the boy who would never grow up

the bet || fuckboi!peter parker x reader

 oi, I don’t want to make this too long but…. IM BACK smh I’ve been so m.i.a. but that’s literally because I’ve been so busy and have bad writer’s block. Smh this probably ain’t even gon be good. But like I worked hard on it to have meaning and stuff and I rlly hope you guys enjoy it. I just want you guys to get straight to the story because you’ve waited so long for it and I’ve been teasing it sm smh. Just read it hope you enjoy muthertruckers😬

tags : @running-outta-time @i-just-wanna-run-hell @munalisax @themyscirahs @sammie-blogs @geeksareunique @violentlybarnes @geeksareunique

words : 11,197

warnings : fuckboi!peter parker, mild cussing, various mentions of sex, angst, ned needs a hug, peter needs a hug, you need a hug, everyone needs a hug

Masterlist

——————–

Originally posted by peter-and-mj


”I bet you your whole Goddamn rep that you couldn’t get weird ass mcgee over there to sleep with you; you know, take her v-card. Before. We. Graduate.”

The words spoken smugly by one of Peter’s multiple friends at the lunch table caught his attention as quick as you could say, “Spider,” The statement challenged him, making him smirk at the smug boy before looking over his shoulder, almost savagely, at the fifteen year old girl huddled in her own little corner of a table in the back, her face morphing as she read through numerous pages of the thick book she held in her hands.

Watching the scene, Peter laughed and shook his head before turning back the group at his table, them looking deeply invested as to what would happen next, he spoke lowly, “Watch me.”

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Billy Hargrove

I think one of the most appealing things about Billy is that he’s that cocky macho jock/popular guy who is kinda broken and you’d highlow-key love to date - but, in real life you’d hate him and never think twice about because you’d know that he would only want one thing and then move onto the next one. The fantasy of dating this charming and impulsive guy is pretty alluring.

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⇁ plums & melons | 01

Originally posted by trash-for-bangtan

pairing⇁Jimin x Reader

genre⇁smut, slight humor, drama || brother’s best friend!au 

warnings⇁public indecency, dirty talk, a lot of teasing, jimin’s porn preferences, and boobs

word count⇁6.3k

The long time running game between you and your brother’s best friend started when you noticed his fascination with boobs—yours specifically. It was never supposed to amount to more than harmless flirting and lingering glances, but now, one year later, Jimin was ready to change that.

alternatively: Jimin and you play a game. the loser is fucked. metaphorically. literally. all the above??

01 || 02 

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So after seeing Wonder Woman (twice) and hearing her delight over the baby, I had a thought.

Diana probably didn’t get very close with people as she never ages and having good friends, that could be a problem as they 1) would see that they grow old while she does not and 2) because she would lose friends over and over due to the cycle of life.

So imagine her delight when Batman brings his young ward around.

He is small for a child of his age, but he is eager and energetic.

And Diana adores him.

She is the one who wants to play with him, she’ll play robin while he pretends to be batman during important league meetings.

Dick will fall asleep curled up in her lap.

She loves this little boy because she never got to be so close with one.

Then Jason comes around and he’s a different kind of baby.

To her, he is sweet, and she loves it. He is not as excitable and happy as the first child, but he is kind and gentle and he makes her a flower crown that she will wear into battle.

They don’t play batman and robin, they play batman and the robber, and she plays whatever he wants her to.

She is heartbroken when she learns this sweet baby has died.

She had never known a baby to die so young, at least not one she knew so personally.

Over the next few years she watches Bruce become the shell of the man he was, and she understands, even when no one else does.

Then comes Tim, and though she misses Jason, this boy is different still.

He is smart, and cunning, and he wants her to train him. He wants her to come at him with her sword.

She obliges, and teaches him well.

And his smile when he wins is all the reward she could ever have wanted.

This baby is good. He is smart, and he only wants his love reciprocated. And she does love him, in a way that’s all his own.

When he is gone, so is Bruce.

The next baby is not so kind or sweet, nor is he happy or loving. He is angry and rude.

But the happy baby is trying his hardest, and Diana believes his smile could charm the world.

Eventually, he learns manners and becomes a good baby, even if he is still a little angry. Diana bestows upon him a flower crown. He wears it, though not into battle. He even thanks her for it.

When the sweet baby is alive again, she makes one for him too, and shows him the one she kept pressed in a book.

A Little D for a Big A-hole.

When I was in eighth grade, my middle school French class took a trip to Québec City. My school was in the whitest part of whitest Connecticut and I had moved there a few years before from Atlanta. You can imagine the Izod-style culture shock I went through.

In any case, we were up in Québec City in February, for some awful reason. Probably because the prices were cheapest for hotels, I don’t know. I do remember it was cold and windy and snowed a lot.

I was a pretty geeky kid, unsurprisingly. I read Star Wars expanded universe novels during the morning reading period. I had disappeared into fantasy worlds after my brother died a few years before, just months after we moved to New England. Since my brother had died and I was a new kid, no one really knew how to be my friend. Some people were nice to me for awhile, but most ignored my existence.

One of the few people who took pity on me was the daughter of my church’s minister, who was in the same year as me. She’d invite me to eat lunch with her and her friends, even though I could tell her friends did not want me there.

Despite growing up speaking French, I was placed in introductory French – and never moved, because there was so much going on with my brother’s accident and eventual death that no one really bothered with my education. Thankfully, my French teacher was kind and would let me help lead the spoken French bits in class. This one boy liked to hang out after class and would mock me after I left, pinching his nose and doing his best “make fun of the French” accent. He liked to make my life hell in other ways, like stealing homework, tearing pages out of schoolbooks, or shoving my shoulder whenever he “bumped” me in the hallway. I had dealt with worse bullying before, so I mostly just tried to ignore him. His was never very serious, but it was constant.

In any case, I asked these girls I ate lunch with if I could room with them on this trip. I did not want to be randomly assigned somewhere. They grudgingly agreed to it.

Once we got to Québec, things changed. Our teachers told us we were allowed to explore the city in small groups and we were to use French only when interacting with shopkeepers and the like. Well, the girls I was rooming with quickly realized I was the only student in our class who actually spoke French. I helped my roommates order things at bakeries and make change and navigate around the city. Word quickly spread and by the end of the first day, several classmates came to me for phrases they could use.

On the second day of this trip, we were all supposed to meet up in this square in the old city at a particular time after being allowed to wander for a few hours. My group turned up a few minutes early and a group of boys – with my favorite harasser – was already there. The boys were clearly planning some kind of prank; there was a lot of stifled laughing and looking our way. The harasser came over to our group. He asked me how to say, “Are you my mother?”

Well, for those who don’t know:

“Es-tu ma mère?” means “Are you my mother?”

“Es-tu ma merde?” means “Are you my shit?”

Can you guess which one I told him? He had never paid attention in class, so to his ears (and the ears of our classmates), it sounded right. And no one would ever suspect quiet, mousy, geeky me of any shenanigans.

He went up to a stranger and asked her if she was his shit just as one of our teachers came around the corner. He got hauled by his ears, the teacher apologizing profusely to the woman while simultaneously scolding my harasser. Kid immediately tried to blame it on me but his protestations were immediately dismissed. The teacher did check with everyone, but no one had heard the difference in the language used so backed up my version of events.

He had detention for the rest of the trip and was not allowed to participate in any of the activities. He had to sit on the bus and write an essay.

He was far more cautious about being an a**hole to me in the future.

Something There

Overview: Four years have passed since the war and you and Draco are now soon to be married. But as his insecurities catch up to him, he begins to wonder why someone like you would ever want to be with a former Death Eater like him. For who could ever learn to love a beast?

Word Count: About 1,400.

Warning(s): Some fluffy fluff.

Note: Draco x Reader Beauty and the Beast retelling loosely based off of “Something There” (see below).


Draco watched as you twirled around the kitchen of the Malfoy Manor, a sterling silver spoon in hand. In a cozy robe and pajamas, he thought you were quite a sight. His favorite sight in the world, nevertheless.

“One more week,” you sang. “That’s seven more days until we’re married.” After placing your dishes in the sink, you sat down at the dining table next to Draco. “Can you imagine?”

“Seeing as we already live together,” said he, gesturing to the vast interior of the manor, “I quite easily can.”

You nudged him with your elbow. “It’s still not the same. Soon, we’ll be Mr. and Mrs. Draco Malfoy.” You paused. “Has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

Although he replied with a nod, Draco couldn’t help but frown at the sound of his last name. What was once a word he flaunted about and held to the highest esteem had turned into a scarlet letter after the Second Wizarding War.

He furrowed his eyebrows, dragging his spoon along the rim of his bowl. Soon, you would bear the name Malfoy. Malfoy. A name tarnished and sent to Azkaban and back as nothing more than a patch on his parents’ clothing.

And the more he thought about it, the more Draco realized that wasn’t a burden he wanted to share with you.
__________

A day passed and Draco still had an unsettling feeling in his stomach. It wasn’t uncommon for him to wear long-sleeved shirts, but now he could hardly bare glancing at his Dark Mark.

Is this what being a Malfoy meant?

“Draco,” you said, climbing into the bed as you stared at his back, “what’s the matter?”

He tucked his hand under a pillow. “Nothing, love. Just tired, is all.”

“I don’t believe you.” He felt the mattress shift ever so slightly as you drew nearer to him. “Before all else, Draco, I am your friend. Before being your fiancée, your girlfriend, your anything– I’m still just your best friend.” You peered over at him, his eyes focused on the wall. “So why on earth would you expect me to believe that lie?”

Sighing, Draco turned on his other side to face you, propping himself up on his arm. He noticed the way you scrunched your nose in concern, a wrinkle appearing between your eyebrows.

“Please, tell me what’s wrong, babe,” you pleaded. Your face softened as you examined his tired eyes, bringing your hand to brush against the cold skin of his face. “Is it the wedding? Are we going into this too soon?”

“No, of course not. It’s not–” He took a deep breath, unsure of what he wanted to say. Draco captured your hand in his, pulling it near his chest. He stroked the calloused pad of his thumb against your knuckles absentmindedly. “If I had to describe you in one word, it would be perfection.”

You quirked an eyebrow, unsure of how to react. “I’m no where near perfect, but– Don’t try to change the subject.”

He let out an indignant chuckle. “I wasn’t finished. I only meant…Just look at yourself and then look at me.”

“I see a witch and a wizard.”

“Funny,” said Draco with a straight face. “But really look. Because when I look at you, I see a compassionate, intelligent woman who fights for what’s right.” His eyes darted to his clothed forearm, the black mark almost visible through his white night shirt. “When I look at myself, I see is a monster. A beast. A coward, at best.”

You stayed silent, Draco’s hand still in yours. “I think your perception is tainted,” you said, withdrawing your hand from his to gently push back at his sleeve. He caught sight of a sliver of his Dark Mark, causing him to wince. Draco saw you reaching for a black marker next to your journal on the nightstand.

You uncapped it, taking hold of his hand.

“What are you–”

You silenced him with a brief kiss on the lips. You sat up and moved his arm onto your lap. “When I see you, Draco, I see someone who shouldn’t be defined by their mistakes.”

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2

What happens to the gang after the book (headcanon)

-The gang buried Johnny and Dally next to each other because they knew that is what they would’ve wanted… and they couldn’t bear the thought of little Johnny being next to someone he didn’t know. 
-Ponyboy got a full ride into an Ivy League school. 
-Two-Bit cleaned up his act and dropped out of school, he got a full time job as a mechanic. 
-Steve was conscripted to war and came back home with PTSD. He got onto drugs and wouldn’t accept any help from the gang. 
-Darry had found a girl to settle down with, they had four kids together, a set of identical twin girls and a boy and a girl… he found so much happiness with her. 
-Sodapop and Two-Bit opened up a mechanic garage together and it became quite successful, especially because most of the girls came to look at Sodapop. 
-Eventually Steve managed to be rehabilitated and he got a job as a drug and alcohol councilor at a school, but on the weekends he also helped war veterans come to terms with the lingering problems they still had from war. 
-Ponyboy would come back home every couple of months or so to visit all of his brothers… Darry, Sodapop, Two-Bit and Steve. 
-They all ended up having children and settling down with someone they loved.
-Ponyboy went on to become a movie director and screenplay writer that went on to win awards for best picture.
-On the anniversary of Johnny and Dally’s death, all five boys go and visit them at their grave and sit there in silence, thinking of the boys who never got to grow old like they did… they think about the boys who are forever imprinted in their minds as faces of innocence that were tainted by the cruelties of this world.


Write me another story

Write me a world where Love is to Love, not blood and quarreling and bitterness

Write me a world where a Godfather is worth more than an aunt who neither cares nor loves

Write a world with justice

Write me a world where someone stopped to listen to Sirius Black.

Write us a world where Mad-eye stood up for Sirius’ chance to defend himself because “it doesn’t matter how it looks, dammit, vigilance goes both ways, you watch your back against the people you fight with but you watch their backs too” where Minerva trusted her gut “I don’t know, Albus, remember those boys…” where Dumbledore used his political clout and paid attention and made a difference

Write me a world where there was time in the rejoicing of the aftermath of Voldemort’s defeat to stop and, not recoiling in horror from betrayal and murder and a decimated corpse, locking it up and throwing away the key, to take it and examine it and think for a second before destroying another life

Write me a world where a young man, terrified and heartbroken and completely lost, is handed a new world and a tiny human life as he walks out of Ministry security

Write me a world where a one-year-old laughs for the first time in a week when he sees his godfather, who comes for dinner every thursday night and throws him highest in the air - even higher than daddy - where is daddy - begins to whimper then laughs again when Sirius picks him out of Minerva’s arms

Write me a Deep Magic written into a stronger, stranger, older bond than DNA, a Dumbledore who sits his old pupil down in his office (with Snape - eyes red and face haggard - and Minerva and Flitwick standing behind) and sits down between them on the desk this child who wraps one tiny chubby hand around one of each of their fingers and grips tight; A Dumbledore who explains as best he can to an exhausted starving 21-year-old “Sirius, Harry’s mother gave her life for son… you are his Godfather and the one they both loved the most, will you love Harry like they did, will you protect him? Because I believe -” And a Sirius Black who cannot shut up (Sirius Black never could shut up), who blurts “YES yes of course please Dumbledore let me look after him, he’s mine now, its my job - I’m sorry I should have - my fault, it’s my (Minerva steps forward and lifts a hand towards his shoulder - he cannot stop saying my fault since it happened) - and, when Harry starts to whine again at the distress in his voice - “dear Merlin he’s soaking why has no-one changed him yet, I’m sorry, lil’ man -” (and Minerva lets the hand fall).

Write me a new visitor at the Weasleys’ that night, because “really, Sirius, you can’t keep him there now the place is freezing and trust me dearie I’ve got seven already one more bottle won’t make a difference now go and have a shower and NO I won’t hear of it you are STAYING THE NIGHT now look Bill dear, yes, he’s Harry, you’re right, no, a bit younger than Ron, I think, that’s right Sirius dear isn’t it, he’s…” but Sirius has already gone for a shower and the hot water rushes down his back like pure relief that finally, finally, here’s something like normality and finally, finally, he lets himself cry for his best friends, for his brother, for one more orphan in the world.

Write me a broken man with red eyes and a child who is only happy because he doesn’t understand, but a boiled egg is the best thing either of them could have possibly seen on that night.

Write me a Remus who appears in the middle of the chaos which is egg-and-soldiers-night at the Weasleys’ with a bang that sends the children shrieking and grabs his friend and hugs him tight “damn you damnyoudamnyoutohell Black don’t you ever ever do that to me again where’s Harry” and they both break down again and Molly scolds him for swearing and makes them a cup of tea and Arthur chases the children up to bed and they all sit down in the living room and take stock of this new world and try to tell themselves that now the children will grow up safe, that this is what Prongs and Lily were fighting for.

Write me a Minerva who goes to the Potters’ - and a Hagrid who absolutely insists on ‘helping her’ - and extracts what she can from the rubble and grim-facedly leaved the rest with the wizards who’ve come to begin the clearout and they bring Harry’s cot and blanket (miraculously, somehow, only just a little singed) to the Weasleys’ that very night. Write me a Sirius Black who holds a cup of tea (he never somehow found it in himself to tell Molly he really doesn’t care for tea) tight between his hands and begins to realise slowly (and it will be a slow, slow realisation, but eventually he will get there) that he’s not alone. Write me a Sirius who is exhausted and lost and angry and scared and sad and a room a little too full up of friends and family, and write me hope.

Write me a Harry who smiles a big grin full of exactly three teeth at Kreacher and a Sirius who swallows hard and resolves that this joyful little person won’t grow up in a house full of hate like he did. Write me a master and house-elf who gradually gradually learn to tolerate each other, over many years and with many a bitten-back word.

Write me a Remus who comes over most nights and spends periods living with his friend and their boy, who helps, with Kreacher a bit (he knows what it’s like to be ignored and marginalized and shunned and if Kreacher knew what Remus really was who knows what he’d say, but there’s something between them nonetheless), with Harry more (here, Padfoot, let me read to him - oh Moony thank Merlin I swear one more time through ‘Percy and his bloody purple wand’ and I’ll” - “ok, shh, give him here, come on Harry-my-lad…” ) and with Sirius a lot. Write me friends who help each other heal, and get used to Muggles confusing them for a couple with a son, and the varied reactions and bizarre questions that entails, and when Remus’ mother finally quietly passes away, he moves in for real. Write me a Remus who insists that he cannot take his friend’s charity, and even with all James’ money in trust for Harry and for Sirius as his guardian and all the Black family fortune going to waste will not be convinced until Sirius reaches out and takes his friend’s hand in both of his and says Remus I need you here - and Remus scoffed because Sirius was always such a drama queen and it’s been long enough now that they can joke about this - but at the same time, it’s not quite a joke, and Remus doesn’t suggest leaving after that.

Write me every Sunday lunch at the Weasleys and Harry round to be babysat whenever Sirius has something to take care of or needs time to himself, and Molly trying to teach Sirius how to change a nappy and realising it’s completely unnecessary because who really thinks Lily Potter would have had Sirius hanging about in her house twice a week hyping up her boy and not making himself useful in the slightest, of course he’d have learnt how to change a nappy.

Write me a Minerva who comes by frequently and has Harry to tea at Hogwarts every so often when he gets a bit older, for James and Lily’s sake and to check that young Black isn’t raising too much of a ragamuffin - and for the most part, she and Molly and Remus between them manage a healthy level of manners in a fairly ordinary 6,8,11-year-old boy.

Write me a Harry and Ron who grow up together, an extra slim (but never skinny) dark-haired, pale (but never unhealthily so) brother to an unruly pack of seven, an overgrown garden to race toy brooms in, gnomes to be bitten by and a mother to scold all her children indiscriminately.

Write me a Sirius who comes to collect his godson in time to stay for tea and Molly who says “look there now Sirius!” and Sirius looks out and sees his boy - easy to spot out of among the five gingers fighting over a broom - break away from the group and jump and swing the old cleansweep under him before he hits the ground and zoom away around the treetops laughing “no hands Fred you gnome-end-sucker!” and Sirius feels something sharp clench in his heart because he looks so like James (and James is never ever going to do that stupid move ever again) so it’s grief, fresh as the first month, but also he is six, how can he already do that jump thing? so it’s also pride and, scariest of all he is six, that language - and he finds there are tears streaming down his cheeks and he can’t speak too well and Molly just sits him down and gives another of her interminable cups of tea (he doesn’t mind them so much now) and pats him on the shoulder, and he glances up and sees that there are tears in the corners of her eyes, too. But he drinks the tea and it passes and by the time the children come in complaining about something and clamouring for cake there’s no sign of anything amiss.

Write me a Harry who grows up with a godfather who makes mistakes, who cries and shakes some nights with flashbacks that overtake him, who never had good parents of his own and isn’t too sure what they look like exactly, but damned if he won’t do all that he can for his friend’s boy - and not even his friends’ boy, either, his boy, his Harry, because really, in the end, what is a godson but a son by another name, and what is blood but love? Write me a Harry who grew up with stories of his parents from anyone who would tell them, pictures around the house (Sirius wonders whether to black Peter out of them, but this house has had enough blacked-out faces, and that was the best part of his life, after all) and no real family, but plenty enough friends to be getting on with.

Write me parties at Christmas with the old Order and their children because if there’s one season Sirius will make an effort for its Christmas and Grimmuld Place is the best venue for things like this. Write me a house too big for just two lads, but more often than not it’s three, (eventually permanently three) and sometimes more, (Hagrid fills up a room himself, every so often in the holidays) and Sirius is never ever used to how much noise and life one 9-year-old boy can instill in the gloomiest of houses, and surely he never had this much energy? (On reflection, yes, he did, definitely, probably more).

Write me a Dumbledore who watches and waits and prays - very un-wizardly habit, that, but he always had his eccentricities - and hopes. He hopes he is right and he hopes against hope that it will never be necessary to test his theories and Voldemort will never return and he hopes that nothing will change. He hopes that he was right to make the choices he did. But when Harry arrives at Hogwarts at the age of 11, healthy and happy and loved, with someone to hug him goodbye at the station and a friend to sit with on the carriage already and a “yes!” fistpump when the hat shouts “GRYFFINDOR!” which - though he will never ever know it, who is to tell him? - is exactly the same gesture his father made when he received the same sorting twenty years ago - when he sits down with a little bit of overawed wonder in the green eyes, which is exactly how his mother looked, and waves to Hagrid, and turns to speak to the bushy-brown-haired girl next to him because she looks even more scared than he feels and Remus told him he should look for someone who looks like that and say hello, and starts to tell her what he plans to write home to his godfather about, and what will she write to her parents, he knows they’ll be so excited to hear about all of this I mean LOOK at it, look at Hogwarts, isn’t this GREAT? (and the very tense Muggle-born girl is relaxed enough to listen to someone else for the first time since Neville introduced himself on the train) - Dumbledore smiles. He won’t know how his choices pan out, and he won’t know what the future holds - but right now (and Minerva, watching the Sorting but with a smile to spare for her young Harry James, so grown up, agrees) it seems like the best that could have been.

If I told my 10-year-old self who was mocked for having buck teeth and listened to “Picture to Burn” every afternoon before soccer practice that one day Taylor was going to look her in the eyes and say that she had “the most beautiful smile”, she wouldn’t believe me. 

If I told my 12-year-old self who sang and danced around in her best friend’s room at her first sleepover to “You Belong With Me” that she was going to have a dance party and even body roll with Taylor one day, she wouldn’t believe me. 

If I told my 14-year-old self who sat in the front seat of her mom’s car before her first day of high school with earbuds in listening to “Fifteen” that she was going to thank Taylor for her music one day, specifically during times of worry and stress, she wouldn’t believe me. 

If I told my 16-year-old self who after she received her driver’s license inserted her Red cd into the cd player of her first car before driving home from the DMV that Taylor was going to tell her one day how proud she was of her, she wouldn’t believe me. 

If I told my brokenhearted, 17-year-old self whose only source of joy at the time was 1989 that Taylor’s hugs would one day mend the broken pieces made by the boy on the football team, she wouldn’t believe me.  

If I told my 18-year-old self who cried herself to sleep listening to “Never Grow Up” before her first day of college that Taylor was going to tell her how “lovely” she was one day, she wouldn’t believe me. 

One week ago, 20-year old me met the woman who has been writing the soundtracks to my life for the past 10 years. I am a firm believer that every moment has led up to this-every heartbreak, every coming-of-age moment, every dance party, every anxiety attack, every road trip down PCH, every clean moment. I am still in utter disbelief that I went to LA secret sessions. Every Taylor Swift album holds a unique and intimate space in my heart, but reputation in particular holds the biggest space. My heart is overflowing with sheer happiness and thankfulness. I feel honored to be a fan of such an extraordinary and powerful woman who takes on the world by storm but also feels like my best friend. 

From the bottom of my heart, 

Thank you, Taylor, for everything. 

Love always,

Bella

I want a boy whose kisses make me feel alive

I want a boy who has a part that never growing up

I want a boy who would fight against with anything for me

I want a boy who could understand me without a word

I want a boy who can show me the world

I want a boy who treats me as an equal

I want a boy who helps me to make my dreams come true

I want a boy who would never give up searching for me

I want a boy who would sacrifice himself for me

I want a boy who let me teach him

I want a boy who puts my happiness before his own

I want a boy who would never leave me behind

I want a boy who always want the best for me

I want a boy who grow old with me

because I would give all of this to him.

Sebaciel fic plot idea: Sebastian slowly falls in love with Ciel. By the time he realises, it’s too late; he’d do anything for that boy, anything at all. Even using his demonic powers to go back in time to fix the events of December the 14th. 

That’s exactly what he does, knowing full well that without the death of his family, Ciel would never need to make a deal with a demon. Sebastian and Ciel would never meet, but he would be happy. It seems a fair exchange to Sebastian, who watches the family in secret after that. 

Twin boys go on to celebrate every birthday with the joy that was intended, laughter replacing the pain. They remain happy as they grow into teenagers, and the family stays safe from any threat - the enemies of Phantomhive always seem to mysteriously end up dead. One day Sebastian is out lurking in the forest while everyone is at church, his mind dwelling his strange nostalgia for the bitter little boy with the mismatched eyes, when someone jumps out from behind a tree trunk.

“Caught you!” Shouts Ciel, grinning.

It isn’t like Sebastian to be taken off-guard and it takes him a moment to collect himself. “Shouldn’t you be at church?” He asks eventually.

Ciel shakes his head. “I told Father I was feeling ill.”

Something occurs to Sebastian then. “Do you know who I am?”

“Of course I do.” Ciel takes a step forward. “You’re my guardian angel! You’ve been watching me this whole time, I knew it. But I couldn’t come and find you until I was alone.”

“And why is that?”

Ciel turns a bit pink. “Because you’re…. you know.”

“Because I’m what?”

“….Because you’re mine.”

Soulmate Au - Ong Seongwoo

Member: Ong Seongwoo // Wanna One

Genre: Fluff

Plot: When everyone is finding their soulmates, what if you miss yours?

Word count: 2064


“It froze!” Joohyun screamed, her tiny hands clutching her clock pendant tightly. 19 years, 4 months, 28 days, 13 hours, 4 minutes, and 58 seconds. You watched as your best friend looked around the cafe frantically, before meeting eyes with a cute boy, his own eyes rounded with shock. “Is that really you?” You almost laughed at her amazement at finally meeting her soulmate. You two were both late at encountering The One, but clearly she was faster than you. You nudged her towards him, and he sent her a bashful smile.

“I’m Kim Jaehwan, a university student who’s majoring in music and composition. And you?” You sat down, muting their conversation. You did not want to impede on their privacy any longer than necessary, and instead fiddled with the delicate silver chain that held your own clock. Now it was 19 years, 2 months, 16 days, 9 hours, 52 minutes, and 4 seconds since you were born, and your watch had yet to stop. Other friends had met their soulmates as early as birth, in the crib next to them at the hospital. You would wait patiently, you decide, and convinced yourself that it was ‘save the best for last’.

“____. Do you mind if we… uh… go out?” Joohyun interrupted your thoughts. You nodded, sending a sincere smile, before shooing them out of the cafe. You took out your sketch pad instead, and looked around. It was a quaint and quiet nook of the college town that you attended. You had promised to take Joohyun here when she visited during her break, as her university started winter break sooner than yours had, but here you are now alone. I guess I can take credit for their amazing love story when their wedding rolls around, you thought to yourself with a miserable smile. You flipped through the pages, studying your past sketches. You and Joohyun were both insistent on majoring in things you were truly passionate about; for you it was art and for her it was law. Your sketchpad was worn out and frayed, but it still contained content that you considered valuable.

You can’t remember how long you sat there, listening to the soft guitar and piano instrumentals from the overhead speakers, flinching periodically at a sudden clatter of plates and cups or scrape of a chair against the wooden floor. Instead you poured yourself into drawing the flower arrangement that decorated your table, fresh despite the frigid weather. Or at least, you had been, until a rough shove of your table knocked your hot tea onto the surface. You frantically scooped up your pencils and pad, but it was too late. A yellow stain was splattered across the top page, and your past works were mushy to the touch. You furrowed your brows, before glaring upwards. A pair of boys stood there, one with a hand over his mouth in surprise and the other stuttering at your gaze.

“I-I’m so sorry!” He stammered, before grasping at the napkin dispenser and dabbed frantically at your art. You snatched it away, gritting your teeth in anger. You pressed it downward, absorbing as much of the liquid as possible, while the boys wiped off the table top. When the mess was cleared up and damage control done, you stared at the ruined sketch pad. It was not as terrible as you had thought it would be, but it was not the perfect bundle of effort you had put in prior to the episode. You stood up, shoving your belongings into the bag. The two boys had their hands folded over one another, staring at the floor. They were clearly expecting an outburst, but instead you just shook your head.

“If you two need a table to sit at, then sit here.” You stalked away, shoving the heavy glass door open and stomping across the freshly fallen snow. It was too late to ask Joohyun to keep you company in your sour mood– she was probably hitting it off with Jaehwan. The faces of the two boys were forever etched in your mind. One had brown hair, while the one who had grabbed the napkins had natural hair. You shook your head. What was the point of being cute if you were a mess?

You dragged yourself into your dorm, plopping onto the bed. Joohyun’s bed was empty, her desk a mess of pencils and textbooks, while her clothes were strewn over the tiled floor. You picked up, folding them absentmindedly while you hummed some holiday festive tune. Perhaps you could go watch a movie by yourself, or you could take a nap to forget the incident. You sighed, before wrapping your fingers around the cold metal of the clock pendant, your eyes fluttering shut as you lay down on your mattress.


“____! Wake up!” Joohyun’s excited voice rang in your ears as you shot up from your bed. You winced at the harsh morning sunlight and stared sleepily as your best friend threw an outfit for you to wear. “Jaehwan is singing at the multi- university concert today with his friends and he asked if we wanted to come! I got us backstage passes for before the show and front row seats.” You nodded, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes.

“What time is it?” You ask, before glancing at the clothes. White cropped sweatshirt and a denim skirt and stockings to cover up for the cold. You changed, listening to her blabber about the details of how perfect Jaehwan was. He had humor. He had the most adorable laugh. His voice was like an angel’s. The list went on and on, and you tried to not cover her mouth as you finished tying half of your hair up.

“- and I was wondering if you would find your soulmate and we could go on double dates.” Joohyun finished. You sighed at the sensitive topic. It was another day closer to 20 years of not knowing where he was. There were always rumors of soulmates never meeting. One would die in an accident. One would never fall in love. Someone would grow old without anyone at his or her side. It was tragic, and something you feared.

“I’m sure he’s out there somewhere.” You mumble, before checking your pendant. You froze, feeling tears well up. Joohyun immediately tensed, before running to your side.

“What’s– Oh crap!” It was frozen. 19 years, 2 months, 16 days, 10 hours, 37 minutes, and 56 seconds. You had seen your soulmate yesterday. “B- but who?” Your mind whirled. The two boys. It had to be one of them.

Secretly, you had wished it were the boy with darker hair. While you had undeniably been angrier at him, you were touched by his efforts to save your sketch pad. His manners softened the doubts you had about one of the two being your soulmate. The brown haired one was not a bad guy either from what you had seen; he had an adorable eyesmile that he made when he was flustered, and a Busan dialect that had started to leak as he would stammer words to his friend. Still, you leaned towards the former rather than the latter.

“What if I never see him again?” The words stuck to your throat. So close. So so so close. How could you have missed it? You normally checked after meeting any new guy. Sure, the pair had pissed you off, but you must have been stupid to not have thought about it. Hope flaired in the pit of your stomach. You would recognize the two anywhere, and you would figure out when their clock had stopped, and if it matched the time at which yours had. 

“You will. Come on, let’s head to the performance hall and we’ll think up of ways to meet him again.” You allowed Joohyun to drag you across campus, wiping away stray tears from your eyes. By the time you arrived to the sound check and rehearsals, your eyes were tinged with pink, and Joohyun was handing you her handkerchief. The image of the boy burned in your mind. 

“Do you want to see Jaehwan with me or?” You nod your head, before following her backstage. The halls were full of rooms where the performers were getting ready. Racks of clothes lined the walls, the scent of cosmetics heavy in the air. She knocked on a white door, and it opened to reveal Jaehwan’s smiling face, who rushed to embrace her. A cough strangled out of you before you could help it, and you turned away. Keep walking. Walk it out.

Your feet dragged heavily, dodging oncoming traffic as other performers rushed to finish their hair and styling. Once or twice you almost walked into props or pieces of a set for the stage. More than once people had thrown pitiful looks at your tears. You finally sat down on a chair outside of one of the rooms, not minding the rush of boys running in and out. Your eyes closed as you sighed, leaning your head back against the wall.

“Exactly 14 hours, 28 minutes, and 1 second ago, I met you.” A familiar voice startled you. It was soothing to hear, unique to the ear but comforting at the same time. You looked up. It was the boy with darker hair, the one who had spilled your tea. The one you had been waiting for.

“The one I’ve been waiting 21 years, 2 months, 7 days, 52 minutes and 11 seconds for.” He remarked, before offering a hand to you. You stood upright, mouth gaping but unable to utter a sound as you grasped his outreached hand. It was rough but warm, something like his neutral expression but his contrastingly teasing tone. He was wearing a white hoodie, with a ripped denim jacket and matching torn jeans and white shoes. It’s so similar to my outfit, you thought. He smiled at you, and a triangle of beauty marks on his cheek caught your attention.  “It would be nice if you could talk to me too. I thought I was going to be single–”

You cut him off with a constricting hug, arms wrapped around his lean but sturdy frame. He tensed in surprise, before a hand reached up to stroke your dark hair. Tears framed your eyelashes once more as you hiccuped pathetically. He laughed at the sight, and it sounded like music to your ears. You loved the way he smelled like cotton, and how his hair was messy and fell perfectly around his face. You loved how tall he was, how his tongue poked out just a little when he laughed, and how willingly he made you drop your former grudge. 

“You’re still a clumsy ass.” You mutter, and he rose an eyebrow at you. Wrong words to say. “I mean you still ruined my art and made me think I didn’t have a soulmate and I hate how cute you are now that I forgave you and I’m so glad I finally met you but I was so scared I didn’t know it was you until it was too late and–”

“You really need to breathe.” He remarked, before wrapping his arms around you. It was a warm embrace, something you had been waiting for all your life. He simply felt like home. “I never thought the first words I would ever hear from my future wife would be that I’m a clumsy ass. Colorful language. I assume my future is about to get a lot brighter.” You blush out of embarrassment, but mentally check off that it would be hard to win an argument with him. He simply had a way of making his words humorous and direct. 

“Can I at least have your name before I can agree to be your wife? I think you’re proposing a little too fast there,” you counter. He grinned even wider at this, a warm glint in his eyes as he peered into your face. He was obviously admiring it, and you blush a deeper shade of red, much to his delight. He cleared his throat slightly.

“I’m Ong Seongwoo. I’m a student who majors in dance and theatre from one of the visiting colleges. I’m graduating this year and this is my last college performance. And I’m so glad you made it.” 

Sorry for the feels

Peter and Gamora end up getting married. A few years pass and they discover they’re going to be parents. When Gamora gives birth everyone is shocked that it’s twins; a boy and a girl.

Gamora suggests to Peter that they name their daughter Meredith, after his mother. Caught up in the emotions, Peter agrees, knowing his mother would be proud. But they never really thought of a name for a boy. They bounced suggestions to each other the entire nine months, but nothing seemed to fit. Peter takes one look at his son, and he feels a sense of pride.

Peter decides to name their son Yondu.

Years go by, and the children grow. Of course they want to know where their names came from- and from time to time this questioned it asked to each of the Guardians, and their Uncle Kraglin, who for some reason is always timid when asked.

Meredith isn’t as ambitious about learning her name sake, but her brother on the other hand, he is dying to learn where his name came from. He hears stories about a man named Yondu and an arrow, but he never understood them.

When the kids are about nine, Peter decides that they’re old enough to know where their names come from. He had mulled it over in his head for a while, even discussed it with Gamora.

Peter sat his kids down and said to them, “So; you two want to know where your names came from?” The twins nodded frantically, grins spreading across their faces. With tears budding in his eyes, Peter spoke.

“You were named after my parents.”

Funny Quotes on Music

From cmuse.org. Enjoy!

  1. “A composer is a guy who goes around forcing his will on unsuspecting air molecules, often with the assistance of unsuspecting musicians. — Frank Zappa
  2. “I want to do a musical movie. Like Evita, but with good music.” — Elton John
  3. “Music is moonlight in the gloomy night of life.” — Jean Paul
  4. “Talking about music is like dancing about architecture.” — Steve Martin
  5. “A gentleman is someone who can play the accordion, but doesn’t.” — Tom Waits
  6. “I don’t deserve a Songwriters Hall of Fame Award. But fifteen years ago, I had a brain operation and I didn’t deserve that, either. So I’ll keep it.” — Quincy Jones
  7. “The musician is perhaps the most modest of animals, but he is also the proudest. It is he who invented the sublime art of ruining poetry.” — Erik Satie
  8. “All the good music has already been written by people with wigs and stuff.” — Frank Zappa
  9. “To achieve great things, two things are needed: a plan and not quite enough time.” — Leonard Bernstein
  10. “I’ve been imitated so well I’ve heard people copy my mistakes.” — Jimi Hendrix
  11. “My personal hobbies are reading, listening to music, and silence.” — Edith Sitwell
  12. “I can’t listen to that much Wagner. I start getting the urge to conquer Poland.” — Woody Allen
  13. “Life can’t be all bad when for ten dollars you can buy all the Beethoven sonatas and listen to them for ten years.” — William F. Buckley, Jr.
  14. “Beethoven’s last quartets were written by a deaf man and should only be listened to by a deaf man.” — Thomas Beecham
  15. “The world must be filled with unsuccessful musical careers like mine, and it’s probably a good thing. We don’t need a lot of bad musicians filling the air with unnecessary sounds. Some of the professionals are bad enough.” — Andy Rooney
  16. “Andrew Lloyd Webber’s music is everywhere, but so is AIDS.” — Malcolm Williamson
  17. “All music is folk music. I ain’t never heard a horse sing a song.” — Louis Armstrong
  18. “Money doesn’t talk, it swears.” ― Bob Dylan
  19. “Competitions are for horses, not artists.” — Bela Bartok
  20. “When an instrument fails on stage it mocks you and must be destroyed!” ― Trent Reznor
  21. “I never had much interest in the piano until I realized that every time I played, a girl would appear on the piano bench to my left and another to my right.” — Duke Ellington
  22. “Let me be clear about this: I don’t have a drug problem, I have a police problem.” — Keith Richards
  23. “When I was a little boy, I told my dad, ‘When I grow up, I want to be a musician.’ My dad said: ‘You can’t do both, Son.” — Chet Atkins
  24. “I don’t like country music, but I don’t mean to denigrate those who do. And for the people who like country music, denigrate means ‘put down’.”— Bob Newhart
  25. “Music makes one feel so romantic – at least it always gets on one’s nerves – which is the same thing nowadays.” —Oscar Wilde
  26. “I know [canned music] makes chickens lay more eggs and factory workers produce more. But how much more can they get out of you on an elevator?” — Victor Borge
  27. “It’s easy to play any musical instrument: all you have to do is touch the right key at the right time and the instrument will play itself.” — Johann Sebastian Bach
  28. “Rock ‘n’ roll will never die. There’ll always be some arrogant little brat who wants to make music with a guitar.” — Dave Edmunds
  29. “I stole everything I ever heard, but mostly I stole from the horns.” — Ella Fitzgerald
  30. “Get up from that piano. You hurtin’ its feelings.” — Jelly Roll Morton
  31. “To listen is an effort, and just to hear is no merit. A duck hears also.” — Igor Stravinsky
  32. “To get your playing more forceful, hit the drums harder.” — Keith Moon
  33. “Music expresses that which cannot be put into words.” — Victor Hugo
  34. “Jazz will endure just as long people hear it through their feet instead of their brains.” — John Philip Sousa
  35. “We consider that any man who can fiddle all through one of those Virginia Reels without losing his grip may be depended upon in any kind of musical emergency.” — Mark Twain
  36. “Sometimes we pee on each other before we go on stage.” — Trent Reznor
  37. “Dogs smoke in France. “— Ozzy Osbourne
  38. “Music was my refuge. I could crawl into the space between the notes and curl my back to loneliness.” — Maya Angelou
  39. “Nothing soothes me more after a long and maddening course of pianoforte recitals than to sit and have my teeth drilled.” — George Bernard Shaw
  40. “In order to compose, all you need to do is remember a tune that nobody else has thought of.” — Robert Schumann
  41. “I think John would have liked Free As A Bird. In fact, I hope somebody does this to all my crap demos when I’m dead, making them into hit songs.” — George Harrison
  42. “Nothing separates the generations more than music. By the time a child is eight or nine, he has developed a passion for his own music that is even stronger than his passions for procrastination and weird clothes.” — Bill Cosby
  43. “One good thing about music, when it hits you, you feel no pain.” — Bob Marley
  44. “The piano has been drinking, not me.” — Tom Waits
  45. “Classical music is the kind we keep thinking will turn into a tune.” — Kin Hubbard
  46. “There are some experiences in life which should not be demanded twice from any man, and one of them is listening to the Brahms Requiem.” — George Bernard Shaw
  47. “Wagner’s music is better than it sounds.” — Mark Twain
  48. “In the end we’re all Jerry Springer Show guests, really, we just haven’t been on the show.” — Marilyn Manson
  49. “Rock journalism is people who can’t write interviewing people who can’t talk in order to provide articles for people who can’t read.” — Frank Zappa
  50. “Too many pieces of music finish too long after the end.” — Igor Stravinsky
  51. “There are two golden rules for an orchestra: start together and finish together. The public doesn’t give a damn what goes on in between.” — Thomas Beecham
  52. “Lesser artists borrow, great artists steal.” — Igor Stravinsky
  53. “There’s nothing like the eureka moment of knocking off a song that didn’t exist before – I won’t compare it to sex, but it lasts longer.” — Paul McCartney
  54. “Do I listen to pop music because I’m miserable or am I miserable because listen to pop music?” — John Cusack
  55. “Last night at Carnegie Hall, Jack Benny played Mendelssohn. Mendelssohn lost.” — Harold C. Schonberg
  56. “Beethoven always sounds to me like the upsetting of a bag of nails, with here and there an also dropped hammer.” — John Ruskin
  57. “And those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music.” — Friedrich Nietzsche
  58. “I smash guitars because I like them.” — Pete Townshend
  59. “I once sent him a song and asked him to mark a cross wherever he thought it was faulty. Brahms returned it untouched, saying ‘I don’t want to make a cemetery of your compositions.’ ” — Hugo Wolf
  60. “I love Wagner, but the music I prefer is that of a cat hung up by its tail outside a window and trying to stick to the panes of glass with its claws.” — Charles-Pierre Baudelaire
shameless [ stan uris x reader ]

summary: stan likes to flirt. also, pumpkin heist?

warnings: none my boi

a/n:  this is written for @superwolfiestar ‘s “Beauty and the Beast Halloween prompt challenge”! this is day  22 and prompt pumpkin patch. also, request by anon:  Hi! Could you possibly do a Stan Uris x reader where he starts to shamelessly flirts with the reader when they are alone, and at first she is shocked that quiet Stan is doing that. She then tells the other losers, but they can’t believe it until they catch him doing it. But he doesn’t really mind ‘cause Stan the Man is high key a 1000% savage lol Hope you like the idea :)

if you like my stuff and want to support me, don’t forget to treat me to a KO-FI! take part in the 7K followers gift HERE!

MASTERLIST.

“Did you smile when you recognized my voice just now?”

Confused and even a bit disturbed, you stare into space as your face slowly twists in confusion. You press the bright red telephone to your ear. Behind you, in the living-room, whilst cleaning your mother calls you sweetly and asks who are you talking to. A moment of pure awkward silence passes.

Stan?” You ask; you swear it was his voice, but Stanley Good Boy Uris would never in a million years pull a one-liner on you. That’s Richie’s shtick.

“We’re hanging out tonight, just so you know.”

Beep beep beep. He hung up. Shaken, you slowly put down the telephone. Mixed feelings brew within you: is this a joke? Is Stan okay? Are you okay? Impossible to tell at the moment, but your heart is racing and your cheeks grow feverishly hot. Did he ask you out? No, no way, not Stan Uris. Are the Losers pulling your leg? Possibly. Your birthday is coming up and they always think of something hilarious and equally embarrassing to do on such occasions.

You suppose you’ll have to find out when night falls.

That’s how it had started. A simple telephone call and all went downhill (or uphill, deepening on how one choses to view it) from there. Stan Uris had a knack of catching you in situations where you were alone: after cheerleading practice, shoving your books into your locker, on your way to the girls’ bathroom (That was one time. Coincidentally he had emerged from the boys’ bathroom as you were pulling the handle to girls’ one!). He would wink (yes he would!), call you some sort of made up nickname or just throw you a compliment before disappearing to find Bill. The worst part was, in front of the Losers he was as normal and as sarcastic as he ever was. And Beverly didn’t believe you, either.

“Stan? Really?” She had rolled her eyes with a cheeky smile one time at lunch, “C’mon (Name), at least pick a boy that has actual courage to do that.”

And now here you are. Evening is drawing near and the world paints itself in pretty gold-orange and pink-purple shades. Everything has a strange rosy hue to it, as if someone had taken one of those new age cameras and put a filter on it. It’s also strangely warm, so you lose the scarf and gloves as you hop off your bike along with the two other boys accompanying you. You all stop next to Mr. Feilche’s home. He is an old policeman with a short temper, and currently the only one on the block that is at work and also grows pumpkins in his garden. Halloween is fast approaching and making Jack-O-Lanterns with the Losers has become tradition. Sadly, limited cash supply turns you to crime.

Not like stealing a few pumpkins is all that bad, after all. He has a dozen. You are positive Mr. Feilche won’t even notice.

Taking in a deep breath you stare down the looming house. It seems eerie even, with the curtains drawn and the doors locked and no live being inside. Its paint is already falling and porch lights flicker uneasily in the evening shade. Throwing your bike into nearby bushes - so no one would see it, obviously - you shove your hands into your pockets and look at the boys: Richie follows in your example and lazily drops his bike next to yours, while Stan is careful, setting his and covering it with leaves. Once the boys are done you all share a nod.

“Everyone remember their codenames?” You ask.

“Richie is Eagle 1,” Stan speaks up, “You’re Been there DoneThat, I’m Currently Doing That.”

“Dude, wasn’t (Name) Eagle 2?” Richie inquires. 

Stan shakes his head, “That would imply that she has something to do with you.” Sharing a laugh you shake your head softly before motioning for them to follow.

You, Richie and Stan slowly creep into the back yard, jumping over a short fence and making sure none of the neighbors notice you through the windows. Ben was busy with studies, Mike had expressed no enthusiasm in stealing, Bill and Beverly apologized and said they were planning to go to the movies while Eddie shook his head, nearly violently, and stated that he will never stoop so low and that his mother would kill him if she found out. Richie was in from the get-go. And Stan was the one to invite you.

The pumpkin patch sits silently, one growing bigger than the other, and your eyes glaze over with awe. So orange! So healthy! You haven’t seen such pretty ones in the supermarket and with a wicked grin you glance at the boys.

“Jackpot. Eagle 1 has spotted a goldmine, I repeat, Eagle 1 has spotted a goldmine…” Richie fixes his glasses, rushing to the biggest pumpkin. His fingers dig into its sides and with one swift push upwards he tries to pick it up. You can’t bear to watch his pathetic, though hilarious, attempts, “It’s cool, I don’t need your help, Cerrently Doing That, like at all! You know why—Cuz I’m a real man!” He barely lifts it above ground before dropping it. Losing his balance, Richie stumbles back, “Damn, it’s heavier than Mr. K’s tits.”

You and Stan slowly approach the patch and watch Richie fumble as he picks another, way too heavy, target. You are still unsure why Stan had asked you here. You have noted him go through a change of some sort. Saying and doing things he normally wouldn’t. You can’t help but wonder, and hope, that it’s due to you. You would be lying if you said that you didn’t like Stan – he’s a bit of an asshole, but he’s generally a good and kind person. But he’s safe. If someone had told you that Stan Uris would indulge in theft you would have dismissed that claim immediately.

Yet look at the two of you now. Standing in the shade shoulder to shoulder in pleasant silence with small, dazed smiles gracing each other’s faces and no real sufficient thought in mind. You almost forgot about the reason you even came here and if it wasn’t for Richie’s screaming you porbably would’ve floated away into lalaland. It is getting a bit late and a twinge of worry that the owner will come back soon and give you hell for breaking an entry sparks in your chest. You glance at Stan and then back at Richie, “You think we should go help him?”

“Do we have to?”

You crack a smile, “Well we could just leave him and make a run for it.”

“I think we could still make it in time to see that movie you wanted.”

You gulp. Blink a few times once the cool wind brushes your cheeks, “What?”

Stan finally turns to you, “’Nightmare on Elms Street’, right? You said you wanted to go see it.”

“Oh,” You smile softly, coming to hook your hair behind your ear, “oh, uhm, yes, I did, didn’t I…”

Stan takes your hand and intertwines his fingers with yours, “Don’t worry about having nightmares. Because the only dreams you’ll be having are of me—“

“Holy shit, (Name).” Richie’s voice shakes you, “Beverly told me Stan the Fucking Man was making the moves on you, but I so did not fucking believe her!”


end.


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A Little D for a Big Asshole

When I was in eighth grade, my middle school French class took a trip to Québec City. My school was in the whitest part of whitest Connecticut and I had moved there a few years before from Atlanta. You can imagine the Izod-style culture shock I went through.

In any case, we were up in Québec City in February, for some awful reason. Probably because the prices were cheapest for hotels, I don’t know. I do remember it was cold and windy and snowed a lot.

I was a pretty geeky kid, unsurprisingly. I read Star Wars expanded universe novels during the morning reading period. I had disappeared into fantasy worlds after my brother died a few years before, just months after we moved to New England. Since my brother had died and I was a new kid, no one really knew how to be my friend. Some people were nice to me for awhile, but most ignored my existence.

One of the few people who took pity on me was the daughter of my church’s minister, who was in the same year as me. She’d invite me to eat lunch with her and her friends, even though I could tell her friends did not want me there.

Despite growing up speaking French, I was placed in introductory French – and never moved, because there was so much going on with my brother’s accident and eventual death that no one really bothered with my education. Thankfully, my French teacher was kind and would let me help lead the spoken French bits in class. This one boy liked to hang out after class and would mock me after I left, pinching his nose and doing his best “make fun of the French” accent. He liked to make my life hell in other ways, like stealing homework, tearing pages out of schoolbooks, or shoving my shoulder whenever he “bumped” me in the hallway. I had dealt with worse bullying before, so I mostly just tried to ignore him. His was never very serious, but it was constant.

In any case, I asked these girls I ate lunch with if I could room with them on this trip. I did not want to be randomly assigned somewhere. They grudgingly agreed to it.

Once we got to Québec, things changed. Our teachers told us we were allowed to explore the city in small groups and we were to use French only when interacting with shopkeepers and the like. Well, the girls I was rooming with quickly realized I was the only student in our class who actually spoke French. I helped my roommates order things at bakeries and make change and navigate around the city. Word quickly spread and by the end of the first day, several classmates came to me for phrases they could use.

On the second day of this trip, we were all supposed to meet up in this square in the old city at a particular time after being allowed to wander for a few hours. My group turned up a few minutes early and a group of boys – with my favorite harasser – was already there. The boys were clearly planning some kind of prank; there was a lot of stifled laughing and looking our way. The harasser came over to our group. He asked me how to say, “Are you my mother?”

Well, for those who don’t know:

“Es-tu ma mère?” means “Are you my mother?”

“Es-tu ma merde?” means “Are you my shit?”

Can you guess which one I told him? He had never paid attention in class, so to his ears (and the ears of our classmates), it sounded right. And no one would ever suspect quiet, mousy, geeky me of any shenanigans.

He went up to a stranger and asked her if she was his shit just as one of our teachers came around the corner. He got hauled by his ears, the teacher apologizing profusely to the woman while simultaneously scolding my harasser. Kid immediately tried to blame it on me but his protestations were immediately dismissed. The teacher did check with everyone, but no one had heard the difference in the language used so backed up my version of events.

He had detention for the rest of the trip and was not allowed to participate in any of the activities. He had to sit on the bus and write an essay.

He was far more cautious about being an asshole to me in the future.

tl;dr: bully tried to be a smart-ass in French on a class trip; I added a letter and changed the meaning of a word, which got him in huge trouble. No one suspected me of anything.

Boyfriend S.Coups

Originally posted by vernonhyungg

  • ok Ok oK listen
  • S.Coups is the perfect boyfriend
  • in so many, many, MANY ways
  • firstly: his personality
  • he’s a total Dad. he remembers when you need medicine, is always there for you when you’re sick, calls you every day to check you’re eating well, texts you goodnight, and so on.
  • I could go on for hours about all his caring, loving Dad gestures
  • and watching YOU help him with the boys makes his heart go asdfghuikl
  • he’s the type who will grow up to be the greatest dad ever. he would never complain, no matter how little sleep he got, or how many kids screamed in his ears, or how many activities he had to drive his children to
  • so although he’s casually seen people before, you’re different. you’re not just “fun” but someone he seriously sees spending his life with
  • which means that you’re the one he wants to raise his kids with
  • and seeing you gently shake Minghao awake or share your food with Chan just makes him blush and smile and feel so happy :) :)
  • another aspect of his perfect bf traits are: he’s Daddy af (I mean Daddy not Dad, there’s a difference)
  • Seungcheol is ultimate daddy material 👅💦
  • as there’s overcrowding during dinner time, you get to sit on his thick thighs lap and be pressed against his broad chest. with his mouth and lips right next to your ear as he screams “SEUNGKWAN STOP HOGGING THE RICE” :) nice, lucky you :)
  • but when you flinch he’ll press a kiss to your ear as silent apology and whisper: “I’ll apologise to you properly later”
  • but turns out his apology is actually a punishment ;^) of the good kind
  • aNYWAY,,,,,
  • he loves having you in his bed, even for innocent reasons :p like having you in his arms, watching you fall asleep, discussing the future or your days until you slowly drift off. then getting to wake up to you, sleepily kissing your face and having you run your fingers through his hair
  • *sleepy sexy morning voice* “G’morning,” he’ll grumble
  • sometimes the other boys will join in, either bc they’re scared or to annoy coups
  • “hyung, there’s a storm outside, can I sleep with you two?” “sure, seungkwan, hop in”
  • “aaay, hyung, looking cosy there ;)) I’m not interrupting, am I?” “deokyeom, y/n’s sleeping wth are you talking about?”
  • regardless of your gender, the boys call you mom
  • “MMMOOOOOOOOOMMM, make Jeonghan stop telling everyone I’m his baby!!! I’m a grown man!!!” (no you’re not Chan, you’re Jeonghan’s baby until 30)
  • coups kisses your forehead and/or nose before he leaves every day
  • and texts you two minutes later like ‘I miss you already :/’
  • plays with your fingers
  • and presses kisses to each digit
  • “Do you think our future kids would like a dog?? We should buy them a golden retriever”
  • touches your butt as much as possible
  • playfully smacking it, slipping his hand into your back pocket, resting his hand on the small of your back and trailing his palm across the flesh of your backside every so often
  • he loves Booty
  • very honest about the relationship to his friends but is afraid of revealing it to the public. not only would you earn yourself some haters but he wants to keep you private, not under criticism. so he stays quiet to protect you
  • but legit won’t stop talking to you to his friends and family
  • his parents are so annoyed over it but also think it’s so cute and are happy that their son found someone who makes him happy but also … stfu seungcheol
  • getting to wear coups’ clothes and snapbacks
  • and getting matching shoes or jackets so you match but not in an overly obvious way, more of a cool way
  • going into the pet store to coo at all the animals and wondering if Pledis would be okay with you two bringing back these 2 really cute lizards who were holding hands
  • (they said no :()
  • tickle fights that always somehow end up involving the others and it’s all out war >:)
  • movie nights where all fourteen of you pile in the living room and are basically draped on each other since it’s so cramped but you’re basically family so it’s comfortable, if a little stuffy :p
  • feeding you with his fork and asking “Is it good?”
  • massages your shoulders when you sit between his legs and rests his chin on the top of your head
  • loves when you run your fingers up and down his back
  • or bury your face into his neck
  • basically, coups is the ultimate bf. he’s the perfect bf so dating him is a healthy, strong relationship. any conflict is over genuine problems, not just “you looked at someone else so now I’m jealous.” he aims to protect and keep you happy all the time. you are, after all, the person he plans to spend his life with :)
Chicken || Kim Taehyung

Originally posted by sweaterpawsjimin

Word Count: 2.2k

Genre: Fluff


It had started on a Saturday night. You had been dragged out of your shared apartment by a couple of friends and your room-mate, claiming that you didn’t get out enough. They had dressed you up in a pair of shorts and tank top that you wouldn’t normally be seen in, preferring to wear comfortable and more appropriate clothes.

Of course you definitely hadn’t expected to meet him. Taehyung, or Tae-tae as you called him now. That night had been the first night you had ever spoken to him, and it became the beginning of a wonderful friendship. There was something about the slightly obnoxious boy that you had learned to grow accustomed too, and even as he went around making friends with everybody, he always made his way back to you.

Taehyung had been one of those people who never took no for an answer, so while you first started hanging out it had been more forced than anything. There were days when you would come home from class and you would just want to study and curl up, but it would be quickly interrupted by the boy breaking into your apartment and dragging you out to do something that could possibly get the both of you killed, or worse, expelled.

Keep reading

djislame  asked:

Wait a sec so Whorsebane is suppose to be an intimidating character even for somebody like Roose,I feel like I missed this. Also he's gay I feel like I missed that also. Which if he is is kinda cool that he's this intimidating gay man from a house known to be imposing and intimidating.

*rubs hands together* Yes, please, let’s take a deep dive into the characterization of Hother “Whoresbane” Umber, the smartest and most dangerous member of his clan and one of my favorite background characters in all of ASOIAF.

Does “most dangerous Umber” seem like a stretch? Don’t get me wrong, I certainly wouldn’t want Crowfood or the Greatjon mad at me, but they’re presented as jovial life-of-the-party drunks as much as badasses. There’s a wry affectionate “oh, you scamps” sort of tone to how GRRM writes the Umber men…except Whoresbane, who is framed with an ice-cold laser-focused menace about him that his kin do not possess, despite Hother being the least physically imposing of the lot. Within the Northern political community, “Old Whoresbane” has a well-established reputation as perhaps the most fearsome figure within that community, a living legend spoken of in whispers (rather than the loud-and-proud stories surrounding big brother Mors), someone with whom you simply do not fuck if you care to see another spring: 

A crow had once taken Mors for dead and pecked out his eye, so he wore a chunk of dragonglass in its stead. As Old Nan told the tale, he’d grabbed the crow in his fist and bitten its head off, so they named him Crowfood. She would never tell Bran why his gaunt brother Hother was called Whoresbane.

Odd as it might seem, old Hoarfrost Umber had once believed his youngest son had the makings of a maester. Mors loved to boast about the crow who took his eye, but Hother’s tale was only told in whispers…most like because the whore he’d disemboweled had been a man. 

And now the Bastard of Bolton was riding south with Hother Umber to join them for an attack on Moat Cailin. “The Whoresbane his own self,” claimed a riverman who’d just brought a load of hides and timber down the White Knife, “with three hundred spearmen and a hundred archers. Some Hornwood men have joined them, and Cerwyns too.”

“Night work is not knight’s work,” Lady Dustin said. “And Lord Wyman is not the only man who lost kin at your Red Wedding, Frey. Do you imagine Whoresbane loves you any better? If you did not hold the Greatjon, he would pull out your entrails and make you eat them, as Lady Hornwood ate her fingers.”

“Fear is what keeps a man alive in this world of treachery and deceit. Even here in Barrowton the crows are circling, waiting to feast upon our flesh. The Cerwyns and the Tallharts are not to be relied on, my fat friend Lord Wyman plots betrayal, and Whoresbane…the Umbers may seem simple, but they are not without a certain low cunning.”

But, I hear you protest again: more menacing than Roose Bolton? Surely not! Well, look at how Roose himself describes Whoresbane. That ellipsis speaks volumes: Whoresbane Umber is so thoroughly intimidating that Roose gods-damned Bolton, the Leech Lord, Westeros’ answer to Vlad the Impaler, is reduced to trailing off and staring into the middle distance, ultimately unable to bring himself to cite specifics.

That’s the first layer. The second layer is the implication that Whoresbane has been the brains of Last Hearth for a very, very long time. He was only at the Citadel in the first place because his father Hoarfrost (which: yes) believed he had “the makings of a maester,” which certainly bucks the Umber stereotype. After Hother came home, his status as the smartest man in the room–a Halfmaester, if you will–has held as the decades have gone by. The Greatjon is certainly not an idiot (just look at how he tests and then crowns Robb), but his grab-with-both-hands approach to life carries with it some significant blind spots, and it’s Whoresbane who rides to Winterfell to point them out:

Hother wanted ships. “There’s wildlings stealing down from the north, more than I’ve ever seen before. They cross the Bay of Seals in little boats and wash up on our shores. The crows in Eastwatch are too few to stop them, and they go to ground quick as weasels. It’s longships we need, aye, and strong men to sail them. The Greatjon took too many. Half our harvest is gone to seed for want of arms to swing the scythes.”

Contrast Hother with Mors, and the picture becomes crystal clear. Crowfood, too, is far from stupid, but he comes to Winterfell to dance with the serving girls and offer his magical grief-curing cock to Lady Hornwood. Whoresbane is the one with the numbers in his head, the one keeping track of the harvest and the wildlings, the one looking out for the smallfolk of Last Hearth. Crowfood is doing everything he can to escape his brother’s household; Whoresbane is the one the Greatjon trusted to keep the lights on and bring concerns to the Stark in Winterfell. 

And yes, as that anecdote about his time in Oldtown reveals, Whoresbane is gay. (Or possibly bi, but again, Crowfood is the one who asks for Lady Hornwood’s hand and macks on the serving girls, whereas Whoresbane shows interest in neither.) For me, this is part of an overall characterization in which Whoresbane defies the public image of his House and yet somehow also turns that image up to 11. Hother Umber is a gay man in a family of aggressively straight dudes, a “gaunt” and “cadaverous” man in a family of larger-than-life giants, an intellectual in a family of jocks, and is still the most metal of them all, and everyone knows it. How can you not love that?

What really cements Whoresbane as one of my favorites, though, are the hints about what the payoff for this characterization will look like. In ADWD, Whoresbane joins Team Bolton, taking half the remaining Umber men to the Dreadfort (and from there to Moat Cailin, Barrowton, and finally Winterfell) while leaving the rest with Crowfood. As Barbrey tells us, though, there’s no pretense that he’s actually loyal to Roose and Ramsay. Indeed, in Theon’s first ADWD chapter, we see that Whoresbane is wearing armor even to dinner, and can’t stop himself from expressing disgust at Ramsay’s treatment of Theon. And then, in Theon’s released TWOW chapter, we learn a very telling detail: 

“Mors took the green boys and Hother took the greybeards.”

Whoresbane didn’t just randomly select half the remaining men at Last Hearth. He specifically brought his fellow greybeards with him. And what is it that old Northmen do when the food runs short as we know it is at Last Hearth (“half our harvest is gone to seed for want of arms to swing the scythes”), when winter is no longer coming, but here?

Alys sighed. “My father took so many of our men south with him that only the women and young boys were left to bring the harvest in. Them, and the men too old or crippled to go off to war. Crops withered in the fields or were pounded into the mud by autumn rains. And now the snows are come. This winter will be hard. Few of the old people will survive it, and many children will perish as well.”

It was a tale that any northmen knew well. “My father’s grandmother was a Flint of the mountains, on his mother’s side,” Jon told her. “The First Flints, they call themselves. They say the other Flints are the blood of younger sons, who had to leave the mountains to find food and land and wives. It has always been a harsh life up there. When the snows fall and food grows scarce, their young must travel to the winter town or take service at one castle or the other. The old men gather up what strength remains in them and announce that they are going hunting. Some are found come spring. More are never seen again.”

“Winter is almost upon us, boy. And winter is death. I would sooner my men die fighting for the Ned’s little girl than alone and hungry in the snow, weeping tears that freeze upon their cheeks. No one sings songs of men who die like that. As for me, I am old. This will be my last winter. Let me bathe in Bolton blood before I die. I want to feel it spatter across my face when my axe bites deep into a Bolton skull. I want to lick it off my lips and die with the taste of it on my tongue.”

So I think Whoresbane’s master plan (and given all of the the above, I’d say it’s very much his plan, and Crowfood is following his lead) is to lead the old men on a glorious kamikaze mission against the hated Boltons, while Crowfood preserves the next generation, who now may have enough to eat. Like his great-nephew Smalljon, he’ll go down a Stark man to the end, Umber on the inside where it counts.