i hate this burning feeling i get when our eyes don’t meet
i hate the f*cking way you treat me,
i hate feeling so worthless to you
i hate feeling so sad, so blue
i hate this aching feeling i feel from inside
i hate how because of you, my self worthiness subsides
i hate how i need you’re attention to make me feel somewhat okay
but most of all, i hate how i never actually hate you, not even for a day
Sam kissed Dean for the first time when he was
time you tried some beer, right kiddo? Dean had
grinned as he’d put a sixpack on the table and flopped down onto the motel room’s
couch. Two beers in, and Sam’s liquid courage had him crawling onto Dean’s lap,
nuzzling against Dean’s warm throat, breathing in the intoxicating scent of his
big brother. “Dean,” he’d mumbled, sheer want
bleeding into his voice, and Dean had gone stiff with resistance beneath him.
Summary: Reader gets caught in the middle of a case Dean and Sam are working and learns that monsters are real.
Word Count: 2775
Warnings: Language, smut
As always, feedback is welcomed and appreciated. There is still room on my Forever Tag list, you can add yourselfhere.
A stunning man with vivid green eyes crouches before me, a hand on my shoulder. I blink a few times and take a quick assessment. Nothing seems broken, though I am most definitely battered and bruised. Blood trickles down from my brow, obscuring my vision.
Looking up at him, I nod. “Yeah, I’ll live.”
He stands and reaches out a hand, pulling me to my feet. Wait a second, I know him. He’s that Fed that came into my office at the museum today. Agent…Freed? Fredrick? Oh, wait, Frehley. Agent Frehley. That’s it. I remember thinking that he was cute. And a little flirty.
“Stick close to me, and no matter what, don’t leave my side, got it?” His jaw is set, he’s dead serious. As if I’d dream of doing anything else, after what had just happened.
“Got it.” Reaching around to the back of my jeans, I pull the gun out of my waistband. His eyes widen, surprised to see that I’m packing.
“You just happen to have a gun?” he asks, his brows drawing together.
I shrug. As the daughter of a former policeman, I never leave home without it. “Looks like I’m not the only one, agent.” I spare a glance at the gun in his own hand.
He nods sharply. It seems to please him that I’m armed. “If you see anything you can’t explain or don’t understand, don’t ask questions. Just…shoot. And keep shooting. It may not do much, but don’t stop.”
“I can do that.” Again, he looks at me in surprise. Is he waiting for me to break into hysterics after what I’d just seen? ‘Cause he can just keep waiting. There will be no breakdowns, not here. Once I get home and lock myself in, barricade the door, and arm myself to the teeth - that’s when I’ll have the breakdown. And it’s going to be one for the ages.
“With me,” he says and I take a deep breath before following after the man.
I Will Personally Put You In This Morgue! (Sherlock)
Request: Sherlock x reader. The reader has a prosthetic leg. Anderson calls her a freak
Warning(s): prosthetic leg (obviously, if that even is a warning), slight language, insults
Word Count: 1,589 (geez)
Reader Gender: Female (if this was supposed to be male/nonbinary PLEASE TELL ME AND I WILL FIX IT)
Authors Note: SO SO SO SORRY ON HOW LATE THIS IS! I’ve had a lot of schoolwork and I’ve been out, but here it is. It was also a little challenging to write so I hope I did it correctly. I hope you like this, anon. :) Personally I can’t stand Anderson so I love this.
Another Authors Note: This takes place in “The Great Game” (s1e3) for reference. I tried to get it as close as possible, but I did have to change it up some for the request. :)
“He’s not gay! Why do you have to spoil-he’s not!”
That’s what I hear as I step into the room. I see Molly standing at the end of a table. Sherlock is at the other end looking into a microscope, with John behind him. I had been outside of the building talking to Lestrade about the case, when John texted me, telling me to come in. Apparently, he had done that so that he would not be alone when this argument went down. Really, I had to walk all the way down here for this?
“With that level of personal grooming?” Sherlock says, snorting. It comes off as a question, but I know he doesn’t mean it that way. He looks up from the microscope, and glances at me. His hand moves to gesture toward an empty chair, and I accept gratefully. I hope I’m not blushing too much at him helping me.
“Because he puts a bit of product in his hair?” John asks, “I put product in my hair.” I giggle at how offended he looks.
“You wash your hair,” Sherlock responds, “there’s a difference.” He turns to Molly. “No,no - tinted eyelashes; clear signs of taurine cream around the frown lines; those tired clubber’s eyes. Then there’s his underwear.”
“His underwear?” Molly looks dumbfounded, raising her eyebrows as she speaks. I look at him too, wondering where he’s going with this.
”Visible above the waistline – very visible; very particular brand,” He says, leaning toward the Petri dishes. He pulls out a slip of paper, then says:
“That, plus the extremely suggestive fact that he just left his number under this dish her…and I’d say you’d better break it off now and save yourself the pain.” Damn. At least he’s thorough. Molly runs out of the room, and I turn to Sherlock.
“Charming,” I say, rolling my eyes. Even though they’re blunt, I think it’s amazing how he is able to make his deductions. But, people get hurt sometimes. He looks over his shoulder at me.
“Isn’t it kinder to save her the time?” He asks, and I shake my head. He shrugs and looks over to John. He points to the shoes, the actual case itself.
“Off you go,” he says to John. The man looks surprised, but picks up the shoes to attempt to get as much information as possible. Sherlock gets up, walks over, and sits down next to me.
“I still don’t quite understand how you manage to walk so well on that leg,” he says. His voice is slow, as if he’s trying not to offend me. Strange, I think, with others he wouldn’t care. I look over at him and shrug.
“I’ve gotten used to it,” I say as I place my hand on the prosthetic. As I do, my mind goes back to the accident. Riding in the taxi, when another car runs into the side. My leg pinned, people trying to get me out, but I couldn’t. The pain, the excruciating pain all in my leg. When people finally got me out and got me to the hospital, only to be told I’d have to lose my leg. The grief that followed.
A hand on my shoulder brings me back to reality. I look to see Sherlock looking at me. Maybe I’m imagining it, but I swear I saw concern all over his face. As I start to say something, the door opens. In walks Lestrade and the rest of the team, including the irritating Anderson.
“Find anything?” Lestrade asks. He looks at John, but we all know the question is for any of us. Sherlock jumps up and walks to John.
“Tell me what you’ve found, doctor,” Sherlock says. John starts rattling off different things to do with the shoes. I get up to go look at the Petri dish still under the microscope’s eye. As I walk over, I can feel eyes on me. People always look at me strangely, due to the way I walk, so it doesn’t faze me much. I sit down at the microscope and look into it, only for someone pull on my wrist. I look over, annoyed at being drawn away from the case, and see Anderson.
Stupid prick. I roll my eyes and pull my arm out of his grasp. When I head for the microscope, he pulls it away from me. Reaching to grab it, I step off of the stool. Thanks to my prosthetic, however, I lose my balance and have to grab onto the counter to stay upright. He smirks at me, then gets up in my face.
“You’re pathetic, Y/N,” he sneers, “and a freak. You can’t do anything on your own. You think you’re smart but you’re as smart as a rock. Why don’t you do us a favor and hobble out of here, and let the professionals handle this?”
I sit there, shocked into silence. The words cut through me like razors, and I fight back tears.
Then, I hear a calm, but deadly voice.
“John, take Y/N out please,” Sherlock says. “Everyone else out, except for Anderson.” I see Lestrade start to protest, but after seeing the look in his eyes, stays quiet. John walks over to me, and offers his arm. I accept, and he doesn’t complain when I put a lot of weight on him. He knows what Anderson said, and he understands that it hurt. Once we get out, I head to a bench. I sit down and put my face in my hands. Don’t cry, don’t cry. Then, I jump as I feel an arm around me.
“Sorry,” John moves his arm. I shake my head.
“It’s okay, just wasn’t expecting it,” I respond, “some comfort would be nice at the moment, actually.” He puts his arm back around me, and I lean in. Then, the yelling starts.
“ANDERSON, YOU INCOMPETENT, UNINTELLIGENT, IMBECILE! YOU CALL HER PATHETIC, YET YOU PAY WOMEN TO SPEND TIME WITH YOU! ALSO, DON’T YOU DARE SAY SHE CAN’T DO ANYTHING ON HER OWN!” There’s a pause, and I hear a fist connect with a stomach repeatedly. “YOU CANNOT EVEN MAKE A SANDWICH WITHOUT HELP! AND YOU WANT TO QUESTION HER INTELLIGENCE? SHE HAS MORE INTELLIGENCE IN HALF A BRAIN CELL THAN YOU WILL EVER HAVE!” Another pause. Someone is probably getting punched again. “ANDERSON, YOU ARE THE MOST WORTHLESS SCUM ON THE PLANET, CALLING THIS ASTOUNDING GIRL A FREAK! IF YOU EVER TRY TO TEAR HER DOWN AGAIN, I WILL PERSONALLY PUT YOU IN THIS MORGUE!”
I stare in disbelief at John. His eyes are wide, and he stands up. I realize then that my face has gotten hot. I stand up, being careful this time as to not lose my footing. Lestrade comes over to me, and places a hand on my back to guide me to the door of the room. He leans down towards my ear.
“Just so you know, this means Sherlock likes you,” he whispers. I look at him, not knowing what to say. He sighs, then whispers:
“That means you should ask him to dinner, then.”
I open my mouth but once again say nothing, being met with a smirk by John. He knew this entire time, I think. We walk back into the morgue to see Anderson on the floor, unconscious. There’s blood on his face, from being hit by Sherlock. I look over at where he is sitting. I see something different in his eyes, something I’ve never seen before. John goes to him and whispers something to Sherlock. After, he motions for everyone to leave. As I start to walk out, John puts his hand on my shoulder.
“Not you,” he says, smiling softly. He leaves, and I turn back to Sherlock. He looks back at me, then at his hands. They’re covered in blood. I walk to a sink in the corner of the morgue, and wet a cloth. Sitting down next to him, I put the cloth over his knuckles and hold it. He looks at me.
“Thank you, Y/N,” he says quietly. I smile a little.
“No, thank you, Sherlock,” I reply, “for defending me. You didn’t have to.”
“That pig deserved every bit of it,” he responds quickly. “Besides, you should never have to hear all of those lies.” I feel my face heat up again.
“Lestrade said I should buy you dinner to thank you,” I proceed cautiously.
“That would be lovely,” he says. I look at him to say something else, then notice that I’m only a few inches away from his face. Sherlock sees it the same time I do, and I know he can tell what I’m thinking. Yet, I’m still surprised when he leans in. I close my eyes, and our lips meet. The kiss is light, as if he’s afraid he will scare me off. Yet, there’s so much there, the sense that he deeply cares for me, but in a different form than how he cares for John.
When we pull away, we sit there for a moment. Then, Sherlock starts to smile, and I start to laugh a little. He takes the cloth and throws it across the room. Instead of an arm, he offers his hand to me. I take it, and we walk over Anderson and out of the room. As we step out of the building, all I can think is, I can’t believe I just kissed Sherlock in a morgue, and my leg didn’t get in the way.
Summary: The world of magic is divided into dark and light, witches and warlocks, choice and fate. You’re a prodigy of light, a witch who works within the police force. You’ve heard of Taehyung in passing, spoken in whispers as the warlock of dark who has the world holding it’s breath. All this changes on the night you’re assigned as security for a mysterious singer named V and you come face to face with Taehyung himself. What happens after that might be fate.
walking down the stairs.
you look at me.
i look at you.
our eyes meet.
i look away.
i look at you again.
we look each other in the eyes.
there’s a bit of chemistry.
not as much as it used to be,
but yeah, there’s chemistry again.
should i smile at you?
i’m about to smile.
but instead i look away.
This is the worst fight Basilton and I have ever had.
It couldn’t have come at a worse time. Baz didn’t come back to the room last night and I haven’t seen him all day. I’m worried that something’s happened to him. Either that, or he’s seriously mad at me, and I don’t know what I did.
I think my wing might be broken. It hurts when I move it. On top of that, I can feel a black eye forming, my head is pounding like hell, and my entire body feels sore. I’m bleeding in at least three places.
I can’t fly home, and the wing hurts too much, so I transform back into my normal form and catch a taxi back to Watford. The driver looks concerned and suggests that we detour by the hospital, but I insist on going straight home.
I’ll be fine. I heal quickly. It’ll just hurt for a day or two. I haven’t been this badly hurt before, but Baz always helps me. I’ll have to come up with some explanation. (I don’t want to lie to him. Not again.)
I trudge up the stairs to our room, wincing in pain with every step. When I open the door, I find Baz sitting at his desk and breathe a sigh of relief. The door swings shut behind me with a thud that reverberates loudly through my head.
I groan, taking two steps into the room and collapsing on my bed. The impact sends fresh pain through my body.
‘Fuck, everything hurts,’ I whimper into my pillow. I’m met with silence, and after I wait for half a minute and nothing happens, I turn my head to look at Baz. He’s still at his desk, and he looks like he’s reading his textbook.
He ignores me completely.
‘Baz, please,’ I say. ‘Talk to me.’
There’s no response. My headache is getting worse, and I start seeing spots.
‘What did I do…’ I whisper, seconds before I pass out.
A/N: After all of the amazing feedback I got on my first Carl imagine I decided to write this one last week. It isn’t as log as the other one but is still pretty lengthy. I hope you guys like it as much as the last one.
Summary: The reader and Carl have been close ever since they were at the Prison and now are much older. Starting of in the middle of the Negan line-up scene, the two are sent through a roller-coaster of their own emotions. From being left devastated from the incident from the line-up and their fear of getting closer with one another this covers the vulnerabilities tied into caring about someone else in a world with such high stakes.
There is an ‘us’ somewhere. It’s not here, it’s not even an uttered concept right now, but the novel idea of you and me together exists. Us. It’s hard to find in this noisy life, especially with people and clashing lifestyles obstructing the view. I find it, however—and keep finding myself in it—when our eyes meet. That’s us. When the world moves a half second ahead of us, riotous and oblivious, we find each other in a glance.
that moment of empty universe and you, just you, is my heaven
How do I explain the depth of my love for you?
When our eyes meet my heartbeats speed up.
You’re my star that shines so bright.
You’re the cool breeze that touches my face.
You’re my only dream.
Earlier in that day Joe and I had filmed a video “The Best friend Tag”. It had gone up an hour ago and I had been scrolling through my phone reading all of the comments.
‘They’re so dating!’
'Oh My God Y/Ship/N vibes!’
'Just date already’
All of the comments seemed to say something similar. Joe and I had known each other since we were extremely young. He had been the one to introduce me to the magical world of youtube. But as long as I could remember Joe had only had one girlfriend, and I have the biggest crush on the blue-eyed boy.
“Everyone thinks we’re a couple,” I say laughing as I scroll through my phone. My head rested in his lap and my legs rest on his sofa. His fingers mindlessly playing with my hair.
“I know,” Joe replies casually.
“You know? It doesn’t bother you?” I ask adverting all of my attention towards him.
“Should it? Does it bother you? I mean, personally I think I could do worse as far as fake lovers go, but…” Joe trials off unable to meet my gaze.
“What are you trying to say?” I ask shifting from laying in his lap to sitting up next to him. My E/C eyes locked with his piercing blue orbs.
“What do you think I mean?” He jokes grabbing my hand in his, bringing it up to his face he presses a tender kiss to the back of my hand gingerly.
“Are we faking?” I ask voice small.
“Do you want to be faking?” He asks looking at me through his lashes. I shake my head softly casting my eyes downwards. His hand comes up slowly running along my arm and neck before finally resting on my jaw. His long tender fingers caressing my cheek softly.
“Y/N,” He whispers encouraging me to look at him. When our eyes meet the rest of the world fades away.
“Yes?” I ask teasing him a little.
“May I kiss you?” He asks softly, his head leaning in towards me a little. His fingers still mindlessly tracing patterns onto my cheek.
I bite my lips softly. Nodding my head softly. I watch as he licks his lips, he leans in slowly and stops just before our lips touch.
“Are you sure?” He asks his voice thick with nerves. I lean my head forward closing my eyes. Our lips move against each other and the butterflies run through my whole body.
“What’s going on?” When I came to the university this morning the front gates where crawling with people. I didn’t know what the hell was going on so when I saw my friend standing among the crowd I quickly headed over to her. “Didn’t you hear? They say he’s some sort of a prince and he’s going to go to our uni! Can you believe that?” “Oh come on…” I roll my eyes and sigh at her, “That’s got to be a bad joke. Why does everyone believe these rumours so easily.” “Why can’t you believe something for once without questioning it?” She retorts but her eyes are already fixed at the spectacle in front of her again. “Because it’s stupid to believe everything without questioning it…” I mumble as I let my hands run through my hair. “I’ll have a class soon, see you later."
I take my usual spot at the back of the class, being at least 15 minutes too early and get out my phone. First few hours were in the laboratory, meaning a small group with few people around. Just the way I like it because huge crowds were never really my thing. The room slowly fills with people, the same familiar faces everyday. When the teacher walks in he is accompanied by someone I don’t know yet. Though I did catch a glimpse of him earlier. The so called prince. The whole room immediately gets louder, whispers starting as he stands in front of the class while the teacher introduces him as our new classmate. Just my luck, of course I got to have the attention drawing one in my class. One of the few quiet places around campus.
"The name’s Ivar.” He tells everyone with a sweet smile that looks all but honest. He was handsome yes, with his gemstone like blue eyes and the curly black hair. I could see why everyone was making a fuss but there was something else about him that wasn’t so easy to pinpoint just yet. A glimmer of something darker lying beyond all this beauty and fake smiles. He catches me staring and when our eyes meet he gives me that look, like he knows exactly what I was thinking just now. I shiver slightly and quickly look away. My imagination clearly got the better of me.
Or not. Because after introducing himself he walks straight to the end of the room, taking the seat next to me even though there are enough empty seats all over. “What’s your name?” “Arna.” I say, turning my head back to the front and pretending to listen to the professor. He’d have none if it and kept staring at me from the side, “You don’t like me, huh?” “What makes you think that?” I try to keep the sarcasm out of my voice as best as I can but I’m pretty sure he still recognized it as what it was. He chuckles next to me and when I look over again there’s nothing left of the false friendliness he showed me just seconds ago. “I was just waiting for someone like you…” He twirls his pen between his fingers while his eyes bore into mine, “…we’ll have so much fun. I bet I won’t get bored at all with you around to play.” Somehow I highly doubted that I would be the one on the receiving end of said fun. He was in my class for what? 10 minutes? And I already managed to make me his target. Great job, really.