warped humour

Burying The Child - Feyre Fanfic

A Feyre character exploration fanfiction. Set post ACOMAF in the spring court, with Lucien for company. Warnings for discussion of mental health and grieving.

Burying The Child - Gen/K

History was once again repeating itself, but this time I was different; I would not make the same mistakes as I had before. I doubted I could even if I wanted to. Fate and its sick sense of humour had warped me too much for that.

“I remember when Tamlin first bought you those paints,” Lucien mused. “You sat in here all day for weeks, like a child with a new toy. It was very endearing, really.”

He sat across from me, lounging upon a daybed below a window in the gallery. His body lay splashed with sunlight, turning his hair a gorgeous shade of amber and his bronze skin, exposed by the open-necked shirt he wore, shone like clear liquid honey. One could mistake him for a god were it not for the signs of strain that recent events had carved into him, from his hollow cheeks to his nervous, restless fingers; The latter of which was really quite irksome.

“Stop fidgeting,” I quipped, frowning and biting down on the tip of my tongue. “I’ll never be able to get you right if you keep moving. Honestly, and you compare me to a child.”

“I do have a few years on you, fair lady.”

“That only makes it worse.”

Lucien managed to still himself for a rather pathetic minute before his forefinger resumed their tapping upon his thigh, but I made no comment. The back and forth bitching we’d developed when I’d first arrived at the Spring Court had now evolved beyond the antipathy and mourning we’d shared. He no longer held the death of Andras against me, and I in turn agreed not to speak of what had passed here whilst I was at the Night Court. This silent agreement meant we were both more comfortable in sharing quiet moments together, knowing neither would verbally assault the other. In a case of mutually assured destruction, we both knew the wounds such talk would inflict could scar us both.

“I can’t believe it’s only been a year since we first met,” Lucien said, his gaze fixed out the window at the surrounding gardens. “Only a year since we were all prisoners. Or, a year since we were able to admit to it aloud.”

He was breaching dangerous territory, but I’d long stopped being scared by it. It had only been two months since my return to Spring, and yet it was already apparent to me that no one save Tamlin and Ianthe thought the deal with Hybern was wise. Since the High Lord and his Priestess were out on a ride that day, I saw no harm in letting Lucien say whatever it was that was bothering him.

“Missing Amarantha, are we?”

“Oh, dreadfully,” Lucien said, playing along with a theatrical swoon. He laughed when I scolded him for shifting his position. Though I had come to see Lucien as an ally, I could never come to like his laugh. It always spoke of so much pain. “What can I say? She kept Tamlin occupied. He does so love to have an enemy.”

Finished sketching, I took up mixing up the colours I needed on the paint palette. “He’s a fool for choosing Rhysand as his new target,” I said quietly, struggling to get the right skin tone. There would be time to learn proper painting technique, if only I could survive the war. The past year had been spent fashioning me into a weapon, no time for games. Who I was had been carved into steel and fire and power, so that I was more a what than a whom to the world now. Beyond what I had briefly shared with Rhys, I had not known softness in a long time.

“If what you say about the Night Court is true, I don’t doubt it.” Lucien looked over at me, his metal eye as unnerving as ever. Still I had not dared to ask just what it allowed him to see, but I felt as if it could somehow discern the contents of my soul.

He chewed the inside of his cheek whilst I distracted myself with mixing paint, before he finally spoke, “You’ve changed so much, Feyre.” He smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. “I must admit, I’m impressed by who you have become. Even if Rhysand did not exist, I’d hate to make a foe of you. So forgive me when I say I am also in mourning.”

Cocking my head, I finally had the courage to look back at him. Did he speak of Elain now? “Mourning whom?” I asked. The smile he gave me hurt as much as the two months apart from Rhysand had. It spoke of pity, pity I could not bear.

“I am in mourning for a close friend. A friend I made under Amarantha’s rule. A human girl, who came here with childish anger, who could be made happy and placid by nothing more than paint. A girl who screamed and cried and didn’t know any better than to wander out at night on Calanmai, and who could fall in love even with a Beast.” He did not drop my gaze. “I grieve for you too, for losing her. I’m sorry you can’t be her any more.”

He’d spoken so softly, so quietly, that we both flinched when I snapped my paintbrush in half. Claws edged out of my knuckles, my grip too tight. I was still learning the depths of my new strength, though I didn’t care as anger flashed upon my tongue. “Don’t be,” I hissed, snatching a fresh brush and ramming it in the prepared paint to coat it. “She was a stupid, foolish little victim who knew no better.”

“That, fair Feyre,” Lucien said, back to looking out at the gardens, “is exactly why I mourn for you.”

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{PART 5} I Won’t Stop You // Jeon Jungkook, Vampire!AU

Originally posted by jengkook

Pairing: Jungkook x Reader

Genre: Vampire!AU, Fantasy, Angst, Smut 

Summary; You’re hesitant to reveal your painful past to Jungkook, but time gets cut dreadfully short when Jungkook excuses himself upon receiving an interesting phone call.

{Part 1} {Part 2} {Part 3} {Part 4} {Part 5} {Part 6}

I update this series every Tuesday evening, 9pm-10pm (UK Time)

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What a Guy Wants • The Time Warp is not hard to learn

anonymous asked:

ok i am.. a new oner to camp camp and this is more of a general question but, im about to watch the show for the first time ever, what should i expect?

FIRST OFF: welcome to camp camp hell!!! secondly, OH BOY…. i dont even know where to start!! its got swearing, obviously, and theres like some not-so-great jokes from time to time looking @you episode six!!!, but overall its pretty funny and there are unexpected feelings aT TIMES?? the characters are GREAT and the development is top notch, and the animation style is cute!!

buT YEAH what to expect is basically swearing, some warped humour, some straight up funny humour, a random musical number or two, and some characters that you are going to get invested in whether you like it or not!! please, enjoy the show!! ‘v’

The American Dream (Daryl Dixon Imagine)

Imagine: Walking dead AU - you become friends with a homeless guy who happens to be Daryl.

A.N: I thought I’d try and AU I’d been thinking about writing for a while, Daryl’s in his twenties pretty much. I hope you like it!

Word Count: 1540


Another day, another dollar, working my ass off for very little money… The american dream! Pfft, it’s 6am and I’m on my usual coffee run before I start serving everyone else theirs for the majority of my day. As I leave, food and drink in hand, I pass by the homeless guy I see daily. He’s my favourite part of my routine, and I make sure to have something for him before and after work. 

He lifts his head, greasy strands of blond hang in front of his face, bags under his eyes that add years onto his otherwise youthful gaze. I try to hide the pity I feel, this could easily be me out here. He offers me the little smirk he has, a cheeky grin that carries both a boyish innocence and a devilish mirth. 

“Mornin’” he grumbles, one arm stretching out from under his sleeping bag. I smile, handing him a coffee, bottled water and a bagel. He offers half of his sleeping bag to me as I sit beside him. He has nothing to give yet he’s more than willing to sacrifice what little he does have and it makes my heart lurch. 

Once I’m settled beside him, he begins eating. I take the opportunity to assess him, how much has changed since I’d seen him the night before. He noticed my staring, of course he does, and scorns me. 

“Stohp,” he whines through a mouthful of food, he hates my worry. I shake my head before sipping my coffee, shifting my gaze to the street. 

“I worry Daryl.” 

“Ya do enough, quit yer worryin’,” he refuses to meet my eye as he sips his coffee, scrunching the paper up from the bagel, he throws it at the side of my head. “’Sides, I told ya, Merle’ll be outta prison soon. I’ll be good.” 

I frown, I would rather he believed in his own abilities, rather than waiting on dear old brother but… I couldn’t piss on his hope, not when he believed in Merle so much. 

“I just wish I earned more, but with college and work… I can’t afford us both.” I safely change the subject from Merle, unable to face him. 

“Ya don’t hafta, ‘m fine Y/N. Shouldn’ ya be goin’ to work?” He’s still staring at me, and I finally cave and meet his gaze, the usual intensity they hold still throw me. 

“Yeah. I should… Look, I’ll be back tonight okay?” I stand to leave, giving him the rest of my coffee and a couple of dollars. He nods, bundling himself back up from the morning chill. “Be safe Daryl.” 


Work drags on, and I almost smash a coffee over a customers ignorant head; considering it a better pick-me-up. After an 8 hour shift, I’m finally free. I grab whatever food I can get my hands on, slipping it into my bag before fleeing to feed Daryl. 

Fear floods my gut, he’s not there. There’s nothing but scraps from the food he’d eaten at breakfast. I try to calm myself but I find his sleeping bag and lighter left in the alley nearby. Gathering what little belongings he has, I panic, pacing up and down the street he usually sleeps at. 

Several hours pass with me internally freaking out, crying in public and giving myself horrendous blisters on my feet. With him still not making an appearance, I concede and head home. The whole night wracked with worry and guilt, knowing that I should’ve let him stay with me… 


After a sleepless night, I drag my frazzled state to grab coffee. My feet feel like lead as I near his street, I don’t want to find him missing again. I’m not disappointed when I see his familiar figure curled up on the steps, I gasp, breaking into a run. 

When I reach him, I cannot stop the tears that roll down my cheeks – partly from relief but mostly because he’s a mess. Cut up, bruised and with nothing to his name. He’s so out of it, he doesn’t recognize my presence. 


He opens a blackened eye, that same small smirk quirking at the corner of his mouth, even in his state. Yet, he makes no effort to move. I quickly pull out his sleeping bag from my backpack and wrap it around his shoulders – careful to mind his injuries. I hand him coffee to warm him and try not to fuss him too much. 

“I was so scared, I’m so sorry…” I sniffled, wiping the abundance of fluids pouring out of my face. He snaps his head round to look at me, confused to see me so upset. 

“Why ya cryin?” He looks uncomfortable, almost annoyed.

“I care about you, you idiot!” I don’t intend on offending him but I’d had enough. “Right, that’s it, come with me. You’re not staying here anymore.” I don’t give him chance to argue, I drag him up and walk us to my home. 


The journey here was mostly silent, he looked as if he wanted to protest but he could barely walk so he obeyed. Once I got inside, he looked lost and out of place, even in my dingy abode. Without thinking I stormed off to my phone, pulling a sick day at work, fake cough and all. The fools bought it, and I’d suffer for the consequences of missing a couple of days but it was worth it.

Daryl stood where I’d left him, his discomfort palpable. I took his hand gently and lead him into the bathroom, wanting to see the damage. He sat atop the toilet lid while I haphazardly scoured my medicine cabinet for anything useful. He watched silently, tiredly accepting my help. 

With my little collection of potions and remedies, I set them aside and took his chin in my hand. Gently tipping his head to the side so I could see the long cut across his cheek, I sighed.

“What happened?” He won’t look me in the eye, but he answers.

“Was attacked, Merle’s dealer… wants his money.” He keeps his gaze at his feet, chewing at the inside of his cheek. I snort.

“What good does beating up a homeless kid do?” Shaking my head, I clean out his wound, he doesn’t even flinch. Luckily, he won’t need stitches. He scoffs at my question, an amused twinkle in his eye. “Trust you Dixon to have a warped sense of humour, even at your own expense.” 

I push back his hair to check for more cuts, only to find small grazes that hadn’t broken the skin. I find myself admiring his well defined cheekbones, gazing into his cerulean eyes that still held their intensity even through his exhaustion. Once I realized that my fingers were still laced in his hair, I stepped away but he stopped me. His weary grasp wrapped around my wrist, pulling me back down to him. 

I blinked, my nose to his, his breath mingling with mine. He tilted his nose up, his lips brushing against mine ever-so-slightly, but not touching. My heart was in my throat, that intense stare was inches from me and my knees felt weak. He smirked, that nefarious twinkle in his eye as his nose brushed against mine again; this time, his lips met mine. It was a brief kiss, but his lips deftly worked against my mouth, earning a small sigh from me. 

I pulled back, my fingers shaking either side of his handsome face and that cursed smirk still tugged at his lips. Though, he looked bashful, embarrassed. I would laugh if I wasn’t so flustered myself.

“U-uhm… if you, if you wanna get cleaned up, I’ll uh, run you a bath and we can talk about you staying here…” I scratched the back of my neck, looking everywhere but his face as he stood.

“Sure,” his voice wavers. Before I can move, he’s got his arms wrapped around me, in a tight embrace, though I can feel him trembling. “Thank you Y/N, fer everythin’.”

I well up, wrapping my arms around his middle, fingers clenching into his shirt. My other hand rubbing soothing strokes in-between his shoulder blades. I’m not certain but I think he’s crying.

“Hey, Daryl. You don’t need to thank me, I should’ve done this a long time ago,” I try to pull back but he clings to me tighter, and I cave in and let my own tears flow. His small muffled sobs into my hair breaking my heart, he sinks to the ground, and I sit in his lap, soothing him as much as possible. 

“You’re gonna be okay, we’re gonna be just fine,” I whisper, feeling him nod. I thread my fingers through his greasy hair, scratching at the base of his scalp as I lean back to see his face. I reach up and wipe his tears, offering a gentle smile to him before pecking the tip of his nose and catching a stray tear. He smiles in return, it’s soft on him but it lights him up in ways I’d never seen before. This boy was giving me whiplash, Daryl was gonna be okay, hell. Daryl was gonna be the death of me. 


From here:

 “So… that mean names that aren’t ordinary create different expectation? In that case, which kind?” She didn’t remember Yali’s name leading her to have any particular prospects. What did her own name say about her?

Yali shrugged. “Any names. All names. The name by which someone calls you is a shorthand for what they expect of you. For example: you might be Dolores most days, but I’d hazard that someone’s tried to give you a cosier nickname like Dol. Or, if your friends have a particularly warped sense of humour, Dolabra. It applies to terms used in place of a name, too. You might be ‘hey, you’, or ‘ma’am’ or ‘my darling, my sweet, my world’, and each has it’s own implications.”