Imagine having a nightmare and your big brother making you feel better…

You were running, your eyes wide, terrified… you knew there was someone running after you, chasing you- you didn’t know what he wanted or what he would do to you once he had you… you didn’t want to know. 

“Le-eave me alone!” You gasped out, you were getting tired… you didn’t know how long you had been running through the thick scrub, but it was taking it’s toll on you. “Please” 

“There’s no use running Y/N… I’ll get you eventually.” He sneered, and he right. You tripped over a fallen tree trunk, you fell forward, your hands reached out to lessen the fall. 

You saw his figure coming toward you, but it was to late to get back up and run… so you crawled away from him, screaming and calling out for help, help that wouldn’t find you. 

“Shut up, bitch” you watched as his hand came toward you, hands that were clad with long, silver razors at the point. 

“No, no, don’t, my brother will found out, he-he will kill you…” 

“Oh, you mean this brother…” He reached behind his back, holding up the head of Darry. 

You squeezed your eyes shut as the screams erupted from your lungs involuntarily. 

“Hey, Y/N, wake up baby girl, it’s okay, it’s just a dream…” You awoke, finding yourself in your big brother’s arms, Darry was holding you tightly to his chest, rocking you back and forth. 

“Darry, is she okay?” Sodapop asked, Ponyboy right next to him as he looked at you with young and frightened eyes- usually it was him that had the overactive imagination. 

“Yeah, yeah little buddy, both of you go on back to bed. We’ll be okay.” You watched as they exited the room, Sodapop looking as though he had wanted to stay with you. 

“Are you okay, Princess?” He asked, rubbing your back tenderly. He began to wipe away the tears you didn’t even know you had shed. “What was it about?” 

“H- he was chasing me.” You hiccoughed, tightening your hold on him. “I fell… he killed you Darry and I was next. I can’t lose you, I can’t lose Soda or- or Ponyboy… you guys are all I have left… what if-” 

“Hey now.” Darry hushed, kissing the top of your head tenderly. “You’re not going to lose us, you hear? It was just a dream. I would never let anyone hurt you, they’d be dead first. You have me, the boys and the whole gang on your side and none of them would let some idiot hurt you.” 

“Promise?” You whisper, looking up at him with tears brimming in your eyes. 

“I promise, now get some sleep okay? I’ll see you in the morning.” He went to put you down but you clutched onto him even tighter. 

“Wait, Dar… will you stay? At least until I fall asleep?” You begged him with your eyes, but you didn’t need to. He switched off your bedside lamp and laid down beside you. 

“I love you Princess, now go to sleep, you hear?” 

“I love you too” 

You shut your eyes and you were asleep within minutes. 

I Know You (Captain Canary)

His laugh is chilling, sending goosebumps down her bare arms and making her hands clench together. The cuffs around her wrists were starting to hurt, but not as much as her heart was hurting. The man she’d considered friend was standing before her with no recognition of her or what they’d almost been. 

“You know me?” He crossed his arms over his chest and gave her an amused look, looking down at her with a now sneer-like expression on his face. “I doubt it.”

“It’s different here. But I know you, Snart.”

“Prove it,” he said, taking a chair and dragging it across the floor before straddling it. He lay his arms over the top of the chair then rest his chin atop them. “Tell me something only YOU know.”

Sara looked him over, her eyes looking for an answer. He was Leonard, but not really. The timeline had been changed. Gideon had been looking into that when they’d responded to an emergency. Sara had been fighting men in tactical gear when the familiar whir of Leonard’s cold gun had distracted her. 

Distracted her enough for him to hit her, knock her out, and take her prisoner. 

Where he’d hit, just at her temple, was sore and tender. She felt more than saw the dried blood at the side of her face. He’d looked at it, once, letting her see a small flicker of doubt. Like he’d regretted hitting her. 

“Take off your gloves,” she said, getting an idea. 

“Excuse me?” he asked. She quirked a brow and he sighed, pulling them off with his teeth. Sure enough, she saw it. A familiar glint on his pinky.


He tensed. “What?”

“That ring. First job gone sideways. You kept it to remind you things don’t always go according to plan.”

“Who told you that?” he shouted, standing from the chair and tossing it aside before getting in her face. She just stared him down. “Who?!”

“You did,” she said calmly. “Just like you told me about juvie, the scars on your back, your sister-”

He gripped her chin harshly, making her wince as he practically snarled in her face. “Don’t talk about her. You don’t get to talk about her!”

He released her and started to pace, rubbing his hands over the top of his head while she worked her jaw. Her jaw wasn’t the only thing she was working. Since she’d been sat here, she’d been working on the cuffs, too. He suddenly stopped in his steps and took a deep breath before facing her. Sara could see why people here were so scared of him. He looked menacing. Perhaps even a little insane. This was NOT the Leonard Snart she’d gotten to know on the Waverider. In all honesty, he reminded her of Mick, when he got in one of his moods. 



“Where are your friends?” he asked her, as if he were talking to a small child, instead of a grown adult. 

“Hmmm…” Sara pretended to think it over just as she released herself from her cuffs. “Not quite sure. How about you ask them?”

He growled in frustration and stepped closer to her. It was all she needed. She brought her hands up and grabbed him by the lapels of his parka and yanked him forward, smacking her forehead against his nose. He cursed as he dropped to the ground, blood pouring out of his nose as she released the duct tape around her ankles and the legs of the chair with a blade she’d kept hidden. Leonard staggered to his feet and she brought up her hands, using the cuffs as brass knuckles in one hand and holding up her small blade in the other. 

“You don’t want to do this,” she said. 

“Kinda do,” he retorted. 

She knew all his moves. Knew where he was going to go and how he was going to attack. Soon she had him on the ground, barely conscious. She’d been ready to cuff him and leave but as she looked at his wrist she’d noticed something missing. She pulled his sleeve up to reveal his arm. Where there had been a jagged scar from his elbow down to his wrist, was now bare. Her brows furrowed before she looked down at the man who would kill her if he could. Slowly her finger trailed over the smooth skin and his fingers involuntarily clenched at the feel of someones bare skin against his.

“The Leonard I knew had a scar there… He was thirteen. It was late. He’d been in bed when he’d heard his sister crying.” Immediately the man beneath her tensed for a whole different reason, then tried to buck her off, but she remained placed. He made a frustrated sound between gritted teeth stained red from the split lip she’d given him after punching him. “He’d almost ignored it. He’d been so tired of being a parent he’d just wanted one night off. But he’d put the headphones down and went to check on her. What he hadn’t known was that his father, who was supposed to be out of town, had come home early. The job had gone sideways and he’d come home with a few bottles of beer. Lisa spilled one and he’d cracked a bottle then tried to stab her with it… But Leonard? He’d gotten between them. Brought his arm up and got sliced protecting Lisa. He hated to think what would have happened if he’d ignored her crying. Is that what you did, Len? Did you ignore her?”

“SHUT UP!” he demanded, blue eyes swimming with pain and guilt and rage. “SHUT UP!”

“I’m sorry,” whispered Sara. “I’m sorry you couldn’t save her.”

“Fuck y-”

She brought her first up and punched him. He was out cold and so she dragged him to a pipe then cuffed him there. She quickly went to his coldgun and sabotaged it. She’d watched him clean it enough times to now what piece was vital to it working. She grabbed his phone and everything else she could carry and walked toward the door. She paused, looking over her shoulder at the unconscious man bleeding on the floor. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispered again, allowing a single tear falling from her eye, before leaving him behind. 

watch (m.c.)

Pair: michael x y/n
Summary: in which michael needs you to pretend that you’re his girlfriend and ends up getting too cocky

a/n: i’m going on vacation from the 16th to the 23rd!! my posts during that time will be queued, but there will be the occasional fic.

“so, how’s bout it?” michael asks, and you shake your head at his request. “c’mon, y/n! i need this; my parents will think i’m a loner.”

you roll your eyes at his statement, “we’ve hated each other since high school and now you want my help? what person are you?” you scoff and begin to walk past him.

he swiftly grabs your arm and you turn back at him, sneering at him in disgust. 

“let go of me, clifford,” you demand, and michael shakes his head with a goofy grin on his face.

“if i let you go, i’ll follow you wherever you go until you agreeeee,” he holds out the last letter and you shake your arm loose from his death grip.

“whatever, i can just call the police,” you smirk, and cross your arms over your chest.

he furrows his eyebrows in desperation and puts his hands together like he’s praying, “no wait, please, y/n! i’ll owe you big time once we’re done. it’s just one dinner!” he pleads.

you place a finger on your chin, pondering about the things he could buy you. it really was just one dinner, and plus, it was going to be in his parents house with his parents. it wouldn’t even be a date!

you sigh defeated and nod, and he asks you what you want. you furrow your eyebrows in thought. then, you immediately smirk after a few moments of silence while michael raises a brow.

“twenty grand.” 

michael widens his eyes at your request and shakes his head, “i meant food or clothes or something!” 

“deal or no deal, michael. deal or no deal?” you ask with an innocent smile as you clasp your hands together and a puppy face.

he rolls his eyes and nods, “deal.” 

after that, he told you that the dinner was this thursday at six. he also said that he’d send you a dress that he thinks you should wear and he’d pick you up at least an hour before so you both could go over everything for the facade.

that wednesday, you were in the middle of a disney movie before the ringing of your doorbell abruptly stopped you. you answer and the person hands you a package with your name under the ‘to.’ you assume it’s the dress and thank the delivery woman. 

you close the door and immediately run into your bedroom to try it on. you rip open the packaging and pull out a beautiful dark red dress and a black purse with a silver bar on the front.

you gasp quietly at the sight, wondering how michael could possibly have such good taste. you guess that the dress had to be more than one hundred dollars and the purse was maybe around one hundred.

you strip out of your pj’s and slip into the dress. it wasn’t too small or too big, it was just right. you twirl around in the mirror, smiling at how the dress complements your body so perfectly. 

you slip out of the dress and hang it up on a hook so it wouldn’t get wrinkly in the packaging, and the purse on your dresser so you wouldn’t forget.

you get dressed into your pj’s again and walk downstairs to your living room to continue watching the disney movie. you get a text a few minutes later from michael.

m: did you like it?

y/n: i loved it. where’d you get that taste from though lmao

m: i have my sources

y/n: right, right. sorry i knew i liked your mom for a reason.

m: excuse me?? i chose it

y/n: keep lying. ill see you tmmr, byeee.

the next day, you wake up to the ringing coming from your phone. you look at the caller id, which read michael. you answer with a groggy ‘what do you want.’

“it’s thursday, dork. be ready by five, i’ll be picking you up by then. alright?” he asks and you let out a long ‘mhm’ before hanging up and throwing you phone on the other side of the bed. you groan and stand up from your bed, and walk out of your bedroom to take a long shower.

by the time you were done getting ready, it was already four. you touch up your messy but classy hair, and walk downstairs. you get a call from your best friend, so you answer almost immediately. you two talk about the date until it’s five and you hear a car honk outside of your house.

“alright, i gotta go. he’s here, i’ll call you maybe later tonight, alright?” you ask rhetorically and hang up. 

you rush outside, locking your door and over to michael’s car. you hop into the passenger seat and michael takes one glance at you before his pupils dilate slightly.

“you look great,” he mumbles mindlessly, looking at your dress. you roll your eyes and look out of your window.

“drive, i wanna see karen.”

michael scoffs and starts to drive towards his parents house, while you complain about his driving every few seconds.

he lets out a groan as he pulls into his parents driveway, “you complain a lot for a nineteen year old.”

“i’m doing it for the money, clifford,” you remind him as you open your car door and get out of the car. you close the door and walk up to the door, and michael jogs up behind you to keep up with you. 

he knocks on the door and almost immediately, karen and daryl answer the door. karen greats you warmly and daryl hugs michael.

they invite you both to sit down at the table, and you both gladly take the invitation. free food, am i right?

a few hours into the dinner, everyone is finishing up their second plate of food as you all joke about life and talk about each other’s career. karen and daryl both step into the kitchen to wash the dishes, which leaves you and michael alone in the dining room.

“after this, i better get my money,” you state.

michael rolls his eyes at your statement, “oh come on, they aren’t that bad. were they?” he asks.

you shake you head, smiling at how much he cares about his family. “i love your mom; she’s adorable. your dad is also really funny. i don’t know how they came up with you though.”

he rolls his eyes, “watch, i’ll make you love me.”

“try me, clifford.”

“oh, i will. just watch,” he smirks and turns back to his mom as she brings out two plates of dessert for the both of you.

Humanity, at large, enjoys a dichotomous role in supernatural politics. On the one hand they are sneered at and held in contempt for being patently unable to come to grips with reality, to the point where the supernatural world hardly needed to bother to hide from them. Given half a chance, the average human being would rationalize the most bizarre of encounters down to “unusual but explainable” events. They are referred to as herd animals by a lot of things that prey on them, and often toyed with and tormented.

On the other hand, no one wants to get them stirred up, either. Humanity, when frightened and angry, is a force even the supernatural world does not wish to reckon with. The torches and pitchforks are just as deadly, in their numbers and their simple rage, as they ever were - and it is my opinion that most of the supernatural crowd had very little appreciation for just how destructive and dangerous mankind had grown in the past century.

—  Small Favor - Dresden Files 10, Jim Butcher

what nonsense, honestly. he had things to do today, and now some poor dead girl was entirely throwing off his schedule. of course, he’d done his fair share of poking his nose where it didn’t belong—he did have a pack to protect, and he was, unfortunately, a little too interested in gossip so as long as it didn’t pertain to him. but after he’d been stonewalled twice by both the council and the guild, he’d attempted to go about his day…to no avail. “oh really,” he muttered, sneering a bit at the closed sign tilted against the window of the dry cleaners. “i hardly think the dry cleaners is on the witch hit list. is this necessary?” 

rarbear  asked:

Do you have a headcanon in relation to Stannis and Littlefinger and how they interacted with each other at KL? Also do you think they will meet again in the later books?

Stannis doesn’t talk about Littlefinger often, but when he does, it’s never positive. The king blames the mockingbird for influencing Robert RE Janos Slynt, and links him with Renly in terms of sneering superficiality. Plus, look at their temperaments and worldviews; they could’ve been designed to hate each other, and I have no doubt they did.

It’s entirely possible that they’ll interact again when Littlefinger comes north with Sansa and the knights of the Vale. If so, it won’t end well.

I have this lil scenario where Amren goes around Velaris just because shes bored and sees Rhys and Feyre walking with both their hands held together while eating ice cream, Cassian and Nesta sneering at each other, Mor laughing her ass off from something Azriel said and Lucien and Elain admiring the flowers from a near by shop.

So she walks past all of them not bothering to say hi and she comes across a little kitten in a alley way. Not far off the stench of it’s mothers dead body makes Amren flinch a bit.

She scoops up the kitten taking it immediately home, she has enough pride not to ask others for help on how to take care of a baby animal. So she does it all from assumption.

She first hands the kitten a slab of meat and it does nothing. She trys again, nothing.
After twenty trys and a shop to the market, the kitten laps up some milk.

After wards bath time because she could still smell its dead mother. She struggles a bit as the kitten bit her at one point as she got it in the tub. It took ten seconds for her to convince her self to not kick out the blasted thing.

She feeds it again, places down some papers for it to do its business, and gives it a pillow to sleep on.

She went a week without the inner circle realizing she was caring for a kitten.

ford-filbrick-pines-phd  asked:

"Mom...but you don't quite deserve that title do you? What should I refer to you then? Birth-vessel is sounding awful tempting."

She just sneered a little bit at that, ofcourse another crusader to rush to Able’s defense, because the pathetic little twerp was just so GOOD at that.

“Whatever you like darling, I frankly don’t give your words any weight so it doesn’t matter to me”

anonymous asked:

What is the Oxford manner?

tl;dr: There isn’t one! 

I changed the title of my blog when I first went up to Oxford: the phrase comes from James Joyce’s Ulysses. Buck Mulligan is talking about Haines (an Englishman) to Stephen Dedalus, and says:

—God, isn’t he dreadful? he said frankly. A ponderous Saxon. He thinks you’re not a gentleman. God, these bloody English! Bursting with money and indigestion. Because he comes from Oxford. You know, Dedalus, you have the real Oxford manner. He can’t make you out. O, my name for you is the best: Kinch, the knife-blade. (4)

I like the phrase: there’s something sneering about how Mulligan says it. The connotations of coming ‘from Oxford’, as Haines does, for Mulligan are swiftly outlined: to go to Oxford means to be English (as opposed to Irish, in the context of the book), to have money, and indigestion - presumably from the consumption of so much rich food and drink. 

Yet the image of Oxford is presented as something here: Mulligan seems to think that while Haines is definitely ‘from Oxford’ because of his money, perhaps Stephen has something of ‘the real Oxford manner’. A small distinction is made. There is another, different image of the university to which Mulligan alludes. This Oxford is something other than the rich Englishman suffering from a minor digestive ailment. In Stephen’s sharpness (the nickname: Kinch, suggesting the sound of a knife blade, perhaps even one being sharpened), Mulligan suggests, can be found the ‘real’ thing an Oxonian needs: not money (which Stephen, well educated, but a poor school-teacher has little of), but brains. This, then, is the ‘real Oxford manner’, at least for Mulligan - some level of intelligence. Yet, this being Buck Mulligan, I doubt that this is entirely complimentary to Stephen. I sometimes wonder what kind of enigma he thinks Stephen is to Haines. ‘The real Oxford manner’ in this case sounds like some kind of euphemism.

Regardless: in talking about Oxford we can see how Mulligan’s speech draws on lots of associations that the place has for people that don’t go there: there’s the stereotype of it as the rich Englishman’s assumed home, and yet the persistence of the sense of the place as one of learning. The two can be difficult to separate, but the distinction is there for those that look. 

For many people, an Oxford student (or someone with an Oxford education) is always white and affluent: yet in coming to the university I was neither of those things. (When I get a job, eventually, I suppose I shall be more affluent than I otherwise might have been, but the colour of my skin won’t change!) My accent tends to ‘give me away’ in situations of stress or anger, but otherwise I have assimilated to the clipped, precise tones of the educated speaker of RP (a process I started at school, before Oxford), especially when talking about books. I’m aware that I never speak quite as people expect: either it is too articulate (”You sound really posh!” - rarely a compliment, or else it is one that I find difficult to smile at), or not articulate enough (”It’s wasn’t, not weren’t!”). I find it depends on the setting: how I speak to my parents differs vastly from how I talk in a class. Yet I know this is not unique to me - everyone to some extent will temper their speech for their listeners.

I started shifting the emphasis of my blog (which hopefully sits now between Oxford University, academia and Joyce) when I realised that blogging about my experiences as a student at Oxford might make a difference to how people perceived Oxford, and the ‘kind’ of people that go there. My own blog and other social media accounts all add to the associations which Oxford has for lots of people. I’d like to think that what I do here shows my life as a student positively, but not falsely: that I read lots, drink lots of tea, and enjoy nice meals in the company of friends. I also think lots, and don’t have tonnes of money (although in consequence the university has been kind to me with scholarships, and so I am aware that I am better off than a lot of other students). I can only share my own experience of the place which I have come to call home. I hope that others will like it and might think that Oxford is the place for them. I don’t think that there is such a thing as an ‘Oxford person’, other than having a proficiency and passion for an academic subject - and that is not something determined by a private education, or by the colour of your skin.

So to answer your question: what is the Oxford manner? I reckon it’s an idea rather than something which is concrete; it’s something which people act out or add to by talking or writing about it. It can be off-putting, it can be dangerous. I hope my few pages on the internet have made it less scary. I don’t think it’s a singular thing - every student at Oxford has their own Oxford manner - and like Buck Mulligan, I don’t think it’s everything.

Pictured: Me and a friend, at our graduation.

Remember when Sour Cream wanted a hug from his “dad” and got this instead?

And when he thought the most he was getting from his “stepdad” (always said in Sour Cream’s sneer voice) was a handshake and got the best hug.

And they never stopped hugging since.

All things considered, I’m really glad all my predictions came true for this episode, and it’s even better than I could have hoped for. You go, Yellowdad. 

Y’all realise that Alec hasn’t actually seen Magnus’ cats eyes in the show yet? Please tell me it’s on purpose. Please tell me that it’s a setup for a scene where Alec finally does see his cats eyes and Magnus is wary because it’s a pretty undeniable sign that he’s demonic and he’s always known the Nephilim to sneer at anything ‘unclean’ and he’s worried that it’ll remind Alec that they aren’t the same and Alec simply stares long and hard right into his soul before giving him the most reverent of kisses and it’s there that Magnus falls in love.

Please tell me it’s on purpose.


There’s something ironic, Lily thinks, about practicing Defense Against the Dark Arts side by side with the people she needs to defend herself against. She can feel Avery’s hot gaze on her back, can imagine his lips in a cold sneer as he waits for her to take her turn. It’s rather hard trying to think of a happy memory with a potential murderer breathing down her neck, but Lily tries anyway.

“Expecto Patronum!” A bright blue ball of light shoots from her wand, but it’s weak, not corporeal. Lily sighs, wiping sweat from her brow.

“Good, Miss Evans!” Professor Helene says, clapping her hands. “A patronus charm is exceptionally hard, and even some of the most skilled wizards can never produce a corporeal form. Don’t be discouraged - we still have an hour of class.” Lily isn’t discouraged, she’s simply frustrated. She knows that she probably won’t be able to produce a corporeal patronus, no matter the fact that she’s been trying and failing for the better part of a year, but she’d very much like to. If there’s one thing Lily Evans isn’t very good at, it’s soul searching, and what better way to know yourself than to have your spirit animal revealed to you? So, really, she’s just impatient. Which is nothing new.

Keep reading

He had his hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans and just watched her quietly as she unraveled before him.
“You hurt me,” she whispered accusingly.
He sighed. “I know.”
“You don’t trust anyone do you?”
He shook his head.
“Then why did you say you loved me?” Her voice was small, timid even, as if she were afraid of what his response would be.
“Because I did. Because I do.” He said forcibly.
His reply elicited a bitter laugh from her.
“Right.” she sneered, “That’s why you came into my life and left me behind in pieces.”
She felt tears in her eyes and blinked them away angrily. “Why’d you do it, huh? Why’d you treat me like I never mattered?”
He dragged his eyes away from the floor to look at her face.
“Because it’s easier to destroy something you love than it is to watch it leave.”
“I would have never left,” she said softly.
—  n.g // excerpt from a book i’ll never write #22