piled high

Advanced English Vocabulary

jubilant (adj.) - extremely joyful, happy (The crowd was jubilant when the firefighter carried the woman from the flaming building.)

knell (n.) - the solemn sound of a bell, often indicating a death (Echoing throughout our village, the funeral knell made the grey day even more grim.)

lithe (adj.) - graceful, flexible, supple (Although the dancers were all outstanding, Joanna’s control of her lithe body was particularly impressive.)

lurid (adj.) - ghastly, sensational (Barry’s story, in which he described a character torturing his neighbour’s tortoise, was judged too lurid to be published on the English Library’s website.)

maverick (n.) - an independent, nonconformist person (John is a real maverick and always does things his own way.)

maxim (n.) - a common saying expressing a principle of conduct (Ms. Stone’s etiquette maxims are both entertaining and instructional.)

meticulous (adj.) - extremely careful with details (The ornate needlework in the bride’s gown was a product of meticulous handiwork.)

modicum (n.) - a small amount of something (Refusing to display even a modicum of sensitivity, Magda announced her boss’s affair to the entire office.)

morose (adj.) - gloomy or sullen (David’s morose nature made him very unpleasant to talk to.)

myriad (adj.) - consisting of a very great number (It was difficult to decide what to do on Saturday night because the city presented us with myriad possibilities for fun.)

nadir (n.) - the lowest point of something (My day was boring, but the nadir came when my new car was stolen.)

nominal (adj.) - trifling, insignificant (Because he was moving the following week and needed to get rid of his furniture more than he needed money, Kim sold everything for anominal price.)

novice (n.) - a beginner, someone without training or experience (Because we were allnovices at archery, our instructor decided to begin with the basics

nuance (n.) - a slight variation in meaning, tone, expression (The nuances of the poem were not obvious to the casual reader, but the teacher was able to point them out.)

oblivious (adj.) - lacking consciousness or awareness of something (Oblivious to the burning smell emanating from the kitchen, my father did not notice that the rolls in the oven were burned until much too late.)

obsequious (adj.) - excessively compliant or submissive (Donald acted like Susan’s servant, obeying her every request in an obsequious manner.)

obtuse (adj.) - lacking quickness of sensibility or intellect (Political opponents warned that the prime minister’s obtuse approach to foreign policy would embroil the nation in mindless war.)

panacea (n.) - a remedy for all ills or difficulties (Doctors wish there was a single panacea for every disease, but sadly there is not.)

parody (n.) - a satirical imitation (A hush fell over the classroom when the teacher returned to find Magdalena acting out a parody of his teaching style.)

penchant (n.) - a tendency, partiality, preference (Fiona’s dinner parties quickly became monotonous on account of her penchant for Indian dishes.)

perusal (n.) - a careful examination, review (The actor agreed to accept the role after a three-month perusal of the movie script.)

plethora (n.) - an abundance, excess (The wedding banquet included a plethora of oysters piled almost three feet high.)

predilection  (n.) - a preference or inclination for something (James has a predilection for eating toad in the whole with tomato ketchup.)

quaint (adj.) - charmingly old-fashioned (Mary was delighted by the quaint bonnets she saw in Romania.)

rash (adj.) - hasty, incautious (It’s best to think things over calmly and thoroughly, rather than make rash decisions.)

refurbish (v.) - to restore, clean up (After being refurbished the old Triumph motorcycle commanded the handsome price of $6000.)

repudiate (v.) - to reject, refuse to accept (Tom made a strong case for an extension of his curfew, but his mother repudiated it with a few biting words.)

rife (adj.) - abundant (Surprisingly, the teacher’s writing was rife with spelling errors.)

salient (adj.) - significant, conspicuous (One of the salient differences between Alison and Helen is that Alison is a couple of kilos heavier.)

serendipity (n.) - luck, finding good things without looking for them (In an amazing bit of serendipity, penniless Mark found a $50 bill on the back seat of the bus.)

staid (adj.) - sedate, serious, self-restrained (The staid butler never changed his expression no matter what happened.)

superfluous (adj.) - exceeding what is necessary (Samantha had already won the campaign so her constant flattery of others was superfluous.)

sycophant (n.) - one who flatters for self-gain (Some see the people in the cabinet as the Prime Minister’s closest advisors, but others see them as sycophants.)

taciturn (adj.) - not inclined to talk (Though Magda never seems to stop talking, her brother is quite taciturn.)

truculent (adj.) - ready to fight, cruel (This club doesn’t really attract the dangerous types, so why was that bouncer being so truculent?)

umbrage (n.) - resentment, offence (He called me a lily-livered coward, and I took umbrage at the insult.)

venerable (adj.) - deserving of respect because of age or achievement (The venerable High Court judge had made several key rulings in landmark cases throughout the years.)

vex (v.) - to confuse or annoy (My boyfriend vexes me by pinching my bottom for hours on end.)

vociferous (adj.) - loud, boisterous (I’m tired of his vociferous whining so I’m breaking up with him.)

wanton (adj.) - undisciplined, lewd, lustful (Joanna’s wanton demeanor often made the frat guys next door very excited.)

zenith (n.) - the highest point, culminating point (I was too nice to tell Emily that she had reached the absolute zenith of her career with that one top 10 hit of hers.)

2

Mysterious Death of Zigmund Adamski 

One June 6th of 1980, Zigmund left his house to do some grocery shopping. When he didn’t return for a family wedding the next day, his family started to get worried. 

His body was found five days later (June 11th) in Todmorden next to a railway line. Trevor Parker, son of the coal yard owner, made the gruesome discovery PC Alan Godfrey was sent to investigate. His body was found face down on top 12 foot high pile of anthracite. He was found without a shirt, the rest of his clothes seemed like they were put on him by someone who had very little idea of how to put them on (both his shoes and pants were put on incorrectly). Even though he had been missing for 5 days, he only had a single day of beard growth. His neck and shoulders also had burn marks on them and forensics found that some kind of strange ointment was applied to them though they could not identify it.

Dr Alan Edwards, the consulting pathologist at the Royal Halifax Infirmary, conducted the post-mortem examination in Hebden Bridge just after 9pm that day he was found. Dr Edwards’ professional judgment placed the time of death between 11am and 1pm on the day that Adamski was found, while the burns were two days old. The exact cause of death was a matter of such deliberation, that Adamski’s death took Coroner James Turnbull several months to register. It was ruled as a heart-attack.

PC Alan Godfrey didn’t believe that Zigmund died of a heart attack, he believed that Zigmund was abducted by aliens. Godfrey claimed that he himself had witnessed a UFO in Todmorden. He went to investigate what he thought was an overturned bus, but was shocked when he saw it hovering 5 feet above the ground. He claims that the next thing he remembers is being back in his patrol car driving off. He claims that he had similar burn marks and a strange green gel on his neck too. He was put under hypnosis and asked about his encounter. The 2nd picture is his sketch of the UFO and the aliens he had an encounter with. Godfrey stuck to his claims that Zigmund was abducted by aliens and dropped back after they used him for research.

Zigmund’s family believes it was a case of human abduction instead of alien abduction. They believe he was being held captive and died of a heart attack.

Uhhh I kinda got smacked around by some inspiration for a VLD fic, of all things?  


“I wanted to see how you two were doing,” Shiro said, collapsing against the counter beside her.  "But, it’s good to get a little quiet.“

Hunk frowned in sympathy.  "They still arguing?”

“Something like that.”  Shiro sighed, kneading his temples.  "I wish I could say it’s surprising, but.  Fire and water are opposites.“

"So are earth and air,” Pidge noted.  "Feel like sparring, Hunk?“

Hunk grinned over his mixing bowl.  "I’m good, but thanks.”

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  • Me: We're gonna write today
  • Brain: OK
  • Brain: [Warms up]
  • Brain: [Starts whirring]
  • Brain: [Arranging words] -
  • Me: Wait! No! I mean we're gonna write the thing we were planning on writing. Not a new thing. I don't recognise this new thing. I need to write the old thing.
  • Brain:
  • Me:
  • Brain: Well, you should have said, shouldn't you?
Unpopular Drarry opinion

There is no way in the fires of hell that these two snarky sass-factory idiots would call each other “love” as a term of endearment. 

Request: Storm

Request: Can you write one where the reader breaks down to Bobby because she is pregnant with Dean’s baby. Thank you :)

Word Count: 1,069

<3

The rain has been coming down in buckets all night, and the wind whips at the sides of the house in such a way that every now and again, the foundations shake so severely that Bobby nearly ends up waiting out the storm in the panic room.

When he sees the flash of light outside the window followed by a rumble, he isn’t paying enough attention to think of it as anything but another facet of the storm. What he does pay attention to, however, is the frantic, loud knocking that reverberates well beyond the door.

The knocking doesn’t stop until he answers, pulling the door open to be bet with a harsh gust of wind.

“Y/N?” You’re soaked and dishevelled, and he isn’t sure which has smeared your makeup more – the rain, or the tears you’re trying and failing to hold back.

“Can- can I come in?” It’s a stupid question, but it’s the only thing your fuzzy, addled brain can come up with. Bobby doesn’t speak, but he nods, ushering you into the warmth of the house where you grew up and forcing the door closed against the wind.

“What the hell are you doing out in this?” Driving in this weather would be dangerous enough without you being in a complete state. You don’t reply, though, shivering in the hallway and wiping at your face in frustration. It scares him – you’re the closest thing he has to family: he’d raised you since you were six months old and your parents had been killed, leaving no-one to keep an eye on their demon-blood infected child. He’d taken you in, and found that he’d quickly become all too fond of you.

“Y/N, seriously. Where are Sam and Dean?” It must be something to do with them, because it elicits a sob from you, “I don’t want to play twenty questions with you.” He steps forward, resting his hands on your shoulders and pressing an affectionate kiss to your forehead, “Give yourself some time, alright? Go get a shower, get changed. Everything’s fine. Nothing is going to hurt you while you’re here. I’ll make you a hot chocolate while you’re gone, just how you like it. How does that sound?”

To his eternal relief, that manages to get a nod and a weak smile from you, and he pulls you in for a gentle hug before letting you go. He doesn’t look away from you until you’re safely up the stairs, and then sighs to himself – he’s never seen you like this. But you need him, and he’ll be damned if you’re not going to have him to go to.

***

It’s nearly half an hour before he hears you coming down the stairs, but there’s nothing wrong with that – especially when he sees how much better you’re looking. Sure, your eyes are still red-rimmed and you’re still shaking with the effort it takes not to cry, but at least your clothes are warm and dry and your lips are no longer bluish with the cold.

You shuffle into the room and take a seat, swallowing hard before looking up at Bobby. He sets the hot chocolate – piled high with cream, chocolate shavings, and marshmallows – in front of you, and then takes the seat next to yours. The storm outside still batters the windows, but the kitchen is warm, and with the pair of you bathed in warm light, it’s almost cosy.

“Talk to me.” Bobby prompts softly, reaching over and resting his hand over the top of yours. He sees the way you flinch at the gesture, and for a moment he thinks the worst, “Is it Dean? Has he hurt you?” He hadn’t been overly happy when you’d begun dating the eldest Winchester two and a half years ago, but you’d been happy, and Dean had given him a heartfelt promise that his intentions were pure – but Bobby had promised in return that the moment Dean so much as breathed the wrong way at you, he’d find himself without the means to do so again.

“Y/N, sweetheart, I need you to talk to me if you want to fix this.”

“I can’t fix it.” You speak properly for the first time since you stepped into the house, “It’s broken. Very broken.”

“Still with the ambiguous, sweetheart.”

It takes you a few moments to muster up the courage to come out with it, but eventually, you do.

“I’m pregnant.”

Silence, apart from the sounds of the storm outside, fills the room. For a long moment, he can’t find it in himself to speak – and then…

“Do not drink that.” He wraps his spare hand around the mug and slides it away from you, reminded suddenly of the copious amount of whiskey he just dropped into that, “Is it… it’s Dean’s?”

You scoff, “That’s the problem, isn’t it? Of course it is.” Sorrow and bitterness taint your tone in equal measure, and Bobby winces.

“Have you told him?” He tries, and you nod again.

“Yeah. That’s what the second problem is.” You sigh, pulling your hand away from his in order to run your hands over your face, skilfully masking a sob – but not enough. Bobby knows you inside and out, and picks up on it instantly.

“He reacted badly?”

“If saying I’d ruined everything and needed to get the hell out of his sight is reacting badly, then I’d say so, yeah.” You spit, but your voice breaks and before you know it, your head is on his shoulder and you’re sobbing openly into him, everything coming out. He holds onto you tightly, a silent promise that he’ll never let you go; that you always have him.

***

It’s nearly three hours later, by the time he’s managed to calm you down and get you asleep. You’re still asleep on the sofa when his phone rings. He answers, begrudgingly, when he realises who it is.

“Dean?”

“Bobby? Have you heard from Y/N? She’s gone and we’ve been trying to track her all night, but we haven’t found anything.” He rattles off, his voice frantic and shaking.

“Why? What happened?” Bobby asks, watching you sleeping form.

“We got in a fight. I said something stupid. God, Bobby, I’ll never forgive myself if she doesn’t…” He cuts himself off, and swallows hard, “Have you heard from her?”

He pauses, “Nope. Nothing. I’ll let you know if I do.”

“Thanks, Bobby.”

The Mean Marquis

Lafayette x Reader

Note: So @a-schuylerr made a post about different Lafayette fic scenarios they would like to see and I got inspired. Thank you to @thatoneimaginesblog for being my proofreader and for putting up with me spamming you with my process on this fic. This is my longest fic and I am really excited for you to read it!

Warning: smut and that’s basically it

Word Count: 7,204 ( I expected it to be long just not this long)

Tagged: @hamiltonsquills @mehrmonga @iamgrayfox @rottwat @beckett-faye @justanotherone2u @aph-bermuda @haletotheking24


1772

When your father first announced that you were to marry a French nobleman in just over a month, you felt as if your throat had fallen into your stomach. You were angry and shocked, so angry that you could hardly form a sentence before you stormed off.

That was three days ago, your anger had subsided and left you feeling worried. Worried about the man you were going to be married to. He wasn’t just any old French nobleman he was the Marquis de Lafayette, more affectionately known as the “Mean Marquis”. You’d heard stories about him about his ruthless and cold nature when it came to business. You had also heard about how popular he was with women, and that he was always surrounded by them.

“It’s just not fair!” you yell. You’d walked far enough away from you family’s home that you know you can speak without being heard. “I don’t even know him why should I marry him?” you groan as you sink to your knees.

You take a deep breath as you feel yourself start to panic. How on earth is he going to treat me? You wonder. After everything you’ve heard about him, the best you can hope for is that he will ignore you. He will probably give you a child or two but for the most part, just forget you even exist.

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anonymous asked:

hey would you ever do a "what if harry potter had been a girl" story? or a trans girl? i don't know how much gender would change things except other people's perceptions but...

Hermione went to the library, when Harry first confided in her. Whatever the faculty, the administration, or the Ministry believed or didn’t believe, the Hogwarts library gave the children what they needed and always would.

Hermione came back with books and books on gender in wizarding history, on the spells and words wizards had used for centuries or decades or mere years, and she and Harry bent their heads together and figured out what words Harry felt best told her story. From her hometown library, after that first summer, Hermione brought back memoirs and brightly-colored pamphlets that Harry read through instead of finishing her Potions homework.

When Harry looked in the Mirror of Erised, she still saw her mother, her father, all her gathered, lost kin. The specter of her father gathered up her hands in his. Her mother pushed back the long dark hair Petunia had always made her cut short and she called her beautiful.

When she looked into it again, after Devil’s Snare and winged keys, giant chess and Ron lying prone on the floor, Hermione wringing her eleven year old hands in the potion riddle room– When Harry looked into the Mirror again, she saw herself, just herself. The girl in the mirror winked and smiled and slipped the Stone in Harry’s pocket. No matter what other wishes and want laid on her narrow shoulders, at the end of the day the thing Harry wanted most was to help. Harry brushed one hand over the lump of rock in her robe pocket, and then brushed her other over her mess of hair, which was feet shorter than the girl in the mirror’s.

She woke up in the hospital wing, bedside table piled high with candy.

Once Harry and Hermione had sussed out between them what the words were for what was going on here, they had explained it to Ron. Harry didn’t come out to anyone else until partway through second year, though, at the height of the Heir of Slytherin nonsense.

She was fed up, then. She just wanted to be left alone, and this wouldn’t help with that, but they were all already staring. Keeping this to herself felt like a vice around her chest. Hogwarts was supposed to be better.

After, Ron came almost to blows with anyone who goggled or sniffed or rolled their eyes. Seamas learned to swallow his tongue. Draco Malfoy didn’t. Hermione wrote up an explanatory note about appropriate pronouns in her best penmanship and then copied it with flicks of her wand. With Harry’s embarrassed permission, she gave it to every professor Harry had or would ever have.

Colin Creevey stopped her in the Great Hall with a tug on her sleeve. She turned, shoulders rising, and the kid said in his piping voice, “You’re still my hero.”

That was better than it could have been, but she wasn’t sure she liked the “still.”

Peeves, though he was nasty about everything else–ickle firsties and orphan girls–got it immediately. For all six years of her Hogwarts tenure, he dropped water balloons on the heads of anyone who misgendered her. Professor Binns never quite figured it out, but he didn’t know any student’s name. Nearly Headless Nick gallantly and somewhat awkwardly called her lady and tried to hold open doors for her, despite the fact that he couldn’t open them.

Snape called Harry “Mr. Potter” for all seven years that he was in Harry’s life. Around year three, Ron stopped counting the detentions he got for his increasingly sarcastic responses to this.

The whispers about the Heir of Slytherin grew louder and louder, keeping pace with “Uh, I thought it was the Boy Who Lived?” Fred and George Weasley took it upon themselves to walk Harry to and from class when they could, talking loudly enough to drown everything out.

Then Hermione got Petrified and the Heir whispers stopped abruptly. Harry, if she hadn’t been busy with Ron trading off reading their assigned textbooks aloud to Hermione in the infirmary, might have felt gratified that the whole school knew how much this bushy-haired kid meant to her. Alright, so they thought she might murder Muggleborns with a mysterious monster, or sic a snake on her opponent in a dueling club? But they knew she wouldn’t hurt Hermione for anything.

In the Chamber, she met Tom Riddle. He was supposed to be her mirror, though she didn’t quite know that yet. He was supposed to be her shadow, the chain around her ankle, the other half (or another eighth) of her story and his soul.

Ginny had been trying to speak for months– to tell someone, to open the diary and the bag under her bed full of chicken-blood-stained robes and to thrust them into the light. But Percy had shushed her, all his assumptions orbiting his own importance to her story. The teachers had patted her on the head. She had been frightened, eleven years old with Tom whispering in her ear, guiding her hands.

Harry had been trying to speak for years– to explain to someone the way she did not feel like Dudley, like Vernon, like the boys in the locker room at school. Hermione had listened. Hermione had given her books and books of people who felt like her. Ron had listened, and taught her wizard’s chess, and kicked Draco in the shins.

But here Harry was, standing alone– a red-haired lump at her feet, dark robes sodden with moldy water. Hermione was frozen. Ron was trapped behind a rock fall and Tom was pacing, gloating, glowing. Ginny was breathing. Ginny had to be breathing. Harry was going to save her. She had to, because no one had listened to the kid, not even Harry.

The phoenix tears left no scars on Harry’s arm. Riddle, the Chamber, the life going out of her, everything that had happened in that long year– none of it left scars on Ginny, or at least none that anyone could see.

When Harry got back to 4 Privet Drive that summer, she suffered through Aunt Petunia’s annual hair cut and then she curled up with Hedwig and wrote a letter. She wrote about the Muggle candies she missed when at Hogwarts, and how her cousin thought she was weird for being excited about summer homework. She asked Ginny how she was.

Ginny wrote back after a long week. She didn’t answer the question, but she wrote about helping Dad on the car, about the apple harvest coming, and Fred and George playing pranks on the ghoul in the attic.

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a day in the life.

established dean/cas, hunter husbands, for @honorreid. thank you for donating to the Team Trash Brigade GISHWHES fundraiser! want to commission me for something of your own? click here for more info. 

Castiel sleeps like the dead. It’s an unfortunate truth.

Dean rolls over only half awake because someone has stolen all the blankets, and he blindly seeks out warmth and comfort too early in the morning. Castiel is all but a statue beside him in bed though: on his back, comforter curled over his mouth with just his nose uncovered. He sleeps soundly and doesn’t stir when Dean nudges him, tries to squeeze his way under an arm or against his chest. Dean snuffles – not quite a whine – and Castiel goes so far as to kick him under the blankets, closing his eyes defiantly tighter.

Dean sighs. Time to get up, then.

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Dirty, Pretty Things

Hey guys! I hope that everyone is having a supremely good day today! I’m sorta shy to post this because I’ve never written a sexy-time before, but I gave it a go lol. Basically, Tom and the reader go to the library and Tom gets a little frustrated by the book the reader picks out for him, and then, sexy-time ensues. I hope you like it!

Dirty, Pretty Things

He had lost her within the sea of words that had engulfed them both.

When Tom had first entered the grand library, the sight of so many shelves completely drenched in knowledge blew his eyes wide open. She, on the other hand, had immersed herself, diving in and out of shelves quickly, and coming out with towering stacks of novels. Tom watched, hands in his pockets, as she piled the literature as high as it could go without falling.

Grabbing her readings, he moved them to a secluded corner, where he sat down on the floor to wait for her to come back to him.

As she fluttered about, rushing in between sections and up and down staircases, her skin gave off a soft sheen of champagne that he knew came from her ridiculously expensive highlighter. The heels of her boots tapped anxiously across the floor. Sounding as though they were afraid they’d only be granted a set amount of time to wander through the library. The straps of the dress his girlfriend wore began to slip off her shoulders and she failed to fix them to their proper place again. When she bent down, Tom noticed that her position revealed a more than generous amount of her legs. He bit his lip and tried to ignore how alluringly endearing she looked.

Tom loved to watch her like this. She looked incredibly at home nestled inside the library’s massive selection of books. She wasn’t worried about other people, or how they could be perceiving her. Instead, her only focus was on choosing the best and most interesting novel to read.

After about forty minutes, she finally came back to him, carrying four more books in her hands.

“I picked some out for you to read as well,” she said, nestling decisively underneath his arm.

Due to the spot Tom had secured, she was sat directly next to the left corner of the wall with Tom cuddled into her right side. Tom beamed at her and pressed an open mouthed kiss to her lips. “What did you get for me darling?”

“Well, firstly, I grabbed you the first Harry Potter book because I think that it’s absolute insanity that you haven’t read it yet. Then, I grabbed Horns and The Shining, in case your in the mood for horror, but, if all else fails, maybe you could try Hidden Bodies or Dirty, Pretty Things?” She began to ramble on about why she had selected each novel and then stopped short. “Oh, shit, I should go back and bring you Fight Club, I really think that-.” Tom quickly wrapped an arm around her middle, securing her back down on the floor.

“No, no, I’m excited to read Dirty, Pretty Things. That’s the poetry book you’ve been off about with Kaylee, right? I want to read that one.” Tom watched her pull the thin, pink book out of the stack to hand to him.

She looked shy handing it over to him. As soon as his hands slid over the front cover, she quickly interjected, “you may not like it, but the words are just lovely and they make me,” she stopped short and shuddered.

Tom quirked a brow, “oh yeah? Better get started then.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead and rustled her hair.

Tom watched as she leaned forward and bit her lip, trying to decide what she wanted to read first. Eventually, she settled on A Tale For the Time Being and curled up against his chest.

Tom’s eyes skimmed over poem after poem, and he began to understand why she spoke so much about it, just not directly to him. The book was written about love, and carnal attraction and she was forever timorous.

The poetry in Dirty, Pretty Things was beginning to get to him, especially when he thought about her reading it. Michael Faudet’s words were dulcet and enticing, and Tom imagined whispering them softly into her ear, as he slipped his hands up her skirt.

Tom’s mind briefly wandered to her getting off on the words within the book and had to stop for a few seconds to recompose himself. He glanced down at her. The words on the page of her book seemed to leap and dance off the page, mocking him for being of more interest to her than he was. Shaking his head, he tried not to look at the uncovered, sweet smelling, perfumed, skin of her chest. Going back to his own book, he attempted to allow the book’s poetry to command his full attention once again.

The first poem Tom encountered as he flipped the page nearly killed him. He stopped breathing and read over the words three more times before letting out a shaker gasp.

The only words on the page were, “Put your hands on my knees, she said, and think of me as a book you’ve been dying to read.”

Tom looked from the poem to her, then again and again before he felt his jeans getting even tighter than they were before. This had to be a sign. Shit, they were in a library, surrounded by books, all alone in a dimly lit corner of the library. Not to mention, books and literature were her favorite things in the word. She had told him a while ago that the best compliment she’d ever received had been from slew of teachers who had all insisted that she had the best taste in books they’d seen in a long time. Michael Faudet’s words were taunting him.

“Baby,” he started, gently tilting her chin up to look at him. “I’m bored.”

She frowned, “do you not like the book because I can go and grab you another, or maybe-,” Tom cut her short by sliding a soft hand across her throats to sweep her hair off her shoulder.

“Let’s trade. You can read Dirty, Pretty Things out loud to me. I’m sleepy and I wanna listen to you read the poems.” Tom gently guided his book into her palms.

She flushed red and stuttered for a minute. “Tom, I can’t.

“Why not?” He countered.

“You’ve read it,” She muttered, looking away from him. “The words are libidinous.”

Tom brought her eyes back to his and licked his lips before he spoke. “I wanna hear you read them darling.” He moved to kiss the spot just below her lips. Tom dared lower and lower, tangling his hands in her hair as he went. When he reached her collarbones, she finally snapped.

Letting out an airy sigh, she gasped out, “fine Tom.”

He smirked and placed a final kill on the base of her throat and corrected his posture so that he was sitting with his arms protectively circling her frame.

She moved to flip to the next page when Tom interrupted her. “Do you mind reading from the beginning? I wanna hear it all in your voice.”

Narrowing her eyes, she flipped back to the first page and began to read. As she read through the first few poems, Tom’s hands began to totter.

First, he slipped them up and down her arms, feigning an effort to keep her warm. Then, he began to give her small kisses on the forehead, cheek, neck and hand. She looked at him, slightly confused as to why he’d ask her to read out loud if he wasn’t going to pay attention.

Nevertheless, she kept reading.

As she flipped the page, her breathing was cut short. Tom knew exactly which poem she’d stumbled across. “Sweetheart, do you want to play a game?” Tom asked her, his voice rough and low in her ear.

She blinked up at him, her cheeks flushed cherry red as she managed to stutter out a few syllables.

“How about I tell you the rules first?” He paused briefly, and then began to talk. “The book you’ve chosen for me has actually proven itself to be quite the naughty thing and I think that you gave it to me on purpose. Since you like to play so many little games instead of just telling me directly what you want, I think that maybe I’ll give games a go too.” Tom stopped to look at her again. Her pupils had consumed the typical color of her eyes and her hands were slightly shaking. Taking them within his own, he kissed the backs of both of her hands.

“If you’ll allow me, I’d very much like to reenact that poem. You are the book that I’ve been dying to read.”

Her eyes shut and she bit her lip to contain the moan threatening to slip past.

“Here’s the catch though, I still want you to read to me. If you stop reading out loud, I’ll stop what I’m doing and you wouldn’t want that, would you?” Tom peppered her neck with open mouthed kisses.

She nodded her head, eyes still shut tight.

“No, darling, I need verbal consent, just to be sure.” Tom continued his assault on her neck.

Her eyes finally snapped open and she rolled her head around to look directly into Tom’s eyes. “Please.” She whispered.

With that, Tom smirked and lifted the hem of her dress and slipped his hand further up her thighs.

Her voice shook, “the kind of love letter I write are the ones you read in bed, stretched out beneath the sheets with one hand between your legs.”

Tom pressed his mouth to her and she convulsed against his lips, gasping out the words to the next line.


HR Giger in his dining room in his home outside Zurich, where he sits with a burnt effigy of himself. From a 1986 issue of NewLook magazine, accompanied by the following text:

I find the macabre to be singularly exciting,” says Hans Rudi Giger. The winner of an Oscar for his creepy production design of Alien, Giger, a master of the horrific, has transformed his dining room into a mausoleum. Surrounded by his hideous creations, he likes to receive guests while wearing a mask.

Other designers have a tendency to envision interior architecture as a reflection of their innermost obsessions. It’s certainly evident in the case of Swiss artist Hans Rudi Giger, who won an Oscar for his production design of the sci-fi thriller Alien. Giger lives near Zurich, in a house whose shutters remain tightly closed. He wears only black, which matches the walls of his inner sanctum. The place has all the gaiety of a crypt.

Giving his grand tour, Giger displays a properly sepulchral comportment. He points out various skeletons, which seem to be the dominant decorative motif. “Oh, yes,” he remarks, “the market for morbidity has risen sharply.” Giger’s tastes have not always been shared by his romantic partners. One wife left him long ago.

Giger claims that ever since his childhood, when he was surrounded by skeletons in the family pharmacy, he has been hearing voices. He is used to them now and knows what precautions to take. Each room in his house has at least two emergency exits. The shower stall has three: one to the wine cellar, one to the basement, and one to the bedroom. The Giger bedroom is a sort of hermit’s cave lined with his books, drawings, and paintings against the blackness. Here he spends wakeful nights devouring macabre and grisly literature. Once he feels sufficiently disturbed, he seizes his airbrush and splatters his nightmares onto canvas. Such expulsions of his personal demons have made him wealthy indeed.

Speaking in the soft Grisons dialect, his face hidden behind a mask of perforated sheet metal, Giger calls his guests to the table. The table is made of glass and human skulls and is piled high with meat and bones for the snacking. One dines surrounded by the host’s original paintings: rotting corpses, gaping wounds, bloodied freaks, monsters, and scenes of unbearable agony. “Diabolical, isn’t it?” chuckles Giger. “Have some Chianti?”

anonymous asked:

Writting Prompt: Danny cries in his sleep, sometimes really loud. And screams. Once he even transform while sleeping. The problem is, he start to doing it when he fall asleep in class. Hope it's good enough to write

angst oh god what is with this phandom and angst okay here’s ur angst with a heavy dose of weird millennial humour because this bitch can’t angst without a metric fuck of comedy sprinkled all over the place

also I’m sick and wrote half of this in the middle of the night while feverish so like, I did my best

“OKAY THIS IS FINE.” Danny said aloud to the floor. He didn’t really intend the floor to be the recipient of his ire but it was where his face was currently planted so it would just have to ding darn diddly deal with it.

Danny had experienced his fair share of being stuck in awkward positions but this one had rivalled many of his top ten, and he hadn’t even been thrown across a room by a ghost to achieve it! Nope, he just fell out of bed.

One arm was flung out before him, the other awkwardly pulled behind his back, still twisted up in his bedsheets, along with his leg. Just the one leg, the other was hanging - in quite a remarkable display of inhuman dexterity - over his shoulder.

All it took was some gut wrenching, heart stopping, bile inducing nightmares. Nothing fancy really, just the visceral image of everyone he loved and cared about DYING from TOO MUCH FIRE right in front of his eyes as he watched helplessly. Yep.

“THIS IS FINE.” Danny said again, a little louder this time. The carpet smelled like feet, Danny decided maybe he should take his eating hole off the gross floor before he caught a foot fungus on his lip. He knew it was possible, it happened to Ricky Marsh once at camp.

Yeah Danny should REEEAAAALLY get his face off that carpet. Right now, yep. He was gonna get up at this very mome-

Jazz heard a loud snore come from Danny’s bedroom. He was supposed to be up half an hour ago, school started in ten minutes. But she knew he had a plate piled high with superhero shenanigans that kept him up at obnoxiously late hours nine nights out of ten. The bags under his eyes could hold all the homework he never got done, with extra space for his unfinished chores.

Jazz was fully prepared to sneak in and firmly tuck him into bed with ghost proof sheets, a lie, an excuse and at least three compromises balanced on her tongue ready to jump at any parent and/or teacher that wanted her brother out of the warm sanctuary of bed today. Then she heard his gentle snores twist into a devastatingly soul crushing little whimper.

Oh boy, that wasn’t good.

Jazz opened her brother’s bedroom door and quietly peered inside to find… no one. He wasn’t there. Typical ghost bullshi-

Jazz had almost closed the door when she heard it again, that tiny little whimper. Was he invisible? She thought to herself, barely acknowledging how fucking weird her life had gotten that that question came so naturally to her.

Jazz padded into the room and found that Danny had, somehow, managed to fall asleep on the floor beside his bed. One leg still hanging in the air via blanket sling, it was almost funny, until he screamed that is.

Jazz nearly jumped out of her spotty blue socks when a noise ripped out of her sleeping brother’s throat, a noise that honestly could have come from the cutting room floor of a horror flick that was deemed too terrifyingly violent to be shown on screens literally anywhere. His back was arched, his mouth wide, hands curled in on themselves, he almost looked as though he were convulsing.

It stopped suddenly, with a gasp and a jolt Danny woke. He didn’t shoot up or flail about, he just laid down on the floor, eyes blearily noticing that there was another person in the room. Jazz sat down by his side as he wiped his face, staring at the tears on his hands.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

Danny glared at her.

“Sorry, standard question.” Jazz mumbled as she unhooked his foot from the clinging bedsheets. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Danny, still laying on the floor, swung his right arm around, it had gone numb and tingly, the kind of numb and tingly that really hecking hurt when he started moving it again, yeesh.

“I had this really gnarly dream,” he started as he massaged his arm, Jazz listened intently. “I ordered a sandwich without mayo but when I bit into it there was mayo like, EVERYWHERE and-”

Jazz dropped a pillow on his face.

“That was rude.” Danny’s muffled voice grumbled.

“If you don’t want to talk about it you can just say so instead of being an asshole.” Jazz huffed as she found a pair of jeans and a shirt that were Clean Enough and threw them at the pillow. “You were crying and screaming, I was WORRIED.”

Danny pulled the pillow and clothes away and looked at his sister, actually looked her in the face. Her eyebrows were pulled tight and she was gnawing on her bottom lip, she really did look worried. Danny sat up and fished a somewhat pungent binder from under his bed, Pariah’s Oath he really needed to do his laundry.

“I don’t want to talk about it.” he stared down at his hands, face suspiciously neutral.

“Okay.” Jazz’s voice was gentle, she wasn’t going to push it, she’d learned a long time ago that it always just made things worse. “That’s okay, just know you can always talk to me, alright?”

Danny stood up and stretched, joints cracking and popping in a way that made Jazz want to barf. He could feel his arm again, thank the Ancients.

“You say that now, but every time a new rocket model comes out-”

“Bye Danny.” Jazz fucked off faster than Johnny’s shadow at dawn, absolutely Not wanting to stick around for another geeky space rant. Danny’s shit eating grin followed her out the door until it clicked shut, suddenly dropping back into the deadass tired face of a student who was entirely convinced that consistent sleep schedules were a myth.

He was not okay, ooooh he was so not okay.

Falling asleep again had been a mistake, a GRAVE mista- no okay, no, that pun was just inappropriate. He’d just had not one, but TWO disgustingly detailed nightmares about Literally Everyone dying, death puns were OFF the table right now.

Regular puns were still on the cards though, he thought to himself as he plopped his Little Pocket Book of Puns on top of a deck of cards sitting on his desk. He was proud of that one, in fact he snapchatted it, his smug face squeezed into the corner of the shot by the words ‘passng chem is off the cards bt my puns arnt’. It was easy to fool people with photos, he only had to pull off one good smile and people thought he was fine.

The flood of horrified snapchats he received in return made him giddy. Everything from a two minute video of Valerie trying not to hurl to a picture of Dash’s middle finger. Danny grinned, his grin looked genuine, it was not.

“This is fine.” he lied.

*RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRING*

Danny barely made it through the door before the bell went off, he celebrated his victory with a very brief and offensively outdated dance move before Tucker threw a pen at his head and the teacher told him to sit down before he hurt himself.

Danny’s goofy grin remained plastered onto his face as he sat next to Tucker, who was giving him the kind of look that was usually reserved for the weird surrealist internet videos Nathan always tagged him in on Facebook.

“You are like…” Tucker started, fiddling with the broken nib of his stylus. “Super hyper today what the fu-”

“Language, Foley.” the homeroom teacher deadpanned from behind his book.

“Sorry sir! But seriously what the fuck dude.” Tucker continued at a still very perceptible volume. The teacher sighed heavily.

“It’s cool I’m fine I just got like two hours of sleep and drank five coffees in ten minutes I think I can hear colours.” Danny’s eye twitched.

Tucker didn’t laugh, Danny was trying to be funny but it was like, twelve year old funny. He sighed and lowered his voice.

“You’re having nightmares again aren’t you.” Tucker stared through Danny’s plastic grin with serious eyes. “We talked about this Danny, I told you to STOP faking this shit with me. You know what happens when you don’t get enough sleep, you get really fucking weird.”

“Did you get my snapchat this morning?” Danny asked as though he hadn’t heard a single word his best friend had just said.

“Yes, it was awful and I hate you.” The jab had no bite, Tucker couldn’t stand seeing Danny like this, it was like some awful parody of his friend amped up to eleven. He didn’t bother trying to talk sense into him, sense was gone, sense was out the window, sense was on the next plane to god damn Timbuktu.

Danny’s giddiness didn’t let up a single inch throughout their first couple of morning classes. He had stupid jokes and shitty puns hidden up every sleeve in the building, and the tiniest little thing would set him off giggling. Star smacked a fly with a ruler, Danny literally fell off his chair laughing.

Mr Lancer gave Tucker permission to drag Danny out into the hallway to calm down. Tucker grimaced in apology as he dragged along a snorting Danny by the sleeve, the rest of the class having a good laugh of their own.

“Do you think he’s like, actually on drugs or something?” Tucker heard Paulina whisper not even remotely quietly as they left the room.

The moment the classroom door had closed, Tucker slammed Danny against the wall.

“DUDE! GET. A. GRIP.” Tucker was not even in the general vicinity of fucking around right now. Danny needed to chill his tits before he got into serious trouble, the last thing he needed was a detention lumped on top of the pile of reasons Danny’s life was a train wreck.

Danny clenched his teeth, his eyes were wide, too wide. Then his mouth curled up and a laugh squeezed its way through taught lips. Oh no, not again. Not on Tucker’s watch. Before the next giggle fit could get into full swing Tucker had pulled out his drink bottle, uncapped it, and dumped the entirety of its contents on Danny’s stupid guffawing head.

A cough and a splutter later and Danny was sitting on the floor, the stupid grin officially washed from his face.

“Can we talk like actual human beings now?” Tucker asked, the plastic water bottle thudding emptily on the ground.

“I’m not an ‘actual human being’. So no. I can’t.” Danny’s voice was short and clipped, his expression stony.

Tucker slumped to the floor next to his best friend, ignoring the puddle he was half sitting in. They sat in silence for a bit, listening to Mr Lancer’s muffled voice droning on about adverbs or something. A squeak from someone’s shoe echoed down the empty hall. A fluorescent light flickered. Danny winced.

“You wanna borrow my earphones? I’ve got some chill tunes if you need to like, shut everything out for a bit.” Tucker held the tangled cords out to Danny who promptly stuck them in his ears and buried his face in his arms. It was all just, just too much right now.

He threw his hands over his ears when the bell rang, Tucker put a gentle arm around his shoulder.

“C'mon, it’s about to get really loud out here.” he said quietly, taking Danny by the arm and leading him to their next class. It was history, they were watching a movie. Perfect. Tucker rolled up his jacket and put it on the desk in front of Danny.

“Try and sleep a bit, if you can. You can copy my notes later.”

Tucker was a good friend.

Danny put his head down, Tucker’s chill playlist still thrumming softly in his ears. He didn’t want to sleep, he didn’t want to see everyone die again, but his eyes could barely stay open. He read somewhere online that just laying down and resting was still good for you, even if he didn’t sleep he could still get some energy back at least, maybe.

He was out like a light the moment his head hit Tucker’s jacket.

The dream was never the same. Every time it started as just a regular weird ass dream, he was at the Nasty Burger, but he was sitting at his kitchen table. His friends were there, so was some guy he’d never met, they were talking about monster trucks or… something. The guy he didn’t know was showing him a song he wrote, it was gentle and calm, Danny liked it.

That was when the Guys in White showed up. They’d been there before, but not every time. Danny remembered the last dream he had, vaguely, he didn’t know he was dreaming now, but he knew what was going to happen next.

“RUN!” he tried to scream, but his voice came out strangled and quiet. Sam and Tucker kept chatting, they couldn’t see the danger, the strange guy started playing a different song, he had an acoustic guitar now and was on a stage that wasn’t there before.

The Guys in White aimed their ectoguns, knocking off shots around the entire Nasty Burger, Valerie collapsed behind the counter, had she always been there? Jazz was next, she was reading a book on the lounge that had definitely been there the whole time. Danny kept trying to scream, but his throat just couldn’t make anything more than a strangled rasping noise.

Sam and Tucker collapsed before him, the music changed again, the guy on the stage had a smoking hole in his chest, he was playing a cello now. The music was calm, soft and gentle, it hadn’t stopped during the shooting. The GIW agent at the head of the group turned to Danny, face splitting into an evil grin, flaming hair licking at his temples, it wasn’t a GIW agent any more. It had never been a GIW agent.

Danny tried to transform, he needed to save them, they were dead but he NEEDED to save them, if he could go ghost, if he could change he could fix this. His core felt so far away, the cold chill within him just JUST out of his grasp. Why couldn’t he change? WHY COULDN’T HE CHANGE?

Tucker sat at his desk in the dark classroom, taking halfassed notes about… something something president Washington. Hadn’t they already covered this? A flash at the edge of his vision pulled his tired gaze over to the sleeping mess beside him. Danny made a noise, a whimper? It sounded like he was trying to say something.

“Ru… ru-” Danny muttered, voice broken and, oh god he sounded so terrified.

Tucker’s heart splintered into tiny little pieces, and those tiny pieces shattered until his heart was basically just a pile of powder, really sad and devastated powder. Concentrated melancholy, in powder form. He nudged Danny.

“Danny, Danny wake up. Dude you’re talking in your sleep, WAKE UP.” Tucker was super worried, like beyond overprotective mother worried, if Danny said something incriminating in his sleep, if he said something about PHANTOM-

“Gotta… go-” a strand of silver began to creep through Danny’s dark hair.

Oh fuck.

Tucker shook Danny as violently as he subtly could, he needed to wake up. He needed to wake the fuck up right the fuck right NOW. FUCK. It was panic time, shit was getting dangerously identity revealing up in here and Tucker had to do something about it.

More silver was weaving through Danny’s hair, flickers of a dark, skin tight costume appearing for only the briefest of anxiety inducing moments. They were sitting in the back corner of the room, no one had noticed that anything was wrong yet, but someone would. Someone would notice SOON if Tucker couldn’t get Danny to wAKE THE HECKING FUCK HELL UP.

“Danny I swear to god if you don’t wake up I’m going to kill the rest of you. WAKE. UP.” How was Tucker supposed to wake him up without drawing attention to- oh good lordy fucK HIS HAIR.

Tucker pulled Danny’s hood over his head as quickly as he could nearly half a second after a flash of white overtook his entire scalp. Had anyone noticed?? Tucker glanced around the room, nobody was looking, thank christ Wes wasn’t in this class.

Tucker tucked the white strands into the hood as best he could manage before texting Sam as fast as his fingers would allow.

Sam was in the middle of copying some crap about photosynthesis that she already knew when she felt her phone buzz. It was from Tucker, and if his spelling was anything to go by, he was in trouble.

'DIASTRACTION NOWm’

Sam got the gist.

Pretending she was about to vomit everywhere was an easy way out of the classroom, and from there it was just a quick run to the fire alarm. It wasn’t the first time Sam had pulled off a fake emergency, she smashed the glass and hit the button with no hesitation, fuck the consequences. From there she just had to figure out where Danny and Tucker were, they all had copies of each other’s classes in case of just such emergencies.

History, they had history. She knew which room that was.

Sam took off running, boots thundering through the crowds of students filtering out of their classrooms. Sam could barely hear the alarm over the sound of her heart beat thudding in her ears, she didn’t have time to panic and worry, something was wrong and the most important thing right now was finding out what it was and if her friends were okay.

Someone noticed her through the crowd though. As she smashed through a group of kids coming out of a maths class, one guy caught her gaze, one guy decided to follow. Jesus shit she did NOT have the time for this.

Sam detoured down a seperate hallway, the tall redhead on her tail easily keeping pace, why couldn’t he just mind his own god damn business for once and, you know what? Sam thought, FUCK IT.

Another detour into an empty classroom and she had him. Bursting through the door after her, Wes looked around fervently, expecting to find Danny in some kind of juicy compromising situation. What he got was a surprise boot to the gut and he hit the deck like a sack of bricks.

Sam didn’t waste a second before bolting from the room, Wes had already taken up enough of her precious time.

Wes coughed and wheezed and tried to drag a breath into his aching abdomen, she’d clocked him a damn heavy blow and his body was not cooperating until it had a good few moments to recover from Whatever The Fuck Just Happened.

Damn it he was so close!

“Alright everyone, out onto the parking lot, like we do literally every other week.” The history teacher droned, his voice dry. He didn’t even bother making sure everyone left the room before walking out himself, it was probably a ghost attack anyway. These things lost their sense of urgency after the last fifty billion times, the only reason he didn’t make everyone get back into their seats was for legal reasons and honestly, he could really use the smoke break.

Tucker made a show of getting up to leave, but once he and Danny were the only two left he immediately dropped his shit and whammo’d his fists down on Danny’s desk.

“WAKE UP!” He yelled as Sam slid haphazardly into the room, clocking her hip on the teacher’s desk as she failed to reign in her momentum. She struggled with her footing for a moment before catching herself and racing up to the back of the class.

“Is he okay? What’s happening??” she asked, breathlessly.

Tucker lifted the hood from Danny’s bright-ass silvery hair.

“He’s transforming in his sleep and I can’t get him to wake up.” Tucker rushed out in one breath before grabbing Danny by the shoulders. “WAKE. UP. WAKE UP WAKE UP WAKE UP!!!!” Tucker screamed while shaking him with about as much tenderness as an irate Skulker on illegal performance enhancing ghost drugs. Finally, it was enough.

Danny jolted roughly, spasmed almost, and opened his fluorescent green eyes. Sam and Tucker took a quick step back in case he lashed out, but he didn’t. Danny’s hands gripped at the table hard enough to leave gouges in the sharpie-graffiti stained surface as his breath came out laboured and rasping. Tears smeared across his cheeks and dripped from his nose and chin.

He blinked, hard, before finally raising his head from the desk, looking remarkably disoriented. He was still flickering in and out of ghost form, disappearing from view entirely a few times as well, but it was slowing down as he took a few deep, shuddering breaths. Soon enough he was calm enough to stick to one form, human fortunately.

Sam breathed out a sigh and sat heavily on the nearest chair. He was okay and god she needed to sit down and catch the breath she’d left behind in science class.

Tucker sat beside Danny - who was now vigorously rubbing at his face - and took back his earphones, Sam could hear something that sounded like a cello playing through the small speakers

Tucker got through maybe the first two syllables of the standard 'are you okay?’ when he was abruptly cut off by a mildly lisping giggle.

Wes stood half through the doorway, phone out and trained on Danny’s previously unstable form. He looked a little pale and seemed to be having trouble breathing but that didn’t stop a wide shit eating grin from stretching across his freckled cheeks.

“Gotcha.” he sneered before turning on his heel and fleeing in unbridled glee.

Sam had recovered quickly from her previous run, she was on him like the Box Ghost on a roll of bubble wrap. Tucker heard the pounding of two sets of feet followed by a loud THUD, a squeal, and then what sounded suspiciously like a phone being heavily stomped on by a very firmly placed boot. The groaning came after that, punctuated with some extremely foul language that may have been spluttered through a bleeding nose and/or lip.

Sam came back into the room with a crushed phone in one hand and bloody knuckles on the other. She wasn’t dicking around, not today.

“You okay Danny?” she asked, getting only a tired glare in response. “Sorry, standard question.”

Sam picked up Danny’s backpack and put her hand out for him to take, he grasped it gratefully and she pulled him up from his chair as Tucker wound an arm around his waist. With the support of the two actual greatest people in the whole damn world, Danny walked out of the school and into the parking lot where an exasperated principal Ishiyama was counting heads and calling names.

“Equal Rites! What were you three still doing inside? Get into your- Mr Fenton are you alright?” Mr Lancer’s angry stride softened into a quick jog, concern weaving it’s way through his face at the sight of Danny’s red eyes and wet cheeks.

“He uh, had a head on collision with Wes on our way out.” said Sam, like a liar. “Took a corner too fast and copped a hit to the nose so his eyes got all teary, but he’s okay.”

“Wes might need a little help though.” Tucker added on. “We offered but he’s pretty much convinced we just rammed him on purpose and he threatened to tell everyone we beat him up sooo we kinda just left him on the floor.”

Lancer rubbed at his brow, exasperated. He did NOT have the time for Wes shenanigans. He took a quick look at Danny’s face, checking for any bleeding, satisfied when he could find none he sent the three on their way to get their names marked off before he headed back to the school building to find Wes.

“Thanks.” Danny squeezed Sam and Tucker tenderly, never wanting to let them go. He was so glad they were here, he was so glad they were alive.

“Sleepover at my place tonight.” Tucker declared. “No exceptions, there’s gonna be cuddle piles and maybe a pillow fort, but definitely lots of these.” he gave Danny a big ol’ smooch on the forehead and pulled him in for a tight hug. “You’re gonna be fine man, you’ll be okay.”

Sam jumped on and threw her arms around both her boys, pressing her lips against Danny’s cheek.

“We’re not going anywhere, okay? We’re gonna sleep right beside you and tell those fucking nightmares to fuck right off, just like last time.” Sam gave him a hearty thump on the back that might have knocked over a regular human, but Danny barely shifted.

What in Ring and Crown’s name did he ever do to deserve these two.

That night after a coma inducing amount of junk food and soft drink Danny passed out smushed between Sam and Tuck in what was pretty much the most affectionate and down right adorable Danny Sandwich either of them had ever made.

He dreamed of the three of them beating the shit out of Dan with Fenton Anti-Creep Sticks. He hadn’t slept so well in years.

Sterek A-Z Challenge: one word prompts

Week 15: O - Oops

The bell over the coffee shop door announced Derek’s arrival with a merry jingle a little after 11 in the evening. Derek shuffled the strap of his messenger bag higher on his shoulder and shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his leather jacket.

The shop was almost empty at that hour. Only a few students writing their first papers of the new term and a couple of regular night owls were scattered through the shop. His usual seat in the far corner, where he could sit with his back against the wall and keep watch, was open.

Derek dropped his bag on the small table and shrugged his jacket off to drape over the back of his claimed seat. The young woman at the register was new, which could be potentially problematic. Derek didn’t recognize her, but she smiled cheerfully when he approached.

“What can I get you?” she chirped. Her heartbeat fluttered nervously as her scent sweetened with clear want. Definitely problematic.

Derek paused a moment. “I don’t know,” he answered honestly. He wasn’t sure his drink had a name.

“Oh, well, we have different speciality coffees and teas,” the barista said and gestured to the menu board behind her. “If you want something-”

“I got this!” Stiles slid out of the back room, arms flailing to keep his balance. “Yo,” he said, greeting Derek with a lazy salute, and Derek snorted. His roommate was ridiculous. “Super awesome Stilinski special as dark as your soul, coming right up.”

“Right,” Derek said, gravitating down the bar towards Stiles. “No cinnamon this time.”

“Sure thing.” Stiles flipped a large paper cup into the air and fumbled to catch it, which made Derek chuckle.

When Stiles called him earlier that year, it had been a bit of a shock. Derek had been living in a cabin upstate that he and Laura had bought years ago. He had finally achieved vengeance for his family when he ripped out Kate’s throat and burned her body deep in the woods, but Beacon Hills wasn’t home anymore, so he hadn’t gone back. Now he wished he had.

At first, Derek hadn’t been sure the small voice on the other end of the phone had actually been Stiles, and not something trying to lure him back to Beacon Hills because the Stiles on the other end of the line had been quiet, almost hesitant, and unsure. As if Stiles hadn’t believed he deserved Derek’s help. Definitely not at all the hyperactive, chatterbox he had left behind. They both carried heavy scars, but that was fine.

Before Derek knew it, he had a new roommate and was driving across the country to pick Stiles up the day he got his diploma. Stiles hadn’t been home since, and the Sheriff was worried.

The barista asked Derek what the drink was so she could ring it up as Stiles ducked out of sight to retrieve milk out of the fridge below the counter.

“I don’t know,” Derek said again. “Something chocolate?”

Derek always had the same drink whenever he came in, but he didn’t know what it was because Stiles had never told him. It probably didn’t have a name. The first time he picked Stiles up, Stiles had whipped something up and shoved it into his hands.

Stiles’ head popped back up over the espresso bar. The steamer hissed to life, and Stiles laughed. “Don’t worry about it, Sam. It’s on me,” he said and winked at Derek.

Derek hadn’t paid for a drink yet.

The drink Stiles handed off to Derek smelled overly sweet and chocolatey, and was piled so high with whipped cream drizzled with chocolate and caramel that the topping threatened to spill over. He wasn’t sure how Stiles knew about his sweet tooth, but he shouldn’t have been surprised.

“Here ya go, big guy,” Stiles said and grinned. “Extra sweet and fluffy. Just like you.”

Keep reading

At Dueling Club that year, Hermione ‘set’ a snake on Millicent Bulstrode and every horrified, accusing eye in the room turned her way. She had read enough to know what those hissing words tripping off her tongue meant.

“The Hat offered me Ravenclaw, first,” Hermione whispered glumly to Harry and Ron at breakfast. “I don’t…”

Harry crunched through a piece of toast piled high with sugar. “It offered me Slytherin,” he said, with the tone of someone discussing the weather.

“Oh,” said Hermione. “Harry, I…”

“Huh,” said Ron. “It just called me a Weasley and gave me Gryffindor. I feel minimized.”

—  the brightest witch of her age (a chosen one!hermione fic) by dirgewithoutmusic
The different fanfic eras explained as lunch

Pre-internet era: You walk into a room and sit down at a table. Someone brings you a turkey sandwich, a bag of potato chips, and a soda. Perhaps you are a vegetarian, or gluten-free. Doesn’t matter; you get a turkey sandwich, a bag of potato chips, and a soda.

Usenet era: You walk into a room and sit down to your turkey sandwich, a bag of potato chips, and a soda. Someone tells you that over at the University they are also serving BLTs, pizza, coffee, and beer.

Web 1.0 (aka The Great Schism): You walk into a room. The room is lined with 50 unmarked doors. Someone tells you, “We have enough food to feed you and a hundred more…but we’ve scattered it behind these fifty doors. Good luck!”

Web 2.0 (present): You walk into a room. Someone points at the buffet and says, “Enjoy!” You turn to see a 100-foot-long buffet table, piled high with every kind of food imaginable. To be fair, some of the food is durian, head cheese, and chilled monkey brains, but that’s cool, some people are into those…and trust me, they are even more psyched to be here than you are.

Insomnia

This was requested sometime back. I’m not too thrilled with it, but it wasn’t going to get much better than this. I had something else written, but decided to write about something I had personal experience with instead. Thank you all for your patience and for reading!

        The blaring horn sound of Shawn’s alarm echoed through the bus, letting me know that it was seven in the morning. I didn’t move, continuing to stare at the ceiling of the back room which I had been doing for the past two hours. I was exhausted, mentally and physically, yet sleep seemed content with skipping over me the last three nights. It was my first-time visiting Shawn on tour and from night one, it was a disaster.

           I had been sick before I’d even arrived. I had a cough that just wouldn’t go away and it peaked the second day I was here. Shawn took me to Urgent Care without hesitation as I was wheezing and could hardly breathe. After a chest x-ray, it was confirmed that I had a mild case of Walking Pneumonia. I was given a breathing treatment, steroids, antibiotics, an inhaler, and extremely potent cough syrup and sent on my way.

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Stress Cleaning (ALiL Deleted Scene)

Summary: (College!AU) In which you’re too stressed to get any schoolwork done so Bucky offers an alternative plan.

Pairing: Bucky x Reader

Word Count: 2,370

A/N: An anon requested The reader is really stressed and Bucky helps her calm down. It’d be cool to see them clean the kitchen together and joke around. This occurs between “The Little Things (Part One)” and “The Little Things (Part Two)” I should be doing work and preparing for finals, but I was too stressed so I wrote this instead

“A Lesson in Love” Masterlist + Soundtrack

Originally posted by calif0rnia-lovers

You stare at your textbook, willing the words on the page to somehow become more interesting. When they don’t, you move the book from the table onto your lap in the hopes that this new angle will help you absorb what you’re reading. After you catch yourself skimming over the same paragraph for what is now the third time in a row, you slam the textbook closed in frustration.

Midterms are upon you and what you should be doing is studying for the exams you have this week. Unfortunately for you, your brain is not in compliance with this plan. It wants nothing to do with the study guides, outlines, and index cards you’ve created. You had hoped that switching gears and reading straight from your textbook might work, but that attempt failed just as badly as the rest.

You lean forward and rest your forehead on the edge of the cool, wooden table as hopelessness and frustration overwhelm your senses. The last thing you should be doing right now is nothing, and yet, nothing is all you can bring yourself to do.

“Hard at work I see.”

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anonymous asked:

Why is Erwin's desk/office so empty lol there's like no papers almost anywhere, makes no sense

It’s pretty clean, isn’t it? While a desk piled high with mountains of paperwork is a staple of fan fiction and smartpass stories, the manga also shows that Erwin’s office is pretty tidy.

Here’s the office in Stohess from episode 26:

In chapter 72, I believe we see Erwin’s office in Trost.  As in Stohess, the desk is up against the window and has a minimal amount of paper.

The post I mentioned at the outset also shows what I believe are his personal quarters. That seems to be where the real messiness happens.