omg i love this shot


the war : the power of music tracklist  °☆ :*


“Hey Sammy!” Dean’s boots were heavy on the staircase. “Just gotta, uhh, grab somethin’,” he said, rushing towards the hallway that led to his room. “This is Y/N by the way,” he said over his shoulder. 

Sam looked up at the sound of your footsteps at the bottom of the stairs.

“Hi,” you said, stopping dead in your tracks. You expected Dean to have a good looking brother but wow… Sam was tall and handsome, and there was something kind and warm about his eyes.

Sam could feel himself gaping at you. He cleared his throat awkwardly. “Uhh… Hey.” There was a long silence where both of you searched for something to say. Sam was coming up empty, and just trying not to be obvious about staring at you.

“So, this is the bat cave, huh?” You looked around, rocking a little nervously on your feet. “Nice.”

He managed an awkward laugh, running a hand through his long hair. “Yeah. Yeah… it’s someplace to crash,” he said with a smile.

You felt a peculiar fluttering in your stomach as you looked at him and were able to return the smile. Just when you were searching for something else to say Dean came bustling back out.

“Alright. Let’s roll,” he said.

You held your hand out. “Cough it up, Winchester,” you said.

Dean begrudgingly dropped 50 dollars in your outstretched hand and you grinned a pleased smile at him. “Thank you!” You pocketed it. “Maybe next time you’ll think twice before betting against me.” You flashed another smile at Sam and he nearly staggered back from the spark in your eyes. “Nice to meet you finally, Sam.”

“Yeah! Yeah…” He trailed off as you strode out. “You too…”

“See you later, Sammy. We’re going back to the bar to play some more pool.”

“Dean! Wait.” Sam lowered his voice as his brother approached. “That’s your pool buddy?”

Dean nodded. “Yeah.”

Sam squinted at him. “Uh huh… And, uhh,” he cleared his throat. “You two–”

Dean raised his eyebrows at Sam. “What?”

Sam looked extremely uncomfortable. “Well… you know… you two are–?”

Dean smirked at his brother. “Are what, Sammy? Spit it out.”

Sam glared at him. “You… You know what–Dean,” he said.

Dean chuckled and finally decided to put Sam out of his misery. “We’re not doin’ the deed, so batter up, cowboy!” He wiggled his eyebrows at his brother and punched him in the arm.

“Are you coming or what? Those assholes aren’t going to hustle themselves!” you called down from the stairs.

“Coming!” Dean called, and with a final wink at Sam, both you and he disappeared through the heavy from door.

My thoughts on SPN episode 12x10:

  • Oooo two angel blades… it’s like Darth Maul’s double ended lightsaber, so we know this eye patch chick is evil.
  • Aw Dean and Cas are in a fight. Adorable. This is like every fanfic I’ve ever read. 
  • Sarcastic Cas gives me life.
  • Oh a Balthazar shoutout! Yaaasssss miss him. 
  • OMG Sam calling Dean on his impatience and then Dean storming in after Cas. I love it. 
  • The Winchesters going to defend Cas MY HEART.
  • Dean saying, “Why would you let him talk to you like that?” is all I’ve ever needed. 
  • Ooooo fem!Cas… still got those blue eyes.
  • This is an episode about an angel who fell in love with a human? IS THIS A DREAM????
  • Castiel has canonically been referred to as “gooey” - this is a good day. 
  • Dean calling Cas family is always a great thing. 
  • I am really pissed off that Castiel used some of his grace to heal this son of a bitch evil angel. 
  • The tidbit about Enochian magic burning away a part of your soul is hella. AND a reference to soulless!sam… this ep has EVERYTHING.
  • This redhead has been around for like 20 minutes and already understands that Sam will do anything to save Dean. She is on point. 
  • This Winchester pep talk to Cas is like five years too late buuuuut okay I’ll take it. 

In conclusion: This episode reminded me why I fell in love with SPN. 

anonymous asked:

Spoiler warning: Resending in case internet betrayed me. Phantom Thieves boys reacting to S/O who turned into a mouse. like in sh***o's Palace. but the boys remained in their human forms? Love your writing by the way.

Oh my god the mouse forms are my favorite. *A* Thank you for liking my writing and for sending this!!


  • Oh no.
  • Joker’s definitely the most placid out of the trio, and he delicately cradles S/O in his crimson leather-cover hands.
  • After inspecting them for a moment, he was able to discern that the ailment would inevitably diminish with time.
  • Although he tried with all his might to quell the urge to tease them, the light in his eyes flickered with amusement as he smugly pounced upon the opportunity, regardless of his better judgment.
  • “S/O, you look a bit… cheesy right now.”
  • Joker didn’t require them to verbalize their irritation; he could virtually feel it radiating from S/O, which only resulted in his mischievous smirk expanding further.
  • “That’s not a very mice look you’re giving me… why don’t you squeak your mind?”
  • Any punishment that S/O could dole out on him later was completely worth it when their nose and ears twitched from anger.
  • Joker abruptly elevated S/O to his face, causing them to stagger slightly. They were only a mere inch away from his half-masked face as he taunted, “What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?”
  • His only reply was the sensation of minuscule feet plastered on his lips in a feeble attempt to silence him.
  • A hearty chuckle emitted from Joker prior to placing a kiss atop S/O’s fur-covered head.
  • “Sorry, I couldn’t help myself. I’ll stop our little game of cat-and-mouse, for now. Once you return to normal and I can kiss you properly… I’ll find the answer to my previous question.”


  • Skull is extremely conflicted as he frantically nests S/O’s ‘rattled’ body in his gloved hands; naturally, he wants to help S/O revert to their natural form, however… they’re just so cute.
  • He curiously poked and prodded at them, provoking S/O to resound an indignant squeak.
  • A faint rosy hue peppered Skull’s cheeks as he commented, “Oh my god, you’re so freakin’ cute. N-not like you weren’t before, but… ya get what I mean.”
  • S/O tilted their petite head to the side, and Skull scratched behind their ear with a leather fingertip as he chuckled, “Heh, don’t worry, spells like this only last a few minutes.”
  • The tiny mouse nodded, and Skull gently placed them on his broad shoulder so he could adjust his gloves.
  • He then playfully added, “Maybe Captain Kidd can use you to cannonball Shadows in the meantime. Whaddaya say?”
  • S/O answered him by nipping Skull’s exposed earlobe out of annoyance, provoking a carefree snicker to slip past his lips.
  • “Heh, didn’t think so. That would be pretty sweet though, huh?”
  • He pivoted his head slightly to witness S/O’s contemplative posture; they had uplifted a paw to their chin, and they seemed to be lost in thought.
  • Skull’s voice was panicked as he implored, “W-wait, you’re not actually thinkin’ of doin’ it, right?!”
  • It was S/O’s turn to giggle (or rather, squeak), and Skull exasperatedly sighed, “Even as a tiny lil’ mouse you’re still a huge brat… you’re lucky you’re so effin’ cute.”


  • Fox is at a complete loss as to what action he should take next.
  • He opts for seating himself cross-legged in front of S/O’s rodent form for the purpose of maintaining a watchful eye on them, ensuring that he doesn’t accidentally step on them or that they somehow wind up lost.
  • Fox sealed his eyelids and smiled to himself as he mused, “Well, I suppose we must paws this infiltration until you regain your human form.”
  • S/O shook their head, yet their tail betrayed their irked facade and flicked with reluctant amusement.
  • Fox uplifted a clenched cyan hand to his lips, a low chuckle escaping from them. “I apawlogize my dear, but it would be a crime to waste such an opportune moment.”
  • S/O crossed their small arms and mimicked a pout. A sudden jolt of inspiration flashed through Fox’s mind, causing him to procure a sketchpad from his thief garb.
  • “S/O, please hold that pose for me. This ailment will last temporarily, so I must capture this riveting and adorable sight before it dissipates.”
  • S/O could hardly distinguish the shape of the pencil; it had become a blur, and the mere astonishment of the spectacle was enough to freeze S/O on the spot.
  • The majority of the shock was due to the fact that Fox preferred to bide his time when he sketched; however, his sheer speed at that moment was enough to potentially ignite his sketchpad with fervent flames.
  • “How are you capable of being so beautiful in any given form? I am indeed a lucky man…” Fox muttered, more to himself than S/O.
  • S/O was so flustered by his praise that they failed to realize they had relapsed to their genuine form a while ago and admittedly, Fox was quite smug about seizing the chance to etch a bashful S/O on paper.
  • They never did find out.
Bloody Hell

Summary: Protective!Newt stepping in when a guy at a bar gets a little too close for comfort.

Word Count: 1,904

Pairing: Newt x Reader

Tag List: @dont-give-a-bother @ly–canthrope @myrtus-amongst-the-stars @red-roses-and-stories @caseoffics @whatinbenaddiction @studyforthreehands @benniesgalaxy @thosefantasticbeast2

WARNING: Creepy bar guy (minimal), Language (minimal)

Special thanks to @drdanwrites and @fantasticnewtimagines for talking through this idea and encouraging me to write it!

Newt is boiling. Oh, he’s absolutely pissed as he downs another drink, finishing it off by running his bare forearm over the froth caught on his upper lip. You’re across the room, clearly busy with Queenie and Tina as you play pool, but this one man’s been circling the table, his eyebrows apparently eternally raised as he watches the three of you play through the round.

He can hardly hear whatever Jacob’s saying in his ear over the noise. Deafening swing music pounds through the one-room bar. The new Friday drink special dragged a giant, sweaty crowd of people in to celebrate, and Newt’s constantly bumping shoulders with strangers that reek of whiskey and tequila.

He long ago rolled up the sleeves of his white button-down, a style of shirt he now regrets choosing, and his hair’s a mess – ruffled time after time by a drunk Queenie so that strands of it are constantly falling into his eyes. Still, he cares about none of that, attention focused only on you, watching your reactions as the man circles his way toward you again when Queenie excuses herself to head to the bar.

This time, the man goes too far, not just shouting something over the music, but instead stepping closer, hand reaching out for your waist, fingers trailing over the sliver of bare skin you were already nervous about showing off tonight.

But it’s not the way the man smiles at you that sends Newt leaping to his feet, nor is it how his hand lingers on your waist or the way he leans in to whisper something in your ear. No, it’s the look you send Newt – eyes wide, mouth half open in a small O, pleading for help.

And it’s that helplessness that the man is taking advantage of that sends Newt springing to his feet, chest burning in anger and frustration and pure disgust.

“’Scuse me.” He mutters without even looking at Jacob, shoving his chair back. Who in the hell does this man think he is, talking to you – touching you ¬– when you don’t want him to?

A jazzy tune breaks into motion as Newt weaves through the crowd. His hands are rolled into fists, jaw clenched so tight his teeth hurt, and his stride parts the dancers swaying in his way. The crowd shifts, and, through the gap, you’re still staring at him, frozen in shock and terror.

And then Newt’s at the pool table, stepping around the side and reaching for the man’s shoulder without considering how much smaller he is, how easily this man could probably knock him out. No, the only thought running through his whiskey-clouded mind is getting this guy far away from you.

Which is why he reaches across the table and shoves the man, sending him reeling backwards, arms flailing to catch his balance.

“Man, what the hell?” The stranger spits, his own words slurred and pissed as he regains his footing. You reach for Newt, but he shrugs your hand off his shoulder, stepping between you and the man.

“She isn’t interested.” His voice is low, dangerous, wavering on a dark note he didn’t know he had in himself.

“How the fuck would you know?” The man steps toward Newt, shoulders back, eyes boring a hole in the shorter redhead.

But Newt doesn’t back down, not even when you tug on his hand. This man terrified you, insulted you, touched you without your consent. He deserves whatever’s coming to him. “Just leave.

“And if I don’t? You’ll… what? Make me?”

“Yes.” Newt’s so drunk, he knows, and he knows he’ll regret not just taking your hand and leading you to another bar, but he also knows that there is not a single situation he’ll leave you undefended in, including one where he is clearly overpowered.

Keep reading


Film-maker Ceyda Torun grew up in Istanbul until the age of 11 and is now based in Los Angeles. Her feature-length documentary debut Kedi (Turkish for “cat”) is about seven of the street cats that roam Istanbul. They are cared for collectively by the community in exchange for mouse catching, affection and “good energy”. Each cat has a distinct personality: Sari, “the Hustler”, is a tabby who inventively seeks out food for her kittens; Psikopat, “the Psycho”, is a fierce black and white cat with a strong sense of territory; Gamsiz, “the Player”, is a resourceful short-haired who has charmed the neighbourhood baker with his moxie.

A surprise box-office hit (the film has made more than $2.7m in the US), Kedi has a 97% rating on Rotten Tomatoes and was described by IndieWire as “the Citizen Kane of cat documentaries”. (x)

Identical Quadruplets

Based On These Aesthetics


These will most likely be expanded on at a later date (to some extent).


It took me until midterms of Fall semester of my second year of college to realize that all the men in my art activities weren’t all the same person.

I met Virgil Sanders first. He was in my dance class. He and I were cut from the same cloth—we tended to lurk in the corner. When we reached the ballroom unit—our second unit after ballet—he and I were partners since everyone else latched onto their friends the moment the teacher told everyone to find partners. We became good friends after that. We were the odd ones out. But it was easier to be the odd one out when there were two of you.

Next I met Roman in Theatre Club. I was in it for fun, but he was a Theatre major. He took it ridiculously seriously, but I didn’t mind. I thought he was Virgil and Virgil liked theatre more than dance so he opened up. I was wrong but apparently Roman never bothered to correct me, even when I’d greet him as Virgil.

Logan Sanders was in my private lessons group. We had one teacher—who played probably every instrument on the planet—and there were a couple of us all taking from that teacher. Logan was a violinist, and I played the flute. So we sat on opposite sides of the room. I’d wave and smile every time we made eye contact, still thinking he was Virgil. He was more reserved during music so I wondered if Virgil just didn’t like it as much as theatre. Logan had glasses, so I figured Virgil just needed them to read music, or see better or something.

I met Patton last. He was in my painting/drawing class that I was taking for fun. He too wore glasses, but again I thought that he was just Virgil and Virgil needed glasses for more up-close activities. I also guessed that Virgil liked art more than dancing because he was animated and talkative and overly friendly when I saw him in class the first day and sat down next to him.

Let’s just say that the day of Theatre Club’s first play was… interesting.

It was midterms, and the Theatre Club was putting on our first performance. They weren’t big performances, like the theatre classes’ productions, but ours was fun. We’d all written it together—a horribly confusing hodge-podge dramatic comedy combining as many Shakespeare plays as possible.

Due to my tiny size and youthful appearance, I’d been shoved into the role of Juliet. Roman—who I still thought was Virgil—was Hamlet. He’d volunteered for the part in contrast to me being forced.

We were in the smaller theater on campus in the arts building for the performances. We had three of them—one Friday night, and two on Saturday, in the afternoon and the evening.

It was Friday night and I was backstage, putting my makeup on. I already had on the frilly, floaty white dress that was my costume. Roman-who-I-thought-was-Virgil was parading around in his costume—a white coat with a red sash and black slacks—being the self-appointed director of the play and self-proclaimed stage manager. No one in the Club really minded. He had the most experience, apparently, and it was easier just to let him do what he wanted.

He clapped. “Places, everyone! The house is full and we’re scheduled to start in five minutes!”

I closed my eyes. Freshmen started panicking. He really should have worded it differently. After sighing and shaking my head, I finished my makeup quickly but deliberately and backed away from the mirror.

He placed his hand on my bare shoulder where the thin straps of my dress kept it from falling off. “Are you ready, my dear friend?” he asked.

I blinked. “Ready as I’ll ever be, Verge,” I remarked.

All he did was smirk and stroll off to consult with the actual stage manager after patting my shoulder.

The chorus girls—mostly freshmen who hadn’t earned their place and seniors who didn’t have time to memorize lines anymore—all rushed out onto the stage. I was hiding behind the curtains to watch since I would join them shortly in the Capulet ball.

I wished I could have been Lady Beatrice from Much Ado About Nothing—the only Shakespeare play I actually liked—but no, I still looked like I was fourteen so I was forced to play the most cliché role on the planet by everyone else who all fawned over me like I was a toddler playing fairy-princess and assigned me to the character without letting me have any input.

It was okay. I’d get back at them later by writing a play where everyone but me died. That’d be fun.

With a sigh, I strapped my masquerade mask onto my face and strode out into the dancers. The ballet unit of my dance class definitely helped me appear graceful, even though usually I was everything but. I spun around through the dancers as they backed away from me and more Romeo and Juliet characters joined me onstage. Including the junior playing Romeo—who I thought was incredibly obnoxious and would rather have been playing opposite Virgil. At least, who I thought was Virgil at the time.

I was just spinning around on the ball of my foot—

When I nearly fell over.

I’d caught sight of someone familiar.

Or, I suppose, some-three.

They all looked like Virgil—in fact, one of them was Virgil. I could tell because of the black jacket and bangs brushed down over his forehead, and the fact that his hair was suddenly purple, which was a very Virgil thing. The other two were in glasses. One had a gray cardigan tied around his shoulders and the other was wearing a necktie with his polo shirt.

My mind started reeling as I continued through the rest of the scene and then got to flee off the stage.

I looked for Apparently-Not-Virgil the entire rest of the time I was offstage. We had a couple scenes together but we never seemed to be on the same side of the offstage at the same time and it wasn’t like I could just ask him in the middle of the scene.

When the play was over, I rushed out to the house, barefoot, to find the three men who all looked like my friend.

When I reached them Hamlet-Not-Virgil was standing with them, letting Cardigan-Glasses-Not-Virgil fawn over him and shower down compliments like a spring storm. Necktie-Glasses-Not-Virgil was blankly holding a bouquet of four roses, looking disinterested. Purple-Hair-Definitely-Virgil was sharing a similar expression.

“Okay!” I exclaimed, pushing my way over to them. “Someone’s gotta explain something to me. I thought you were all the same person!”

Definitely-Virgil snorted. “These are my brothers,” he remarked, giving a sweeping gesture to the other three. “That one’s Roman.” He pointed to Hamlet-Not-Virgil. “This is Logan.” His finger moved to Necktie-Glasses-Not-Virgil. “And that… is Patton.” He nodded at Cardigan-Glasses-Not-Virgil, who was still happily telling Hamlet-Not-Virgil—or rather, Roman—what an amazing performance he’d given. Roman was listening with a Gaston-like expression on his face, drinking in the praise with rapture.

“Okay,” I began to Virgil. “Because I have you in dance, Hamlet over here in Theatre Club, Professor Necktie in my music lesson group, and Mr. Sunshine in my painting class—and I thought you were all the same person!”

That got Logan to chuckle and diverted Patton’s attention to me. “Hey!” he greeted, throwing his arms around me. “You did such a fantastic job, my little Juliet! I’m so proud of you!”

“She thought you, me, Logan, and Roman were all the same person, Pat,” Virgil informed him.

Patton started laughing and ruffled my hair. “Well isn’t that sumthin’, sweetie!” he exclaimed. “I can’t believe we didn’t realize that sooner!”

“We did,” Logan muttered. “Virgil told us all after the first week that he suspected she’d met all of us.”

“Okay, but why do you all look the same?” I interrupted.

“Identical quadruplets. Obviously,” Logan answered curtly.

I ran my hands through my loose hair. “Alright. Well… it has been a day. I’m going to go home and question the nature of human existence. See you all next week.” I waved at them and moved to go back to my car and drive home.

Once I put my shoes on, grabbed my stuff from backstage, and broke out of the crowds in the auditorium house, I felt like I could breathe.

“Hey!” a familiar voice called. I turned around to see Virgil extracting himself from getting crammed between two people and jogging over to me. “Lemme walk you to your car. It’s getting dark out and I wouldn’t feel right about letting you go alone.” I jerked my head in an indication to follow me. Virgil fell into step beside me. “Sorry about the mix-up. Honestly I thought you’d figured out your other classmates weren’t me.”

I shrugged. “Not your fault,” I replied. “Identical quads. That’s so rare that I never would have thought of it.”

“Yeah… my bad.” He paused for a moment. “I’m the youngest. I’m twenty minutes younger than Patton. Thirteen younger than Logan. And seven younger than Roman.” There was another awkward pause while he pushed the door open for me. “Hey, you did a good job tonight, by the way. Before I forget.”

“Thanks,” I muttered. Identical quads, I thought, still surprised. It certainly explained a lot. The different attitudes, the glasses, the wardrobes. So much more about my first fourth of the year made so much more sense.

We walked in silence until we reached my car—an old SUV with an all-metal body. Virgil, impulsively for him, wrapped his arms around my shoulders. I hugged him back.

“See you Monday?”

“See you Monday,” I confirmed. “Unless you’re coming to the other performances.”

Virgil wrinkled his nose. “Watching Roman perform once is enough,” he mumbled.

I chuckled. “Monday it is then.”

I climbed into my car, waved, and drove off for home.

Let Him Go

Request: “I feel like we ask for this a lot but please you have to do a part 2 of missed shots or i might just die” + other sweet requests!

Word Count: 2,716

Pairing: None

Part 1

Tag List: @dont-give-a-bother @heneed-somemilk @caseoffics @wefracturedmotivation @ladyredmayne @stevette60 @myrtus-amongst-the-stars

Requests are currently open! Feel free to send one in

You slip inside with a group of men you’ve never seen before. Thankfully, they assume you’re a friend of a friend of a friend that they’ve just never met. The alcohol they drank on the way may have helped a little, too. You can smell it on their breaths as the men laugh at some obscene joke.

What crude people. Judging by their accents, they must be some of Tina’s friends. You huff out a breath as you slide along the wall away from them and try to tune out their thoughts.

Strings of twinkling lights hang from the ceiling, draping down to the guests’ heads, remaining just high enough to be out of reach of any mischievous teenager. Tables covered in white cloths dot the small area of the room that isn’t a dance floor. Vases with red roses sit in the center of the tables, the only pop of color in the room aside from the matching walls and black chairs. A band plays a simple swing song near the front of the room, right next to the empty dance floor. People filter in from outside, entering the already warm reception room.

You approach the bar near the back of the room and order a glass of iced water for now. You may need the courage of alcohol later, but you need a clear mind for a little while. Taking the drink with a thanks, you wander over to rose colored wall. Leaning against it, you watch people wander in, laughing and talking with one another, enjoying the day. You sip your drink and count the amount of people you know.

Only about ten people, not that that surprises you. Most of the guests seem to be New Yorkers. Whenever one of the people you know ventures close to the bar, you bow your head and busy yourself with adjusting your dress or fixing the roses in the vase near you. No one approaches you, to your relief.

Not until a man, for whatever reason, approaches you, stepping in front of you when you look at the hem of your dress and tug it down.


Keep reading

drunken truth

📓 : angst

💌 : 772 words

📌 : [i was in the mood to write and to swear i am sorry omg]

“He doesn’t love you.”

One shot.

“He is just being nice to you.”

Two shots.

“He doesn’t deserve someone like you.”

Three shots.

“You’re good at fucking things up.”

Four shots.

“You’re used to being that close friend. You’ll do well.”

You giggle, feeling pity for yourself as you took your fifth shot of this drink that you don’t even remember its name. It tastes nice, but the bitterness that is causing your heart to ache doesn’t seem to go away even though you’re already drunk.

This was your routine. You’ll feel fine most of the days, and then you’ll sulk in a pub when you feel like being alone and drown in your thoughts, hoping anything that won’t make you sober will make you forget Chanyeol.

But the funny thing is that most of the time, you keep on leaving your keys here, your wallet, but never him.

Chanyeol, you fucking asshole.

You looked at your phone and it’s already 12:34 in the evening. You wanted to go home, but none of your friends seem to pick up. You had one person in mind but you’re not pretty sure if it’s a good idea to call him in the middle of the night.

See. You’re not even together and yet you’re already being a burden.

You sighed as you scrolled through your contact list. His name appeared on the screen and you let out another sigh before clicking the ring button.

You owe me one thing, so I might as well bother you.

Your call was immediately answered within three rings. He’s probably working on a song right now which he always do around this time, you thought.

“Hey. What’s up?” His voice seems like he had just woken up. And God, you feel so embarrassed for disturbing him. Fuck.

You wanted to hang up but you thought that it would make everything worse than it is right now. You fumbled a gum in your pocket and chewed it, hoping it will make you less sober to sound fine and convincing.

“Ah, nothing!” You exclaimed. “I was just wondering where you are right now…?” You had no idea you were slurring your words. You stood up to get a proper reception but you stumbled upon a chair. A lady asked if you were okay. You gave her a smile, brushed it off and left.

Chanyeol sighed over the phone and said, “No. Where are you? I’m going to pick you up.”

“It’s fine. You don’t have to. I was just asking if-“

“I said, where are you?

You huffed in annoyance, but you know you couldn’t resist him. “The usual. The one that is like, five minutes away from your block.”

“Alright,” then he hung up.

You scratched your head, feeling worse than before. You were a complete mess and you had no courage to face Chanyeol like this.

But why would he even care? He never looked at you the same as you look at him. You loved him for almost two years now, and you don’t know whether to feel sad for yourself or if you feel like you deserve a pat on your shoulder that you haven’t fucked anything up between you two because of your stupid attachment. You’re far from his ideal type. You know him too well if he likes someone, and your heart clenches every time he rants about this girl who wouldn’t even take the chance to date him. You’re used to be that friend who spends the night in his dorm, giving advice on how he should be treating women romantically or how he can get over about a girl who dumped him a few weeks ago.

These women are stupid, you thought. Because if you dated him, you’ll probably be the one who will spoil the fuck out of him because you know that he will do anything for the people that he loves dearly.

And you hate the fact that you’re hurting because of it and you hate that you have fallen deeply for Chanyeol.

You were lost in your thoughts until someone was waving his hand in front of your face. It’s him. He wrapped around his jacket and walked you out. You felt your sleepiness taking over you and after that, you don’t remember anything anymore.

You’re quite certain that he tucked you into sleep and heard the words I love you that came from his mouth last night, but you refuse to believe it because you were absolutely drunk,

And it is too good to be true.