counting stairs

Teacher Brendon Urie x reader student Part 1

Warning: Coursing, sexual daydreaming, smoking

Word count: Super long 1598 words

Part 2

Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit.

Come on y/n… first day of school… first day of SENIOR year and you’re already late.

I started going down the school stairs.

“1,2.1,2,1.2” I counted the stairs.

Ring Ring

“FUCK” I’m seriously fucked up now! I have English class. There’s a new teacher and I need him…her… it to like me. At least I need one teacher to like me.

“Good Morning cl-, “I heard the teacher said and sprinted inside the room shouting “I’m here, I’m here.”

I sat on a seat in the back as everybody laughed. When I looked up I saw… wow… how can I explain this.

I saw the fucking hottest man I could’ve ever seen in my life, holy shit he was hot. He looked about 25 years old. He had this big full lips that when kissing them they would feel like soft pillows; he has this big brown eyes who just couldn’t stop staring at me.




Why is he staring at me like that? I feel like I’m being undress with his eyes.

I turned to F/n who was sitting next to me and whispered “Why is he staring?” and she shrugged and answered “I don’t know but dude, when I came in the room earlier he was leaning against the desk and he has such a great ass!”  I couldn’t help but burst into laughter.

The teacher started to walk over to us and looking at me said “Sorry, what are you two laughing about?”

“Stuff” I responded and gained the death stare from f/n indicating that I’m passing the line.

“So you come in late, distracting the class and then you suddenly start laughing? This has come to a rough star.” He said. “Oh really? Sorry. Didn’t know that introducing yourself was such an important and difficult task mister.”

“Y/N shut up!” F/n

“Yeah you should listen to your friend more often” The teacher said.

He walked to the front of the class and I stared at his ass.

“So. Good morning class. My name is Brendon Urie, Mr. Urie for you guys and I will be your English teacher for this school year.”

I leaned over to f/n and whispered, “It looks like Mr.Urie does have a great ass.”, and we both started to giggle.


When the bell rang and all of the kids had already gone to their other classes, I got close to Mr. Urie’s desk.

“It seems that we started with the wrong foot.” I said smiling and extended my hand, “Hi Mr. Urie, my name is y/n nice to meet you.”

He looked up to me and I swear I literally I saw him blush which made me feel nervous.

Brendon… or Mr. Urie looked at me, looked at my hand and said “Uh I- I um. I think you- that is time for- I mean. You should go or you’ll be late.”

I looked at him furrowed my eyebrows, tilted my head. He cleared his throat and opened his mouth like he was going to say something but closed it.

I sighed and said “Mean. Not cool dude. See yah Mister.”


Ugh finally the end of the day.

I got out of detention and went to the parking lot to wait for someone to come pick me up.

Yeah I know first day of school and already detention. Yeah I don’t even remember what was the reason.

I sat down under a tree and got out my cigarettes.

Light it up and got out my book.


It was about 5:00 in the afternoon.

I walked out of my class whispering to myself, “Stupid, how can I be so stupid. I made a fool of myself in front of that girl.”

I opened the school doors.

When I was outside I saw a kid sitting down under a tree. The kid was smoking and reading a book.

I got closer and noticed it was the girl from earlier, Y/n I think.

I stood there staring at the back of the girl when she turned around.

“Oh shit” The cigarette fell from her mouth, and in the way burning her arm. “Ouch. Fuck”

I hurried to her side, grabbed her arm and asked “Are you ok?”

“Uh yeah I mean it burns but uh. Are you going to tell on me?”

“What?” I questioned.

“Like tell another teacher or the Principal that I was smoking in school property?”

“Oh. No, no I won’t.” I told her. She looked up at me. I was crouching next to her with her hand in my hand.

She stared at me.

I stared at her.

I looked to my side breaking contact with her eyes, I released her hand.

“So, why are you still here so late?”

“Well, some friends will come pick me up, but they are at college or at work so I have to wait.” She said smiling.

“Ok. If you want I can give you a ride.” I proposed.

“Oh. Well. I. Ok yeah sure.”

Why…? Why did I just do that?

I asked a student… I asked a kid to come with me in my car… Why?

Well, Brendon, because you think she’s hot.

I do?

I do.

Shut up Brendon!


What the fuck am I doing?!

What if he is a creepy hot rapist teacher? Ugh I need a drink.

I followed Mr.Urie  to his car. He unlocked the doors and I got in.

Ok this is awkward.

He started the car and I broke the silence asking, “So why are you suddenly nice?”

“Well, you were there all alone and look like you wanted to go home and… so yeah.”

Didn’t sound convincing enough.

“Why do you have college friends?” He asked.

“Well,” I said “When I was in ninth grade, I failed and so I had to repeated. I should be in college now.”

“Seriously? How old are you?” He asked looking at me surprised.

“Eyes on the road Mr. Urie!” I said making him laugh. “I’m 19.”

“Oh okay.” Was the only thing he said.


“She’s 19 Spence! 19! Meaning she is technically legal; I don’t know if that should be a good thing or a bad thing.”

After dropping Y/n at her house, I immediately called Spencer to come over to my apartment.

“She’s 19? Wow. Dude you’re screwed.”

“I know. Is that she is real pretty! You should see her! She’s just perfect!”

“Well Bren. I think you should wait. See if your feelings for her grow or if they stop.”

“You’re right.”

Xxxxxxxx 1 month after all these. Brendon’s POV xxxxxxX

I’m screwed.

My feelings for y/n are extremely big.

I can’t help it. Seriously. She is just so pretty; she has this dangerous thing that just make her look hotter.

Is the last class of the day, which means y/n is here. The kids are currently writing and essay and I’m looking at y/n. She looks so cute when she’s concentrated.

I’ve stared at her so many times that I have memorized her face and how she furrows her eyebrows and how she puts just the tip of her tongue out.

That tongue. With those lips.

I can’t help but imagine what I would do to her if she was mine.

If we were alone and I had the balls to do it, I would call her, grab her waist and pull her to me. I would kiss her lips so passionately.

Then I would lower my hands to place them on her perfect ass.

I would make her rap her legs on my waist.

I’ll take her to my desk and place her on it so she is laying down. I would rip her clothes off and would fuck her until she couldn’t walk. I would live hickeys all over her body.

Her neck, breasts, stomach, her thighs, her ass, I would live them everywhere.

Then I wou-

Ring Ring

I was woken up from my sexual dreams by the bell and all the kids got out of the class.

Except y/n.

She was standing in front of my desk with her essay in hand and she said “Mister. I hate this essay. I’m think I’m doing it all wrong. So. I was thinking if I could like stay behind and you could maybe help me?”

“Yeah sure. Of course. Just pull a chair and sit next to me.”

I gulped.

We went over the essay and it actually was pretty good. I don’t know why she wanted help.

She was sitting next to me. Again with her eyebrows knitted together, tip of her tongue out.

“Y/n” I spoke.

She looked up at me.

I reached over and placed my lips against hers.

At first neither of us were moving, but then I started making motion and she moved along with me. I got closer to her and placed one hand on her neck and the other on her cheek.

We both started moving pretty fast.

We got up from our chairs and she jumped to my desk. Without separating our lips, I got in between her legs and placed both my hands on her waist and she placed her hands one on my neck and the other on the back of my head pushing me closer.

I started grinding against her. Our tongues started fighting for intrusion.

At the same time, we both separated our lips.

We just stayed there, staring at each other’s eyes.

“Wow.” She said and I laughed.

Yeah. Wow.

I was tagged by the amazing adarlansassasssin to do the book royalty tag! <3 I tag momothebookworm, amethystgalathynius, books-booksandmorebooks, and anyone else who would like to do the tag!

Zodiac Houses: Virgo/Slytherin/Horned Serpent

They know a lot about many things, sometimes it’s too many things. If a stair creeks or a floorboard shifts, they remember that there are many terrible things that go bump in the night. 

Want one? Look here!

I hate how people say they’re “so OCD” because they’re neat or whatever. Like, I cannot walk down a hallway without touching the walls a certain way. My handwriting has to look exactly right—if it’s not I’ll cross it out and start over. I have to count stairs when I go up or down them. My books have to be put in the shelves a certain way. I have to put on my socks and shoes a certain way. If I step on something with one foot I have to step on it with the other—it has to be even. If I don’t do these things (and others) I panic. It’s not right. I can’t define “not right,” but it’s not good. Hyperventilating, panicking not good. OCD isn’t a “cute” thing and it’s not as simple as being a neat freak. It actually really sucks.


One Hundred Steps Cemetery

This mysterious cemetery is northwest of Brazil, Indiana, and can be hard to find as it isn’t marked on very many maps, and I get the feeling GPS would cut off in such a rural location. In addition to this cemetery’s cut-off location, One Hundred Steps comes with an urban legend. The story goes that if you walk up the length of the steps at midnight, counting the stairs as you go, then turn to the cemetery, a ghost of the cemetery’s first undertaker appears and shows you a vision of your own death. Then, you have to climb back down the stairs, counting the steps, and if the number isn’t the same then the vision will come true. If you get the same number, the vision was wrong and you’ll die another way. It’s also said that if you go to the top of the cemetery by any other method than the steps, a phantom hand will push you to the ground. 

‘kylo ren is a dork’ headcanons
  • he’s injured himself at least once from the crossguard on his lightsaber
  • when he walks up stairs he counts them in his head
  • he hums softly to himself when he isn’t paying attention and then gets mad at himself for doing it when he realizes
  • he plays with his hair when he’s bored
  • he really likes bananas
  • he sometimes forgets where the bathrooms are so he has to ask hux to which he just rolls his eyes before telling him
  • he really likes the stars. he’ll just stand in front of the window and watch them all day
  • he tells the stormtroopers about his grandfather
  • he sleeps in sometimes and captain phasma brings him breakfast in bed 
  • he flicks hux’s ear when he thinks he’s doing something stupid
  • he trips in his cape when he tries to walk confidently
The freedom to choose

Sam watches in a daze as Toni crosses the room to her companion’s side. He keeps waiting for the hallucination to crack, for Cas to turn into the brunette with the blowtorch, for Dean’s warm presence at his side to evaporate, for the scraping at his wrists to return as he finds himself suddenly back in chains. He keeps waiting for Toni to wake him up with a triumphant grin on her face, because she got him to fall for her tricks again. It doesn’t happen.

Mick takes her by the arm, squeezing, controlling. Before he leads her out, she throws a last glance over her shoulder. The look isn’t triumphant. It’s murderous. He’s too tired to answer her stare.

He counts the stairs she takes out of the room. There are twelve. Her heels make a hollow sound as she ascends them. With each beat, he expects them to turn around and rescind the olive branch. He’s seen what their peace looks like, and it’s not this. It’s lies and tricks and brain-liquefying substances. His breathing is shallow as he tries to hold in enough air for when they cast their choking spell on him.

But they reach the top step without incident, and the doors flap open, and a few seconds later, they disappear from sight.

With a whimper, Sam collapses to the floor, falling heavily against Dean.

“Whoa! Whoa!” Dean’s gruff voice, too loud but so very gratifying to hear. Dean’s rough hands as he tries to hold him upright. “Castiel!” Dean bellows, but the angel is already at their side. He reaches out to heal him.

“No!” Sam throws out his hand, clumsily slapping Cas’ hand aside. “Not yet.”

Cas freezes for a moment, then he slowly withdraws his hand. He casts a worried glance at Dean.

“What? What do you mean not yet?” Dean demands.

“Sam, it’s me. Lucifer is gone,” Cas says softly, trying to be understanding. “I promise I mean you no harm.”

“’s not the point,” Sam slurs. He sits up laboriously, ignoring both their worried looks. If all of this is part of a hallucination, he’s not going to give in to it. He’s not going to let them heal him only so he can endure more torture.

“He’s delirious,” Dean says, talking over Sam’s head. “You’ve got to help him.”

This time Sam’s more focused, and he grabs Cas firmly by the wrist. “I said,” he hisses through gritted teeth, “Not. Yet.” He shoves the hand away, and begins to painstakingly pull himself to his feet.

“Sammy,” Dean says, a note of anger creeping into his voice. “You’re not thinking straight. Let the man heal you.”

“Sam, please. Let me help.”

Together, Dean’s irritated worry and Cas’ soft words are almost enough to persuade him, but Sam stubbornly shakes his head. He’s not even sure he understands it himself. But somehow, unless he can get out of here on his own terms, he’ll never accept it as real. “I’m walking out of here on my own strength.”

He’s on his feet. His right foot is throbbing, his left thigh is aching, and he’s wobbly and uncertain, but he’s upright, and he’s going to walk out of here. Beside him, Dean straightens up, and pulls Sam’s arm over his shoulder without another word. Together, they limp towards the exit. Cas hovers uncertainly behind them, and somewhere behind him is a figure that Sam can’t really think about right now. One miracle at the time. He looks up at the wooden staircase.

Twelve steps. Twelve steps to freedom.

It takes an agonizingly long time to climb the stairs, but they are steps he can remember. He won’t doubt his escape this time, because he’s felt the wood underneath his unbandaged foot, seen the concerned look on Dean’s face, heard his own labored breathing. This is real. He’s getting out, and this is real.

They reach the top just as the sun goes down. When he sees the Impala gleaming in the reddish light, he knows he’s made it.

“Cas? If you don’t mind, I think I’m ready to be healed now.”

Everyone sees dyscalculia as something to pass off and not that important, but let’s get something straight here- it IS important, and can even be dangerous at times. I mean I can’t tell you how many times I’ve tripped or fallen because I lost count of stairs , or how lost I’ve been because I took a left instead of a right, or almost accidently almost overdosed because I counted too many pills, or I didn’t get my meds right because I counted too few pills. I will never know if someone is cheating me out of my money. Because I can’t really tell change or money well and I can’t even tell the time if the clock isn’t digital. Dyscalculia affects a lot of things, because math and numbers really is in every day life. So we NEED to talk about it, and support those who have it.


Warning: Dark Humor

“Bathroom?” You asked Violet. The two of you had decided to take the day off of school and your aunt and uncle let you because it’s rare when Violet had family over. “Up the stairs first door on the right.” She guided. You nodded and wiped the syrup away from your mouth. 

You jogged up the stairs, counted the doors, jangled the knob: locked. You groaned and waited, it was probably one of your uncles patients. The door opened and you came face to face with a blonde haired guy, he looked to be about your age. 

“Sorry.” He said giving you a once over. “No problem.” You said. “I’m (y/n).” You said as you extended your hand, you were never really this polite with strangers, but something about him seemed interesting and you wanted to get to know what it was. 

“Tate.” He said shaking your hand. “So, what you in for?” He asked motioning to your uncle’s office door. “Suspected Arson, attempted suicide, drug overdose, the whole lot really.” You said only half joking, he smiled, even laughed a little bit, much to your surprise, this guy wasn’t all half bad.

Based on two requests, both by Anons.

1)  being a ghost in the murder house and you and Tate really hit it off

2)  reader visits Violet in the house and meets Tate


Emma took her third deep breath as she stood on Jefferson’s doormat, her hand still stupidly raised in the air as she tried to convince herself to knock. It was also the third time she chickened out, turning around and marching down the steps before stopping halfway to get back.

She’d been avoiding this moment since she found out days ago and while she had no intention of expecting him to be apart of it, or to contribute she didn’t want him to not know

With another sigh she finally marched up the stairs, counting loudly to ten in her head before knocking forcefully on the door and hitting the door bell just once. The moment she had she regret it but too late now as she froze, listening for footsteps on the other side. 

All sweaty from my workout finished off with a run up too many flights of stairs to count 😛 Rewarding myself with @proteinworld Slender Blend and this beautiful view! ❤️ #proteinworld #weightlosscollection #slenderblend by veronikablack88

Littlecote House is a stately home in Wiltshire, England, that was the scene of a violent murder of an infant and became haunted by the ‘Burning Babe’. The crime took place in 1575. Littlecote was then owned by William Darrell, whose family had owned the home since 1415. Carrell was known as ‘Wild Darrell’ because of his debauched behaviour and outrageous lifestyle.

The story goes that one night a nobleman sent for a midwife from another village. He had her blindfolded and taken to the house. She was taken upstairs to a room where a woman was in labor and was insturcted to help deliver the baby. As soon as the child was born, the nobleman ripped it out of her arms and threw it into the fire. She was given a purse full of money and was then take home, still blindfolded. However, she had the presence of mind to surreptitiously snip a piece of curtain before she left. She also counted the stairs on her way out.

The next day she reported what had happened to the local magistrate. Immediately Littlecote was suspected as the scene of the crime. And investigation was made and it was found that the number of stairs matched the number the midwife had counted, and her piece of fabric matched the bed curtains in one room. Darrell was arrested and was somehow acquitted, causing a scandal. He died 14 years later.

The infant’s ghost, called the Burning Babe, is said to appear at Darrell’s Stile, the place where Darrell was thrown from a horse and killed. The site is also haunted by Darrell himself, accompanied by phantom hounds, and horses are said to be frightened by this spot of the grounds. Other ghosts include a silent woman who holds a baby and walks in the room where the murder took place; a woman who appears in the garden and a woman who carries a rushlight. Sounds of phantom footsteps on the stairs have been made by the ghost of a lady dressed in a pink nightgown with a lamp in her hand. Terrifying screams have been heard in the middle of the night coming from the bedroom and the landing where the murder took place.

why do we love it so much when people notice the small things about us? why do we need that acknowledgement? why do we want so badly to feel recognised by the universe and the people in it? it’s so rare to be truly noticed. why haven’t we evolved yet to love the sense of utter solitude, the feeling of passing silently, the sensation of being uncategorised, unrecognised, unseen?

perhaps in the future, none of us will look at each other. we’ll only look at ourselves in mirrors and say, “you always push up your glasses with your left hand. you have two small freckles on your right index finger. you count stairs as you climb them”. and it will be enough.