maybe i should get a job that requires me to actually leave my house

The college application process is without a doubt the most stressful time in all four years of high school. Here’s my advice on getting through it:

  • First of all, if you’re reading this as a freshman or even a sophomore, calm down. You do not need to be worrying about college yet. So many things can change between now and your senior year, any plans you make now likely won’t be the same then. I didn’t even know what schools I was applying to until I applied to them. I thought I knew for sure what school I was attending until I was accepted into the school I actually ended up attending. Just focus on doing well in school and having fun, then cross that bridge when you get there.
  • Begin researching schools after junior year ends. Junior year is notorious for being the worst one of the four in high school. The work is ridiculously difficult, the pressure is insane, and standardized testing is exhausting. After it’s over, you will have the taken the majority of the classes that will appear on your transcript, you’ll have your ACT/SAT results, and you should now have a good idea of what schools are within your range. Maybe your GPA tanked and you didn’t do as well on the SAT as you thought, so your former match schools are now reaches. Maybe you managed a 3.9 GPA and a 35 on the ACT, so your reaches are well within reason. Summer before my senior year, I (thought I) knew what I wanted to do and began looking for universities that offered me that. 
  • Be open-minded. I’ve seen lots of students get into the mindset of “these are the schools I want to go to, these are the ones I’m applying to, and that’s final”. Don’t be stubborn. If you find a school you’d never heard of before, but it has a really great program in your field of study and a beautiful campus, add it to your list. It can be scary to venture into the unknown when you’ve had your heart set on going to the same university for your whole life, but you never know what could happen. That school you just discovered could turn out to be your dream school. Your list of prospectives is live, meaning it can change. Welcome those changes with open arms.
  • Apply to your dream school! Going into senior year, I planned to apply to one school. Yeah, that’s right. One single school. It was a state school with guaranteed admission and I thought that I would save myself the time, stress, and money of getting rejected from other universities. For some reason, I genuinely thought I had no chance of getting into any school with an acceptance rate of less than 50%. Thank god my parents made me apply to Vanderbilt University, which had always been my dream school. One day, completely expecting to get rejected, I got my acceptance email from Vandy, and now I’m starting my second year there in August. All of this to say, again, you literally never know what’s going to happen. “But my grades/extra-curriculars/test scores aren’t good enough!” There were plenty of people in my class with better stats than me in all of those categories that got rejected from Vanderbilt. There’s no rhyme or reason to college admissions. Apply to that reach school, and keep your expectations in check, but you could be pleasantly surprised.
  • Have multiple safeties. At least two. My safeties were two state schools with guaranteed admission so I knew I’d have somewhere to go in the fall. If you can’t find somewhere with guaranteed admission, find a school with admission averages that you exceed by a lot. I know this seems like obvious advice, but I know of quite a few people, both at my high school and online, who got rejected from literally all the schools they applied to. Those who had a safety went to the safety. Those who didn’t have a safety went no where. Don’t be in that second group. Have safeties, and be prepared to attend them.
  • Don’t procrastinate. Another piece of advice that might seem obvious, but trust me, you’re going to be tempted. Senioritis is real and you aren’t going to want to do anything, especially if it’s not for a grade. Luckily for me, my AP lit teacher required us to turn in our admissions essay as an assignment in September, so I had mine done way ahead of time. If you don’t have a teacher to hold you accountable, you have to do it yourself. Start your essays as early as possible and edit them over the weeks before the deadline. Ask for your rec letters at the end of junior year before summer break. Make sure you have all your deadlines written down and get all your paperwork in order early. There will be plenty of people spending their Christmas and New Years finishing college apps that are due the next day. Don’t be one of them. You’ll save yourself a lot of stress.
  • Stay organized. I saw a studyblr post where someone made an excel sheet comparing all their prospective schools, with categories like size of campus, tuition, type of housing, etc. I did that and it was a great way to keep track of everything. I also put all the essays needed for the application as well as when they were due, so I could easily see what I had left to do. I highly recommend doing this: here is a template you can use to get started. Even if you don’t decide to do this, use your own method to keep on top of all your application work. It can easily get lost beneath your schoolwork or other things you have to do. Make sure it doesn’t!
  • Keep yourself busy. The waiting to hear back from schools after submitting your apps is the worst. It’s torturous. I submitted my applications in October/November, and didn’t start getting decisions until March. That leaves all of winter to be nervous. The only way you’ll get through it is to not think about it. Focus on school, get a job, enjoy your last season of a school sport, just stay busy to keep yourself distracted or else it will be the longest few months of your life. Take a mental break from anything college-related until the good news starts rolling in.
  • Prepare yourself for disappointment. Rejection is never fun, it’s never easy. You might think you’re going to be fine, but it hits you harder than you think. When I got my first rejection, from Georgia Tech, I cried. I didn’t even want to go to Georgia Tech. But I felt like I wasn’t good enough, and therefore I wouldn’t get into any other school. The whole reason I wanted to apply to just one school was to avoid that feeling. If only I had known that my dream school would accept me just a couple weeks later. It’s going to be tough seeing everyone around you get into their first choice school while you’re receiving rejections, deferrals, or waitlists. What you have to remember is that everything happens for a reason. That rejection means that wasn’t the school for you. You will end up where you are supposed to be. 

The application process is grueling and stressful, but also very rewarding. Stick through it and it will all be worth it. Up next in the University Advice series: choosing/changing your major. If you have any other ideas for topics you want to see covered, please let me know!

Next post: Choosing/Changing Major Advice

rich kid | pjm

summary: park jimin is a rich kid.

{rich kid au}

pairing: jimin x reader
word count: 5k
genre: fluff
a/n: this was supposed to be a warm up!! i don’t know what happened!!

You’d be a goddamn liar if you said you didn’t know Park Jimin. Everybody knows Park Jimin, and if they don’t, everybody knows of Park Jimin.

Park Jimin walks around campus like he owns the entire university, hands casually thrown into the pockets of his expensive black pants, sunglasses balancing on top of his intentionally disheveled black hair, silver earrings and studs and rods decorating his earlobes, leather jacket not worn, but strewn over his shoulders, complementing that delicate silver chain around his neck perfectly. Or perhaps, he isn’t wearing a fully black ensemble that likely costs more than your tuition. Maybe he’s a bit more laid back, with an outrageously vibrant sweater, the Gucci logo stamped all over it, blue jeans, ripped at the knee like he had worn right through them. He’s got circular frames surrounding his eyes even though he doesn’t need glasses, a beanie or beret sitting happily on his head if he didn’t have time to put his usual amount of product in his hair, Rolex watch peeking out from the oversized sleeves of his sweater. Park Jimin knows how to wear everything and anything with confidence, flair, so he is hardly difficult to miss.

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Sexual Harrasment

Summary:  Tony Stark is your boss’ boss’ boss’ boss, but he’s taken an interest in you. After saying no he flexes his power.

Warnings: THIS IS A NON/CON-RAPE STORY. Please do not read if this offends you. Smut

Pairings: Tony Stark x reader

Words: 2800

A/N: For all the anon’s wanting more Mercy.  Here is just a straight up Non-Con Tony story.

Forever Tags: @kellyn1604 @marauderice @mac5323 @idonthavehusbandsihavelovers @negan-is-god @roschelesworld @taintedgenre @thecynicalnerd @screeching-pterodactyl-fangirl 

Marvel Tags: @xbergiex @bellaballanda @theariel85

Tumblrs who I think might like this (ignore, but you commented on Mercy): @purplemuse89 @ashleywinchester69

“Good Y/N, you’re here finally.”  Tony smiled when you went into his office the third time that day. “I need a feminine opinion.”

Originally posted by irenelair

You stopped at least five feet away from the man as he held his arm out.

“Mr. Stark…”

“Tony.” He walked over to you and slid his hand around your waist. “How many times do I have to tell you.  It’s Tony.”

“Tony.”  You crossed your arms. “I really can’t neglect the accounts like this. I’m a junior accountant.  For these special projects hire someone to make this their full time job.”

“Paying for this sort of thing isn’t my style.”  His eyes were glued to you, but you refused to look his way as he pulled your side. “Just kidding.”

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Walking the Tightrope

Scully and Ethan are together. But for how long? Post Deep Throat.

Tagging @today-in-fic. Need to catch up? Read Part One 

Part Two 

 He looked a whole lot better than he had when he got into the car. She’d been scared. Her heart thumping and bleeding a little for this little-boy-lost. He had no idea what had happened to him at Ellens Airbase and it had frightened him. For a man who’d spent so many years trying to remember leading up to the disappearance of his sister, losing more memories would have to be a cut too deep. The worst part was that he knew he had been close. She knew he’d been close. Not that her report would reflect that. It couldn’t. For her sake and for his.

                She found him running circuits of the track. The sun was high and he was sweaty in his ratty gear, but the bewildered expression and fearful voice had gone.

                “Joining me for a work out, Scully? I’ve always wondered how you learned to run in high heels.”

                She followed his gaze down her legs to her feet and felt her skin flush slightly.

“You men don’t know you’re born,” she replied. “You try fitting a weapon and flashlight in the suits they cut for the female form. Most of them don’t even have pockets. Then you add a handbag and high heels to the equation and it’s no wonder most female agents are fitter and more resourceful than their male counterparts.”

               He smirked. “On what do you base that finding, Dr Scully?”


                His eyebrows raised. “Is that all you got?”

                She folded her arms. “You mean I need more? You don’t seem to require any evidence to hang your theories off.”

                His jaw flexed and he straightened up. She held her ground. He looked around, eyeing off the stand in the distance. He turned back to her. She’d overstepped the mark. She clenched her fists.

Then he grinned and put his hands on her shoulders. “Two cases in, Scully, and you’ve already got me cracked.”

              She rocked back on her heels and smiled. She missed the weight of his hands on her shoulders as soon as he removed them. She loved this softer side of him. He was so intense, so committed to the job most of the time, that seeing him as a human being with a sense of humour, was easy to overlook.  He pulled his foot up behind him, stretching his quads and she watched the beads of sweat drip down his face. She really should do more running but the case load had been full on and Ethan had been demanding all of her downtime. Still, her body tingled with the need to let off the nervous energy those cases had filled her with and she resolved to give Ethan a call and cancel their plans for the weekend. She would indulge in two days of jogging and gym work.

“Who was that you were talking to?” she asked as Mulder walked to where he’d slung his bag. He pulled a water bottle from the depths and swigged it. Fascinated by the bobbing of his Adam’s apple, she realised she was staring, only when he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and gave her a look.

“The older man, grey curly hair. Suit.” She was scurrying behind him and that nervous energy was now building into a bubble of anger. Why was he denying the meeting?

“I was running, Scully.”

“I saw you, Mulder,” she said, finally getting level with him.

He looked down at her, eyes narrow. “Is that all you got?”

She rang Ethan and agreed to a dinner on Saturday night. He got drunk on the house red and she drove him home. He insisted she come in for coffee but she wasn’t in the mood to listen to his whining about how the female producers got all the best jobs because the industry was looking to equality.

              “It’s hardly equality when there’s a quota to fill,” he said, slurring and lunging towards her. “I mean, you don’t see this sort of thing in the FBI, do you?”

              “You mean giving women a chance to prove that they’re just as capable as men despite never even getting to the interview in this boy’s club world we still live in?”


              “What?” she said, pouring him another coffee. “It’s true, Ethan. Women have to fight every inch of the way just stay even while men call up their buddies and walk into a job they have no business being doing. There are men at the Bureau who should have been put out to pasture decades ago. There were plenty of capable women at the Academy. At least with quotas there’s a strong chance that future generations of women will simply be able to take up the opportunities presented to them, they’ll be inspired by those of us already paving the way.”

              He laughed. Not like Mulder, whose gentle chuckles were often a signal that he agreed with her sentiments. Ethan actually laughed as though what she was saying was funny. “Dana, you sound like some radical feminist.”

              She poured the rest of her coffee down the sink.  “I’m tired, “ she said. “I’m going home.”

              He lunged at her, grabbing her arm and pulling him to her. “Stay, Dana. It’s been weeks since you’ve…”

              She shifted in his grasp. “I’ve been busy, Ethan. And I said I’m tired. I’ll call you.”

              He pulled her closer and kissed her, and all she could taste was bitter coffee and stale alcohol. She pushed him away and wiped her mouth.

              “What is wrong with you, Dana?”

              She picked up her jacket and went to leave. “Maybe I’m just tired of being taken for granted.”

              He rushed after her, putting himself between her and the door. “I don’t take you for granted, Dana. I love you. I thought you loved me too.”

His voice cracked and she thought for one helpless moment that he was going to cry. She thought of Mulder’s bewilderment, his utter confusion outside that base and felt a pang of guilt that her own boyfriend’s emotional outpouring left her cold, while her new partner’s wilfully inflicted situation had her welling with sympathy.

“I’ve got to go, Ethan,” she said and gave him a peck on the cheek.

              “I do love you, Dana.” He held onto her hand, gripping it until her fingers turned white.

              “I know,” she said.

She tossed and turned and fell asleep as a grey dawn cracked open the sky. Sunday morning lie-ins surrounded by the papers and toast crumbs seemed a world away as the irritating buzz of her cell phone woke her.

              “Mulder? What’s the matter?”

              He arrived less than forty minutes later, a bag of bagels in his hand. “I owe you an apology, Scully.”

              She pulled the tie of her robe tighter and flicked on the jug. “Why? What have you done this time?”

              He chuckled. “I haven’t been entirely honest with you. And that’s not fair. You’re my partner and you are entitled to be treated as an equal.”

              Turning round to face him, she saw that familiar expression he had, the one where he bared himself, opened himself up. She’d seen it in Bellefleur, at the motel. And again on the way back from Ellens Airbase. Fox Mulder might be capable of hiding things away, but when he wanted to let them out, you couldn’t resist listening.

              “So I did see you with a man the other day.”

              He nodded. “I’m sorry. I thought I was protecting him. My source. But if I protect him, where does that leave you?”

              She took two teabags from the box and dropped them into two mugs. “On the outside,” she said. That seemed to be her life at the moment. Watching it all unfold from a safe distance.

              “And I don’t want that for you,” he said. “I want us to be equals, in every way.”

              She laughed but shook her head. “I think you need to have a word with my boyfriend.”

              Mulder sank back against the bench top. “Trouble in the Garden of Eden?”

              “Ethan. His name is Ethan.”

              “I’m sorry, Scully. The job can really mess around with relationships.”

              She poured the tea. “Oh, I know that, Mulder. But something tells me it’s not just the job that’s getting in the way.”

              His face relaxed again, offering her the chance to talk.

              “But it’s nothing to do with you, so I won’t bore you with the details.”

              “Hey, partner. I’m here for the details. I love the details. I’m a details man,” he took a sip of tea and she couldn’t help but notice his mouth, his full lips. The way he smiled so easily when he wanted to.

              “Well, details man, why don’t you let me know what the next case is and I’ll figure out what I’m going to do with my Garden of Eden.”

              “I have some advice, if you’re willing to take it?”

              She folded her arms. “Go on.”

              “Don’t give in to temptation.” He grinned at his own joke and she couldn’t help but giggle.

              “Is that all you got?”

              “You want more?”

              “I thought you were a details man, Mulder.” She was laughing now, blowing steam off her mug as she did. She felt her body soften. She loved this bantering.

              “Really, Scully, if you need to sort things out with Ethan, you need to do it. A clean break. Rip off the band-aid.”

              She put the mug down and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “You seem to know a lot about the state of my relationship, Mulder.”

              He sighed. “I’ve learned a bit about you, Scully, in the time we’ve known each other. And you seem out of sorts. I know you are very single-minded and focussed but if you let something like this fester it can wedge itself in your mind and take away your focus.”

              “Voice of experience?”

              He chuckled again. “Something like that.”

              “But you’re wedded to your work, Mulder. No time for anything else. Me? I want a life.”

              His voice dropped and he stepped closer to her, looming over her until she could smell his cologne. He bent forward and put the mug in the sink, his arm brushing hers. He stayed there as he spoke, almost a whisper. “And I want a partner who’s clear about what she wants.”

              Her throat was so dry the noise of her swallowing filled the space between them. Her arms and legs felt heavy and useless. He was fucking right. And she knew what she had to do.

              “You know what you have to do, Scully. You just need to do it.”

              He finally moved back and there was a brightness invading her space now. She sighed and felt the prickle of tears at her eyes. She wouldn’t give in. Shouldn’t. She turned to the sink and ran the water as she sniffed. She didn’t hear him return. His hands massaged the gristles in her shoulders and she let him for a while.

              “You need to relieve this tension, Scully. You’re holding it all in here.” His knuckles  kneaded a hard knot and she gasped, turning to face him. His face was inches from hers and he was half-smiling. His stubble gave him a harder edge and she pressed herself harder against the bench, the damp soaking into her robe.

              “I just feel like a shit, dumping him so soon after starting a new job. And for no real reason.”

              Mulder shrugged. “You need a reason?”

              She nodded. “It makes things easier.”

              He bent forward, took her face in his large, warm hands and kissed her. Gentle at first, then with more urgency. She couldn’t breathe. His fingers brushed her cheeks and he was so tender, so genuine that she couldn’t think. When he let her go, stepped back and rolled his lips together, like he was enjoying he aftertaste of her, she blushed hot. He waited a beat, seeming to enjoy her discomfort.

              “Is that enough of a reason?” he asked, his voice threaded.

              She flexed her shaking fingers and looked up at him. “Is that all you got?”

The best best friends

Originally posted by smart-arse-under-the-mountain

Fandom: The Hobbit
Pairings: Fili x reader, Kili x reader
Genres: platonic fluff, friendship
Words: 1.510
Summary: You are having a bad day, but Fili and Kili are there to cheer you up - requested by @princess-of-erebor1992

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Yoongi Scenario: Tainted Love - Part 2.

Request:  Could you make one with Yoongi being some sort of demon/vampire boss that every one is super scared of but then there is Y/N, Yoongi is in love with her and everyone is always super impressed how Yoongi always surrenders and softens when something is about her? He’s super protective and wants to please her in his own way, thank you for doing this i love you

Summary: Demons are merciless, demons are ruthless, demons can’t hold nothing dear to them. Yoongi is the leader, the king of the demon world. He is feared as he is respected, no one expected him to bring a human girl as his lover, you. You fell in love and now you are in the midst of adjusting to the demon world, its custums, and its dangers. But everything is worth it if is for him, the demon king that lives between shadows and that would turn hell apart to protect you.

Demon AU. Featuring all BTS.

Genre: Romance / Drama.

Part 1 / Part 3 / Part 4 / Part 5 / Part 6 / Part 7 / Part 8 / Part 9 / Part 10 / Part 11 / Part 12 / Part 13

It wasn’t your first time in Yoongi’s manor, during the time you’d had been together he had brought you here several times, you didn’t remember how many, but in all those times you hadn’t been able to get to know the whole place.

You walked down the hallways watching the art hanging on the walls, beautiful sceneries in some cases, rather grim ones in others. The manor had a nineteen century western ambiance, you could say even more ancient, it had a gothic feel to it, maybe because it was inhabited by demons. Nevertheless it also possessed the modern touch of technology and asian culture. Yoongi, you had learned through time, was actually quite enthusiastic about asian calligraphy, art pieces about it could be found throughout the manor as he’d say that words had power.

Every room in the manor, at least the ones you’d visited, had the right amount of light for it to create shadows out of almost everything, it didn’t matter which hour of the day it was, each room poured shadows that if you had to be honest you were still getting used to. One thing was Yoongi’s shadows and another were these, they created movement, allowing someone who knew how to occult and lurk in plain sight so although you were completely safe in his place, you also knew there were a lot of things to be wary of.

-Miss Y/N-

A voice made you jump, you turned around to find one of the members of Yoongi’s inner circle. He was Hoseok and at first you’d thought he was a butler, because to be fair, he dressed just like one, a black tuxedo and the white dress shirt underneath showing just enough, a bow tie adorning his neck. Out of all the demons you had seen he was the most elegant and proper, him and maybe Jin too.

-Hello- you muttered, feeling a little startled for not hear him coming, you never heard them coming. -You can just call me Y/N, I’ve told you-

He nodded, his orangey silky hair bowing down. -I know Miss, Y/N, Yoongi is waiting for you at the dinning room-

-Alright, you should have told him to just find me himself- that made him chuckle.

-Imagine the outcome of that though- you laughed a little too, Yoongi could be a lazy ass when he was set for it. But as solicitous as Hoseok was you knew he was no butler, although his main job required him to never leave the manor.

Hoseok escorted you until you were in front of the dinning doors which opened at his will, you entered and found Yoongi at the head of the table, a scowl on his face and a meat knife going around his hands.

-About time-

You rolled your eyes and sat beside him, watching as the servants came with the food, walking around Yoongi carefully although not fearful.

-Thank you for waiting- you said despite your eye roll. You knew that if you were around he didn’t eat if you hadn’t eaten.

In front of you you saw what you thought was venison, the herbs making the smoke coming from it to water your mouth, it wasn’t the regular meat you’d eat on a daily basis but here they ate it a lot. You had inquired Yoongi about food before, because it was kind of odd that demons fed the same as humans, Yoongi had explained that they ate because they enjoyed it, but not because of need. Although there was indeed something about it that benefited them. 

The hunting, the killing.

He had let you know that what fed demons was no other thing but power, and there was absolute power in those two activities.

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anonymous asked:

chase/schneep (romantic) maybe??? :o

{ wayy longer than I expected // I forgot that I didn’t really know how to write jse egos so sorry if this is bad }

The Doctor rarely had visitors. That is, unless they were screaming something about demons or they had a broken leg. He usually asked both of them why they were visiting his house instead of leaving him the fuck alone (in the first case) or going straight to the hospital (in the second case). There was only one exception to that rule; Chase. Once his neighbour came inside, he wouldn’t leave until Dr. Schneeplestein was smiling and thanking him for showing up.

He was sitting at his desk in the living room, scribbling away in a small notebook. It was late, his daughter was asleep and he wasn’t expecting anyone. Dr Schneeplestein took a sip of his coffee - decaffeinated, of course. If he was awake, it wasn’t because of the beverage he was drinking.

“Uh, Doc, you left your door open again. Can I come in?”

Dr. Schneeplestein was torn from whatever trance he’d been in to step into the hallway. The voice was familiar.

“I– No wonder it was so cold in here!” He was still surprised by Chase’s surprise visit. Didn’t he have better things to do? Dr. Schneeplestein was tired and honestly rather irritable, so he wasn’t in the mood for Chase’s antics. “Sure, come in, make yourself at home.”

“Dude, you look exhausted. Are you okay? You look like you haven’t slept for at least a week.” Chase sat him down on the sofa, clearly concerned for him. “Is it work again? I thought they told you to take a break sometimes.”

He had been working harder than he probably should. But it was his job to save lives and if that required him to go without sleep, then so be it. Chase didn’t see things the same way. He barely had the energy to do anything; his head ended up nestled into Chases’ shoulder. It was more comfortable than he thought it would be.

“Yes, no… It’s a lot of tiny, different things, okay?”

A hand brushed through his hair. Was he blushing? He attempted to hide his face in Chase’s shoulder, although he knew it wouldn’t work.

“You’re actually kinda cute when you’re sleepy. Y'know, when you’re not trying to bite my head off.” Chase murmured, glancing away from him for a moment before looking back with a smile. “Sleepy Schneepy…~”

“I don’t try and bite your head off,” he muttered, his voice partially muffled. “And don’t call me that…”

“See, you do! Sleepy Schneepy~”

“Shut up Chase.”

“I will if you get some sleep.”

“Okay, okay, I will. On one condition.”

“… what’s that, bro?”

“If you stay with me. Uhm, to make sure I do not wake up again.” Schneeplestein’s arms were loosely wrapped around Chase’s waist.

“Okay, I can do that. Night, buddy.”

{ @chase-brody-protection-squad ig you’d like to see this?? }
Accepting Him

Fandom: The Boy
Characters: Brahms, Mr and Mrs Heelshire
Relationship: Brahms/reader
Request: Have you seen The Boy? Could I request one where the reader is a old friend of Brahms and doesn’t know hes still alive but agrees to be a nanny to the doll to repay the family? And its like the same plot as the movie but its her abusive dad Brahms kills and she stays? Thx
Authors Note: Massive Spoiler – but what a great movie!
You looked out of the window of the black taxi, the trees becoming a blur. The taxi driver was focused on the road which you were grateful for since you didn’t feel like speaking to anyone.
You were going to stay with the Heelshire out in their big country home. You were both dreading and looking forward to it.
You had known the family many many years ago, back when you were 7 years old. You have been best friends with Brahms, whos weirdness matched your own. But you were from an abusive family and he hated that. SO when the whole Emily thing had happened, your family had dragged you away to another country so that the police wouldn’t find out about the nasty hand shaped bruise on your arms or the black eyes you had.
You had found out that Brahms had died not long after you left in a house fire. It had devastated you. So you were surprised when you accidently stumbled across an add to look after a 8 year old boy called Brahms who lived at the same address, you were on the phone straight away.
Mrs Heelshire picked up the phone. You were surprise at how she still sound just as you remembered her.
“Hello, Mrs Heelshire. You may not remember me but-“ you had barley finished your sentence when you heard her calling to her husband.
“Daddy, come here. Its [y/n]! You remember her? Brahms little friend!” She sounded so happy despite her somewhat monotone voice. You had heard Mr Heelshire coming in the room and asked how you were. You had always adored them both. They were more like parents that your actual parents. They had tried to protect you from the violence you had endured.
you spent a few minutes exchanging pleasantries and finding out how you were. But you were curious and that curiosity got the better of you.
“The reason I called was because of this add I found.” As soon as you spoke, you heard the other side of the phone fall silent. You allowed them to gather their thoughts before Mrs Heelshire spoke, her voice shaking.
“Yes, we are looking for a nanny while we are away on holiday.” She was rather vague which made you frown but you were glad she couldn’t see you. She would always tell you off if you had frowned a her when you were younger.
“For Brahms. But he- he would have been 26, would he?” You ask, originally going to say but he was dead but then you decide against it.
“Yes, my dear. But he is still very much with us. He is still a child, still 8 years old.” She said and instantly you understood.
You had seen plenty of cases where parents who had not grieved properly never accepted the loss of their child. Instantly you thought of a doll. Perhaps that was what they required.
You had suffered from guilt over the years. You should have stayed to help Brahms and maybe you could have helped him more. Maybe if you had been there, he wouldn’t have been killed in the fire. These maybes killed you every day. You had never forgotten him.
“May I apply?” You ask, hearing the intake of breath on the other line. They hadn’t expected that.
You heard a muffling sound which you assumed was a hand being placed over the phone and voices which were muffled. You had allowed them to speak amongst themselves.
But they had accepted and offered you the job there and then. In fact, Mrs Heelshire had sounded thrilled as she told you she would pay for your travel expenses.
She asked if you had a job that you needed to give notice period but you told her you were a writer so it would be nice to spend a couple of months away and that you could work on your new book.
So, here you were. The house began to loom over the trees as the taxi driver stopped the car to open the gates. Memories flooded back to you.
When you would come up here, you were small enough to slip through the gates and run up the path.
You blinked away the tears as the driver gets back into the car and drives up.
Arriving outside the grand doors, you were surprised at how it hadn’t changed. Apart from the outsides of Brahms room. That was boarded up.
Of course, Mrs Heelshire was waiting for you outside and she smiled as you got out the car. You weren’t sure how she would greet you but she embraced you with open arms. As you pulled back, she moved a strand of your [h/c] hair out of your face.
“my, my. You grew up to be so beautiful.” She mumbled, more to herself than you but you couldn’t help but smile at her. It was very rare you received compliments since you kept yourself to yourself.
Her smile faulted as she looked over her shoulder into the house.
“Come, there is much to go over.” She then turned on her heel and walked inside.
You followed her but only after the driver had said he would place your luggage inside for you.
She talked you through your duties, cooking and some light cleaning. She told you that there will be a man who delivers the groceries once a week and that they kept and froze all the leftovers. You nodded and smiled, showing you understood.
Then she took you to meet Brahms.
As you thought, he was a doll. When you walked into the room, Mr Heelshire was crouched by a chair, speaking to someone in the chair and as he moved, your mouth nearly fell open.
The doll was so similar to the Brahms you remembered. His big eyes, neatly combed black hair. Even down to his smart outfit.
Of your own accord, you walked forward and kneeled in front of Brahms, looking at him.
You knew Mr and Mrs Heelshire eyes were focused on you but you didn’t care. You felt a pang of pain in your chest. You missed him every day and now, you may have a chance to repay him and this family for leaving. You reached out and ran your finger down his cheek.
“Introduce yourself dear. He may not recognise you. You have grown up so much.” Mr Heelshire nodded to you.
“Hi, Brahms. It’s me, [y/n]. Remember me? We used to play together when we were children.” You smiled at Brahms, taking his small, porcelain hand and shaking it lightly.
Mrs Heelshire smiled, placing a hand over her heart.
You spent the rest of the day with Mr and Mrs Heelshire and Brahms of course. They showed you how to clean the traps and what clothes Brahms needed to be dressed in and the way your day should work. You got very excited when Mrs Heelshire asked you to read poetry and play classical music. Mr Heelshire said a number of times that things weren’t as they seemed and that Brahms was still here. You agreed with him.
When you were finished, she asked for a moment alone with Mr Heelshire and Brahms. You stood in the hall, a little nervous. What if they resented you for leaving?
But Mrs Heelshire opened the door, beaming at you.
“He wants you, if you will still have him?”
Of course, you agreed.
—————-time skip ——————–
After Mr and Mrs Heelshire left, you followed the rules to a tee.
You woke, dressed and cared for Brahms. You had sat with him the first night and poured your heart out to the doll. You cried, sobbing about how sorry you were and that you wanted to stay with him but they wouldn’t let you.
However, you were slowly beginning to believe that he was alive, the doll was alive. Little items would go missing, like a neckless and some clothes. Sometimes, things weren’t where you left them and sometimes, it was the doll himself who had moved. You had tested your theory by placing him on the floor and drawing around him with chalk and he would move!
At first, you didn’t believe it but now, you were sure he was here, in spirt or something. You assumed he had forgiven you for leaving since he never did anything to hurt or scare you (on purpose). He would never go out of his way to make you happy.
Like leaving your favourite book on your bed to read to yourself or he would give you hints to what you could write about.
You would sit with Brahms and play the piano for him, or read to him.
Over time, you became attached to him.
It was apparent that he didn’t like Malcom, the delivery boy. But neither did you. He was too noisy and rude. But he did only come around once a week.
You were sitting with Brahms, reading to yourself when you heard a bang from downstairs. You jumped and looked at Brahms.
“Was that you?” You asked, but when you heard it again, you knew it wasn’t Brahms. You quickly got to your feet and picked up Brahms, holding him close to your body protectively.
Walking down the corridor, you called out ‘hello?’ a couple of times before deciding the noise was coming from the pool room.
You turned the corner and there stood your father. Abusive, drunk, controlling father.
“There you are [y/n]! Get your stuff.” He stumbled across the room, bashing his hip on the table and grunting.
“How did you knew where I was?” You ask, your voice shaking as you hold Brahms tighter. Your father’s eyes fell on the doll, smirking at you.
“Your flatmate. Ran into her while she was forwarding on your mail. Managed to nick a letter and here I am. How dare you leave without my permission.” He became enraged, walking up and grabbing your upper arm. You struggled but he squeezed tighter, making you cry out in pain.
“Stop it, you’re hurting me!” You cry out, pulling back. Just as you did that, he left go and you fell backwards, your head banging against the wall. You whimper to yourself, checking Brahms before yourself. You were relieved to see he was unharmed.
“Now, get your stuff. Now, [y/n]!” He demanded as he turned.
“Please, don’t leave me.” A quiet voice, only loud enough for you to hear. Your eyes widened as you looked at Brahms. Had he spoke to you?
Your eyes light up as you thought of an idea.
“Can we leave tomorrow? It’s so dark out and we are so far from anywhere. And in the morning, I’ll make food.” You call out, still looking at Brahms but you could tell your father had stopped.
“Fine. Get me some covers, girl.” He growled and you scrambled to your feet, running out the door with Brahms in your arms. You set him down in his room.
“I don’t want to put you in danger again so I’m going to leave you alone for just a moment, okay?” You ask but don’t get a reply so you took that as a yes and ran out the room to grab covers and pillows.
Your father was already passed out on a couch by the time you had got back so you threw the covers over him, knowing that if he woke up and saw them folded in a corner, you would get a whack for being lazy.
You ran back to Brahms and shut the door, locking it from the inside. You lay down beside him and wrapped your arms around him.
“I’m not going to leave you, not again. But I need your help.” You whispered to him, the fear in your voice obvious. You whispered to Brahms a few more times that you weren’t going to leave him but you began to grow sleepy, your eyelids dropping.
You were dozing when you heard your name being screamed by your father at the top of his lungs. He sounded both angry and scared which was dangerous. You instantly noticed Brahms was gone and the door was open. You scrambled out of the bed and bolted down the hallways, your heart beating hard against your chest.
‘please let him be okay. Please let Brahms be okay.’ You prayed as you rounded the corner of the pool room to see your father leaning against the pool table, blood on his forehead. You looked around and saw dead rats in his luggage.
“There you are. What the hell is this?” He demanded, walking over to you but all you could do was shake your head, your eyes falling on Brahms in the corner. You mumbled his name as you ran around the table to pick him up. Your father followed you.
“Really, the doll? You think I believe that?” he then snatched Brahms by the legs and pulled him from your grasp.
“No, no, no. please!” You gasped, trying to get him back. But your father was no hold Brahms fragile body by the leg and swinging him around.
“You think I’m going to believe that a doll did this. You need to grow up. ‘Brahms’ is dead. And it’s all your fault.” He sneered at you, knowing how to kick you when you’re down.
“Please, just give him back.” You cried, tears running down your cheek as you held your hands out to him.
you father turned to you, smirking. You didn’t like that smirk; it was one he would give you when he would have a horrible idea.
“Once I break this doll, I’m going to kill you.” He sneered then raised the doll over his head and slammed it down on a chair. The porcelain face shattered into a thousand pieces before your eyes. You fell to your knees, your eyes wide and your mouth open. You let out a cry of angst as you watch one of Brahms eyes falling off the seat.
You had failed him again.
You buried your head in your hands as you sobbed. Hearing footsteps, you prepared yourself for the pain but it never came.
Instead, there was a number of bangs and thumps which made you look up and around. Your father had frozen and was looking fearfully at the wall. He walls shook and the light dimmed slightly.
When the noise had stopped, your father started to walk towards a mirror than was on the opposite wall. You pushed yourself back so your back was against a wall, pulling your knees up to your chest. Just as he was about a foot away from the mirror, it shattered, shards of glass flying everywhere as your father stumbled back. The space behind the mirror was hollow and a figure began to appear. It wore a black vest with a thick, chalk coloured sweater. His face was covered with a mask of a dolls face, similar to Brahms one. He had jet black hair which curled at the ends.
As he emerged from the hole in the wall, he looked at you and then to your father.
“Who the fuck are you?!” You father cried out before pouncing at the man.
It would seem the man expected his and gripped your father arms, swinging him around and slamming him against the wall. But your father was still a little drunk and a little pain would stop him. He lunged at the man again and once again, the man managed to better him. He pinned your father down on the floor, his hand on your father throat.
Your father looked at you, his eyes begging for help but you just shook your head.
The amount of time you had been thrown about a room, chocked, struck, beaten by him. You honestly didn’t care if this stranger killed him.
Your father’s eyes fell shut and he stopped struggling.
you watched his body go limp and felt relived.
It was over. You would no long have to run and hind from him anymore.
But the relief was short lived at the man turned his attention to you. You held your breath as he stood and walked over to you, somewhat timidly. As if he was afraid of what you would do.
You closed your eyes as you saw him crouching in front of you, waiting for him to finish you of too. But you were surprised when you felt a shaking finger stroking your cheek. You opened your eyes and saw the man in front of you, his eyes begging you for something.
As you looked into his eyes, you saw something familiar. Something you had seen before.
The timid strokes reminded you of the first time you had come here to look after Brahms, the way you had greeted him.
Then it clicked.
“Brahms?” You asked, your voice shaking as his eyes widened. He gently nodded his head, his curls bouncing slightly.
He was alive. After all this time. You glance to the hole in the wall. He had been living in the walls. He had been here all along.
You reached out and traces a finger down his masks cheek. You could see the burn marks around his eyes so you assumed his whole face must have been burnt, hence the mask. It all clicked together.
It was him you had been looking after. It was from inside the walls.
Your emotions were everywhere. You were filled with relief and sadness. Joy and pain. But as you stared into his eyes, you felt love.
Something behind Brahms moved and your eyes caught a glimpse of your father stumbling over to Brahms, his pocket knife raised above his head.
“Watch out!” You cried, pushing Brahms out the way and pouncing forward.
Your father brought the knife down and it caught your cheek.
Brahms was quick to tackle your father from the side, the knife falling out his hand just as he fell to the ground. You watched Brahms grab a piece of the broken doll and ram it into your father throat. Blood spurted everywhere as your father let out a gargling notice, his legs falling still.
You ran to Brahms, cupping his cheeks and turning his face to look at you.
“Brahms, you okay?” You asked, your voice shaking as he looks at you. He nodded slightly but his hand raises and touches your cheek. When he pulls it away, you see the blood on his fingertips. You raised your own hand and touch your cheek, the cut stinging.
when you winced you felt a slender hand wrap around your wrist gently and pulled it away. You looked at Brahms to see his eyes on your cheek.
He began to stand up, pulling you up with him. You were too busy concentrating on him to see how he was concentrating solely on you. His eyes skimmed your face, his hand reaching up to cup your good cheek.
He then took your right hand and pulled you out of the pool room and into the kitchen. You stumbled a little behind him, head still spinning.
He was so tall. You couldn’t help but feel dwarfed by him slender body.
As you entered the kitchen, he pointed at the large dining table before going into the cupboard with a medical kit. You went over and stood by the table, not wanting to sit and risk getting blood on the wood.
Brahms turned back to you, in his hand was the medical kit. You could see he was shaking slightly. The adrenaline must have worn off and now he was worried. Worried about you or because of you, you didn’t know.
He pointed to the table again.
“I don’t want to get blood on the table, Brahms.” You said, trying to keep your voice normal. He probably was worried about how you would react.
He shook his head slightly and walked over to you, placing a hand either side of your waist and lifted you up to sit you on the table. You couldn’t help but giggle at this.
He had picked you up as if you were the same weight as a doll. Which was ironic.
Brahms then stood in front of you and started to dab at your cheek with an antibacterial wipe. They stung and you flinched away.
Brahms pulled back when you winced, his eyes screaming apologies at you for the pain. You smiled slightly at him, straighten back up to show you were okay and Brahms got back to work. You knew there was nothing that could be done since he couldn’t cover it with a bandage or plaster and it wasn’t deep enough to warrant stitching. So you would just have to wait for it to heal.
You took that moment to let your mind wonder.
You pieced together everything in your mind. The missing items, the moments, the noises. It was Brahms but not in spirt, in person. Despite the past months, you felt safe with him. Even though it was a somewhat strange situation, you trusted Brahms with your life. He could easily kill you. He had proven he was strong and that he could. But he wouldn’t.
Because he needed you. And you needed him.
Your eyes moved to his mask. You knew he had been badly burnt and that was probably why he wore this mask. He wanted the perfect skin of that mask, of the doll. Your heart wept for him. You wondered if his mother or father had encouraged him to wear the mask.
You reached out both your hands, your fingers trailing along the cheek of the mask. You noticed Brahms had stopped and was staring down at you, his eyes wide. You hooked the tips of your fingers around the sides of the mask and began to pull it up, attempting to remove the mask. Brahms hand quickly but gently grabbed your wrists, his eyes begging for you to stop as he let out whimper.
“Don’t you trust me?” You asked gently, frowning slightly. You saw him falter a little as if he was asking himself the same question.
Slowly, he lowered his hands and you lifted the mask off his face.
The right side of his face was badly scarred with burns while his left side wasn’t as badly. In fact, even with the burns, you were surprised at how handsome he was.
His eyes were staring at the floor, his black curls falling in front of his eyes. He had a full beard but it didn’t go up the side of his face due to the scars. You placed the mask gently to the side then reached out your right hand to brush the curls out of his face. He looked up at you.
“[y/n].” He spoke quietly. His voice was a little raspy but angelic.
“Hi Brahms.” You smile, as if it was the first time you had met, which it was.
Before you knew what was happening, his arms were waist around your waist and hugged you close, his face buried in your neck. You didn’t waste any time wrapping your own arms around him, holding him close and trying to sooth him.
When he pulled back, he kept close with his forehead against yours. Your eyes glanced down at his lips. They were full with a small scarring on the right side of his top lip but you didn’t care. To you, he was perfect.
Gently, as if not to scare him, you leaned forward, your hands on the back of the neck and your thumbs rubbing small circle. Brahms watched you closely, as if he didn’t believe what was happening but the second he realised this was real, he quickly closed the gap between you in a sweet kiss. The kiss, though full of inexperience, was passionate. His hands held you close with a sense urgency and he left out sweet little moans every now and again.
You pulled back a little for air, despite Brahms desperation to continue the kiss. You knew he probably wouldn’t have kissed or been with a girl but you hadn’t been kissed before anyone either.
Just then, the clock in the kitchen chimed midnight, making you jump a little.
“Oh Brahms. I didn’t realise how late it was. We should really get to bed.” You jumped down from the table, making Brahms take a step back, his head hung and his body slouched over. You smiled a little to yourself before reaching out and taking his hand. You thought of sleeping in your bed alone and something about that made you uneasy.
“Could you stay in with me tonight? I can sleep on the floor or something. I just don’t want to be on my own.” You asked shyly, avoiding eye contact with him. You really wanted for him to stay but you didn’t want him to feel forced.
You saw his feet stop in front of you and felt his arms wrap around you and he started to guild you toward the door.
He kept you close as he walked up the stair and to your room. You assumed that was he was agreeing to stay. And as you thought, he came into your room with you.
Neither of you bother to take off the clothes as Brahms walked around the queen bed. You walked over to the small armchair in the corner of your room which you had fallen asleep in before but a pair of arms wrapped around you and lifted you up before Brahms walked over and placed you on the bed. He then walked around the bed and crawled in beside you. Brahms lay on his back, his arms by his side but the warmth of him drew you so you cuddled into his side.
The last thing you remembered was an arm wrapping around you and his body turning so Brahms was holding you close.

A Fish Fic for (not) Friday

It wasn’t until I went to write that title that I realized I should’ve saved this fic back till tomorrow, but it’s already posted and I am not a patient woman anyway. Oh well! Here is a short West Wing standalone fic about my favorite mystery: what benign force is in charge of Gail’s fishbowl? Personally I still believe it’s magic, but this is a somewhat more mundane explanation. Hope you enjoy! 

“So what’s going on in here?”

Carol jumped at the sudden voice from behind her, water slopping over her fingers as she tightened her grip on the glass bowl. She turned to glare at the interloper, now leaning in the doorway as though he had not a care in the world. “You’re not supposed to be back here, Danny,” she accused. “Margaret’s going to eat you for breakfast.”

“Hey, ease back there, Galatea,” Danny implored, raising his empty hands. “I’ve got a note from the boss, I swear. We’re meeting for lunch.”

Keep reading

The Stand-In Part 3

A/N: Here’s part three. It isn’t quite what I was expecting, but it felt right when I was writing it. So this is what I’m going with! Enjoy! If you’d like to be tagged in it, shoot me a message or comment on a part and I’ll add you to my list!

Pairing: Firefighter!DeanXReader

Word count: 2680

Warnings: None for this part

Series Masterlist


The week couldn’t have gone by any slower, and she watches the clock in her living room nervously as it strikes four thirty.

She promised herself that she wouldn’t start to get ready before five. Any earlier than that and she’d be ready and waiting for Dean to pick her up.

And she has had enough waiting for one week.

Every single day at work was torturous, and the hours spent with her favorite axolotls barely even made up for it.

She’s anxious. It’s been a whole five days since she’s seen the man that is Dean Winchester.

Five days.

God, she sounds like a lovesick puppy when she puts it that way.

She fiddles around on her phone for a while, trying to pass the time until she finally gets to see him again. She runs through her social media apps and plays a few games that don’t really hold her interest.

It makes for slow going, but eventually she makes it to four forty-five.

She decides “to hell with it” and heads for her room to pull on the jean shorts and tank top she has deemed worthy of being first date material. She’s wearing her favorite black underwear and bra set, the ones she usually wears for good luck.

For anyone else, she’d wear a dress, maybe do some makeup. But Dean had specifically told her that they’d be outside and it would be hot, that she shouldn’t worry about makeup.

It didn’t really matter anyways, he had seen her without it at IHOP when they first met. If he didn’t leave at that, then she should be good.

But he didn’t say anything about hair, and she isn’t sure if she should wear it down or put it up. For the outdoors, she considers wearing it in a ponytail, but nothing else seems like first date clothes.

Maybe wearing it down would be better?

Or would Dean even care?

Her phone chimes a message from him, the tone letting her know that it was him and no one else.

Hey, I’m gonna call real quick. Is that okay?

Deciding not to draw the text conversation out, she presses call on her own whim and holds her phone up, looking into her mirror.

She has a flush to her cheeks that hasn’t been there in a long time, her excitement and nervousness staining her cheeks. She draws her bottom lip between her lip and gives a sultry look, wondering if she should try it on him during their date.

“Hi,” she says once she hears him pick up. She’s giddy, excited beyond belief.

“Hey,” he says, his tone telling her immediately that something was wrong. Her smile falls, but she’s determined not to jump to any conclusions.

“What’s up?” she asks nervously while clipping a necklace around her neck that matched her shirt. “I’m getting ready now.”

He should be here to pick her up in less than an hour, and she doesn’t want him to have to wait on her.

“Actually, about that,” he says, and she pauses while reaching for her favorite ring, her other good luck charm. The panties and bra could only do so much, and she felt like she might need the extra luck tonight.

“Is everything okay?” she asks, waiting for his response.

“I know this is super shitty of me to do, but I got called into work and I’m on my way in now. Can we move our date to tomorrow?” he asks, and her face falls.

“Oh,” she whispers, her stomach sinking.

They hadn’t even had a real, planned date and he was already backing out? Maybe she came off as too clingy with her text this morning stating her excitement for their date?

“Yeah, that’s fine. No big deal,” she says, but even she can hear the lie in her own voice.

“I’m so sorry, Sweetheart,” he sounds truly sorrowful through the phone, and she bites the inside of her cheek. “I’m not even on call but the team is off on one serious call, and we just got another major one and a lot of us got called in.”

“No, it’s okay,” she swallows the disappointment down. “It’s work, it’s important to you. I don’t want to stand in the way of that.

“Thank you so much for understanding. I promise I’ll make it up to you tomorrow with our date,” he says, and she has to struggle to make out her next words.

“Okay. I guess I’ll see you then,” she whispers, saying her goodbyes before hanging up the phone.

She looks at herself in the mirror and has to hold back tears as she takes off her necklace.

It was just a stupid date being rescheduled, why was she getting so emotional about it?

It was a stupid date with a guy she barely even knew for a week, at that. It shouldn’t be very big of a deal.

But damn it, her chest hurts.

The one guy that she really feels something with just postponed their date, the only thing that’s gotten her through this hell of a week, for work.

Where the hell does he even work that’s so important anyways?

He never did say, just that he worked all week and was supposed to be off for the weekend.

As she looks at herself in the mirror, she’s glad that she made herself wait to get ready. She doesn’t want to think how she would feel if she’d been ready and waiting for hours beforehand, only to be skipped out on.

Her stomach grumbles, a reminder that she hadn’t eaten dinner yet as she was waiting for their date.

Angrily, she pulls off her clothes and pulls on the big oversized shirt that she usually sleeps in.

She meanders to the kitchen and grabs some comfort food to make up for her horrible luck and then ventures to the living room.

If she can’t have a date with him, then she’ll just have a date with her television instead.

Even as she thinks that, she realizes how stupid and miserable it sounds.

She flips on the television and finds the end of a cooking show playing, so she decides to leave it there, too upset to bother with changing it.

As she eats her chocolate bar, she looks to her phone and debates sending Dean a text telling him not to bother tomorrow, that if work was more important than something they’d planned then maybe it wouldn’t work out.

Besides, it was better to see this early than be in a relationship with him and see him prioritize work over her more often.

She decides against it because she knows that she’s angry, and once she sent something like that she wouldn’t be able to take it back.

And, after all, she didn’t know what exactly his job was. He could be a doctor for all she knew, and him not going in would kill people.

She finishes one show and is about halfway through another when she flips the channel on the remote accidentally with her elbow when she moves to lay down.

Pictures of a burned house greet her vision, and she frowns at it sadly. It looked like it had burned a good bit, but not the whole thing. It would cost a lot in repairs, if they even tried to save it.

A news reporter stands in front of the wreckage, her black hair in a carefully manicured bob.

“Reporting live from Lawrence, this is Katia Desmond from Triple I with local firefighter Dean Winchester, who has just helped to put out the fire. Dean, can you give us any comments about what happened here?” the female news reporter asks, turning her microphone from herself to a man that looked extremely familiar.

He’s in a full fireman’s uniform, his face dirty and his green eyes tired as he looked to Katia. He’s holding his helmet against his hip his hair wet with sweat.

His posture is one of annoyance, like he would rather be anywhere else than talking to this reporter.

“The man was an alcoholic and got in a fight with his wife. Lit the place on fire to prove a point,” Dean’s voice cuts through her television screen.

She bites her lip as she hears him speak. God, it’s only been an hour or so since she last heard it and it makes her breathless.

“Was anyone injured in the fire?” Katia asks, looking back to the fire a good ways behind them.

“No, both of the residents were lucky to be escorted out before it got too bad,” Dean answers curtly. “We stopped it before it spread anywhere, too.”

Her stomach sinks with regret as she listens to him speak.

She had been angry with him for ditching her when there was a serious emergency that required his attention.

She felt bad now, especially for being so upset. This was something out of his hands, and people’s lives were at stake. Of course he’d prioritize them over her, and he should.

“And is there anything else you’d like to say?” Katia asks, and she turns the microphone back to Dean.

“Yeah, actually,” Dean says, his voice hardening. “I’d like everyone to look at the scene behind us. This, everything that happened, was completely unnecessary.”

He looks back to the camera, and she feels as though Dean is looking right at her.

“Think about this, how unnecessary it was. Now think about the people that have to deal with this,” he says in that same tone of voice. “Some of us have lives outside of this job. Some of us had plans, plans that we’ve been looking forward to for a long time. So before you get wasted and light your entire house on fire, think about the people that have to deal with your actions. Think about how they’re giving up their time for you. Trust me, some of us have much more important things they could be doing.”

Her chest tightens with his words. Her throat constricts, and she finds it difficult to breath for a second as he gives a hard stare into the camera.

Finally, he hands the microphone back to Katia, giving her a nod before turning to return to the rest of the men who were waiting for his interview to finish.

“And… those have been some… heartfelt words from Mr. Dean Winchester, of our local fire department. I’m Katia Desmond, and this has been your Flash Update,” with those final words, the screen goes to commercial.

She watches the screen for a few moments, wondering how she could be so angry at something that she didn’t have all the full pieces to. She feels terrible for having misjudged Dean and his simple request to reschedule.

With her heart heavy in her chest, she turns the television off and stares at the black screen for a moment before collecting her trash and food. She makes her way to the kitchen and discards of what she can, and saves the rest in the refrigerator.

And then she finds her feet trudging to her room, where she sits down on her bed with a heavy sigh.

She rubs the blanket at the edge of her bed for a moment before she falls back onto her pillows, staring at her ceiling for long moments.

Her phone rings at some point, and she lets it. She doesn’t want to talk to him right now, not when she feels so guilty for being mad at him when she totally shouldn’t have been.

Finally, she crawls under her covers and stares at her phone’s screen, looking at the missed call from Dean.

A message pops up, and she reads it before her screen goes black in her hands.

I know you’re probably angry and don’t want to talk to me right now, and I’m angry at myself for putting something else over you. I just wanted to say I’m sorry.

Her stomach twists with his message, and she feels her eyes well with tears. Now here he was apologizing for something that wasn’t even his fault.

She sets her phone down and closes her eyes, hoping that sleep will take her and she can use the silly excuse that she had fallen asleep as a reason for not texting him back.

But sleep won’t come easily, and hours later she finds herself watching the black shadows of her room as they stand unmoving.

She unlocks her phone, checking the time.

One twenty in the morning.

She opens his message and reads it again, exhaling softly before shooting back one of her own.

It’s okay.

She hopes that he’s asleep, that he won’t see her message until in the morning when everything will be a fresh, new day.

But seconds after her message shoots across, she receives another.

What are you doing still awake?

Her stomach twists, and she sighs before typing out a response. He must still be upset, but he isn’t showing it.

I can’t sleep.

Me either.

She types out a text and then deletes it, knowing that she really shouldn’t send it. She bites her lip and finds herself typing it once more before pressing send.

Come over?

His response is nearly instantaneous.

Right now?

Yeah. I can’t sleep, and I miss you. I’ve been looking forward to seeing you all week.

Text me your address and I’ll be there in just a minute.

Her heart jolts, and she sends him the message before setting her phone down and clasping her hands over her face.

Was he really coming to visit her at this hour?

He didn’t even hesitate, not a single “Maybe another time” or “I’ll see you tomorrow anyways, though.”

Her phone chimes, and his message makes her smile for the first time in a few hours.

I’ll be there in ten.

She can’t believe it. He’s coming over at one twenty in the morning because…

Because she asked him to.

That’s it, just because she asked him to. Not even to get lucky or because she had a nightmare or something else.

She swallows the lump in her throat and jumps when she hears a knock on her door.

She races to it and throws the door open, hugging him tightly as he stepped through the threshold to her house.

“I’m so sorry, Sweetheart,” he breathes, holding her tightly as he kissed the top of her head. “I just-”

“I saw the news, Dean, it’s okay,” she states into his chest, smelling his thick scent of leather and some special musk that she can’t place but is what she imagines heaven to smell like. “I’m sorry I was so upset by it. You have a really important job, and I shouldn’t have been mad. I feel really bad about it.”

He exhales heavily and then pulls away to look at her, brushing some hair behind her ear.

“Come lay down with me?” she requests, and he smiles the tiniest smile before nodding. She takes his hand and leads him to her room, where she feels the slightest hint of flush creep into her face.

She just invited him into her bed. And she didn’t feel the slightest hint of regret about it.

She crawls in quietly and gestures him over. He climbs in behind her and she turns to face him, looking up to his gaze.

“Is this… Is this moving too fast?” she finally asks, frowning.

“It should be, but I don’t think so,” he answers, lightly grazing her cheek with his fingers. “It feels right.”

“It feels different with you than it did with other people,” she admits, looking to him with a shy smile. “Maybe it’s a sign.”

“Maybe,” he agrees, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. “Get some rest. I’ve been thinking of some things we can do tomorrow.”

“Dean?” she whispers, leaning into him as she closed her eyes.

“Hm?” he hums, looping an arm around her waist.

“Thank you for coming over.”


Part 4

Tags for those who have requested it:

@purely-myself-03 @morganpierce @perpetualabsurdity @stormblastfanfiction @vampire7595

Buddha For Mary - Chapter Three

Disclaimer: Fiction.

Warnings: Angst!

Tagging: @hazeleyedleto  @darklydeliciousdesires  @devorahlynn  @msroxyblog  @letojokerownsme  @miss-shannanigans @snewsome756   @maliciousalishious   @nikkitasevoli @meghan12151977  @mindlessselfindulgence88 @sanellv @ambolton  @jayded-reality  @bradlea23 @spillinginkwithlove @lolainblue  @alexis7215 @dezmarz  @pezziecoyote @jaredgucci  

Notes: I debated for a long time whether I should post this one or not. I was encouraged to do it by some people. With that being said, this one isn’t for the faint of heart. I’ll trigger warn as it progresses. Feedback is always welcome. <3


Chapter One | Chapter Two

Chapter Three

We finished our coffees and headed to his house. My eyes widened when I looked at the size. Granted, it wasn’t a mansion, but the house he lived in when he was a teenager was half the size. This was a luxury. Guess he had done well.

Keep reading

The Younger Donovan

Characters: Reader (Donovan’s litter sister), Sherlock, John, Lestrade, Donovan, Anderson, lil bit of OCs

Pairings: a lil bit of ReaderxSherlock

Warnings: None? Some mentions of murder but c’mon its a Sherlock imagine like its kinda expected

Word count: 2439

It is rare that you visit your sister at your work for any reason. It’s never necessary - expect the occasional time she forgot something back at her flat and calls you to bring it over to her, which has happened a total of five times over ten years. But today your parents are in town so once she gets off the two of you are going out to dinner with them.

Since you got off at two - thankful for flexible hours and a chill boss - you decide to head over to Scotland Yard. See the station in action, the excitement they always deal with. She’s told you plenty of stories of her co-workers (and you’ve heard plenty of the one she pretends she isn’t hooking up with) and some detective that always pisses her off.

As you walk into the Scotland Yard, someone you don’t recognize rushes past and nearly bumps into you, at least three boxes worth of documents in their arms. But you let it slide, they probably couldn’t even see you. Pushing forward into Scotland Yard and past all the desk towards the back, where you see your sister, you pass people who glance to you with peering eyes. Some you recognize, others you don’t. Which means some recognize you and others don’t.

“Sally!” you say as you get closer to where your sister, Anderson, and Lestrade stand discussing.

“Hey, didn’t think you were coming today,” she smiles, turning around to face you.

“Got off early, decided to come by to see you all in action!”

“Well, (Y/N), maybe you can be of assistance if you are anything like your sister. We are bit stuck on a few pieces of evidence, c’mon, I’ll show you,” Lestrade sighs. He turns around and starts walking off towards his office.

You follow behind him, your sister behind you. While you haven’t ever worked on a case, your sister has shown you plenty of evidence inadvertently before, causing you to help her on accident. So in all reality, it’s not anything new to you.

Lestrade opens his office door for you, allowing you and your sister to walk in. The DI walks over to the table opposite his desk to pick up and open a few of the evidence bags.

“A triple homicide - but the bodies were moved after they were shot to the different levels of the home - the three levels excluding the basement. Each person was redressed afterwards too, stuff placed around the. Very ritualistic and we can’t quite figure out what.”

“Lemme see,” you hum, grabbing the first set of photos from Lestrade.

As a librarian while you search for a job in the world of editing - you’ve read up on loads of lore and mythology and religions since it is so fascinating. Unless it is something the murderer created, you should be able to identify it quickly.

The first set, and therefore the first person, is wearing a black dress. Sets of symbols are carved into the woman’s forearm, cascading down in nearly perfect scrawl - done postmortem. It’s Enchain - language developed by John Dee, a Renaissance magician and mathematician. He supposedly contacted spirits. Originally named Adamic as John Dee called it, named Enochian after the prophet Enoch and eventually the supposed language of the angels.

“This is Enochian. Renaissance language from a mathematician guy, eventually became language of the angels because the prophet Enoch made it big and Biblical. Her right arm says ‘God is alive’ and the left says ‘I’m not worthy’.”

“Oh shit, really?” Lestrade grins. “So most likely someone with a God complex.”

“No. More likely someone who is a heavy believer in the devil. Not a Satanist, they believe in peace and equality, actually. But someone who is a true devil worshipper. They are on the hunt for this supposed alive God. If you look on the forehead, on the other postmortem cut, there are more small scrawl that says ‘Not this vessel’.”

“Are you sure it isn’t just someone thinking they are God looking for a vessel or whatever?”

“Highly unlikely. I would need to see the body in person though. True devil worshippers have very specific ways of handling bodies.”

“Oh my god, Lestrade, did you phone the freak?” Sally groans, her eyes glanced to outside the office.

“Well, yeah, this is a tough case,” he shrugs.

“The freak? That detective guy you always bitch about?” you confirm, placing the pictures down a moment to follow their eyes.

He’s tall, curly black hair, sharp cheekbones, blue eyes you can already see clearly with a black coat that has hints of dark blue. Behind him is a short fellow, blond hair, a more worn face. They walk quickly together, the taller one is long strides and the shorter one just as fast as he can. With no regard to what is already happening in the room, the two burst in.

“Hello freak,” Sally grits.

“Hello Donovan,” he states, voice deep. A nice deep voice. His attention quickly turns to Lestrade. “You didn’t give me much information, what is this case about? And who is…” he pauses, withdrawing one hand from his pocket to gesture towards you, “this?”

“Well, this is (Y/N) Donovan, Sally’s younger sister and she actually figured it out for us right before you got here,” he shrugs.

“Unlikely, she’s related to Sergeant Donovan, hand me the photos. I’ll be needing to go to the crime scene too,” the ‘freak’ says, snatching the photos out of your hand.

“It’s Enochian. Right arm ‘God is alive’, left ‘I’m not worthy’. Forehead says ‘Not this vessel’. I think we are looking for a Devil worshipper or at someone who thinks they are the devil looking for God.”

The freak stops looking at the photos, looking at you. “How long did that take you?”

“To figure out the language or what?”

“The whole thing.”

“Well about a minute and a half to figure out the language, another minute to figure out what it said, and another to figure out who we were looking for.”

“Impressive. The name’s Sherlock Holmes since I’m assuming your sister only ever called me freak. Would you care to come with me to the crime scene? A librarian with a near infinite knowledge of rare and unknown languages and symbols and an understanding of religion and cults could really help me on this case.”


“She’s not interested, freak,” your sister interrupts. She pushes herself in front of him a little, making a small barrier between you two.

Sherlock turns his head to your sister. “I believe I was talking to your sister, not you, Donovan, I’m sure Anderson is free for a few minutes.”

Your sister looks at you over her shoulder, a hint of anger hanging in them. Sherlock’s blue eyes look at you curiously.

“I would love to but Sally and I have dinner with our parents in a few hours. Maybe another time. I hope my information gives you a jump start.”

“Donovan, if you want to leave early, go ahead,” Lestrade tells the sergeant as she fumes off to the side.

“Let’s go (Y/N),” Sally groans, grabbing you by the arm and dragging you out.

Keep reading


Originally posted by lostinbangtan

Pairing: Yoongi x Reader

Genre: Devil!Au / Angst / Drabble series

Word count: 1.6k

Synopsis: Yoongi has ivory skin and silky hair; he’s beautiful in the most elegant of ways: a burning one, although his eyes are filled with ice instead of fire. He’s terribly tempting and you keep meeting him - too bad he only wants to steal your soul.      

Author’s note: This is a very random series of drabbles, a bit messy too, probably. Anyways, hope you’ll enjoy it and of course feedback is always appreciated <3  <br>

part 1 // part 2 // part 3

II. Venus’ dusk

You can read the stars, just enough to recognize their pathway and their shape against the silkiness of midnight skies. That’s why you chose this house to live in: the almost suffocating smallness of your rooms is highly compensated by a spacious terrace on the last floor of the building – so, so high that the city lights aren’t strong enough to cover the way more refined brightness of their starry twins anymore.  

Keep reading

You know what would have fucked with Scrooge more?
Ghosts of Christmas Past, Present and Future that adopted his image…

But like, set in 2015.

He’s just this asshole CEO who was handed a fucktonne of money by his dead daddy or something, straight out of college.
He’s a Republican, never had to work a day in his life, and obviously believes that if you’re poor then it’s your own fault/you need to work harder!

He needs to relax in a jacuzzi more than his employees need a raise, or health insurance. That’s how the whole employer-employee thing works, right?
If they’re good enough, they’ll get promoted up the ladder… y'know, as long as they’re rich white dudes; he can’t even comprehend the idea of any'thing’ else making it that far.

Christmas rolls around, and maybe the company profits are up… but not the same as last year.
Completely ignoring the whole nationwide economical crisis; he realises that clearly the employees are slacking off, so in retribution, he has holidays and holiday pay removed. IF they can surpass the target set by last year’s sales, then he’ll consider it (he says in a company-wide statement); but he won’t, even if they manage it.

Sales double, because employees are desperate and the customers are trying to help out even if they hate feeding the greedy bastard on top of the tree. The target is reached, surpassed… employees begin to relax, they get christmas.
No need to try and find additional childcare, re-route family members… they get christmas.
No. No they don’t.  He does not reinstate holidays, there is silence from his office… he’s taken some of the surplus and gone on a trip to Hawaii for a few weeks.

Returning in time for Christmas.
To find employees striking… but many more still slaving at their jobs, because they need the income.
He has found an effective business strategy… he will use it again the next year.

Yeah, the ghosts aren’t having it.

“Listen up, fucknut…” reads the note that appears on the desk he has his feet resting on; shoes caked in mud (because he pays the maid s to clean, might as well make them earn it, right?). “Tonight, Xmas Eve, you are going to be visited by three spectres who really wanna kick your ass… but have to teach you right from wrong. So play along and you just might learn a thing.”

He scoffs and tosses it, it misses the bin. He pretends it did. He hates to lose.


So, the Ghost of Christmas Past turns up and it’s like, 2009-2011 him… the frat dude in fluro shorts who thought chugging several cups of beer in under 30 seconds was ‘fuckin 'A, dude!’

To make matters worse, the Ghost of Christmas Past still acts like mega-douchebag frat-bro him; and won’t stop using slang that makes him cringe. But still, even though he’s shown the error of his past ways (just by being exposed to this idiot); there’s no convincing him that having everything handed to him on a plate and taking it for granted (to become frat-bro), is in anyway a bad thing.

In exasperation, Past!Ghost flips him the bird as it fades out.
A lingering, “What the fuck is wrong with you, bro?” on the breeze.


Ghost of Christmas present appears, looks like him, current him.
He spends too much time checking out his own ass from behind to really hear the opening speech.

But basically, they go on a whirlwind tour of recent events; of him lounging about being a pampered little fuck with terrible ideas, and of the workers, desperately striving to reverse his decision. Rewarding him with hard work he did not earn from them.
There is no loyalty, only a determination to survive.

He gets smacked for making inappropriate comments about many of the employees.
“They’d have more food if she went on a diet…”
“Hmmm, I’m guessing he got in on the Equal Employment program the government rolled out?”
“Remind me to fire that one later… if I do it now, before she gets to eight months, there’s no maternity leave payout required.”
“Now that one I’d love to wreck… always had a thing for Asians…”
“Hey, since when do I pay maids to take a break in between department floors?”
“I’d fuck that guy, but I’m pretty sure he’d steal something on the way out, you know how those people are…”
“Maybe if they used some self-restraint they wouldn’t HAVE so many kids to feed on their shitty salary?”
“Mmmm, those are some nice tits… I should promote her to my secretary. She can take notes, my coffee order, and this dick all at the same time… well, if she’s literate. You never know with her kind…”
“Wow, look at this dump… why would people even live here? You know, if they actually put more effort into their jobs… they might make enough to move.”
“Pffft, if they’re so damn poor, why do they have a fridge? A phone? How can they afford the bus?!”
“Remind me to fire him later, bad enough he’s probably here illegally… but those fake 'panic attacks’ are being done on my time, and my dime. Go back to Mexico if you wanna pull that shit…”

And so on.

Present!Ghost is starting to think the guy LIKES being hit.
Current!Scrooge is not absorbing anything; sure, sometimes when he reflects on some of the shit he says, it’s not good… but that thought rarely enters his head.

“Can you fucking hear yourself?!” the Present!Ghost eventually snaps, grabbing him by the suit’s lapels. “Look at these people… stop seeing them as pawns, or things you own, or as the stereotypes in your fucking head… look at them as PEOPLE.
People fighting to get by on the shitty wages your company allows, while you frivolously spend it on yourself…”

Like before, they follow employees… and this time, Scrooge is silent. He’s watching, observing… but shoves away any sentiment stirring. They’re still just money-makers, easily hired and fired at will… his financial pawns.

But still, maybe he could make a little concession… maybe bring back the in-store creche/daycares. Maybe it would give the employees a stronger reason to work extra hours…

As if Present!Ghost could read his thoughts, they shake their head sadly and fade out.
“It’s not all about you…”


Scrooge scoffs as Future!Ghost arrives… he looks to be around forty, maybe fifty if Scrooge aged well. The hair is thinning but hey, he can always pay for it to be fixed…

“Sooooo… what? We gonna go see my spooooooooooky grave, huh?” he laughs, wiggling his fingers.

The ghost shakes his head.

Instead, they take a tour much like with Present!Ghost.
The stores, full of different employees, none he recognised; maybe they had worked harder… gotten promoted?
All were just as stressed, the stores bigger than before and fewer staff meant no slacking; an interesting innovation.

His office, empty…
His island beach house… there  he was.
A teleconference with shareholders, boasting record sales boosts; getting praised.

He has only aged physically, otherwise, nothing has changed.

He wasn’t seeing a downside.

And then, they did go to a graveyard… several, actually.
Half-remembered faces, older, more haggard, some wearing the uniforms of his company… most stood quietly weeping over gravestones or sites, they slipped into a funeral once or twice.

He was about to ask the relevance… when the reality strikes.

The children. They were the children of his former employees, older, with families and lives of their own now… burying the parents he knew couldn’t be forty, maybe sixty at most…

He starts checking the gravestones, calculating ages; trying not to see epitaphs of their lives ('beloved mother’, 'much-missed father’, 'dear brother who went too soon’, etc.).

Something wasn’t adding up, they can’t have all died young, right? He turns to the Future!Ghost for an explanation.

“You worked them hard, took away holidays, increased demand and work hours… but never reinstated their health insurance. Most died broken, if only in spirit…” the Future!Ghost points to one headstone, “There lies an employees who killed himself due to the stress of the job, whose panic attacks went unseen and untreated because you would not help.
And there, the young woman whose assets you believed to be 'fuckable’… and over there, the young man you would have slept with if only he was not of a race you considered thuggish… he actually died protecting his younger co-workers during a store robbery. Which could have been prevented, if you hadn’t let the store security go, to cut costs.”

And while all this happened… he was sitting in a remote island beach house, lapping up false praise…
It stirred something. Was this…shame? Horror?
He felt like the Grinch Who Stole Christmas… his heart was hurting; he needed to call his private… doctor…

The private doctor he had on call at all times, while some of his most in-need employees were turned away from the Free Clinics, because there were just too many to see.

There was literal blood on his hands. He could feel it… rubbing his hands on his clothing, as if it would come off; but of course, there was nothing there.

Without a word, Future!Ghost grabbed his arm and forced Scrooge watch himself, from only an hour prior… as he travelled with Present!Ghost. Listened in horror to the way he singled out certain employees, said such slanderous things…

His throat burned, in remembrance of the poisonous comments… spewed rapid-fire, thoughtlessly… not knowing, not CARING that the people below him were working as best they could under difficult circumstances. That they would die, because he thought them nothing but freeloaders, with physical attributes he either loved or hated…

God… he was an asshole, wasn’t he?

“Yes, Scrooge… you were a major asshole, but I think you’ve learned something tonight.” added in Future!Ghost, pring he WAS listening to the man’s thoughts.

“So… no visiting my grave, then?” he asks, almost knowing the answer.

Future!Ghost looks at him, scrutinising. “It would not have meant anything to you, Scrooge. You only care for the here and now.
Seeing the deaths you caused, however, was the one chance I had to reach you… for you to redeem yourself.”

Scrooge brushes sweaty strings of hair from his face, lost.
“So… what do I do now?!” he whines, confused. “I can’t fix this overnight…”

Future!Ghost considers it.
“How about… you start with re-instating their holidays and bonuses, and go from there? Just try to be less of an asshole in general… or you end up being me. The older you who is so set in his ways, who walks over the graves of employees without a second thought, if it means greater profit, greater praise.
You can change, so do it. Because if we have to come back, you will most assuredly not be treated so delicately.”

He blinks, and they are back in his office.
The computer is on, an e-mail to the entire company is ready to be sent…

URGENT MEMO: Holidays Reinstated

Hi all,

Sorry for the hold-up with the information, I was trapped in a foreign airport for over a week waiting for a volcano to stop spewing ash and couldn’t send this.

Christmas holidays have been re-instated, and you will have additional paid-vacation and sick days added to the coming year to make up for those extra ones you worked these holidays.
Good job on making the quota, we surpassed it by a wide margin; so everyone’s getting a bonus this year.

The next company meeting is in January, but the good news is that there will be a push to reinstate company-wide health insurance, security services, the in-store employee daycare and employee loyalty awards.

Happy Holidays,

CEO Scrooge


He was perspiring. That was a LOT to promise.

“You’re going to click Send,” Future!Ghost said, in a bland voice that meant neither threat nor praise. Just that he knew Scrooge would.

His hand finds the mouse… it shakes, but he manages to move it to the button. He clicked send, feeling ill for reasons other than illness or disgust, as the email disappeared.
It was a big order to fill… but he was going to do it.

Future!Ghost claps him on the shoulder.
“Good job. That’s Step Number One.”

He turns as Future!Ghost starts to fade out.
He wants to ask a lot of things, but nothing comes out.

Future!Ghost just smiles genuinely with his older face.
“Hey, just remember one thing, Don’t Be An Ass…ho…l…e…”

And suddenly Scrooge is alone again in his office.
He stands and goes to the door, hovering in the doorway like this was the most important step he would ever make in his life… and step through.

Leaving his office with an entirely different perspective than he entered it with.


The End

Title: Back Porch

Summary: This is for @invaderhogtwopointohno, who asked for a new neighbors au in the rebelcaptain “May the 4th” exchange. I hope you enjoy the story!

AO3/2446 words

“How do I look?” Jyn asked, stepping out of the door onto the back porch. She didn’t stop to think about why she was asking for Cassian’s opinion. When he wasn’t away on assignment, he could normally be found on the back porch that stretched across both sides of the duplex.

“Good.” The warmth in his voice made the word sound more positive than it was - the lovely smile he gave her had the same effect.

“Thanks,” she said, smiling back. “Um.” Her purpose obtained, she suddenly felt the awkwardness of the situation. “Have a good evening,” she offered weakly. She suddenly wished she was staying here, on the back porch with him, like she normally did. But everyone in her life - her parents, Leia and Han, Bodhi - were urging her to ‘get out there’ and ‘not hide away in your house with no furniture, God, Jyn, you make me look good’ (“Thanks, Han,” she had said, no real thanks in her voice).

“Good luck,” he said, lifting his mug of coffee to her in a kind of salute.

As it turned out, she really should’ve just stayed on the back porch. How could she have trusted Han Solo to set her up on a blind date?

Keep reading

title: Father

rating: t

summary:  He had gone from a reclusive hermit to the guardian of five time-traveling Slayers in the span of a day (or, the one where Acnologia is roped into looking after kids he wants nothing to do with, but along the way finds himself gaining the family he never had).

note 1: can also be found here.  Follow link for more extensive notes.

note 2: for @acnologias-ass and @kushexi.  Your Papalogia fanart really just got me too invested in this and now I’ve made a goddamn multichapter for it.  Therefore, this whole fic can be blamed on you two.  Enjoy!

Acnologia had been having a rather pleasant Saturday morning.

Pleasant, he felt, was a subjective term. For most, a pleasant Saturday involved no work, maybe some family time, prepping for an evening out, or sleeping in. For the four-hundred and something year old Dragon Slayer-turned-Dragon, a pleasant Saturday constituted as him not having to wake up to a leaky ceiling.

It was degrading, he mused as he padded around his small apartment. Four hundred years ago, he would have been living in palaces stolen from the rulers he had overthrown, but in this godforsaken era, he was forced into a one-bedroom domicile in the heart of Magnolia’s roughest neighbourhood.

Keep reading

Angel V - Writer!AU ft. Jongin

Word count - 3105 (Wasn’t supposed to turn out thaaat long.. but since you guys like it so much.. mwah!)
Summary - Being the assistant of the writer Do Kyungsoo is rather.. interesting. 


(1) / (2) / (3) / (4) / (5) / (6) / (7) / (8) / (9) / (10)

“Wake up, sleepyhead.”

A cracked groan goes past your lips when a smooth whisper ghosts around your ear, sensitively pulling you into the morning of the day, “no..”

“You better wake up now,” he sings, and you shake your head. You haven’t slept as beautifully as this anymore in a long while. “I swear to god. Wake up. You are cutting off my blood circulation.”

That voice inlaid with pure golden sarcasm, the mocking tones that go up and down to drag you around like a whirlwind you can’t tune out…

Your boss.

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Request: Imagine being Thomas Sangster nanny and being super close to him and his daughter always refers to you as mummy and you keep correcting her that your her nanny till one day Thomas ask if you would like the official title of mummy

A/N: Since my school is doing Mary Poppins for our musical, I decided to actually look through my requests. I’m sorry this took so long!

Practically Perfect~Mary Poppins

Once you saw the advertisement for a nanny, you started to plan out what you say when you met with Annabelle’s father, Mr. Sangster. You had many good reviews from families all over the world, but you never believed in credentials. You had called the number and a server had answered and arranged an interview between you and the father.

On that date, you found yourself outside of a nice home with your neat attire and hair pulled back. Knocking on the door politely, a man opened it. “Miss Y/L/N?”

“Yes,” you stated firmly, “I’m here for the nanny position.”

“Right this way.” You followed him through the splendid house, yet you remained professional and kept the polite smile on your face. The man led you to a closed room. He opened the door and stuck his head in. “Mr. Sangster, the woman interested in the nanny position is here,” the man informed.

Mr. Sangster put his papers down and straightened his spine. “Send her in.” The man stepped aside and gestured with his arm. “Thank you,” you said with a smile. When you walked in, Mr. Sangster smirked. “Hello. Miss Y/L/N, am I correct?”

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I was a "hot single near your area"

If you have ever visited porn sites, you know those “hot singles near your area” ads. You probably also know how fake they are - those women in the pictures are not actually near your area, they are just stock photos from foreign escort sites. You probably know all this well enough not to waste your time clicking those ads.

If you were, however, to click them, a chat window would open and you could choose which girl you want to chat with. At first, the chat is free, but soon it would require signing up. Then you would have to pay for every minute you spend chatting with the girl of your choice.

I know this, because I was one of these girls.
Six years ago, I was a student and always short of money. My friend Shannon told me that he had discovered a super easy way to make money. “It’s not like you’re whoring or anything. It’s completely anonymous, they don’t know who they’re chatting with. Half of us are actually guys! You just have to pretend you’re some Nikki or Samantha next door. It’s kind of fun actually. And the company pays really good money, you can work from home and choose how many hours you work per week. All you have to do is dirty talk with some guys you’re never going to meet in real life.”

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The Anatomy of Rage

This post is going to be a mess, because I’m just …untidily angry right now. It began with a series of tweets I made today about my ever-broken Datsun. The mechanic had told my husband that he was “working on that Datsun just as fast as I can because now that I’ve met her I can’t wait to get that little girl behind the wheel again.“

Little girl.

As I tweeted that I was 33 and had earned each of those years and thus preferred to be referred to as "Danger Smog-Dragon” or “Rage-Mistress” or “Ephemeral Time Lady” or “Maggie Stiefvater, #1 NYT Bestselling Author of the Raven Cycle,” a well-meaning fellow replied that perhaps I should “use [my] words, politely but firmly, to his face…” He further observed that he’d told his wife that “you know, Honey, unless you’re willing to SAY THAT to (those people), NOTHING is going to change”.

(note: please do not go search for this fellow on twitter to rage at him; this is not about him. He is set dressing, made more appropriate to the conversation at hand by the fact that he probably is a perfectly nice guy who really didn’t mean disrespect).

I told TwitterMan that I was tired of have to use my words.It’s been 33 years of using my words. Why is it my job to continuously ask to be treated equivalent to a male customer? Why is that when I arrive at a shop, I’m reminded that I have to push the clutch in if I want to start my own car? It’s 2015. Why is it still all sexism all the time?

I discovered that I was actually furious. I thought I was over being furious, but it turns out, the rage was merely dormant. I’m furious that it’s been over a decade and nothing has changed. I’m furious that sexism was everywhere in the world of college-Maggie and it remains thus, even if I out-learn, out-earn, out-drive, and out-perform my male counterparts. At the end of the day, I’m still “little girl.”

Possibly this is the point where some people are asking why this tiny gesture of all gestures should be the one to break me.

Here is the anatomy of my rage.

Step one: It is 1999 or 2000. I am 16. I go to college. A professor tells me I’m pretty. A married man in the bagpipe band I’m in tells me he just can’t control himself around me: he stays up nights thinking of my skin. Another man tells me he can’t believe that ‘a little bitch’ like me got into the competition group after a year of playing when he’s been at it for twenty years. After becoming friends with a professor’s daughter, I’m at her house sleeping on the couch, and I wake up to find the professor running his hand from my ankle bone to my thigh. I pretend I’m still asleep. I’m 17. “If something happened to my wife,” he tells me later, “I could be with you.” At my next visit to her house, I see the wife’s left a book on the kitchen table: how to rekindle your husband’s love.

Step two: It’s 2008. I finally buy the car of my dreams, a 1973 Camaro, and make it my official business vehicle. The first time I take it to put gas in it, a man tells me, “if I were your husband, I wouldn’t want you out driving my car.” I tell him, “if you were my husband, I’d be a widow.” The car requires a lot of gas. I get cat-called every other time I’m at a gas station. Once, I go into the gas station to get a drink, and when I come out, a bunch of guys have parked me in. They want, they say, to have a word with me, little lady. We play automotive chicken which I win because I would rather smash the back of my ’73 Camaro into their IROC than have to stab one of them with the knife on my keychain.

Step three: It’s 2011. I’m on tour in a European country, on my own, escorted only by my foreign publisher. I am at a business dinner, and say I’m going to my room. My female editor embraces me; my male publicist embraces me and then puts his tongue in my ear, covering it with his hand so that the crowd of twenty professionals does not see. My choices are to say nothing to avoid making a scene in front of my publisher’s people, or to say FUCK YOU. I apparently was never offered the choice of not having a tongue in my ear.

Step four: It’s 2012. I buy a race car. Well, a rally car. Someone asks my male co-driver if I’m good in bed. Someone asks me if I got sponsorship because someone was ‘trying to check the woman box.’ People ask me if I drive like a girl. Yeah, I do, actually. Let’s play a game called: who’s faster off the start?

Step five: It’s 2014. I’m driving my Camaro cross-country on book tour. It breaks down a lot. I’m under the hood and a pick up truck stops beside me. “Hey baby,” asks the driver, “do you need any help?” “Yeah,” I reply, “do you have a 5/8 wrench?” He did not.

Step six: It’s 2015. It’s sixteen years after I learned that I was a thing to be touched and kissed and hooted at unless I took it upon myself to say no, and no again, and no some more, and no no no. My friend Tessa Gratton points out that a male author used casually sexist language in a brief interview. She is dragged through the muck for pointing out how deeply-rooted our systemic sexism is. The publishing industry rises to the defense of the male author as if he has been deeply wronged. I tweet that the language was indeed sexist, though I didn’t think it was useful to condemn said male author. A male editor emails me privately to ask me if maybe I wasn’t being a little problematic by engaging in the discussion?

Step seven. Still 2015. Someone very close to me confesses that her college boyfriend keeps trying to push her past kissing, and she doesn’t want to. I tell her to set boundaries, and leave him if he doesn’t. A month passes. This week I find out she just had sex for the first time after he urged her to have several glasses of wine. She doesn’t drink. She was crying. She says, “I didn’t say no, though.”

It’s been sixteen damn years. I’m tired of having to say no. I’m tired of the media telling me that it’s mouth breathing bros and rednecks perpetuating the sexism. No: I can tell you that the most insidious form is the nice guy. Who is a nice guy, don’t get me wrong. I carry my own prejudices that I work through, and I don’t believe in demonizing people who aren’t perfect yet — none of us are. But the nice guy who says something sexist gets away with it. The nice guy who says something sexist sounds right and reasonable. The nice guy’s not helping, though. It’s been sixteen years, and the nice guys are nice, but we’re still things to be acquired. We are still creatures to be asked on dates. We are still saying no, still shouting NO, still having to always again and again say “no, please treat me with respect.”

I was just invited to a car show; the well-meaning guy who asked wanted me to bring my souped up Mitsubishi. I clicked on the event page. It’s catered by Hooters. I’m not going. Yeah, it’s a little thing, but I have a lifetime of them. I’m taking my toys and going home.

“I can’t wait to get that little girl behind the wheel again.“