Since that night you were sure of one thing: you would stop thinking
about Yoongi. You would stop liking him. You started ignoring him at the Gong’s
farm, but that was an easy task, since he was the first that started ignoring
you in Mr. and Mrs. Gong’s presence.
But unfortunately, Yoongi started going out with the boys again. You had
to see him every night and when you arrived home you were exhausted from the
effort it took you to ignore him. He was still staring at you every time your
eyes accidentally landed on him and you were sure he was trying to drive you
nuts. First he told you that you should get over him before you fell something
deeper for him, and then he kept staring at you like that. He was contradicting
himself. Maybe he didn’t hate you, but you were starting to hate him.
Summary: You get your wisdom teeth out and Dean and Sam take this opportunity to mess with you… Or you mess with them.
Author’s Note: This isn’t edited. I just wrote this a while ago and never looked at it until today so I am sorry for all the mistakes in it.
Dean was lucky to not have wisdom teeth. However, you did,
and they were on their way to pick you up from the orthodontist.
“Remember when you got yours taken out?” Dean looked over at
his brother with a smirk.
“Dude, I was 17 and I was hopped up on all those drugs.” Sam
grimaced at the memory.
“You tried to kiss me and feel up dad. You thought you were
at a gay strip bar.” Dean started to laugh.
“Yeah, yeah, can we not talk about that? That happened a
long time ago and frankly, I don’t want to revisit my teen years.” Dean till
laughed but he shut up about it and continued to drive. He got to the
orthodontist a while later and walked with his brother into the lobby area.
The first time I saw her..
Everything in my head went quite..
All the ticks, all the constantly refreshing images just disappeared.
When you have Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, you don’t really get quite moments.
Even in bed, I’m thinking:
Did I lock the doors? Yes.
Did I wash my hands? Yes.
Did I lock the doors? Yes.
Did I wash my hands? Yes.
But when I saw her, the only thing I could think of was the hairpin curve of her lips..
Or the the eyelash on her cheek-
the eyelash on her cheek-
the eyelash on her cheek.
I knew I had to talk to her.
I asked her out six times in thirty seconds.
She said yes after the third one, but none of them felt right, so I had to keep going.
On our first date, I spent more time organizing my meal by color than I did eating it. Or talking to her..
But she loved it.
She loved that I had to kiss her kidney sixteen times or twenty-four times at different times of the day.
She loved that it took my forever to walk home because there are lots of cracks on our sidewalk.
When we moved in together, she said she felt safe, like no one would ever rob us because I definitely locked the door eighteen times.
I’d always watch her mouth when she talked-
when she talked-
when she talked-
when she talked;
when she said she loved me, her mouth would curl up at the edges.
At night, she’d lay in bed and watch me turn all the lights off.. And on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off.
She’d close her eyes and imagine that the days and nights were passing in front of her.
But then.. She said I was taking up too much of her time.
That I couldn’t kiss her goodbye so much because I was making her later for work..
When she said she loved me, her mouth was a straight line..
When I stopped in front of a crack in the sidewalk, she just kept walking..
And last week she started sleeping at her mother’s place.
She told me that she shouldn’t have let me get so attached to her: that this whole thing was a mistake, but..
How can it be a mistake that I don’t have to wash my hands after I touch her?
Love is not a mistake, and it’s killing me that she can run away from this and I just can’t.
I can’t go out and find someone new because I always think of her.
Usually, when I obsess over things, I see germs sneaking into my skin.
I see myself crushed by an endless succession of cars..
Ans she was the first most beautiful thing I ever got stuck on.
I want to wake up every morning thinking about the way she holds the steering wheel..
How she turns shower knobs like she’s opening a safe.
How she blows out candles-
blows out candles-
blows out candles-
blows out candles-
Now, I just think about who else is kissing her
I can’t breathe because he only kissed her once-he doesn’t care if it’s perfect!
He’s one and there is a smile when he speaks his first words and a hand that guides him when he takes his first steps. Neither belongs to his father.
He’s four and there’s an arm that catches him when he falls and an embrace that comforts him when his knees are bloody and tears are streaming down his cheeks. Still, neither of them is his father’s.
He’s ten and there are soft words and warm dinners for him when he returns from school, tired and a little bit hurt (because his classmates made fun of him again). It’s not his father who provides them.
He’s thirteen and there’s a needle stitching him up after his first hunt and a quiet “I’m proud of you, Sammy” whispered in the dark. His father is not there. His father is never there.
He’s fifteen and he’s so, so, so afraid, because he’s never kissed a girl and he doesn’t know what to do, but there’s a clever mouth that tells him, and a sure hand that shows him. His father doesn’t know anything.
He’s seventeen and his head is spinning, because he’s feeling things he isn’t supposed to feel, but he confesses anyway. There are fierce kisses and lingering touches to reward him and show him that he’s not the only one who’s lost. For the first time he’s grateful that his father isn’t there.
He’s twenty-one and he misses everything, even the bad things, but especially the good ones. There’s nothing there, nothing physical, just the memories and a distant voice on the telephone. His father can go fuck himself.
He’s twenty-two and he’s just lost the girl he wanted to marry, but he’s sitting shotgun in the most beautiful car in the world next to the most beautiful man he’s ever known, and in a way it’s more perfect than it has been for a long, long while. There are looks, and touches, still, and kisses, and there’s lovemaking (sometimes languid and slow and sometimes more like fighting), and he feels complete. They’re searching for their father, but somehow he doesn’t matter anymore.
He’s hopelessly, helplessly, forever in love with his brother, green eyes, crooked smiles, leather jacket and stupid jokes, whiskey and gun oil and an old, black car. His father will never know.
A/N: This is my entry for the ‘Cheesy PickUp Line Challenge’ from the wonderful @impalaimagining. My prompts are: “Are those space pants? Because that ass is out of this world.”
“I know you must be tired because you’ve been running through my mind all day long.”
- I hope you will like it :)
Warnings: none, just fun, some swearing
- italics are flashbacks -
You looked into the night sky. It was dark around you, just you, the sky and the deep universe with billions of sparkling stars above you. You liked it to be alone … sometimes. The last case was hard. Sam, Dean and you were able to kill the beasts but it wasn’t easy.
Summary: Takes place in a world where Jughead really did move to Toledo and in the wake of his absence, Betty’s father has taken it upon himself to cheer her up by dragging her around town looking for parts to fix up cars together like old times. But when Betty becomes mesmerized by the old cars that her father shows her, she finds herself imagining what her life might have been like with Jughead if they were around when the cars were in their prime. With each car, and each fantasy, she starts to come to terms with why Jughead left - but will that be enough to mend her broken heart? Or will these make-believe scenarios just make her miss him even more?
Betty Cooper shoved her hands into her jacket pockets, glancing around the peculiar front yard and taking in the various piles of trash with skeptical eyes, sure that the owner referred to these rusted pots and broken telephones as priceless treasures instead of useless junk.
“Dad?” Betty whispered, stepping cautiously over a broken microwave and dodging a beat-up toolbox that rested precariously on the edge of the sidewalk. “Are you sure this is the right place?”
“Betty, I have been coming here for nearly ten years,” her father reminded her, leading them around the corner of the rundown shack to head into the backyard, which Betty soon realized looked far worse than the front. “Where do you think I go to get all those parts for the cars we fix up?”
“I don’t know, a junkyard?” Betty guessed, her eyebrows drawing together in concern at the dead trees that lined the edge of the property and the ancient pieces of equipment that looked like they shouldn’t have been allowed to run anymore. “This looks like the set of an 80′s slasher film meets every summer camp that you never wanted to go to when you were a kid.”
“Honestly, Betty, you have your mother’s colorful take on reality, and it’s more than I can take most days,” he told her, pushing a few cardboard boxes of gardening tools out of the way and continuing down the cluttered path to the very back of the yard.
“Great,” Betty muttered sarcastically under her breath. “Can we get this over with? I have a lot of studying to catch up on and an article to finish for the Blue and Gold. Where’s this guy you said we were meeting?”
“Richard’s around here somewhere,” he announced, glancing around the yard for his friend as if he was going to be able to find anyone amidst the vast amounts of clutter. “But I wanted to show you something first. Follow me.”
“Uh, Dad, is it okay for us to be back here?” Betty wondered, nearly knocking her elbow on the surface of an unsteady machine. “This equipment is older than I am.”
“Just don’t trip over anything,” her father warned, pointing past a large oak tree at the very corner of the yard near the creaky old fence that separated the property from a cemetery. “It’s right around this corner, come on.”
Hal and Betty stepped around the tree, dodging several overgrown thistle bushes and weeds to find a 1952 series 62 convertible resting lazily by the fence, its front bumper hanging by a thread and the passenger’s side door completely ripped off its hinges and resting uncomfortably against the fence.
“Here she is,” Hal announced, smiling dreamily at the car like it was the most beautiful thing he had ever laid eyes on. “What do you think?”
“I think she’s been through a lot,” Betty observed, slowly circling the car, her hands grazing the busted mirrors and chipped paint with uncertainty. “The hood is torn up, the interior is falling apart, I’m too afraid to look underneath the hood to inspect the engine. But…”
“But?” Hal prompted her to continue, raising his eyebrows at her expectantly and patting the side of the car hopefully.
“But,” Betty said, her lips curling into an amused smile as she ran her hand along door handle and leaned forward to inspect the red interior. “She’s beautiful and I think I’m in love.”
“I thought you might like it,” Hal beamed, scrambling forward to open the passenger’s side door and ushering for her to climb inside. “Go on, take a look.”
Betty did as she was instructed, sliding onto the leather seating and running her hands up and down the steering wheel, breathing in the scent of old leather and built-up dust particles.
“Cars like this have to have some good stories,” Betty muttered dreamily, turning to her father with bright eyes. “Imagine the people who have been in the driver’s seat, the places it could have traveled, the things it’s seen!”
“Should I give you two a minute while I go find Richard?” Hal asked with an amused smile, looking down at his daughter with a look of satisfaction.
“Don’t be weird, Dad,” Betty scoffed, adjusting her position on the bench and running her fingers along the buttons of the radio. “But yes, please.”
With that, her father shut the door to the convertible and headed back through the maze of never-ending junk to the house. Betty smiled to herself as she let her hands fiddle with the fraying lining on the seat cover, her eyes dancing wildly as they drifted to the pair of fuzzy dice sitting at the bottom of the car’s floor and imagining that they once hung proudly over the mirror as the car sped down the highway going nowhere and everywhere all at once.
“What’s your story?” Betty mumbled to herself, leaning back onto the seat and closing her eyes.
As if answering her own question, just as her eyes shut and everything went dark in front of her, her mind drifted to images of the past - poodle skirts and cat-eye glasses with thick-rimmed frames and doo-wop music that made her head bob back and forth and her foot tap to the beat.
“Alfred!” I yell. I need to find her.
He probably knows who I am now. But I don’t care, (Y/N) is more important.
Alfred comes in the room as I’m
changing into the Bat-Suit.
“Master Bruce,” Alfred announces his
presence. “The Joker took her, his whereabouts are unknown, however, he’s
supposedly going to make an appearance at his club tonight.” He says.
“Thank you Alfred.” I say back as I
push a button on the wall. The Batmobile’s engine roars to life and I hop in.
“I’ll find her Alfred.”
“Master Bruce, you’re going to have to
tell her eventually.” He speaks softly.
“I know.” Was all I said before I
floored it out of the BatCave.
‘You know the Bat is probably gonna
show up at the club tonight right?’ the voice in my head says.
‘He’s probably already on his way if
he’s not already there,’ another says.
I growl at the voices in my head that
won’t shut up. Yeah I know he’s probably going to be there. But that just makes
it all the more fun. I grin just thinking about the expression on Batsy’s face
when he sees his beloved innocent little girl with me in that tiny dress. Maybe I’ll get her drunk; I want her to be all
over me when Batsy shows up.
‘Oh I like that,’ one voice says.
‘Yeah, break his spirit; maybe let him
know that you deflowered his little princess,’ says another.
‘Get his hopes up that’s he’s gonna get
her back and rip his heart out when you disappear with her,’ says yet another.
I laugh at the conversation that just
unfolded in my head. (Y/N) just looks at me because of the sudden outburst.
I enjoy how innocent she is. I grab her
arm and escort her outside.
Joker takes you outside and that’s when
you see the most beautiful car ever. You gasp when you see the purple
Lamborghini sitting out front.
“This car is beautiful!” you squeal.
You run your fingers across the body as Joker opens your door for you.
“Thanks doll,” he says, shutting your
door after you get in.
He goes to the driver’s side and gets
in. He starts the car with a grin as the engine purrs.
He puts it in gear and speeds out of
the driveway, taking a sharp turn on the road to the club. He speeds through the streets, passing
people, cutting people off, and scaring a middle age man half to death when he
had to leap out of the road.
You’re clutching your seat terrified
while Joker laughs like a madman. You finally arrive at Joker’s club and he
helps you out. There’s a line down the block of people waiting to get in. Joker
takes hold of your wrist and pulls you throw the crowd of people by the front
entrance, you can feel everyone’s eyes staring at you with him.
Joker pushes through and leads you to a
booth up the stairs to the VIP lounge and sits down on the leather seats,
pulling you down onto his lap. You blush and try to move off of him but he
grips your hips tightly and prevents you from moving.
He orders two drinks and nibbles on
your shoulder as he waits. The waiter comes back and sets them down on the
table in front of the two of you. He picks one up and hands it to you.
“I-I’m not old enough.” You decline.
“I wasn’t asking,” he growls.
You cower a bit and accept the drink.
You’ve never had bourbon before, so you smell it first and it smells strong and
bitter. You shake your head and down it in one go. You cringe as the alcohol
burns all the way down.
Joker looks at you and grins. “What’s
the matter sweet-cheeks? Don’t like it?”
You shake your head as the bitter taste
finally begins to fade. “I prefer sweet to bitter,” you grumble quietly.
He orders you a “screaming orgasm” and
grins at you. You blush and look down,
already knowing what he’s thinking about.
A waiter comes back with your drink and
a tray of shot glasses full of what you think is tequila.
You take your drink and sip it. ‘I
think he’s trying to get me drunk,’ you think to yourself. You shrug and finish
off your drink as you begin to feel the effects of the alcohol coursing throw
you. You throw caution to the wind and grab two shots. You down them both and cough
as the harsh drink burns your throat. Your head is spinning and you want to
You begin to sway a bit, still on Jokers
lap. He places his hands on your hips to steady you and you smile. You grab
another shot still smiling as you drink it, the burn not as intense anymore.
You go to stand but Jokers grip tightens. “Where do ya think you’re goin
kitten?” he purrs softly in your ear.
“I wanna dance,” you smile as you try
to get up again, this time he lets you.
“Fine but you’ll dance for me.” He growls.
“Okay,” you smirk at him as a
particularly provocative song begins to play. You know this song; it’s one of
You gracefully sway your body to the
beat of the music; you play with the hem of your dress pulling it up a bit to
show off more of your legs. Joker grins and watches you.
You run your hands up your body and
through your hair as you sway your hips. You spin around so your back is facing
Mr. J, you shake your ass and drop down, you come back up slowly and slap
your ass in front of him. He chuckles softly and you spin around again, facing
him. You drop again with your legs open, your hands resting on his thighs. He growls
and you bite your lip, moving your hands up his legs, you straighten your legs
back into a standing position, still leaning over Joker. You straddle his lap
and grind against him.
You run your hands up his chest and
grab him by the collar of his shirt and pull him closer and crush your lips
against his while rocking your hips back and forth on him. He purrs against
your lips and slides his hands up your hips and squeezes tightly. You let out a
small moan and he slips his tongue into your mouth. You wrap your arms around
his neck and press you body against his.
You continue your make-out session
unknowing of your father’s presence. He’s lurking in the shadows of the club
watching the events unfold right in front of him. His beloved daughter was
dirty dancing, grinding on, and kissing the Joker. The one who took you from
him. Batman clenches his fists and emerges from the shadows and stalks towards
you and Joker.
“(Y/N)” he says in a low voice.
You snap your attention to the familiar
voice that called your name.
“D-dad?” you whisper. You stand up to
run to him but Joker wraps his arms around your waist tightly, preventing you
“Well what do we have here?” Joker
laughs. He pulls out a gun and points it at the bat. “Enjoy the show Dad?” he laughs again.
This is my (late) entry for @roxy-davenport‘s Halloween Challenge. I had #49 “You can’t possibly be my soulmate”. Sorry it’s late, but life. This was supposed to be scary, which I’m really bad at, so this is my attempt at something scary. Enjoy!
Pairing: Dean x reader
Summary: Reader gets kidnapped by an old enemy, this leads to Dean finding out some secrets about her past.
Warning: kidnapping, possible rape triggers (no actual rape, but it build up), implied smut?
Words: about 2125
was dark. The last thing you had seen was the duffel bag you were in the middle
of packing. It had been a rough hunt and you and the Winchester brothers were
looking forward to a few well-deserved days off at home in the bunker. You had
broken a couple of fingers on one hand, and felt the need to adjust to only one
fully functioning hand. And the idea of a few nights in your own bed hadn’t
seemed too bad either. Turns out someone, or something, had different plans for
Dean x Plus Size Reader (REQUEST and reblog from old site)
You clocked in, sighed, and pulled at
the hem of your uniform. It was two sizes too small, but management
insisted it was the largest one they could get. You knew that was
bullshit, your size couldn’t be that hard to find- clothing stores
all over the place carried it. But, instead of arguing and risking
your job, you poured yourself into the stupid button up black dress
every night and went and slung drinks behind the bar. Because lets
face it, you were the best, the fastest, and the most creative
bartender “Hoover's” had EVER had. You needed this job, and the
tips were fantastic. And because the ass hats you worked for wouldn’t
get you a uniform that fit properly, you made sure you made every
drink extra strong and wasted their liquor.
You took your place behind the bar, and
began your night as usual, pouring drinks, ringing up tabs,
suggesting improvised concoctions to the particularly daring and
inebriated, when a guy you’d never seen before slid onto a bar stool
in front of you. He looked right at home in this kind of dive, but
you were 100% sure you’d ever seen him before. You’d remember those
green eyes and tousled hair, and world weary expression that looked
like it belonged on a man much older than the one before you.
This is Rudy Rodríguez’s art deco inspired custom 1940 Mercury. Every custom touch, and job done to the car was to give it the appearance and look that it was designed in the late 1930’s. This is a beautiful ride, and is one of my most favorite cars ever customized. I have heard these types of customs referred to as Deco Sleds. Images courtesy of Rod & Custom Magazine.
This divine vision is a 1933 Rolls Royce Phantom II Continental Three Position Drophead Coupé by Gurney Nutting.
The Art Deco period,roughly 1925 to 1940 , in my opinion produced the most beautiful cars the world has ever seen. I appreciate the safety and mechanics are light years improved now but artistically I don’t think this period will ever be bettered.
It was shiny. It was black and sleek and powerful. It was also old and kind of ugly, but it was the most beautiful car he’d ever seen. It was a 1967 hardtop four-door Chevrolet Impala that his father had bought him for his sixteenth birthday. His mother had pitched a fit because it didn’t have two-point seatbelts or air bags, but his father had argued that an old American car was a tank and would rip through the newest Japanese 1991 models. Besides, he’d only be able to drive it to school and maybe to run an errand or two for his parents. His mother still wasn’t happy, but she didn’t take the keys away from him.
After a few weeks, he realized why his mother hadn’t taken the keys away: she basically wouldn’t let him drive it anywhere. It got to the point that he would drive Sam and his friends around the neighborhood just so that he could drive it at all.
It was kind of fun having Sam and three friends in the back and taking that hairpin curve at the back of the neighborhood where the houses were still wooden frames, watching them crush against each other like a carnival ride. Except when Castiel was in the car. He drove a little safer then. He even let him ride up front sometimes, which was something he rarely allowed Sam to do.
One afternoon after Dean dropped Sam and his friends off in front of the house so they could go do whatever it was seventh graders did, Castiel hesitated before shutting the passenger side door. Dean raised an eyebrow at him.
“Do you not want to go with them? Are they giving you shit for being a year younger?”
Castiel shook his head. “No. I just wanted to ask you if you’d be willing to drive me somewhere sometime.”
“Uh…yeah. Sure. Just give it a little while. My mom is still freaked out about me driving this car. She barely let’s me out of the cul-de-sac.”
Castiel smiled. “She just loves you.”
“Yeah, well. I’ve gotta put Baby up, so you better catch up with Sam.”
The name on his release papers says John Doe, but he knows
that isn’t a real name. His boss at the butcher’s shop calls him Jack, although
whether that’s a careless error of memory or a real nickname he doesn’t know.
Still. It’s the closest thing he has to a name of his own, so he grabs it with
both hands as if he’s afraid that someone will notice what he’s got and take it
away. Maybe he is. He feels like he’s living under the shade of a guillotine,
waiting for the blade to drop.