Runaway Pt.1 | Taehyung (M)

Originally posted by pannaluca99

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Drabbles

Summary: Bad boy Tae takes an interest in innocent you and, even though you know he’s toxic, you can’t help but love him.

Word Count: 9.373

Genre: Smut, basically 

A/N: wOW this was long idk I really wanted to write it!! I was inspired by the Run mv (and Colours and Coming Down by Halsey (p.s, I’m making a second part to this and it will also contain smut so there’s that)

Keep reading

The Wolf’s Domain

Words: 15, 795

Everyone writes about Werewolf!McCree, and I love it, but I tried my hand at Werewolf!Hanzo. It… got a bit out of hand.

Few ever branched into the wolf’s domain. It was not a place that wanderers could merely find themselves after a single missed turn or misread sign. This was the heart of the unsettled land, secluded, safe. People did not come here on their morning walks; beautiful as it was, it was simply not the place for man.

Few that wandered here possessed kind souls, not this distance from the beaten path through the forest. Those that meandered these grounds with a weapon in hand were only looking for trouble, and, most often, they would find it. The warnings posted at every entrance to the forest that bid travelers be wary were not decorations meant to be admired and forgotten. Those that freely disobeyed these warnings would come to regret their actions in time.

Keep reading

The junkie squad

The rebellious mouse that was having a rock blast
under my magic carpet got bored one year ago
and planed a deserved vacation
somewhere on the Hawaii island.
On the road again like the bum writers
from the Beat Generation movement.
Along the way the mouse met a squad of drunken spiders,
a scared turtle, a baby elephant lost alone in the black wood
and a goblin magician who dismissed
with a coiled gesture all his super powers.
They gathered together under the dreaming clouds
taking advantage of the cool weather
and started to “gossip” about various topics.
It was mentioned from the beginning to be left out religion,
sports and other similarly boring subjects.
The whole bunch had pretentious and sophisticated demeanors and you couldn’t touch the top of their nose
even with a fidgeting broom.
They drank and ate and talked
until morning about celebrated scholars,
notorious witches, medusa eyed pirates and bad ass thieves.
As the dawn loomed between tremulous violets and stubborn roses they packed the dirt they made during the night
and proceeded to continue their journey
strolling happy against enchanted meadows,
grumpy mountains and smiled with all glittering teeth
and pale fangs at the sun popping like a sanctified godfather
amongst hidden in strange slumber, sisters in wander vagabond stars. Such a merry gathering no one have seen
since the renaissance troubadours used to travel
with 300 hundred pages of heart broken poems
placed strategically in the secretive pockets.
Next stop was at a german brewery
where they drank one hundred gallons of Irish beer
and a giant dozen of Austrian schnapps,
they smoked an unnecessary amount of indigenous herbs
and collapsed for an entire week
somewhere in a garden of blooming poppies.
All the journey until Hawaii island took one damned year
to be completed but Alas…
finally they landed at the aforementioned destination.
They found another mansion belonging to a surrealist painter
and settled again, all of them, in the basement
ready to explore an obscured underground life style
under the Hawaiian shimmering sun.
The junkie squad even bought a surfing board
though none of them really saved time to learn how to swim.
The issue is, I’m feeling fucking lonely
without the creeping noise in my basement
and I miss tremendously my best friend the rebellious mouse.
I guess I’ll gather my grotesque belongings
and move with them in case they’d receive me,
anyways I’m crazy about goth and rock&roll tunes
and I bet soon I’ll challenge with
stupendous blasphemies my eureka moments.
Much love from me guys and as you see this’s the mouse poem I promised you long time ago. I’m sure my old devoted friends will remember what I’m blubbering about.

Different sorts of Paladins

I still really want a Paladin oath for 5th Edition Dungeons and Dragons that more covers the sort of… “wandering mysterious vagabond / hobo who helps people” sort of thing? Like Kenshin Hiruma or whatnot. Someone who seems innocuous, if maybe a bit weird (or smelly even :P ) but whose charge is to help the poor and downtrodden in secret and subtle ways. The opposite of the traditional view of the Paladin as the knight-in-shining-armor with a big white horse – instead, the barefoot fellow with a staff who wanders into town and asks for nothing, but suddenly fences are mended, lost sheep are found, and the corrupt constable has been put in his place. 

I also still really want a Paladin Oath that is all about knowledge and books – a Paladin who seeks to protect libraries from book burners and mobs, who spends hours in dusty stacks seeking the knowledge she needs to save a village, or a country. She KNOWS this ancient library has a book that holds the cure to a plague… but can she read that ancient tongue? Does she have the skill to USE that knowledge? Even if she doesn’t, she knows sages who can… And said Paladins even protect knowledge that others would say is dangerous or evil, because ALL KNOWLEDGE is important. We cannot burn a book on Demons, because what if that book gives us the knowledge to banish them? Fight back? Keep it safe and under protection so it isn’t used for evil, but do KEEP it. (These Paladins tend to be the ones responsible for “Well, maybe we shouldn’t DESTROY the Great Evil, but keep it sealed away. In case we need to ask it a question.) 

inspired by a conversation with @deflare about the (apparently common) Blue + Gold Tidal Alignment in Torment: Tides of Numenera. 


Keep reading


Look at these footprints
following behind me.
If I put my ear to one, I think I could
hear the ocean, or maybe
my heart beating.  And this is the
part where I tell you not to worry,
where I tell you that there is enough
of me to leave little offerings in my wake,
signal flares that call up from the
street-veins of the city that have always
been a part of my body too.

And you will say Thank you.
And I will say
Sometimes I wish our city could bruise.
And you will say Tell me a story,
so I will.  This is the story:

Every place I walk over,
I leave a mark.  It’s wet and boot-shaped
and mine.  If I measured my life by the
times I put my foot down, I could
paper a wall with Doc Marten heel prints.
So maybe I’m angry.  So maybe I’m
inconsolable.  I still know I can
stand for something, inside this body,
behind these eyes that are still eyes
and not the windows that I asked for.

It’s okay.  I’ll hold your hand very tight
and we will wander like twin vagabonds.  
We will be a pair of hands,
and you know which one I am,
standing crooked and bad and listing to the left.
I will look out at the water and see
my face reflected up at me the way it should be,
vaguely distorted by the waves.

What is an identity?  I tread water, I float.
That doesn’t make me a buoy.

I want strawberries.  I want a longer life.
I want to open my mouth and spit out birdsong.
I want my feet to always point
toward magnetic north,
so if I walk anywhere,
I’ll know I’m walking home.



1. wandering from place to place without any settled home; nomadic.

2. leading an unsettled or carefree life.

3. disreputable; worthless; shiftless.

4. of, pertaining to, or characteristic of a vagabond.

5. having an uncertain or irregular course or direction.


6. a person, usually without a permanent home, who wanders from place to place; nomad.

7. an idle wanderer without a permanent home or visible means of support; tramp; vagrant.

8. a carefree, worthless, or irresponsible person; rogue.

Etymology: late Middle English vagabound (< Old French vagabond) < Late Latin vagābundus - wandering, vagrant, equivalent to Latin vagā(rī) - to wander.

[Tianhua Xu]

Son of two immigrants, two heroes, two fighters, two survivors. Named the conqueror, the champion, the crusader and leader; battle-weary, perhaps, but not any weaker. My sword lies within, the fire burns inside me; the ink of the pen flowing onto the page is what guides me. A vagabond and wanderer, aspiring voice for the meek; it is the light, truth and beauty in this world that I seek. Fallen down but rising up, my aim is the prize and the cup; to run with the fire, carry myself higher, it is a good man that I wish to become. Run with me or get beside me, help lift me up or just leave me, but in the end the story began, still continues and will conclude with just me.
—  it’s in the name, “Victor” [reminding myself of who I am] (5/15/17), thekaijusleeps

Sterek AU in which Stiles is a freelance journalist and Derek works at the coffee shop that he frequents.  


Amazing ficlet, that captured my idea completly,  written by the lovely and fantastic  @moonwasours and you can find her on AO3 at i_am_girlfriday. :)))


It’s late, most of the businesses on Main Street all close at eight, but Drip is just closing down for the night. Derek has restocked the bar with sugar, straws, lids, and napkins. He only has to count the till and wipe up the last table, but he can be patient. It looks like Stiles is on a roll. His fingers move swiftly across the keyboard of his laptop, and he has a pencil in his mouth.

Derek heads to the kitchen and hands off the last load of dishes to their night dish washer, a high school kid who doesn’t mind earning a few extra bucks staying past ten. Derek sits in the tiny manager’s office the size of a closet and counts the day’s take. He records it in the ledger, makes a deposit slip, and locks everything up in the safe. Derek walks back to the front counter and shuts off the house music and the neon sign that hangs in the window. The only light left illuminating Stiles’ face is his bright laptop screen, the candle on the corner of the table, and the twinkle lights hanging off the eave.

“I’m just about done…” Stiles mumbles without looking up from his work. His stuff is spread out on the table near the front window, his usual spot, and it looks more like his home office than a table inside a coffee shop.

Derek knows that if left to his own devices, Stiles would never close his laptop and be done for the night. There’s always an assignment he’s running behind on, another story that needs to be edited, an email that needs a response. He needs to be nudged to unplug at the end of the day, has to be reminded that he can’t survive on coffee alone, and Derek doesn’t mind doing both. It’s a pattern they established back in March when Derek started working at Drip.

Derek noticed Stiles was a fixture in the coffee shop, that his hands shook when he got up for refills, and his skin looked sallow–like he had been getting all of his nutrition from the mixed berry scones in the pastry case. Erica, the owner of the coffee shop, explained that Stiles  moved back home to take care of his dad and was a freelance writer who worked too many jobs to cover the mortgage. Derek just wondered who was taking care of Stiles.

Eight months is a long time for Derek to linger somewhere. He’s been a wanderer, a vagabond, a rootless man going on seven years. He’s got money in the bank, enough that he doesn’t really need to work ever, but he looks forward to working his minimum wage shifts at the coffee shop. When he rolled into Beacon Hills on his old bike he just wanted to get dry, hole up somewhere until the storm passed, and then get back on the road. But the town has a hold on him, and even though it’s drizzly nine out twelve months a year, he doesn’t want to leave. Beacon Hills reminds him of home, it makes him miss his family. There’s a pleasant ache in his heart when he thinks of them. Derek feels like he can breathe better here.

“Stiles, it’s almost ten thirty,” Derek says as he kneels down to unplug Stiles’ laptop cord from the powerstrip.

“Oh, man. I’m so sorry. I promised I wouldn’t do that again,” Stiles runs a hand down his weary face.

“It’s okay. I didn’t want to interrupt.”

“You’re too good to me.”

Stiles’ words make Derek’s cheeks heat up. Derek isn’t this good to all of their patrons. He can be downright surly to some of them. But there’s something about Stiles that makes Derek want to be gentle. Derek coils up the power cord and hands it to Stiles. Then Derek leans over the table to return the strewn office supplies to the Mason jars. Derek hefts the milk crate Stiles uses for storage onto the table and loads it for him. Stiles packs his laptop and phone and snuffs out the candle. Liam, the dish washer, comes by with a rag and spray bottle to wipe down the table. Derek grabs the crate and holds the door open for Stiles. Together they walk to his Jeep parked out front and load his stuff inside like they do most nights.

“Sorry I kept you two so late,” Stiles says sheepishly.

Liam tosses them a wave and heads off down the street.

“Stop apologizing. It’s not like I was in a hurry to get home.” Derek heads back inside to make a final survey of the coffee shop before locking up for the night.

Stiles follows him inside rather than hopping into his old Jeep and driving back to his dad’s place to get a few more hours worth of work done. He stands in the middle of the hardwood floor and looks like a casual wear men’s model in skinny khakis and a grey thermal instead of an overworked journalist. Stiles gives Derek a hopeful look. “Do you want to go for a walk?”

Derek gives him a short laugh. He’s been asking Stiles to take a break from work and go on a hike with him for months. In the summer he offered several times to take him out on his bike. Stiles always waved off his offers, so eventually Derek stopped asking. “Sure. Just let me grab my bag.”

When they head out on Main there isn’t another soul on the streets. It’s always quiet in Beacon Hills but at night it’s still. The sidewalk is damp and the air smells like redwoods and rain. Stiles doesn’t say anything, which is unusual for him, but Derek finds the silence companionable. The walk is short, there aren’t that many streets to meander in downtown Beacon Hills. They end up in front of Derek’s apartment. He rents a small studio that has a bed set against exposed brick walls, a single bookshelf, and a tiny kitchenette. He’s never needed anything extravagant, but sometimes when he looks at Stiles he wishes he had more to offer.

“Well…this is me,” he says. Derek isn’t sure about the protocol here. He’s imagined bringing Stiles back here after a date. He’s pictured waking up next to him and making him coffee in his well-used Moka pot. But right now they’re just friends, acquaintances maybe. Derek’s never really sure where he stands with Stiles.

Stiles plants his feet firmly on the sidewalk rather than retreating to his car. Stiles leans in and kisses Derek on his scruffy cheek. “Good night, then.”

Derek makes a noise in his throat and then reaches out to hold onto Stiles. He uses his hands to guide Stiles’ face back to his, kisses him reverently, like Derek can kiss away Stiles’ worry and stress. Derek doesn’t care about breathing, or the nosy neighbors who turned on their porch lights to get a good look at the grown men kissing on the sidewalk. Derek doesn’t care about anything that isn’t Stiles. He’s wrapping one arm around Derek’s back to reassure him and using the other to try and push back for air, but Derek doesn’t let Stiles go just yet. He slides his lips off of Stiles’ mouth to kiss along his jaw, the moles on his cheeks. He’s not ready to let Stiles go, and he’s pretty sure he never will be.

Before the Frost

This was just an idea I had, you know…lacking plot or anything essential. (Nervous laughter) Just a lot of fluff and some angst. This is set after the war, presuming Lucien’s brothers are dead and everyone we care about is alive (because if they aren’t I might as well be dead too).  Also, complete credit to chaol/highlordlucien for inspiring Lucien’s cute pet name for Elain. I tried thinking of some other ones but after reading Lauren’s stories, I just can’t see using any other terms of endearment with these two! Hope you enjoy!

Length: 4.5k+
Pairing: Elain x Lucien
Rating: M

“Are you nearly ready?”

Elain turned back to her sisters, both of whom looked at her as though waiting for a person to lunge off a cliff— anticipating the fall. “Of course.”

Nesta narrowed her eyes, about to say something presumably akin to more skepticism, but Feyre subtly elbowed her and glanced towards the opened window. Nesta’s lips thinned, but she stood with their sister to exit Elain’s bedchambers. A door of hemlock obscured her view, but Elain could see Cerridwen was waiting in the corridor, her twin likely close by. The wraith sisters had taken an instant liking to the middle Archeron, their patience and silent strength in the same vein as her quiet cunning. Mere hours after assessing one another, Azriel had mentioned in passing that the three women would work together wonderfully. Nesta, and surprisingly even Amren, had given the Shadowmaster a scathing look at the suggestion.

With a hand lingering on the wooden frame, Feyre turned back and said, “We know this must be difficult for you, but remember you will always have us to confide in. Just trust yourself to know what to do, and I promise things will get better.”

The door closed noiselessly.

Elain stared at her hands, her calm face at odds with the rabbit heart beneath her ribs.

It had been four months since the war. Four months from when they’d nearly all lost each other to the wrath of a mad king, to the plague of malicious court badgering that swamped Prythian, to the wretched Never Fading Flower, Amrantha, who had, indeed, not faded well enough to be then brought back by Jurian and the powers of the godforsaken cauldron. But they were all gone now. Bled from the realm as though wrought out from a drying cloth. Yet a faint stain persisted, always reminding her of those nefarious weeks. It couldn’t be washed away by soap, by rain, by blessed holy water, or by the tightening bond in her core that not a day went by could she ignore.

The war was over, yet she felt as though the same euphoria that cleansed her family of their anguish and heartache had somehow missed her where she lingered off to the side as per usual.

They didn’t know of her dreams, this court of dreamers. How each night she’d play out the same scenes over and over— horrified that she would wake one dawn and find them missing.

The first scene was always the haziest, muddled from her human mind. He’d been so gentle with her as he’d lifted her into his grasp and nestled her within the warmth of his body heat, away from the ice of the cauldron waters. He’d always been warm, a fire wrapped in Fae skins. The next memories were sharper, as was the pain they left in their path. A scarred face staring up at her as though a boy was looking up into the first turning leaves of an autumn tree. Hands that fit perfectly against her waist, hoisting her up so that her skirts wouldn’t get muddy as he walked them back to the manor. Laughter, devious and mischievous and so, so very free that it made her want to join in, no matter the occasion, and throw her head back like a fox cackling at the moon.

And then there was the last dream.

Keep reading


photos by Max Rive | MY TUMBLR BLOG | listen to this

transcontinental dream. Rise. Open your eyes. Dream. Discover the plains, the forest, the mountains, the sea, the earth, let yourself wander like the everenthralled vagabond we are meant to be.