stop begging for them

Ever since I saw that tweet about Otabek having mischievous friends I’ve like imagined his friends as buff, frat boy hockey players who like shove each other and bro around but religiously host a live stream party for all of Otabek’s competitions and hoot and holla every time he lands a jump or does something cool and are just generally really supportive friends who also occasionally have an accidental tendency to brake things and set other things on fire (because like the curiosity is strong within them) which then leads to perpetual mom!friend Otabek who constantly is begging them “no pls stop oh my god do not” in the group chat

Also I’m super happy it’s canon that Otabek visits Yuri in St. Petersburg like bless that friendship they deserve to have a best friend in the skating world so much

When deciding what games to translate in English, I’m sure every otome company takes into account all the 1 star “ENGLISH VERSION PLS AND I’LL RATE 5 STARS” reviews on the Japanese games.

Stop this. You are making the international community look bad.

I just flagged a TON of these on a game I was looking at and if you see them on a Japanese otome game, you should do it too.

Important OTP Questions (Send a ship to my ask box and some numbers!)

1) Who rocks the Ferris Wheel seat and who flips out and begs them to stop?

2) Who is always horny and will have sex at any time, at any place and at any time?

3) Who is more into taking showers/baths together? Who tries to make it relaxing and who tries to make it sexy time?

4) Who likes to walk around the house naked and who tells the other to go put some clothes on?

5) Who sleeps on the couch when they get into a fight?

6) Who takes photos of the other while they sleep?

7) Who said “I love you” first? and who ends their arguments in a fight with “Because I love you”?

8) Who likes to wear the others sweatshirts?

9) Who wakes the other up in the middle of the night to tell them a cool dream they had? Who has the most nightmares, and who sings them back to sleep after?

10) Who is more likely to cheat?

11) Who makes fun of the other for having a crush on them, and who has to remind them that they are in a relationship?

12) Who starts a food fight in the kitchen?

13) Who initiates duets? and who is the better singer?

14) Who starts the hand holding? Who grabs the others butt? Who slides their arm around their waist? Who likes to put their fingers in the belt loops?

15) Who likes writes the others name on their wrist?

16) Who is more seductive when they are drunk? and who is louder in bed?

17) Who is more protective?

18) Who talks to the other while they are sleeping?

19) Who drives and who has the window seat?

20) Who falls asleep in the others lap and who carries them to bed?

21) Who cuts the others hair?

22) Who is super bad at sexting? and who sends them encouraging messages throughout the day?

23) Who thinks they are not good enough for the others love? and who’s more afraid of loosing the other? Who thinks they keep messing up, only for the other to tell them they don’t need to worry?

24) Who starts random slow dancing with the other in the kitchen? Who holds the other just above the ground and kisses them?

25) Who says shitty puns and sex jokes just to see the other giggle and blush?

26) Who kissed first?

27) Who orders take out at two in a morning? and who wakes the other up at three in the morning to go downstairs with them to get a glass of water because it’s too dark?

28) Who writes poems/stories and love songs about the other? Do they sing the songs the write for them?

29) Who does some crazy stunt to try and impress the other and who ends up driving them to the emergency room after it backfires?

30) Who is embarrassed when they have to wear their glasses and who thinks they look super cute?

Fault

(Part 2)

Summary: 

“Bucky had never been held responsible for what he’d done, but you, oh god, everything that had happened had been your fault, and Bucky knew it too.”

Word Count: 1677
Warnings: a lot of self-doubt, injury, angst


It’s dark. And cold. And wet.

In the distance you can hear the rush of cars, tires splashing in puddles formed by the rain. They sound so, so far away.

You’re vaguely aware of the blood dripping down the back of your neck, and spilling out your lips and coating your fingers and smeared across your face and– there’s so much blood. You choke back a sob.

You have to get out of here. You have to get out of here and get back to the tower before anyone notices you’re missing because you can’t let anyone see you like this. You’re supposed to be strong like the rest of them, to be able to fight like the rest of them and defend yourself and not get into situations like this and the only thing running through your head right now is the fact that you might even die and everyone’s going look at you like some sort of failure.

(The one person you genuinely cared about already does, anyway.)

You place your hands on the ground under you, trying to push yourself up off the ground, but a sharp, snapping pain runs up your arm, as if the bone’s splitting, and you fall, letting out a gasp of pain as your chest hits the ground. There are tears welling in your eyes, both of frustration and the immense pain your body is in, and you lie with your cheek against the wet pavement in the middle of some back alley.

How are you going to get back and pretend like nothing happened when you can’t even fucking get up? You want to scream, but even your voice is hoarse from begging them to stop as you endured hit after hit.

You think back to a few hours ago, to how Bucky had been avoiding you all day and when you’d finally confronted him about it he’d yelled at you for not being able to do one job you had – to save the two kids in the fucking building on the one mission they’d taken you to. He’d yelled and you’d yelled and maybe he’d let it slip that he thought you were a failure, and then you’d gotten angry and stormed out to a bar to get drunk. But he’d been right. The fact of the matter is that you are a failure, and now you can’t even prove yourself otherwise.

A painful sob wracks your body as your hands reach into your pocket, pulling out your phone. There are missed calls that you barely notice, fingers fumbling and tears blurring your eyes. It takes four attempts to call Steve, your hands wet and sticky because of the blood. As it rings, you can feel your heart constrict in your chest. What are they going to think of you? Weak? Pathetic?

Words flit through your head, as the phone rings. And rings. And rings.

“Hi, you’ve reached Steve Rogers–”

You hang up, then try again.

And again.

And again.

With each time it reaches voicemail, you cry harder. You can’t blame him – it’s four in the fucking morning and the mission was exhausting, so everyone’s probably turned their phone on silent and for the first time in days is getting some proper rest.

You try Nat next, then Sam, then Clint, then even Tony, but nobody picks up.

There’s one last name left on the list of people that’ll probably answer at four a.m. You hesitate, fingers hovering over his name, knowing his reaction if he picks up.

You press call. Your heart pounds against your chest and your blood rushes through your ears and your eyes feel kind of heavy. You can’t breathe. You can’t breathe.

As you gasp for air the phone rings. And rings. And rings. And ri–

“Y/N?”

Hearing his tired voice croak your name is like turning a switch, because suddenly there is air in your lungs and you can breathe again.

Until, “What the fuck do you want?”

Heaving in a gulp of air, you opened your mouth to speak, but before you can even get a word out, he continues.

“It’s four in the fuckin’ mornin’, an’ the few of us who worked hard on the mission are pretty damn tired.”

You feel the intended jab of his words, and shut your mouth, breathing heavily through your nose as the blood flow stems and begins to crust on your face. The tears well up in your eyes again. You know you shouldn’t have called him, that he was still mad at you and he would probably never forgive you for what you had done, because even as the Winter Soldier he’d never have hurt let an innocent child get hurt. But you’d let it happen, right in front of him, with full control over your actions. Bucky had never been held responsible for what he’d done, but you, oh god, everything that had happened had been your fault, and Bucky knew it too.

“Are you going to speak?” He prompts, an edge in his voice laced with annoyance.

There’s shuffling on the other end of the phone, before you hear a faint, feminine voice. “Bucky baby, come back to bed.” You don’t know who it is, and that makes it so much worse because you know he only picks up random girls when he’s stressed out, and the cause of stress is you, you know as much.

You’re trying to speak but you can’t find the words. Your head hurts and the pain is finally starting to catch up, ebbing away at the adrenaline that had been coursing through your body.

“I’m sorry – it's– it’s, I just –” But you don’t know what to say. Something’s clawing at the inside of your throat, like nails raking down your vocal chords and making it hard to speak. The only thing you can do is cry.

“I’m sorry,” you’re screeching, heaving in breaths of air any chance you can get. “Nobody else picked up – I – I didn’t know – I didn’t know who else to call.”

There’s silence on the other end of the phone. Or maybe you can’t hear Bucky speaking. You can’t hear anything over the sound of your sobs, disappearing behind the heavy patter of the rain.

“Y/N? Y/N!” His voice seems so far away, it almost sounds concerned. “Y/N, what happened?”

“He said he knew! He said he knew more about– that he could tell me– I’m sorry. I trusted him. I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry. I’m sorry!”

“Shit.” There’s shuffling on the other end, then a quieter, “I gotta go, Babe.” Your heart clenches and the only thing that manages to leave your mouth is a string of apologies.

“Where are you?”

“I don’t know– I don’t know!” There’s a level of hysteria in your voice, and he can probably hear it too. He’s saying other stuff in a calmer voice, something about breathing and looking around but you can’t hear him over the sound of the blood rushing through your ears and the constant thought of you being an absolute failure swimming through your head.

“– okay?” You take gulps of air through your mouth, trying to subside the sobs resonating through your chest as you tune back into his voice. “Just breathe, Y/N. Look around and tell me what you see.”

“It’s dark, and there’s- there's–” You look around frantically, trying to find something, trying to see something, but it’s so dark and all you know is that you’re in some back alley and God, your lungs feel like they’re on fire but you can’t figure out how to get air down your throat. “An alley,” you gasp out. “Behind the bar. I’m behind the bar–”

And you break off into sobs again, praying to someone, anyone, that Bucky can understand you through the thickness of your voice and the croaking of your throat.

“Okay. Okay. Y/N? I’ll be there in ten, okay? Just give me ten minutes.”

You manage to scrape an “okay” up your throat without throwing up from the crying and the screaming. Bucky says something about hanging up, and suddenly your voice is making your ears bleed again. “No! No! Please, Bucky, stay on the line. Please.”

And then he’s saying something and you’re not sure what, because you can’t focus on anything anymore. You don’t know how long you sit there, leaning against the cold brick wall, soaking wet with a puddle of red tinged water surrounding you, chilling to the bone. Maybe it’s really ten minutes, maybe it’s a few hours, you can’t tell, but there’s nothing more warming than the sound of Bucky’s voice calling out your name, this time closer to you than through the phone.

“Y/N?” His voice resonates through the small alley, and you’re slightly more awake for a moment as a flashlight shines directly into your eyes, then down the rest of you.

He swears.

A lot.

“Hey, hey, Y/N.” You feel his hands, warm and soft and tender, on your cheek, slapping lightly to grab your attention. Your eyes are unfocused, you can barely make out his face through the tears and the haze grabbing at the edges of your vision.

An arm goes under your knees and your start screaming again, pain and fear coursing through every vein in your body. Someone’s saying something, your name and something else, and it’s calm and reassuring but all you can focus on is how much it hurts. You’re hoisted into the air and this time the scream doesn’t even make it past your lips, catching in your throat as the pain peaks into a numbness spreading to your toes.

“–wake! Y/N, hey, keep your eyes on me, okay?” But your eyes are challenging his voice, daring to shut for longer periods of time with each blink.

There’s a deep, ocean blue staring down at you when you do open your eyes, laced with disappointment and screaming the same word over and over at you.

Failure. Failure. Failure.

Your eyes close.

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I hate the missapropriation of the concept of trolling.

Trolling: An American saying “the Beatles? I don’t know her” then watching as everyone who loves the Beatles gets mad. And its funny because: why are they mad that someone they don’t know doesn’t know the Beatles???And also it’s nearly impossible that you’re an American who has never even tangentially been exposed to them, so it’s easy to see it’s a joke because it’s–culturally–wild hyperbolic.

Not Trolling: “I’m going to directly antagonize a socioeconomically marginalized group! ” for the pure entertainment of seeing someone try to defend their own humanity and beg you to stop turning ‘hurting them’ into entertainment. Because you think other people’s trauma is amusing and you equate personal emotional disconnect directly to intellect/power/prestige as if such a thing is causation rather than correlation. Which ultimately creates a scenario in which the “troll” trolls for the objective purpose of fueling their own personal self worth with the ultimate goal of gaining ideological support from peers. (Aka: look how sad that person is, I am not sad, which makes me smart. If enough people see me being smart, that makes me cool. I like how being cool feels so I don’t care about what I sacrifice to achieve that)

Not the communal appreciation for comedic hyperbole of the Beatles joke.

Like.

One is a fun social joke that requires group participation. In which an aspect of the joke is that it probably takes someone a second look to see that you’re kidding. But even if it takes someone longer and they get really mad, when it’s revealed you knew who the Beatles were all along and you were just pretending to be obtuse in a hyperbolic way, they too can laugh at the joke.

The other is as close as you can get to group sociopathy. And also is less fun in general. And a bit sad for the person who receives their emotional support at the cost of demeaning others. But also it’s incredible damaging, as it normalizes negative sentiment towards whatever group is being attacked/disenfranchised/ belittled/hypersinplified/disregarded. And worse, most of these interactions (that older stronger people can brush off) can often be seen by children who have no defenses against certain concepts which is sad, and incredibly reckless.

Isn’t A Dream

Characters:  Dean x Reader x Sam

Summary:  No plot.  Literally zero.  This is straight up porn. With both Winchesters (no wincest).

Word Count:  2704

Warnings:  A whole lotta fuckin’.

Tags are at the bottom.  There is still room on my Forever Tag List, you can add yourself here.  Thanks!

Originally posted by mockingbbird

Isn’t A Dream

This isn’t a dream.

This is really happening.

Dean’s lips are soft and pliant against my willing mouth. Sam’s kisses skim the delicate skin below my earlobe, his hair dusting my collarbone.  

Sam’s mouth travels upward, his warm breath tickling when he whispers into my ear. “Do you trust us?”

My heart skips a beat but it knows the answer. The answer is yes. Implicitly. There isn’t a person alive or dead that I trust more than the Winchesters.

“Yes.” The word rolls of my tongue and vibrates against Dean’s mouth, which turns up into a sexy grin when he hears my answer, his green eyes sparkling.

Sam’s chuckle is throaty, rumbling in his chest. I tilt my head and turn to look at him and once again, I can’t believe this is really happening. Dean reaches up a finger and hooks it under my chin, directing my gaze back to his. Perhaps a competition for my affections is brewing. I can’t say the idea doesn’t thrill me.

“We’re going to take good care of you, (Y/N).” Dean says it like a promise with a hint of threat. It sends a wave of lust from the crown of my head to the tips of my toes.

“Hell yeah, we are,” Sam reaffirms Dean’s promise. Sam loosens the knot on the tie at the base of his throat while Dean lifts the hem of my shirt. His hand caresses my skin as he works the shirt up and over my head.

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When my alcoholic uncle died - and how it impacted my life as a nurse

A recent post from another nurse was so beautifully honest and vulnerable that it made me lose my snark and just get human for a minute. So I will share an experience and I have permission from all involved. I had an uncle who was a terrible alcoholic. It ravaged every aspect of his life, his work as a union tradesman, his ability to be a father or husband and his relationships with his brothers and sisters. My mom and I often visited him when he’d get admitted to the floor. I could never bear to see him in the ER. Dirty, belligerent, withdrawing in the DTs. I was embarrassed because I knew he was a frequent flier. I was embarrassed that I was embarrassed. We tried to drop him groceries and buy his Dilantin every month, but he moved around a lot, mostly renting rooms above taverns. He wanted nothing to do with sobriety. He used drugs when he could, but whiskey was his poison. In the end he only tolerated a few beers a day to keep away the shakes. To any nurse or medic or doc who new him he was a local drunk, but to me he was my uncle. I knew him as a kind loving man as well. I remember family BBQs and him tossing me up in the air as a kid. I remember him showing up drunk to thanksgiving and not making it out out of the car before passing out. I remember the disappointment in my family’s faces. I remember the shame in his eyes. I remember driving around his neighborhood looking at the entrances of taverns to see if he was passed out. I wondered if anyone would know to call us if he died. I wondered if he even had any I.D. But they did call. And I knew when I saw him at age 55 in the ICU Weighing 90 lbs dying of Hep C and esophageal CA that he didn’t have a lot of time left. I was a nursing student and an ER tech but I knew in my heart this time was different. I saw people fear him. I saw nurses treat him as if he was a leper. One yelled at him to be still while she gave him a shot of heparin and he grimaced in pain. Nurses came in one by one to start a heplock and he grimaced in pain. Despite knowing better after the 4th nurse was unsuccessful I begged them to stop and give him a break. My hospital I worked accepted him into impatient hospice. I was relieved. When he arrived I saw the 2 EMTs toss him on the hospice bed and walk out without saying a word while he grimaced in pain. They probably got held over and he probably didn’t seem like an urgent transport. They didn’t want to touch him. I didn’t say anything. I was scared to touch him too. He was emaciated with a huge head and a gaunt appearance. I wondered if he had AIDS. I felt bad for thinking that. I still kissed his forehead and told him he was going to be okay. Because I loved him. He was my family. And then I saw nurses treat him with kindness. I saw the beauty of a non judgemental hospice team make his last 96 hours on Earth a time where he could make peace with his demons. I saw Roxy drops for the first time and I saw him get some relief from the pain of untreated cancer, from the pain of dying. I saw them allow me break the rules and lift his frail body into a wheelchair, fashion an old fashioned posey to hold him up and take him down stairs for his last cigarette on Route 30. I was able to spend my breaks with him. I got to suction him and help give him a bed bath. I got off my 3-11 shift and spend a few hours with him watching a baseball game on replay. I sat with him in silence and I held his hand. I finally knew what people meant when they said the dying watch their life play out in their minds. I swear I could see it happening. I asked him if he was thinking about things he said “yep”. I asked him if he wanted me to stay or go and he said “stay”. So I stayed. I heard the death rattle for the first time. I cried to a veteran hospice nurse and she explained how the Scopolamine patch would help. I finally felt what it was like to be helpless to a family member in need and her words of comfort and years of experience meant everything to me. She said he probably had 48 hours at the most. I read “Gone from my sight” the blue book of hospice by Barbara Karnes. The whole family trickled in. His kids, all his brothers and sisters and nieces and nephews. His children told him they loved him and they forgave him. We kissed his forehead and washed his hair. My mother shaved his face. His daughter said words of kindness that relieved him of any guilt or regret. I saw this beautiful cousin of mine watch me suction him and she asked how I could be so calm and so strong. I didn’t feel strong or knowledgeable but when you are the “medical person” in the family they see things in you that you didn’t know you had. We surrounded him with love and light and he died surrounded by everyone who ever meant anything to him. The nurses even cried. I got to see the dying process for what it was. It was beautiful and at the same time so humbling it brought me to my knees. I have never forgotten that feeling and I pray I never do. Is alcoholism a disease? We debate it as health care providers and wonder about the others whose lives have been impacted by the actions of an alcoholic. The amends that never got made. I guess I don’t care if it’s a disease, a condition, or a lifetime of conscious choices and poor judgement. In the end it’s a human being, usually a dirty foul smelling human being with missing teeth who may or may not be soiled in urine and vomit. Sometimes kicking, hurling obscenities, racial slurs, or spitting. Often doing all of the above at once. It’s hard to empathize with a human being who arrives packaged up that way. It’s hard to care or to want to go above and beyond. And I don’t think you should ever feel guilty if you don’t have those feelings. That is okay. It’s natural to wonder about the damage these people may have done to others. Wonder how many lives they might have ravaged. Please don’t take their pain as your own. At least try not to. It is not your pain to carry. And we all know that is easier said than done. But please, Treat them with dignity. They feel. They hear you. Give them the care you know you are capable of giving. I can tell you I hold a special place in my heart for every nurse who touched my uncle with a gentle hand. Who cleaned him for the fifth time when he was vomiting stool. Who asked him to smile. Who smiled back at him. Who stroked his forehead and put a cool washcloth on it. I am eternally grateful for anyone that saw beyond his alcoholism and saw a person. A human. A child of God (if you believe in God). A father. A son. An uncle. And I believe in my heart he felt the same way, even if he didn’t or couldn’t say it. If you have that patient. That difficult, hard to like, dreadful patient. Don’t think you have to love them or even like them. You don’t. But if you can preserve their dignity and show them the kind of nursing care that anyone would deserve, than you are good. You are the reason we are the world’s most trusted profession. And even though you don’t know it, someone saw and felt it, and it meant the world to them. Go to bed and sleep soundly because you deserve that. - J.R. RN

Originally posted by twisted-and-antisocial

me and @kentvparsin were talking abt this so like Imagine zimbits having a daughter and literally everyone spoils her, and kent or someone buys her one of those toy cars that kids can drive around and trying So Hard to knock Tater down but tater doesnt even notice until she hits his leg and he’s just like oh??? hello. She gets so upset like fall down!!! so now he’s over dramatic and falls to the ground everytime bc she just laughs so hard and its so worth it??? bc zimbits daughter is literally the light of Everyone’s Life

levi-snk  asked:

If they were in school, how would the 104th and the vets deal with bullies?

Mikasa: Doesn’t need to ‘deal’ with them, they’d deal with themselves then
Reiner: Cooperate with them
Bertholdt: Avoid them
Annie: No one bullies Annie Leonhardt
Eren: Get in fights with them all the time
Jean: Is the bully
Marco: Would ask them to stop and seek authorities for help
Sasha: Would yell at them and ask them to stop and beg to keep her lunch money
Connie: WHY ME! ALWAYS THE LITTLE ONES! PICK ON SOMEONE YOUR OWN SIZE!
Historia: No one bullies the pretty girl, she’d probably be the one commanding the bullies
Armin: Just get it over with guys
Ymir: Punch them
Levi: Give them a glare and they run
Hanji: No one would bully Hanji. Hanji’s scary when mad. And everyone who’s friends with Hanji is under protection
Erwin: Is sad, tries to talk to the bullies, bullies back
Nanaba: Stays with Mike to feel more safe
Mike: Can you really imagine someone bullying a guy like Mike?! Me neither
Moblit: Cries

random-b-l-o-g  asked:

Hi! First off, I want to say that I like your take on the situations and your writing. Could I perhaps request something? It has to do with the end of Jumin's 10th day. When V comes and picks us up he says that we'll be safe at the apartment. Could you perhaps write how the RFA + V would feel if MC was kidnapped by Unknown after she got to the apartment? It's very angsty, but oh well. If you can't write it then that's fine. Thanks!

This is an interesting request! I don’t think I’ve really written much angst since I got to this blog… (well. Granted, it’s only been 2 weeks.) I’d like to write more angst—send in asks, guys, haha! Let me practise and get better for you all <3

By the way, I love how you refer to MC as “us”!! Anyway, I hope this meets your expectations ^~^”

–R.I.


“Thanks for bringing me back, V!” you bid him goodbye, and walked off into the apartment. Your keys jingled as you unlocked the door, and you felt a wave of nostalgia wash over you. You hadn’t lived in this apartment very long, and you’d only been gone for a few days, but you already felt attached to this place.

The lights flickered on, and you smiled at the familiar sight of the living room. It was just as you had left i- huh?

The light switched off, and you freaked out a bit as it became pitch black.

Using your phone’s flashlight, you searched for the light switch, hoping it would work properly. Could the light bulb have gone out in the few days you’d been away?

To your relief, the lights turned back on, and you sighed. You would have had to change the light in the dark, otherwise.

But when you turned around, your relief was cut short.

A masked person with bleached hair stood in front of you, dressed in black, leather clothing. He had a tattoo on his arm, and teal eyes that stared right back at you.

“Wel – come home!” he greeted you mockingly in a creepy tone. “Too bad you’ll be leaving again. You must be tired, hm?”

No. No. V had said you would be safe.

“I need you to swear to me. Considering all the secrets you know, is MC safe?” Jumin demanded, a concerned undertone in his voice. It was clear that he was already close to giving in to V’s request, but he was still reluctant in letting you go.

“Swear…” V replied tiredly.

“I tend to believe numbers more than words, but if you are sincere, I’ll believe you.”

“Alright. I swear that MC will be absolutely safe on my life. Is that enough?” V had said.

V had promised you’d be safe. HE SWORE YOU’D BE SAFE. So why? Who was this man in your apartment? Why was he waiting for you? What did he want?

A blurry of thoughts passed through your mind. But none of these questions would be answered. You were knocked out, and soon met darkness. Betrayal was the last emotion you felt before everything faded to black.


Yoosung

  • V had lied. Again.
  • It was the second time he’d lost someone, and both times it was because V was careless.
  • You had gone missing, and even when Yoosung begged and begged Seven, you could not be found. Seven really did try to find you, but all traces of your disappearance had been skillfully erased
  • Yoosung snapped.
  • He screamed at V, pushing and shoving him to the wall.
  • “WHY MUST I LOSE EVERYONE WHO BECOMES IMPORTANT TO ME BECAUSE OF YOU? First Rika… Now MC… SHE TRUSTED US. IT WAS YOU WHO LET HER JOIN THE RFA. IT WAS YOU WHO SAID IT WAS SAFE. YOU SAID IT WAS SAFE FOR HER TO GO HOME! YOU SWORE WITH YOUR LIFE, V, YOU SWORE!”
  • Yoosung was a mess at this point, sobbing into his knees. He had his hands on his head, looking as betrayed as he felt.
  • His voice quieted down to a whimper, “You swore with your life, V. So why are you still here?” He laughed humourlessly, eyes glazed over coldly.
  • “You lied, V,” he choked on his tears, “You lied, again.”

Zen

  • He tried to stay optimistic, he really did.
  • “Seven, you can hack into anything, right? You’ve infiltrated countries, this should be a piece of cake, right?”
  • But he couldn’t hide the fact that he was only desperately holding on.
  • He’s an actor, so he should have been able to act like he was okay. He should’ve been able to act like this didn’t affect him. But it did.
  • You had always been so supportive of his acting career, despite hardly knowing him. He’d genuinely felt a connection with you. And he respected you for being able to tolerate Jumin Han, the man he despised. And now you had been kidnapped.
  • Your disappearance hit him so hard, he got drunk every night, and he was so hungover in the mornings, he couldn’t even go to rehearsals.
  • He went for long, LONG rides on his motorcycle. He couldn’t sleep.
  • He hadn’t even known you for that long, but it just hit him so hard.
  • Why did good people like you have to suffer bad experiences?
  • He just couldn’t understand.

Jaehee

  • God.
  • You know, she had been working under Jumin for so long, she had become unable to express herself and her own desires. Her first priority had always been her work, and she was generally emotionless and went along with her orders.
  • Until you had come along.
  • You had really talked to her. Not formal business talk, or careless small talk, but you had REALLY talked to her. You had listened to her.
  • Jaehee had always had to listen to Jumin, listen to her boss, listen to orders, listen to her colleagues making fun of her for being so busy, listen to Seven’s bullshit… It had always been her who listened to others. But not you.
  • YOU asked for her opinions, and you would agree with her at times. You really took an interest in her interests and hobbies, like her coffee and watching Zen’s plays. You… you had been her friend.
  • And she’d already lost you.
  • She still had to go to work, and she was just as efficient, but if someone really paid attention, one would find a tired Jaehee burying her face into her hands in stress every now and then. Aha. Not that anyone would pay attention now. You had been the only person who seemed to care, and you were already gone.

(I wasn’t sure how to write this, since I didn’t know if he should be aware of Mint Eye or not… I decided against it. It can be requested though..)

  • He blamed himself more than anyone else could.
  • You had trusted him and his words, and he had completely betrayed your trust.
  • He had never wanted you to be in danger. God, no. You were innocent in the entire situation. You had been dragged into this all because of him. All because he had agreed to let you join the RFA.
  • You could’ve been safe at Jumin’s apartment. So what if Jumin was a little possessive? Your safety would’ve been guaranteed. There were bodyguards to protect you there, and there would definitely be more evidence to work with.
  • V had been the last person to see you, as he had been the one to drop you off at the apartment. He should’ve walked inside with you. He should’ve checked the apartment before he left.
  • Instead, he’d pushed all responsibility to Seven, foolishly believing that Seven would be able to watch after her from the security cameras.
  • V hated himself for letting you down. For letting everyone down.

Jumin

  • He had trusted V.
  • V had never, ever lied to him, and he was fully aware that V was a kind man, and had no bad intentions.
  • So when V had sworn that you would be safe at the apartment, Jumin let you go.
  • … He should’ve trusted his own instincts.
  • But he didn’t blame V.
  • All these years, V had remained by his side, through thick and thin. V had always been more considerate of others than himself, and Jumin felt that he was a good friend. His best friend, even.
  • On one hand, he knew that it wasn’t V’s fault. How could it have been predicted that you would be kidnapped? On the other hand, shouldn’t V have checked more carefully that it was safe for you to return to the apartment?
  • Jumin buried himself in work, silently taking on difficult tasks in a large quantity. He didn’t want to think about it. He didn’t want to doubt V. He didn’t want to worry about you. He just didn’t want to feel, and he didn’t want to think.
  • But every day he got home, he was reminded of you.
  • The clothes he had bought for you that you left behind… the laundry that you forgot to wash… the dishes you had used… the way you had played with Elizabeth the 3rd… the way you had laid down comfortably on the couch…
  • He kept your bedroom the way you had left it, locking it shut. When he’d seen a maid trying to open the door one morning, he ended up snapping at her, “DON’T TOUCH IT. Don’t even taint the doorknob with your filthy hands, goddammit! Get away from the door. GET OUT!”
  • Some nights, he gave into his emotions, drunkenly calling RFA members and begging them to return you to him. To stop hiding you. To stop pretending you were missing.
  • He wished it was pretend.
  • Even Zen felt tears brim in his eyes when he heard the broken tone and tears in Jumin’s voice.
  • He missed you.
  • They all missed you.

Seven

  • He couldn’t even be bothered to continue his cheery, annoying act after you disappeared.
  • He turned away all of Vanderwood’s missions, ignoring it completely.
  • Instead, Seven spent hours upon hours, days upon days locked up in his room, searching every tenth of a millisecond of the security camera’s feed. He kept trying to find clues of your kidnapping. He hacked into the city’s cameras to find the car you were in, but to no avail, there was nothing.
  • Seven lost his appetite for even Honey Buddha Chips, throwing it up when he tried to force them in his mouth. He was living on purely Dr. Pepper now, and god knows when he’ll get tired of that, too.
  • Seven was simply devastated.
  • He felt responsible for your disappearance. He should’ve been more careful.
  • He could’ve attached a GPS to your body, not just your phone. He could’ve installed more security cameras, even if it invaded your privacy. Security > privacy. He could’ve gone to your apartment to protect you, instead of cowardly hiding behind the screens.
  • Could’ve.
  • But didn’t.
  • It was too late.
  • He could never protect anyone. Not his mother, not his twin brother, not you.
  • He was useless. Absolutely useless.
Comfortable

* Hamilsquad x Reader

* Modern

* Requested by anonymous

* Request: please do a poly fic!!!!!!

A/N: I’m freaking tired and I’ll regret staying up tomorrow morning, but I finished this. So this was buried deep and I hesitated writing this. Then I got a good idea when I had a weird dream, I basically wrote in here. I hoped I did good as I’ve never really been exposed to anything poly related in my life aside from some stuff on this site. If you guys see anything that doesn’t make any sense or doesn’t match up with what you know then let me know. But I hope you enjoy this.

Word Count: 2,530

~~

You were a little blind to be honest. You just figured your friends (who happened to also be your roommates) were just really touchy-feely. The way Alexander would come home, his shoulders tight with anger and stress. He’d barely get a word out before John would stand from the couch and wrap his arms around his friend. He’d run his fingers through his hair or down his back. Alexander would quickly deflate as the anger evaporated at John’s touch. John would then lead him to the couch and they’d sit side by side. Alexander would lean against John and watch his screen in a sort of daze. It was one of the few times you’d ever see him quiet.

Or the way John would sleepily stumble from his room and plop beside Lafayette on the couch. Lafayette would smirk slightly before grabbing a hair brush from the coffee table and running it down through the other man’s hair. He would tie it up and be finished, even though John looked upset that he was done.

There were the weeks when Alexander and John would be out of state for some law case. Hercules seemed completely lost on these weeks. It unnerved you to see your loud, tough, and boisterous friend seem so spaced. You didn’t enjoy these weeks much either because he and Lafayette would spend more time together, leaving you feeling a little ignored.

Keep reading

Hell House

Summary: Your sister and her boyfriend start a prank war on the way to investigate a haunted house
Words: 6k
Dean x Reader, Sam x Jess
Warnings: episode related drama, pranks

A/N: this is part of my ‘Jess never died’ rewrite, find the masterpost here
Beta: @blacksiren

Originally posted by armymenintheashtray

Your name: submit What is this?

You didn’t remember falling asleep in the car. In fact, you didn’t even remember deciding to close your eyes. Apparently, your body was just exhausted.

You woke with a start as Dean began singing obnoxiously loud along to Blue Ӧyster Cult, flailing your arms out in front and promptly spitting something out of your mouth before realising it was just a plastic spoon.

You looked over at your sister to see her suppressing a laugh, and you slapped her arm at the same time as landing a forceful kick to the back of Sam’s seat.

Keep reading

You Scared of Me Now, Babydoll? (Part 7)

Pairing: Negan x Reader

Summary: You and Negan are mad at each other after your trip to Alexandria. You drive back to Sanctuary only to…resolve it.

Word Count: 1,826

Warning(s): Smut (finally!), unprotected sex (as will most sex scenes…I don’t think birth control is readily available in the apocalypse!), Language

A/N: Happy (belated) Valentine’s Day, lovelies! Finally there is some smut in this chapter! (Apologies if the smut isn’t that great. I’ve written smut before but I’m quite out of practice and I’ve never posted it online before…so I’m a little nervous!) Masterlist is here. Enjoy!

Originally posted by marythenurse

“Day’s over, everyone pack the fuck up!”

You jumped, almost dropping the box you were loading onto the truck. Damn, he was mad. And frankly, you were mad at him too. Seeing how he treated these people made you sick. Not to mention- you had been apart of this group. It made you wonder that if you had never left Rick if you would have to be apart of this mess.

Negan stomped over to you and growled in your ear.

“Get the back in the goddamn truck. Now.

Keep reading

I continue my spillage of headcanons with a Neito Monoma dump. 

-Throws headcanons out the car window and drives away before anybody can judge me for them- HERE YA GO LOVELIES!  

  • He grew up with a single mom whom he loves with all his heart, and remembers the day his dad left when he was like ten extremely vividly. 
  • There had always been some sort of tension when his old man was around, and he never really was around to be honest.
  • The day the guy actually left, his mom had been sobbing in the kitchen and the front door was wide open. He had put two and two together and ran out the door after his dad to scream at him. How he wouldn’t forgive his dad for how he had treated his mom, and how he’d prove that he would become something twenty times better than the deadbeat his dad was.
  • It’s the reason he wanted to become a hero in the first place and why it’s kind of difficult for people to get close to him.
  • He’s afraid to trust and end up hurt, like his mom was from his dad.
  • He’s like a hurricane, where you’re treated coldly or teased when he first meets you, but once you get closer, you’re in the calm eye of the storm where he acts as if you’re his best friend in the entire world.
  • He tries to put off his homework in favor of something he’d rather be doing, but it always ends up eating away at him until he inevitably does it after a short while of inner turmoil that makes him spazz as he gestures around physically in an argument with himself.
  • It’s one of the reasons students outside of Class-B constantly talk behind his back about how they think he is slightly insane.
  • He’s actually probably one of the most sane in the entire school
  • When a situation turns bad or stressful, he’s sometimes the only one who remains cool and level-headed and in turn helps everyone else calm down even if just a little bit.
  • Which in turn makes him the mom-friend of Class-B
  • He claims he definitely isn’t and pretends to hate the title, but it’s obvious he loves it.
  • It makes him feel special.
  • It’s very true though.
  • Whenever one of the other students get sick he’s the first one there, rubbing their backs when they’re throwing up, wrapping them in a blanket and firmly telling them they will be remaining on the couch resting for as long as he thinks they should, bringing them soup and crackers and their favorite movies to watch.
  • It’s not that the other students don’t care about each other or anything, it’s just he’s always somehow the first one there to help.
  • Mom-noma has a radar, everyone is convinced.
  • It tells him when someone is sad or hurt and then he just appears where they are, ready to take care the shit out of them.
  • He does it begrudgingly too.
  • -Sigh- Why can’t you take proper care of yourself? Here I’ll show you what you should do, but just this once. Then I expect you to do this yourself.”
  • They never can do it themselves, because oh dear there he is again, mom-ing it up.
  • Does this boy ever stop? 
  • The answer is, and likely will forever be no, no he will not. Because he acts like a jerk to those he feels deserve it, (and yeah maybe he’s a bad judge of who deserves it sometimes), but underneath it all, he’s just a kid trying his hardest to help anyone he can, and become something worthy of his mother’s smile.
  • He doesn’t know that he became that something a long long time ago. 

( @cattys-curiosities @themintqueen @saltedtomato @ananken You wanted my Monoma’s, and here they are!)

Crested gecko owner gothic

You bought a coconut house for them. They use it only as a ladder to the screen they play like a musical saw at night. You never turn on the lights after midnight, because if you witness it, you’ll have to admit what’s happening is real.

You beg them to please stop pulling their vines apart. “Those cost money,” you plead. In your dreams, they can laugh. And they do.
At you.

Your lizard puts their foot in their bowl and tips it over. They make strong eye contact the entire time. They don’t appear to need what you feed them. What do they eat?

For some reason, they target your face. You don’t think you look like a tree, or harbor insects there. Do you? On the astral plane, what is wrong with you?

There is poop on the front glass. If you wipe it off, another will appear in its place, even if your lizard doesn’t come out that night.
You long ago gave up on removing it.

You own a male. His balls are out. You hate it, but you’re compelled to take a picture. You post it online, and like Puritans protesting a pornography store, others flock to condemn it with you. They all hate it. They all own crested geckos. They all would buy another.

The Satanic leaf tailed gecko was misnamed, and you know it, but there is nothing you can do, because one of the devil’s rejected imps is monitoring you. They’re supposed to sleep by day, but yours doesn’t seem to.