i am too stupid to do this page thing so this has to be it

anonymous asked:

Sell the raven cycle to me. Why should i read it? What's so good about it?

man that’s a tall order lemme do my best here

1. The characters are very difficult jigsaw puzzle people. They’re wedged in the middle of adulthood and childhood, and magical realism is sprinkled over top of that awkwardness so that we feel very situated in that exact space and time of lost & messing up & family not being enough anymore/friendship being all you can see. And it’s not just the main characters, it’s a spectrum of cameos from people so vivid that you could hitch a ride to a whole other series on their backs. It’s this mass of interconnected lovers and churchgoers and rich boys and school-haters and hard-asses and scared kids and witches and characters that don’t quite know whether to be alive or dead.

Every person is lovingly invented to be difficult to parse upon first glance. they’re magic-eye people. You know when you’re at the optometrist and they put down slides on their big ol’ eye contraption and ask you to tell them when things get clear? it’s kind of like that. You’ve gotta keep accumulating lenses and when it’s finally clear you realize you don’t know where or how the difference set in. And better yet, the characters feel that way too – you’ve got unreliable points of view from everyone from villains to leads to sentient forests, figuring each other out, growing and misunderstanding and loving from afar. Everything has a voice, even birds and trees. This book is made of too many voices in too many languages and all you can do is sit down and be very still and listen (jot that down)

2. The plot/magic in this book are compelling as all hell, and they wind and trip and fall, but it’s worth climbing in and letting the car speed so your head rattles or the magical forest turn you around until you get lost. It’s just the right balance of relatable teenaged disasters and wholly un-relatable living nightmares and hitmen and possession via nature and ghosts and old old old magicians. Somehow pizza with the gang transmutes quietly into burying the carcass of a monster, tennis during the day becomes deadly streaking car racing until someone wins or dies. The books never let up, they go and go and talk about how much they’re going and throw too much at you.

It’s frustrating actually, the way you’re breathless for four entire novels. There are so many loose ends that you start writing ways to tie them together in your head before you’ve even finished. Impossible things represent gritty reality at every turn, you have manifestations of real depression, escapism from real abuse, resentment of real neglectful parents. You have a mosaic of things that hurt so much that they’ve become magic so that we can stand to look at them. trc wants you to look at a kissing curse and a dead king and quietly put them aside until you need them again. If you only read the back of the book, you’re brushing fingers against a scapegoat for a host of things that are much realer.

3. The writing knows what it’s doing. It needles its way into pretentious territory, but I can’t pretend that trc didn’t burrow into my writing style and rearrange things. The writing feels like.. i don’t know man like you’re holding a beating heart in your hand and watching it sputter and try to keep going, and it’s fucking amazing to witness even though you know it can’t last forever. You can see the mechanism of it and gore of it, but you keep watching and waiting. There are so many plain little to the point sentences that fit into the grand scheme of things so perfectly that you just. sob. and there are so many intricate metaphors and frank magical descriptions and charming, human ways of saying something that isn’t charming or human. 

It’s a hell of a series. It knows when to open the door, it trusts that you’ll come through it. It makes you hurt so bad for a friendship that hurtles down like an asteroid and ruins everything but you. It makes you feel a little better about whatever ancient welsh king you’re looking for, whatever night horror is ripping up your head space. It makes you dog-ear every other page because the dialogue is so unnecessarily clever and the descriptions sit right in your throat where you almost choke on them.

It’s not perfect. But it singlehandedly made me start reading again (heart in mouth 4 am reading, buying the ebook the second it comes out reading, crying at lines that shouldn’t be cried at reading), what put things in motion for me to make a funny little book blog called ravenvsfox

I can’t promise that you’ll like it, but I think the mess is beautiful & youthful and there are miles of slack to make it whatever you’d like. I hope you pick The Raven Boys up and see where they drive you in their stupid orange car.

The Habit of Planning

Prompt: During a busy day at Central Park, Lin mistakes Y/N as a paparazzi and he is not happy.

Pairing: Lin x reader

Words: 4,759 (brace yourselves)

A/N: I’ve been writing for this for so long, I’m glad it’s out of my head. I wrote the basis of the fic under the tags for ‘Monochrome’, and a couple of you guys happened to read it and told me I should write it! So thank you to all of you! I hope you guys enjoy!

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Act 4: Trolls as Manifestations

Homestuck gains complexity through iterations, in plot, setting, and character. As the tutorial character, John’s actions are straightforward and relatively easy to follow, which sets the stage for grander installments. John’s plain house and Dad are followed by the increasingly complex circumstances of his friends. John’s ability to combine items across captchalogue cards (1917) is a primer for combining items via alchemy. If a rule is introduced through John, subsequent iterations of the rule will be more grandiose.

So, an observation: John is afraid of heights. When John slips on a staircase, he flips out (2460). When he nearly launches himself into the abyss with the Pogo Hammer, he has to take a nap before he has calmed down enough to continue (2537). Immediately following both moments of vertigo, massive ogres begin to climb toward John’s house (2461, 2542). The eventual fight with the ogres begins after John looks over the roof of his house, into the abyss (2562-3).

All of this suggests that Sburb is reacting to John’s emotional state (fear) to produce in-game content. This is further suggested by a peek we get at some of Sburb’s internal processes (3419):

Here, we have reference to terminology associated with Carl Jung and Sigmund Freud. The terms suggest that Sburb interacts with the ideas in the kids’ subconscious minds (archetypes) and brings symbolic representations of these ideas into conscious reality (manifests the ideas). Like, pipes are Johns’s dad symbol (1974), so LOWAS is covered in pipes as a subconscious reminder of his dad. Or, Dave is surrounded by dangerous sharp objects in his apartment, so LOHAC is full of grinding metal gears to subtly (?) remind him of his awful, awful home.

Even before we reach the kids’ planets though, John’s encounter with the ogres asserts Sburb’s dream-like nature. The “hyper flexible mythology” of Sburb  is essentially the same as Freudian dream logic – Sburb caused John’s latent fear of heights to manifest as real, punchable monsters.

But if you look through Homestuck for things that materialize due to emotional events, it doesn’t stop with imps and monsters. It also includes the trolls.

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12x10 - “Pterodactyl Screeching into the void” - Part 1

My title is borrowed from @postmodernmulticoloredcloak comment on my crazy blogging after first watching this episode earlier. I feel like it is a fitting title for how this episode made me feel. To clarify, these are very very happy pterodactyls.

Steve Yokey wrote this episode and he appears to have well and truly taken up the gap left when Robbie Thompson sadly left the show. In fact this episode to me channels the ghost of Robbie in many different ways. From the fanfiction-esque moments of poor suffering third wheel Sam, to the meta nod to Charlie Bradbury, there is much of Robbie to be found here. Basically, it was bloody perfect.

I feel like there is so much to talk about in this episode that fandom will be chewing on it for months if not years to come. Yokey has picked up the characterisations brilliantly, and seems to have an understanding of what the fandom desperately craves in terms of Castiel, his character, his personality and his development. I adored his sass in this episode. Some other writers *cough*bucklemming*cough* struggle to really capture Castiel’s sass and humour. Showing their lack of understanding of Castiel’s persona and his intelligence and instead writing him in a way that is jarring and sometimes basically stupid. Castiel is far from stupid. In this episode he was written perfectly, in a way I haven’t seen since Edlund’s time. Is that a sweeping statement? Maybe. But I’m still riding my high so let me have it this time.

This episode gave us three of my favourite things. Badass and Sassy Castiel, Overprotective grumpy husband Dean, and poor long suffering brother Sam. (baring in mind this is how they are usually written in fanfiction nowadays this is exactly my jam and I am so so happy to see it play out on screen. Seriously who sold their soul to Crowley for this episode?)

This review will also be in two parts. Because I have so freaking much to say about it.

The first part will focus on destiel, the second on everything else including Castiel’s emotional arc (as separate from destiel), his relationships with angels, angels and gender and Lily Sunder’s character.

PART 1 - ALL THE DESTIEL

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Tell Me I’m Pretty | One

Originally posted by thedis4design

Prompt: Artist!Reader x Jughead.

Warnings: Angst, bullying, possible mentions of suicide later on. There could be violence and mentions of death, so please, be careful when proceeding to the other parts!

A/N: Hope you like thissss!!!

Song Of The Chapter: Trouble by Cage the Elephant




We were at the table by the window, the view,
Casting shadows, the sun was pushing through.

Y/C/H hair pushed to the side, while droopy eyes scanned a sketchbook filled with unfinished works. A golden sun dipping into the horizon provided slivers of lighting through the blinds of the window you sat by. A melted milkshake sat next to the open book, the beverage barely sipped out of as the cherry had sunken to the bottom of the glass at this point. Your mind was wrecked with ideas, so much so that your hand couldn’t even move because you didn’t know what would come out on that paper. Lyrics to a song that nobody wrote? A sketch of the boy you had been admiring from afar as you sat in the comfort of your booth? The essay that your English teacher had assigned during school hours?

You decided to sit back, leaning your head against the booth while a delicate sigh escaped your lips. The atmosphere at this little diner was relaxed and quiet, so your lonely presence wouldn’t be too out of place. Usually, on Friday nights, the people in this small town would much rather gather at the club or go to a high school football game than visit the diner on the corner of a less travelled street downtown. You were thrilled to spend no  time around peers that knew of  you at school. You had already paid for whatever you ordered, so nobody was waiting for you to leave the booth and make the diner slightly more empty.

Nobody cared to invite you to these social outings, mainly because whenever you were new to the school and people wanted to be your friend, you shut them down. You weren’t too fond of kindling friendships with people who’d be out of your life by the time they broke eighteen. You’d much rather write poetry and sketch the pretty people who made this town just a bit more interesting. Those who flourished in the attention of their close friends and buzzed about on social media. Their existence brought you something new to study, the student body’s lack of morality, and the constant movement, drama, and rivalry between inner circles.

Your thoughts were interrupted by a figure sliding into the seat across from you, your eyes landing on the boy you had been looking at nearly this entire time. Jughead Jones III, a fellow student in your fifth period English class. He sat three seats to your left, and he always managed to catch your eye through quick side glances. His presence, though, caught you off guard. Not once had he spoken a word to you, but he was always enthusiastic when it came to English.  A strand of his raven black hair fell over his forehead as he rested both forearms on the table, lacing his fingers together while they interlocked; he looked as if he was about to interrogate you, of course. With Jason Blossom’s murder still being a mystery, everyone had to be questioned in this little town. You hadn’t even thought to speak a word, you were practically stunned by his sudden decision to appear before you.

He had a great group of friends, ones much more popular and had a respectable reputation that was spoken about around the halls. His best friend’s name was Archie Andrews, a talented musician and athlete, who seemingly had better luck with girls and friends, because there was always people surrounding him. Jughead’s friends were practically the core of popularity, a mixture of underclassmen who thrived from the admiration of their fellow classmates. You didn’t despise the group. These were the things that you had paid close attention to, for your life would never be as interesting as theirs, so you vicariously live through what could have been for you, and sketch these scenes out in multiple hardcover books stacked on your desk at home.

His lips curled into a half-smile, “Y/N L/N, right?” Jug reached over to grab a french fry from your untouched basket that you ordered nearly half an hour ago. You raise an eyebrow, his behavior causing you to think he sat across from you as a result of a stupid dare. If you weren’t so terrified of confrontation, you would have swatted his hand away.  This was the first time you’d ever been approached by a fellow student and peer in what felt like forever, and your nerves were already being poked at.

“Yeah… Jughead Jones?” You watched as his ocean eyes crinkled when he grinned. He was quite gorgeous, but the way he spoke so carelessly and cockily… You surely questioned his intentions.

“Correct. Now, what’s a girl like you doing here on a Friday night?”

Yeah, this was either a joke to him, or a sick dare. You roll your eyes, closing your sketchbook, “I came here to grab some dinner, which you so rudely interrupted.” With a soft, amused sigh, Jug chuckles.

“I guess, if dinner means old french fries and a completely full milkshake with the whipped cream nearly melting off the sides. All of the food idle and untouched. Don’t deny that you were burying your nose in a book. Oh, and don’t think I didn’t see you staring at me as well.”

You cleared your throat, a rosy tinge burning the apples of your cheeks, “How could you tell? When your friends were here, you didn’t even look my way.” You were right, and as you tilted your head to see that Archie, Betty, and Veronica had left, he rolls his eyes, scoffing at you. Maybe they went to see the second half of the high school football game, maybe they all had to go home, these were the thoughts that plagued your mind instead of what was occurring in real time.

“Because I was staring at you too. You didn’t catch me when you were gazing into that book.”

Spoke a lot of words, I don’t know if I spoke the truth.

“Well I-”

Jug shushed you, leaving you utterly confused as to what could have been the catalyst to spark this interaction from him. “I heard you’re an artist.” His voice was dripping with mere antagonism, but from the other side of the booth, you shrugged it off and nodded, answering him with a quick, “I am.” Your words were small, almost nervous.

“Mind showing me what you’ve been working on?” The false curiosity seething from his pink lips formed a lump in the your throat. You then shook your head, your hand itching to reach for the book that sat in front of you. “If it has something to do with Jason Blossom, I’m not part of it.” You said shakily. Jughead didn’t take no for an answer, and his hand snatched the book away. He was too quick, and you ended up slapping the table with your hand in an attempt to rescue it from his grip.

Without opening the black book, he held it with a tight lipped grin and narrowed eyes. “Why can’t I see? Is the quiet girl scared or something?”

Got so much to lose,

An exasperated huff  came before a weak, “Maybe. Hand it over.” And that only fueled Jug’s curiosity to delve further, he wanted to push this girl, get her to talk. Lord only knows why he was causing you this anxiety, maybe it was a silly crush, an immature dare, or just him going out of his way to investigate you for a murder. It was beyond you, and your blood began to boil.

Got so much to prove,

And with that, he opened it up, “Fat chance,  Y/N.” His fingers turning the pages to the very first, and you winced, your cheeks no longer holding a rosy blush, but a red hue in embarrassment and sheer anger.You were the topic of conversation at the table with the core four. They always saw you sitting, staring, sketching. That’s all you ever did, so Jug took it upon himself to delve into the rumors that were whispered from one group to another. Harsh, sure. But it’s high school, behavior like this was expected and tolerated by anyone and everyone. His investigative spirit just added to the mess.

God, don’t let me lose my mind.

“Called it.” His eyes never left the pages. The book was dedicated to the groups at Riverdale High, Archie laughing with his friends, Betty and Veronica in their River Vixen uniforms, and Jughead with his crowned beanie. Admittedly, you had talent, a gift for capturing these moments, but his eyes soon widened when he noticed you incorporated yourself into the social scenes. Some small panels where you sat next to Jug on a bench, sketchbook in your lap, his laptop open on his. Some were of you in a pretty prom dress, in a River Vixen uniform, or just sitting with his group of friends.

“Classic stalker. Is this why nobody ever sees you looking up from these damn things?-” A sudden pang of guilt knocked him right in the stomach once he picked up his head to see your doe-eyes glazed over. His smile faded into a look of concern. Clearly he wasn’t thinking, and boy, did he regret it after witnessing the hurt look on your face.

“Please,” You motioned towards him with a shaky hand, asking for the book. Jughead didn’t have the guts to argue, so he handed it over to you, watching as you held it to your chest as if you were protecting a newborn. With a quick motion, you slung your backpack over your shoulder and kept your head down as you rushed out of the diner. This left Jughead with a sinking feeling in his stomach and the realization that he shouldn’t have sparked trouble with you.

And the whole weekend, he was riddled with the idea that he needed to talk to you again to mediate the tension and apologize. Even if you despised him, it was something that he had to do.

@bitchycollectionfury-78be5e8b here ya go, thanks, this was fun to write ^-^ nice to write about people being dumber than you are to make yourself feel better

-

McCree was…

He was…

Well, he was definitely not panicking, that was what he was not doing, because Jesse McCree was one cool customer that could take things as they came and laugh it off.  He’d survived the foster care system and his weird adopted father and his overly intense adopted sister.  He’d survived losing his damn arm, alright, and everything that went down that made it necessary to bundle a young Jesse up and whisk him away to the houses of strangers rather than leave him at home.  And by the end, he’d survived everyone that had thought they could make judgment calls about him without even trying to get to know him, every teacher that had shaken their head and decided some idiots couldn’t be helped, every classmate that had turned their nose up at his accent – a vestigial limb left over from a childhood in the south – or his manner of dress or his sense of humour.  After all, it hadn’t been as bad as all that.  He’d wound up with a great family (he’d die for Gabe and Sombra), and plenty of friends.  He’d learnt to let people go.  Some people just would never see past his shaggy hair or his loud mouth or the cowboy hat he refused to “grow out of”.  Fuck ‘em, that’s what Jesse had learnt.  Shrug your shoulders, turn your back, and go find people that matter.  There had been a time when he couldn’t do that.  There was a time when he’d been living back with his birth family that every disappointed look the teacher had sent him when he’d acted out in class had been like a slap and every report card returned home had been… well, not just like a slap.  There’d been a time when he’d hated everything about Gabriel Reyes, but mostly the fact that he was forcing him to confront a brand new school with people that stared and laughed and huddled among themselves in the cliques they’d formed years back, no space for a new, pushy, desperately loud kid.

Then things had changed.  Then he’d made friends, real friends, and found out what people could be like – what he could be like.  And suddenly the people turning their nose up didn’t matter any more.

R-ight.

And so that was why, as Jesse McCree sat in school library across from Hanzo Shimada, he definitely was not panicking at all.

Even if Hanzo Shimada was hot as sin, with long, dark hair cascading down his back, the most intense eyes Jesse has ever seen, and holy fuck those biceps.

The guy did archery apparently.  Archery. Who the fuck did archery unless they were preparing to run off in some goddamn fantasy movie?  Jesse had never even really given archery much thought as a thing people did – it only really existed in historical documentaries and the Olympics – but now when it was nearly thirty degrees outside and Hanzo Shimada was sitting two feet away from him in a tank top, Jesse was really, really thinking about archery.  And how it must take a lot of strength to constantly be drawing and holding a tense bowstring if you wanted to aim with any degree of accuracy.  And how that sort of strength made it look like your arms and shoulders had been carved from fucking marble.  Especially when one of said statuesque arms had a sleeve of vibrant, blue tattoos running all the way down it.  Jesse could get lost in a bicep like that, with or without blue dragons staring back at him, but the dragons definitely didn’t hurt.

The thing was though, it wasn’t just that.  Jesse had met hot kids before that were out of his league and it generally didn’t really trouble him.  Whatever, laugh it off, move on.  No, of course it had to be more complicated than that.  When Jesse had first entered this class he’d wound his way through the filling seats until he’d found himself sitting next to a boy whose name he would learn was Hanzo.  Jesse had then immediately had his smile met by a flat stare, and he’d figured, oh well, here was an uninteresting asshole.  A hot one, maybe, but an asshole all the same.  It hadn’t seemed important at the time because he’d already turned to the person on his other side – a girl named Angela who apparently wanted to be a doctor (or a researcher…? Something like that, which involved more of the human body than Jesse wanted to think aobut).  She was friendly and laughed easily.

Everything would have been so much easier if Hanzo had just stayed an asshole. The guy was quiet, sure, but Jesse sat elbow-to-elbow with him three times a week and he slowly began to realize that underneath the prickly, don’t-look-at-me-don’t-speak-to-me aura the guy projected, there was something far sweeter down there.  The guy chuckled at every single one of the prof’s bad jokes and Dr Winston had a lot of them, and they were always nonchalantly that most of the class didn’t realize they’d happened… heck, Jesse usually didn’t realize they’d happened until he heard a soft snort next to him.

(And yes, it was a snort. Absolutely and completely undignified and it made Jesse stare at Hanzo until he’d been glared back into submission by the man, who’d seemed flustered that someone had heard him.  How do you tell a guy that may or may not hate your guts just for existed that you thought his silly snort-laugh was cute?  The answer was you did not do that and focused back on your own notes if you value your life.)

As for Hanzo’s notes, well, they were painfully neat and precise.  But amid the sharp ballpoint and careful diagrams, Hanzo Shimada apparently had a habit of making snide details about the lessons in the margins (Jesse knew this because it was a two hour long lecture and sometimes watching your neighbour writes notes out of the corner of your eye was better than trying to listen to a prof drone on at the front of the class for another hour and a half).  It made Jesse start fantasizing about taking out his own pen and writing a little comment in the corner of Hanzo’s page.  Made him think about getting into some sort of stupid note-passing conversation with him like they were eight year olds rather than college kids.  Made him think about getting to have all those weird, witty little comments directed at him, and then seeing where the conversation took them.  (And, occasionally, it made him think about continuing that conversation out of class, possibly down towards a pub he knew for a chat and maybe, oh just maybe, a date.)

Jesse, however, did not dare try – to write the note, that is, entertaining anything else would have been madness.  Hanzo looked like the sort of person that might try to tear your head off if you messed up his notebooks.

Then, just to top it all off, during their lecture breaks, Hanzo often got calls from what Jesse could only assume was a brother.  And, against every expectation, Hanzo Shimada was sweet. Well, still a bit of a deadpan asshole, but no one who’s a hundred percent bad uses his ten minutes of free time to talk with his brother every single day.

“Don’t look at me, I am not playing wing-man for you in a class I need to ace if I wanna keep my GPA up,” Angela had said.  Jesse had pouted at that – he hadn’t even gotten a chance to ask her, had just glanced at her with maybe a slightly-too-hopeful gleam in his eye during one of the breaks Hanzo had left the room to talk with his brother.

And then the fateful day of the class project had arrived.  Winston had told them just to group up with someone sitting beside them rather than running piecemeal through the class.  Jesse had, of course, turned to Angela only to find she had turned around in her seat and was quickly making plans to team up with a girl sitting behind them named Mei.

Frantically Jesse had spun around, but everyone else was making groups with the people to their left or right who they had been getting to know since day one.  With Angela breaking the system, that meant he had only one person left sitting next to him.

Hanzo Shimada was watching him with an unimpressed face and an eye brow raised.

Traitor, he mouthed at Angela.

You’re welcome, mouthed Angela, the Stealth Wing-man.

And so here Jesse was, sitting in the library with someone who presumably hated his guts and thought he was – what, loud? Obnoxious? Lame? – but who Jesse still pathetically, wistfully wanted to impress.  Life, sometimes, was enormous unfair.  At this point Hanzo hadn’t even given Jesse the time of day, he’d been sitting at one of the study tables since before Jesse had arrived, nose an inch from his phone as he texted someone.  Presumably someone cooler than Jesse McCree.

Jesse wanted to groan.  Or shove his pencil in his eye just so he could get out of this project.  Instead he mechanically started pulling out his books and waited for Hanzo to be ready to start on the project with him.

-

Hanzo Shimada:

WELL??

Obnoxious Little Brother:
oy give me a sec some of us are still in class and don’t want our phone to be taken away
again
besides i’m trying to tell zen about how i, the lowly highschooler, am helping my university-bound brother pick up boys

Hanzo Shimada:
Don’t you DARE

Obnoxious Little Brother:
too late
he wishes you luck by the way and says he has complete faith in you
goes to show which one of us  knows you better eh? not him!

Hanzo scowled down at his phone before he gaze flickered briefly up to the person who had sat across from him.  He’d been painfully aware of Jesse McCree since McCree had arrived in the library and pulled back the chair with a scrape that had made the hairs on the back of Hanzo’s neck stand on end.  So far McCree had made no acknowledgment that there was another person at this table, another person he was going to be forced to work along side for the next two weeks.

Hanzo didn’t know whether Zenyatta had faith in him or if Genji had just been trying to wind him up, but Hanzo certainly did not have faith in himself, not about this.  He had never been good at… people. He made, in Genji’s words, “seriously just the worst first impressions.  Like wow.  So bad,” which just wasn’t fair because when it came to a professional setting, when it was about work or networking, he was fine.  He could move effortlessly through the crowds, introduce himself, chat, plan, negotiate.  He’d been dogging his father’s footsteps since it had been decided he would one day take over the family business and he was a devoted student.  But as soon as it was real people in real life Hanzo may as well be carved out of wood; somehow he always managed to put his foot in his mouth.  Which was why he had fallen so low as to turn to his baby brother for advice, because at least Genji, if nothing else could be said about him, was good with people.

Too good with people, if you asked their father.  Genji was a social butterfly who wasn’t so much a butterfly as a housefly, flitting about around everywhere and getting where at lot of people would probably wish he wasn’t and really not caring who he chatted with or what they thought about him.

Obnoxious Little Brother:
look, just don’t do the Hanzo Special and you should be fine

Hanzo Shimada:
Excuse me??

Obnoxious Little Brother:
u kno, your patented Grunt & Growl technique
don’t do that and assume other people can actually understand you bc they can’t

Hanzo wanted to snap back that he did not grunt or growl, thank you, he was a mature adult unlike Genji, but he found his fingers hesitating on the keys.  Frantically he scanned his memory to figure out if he had grunted or growled at Jesse McCree.

God help him he probably had.  He had almost certainly stared stupidly at him.

McCree… glowed, though, and Hanzo wasn’t sure what to do with that.  He spoke so easily.  All it had taken was one glance from McCree on the first day of class for him to apparently decide that Hanzo was a lost cause.  Before Hanzo had managed to scrounge up a single coherent, reasonable thing to say to the sunshine bright, smiling boy who’d sat down next to him, said boy had turned his attentions to the much more receptive form of Angela Ziegler, the girl sitting to his right.

McCree was loud and raucous and ridiculous and he wore the stupidest hat Hanzo had ever seen but god help him he wanted to see McCree smile at him, rather than catch glimpse of it from the corner of his eye while he laughed with someone else.  He wanted to have McCree attention at some point other than when he’d made a fool of himself with his ugly laugh or by seeing McCree stare judgmentally at his notes.

Obnoxious Little Brother:
at the risk of sounding too much like a disney movie have you tried just…. being yourself???
(this was zen’s suggestion btw i’m personally pretty sure being someone other than yourself would be a step in the right direction but you never know maybe disney knows whats up)

Hanzo thought about what McCree had looked like when they had been forced to choose partners.  He had wanted to be anywhere than with Hanzo. The look he had shot Ziegler when she had found a different partner… the helpless, defeated look when he had accepted that the only person nearby not taken was Hanzo.

No, being himself was definitely not going to help him here.

Hanzo Shimada:
Never mind I’ll figure it out

What he was going to do was pretend that Jesse McCree was just some other random student, keep his head down, get this project done with the least amount of fuss, and move on to his next set of class next semester and hopefully forget that McCree existed.

“Shall we get started?” he asked briskly, pocketing his phone and pulling out his own book.

McCree’s face was despondent and it sat like a stone in Hanzo’s gut.  He would rather be anywhere than here.

“Might as well,” said McCree.

anonymous asked:

Ok so where "do I find the ENXP crowd"? Preferred habitat? Likes? Mating rituals? What to do if I spot one? Do they bite?

Haha, okay, I’m glad you asked because I’ve been procrastinating on making a post like this for awhile and now I gotta. So here goes. Also guys, I’m dividing this male/female so I’m sorry if it doesn’t apply to you, but I don’t have time for any more descriptions (this is gonna be long)

As written by a female ENTP who knows many ENXPs…

How to find ENTPs

Male

  • Male ENTPs look like the rest of the typical dudes around at first glance. But on closer inspection, they probably have a haircut that is supposed to be trendy but isn’t well-maintained and they also probably have crazy socks, or a crazy scarf, or are making some sort of stupid joke as you observe them
  • They joke all the time. Like there is not a time when you’re talking to them and they’re not thinking or talking about jokes. Could be memes, funny animals, slogans or advertisements…really just anything humorous. And they spew it.
  • They’re the annoying ones in the room. ENTPs are called “class clowns” but honestly I don’t find that to be a super accurate description of us since we’re pretty darn ambiverted. So it’ll be the guy in your class or office that’s really annoying yet funny and has outrageous philosophical or political views. Or has a crazy backstory/family life. Something crazy, I promise
  • Can be pretty shy or socially awkward, many ENTPs have Asperger’s
  • They are very silly and tacky. They wear comical shirts, have smirky expressions all the time, and are actual super softies. Like we’re talking hopeless romantic softie if they’re not super unhealthy. The stereotype is that ENTPs are “bouncy” with relationships and go from partner to partner, but that is largely untrue for both sexes. We may have a lot of partners, but we typically go into the relationship at least trying to make it work long term. It’s only that we break up with people a lot based on the fact that we feel like there’s a lot of stagnancy/we get bored/think that our partner is incompatible with us since we’re “hiding” our true selves, etc.
  • Really bad at using social media 
    • Most guys only have a few pictures on their pages, if they have a social media page at all (this is personal experience, not true for all of them, just seems to be a trend)
  • Wide variety of skills/ineterests/hobbies
    • ENTP friend loves skiing, lifting, exercising…and then is unhealthily obsessed with pug puppies and memes
  • Are usually friends with the STP crowd or the NF crowd, either or
    • Does usually have another NTP friend that’s pretty close to them

Keep reading

The Sound of Music

Summary: Sehun catches you staring at him on the subway and assumes that you’re checking him out - and you kind of are, but not in the way he thinks. 

Pairing: Sehun x You 

Sehun’s POV

Sehun hates riding the subway.

Is it an efficient system? Sure. Is it reliable and organized? Yeah. Does that make it any more appealing to him? Not a chance.

Right now he’s taking the orange line to downtown, and apparently so are the other hundred people on the T because each stop only brings him closer and closer to being crushed to death. Currently, he’s part of a sandwich that consists of one extremely pregnant woman – whom he would have offered a seat if he had one, three children that are apparently deriving great pleasure from kicking him in the shins, and one stout man with a mop of curly hair and ridiculous body odor. Sehun mutters a prayer to several deities asking for patience and tugs his face mask up with a sigh.

At the next stop, the one right before downtown, several people filter out of the subway car, and Sehun plops down on an empty seat with a breath of relief. He’d spent far too many hours at the dance studio yesterday and his knees are now protesting like an old woman’s. But that’s simply the price of being the lead choreographer for his university’s dance company – and he loves it all, the pain, the sweat, the grind. And despite the aches in his body, Sehun finds himself tapping his feet to some imaginary song, mapping out different moves in his head.

He’s so caught up in the moment, feet pattering and fingers drumming and shoulders rolling, that he almost doesn’t notice the girl. Almost. And he wouldn’t have noticed her if it weren’t for the fact that she keeps glancing over at him occasionally. And, even more curiously, after looking at him she then scribbles something in the notebook on her lap. Is she…taking notes on him?

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Music To, or In, My Ears

pairing: anthony ramos x reader

word count: 2500

warnings: swearing

a/n: have yall ever seen the soulmate prompt where it’s like “the song that’s stuck in your head is stuck in your soulmate’s head too”??? well thats what this fic is based on. its kind of confusing; i had to take a little artistic liberty; and it really, really, really sucks, but i hope you like it anyway. enjoy!!!


You didn’t believe in soulmates. You never had. Your parents said they were soulmates – they had ways, reasons they found each other that they constantly yammered on about. But you didn’t believe in soulmates. It was luck they found each other, and luck that they fell in love. The whole shtick of them ‘hearing the same songs in their head’ or whatever was just… coincidence. Of course. It had to be. There was no such thing as soulmates.

Until you heard it one day.

Rise up… when you’re livin’ on your knees you rise up…

You looked around the crowded subway car you were on, eyebrows cocked. Was someone playing their music too loud? So loud that you could hear it? You couldn’t recognize the song, so it certainly wasn’t coming through your earbuds. A quick glance around the cabin rewarded you with no answers; the other people in the immediate vicinity didn’t have any earbuds in or headphones on. Your eyebrows screwed up in the middle of your head and you leaned back, trying not to show both the confusion and the annoyance on your face. What the fuck was happening? Another line came seconds later.

Tell your brother that he’s gotta rise up… tell your sister that she’s gotta rise up… when are these colonies gonna rise up…

Oh, for God’s sake.

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anonymous asked:

I wish you'd write a fic where Dean finds Castiel's diary from the time he was human (and it's heart wrenching) ❤️

Anon, you just love angst don’t you. (this is set in an ambiguous time around s9-ish)


It’s not something Dean means to find. 

He knows that, because it’s shoved underneath the passenger seat of Cas’s old car with various bottles of water and crumpled up trash sprawled over it. 

Dean just wanted to clean out Cas’s Continental; a way to get Cas feeling a bit better about the world, about the fact that he is walking around with stolen grace and after having been through a shitty bender of being human. Dean thinks that he can help from ridding Cas of a little clutter. 

So, even though he doesn’t mean to find it, he bumps against it as he is sticking his hand under the seat, fishing for garbage to dispose of. 

It’s a journal; with worn leather and a string wrapped around it to keep it closed. Dean picks it up, and opens to the first page. 

He abandoned me, says the first line. In Cas’s rough cursive handwriting.

Yeah, Dean was definitely not meant to find this. 

He shoves it into his jacket pocket, dutifully finishing his task of cleaning the truck. Resolutely ignoring the fact that something very important and very personal is sitting heavy against his chest.

Dean ignores reading it as long as he can; tries to convince himself that he’ll just leave it where he found it, or give it to Cas and advise him to find a better place to hide his personal belongings. 

Cas is such a private person–well, a private angel. Half the time Dean isn’t fully convinced that Cas is telling the whole story of what is going through his head. If he could just have a little insight. A little clarity into what Cas really was experiencing; why he seemed convinced to be Atlas and always have the world on his shoulders.

In his bedroom, after staring at the worn leather for a good half an hour, Dean cracks open the worn pages. 

He abandoned me. 

Dean takes a steady breath and reads on.

It all seemed like it would be okay. Of course, me turning human isn’t ideal - but I thought I could at least do research, maybe get trained in hunting if only a little. I thought I could still be service to the fight. Be of service to Dean. 

But he abandoned me.  

Dean presses his face into his palms. He should not be reading this. He should not. If this is about him, he has no right. 

After an inner crisis that lasts for five more minutes, Dean reads on.

For the longest time, I have served God. It was my purpose. Somehow, Dean became my purpose, but I don’t mind it. I’m always happy to serve Dean, and Sam. But now that I’m on my own, without anyone to serve but myself, I am at such a loss. I help Nora with various tasks around the gas station; but it’s not the same. I don’t feel like I’m serving a purpose that matters. God mattered, once. Dean still certainly matters. And yet I can’t serve either. 

Dean skims ahead, turning a few pages into the journal. He reads an entry that is dated the day after Dean came to visit Cas.

Sometimes we can’t help the things that happen to us. Sometimes horrible things happen, beyond our control. I know why Dean kicked me out of the bunker; it was a way to save Sam. I don’t know why, but it was. I know that Dean acted callous and abrupt because he is afraid of showing vulnerable emotion; and I know that it’s difficult for him to let people down. 

Despite the situations Dean and I find ourselves in, where one of us is forced to hurt the other or make it difficult for each other in some way, my feelings never change.

He abandoned me. I was rejected by God, by all of Heaven, and then him. But unlike God, and unlike the angels I used to serve, I still love him.

Father help me, why do I still love him.

Dean drops the journal like it’s a hot poker. He stumbles to his feet and paces his room, running his fingers through his hair. This was the worst invasion of someone’s privacy - of Cas’s privacy - and he did it without more than a few minute’s hesitation. 

Now he can’t erase the words searing his brain: I still love him.

Dean huffs a humorless laugh and sits at the edge of the bed, head in his hands. But Cas wrote this years ago - it can’t still be true. After all the shit Dean has dealt to him, after all the things Cas has gone through, he must realize now how untrue that love is. How undeserving Dean is of that love in the first place.

Snatching the journal from the bed, Dean stomps into the bunker’s library. Cas is hunched over a thick book, hands tangled in his messy dark hair, his trench coat crumpled. He raises surprised blue eyes in Dean’s direction. There are dark circles under them, like bruises. 

“Dean,” he says with surprise. 

How could Dean not see it? How stupid could he be? “Cas,” Dean says, his voice not much more than a croak.

Cas frowns, eyes flickering to Dean’s hands. His face pales. “Oh.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Dean asks hoarsely.

“You -” Cas’s voice catches. He straightens his back and shuts the book in front of him calmly. “You abandoned me. I got the message.”

“Fuck.” Dean stumbles toward Cas’s chair, crouching before Cas. “I didn’t know.”

“I didn’t want you to know,” Cas says, eyes steadily looking forward, away from Dean.

“I needed to know - “

“No!” Cas glares into Dean’s eyes, expression stormy. “You never needed to be burdened with that. With me.”

“Cas, you idiot.” Dean clutches at Cas’s coat, like it’s a lifeline. “If you told me - if you had so much as indicated - “ He takes a shaky breath. “I love you too. Despite our shitty circumstances, despite the fucked-up situations we find ourselves in that make us hurt each other - I love you too.”

Cas slowly blinks at Dean, processing his words. He frames Dean’s face with his hands, and leans forward to press his forehead against Dean’s. “You abandoned me,” he whispers. 

“I never will again,” is all Dean can manage breathlessly as he catches Castiel’s lips with his own to melt into an endless, lovely kiss. 

send me a “I wish you’d right a fic where…”

stultiloquentia  asked:

Yes!!! Do you have any interest in writing a NurseyDex continuation of your Sprezzatura 'verse? If not, hit me up with some competence kink - Dex POV of Nursey, or Falcs' POV of Bitty, or Jack, or whomever strikes your fancy; I'm so easy. :D

So, uh, this one got long. Here’s a continuation of the Sprezzatura ’verse.


Derek consciously told himself to unclench his teeth and relax his jaw. He hated calculus. So much. His brain simply refused to work the way the book and the professor seemed to think it should and he just needed to get through this class and then he’d have completed his stupid math requirement and never have to worry about it again. But first he had to pass it.

He was going to have to ask for help.

He hated asking for help.

He was going to do it anyway. You don’t have to be perfect at everything, he reminded himself. He was still clenching his teeth again when he texted Dex, though.

Ice: Yo, can you help me with calc?

Fire: Be there in ~15 mins. Need help with English anyway.

Derek sat back in his chair and scrubbed his hands over his face, then rolled his neck from side to side a few times and shook out his arms, trying to just fucking chill already. He found one of his wordless playlists to put on and tried to at least review the examples again before Dex got there so maybe he wouldn’t seem like a complete idiot. Ugh, he hated math.

Well, no, he just hated calculus. Or rather, the way calculus made him feel. He had never found a way to make calculus appear effortless for him, and he was getting really tired of grinding his teeth.

He was glad to get up and answer the door when Dex knocked. “C’mon in, man, you can sit wherever. My roommate has a new girlfriend, so he won’t care.”

Dex frowned at the thought of sitting on someone else’s bed without permission and dumped his bag on Derek’s bed instead. Which Derek had known he would do. He bit back a grin.

Keep reading

F.U. Part 2

Originally posted by mendesgif

Part 2 of this was highly requested a while back, so here it is and it’s officially my debut piece in writing for the first time in a while! I hope you guys are appeased with it and if you aren’t, then don’t read it? lol

Word Count: 1,817

Part one > here

-

It was only the third week.

The last three weeks have been a blur of ice cream, tears, friends and declining his calls.

Whenever he called, he would leave a message, always.

Whenever he left a message, you would listen, always.

Was it healthy? Of course it fucking wasn’t, but what the hell were you to do?

Your eyes burned from the tears that left your tear ducts, staring at the little red notification by the phone icon. You knew you shouldn’t, but you always did.

Delicately raising the phone to your ear, his voice deafened you with regret.

Keep reading

Journal Entries

Gif not mine

  • Peter Parker x Reader
  • Word Count: 3,067
  • Warnings: Depressive themes, terribly written angst
  • This is just a way for me to write some recent feelings I’ve been having. I do not mean to offend anyone in anyway and I apologize if I do.

The school bell rang, signalling the students that class was over. Everyone immediately stood up, collecting their things and rushing out the door, probably to their locker or their next class.

Following the sea of students, I soon reached my own locker and began putting my books away until I heard Peter coming up to me. Smiling, I shut my locker and turned to face him.

“Hey Pete,” I greeted, not surprised that he looked like an absolute mess. I frowned slightly as I saw the faint discoloration around his eye, which was poorly covered by makeup.

“Let me guess, rough night?” I asked, both of us walking down the hall to English class.

“Nothing too bad, I guess I was off my game,” he sighed. “Honestly Pete,” I began, just about ready to lecture him again. “(Y/n),” Peter whined, obviously not wanting to deal with me.

“I know what you’re gonna say and I promise I’ll be more careful,” he reassured me. “You better Parker.” I would’ve said more, but we had already reached Mrs. Holly’s class.

Taking our usual spots, we both took out our books and faced the board, reading today’s assignment. We had to create a video review of one the modern takes on Romeo and Juliet. As Mrs. Holly began to explain the assignment, a folded piece of paper fell on my desk.

I quickly took it and looked at Peter, knowing it was him who gave it to me. Unfolding the paper under my desk, I briefly looked down to see Pete’s slightly messy handwriting.

You still on later tonight?

You see, we had agreed that if he helped me study for the math test, I would help him study for English. Placing the paper on my notebook, I quickly wrote ‘yes,’ pretending that I was taking notes. Folding the paper again, I tossed it back on Peter’s desk and watched as he smiled when he read my answer. Unfortunately, this did not go unnoticed by Mrs. Holly.

“Mr. Parker? Is there something you and Ms. (L/n) would like to share with the class,” she said loudly, putting both of us on the spot. I felt my face flush slightly as everyone turned to face us, some snickering.

“Uh, n-no Mrs. Holly,” Peter answered, crumpling the paper in his hand.

“Then please pay attention to the board. You haven’t been at your best lately,” she scolded, quickly returning to the lesson. ‘Sorry,’ I mouthed to Peter, feeling bad that he was called out.

‘It’s fine,’ he mouthed back, fixing his attention to the board. I soon followed, listening as Mrs. Holly’s voice droned on.


Pretty soon, the end of school same and since it was Friday, I was quite happy and relieved. I waited by Peter’s class, playing with my hands and watching the clock intensely. Finally hearing the students getting up to leave, I backed away from the door and looked for the brunet.

“Hey (Y/n), sorry if I kept you waiting, Mr. Collins sort of went on ranting about his personal life again,” Peter said, causing me to laugh a bit. “He does know he’s at school right? Not some therapy session,” I joked, leaning my head on Pete’s shoulder as we walked. We were pretty comfortable around each other seeing as though we’ve been friends since middle school.

We continued our mindless chatter until we reached our stop, taking our seats on the bus.

“So, how’s your writing coming along?” Peter asked. I’ve been working on a story about a girl who’s an artist, but ends up in a car crash which damages her hands. She goes through a series of tough events as she struggles with relearning basic hand movements with the help of her friend, Alice. The two build a strong relationship and eventually end up together, at least that was how it was supposed to go.

“It’s coming along…slowly. Surely, but slowly,” I admitted. A lot has been on my mind lately and I can’t seem to write anymore.

“Writer’s block?” Peter guessed. “Something like that I suppose,” I mumbled, biting my lip. Peter seemed to notice something was off and shifted uncomfortably. “(Y/n), what’s wrong?” He asked, reaching for my hand.

“Nothing, I’m okay,” I smiled, hoping Peter would move on and he did.


“So, your place or mine?” I asked as we walked into our apartment building. “At least buy me dinner first,” Peter joked, feigning surprise. “Oh shut up, y’know what I meant,” I said, slapping his arm and pressing the elevator button.

“Let’s go to yours. Aunt May has a few friends over and I don’t want to bother them,” Peter explained, entering the lift. “Alright, well my mom doesn’t come back home till 10 so we should be good,” I said.

Once the elevator reached our floor, we headed towards my place. I lived right across from Peter so that was pretty nice. Unlocking my door, I switched on the lights and shrugged off my jacket, draping it over a chair and headed to my room.

“You want anything to drink or eat? I got chips and some soda if you want any,” I offered, tossing my backpack on the bed.

“Nah, I’m good. Let’s just get started,” Peter replied, taking out his math books. I sighed and reluctantly got out my own. “What, I thought you wanted me to help you,” he said, taking notice of my behavior. “I know, I know. I just didn’t think we’d study right away,” I mumbled, taking a seat on my bed. Peter sat next to me and slung his arm around my shoulder.

“How ‘bout this, if we study a whole chapter, we can watch movies for the rest of the day,” he offered. I looked over to him and smiled. “Supernatural marathon?” I asked. Peter laughed and nodded his head. “Supernatural marathon. Now come on, we need to help you pass this test,” he reminded me. I opened up to the chapter and glanced over the problems, sighing. “I can do this,” I mumbled to myself.


“I can’t do this,” I groaned for a third time, laying my head down on my pillow. “Come on, we just have a few questions left. Just rationalize and si-” Peter was interrupted when I threw a pillow at him. “Can’t we just take a break now? The test isn’t till Wednesday,” I whined. “Fine, but we are gonna continue this tomorrow,” he said sternly. I was going to complain once more until Peter tossed his books on the ground, laying down next to me. I stared at him confused until he patted the spot next to him, signalling for me to lay down to. I obliged and laid down, crossing my legs and staring at the ceiling.

“(Y/n)?”

“Yes Pete?”

“Can you do that thing again,” Peter asked, looking at me with pleading eyes like a child begging for ice cream.

“Fine,” I laughed and stood up to turn the lights off. Immediately the plain ceiling was replaced with a painting of the night sky, stars littered all over the place. I first showed Peter this when we had our first sleepover. I was in my freshman year when I decided to paint my ceiling with glow in the dark paint.

I laid back down in my spot and looked over at Peter who stared in awe at the painting. While he was busy watching that, I was busy watching him. His eyes shined with happiness, his dark brown hair slightly messy and ruffled. A melancholy smile graced my lips as I caught myself looking at him with more than just platonic love again.

I admit, I did have some interest in Peter, but I brushed it off as friendship and nothing else. Besides, he seemed so content with his life now, I couldn’t possibly ruin that. Peter seemed to notice my staring as he looked back at me, causing me to blush and look away.

“Something on my face?” Peter asked with a cocky grin.. “Yeah, just a smidge of stupid,” I replied, laughing. Peter feigned hurt and soon sat up, looking at me mischievously. I raised my eyebrows in confusion until he attacked my sides, beginning to tickle me.

“Wait no, I’m sorry!!!” I exclaimed, having a laughing fit. “I’m not sure if I believe you, after all, I am stupid,” he teased, tickling me again. I reached desperately for a pillow and gripped on tight when my hand found one. I wacked Peter in the face, making sure not to hurt him, and got him off me. At the same time however, the sound of something falling caught both of our attentions.

On the ground, laid a notebook. Its cover was a soft orange with different patterns of flowers on it. Peter looked in curiosity while I stared in shock. Before I could do anything, he picked the book up and looked towards me, anxiety beginning to fill my senses.

“What’s this?” Peter asked, looking at the book. “It’s just my old writing journal, nothing too important,” I lied, reaching for it. “Can I read it?” He asked, beginning to flip the pages. I snatched the book out of his hands and put it in my desk cabinet.

“I would prefer it if you didn’t. It’s something I don’t really like sharing,” I said, a little shaken up.

“(Y/n)?” Peter stepped closer to me, about to place his hand on my shoulder before quickly looking out the window, his face showing concern.

“S-sorry. There’s a bank robbery, I-I gotta go,” he excused himself, rushing out of my apartment.

I let a deep sigh of relief and closed my eyes, too tired to deal with anything else.


It was well into the night now and with each and every minute, I grew more and more worried. Peter hadn’t come back yet and I had tried calling his cell many times, each going to voicemail.

I sat in my bed, crissed crossed, looking out the window. I had given up on trying to reach him, it seemed pointless now. Grabbing my coat, I was about to head out to find Peter when I heard a knock at my window. Turning around, I saw him still in his spiderman suit, which was a little torn with blood stains on it. Quickly opening my window, Peter stumbled inside, steadying himself with his hand on the wall.

“Peter, what did I tell you,” I said. Luckily it wasn’t anything too bad, just a busted lip and a black eye. Peter only groaned in response, causing me to lead him to my bed so he could sit down.

“Just wait here okay?” I said, walking into the bathroom for the first aid kit. I sighed when I was only met with an empty box, I knew this would happen someday.

“Peter! I’m gonna head to the store okay? The kit is pretty much empty,” I called out. I heard Peter give a faint ‘okay’ as I left.


Peter sat on (Y/n)’s bed, he had already changed into his old pajamas that he had left over here from previous sleepovers. His side hurt a lot, but he didn’t think too much of it. He had worse injuries before.

Time passed and Peter found himself getting bored. He walked over to (Y/n)’s desk, picking up and playing around with a few things until he looked at her desk cabinet. He knew it wasn’t his place to invade her privacy, but she said it was an old writing journal. It was probably filled with embarrassing fictional stories, nothing too personal.

Opening the cabinet, he grabbed the orange notebook and flipped to a random page.

Entry - Dec. 25, 2016

Today’s been pretty great. Peter gave me a necklace and I admit, I felt bad for only giving him a drawing. His gift was so much better than mine, but he reassured me that he loved it. I came up with a new story idea and I think it was one of my best. I’m quite proud of it actually. It’s about this girl who’s an artist. She ends up in a car crash which damages her hands and now she’s going through life trying to relearn how to use her them again. I’m debating on whether or not it should romantic towards the end, but we’ll see. Anyways, Christmas has been great, everything is fantastic now.

Peter felt himself smiling at the memory, no wonder (Y/n) didn’t want him reading this. It was a diary. He did feel a little bad though and went to put it back in the cabinet when he accidently dropped it, the book opening up to a random page.

Looking down, he read the date and furrowed his brows.

Entry - February 21, 2017

I’ll be honest, I haven’t exactly been ‘myself’ lately, whoever that is. Recently things have changed, well more specifically me. I know I said I would get better last time and I thought I was, but I guess not. I’ve been feeling down lately, not all the time though. I still smile and laugh with my friends, I still feel happy and have hope in myself, it’s just not the same anymore. For some reason, whenever I get home and I’m by myself, I feel sad and I feel worthless. Well, I feel worthless all the time actually. I love my life, I have a great family, I have amazing friends, and school is going great for me, but I can’t seem to enjoy it. I feel lonely and empty. I’m stuck in this ridiculous cycle of starting the day out happy only for the negativity to crash down on me, knocking me under…I’m tired of everything. I’m tired of the constant unwanted thoughts in my head, I’m tired of being over critical of myself, I’m tired that I’m constantly getting headaches and that I can never sleep at night. I hate that I let myself get this way. I am aware that this isn’t right, I am aware that I shouldn’t be comparing myself to other people, I am aware that I should not feel this way. I want to talk to people about this, but I’m afraid. I’m afraid that they’ll be disappointed in me, I’m afraid they’ll think less of me, I’m afraid I can never be the person they want me to be.I promised myself that I would stay strong. I promised that I would stay strong for my mom when my dad abandoned us, I promised I would be supportive of my sister when she moved away to work in film. I promised my teachers that I would keep my grades up and go to good college. I promised Peter that I would always stay by him no matter what, when his uncle died and when he told me he was spiderman.I promised people so many things, but I don’t know if I can do it anymore. I’m tired and I want a break, but I can’t. Not when so many people depend on me. I don’t want to let them down, I don’t want them to be ashamed of me, but everything has a breaking point and I’ve reached mine. The only problem is that I’m too afraid to get help and that kills me.I want to just disappear and wait until the pain subsides or just disappear completely. I’m tired and all I want is a break.

Peter felt shocked and confused. He never thought (Y/n) would be going through all of this and he felt disappointed that he never realized what she was going through.


“Peter! I’m back,” I yelled, shutting the door with my foot. When I got no answer, I became confused and went into my room. I placed the bag with all my supplies and went to look up when I saw Peter sitting on my bed, his eyes red. His hand was behind his back, like he was hiding something.

“Why?” Peter asked me, his voice cracking a bit. I stared in confusion until he held up the orange notebook.

A lot of things happened that moment. First, I was scared and I was shocked. I was scared that he thought of me differently now and shocked that somebody else knew what was going on. Then I felt violated and betrayed, I had told Peter to leave it alone, but he ignored that and invaded my privacy, I felt a little angry.

“Peter-” I began only to be interrupted by the same question.

“Why?”

“Why what?” I asked, becoming a bit aggressive. “Why I didn’t tell you? Why do I feel like this? Why what?”

“Why did you ever think that I would think less of you, that I would be disappointed in you?” He asked, tears running down his cheeks.

I felt tears stream down my face and my heart clench. “Because, you think of me as a dependable person, you think of of me as a friend. I liked that you thought of me that way, I didn’t want you to think of me as a person who is too weak and can’t get help. I don’t have some complicated reason as to why I thought you would think of me like that, so if that’s what you expected, I’m sorry.”

Peter stayed silent and I sighed, letting the silence take over a bit before breaking it. “I’ll just clean you up and you can leave if you want. I won’t force you to stay here,” I mumbled, going over to the bag of supplies when I felt something latch onto my hand. Looking down, I saw a string of webs attached to it before I was tugged back. I stumbled onto Peter and his arms wrapped around me tightly, burying his face into my hair.

“I will never leave you, never you hear me,” I heard him whisper before pulling away, his hands cupping my face. “I love you and I promise I will stand by you no matter what.” Peter placed a kiss on my forehead as I felt tears running down my cheeks. I pulled Peter into another hug and cried, knowing that I had somebody I could turn to now, no longer having to write another journal entry.

veritatem inquirendam [seek the truth] (frank castle)

(gif source)

(original request: AU in which Frank is younger, and he and reader are college students. There’s a heated debate in class and everyone disagrees with Frank except the reader. After that, Frank starts paying more attention to the reader and hanging out with her after class, until he realizes he’s falling in love but she has no idea he is until her best friend tells her.)

(this is terrible i LOVE college frank i love this soft soft boy. what a nerd. i hate him. no warnings on this one except mentions of food and some sexism early in the story!!!)

(tagslist: @doct0rstrange, @caryled, @kurtwxgners, @atari-writes ! if i’ve forgotten you or you wanna be added to the tagslist, just send me a message!!! <3)


The professor is wrong. She knows it, but she can’t say it. You can’t say “you’re fucking wrong” in front of a classroom of fourty kids. Instead of speaking her mind, she bites her tongue and clicks the cap of her pen up and down, up and down, trying to tune out the professor’s voice.

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winglessrobin  asked:

Write me a ficlet about Stiles finding random love poems/notes written on little scraps of paper stuffed in weird places, like between the seats in the Jeep, in the pockets of hoodie he swore he just washed so how could there be intact paper in there, in his shoes, under his pillow. Who is writing all these notes and how do they keep randomly appearing on Stiles person!?!?!

This is unbeta-d, and I am subjecting you dear reader(s?) to poetry written by me masquerading as English!Major Derek Hale. BASICALLY I’m SORRY ABOUT THE CRAP POETRY OK. also im really fuckin pissed off about the spacing of the poems but tumblr is adamant about pretending to not know what the fuck im trying to do when i try and reformat it i need to stop before i just delete this whole post in a fit of RAGE

For RachelBBY

Scraps

The first time it happens, Stiles doesn’t think anything of it. He figures he just wrote it himself in English and then forgot. It’s just a neglected scrap of paper hiding amidst other papers under his desk, sacrificed on the altar of a weekly allowance with everything else he throws out as he cleans his room. He only really glanced at it anyway, he was preoccupied with being pissed off at Derek for being Derek, thinks it said something about heartbeats and irregular spaces. So that was the incident, he supposes.

The second time he’s got his hand stuffed in the crease of Roscoe’s passenger seat in a desperate search for just one fucking quarter, just one, and withdraws a crumpled piece of paper instead. “How long has that been there?” Stiles asks himself as he de-crumples it to read it. He snorts. Obviously quite a while, it’s a poem, and Stiles knows he didn’t write this one, which means it’s circa the Scott/Allison Era.

you laughed

it was Tuesday

you didn’t know I was there

“Not half bad Scotty,” Stiles murmurs, not bothering to finish the rest of it as he tosses it aside and resumes the quest for one measly quarter cause he just wants a burger. Out of life, all he wants is to eat a burger right now. It’s not so much to ask? Right?

He bitches and moans to Scott about his inability to find a quarter and thus eat a burger, but forgets to ask him about the poem thing. The next time he sees Derek, Derek flips him a quarter with a smirk. “Oh, fuck you,” Stiles says, but pockets the quarter and eats him that fucking burger later that night, after they have all managed, miraculously, to not die. “Victory comes in all forms,” Stiles informs Scott sagely in between mouthfuls. So that’s the coincidence, in all its glory.

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somebody else // stiles stilinski pt. 7

Summary: Stiles broke her heart and now she can never look at him the same. They remained friends, but she can’t exactly find it in herself to truly forgive Stiles and he doesn’t know how to accept her new relationship with the one person he can’t stand. Overtime, they both eventually got over each other… or have they?

Requested: no, collab with @minhosmeanhoe

Warning: no, mature language  

Inspired by this song

Masterlist

She didn’t remember much of the events that had happened earlier in the week other than the fight. Stiles hadn’t been in school for three days, most likely because of his broken nose, making it easier for her to avoid the stinging pain in her chest every time she caught a glimpse of him.

She questioned which hurt more, avoiding him or facing the pain that came with being in his presence. The sympathetic looks and murmurs that she received while walking in the halls for the rest of the week made her head spin. Katalina was in no mood for fake sympathy or condolences for something people knew nothing about. Deep down, she was tired of playing this constant cat and mouse game her and Stiles had started a few weeks ago.

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Mark’s Kiss - Pt. 2 of Mark’s “Types of Kisses” Series

Originally posted by j-miki

member: mark
rating: nc-17
genre: smut
word count: 2987

A/N: And here’s part 2 that someone requested!! Thank you for your support, everyone <3 You can read Part One here.

I also have a treat inside for you! Be sure to put your name in the box and hit submit for a more immersive read. (It only works if you’re on my page, and using a browser with javescript enabled.)

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Mirror and stone

Sameen’s voice in Farsi is liquid and gentle. At least, it seems that way to you now, hearing her speak for the first time, your head in her lap and your eyes closed. One hand weaves through your hair; the other holds her father’s battered copy of Rumi’s love poetry.

It’s late, but neither of you can sleep. The spring night is unseasonably warm, so you’ve folded back the sheets and are currently sweating in a tank top and a pair of boxers from Sameen’s drawer. Seemed fair to steal, since you’re the one who dropped off and picked up her laundry at the wash-and-fold around the corner. The shirt you’re wearing is old enough that, even freshly laundered, it smells like her.

You don’t know what the words mean; you simply let them wash over you and through you. Sameen reads limpidly, fluently, in musical phrases. She smooths hair over your temple, cards through the strands, winds a curl around her finger.

The heat is making your shoulder ache; the painkillers you reluctantly took have only just started to work through your body and soften your thoughts. None of that matters much now, with your cheek resting on Sameen’s inner thigh and her voice pouring over and into every part of you.

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