forties hair


She was a woman of forty, her long brown hair tied back from her worn face, her clothing rough and simple. She had been pretty once, and Anakin would say she was pretty still, but time and the demands of her life were catching up with her. Her smile was warm and youthful as she greeted her son.

(requested by @draganchitsa)

anonymous asked:

Okay but now i'm really gonna need the story of you summoning, meeting and befriending Satan when you reach the optimal follower count. Pretty please with Jenny on top!?!?

IT’S TIME (I’ve literally been waiting for this moment for a week)

The coffee shop is nearly empty, patrons heading home to dinner and family and sleep. The parking lot outside is quiet and dark, cars silently gliding towards the road, sweeping their headlights briefly over the store front before sliding away. The baristas are more often in the break room than behind the counter, scheduling next week’s shifts and discussing how exactly they’re going to distribute the closing tasks today. They know that the customers who are left are fine, fresh refills in their cups and the knowledge that another is but a holler away.

The author has been observing the slow trickle of people for a while now, casually flipping between the novel she’s supposed to be writing, a bullet point list of interesting facial features, and a crockpot recipe she’s trying to convince herself she really wants to try.

(She does not know why she think she should enjoy crockpot shepherd’s pie. She just knows that she should enjoy it.)

She is one of three customers left in the store. There is a man she’s affectionately named “The Wizard” for his tendency to drape his coat over his shoulders like a cape. He is huddled over his tablet and might be near tears as he scribbles something out. The other customer is a woman the author knows quite well, but will not acknowledge. It is not because of her needle-like teeth or the script written carefully across her shirt or even because of the off-putting cackle the woman seems fond of.

It is because there is some trouble the author knows she should not engage.

So she ignores the woman-who-will-not-be-named and focuses on her computer.

It’s as she’s typing out “charming slouch, neck extended, a home out of his spine” and “add twice amount of onion” that she gets the notification.

The notification.

“Oh fuck,” says the author. She has not prepared for this at all. (This is pretending that she would have prepared for it with prior warning.)

(She would not have.)

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Ten years ago I was a student on my own in NYC. The price gouging of insulin in the US was just beginning. I have been type1 diabetic since the age of twelve. When I think of the struggles I’ve gone through in the past twenty years just to stay alive, a few memories stand out like shards of glass: clear, pointed, and bloody. This is one of those shards…

I am twenty. My alarm wakes me at six to get ready for class. It wakes me at six to begin the strict and unforgiving regimen that keeps me alive.
Before anything else I test my blood sugar – blearily, groggily, automatically. The meter is a crappy drug store brand. I miss my old meter but I can’t afford to use that one anymore – the test strips were $75 a bottle. $375 a month. $15 a bottle for this one.
Slide the strip into the meter and prick my finger. This meter requires more blood than my old one, so the poke has to be deeper, and I squeeze until a gory crimson pearl forms on my fingertip. The dull lancet hurts: you’re supposed to change them out after each use, but I change it out more like once a week, because a box of lancets is $20, and who can afford that?
This is the first of between 8-20 tests I am supposed to each day: when I wake up, before and after each meal and snack, before, during, and after exercise, before bed, any time I feel “off”, and maybe a middle of the night check because I’m afraid of dying in my sleep.

Dead In Bed Syndrome is the number one cause of death for young type1s.

Truth be told, I don’t test as much as I am supposed to anymore. I can’t afford that. Once, when I tried to refill the script for my strips a week too early, the pharmacist told me coldly, “You’re testing too much.”
“I’m type one,” I replied, nonplussed, thinking he should recognize the obvious implications of that statement.
“You test four times a day. Prescription for four times a day,” he said patronizingly through a thick accent.
In a rare moment of assertiveness fed by desperation, I slammed both hands on the counter, “Do you even know the difference between type one and two?” I asked, “You’re not a doctor! I’m testing exactly as much as my doctor told me to.”
That was when I realized it was the insurance company I must defer to in matters of health, not my doctor.
During class in the morning I feel hazy. Prof gets a bit blurred around the edges. Can’t make out the diagram of a neuron projected on the screen.

My meter beeps quietly when I test, and the bro next to me grunts, “Do you have to do that now?” having assumed I was fiddling with a phone or PDA. I crumple and say nothing. Time to calculate a correction.
My entire life is math. I calculate how much insulin I need to correct – to bring my blood glucose down to the normal range. I calculate how many grams of carbohydrate are in anything I eat, and how much insulin I’ll need to compensate for them. I subtract for the insulin that’s still in my system. I subtract for any exercise I’ll be doing. I add for lack of sleep. I add for emotions: for anger, for sadness, for fear. I add for hormones: menstrual, cortisol from the stress of school, of working two jobs, and ironically, from the stress of not being able to afford my insulin.
Surreptitiously under my desk, I draw the insulin up into a syringe and jab it into my belly. I don’t swab with alcohol first, because I can’t afford alcohol swabs. The shot hurts despite the needle being a hair’s thin gauge and only a half-inch long. It hurts because it is dull from overuse. Insulin syringes are single use only, but I can’t afford that. I put the biohazard orange cap back on and save the syringe for next time as another bruise forms on my belly. My belly is a constellation of pinpricks and bruises.
I got into the habit of skipping meals to save money. I’d contemplated going low-carb, not because it’s trendy or healthier or better for type1 diabetics (it’s not), but because low carb means less insulin – I could save money! But the diet itself is expensive, so that evening I start boiling water for plain oatmeal. Five bucks for the extra large carton; a meal a day for a month! I could eat like queen if I didn’t spend all my money on prescription copays. But I remind myself as I stir my soggy beige repast that I am lucky to even have insurance.
I am one of the lucky ones, I think, as I roll my vial of insulin gently between my palms to warm it and mix it when it slips from my hands and falls to the floor. I am one of the lucky ones. It shatters on the rust colored tiles and the reek of the hormone that keeps me alive (imagine concentrated Eau de Band-Aid) surrounds me like the Worst Cologne In the World.

The puddle on the floor is a week’s wages.
The puddle on the floor is worth half a month’s rent.
The puddle on the floor is worth two months’ food.
The puddle on the floor is my life.

I sink to the floor next to the puddle and sob. And I am one of the lucky ones.

Some people let themselves go into DKA (Diabetic Ketoacidosis, a near-death state) so they can be taken to the ER. There they will be chastised for not taking their insulin – the term doctors use is “non-compliant”, like we’re parolees failing to meet the terms of our release. Like we’re snorting sugar like blow. But at least with the contempt and the upbraiding comes a free vial or two.
For some this is the only way they know how to get insulin; each incident of DKA doing just a little more damage to the tiny blood vessels that feed their kidneys, to their eyes, their nerves, to their hearts, to their lungs. If they don’t die this time, they’re gambling with their future.
But I’m still a coward. It’ll take another few years before I get pushed far enough to boldly (stupidly) play those odds myself. This time…this time, after three hours of sobbing, I walk to the pharmacy.
Swollen face and red eyes. The cacophony of traffic and sirens and catcalls blend together into aural soup. The buildings, traffic, people around me blurring together too, unreal and waxy like a swirl of melting crayons. I’m not truly seeing or hearing: I am mathing.
What if they won’t refill my prescription early? How much food can I afford when the currency is units of insulin? How long will I last? Maybe a few days? Maybe a week? I don’t actually know exactly how long I’ll live without it, but I’ll start feeling the effects within hours: my vision will blur, my thirst will become unquenchable, nausea and hunger will battle for reign supreme over my tummy. I’ll lose weight rapidly; I have an athletic physique now, but that will disappear almost overnight. I’ll get weaker. I’ll be winded walking a few blocks or climbing a flight of stairs. My muscles will twitch. I’ll vomit. I’ll faint. I’ll hyperventilate as my lungs desperately try to expel the toxins building up in my blood. My fingers will wrinkle until my hands look like a striga’s. My heart will pound. Then something will give way. Maybe a heart attack first. Maybe suffocation. My organs will fail in one order or another. I will die. And it will hurt.
Maybe I can last long enough to scrounge up the money – borrowing, working extra shifts, saving: hey, I think darkly, “If you can’t afford to eat, at least insulin will last longer!” Silver fucking lining.
The florescence of the drugstore rescues me from my mind. I head straight to the pharmacy, and to a pharmacist I’ve never met before. Thank god there’s no line. She is a woman in her forties with wavy auburn hair. In her white coat, she is the first thing I see with clarity. She is pretty. She has freckles.
I ask for a refill. I tell her I broke my bottle. “You’re not due for a refill for a month,” she says.
“Please?” I say…I don’t have anything else to say. I don’t have anything else at all.
She consults her computer.
She makes phone calls.

I pace and try not to look at the fitness magazines, with their diet and exercise advice. I try not to think about how people micromanage their nutrients, count their calories, and run, run, run from the Reaper. I will never be healthy. I am what they fear. I am what they are running from.
The pretty pharmacist tells me there’s nothing she can do. Insurance won’t fill it for four more weeks.
I don’t cry because I have no tears left, but I don’t know what to do, so I collapse against the wall in desperation, my arms wrapped around me, trying to think and trying not to think.
How can insulin cost so much? How can they refuse me when my life literally depends on it?

How can my life be worth so much and so little at the same time?

I don’t know how long I stand frozen (or am I shaking?), against the wall when I feel the hand on my shoulder. I look up at a halo of auburn hair, but I can’t meet the eyes that look at me. She slips a refrigerator-chilled box into my hand, inside, a vial of insulin. “Don’t tell anyone,” she says, and walks away.

In An Instant: Part Eight

Summary: A romantic comedy about what happens when love literally falls through your window.

Characters: Bucky Barnes x Reader, Ash (aka me), Steve Rogers, Sam Wilson, Tony Stark

Warnings: Language, general gross cuteness, some angst, bad writing, bad storylines, possible cheating, but mostly major fluff and feels

Word Count: 3.2Kish (SORRY)

A/N: Three long months you waited. I hope you enjoy. And I’m sorry. 


Originally posted by jeremydooley

Bucky couldn’t shake the image; you giggling like a schoolgirl as the females won yet another hand of strip poker. He’d watched you as he pulled at the fly of his jeans, smiling to himself as he witnessed the pink filling your cheeks, the exact second he knew he wanted you.

“Wanna grab a drink? I think we’re about done here.” Sam turned to survey the room, and when he looked back to where Bucky was all he saw was the front door swinging shut. “Guess not.”

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Creepypasta #1049: I Am A Truck Driver, And I Will Never Forget The Time I Broke Down At 4 In The Morning

Length: Medium

Being a trucker means constant travel. Constant travel means constant change, and constant change means constant danger. This was something I had to accept when I took the job all those years ago. But back then I though that nothing would ever happen to me, there was no chance of me running into danger. I was completely invincible behind the wheel of my rig. But hell was I wrong.

I’d crossed the state border a while ago and my eyes were starting to get heavy. I hadn’t seen anyone else on the roads for miles and I was getting bored of listening to chat show after chat show. Suddenly, the truck started slowing down. I pressed my foot down hard, on the pedal but it had no effect. I shook myself wide awake and sat up. My truck rolled a few more meters, then came to a halt. I just sat there for a minute, confused, before I unclipped my belt and climbed out.

I quickly came to the realisation that I had run out of fuel. I was pretty pissed at myself for not paying more attention. Thinking about it, I did hear the warning bleep some time ago. I was about to call my boss when I heard a voice from behind me. I spun round real fast, holding my phone as if it was a weapon. A man slowly approached me. He looked to be in his early forties, with grey hair and a mustache. He seemed to be chewing a lump of tobacco and walked with a slight limp.

“Looks like you’ve run outta gas”, he croaked, still approaching me. I shrugged and told him that I’d fine and started to walk back towards the truck. 

“I gotta place not so far from here where I could get you some fuel." 

I didn’t believe him. Too many things didn’t add up. Why was he out here, at this location, at this time, just as I broke down? I repeated that I already had some fuel in the back and that I didn’t need any help. I got in and locked the doors. I just wanted this man to go away. I saw him walk off into the tree line and disappear.

I called my boss and he said he’d sent some one out to tow me, but they might take some time. I ended up falling asleep where I sat, feeling much more secure with my doors locked and the man gone.

I woke up some time later and realised that I was moving. I was confused at first but then remembered that someone had been sent to tow the truck. I wondered why they didn’t wake me up. But maybe they had tried - I’m a deep sleeper and the doors were locked. I noticed that it was still dark outside, and tried to work out where we were on the map. I couldn’t see any signs along the side of the road and had no clue where I was. 

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The Reality of Sephiroth’s Hair

This has been nagging at me for a while, so I’m setting it all straight. I’ve read a lot of fanfiction where sephiroth magically has his hair all clean and perfect in five minutes and everyone accepts it, whether at HQ or in the middle of the wilderness. And I get it, he’s magical, and alien, and so on, but hair is still hair, no matter how fabulous. 

I used to have hair so long I would accidentally sit on it. And because nature knows what she’s up to, it’s always been absurdly thick and straight, as in, ‘surely that’s a wig’ thick. It’s not silver, but it’ll just have to do. 

According to his fanclub in crisis core, Sephiroth uses an entire bottle of shampoo with every wash, and the same with conditioner. That’s going way overboard, seph, you’d need just enough to fill your palm, which means you can use the same bottle for at least a month if you’re careful about how often you wash it. If not, that’s two bottles for every wash, and lets say he washed it twice a week (anything more is impractical and ultimately makes it greasier). Once your hair gets past about mid-back, washing it takes a while, say 10 minutes under the water. 

Then drying, that’s the real time sink. Mine wasn’t quite as long as his, but it took over twenty five minutes with a dryer. Without a hair dryer I could wait all day and it would still be damp. Going to sleep with wet hair means waking up cold with still wet hair and a wet pillow too. 

With so much hair, if it’s wet then it drips constantly, and gets big ugly knots in it. It also becomes heavy, the weight drags at the back of your head, causing migraines. He’s super human though so we’ll give him a pass on the pain. Does it knot easily when dry? It doesn’t look that fine so probably not, but it’s impossible to say. I’ll assume not too much, and award only five minutes for brushing it. 

Therefore: Sephiroth must have spent minimum of forty minutes on his hair every time he washed it, would have required twenty bottles of (apparently custom made) shampoo and conditioner a month, and needed blow drying to be at all functional or he’s leaving a trail of drips everywhere, catching everything, and streaking down the back of his coat. None of this would be readily available in Wutai, so I present: Sephiroth, Demon of Wutai, Shinra’s finest General, and Walking Bird’s Nest. 


Post-12x08 fic, gen, 1561 words. For @alulaspeaks for the @bittersamgirlclub Secret Santa 2016. Also on AO3.

There’s a small slot towards the base of Dean’s cell door that’s his only point of communication with the outside world. Twice a day, once in the morning and once at night, a tray of food is pushed through. He can tell which is which by what they serve him: cold eggs and hash browns for breakfast, soggy tomatoes swimming in watery juice. In the evening, the menu’s more varied. Beans. Something that might be chilli. Sometimes there’s a slice or two of fruit. Either way, and however shitty the food, the moments where it arrives are usually the only events of Dean’s day; so he’s learned to anticipate them, to centre his activity on their coming.

After the first couple times, he lies on the floor when he thinks the slot might soon open, waiting for the brief opportunity it offers to peer through the opening into the corridor outside. He doesn’t know where they’re holding Sam; but he yells out anyway, “Sammy,” can’t hurt.

Sam doesn’t answer. He never answers, but Dean carries on yelling.

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No Fighting in the Bar (Alexander Hamilton x Reader x Aaron Burr)

Y/N’s skirts swept against the freshly washed floor, bucket and mop in hand. A usual patron had had too much to drink once again, however, he wasn’t able to make it outside the bar to vomit this time around. Y/N sighed, walking quickly to the backroom where the storage closet and backdoor is; after dumping the contents of the bucket outside in the alley, and returning the mop and bucket to the closet, she washed her hands in the small sink that was haphazardly placed in the corner. 

Sitting down on a barrel of alcohol for a moment, Y/N run a hand through her hair before tying it up into a ponytail. “Y/N! Get back out here!” She heard her boss, Richard, call out over the hustle and bustle of the bar. Pushing herself off the barrel, Y/N exited the small backroom and walked hurriedly back to her notepad and tray where she had left them when she had to go get the mop and bucket. Richard was a man in his early forties with light hair that was beginning to gray. “I’m sorry you had to do that Y/N; normally I’d get Harry to do it, but he’s off tonight.” He apologized, but Y/N simply smiled and shook her head.

“It’s fine Richard, don’t worry about that. Just been having a rough day is all.” And that was true. Y/N had ripped her favorite dress when she fell in the market, which also caused her to lose her apples that she had just bought. Returning to the same stall she had just left, she bought yet more apples. After returning home, she discovered that she had she had also cut her leg when she fell, which was now bandaged. She had dropped her vase that held some wild flowers when she went to fill it with some more water, causing glass to be skewed around her kitchen. Needless to say, it hadn’t been her day.

Y/N had been taking orders from customers and delivering drinks when a group of men entered the bar, loud and exuberant. They sat down at a table in the corner of the bar, and although they seemed to be joking around, two of the men had an underlying tension that you could cut with a knife. Y/N frowned at the obvious pressure between them. A dark-skinned man with a faint hair line and a man with a short ponytail pulled to the nape of his neck with some facial hair, although laughing at some of the things the other men were saying, kept eyeing each other with dark looks.

Y/N blew a piece of stray hair away from her face, and with her trusty notepad and pencil, walked over to the group of men. “What can I get for you boys?” Y/N asked, a smile on her face, pencil at the ready. A man with dark curly hair that was pulled into a bun answered her, “A round of beers, mon cher.” Y/N lifted a brow at the French words, a small smile on her face. “I’ll be back in a few minutes with your drinks then.” Before she could even step two feet away, she heard the tension snap. “Burr, what do you think this revolution is for?! To break away from England just so we can have our thumbs planted firmly up—“

“Alexander, if we go ahead full force with no plan, we will be stuck under King George’s thumb for the rest of our lives! We need something that will work—“ The two men were standing at this point, looking as they were about to pounce on each other. “I have a plan Burr, you just refuse to even give it a shot! If you’d listen to me—“ The dark-skinned man, Burr, began to laugh as Alexander began to talk again, rolling his eyes. “Burr, if you roll your eyes at me one more time…” A loud clatter sounded from the head of their table, causing the two men to snap their heads in the direction of Y/N who just slammed their drinks down on the table.

The bar went silent as Y/N glowered at the two men, causing each of them to gulp simultaneously. “No fighting in the bar. Take it outside, take it to the park down the street, take it anywhere else but here.” She looked at the two men, each having a newfound respect for the young barmaid. She took the drinks off of her tray, and placed them onto the table. “Enjoy your drinks. If you need anything else, please do not fight for it.” Y/N grinned dangerously, her tired features being put on display to the now sitting Alexander and Burr.

As the night began to wind down in the bar, Y/N had begun to clean off the various tables and chairs in the establishment. The group of men that had caused the silence in the bar earlier had begun to stagger out, singing a drinking song. One of the men stayed behind, Burr, if Y/N recalled correctly. She heard him clear his throat, and Y/N looked up at the man from the table she was washing. “Can I help you?” she asked politely, though her features were exhausted. “My name is Aaron Burr. I would like to apologize for my previous behavior, Miss?…” Y/N leaned against the table, crossing her arms over her chest. “Y/N L/N.”

He gave Y/N a handsome smile, “Well, Miss L/N, I am sorry to have caused you trouble earlier tonight. It was not my intention to upset a beautiful lady, such as you.” He gave her a slight bow, before rising again. “I hope we can see each other soon, Miss L/N.” With that statement, he walked out. Y/N stood there for a moment, stunned. She let out a laugh, shaking her head in disbelief. After putting her cleaning materials away and saying goodbye to Richard, Y/N tossed on her coat and exited the bar.

As she exited her workspace, she saw the other man from earlier leaning against the brick face of the establishment. They locked eyes, and she saw the man smile. “Alexander Hamilton, at your service.” He reached out his hand towards her, causing Y/N to reach out her own for a shake. However, he gently grasped her hand, and pulled her knuckles to his lips: kissing them softly. “Y/N L/N.” She replied, her features softening at the gesture. “I’d like to apologize for what happened earlier. I wish you didn’t have to see me like that.” Y/N crooked a smile, “If I did know you, I have a feeling that it would’ve happened somewhere along the line.”

Alexander laughed at her comment, a bright grin lighting up his face. “Well, I still would’ve hoped you didn’t see me like that.” He shrugged, a sheepish look on his features. “Well Y/N, it’s getting pretty late, and it would be a shame to see a lovely girl like you walk home alone in the dark.” Y/N rolled her eyes and playfully bumped his shoulder as she passed him. “Whatever you say, Mr. I-Got-A-Plan. I’ll be fine, and I don’t know you well enough to have you walk me home.”

“Some other time then?” Alexander called out from down the street, looking at her hopefully. Y/N turned to look at him, “Come find me, and we’ll see. No fighting in the bar to get my attention, though okay?” She called back, laughing. “It’s a deal, Y/N!”


Marilyn Monroe and Arthur Miller at the “Baby Doll” premiere Dec 1956

Lost In The City

Calum Hood Imagine

Today was the day! You were finally going to see your boyfriend after months and months of missing him and you couldn’t be more excited. You and Calum had been dating for almost a year. In fact, next week was your one year anniversary, which was the reason you were flying out to go and see him. You had been saving for the trip for about a month and even though Calum had offered to pay for your plane ticket you wanted to pay for it yourself instead. You had been completely packed since last week, but had repacked at least four times since. But now, it was three hours until your flight took off. The U.S part of their tour began in Las Vegas so that’s where you had decided you would meet him. You would then stay with him and the boys on tour for another two weeks before you flew back home. Calum wanted you to stay through the entire rest of the tour but due to different credits you needed at school you unfortunately couldn’t afford to stay any longer than two weeks. But that wasn’t going to stop you from seeing him completely. You were tired of only being able to hear his voice through static filled phone calls and see his face through your laptop screen. You wanted to feel his arms around you and hear him whisper in your ear how much he loves you. You missed him so much it hurt and you were ready to have him back again even if it was only for a short while.

The sound of a shrill car horn brought you back from your thoughts. Excitedly, you slung your duffel bag over your shoulder and hurried out the door to the awaiting taxi. Two hours later, you were seated on the airplane that would take you to Las Vegas, headphones in and ready to sit through the long flight, having opted to wear a comfy tee shirt and leggings for the trip, wanting to avoid discomfort on the plane ride. The chime of the seat belt sign went off signaling that the plane was about to start moving so quickly before you would lose a signal you texted Calum to let him know you were taking off.

Hey babe, just taking off. Be there soon! :)x

Nestling further back in your seat, you closed your eyes and let the rhythm of the music in your headphones take you away.


You were jolted awake by the sound of the captain’s voice.

“Good afternoon everyone and thank you for flying with us. On behalf of all the crew here we hope you have a fantastic stay in Las Vegas.”

Once the plane came to a complete stop and the seatbelt light was off, you gathered your belongings and made your way off the plane. You took a breath of fresh air as you exited and followed the signs to pick up your bags. Switching your phone back on, you saw that you had a text from Calum.

Do you want me to pick you up?

Looking around you saw that a small group of girls had begun to notice your presence. Being the girlfriend of a band member had its perks, but you never really liked all the attention. You knew that the moment Calum arrived here it would be mayhem, so you decided you would call for a taxi instead of subjecting both him and you to mobbing. Dialing the number to the yellow cab service, you requested that someone be here to pick you up and he said he would be here in fifteen minutes. Heading out to grab your bag, you noticed a small pack of girls trailing after you, some with their phones out and obviously taking pictures. You were just about to call Calum when you felt someone tap your shoulder. Turning around, you saw a girl who looked to be about fifteen.

“You’re Y/N right?”
“Uh, yeah I am.” You smiled at the girl.
“Aren’t you Calum Hood’s girlfriend?”
“I guess you could say that, yeah.” You chuckled.
“Is he here?”
“No, he’s busy with all the tour and album stuff you know.”
“Is the album coming out soon?”
“I keep telling him to kick it in high gear, but it’s not my decision. I know it’s going to be good though.” You told her.
“I know it will be too” The girl beamed. “Can I, uh, maybe get a picture with you?”
“Sure thing!” The girl snapped pulled out her phone and you leaned in, smiling as she snapped a picture.
“Thank you so much! And uh, could you tell Calum I said hi and his music inspires me?” The girl looked down shyly.
“Of course I will! I know he loves hearing about how much people love his music.”
“Thank you!” You smiled at her before walking away and pulling your phone back out to call Calum. It rang four times before he answered, meaning he must be busy.
“Y/N! Have you landed?” He sounded excited, which made you even more happy to see him.

“Yep, just landed and I’m at the airport!”

“Oh my God I cannot wait to see you. Can I come pick you up?”

“It’s okay, I called for a taxi and they’re supposed to be here any minute.”

“Babe! Why’d you do that? I thought I would pick you up!” You could practically hear his frown.

“Because there are already a bunch of fans here and I know you don’t have the energy to fight through a crowd right now.”

“But I miss you.”

“And I’ll be there in like twenty minutes babe, don’t worry! I’m a big girl.”

“Alright but you better hurry. We’re almost finished recording for the day which means we’ll have the rest of the day to spend time with each other.”

“Ugh I can’t wait to see you! But I have to hang up now, I see my bags on the belt.”

“Okay, I love you and I’ll see you soon.”

“I love you too Cal.” You hung up, grabbed your bag, and found the taxi you had been looking for.

The driver looked to be about forty. His hair was slicked back and fit the Vegas cab driver pretty much to a tee. His nametag read ‘Bernie’ and he looked like driving a cab was the last thing he wanted to do. “Where you goin’ hon?” He asked in a gruff voice. Where were you going? You had completely forgotten to ask Calum which hotel he was staying at. You tried to remember the arena he was playing thinking that maybe the driver could take you there and Calum could pick you up but you blanked on the name.

“Uh, what’s the name of the arena here.”
“There are a lot of arenas here sweetheart, this is Vegas not Kansas.” Bernie spoke in an irritated tone.
“Um, what about a recording studio.” You spoke shakily.
“Well which one?” He rolled his eyes.
“Uh, can you just take me to the closest one.” Maybe you would get lucky and it would be the same one. Or maybe Calum could pick you up at whichever one you were dropped at.
“You got it.” Before you even had a chance to buckle in, the cab lurched forward and you and all of your belongings were thrown forward.
“Could you please put your seatbelt on?” Bernie huffed.
“Yeah sorry.” Your cheeks turned red as you scrambled to strap yourself and all your stuff in, which you were glad you did because the ride wasn’t the smoothest.

Ten minutes later, the cab pulled up to a dilapidated building with a plastic sign stuck in the dead grass reading “Lyncher Records”. You were sure this couldn’t be the place.

“Are you paying with cash or card? Bernie looked at you expectantly.

“Uh, cash I think, hang on.” You fumbled through your purse looking for your wallet.

“I don’t have all day hon.”

“I’m sorry, I’m looking, uh…” Your wallet wasn’t in your purse. How could it not be here? You had it in the airport, there’s no way you had lost it.  

“Don’t tell me you’re broke.”

“I’m not broke, I just think I lost my wallet.”

“Get out.” He spoke bluntly.

“My boyfriend will be able to pay you when I see him, please can you take me to the next recording studio?”

“No money means no ride sweetcheeks, now get out of my cab.”

Sighing in defeat, you slung your bag over your shoulder and got out of Bernie’s cab before he sped away leaving you behind in his wake. You could feel tears come to your eyes as you realized that you were all alone in a really sketchy part of Las Vegas with no ride and no money. Pulling out your cell phone, you clicked on his contact to try and reach him for help.

“Call cannot be completed as dialed.” The monotone voice of the operator rang out. No service. Of course. Your last option was to go inside the rickety old recording studio and see if you could borrow a phone. Cautiously, you stepped up to the door and tried to turn the handle, but it was locked, so you precariously knocked on the door. Immediately it swung open and you were faced with a tall, muscular man with an unkempt beard and bloodshot eyes.

“Who are you?” His grizzly voice asked.

“Um, is Calum Hood here?” You tried to keep your voice strong, but this man made you uneasy.

“I’m the only one that lives here baby.” You cringed at the nickname.

“Wait, you live here? I thought this was a recording studio.” You were thoroughly confused that’s for sure.

“Honey, this stopped being a recording studio a long time ago. But if you’re looking to make some noise I’m sure I could be of service.” He looked you up and down and gave you a smirk and you began to back away from the door.

“N-no that’s okay, I was meeting my boyfriend at a recording studio and I guess I’m at the wrong one. Thanks, bye.” You turned around and took off down the dirt road in the direction that Bernie had gone, mentally cursing him for taking you to a “recording studio” that didn’t even exist anymore.

Finally, after about a half hour of walking you made it back to civilization, well if you could call it that. It was almost dark now, and it seemed you were in the shadier area of Vegas. Holding your head high, you continued through the city trying to ignore the awful noises coming from the dingy alleyways. All of a sudden you felt a presence behind you. Out of the corner of your eye you saw two figures that seemed to be following you, but at enough of a distance that they thought you wouldn’t notice. Terrified, you reached into your pocket to see if you had enough bars on your phone to call Calum and have him come to your rescue. Switching it on, you saw that you had nine new texts and six missed calls all from Calum.

Babe, it’s almost 7, where r u?
I thought you said your plane had landed???
babe c’mon i miss you!!!!  
seriously y/n you’re scaring me where are you?
please tell me you’re okay
baby please respond
I swear to god if you’re hurt…
i’m coming to the airport to find you.

At least he was looking for you, but in a city this big it was unlikely that he would ever find you unless you called him. Since those texts had come in, it was clear your phone was finally able to call him. The men behind you lingered on, and you were praying that it was just a coincidence. If they tried something it was unlikely you would be able to fight off both of them at once and equally unlikely that Calum would get here in time.

The phone buzzed in your ear as you waited for Calum to pick up.

“Y/N oh my god! Are you okay? Where have you been! We’ve looked everywhere where are you?” His voice was filled with panic.

“I’m sorry Cal, I wasn’t sure where to meet you and so I told the cab driver to take me to the nearest recording studio but I lost my wallet and so he left me at this awful place and I didn’t have service and I had to walk all the way here and it’s getting dark and there are really creepy men behind me and I think they might be following me and I don’t know where I am and…”

He cut you off. “Okay tell me what you’re next to, I’m coming to get you.” His voice was calmer now, but had a firm edge to it that calmed you a little as well.

“Um, I see a bar on the left, and…I think it’s a strip club on the right.” You tried to remain composure while you were on the phone with him, but the presence of the men behind you was flipping you out and you just wanted Calum here.

“Darling, I need you to be a little more specific.”

“It’s Al’s Bar to my left and…”

“Okay I know right where you are. The tour bus drove through there last night. Stay right where you are okay baby?” HIs voice sounded through the phone.

“Cal, what about the men following me?” You whispered so they wouldn’t hear and you heard Calum take a sharp breath.

“Baby listen to me, I want you to keep walking forward okay? But cross the street and speed up a little and see if they follow you. Stay calm baby, you’re so brave and you’re going to be okay. I’ll be there soon okay.” His voice was soothing and you immediately did as he told you, looking both ways and briskly crossing over to the other side of the sidewalk.

“Calum will you please stay on the line with me? I just…I need to hear your voice right now.” You choked out.

“Of course baby, just keep walking forward and I’ll be there soon.”

Suddenly, you heard a loud whistle come from close behind you.

“Hey baby, no need to run away. Does the kitten wanna come over and play?”

You whipped your head around and saw that the two men had crossed the street and were now only about ten feet away from you.

“I don’t have any money and my boyfriend will be here soon. Leave me alone.” You told them in a firm voice and you could hear Calum beginning to panic on the other line.

“Aw don’t be like that baby. We just want to have some fun.” The other man slurred. Clearly they were drunk, but a few other men had joined them making you even more uneasy.

“Don’t come near me.” You spat, trying to appear strong.

“I’m almost there baby, just a little longer. Run if you need to okay?” Calum’s voice whispered.

“Don’t be a bitch.” The men spat as they advanced towards you.

“Baby, run!” Calum yelled, as he was able to hear the commotion. Immediately you turn tail and ran down the street, forward so that Calum would be able to find you. “I’m almost there, oh my god please be safe, I’m almost there.”

You ran as fast as you could, but your bag on your back was slowing you down tremendously. You could hear sound of the men running and shouting obscenities at you. Luckily most of them were intoxicated, but you could feel them gaining. You didn’t think you had ever been so terrified in your life, but you did as Calum told you and ran forward, praying that he would get here soon, but the click on the other end of the line made your heart sink. The call had disconnected.

“Aye, kitten wait up!” The men shouted behind you. You craned your neck to look behind you and saw that luckily only the one guy was sprinting after you and that the rest were far behind, much too drunk to run.  

Up ahead you could see there was a dead end and you panicked. If you weren’t running forward, how would Calum find you? Hoping for the best, you made a hard turn at the next  intersection. Rounding the corner blindly, you ran smack into a hard chest. Arms reached out to steady you, and when you caught your breath and looked up you were met with a pair of warm, chocolate eyes.

“Calum!” You cried, throwing your arms around his neck. His strong arms encompassed your whole body and pulled you impossibly close to him.

“You’re safe now baby, I’m here it’s okay.”

“I-Is that man still chasing me.” You stuttered.

“No, he’s gone baby. He saw your big strong boyfriend and figured he shouldn’t fuck with me. Or you.” He teased.

“Okay good. How did you find me?”

“I had to retrace some steps, but I knew where the bar was and I was already almost here. You should’ve just let me pick you up.” He furrowed his eyebrows together, giving you an ‘I told you so’ look.

“Alright, alright you were right. But just this once.” You chuckled and Calum kissed the top of your head.

“Let’s get you to the car, okay?” Calum grabbed your bag from your shoulders, heaving it onto his own and kept his arm around your waist, holding you close. He helped you inside the black SUV that he had driven to come a find you before buckling himself in and driving away from the nightmare you were in mere moments before.

“I was so worried about you. All alone in sin city, my poor little girl.” He confessed.

“You sounded pretty calm over the phone. Honestly, it made me calm too. You’re my rock Cal.” You leaned over and kissed his shoulder that was exposed under the tank top he was wearing.

“I’ll always protect you baby girl. I love you so much and whenever you need me I will be here for you. I love you so much and I would die if anything happened to you.”

“I love you Calum.”

“I love you more.”

As the light turned red, he leaned over and gave you a sweet kiss on the lips. “I’ve missed those lips. We’ve got a long night ahead of us babe.” He winked at you and you playfully shoved his arm before entwining your fingers with his and kissing his hand.
“This is going to be an amazing week.”



bandom in the year of our lord 2016

because it’s that time of year again

  • alex gaskarth got MARRIED holy SHIT and to his high school sweetheart
  • dallon weekes is still constantly looking into the camera like he’s on the office
  • alex and jack hosting the apmas again???
  • travie mccoy adding everyone back on snapchat because he doesnt know he doesnt have to
  • the academy is…’s reunion tour??? the reunion of gabilliam?????
  • 21 peanuts writing a song for suicide squad, somehow making a shitty movie even shittier
  • jack barakat continues to be a 12 year old
  • vicky t being transphobic on twitter
  • william beckett cut his hair after FORTY years
  • ryan ross on phases’ snapchat @phases thank u <3 :-*
  • “the mark matt and travis show” holy fuck that’s fucking salty
  • gerard way posted a selfie and he looks like its 2003 wow
  • brendon urie has been posting salty shit shading ryan on ig im THRIVING its so funny
  • pierce the veil finally released a new album
  • dark fall out boy show me the forbidden the kids arent alright video
  • panic at the disco performing a song for suicide squad, somehow making a shitty movie even shittier
  • brendon! at the party 2k16
  • alex gaskarth leaking new lyrics via snapchat
  • mike carden and gabe saporta are actually dating now

and that’s what you missed on glee!!

spookybeth-chase  asked:

•We’re both teachers and I ship these two students but you ship one with another student so let me just tell you why my ship is meant to be OMG PERCABETH AU PLEASE

“You need to stop pairing those two up for projects.”

Annabeth looked up from the paper she was marking at Percy Jackson as he sat down opposite her in the staff room, dropping his over-stuffed messenger bag on the floor. She fought back a self-satisfied grin.

“They work well together,” she insisted.

“Bullshit,” he said without apology. “You’re screwing me over on purpose.”

Annabeth set the papers in her hand down and picked up her coffee mug leaning back in her chair to roll her eyes at him. “You’re being dramatic.”

Percy scoffed. “You know full well I have money riding on Sarah getting with Monty by the end of the year.”

Annabeth took a sip of her coffee, considering that. “Is this slightly immoral?” she asked of their strange bet which had been running since the beginning of term.

“No,” Percy said, like it was a ridiculous suggestion. “And I’ll tell you why. That kid you keep pairing her up with is a pain in the ass.”

Annabeth rolled her eyes, but she found herself smiling as she settled in to hear exactly why Percy thought Sarah and Monty belonged together. Honestly, as if he needed to be any more of a dork, he was already a history teacher for the love of god.

While they continued their maybe-a-little-immoral debate about their students, they failed to notice the English teachers placing more money on their own bet about the History and the Math teacher.

I Was Part of the Queen’s Guard In England

by reddit user inaaace

This creepy story was top rated and many users were creeped out by it. 

I was in the English army, you know? Two tours in Iraq, one in Afghanistan. My mom absolutely hated the life I chose, and I can’t really blame her. But you know what?

The fucked up part is that the biggest horror I’ve ever experienced wasn’t in one of those shitty eastern places, no, it was in the very center of European “civilization”, London.

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Professor John Winchester Part One~ Hello Professor?

So this is exactly what it sounds like. I wanted to try my hand at this prompt. So lets start with some tags @mrs-squirrel-chester (Just an awesome lady! go check out her’s :3)  @deansdirtylittlesecretsblog @aprofoundbondwithdean @is-this-you-manning-up-sammy @brokenaria @winchesterenthusiast @bovaria @mrswhozeewhatsis @the-mrs-deanwinchester @letsgetoutalive (Love you) @latinenglishfandomblog (love you too) @sufu21 (I mean its a given) @but-deans-back-tho @ilostmyshoe-79

I hope you guys enjoy this fic. It was really fun to write. 

Background: So in this fic John is 46. Dean is 18 and Sam is 14. ( They are not in it yet.) 

Written By: Redlittlefox

Professor John Winchester Master List 

Sum: The readers car breaks down and she is forced to bring it into the local shop in town. When she sees the man in the shop its no wonder her heart starts to pound. 

Pairing:John Winchester X Reader 

Word count: 3k ish 

Warning: Swearing and some kisses. 

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