alcoholic closet

I want a Fruk fanfiction where England is an english teacher in a Highschool and he’s a sassy asshole and most of the student hate him. He’s also a closet alcoholic to add some angst in there and has a bad relationship with his son, America. They used to get along really well but started arguing about America’s career choices and eventually America had enough and moved out to New York and works at a Auto-repair shop. France is a French teacher who gets placed across the hall from England and is flamboyant and fun, all the students love him. They hate each other at first but forage a friendship then a relationship (OHONHONHONHON).

There could also be Canada, who is a quiet student dealing with bulling and neglect from his parents. He is the only student who likes England at first and due to his anxiety, he doesn’t have a lot of friends and spends lunch in the classroom. France becomes another one of his favourite teachers and the three spend lunch together and become a make shift family. Canada will come with his homework and England and France will help him while laughing and joking around. Eventually Canada comes out of his shell and makes friends, then getting the credits he needs to go to university in Canada. And France cries when he graduates. England and France support him and help him though his issues, acting as parental figures. He reminds England of America since they look so similar.

France and England go out drinking a lot and England realizes that there’s something France is hiding. He does a bit of digging and finds out France had a daughter who was murdered, resulting in his wife leaving him. England has a new respect for France for being able to be so positive. England helps France start a new life and move on from his daughters death while France helps England repair his relationship with America.

There needs to be lots of fluff and angst with them teasing each other and England coming into his class during a lesson and writing “French is lame” on the board then leaving without saying anything. Then they travel to New York and England fixes things with America and they hug. Then England and France get married and all the people affected by them go to their wedding.

Oh and Austria needs to be the crazy music teacher while Prussia is that one student who never shuts the fuck up. Germany is the principle.

missing scene post ep; avatar


@txf-fic-chicks

Literally submitted at the last fucking second.

Drabble; PG-13; MSR (eh bordering on friendship) with Dad Friend Skinner; Humor; Skinner invites Mulder and Scully out for drinks after they try to save his ass.




Everything is planned out to the last detail. Someone is going to admit to a goddamned paranormal experience tonight and it is not going to be him. If you were to tell Fox Mulder that there would be a time in his life where he’d be surrounded by people who were even more brooding and repressed than himself, he would’ve laughed and laughed and laughed and started yelling about his sister. Repression is his corner of the market. Except it’s… sort of not, anymore. 

This is going to happen even though it means sitting through the most awkward night of his life. And it is, do not doubt him on that. Even the warped, boundless depths of his sick imagination could not have come up with this. His penchant for self-abuse only extends so far. 

Having drinks with your boss and coworker should not be this mortifying. But it really, really is.

***

First, no one talks but him. What is the point of going out for drinks if no one talks? Even when he goes out by himself he talks to the bartender, at least. He used to hit on girls but that was when he was suave and brainwashed and all of the horrific shit he’d gone through had been buried deep, deep inside. Now it’s all on the surface and the only girl who’ll talk to him is Scully, and if he hits on her she’ll shoot him with either her apoptotic stare or her big ol’ FBI gun. He’s not sure what would turn him on more. He could try Skinner, but could Mulder really handle that kind of rejection?

***

And then there’s of course the fact that they’re both drinking him under the table. Which is the point of all of this, anyway, but they’d be crushing him even if he had decided to go all in. Scully slams back her vodka and cranberry like she wants to be drinking something else, is taking the mild route to assuage their fear of her being some kind of closet alcoholic. Her display does nothing of the sort.

And Skinner with his scotch whiskey and faraway stare. If he’s drunk Mulder can’t tell. What if Skinner’s always drunk? He almost turns to ask Scully this, but then remembers Skinner is right there.

***

“So, Skinman,” Scully breaks the silence hilariously. But it’s certainly not on purpose. She is drunk. Mulder is dying on the inside, trying not to laugh. What the fuck. She wasn’t supposed to let Skinner know they call him that. “What’s the occasion?”

Skinner folds his arms on the bar in characteristic film noir seriousness, staring hard ahead. The barman pours him another J & B. “You guys put your necks on the line… for my career.” Not ‘for me,’ Mulder notes morosely. Skinner really is more repressed than him.

Scully snorts. “Are you kidding? This is the best case we’ve had in ages. I’m so damn sick of aliens.”

Mulder glares at her. Suddenly she’s not so funny.

***

“So, Scully,” Mulder says casually. He’ll be sly about this. She won’t even know he’s questioning her. “There’s a case coming up that is very similar to yours and other’s we’ve seen in the files. We have to leave as soon as Skinner signs off on it.” Skinner groans. “I want you to look over the file, first, let me know if the notes at all remind you of your experience.”

“I wasn’t fucking abducted by aliens.”

***

“Skinner, Walter. I know you’re scared. I know that you think no one will believe you, that you’re crazy. But you know I’ll listen. What aren’t you telling me?”

“Does he ever shut up?” Skinner asks Scully. She sucks at the last dredges of liquor from her empty glass and the sound is annoying as hell. She shakes her head no.

***

Mulder will repress this for years. 

  • <p> <b><p></b> <b>take this to your grave:</b> open beer cans spilled on couches, crowdsurfing, tattoos on biceps, fighting about Vans vs. Converse, broken drumsticks, jumping off stages, cigarette lighters, ramen noodles.<p/><b>from under the cork tree:</b> camera flashes, dubiously acquired Ritalin, group therapy sessions, jeans unzipped in back closets, cheap alcohol, eyeliner streaks<p/><b>infinity on high:</b> freeway driving, ex-girlfriends, juvenile laughter, messy hair, political awakenings, spiral notebooks, sunglasses at night, eighteen and over clubs.<p/><b>folie a deux:</b> broken synth machines, nightclub bathrooms, cocaine on credit cards, burning American flags, boxes of hair dye, relapse and recovery, bulletproof vests, tour bus engines, goodbyes.<p/><b>save rock and roll:</b> city skylines, fresh faces, controlled explosions, espresso bottles, luxury homes, red carpets, holding on to things that are lost, xanax tablets.<p/><b>american beauty/american psycho:</b> manicured lawns, bloodstained marble floors, sneaking out to concerts, the suburbs, leaving home, sex in cars, divine revenge, coming clean.<p/><b></b> <p/></p><p/></p>

I’ve been hooked on the idea of the seven sins ever since I saw this graphic on the houses of ASOIAF and the seven sins. So, without further ado, TSH characters and the seven sins. (And it isn’t quite fitting? Since everyone is so sinful in the book.)

Henry Winter is pride. Henry honors his own goals and heroism above all others, he dies and lives of pride. Since Pride is considered the most dangerous out of all the seven sins, the perpetrator and the source,  it seems fitting for Henry. He was the one who dragged all the others into his bacchanal, his alibis, pulling them along in his irreversible quest.

Bunny Corcoran is gluttony, and greed. He eats excessively, constantly stuffs himself with food, and he also desires material wealth that he can not pay for. Greed and gluttony can be read close to selfishness, which is a trait that everyone holds in this book, but especially Bunny. He pays for his selfishness with a death that no one truly mourns. 

Francis Abernathy is envy, though technically jealousy would be a more suitable term. He desires Charles’ affection, begging him to look, to please love him, to care for him in the way he does. Francis holds that desperation and bitterness at what he can not have, but he is not strong enough to take what he wants. He helps Charles go to rehab, paying for him, begging him even in the last moment. He needs affirmation that he hasn’t done anything wrong. He is a fragile kind of envy, an envy that he can not afford.

Charles Macaulay is wrath. He seeks to put everything under his thumb: his sister, his alcoholism, and closeted sexuality. When he fails at that quest, he lashes out with a vengeance, destroying himself and everyone else in the process. All he has maintained before falls away and that nakedness causes him to fall into a cycle of self-destruction. He is the ultimate failure of the group, even more so than the others. 

Camilla Macaulay is sloth. She is barely a real person in the books, thanks to fuckboy Richard, but what is evident is her inactivity. She lets Charles and Henry duel with each other, she never confronts anything outright and lets it be. If she seems weak, she chooses to do so rather than act and do the rightful thing. She holds that lazy charm of apathy all throughout the book, that drunken quality of not caring enough to actually do something.

Richard? Richard is nothing. He’s just a fuckboy. Ha ha, just joking. Richard is lust. He lusts after Henry, Charles, Francis, and supposedly Camilla. He is blind to everything, from moral values to his own stupidity, constantly romanticizing everything about the deities he joins during this short and life altering experience. According to Dante’s Inferno, those who commit the sin of lust are subject to suffer by being blown away by winds that symbolize their lack of self control. This is what happens to Richard after his closeted lust of everything, he can only tell the story of the past.

anonymous asked:

What do you think of Angela being a smoker? She thinks the nanobots inside her repair any damage made by the cigarettes, so there's no risk. She slowly becomes addicted, when she runs out, she snaps at Fareeha. She realizes how bad things have gotten and cries, Fareeha tries to help her through everything.

I don’t think that really goes that well with canon, since Mercy says very disapprovingly to McCree, “You know, smoking’s bad for your health.”

I find that highly, highly ironic since McCree is about to walk out into battle and have bullets and actual rocket fired RIGHT AT HIM which, in my opinion, is slightly worse for his health than cigarettes and cigars, BUT

you know I think Mercy is a closet alcoholic, so you’re welcome to your headcanon ;D

Does anyone know a good plumber? I did one of those stupid rituals and now my shower is leaking. And there’s a faceless guy in my kitchen.

Does anyone know a good plumber? I fucked up one of those stupid ritual things that everyone is doing and now my shower is leaking and also there’s some faceless guy in my kitchen. My landlord comes tomorrow and he’s going to kill me, especially because I also have a cat and I’m not even supposed to have pets.

It all started when I was drunk messaging a girl on Tinder and she said that the only way we would meet up was if I did this weird ritual thing where I summon a ghost or some shit. I think she called it Mea Culpa or something.

Actually, her exact message was,
the decaying flesh will not rest i am the alpha and omega i have seen the burning cities consume the earth hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh [LINK TO RITUAL INSTRUCTIONS] our souls meet when darkness spills mea culpa mea culpa mea culpa kkkkkkkkkkkkkkggggggg

She was a weird chick.

At least, I think she was a girl. I couldn’t really see her face. Her picture was just a black background with two shiny dots that kind of looked like eyeballs. You could sort of see some features, but it looked like her face was gray and I couldn’t really see her mouth. But she had really good skin. I wasn’t about to rally for a pizza face.

So, anyway, I weighed the pros and cons of spooky rituals vs trampoline booty as best I could on five shots of Patron.

It was totally worth it.

I set my cell phone to 3:26 am, but since my phone is a 2005 Motorola Razor that was dropped in the toilet several times, it went off at 4:00am. FUCK.

I decided to go through with the ritual anyway. I was also supposed to have a friend during this thing, but my bestie recently got incarcerated for selling heroin on the corner of Patterson Park and Eastern Avenue. Shout out to my main man, Roscoe.

Anyway, I sat up and turned off my alarm, but the moment I turned it off I drunkenly passed out again. I woke up 20 minutes later and actually got out of bed this time, stumbling around the room in the dark because apparently you’re not supposed to turn on the lights, because if you do a GHOST WILL POP OUT OOOH.

I was supposed to find a candle and light it, but my hangover just made me trip over one of the several candles I placed on my floor. Eventually I gave up and flipped the lights on, grabbing a candle from my desk.

I squinted out my window to see what my ghetto Baltimore neighborhood looked like at 4:20am. The street was empty except for some rando wearing a black robe and a giant pointy black hat. He was staring up at me through the window. I couldn’t really see his face. You know, Baltimore has gone to the fucking dogs. First gang wars, now an updated KKK. For God’s sake.

I lit the candle and looked at my phone. I was supposed to knock on my bedroom door 66 times, the 66th knock timed on the 4:06, but since I had fucked everything else up I just did a “Shave and a Haircut” knock and then walked into my hallway. My bedroom door is opposite the stairs, and looking down that dark stairwell was pretty spooky. I thought I saw something move on one of the lower steps.

For the next step, I was supposed to close my eyes and walk forward while chanting, “mea culpa, mea culpa, mea culpa”, which is Italian for “my Culpa”, which is probably some kind of shitty Italian car. I tried to close my eyes and walk forward while talking about Italian cars, but my cat, Fish Sticks, ran under my feet and I ended up tripping over him and falling down the flight of stairs.

At some point the stupid candle went out as I flailed down the stairs, but I was too concussed to care. I rolled up from the ground, groaning, and decided that I would just continue to go through the motions, which meant hiding in a closet and waiting for the ghost to play hide and seek with me. I chose the kitchen pantry because I had some opened potato chips in there, so I made my way back.

As I stumbled, I heard several soft whispers behind me. I spun around, hoping that I was right about Fish Sticks knowing how to talk, but there was no one there.

Except for the figure standing in the corner.
I stopped, blinked, and it was gone. I really needed to lay off the Patron.

As I honed in on the closet, the alcohol and concussion finally caught up with me and I stumbled to a stop, doubling over and vomiting watery Patron all over my kitchen floor. FUCK. My ass was landlord grass. The hellish combination of alcohol, concussion, post-vomit and a looming eviction notice caused my emotions to go haywire and I unleashed a violent sob, mucus and tears rivering down my face.

I heard a noise outside the kitchen.
My eyes fell on the kitchen window and I spied that stupid gang member/KKK dude in my backyard, still staring at me. I must’ve looked like an idiot, weeping in front of my kitchen pantry. Too ashamed to confront him, I just crawled into the pantry and shut the door. It was so cold in there it damn froze my man-titties off. My air conditioner was probably broken. I definitely needed to call the landlord, but that would mean sedating Fish Sticks and stuffing him in a suitcase under my bed.

At this point, I realized that I needed to reevaluate my life. Maybe I shouldn’t drink as much. Maybe I should give Fish Sticks to a good home. Maybe I should find women with intellect and poise. Maybe I should move out of my shit neighborhood where KKK people roam around at 4am.

After going through an entire existential crisis in my pantry, I decided to say fuck it and end the stupid ritual. That Tinder girl wasn’t even that hot, anyway. And besides, I still had like seventy more ritual things to complete, which included lighting eight more candles, stabbing a Japanese doll, and spinning around in a circle while screaming, “YOU’RE IT, YOU’RE IT!”
This was all supposed to culminate in me going to my basement, sitting in front of a mirror, and looking into the mirror but not actually looking into it, which made absolutely no fucking sense.
As I got up to open the pantry door, I heard a low moan coming from behind the door. I froze. I prayed to God it wasn’t my landlord.

I cracked open the door to see the gang member/KKK guy standing in the kitchen, staring at me. I finally got a good look at him. He definitely didn’t have a face. I guess getting your face taken away is part of a gang ritual now.

He didn’t react to my presence— he just stared. I didn’t know how the hell to deal with gang members or faceless KKK members, so I just stared back. We did this for about five minutes before I slowly inched out of the kitchen and back upstairs. He turned to watch me as I went, but didn’t move.

So after that I went up to my bathroom to take a shower and now my shower-head is leaking, which I blame on the stupid ritual. So if you guys know any good plumbers in the Baltimore area, I would really appreciate it.

Picture this: Eggsy taking Harry drinking, because he’s quietly confident that he’ll be able to drink Harry under the table. He’s been drinking since he was thirteen and his liver’s a helluva lot younger than Harry’s. He’s got this.

Harry knowing exactly what Eggsy’s trying to do, but playing along with it anyway.

Eggsy ending up completely blind and having to clutch onto Harry as they stumble towards the black cab, Eggsy slurring endearments at Harry- ‘Your hair’s really soft, like as soft as JB’s ears’

and

‘You know what I love? I love your pancakes. You should make me some when we get home. We should definitely have pancakes’

and

‘You have the prettiest eyes. Like melted chocolate. All warm and gooey. Wait, your eyes aren’t gooey. That’d be gross. Your eyes are lovely. C’mere so I can look in them again.’


Eggsy’s endearments becoming steadily more filthy on the cab ride (’I love your cock Harry. It’s so thick. I love the way it stretches me when you put it in me and that I can feel it for fucking ages when you’ve pulled out’). Harry letting Eggsy drag him into the bedroom when they get home.

Eggsy pushing them both on the bed and almost immediately passing out on top of Harry, snoring slightly into Harry’s skin


Eggsy waking up the next morning to a killer hangover with a note on his bedside table:

‘Good morning darling,

I trust the hangover’s not unbearable. There’s paracetamol and pancakes waiting for you downstairs when you’re feeling up for it. 

Love Harry

PS- do try and remember I’ve been trained to be impervious to alcohol. Also, my closet friend’s family owns one of the largest whiskey distilleries in Scotland. Trying to out drink me was always going to be a lost cause.’

Does anyone know a good plumber? I did one of those stupid rituals and now my shower is leaking. And there’s a faceless guy in my kitchen. (AKA the best scary story I've ever read)

(seriously, this one’s a doozy guys).

Does anyone know a good plumber? I did one of those stupid rituals and now my shower is leaking. And there’s a faceless guy in my kitchen. by narrativeofthelife

Does anyone know a good plumber? I fucked up one of those stupid ritual things that everyone is doing and now my shower is leaking and also there’s some faceless guy in my kitchen. My landlord comes tomorrow and he’s going to kill me, especially because I also have a cat and I’m not even supposed to have pets.

It all started when I was drunk messaging a girl on Tinder and she said that the only way we would meet up was if I did this weird ritual thing where I summon a ghost or some shit. I think she called it Mea Culpa or something.

Actually, her exact message was,

the decaying flesh will not rest i am the alpha and omega i have seen the burning cities consume the earth hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh [LINK TO RITUAL INSTRUCTIONS] our souls meet when darkness spills mea culpa mea culpa mea culpa kkkkkkkkkkkkkkggggggg

She was a weird chick.

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