no such thing as half way crooks

Warning: graphic pictures

These are incredibly difficult to look at, but I feel like it’s important to post given the discourse here over the last few weeks about proper care for goldfish.

I’m a mod on a goldfish forum, and yesterday these pictures were posted in our illness section by the owner who was concerned about the fish’s inability to swim. He explained that the fish was 10 years old and living in a 20 liter (about 5 gallon) tank. The fish was laying on its side, had a milky film on its face, and was refusing to eat.

It had been in this state, barely moving, not eating, for a week and a half.

The pictures posted were of one of the most stunted, sickly fish I’ve ever seen. I had to go put my laptop away and close my eyes for a while after seeing them the first time and even now they turn my stomach. I can’t imagine the amount of pain this poor thing has gone through.

Emaciated, crooked spine, bulging eyes, pale color, deformed mouth, shortened head, uneven scales, and horrifically small for its age.

And this guy had no idea that there was anything wrong. He waited a week and a half before seeking help for an animal in this condition. He seemed to honestly care about his fish, based on the way he spoke, but he still allowed it to get to this point because he thought this is just how people treat goldfish.

Unfortunately it’s all too common to keep fish in these conditions both due to lack of information and societal acceptance of their neglect. Could you imagine what it would have been like if it were a dog or a cat in this condition?

5 gallons isn’t even the worst size really, most fish bowls are more like 1 gallon, and goldfish are often kept in those for years at a time. Just because not every fish in a bowl stunts this dramatically doesn’t mean that they don’t have the potential to suffer just as badly.

We recommended euthanasia with clove oil. We had to. It would be unspeakably cruel to even try to treat this fish and prolong its suffering. Thankfully the owner agreed to put it to sleep. I can only hope he’ll go through with it as soon as possible.

For comparison, here was one of my boys at 10 months. Fat and round, deep color, alert and active, and already larger than the fish above. He was living in a 50 gallon tank when this picture was taken.

This is what a goldfish looks like when kept in a proper sized tank, with regular water changes, and a healthy diet.

This is what all goldfish should look like. This is why goldfish need just as much space, work, and money put into them as any other pet.

Easter Cuddles

Pairing: George x Reader
Request: lol nope I’m putting them off because I’m the worst!
A/N: Hoppy Easter! I really liked my Preference about Fred being a third wheel so I did this thing, hope you like it!
Squicks: None

It was the Easter two-week holidays, and your boyfriend’s family was generous enough to invite you to spend the holidays with them at The Burrow.

Molly had reluctantly allowed for you to sleep in the same room as the Twins, the two of them convincing her by pointing out that nothing was going to happen since Fred would be in the same room anyway. The only condition being that you slept on a separate mattress on the floor, which obviously didn’t happen, and Fred promised not to dob you in if you paid him in chocolate frogs.

It was early on Sunday morning. Easter wasn’t one of those special days like Christmas or birthdays where you’d be super excited to get up and do things, so you remained in the best place in the world: wrapped up in George’s arms. He had a single bed, so it was a tight fit, but what better way to have it really?

The two of you were fast asleep, you cuddled into him and his arms wrapped around you. Slowly, you felt the bed sink lower on your other side, and before you knew it there was another in the bed.

You opened your eyes in confusion, seeing that your boyfriend George appeared to still be asleep.

“Morning you two,” Fred says overly cheerfully, wrapping his arms around you and snuggling in, “Hoppy Easter,”

“Fred, what on Earth are you doing?” you ask, your voice still hoarse from having only just woken up,

“I was starting to feel lonely, the two of you always get to cuddle together so why not have Freddie join in?” he says, acting as if this was a totally normal thing to do, being your second big spoon.

Before you could say anything in response, George pushes forward into you, causing Fred to shriek and fall out the other end of the bed, half-dragging you with him (thankfully George still had his arms tightly around you).

George groaned before nuzzling his head into the crook of your neck, complaining about it being too early.

You laugh, but Fred was quick to jump right back into bed with the two of you. “Where’s your Easter spirit?” Fred asks with a tone of sarcastic annoyance, making sure to reach his arms all the way around the two of you, bringing you all painfully close together,

George let out a lengthy, whiny groan, “Oh my god, go away,” he moans like an annoyed child, causing you to laugh and only encouraging Fred.

“Come on, get your arses out of bed, you’re so boring,” Fred says, now lying directly on top of the two of you, making himself more and more annoying. This was one of Fred’s new favourite hobbies: voluntarily being the obnoxious third wheel. A small price to pay since the two boys have been inseparable since birth you figured.

After what seemed like too long, George had finally had enough, groaned very loudly, and threw the covers (and Fred) off of the bed, sitting up and rubbing his face in his hands in an attempt to wake up, “alright alright we’re getting up,”

“YES,” Fred proclaimed, jumping up off the floor, “MY BODY IS READY FOR THAT SWEET SWEET NECTAR OF HEAVEN THAT THEY CALL CHOCOLATE” he yelled, running out of the room.

You sat up with a laugh, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. Just before you could make your way out of bed, George rolls over on top of you, pushing you back down. You laugh as he pretends to snore, his muffled voice saying “he’ll be back in like five minutes, let’s sleep until then”.

Sure enough, almost exactly five minutes later you hear the door creek open. You look over George’s shoulder to see Fred’s face, etched with the most pure look of betrayal. He stared at the two of you for a few moments, before quietly whispering, “I’ll eat all of your chocolate too”.

As quick as anything, George leaped out of bed throwing the covers over you, “YOU WILL DO NO SUCH THING” he shouts running after his brother,



Your Name and Kiss Belong in the Same Sentence

Summary: Neither Dan or Phil has ever had a boyfriend before and they think that part of the reason might be because nobody even realises they like boys.  So, as best friends do, they decide to pretend to date each other, that way at least it’s obvious they aren’t straight.  And with an agreed upon set of boundaries, nothing can go wrong.  Right?

Word Count: 9k

Warnings: swearing, anxiety attack, underage drinking/alcohol

A/N: me actually finishing a fic?? who knew this was even possible anymore lmao (although i found 6k of this already done in my drafts from october so?? does this even count).  also tysm to leah for letting me scream at her about this and for editing it for me, you’re the best <33

read on ao3 instead

Dan and Phil had been best friends for what felt like forever.  They had grown up together, in houses only a few blocks away and couldn’t remember a time where they hadn’t known each other.  They had always been Dan and Phil, their names never separated.

Everyone had warned them that friends often grow apart over time, especially as they moved from middle school to high school.  For some reason people seemed to think that there was no way that the two boys could stay as close friends as they were forever.

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Wedding Drama

Originally posted by olvrsfelicity

Series: Peter Parker Imagines

Relationship: Peter Parker x Reader

Warning: Fluff, Angst, Violence

A/N: My mom had surgery and I’ve been adjusting to having my grandma around. She’s been coming into my room randomly at night invading my privacy which makes it hard asf to type. 

Also btw, If it’s lower than 2k words I’ll put a word count.

[Peter’s POV]

“Peter.. PETER”

“Uh yes?” I blink a couple times to see Tony standing in front of me. He had a scotch in his hand with a stern look on his face. The ice clinking against the glass as he took a sip. His glasses were a light blue tinted lens.

“Kid you blanked out on me, I asked if you were ready… then you spaced out into a different universe”

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The second time he asked

Guys, I don’t know where this came from. Shoot. I don’t have time for this. Oh well.

Here’s what got this whole thing going

1. The first time he asked

The second time he asked

The second time he asks it’s because he misses her and he wants to make her laugh. Not really laugh so much as hear the pause in her breath as she rolls her eyes and goes on ignoring him.

She’s gotten good at ignoring him over the years, as skillful at dodging his innuendo as she is at pinpointing causes of death in an autopsy. Both require she know what to take seriously and what to overlook.

She’d recovered from the cancer – miraculously wasn’t too strong a term – and by the time she was back on her feet, back in the office, neither of them knew how to bring up the proposal.

She was mortified to have let her guard down so far, that she’d let the fact of her dying override all other judgements. It wasn’t like her to waver like that, and looking back on the way she had softened so easily was faintly embarrassing. She doesn’t dwell on how much she had wanted to die as his wife. She puts that thought away, far in the back of the cabinet with the medications she no longer takes, but doesn’t dispose of either.

He can’t ask again. He’s already done it once, so what is he supposed to do now? Bring it up over coffee? “Hey Scully, about that whole wife thing…”.

No. It’s like walking around with your fly open. He’s exposed, and now there is no easy way just to zip things back up and carry on.

She’s been gone for two days and it feels like months. It feels like the time she went missing and an indefinable ache had settled into his gut. But she’s not missing, and the ache is most definitely defined. It’s for her, for the raise of her eyebrow, for the clack of her heels on the linoleum floor, for the cadence of her contradictions, for the half-smile she gives his teases.

The phone is wedged into the crook of his neck as on the other end, she rattles off a collection of paranormal phenomena. “Voodoo, Santeria, conjure, occult or pagan practices, witchcraft…”

He loves her. Shit. The knowledge presents itself bald-faced at moments like this, when they’re easy, when she’s playing along, when he remembers what it used to be like when there was no one on the other end of that line, when it was just him in a basement, shuffling through dust and old files. He misses her, primally, and she’s only been gone two days.

“Scully.” His voice in a faux seduction that’s not actually false. “Marry me.”

“I was hoping for something a little more helpful,” she sighs.

When they hang up the phone, he smiles. Strike two. Too bad she doesn’t know how hard he’ll keep swinging.

Smells Like...//Derek Hale

Requested by: Anon (Sorry, I lost the exact request, but I hope this will do)

(A/N): After a long day, Derek finds comfort in staying by (Y/N)’s side. He often has a habit of sniffing (Y/N), who still doesn’t quite grasp the meaning behind his unique method of showing affection.

Warning: Extremely rushed

Derek’s limbs entangled with yours underneath the warm on sheets. The faint scent of morning dew filled your nose as you wiped the sleep from your eyes. It had been months since you had been able to indulge in such peace, and you were reveling in it. Reveling in being able to relax in bed without fear of someone trying to kill you. Reveling in the sound of Derek’s gentle pulse as his fingertips trace mindless patterns on your wrist.

You shift slightly under his weight, sighing as he buries his face into the crook of your neck. His hot breath fans your bare skin, causing goosebumps to form on your forearms. You had gotten used to the constant scratching of Derek’s beard, and there was no use protesting anyway. He loved your aroma, it meant so much to him and his wolf. Love. Protection. Home.

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NOTHING NATURAL by Diana Hurlburt

They call him Prosper, a measure of mockery for each measure of awe.


You know the road to the laboratory blind, could walk it in your sleep—have, because sleepwalking is telltale of the godborn, so your mother says and touches your ankle in rare affection where it rests on the porch rail, one foot on the earth and one in the realm of spirits.

“Spirits,” she repeats, gesturing to the road below, the spindly pine woods and the yellow haze of heat and pollution that makes up your horizon. “He controls the spirits.”

There are no spirits, only neighbors: Men and women and half-made machines given to rust, the detritus of civilization. A plot of bloodless jackdaws, midway between flophouse and refugee camp. You know that part of her statement, at least, is true. The weak and weak-willed, the dying, the once-dead, the discarded and useless, the flagrant all require direction. Seek strength. Are used by those stronger.

Sicaria laughs and makes her crooked cross, murmurs her oblique prayer.

“Get out,” she tells you in sudden rage, “go to your master. Get out of my sight, you unworthy and unclean thing, you who have forsaken the ways of God, you who cleave to the machines. Your eyes see only falsehood.”


It is fifteen years since your mother was cast out. It is your lifetime that has been spent in wasteland, the between-place, the unplace beyond the pale. It is a pine island that shelters you, a fanatic who raises you, a scientist who uses your hands and your back and his daughter who considers your mind.

Your mind. You know you have one. All creatures do, born or made. It is the First Law of Being.

Your name. If Sicaria gave you one it has been lost. It was only after Prosper’s carelessness that anyone else tried—his accident in the lab, though he would never call it that, surely you were at fault, your clumsy hands too broad for fine work and your elbows always in the way. Acid scattered from a flask, droplets caught in sun. You did not scream; it wasn’t the worst pain you had felt. In the washroom Miranda’s hands were gentle, washing, salving. They slowed after the initial motions and your pulse followed. You examine your two faces in the mirror. If you had ever displayed beauty it was gone now, Miranda’s heightened by your face now scarred. Her luminosity beyond the human and your coarseness, a sun and its shadow.

Her hand stayed on your cheek after its necessity had lapsed. She traced the remnants of acid, specks and splotches, long fingers black and velvet like the touch of night. You believe her grasp could shift moons from their orbit.

“Calvaluna,” she said, a cantrip reshaping your vision of yourself. “I read it somewhere—where? I have never read a book. I don’t need to, Father put his knowledge into my head before he activated me. But I hear it.” She tapped her forehead, then yours. “I hear it. It means you. It suits you. Calvaluna.”

It was prettier than you, you knew that, a beautiful name. Prettier than most things. Not prettier than her.


When Prosper leaves the laboratory it is less a retirement for the evening and more retreat. He would never call it that but you believe him fearful, after all. The powerful always are. He swings himself like a cudgel upon exit, he shouts for Miranda to attend him and cuffs you, a passing blow, thoughtless. Brutality is his lever, rarely compassion.

You know his laboratory better than he does, you think, wiping down counters. You know his daughter, made in his own image but ultimately fathomless. There’s a phrase in Sicaria’s Bible that makes you quiver when you apply it to Miranda.

It is full dark when Miranda comes for you. Your laboratory is Prosper’s in miniature, piecemeal and theft-built, squirreled away in a shed in the woods south of the pine island on which the best of the unplace’s hovels are built.

“It was a citrus packing house,” Miranda says as she always does. Touches the frame of the door right and then left, stretches to her full height to brush its top. It’s a ritual the way your mother’s prayers are, her prostrations, her rages. “Before the Laws took effect there was an industry here. Fruit. Citrus fruit.” She looks at you, a delight on her face that would fire the darkness. “Can you imagine it, Calvaluna? Whole stands of trees with fruit on them. Wild fruit, just growing. Imagine taking fruit off a tree and eating it.”

Your imagination is not that good.

She goes to the single table in the laboratory and stands before it in a manner you’ve thought must be like that of the Israelites in the Holy of Holies. You are not supposed to know what that means. You are not supposed to have holiness in your life. She looks at you briefly, with mischief, and draws down the shroud you have used to protect the R.E.L.’s shell from rain.

“I think we’re close,” she says. Her eyes are fascinated, distracted; her hand reaches for you. “Come here, Calvaluna, tell me if this is calibrated properly.”

“You have your father’s knowledge,” you say. But you go and look at the R.E.L. with her. You’re proud of the effort, the work of your joined hands. You are not supposed to have pride, either. There is no pride in being raised beyond the pale. In being the offspring of a hanged woman, a witch they would have called her in days past, a lawbreaker too iconoclastic to be allowed in the city and too ineffectual to be executed, spared for her belly to the tune of mockery. Certainly there is no pride in your form or your face.

“I think he’s almost ready to revive,” Miranda says. Her joy is the only light in these woods. The sun exists, you know, in theory. Miranda’s face is your only evidence thus far, fifteen years alive and far from those spaces left which thrive in natural sunlight. She links her fingers in yours, her thumb rubs the calluses on your palm; she points with your hands to the R.E.L.’s blank and staring eyes, his half-human head, his chest with its missing heart and its new core of wires. “Oh, Calvaluna! I’m nervous. Are you nervous?”

Nervous is not the right word for what you are.


“Calvaluna,” Sicaria repeated the day you told her of Miranda’s gift. She scraped the tip of her ritual knife between her teeth, grinning. “An appropriate name for you, my aborted dream. I should have exposed you as a sacrifice to God.”

There is no god but human will. This is the Second Law of Being.


Your fellow-spirits are all will-bound to Prosper’s caprice. He makes the cogs of the community turn, greases the paths of food and potable water and herbs plucked at the witching hour that make life slightly less… life-like. Thus he is obeyed.

“Daughter,” Sicaria echoes. She spits at the trash heap beside the back gate. “Blasphemy. Blasphemy. Such words I hear from your lips, my burden. Who was it gave you speech, that you fling curses in my face? I think maybe you’re the worse for your time spent in that man’s house. I see you confuse craft for birth.” She broods, her fingers twitching at the strand of beads beneath her wrapper. “But there’s no more to be done. How else are we to live?”

Once, and only once, you suggested that perhaps her god might see to living arrangements, if she did not like how you were turning out under Prosper’s tutelage.

“Go.” She waves to the wood path. “I heard tell there was meat today.”

If there was meat to be had, you suspect it’s long gone now. Your fellow-spirits are avaricious. What have they but base pleasures?

“He’s in a gloom,” Miranda says, her face round and open as a poinciana pod. “He’s made me clean the laboratory twice over, and asked me to cook… something. I didn’t recognize it, Calvaluna. Lentil soup? What is a lentil, do you know?”

You know of lentils.

“You can’t make lentil soup,” you tell her. “He shouldn’t ask you to do things he knows are impossible.”

“He believes anything is possible,” she says. You love and hate to see her countenance. You remember a time when she would have spoken the same words in hope and affection. You know it is your fault, the way she is changing, her will a canker on the face of beauty. You wonder what Prosper will do when he realizes it. You ponder in the night, sometimes, this scholar whose eyes perceive all but the truth.

Perhaps you will be gone before he awakens.

“Race me,” Miranda says, but she takes your hand.

“How am I to race if you keep me beside you?”

“A race doesn’t have to have a winner,” she says, and begins to run.

She times these things impeccably. She runs so that you can almost believe the light follows her footsteps, that she leaves no mark on the earth. Dusk springs up behind you. You prefer night, its honesty; you prefer the real dark that would cover most of your world if not for artificial day. The unplace is a hive of night creatures. Your fellow-spirits are easiest perceived in dimness, their proclivities hidden and their countenances smoothed.

Miranda keeps your hand in hers and runs, runs, fearless and laughing. She runs like a dart flung toward the center of the south woods, the pine cloven by lightning looming over your laboratory. The pine grows despite the wound at its heart. It is where you found the R.E.L.—one of Prosper’s cast-offs, what he termed a failed experiment—half-dead and crumbling piecemeal to rust in dank rainfall.

She drops to the base of the pine and pulls you down and points up.

“I know of stars,” she says, her eyes searching as though Heaven might reveal itself. “The Southern Cross, the Swan. The Pleiades. Many more names my father gave me.” She touches her forehead, as she does when she speaks of Prosper’s knowledge, planted in her like seed corn. She is godborn more surely than you can ever be, gleaming divinity. She touches your forehead, your cheeks, the tip of your nose. “I think they must look like you. The stars beyond our sky.”

She traces the scars and specks and splotches. She draws new constellations and names them, her fingers a warm trail on your skin, her breath a promise.


Just once you asked your mother if you would ever leave the unplace. You did not then understand that no one came to the salt-strewn plots of land on the city’s outskirts by choice—no one laid eyes on the pine island and thought, I am home. It is far more difficult to leave a place you have not happened upon by choice.

“He’ll be a protector,” you say, pliers in one hand and cording in the other. “His new code will require defense. Otherwise…”

You look at Miranda and think of what might happen to her if the R.E.L.’s defensive code does not run as planned. You picture yourself and remember Sicaria’s dark jibes, her reminiscences of city life. You rub your upper arm where the contraceptive block had been implanted. It only prevents some things, can halt neither the heady mix of desire and aspiration nor flat violence.

“Defense,” Miranda says, her face solemn in its thinking pose, unaware of your thoughts. “Defense, financials, new birth records and identification…”

Her voice skips along, almost merry, a fertile stream in which to seed possibility.


The Third Law of Being is the inviolability of life. No one has ever explained to you whether the Law covers all life.


Light explodes behind your eyes when Prosper’s hand meets your skull. Or, you realize a little belatedly, it is the fault of the lab table, the edge of it kissing your temple. Air rushes from your lungs. You stare at the vault above the shed in the woods, its ceiling gaping in sections to reveal leaves, the white sky of noon.

Miranda flies at him, her face dressed in horror. You have never kissed her, you think. You would prefer not to die unkissed; you’d prefer not to die at all.

“Ungrateful wretch,” Prosper says. “Twisted ape-child, spawn of—how thought you?” He smashes his hand across the table. “How thought you to betray my kindness? To turn my own blood against me?” He lifts one of the R.E.L.’s arms, almost delicately. “Whore and daughter of whores. Thief.”

Small comfort to think his rage stems from fear, but it’s enough. Prosper would not be angry if he didn’t believe the R.E.L. was sound.

“You.” He points to Sicaria in the doorway. One of your fellow-spirits has fetched her at his command and she is in a state, white-eyed and gagging on anger. “Take your mooncalf in hand, I never want to see her again. Corruptor.”

He catches Miranda and snares her arms, wrenches her close, covers her head with his hands as though she is innocent. As though healing and reviving the R.E.L. were not her idea. As though a child can be born of only one parent. The R.E.L. is your inheritance, legacy of unnatural issue, a being greater than the sum of its creators.

“This abomination will be destroyed,” Prosper says. Sicaria prays in the doorway, her eyes not on you nor on the R.E.L. but searching, seeking. She hates the sight of machines. Had the city not cast her out for improper worship she would have repudiated them anyway.

“He is an R.E.L.,” Miranda says. You stare despite the throb in your head, the blood in your eyes. Her voice remains soft, wondering, a caress on the cyborg’s clinical name. Aerial, a creature of movement and possibility. “Robotically Enhanced Lifeform. Give him his name, Father, lend some pity, even if you thought nothing of flinging him into the trash when he failed to serve you.”

“Abomination,” he repeats. “Homunculus, deformity—daughter. Listen. Calvaluna has done wrong in her ignorance but you… you are not ignorant, Miranda.”

You marvel at the blindness of the learned man, the man cast out for his learned ways, the man who has made the wilderness blossom in decay. Lord of chaos, king of the misruled.

“God be with me in this hour,” Sicaria prays, her hands on either side of the doorframe. “God be with me in my pain, God give me strength for the task before me, God grant me…”

Me, you mouth. God be with Sicaria, and science with Prosper, and neither passionate belief nor dispassionate prowess sustain them. Miranda looks at you from beneath her father’s hands. Her smile is your signpost, her trust your life raft. Your fellow-spirits are like unto you only in substance: Crude matter, blunt usefulness. Miranda is your true equal, beloved of your soul. Her eyes remain open.

Your eyes must remain open. You must get up. There are but two steps between you and the table, one step in the scientific process, a bare nudge of your fingers at the master switch. Miranda’s being is in your hands.

On the table, the R.E.L. casts off slumber and rattles to life.


“M not sick! I don’t get s-sick!” Harry spoke raspy. His voice croaking.

Normally you’d believe him, or at least drop the subject till he saw you that you were indeed, correct. Cause in all honesty, Harry didn’t get sick much. Yet the sight laid in front of you made you think otherwise.

A red nose and pink flushed cheeks, crumbled white soft tissues laying around him in a messy fashion.

“M feelin’ better already love.” He sighed, trying to sit up.

His eyebrows knitted together in pain of what you guessed to be a headache and a sharp intake of breath.

“Harry, face it. You’re to sick to go to the studio, or that interview.” You shook your head, setting down the glass of water next to the bed.

“Okay, so maybe I can’t sing. But, I don’t want to let the company who wants the interview down.” He spoke sweetly, batting his green eyes in a dramatic effect.

Harry was never one who really wanted to stay in bed. Always claiming it made him negative, and he just liked to be up and about. No matter what he was doing, he just needed to be doing something.

You brought your hand to Harry’s forehead, setting down the pills into his open hand. Earning a groan from him.

“Harry, we both know you feel like shit. You have a headache, a fever, and you can’t stop sneezing. Just take your pills please, and drink your water. Get some rest. You can always reschedule.” You huffed, moving a few things off the end of the bed and setting by his legs.

“On one condition.” He smiled.

“And what is that?” You raised your eyebrows.

“Take a nap with me?” He smiled.

“Harry, I’ll sleep with you tonight. I’d rather not get si-”

“Then tell the interviewer I feel fine and I’m on my way.” He said playfully, but he looked utterly pitiful.

“Fine! I’ll take a nap. Now; take your damn pills and sleep.” You said, amused.

He half smiled while you covered yourself with the duvet, he drank his water and threw his arm over your waist, nudging his head into the crook of your neck.

“Get some rest. Your management will reschedule.” You spoke softly, remembering his headache, you started playing with his curls since you weren’t sleepy.

“Mhm. I love yeh’ Y/N.”

Jungkook Reaction To You Confessing While Drunk [Angst, Smut and Fluff Versions!

Reactions masterlist

Rap Monster ¦¦ Jin ¦¦ Suga ¦¦ J-Hope ¦¦ Jimin ¦¦ V

Your Confession

Walking home at god knows what o’clock in the morning, it’s turning to daylight almost, and Jeongguk is escorting you home, arm round your waist and yours around his shoulder help maintain your balance. You’ve liked Jeongguk for ages now but have never quite been able to say anything, mainly because of his shy nature and you’re unsure as to whether he would know how to respond to a confession or not. But you’ve had way too many drinks this time to care tonigh—this morning.

Stumbling in your heels, each footstep echoes, resonating across the empty streets until finally you reach the gateway to your house – “Jeonggu-ah! Why are you like this??” you question with desperation, wondering why this boy feels so inapproachable to confess to.

“Like what, y/n?” the confused boy questions.

“Walking me home and being so nice to me when you can’t even tell that I’m lame for you!!” you blurt out, swinging still with your arm around him and burying your face into the crook of his neck.


Jeongguk had feared for a while now that something like this might happen; he had heard all the rumors about your crush for him, but had never been certain as to whether they were true or not… 

He knows that it must have taken a lot of courage to say something so significant, and had he liked you back, it’d be something so life changing in many respects… but he also knows that you’re drunk and thank goodness he can use this to work his way around the situation.

“Y/n… you’re not thinking straight, yeah? Let’s get you safely inside so you can get to bed and wake up with a clearer head later today, alright?”

Originally posted by bangtaninspired


As you grumble and reluctantly agree to follow his instructions, you move in even closer as the two of you walk through the gateway, and, walking up the pathway, you whisper something into his ear that makes the situation more difficult, at least more so for Jeongguk that is:

“Right, let’s put me to bed, Mr…” you mumble seductively, and Jeongguk could slap himself for the instant arousal that rushes straight to his pants… He really doesn’t want to take advantage of you right now, especially under the circumstances that feelings are involved, but damn, you smell so good, and your husky drunk voice makes him lose all self-control.

He guesses he can fool himself that he is more drunk than he his right now and that neither of you will remember a thing in the morning and perhaps you’ll just wake up next to each other, have a giggle about it and move on…

“Is that an invite?” Jeongguk purrs back into your ear, watching you fumble for your keys.

“What do you think?” you reply, gazing half-seductively with slightly disfocused eyes. “It wouldn’t be very nice of me to just let you continue walking all the way back to your house this time, now would it?” you question, finally managing to get the key turned in the lock.

You take his hand, and pull him into you as you enter the house, kicking the door shut with your foot as you stand with your back against the wall, under Jeongguk’s gaze.

Making out in the hallway leads to desperately undressing each other into the living room, which leads to him ravaging your body like a starving man that hadn’t eaten for a week, which leads to relentless thrusts in and out of you as you chase your highs, him collapsing on top of you once finished.

He falls asleep in your hold and you fall asleep playing with his lovely soft hair. Throughout the morning as you sleep on the couch, the contact becomes less and less cuddly as Jeongguk sobers up in his sleep, until you wake up first at about 1pm, almost falling off the couch, and you figure you should probably get up and make food for your guest… Barely remembering the sequence of events last night, it takes you a moment to realize that you do in fact know your overnight lodger… ‘Oh boy…’

Jeongguk pretends to be asleep for a good half an hour before catching a whiff of the smell of what’s cooking up in the kitchen. He can smell some of his favourite hangover foods, though he can’t really say he’s that hungover, just really dehydrated, and he could curse himself for his lack of feelings towards you. He does love you, but only as a friend, and for some reason, he’s very sure that’s all he’ll ever feel about you, and he completely understands the appeal that some of his friends have seen in you. You’d make such a perfect wife with your compassion and consideration towards people, and you’re great to be around…

Just, if only he could feel the same way about you.

“Hey” you smile, entering the living room with a plate of food and a hot cup of coffee for him. “Eat up; I won’t take no for an answer.”

“Thank you… So last night was pretty wild I guess, huh?” he questions, taking a big gulp of coffee and letting the caffeine run into his system.

“Yeah, um… Did we…?…”

“It seems so…”

“Ah man, I’m so sorry; I’ll understand if you don’t wanna speak to me again after you leave today…” you tell him, still trying to recollect the entire night as you speak…

The one thing you just can’t remember is how you got into that situation in the first place… Did you make a move on him? Did he make a move on you? And either way, where and how?

“No, no, no, it’s fine…” he nervously replies with an uncertain breath of a laugh. “If anyone is not wanting to speak to the other, I imagine it’d be you…”

“Me? How come?” you ask with confusion, and then he catches on. You clearly don’t remember confessing to him, and as bad as it sounds, he plans to keep it that way. It’s awful to say in his mind, but he hopes you don’t recollect the confession in order to keep things simpler… and if you do remember at any point… well, he’ll cross that bridge if he ever gets to it.

Originally posted by imaginesbts


Jeongguk was more than happy to escort you home after a crazy night at the club. Everyone had had their fair share of drinks, shared their stories that can only be confessed about while a certain amount of alcohol runs through the veins, and you danced plenty.

Your crush on Jeongguk was an ongoing thing for quite a while now, but little did you know that all night, he had been admiring everything about you. The way your eyes lit up whilst telling a story, and the patience in your face whilst listening to what other people had to say. The way you danced so well in time to the beat on the dance floor, and the cute look on your face as you rested on a couch, half asleep.

So when you blurted out your confession with your arm around him and face in the crook of his neck, Jeongguk’s heart somehow simultaneously melted and froze. You confessing your feelings for him was something he had been wanting to hear for a while now, but only in his dreams so far… but you’re drunk. What if the “you can’t even tell that I’m lame for you!!” is just part of the affectionate side of drunken you? Is there even a definite way to find out if a drunk mind truly does speak a sober mind?

“Wait, really?” he asks you in disbelief at the confession.

“Of course, ‘really’, Jeongguk! I know this sounds sad and lame and I’m probably gonna regret telling you in this way when I think about it in the morning, but… Goddammit, I can never tell you anyway! I really like you Jeon Jeongguk and I can understand if you never want to speak to me again after tonight!”

“I’m just concerned it could be the booze talking, y/n… How can I be sure that what you’re saying is true? You might wake up in the morning and be like ‘what the hell did I say?’”

“Maybe, but it still stands that I have feelings for you and they aren’t returned!” you exclaim, trying to find your house key in your bag.

“You can’t say that for sure, y/n…”

“It’s not a good time to be walking back on your own Jeongguk… Crash at mine, and then you’ll be able to see in the morning that I meant every word I said, I promise.”

“Um, is it not weird to sleep over at a girl’s house like this?” he asks uncertainly.

“Oh Jeonggu-ah! We’re in our 20′s, we’re grown adults. Of course it’s not weird… Silly…” you mumble, managing to carry your feet across the pathway leading up to your house, but Jeongguk hesitantly remains standing at the gateway. “Jeon, come on!” you exclaim, then giggling at your rhyme.

“Only if you’re sure…”

“Just… come on!” you call, gesturing for him to continue walking to you.

Still wobbly, you enter your house, followed by Jeongguk, who rushes over to keep you balanced as he notices you almost knocking into a table. Appreciating the warm of his touch, you draw closer into him and cuddle him and eventually, he embraces you too, still unsure about your current state paired with your actions.

Somehow you end up falling asleep, sharing your bed upstairs, with Jeongguk staying awake for much longer than you, over-thinking as your head rests upon his chest and he strokes your hair, to which you mumble positively to occasionally in your sleep.

He smiles cutely, thinking about how if what you said was all true, and you really couldn’t confess in any other circumstances, then maybe the two of you aren’t entirely dissimilar… Sure, he would have liked to have been the one to confess to you, but this is still nice, provided that your feelings are true, and in his mind, he can’t help but steer more towards that possibility.

To your surprise, you wake up in Jeongguk’s arms, hugging you from behind. You were initially going to move, but this is too nice not to try and let it last at least a little while…

“Morning” he mumbles contentedly, followed by you shuffling to turn around and face him.

He looks radiant and ethereal under the afternoon sunlight that seeps through the window and just from the look in his eyes, the memories come rushing back to you.

“Morning” you smile back, admiring every inch of his appearance, reaching an arm up to caress his hair affectionately, hoping he will gather that you remember your confession to him last night and that the feelings still remain true.

“Thanks for letting me stay over” he tells you.

“Thanks for waiting” you tell him, to which he gives you a look of confusion, but it only lasts for a moment as you draw him in for a tender kiss on the lips. You pull away so you can read the expression on his face, and the image you are met with makes your heart melt. He smiles back at you with adoration, and his sleepy eyes make this the cutest look you’ve ever seen.

Originally posted by sbspopasia


Wanting to entirely embrace Jeongguk’s warmth, you shuffle slightly on top of him to continue planting kisses on him, legs entangled and your hands resting on his chest.

It all feels perfectly innocent until your knee brushes slightly across his groin, and as someone that responds quite easily just to a gentle touch [I wanted to say sensitive senses but that sounds dumb, right?] he could curse himself for the aroused reaction this touch elicits. 

He tries to keep quiet about it hoping you won’t notice, because yes, this is wonderful, being in your arms right now and getting to kiss you, but he wants for the first time to be special and not rushed, and he feels that this is a circumstance in which it would be rushed.

But damn this feels so real…

“Y/n-ah… Can I take you out on a date at some point?… If we’re gonna do this, we should do it properly… That is, if you are still sure you feel that way about me…”

You wonder why he seems so unsure about your feelings towards him, especially when right now, you’re showering him with love and kisses.

“Jeongguk… Would I lie to you? Why would I lie about something like this? Look, I know I should have gone about this better and confessed while sober, but you have to know… this is real…”

And then you realize the reason for the sudden tension coming from him as you stroke along his chest and shuffle some more to get even more comfortable… Your knee once again brushes against him, this time across his emerging erection.

“Oh… Jeongguk…” you coo. “Did I accidentally make you feel a certain way?…” you tease.

“Oh my God, please ignore it y/n” Jeongguk requests, face blushing in embarrassment. “I don’t want you to think that’s all I want from you… I want to wait, so just ignore it… please? Like, I really like you too, so…”

Silence resonates the room as he struggles for words.

“You know…” you begin, trying to utter the words on your mind. “We don’t have to be so traditional about things…”

Struggling to put your thoughts into words, you proceed to brush your hand gently and sensually across the bulge that has formed in his trousers.

Still uncertain where to go from here, all Jeongguk can do is allow for the first few touches to happen while he balances out what he thinks he should do and what he needs…

Unable to hold back on his sensitive reactions to your touch, Jeongguk pulls you in and sensually kisses you, leading to a passionate make out session, leading to something more. This something more is the best he knows he’s ever going to have; he’s mad about you and you feel the same way, of that he gets increasingly sure about with each touch. This only reassures him that perhaps it isn’t the worst decision to be doing this in the moment rather than holding it off. Like this, it is sure to be something memorable.

He’s such a cute little bun afterwards when you mention how loud he was [linked video, HEADPHONES] and he hides in the covers with embarrassment, but the both of you know that his nosiness was because of how good it felt to have sex with someone he loves.

Originally posted by mayfifolle

Don’t Speak

Pairing: Dean x Reader, Bobby, mentions of Sam 

Word Count: 1377

Summary: Dean gets wounded on a hunt but it leaves him with a new sense, he can hear thoughts when he hears yours he learns that the woman he loves doesn’t know how to love herself. He does all he can to comfort her. 

Warnings: Angst, fluff, MindReader!Dean, hurt/comfort, TW: Negative self-talk

A/N: So this was written for anon who requested , Can you do a Dean x Reader where the reader is quiet and doesn’t talk much with Sam or Dean. On a hunt Dean gets cursed and can read minds and he’s happy because he’s able to know the reader better but when he reads her minds it’s all negative thoughts and Dean tries to help her. I hope I was able to write what you were looking for anon. 

Dean’s head was aching, he felt a sharp pain flaring out around the area of his left eye and all he could do was rub his temple and pray that it would die down soon. He had gone after the Satori, a Japanese monster that Bobby assured him had no reason to be in the deep woods of Southern Oregon, and managed to gank it fairly quickly. The thing was, it had managed to slash his forearm open before he struck it down completely, and ever since then, he had been getting the strange headaches. 

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At last, Sturmhond straightened the lapels of his teal frock coat and said, “Well, Brekker, it’s obvious you only deal in half-truths and outright lies, so you’re clearly the man for the job.”

“There’s just one thing,” said Kaz, studying the privateer’s broken nose and ruddy hair. “Before we join  hands and jump off a cliff together, I want to know exactly who I’m running with.

Sturmhond lifted a brow. “We haven’t been on a road trip or exchanged clothes, but I think our introductions were civilized enough.”

“Who are you really, privateer?”

“Is this an existential question?”

“No proper thief talks the way you do.”

“How narrow-minded of you.”

-Crooked Kingdom, Page 409

Okay guys so I am officially Kaz x Nikolai (Kazolai? Nikaz?) trash and it’s a downward spiral from here. Half of this content is gonna be from me no joke.
An untitled Gendry two-shot (part 1)

Originally posted by november-born-dayne

(All credit’s to the gif’s owner)

Well…it seems I’m digging up my old fics instead of moving my ass and writing something new. Shame on me. 

Word count: 1040

Pairing: Tyrion x fem! reader; Gendry x fem! reader

Warnings: none I suppose…maybe a little angst


“You are marrying me off to…” increasing despair made me speechless, I needed a few deep breaths to be able to finish the sentence “…the Imp?!”

 I knew how important it was to my father to keep alliance with the Lannisters but still couldn’t believe he would doom me to such humiliation. My name is (y/n) Bolton and a daughter to Roose Bolton, Warden of the North. I thought it makes me deserve more but I was terribly mistaken.

 “My dear sister, look at yourself, even that little monster is too much.” Said Ramsay, his voice snappish as always.

 “Mind your words, bastard.” I snapped back with anger.

 I hated my brother; he was cruel and bad to the bone, and above that – stupid, but Roose Bolton announced him his heir anyway. And in this case they didn’t need me anymore.

 “My dear daughter, you’re already fifteen years old and ready to give birth. It’s about time you get married.”

 “But father!” I protested my voice breaking. “I don’t feel ready to get married yet…”

 “End of discussion!” lord Bolton announced calmly and firmly, then got up and left the Dreadfort’s dining hall.

 “Congratulations on tying the knot!” Ramsay hissed and followed out father out.


The day we arrived at King’s Landing was the worst day of my life. I didn’t want to be there, and the view of upcoming marriage didn’t make it any better. Other girls dream of this day, they can’t wait to have the dress, the feast and dances. But not me. Not with this man.

 When I saw lord Tyrion Lannister for the first time I didn’t even try to hide disgust. He was short, crooked and didn’t have a nose! But he was a Lannister and it was the only thing that mattered to my father. After a short exchange of courtesy my fiancé offered to show me my chambers. We were to sleep separately until the wedding day.

 “Perhaps you’d like to freshen up and then we’ll eat dinner together?” my future husband offered. I was unable to answer so just nodded my head yes.

 After a quick bath my new handmaiden led me to a small cosy dining room located just half way between my and Tyrion’s chambers, at least that’s what I concluded from her words. Inside I saw a richly set table and Tyrion Lannister slowly sipping wine.

 “Wine helps increase appetite.” He announced trying to start a conversation.

 “I don’t drink alcohol, my lord.”

 “What a shame. Sometimes alcohol helps to solve problems.”

 “Could we stay alone?” I asked glancing over to a frightened boy standing in the corner.

 “Of course. Podrick, take care of your business.” Tyrion orders.

 When the door closed behind Podrick the youngest Lannister offered me a chair to sit. I took the seat desperately trying not to lose control of myself, what appeared extremely difficult.

 “Is everything alright, my lady?”

 I felt tears stinging my eyes. “I’m sorry, my lord, but I don’t want this marriage. It’s not only about you, I don’t feel ready to get married at all.”

 Tyrion’s face showed no emotion but a hint of understanding appeared in his eyes.

 “We don’t always get to do what we want. I know I’m not what every young woman desires, but I’m not a monster although everyone thinks different. I will do you no harm and I will not force you to anything. We cannot avoid the marriage but perhaps one day you will learn to at least like me.”

 I looked at him in shock. I expected rage and yet he talked about the whole wedding thing so calmly. I knew I will never love him but maybe, just maybe, I will get used to him.

 “Thank you for your words, my lord. It means very much to me. I will do my best not to bring you shame.”

 For the rest of the evening I listened to Tyrion telling stories about his life. It wasn’t an easy one definitely. I also opened up a little bit to break the ice. I kept telling myself that every next time would be easier. After dinner I felt a little weary. “Please, excuse me, my lord, but the journey made me tired. I would like to go to my chambers and rest, if I may.”

 “Oh, of course! Will I see you tomorrow?”

 “Perhaps, but I would like to explore the city. I’d like to see if it’s really as dreadful as everyone says.”

 “Alright, so I will ask my best guards to escort you.” Tyrion offered.

 “With your permission, I wish to go alone. I can handle myself.” I replied standing up.

 “As you wish.”

 “Thank you. Goodnight, my lord.” I glanced over my shoulder with a warm smile.

 “Please, call me Tyrion.”

 I nodded my head slightly and closed the door behind me. I couldn’t wait for the next day to come.


 King’s Landing was extremely lively from early morning. Ragged children were playing in the streets, merchants inviting passers-by to their stalls, smell of food coming from the inns. The view was so different from what I’ve been used to in Dreadfort.

 I turned random streets watching everyday life of ordinary people. There was something interesting at every corner – exotic fruits, carved wooden figures, intricately forged swords on stands. I wish I was as ordinary as all this, I thought.


 Gendry’s POV

 The day was no different from other days in King’s Landing. Same children running in the streets, same merchant’s calls, same smells, and yet one tiny detail has drawn my attention. A detail that made this and every day to come different.

 Delicate features, pale skin and black hair tied in a tight bun. She wore a simple dress from grey linen. There was nothing extraordinary about her at first sight, but taking a closer look I noticed something dignified in her posture, something that was rarely seen around. She intrigued me, so I decided to abandon my duties for a moment. I approached her trying to make up right words in my mind.

 “What is a highborn lady doing in such place?” The words slipped from my mouth and then she turned to me.


anonymous asked:

Elladan showing off-trying to get your attention headcanons ❤️ thx


-When Elladan shows off, everyone knows it because he’s just so obvious. And hilarious. 

-Shirt off, muscles flexed, “accidentally” getting close to you, making all sorts of a scene. He really wants you to notice him as he wields his sword, sparring.

Notice me sempai

-Not really, it’s a gradual thing, every day or so. If you’re not at the training grounds (doing whatever the hell you’re doing there) he’ll find you where ever you are looking bomb as fuck  and then brush against you, or drop his books so you pick them up with him. He strikes up a conversation.

-He just wants to talk to with you, so he can get to know you. Completely smitten with the way you brush your hair over your shoulder or the way your skin wrinkles beside your eyes.

-Every day, he finds a way to approach you. It’s a challenge for him and he loves it. A new way to speak with you about a different topic. Soon, he begins to invite you on walks and your relationship progresses from there. 

-He even invites you to watch him train, where he shows off even more because, since he’s half-elven, his muscles are… F I N E

-During your walks, he shows off his knowledge on various things, from plants to ancient history, whilst being very acutely aware of your hand in the crook of his elbow. 

I would be impressed because even if he’s really trying, it seems effortless, and that’s what makes him so attractive. 

Originally posted by lavishlawyer
Song of Solomon - whichstiel - Supernatural [Archive of Our Own]
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
By Organization for Transformative Works

Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Characters: Castiel (Supernatural), Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Jack Kline
Additional Tags: Dreams, Longing, Pining, Angst with a Happy Ending, spn 13x02, episode coda, Season/Series 13, Episode: s13e02 The Rising Son
Series: Part 3 of Season 13 Codas

On my bed at night I sought him

whom my soul loves-

I sought him but I did not find him.

The spice shop was redolent with the scent of sweet clove, warm apple cider, and the tangy fog of dried leaves. It smelled heavenly - the kind of place that brought on fantasies of yellow curries and sweetly spiced apple pie cooling on countertops. It was also haunted. Dean gripped the shotgun a little tighter, shaking himself back to full awareness. According to the owner, the shop was sabotaged nightly. She arrived every morning to broken jars throughout the store and ectoplasm streaked across the picture window like tears, like someone pressed their face against it nightly and wept. Until a customer had been injured “and blabbed to the press” - she’d told them, lips pursed - she’d simply endured the attacks.

So far, with Dean, Sam, and Jack prowling the store, everything was quiet. Calm. Sam and Jack were checking in the back, trying to find any remnant or evidence of a false wall or floorboard that might be harboring remains. Dean ran his tongue over his teeth and winced at the fuzz. He’d insisted on heading straight into the hunt as soon as they’d made contact with the owner earlier in the day. Maybe afterwards he could find a truck stop with showers and a little privacy, and take a little time to feel human again. Dean and Jack could sleep in the car the rest of the night and they could press onward to investigate some possible ghoul activity the next state over. He picked up a glass jar labeled “Grains of Paradise” and rattled it. The contents jangled pleasingly and he smiled a little at it and shifted the shotgun to the crook of his arm so he could untwist the cap and take a quick sniff. Of course, that’s when it struck.

Glass shattered around him as Dean went down in between the shelves. He immediately rolled to his back and caught a glimpse of a specter darting away through the shelves. “Sam!” he yelled, scrambling to his feet. The shelves of the shop were low, barely five feet, and Dean raised his shotgun and fired one clean shot at the ghost making its way through the store. The ghost flung out its hands with a wail and disappeared in a flash of white.

Sam stumbled in from the back, Jack close on his heels. “Dean?” Sam said, looking around wildly. “Where?”

Dean shook his head grimly. “Headed for that wall,” he said, loading another bullet into the chamber. Together they stalked the shelves towards a kitschy collection of knick knacks nailed to the far wall. The entire back end of the shop was plastered in tacked on mid-century tinwork and dusty black frames. Dean scanned it rapidly before zeroing in on the culprit. “Yahtzee,” he said grimly, pointing at a photo mounted above a faded Coca-Cola sign. Hanging on the wall was a photo of a young man, mouth drawn into a sly half smile. A lock of hair was tied with a delicate piece of embroidery floss and plastered between the photo and the glass. Dean reached for the picture frame.

The ghost howled again with all the rage of a hurricane and Dean watched Sam and Jack get hurtled across the room, smashing rotund glass jars and decorative crystal work as they went. Dean grabbed for the photo, dropping his shotgun so he could use both hands to pry up the photo from the wall while the ghost was occupied with Sam and Jack. Sam hit the wall hard, and fell with a sharp thud onto the floor. He lay crumpled, still, and Dean grimaced. Jack had promised not to use his powers. Even so, he stood between Sam and the ghost. Although his eyes didn’t glow, his face was drawn in a grim expression akin to hate. He held Sam’s shotgun in his hands. Blam . The ghost disappeared.

Dean pressed his boot into the wall and tightened his grip on the frame, working it off the solid pegs spearing it to the wall. The frame burst free just as the ghost attacked again and the picture flew out of his hands and crashed to the floor below. The ghost tossed him towards the ceiling before he could protect himself and hot, white sparks jumped into his vision. Dean soon found himself tossed right on top of it by the ghost’s angry push and he shuffled his bloody hands around him until his fingers met the dusty thick paper. He slid it out and fumbled for the lock of hair, then fished a shell from his pocket. He broke open the shell and scattered salt before him so that it bounced out like hail across the tiled floor. Then he pulled out his lighter, squinted up at the inhuman face rushing towards him, and lit the remnants on fire. The ghost burned through one last scream and then the shop fell quiet.

Dean groaned and let his forehead fall to the floor where it crunched against glass. “Sam?” he called.

“He’s okay,” Jack said from across the store. “He’ll be fine.”

“‘Kay.” Dean closed his eyes for a moment - just a moment - and inhaled slowly to chase the sparks from his head. Even with his face pressed to tile, the shop’s sweet perfume permeated his senses. The floor smelled like spice and dust, heated by his breath. He wondered in his addled haze if this was what Castiel had described to him, long ago.

When Castiel had wings he used to travel for unusual ingredients in the blink of an eye or the space of an hour. He’d spoken of a market once, sweet with the scent of fresh fruit and the dust kicked up by people perusing the open air stalls. The town had smelled like mountain - minerals and pine - but once he was in the market the only thing he noticed was the thick cloud of harmonious spices. He’d spoken of this phenomenon with a crooked half smile, his eyes alight as though the concept of an edible symphony were entirely new to him.

Blood tinged spit pooled on Dean’s lower lip brought him back to the shop. He spat, then pushed himself up. Dean grabbed his shotgun and went to check on Sam. And Jack.

His and Sam’s head injuries meant that they were stuck with a hotel room. They limped their way to a nearby motel and after short, cursory showers, collapsed for the night.

Once the lights were out, pain pulled at Dean’s temple and he leaned against his bed with a groan. Jack and Sam had passed out fairly quickly. Jack, as it turned out, snored loudly and his chainsaw rattle filled the corner by the couch. Sam lay insensible under a pile of blankets, dead to Jack’s unwitting symphony. Dean reached for the bottle by the bed and took a long swig before dropping the condensation-wet glass to his pant leg. Another hunt down. Another day gone. Dean drank, and willed his mind to emptiness.

When he finally fell asleep, he dreamed. He was walking in a bazaar fringed by deep green pines and gray-blue mountains. The stalls were brightly painted with cloth-clad canopies flapping in the stiff alpine breeze. Dean looked around. It was a small village, as far as he could tell. Just a collection of sparse cabins and temporary stalls lining a wide dirt path that cut through it all. Still, the market was thick with people. They milled from stall to stall, their conversational haggling capped at a muffled buzz. Many of them wore furs or brightly cut clothing dusted white at the hems. Something white caught Dean’s eye.

A crisp white shirt and wide shoulders wove through the crowd and was eclipsed a moment later by a raucous man carrying a basket of melons on his head. “Cas?” Dean croaked. A white-clad arm appeared and then the tousle-haired man crossed the market to a stall on the other side, where he disappeared yet again. Dean pushed his way around a gaggle of men crowded around a dice game and shoved his way past two women with swords strapped high on their shoulders.

Just ahead of him Castiel’s hand slipped over sunny squashes lined up in a neat row. His fingers brushed along petals from a stand of cut flowers and then he disappeared again, this time behind a crowd of school children portaging wooden boxes over their heads.

Dean ran towards the stall where he’d last seen Castiel and an old man popped out from behind the flowers. He pushed a small glass cup under Dean’s nose, brown eyes steely. “Drink,” he ordered. Dean bit his lip and craned his head around. He’d lost Castiel again.

Irritably, Dean snatched the cup and drank it down quickly, like taking a shot. The liquid lingered on his lips, sweet but bitter, and his tongue darted out to taste it even after he’d shoved the cup back at the old man and pushed past him. Pomegranate juice, he thought. A drop of it clung jewel-bright on his lip and he caught sight of Castiel again. This time he stood across the bazaar, his nose buried in an uncapped basket, a look of bliss painting his face rosy.

“Cas!” Dean called out again. This time, a woman blocked his way. She thrust a crystal vial at him. An ornate golden air pump capped the top of it and he looked at the perfume bottle, puzzled. “What’s this for?”

“So you can keep his name,” she said.

He bit his lip again. Castiel was already moving on. Dean nodded curtly and snatched the bottle from her, sweeping around her side. She grabbed him swiftly, fingers cutting into the crook of his arm like talons.

“Don’t lose him this time,” she hissed.

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cuts and smoke | two

Member: Jeon Jungkook

Genre: Angst, tad bit smutty but not really, High School au

Word Count: 1,992

A/N: Y’all don’t know how pissed I am I had this done THREE DAYS AGO and then my computer couldn’t comprehend my gif usage, and so I saved it, THEN my wifi went out and I didn’t get it back until now. And my dumb ass doesn’t understand the words “update schedule,” but I THINK there will be another different au up tomorrow. But can we please take a moment to envision Kook with a full undercut god help me im weak 

      Monday swung around, and your eyes searched for that tall stature and deep obsidian hair in the student infested halls. Or maybe even his old bleached black hoodie. After about ten minutes of aimlessly wandering, you let your shoulders slump as you shuffled in the direction of your locker. You had no time to slap some gauze over your cuts this morning, so you were left with the rough denim of your jeans re-opening them, rubbing them raw. Luckily, nothing bled enough to showcase the droplets through the holes in your jeans. After throwing some unneeded books away in your locker, you turned and knocked straight into a strong, muscular chest. A chest with a strangely familiar hoodie stretched out across it, and the scent of cigarettes and cinnamon, with some other kind of spice. Very distinguishable, in other words. The boy left a kiss on your forehead, throwing an arm over your shoulder.

      “Let’s go sweetheart, I think I got this next period with you.” He walked through the halls with you, the sea of people splitting for you both, as everything fell silent. You felt vulnerable under the gazes of so many people, your first instinct being to pull away and speedwalk to Jimin. You quickly grasped his hand, pulling him away from the crowd.

      You thought you could audibly hear the way Jungkook’s heart shatter from how silent everything was, but you ignored it and slid off to your first period.

      You plopped down in a seat at the back, hidden away from all of the questioning eyes that entered the class. You were holding Jimin’s hand tightly, your fingers intertwined with the other’s. The class had started, no one bothering to make the effort of turning their head to look back at you. But your eyes were boring into the skull of a certain someone, his undercut thrown back into a tiny messy ponytail, and his feet kicked up on the desk next to him. His hoodie had been abandoned, a tight black shirt covering his toned chest. You watched as his hand slid down to his back pocket, pulling out a lighter and cigarette. He won’t light it in here… Right? You had been in three periods with him for the past three months, and never had he sat in the front. Well, you had also never really seen him in general. Everyone was always spreading gossip around, about how he blew smoke into his dad’s face, told him to fuck off, and walked out, or how he slapped a kid for looking at him, or that he’s only getting A’s because of how good he is with his hands. The second you had texted Jimin about a black haired giant you had met at the skate park, he typed down any and all gossip, with his own reasons and warnings to not go near him. One look at him and anyone could tell that he wasn’t exactly a golden boy, but you didn’t care. You fell for this fucked up mess of a boy over the course of one night, and you were starting to hate yourself even more for it.

      You didn’t notice the small notes Jimin was setting on your desk until the shrill voice cut through the air.

      “Jeon Jungkook! Get out of my classroom and to the principle’s office this instant! And burn out that damned cigarette!” Your head shot up to see the teacher at his throat, the boy glaring daggers back at her.

      “Go fuck yourself.” And he walked out. He left the school, he completely disappeared.

      It had been five days since you had last seen him, since anyone had last seen him,  your calls being unanswered and texts unread. You didn’t know why you were worried, you shouldn’t have been.He didn’t even know you. He didn’t care. No one ever did, you told yourself.

      That’s what you thought until you saw him at a party on the railroad tracks.

      He had a fading black eye, and a deep cut the length of your finger on his collarbone. You were ignoring him, or at least trying to, by staying at the top of one of the abandoned train cars there. With a cigarette between your lips, you listen to Jimin ranting on about different reasons as to why you should stay away from Jungkook. Once again.

      “I don’t think it really matters now Jimin, it doesn’t seem too likely that he’s coming back.”

      “Good. I don’t want him hurting you.”

      “Sweetheart, are you giving up in me that easily?” The voice behind you sent a wave of shock running through you, ice freezing through your veins. The boy sat next to you, throwing his legs over the top of the car. He took a swig of his beer before giving the bottle to you, his hands reaching to grab another smoke.

      Jimin frowns, his eyebrows deeply creasing as he stands to leave. He excused himself as he jumped down the ladder, going to find something to do. You voice broke the silence between you and the raven haired boy, your eyes moving to your hands.

      “Are you going to tell me what happened?”

      “Are you going to tell me why you’re still cutting?” His response left you speechless, a dumbfounded expression on your face as you glanced up at him. How did he know…? “Then no. The day will come.” He kept his eyes trained out on the scene in front of him; drunk teens, high, throwing fists, barfing, making out. This little town had it all.

      As soon as you finished your bottle, his head rested on your thighs as he took out the small bun he had in his hair. Just as he got comfortable and handed you his hair tie, his name was falling from someone’s lips somewhere in all the chaos happening. His eyebrow ring raised, and you watched how it, his lip piercing and his septum ring all gleamed as he turned his head toward the bonfire to see one of his friends waving him over. He let a peck on your lips before jumping down to the ground, his hand running through his hair as he made his way over to three other obviously drunk boys. You decided to follow after him, standing besides him as the boys ripped of their shirts.

      “We’re going swimming! Let’s go!” The three disappeared into the dense trees around the area, Jungkook grabbing your wrist and pulling you after them.

      “What? No, Jungkook, I’m not going! It’s not even fifty degrees out!”

      His run slowed as he slammed your back against the trunk of a tree, his hands holding your wrists above you. “But why not?” His lips were ghosting over your ear, his breath giving you goosebumps as he pressed wet, open-mouthed kisses on your neck.

      “I-I don’t want anyone to see me…” That was the most half-assed lie you’ve ever said, and he knew it, but ignored it. You could feel the way his lips curled up on your collarbone, his teeth nipping at the skin and leaving tiny bruises.

      “That’s true. You’re for my eyes only.” He smiled, his head dipping back into the crook of your neck to color you his.

      “But you can’t go either. Dating someone who’s gonna die from hypothermia doesn’t sound appealing.”

      “Oh, so we are a thing?”

      “Fuck off.”

      His lips slammed onto yours, not like the small pecks he had given you before - this had tongues, teeth, moans, the works. he broke away some minutes later, panting, with that stupid boy grin on his now swollen lips. “Expect more of those tonight.” He turned and broke out into a sprint, ripping his shirt off and heading towards the pond. You could barely see in this terribly dim lighting, but you could’ve sworn you saw scars all over his back. From a whip, maybe? 

      Despite Jimin’s pleads to let him drive you home, you stayed with Jungkook, him fucking you senseless in the back of his ‘67 Impala somewhere even deeper in the woods at five in the morning. He drove you home, smiling when he saw that you had fallen asleep with your hand in his, and carried you to your house. He laid you in your bed, stripping you of your shoes and outer clothing. His hands lightly ran over all the scabs and scars on your waist and thighs, his gaze softening immediately when he saw the newer ones. He sighed and draped the covers over you, laying down next to you and pulling you to his chest. His eyes drifted to the window, watching as the sun rose, and how the light slowly brightened up the room. His eyelids were heavy, his body screaming at him to drift off into slumber with you, and he did, all while holding you like you were the most precious thing he had.

      And you were.

      You didn’t wake up until around noon, your mind protesting against all of the things you were thinking about. Looking out the window, you had figured that school would be a pointless option at this point. You were going to get up, before you noticed that you were ensnared by Jungkook’s arm. You slapped his chest, the boy’s brown eyes flying open.

      “Huh?! What’s wrong?!” You couldn’t help but giggle at his antics, his confused face looking down at you.

      “I need to get up. Let go.” He lifted his arm, stretching and rubbing your eyes. You rolled you eyes when you saw that he was shivering, throwing a big shirt at his bare torso. “Told you you’d get sick. But no, don’t listen to me.” You glanced at his figure, which was facing away from you and looking out the window. Now, you could really see the long, dark scars crossing all over his back. They all look fairly old, nothing from the past few months. You wanted to ask, but you didn’t want to seem even more rude.

      As if on cue, he quietly sighed and turned to you. “They’re from my dad. He didn’t ever like my attitude, so he ‘took matters into his own hands’. I haven’t seen him for half a year… I just hope the bastard is dead.” He wrapped his arms around your waist and bent down so he could rest his head on our shoulder, his hands running back over your gashes.

      “Now tell me why you do it.”

      You sighed, looking at yourself in the mirror. You looked like shit. The purple circles under your eyes couldn’t be hidden no matter what amount of concealer you used, your hair dye was fading, your skin loosing it’s warm tone.

      “That’s for another time.” His arms lost their grip around your waist, now hanging loosely around you, his fingers hooking on the top of your panties.

      “That time better be soon.” He kissed over the marks he made you from last night, walking out from your bathroom to sit on the bed. You watched as he ran his beautiful hands through his hair, his skin contrasting with the darkness of his hair. You forced yourself to look away and wash your face, collapsing back onto the bed again. 

      “Fuck this. We’re sleeping all day.” He chuckled at your words, letting a pleasant silence sit between you both as his hands slowly combed through your hair. You drifted off you sleep, your face buried into his neck, the blankets pulled up to your chin. He kissed your forehead one last time before dozing off again.

      Neither of you realized that Jungkook’s phone had a few messages and missed calls, all because you two were completely knocked out.

      And neither of you knew that everything was from his dad.

anonymous asked:

After watching It, I've started to crush on the guy who plays Patrick and now i'm wondering what it;'d be like to share a kiss with Patrick. Save me.

Save you…?

Or help you sin more???

In this inbox, the second answer is always the only answer!

Because I think Patrick’s kisses would change entirely depending on his mood. If he’s feeling playful, or manipulative, it might be long and slow. Or quick, passionate, a slow pull back to tease and let you come to him.

Or, if he was feeling particularly aggressive, he would crowd you into a corner, get you half on the ground, shoulders pressed into the wall, neck crooked almost uncomfortably. He holds your hips, presses them hard into his, and kisses you mindless. 

Either way, he’s always seeking the same thing, even if you can’t quite place it; He always wants what he wants and he always gets what he wants.

Haven’t Forgotten A Thing

I haven’t forgotten a thing.

Not the creases in your forehead

when you are trying to cope.

Not the crooked half smile

when you’re being cool.

Not the way you rambled

when you called me.

Not the tones of your voice,

not the swoop of your eyelashes,

the way you said my name

and all the sweet pet names

that you lavished on me.

I haven’t forgotten.

I tucked them inside a box,

locked them and buried them

so that someday

when the rain is especially dark

and the current especially strong,

I will have something to hold onto.


See what I did there??? ha ha ha ha 

Genre: Extreme fluff

Pairing: Reader/Jimin

Length: 648

Summary: While shopping in the mall with Jimin, he realizes that you had leaked while on your period. (aka every girl’s nightmare)

Originally posted by gawdjimin

With Jimin’s hands snaked around your waist, holding you securely next to him hip to hip, you admired the extravagant dresses the displayed mannequins wore in front of the shops. Jimin slightly bent down to squish your cheeks, smooching your cheeks as his eyes nearly disappeared as it crinkled into slim lines. “Jagi, do you want one of those dresses? I’ll buy you one of them someday~” he cooed in your ear, the soft plump lips grazing your earlobes as he mumbled sweet nothings for only you to hear.

You couldn’t help but giggle at Jimin’s cheesiness, burying your face in the crook of his neck and laughing your head off, trusting Jimin’s guidance to prevent you from running into things. As expected of him, his hands sneakily traced its way down your legs and to your bottom. You were just about to smack his hand away when he quickly jumped, jolting his hands up in the air and next to his head. “What’re you doing…?” You cackled, half glaring at him half self conscious, raising your eyebrows at his questionable attitude.

“Um… nothing, don’t worry about it,” he forced a smile, pressing his lips into a cat like smile. Jimin proceeded to take off his flannel shirt, his inner tank top revealing his impressive sculpted arms, before placing his hands on both of your shoulders and turning you around. “You’re cold, aren’t you jagiya? Here, wear this for now,” he bent his knees, his eyes solely focused on wrapping the shirt around your waist and tying it tightly. You had no idea what he was doing, and why on earth he would think you’re cold in 90 degrees weather, but you decided to go along with it. Maybe he was guilty about breaking your phone or something, you’d find out sooner or later.

Jimin immediately grabbed your hand into his slightly sweaty, small hands, squeezing them and dragging you towards the convenience store a block away. “Wait here, okay? Don’t move.” Jimin ordered you, ruffling your hair and placing a giant kiss between your eyebrows, all while you watched him with widened eyes. Your eyes followed his every move as he ran into the store, putting on his hood and raising his tank top’s collar up to cover his nose. His eyes were glued to the floor, somehow managing to find whatever aisle he was looking for. As Jimin walked towards the cashier, he frantically looked around, his eyes searching for something, as though he feared that someone was following him. Girls standing behind him in line started laughing and pointing, whispering things to each other as they looked at the green bag Jimin was holding. Jimin tilted his head down, eyebrows knotted in embarrassment as his cheeks flushed a light pink shade. He paid for whatever he had bought, too afraid to look at the cashier in the eyes, bolting straight out of the store. Huffing and puffing from the “great journey” he had just experienced, Jimin pushed his purchase into your arms, turning you around and pushing you towards the entrance of the store.

“What’re you doing?” You chuckled, opening the bag to look in it. Inside the green bag you spotted yellow pads- oh. Did you leak, you wondered. You reached down to pat the back of your shorts, finding them damp, immediately crinkling your nose in embarrassment as you felt blood rushing to your cheeks.

“It’s okay, jagi. I know you get embarrassed about these things, so I bought it for you instead. I’m such a good boyfriend, right? Okay now go change please, you owe me one,” Jimin rushed his words, whispering them to you as though someone would hear.

“Okay, okay, thank you my hero,” you emphasized your last words, finding a giggle escape Jimin’s lips, placing a gentle and short kiss onto his lips before running into the store’s restroom.

anonymous asked:

hi!! I love your writing :] but uhm can you write a sub!hoseok with slight bdsm please? thank you~


| ship: J-Hope + reader | word count: 1724  | genre: smut, angst | au: normal au |

Summary: Even placeholders get hurt.  

AN: This was so late im sorry ;;;;; i hope u like it anon! 

“Tiring isn’t it?”

He wipes his eyes quickly, mind working overtime to think of an excuse he could give a complete stranger for his teary eyes.

“You don’t need to make something up,” you chuckle, “go ahead, cry and scream if you want to, the bus isn’t due for a while.”

Hoseok manages a small smile in your direction and mumbles his thanks. He thinks he’s being rude to you, but then again, what kind of person still maintains any semblance of politeness when you’ve just found out that the person you’ve been with for 5 years has been cheating on you.

“For what it’s worth, any girl who gives up a guy like you is a complete moron.”

He chuckles but it sounds forced, tinted with his tears. It’s an automatic reflex for him, to laugh - to laugh even when it feels like everything’s gone to shit. Maybe that’s why he ended up like this. He held on to his tears and denied the fact that he was sad for so long that he ended up with breakdowns in inappropriate places like this.

“I do wish you’d get over her soon,” you continue, much to his chagrin. Sure, there was nothing wrong with you talking to him (no doubt, it was for his own good) but he just wanted everything to dull down and be quiet.

You sneak a peek at Hoseok, a sad smile tugging your lips, “so that I can finally make you happy.”

Keep reading

anonymous asked:

Alright so I have a few headcannons for you if you can be bothered :D 1) Weed shotgunning like UUUGHH. 2) Even being at Isak's while he's studying for his bio test & snuggling up against him & pestering him with tickles and neck kisses and then they go to sleep content and smiling softly. 3) The entire evening at the suite from the moment they step into the elevator. Sorry not sorry

OKAY. THIS FUCKING DRABBLE. I had completely done and my mouse hovering over publish and then poof! Computer crashed and It was gone. But, I loved the prompt so I re-wrote and here we are :)
“You do know that I invited you over here to help me study,” Isak murmured, dodging another kiss from Even. Instead of his lips, the kiss landed on his neck and that- that was okay too. “Not for you to distract me.”

“Hmm,” Even responded, flicking his tongue one more time at the small bruise he’d made. He sat up suddenly and raised his brows teasingly. “Would you rather me stop and go home?”

No. No absolutetly not. Already Isak was cold from Even’s sudden disappearance along his front. The distance seemed astronomical despite the mere inches. Isak responded with a forfeiting whine and leaned into Even to brush his lips.

Even, of course, the bastard, deepened it. Deepened to so much that before long, Isak was panting, his shirt was crooked and hitched half way up his chest, and his biology test was no closer to being studied than when he walked in the door.

But fuck, it was Even. Beautiful, talented Even who made him feel things that a 17 year old repressed boy would kill for. There was nothing that could compare to Even in terms of sway over Isak.

Okay. Maybe there was Sana’s wrath if Isak didn’t finish his half of the study guide. Actually, yeah, Sana could be pretty fucking terrifying.

Isak fell back and disentangled from Even. “Give me one hour.”

Even groaned dramatically, as if the worse thing in the world had just happened. He leaned back to prop himself against Isak’s headboard and got comfortable.

Sigh of relief. Isak squirmed around until he’s lying on his stomach with the biology text book and a set of half- completed notes in front of him.

So he works. He dutifully read the assinged passages and highlighted key terms, he wrote notes in the margins, and mapped outlines of the chapter; all like a good student should.

He was so engrossed in his studies, that he hardly noticed Even shifting positions on the bed.

Hardly noticed until it seemed like Even’s fingers decided to do some mapping of their own. Light fingers began running up and down the lines of Isak’s ass, swirling, creating nonsensical patterns on the sensitive flesh.

He threw a glare over his shoulder when he could feel himself start to respond to the teasing.

Even stared back unrepentantly, grin widening when suddenly it wasn’t just fingers swiping up and down, suddenly it was Even’s entire hand, rubbing and weirdly claiming.

“I fucking hate you,” Isak groaned, dropping his forehead to the bed. When the hands apply just a bit more pressure and grow more adventurous, Isak curses and squirms back, flipping the textbook shut with a resounding thud. He tossed the book and his notes off the bed. He moves until he’s throwing a leg over Even’s laid down form, settling his weight firmly upon Even’s waist. “You suck.”

Even laughs and brings careful hands up to play with the hem of Isak’s shirt. “Not yet… but I can.”

Isak’s mouth snaps shut then opens, then he drops down; kissing and biting at Even’s lips until Even has to pull his hair just a little bit to get him off. Even grins, laser eyes focused solely on Isak and it’s the best feeling in the world.

Suddenly the world has shifted upside down, because Even has flipped them and now Isak is gasping under the weight of Even’s lean body, vibrating because there is pressure right there and- and-

Well Isak doesn’t get much more studying done after that.