Inspired by this adorable drawing, including Dean, Cas, and wings. 


A violent sneeze startled Dean awake. Something had been tickling his nose, taunting him. When he opened his eyes, a tad bewildered, he noticed that he still couldn’t see much of anything. Soon enough, it occurred to him exactly what it was, blocking him from the outside world; a blanket of smooth, black feathers.

Son of a bitch. What better way to wake up than with a face and mouth full of feathers? Peachy.

“Cas… Feathers.” Dean sputtered a complaint to his angel.

A heartbeat later, and the curtain of feathers was lifted. Dean blearily glanced up at the angel sitting on the bed beside him, Cas stretching both his arms and wings lazily, letting out a yawn. Angels didn’t necessarily need to sleep; that didn’t mean that they couldn’t.

“Oh… I apologize, Dean.” Castiel gazed down at Dean from under thick lashes, blue eyes tracking Dean’s every move as Dean brushed some stray feathers out of his hair.

Dean rolled his eyes, chuckling. “Guess we both still have to get used to me being able to see and feel them now, huh?”

Immediately, Cas’ wings slumped, going limp in what looked like defeat. And damn, if that wasn’t the cutest thing ever. Dean loved how those pretty wings gave him a tiny glimpse inside of Cas’ head.

“You don’t like them, they make you uncomfortable.” Castiel concluded, wrongfully so. “You can tell me… I wanted us to share this now that we’re together, but if you want me to start hiding them again, I can.”

Sighing at how ridiculously oblivious his angel could be at times, Dean pushed the covers away, kneeling on the bed beside Cas. Now that their faces were on the same level, Dean placed his hands on Cas’ cheeks, his thumbs earnestly caressing Castiel’s cheekbones.

“Actually, I kinda love them, Cas.” Dean admitted honestly, planting a kiss on Cas’ nose. “They’re awesome, like you.”

The confession had barely left Dean’s mouth, and already Castiel’s cheeks were changing color, glowing under Dean’s palms. And then Cas’ wings proudly puffed out, feathers trembling with excitement at Dean’s praise.

Dean laughed softly, pressing a second kiss to Cas’ lips, at which the feathers rustled happily. Cas smiled timidly, and Dean released his face so that he could ruffle his hair instead.

“Well, will you look at that?” Dean teased the angel. “Looks like they love me back.

When dark wings wrapped themselves around Dean to keep him in a tight embrace, he knew that his theory was correct. This time, he didn’t feel any need to complain when soft feathers sweetly tickled his face. Quite the opposite; he spent the rest of the morning exploring each and every inch of the silky black that he was already learning to love. 

Unsurprisingly, Castiel didn’t complain either.

Love is…

Type & Edit by Carlo Baltero

Love never gives up.
Love cares more for others than for self.
Love doesn’t want what it doesn’t have.
Love doesn’t strut,
Doesn’t have a swelled head,
Doesn’t force itself on others,
Isn’t always “me first,”
Doesn’t fly off the handle,
Doesn’t keep score of the sins of others,
Doesn’t revel when others grovel,
Takes pleasure in the flowering of truth,
Puts up with anything,
Trusts God always,
Always looks for the best,
Never looks back,
But keeps going to the end.  - 1 Corinthians 13:4-7 (MSG)

1. In ancient Mesopotamian mythos,
There is a tale of a woman who kissed the heavens so hard
She became pregnant with a small, mewling girl.
They say that the daughter of grace watches over us.

2. She is the protector of every lonely wolf
That howls, and on some occasions,
I think she howls back.

3. She is weathered and weary, still
Beautiful despite the abuse she has endured.
The sun tossed her gifts in the forms of wishing stars and fledgling comets,
Yet he never learned what gentle was
So they crashed into her,
Littering her body with tender bruises.

4. Where do the lost go when the compass is too drunk?
Where do we call home when no one picks up the phone?
We have a habit of looking up and running
Straight into her arms.

5. She has many names:


6. She works through the day’s absence,
Her hands pushing and pulling the ocean loom
Weaving stories into the tides.
Eons of change, sweat into rain,
Watching the narrative of existence bloom.

7. A neglected girl,
Only part of her seen yet
Still she gives us love.

8. Shei shopshomay ase,
Jodi thomar chok khola na bondo.
Thomar gayer modthe shei thomar roktho.
Nai konno agun, nai konno garum.
Shuddu thumi ar o,
Hather modthe hath,
Thumi ar Chaad.

9. Every lullaby I have ever written
Has a tune in which she holds a silent harmony.
There is a melody to an orbit,
A symphony in never straying.

10. If you press hard enough,
I heard she bleeds diamond and silver.


“Blood Mother” - Nishat Ahmed

The prompt was: Describe the moon in ten different ways without using typical words like sky, night, light, bright, shine, glow etc.

I would swallow every sea,
If it would bring you closer to me.
I would take the colour from the skies,
If I could only gaze into your eyes.
I would kill every man,
If only you could take my hand.
—  A.P. (2.9.16)

I can’t really get on Tumblr right now because I need to continue working on some stuff but I noticed this on the way home from work and um. lol. People were asking me how I came up with his name and I was like ‘I DON’T KNOW, JUST POPPED INTO MY HEAD RANDOMLY!’ which is true, but also I drive past this building every day and it has the word ELAN plastered all over it ffffuu so, jsyk. I only realized this on any kind of conscious level today.

Additionally: I finished the initial Chapter Structure plan for the third part of the trilogy today and umm actually there are going to be 28 chapters ¯\_(ツ)_/¯


Headcanons written in a more fanfic-friendly form for @marauders-groupie because the tags that you left on this post really touched me :’) Thank you so much for the support!

Also tagging @bellamyblake because we talked about this and you deserve to read a happy ending *-* @inreyeswetrust because you wanted to read this <3 and @blake-family because some of this was based on a post you made.


“i could feel the blood on her hands, and I cursed myself for wanting to taste it on her lips.” // - the war will never end for souls like ours. 


Once again, he stands before her, which is about the lone similarity as his eyes have lost the softness that she has come to associate them with; something has hardened them, and Clarke finds herself internally begging that it isn’t her. Desperate, she attempts to persuade herself that this is Bellamy! The man who whispered “I will get you out of here,” who gently pulled her hair from her face and the cloth from her mouth - That this might as well be the one person in the entire universe, who will understand why she has to stay - the one person who won’t blame her.

But she’s wrong. “You should come home to yours,” though it isn’t an order, it’s a plea, which is much worse, and within seconds tears are rising, clogging her throat. She can’t refuse a plea, not without hurting him - hurting Bellamy Blake goes against her nature; causes her whole body to shake and the tears to finally reach her eyes. Oh, how she wants to go back, twist her head toward Lexa with a ‘screw the coalition’ but she knows that she cannot do that, because that would be a selfish decision, which she doesn’t have the courage to make.

Her heart burns as the words tear from her throat, yet they do emerge: “I’m sorry.”

However, just when she dares to think that she made it, hurt flashes across his face and the single tear in his dark gaze tortures her until it’s gone, replaced by silent bitterness.

She watches him take the first few steps away; thinks about how on Earth he handled it when she left him at the gate - did he refuse to look? In earnest, she tries, and even though her mind is made up, completely determined and convinced that this is the only way - that this is what has to be done, her heart isn’t. Her heart still aches whenever it experiences something remotely close to the loss of him, and this is too damn real.  

She won’t lose him. She can’t. Not like this. “Bellamy!” Her mind now utterly dismissed, her legs start running, carrying her across the floor in a heartbeat. With her arms finally around him, her eyelids flutter shut and her nose buries itself in the crook of his neck to inhale the scent of something constant.

Something true.

“Thank you,” at last, at those words, Bellamy hugs her back, his solid body sheltering her a little while longer from what is about to crumble with the goodbye. It’s inevitable - they both know it. But that doesn’t mean that it won’t make her cause him pain or the other way around. Had she only been granted a choice, god, she would have made the one that would make him happy.


At night, Roan finds her on the balcony. For a while, he stands there in silence, simply watching as she fights to keep focused on Polis. When he speaks, though, the words startle her, and not only because of their abruptness: “And I, who thought you were wise. If you want that man to live, you must not show how weak he can make you.”

Clarke’s aware that pretending to not know what he is talking about is useless.

Because she’s knows that there’s only one man on Earth who doesn’t smell war and blood in her hair, who doesn’t look at her as if she’s just another black hole waiting to suck the life out of him - who would carry the weight of their world on his shoulders like Atlas, even if he wasn’t sure how to, just to keep her from crumbling underneath it.

Only one man who can still make her smile, who cherishes it and puts it in his pocket to lie safely for another time, because he won’t let her forget.  “I can’t lose him,“ is all that she can say.

“Then stay away from him.”


As it turns out, keeping Clarke away from Bellamy is as hopeless is trying to prevent the poles from meeting, or the high tides from rushing in. There may be something that is capable of separating them for a little while, but nothing that has ever hindered them from coming H O M E.

But what good does that do when he won’t look her in the eye? Not because he won’t see her, but because he’s scared of catching a glimpse of his own reflection in the blue of her gaze.

People constantly question when you can be sure that someone hates themselves more than anything else. Well, he puts her out of wonder with a simple outburst: “Why’d you save me? Why did you come here to warn me? Why won’t you let me suffer when I deserve it?!”

He’s crouched in a corner, tears streaming down his face, eyes blank yet somehow still cold as ice, and Clarke can feel it, pain clenching her heart when she walks straight into one of the invisible walls that he has rebuilt around himself. “Don’t shut me out,” she begs, “don’t shut me out.” Stubbornly, she breaks through the wall, but it’s the view of Bellamy so broken that manages to knock the air from her lungs. Brave Bellamy. Wonderful, wonderful Bellamy…

Even though he still refuses to meet her gaze, she kneels in front of him, taking his face between her hands. To give her heart a brief break from all of the pounding, Clarke presses a lingering kiss to his forehead. “Because you’re a good man, Bellamy. I know you are, and you deserve to live whether you want to or not,” then, she fakes a smile for him, brushing a stray, dark curl off his temple. “I can’t let Nia have you. Deal with that.”


“Because you’re–“ Her brain throws the suggestion my people at her, but somehow it doesn’t feel right… “Because you’re mine.”


Keep reading

I am tired.

It is 7p.m. and the Boston air is only measuring at a temperature of 52 degrees Fahrenheit, and it’s the end of December, and I am tired. 

I am tired.

And I am spelling out our names into the lining of my palms. Trying to find where we could possibly meet, because your atoms are too far for me to reach, but I feel you pull anyway.

I am tired

I am sick. I’ve had this cold for a month, and Nyquil has never taken something as strong as me. Baby, lets paint our names in the galaxy. Take me far away form here.

I am tired

“Baby, I am tired.” I whisper against the beating of your pulse. Your corroded comes out to greet me while we lie in bed. I feel your echo on me, traveling from my toes to the tip of my head. I love you. I love you. I love you, and I don’t know how to stop.

I am tired

It is 3a.m. on a Sunday, you have gone by now, but I can still feel your echo. I am tired. You are not here. I am tired. I love you. I am tired. You make me sick. You make me retch up love like you’re bad sushi, but baby you taste so good. You taste like sunshine, and whiskey, and blood. I am tired,
but if you want to call me a maniac,
I wouldn’t disagree.

—  s.r., sleep deprivation

fromseoultolondon asked:

Prompt! though I'm not sure you wrote this - baby Oria starts to say some words, but thanks to her dad, not all the words she says are 'proper' (I hope you know what I want to say) So the reaction of Hayffie when they hear what Oria says!

Here you go! [X]

Bad Sides To A Calm And Boring Life

Effie hummed as she knitted, now and then glancing at the two years old in the playpen set between the coffee table and the TV set. Oria was playing with her toys, keeping a running commentary of what was going on, mixing real words and gibberish. Her vocabulary was expending every day and Effie felt proud as a peacock with each new word she learned.

The backdoor banged shut in a creaking sound and Effie clicked her tongue in annoyance. She had asked Haymitch so many times to oil it – never mind not banging it. She heard him grumbling for a while in the kitchen and in the hall but when he wandered to the living-room he was still bundled in his scarf – a scarf she had knitted herself.

Keep reading

I know I’m not a perfect lover. I’m the worst. The kind that crawls up your nose, into your brain, and makes a nest
—  Aesha Munaf
Let the Chaos Begin -havokisamust

                                                                                                         [ ♛ @havokisamust ♛ ]

Hermione closed the book she had been reading, rolling her eyes and sighing. She had begun studying her curse after it was inflicted upon her, since she had no idea if it was meant just to make her don’t care anymore or meant to make her not care and then kill her. As she was looking through the books, she had found something about a Darkness Curse passed from people to people. 

Inside the book, there was a list of the names of all the Dark Ones, the magical text adapting every time the curse jumped from vessel. It said that it was possible to summon the current Dark One by calling out their name three times. Their name was currently Havok. 

Hermione of course didn’t believe such nonsense and just to prove the point, she smirked as she leaned back on her chair, crossed her arms and said. 

“Havok, Havok, Havok.” She then rolled her eyes again, getting up and moving to store the books she had pulled out.