side porches

About Time // Part 7

| Prologue | Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 8.5 |

Type/Genre/words: Angst, Alternate Universe (Time Travel!au, Soulmate!au), Smut / 14,858 words

Character: Jungkook x reader / Jimin x reader (feat. BTS)

Prompts: “What if you find your soulmate… at the wrong time?” - Lauren Kate, Passion

Summary: Be careful for what you wish for, because you may never know how to deal with them once it comes true. What would you do when your wish for a second chance actually came true? But was it really a fulfilled wish? Too many questions lie when it actually happened. Were they real memories? Or perhaps a part of a past life? Was it only a dream all along? Will everything be different this time?

Warning: this part has a smut scene ;)

a/n: in this fic/series I made the characters to have similar ages, and not completely the same as their real age. So technically Jungkook, Jimin and the OC all have the same age. Just a little fyi in case you are confused with the timelines.

Originally posted by won-der-land89


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The Joker x Reader -“ELLIS”

Nothing is ever easy with him, but this time he really crossed the line. If The Joker doesn’t care about anything at all, what is the point of you two being together? Unless…maybe he gives a damn about at least one thing.

You always drive back to Gotham on lonely, deserted roads, trying to avoid traffic as much as possible.

“J, we’re close to our cabin, we should stop and spend the night; just me and you, yes?” you smile, attempting to be cheerful and lightening up the mood.

“I don’t feel like it!” he bitterly replies, keeping his eyes on the road.

“We’re almost at the turn we have to take to get there. Come on… please?”

“NO! I told you I don’t feel like it!” he snarls, clenching his fingers on the steering wheel. You place your hand on his thigh, caressing it with your thumb:

“Baby, it’s not my fault the meeting didn’t go well.”

He pushes your hand away, still fuming. You look outside the window and take a deep breath, watching the sun going down behind the trees.

“J, come on, don’t be like this…You know I love you,” you tilt your head towards him, hoping he will change his mind.

“Right!!” he scoffs with a sour expression on his face.

“What is that supposed to mean?” you ask, getting restless.

“It means whatever you want it to mean!” the Joker snaps, quickly glancing your way.“You don’t love me, nobody does!” he hisses, being in such a foul mood he can barely concentrate on driving.

“Yeah…I wonder why…” you mutter but he heard you and it makes him even more enraged. You start massaging your temples; you really don’t need this after all the stuff that happened lately.

“J…why did we get married?” you ask, closing your eyes, thinking how much you wish your lives were different.

“Because we’re idiots, Y/N, that’s why!” he angrily raises his voice, accelerating. “Thank God you had the miscarriage three months ago because the kid would have probably had your attitude. I don’t think I could handle two of you!”

He hears you sniffle and your voice breaks down when you address him:

“Why…why do you say such cruel things?” and you start sobbing, deeply hurt by his words. “Stop the car…” you manage to speak through tears. “Stop the car!!!!” you suddenly hit the window with your first and he slams the breaks, unnerved.

You get out fast, taking your wedding ring off and tossing it in his lap:

“Here, consider yourself divorced!” you slam the door, frantically wiping your tears. He just grunts, annoyed and screams back at you:
“Fine! I don’t need you anyway!”

“I don’t need you either!” you yell, whimpering, feeling so miserable you can’t wait for him to go away.

“I hope you die in these woods!” The Joker growls, taking off in a frenzy, aggravated.

“I won’t give you the satisfaction!” you shout, crossing your arms on your tummy, watching him disappear in the distance. You turn around and start walking back towards the hidden unpaved, unmarked road that leads to your cabin. It should be about 10-15 minutes away by foot. You recently passed the spot by car so it shouldn’t be too far. Add about 2 more hours of walking until you reach the destination and you should be there before it gets really dark.

You walk rather slow, deep in thought; being outdoors does make you feel a little bit better. It takes you more than 2 hours, but you are finally at the hideout. You go inside and turn the lights on, looking through your supplies to see what you could munch on. You decide to make a tea and wrap yourself in a blanket, then head out to the porch so you can enjoy the silence you crave so badly.

You have your little backpack with you and search inside until you find the ultrasound picture you kept from when it was confirmed you were pregnant. Your eyes get teary again and you kiss the small image, talking to yourself:
“He only wishes you would have been like me…” you sadly smile and your grieving is interrupted by the sound of tires approaching.

Oh, no, what is he doing here? you panic, covering your head with the hoodie in a failed effort to calm down.

He gets out of the car and slams the door as hard as he can, staring you down.

“W-what are you doing here?” you inquire, shriveling down under your fluffy cover. J walks the stairs up to the porch, barking your way:

“I wanted to see if you died on your way here this way I can bury you. It would have given me great pleasure.”

“I’m not sorry to disappoint,” you sneer, still holding the little picture to your chest.

“What’s that?” The Joker points towards it, even if he already has an idea.

“Nothing you care about…”, you chew on your words, making an extra effort to keep your composure as you return your treasure to the backpack.

He takes a seat on the bench that’s the furthest from you, legs up on the railing, trying to light up a cigarette when you unexpectedly rush to yank it out of his hand and toss it to the ground, stepping on it:

“You quit two years ago!”

“Give it a rest before you make me mad!” J growls, taking out the full pack of cigarettes but you snatch it from him, breaking and tearing it to pieces, frustrated about everything and taking it on his nasty habit.

He takes a deep breath, trying not to lose his temper and warns you:

“Stop your shit, Y/N, you’re pissing me off!”

You don’t even care and continue:

“Go back to Gotham, I want to be alone! I don’t want you here, go away!” you shriek through your clenched teeth, heading back inside, trying not to cry.

“I don’t care about what you want; this is my hideout too!” you hear him grumble and don’t care for the rest since you step inside the bathroom, closing the door. You are so ready for a shower and a bit of sleep to calm down the tension you feel in every muscle of your body.

15 minutes into it and J parts the curtain to the side, making you jump since you didn’t hear him sneak in.

“Make room, I want to take a shower too,” he commands, getting inside.

“Go take a shower in the other bathroom!” you plead, irritated he’s so inconsiderate.

“I like this one better!” he kind of shoves you to the side, getting under the warm water.

“Fine, you can have it!” you give up, grabbing your towel and step outside when he tries to snatch you.

“Where are you going? I wanna wash your hair!” he angrily yells after you, unhappy you’re defiant…again.

“I already washed it myself!” you slam the door and J continues his tirade, tossing shampoo and body wash bottles around the bathtub in his tantrum.  

I just need some peace and quiet, why can’t I have that? you think while resting your back against the door for a few seconds, sensing your anxiety is going to reach new levels soon.

The Joker took his time in there but now he’s finally done. He searches for you inside the cabin but you are not there. He peeks out of the window and notices you are dozing off on the couch to the left side of the porch, covered in blankets. Perfect time to rant some more, you are definitely going to hear about how much you annoyed him today!

But when he sees you are in a deep sleep, something stops him. The corner of the ultrasound picture sticks out a bit from under your pillow and he slowly pulls it out, glaring at it for a few good minutes before putting it back with a remorseful sigh. He takes a deep breath and grabs more blankets from the pile on the table and covers you with them, keeping just one for himself. J also brings the gun from the car and seats on the chair next to yours, awake all night because he believes a wild animal might creep up on you.

When the first rays of sunshine pierce through the thick fog, he finally loses the battle and closes his eyes, exhausted. He wakes up three hours later, wrapped in a dozen blankets, not feeling the cold he braved last night anymore; it gets so chilly in these woods after sunset.

He finds breakfast and hot coffee inside but you are gone again. Probably hiking at your favorite spot, J assumes, munching on a few goodies from his plate. You’ve been away for a while and he decides to search for you, he doesn’t even know why. You aren’t too far, just about a mile away behind the cabin, legs crossed in the grass, reading a magazine under your umbrella and enjoying the warm temperature. You hear him approach and you don’t lift your eyes up. He doesn’t say a word and just imitates your position a few steps away from you.

“What are you doing?” you coldly question him, not thrilled of his presence.

“Nothing,” The Joker barely bothers to answer.

You exhale, turning the page and fighting not to pay attention to his nonsense:

“You can’t stay in the sun, you know you burn easily,” you grunt, indirectly inviting him to get lost.

“So? Why do you care? Mind your own business!” and he lets himself go on his back, enjoying the hot sun.

“You’ll burn badly, go in the shadow,” J distinguishes your low voice urging him to move.

He ignores your warning and after a few more moments he opens his eyes to see your umbrella by his head, shielding half of his body from the sun and you walking away.

She’s so obnoxious, I really hate her, is the last thought he has before closing his eyes again and falling asleep shortly after since he’s so tired.

************

You are nowhere to be found. The Joker searched the cabin and around it but you vanished.

Good, maybe she fell from a cliff and my problems are done, he maliciously grins, relieved and hoping for his wish to come true, but after a few seconds the evil smile freezes on his lips as he notices your backpack is gone. And the small post-it on the fridge he didn’t see before makes him cringe:

“I’m going back to Gotham.”  

Crazy woman, walking alone in the woods, J growls, taking the car keys out of his pocket and heading outside.

*************

You discern the sound of the engine getting closer and closer and quicken your pace, not understanding why you can’t have a moment to yourself when you are very entitled to it. He passes you by and turns the car sideways, slamming on the breaks, gets out of the car and awaits your arrival, his blue eyes so dark it would make you hesitate on your decision.

Yet you avoid looking at him and attempt to go around when he rolls his eyes, fed up with your behavior and stomps towards you, lifting you up and slamming you on the hood, making you seat there against your will while you struggle to get down. J is blocking your way, not budging when you struggle to escape.

“Where are you going, hm? Are you really trying to get on my nerves?” he pins your hands behind your back, watching tears of frustrations forming in your eyes but you are too strong to let him win and swallow your vexation, finally looking at him.

“I’m walking back to Gotham,” you mutter, defying his blue gaze.

“It’s a long walk, Doll,” he pushes you up on the hood even more, making sure you can’t move.

“Why do you care? You don’t care about anything, not even…about…”  and you can’t control yourself anymore and start sobbing, thinking about the mean things he said to you yesterday that hurt you so much. J knows exactly what you are referring to and sucks on his cheeks, gulping, finally speaking up on the subject:

“I did care about that…”

You shake your head in denial, whimpering, dismissing his words so he repeats:

“I did care about that.”

“N-no you d-didn’t,” you cry harder and The Joker sets your hands free, backing out just a bit so you can slide down towards him.

“I did, I cared about that,” he insists, rolling up the sleeve on his left arm to point out the huge “ELLIS” tattoo on his forearm. “Why do you think I got the name on my skin and didn’t remove it? I will always keep it, do you hear me? I did care…” his voice breaks a bit and wipes your tears, lifting your chin up, forcing you to look at him again.

Ellis is the name you two picked for the baby when you found out you were pregnant, fit for a boy or a girl. You were so excited and over the moon you didn’t have patience to wait any longer. But it wasn’t meant to be…

Since you can’t stop crying and he grows impatient, J yanks you in his arms, hugging you while you want to push him away.

“I did care…” he continues to whisper in your ear over and over again until he feels your body relaxing and your arms go around his waist, hugging him back really tight. Since you still won’t stop crying, he caresses your hair, tightening his grip on you too. He senses tears menacing to roll down his cheeks but he brushes the awkward feeling away, because it’s not like him to show any weakness. Instead, he chooses to be The Joker and he has to admit to himself it really takes a lot of effort this time around:

“…Say, Princess, are we still divorced?”

“U-hum,” you manage to squeal, sobbing on his chest.

“That’s too bad, I was hoping to get some tonight,” and he kind of sadly smiles when you pinch his side.” Since I’m here and you’re here, can we at least have an affair?”

“Stop your stupid jokes,” you scold him, sniffling. He kisses your temple and helps you down, regaining his posture, but still holds your hand.

He seems surprised when you push yourself against his body and make him pay attention to what you have to say:

“You can lash out at me, but…” and your voice shakes ”…you can’t say anything mean about our poor baby, do you hear me?” There is so much pain and grief in your voice that he has no choice but to nod yes.

“Don’t ever say anything mean about Ellis… promise?” and you cup his face, waiting for the answer.

“I promise,” he agrees so fast he shocks himself.

“Good then, now you are allowed to drive me back to Gotham,” you announce and take your backpack off, going around the car to get in on the passenger’s side. “Did you lock the cabin?”

“I did,” J reports and can’t help bickering as he starts to drive away:

Allowed to drive you back, Pumpkin?! Like it’s what, a privilege??!!”

“Damn right it is!” you raise your voice and look out the window, ignoring the outburst.

“Pffttt, lucky me…” he grumbles but takes your hand and kisses it. You don’t object and scoot over towards him, silently leaning your head on his shoulder.

“Hey, Kitten, are we still divorced? Or do you want your ring back? I have it in my jacket.”

“I guess you’re allowed to give it back to me when we get home,” you decide with an indifferent tone.

Allowed to give it back??! Like it’s what, a privilege??!” he mocks, taking the turn towards the main road.

“Damn right it is!” you elbow him and he frowns, aggravated:

“Pffttt, lucky me…”

“You are lucky!” you cut him off, lifting your eyebrows with an attitude.

“Maybe just a little bit…” he admits and it makes you smirk, clenching to his arm even more.

 Also read: MASTERLIST

http://diyunho.tumblr.com/post/153664676321/joker-x-reader-masterlist

bashfyl  asked:

Prompt: Sterek ;) Derek woos his mate the wolf way. :D

This is one of my favorite tropes! So glad I got to write it! Also on ao3!

Stiles wished he could say it was the first time he had found a dead animal on his doorstep. He really did. But it wasn’t.

For the past few days, five in a row to be exact, he had found all sorts of small, fluffy little woodland animals lying dead and bloody on his front porch. They ranged from squirrels, their furry tails soaked in blood, to birds, their feathers strewn around the doormat, to rabbits, who apparently were not fast enough to outrun whoever or whatever was leaving them on the front stoop.

Initially, he had thought it was one of their neighbor’s cats, the old woman a few houses down who owned a veritable army of feline companions having recently procured two more cat cadets. But on the fourth day, he had walked out of the house to check if they had gotten any mail only to find a large raccoon with its throat slashed open, blood seeping out onto the doormat that they had just replaced.

No matter how fierce those cats were, he doubted they could do such gruesome damage. And so, he had begun considering other culprits who may have been leaving the dead animals.

It had started with a dead bird, a blue jay lying on the top step of their front porch. Stiles had found it while leaving for school in the morning, taking a few minutes out of his morning rush to bury the poor thing in the front yard before heading off to school. He figured it had simply keeled over in exhaustion, no obvious injuries save for a few molted feathers, and moved on.

The next day he had found two dead squirrels, deep claw marks raked down their sides, on the front porch. He had wrinkled his nose at the grisly sight, running back inside to grab a plastic bag to shove them in before tossing them into another shallow grave by the blue jay. That was when he began having the sneaking suspicion that a cat was responsible for the morbid little deliveries.

The day after the squirrels, he found the rabbit. Its throat was open, a hole about the size of a cat’s mouth oozing bright scarlet blood onto the doormat, absolutely ruining it. Groaning, and internally cursing crazy cat people, Stiles held his nose and cleaned up the scene, again burying the poor victim and dumping the doormat into their trash can.

The raccoon was next, sullying the new welcome mat that Stiles had picked up after his last class the day before. Curiously inspecting the raccoon, finding wounds too large to have been inflicted by a cat, Stiles had reached another, new conclusion ― there was some new supernatural threat in Beacon Hills and it was killing poor, defenseless animals and dumping them on Stiles’ porch.

Why he didn’t know, but it was the only feasible thing he could think of. He had taken his theory to others, asking around to see if anyone else had noticed anything strange lately. No one else had.

He had gone to Deaton at the vet clinic to ask if he had any information about anything weird going on with any of the local animals. Deaton had denied that anything unusual was going on with any animals, neither domestic or otherwise, for once actually foregoing any cryptic responses. Though, he did mention that parvo was more common than usual that year.

After talking to Deaton, he went to Chris Argent, figuring the ex-hunter would have information on any supernatural goings-on that Deaton did not know about. Argent didn’t know anything either, indulging Stiles’ curious nature and patiently answering his strange inquisitions with as much patience as someone who had been woken up at four thirty a.m. could muster.

Afterward, he had dropped in to visit his dad at the station, hoping that it wasn’t just happening to them, even though it would be just his luck. The Sheriff let him rifle through recent reports of strange, out of the ordinary activities but all he found were reports filed about suspicious looking teenagers hanging around outside of local convenience stores. There had been no reports of rabies, either, dashing another one of Stiles’ theories.

And, of course, he had gone to the pack as soon as he began to suspect that the dead animals may have a more sinister origin than simply falling prey to some pet cat roaming the neighbor. No one in the pack had noticed anything amiss, no supernatural threats or random dead animals on any doorsteps.

Peter had made some snide little comment about Valentine’s Day coming up soon, pointing out that Stiles probably had a psychopathic secret admirer who thought that leaving dead animals on his porch was the epitome of romance. With Stiles’ luck, it was a disturbingly real possibility, one he wouldn’t discount.

The other betas had dissolved into a bout of raucous laughter, even Boyd chuckling under his breath at the comment, but Stiles hadn’t been very amused. Rolling his eyes at the remark, Stiles had noticed that the tips of Derek’s ears had been burning bright red, a sure sign that the alpha was blushing at something. Probably due to secondhand embarrassment, Stiles figured.

Now, there he was, standing on his front porch in his Spiderman pajamas, looking down at that day’s little ‘gift’ ― a twelve point buck, lying dead on the walkway in front of the porch, a large hole in its chest. Ripped out of the buck’s ripped, its bloody heart lay on the front porch just inches from his bare foot, a single red rose laid beside it.

He almost threw up.

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Miss Something - Request

Requested by @mrsdeanfuckingwinchester:  Dean x reader have been married for years, she gets pregnant but he doesn’t want it. She leaves but never moves on. He ends up in another relationship and about to marry her. At the altar he decides he needs to be with reader and their child.
& Anon:  Part three to “Miss Everything- Miss nothing” where Dean bonds some more with his daughter but mostly of his relationship with the reader becoming even stronger?
& @captain-morgans-bitch:  Please continue and make a series out of this
& A bunch of people voting for it in the past two Sequel Fridays.

Summary: After apologizing and meeting his daughter, Dean is willing to get back to her life for once and for all. He wants everything back, including (Y/N) who is still reluctant about his comeback.

Pairing: Dean x reader.

Word count: 3,755

Warnings: None.

A/N: I wanted to focus more on Samstiel with Louise, but also daddy!Dean and his relationship with reader (if that makes any sense at all). Happy Sequel Friday!

Enjoy!

| Miss Everything (1) | Miss Nothing (2) |

Dean followed the deal like an obedient man. He called Louise every day after school – or at least after eating something because they would spend hours talking and Louise would forget to eat – and then he called (Y/N) to have dinner on Saturday.

Sam and Castiel weren’t only cheerful, and proud of Dean finally manning up and trying to make things better, but they were also far too excited to meet the little Winchester.

They would have dinner together at (Y/N) and Louise’s house that day. Sam made sure to buy pie and wine, while Castiel spent his whole morning collecting flowers at the nearest park – because Sam told him it was polite to go to a home with a present for the owner – and Dean made sure to buy Louise a colouring book and (Y/N)’s favourite sweets.

The three men arrived punctual to the appointment and Sam was impressed to notice how (Y/N) still looked the same. She was at the kitchen, checking the oven, when they arrived and so she didn’t notice. However, Louise had heard Baby’s roar and she stormed out of the house, excitedly.

“There’s my chipmunk.” Dean spoke proudly as he turned Baby off.

“She looks just like mom.” Sam commented.

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The Murder In My Backyard

by reddit user Pippinacious

I’ll be posting new, different stories on my personal blog, please be sure to follow @sixpenceeeblog

There was no love at first sight, no stomach fluttering feeling of “This is the one!”, just the realization that this was the best my budget could get me. My realtor, already frustrated with how many times I’d said no to other places, watched anxiously over my shoulder as I signed the papers, as if she was afraid I’d back out at the last minute, and just like that, I was the less-than-proud owner of a decades old house and all the issues that came with it.

Still, I told myself as I was handed the keys, it was better than continuing to live with my all too recent ex-husband.

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Creepypasta #1051: Crawl

Length: Long

I was renting a run down house in a low income neighbourhood in the west end of town. It was the kind of neighbourhood that is populated by small, independently run convenience stores every couple of blocks. The kind of stores that have shelves stocked with dusty old bags of pasta, and canned soup, veggies, and beans with faded labels, and strange tiny bottles of “ginseng shot” on the counter. People didn’t buy food at these stores. People bought lottery tickets, energy drinks, six packs of watery beer and cheap packs of cigarettes. Outside the shop doors they met up with hoodie-clad figures with shifty eyes to pick up dime bags or a gram or two of coke, even tranquilizers. These stores sold distraction; an escape from the mundane existence of those struggling below the poverty line.

The streets were dirty and full of litter and the houses were shabby and too close together. Permeating the smog filled air was the constant cacophony of sirens, thudding bass, revving engines, garbled noise from television sets, barking dogs and even the occasional shrill screech.

For three years I called this neighbourhood home as I dredged through long, miserable hours working in the legal department of a company that made gaskets. This company put more money into their legal department than it did into the safety of their employees, adopting the philosophy that it was cheaper to pay legal to get them out of nasty little lawsuits than to spend the millions it would cost updating their machinery. They scraped by on bare minimum safety standards and employed people like me to ensure that no claims had to be paid out.

It was a job that came with little sleep, too small of a pay check, and a heavy conscience.

While I was working at this company, the only place I could afford was this beat up little house in the West End. It was small, kind of drafty, and had the perpetual and inexplicable odour of wet dog kibble. It had dirty, peeling linoleum floors, badly patched drywall, and leaky plumbing. It was definitely full of mould and the space behind the walls was just about at capacity with mice.

It sounds like an absolute shithole, but if you saw it, it was actually much worse. The one thing this house had in the way of saving graces was the back porch. It was covered with a faded, striped awning that had once been red and white, but had taken on the colours of rust and too many cigarettes. This porch had enough space to fit an old threadbare sofa and a small wooden end table.

After a soul crushing ten hours at the plant, I would drag my weary body home, sit down on that sofa, light up a premium cigarette while sipping a glass of bottom-shelf red wine, and day dream about the day my real life would start.

It was just about the only time I had to relax. I could close my eyes and imagine I was sitting on the balcony of one of the colourfully painted town houses somewhere in a coastal town in Italy, a soft breeze ruffling my hair. The sounds of sirens and stereos would fade and be replaced by the sound of waves crashing, sea gulls calling, and music being played in the market place below. The stale, acrid smell of dog kibble would dissipate into the smell of marzipan, salt water and garlic, and the bougainvillea that dripped their fragrant blooms from hanging baskets all around.

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Lost Series // Part Nine

Part One  Part Two  Part Three  Part Four  Part Five  Part Six  Part Seven  Part Eight

Pairing : Jerome x Fem. Reader

Requests are closed. xx

Sorry if it’s kind of confusing.. I wanted it to be a little more interesting with Y/N getting her memories back and regular flashbacks just didn’t seem right. Lol. Oh and still not rewatching the episode so it’s not word for word. xx

Originally posted by punkbandsharry

Originally posted by intellectual-psychopath

Italics are memories ..


My breath was heavy and I couldn’t move my eyes away from the chair in front of me. It felt as if I just woke up from a coma. Different memories came back in flashes. At first it all came back, different pictures moving around my mind so fast I couldn’t make sense of it. It didn’t feel like memories. It felt like a movie that I’ve seen one too many times.

For the first time after being revived, I turned to look at Jerome. A gasp leaving me as I saw his face. I quickly pulled my hand up to cover my gaping mouth. Jerome noticed this and frowned slightly before allowing a haunting grin to overtake his features.

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Partners - C.H.

Originally posted by teenagedfricks

This is part 2/4 to the gang!5sos mini series.


“Pleasure doing business with you,” Calum said taking the money from the man that traded him the wad for an ounce. He made his way back around the corner to the beat up corvette he had, y/n’s legs sticking out of the passenger side window, cigarette dangling from her lips as an overplayed Nirvana song blasted through the speakers. She had on a pair of high waist shorts accompanied by one of Calum’s flannels unbuttoned and over her upper body, chest covered by a black bandeau. “Where to next?” he questioned hopping in the driver’s side.

“Declan’s and that’s it,” she hummed just after taking a drag, smoke falling from her lips with each word that left her mouth, Calum nodding as he took the car out of park. She looked over to him, eyes studying the way his hands gripped the wheel, veins in his arms clearly visible. The hat on his head driving her wild. He looked like sex on legs. “Can I stay at yours tonight?”

“I’m staying at BJ’s,” he said back referring to the bar Ben and Jack owned that housed their clubhouse underneath. It was how they were able to hold the space without getting caught.

“Well, can I stay with you? Dani’s on a bender again and I’ve been clean,” she said simply as he hummed in response. She knew he wouldn’t have an issue, but it was still better to ask than to just assume. “Thanks babe.”

“Hmm,” he hummed in response taking the corner lightly before pulling over quickly. “You know the drill.”

“Calum, you don’t need to mention it every time you go to do a deal. The mini’s in my shoe, handgun’s in the pocket in the door. And, I know how to drive stick. I think I’m good,” she said as he rolled his eyes at how she was acting, but she was right. They’d been ‘partners’ for over two years now, Jack pairing the two together when she first joined because he felt Calum could deal with her carefree attitude.

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Today I am assigned a new patient. I’m never given much information. A name, an address, a DOB. I’m never told what they are dying of. It’s usually some type of cancer.

The facility is in a rough part of town. A row of section eight housing and a lot of old abandoned boarded up apartment buildings. A few squatters scattered around. An old man with a rusty Toyota pickup full of scrap metal stands on a cinderblock poking around in a dumpster with a stick. One apartment has a courtyard where three young black men wait outside the gate on the corner. A kid rides up on a bicycle with a backpack and hands it to one of them. One man brings it the courtyard. I don’t stare so I don’t see which door he goes in. One of the other guys is rubbing the kid’s head and playing with him. They’re both laughing.

I pull into a driveway in front of a vacant double lot. A tall palm tree preaches to a choir of tall grass. The rehab center is across the street. Two one-story buildings connected in the middle by a screened-in porch. A big white metal fence all around the building is locked up tight. I push the doorbell and stand in the blazing sun. After a few minutes I push the button again. A small bead of sweat slowly runs down the center of my back.

An older black man sticks his head out a side door. He waves me over, eyeing my badge. He just happened to be leaving. I thank him and duck inside the door.

It’s dark inside and smells like urine and liniment. While my eyes adjust the hallway glows ghost like, painted industrial pink. Down the hall past several doors is a blaring TV room where several old people are rotting away on chairs and couches. The TV is a big piece of furniture that looks about 40 years old. The picture is all blown out orange white. A glowing Jerry Springer is smiling, head cocked, while a woman screams at a jeering audience. 

I make my way across the room and an old woman by the door holds out her hand to me, smiling. I take her hand and she tries to bite me. I chuckle, “You almost got me.” She snaps her teeth at me, still smiling. “I know who you are,” she sings in a southern lilt. I hold up my hands and she points her fingers at me like six-guns and shoots me several times. The TV audience is roaring with laughter as I play along, writhing in agony while I make my way to the office. Oops! It’s just a tiny bathroom with an old woman on the toilet, shaking her head at the floor. I eventually find the office in the other building across the porch, side stepping several snoozing old falling apart people in the process.

The Haitian nurse directs me to my patients room at the end of the hall. I peek in and see him fully dressed, curled up in the fetal position on a little twin bed. He sits up then stands to shake my hand. He looks like any 65 year old white man. I tell him I’m his friend and I’ll be stopping by on Wednesdays to visit. He nods and sits back down on his bed. I sit down on the twin bed opposite. On the wall around his bed are several dozen pictures from a coloring book. We sit for a bit. When I look at him, he’s smiles, embarrassed. He’s a 65 year old little boy dying of cancer. But he doesn’t know that yet. Luckily, I don’t have to be the one to tell him.
We look at his coloring book pictures and a few photographs. I ask him who the people are and he explains. He thinks he’s only 40 and he’s been here for just a month. The nurse said he’s been here for 3 years. Before that he was in another place she worked at for 5 years.

Another man walks in the room and I realize it’s my patient’s roommate. I’m sitting on his bed. We excuse ourselves and go sit in a the empty TV room on his side of the building. I tell him I’m there to hang out and maybe play some games or just go for a walk and talk with him. I ask him if he needs anything. He looks at the floor and thinks for a good while.
“Do you have 50 cents?”
He wants a can of soda.

This reminds me of the book, The Three Christs of Ypsilanti. A researcher took three men who lived in separate mental hospitals who all thought they were Christ and had them live together and interact. Each Christ thought the others were blasphemers. They would argue about who was holier, sometimes to the point of violence. Eventually, they each explained the others away as robots or delusional patients from a mental hospital. The researcher who wrote the book later apologized for playing God.

Anyway, one of the Christs would steal sugar from the kitchen and go around to other patients, doling it out like a holy sacrament of sweetness.
This makes me cry a little inside when I buy the dying old boy a can of soda. We talk about football. Johnny Unitas is his favorite player.

On the way home I am overcome by a peculiar clarity, as I often am when I spend time with the dying. I drive slowly and watch the world zoom around me. Traffic is backed up and, being in no hurry, I decide to turn down a side street. I am confronted by a cop car and flashing lights. A few cops are in the road, kneeling behind their cruisers with assault rifles pointing at a bank. This is probably the fifth or sixth time in my twelve years in Florida that I’ve run into cops with assault weapons drawn. I just shrug and keep moving.

Closer to home I pull into the grocery store. Before I can get out of the car. The Florida sky opens up in buckets. Then thunder and lighting. I sit in my car listening to sports talk radio watching the palm trees bend and sway about, their fronds thrashing. I imagine the cops and robbers and the black guys on the corner, the lonely old dying people. I think of us all standing in the rain, like some kind of baptism. We are smiling and laughing, maybe getting ready to sit down and break bread together.

Nobodies Hurt Me Like You Have

Anon prompt: “could you do one where the reader cheats on Jughead with Chuck and doesn’t know how to tell him and he gives them one more chance.”

 A/N: I hope you enjoy this. It’s mostly angst. I was born from angst. Breathe angst. Eat angst for breakfast.

Tags: alcohol, suggestions of sex, underage drinking, emetophobia, angst, sorry :-) 

PART 2 HERE

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Originally posted by knightlley


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Be More Chill Reverse Pining AU: Put Your Pants On (Metaphorically)

“What do you mean you're​ sick?!” The voice shouted over the phone.
“I mean I’m sick and I can’t perform tonight Mr.Reyes.”
“But Christine you’re Titania Queen of the Undead! Our leading lady!”
“Well find someone else, I’m sure Chloe would love to be the star.”
“But she can’t act!”
“I don’t care.” Christine hung up, throwing her phone to the other side of the porch before looking back at the fire she had started.
“Phantom of the Opera keychain he gave me for my birthday that no one else remembered…Burn it. Ticket stub from our first play…Little Shop of Horrors. Super burn it.” As she tossed the ticket in she saw Jeremy’s dad walking up, still wearing nothing but underwear.
“Christine!”
“Mr.Heere, what are you doing here?”
“We need to talk about Jeremy.”
“Sorry, but we’re not friends anymore-”
“Do you love him?”
“What?”
“We both know he can be a little shit sometimes but that doesn’t mean we should just stand to the side and let him become a monster.” Christine rolled her eyes getting up to go back in her house but he blocked the doorway.
“I need you Christine, he won’t listen to me, and well…I can’t blame him but somebody needs to watch out for him. You need to put your pants on for him!”
“But I’m wearing a skirt.”
“Metaphorically.”
“Fine, but if I’m going to try and be a better friend you need to try to be a better father. There’s a Kohl’s down the street. I don’t care what kind of pants-jeans, khakis…leather but your not leaving that store until you but a pair.”
“You drive a hard bargain.” Jeremy’s dad hesitated for a second before shaking Christine’s hand.

5

Why Hendrix Still Matters

Historical revisionism and the endless stream of tired imitators that followed in his wake sometimes makes it difficult to appreciate what a radical listening experience the music of Jimi Hendrix was and still is. Yet for those with the ears to hear, his influence is everywhere in contemporary rock.

In the Stone Roses and their guitarist John Squire’s polychromatic action-painting style of playing. In My Bloody Valentine, a group which has worked with Roger Mayer, the guy who invented effects boxes and distortion pedals for Hendrix. In Loop’s noise symphonies. In Sonic Youth, whose unusual tunings would not have been possible without Hendrix’s reinvention of the guitar. (Drummer Buddy Miles, who played with Hendrix, recorded an album called Expressway to Your Skull in 1968. Nineteen years later Sonic Youth recorded a song with the same name.)

In the wah-wah heaven of Dinosaur Jr. In the raga free-form folkadelic blitz of Husker Du’s “Recurring Dreams” on Zen Arcade. In the wigged out, apocalyptic, nouveau acid rock of the Butthole Surfers. (Think of their “Jimi” as a fin de siecle version of Hendrix’s “Third Stone From the Sun.”) In the oceanic rock of A.R. Kane. In the black rock of Living Colour and 24-7 Spyz. In the thrashing metal-funk of the Red Hot Chili Peppers (who covered Hendrix’s “Fire” and inherited his febrile hypersexuality and imitated his bad-ass virility). Not to mention obvious examples like Prince and George Clinton.

And then there’s heavy metal as a genre. If Hendrix paved the way for this music, it was because he showed that the blues could be blown up from a porch-side lament into a mountain range. Hendrix invented the “air guitar,” not in the sense of an imaginary instrument played by hair farmers in front of their bedroom mirrors, but rather in the sense of a guitar that refused to be bound solely by earthly roots, a sound that grew wings and took flight. An aerial guitar, if you will.

The Hendrix influence on rap is also profound, and not just in the way that boho homeboys like De la Soul and A Tribe Called Quest dress. Hendrix samples on rap records include Digital Underground’s “Who Knows?” the Beastie Boys’ “B-Boy Bouillabaisse,” A Tribe Called Quest’s “Go Ahead in the Rain,” and Monie Love’s “Just Don’t Give a Damn.” Moreover, every rap use of rock comes via Hendrix, from Run-DMC to Schoolly D. Rap’s dissonance is Hendrix’s guitar still reverberating and feeding back.

As SPIN colleague Nathaniel Wice puts it: “He dominates both Yol MTV Raps and Headbanger’s Ball. He fathered both, dominating everything that music has become. Not only won’t he die, but it’s impossible to imagine how to kill him off.”

There’s even a case to be made that Hendrix is responsible for that hideous mutant jazz-rock. But we’ll pass discreetly over that, except to mention Hendrix’s profound influence on Miles Davis’s brilliant late-‘60s and early-'70s work.

Jim Morrison may be the subject of Hollywood mythmaking, but Hendrix is not a corpse to be resurrected. Hendrix is the living, breathing soul of today’s rock'n'roll.

Initially framed within traditional white ideas of what black music meant (black as incarnation of the id, un-repression, instinct, the body, soul, et cetera), Jimi Hendrix was nicknamed the “Wild Man of Pop” and compared to a Borneo savage. As critic Steven Perry has pointed out, such noble savage stereotypes have been used historically to undermine the aesthetic achievements of blacks. Hendrix is interesting because of the damage he did to such racial stereotypes. He wanted to transcend the borders and barriers between races, male and female, and even (at his most mystic) to transcend the human condition all together to become star child, to become male mermaid (as on “1983/A Merman I Should Turn to Be”). Indeed his whole career can be seen as an attempt to reconcile and/or explode such standard oppositions as black versus white, male versus female, the dandy versus the savage, voodoo (the blues) versus Christian salvation (soul), roots versus rootlessness, earthy versus cosmic, tradition versus avant-garde, bohemian art rock versus funk/soul razzmatazz.

Setting himself against the narrow conceptual biases of what constituted “real” black music, Hendrix transformed and transcended the limits of what a black musician could and should be. Among the first, if not the first, African-Americans in pop to lay claim to the status of artist rather than entertainer, he did his apprenticeship in soul review bands (most notably the Isley Brothers, Little Richard, and Curtis Knight and the Squires) on the “chitlin circuit,” but chafed at the strictures, discipline, and show-biz protocols that were expected of him. Hendrix opened up the possibility for black musicians to be — imagewise and soundwise — messy and self-indulgent. In this he was the polar opposite of James Brown, disciplinarian band leader and the professional servant of a popular audience. In contrast, Hendrix was an aural aristocrat with musical laws unto himself — a solar flare with solo flair, a quality that got him kicked out of many soul bands before his eventual success in the U.K. For his efforts, he was branded a psychedelic Uncle Tom. A more unjust accusation in the history of rock criticism is difficult to imagine.

Yet many of his more fervent supporters seem to add fuel to this charge. Alvin Lee from Ten Years After once said, “Hendrix wasn’t black or white. Hendrix was Hendrix.” Hendrix was Hendrix, but Hendrix was black. In his excellent biography of Hendrix, 'Scuse Me While I Kiss the Sky, David Henderson, an award-winning African-American poet, does a convincing job of debunking the misperception that Hendrix was an Uncle Tom who played exclusively to white audiences. Recalling a meeting between a group of blacks and Hendrix at TTG Studios in Hollywood, Henderson tells how the guitarist expressed concern about the lack of any black support for his music. Not so, said his fellow black musicians. Blacks did buy his records and go to his concerts, but they were rendered virtually invisible by the overwhelming popularity of Hendrix among the mass white audience.

What was true was that black radio did not play his records. Since so much of black radio was white-controlled at that time, that’s hardly Hendrix’s fault. Moreover, when he jettisoned his all-white band, the Experience, for the all-black Band of Gypsys, it was met with much resistance from his management. But the suspicion still lingers that Hendrix was a disgrace to the race, especially in his refusal to become too closely aligned with black revolutionary movements. Hendrix was a pacifist who refused to give the Black Panthers the explicit gesture of support that they expected from him and got from other entertainers. But as Robert Wyatt, ex-drummer and vocalist with Soft Machine, says, Hendrix didn’t “have to go around making political statements. … he was living a political life of great importance.”

Hendrix didn’t need to comment on the issues of the times, racial or not, because the times were in his music. For instance, Hendrix was the soundtrack to Vietnam, for soldiers and for civilians alike. Both “Machine Gun” and his version of “The Star-Spangled Banner” are among the most profound works of American art ever made about the war. Vernon Reid once admitted to having mistakenly thought that Hendrix had served in Vietnam. And for the movie version of the real thing (Apocalypse Now), Francis Ford Coppola employed Randy Hansen, a Hendrix impersonator, for the soundtrack.

In 'Scuse Me While I Kiss the Sky, Henderson tells of the time in 1969 that Hendrix played a Harlem street fair. Hosted by a popular local radio DJ Eddie O-Jay (ironically another black DJ who didn’t play Hendrix’s records), Jimi performed “Voodoo Chile,” among other songs, which he referred to onstage as “Harlem’s national anthem.” And of course in a way Hendrix was right. With its explicit evocation and celebration of the supernatural powers and magical transformations at the heart of African religion, “Voodoo Chile” is at least as “black” (if such distinctions are important to you) as James Brown’s “Say It Loud, I’m Black and I’m Proud.” So much for Uncle Tom.

After Hendrix finished his show, he was approached by a black nationalist who said, “Hey brother, you better come home.” Hendrix replied, “You gotta do what you gotta do, and I gotta do what I gotta do now.”

Giant AF House Cleansing

I’m sore, sweaty, and overall proud! I just did the biggest House Cleansing spell/ritual!

So I’ve been feeling a bit more negative energy throughout my house and decided that I was going to get rid of it. Started off taking the chairs and mat off of the front porch.

With a broom I swept away all of the dirt, pollen, and negativity off the porch (and away from the door). The entire time I was doing this I am softly chanting:
“Dirt and grime and negativity,
Leave this house and leave us be!”

I could feel the negative energies slowly starting to be swept away which just gave the spell more power. I swept the entire porch: walkway, sides, pillars, and ceiling continually chanting.

Then I got out my All Purpose cleaner. This bad boy is used literally for EVERYTHING. It is very easy customize to fit whatever task I need.

The base is made out of Distilled Water and Castile Soap. The mix there alone is gentle enough to use but if you want to add some extra strength to the mix get some essential oils.
For this mix I used Peppermint (good for banishment), Lemon (banishment and brings happiness), and Orange (helps boost happiness) oils.

I used the solution to wash down the light fixtures and the front door.

When I was washing the lights I said a little spell about keeping the dark away and protecting the house.
For the door I did a slightly different spell, this one for letting only laughter and joy into our house and being strong enough to block the negative energies.

This whole process took me about two hours, but I am so satisfied with the results!! Not only was the front of the house cleaned but when I walked in I could feel a shift in the overall energy of the house!! While it was a lot of work it was very much worth it!!

The Snow: Chapter 8

Sansa covered her mouth just in time to muffle the startled shriek that burst out of it.  She whirled around to check on Jon, who only moaned and shuffled his body a quarter of a turn toward the wall.  But it was the most movement she’d seen from him since he had stomped out of the kitchen after their shouting match two nights before, and Sansa smiled wanly.  Then she remembered that someone might just have broken into the flat.  She frantically pawed through Jon’s chest of drawers to look for a hammer or a pocketknife or anything she could use to defend herself.  When she came up empty, she opened the door and peered out cautiously before scampering into the laundry room, where, after all, she had found the tarp, bucket, and other purely utilitarian items.

Before she had gotten halfway across the hall, it occurred to Sansa that, for one thing, even if there were in fact any burglars idiotic enough to risk going out and plying their trade with the sheer amount of snow on the ground outside, they would be doubly and triply idiotic to try it in such a well secured community.  For another, she could not be entirely sure that the noise had not come from the neighboring flat.  None of that stopped her from rifling through the drawers of Jon’s utility shelving, though, or from grabbing the first hammer she could find.  She realized belatedly that the sound, if it had originated from Jon’s flat at all, had come from the utility area behind the laundry room, which meant that any intruders present in the flat had had more than enough time to attack her already.  That, however, did not stop her from brandishing the hammer, inching open the door leading out of the laundry room until she could reach the light switch, and hitting the switch as hard as she could while kicking the door back into the wall.

To Sansa’s utter relief and embarrassment, the light revealed a few boxes arranged in neat stacks against the opposite wall and nothing else.  She leaned her head back against the wall behind her and let out a long sigh.  

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Fall-time Finn and Rey.

[image: Rey leans into Finn and they smile at each other, sitting side-by-side on the front porch. Rey is bundled up with a red plaid scarf, her hair pulled into a bun, and Finn is wearing a grey beanie and jean jacket. Pumpkins and jack-o-lanterns are lined up on the stairs and wet autumn leaves blow in the air.]