is it the mothballs

When You Least Expect It | 06

Warnings: sexy groping, very lewd language >:D

Word count: 11,369

A/N: Writing this chapter nearly claimed my life. I wrote it all in one day and then spent two days editing it because I want to die young, apparently. I hope you enjoy it!

Originally posted by hoshiimochi

“Don’t touch that,” the chilly admonishment came from behind you. Despite being accustomed to Yoongi’s imperious barking, you jumped, your fingers recoiling from one of the many sliders dotting his expensive equipment. It wasn’t your fault it looked so fun to play with.

You turned to greet him with wide, awestruck eyes, the two of you surrounded by his new production suite. How you’d found yourself wandering into – and so brazenly trespassing on – his elaborate studio was beyond you. Perhaps you had a rather pressing death wish? “This is ridiculously impressive,” you gushed, drawing your words out as you turned, astonished, on the spot. “How much did all this cost? Dude, you’ve come a long way from your bedroom studio days.”

He folded his arms. That was strike two.

“Exactly, so don’t mess with what is too far above your measly pay-packet to understand,” he hissed, and you felt the familiar creep of ice enveloping the room. “I don’t let anyone in here for a reason.”

Your bottom lip protruded in supplication. “Even me?”

“Especially you,” Yoongi deadpanned without a second of hesitation. “You’re the clumsiest of them all.”

After considering his words, you shrugged. It was a fair point. “True. I’ll leave, then, before I anger His Lordship any further.”

Two beady, carob eyes watched your departure, when he called after you. “Where’s your date?”

You clutched your phone in the absence of Jungkook’s hand. The device had remained affixed to your palm all evening, warming it in lieu of him. “He’s in a meeting, so we had to come separately. He’ll be here in half an hour or so, hopefully.”

Keep reading

One Breakfast at a Time

upperstories submitted:

(Rough Around the Edges, pt. 2)


Summary: The following morning… 


Boris’s feet felt prickly.

The first thought that dredged up the wolf’s mind from the thick, murky mires of sleep was that there was a foreign, uncomfortable feeling in his toes. It wasn’t quite painful, but it was distracting. Which was a shame; quite honestly, as the rest of him felt like it was swaddled in a soft, warm cloud, like lying on a mountain of fleece. He was dreaming of sleeping on the back of a large, comfy sheep. Maybe if he moved his feet right, he could shoo the strange sensation away and get back to sinking completely into the wool.

His toes twitched, and the tingling feeling went up both his legs completely. That hurt.

“YIPE!” Boris yelped, knees hiking in alarm, eyes flying open.

The first thing that greeted him was strange visual tones and hues, blurred from the sleep in his eyes and the tingling in his feet. They were—oh, whadyacallems?—Blues. And Greens. Only lighter, greyer, faintly cast across the ceiling above him, making him squint. It followed the outline of a windowpane.

His foggy mind thought, not for the first time:

How long will it take before them colors look normal?

Motion at his side had him shaking his noggin, revealing the familiar heads of to his pals, moppy and disheveled from sleep. Alice muttered something under her breath—when had her halo hung itself up on that lamp?— and Bendy snuggled closer into the pillows, a bit of drool staining the soft cushion.

Recognition stumbled into his brain as his eyes adjusted to the dim early morning light.

He wasn’t sleeping on a bed of fleece. He was sharing a bed with Alice and Bendy, feeling mighty cozy in spite of being too long to rightly fit on the mattress length-wise, which explained why his feet weren’t under the covers. The tingling must’ve been because they’d been leaning over the end board all night.

Asleep, his feet were asleep. That’s what this feeling felt like. Except… it was much stronger than how it’d felt before, back in the world drenched in ink.

Dang, the real world felt strange.

Trying his best not to disturb the other two sleeping Toons, Boris slowly pulled his bare feet under the blankets, wincing as he flexed the tingling feeling out of them. They were cold to the touch, as were the ends of his ears and snout, a stark difference compared to the comfy warm bubble formed underneath the covers from his proximity to his friends. If he stayed still enough, curled up a ball, maybe he could go back his sweet, soft, monochromatic dreams…

The door creaked, and Boris was awake.

In the semi darkness, the wolf made out the shape of a figure entering the room, familiar in spite of his loss of Toonification. It was Henry.

Err. At least. Boris was pretty sure it was Henry.

The man had Henry’s almost square-ish head, large ears, surly set face and all, but in place of the man’s wrinkled light green shirt and brown slacks was a plaid patterned collared shirt, all blues and grays, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, and the bottom half of a dark grey jumpsuit, faded at the knees and the top half wrapped messily around his waist. His black work boots were word around the souls. It all smelled faintly of engine oil.

A change of clothes shouldn’t have been completely out of left field for the Toon (as he recalled, Bendy changed his wardrobe a number of times over a wide variety of episodes), but the old animator’s plainer duds had almost seemed glued to him. Seeing Henry in less plain-looking clothes felt like seeing a camel in a bunny onesie. Strange.

He silently watched Henry tread to the bedside table on Bendy’s side of the bed and leave a note next to the lamp. The man looked haggard, but clean. His hair was even combed.

Boris considered keeping his head down, pretending to be asleep. But then, just as it looked like he was about to leave, Henry stopped and turned around, looking back at the bed of Toons. Contemplating, eyes unfocused and glassy—from lack of sleep, perhaps?— grey circles under them. The wolf’s felt his heart clench, and he lifted his head.

“Henry?” he whispered.

Henry jumped and caught himself on the wall.

“JEEZ—” Henry breathed, forced his voice down. “Boris— scared the daylights outta me.”

“Sorry—!” Boris’s ears fell back. “Sorry.”

Henry put a hand to his chest and sighed. His eyes looked less glassy, more awake.

“Agh, I didn’t wake you up, did I?” Did Henry look guilty? Nah, it must’ve been Boris’s imagination.

“Nah,” said Boris, truthfully. “Feet fell asleep. Woke me up instead.”

The corners of Henry’s mouth twitched. If Boris didn’t know any better, he could almost mistake the man’s grimace as a smile. It almost met his eyes.

“Headin’ off somewhere?” said Boris, nodding towards the note.

“Just about,” whispered Henry.

He motioned for Boris to follow him out of the room, finger to his lips. Boris nodded, trying to be mindful of jostling the bed, so as not to rouse Alice or Bendy. The wolf was thankful for his thick coat of fur (ink?) once he was free from the blankets, as the room was fairly brisk without the protection. Boris swallowed a whine and followed after the grizzled animator.

On their way to the den, Henry grabbed a large, dark green jacket from one of the hampers in the hallway. He gave it a tentative sniff to check if it was clean, shrugged, and offered it to Boris. Boris sniffed as well. It smelled of Henry and mothballs. It would do. The sleeves came up an inch short of his wrists though.

“Gotta go plead to the powers that be that I don’t end up unemployed before the day’s end,” said Henry once they were a safe whisper-free distance from the bedroom, sighing and scratching his neck. “I, uh, took a few more vacation days than I’d originally planned.”

Boris’s stomach dropped, guiltily. The studio.

“Oh, golly… wha… that was our fault—”

“S’nobody’s fault,” said Henry, patting Boris’s shoulder. They passed the couch. It didn’t show any signs of Henry sleeping on it. “I might have to work a few extra shifts to make up for it though. My boss, Callum? Not exactly known for being forgiving, but he can be fair when he needs to be.”

Boris nodded, faint memories of his own past experiences with “unforgiving bosses” arising. His tail tucked between his legs, the wound from the harsh look on Joey’s face all those days ago in that office now fresh in his mind’s eye. When the air was thick with acetone and Henry’s open cartoon wounds. His nose twitched, feeling a little sick at the memory.

“M-Maybe I should come with ya,” said Boris, the weightlessness of Henry leaning on him ghosting along his shoulder. He gripped it. “Help explain a few things—”

“Boris,” said Henry. There was no harshness in his voice, but it was still firm. “I… I appreciate it, Pup. I really do. But… you need to stay here. All three of you. Lay low for a while.”

Boris tried his best not to look discouraged. Henry patted his shoulder again and gave it a squeeze. It felt odd, not having to look down on Henry as much as he had when the animator was still a Toon. Henry squared his shoulders, and Boris felt assured.

“It’s… too much, out there,” Henry nodded to the window. A car honked, followed by another, and across the way, some neighbors were opening windows to do laundry. A lady waved out a large red blanket, and Boris had to flinch at the brightness of the color, visible even in the dim early morning. “Too much to get used to all at once.  Besides, I know Callum. I’ll be alright.”

Boris felt like crawling into an inkwell. He knew Henry was right, but it wrung his nerves like wet laundry. He felt so… useless. He was supposed to be the helper, the best buddy. He sighed.

A kettle whistled.

“Oh, shoot—” Henry rushed to the stove and turned the knob, using one of the dangling jumpsuit sleeves to take the metal pot from the heat when he couldn’t find his oven mitt, setting it on his oven mitt so the counter wouldn’t burn— ahh. Found the mitt. Hmm. “Sheesh… I, err, tried making something quick for breakfast for you all before I left, but, well. The mess. Heh. Wasn’t able to get as much done as I was hoping…”

Boris turned to the counter while Henry prepared a quick coffee for himself, and noticed, to his surprise, that the tower of bills and mail had been cleared off, leaving room for three sets of plates, bowls, forks and spoons of varying style and size. Each plate had a couple eggs, sunny-side up, glasses of water, and steaming hot bowls of oatmeal—with walnuts and molasses, from the looks of them. Bois sniffed the air above the biggest bowl (he hoped it was his) and licked his chops. It smelled pretty dang good.

Breakfast wasn’t the only change to the den. The mess from last night seemed to have all been pushed to the side, the floor for the most part cleared of debris, if still in need of a vacuuming. Trash bags sat stacked next to the door, ready for dumping, full of the empty bottles and boxes.

…How long had Henry been up, working on all of this?

“Ya didn’t have to…” said Boris, ears flopping back. “Dunno if we really need to eat.”

“A good breakfast might liven up the mood around here,” said Henry, smirking. At least this time it reached his eyes. He quickly downed the contents of the mug, grimacing. “Aghh, love the feeling of burnt tongue in the morning.”

“Ya do?” Boris laughed.

“Nope,” Henry laughed in turn. He set his mug in the sink, which was filled with other much dirtier mugs as well as pots and pans, and put a small tin reading Express-o, Coffee on the Go away. A cast iron skillet was all that was left on the stove, which looked surprisingly well cared for, considering the state of Henry’s other kitchen items. Guess that explained the eggs. He pointed to Boris. “Tea boxes are on the counter too, should be enough hot water between all of you. Don’t let Bendy drink my coffee. I’ll call you all when I’m on my way back. Don’t answer the phone for anyone else.”

“Wha?? Buh—how-how?” said Boris, getting whiplash.

Henry pointed to the other end of the den. A black, faintly dusty dial-up phone sat on the floor, next to the far wall, with a note taped to the wall over it. It read a variety of instructions in Henry’s chicken scrawl shorthand, and a blessedly legible phone number at the bottom. It looked as if it’d been dug up from one of Henry’s old boxes.

“I’ll call three times in a row. Only answer if you get three calls within a few seconds of each other,” said Henry, grabbing a toolbox next to the couch and as many of the trash bags as he could carry. “Other than that, just let it ring.”

“Whuh- wait, Henry!” said Boris, heart leaping in his throat. “I-I’m not so sure we…”

Boris turned to the window, grabbing the sleeve of the jacket. The sun was raising more and more, the world outside of them starting to wake up. Yellows mixed with grays, turning them brown and sandy. He was sorely missing his dreams, drenched in black and white.

“Hey, hey,” said Henry. His hand was back on Boris’s shoulder.

Boris turned to him, every inch of his face dropping, expecting to get one of Henry’s signature rigid, authoritative glares, waiting to be given the hard facts of their situation. Instead, he got a tired, yet… understanding smile. It was lopsided and rough around the edges, and looked wildly unsure.

“It’s ok,” said Henry, in a voice that, despite what his face betrayed, sounded pretty dang convincing.

The wolf felt something inside him—something that he’d kept bunched together throughout the drive, the climb to Henry’s apartment, the scary few minutes this morning where he first experienced his feet falling asleep in the real world and how real the real world felt and how he wasn’t really a wolf he wasn’t real was he?— unclench and, without thinking, he leaned his head on Henry’s shoulder, sagging weightily. Henry teetered, not used to the wolf having a third dimension’s worth of weight to him, but evened out, and wrapped an arm around Boris’s back, toolbox counterbalancing him.

“This is a lot to take in,” said Henry, gruff voice a welcome sound for the poor, overwhelmed wolf. “Don’t rush yourselves through it. Thing’s’ll get easier. I just…” His grip tightened, strong, grounding. “We just gotta make some things work first.”

The wolf whined.

“I just wanna help,” said Boris, voice feeling thicker than glue. “I ain’t much of a good helper though. I couldn’t even help you or Bendy or Alice when everything came crumblin’…”

“Now now, none of that,” Henry almost laughed.

Boris almost had enough nerve to get annoyed, if not for what Henry said next.

“That’s no way to talk about the guy who saved my life. And Bendy’s and Alice’s. And then mine again.” Henry stopped, smirking when he felt Boris quietly snort. “And Bendy’s, again, about, what? Five more times?”

“Mmmh, you’re just saying that…” Boris didn’t sound completely convinced, but the knot loosened a fraction. He pushed from Henry, trying to stand his full height. His cheeks had their old stylized blush back; his ears almost perking sincerely. Almost. He let them droop, eyes downcast. Henry sighed.

“For now… none of us know what we’re doing,” said Henry. “Not even me. And I’m from here. But we’ll figure it out.”

“…one breakfast at a time?” said Boris, trying to smile. It was shaky. Oh, he felt so shaky.

“One breakfast at a time,” said Henry. He reached up and scratched Boris between the ears, and Boris relaxed. He felt his tail wag, if only just a bit.

“But seriously,” Henry added. He was grinning, almost… devilishly. “Keep. Bendy. Away from my coffee. If I come back and find him bouncing off the walls, I’m hiring an exorcist.”

Boris was so taken aback, he couldn’t help himself. The thought alone was so ridiculous, but seeing Henry actually try to crack a joke? Utterly too much to comprehend. The wolf howled a laugh right out loud.

And it felt scarily, wonderfully real. 



I REFUSE to believe that, even though they could easily afford designer tailored stuff, any of the Gorillaz wear anything other than what they find in thrift stores:

2D’s entire wardrobe is made up of what he found in the £1 bin, and he somehow always manages to find jeans that fit him.

Noodle will wear one designer thing, and the rest is all vintage. Like in “Saturnz Bars”, the coat is Gucci but those glasses are from the set of one of the Austin Powers movies. She lives for the accessories section.

Murdoc always picks the tatty stuff with holes in for “the aesthetic”, but because he’s a dirty crust bucket he won’t ever wash the clothes before wearing them, so he always smells like stale B.O. and mothballs.

Russel loves going to the trendy thrift stores that have all the 90s style clothing in them. There are so many windbreakers and old leather jackets, plus some old granny dresses that he uses for his drag act that he just adores.


       In an amazing chain of events, the story of these WWII fighters continues to be written. The Goodyear F2G Super Corsair was an upgraded version of the famed F4U, optimized for fighting Japanese aircraft at low level. Before the aircraft could go operational, the war ended, and only 10 were built. Of these prototype airframes, only two still exist today.

     Race 57, shown in her striking red paint job, was the fifth prototype to roll off the assembly line as serial number 88458. After the war, she was purchased by Navy Captain Cook Cleland, who won the 1947 and 1949 Thompson Trophy race with this aircraft. She would become the last propeller driven aircraft to ever win the Thompson Trophy. 

     The dawn of the jet age caused these aircraft to be mothballed. Race 57 lay dormant for many decades until Bob Odegaard would return her to flight in 1999. I took these photos of Race 57 on August 26, 2007, at the Alpine Airpark Airshow in Wyoming. Earlier that day, I watched in awe as Odegaard flew low level aerobatics in this beautiful bird. I was 17 years old. 

      Nearly ten years after seeing my first Super Corsair, I was privileged to visit the Museum of Flight Restoration Center in Everett, Washington, where I photographed the first F-2G prototype as they breathed new life into the plane. Serial number 88454 proudly wears her original Naval Air Test Center livery (as shown in the final five photos in this set).

     As I experienced this later encounter with a Super Corsair, I did so with a heavy heart. Bob Odegaard, who thrilled me as a teenager with his aerobatics, was no longer with us. Odegaard owned a second Super Corsair called Race 74. He exhibited the aircraft all over the country until on September 7, 2012, he tragically lost his life while practicing for an air show in his home state of North Dakota.

      Odegaard’s legacy lives on, forever entangled with the story of the Super Corsair. Race 57 has recently changed hands once again in an effort to keep her flying. Wars begin and end. Races are won. Lives are lost. As one chapter closes, another begins.

Close Quarters

Bucky x reader

Summary: Your day goes from bad to worse when your car breaks down after a messy mission and you end up stuck with the one team member you always fight with.

Warnings: swearing, arguing, self-doubt. a side character tries to get rough with you (they do not succeed, but it might still be tough to read).

Word Count: 3048. Wow.

A/N: This one has been sitting in waiting for a while. I’ve been really hesitant to post it because it’s different from everything else I’ve posted so far. I hope it’s okay.

Originally posted by ohh-bloodyhell

“I am blaming this disaster of a day fully on you,” the man in your passenger seat grumbled.


Not only was the mission way more complicated than it should’ve been, you were currently sitting helpless as your car slowed to a stop in the middle of nowhere. You thought you’d repaired the gas gauge but apparently it was only a temporary fix. So you just sat in the driver seat with a hurt expression as your car completely betrayed you by not telling you it was low on gasoline, leaving you stuck on some mostly deserted back road with the one team member you didn’t get along with.

“That’s not fair,” you said, glancing over as Bucky crossed his arms and slouched down in the seat.

“Life’s not fair, buttercup.”

You hated that he did that–called you names that would’ve been cute under different circumstances. Frustration bubbled up as you looked to your passenger seat. “Well maybe if you hadn’t been constantly griping over there, I might’ve noticed it had been a while since we last stopped.”

Keep reading

Who do you trust with your phone: Overwatch

Ana: Disappears for 14 years with it. Pretends she didn’t know she still had it.
Bastion: Will protect it but at what cost?
D.Va: Will beat all your app high scores and blow up your Twitter feed.
Genji: Did you have fruit ninja? Now you have fruit ninja.
Hanzo: What the fuck is a phone, he asks. You leave the man be. He has no need for such things. Only guilt.
Junkrat: Breaks your phone on purpose. Will not apologize. 100% do not trust.
Lucio: Phone comes back better than what you originally had. Plus he gives you free music. 100% sweetie pie.
McCree: Buttdials your significant other and facetimes your parents pretending to be your sugar daddy. 100% do not trust.
Mei: Updated your apps and finally cleaned the screen.
Mercy: Buys you an otterbox.
Pharrah: Your phone comes back the same way it came. Nothing is different. 100% safe.
Reaper: Reads all your emails and throws your phone away when it dies.
Reinhardt: Protects it. Cherishes it. 100% safe.
Roadhog: Nothing seems different but for some reason there are a lot of blurry pictures of animals on your photo feed.
S76: If your phone is a smart phone, do not even think about it. This man doesn’t know how to use a touchscreen are you kidding me??? 100% safe but might come back with a few new scratches and smell like mothballs.
Symmetra: Updates your phone and downloads apps without asking. Says its for a better world.
Torbjorn: Your phone is now a turret.
Tracer: Takes selfies at light speed. Breaks your phone on accident. Doesn’t replace it.
Widowmaker: Doesn’t use. Refuses to use it. Refuses to touch it.
Winston: Breaks your phone on accident. Replaces it with a better model.
Zarya: Breaks your phone on accident. Replaces it with the same model.
Zenyatta: Talks to the os systems for fun. 100% safe. 100% cute.

Black And Grey

Fic Request: 
“Dark  x reader x Natemare as a poly relationship how would the two dark boys act?  Also if you have time could you do a fic on this?”

I wanted to write a fic based on these two. I’ll do a bullet fic for them soon.

Originally posted by alienboyinblue

Originally posted by crystalfier

“As much as I believe that wall loves to be stroked by you,” Natemare chuckled from behind you. “It would be great if you could turn on the light.” 
You shot him a glare over your shoulder, and kept moving your hand along the wall until you found the switch. 
As you flicked it, the bulb burst and you sighed as the guest bedroom was covered in black again. 
You shrugged at Mare and stepped into the room. Your arms outstretched in front of you so you didn’t run into anything. 
“My god, it’s dark in here.” You mumbled. 
“Yeah, it is rather depressing and emotionless isn’t it.” Natemare replied, leaning against the doorway. “Your left foot is about to run into the corner of the bed.” 
You halted your steps, moving a little to the right and continued forward.
“Tell me again, why the mortal is walking blindly in the dark?” You asked, grunting when your knee struck something. 
“There’s a box.” Mare said with a smile that was hidden in shadows. 
“I’ve noticed.” You growled a reply. Rubbing your knee to ease the stinging.
“Also because I saw a spider in here last week, and I don’t fancy seeing it again.” Natemare continued with a casual shrug.
You mumbled a string of curses and made your way to the window. Once you felt your fingers grasp the material, you threw it open. Bathing the room in sunlight. 
You turned to face the room. Somewhat proud that you made it with hitting only one object. But frowning when you discovered that cursed box had been the only thing in the room to run into. 
Natemare chuckled, seeing your disappointment. “At least the box knows who’s boss now.” 
He stepped into the bedroom and dumped a pile of sheets and blankets on the bed. 
“So, why are you making the bed again?” I asked, picking up a pillow-case to cover the cushions at the head of the bed. 
“Because I read the text that Dark was coming home from his trip away, and I thought he wouldn’t fancy sleeping on the couch.” Mare replied as he started tucking the sheet over the mattress. 
You chuckled and rolled your eyes. “Mare, Dark is not sleeping in here. I’m pretty sure the three of us will have to go back to our sleeping arrangements.” 
Mare scoffed, throwing a blanket over the sheets. It was rather thin, old and smelled of mothballs. 
“He’s been gone for two weeks. Do you honestly still want to sleep in the same bed as him?” Mare asked, facing you with a serious look on his face. 
You rolled your eyes and approached him. Leaning up to kiss his cheek. 
“Don’t get jealous, Natemare. It’s not his fault he had to go away for business.” 
“I stayed here to make sure you weren’t lonely.” Mare huffed, wrapping his arms around your waist. Kissing the top of your head. “And you’re just going to crawl back to him?” 

“It’s called a commitment, Matchstick, perhaps you should learn it’s meaning.” 
You turned to the door and found Dark standing there, glowering coldly. His arms crossed over his chest as he stared daggers at Mare. 
Smiling, you ran over to Dark.  His arms opened for you and his lips crashed into yours as he embraced you. 
Dark held you against him, the kiss slow and heated. He only pulled away when Natemare growled quietly. 
The suited man sighed as he pulled away, eyes flashing when he turned his gaze back to Mare. 
“And no, Nate, I won’t be sleeping in here.” Dark gave your waist a squeeze, making you squeak and spin in his arms as when his fingers dug into your hips. “Tonight is my night. As per the schedule we set when we agreed to this.” 
“It’s Natemare, Ruby-Gloom.” Mare snapped back. “And it’s (Y/N)’s decision on who they want to sleep with tonight.” 
Dark brushed his lips against the back of your neck as the two entities turned to you for an answer. 
Biting your lip, you shrugged. “There’s no way you two won’t comfortably sleep in the same bed?” 
“No.” They growled in unison. Dark’s arms tightened around you and Natemare glared at the other man.
Sighing you nodded, “Fine, then. Mare, it is Dark’s night. And you’ve had me alone for two weeks.” 
Dark rested his chin on the top of your head. Smirking at Natemare as the singer grumbled angrily. 
“You might want to get some ear-plugs for tonight, Nate.” Dark said coolly. “I’ve dearly missed our little (Y/N).” 
Mare rolled his eyes, his gaze softening when his gaze met yours. Almost child-like, he gave you a sheepish grin and dispersed into smoke. Disappearing out the window. 

Dark turned you around, taking your chin in his hand. “Now, let’s make up for lost time shall we?” 
You smiled and leaned up to press a kiss to his lips, when he stopped.
His eyes clouded in concentration, as if listening for something.
Sighing in frustration, Dark stepped away and moved towards the living room. 
“Put those down, Nate.” He barked angrily. You hurried after him, almost laughing when you came across the scene. 
Smoke filled the room. Making it foggy and smelling strongly of burning wood. Mare was floating near the ceiling, high above your heads as his hand lazily waved in the air, as if conducting. 
Twirling around the room were multiple empty suits. Like empty shells they danced with each other about the space to a tune that Mare was humming.
Dark’s luggage had been ransacked. Clothes were thrown everywhere. The expensive tailored material was being ruined by the sharp movements Natemare was making them move too.
Growling Dark moved forward to snatch the suit from Mare’s influence. But the dancer dodged his hand and sprinted into the kitchen. 
The rest of the suits scattered into the house, the smoke lifting as they left.
You stifled your giggles when one managed to slap Dark with the cuff of it’s jacket. Causing the entity to crack his neck and look up at Mare. 
“Get down.” He demanded and Mare shook his head. 
“Naa, you might hurt me.” 
“There’s no doubt that I will.” Dark replied testily. “Now, get down here before I drag you into the ground.” 
Natemare grinned. A glint of mischief in his eyes. “Naa.” 
Dark made a grab for Mare, but his hand only passed through the man’s leg. 
Chuckling, Natemare glided in circles above Dark’s head. “Happy to be home, Gloomie-Tunes?” 
Dark sighed heavily and loosened his tie. “Home sweet home.” 
Mare scattered into smoke as Dark exploded in a cloud of shadows. Two streams of grey and black chased one another throughout the house. 
Knocking things over and causing the air to tremble as they passed. You sighed and went to the living room. Settling down to watch a movie until the two got it out of their system.


Originally posted by jeonbase

Request: So i read you Yoongi one-shot and i must say my bias in bts is slowly changing 👀 i’m so happy every time i get notified that you posted something and i love your style of writing (and i just wanna be your friend 😩💖). On another note, if your requests are still open for bts, could i request a soft , rainy day yoongi? Thank you nonetheless. Have a great day!😊
Member: Suga (bts)
Genre: Rainy day fluff
Word count: 1676

It wasn’t often that your boyfriend got a day off, especially as of late. Bangtan’s rise in popularity didn’t exactly spell out “fun date weekends,” and even on the days with minimal schedules, Yoongi still found himself being pushed into a recording or dance studio to get as much work done as possible. Ever the diligent boyfriend, he still found time to call you during the days he couldn’t, even resorting to sneaking into one of the bathroom stalls or the dark and mothball smelling basement if he had to. He may not have been the most sappy boyfriend in the word, but he believed that calling you everyday was the very least he should be doing during his busy schedule. It was an added bonus when you picked up the phone only to start laughing as you heard his voice echo and signify that yes he was absolutely crouched on top of a toilet in a men’s room, hoping that the staff or members wouldn’t find him in here so he could have just a few minutes to talk to you. Fuck, he loved your laugh, though he would never say that to his members (except maybe Rapmon) because the teasing would be endless.

So when you were woken up by Yoongi showing up on your doorstep at seven in the morning, which was a feat in and of itself because lord knows the boy isn’t exactly a fan of waking up early, the rain rolling off his umbrella as he announced that he finally had a free day, you were positively delighted. You waited somewhat impatiently for him for him to put his umbrella away in a holder you had next to the door and take his shoes off before you were grabbing his wrist, your fingers intertwining naturally as you tugged him back to your room. You crawled back into the warm, inviting mess of blankets as you watched your boyfriend tug his jacket and socks off before opening the window next to your bed just a crack. A slight breeze entered through the window screen, bringing in the smell of the rain against concrete and plants you had on the balcony outside and making the pattering of the rain sounding more clear now. He smiled slightly to himself before kicking his jeans off, reaching into the drawer he had reserved just for himself and grabbing a pair of pajama bottoms. Sliding them on, he was now decked in fuzzy pajamas and a baggy shirt, and he was quick to join you in the bed.

“Nap time?” he murmured, his eyes already closing as he gathered you in his arms, resting his head against your own as he took a deep breath, his muscles loosening. You hummed in agreement to his words, eager to go back to sleep, even more so now that your beloved was holding you in his arms. He hadn’t been able to sleep at your place in weeks, and you had to admit you felt a bit Yoongi-deprived, even if you didn’t want to say it out loud and face the smug expression he would inevitably don upon hearing your words.

He was out in a matter of minutes, his mind and body both practically wheezing in relief at the feeling of finally being with you again after the all too short phone calls and brief meetups for morning coffees that had been occurring for what felt to him like years. There was no where else that he felt quiet this relaxed. As much as Yoongi loved Bangtan, if he had to pick sleeping at his dorm where he could hear faint chatter and one of the boys occasionally sleepwalking in search of a sleeping buddy or being here with you, he’d pick you every time. His brothers were his family and always would be his family and he was pretty sure he’d do anything for any one of them, but he spent all day with them nearly every single day, and although it wasn’t always easy for him to admit, he was sweet on you. Quite frankly, it was a little more than that, if the upcoming three year anniversary and frequently (but privately) exchanged privately “I love you”s said anything, and in his mind, he never had enough time with you thanks to his job. Moving in together had been talked about a lot, especially the past couple months, but so shortly after a comeback didn’t seem like quite the right time yet. He knew the day would come rather soon though.

The rain was still going strong by the time your body slowly pulled you from your slumber, and you kept your eyes clothes as you registered your surroundings. The blankets were still piled on top of you, and you noted your position had changed slightly since you had dozed off, your face now pressed into Yoongi’s chest with his arm wrapped loosely around your lower torso. You smiled slightly, tilting your head back to glance at the clock resting on your table. It hadn’t been too long since you both had fallen asleep, the clock now reading just a little past nine, and you shifted to wrap your arm around your boyfriend, sighing with happiness. You missed moments like this, just the two of you cuddling without having to worry about responsibilities for a day and enjoying just being together. You two didn’t go on dates often, and of course it wasn’t always easy to navigate around the fact that he was Suga to millions of people, but that was fine by you. You guys didn’t need to go out to clubs or fancy restaurants or late night movies all the time, because any time you guys had together was precious and lovely, and it made the times where you could have those dates that much more special.

You lazily traced little shapes on the exposed skin where his shirt had rode up slightly, hoping to ease him out of his sleep just a little bit. Part of you felt bad for waking him up, knowing he needed his rest, but a larger part of you craved for his attention. Besides, you seriously doubted this was going to be the only nap you two were going to have today. You heard him groan not long afterwards, holding you tighter curling into you like a cat as he squeezed his eyes shut more. You rubbed his back a little once he did, a smile playing on your lips at his actions.

“What time is it?” he grumbled, his voice rough and scratchy from his recent sleep.

“A little past nine in the morning,” you spoke softly, mindful of your lips being not far from his ear and how he tended to be a bit sensitive just after waking up. You placed a gentle, lingering kiss on his neck to ease him into the world of the living a bit faster.

“Too early,” he muttered. “Don’t wanna move.” You laughed softly and ran a hand through his hair.

“We can make something to eat,” you tempted and he shook his head slightly, finally leaning back a bit and opening one eye.

“Order delivery, I don’t want to leave this bed only to make a mess that we have to clean up,” he told him. You thought about scolding him, little doubt in your mind that he would want to order delivery later again with the same excuse in mind, but you decided not to. If something meant you could spend more time pressed up against him and sharing his body heat, you would comply with it. You sat up and grabbed your phone off the nightstand, shivering slightly as the cold hit your arms, and Yoongi tilted his head as he stared up at you. “Want me to shut the window?”

“No,” you shook your head, scrolling through the app on your phone that saved the websites, phone numbers, and menus of all your favorite delivery places. “I like it open, makes everything smell nice and the sound of the rain is really atmospheric.”

Yoongi nodded a little before twisting his body, reaching for his jacket and yanking it off his feet before draping it over you. He felt his heart do a flip at the sight of your grateful smile, your eyes looking up from your phone to meet his. “Thank you,” you murmured, and he couldn’t help the grin that stretched across his own face.

“You’re welcome. Let me pay, okay?” he remarked, leaning down and fishing his wallet out of his jeans.

It wasn’t long before the delivery arrived, and you both crawled out of bed just long enough to eat it while debating on what you two should watch. He was quick to drag you back to bed once the two of you had finished, the chilly air of the apartment making the tile floor of your kitchen damn near unbearably cold against his toes and making the sheets look that much more welcoming. He fell into bed first, opening his arms up for you to land in, nuzzling his face into your hair once you did. He pressed a gentle kiss there before releasing you so the both of you could get comfortable and flick a television show on at a low volume, not wanting it to drown out the serene background noise of rain drizzling against the apartment. Plus, low volumes meant that you two could drift off again whenever you were ready.

Comfortable once again, you leaned into his side, taking his hand in your own. Yoongi lazily rubbed his thumb against your knuckles, his eyes half open as he watched the television. It wasn’t long before he found himself raising your hand so he could brush his lips against them, and an affectionate smile appeared on your face before you kissed his cheek.

“I’m glad you’re finally getting some rest baby,” you murmured, and he smiled in return.

“Me too, and it’s even better because I’m with you.”

A/N: Not shown is Yoongi’s immediate regret at such a cheesy line lmao

If I Lay My Head Down (Part 1)

Originally posted by caps-bucky

Summary: He has every reason to trust no one, yet he can’t help but trust you.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Wordcount: 2,140

A/N: wow look who decided to show up! me, i did. i feel good about this series, and i also have a good feeling that there will be #suffering c:

Part 1


There’s a gentle aroma of warm pumpkin that wafts through the petite coffee shop that he’s dining in. The starry string lights that adorn the wood-paneled walls light his sight just enough for him to watch as his gloved fingers pull along a simple black pen, drawing numbers within his worn Sudoku book.

Music is playing in the background, he thinks he’s heard the song before, but it’s quiet enough for his over-sensitive hearing to remain at relative peace, it’s quiet enough for him to hear himself talk within his own wilted mind.

Moments pass and he becomes lost in what little succor he’s created with his second cup of black coffee and half-eaten éclair au chocolat. It’s an everyday occurrence.

There’s a comfort that he finds in his daily cup of steaming coffee, in his daily serving of an éclair, that is only heightened by the temporary security of knowing that no one knows he’s there.

“Whatcha doin’ there?”

Except you.

You always see him. And he’s not so sure why that doesn’t bother him.

Keep reading

I’m not sure this counts, since I don’t think I technically recognized this moment for what it REALLY was, and Mongr-El isn’t even in the scene or mentioned at all, but whatever. 

The first moment I hated Man-Hell was when Karolsen broke up.

Yeah I know, I know, Kara and Mayo-Boy don’t get together for another twelve episodes after that and he wasn’t even CONSCIOUS at that point in the series, but we all KNOW that they only broke up Karolsen to make way for a new white male love interest, so it counts, alright!

Because that was one of the first big signs that things were going really, really wrong in this season. The other was the writing off of Cat Grant, but that has less to do with Meh-Blegh, so I can’t quite count that.

We spent twenty episodes building up not just Karolsen, but James Olsen as a character in the show, as a co-lead with Kara and Alex. He was more than just Kara’s love interest. James Olsen was a successful, empathetic, kind, flawed character who also happened to be a Black man. He had his own personal character arc throughout season 1 about learning to believe in Kara and, through her, himself. He’d always sort-of depended on Superman in his life as both the reason he was famous and as his personal hero. But through helping Kara learn how to step outside of Superman’s shadow and be a hero all her own, James has to do much the same for himself and figure out where he fits in this new world he’s helping to create. He has to figure out who he wants to become now that he isn’t relying on Superman.

A lot of kermil shippers will use the fact that James was somewhat obsessed with Superman as an argument against Karolsen, that he only likes Kara because of her relationship to Clark Kent and not for Kara herself. I disrespectfully disagree. One of the biggest obstacles between James and Kara was his relationship with Kara’s more famous cousin, I’ll admit, but it’s an obstacle that they dealt with pretty early on if I remember right. Kara gets angry with him for calling Superman to save her and he promises never to do it again. And you know what? He doesn’t. That little button that used to call Superman always seems to call Kara instead after that episode. He learns to see Kara as her own person without the legacy of Superman overshadowing her.

In comparison, Mothball-Eh STILL brings up Kara’s Kryptonian heritage as recently as 2x13 during their DEO argument to delegitimize her anger and his mother brings it up in 2x16. The issue of Kara’s supposed ‘prejudice’ is STILL an issue after karahell get together, but the issue is no longer Kara’s; it’s MOUNTAIN-DEW’S. Because he sees prejudice in every valid criticism she brings up, just to make himself the victim so he doesn’t have to ever change his behavior. His mother uses Kara’s supposed prejudice (and she wasn’t even there in the original episodes when Kara DOES say some prejudiced things, so she’s actually just making a guess and being an asshole about it) to make Kara feel guilty about being upset that her boyfriend lied to her about his identity, an identity that meant he had owned slaves and been part of a corrupt monarchy and benefited from oppressing his own people. I guess the apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree there. Rhea killed her own husband when he disagreed with her; I wonder what Moldy Wonder Bread would do to Kara if she pushed him hard enough.

Anyway, so after twenty episodes of build-up, they finally got Karolsen together. And they spent all of one episode as a couple. An episode in which they do basically nothing as a couple, they don’t even get to go on a date, and at the end of it, Kara has somehow decided they’re better off as just friends, even though at this point, she shouldn’t really have any idea what they’re like as NOT-friends.

In a spectacularly shittily written scene, an entire season of build-up got shoved aside due to some equally spectacular racism. Because James HAD to get out of the way for the new white fuckboy to reign, didn’t he?

And that’s definitely one of my number one moments that I can look back on and say I started hating Musty-Eel.

Wren (pt 1 of?)

She calls herself Wren, after Two Things. One is the bird. The small, plainly colored, ball of feathers, sometimes called house wrens, that often flit about unnoticed. Two is another girl. This Wren, who spelled her name Ren, isn’t real. She’s Ren-from-the-book Found, the first–and still most favorite–post apocalyptic story Wren-with-a-W has read. There are others, but that one is closest to her heart.

Which probably makes the Choice a Stupid One, but she makes it, nonetheless. Maybe the Gentry will think she likes birds. Maybe–though that, likely, could have its own consequences.

Unlike some of the others, Wren-with-a-W–like Anne-with-an-e, but without either the fiery hair or tendency to babble–likes the rules at Elsewhere. She likes Rules period. Her life–and her brain–is often chaotic, though she won’t acquire the alphabet soup of abbreviations that explain why till years later.

She doesn’t know, at eighteen, that she has ADHD. All she knows is she’s disorganized, easily distracted, and loses everything she touches. She also doesn’t know that she’s probably Autistic. All she knows is that she has trouble with conversations–starting them, stopping them, keeping them going. She has trouble with loud sounds and her clothes feeling Wrong. And when she loves something, it consumes her.

Sometimes–before she learned better–she thought she might be a changeling. When she was very young, she lost herself, deliberately, inside her mind. She spent hours and hours daydreaming, blocking out the world. When she was a teenager, her bubble popped, and she found herself suddenly in a world that was strange, confusing, and much too loud.

So, Wren-with-a-W likes the Rules. They’re comforting. Follow them and you’ll be safe. Don’t follow them, and there are no promises. And so she follows them. She hoards packets of creamer and shakers of salt and iron nails like they’re going out of style. She carries each in her pockets–and she’s found that the nails double as stim toys.

A few weeks into the fall semester, and Wren has found herself alone in her dorm for the first time. Her roommate has gone. Not Gone, not Replaced, no, nothing so sinister. She’s simply gone home, to visit family. Wren has not. She loves her family, but she doesn’t miss them. Not the way other people seem to.

Alone for the first time, Wren crosses to her bed and pulls out the old chest. Her great-grandmother, Agnes, gave it to her when Wren was twelve. Great-grandmother Agnes was a lot like Wren. She was shy and spacey, quiet and scattered, and she didn’t seem to know what to do with people, either.

As she opens the trunk, the smell hits her first. There’s the sharp, burning-in-her-nose smell of mothballs, and under that, something even more bitter, salty like blood, like iron. Like the sea.

The blanket at the bottom is dark brown, like mahogany and chocolate stirred together. One side is rough. When Wren pets it, she’s reminded of Boris, her old mohair teddy bear Mom made her leave home, because You-know-how-college-kids-are-you-don’t-want-anything-to-happen-to-it. The other side is smooth. When Wren touches it, she’s reminded of her favorite suede couch, the big brown one at Grandma Ruth’s. She loved laying on it and running her hand up and down the arm while she watched My Little Pony The Movie for the million and first time.

Wrapping the blanket around her, Wren shuts the trunk and slides it under the bed. Great grandmother made her promise not to show either trunk nor blanket to a living soul, and so far, Wren has kept her word. Mom says that Great-grandma-was-getting-senile-before-she-passed-it’s-a-shame-really. Wren knows different, but that, too, is part of the secret.

There are other trunks, other young women in Wren’s family with blankets like these. But Wren has never fit in with them. Those girls, to a one, know how to get along in the world. They don’t lose things the moment they set them aside. They don’t misunderstand a look, a gesture, an implied demand. They know how to follow all the unwritten Social Rules. Not Wren. Not now, and maybe not ever.

So, blanket wrapped tight tight tight around her, Wren hoes to the couch and curls up. She turns on the TV, then the DVD player. Pressing play on the remote, she settles in, sighing happily, as My Little Pony Tales begins playing.

The blanket isn’t the only reason she waits till her roommate leaves before watching tv.

To Be Continued.