us?”

Minhyuk winks at your parents, greasy and playful, “I love you guys, too.”

“See,” your mother chimes, “there was absolutely no reason to keep him from us!”

You open your mouth to respond when the church doors fly open, a hot blast of air flying through the room.

Jooyoung’s mother stands there, sunglasses perched on her nose, designer bag swinging from the crook of her elbow. Minhyuk wraps an arm around your shoulders, rubbing the skin gently as he waves, voice cheerful.

“Hi hello!”

She tilts her head, peering at him over the top of her sunglasses before sniffing and strutting forwards.

“I’m the groom’s mother.”

An awkward silence follows.

“Ah, yes,” Minhyuk says, clearing his throat and smiling uncomfortably. You can practically see his inner struggle, desperately trying to impress. Minhyuk has always been like this, striving to make sure everyone likes him and please anyone he meets.

Your mother rolls her eyes, mumbling a quick greeting and darting away with your father as quickly as she can.

Another awkward silence follows.

“So,” Jooyoung’s mother  says, taking off her sunglasses and slipping them into her purse, turning to look at you “How are you?”

“I-I’m fine,” you croak, slightly intimidated. “Got a good job and moved into a new apartment and -”

“You’re so independent” she chimes, voice saccharine sweet. “It’s no wonder you haven’t found anyone yet!”

You choke a little, eyes widening and Minhyuk stiffens next to you.

“Actually,” he says, pressing himself a bit closer to you, “we’re dating.”

Your heart flutters a bit - just a bit- at his words, leaning into his warmth. Jooyoung’s mother regards him with a calculated look, eyes sweeping up and down his form.

Well,” she sighs, turning to look back at you, “if that’s the kind of man you wanted, you certainly got a good one.”

You’re not quite sure what to make of that but guests slowly begin filing in and Jooyoung moves to greet them all, shaking hands and casting smiles.

Jooyoung’s mother shuffles away, heels clacking loudly on the tiled floor as she hugs some of the people coming in.

“Wow, she seems really nice,” Minhyuk says dryly, mouth pulled into a wry smile.

Your mother appears next to you, lips pressed into a thin line. “She’s quite a piece of work isn’t she?”

Minhyuk’s eyes flash to her before he grins, planting a soft peck on your temple. “Don’t be sad, I’m here to make the perfect son-in-law for you!”

You don’t hear your mother’s reply because all the blood in your body is rushing to your face, the pounding of your heart beating too loudly in your ears. Lee Minhyuk’s lips are soft and feel like clouds pressed against you and his arm feels so incredibly secure, like they were meant to keep you safe, it’s hard to breathe now.

“-right?”

Your eyes snap back into focus as you feel Minhyuk’s elbow nudge you in the ribs softly, mumbling an intelligent “huh?”

You mother just sighs, pointing to the pews with a tired hand. Minhyuk guides you to your places, a warm and comforting presence. The wedding passes by in a blur; Dasom practically radiates beauty and Jooyoung clearly can’t stop smiling. They exchange vows and your eyes brim with tears as Dasom slips the ring onto his finger, overwhelmed with the sudden realization of your older sister moving onto the next chapter of her life. The tips of Minhyuk’s fingers brush underneath your eyes, sweeping the tears away. He wraps his hand around yours, rubbing comforting circles into the back of your hand with his thumb.

You unconsciously lean into the touch, reveling in the warmth his body provides against you, comforting and soothing. The smell wafting off of him is familiar, allowing you a sort of solace in this uncomfortable atmosphere.

Your mother shoots you a knowing glance, smiling surreptitiously and leans into your father’s side, whispering something.

The rest of the ceremony moves by just as quickly, the reception more or less bustling with people holding too many wine glasses.

Dasom and Jooyoung have their first dance and people slowly fall into a relaxed state, swaying to the soft music, arms wrapped around their partners.

“Hello, darlings,” Jooyoung’s mother says, sidling up next to you and eyeing your mother up and down. Her eyes convey irritation as she plasters a fake smile across her lips. “That shade does wonders for your wrinkles!” She says, gesturing towards your mother’s dress.

Your mother’s lips twitch as she brings the wine glass to her lips.

“My, that’s the eighth glass you’ve had since I’ve gotten here! I envy you and your daughter, not worried about what others may think!”

Her eyes narrowing, your mother clears her throat, bringing the glass down from her lips to ask, voice quiet, “And what exactly does that mean?”

Jooyoung’s mother sniffs, inspecting her fingernails, “Of course, I mean your obvious issue with alcohol, for lack of better word. Furthermore, I would never allow my child to cling to their partner in public in such a way, especially during someone else’s  wedding, but it’s wonderful that the both of you are so confident you don’t concern yourselves with anyone else.”

You feel yourself step back in shock, unprepared for the attack aimed your way. This time, your mother places the glass on the table, straightening her back and clasping her hands.

“I think,” she begins, voice eerily calm, “That it’s none of your concern what we do.”

Jooyoung’s mother crosses her arms, the leather of her purse dangerously hovering over her sharp diamond bracelet. “Well, of course it is. You’re family now.” She spits out the word like it’s venom, mouth wrinkling in distaste.

“Right,” Minhyuk interjects, coolly wrapping his arm around your waist again, fingers playing with the fabric of your dress. “Family. But auntie, is everything alright at home? Jooyoung told me about your … financial issues, and you know we’re always happy to help. After all, that’s what family is for.”

Jooyoung’s mother chokes a little, composure breaking as she stammers, “I-it’s fine. We have everything under complete control.” Her voice cracks a few times before she wobbles away, calling out for Jooyoung.

You and your mother stare at Minhyuk in awe as he plucks a mini quiche off a platter and pops it into his mouth, chewing happily.

“Financial troubles?” Your mother croaks, eyes wide. “Since when?”

“Not sure,” Minhyuk says around the food in his mouth, munching noisily. “That,” he swallows the last of the quiche, sticking up his index finger, “Was a shot in the dark.”

“A shot in the dark,” your mother repeats slowly, as if mulling over the words. “You didn’t know if it was true?”

“Nah,” he says, shrugging his shoulders, “but she was clearly on edge all throughout the wedding and what kind of mom wears more expensive clothing than her son on his wedding day? Only a mom that felt insecure about her finances.”

A stunned silence follows.

“Well,” your mother says, standing from her chair, teetering a little bit, “I’m going to go get another drink, because I need it if I’m supposed to survive this wedding.”

She hobbles away, swaying a little and nearly crashing into one of the waiters as she searches for the open bar.

Minhyuk chuckles by your shoulder, puffs of air hitting the side of your neck, “Told you I’d be a good buffer.”

You turn to face him, mouth open and ready to fire back a reply but he’s staring down at you, eyes twinkling and lips curved into the sweetest smile and the words somehow get caught in your throat.

“May I have this dance?” He asks, offering his hand, and grazing the tip of his nose over yours.

Words aren’t needed as you slip your hand into his, nodding with a shy smile. Minhyuk’s hand feels secure and safe as he pulls you close, slipping them down to hold your waist.

“So,” he says, smiling as you wrap your hands around his shoulders, “seems like they bought the whole thing, huh?”

You frown, steps faltering, “What do you mean?”

“Our relationship.”

“Oh.”

A sort of wrenching feeling builds in your chest, similar to how you felt when Seulgi announced she was dating him and at this point you’ve accepted your feelings for Minhyuk because, really, there’s no way out.

“But,” he says, pressing his forehead against yours, “You don’t seem all that happy.”

You square your shoulders, jaw setting. 

Right. Be an adult. Rip the bandaid off. Get it over with.

“Minhyuk,” you sigh, eyes locked on the collar of his shirt, “I-”

“A hypothetical,” he interrupts, this time slight panic laced into his eyes, “What if, hypothetically, I actually wanted to be your date for once and I just did this so that you’d give me a chance?”

“What.”

“And, hypothetically, I like it when you take care of me so I purposefully depend on you?”

“What.”

“And maybe, just hypothetically, what if I said I’ve liked you since the third grade? So,” he scratches the back of his neck, laughing awkwardly, “If I said that, would we keep pretending or could we actually start dating? Hypothetically.”

You blink.

“What.”

This time Minhyuk groans in exasperation. “Oh my god, you don’t get it. I like you.”

“You what.”

“Like you.”

“Like you like me? I know you like me; we’ve been friends for years, Minhyuk.”

“No, like I like you like you.”

This new piece of information takes about three minutes for you to process during which almost eighty different emotions pass over Minhyuk’s face.

It finally hits you and your legs shake as you take a step back, “W-what?”

The world suddenly becomes all wavy and Minhyuk’s arm slips around your waist, catching you as your knees nearly buckle. “What do you think?”

Your arms slip back around his neck, searching for balance and he’s so close, so incredibly close, his lips ghosting over your own and before you realize it, your eyes have slid shut, lips parting.

Fuck it, you’ve waited for this for years.

You forget everything, the family stress, the people around you, the piles of work you have left at home, and focus solely on what you’ve thought about for years.

Minhyuk’s lips press against yours with the softest of touches and nothing you’ve imagined could have prepared you for this moment, lips tingling, fingers flying to latch onto his shoulders, drawing him closer. Minhyuk’s lips are made of fireworks and coming home, he’s the comfort you’ve always needed and the sunshine you so desperately crave. He tilts, his head, lips leaving your for a split second as he gulps in air, a whisper of your name slipping past his lips. You only grow more desperate for his touch, leaning into him, fingers scrabbling for purchase as they drag at his shoulders.

“I’m guessing that’s a yes?” He laughs when your lips part, foreheads still pressed against each other’s.

You can almost physically feel his warmth squeezing through the cracks of uncertainty in your heart as you nod, a smile spreading over your lips.

“Yes.”

Minhyuk has a hard time keeping his hands to himself. You discover this on your hasty car ride back home, as you both quickly bid your parents goodbye, quick pecks on the cheek and surprised hugs thrown your way.

His hand rests on your bare knee as he drives, his shirt popped open a few button, tie loose and hanging around his neck.

“Minhyuk, move.”

“No. I like my hand there.”

Correction. He just doesn’t like keeping his hands to himself.

“Something wrong with it,” he pauses, almost contemplatively, before a slow grin spreads across his face, “baby?”

“No.”

“Baby,” he says, this time the smirk on his face much too prominent.

“Shut.”

“Baby.”

“UP.”

He smiles, tilting his head, “So you like being called baby.”

You cross your arms over your chest and glare at him, but he seems unaffected.

“You looked really pretty today, baby.”

A minute of silence goes by.

“So pretty, baby.”

“Never speak to me again, Lee Minhyuk.”

Minhyuk’s lips are pressed against yours the moment you both step into the apartment, fumbling to take off your shoes, you heels catching on the edge of the rug as you stumble.

His hands roam, pressing into your sides and tugging your body close as he stumbles into the living room.

“You’re so pretty, baby,” he whispers, hands burning as they pull you into the bedroom, shifting to the back of your dress to fiddle with the zipper.

You sigh, voice catching in your throat as your body lands on the messy sheets, “You–you looked pretty good, too.”

He grins, lips curving against the column of your neck. “I noticed you liked the suit, baby.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Minhyuk just shoots you a cheeky grin, fiddling with the clasp of your bra, “I saw your face when I came out of that dressing room. Admit it, you think it’s hot.” He smiles when the bra finally unclasps, falling from your shoulder

You roll your eyes, locking your legs around his waist and drawing him closer. “I think,” you huff, rolling your hips up to meet his, seeking relief from the lust that’s building inside of you, “that you need to talk a little less.”

Minhyuk’s finger’s move up to pop another shirt button, smile widening when he hears you draw in a sharp intake of air. “You sure this isn’t making you wet, baby?”

“Minhyuk,” you whine, fingers making their way up to his shirt to unbutton it, irritated with how long he’s taking, “shut up already.”

He just giggles, his lithe fingers trapping both of your wrists and pressing a kiss to each before he leans back down, pressing your wrists against the sheets, to kiss you again. His hands move down your frame, ghosting over your nipples and leaving goosebumps in their wake.

Minhyuk’s lips move to your neck, biting down on your collar bones and licking lightly up the side. Your fingers weave back into the strands of his hair, tugging him closer as he groans against your neck, rolling his hips down t meet yours.

“Thought about this for too long,” he pants, hands sliding down to tug at your panties, “wanted you for so long.”

Your words catch as a moan spills past your lips, pleasure coursing through your body as Minhyuk’s fingers trail up your folds, flicking your clit and sliding into you with ease. “I – ah – m-me too, Minhyuk, yes, me too.”

His fingers curl inside of you, pressing against your walls and dragging out the moans coursing past your lips that threaten to grow so loud you’ll receive noise complaints in the morning.

“What do you mean, baby?” He asks, breathless as he pumps his fingers into you, “You thought of me like this? Thought of me making you needy and desperate? Like the good girl you are?” His voice is laced with shock, eyes staring into yours with mild disbelief.

Your body squirms, hips lifting to try and rock back against his fingers. “Fuck yes, Minhyuk, so please please please –”

“Not so fast,” he interrupts you, his fingers slowing down to an agonizing pace. “What did you think of, baby?”

Please, Minhyuk,” you nearly sob as his fingers push into you again, reaching spots you never could and pressing them in all the right ways.

“No. Tell me what you thought about.”

Your body twitches underneath his as you surrender, too weak to try and argue. “Thought about your fingers, how they’d feel, and your lips and the way you’d fuck me so good, fuck, Minhyuk, I know you’d make me feel so good,” you mewl, fingers clawing thin red stripes into his bare shoulders as he shrugs his dress shirt off.

Minhyuk groans, eyes burning a darker shade as he brings his lips back down to yours, teeth clacking messily, too much tongue, but it feels so damn good.

“So,” he pants, “perfect,” his fingers pull out of you, “for”, he rolls on a condom, “me.”

Minhyuk likes taking his time, Like winding you up, making you more whiny and desperate for him. He pushes into you with a low groan, his pace slow and steady. Your toes curl and your eyes roll back as he brings his thumb down to rub at your clit, satisfied at the half-scream that spills from your lips.

His thrusts aren’t enough, though, just shy of exactly where you need him, so you wrap your legs around his waist, tugging him closer and hissing a stuttered “faster”.

Minhyuk kisses you, harsh and desperate, and when he pulls away, he sucks your lower lip into his mouth, watching with satisfaction as he releases it and it pops back into its place. His eyes rake over your face appreciatively, watching the delirium that slowly takes over your body as you writhe against him, drawing him closer, begging for more.

“You’re just so fucking gorgeous, baby,” he groans, snapping his hips and pressing hot, openmouthed kisses against your jaw. “You’re so perfect.”

You can only moan in response, nails dragging up his shoulders and raking over the nape of his neck.

“And,” he hisses, angling his hips a little differently, “You’re even perfect when you’re like this, pretty and wet all over my cock.”

“Fu-fuck, Minhyuk fuck,” you sob, words coming out in little broken cries as he snaps into you with newfound force. “S-so good, yes, more.”

You can faintly hear the sound of the headboard slamming against the wall, but everything disappears and all you can focus on is Minhyuk’s lips and his hands and the way he fucks into you.

Your body convulses underneath his as a scream is ripped from your throat, Minhyuk’s name slipping past your lips and it’s so, so hard to focus when his sinful lips are dragging over your body, red blotches littering the already marked skin.

“Come on, baby,” he whispers, rubbing his thumb over your clit, “cum for me. Cum over my cock like the pretty little girl you are.”

It’s what finally has your back arching, jaw slack as a harsh scream slips past your lips, eyes rolling back. Minhyuk’s thrusts grow more erratic before he releases into you with a low ‘fuck’. There’s a moment of pure silence as he noses into your neck, steadying his breathing. He sighs, pressing soft, lazy kisses against your forehead as he relaxes, your legs falling from his shoulder, body already sore.

You feel your body go limp as he pulls out of you with a low hiss, rolling the condom off his length to throw it out. Minhyuk flings himself into the space next to you, one arm thrown over your waist, his legs immediately moving to tangle with yours.

“So,” he whispers, peeling back the strands of hair that have plastered themselves to your face, “I hear you like me.”

You snort, nuzzling into his chest, “Heard you like me, too.”

Minhyuk just hums, practically molding himself to you and your arms find their way around him being living with Lee Minhyuk is ride through hell but being with him is a taste of heaven.


A/N: hi helo this was weird 2 write but i realize that i rlly like writing for minhyuk bc hes such a gr8 person i now stan minhyuk buhbye also wats a casserole google wont give me an answer

Requested by:

[Anon] Please write a Minhyuk fluffy smut? I need more of this! It’s so hard to find 😭

Masterlist

Title: Thing 
Word Count: 647 words
Rating: T
Genre: Drama/Thriller/Horror 
Pairing: BTS Member x reader
Warnings: A LOT of implications but nothing flat out stated, some biting, chains
Summary: You were something more, once
Written by: Admin A 

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A Familiar Feeling

Post-ep. As much as I loved the episode, it didn’t really give me any ideas. This is the result. Angsty, fluffy word vomit with our favorite trope: one bed fic. Tagging @today-in-fic

“Any preferences as to where you want to stay tonight, Scully?” Mulder starts the car; his need to get away, and as far as possible, just as strong as Scully’s. If he could, he’d drive them home right now, without a single stop on the way.

“Hm, no. Let’s just get out of this town.” They leave the playground and the scene of the crime behind them, but the bitter, salty taste in his mouth remains. His fingers tap against the steering wheel. He can’t find a rhythm; the music on the radio is always a step ahead of him. Scully doesn’t comment, but he feels her glance over once or twice. Their overnight bags are in the car already; they never meant to stay this long. As they pass the town sign, he takes a deep breath and his lungs expand. He doesn’t want to think about this case anymore. A strange collocation of familiar elements, things he knows, cases they’ve solved. Except for the children. Small souls ripped from life when it had barely begun. Lying on the cold, dirty ground, unmoving. He sighs. Don’t think about it, he tells himself, breathes in and out. Don’t. Think.

“Over there, Mulder.” Scully brings him back, points to the orange and blue lights on the side of the road. They’re blinking at them invitingly. Mulder parks the car in the deserted parking lot. They won’t have a problem getting two hotel rooms here, he is sure of it. Scully leads the way, seems in a hurry. Mulder follows her with their bags in his hands.

“One room, please.” Even if he had any objections, he would not dare to voice them now. Scully’s voice is determined, as is the look she throws him. He gives her a small smile, a little nod. As if he would ever complain about sharing a room, a bed, with her.

The room is clean, smells fresh. Scully tests the mattress as Mulder loosens his tie. Another deep breath in as he’s finally free of the garment. It lands on the armchair next to the window. Scully’s eyes follow his every movement as he undresses. She wants to talk. He doesn’t turn to her until he’s in his boxers and t-shirt.

“I’m tired.” Mulder can’t swallow the need to say something; unlike her, though, he is not sure he wants to talk. Unburden all of this on her. Scully nods; she is still fully dressed, looks tough as nails, ready for business. He sits on the bed close to her, but not touching.

“Do you want to talk about it?” She asks.

“About what?”

“Whatever it is that’s making you sad.” He chuckles, a hollow sound in his own ears. He lies down, draws the blanket up to his nose.

“Could I ask you to repay the favor?”

“Hm?”

“Can I hold you?” Mulder asks. Scully nods, quickly sheds her clothes and rummages through her bag for her pajamas. He watches her, revels in the fact that she lets him watch. They’ve come a long, long way. When she pads over to the bed, her short hair slightly ruffled, he smiles at her. She fits against him perfectly, as always. They both sigh in unison as Mulder presses his chest against her back, sharing warmth.

“Shouldn’t I hold you instead?”

“Hm, no,” he mumbles into her neck, her hair tickling his nose, “you’re the perfect little spoon.”

“This case really got to you, didn’t it?” Scully’s finger travel along his arm, make his hairs stand on end. He presses his lips against her neck. She smells like peaches, tastes like 25 years of trust.

“Not the case, just…” The little girl. Emily. Even after all these years, the name still struck a chord in him. If she’d lived, she would be a young woman now with big curious eyes, a strong head of her own. Stubborn as hell. There’s another lost girl that lives on in his mind; neither mentions the name, but Samantha is always there, somewhere. Yet, he finds himself smiling against Scully’s neck and she giggles, cracking the seriousness of his thoughts.

“Tell me, Mulder.”

“The girl’s mother, Anna,” the woman who went up in flames, he thinks, tasting ash on his tongue, “she asked me if I had children.” Scully flinches, tenses up. The hand on his arm stills and her fingers dig into his skin. He leans closer and he feels her shiver when he starts talking in a hushed tone. “I told her that I have a grown son. But is he really? He’s still just a kid, too, isn’t he? I wonder what kind of TV show he likes. Or liked when he was a kid.” When Scully doesn’t immediately answer, he wonders if he should have kept it to himself. They’ve talked about William. Little mentions of him here and there. They watched the video of him so many times that Mulder knows it by heart now. Scully does, too, he is sure of it.

“I thought of him when… in the morgue.” Scully admits finally, her voice breaking. He tightens his arms around her and she holds on to him, lets him hold her. Sharing the familiar, shared pain.  

“He’s out there.” Mulder assures her. “He’s fine.” He has to be.

“I know.”

“At least we never had to suffer through hours of the Bibbletiggles.”

“You think he would have watched something like that?”

“It was quite catchy.”

“Of course,” she laughs softly and leaves tiny kisses on his arm, “and you would have watched it with him. No matter how much you hated it.”

“I would have.” They’re both quiet, both lost in a world that never was and never would be. Mulder thinks of the little boy, the little girl. Lost, too. Forever. He thinks of Emily, of Samantha and William.

“Stop thinking, Mulder.” Scully whispers. “Sleep.”

“Hmm.”

“Don’t dream about witches. Or grinning, singing puppets.”

“You’re mean, Scully.” She turns around in his arms and kisses him softly.

“Sleep, Mulder. I’m here and tomorrow we’ll be home.” He nods; he knows. There’ll be another case, something to distract him from these feelings. Scully’s hand finds his and she intertwines their fingers. “Just close your eyes.” He sighs one last time and his eyes close. There’s no fire, no woods. No dead children, no singing puppet. There’s sunshine and there’s Scully. There’s only a small boy running around, happy and free.

Walls Built- A Sirius Black Imagine (Part 6 of Alone Together)

A/N: I know I said that this would be up some time last night and I swear I had it ready to go. But then, I was doing my last reread and decided to go in a different direction. I think this one is better, albeit much more sad. This chapter also hit a bit too close to home as I wrote a lot of what I’ve been feeling lately into this. Anyways, I hope you guys enjoy and I promise that it won’t be sad forever! Things will start to look up soon! (Hopefully (: )

Past Installments: Alone Together. (part 1) - Implementations. (part 2) - Routines. (part 3) - Replacements. (part 4) - Revelations. (part 5) 

Originally posted by freakystuffinhere

As you walked into Potions, you shivered with a groan. Another day you forgot your jumper. You actually had it too, but Lily was rushing you so much that you forgot it on your bed. Now you’d have to suffer through the cold lesson and Remus’ teasing.

“Morning Y/N.” Remus smiled as he sat down next to you. His arm reached out and ruffled your hair slightly, then set a delicious looking pumpkin pasty in front of you. He looked surprisingly pleasant and chipper this morning; you thought he’d be more fatigued as the full moon passed just four days prior. It usually took Remus a full week to get back to his usual self, and you looked at him curiously.

“What are you up to?” You asked, eyeing him suspiciously.

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Baby, you’re a firework.

You might have turned down Negan’s proposal but that doesn’t stop him from making you see fireworks. 

Originally posted by thepumpkinqueenn

Warnings: Smut, Fluff, Oneshot, Negan/You

Words: 2274

Negan is sitting in the cafeteria nursing a cup of coffee. He’s alone and there’s something about the way he’s hunched over the table in the almost dark that gives you a shot of courage. You’ve been wanting to ask him this question for a while but for more than one reason you’ve held off.

“Hey,” you say, lingering in the doorway.

Negan looks up, a slow smile creeping across his face. “I thought you weren’t gonna talk to me again?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Maybe not but you sure as shit haven’t talked to me since we…” his easy smile fades to something else. “kissed.”

You can feel the way you’re blushing as much as you can still almost feel that kiss and now you’re kicking yourself. You should have kept on walking. What is it about Negan that always draws you in?

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Queen of the North

Just because I cannot get over the stupidity of some of the things in Season 7.


Sansa sat there tapping her finger against the armrest of her chair.  The ring she wore, something Jon had not seen before, making a muted noise as the metal hit against the wood.  His eyes slid over to the woman beside him, her hair gleaming silver even in the dim light of the great hall.  He was seated in the audience, in front of the head table where Sansa sat now in what was his chair, the Northern Lords having NOT welcomed the Targaryen queen as Jon had promised and in fact, had summarily deposed him in favor of Sansa who had not wanted the crown. However, she had accepted it or risk a fracture in the North caused by Jon’s short-sightedness.  The Great Hall was empty now, Sansa having asked the bannermen to leave them as she parlayed with the Dragon Queen’s party, of which he was now considered a part of.  That left a bitter taste in his mouth and he could not help but resent his sister a bit, though he knew Sansa had tried and managed to keep the support of the North behind him until they found out he had committed what they considered the ultimate betrayal.

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i’ll always be by your side, don’t you worry

FRIENDS I DID IT. i took matters into my own hands and i present you with the Thing™ . the Amy’s-Reaction-To-Jake’s-Beard-Thing™ . it’s long and i sort of went on a tangent but??? i’m happy with how it turned out & i hope u like it too. also i got 1.5k followers this week wtf i love u all thanks for followin’ :)


This would be so much more comfortable with a cushion, Amy thinks to herself as she sits on the cold metal chair.

But cushions are luxury in prison and prisons aren’t supposed to be luxurious. Prisons are for criminals - hard, angry, dirty criminals. So why was she here again?

Oh yeah. Her boyfriend was framed for bank robbery. That’s right.

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anonymous asked:

Mitch seems to be a good guy, but the lies that are trying to tell him about it just leave me with a bitter taste in my mouth. He recorded an album, even though it was small. But then he said that he, a singer and music lover, had never heard of Harry Styles? Jeff has already destroyed a song as good as Carolina to us, and now with this Mitch narrative? Poor boy.

•••

If Mitch listened to Harry Nilsson and The Plastic Ono Band all day, and his hero was the jazz percussionist Max Roach?

I can almost guarantee you he never heard of One Direction. Maybe even now he can’t name more than ten 1D songs. Ask him about jazz ride patterns and triplet bebop? He’d be all over that.

A lot of rock and pop relies on luck– someone hears a demo somewhere, likes it, asks the person making the demo for a studio session or a contribution to a song, comes to like or dislike their work and then becomes friends with them or not.

Mitch had the good luck to know Ryan Nasci, who was lucky he got to work with Jeff Bhasker. Harry was their big break– but Harry was lucky too, lucky that he got to work with people who were musicians and music lovers first and foremost.

In pop music, a songwriter is often seduced to write “the typical Justin Bieber song” for JB, or “the typical Rihanna song” etc., in order to sell a #1 song. It’s incredibly hard to resist the temptation of that. The difference between #1 and #2, financially, is huge.

Who knew what “the typical number one Harry Styles song” would sound like? Is it MMITH? Is it SOTT? Is it TG? As far as anyone knew, it was Story of My Life.

To take a risk, to write and produce something so different from Harry’s previous work with 1D, was an act of commercial courage. Harry’s releasing it through his own imprint (distributed by Columbia) meant that he took on the majority of the financial risk himself. He was willing to fail, if it turned out no one liked it.

The other thing I liked about the article was that Harry wanted to have the spirit of The White Stripes. I have to say I was pretty surprised.

What Bhasker said about the sound of the album was interesting too. The album is so incredibly well produced and recorded. Compare it against any other album this year and you’ll hear the difference in quality.

I think Harry admires Mitch’s talent and felt lucky to have him– as he should.

[scenario] [request] nightmare

♡ Send me a member + number(s) and I’ll write a scenario! ♡

3: “Please, don’t leave.”
13: “Kiss me.”
14: “Hey, I’m with you, okay? Always.”
30: “It’s not what it looks like…”

Title: nightmare

Member: Jihoon

Genre: angst if you squint // fluff 

Word Count: 1117

It’s around midnight when you get the call. You’re in your pajamas, hair still damp from your shower, light music playing from your laptop speakers. Jihoon’s contact flashes across your screen, his bright smile piercing the darkness of your room.

An impending sense of worry overwhelms you. He never calls this late. Midnight to early morning are the hours he works on music, and during that time, he’s unreachable. The only way to contact him is to come to his studio yourself, or ask another member to give him the phone.

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Wedding Bells l Shawn Mendes Imagine

a/n: this idea really came out of the blue, so i hope you like it <3.

based on the song “Wedding Bells” by the Jonas Brothers.

Originally posted by dreamingbelle

He wanted to die when she first told him she was getting married.

They had broken up a long time ago, three years to be exact, and they had been together for the exact amount of time until everything felt so repetitive; he didn’t feel the need to take three flights just to see her, and she didn’t see the point on staying up for hours just to hear his voice and see his face through the laptop screen.

They both convinced themselves that it was for the best. He reassured himself that she deserved better, while she convinced herself that she wasn’t enough for someone like Shawn.

She got her college degree, and he buried himself in work. He didn’t hear from her in almost two years, when she reached out to him to tell him that she wanted to talk to him. 

A small part of him wanted to hear that she couldn’t live without him, that she just couldn’t get over him because he was the love of her life, and Shawn prepared himself to tell her that he felt the same way, that he was done trying to get over her because it was impossible.

Damn, was he wrong…

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“I want to devour your breath”.

“You think I feel nothing for you. For you… Oh, you want to hear the truth. I’m jealous. I’m jealous of every breath you take, I’m jealous of each step you make toward others. I see the way men’s eyes follow your every movement. I’m even jealous of shadows when they touch your body”.

He took a step toward her.

“I want to devour your breath. I want to consume your moan. I want to be your shadow and follow wherever my mistress goes”.  

His voice was low, a caress so powerful her stomach clenched in reaction. Her lashes swept down demurely.

“I have always been alone, I have been trapped and caged in loneliness since the beginning of my existence. I accepted my life and my duties to my people. But… “.

Nesta did turn then, her eyes bright with tears.

“The moment I saw you. The moment I heard your name. I knew what you would do to me, and you have”.

He bent his dark head toward hers, his hot mouth against her ear.

“You… You are mine. And I’ll never let you go. Nesta. Never”.

It was not a confession. It was a warning, nothing less.

“Sometimes I’m afraid of myself around you… What I can do to those who are looking at you. And I feel this terrible rage in my heart, I barely have enough power to stop myself, to prevent myself from killing. I can’t control myself – my feelings beyond my control. Touch me and I would fall before your feet, you have already have me down on my knees. Say my name and I would be your loyal slave”.

“There was a deep restlessness in me, a primal fear what I can do for you. I’m ready for anything if you say my name again… Once again…”.

Her eyes were burning, and she would not… would not cry again.

“Nesta…”

He breathed her name. That was all. Just her name. It came out an ache. Hungry. Edgy with terrible need. 

“Nesta…” He whispered again, a plea for sanity, for mercy. His gaze burned over her. Hot. Possessive. Greedy. A burning gaze full of obsession. The merciless eyes of the cruelest predator.

“Let me in, My Queen”. He asked softly, gently, a hint of vulnerability in his tone. 

He pulled her to him, crushed her against his body, buried his face in the crook of her neck, in the wet mass of her hair.

“Have mercy on my soul, My Queen. My very soul and my life. If you cannot accept me, kill me then… please, I beg you, do it now, Nesta…”. He breathed her name softly into the hollow of her shoulder. He held ger tightly and he was trembling, trying to breathe again. He held her shoulders still as he bent to touch her, taste her, feel her.

Nesta bit her lower lip and closed her eyes against the sensation of his mouth’s heat. His mouth was so soft. His teeth teased her neck gently, his tongue swirled over the puncture of her shoulder, leaving behind a bitter-sweet pain. And fire swept through her, and a sound escaped her – her soft moan tightened his entire body. She was shaking with the need.

“I don’t think I can do this…” His tongue stroked again, and she gasped, her hands fisting in his hair.

“I’m already yours, Cassian” she whispered, knowing it was true. She turned her face to him, wanting to see his expression. Her cold, gentle, shaking hands framed his face.

“I have always been yours, Cassian”.

shortcups  asked:

24: “What the fuck happened to your face?” bc I really like your writing lol

Aw thank you! You didn’t specify a pairing so I just defaulted to Kacchako ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Warnings: Poor Bakugou’s pining and doesn’t know what to do

——

24: “What the fuck happened to your face?”

Uraraka was embarrassed.

It was her own mistake that caused her injury in the first place, that was bad enough. One misjudgment of the criminal’s movement, and she took a blow to the face. They weren’t a serious villain, little more than a purse snatcher, but they were strong. Their quirk let them harden their bones to stone. One hit, and she was gone for the rest of the battle. She woke up for a moment in the back of an ambulance, pain weaving through her skull. There was a shout, a needle jab, and blackness again.

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← Part 1

“Tooru,” Hajime whispers, his voice low and soothing. “Hey, don’t cry.”

Tooru sniffles, still refusing to open his eyes, and he feels Hajime’s thumbs brush away his tears. Hajime leans in and presses a kiss to each of Tooru’s eyelids, his breaths warm and gentle on Tooru’s skin. Tooru takes a deep breath, letting it out and shuddering a bit.

Hajime pulls him in right to his chest, squeezing tight.

He’s warm, and Tooru feels safe in his arms. He feels his shoulders relax, the tension from before leaving his body. He takes a few slow breaths, finding that his breathing calms down the more he tries to match it to Hajime’s.

“It’s okay,” Hajime says, kissing the top of Tooru’s head. “I’m right here.”

Right here.

Tooru opens his eyes to look up at Hajime, who is smiling down at him.

“I’m not going anywhere-”

The bus lurches, and Tooru jerks himself up and out of his thoughts. Just in time too, as his bus pulls up to his stop so he grabs his bag, running off. All of his thoughts are still swimming around in his head, all mixed up and muddled as he makes his way back to his flat, looking down at the cracked sidewalk as he goes.

No, Hajime didn’t go anywhere…

It’s Tooru that left.

He tightens his grip on his backpack as he walks, the memory leaving him with a bitter taste in his mouth. He remembers the way that Hajime used to comfort him. He can almost feel the warmth of his skin, smell his scent…

Tooru’s stomach twists as he tries to push that thought away. All it does is hurt now, knowing that Hajime is so far away - especially because he was the one who chose to go.

He decided that he needed space to get over this, over his feelings, over Hajime. Because yes, they were close, but Hajime never loved him in the way that Tooru had always hoped for.

So, is it working?

No, not really.

Tooru is happy to get home at least. His new job here is fine, just something basic, but it’s enough to pay for his bills. He has his flat too. A small flat, but it’s his.

This is his new life, now.

He drops his bag on the floor of his apartment, flopping out on the couch. He’s been gone an entire week now and still hasn’t found the courage to call anyone back home - not even a text message. He feels like an extremely big coward, but even the thought of turning on his phone and reading the messages he’s been dodging makes him feel like throwing up.

He’s so scared as to what they’re going to say.

Makki, Mattsun… Hajime…

But they deserve better than this. They deserve better than Tooru, who ignores all their calls and turns off text notifications because he’s too scared to read them. Too scared to deal with the fallout of what he did.

Tentatively, Tooru reaches for his bag, stretching over and just managing to snag it without falling over. He digs around for his phone, pulling it out and unlocking it.

He thumbs over to his text messages, hovering over the first conversation.

He doesn’t even need to look to know it’s Hajime. Hajime’s been texting him multiple times a day since he’s gone - between calls, too - and he misses him… He misses him so badly… Hearing his voice would be so, so good… But… No. Not Hajime. Not first.

Tooru swallows down the bile he can feel rising in his throat, instead clicking on one of the other conversations that pops up. He skims through a few of the messages he sees from Mattsun. Mostly asking how Tooru is, wanting to know if he’s okay. But also just… updates. A message telling him something funny that happened that day. Another assuring Tooru that he’d visited Hajime that day and that he was doing alright, all things considered.

Mattsun… might be a good place to start.

Part 3  →