*throws room*

hey remember this

“Next time don’t use so much tongue—it was like you were a slobbery dog.” You tell your best friend, Shawn, after he rolls off of you, unraveling from yet another ‘benefit’ of your friendship.

Shawn rolls his eyes at you and fluffs the pillow underneath his head. “There won’t be a next time if you keep being so damn picky.” He teases, but you both know full and well that there is going to be a next time.

You and Shawn have been friends since high school—even through the awkward phases—so when he came home from tour and you came home from Uni for the summer both horny and deprived of your usual hook up opportunities, you both jumped at the chance to jump into bed. There was only one condition to your arrangement—no emotions whatsoever. Just sex.

You roll out of bed and search for your clothes that are strewn across the room, throwing Shawn’s at him too as you find them.

“So, how’s album 3 coming?” You ask as you fasten the clasp of your bra.

Shawn’s voice is muffled as he puts on his shirt, but once he pulls his head through he lets out a breathy chuckle. “Not very well, I don’t think. I just haven’t been inspired lately.”

“You’ll find it, don’t worry. You thought the same thing about Illuminate, and look how that turned out!” You assure him and he leans back into the pillows of his bed, bending his arm behind his head as a cushion.

“Yeah, but that’s only because I dumped Lauren. If that didn’t happen, I wouldn’t have half of the songs I wrote for Illuminate.” Shawn tosses back, and you let out an accidental snort while trying to hold back some laughter.

Once you’ve buttoned your jean shorts you hop back on the bed next to him. “Well then you’re just going to have to get another girlfriend and then dump her again, I guess. Or find a new inspiration. Like pizza—do you want pizza? I’m starving.”

Shawn rolls his eyes, but whips out his phone, already dialing your favorite pizza place. “You and your damn pizza. Just one time I would like to have a post-sex meal other than pizza. Would it kill you to crave, like, burgers or wings or—hello, yes can I have on large meat lovers pizza with extra cheese please? Thanks.”

I wish that I could be like autumn. I wish that the dead memories that are rustling around in my head would simply fall away, forgotten and taken away by a strange, cold wind. I wish that I could take a spoon to my insides and hollow myself out like a pumpkin, throwing the sliminess away, never to be seen again and then lighting myself up anew with warmth. I wish that I could be cozy, too, instead of just cold and foreboding and monstrous. A chilly wind rattles through my rib cage and I want it to take the rottenness away with it. But it never does. It just howls and howls, swirling in my head, leaving me dizzy and lost. I just want to feel like autumn feels. Like home. Like a fresh start. I don’t want to be this cold, rotten person anymore. I want to start over. To take the bad things and throw them away, making room for a new beginning. I wish that I could be more like autumn because I want to make my body home again. But to do that, I need everything in me to die first so I can come stronger than ever. Yes … I want to be like autumn.

🌼 🌼 waiting for the mission to start, teaching the son important things  🌼 🌼

(Do Not tag as m//cr//eyes or reblog to ship blogs i Will Know and i Will Block You)

I know this shit is old as fuck but I’m gonna write it anyway. So, I just logged onto tumblr and saw that Johnny Depp was trending and decided to write this to get it off my chest.

So, y'all remember the incident where Amber Heard accused Johnny Depp of domestic violence in 2016. She had a video of him slamming cabinets and throwing shit around, obviously angry as fuck, witnesses and pictures of her face after Depp hit her. They are divorced now. And let me tell you, it still baffles me how quick people are to forget. Not only that, but people still shame her, because she settled for an agreement where she received money from Depp instead of suing him. And you know why she did that? Because he fucking admitted to hitting her. So you got multiple evidence supporting her claim as well as a statement from the abuser who confirms it true. And y'all still defending his sorry ass.

What are they defending him with? Well, I’ve read multiple posts and comments online saying that she’s allegedly a “psycho” and an abuser as well. Oh and that she provoked him on purpose so she could collect his money. that doesn’t excuse shit.

You. Don’t. Hit. People.

I don’t know if the whole “she beat up her ex-girlfriend” is true or not. But if it is, than damn she just as a fucked up person as Depp it. Still doesn’t excuse his actions.
Even if she cheated, even if he found her in bed with someone else you don’t get to beat your fucking wife up. The fact that she took his money doesn’t change the fact that he raised his fist. If you’re in a relationship with someone who makes you so fucking angry that you get the urge to hit them or throw bottles across the room you either break up and/or walk the fuck away. (Unless she attacked him too and it was in self defense.)

I don’t care for your gender or sexual preference or status. When you abuse your significant other in a relationship by throwing things around and scaring them, by beating or mentally abusing them, the result is the same.

UPDATE: if u wanna talk about this personal vent that blew up send me a message, i’m not answering the anons lol. i know there are autistic people that disagree but this is directed specifically at allistic people that participate in ableism and yet do the whole meme thing and that it made me and yes, many others uncomfortable. particularly as many of the joke posts start with someone not understanding why the joke is funny, etc. if you’re not autistic however literally you can like not even interact with this post like i really do not care.


like i get the Joke or whatever but i’m here to be that annoying reminder that autism exists and all of you are complicit in ableism re: the babadook 

the movie is… pretty…clearly about ableism? her son is autistic- that’s why he’s bullied, that’s why he has meltdowns and sensory issues and doesn’t pick up on social cues, that’s why he’s ‘annoying’, that’s why her sister just Hates him- and she’s your typical autism mom. she takes it all out on her son, she hates that she gave birth to a child that was fucked up and Wrong and lost her husband in the process, she doesn’t have enough ‘support’, nobody understands, etc. he’s annoying and loud and complicated and she hates him the way some of you in the audience did. 

the babadook is her hatred of him, her inability to accept his autism, etc. that’s why she tries to kill him(the way so many autism moms do, the way autism speaks tries defend), that’s why she tries to physically abuse it out of him, that’s why she has to ‘feed the monster’ every so often (the way autism moms™ have their ‘mom days’ to complain about how much they can’t stand their kid, how sometimes they wish they’d never been born, how they consider drowning them in kiddie pools bc it’d be ‘kinder’, the way that famous anti-vaxxers report having to go stand in rooms and throw shit at walls to avoid hitting their kid)

it’s…really apparent to me as an autistic person and it is so many others, too? sam has to protect his mother from the babadook. he’s terrified of it (her)- the movie even makes clear that she was the one that wrote the book. she tries to kill both herself and sam (glass in the food). she becomes more and more unstable, aggressive, and violent, and sam’s response as an autistic child is to mirror what he sees. his meltdowns increase, he has less support, he spends all his time latching on to the remnants of the only person he has. 

like it’s…idk, really uncomfortable for me to see all these allistic people first making fun of how annoying the (autistic) kid was, and misinterpreting the movie to a frankly astounding degree, and then the Joke is that straight people don’t get how he’s a ~gay icon~ (which… many of the people in the first few posts from which the meme comes were autistic…. )

idk. it’s really weird for me to see allistics carry on with this elaborate lgbt icon joke by laughing in the faces of people that don’t understand why, when half of us are autistic… being mocked for not understanding a movie…about ableism…by allistic people. the mind boggles. 

i mean whatever its a joke gay babadook etc but y’all didn’t even get it the first time and you’re joyfully, self-assuredly ableist all the time so it’s really weird that this is just kind of drowning out all of the #actuallyautistic posts i was enjoying reading in the tag but i mean, allistics will be allistics, i guess 

3

/muffled screaming/

anonymous asked:

so, um. if you have any particular feelings about labyrinth--specifically Sarah--uh, go wild.

WILD PEACHES  [AO3]

.

The morning after Sarah Williams defeats the Goblin King, she gets up and makes toast. She has to brush some glitter off the toaster—it withers and vanishes at the brush of her fingertips, and she stares at her hand for a long time. 

It mostly just looks like her hand. Even when she turns it over, and sees where she scraped her knuckles against the oubliette, where the shattered mirror cut the back of her wrist. It looks like she fell, or was playing in the street. That’s all.

The toast comes out burned, and Sarah stares at that too. Eventually, she slumps down against the cabinets and cries, wracking sobs that send her dad and Karen rushing into kitchen. They check her forehead for a fever, put their hands on her, and keep asking, “Are you okay? Sarah, please, tell us what’s wrong…”

Eventually, her dad drags her into his lap and cradles her against his chest, like he did when she was little. Her legs are too long to really fit anymore, but Sarah hugs him around the neck anyway. “It’ll be okay,” he says, keeps saying. “You’ll be okay.” And Sarah—doesn’t laugh, because she can’t, and doesn’t have the words to express what—how—

(None of her stories ever talked about this. What did Sir George do, the morning after he slayed the last dragon in England? Did Tam Lin eat breakfast, or did he sit there, shivering, wondering if his hands were different, having been claws and wings and scales?)

Afterwards, she leaves the burnt toast outside on the back porch. Not an offering. Maybe a reminder.

.

It’s Didymus she sees the most often, mostly because he’s the one who invites himself rather than waiting for an invitation. He comes for tea, but even if there’s no tea—which there isn’t, usually—he comes to tell Sarah stories. She learns to love poetry because there’s no escaping it with him. (She won’t read Idylls of the King until Brit Lit in college, but she ends up scrawling a lot in the margins; Didymus’ telling of events had been much more interesting.)

Once, she falls asleep like that, her hands tucked behind her head with Didymus curled up and sleepily reciting from the crook of her elbow. “So tender was her voice, so fair her face—though I don’t think he was looking at her face, my lady, pardon me for saying so—”

Sarah buries her nose in his fur. Didymus always smells of rosewater, and a crispness she thinks is just…the Labyrinth. She falls asleep trying to place it.

She wakes up with a wild fox in her bed, animal-black eyes frightened and flat, teeth bared. The fox is whining, and she’s tempted to throw herself across the room, to get away from this wild thing and its teeth. It takes a monumental will to keep herself still and her breathing slow, even; like she’s still asleep and unafraid. 

It takes her longer to swallow, and start humming one of the songs he taught her—a knight’s round, he’d said. She’s shaky at first, but the fox’s ears flick forward. It cocks its head, and slowly, the teeth disappear behind its lips. 

She almost laughs when noses at her throat curiously, butting its head against her jaw like a cat might.

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anonymous asked:

I wish you would write a fic about Scott getting werewolf drunk with Derek and accidentally letting it slip that Stiles is on love with Derek. (In honor of your drinking) ;)

“Scott, I’m going to kill you!”

The door of his apartment banged open and for the first time in years, Scott jumped in shock. His coffee mug hit the kitchen tile and shattered, piping hot coffee splashed over his bare feet, and he suddenly remembered Stiles saying at some point that he was learning how to mask his presence from werewolves.

Apparently he mastered that particular skill.

And how to magically and silently open a deadbolt.

Normally Scott would pick up Stiles’ familiar heartbeat two floors down, and his jeep while it was still a ways down the road, but this time, there had been nothing. No heartbeat, no jeep, not even footsteps in the hallway—until suddenly there was everything. Elevated heart rate, clouds of anger wafting through the apartment, Stiles stomping closer, furious for some reason, and Scott could do nothing to prepare himself because for the first time in his life, he was hungover.

Really hungover.

He was dying, because just the night before, he discovered in the stupidest way possible that yes, werewolves could get drunk with the right tools and a little determination. And the right tool was some crazy strong alcohol Stiles brought back from Poland last year that could punch straight through even an alpha werewolf’s metabolism. And what did he do with that discovery?

Shots.

Like a college freshman away from home for the first time, buckling under immense peer pressure.

He was hungover, he was dying, and he was an idiot.

An idiot who Stiles was apparently about to murder, judging by his murderous expression when he turned the corner and locked his wild, murderous gaze on Scott. His hair was tugged up in every direction, he’d probably slept in that loose and stretched shirt, and he had the manic energy of a man who’d been roaming the streets looking for vengeance.

It had been years since Scott last felt any kind of inkling of fear towards his best friend, but right then, standing in his underwear in a puddle of hot coffee, feeling nauseous and fuzzy and somehow bloated—he was horribly aware of the mountain ash that Stiles always had on him. It was the emissary’s favorite threat towards werewolves who pissed him off, and while he rarely ever followed through with it, that murderous face promised no empty threats. Just revenge.

Scott stepped out of the puddle of hot coffee. That was really all he could do to improve the situation.

“You told him,” Stiles accused, eyes narrowed with rage as he stalked closer. “You actually told him, I can’t believe you would tell him!”

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