Kitchen-Window

A day spent with the MBTI types

7:10 am: ISFJ -  Waking up on a sunny morning, the sun rays streaming through your curtains.

7:40 am: ISFP - Still trying to wake yourself up after one too many snooze button. Making yourself a cup of coffee and people watching through your kitchen window.

8:00 am: ISTP -  Waking up your body by doing some morning yoga and going for a little jog.

9:00 am: ENTJ - Flipping through your agenda to make sure everything is planned and still on track for the day. 

9:15 am: ESTJ -  Getting ready for the day! Making sure everything looks in place and on fleek. Choosing the perfect outfit that says professional yet is comfortable.

10:00 am: ENTP - Walking to the bus stop, music blasting, hair in the wind.

10:15 am: ENFJ - Saying hi to that stranger on the bus that looks a little bit sad.

10:30 am: ESFP - Meeting with friends at a coffee shop, planning when you’re going to go out this weekend.

12:00 am: ENFP - Going to that cute trendy/hipster neighborhood to grab lunch and checking out that new thrift store.

2:00 pm: ISTJ -  Getting back home to finish that lab report that’s due next week and putting in an hour of studying.

4:00 pm: ESFJ - Baking some cookies for that study group tomorrow.

4:45 pm: INTJ - Sitting in your favourite chair and reading a book about molecular biology just for fun.

5:15 pm: INTP - Ending up on Youtube watching videos on molecular biology and is now in a Youtube black hole.

6:00 pm: ESTP - Going indoor rock climbing to put in a little workout before dinner.

7:30 pm: INFP -  Going to dinner with that one INTJ bestfriend, convincing them to try that new vegan spot.

9:00 pm: INFJ - Reading in bed, reflecting on the day and taking time to write in your journal before falling asleep.

Language is what eases the pain of living with other people, language is what makes the wounds come open again. I have heard that anthropologists prize those moments when a word or bit of language opens like a keyhole into another person, a whole alien world roars past in some unassigned phrase. You remember Proust so appalled when Albertine lets fall “get her pot broken.” Or you hear a Berliner say “squat town”—and suddenly see sunset, winter, lovers cooking eggs in a grimy kitchen with the windows steaming up, river runs coldly by, little cats go clicking over the snow.
—  Anne Carson, Plainwater: Essays and Poetry
Did You Just... ?

Originally posted by poptartcalum

Imagine: Tom can’t get over how you pronounce the word ‘croissant’. 

A/N: I’m supposed to be packing for a music festival but i just love me some good quacksons !!!! :~) I h9 myself for this ENJOY!! PS i love this gif a lot thank Q ALSO SORRY IF ITS A BIT SHIT

Word Count: idk it’s short (maybs 800??)

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Two Beers and the Truth

An extremely late birthday fic for @wrathofthestag, who shares my hopes for Coach and Bitty. Here’s a little fic about how I hope the summer goes for the Bittle Clan…

         Bitty knew that coming out to coach would end one of three ways.

         The first scenario was the one that had kept him silent since middle school when he realized that it didn’t matter how many girls stole kisses from him, he just wasn’t interested. He could see Coach’s face turning to stone, the way it did when the Dawgs lost a game in overtime, and hear his father’s steely voice proclaiming I have no son. Some nights he would still wake up shaking when he thought about that scenario, if he was lucky, Jack would be there to gather him up and mutter soothing bits of nonsense into his hair as he trembled.

         The second scenario was more likely, but still not something Bitty was looking forward to. Coach would press his lips together until they disappeared behind his mustache, then nod with a resigned air. If he was lucky, Bitty would get an awkward slap on the back and Coach would mutter something Suzanne told him Oprah said to say. It would be disappointment, but acceptance. Some days Bitty wondered if that wouldn’t be worse than outright anger.

         The third scenario Bitty blamed on Chowder, who seemed to think everyone in the world would be thrilled with a gay son. In this dream setup, Coach cried, opening his arms to his son and assuring Bitty that he could never be prouder of a child. They would cry together, then, hugged up on the porch swing, talking about life and maybe boys.

         Bitty bit his lip, wondering which scenario he would be living through. He rolled his shoulder, preparing for a disappointed pat. He glanced at his mother in the kitchen.

         With a sigh, Suzanne moved to the refrigerator, picking out two beers and holding them out to Bitty. She kissed his forehead. “Go on, I’ll be doing dishes if you need me.”

         Bitty nodded and looked toward the porch again.

         “I can do this,” he muttered. “For me. For Jack.”

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Another from this long list of prompts, completely unprompted.

Number Ten: “If you use up all the hot water again, I swear to god! You’re on the couch for a month!!”


Stiles needed to take a good long look at his life, he decided as he dug the emergency plastic seat covers out of the trunk of the Camaro.

Reason number one: he and all of his friends kept emergency plastic seat covers in their trunks so in the event of a big bad monster exploding all over them, they wouldn’t have to explain massive blood stains to the guy at the auto detailing shop.

Again.

They only made that mistake once, and Lydia spent the night in jail three counties over.

Stiles shook out the plastic with a spiteful flourish at the universe, and laid it out over the leather passenger seat, while Derek did the same for the driver’s before sliding in.

Stiles hesitated, bracing himself.

Reason number two: Stiles was far too young to always be this sore.

He groaned as he lowered himself into the car and the plastic crinkled underneath him. His knee was messed up, he knew that much without professional opinion, but he was going to hold off on an official diagnosis unless it got to the point where he couldn’t walk on it. And he was pretty sure that none of the blood soaking his khakis was actually his, so compared to the last few big faceoffs, he was doing pretty well.

But it was the soreness, the constant aches when he got up in the morning—his shoulder actually ached with the weather. His grandfather had that problem, and even his dad didn’t have as many back problems.

Stiles was twenty-eight and there were days when a bad enough thunderstorm rolled through, and all he could do was lie on the couch and pop Tylenol like candy.

At this rate he’d be using a cane at thirty.

He yawned as Derek put the car in gear and drove towards home, letting himself drift off.

Reason number three: he was always, always exhausted.

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Small Bump | 01

Pairing: Jungkook x Reader.

Words: 1,897.

Genre: Angst, fluff(?).

Summary: “Things you said when you were scared.”

A/N: I’ve decided to jump on the train and write these small drabbles based on various prompts as a way to take a break from my super long fics and have a different creative outlet. ALSO, highkey based on the song Small Bump by Ed Sheeran.

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His || Jungkook || 0.16

Member: Jungkook x Reader

Type: Angst, Fluff, Smut.

Teaser | 0.1 | 0.2 | 0.3 | 0.4 | 0.5 | 0.6 | 0.7 | 0.8 | 0.9 | 0.10 | 0.11 | 0.12 | 0.13| 0.14 | 0.15 | 0.16 |

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Hello Autumn l Tom Holland

Summary: Tom Holland and the reader spend the fall together, doing fun fall activities and spending time with family. All the while, Tom’s family pesters him about his unplanned future with the reader…

Warning: fluffiness

Pairing: Tom Holland x reader

Type: Oneshot

Requested: anonymously 

A/N: Just to let you all know, I combined two requests together for this oneshot. One request was for the reader and Tom to do fun fall activities together and the other was about the entire family pestering Tom about his future with the reader. I combined them because I thought it would make a better story arch. Anyways…enjoy!

MASTERLIST


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Jeremy is pouring tea. The gentle early morning sun pouring through the kitchen windows, bouncing off of the prisms set on the windowsill and projecting rainbows onto the white kitchen walls. Michael is watching. Jeremy’s messy hair is tucked gently behind his ear as he carefully rips open two teabags, biting his lip with concentration. The light blue counter almost glows in the sunlight. The sliding door, leading to the back porch, is open, allowing a cold breeze to leave goosbumps on Jeremy’s thighs. He is only wearing boxers underneath Michael’s loose red hoodie. He shivers, but looks out the window, smiling and setting the tea onto the glowing counter. Michael is leaning in the doorway, he watches still. His beautiful boy. This beautiful home. Their beautiful life.

Breakfast on the Patio

AN: Enjoy some early morning fluff.

Thanks to @whore4batfam for letting me write this.

It’s inspired by this post!


Early morning breakfasts are a tradition for you and Bruce. During the summers the two of you sit on the porch and talk quietly while Alfred works in the kitchen. The kids are typically still asleep, so the two of you enjoy the quiet and your special alone time together.

    Which is why, you’re more than a bit surprised when Damian storms out onto the patio. Your youngest wakes up early. It’s a fact of life. It is also a fact that he spends this time in the morning training. Setting down your orange juice, you and Bruce turn to face him. Before you can even ask what’s wrong, he shouts, “You need to have a baby!”

    You choke on nothing, and as you cough, Bruce’s hand pounds against your back. As the fit subsides you look up at your youngest, “Excuse me?”

    “I refuse to be the baby any longer. Grayson, Todd and Drake are constantly using it as an excuse to keep me away from things. I’m not allowed near Joker, because I’m the baby. I can’t drive the batmobile, because I’m the baby. No Damian, you can’t diffuse that bomb, you’re the baby!

    Your voice is hoarse as you say, “Damian … it’s not that simple.”

    He scoffs, “What are you talking about? Father adopted three children without you, and I’m the result of a drug induced one-night stand. How hard is it? Have a child together, adopt, I don’t care just as long as it is younger than me. Because I am done being the baby.”

    You watch him storm off and turn to your husband. He smirks at you, “Well that’s one way to ask for a younger sibling.”

You can feel a blush spreading to your cheeks, “Bruce!”

He smiles at you, and before you can blink he’s out of his seat and crouching in front of you, “Haven’t you ever thought about it? A little baby?”

You splutter for a few seconds, before finally saying, “Yes, but we’re super-heroes, and CEO’s. We don’t have time for a baby.”

    “Is there ever really a good time to have a baby?”

    “When you’re not constantly out until three am, and working nine hour days.”

    “We could take a step back.”

    You raise an eyebrow in questions, “We or I?”

    He meets your gaze, “We. With the boys around we have more than enough help protecting Gotham, and we could start working regular hours at the company.” You sink back into your seat. His voice is a whisper when he asks, “Have you really not thought about it?”

    You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t. You wanted a child, but you’d been unwilling to upset the balance of your boys. They were finally on good terms with Bruce, and Damian had always been one to be jealous. But at the same time, you yearned to hold that little baby in your arms.

    Almost as though he can see the gears turning in your head he asks, “Sweetheart, do you want to have a baby?”

    You smile, “I do.”

    He smiles, before kissing you.

    When you pull back you say, “Imagine Alfred’s reaction when we tell him.”

    “It’ll be quite Joyous Mrs. Wayne, I assure you.” You look over you shoulder to see the butler watching the two of you through the kitchen window. You roll your eyes, you were surrounded by snoops, and you were convinced Bruce came by it naturally.

    With a smile you say, “Let’s try for a baby.”