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.

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.

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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.

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!”

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]

{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}

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Someone to Stay - AU

Previous chapters

Chapter 7

The rolling green dominated the landscape. The Range Rover came to a halt in front of a sprawling stone house, somehow managing to look older than the hills it stood upon.

“Lallybroch.” Jamie swept his hand, encompassing the house and the land and seemingly everything around them.

Claire gazed out of the windshield, entranced by the ancient feel of the very stones. “This is not a manor house, Jamie. This is a castle.”

“Ach, no,” he said, ducking his head modestly. “Truly, ‘tis only a farm. There’s a broch, but it’s old and crumbling now. We can visit it later, if ye like.”

“What’s a broch?” Claire unbuckled her seat belt and stepped out of the car.

“A tower, of sorts. The auld lairds of Lallybroch would be called Lords Broch Tuarach, after the north-facing tower.” Jamie reached for their bags in the backseat and joined Claire, taking her hand as they approached the massive front door.

“A tower doesn’t really have a face, you know,” Claire teased.

“Weel, the door faces north. That’ll do.” Jamie smiled, and made to open the door.

“Shouldn’t we knock?” Claire felt nerves and trepidation, about to meet the famous Jenny and the rest of the Jamie’s family. She knew how much they all meant to him, and how big a step this was for them.

“’Tis my home. No need.” He stole a quick, soft kiss to quell her obvious nerves and then called out, “Hello the house!” He dumped the bags by the staircase. Claire stood next to him, taking in her surroundings.

Everything looked antique, but not in a museum-like way. Everything, from the furniture to the paneled walls, looked loved, cared for. Carved tables and tapestries mingled with a modern cordless phone and lamps. Uncle Lamb would have a field day, she thought.

Thundering footsteps broke into her reverie, and a tall gangly teenager came tumbling down the stairs. “Uncle Jamie!” In a blur, Jamie was rocked back in a fierce hug.

“Ian, lad!” Jamie squeezed and lifted the boy straight off the ground. They slapped each other on the back in a great show of affection before Jamie let him go, and slid an arm around Claire’s waist.

“Ian, this is Claire. Sassenach, this is Young Ian, my nephew and godson.”

“Nice to meet you,” Claire said sincerely. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Is that so?” Young Ian grinned easily. “Welcome!” He picked up their bags and shot up the stairs two at a time. “I’ll just put these in yer room! Mam’s in the kitchen!”

Jamie and Claire held hands as they walked down the hallway towards the kitchen. They were assailed by the aromas of fresh baked bread and something delicious and steamy bubbling away on a stove. Claire half expected it to be an ancient cast-iron affair, but it was quite modern, by the rest of Lallybroch’s standards.

Jenny’s back was to them as she washed dishes at the sink. Jamie put his finger to his lips and blinked at Claire. He tiptoed (as much as a man his size might) and prepared to scare Jenny by tickling her ribs. His hands reached out but were stopped by a sudden, “Don’t even think about it, James Alexander Malcolm Mackenzie Fraser.”

Jenny craned her neck over her shoulder and gave them a wicked smile. “Hey there, little brother.” Her hands never stopped working, even as Jamie smiled abashedly and gave her a peck on the cheek. She turned off the water and wiped her hands on the apron she wore, engulfing Jamie in a warm embrace. “It’s been too long,” Jenny said, pushing back and smiling. She looked over his shoulder at Claire, who witnessed the encounter wistfully longing for family.

“And this is Claire, I presume.” Jenny stepped around Jamie, giving her a quick appraising glance—cordial, but guarded. Claire extended her hand, which was enveloped in Jenny’s cool grasp.

“It’s great to meet you. Jamie’s missed Lallybroch terribly, and all your children.”

Jenny’s eyebrows rose like dark wings. Her eyes had that slanted look identical to Jamie’s, resting on high cheekbones reminiscent of Viking royalty. “I’m sure he did. Weel, dinner is stew. ‘Tis something I can leave on the stove and no’ worry, since I’ve been tending the goats and sheep, and cooking for Hogmanay with Mrs. Crook.”

“She’s the housekeeper slash cook, but she’ll be off wi’ her own family for Christmas,” Jamie interjected.

“We can sit down to eat, now ye’re here.” Jenny squeezed Jamie’s hand and turned to the stove. “Young Ian, Jamie, Maggie, Kitty! Dinner! Come wash up!” She glanced at Jamie. “Could ye get Ian from the barn? He’s been tending to the hay now Rabbie’s gone home fer the holidays.”

There was a meowing at the kitchen door as Jamie approached it. He opened it to let a grey cat in, who pranced inside as though he owned Lallybroch. From the way Jenny bent down to coddle it, Claire suspected it might be the case.

“I see Adso of Melch is still alive, Jenny,” Jamie said, an eyebrow raised in amusement.

“He is.” Jenny stood and toed the cat away from the stove. “Ye wee fiend, get on wi’ ye.”

Adso stopped in the middle of the kitchen, as soon as it spotted Claire. Jenny looked appraisingly at the cat, as though almost willing the cat to respond in some way. Claire decided to follow Jenny’s example and squatted, staring into its green eyes.

The cat slowly walked over to her, sniffing about her knees. It purred softly; Adso located her hand and pressed against it, enticing Claire to rub its ears. She obliged, marveling at the soft fur and turned to Jamie, who smiled down at her. “He likes ye, Sassenach.”

Jenny let out a contained breath, and the first truly welcoming smile bloomed on her face. “Never mind my bonny cheetie. Go fetch Ian, if ye please. And shut the door, before we freeze. Claire, we’re so glad to have ye.”

_______________________________________________________________________  

“Let me get this straight. If Adso didn’t like me, Jenny wouldn’t either?”

“Adso is held in very high regard around here, Sassenach. He’s an excellent judge of character. He led Jenny onto a nanny who would steal from her purse and a drunken horse handler.”

They trudged up the stairs after bidding the family good night. Dinner had been superb, Jenny and Ian and their children all gathered at the table. The babble and laughter of a large family tugged at Claire’s heartstrings, making her long for one of her own. The children’s ages ranged from Jamie’s namesake at 18 who attended uni at Glasgow, and Young Ian at 14; the girls Maggie and Kitty who were 12 and 9 respectively. Ian (the elder) had presided over dinner in his role of father—a far cry from the rock star life he led on tour with The Clan.

“And what is that Melch in his name?” Claire took Jamie’s hand as he led her around the dark upstairs hallway.

“Our mam always had a cheetie. They were all named the same, after a German saint. Adso of Melch, Adso of Milk, ye ken,” Jamie said with a smile.

They walked up to a solid wooden door. Jamie pushed it open, to reveal a bright fire set in the grate, and both their bags in the room. Claire swallowed nervously and glanced at Jamie.

They hadn’t slept together thus far, though they had participated in some hot and heavy (emphasis on the hot) make out sessions at Claire’s and at Jamie’s flat. Hands roving, breath panting, Jamie had given her space and time to express what she wanted and when she wanted it. Young Ian had plainly made some assumptions of his own.

And why not? They were both consenting adults in a relationship and what they did (or didn’t do) in bed was entirely their own business. Space and time—the continuum of which was grinding to a halt, as there was nothing Claire wanted more right then and there than to feel Jamie’s arms around her and—

“Claire. I can sleep elsewhere.” Jamie squeezed her hand in reassurance. “Or on the floor if I can have the quilt. Ye don’t have to—”

Claire stopped his words with a kiss her hands tangled in the ruddy mess of his hair. His hands gripped her waist as he walked her back towards the bed, kicking the door shut behind them. They tumbled together onto the carved wooden bedstead, the frame creaking slightly.

“Won’t they hear?” Claire asked breathlessly.

“The walls are made of solid stone,” Jamie mumbled, his lips on her neck. “We can be as loud as we like.”

His hand crept under her sweater; higher and higher, until she could feel it caressing the underside of her breast. It was only then that she opened her eyes and met his own, whiskey and azure, everything bathed in the light of the slowly burning fire laid in the hearth.

Jamie’s hand stilled, and he brought his forehead to hers. “Claire, I want you so much I can scarcely breathe. Will ye have me?”

She almost didn’t recognize voice as her own, so high and gasping, “Yes. Yes, I’ll have you.” Permission granted, his hands were all over her body all at once. Skimming down her back, leaving tingling desire in their wake, gliding over her navel. Their clothes came off in a flurry of wool and jeans.

Slowly and reverently Jamie helped her shed her bra and underwear, his boxer briefs following suit. Completely exposed to each other, Jamie laid his hand on her bare hip, staring at her flush curves gilded by firelight.

“Ye are so beautiful, mo nighean donn.”  

Claire felt suddenly shy and made to cover herself, but Jamie stopped her. “No, Sassenach. I want to look at you.” Claire blushed but let him gaze, slowly growing bold enough to return it.

His body came closer to hers, with his own muted fiery glow. He kissed down her neck, licking here and there. His large hands, calloused from playing guitar, teased and nipped at her breasts. Claire’s hands drifted down his back, pressing and urging him ever closer.

As his touch strayed lower, his intentions became clear. Claire raised herself on her elbows, effectively dislodging Jamie’s head from her stomach. His eyes held a question even as they seared with want.

“Jamie… no one’s ever—I mean—” Her cheeks burned red as she gestured with meaning.

He smiled and stretched up to kiss her gently. “Do ye want me to?”

“I don’t know. Won’t it… will it—”

“Let me taste ye.” Jamie trailed fingers up her leg. “Tell me if I’m too rough, or tell me to stop altogether if ye wish.” He brushed his lips over her belly, eyes blazing up at her.

Claire surrendered, falling back on the pillows and putting her arm over her eyes. Her knees trembled as he settled between them, parting them open and his arms locked around her thighs. She felt a brief kiss (right there! she thought incoherently) before she was flooded with pleasure, his tongue working magic on her most secret of places. She gasped as Jamie anchored her body to the bed with his arms, desire shooting through her veins. There were sounds coming from her lips she had never made before. Fleetingly she thought of covering her mouth before the feeling climbed higher and higher until it broke over her, making her shudder in release.

“Oh Jamie…” Her hand traced his jawline, as he smiled at her and kissed the inside of her thigh. Jamie moved and rose over her, kissing her deeply. She could taste herself and found it arousing.

He ground his pelvis gently into hers, swallowing her moans as her legs wrapped around him. Claire could feel the length of him sliding against her, and she urged him to her, hands on the small of his back.

Jamie braced himself on his forearms, and aligned himself at her slippery cleft. With a final nod from Claire, he eased himself inside her, slowly but inexorably moving forward as she dug her fingers into his back. The sensation was intense as he withdrew and pushed inside, again and again. Jamie held Claire close, the hair on his chest tickling her as they panted and he groaned and she whimpered with pleasure.

Their bodies rocked together as though they had known each other for years, simply waiting for the chance to join. Claire lost herself in pure sensation; the weight of his body perfect on hers, the spicy scent of him mingling with the smokiness of the fire, the mixture of Gaelic and English words he poured into her ear as he thrust faster and faster.

Feeling surged as they both chased the illusive spark of completion. Jamie’s hand splayed on her hip, and hitched her leg higher along his body. Her back arched instinctively. As he shifted, he hit a spot deep within her from a new angle, and in a few quick motions Claire shattered, crying out against his shoulder.

Jamie followed soon after, the tension breaking free as every muscle quivered, his mouth a wide O of relief and wonder. Their eyes met, half-lidded with satisfaction. Claire smiled languidly, running her hands through Jamie’s red curls. He withdrew gently, kissing Claire over and over, his lips at the hollow of her neck where perspiration shone and her pulse raced.

The heady feeling gradually dissipated, and the winter chill stole back into the room, making Jamie and Claire shiver with something more than spent desire. Still smiling, they crawled beneath the covers; Jamie pulled Claire close to him, her back to his front as he settled behind her, his arm holding her tightly.

“Oh, Claire… tha gaol agam ort,” he breathed against her skin.

“What does that mean?” she asked drowsily.

“I’ll tell ye tomorrow,” he said, nuzzling the nape of her neck. “We have time. I want to show you the loch, and the village, and take ye on a tour of the farm. I think ye’ll like the wee beasties and…”

She drifted off to sleep, his voice murmuring in the dark, safe in the knowledge of love and safety in Jamie’s arms and in her heart.

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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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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bashfyl  asked:

Prompt: Sterek ;) Derek woos his mate the wolf way. :D

This is one of my favorite tropes! So glad I got to write it! Also on ao3!

Stiles wished he could say it was the first time he had found a dead animal on his doorstep. He really did. But it wasn’t.

For the past few days, five in a row to be exact, he had found all sorts of small, fluffy little woodland animals lying dead and bloody on his front porch. They ranged from squirrels, their furry tails soaked in blood, to birds, their feathers strewn around the doormat, to rabbits, who apparently were not fast enough to outrun whoever or whatever was leaving them on the front stoop.

Initially, he had thought it was one of their neighbor’s cats, the old woman a few houses down who owned a veritable army of feline companions having recently procured two more cat cadets. But on the fourth day, he had walked out of the house to check if they had gotten any mail only to find a large raccoon with its throat slashed open, blood seeping out onto the doormat that they had just replaced.

No matter how fierce those cats were, he doubted they could do such gruesome damage. And so, he had begun considering other culprits who may have been leaving the dead animals.

It had started with a dead bird, a blue jay lying on the top step of their front porch. Stiles had found it while leaving for school in the morning, taking a few minutes out of his morning rush to bury the poor thing in the front yard before heading off to school. He figured it had simply keeled over in exhaustion, no obvious injuries save for a few molted feathers, and moved on.

The next day he had found two dead squirrels, deep claw marks raked down their sides, on the front porch. He had wrinkled his nose at the grisly sight, running back inside to grab a plastic bag to shove them in before tossing them into another shallow grave by the blue jay. That was when he began having the sneaking suspicion that a cat was responsible for the morbid little deliveries.

The day after the squirrels, he found the rabbit. Its throat was open, a hole about the size of a cat’s mouth oozing bright scarlet blood onto the doormat, absolutely ruining it. Groaning, and internally cursing crazy cat people, Stiles held his nose and cleaned up the scene, again burying the poor victim and dumping the doormat into their trash can.

The raccoon was next, sullying the new welcome mat that Stiles had picked up after his last class the day before. Curiously inspecting the raccoon, finding wounds too large to have been inflicted by a cat, Stiles had reached another, new conclusion ― there was some new supernatural threat in Beacon Hills and it was killing poor, defenseless animals and dumping them on Stiles’ porch.

Why he didn’t know, but it was the only feasible thing he could think of. He had taken his theory to others, asking around to see if anyone else had noticed anything strange lately. No one else had.

He had gone to Deaton at the vet clinic to ask if he had any information about anything weird going on with any of the local animals. Deaton had denied that anything unusual was going on with any animals, neither domestic or otherwise, for once actually foregoing any cryptic responses. Though, he did mention that parvo was more common than usual that year.

After talking to Deaton, he went to Chris Argent, figuring the ex-hunter would have information on any supernatural goings-on that Deaton did not know about. Argent didn’t know anything either, indulging Stiles’ curious nature and patiently answering his strange inquisitions with as much patience as someone who had been woken up at four thirty a.m. could muster.

Afterward, he had dropped in to visit his dad at the station, hoping that it wasn’t just happening to them, even though it would be just his luck. The Sheriff let him rifle through recent reports of strange, out of the ordinary activities but all he found were reports filed about suspicious looking teenagers hanging around outside of local convenience stores. There had been no reports of rabies, either, dashing another one of Stiles’ theories.

And, of course, he had gone to the pack as soon as he began to suspect that the dead animals may have a more sinister origin than simply falling prey to some pet cat roaming the neighbor. No one in the pack had noticed anything amiss, no supernatural threats or random dead animals on any doorsteps.

Peter had made some snide little comment about Valentine’s Day coming up soon, pointing out that Stiles probably had a psychopathic secret admirer who thought that leaving dead animals on his porch was the epitome of romance. With Stiles’ luck, it was a disturbingly real possibility, one he wouldn’t discount.

The other betas had dissolved into a bout of raucous laughter, even Boyd chuckling under his breath at the comment, but Stiles hadn’t been very amused. Rolling his eyes at the remark, Stiles had noticed that the tips of Derek’s ears had been burning bright red, a sure sign that the alpha was blushing at something. Probably due to secondhand embarrassment, Stiles figured.

Now, there he was, standing on his front porch in his Spiderman pajamas, looking down at that day’s little ‘gift’ ― a twelve point buck, lying dead on the walkway in front of the porch, a large hole in its chest. Ripped out of the buck’s ripped, its bloody heart lay on the front porch just inches from his bare foot, a single red rose laid beside it.

He almost threw up.

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Jimin Scenario: Cats Are Fickle.

Request: Jimin has been ‘sharing’ your cat. When he’s really stressed or pissed or sad somehow your cat finds him and either curls up on his lap or hops a ride on his shoulders (kinda like a fluffy parrot). Your cat is also evil and an excellent matchmaker. (i really want a first meetings like in 101 dalmations were they get tangled together thanks to the cat) I’m sorry this is a mess

Genre: Fluff.


Jimin knew he shouldn’t have opened his mouth about his grade, the moment he lifted the test page and saw the results he shouldn’t have been surprised at all, but there he went, going to the professor to check it because he believed he had a better score, he was wrong of course, so he ended up with an even worse grade than before since the professor noticed he had not seen another of his mistakes. 

Then there was the dance practice issue, he thought he was going to relax there since dancing was his thing, but Jimin the proper dancer had fallen a total of five times attempting a new footwork that shouldn’t have supposed him any trouble, now he was bruised and sore and the teacher had started to look for some other main dancers, “just in case” he had said, like that made him feel any better.

He arrived home almost at night, completely done already for the day, he wanted to take a break from everything, so he just stayed out of his house sitting on the porch, not ready for his mom to ask how his day had gone and him having to say that it had been a complete disappointment.

Jimin threw his backpack to his feet and suddenly an orange furry thing came to his view with a jump. He was already sitting on the steps but he still got startled by it, he didn’t expect seeing a cat on his porch.

-Hello- he said a bit tired as the cat stood there staring at him, maybe wondering if Jimin was going to do something. -It’s ok, you can be here- the cat kept staring at him until it came closer surprising Jimin, he saw the fluffy thing come near him, its fur was ginger with stripes of a deeper orange.

-Hi- he said again extending a hand slowly so to not scare away the little kitten. He was pleased when the cat approached his hand and let Jimin pet him. He noticed the cat had a blue collar, he was pretty friendly so this must be someone’s cat, but he didn’t know whose. 

Jimin retreated his hand and sighed thinking again of the events of the day, the cat on the other hand jumped to his lap and made itself comfortable there.

-So you want company? I can say I’m good at that, I’m alone now though, but just because I had a horrible day- Jimin said to the cat, running his hand through the ginger fur, he wondered what would people think if they heard him talking to a cat that was not even his to begin with. -I don’t really care, I can talk to you buddy- he disregarded his own thoughts and smiled when the cat purred. 

It was a male Jimin noticed after some minutes when the cat rolled in his lap, he wondered what his name was.
Jimin then noticed someone walked past his porch, it was his neighbor, he had seen you a couple of times before but he didn’t really know you. Now when you looked his way you stopped and smiled lightly.

-Romeo! There you are- you said with a happy tone of voice. You started walking his way making Jimin look curiously at you. -Oh I’m sorry, Romeo, what are you doing?-

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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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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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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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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*
Fractal

Omg I’m sorry for taking so long to update. Classes started, it’s dificult to focus and I srsly didnt think this chapter was goign to end up being so long. But alas. I hope you all enjoy it!

a little warning: I wrote a little detailed description of food being eaten so if you are uncomfortable with it, you can skip it, it was mostly for laughs than anything.

Thanks to @lunalocura for being an amazing beta!


Summary: Chaos, besides its own natures, has a little order on it. Chaos, without order, leads to destruction itself. When the object holding the chaos of the world is damaged, maybe a little more than order is going to be needed to fix it. Abomination! AU

AO3


Chapter 4

When Ladybug dropped her transformation inside her room, it felt like as if another weight had been added to her shoulders. Eyes closed and fist clenched, she could feel the worried looks Tikki sent her, waiting patiently for her to speak, which didn’t help to diminish the bitter sensation in the pit of her stomach.  

Too many questions were forming inside her head, bubbling, boiling, twisting her thoughts and making her imagination run wild, with so many different scenarios and so many ‘hows’ and ‘whys’.

Questions that didn’t stop when she comforted Maya after cleaning the akuma and made her brother apologize to her, who hugged the little girl with tears in his eyes, promise after promise leaving the mouth of the teenage boy.

Questions that continued forming when she, as Marinette, forced a smile to the kids and the clearly angry-and apologetic- Ms. Chamack when they said goodbye to her and her mother, who noticed Marinette’s strange behavior and asked if everything was alright.

Questions that only increased when she left her house once again as her alter ego and searched and searched, cold air hitting her face, the smell of winter starting to cover the streets of Paris, the sound of people going on with their lives like they had learned to do after the first akuma attacks.

Questions that came along with a pair of green eyes that belonged to the person she was looking for.

A pair of green eyes that were sad, confused and scared.

A pair of green eyes that were hurting.

And it was all her fault.

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come-home-holy-rome  asked:

ladybug and chat noir doing the fake-dating thing in order to bait an akuma and you know the rest

THIS IS SO CUTE BRB

ao3 link

“The akuma only shows interest in couples, correct?” Ladybug furrowed her brows in thought. 

They were stumped. Here was a difficult akuma, created by a broken heart. The akuma had absolutely no interest in them; they found this rather strange since every other one came head on for them and their miraculouses. “

It seems that way milady,” Chat was crouched down, eyes focused on Ladybug’s pacing. “I have an idea… Follow my lead chaton.”

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broken-drums  asked:

ummmm. this 007 narry sounds amazing :(

~ ~ intrigue ~ ~

“What have you got for me?” 007 asks.

Harry grins and slides his hair up into a quick bun like he does when he’s ready to go into Full Quartermaster Mode. “This, my lovely Double-O, is a Bogota Titan Lock Pick.”

He pulls out a thin, black strip of twisted metal and pauses, tilting forward onto the balls of his feet. He loves the dramatics, loves being asked questions so he can spout off information simply to demonstrate he’s learned it.

007 humors him because he’s a good lad. “And what is a Bogota Titan Lock Pick?”

“So glad you asked. It is a lock pick specifically crafted from aircraft grade Titanium and have a limited magnetic footprint. This means it is virtually undetectable by your strongest metal detectors. The size of a pen for easy carrying and disguising, with all the strength of your favorite fighter jet. The Bogota Titan Lock Pick.”

Harry flips it in his hand, but it falls through his fingers, clattering onto the floor with a bigger thump than seems appropriate for it’s size. Harry ducks down and swoops back up with the pick in his hand and a burn on his cheeks.

007, for his part, looks amused. If Harry’d pulled anything like that with his last Double-O, he’d have been reassigned in a heartbeat.

Harry clears his throat, pockets the pick, and says, “Let me tell you about this lipstick flame thrower.”

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