dunno whose it is

Scavenger Hunt

Stiles/Derek, T, 2500 words, Meet Cute AU

Written for the following prompt:

“i picked up your bag at the airport but i can’t find your number so i’m about to embark on the largest scavenger hunt of all time by using your strange belongings to track you down” au

“Honey, I’m home!” Stiles calls out as he wrestles his roll bag over their entry mat.

“That’s still not funny,” Scott says, without looking up from his textbook.

“Once again, we disagree.”

Scott snorts. “How was the trip?”

“Fine,” he says, plopping down right in the middle of the living room to start unpacking. “Typical conference. Some sessions were actually interesting, most were boring as shit.”

Scott hums, already absorbed again in his reading. Stiles reaches for the zipper on his suitcase but then freezes—this is definitely the same brand as his suitcase, but he doesn’t remember this extra zippered pocket on the top.

“Oh, shit.”


Stiles grimaces. “I’m pretty sure this isn’t my suitcase. Goddamn it.”

Scott finally looks up, frowning. “Shit, really? How’d you manage that?”

“It was a redeye,” Stiles says, running a hand through his hair. “I was exhausted, in fucking LaGuardia, and I was just trying to get out of there as fast as humanly possible.”

“Is there a name on it? Are you sure it’s not yours?”

“Pretty sure,” Stiles says, feeling around the sides for the pocket. He sighs when he pulls out the little card and sees that it’s blank. “Motherfucker. This is definitely not my suitcase because I’m actually smart enough to put my name on it.”

“Sorry, man,” Scott says sympathetically as Stiles falls back on the rug with an anguished groan.

“What the hell am I supposed to do now?”

“Open it,” Scott suggests. “Maybe there’s something with their name on it.”

Stiles fiddles with the zipper. He’s nosy as hell, in general, and normally he’d be jumping at the chance to rifle through someone else’s personal belongings. But… 

“What if there’s like, dead bodies in there or something?” he asks, and Scott just stares at him for a second. Stiles rolls his eyes—that’s a perfectly valid concern. Or maybe he watches too many police procedurals, whatever. “Okay, fine.”

Stiles holds his breath as he slowly unzips the suitcase, but nothing happens when he lets the top part flop back onto their crappy, threadbare rug. There’s a Dodgers hat on top, and Stiles grimaces. “Well, they have shitty taste in baseball teams.”

He sets the hat carefully aside and keeps digging. The person is neat, whoever they are, because everything is folded, and all the dirty clothes are even all contained in their own zippered bag. At first glance, there’s nothing too out of the ordinary—phone charger, American Gods, Calvin Klein briefs. Fancy, he thinks. There’s a monogrammed leather toiletry bag (DSH, he commits those initials to memory), and he pokes through it.

“I’m gonna make an educated guess that it’s a guy.”

“Why’s that?” Scott says, finally looking somewhat interested in this mystery.

Stiles holds up an electric razor. “And that he’s maybe not totally straight,” he says, brandishing a little bottle of lube that’s about three-quarters full.

Scott rolls his eyes. “Lots of people use lube.”

“Yeah, but do you travel with it?” Stiles counters, and Scott sighs.

“No,” he admits. “Did you find anything with his actual name on it?”

“Not yet,” Stiles says absently. He continues to rifle through the bag until he’s pretty sure he has his plan of attack. “Okay. I’m gonna find out who it is,” he says with a determined nod, and Scott frowns.

“How? This is New York City! There are literally millions of dudes here.”

“It’ll be like a real-life scavenger hunt,” Stiles says dreamily, ignoring Scott as he carefully lays his three chosen items out on the coffee table. “This is awesome.”

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~~ fanfic writers appreciation day ~~

Thank you so much for sharing your writing with us over the years. Your amazing stories always makes my day tons better and puts a smile on my face cuz of all the fluff (or clutch my chest cuz of all the angst). Thank you for all the million ways for Dean and Cas to fall in love and episode fix-its, from 100k multi-chapter fics to drabbles, I love you all. Please don’t stop writing ❤️❤️❤️

@winjennster @ozonecologne @kaeostennyo @wanderingcas @puppycastiel @awed-frog @justrandomspnstuff @unforth-ninawaters @cardinaleyes @castiel-left-his-mark-on-me @destieldrabblesdaily @jhoomwrites @deancasheadcanons @thebloggerbloggerfun @casthewise @caslikescoffeeandfreckles @whelvenwings @ilostmyshoe-79 @bookkbaby @powerfulweak @envydean @all-i-need-is-destiel @allthebeautifulthings9828 @jimminovak @amwritingmeta @ltleflrt @xylodemon @strengthcas @almaasi @beenghosting @spearywritesstuff @museaway @tfw-destiel-cockles-misha @mittensmorgul @elizabethrobertajones @ibelieveinthelittletreetopper @dean-bangs-cas-in-the-impala @lover-awakened @rosewhipped22, northernsparrow on ao3 (I think they have a tumblr but I can’t find it) @northern-sparrow (thanks nonnie!) @tenoko1, @coffeeandcas, @soupernabturel, @purgatoan and every single fanfic writer whose works I’ve read

Hope I didn’t miss anybody ❤️


Whose Line Is It Anyway? Season 12 Intros Part A | Part B

[I’ve included all episodes that aired this summer, however some of them were taped for season 11 and count as such on CW Seed.]

Past Seasons: season 9 | season 10: Part A  Part B | season 11: Part A  Part B

The Twentieth Century has seen the United States enter two major wars and emerge less-than victorious. There are, in Washington DC, prominent memorials for both of these conflicts, the Korean and Vietnam War memorials.

The interesting thing about both of these monuments is that they both honour the veterans of those wars, not the war (nor the policies behind the wars) themselves. Across the Vietnam Veteran’s wall are etched the names of the fallen, and the Korean Veteran’s memorial depicts soldiers on patrol. The president who sent them to war and the generals who ordered them to fight are not given special precedence on these monuments. We honour the men and women who fought on behalf of their country, even when the fight was lost.

Step back yet another century, and we find another war that was lost by our countrymen. This war was fought on home soil, so there are churches, towns, cemeteries, even whole regions that are indelibly marked with the wounds of that war.

Should historical markers be removed from Civil War battlefields? I don’t think anyone is seriously suggesting such a thing as any but a straw man. Should Confederate Cemeteries be removed, renamed, or de-consecrated? Again, I think not. Obviously, if we were to de-consecrate the grave of any person in the past whose views were anathema to modern sensibility, no grave would be sacred as the arc of history bends toward progress.

Should the policies and politics of a lost cause be memorialized in the faces and figures of the President and Generals who enforced those policies? That, rather than any other, is the question we should be debating. Not whether this is our history- it is and we should acknowledge the shame of it- but whether it is a history that should be glorified.

Keep the cemeteries and may our ancestors rest in peace. But also keep the libraries and textbooks that explain, in detail, what our ancestors believed- the subjugation of human beings and the economic necessity thereof, the moral and genetic superiority of race, religion, and sex, and the selfish, foolish belief that the way things had always been done was the way that things could continue to be done for all time.

If we must honour the Confederacy, honour its soldiers, not its policies. Visit the cemeteries and museums, but remember that their fight was not righteous. Remove symbols that glorify a tarnished past- the depictions of leaders who led us wrong.

anonymous asked:

Prompt!!! john and paul + leather jacket sharing wherein one of them gets flustered, aroused, or pleased in a possessive sort of way (its up to you!) that the other is wearing their jacket

awww this is a good idea, i dig it mate good on ya! 


The Cavern was always cold. Not particularly cold in the summer, but during the winter, it didn’t matter how many hours The Beatles played, or even if they felt like they broke a sweat. It was cold. During the cold wintery months in the Liverpool basement club, the four boys always remembered to layer up to make sure they weren’t going to turn into frozen Beatle-pops on stage. 

This was the first night since the end of the summery season that John had not remembered a jacket. George was dressed warmly in a winter jacket, Ringo was wearing a similar jacket with a jumper over top, and Paul wore a long sleeve shirt with two jumpers on top. Paul left his leather jacket on the side of the stage too, just in case he underestimated the warmth and comfort of his outfit.

John was standing on the stage opposite side of the mic he and Paul shared. He was shaking so much that the movement of his fingers on the neck of the guitar was delayed. Paul and George kept shooting him looks, and between songs George would shout something like, “The hell is wrong with you, Lennon!” Each time, John would try and shout back, but was rudely interrupted by Ringo hitting the intro to the next song on his snare drum, or Paul counting into the next song loudly through the microphone, “One, two, three, FAH!” Leaving John to try and keep up during the next song. 

Finally, the boys were given a break for another band, much lesser known than themselves, to go up and play for a while. The four lads bolted back stage, John was last, of course. It took him a few extra moments to get his guitar and strap up and around his neck, carefully and numbly placing it down on it’s stand. He rubbed his hands together quickly as he ran backstage, picking up a jacket that caught his eye as he did so. 

Paul was sitting on top of an old amplifier talking to George, as Ringo had run out to the bar to get a jug of beer for the four of them. When John caught his eye, it seemed as though George had completely stopped talking mid sentence. He hadn’t, but Paul could only focus on one thing. The thing that was slung around his older friend’s shoulders, wrapped around his body to protect him as if he was a delicate small flower hiding from the cold. His jacket, Paul’s jacket, was slung around John. 

“Cold, Lennon?” George asked the older member of the band. The only reason, Paul reckoned, that he heard George’s voice and words this time, was because he included the name Lennon. Paul watched John nod and sit down on an amplifier next to George, he couldn’t bear to pry his eyes away. “Y’know how cold it gets in here, ye daft git.” George chuckled as he pointed at the shaking man next to him. Paul felt a burning hot pit of anger in his stomach as George made fun of John. Nobody makes fun of him, he thought to himself. 

“Dunno whose jacket this is,” John lied through his teeth, “But it’s helpin.” He shrugged, looking up at Paul through his lashes. “S’Paul’s, ye poof.” George nudged John’s arm as he said the words. Paul was ready to pounce on his schoolmate and hit him hard in the mouth, punishing him for making John feel cruddy. George waved a hand dismissively and went to search for their drummer, and more importantly, their beer. “S-sorry, Macca,” John said with a shivering voice, “Y-you want it?” John began to shrug the jacket off his shoulders. Paul quickly stood up, and put his hands on the jacket to stop the man. 

“Yer bloody frozen, Lennon.” Paul observed, rubbing his hands up and down John’s arms quickly, hoping it would warm his friend up. “Looks good on you.” He whispered, looking down on the top of John’s head, admiring his beautiful, lengthening auburn hair. John quickly stood up to be at eye level with Paul. “Harrison’s right, should’ve remembered how bloody cold it is.” Paul noticed his lip quivering, turning a light shade of blue. 

Paul couldn’t stop his eyes from drifting down his friend’s body, admiring the way his jacket fit him absolutely perfectly, and glancing back up at his blueing lips. “You should start forgetting how cold it is more often.” The words rolled off of Paul’s lips as he brought his warm face closer to John’s cold one. “Yer warm,” John whispered, putting his hands on Paul’s hips, begging for his warmth. Paul pushed his nose against John’s. “Need another one of me jackets, you do.” Paul whispered with absolutely zero hesitance. He was surprised at himself. 

“Warm me up, Macca.” John whispered back with no grin on his face, much to Paul’s surprise. Paul took one more quick glimpse down at the sight of his own jacket on John and nearly lost it. He pressed his warm lips harshly against John’s frozen ones. They stayed together for what seemed like an eternity, and it was everything Paul could’ve wanted. When the two finally pulled away from the embrace, John’s lips were back to their original pinkish colour.

“Yer right, Macca. I think I will forget how bloody cold it is in here.”


Ryan & Colin feat. various emoji


Pairing: Remus Lupin x reader

Summary: You and Remus are just friends. Clearly, just platonic. No romantic feelings whatsoever. It’s perfectly normal for friends to smell each other when they smell love potion, right?

A/N: This is pretty short, but I wanted to keep it short and sweet. Hope you like it!

Originally posted by potter-imagines-here

(Not my gif)

“I think that’s everything,” said Remus, scanning the Potions textbook lying open on the desk between the two of you. “We can’t have missed anything.”
“Let me see?” You shifted closer to see the book, too busy reading to notice the blush spreading across your work partner’s cheeks. He smiled softly at the way you bit your lip in concentration, your brow furrowed as you studied the page titled “Amortentia”. He had to fight the urge to fix the stray strand of hair that kept falling across your eyes.
“It looks like we’ve done everything right,” you confirmed. Remus opened his mouth to reply, but the Potions professor came bustling over at that moment.
“Miss (L/N), Mr Lupin, finished, are we?” Slughorn asked cheerfully. “I must say, this looks very good. What does the potion smell like?”
“Ladies first,” Remus smiled. You stood on tiptoe to see over the edge of the enormous black cauldron in front of you, taking a deep breath and closing your eyes.
“It smells like…chocolate, old books…something like a dog?” you frowned in confusion. “And…I dunno what else that is. It’s like someone’s cologne or something.”
Remus’ face fell. If you could smell a dog in the potion, that must mean you like Sirius, not him.
“Remus? Remus?” You waved your hand in front of his face to get his attention. “What do you smell?”
He cleared his throat awkwardly, trying to hide his disappointment and leaning over the cauldron.
“I smell chocolate…someone’s perfume, I dunno whose…and ink, I think.”
He moved away from the cauldron quickly, trying to hide his reddening face. He knew exactly whose perfume he could smell, and she was standing right next to him.
Slughorn looked between the two of you knowingly, smiling slightly. “Well, congratulations, you two. Good work.”
As he moved away to another desk, you nudged your friend gently.
“You alright? You look kinda out of it.”
“Uh, yeah, I’m fine. Do you think it’s accurate?” he asked, gesturing to the book. “Like does it really make you smell your favourite things? Or just stuff you’ve smelt recently?”
You frowned. “Well, I haven’t been around any dogs recently, and I still smelt that. Although…”
You shook your head slightly. “It wasn’t a dog…it was different, somehow. Maybe an animal like a dog, like a wolf or something.”
You looked away quickly, realising how that must have sounded. You could feel your cheeks turning scarlet; you knew exactly what you’d smelt. You’d smelt a werewolf, and the soft cologne he wore, the smell that engulfed you when you hugged him. The smell that you’d ever so slightly fallen in love with.
“Yeah, it’s probably not accurate.”

It was accurate, alright.

As you sat in the common room a few months later with your head resting on Remus’ shoulder, his arms wrapped around your waist, you breathed in slowly. That familiar smell of chocolate and cologne overwhelmed you, and a smile settled on your lips.
“You look happy,” he commented, looking down at you with kind eyes. You smiled again.
“I am. I am really happy that I took Potions this year.”
He chuckled, confused. “What? You always complain about that class. Are you feeling alright?” he joked, feeling your forehead in mock concern. You swatted his hand away, laughing.
“I know, but it made me realise some important things! Like how nice chocolate and cologne smell together,” you grinned, burying your face in his neck. He smiled softly, pressing his lips to the top of your head.
“Not as nice as ink and your perfume,” he teased, tickling your sides. You wriggled, giggling.
“Where did you even get ink from that day? I don’t smell like ink.”
Chuckling, he lifted your hands and made you look at the palms. They were splattered with jet black ink.
“Yeah, I have no idea where I got that from,” he said sarcastically, grinning.
“Oh shut up.”