it smells like sewage

8

         Killers having less than favorable things to say about other killers.

Danny Rolling on Gerard Schaefer: “This guy has got real problems, doesn’t he? Schaefer is a little too full of himself and we can easily figure out the content of substance he is filled with. It smells like something pooling in a sewage treatment plant. He is just a spooky little punk who gets his kicks out of intimidating people. He’s a bluffer. He wants anyone who has the displeasure of entertaining him to believe he holds a full house, but if you call his bluff, you’ll find he only has a pair of deuces – two pitiful excuses for being barely human.

John Wayne Gacy on Jeffrey Dahmer: “If Jeffrey Dahmer doesn’t meet the legal test of insanity, God help the one that does meet it. I mean, it – it has to really be something. If Jeffrey Dahmer doesn’t meet it, then nobody does.”

Charles Manson on Ted Bundy: “Bundy’s a rumpkin, Bundy’s a poop butt, Bundy’s his momma’s boy. Bundy’s out there trying to prove something to his own manhood. That’s got nothing to do with me. I don’t roll around with poop people like that. I stand with people that can stand with themselves.”

Edmund Kemper on Herbert Mullin: “He had a habit of singing and bothering people when somebody tried to watch TV. So I threw water on him to shut him up. Then, when he was a good boy, I’d give him some peanuts. Herbie liked peanuts. That was effective, because pretty soon he asked permission to sing. That’s called behavior modification treatment.”

Painting meatballs

For @copperbadge: Sounds like you could use some cheering up this week. :) 


Most days, being a superhero did not pay off. He’d been chased through probably twenty miles of tunnel, managed to drop his last nine arrows down an open manhole (who just leaves manholes open?), and it was only by the grace of his fingertips that he hadn’t gone down after them. He’d forgotten to go grocery shopping, he had a headache from somewhere south of hell, and he was almost hungry enough to share a bowl of Kibbles ‘N’ Bits with Lucky and call it a night.

“Happy freaking birthday to me,” he grumbled as he trudged up the stairs to his apartment. By the time he realized that his keys had apparently gone the way of the arrows, he didn’t even have enough frustration left in him to swear. He dropped his head forward, hitting the door about ten million times harder than he’d meant to, and jerked away with both hands over his forehead.

He definitely didn’t think anyone could blame him for being a tiny bit slow to react when his apartment door opened by itself, but he did manage to have a knife up by the time the interloper leaned around the doorway.

Natasha quirked an eyebrow at him. “Is that a sharpened butter knife?”

Clint glowered at her and slid the blade back into his boot – one of only three, but his count, that hadn’t ended up buried in some guy’s thigh, or washed away in Shit River. “I had to improvise,” he defended. “Why are you in my apartment?”

The other eyebrow quirked up to join the first. “Why are you not in your apartment? Also, you smell like sewage.”

“Long story.”

She tipped her head to the left to examine him, and maybe he was projecting or something else that the group home counselor would have said was unhealthy, but he was positive she could see right through the smarting mark on his head and read his mind. Without a word, she stepped back to hold the door open and gestured inside with one hand.

“I’ll get you a beer.”

“Don’t have any,” Clint muttered. He had about half a bottle of Nat’s shitty vodka somewhere, though he’d used the whiskey for antiseptic the week before.

“Good thing Jan knows how to throw a party,” she said. Her smile softened slightly and she gestured in again. “Though Tony thought jumping out and yelling ‘surprise’ was a smart idea for all of twenty-two seconds.”

Clint shuddered just imagining the heart attack he would have had if he’d opened the door and yelling had been the result. He was suddenly grateful that he’d lost his keys – he’d forgotten all about Stark’s threatened birthday party, and he was more than a little surprised that everyone else had apparently remembered. Now that he was paying attention like an ex-assassin and current masked superhero with poor apartment security and lots of enemies should be, he could hear the faint chatter of about half a dozen people and the subtle clinking of forks on plates.

He glanced at the door and then over to the elevator. “Maybe I should just go get some chips or something.”

Natasha shrugged. “If you want. But your meatballs will probably be cold by the time you get back.”

Clint’s stomach emitted a loud snarl, and his mouth instantly flooded with saliva. Nat might have been kinder than most people gave her credit for, but she still laughed at him as he stood rooted to the spot, doing a good impression of a meatball-zombie. 

“Please tell me they’re not those bullshit fancy meatless-meatballs or whatever Pepper had A Thing about,” he begged.

“Nope, they’re the cheap frozen meatballs you get out of a bag and dump in the oven.”

He could have kissed her. He definitely did moan, “My favorite.”

His apartment had been cleaned, and it smelled like Pinesol and sweet sweet processed meatballs fresh from the oven. Every lamp he owned had been moved into the living room, which had apparently not been enough, because there was an Iron Man suit standing in the corner and glowing like a six-and-a-half-foot art deco lamp.

“Surprise?” Tony offered, from the kitchen, and Holy Patron Saint of I’m never letting you live this down, was wearing a bright yellow apron liberally splashed with hearts and smiling sunflowers, a matching pair of oven mitts, and a lime green party hat.

“Why are you like this?” Clint blurted out with a laugh.

“Laugh all you want,” Tony said, setting down a tray of freshly cooked previously frozen guaranteed delicious meatballs so he could point at Clint with one bemittened hand. His eyes transferred over Clint’s shoulder and he nodded faintly. “But I’m leaving this here when I go. You can thank Jan.”

“Happy birthday!” Jan said as soon as Clint turned to face her, looking like she was ready to burst. “I really want to hug you, but you have been out doing things that got you a little too close to a sewer. Air hug!” She announced and crossed her arms over her own chest, squeezing hard and twisting side-to-side.

It looked like a really nice hug, and Clint was even sorrier about the damned sewer. He looked between his bathroom door and the piles of warm meatballs, and made a noise that he normally would have blamed on Lucky, but Lucky was on his back in the middle of the living room, shamelessly soaking up the belly rubs from Thor and getting his muzzle petted by Steve.

Natasha pushed past him to the kitchen, piled a dozen meatballs on a purple plate with the Hawkeye symbol stamped in the middle, and nudged him away with one finger. “They should be cooled down by the time you wash your hands. Go!”

Clint eagerly took the plate, leaned over, and lipped one of the meatballs right off the top. He tried to smirk at her, but was too busy sucking air in around the molten mouthful as she pushed him toward his bedroom.

~*~

Despite orders to the contrary, Clint had devoured the plate of meatballs before his shower, and he felt less likely to gnaw someone’s arm off by the time he made it back to the living room. A long folding table had been wedged between the couch and the bar, and it looked like Jan had dumped the entire Hawkeye section of Party City on top of it. It was cheesy, and stupid, and perfect. He stood in the doorway for a second to just look it over – they were all pretending that he wasn’t staring at them, and that was what good friends were for when you just got off of a Hell Week leading into Nightmare Night. Lucky was up on his back legs so he could have his front paw on Tony’s lap and was doing his damndest to get at the mountain of meatballs in the center of the table.

“I’m not feeding you,” Tony told the dog seriously, but his hand was wrapped around Lucky’s ribs to rub at his belly. “Seriously, have I ever fed a single thing in your entire life? Why don’t you go to climb in Steve’s lap? He’s a dog person, and I know for sure that he’s fed you at least once tonight.”

“That was just a treat, Tony,” Steve protested.

“He said the word treat,” Tony told Lucky, which just got him a messy kiss across the cheek and Tony leaning comically sideways in the chair to in a vain attempt to avoid it.

“Just push him away,” Clint suggested, stepping into the living room and climbing over the couch to get the open chair.

Tony gave him a frankly scandalized look, but turned back to Lucky to say, “You’re not getting anywhere with this. I am immune to canine flattery.”

“Not all canine flattery,” Natasha muttered, and for some unfathomable reason, Steve blushed and kicked her under the table. Natasha neatly dodged, and held an open beer out for Clint, so cold that it had mist curling out of the neck and droplets running down the sides.

“I love you,” Clint told her very seriously.

“I know,” she answered.

He swallowed about half of it before pressing the cold bottle gently to his forehead and rolling it back and forth. This was the life – why did he not have a million roommates again? He set the bottle aside and looked down to realize that what he’d mistaken for plates were actually large plastic painter’s pallets with little cups of “paint” set around the edges. There was a bright purple cup of paintbrushes sitting opposite his beer, and a stack of napkins with the Avengers Assemble cartoon Hawkeye at his elbow.

Jan leaned forward to explain, but Clint just shoved his finger in the yellow paint and licked it off – spicy mustard, the kind he got at Chinese restaurants and poured over everything.

“Or you could just do that,” Jan finished, laughing. “It was Steve’s idea.”

“This,” Clint said, snagging a meatball off the pile and a paintbrush, “Is the best birthday idea ever.”

Jan nudged Tony, who was still not-really fending off Lucky’s affectionate begging. “And you wanted to bring wine,” she scoffed.

Clint had three painted meatballs stuffed in his mouth when Jan climbed out of her chair and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. She leaned over to press their cheeks together and squeezed hard, rocking him gently side-to-side.

“Happy birthday.”

“’appy meathba’ ‘ay,” Clint corrected, but he reached up to squeeze her wrist and leaned back against her.

Maybe he was just imagining it or something, but it seemed like his headache was gone.

which camarilla clan should you fight
  • brujah: what the fuck is wrong with you? why would you want to fight the brujah? they kick people out of the clan if they don’t own enough switchblades and motorcycles. this will not end well. if you HAVE to fight the brujah, your best bet is to get them so mad that they start making bad decisions, but even then you’re probably fucked. don’t fight the brujah.
  • gangrel: these guys are all exactly as angry as the brujah but can also go full on animalistic fury at you. also they can melt into the earth and summon animals and shit. if you get lucky, you can distract them with some beggin’ strips or something, but don’t risk it. don’t fight the gangrel.
  • ventrue: if there are no consequences for this fight, then go for it. most ventrue got embraced straight out of the boardroom and have never thrown down a day in their unlives. however, if this ventrue has contacts, you had better believe you’re going to be hurting more than they will by the time they’re done with you. probably worth it, though. there’s a lot of people who want to see them punched in the face. fight the ventrue.
  • malkavian: honestly, you’ve got about a 50/50 chance with these guys. either they will melt your brain so hard that it’ll leak out of your ears or they will have no idea what the hell is going on. even if they aren’t entirely lucid, there’s still the possibility that they’ll socratic-method you into torpor. do it if you have to, but fighting the malks is not a good plan.
  • tremere: the bright side: if you fight the tremere, nobody is going to stop you. nobody fucking likes these guys. the drawback: if you fight the tremere, you are fighting the tremere. these guys can fly? they can summon fire??? they can give the laws of physics the middle finger if they want. however, if you find a tremere neonate, feel free to stuff that nerd in a locker.
  • nosferatu: this is an entire clan full of assholes with a chip on their shoulder. they can talk to rats. they can sneak around unseen despite being six feet tall and smelling like raw sewage. they probably know everything about you already. don’t let the sewer thing fool you: this clan could kick your ass and mine with their creepy hands tied behind their backs. don’t fight the nosferatu.
  • toreador: please. PLEASE. please fight the toreador. i don’t care what generation they are. i don’t care how many of them know celerity. punch them in their snooty faces. distract them with glitter. fuckin do it. i will pay you to fight the toreador. there are no downsides to fighting the toreador. if you win, you have beaten up a toreador. if you lose, everyone will probably still buy you a drink for trying. do it. fight the toreador.
Food Challenges: SWTOR Edition

Concept: Jedi challenging Sith to eat rootleaf stew. It looks like sewage, smells like sewage, and tastes like sewage. It has virtually destroyed many a Jedi’s palate and resulted in a miasma wherever it is made but, hey, it’s temple food.

Alternatively: Sith challenging Jedi to eat their spiciest dish. The peppers are exclusive to Dromund Kaas, are culturally significant, and have been labeled as a unique method of torture. Thus far, only Sith purebloods are able to fully ingest it– though not without difficulty. 

You ever really think about how terrible Star Wars characters must smell? Unless they’re Padme Amidala, most of them are running around for days on end in the exact same set of clothes. Take Leia, for example. She gets captured, gets tortured, jumps down the garbage chute, and runs around the Death Star, all in her signature white dress. By the time she got to Yavin, she must have smelled like an appealing mix of terror sweat and sewage. And don’t even get me started on Rey and little Ani who probably never even saw a shower let alone used one. You really think scrubbing down with sand and whatever the heck a ‘sonic’ is are going to make a dent in years of accumulated B.O.? During Anakin’s introduction, the Jedi Council acts like they’re smelling something terrible because they are.

kansas city gothic
  • they say the light rail is being built. you don’t remember voting for the light rail. no one remembers voting for the light rail. they say the light rail is amazing.  they say the light rail will take over the city soon. they say we must sacrifice someone to keep the light rail god appeased. they will take you in the night. the light rail god must be appeased. we have already lost downtown.
  • you tell people you are from kansas city. ‘oh, you’re from kansas?’ they say. everyone says this. you wonder if you are wrong. perhaps missouri does not exist. ‘no, kansas city missouri’ you finally say. they look at you in puzzlement. everyone looks at you waiting for you to admit your gaffe. the whole world is confused. you open your mouth and cannot speak. 
  • miley cyrus is coming to the sprint center. madonna is coming to the sprint center. march madness is at the sprint center. the sprint center is a giant silver salad bowl.
  • you drive as far north as you can. you are still in kansas city. you drive as far east as you can. you are still in kansas city. you drive as far south as you can. you are still in kansas city. you drive as far west as you can. you are now in kansas, but you are still in kansas city.
  • everyone knows someone who knows someone who works for cerner. nobody actually knows someone who works for cerner. when you ask your mother what cerner does, she begins to cry. you catch a glimpse of someone behind you with red eyes and fangs. you are afraid of cerner.
  • front street smells like dead dreams. everyone says it smells like sewage but you know the truth.
  • power and light is a great place to meet people they tell you. they tell you not to go alone. you do not know anyone to go with so you never meet people. no one does. the power and light district is a collective hallucination and a soundstage.
  • there is always road work. you do not remember a time when you were on a highway and did not pass orange cones. you have always had to factor in construction slow downs into your commute. your mother has always had to factor in construction slow downs into her commute. your grandmother has always had to factor in construction slow downs into her commute. your great -grandmother has always had
  • north of the river or south of the river. everyone uses this as a landmark. north of the river or south of the river. it is meaningless. kansas city extends into infinity on either side of the river. 
  • no one knows what the american royal is anymore. we have forgotten our soul. we paste on rhinestones and sequins and forget we are a cow town. the american royal does not forget. the american royal never forgets. the ghosts of the stockyards will stampede through the city and posses those who have forgotten. perhaps this is why your boss is mooing at you. 
  • you know kansas city is not the best city in the world, but it is better than st. louis. ‘st. louis,’ you sneer. ‘st. louis’ your coworker agrees, looking nauseous. ‘st. louis?’ your boss says. you look over her shoulder in horror. you have summoned st. louis. you must fight the demon back. one of you will probably not survive.
  • kemper arena is an amazing piece of architecture. kemper arena is empty. kemper arena is being torn down. kemper arena never existed. we will cover it with a white sheet and no one will be the wiser.
  • kansas city, kansas and kansas city, missouri are two different places. do not confuse us. do not ask what makes us different. we have forgotten this eldritch knowledge but cannot admit to our ignorance lest the beast in the river devour us.
Black Honey: Pt. 2

Part 1 OR Read it all here

Summary: Starfire and Robin are officially an item, but what does that mean when the resident empath is stuck living between their respective bedrooms? Finding a new bunk buddy in Beast Boy was certainly not her first choice, and when she engages in a strange, night time activity, how long before the changeling notices what she’s up to?


Raven didn’t drink. Alcohol had a putrid flavor, and she could never fathom how anyone could enjoy tormenting themselves in such a way. It was an assault on one’s taste buds, with a nasty after taste just for good measure. A back wash of lingering poison might have fared better and, if it didn’t, you’d be dead before it hit you. Alcohol was a whole different concept; it was intoxicating and, after some time, the pungency itself didn’t matter anymore. Only the buzz, the illusion of freedom of one’s spirit from the chains of the body, the feeling of being on something called a ‘cloud nine’, was all that was important in the moment.

Raven didn’t drink, but she was starting to understand what it might have been like.

It wasn’t always about the bitter after taste, or the tang of sugary sweetness that left the mouth still somewhat parched. Alcohol was never about the actual alcohol; it was everything to do with indulgence. Like a fine wine, crisp and smooth and oh so alluring in it’s pristine bottle or poured in a glass, there was something about it that made an individual lick their lips in anticipation, in wanting. Even liquor stores embellished the beautification of alcohol; whether it was the intricate design of the glass bottles they came in, or the artistry in the labels, there was a richness to spirits that reeled in those mature enough to understand and truly enjoy its appeal.

As Raven lay in a bed that was not her own, and gazed across at the peaceful face before her, she would agree that everything could be a form of art, even something she’d typically not appreciate…

[MORE UNDER THE CUT]

Keep reading

d0nt r3bl0g

yeah and in addition to being friend dumped my house is literally unlivable lmao sewage seeped into my landlords side of the basement last month and he refuses to get it professionally cleaned so its just sitting there and rotting and we cant do anything about it bc its behind a locked door. our whole house smells like mold and mildew and sewage and the dishwasher broke and he wont fix it. we cant use the air conditioning bc it circulates the basement air around and makes everything worse. we’re moving asap and getting a lawyer involved but also its like…weve only lived here a year bc we got evicted from our last place bc the owner decided he wanted to live in our apartment so we went frm one shitty landlord to a worse one. im just really stressed and beat down rn idk. jst had to get that off my chest

Levi’s Search History

Pairing: RivaMika
Rating: T
Genre: Comedy

A/N: An idea I had. Not necessarily a narrative, but I couldn’t resist the idea.

Synopsis: Google search alone can tell you an entire story about a person.


Levi’s Search History

Mr. clean multi purpose cleaner reviews
Is baking soda good to use on laundry
Wine stain won’t come off white blouse
kitten videos
babies playing with cats
cats that love water
funny cat video compilation
relax music for sleep
cleaning life hacks
lower back pain
how to tell where an asian person is from
japanese women
how to flirt with women
icebreaker for conversation
shoe wax vs. polish
dry cleaner closest to [zip code]
relaxing music for 10 hours
car is making a grinding noise
break disc price
acura ilx [year] review
princess monster truck cat
nearest animal shelter
is shelter cats better than petstore cats?
Are cats clean
what does it mean when she text me first
how can I let her know that I like her without being direct
can a person fall in love with their adopted sibling if they grew up together
what is stronger than tylenol
how do I know if she is not dating him
places ideal for a lunch date
cafes near [zip code]
weather for tomorrow
should I look taller than I really am
do most women like tall men
Mikasa name meaning
Feb 10 what sign
aquarius and capricorn compatibility
seven year age gap relationships
can 5'3 and 5'7 do 69
can 5'3 and 5'7 do 69 properly
can 5'3 and 5'7 do 69 properly sex
69 sex position height requirements
list of floor wax brands
light jazz music
light music for sleep
toilet smells like sewage but still flushes
plumber mechanic nearby [zip code]
when is the right time to ask for a second date
how do I know if she’s interested in me
recipe for baked ziti with ricotta
burberry tie blue
face facial video tutorial
conceal eye bags with makeup
the difference between a hookup and a date
sex on the second date means what
I need to stop consulting this stupid website *backspaces*
carpet and wood floor vacuum reviews
eureka vacuum airspeed bagless reviews
audioslave like a stone song
like a stone karoke with lyrics

anonymous asked:

Pssst I have a continuation prompt for the Balcony at Midnight fic you did: Ladybug kisses Chat (maybe she's trying to tell him who she is? :D)

Well, there you have it, folks. Someone wanted a continuation, and I got an idea sort of centered around the prompt, so here it is! I don’t like it quite as well, but I hope you guys enjoy it nonetheless!

Fandom: Miraculous Ladybug
Pairing: Ladynoir / Chatinette
Prompt: above 
Summary: She can’t take keeping this secret from him any longer because even though she’s always loved Adrien, her kitty has wormed his way into her heart with his words, his love, and maybe with his lips.

RATED T FOR TEEN! 15+

Part I  |  Part II

On her Balcony at Midnight, Part II

She’s conflicted.

Oh, hell, Marinette’s been conflicted since her feline partner started showing up for casual visits to her civilian self shortly after their patrols finish in the evenings.

On one hand, she loves the easy camaraderie they’ve built up from each successive midnight rendezvous. It makes her feel like their strengthening their partnership, and she can read Chat Noir so much better after some of these conversations that it’s kind of scary. But on the other hand…

Marinette’s not sure how she let it get this far. She’s loved Adrien Agreste since she met him, two years ago now, and she still sometimes has trouble speaking in front of him, so she knows she still likes him. But Chat is a completely different story. She’s known him for a few months longer than she’s known Adrien, and she’s been close friends with him for pretty much the entire time–despite his incessant flirtations with her superhero identity–so it’s understandable that they get along so well.

What Marinette still has trouble wrapping her mind around is the new feelings that have started stirring in her gut.

If they started when he first came to visit her–which nearly gave her a heart attack because she thought he’d found her out–then her affections only escalated since then. And then came that faithful night on her balcony, where suddenly she found that he was in her personal space and she didn’t want him to leave.

And her kitty comes back, at least once a week, and she finds that he never leaves without a distinctly rumpled look about his person. Particularly those silky, golden locks.

It’s scary, and it’s so very new, but this raw emotion that Marinette feels is just so alluring.

Keep reading

Imagine getting kidnapped by Moriarty

Originally posted by sheeranlive

“Moriarty, release her!” Sherlock said quietly, trying to mask his fury and terror behind a mask of cold, calculating neutrality. 

Moriarty cocked his head, smiling. “Oh, I don’t think so, Sherlock. You see, little Y/N and I are just having so much fun.”

Sherlock snapped, all his pent-up rage and fear for you spilling out. “Let her go!” he roared. How could he have let you been taken? Who knows what you were going through. And you must be so afraid.

Oh, it was all his fault. 

Moriarty held up his phone and pressed a button. A recording began to play, static crackling. “Sherlock,” a voice said. Your voice. He knew it was you. “Sherlock, please,” you whispered. “I don’t know where I am. Somewhere underground, I think. It’s dark, and it smells like… sewage. And I see grates, along the wall, but no light.” 

Sherlock almost smiled. Even after you had been spirited away in the middle of the night, you were still trying to think logically. To let him know where you were. To give clues. 

“But I’m not sure exactly–” you stopped speaking suddenly, but he could still hear your breathing. It was getting shorter and shallower, like you were trying to be quiet. “Wait!” you shouted. Was someone else there? “No, stop!” He heard a scream, and then the recording stopped.

“Tick tock, Sherlock,” Moriarty said. “I wonder what they’re doing to her. Right. Now. Do you know? Because I do. And ooh,” he winced, faking sympathy. “It probably hurts. A lot.”

Sherlock flipped up the collar of his coat and straightened his scarf. “If you harm a hair on her head, I will not be happy,” he murmured, just loud enough that the man across from him could hear. “That’s a promise.”

Moriarty clapped his hands together excitedly. “The clock’s started, Sherlock! You’d better hurry!”

“I’m coming, Y/N,” Sherlock vowed to himself. John had already rushed to the Scotland Yard, though they weren’t going to be much help. But he was going to find you.

And he would look through every inch of London if he had to.

anonymous asked:

He'd put out a less-targeted ad looking for test subjects, and among those who'd shown interest was a pale, underfed girl whose clothing smelled like sewage. But she seemed earnest about allowing him to use her body for his experiments--as long as he didn't plan to cage her. She literally used those words. Repeatedly. "No cages. Just, anything but a cage, and I'm yours."

Moreau blinks at the young woman.  “I, uh…”  This is definitely an unusual case.  He’s glad they called him in.  “That’s… good.”  He pulls out a fresh file.  “Do you have a copy of your medical history?”

Businesslike.  That’s the key.

Home(less): A hollstein homeless shelter AU

Thanks for the feedback on my idea guys! Here’s my AU–I decided to go with Carmilla working at the homeless shelter. I may write another if this one is popular enough. Without further ado:

                                              Home(less)

“Miss Karnstein, due to your age and the fact that this is your first offense, I have decided not to sentence you to jail time.”

You breathe a sigh of relief as the judge continues.

“However, I cannot allow drunk driving to go unpunished. Your license will be revoked for six months–”

Big deal. You bike everywhere you need to go anyway.

“–And I sentence you to two-hundred hours of community service at the Silas Homeless Shelter.”

Two hundred hours?

“I’m giving you a chance to redeem yourself Miss Karnstein. I hope this is a sufficient wake up call for you. Don’t screw it up.”

You nod. “Thank you Your Honor.”

He bangs his gavel and dismisses you. As you’re led out you can see Mother out of the corner of your eye. You don’t know if she’ relieved or not.

***

The Silas Homeless Shelter is a combination temporary housing/soup kitchen. People came in for a hot meal and, if there was one available, bed. Though the head of the shelter–a very chipper woman named Lola Perry–shows you where she keeps sleeping mats.

“If we run out of cots, give them one of these,” she explains, “I just hate having to throw anyone back out on the streets if we can avoid it. Where would you like to help first?”

Frankly you wanted to stay as far away from the homeless as possible. Having a counter between you while you handed out food seems like your best option.

“Soup kitchen.”

“Wonderful! Come with me then. You’ll need a hair net and gloves.”

About ten minutes later you feel like a lunch lady as you start scooping frank n’ beans onto paper plates. Some of the people look like cliches; missing teeth, dirty clothes, the whole nine yards. Others are just dejected. They mumble ‘thanks’ and go off to eat alone. It’s all very depressing and it’s supposed to make you appreciate your life, blah blah blah.

But frankly you’d rather be one of them than live with your mother.

“Hey Perry, how long have I been doing this?” You ask when you see her.

“…It’s been about an hour sweetie.”

“Seriously?” You say before you can stop yourself. Perry gives you a disapproving look as she puts a pan of brownies in a vat of hot water to keep it warm. You look forward again to continue scooping out food–and come face to face with startlingly bright, brown eyes.

“Hello!” The girl waves at you cheerily, a large smile on her face.

“Uh, hey. You work here?” The girl frowns for a moment in confusion.

“No. I’m here for the food.” She holds up her plate. “I heard today Perry made brownies–oh, hi Perry! How are you?” The redhead beams at her.

“Laura honey, help yourself! Is your father here?”

“Yeah, he just went to save us a spot.” You can’t believe she’s homeless. Or at least that she’s been homeless long enough to be a regular. She’s clean. Her clothes are plain–just a white polo shirt and khakis–but they aren’t threadbare. And her smile is practically blinding, it’s so white.

“…Can I have some food?” Laura asks politely. You hadn’t realized you were staring.

“Right. Sure, here you go.” You ladle the food into her dish, grabbing a brownie from Perry’s tray. “And your brownie.”

Without waiting, Laura stuffs it in her mouth. She chews it quickly and swallows it, then smiles. “Sorry. I just love brownies! Thank you!” She practically bounced back to one of the long tables before digging into the food.

“…Isn’t she a sweetheart?” Perry asks, looking at you. You hear the implication.

“Please Mrs. Beaver. I was just surprised that there was someone here that doesn’t smell like sewage.”

“You know, if you treated every person that comes here like a Laura, this might go faster for you.”

“Well, where’s the fun in that?” You turn back to your work. Another man is standing in front of you. There are bags under his eyes, his face stubbly and shirt obviously one size too small. You give him the food.

“Thanks,” he grumbles, and he shuffles away. You realize with shock that he takes the seat across from Laura and the brunette begins chattering away at him. The frown that had seemed etched into the large man’s face melted into a smile.

“Is that…?”

“Yes, that’s Laura’s father.”

How could they be in the same family?

Keep reading

princenek0  asked:

okay but sentence prompt based on the dark will thing, nico finding will and bringing him back with a "This isn't you Will."

For the record, this is the post Ashter is referencing. Why do all of you people ha t e me. Again, content warning for some deathy-type stuff and whatnot.

“Please, don’t. Please, don’t kill me, I don’t want to die, oh, gods-”

The pleas aren’t anything new. Everyone begs for life, in the end. When you’re staring down the point of a sword, there isn’t anything else to do but beg. Will is numb to it, by now. Will is numb to mostly everything.

But there is something in this particular enemy’s face that stays his hand. She is small, slight-shouldered and dark-haired, and her eyes are rimmed with purpling, bruise-like circles, like she hasn’t slept in weeks. There are scrapes up and down her skinny arms, tears clearing trails through the grime on her cheeks.

But her eyes are still blazing with an unlikely fire, serious, strong, angry. She is broken, and yet somehow she is not.

Memory knocks on the back of Will’s mind, of similar eyes and similar hair and a similar fire, but he shoves it down, pushes it aside. Now isn’t the time for being sentimental. All sentiment does on the battlefield is get you killed.

The girl reaches up desperately and grabs at the sword, which digs into her skin. Blood wells up between her fingers, drips down crimson onto the grass. Will clicks his tongue and yanks the weapon out of her grasp, knocking her backwards.

“You killed my sister,” he says. “Victoria. I saw you.”

“No,” the girl gasps. “No, no, no, it was an accident, I didn’t mean to-”

Will’s eyebrows furrow. “Of course you meant to. Look around.” He gestures impatiently at the corpses, at the fires and the destruction and the decay. “I don’t particularly care about your intentions, anyway. It being an accident doesn’t make Victoria less dead.”

“I’m sorry,” the girl whimpers.

“Me too,” Will agrees. He levies the tip of his sword at her throat, meets her eyes calmly. A procedure, that’s all this is. A surgery. Cut here to make it quick. Stab here to draw it out. Will’s mind fills in the gaps for him, the tendons and muscles and blood vessels underneath the skin.

He has been fighting for hours now. Or maybe it’s been days, years, centuries, millennia. Maybe he was born on this battlefield, built of smoke and ashes and the bittersweet, cloying stink of blood. Maybe he will die here.

“For Apollo,” he says evenly. The girl closes her eyes.

A hand closes over Will’s, stopping the forward motion of his sword, and Will looks up in time to see the rest of Nico di Angelo materialize from darkness. Shadows whisper around him, dissipating like fog, and his fingers tighten around Will’s hand.

“That’s enough, Solace,” he says.

Will’s mind is full of fog. Is it enough? He doesn’t think so. The enemy forces are dwindling; only a few of them remain. But there are orange t-shirts mixed in with the fallen. So many of them. Too many to count. Will feels their loss on his skin, in his bones.

Will wants the girl on the ground in front of him to suffer, wants to run his sword through every single living soul who spilled one of his comrades’ blood.

He snarls and tries to step around Nico, yanking his hands out of Nico’s grasp.

“I said that’s enough,” Nico repeats, more loudly, sidestepping to block Will’s movement. His voice rings in Will’s ears; Will is having trouble processing. He barely remembers his own name. “We’ve won. It’s over. You can stop now.”

“I can’t,” Will says. His voice is quiet and broken, not at all his own, and there is an impossibly volatile sort of pain etched onto Nico’s face as he reaches out to grab Will’s arm.

His hands are warm and real and calloused and solid, and Will remembers vaguely that he enjoys being touched by Nico.

“Will,” Nico whispers. He reaches up to touch Will’s cheek, trace his fingertips along Will’s jaw. “Will, please. This isn’t you.”

“Who is it, then?” Will says.

“Look at me.”

Will can’t. Looking at Nico feels damning. The fog around his mind is shattering, and thought is returning, and he hates himself - gods, he hates himself. If their eyes meet, Nico will know. He’ll know everything Will did, everything Will thought, because Will can’t hide anything from Nico. He never could.

“Will, please,” Nico murmurs. “Come back to me.”

The sword falls out of Will’s hands and hits the ground with a clatter. The girl on the ground gives a small, strangled sob and shoots to her feet, limping in the opposite direction, stepping over corpses and dodging discarded weapons. They watch her run in a fragile, spun-glass silence.

Nico’s fingertips trace Will’s face, his lips, his hair. It comes to Will’s attention that he’s crying - sobbing, actually. He can’t remember starting. He can’t remember how to stop.

“I’m sorry,” Will says.

Nico nods and steps forward, pulling Will into a clutching-grabbing-desperate sort of hug. Will’s face is buried in Nico’s hair, and the smaller boy smells like soot and sewage, but Will doesn’t care. He doesn’t care.

(He can’t breathe.)

“It’s okay,” Nico murmurs, against his shoulder, against his skin. “I know. I know.”

Safe: Chapter 1

Summary: A sharp point of pain materialized on his right shin and then expanded, driving through his leg like a railroad spike and forcing an agonized cry from his raw throat, and his vision turned black.
Media: Disney’s Big Hero 6
Verse: Safe
Rating: R
Genre: ANGST, Alternate Universe, Family
Warnings (for AU): Violence, blood, drug use, suicide attempts, amputation, foul language, severe injury
Disclaimer: …you…you guys know.

Keep reading

"The baka deserved it"

TW: racism

-SORRY FOR THE LENGTH OF THIS STORY-

A little over a year ago, my next-door neighbour was shot and beat to death in a fight that had something to do with cocaine. I was already suffering from extreme mental health issues (I’m doing a hell of a lot better now) and that shooting and what happened for the next three weeks only made my problems worse. 

Some important information. The man who was shot was half black and the man who shot him was from Japanese descent. I am ¼ Mohawk Native (an old Canadian Native tribe) so I suppose I have some physical Asian-looking characteristics, but I am obviously ¾ white. I’ll go by N and the weeb will go by Stinky.

The story:

Keep reading