my kitchen table


two family members immediately commented on my hair and how nice it looked (the last time they’d seen me was a year ago)

family member said i looked european because of how i was dressed (i didn’t wear jeans)

(…because i’d had to leave during a dry cycle and all my jeans were in there)

2 family members said my sweater was nice & one said it was the perfect color (was this sweater)

and yeah there were a lot of people, like i said. we had 5 dining tables full of people. from my family it was just me, my sister, my brother-in-law, and my one niece, and i was like “imagine if all of MY family was here” because that’d be a whole other table. 

my aunt & uncle basically have a mansion and people were eating in the hall

Batfam as things my fam has said

Dick: *tells a joke*


Dick: Okay, but when it’s about my life, everyone laughs.


Jason: I’m really trying, and it’s just not working.

Tim: There is no try. Only do.

Jason: I don’t think Star Wars is really going to help me right now.

Tim: *scoffs* Shows what you know.

Dick: You know, I’m proud he got that reference.


Jason: *messes up*

Bruce: *addresses the younger kids* Okay, he’s older. That means you should all learn from his mistakes or risk being just as much of a fuck-up.

Jason: Dad!

Bruce: *raises an eyebrow*

Jason: *sighs* It’s true.


Bruce: Okay Tim, you need some sleep.

Tim: You know, I’ve got enough problems in my life without you shoving your mainstream ideals and corporate agendas down my throat.

Bruce: …?

Tim: Yeah, goodnight.


Dick: Okay, but if cotton shirts shrink when they get wet, does that mean sheep shrink when they get wet?

Jason: Bro, sheep produce wool.

Dick: Really?

Jason: Cotton comes from a fucking plant.

Dick: *in a small voice* So…sheep….don’t shrink…..when they get….wet….?

Tim: I think your brain shrinks when it gets wet.


Damian: *walks into the kitchen at 12:00 a.m.* *sees Dick laying on the table crying*

Damian: So this is adulthood.

*like a month after that*

Damian: *walks into the kitchen late at night again* *sees Jason sitting in front of the fridge just staring while holding a jug of milk*

Damian: Is this like a thing? Does every adult in this family have mental breakdowns in the kitchen late at night?

Bruce: You’ll understand it someday.

Damian: *turns the light on* *sees Bruce sitting on the counter with a single piece of bread*

Damian: What was I born into?


*at McDonald’s*

Dick and Jason: *get their own food*

Tim and Damian: *have to share*

Damian: Dad, that’s not fair. Why do we have to share?

Jason: Because we’re older, nimrod. We’ve paid our dues.

Dick: Yeah. I’m older than all of you. Dad had to raise me before he knew what the fuck he was doing.

Bruce: Jokes on all of you. I still don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.


Jason: *ruins the end of a movie the others haven’t seen*

Dick: You know, there’s a special place in hell for people like you.

Damian: Yeah, it’s this family.


*at the pediatrician’s*

Bruce and Damian: *waiting for the doctor*

Bruce: *starts opening the cabinets* *finds the latex gloves* *starts stuffing them in his pockets*

Damian: Um, Dad? What are you doing…?

Bruce: I use these when I’m working. I like the ones from my doctor better. These are all meant for small hands.

Damian: Well maybe you shouldn’t be stealing from your son’s pediatrician then—or your doctor for that matter.

Bruce: Maybe your pediatrician shouldn’t have such small hands.

Damian: That is so not the problem with this situation.

(I know Bruce is hella rich, but my fam isn’t. lolol)


*getting free samples from the store*

Bruce: Okay, Jason take your jacket off and go up there again. She’s elderly and will probably think your someone else.

Jason: *rolls his eyes* *goes anyway*

Dick: Dad, that is horrible.

Bruce: Do you want lunch son? 

Dick: Yes?

Bruce: Okay then. Roll your shorts up, put your hair in a ponytail, and pretend you’re my daughter.

Tim: We’re all going to hell.


Dick, Tim and Jason: *fighting over what movie to watch*

Damian: *gives a suggestion* *gets ignored*

Dick, Tim and Jason: *keep fighting*

Damian: Hello!

Dick, Tim and Jason: *still ignore him* *still fighting*


Dick, Tim and Jason: *turn to Damian in shock*

Damian: That’s right. I am capable of speaking. I may be the youngest, but I still exist.


Jason: Hey, Dick?


Jason: What’s wrong with him?

Tim: Someone ate all the Lucky Charms.


Jason: How do you know when a fish is dead?

Dick: That’s an ominous question.

Jason: But like, how do you know?

Dick: I don’t know. Usually if they’re upside down at the top of the water.

Jason: So…laying at the bottom of the bowl all pale and colorless probably means dead, right?


Jason: I DON’T KNOW! I think I fed him too much. I mean, he just kept eating. I figured he was just that hungry!

Dick: Damian is going to kill you.

Jason: This is like his fifth fish. How attached could he have been, really?


Damian: I thought I said that this family was banned from going anywhere near my fish. Why do you all keep killing my pets? Dad freaking swallowed one!

Jason: Wow Dad. I just overfed one. At least I didn’t eat it. 

Bruce: That wasn’t my fault! You shouldn’t be putting them in water bottles!



Tim: Why is the world against me?

Damian: Is that rhetorical or would you like me to answer?


Dick: *wakes up* I really feel like today is going to be a good day.

Dick: *spills his bowl of cereal on himself*

Dick: I’m going to go to bed now.

Bruce: Dick, you just woke up.

Dick: Well the world doesn’t seem to care!


Tim: Can you have a midlife crisis at 17?

Damian: I don’t even think I’ll make it to 17.

Jason: I’m pretty sure I died the day I turned 19.

Dick: I’ve been having a midlife crisis for the past three years.

Tim: So that’s a yes.


Bruce: I miss being young and childless.

Jason: As your child, that’s just so nice to hear.


Bruce: Why aren’t you in school right now?

Dick: Dad, why does life feel like an endless abyss of self-loathing and humiliation?


Bruce: I’m just going to call and say you have the flu.

Tonight, The Focus is on You

Summary: It’s late at night and in the midst of getting yourself a cup of tea you hear Bucky making some mysterious noises in his room.

Warnings: smutty smut, masturbation, fluffish, Sergeant kink, metal hand kink

A/N: I’m sitting at my kitchen table writing this and I can wholeheartedly say that writing has taken over my life and I love it. I’ve had to awkwardly click off this page so many goddamn times because my family keeps walking behind me and guys it’s so uncomfortable.

You picked up your cup of tea and strutted down the hallway. You were wide awake, another nightmare had plagued your dreams and woken you up panting. You hoped the cup of tea in your hand would soothe you, stopping your body from shaking, and help you fall back to sleep.

You slowed down as you passed by each door, not wanting to wake up anyone up. You stopped outside of Bucky’s, tempted to go inside. You wondered if he was awake, if he’d hold you and listen to the details of your nightmare. You nearly dropped your cup when you heard the faintest moan through the door.

Shit!” The word slipped passed Bucky’s lips, it was barely audible through the thick wood keeping you out. You pressed your ear too the door, desperate to hear more. “It feels so good, fuck…” Another moan left him as you heard him drop down onto his mattress.

Keep reading

I was trying to write a post about how I could not believe that six months after meeting Even, Isak is now the type of person who gets up at eight, even when he doesn’t have school, and the type of person who actually likes pictures in which people make fun of him instead of like, freaking out but then I remember how soft Isak’s voice sounded when he was talking to Even in that car on Monday and you know what. I can. I absolutely can.


This probably won’t make sense to anyone who isn’t me, but let me try.

I was trying to explain my position the other day in a discussion about dusttale and Papyrus’s likeliness to be a willing co-conspirator in that kind of situation.

I was trying to express my opinion that even if there was an endless cycle of genocide runs and both brothers somehow remembered them, and even if all hope was lost, the second such a plan was actually vocalized, I felt like Papyrus would decide there had to be another way. He would never go through with it or support it unless he was completely corrupted beyond recognition (even if he was of sound mind but completely compromised morals). I was trying to express a very difficult to explain series of headcanons and analysis, which made this a personal exception, even though I enjoy Papyrus crisis-of-faith plots, angst, face heel turns, and the brothers actually being on the same page. I was trying to be both eloquent and elaborative. 

But instead all my mind could conjure up was a scene of sweet, sweet sibling hypocrisy.

I suppose that’s as good a reason as any not to murder everyone you’ve ever known and corrupt the very culmination of your being in a bloody, dusty final stand.


A/N: Yes, this is ANOTHER Shell Cottage fic, but I just cannot stop myself. I started this while I was at the beach myself, and have finally come to a stopping point. I have not quite decided if this will be a one shot or if I will continue it. I seem to have fallen in with a very persuasive crowd, so who knows. As always, thanks to @callieskye for her help ( I owe you another cider)! Special love to the bad influences that are DEM!

Every bit of her ached. There was a weird sensation deep in her joints; a strange mix of relief and pain. It reminded her of taking her hair down after it had been plaited too tightly for too long. She should probably move, but she just couldn’t -not yet.

He was asleep, finally. The subtle rise and fall of his chest, the comforting wisps of his breath across the crown of her curls was proof. She was aware that neither the quantity nor quality of his rest had been sufficient. She was also aware, with equal parts joy and regret, that it was his worry for her that had been the cause of his wakefulness. He had held her like this all night, almost upright against the headboard with her head resting on his chest. There had not been even a moment’s hesitation when he had taken her in his arms, she thought perhaps that they were both too tired to bother with pretense. She wept when he pulled her close; she hadn’t properly realized just how thin he had gotten. He mistook her tears for him as an indication of her own physical pain.

“Should I get Fleur? Do you need more potion?”

“No!” she had gripped him as tightly as her aching limbs would allow.

“But you’re hurting,” his voice showed his own reluctance to leave.

“I’m not…I mean, I am…but I…oh, Ron!”

He had gently shushed her then, resting his cheek on the top of her freshly washed curls. She had wanted to tell him that she was sorry, sorry for so many things, but mostly for doubting him. Faith had never been her strong suit. She had to see to believe; she had to have proof.  And even then, the belief was fragile.

He deserved better. This was a genuine thought, not the pettiness of a heartbroken school girl questioning her physical appeal. She wanted to be better, for him: more trusting, more forgiving. As she had lain in agony on that cold floor, the thing she regretted most was that she would never get the chance to tell him. That regret tethered her to consciousness, to life itself, miraculously giving her a second chance.

She had wanted to tell him, but she had been too full of exhaustion and potions to form coherent words. The rest of the night was a jumble of hazy, dreamlike memories. There were broken bits of a conversation between Ron and Bill. Fearing that his brother had come to make him leave, she had been relieved to find that apparently Fleur had only sent him to try and get Ron to eat.

“Just come down and get a bite. She’s asleep; you can be back for she even knows you’re gone.”

“If I can’t do it from right here, ‘m not doing it,” his quietly forceful words had been a better balm than any of the spells and potions that Fleur had administered.

“Well then Merlin help you both if you have to take a piss,” Bill’s laugh sounded much more like Ron’s than Percy’s or even the twins’.

“Get outta here you git! If you wake her I’ll hex your ponytail off,” despite the threat there was humor in his voice, and then he chuckled at something else Bill said. She couldn’t quite make out what it was but she was pretty sure it involved a broomstick being used in an unconventional manner.

He’d sung to her-or hummed-or maybe she’d dreamt the whole thing. His voice had been so warm and soft; she had felt it rumbling through his chest, her ear pressed so tightly against him that surely he would have a mark in the morning.

Every time she had come to during the night, he had been awake. She could tell by the rhythm of his breathing, months of sleeping together in a tent- so close, yet so painfully far- had taught her well. So now that he was actually sleeping, she would not dream of waking him. And so what if that meant she got to feel his arms around her for a little longer? Didn’t they both deserve at least that much?

Just yesterday she had fought so hard: to stay alive, to stay sane, to keep them safe. She had not been able to bear the thought of those being their last moments: separated, terrified, incomplete…but this…

It was horrible she knew, but there was a small part of her that reasoned that if she wasn’t going to make it, she wouldn’t mind her last moments being in bed with Ron Weasley. Her face flushed hotly at the thought. Maybe there were a few more things she wanted to experience before she left this world.

Ron took in a sharp breath and his grip tightened slightly on her shoulder. Hermione nuzzled in closer, placing her hand gently on his opposite arm.



“You awake?”

“Um hmm.”

“How you feeling?”

“A little sore, but I’m sure you have to be too. I didn’t let you get very comfortable last night before I trapped you,” she still hadn’t moved to look at his face, afraid that if she did, the spell might be broken.

“Wasn’t trapped…trapped means you wanna get away,” he ran his hand gently up and down her arm, causing a delicious warmth to spread across her body.

She could scarcely breathe, the sincerity of his words made tears pool in the corners of her eyes, but she blinked them back, searching for the perfect reply. She needed him to know, but how could she possibly tell him…there was so much. If this were a scene in a novel, she thought wistfully, she might turn her face toward his, and he might tip her chin up to him as he leaned down kissing her with a gentle passion that would leave them both breathless.

If only it could be that simple. If only they could forget the world outside this tiny room, outside this cottage, but she knew that was not an option, for either of them. They had to see this through first. This was not a novel, at least not the kind where she could forget the rest of the world and think only of herself. But she could, she reasoned, enjoy this moment just a little longer.

“And here I thought you were just powerless to escape me,” she sighed dramatically, risking a look at him by turning her head toward his.

Hearing his words had been one thing, but seeing his face, how would she ever resist that face again? The obvious fatigue was no match for the tenderness in his eyes, the faint but perfect grin dancing across his lovely mouth.

“Oh, I am. Used to scare me right shitless,” his expression didn’t change, but she could literally feel his heart speed up, matching the rhythm of her own.

“And now?” She really couldn’t believe how calm her voice sounded.

“Now…well, as long as you’re alright, not much else really frightens me, y’know what I mean?” as he was speaking he reached down and tucked a particularly unruly strand of hair behind her ear.

She nodded in agreement, once again marveling at Ron, this Ron. The Ron who was still at heart the boy who had belched slugs for her, and the boy who infuriated her, and the boy who had broken her heart. The miraculous thing was that somewhere along the way he had grown into a man. A man who comforted her at her most vulnerable moments, who did not shy away from her anger, who withstood the storm of her wrath for months, but who had still been willing to exchange his life for hers without a moment’s hesitation.  His words, his actions, his care for her were far greater, more intimate than any kiss.  

As she began to pull herself up to better settle higher on his chest, his stomach made a loud grumble of protest.

“Sounds like we need to get you some breakfast.”

“‘M’fine really,” the reluctance in his voice made her question her previous line of thought, what if this moment was all they were ever allowed? What if they were throwing away their only chance? She would not let herself believe that, could not. There would be a day, soon, when there were no more missions to compete, no more maniacs to defeat. Then they would be able to finish this, no, to start this, properly.

“I know you missed dinner last night because of me, I won’t let you miss breakfast too.”

“Is that so?”

“Entirely so! Besides, you are too thin for your own good. Your mum will never forgive me if I bring you back home in such a state.”

He laughed then, a real laugh, something she hadn’t heard in ages, and pulled her in closer. His voice now rustling her hair, “‘Specially when she finds out where I slept.”

If he were trying to embarrass her, two could play at that game, “Well, then, maybe you should go before I really compromise your virtue.” There, that will fix him!

“Any virtue I’ve ever had is yours to compromise, any time you’d like,” his voice did not shake, but it was huskier than it had been before, in a way that made her suddenly far less inclined to go to breakfast or anywhere else for that matter.

He did kiss her then, tenderly, on the very top of her head, lingering for a moment before he made a move to sit them both up properly. Ron made sure she was stable before he rather stiffly got out of bed and stood stretching beside it .

“It’s not compromising,is it?” she looked up at him as she spoke willing herself to be as brave as he had been already. “Compromising means you want different things.”

It was Ron’s turn to be left speechless, and as Hermione took his hand to walk with him down to breakfast, she could have sworn that it was trembling slightly.

anonymous asked:

oh hey bee tee dubs–ashkenazi jews are not an ethnic minority, and you are not a person of color. you're white. you're straight-up white. and claiming to not identify as such is super racist. you're adorbs, though.

Nope, sorry. 

First of all, before I “you know nothing, Jon Snow” your ass on the Jewish front, let it just be established that my Dad is biracial, so even if I wasn’t ¾ Ashkenazi, I wouldn’t be “straight-up white.” I’m part Desi, and you can’t erase that. 

Secondly, Jews—be we Ashkenazi, Sephardi, Mizrahi, Cochin, Beta Israel, etc.—are all part of a distinct ethnoreligious group that makes up less than 0.2% of the world’s population. This is not just my own personal perception; this has been well-established in the scientific community through genetic testing. 

Basically, all Jews (with the exception of people who have converted) are Semitic peoples descended from the Hebrew peoples of the Levant region (again, this is all scientifically confirmed). In this rendering of Jesus, done by anthropologists at the University of Manchester, you can see how the average Jew would have looked in roughly 30 CE: 

Surprise! It’s a brown dude! Because neither Jesus nor any Hebrew Israelites were white. 

So what happened? Well, in 70 CE The Romans expelled the Jews from ancient Israel, and we were forced into what is known as the Jewish Diaspora. We subsequently scattered all over the world, and through centuries of forced assimilation and rape (have you ever wondered why Jewishness is only passed on through the mother? It’s because of how often Jewish women were raped), we came to break into sub-ethnicities based on where we currently located. Ashkenazim were in Germany and Eastern Europe, Sephardim were in Spain and Portugal, Mizrahim were in the Middle East and Northern Africa, the Cochin were in India, the Beta Israel were in Ethiopia, etc. We no longer all looked alike, however, we still remained bonded by both Judaism itself and our inherited DNA (many of us still possess common traits, even among the post-Diasporic divides). 

A recently study of Ashkenazi genes specifically determined that “despite [Ashkenazim’s] close ties with Europe, no more than half [46%] of their DNA comes from ancient Europeans, the researchers found…the rest of the Ashkenazi genome comes from the Middle East.”

Ergo, although most Ashkenazim appear to be white Europeans, our DNA tells a very different story (not even to mention that fact that we are still constantly racialised by gentiles—people love to tell me whether they think I do or do not “look Jewish” all the time). 

Moreover, regardless of how Jews look and what part of the world we’ve lived in, we have been and continue to be “othered” by gentiles— particularly white ones—who have gone to great lengths to exclude white-passing Jews from the ranks of whiteness (there are certainly Jews of colour, including Ashkenazi Jews of colour, but you were obviously referring to white-passing Jews), through means of harassment, expulsion, and genocide. Of course, the Holocaust is the most obvious example of Jews being regarded as and killed for being non-white (I believe Hitler’s phrasing involved calling us unclean vermin who were a threat to the aryan race), but the Nazis were far from being the only group to persecute Ashkenazi Jews for being non-whites. In fact, the word “antisemitism” was coined in 1879 by writer and theorist Willhelm Marr, because he thought it sounded more “scientific” than “Judenhass” (Jew hate) and he really wanted to drive home the fact in his writings that we were non-white Middle Easterners.

Ironically (given the current political climate), the European concept of Ashkenazi Jews being non-white Middle Easterners was so common that there are countless examples of Jews all over Europe being told by the majority to “Go back to Palestine” where they came from. Here is graffiti on the window of a Jewish-owned shop in Norway:

It reads: “Palestine is calling. Jews are not tolerated in Norway.”

In 1902, there was a march through the Jewish quarters of London, where protesters shouted “Go back to Jerusalem.” Most likely, these Jews had all come to the UK from Russia or Ukraine, but they were still seen as non-white Middle Easterners in the eyes of the white Britons. 

I did some personal genealogy research over the Summer and found the immigration records for some of my family members. Here is the transcription of the record for my great-Aunt Rose (at the time, known as Ruchel): 

Did you catch it?

Race: Hebrew

That’s right, even in America, Jews were long considered a separate race from whites. This isn’t some distant relative I’ve never met before. This is my grandmother’s sister, whose kitchen table I used to sit at while she baked mandel bread. This is the sister of my great-Aunt Sophie, who is currently 98 and still remembers when signs in front of hotels said “No Negroes, No Jews.” 

Now, I realise that I look white to most people, and there is absolutely no denying that I am a beneficiary of the white privilege that exists in American society. That fact is absolutely NOT in dispute. However, I can and do identify as a white-passing beneficiary of white privilege rather than as a white person—not just because of my genetics, not just because of my history—but because a whole lot of white people have made it pretty damn clear to me over the years that I’m not one of them. I grew up in a somewhat conservative, predominantly white environment, and the number of kids and adults alike who acted like I lied to them upon learning I was Jewish was, in retrospect, kind of disturbing. 

And while yes, I have privileges many people of colour do not have, I also don’t have the full range of white privilege, in that I don’t automatically make everybody’s “white person” list and therefore can’t walk through through certain places without wondering if I’m going to have my ass kicked if anybody “finds me out.” 

White-looking Ashkenazi Jews are not exactly people of colour, and I never said we were. We live in a strange limbo in which we’re neither white enough for white, or non-white enough for non-white. However, we are an ethnic minority and we do have the right to identify as white-passing given our DNA, our history, and the way white people still regard us and treat us. 

I appreciate your concern and I’m sure you meant this from a place of constructive social justice criticism, but you’re 100% wrong about Jewishness as an ethnicity, and hence, you’re identity policing an ethnic minority. That is super racist, so please stop.

And yes, I am adorbs. Thanks for noticing. 


So I was sitting down at my kitchen table eating pasta when I had this thought.

Tikki’s favorite re-energizing food is cookies

Originally posted by allarica

Plagg is a cheese freak

Originally posted by hikayagami

(This is my new favorite gif)

But then I realized…

Adrien also really likes baked goods (when he gets them, that is…)

Originally posted by letadrieneat

But that made me think… is their favorite food the same as their other half’s kwami?

Is Marinette’s favorite food

Originally posted by dennys

Originally posted by everybody-loves-to-eat

Originally posted by foodpleasestuff


I hope she does…

The big four sitting at lunch together.

Alya: Hey Marinette, what’s your favorite type of food?

Nino: I could have told you that one.

Adrien: Really? What is it?

Marinette: *honestly unaware of favorite type of food and a little offended that Nino thinks he knows the answer* I honestly don’t know what it is, so please enlighten us, Nino.

Nino: *with a big smile on his face* Cheese.

Adrien: *slightly taken aback at this new development*

MArinette: *Thinking back on her life and slowly realizing he was right.*

Alya: Dude, how do you even know that?

Nino: First of all, she has cheesecake for her birthday cake every year. Second, last year she hosted a big study party with a bunch of kids from our class and she made a pasta dish. While she was cooking Kim asked if she had enough pasta and sauce with her cheese and Marinette just dumped an entire container of parmesan cheese into the pot and said, “Not quite.” So yeah, cheese is her favorite food.

Marinette: *glances down at plate which is literally that exact same recipe with just as much cheese as Nino described from the party*

Alya: I’m a little shocked, but I am mostly impressed.

Plagg in Adrien’s shirt pocket: Marry her.

  • Bitty, sitting at the Haus kitchen table: my academic counselor said if I don't take a creative writing class this semester, I won't graduate.
  • Nursey: that's okay Bitty! Take Intro to Poetry, I'm TA-ing that for extra credit.
  • Bitty, exactly one semester later: I can't believe you gave me a D on every assignment
  • Nursey: I can't believe you thought iambic pentameter was part of the metric system.
  • *early morning; 221B*
  • Molly: *making breakfast, wearing Sherlock's shirt; dancing to “Man I Feel Like A Woman” by Shenia Twain*
  • John: *enters*
  • Molly: 8grins* Morning, John. Come dance with me.
  • John: No.
  • Molly: *shrugs* Okay. Want some French toast?
  • John: *gestures a cereal box*
  • Molly: *raises an eyebrow* If you're sure.
  • Sherlock: *walks in* Morning.
  • John: *smiling* Heeey, look, Sherlock, Molly's making breakfast.
  • Sherlock: *rolls his eyes* Sorry *wraps his arms around Molly; mutters* not a morning person.
  • John: *checks his watch* Don't you two usually stay at Molly's at the weekend?
  • Sherlock: *nods* Yes but her bed sort of...broke.
  • Molly: *giggles*
  • John: *confused* Broke? How did-
  • Sherlock & Molly: *staring at him*
  • John: ...
  • John: *grimaces* Oh.
fake dating!zimbits ft. alicia & the gang

CW: coming out (more or less voluntary), pining, meddling friends, nosy mothers

Jack rushed into the kitchen with wild eyes and uncombed hair. It was Saturday, which Bitty knew was the only day of the week he allowed himself to sleep in. Jack hadn’t even changed out of his pajamas, and he was adorably rumpled as he slammed his palms down on the counter and stared at Bitty.

“My mother is coming into town next week,” he hissed, glaring like Bitty himself were responsible.

“Okay?” Bitty turned the heat off of the stove where he’d been cooking up a mountain of eggs. It was absurd how many eggs a handful of college athletes could eat in one setting. “Your mama seems like a lovely lady. Do we need to clean the Haus? Put Shitty in suspenders so he won’t magically lose his pants while she’s here?”

Keep reading

I’m falling.

The ground hasn’t left my feet for that long when I start remembering. Remembering how it all felt. Remembering what life was like. The fall looked so short, yet it’s the longest time I’ve ever really had to think. I think about this life. I think about what I’ve done, what’s happened, for me to get to this point.

It started all the way back when I met her, didn’t it? It all started when I met Adriana.

She was the most beautiful girl I’d ever met. Soft brown eyes, dark hair, high cheekbones and a beautiful smile. She stood up in that first class we ever had in school, and she was asking the teacher where the blue crayon was for that sheet we were colouring on. No, we were drawing our families. That was it. We were drawing our families.

My drawing wasn’t done very quickly. I had my mother, my father, my cat and my brother. They were all different colours, the sky coloured in a light bluish-green with a yellow sun wearing sunglasses up in the corner. She didn’t speak to me. She didn’t speak to anyone. Her high, clear voice was only heard when she asked our teacher where the blue crayon was.

Of course I didn’t love her then. I was too young. I had no idea what I’d gotten myself into, though, when I sat beside her. I asked her what her family was like, and she told me her mother died when she was born. It was only her, her dad, and her dog, Pickle. But she loved them more than anything. I didn’t know how to feel about that. My parents were always so busy whenever they went to work and came back home. My brother was always doing homework. The cat was always sleeping. I never had a connection with them, the same way Adriana had with her dad and with her dog.

I met Adriana’s dad, actually. Joseph is a kind man, with brown eyes like his daughter, and greyed hair from the stress of taking care of her. I grew up with her. I became her best friend.

That was my mistake, of course. It’s always the same story. The guy falls for the girl, and eventually, she falls for him, too.

And she did. Adriana fell for me, the same way I fell for her, and she and I were together when we turned sixteen. On my sixteenth birthday, she kissed me, and I kissed her. It was horribly awkward. Neither of us really knew what we were doing, but we both started laughing. It marked a promise that we made one another. I had gotten her. Now, I decided, I was ready to keep her.

Adriana was always so perfect- even if it was just to me. She would sleep with her mouth slightly ajar, quiet snores leaving her mouth as she slept, and her eyelashes fluttered. She would snort when she laughed. She was tall and willowy, a dancer, and she would always practise outside while I would read my books. Her voice deepened over the years, but stayed clear and strong, and she was wonderful.

We got married in autumn. The trees were red and orange, her favourite colours, and to commemorate our marriage, she and I drew another picture, just like the day we first met. Our new families. She kept it in her purse.

It came to an end the day she collapsed for the first time.

It was just a few headaches. That’s all we thought it was. A few headaches that came with the stresses of a new job, of a new life. We didn’t know it was anything serious. She took an ibuprofen, and moved on. But then it didn’t stop. She kept getting headaches.

She collapsed in the kitchen one night, while cooking dinner. I called an ambulance, then her father, while trying desperately to revive her, but it was no use. She wouldn’t wake up.

Joseph told me it was exactly how it had happened to her mother.

I tried to act like everything was normal. So did she. We both went along our way, trying hard to let it never bother us. She and I would drive to the hospital, getting to the chemotherapy treatment centres. I held her hair back when she vomited. I hugged her when she cried because of how much pain she was in. I held her hand until they took her in for her surgery, but it didn’t change anything. Her body was failing her.

No matter how quickly her emotional state deteriorated, I could see her body deteriorating faster. What was originally just thin became emaciated, and what was once pale became sallow. She was breaking apart in front of me, and she hated it more than any of the rest of us did. She hated looking weak in front of us. She hated not being able to dance. She hated not being allowed to go outside anymore.

The last day didn’t feel like it would be the last day. She was walking to the sink in her hospital room, when she fell. Tripped over her own feet, it seemed. But she didn’t get back up. She was bleeding. I yelled for a nurse, but even I knew it was too late. Her eyes were closed. Her chest wasn’t moving. Her heart wasn’t beating.

She was gone, and she wasn’t coming back.
So I walked. I walked from the hospital. I ignored Chase, who cried, and asked me to stay. No. I had matters to attend to.

I went home first. Wrote a note detailing her funeral. It was to have tiger lilies, pink ones. Her favourite music playing softly from the speakers. A white casket. A beautiful dress, the colours of the sunset. I found the drawing we had drawn of ourselves when we had gotten married, and I tore it in half. Holding her half, I left my half on the kitchen table.

I walked to the bridge near our home. The bridge we had kissed on the night I asked her to marry me. I remembered that I had made the most of what life I had been given. I loved her. That was all that I did, and it was all that had mattered to me. And yet, of course, it had been for nothing. It was all relative. Life is worth nothing if everything we work for can be taken in an instant, just like that.

So I jumped.

And now I’m falling.

I’m not too far from the water now. It’s rushing towards me. I feel a pang of regret, suddenly. Perhaps I should have stayed. After all, she would have wanted it that way. She would have wanted me to move on, she would have wanted me to fall in love with someone else and live life to the fullest.

But none of it is worth anything without her.

It’s too late now. I’m not falling anymore.

I’ll see you soon, Adri.

An Unexpected Surprise - Cody Christian Imagine

Request by Anon: Hey! May you do an imagine where Cody and (y/n) rarely fight but when they do it’s a hell of a mess and the current situation is that he and the (y/n) are having a fight, a really big one bc he accused her of cheating on him, bc maybe she’s coming home late and she’s always on the phone, but what really is happeningis that the reader is organizing a surprise birthday party to him, so when he finds out he’s really regretful for thinking she ever could do that to him and a happy and fluff ending? 

Warnings: Arguments, being accused of cheating, some curse words

Word Count: 4,056

Author’s Note: I couldn’t help myself with this prompt. I hope you like it. 

My Teen Wolf Master List

Originally posted by eu-nasciassim

Cody’s POV

The first sign

It’s funny how time flies by when you’re not looking at the clock, but when you do watch the clock, time seems to move slower. I drummed my fingers against the kitchen table as I slowly watched the second hand take its sweet time to move around the clock. Y/N was 29 minutes late. She’s never late and I was beginning to get worried something might have happened. If she was working late, she would have called or texted me to let me know. But tonight, she didn’t and I couldn’t help but think of the worst.

Just give her one more minute, I thought to myself as I pulled out my phone. Instead of looking at the clock on the wall, I looked at the time on the phone. Why must the last minute take the longest?

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Chapter Fifteen

Warnings: Smut/Cookies/Kitchen Smut (I know)/Language

As always let me know if you want on or off my tag list :)

 Master List

Chapter One ~ Chapter Two ~ Chapter Three ~ Chapter Four ~ Chapter Five ~ Chapter Six ~ Chapter Seven ~ Chapter Eight ~ Chapter Nine ~ Chapter Ten ~ Chapter Eleven ~ Chapter Twelve ~ Chapter Thirteen ~ Chapter Fourteen

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