#can you imagine wishing death onto someone over a fictional fish man

[reallapiscake12]

Hey Pressure fandom can yall be fucking normal about the Zerum drama for once

if the majority of the fandom acts like this then yeah i have no issue not interacting with it 💀

[oddsnendsfanfics]

But That Makes You Family Pt. 5

Genre: Fan Fiction (Animal Kingdom) Pairing: Craig Cody/OFC Warnings: Drinking, Death, Sexual Content, Language, Drugs Rating: R Length: Chaptered Disclaimer: a strict work of fiction, I own nothing except the original characters and the plot line. In no way am I affiliated to any of it.   

A/N: thank you @ivarlothbroks and @sparklemichele for putting up with me bombarding you over this fic :D 

Catch Up Here

“You uh, you surf pretty well.” Craig pulled down the top half of his wet suit. Tying the arms around his waist to keep them from getting caught, he laid his board down on the sand falling next to it.

“My mom taught me.” Corbin answered, sinking down onto the sand beside Craig. “She's really good at it.”

“Your mom is a kick as...she's an amazing surfer. You know, Deran taught her right?”

Corbin hesitantly nodded. His mom had mentioned a few times that it was Deran who had really taught her to surf. Something about their friend once considering going pro had been mentioned along the conversations. Corbin sat in the wet sand, the waves hitting the beach in a rhythmic motion.

“Do you like living in Connecticut?” Craig rested his elbows in the sand, stretching his legs out.

Craig asked a lot of questions.

“It's a nice place. The winter gets cold though, my mom hates it. I like playing hockey so I don't mind.” Corbin leaned forward, drawing random patterns with his fingers in the sand. “Sometimes I wish we lived here, it would be cool to have summer all year.”

"It's not too bad here." Craig shrugged, squinting against the sun. "Do you think your mom would ever move back?"

"She says that being here for a few months is enough." Corbin replied. Deran had taken off to talk to a friend that he'd spotted down the beach. Craig was an okay guy, although new people often turned Corbin into an awkward person.

Craig remained silent, his only acknowledgment a slight nod.

Here he was, on the beach, with his son - this wasn't how he had pictured this moment. Any time he had thought about it, there had always been more drama and angst involved.

Corbin was quiet in a subtle way. Olivia had been like that when she was younger. She would sit for hours, hanging around the house, and never say a single word. Other times there was no way to shut her up. Craig wondered if Corbin had the same trait, once he got comfortable.

"Just you and your mom?" Craig shouldn't be asking but he had to know. It wasn't as if he expected her to be a nun or stay alone forever. If he asked Olivia she'd give him some bullshit about his own conquests and shut him out.

"Yeah. My dad isn't around." Corbin told Craig part of what he already knew.

"My dad was never around either. You get used to it, I guess." Craig divulged the personal detail.

"What lies did your mom tell you?" Corbin turned to look at Craig, his face serious.

Craig scoffed. Sitting up and crossing his legs in the sand. "Man, my mother gave me all sorts of bull. Trust me, whatever Olivia has said, it's probably way more truthful than what I was told."

"How...how long have you known my mom?"

"Uh," Craig licked his lips, blowing out a huff. His hands brushing his hair out of his eyes. "Since we were kids, I guess."

Stony, Corbin sat looking out into the ocean. His attention captured by the sun and the surf, his thoughts swimming around like the school of fish that he and Deran had spotted earlier in the shallow waves.

Never would his mother leave him with somebody he barely knew. She was too protective. Olivia had been up to something, Corbin could tell by the sudden shift in her attitude. Sometimes his mom didn't think he noticed, but he did.

Always.

He knew her better than she knew herself sometimes. The sneaky suspicion was creeping in, growing the more he thought about it.

How dumb did his mom think he was?

“Can I ask you something?” Corbin broke his silence.

“Sure.”

“Do you promise not to tell my mom?”

Craig had heard that phrase more times than he could count. Brows raised, he squinted against the sun. “That depends, what is it that you don't want her to know?”

Did this kid not know who he was dealing with? Keeping things from Olivia could be dangerous, she had a way of finding out, always. Craig would rather have his balls scraped across pavement than keep secrets from that woman.

“My mom has plans for me to maybe meet my dad.” Corbin began, his brow furrowing and his eyes growing dark in frustration the same way Craig's did. “Do you think he'll like me? I mean...it's stupid. Never mind. Deran said he would but I think he says things to be nice, because he's my uncle ya know?”

“O-of course he's going to like you. I'm not the best at giving advice on father and son relationships, but I know your dad is going to like you. Deran is right, not only because he's your uncle.”

If this was the only day Craig ever spent with Corbin, somehow he wanted the boy to know he was enjoying it. Despite Olivia's weird way of throwing them into it.

“One time, I asked Deran if he was my dad. I thought maybe my mom was telling me a lie about who he was.” Corbin shifted around in the sand, leaning back in the soft ground.

“I promise you that Deran is not your father.” Craig laughed with a grin. “He loves your mom, but he's not into women.”

“That's what my mom told me. Sometimes she tells me things to stop me asking questions. Are you sure Deran has no interest in girls?”

“I am positive, Deran does not like girls. He's not your dad, but when you meet your dad, I still think he's going to like getting to know you.”

Most of the day continued to go as such : Deran making excuses to disappear or talk to random people that they bumped into. Craig noticed that his brother was giving them more space than necessary, although thankful he was annoyed.

He could only entertain Corbin for so long, before one of them got bored or Craig said something that would lead to Olivia wanting to punch him in the dick.

When Deran was around Craig noticed a change in Corbin. The boy would talk and laugh freely with his uncle present. Not surprising, Deran had that effect on people. He had an easy going way that made people like him. Craig could make people like him, but most of them needed to be looking for a party or a no strings attached fuck buddy. Without loads of drugs and booze, Craig Cody wasn't all that entertaining.

"When we're finished lunch, let's go get the bikes." Craig watched Corbin's interest shift from whatever Deran was talking about.

"You ever ride a dirt bike?" Deran wiped his hands on a salsa stained napkin.

"No, but I've always wanted to. Can I?" Corbin was practically bouncing. Sitting in the hood of the scout, his eyes were wide with excitement.

His mom would have never let him ride a dirt bike. She always had excuses as to why he couldn't do “dangerous” things. Corbin was vibrating as Craig and Deran discussed the potential of taking him out for a ride.

It was early evening when Olivia heard the car in the drive way. Loud, thumping rock music gave away the intruders. Closing her laptop, she went to greet her son. They had held out longer than Olivia imagined they would.

All day she hoped that when Corbin came home, he'd be exhausted from trying to keep up with Deran and Craig.  They could both use a nice sound sleep followed by sleeping in the next morning.

"Hey!" Deran greeted Olivia with a wave, pulling Corbin's board from the back of the scout.

"Evening, gentlemen."

"Hey mom." Corbin tried to fight a yawn.

“Did you have fun?” Olivia asked wrapping her arm around Corbin's shoulder.

“It was cool.” Corbin tried his best to play it off calm and collected in front of his mother. "I had fun."

"Yeah you did." Deran held out a fist to bump. “He nearly pissed himself with excitement, when we let him ride.” A grin spread ear to ear on Corbin's face.

“You let my son ride a dirt bike?”

“He was fine.” Deran shrugged, smirking. “He didn't go fast and we kept him in the parking lot.”

"You need to relax, mom. I came home in one piece." Corbin countered.

"Well then, I guess that's all that matter." Olivia rolled her eyes.

"I'd love to stand around and watch someone else argue with their mother, for a change, but Craig and I need to head out." Deran clapped his hands together. "Tomorrow night, bonfire at the pointe. Both of you, be there?"

Olivia nodded. "I think we can both make it."

Waving Deran off, Olivia didn't bother to stand around too long and watch him leave. Corbin had his bag on his shoulder, sunburned and tired, the boy looked like he was ready for a bath and a nap.

“Alright, you need to go shower, then come down for dinner.” Olivia followed Corbin into the house. “And throw your clothes in the laundry, please.”

“Why didn't you tell me?” Corbin lingered inside the door.

“Tell you what?”

“That Craig's my dad.”

@noobchic, @ivarlothbroks, @sparklemichele, @klinger-verseau  , @hows-my-hair  , @grungyblonde , @thoughtsmeander2tumblingblindly - if anybody else wants a tag, feel free to ask :)

[welovekpopscenarios]

In Your Arms (WW2!AU Wonwoo x Reader)

Admin: Mimi

The war is raging as terrible as ever, and Wonwoo is so close to getting home, yet so far when the enemy threat is still around the corner. All he wants to do is to go home, to where he knows you are waiting for him, and kiss you with all his might. All he has to do is survive waiting on this damned beach for a boat to take him there - WW2/War!AU

Fandom: SEVENTEEN

Genre: Angst, bit of fluff

Pairing: Wonwoo x Reader

Warnings: A bit of violence, war, death, etc. Nothing major tho

Word Count: 2820

A/N: Fun fact: this story/idea has been in my list since the 25th of july after I came home from seeing the movie Dunkirk in the cinema. It wasn’t until the other night when I watched it again that I finally bit the bullet and wrote this story. Now, I know Wonwoo is Korean and not in any way British, but let’s just pretend in this fictional story that the boys fought for Britain and were on the beaches of Dunkirk during WW2. I just really loved the story of Dunkirk and this idea has been on my mind for so long that I had to write it, bc clearly I can’t create an original story of my own bc I have no talent or imagination and I’m a terrible writer. Anyway, I hope you give this story a chance bc I’m actually kinda happy with it, and that you also check out the movie Dunkirk if you haven’t seen it – it is absolutely fantastic and every man in it is a snack. You don’t have to know about what happened at Dunkirk to read this story, but it is a very interesting part of history and a very sad one, so maybe you’ll read up about it. Anyway, enjoy and as always, happy reading, I love you all :D

The harsh sounds of the ocean greeting the sand in an angered haste almost disguised the sounds of gunshots occurring in the devastated French city of Dunkirk just beyond the temporary borders set up at the edges of the beach.

Almost.

It was quite difficult to forget that awful bang and metallic ringing once it did enter your ears, Wonwoo thinks, and he prays no other men should have to experience that horrible clang in their life, that he shouldn’t have to hear it anymore, that this dreadful war will be put to an end soon and they can all go home to their normal lives before the world was thrust into a dark pit of hatred and violence. But it would seem impossible to just forget every terrible deed that has been commited these past few weeks and return to a blissfully ignorant life.

Besides, the horrible, nerve-wracking wailing sounds from the fighter bombers are the loudest and most terrible of all, and overpower every sound in the area: the waves, the gunshots, the screams, the crying.

Wonwoo just wants to go home.

He’s not built for war. Wonwoo is tall yet lanky, smart yet sluggish, and his hands are definitely made for holding books, not weapons. He isn’t strong and agile like Mingyu, or Seungcheol, or even Seokmin. He’s pacifistic in nature, and mild mannered, just like Jeonghan and Joshua. He wasn’t meant to be dragged into a battle to point a gun at other men who had the very same wishes as him; to return to their families and forget everything about this damned hell they were living. But, of course, when war wages, the responsibility to protect your country and loved ones comes first, and thousands of young, able-bodied men were shipped out to fight in the streets, fields and beaches of France against foreign invaders. It is about the only thing Wonwoo can justify about fighting in this war.

Because war and terror aside, he’d do anything to keep you safe and sound.

Sitting here on an overturned tank next to Mingyu and Vernon, who was currently nursing his shoulder from a bullet graze he received some time ago, they all awaited the ships that would take them back to Britain to wait for the battle that would inevitably occur in their homeland.

If they could return to begin with, seeing as the bomber planes were picking them off like fish in a barrel on the beach; 400,000+ men on these sands, some meeting their end while waiting for safety. Wonwoo was sick of ducking for cover at this point, and could barely even hear properly anymore, what with all the constant assault on his eardrums rendering them nearly useless at the moment.

Tragic, he thinks bitterly, that home is just beyond that sea, but so out of reach. Countless deaths on this very beach while men died clinging to hope that they get home safely.

Home.

Where you are.

You are his home.

And Wonwoo wants nothing more than to hop on the next ship that arrives with his brothers and run into your warm, waiting arms, not stand on this blood-soaked sand waiting and wondering if the next time the plane flies overhead will hit its target and force him to draw his last breath.

He shudders at the thought, watches idly as soldiers carry the wounded to the mole and onto the docked ship waiting to sail home and fix up the men who have definitely seen better days. He hears the chatter from the other boys, hears the generals and captains shouting orders, hears the whispered venom falling from men’s lips about the state of their current situation – hears it all. But he isn’t focused on it now that he has a moment to rest. The sounds are muffled, his vision blurred.

The only thing he sees and hears, as crystal clear as the sky above him, contrasting against the muddied and bloodied warfare raging beneath the blue sky, is you.

You, standing before him, waving him off with tears streaming down your cheeks as the train took him away to the docks to be sent to war.

Oh, how he longs to see your smile in front of him as opposed to in his dreams, how he wants to feel your flesh against his, not the rough spun fabric of his uniform. He doesn’t want to feel stones and sand caught in his boots or aches in his muscles or an adrenaline fuelled heartbeat. He only feels pain, feels longing, feels scared, feels-

grass blades licking at the bottom of his feet as he walked, the garden surrounding him in light and colour and all things warm. Despite his height, he almost felt small in the country garden, just a speck amongst greens, reds, blues, whites, the list was endless. The garden was so bright and vibrant, he could almost ignore the PSA that rang out on the radio just an hour ago that spoke fancy words as a cover up for thousands of young men’s impending doom. Including his own. They needed men now.

So distracted was he, that he almost didn’t notice your prone form, lying on the soft bed of grass with a blanket beneath you and basking in the spot of sunshine, glowing high above the countryside. There you lay, arms cushioning your head, eyes closed and seemingly without a care in the world.

He knew better than that.

He knew how your face dropped as the crackle of the radio reached both your ears, your face growing more weary and pale with each damned word. Yet you had sat in silence, nodded your head once it was finished, and returned to peeling the potatoes for the dinner, albeit a bit more roughly than required. Once that was over with and they sat boiling in the pot, you retreated to the garden, and Wonwoo hadn’t heard a peep from you for near 25 minutes since you did.

He stopped just shy of you, lowering himself to sit next to you, eyes memorizing over the lines of your peaceful face. He can’t just stare any more. He has to memorise it – save it for the dark days to come when you aren’t by his side and he has no strength to stand. It causes a dead weight to plunge into his stomach, fingers denting crescents into the flesh of his legs from his grip.

“The dinner didn’t burn, did it?” you broke the silence, eyes still closed and voice as soft as cotton. Wonwoo mumbled out a no, shaking his head lightly. You sighed through your nose, a long, drawn out exhale that deflated your chest in the process. “I must cook all of your favourite meals for dinner from now on before you go. It might be a while before you can have them again.” The words are bitter, and rightfully so, an awful poison on your tongue that doesn’t suit your nature, that isn’t you.

He wants to say everything will be fine, that he’ll be home in no time and that the world will be safe once he does. But he knows that isn’t what you want to hear, it isn’t particularly what he wants to hear either, and so he stays silent, stewing in his torment, and lets the music playing from the gramophone fill the air instead.

He picks at strands of grass, rolling the blades between his long, slender fingertips, wondering how on earth these fingers are meant to pull triggers and kill. He just can’t imagine it.

“When are you leaving?” you whispered, hands now grasping at your woollen skirt, fidgeting - pulling and straightening.

Wonwoo shrugs.

“I think in about a week or so, we’ll be taken away to start training. The radio said something about wanting men to join the fight as soon as possible and to sign up as soon as possible,” he answered, voice low and quiet, feeling as though he were threading on glass with this conversation.

You rolled over on your side, brows furrowed the slightest, but face otherwise blank, and Wonwoo hates that more than if you were outright angry or upset. He can’t gauge how you feel, because you know the duty men have in times of war, but you also know the trauma that comes with it, and someone like Wonwoo does not fit the description of a killer.

“A week or so?” you replied. A nod from Wonwoo. You sit up sluggishly, almost reluctantly, and keep your eyes trained on your feet. “Right. I’ll have to head to the market and get all the ingredients tomorrow. And I’ll see what I can get to give you for your journey. Whatever might be useful and you’re able to sneak in with you, I’ll give it to you. I’ll ask Sharon, her brother was deployed around a month or so ago. She should know.”

The music’s sweet tones wafted into the silence once more after your words, so resolute and strong that Wonwoo thinks you could almost take his place in the war instead, you’ve always been so capable.

“Thank you.” A nod from you. “At least you aren’t crying,” he tries to joke, but judging by your stiff posture and the guilt eating away at his heart, it wasn’t every funny.

“I’ll do it when you’re gone. Believe me,” you retort, words harsh in a quiet way, as sharp as steel. His throat closed up and his heart gave a lurch.

“I’m…I’m so sorry, I-“

“What for?” you asked quickly, whipping around to face him, eyes wide in a frenzy and fists clenched, bundling the fabric up in your hands and wrinkling it in the process. “For doing your duty? For the war? For protecting your country? None of that is your fault, Wonwoo, don’t be foolish-“

“For leaving you.”

You looked like you wanted to reply; to snap back about how he hasn’t left yet, or how it was happening to everyone, that the urgency of the war was more important than this, but you couldn’t. The words wouldn’t leave your lips. Maybe it was the solemn look on Wonwoo’s graceful features, or the sickening dead weight in your stomach as soon as the radio announcer said good evening to the country so gravely, or your disastrous thoughts of Wonwoo’s possible death in a foreign land that stilled your lips. Wonwoo took a deep breath.

“I made a promise, that day when I married you, when you looked as beautiful as now, all dressed up and with that gorgeous smile of yours on your face, that I would never leave you. I said it with my own voice, in my own words, and with your hands in mine. I would not leave your side. For better or for worse. It was a promise I intended to keep, but now I have to break it.” Wonwoo took hold of your fists in his, so small they seemed compared to his own, his heart ached at the faint tremble emanating from them.

“I have to break my promise, and I couldn’t be sorrier,” he continued, thumbs rubbing gentle circles on your skin. “But I promise I will come back to you. I have to keep you safe first, but once it’s all over with, I’ll come back, and I’ll hold you when you go to sleep, and I’ll walk with you to the market on Saturday mornings, and I’ll dance with you late at night where you’ll put your head on my shoulder and hum along to the songs the way I like it. I’ll come home. And I won’t ever leave you.”

He could see the crystalline tears forming at the corners of your eyes, could hear your shallow breathing, and yet you were still so strong. Wonwoo was envious, wishes he could be as brave as you. That’s what he loves about you, he guesses. No, he knows.

“You will come back, Mr Wonwoo, or I will kill you myself,” you threaten weakly, and he huffs out a laugh. “I don’t care about myself, keep yourself safe. That is all I ask of you. Keep yourself safe and well, and fight your hardest. Do your damned bit for your country, and come back into my arms. Where you belong.”

Wonwoo’s grip on your hands loosened, his arms moving to wrap themselves around you and pull you to his chest, your own arms squeezing his waist tightly as you muffled your sobs in the planes of his chest. He breathed in the scent of your hair, taking in the little things he’ll come to miss about you. Lips traced faintly on the crown of your head, long fingers threading through your hair and twining strands around them, rocking you both back and forth as he allowed you to finally break in his embrace.

“I will, I swear to you,” he said, moving you impossibly closer to his form. “I’ll stay safe for you, and I’ll come home. My heart is always with you, however. Wherever I go. It has always been yours. It’s yours,” he spoke these words more resolutely than anything he’s ever said in his life, and he repeated these words every day up until the day he stepped foot on the train with hundreds of other men, and still, these words left his lips as he stuck his head out the window, etched themselves into the letters he sent home with unique little gems he found in his time in France, swam in his thoughts every night he closed his eyes. And with this promise he feels secure, he feels warm, he feels-

determined to reach the shores of England again, where he knows you’ll wait for him as long as it takes, day and night, and the thought makes Wonwoo’s lips break into a miniscule smile.

“What’s that smile for?” Mingyu asks, leaning his fatigued body on Wonwoo’s equally exhausted body, sighing loudly and conveying thousands of soldiers’ current status in a single breath. Wonwoo simply shrugged, nails picking at the grime that gathered on his rifle as a way to distract him. “Looking forward to getting home?” Mingyu inquired, his muck covered face flashing a grin despite the circumstances. Wonwoo admires him for his high spirits, and reckons it helped him get through these past few weeks more than he’d like to admit.

“I think everyone is,” Wonwoo retorts, eyes roaming the lines of men gathered on the beach; some talked near the shore, some sat and were too weary to move their legs, some lay still and never moved again. He sighs sadly. He was fed up of being on this bloody beach.

“Well, we’re not out of the woods yet,” Vernon comments, having successfully wrapped his shoulder and now avoids the risk of infection. ‘Not out of the sands’ would be a more accurate saying for today, Wonwoo reflects, watching the cerulean of the sky blend in with the rolling waves of the ocean, the bright white colour of the hospital ship a stark contrast to the dull colours surrounding it, the red cross a beacon of hope for some. “Bombers keep picking us off there’ll be no one left to go home. Be worse if the French lines break and the Nazi’s surround us on the beach.”

Mingyu tuts in a scolding way, wrapping a burly arm around Wonwoo’s shoulders that has him lurching forward, his balance off kilter from the force. “Don’t think like that, Vernon. If you think like that, then we lose all hope. Home is so close, you can practically touch it. Hold faith, we will get through this. Isn’t that right, Wonwoo?” he asks.

Wonwoo doesn’t understand why Mingyu feels the need to include him every time he speaks, but nevertheless, his words ring true, and so he nods, Mingyu beaming at him in thanks.

Hold faith. Easier said than done, but Wonwoo knows he cannot lose now, not while you were so close. He will come home. He chants it like a prayer, his own personal chant that he repeats over and over until the words don’t even feel like they are real anymore.

He says them over and over, even when the bomber aircrafts hover once more over the shore and the mole with its awful, heart sinking sirens that has everyone scrambling for cover, says it when the ground shakes with explosions and his comrades meet their fate all around him while he pins his hands to his ears in a weak attempt to silence the devastation. It’s the only thing he is sure of, and clings to it so desperately it seems almost obsessive. But he made a promise. A promise he does not plan on breaking.

He will go home, back into your arms, back to his life.

Even if it kills him.