it crumpled

anonymous asked:

I want you to know that I had a crumpled up post it note and there was no trashcan nearby. I almost just dropped it on the ground, but then a thought, man criminals!Obito would be angry. So I held onto it till there was a bin.

xD Eco terrorist Obito approves! And in congratulations, have a snippet from the next part of the criminals ‘verse. ^-^


“Out! Get out!” the guard barks, shoving at them with the muzzle of his gun. “I don’t have time to waste with you rats. Out of the truck. Don’t make me come in there and get you!”

As they stumble out into the cold winter sunlight, Nagato grips Konan’s arm so hard he’s absolutely certain he’s leaving bruises, and it’s the only thing that keeps him on his feet as his legs cramp. He bites back a cry, frozen muscles and unused limbs not ready for motion, and Konan has to wrap an arm around his waist to propel him towards the corner of the compound the guard shoves them at.

“It’s all right,” Konan breathes as they press against the wall, barely moving her lips, because between the two of them she’s always been the braver. “I won’t let them separate us.”

She’s said it before—at the orphanage, with Hanzō, in the darkness of the ship that took them away and in the chill of the covered truck that brought them here. It makes Nagato wish, desperately and fruitlessly, that Yahiko was on his other side, the way he always used to be, bold and bright and incredibly brave. He’d be shouting abuse at their captors, taking a stand, the way he did when Hanzō caught them. Ever since the very beginning, it’s been the three of them—cool, calm Konan, cheerful, charming Yahiko, and Nagato in between them, dull and fearful and far too prone to tears.

Those at least have dried up these last few hellish weeks. The first week Nagato had thought he’d never stop crying, from fear, from grief, from helplessness. Now, though—now he feels as if he couldn’t cry even if he wanted to. Everything has withered, leaving only this barren sort of angry terror, directionless, expansive.

Konan’s fingers latch around his wrist, gripping back, and Nagato forces himself to breathe.

From behind the guard, another man laughs. He’s tall and lean, with skin that almost has a touch of green to it, and his hair is dark. Nagato doesn’t need more than a quick glance from beneath his lashes to pick out gold at his collar and cuffs, platinum around his wrist—money, then, clearly.

After Hanzō, after what happened to their town, Nagato doesn’t think he’ll ever manage to look at men like that without thinking them monsters lying in wait.

The man’s smile does nothing to calm his fears. “Fresh meat?” he asks, grinning like it’s a fantastic joke. A step to the side so he can see past the guard, and strange golden eyes catch Nagato’s own, full of something he can’t read and doesn’t want to. When he flinches back, the man just laughs. “Oh, they’re fresh indeed.”

One of the looming men who forced them into the truck at the docks makes a derisive sound, and it’s only with effort that Nagato doesn’t flinch from that, too. “They were offered to the boss free of charge, but he can’t sell them. What’s the point?”

Konan’s fingers are like manacles around his wrist, but Nagato knows they’re far more to hold herself back than to hold him. Konan knows he won’t run into a fight, while Nagato knows Konan will.

Yahiko would be the one leading the charge, if he were here, but he’s not.

He’ll never be anywhere ever again.

“Can’t sell them alive,” a woman’s voice says, absently, mildly amused. In a doorway, the shadows stir, and a tall, auburn-haired woman in a short dress saunters out, seemingly unaware of the mountain chill that’s already making Nagato’s teeth chatter. She casts him and Konan a lazily assessing look, closer to bored than anything, and then turns a sly smile on the man. “Do you know what livers and kidneys go for on the black market, Mr. Gardener? Hearts? Lungs? It’s just a matter of knowing the right people.” Stepping close to him, she traces her fingers down the buttons of his shirt, casting a look up at him through her lashes. “Though I suppose you know all about that, if you’re here.”

The dark-haired man laughs even as he grabs her hand and pushes it away. “You’re slavering up the wrong tree, my dear Fūka,” he says, on the edge of cruel mocking, and glances back over his shoulder at the shadow following him. “Tobi, did you bring my briefcases like I asked?”

A sour expression crosses Fūka’s face, and she pulls away with a scoff. “Really? You brought your little pet with you? How tacky.”

Gardener grins, sharp-edged and wicked, and he ignores her completely as he turns to address the smaller figure Nagato hadn’t even noticed before. “Give that one to me and wait here. I can’t stand your lurking.”

“Yes, sir,” the dark-haired boy chirps, bobbing his head and coming to a sharp halt in front of Nagato. Younger even than he and Konan are, Nagato judges with a touch of horror, probably not even seventeen yet. One side of his face is wrapped with bandages, leaving only his dark right eye bare, and his left eye is covered with a patch. A long-sleeved shirt can’t quite hide the angry red scars on his right arm and his hand, wrapped around the handle of a second briefcase he hangs on to while the wealthy man takes the other from him.

Orange Juice x And x Chocolate Robots, pt8

Here’s something quick since I have three tests next week and no time to write >_<

ao3 full story link

Prompts: dust, chance, anchor


25. Dust

Killua’s starlight hair is covered in a fine layer of grey dust when Gon finally finds him.

Gon almost sobs in relief. He crumples onto the ground next to his best friend and cradles the pale teen close to his chest. Killua’s breathing is faint and his pulse weaker still, but he’s alive. And that’s all that matters.

Honestly, Gon had feared so much worse when he saw the building collapse. He remembers screaming Killua’s name until his throat burned and his voice gave out. Imagining Killua- brave, selfless, beautiful Killua- dead and gone had terrified Gon more than he would ever admit.

Gon buries his face in the crook of Killua’s neck, struggling to breathe normally.

Killua is alive. That’s all that matters.


26. Chance

Zushi thinks he may have had a chance.

(years back when all three of them were young and wide-eyed under the watchful gaze of a shared master, 

lifetimes ago with different titles and different perspectives,

or maybe in alternate universes where it was only Zushi and a single fraction of the sun-and-moon pair)

But Zushi looks at Gon and Killua now, and he sees the way blue and gold eyes search for each other in a crowded room, in a fight, in silence.

He sees a bond formed out of iron and steel from endless moments of trust and death and dreams and hope.

He sees Gon and Killua, never one name without the other, and he understands.


27. Anchor

Killua likes to collect things. 

Well, maybe not things exactly, but moments. Memories. Pictures.

Like the moonlight reflecting off a needle he pulled out of his own head, a feather that had fallen from a seagull’s wing as he and his best friend sailed away from Whale Island, a wide grin and freckles sprinkled in a chaotic mess across tanned cheeks, eyes that shine like honey.

When Alluka falls asleep besides him, Killua likes to close his eyes and admire his collection. He touches the feather, admires the moonlight.

But it’s getting harder and harder to remember the smile and the freckles and the eyes. That makes the days longer and harder, because the memories are all he has left to remember a time when he knew what it meant to be happy.

So when Alluka wakes up the next day, all knotty hair and soft hands, he asks her:

“Do you want to visit Whale Island, next?”

Records are Better

in which shawn and y/n have an intimate morning listening to records.




The sun’s rays shone gold against the crumpled white bed sheets; the golden sunlight was always the first to wake you in the early morning hours. Your eyes are closed and you want nothing more than for it to be dark again, but the inside of your eyelids are painted a burnt orange colour. The digital alarm clock reads that it is just shy of seven in the morning - way too early to be up.

The unexpected warmth on the opposite side of the bed enlightened you of the fact that your boyfriend was still peacefully asleep. You softly smile at his relaxed form - a rarity due to his busy schedule. On usual mornings he would no longer be accompanying you in bed; rather he would be on his way to the gym or using his early morning inspiration to jot down lyrics.

Carding a hand through his fluffy morning hair (one of your favourite physical features of his) you watch as his eyes twitch at your touch, those beautiful long eyelashes that just barely touch his eyebrows flutter open. The sun is shining directly on his face; the light illuminating his warm skin and making his hazel eyes shine amber.

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Haters, don’t be mad cuz god and I teamed up and made me into one of his greatest works of art, but crumpled you up and threw you in the trash when he/she designed you and yet still you came into creation anyway. Fix yourself. All your doing by talking shit to me is making my huge ego grow faster cuz it’s obvious that you’re fuckin JEALOUS lol

You Knew What This Was | Sonny x Barba | Part Two

READ PART ONE

This fic was inspired by my desire to explain the change in Sonny’s affect in Season 18, as well as his new dynamic with Barba. And seeing how things went in Genes… I figured this was as good a time as any to post it.

Read on AO3
Words: 621
Rating: M



It was only supposed to be that one night. But the fear that had clung to his back for so long had started to dissipate, and for the first time in a very long time, Barba felt relief. 

And soon, it became their routine.

A stolen glance from across the office. A text simply reading “Get here soon.” Barba meeting Carisi at the door with a hungry look in his eyes, tearing at his clothes before he had barely passed the threshold. Lips searing against skin, rough hands roaming over sweaty bodies. Lying spent and breathless on crumpled sheets. Purely physical and primal and cathartic.

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I’m in love with the things
that don’t love back
that can’t love back
In love with places
that my feet have never touched
I’m in love with people
that don’t want my love
that don’t need me
And I can’t help but wait
I’ve waited long before
and though it was a disappointment
the voyage I fell for was how things would be when he came back
when she came back
But they never did
I loved and I loved
I loved with a love so deep
My scars would show it

Hybrid #1

My self-portraits explore my feeling that my body is too much; taking up too much space, too big to be attractive. For years I suffered from an eating disorder, obsessed with losing weight. Now in my photographs, I am reclaiming my body by taking up space in the frame. I felt locked in the cage that was my body. In my photographs the cage is represented by the edges of the frame and I am breaking out of it. I show my body stretching to the corners of the photograph, not letting myself crumple and submit to the passive female form.

Kelsey Michelle, 2015

  • Voldemort: There is nothing worse than Death.
  • Neville: I can think of a lot of things that are worse than death...
  • Hermione: a dog-eared book...
  • Ron: Homework...
  • Ginny: losing to Slytherin..
  • Luna: Crumple Horned Snorklacks...
  • Draco: Crocs.
  • Harry: I was thinking Umbridge... but all good points...
a crumpled petal,
she folded and weaved herself
between creasing pages,
story after story,
world after world.
she floated
in fragrant spring air, 
amongst oak trees
and ill-planted saplings,
bathing in lavender skies,
her heart fixed
on impeccable endings.
  
she swore
she’d find beauty there,
even if it killed her.
—  poeticallyordinary
Writing is Hard, Part 3: Phone Sex

Summary: You and Dean try something in order to write about it.

Read Part 1 Part 2

Warning: Smut, dirty talk

Word Count: 3000ish

A/N: This is all written with love for fan fic. I’m teasing, not putting it down in any way. Hope you enjoy! XOXO


“How many are we up to now?”

The phone rests warm between your ear and shoulder as you glance down at the screen. “Almost four hundred followers,” you tell him. “Not exactly famous yet.”

Dean pauses, and you picture him sprawled out on a motel bed very much like yours, just two states over, glass in hand and flannel shirt crumpled at the foot of the bed, undershirt clinging tight to his chest.

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