fic: the game

// l o v i n g  s o m e o n e //

the 1975 drabbles

loving someone + jimin


// loving someone, oh, oh, loving someone //

Jimin was the feeling of a soft, warm sweater on a cold, winter day. He was the smell of rain in the middle of spring, full of life and new beginnings. He was the loud laughter in the dog days of summer that echoed off the sleepy streets of your city. He was the bright orange fire that illuminated your bodies against the autumn leaves, bright and proud in the middle of the night. Jimin…was love.

Jimin was your love.

“You’re so pretty,” he whispered softly as he hovered above you. His blonde hair tickled your nose and you giggled, tracing his collarbones with your pointer finger.

“You’re prettier,” you replied. You continued to follow the curves of his body, not stopping until your finger pushed against his lips.

“Not possible,” he muttered and leaned down, connecting your lips to his. The kiss was so soft, so full of love, and as Jimin ran a hand softly up your neck, cradling your chin in his gentle palms, you wished for it to never end.

But, all good things must.

He pulled away with a bit of hesitation, resting his forehead to yours. Neither of you spoke, only breathed deeply and stared into the eyes of the other. Jimin’s were dark, practically black, and full of life and wonder. You wondered what yours reflected, and you hoped that they were just an ounce as beautiful as his.

After a moment, you felt his lips press to your forehead. They lingered as he uttered the three words that you adored the most. “I love you.”

Wrapping your arms around him, your fingers played with the wispy hairs on the nape of neck as you smiled up at him. “I love you too.”

You kissed again. It was just as wonderful and vibrant as the first time, and the time before that, and the time before…

It was obvious to you now that love wasn’t a fairy tale- love was real. Love was the arms that held you at midnight when you couldn’t stop crying. Love was the voice that encouraged you even when you didn’t believe in yourself. Love was the bright, carefree smile that gave you nothing but pure happiness. Love was beautiful.

Love was Jimin.

anonymous asked:

Hey baby B! Do you happen to have Hunger Games Larry AU?

Hey :) There’s not a lot of completed Hunger Games AU sorry ! (I only read the first one, excellent, but no promise about the others)

Who Painted the Moon Black       : Hunger Games AU where Louis Tomlinson is district six’s victor from the 69th Hunger Games and Harry Styles is district seven’s victor from the 72nd Hunger Games. (95k)

- Wear A Necklace Of Hope (Side By Side With Me)  : A Hunger Games AU about Louis and Harry’s life as victors in District 4  (5.5k)

- Victory       : By the time Louis finds Harry, it’s too late for both of them.[Hunger Games AU in which Louis is the most recent victor and he’s to mentor Harry, the tribute from District Nine.] (6.5k)

- it comes and goes in waves  : The 50th Hunger Games mark a Quarter Quell. Louis knows his chances of being selected in the Reaping are doubled as the Capitol decides to honor the Quell by selecting two males and two females from each District.~ or an au feat. district four harry and louis ~ (10k)

- ‘Til I Change My Luck       : A Hunger Games AU. Starring victor!Louis, capitolite!Harry, literal!captain!Niall, two shady deck hands and a lot of sailing. (41k)

And then she stopped his heart.

She lifted her head, her chest heaving as she panted and she shot him a triumphant look, her bluebell eyes sparkling from under the reach of her dark fringe. And she smirked.

And right then and there Adrien knew he was absolutely screwed.

Because he wasn’t playing Dodge Ball with Marinette.

He was playing with Ladybug.

Inspired by this fic!

I was in my English class the other day and, as usual, I was reading fanfic.

Out of nowhere the girl sitting next to me leans over and whispers,

“I’ve read that fanfic before.”

I felt like screaming because,

  1. It was about my otp
  2. IT WAS THE SMUTTIEST SMUT FIC TO EVER FIC
Mirrors // Jungkook

Drabble game request: Jungkook + “Don’t argue. Just do it” + Friends with Benefits au | for @jungkookjpeg & important banana anon

Word count: 3,460 words (idk what happened)

Character: Jungkook x reader

Warning: Smut. A little bit of exhibitionism and a much graphic smut. Please read with much caution.


Keep reading

i. I absolutely cannot stand the snares of your hands,
or how I catch myself on your barbed wire mouth,
when I choke on your gasoline voice,
or cut myself on your switchblade fingers.
I loathe these weapons of yours more than I loathe the actual tangible knifes you keep hidden under your sleeves.
I hate that somebody did something so awful to you that you were forced to wear hatred as a second skin.
I hate myself more that I wasn’t there to shield you from it.


ii. I wonder how different our lives would be if we had been switched.
Me: Andrew.
You: Aaron.
Me: Given up on.
You: Kept.
Would everything turn out the same? Would we have led completely different lives? Would we be broken again? Made whole?
(Would she have hit you, too?)
(Would he have used me, too?)


iii. I hear the way people talk about you when you’re not there.
Like you’re this awful thing.
Like they’ve taken a bite out of you and realized you’ve gone bad in the middle.
When they speak, they’re trying to get the taste of you out of their mouths,
Spitting and spitting until there’s nothing left to expel.
Sometimes I want to say something.
Sometimes I want to argue.
But we come from the same batch, after all.
How can I argue when I taste just as bad as you do?


iv. I went to the Circle K around the corner one night and bought myself a pack of cigarettes: the same brand you use.
I stood outside and popped one in my mouth,
lit it with unpracticed hands.
I had seen you do this so often,
I thought maybe it would come almost naturally, like I had been the one catching fire to things all these years instead of you.
But the weight of it felt so wrong between my fingers,
the motions unfitting for me,
the taste acidic and raw and awful.
It reminded me too much of him—of that stray dog that follows you around all day—and less like you,
less like home.
I’m trying to understand this. I’m trying to be okay with you-and-him.
But there are some things that people shouldn’t get in the way of. This was one of them.
The box cost $7.89 and screamed your name. I didn’t even hesitate when I threw it away.


v. Every once and a while I’ll dream about that night.
Sometimes it’s me instead of you, or I can’t move at all and I’m forced to watch, or I beat him over and over but he keeps getting back up.
Either way, the entire time you’re just laughing.
Like I told a joke and you think it’s the funniest thing in the world.
I’m beating him to death and sloshing his blood around and you’re laughing like you’re at a comedy show.
Whenever I wake up from those dreams, I never want to sleep ever again.


vi. I never understand our fights.
Normal people throw around words they don’t mean and slam doors they would usually leave ajar.
But us?
We fight like our lives are on the line.
We fight like it’s a race and there’s only one winner.
You leave me aching and I leave you waterlogged.
We become such ferocious animals, all sharp teeth and heavy claws, ripping and tearing without a care to give.
The entire world comes to a stop when we have even the slightest disagreement,
a spotlight shining down to showcase our own personal brand of hate.
I sometimes wonder if that’s us making up for lost time.
All those years we never got to spend fighting like brothers.
Maybe we’re finally making up for that.
Maybe we’re trying to meet our quota before our time is up.
Before we can’t fight anymore.


vii. One time when you weren’t looking, I stole one of your pills.
I saved it for when you wouldn’t be around and swallowed it dry, felt it run down my throat.
I thought that if they made you smile all the time, maybe they’d make me smile, too.
But all I felt was this hallow ache in my chest,
like something bad had grabbed hold of me from the inside.
I was used to flying high, higher than most people would dream to go,
But this was just wrong on so many levels.
It lasted only four hours before I started to wind down, but that was one of the longest four hours of my life.
I wasn’t happy. But I smiled anyway. I couldn’t stop. My cheeks hurt after.
I think I understood you a little better after that day.


viii. I voted to name your cat Sir Fat Cat McCatterson. And I’m not even sorry.


ix. (I’m sorry.)


x. I love you.

—  Ten Things Aaron Wants To Tell Andrew (But Never Will)

anonymous asked:

Could you write something where Neil has "died" before like he flat-lined after getting shot but in the hospital their able to restart his heart and him and his mother run a couple days later and some how this comes up when the foxes are all kind of chilling and their like wtf

(this isn’t entirely what you asked for but here is something? A mess, actually.)

It knocks the breath out him, though he’s not exactly sure if it’s from surprise or pain. His vision stutters violently, tinged red and he reaches for anything to steady his tilting world. His fingertips scrape the dingy Detroit wall, clinging to the space between the rough bricks before slipping away. His knees hit the ground so hard he feels the bruises forming. That however, is the least of his worries.

Home, he thinks. He has to get home. He can feel the warmth that travels down his side. Logically, he knows it’s blood. He could touch it to see but he doesn’t want to acknowledge that just yet. He stumbles through alleyways, doing his best to avoid people. Even though this is Detriot, he can’t walk down the street covered in blood. They’ll find him again. They always do and he can’t lead them to his mother.

He takes alleyways, winding through buildings while his blood slips sluggishly through his fingers. His vest was supposed to protect him. But he moved at the last second. Had he moved any later, he would’ve been shot in the neck. Just thinking about bleeding all over a grimy alley, without his real name and at his father’s hands, makes him sick. He pauses to retch violently in an old trash can before continuing.

He doesn’t remember getting home, just remembers that he hurts. Just remembers that he’s losing so much blood. He knocks on the door, just barely. But his mother always listens carefully and within seconds, he hears the deadbolt slip back.

“William! What happened?” Mary reaches for him and he cringes backward. His alias doesn’t register for a moment. She reaches out again, gripping his arm and he groans loudly. The pain makes his head spin and he feels himself begin to fall again.

Mary drags him inside, pulls him onto the table and he feels her hands ripping his clothes away. She pokes and prods at the wound, flickers in and out of his line of sight. He hears her muttering to herself, hears supplies piling up next to his head. She fits something into his mouth. A wash cloth, he realizes. It sucks the moisture from his mouth.

“Bite down,” Mary says. He does and a moment later, the pain rips his mind into pieces.

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2

Queen Lyanna

Story:

Lyanna survives the child birth but still makes Ned promise not to reveal her son’s father to Robert. Instead Ned’s bride is welcomed at Winterfell by a weak but recovering Lyanna and her “nephew” Jon Snow. 

With the war over everyone expects Robert, The Hero, to marry Lyanna, His Lady Love, and he  pushes for it, ignoring those who point out that Lyanna would be “tarnished” after her time with Rhaegar.

Lyanna would also refuse…at first, but with the entire country knowing that this war was partially for her and needing to keep Jon safe she ultimately agrees and marries Robert with the condition that Ned bring her beloved nephew to visit often.

here 

have it as proof that i’m still alive

autumnhobbit  asked:

Damian and Tim trapped somewhere waiting for rescue while Damian's hurt--post Damian's death. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

I’m sorry it’s so bad T.T


“Damian…Damian, no!”

Tim shoots off after him, fingers reaching and curling around the boy’s shoulders like claws. He opens his mouth to speak, but glances down at his little brother’s face.

It’s pale. And he’s sweating. His lips are turning blue, and Tim doesn’t realize that he’s been talking until Damian snaps, “We have to!”
Tim casts a glance at the ground. Oh. A chick.

“She kicked it out of the nest,” he muses, trying to steer the boy away. 

Damian yanks himself out of Tim’s grasp. “No!” he shouts, kneeling down in the mud. “It fell out. It’s too windy for it. It needs help!”

“Dames,” Tim sighs, keeping an eye on the makeshift tourniquet. Why isn’t Bruce here yet? Why won’t he come? “Sometimes nature just works that way.”

“I know how nature works,” Damian spits. His eyes blink, zoning out for a moment. Loss of blood. Tim reaches out to him again, but Damian jumps up and skirts his arms. “No!“ 

“Damian!” Tim finally snaps. “You have two stab wounds, a broken arm, and I highly suspect a concussion. I know you hate me but for the love of God, do what I say and sit down!”

Damian’s face goes blank. He shakes his head. Tim opens his mouth to rip him a new one, really lay on the guilt, but then. Damian’s lip trembles. Tim’s anger doesn’t melt away, but the tension in his shoulders rolls down to the pit of his stomach. Shit.

“It needs its mother,” Damian insists, whispering hoarsely. He blinks several times in rapid succession. The wind picks up and Damian kneels next to the chick, protecting it from the sudden raindrops. “It’s too little. It needs its mother.”

“She may not take him back,” Tim reminds him morosely, kneeling down across from him. He monitors the boy’s stab wounds. They’re bleeding again.

Damian swallows. “It’s too little,” he insists again. “It needs someone to take care of it.”

“Maybe it will survive. Animals generally do well with independence–”

“No!” The shriek echoes in the clearing. Tim’s head snaps up, startled. “It’s too little! It needs its mama! It needs help!" 

Damian’s voice is tight. His teeth are clenched. He’s shaking with repressed emotion. The raindrops in his eyelashes trickle down and– 

Oh. 

Oh. 

"It’s too little,” Damian croaks. “It’s too little." 

Tim swallows, head feeling swollen and warm. “Yeah,” he agrees, looking at Damian’s large eyes. “Too little.” 

Tim scoops up the baby bird and deposits it in his lap. He takes off his gloves and wraps them around it. He hands the creature off to his little brother, who sags in relief. 

"C'mere,” he gestures, dragging the boy closer. He puts his arms around him, trying to dispel the shaking. “It may still die,” he reminds him, ever the realist. 

Damian wiggles against his chest. Tim is surprised at how comfortably he fits there. “It won’t,” he assures him, sounding positive at his own control in life that the universe would not dare cross him. 

“Okay,” Tim breathes out. He figures he’ll believe him. His fingers are freezing. “Are you warm?”

“Mm.”

Tim wraps his coat around the kid’s front anyway. He flexes his stiff fingers in realization. Tim is not a good older brother. He knows this. It wasn’t in the job description. But it’s funny, how little things can connect and mean something. Because sometimes being an older brother meant being cold. And sometimes being cold so your little brother could shiver less meant…well, everything. 

“You don’t believe in God.”

“Huh?”

Damian shifts. "You can’t say ‘for the love of God’ because you don’t believe in God.“

The rain is pattering on the grass. Lightning flashes in the sky silently. 

"Oh. Habit, I guess. Your dad says it.”

Damian doesn’t reply for a moment. He’s gazing down at the chick, who seems to have fallen asleep, safe in both boys’ hands. 

“Tt.”

The top of Damian’s head is wet. Tim rests his chin on it anyway.  

Butcher!Neil - PART IV

>>Read from Part I

When Neil Josten goes to prison, he makes a five year plan.

It’s not the same kind of five-year plan most sixteen year olds have, and he doesn’t expect to live for all of it, but if all goes well, neither will his father.

When he meets Andrew Minyard, he makes a tweak in his plan.

See, Andrew gets sent to solitary confinement when he murders another inmate. But there’s a man here who knows one of the prison officers who knows other prison officers and Neil was planning to bribe them with the location of one of Mary’s stashes of money anyway, to have someone who can keep him updated on his father, but it’s no effort to have Andrew Minyard come straight back out of solitary.

“Don’t do me favours,” he tells Neil, his orange sleeves pulled right down over his arms. He must have left his black armbands and its knives somewhere else.

Neil turns, and falls into step with him. “Just returning the one you did me.”

“I told you. He was a lousy cellmate.”

“I want something from you. Something else,” says Neil, and Andrew tilts his head. He’s listening. Prison is an endless churn of favours owed and favours due. “Get me a set of knives like yours.”

Andrew smiles mirthlessly. “And what will you give me for that?”

“Name your price,” says Neil. Andrew raises an eyebrow, as if to ask if Neil is really that stupid. “I might not agree to it. But it depends on what you want.”

“Nothing,” says Andrew. They reach his cell, but given the door’s made of bars, it makes little effect when he closes it in Neil’s face. “I want nothing.”

If Neil has learnt anything from his father, it’s that this is never true. Everyone wants something, even if it’s as simple as peace. “How long is your sentence?”

Andrew frowns at him, the first real hint of emotion Neil’s seen. “Ten.” A pause, then a faint warning note: “I don’t like being toyed with.”

That’s something that Neil’s already aware of, so he cuts straight through to his plan, pitching his voice low so no one else can hear. Even with early release for good behaviour, that ten years is going to be eight, at least “I’m going to be out in under three. I’ll take you with me.”

This time, Andrew laughs. It echoes through the cell, drawing several panicked looks from their neighbours.

“Glad to be of entertainment,” mutters Neil, but Andrew is still facing him, so he supposes he caught his attention.

“A jailbreak,” says Andrew in a tone that implies he doesn’t believe Neil at all. “How exciting.”

Neil leans against the wall. Andrew has to look up at him from where he sits on the thin mattress, but physical intimidation and height is not something that works on a man who has spent his life looking up at everyone. “Not quite. I’ll be trading information for my time.”

Andrew’s lip curls. “Mob business.”

“Not for much longer,” says Neil.

“You’re boring me,” says Andrew dismissively. “Go away.”

Neil does. He hadn’t expected Andrew to say yes, but when he goes to bed that night, he finds a pair of black armbands tucked into his pillowcase.  

There’s only one knife in each, but, well, Neil’s only got two hands.

clubbingattheclub  asked:

“This is a five-hour-long plane ride, we’re sitting together and you’re deathly afraid of flying” AU for the meme you rb-ed!!! bc i think about this au for andreil often...

I made it a ten-hour-long plane ride because Germany ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Neil finally made up his mind to travel to Germany after his father’s men had found him holed up in an abandoned studio apartment in New York. The scrape from a .22 caliber round that nearly missed his kidneys had him calling his mother’s contacts in search for a new ID and passport that would get him far away from the inevitability of his father’s cleaver, and even farther away from Chris, Stefan, and Nathaniel.

He chose Germany because he already knew the language and his mother had a sizable stash of money close to Berlin. After returning to the old shack close to a lonesome fishing village, Neil planned to grab the stash, call another contact, and travel to the outskirts of Vyatskoye. He always wanted to learn Russian.

Neil was busy mentally mapping out his route, forging lies that would get him in the favor of a few truck drivers and lonely travellers on the highways of Germany, when he boarded the plane connecting Brooklyn to Berlin. He held his duffel bag close to his side, partly for the feeling of security and partly because it fended off the occasional bumps and brushes from passing strangers. His side was still healing from the bullet wound, expertly stitched and held together with dollar store bandages.

He sat in his seat, the closest seat to the aisle, and waited while the rest of the passengers boarded.

Neil’s thoughts were interrupted by an irritated voice. “Move.”

He looked up to find a short blonde man, roughly about his age, dressed head to toe in black. Neil eyed the stranger’s armbands, noting a few unnatural bumps and edges that were probably a pain in the ass to get through the TSA, before gracing the man with a smile that was as fake as his past seven fabricated personalities. “Sorry, what did you say?”

“Move over.”

Neil could tell that the blonde’s patience was wearing thin judging by the strain in his voice, despite how emotionless he sounded. Neil looked at the seat next to him, a window seat, and shrugged. He scooted over, careful to not jostle his healing wound, and settled his duffel bag between his legs. He was located in economy, but the small amount of legroom definitely didn’t bother him. Neither did it bother his new neighbor, who slid into his seat with a huff of annoyance and proceeded to take out a simple Bic pen from the folds of his armbands.

The intricate twirls and twists of the pen as it weaved between his fingers, expertly dancing from knuckle to knuckle, distracted Neil as the plane lifted off the ground. Before he knew it they were in the air and the small blonde had the pen clutched in his fist. “Staring.”

Neil looked up and caught the man’s eyes, sharp hazel meeting dull brown as if they were challenging him to stare longer. Neil sat back in his seat and winced as his side twinged in protest. “Are you scared of flying?” He didn’t know why he asked. Something about the set of the stranger’s shoulders, his pursed lips, and his use of intricate pen flipping during the liftoff made him stupidly curious.

“You’re under the assumption that I’m going to talk to you.”

“You’re under the assumption that we can sit together in complete silence during a 10 hour flight.”

The blonde’s response was to flip him the bird, his expression as bored as always. Neil shrugged and rested his head against the window, watching as the lights of the city poked through the passing clouds, a painting of intricate buildings covered in neon obscured by the occasional mass of milky white. The last time he flew with his mom was on their way back to America from France, a messy process blurred by pain. He was riddled with a fever, his mother just barely convincing him to act normal as she hauled him onto the plane by the stretched sleeve of his sweater. He couldn’t really remember the rest of the flight back to the states.

“Yes.”

Neil startled from his resting position, turning his full attention back to his neighbor. It had been about 30 minutes since either of them had spoken, but the hesitant answer to Neil’s earlier question spoke volumes about how reluctant he was to admit his weakness. “If it makes you feel better, fewer than twenty planes crash every year and it’s not always due to the weather. Sometimes pilots are just unreliable. I’m sure it’s a quick death either way.”

Neil ignored the man’s glare in favor of studying his carry-on. His duffel bag was bigger than Neil’s, black with an obnoxious fox paw silhouetted across the front. The orange embroidering on the side pocket spelled out Andrew Minyard.

Goalkeeper, Palmetto State Foxes, Dangerous psychopath, and Kevin Day’s protective sidekick.

Neil looked away quickly, focusing back on the passing world outside the plane window. Rationally he knew that Andrew wouldn’t recognize him or even know who he was, but the close association to his childhood acquaintance made him reasonably agitated. Quite a few hours of their flight went by like that, with Neil resting up against the window and Andrew noticeably silent beside him. Whenever Neil would get uncomfortable in his current position, he would shift and wince at the sharp pain in his side. He had allowed himself a couple of Tylenol pills before he boarded, but even those couldn’t fight against a bullet wound.

“If you bleed on me you’ll spend the rest of the flight locked in the bathroom.” Andrew hissed.

“Good luck, it locks from the inside.” Neil retorted, shifting away from the blonde so that his back was up against the window. He subtly checked his side to make sure he wasn’t leaking blood anywhere. Nothing.

“This trip for business or for pleasure?” Andrew asked dispassionately.  

“Neither. You?”

“Ditto.”

“Well, good to know I’m in like company.”

Andrew hummed in response. “Barring the chance that I stole this duffel bag from my twin, you already know my name. It would only be fair to give your name now.”

Neil cursed the blonde’s observation skills, “I don’t believe in fairness.”

Andrew slanted him a glare, “I’ll take your name without a side order of bullshit.”

“Neil.” There was no escape from this conversation, but Neil still entertained the idea of spending the next five hours in the small airplane bathroom.

“Not true, but I’ll take it.” Andrew slumped backwards and crossed his arms, his feet coming up to rest on the back of the seat in front of him. “We’ll never see each other again after this plane lands anyways.”

Neil could only hope.

andrew and nicky bond over clothes alright
  • more specifically: neil’s clothes
  • even more specifically: buying clothes for neil
  • bc the both hate neil’s non-existing wardrobe
  • andrew rather secretly so but when nicky asks if he can get a ride to the mall to get him some stuff bc fuck if he has to see that shirt one more time, andrew just does it and even gets out of the car to lead the way in
  • nicky doesnt dare pick another store than the ones andrew strolls into
  • but oh does he pick clothes
  • pants, shirts, dress shirts, sweaters, t-shirts, chinos, shorts, gloves, even some decent socks
  • nicky buys some underwear too but not when andrew is with him because nicky is very specific about what pretty boy neil should be wearing but he doesnt think andrew would approve of him picking them out
  • he approves the other things tho
  • they develop a System™
  • bored, slightly raised eyebrows, a no
  • but a shrug Nicky definitely takes as a yes
  • so he picks out stuff he thinks neil might actually put on without being forced
  • and things that he himself think are way too boring but he needs andrew’s approval so he doesnt think hot pink dress vests with poka dots will suffice just yet
  • not even colour
  • so nicky doesnt even try with those
  • orange is fine, its given but other than that, neil gets a lot of black and gray
  • rarely white, but sometimes
  • but then one day
  • one day
  • nicky pulls up a cobalt blue shirt with a print on the front, just for fun and he gets a shrug
  • a shrug at a cloured shirt and nicky almost shits his pants because maybe that means he can finally get some interesting things for neil
  • it turns out, andrew approves on a lot of colours and nicky kicks himself for being so stupid that he never even tried to get neil some of these before
  • so he tries a couple of flannels
  • no problem
  • so nicky goes bold
  • he starts with leather pants
  • shrug
  • fuck
  • off he goes, with a lavender pullover with yellow cuffs, a piratey silk shirt, a turquoise velvet jacket, prints, prints, prints, colours, colours, colours
  • and there’s so many shrugs
  • nicky’s in heaven
  • (neil freaks out when he opens his wardrobe)
  • (bc he’s still not used to draw attention to himself)
  • (but andrew seems to like it when he’s wearing the things he’s bought, so neil just goes with it)
  • (nicky gets super many followers on ig bc he uploads outfit pics of neil all the time and nowadays that boy is clothed awesomely if nicky can say so himself)
  • they dont schedule shopping sprees really
  • they just do it
  • and as time passes, because lets face it, neil will never learn how to shop and doesnt understand why anyone likes it, andrew becomes slightly more involved in the actual shopping
  • he’ll say “in green” when nicky picks a blue sweater
  • and then that one time he’ll thumb at a tee with a small fox print
  • not taking it with him bc nicky ruins it by saying it’s a nice one
  • but nicky sees their laundry bag one night
  • and if thats not two of those fox prints shirts (one a size or two smaller than the other) he’ll eat his left toe and delete his instagram
  • (and we all know that will never happen)
Night Guard

Happy new year! I’m trying to write more, so please send me requests on here or my twitter!


To Andrew, watching a person sleep had always sounded like a vampire kind of thing to do. No normal human being did that kind of thing. It was something predatory freaks did, and Andrew was a lot of things, but he wasn’t a bloodsucking privacy invader. At least, that was how he’d felt before he’d gotten involved with Neil.

He’d passed it off as gruff concern the first time, and at that point in the proceedings, Neil probably had needed someone to keep an eye on him while he slept. The events of Boston and afterward had left them all fucked up and paranoid, and even though Neil was better able to sleep than Andrew, he wasn’t in any better state. It still felt like intruders could burst into the room from one side of the law or another and even with the door locked and their room protected, danger still seemed to lurk around every corner.

Andrew could protect Neil from physical intruders, but there was nothing he could do about the dreams. Like most of the foxes, his worst enemy was himself.

They’d tried a few things. Hot tea, a sound machine, soft music, hard exercise. None of it really worked, and it made the both of them more tired for trying. In the end Neil threw up his hands and demanded to face his demons himself, so at least Andrew could get a little sleep, and they had tried to leave it at that.

But giving up on someone he was protecting was not exactly something Andrew excelled at.

It wasn’t like he sat there and stared at Neil’s unmoving body, or memorized every detail of his face, or whatever. He was just hyper-aware of Neil beside him in bed, the way his breath caught and his hands gripped the underside of his pillow that no longer hid anything to protect him.  He tried to close his eyes and pretend to sleep, even thought of kicking Neil out to hold him to his request of at least one of them getting a few hours. But as time ticked on, he was still too awake, too vigilant to sleep with Neil in distress.

So he used the only sure trick he had; he grabbed Neil by the back of the neck and pulled him close.

It startled him awake, of course, but there was no mistaking the smell of the cigarettes they’d shared before bed on the roof or the distinctly lingering smell of exy sweat or that grip in that place and Neil wheezed and pressed his forehead to Andrew’s sternum, the adrenaline beating holes in both of their chests.

“Thought you were going to sleep,” he mumbled, trying to square up even soaked with fear sweat in their too small bed, wearing one of Matt’s old band shirts like a little kid in a nightgown.

“Some asshole was keeping me awake,” Andrew said, and pulled him in a little tighter. Not a hug. Something stronger. Fiercer. To protect him like Neil couldn’t protect himself, to remind himself that there was still strength and softness in him somewhere.

To finally get a good night’s sleep.

“Almost punched you in the throat,” Neil said, his weary voice getting lost in Andrew’s neck.

“Go ahead and try, and I’ll knock you out for real.”

“Deal,” Neil said, and succumbed to the first dreamless rest he’d had in weeks.

Yoongi Drabble #2 - Demon!AU

Originally posted by sugagifs

Anonymous said: Hey! I would love to read something with 47 and 69, with Yoongi, the rest depends on you. Thanks!

All done! c: (Although I spent wayyy too long staring at my screen trying to work out how to write this… ah, writers’ block. c: c: c:)

I’m trying to experiment with different AUs and genres, so as always, any feedback would be very helpful! c: 

Also, I’m trying to get through these drabble requests as quickly as possible, but I’m limited to about one a day because school ;-; Once I have gotten through a decent number of them, I’ll begin work on a new BTS reaction post, and Midnight Masquerade Part 6!


Genre: Demon!AU | Fluff? | Angst? (I don’t even know at this point TT)

Word count: 996

Warnings: Some mentions of death/dead bodies? (Idk, I’m tired TT)

(I’m sorry if this came out crap or cliche, I have such bad writers’ block today for some reason TT)


#47: “Run.”

#69: “Am I scaring you?”


Yoongi pulled the beanie further down his head, quickly re-adjusting the earphones that rested in his ears, the melodic sound of the music blocking out the world around him. At first glance, to the untrained human eye, he appeared as a normal member of human society, nothing out of the ordinary. Yoongi had no choice but to learn the norms of human society if he was to ever fit in, ever survive in the harsh reality of the world, only breaking his disguise occasionally to satisfy the ever-present hunger that settled in the pit of his stomach.

No-one noticed the two distinct, circular marks that were etched onto his scalp, or the jagged scars on his upper back. If he was to survive in this world, he had no choice but to hide his true form. And so, he made great efforts to distance himself from the people around him, most passing it off as Yoongi simply being anti-social. Most had given up on trying to befriend him. Most, except you.

You had somehow slipped through his protective shell;  the hardened case that surrounded his dark heart. You had been the one who had - unknowingly -taught him what human emotions were, what it meant to feel.

Evidently, it grew harder for him to distance his newfound emotions from you. For the first time, he felt fear. A fear of hurting you. A fear that you’d discover what he really was. A fear of you rejecting him. As his “feelings” grew for you, the more Yoongi’s hold on his control began to slip.

**

“Yoongi!” A familiar voice called out from behind him, causing him to stop in his tracks. Pulling his earphones out with a tug, he couldn’t help the small gummy smile that tugged at his lips at the sight of you. God, when had he become so… soft?

“Hey, (Y/N).” Yoongi replied in the usual nonchalant manner that you’d grown to get used to. The sight of you caused the ever present sensation at the pit of his stomach to stir once again, the feeling growing further and further out of his control. Yoongi’s lips stretched into a thin line, eyebrows furrowing as he tried to ignore the twitching feeling on his scalp and his back. Being the ever observant person you were, you noticed his minor discomfort, as you hesitantly reached out to touch his shoulder. 

“Are you okay?” You inquired in a soft tone, your eyes darting over him in concern.

“Yeah, yeah.” Yoongi waved it off as nothing, as he began walking forwards again. There was something about your very presence that caused Yoongi to begin to lose control over his form, his disguise, and he knew how badly that ended at times. The last time he lost control resulted in several bodies sprawled across the cold, wet floor of an alleyway; Yoongi’s eyes burning a bright amber, his once white T-shirt stained with the blood of the mortals he had just brutally murdered. He shuddered as he recalled, his eyes worriedly darting over to you. He wouldn’t let that happen to you. Over his dead body.

**

You sat cross-legged on the carpeted floor of your sitting room, your eyebrows furrowed in concentration as you stared down at the books scattered in front of you, your head tilting to the side every now and then. Yoongi tried to focus on the work, and yet he found himself stealing glances at you every now and then. His eyes unknowingly began to glow ever so slightly, as he observed the blue light surrounding you, the light of your soul. The soul that he craved so much, and yet didn’t want to take. How easy it would be for him to take it from you, his strength overpowering yours immensely. And yet, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. But the more he fought the feeling, the more his eyes began to glow, the dark brown colour rapidly fading and changing to a fiery crimson; the first signs of shifting into his true form.

Finally looking up from the open textbook, your eyes immediately widened in shock at Yoongi’s fierce gaze, the unnatural colour of his eyes causing you to gulp in fear, confusion and concern.

“Yoongi? Are you okay?” You asked hesitantly, your voice wavering as you tried to work out what the actual hell was going on.

Yoongi opened his mouth to respond, but no words came out, his figure suddenly slumping onto the floor, writhing and convulsing, just managing to spit out, “Run.”

And yet you couldn’t bring yourself to run, your legs seemingly fixed in position as you watched with horror, jagged wings tearing through the material of his shirt and protruding from his back. You watched as pointed horns began to protrude from his head, his eyes burning at this point. Although your mind was screaming at you to run, to move, to do something, your body froze, rendering you unable to do anything but watch.

“I don’t understand…” Yoongi garbled out, a thin sheet of sweat forming on his forehead as he struggled to control himself. “Am I scaring you?” He stared at you as the inner turmoil in his body continued, taking every ounce of his strength to not pounce at you, there and then. “Why are you still here?”

All the pieces began to fit together, the final piece being the event that had just unravelled in front of you. The way Yoongi seemed to appear from out of nowhere. The way he would turn up at your doorstep at ungodly hours of the night, a look in his eyes of pure guilt.

“It’s okay, Yoongi…” You crawled closer to him, only for Yoongi to scoot away, afraid to hurt you. “I know you won’t hurt me.”

He gazed up at you with an unreadable expression, the colour in his eyes finally fading away, the wings retracting back into his body.

“Thank you, (Y/N).”