shuttered glasses

Broken Ones

Pairing: Stiles Stilinski x F!Reader

Warnings: Heartbreaking, angsty, easily led reader, yoga, smut (18+), NSFW..

A/N: Half of this is a true story, the other half is not. Good luck guessing which parts are real. Thank you to my darling love @were-cheetah-stiles for making this what it is, I truly enjoyed watching you edit my work. Gif by @agentmitchrapp


“This break was good,” She whispered to him, reaching across the brown oak table separating her from the man she had not seen in four months, “But it opened my eyes - a lot. I think we’ve ran our course, Stiles, I think it’s time we just say enough is enough. We can’t keep living our lives by eating at each other’s throats everyday, fighting over the littlest of things, it’s just not healthy.” Lydia hated the words that were falling from her tongue, and she felt the tears swell up in her eyes when Stiles sucked back a sharp breath, and let his hand slip from her grasp.

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I could never hurt you (pt1)

Plot: requested!How about a Gabe imagine where his gf is a supernatural but one that can’t heal as quickly as the others and was injured at the shooting at the McCall house. Gabe finds out from liam (obviously) and he really loves her despite the status she has. And idk where to go from that. :)

Word Counting : 1366

Pairing : Gabexreader

Warnings : spoilers of s6, mentions of blood and wounds

A/n : Soooo I will upload the second part in a few, sorry for the mistakes!! (tbh, at the beggning I kindda got away from the main idea, sorryyyyyyy)also, I couldn’t think of any other supernatural that couldn’t heal fast except of banshees


Everyone was going crazy at school, but Y/n was the only one from the pack –well the only one supernatural from the pack- that had to stay at school and pretend she was normal, not only so she can absorb information about what was happening, but also because nobody except her pack figured out the she was a banshee. Definitely not as accurate as Lydia, but Y/n still had visions, that her boyfriend, Gabe thought they were nightmares.

She was walking around watching people with bandages on their arms, nobody could get away from these crazy “tests” as they would call them. Y/n wasn’t really afraid of getting tested since she knew that her kind couldn’t heal as fast as a werewolf, but when Aaron turned around the corner with a blade on his hand and an unnaturally freaky smirk on his face an uneasy feeling consumed all her body. Behind him was a terrifying Gabe that made sure none would escape.

As they approached her she stared at them almost shaking, Gabe stood in front of her while he bended his head to give her a quick kiss on the lips.

“Hey there, everything ok?” Gabe asked her when he saw how uneasy she felt and wrapped an arm around her protectively.

“Yeah, I’m just tired” Y/n said snuggling closer to him avoiding the look that Aaron had on his face

“We need to check her too, you know that right?” Aaron cut through their conversation

“Hey, we really don’t need to, I can guarantee, she is not one of them” Gabe said quickly disturbed even at the thought of having to hunt his girlfriend down.

“You know this isn’t how things work Gabe” the boy insisted while he went to take her hand from around Gabe’s waist but Gabe was having none of it.

“Ok, ok, I’ll do it, just, give me the blade” he told his friend while he left Y/n’s side.

He really looked uneasy while he was about to do this and y/n wasn’t ok at all that she had to be tested.

“It’s ok babe” Gabe reassured her as he reached out for her hand “I’ll be gentle, it won’t hurt” he said softly and she gave him her palm. He softly took her hand in his palm and with the spare he got the blade on her skin. She hid her head in the crook of his neck since she was feeling so uncomfortable with the sight. With a quick movement and a stinging feeling the test was done. Blood was now spilling for y/n hand on Gabe’s knuckles and she breathed in so she wouldn’t let out all curse word she knew…

She left the school and just like all the students she had a bandage wrapped around her hand. She went at the library to study with some of her classmates for an upcoming test which she found remotely hard since she was having a really bad headache that not even the painkillers she took could soothe it. From time to time she thought that some gunshots were heard far away but didn’t really bothered to point it out. She had no idea how time passed so soon but by the time her phone rang she saw Mason’s name on the screen. That meant that Argent Malia Lydia and Scott got back from their mission. She started packing her things and said her goodbyes as she reached for the exit. It was almost pitch black outside and she could hardly hear anything, not even cars. Too quiet for her liking. She took out her earphones and listened to music as she drove to the McCall house.


Everyone was now surrounding the table and looking at the map that, as Argent said, showed were the nemetons are all over the world. As Lydia, Y/n was finding it hard to concentrate. Not only because of the headache she had but she also felt like there were sounds all over the house. Suddenly the front door opened and closed and Scott’s father came in.

“Where’s Scott” He asked and in almost a scared voice which surprised all of them

“Upstairs, why?” Melissa answered him and looked back down

“He can’t leave, none can” He continued with the same tone but this time he had everyone’s attention

“Nice to see that you changed your mind, but I’m afraid to ask why?” Melissa was once again heard.

“It’s Gerard’s weapons” And at the sound of that word y/n’s headache was vanished. She once again was zoned out of the conversation as she closed her eyes so she could concentrate…. All the sounds were replaced by the distinct sound of a weapon magazine. Shuttering glasses could be heard closer and closer and then….

“GET DOWN” Y/n woke up from here paralysis but it was too late. A bullet went straight in her arm and another one passed right beside her waist, not close enough to get stuck inside her, but enough to wound her.

The shooting kept going for a while but she was too hurt to cover herself since the pain from her wounds wouldn’t allow her that privilege. She lost her balance and fell on top of some broken glasses fell on top of her and ripped through her clothes and cut several parts of her skin all over her body.

She was terrified and covered in blood by the time everything stopped, but the most terrifying thing was that the blood wasn’t only hers.

She looked up and saw Melissa on the ground having trouble with breathing and scott on top of her trying to take as much of her pain as he could. Y/n closed her eyes and through gritted teeth she let a shriek. She was trying too hard to keep her screams that she started shaking the moment she tried to get up. Malia quickly went by her side and tried to help her.


It wasn’t long time after the ambulance arrived and took Melissa. Scott and Malia followed getting y/n and the others at the hospital. Once she got there she was taken good care of. The doctors were enough positive that a surgery wasn’t necessary for her wounds, but it would be painful enough to get the bullet and the broken glasses out of her body.

It was about an hour later that y/n was all stitched up and ready to rest. That hour was definitely the worst of her life. The doctors started working without any anesthetics and y/n continued screaming and tearing up every time she felt them taking care of her wounds.

The doctors said she would be able to leave the hospital the same day but for now she had to rest and avoid any movement. Malia Liam and Theo came to see how their friend was and were quite relieved that there wasn’t any serious damage.

“How’s Melissa?” Y/n asked the first thing that was on her mind

“She is ok, she’s recovering from the surgery, just like Lydia and Mason” Malia informed with a reassuring smile.

“And Rafael?”

“He was transferred, don’t worry everything is going to be ok, everyone is fine” She continued

“How are you feeling?” Liam asked her looking concerned about her condition, even if she was a lot better than the others

“Well… I’ve been better, but I guess those stitches are gonna leave a pretty badass look on me right?” She tried to joke and her comment brought slight smiles to everyone’s faces.

“Do we even know who did this?” y/n asked

“I’m not sure, but I have someone in mind” he said and y/n had a bad feeling about his look.

“Liam, you don’t know if it was him” she said know he who e was referring to.

“Well we are about to learn” He said before leaving with an angry look on his face. Y/n went to stand up but a hand quickly pushed her lightly down.

“You ain’t going anywhere!!!” She heard Malia’s voice and turn to look pleadingly at Theo who said “Don’t worry, I’ll keep a eye on him” and then he also left chasing the angry beta….


Behind the Rear Window - Ch.1

Rear Window AU. When injured photojournalist Jughead Jones thinks he sees a man murder his wife from the window of his apartment it’s up to him to convince the police, and socialite-cum-girlfriend Betty Cooper, that what he saw actually happened, and what starts out as an investigation may just be the key to unlocking a few of their own skeletons in the closet.

First chapter of my multi fic! Rear Window is one of my favourite films and when I was watching it recently I realised just how easy it would be to slip these characters into the world of Hitchcock’s movie. This film, for those of you who haven’t seen it, is very observation and conversation heavy, so while the plot is pretty much the same here it’s those aspects where it will differ some. Anyway, I really hope you enjoy!

(special thank to @formergirlwonder for reading over this chapter! She’s an absolute gem!)

Read here on AO3

Jughead Jones had always known that bricks and mortar did not make a neighbourhood. His thoughts were only confirmed every time he regarded the rear windows facing the shared back alley courtyard from the vantage point of his second story apartment. The last hints of pink and orange faded from the sky, revealing another clear, sunny Riverdale day as the clock crept closer to morning. Each window frame became a small screen, most with cracked and peeling off-white paint. As he sat sleeping in his wheelchair, performances played out behind the open shutters and ajar glass panes; the tiny colony was beginning to bustle.

The man who spent his nights camped out on the fire escape, mattress and all, stirred as the first blinding rays cast their glow over his closed eyelids. His name wasn’t known to Mr Jones, but he certainly knew his wife’s was Ginger, given the amount of times he heard it pleaded at all hours of the day and night. To Jughead, he was simply ‘Mr Screw-Up’. The man stretched, rubbing the heel of a palm into his sleep encrusted eye, before standing precariously on his broken spring mattress and wobbling his way to the open window. He glanced furtively inside, checking left and right for signs that he could make an attempt to gain access back into his abode for the morning ritual of washing, shaving, and listening to early morning advertisements on the radio. Guaranteed, he’d be back sulking on the stairwell before eight thirty.

Jughead flinched on the edge of sleep as cawing crows swooped a little too closely to his window. He had left it ajar to combat the oppressive heatwave invading his apartment, which had left beads of sweat balancing in miscellaneous constellations atop his slightly wrinkled forehead, but his effort appeared to be in vain. Blinking into wakefulness, Jughead swiped at the moisture, which tickled while it dripped down his temples. As he came to, still in his chair by the window, he glanced down at his leg, adorned with a cumbersome cast stretching from his toes to his pelvic bone. Jughead sighed; he’d hoped that this time his hindrance really would have been a dream. His eye caught the bold, black pen strokes against the slightly discoloured plaster, and he allowed himself a chuckle as he read once more the words, “rather a broken bone than a broken spirit”, written in the hasty cursive of his superior, Kevin Keller. His chuckle turned to a grimace as a twinge turned to an itch, fate conveniently placing it directly out of reach beneath the bulky aid to healing.

The glint of a copper penny stole his attention, though, returning his gaze to the array of scenes awaiting his audience for yet another day in the listless stretch of weeks that he’d been chained to a chair for. The copper belonged to the girl opposite and to the left, her window a few brick widths higher than Jughead’s. Dubbed ‘Miss Legs’, the girl’s flaming red hair hung past her waist in perfectly arranged waves, often mirroring the light as it swung this way and that while she danced before her window. She was a nonstop whirlwind of kicks and strides and spins, low melodic tunes of her record player, thankfully, barely reaching Jughead’s apartment; but he couldn’t deny even he was captivated by her talents. He assumed, she embodying what was considered conventionally attractive, that most other men would be jonesing for the chance to have a glimpse at her in her brassiere and matching briefs as she paraded herself about her household chores. To Jughead her overly full lips, painted a shudder inducing crimson more often than not, seemed suffocating. The train of dance partners that appeared every so often in his line of sight confirmed his suspicions, however.

As she tripped out of view his eye caught a scurrying of burnt umber as the miniature daschund, affectionately cooed after under the name Caramel by Ginger multiple times a day, set its sights on a neighbourhood cat and decided to give chase. Millimetres above the game of cat and dog, Jughead lifted his scrutinising blue eyes to ‘Miss Lonelyhearts’. Still young, attractive though somewhat plain, the woman that earned such a title made frequent habit of setting the table for two, eating for one, and then crying herself into a stupor as the empty chair opposite failed once again to partake in the evening’s conversation. Her thick, mousey hair frequented a tight twist at the nape of her neck, round glasses perched just so on the bridge of her delicate nose, eyes wide and unassuming. Her usual dress was erring just slightly on this side of try-hard, but Jughead had seen her at her worst – tattered, flowery hand-me-downs shrouding her fragile figure as she knocked back the wine poured for her, and then the wine poured for her date. Having never seen another soul in the apartment in all their days occupying the same courtyard he only knew her real name by her woeful, self-pitying cries of “oh, Geraldine” that always rang out when he was just drifting off, jolting him back from the edge of unconsciousness.

The next curtain pulling up moved his eye away from her tired face to the window directly above. A worn looking man with dark skin and deep set eyes trudged through his apartment, pulling up the shades as if he were reluctant to face another day. His balding head shone with perspiration in the early morning heat, shoulders dropping several degrees as he exhaled a mournful sigh, head turning to his left. An overly long pause passed before he began to move again, disappearing from view for a moment before the shades covering the next window along rippled and rose, revealing a bedroom. Crumpled sheets were occupied by an elegant woman in her mid-thirties, probably once the height of beauty but now looking as if she’d seen better days. Her frame was withered and meek and her hair hung limp and lifeless around her face. Her smile, Jughead noted, had not met the same foibles of time. She beamed at her husband, head tilting to one side as she spoke, looking more the young girl Jughead imagined she once was in that moment. Her husband nodded, slow and mechanical, before moving back to the kitchen, collecting a tray of breakfast foods, and then returning, setting it gently over the ridges of her legs under the blankets. He leaned in to place a chaste kiss against her cheek before retiring to the adjoining bathroom. His attentive, husbandly duties had earned him the title ‘Mr Caretaker’.

The sight of breakfast made Jughead’s own stomach rumble in anticipation. He wheeled back from his usual perch, rolling past the cabinets and shelves holding countless camera parts – flashes, lenses, bulbs – all stacked and presented perfectly. A tower of copies of the latest issue of Life magazine took up the side table by the front door, his photograph adorning their front covers, staring back at him in duplicate. The rest of the apartment was an unorganised disarray of knickknacks and keepsakes. Broken mechanical parts, overly read and worn copies of his favourite books, boxes upon boxes of old yellowing magazines he called ‘inspiration’ flooded the space. His old typewriter, barely breathing amid the flurry of tat on his desk, took centre stage.

The shrill ringing of his telephone pulled an exasperated sigh from Jughead’s lips as he just managed to manoeuvre his way to the kitchen’s threshold. Reversing a couple of inches he shoved the discarded dress shirt out of the way before picking up the shiny, black receiver.

“Jones,” he spoke into the phone, voice slightly hoarse from disuse. He cleared his throat.

“Well, it doesn’t exactly sound like you’ve been celebrating,” the voice of his assignment manager at the magazine, Kevin, crackled over the line, his tone taking on a minor lilt of amusement that had the skin of Jughead’s back prickling, and not from the excessive heat.

“What exactly is there to celebrate, Keller?” Jughead asked, rolling his neck slightly to ease the tightness he’d suddenly become aware of.

“Have I got the wrong day? Seven weeks since Wednesday – that cast should be coming off by now,” Kevin answered, confused. Jughead huffed a disgruntled breath out of his nose, pressing his lips together.

“Right day, wrong week,” he lamented, throwing a dirty look at his offending leg. Kevin’s laugh rung out of the speaker.

“I told you to stand further to the left,” he chastised, referring to the incident that caused Jughead’s current predicament. He’d been given the go-ahead to stand directly on the track for an in-action shot of the racers in the Grand Prix. Only Jughead would have had the balls to do it, Kevin thought, watching him stride purposefully onto the tarmac to get the snap of a lifetime. He’d worked it all out, what he thought was perfectly. What he didn’t account for was the slight nudge one car gave another as it attempted to undertake on the sharp bend, bumper clipping the rear door and sending it winding off course for a moment, long enough to clip Jughead in the hip, throwing him into an ungraceful heap against the barriers.

“Still got the shot though,” he returned, tone and expression equally smug as he remembered the way he cradled the camera against his chest during the fall, concerned only for the protection of the precious roll of film inside. He distinctly recalled the flicker of satisfaction he’d felt as his finger pushed the button, the way the light flashed as it had seemingly heralded the end of his life.

“It’s quite the shot indeed,” Kevin agreed. “Story isn’t half bad either.” The corners of Jughead’s mouth tilted upwards at the deprecating compliment. There was only the distinct static of the line for a moment as neither man attempted to speak. Eventually, Kevin sighed. “Well, if you’re still cooped up for another week then I guess I can’t offer you this assignment.” Jughead’s back straightened as he sat up. He noticed, briefly, that Miss Legs was practicing pirouettes as she scrubbed a dish.

“What’s the job?” he asked, fingers tightening around the receiver, itching to get the camera in his hands once more. Six weeks had seemed an eternity.

“South America, month or so, heading into the camps,” Kevin recited, keeping the details vague. It didn’t matter, however: Jughead was already hooked.

“Can it wait a week?” he asked, trying to keep the desperation out of his voice, leaning ever further forward in his wheelchair until the irksomely hard edge of his cast digging into the soft planes of his stomach prevented him.

“Going stir crazy, huh?” Kevin guessed, a slight note of sympathy creeping into his voice. Jughead sighed, settling back against the leather backing of the chair. Mr Screw-Up was blowing unfurling smoke curls into the air as he rested against the metal railings. He was early today. Jughead briefly considered deducing what Screw-Up had done this time, before dismissing the notion as boring.

“You have no idea.”

“How much time have you spent at that window of yours?” Kevin asked suddenly, catching Jughead off guard. He bristled.

“A while,” he retorted with a stubborn air. Mr Caretaker sat on his couch and put his head in his hands as Kevin’s airy laugh echoed in Jughead’s ears. He felt the sudden, overwhelming desire to hang up.

“Careful, Mr Jones, only the lonesome and embittered spend the majority of their time observing life instead of actually living it,” Kevin joked, and Jughead could practically hear him shaking his head gently in mock disapproval. The words struck a chord with Jughead, the image of his father springing before he eyes before his mind even allowed it.

The old man (salt and pepper beard, greying streaks in his hair, slightly sunken cheeks) drifted before Jughead’s eyes. Even while awake the picture haunted him, bottle in hand and grimace a permanent fixture on his features. He sat, moaning and complaining about the state of the world, sour to the umpteenth degree about the unfair hand he’d been dealt. He chose instead to dish out biting insults and the occasional brisk smack rather than making any effort to fix the mess he’d made of himself and join the rest of society. Moving past the war had taken its toll on everyone who fought, but on none more than F.P. Jones, Jughead recalled as an acrid taste invaded his mouth.

Jughead shook himself out of his revere, telling himself the fading sting in his right cheek was only a mere ghost. He turned in time to catch Caramel hopping into the basket contraption Ginger employed to haul the pup up onto her fourth floor balcony, its little legs unable to handle the climb. Kevin’ voice drifted back to his ears.

“You should get married. They say there’s never a dull moment…” Jughead ignored him.

“Hold the story. One more week,” Jughead commanded, already lifting the phone from his ear. He barely heard Kevin’s exasperated replies.

With a nearly audible eye roll, Kevin muttered, “Who is in charge here?” to no one in particular. A distinct ring cut through the stifling air, signalling that the call was over. 

[  together. ]

A/N: Wyatt x Lucy, post 1x14 canon divergence. Wyatt is free but on the run, Lucy is now a double agent. I just feel like these two needed to chat a little bit more about everything that has gone down in the past two days, from Jessica to Daddy Rittenhouse.

And they probably both needed a VERY strong drink or five.

+ + + +

They find themselves in a bar on the outskirts of town–well off the beaten path–a run-down hole-in-the-wall dimly lit by faded Christmas lights and beer signs. The air is stale with smoke and the jukebox only seems to play Waylon Jennings, but no one pays them any attention besides the grizzled-looking bartender grunting after they request two glasses of Jim Beam.

“We only have Jack.”

“Jack it is, then,” Wyatt replies easily, helping Lucy out of her jacket before shrugging his own off.

The bartender nods and shuffles to the other end of the dingy bar, his grubby fingers grabbing two glasses by the rim, causing Lucy to wince.

“Alcohol kills germs, right?” Wyatt murmurs, seemingly reading her mind as his eyes follow the bartender’s movements. A laugh bubbles up in her, unexpected and bright, and when she turns to see his disgusted frown, she can’t stop it from coming out in full. His shoulder starts shaking against where it’s pressed to hers as his laughter joins, and for a minute they just give into it.

(She can’t imagine anyone else being able to make her laugh at a time like this. Can’t imagine anyone else…getting it. All of it.

Only him.)

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we were so lonely here. i didn’t think
you’d noticed. i looked down and saw a child in the street.
it was twilight, and they were weeping.
mothers, fathers, the owl-grey sky (as i understood it),
all these things had forsaken us.
we grew out of lampshades instead,
the stains on the wall, the last pale cigarette.
we believed we would leave, eventually,
fall down one road or another. we crept through youth
our loves unwanted villains. we were so afraid
of touch. i, particularly, remembered your blue hair
beneath the timid glow of the moon.
there was a glass on the table of that old balcony,
and you were reaching for it with your hand,
and the door, behind you, with its musty glass shutters,
was closed.

Stay Alive for Me (Lin-Manuel Miranda x Reader) Part 8

Originally posted by thedivorcecrockpot

Pairing: Lin-Manuel Miranda x Teenaged!Reader

Requested?: No

Prompt: Lin finds a teenage girl unconscious at his doorstep and decides to nurse her back to health. As her stay is extended, Lin finds himself attached to the troubled teen that captured his heart.

Words: 2600+

Warnings: Stalking, Break-In, & Kidnapping


/ Part One / Part Two / Part Three / Part Four / Part Five / Part Six 
/ Part Seven / Part Nine /


Sunday (Three Week Later) ~

You had to turn off your phone.  

It’s been three weeks since your date with Scott and his way-too-early marriage proposal. Since then, he’s been sending you emails like usual, but they were more intense poems and him just straight out explaining how much he loved you and what your future was going to be like with him. He wanted two children, a condo in Florida, and you could be a stay-at-home mom while we worked. You were flattered but also creeped out by these emails. You deleted the creepy ones and saved the normal poems. You assumed that maybe Scott was very antisocial and didn’t know how to properly date someone.  

Then, the phone calls started.

At first, they were only during the day, one or two at a time. You’d answer and the only answer would be heavy breathing before the caller would hang up. You were creeped out and a little scared but nothing too terrifying. Slowly, the calls got more often, resulting in you getting about four a day and instead of heavy breathing, it was Scott’s voice, singing all your favorite songs for about a minute and then stopping, hanging up. You were confused and a little creeped out. How did Scott get your number? Did Ally give him it? You had called Ally and asked, her answer making your blood run cold.

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the daydream

remember when I said I wasn’t going to post fic to tumblr anymore lol yeah me neither let’s pretend that didn’t happen ANYWAY HAVE SOME SLEEPING BEAUTY SHEITH

title courtesy of alfred lord tennyson

Autumn, pt 1

The air was sweet with a few late roses, and the afternoon was softly warm, like a well-worn quilt.  Keith crouched in the space where the hedges were thinnest, bare feet tucked under him, leaves and flowers caught in his tangled hair, three ladybugs crawling lazily across his shirt sleeves.  The little cottage at the eastern edge of the forest was aglow in the afternoon sunlight, thatched roof glinting gold, glass shutters twinkling silver, thrown open to the pleasant air.

But Keith was watching the garden swing, creaking wood and iron with a trellis of climbing roses, only a few blooms clinging to life in the lingering remains of summer before the frosts set in.  It sat near the plum tree that shaded a corner of the kitchen garden, ripe now with early squash and the leafy tops of root vegetables.  From this space in the hedge, Keith could see the garden, the woodpile and chopping block, and the swing, where a boy was sitting now, one knee drawn up, a bit of wood and a carving knife in his hands, humming an idle tune.

He was older than Keith, taller, broader in the shoulders, his voice deep when he spoke; his eyes were dark and so was his hair, cropped close to his head except for the tuft of white in the front, and his name was Shiro.  Keith knew this because the three women who lived in the cottage called for him with that name, asking him to cut more wood or bring in some radishes or come inside for dinner.

One of the five pixies who followed Keith at all times buzzed in his ear, and he absently swatted at it—the blue one, as the glow in his peripheral vision confirmed.  They didn’t like it when he strayed this close to the edge of the forest, scolding him in quiet chirps and tugging at the laces of his tunic, but Keith was accustomed to ignoring them.  And he had an important mission this time, a small treasure clutched securely in one hand.  He just had to wait.

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inkspot-blues  asked:

SS finally gets a perfectly preserved pie out of an eat-o-matic. Companions react to the pie being perfectly preserved, and maybe try some?

I’ve read somewhere that the pie doesn’t taste at all as good as it looks. Let us pretend it does :D

Cait - They’d been in that building for HOURS! Cait decided to explore the rooms around them a little, finding some stimopacks and taking care of few roaches. But then, she became bored and when Sole began dancing with the plate of pie, she was glad they could leave already, paying no attention to the pie. She has been set down instead, and a fork was put into her hand. She took a piece of the sweet smelling dessert into her mouth cautiously and as she felt the sweetness on her tongue, she quickly stuffed in another piece, earning a chuckle from Sole’s side.

Codsworth - As long as they don’t mind standing over that machine, trying to get that dessert that looked suspiciously good for being over 200 years old, he didn’t mind being there with them. He entertained himself by tidying the space around them a little. As they finally pulled out the bloody cake and began dancing happily, he just gave them his congratulations, rather glad they could leave now.

Curie - They were in the Dugout Inn, Curie was gauging the value of alcohol in all Vadim’s beverages, sighing from time to time, wishing they could leave already. This place certainly wasn’t very nice for her, not to mention the men that were literally drooling over her. She was more than happy when Sole grabbed her hand and lead her out of the bar, only to make her sit behind one of the tables outside of the Inn. They set the table with pie before her, sitting on the other side of the table.two forks in her hand. Curie excuses herself and leaves them the whole pie. She doesn’t want to eat anything that is over 200 years old, no matter how well preserved it looks.

Danse - He is getting seriously irritated, even threatening to leave them, since they are making no progress by hunting a stupid pie. They know him too well, though, they know he won’t leave and he knows it too. He utters a quiet and grump ‘finally’ as they pull the cake out with a squeal. They tell him to get out of his armour and even though he’s a little angry with them, he obeys. They take a bit of the pie into their thumb and index finger and put it in front of his face. He isn’t sure about it, but it does smell very nice. And tastes very very sweet. Maybe too sweet. he did appreciate the one bit, but it was enough for him, so he thanks them and smiles, not even angry anymore.

Deacon - He completely supports them, chanting ‘come on, come on, come on’ each time they try. He does so, because he once spend 5 hours trying to get the pie and the taste kept him almost crazy for more for weeks. Much time passed, he still faithful at their side the claw finally holding the plate firm and the pie on it’s way out. He picks Sole up and spins them around, both of them ‘woo’ing in happiness. They share the cake together, jokingly feeding each other, like they were a love-sick couple of teenagers. 

Dogmeat - He took a nap beside their feet and as he didn’t feel the warmth of them anymore he turned his head to see them jumping around him. They made sure there wasn’t anything that’s hurt him, before setting a hand with a bit of it in front of his face. He didn’t hesitate.

Hancock - They made sure the building was safe, several times and Hancock used the opportunity to get out few of the inhalers he found today, while Sole was getting more and more irritated about not being able to pick up the damn pie. The glass was almost as efficient as the Vault door, for even shooting didn’t help. He was sitting on the ground, leaning against some wall, minutes like seconds. He saw their happy face in front of his and smiled as well, just for them, before even noticing the pie. They shoved a piece of it into his mouth and his smile grew even bigger as the sweetness surprised him nicely. They sat next to him and carried on keeping one bite for themselves, one bite for him, while he hung his arm around their shoulder.

MacCready - “The pie better be good!” He called out as he went to make a little exploring over the building, growing bored very fast. He supposed that everything is better than cave mushroom, that grows thanks to, as he later discovered, human meat. His mind became occupied of question, if he was a cannibal, if he used to eat the mushroom and didn’t even notice Sole standing in front of him, pushing a piece of the thing into his semi-open mouth. He yelped in surprise, and was about to spit it out, in a reflex, but they put a hand over his mouth to keep it in. They took the hand back as he started to chew on it, his lips turning into a smile. They looked at their palm, which was partially stained with the sugary cream of the pie and licked it off, their reward being blushing MacCready.

Nick Valentine - He sighed and sat on a chair nearby, pulling a pack of cigarettes out of his coat. This could take a while, he thought as he lit the first one, enjoying the tranquility, which was sometimes interrupted by Sole’s quiet cursing. He didn’t even care how much time has passed, he just kept smiling about the tiny stomp of their foot at every unsuccessful try, after an hour or so, He smiles at them and spreads his arms as they hold it above their head like it was a saint grail. They tear off a piece of it, stretching their arm in front of them and going to where Nick was sitting. He stood up and grabbed their wrist, so he could take the piece between their fingers into his mouth and smiled at the taste. As Sole ate the pie with their hands, he’d steal a piece right from their fingers ever so often.

Piper Wright - She sure is excited about getting the pie, but as she sees the first 10 minutes pass with no success she’s having second thoughts. She entertains herself by trying to make some sort of survey with the other people present in the Dugout Inn, about how happy they are with the bussiness. Luckily for her, Sole was very lucky and got it out, quickly, well, in an hour or so. They sat her onto a bench in front of the Inn and offered her a spoon. She took it excited and brought a bite onto her tongue. She soon started blinking, rolling the pie in her mouth. The taste was unexpected, since she thought it’d be like Fancy lads. It wasn’t bad, it was just strange. She didn’t want any more and rather went to get herself some noodles.

Preston - He would never say, but he is actually maybe even more excited about the pie than them and keeps pacing around nervously, for almost two hours, before sitting down close to them.It did took a while, but as soon as the pie was out, he swore he could smell it, even though it probably didn’t even have a smell after 200 years. He kept looking at happy Sole like a kicked puppy and they let him eat most of the pie, much to his happiness. There is nothing he hates more than denying his general, but he just really loves sweets and when he ate the last piece of it, he makes sure his general knows how much he appreciates it, by squeezing them tight.

Strong - He became rather impatient after first two minutes of just standing, not walking, no smashing. Sole jumped quickly back as Strong made a move and hit the glass with a sledgehammer. It made a huge huge crack across the glass, Sole noticed right before the glass shuttered into shards upon being hit the second time. Sole thanked Strong for that, though they couldn’t enjoy the pie as much, as the constantly kept pulling out shards.

X6-88 - He highly disagreed with spending so much time with such nonsense and kept thinking whether he should go to back to the Institute so he could do occupy himself with more important tasks while they’re pointlessly hunting some 200 years old piece of pie. He didn’t even flinch as they shove it in front of his face victoriously and as they offered him a bite, he declined. He had to admit though, finally getting it and munching on it did lift their mood a little and they seemed to work better when feeling happy. Maybe this wasn’t a total waste of time after all.

Today’s dinner be like: I get my vegetable and a friend next to me his steak with mashed potatoes and he looks at it and turns his head on me and whispers in the Skyrim guard voice: “What is this? Dragons?” I’m still giggling at that xD

The Worst Surprise (Pt. 2)

A/N Thank you all for the love on part 1! Part 2 is slightly shorter because I felt like this was a good stoping place. Part 3 will be coming soon.

Part 1 Part 3

   It took me a moment to realize that I had stopped dancing. All I could do was watch as she turned and placed her perfectly painted lips on his, kissing my Mr.J. My heart broke when he didn’t push her away. It broke again when she pulled away, and he didn’t scold her. Instead, he slid his hand a little further up her leg and turned back to his meeting.

   Before I realized what I was doing, I was bending down and pulling out a pistol that J had hidden in the cage for me. “Just in case things get a little too exciting,” he had said, grinning as he had slipped it into its place. Raising the gun, I aimed right for that bitch’s head and squeezed the trigger. I heard the gun go off, the sound ringing in my ears, and I watched as it sailed through the air and lodged itself in the glass right where her head was. Unfortunately it didn’t kill her, she didn’t even have a scratch. J had made the room with bulletproof glass, not one to be a sitting duck.

   The glass shuttered, a crack spidering out and across the window, as someone screamed. I waited until J’s eyes found mine. A bit of concern was present in his eyes until he scanned down my body and found the gun still in my hands.  After that I didn’t wait to see the rage in his eyes. No, I slid out of the cage before he could even think of punishing me, racing out of the club and towards my Jeep. It took me only seconds to make my way back to the hallway, and I was steps away from my Jeep when I felt a hand close around my arm.

   Terrified that J had somehow caught up to me, I whipped around and raised the gun to his head. Luckily it was only Frost, who immediately dropped his hold on me. Without a word he offered me my keys, which I had forgotten about. One look up at his ever serious expression, and I knew. I knew why he was so adamant that I didn’t disturb J. My heart dropped as tears filled my eyes and clouded my vision.

   “You knew didn’t you?” I asked softly, raising my hand to swiftly wipe the tears away.

   Frost only nodded as he shoved the keys into my hand. I took them without hesitation, sparing him a teary eyed but grateful look before rushing to my Jeep. Frost may not be able to openly defy his boss, but his small actions showed what he believed. He didn’t think I deserved the pain J was putting me through, and he wasn’t afraid to let me know it.

   Unlocking the door, I slid into the driver’s seat and started the Jeep up. Noticing the Lamborghini out of the corner of my eye as I locked the doors, I wished I had the keys to it, or at least that J didn’t. The expensive sports car was much faster than my Jeep. If J managed to get in it before I could far enough away, he would catch me in seconds. All I could do was pray that Frost would buy me some time as I put the Jeep in reverse and quickly backed out of the parking spot. I shuddered when the sound of J’s enraged shouts reached my ear. The sound prompted me to look up to my rearview mirror where I saw him. Just as I was passing through the garage exit, J stalked into the middle of the parking lot, stopping right behind his Lamborghini. His shoulders heaved up and down as he fumed, watching me race away from his hold. Of course Harley was right beside him, tugging on his arm in a pathetic attempt to get his attention. I scoffed and pushed the gas pedal further into the floor, shooting off into the night.

   Knowing that J would track the Jeep, I drove straight into the middle of Gotham, taking as many turns as possible to get there. The street was surprisingly full of people considering how late it was. Promptly finding a place to leave the Jeep, I parked and turned it off. I had bought myself at least thirty minutes by choosing a busy part of town. J would have to move carefully, hiding his identity from the people as he searched for me. That is, unless he wanted to deal with the Bat.

   As quickly as I could, I climbed into the backseat and dug around under the seat. My hand closed around a nylon strap, and my lips turned up into a small smile. J had insisted that we keep two backpacks in every vehicle, one full of my clothes and one full of his, just in case we ever had to escape on short notice. I had always teased him about his paranoia, but tonight I was grateful for it. I was also grateful that he insisted on having blacked out windows on all of his vehicles. Safe from the gaze of any prying eyes, I swiftly stripped out of my dress, careful not to rip it. I then unstrapped the knife from around my thigh and laid it on the seat next to me. After digging through the bag for a second, I pulled out a pair of dark grey skinny jeans, a plain black v-neck t-shirt, and a black hoodie. I was suddenly very glad that I hadn’t let J pack my bag like he had wanted to. J didn’t like it when I dressed so simply, but I knew that I had to to blend in.

   Slipping my heels back on after dressing, I made a mental note to buy a pair of converse or boots as soon as possible. I then slipped the gun into my waistband in the back, tucking it under my shirt and successfully hiding it. I checked the backpack to make sure I had extra ammo, which I did, before picking up my knife. Taking a moment to silently apologize for what I was about to do, I sighed. Then I unsheathed my knife and stabbed it into the seat, dragging it towards me and ripping the expensive leather open. Inside the seat sat multiple stacks of hundreds, which I then preceded to shove in the backpack. I made sure I had everything I needed then grabbed the keys and slipped out.

   After looking around to make sure no one was watching me, I bent down and slipped the keys into a hiding place under the car. I didn’t want to throw them away because I hoped that one day I’d be able to get my Jeep back. I also didn’t want to take the keys knowing that J had put a separate tracker in them. There was only one thing left for me to get rid, and I knew it was what I would miss the most. Sighing, I took one look at my phone and threw it to the ground, shattering the screen and rendering it useless.

   Once I had double checked that I was free of anything with a tracker, I stepped into the crowd, easily blending in and becoming invisible. J was going to have a hell of a time trying to find me. He did always say that I was the best at hiding.

Hurricane privilege

My parents and my husband’s all live in Florida. Mine are in Orlando and his are in the Tampa area (separately). None of them have evacuated. My folks are the sort of people who would evacuate if advised to do so. My mother-in-law… not so much.

My parents aren’t rich, except, you know, by any absolute standard. They own their home; they have insurance; they have good credit; they have two late-model reliable cars. The area they live in doesn’t flood. They have savings: my dad will be able to comfortably retire in the next few years. The same is true of their whole extended family.

My mother-in-law has worked cleaning houses since she got divorced when my husband was a teenager. She lives in a mobile home owned by a guy I don’t particularly trust in a poor and flood-prone area. She has an old Kia that we bought for her around the time I started medical school; I think it still runs, but it’s probably not insured. No health insurance either. No savings– when she can’t work anymore she’ll move in with one of her kids.

My parents got all their windows done with storm-proof glass and shutters a couple years back. They’ve stockpiled food and water and ice and batteries and fuel. My mom is angry with my dad for not checking until too late if the Coleman stove still works.

My mother-in law, last I heard, had been persuaded to go to a friend’s house nearby for the duration. She’ll be taking her cats with her, I assume; they’re the reason she wouldn’t leave the area entirely. Even if she’d wanted to, it’s not obvious her car would make the trip up to Indiana or New York where her kids live. She’s a fatalistic sort of person and isn’t too bothered about all this. I suppose worrying and hustling more than it takes to get through the day has never paid off for her before.

She’s not too bad off, really, compared to many people. She’s able-bodied and not dependent on any substances, and she has a working social network. 

When people talk about helping storm victims in the coming weeks, the emphasis will be on rebuilding, getting things back to the way they were. But the people who are going to need help are the people for whom they way things were fucking sucked. Hurricanes are a foreseeable problem, and people who can, like my parents, foresee them and do pretty well. At the margin we should try to get more people into that situation, the situation where houses get rebuilt without any Red Cross intervention.

(Also, disaster relief kind of sucks impact-wise, please just give to AMF or whoever)

anonymous asked:

sonamy boom prompt? XD

I wrote this in an actual Abode Script Program but I can’t submit it without it looking weird XP So sorry! But this is the best I can do :)


So please know! I wrote this as an ACTUAL SCRIPT just for you, precious Anon ;)b

(Now on fanfiction! (x) Also DA and Wattpad. :) )

Sonic Boom Fan Script

Doubt Your Doubtbot

Written By


A.K.A Cutegirlmayra

Based on, if any

SEGA’S Sonic Boom

Keep reading

Glass Shutters

Hope is a belief system 
one in which we have a deep belief 
that there is something better
it is intrinsic in the fact 
that even at our lowest 
we all feel that longing 
for something better. 

When I feel the weight of God 
stood on my shoulders 
grappling with the lock above
the lock on the ceiling that we put there
I can’t help but feel 
a little hopeless.  

also, ill be cosplaying ymir again on thursday!! except itll be like summergeki and ill in in flipflops and booty shorts and donning a crown and shutter glasses ayeeee

if youre cosplaying krista on that day please drop by so i can put a crown on you and take a photo with you omg…..