hot as a bag of shits

why were we even talking about “Black Hat is the new onceler” when you can tell from the character designs alone that he and the paper bag guy are going to be the Next Big Thing to the type of people that like, found Levi beating the shit out of a kid to be hot

jalapeno--business  asked:

So whenever I read trc, I'm always overwhelmed by this almost pathological desire to experience the same feelings of wonder and beauty and magic that you describe in the series. Yes, I understand that there is no sentient, magical forest to discover, and no sleeping king that I can search for, but I still have this urge to have similar feelings and experiences in my life. So how do you experience a similar kind of magic and wonder that you describe in your books, in everyday life?

Dear jalapeno–business,

Are you listening closely?

As an author, I travel a lot. At one point, I was on the road one day out of every three — planes, hotels, rental cars. There’s a rhythm to it, like running up a very long flight of stairs. You figure out how many stairs you can take in a jump, and how to breathe-in-breathe-out to keep from wasting your lungs, and you learn how to tell when you have to stop to rest your knees or you just won’t make it to the top. 

The airports and the planes and the people can all start to seem the same after awhile, if you’re looking at them wrong. If you let them. Anything in life can sound ordinary if that’s all you’re listening for.

Back in 2014, I was in a Texas airport. The night had that glittering senseless jitter to it that happens when you’re tired but going home, finally going home. I was early for my flight and sitting several gates away from my real gate, listening to music. A young man sat down two seats away. Ordinarily, tired and occupied with the peculiar every-day magic of the music in my headphones, I wouldn’t have noticed him, but a moment later, a phone rang. He asked if it was mine; it wasn’t. Someone had forgotten it on the seat between us. 

We both looked at it.

It rang again for someone who didn’t know to pick up, and then he took it away to one of the United desks for them to give it to someone who would listen. He didn’t return.

Two hours later, I went to my real gate to board. Full flight. Everyone was checking and double-checking their seat assignments as they defended their right to aisles and windows. When my seatmate settled himself next to me, I looked up, and it was the guy from the waiting area. He had a tilt to his chin that telegraphed that he thought he was hot shit and a grin that said he recognized me. 

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

We laughed ruefully and applied our headphones — we both knew the routine of polite air travel. But the agreeable tingle of the coincidence still ate at me, and I could tell it ate at him, too, because after a few moments, he offered me a truffle from his bag. I told him I couldn’t take it because of my allergies, but the headphones came off. We started to talk.

And he was a big talker. He was cocky. A surgical resident. He told me how he loved the hell out of taking internal organs out of people. He described how he listened to sixty-minute epic soundtracks in his ear buds while he removed appendixes and gallbladders, kidneys and stones. He told me of watching Dateline by himself at the end of seventy and eighty hour work weeks, and he told me about his Hyundai, which I made fun of. Confidentially, he whispered to me about a surgeon he knew who had the goal of removing every gallbladder in Texas. Two hours into the flight, the conversation tilted toward spirituality. He’s hot shit, he confessed, and works hard, but he sometimes wonders if he’s allowed to want to be successful, or if that makes him a bad person. Because he’s working a lot of hours in a week, and he’s tired, but he’s pretty sure that he’s hot shit, but maybe that’s not allowed.

I was watching him fumble his fingers over each other. He was scratching a hole in his own palm.

And all at once there was a phone in my head, and it was ringing just for me. 

“One of your parents has obsessive-compulsive disorder,” I told him. “Maybe both.”

The shimmering grin slipped. “How did you know? How could you know that?” 

I asked him if he was getting treatment for it.

He said, “No, no, I’m over it. How could you know that?”

Because in a foggy way, that phone was still ringing between us, and now, I recognized the number.

I said, “Don’t kill yourself.”

He replied, “No way,” and then he started to cry. 

The shit-eating grin had vanished. He told me how he’d made up his mind that he didn’t want to make it to 35. He’d researched all the ways to make sure he didn’t. Over the next hour, I told him about my OCD, and how I thought his uncertainty over wanting to be successful but also wanting to be humble was a function of his OCD’s spiritual obsession. That he wasn’t over OCD, that you never were, but that his agony didn’t have to be a real thing. He could be both humble and successful. It wasn’t against the rules of goodness to be proud of what you’d done, as long as you were doing things for the right reasons. I told him how once I bought a race car, but I’d given it away to someone who could use the money, because I realized I was only racing to look sexy in a car, and not because it was really making me happy. 

I told him he didn’t have to worry about looking sexy in a Hyundai, though, and he replied that he would look sexy in anything, and then he cried a little more. 

Everyone else in the plane was asleep, but we were wide awake.

When we got off the plane in Virginia, the surgical resident gave me an awkward side-hug, and he wiped his face. Then he dug in his bag for the wrapper from his truffle. As the other travelers shuffled past us sleepily, he pressed it into my hand. He didn’t want to give me his name, he said, but he wanted something for me to remember so that when we ran into each other again in 15 years, I’d know who he was.

After we’d parted ways, I turned my phone off airplane mode, and a text came in that had been sent while I was in the air. It was from the person I’d given the race car to. I hadn’t heard from him in nearly six months. The text said only: thank u maggie i have such a hppy life bc of u

Magic.

You have to be listening closely. Phones are ringing all over the world, and sometimes they look like magical forests, and sometimes they look like race cars, and sometimes they look like surgical residents.

urs,

Stiefvater

attention college freshmen/anyone feeding themselves for the first time

this is for you

it has come to my attention that some people are not feeding themselves properly bc they don’t know how to cook/aren’t sure how to cook on a budget. bc i am everyone’s mom (or at least everyone’s wise older sister) let me drop some very real Broke Rookie Cooking Knowledge. 2 of my favorite recipes are under the cut, both of which come out to $2 OR LESS PER SERVING.

-MAKE a MENU. pick out like 5 things you know how to make and buy JUST WHAT YOU NEED FOR THOSE THINGS. and also a few snacks, but otherwise, JUST THAT. don’t just buy some random-ass groceries you think you’ll need. (also, if you don’t know how to make 5 things, seriously just google simple dinner recipes. i used a “mississippi heirloom cookbook” my aunt gave me and got a ton of good ones.)

-tbh i don’t even buy snacks except for a giant box of cookies that lasts me like 2 weeks at a time and an assload of apples. snacking is bad for you, and if you don’t HAVE snacks, you can’t EAT snacks. fuck snacks.

-off-brand EVERYTHING. you think you can taste a difference? you CAN’T. get shit in cans. vegetables. pasta sauce. salsa. whatthefuckever. it all comes in cans, and it’s always cheaper. i have no idea why.

-whole grain bread and brown rice/pasta are not more expensive than the regular kind, and they keep you full longer. GET THEM.

-@ my americans, Dollar Tree has literally everything. every kitchen utensil. (it’s where i got my big-ass chef’s knife, and that bitch is still sharp.) dishes/cups. snacks. drinks. literal loaves of bread. all kinds of basics, from peanut butter to sriracha to progresso soup. some even have freezer sections. all for ONE DOLLAR. go to Dollar Tree first, then go to the grocery store for whatever you couldn’t find there. i s2g it saves me so much money. (they also have tupperware, cleaning supplies, toilet paper, EVERYTHING. for one dollar.)

-produce is way cheaper than you think. get some fresh vegetables. you really will start to feel like a bag of hot garbage if you don’t eat your veggies.

-COOK in ADVANCE. i work during the day and go to school in the evenings, then i come home and work out. lemme tell you, my ass does NOT wanna cook when im done with all that. cook shit in big quantities, stock up on tupperware (dollar treeeeee), and stick it in the fridge for later. when you’re exhausted and remember you have instant dinner already made, you will want to kiss yourself.

-find some sandwiches you love. make a lot of sandwiches. (pls for the love of God dont use kraft american singles tho. deli-sliced cheese is literally right next to it, and it is NOT more expensive.)`

-FUCK organic free-range shit. you got organic free-range money? GREAT. i sure as hell don’t, and neither do most people. don’t waste your money trying to live your foodstagram #goals while you’re young and poor.

-if you qualify for SNAP/EBT, GET THAT SHIT. there are some assholes out there that will tell you not to, to leave it for the ~real~ poor people. tell them, ‘motherfucker I AM REAL POOR.’ for real though, corporations take advantage of any assistance the government gives them and they still lobby for more. you’d be a fool not to do the same. 

now some cheap-ass recipes

Keep reading

anonymous asked:

53 andreil for the prompt thingy???

53: “Darling, stop.” 

They’re in the chilly fluorescent produce section, Neil steering the cart and Andrew catching it whenever he finds chocolate-covered berries or cartons of blended sugary juice to add to the pile. Neil’s got his old jersey conspicuously clashing with their new team’s red sweats, a dark bandana twisted up in his hair. It’s almost closing, and everything feels a bit cool and loose like no one’s really supposed to be awake.

When Neil’s busy bagging carrots Andrew gets his arms folded over the handle of the shopping cart, this stupid black t-shirt all stretched out at the neck, wire-framed glasses perched on his nose, mouth flat. Neil’s sort of fond of Andrew wearing his glasses in public, and he finds himself walking backwards in front of the cart as it’s pushed, openly watching him. Andrew picks the pace up just enough to bump heavily into his shins.

Neil smiles, looping his fingers through his end of the cart so they each have a side, rolling lopsidedly towards the opening of an aisle.

“Stop making things difficult.”

“Let me drive the cart.”

Andrew regards him, fair eyebrows raised. “You’re a control freak.”

Neil laughs, startled. “You let three people total drive your car. You wouldn’t even let Sir or King in our bed for the first three months we had them. You bartered for my secrets when we met, Andrew. ”

“And?” Andrew asks, examining a box of cake mix.

“I don’t think you should be talking about controlling personalities.”

Andrew ignores him, tossing the box in the cart and pushing it back towards Neil. “Go get your diet plan shit.”

Neil makes a face. “It’s our diet plan.”

“I am not willfully drinking skimmed milk.” Andrew crosses to the bags of jumbo marshmallows and Neil pinches the bridge of his nose.

“I’ll put it in your hot chocolate.”

“You’ll die,” Andrew says simply.

Neil jostles the cart into Andrew’s side, and he drops the marshmallows back on the shelf, unimpressed. “Meet me at the front in five. I’m getting actual food to sustain actual people.”

Andrew shrugs and turns to wander out of the aisle, dragging the cart the wrong way behind him.

Neil coughs so he doesn’t laugh, senselessly thrilled. He jogs back towards the meat section, threading through coolers and displays until he finds the turkey bacon and lean chicken breasts that they live on. He’s frowning at an especially lifeless beige cut of fish when he’s wrenched around by the arm.

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part 2 of 3rd grade teacher nursey?? yes?? ok

(part one)

  • calls all of his kiddos “little bro” regardless of gender. the occasional “little dude” or “little man”
  • the first time he wears a short sleeve dress shirt to school all the kids are obsessed with his tattoo
    • “mr n has a forever drawing on his arm :000″
  • hes the ultimate kid whisperer. anything these kids throw at him? hes got it covered
    • kids are fighting about who gets the 64 pack of crayons. jeremy got them yesterday and now he wants them again?? theres like 4 other kids who want to use them jeremy dont be a dick
    • nursey’s like “can i give you guys a special project? i need a big drawing to put up on the wall. but you all have to help and you all need to use the crayons”
    • jeremy, immediately distributing the crayons and getting a big ass piece of paper: ok mr n!!!!!!

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Crush

Summary: Everything about Bucky Barnes drives you wild…that’s basically the plot…

Warnings: smut, sexual tension

A/N: I spent today writing my own mini thesaurus, by hand, and I came up with this idea during my breaks.


“Fuck!” Your back slammed down against the thick mat, air shoot out of your lungs.

“If you’re not paying close attention to your enemies you’re going to get yourself killed. What the hell has you so distracted?” Steve stretched a hand out, helping you up.

“N-Nothing.” You huffed, avoiding eye contact with the super soldier in front of you.

That was a lie, a big fat lie. You were completely distracted by the man across the room, the one with the glistening metal arm and the chocolate brown hair. Motherfucking Bucky Barnes. 

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anonymous asked:

Is there some Summer Vibe fics? 😊☀️

Hey!

Oh yes :) Here’s some fun fics.

 There’s a few summer camp fics here and some baseball fics here 

Past The Breakers by  thepsychicclam | 40.7K

Stiles and Scott get summer jobs at the exclusive Seawolf Beach Resort, and the last thing Stiles expects is to start taking surf lessons from the hot lifeguard.

Move A Mountain by  ZainClaw | 69K

Stiles goes camping with his friends in New Mexico after graduation where they befriend a biker gang led by Derek: a guy whom Stiles can’t decide if he will be either relieved or devastated to never see again once their week is up.

To Navigate Your Seas by  alisvolatpropiis | 26K

Derek is a beach bum/surfer; Stiles is his new neighbor. Feels ensue.

untitled | tumblr ficlet

Cutback by  WonderWolf | 19.3K

Scott and Stiles are pro surfers in need of a place to stay for their upcoming competition. Out of all the things Derek expected this summer, being asked to house his brother and ex-boyfriend for one week wasn’t on the list.

Burn It Out by  Omni | 6.3K

Derek gets magical amnesia as part of a pact with a dark creature, and Stiles can save him by way of Once Upon a Time rules.

We’ll Still Have The Summer by  allyasavedtheday | 32.3K

He’s too busy waxing poetic in his own head about the surly – dreamy – dude holding the sign for the hotel to notice Scott already making his way over. He pauses halfway when he realises Stiles isn’t following him, turning around and eyeing Stiles curiously, “Dude, come on, the guy’s waiting.”

Stiles snaps himself into action and pushes his cart carrying his suitcases over to where Scott’s introducing himself to Stiles’ future husband.

The Lawn Ranger by  Snowjob | 47.8K

In which Derek is an adolescent werewolf with a penchant for chocolate bunnies, and instead of the dream summer of lazing around the house playing video games and nibbling on his hoarded supply of easter candy his mother makes him get a job.

In which Stiles is a showoff jock with a broken arm and an embarrassing crush who can no longer push the lawn mower around the yard.

Find Me Sitting Poolside by  TroubleIWant | 14.2K

“Oh, and you’re the Hales!” the host exclaims when Stiles slides the sign-up sheet back. “Or, Hale and Stilinski, I guess. For now.” She gives them a conspiratorial wink. “I have to say, we are just pleased as punch to see an adorable couple like you attending!”

Stiles tosses an arm familiarly around Derek’s shoulders despite all the bags hanging off them, and gives him a squeeze. “I know! We’re pretty much the cutest. Right, honey?” He shoots his Alpha a shit-eating grin.

Derek bares his teeth in what’s probably supposed to be a smile, except that it isn’t, in much the same way that they are supposed to be a couple, but aren’t.

Brick by Brick by  bleep0bleep | 3K

Stiles eats his hot dog slowly, mesmerized by the incredible detail, and also in particular, there’s a hot bearded guy adding more Legos to the scene, including a crowd of Lego people at a train stop. Now Lego Hottie is adding what looks to be a custom built space ship to the train scene, and is affixing it to the ceiling with wire so it is flying above the train– oh my God, Lego Hottie is building a scene from Firefly.

You’re Drowning (No I’m Not!) by  KuriKuri | 6.5K

In which Derek is a lifeguard and Stiles goes to the pool way too often.


Tease

A/N: Alright so I got a little carried away with this.The reader is inhumanely strong but that’s all the abilities she has. Feedback is appreciated. This is shit and I’m sorry

Pairings: Bucky x Reader

Characters: Bucky, Reader, Steve, Natasha, Sam, Wanda and mentions of other avengers

Description: You and Bucky don’t usually get along but being alone in the tower together for a day, may change things between you two 

Warnings: Language, sexual tension, shitty smut, unprotected sex, dom!bucky, oral (f receiving)

Word Count: 2610

Originally posted by callitstuckylove


“He’s a fucking asshole” I yell out as I throw a punch so hard that the punching bag flies off the hook a few feet in front of me and sand begins to pour out of it

“But he’s a fucking asshole you like” Wanda says as she runs on the treadmill and I shot her a death glare before going to get another punching bag from the storage room

“Yeah I think he’s hot but his attitude is complete shit I don’t know what happened to him” I say to her as I carry the punching bag over my shoulder and place it back on the hook

Keep reading

A little Peeved / Tom Drabble

Pairing: Reader x Tom

Featuring: Tom Holland

Warning: None

Request - can you do one where Tom does something stupid and the reader is pissed at him??

Originally posted by spiderholland

You stood staring at the tall bookshelf the lined the wall. You were in the mood for something dramatic, but also something science-fiction. You thought hard about what could be both when a loud sound rang through the living room. It sounded as if glass had shattered. Turning your head in the direction of the kitchen you listened.

“Oh shit.” You heard your boyfriend say loudly. Oh no, you thought. What did he do this time?

Quickly dismissing the bookshelf, you scurried to the kitchen where your boyfriend stood, gaping at the floor in a panicky way. Your eyes followed his as you saw it. Hot water spilt all over the floor, a single tea bag along with it. The shards of glass littered everywhere. The colours evident. It was your favourite mug. Shattered into a million pieces.

Tom looked up at you then, his eyes wide. His hair had grown long enough to just reach his eyes, making you focus only that. Anger boiled inside of you, annoyance. You were completely peeved at the sight. Leave it to Tom to smash your one true, favourite mug.

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The Voice Inside My Head

Deadpool x Reader

Warnings: it’s Deadpool. 

A/N: This is for @girl-next-door-writes celebration challenge! I had the song ‘I Miss You’ by Blink -182. Also I’m a complete procrastinator and wrote this last minute, but I think it’s pretty good! Forgive me WW! 

Originally posted by my-daily-space

Keep reading

Go With The Flow - part 2

Pairing: Jared x Reader

Word Count: 4,228

Warnings: swearing, smut

Betas: @quiddy-writes and @leatherwhiskeycoffeeplaid

Summary: At a con (VanCon 2013), you and Jared take the opportunity of the fact that both of you are single and more than ready to mingle.

A/N: I love Genevieve, Jared, and their marriage. This is not anti-Gen in any way.

Liz left you on the floor below the one you were supposed to meet Jared on. To ease your nerves, you decided to take the last flight of stairs and walked slowly down the hallway to room 490, all the way at the end. You had to be walking past all the con celebrities, and your heart beat even faster. If you were seen up here by anyone, another guest, a fan, shit could hit the fan real fast.

You knocked twice on the door and brushed your hair out of your face with trembling fingers. This isn’t good, it’s gotta be a prank, he’s fucking known for pranking people, for God’s sake…

Then the door opens, and you’re face-to-face with Jared. Fucking. Padalecki.

Holy shit.

Keep reading

Hey guys! So this is my first post, and I wanted to share a trick I discovered for lifting small items from Lush such as shower gels, toner waters, maybe a lip balm or two, just small items really. This concealing method worked for me when I went to my lush which is a very small location in a mall, and I went when it was kind of busy so SA’s weren’t paying attention to me because I’m actually a regular there and I usually buy shit so they don’t really pay attention to me because they just assume I know what I’m there for and I know what I’m doing so I don’t need any help. So with one hand, I was holding my Hot Topic bag (My lush is about 2 stores down from a Hot Topic in the mall) and I just subtly dropped this toner water into the bag through the little wrist hole while using my other hand to smell a shower gel.

Punished

Summary: Very carefully and skillfully, you have been stealing from the Saviors for over a month now. Until one day you allow your ego to get the best of you and you challenge Negan to try and catch you, himself.
Prompt: I had one of the Hide and Seek prompts! I decided to put a twist on it and incorporate more of a cat and mouse type of game.
Word Count: 4,265
Pairing: Negan/Female Reader
Chapter: One-Shot
Warning: NSFW, Smut, Language
Author’s Note: I’m so sorry this took so long to complete! Thank you Ash for extending the deadline. Congrats on 2,000 followers! I’m not sure if I’m 100% happy with this but I hope you enjoy!
Tags: @flames-bring-a-ton-of-ash @negans-network

“God-fucking damnit!” You heard the loud, thunderous voice of the Saviors leader, Negan, roar out into the woods. “Someone better catch that little fucking thief, TODAY!”

Laughing to yourself, you hurried through the woods, maneuvering your way through the series of trees.

Keep reading

Amends (part one)

Carter Baizen x reader

Notes: fluff, smut, angst, mentions of past alcohol and drug abuse, swearing. 

A/N: I started writing this about a year ago and left it alone after that. I was incredibly bored at work and managed to throw a little bit of it in there. For your information: the reader works as an optician (like myself!) but it’s not mentioned all that much. (I was actually looking for one of the most mundane-sounding job some one could do after modelling, and I found it XD) It’s been tweaked and improved (if I say so myself) and I hope you enjoy it! 

Originally posted by super-slick-imagines-chick

“Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes”

You looked up from your work to stare straight into the eyes of none other than Carter Baizen; fucking. Carter. Baizen.

Completely baffled you stared for a few seconds, but quickly turned back to what you were doing. The man had hurt you more than you could bare. The filthy rich guy who came to you, a former working class girl, every once in a while to have a little fun for some time; only to up and leave without a word when he found something better. Until you were done that is; done with the modelling lifestyle, done with the too bright spotlights and especially done with Carter Baizen. You decided that there was nothing more left for you in New York city, and packed your bags and high tailed it out of there to Europe, back to your home country.

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anonymous asked:

Can you write a fic where Betty is sick and Jughead takes care of her or vise-versa?

Yes I LOVE this prompt!


Jughead Gets The Flu


“Hey, have you seen Jughead yet today?” Betty asked. She was standing at Archie’s locker, scuffing her shoe gently against the floor, worried.

“Yeah, sorry Betty, he asked me to tell you. He’s still sick. F.P. and my dad are working at a site a few hours away and they’re staying there for the week. Jughead’s sleeping at the trailer park so he doesn’t get me sick.”

“He’s still sick?!” Betty asked, worry crossing her face. “What’s that, like, four days now?”

Archie nodded, placing some notebooks back in his locker.

“Alright, thanks, Arch.” Betty gave him an unconvincing smile, strolling back toward her own locker.

She spun the dial quickly, grabbing her backpack and placed a couple notebooks inside. She had gym next, then study period. She could afford to miss those.

She shut her locker, throwing her backpack over her shoulder, gripping the strap.

She rushed out of school, jogging down the sidewalk, thankful that nobody called out to her to question her.

She walked to Pop’s, ordering a chicken noodle soup and a peppermint tea to go.

Pop filled her order quickly, only one other patron there at such an awkward time in the day.

Next, she stopped at the pharmacy, grabbing tissues, throat lozenges, cough medicine, cold pills (day time and night time, just in case), Echinacea, hand sanitizer and a large bottle of water.

She stuffed the pharmacy bag into her backpack and walked the distance to Jughead’s trailer.

She knocked gently and waited, then knocked again after a few moments had gone by. She heard shuffling inside the trailer, then the door swung open.

“Oh, Bets. It’s you.” A slow smile spread across Jughead’s face. He looked sick, that was for sure. 

His hat was missing, his hair unruly, sticking up in all directions. A few pieces stuck to his forehead.

His eyes were rimmed with hard purple bags, his nose bright pink at the tip. He had a blanket swung across his shoulders. He was smiling goofily at her.

“Come into my humble abode.” He sniffled.

“Thanks, Juggie,” She smiled despite herself.

Jughead sat on the couch, making room for Betty at one end. He extended his legs, stretching but leaving them on the ground. He rested his head against the arm rest.

“I brought you soup.” Betty smiled, placing the soup and the tea on the coffee table in front of them.

“You did!” He exclaimed, trying to sit up. He lost his balance, swaying towards the ground. 

He caught himself as Betty reached out her hand.

“Jughead, oh my God, are you okay?” She placed one hand on his shoulder, the other hand brushed his bangs back and rested on his forehead, checking his temperature. “Jug, you’re burning up.”

Jughead took a deep breath. “I don’t feel good, Bets.”

“Are you going to throw up?” 

Jughead shook his head. “No, it’s not that… just, too hot.”

“Okay, okay.” Betty grabbed the blanket Jughead had around him, tossing it to the floor.  

She knelt on the floor next to him, taking his legs and swinging them onto the couch. “Here, babe, take this off.” Had she just called him babe? Maybe he wouldn’t remember.

Jughead did as she said, gripping the bottom of his tshirt and pulling it off as best he could while laying down. 

Betty touched Jughead’s chest, feeling how hot and clammy it was beneath her hand. “Okay, Jug, they say you need to break fevers with more heat, don’t they? Shit, I’m sorry, I’m not very good at this.”

He didn’t answer, just kept breathing.

Betty grabbed her backpack from the floor and took out her pharmacy bag. She took out all the items, placing the on the coffee table, the grabbed the bottle of water. It was still cold.

“Here, take this.” Betty said, placing the water in his hand. “I’ll be right back, okay?”

She got up, walking to the kitchen. She was looking for paper towel, but she couldn’t see any.

She walked around the trailer, looking for the bathroom. She found it and spotted a facecloth hanging by the sink.

She ran the faucet, making the water as cold as possible, then soaked the facecloth.

She rushed back to where Jughead was lying down, and placed the facecloth against his forehead. While she was gone he must’ve had a couple sips of water, because it was half gone.

He audibly sighed when she placed the cloth against his head. She ran a knuckle softly against his cheek.

“Is that helping, Juggie?” She murmured.

“Yeah. A lot. Thank you.” He whispered. 

Betty placed her hand at the edge of the couch. Jughead must’ve felt the weight there. He quickly slipped his hand in hers, squeezing.

Betty couldn’t help but smile.

“Jug, I also got you some medicine.”

His eyes popped open.

“Thank God,” He murmured, sitting up once more.

His eyes skimmed the coffee table, grabbing for the Buckleys cough medicine. He cracked the lid and put the bottle to his mouth.

Before Betty could stop him, more than half the bottle was gone. He had chugged it.

“Jughead, what are you doing?” 

“I want to feel better.” He shrugged.

“You’re going to be high off that stuff.”

Jughead lied back, resting his head against the arm rest once more. “Guess I shouldn’t tell you that I popped two cold pills before you got here.” He laughed.

“Oh my God, Jug. That’s not good.” 

“I’ll be fine.” Jughead whispered.

Betty sat there, not knowing what to say. She was still kneeling next to the couch, her hand back in Jughead’s.

Jughead was lying on the couch shirtless, the cloth on his head. His eyes were closed and his breathing was steady. She thought he had fallen asleep, so she pulled the cloth off of Jughead’s forehead and replaced it with her hand, checking his temperature.

“Betty?” Jughead murmured quietly.

“Mm?” She answered, placing the cold pills directly in front of him.

“Thank you.” He said earnestly.

“For what, Jug?” 

“For doing this. Nobody has ever taken care of me when I was sick before.”

Betty had to bite her lip from the tears pricking her eyes. Just the thought of Jughead - how many times do you get sick in your life? - having to battle colds and flu’s by himself was making her emotional. Something so many people don’t think twice about, having someone to take care of them. She had just done what felt natural to her. She wanted to take care of him.

She squeezed his hand. “It’s my pleasure, Juggie. Get some sleep, okay?”

“Betty?”

“Yeah, Juggie?”

“Will you be here when I wake up?”

“Sure, Juggie. I won’t leave.”

She saw a smile spread across his face as he turned  onto his side. She released his hand and picked up the soup and tea, placing them in the kitchen.

She put the bottled water, cold pills, lozenges and cough medicine on the coffee table and moved the beer bottles and empty cigarette packs into the kitchen.

After a few minutes, she walked around the trailer, looking for Jughead’s room. There was only one bedroom, she assumed F.P.’s, the bathroom, a small kitchen area and the living room. It dawned on her that F.P. must’ve gotten the trailer after Jellybean and their mom moved away.

She walked back the the couch Jughead was on and saw he was shivering. Jesus, what kind of bug was this? 

She covered his body with the blanket and smoothed back his hair.

He opened his eyes at the touch.

“I don’t deserve you.” He didn’t say it in a sad way, nor a happy way. He was overheated and sick and exhausted. He was just being honest.

“You’d do the same for me, Juggie.” She smiled at him.

“How did I get so lucky?” He murmured, closing his eyes.

“I’m the lucky one, Jug.” She brushed his hair back again, his forehead feeling closer to normal.

“Don’t leave.” Jughead said, gripping her hand.

“I won’t, Juggie.”

“Lay down with me.”

“You might overheat again.” She warned.

“It’ll be worth it.” He said, closing his eyes. 

Betty laughed as she laid down beside him.

you: *an innocent store worker*

me: *stumbles in at 2:26 pm wearing socks and classy strappy wedges over my visibly swollen feet, pajama pants with polar bears on them, noticeably no bra, a hoodie, a long black cardigan, a diamond necklace, some of my hair tied in a ball but my side bangs are hanging down in the direct center of my face, glasses smudged to shit over my bagged eyes, a decorative pillow stuck to and hanging from my elbow, smelling strongly of chicken pesto pizza, carrying an armful of cheese danish, looks like I’ve probably cried within the last 15 minutes* “Yes hi hello listen I know I’m a vision of sheer absolute beauty and it can be a lot to take in at once but please I need you to be professional about this and tell me where you keep the hot sauce. Also where the hell am I?”

Finding Home (1)

Summary: Avengers High School AU. Gender neutral reader-insert. You, the new kid, just want to be left alone. But instead, you get the Avengers gang – and maybe, a new home too.

Warnings: Cursing. Mentions of weed? Something resembling a panic / anxiety attack, though probably not, but just in case. No specific ship in this entire story, tbh, but I’ll make sure to add some fluff + sexual tension between you and everyone, lol.

Author’s Note: HEY. So, it has been a long time since I’ve written any fanfic, much more an Avengers fanfic. I hope all the characters are in character, ehehe. So, I’ve decided to do a series of connected one-shots of your high school senior year with the Avengers gang + other Marvel characters, inspired by the 30 day drabble challenge (although I will not be doing drabbles, and for now, I’ll just do seven of them, depending on my inspiration). So, hope that you enjoy this! Let me know if there are any mistakes. Thank you! (:

Finding Home: Part #1: beginning. Part #2: accusation. Part #3: restless. Part #4: coin. Part #5: haze.


1: beginning

n. a starting point / new or inexperienced

This office was such a fucking dump. You looked at the pee-colored wall, bare but for the chippings on the corners by the ceiling. Good thing a few bulky, metal cabinets covered that eyesore of a wallpaper – although that still didn’t help in the general aesthetic quality of the room. There wasn’t even a window in here.

Your gaze fell on the small desk in front of you, unoccupied except for a laptop, a fuckton of paperwork, and some kind of 1940 action figure of a man in blue-white-red spandex. Oh, and of course, the name of your class advisor-slash-guidance counselor on a rusty, golden plaque: Mr. Phil Coulson.

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Fresh Blood

There’s blood layering every surface of my living room; it sends my body into a frenzy because it means I have to have everything washed or thrown out.

My desire to have someone’s heart in my hand and their blood seeping down my throat like strong alcohol has grown too strong, it’s creeping and crawling into my days instead of staying settled in my nights like it should do. This wouldn’t have happened if I had it all under control. The mere thought of not having a firm grip on the situation makes it slip out of my reach even more.

White seems like such a good colour for the interior of my house until it comes to slitting a person’s throat; the blood is never going to come out of the couch.

Huffing, I make my way into the kitchen; I keep rolls upon rolls of bags for this kind of situation and now my mind is screaming at me to use them. I almost slip when my foot touches the hardwood floor but I quickly regain my balance.

Now that the man’s guts are decorating my living room and his blood has settled into my stomach quite nicely - it’s making me feel full, bloated even, which means I won’t have to eat tonight - I’m feeling on edge and frustrated with myself due to not thinking to put anything down to stop the red substance staining everything. I almost wish I could revive the dead man so I can relive the feeling of his skin opening at my hands.

Despite my reluctance, I have to start throwing anything that can’t be bleached or washed into the bags. Everything I own costed a heavy amount when I purchased it so a lot of it is destined for the bag, except a few things I can’t bare to see go; those things I promise to still make good use with, and place them by the stairs.

While the rug that was previously sat in the centre of my living room (and once complimented the colour scheme I had going on, but now ruins it completely with the blotches of blood) is being thrown into the second bag to begin to fill to the top, I can hear my phone ringing from the kitchen. I don’t bother to run and answer it.

It screams at me to answer it four more times before whoever is calling seems to give up. The house falls into an easy silence after that, much to my appreciation.

Around half an hour later - when guts are sat in a messy pile in the corner and the only blood is that smeared across the wall (due to my victim struggling for his life) - there’s a noise I don’t expect, and one I haven’t heard in so long; the sound of the front door opening.

It’s become so unknown to me that when the noise first sets into my ear, I don’t recognise it. Although, when there’s a gasp - a noise I <i>do</I> know, and adore very much - following it, I know that what’s about to happen cannot look good for me.
My head snaps in the direction of the door and stood looking shocked, confused and scared all at once, is [Y/N]. She’s wearing one of the numerous sweaters of mine that she likes to keep at her house.

“J-Justin?” she stutters and I don’t dare to move a muscle in my body.

“Happy Halloween,” I ask rather than state. My voice is laced with panic and I wouldn’t have to have someone tell me to be able to detect it.

“It’s January,” she says and my fingers clench around the bag that starts to have the ability to slip between them. I can feel my forehead becoming hot, as well as the rest of my body.

“Ah, shit- looks like I’m too late. Well, there’s always next year. You wanna go get some coffee?” I speak frantically, hoping something else will capture her attention and throw her off the image of her boyfriend stood in front of a white wall painted with blood.

“What’s going on?” she squeaks and I find her very attractive when she’s scared. I try hard to keep my mind and my vision straight.

“Isn’t it obvious, babygirl?”

“Why have you painted your walls red?” she asks and I laugh.

“That’s easy: it’s not paint,” I grin and feel my body begin to relax.

This is it. It’s going to happen right now. This could either end with us being partners in crime; killing together and having our own late night murderous rendezvous whenever we want, the idea of it makes me shift uncomfortably in my trousers, or it’s going to end with her trying to leave and me having to duct tape her to my bed. I don’t see a realistic option between the two.

“Then, what.. is it?” she frowns and her round face looks sadder than I’ve ever had to see her. I don’t know whether to be happy or sad.

“Well, it’s blood.” I don’t think she’s noticed the guts in the corner.

“I thought it was cranberry juice.” She doesn’t convince me; cranberry juice doesn’t take so long to make its way down the wall.

“Nope, it’s blood,” I state clearly.

She’s quiet. Her eyes are on fire and they’re moving between me and the wall. I’m uncertain as to what she’s thinking so I don’t say anything, I simply wait; the bag in my hand is starting to irritate my skin.

“Is this one of your little jokes? I can never tell. You’re scaring me.”

I sigh and drop the bag, my hand appreciates it when the air is able to lick at my skin. I move closer to her and the worried expression sets deeper onto her face. I can see her bright eyes glance down to where the blood had splattered all over me. I could feel a sense of pride at my work.

“What’s going on?”

“Your life’s about to change a helluva lot, sweetheart. You’ve just walked into something you shouldn’t have,” I mutter as I move closer to her. I can see her fingers trembling and threatening to detach from her hands. “I’m not joking when I say this is blood, just like I wasn’t joking about the bodies in my closet, and the head in my fridge. It’s all true.”

She wavers for a second longer; I can almost see her brain clicking behind her skull as it tries to calculate whether I’m simply making another one of my jokes or if my jokes are becoming too advanced for her to understand.

“What do you think? Impressive, right?” There’s a grin that’s threatening to make it’s way onto my lips that I’m sure are coated in a small layer of blood, if I haven’t managed to swipe it off with my tongue yet.

“Stop it.”

“Stop what?”

“I don’t find this funny anymore.”

There’s definite worry in her tone of voice and I can feel myself moving closer to her. She makes a pathetic attempt to force her body backwards, although it does nothing but make the desire I have to move closer to her even more powerful.

“Are you scared? You don’t have to be, babygirl. I’m not going to hurt you, I’d never lay a finger on you.”

Even as the words leave my lips I know I’m telling a cruel lie; my lust for her and for her blood has grown stronger since I accidentally bumped into her two years ago. I managed to avoid putting any kind of pain onto her for reasons I’m not too sure of, but now, it’s all I can think about. Of course, I have to try and make sure she never finds out.

“Tell me what’s going on. Is this some kind of joke that I don’t understand?”

“I’ve already told you; this isn’t a joke.” My jaw clenches and I’m uncertain as to why, although I’m sure I know when I feel myself becoming impatient with the girl in front of me. “This is real, all of it.”

Next, she does something I hadn’t anticipated - she laughs. Her head falls back and I can see everything working in the front of her throat. It makes me think about all the sharp objects I could slice it with. The laugh, however, is far from genuine; it’s hesitant and sharp. It doesn’t last for very long, either.

“Right, that’s funny. You’re a serial killer, hilarious. I get it now,” she chuckles and it’s fake. I’m watching her closely because I’m confused by her behaviour and have no idea where the conversation is going to lead; my two previous assumptions as to where the conversation could go have seemingly taken flight and headed for the nearest window. I’m not left clueless.

“Don’t kid yourself, [Y/N],” I mange to let escape between my lips.

It’s a strange sensation to me, to have somebody’s guts in the same room as my girlfriend; there’s been so many things that I’ve done, most things don’t surprise me but this, this is new.

“So, what? I’m supposed to believe that my boyfriend kills people? Stop joking, Justin, it’s just not funny anymore.” Her voice has now adjusted and taken on a shaky quality that I find quite amusing. “I’m leaving. You’re inhuman,” she says and I think she’s going to start crying.

“I’m very in touch with humanity, okay?” I frown deeply and correct her quickly, now following her as she strides for the door. “You can’t leave.”

“And why the fuck not, Justin? You’re clearly going through some thing right now and I don’t like it. You’re making me panic.” She turns to look at me for a split second; it’s a look I’m unfamiliar with but I’m sure it’s supposed to signal to me that she’s hoping I’m going to stop her and tell her it’s all a joke. It’s a shame that I can do no such thing.

“It’s going to be okay, baby. You’re gonna go and clear your head and I’m not going to stop you because I know you’re going to come back to me, isn’t that right?”

“You’re serious.. aren’t you?” she says, sounding as though all of her worst nightmares have suddenly become true.

“Very much so.” The evil smirk is back onto my lips, I cannot help but show my affection for my satanic hobbies. “I’ve told you over and over again but you just don’t believe me, do you?”

She’s trying to edge away but I’m moving closer. She moves slowly as though she’s created a plan in her mind; if she moves ever so slightly, I won’t notice. Little does she know, I notice everything. I notice how she moves away just like I notice my victims trying to edge their way towards the door. It’s evident that [Y/N] doesn’t know just how much practice I’ve had in this field.

“I-I have to go.”

“Where?”

She doesn’t give me an answer. It happens in a matter of seconds. She’s out of the door and she’s running towards her car that’s parked patiently next to mine. The sun is setting; disappearing behind the hills and she’s getting away. A plan is already taking shape in the folds of my brain while I watch her drive away; anger seeping into every inch of my body.

I caught her in the end. I knew I would. I said at the beginning I was too selfish to ever let her leave me, and even if it means watching her every second of every day, I’ll always have her. Of course, I’ve had to make sure she doesn’t utter a word to anyone, it took some bribery and manipulation but I’m certain no one else will ever know of my secrets.

[Y/N] is upset, of course she is. One second I was the charming boyfriend who gave her all the happiness in the world and suddenly, I’m the psychotic, inhuman monster who happens to enjoy stapling human limbs together for fun. Even I can sympathise.

I’ve noticed that there’s still a hint of love in the colours that swirl around the outside of [Y/N]’s pupils; it pleases me to know she’s still so invested in me, even after I sat and admitted almost everything - apart from the murdering of her cousin; I don’t want her entire family banging on my door.

I’m insane and I’m feeling more and more on the verge of frenzy every day. What was once an itch has mutated into a burn that sits under my skin and claws away until my needs are satisfied.

So, the next time you’re walking through the busy streets of whatever city you’re in; whether it’s London, Paris, New York, Milan, Amsterdam - anywhere, remember me. I’m everywhere - I’m the dead eyes of the old man striding past you, I’m the grimace of the lady sitting on the bench across the street, I’m even the shrill shrieks of the baby in the stroller. Every disgusting sight, every pungent smell, every irritating sound is what I’m made up of. Notice me. After all, I’m looking for fresh blood wherever I go; while showing no signs of being filled to the brim with insanity, and ready to overflow.

 The darkness and disgust that I create is something that will always be there, no matter where you go; it’s something you can’t escape, just like I can’t seem to escape the deep desires for human pain within the pit of my stomach and the thirst for their blood trickling down my throat.

anonymous asked:

Imagine Ransom or Holster meeting during bumper-to-bumper traffic.

From 555-555-1234:
Can you believe this traffic, bro?

Holster checks his phone, then he checks the number again. He doesn’t recognize it.

From 555-555-1234:
Who’s this?

From 555-555-1234:
Behind you, bro!


Holster turns in his seat to peak through the paint on his back window to look at the car behind him.

A bright smile in a handsome face beamed at him from an older gray Honda Accord. 


From 555-555-1234:
You’ve got your number on your window!

And…that is true. Holster’s driving his dad’s old pickup truck back home for Thanksgiving. He’d taken it to school after his Nissan had crapped out on him. His dad had told him to try and sell it so that they could get a down payment for a safer car with better gas mileage. Holster had decided to go with the tried and true driving advertisement. It’s limited success so far meant he was planning to set up a craigslist ad when he got home for the break.

To 555-555-1234:
I do
You interested in buying man?

From 555-555-1234:
…………

To 555-555-1234:
LOL
So you just hit me up to chat?

From 555-555-1234:
I mean….
We’ve been at a standstill for like 15 min
And I need some sort of distraction from the hunger pains
I did NOT pack enough snacks for this

Holster laughs. This is maybe the weirdest thing to happen to him on a road trip, but the traffic has been maddening and - while it’s a bit hard to tell in the dimming light - Chatty looks cute.

To 555-555-1234:
Alright - how about them Falconers?

As it turns out this was just the right question to ask. Chatty (who goes by Ransom) happens to play intramural hockey at Samwell. He has a LOT of feelings about Alexei Mashkov.

From Ransom:
HE LIFTED KENT PARSON WITH ONE ARM!
Come on, bro!
On ice!

From Holster:
Yes, acknowledged, lol
He’s a specimen 

From Ransom:
Mmm, yes, bro
Specimen!

From Holster:
So you’ve got a type ;)

From Ransom:
Tall, broad defensemen - hell yes

From Holster:
Huh
Good to know

So, you follow SMH at all?

The traffic chooses then to let up and allow them to move, which is maybe for the best. Holster’s not 100% sure what he’s doing (not that it’s stopped him from doing much else in his life), but he’s got some butterflies going and he hasn’t had those since. Well, since, March.


From Ransom:
Ok - favorite Disney song?

The traffic’s stalled back out again and Ransom’s been hitting him with a lightening round of 21 questions.

From Holster:
Easy
Hakuna Matata

From Ransom:
Gah!
Did you have to mention food, bro??
I’m starving!

From Holster:
Bruh
Slugs? The tangential mention of bugs has upset you?

From Ransom:
1. The use of three + syllable words - hot
2. I’m THAT hungry

Holster drums his fingers against his steering wheel and eyes the bag full of candy and jerky, protein bars he’d stocked up on before getting on the highway. On one hand, he knows  that inviting strangers into your space is dangerous. On the other hand, there’s a lot of witnesses around, and Ransom actually goes to his school. 


The Haus GroupMe:

Holster: I’m….about to invite a stranger into my car
Lardo: now Adam - we talked about Stranger Danger just last week
Shitty: Holtz, man, I know you and March were serious but…. 
Jack: Birkholtz, no
Nursey: Are they hot?
Dex: Nursey!
Holster: I’m not really sure
Holster: We’ve been texting for the last hour
Lardo: ADAM!
Jack: Birkholtz!
Shitty: Holster!
Holster: Not WHILE driving!
Holster: Traffic’s been shit - I just - we’ve been talking - flirting some
Holster: I think
Nursey: Nice!
Holster: Anyway - just wanted to let you know in case I get murdered
Holster: His name’s Justin Oluransi - goes to Samwell
Chowder: Go with your gut, bro - we’ll file the necessary reports, if needed


From Holster:
I’ve got snacks in the truck if you want to run up

From Ransom:
BRO!

The knock that comes to Holster’s window is quick and sharp. Outside he sees a bundle of hoodie and scarf, a wool hat and hunched shoulders. He pops his lock and Ransom slides inside.

“Oh shit, you’re hot.”

Holster’s momentarily thunderstruck. 1.) He’s never been greeted this way, especially not in his glasses. 2.) He’s pretty sure it’d be trite to repeat someone’s greeting back to them verbatim.

“Also, given that your Adam Birkholtz, Samwell’s defenseman, I’m assuming that statement isn’t going to get me punched. Or - you know - lose me those snacks.”

Holster chuckles.

“Yeah, no - punching you is not - that’s um - you’ve nothing to worry about - I’ve um. Snacks.”

Smooth.

He hands Ransom the bag of goods and watches as he makes his choices, chattering excitedly about the selection. His voice is rich and kind. His smile, so bright from afar, is stunning up close. And his eyes - Holster’s never seen a deeper brown that shone so vividly.

“Thanks, bro! You’ve saved my life!” Ransom says at last. And, with a burst of cold air and the slam of the truck’s ancient door, is gone.


The Haus GroupMe:

Holster: I’m alive
Holster: Also, maybe, in love
Shitty: …..
Lardo:
 o.o
Lardo: I’m too old for this
Nursey: Go get ‘em, tiger!
Dex: …..
Chowder:
Keep us posted, bro

Need a Hand? | Yoongi

Summary: “We really have to stop meeting like this.” / Or, three awkward moments with Min Yoongi
Genre: Humor/Fluff
Word Count: 3,660
Author’s Note: May or may not be loosely based on my own life. Ha, I hate myself. Also, because these recent pictures of Yoongi with black hair kills me. Very slowly.

| #1: I tried to get the candy bar that didn’t drop out of the vending machine and now my hand is stuck can you help me out? |

The day is about as bad as it can get as you sluggishly make your way across the campus, mindlessly approaching a vending machine just a little out of the way of your next class. The box with a seemingly endless supply of junk food serves as your only window of opportunity to have some sort of solid food in your stomach, given your whole day of classes and last minute editing to your essays that you’ve needed to complete before their due dates on the dot.

To say that your sanity is starting to spin out of control would almost be an understatement with all the caffeine in your blood stream and the vague feeling of jitteriness settling into your bones. It leaves you with an uncomfortable sensation of emptiness, one that usually occurs when you haven’t eaten anything of healthy substance for 24 hours.

But desperate times call for desperate measures, and you don’t even see a free hour in your schedule to drop into the cafeteria for a snack—but alas, college life at its finest.

Quickly grabbing the wallet from your bag, your eyes light up momentarily at the sight of a bag of hot cheetos safety perched behind a wiring protection. Although hot cheetos are far from the ideal food (if it even should be considered food) you want to be putting into your body, especially on an empty stomach, you’ve run out of alternative options to settle with.

You fish through your wallet to produce the respective amount of quarters before feeding said quarters into the vending machine. You punch in the code for the hot cheetos, watching with baited breath as the wire coil slides and pushes the bag of chips closer and closer to the front, where it finally drops—!

However, there is no satisfying clunk of the bag hitting the bottom of the machine for you to reach in, to grab and go…

Frowning, you lean forward to press your forehead against the glass to look down in a suddenly desperate search of your beloved hot cheetos. You curse loudly when you find that it has been caught right between the bottom shelf of products and the interior wall of the machine.

Very quickly, the thought of leaving the precious bag of hot cheetos that you have invested six quarters in for someone else to reach in and quickly grab for free makes the blood underneath your skin boil with much unnecessary desperation.

With a huff, you drop down onto your knees and unceremoniously shove your right arm into the bottom flap of the machine. Ignoring the curious stares that are quickly being fed into your general direction, you bite down on your lower lip to ignore the smallest flicker of pain from trying to twist your arm into angles that are clearly not meant for certain bones. You readjust, pressing your cheek against the glass to try and reach as high up into the machine as your arm could dare go.

The crinkle of a bag being gripped in your fingers makes the corner of your lips curl up into the slightest of victory smiles. This is it, your moment to walk away with a pathetic excuse for breakfast, lunch, and dinner in your hand, this—!

You try to pull your hand out of the machine, but the way your arm is stuck ever-so-firmly underneath the flap doesn’t do good things to the sudden spiking of your heart. You tug again, but the pain of your bones undergoing awkward angles doesn’t sit well with your nerves.

So you utter the only word that you feel can perfectly describe the situation and your own personal feelings on the matter. “Fuck,” You hiss under your breath, trying to keep a firm grip on your hot cheetos as you tug once more, twice more—!

“Need a hand?”

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