if i make it with cats then no one suspects its about me

A nurse has heart attack and describes what she felt like when having one

I am an ER nurse and this is the best description of this event that I have ever heard. 

 FEMALE HEART ATTACKS 

 I was aware that female heart attacks are different, but this is description is so incredibly visceral that I feel like I have an entire new understanding of what it feels like to be living the symptoms on the inside. Women rarely have the same dramatic symptoms that men have… you know, the sudden stabbing pain in the chest, the cold sweat, grabbing the chest & dropping to the floor the we see in movies. Here is the story of one woman’s experience with a heart attack: 

 "I had a heart attack at about 10:30 PM with NO prior exertion, NO prior emotional trauma that one would suspect might have brought it on. I was sitting all snugly & warm on a cold evening, with my purring cat in my lap, reading an interesting story my friend had sent me, and actually thinking, ‘A-A-h, this is the life, all cozy and warm in my soft, cushy Lazy Boy with my feet propped up. A moment later, I felt that awful sensation of indigestion, when you’ve been in a hurry and grabbed a bite of sandwich and washed it down with a dash of water, and that hurried bite seems to feel like you’ve swallowed a golf ball going down the esophagus in slow motion and it is most uncomfortable. You realize you shouldn’t have gulped it down so fast and needed to chew it more thoroughly and this time drink a glass of water to hasten its progress down to the stomach. This was my initial sensation–the only trouble was that I hadn’t taken a bite of anything since about 5:00 p.m. 

After it seemed to subside, the next sensation was like little squeezing motions that seemed to be racing up my SPINE (hind-sight, it was probably my aorta spasms), gaining speed as they continued racing up and under my sternum (breast bone, where one presses rhythmically when administering CPR). This fascinating process continued on into my throat and branched out into both jaws. 'AHA!! NOW I stopped puzzling about what was happening – we all have read and/or heard about pain in the jaws being one of the signals of an MI happening, haven’t we? I said aloud to myself and the cat, Dear God, I think I’m having a heart attack! I lowered the foot rest dumping the cat from my lap, started to take a step and fell on the floor instead. I thought to myself, If this is a heart attack, I shouldn’t be walking into the next room where the phone is or anywhere else… but, on the other hand, if I don’t, nobody will know that I need help, and if I wait any longer I may not be able to get up in a moment. 

I pulled myself up with the arms of the chair, walked slowly into the next room and dialed the Paramedics… I told her I thought I was having a heart attack due to the pressure building under the sternum and radiating into my jaws. I didn’t feel hysterical or afraid, just stating the facts. She said she was sending the Paramedics over immediately, asked if the front door was near to me, and if so, to un-bolt the door and then lie down on the floor where they could see me when they came in. I unlocked the door and then laid down on the floor as instructed and lost consciousness, as I don’t remember the medics coming in, their examination, lifting me onto a gurney or getting me into their ambulance, or hearing the call they made to St. Jude ER on the way, but I did briefly awaken when we arrived and saw that the radiologist was already there in his surgical blues and cap, helping the medics pull my stretcher out of the ambulance. He was bending over me asking questions (probably something like 'Have you taken any medications?’) but I couldn’t make my mind interpret what he was saying, or form an answer, and nodded off again, not waking up until the Cardiologist and partner had already threaded the teeny angiogram balloon up my femoral artery into the aorta and into my heart where they installed 2 side by side stints to hold open my right coronary artery. 

I know it sounds like all my thinking and actions at home must have taken at least 20-30 minutes before calling the paramedics, but actually it took perhaps 4-5 minutes before the call, and both the fire station and St Jude are only minutes away from my home, and my Cardiologist was already to go to the OR in his scrubs and get going on restarting my heart (which had stopped somewhere between my arrival and the procedure) and installing the stents. Why have I written all of this to you with so much detail? Because I want all of you who are so important in my life to know what I learned first hand. 

1. Be aware that something very different is happening in your body, not the usual men’s symptoms but inexplicable things happening (until my sternum and jaws got into the act). It is said that many more women than men die of their first (and last) MI because they didn’t know they were having one and commonly mistake it as indigestion, take some Maalox or other anti-heartburn preparation and go to bed, hoping they’ll feel better in the morning when they wake up… which doesn’t happen. My female friends, your symptoms might not be exactly like mine, so I advise you to call the Paramedics if ANYTHING is unpleasantly happening that you’ve not felt before. It is better to have a 'false alarm’ visitation than to risk your life guessing what it might be!
2. Note that I said 'Call the Paramedics.’ And if you can take an aspirin. Ladies, TIME IS OF THE ESSENCE! Do NOT try to drive yourself to the ER - you are a hazard to others on the road. Do NOT have your panicked husband who will be speeding and looking anxiously at what’s happening with you instead of the road. Do NOT call your doctor – he doesn’t know where you live and if it’s at night you won’t reach him anyway, and if it’s daytime, his assistants (or answering service) will tell you to call the Paramedics. He doesn’t carry the equipment in his car that you need to be saved! The Paramedics do, principally OXYGEN that you need ASAP. Your Dr. will be notified later.
3. Don’t assume it couldn’t be a heart attack because you have a normal cholesterol count. Research has discovered that a cholesterol elevated reading is rarely the cause of an MI (unless it’s unbelievably high and/or accompanied by high blood pressure). MIs are usually caused by long-term stress and inflammation in the body, which dumps all sorts of deadly hormones into your system to sludge things up in there. Pain in the jaw can wake you from a sound sleep. Let’s be careful and be aware. The more we know the better chance we could survive to tell the tale.“

Reblog, repost, Facebook, tweet, pin, email, morse code, fucking carrier pigeon this to save a life!

I wish I knew who the author was. I’m definitely not the OP, actually think it might be an old chain email or even letter from back in the day. The version I saw floating around Facebook ended with "my cardiologist says mail this to 10 friends, maybe you’ll save one!” And knew this was way too interesting not to pass on.

The Things We Give Welsh Learners: y Babi Sinsir

So I was going through our bookshelf yesterday, because we’re fast approaching the point where we need a clear-out, and I came across one of my all-time favourite creations ever, probably even beating shit like the wheel and penicillin. Years back, before leaving The Man to pursue his dreams of being a sort of professional clown-thing, my husband used to be a translator for Neath Port Talbot Council; as is often the way with Welsh councils, though, owing to a lack of money and also everywhere is really close to each other (this country is 150 miles wide at its widest point, and about 47 miles at the thin bit. Ver ver small), NPT Council’s translating department was shared by Swansea Council. Thus it was that, in the halcyon days of circa 2009, the two decided to team up and produce a new Welsh language book for learners between them, and thus it got sent through to Steffan to proof read it.

A Thing You May Not Know: Welsh is one of ten indigenous languages to Britain, arguably the oldest, and has been viciously oppressed over the last millennium and a half as part of England’s big If You Destroy Their Culture They’ll Be Glad To Be Ruled By You policy. These days, it’s nonetheless still spoken by approximately a fifth of the Welsh population; a hell of a feat, considering, but the suppression of it continues to this day (just in cleverer, sneakier ways now than whipping people’s children if they’re heard.) But it is classified as Endangered. Thanks to Welsh-language schools now being a thing (though supply is much lower than demand), transmission rates to the younger generation are pretty good; but, Welsh is peculiarly dependent on adult learners.

This means that learner books might have to appeal to both children and adults while using very simple language, which I explain in case it in some way justifies the bewildering weirdness of what I’m about to show you; because at first glance, this book is simply for children. But it’s… Well. 

Well.

I present to you, with translations in bold and commentary by me, Y Babi Sinsir.

Literally, “the Ginger Baby”, but they mean ‘ginger’ as in ‘gingerbread’. Literal ginger. Not the colour.

This is Mr Jones. This is Mrs Jones.

What’s wrong, Mrs Jones? I want a baby.

Note: there will be some confusion in this book about whether the narrator is speaking, or anyone else. It might seem cut and dried here, but there are no speech marks around “Dw i eisiau babi”, whereas later speech marks are used, and also in two pages’ time the narrator will actively pass a value judgement using first person, so… Well.

But, so far so good.

Mrs Jones is making a Babi Sinsir.

… okay, so I like this page because of the capitalisation of Babi Sinsir and the lack of definite article. She’s just making a Babi Sinsir. You know, a Babi Sinsir? Magical baby made of gingerbread that you make if you can’t conceive but can’t afford IVF? Yeah. A Babi Sinsir. That’s right.

Let it be known that this is Not A Thing in Welsh folklore or mythology. What the fuck. How does this work. Where does the magic come from? Do you need a faerie ingredient? Will the next page tell us?

This is the Babi Sinsir. I like the Babi Sinsir.

Nope.

But it is apparently shit-capable and needs a nappy. It’s good that the narrator likes it anyway.

The Babi Sinsir is bad. He’s running.

Uh oh.

“Come back, Babi Sinsir.”

Look how Worried the Joneses are. Funny how they don’t seem to be calling that enthusiastically, though. I’d have expected an exclamation mark at least. Did Mrs Jones always have a massive left arm? I can’t remember.

“Run, run, catch me. I’m the Babi Sinsir.”

Yeah, okay, so that’s the Welsh for “Run! Run! As fast as you can! You can’t catch me, I’m the gingerbread man!”, but once again, I’m going to have to draw attention to the lack of expressive punctuation here. It really feels like this naughty Babi Sinsir’s heart is just not in this.

“Come and help, Mr Horse.” “Run, run, catch me. I’m the Babi Sinsir.”

Cool, look, a floating horse has come to help.

The pen there, incidentally, was an attempt by the translators to work out who was talking. I can’t imagine why. This dialogue is on fire, everyone can tell.

“Come and help, Mrs Cow.” “Run, run, catch me. I’m the Babi Sinsir.”

Now they have been joined in their high-speed zombie shuffle by a married floating cow who is, if I’m not much mistaken, high as shit.

“Come and help, Mr Goat.”  “Run, run, catch me. I’m the Babi Sinsir.”

I’m starting to suspect the artist only knew how to draw the legs on animals in one way.

“Come and help, Mr Dog.”  “Run, run, Catch me. I’m the Babi Sinsir.”

Yes, that dog is definitely here to ‘help’. Also… the Babi Sinsir is literally within reach of Mrs Jones’ massive left arm now. Why is she not just picking him up?

“Come and help, Miss Cat.” “Run, run, Catch me. I’m the Babi Sinsir.”

You may be wondering at this point if this is just… the whole book. An ever-increasing flock of floating zombie creatures shuffling after a naughty gingerbread baby in a nappy who is committing the cardinal sin of running. I mean… where can they go from here, amirite? A sheep? A squirrel? A chicken? We can hit a hundred pages this way, easy. The concern is the artist, whom I think was stretched a bit beyond their means on this project anyway.

BUT WORRY NOT! Shit’s about to go down, guys.

Oh no! Here comes Mr Wolf. Mr Wolf runs and catches the Babi Sinsir.

THAT IS A FOX

THAT IS A GODDAMN FOX YOU HEATHEN FUCK

WHAT THE FUCK

AND WHY THE FUCK IS IT WEARING CLOTHES WHEN NONE OF THE OTHER ANIMALS WERE

WHY IS IT DRESSED IN DUNGAREES LIKE A LAZY FARMHAND ON AN AMERICAN RANCH IN THE 1800S

This doesn’t bode well for the -

Half of the Babi Sinsir is left.

WHAT THE

Quarter of the Babi Sinsir is left.

WHY DOES IT STILL LOOK SAD AND HORRIFIED WHY IS IT STILL ALIVE OH MY GOD

The Babi Sinsir has gone! There’s tasty.

What the

Wha

It

I realise this is not the main point to make here, but two pages ago it had eaten half of that nappy, and now it’s whole again and delicately discarded to one side, I just want

I mean

It’s okay, right? This happens in fairytales? Little Red Riding Hood? Someone will eviscerate the fox and out will come the Babi Sinsir…’s pieces, and they can be baked back together…?

No one cares!

Mrs Jones is making another Babi Sinsir.

The new Babi Sinsir loves Mrs Jones.

… 

…okay, so there’s a lot for us all to take in right now, and we’re all going to get through it at different speeds. But I’m just going to draw attention to the fact that Mr Jones is now merely depicted as a picture on the wall, and the new Babi Sinsir apparently only loves Mrs Jones, and…

Okay so they just lost their beloved baby gingerbread son because he got eaten alive by a fox in dungarees calling itself a wolf, right? Mrs Jones apparently couldn’t give less of a fuck if she tried, as long as she has some flour and ginger left over to make another. This one she made to love her.

Mr Jones, I presume, had a total mental breakdown and drank himself to death. At the very least, he’s left her, look. All she has left is the photo.

But does dim ots! Mae’r Babi Sinsir newydd yn caru Mrs Jones.

And that is the story of Y Babi Sinsir, aka the greatest work of literature ever written.

transcript of the speech i gave at Vassar’s black baccalaureate service

Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen, honored guests, and the Vassar class of 2017.
Just saying that aloud made me feel old. Class of 2017? Most of y'all were born after dark-skinned Aunt Viv left the Fresh Prince of Bel-Air. That’s wild.

I want to first thank you for allowing me to be a part of such a special moment in your lives. I am honored, privileged, and a bit in disbelief that you asked me of all people to give this address. I try not to have feelings, and I’m going to do my best not to cry today, but no promises.

I’m here to stand in the gap between you and your parents and guardians and any other elders in your lives that you stopped listening to because you thought they were wack and out of touch. I remember being in your shoes not TOO long ago, and it is my fervent prayer that something that I say here today will help you avoid some of the mess I went through.
To be honest I’m a little nervous, but I figured there was no way could this be worse than when Betsy DeVos went down to Bethune-Cookman, so let’s get started.

As you transition to life after Vassar the changes will be both inevitable and swift, so I’d like to begin by giving you some well-intentioned advice and warning you about the continued process of becoming an adult.

Keep reading

Dreadneldritch

No pets were allowed on campus.

The freshman orientation guide was very, Very clear about this point. Absolutely, positively, no pets allowed. (minor exceptions to be made for service animals.) And yet here she was, 3 weeks into her first semester, sitting on the ground, staring at a cat. It was staring back.

Dread had always been fond of animals. She had never been allowed to have any pets, (her father was allergic to most things with fur, and her mother just hated animals) but she had always wanted a cat. Multiple cats, preferably. And now she was sitting on the steps of her dorm, in a college where No Pets Were Allowed, staring at the most precious little ball of fur she had ever set eyes on. She knew far too well about the other rules (she was on her second roommate, now, and the delicate horns curling from the thing-that-was-not-her-first-roommate’s face had left an… impression.) She was very good about remembering iron, salt, and not to say please or thank you. But this was a very cute cat, and she was willing to risk a little bit.

It meowed. She held out a hand, and it walked right up to her, and “oh my goodness you are just the cutest thing!” she squeaked. The cat seemed satisfied.

She was, to say the least, conflicted. The rules were very clear, and the rules were generally right, but this was a very small cat, and she did not have very many friends, and really, she already knew what she would do. “C’mere, you.” She scooped up the cat and it snuggled into her jacket. “I’m going to name you Eldritch.”

—-

It was about three weeks later that things got… actively weird. She had managed to smuggle in, via the Walmart (which had no employees that day, she left the money on the counter and hoped that nothing Else would take it) a litter box and cat food. Eldritch seemed to settle in fine, and she traded her roommate 3 dollars and a cool rock in return for not telling anyone about the very, very illegal pet currently snoozing on her lap. The roommate, whose name was Chalkboard, seemed to like the cat. Chalkboard even gave the cat a cat-toy. When Chalkboard vanished (decided to take the “fake your death to avoid breaking up with your s.o” advice a little too much to heart), Not-Chalkboard did Not like the cat. Dread caught Not-Chalkboard making what looked like a very rude hand gesture at the cat on multiple occasions, although it’s hands were strange and​ it was hard to be sure. It was when Not-Chalkboard, after having a Very Intense staring contest with the cat for about 6 minutes, saw the error of its ways and vanished, leaving Chalkboard in its place, that Dread began to think something might be up. Eldritch said nothing, as cats are wont to do, but it purred a great deal when Chalkboard let it sit on her lap while she was doing her homework. This was, to say the least, Rather Suspect. Nothing more was said about it.

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Complice

Originally posted by apgujeon

Park Jimin. Hogwarts!au. 7k words. Fluff. 

↠ Unraveling the reasons to Park Jimin’s assortment into Slytherin.


Park Jimin, for lack of a better word, is magnetic. An eye catching grandeur. A brilliant meteor cutting through the dead of the night. A glitter of gold and silver. It is no exaggeration when you say you would find yourself singling him out of many other ground-swept robes, clicking heels, wand wielders. It’s not the hair, no –not the locks of fireplace or charcoal ashes, it isn’t also the distinct pitch weaving through buzzing chatters nor is it the recurring dark smoke filling the air at the back row in charms. Thinking of the reason alone sends a pang of melancholy through your veins as your mind tries to block out the patches of defiled memories almost instinctively. But the unavoidable fact of the matter is, Jimin was once your world.

Keep reading

{PART 12} I Won’t Stop You (M) // Jeon Jungkook, Vampire!AU

Originally posted by jengkook

Pairing: Jungkook x Reader

Genre: Vampire!AU, Fantasy, Angst, Smut

Summary; After the best and worst day of your life to date, you find yourself back at Jungkook’s Manor. You hope your first night there will be a quiet and uneventful one; but Jungkook has other ideas in mind.

I update this series every Tuesday evening, 9pm-10pm (UK Time)

Warning: This chapter contains scenes of a sexual nature.

{Part 1}// {Part 11} {Part 12} {Part 13}

Keep reading

The Chamber of Secrets, a summary
  • Dobby: Harry Potter must not go to Hogwarts!
  • Harry: The fuck are you Hogwarts4lyfe
  • Dobby: *Pudding crashes and burns worse than Snape's love life*
  • Uncle Vernon: HARRY DIDJA PUT YER NAME IN THE GOBLET AHV FYA- I mean *clears throat* NO FOOD FOR YOU BITCH WELCOME TO CONCENTRATION CAMP DURSLEY
  • Harry: fuck
  • Ron: *mass breakout*
  • Vernon: *falls out window*
  • Fred'n'George: sup
  • Mrs. Weasley: BoYs YaLl DoNe It NoW GeT yo SoRrY AsSeS oVeR HeRe- except you Harry nothing's ever your fault an btw thanks for almost getting my son killed last year
  • Ginny: *highkey stalker*
  • Floo powder: lol you thought things would go right in your life
  • Draco: *exists*
  • Harry: He'S FuCkInG Up tO SoMeThInG
  • Hagrid: *saves Harry from being raped*
  • Hermione: sup
  • Lockhart: OMG IT'S HARRY POTTER HERE TO BOOST MY HALLWAY CRED- I mean- *coughs* you have a few fans yourself, I hear- HERETAKEMYBOOKSTAKETHEMALL
  • Lucius: *is an ass*
  • Aurthur: *fights a bitch*
  • Lucius: *here have this book it's pretty and talks to you but be careful it may possess you*
  • Platform 9 3/4: *is an ass*
  • Ron: Let's just take the flying car illegally instead of just owling Hogwarts or waiting for my parents
  • Harry: k
  • Car: *eighties action music*
  • Harry: can you hear that?
  • Ron: we must be getting close!
  • Harry: hold on-
  • *music grows louder*
  • Hogwarts express with Thomas face on it: DUN DUN DUN DUUN DUN DUN, DUUUUN
  • Car: *crashes*
  • Tree: *is an ass*
  • McGonagall: Idfc just go away here have a sandwich
  • Hermione: sup
  • Shit: hello friends
  • Wall: ThE ChAmBeR Of SeCreTS HaS BeEN OPenEd EnEmIeS oF The HeiR BeWArE
  • Mrs. Norris: hanging by noose from ceiling
  • Harry Ron and Hermione: *are there*
  • Filch: Y'all killed my cat IMMA KILL YA
  • Dumbledore: Bruh you accusing the great Harry Potter?!? If it was anyone else I wouldn't care but since it's Harry SHUT UP
  • Malfoy: *is a slithery Slytherin*
  • Harry: He's the heir
  • Hermione: *starts making potion*
  • Myrtle: *moans*
  • Colin: *takes pictures of Harry*
  • Harry: ew fuck stop
  • Lockhart: StOp YoU cAn'T bE MoRe PopUlAr thAn mE- I mean *coughs* it's unwise to hand out pictures until you're as famous as me
  • Harry: *gets detention* *is worse than Umbridge's blood quill* *hears hissing* *doesn't suspect it could be a snake which is the animal that hisses*
  • Hermione and Ron: sup
  • Harry: can you hear that
  • Ron and Hermione: wtf no you must be insane
  • Harry: lol tru
  • Lockhart: *has dueling club*
  • Snape: *kicks his ass with the disarming spell*
  • Lockhart: totally meant for that to happen now give me a moment while I restart my heart
  • Hermione: *is killed by Millicent but somehow manages to get a hair*
  • Snape: Harry fight Draco
  • Harry and Draco: *fight*
  • Draco: *snakeness intensifies*
  • Harry: (to snake) bruh calm down mate
  • Snake: k
  • Snape: *kills snake*
  • Ernie: Bruh you tryina kill me
  • Harry: lol no but I should asshole
  • Ron: Harry why didn't you tell me you had a completely dead ability when you didn't even know it existed or that it was rare
  • Harry: idk snakes are cool
  • Person: *petrified*
  • Teachers: maybe we should give a shit
  • Dumbledore: lol nope
  • Quidditch: *happens*
  • Draco: training for the ballet, Potter?
  • Harry: *trains for ballet* *breaks arm*
  • Lockhart: OMG GET OUT OF MY WAY I HAVE TI HEAL HARRY IT WILL BOST MY READERSHIP I mean *coughs* I've done this a thousand times
  • Harry's Arm: *is bendy*
  • Harry: *goes to infirmary* *hears extremely important information*
  • Polyjuice: *happens*
  • Draco: blah blah blah mud blood blah blah blah poor blah blah blah whydoesntpotterloveme
  • Draco: *isnt heir*
  • Harry and Ron: well shit *get the hell outta doge*
  • Hermione: *is cat*
  • Harry: *finds moist book in a girl's bathroom* Imma take this
  • Harry: *ignores more murderous hissing*
  • Diary: hello friend no more sadness today
  • Harry: seems legit
  • Diary: here look at this memory I'm Tom Riddle
  • Harry: k
  • Memory: *happens*
  • Harry: boi why da fk you lyin
  • Hagrid: *is taken to Azkaban because we needed to introduce it for the next book*
  • Harry and Ron: *follow spiders*
  • Spider dude: We do not speak the name of the giant snake in your pipes now excuse me while my children murder you
  • Car: *is real hero of the story*
  • Hermione: *is petrified*
  • Harry and Ron: Shit
  • Hermione: *has clue casually hidden in her hand but takes weeks to find*
  • Harry: ohh it's a Basilisk dats why I can hear it
  • Ginny: *is taken*
  • Professors: *finally give a shit*
  • Lockhart: lol nope
  • Harry: lol yup
  • Myrtle: yah that sink with the snake on it. I mean, it would've been helpful to tell you about it before but whatever have fun
  • Harry: k thx
  • Myrtle: Harry when you die you should stay in here and fuck me
  • Ron: bye bitch
  • Harry: *hisses*
  • Draco: *in dungeons* *gets boner*
  • Chamber: *is opened*
  • Lockhart: I LOVE YOU HARRY! I mean- *coughs* say goodbye to your memories imma just take credit for your stories like I did for erryone else
  • *uses Ron's broken wand* *hits himself* *cavern collapses conveniently blocking Ron and Douchehart on one side and Harry on the other*
  • Ron: lol rip
  • Harry: k bye
  • Ginny: *is almost dead*
  • Harry: shit
  • Tom: *is hot* *appears menacingly*
  • Harry: sup Tom wanna help
  • Tom: lol nope *takes Harry's wand*
  • Harry: Bruh give me my wand
  • Tom: Snakey go kill this twelve year old
  • Harry: *runs*
  • Snake: *is blinded by random phoenix*
  • Harry: *stabs snake with magic sword* *gets bit* *stabs book*
  • Ginny: sup omg Harry that look like it hurts
  • Harry: *gives speech*
  • Fawkes: *cries*
  • Harry: yay I'm healed
  • Fawkes: gets them past all the boulders magically
  • All: *are free*
  • Dobby: *socks are lyfe*
  • Harry: *roast*
  • Credits: *roll*
Stories

never submitted anything to a blog like this before and it’s not going to be near as good as everyone else’s but I couldn’t get rid of the idea

Back home, you used to be known for storytelling. Not the wild and unbridled force of creation that builds and destroys entire worlds in moments, that fearsome superpower – though you have that too, but that is for you and you alone thus far, and you haven’t gotten the courage to share it – but rather the ability to retell a memory in the most entertaining way possible.

People seemed to like it when you took your memories, pieces of yourself, and told them as a story. Back home they did, at least.
At school, your roommate mutters something about not sharing so much personal information as she turns her socks inside out. In the classroom – where you can never quite remember what you’ve learned, but you always leave with more stories creeping about in your mind – occasionally students listen with a gaze just a little too sharp, the feeling of more eyes than you can see on your back.

But storytelling is in your blood, it’s part of who you are, and so you tell your stories. Happy ones, funny ones, tales of adventure and mischief that you thought were mundane until you grew older. Actually, compared to Elsewhere, they are mundane.

There’s one story you haven’t told yet, one that everyone in your family pretends not to know. It’s the tale of why you came to Elsewhere, the tale of the Thing you saw as a child, that took your cousin when the two of you played in a forest, and promised to return for you. Why you decided to go to college upstate and not attend the local university. You thought you were escaping the madness. (Sometimes you see the shadows at the corner of the stairwell and hear horns on the quad at night and wonder if you leapt from the frying pan to the fire)

It’s why you twine iron wire through your curls in decorative spires and carry salt packets sewn into your clothes, and carry old things from your grandmothers that you aren’t sure will help you (but grandmothers can be so very stubborn)

You’ve started to hear things on campus. Students who disappear and come back Different, if they come back at all, or other students who make the brave but foolish journey Underhill to rescue one of their own. Everything you’ve learned since coming here suggests that asking about it is pointless, if not outright dangerous, but at the same time you can’t help wondering if they’d know anything about the Thing that took your cousin. You know that one day you’ll find one of the students who made it There and Back Again, and when you do, you’ll tell your story.

Close to autumn you find yourself in one of the thin places on campus. It was an accident, you were simply too preoccupied with an upcoming exam to notice the air turn unseasonably warm and humid, and before you know it, you’ve walked three times the length of what the hall should’ve been, and each time you find yourself back at the lockers, the air is warmer, heavier, and the ground is softer. Somehow you instinctively understand that you must keep moving. To stop here would be a grave mistake. So you keep walking, and the air feels like the breath of something huge and moist, and you’re pretty sure there’s mud squelching beneath your feet now but you really don’t want to look.

It’s when you do look that the tiles, soft as mud and unyielding as stone, swallow your feet to the ankles and you are trapped. You curse your foolishness in three different languages – two of which are fictional and one of which was invented by you. This one feels stronger, and when you say “Flames take it!” you can almost feel a spark of phantom heat by your legs – and hear something laugh in the darkness.

“You are stuck,” it says.

You demand to be set free, even as you twine a strand of iron-wrapped around your hair and clutch your necklace – from your grandmother, a tiny bottle filled with salt and mustard seeds. You’re not sure if mustard seeds have any significance or if she just liked them – and try to look anywhere but shifting, oily shadows that smell of dust and moss. You suspect that demanding anything from one of Them will be a fruitless endeavor, but you’re frightened now and the liquid tile is sucking you down further. It’s up to your knees here. It occurs to you that you might die like this, that you might disappear just like your cousin and all those other students disappeared.

“What will you give me?” It asks.

Before you can think, you answer, “A story.”

There’s a bubbling silence before It makes a hiss that sounds too pleased to mean anything good. “Yes,” It says, “A story. But I’ve heard all yours. Make it one I haven’t heard before.”

This is tricky. The wrong story could mean death, and when It says It’s heard all your stories It probably wasn’t exaggeration. You could tell It one of your original tales, the stories of pirates and dragons and giants, but those feel too personal. There is too much of you in those stories, and that is your world, with your characters. You can’t help feeling a bit protective of them.
That just leaves The Story.

So you tell It a story about two children playing in a wood. About a thing like a skinless horse with the torso of a man grafted into its back. About fleeing in terror as the Thing chased you both through the trees, and your cousin’s squeal of fright as it grabbed him, just missing you as you splashed across the shallow creek. You go into greater detail than you ever have before, telling It things you didn’t even tell your family before they called the police.
You remember the color of the Thing’s rolling eyes and glistening muscle.
You remember the way its head seemed to wobble back and forth like it was attached to the wrong body.
You remember it promising that water would not always save you.
You remember knowing that running water might be the answer, even if you don’t have the question it goes to yet.
You didn’t want to tell this story, but you can’t stop the words now no matter how hard you try.

All is silent when you finish your tale, and for a moment you fear you were talking to the air. Then, with a slurp, the tiles spit you back out again and you’re standing on solid ground.

“That is a good story,” It says, “I think I’ll keep it.” with these cryptic words and directions to simply follow the hallway, he leaves you and you find yourself running all the way to the stairwell. You thank your lucky stars that you got out none the worse for wear and you are astonished that you managed it at all.

When you tell your roommate, she is concerned. “What did you give Them in exchange for Their help?” she asks you.

“Just a story,” You answer.

Which story? You have a million.”

“It was the one about-” and you stop. Not because you never decided whether or not to tell your roommate. Not because you’re preoccupied or distracted.
No.
The words wedge in your throat, sticking to the back of your tongue, coating your tonsils like thick dust. They won’t come out. For a moment you’re afraid that you might not be able to speak at all. So you try to tell a different story, and that comes out loud and clear. But when you try to explain again that you told the story of how Something took your cousin away – presumably Underhill if not someplace worse – your tongue seems to shrivel in your mouth and the words lodge in the soft parts of your throat like little needles.

That’s a good story. I think I’ll keep it.

It isn’t your story to tell anymore. For once, words do not obey you. Your roommate sees your rising panic, sees the tears welling up in your eyes, and takes pity on you.

“Tell me a different story,” she says, “A made-up one.”

She used to scold you about telling stories all the time, so at first you don’t understand what she’s doing. Then she asks, “What story didn’t you tell?”
The rather obvious wink when she says this gives you and idea.

Words are your tools and they always have been. Until today, they have always obeyed you. You know how to make a truth sound like a lie and a lie like truth. And so you carefully craft a lie so close to the truth, using characters so close to being you and your cousin, that you are sure your roommate understands.

Forever after this, you season your stories with lies in case you must trade them, so that the truth remains yours to tell. You learn say nearly anything and keep it just close enough to fact to fool someone.

You don’t realize that you’re learning to talk like Them until you find one trapped in the snare an upperclassman set near the library, all salt and iron. It yowls like a cat and screams like a child and its three hands scrabble for purchase. It wants out, you know this.
You cock your head and say, “What will you give me if I release you?

It’s only fair, you think. A story for a story.
You’re playing a dangerous game.

[x]

Masterlist of Awesome - Part 3 (Other Fandoms)

Hello everyone! It’s been a while! But here’s a new rec list ;) Although, for the Sterek fans following me, this is strictly other fandoms, sorry. Been away from Sterek in a while and that’s the result!  Here’s a listing of what you’ll find!

Merlin / Merthur

Suits / Marvey

Supernatural / Destiel / SamxDean / SamxDeanxCas

White Collar / Peter/Neal/Elizabeth

James Bond (Daniel Craig’s) / 00Q

London Spy / Alex/Danny

Originally posted by paradisebird


Fandom: James Bond (Daniel Craig’s) 
Pairing : 00Q

Temeraire by professorfangirl (lizeckhart) / 8858 w. / E

“At Bond’s age anything like love was trapped and walled away, a scorpion under a glass; what he felt now was like the fire at Skyfall, filtered through icewater light. And yet it was there, it was possible: one more reckless leap, one more deadshot fall, one more defiance of loss. It was there, waiting in the way Q’s eyes lingered on him, the intelligent desire in their depths, patient, saying, ‘we have almost all the time in the world’." 

Does Your Mother Know? by sorion / 17561 w. / M 

“He told me… that he’d loved and trusted people with his life before, and that it didn’t end well. And he told me… that he would trust me with his life… and his death.” 

“Wow. Now I don’t know which one of you to warn off of breaking the other’s heart, anymore.” 

The Inevitability of Time by dhampir72 for missMHO / 27055 w. / M 

When they meet for the first time at the National Gallery, Bond has a strange sense of deja vu. 

For the 00QNewYearParty as a gift for missMHO. 

Mister Kiss Kiss Bang Bang by sorion / 31571 w. / M 

Despite Bond making a kind of running joke out of Q’s “exploding pen” remark by requesting one at every opportunity… it was Q who mentioned it first. The reason behind it is quite simple. They both like to blow shit up. And then they realise that that’s not the only thing they have in common. 

Denominations by WriteThroughTheNight/ 33299 w. / Series / T 

Part 1: Denominations by WriteThroughTheNight

"Q confirms that he’s an Empath three months before his first day of primary school, and the deciding of Denominations that comes with it." 

OR Q is smarter than anyone gives him credit for, and an Empath to boot. 

The Haunting of Skyfall Lodge by BootsnBlossoms, Kryptaria for shipimpala / 36522 w. / E 

All his life, Q has seen ghosts. For years, he’s searched for scientific proof to back up what he knows to be true. Finally, he starts a YouTube channel to chronicle his adventures of exploring haunted sites. His latest location: Skyfall Lodge. 

Yours, J by swtalmnd / 41104 w. / Series / G to E 

Part 1 : Yours, J by swtalmnd

Bond sends letters. Q is vexed. Q-branch starts a betting pool. There are an appalling amount of sweets. Also, 002 is a bit of an arse. 

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Your Move

The nine times Simon and Baz prank each other and the one time they don’t

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10

March 23

Simon

We’re not supposed to have food in our rooms.  It’s one of Watford’s most ignored rules.  It’s never enforced, and if the rooms themselves have anything to say about it, they tend to keep their mouths shut.

           Nearly everyone I’ve talked to has some sort of stash in their wardrobe or under their bed.  Agatha loves her sherbet lemons, and Penny has a seemingly endless supply of licorice hidden in a locked cupboard.  Only she knows the whereabouts of the key, assuming she’s telling the truth and there is a key at all.  As for me, I keep at least two mint Aero bars tucked away at all times, though it seems no matter where I hide them, Baz always manages to find them.  Further evidence of vampiric senses, if you ask me.

           Baz is more of a bring-food-from-the-dining-hall-into-the-room kind of person than a secret stash person, at least I’ve never seen any evidence of a stash.  I have to wonder what sort of things Baz would keep hidden away.  Rats maybe, still alive to keep their blood warm for when he gets peckish.  But then again, I would probably have noticed something like that.

           I don’t know how he always manages to get food up to the room unnoticed, but I also know he’s on a first-name basis with Cook Pritchard, so maybe he gets special privileges.

           When he appears in the door this evening, tall and silent as ever, he’s holding a steaming mug of tea.  I don’t say anything about it, I know better at this point. He’ll just snap at me.

           He crosses the room and sets the mug down on his nightstand, dropping down to his bed and uncurling to his back.  I raise an eyebrow at him, stretched out like a cat. “What’s with you?” I muse.

           He throws a glance my way.  “What?”

           “I dunno, you’re just being… weird.”

           “Thank you for your opinion, Snow, it’s entirely uncalled for as usual.”

           I roll my eyes.  “Forget I said anything.”

           “I already have.”

           I turn back to my textbook with a scowl.  Serves me right for trying to start casual conversation, though maybe I was a bit rude about it.  At least I can say I tried.

           Baz lays there on his bed for another moment or so, staring up at the ceiling, breathing slowly and deeply like this is the first time he’s properly filled his lungs in weeks.  I glance at my watch.  I’m supposed to meet Penny in the library to study in half an hour, I don’t need to go just yet.

           When Baz stands, he takes a detour on his way to the bathroom to reach over and flip my book out of my hands.

           “What the hell is wrong with you?” I call after him, but he responds simply by slamming the door in my face.

           Classic Baz.  Simple, stupid, but effective.  Like a playground bully.

           I wonder if he gets any actual joy out of it.

           The heat of my anger is already fading, but it still frustrates me that he’s been getting away with this kind of abuse all our lives and nothing I do ever seems to deter him.  It’s like he’s a giant and I’m a pissed-off ant, biting and crawling and trying to hurt him, only to be flicked away by a giant indifferent finger.

           His mug on the bedside table catches my eye, steam still curling off the tea.  He hasn’t taken a sip yet, which is surprising.  Usually he drinks the stuff practically straight out of the kettle, like it isn’t scalding his entire throat on the way down.  Maybe it’s not, maybe that’s some obscure vampire thing. Or maybe he’s just a prat that wants to look tough.

           The lightbulb that goes off in my head is almost audible as I watch the steam dance above the mug.

           Grabbing my wand from the sheets beside me, I stand from my bed as quietly as I can and tiptoe across to Baz’s nightstand, wincing with every creak from the floorboards.  The tea is that perfect smooth colour, brown and soft with cream and sugar.  Sparing a fleeting glance at the bathroom door, I dip my wand down so that the tip just barely breaks the surface of the tea, sending ripples floating away from the intrusion.

           Needs more salt,” I murmur in as soft a voice as I can manage, pushing the crackle of magic from the base of my neck down through my wand arm and into the tea.

           “What was that, Snow?” Baz calls from the other side of the door.  There’s a sudden splash of the sink.

           “I didn’t say anything, twat,” I call back, carefully bringing my wand over my mouth and letting the stream of droplets fall onto my tongue.  It’s flowers and cream and… salt.  Definitely salt.

           I smirk as I return to my bed.  Mission accomplished.

           When Baz re-emerges, I pull my textbook closer so he can’t knock it away again.  I try to look appropriately engrossed.  He doesn’t pause at the door, just goes straight back to his bed, and though I can’t see his face in my periphery, it seems as though he doesn’t suspect anything.

           Needs more salt isn’t a proper spell, per say.  More of a charm.  Penny says that spells occur when the words play the biggest role.  They are usually well-known sayings or lyrics, things that carry a little bit of their own magic, which makes them the easiest for beginning mages to master.  Charms are different, harder to control.  The power of a charm doesn’t lie in the words but in the intent.  The magic comes entirely from the mage.  Often charms come out as accidents, when something is said with so much feeling that magic simply slips in.

           Penny is quite good at charms, at putting magic into whichever words she chooses.  She insists that anything can be a charm with enough magic.

           As Baz reaches for his tea, I can’t help but watch.

           I sure hope Penny is right.

           Baz raises the mug to his lips and takes the first sip.

           His features freeze like he isn’t quite sure how to arrange them.

           After a beat he lowers the cup and stares at it like it’s a puzzle, his brow beginning to furrow.

           He takes another thoughtful sip, and this time the tiny curl of his lip betrays a hint of disgust.

           I make sure to be staring back down at my book when he turns his gaze on me.  I feel it burn into the top of my head, and the burn spreads to my cheeks as I try not to crack.

           I can still feel his eyes on me as he takes a long, pointed drink from the mug.

           Prat.

           I glance back at my watch.  It’s still too early, but Penny will probably be in the library already, and I don’t know how long I can handle Baz’s stare.

           I close my book and stuff it in my bag, wearing what I hope is a neutral expression and not a beet-red blush.  I stand from my bed and slip into my shoes. I see him take another sip.  When I look at him, he’s still watching me, and his face is surprisingly clear for someone drinking salted tea out of spite.

           I’m not fully sure which one of us is the winner here.

           I’m halfway out the door when I decide to break the tension.

           “April Fool’s,” I state like it’s a simple good-bye before I shut the door.

           I’m two stairs down as he yells “IT’S NOT EVEN FUCKING APRIL YOU TWAT!”

I mean, I kind of get why? Chunks of the fandom have this very strong perception of the galra as Hostile And Dangerous and they project that onto that side of Keith’s heritage. You see it in a lot of really body-horrific “transformation” concepts of like. Keith being slowly physically converted, often under torture, or the process itself is torture- or the idea of “instincts” that are invasive and mind-hijacking. That Keith’s own heritage is an invasion from within or a malicious, harmful influence he has to fight off. (That’s not behind all of it, but it’s a sometimes-unintended impression it gives: that Keith’s heritage is here to hurt him.)

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12. Eating fruit/ice cream suggestively (from this list)

a sequel to the heatwave fic, as requested by @chalkboardwallfeelings

this got more nsfw than i intended, whoops ^^;;

The heatwave hadn’t let up in the slightest by the time their next scheduled patrol rolled around.

“At this rate we might actually get an akuma that turns off the sun,” Ladybug groaned, unsticking her sweaty bangs from her flushed forehead as they walked down the street, newly obtained ice cream pops in hand.

Chat tore his eyes away from the oddly fascinating sight and contemplated his ice cream pop. “Do you think we could somehow get an ice cream akuma? That, like, flings ice cream at people? That would be awesome.”

(They hadn’t talked it out so much as they’d just sort of looked at each other and come to the mutual, unspoken agreement that it was much too hot to be jumping around Paris, and that they could patrol the local marketplace on foot instead. That the market place was clear of people because everyone sane was avoiding the heat also went unremarked.)

“That… sounds kinda icky,” said Ladybug, plastic crackling as she ripped the wrapper off her own treat. “And sticky. And slippery. And—”

“I get it already,” Chat sighed, and bit off a corner of his chocolate-and-nut-covered bar. It was blessedly, blessedly refreshing. Chewing the salty-bitter-sweet coating and swallowing, he added, “But it’d be cold.”

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Imagine Jared Leto is Your Best Friend’s Dad - Chapter 9

The song On My Mind by Ellie Goulding inspired this chapter. Totally suggest to listen while reading!

Chapter 9 - On My Mind

It was fun while it lasted, but all things must come to an end. We gathered our belongings and placed them by the door. Dasha and Sydney’s parents picked them up. And it was just Allegra and I.

“Allegra!” Mr. Leto called from the kitchen. “These clothes need to be washed.”

“Yeah, but who’s going to walk Kerri home?” she asked.

“Oh, that’s right.” He crept around the corner as he dried a bowl with a paper towel.

His head rested against the wall as he looked at me. His grin stretching from ear to ear like the Cheshire Cat himself. “I’ll walk her home,” he said.

“But Dad!-” Allegra whined in protest.

“Sorry honey.” He cut her off, still drying the bowl. “You need to hit those clothes. They’re a mile high!”

“Fine.” She fumed.

“Besides… it be nice to see Ms. Sanders and Nico – it’s been a while,” his eyes lit up as he thought.

Apparently, I had no say in this matter. I stared back at Mr. Leto, trying to see what lurked behind his eyes. Was there another trick up his sleeve?

“Just give me 5 minutes Kerri and we can head over.” He told me before quickly shuffling away.

After Allegra and I said our goodbyes, I fetched my things, making sure everything was packed. I didn’t live far away at all, like 2 ½ blocks down, but I guess no neighborhood not matter how nice is safe to travel alone in the evening.

Butt up and head down, I bent over, trying to squeeze everything in my bag. There was this one section that just wouldn’t zip. It was stuffed to the max. I thought I heard something behind me but I was too focused on this. If Allegra wants to make a joke about how silly I look, so be it. I placed the bag between my legs as I pushed down with one hand and tried to zip with the other. Once it finally fit, I stood up straight, and flung my hair back. I turned around and to my surprise, I saw Mr. Leto there leaning against the wall.

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kidsxuisine  asked:

Some of my family laughs at me when I mention being upset due to the death of my dog, Socks. He died last month and I still cry every night, because he actually helped me through depression and anxiety, and he was like my best friend. I'm kind of questioning whether or not my sadness is justified. They say 'it's just a dumb dog'. Have you ever lost a pet, and if so, do you feel the same way?

OK, so I don’t want to say your family members are being total shits, buuuuut … well, let me tell you a story.

I am 32 years old. I still think about my first cat, Pansy, who I got in third grade after earning S’s for Satisfactory six weeks in a row on my handwriting. She was the most wonderful cat — a big, beautiful Maine Coon with a quiet “Plrrrrp!” sound that she would always greet you with. She liked to follow me around the house, let me carry her like a baby and was, everyone in the family agreed, the best cat that ever existed. My mom called her “The Little Furry Goddess” because she was always so serene and happy. 

She died when I was in 8th grade; we suspected, though could never prove, that the kid next door killed her. At the time, I was undergoing constant bullying in school, with no friends. I sobbed relentlessly. When we gave her a funeral in the backyard, I saw my dad wipe away tears, something I’ve only witnessed one time in the two decades since. 

Yes, she was just a cat. She cost maybe $10 at the pound. She weighed 15 pounds and had a brain the size of a walnut*. Those things are true, but so are these: She was my best friend. She was one of the only good things in that shitty, shitty time in my life. She has been dead 20 years and I can still feel so sad and miss her. Because she was fucking great. Because she brought me so much joy and comfort when I really needed it. Because I spent more time with her than with any human.

And now, I’m a grown-ass woman and I still love that cat who was only part of my life for four years. But in the intervening years, I’ve had other cats, and now Eleanor. Marigny and Eleanor in particular have brought me so much joy and happiness. I refuse to believe that either of them are mortal.

Which is a very, very longwinded way of saying that you never, ever need to feel dumb for being sad over a pet. I think they’re little lumps of God that live with us. They make things better. I hope you feel better soon, too.

antishrug  asked:

please im begging you do the i love you prompt 24. for msr. "without really meaning it"

In Catholic Church, they’d told her lying was a sin worth six Hail Marys. But now, now she is the one who commands that others fall to their knees. Hands up. I’m armed.

She decides to test it out, just to see how it tastes. The love thing. The lying thing. He’s different than They’d said. Smarter. Unexpectedly kind in a way that makes her suspect it is bone deep, like you’d have to break it out of him. She is not cruel, but she has always loved a challenge. Loved memorizing the way bones grow back after they’re shattered.

She tells him at a gas station, leaned back against a blue car that has seen too much sun and bites at her skin. They are on their way to Paris, Texas and his stupid manila file had said something about killer cows. Three months ago she’d let him fuck her on his couch, which was part of the plan, and now she’s telling him this, which isn’t.

“I love you, you know.”

She hopes he doesn’t. They’ve known each other thirteen months. Two weeks ago she’d told him she had a date and had come back smelling like cigarettes and there’d been no jealousy, no anger in the way he held her hips that night.

He spills gas all over the cement, his eyes flicking up to hers. Oh, she thinks. Oh, god. She looks at the gas as the sharp sweet smell hits her. It leaks towards her shoes. He smiles, worries his lip for a moment then lets it out in full. He smiles. At a gas station outside Paris, Texas. As a kid she’d liked romance novels. She’d been a stickler for a happy ending.

She watches the gasoline spill. Thinks: Oh, now you’ve done it. She wishes for a cigarette. Wishes to drop an ash, a match, a spark and boom, all up in smoke.

He says “Scully” in that soft, pleading way she’s used to hearing from the opposite side of his bed or the desk in his office. She hates that it means something more than what she is. The way he says her name is a whole different lifetime strung up in syllables. He says it again, shaking his head like he can’t believe her (but he smiles, smiles) as he hangs up the gas nozzle. And then he kisses her soft (softer than ever before in this three month one night stand) against the biting blue car. She keeps her hands at her sides so as not to feel the sureness in him. But he is kind, bone-deep, unbreakably so, and so he does not say it back. If she loved him, she thinks, that would be a reason for it. If.

It was just an experiment, she tells herself as she pushes him gently away, spews some nonsense about being on a case and lets herself blush in a way she hopes he thinks is from some positive emotion. Just an experiment. She has always been curious. She will not say it again.

A year later, and she is remembering what her mother used to say about cats and curiosity, and she is thinking death would be a nice alternative to the inhuman stasis in which she’d found herself. A year in which she’d begun responding to Their questions about him with an uncanny defensiveness. Defense. When she’s the enemy. A year in which they’d taken her, just for the thrill of it, and when she’d come back to him her body had learned the nature of its owner and betrayed her. When she’d opened her eyes in the hospital, she could still feel the phantom touch of him holding her hand. She’d curled her fingers around the feeling like a stolen thing.

And then, weeks later, panicking with him above her on his couch (Oh my god, what did they do to me, crying. And his voice like a mantra: You’re okay, okay, okay) and somehow still falling asleep, fully clothed, in his arms. Three months of one night stands becoming a year of mornings. Sometimes she wakes up in his bed and he follows her like a puppy into the bathroom while she brushes her teeth. With him leaning against the door frame, talking about solipsism, and her foaming at the mouth, the only face she ever recognizes in the mirror is his.

Did you still tell a lie if now it’s the truth? Transfiguration, transmutation, genetic mutation. Adaptation. No, strike that. This is no longer about survival. She’d like to ask her priest about old lies. She has so much to confess.

“I love you,” she tells him, but just once, just once for real this time because, goddamn it, he’s gone and made her a fucking believer. Just once, because it is so much harder to watch him smile, to watch the kind, unbroken bones of his ribs rise and fall under her fingers, and tell him the truth. The truth which is that she loves, loves, loves him. The truth which is that he should not love her. The truth which is that she should leave him but she can’t and that’s not because she loves him at all.

The truth which is that in Med school, she’d never quite gotten past the improbability that skeletons could be repaired after they’d been broken.

“Love you, Scully,” he says, smile unmoving as he drifts off to sleep. Whole lifetimes strung up in syllables. Kind, unbreakable ribs expand slowly. Love you, he says, and means it. And she breaks her own heart, her own arm, her own legs so she can’t leave him. She cannot fathom how she’ll ever fit herself back together.

Chaos and the Calm

Characters: Dean Winchester, Y/N Y/L/N (Reader), Officer Jacobs (OMC), Officer Wheaton (OMC), Sam Winchester, Bobby Singer, Jo Harvelle, Ellen Harvelle, Garth Fitzgerald, John Winchester, Thomas Y/L/N (OMC), Dominique Sandgren (OFC).

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Word Count: 1.5kish

Warnings: AU, Language, Angst, slow build up (more warnings would be included in future chapters)

Author’s Note: Hey guys! This is my entry for @nichelle-my-belle aka my beauty, Nichelle’s Angst Challenge! I got the prompt: “She was an angel craving chaos, he was a demon seeking peace.” I really hope you guys like it and stick around for the ride!

**Also, huge thank you to @neversatisfiedgirl for reading over this and giving me the confidence to post it like this.** -This will be a series-



Chapter One: The Calm and The Storm

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What Our Dead Teach (p1)

(Alpha!Derek, werefox!Stiles, canon violence, mild gore, spoopy stuff, some pack angst, some post nogitsune and other stuff angst, anchors.)

___________________



This shouldn’t have happened.

His nail breaks when he sinks his fingers into the earth like claws, and pulls himself forward as far as he can. There’s no point in holding in the loud hiss of pain that leaves him, or the long, drawn out groan as he drags himself across the ground at a snail’s pace. He’s been in the woods since nightfall, and by the look of the sky right now, Stiles would say it’s just about time to get up and go to school. For normal teenagers, anyway.

In times like this, he misses being one of those teens. To get up, eat a Pop-Tart, find that missing sock, run out the door with a quick hello-goodbye to his dad coming home, and off to school in his Jeep. Totally average high school student stuff sounds marginally better than crawling around in the dirt, bleeding, bruised, there’s definitely some snot and tear action going on here, maybe some broken bones, too.

Stiles drags himself forward another inch, and tries to remind himself that this isn’t the worst thing that’s happened to him. It’s not, there are worse things. He just can’t… think of any of them right now.

“Really fucking helpful, brain.”

His brain reminds him that talking to himself isn’t a good sign. It also comes up with a worse thing: Gerard. Murdered friends. Nogitsune.

“Good one,” he mutters to himself, reaching out with his now-bleeding hand and fastening his fingers around a tree root. It provides him with much better leverage than the stupid dirt, and Stiles manages to actually pull himself into a half-reclining position. It’s not ideal, but it will do.

It’s almost light enough to see the body he left behind in the clearing by the time he realizes he’s been leaning against a tree doing nothing for at least twenty minutes. Swearing under his breath, Stiles sticks his—Ow ripped off finger nail shit—hand into his pocket to pull out the small vial he shoved in there before leaving the house. Inside, the thick, ink-like substance seems to shudder and look at him as he swirls the stuff in front of his face. He grimaces at the smell when he pulls the top off, and tries not to think too hard about where it came from. This is not what he wanted, not the way things were supposed to go. No one’s supposed to do this, and for, like, twenty different really good reasons.

But, Stiles can see the body through the trees.

He can see a leg twitching.

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Trent| Lucky |Seven

Title; Lucky

Pairing; Trent Seven/Reader

Words; 3256

Summary; “… Because every romcom and sitcom says so! Things would get awkward and weird and then someone moves out and then we never see each other again.”

Warnings; NSFW. Fluff (i think idk i’m bad at it). Smut. Here be no plots. 

Author’s Note: oh hello. its me. doing things again. stuff is happening in the next couple weeks. prepare for some fast and furious stuff. leave some noise and kisses.

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Originally posted by samizayn

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