People have taken pictures of him before. It started when he was a hilariously ugly baby with two beautiful and talented parents and it didn’t stop until Samwell. (“Hi Jack Zimmermann, You’ve been selected for the Samwell Swallow’s 50 Most Beautiful. When would be a convenient time for us to photograph you? You may bring any props you wish.” Upon showing the email to Shitty: “Shitty, NO.” “But Jack…” “SHITTY NO.”)
He’s taken pictures of himself. The hardest assignment to fulfill for photography class was the self-portrait. Jack ended up photographing his reflection on the Plexiglass above the boards. He looked like a ghost.
As much as I roast the fuck out of this show. I’m absolutely heartbroken to see it end. To finally know whose been torturing these girls. To know everything. I have a very huge emotional connection to this show, I was a thirteen year old girl who was being bullied, struggled with self harm and depression. Pll was my escape. Pll was the one thing that I could look forward to each week. It helped me get through insufferable weeks. little thirteen year old me is wanting to hold onto the show that gave me a sense of comfort and strength. I’m not ready to let this show go.
“You are my dearest friend,
my deepest love, you are
the best of me.”
It’s somehow always been Archie.
Since they were kids, him watching Betty give her extra
stick of gum to his red-headed best friend, to the doting gaze she started to
develop well into their middle school and then high school years, Jughead had
seen the movies, heard the stories and yet, here he was, witnessing the sad and
pathetic view of unrequited love.
Betty loves Archie, Archie loves Veronica, and Veronica
loves anything with shine or sparkle. And Jughead? He loves food.
Food is simple. Uncomplicated.
You eat it, you feel good. Simple.
What’s not simple? The feeling arising in his stomach
after witnessing a teary-eyed Betty Cooper hiding behind the duper at Pop’s
one breezy evening in July.
She’s wearing a white summer dress and her lips look
darker today, like the cherries he loves to pluck off his milkshakes. But it’s
her eyes that make him pause; they’re vibrant blue, like the crashing waves he
feels rumbling around in his stomach right now.
Okay, sure. He likes Betty Cooper as well. But he knows
the chances of her returning his feelings are leveled with that of him becoming
a vegan. Slim to none.
Filling the prompts “reader is an intern for NME or Radio X/BBC Radio 1 (whatever floats your boat) and goes to an award show with her supervisor and is introduced to the band there. And Van kinda shows interest in her and she basically has to control her Fangirl side and act as normal as she possibly can.” and “Could you do one where he catches you singing or dancing to his songs?” and “Van dating someone who rarely sings/does anything remotely musical around him, and he finally hears them sing and realizes they’re actually?? really good?” and “reader is singing in a shower and van overhears then shouts "what is that song?? who sings it? sounds class” so reader is taken aback that he heard her but then imparts her musical knowledge on this lesser known band to him and then he compliments her voice. later she finds van humming or singing that same song"
Bonus mini-request for Van and Reader getting high and having a moment when they hear Mr Brightside.
The A5 notebook in your hand felt heavier than its pages of paper justified. It was weighed down with the embarrassment you felt when you realised there was no fucking need to bring a notebook to an awards show. Max had snorted when he saw you with it. “Going to school, Y/N?”
You frowned and suppressed the urge to explain yourself. As an intern, you were constantly learning important things. You could hardly keep track of everything you were meant to remember and wanted to remember. The habit of carrying around the notebook was formed because of that. As you left your place, you had not given a second thought to picking it up and carrying it out the door.
Trying to hide it behind your clutch, you awkwardly followed Max. The NME Awards were a big deal, and as you looked around the space and recognised many huge names, another urge was suppressed. You wanted to faint or cry or attach yourself to the legs of half the people in the room. Keep that shit on lockdown, you reminded yourself. The internship meant everything to you. Having a fangirl meltdown was probably not the best course of action if you wanted to keep the position.
In honor of Stranger Things’ one year anniversary, @elevenknope and I are proud to present the first chapter of Stax Attax, a slice-of-life series about everyone’s favorite fanon ‘siblings’, Steve and Max.
Max’s family moves to Hawkins from Indianapolis in June, amid her protests against ending up in a middle-of-nowhere dump where people probably marry their own cousins. She misses the anonymity of the city; slipping out of the family’s run-down apartment building and skateboarding down barely-used alleys and through abandoned parking lots. She feels like everyone in Hawkins knows about her and she’d rather not have anyone in her business.
She spends her first two weeks in the town alone, leaving her house early in the mornings with a messy peanut butter sandwich in her threadbare backpack and her skateboard slung under her arm. Quickly she finds that what Hawkins lacks in abandoned parking lots it more than makes up for in quiet, dense forest. It’s on one of her Saturday morning ventures that she stumbles upon a small boy in a strange fort in the woods.
He should have known since the beginning that Grayson would
find a new partner. He should have known it wouldn’t last. He should have known
that the great Richard Grayson wouldn’t settle for him, a ‘self-absorbed thirteen-year-old with raging hormones and all the
patience of a kid on Christmas morning’.
He should have known.
Stupid emotions, always getting in the way of things.
He would help Grayson find his lover, help him in every way
he could, and then he would leave. He would leave and he wouldn’t be missed,
not if Grayson was replacing him. He wouldn’t even be noticed. Damian couldn’t
go back to the Titans, not when they seemed to agree with the entire world on
Dick Grayson’s superiority. He couldn’t go back to the manor, not with Duke
there to make him feel even worse, and definitely not… not after Tim.
That was alright, though. He had always been a better solo
Maybe he was overthinking things. Find Grayson’s girlfriend,
defeat whatever psychopath had taken her. That was his main objective. Everything
else could be dealt with afterwards.
After he was forgotten.
The ride across miles of ocean was less than enjoyable.
Damian trusted Richard Grayson more than the man would ever understand, but after
their sparring on top of the Batmobile, it left him more confused and insecure
So Damian did what he always did when he felt threatened.
He put on a mask. He bottled it up, kept everything under
But as they’re entered the giant tomb, he couldn’t help the
thoughts from returning.
‘Is that what you think
I’m doing? Breeding baby Robins?!’
‘All I had to do was
look at your dad!’
‘And the one who I think suffers the most? You,
Damian. His one real son.’
And then that thing
had jumped out of the tomb, wearing Dick’s old uniform, bearing his voice, and
He had grabbed Damian, had thrown him into a coffin.
‘Which means sometimes,’
the faceless villain had said, in Dick’s voice. ‘You just want to hit him!’
Damian understood. He wanted to hit himself a lot too.
‘This is no time for
your hardheaded routine!’
Damian growled, trying to move his shoulder inside the
cramped area. No luck.
‘What hurt was when
Batman kicked me aside like a broken toy,’ Deathwing had shouted while
slicing Dick across the back. ‘When he
made room for you, Damian.’
If Deathwing really had Dick’s memories and feelings like he
had his suit and voice, then Dick really thought that. Really despised Damian
for taking his place, for taking the mantle.
But it was rightly his… wasn’t it?
And now he was here, in another coffin, old memories of pain
and Heretic resurfacing, new thoughts of his closet friend’s-his brother’s feelings cutting through him
like a knife. Damian closed his eyes for a brief moment, allowing himself a
second of respite.
It was cold in here. Cold, dark, and smelt of death.
Just like he had been.
Damian’s breath hitched, and he tried moving again.
But then Dick’s voice – Deathingwing’s- came through the
rock above him. “Remember when you were buried Robin? You should have stayed
there! This time I’m putting the final nail in the coffin!”
Damian growled, because that voice was too similar. Too real.
Too close to his Grayson’s voice and
And if Deathwing really had Dick’s memories, feelings,
thoughts, then he really thought that too.
Damian growled again, and pushed on the stone atop him. “Rragh!
No leverage. Nailed shut. Not enough distance. Fists too small.”
His groan escalated into a shout of anger. “Damn you, Grayson!
You insulted me, coddled me like a child, called me hardheaded, and now-,”
His eyes widened with realization. “Hardheaded.”
Above him, he could hear the fight between Nightwing and
Deathwing continue, but when he started slamming his forehead against that
rock, the ringing in his head was enough to drown the other noises out.
As soon as the stone cracked, he used all his strength to
push it off. Brushing some blood off his forehead, he scrambled upwards and
outwards, eyes searching. Finding the blue and black suited hero on the ground,
he shouted, “Nightwing! The fool may have nailed the lid down, but he
compromised its structural integrity!” he swayed just a bit as he rushed
towards his fallen brother. “The same thing cannot be said of my forehead.”
“Who?” was Dick’s muffled reply.
“It’s me you fool! Damian!”
he slid to a stop next to the man. “Where…where have you gone?”
“An ocean of worlds…” Dick murmured as Damian grasped his
suit, pulling him up so that he could shout in his face. His eyes were black,
and fear spiked in the boy’s heart. “No shore… No Shawn…”
“Remember who you are, you weak-willed sot! Remember me!”
Please. Please don’t forget me.
“I am Damian Wayne!” he said firmly, grip tightening. “I am
the Robin to your Batman!” We were the greatest
together, Grayson!” his confidence slipped slightly as the revelation the last
few days had given him. “We-we were.
But it’s different now. You’re…” he met Dick’s black, soulless eyes. “You’re
“Finding a new life.” Damian blinked. “Considering have a
child to replace me. I don’t know what I will be… alone.”
Forgotten. Unwanted. Replaceable.
“I need you here, Richard.” It was almost a plea for
something. Something that even Damian couldn’t put a finger on.
“Damian?” Dick blinked once, twice, and rubbed his head.
Damian chose to sit back from him, brushing away the emotions that had built up
in his throat. “Damian? Where? What happened?”
“Nothing.” The 13 year old replied curtly, looking away. “Nothing
happened. But this is insanity.”
He helped Dick to his feet, and together, they charged
And they took him down, no problem. They were a great team
But then Dick helped the new Robin, the one who looked like
Deathwing. He went off with the boy, left Damian in the corner, alone with his
A dangerous thing to do.
Damian turned away silently as Dick listened to “Robin’s”
tale. He couldn’t bring himself to look at the pair. He didn’t understand how
it could hurt so much. It was just Richard Grayson being Richard Grayson, the
caring fool that he was.
But who really was the fool, if Damian thought the great
Richard Grayson would continue to care for a brat like him?
He sighed, hand clenching for a moment before he hears
Grayson’s voice calling his name.
Deathwing’s voice too.
Remember when you were
Damian felt tears prick the edges of his eyes.
You should have stayed there!
He swallowed, eyes snapping shut as he tries to reel in his
emotions. Maybe he should have. Maybe he would have been better off.
Damian sniffed once, before wiping his eyes and standing
He would help Grayson find this Shawn girl.
And then he would be gone. Grayson would go off with her and
love her, like he did everyone, and their kid would he adorable, probably just
as loving and foolish as he was. The child would be a suitable heir, a kinder
heir, an heir that Grayson, that everyone could be proud of.
And Damian would fade away. He would be forgotten.
Thirteen was an ugly age for Caroline: braces, frizzy hair, her parents’ bitter divorce. But there was a part of her that knew she was destined for more, and she kept her hopes high. She probably shouldn’t have put them in writing, though…
She squeezed her knees tighter to her chest, digging her bright orange nails into the skin of her palms. Maybe it was babyish to hide in her parents’ closet, but she didn’t want to go outside. Instead, she cowered in the dark and recently half-emptied closet, waiting for her mother to track her down.
Damn those cop instincts.
The door slid open, and Liz poked her head inside. “Sweetie,” she said in that sternly sweet voice. “It’s time to say goodbye.”
“No.” Caroline hated the tears burning in her eyes; she wished she would never cry again. “I shouldn’t have to say goodbye because he shouldn’t be leaving.”
dear six year old self:
you are still able to walk up to someone on the playground and simply ask them if they want to be your friend.
use this while you can.
dear seven year old self:
friends you make writing historical fiction at the writing table are the kind of friends that last forever.
dear eight year old self:
don’t invite molly to your birthday party because 1) she will beat up chuck e cheese and it will not be fun for anyone and 2) the next time she acknowledges you will be with a small wave in the seventh grade
dear nine year old self:
you have a theory that as soon as your friends read twilight, they go join the girls who have already started puberty and stand in circles on the playground during recess and never talk to you again. i’m going to have to agree with you on that one.
dear ten year old self:
remember the razor sharp girl and the golden boy, remember the dances and the songs and the talent show skits.
six years from now they will be the two who embrace you at one am when you’re sobbing over how you can’t go back to a life without them.
dear eleven year old self:
you think that because you wear clothes from justice and have a dog shaped pencil sharpener, you finally have your life under control.
i wish i could have put all of the pieces together that you had no chance of understanding, i wish i could have helped you turn your pencil scribbles in that camouflage notebook into words and lines and art, i wish i could have stopped you from slapping yourself across the face for the first time
dear twelve year old self:
lose the bangs, lose the braces, lose the attitude.
dear thirteen year old self:
be wary of the things you trust and the people you believe, because you’ll learn soon that there’s all sorts of families that can betray you, all sorts of places false ideas can come from, all sorts off attitudes that turn people off
but most importantly don’t fall for the boy with the victim complex and lend a hand to the girls who slept in the corner of the room
dear fourteen year old self:
there is a paper cutter with a blade that can be popped out in the corner of your room and there is a history project that needs to be colored in with sharpies and there is sunlight coming in at five in the morning and there are posts showing you that taking a blade to your arm is the best way to fix your troubles and then there are lines crisscrossing against your thigh and your upper right arm.
this will be a year of crying in doctor’s offices, of calling people at eleven pm, of making bandages out of pads, of slipping under the water in your bathtub. the razor sharp girl will ask you what happened because something changed deep inside you and you’ll start to hyperventilate with fear of never stopping.
and the blood and the scars and the dull winter frost will dampen your heart, but they will never kill you.
dear fifteen year old self:
you will learn the truths of others while driving in circles in a rent-a-car and while lying on the golden boy’s chest and you will start to share your truths with others, and you will wonder why it ever had to be like this, snapping in and out of consciousness in the library and being pulled out of the blaring music of a semi formal in a cafeteria
you are changing, and sometimes changing means absolutely no change at all, it means sitting in your room and staring at the ceiling, waiting for something more
but just keep trying
because the something more is almost on its way
dear sixteen year old self:
i am scared because i think i have it all under control again.
i am scared that the familiar winter cold will come around and our color-coded schedules and spotify playlists and healthy eating habits will deteriorate back into blades and longing and dry skin and the inescapable sludge of time slowly passing.
but i pray, i plead that we will continue looking up at the stars, that we will find joy in small talk, that we will continue to find the joy in a table for one and a good book.
because we have pulled ourselves off the roof and out of that hammock and we have found people who cared.
and in finding others, i think i’ve found myself.
letters to my past selves (and one to my current self); 9.16.15
On one hand the new western death note movie is at the very least worth a second glance because you’ve got a black hooded L representing rational justice versus a bullied white boy Light thinking its his god given right to take violent action against those he deems have wronged him through his bullied white boy view of the world and both of these new character spins are representatives of issues more prominent in western society despite utilizing a Japanese story base. (not a lot of school massacres and racially charged shootings going down in japan.) But on the other hand judging by the shitty trailers I have zero (0) faith that those interpretations are going to be handled gracefully or even capitalized on much judging by the action movie-esque tone things seem to be taking.
Anyway. Imagine telling your thirteen year old self that Willem Dafoe is going to play the death god in your favorite edgy teen anime.
I paint my lips the color of cruelty,
swallow the petty words,
and choke on the bitterness they leave in my mouth.
I do not send you the message my thirteen year old self wants me to.
I do not look at old photos.
I do not recreate memories in my head.
I do not think of you at all.
Millie Bobby Brown is probably the most mature, kind-hearted, and genuine celebrity I’ve ever met and it’s incredible because she is so young. I mean, thirteen year-olds I know personally aren’t even this self aware.
I give mad props to her family for being so supportive in everything and continuing to raise her right. Especially her siblings being so dedicated to managing stuff like her social media accounts.
But also props to her for being brave enough to be herself and not care about other people’s opinions when her entire life is public.
“Me and you, what can we do? When the words we use sometimes are misconstrued. Well, I won’t guess what’s coming next. I can’t ever tell. You’re the deepest well I’ve ever fallen into.” - You and I by Jimmy Eat World
Once upon a time, you fell inlove with a boy. It changed you, distorted your life, turned you upside down. Just when you thought you’ve moved on, he came back into your life. Rebuilding the burnt bridge you did. But, as you may have noticed, everything has a side effect. An unwanted result leading to something you did. When you take medicines. When you eat too much sweets. When you stay up way too late. When you give someone you love a love letter and he ignores your confession, acting like he didn’t read it.
“Isn’t it amazing?!” Cassidy said, You were interrupted with what you were doing on your computer.
“What’s amazing? They’re raising our wages?” You jokingly asked.
“I wish they were, but no.”
“Then what’s amazing?”
“Our team building in a small island in the Philippines! I think it’s called Calaguas. It’s just a week but thank god we’re having this break from work!” She looked at you in disbelief. “Oh, god, don’t tell me you forgot?”
“I didn’t. Why would I?” But you did forget. Why wouldn’t you forget when Calum’s been affecting your memories.. your focus.. once again.
“Yeah… right… you know.. you’ve been out of focus lately…” She faced you.
“What? No, I’m not.” Liar, your conscience was against you.
“I mean.. even more.. since yesterday..actually.” She looked at her phone. “Well, I need to go, Ed needs my help on something. Byeee.” She waltzed her way out the room, as if she’s the luckiest girl ever born in this world. You really admire her for being optimistic despite the negativities happening in her world. Her fiance cheated on her with Amanda, her bestfriend. Their relationship became public a week ago. Whispers surround her wherever she goes. The world pitied her for she was someone who got dumped by her fiance because he cheated on her with her bestfriend, someone whom she knows for almost half of her life. If given a chance, Cassidy told you, she’d go back in time and tell her thirteen-year-old-self to don’t befriend that bitch.
If you think about it, everyone is their own protagonist in their made up world. And Cassidy is one hell of a badass protagonist. But you wondered how hurt she really is. How sleepless she is at night in order to block those unwanted memories of Cassidy and her fiance. You guessed that that’s the side effect of loving someone. But why do people still decide to love when they know what might happen? Why would people risk everything for someone who might, in the end, risk everything for someone else?
A knock interrupted your chain of thoughts. “Come in.”
“Hey.” Calum greeted you. “Jay wants these files.” He handed you a list.
“Thanks.” You said. “I’ll give it to Al.” You pretended to type something on your computer. “Is there something else you wanted to talk about?” You regretted what you said as soon as it left your mouth.
“Are you sure you want to ask that?” He rebutted.
“Excuse me?” You played dumb.
“Oh, nothing. Jay wants those files a week from now.. before the team building.”
You two were acting like strangers. As if you two didn’t laugh on how Mrs. Winterstein
said ‘adjacent’ in your Geometry class. As if you didn’t ask him what he wanted to take in college. As if he didn’t compliment the way you sing during choir practice. As if you two weren’t high school classmates. As if you weren’t friends. As if you two didn’t have a past. Another side effect, you thought.
“Well.. see you when uh.. see you when you want to be seen by me… I guess.. if that ever happen..”
It was something about the way he said those words that made you explode. “Listen, Calum.. what is wrong with you?!”
“What is wrong with you?” He sighed heavily. “You act as if we’re not friends.. you act like we don’t know each other! I don’t..I just don’t get you. We’re not in high school anymore. Just tell me what’s been bothering you. It’s been a year and a half since you started working here but all you do is ignore me.. avoid me.. try not to see me. I honestly don’t know what went wrong. You sto-”
“Hey, y/n, I’m baaa-” Cassidy felt the tension between you and Calum. “I’m back. Hi, Calum.” She sat on her chair, trying her hardest to pretend she didn’t know what was going on - or atleast had an idea what was going on.
“Hi.” Calum said. “I need to go back to my department now. Just give Jay the files and you’re all set.” He stormed out.
Cassidy looked at you and smiled weakly. She wanted to ask you things but seeing that you’re on the verge of crying, she gave you wise words instead. “It will hurt if you keep on suppressing yourself. Trust me on this.” She grabbed something in her bag and went to you. “Here, write those things that are bothering you.” She gave you a small notebook. “Don’t worry, it’s my extra notebook. Keep it. Journaling helped me get through it, I hope it will for you, too.”