salt inhalation

Downstream - ~1k, post 12.23 / pre s13, angst

The ocean is a flat plane of glass, and the boat doesn’t cause a single ripple as it glides along the surface. Dean has no idea how they managed to drift out so far, but somehow they’ve completely lost sight of the shoreline. The only indication of the horizon is the thinnest, faintest line; a stray hair caught in a watercolour canvas.

It’s light out, the air around him a diffusion of pink and gold and reflected back in the water’s mirror surface, but he can’t find the sun. Perhaps it’s nearing dawn.

Dean’s leaning back against the bow, hands behind his head. The gunwales are kind of digging into his shoulders, but he’s smiling.

His companion is silent and placid where he sits near the stern. The light is catching the tips of his hair, setting off the dark with glints of gold. Clasped hands hang between splayed knees.

Dean inhales thick, salt air and lets his eyes drift closed. “This was a good idea. We needed a vacation.”

“You deserve it.”

Dean hums, contented. “You too. Hell, we’ve all been through the ringer lately.”

Cas nods. “I suppose we have.”

Their voices float easily through the air, but in the space all around them it’s perfectly quiet, save the occasional soft, gentle slap of water against the boat.

“Seriously, we shoulda done this years ago.”

“When?” Cas asks, the corner of his mouth quirking up. “After the apocalypse, but before the leviathan? Maybe between the Mark of Cain and Amara?”

“Anybody ever tell you you’re kind of a downer, Cas?” Dean replies peaceably.

“Once or twice.”

Another long and companionable silence stretches out between them. They’ve been out here a while now and the sun probably should’ve risen, but it’s hardly a concern: the glow of light around them is warm enough. In fact, Dean could probably afford to take off his jacket, were he not far too comfortable to move.

“Dean. How long do you plan to stay out here?”

Dean cracks one eye. “What, you got somewhere to be?”

Cas’ answering smile is fond, and only slightly tinged with sadness. “No.”

“That’s what I thought.” Dean drops his eyelid.

“It’s just, there are things you need to do.”

Both Dean’s eyes open now, and he leans all the way up to sit on the hard, wooden seat. The boat rocks and sways. “Yeah, Cas, there’s always something. But you are cutting into our hard-earned relaxation time, man. You keep this up, you can kiss that second date goodbye.”

“This is a date?”

Dean gives him a look. “You take a lot of platonic pre-dawn rowboat rides?”

“I suppose not,” Cas says, and he casts his eyes out to the water. “I’m just a little surprised.”

“But not disappointed.”

There’s a faint blush dusting Cas’ cheeks. Maybe it’s just the light. “No.”

“Because you love me.” Cas’ eyebrows rocket up to his hairline, and Dean shrugs defensively. “Hey, you said it, not me.”

“Well, that’s certainly true.”

Dean’s gotta give him that one. “Touché.”

Cas is looking at him patiently, waiting.

Feeling rather like a third-grader forced to answer a question he wasn’t listening to in the first place, Dean casts his eyes down, suddenly intensely interested in the rough woodgrain below his feet. The fact that the boat has no oars is a mild curiosity.

“I dunno,” Dean shrugs. “Probably shoulda said it then. Guess I just figured you knew.”

“Because you’re always so open and honest with your feelings.”

That’s two points to Cas.

Dean plays for time a while longer, scraping his boots through the coarse, black sand he tracked in from the beach. “Alright, well, there it is. Better late than never, right?”

This time Cas doesn’t bother trying to hide the heartache in his smile.

They sit in silence again, for minutes or maybe hours. Eventually Cas looks left to the non-existent sun. “It’s probably time to go back,” he says quietly.

Dean shakes his head. “Nah. Little longer.”

“You have responsibilities, Dean.”

Dean scoffs. “What, you mean Rosemary’s baby?”

“He didn’t ask to be what he is.”

“He’s the literal antichrist, Cas.”

Whatever he is,” Cas says firmly, “good or evil, he needs someone. He needs guidance.”

“He needs a bullet in the neck.”

Cas shakes his head. “You don’t mean that. He’s an innocent, Dean. And he needs you and Sam, now that I can’t be there for him anymore.”

Something flickers in Dean’s chest, like a moth beating against his heart. He frowns, confused, and finds Cas’ eyes.

The intent expression on Cas’ face gradually shifts to one of resignation. He sighs softly. “You forgot again, didn’t you?”

Dean jolts awake to a blaring car horn.

Sam is driving, the hideous sodium streetlights casting harsh lines of shadow across his face when he turns to the passenger seat. “You were talking again.”

Dean doesn’t answer as he reacquaints himself with the deep, aching chasm in his chest.

Sam swallows visibly, shadows of raindrops on the windshield like pockmarks on his skin. “Do you wanna talk about it?”

Dean grits his teeth. “Yeah, Sam. There were these clowns. Like thirty of ‘em, and they all kept piling out of this Volkswagon.” The lie slides easy off his tongue.

Sam throws up a hand in surrender. “Okay.”

Anger is easier. Anger is always easier.

Dean closes his eyes tight and tries to chase the soft, pink-gold light of the ocean. He inhales Baby’s familiar leather scent, desperate for a whiff of salt air.

He tries to forget.


(Part 1) (Part 2) (Part 3) (Part 4) (Part 5)

let the relentless waves crash into you. let them take you under; the droplets of water slipping into the crevice of your lungs as you take your last breath before you can no longer feel the sun on your skin. close your eyes and inhale the salt water of the ocean as it anchors you in its abyss. feel it coursing through your veins as it cleanses your soul, returning you to the person you were before the darkness ever imprisoned you.

 Ten.

It began with gold lined chandeliers and red stained lips, the cacophony of heels crashing down on pristine, smooth marble as the tendrils of a piano inflection rose in the distance.

Her fingers were digging into his waist as he spun her around and around and around, cinched around the fabric of his robes as her vision blurred, turned into a haze of silver and steel while they rotated the room.

She felt something gather underneath her skin, unrelenting, ruthless, vicious––unadulterated power pooling like toxic through her bloodstream.

The chandelier trembled.

“Let us rise together,” he whispered in her ear.

.

Nine.

Immortality dripped from him fingertips, dark and as thick as blood and she watched as it trickled down the underside of his wrist, stark against his skin as he skated his teeth across his thumb, mouth stained a bright, tainted red.

There once was a girl who would have run at the sight–the doe eyed girl with chrysalis like naivety with gold lined dreams, who stood still as the world fell around her, throat locked in a silent scream as it crumbled in an onslaught of spilled blood and rust stained coronets, monarchies colliding as the dust sprinkled, caked it in dirt and dried salt, until it all was nothing.

That girl was dead.

She set her teeth to glass and watched immortality drench her lips in a gleam of ichor and salt, watched it seep through her veins like sin.

.

Eight.

Her lips were painted a crystalline, shimmering pink that gleamed underneath the sunlight in streaks of glitter and gold, eyeliner smeared in a precise curve and she sighed against his shoulder blades, hummed across the third button of his shirt, carefully unbuttoned so the sharp of his collarbones glinted.

“What do you want?” he whispered, threaded his hand in hers as they passed shops, bakeries, felt the world surge in a blur of movement and violet tinted skies untethered chaos and a unified beat that pushed onward, onward still that was on the verge of stilling.

He could sense it, the fear, stark in the air like oxygen harshening just before the pour.

“Everything,” she said, and there was a moment, a split second where she held his gaze, relentless, vicious, and a thought grazed his mind, i did this, i did this, i did––

He could see demons coiling dark underneath the lining of sunlight bleeding through atmosphere in a burst of incandescence like a falling crown, of angels spiraling in a vicious haze of glory, halos tilted towards the ground before the fallout, a immaculate, glittering prism shattering at the velocity; chaos lingering in the air like the the click of a bullet pushed in place, the split second before annihilation tears through the barricade, constellations obliterating, rattling, as she unleashes it all.

.

Seven.

Her lips were chapped.

She licked them and tasted the familiar acridness of steel slicing through mouth as she swallowed, blood dripping down in a straight trickle of scorched salt across her skin as she stood in the midst of ash and fire and smoke.

“Darling,” Tom said, the pristine sweep of his robes swiping against disintegrating marble, heel crushing down–harder, harder until it shattered.

“I need–” Hermione swallowed emptiness, cold, harsh oxygen, let it cut through her throat. “I need to breathe.”

He shifted closer, threaded his fingers through the waves of her hair and she inhaled the thick, heady scent of blood seeping through veins through his skin and the sharp, sharp hint of spearmint embedded in the slope of his throat tilted upward, and she could see his pulse pounding across his skin, stretched taut against skin, like an ancient, ancient drumbeat that signified the end–sky collapsing in a vigorous, amplifying cry as the sea falls along with it, drowns the world in salt and ash and that of obliterating comets, incinerating stars spiraling in an endless, bottomless downfall.

I could kill you, she thought, imagining slashing his throat open, watching his eyes still wide, wandering as blood ran down his skin, coated the battlefield in fresh, smearing remains. I could kill you.

“Yes,” he whispered against her throat. “You don’t think I don’t know what game you’re playing, darling?”

“The end,” she said. “The end must come.”

“No,” he said, twisting her wand until it pressed against the flesh of his throat, a pale strip of smooth, smooth skin that she wanted, god, wanted to run her teeth over until it bruised, wanted– “First, retribution.”

“Do you love me, Hermione?” he hissed, pressed it deeper, deeper still.

“Tom,” she began.

“I would burn the world for you,” he said. “I would turn it all into ashes if it meant you were mine.”

No,” she hissed, low and vicious. “You would burn the world all on your own.”

“And you would love me anyway,” he said, a ghost of a smile gracing his lips, and she wanted to tear him apart, watch his throat open and nothing but blood and beautiful, glorious lies spill out until there was nothing but emptiness, wanted him to press her against plaster, wall cutting into her shoulder blades, mouth lining mine mine mine.

She pressed the wand deeper into his skin until it scorched at his skin, but he didn’t flinch at the sparks flying into his artery, at her wand dangerously cutting off his air supply.

“Kill me,” he said, and in one swift, fluid motion, snatched the time tuner caught in the folding of her robes and snapped it in half, twisted the wand until the force hit her like a sucker punch her ribs––watched as time shifted into place, air trembling until it held her down, locked her throat like steel anchoring her ribcage towards the ground, gravity tethering her in place as if her blood had shifted to mercury––poison sharp through her veins.

She screamed.

The sound echoed stark through the air, across silence, until all she could feel was static against her throat in electric, crackling waves as panic set in because she could never, ever get back.

“Was that not your purpose, girl from the future?” he said, calm, so eerily calm. “Kill me, Hermione Granger.”

Her fingers closed around his throat, watched veins close and sputter and blood rush underneath her nails in an onslaught of forming bruises, lavender black under her touch.

The agony began to set in now, it was like four thousand shreds of shrapnel slicing into her chest at exhale, running against her ribs, across her spine, splits against her lungs until her breath comes in harsh, faltering bursts, because she remembered–of a boy with glittering emerald eyes that glinted underneath the luminescence of his Expelliarmus, scorching red sparks landing against his skin as the tendons of his jaw snapped, the end, the end, the end she felt the ground shift beneath her feet, salt staining her cheeks, coating her hair in a pattern of drenched, dripping anticipation––her throat locking up as she tilted her head up, the end, the end, the end––

“What do you want?” she said.

“All of you,” he said, dragging long fingers down the side of her face. “Always, always you.”

She pressed a hand to his chest, felt it glow red hot against the fabric of his robes, singe off the seal until it was falling, spiraling ash.

Hermione felt something deep in her twist, incinerate with the unraveling of her veins, of a hollowness buried beneath her ribcage stir and shift with every hiss of oxygen from beneath teeth. Control, control it murmured, vicious, venomous.

The world she once knew had vanished, all that was left was the scent of smoke and the memory that once, once she had stood still as it all fell, silence eroding across atmosphere like a sharp, sharp afterthought.

Hermione raised her hand, sent raw, crackling power from her arteries towards the ground; rage glistening in the intensity of four thousand seething suns, her blood boiling and bursting as fire bloomed from around them like blossoms from cracked pavement, flames blazing brighter, brighter still as she clenched her teeth and extended her fingers until the scent of burning corpses filled the air, splitting down on her lip as she ignited the ruins around them and watched them evaporate to nothing but salt and glitter and dust.

“There,” she said. “There.

The wand pressed against his throat dropped, and a smile graced Tom’s mouth.

.

Six.

And it all happened a split second, with Dumbledore’s  wand angled at Tom so bright, bright green shot out of his wand like the crackle of gunfire and surged towards his chest, buttons open to reveal inches of pale, milky white skin along the slope of his neck, and she was rushing forward before logic could anchor her to the ground, muscles snapping, splintering as she shifted, faster, faster––

“No!” she screamed, extended her hand out and watched Dumbledore’s body enveloped in flames, flickering underneath the fading gleam of dusk approaching, splitting through the universe in a blur of amber and rose tinted gold, setting the horizon in a sea of shadows.

Save the world, she remembered, memory cutting through her mind like a dull, rusting butter knife through skin, and it bruises, slices at her ribcage; of time and the spaces between seconds, save the world, Dumbledore had said, save yourself.

She let it play in the background in a never ending mantra, save the world, save yourself, save the world, save yourself, save–––

And then her fingers were digging into his hair, inhaling salt and steel and blood as her thumb grazed the bruises left on his throat, battered and the violet-blue of split open veins, of nails pressed against arteries until blood runs to the surface, pools against the expansion of throat, her name etched on the surface, mine mine mine.

His lips collided onto hers, teeth on the edge of her mouth and there’s something tearing at the edge of her chest, glass splintering across the expansion of her ribcage, cut me open, it murmured, cut me open and set me ablaze. And her waist were closing onto his, hip bones sharp, stark as she pinned them down, red crescent marks lingering across bruised veins and his mouth is trailing a tantalizing path down the slope of her throat tilted upwards, skin gleaming underneath the fading of light streaming through bodies and snapped, splintered wands, through burst open insides, torn, unraveled hearts in a straight, immaculate line, drenched in gasoline smearing against dust.

The pillar of smoke grew higher, burned at her throat, scorched at her lungs.

Save the world, save yourself.

.

Five.

“Don’t,” she said. “Don’t fucking touch me.”

Her throat was raw and bloody as she screams, lungs clenching as she tilts her head to stare up at him, retinas bloodshot, veins apparent––violet and purple and ink black underneath the translucent skin stretched taut beneath her eyes, and there’s the chaotic ascend of thick, thick hair just above her shoulder blades, fingernails drawn tight against the fabric of her skirt, and god, he thought, god––

“You thought,” he said, edge of his mouth curling up. “You thought you could save me.”

“You’re a monster,” she hissed, shifting so a distance was placed between them, and he could almost feel magic running, dark, raw, vigorous, through her bloodstream–––like the crackle of electricity coursing through a circuit, of spilled blood gleaming underneath streetlights, a line of bodies across pavement.

“Aren’t we all?” he said.

.

Four.

She remembered, it comes back in dreams and pieces like shattered glass––of a boy with coke bottle glasses and green eyes, how he fell. It plays in slow motion, almost, the end, of magic slamming into his chest like a sucker punch, wand tumbling from between his fingertips as he descended, how grief had cut into her chest like the edge of rusting, dull knife, sawing against the outline of her ribcage until she screamed.

Even heroes fall, the silhouettes whisper, in vivid, sharp visions that linger like an salt dripping wound––skin sliced open, blood pooling at her surface, ten million lacerations.

The end, the end, the end, she remembered.

.

Three.

“Mudblood,” Abraxas hissed between clenched teeth, inched closer so she could almost taste the acrid of his breath.

Don’t,” she said, tugging on the cuff of Tom’s pristine, buttoned suit jacket until her mouth brushed the outline of his ear. “You’re better than that.”

“Did you hear me, mudblood?” Abraxas continued. “I wasn’t aware spreading your legs had a correlation with your hearing.”

Her head tilted up, muscles and sinew snapping, splitting until her teeth are running across her bottom lip until her canines cut against flesh and there was the taste of blood and steel and rust eroded her mouth, salt scraping against canines.

She extended her hand and pressed it across the slope of his throat and sent magic through her veins, watched his skin split as she drew her fingers back, arteries splintering underneath her touch as blood spilled, sloshed over the velvet carpet, seeped through the floorboards, like lies from a red stained mouth, connotations, denotations spiraling from between sharp, sharp teeth.

Don’t,” she whispered, “ever say that word again.”

Abraxas drew back, breathless, a trail of blood smearing the edge of his chin.

“Say it,” Tom said, pinning, magic slammed across the inside of the Abraxas’ chest, insides writhing, trembling as she ran her fingertips across the slope of his collarbone, the expansion of gleaming skin until his veins stuttered and groaned against the downward tilt of his spine snapping towards the fixation of chandelier incandescent and silver tinted glitter before she bent down and whispered softly, “Don’t.”

There was a sliver of crimson near the edge of his jaw, he couldn’t tell if it was lipstick or just blood.

.

Two.

“Mine,” he said, fingers digging into her hipbones, hard enough to brand her with purple and violet blue marks that lingered in her skin for the days in the aftermath.

It was always before and after, before, of when she first saw his face under the gleam of sunlight beaming across the glass of the time turner–––eyes dark, ruthless–––the kind of boy who would tear your heart out of your chest with sharp, brilliant teeth, mouth brushing over your chest in a fleeting millisecond of sin and glory  and watch your insides spill onto pavement, the kind of boy that comes with warning signs, neon embedded underneath skin, danger danger danger, tires screeching against asphalt like the beginning of a car crash.

And after, when it felt almost like familiarity––of holding a knife to her throat until all she could feel was steel splitting skin, of relief.

.

One.

“You,” he said the first time he saw her, as if he knew her. “It’s you.”

.

Zero.

“Save the world,” the portrait said, voice soft, eyes bright, bright blue––so bright that it obliterated at her retinas when she raised her chin, salt trickling down skin and seeping into her mouth until all she could taste was grief. She could feel the time turner cutting into her palm, leaving red, red marks along her bones, felt it tick, tick, time blurring away until it was nothing, it is nothing, she thought, teeth digging into her bottom lip with such fervor that blood burst across her mouth, time is nothing, when you are the only one left.

“Save yourself.”

.

Negative One.

.

It ended with green eyed boys with hair whipping in every direction as the wind serrated into her lungs, with wand held tight in their fist in a last fit of foolish, foolish hope, knuckles stark white against the backdrop of blood and gore and death––settling over them like a sea of silhouettes.

Of red haired boys with their fingers carded in her hair, whispering, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry as if it meant anything but I’m sorry it had to end like this, I’m sorry this is the end., like a confession.

She exhaled, feeling something stutter and still at the sounds, of screaming, of crying, of the silence that followed––a sharp, vicious burst of forced calm, it dripped and drenched her surroundings in venom, set her heart into overdrive.

There was nothing more terrifying than silence.

And she watched him, his back as he walked, shoulder blades tilted back, head held high towards the end, and it would haunt her dreams, linger in her vision in a barrage of incandescent, scorching color, playback in slow motion like a broken tape, nebulous, blurred until the end, of blood smeared across the expanse of his cheek, droplets sharp, stark, clarity tearing at the edge of her chest like a surge of raw, raw electricity,, of  the scent of salt thick across her lungs when oxygen escaped from between her teeth –––of when he looked back.

“Let us fall together,” he said.










sweater weather ❅ peter parker

request: inspired by ‘sweater weather’ by the neighbourhood.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GCdwKhTtNNw

word count: 694


All I am is a man
I want the world in my hands
I hate the beach
But I stand in California with my toes in the sand

  With both of his warm and calloused hands slipped into each of your own, he guided you cautiously through the throng of trees among the path. The slight breeze cooled down your aching limbs, causing the smallest of goosebumps to cover your exposed flesh. The golden grains of earth tumbled over and onto each other as you made your way through your surroundings. The sun bore its airily pleasant radiation down onto the grounds, kissing your skin comfortingly. Peter continued to walk you through the vegetation and sand, still holding onto your hands with care, his back facing your front as you allowed him to guide you to your final destination.

  To others, you may have looked ridiculous, although that was certainly nowhere close to what you were both feeling in that moment.

Use the sleeves of my sweater
Let’s have an adventure
Head in the clouds but my gravity’s centred
Touch my neck and I’ll touch yours
You in those little high waisted shorts

  A clearing could finally be seen, the trees suddenly diminishing from plentiful to null. The soft rush and crash of waves were resounding in the short distance before you. Sea salt could now be inhaled through your noses as the sight ahead expanded significantly, toying with your senses to see how much longer you could resist.

  With peaceful intentions, your legs subconsciously brought yourself over to the shore, where you stood with your shoulders loose and your mind detached. Attempting a calming breathing exercise, you inhaled deeply through your nose, and exhaled gratefully out of your mouth.

  As you stood at the water’s edge, Peter padded towards you from behind. He started to tug at the empty belt loops of your denim high-waisted shorts impatiently, a meagre frown adorning his face. Copying his actions by pulling him towards you by his forearms, you then snaked your arms around his neck. You let your eyes stray to his own radiant orbs, the look on your features clearly telling him to relax, that you have time.

  However, as you both gazed into each other’s eyes, influenced by the awe of the setting you were currently in, the sky darkened. A large cloud seemed to have obstructed the glorious sun from your view, leaving the both of you shivering in the icy blast nipping at your bodies.

‘Cause it’s too cold
For you here and now
So let me hold
Both your hands in the holes of my sweater

  A spark ignited from within the bottom of your stomach as your arms slipped out of their grasp from around Peter’s neck, finding their way to the holes of his pale brown sweater. A modest smile spread across your face as you took hold of his chilled fingers with your own.

  You brought his left hand up to your mouth, placing a tender kiss on each of his knuckles. A faint tinge of rose stained his cheeks as you then spread out his fingers, delicately tracing their outline with your sultry lips. His free hand settled comfortably on your waist, his grip on you firm as he dragged you forwards with ease.

The goosebumps start to raise
The minute that my left hand meets your waist
And then I watch your face
Put my finger on your tongue
'Cause you love the taste

  Peter rested his forehead against yours. You let go of his hand, holding his face with both of your cool palms instead. Turning his head upwards to look you directly in the eyes, your heart seemed to melt a little at his intent focus on you, his expression nothing short of adoring.

  Nudging his nose with your own, you whispered, “I love you.”

  The most pleasant ring of laughter escaped his mouth as he leaned into you, his lips brushing against yours as he murmured, “And I love you more.”

'Cause it’s too cold
For you here and now
So let me hold
Both your hands in the holes of my sweater

THIS IS YOUR DANCE, STILL.
               :: kharla m. brillo

Nobody wanted your thighs, the way
your toes eat sand and choke as if
it didn’t learn how to avoid cement
cracks, and anything in half,
                    in thirds, anything
                                        broken.
Your ankle looks like a cliff,
your ankle won’t want you to jump
over something you would blame it for.
Trust your lungs if it takes you
out to sea, if it wants you to
                           inhale salt,
if it wants war
with the waves, if it wants to toss
your hair the way painters do with
black paint. Some days,
the ocean
looks like
              an ashtray pretending to be blue,
full of wreckage and spit. So you call
yourself a failed landing, but your hands
were only taking you to places
far from perfect but
                 always, as real
                        as your heart beating two
point five billion times when this
is all over. When this  
                         is all over
but it is not quite
yet. Hear that song. Why won’t you dance
with your awkwardness sprayed painted
all over kitchen floor? Why won’t you
stumble over, fall flat, and still,
                  and still, call your knees graceful?

i. how does it feel to drown? can you taste the fire slicking down your throat? does the salt burn like vodka, like an endless shot pouring past your clenched mouth; does the water pound relentlessly on your head, beating wave after wave as you flail beneath the surface – rippling – wave after wave after wave –

ii. he, with his brine-water blood, red salt thudding heavy within his petal veins – he drowns in a sea of golden ink, fingers tangled in long black hair as he cries cradled in arms carved from bone, a voice, crash on rocks: remember, the sea is your home

iii. so you drown in a sea of molten pyrite gold

iv. yet his fingers, his eyes, his wide scar-riddled back; breathe in the scent of dirt, the bark, the sap; exhale the salt and inhale caress; silver moonlight puddles in his hair and oh zeus he’s more beauty than you could ever bear

v. it’s midnight, and the amethysts glow soft in the moonlight, silver and lilac washing over his skin and you breathe in the forest and the musty scent within.(and his heartbeat washes over you and settles in your bones)

vi. patroclus, here, i am here, i am finally home

silver washes over you and settles in your bones | a.c.

Breathe

Characters: Dean x Reader x Sam (Siblings)
Words: 1038
Requested by Anonymous:  Can you do a sister!reader where she has a really bad asthma attacking and goes to the hospital and almost dies and the brothers get really panicky over her? 

Thank you @torn-and-frayed for telling me about asthma!

         You groaned, tossing your bag onto the motel bed, “There’s a freaking mirror on the ceiling. Did you not check this place out first?”

           Dean chuckled, “It’s not like I could have gotten another room.”

           “I am not sharing a sex bedroom with my brothers,” you shook your head, “This is the worst room we’ve ever had.”

           “Worse than the ones with rats?” Sam asked.

           “Umm …” you made a face, “Okay, maybe not.”

           “It’s just until we catch this thing,” Dean said, “Just don’t think about it.”

           “Whatever.”

Keep reading

Stay. No one can knock down my walls like you do. I swear to God you’re my addiction and recovery, my purest religion and darkest sin. I’ll follow you to the bottom of the ocean if I have to turn into a mermaid and learn to inhale salt water into my lungs. You’ve been my only constant and sometimes you make me so mad I go blind and I just might hate you…but only you can bring me back from past the point of rationality and it only makes me fucking love you more. You run your fingers along the cracks inside my soul and hear the humming in my brain and I can be running out the door ready to say goodbye forever and you manage to pull me back to you with a goddamn look. Don’t get me started on the way you look at me like you’re the lucky one. No one has ever kissed my forehead with the same tenderness and no one touches me with such need. Our bodies speak when our words aren’t enough, and I would sell my soul to have your arms around me after a long day. I’ve chained my heart to yours and at this point I don’t know who I’d be without your mouth against mine in the dark. Stay.
— 

Stay.

singmemoonstruck

Like the sea
I’m forever changing
sick and exhausted by the
thrashing water in me
There’s depths within that
stop me breathing
and the
arms of another become
the oxygen I’m inhaling
the salt stings my veins
as they pump the blood of all the
world’s toxins
and yet I’m the one forgotten
the transfusion leaves me empty
and I’ve given so much life
I’m always left wondering if I’ll survive
next time

The Water Signs - Cancer, Scorpio and Pisces
-C.



natural remedies to help with the colder weather coming up (information I’ve been taught by my mother)

  • take a hot shower and add a few drops of peppermint essential oil* to clear nose and sinuses (or just add some to a tissue and lay it next to you while you sleep)
  • boil salt water and inhale the steam (you can add peppermint* or tea tree essential oils*)
  • for sore throats, rinse with warm salt water twice a day (also works if you have sores in your mouth) 
  • tea tree essential oil* for cold sores
  • warm olive oil in the ear to ease the pain of ear infections and then put tea tree oil* on a cotton ball and put it in your ear while you sleep (you can warm the olive oil by putting it in a spoon and putting a lighter under it, always test the oil with your finger before putting it in your ear to avoid burning yourself)
  • lots of chamomile tea with honey 
  • licorice root tea for coughs
  • ALWAYS stay hydrated 

*always use REAL essential oils of a good quality, NOT fake scented oils

~*please be aware you do these things at your own risk, these are just things that work for me, always research before using oils and herbs and make sure you’re not allergic*~

You’re Not Getting Rid Of Me That Easily

Based on Anon Prompt: “ Imagine when the Indominus Rex attacks Owen you throw up flares to get its attention and run rescuing Owen but he thinks you’re dead until you show up at the control room”


You’re cowering in the small space with Claire and her nephews.

“We need more.” The younger one whispers.

You turn to him, “More what?”

“Teeth. We need more teeth.”

You look off into the distance trying to shape the plan that is slowly forming in your mind. More teeth. Well, the dinosaur with the most teeth in the park is only a couple hundred feet away from you. You look towards the giant tank and realize what you need to do.

You’ve seen her night feeding many times and they always attach a light to her food, so she can find it, but you’re willing to bet she hasn’t been fed since this morning. You jump up to open the emergency kit on the wall and grab a flashlight. You try to turn it on, and find that the batteries are dead.  Just my luck. Throwing it to the floor, you keep looking until you find a flare.

Just about that time, the Indominous throws one of Owen’s raptors off her back and looks at Owen. She lets out a loud roar and begins to move towards him when you jump out of your hiding spot. You light the flare and hold it up, screaming.

“Hey! Over here!” She turns her head towards you and you can see that you’ve got her attention. She begins to move towards you and as you turn to make a run for it, you catch a glimpse of a terrified Owen as he shouts, “Y/n, No!”

You hold the flare high as you run towards the tank. You can feel the ground shaking as she chases you and you pray you get to the tank before her. All the exhaustion and fear from the day is not even in your mind as you run, high on adrenaline. Just as you get to the edge of the tank, you see the huge mass just below the surface. You throw the flare into the air as you jump in and close your eyes.

You hit the water hard and begin to sink before kicking your legs and they come into contact with something hard. Propelling yourself up out of the water, you see the huge Mososaurous begin to drag the Indominous down into the water below you. However, it’s still flailing; trying to fight back and its claws rake across the side of your body. You feel yourself bleeding as the salty water burns your skin and you lose the ability to keep yourself floating. As you begin to sink down into the water, you try your hardest to get to the surface once more to scream for help, but it’s useless. You realize that you’re going to die here, but you relish in the fact that it was in the efforts to save someone else, someone you cared about, and someone that you loved. You just wish you’d had a chance to tell him that.

Just as you’re about to black out, you feel your back hit something hard and you begin to be pushed up towards the surface. You have too little oxygen to realize what’s going on until you break the surface and feel the cool air on your face. Your body still aches and burns as you realize you’re lying on the back of the Mososaurous. She lifts you high enough to crawl over the edge of the tank and you drag yourself away from the edge. Clutching your side in pain, you look down into the eyes of this huge beast. You don’t understand how or why she knew to help you, but you know you need to get help, or you’re still going to die.

You stand up, still coughing water, and begin to move as quickly as possible towards the lab in front of you. Climbing the stairs is a challenge, but you find the two young boys sitting in the lobby. They jump up when they see you and run at you, just as you begin to collapse. They hold you between them and you tell them you need to get upstairs.

They help you to the top floor and the elevator to the control room opens and you see Owen standing over Lowery’s shoulder at his desk.

“I’m telling you, she’s not in the water. There are no human heat signatures in there.” He looks up towards Owen who slams his hand on the desk.

“She has to be!” He shouts in anger, “I have to find her. I love her. I can’t lose her.” You see his fist at his side shake and hear the way his voice cracks.

You wish that the first time he said he loved you would have been to your face, but you’ll take it.

“I love you too, you big idiot.” You croak out, throat still in pain from inhaling the salt water.

He turns around at your voice and his eyes go wide. He runs towards you but sees the blood and calls to Lowery, “Go to the infirmary and get bandages, I need to patch her up.”

He gets to your side and holds your face in his hands, looking you over.

“I thought I lost you.” He says, voice rough with emotion.

You smile for a second, but wince at the pain in your side. “You still might if you don’t get me off my feet.” You try to smirk but it comes out as more of a grimace. He nods once and picks you up, cringing at your painful scream, and lies you on the table in the back of the control room just as Lowery runs back in, bandages in hand.

“I’m gonna get you all fixed up,” he says, trying to reassure you. “And then,” He pauses to tear the rest of your shirt open to get to the wound, and keeps his eyes trained on it as he works, “You’re going to tell me you love me again to my face.” He glances up at you quickly, and you see the hint of a smirk on his lips and you try to smile through the pain.

“Sounds like a plan.” You close your eyes and lay your head back, knowing that as long as Owen’s taking care of you, you’re going to be in good hands.

anonymous asked:

An O.C. Bellarke AU? You know you want to.

YOU BET YOUR ASS I WANT TO.  (Also, I feel like there’s a full length OC au floating around out there.  I’m like 99% sure I read at least one chapter, but I am le terrible at keeping track of what I’ve read). Update: it’s @kay-emm-gee‘s fic that I was thinking of!  The link to that story is here.

Oh, and we’re going with season one Thelonius Jaha characterization here, not, you know, Disappointment On Many Fronts season three Jaha.

Bellamy inhaled the salt air, wondering if this was all just a dream.  Three days ago he’d been in juvie, his family in shambles, and today he was living in the poolhouse of a mansion with beachfront access.  Octavia was still in lockup but Jaha had sworn he would do his best to get her probation, and then she would get to move in with them too.  

The contrast between his old life and what was apparently his new one couldn’t be more stark.  His shitty little town in the Inland Empire was mostly strip malls, nail salons, and meth houses.  This— this was paradise, by comparison.  If all he had to do to get this for Octavia was put up with Jaha’s constant moralizing and his son’s nervous babble about his crush, he could handle it.

A flutter of black caught his eye and Bellamy turned to find the next door neighbor standing on the beach, facing the ocean just like him.  The sun was setting, a flare of light coming from her probably-expensive earrings.  Clarke, he surmised.  Last night he’d been treated to Wells’ entire life story, including how his crush on the blonde next door had recently been replaced by a crush on the blonde-next-door’s genius friend.  Raven is only like, the most perfect girl in the universe, Wells had raved, she’s smart and she’s so pretty it hurts but he’d neglected to mention that Clarke also happened to fall in the so pretty it hurts category.  Her blonde hair was loose, the ocean breeze blowing it back from her shoulders.

She turned, and Bellamy was momentarily surprised to see that she had a hoop piercing the corner of her lower lip, another stud in her nose, and a tattoo across her left shoulder.  She wouldn’t have been out of place in a bar back home, which meant she looked nothing like the princess he was expecting.

She turned and surveyed him with a predatory smirk.  “You must be the stray Jaha brought home,” she observed, sucking in on the cigarette between her fingers.

“And you must be Arkadia’s reigning princess,” he replied, returning her gaze steadily.  If she wanted to look, she was welcome to— but he wasn’t going to let her off easily.  

“That’s who I used to be,” she replied.  A cloud of smoke leaked from between her lips.  He was mesmerized by them, lush and full and pink.

He stepped closer, the sand uneven under his feet.  “Then who are you now?” he asked, his eyes dark.  He plucked the cigarette from her hand and took a drag.  Her eyes flickered towards his lips, and her fingers brushed against his when she took it back.

Clarke didn’t back down. “Trouble you don’t need.”   She crushed the cigarette under her toe and turned towards the stairs to her own palatial house.  “See you around.”

Now it was his turn to smirk.  “Not if I see you first, princess.”

Like the sea
I’m forever changing
sick and exhausted by the
thrashing water in me
There’s depths within that
stop me breathing
and the
arms of another become
the oxygen I’m inhaling
the salt stings my veins
as they pump the blood of all the
world’s toxins
and yet I’m the one forgotten
the transfusion leaves me empty
and I’ve given so much life
I’m always left wondering if I’ll survive
next time

The Water Signs - Cancer, Scorpio and Pisces
-C.

in, and out

Rated T for some swearing; focus on Stan and Ford’s relationship; gen; probably a lot of angst.

Based on these headcanons I sent for @defying-gravityfalls. Can also be found on AO3.

Thirty years is a long time for old arguments to fester and grow bitter, and thirty years is a long time for old ghosts to haunt your sleep. Stan and Ford are living the dream on their boat, seeking adventure on the high seas. Living the dream, yes; but dreams don’t come without nightmares.


The Stan O’ War rises, then falls again in a slow rhythm, like your breath when you sleep, steady and predictable.

Stanley leans against the railing, inhaling the salt air. The sun is warming even the deep creases around his eyes, and he’s several degrees tanner than he was six weeks ago. Turns out you can even tan in the Arctic Circle, if you’re committed. And don’t mind the freezing cold.

Stan is liking the Bahamas a lot more than Greenland.

They’re en route to the Bermuda Triangle, which despite Stan’s off-color jokes is not connected with Bill Cipher in any way, according to Ford. Who, speak of the devil, is currently sketching something in his already beat-up new journal. It has a drawing of himself and Stan pasted to the cover, hand-drawn by Mabel and liberally treated with glitter.

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Biological warfare has been devastating people since at least the time the Mongols started wiping out enemy cities by catapulting diseased corpses over their walls, but its grand, mustard gas-y upgrade in World War I all but ensured that most every military worth its salt started dabbling in inhalable horrors. The U.S. military was no exception, but where most military organizations were content keeping their terror-bacteria in laboratories, they wanted nothing to do with such lame-assery. Instead, from September 20-27, 1950, they carefully sprayed the entire city of San Francisco with enough Serratia marcescens and Bacillus globigii bacteria to expose the area’s 800,000 residents to new, vile lifeforms.

To be fair, Operation Sea-Spray was intended to be (slightly) less “Fuck San Francisco, amirite?” move than it seems. The operation’s aim was to find out whether enemy agents could unleash a biological attack on a coastal city, and the researchers were allegedly fairly sure that the bacteria they had used was almost certainly harmless. However, it was in fact anything but. Within days, people with mysterious, difficult-to-treat infections caused by a hitherto extremely rare bacteria called – all together now – Serratia marcenscens started trickling into the area’s hospitals. By November, one patient had died. The doctors didn’t have a clue what was going on, because the military hadn’t bothered to inform the health officials before, you know, covering their whole city in strange bacteria.

What’s worse, the bacteria may never really have gone away. Weird infections have sporadically cropped up in the Bay Area ever since the experiment, and doctors speculate that the military-introduced Serratia may well be the culprit. A Serratia infection killed a man as recently as 2001.

5 Military Experiments That Told Ethics To F*ck Right Off

gentlesleaze  asked:

hey, so I know you sometimes do the whole 'hug it out and cop a feel' thing (which is awesome btw) and so in light of some sq/cs drama I thought maybe I could send you a fic prompt based on this gif (vanillaloveforever[.]tumblr[.]com/post/95334965544)? Thanks!

You can view the gif used as inspiration here. While it is certainly nothing graphic, it is nsfw. (It is also not-safe-for-boyfriends as my guy now has serious concerns of just what I’m doing all the time on my computer.)

Smut below! Hug it out and cop a feel, boston cream pies!

Blanket fort.

They’ve taken to camping out in front of the fireplace during the nights – when the howling winds outside whip at the windows and the rage of the Ice Queen can be felt in the shaking glass and frigid temperatures.

It’s been a week without power, but she can’t say she minds when she comes in with wet mittens and sopping socks to find a half-naked pirate curled under a makeshift bed in front of the fire.

His back rises and falls with gentle breaths as she traces the dusting of scars across his shoulder blades in the golden light that flickers and dances across bare skin, toeing off her boots and shedding her jacket as he grumbles softly under his breath. She hears her name whispered in between nonsense syllables and a different sort of heat pools in her stomach, her frigid fingertips reaching for the button of her jeans.

 

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