*breathes-into-a-paper-bag*

Favorite Jared Kleinman Quotes

because we don’t have enough

-”You FELL? Out of a TREE? What are you, like, an acorn?”

-”Oh yeah, one of those - SECRET EMAIL ACCOUNTS! For sending pictures of your penises to each other!”

-”Well, my bunk DOMINATED in capture the flag, and I got to second base under the bra with this girl from Israel that’s gonna be in the army, so…”

-”Holyyyyyyyyyyy shit. Holyyyyy fuckingggggggg shit.”

-”His parents think you were lovers, you realize that right?”

-”There is nothing UNREALISTIC about the love one man feels for another!”

-”In fact, it’s quite beautiful…”

-”Is it weird to be the first person in history to break their arm from jerking off too much, or is that some sort of honor?”

-”Just nod, and confirm. Literally nothing I tell my parents is true and they have no idea.”

-”Stop hyperventilating. You’re having considerable trouble breathing. Do you need a paper bag to breathe into?”

Tanking Bigots

So, I went and got my Bitch Planet tattoo today, and someone in the shop asked, “That’s pretty… Visible. Aren’t you afraid of being that obvious?” And I replied, “I’m pulling aggro.”

But the more I think about it, the more this metaphor fucking works. I’m a white middle class woman with low expenses, no criminal record, and I live in liberal-ass New England (or at least, I thought I did before the Trump/Pence signs cropped up like fucking forsythias but that’s a whole other post.) I’m safe. Even if I get in a knock-down-drag-out, I’m not going to be seen as an agitator, or a troublemaker, or the “problem.” I have money for bail. I am privileged.

While I have physical disabilities, they actually don’t get in the way of me feeling like I could get in a scrap. If anything, the opposite. I have this whole other post (yeah I think of more all the time like this) about the genetic evolution of Ehler’s-Danlos Syndrome but suffice to say, you can’t hold on to me and you can’t break me easily. I have martial arts training, but I look harmless, so even if I did get in a scrap, the cop is going to go, “You got in a brawl with a 35-year-old fat woman… Yeah… whatever.”

I have mental health limitations, but they actually don’t get worse from being exposed to this shit - I’d feel way worse and more anxious if I didn’t step in. I’m the kind of person who would just second guess and eat themselves alive in thinking of how they should have jumped in to help someone. 

I’m a tank. I’m tough, I’m bendy, and bigots aren’t going to shock me or hurt me.

Not everyone is a tank. This is super fucking important. Some people are healers. They deal with the fallout when someone like me comes home shaking and breathing in a paper bag because holy shit I just took a picture of a guy in a CVS who tried to grab my tit. Some people are DPS - they leap in and fucking maul people with cited facts on Facebook arguments and are physically imposing and probably could punch a bitch out. 

It’s okay to be what you are. And it’s also okay to take care of yourself. If you’re a tank, you gotta heal up. You need downtime, or you get hypervigilant and debuffed and you’re too fucked up to help anyone. If you’re a healer, you need to get your resources back so you can do what you love without taxing yourself unduly. It’s like that. 

So I’m a tank. And I’ll wear my Non-Compliant Genderqueer tattoo with pride. I wear my “Respect Existence or Expect Resistance” tattoo the same way. I wear them so that the girl with the neutral gender haircut who just wants to fucking ride the bus isn’t as inviting a target as I am. I pull aggro. I don’t want a fight, I won’t start a fight, but you better fucking believe I’ll step in the way. 

Taunt, pull, peel, sustain, rest, drop your stacks, and fight on.

Satou before he picked up Tanaka

You know, when he was dealing those organs to make a living

And he’s like walking by himself late at night and these tough looking guys come to hassle him and he’s like playing it up, “oh my, oh dear, oh no,” touching his own face in shock, doing the shivering bit, going “oh don’t hurt me please, just take my wallet please,” and then he like kicks their asses and retrieves his wallet and does his ha ha ha ha as he walks away

Lost In Your Arms - COMPLETE

Title: Lost In Your Arms (Tales of the Special Branch series, book 1 of 3)
Author: Femmequixotic
Final Word Count: 257,686
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Rating: Oh so fucking NC-17, babes. Like 60K of his has to be sex. I mean it.
Characters: Draco Malfoy, Pansy Parkinson, Harry Potter, Blaise Zabini
Summary:  Three months after their brief encounter, Draco has almost forgotten about Potter–or so he tells himself. Then a Dark wizard shows up on the Auror radar and all hell breaks loose. Draco will have to choose between everything he holds dear–everything he’s worked so hard for–and a few stolen moments of passion with a certain green-eyed Inspector, once his sworn enemy and now something rather different entirely. He’ll make the right choice, won’t he? Who is he kidding? He’ll ruin everything, as per usual. Bad choices and the name Malfoy go hand in hand. (Prequel is here, ~15K.)


Well, folks, here it is. I’ve just posted the very last chapter of Lost In Your Arms, all 44K of it, and the novel’s now marked complete. You can read chapter ten here or (for those of you who I know were waiting until it was no longer a WIP) start from chapter one.

At 257,686 words, this story is officially longer than Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix which clocks in at 257,045 words and is the longest book in the HP series. (So you can’t say this fic’s too long to read–you’ve all read that book, I know, LOL. *side eyes everyone*) I really can’t believe it turned out this long; when I first planned it, I thought it might be 120K at most. Shows you how much I know. GOD HELP ME I STILL HAVE TWO MORE BOOKS TO WRITE IN THIS SERIES. WTF.  I HAVE OUT JKR’ED JKR WHEN IT COMES TO WORD COUNT. IN 10 WEEKS. I CAN’T EVEN. *breathes into paper bag*

ANYHOO.

This has been a wild ride for the past ten weeks. There were times I wasn’t certain I’d make my weekly deadline, but I did, and I have to give huge thank yous to @noeeon and sassy_cissa for being there with me on this journey and providing advice, sympathy, prodding, plotting, and editing along the way. They are my rocks, and this story wouldn’t have been finished without them.

I also want to say thank you to those of you who’ve been reading along with me. Your love of this story and your wonderful, beautiful, amazing comments have sustained and supported me along the way, and I can’t tell you how incredibly happy each one of you has made me. Your thoughtfulness and insight kept me going during difficult writing moments and influenced this story more than you might think. From the bottom of my heart, thank you for coming along on this ride with me. I hope you’ll join me on the next one. I’m throwing myself into starting chapter one of book two tomorrow. \0/ After I go drink a lot of wine tonight. Because DAMN GIRL that’s a lot of words for 10 weeks.

Which reminds me. LIYA is only book one of three planned for this series. I know. I’ve obviously gone round the twist. But I love these boys and I love Pansy and I love Blaise, and it’s making me wicked happy to write their stories. This is the team of my heart. More than I can even articulate. I fell back in love with them all writing this story, and I plan to be here with them for a little wihle longer.

The next installment will start posting on Saturday, June 3. You can follow me here on Tumblr for updates or subscribe to the series on AO3Let’s face it. It’ll probably be long too, lolz.

3

🌙

anonymous asked:

#15 with jason and tim

“I regret it all,” Tim said, the moment it was over. 

“Do you?” Bruce asked, voice mild, looking from Tim to Jason—thoroughly unrepentant expression and all, thanks Jason—and then to the wreckage of one of his Murciélagos—they were limited edition, Tim knew, and Bruce loved them a lot—and while Tim’s knowledge of Bruce’s car collection ended there, he’d known enough to guess that the second they’d accidentally keyed the thing in the middle of an argument, they’d already doomed themselves.

Tim’s solution was to live out their final moments before Bruce killed them both by taking it for a joyride. Tim wasn’t sure how the hell he’d ended up suggesting it, except maybe that Jason had been acting reasonably pleasant and it had lulled him into a false sense of security, but the end result was that Jason had apparently been taught to drive by actual, literal demons of hell—the only explanation Tim could think of for how they’d managed to survive some of the stunts he pulled, and why Tim had thought it was a good idea to turn around and ask for a turn and claim he knew how to drive extremely fast roadsters. 

Tim knew how to drive. Normal cars that went normal speeds. The Batmobile, even, in a pinch. 

But he swore that Jason and his demon driving ways had done something to the Murciélago and then the encouragement being yelled his ear had done the last of it and the end result was—

“I’m really sorry, Bruce.” 

Bruce honestly kind of looked like he might cry, and Tim just did not know what to do with that information.

“I’m not,” Jason said, shrugging his shoulders when Tim gave him a dirty look. “Did you look more or less broken up when I died? Or do only cars rate actual grief?” 

“Oh my God, stop talking,” Tim said, because there was giving Bruce a hard time and actively courting death after crashing one of his favorite cars, and why did Jason always have to go for the low blows? Could he not just chill out, just once in his goddamn life? 

“Tim,” Bruce said, and it appeared he was ignoring Jason entirely which was the wrong move, Bruce, was Tim the only person between the three of them who know how to not be a complete interpersonal mess? Was that not the height of irony? “Sit down and breathe into a paper bag, you’re looking a little white. Jason—” 

Jason raised an eyebrow, and he looked absolutely ready to start a fight even surrounded by gathering media, curious onlookers and the sad wreckage of the car, which had lost the fight with the tree Tim had driven it into. 

“If you think that being legally dead and partially estranged means I can’t ground you, you’re wrong.” Bruce pointed back to the car he’d arrived in. Alfred was standing by the passenger-side door, looking disapproving and extremely British. “Get in the damn car.”

“Please,” Tim muttered into his hands. “My nerves can’t take this.” 

Jason snorted, but he went towards the car, giving Bruce a large berth that screamed that he was being a defensive jackass because he was just as terrified as Tim was, just hiding it much better. 

“Tim.” 

Tim looked up, wincing at the expression on Bruce’s face. 

“I’m extremely glad that both of you are okay,” Bruce said, which was just getting the obligatory parental concern out of the way before the Doom and Judgment descended. “But I have security cameras in the garage, so I also know that the entire thing was your idea—” sweet Jesus he was done for “—and while Jason is an adult and can make his own decisions, you’re both my sons so I feel it’s necessary to remind you not to be a bad influence on your brother.” 

Jason had been getting into the back of the car, but slammed the door closed instead, storming back over. “You fucking WHAT?” 

Tim wasn’t sure whether he wanted to laugh or cry.

kciri-deactivated20170504  asked:

u don't have any active roxbutt blogs... YET ;)

          h Y PER V EN T I L A T E S

clay jensen: zach’s tapes (feat. zach dempsey) [pt.1]

Pairing: Clay Jensen x reader; Zach Dempsey x reader

Warning(s): Best Friend with Clay, not romantically.

Word Count: 534

Gif: @felicithis

A/N: I had the idea of the second part, but I needed this part for the second part to make sense. Bare with me.


You and Zach had been talking for quite a while. Before Hannah had happened, even before Jeff. You never really ran with the crowd, you didn’t care about the drama and theatrics of high school. You just wanted to pass your classes, graduate and be who you strive to be. When the school heartthrob and basketball star, Zach Dempsey approached you in the library for help on the biology exam and your number, you didn’t believe it. You thought he had come on a dare or some type of bet; seven months later, you had created a pretty decent relation.

It wasn’t romantic, though it felt like it sometimes. You both flirted with one another. You would hang out in person and in public. You got a long with his sister, went to his basketball games, and he helped you in communications class. It wasn’t until your close friend Sheri brought up the nature of your relationship with him that you realized that you really did like Zach.

You noticed that your lifelong best friend, Clay Jensen, wasn’t himself lately. He had crazy mood swings, was intensely detatched, barely spoke to anyone, but Tony Padilla, and was recently suspended for drugs. You took it upon yourself to surprise him at home. You knew he’d have to be home.

You knock on his door, and was greeted by his dad. He sent you up to Clay’s room and you thanked him graciously. When Clay saw you, he took his headphones off.

“(Y/N), what’re you doing here?” Clay breathed. You lifted a paper bag up.

“I brought snacks,” you smiled. You had gotten Mike and Ikes from the Baker’s shop. He let you and you sat on his desk chair.

“So, what’s-”

“How are you?” You cut him off. He nodded, not saying anything but shrugging. “Seriously, Clay? Fine, I won’t pressure you.” You dropped your head. You looked back up at him through your brows. He was still silent.

Out of the window, the sun was setting. You opened his window, and climbed out onto the roof.

“What are you doing?” Clay came to the window.

You smirked mischievously at him. “Come out here and find out. You can bring your Walkman, if you’d like.”

A few minutes later, the sun had completely set. You had gotten Clay out and on the roof. He didn’t talk at all, other than to react to your stories.

“And I know you probably don’t care, but since your not talking, and Sheri never let’s me speak more than five words,” you began. You fiddled with the tips of your hair. “I think I like Zach. You know, Zach Dempsey, the basketball star.” You felt Clay’s energy shift. You looked toward him and saw a worried and sad expression.

“(Y/N), you can’t,” Clay whispered. You cocked your head to the side, letting it fall into your palm.

“Why, exactly?”

He took a deep breath. He told you to wait and headed back into his room. Possibly a minute later, he came back with his Walkman. He handed it to you and ordered you to put the headphones on. He pressed play and heard the voice of a dead girl.

Moments (2/5) - Peter Parker x Reader

Word Count: 3581

Plot: The first time Peter asked you out

Warnings: angst(ish), a use of the swear word f*ck, FLUFFITY FLUFF FLUFF

Author’s Note: Yeah so this is the second part of Moments and also the monthly song challenge!  I used the song Only Us from the musical Dear Evan Hansen, and of course, this is really really late (again). My apologies! But I hope you enjoy! :)

Part One

____

What is the song challenge? // Lilly’s Version

________________________________________________________

Keep reading

Walter Strickler: AKA A Number on Jim’s Speed Dial

AKA: Strickler’s hatred for human technology is quickly rectified by the amazing advances that the cell phone has brought him.

AKA: Family group chat.


So sue me. I want to see Walter Strickler called when Jim is stuck. When he’s in the world of the trolls with no help or aid. When he’s bleeding, trapped, sick. And he knows calling his mother would be no help.

So sue me. I want to know how that call would go.

So sue me. I want to see Jim collapsing at home, because he was cut by a creature with poisonous barbs and never thought to tell his mother. Because Strickler actually knows how to help him. Because even after he’s doing better, Strickler insists they all stay up together, and they sit on the cold bathroom floor playing monopoly to pass the time, waiting to see if the poison has set or if Jim will be better by the morning (he will be. but god the lectures might kill him again).

So sue me, I want to see Walt calling Jim with technilogical questions because how does this thing work, your friends make it look so easy!

So sue me. I want to see Jim giving Strickler his number because he trusts him, even if he might not say it out loud.

So sue me. I want to see Jim edit Strickler’s phone number and retype “dad” into the vacant box.

So sue me. I want to see Strickler texting one Jim throughout the day. Good luck on the test. I packed your favorite for lunch. Don’t tell your mother, but I replaced the fridge. What does LOL mean?

So sue me. I want Strickler to learn what emoticons are. And I want him to use ones that are completely inappropriate for the situation at hand.

So sue me if I want them to have a family group chat where they actively nag each other with odd nicknames and funny jokes. Where these nerds are broken and dysfunctional, but god, they’re so happy.

So sue me. I want Strickler, the Changeling, to have a happy family. One that he invaded. But one that is all his.


Jim: Hey, just checking in!

Strickler: ?

Jim: The big exhibit was today! Mom and I are coming to the opening tonight.

Strickler: You remembered that, and yet you can’t remember the simple facts I gave you in my class.

Jim: Of course.

Jim: Those were boring.

Strickler: >:(

Barbara: Can’t wait for tonight!

Strickler: Wear that new dress. You look edible in it.

Barbara: Darling!

Jim: Ew. Stop. You guys are gross.

Strickler: And you’re weak willed.

Jim: Teachers looking. Gotta run.

Barbara: Bye sweetie. See you tonight.

Jim: Bye mom.

Jim:

Jim: bye dad.

Strickler: [has signed off]

(he had to sit in his office and breathe into a paper bag for about ten minutes to regain his sense of self. it didn’t work. he’s still flustered and pleased as hell.)

(he loves his weird family.)

Not What it Seems

Dean Winchester x Reader

1200 Words

Story Summary: The reader attempts something with Sam as her accomplice. 

This is written for Break the Zone Challenge 4. My prompt:  I’m going to need chicken blood, salt, five candles, and a bottle of vodka.

Voices whispered in the room, hushed conversations in the safety of a lightless room. Away from prying eyes and eavesdropping ears. It was a safe room, with your most trusted friend helping you.

“I’m going to need chicken blood, salt, five candles and a bottle of vodka.” You whispered to Sam, whose eyes were wide as he stared down at the bowl in front of you. “Make that chicken thighs along with the chicken blood. This handwriting is hard to read.”

“Are you sure?” Sam asked you, not seeming convinced about what the two of you were currently doing. “I just don’t think this sounds like…”

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anonymous asked:

Did you know Julie actually based Even off of henrik himself, he actually listens so old school hip hop, actually smokes green, is really open, I would totally sit with this guy get high and talk about life.. Also his face like blows my MIND!!

oh my god Anon T____T. I owe Julie my life at this point because she saved my 2016. But this. jUST kdkjskdskjsdkjsd. I read somewhere that Henrik charmed the showrunners’ pants off and that his smile was such a TRADEMARK. 

Honestly same.

Henrik sounds like the type of dude I would actively try to get to know by doing weird shit like using all the paper towels and luring him in with weed.