#the gas stove at the apartment is so gross why is there a hole beneath the heating element. for slime to get into ?!?

[boyheros]

Sorry per my last reblog I peeked at the notes and it's so funny. People saying electric is better not necessarily because they love cooking on it but because gas is toxic & can kill you. ok? and.

[ardentprose]

Rain and Ramen

Jimin x Reader

Genre: Domestic Fluff, Slight Angst

Warnings: mentions of sex

Song: Any rain lo-fi mix on youtube like this one

The water hisses as square-shaped noodles are dropped into the depths of the pot, submerging quickly beneath the bubbles. Jimin tears another package open and peels away the plastic wrapping, tossing it in the general direction of the overflowing trash bin. After deciding there was enough boiling noodles for the two of you, he reaches over to the pitiful portion of counter space tucked between the wall and gas stove top. He picks up a cheap all-in-one spice container and with a flick of his wrist adds a few dashes, licking his thumb at the end. 

Across the room you lie against the peeling wallpaper decorated with posters collected from various soon-to-be and never-to-be-known artists alike framing your head and shoulders. Jimin could not understand why you insisted on getting the signatures of each and every musician after their set no matter how late you were forced to stay. You tell him if they ever became famous you could sell them on e-bay to pay next month’s rent.

What if they never go anywhere? He would ask holding on to the pole above your hand, chest pressed to your back, as you took the train home. 

Then at least we made them feel like they would. You always respond earning an endearing kiss on the forehead from your husband.

You flip a page in your book, coming to the end of the chapter. You squint under the lamp light that has now become more apparent than what your two windows could offer in the wake of a raging night thunderstorm. Heeding your mother’s warning as a child to never read in the dark, you close the book and roll your neck. 

Your eyes naturally find your husband, shirtless at the stove a mere twenty feet in front of you. The muscles in his shoulders contract as he tends to dinner, at times stretching so that the ligaments that define his back accentuate his spine. A pair of dimples right above the waistline of his sweatpants - the same ones he’s worn since college - wink at you from time to time. It never fails to draw a smile to your face, even if Jimin swears to you to just wait another month and he’ll get rid of the love handles. 

“These are not love handles, Jimin! You’re skinnier than I am. And even if they were, I’d love you all the same.” You would tell him as your fingertips trace the soft skin peeking between his tee and boxers. 

“They are though and I would be fine if I could just get rid of them. How will I scare other men away if I look like the chubby side kick rather than the dashing, strong hero?” 

He always pouts and even in the dark you know his cheeks are as round as the dumplings you splurge on every weekend. But telling him you want to bite said cheeks like the delectable side dish would be asking him to take it the wrong way. 

So you would resort to loving his body the best way you knew how. By using your wandering fingertips to push his hips over, swinging your leg over his at the same time. With his back pressed into the mattress, he has no where to run, no where to look but up at you. You have his full attention now instead of his self-deprecating thoughts.

Instinctively he lays his palms on your hips. Your hands rest over them. 

“Feel these? These are real love handles, Jiminie. You are more than ten pounds away from having them.” 

He would pinch your skin, finally seeing your way of things as you talked yourself down the way he did, relenting to your unconditional love and the way your hips roll over his. And every flaw, perceived or real, would be kissed and held and adored as love blossomed between your unified bodies and locked lips. 

Jimin turns the stove off as the first thunder clap erupts. The tall narrow window that spared your humble one-room apartment some few hours of daylight rattles with the vibrations of the building. On cue, rain assaults the glass with such ferocity Jimin pauses his actions as you draw your eyes from his body to the sky. 

“I really hope the glue holds.” Jimin mutters as he runs his fingertips along the crease of the window frame. Last time, water collected in the bricks of your old building and caused water damage that your landlord found all too easy to pin on you.

“Grab a hand towel to be safe and stuff it in the corners.” You suggest. Jimin hums and takes a spare one to do just that.

As night arrives in full, the room is cast in a yellow haze offered by the odd lamps you two had found at the nearest thrift shop. That was what made up most of your apartment. A unique arrangement of cheap but practical furniture, not one item matching another. Maybe once upon a time in high school you had created a dozen Pinterest boards of your aesthetically pleasing home. But now, in reality, you had grown to love the story of the life you and Jimin had created together in this hole-in-the-wall home.

“Chopsticks or fork?” Jimin’s soft voice, subdued with a long day’s fatigue, breaks your constant reminiscing. You spot him holding a bowl in hand, the other resting in the single drawer holding plastic take out utensils available. 

“Chopsticks.” You answer, pulling your legs from the tangle of blanket and sheets they had become intertwined with, resetting the bed that acted as the main function of your home.

He rolls his eyes. “You don’t know how to use chopsticks.” 

“I do too! And if that was true, then why did you ask me?” You retort, playing along to the nightly argument so routine it felt like saying prayer before dinner. 

“Because if I don’t you’ll get mad at me for assuming you wanted a fork.” Jimin scoffs, grabbing two pairs of chopsticks despite his own opinion.

“I do not-”

“Or you’ll just steal mine so you can prove to me how much of a mess you make.” 

You grin unabashedly but do your best to look horrified by his accusation. 

“You’re lucky I love you, Park Jimin.” You accept the bowl and the kiss he leaves on your lips. 

“You’re the lucky one.” Jimin yelps at the swat to his butt as he returns to the stove for his own serving.

You set up your laptop, signing in and opening Netflix to find the TV show Jimin and you binged every night like a true married couple. There weren’t many things you guys could afford, but having the small luxury of escaping reality and daydream of another life with the one you love was a price you were willing to subtract for a sense of sanity. In this case, however, it was daydreaming an affordable home in the suburbs. As such, you were in the middle of season two of House Hunters.

Once everything is settled, Jimin sits crossed-leg beside you, his knee brushing yours and thigh keeping your skin warm. As always, you exchange comments between slurps of noodles, sometimes agreeing and other times arguing over the characters’ choices in the story. 

During such an argument you go in for a mouthful of noodles without paying attention. What little noodles you manage to grab splash onto your legs, leaving yellow residue and the sting of failure on your skin.

“Jimin…” You stare at the screen ahead of you, not giving him the satisfaction of seeing your guilty expression. 

“‘Ere you go, baby.” He pulls out a fork from seemingly no where and having to spare a glance at him to take it, you see he’s doing his best not to smirk but failing triumphantly. 

“I ate half my bowl!” You protest as he reaches over with a napkin again from thin air to wipe down your legs as you hold the bowl over his head. ‘I told you so’ glitters in his eyes as clear as day. But being the sweetheart he is, he says nothing. Even if his shoulders shake with internal laughter. He leaves a kiss on your thigh and tosses away the napkin. Then shovels another pile of ramen between his swollen lips. 

The rain grows steady, causing you to turn up the volume on your laptop. Finished with his bowl, Jimin sets it on the nightstand and maneuvers your body against him, careful of your hot soup but wrapped up in you all the same. His breath smells heavily of ramen, hot against your neck, but you have no desire to move him, indulging in his mouth leaving little affectionate sucks and kisses from time to time. 

As you finish your bowl he takes it for you, setting it with his to be washed later. He turns your chin for another kiss, hands falling to your stomach to rest comfortably. Your hands settle over his, picking at the hangnails on each finger nail. Then tracing the wedding band that clicks against yours every so often. 

The episode ends and the rain has quieted to a steady hum. The paper thin walls of your apartment remain standing, although the edges of the wood paneling round your window frame look a bit warped. 

“It’ll dry.” Jimin says against your temple, knowing you worry about the landlord finding any and every reason to accuse you of damages in order to take what little savings Jimin and you had saved since graduating college.

“I hope so.” 

“You know so.” He squeezes you making you grunt in warning from a full belly. Jimin releases your body and rolls out of bed, ignoring your whines so he can set the dishes in the sink.  

You put the laptop away and spread-eagle out on the bed as Jimin turns out each lamp around the room before stepping into the bathroom to brush his teeth. 

“Babe, come brush your teeth!” He mumbles with a mouth full of toothpaste.

“No, I’ll do it in the morning.” you whine, rolling under the covers. 

You hear Jimin spit into the sink and rinse it down. Shutting off the light he returns, joining you under the covers. 

“You’re gross.” He states. You hum, wiggling closer to him and finding your favorite place, face tucked into his neck and leg slotted between his heated thighs. Warm palms resiliently soft after years of blue collar jobs run down your shirt - well, really his shirt from work today - and back up against your skin. Goosebumps dance down your spine and a shiver pushes you closer into Jimin’s heat. He unclips your bra and convinces you to sit up long enough to slide it off. He’s more concerned than you are about the rumors of bra-sleeping health issues but you’re just thankful to breathe easier without it.

You hum a thanks, offering your lips in a goodnight kiss which he takes no matter what he says. Your hands run up and down his chest, one settling between your heartbeats, the other drapes over his neck. The blanket shifts as he adjusts to a better position and sighs. 

The steady beat of rain offers a lullaby and you fall asleep in no time. Jimin can feel the steady exhale of warmth against his pectoral. Even if he wakes up in the morning with drool dried down to his stomach, he doesn’t care, pulling you all the more closer as he plays with the ends of your hair. It helps him fall asleep, twirling it around his fingertips, brushing against his palm and offering the scent of home to him. Sometimes it’ll be tucked away, and even still, Jimin will wait until your sound asleep to find a stray to untuck and twirl again and again. It’s not unusual for you to wake up with Jimin’s hand tangled in your hair forcing you to gently extract his fingers with your head bent at odd angles in order to not wake him up.

Jimin is not particularly proud of the place you two presently call home. The building creaks, the room is claustrophobic, and as his wife, you deserve a home where you’re allowed to paint the  walls whatever color you like. Bills, unpaid and overdue constantly occupy him. It seems no matter how many hours you pick up or jobs he fits into the week there’s still not enough to give you everything you want. Jimin sighs and bites his lip. 

Everything I want for you. He corrects, knowing that the decision to move into a low-income house was part of the plan you both agreed to. In fact, you had suggested it in order to be able to attack those student loans first. Yet Jimin wanted more for the both of you. He wanted you to decorate room after room of a beautiful house that the two of you would grow old together in. He wanted a safe neighborhood in case you wanted kids - or even pets. 

He wanted a stable job, a lifelong career he could take joy in and also provide for his wife with. You assured him every day that a future like that awaited you. He just needed to be patient. But how long could you put up with this? How long before your father’s advice crept back in and reminded you how marrying Jimin so young was unwise.

Then again, how could he forget the way you fought for him in front of your entire family at Thanksgiving? - and won them over. How could he forget the excitement in your eyes as he told you his dreams of dancing and telling stories with every fiber of his being. You were nearly pushing him into the dance academy’s administration office. How could he forget the way you made the best of every situation as if it wasn’t your current lifestyle but a game of pretend?

“It’s just for now. Not always.” The words have become your mantra. Even if all the worries of living a comfortable life plagued Jimin every day, he was thankful that he was here with you. He would never regret proposing to you. He would cherish the nights falling asleep next to you in this tiny little room. No matter how many nights there would be. 

[cwriteshistorysortof]

Bones - A Creepypasta

A/N: Wrote this for Mrcreeps on reddit, figured I'd post it here cuz why not.

​

When I was young I’d loved nature, camping, fishing, playing in creeks and climbing trees. Growing up in central California there was lots of great camping sites that were never too far of a drive for my family, so we went on woodland excursions often. Especially in the summer when the weather was nice.

Love of the outdoors runs in my family, and that meant we were aptly prepared for all of our trips in terms of supplies and knowledge of surrounding areas. In short, we never had a bad camping trip that was caused by our own ill-preparedness. Though we’d had a few ruined by unexpected weather, freak rainstorms in the middle of summer that kept us holed up in a tent or RV for days.

I thoroughly enjoyed trips to one place in particular, a private campground, that’s been in my family for generations, and is on the border of a Native American reservation, and used to contain cattle. It is very large and very wild, still containing patches of rusted barbed wire fence and littered with old cow bones depending on where you go. Most of the cow things of course are in the old pasture, which is also scattered with old cabin parts: gas stoves that don’t work, beds and tables rotted or half eaten by termites.

Though those fences, and a few old cabins, most no longer usable, are the most permanently human thing about the place. There are no trails, besides the rode to reach the camp. If you want to hike, you have to drive quite a bit to get to trails, otherwise you can explore the vast campground without a path. There are sprawling meadows, wet and marshy, squelching beneath your every footstep, sucking you deep into the mud. Then the creek, surrounding by willows and all sorts of little greens, crawling with insects and chock full of lively fish, snatching the bugs from the air, disappearing beneath the murky surface once more. The creek bed is deep, and isn’t full in the summer so there’s a wall of stacked granite rocks before the tree lined banks, terrible to climb.

Finally there is the true woods, densely packed, towering sequoias. My mother always told me with a childlike awe, how some of them could be thousands of years old. I was already short, still am for my age, but these trees made me feel small and insignificant, like I had been dwarfed by them in a way that nothing else ever could. Though there had been fires in this area, the large trees had recovered, sporting a shell like look near there roots where they had been damaged and regrown. It was ominous to me, yet simultaneously beautiful.

It’s also got beautiful wildflowers, so many, everywhere, i thought it was weird that they were in the pasture too, but my mom says the cow pies fertilized them. I found the idea a little gross, but I loved the flowers. There were little purple ones that looked like shooting stars, mini white ones that grew in clumps like some strange broccoli, ones with long, thin red petals that looked like feathers. And of course there were little red and yellowish orange lily’s that had black spots on them, the rarest and most beautiful that I’d spend hours hunting for, only to come up with three wilted flowers and scraped knees and elbows from trying to climb the slippery rocks of the creek bank.

This place is really, truly, special. I can’t emphasize enough the wildness of it. Maybe it’s got some kind of special eldritch enchantment that kept drawing me deeper, always revealing, even though I’d been coming there every year for almost my entire life. There was something new around every corner. Even now, especially now, as I am older, I realize how unique that place is because I’ve never been anywhere that’s come close to making me feel the same way. At once curious, enchanted, comforted, even scared.

There was only one occasion where that fear was truly justified, and the strangeness I felt of that place proven to be true.

Based on what I’ve told you, you can guess I liked to explore, to go further than I’d gone before and find something new and novel, even if it felt a tad odd. This... I don’t know what to call it. Encounter? Happened when I was ten, and it all started with those flowers.

You see the best part about exploring was that strange chilling, enchanted feeling I got, but that only ever seemed to happen when I was alone, and we always went camping as a family: me, my mom, my dad, and three older sisters. This meant in most previous trips i had a gaggle of siblings, or at least on to accompany me on adventures. Don’t get me wrong I love my siblings, and playing with them was fun, but i never got to go far on my own because of them.

But that trip, when I was ten, they were all more than thirteen, and reaching the point where they no longer wanted to play in the woods. All they wanted to do was sit in the RV and play on their phones. I still wanted to go down to the creek, or something that wasn’t being cooped up inside so I asked my mom if I could go play by myself.

Of course neither of my parents liked the idea of any of their children going into the woods alone, even if we were the only people for miles I could run into a bear or simply fall off a too-tall rock and injure myself. So I promised them I would stay close by, and said I would just be looking for flowers. I told myself it would be enough to keep me entertained.

But i wanted the red and yellowish-orange flowers with the black spots, or Tiger Lilies I think they were called, and I couldn’t seem to find any of them near me. I was on the opposite side of the creek from my campsite. I’d had to wade through the shallow part of the creek to get across, and now my jeans were wet up to my knees, the heavy denim weighing me down as I trudged alone the creek bank. Suddenly I heard chittering to my left, in the opposite direction of the campground.

I quickly whipped my head around, thinking it was a large insect and preparing to run as those were really the only thing out here that bothered me. But when I looked I saw nothing, for a moment, then I noticed one of the flowers I had been hunting for. I began hopping happily towards it

The air was warm and heavy, humid as the summer sun evaporated water in the plants and creek. Clouds of mosquitoes filled the air, and I had coated myself in bug spray to keep them from biting me. It’s strange wet-dry feeling bothering my skin as it melded with my sweat, burning the little nicks on my skin from tree branches and thistles. It’s pungent alcohol scent invaded my nostrils.

But I was elated as I plucked the flower from the ground, holding it up triumphantly, peeking the sunset sky through the trees, the same color as the flower through the trees. For a moment everything seemed cast in warm shades, red, pink, orange, brown. Everything except the needles of the evergreen trees. I closed my eyes, feeling hot sweat running onto my eyelashes, as those same warm colors appeared behind my eyelids.

When I opened my eyes I could see another Tiger Lily, some fifty feet ahead, and I dashed towards it, adding it to my collection. There was another one ahead still, just at the limit of my vision, and I went for that one too, not thinking about how far I was straying from camp as it became, three, four, five, ten flowers. I’d never found this many before. All of them roughly the same distance apart, still far but closer than i’d ever seen them.

When i finally stopped seeing the flowers the last tinges of pink were beginning to fade from the sky and I was panting but elated. I was next to a large tree with a little cave in it, hollowed out near the roots, maybe with animal help. I crawled inside to count my haul, and catch my breathe, enchanted by this little woodland hut, getting that curious chill up my spine.

From the outside it seemed just barely big enough to fit me. But when I slipped inside I tripped on something, falling further inside than should have been possible. I felt something crawling on my skin. I closed my eyes, yelping and wiping it off, shaking myself a bit. When I opened my eyes everything was dark in the little hole, except for the opening, about four feet away from the bottom. I figured I had underestimated how deep it was, pulling myself up so I could crawl out. When I noticed something.

There was a Tiger Lily, right in front of the opening. I stood, poised to pull myself up, transfixed by this flower for a moment. How could I have missed this one? It was large and vibrant, beautiful. But my eyes stung with sweat, feeling heavier with each passing second. I figured I must’ve missed this one. When I plucked it from the tender earth, I noticed something else strange.

The air outside was suddenly cool and dry, and it hit me in a sudden burst, waking me from a hot summer daze as I pulled myself out of the tree and stood up. As I took inventory of the forest around me it was...wrong. Too quiet, too dry, the trees were, they where white, not without tinges of gray and brown as though they were dirty or scraped. I looked up for their needles, they had none, only long, white slender branches. They looked like hands with too many fingers.

I felt that chill up my spine, I felt the urge to explore that came from somewhere other than my own mind. I wanted to go home, and I shivered, my clothes rustling, no longer wet with sweat or creek water. They seemed to have dried instantly. Even my mouth, my nose, my eyes felt...dry. Like I’d been living in a desert for weeks without a drop of water.

As I shuffled forward it seemed light, a watery gray dawn with no sunrise colors, not even blue. A thick, heavy fog covered everything. I could only see about ten feet ahead of me and there seemed to be dead, white trees everywhere. How they hadn’t fallen down I didn’t know, still don’t.

They reminded me of dog feces that had been left in our backyard for two long, the way it shriveled and became white, and was brittle when you scooped it up to dispose of it. I tried not to think of other similarities. I thought I saw faces in the trees, cold, unforgiving faces that would curse me and my family if i crossed them. So I kept my eyes trained to the finger like branches up high, just barely visible on shorter trees. I had to step over branches and dead bushes that made me stumble more than once.

After a little while I reached a clearing. I didn’t realize how silent it had been until I heard a noise. A strange chittering or clacking you would hear from an insect or beetle, but deeper, much deeper. It reminded me of the sound I heard that lead me to the first flower. I shivered. Yet I felt some numb calming focus overcome me as I followed the treeline, until discovering it made a tightly packed circle around this clearing that must’ve been a hundred yards across.

I heard the chittering again, something that sounded like two sticks tapped together, over and over in rapid succession, but somehow heavier. And I felt eyes on me, more than one pair of eyes. It was like everywhere was watching me.

Suddenly the thick fog dropped, not a gradually thinning. It seemed to sink into the ground and vanish altogether. And I looked around, coming to a horrible realization as I stepped on something hard and long, and it snapped beneath my weight. What I thought had been tree limbs and bare bushes on the ground, were bones.

Right behind me. It didn’t touch me, didn’t move, but I could feel it. It didn’t dare turn around. I stood there for agonizing minutes, trying to convince myself to move. It wasn’t until it trilled in my left ear, revealing a brassy-brown appendage I saw in my periphery that i was finally able to run.k inside of an organism. It looked like all of these creatures has extra bones. Like reverse ostio-perosis. They were cracked in some places, scattered with teeth marks of some kind.

Any semblance of calm fled from my body as I heard the chittering again, this time sounding closer. But I didn’t move, my stupid animal brain thinking if I could just stay still enough, whatever was out there, wouldn’t see me. Wouldn’t do god knows what to me. But I heard it a third time.

Right behind me. It didn’t touch me, didn’t move, but I could feel it. It didn’t dare turn around. I stood there for agonizing minutes, trying to convince myself to move. It wasn’t until it trilled in my left ear, revealing a brassy-brown apenfage I saw in my periphery that i was finally able to run.

I’d never ran that fast and I know I will never do it again. The cold scraped against the insides of my lungs and it hurt so bad I thought I’d breathed in broken glass, but I didn’t stop. I didn’t know where I was going, the only thing I knew was that I would rather run so hard it killed me than let that thing get ahold of me.

But it wasn’t my choice. I tripped on something, stumbling long enough I had to use a tree for balance, and I heard the chittering right behind me again. This time I couldn’t help it, as I turned around and saw the worst thing I couldn’t have imagined if I spent a thousand years trying.

It was almost like a centipede, if those were eight feet tall. It was wide too, brassy-brown segmented shell, long mandibles and too many spindly limbs that were not proportionate at all. It chittered, multiple sets of beedy black eyes staring at me. Yet it didn’t come closer. And that’s when I caught sigh of the larvae.

It’s lower half was almost a chasm, full of the little things, wriggling, squirming. One of them starting coming towards me, and I took a step back, but the bigger creature used one of it’s too-long arms to hold me in place as it climbed up my shoe and up my pant leg. When it reached my waist, it burrowed into my skin and I screamed, and thrashed for minutes as it settled itself beneath a layer of my flesh.

I still had one free hand, and I managed to snap of a bit of the larger creature’s spindly arm. I screamed again, this time to rally my courage as I stabbed it in the eye. It finally released me. I turned and ran once more, barreling through the trees. Within a minute I felt a sharp pain where the creature’s larvae had burrowed into me. If this place hadn’t been so dry I would have been crying, instead I dry sobbed, feeling the shard of bone already sticking two inches out of my abdomen, twice as thick as my thumb.

I don’t know how long I ran, but I remember finding that tree, through sheer luck. I don’t know if it was the same one but it had the same hollow bottom and I shoved myself into it, hiding at the bottom as I heard the creature chittering outside.

I dry sobbed, wrapping my arms around my knees and rocking back and forth, trying not to disturb the bloodied bit of bone protruding from my abdomen. It was six inches long by the time the chattering stopped. I don’t know what possessed me, adrenaline, the knowledge I needed to get help fast, but i looked over the edge, out of the hole.

I was never so relieved to see the familiar forest. It was dark, but it was a full moon, and I heard flies buzzing and saw mosquitoes. The warm summer air I was used to had returned, though I still felt dry. The trees were normal, reddish-brown.

As soon as I was able to stand up I sprinted towards the camp ground, the humid air a blessing on my frayed lungs.

When I got to the camp ground my parents looked frustrated and worried, but once they saw the bone sticking out of me they immediately had my sisters packing the truck and they huddled around me as my dad drove us to the nearest hospital. It looked like a stick to them, now it was dirty, looking more brown and red than white. They assumed I had impaled myself, but could tell how shaken I was.

At the hospital they said it was a stick, but I know what I saw after they removed it, why they had to put me under sedation. They’d showed me the ‘stick’ It had fused to my other bones, but they didn’t know how to explain it so they probably assumed I didn’t know. I don’t know what they made of the larvae, but I know it was real. It felt so real.

As for the air, they’d pronounced me severely dehydrated, one more hour and I could have died. It was a miracle I was able to run as far, and as fast as I did.

I’m so glad I found my way out because I can’t imagine a more painful way to die. I can’t believe all that creature’s victims went through it. I saw how malformed they were, and it must’ve taken them a long time to die that slow, painful death. I shudder now, just thinking about it.

I haven’t gone back to that campground or any since, and I don’t think I will, even if that place is special.