less traffic

In honor of DEH’s 9 Tony noms, I will be sending pictures of the most amazing trees!

Reblog if you’d like a tree in your inbox! (Please have your submit box open)


she had the world // panic! at the disco

Clues To My Heart - Jughead x Reader

Here you go! It’s slightly longer than usual!
I tried my best to make it as sweet as possible without it being overly sappy for someone like Jughead :)

“Jughead,” you seeth, eyes ablaze, “Get the hell out of my sight,”

He rolls his eyes and shakes his head in what looks like to be disappointment, his eyes filled with hurt and anger, but turns around and leaves anyway. You deflate a little, the argument that just happened sapping the energy out of you and you collapse onto a nearby park bench. It started innocently enough but it somehow just grew out of proportion, and into one of the worse fights you’ve ever had before. Tears prick at the corner of your eyes and you stubbornly wipe them away, unwilling to let your emotions get the best of you as the words he said to you echoes in your head.

Keep reading

Trans* Guide to (Socially) Navigating the Gym

This is a newcomer’s guide to the gym from a social perspective, focused on the trans* experience. This is not a workout program.

This guide draws upon my own FTM experiences, feel free to add your own experiences.

Disclaimer: I live in a diverse city and go to a left-leaning university. My circumstances could be drastically different from yours. Use your best judgement.

The Locker Room

  • Bring a friend (who you’re out to) along, they can affirm or stand up for your identity if anyone questions your presence.
  • Rarely is anyone looking at you while changing, especially in male locker rooms. Find a nice little corner and face the walls, or go to a stall to change. You’d be surprised at how many cis people do the same. I’ve changed tshirts in the locker room while wearing a binder tank after 4 months on T without any problems.
  • You can also try changing in a bathroom that has less traffic first, then walk to the gym. If the weather is cold, wear a hoodie or sweats on top, then take it off at the gym.
  • Avoid going at peak hours if you are uncomfortable, it is more likely that you’ll have to change in close proximity with others.
  • Avoid changing next to old people. They are very comfortable nude and will strike up conversations randomly.
  • I have never showered at the gym, but bring a towel to dry off my sweat, and deodorant to keep the scents fresh.
  • I find boxers to be easier than boxer briefs. If I’m wearing briefs, I either pack, or find a really good corner without people. Packing is personally uncomfortable after a especially hard session, due to shifting and sweating. Boxers sort of hide everything, and I feel comfortable standing in them for a bit to cool off.

The Gym (mostly the weight room)

  • You are NOT the only person who doesn’t know how every equipment works. You can:
    • Ask a staff for help
    • Watch YouTube before your workout. I sometimes pull up exercise videos during my workout to check how a machine works because I’m too introverted.
  • If you don’t like to talk to other people and want to avoid chit-chats:
    • Stare at the equipment as if you’re formulating your workout plan
    • Bring headphones.
  • If someone is at an equipment you want to use, you can ask them “how many sets do you have left”, which means how many more repeats of the exercise they will be doing. A common etiquette is to let you use the machine right after, if you’re hanging around. Be courteous and give the other person room to finish their workout.
  • Don’t walk between mirrors and the people training in front of it.
  • It’s ok to not like looking in your image in the mirror if it triggers dysphoria, but still try to make sure you are performing the exercises correctly by bringing a friend along to form check.


  • You are not weak. Everyone starts somewhere. The huge guy in the corner? He was once a lanky teenager. It takes immense dedication and discipline to reach the level you see in the media.
the TURN Squad as Viners

Caleb: Beard viner. You know them: the beard is the basis for half of their humor when they’re not making vines that are basically Guy Fieri memes

Ben: Dog viner. Pure. Wholesome. Sometimes they play the piano together.

Abe: Smack cam viner. Vape tricks viner. Skateboarding (fails) viner.

Anna: Dancing/skateboarding trick viner. She’s flawless and vaguely gay.

Mary: Mom viner. Sprout is like the slightly less popular Gavin.

Rob: Traffic viner. “You know what they say about people who live in the fast lane. They don’t live in f*cking NEW YORK!”

Lafayette: Uplifting viner. That one man with the flowers and the ocean? That’s our Gilbert.

Peggy: Instagram viner. It’s either the sunset with Lana Del Rey or one a collection of selfies with an acoustic Beyonce cover.

Hewlett: Has one vine.

Well, here’s a thing kinda inspired by the “knights”-thing. I apologize for the not-all-to-high quality, and for some liberties  I took with the campus.


There are several clubs on the campus of Elsewhere, run and staffed by students and young faculty members.
Of course, these less traffic than similar institutions at other universities. Who would go clubbing, when being out at night means the risk of being abducted, after all? Even more so when the alcohol flows, the music sounds through the night, when the blood sings in your veins from the rhythm and the exhilaration.

Well, turns out that there’s still enough night life for these clubs to stay open.
But people are weary of the dangers, and measures for safety are taken: The doorways are salted (“Drinks are spilled, and we don’t want people slipping”), many drinks are sold in iron mugs (“They don’t break, you see?”) and the spaces in front of them are well lit.

But each of them also has a special position, one that is never spoken of in public. One that doesn’t exist, officially. It is hard to pin down, since the formal designation and job description vary from club to club. Sometimes it is the medical treatment in case something happens, taking care of those who drank to much, responsible in case something happens, an extra bouncer and so on.
And one might think of it as a coincidence that all of them are experienced students, or alumni still working in the area. That almost all of them happen to be students of law or chemistry or engineering. That they always come to their shifts with bags full of iron (powdered and solid), dust of aluminium and stores of sweets and pretty baubles.
That no club would ever open without one of them.

Or one might recognize them as the militia they are. Not looking for confrontations with the gentry, wary of provoking them, but somebody needs to protect those who would walk home alone over dark paths, those who danced a little to well and may have attracted unwelcome attention, those who might be drunk enough to strike unwise deals.

Their reasons for risking this role are almost as many as there are souls willing to fill it. Most do it out of genuine concern for their fellow students. Others do it so that the rules might not be compromised. But some few… Well, some just lost a bit to much to the Others, and are not willing to let the same happen to more students or are even outright looking for payback.They know that they can’t hurt Them this way, not really. But denying them something They want, well, that might just appear to be worth the cost.


So, something’s been on my mind since last night when I was driving on the highway and had nothing better to do than think about Andrew Joseph Minyard and what an amazing character he is. Andrew’s somewhat reckless when driving. And since, on a good day, he isn’t particularly interested in living or dying or doing much of anything– I can only assume that attitude carries over to when he’s behind the wheel:

(i.e. “[Andrew] pulled at the wheel, sliding the car from one lane to the other without bothering to check the traffic around him.” i.e. “’Don’t be so afraid to die.” i.e. “the car kept gliding across the four-lane road to an exit ramp.” i.e. Andrew literally getting into a car wreck to kill Tilda.) 

And Andrew’s one hell of a speeder– When he traded in his old car for his Maserati, he had to drive all the way to Alpharetta from the Fox’s Stadium. Columbia is roughly 10-20 ish? minutes away from where Andrew picked up Neil, but the drive from Columbia to Alpharetta should have taken at least 3 ½ hours, depending on traffic. Andrew made it in less than two (“They were the longest two hours of Neil’s life.”) He cut an hour and a half outta that trek. Mark me down as scared and horny, I’m incredibly impressed with this suicidal asshole and his need for speed.

But… What about the drive back to the Fox Tower? Andrew had two cars at the time– The Maserati that he and Kevin were driving, and Andrew’s old car that Neil had to drive back to the other dealership back in Greenville. Neil followed Andrew, but he said that the drive to Greenville felt shorter than the drive to Alpharetta. Which it shouldn’t have, because that trip should have only taken them about 2 ½ hours, maybe less (again, traffic, rush hour, etc., etc..)

Unless Andrew was speeding. Now, before I went through the books to check my receipts, I thought that maybe Andrew would bite the bullet and go the speed limit for Neil’s sake, let him cruise behind him at a leisurely pace. Which was a beautiful visual in and of itself. Grumpy af Andrew wanting to speed but forcing himself not to because he knew Neil was having a bad day and he should #chill. 

But no, lmao. This asshole sped like a motherfucker down the I-85, weaving in and outta traffic like the reckless bitch that he is, cutting people off left and right and letting Neil handle his own devices and try to keep the fuck up. Like… Being in a car when somebody is doing that is one thing– but trying to follow a car that’s doing that is the worst fucking thing in the world. Imagine poor Neil giving the little I’m-so-sorry-my-boyfriend-is-an-asshole wave when he passes the driver that Andrew almost made swerve off the road. Kevin being all “Jesus Christ, Andrew, will you slow down?” And Andrew ignoring him and pressing harder on the gas pedal, just to spite him and Neil.

Just.. Andrew Minyard being an asshole behind the wheel and not giving a single fuck about what you think.

anonymous asked:

So apparently there is a sport called fire hockey which is played at night where in the puck is a roll of toilet paper wrapped in chicken wire soaked in kerosene and lit on fire. If you use good toilet paper it burns for about 10 minutes. This is the PERFECT sport for Mick.

Len squints at the scene before him in morbid curiosity.

“Is that–”

“On fire? Yep.” Lisa is completely deadpan.


She points and he follows her finger through to - ah. Mick. That makes sense. He’s standing in the goal post at the end of the cul-de-sac. 

“How long has it been going?”

She shrugs and crosses her arms, leaning against the power company box that marks the end of the lane. “About an hour? He rounded up a bunch of the boys from Ells street playing street hockey and dragged them over here where there’s less traffic. Guess he got bored of you taking forever.”

“I was making plans.”

“Don’t tell it to me.”

It’s then that Mick seems to finally notice them and waves. His eye was fixed on the fireball that was their puck before that, but it appears to have burnt out finally. His stick is a little singed but so is everything Mick owns. Though he doesn’t normally play hockey, let alone street hockey, so Len doubts it’s his stick. Probably a donation from one of the neighbor boys, all of which are closer to Lisa’s age than his and Mick’s.

“Hey Lisa!” Mick calls, waving, “toss us another?”

Len’s ready to roll his eyes. “We’ve got shit to do, Mick!” he calls back, hands cupped around his mouth.

“One more round! It’s fast!”

Mick’s grin is wide and Lisa grabs a – is that toilet paper? She lobs it in Mick’s direction and he’s quick to catch it.

“You gotta be kidding me.”

She’s smiling now. “No clue where he got the idea but I gotta say, Lenny – your friends are creative.”

He nods, bemused, and watches Mick wrap it up and douse it in what can only be one of the many flammable fluids he likes? Butane? Kerosene? Either way, the layers must keep it burning. Len can see how it works, the appeal, at least for Mick.

Now if only the jerk would stop stealing what’s clearly his home’s toilet paper and go to an actual hockey game with Len instead of complaining about the cold.

“One more round,” he says more to himself than anyone else and leans opposite his little sister. 

Bughead fanfic to pass the time!

Plot - Betty has been looking at Jughead all day, leading him to become overrun with curiosity. Why? What on earth does she want? He decides to really find out, pushing them into an area they never expected to find themselves in. This takes place after the events of Episode 5. 

                                                   Looking at You 

Jughead felt eyes on him again. He looks up and towards her, where he knew he would catch her gaze on him, as he had several times that day at school. He was right. Betty Cooper had been looking at him from across the classroom. WHY. It was beginning to get ridiculous at this point, because never had he caught her looking at him so much before. He stared off into nothing, a moody expression resting on his face. 

Keep reading

Perfect Love — [Dan and Phil One Shot]

Prompt: “dan being late for work or something, racing into the train station, running into phil, falling onto the ground with him, falling in love with the guy below him, and then he tries to run into him every day, getting to know him more and more, as he drops his stuff every day. one day he’s not there, but his business card is, and he decides to visit him.”

Pairing: Dan Howell and Phil Lester.

Word Count: 2,169.

Warnings: Minor angst, swearing.

Keep reading


Okay, so I work at a golf course and I am one of the 2 female employees, so I use the women’s bathroom. (yay cleaner facilities and less traffic.) 99.9% of our customers are male. So, I have been job hunting and got bloodborne pathogen training for a job I was applying for. Unfortunately, I did not get the job.


The other day, I was working the closing shift and male customers had been in and out of the bathroom all day, so at the end of the day, I go in to clean it.


I mean, the sink, the floor, and in the trash can…

I was taken by surprise because I normally have the standard unflushed urinal, pubes, and the sanitizing to do.

I rushed out, grabbed proper equipment to clean it and wondered why NONE OF THE CUSTOMERS SAID ANYTHING.

All the men that had walked past me to get to the bathroom had no apparent injuries. So they used a bloodied bathroom and didn’t bother reporting it to me so I could clean it!

Hopeless Pt 3

Part 1  Part 2

Dean x Reader

Word Count: 2,439

Warnings: None

Thoughts   Flashbacks

   An hour into the drive and Dean was going 90 down a road with one hand on the wheel and the other holding a half-eaten, condiment-soaked diner to-go burger, a soda sitting in the cup holder and a container of fries resting between his legs. Sam enjoyed a vegetarian burrito and an iced tea and you just got a large fry to snack on.

   And if Dean’s messy eating habits weren’t enough to gross you out, he then proceeded to belch with gusto.


Keep reading



“Those bruises on your neck,” Sam starts, a few days after Steve breaks them out of prison.

“It’s nothing,” says Steve, firm, final, a clear order: back off.

“That serum makes you heal faster than normal,” Sam continues anyway. “So to leave a lasting mark like that, I figure you’ve gotta be getting the same injury daily. Or nightly?” He looks at Steve significantly.

“Forget it,” says Steve in the same tone of finality.

“Hey man, I’m not judging,” says Sam. “As long as you’re staying safe, whatever gets you–”

“It’s not like that,” Steve interrupts, flushing slightly. “We’re not– Bucky has nightmares.”

Sam presses his lips together and gives a noncommittal hum leaning toward disapproval.

“He just doesn’t always wake up right away,” says Steve, a little defensively.

Keep reading

The Causes and Cures of Insomnia (according to Oikawa Tooru)

He told him not to call.  But he wants to so badly.  Every fiber of his being except for his racing brain urges him to hit speed dial, because of course his number is the one that would be there.  Oikawa looks at the picture on his nightstand but it’s just a blur in the dark.  He turns on the light, hopes that will help, but it doesn’t.  It just makes the image seem small and not nearly enough.

A whimper escapes his mouth and he throws his phone across the room.  Why?  Why can’t he call?  He’s so used to calling Iwaizumi that doing anything else feels wrong.  He’s cold, and his mind is lost.  For as long as he’s known, Iwaizumi’s been the only one who could find it.  How will he find his way, now?

With this manner of thought on repeat, the night passes slowly.  Oikawa leaves the house as the sun rises, though it’s still about three hours too early to go to school.  He tries not to look at the house next door.  Wills himself to focus on the brilliance of a sky that looks dull to his tired eyes and mind and heart.  Tries to zero-in on the birds chirping back and forth, but that only makes him remember how alone and ungrounded he is.  Attempts not to break down because Iwa-chan is so close but so incredibly far away and fails miserably.  He relents and turns his head and freezes.

Because there he is, sitting on the step in front of the door to the house Oikawa had tried so hard to ignore.  “Iwa-chan…” he whispers.  Iwaizumi can’t hear him.  There’s no way.  But he apparently see’s his lips move, because something in his expression shifts.  He offers Oikawa a somewhat tentative wave and Oikawa tries to stop his hand from shaking.  When that fails, he returns the wave with a nod.

“Good morning, Oikawa,” Iwaizumi says, walking over.  The expression on his face is one which he’s been wearing more often recently, but Oikawa still can’t identify it’s meaning.  He finds himself thinking that it almost looks like disappointment and wonders irrationally if Iwaizumi really can read his thoughts.  “You’re up early.”

“I.”  Oikawa suddenly can’t speak.  “Mhm,” he manages.

They stare at each other for a few seconds, and then both speak at once.


“Is everything–”

Then they fall silent again.  Iwaizumi’s lips quirk up into a smile and Oikawa’s stomach drops.

“What’s going on, Oikawa?”

But Oikawa just shakes his head and runs a hand through his hair.  He remembers, finally, how to act normal, and urges his lips to find that wide smile he normally wears.  “It’s nothing, Iwa-chan!  I just had to get up to do my hair!”

With a fluttery wave and a peace sign, he’s moving back into his house, leaving Iwaizumi looking after him thoughtfully but eventually returning to his own home to prepare breakfast.

They both emerge later to walk to school together in their usual silence.  It feels a bit more tense than normal to them both, but neither comments.  Iwaizumi notes that Oikawa’s smile looks more painful than normal.  Oikawa notes that his smile is a bit more painful than normal.  He attributes it to lack of sleep.

For Oikawa, the day passes by in a blur of loud noise, half-closed eye lids, and sore cheeks.  He is glad when it is time to practice, but finds even the familiar motions of setting to be a struggle.  Since he’s at the center of his team, everyone notices.  Iwaizumi scolds him, but nobody else comments.  The coach tells them to go home early, and for once Oikawa is grateful instead of angry.

As soon as he starts walking home, he can tell Iwaizumi isn’t going to let this slide.  It could be his imagination, but Oikawa can practically feel the anger and disappointment rolling off of his best friend in waves.

“Hey.”  Oikawa looks up.  Iwaizumi doesn’t sound angry.  He doesn’t look angry either.  He looks… tired.  And that might be even worse than angry.  Guilt wells up in Oikawa’s chest.

“I’m sorry, Iwa-chan.  I’ll practice extra–”

“Oi, Shittykawa,” Iwaizumi’s words are harsh, but his voice is still quiet.  “That’s not– I wasn’t– I’m not mad at you.  Or disappointed.  Or anything.  I just– well.  Are you okay?”

Oikawa hums.  He wonders how Iwa-chan can look so mean but be so nice.  “It’s nothing, Iwa-chan, really.”

Iwaizumi grunts but doesn’t push it.  They part ways in front of Iwaizumi’s house and Oikawa lets his smile drop with great relief as he turns away.

The relief fades quickly as he enters the empty house.  His shoes fall of his feet and he falls onto the couch, not even having the energy to go up to his room.  But he doesn’t sleep.  He thinks about everything that went wrong today.  He thinks about how he should be studying for his test tomorrow but can’t remember what class the test is even in.  He thinks about how he could at least be practicing to make up for playing terribly today.  He thinks about Iwaizumi, and why he had pulled away from him.  He wonders if he finally became too annoying for Iwa-chan to deal with.  Too loud.  Too arrogant.  Too much.  He wonders if Iwaizumi knows that he can only act like that because Iwa-chan is there.  Because he thought Iwa-chan would always be there.

Eventually he decides that lying there doing nothing is the absolute worst feeling, so he gets up and grabs a volleyball from the garage.  It’s chilly outside, but the bite of the wind feels good.  It keeps him awake.  He practices some light sets at first, but quickly progresses into angry serves that don’t ever seem to hit the driveway right where he wants them to.  It isn’t until one of them hits a vase filled with dead flowers near his garage that Oikawa snaps out of his stupor.  The thing just shatters, and Oikawa shatters with it.  He crumples.  His knees buckle.  Now his stoic expression falls.  So do tears.  Breathing becomes impossible.  He wonders if he’s dying.

And then Iwa-chan is in front of him, arms crossed, looking down, and Oikawa wants to run.  He doesn’t want Iwa-chan to see him like this, doesn’t want to be more of a burden.  But Iwaizumi reaches out and catches his arm before he can flee.  Desperate, Oikawa attempts to rub the tears off his face, but they are quickly replaced by the now steady flow.

“Huh?”  He says, trying to play it off.  “Iwa-chan, let go.  I’m fine.  I just- just have something- in my eyes.  Both eyes.  Really.  Iwa-chan.  Everything–”  He swallows.  “Everything’s fine.”

But Iwaizumi won’t let go.  He leads Oikawa to the Iwaizumi’s car and deposits him in the passenger seat.

“Um.  Iwa-chan.  What are you–”

“We’re going on a drive.”

“I don’t think your dad–”

“It’s fine.  He’s on a work trip.”

“Do you even know how–d”

“It’s fine, Oikawa, just relax,” Iwaizumi shushes him and starts the car.  “Seriously.  Take a nap.  Or just sleep the whole night.”

“But Iwa–”

“Go to sleep, Shittykawa.”

With his eyes already growing heavy, Oikawa has no more energy to protest, and he drifts off without another word.  Always a light sleeper, he wakes up when he feels the car come to a stop.

“Where are we?”  He asks sleepily.  Iwaizumi scratches his chin.

“Not entirely sure.”

“What?”  Oikawa looks out the window in alarm.  “Iwa-chan, are you kidnapping me or something?  We’re in the middle of nowhere!  How long have we been driving, anyway?”

“About two hours.  It’s fine.  We have more than enough gas to get home.  And there’s less traffic here.  Just get out of the car already.”

Not sure what else to do, Oikawa complies.  And when he does, the view takes his breath away.

“Iwa-chan, the sky…”  He trails off.

“Yeah.”  The sky is full of stars.  It’s incredible, to say the least.

“But, Iwa-chan, why–”

“Because you haven’t been sleeping.  I thought it might help.  I wanted… to help.”

Oikawa is immediately overcome with confusion.

“But, Iwa-chan, you…  Why?  Why didn’t you–  Why did you tell me not to call?”  Oikawa shakes his head, presses the heels of his hands to his eyes, wonders if he’s still dreaming.  “Iwa-chan, you help me sleep even better than the stars.  I thought– I thought you didn’t care.”

A blush creeps up Iwaizumi’s neck - the other reason he’d decided to take Oikawa to the darkest place he could find.  Still, he isn’t cruel enough to leave him in the dark forever.  If he were more courageous, it wouldn’t have taken him even this long to fix.

“Oikawa.”  He tries to swallow but his throat is suddenly dry and he coughs instead.  “I– Well.  It wasn’t anything you did.  I guess, if anything, it was because I care too much.”

“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa says breathlessly.  “What are you trying to say?”

“Just.  I think.  I somehow… fell in love with you.  And I didn’t think it was right to keep sleeping–”

Oikawa sacrifices hearing what exactly Iwaizumi thought wasn’t right in exchange for silencing him with a kiss.  It’s soft, quiet, lighter than air and, in that moment, even more necessary.

Jinyoung: I love Jackson. Where’s Jackson? Ah Jackson’s there. Joking~

anonymous asked:

My coworker is nice but dumb as a sack of rocks, her logic is to ask me, an employee from the low traffic, less demanding side of the deli, to cover BOTH her and her coworkers breaks on the higher traffic, way more demanding Kosher section I barely know the layout/procedures of to "make sure neither of them gets overwhelmed by customers or work." What about me??????? Why are there two people closing then?????

so I don’t know if this has been thought of before, but it would be pretty interesting if each Guardian had a unique Light signature, kind of like a thumbprint

Due to their unique relationship, a Guardian’s Ghost can instantly figure out which signature is their Guardian’s; others would have to have a pre-existing model of the Light signature they’re searching for and access to a Ghost in order to find someone. Creatures of Darkness have an innate ability to sense these Light signatures, although only within a certain radius.

Even after the death of their Ghost, a Guardian’s Light signature still lingers for a short time, albeit much much harder to detect. These signatures eventually dissipate, the Light of those gone being reused again and again as they’re converted into engrams, or absorbed by Guardians’ use of their Light abilities. Areas with less traffic, and therefore, less use of Light usually have more identifiable remains.

ROSEMARY’S BABY... SHOWER — beyond belief # 25

feel free to change pronouns as needed.

“the very heart of darkness… detroit, michigan..“
“there was less traffic than anticipated.”
“it’s raining frogs— well more of a drizzle, really.”
“look how pregnant you are!”
“glowing as a house.”
“let me show you to the bar.”
“mother of the year.”
“that’s wonderful, but not what i meant.”
“she kicks like a karate guy.”
“i just like i clink before i drink.”
“she was right, you are not the girls.”
“______waggles eyebrows.”
“is that what it sounds like? a left over scrabble rack played as a bluff?”
“oh, the sort that carries a pretty parasol?”
“my nose is the cutest, my glass is the emptiest, my buzz is the fading-est, the bar is my domain.”
“she could stop a clock, the face on that one.”
“i don’t thrall, darling, not in this outfit.”
“you are powerless to resist.”
“do not address his me.”
“they’re kind of a status thing, i ain’t that kinda showy.”
“i mean, auguries and foretokens? who is this guy?”
“do even you understand the words coming from your mouth?”
“if you’re asking what i think you are, it’s none of your business, pal!”
“were the auspices untrue?”
“it’s ravencastle… ravenclaw’s a hogwarts house.”
“well, if you know so much, what is he doing here?”
“i be tipsy… clink!”
“traditionally, that’s more of a plague. there could be some mummy business, maybe an ogre wedding sometimes.”
“that’s gross. that’s totally gross.”
“honestly, you’d lay with him given your troubles.”
“this is mine! by the unholy right of dibs.”
“gentlemen, please. this is a baby shower.”
“no, i shan’t fight a woman.”
“[chicken noises]”
“don’t say chuds, it sounds like a much better fight than it actually is.”
“i would not watch that show.”
“i guess i’ll take the boozy sassmouth.”
“that is the darnest thing.”
“this battle isn’t even proxy!”
“now get your pasty, husband-of-the-midnight keister the heck outta my house!”
“less lip over there.”
“but it is… the day time.”
“i think i’ll have a drink— who am i kidding, i know i’ll have one.”
“you as b-negative as you look?”
“please don’t toast against my forehead.”

The Simple Things Aren’t Always So Simple

A/N: So my dear good friend @spntrista tells me in great detail about a dream she had about Jensen last night. It has inspired this. Let’s all remember that this is FICTION and I do not in ANYWAY condone cheating on your spouse or partner. This is simply a work of fiction, please regard it as such. I mean no disrespect to Jensen or his family. Thank you.  

Word Count: 4185

Warnings: implied smut and cheating

Originally posted by uuuhshiny

My name is Y/N. I am a nanny. I’m nothing fancy. I am a simple girl. I like simple things. I like white wine and game nights. I like tea and quiet mornings.  The people I work for, on the other hand, are anything but simple.

I was sitting alone in my apartment, enjoying the quiet when my phone rang. It was an local number but I did not know who it was and considered letting it go to voicemail, but curiosity got the better of me and I answered, after all, my bills were paid and the election was over, how bad could it be?

“Hello?” I chirped as I paused Netflix.

Y/N? My name is Genevieve Padalecki. You don’t know me, but I got your info and references from Stephen Amell. I am in need of a nanny, temporarily.” She spoke rather rapidly.

Genevieve Padalecki was calling me. I was slightly shellshocked as I looked up at my television, paused on Jared Padalecki, since my binge of choice today had been ‘Supernatural.’

“Hi Genevieve. How long are you looking for?” I questioned.

“Please, call me Gen. Well, here is the thing, Y/N. We are all at the Cowboys game right now. Can you come down to the stadium and meet us? I can leave you a ticket. But since we always have so many people milling around the house, I would like to meet you in a group environment first. I know it sounds weird.” Gen chuckled.

“Yes, I can do that. I can be there within the hour.” I replied, turning off the television and placing my cup in the sink.

“Oh, thank you so much. I will leave a ticket for you at willcall. Text me when you get here. Bye!” Gen ended the call and I went to make myself presentable for meeting my new potential employers. I got ready, left my apartment and arrived at the stadium in less than thirty minutes. Traffic is easy once the game as already started.

I texted Gen as I walked to the will call booth, mentally preparing myself to meet two people I had watched for years. I wanted to be my professional self, but my fangirl was really pushy sometimes.. Once I had my ticket in hand, I waited for her to meet me at the main entrance. My nerves started to get the better of me but before I could text her back and tell her I wasn’t available, I heard her call my name.

“Y/N! You made it so quickly! I am Gen Padalecki. It is so nice to meet you. Stephen had wonderful things to say about you and how good you were with his daughter. I am so sorry to spring this on you but our nanny just quit because she got married and her husband is being relocated.” Gen explained.

We carried on pleasant conversation until we reached the suite level and literally bumped into Danneel Ackles coming out of the restroom. Holy Shit! If Danneel is here, that means Jensen is here. Jensen Freaking Ackles. My mouth immediately went dry.

“Danni, this is Y/N. The nanny that Stephen recommended.” Gen stated.

“Nice to meet you Danneel.” I extended my hand, hoping it wasn’t clammy with as nervous as I was now. I was plenty nervous before but now, knowing the Ackles were here with the Padalecki’s, I was terrified.  I was fighting so hard to keep my composure. God, she really was beautiful, but she looked a little stressed.

We walked into the suite and Gen introduced me to Jared, who in lieu of a handshake, embraced me tightly.

“I already like you. Come on, sit down, let me get you a beer. You do drink beer, right?’ He joked.

“Yes, Jared, I drink beer. I would love one, thank you.” I laughed. He was just like I imagined he would be; an excited, overgrown puppy.

Keep reading