idek-what's-happening-here

matildaswan  asked:

late nights and lazy afternoon

Bernie and Serena - friends to lovers. 

one am, friends. 

She wants to kiss her.

She’s all odd socks and fond expressions as she shuffles into the living room, glasses in one hand, bottle held aloft in the other. Her face is wiped clean of makeup, and a well-loved sweater (holes in the sleeve, paint on the hem) swallows her figure as she perches in front of Bernie on the coffee table, thrusts a glass towards her. 

‘Just what the doctor ordered.’

Serena worries her bottom lip between her teeth, holds the bottle between her thighs as she uncorks it, nimble fingers and a furrowed brow and a constellation of freckles caught in the wrinkles that form on her nose; and she wants to kiss her. 

The thought hits her square in the chest, takes the wind out of her, and she thought she might have been used to it; by now. Hoped she might be have able to brace for it, control it, fend it off. But her knees shake a little, like they always do. Her gaze fumbles, breaks contact, refocuses on the dark red of the wine, the slosh of the liquid into the glass. Her hands fidget, her jaw tightens, her shoulders square - her whole body committed to a gargantuan effort at self-restraint, an exercise in self-preservation which Serena watches, notices. 

‘You alright?’

She is, convincingly, not alright; and she’s desperate to tell her. They’re couched in the middle of a comfortable friendship, close enough for no makeup, for her hand on her knee, for the middle of the night, and a sleep on the couch. There’s no anger, no rivalry, just easy flirtation and firm, steady loyalty, and she wants to talk to her about it, wants to tell her everything. She wants to tell her that today was horrid, today was fucked. She wants to tell her that she wanted to kiss her last week, wanted to kiss her this morning, wanted to kiss her on the drive home (the drone of the radio and the tattoo of the rain and her face, washed with the street light). She wants to tell her that every end of every nerve, every aching bone, every synapse, and the thoughts that leap between them, are screaming out to kiss her now. 

But she won’t. Can’t. Shall not. She absolutely refuses, to ruin this - this careful affection, this unburdened adoration. She won’t do that to Serena, can’t do that to herself again. 

‘Just -’ she breathes out, a trembling laugh, shakes her wild curls around her face. She lets a hand fall on top of Serena’s, pats it once, twice for good measure, teetering on the edge of a platonic gesture. ‘Just - wrecked.’

-

one pm, lovers. 

She wants to kiss her. 

She peers at her over the rim of her glasses, over the top of her book, eyes bright, mouth curved in a smile. Her bare feet knock against hers under the blanket, and her bare chest is covered (half-heartedly, haphazardly) by an grey sweater - unzipped, too long at the sleeve; and she wants to kiss her. 

They spend the weekend in bed. They spend their weekend in a slow and joyous fumble - all nerves and naked bodies; anxious to relearn each other, in a rush to take their time. Contrition is swallowed in moans, and anxiety swallowed in laughter as they revise soft angles they had forgotten, discover ways to make each other fall apart. 

They don’t talk about their broken hearts, barely mended. She knows they’ll have to, knows she wants to - soon, over coffee, over wine, over and over until they’re put back together. She’s spent months thinking about it, in cold and quiet hotels, in foreign countries, about how she ruined things; and she knows what she wants to say, how she wants to say it. But Serena had waved it away with a hand, last night, as she lay her head on the swell of Bernie’s stomach - had mumbled not yet into the soft skin near the jut of her hip; as the words had started to tumble from Bernie’s mouth. Not yet. 

So they spend the weekend in bed, and she revels in the newfound intimacy, the ease with which she could kiss her, the ease with which she is kissed. They only leave for provisions, books and fruit and coffee, which sit precariously on the hills and valleys of their limbs under the quilt cover, which topple and fall (forgotten, broken) to the floor as she leans over now, props her chin on the top of the book, very close to her face. 

‘Can I kiss you?’

Serena breathes out a laugh, then, lowers the book, lowers her glasses - a gentle nod; Bernie’s breasts pressed now against the warm fabric of her sweater, draped over Serena; mouth firm and soft now, against hers. 

She wants to kiss her.

She kisses her. 

flaminghotb-hole  asked:

I was thinking that when Dean is 7 mos. pregnant he would have days where he doesnt want to get out of bed cuz he laid on his back and is almost stuck there. Cas asks him to come to the store w/ him and he groans and makes Cas cuddle him instead

Oh god no I’m already blushing just thinking about it (and it also preoccupied a part of my workday so thanks for that).

Ugh but Cas peeking his head back in the bedroom asking, “Are you ready to go?” and considering Dean’s sprawled out on the bed and pants-less and moaning like a dying whale no he is not in fact ready to go anywhere that requires moving more than a centimeter. It actually reminds Cas of those turtles flipped on their backs that he sometimes finds in the middle of the road (and of course always stops to get them right side up and on their merry little way again). And not unlike those turtles, he goes over to the bed and gently nudges Dean. “Do you need help?”

No,” is his flat-out, indignant reply, because when does Dean Winchester ever need help with anything. (“Stopping the apocalypse,” Cas reminds him.)

It’s almost as much of a miracle when Cas gets him to sit up against a pile that consists of every single pillow they could find in the bunker, but when Cas reaches for the stretchy jeans (Dean’s banned the use of the word “maternity”) haphazardly thrown onto the edge of the bed, Dean just groans even more, burying himself into Cas’ shoulder and hefting whatever body part he physically can over his husband.

Cas is beginning to get the sense that going to the store isn’t in Dean’s schedule today. Or possibly ever.

And okay, it’s actually kind of sweet, Dean being unusually snuggly like this, even though Cas knows it’s a ploy and even if it’s a bit uncomfortable with all that extra weight against him—though Cas certainly knows better than to mention as much. (He does now, at least.)

He thinks he hears Dean mumbling into his shirt sleeve, which seems to have acquired a drool stain or two. “Mmm? What is it?”

Dean insists he’s incapable of whining, but Cas is pretty sure that what follows constitutes as a whine. “Pie, Cas.”

Well, one of them is going to the store today, anyway.

It’s probably a good thing that Dean doesn’t come along. It cuts the trip time in half, as Cas doesn’t have to keep steering Dean towards the produce and away from the deli meats. After Cas returns and stocks up their kitchen, he retreats to the bedroom to find Dean in the exact same spot. Still moody. Still pants-less. Still pregnant.

And still manages to make Cas’ heart skip a beat every time he thinks about how lucky he is to have his little (and growing) family.

Dean’s eyes light up when Cas brings him the goods, but his face immediately falls when he sees the packaged slice of cherry pie, and Cas narrows his eyes at him like, “What.

Dean purses his lips in the way that he knows he’s due for a lightning strike. (Thank God Cas doesn’t have that kinda juice anymore.)

“I want donuts instead.”

And Cas just sighs, rolls his eyes because lord almighty his husband is so predictable, and reaches into the grocery bag and pulls out a smaller bag from the bakery. 

Dean’s biting his lip like he’s actually trying not to get his hopes up. He should really know Cas better than that because Cas knows him better than that. “But are they the ones with—”

“Maple frosting and bacon?”

“Okay but are we talking—”

“Actual bacon? Yes. Not bacon-flavored.”

It might as well be Christmas morning, the way Dean digs into his diabetes-inducing treat. “Oh, god, I love you.”

Pants-less. Pregnant. And now with chunks of fried bread stuffed in his mouth.

Dean really shouldn’t be this attractive. 

Cas scoots in next to Dean on the bed and leans over to give him a kiss. “I know.”

“I was talking to my long-john—ow! Hey!“ 

Cas smiles as Dean holds his side and sucks a breath of air through his teeth. At least someone’s knocking some sense into his idiotic spouse. “Good baby,” he says, patting a hand lightly against Dean’s stomach.

“Yeah, yeah…” Dean nudges Cas with an elbow. “You know we both love you, too.”

“More than actual-bacon-covered, maple-frosted pastries?”

“More than actual-bacon-covered, maple-frosted pastries.”

Once Dean’s fully slipped into a sugar coma, Cas slinks an arm around Dean’s protruding belly, softly humming Enochian lullabies. Luckily, Dean has no objections to being cuddled tighter, grunting his content as he rubs his nose affectionately against Cas’ shoulder. 

And just when Cas thinks he might drift off into a pleasant sleep, Dean rolls over and huffs.

“I have to pee.”

Manuel Neuer's Angry Expressions Appreciation Post

An anon requested to do an appreciation post for Manu’s angry expressions and whoops, here it is. It’s hard to choose if Manu is angry or simply focused on the match sometimes, so I only include pictures and gifs where I think he’s actually mad, annoyed or pissed. Enjoy :)

Never forget that one time a reporter said a goal by the opposing team was a clear goalkeeper error while it clearly wasn’t. (Manu: “Are you fucking kidding me?”)

Uhm… Camels definitely don’t like German guys?

Idek what happened here but he doesn’t look amused

And since angry Manu on the pitch is the best, here’s a short story for you:

“Did someone touch my Nutella?”

“GUYS, WHO TF TOUCHED IT???”

“Huh, what did you say? Cristiano?”

“That fucking dick.”

“DON’T TOUCH MY NUTELLA OR I’LL SHOW YOU WHO’S BOSS”

“I stg I’ll kill him if he opened it and ate something”

“HE FUCKING OPENEND IT. HE ABUSED IT. MAY THE LORD BE WITH CRISTIANO”

“HELP ME MESUT!!!!1 PRTOECT IT LIKE YOUR FIRSTBORN CHILD!!”

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN HE DID IT AGAIN???”

“OMG I CAN’T WITH Y’ALL. YOU CAN’T EVEN PROTECT MY NUTELLA, LEAVE THE FUCKING PITCH”

“I’m leaving. I came out to have a good time and I’m honestly feeling so attacked right now.”

“Can you believe Cristiano touched my fucking Nutella, Kathrin?”

“Omfg Manu you’re so annyoing, it’s just Nutella.”

The End.

I Can Dance And Play The Part

Summary: ‘You notice things normal people don’t… just little things most would look over, but you notice, because they’re just like you’

Warnings: Self-harm, depression, anxiety, eating disorders, implied suicide (but not of either dan or phil)

A/N: Inspired by this post

He’s started to notice things more.

Not good things. No, far from it. He notices when people pull their sleeves down in fear of people seeing secret scars. He notices when people are hesitant to eat when they’re having lunch with their friends. He notices when people wear false smiles and have empty laughs.


There are so many people that fit at least one category, and a few that meet all three. There’s the boy with the green eyes and a mop of hair that always wears long sleeves. There’s the girl from drama club with blue eyes and almost perfect curls that picks at her food every mealtime. There’s a kid with brown eyes and similar coloured hair who likes to write funny poems and reads them aloud to the class with a feigned smile and a hollow laugh.

There’s also a boy with electric blue eyes and dyed black hair. He wears long sleeves and barely eats and the rare smiles are stiff and forced. He always walks slightly hunched over and holds everything just a fraction too tightly, from his books to the frappucinos he’ll sometimes bring to school in the morning. His face is usually screwed up in concentration, his eyes squinting behind glasses, hand it looks like he’s always taking notes, but Dan knows he isn’t.

He saw it, one afternoon during an English class about A Midsummer Night’s Dream, and he hasn’t been able to put the image out of his mind since. The black-haired boy, constantly writing a single word over and over again, and then crossing the letters out before getting to work on the next page of his A4 pad, rather than taking notes on the lesson.

They share almost identical classes. They both take Drama, English and Geography, but Dan takes French, whereas the boy takes German. They spend so much time together in such small groups that sometimes they work together, and Dan’s been living solely for those times for quite a while now.

He just loves the way that the blue-eyed boy will smile when he sees Dan approaching him, and he loves the way that he writes when he’s actually concentrating, and he loves the way that he acts, and he loves the slightly northern accent that is obvious as he struggles over long, technical words in Geography.

Dan wishes that he had a better description for him, rather than just the ‘blue-eyed boy’, or the ‘black-haired boy’. It doesn’t do him justice. It doesn’t do the way he talks, the way he walks, hell, even the way he breathes justice. It doesn’t capture how his eyes are almost always dim, except when they catch sight of Dan and they light up like the fairy lights on the Christmas tree the school has in the hall every winter term.

The boy has a name, of course, but a name can’t encapsulate everything about a person. Besides, it’s so ordinary that Dan doesn’t think it suits him at all. Daniel James is a fitting name for someone like Dan, someone unremarkable and the opposite of striking, but this boy’s name gets nowhere near deserving of the boy himself. He’s wonderful, and Dan wishes that he hadn’t noticed that he was destroying himself from the inside out.

Dan didn’t notice until recently, around the same time he started noticing a hell of a lot of other things. So many people in this world are sad, so many of them are hated, so many of them are loathing of themselves. It wasn’t until he had to start pulling down his own sleeves, and he started getting anxious about eating in front of the few friends he has, and he realised that his own laugh cracked in the wrong way and was far too stiff, that he actually saw the world in the way that he does now.

He can’t help but notice the things people do to try and hide themselves now. He’s not sure why, but it’s like looking at the world through tinted glasses. Everything is slightly greyer, as if the vibrance has been turned down, and everyone is slightly less well-hidden from him.

The blue-eyed boy is no exception. Dan used to enjoy spending the time with him, of course he did, because the boy is one of the nicest, sweetest, people that Dan has ever met, but before recently he never saw the fact that the boy only ever seems genuinely happy when he’s with Dan. And that fills Dan’s stomach with butterflies (which is ironic really, considering the fact that he is absolutely terrified of the damn things), but he’ll never act on them.

Mostly because he’s not sure what he feels, but partly because he’s afraid of getting hurt, and he’s afraid of hurting the boy even more than he already has been. He doesn’t think that either of them need another heartbreak, another reason not to get out of bed in the morning.

So, instead, he decides to stick to the same old routine. He stares at the boy during his lessons, watching him scribble down that word over and over and over again. Dan wonders how many sheets of paper he’s filled with it, how many times that word has been drawn by the boy’s pens. Even when the boy doesn’t have paper he’ll still be writing, drawing the letters onto his hand, and if the ink won’t flow onto his skin, he just presses harder so that they appear in red marks across his porcelain skin.

They’re working together in their A-level drama performance, and Dan practically buzzes every day as he waits for that lesson. He’s looking forward to the next few weeks when they’ll be having after school practises so much that it almost hurts, purely because he’ll be getting to spend more time with the blue-eyed boy. Whatever affections he has for the boy, he knows they’re returned, and that’s what makes it all the better. For the first time in his life, he actually has a friend, a friend that he knows cares about him as much as he cares about them.

But it’s volatile. It’s such a volatile relationship, because Dan knows full well that the blue-eyed boy might not walk into class the next day, or any other day ever again, and he knows full well that he himself might not walk into class the next day, or any other day ever again. They’re broken, and they’re not exactly on the mend. Being with each other is a temporary solution, and it’s a distraction that to a certain extent they needed, but on the other hand, it also stops them from dealing with their own problems.

Not that they’d probably be dealing with them anyway. They’re too young, far too young, to know how to handle it. They all are. The green-eyed boy writes stories to avoid facing it, the curly-haired girl sing, and the kid with the brown eyes writes his poems. The blue-eyed boy, well, he writes the word all over his skin, and Dan hides behind characters in plays and books. None of those things will cure them, but at least they give them a reason to keep going until such a time comes around when they can help themselves.

Even if those reasons aren’t enough all the time. The green-eyed boy stops turning up to school one day, and the whole school is invited to the funeral. The curly-haired girl stops turning up to school one day, and the teachers send her work, packaged neatly, to the hospital where she’s staying temporarily. The brown-eyed kid stops writing his poems, and one day Dan finds them all stuffed in a bin behind the school, all scribbled over and torn.

But the blue-eyed boy, he keeps coming. And sometimes Dan holds his hand gently, and sometimes they cuddle just a little (to keep warm, of course), and it’s okay for a little while.

Dan notices things more now. He notices the way the blue-eyed boy stares at him as much as he used to stare at them, and he notices the fact that sometimes they can wear short sleeves now without worrying about who can see it. He notices the way that he himself can start to do that too, and it makes him smile every time he thinks that perhaps he has a chance of getting better.

He sees more things than ‘normal’ people do. He sees them because these people, the ones that are sad and in need, are just like him. And whilst that’s absolutely terrifying, because it shows just how fucked up the world it, it at least tells him that he’s not alone. 

a/n: the explanation for what phil was writing is here c:

anonymous asked:

Jackjae, even though he knows it's just for show, Youngjae is hurt by Jackson's attitude towards him in IGOT7 episode 8.

warnings: allusions to eating disorder, self harm

word count: 8k because omg

author: angel

a/n: hey anons! I’m sorry for making this more ot7/youngjae-centric than actual jackjae, but I hope you like this all the same? ;~; ahah some of this was from personal experience but most of it was gleaned from what I’ve seen in my friends, so I hope it’ll still be realistic? ;A; thanks for the prompts, because youngjae really needs more love T.T  

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