but i'm not clever enough to come up with a better name

seventeen with essays

i’m doing this bc i have a final essay due tomorrow that i havent started hahaha


  • gets distracted easily
  • knows nothing about what he’s supposed to write about
  • is on sparknotes trying to understand what he’s supposed to write
  • can barely make an introduction paragraph


  • gets his name and date on the page
  • believes he deserves a break after that
  • has a clever topic but has no idea what to write
  • asks his friends what they’re writing about to see if he can come up with an idea


  • says that he procrastinates
  • but he gets the essay done two days before it’s due
  • asks hella people to proof read and give feedback on his essays
  • puts in a good amount of effort in his rewrites
  • probably goes to office hours to talk about his paper


  • he gives me a ‘waits-til-the-last-minute-but-manages-to-write-an-amazing-essay’ type of vibe
  • i forreal think he is a genuis lowkey
  • witty hooks
  • knows from the very start what he wanted to write about


  • stressed hamster
  • the type to tie a bandana around his forehead to get him into the mood
  • also the type to proof read in the midst of writing the essay
  • which makes him take more time to write the whole thing
  • changes things too many times while still writing the essay


  • actually is really good at writing book analyses (bc my boy luvs to read huhuuuhu)
  • uses lots of metaphors
  • free hands his essays then rearranges the paragraphs for better flow
  • cant make a good title to save his life


  • starts writing outlines the day the essay is assigned
  • probably gets a draft done within a week it’s due 
  • hits up his local campus writing center for his essay
  • he gets too convoluted in his writing 
  • rewrites essays until he feels worthy of it


  • the type to get stressed when he gets stuck writing
  • the type to get stressed when he doesn’t know what to write about
  • the type to be on the verge of tears bc he knows nothing about any of the topics he learned in class
  • the type to just pick a random topic, google it, and write bs about said topic


  • either gets really into the topic or gets really irritated about the topic
  • if he likes the topic, he’ll write forever
  • if he hates the topic, he’ll barely reach the minimum word count
  • outlines like crazy
  • lives for outlines


  • sits in front of his computer with a blank face
  • only has his name and date on the page
  • types “The” and thats it
  • literally spongebob writing his essay


  • this boy makes sure he has enough time to write his essay
  • hella on top of things best believe
  • momma taught him right!!!!
  • creates an outline, finds quotes, knows how to embed quotes well
  • writes his intro paragraph last bc thats just how he rolls


  • best believe this boy will do whatever it takes to reach the word count
  • “therefore, in conclusion, thereof…”
  • forgets to proof read
  • accidentally turns in the paper with a filler paragraph that talks about grapes


  • gets annoyed when people try to distract him while writing his essay
  • also allows people to distract him while writing his essay
  • tries so hard to be on top of things but he always finds something else to do
  • “the dishes need to be washed???? i mean i guess i’ll do it…”
  • “ugh can’t you take out the trash?? i have an essay..” *takes our the trash anyway* *also cleans the living room* *does laundry*

anonymous asked:

Would you do another thing with Daja? Or maybe Lark or Rosethorn. Because I'm currently questioning and I envy the easy acceptance of their gayness/bisexuality. There's no way in hell my family would be okay with me not being straight so yeah, I'd kinda like to live vicariously through them for a bit sorry for asking.

don’t ever be sorry for asking kindly for things, nonny. this one’s all yours.

when they come home from namorn, a lot of things happen—

little bear comes running and cleans all their faces while briar complains about his manly pride and nice clothes (he gives the old pup a belly rub later, when no one but daja can see him go soft and tired, because he knows she will not taunt or comfort, just stand). 

glaki comes pounding out of discipline cottage, wraps around tris like the vegetable garden is twining around briar, the way evvy is pretending she doesn’t want to, and tris pets glaki’s hair and tries not to remember how much she has grown without her.

sandry will step back into her uncle’s court the next day, and she will be sure, suddenly more sure than she’d been the whole ride back, that she had made the right decision. the citadel will smell like sealing wax and old stone and dried ink. when she steps into her uncle’s study, there will be a mantle of responsibility returned to her shoulders that is just the right weight, that is just what she wants. her uncle will look up from his letters and the light of pride in his eyes will be better than all the riches and legacy of the inheritance that she signed away to a good man. 

for now, though: “i thought the snow might give your roots frostbite,” evvy sniffs at briar. 

“doubting my training,” rosethorn warns. “i taught my boy better than that." 

it’s when rosethorn hugs briar that evvy breaks down and squeezes him tight around the ribs. briar presses one cheek into evvy’s kerchief, tangles a hand in rosethorn’s habit and doesn’t let go until he knows he can grin like he can’t smell woodsmoke on even this peaceful air. 

while glaki chases chime around the yard, tris watching like the fond sister she pretends she’s not, while briar teases evvy and sandry buries her face in the sensible cotton smell of lark, daja slips out the garden gate. 

daja climbs over the flat walks of winding circle until she finds frostpine’s forge, its little bedroom tucked above it, the sharp scents of the metals and the rounded undertone of coal and wood. she wishes everything else were so easy to distinguish by smell as copper and tin, gold and iron. 

his hug is bone-crushing, acrid, and his eyes are clever and dark when he pulls back and looks at her. frostpine gives her a spare apron of his that she’s almost big enough to wear now and a hammer that’s swimming with his magics and they strike metal, shape and sweat in silence until the day is over. daja makes hinges and crafts sigils for some heavy lock boxes that she’s sure even briar would have trouble breaking into. she makes a bucketful of nails, for old times’ sake. 

they forsake the warmth of the baths, after, and go plunge into the sea instead, like they’re hot steel they want to quench. daja’s not sure she’s the right temperature for this, the right hue of glowing red. what if it makes her brittle, not strong? what if her ore was poor quality in the first place? a trader turned lugsha, who weaseled her way back in; a woman who loves beautiful women and then leaves them. 

frostpine gets the story out of her, because he is safe the way she has known few men to ever be, because there are few people more patient in silence than she is but he is one. daja has never had a broken heart before, and she has never been one for many words, but she tries to explain. 

sandry will try to help—she will take daja out riding, keep her moving, because that is how sandry outruns her griefs, always has. she pours her heart into other things, other work. 

tris will give her books to read, because they give you a way out to better things, because they give you something to put between your face and a world that’s not interested in looking at you right. 

briar will take her out to meet pretty young women, like delicate flowers, and daja will feel sooty no matter how well she scrubs her smiths’ hands clean. 

but frostpine listens quietly. he asks her if she can smell the little bits of metal in the waves, the buried treasure far offshore. “your nose has gotten better,” he says. “i’m sorry about rizu.” they dry off, then soak in the communal baths after all, and then he walks her back to discipline. he kisses her on the forehead, warm hands on her cheeks, bristling beard ticking her nose, and says, “you might want to talk to your foster mothers.” 

"you know, rosie broke my heart once,” lark says companionably, when daja does ask, shyly, over tea and honey and milk. rosethorn blushes furiously and daja stares. lark starts to tell a story and rosethorn stomps off to find a stronger tea. 

they tell daja stories of lark the young acrobat, who fell in love with every pretty girl who came to her shows and didn’t kiss one. it’s late and they are all sleepy, guards down, when rosethorn talks about the first boy she loved, haystacks and very young promises, angry fathers. lark was the fourth woman rosethorn decided to love, and the other three names roll off rosethorn’s tongue, easy. daja listens hard for something like sorrow, like regret, and doesn’t hear it. 

“we are a lot more than the places we have decided to lay down bits of our heart,” says lark, “or the people we have offered to give our hearts to. but that’s one part of you all the same: who and what and how you love. i know it hurts right now, chickadee, but you loved her and she loved you. that matters, no matter if it lasts. living, you get bruises. you get strong muscles and bones that don’t heal right. you get so many homes and broken hearts. you live in all those places and you don’t always get to choose which ones to keep.”

“you’re a hardy one,” says rosethorn. “you’ll outlive it.”

“what rosie means is: we love you, and we’re here if you need it.”

after, daja climbs up to the thatched roof where they watched clouds get born as children. the sun is rising. she has her heavy brass-tipped staff and her own smallest chisel. she wants to carve something into the metal here, into the life’s story written out in the circling design. it might be rizu’s name. it might be her own. 

anonymous asked:

SHAU where magnus is the sassy devil-may-care shadowhunter and alec is the stoic, boring-no-nonsense warlock who, after so many centuries of loving, being loved, and losing, becomes so flustered and smitten when confronted by the young upstart magnus, his weapon of choice, and his glitter

okay but… you don’t understand because reverse!malec is my guilty pleasure when it’s done right it’s the best

  • speaking of done right, here’s some facts we need to establish as ground rules
  • magnus is a pro in every universe
  • so despite being this kid who turned up on the doorstep of the new york institute doorsteps with no family, no name, and nothing but a stele in his hand, magnus is the best
  • the loss family have run the institute at new york for years, and gladly adopt magnus into their family
  • ragnor is their grumpy tutor (who’s not even that much older than them but he’s all learned and idris trained and that makes him clever or something)
  • raphael is the transfer from the institute in mexico city who forgets to go home somewhere along the way
  • (magnus gives him shit, ragnor just rolls his eyes and tells him to shut up)
  • anyway when magnus was a teenager he used to be this skinny thing and everyone was questioning if he was even really a shadowhunter, if he even belonged at the institute
  • so magnus trained and trained and trained and built himself up to where he is now, one of the best shadowhunters of his age
  • and also one of the kindest, because there’s something about coming from nothing and relying on the charity and generosity of those around you that makes you oh so aware of the bullshit around you
  • (the clave sucks in every universe, sorry)
  • so magnus is the best, and because of that people tolerate his “friendships” with the downworld, albeit reluctantly
  • there was this one time the clave tried to set him up with camille belcourt, because then he’d have a “real shadowhunter name” instead of the one he picked for himself
  • (which, fuck you, he likes his name)
  • it ended so badly it has never been spoken of again, and camille is permanently working from mumbai which is better for everyone
  • the clave are also forced to accept magnus’ blatant ‘eccentricities’ because no one kills demons and saves lives like he does
  • magnus just enjoys being himself and happy in his identity no matter what people say to him or how the clave wishes they could stop him 
  • anyway i’ve ranted about magnus enough
  • so alec is this old, incredibly powerful warlock who is also the high warlock of brooklyn which is a position he takes Very Seriously
  • he’s spent his whole life with his sister izzy, who unusually actually is his sister
  • she’s much wilder and free with her powers, loves to show off and throw a good party and have fun
  • they adopted jace a really long time ago, a vampire they sort of stumbled across in their travels, but he’s been a brother to them for centuries so yeah
  • anyway alec takes everything very seriously, and he’s also always worried about blending in and not getting burned at the stake so he’s always tried to keep his sexuality down and out of the question
  • it inevitably bursts through when he least expects it though - and when he falls he falls hard and fast and it always, always ends badly
  • izzy and jace are tired of seeing their brother hurt, but also tired of seeing him drown in his work and be generally unhappy so much of the time
  • enter magnus, who finally wants to track down his parents and where he came from, and the high warlock is the only way for him to do that
  • and oh boy alec just… falls right then and there
  • someone so spirited and open and flying in the face of the clave and not even the least bit worried about going to a downworlder for help
  • so alec does help, and then the helping becomes a regular thing, even if alec gets all flustered and uncertain around magnus because he’s never met anyone like magnus bane before
  • izzy and jace see right through alec and his work dedication though, and just… quietly encourage him to go for it, to be happy because what is the point of living for centuries if you aren’t really going to live
  • a lesson magnus teaches him so well over the course of things
  • and then it all comes to a climax when magnus nearly dies after a massive demon attack on the institute, and alec has never felt so panicked or so lost in all his many, many years of living, and it’s all because magnus’ life hung in the balance
  • they end up making out in the medical wing of the institute
  • izzy and jace quietly high five each other about it later
  • the clave doesn’t approve but honestly fuck the clave

send me an au and i’ll expand on it!

Clashing of Wilds and Blood

Once again a huge thanks to @holy-minseok for the encouraging words, your my motivation!

This can also be read on AO3 : http://archiveofourown.org/works/11465187/chapters/25705545

PT1: https://easilyaddictedin123.tumblr.com/post/162841562811/clashing-of-wilds-and-blood

PT2: https://easilyaddictedin123.tumblr.com/post/162902440496/clashing-of-wilds-and-blood

PT4:  https://easilyaddictedin123.tumblr.com/post/163344208916/clashing-of-blood-and-wilds

PT3 (Pride)

“So this fire has blue flames, does it not?” -Maude glanced back as you sighed , you’d been dreading this exact moment- “Need I remind you that it wasn’t just you that was burned the last time you played with this fire.”

“You do not, I was there Maude, I remember what my father did to him.” you hissed back at the woman in the calmest tone you could muster.

It had been heart wrenching, you’d slipped away in some of the nights before Aelle was actually keeping a look on you and in turn you’d met Joseph, he was a stable boy, poor, and beautiful. His hair like fire and eyes the color of the forest leaves, freckles on his nose and when he smiled he had dimples. He’d been so kind, so loving, and gentle. He didn’t deserve his fate that when Aelle discovered you’d taken him to bed, the loft in the barn had never been so devastating than on that night. You’d been dragged down by your hair with a mere shift on, by your ‘father’, he’d paraded you in front of his men speaking on if you were going to act like a whore he might sell you out like one. The threat had been empty but what wasn’t was the moment Alfred had been dragged down too.

Your maiden honor had been stripped from you by a man who wasn’t your husband, worse by someone that King Aelle couldn’t coerce into marrying you for their allegiance, and to keep the kingdom from knowing “their princess is a wench” Joseph was put to death in the courtyard while kneeling on muddy ground with your screaming to hail him into his death. He didn’t cry out to you, he didn’t beg, simply let himself be thrown about and his head taken from his shoulders all on account of loving a foolish girl. You weren’t that girl anymore. The fire had burned your fingertips but consumed poor Joseph and you didn’t want that upon another person, Northman or no. You’d long learned your lesson.

“A hard lesson but you need to remember it, you tread on thin ice Little Lamb and I only hope that you do not stand as it crumbles beneath you.” Maude always meant well but you couldn’t help but wondering if she saved all her allegories just for when you were enjoying yourself or was that her natural state of being?

“I walk on no ice, there’s nothing between he and I in that way. He just wants to learn about the Sins and who knows maybe I can convert him?” It was a thin and measly lie but she didn’t call you upon it.

Time had fallen upon evening feast while you spoke and she picked a different dress not covered in dirt and dust and gravy to keep you meeting King Ragnar’s son. Say what she will on keeping secrets from your betters and peers but there was a curious part on how carefully constructed Maude could make lies when protecting you. How did she know what dresses to use perfectly to cover your arm’s bruise? How did she know to get dust off the back of your neck and hair before you even noticed it was there? Your mother had only been in her affair with King Aelle for a few months before leaving and the handing you up to him. Was it in any way considerable that she learned all this from a few months of passion between two people?

It didn’t matter to you once she yanked upon your hair, “Are you even listening?”, a sheepish grin crossed your features as you began to fiddle with the red dress’ sleeve. “Och, of course not. I said that Aethelwulf won’t buy you going to the kitchen the whole day. Say you spent half the day there then came here for stitching.”

Before you could even protest that there was nothing to show that you had been stitching she took a finger and with a needle pricked you, the sharpness and sudden hurt made you yelp like a child, then she handed you a plain white stitching already halfway done. Taking a moment to work on it the blood had seeped into the fabric to mimic an accident then she bandaged the finger.

“I’ve seen desire kill one of my charges, I’ll not see it get you beaten.” Her thumb brushed tenderly over the cut on your bottom lip, “Now, time for you to sup with your kin.”

It hadn’t taken long to get to the feast hall, the table already filled with more food than the four of you could possibly eat with an irked Alfred. You sat next to him with your ever present mischievous smile that now caused your lip to throb, Alfred’s irritation melted into slight concern but you simply ruffled his hair in play, turning to the feast you clasped your hands together in prayer. It was a short thanks to God for his generosity to your family’s feast and you were all too happy about that because not a second later your stomach released a rather unladylike growl.

Judith laughed lightly at it and as always Aethelwulf glared despite your redeeming table manners, “ How was your day, I didn’t see you after this morning.” The pathetic excuse for politeness used as interrogation of your whereabouts.

“I went to the kitchens, Lily always has some sweets set aside for me.” Judith chuckled at you.

“Those dresses won’t grow with you dear sister.” You gaped at the woman, she was Ecbert’s lover but Aethelwulf was still her husband and not too forgiving of her antics.

“My dear sweet sister don’t you know I pray upon my knees for not a single gain of weight.” The innuendo not lost on her as she chuckled and shook her head, “After the kitchen I went to stitching with Maude, pricked myself something painful to and messed up the fabric.”

You displayed the finger that had the slightest red tinge to assist in the smooth lie, Maude was your life saver. Super passed in relative ease, as much as was expected at least, and upon Alfred walking with you down the halls you were ready for the demands.

“You promised I could go with you.” He sounded more hurt than angry, “You got hit for it, didn’t you? And don’t lie telling me you just ran into something.”

“Oh, Alfred you are too clever for your age.” You ruffled his hair much to his pinched face of displeasure, “I’m sorry that I can’t take you to see the Northmen, we’ll just have to wait until your grandfather gets here. He’ll let you meet them no doubt.”

The answer soothed him as he walked you to your room. The four walls were cold despite the bed and fire, the room bare but filled with ornaments and tapestries hanging on the walls. You just sighed and shrugged out of the clothes, unbecoming of you to sleep in nothing you pulled a sheer nightgown on and slid in bed, intent on dreaming away the occasional throb in your lip and even the bright blue eyes inquisitively looking at you.  The rise of sleep cascading gently down on you made you sigh in gratefulness, nothingness and quiet cradling while you willingly fell into the dark of it.

You expected to not dream, you hadn’t since you were a child after all, not the sound of waves lapping against the grainy sand under your bare feet. The breeze  was dancing through your hair, tossing whichever way it pleased, while the sun was warm but the chill pressed you upon the ground of having goosebumps yet not needing a cloak. The air was crisp feeling your lungs and birds sang while there were creaks of boats somewhere with the laughter of children. You couldn’t see them. You could see the bank and the farm and trees rising with the cliffs. All of it familiar and not at all.

A child ran by, a girl with blonde hair, that grabbed your hand and tugged you into a run; she was small to be so strong while she pulled this way and that. You were passing the farm and going into the trees where it was dark and soft greens played against vibrant browns.

“Where are we going?” Your voice sounded far off and seemed to echo but the girl only giggled you hadn’t noticed she’d already let go of you as your feet carried after her in curiosity.

She spoke in some language all the while twirling about with you desperately trying to keep up and almost falling off the cliff if you hadn’t looked down. It was a sharp drop into water far below but she hovered above it looking at you expectantly and waved you to come over. You shook your head and instead of running off like you’d expected her to do she simply sat on nothing looking content to wait.

The dream didn’t shatter or fall from under your feet instead you just sat up with the odd sensation of wanting to run. Not in fear but just to run. To feel the muddy sand under your feet or taste the cool air despite it being summer. You shook loose the thoughts and lingering sensations to be met with a cool room and a purple dress. You slid it on over egear at the idea of teaching Ragnar’s son about sin. It was better than spending the day in the castle with a heinous, temperamental, self entitled-

“I hope you’re not talking about yourself.” Maude’s crooning voice sounded from the door as you struggled with your back lacings, “You’re up rather early, my lady.”

“Of course; I’m off to see Nobody.” You grinned at the name, if lying was a sin then you wouldn’t lie.

Nobody was what Odysseus had called himself to keep the cyclops Polyphemus from calling to his comrades. Seeing as how you didn’t know his name then your new student would be called Nobody until he got exasperated enough to actually tell you his name. He was being smug because he didn’t know how impatiently patient you could be, a contradictory of course but if you could get under his skin just enough to antagonize him it might force him into telling you.

The guards were asleep on their feet as you had two apples, one balancing in the grip of your teeth and a wine skin of water courtesy of Maude, and slid by them with ease thankful that your antics had made you quiet. You had learned your lesson by getting too close to Nobody in attempt to wake him up, instead you made loud clacking to sound that you were in the room. He didn’t sit up but one eye did open, seemingly uncaring of your being there.

“Good morning, I’ve got you an apple and then we can get to talking about Sins.” You had to admit to the excited sensation and impatience in your chest.

He groaned and rolled onto his side, away from you while you jutted your hip out, “Or I could take my breakfast and just let you beat your head against the wall in frustrated loneliness.”

You could feel him roll his eyes before turning back to you, “And why do you think I am lonely?”

“Because you asked me yesterday to come back and talk about Sin. You could have easily dismissed me.” A sly grin slid across your face at his scowl, “So Nobody-”

“Why Nobody? I do have a name?” Ivar partly growled and huffed.

“Do you? If you tell me I’ll call you by it.” At that he huffed out a laugh and you smiled.

It was a small sound but still pleasing to the ear while he shifted about to let you sit by him and give him the apple that was bitten into with a loud ‘crunch’ to echo of the walls. Odd that they didn’t seem as cold as your room’s had.

“You said sins, more than one?” You nodded thinking of which one to speak of first.

“Seven and we’ll talk about Pride today. Pride is to think of yourself high than others, and to -”

“But you are higher than others, if you are higher.” He didn’t let you finish, “How can you not have pride in what you do or how it defines you from the rest of people?”

“That’s why it’s a sin, you should be humble in getting recognition.” He raised an eyebrow, “Do you not know what humble is?”

“I’m not an idiot, woman, I know what humble is.” He snarled out at what he took as an insult, “It seems foolish not to want to take claim on what you’ve rightfully done. If you are not proud of your death or what you have done in life how do you know what your accomplishments are worth?”

“That’s the thing though, your accomplishments of good are weighed against those actions of evil like stealing from others.” You watched him mull about in his mind, blue eyes drifting off on their focus.

“If you’ve conquered and take what is yours though by right is that considered your evil?” Ivar sounded amused at the look on your face, “After all whatever you conquer now becomes yours does it not? Taking lands from those who had it before you like your kings would do in war. Is that not evil?”

“Well, yes but”-

“Then are you all not guilty if you have taken the land that you stand on. Even you? After all this belonged to someone else and now you claim it as home and hearth.” He grinned leaning back and taking another bite of the apple, it’s juice running down his chin.

It was your brief thought to lean forwards and…no that’s not a good place to go, “I suppose that’s one way of looking at it. Though you can be forgiven by God for any sin.”

“You conquered this land, no? It had its own people, its own Gods but yours came and took it. You put up odd houses with your bells and take pride in that you are ‘spreading’ the word of your God. Is that not taking pride in a sin you committed of taking land, or accomplishing that you took what was theirs?” You eyebrows scrunched together in thought.

“I think I liked you better when I had to guess your name.” He laughed and you thought it was peculiar to be captivated by such a simple sound, higher than you thought it’d be, and though it took pleasure out of mocking you perhaps it wasn’t so bad.

“Then shall you guess again? Or am I to turn your words upon yourself.” Ivar’s eyes were slow in taking you in, under the words you might have had to clear the lack of anything in your throat.

Ivar was certain he’d been in here far too long despite how short of a time it might be. He was able to admit to a small degree that he was going to enjoy turning things on yourself but he hadn’t expected to enjoy it so much. Nor expect to enjoy the pale morning light shining into his dark hole that made all the brighter by your being here. Not the sweetness of an offered apple that he took from your hands. He could smell lavender lingering on your skin and wondered how close you’d let him if he moved a little. Ivar could easily blame it upon you being the only one to even dare to look in here.

“You are odd.” You tilted your head at that, “You see my legs but yet you don’t stare or laugh at it.”

“Well you are a North-”

“Viking. The word is Viking.” He offered, tired of the Northman title.

“Viking. Well you are a Viking and it wouldn’t be in best interest to make you want to throttle me. Besides they’re just legs. I’ve seen worse.” He scoffed.

“I’m serious. I’ve seen a man with no eye. And a woman without either of her legs. At least you still have yours.” You teased, “You can still feel can’t you?”

Ivar shifted now uncomfortable, “I think I liked you better when you were guessing my name.”

He parroted back and you blushed but nodded agreeing on talking of different things and of Pride. It was to a point infuriating and worse still? Some things that he said made sense, some tales of his Gods made sense and you couldn’t help but find similarities between the two.

“Do you have any brothers” at the question he groaned, you snickered, “I’ll take that as a yes.”

“They’re all a pain.” Laughter came easy around him, bruises lessened and rooms became warmer.

“Do you play games, besides weapons I mean?” Ivar enjoyed your eagerness in your questioning.

“Do you besides your stitching?” He cocked his head and you grinned.

“I play chess, I’m rather good at it.” You boasted proudly, him smirking at how you’d just sinned on your own without thought.

“Think you so? I could beat you.” Ivar took amusement and the snort that escaped you.

“You could try. In any case I suppose I should at least bring the board here to prove myself.” You stood up rather excitedly and walked to the door.

“Woman.” You turned before opening it, “Did you not sin of pride at how good you are at chess?”

The thought washed over you and for once in his company you felt heat on your face. You looked down thinking over something to say before the tale of your mother came to mind.

“God forgives all.” and with that you left for the chance at beating him in chess.

Ivar watched you leave, the dress trailing behind you as it flowed, there was something to the way your h/c locks shifted through the movements it must be soft. He found a small part of him thankful that you’d not been caught or perhaps you lied well enough that you wouldn’t be beaten again. He begrudgingly admitted to himself what he’d never do allowed, your company both soothed and infuriated him. The ringing laughter was agreeable to his silence that paraded in the room leaving him to thoughts. The wide eyes of fascination about the simplest of things, the soft sounds of interest. Those were deadly to the ears, the hum of questioning or the rolling ‘ah’ of understanding.

There was no denying the beauty that graced you but it was difficult to fully grasp at the fact that you were enraptured by his world as he was with the way you lived as yourself. Suffocating in your own home, bursting at the seams for a small filter of fresh air into your dank life and how silent you could be slipping in and out of shadows. The soft hands that had seen nothing but needlework, could they ever threaten a weapon? You walked back in with a smile and a checkerboard willing to play a game.

The game was slow, planned, a challenge, the soft ‘tak’ of moving pieces made you grin, “I’m going to win dear Nobody.”

“That so?” He put you in check to which you bite your lower lips, something about the movement was appealing.

“Your pride will be your downfall.” Moving out of check forced him into checkmate, “I won.” He scoffed but had a grin on his face.

“Tell me more of your home, this Kattegat.”

“It’s a trading post with boats coming in and docking. The flourishing is made by wares and the Longhouse where the thrones sit are filled with the slaves going back and forth for anything you could ask. Not unlike your servant woman.”

“Maude, she’s my keeper or at least that’s what she keeps trying to imprint in my head.” You chuckled, “All the while she is torn of encouraging me or scolding me and I don’t understand her half the time with her speaking in riddles.”

“I know someone that she might be like, save that he’s a little more…more.” You couldn’t help the snicker nor notice Maude leaving wine in the room as you fetched it for the two of you.

Wine was a wonder of the world, the way it made your mind hazy the ease it cause and the lack of control it helped spin. Such a drink helped to the moment where you were curiously looking over Nobody’s hands. They’d ended in your lap as you pressed against the rough skin, feeling the callouses under your fingertips.

“They’re rough. Rougher than a soldier’s I’ve touched those before, why?” You questioned turning his hands and looking at the small scars and tracing lines.

“They’re the hands of a sinner.” He chided carefully and you chuffed at the thought, you had sin on your own hands and yet they were not as rough nor were the men’s hands in the castle, “I go to the smiths, the buckles aren’t kind either.”

The smile was soft and gentle that played over your lips. When had you gotten this close? He wasn’t sure and found it humorous that you were holding and inquiring over the hands that could strangle you with ease, these hands that would be dripping in red with your kinsmen from a raid. What would you think of them then? Would you run and hide from him? You weren’t like the shield-maidens of his home, no your hands were more like a royals. Small, smooth, dainty.

These hands could never kill, “Yours are soft, what do they do?”
“Perhaps they sin too, more gently than yours but sin is still sin.” You looked up shyly from under your eyelashes at him- “They’re pricked by needles.” -his finger pressed gently on the wrapped pointer finger.

“They sneak around on walls no doubt, and play chess. But they couldn’t hold an axe or shield.” He now examined your hands just as intently, tracing the lines on your palm with callouses dragging against the skin.

“No, but maybe one day a bow?” Ivar shook his head, blue eyes like the sky after a storm flickered up to you there was something there, something vibrant and fierce in them made you pull your hand back.

‘Too close to the fire and it will burn, too close.’ You cleared your throat resting your hands back on your lap.

“You said there were seven.” You raised an eyebrow, “Sins.”

“Yes. We’ll speak of Gluttony tomorrow, won’t we?” Why had your voice gone so hoarse?

“Another game too.” The noncommittal hum from your mouth had you already trying to plan the next day and talks of Gluttony.

Even then you were hoping there was a way around warming your hands against the fire that was burning hot enough to be blue in it’s hue. Burning like his eyes. Burning.

‘Would it be so bad to be burned?’

Imagine you and Dean running into your ex...

Originally posted by deangifsdaily

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Word Count: 1,000

Warnings: language, sexual references, lots of fluff (is that a warning??)

A/N: Sorry I’ve been off the map lately, guys. Here’s some Dean fluff because to be honest, I really need this right now. The next couple weeks might be a little rough because of things that happened a year ago. I’m really over it, but I’m feeling a bit strung out and anxious and I know it’s because of all that shit. So enjoy the fluff. There and Back Again Part 4 will be out tomorrow night!

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anonymous asked:

Hi there! Can I request a scene with canon!Laurent and Auguste, perhaps the night before the battle. I love what you did with the relationship between Auguste and Laurent in "lines on the palm" but I'm really curious as to how you interpret their relationship back when Laurent was still young enough to be shy and bookish, and worship Auguste with no reservations. Thank you!!!


Auguste looks up and sees the yellow head, hesitantly inserted through the tent flap. He smiles and sets his sword aside. It’s been cleaned enough, polished enough. He knows he’s just losing himself in the reflective surface, now, trying not to think too hard or too far ahead. This is a better distraction.

“Hello there, Sparrow.”

It’s a dull brown name for such a golden boy. But Laurent hasn’t lost the bright, inquisitive way of peering at things that first earned him the name when he was barely old enough to walk. It’s on his face, along with a brief and subdued version of his usual smile, when Auguste waves him all the way inside.

“I heard Father talking,” Laurent says. “You’re planning to challenge?”

“Yes,” Auguste says. “If the Akielons have any honour, they will accept. It will save a lot of unnecessary bloodshed.”

Laurent takes this in solemnly, as he takes everything in. “Vere has used single combat to settle hostilities three times in history,” he says, unexpectedly. “We were defeated twice of those times. And won once. Two hundred years ago, King Josse defeated the champion of Ver-Vassal at the battle of Mont-Lys.”

“You know everything, don’t you?” Auguste says with affection. “I will need that head of yours, little brother, when I am king. Don’t go knocking it against anything.” Not that he thinks Laurent has the temperament to disguise himself in armour and go looking for the front line of a battle, as he himself would have done at that age. But it’s worth the reminder.

“You can even the score,” Laurent says.

Auguste laughs. “You’re very confident.”

“Nobody can best you,” Laurent says, with a trust that takes Auguste’s heart in its fist and squeezes.

He smiles, a little. “I hope not.”

Laurent comes closer, all the way close, and leans into Auguste. His voice is still a boy’s voice, but he’s growing. His head comes all the way up to Auguste’s chest now.

“I still wish you didn’t have to do it,” he says, muffled.

Auguste hugs him tight, then pulls back, his hands on Laurent’s shoulders. Fondness fills his chest like water. His younger brother is already such a clever, beautiful, caring boy. It’s going to be incredible watching him grow up and into his gifts.

“Laurent, this is part of being a prince, or a king. It’s valuing the good of the kingdom and its people above your own life. It’s being glad to take the risk, and willing to make the sacrifice when required. No matter what happens tomorrow, promise me you’ll remember that.”

“Make the sacrifice when required,” Laurent says, quietly.


“All right,” Laurent says. “I promise.”

I can’t put my fucking thoughts together right now.

I was gonna make a proper post about these last two SPN episodes, but I’m just gonna bullet point the pain away.

  • *during the pickax to the wall bit* I bet if Sam and Dean had taken off their shirts next, the wall would’ve come down easily.
  • Dean’s leg looks gross as hell.
  • I think they should 100% kill Toni. Fuck her kid.
  • Jodi is badass as always.
  • Sam’s speech made me proud. They grow up so fast. First pre-law, now leading an army. @thesuperwhovian and I liken it to Buffy coaching her Slayers. Mega cute.
  • As soon as Dean said he was gonna help Mary, I knew I was gonna cry.
  • And I was right. That fucking speech. I like that Dean cut himself some slack finally. Typically he blames himself for not protecting Sam, but in that speech he sort of told himself and Mary that he didn’t stand a chance from the beginning. Also, I was kind of waiting the entire season for Dean to get proper mad at her. I wanted him to hate her in that sort of irrational way. Sort of like “how could you abandon me?” Other than the time that Dean told Sam about Hell, I’d argue that this scene is Dean’s best block of dialogue. At least for a while. Beautifulllllllll.
  • The only good thing Ketch ever did was kill that Toni bitch. I knew from the last episode of season 11 that she was an ass, and I’m happy she had her ass handed to her. 
  • Ketch doesn’t know the meaning of “psychopath.” Dean had the Mark of Cain, bitch. 
  • It’s justice that Mary got to kill him, I think.
  • It’s ironic that we cut from Mary holding a gun to Ketch to Sam holding a gun to that British bitch. I can’t be bothered to learn her name.
  • Sam’s “PASS” was the most badass thing. And I fucking knew that bitch was gonna use Lucifer as a way to try and stay alive.
  • Too bad for her, because Jodi was having none of it.
  • That little family powwow at the end was so cute. It’s nice to have some closure for everything that went on this season between the three of them. Although, it kind of made me wary of where they were taking Mary’s character. I felt like, from the jump, they weren’t going to keep Mary around. Like, she never felt long term to me. Before Billie got killed, I thought she’d choose to go back to heaven or something. Now, though, I don’t know how they’re gonna proceed, based on the end of the second episode. Which is what we’re gonna talk about now. Thanks for giving us a heartwarming ending just before ruining our fucking lives, SPN.
  • I love that in the midst of all this shit going down with the baby, SPN still finds room to make fun of IKEA.
  • Kelly calling for God, LOL. GOD’S ON VACATION, BITCH.
  • Crowley dug himself out of a grave, that’s fun. Just like his ex-boyfriend Dean.
  • I am SHOOK that Rowena is dead. You can’t just not bring her around for a fuck-ton of episodes and then just “whoops she’s dead.” Fuck off.
  • Lucifer has a nice ass jacket, though.
  • Cas, I’m not your keeper or anything, but we typically don’t walk up to slits in the universe and traipse through.
  • *gun-blazing mystery man shows up* That’s 100% Bobby. Bet.
  • Mark…dyed his beard. And he trimmed it. Lookin’ good, my sweet.
  • Mary finally gets to meet the King of Hell. 
  • I was super pumped to hear that the gates of Hell would close, but Crowley would stay top side. I had this little fantasy of him shooting up human blood again, maybe owning a tie shop. You know, the life.
  • The flannel thing was cute as hell. And also, awwwwww. He loves those little assholes.
  • OKAY. The thing with Cas and the whole “the baby brings paradise”? Did Chuck make any of his kids read the Bible because???? Does Cas understand that that probably means the kid is the anti-Christ and/or the Beast? Does he know that after shit-misery in the apocalypse brought on by the anti-Christ, then there’s paradise? Does he fucking understand that that baby is probably desitined to kill the world and everyone in it and then, and ONLY THEN, will there be paradise? I mean, fucking come on. That’s classic Revelations bullshit. It’s end of days shit, motherfucker. Cas. Babe. COME ON. 
  • Dean being healed by Cas is the cutest thing. Also, I love how Cas comes into the room, sees all three Winchesters, and says “Dean?” Classic.
  • Referencing “The French Mistake” was hella grand. Although, I’d hardly call that meta. I saw something somewhere that said this episode would be super meta, but it wasn’t? They just referenced that episode, and that was all. I thought the Phantom Zone lookin’ place was gonna be like “this is the world after Donald Trump’s presidency” or some shit.
  • I fucking knew it was Bobby. What did I tell you? Jim Beaver lied to us on Twitter, that beautifully clever man.
  • Jesus, Sam and Dean have a hell of an impact on their world, heh?
  • Bobby’s gun being named after Rufus is the saddest thing. Well, it’ll be the saddest thing for at least another 10 minutes, anyway.
  • I like that Lucifer mentioned Chuck again. Just because I love Chuck.
  • Although Chuck could’ve helped out a little with the thing at the end, don’t ya think? Anyway.
  • I’m so sad about Crowley. I saw somewhere that Crowley will be in season 13, but you never know what that means, you know? Will he be in a different vessel? Is he just going to be there but in Purgatory? Or will he be totally fine and things will go back to normal? Either way, his final words being “bye, boys”? I can’t. What a way to go. He went out like a fucking hero. 
  • Castiel’s death pissed me off for like 0.2 seconds. Mainly because we know Misha will be back. No, I wasn’t sad for too long about Castiel’s death.
  • What I was fucking wrecked because of was Dean’s fucking reaction to Castiel’s death.
  • Hold on, let’s talk about Mary. See this is what I was talking about with the whole her leaving the show thing. Although, we didn’t see her die. So, I’m guessing the boys will try and get her back somehow. And probably time moves differently in that world so it’ll have been years of her trapped with Lucifer or some shit. I don’t think either her or Lucifer is gone for good. In fact, I think they’re signed on for 13, too.
  • Back to Dean. Holy fucking fuck. Yes, he wasn’t just sad because of Cas. He was sad because of Mary. But he fucking dropped to his knees in despair next to Cas, and the look on his face when he saw his best friend dead in the sand…that sent shivers down my spine. And his wings. Castiel’s wings. This is different than before, you understand, because Dean wasn’t mad at Cas. Not like in season 7. He was annoyed, sure, but he always is. Dean and Cas were finally in a place where they could talk shit out and be okay. After everything with Lucifer and Kelly and everything else, they lost each other again. That hurt so damn bad.
  • What the fuck kind of name is “Jack” for a nephilim?
  • If that kid came out that big, that’s probably what killed Kelly. That’s gross, I know, but I can’t help the thought. I’m glad he’s not a baby though, because I didn’t sign up for Sam and Dean raising a baby. It’s kind of annoying that it’s a bit of an Amara repeat, but it’s better than the alternative. Plus, if he gets out of hand, he’s old enough to kill!
  • To be honest, kind of a shitty ending. Not by way of content, because this season was bomb af, but the whole two episodes were kind of tame. Other than them killing off two regulars and two recurring characters, of course. But the very last second is usually something that is like “what????” But this was just sort of “okay, the kid was born, he’s fully grown (that’s weird), can’t wait for next season.” You know? 

All in all, though, a top notch season. I’m really happy with it. I know a lot of people aren’t because it’s nothing like SPN used to be, but who cares. I thought this season brought out some new and interesting styles and ways of presenting the content that I hope continues into next season. I’m not too worried about Cas and Crowley, but I’ll probably mourn them and Rowena all the same. And Dean crying over Cas’s body is gonna ruin me for the next few months. Thanks, SPN. 

Under Pressure

Ship:  Hermione Granger/Remus Lupin/Sirius Black
For:  @phoenix-173
Song:  [Under Pressure-Queen -1982]
Word Count: 1341 (Read more link for length)
Rating: T
Ao3: [Link]

Hermione’s head drooped against the bus window. She knew she couldn’t keep this up.  It was madness.  

And it was rampant misuse of a time turner.  She’d picked it up on a curse-breaking run. Snuck it into her pocket.  One of hundreds her department had found.  It wouldn’t be missed.  But if the Ministry ever found out…

They wouldn’t.  They couldn’t.  What she was doing was too important. She couldn’t help but think that her fellows needed her.  Their past selves, at any rate.  

Past-Remus was all alone, waiting for nothing, with nothing to look forward to, struggling with depression.  

Past-Sirius existed a few years later than Remus’ timeline.  And he was on the run.  Looking for Harry.  In his dog form most of the time.  

There was no danger of running into her past-self.  So there was no danger of being found out while time-travelling.

She wondered when she’d get a visit from their current selves.  When they’d put it together and traipse together into her office to tell her off.  Or worse… relay their disappointment.  It was a matter of time, funnily enough.  They were both very clever.  Remus especially.  And she existed in three timelines now.  It was only a matter of time before she made a mistake.  If she hadn’t already.

But she couldn’t really be bothered with those thoughts.  Not when there was so much pressure to do the right thing.  

Anyone who thought she could be happy as a Ravenclaw had obviously not stuck around to see the adult she’d become.  A do-gooder with no respect for the rules.  Hermione Granger was a Gryffindor.  No doubt about it.  

She pulled the cord to stop the bus, knowing that she’d still have to walk a ways to get to the exact place she said she’d meet Remus.  Twenty years before.  

Her head was pounding.  A side effect of all the time-hopping.  

It was becoming an addiction.  She was smart enough to know that.  But she was also unable to stop.  Hence the compulsory feeling of her actions.  It gave her power.  Knowing that she could change the past.  Right wrongs.  Save lives. 

It was true.  The two of them were alive because of her meddling.  A few day’s worth of charm work ensured that Sirius merely fell through a wormhole into another part of the Ministry during that fateful night in her fifth year at Hogwarts.  A simple cushioning charm and a few well-timed Proteus kept Remus from succumbing to a Death Eater’s spell at the Battle of Hogwarts.    

And now? She was really just… well… She was stalling.  Stalling for time.  Bringing food and supplies to both of these men who had somehow stolen her heart throughout her travels. Visiting them in the past because she was too much of a coward to visit them in the present.  Bit of a conundrum for a Gryffindor, she realized.  Cowardice.

What had started as a personal quest to right two horrendous wrongs had turned into a compulsion.  An addiction she couldn’t fight.

She stood and walked to the front of the bus, dropping a few coins as a tip into the tip box and stepping off onto the darkened street.  She didn’t know why she never worried for her own safety in these situations.  Another dastardly Gryffindor trait, she’d wager.  

Ron and Harry certainly seemed to suffer from the same affliction.  

She heard footsteps behind her.  Which wasn’t an uncommon occurrence.  She was in London, after all.  Muggles and Magical folks alike frequented this area.  

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Braxiatel conducted his first overtures two days after Narvin sabotaged Project Alpha. Narvin hadn’t considered it sabotage—sabotage typically meant one party gaining an advantage, getting the upper hand, being in competition. No, no, Narvin hadn’t considered shutting the project down sabotage—he’d considered it good judgement. Glower hadn’t shared that opinion.

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anonymous asked:

hey! so I just read the latest chapter of gaf au and I saw that Lexa was Iranian and just seeing that made me so happy!! I'm Iranian too and it's not often that I see someone make a character Iranian by choice. I was wondering, since Nowruz (Iranian New Year) wasn't too long ago, could you possibly write a short drabble of Lexa celebrating? Maybe with Clarke?

she talks with her parents and her little brother for close to an hour—it’s already morning in tehran, very early morning but it is, and they are going to visit lexa’s grandparents and then make their way around to the rest of their family and friends so they have to get an early start. 

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hockey hell is real and i am in too deep: a rec list

i have read a disgusting amount of hockey rpf in the past few months i am a human disaster

a handful of ships because i’m garbage. sorted by ship, rating within ship, and length within rating. updated 10/1/15

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Calum Imagine: Saving You at a Club

Author: Rhine


You could feel his eyes on you from across the dimly lit room, following your every move.

You were highly aware of it, the way he was just standing there, too casual to be casual, too happy for someone who was planning to just enjoy himself at the club.

He was thinking of more than that, with his dirty eyes trained on you.

You tried to brush it off, you tried to ignore it – but you couldn’t hide the panic that spiked your system every time he started to move closer to you.

And it wasn’t your fault that you came to this club alone; it wasn’t your fault you wanted to have some fun on a late night, it wasn’t your fault that you wanted to look good with the dress that made you feel beautiful and heels that put you on top of the world; makeup that made you smirk into the mirror with red lips.

It wasn’t your fault for being beautiful – no, that’s not a fault at all – but the way he was looking at you made it feel like it was.

You tried to lose him in the pulsing bodies, the fun of the night replaced with fear, panic in your system where the tipsy spin of alcohol was.

But he was always there, underneath the yellow of a florescent light, just before it flashed red.

Do you want to dance with me?

You politely declined him the first time he asked – when you first walked into the club, a small smile on your face, insisting that you really just wanted to sit for a bit.

He frowns a little, but he says just remember to save a dance for me and he’s off, just another boy who’ll move on to another girl and you’ve encountered people like him before; he’ll forget about you the moment another girl caught his eyes.

But it’s been two hours and he keeps on coming back with that greasy smile on his face and when he never leaves his eyes from you even as he steps away.

You don’t like it.

“Where’s that dance you promised me?”

And his voice is too low, his mouth too close to your skin and you don’t like the way his eyes sweep over you, you don’t like this, you don’t like him.

“I didn’t promise you a thing.”

“’Course you did, baby. C’mon, just one dance.”

He’s looking at you like a meal but you weren’t made for his hungry lips.

“I don’t want to dance.”

“Just one won’t hurt anybody. I’ve been waiting for you all night.”

“I said no.”

You try to sidestep him but he uses his broad shoulders to block you and his hands are on your wrist, tugging you towards him while you try to pull yourself away again.

“Let go of me.”

“No need to be so tense, babe. Don’t be such a killjoy.”

He’s practically trying to drag you now, a pointed smile on his lips at the sight of you trying to wriggle away from his grip.

“Fuck off!”

You claw at his veined arms – aren’t you glad you did your nails today? – and stomp on his foot – hard – with those spiked heels that you loved so much.

He yelps with a loud swear that makes everyone within vicinity turn and look your way, letting go of you in an instant, clutching at his foot that was sorely bruised – fucking broken, you hope – from your spiked heel.

“You crazy bitch!”

“Crazy bitch who doesn’t want to dance. Take a hint, creep!”

You make your way through the crowd – who was gladly parting for you – leaving the boy to limp away in shame as you held your head high.

You’re in the midst of texting your friend – who was likely asleep, but you’d give it a shot anyways – to come and pick you up and listen to you rant when a tall figure in front of you blocks the light you were using to see the small screen.

You look up with raised, expectant eyebrows.

“Hey, uh – are you okay?”

Tall, tanned, sharp lines accented with the shadows and the flashing lights, art on his arms and peeking from his shirt, eyes that were dark enough to drown in – you would’ve called him cute in a way that didn’t mean just hair-ruffling on any other day, but today you weren’t having it.

“I’m fine.”

You say it in the way most people would clench go away.

“Listen, I know you’ve just had a rough night – and I know you were looking for a fun one – and I know you’re probably sick of testosterone at this point, but I think it’s in your best interest to know that the creep you just single-handedly slayed has friends.”

You try to hide the panic underneath a stony façade, but you can feel your chin trembling.

“I saw them in the men’s room and they didn’t look too happy about one of their mates suffering a stiletto stab to the foot – and as much as I would love to rewatch you do that like six more times tonight – totally epic, by the way, you have my total respect – I’d rather not put you through that.”

You’re quiet, staring at the boy’s immaculately clean shoes and long legs, trying to gather your thoughts with tightly wound fingers around your purse.

“What were they saying?”

The boy hesitates and you already know what it means.

“Listen, do you have a ride out of here?”

“I – she’s asleep.”

“Call a cab. Now.”

You fumble with your phone, quickly dialling the number and stammering out an address, pleading for a fast driver and the closest possible parking.

When you hang up, you think you feel something collapsing inside of you – the dam of calm, cool, collectiveness – and the fear and worry starts to rush in.

He sees it and he stoops down to your level, trying to catch your eye.

“Hey, hang in there, alright? Breathe, there – just like that, good. I’m Calum. Hood. At your service. What’s your name?”

You manage to tell him in between deep breaths and stutters.

“There we go. We’re gonna get you out of here, okay? Don’t worry – you’re a strong girl and this is just a bad night. Don’t worry.”

His hands hover over your shoulders but they never land on it; he’s a step away, just enough for you to inhale some fresh air without the shadow of his body over you.

You close your eyes and take a few more deep breaths before looking into his steady gaze again.

“Thank you, Calum. I – “

“Found someone else to run to, huh?”

The greasy voice is right behind you and you swallow your fear and turn to face him.

“Was my message not clear enough the first time? Leave me alone.”

You refuse to tremble in front of him. Like the fucking mutt he was, he could probably smell your fear.

You are not the prey.

Even if he has his friends circling you.

“Do you think you’re clever?”

“Oi, fuck off, mate. She clearly doesn’t want you, so go leech on someone else.”

Calum’s jaw is set and his eyes are narrowed at the other boy, muscles in his arm tensing.

“Gonna hide behind your boyfriend?”

“Gonna call the fucking cops for harassment if you don’t leave me alone.”

“You won’t do it.”

“Bet you didn’t think I would crush your foot either, but here we are.”

You’re trembling visibly but the fire in your eyes don’t subside.

The boy steps towards you with sturdy steps, his friends starting to do the same.

Calum swiftly steps in front of you, and you just manage to peek from behind his sweat-glistened shoulders.

“Listen, asshat – there are at least a hundred people in this club, fifty of which saw your slimy ass hands on her and eighty who heard your pansy-ass screams when you didn’t understand the meaning of no. All eyes are on you, buddy – what are you gonna do?”

Calum’s words are a growl and you can see his fingers curling into fists in the corner of your eye.

The other boy takes another step closer to Calum – practically chest-to-chest now – this guy really didn’t understand the concept of personal space – spitting his words right back.

“Does playing hero make you feel better?”

“Does a foot up your ass sound good to you?”

Calum isn’t backing down, and the poison in his voice is enough to keep the creep and his friends at bay – though it’s probably a mix of that and his muscled build, which you were thankful for.

“Listen, you piece of horseshit, try anything – if you even look at her the wrong way – I will not hesitate to kick your worthless ass to the curb and smash your dirty head in for the rats to eat. I am saying this once and once only – fuck off.”

“You think you can say the same words when I string that head up on my wall?”

This time, it’s you to steps in.

“Listen, I don’t know what kind of weird-ass Twilight coven shit you have going on with you and your boys, but you have got to get a hobby.”

“Why, you – “

“Crazy bitch, yeah, I know. Slutface McHooker queen, whatever trashy name you want me to soothe your itty bitty aching heart from rejection – but if you wanted a fucking dance, maybe you shouldn’t of treated me like a piece of meat. Hard, I know. But maybe if you – oh my god, wait for it – treated me like a fucking human, then you’d have a chance at this one fucking dance that you wanted so much.”

He’s glaring at you openly now, his hands twitching at his sides.

“Seriously, mate – there’s at least fifty other girls in this club and you look like a dick for getting so worked up over one. Just leave it alone.”

Calum’s trying the calmer approach, though you still see the veins lining his arms from the tension.

“I don’t like being disrespected.”

“And I don’t like being handled by your greasy-ass hands – deal with it. You must love being the fool though, because I spy with my little eye fucking security coming your way.”

The other boy whips around so quickly you swear you hear his neck crack a little.

Sure enough, the black-figured security was heading your way, and the creep with his gang of friends are quick to try and scamper away from you.

“Everything okay here?”

“Can you take out the trash, kind sirs? The lady’s had a long night.”

Calum says the words with utmost respect and sincerity to the bulky security guard, and with a small nod, they grab the entourage that once surrounded you and harshly push them out, whispers and camera flashes from the other clubbers following their path out.

When they’re gone, you finally exhale in relief.

“Do you have like an on switch in your head to be a badass or…?”

Calum laughs breathily at you, and you can’t help but to grin at his words.

“My knees were shaking the whole entire time, oh my god.”

“They’re gone now. Strong girl.”

He places a steady hand on your shoulder and you smile gratefully at him.

“Thank you, Calum. I – I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Probably kick some ass. Might get some enemy blood on that pretty dress of yours.”

You laugh and shake your head, a small smile playing on his lips.

“I mean it. Thank you.”

He nods in response to your sincerity, a quick pat before his hand leaves your shoulder.

“Get going now. Your ride’s here.”

You follow his gaze to the bright taxicab in front of the club, undoubtedly yours.

You look back at him and in a moment of spontaneity and gratefulness, you envelop his sweating body in your arms for a quick hug, your lips brushing his cheek as you pull away.

You rush out of the club after that, clumsily fitting yourself into the taxicab with a split-second smile before the car whisks you away.

He watches you get into the car safely, watching the lights disappear down the lonely street.

He’s not sure how to explain to his friends your red lipstick stain on his cheek or the lingering remnants of your perfume on his skin.

Got lucky, Cal?

He thinks of the girl with the fire in her eyes and the arch of her brow, the confidence in her stance and the authority in her voice despite the trembling of her fingers.

Yeah. I did.


more imagines here!

anonymous asked:

could you do the functions as childhood games? (hopscotch, tag, duck duck goose, hide and seek, monkey in the middle, etc.)


Lmao here goes….

Ne: Hot Lava—ENxP children can be a lot to handle. Sometimes you’ve gotta get them off your back and preoccupied somehow. Nothing accomplishes this better than telling your imaginative, and slightly overwhelming child that—

‘’Oh, no!!! The Floor is Made Out of Lava!”

Se: Hot Potato— it must be fun, playing Hot Potato when you’re not completely uncoordinated,,,,i wouldn’t know,,,,

Si: Telephone—tangible reality is subjective and easier to misconstrue than one may think. Sure, “She sells seashells by the sea shore” might have been the original input, but “Sneep Smells, Sneep Smells by the Sneep Snore” has a very specific connotation to you. It holds meaning. Surely that must amount to something, right? 

Ni: Hide and Go Seek—Ni never passes up an opportunity to admit it ‘’knew’’ something, and Hide and seek is a fantastic way to show off your ability to psychoanalyze your friends and family members. 

“Gosh, how did you know I was hiding behind the doorway?”

“Johnny, I’ve known you my entire life (8 years). You’re not someone who’s clever enough to pick a truly /difficult/ hiding place, but you’re not outspoken enough to make a joke out of it. When it comes down to it, Johnny, I guess there really wasn’t anywhere else you would’ve hidden….”

“Wow, I guess you’re right. I’m not the most imaginative person out there…”

“That’s why Ricky doesn’t want to play blocks with you anymore….” 

Fe: Mother May I—not because of the whole ‘motherly’ connotation that gets associated with Fe….but more because the game itself is a perfect isolated example of societal structure and how malleable our ethics truly are. Mother May I is a disastrous conglomerate of social nuance and bias which becomes more convoluted as each new matriarch overthrows the previous. Every player must immediately adhere to the system in place in order for the gameplay to continue as is. 

“Mother, why does Brian get to take big steps and I don’t?” 

“Because that’s the basic foundation of Mother May I, Charlie. My benevolence towards Brian is as obligatory as my ignorance towards you” 

“But, Mother, why do we continue along this inevitable path? This injustice can only end once we break this cycle of restored tyranny!”

“Charles, my son, my value assessments base themselves in objective reality alone! I cannot rewrite history!”

Te: Monkey in the Middle—nothing poses more of a thorn in Te’s side than a loud, screaming child who’s sole purpose is to well, be a thorn in someone’s side. Monkey in the Middle exemplifies this pain. Te functions efficiently, and there is inarguably nothing more efficient than throwing an object from point A to point B in a straight line. This holds true even when one player (not naming names) is being a total nuisance in the middle of the circle and trying to obstruct gameplay entirely. Te will not make any compromises. The process must continue. 

Ti: Tag— what is ‘It’? what do we mean by ‘You’re It’? ‘It’ is representational. ‘It’ is the skewed concept of survival, of wanting to live a life free of sin. ‘It’ is the constant cycle of  willingly running your life–if running meant passing the ‘predator’ label onto someone else. We’re so eager to restore ourselves as the true ‘victims’ that we accept a lifestyle of constant unrest. 

‘It’ is the basic fear of social alienation condensed into a single, two lettered syllable. ‘It’….what a gross oversimplication…wake up sheeple

Fi: Duck, Duck, Goose—sometimes you’re just really really mad at your friend, and you just don’t see the point in telling your friend why you’re mad because she should know why you’re mad. In times like these, subtle reminders are necessary. Nothing is more subtle than lightly tapping your friend on the shoulder and shouting ‘’Goose!” before running wildly back to your original starting position. 

Realm of Eternity: A ToG Fanfiction, Part 1

(A/N: So I’ve been saying over and over and over that I will NOT do a continuation fic of EoS. But the more excuses I came up with, the more I realized they weren’t GOOD excuses. So … here we go. I cannot promise daily updates like with ACOWAS. And for all I know this could implode and be an utter failure. But it could be fun to try. So hold on tight, friends. It’s going to be a wild ride. Empire of Storms spoilers ahead.)

(Read: Part I | II | III | IV | V | VI | VII | VIII | IX | X )

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mermaidsthree  asked:

so? everyone doesn't like lucien because he tries to force feyre to go back to spring? BUt he doesn't know what the night court is actually like? everything he tells feyre about it is what he believes? so,, in his mind,, this guy this rhys is manipulating her or forcing her or ect. and he wants her safe and tamlin isn't safe but its safer than the sadistic killers he tells feyre about in tar?? and he saw how rhys treated feyre in utm - and it was noT. nice. he's just trying to help her?

Yeah?? I think people kind of…struggle seeing things from Lucien’s perspective? Feyre is their main character, concern and focus so they just…Look at things from her POV and focus on her needs and situation and don’t really…Think of anyone outside it? I don’t think the Inner Circle helps in this instance because they were, all of them, almost as instrumental in Feyre’s recovery and understanding of her abuse as Rhys was. They just consider the character’s surface actions not the context behind them (like the fact the IC are in a position to help Feyre and will face 0 negative consequences for that which…isn’t exactly what Lucien is facing here) 

And then, as you point of, Lucien doesn’t know what Rhys is like really? This is the man who has put on the public face of the High Lord persona he uses in the Court of Nightmares for years before Lucien was even born. As far as Lucien knew/was aware of he was the right hand and whore of the woman who gouged his eye out and cursed his High Lord, himself, and his people. This is also the man who held Lucien’s mind and was ready to crush it and completely strip Lucien of his self and identity. This was something that Rhys was capable of doing while Amarantha was holding a good portion of his power in thrall so it’s not really a surprise that Lucien believes Rhys is fully capable, both in terms of his powers and his morals, of manipulating Feyre, making her love him, turn her back on Tamlin for the purposes of hurting Tamlin. (because…using Feyre to hurt/use Tamlin is something Rhys has done before)  

Rhys was playing a part, yes…but it’s a part that he played extremely well and revealed to few. That has consequences. While I agree that Tamlin wildly overreacted when he went to Hybern for help the fact remains that his reasons for doing that actually comprise…pretty sound logic. Look at it from their point of view. 

 Rhys forced Feyre into a bargain UtM entitling him to take her for a week per month. He turned up to enforce this bargain during their wedding (Lucien had no idea that Feyre was panicking at this point and begging for help - he’s not a mind reader) He basically kidnaps Feyre as far as Lucien is concerned and this time she doesn’t come home…she sends them a letter but, like, what’s the more believable scenario for him? That Rhys forged said letter to taunt Tamlin or that this all powerful, malevolent, sadistic lord of night taught the young, illiterate girl how to read and write so she could send it herself? Yeah. Add to that Tamlin’s…instability and Lucien’s desperation to keep his court and his home together, plus his worry for his friend in the hands of this sadistic court who plants severed heads in their fountains for the hell of it and it’s…not entirely surprising that Lucien is fearful for Feyre’s safety and wants to bring her home (by force if necessary because she can’t see past Rhys’s influence) Rhys made this bed, frankly, in ACOTAR and in the centuries before cultivating a reputation that keeps his people safe but incredibly isolated. Lucien just seems to be the one fandom is forcing to lie in it.  

Also I feel like people focus on what Lucien didn’t do rather than what he did (and what happened to him as a result) 

Like, he’s known Tamlin…pretty much his entire life, let’s say 350 years for easy counting shall we? Tamlin took him in, gave him a place, a position of respect in his court and protects him from his sadistic murderous family. And has done so for three hundred and fifty years. Feyre on the other hand he’s known for, what? less than two years certainly at this point, she showed up after she killed and skinned one of his friends (something Lucien feels guilty about) Plus the fact that Tamlin. Is. Abusing. Him. Tamlin has been emotionally and physically abusing Lucien for centuries that kind of thing isn’t something you can just switch off and overcome for the sake of bettering someone else’s situation? If it was he’d have left that court and that influence years ago (if he even recognises the situation he’s in which is…sadly doubtful) 

And in spite of literally all of that Lucien still helps Feyre??? Repeatedly??? He’s willing to let Rhys wipe him out to protect her name (and he’s only spared because Feyre intervenes). He saves her life and is brutally whipped for it. He nearly dies alongside her in the second task because he’s someone that no-one will mourn and more importantly that no-one will help and he knows that and accepts it. He tells her not to make him pick…Not to make him pick between her, someone he’s known less than a year at this point, who killed his friend but that he’s befriended anyway and his High Lord, the man he considers a friend, the person he’s sworn to obey and the person he completely and utterly relies on for everything. And he still stands up to him. Repeatedly. Even when Feyre won’t, when she’s given up effectively Lucien pushes back again and again and again. He gets dismissed, belittled and physically harmed as a result of this. Yet he still promises to try again in spite of that. 

And guess what? Fandom saying that Lucien should do more? That he isn’t trying hard enough? That he’s sitting back letting this happen in spite of his position, in spite of his abuse, in spite of the consequences of him pushing back even a little. Lucien feels like this too. Lucien feels guilty for not doing more. 

Thoughts slammed into me, images and memories, a pattern of thinking and feeling that was old, and clever, and sad, so endlessly sad and guilt-ridden, hopeless—
Then I was back, blinking, no more than a heartbeat passing as I gaped at Lucien.
His head. I had been inside his head, had slid through his mental walls—

People, myself included, have focused on this passage as showing that Lucien is likely depressed due to his situation, that he feels ‘endlessly sad’ and hopeless which isn’t really surprising. But in this moment he also feels guilt-ridden, not just feeling a little bad or a little guilty, fully guilt-ridden. This is the moment where Feyre encourages Lucien to push back because they’re right and Tamlin is wrong and she wants him to fight for that and instead he backs down. 

And this is how he responds to the situation. He feels sad, he feels guilty and he feels hopeless. He feels guilty about not pushing back, not standing up for Feyre (not himself) but he also feels hopeless. There is nothing he can do. There is a limit to what he can do, the impact he can have and he knows that. Lucien isn’t stupid, Lucien is actually pretty damn switched on and intuitive when it comes to people and he knows Tamlin well, he knows what’s going to happen if he and Feyre keep pushing and he knows it’s not going to be pretty or pleasant for either of them. 

This isn’t laziness, this isn’t silence, this isn’t complicity (that argument genuinely disgusts me tbh) this is survival instinct. This is a person who has been trapped in this situation for a very long time and has learned when to shut his mouth for his own good. That isn’t selfish; that’s just what he’s been forced to become to survive this situation and I don’t know how anyone can truly blame him for that. 

Feyre needs help in this situation and Lucien can’t give it to her (though he tries, puts himself at risk to try for her) because Lucien needs help too. A little bit of compassion wouldn’t go amiss tbh, Lucien is suffering from PTSD and depression, is being emotionally and physically abused by someone he’s indebted to and completely relies upon….and he still tries to help Feyre. Let’s just…think about that for a minute before we start accusing him of ‘supporting Tamlin’s abuse’ please and thanks. 

What if Confessions Series - Static (Reader x Steve Rogers)
Word Count: 1403
Warning: Some… smut. Stuff. It’s not v good. Also a joke and confession kind of!

A/N: Goodbye followers, I know you guys will leave me after this one. It’s so badly written, I do apologise. I’ve never done this before. I should… practice. *SOB* Uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuugh.

*hits post and runs away* GOODBYEEeeeeee.

Steve was upset with you, but he wouldn’t tell you why. His responses were short and curt. For some reason, instead of getting upset, you got mad. You felt like you had had enough. He had hurt you once before, so you wouldn’t let him hurt you again, especially with no valid reason or logic.

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vi-6w6  asked:

I don't wanna like PUSH prompts in u or nothin but there is this one line from monster by Mumford and songs that's like "yours is the face that makes my body burn" and ofc bc I'm always thinking of vb like.. idk!!! I'll come back w/something good ha

Tommy didn’t like being a back-up dancer. Or well, he didn’t dislike it, per se, but he preferred being in the front a bit more than he is now. He was totally skilled enough to be at the forefront with the rest of the main cast of this particular stage play. Back at his old city he’d starred in his fair share of plays, musicals, and stage productions, but he was the new guy here. He’d get a chance soon to move up to the front of the stage eventually.

And he couldn’t wait because maybe he’d finally be able be able to stand next to Alfred- the great sunshine at center stage.

Tommy watches Alfred talk to other actors. The man flashes a smile that sets Tommy’s heart on fire, but it’s not even leveled on him. It’s turned to a sweet little Canadian woman that’s doing some particularly difficult lifts with Alfred in this production. Then the Korean man standing at Sunshine’s elbow says something, and Alfred bursts into laughter.

That fire in Tommy’s heart burns hotter now, face and neck red with it. It’s stealing all his thoughts away from him.

‘Don’t smile at them! Don’t laugh with them! Don’t turn those beautiful expressions on them when you won’t even look at me!’

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For as much as I’m in love with Stranger Things and want season 2, like, right now please, there is one this about the show that bothered me: that Lonnie didn’t get eaten by the monsters but Barb did.

From the moment Lonnie appeared on the screen, I wanted him to die, and by all the rules of the horror genre he absolutely should have. Let’s take a look at his introduction alone:

  • Before you ever see him, you learn he called his youngest son homophobic slurs, likely to his face.
  • Your first look at him is literally him lunging at his own son, even though Jonathan announced himself.
  • He backs off, but only after Jonathan successfully pushes him away.
  • He tries to cover being bested with a laugh and a, “You’ve gotten stronger.” And he tries to force a hug.

Originally posted by youremrlebowski-imthedude

Now, add to that he’s not even slightly concerned that his son has been missing and didn’t even bother to return the call informing him of the fact. THEN he uses his inaction to gaslight Joyce. AND THEN he tries to convince Jonathan to move to the city so he can “see him more,” like. This guy is unequivocally an abuser—physically, emotionally, mentally, you name it—and I’m so proud of Joyce for divorcing his sorry ass and of Jonathan for having exactly zero tolerance for his shit and giving Will the tools to protect himself the best he knows how.


Lonnie shows up for Will’s “funeral,” right? He tries to be the consoling and remorseful ex, and Joyce eats it up. Who wouldn’t? Who would be suspicious of someone who just lost his child. Answer: Jonathan. The instant he sees Lonnie sitting next to Joyce, he immediately launches at him. He goes from 0 to 100, ready to fight his dad to keep him away from his mom. It’s Joyce who has to get between them to calm him down—a scene I imagine has played out more times than any of them would care to count. It’s not until Joyce finds the flier for an ambulance-chasing attorney that she realizes the same thing Jonathan did immediately. Lonnie’s there for Lonnie, not Will.

He wants to profit from his son’s death.

He wants to profit from his son’s death.

He wants to profit from his son’s death.

And bonus: he plans to manipulate a grieving mother into giving him free room and board while he does it.

This guy is an utter piece of shit, but worse, he’s a believable piece of shit. And the writers do nothing to redeem him, bless them.

Lonnie is exactly the sort of character a horror story eats whole and spits out the bones.


Who does it eat instead?

Oh, that’s right, Barb.

Barbara, who tries to tell her friend she’s acting out of character and to stop and think for a second. Barbara, who tries to get Nancy to be honest with herself about her relationship with Steve. Barbara, who is more socially aware than Nancy, or anyone, gives her credit for—who is also aware of tropes and how she fits into them. Barbara, who agrees to be Nancy’s guardian. Barbara, who clearly doesn’t enjoy being in the presence of unrepentant assholes but endures it for Nancy. Barbara, who has heart eyes for Nancy so big, you wonder how she sees anything else. Barbara, who notices when Nancy gets a new bra.

But let’s break down Nancy and Barb’s relationship just a little more.

One thing I think is masterfully done in Stranger Things is the actual structure of the story. The first D&D game that foreshadows Will’s disappearance and the final D&D game that acknowledges the questions the season left open and again foreshadows what the next season might hold (both of which campaigns run about 10 hours when the season itself was close to the same length) are such a fun and clever nod in an otherwise grim story that is, by turns, both terrifying and horrifying. One other structure I really love is how well Nancy’s relationships to Barb and to Steve are juxtaposed.

Every scene with Barb is immediately followed by or included in one with Steve, Nancy’s apparent love interest. Barb comes to Nancy at her locker and enthuses about her new beau; Steve summons Nancy to the bathroom to makeout as long as possible, even through class if she doesn’t resist him enough lets him, regardless of how important her academic life is to her. Barb eagerly and attentively helps Nancy study for her upcoming test; Steve shows up and snatches away her flash cards (he does this so many times oh my god), saying she’s “studied enough.” Barb tries to remind Nancy of what she said she didn’t want to do; Steve pressures Nancy (again) into a thing she told him directly she didn’t want to do (repeatedly).

(Quick interlude: I think there’s a lot going on in Nancy’s relationship with Steve that acknowledges how difficult it is for women, especially young women, to be frank about wanting a sexual relationship [and with whom]. Nancy’s reluctance to be seen as a slut and her dismay when Steve’s friend [and lbr, Steve] apply that name to her later on and so publicly are pretty strong evidence for why Nancy isn’t able to speak honestly about wanting to have sex with Steve. However, I also think she feels quite a bit of pressure to want to want those things—a theme that’s consistent with Jonathan’s advice to Will that he doesn’t have to like things just because other people want him to. But this is a whole different discussion and I digress.)

The final juxtaposition between Barb and Steve is her abduction and murder. She screams for Nancy at the same time Steve and Nancy have sex for the first time. (If you want to take the metaphor a little further, one might see the usual connotation behind screaming someone’s name … turned upside down.) The camera cuts back and forth between Barb’s horror and Nancy’s love-making. It’s as if the story is blaming Nancy for how disastrously her choice of an SO turns out. It seems to say “way to go, choosing Steve. if you weren’t busy with that asshole, this might not have happened.” Given how much the show appears to resist slut-shaming otherwise, I’m disappointed in this message that indicts Nancy for her sexuality—and kills Barb for hers.

Then again, maybe I shouldn’t be. This story also has a chief of police who suggests that Will’s sexual orientation (A FUCKING CHILD FFS) might be a mitigating factor in his disappearance and a father who only appears to care about his children if they can be “manly” enough or, failing that, if they can make him money. Certainly, some of the homophobic undercurrents of the show can be assigned to historical climate and individual character traits, and Joyce is usually the one to call it out.

Not when it comes to Barbara Holland. Her safety and disappearance are routinely downplayed by everyone except Nancy. Even Barb’s own mother seems only casually concerned, which I find extraordinary, given that people in her town are currently going missing. She doesn’t get a vigil. She’s a distant afterthought, a low priority. Hell, her disappearance rates a lower concern even than Steve getting in trouble for drinking a few beers or Nancy lying to the police about what she and Steve were doing in his room. And after Will comes home and the monsters are assumed to be defeated, Nancy is the only one who mourns her.

Furthermore, the only people killed by the monsters appear to be people who either deserved it or were at least nominally capable of protecting themselves. Will and Holly (both children) are both rescued before it’s too late (or so it seems so far); the two hunters and everyone involved with the CIA team all die. Barb is the only defenseless and blameless person killed by the monsters, and I think it’s important to ask why.

Horror is a genre long-known to work on the principle of punishment, and Barb is the only innocent person to die. She’s also the only one to get a graphic death scene. She’s the only one whose fucking pieces are put on display for the viewer—more than once, even. I’ve seen a lot of horror movies in my day. She’s clearly being punished for something, and the most likely something we can infer from subtext is who she loves.

I really want to know. Why is Lonnie, a character who screams to be punished, spared? For that matter, why is Steve or any of his asshole friends? Any other horror story would’ve disposed of them. Why Barb? I think we all know why.

Stranger Things is a fantastically written show that’s masterfully performed and produced. It gives us so many wonderful, important characters. It aims to and succeeds in undermining an impressive number of tropes. Just not when it comes to burying its gays.

Barbara Holland deserved so much better.

svmadelyn  asked:

Hi! I am here to HELP you in your prompts-quest. How about a tried and true classic - pretending to be dating, Toews/Kane? Alternately, Toews/Kane, indecent proposal. I'm an equal opportunity prompts employer.

Soooooo … I know we don’t know each other yet, but HI, MY NAME IS MEL, AND I LIKE TO COMBINE FIC PROMPTS.  The result?  This weird “Indecent Proposal”/”Win A Date With Tad Hamilton!” AU.  Also, for some reason these keep coming out angstier than I intended.  IDEK.  I regret nothing.

“I can’t believe I actually agreed to this.”

“Yeah, you said that last time, too."  Patrick sips at his wine—"I’m really more of a beer guy, but my agent says wine looks classier, so”—and grins, apparently unconcerned with the cameras flashing outside the restaurant window.  “But you came out with me again anyway.”

“Yeah, well, I still need the money enough to make it worth it.”

“Hey,” Patrick says, pressing a hand over his heart and staring at Jonny with an exaggerated pout.  “Feelings, man.  Words hurt.”

“I’ve never understood why this many people even care about your personal life.  You’re a hockey player, not a movie star—isn’t this kind of paparazzi attention sort of overkill?”

“You know how people slow on the highway to stare at a car wreck?"  Patrick shrugs.  "I think it probably has something to do with that.”

“You’re saying you think of yourself as a car wreck?” Jonny asks, eyebrow raised.  Patrick just looks back calmly.

“Don’t you?”

Honestly, Jonny doesn’t know what to think.  He’s a hockey fan, he lives in Chicago; of course he knows who Patrick is.  He knows what kind of a guy he is, sees the pictures in the tabloids and the stories on Deadspin, hears the rumors about whether or not the Blackhawks feel like he’s still wroth all of the negative press that comes with him.  The last thing he would’ve expected was to have picked up Patrick Kane at a bar for a one-night stand a couple of weeks ago; the idea of him showing up at Jonny’s tiny dojo a few days later with a charming smile and a truly fucked-up proposal wouldn’t in a million years have occurred to him as the remotest possibility.

Still, he’s got less than a month left to find the money for a down payment on the dojo’s building before the deadline’s up and his landlord takes the development company’s offer; he really does need the money.  And if pretending to date Patrick for a few weeks to help the guy’s public image will help him get it … well, there are probably worse ways he could be spending his time.

“I think,” he finally says, pushing his plate back and placing his napkin on the table, “that you’re probably a better person than you want people to think you are.”



“Huh.  You know, that’s kind of a turn-on.”

“Yeah well, I hate to be the one to give you the bad news, but you’re not paying me enough to whore myself out.  Sorry.”

“That’s too bad."  Patrick leans forward, forearms braced against the table as he smiles, slow and thoughtful.  "One million.”


“I’m upping my offer.  One million dollars, if you go home with me tonight.”

From the corner of his eye, Jonny catches the flash of another camera.  He can imagine the picture now: Patrick leaning over the tiny table with a flirtatious grin while Jonny stares in slack-jawed shock.  It’ll be in some paper or on some website by tomorrow morning, and the knowledge sends a hot rush of shame and anger through Jonny’s blood.

“Are you fucking joking?” he hisses, and Patrick shrugs.

“Not even a little bit.  Still think I’m a good person?”

“So what, this is about proving some stupid point?”

“No; this is about me really wanting to get laid.  Come on,” he says, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial, cocky whisper as he winks at Jonny.  “Neither of us can get any anywhere else for the time being, and it’s not like I’ve missed how you’ve been looking at me.  One million, more than enough to keep your building from getting torn down, and all you have to do is something you want to do anyway.”

It’s tempting.  God fucking damn it, it’s so tempting.  One million wouldn’t just be enough for the down payment, it would be almost enough to buy the building outright.  One night, and everyone who’s counting on him would be taken care of.  One night, like Patrick said, of doing what he’s been wanting to do again anyway since he woke up the morning after the bar to find that Patrick was already gone.

"If this is some sort of attempt to keep me from actually liking you, you’re doing pretty well.”

"I don’t care if you like me,” Patrick snaps back before he checks himself, defensiveness replaced with a smug leer as he sweeps his tongue over his lips in deliberate provocation.  “I just care if you sleep with me.”

“I don’t want to sleep with you."  Jonny takes a moment of vicious satisfaction at the faltering surprise on Patrick’s face.  "I want to fuck you; there’s a difference.”

“Hey, man."  Patrick sits up, breathless and dark-eyed as he signals for the check.  "Whatever you’re into.”

figure the ways

He laughs, then laughs harder when Clarke reaches up to try and smother the sound with her hands. It’s late, and they can’t have their tent that far away from camp because they’re a bunch of co-dependent fuckers. 

Which is kind of his point here. 

“Don’t even act like you don’t want to play matchmaker,” he argues, still grinning.

ok, so like, eons ago i wrote this thing so that i could spam afigureofspeech’s page (like a creep. a fabulous, non-virus spamming creep). and it was funny and i laughed, because i’m a loser who laughs at my own clever jokes – seriously though, does anyone else ever send a text and go, “gosh darnit i’m so great” and giggle? i do – but that was that.

BUT APPARENTLY I SAVED IT. GO ME. so i doctored it up and here we are!!! i’m a snippet-spam-uhm. crazy person. as if you didn’t already know.

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