my hand writing's not the best

Danger In Fiction: The Parasite

‘He stumbled down the path he newly laid, loose papers falling from his messy ink-stained notebook. The Author’s heart was nearly beating out of his chest; frantically writing a way out of the woods and trying to hold back the searing pain of the bullet in his back was proving more difficult than he expected. But he still kept going, scribbling page after page after page to keep his path clear. He’d be out of the woods soon enough. He just need to keep going…

He stopped?…

After a moment he… threw his notebook to the ground. He started to look around the woods, spinning on the spot, his eyes wide and scanning every detail around him.

He spoke suddenly.

“Who are you?! How are you doing this?! Stop it!”

His voice hurt after his screaming beforehand. The pain in his back increased suddenly and he flinched, clutching his back and hissing in agony.

“STOP IT!”

He screamed. The pain subsided-

“STOP NARRATING ME!!”

“Nobody controls me!! Nobody!! I can write things into being!! I am the one in control!!”

Ha ha.

How foolish the Author has become. How little he understands his own power. And how little he knows about how much danger he is currently in if he doesn’t keep moving-

“I don’t care!! Stop narrating me!!… I can write my own way out of this! I don’t need anyone’s help!”

The Author stared at his notebook, for an embarrassingly long time-

“SHUT UP!… Ok, ok.”

He writes…

“The Author… looks up from his notebook to see the path continuing through the woods. The path weaved around trees… as not to give anything following him the chance to catch up with him!”

This was a foolish thing to write-

“Shut up!… he started to follow the path, safe in the knowledge that he would soon he out of the monster infested woods and back to civilisation!”

… The Author followed the path, unaware of what a stupid mistake he’d made.

“What do you mean?”

In the distance behind him was a hungry roar. The ground began to rumble as one of these ‘monsters’ caught his scent and would now proceed to chase him down on this new, completely obvious path.

“What?! No!-”

He started to run. He ran much faster than before, as if the bullet in his back had completely vanished… but the monster was catching up to him. He started to weave around the trees the path had placed, but the monster merely thundered on, ploughing through the trees, and the weaving only slowed the poor Author down. The monster leaped at him- the Author suddenly stopped running- he headed back, trying to run past the monster in the other direction, thinking he could fool the creature…

The Author lay face first into the ground, his notebook torn and pages scattered around him. The monster had gone, thank goodness, but the Author… The monster’s hand had caught him on the way past, dragging its huge razor sharp claws across his face… shredding the skin around his eyes, and nearly his eyes themselves, to a gruesome and unfortunate result. He had his face in his hands, blood dripping through the gaps in his fingers…

He didn’t have to create the monsters. He could have left them out, made a simple path out of the woods. Not mentioned them at all. But he was greedy with his power, and this is what happens when you get greedy.

“…I couldn’t help it… I write horror for a living… I… I couldn’t help it.”

I step out from the darkness, revealing myself to him finally. I had searched for a raucous cry of betrayal that woke me, and I found him, lying in his own blood, growling his every breath in pain. I pitied him. He was betrayed. All he wanted was cooperation. All he wanted was his ‘characters’ to respect him. But he couldn’t control everything. And only now has he finally realised that…

He sat up and lowered his hand from his face. His eyes were a mess. His left eye was ruined; it was difficult to tell which bloody cut was the lip of his eyelid. His right eye… although he could open it, it stung to feel the air rest on his eyeball-

“STOP IT!! I KNOW HOW IT FEELS!! STOP IT STOP IT!!…”

He lay his hands on the ground suddenly. He started to grab at the air, fumble through the ground… He paused…

“I can’t see.”

It was hard to tell through the trickles of blood, but by his shuddering breath, it was clear he was crying.

“I can’t see…”

“I’m blind… I’m finished. I can’t write anymore. I’ve lost everything that means anything to me!!”

He continued to sob heavily.

Now more than ever before did I pity him. Such a wonderful talent should never go to waste. All he wanted was to express his abilities…

I could help him. You see… I have powers too. Like him, I can control what happens, not by writing, but by speaking. He saw for himself. I was the one who helped him get on his feet when he was shot down, I was the one who walked him out of the cabin, I was the one who got him so far… until he took control and screwed himself over- but anyway, I could help him… if he helped me.

I have this power because I am not human, as he guessed. My kind are born with this power… Our name is unpronounceable and our species is unknown. But I guess the best way to describe our kind is… a parasite. Sounds off-putting, I know, but it is true. A parasite meaning, an organism that can only live by the means of another creature…

A host.

The Author’s head raised from his hands. I peaked his interest.

I can give you back your power to bring whatever you want into being. Although you can’t write anymore, you could still narrate! You would become omnipresent, you would know everything that will happen, even without seeing it! You could proudly state what would happen in the next minute, 5 minutes, 5 days, weeks, even 5 years and know you will be correct, for whatever you say will happen will happen! You can get everything back… just let me in.

“Ok.”

Thank you, Author.

“....”

“The Host took a deep breath in… and out. He stood up, tall and proud, taking in another few breaths… it felt good to feel cold crisp air filling his lungs. He took a long look around him. Through these new eyes… he saw everything. Everything that was going to happen. Everything that will happen. The Host smiled, knowing he would find a new place to start over, new… friends to meet, new places to go, new goals to accomplish.

He turned and walked down the path leading directly out of the woods, leaving the scattered pages of his notebook behind.

And the Host was happy.”’

Everything is falling apart.

My world is crumbling,
My hands shake.
The ground feels as though
it’ll collapse at any time
and it’ll take me with it.
Down, deep, under.
Beneath all these things I cannot
seem to get on top of.

I no longer believe I can
conquer these demons.

—  “It’s been so long since I’ve let this
anxiety get the best of me”
remnant-thoughts

@musings-on-bucky-barnes left a comment on the latest chapter of Hands of Clay re how Steve must have felt during the “Mom hugs are the best hugs” debacle, so I wrote the (fluffy, fluffy) aftermath.


Set the night of the last chapter of Hands of Clay

Abraham sat back, glancing at his watch. “Steven, when do you want to drive home?”

Steve rubbed his hand over his mouth. “What time… Hell, it’s almost ten.”

“That’s why we got the kids into their PJs before letting them watch that movie.” James pushed his coffee cup away. “You two need any help getting Clint out to the car?”

“Nah.” Steve blinked a few times. “I think I’m getting old, even I’m ready for bed.”

Keep reading

anonymous asked:

will you ever write a multiple chapter fic of killugon ever again? like somethin similar to words that water flowers

I want to!!!! I want to do another multichap fic really, really, really badly!!!! I’m trying to come up with something right now actually….it’ll probably have something to do with my gang/maffia au, Graffiti

……..on the other hand, I am starting an internship halfway through June so I’m not sure how much time I’ll have to write after that :( so a multichapter fic might not come out for a while. But I’m trying my best to come up with ideas now and hopefully I’ll be able to write something in the future, even if it does update slowly!

The Office | h.s.

I had the best time writing this, I want everyone to know that. I might do a part 2 if people like this enough, lol! anyways, requests are open


“Are you kidding me, Y/N, it is a great idea!” Harry exclaimed his hand leaning against the front desk. When Harry, one of the younger sales associates in the office had come up with the idea of pranking his, what should the adjective be, eccentric, sales partner you were against it.

“No, Jeff will go crazy and I’m not in the mood to hear him scream.” You whispered, as if what the boy across from you was planning some sort of attack. “Thas’ exactly why we should do it. He always needs his stapler and if it is in jello, well, oh no looks like someone can’t get to it…” The man shrugged, letting a smirk fall over his boyish features. You couldn’t help but smile, turning your head down to look at the keyboard, swiveling in your chair. “It’s really stupid…” Your words came out in a mumble but Harry only straightened his stance, knowing you were becoming more and more accustomed to the idea of pranking Jeff.

“So, does “It’s stupid” mean yes?”

“I said really stupid, but, yeah, I guess so.” Looking up, your eyes met his, the man not able to contain his excitement as he practically jumped up, fist pumping the air in delight. “I’ve got the ingredients, I’ll be right back.” With those few words and a sly wink, Harry was rushing off to the office kitchen.

Keep reading

The Fic Writer’s Beatitudes

Blessed are the readers, for theirs is the archive.

Blessed are the betas: for they help us write the stories we see in our hearts.
Blessed are they that kudo, for they reassure us that someone likes what we’ve done.
Blessed are the rebloggers and reccers, for they help the readers find our work.
Blessed are they which leave comments on a WIP that say something other than “write more please”: for they comfort us when we feel taken for granted.
Blessed are the commenters; for their words bring us joy.
Blessed are the loyal fans, for they keep the fandom alive.
Blessed are the fan artists, for they bring our worlds to life before our eyes.
Blessed are they which read an entire long fic and comment each chapter, for the string of comment notifications fills the writer’s heart with delight.
Blessed are ye, who rec our fics in public and tag us, for seeing that we made somebody squee is the light in our days.
Rejoice, and be exceeding glad; for great is your reward in fandom.

I grew up believing (not through my own fault) that love was only about grand romantic gestures, dozens of red roses, wearing your best clothes and going on dates in fancy restaurants and having romantic walks on the beach.
But now love is holding his hand, hearing his heartbeat and kissing his forehead. It’s feeling his body next to mine and his breathing against my own as he peacefully sleeps his way into the night. It’s wearing my worst clothes but still being called beautiful. It’s feeling the worst but still being treated like a queen. It’s laughing into his kisses because he did that thing again where he tries to interrupt me speaking. It’s sharing thoughts and emotions that for so long I thought I could never even feel or think. It’s finding the part I’ve been missing for twenty years.
Now, love is him. Love is me. Love is the both of us.
For me anyway.

i want so many pictures taken of me. i want pictures of me writing in journals. i want pictures of me reading. i want pics of me watching the sky and i want pictures of me being excited. i want pictures of me jumping up and down after hearing the best news ever and i want pictures of me having to fix my glasses. i want pictures of me with my hair being blown everywhere because of the wind and i want pictures of me so blurry that im not even sure what im doing in them. i want photos of me sitting on my bed with my phone in one hand and a cigarette in the other whilst laughing the hardest i’ve ever laughed. i want pictures of me looking out windows and pictures of me sitting on the floor with paint all over my hands in nothing but a long flannel. i want pictures of me running in all types of directions in fields. i want pictures of my facial expression the second someone calls my name. i want pictures of me dancing and jamming to music and i want photos of me when im in deep thought. i want pictures of me when im a mess and sobbing on the floor. i jus want so many pics of me doing things bc i wanna know what kind of person everyone else sees. i want to capture every raw moment.

Until Death Do Us Part

anonymous asked:

the problem with matpat, in my opinion is well how do i even explain it. Frankly the best way to pinpoint my problem with MatPat is a FNAF theory for the latest game in the series, Sister Location. You know, the game series that ABSOLUTELY MADE HIS DAMN CHANNEL and he spends 5 minutes before tackling the theory at hand criticizing Scott Cawthon on his writing and that he, MatPat, knows better what's canon than Scott Cawthon. He's so overly smug and arrogant.

You guys want to know my problems with MatPat?

This anon pretty much just underlined one of my most major points.

Here’s something so many people don’t seem to get about the field both I and MatPat are in:

Channels like ours, despite how much original material we try to make and inject into our videos, survive completely on the content other people make. We are ‘derivative content channels’–we only get to make videos because other people made something we can discuss, and analyze, and rotate all around to show our audiences all the cool pieces involved in a thing that someone else made.

When it comes to mainstream media products like theatrical films, major console video games, etc., it’s more than okay to complain and talk about their faults and failings; these are professional-grade products that are supposed to be of the highest quality and pedigree, made by veterans and educated professionals in their fields with plenty of money and resources to do the job write and make sure consumers feel good.

When it comes to independent material, like I mostly cover, you’re dealing with someone who was brave enough to try something without all the pedigree, resources, power, and experience of the mainstream field. And often, the independent material is made by someone who did everything themselves.

If you’re making your bread and butter on YouTube covering mainstream stuff, you’re part of a very large group in a very large field of media that extends well beyond YouTube.

If you’re covering indie material and lone creators who are making things with cameras they bought at a local store and computers in their basements after long days of work in their home town, then you’re working with underdogs, and being a parasite to those underdogs instead of a mutualistic symbiote is totally intolerable to me. You don’t go and tear down people who have nothing and are just trying to make their way up, and if you’re gaining something from them, you’d better be giving something in return.

Scott Cawthon’s Five Nights at Freddy’s series has been MatPat’s biggest goldmine, and I’ve seen MatPat turn from being a mutualistic symbiote to hateful parasite while still fully aware that Scott Cawthon is an indie creator whose work made Game Theory thousands and thousands of dollars.

I know YouTube figures, and I can tell you that MatPat’s FNAF videos have certainly made him at least $1,000 each, with earlier entries making at least $3,000 by the time they made 3 million views. It’s not possible that they haven’t.

Has Scott himself become wealthy from his creation? Hell yeah! Does that change the fact that he’s an indie creator who got extremely lucky and does everything himself, and all of his work is the reason MatPat’s been making a disgusting amount of YouTube bucks? 

NO.

If you want to see the phrase “Biting the hand that feeds you” in action, look no further than Game Theory. MatPat’s very direction for Five Nights coverage has gone from biting the hand that fed him to actually eating it for the sole purpose of hurting Scott Cawthon while still making money off his work.

I have watched MatPat attack Scott Cawthon, insult Scott Cawthon, tell the man he can’t write his own games correctly, insist that he’s broken his own story because MatPat can’t make sense of something, and generally be a hateful, disrespectful, ungrateful narcissist.

I HAVE SEEN MATPAT MAKE A THEORY VIDEO MONTHS IN ADVANCE OF A GAME BEING RELEASED. Do you think that’s because he GENUINELY figured out a game he hadn’t even seen, or because he knew he’d make LOTS OF MONEY doing it?

And yet MatPat still has the audacity to attack, insult, demean, and devalue a man whose work has personally made him thousands of dollars and many millions of views and subscribers. Not just a man, either, but an indie creator who has done everything himself and devoted so many sleepless nights to making Five Nights at Freddy’s games, doing his best to improve each new installment so it makes us more impressed than before.

Scott Cawthon got lucky, yes, but he’s still the man who was about to quit his dream of being a professional video game developer if ‘Five Nights at Freddy’s,’ a Hail Mary attempt, did not work. He still has run this ship alone and done everything in his power to keep it pure and stay a Scott Cawthon original despite all the success and fame he’s achieved.

Is the man above criticism because of who he is, what he’s been, and what he’s achieved? No, of course not. But should criticism of him and his work be delivered respectfully, in a way that isn’t smug and cruel?

Yes, especially when it’s criticism levied by someone who made thousands of dollars off Scott Cawthon’s work and continues to do so. Instead, MatPat chose to effectively spit in Scott’s face with his platform while reaching into his wallet.

And that’s just one major reason I lost immense respect for him.

Night AUs

- You talk in your sleep and you pretty much just described to me, in extremely graphic detail, how you would kill someone and now I’m too scared to fall asleep

- (On the flip side) you made a lot of sexual noises while you slept, what (or who) were you dreaming about??

- Okay I get that ocean noises help people go to sleep but you’ve literally been playing whale mating calls at full volume for the past hour and if you don’t stop soon I’m gonna come over and smack you

- We both planned to stay up all night but you ended up falling asleep and you just woke up to me standing next to you with a bowl of warm water in my hands-I can explain

- We were both going to pull an all nighter to study for an exam tomorrow but now it’s 6 am and we just finished an entire tv series and I can’t believe you let this happen

- it’s 4 am and we’re both running solely on Red Bull and coffee at this point and we just had the most in depth discussion about eggs I swear to god

James loves Lily best at 6 am on a Tuesday, when she burrows under the covers and murmurs something to herself before slipping back into a deeper sleep. He hates getting out of bed and leaving her. He presses a kiss to her forehead before he goes.

James loves Lily best at noon on a Saturday, when they carry their sandwiches outside and eat them in the grass and the sunlight is tangling through her hair and turning it golden. He can’t help but reach out to tuck a silky strand behind her ear. 

James loves Lily best at 8 pm on a Monday, when she’s curled up barefooted on the couch with a book tucked in her lap and she’s pulling her lower lip between her teeth in concentration. He’s polishing his broomstick but he’s also watching her, transfixed.

James loves Lily best at 9 am on a Sunday, when her hands are clutched around her favorite mug and the steam curls up around her face as she smiles at him or at something he’s said. He smiles back because it seems like all he can do when she’s around.

James loves Lily best at 5 pm on a Wednesday, when she’s padding around the kitchen for a little of this and a little of that to add to the pot. He slips up behind her and pulls her close, dropping his nose into the crown of her head until he’s filled with the smell of her.

James loves Lily best at midnight on a Friday, when they’re out late with friends and her laughter rings out like bells and makes her green eyes dance. The rest of the world has become a little bit hazy, but he sees her so clearly she might as well be the only other person in the room.

James loves Lily best at 3 pm on a Thursday, when she pulls him up by the hand and drags him outside because it’s too nice of a day to spend it indoors. He slips his fingers between hers and their linked hands swing gently between them. He can’t remember when he was happier.

James loves Lily best.

don’t you see?
i don’t just want you
i want us

i want the sleepy good morning kisses, before you leave for work
and i’m not even awake enough to kiss back
but i can still feel you there before you’re gone
i want the insecurity, yours and mine
when the anxiety doesn’t let us believe the kind and truthful words we say
but we still say them anyway
i want the waiting, waiting for you to come home
waiting to get off of work so i can text you about my day
waiting for your phone call so i can hear your voice
waiting for you
i want the arguments, knowing everything is going to be okay in the end
because we loved each other more than anything
because we’d never let a little fight come between us
i want the long days
and the even longer nights
i want to make out in the back of your car like horny teenagers
and i want weekly dinner dates like an old married couple
and i want to be in bed by eight pm like old people in love
i want you to tell me when i’m being a bitch
i want to be able to tell you when you’re being a bitch
i want honestly
i want serious talks about our future
and the things we’re afraid of
and the things we’ve never talked about before
i want a best friend
someone i can confide in
someone who builds me up
someone who stays by my side while i put myself back together
i want to be your best friend
someone to cheer you on
someone to support you
someone to hold your hand while you walk through the storm so you won’t be alone
i want it all
the good
the bad
the ugly
the moments we’d rather forget
and the moments we’ll never, ever forget
i want memories that will last us a lifetime
i want a love that could rival the big screen
one that nicholas sparks could only dream about writing
i want everyday to feel like a dream come true
i want
you
all of you
i want the parts of you that you don’t even want
and i want you to want me
all of me
i want to be fearlessly
and forever
in love with you
—  now what do you want?
(cc, 2017)
Gift AU Idea

The thing about the Gift, is that you never quite know what you are going to get, and what it’s going to cost. 

It sometimes cost a lot, and early - for such little payback that it hardly seemed worth it. It sometimes cost nothing anyone could ever know - and changed a whole life. Sometimes it was a gift at birth, and sometimes a curse before death, but it always happened. 

When Jack Zimmerman was born, his parents were beyond thrilled. He was a weird looking baby, but my god, they loved him more than they ever thought would be possible. That first night, at midnight, a light filled up the dark room and formed a fae shape, indistinct but instantly recognisable. 

“I will take his first last breath.” The solid light said, before fading completely. Bob, who had his ability to grow a beard taken as payment for his ability to always land a solid punch, and Alicia (who lost all her memories before she was 4 so that her smile could light up a room) looked at each other and blinked. 

Because what the hell did that mean? 

-

When the light filled the hospital room where one Eric Richard Bittle lay sleeping, both his parents were wide awake and trembling. Susan lost her ability to read at 19, and Coach lost his own name three weeks after his 4th birthday, and both knew the sting of a ‘gift’ that never really lived up to the price they paid. Neither of them wanted their darling baby to suffer - to lose anything. They wanted to give him the world. Coach glared at the light while Susan hid her face in her hands. 

“That’s my son and I swear to all that is good in this world if you hurt him, if you hurt my boy-” his voice broke at the end. He’d paid a high price for his gift, lost his name and gained only the ability to write with both hands. Susan had it worse - she remembered words, her love of books, the simple skill of reading labels or instructions - gone now… all for the knowledge of when it was best to pick the ripest fruit. 

And god, he feared for his boy. 

“I will take his joyous childhood.”

And Coach found out that it was impossible to punch a living light.

-

Sometimes you met people who had the same gift, or paid the same price. Shitty lost his name, just like Coach, and Bitty was pretty sure thats why he trusted the mustachioed man so much. His gift was never feeling cold. Ransom lost his birthmark and Holster lost his first love - and gained each other, a soul bond so strong that sometimes it was difficult for them to tell who was feeling what. Lardo swapped her appendix for the ability to see in the dark, Nursey lost his spatial awareness for his love of words and Dex lost his calm. Dex wasn’t quite sure what he got, which wasn’t all that uncommon because really… in a world where your sense of smell can be traded for the ability to flip a pancake… sometimes it just wasn’t easy to work out what your gift was. 

Chowder lost his baby teeth for his joy of life, Johnson his ability to tell the time for some weird alternative universe only he could see. 

Jack lost his first last breath on the bathroom floor of a nondescript hotel room for a second chance - Bitty lost his carefree childhood with every taunt and shove as he grew up. 

Bitty figured that the price was okay. He could make the best pies anyone had ever tasted. 

Sometimes Jack wondered if it was worth it. 

And of course, sometimes… you got it wrong. 

-

Bitty always knew his childhood was going to suck. His mamma and Coach did their level best to make sure that home was safe and secure, but it didn’t stop the nightmares at night, the fear of monsters under the bed or the sheer god-awful time at school. The only time he was ever at ease was in the kitchen, where his mamma taught him to bake using her own way of things, never needing to measure, never relying on a recipe she couldn’t read. So, Bitty, and his parents, always just assumed that he was going through hell as a kid, so he could bake. 

Coach hated it. Coach hated a lot of things, but seeing his son scared and frightened one too many times had taken its toll on the man. They moved three weeks after the supply closet incident. 

All for the sake of some stupid pies, his son suffered. 

He never did eat a single one. 

-

It wasn’t until Bitty got to Samwell that his actual gift turned up…

Hello - Newt x Reader

Prompt: A little drabble! Soulmate AU where everyone is born with the first words their soulmate says to them tattooed on their wrist. Reader is completely fed up with her quest to find her soulmate, as the only hint she has is the incredibly vague black letters that have always been stamped across her wrist.

Warnings: Swearing, bullying, use of alcohol, harassment and unwanted advances

God, you hated your soulmate tattoo.

What sort of a soulmate tattoo was “hello”? You had detested it your entire life. What vague-ass higher power had decided when they gave you your tattoo to stop at “hello”? How would you know for sure when you met your soulmate? Couldn’t they have elaborated a little bit? Just a few more words? A proper sentence that you could actually recognize your soulmate with? But no, you were stuck with the most common greeting in the English language tattooed permanently into your skin. Hello. What absolute bullshit.

Every time someone greeted you with that simple phrase, your eyes would narrow, you would square your shoulders, and you would spit back the most distinct and unmistakable response you possibly could. You were not going to be the soulmate couple that had “hello” on both of your wrists. Your lucky, lucky soulmate probably had something ridiculous, like “Whatever you say,” or “Did you know that a hippopotamus’s sweat is red?” because you absolutely had to stand out, and you made sure that your replies to “hello” always did. There was no other way to be sure that anyone and everyone who said “hello” to you wasn’t your soulmate.

What a useless tattoo.

All throughout your school years at Ilvermorny, you were completely embarrassed to show people your tattoo. Unfortunately, when your classmates found out, they had great fun sending people you had never spoken to before up to say “hello” to you.

Your reaction was always hilarious, so they kept doing it. Your responses ranged from “Go fuck yourself,” to “Nice try guys, but I’ve already spoken with her before,” to straight up punching one student right in the jaw when he got a little too friendly with his hands as he delivered his “hello”.

You started to feel a little bad for your actual soulmate as your replies increased in hostility. They probably had a particularly colorful quote of yours. “Go to hell,” perhaps, or maybe “Who the fuck put you up to it this time?”

When you graduated, your defensive nature had thankfully melted a little. You had switched to solely offering people fun animal facts whenever they said “hello” to you, and it was far less stressful. “Seahorse mates hold each other’s tails so they don’t lose each other,” was a favorite of yours, as was “Cows have best friends.”

One evening, you were at a bar with your roommates Queenie and Tina, and you were in no mood for advances from anyone. You had decided to date, as many people with soulmates do, just to pass time while you waited for your soulmate to arrive, but your recent significant other had found their soulmate and left you in the dust. It was incredibly depressing, and you just really wanted a drink.

A man waltzed up to you, sliding into the chair beside you and offering a hand to shake. “Hello,” he said with a grin. You looked over at him, as annoyed as you were drunk, and reached out to flip his arm over and look at his wrist.

“Alright, let’s get this over with I’m not in the mood to think of a fun fact,” you grumbled, pulling back his sleeve to look at his wrist.

It wasn’t really with disappointment that you read the words “I’m so sorry I ran over your dog,” in black ink on his wrist, and you patted his hand drunkenly.

“Good luck with that one, buddy,” you slurred, getting to your feet and heading toward the door. He blinked after you, bewildered, and then returned to his drink.

Such was a usual encounter for you, and by the time Tina dragged a certain magizooligist into your home, you were sick and tired of your goddamn animal facts.

“Queenie, (y/n)!” Tina called out to you. You peeked your head around the corner where you were helping Queenie mend dresses, and you saw with a pang of confusion that Tina had brought two men along with her.

Queenie voiced your amazement, grinning and chirping “Teenie! You brought men home!”

You approached your friend, not bothering with the fact that you were clad in only a slip, and you blinked at her in disbelief. “Who are they?”

“This is a no-maj, and this is Mr. Scamander. He’s responsible for his injuries,” Tina said wearily, pointing her finger at the sweaty, overwhelmed man who offered you a disoriented half-smile before fixing his gaze back on Queenie, who giggled.

Mr. Scamander gave you a little wave. “Hello,” he said.

You let out a slow puff of air, your frustration resurfacing as your hand shot forward to grab his wrist. “Merlin’s Beard, just show me the goddamn tattoo,” you grumbled without thinking. You were in total shock when you slipped his sleeve back and found yourself face-to-face with your own words.

You looked up at him with wide eyes, and he looked just as startled. A hush fell over the room, and you felt your face grow hot. “Sorry about that,” you mumbled apologetically, unable to drop your gaze from his.

“That’s quite alright,” he said softly, his lips twitching upward in a small smile. “It’s quite the conversation piece,” he teased, and you found yourself chuckling.

“You had better be worth all the trouble my ridiculous tattoo has caused,” you teased back. The other three people in the room were watching the two of you, completely taken aback.

“I think for the most part people usually find me to be more trouble than I am worth,” he confessed, his eyes sparkling.

You dropped his hand at last, your face red and your heart pounding with embarrassment. “We’ll see about that,”

This is such a silly idea but I had to write it down so here u go

def not my best work but I hope u enjoy!! I literally didn’t even proofread this so it’s probs full of errors and bad transitions but pls enjoy this dumb little drabble!! (two fics in two days, who am I and what have I done with puk)

I let you see me when I was shaking hands and tears. I couldn’t speak I couldn’t breathe. You saw me when I was drunk and laughing, stumbling over my two feet searching for you in the crowd. My 2 a.m. Sleepy voice. Your sloppy kisses. Hearing you whisper how soft my skin was and you couldn’t stop touching me. I trusted you with the worst and best parts of me. And then you left.
The End of the World

12x10 coda

Long after the beer in their bottles had warmed, long after Sam had excused himself to ‘do some research,’ Dean and Castiel sat at the table in silence. Dean shot furtive glances at Castiel, who had taken to rubbing his thumb around the opening of his bottle.

The silence was deafening.

“It wouldn’t be the end of the world, you know,” Cas said abruptly.
Dean blinked. After today, Cas could be referring to just about anything.

“My death,” Cas continued, thumb moving in slow, methodical circles around the top, “It wouldn’t be the end of the world.”

“Cas…” Dean’s voice was rough, thick with worry. He’d heard enough of what the angel, and Lily, for that matter, had said to him. Not to mention nobody could hold a self-grudge quite as well as the angel.

“You saw how today went,” Castiel continued evenly, “You almost died. Again. Because of me.”

“Pretty sure you weren’t the one coming at me with an angel blade,” Dean replied, weakly trying (and failing) to interject a tone of humor.

Cas scoffed. “It doesn’t change the fact it was my mistake that dragged you into the mess to begin with. It was my mistake Lily Sunders was dragged into it too and…” he paused, thumb on the edge of the rim, balancing over a precipice it seemed. Cas sighed, his hand fell away from the bottle. “Perhaps it wouldn’t be the worst thing for you if I was gone.”

The floor seemed to fall away and Dean had to stifle a gasp. He’d spent most of his time nursing a not-so-subtle anger at Cas and when Cas had returned it, Dean had taken that as a sign that Cas was fine. And yeah, Cas offering to let Lily take him down would have been worrisome, but Cas was smart, he was kind, he was just saying what she needed to hear…wasn’t he?

Castiel proffered a small smile, looking up at Dean at last. “At least you wouldn’t have to worry about my stupid ideas anymore, right?"  

It’s said with some humor, like Cas expects Dean to agree and smile right alongside him. Dean just felt sick to his stomach. Taking a shaky breath, Dean stood. Made his way to Cas. Knelt at the angel’s feet, anchoring himself by putting both hands on Cas’ knees as he looked into the angel–his angel’s eyes.

"I would never recover.”

Cas blinked. “What?”

“If you die, man. I…I wouldn’t recover.”

Castiel sat frozen in place, his hand still next to the empty beer bottle.

“It might not be the end of the world, but it would be the end of my world. Cas, I had to face that today, with the banishing symbol and you have no idea–” Dean was breathless now, trying to say the things he could rarely bring himself to even admit, “I know the angels say we treat you bad. And I–I do and I’m sorry, man, but I can’t lose you. Not again.”

Hanging his head, Dean tried to say the other things, the other, far more secret words. The sort of words that the angels would likely claim corrupted Castiel beyond repair. So he wouldn’t say them. He couldn’t. A silent I love you was all he could give Cas.

But as he struggled, a strange thing happened. The faintest of touches on his hands. Dean looked down, really looked, to see Castiel’s hands hovering over his own. They locked eyes. Castiel let his hands drop firmly atop Dean’s.

“You’re worth falling for, you know.”

I love you too.

i crashed
and burned
and hit the ground
and just when i thought i would never get back up
i was lucky enough
to see your hand extended towards me

you did so much more
than help me rise again
you believed me in
when i didn’t believe in myself
and when i thought i deserved isolation
you stayed by my side

like the wise old elephant
i’ll never forget all that you’ve done for me
thank you
—  how a mouse and an elephant became best friends
(cc, 2017)

anonymous asked:

dark rc would you please consider writing about how victor (and the rest of the Russian skate team) had a feud with the Russian hockey team bc of their constant flirting and attentions towards yuuri (who was completely oblivious at the war waging for his heart)??

This has been sitting in my inbox for over a month and I apologize for that, nonny! I wanted to try my hand at breaking through this writer’s block and this prompt was ripe for the taking. It’s not my best work by any stretch, but it’s something at least! I hope you enjoy.

+

There are few things that give Yuri pleasure—the taste of accomplishment like cinnamon sugar on the back of his tongue after landing a quad; having a comeback so cutting that he practically draws blood; that soft murrf a cat makes when it decides it trusts him; the little green screenshot arrow appearing next to Otabek’s name in Snapchat—but they all pale in comparison to whenever the Russian hockey team visits the rink.

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Ball Chain & Satin

Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: “Can you write a one shot where Bucky and Reader are getting married, but Bucky is scared. Angst or fluff, it’s up to you. Thanks!” Requested by Anonymous.

Word Count:1,391

Warnings: Language (probably)

A/N: I’m working on my requests, yay me! Oh boii, the fluff is strong :) Hope you’ll like it!

Originally posted by heartsandwheels

You were in front of the mirror, admiring your sleeveless satin wedding gown when someone knocked on the door.

“Who is it?”

“It’s me.”

Grabbing a fistful of satin, you gathered up the skirt of your gown and moved closer to the door. You pressed your ear against the wood and heard him shuffling around on the other side of the door.

“Buck, what are you doing here? We’re not supposed to see each other before the ceremony.”

“I wanted to see you.”

“You’ll see me in an hour. Now, hush!”

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