pastel yellow bike rides along the dreary empty highway. clouds crushed under the wind. uneasily swaying powerlines overhead.
seagulls fighting over bread, university sweatshirts and the winter ocean. shoes thrown to the wind and exhausting games of beach volleyball with not enough players
cold lemonade on the front porch, long taffeta skirts blowing in the wind. hydrangea bushes blooming in rows, red ants crawling in the blue bushels
clean sheets, straw hats with ribbons. framed embroidery and fraying pillows. hanging bushels of herbs, thick and full as a bouquet. bits of dried leaves on the floor
old shoes thrown over a phone line, sitting on the curb and feeling the heat absorbed by the pavement. 90 degree weather and sweatshirts. snippets of other people's conversations
a single droplet destroying the calm of a lake. misty mornings. soft goose calls. stinging cold morning air, cheeks burning with exhaustion on the morning jog
smoking by the window so your parents don't smell it. hiding things in the lining of your shoes. bugs crawling out from under a book, triumph of catching them with a shoe
old diners and motorcycles, driving around town in the middle of the night. other cars fly by in a sea of headlights. a radio playing the old hits.
the sharp glint of sunlight when driving home. being stuck in traffic, flipping through radio stations and finding nothing but commercials. someone in the fast lane drives by with the most beautiful music playing
a mouthful of rose petals, over-sized sweaters and thick thighs with cellulite stripes. an hour preparing for a selfie and the one of the false eyelashes keeps coming off.
gum wrappers twisted into shapes. tearing up strips of paper to make paper stars. mechanical pencils that no longer work, but you still push lead sticks in
farmer's market stands closed down for the year, but weeds and grasses throng through the fences. little blue flowers bloom through the cracks in the sidewalk
picnics in unexpected places, old bridges and train tracks. evergreen forests dripping with water, moss covered boulders touched by hands with pink painted nails
early shifts. the quiet highways before the sun has risen, the world darkness and neon glowing signs. driving with the windows down, cool air soothing nausea
Back in 1983 my high school library was a bit of a joke. It seems we never had more than 2 copies of any book the county put on its required list. What this meant was that everyone was frantically trying to get the same books to complete papers with. Before I could drive this meant getting my poor mom to drive me to every library in the area.
One day our library started asking for volunteers to do a fundraiser to get more materials and namely more copies of the required books. Some of us jumped on board and sold everything from donuts to coupons. We would also hold bake sales, car washes, and etc. We were elated when at the end of the drive we had far exceeded the goals.
We were all promised that we would have our dreams realized over the summer. The school year starts up and we are giddy to see the new books. Imagine our dismay when we get into the library and find that most of the books are gone. Bare shelves glared at us as we went along the rows. Thats when we noticed that the holy grail of the library was also missing - the card catalog file. In its place was two computer terminals - mind you not computers.
We went to the front desk and asked the librarian what was going on. She had decided to get a fancy computer system ‘to make her job easier and cut down on theft’. We were stunned because we did not have a theft problem. Certainly some books would get lost or damaged but not very many. The books were mostly missing because they had been sent to a company to 'have security embedded in them’. The worst part is the librarian overspent and therefore, you guessed it, was not able to purchase more books.
We felt the shame of being used, lied to, and screwed over. It was at this point that we knew revenge was in order. It took myself and a couple of my fellow computer nerds 15 min to figure out what they had done to the books. The security tag was a RF tag (like at stores) on the card pocket of the book. The new cards themselves had metal foil in their center. Without this foil the tag would receive energy from the newly installed gates at the library door and set off an alarm.
I decided to test our knowledge. I grabbed a reference book, threw a gum wrapper in the pocket, shoved it in my bag, and hit the door. I passed out the door without a peep from the gates. After that day we threw our plan into action. We would steal as many books as we could and hide them in any location we could find.
At first we used storage rooms by boxing them up and soon ran out of space. We then started using empty lockers and even putting them in the ceiling on top of divider walls. By the end of the year the librarian was getting frantic. She could not balance her inventory with the new computer system and she was being called out on it thanks to our many complaints. Another genius move was to have then boxes labeled as other textbooks and sent to the warehouse over the summer. This was easy to do since WE were the volunteers that wrote a program to do it and would print the labels.
The librarian ended up losing her job and being investigated for fraud since there seemed to be some missing funds as well. Over the summer the county finally spent the money to fill our book request due to the uproar. It was not until a week before the start of school that they started discovering library books in the extra boxes several teachers received.
This was just the beginning of us getting revenge on some of the teachers. In the end we got our revenge and the original items we worked so hard to get.
Extra: the books never left county property. We boxed most up and sent them to the warehouse. They came back next year.
Also the company finished the other books they had and sent them back midway through the year. This worked to our advantage because the librarian could not see how many were gone until they placed all the secured books on the shelf from the final shipment.
Hi! I saw a lot of people being annoyed that the set designers chose to put 2 chairs instead of 3 chairs or a sofa in Dean's tv room.(since then "that part of the fandom" gloating about it how Dean ignored Cas when he designed the room) What do you think?
I… actually hadn’t really thought about it much beyond the crack-y (hello, I am a card-carrying member of the Tulpa Sofa brigade, and the variety of not quite crack fic written on the subject…), but now that you’re asking for my serious opinion, I find I actually have a number of serious opinions on this. Who’d a thunk it?
I think it was VERY deliberately done. I mean, Jerry Wanek isn’t screwing around here. :P
From the very few frames we’ve seen of the room Dean’s turned into the “Dean Cave,” which honestly looks like Dean’s ultimate bar experience. There’s a huge tv, a Margiekugel sign on the wall (hi there, Mom Beer), and there’s beer kegs hanging from the ceiling like chandeliers. This is like… the height of Dean’s interior decorating skills on display here, even more than hanging every weapon he owned on the wall of his room. Tasteful there, Dean. I haven’t been able to get a clear look at the picture on the wall above the foosball table, but if it’s dogs playing poker I’ll probably cry. :P
Does any of this sound, in any universe, as anything that would appeal to Sam?
Like, at all? Ever?
DEAN KNOWS THIS. It’s not been billed as the “Family Cave.” It’s the “DEAN Cave.” This is a space that Dean has carved out for HIMSELF.
From the promo (all 2 seconds of it that we saw in this room), it looks like Dean’s showing off his finished project to a– let’s be generous and call it an unimpressed Sam. Dean walks into the room ahead of Sam, with arms extended as if to say, TADA! IT ME! Just like he did when he first showed Sam his room and his memory foam. TADA! IT REMEMBER ME! And Sam just tossed a gum wrapper on the floor like okay whatever Dean…
DEAN KNOWS THIS.
So… why two mismatched chairs in front of the TV if this is Dean’s Dean Cave, which he knew Sam probably was going to be like okay whatever Dean about?
Who… do we know for a fact that Dean watches movies with, in canon? While Sam already has a tv in his own room? And both Dean and Sam constantly mock each other’s taste in entertainment, barring a few common interests?
(Dean already mocked Sam’s taste in movies that he loaned to Jack in 13.05, and we know how Sam feels about Dean’s cowboy fetish, so…)
Hmmm… it’s a real head scratcher. *lifts cowboy hat and scratches head*
So, why not a sofa then?
Maybe Dean feels it’s a bit presumptuous at this point? Too risky? Personal space?
He’s just got Cas back, but it’s not like Cas is settled in permanently yet. Dean’s being really careful not to “influence” Cas, and to follow Cas’s lead in pretty much… everything right now.
So yeah, based on less than two seconds we’ve seen of that room, and less than 12 seconds we’ve seen of the whole episode, that’s about the extent of my thoughts on the ugly chairs vs the sofa Dean SHOULD JUST SPLURGE ON.
Because ugh, did he pull those recliners out of a dumpster or something? Maybe he couldn’t fit the mismatched sofa into the trunk of the Impala? Gah, he needs to just suck it up and go to Ikea or something. Cas would probably get a kick out of testing all the sofas out anyway.
A/N: I wrote this at 1:30 in the morning in twenty minutes. I thought it was cute and that some of you might enjoy this. Also, it’s helping me get back into the swing of writing.
Home. It was a word that Jason Todd wasn’t familiar with. It wasn’t something he looked forward to after a hard night on patrol or a long mission that he got dragged into by Bruce. It wasn’t something that held good memories and made him long and fight for something while he was away.
It wasn’t; until he met you. Who would have known that going on Tim’s fifth coffee run at five in the morning would actually have a good outcome? He didn’t, but he wasn’t regretful of doing it because he was able to spill his coffee on you then get your number. Not his brightest moment but it didn’t matter.
He finally had something at home waiting for him, he had you. You, probably dancing in the kitchen while baking cookies because “baking helps me calm down” in one of his old shirts, were waiting for him to come back home. That thought alone made what was suppose to be a five month mission into a three month mission instead.
He had texted you on his flight home, since he could finally contact you, and ever since then he got a feeling that you were hiding something. You weren’t one to really hold a lie well, so he doubted it was something major. That didn’t help him shake the feeling though.
The feeling only got stronger as he walked up the stairs to the shared apartment in one of the nicer places in Gotham,trying to find his keys amongst the millions of gum wrappers and bullet shells in his pocket. Once he finally found the keys he quietly opened the door and stepped inside the apartment.
It was dark, which wasn’t alarming considering it was about two in the morning you always went to bed early. Jason quietly set his bags down and made his way to the living room, shedding off his leather jacket and putting it on the hook as he walked by it.
As soon as his feet made contact with the hardwood flooring in the apartment the lights flickered on, causing Jason to step back and squeeze his eyes shut as he came back from the shock the blinding light had cause him. “Jesus Y/N, what the hell?” He hissed, pressing the palm of his hands to his eyes in another failed attempt to calm the burning.
When he finally opened his eyes you were standing up in front of the couch you had previously been sitting at with a guilty smile on your face. This only made that feeling in the second Robins gut worse as he stared at you, trying to piece together what you were guilty about. The one thing he could think of was how the fuck you turned on the light if you were sitting in the middle of the couch.
“Babe? Why are you smiling like that?” He asked, squinting a bit in the bright light to focus on you. You took interest in the floor while your messy hair did the job of hiding most of your face from his view.
“Don’t get mad.” Why did you have to start with that? What would he be mad about? Jason looked around the apartment for a sign; was something broken? Something expensive? Hell did Dick eat all of his favorite cereal when he was away? He couldn’t find a signal clue, so instead he turned back to you and raised his scarred through eyebrow.
“Eh? Why would I be-” Both his words and heart were stopped by a small, high-pitched bark coming from the same direction as the bedroom. Soon after, sounds of little paws scraping against the hardwood filled the apartment. Jason was too tired to piece it together properly, so he was shocked when a little brown lab with big blue eyes made it’s way into the living room and stood at his feet, barking protectively and getting in the middle of you and him.
Jason stared at the little puppy for a solid of ten seconds before he looked back up at you. “Y/N what the fuck-”
“You were gone and I was lonely! Plus, they were going to put him to sleep and I just couldn’t have that.” You were quick to defend yourself, running up to the brown puppy and scooping him up in your arms while pressing a tight kiss to the puppies furry head.
“I was only gone for three months and you got a puppy?” He asked, tone flat as he was still trying to wrap his mind around this. He thought when he moved out of Roy’s place that he was done with this shit, but apparently his best friend was rubbing off on you.
You pouted at your boyfriend and shoved the puppy in his face. “Awe but Jay, look at his face! Besides, it’s official, I already bought him a bed.” You explained, giving Jason your cutest puppy dog face while the dog stared at Jason.
Jason took the dog from you and held it at an arm’s length away, staring it in the eyes as if trying to figure it out. Or challenge it, he wasn’t too sure. The puppy stared back before it titled it’s head, tongue hanging out as if it was smiling at him.
Between the dogs adorable smile and your puppy -no pun intended- face he was defeated. Hell, he didn’t even stand a chance if it came to you. Rolling his eyes he handed the puppy back to you and started walking to your shared room. “Fine! But I’m not happy about it,” he called back. All he got in return was your laugh and the puppy barking in response to the new commotion.
He was sure that the neighbors would come up and complain in a bit; and that the dog would end up taking his spot in the bed but he was fine with it because it made you happy.
you fell in love with a boy that,
like wet snow clings to tree branches,
held as much of you as he could bear.
which is to say that you found a home with roots,
a place to hollow out and take refuge in.
something born on the ground that hasn’t looked back.
so you love a person that’s still growing and that’s a little scary.
you have three different states of being
and all of them have been dreaming about kissing bark that’s rough with need,
coming away tasting like maple syrup and dirt.
so all you have in your pocket are metaphors and sugar and crumpled up gum wrappers and none of those things can bring him back. whenever you walk into a room, even ones that he’s never been in, there’s always this sensation of imitating a searchlight. scanning every face just in case.
this would all be so much easier if we were just trapped in a season. if we were just waiting for the flowers to bloom. if this was just a poem.
Note: I am so behind on my requests so here is the first one!! This one is just a short one to get one out there because I’m so behind and working on like ten things at the same time. Also, I changed the location a little but, I kept it public.
Summary: It’s so unlike Yoongi to be this public about fucking, but you’re not complaining. He’d argue that you were the one who started it.
It starts because you tell him you’re not wearing any underwear.
Yoongi is two shades of turned-on and angry when he hears you whisper those evil words to him while you’re waiting for your drinks at his album launch party. When no one is looking, you take his hand and shove it up against your bare crotch as proof.
Wet. He feels your damp center warm and slippery on his fingers.
“What the fuck,” Yoongi mutters, indulging himself by letting his fingers slip inside you briefly. “Why are you this wet?”
Summary: Childhood friends before you moved away and took his heart along with you, Baekhyun soon debuted as EXO’s singer in hopes of finding you again. So why were you standing in front of him as an EXO fan with no memories of your childhood?
He didn’t know when he gave his heart to you. Maybe it was when you pushed some bullies off of him. Or maybe it was the time you came over to help him with his math homework. He wasn’t sure how it happened, all he knew was that it did happen. He entrusted his feelings when you stepped inside your car, tears staining your face and your small hands wiping the tears away.
The vivid scene of your tied up (h/c) hair and swollen red eyes as you gripped your teddy bear was ingrained his mind. He remembered your little bunny backpack that complemented your bright yellow dress. He remembered the tears peeking from his mother’s eyes as she said her goodbyes to your mother. And he remembered the bracelet of the moon hanging from your wrist, his bracelet matched with the sun.
pairing: jongin x reader genre: greaser!au, fluff, slight smut summary: sometimes next times don’t happen, but when they do they’re worth the wait
A/N: based on a caption shookjin on ig wrote, you can @ them if u want lol idk, secondly its nothing like grease, thirdly sorry for making you wait so long for any sort of fic update! this is finally a happy ending everyone wants from me, i hope it was worth the wait god im so funny i have so many friends also not proofread as always
The saturated wood coated his tongue in its taste with each provocative lick. His tongue swirled around the end trapped between his teeth, the wet muscle peeked through, giving the long haired girl in front of him something to squeal at. She covered her giddy smile with her hand as she turned away after shoving at his firm chest.
He bit at the toothpick hard enough for it to tilt upwards and push his top lip away from his pearly teeth. The bright, midday sun peeked out from the behind the clouds just enough to irritate Jongin’s eyes. Raising his eyebrows and squinting, his titled his head to the side, a look of slight irritation plastered onto his handsome face. Dark locks of hair that were once perfectly shaped dropped slightly over his forehead, glistening in the light from gel that saturated it.
Pushing his torso off the black car supporting his weight, he lazily plucked the ends of her skirt between his fingers and pulled. She quickly turned back around. Her hands falling from her face to protect her decency from the flirtatious man. Heat rose to her cheeks, staining her light skin in its faint colour.
The hand that was forcibly brushed away, made its way to his lips to remove the toothpick from between his lips.
“Listen, doll. Stop being so shy and go on a date with me. We can go watch a movie, drive around.” Imagining the scenario in her head, she once again became shy. Her long hair covered her embarrassed face as the ground underneath them suddenly became very interesting to her and her fluttering heart.
Jongin enjoyed the reactions he could conjure up from girls. The way their faces would flush and how they’d avoid eye contact while trying so desperately to hide their joy at the mere thought of Jongin taking them on a date. But he always knew, he’d done this too many times to not become accustomed to such behaviour. Sometimes he’d forget why he even flirted with girls, was it to actually score a date or watch the way everyone became flustered around him? All he knew right now was that the shy girl in front of him was definitely worth all the days of flirtatious remarks and lingering touches he’d so relentlessly dished out. So why didn’t he remember her name?
Have you ever thought about writing a fic in which Voldemort went after the Longbottoms instead of the Potters?
If Voldemort had chosen the pureblood boy, not the halfblood, as his opponent? This Neville would have had graves to visit, instead of a hospital. He’d still have grown up in his grandmother’s clutches, tut-tutted at, dropped out windows absentmindedly, left to bounce on paving stones.
Let’s tell this story: Alice Longbottom, who was the better at hexing, told Frank to take Neville and run.
She died on the braided rug of their sitting room floor. Frank heard her fall from where he stood in front of the cradle. He did not have time to run.
When the Dark Lord climbed the stairs and saw Frank, he laughed at the small man in front of him. Frank had crooked teeth, a mis-sized nose, big fingers and small, watery eyes. Voldemort looked at him the way children would look at Neville, in almost a decade, at stubby fingers around a rememberall, a wrinkled brow and a stammer. “Move aside,” he said, the way a different Voldemort had once offered a way out to Lily Potter. That had been for the sake of another man’s love, and this was for his own contempt. “Just let me have the boy. Did you really think you could–”
When Neville met Voldemort again, in his fourth year, when Luna’s advice, his own gillyweed knowledge, and Ginny’s Bat Bogey Hex lessons had gotten him through the Triwizard Tournament he’d never signed up to enter, there would be a bubbling scar on Voldemort’s sunken left cheek. His father had had time for one curse. Frank’s love had saved his son, marked him, but his hate had been enough, too, to scar Tom Riddle through every rebirth and transformation he would ever have.
Harry Potter would have grown up as James’s oldest son. I think Lily, who missed her sister, and James, who had found three brothers at school and loved them more than life, would have had more children: a little sister who James taught to fly (little Tuney’d be Keeper to Ginny’s Seeker, in a decade, and gossip terribly about Harry), a baby brother Lily fervently talked James out of naming Lupeterius. Harry would have grown up spoiled and loved, magical, with toy broomsticks and playdates with the other Order kids– stumbling Neville, the Bones girl and the rollicking Weasley bunch.
If the Potters were never the main targets, never hiding and frightened, I don’t think Peter would have turned when he did. Not enough gain. Not enough tail-tucking fear. Peter would have limped through to the end of the war, whiskers shivering in his soul even when they were popping champagne on the night Neville Longbottom’s parents died.
They raised delicate glasses that had somehow survived all the first war, laughing, in Godric’s Hollow, to the Boy Who Lived. Augusta Longbottom planned her children’s funeral and wondered if her grandson’s forehead would scar like that. Lily danced in the living room with James, on the garish rug that Sirius had bought them as a joke and that they had kept just to spite him.
But this was a story about Neville now–it would always be a story about Harry, somewhat, because it had never been the scar that made the boy. When Draco Malfoy stole Neville’s rememberall, this Harry would still jump on a broom; when Hermione, weeping in the bathrooms, didn’t know about the troll, Harry would still run to tell her–that instinct was not something even having loving parents (especially these parents) would have kept from him.
But this had always been a story about Neville, too– unscarred Neville, Neville with his pockets full of gum wrappers, this had always been the story of his rise and his steady soul. But this time he was marked from birth, a scar on his forehead and hands that weren’t any better at holding a wand. This time, his grandmother had even more reason to look at him with disappointment when he spent all his childhood looking powerless.
Neville was not the disappeared savior who they whispered about. Halloween was still a celebration of Voldemort’s fall, but Neville was a lucky object, not a small hero, because where there had been a vacuum to fill when it had been Harry Potter, to fill with wonderment and thanks, here Neville toddled down Diagon Alley and held his grandmother’s hand. The whole world knew this boy was probably a squib, with pudgy fingers and a slow stammer, who didn’t learn to read until it was almost time to go to Hogwarts.
When Neville got his Hogwarts letter, the whole wizarding world was very politely surprised. He got told congratulations from strangers in the street, who in different universes would be shaking Harry Potter’s hand and swooning. Neville was far above smart enough to recognize than none of the other children got congratulated for the victory of being asked to attend school.
He asked the Hat for Hufflepuff and it gave him Gryffindor. He hoped they did not expect him to learn how to roar.
This was a Neville scarred. This was a Neville who would still get a rememberall and still forget it in his room two days out of five, who would eat a Weasley treat and turn into a canary, who would take Ginny Weasley to the Yule Ball and not once step on her toes.
This was a Neville who had had long conversations with the garden snakes in his backyard as a child and who had snuck them bits of his breakfast, kept track of which little serpent liked soft boiled eggs and which would dare to try a bit of sausage if he wiggled it properly. When he first got to Hogwarts, lonely, a lion in lamb’s fleece, Neville hid out behind the greenhouses and made friends with the snakes who curled on the warm rocks there.