My dad has always been crafty and rather macabre. In his mid teens, he acquired a plastic Halloween prop of a human skull and repainted it to look more realistic, adding patches of leather and hair to look like scraps of flesh dangling off the bone. Years later, his mother told him to take all his old stuff out of the attic and put it in a trash bag out front for the garbage truck.
Their neighbor, Tiny, happened to be eavesdropping. For some reason, I imagine Tiny as a 1980′s version of Dennis Nedry from Jurassic Park. Tiny was a bit of a snoop and wound up digging through my dad’s trash… only to find a disgusting, gory, decomposing human skull.
Within the hour, every goddamn cop in the county was on the scene. Forty cop cars, up and down the street, gathered around my grandmother’s house. It was the most exciting thing anyone in the sleepy little neighborhood had seen in years. The coroner arrived - a man known then as Digger Jim, who also served as the mortician - and with gloves on, extracted the skull from the trashbag with a pair of surgical forceps. He placed it into an evidence bag, labeled and sealed, and this shitty plastic Halloween prop was taken back to forensics for investigation, while my dad was penciled in as a potential murder suspect.
Once the mortician took a good look at it, of course, it was obvious that it was only a cheap Halloween decoration, and everyone was a little bit sheepish over the whole ordeal. According to my great uncle, Digger Jim kept that skull on his desk for many years, up until he retired.
okay but this is a really convenient time to explain the difference between raywood and mavin for me
raywood has just enough side comments and stuff that it’s conceivable as a pairing, and their personalities have enough of a disparity but still blend well together. enough so that i like it A Lot but mostly on the fanon side in a thousand different aus
fucking mavin is fucking bullshit i cannot believe that the things they say are real things, it is in fucking credible to me that michael bought them matching necklaces and they had matching shoes at one point, that michael specifically called out a year of gavin working at rt as the one year anniversary of mavin, that i have 28 pages of /tagged/mavin and at least 14 pages of it contains real shit they said or real shit they did, mavin is an offense to my eyes, to my ears, to my sensibilities
The Scars You Can’t See And The Ones You Can’t Hide
Request by @depressedandoverexpressed: Could you please write an imagine where before the reader started to hunt with the Winchesters she was captured and held by (choose any monster) and tortured for a really long time. The boys bring up one of her scars and she panics and Dean calms her down
Characters: Dean Winchester x Reader, Sam Winchester
Warnings: blood, death, angst, somewhat of a panic attack, torture and abuse
A/N: I chose the Wendigo as a monster for this, even though I had to break its habits a bit in order to make it work in this imagine. And whilst it seems like there are plot holes, I swear everything is planned out in my head but i didn’t include every single detail in the imagine. Also I wanted to include the (well deserved) Dean fluff at the end. If you have any requests feel free to put them in my inbox. Other than that enjoy :)
As much as
you loved hunting, you absolutely hated the dirt. Being a hunter wasn’t pretty,
not by any means, it was hard and filthy. Not only in the emotional and human
aspect it was like this, but in the physical sense too. Especially hunts in the
woods or on farms would leave you dripping with mud, not to mention the blood
that often added to the mix.
hadn’t gone any different. Werewolves were the targets this time; with a whole
pack living on an abandoned farm you already knew it’d get dirty. Oh boy you’ve
had no idea how right you actually were. By the time you got back to the motel
with Sam and Dean, all three of you were sweaty, smelly and covered with blood,
mud and something you didn’t even want to know what it was.
Dean were the first to take a shower, for some reason you rather collapsed on
the bed whilst they were taking their showers. Sam laid down on the other bed
whist Dean was showering, as soon though as Dean was dressed they both got up.
you two headin’?” a yawn escaped you, as you got up and walked towards the
bathroom. Sam was already standing in the open door, jacket on and the doorknob
in hand, whilst Dean picked up the impala keys.
grabbing some dinner for us, whilst you shower. You did most of the work today
so we’ll get you some food.” Dean smirked briefly and added in a lowered voice:
“Don’t worry I’ll get you a real meal, not the stuff Sam considers addible.”
slapped Dean on the back of his head, whilst Dean just chuckled. You slightly rolled
your eyes at the two brothers, not bothering to hold back the smile on your
lips as you saw the boy teasing one other. “Okay, go.” You simply said, already
half in the bathroom.
As soon as
you heard the door close behind them, you started shedding out of your clothes.
The bathroom mirror was huge, a sight escaped your lips and your heart sped up
at the thought of what you could see in there and why you’d see it. Even though
the mirror was clouded by steam from the previous two showers, you still turned
around for good measure.
to not look at yourself for too long, you quickly shed your clothes and got
into the shower. The water was hot, almost burning and probably too hot for
most people, but just right for you. It served two purposes, the first being
that the hot water would calm you down and ground you; making you realize you
were alive and finally somewhere better. The other purpose being that the steam
prevented you from seeing yourself too clearly.
Well. Here is some Jimin angst and fluff(?), inspired by Zico’s I’ll Treat You Better Next Time. @sunshinehosh
Breathing is like loving. It should be automatic, instinctive. Not an action, but a piece of your soul that simply is. When breathing requires effort and when loving is an act of obligation, breathing is suffocating and loving is forcing. I was sinking into the couch, thinking about how to love him as the television murmured cheerily in the periphery of my perception. There is no “how to love”. There is love, suspended perpetually above my head. Love only exists as itself. Love is energy, neither created nor destroyed; only transferred. The first inkling of heartbreak is a dull ache, the muted throb after drumming my fingers on a wooden desk for too long. I exhale deeply through my lips, dark bangs fluttering above my eyes. My nose is stuffy, a cold wrought by Chicago winter, stress, and the vague depletion of sweetness. I don’t think he’d noticed. Two months ago, the possibility of bottled Tylenol and a clichéd, heartwarming note existed. Now, the digital clocked glows half past two and I hug a box of tissues. Why was I waiting up for him? Surely, if the roles where switched, if I came home late from the studio, I would find him inundated with slumber. I treated others the way I wanted to be treated. The Golden Rule was only copper, easily rusted and insignificant but sometimes lucky, in the moment. Why was I still with him? Surely our love has dwindled into the black hole that is his occupation and my academic dedication, the midnights spent on a couch, tears that had run dry because hearts had cracked liked dirt during a drought. I didn’t know how to be without him. Our love was fragmented and shadowed, but it was all I knew at this point. The key fits into the lock and turns and something in my soul clicks. Anger, burning and scathing, claws its way up my throat and I’m on my feet before he steps in. Adrenaline soars through my veins because I simply can’t continue living and loving suspended in unreciprocated emotion and forced breaths and I intend on telling him that. My arms are crossed over my chest. The stance is defensive, but I feel more like I’m cradling my aching soul, attempting to keep myself in one piece. His steps are long and heavy as he locks the door behind his lanky frame and shakes his shoes off. Disheveled dark hair, a seemingly perpetual frown, and cold eyes. Bookstore patron turned companion turned lover. When his gaze narrows on my stiff figure, the air leaves my lungs in an almost comical wheeze through my congested nostrils. “You’re not in bed.” Jimin’s tone is flat and cold, the stones we used to skip near the lake. My anger wavers, offset by his unyielding intimidation. “Neither are you.” The retort is bland and weak, but his eyes hold no warmth and I don’t really know how to answer because he didn’t ask a question. “I just came home, you know.” A hint of annoyance in his voice sends fury up my spine. “Jimin.” It’s the only thing I can force past my lips without a cracking voice. “Y/N.” He mimics, shuffling off his jacket and hanging in the closet. Silence ensues because I can’t figure out how to continue even though I began with his name, and everything started with his name. Overwhelmed by cowardice, I murmur, “How was your day?” “Fine.” Is his short reply, followed by a beat of hesitance, “Can’t get past the first verse, Yoongi is enlisting.” “Oh.” Is the only thing I can manage. He’d been plagued by an uninspiring brick wall for two weeks now. Yoongi was one of his closest friends. He stalks past me into the kitchen, the scent of soju lingering in his tense wake. “Yours?” Jimin inquires monotonously, filling up a glass of water. I shrug and swallow. “Same as always.” But not really, because I was trying to figure out how to love you and I don’t think I do anymore. Love never truly stops. A glass of water is spilled but the water never truly dries up. It evaporates into the air. Condensates in the clouds. And sometimes, depending on the time and place, it comes back down. Precipitation. Raindrops, snowflakes, hail. “I’m going to bed.” He announces. Panic. “No!” He swivels around to face me, leaning against the fridge, and arches an eyebrow expectantly. After midnight, I turn off all except for three lights: the living room lamp, the bulb in the hallway, and the nightlight in the bedroom. His eyes are darker this way, scrutinizing and calculating. Apprehension so thick it burns my stomach and my heart is in my throat. Maybe I’m scared. My mouth is dry. “We need to talk.” It’s clichéd, but effective. His face becomes a mask of indifference, the scowl barely permeating through the dim light. “I…I don’t know w-what we’re doing.” Reluctance drips from my tone. He straightens his posture and I mirror this. “Actually, we aren’t doing anything. We aren’t talking or smiling or loving and it makes me sick.” Jimin’s glaring. “What are you trying to say, Y/N?” My breathing is irregular and I can hear my pulse thud against my eardrum. “This stagnancy i-is suffocating and I don’t want to…” “What, Y/N?” He demands, absolutely seething. His hands are curled into white-knuckled fists and his shoulders are squared, ready for battle. I shut my eyes tightly and focus on breathing, the first inklings of heartbreak overwhelmed by the first inklings of utter panic. A shudder trickles down my spine. “I-I don’t want to be with y-you anymore.” I half-sob. “What?” He half-roars, eyes narrowed into thin slits, a gaze so cold that I’m burning beneath it. “I’m stressed out at work and my best friend is going to be gone for two years and you think that just because I don’t come home at a decent time every night, or call you every goddamn hour to profess my love like some stupid puppy, you think you don’t want to be with me anymore?” “You’ve come home past midnight for the past month! I don’t need you to call me to tell me you love me, but I think it would be pretty fucking nice if we talked over the phone at all! But we don’t! And we haven’t! We don’t talk at all! You tell me the same thing every single day and I tell you the same thing every single day, and I’m so tired of it!” Poorly suppressed tears leaked out of the corners of my eyes. “I’m trying to function in a relationship that doesn’t exist. I’m trying to figure how to love a boy that doesn’t exist, that stopped existing. In his place is this man that barely says five words to me each night and turns his back towards me if we even sleep in the same bed!” I’m gasping for air now, a natural desperation for oxygen. “I can’t even remember the last time you held my hand. Or kissed me or hugged me or offered any indication that you might care.” I add, my voice muted in the after note. Jimin is working to calm his breathing, to ease his vicious temper. My eyes are trained on his socks, stupidly purple and matching, tears clinging to my lashes. What now? “I don’t know who you are anymore. And I don’t know who I am anymore. I’m going to go stay with my sister or Hyorin or someone I do know.” Silence hangs over us, still like midnight. The faucet drips. After a moment of apprehension I brush past him and down the hall to find my worn duffle hidden in the depths of a closet somewhere. Except I don’t, because his iron grip yanks me back and pushes me against the wall. Lips parted, eyes wide and wet with tears, I glower up at Jimin, heart aching. Big hands, calloused but soft cup my cheeks, thumbs brushing away tears and heartbreak and ire. “Y/N, baby…” His voice is low and soft, butterfly wings against the silence of winter night. Gentle lips against my forehead linger. An apology lingers somewhere in the near future but he knows my soul stings like freshly skinned knees and a “sorry” would be salt in the wound. “When…when did you start feeling…congested?” A double-edged sword. “Three days ago,” I sniffle. Jimin hums, pressing another kiss to my forehead. He pulls back, heat retreating with him, and I instinctively lean towards him, head hanging bashfully. “Let’s get you some Tylenol.” He trails his fingers down from my shoulder to my wrist and intertwines our fingers. Jimin props me up on the countertop and fishes around a drawer. What now? He fills a glass of water and shakes a pill out, holding it in front of my lips. Almost shyly, I open my mouth and he drops it under my tongue and I chase the tablet with a sip of water. “Jimin…” His name is a soft sound. Sitting on the counter puts me almost at eye level with him and there’s a flash of agony across his lovely features. My anger has sagged into unanswered questions and exhaustion. What now? “Y/N, if my apology was infinite, it could never be enough. I…I haven’t been good to you. I know. I see it. I’m not, uh, great with apologies. With everyone else, it’s probably because of arrogance. But with you…it’s because it isn’t enough.” His gaze is smoldering but I think his eyes are moist with tears. “A wise person told me that saying ‘sorry’ to a broken vase cannot put it back together again.” Recognition clicks. My mouth instantly forms into a stupid smile and I shake my head. “Stupid, you’re so stupid.” He’s standing between my legs, tilting my chin up gently. “Y/N, love, I…I won’t do this to you again. If you can forgive me eventually, I’ll do whatever it takes. I can’t even begin to explain how sorry I am, how wrongly I’ve treated you.” Solemn eyes. “Just don’t…don’t leave me. I can’t fathom the idea of breathing without you. If your heart is broken, then so is mine.” He leans down to brush his mouth against mine and I inhale sharply. “Please, let me fix it.”
i wanted to just chime in with my thoughts about @thephandomtea and any blogs like it (i have @ mentioned you specifically because i wanted to give you a chance to defend yourselves or respond to this post at all in any way).
i cannot honestly say that i’m surprised a blog like this has popped up, as i’ve seen it before in countless other fandoms. while there are both positive and negative “confessions”, i think we can all agree that the content on these types of blogs are mostly negative in nature, and i definitely think this is reflected on thephandomtea. we shouldn’t dismiss the good things that have come out of it, though, as i have seen many compliments and i know that a poc phandom meetup has gotten put together because of this blog, so it’s not fair to say that it’s all horrible! the problem is that the majority of it is, and blogs like this are ones that this community does not need.
i’m not making this post because something mean was said about me or one of my friends and i’m pissed off, i’m making this post because this kind of negativity isn’t acceptable. i completely understand not liking someone in the phandom, i completely understand being a “smaller blog” and feeling isolated from the “bigger blogs”, and i completely understand that there are a lot of things in this community that piss people off, but this is not the way to go about venting your frustrations. if someone annoys you, unfollow them, block them, blacklist them. with all the features that this website and its third-party extensions provide you, it’s really easy to completely eliminate someone from your tumblr experience. i get it - “throwing shade” is fun, but there is a huge difference between throwing shade and bullying, and many, many people submitting to thephandomtea and some of the mods themselves have crossed this line.
the people you are bitching about are people on the internet who you do not know personally, who give you a glimpse of their personalities on their blogs and, more often than not, are teenagers. i know that when you’re in your teens you feel all grown up, but the fact of the matter is you’re still a kid (and that’s not meant as an insult - being young is great, please milk it until it’s dry). the person receiving the most hate on this blog is sixteen. SIXTEEN! i know that doesn’t seem so young, but really, it is! sixteen year olds make mistakes. sixteen year olds can be annoying and insufferable and have big heads. sixteen year olds can be the shittiest people you’ll ever meet. but they are young and they are learning, and that is not an excuse but bullying them because they’re not really grown up yet is not solving anything. if they’re being problematic or annoying or mean call them out and do it nicely. people respond to kind words so much better than they do to hateful ones. they may listen to you, they may not, they may ignore you completely, and if that happens, move on. it is not your job to teach a kid on the internet to grow up. there’s only so much you can do before it’s out of your hands. bullying someone into acting correctly is not and never will be okay. (p.s. not saying only sixteen year olds and/or teenagers do this, because trust me, older people in the phandom are guilty of the same things. just using the age sixteen as an example bc that’s who most of the blog is targeting)
i know that this is such a tired and worn out card to play, and i know it’s been turned into somewhat of a joke, but let’s really take a page out of dan’s book and practice #nicerinternet, okay? it’s so, so easy to be hateful sometimes (i am too!! no one is perfect!!!), but it’s also really easy to be nice and spread positivity! if you don’t like someone, do what i suggested earlier and completely alienate them from your experience in this community. so many people turn to the phandom and tumblr to get away from everything that’s going on in their life, so instead of being hateful, let’s all do the best we can to make this a happy, positive experience for everyone involved. i fully encourage calling out problematic behavior and bringing attention to issues that need to be resolved, but that can be done in a civil manner that doesn’t involve personally attacking anyone. in the words of the beautiful and wise cinderella, have courage and be kind!
i cannot stress this enough: think before you post, think before you hit anon, and think about the impact your words will have on both the community and the individuals they are directed towards. there is already so much negativity in this community - please don’t let yourself be a part of it.
I, like you, have read approximately eight billion tumblr posts about how amazing Jupiter Ascending is. I had already planned to see it by the time these reviews started pouring in - I have long and proud history of paying money to see terrible movies in the theaters, including but not limited to Super Mario Brothers, all of the Ghost Rider movies, Smokin’ Aces, and Starship Troopers. Seeing this movie was my destiny.
But the more I read the posts, the more I worried. Had tumblr spoiled too much of the garbage for me? Was I going to walk into this movie only to be disappointed, knowing the majority of the visual punchlines before they landed?
The answer is an emphatic hell no.
It isincredible. It is amasterpiece.
Because this is the thing - those tumblr posts we’ve all read have barely scratched one thirty-second of the magnificence of this movie. If Jupiter Ascending is a swimming pool, the tumblr reviews are sitting on the deck, barely dipping their toes in.
For example, no reviewers have even touched on:
the ten minute space DMV montage
Balem Applejacks (or whatever that magnificent space bastards name is) little brother’s apparent desire to fuck literally every character in this movie, including both of his siblings and Channing Tatum
The three residences of the Applejacks siblings: 1) a Taj Mahal-esque palace sitting atop a waterfall, 2) a spaceship castle complete with both a garage decorated in Greek statues and chandeliers AND a replica of Westminster Abbey, and 3) the inside of a MOTHERFUCKING VOLCANO
And finally, this dude, whose body is apparently 90% black and midnight blue glitter:
And I’ve maybe only told you asixteenth of the magic you’re going to see. This was me the entire movie:
So trust me, if you’re worried that you’ve been too spoiled, you absolutely haven’t. If you think you’re prepared, you’re not. And if you think that this movie can’t possibly live up to the hype, you have never been more wrong about anything in your entire life. It won’t just meet your expectations, it will exceed them, because that’s what Jupiter Ascending does. It stands unashamed in it’s nakedness, uncaring if you like it or not, living life so loud and proud that all you can do is shake your head fondly and go, “Shine on, you crazy diamond.”