chicken is the bomb

imagine southern John Laurens

• instead of yo yo yo he says y'all y'all y'all
• “my dharlin’ Alexander”
• “sweetheart, you need to get come rest”
• he owns a horse and it’s name is Minnie
• Alexander refuses to ride Minnie
• John when Alexander roasts Tjeffs: “oh bless your heart”
• John using a lot of southern slang and confusing the hell out of Alexander
• John hating his accent
• Alexander loving his accent
• John and Alexander getting into little arguments about John’s accent
• John’s southern accent getting stronger as they argue
• And Alex is just grinning the whole time
• John trying to wake Alex up in the morning, and Alex is just grumpy and John teases him by saying “My, Alexander, aren’t you just peachy this morning?”
• Deadass this man makes some absolutely bomb dot com fried chicken
• He loves peaches
• And iced tea
• Alex heard John mutter “fucking yankees” one day and he has no idea what the hell that means
• “dharlin”
• please imagine southern John Laurens
• p l e a s e
• s o u t h e r n b e l l e j o h n l a u r e n s

Ok but listen...

What if the Suriel has offspring somewhere? I’m not saying it’s in Mor’s bloodline because her family/the Night Court seems hella into keeping their blood “pure” (I just threw up in my mouth) but I’m not ruling it out. The Shadows exist and they’re mixed in a way that seems out of the ordinary—at least to Amren (who said of them that High Lords will stick their cocks anywhere). But it doesn’t even have to be Mor’s line.

Suriel said it (he?) couldn’t read Feyre’s emotions because they were happening too fast. We know Shadowsingers hear and feel more than others, and we know Nesta can at least pick and choose between her own emotions similarly.

It honestly doesn’t have to be connected to anyone we know or have met. Just the idea. That a half Suriel is roaming around out there. Lookin half terrifying maybe. Enjoying long robes and chicken. Maybe by the seaside. Dropping truth bombs like dollar bills at a strip club. You know. Keepin’ it casual.

anonymous asked:

"I’ve been receiving all your freaking mail since you moved out and you keep getting weird gifts from your brother make it stop” AU

It was the horse head in Phil’s bed that finally made him snap.

Sure, it wasn’t a real horse head - just a plush toy horse head on a broomstick - and once his heart got started again, he could even see the humor in it. But for him, a senior SHIELD agent, to have an apartment that was that insecure? Despite some really freakin’ good remote security measures he’d installed?

It was time to track down this “Clint Barton” character. And … persuade … him to make this “Barney” person stand down.

With SHIELD’s resources - and the appropriate paperwork justifying the extracurricular expenditure, filled out in triplicate - Phil had an address in no time. One quick - commercial, and on his own dime - flight and rental car later, and he was standing in front of a YMCA in Waverly, Iowa.

“Clint? Yeah, sure. He’s teaching a kids’ class, over in the gym. Just look for the archery targets.” The volunteer on duty gave him a printed floor plan and a hearty “have a nice day!”

Coulson took off his suit jacket and settled down on a bleacher seat to watch the class. Clint Barton was a scruffy blond man in worn clothes who displayed endless patience with the handful of children launching arrows at straw bullseyes on easels. Phil found himself charmed even before the kids started clamoring for him to do “his special trick.”

“‘K, but remember, this is pro-level stuff, right? I could get in trouble with the Archer’s Union just for showin’ ya this.” The kids giggled. Clint slipped six arrows into the gaps between his fingers, lined up and drew, and in an instant six child-sized arrows embedded in one target were split down the shafts by his full-size ones.

When the shrieks of delight died down, Clint declared the class over and shooed them off to store their gear. Phil got up and sidled up to the man. “Nice form.”

“I bet you say that to all the girls,” Clint replied. “Fed, right? You smell like a fed. What’s it gonna be this time? Duquesne? Chisolm? Look, I haven’t seen any’a the Carson’s crew in a loooooong time.”

“None of the above. I’ve got your old apartment in Queens. I’ve been getting some of your mail.” Phil produced a stack of letters from his jacket and handed them over.

“And you came all this way just to … aw, Barney, no.” Feet in battered Chuck Taylors scuffed the gym floor; Clint’s head dropped and he scrubbed a hand through his already terminally messy hair. “I ask what’s in that duffel over there, I ain’t gonna like the answer, am I?”

“Noticed that, did you? Funny. I’d’ve sworn you never looked my way.” He led Clint to the bleachers and unzipped the duffel.

“I got eyes in the back’a my head, y’might say - aaaggghh. Barney.” Clint clutched his temples as though in agony.

From the duffel Phil had produced a mason jar of what lab analysis determined to be alligator droppings; a bottle of Stolichnaya, which lab analysis determined to be liberally laced with MDMA; a tupperware container of hand-dried chanterelle mushroom slices, which lab analysis determined were liberally mixed with dried psilobyscin slices; a rubber chicken; a plastic pickle that yodeled; a gift certificate for ‘penis enlargement services’; and the aforementioned horse head on a stick.

“Please, please tell me he didn’t -” Clint’s voice trailed off into a moan and a wave of a hand at the last item.

“He did.” Phil nodded ruefully.

“Aw man. Can you like arrest him for any of this stuff? ‘Cause I’d love to see my brother’s face when he found out he pranked the bed’a Tha Man.”

Phil’s head tilted slightly and he grinned, deepening the smile lines around his eyes, Clint noticed.

“Theoretically, yeah. But for the most part it’s been no harm, no foul so far. Well, except for the stink bomb in the chicken.” Clint moaned again.”And contrary to the rumors around the office, I do have a sense of humor, and I dig a good Godfather reference as much as the next guy.”

Clint fell back a half-step, sized up the other man.

Decided he liked what he saw.

“‘K. Any chance I can maybe make it up to ya, a li’l bit? Since you come all this way. I could buy ya dinner at Waverly’s finest two-star restaurant. Or is there some Fed rule against takin’ meals from strange archers with stranger big brothers?”

“I’m not exactly a Fed, and no, if there were any such rule in place I would know about it, trust me,” Phil replied. “And as long as your finest two-star offers greasy cheeseburgers or pancakes, I’m in. Or greasy burgers and pancakes, even.”

“Done and done.” Clint stuck out a hand. “Clint Barton. World’s Greatest Archer.”

Phil took the offered hand, shook. “Phil Coulson. Agent of SHIELD.” At Clint’s befuddled look, he added, “Long story. Don’t get me started. Let’s just say I’ve devoted my life to making the world safe for pranksters.”

- perletwo

Chicken Noodle Soup

Relationship: daveed x reader

Warnings: like one f bomb

Word Count: 618

Summary: daveed is sick and reader can’t cook.


“Babe,” Daveed whined, grabbing at your arm.

“What?” you asked, rolling your eyes.

“Take care of me, I’m sick.” You chuckled at his neediness.

Daveed was normally very confident and independent, which was something you admired in him. But when he was sick he was incredibly whiney and needy. It was adorable, but also extremely draining for you.

“You’re a grown man, you can take care of yourself,” you said as you tried to get out of bed, but Daveed grabbed you by the waist and pulled you back down. You laughed and looked at his puppy eyes.


“Fine, you win. But I expect the same treatment for when I get sick.” Daveed cheered and smiled.

“You got it babe.” He then leaned in to kiss you, but you pushed his face back.

“Get off of me, you’re sick.”

“Don’t be mean to me, I’m vulnerable,” he pouted.

“Shut up,” you said while laughing.


The rest of the morning went rather similarly. Daveed would try to cuddle you as you tried to get dressed and shower, but eventually you gave in and climbed back in bed with him.

But lunch was a different story.

“I’m hungry,” Daveed whined, laying on the couch instead of your bed.

“What do you want?” You got up from the leather seat and made your way to the kitchen.

“Chicken noodle soup,” he said in the manner of a six year old.

You sighed and said, “babe you know I can’t make that.” You then started to rummage through the cabinets for an alternative.

“All you have to do is put some noodles, chicken, and vegetables in chicken broth, it’s not that hard.” You rolled your eyes.

“Do you not remember when I fucked up microwave mac ‘n cheese?” You relived the memory of burning the noodles because you’d forgotten to add water, and how the apartment smelled like smoke for a good four hours afterwards.

“I believe in you, (Y/N). You can do it,” Daveed said, half asleep, and with half of his face covered by a throw pillow.

With that encouraging message, you got to work on the soup. You spent 15 minutes looking up a recipe that had fewer than five ingredients. Once you found it, you got all of the ingredients together and started to heat up the chicken broth on the stove.

You then cut up the chicken and vegetables, which went surprisingly well. Although it looked like a seven year old with a hammer did it, you’d managed to not cut yourself, which was a big win in your book.

Once your culinary masterpiece was finished, you played it and brought it to Daveed in the living room, who was still sleeping.

You stood in front of the couch and looked down at his peaceful form. He was cuddling with the pillow, and his hair was soft and messy. You reached down and touched his forehead, pushing the hair back and waking him up.

“What?”, he asked in a groggy tone.

“I made your soup,” you said softly. His tired eyes lit up, which brought a smile to your face.

“Thank you baby.” You helped him to sit up and gave him a bowl.

He tried the soup, and made a noise of agreement.

“I like it. Granted, I can’t taste anything, but I bet that it’s wonderful.” You smiled and tasted your creation for yourself.

You had to stop yourself from grimacing at the taste.

“Mm, it’s pretty good,” you said, lying through your teeth.

“I love you,” he said sweetly.

“I love you too,” you said, hoping for when you got sick that he could make chicken noodle soup better than you could.


this is just a short little thing that i wanted to write. but honestly this is p much just "how to make chicken noodle soup by someone who’s never made chicken noodle soup before.”

hope you enjoyed :)



So, I come from a long line of
broken backs from digging ditches,
and a handful of teachers.
Mom taught math,
Sis’ teaches English,
and Dad
told us stories.
Now, all of this spins around in my mind
and I see it spinning faster and faster
in reflection in the eyes of the student who’s face
is only inches from mine
as he says,
“What are you gonna do about it if I don’t”
all puffer fish pointy chested
as the rest of the high school class waits.
as the ink
beneath my long sleeves,
button up, and slacks
begin to burn.
as my first mosh-pit branded brain
begins to boil.
Waits as I keep back the gasoline bile
and get all choked up on
the hand-grenade pins and needles
that have been planted in my throat
and grown a drum set in my jawbone
I play
in time
with the swaying picket signs.
But today,
today I muted it.
I’m proud of this kid.
I want to tell him this.I want to tell him I’m glad.
I’m glad that after thirteen years of learning,
the one thing he has not picked up on
is to blindly follow authority.
I want to tell him this.
I want to tell him I’m sorry.

I’m sorry you’re stuck in a broken system
where men in designer suits
who have never even seen a classroom
keep cutting art out of the heart of education
because you can’t properly or profitably
express yourself well enough
through a color by letters
number two pencil
piss poor pointillist painting
like A, B, C, or D all of the above
is being held above all else.
I wanna tell him all of this.
I wanna tell him I’m sorry,
but it just comes out as
“Sit down, kid.”
Sit down.
Save your strength.
Hold on to that crumpled paper, homemade bomb heart
that keeps blasting shards of chicken scratch shrapnel
through your blood stream.
Hold on to it
like sand bags for a real rainy day.

I know it hurts right now for you
because it still does for me too,
but there’s a difference between
picking a fight and picking your fights.
This one’s not worth it.
I’m temporary, man.
I’m gone from your life
by the end of this period.
Then I’m off to who knows where
to substitute
all of their authority
and none of the time.
All of their authority
and none of the mutual respect.
All of their authority
and none of the real chances
to make you listen,
so listen now,
“Sit down.”
A cop’s not gonna be so polite, kid.
You’ll get nothing less than a slap on the jaw
with a night stick.
“Sit down.”
There’s something to be said for political captives,
but there’s not a whole lotta valor in a detention slip.
“Sit down.”
Sit down
and stand up
for something worth it.
Stand up
and stand strong for something worth it.
But for now,
“Sit down.”
I’m sorry.
I’m tired.
I spent all of yesterday
in a gang graffiti soaked, in-school suspension classroom
breaking up fights,
and squared off with a seventh grade girl
with more balls than either of us would know what to do with
and a blade in her backpack for the walk home.
“Sit down.”
This tough guy act aint gonna work on me.
For christsake you’re wearing 3D glasses with the lenses popped out right now.
How am I supposed to take you seriously?
But seriously,
you might not get it now
and you probably think
I’m just another asshole with a name tag
telling you what to do,
but I swear
from the bottom of the bricks and spray paint
in my belly
that when I’m saying “Sit down”
I’m praying you learn what it means to
stand up.

I just had to unfollow a bunch of vegan blogs and it makes me sad how harsh people are about this stuff.

Like I’m not vegan or vegetarian, but with eating so much Punjabi food I don’t eat nearly as much meat as I used to, I definitely do go crazy for milk and dahi and paneer though. And Punjabi vegetarians are never rude about the fact that I eat meat, they just take it as it is.

But at the end of the day I still eat and enjoy meat, especially wild meats like goose, Turkey, moose, elk and buffalo. I don’t like many store bought meats because I don’t like giant farms and how they treat animals but at the end of the day I am a product of my ancestors, and it is traditional to eat meat. My ancestors were not farming people, we harvested from the land and I enjoy carrying on that tradition. I was raised harvesting maple sap to make syrup, collecting berries and I learned to harvest wild rice when I was 20. I try to continue to eat the foods of my ancestors when I can. Punjabi food is great; dhals and paneer and so much vegetarian goodness. But after one or two months my body gets weak and I crave for wild meat..

ASMR (½)

Description: Dan is searching through Youtube for a way to sleep when he comes across an ASMR video by a youtuber called AmazingPhil.

Tags: Masturbation; Hipster!Phil; Youtuber!Phil; NonYoutuber!Dan

A/N: Wow Drew actually wrote something for the first time in a month and it wasnt finishing a prompt he fucking needs to finish. Hoary. Part 2 coming out tomorrow. hope u are having a good day/night. 

I - II

All the breath left my lungs and I stared at him with a dumbfounded expression.

Normally people never look like their voice but Phil matched his voice is sexiness and laid back demeanor.

In short he is perfect wank material.

And who am I to let an opportunity like that go to waste?

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