dripped sneaker

anonymous asked:

So, first off, hi there! Second... what kind of things do you think nerd!Derek would do to try and get jock!Stiles' attention? Or, what kind of cutesy things do you think jock!Stiles would attempt to make nerd!Derek notice him and laugh. (Spoiler alert, Derek already does notice him, but shhhh!)

So I combined these two prompts, I hope you guys don’t mind! Have some more nerd!Derek from me ^^

(Also, my eternal thanks to both @pale-silver-comb and @halesheart for telling me my writing isn’t horseshit and I should continue)

Title: You Hold My Attention (Without Even Trying)

“Oh my god, again?”

Scott frowns. “This is seriously getting out of hand.”

“Ugh, I know,” Stiles says as he bends down to pick up the flowers – tulips today – that dropped out of his locker when he opened it. “I mean, it was cute at first, but after the fifth time you get wet flowers smacked into your face, it kind of gets old.”

Speaking of wet flowers, they’re soaking through his shirt where he was cradling them under his arm. He holds them out in front of him, scrunching his face when they drip onto his sneakers. He’s not exaggerating when he says he’s kind of tired of them. Don’t get him wrong, he still appreciates the fact that someone takes the time out of their day to buy him flowers, but it’s just a bit – well – too much.

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#10: The Elevator

The rain reached its peak right after I left. It started as a slight drizzle during work, and gradually worsened along the way- the rain drops were practically hitting against the glass windows of the fried chicken joint I was working at. I remembered we had a particularly obese lady waddle into the joint, dripping all over the floor.

‘What the hell, huh, Scott? Any fatter and we’ll have to put her on a diet,’ my co-worker, McDoogle, had commented sarcastically. ‘If there’s anyone who needed to fatten up, it’ll be you, mate. You go any thinner and I’ll have to flash out my magnifier to find you.’

As the night went on, I had prayed for the rain to stop, but God clearly wasn’t listening, because by the time we had closed up, it had become a full-fledged storm out there, and the only thing I had for protection was a dusty black jacket that McDoogle had found in the lost-and-found box. I quickly zipped it on, and went on my way.

I managed to squeeze onto the last bus with the rest of the commuters, mostly well-dressed businessmen with proper coats and gloves, the lucky bastards. Some shot me confused looks as I plopped down onto a seat near the back, and I wouldn’t have blamed them- I stuck out like a sore thumb, a scraggly-haired teenager dressed in nothing but a black jacket and torn jeans, soaked from head to toe. They had probably thought I was a druggie or something, the way I was hunched over in my seat, shivering from the cold.

The crowd of gawking onlookers thankfully thinned as we went on our way, and by the time I had finally reached my stop, there were only three other passengers. I quickly got off, and sighed. I had hoped for the rain to stop, but no chance. If anything, the storm had worsened along the bus ride. Just my luck, I muttered darkly, beginning my long trek back to my dingy apartment. I lived in a small room on the 23rd floor, right at the top of an old, slightly dilapidated building. It wasn’t ideal, having to live about thirty minutes away from the nearest bus-stop, but my meagre salary prevented me from having anything better.

The lobby of the block eloquently reflected the pathetic state of the building- the paint weathered and peeling off in spots, cobwebs hanging off the corners, and the only source of light was a flickering light bulb dangling from a lone wire. I shuddered as I ducked into the lobby, and it wasn’t from the cold- the long, shifting shadows given off by the bulb had always given me the creeps. Luckily, there was an elevator already waiting in the lobby, and I gratefully hurried in and hit the number ‘23’ button, sighing in relief as the elevator vibrated to life and creaked upwards.

As I settled in for the minute long ride up, it suddenly shuddered to a halt and the doors groaned open. A guy, clad in a maroon hoodie, strode in, his wet sneakers and umbrella forming a large puddle where he stood. He pressed the number ‘17’, before turning to nod at me in greeting. I nodded back, and glanced up to the cracked screen in the elevator- a bright green ‘2’ shone out from it.

‘Crazy storm out there, ain’t it?’ He commented.

‘Sure is.’ I replied.

The journey up continued in silence, when the elevator stopped with a soft ‘ding’. I blinked in surprise at the noise- I’d never heard the elevator ‘ding’ before. The landlord must have finally gotten off his lazy, fat ass and fixed something. The doors creaked open, and the maroon guy left.

It took ages for the doors to finally close, and even longer for the elevator to start moving again. I leaned back onto the grimy wall and made a mental note to call the landlord about improving the elevator.

I must have dozed off, because the next thing I knew I was half slumped over the rusty railing in the elevator, with drool dripping off the side of my mouth. I quickly straightened up and checked the screen- the number ‘17’ shone out from it, which couldn’t have been correct, because the guy got off at ‘17’ and I clearly remembered the elevator moving off before I’d dozed off. Speaking of dozing off, how long was I out? It couldn’t have been very long- the trip from ‘17’ to ‘23’ would have taken half a minute, at most. I peered out of the grimy windows of the elevator- there was nothing out there of interest, only the occasional metal railings flashing past the window.

I stepped back, and glanced up again. Still ’17’. I forced myself not to panic. There had to be a legitimate explanation for this. I found myself pacing around in the elevator to work off the panic.

I paced. I looked up to the screen. ‘17’.

I paced. I looked up to the screen. ‘17’.

I paced. I looked up to the screen. ‘17’.

With no watch and no phone to tell the time, all I had was the number of rounds I’d walked in the elevator.

Twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four.

‘17’.

Fifty-seven, fifty-eight, fifty-nine.

‘17’.

I was losing it. I could feel the grimy, disgusting walls of the elevator close in, bit by bit, as I continued to pace.

‘17’.

’17.’

‘17.’

I was finishing off my ninety-eighth round when the elevator shuddered to a stop. YES! I hurried over to the doors and stared out the windows.

No. There was nothing but black. 

This isn’t my floor. This isn’t any floor.

I had enough.

‘FUC-‘ I began, when everything happened at once.

The elevator jerked roughly to its side, sending me sprawling onto the floor. The lights flickered twice, before going off with a loud buzz. I was thrown into darkness and before I could get up, the elevator jerked again. It was like the mechanical version of a seizure, only worse. I was flung in all directions across the floor, my body bumping against all four walls as I slid around, uncontrolled.

And then it all stopped.

The lights flickered on and I found myself lying in a heap in the left corner of the elevator, my head pressed up into the corner. Disorientated, I got to my feet. I couldn’t even figure out what I was feeling at the moment. Confusion? Fear? Panic? Pain?

Before I could decide, the doors slid open.

The guy, the same maroon guy, stepped in. Maroon hoodie, wet sneakers, dripping umbrella. The same maroon guy.

I looked up. A green ‘2’ glowed out brightly from the screen.

What the hell?

I looked back down, followed the motion of his finger as he pressed the number ‘17’ button.

‘Crazy storm out there, ain’t it?’

What the hell??

I looked up. The guy was staring at me.

‘What?’ I croaked.

‘Crazy storm. Almost blew my damn umbrella away.’ He chuckled, before squinting at me. ‘You okay?’

I finally found my voice. ‘You came in here just now.’ I replied, my gaze darting from his face, to his maroon hoodie, to his wet sneakers, to his dripping umbrella. This was no mistake. It’s the same exact guy.

I’m losing my mind.

‘What, here? I just got here, man.’ He smiled nervously and stepped back.

I could see him slowly tightening his grip on the handle of his umbrella.

I’m freaking him out.

The very thought made me want to laugh. Me? Freak him out? Hell, I was the one stuck in this goddamn elevator. I should be pissing my pants.

I stepped towards him, my gaze alternating between him and the glowing screen.

‘Woah. Dude. Don’t be weird.’ He wasn’t smiling anymore. He tightened his grip on his umbrella.

The elevator ‘dinged’ and the door behind me opened. I didn’t move. My eyes were fixed on him.

He edged around me. I could see sweat trickling down his face.

‘Don’t come back in here. Whatever you’re doing, you better stop. You better stop.’ I whispered, following behind him, step by step, until I reached the door.

I stayed rooted in the spot, even after the doors closed, my gaze piercing through the window on the door. I wanted to make sure that he left. And he did, scurrying backwards down the corridor.

That’s right. Don’t ever come back.

I glanced up to the screen as soon as the elevator started moving again.

’17.’

’17.’

’18.’

I let out a huge sigh of relief.

Finally.

I continued to stare at the screen, feeling less and less tense as the number continued up as normal.

’19.’ ’20.’ ’21.’ ’22.’

’23.’

I wanted to cry, that’s how relieved I was.

I stepped out through the doors as soon as they opened.

The next thing I knew, I was flying backwards into the elevator, hitting my head, hard onto the wall.

‘Holy shit! Sorry dude, I didn’t see you there.’

That voice.

That fucking voice.

I looked up slowly. From the dripping umbrella, to the wet sneakers, to the maroon hoodie, to the face, to the bright ‘2’ glowing from the screen above.

He did it again.

‘You okay?’ He asked, bending down.

I told you to stay away, you fucker.

‘Hey. You hit your head or something? Shit, I’m sorry.’ He continued.

I’ll make you sorry. You wanna mess with me? I’ll make you sorry.

‘Woah, dude. Quit staring man- don’t be weird.’

I remembered the next few seconds in flashes. I remember lunging at him, snarling and growling. I remember tackling him to the ground. I remember wrestling his umbrella away from him. I remember bringing the umbrella up high. I remember his face, staring up at me in fear and shock, as I brought down the sharp tip of his umbrella down onto his chest.

Once, twice. In, out.

His yelling, gradually reduced to a moan, and then a gurgle.

One, twice. In, out.

His thrashing and fighting, gradually reducing to weak grappling, before he fell limp.

Once, twice. In, out.

His eyes, at first wide open in terror, slowly closing, before it shut.

I continued stabbing long after he stopped breathing.

I had to make sure.

I had to make sure that he didn’t come back.

I won’t have him fucking around with me again.

I heard the doors open behind me. I didn’t know how long it was after I killed the maroon guy. With no watch and no phone, how could I have known?

There was movement behind me.

‘Shit.’ A voice rang out.

It didn’t sound like maroon guy. I smiled.

‘I found him, I found him. Fuck, it’s a mess in here. Level 17, hurry up!’

I removed my gaze from the bloody, misshapen mess infront of me and turned.

‘Don’t move!’

It was a policeman. He had his gun out and pointing right at me.

‘I said don’t move!’

Don’t worry. Nobody was going to mess with anyone. I took care of that. I smiled at him in reassurance.

More and more policemen appeared behind him. One of them prised away the bloody, broken umbrella away, one of them cuffed my hands, and three of them dragged me down the stairs. They didn’t have to be so rough, I wasn’t going to hurt anyone.

When we emerged out of the lobby, I realised it had stopped raining.

An old, balding man in a suit walked up to me, his hand clutching a phone.

‘This him, doc?’ A policemen asked in a gruff voice.

Doctor?

The old man nodded before speaking into the phone. ‘McDoogle here, we found him.’ He tucked the phone back into his pocket before turning back to me. ‘You really gave us quite a scare, Scott, running away like that during kitchen duty.’

McDoogle? Kitchen duty?

And then it all hit me.

Kitchen duty.

The obese lunch lady complaining that I had to eat more, or she would have to ‘flash out her magnifier to find me.’

Stealing the black jacket from the front desk. Putting it on to hide the white uniform below.

The front door letting out a soft ‘ding’ as I slipped through.

Taking the bus back home.

My ward room number.

23-17.

I blinked and turned to McDoogle, my doctor from the mental institute.

And then I fainted.

Love Is (Him)

Relationship: Derek Nurse/William Poindexter

Rating: Teen & Up

Words: 3.8k

Summary:  Nursey falls quiet again, nothing but the sound of asphalt beneath the tires and soft music filling the cab of his truck. When Dex glances over he’s just barely smiling, looking stupidly good with one of Dex’s hats pulled on backwards and aviator sunglasses shading his eyes. Dex abruptly realizes he wants to kiss him, wants to curl his hand around the back of his neck and tug him across the center console. Instead, he scowls and takes another sip of the ice coffee Nursey had insisted on stopping for, hoping the bitterness will quell these obnoxious feelings.
The traffic gets lighter and the buildings get smaller the farther south they get, until the highway is lined with trees and Dex is flying along at a good clip. He can almost taste the ocean, even though they’ve got a few miles yet. There’s excitement thrumming in his bones, and he wants it to stop. This feels like a Big Deal, like something could happen tonight. Something momentous.
This is the worst.

{also on AO3}

(a/n: I started writing this before I realized that Dex might be from Maine?? I’m still not super clear on it, but as a live long Rhode Islander, I wanted to write this ode to my little state. And Derek Nurse’s face. But you know. Also there’s a poem in here. It is not good. Poetry is not my thing, so please accept my apologies beforehand.)

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anonymous asked:

“i accidentally flooded the laundry room and you really needed to do laundry” hicstrid college/modern au (i wonder who would be the culprit?)

Stormfly immediately began screeching at the sight of a guest in the apartment. “Stranger danger! Stranger danger!”

“Hush!” Astrid hissed at the bird, dropping her basket of sopping clothes on the kitchen floor before crossing through to the living room. To the neighbor following apprehensively, she cringed and said, “Sorry. She’s our alarm system.”

“S’okay,” the guy— Hiccup— replied, lifting a brow at Stormfly’s cage. He stood on the kitchen tile, holding his dripping sneakers in his hand. Now that they weren’t in the dim hallway light, she could see that one of his feet was a prosthesis. “That makes her at least 75% more useful than my cat.”

“But about three times louder,” she muttered. Beckoning him forward, she hurried towards Ruff’s closed door. “My roommate’s room is this way. Her twin is kind of homeless. He house hops. So she’s got a box of his stuff in here somewhere.”

“Thanks,” Hiccup nodded, setting down his wet shoes before he followed her into Ruffnut’s space. He was tall, taller than her by a head, but slender enough that she didn’t feel intimidated by his presence. And he had a quirky, friendly personality that made her feel okay being alone in her apartment with him. This was the first time she’d spoken to him since he moved in a week ago, and half of their conversation was apologies. “I’ll wash em and bring em back. Y’know. After they reopen the laundry room.”

Astrid winced. “Again. Very sorry.” She had to step over clothes and food wrappers and other oddities to reach her roommate’s closet. “That machine doesn’t lock that well, but it’s my lucky number. I’ve used it since we moved in.”

“Four?”

“Yeah. It’s my jersey number, apartment number, the last four digits of my cell…” After unearthing Tuffnut’s half-crushed box of things, she dug until she found a pair of pants and a shirt that wasn’t stained or ripped. “Here. He’s a little bit shorter than you, but not that much wider in the hips.”

Not that she was noticing his narrow hipbones peaking out from above the waistband of his sweatpants.

Hiccup accepted the clothes with a mocking salute. She directed him towards the bathroom and then kicked Tuff’s box back into the dark depths of his sister’s closet. Hopefully the jeans would fit— she felt awful about him not being able to wash his clothes for whatever appointment it was he had to attend.

Her answer came a moment later. Hiccup stepped out of the bathroom in Tuffnut’s pants— a couple of inches short— tugging his own shirt back over his pale stomach. She caught a glimpse of a bronze happy trail before his tee slipped back into place.

“Does he also keep his weed in that box?” Her new neighbor exclaimed, holding the shirt out towards her. “I’m pretty sure I got the munchies just from trying this on.”

Astrid took it and brought it to her nose, instantly flinching. “Oh. Gods. Yeah, definitely Tuff’s. Sorry.”

“Ah, that’s alright,” Hiccup sighed easily, rubbing the back of his neck. His crooked grin was comforting and a little gap-toothed. “I’ll just cycle shirts until the rest of my stuff arrives. I’ve always wanted to know what being a hobo smells like.”

“Tuff, you bum!” Stormfly screamed.

Another wave of guilt squeezed her chest. “No, wait.”

Astrid dropped the t-shirt on the couch and crossed the apartment. Her room wasn’t in its best state, what with her piles of laundry sorted on the floor. But it was spotless compared to Ruff’s. After some searching, she found what she was looking for and brought it back out.

“Here,” she told him, holding out the shirt. “It’s from a 5k I did last year— they always give out shirts that swallow me.” Folding her arms in front of her chest, she watched him unfold and inspect the green cotton. “It’s got the logo on the back, but the front is blank. If you wear a jacket, no one should notice.”

“Huh,” he answered, a note of pleased surprise in his voice. He dragged off his own shirt, and she got another flash of his chest and stomach. When he pulled her shirt over his head, she realized that the color matched his suddenly very green eyes. “Hey, it fits!”

“Perfect!”

She ended up cuffing the jeans for him before he left. Something like nervous excitement jolted in her fingers as she brushed his legs, both prosthetic and real. Luckily the extra bagginess and the cuff made the misfitting pants look like intentional style. After apologizing profusely and giving him the other six digits of her phone number— just in case— she was able to see him out and then strip out of her own wet pajama pants.

Later that night, Ruffnut dangled a Gobber’s Garage t-shirt in front of her face and demanded to know what male had been in their apartment. She snatched the shirt without a proper answer and held it to her chest defensively. It smelled like men’s deodorant, leather, and a faint body odor.

“Astrid has the hiccups!” Stormfly flapped in her cage. “Astrid has the hiccups!”

Stranger danger indeed.

2

Meet The Designer Set of 2 Vol.3:

Carol Christian Poell, an Austrian designer who holes up in a studio in
Milan’s Naviglio district where he quietly designs an ultra-niche, cult
label that he doesn’t always produce and only shows to the public when
he feels like it.

Carol Christian Poell, born in Linz in 1966, lives and works in Milan,
Italy. After having been trained as a men’s and a ladies’ tailor in
Vienna (Michelbeurn), he studied fashion design at the Domus Academy in
Milan where he also founded the production and distribution company
C.C.P. Srl together with his partner Sergio Simone. After having
presented his first men’s collection in 1995, he developed his ladies’
collection from classical elements of traditional menswear three years
later. The distribution network for his articles of clothing and
accessories, which are quite extravagant in terms of production
technology, includes more than 40 dealers all over the world.

Photo I: Carol Christian Poell Self-Edge “Metre" jacket

Photo II: Carol Christian Poell Object dyed, no seam drip-rubber leather sneaker