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Klaine one-shot - “Feeding Time” (NC17)

Kurt is a warlock who feeds off of fairies to replenish his powers. He captures Blaine, a fairy prince, who wanders close to his home.

But, of course, the definition of “feed” can vary. (1292 words)

This was based off of an anon request to write a one-shot based off of a piece of art found on Tumblr. However, when I went to link it, the post was gone. Just imagine Tinkerbell in the situation Blaine finds himself in at the end with who I think was Maleficent, and you get the gist. This isn’t usually my cup of tea so after this, I’m going to burn my eyes xD

Warning for non-con elements but nothing too graphic and bondage. Evil Warlock!Kurt; Fairy Prince!Blaine

Read on AO3.

Kurt peers with satisfaction through the bars of the tiny cage – one built from sturdy vines to hold insects and sparrows, but with a greater prize locked inside. Kurt had happened upon him by accident, searching an area of meadow just shy of Kurt’s own house. The fairy was far from careless; that’s not how Kurt encountered him. He had been embroiled in a battle with Kurt’s familiar – a Minx so grey, she was almost silver; and so large she frightened dogs and children alike. The cat would swipe and the fairy would dodge, unable to fly with dew-wet wings. The fairy fought hard - not to hurt the feline, but to evade - and showed no signs of tiring. A few more clever dodges and he would have been able to best the cat, daze it with a well-aimed blow between the eyes and scurry away. Still, so involved with the cat was he that he could not anticipate Kurt, who had cloaked himself with a shadow spell to better his chances. The cards, it seemed, were stacked against the poor fairy. It was only a matter of time really. All Kurt had to do was wait for the fairy to get within reach and …

Bam! Kurt swept him up in an old mason jar.

Kurt didn’t need to conjure in order to find this fairy, so he marks this one up to fate, ordained by whatever supreme beings have given Kurt his power and the knowledge of how to keep it.

In Kurt’s mind, he was meant to have this fairy.

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Madness II (final)

Originally posted by peperodays

Joker Harley!AU

word count - 2449

a/n: Because of a high demand for joker!sehun, I’ve decided to make a pt 2. I’ve written it a little like canon, I hope you’ll all enjoy it! :)

previous: pt 1

Sehun knew exactly how to draw you in.

You knew he was seducing you every single time you had a session with him, and he wasn’t even trying to hide it. Despite every time you have told him that this is unprofessional and that he should quit he keeps ignoring your request. 

“You just fascinate me,” he would say, and although you’d never admit it those flattering words he says make you flustered.

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sufferzone  asked:

klance + 24 ✨✨✨

| “You’re the only one I trust to do this.” |

Wishes are impulsive and wanting.

And as Keith wishes, wishes he hadn’t gotten hurt, he feels like a wish in all its qualities. He doesn’t want to be incapacitated, useless and undriven. If only he hadn’t rushed in like he did or else he could be heading out right now with the others to scout the planets.

He can’t fly, what with two broken ribs and an arm in a sling. He curses under his breath, disappointment in his chest causing his heart to suffocate.

But the suffocation’s relieved when he’s visited by Lance, who’s about to depart.

“You don’t have to look so beat up about not flying,” Lance starts and Keith glares at him, to which Lance only smiles. “I hope your hot-headedness has taught you something.”

“Not as much as your ego,” he huffs, dark hair gathered on his shoulders. “It’s taught me that I have no taste in men.”

“You lie, you have excellent taste,” Lance moves closer, sitting next to him on the chair. “I’m glad you do.” He grins. Keith scoffs, and turns to move when his ribs remind him he’s a wish, he’s impulsive, and he pays the price. He winces. “Hey now, careful. You have to be careful.” Lance’s voice grows softer and he loses the smile. “Take care of yourself,” Lance whispers, pressing a kiss to Keith’s cheek. It’s only a couple seconds and then he pulls away. Keith presses his hand to his cheek and the stars burn above.

“You’re one to talk,” Keith declares, lips craving to smile but they don’t. “I should be worrying about you. Make sure you do the same.” Lance easily slides into a smile, eyes looking down at his hands and that’s when Keith notices the bag he has.

It’s old and velvet and curled with faded gold lines. It’s red. “Lance?”

“I need you to do me a favor.”

“Only if you ask nicely,” Keith retorts, a sliver of a smile appearing. It’s amazing, sitting there, just the two of them. It’s anything but the embodiment of a wish; it’s a promise.

“I need you to hold onto this for me,” and he offers up the bag. It’s small and intriguing, dangling between Lance’s fingertips. Keith reaches out, accepts it, and curiousity replaces the vile and unpredictable suffocation living in his chest.

“What’s in it?” The strings are waiting to be pulled, the bag waiting to be opened.

“Keith, listen to me. You cannot, under any circumstances, open it. Wait for me to come back.” He offers a smile and something pangs inside Keith’s chest and it’s new. Something’s wrong, something’s wrong.

“Lance, what-” He’s silenced by Lance resting his hand on Keith’s cheek, his thumb brushing at Keith’s hair.

“You’re the only one I trust to do this.” He pulls his hand away and immediately Keith’s heart reminds him that he is a wish, wanting Lance’s touch for even just a fraction of a bit longer. “Please.”

“It’s a promise.” Keith rests the bag at his side and then motions for Lance to come closer. “Remember.” And he presses his lips against Lance’s lips. When Keith breaks the kiss, he finishes his sentence. “Take care of yourself.”

“It’s a promise.” He stands up, his helmet resting on the side of his hip. “Remember.” Lance smiles brightly and Keith feels like he’s stared at the sun for too long. “Wait for me.”

And so Lance leaves, and Keith waits, waits for him to return later that day.

But he never does.

Time doesn’t wait for Lance but Keith does, he does.

Four years come and go and Keith’s been waiting ever since. The red bag sits on his desk and he continues training to take his mind off the sun he hasn’t seen for years. He doesn’t touch the bag after a year of looking for Lance and can’t even look at it after barely surviving three. But he knows, he knows it’s there.

It’s the heart of their promise.

And it’s getting harder and harder to keep.

As spaces silently and continuously expands, impulsively, Keith realizes he needs to go back home.

He needs a breath of fresh air, to resume the normalcy his body forgets now.

Yes, wanting, it pools at the bottom of his stomach, and he’s ready to force his body to accept that their promise is broken in this lifetime. Or maybe what’s broken is him, and it hurts a lot more than two broken ribs and an arm in a sling Keith wishes, wishes didn’t happen so long ago. It hurts because he is a wish, impulsive and wanting, but he dared to think he could ever believe in a promise.

It hurts.

And yet, he brings the bag with him, clutching it tightly all the way home.

His home, miraculously, is still there. It’s dusty and a ghost of the past but it’s home. Pictures are still pinned to a board, lines connecting them, and it’s all there, the beginning of it all, of the gathering of the five paladins. It’s all there, burned into his mind.

He can’t forget, he’s a wish.

Keith inhales, taking in a deep breath, letting it go.

He needs to let go.

He needs to but he’s not a promise, he’s a wish, a wish whose heart wants everything back.

The air becomes unbreathable inside and his chest clenches and then he’s outside, outside and wanting Lance back.

It’s unbearable. The stars now so far away shine in the sky and they’re reminiscent of the day that their heart was born. But their heart is fading, fading, and Keith is tired. He sits on the porch and snatches the red bag from his pocket, fingers shaking, with a certain hold on the weathered yellow string.

Wait for me.

Lance’s words echo at the back of Keith’s mind and he decides to give him one last chance, letting the strings slip from his fingertips. His chest hurts, hurts at the thought of holding out for one more night but their heart is not gone yet.

Even though he is waiting, he is tired, and sleep is kind to him underneath stars who remember too much.

The sun is making the horizon glow when he wakes. He watches with pained eyes, as the sun greets a new day and a last chance. It’s bittersweet and Keith wishes, wishes to believe in a miracle for a little longer. The clouds become orange and the rocky terrain around reveals itself and Keith finds himself looking away from the horizon, morning breeze blocking his vision for a moment and he brushes his hair out of his eyes, only to find it’s a mistake to look forward; he thinks he’s dreaming.

Lance is standing in front of him, aged and with longer hair, smiling.

“Thank you for waiting,” he speaks and Keith doesn’t know if this is real. “I’m sorry.” The sun he is almost ready to acknowledge as burned out stands before him, a flicker of a flame from long ago.

Keith doesn’t know if Lance is real and he’s at a loss for words. The boy in front of him looks at Keith’s hands and smiles more warmly, stepping forward, kneeling in front of him. “Looks like I trusted the right person, mi amor.” He places a hand on Keith’s face and everything comes flooding back.

“You’re really here, aren’t you?” Keith whispers, slowly raising his hand to hold Lance’s in place.

“I’m home.”

It’s warm and the stars are no longer harsh. Keith’s emotions from the past four years are bottled tightly in his chest and he’s feeling dangerously close to suffocating. His face changes and Lance knows, he knows. Keith opens his mouth when Lance cuts him off.

“Keith, you have every right to be angry at me because I promised you I was supposed to be careful but I wasn’t. I know I deserve everything you have to say but it’s been four years,” Lance admits, voice steady. “You can open the bag now,” he finishes and Keith doesn’t know what to expect as he pulls open the bag. Red comes apart and their heart is open.

It’s open.

Keith pulls out a black box and he can only wonder what exactly was worth waiting for all these years. He opens it, and a flash of silver is the first breath of a sunrise from his very own sun.

“Will you marry me?”

And like a wish, Keith is wanting; like a wish, Keith is impulsive.

Together, they are a promise; and together, they are a promise to last a lifetime.

anonymous asked:

"yes i said “fag” for all u PC kids" wow edgy! why do you say fags though? whats the point? before you assume im some tumblr fangirl or whatever im a gay punk dude. If youre calling gay dudes fags how are we supposed to know you're not homophobic? youre calling us the same things homophobic shitheads do. Like if your friends are ok with it thats cool for them but most gay men definitely arent. for instance im unfollowing specifically cause i cant stand that word. liked your blog though

You have the right to be offended and take whatever action you deem necessary. I will apologize if i offendee you on the basis that

1) i dont know you. You could be a fantastic person and someone id genuinely like to be around. Could be the opposite too but i dont know.

2) i will never use that term to put down someone for their sexuality. That is vile. I live by a strict code, “what u put in ur ass is ur own business and has no effect on the person you are weather it be bad or good.”

3) THE MOST IMPORTANT REASON I APOLOGIZE IF I DID OFFEND YOU FOR YOUR LIFE CHOICES: You had a grievence with me and something i said and what u did was you voiced that to me without being rude, condescending, slanderous, you didnt try to fight me off the bat and you called me by no derogatory names.

I appreciate this. I respect you as a person for your intelligence and maturity.

See it as you will but i knew id get feedback from the comment. A bit of a social experiment. I did not at all expect to receive something with anything but automatic hate in every word.



You have the right to go on disliking me and thats ok but know; I like you. If you find yourself in the south bay id be happy to by ya a beer.

I hope you have a good night.

Coming Up For Air - Part 1

Request: Can you make a story where the reader is a person that got pulled out of hell by Castiel and Cas has to “purify ” the reader. And they get a thing for each other and all that fuzzy stuffz

Words: 1533

Author’s Note:  It took me a bit to wrap my head around the story line on this one but I think I’ve got it now :) You’ll have to excuse me since this is my fist Cas fic and I haven’t written him very much.  Let me know if you think it should be different or if I have the characterization wrong!

  Thick black chains wrapped around my arms, heating up slowly as they pulled me in opposite directions.  They began to glow. First a subtle red hue, then a bright and molten crimson that seemed to sear itself into my eyes just as it did my skin.  I screamed out in pain, but no sounds came out.  There were large hooks embedded in my ribs, gnawing deeper into my flesh with each movement and each breath.  

  The chains around my arms wound the way down until they met my shoulders.  Then, snaking their way down my back, they wove together, scorching my skin as they did.  I felt myself melting.  The heat. The anguish. The torment.  And yet, no sounds escaped my lips.  The tears I was desperate to unleash never fell from my eyes.  The sweat that I knew should be beading at my brow was absent.

  Suddenly, my eyes jolted open.  A warm hand gently grasped my shoulder, and I shrieked. The contact didn’t seem to burn as I expected it to.  My skin wasn’t melting.  But my breath was ragged and I could feel my chest heaving as I brought my hands to my sides.  I found no hooks. No chains, no burning hell fire.  Just skin.  And sweat. And a crumpled up blanket at my feet.

  “Y/N,” a deep voice said.  Another hand grasped my shoulder and the two brought me to face him.  The owner of the dulcet tones.  “Y/N, you’re having a nightmare again,” he said with an air of disappointment.  Or was it concern?  I slowly began to nod my head as my eyes focused and his steely blue eyes rekindled my memory.

  “Castiel,” I whimpered, my voice hoarse. The angel’s short black hair was tousled and his khaki trench coat was laying crumpled on the floor.   The stiff but recognizable bed beneath me gave just a little as I set my hands down on it and pushed myself to the edge.  Swinging my legs over and facing the angel, I buried my head in my hands.  I felt the sweat dripping from my forehead and wiped it away with the back of my hands.

  “It was so real, Cas,” I confessed. “When are they going to stop?” I pleaded with him, wrapping my fingers around my arms, still convinced I’d find the chains there. I looked up at Castiel’s face, his eyes were squinted and his lips were tightly closed.  

  The tears that I’d been so desperate to shed just moments ago now fell down my cheeks unhindered.  I watched Castiel’s face drop from his normal stoic expression to a soft and endearing one.  His hand came up to my cheek as he pressed his thumb gently against it, wiping away my tear as he did.  

  “If I could heal you, I would.”  His face seemed sincere, almost desperate.  I smiled at him, as much as I could.  

  “I know,” I murmured.  “I’m just so tired.”  I hung my head, closing my eyes and wishing I could get a decent night’s sleep.  

  “Rest,” he whispered.  “I’ll stay with you.”

  I looked back up at him, meeting his gaze and knowing that he would.  I dropped my hands back down to the bed and shook my head, pushing myself up to standing.  “We both know that they’ll just be worse, Cas.  But thank you,” I reached out, grabbing his hand and entwining our fingers.  “For everything.”  He nodded, and within a moment, he was gone.  

  Walking out into the library, I saw Sam sitting at the table with his laptop and Dean hovering over him, looking at the screen intently.  I hadn’t gotten to know the brothers very well since being back among the living. Most of my time had been spent in the bathroom at first, hunkered in the corner, under one of the sinks, in the fetal position as I rocked back and forth.  Once Castiel convinced me that I was back, that I was no longer in that place, a room was made available to me.  Or at least, that’s what I had assumed in the last few weeks.  

  Each night, I would lay in bed and attempt to sleep.  Every now and again, I would drift off and find myself dozing.  Only to be interrupted by torturous nightmares.  Flashbacks really. And each always ended the same way.  Cast would gently rouse me, and after a few moments, I would remember him.  Castiel.  The angel who saved me. The one who had removed the hooks from my ribs and the chains from my arms.  The one who had saved me from the fire and the blood and the endless beatings I had been enduring for decades.

  I had died so long ago, I couldn’t even remember how it had happened.  Time had passed that had felt like eons.  Castiel had explained that I had been a hunter.  That my name was Y/N.  And that, to the best of his knowledge, a deal had been made for my soul.  He wasn’t sure what the terms were or why I had agreed to them; only that I had been bound to go to hell since the day I said yes.  And that I had only really been dead for eight years.  

  Walking into the kitchen, I opened the fridge and grabbed a soda.  Cracking the top, I quickly set my lips against the cold can, drawing the refreshing liquid to my lips.  My throat was scratchy and painful.   As though I had actually been screaming in my sleep when I hadn’t been able to do so in my nightmares.  

  “You doing alright?” Dean asked me as he peered up at me over the computer screen.  I nodded slowly, walking over to them and taking a seat at the table.  I ran a hand through my hair, which was evidently badly in need of washing.  

  “Hungry?” Sam asked, eager to help me in any way he could.  I shook my head. My stomach lurched at the thought of eating.  Of chewing.  I had heard the sounds of teeth gnashing at my skin for so many years.  I couldn’t imagine listening to my own mastication.  

  “It’s been over a week since you ate,” Dean observed.  “You’re wasting away here. You need to eat something.”  

  I looked up at the brothers, unsure what to say.  “Cas,” Dean called out. He looked around the room as if he would see him any moment.  “He left,” I informed him.

  “Cas, it’s about Y/N,” Sam spoke up.  There was a rustle of wind and Castiel stood beside me.  He knelt down quickly, bringing himself to eye level as his eyes squinted and he seemed to examine me as if he were a doctor.

  “I’m fine,” I told him.  

  “Yeah, you’re fine,” Dean quipped sarcastically.  “Cas, she hasn’t eaten in days.”  

  Castiel looked down at me as if to confirm Deans accusation.  I held his gaze, knowing that he had seen the tortures I had been through.  Hoping he had at least an idea of it all.  His eyes gave nothing away, but he stood quickly, disappearing yet again.

  “Somebody’s in trouble,” Dean sang out as he took his place again by his brother at the computer.  Sam smiled, shaking his head as he went back to furiously typing on the keyboard.  Less than fifteen seconds passed and I sat sipping my Sprite happily as it soothed my throat.  Without warning, a bowl of creamy chicken noodle soup was placed in front of me.  

  “Eat,” Castiel’s commanding voice rang out, catching me off guard.

  “What is this?” I asked him skeptically.  

  “Soup,” he answered pointedly.  “From China.  The woman said it cures all ails.  Eat.”  He thrust the spoon that he had held in his hand towards me.  

  I looked down at the creamy substance and, grabbing the spoon from Castiel, stirred it.  A chunk of chicken rose to the surface.  I sneered at it, as the meat swiftly changed in my site.  All I saw were dozens of floating bodies where there were previously vegetables and chicken.  The cream had converted to a lake of boiling blood and I could feel the heat from the flames surrounding it licking my cheeks.  The bodies floating in the lake were writhing, screaming in pain as the monsters just below the surface devoured their flesh.  I watched as each bite, each attack ended, and the bodies regrew their lost limbs and appendages.  Just in time for the vile creatures living below them resurfaced and clenched their jaws into them once more.  Over, and over again.  

  Shouts, screams and cries permeated my ears and I felt myself fall backwards, pushing the chair that I had been sitting on out from under me as I crab crawled away from the table.  The screams echoed through the room as they poured out of my mouth.  My eyes were clenched shut as I tried in vain to remove the visions from my mind.  

  “Shhhh, Y/N.” Castiel’s calm voice enveloped me as his arms pulled my in towards his chest.  My shrieks turned to sobs as my eyes opened and focused on the unassuming and perfectly innocent bowl of soup.  


On the escalator
at a Chicago train
station, a man of
probably twice
my age and half
my height

decides it is
totally appropriate
to jam his fingers
up my skirt
from behind.

(Hint: It’s not.
My phone case
says “Touch Me
and YOU DIE”)

At first, I am
too startled to
speak. He asks
if I am American,
but concludes
with a slimy
that I must
be Chinese.

I am still angry
at myself for
being a frozen
feminist. For
not swallowing
my tongue, but
misplacing it

My friends say
that I should
not expect
any differently
from this city;
this city that
talks with her
mouth full and
forgets to say
thank you.

But I know
Chicago is not
the problem.

I have seen
Chicago hold
her doors open
for so long,
the hinges
got stuck.

I have seen
Chicago offer
groceries while
her own stomach
whines. I know
Chicago to be
kind, kind,

But like all
charming things,
vile things live inside.
—  LAST WEEK by Blythe Baird

[gives life advice despite succeeding at nothing and lived a vile life due to mental illness] use cream cheese as shampoo and make your own contact lenses out of glass