#8 years old me is fuming all over again | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ronearoundblindly · 10 months ago

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Hideout (3.1)

touch-starved!Nomad Steve Rogers x motel employee!Reader

Sensitive Boy, part I (see previous or series)

Summary: Steve surprises you with help at the perfect time.

Warnings for light smut (I have to split this chapter or it's just suddenly twice as long as the last, but really there's just massage and an implied orgasm in this half. You know me: too many feels and too much development...) MINORS DNI. This series is 18+ only. If you are underage or simply enjoy lighter content, there is plenty for you to read on my Light Masterlist, but this post is not for you! WC 3.2k

With so much on your mind, scaring the crap out of you is not difficult, so his strong hands hold you upright.

“Don’t do that,” you shriek, barely glancing at Steve’s face. You startled so suddenly your housekeeping cart is left rolling away at a snail’s pace.

“Sorry, I—“ long arms abandon you and reach to stop the bin “—it said on your website you were closed for renovations, and…”

You look him up and down. You were sure after he left two months ago that you’d never see him again. You’d gone too far. You’d pushed him too hard. He wasn’t ready.

Steve adjusts the strap over his shoulder. “I thought maybe I could help out…if you want?”

The last guests checked out a half-hour ago, and you readied to spend the whole week meticulously refreshing each room with your parents. The list of what needs done, however, doesn’t only include the motel. There’s a bunch you all had let slide up at the house. Help would…be extremely helpful actually.

Steve pulls a paper bag out of his knapsack. “Or I brought you some lunch if you just want a break or something.”

“It’s okay,” you rush out. “More than okay. Thank you, yes. We’d love—I’d love that.”

No one else can know it’s him-him there though. You’ll have to think of a way to keep your parents and St-‘Grant’ as far apart as possible, and how long you can manage that is…questionable.

If Steve’s not worried though, you’re okay.

Turns out, keeping your family up at the house is easy. Your mom shouts down the phone with relief that she can tackle the fridge, and you hear your dad mumble something about ‘the garage in daylight.’ You can enjoy a sandwich in the office with Steve in peace, explaining what all needs done before the electricians show up Friday afternoon.

The closure hasn’t been planned for a long time—not even before Steve and ‘Tom’s’ last visit—hence why you just painted Room 8, 5, 2, and 1 since March, but doing all those is how you and your parents really noticed that the light fixtures from the ‘90s were not only dated but very worn and that the same color layered over and over again for twenty years was, well, getting old.

Warmer months are better for the work. Pipes won’t freeze while you air out paint fumes, etc. The week after the gigantic, city festivities of Independence Day is notoriously dead. Since there were no reservations this stretch as of April, the family jumped at the chance to fix it all in one big, daunting go.

Saying you’d looked forward to this is a wild overstatement. You’ll be glad when it’s finished, and that’s the bulk of your excitement.

With his assistance though? Hope soars.

Steve will help you take down the sconces, the hanging lamps, and the panels above the vanities, then you both can—

“Where’s the paint?”

He’s very intense with the gameplan. Three guesses why.

“Dad’s gonna pick it up today. Probably. I’ll text him.” You whip out your cell again. “We didn’t think we’d get that far by evening.”

Steve nods.

“We also need to move all the furniture away from the walls and drape plastic to protect the carpet. Oh, and put tape along the trim and doorframes, ya know.”

Steve nods again. He wads up the wrapping from his sandwich and casually asks, “are all the doors open?”

You only just get your finger in the air to point at the desk.

“Master key is—“

But Steve is observant and has clocked everything about his surroundings each time he’s stayed, apparently. He stretches over to the wall beyond the counter, snatches the (correct) unmarked key, and heads out the door.

The service bell rings gently to emphasize the conversation is over.

All furniture in every room is pulled away by the time you finish sanitizing the one guest room he interrupted.

He asks where you keep the ladder, not that he’ll need it, but you will for reaching some of the lights.

You don’t know whether to be in awe of or exhausted by his efficiency.

He’s rigid and militant—go figure—until these few moments he suddenly can’t be.

As you toss plastic over the last bed to move, Steve yanks that sucker across the floor so fast, you roll off. His eyes are saucers as he apologizes, but you get the giggles and pick yourself up.

His fingers can’t separate thin layers of the plastic at one point, and he throws a minor fit until three rip apart together. Steve frowns at you and grumbles that he’s only ever used cloth for this before. It seems to take everything in his power not to say “back in my day,” but you can read between the lines.

Years of crusted paint makes the removal of some fixtures tricky.

Steve rips out one stripped screw with needle nose pliers, squeaks in alarm at the hole left behind, and then quietly asks if you have patch paste.

You call your dad before he’s left to buy paint. He adds spackling to the list.

The closest Steve comes to telling you anything specifically about himself is when you struggle with a stuck bolt.

“Just a little trick I learned when I was—“ Steve wraps his big hand around yours to pull the wrench instead of push from the other direction “—smaller.” He huffs out a laugh, adding, “when I couldn’t, ya know, ‘put my weight into it’ because a feather could’a knocked me over.”

As you relish the simple contact of his fingers, you smile, too.

“Hmm. I heard you got into back alley scrapes.”

“If you heard that I won any of those, you were lied to.” He patiently waits for you to finish removing the bolt before he pries the aged metal and glass away from the old paint it’s stuck in. Steve sighs dramatically.

“Shoddy education these days…”

“I…” You tap his bicep with the claws of the wrench. “I can’t argue with that. We hear only what they tell us about…heroes.”

You should have known he’d shut down at that word, but it’s the truth. Even with him right in front of you, the only things you know about Steve Rogers are from books, newspapers, and the internet. At face value—looking directly into the face of this man—all of what you’ve been told is hogwash. It’s insufficient. It barely covers 1% of who this man is.

He teaches you tricks of the weak man’s trade because it helped him once, too. Today, he’s friendly. Not that he was unfriendly before, but Steve is so reserved he never reference the past, in general, i.e. that there was a past existence of like the planet much less him.

It’s the number one rule of Fight Club: you don’t talk about Fight Club.

If there was ever a real fight club, it’s the Avengers.

You have no official rules for what this is between you. You don’t have to to know that is the most important one. You do not talk about Fight Club. Steve isn’t afraid of silence, that much is clear, but he isn’t a fan. He tries—he is trying—to connect and relate. He can’t be a man of the people, however, if he can’t talk to the people.

It’s important: connection. You know with every fiber of your being that Steve deserves it, but even with unlimited, super-human strength, he cannot get himself out from between this rock and that hard place.

You do not talk about Fight Club, especially when you’ve been kicked out of Fight Club.

Today, though, he’s a little different, a little softer. Perhaps it’s knowing there are no other people in the building, perhaps he is truly more comfortable with you, but either way, Steve is not flat or off-putting.

His organized persona, his focus on the work, his indirect interactions and practical touch; they all fit here while he has a project. It’s the closest he can be to his old self, maybe even his real self, without mentioning the past—the fighting past—at all.

“You’re really good company,” you tell Steve, “even when you make holes in the walls.”

He tilts his head down and blushes. He shrugs as he takes the sconce out to the dumpster. Although he didn’t say it, you hope this is okay.

Either way, you relish it. The help. The touch. The silence. All of it.

You relish Steve.

Your dad brings by the paint, spackling, and a surprise of pizza for dinner while Steve is taping the baseboards in a corner. You introduce ‘Grant’ from afar and haul the cans and boxes from the car to the room, cataloguing all you two have finished to this point and what you’ll do before stopping for the night.

Dad is impressed. He’d suspected the three of you—you, he, and Mom, that is—might settle for slapping some paint up around where the electrician would install the new lights. No one planned on getting this far in one evening.

He won’t stand in the way of progress, so your dad simply calls out, “bit of an artist, are ya?”

Steve looks up, confident with only the side table lamps plugged in, he can barely be seen. “Just want to be useful,” he mutters.

You wink at your dad as he heads back to the still-running car. “Grant is a jack of all trades.”

You’re sure to thank him for the food and let him know all the motel stuff is completely covered for tomorrow, too. You’ll work as late as you can and start as early as possible.

Dad says your friend has gone ‘above and beyond.’ You agree wholeheartedly.

‘Grant’ would more aptly be described as a machine.

All the furniture moved, all the lights taken down, all bordering taped, and now all blemishes in the walls smoothed, your impromptu contractor finally calls it quits when he’s forced to watch stuff dry.

You’ve kept the air conditioning going in one room.

Steve tentatively asks if he should walk you up to the house, but you counter with “it’s not any less dangerous for an average guy alone to return” and a cheeky smirk. Besides, it is very late. You let Captain OCD keep going; you tapped out a while ago.

He puts his hands on his hips, arms akimbo, thinking of a comeback that never manifests. After giving up, Steve takes his tiny bag into the bathroom and brushes his teeth.

You can faintly hear it over the murmur of the TV.

You aren’t really watching. It’s background noise to your general exhaustion.

With only a side lamp and the screen as light, Steve’s bare feet crumple over the discarded plastic sheet on the floor. He falls into one side of the bed, fully-clothed and (finally) tired.

Though productive, the day has been a distant one, working in different rooms for most of it and tiptoeing around real conversation. You want him to feel appreciated, not pressured, so you ask if he’d like the TV on for a while or would rather quiet.

Steve just grunts with his eyes closed.

Gently, you place a hand on his chest to steady you, leaning to kiss his bearded cheek.

“Thank you, Steve,” you say softly. “Good night.”

He hums when you say his name, and before you can lift your hand away, he captures it under his, holding you in place.

His eyes aren’t open. He can’t see you smile wider.

“Okay.” You tuck yourself into his chest as he raises his other arm out of the way. “Okay.”

Your ear sits in the dip beneath his collarbone, listening to his steady heart, his thumb sweeping back and forth over you knuckles.

He smushes you closer to his side. You toss your leg over his.

You forget to turn off the TV.

He’s sanding the spackled spots by the time you wake, so you rub across his back and dismiss yourself to get breakfast up at the house.

Steve makes no effort to go with, which is fine. You assumed as much.

Your dad calls Grant a ‘magician’ over the pop of oil in the skillet and insists you give your friend whatever he needs to keep working so fast. You are only half-joking when you admit the key is staying out of his way.

Bonus: the exchange reinforces your parents simply leaving the two of you alone down the hill, and you proudly tell Steve that when delivering him an enormous plate of scrambled eggs.

He jumps right back into planning-mode and orders you to roll the first coat of paint onto large areas. He’ll follow, completing the edges and corners.

It’s such a domestic thing to do. There is no one in danger, there are no bodies piling up if he makes a wrong move, and he can go faster or take his sweet time. Steve breaks when he wants or needs to. He sits outside and listens to the birds in the sunshine. No one is around to question him, not even you. You are only there to encourage.

You realize he was looking for a project. He’s used to—and likes—being busy, getting his hands dirty, producing results.

It’s a long, messy day where he becomes more serene in spirit the more intensely he works. You reward him with gentle sweeps of your hand down his arms, pats on his shoulders, and brushes at the small of his back.

Despite the almost constant movement, the day is over before you know it, earlier than yesterday, but it’s too hot to go on.

All the windows stay open to air out the fumes.

Though it won’t stop you from sweating, you both shower off as many splatters and flecks of paint as you can. You insist he goes first so there’s plenty of hot water.

He’s sitting on the bed, shirtless, checking his phone when you come out of the bathroom, but he immediately squirrel the device away in his small bag. Not much to carry around. Not much to leave behind. Steve can’t leave a trace of himself anywhere.

Hunched over and fatigued, he flashes a polite smile your way and blinks heavily.

He deserves the world.

You grab the small bottle of lotion from the countertop and playfully jump onto the bed behind him.

“How about a massage, yeah? You much be aching.��

Honestly, you don’t mean for it to sound sexual, but the phrase comes out downright dirty, making Steve awkwardly chuckle.

“You don’t have to,” he placates.

“Nonsense, I want to. It’ll make the air feel cooler.” That’s as good of an excuse as any. Who cares when the rippled expanse of his back flexes wildly in your touch?

His breathes are audible from the beginning.

You dig at his traps, his leg bouncing as he tries to relax. You use your thumbs, the flats of your hands, and your knuckles.

He shoves his fist in his mouth when he starts to moan, covering the move with a cough, but muffling the noise is abandoned in favor of clasping over his lap. He’s intent on hiding his hardness this time. There’s nothing you can say to truly lessen the sting of needing more. You can’t simply tell him he’s allowed to desire this; you have to ignore his misplaced shame.

But you can take pity on him.

“If you lie flat—“ you step off the bed to give him privacy “—I’ll have more leverage.”

You hear him crawl and adjust on the sheets. “Unlike the torque on a wrench,” you add, just to show you’ve been listening to him.

More lotion is needed for the surface area.

You turn up the TV, feining interest in the late night show so any noise he makes is not as obvious. What the speakers can’t cover, however, is Steve’s involuntary thrusts when you rub the heels of you palms up and down the sides of his spine. If you prop up on your knees, he has more range of motion and doesn’t obviously rock you while mindlessly humping the bed.

His sweats are slung low on his hips, two darts of muscle prominent above his ass.

They are irresistible, the perfect grooves to target and roll into, and he immediately mewls long and deep into the mattress, fingers curling and relaxing while his body seizes.

He hasn’t even finished coming, you think, before he taps at your leg and races to the bathroom.

You hope you didn’t push too far. You hope he’d tell you to stop if he needs more space, more time. Mostly, you hope he knows you’d give him every conceivable pleasure, just because he is him.

The water runs a long time, continuous splashing in the sink, and then nothing.

He didn’t bring much because he doesn’t have much. Your heart sinks, realizing you’ve made him soil one of only two pairs of pants he has here.

He cracks open the door, muttering, but you can’t make out the words.

You turn the volume back down. “What?”

“It pretty hot.” He clears his throat. “Would you mind if I sleep…without…?”

“Naked?” you squeak before composing yourself. “That’s fine. Whatever’s comfortable.”

You shuffle up the bed to click off the lamps. This man isn’t the type to strut around in the nude—yet, anyway—so in the faint and ever-shifting glow of the screen across the room very little can be seen.

‘Little,’ however, can’t describe anything that is visible about the man emerging from the bathroom.

You have to make a point not to stare, but no skit or commercial on the channel promises the same level of entertainment.

Steve slides himself beneath the sheet, sitting near the headboard.

You hold up the remote. “On or off?”

“Off,” he says, “please.”

You’ve certainly done enough for one day. You won’t push your luck, so you hit the power button, toss it on table, and snuggle into your half of the bed, facing away.

“If it’s too hot for any covers, that’s okay, too.”

A rustling interrupts the rhythmic whir of crickets in the night until you feel a warm hand lightly mold to your waist.

This should be encouraged. This should be rewarded.

“Hey, Stevie,” you whisper, waiting for his hum, “happy belated birthday.”

At most you expect a grip of notice, but instead, the big hand snakes across you and hauls you into his chest, his long legs bending to match the crook of yours, his nose and forehead tucked against your occipital.

“We did okay today,” Steve mumbles into your shirt.

You walk your hand over your stomach to find his, lacing the fingers together. “Yes. Yes, we did.”

Steve got to be useful today. He had a partner today. He will tomorrow and the day after, for as long as he stays, for as long as you’re alive. Nothing can change that.

Maybe he can’t talk about Fight Club, but he connects with you anyway.

A/N: Whoopsy. Didn't want to make y'all wait for a 6k+ chapter, so here's the first half! I am DEEP in the feels of this one. So, so many notes have been taken. The brainrot is real, and I fucking love it!!!!

[Next: Sensitive Boy, part II]

[Main Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

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soobibabe · 7 months ago

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only you chapter two

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pairings: kang taehyun + reader

July 14th, 2022

Kang Taehyun: sucess ;)

You find yourself standing in the kitchen, staring blankly at the coffee machine. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee fills the room, but you can't bring yourself to pour a cup. Your thoughts are consumed by the implications of your engagement with Taehyun.

You still can't wrap your head around the fact that not only have you never been proposed to, nor been in love before (or so you tell yourself) yet you'll be married to someone you once resented in a matter of months.

With a heavy sigh, you reach for your phone, intending to distract yourself with emails and messages. But your fingers hesitate over the screen, a nagging feeling tugging at the back of your mind.

You need to speak with Taehyun, to clarify the terms of your arrangement and establish some semblance of control over the situation.

you: can we talk? Kang Taeyung: sure, when and where? you: preferably today, over dinner? Kang Taehyun: alright, I'll make the reservations for tonight

As you walk into the restaurant, you realize there's no one else here, other than the employees. Strange… This is the most popular restaurant in Seoul. Aside from the lack of customers, Taehyun isn't here either.

Ten minutes pass…

Thirty…

An hour.

He's still not here. Classic, how stupid of you to think he wouldn't pull stuff like this again.

"Y/n! You're her—" His hair is messy and eyes wide as though he ran a marathon to get here.

"Screw you, Kang Taehyun." You shove past his shoulder where he blocked you from the entrance, about to cross the street to get to your car.

"There's nothing you can say that's worth my time. As of right now, you've wasted far too much," you're fuming, so much so that you begin to walk onto the street without thinking.

Luckily for you, Taehyun grabs onto your waist and pulls you into him before you can make contact with any of the passing vehicles.

There's a pause between the two of you. Your bodies held together by his strong arms. His eyes piercing into yours like you're too fragile to let go of.

The moment startles you, pulling you out of your hate-fueled trance. "Y/n," he starts. You've never heard his voice so soft. "please, just listen to me" Unable to articulate yourself with words, you nod signifying that you're willing to hear him out. "Let me drive you home, I'll explain from there" you nod again, not quite sure of what to say. The ride is quiet for the most part. You message your staff to tell them the location of your car. Taehyun breaks the silence "I rented the restaurant to make you more comfortable since you said we needed to talk," oh. "I tried. I planned on getting here earlier but there was a department emergency, I couldn't leave" now you feel ashamed assuming the worst. like you always have. "I'm sorry, y/n".

"I understand, Taehyun. However, if you want this to work you need to be clear with me. If something came up, you should've called and said so" "I know that now, and I'm sorry." "Well, here's my place. I'll see you whenever, Taehyun" "Sorry again. We'll talk tomorrow?" "sure"

Later that night, you lie in bed, replaying the evening in your mind. Your thoughts are racing, trying to process what it is you're feeling. You think back to the restaurant, already growing overwhelmed by the mere thought of it.

You’d like to dismiss it all and say that you’re just being dramatic, but you can’t help but feel emotions that you thought were over by now.

Back in primary school, you worked hard to present as amicable as you could be. Reason being, you knew you were shunned behind your back by your classmates, particularly by girls.

You heard all the rumors they created about you. From "getting plastic surgery at 8 years old to look prettier" to "she thinks she’s better than everyone because she’s got daddy’s money." The same girls would say these things all while claiming to be best friends with you.

At some point, you’d given up trying and just let everyone believe what they wanted to. That’s when Sora entered your life. She was so nice to you.

So much so, that you gave her anything she would ask for. Even when you confessed to her your crush on Kang Taehyun, she started flirting with him.

You let it happen since she was your best friend after all.

Taehyun and you had a decent relationship then. You rarely spoke, but had most classes together. He walked you home every day, although you weren’t aware of it. After school, he’d walk far enough behind you to make sure that you got home safe without seeming overbearing.

You hardly spoke to guys anyway, so he didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.

During lunch one day, Sora decided to ask you your opinion on Taehyun again. Almost as though she had forgotten what you previously thought of him.

Not wanting to upset her, you lied straight through your teeth. “I think he’s a jerk. He’s arrogant and self-absorbed, I don’t see what you see in him anyway.” Sora smiled, seemingly pleased with your answer but her eyes weren’t on you.

They lingered on something behind you at the back of the classroom. You didn’t bother paying any mind to it.

Sora being here, listening to you was all that mattered.

After that day, Taehyun became totally distant from you. He no longer smiled at you in the hallway or greeted you good mornings like he usually did.

Instead, he ignored you. Acted like you weren’t there at all when you looked at him. Like you were invisible.

Since that day, Sora became closer to Taehyun than ever before.

Could it have been that she was feeding more rumors to him too?

No. Sora wouldn’t do that to you, she’s your friend.

Wasn’t she?

Whatever. You’ve been pondering on the past for too long. Before going to bed, you check your phone to see if Taehyun contacted you at all, which to your disappointment he hadn’t.

July 17th, 2022 "Chairman Kang, what a pleasant surprise!" Jeez this lying thing has become second nature to you. Why is he here...

There are lots of unexpected things that occur in your office. Like shareholder changes, emergency meetings... But this? this is new. Although, you should've seen this coming. Chairman Kang knows no boundaries after all.

"Clear your schedule next week. You and taehyun are to visit the Maldives for a few days~" "I'm sorry, WHAT?" "Well, my grandson and soon-to-be-in-law have to get closer somehow, right? This would be killing two birds with one stone. Taehyun only travels for work, he'll finally experience a non-business-based summer vacation" You can practically feel a vein on your forehead pulsing. He's out of his mind.

A/N: alot is happening... are you guys ready for whats next? hehehehehehehhee [evil laugh] ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝

#tomorrow x together #txt #taehyun #kang taehyun #only you #soobibabe #taehyun x reader #txt x reader #tommorow x together x reader

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whimsicallyenchantedrose · 24 days ago

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Christmas Reruns 2024–Day 3: A Christmas Miracle (3/3)

Merry Christmas if you celebrate it and happy holidays if you don’t! One of the things I love about Christmas is watching reruns of all the old classic Christmas movies–Christmas is a big time for nostalgia. A few years ago, I decided to incorporate that tradition into my fandom life and post my CS holiday reruns. So here you go! Enough holiday (mostly) fluff to get you to New Year’s Day. (With a new story posting on Christmas Day.)

Rating: G

Word Count: 2471

Other chapters: 1 2 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31

Notes: Here’s the conclusion of A Christmas Miracle. Once again, it was written in 2013 and fits within my A Wish Your Heart Makes universe.

“If you hadn’t cast the curse in the first place, dearie, Pan never would have had the opportunity to curse us the second time.” Mr. Gold hissed.

“Oh, that’s rich!” Regina said with a sneer, “considering it’s coming from the imp who provided me with the curse in the first place!”

Emma sat in her favorite booth at Granny’s and watched her adversarial family members face off. She was rather impressed. They’d remained civil for nearly two hours.

“Come on guys,” Mary Margaret said, walking up to Gold and Regina, her hand extended in a pacifying gesture, “let’s not argue. It’s Christmas!”

Regina turned on her. “Stay out of it, Snow. It’s all your fault anyway.”

“My fault?!” Mary Margaret yelled, her hands coming to rest on her hips.

“Don’t play stupid,” Regina sneered, “Or maybe you’re not playing.”

“Just a minute! You can’t talk to my wife that way!” David charged into the fight.

Regina rolled her eyes and turned back to Mary Margaret.

“Yes, Snow,” Regina continued, “if it wasn’t for your total inability to keep your mouth shut, we wouldn’t be where we’re at.”

“Where we’re at? Where we’re at?!” Mary Margaret fumed, “That's…that’s not even grammatically correct, let alone accurate!”

Emma rolled her eyes. They were arguing about grammar? It was definitely time to go get some air…before the magic started flying. She got to her feet, and wobbled for a second on her high heels. Why had she let Mary Margaret convince her to dress up? If she had to come to this party, couldn’t she have at least been comfortable?

Emma turned her back on the argument, on Neal and Henry talking in a booth on the other side of the diner, on Hook who had gone up to the bar for another drink. Pushing the door open, she stepped outside.

Hook looked up as he heard the bell over Granny’s door chime. He caught a glance of golden hair and a soft blue dress before the door closed behind Emma. The lass had been rather quiet since dinner; he wondered what was bothering her. It was obvious something was; something beyond the obvious awkwardness of this party.

The voices rose behind him, everyone trying to shout down the others. Something crashed against a far wall. He shook his head. Snow White really did see the world through rose-colored glasses. How on earth had she thought this group of people would have a good time together?

Hook took a final swig of the beer he was drinking, and then headed for the door. He had no wish to remain in what was turning into an all-out battlefield. Of course, the thought of spending some time alone with the lovely Emma, might have played a part in the decision as well.

Pushing the glass door open, Hook stepped outside. There she stood underneath the awning, shivering. Why hadn’t she grabbed her coat before she’d stepped out?

“It’s a bit cold to be standing outside love,” he commented, stepping up behind her.

“Yeah, well,” she answered, turning toward him, “it beats getting caught in the middle of World War III in there.”

He laughed and shrugged out of his coat. He draped it over her shoulders and was rewarded with one of her rare smiles. They stood there for a moment watching the snow gently fall through the dark, evening air. Hook caught strains of music coming from the convent; it seemed the nuns were ringing in Christmas with carols.

“Joy to the world the Lord is come…”

“It doesn’t look like Mary Margaret is going to be able to get in all the Christmas traditions she was hoping for,” Emma commented. “We didn’t get to the Christmas carol sing-a-long.”

“It’s a shame,” Hook commented, looking over at her, “that was the part I was particularly looking forward to.”

“Really?” she asked looking at him with skeptical eyes, “You want to sit around singing carols?”

“And why not,” he asked with a grin. “Some of the songs I have heard here in Storybrooke would be particularly appropriate to the evening at hand.”

“Such as?” she asked with a matching grin.

“When we finally kiss goodnight,” he sang in a soft baritone, “how I’ll hate going out in the storm, but if you really hold me tight, all the way home I’ll be warm.”

She rolled her eyes, but he saw the smile that draped her face. A moment later, she turned back toward the street with a dejected little sigh. They stood in silence for a minute. “…And heaven and nature sing. And heaven and nature sing. And heaven, and heaven and nature sing.”

“It’s really coming down,” she finally said looking up at the streetlight across from them.

“Aye,” he answered with a smile. “We’ll have a fine blanket come Christmas morning.”

“Great,” she said with a grimace. “Just what I wanted for Christmas.”

“Oh come on love,” he said, turning her back toward him. “Surely there was a time you liked snow.”

He expected a witty retort, but instead she dropped her eyes and turned back toward the street. “I do remember one day,” she finally responded. “I was about six. I’d been living with a foster family for almost three years. They were great; I really thought they would adopt me. One day, it was close to Christmas, I remember, my foster dad took my foster brother and me out to play in the snow. We made the biggest snowman I had ever seen. We made snow angels, had a snowball fight, the whole nine yards. Later, we went in and my foster mom had made us a big pot of hot chocolate.”

Emma fell silent, and Hook waited. He heard the pain in her voice and softly began rubbing her shoulder. She leaned into his touch. “…holy infant so tender and mild. Sleep in heavenly peace. Sleep in heavenly peace.”

“What then, love?” Hook asked after a moment. He wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the answer.

“The next morning, my foster dad disappeared,” she answered, and he saw the tears in her eyes. “They never found him; no one knows what happened. Well, my foster mom kinda fell apart. She couldn’t afford to take care of two children, so it was back into the system for me.”

Hook closed his eyes. It must have been devastating for a little girl to lose the only family she had ever known. Turning her once more to face him, he wrapped her in a hug. She resisted for a moment, and then he felt her arms wrap around him.

“I think it’s time we make a new memory surrounding snow,” Hook said after a moment. She pulled away from him and looked questioningly up into his face.

“Yeah?” she asked, “and what would that be?”

Hook grinned. “Well, love. I propose we go play in the snow tomorrow.”

“Play in the snow?” she asked with a raised eyebrow, “Really?”

“Aye, lass,” he smiled at her, “We can bring Henry.”

“And what exactly would we ‘play’ in the snow?”

“First,” he answered, with a wicked grin, “We make a devastatingly handsome snowman with a hook. Then we make a beautiful blonde snow maiden looking adoringly up at him.”

“Are you sure the blonde isn’t rolling her eyes at him?” Emma asked with a grin. “Sounds more true to life.”

Hook put his hand to his heart and staggered as though mortally injured. “You wound me, lass.”

“Hmm,” she said grinning, “that might play to your advantage.”

“Aye? And how is that?”

“Well,” she said with a grin, “if you’re injured you’ll need someone to take care of you.”

Was the lady actually flirting with him? His grin blossomed into a full blown smile. She smiled back for a moment and then turned back to the street. He heard a defeated sigh.

“What’s troubling you, love?” he asked. She didn’t answer for so long he thought she was deliberately ignoring him. The nuns started up a new carol. When blossoms flowered 'mid the snow…

Finally she turned back toward him. “It’s just…” she made a helpless little gesture with her hands. “I don’t know…Every single time it looks like things are starting to work out, like good is going to succeed, like the bad guys are going to get defeated, like we might get a bit of peace and happiness, something else happens. Someone casts a curse, or kidnaps a kid, or…”

“Or disappears sending you back into the system…or turns you in to the police for his crimes…or sends you off to another realm with no more protection than a seven-year-old lad so that you can come back and be the savior?”

“Yeah,” she said, and he saw the tears brimming in her eyes. One escaped and slid down her cheek. Raising his hand, he tenderly wiped it away.

“Emma, love,” he said, his voice going deep and gravelly, “I can’t promise you peace and happiness, but I can promise to always be beside you, helping you, protecting you and those you love. You need never fear I’ll abandon you.”

She whirled away from him and started pacing. The lass was seething. “Yeah?” she snarled at him. “I’ve heard that before. 'I love you, Emma.’ 'You’re like our own daughter, Emma.’ 'Let’s go to Tallahassee, Emma.’ 'We just wanted to give you your best chance, Emma.’ It’s crap! All of it!”

“You doubt me, lass? Even after Camelot?” he asked and was ashamed to hear the pain in his voice.

She stopped and looked back at him. The first Noel the angels did sing…

“No,” she finally answered, “the hell of it is that I don’t doubt you. You’ve proven again and again that you will do anything for me…even at your own expense. But Hook, you’re not indestructable. What if you disappear? Or are kidnapped? Or are killed?”

Hook’s heart swelled. That was real feeling in her voice. The lass was a lot further gone than she thought. He cupped her face with his good hand again.

“Love,” he answered meaning the word with all his heart, “as I said, I can’t promise you nothing terrible will happen, but for today, for this moment all is well. Perhaps, all one can do is create the good memories to be our solace in times of distress.”

She looked up at him for several moments and then slowly nodded, briskly swiping her hands across her damp cheeks.

“So about those snowmen…?” he asked playfully.

“Henry and I will be ready bright and early tomorrow morning,” She answered with a smile.

For the first time in nearly as long as she could remember, Emma felt hope. It was hope that she found shining out of Hook’s blue eyes as he smiled at her.

“I’ve got a gift for you, love,” Hook said, holding out a small, thin box.

“Oh,” Emma said ruefully, “Hook, I didn’t get you anything.”

He smiled gently. “It’s no matter, Emma. I have no need of gifts.” He held the box out to her again, and she reached for it automatically. Lifting the lid, she saw a silver necklace with an opal and silver swan pendant. Emma ran her finger over the jewel.

“It’s beautiful,” she said softly.

“Aye,” he answered looking at her. “It is beautiful, and strong and graceful. Much like you.”

She looked down and then met his eyes. “Is that really how you see me?”

“Aye, lass,” he said gently. “Indeed it is.”

Il est ne le divin enfant… It seemed the nuns had decided to venture into French carols.

“Thank you, Hook,” she said simply. “Well, I don’t hear any yelling, so that probably means they’ve either stopped fighting…or killed each other. Either way, I suppose we should go back in.”

“A moment more lass,” Hook said. That pirate grin of his was back.

“What?” she asked warily. She had come to know that tone in his voice, and it meant trouble.

“Well, love,” he said with a raise of his eyebrow, “I think it is only right that we follow holiday tradition.”

“Exactly what holiday tradition might that be?” she asked. He pointed to a spot over her head. She looked up and saw a sprig of mistletoe hanging right above the two of them.

“You’re terrible, you know that?” she asked with a smile and a slight shake of her head.

“Perhaps so,” he answered playfully, “but your mother has her heart set on her family following the traditions this year. What manner of a daughter would you be if you were to blatantly deny her greatest Christmas wish?”

Her breath caught and her heart began to pound. Well, why not?

“Well, in the spirit of Christmas tradition…” she said with a little wave of her hand.

He looked surprised for a moment, then the grin was back. She was determined she wouldn’t let his kiss affect her, she wouldn’t! Then his lips settled against hers and all rational thought fled. All that existed was this man and the sensations he aroused in her. Her arms wrapped around his neck. She tangled her fingers in his hair, pressing closer, closer. She could never be close enough. She blossomed for him like a flower in a spring rain. The kiss went on and on. It lasted forever; it ended far too soon.

Finally, with a groan, he pulled his lips from hers.

“Emma, love…” he breathed. She couldn’t say a word if her life were on the line. She was glad his arms were still around her because her legs felt like jelly. If he were to release her, she would melt into a puddle at his feet.

Hook took a deep breath and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, the charming rogue was back.

“Well, love,” he said gently rubbing her back. “I had it on good authority that the last time was a one-time thing. It seems I’ve just experienced a Christmas miracle!”

She rolled her eyes, but didn’t pull away. Though it scared her half to death, she couldn’t deny it any more. Being in his arms felt like…home.

“Well, don’t get too used to it buddy,” she said. Her voice didn’t sound convincing even to her.

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it, love,” he said with a raise of one eyebrow. “After all, I’d have to wait an entire year for another Christmas miracle.”

“Very true,” she said with a grin, “But there are a lot of holidays between now and then.”

He laughed. “I like the way you think, Emma. I like the way you think!”

NEXT CHAPTER->

#cs fanfiction #cs christmas reruns 2024 #my fanfiction #a christmas miracle

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ram-de · 1 year ago

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fuck it, ravensong rant

More like Thomas Benett hate but same thing

😭 I can't stop thinking about ravensong. And not in a good way. The more I thought the more stuff I didn't like about the book. Fuck me. Don't take this to heart, Gordo...

Ravensong: Gordo's Emotional Torture Pack

This is so messed up in a lot of ways. I fucking hate Thomas. I don't usually swear often I swear...

Gordo's father pushed the knowledge of magic upon an 8-years old kid arm by drilling tattoos all over his body. And who held it down while the kid is tattooed? His father, his pack's Alpha, and... I'm fuming... FUCKINGSHITASS THOMAS. I'll get to you later Thomas you prick. THIS IS CHILD ABUSE!!

His mother is telling her the truth when she said wolves lies, wolves would used him. In both instance during his time of Abel's and shitass Thomas' pack.

His dad cheated. He knows about it and he saw it.

He saw his mothers memories being manipulated, literally by magic.

Having to be a complicit in believing the crazy disease of his mother.

His mother turned to be a murderer because of, yes, his father is a power-crazed cheating scumbag who doesn't care for her or his son or the family.

His grandfather taught him fixing cars, and then somehow dies before they could hey awah from town.

Being put into the responsibility of the packs witch at the age of 12 just after he's turned into orphan. This is violating child labor laws... Fucking Abel I hope you rot in pieces.

Choices, choices, choices, all the choices that pushed into him. Once again wolves are liar about choices.

Abandoned by his pack. FUCKINGSHITASS THOMAS decided that he should leave the pack. Because others didn't trust humans. BUT DO YOU, THOMAS? DO YOU TRUST HIM? All of this without talking to Gordo first. Fuck him.

Being put into a /mate/ position and then ghosted for months. Having told to wait for YEARS! Barely contacted by the bennets and even more so Mark because what? And even after he said he regret it, I still can get around why can't he text? Send letters? Say hi? Fucking send pigeons??? Liars, Mark. Whether he intend it or not he still broke his promises to Gordo.

His father figure Marty died and. Fucking bennets don't even answer calls. HE IS GRIEVING AND WHERE IS HIS PACK? WHERE IS THE HOWLING SONG OF SORROW? FUCK YOU ALL. Rico Tanner Chris my loves...

The time the Bennets returned, they didn't even. APOLOGISE. NOT ELIZABETH. NOT MARK. AND OF COURSE NOT THOMAS. FUCKING COWARDS.

Having his tether being taken away by who? FUCKING BENNETS AGAIN. Thus basically dragging him into their whole business. THE AUDACITY TO ASK FOR GORDO'S HELP WHEN THEY. LEFT HIM. UGSHSHS

Thomas first contact with Gordo after leaving was to. Fucking threaten Gordo for a help. SLIME. SLIME. I don't care that he begged for it. He can't even. Fucking apologize.

Kept being pushed to "make talks" with Mark despite Gordo being the one wronged here. Everyone is complicit. Fucking Team Humans. Joe and Ox. Carter and Kelly. FUCKING ELIZABETH. Y'all have no rights.

Fucking Mark stalling his apologies and even when he touched a bit on why they left, it was when he's turned gonna be turned into omega💀 he's better tho because THOMAS?? Saying sorry after death over dreams like what was that

RELIVING HIS PAST AGAIN and seeing it unfold once again. fuck. tj klune....

HE HAVE TO LOST HIS ARM?? AND COPE WITH IT?? WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU TJ KLUNE

Ugh... UGH... I'M SO... I MISSED A LOT. I KNOW. UGH... I HATE IT HERE. I HATE THOMAS BENNETT. this book is just. Torture. For gordo. Am I babying gordo too much. Yes, and what about it???? THE BENNETS GOT AWAY WITH BEING EMOTIONALLY MANIPULATIVE AND I. I HATE IT HERE. UGHH.....

Ok I think I'm good now. Writing this was liberating.

LOVE SONG IS ABOUT ELIZABETH AND...

...

FUCKING SHITASS THOMAS? DO I SKIP

Are they gonna. Are they gonna redeem Thomas because I will SKIP.

then again Elizabeth... She's like... The queen. And also the mom to joe. And Carter and Kelly... I will read it for you queen...

#ravensong #ramblingrams #rant post #gordo livingstone #thomas bennett #Thomas Bennett HATE!!!

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demon----dean · 1 year ago

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Get to know me tag game

Guys, I was super busy all day, so I got tagged by several of you before I could answer. 😅 I really appreciate it @ineffable-snowman @briliantlymad @wibzenadarksiderwithasoftheart @ineffableobikin @somethingsteff @veloursdor @tideswept

Way to make a demon feel popular here. 🥰

3 ships: I am pretty much a monogamous Obikin shipper at the moment, but I also wrote a A.J (Takers)/Roman Sionis (Birds of Prey) a bit earlier this year.

first ever ship: Proper brainrot began with Sam/Dean from Supernatural

last song:

youtube

4. last movie: Fast X (queer-coded Jason Momoa, over the top car chases and action? Plot that looks like it was written by a five-year-old? Sign me up, baby!)

5. currently reading: Wild Space by Karen Miller again because apparently I like

As for fic -- I just finished Rebel with a Cause by toque and enjoyed it

6. currently watching: Ahsoka, also freshly done with The Foundation season 2

7. currently consuming: Ten in the evening coffee break. Had a really long day, and I am running on fumes tbh.

8. currently craving: More tattoos. I have had problems with the skin on my arms and therefore been waiting to get sleeves for years, finally at a point where it looks promising, IF I find someone who is willing to do it despite the scarring and find the money AND get time off work. 😅 Still optimistic, though.

tag 9 people you want to know better: Uhh, it seems most people have already participated and of course no pressure tags, but if you haven't done it yet, then I'd love to hear from @fleetstreetfatality @kingdomvel @howlbrooklyn @fishnamedsushi @sinfulskywalker

#tag game #sending you all a lot of love #about the author #music

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fidoughfaunus · 7 months ago

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So do you ever wake up and make questionable financial decisions?

Okay hear me out—

My grandma taught me to sew. We were poor so it was important we could do things like mend clothes and hem hand-me-downs. I’ve been hand stitching since I was 5 and using a sewing machine since I was 8. About a year ago, my sewing machine (from the 1960s) went through a move and I lost the power cord and foot pedal. I haven’t really seen since. It really was the first of my little old lady hobbies (sewing, crochet, gardening, cross stitch, etc.)

I had a dream about making some clothes last night, a cosplay and a ren faire costume. I woke up and just fumed that I couldn’t make it. And then I remembered I was looking for curtains yesterday and most nice ones were like $30+ a panel, and then I got mad about that all over again. So now, madder than a mosquito in a mannequin factory, I went to Klarna and bought a fucking sewing machine. Heavy duty one because I’m not fucking around.

Anyway I’m very excited and choose to believe my grandma came to me in my sleep and was like “aren’t you tired of shit being expensive? Don’t you wanna go feral and make shit that probably shouldn’t exist?” Because honestly that would be very on brand for her general vibe.

#rivkah irl

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whisperthatruns · 7 months ago

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Jail Poems

I am sitting in a cell with a view of evil parallels, Waiting thunder to splinter me into a thousand me's. It is not enough to be in one cage with one self; I want to sit opposite every prisoner in every hole. Doors roll and bang, every slam a finality, bang! The junkie disappeared into a red noise, stoning out his hell. The odored wino congratulates himself on not smoking, Fingerprints left lying on black inky gravestones, Noises of pain seeping through steel walls crashing Reach my own hurt. I become part of someone forever. Wild accents of criminals are sweeter to me than hum of cops, Busy battening down hatches of human souls; cargo Destined for ports of accusations, harbors of guilt. What do policemen eat, Socrates, still prisoner, old one?

Painter, paint me a crazy jail, mad water-color cells. Poet, how old is suffering? Write it in yellow lead. God, make me a sky on my glass ceiling. I need stars now, To lead through this atmosphere of shrieks and private hells, Entrances and exits, in . . . out . . . up . . . down, the civic seesaw. Here — me — now — always here somehow.

In a universe of cells—who is not in jail? Jailers. In a world of hospitals—who is not sick? Doctors. A golden sardine is swimming in my head. Oh we know some things, man, about some things Like jazz and jails and God. Saturday is a good day to go to jail.

Now they give a new form, quivering jelly-like, That proves any boy can be president of Muscatel. They are mad at him because he's one of Them. Gray-speckled unplanned nakedness; stinking Fingers grasping toilet bowl. Mr. America wants to bathe. Look! On the floor, lying across America's face— A real movie star featured in a million newsreels. What am I doing—feeling compassion? When he comes out of it, he will help kill me. He probably hates living.

Nuts, skin bolts, clanking in his stomach, scrambled. His society's gone to pieces in his belly, bloated. See the great American windmill, tilting at itself, Good solid stock, the kind that made America drunk. Success written all over his street-streaked ass. Successful-type success, forty home runs in one inning. Stop suffering, Jack, you can't fool us. We know. This is the greatest country in the world, ain't it? He didn't make it. Wino in Cell 3.

There have been too many years in this short span of mine. My soul demands a cave of its own, like the Jain god; Yet I must make it go on, hard like jazz, glowing In this dark plastic jungle, land of long night, chilled. My navel is a button to push when I want inside out. Am I not more than a mass of entrails and rough tissue? Must I break my bones? Drink my wine-diluted blood? Should I dredge old sadness from my chest? Not again, All those ancient balls of fire, hotly swallowed, let them lie. Let me spit breath mists of introspection, bits of me, So that when I am gone, I shall be in the air.

Someone whom I am is no one. Something I have done is nothing. Someplace I have been is nowhere. I am not me. What of the answers I must find questions for? All these strange streets I must find cities for, Thank God for beatniks.

All night the stink of rotting people, Fumes rising from pyres of live men, Fill my nose with gassy disgust, Drown my exposed eyes in tears.

Traveling God salesmen, bursting my ear drum With the dullest part of a good sexy book, Impatient for Monday and adding machines.

Yellow-eyed dogs whistling in evening.

The baby came to jail today.

One more day to hell, filled with floating glands.

The jail, a huge hollow metal cube Hanging from the moon by a silver chain. Someday Johnny Appleseed is going to chop it down.

Three long strings of light Braided into a ray.

I am apprehensive about my future; My past has turned its back on me.

Shadows I see, forming on the wall, Pictures of desires protected from my own eyes.

After spending all night constructing a dream, Morning came and blinded me with light. Now I seek among mountains of crushed eggshells For the God damned dream I never wanted.

Sitting here writing things on paper, Instead of sticking the pencil into the air.

The Battle of Monumental Failures raging, Both hoping for a good clean loss.

Now I see the night, silently overwhelming day.

Caught in imaginary webs of conscience, I weep over my acts, yet believe.

Cities should be built on one side of the street.

People who can't cast shadows Never die of freckles.

The end always comes last.

We sat at a corner table, Devouring each other word by word, Until nothing was left, repulsive skeletons.

I sit here writing, not daring to stop, For fear of seeing what's outside my head.

There, Jesus, didn't hurt a bit, did it?

I am afraid to follow my flesh over those narrow Wide hard soft female beds, but I do.

Link by link, we forged the chain. Then, discovering the end around our necks, We bugged out.

I have never seen a wild poetic loaf of bread, But if I did, I would eat it, crust and all.

From how many years away does a baby come?

Universality, duality, totality . . . .one.

The defective on the floor, mumbling, Was once a man who shouted across tables.

Come, help flatten a raindrop.

Written in San Francisco City Prison Cell 3, 1959

Bob Kaufman (1925--1986), Collected Poems of Bob Kaufman (City Lights Books, 2019)

#bob kaufman #jail poems #collected poems of bob kaufman #poetry #incarceration for ts

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morbidmemories · 1 year ago

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Tyler Hadley

At 1:15 p.m. on July 16, 2011, Tyler Hadley, a 17-year-old living in Port St. Lucie, Florida, posted a status on Facebook: “party at my crib tonight…maybe.”

There was only one problem. Hadley’s parents were home. And since they’d recently grounded Hadley for drinking and drug use, they weren’t about to let their teenage son throw a party. Some friends knew this and were incredulous. When one asked if it was really happening, Hadley wrote back, “dk man im workin on it.”

But by 8:15 p.m., the party was on. Tyler posted again on his wall to confirm: “party at my house hmu.” When one of his friends asked, “what if your parents come home?” Hadley responded, “they won’t. trust me.”

That’s because Hadley had just murdered both his parents. When he posted on Facebook, their bodies were barely cold. And the high schooler wanted to throw a party at the crime scene.

Before inviting 60 people to his house for a party, Tyler Hadley calmly killed both his parents.

Blake and Mary-Jo Hadley had worried about their son for years. They’d taken Tyler to a psychiatrist and turned to a substance abuse program for help. Nothing worked. So when Tyler drove home drunk one night, Mary-Jo took away his car and phone as punishment.

Tyler fumed. He told his best friend Michael Mandell that he wanted to kill his mom. Mandell brushed off the statement as something an angry teenager would say. He never thought Tyler would go through with it.

But on July 16, Tyler made a plan. First, he took his parents’ phones. That way, they couldn’t call for help. Then he took some ecstasy around 5 p.m. Tyler worried he couldn’t go through with his plan sober.

Hadley found a hammer in the garage. While Mary-Jo sat at the computer, Tyler stared at the back of her head for five minutes. Then, he swung the hammer.

Mary-Jo turned and screamed, “Why?”

Blake, hearing the screams, ran into the room. Blake echoed his wife’s question. Tyler shouted back, “Why the fuck not?” Then Tyler beat his father to death.

After killing his parents, Tyler Hadley dragged their bodies into their bedroom. He cleaned up the crime scene, tossing bloody towels and Clorox wipes onto the bed. Finally, he invited his friends over for a party.

Tyler Hadley put out the call to come party shortly after he’d cleaned up the crime scene — right around sunset. By midnight, more than 60 people had shown up to Tyler Hadley’s house. None of them knew that the dead bodies of Hadley’s parents were in the other room.

High schoolers played beer pong in the kitchen, rubbed cigarettes into the walls, and urinated on the neighbor’s lawn.

At first, Hadley tried to stop the teens from smoking inside, but eventually, he relented. As he explained, his parents were in Orlando. Then Hadley changed his story about his parents. “They don’t live here,” he told a partygoer. “This is my house.”

Later in the night, Hadley pulled aside his best friend, Michael Mandell. “Mike, I killed my parents,” Hadley said. In disbelief, Mandell responded, “No you didn’t, Tyler. Shut up. What are you talking about?”

Hadley insisted they were dead. “Look at the driveway,” he told Mandell, “all the cars are there. My parents aren’t in Orlando. I killed my parents.”

Mandell thought it must be a prank. Then Hadley led his friend to the bedroom where he’d stashed the bodies.

“The party’s going on over here, and I turn the doorknob,” Mandell remembers. “I looked down, and I [saw] his father’s leg against the door.” Mandell suddenly realized his friend was telling the truth.

Mandell didn’t leave the party right away. In shock, he took a selfie with Hadley, figuring it would be the last time he would see his friend.

Then, Mandell left the party and called Crime Stoppers to report the murders.Michael Mandell left an anonymous tip with Crime Stoppers at 4:24 a.m. on July 17, 2011. He said that Tyler Hadley had murdered both his parents using a hammer.

Police rushed to the Hadley house. When they arrived, the party was still going on, and Hadley claimed his parents were out of town and refused to let police in the house. But they made an emergency entrance despite Hadley’s protests.

“Tyler appeared nervous, frantic, and very talkative while speaking to the officers,” according to the arrest affidavit.

The police found beer bottles all over the house. Unrolled cigars littered the floor, and the furniture had been tossed around. They also found dried blood on the walls.

When police forced open the bedroom door, they found dining chairs and a coffee table tossed on the bed. Under the furniture, they discovered the body of Blake Hadley. Nearby, they found Mary-Jo’s body.

Police arrested Tyler Hadley for murder. Three years later, a court sentenced Hadley to life in prison.

If the police hadn’t shown up, Hadley had considered taking his life. He had a stash of Percocet pills hidden in his room.

But for the time being, whether it was the ecstasy, the party, or the murder, he was feeling good. He even posted one last time on his wall at 4:40 a.m., right as police were on their way to his house: “party at my house again hmu.”

Credits: https://allthatsinteresting.com/tyler-hadley

#tcc #true crime #crime #murder #education #society #morbid #news #scary #homicide #death mention tw

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yes-i-have-thoughts · 2 years ago

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Rebel Rebel, What’s Your Gain

CW for not-great parenting, /a2t otherwise in case I missed something

“Adam, you listen to me, or so help me god I’ll send you to your room and Evelin can go right home!”

Adam rolled his eyes in response. Evelin giggled nervously and pulled her hoodie sleeves over her hands to playfully swat at him. Dave shook his head. This “day out” was taking longer than expected.

The original plan was that Dave just dropped Adam off after an after-school thing. Yet Evelin had turned on her charm and sweet-talked him into letting her hang out for a little while, despite the fact that they had other arrangements later. The agreement had been fifteen minutes; which turned into thirty, which turned into an hour. They were going to be late at this point.

Evelin burst out laughing, getting a rare smile from Adam. That alone was enough to convince Dave that rescheduling the next thing for later wouldn’t be the end of the world.

“That boy is going to be the end of me,” Mary fumed, walking over to stand next to Dave. “I swear he never listens. It’s like living with a rebellious 17-year-old. The boy is 13 and he never does a damn thing I tell him to!”

“He can hear you,” Dave whispered to her.

“I don’t care. I’ve just about had it with him, David, I swear.”

The worn-out woman made her way over to the kitchen table and wearily sat down in it, resting her chin in her hand as if she could barely keep her head up. Dave awkwardly stood beside her as she heaved a long-suffering sigh.

After a moment, he cleared his throat. “If you’re having so much trouble with him, why don’t you tell the system?”

“What’re they gonna do?” Mary dropped her hand to look up at him. “The boy changed housing every three years for most of his life. The least I can do is keep him until he ages out.”

“But if you drive each other crazy–”

“I don’t drive him crazy. He drives me crazy. I swear he’s trying to send me to an early grave.”

Dave thought back over the times Adam constantly told Evelin about the many times Mary drove him up the wall, but kept quiet. That was likely a conversation meant for the two of them. Adam needed no help speaking for himself.

“Did you know he’s started skipping classes?” Mary spoke again. “He’s started hanging out with teenagers. Teenagers! Who knows what they’ve gotten him involved into. And if I try to get him to talk to me about it, he just tells me to fuck off!”

“Well, do you ask him or force him to talk?”

Mary’s dark look told Dave the answer was the latter. “Don’t get cute with me, Lee. The boy’s got a rebellious streak a mile wide. You don’t ask him, you tell him.”

“Eve tells me what I need to know,” Dave said with an innocent shrug. “And I give her space in return. It works out.”

“I wish I’d had the girl placed with me.” Mary dropped her head onto her now folded arms. “She sounds so much easier to deal with.”

“She’s ‘easier to deal with’ because she has room to place her own boundaries, Mary. What boundaries does Adam have?”

“Go to bed at 9. Supper’s at 6 whether he’s here or not. No games after 8 PM–”

“Those are rules. Not boundaries.”

“Okay.” Mary sat back and crossed her arms, pinning Dave down with her hazel eyes. “What boundaries does Eve have, then?”

Dave sensed he had crossed a line and wanted to drop it. Mary’s expectant look demanded otherwise. “I can’t go into her room without knocking first, um…Her phone is her business, and she has five minutes of leeway regarding being out past curfew.”

“Does she have a lock on her door?”

“We’re saving up for one.”

Mary’s hazel eyes turned tired. “I’m trying,” she whispered. “I’ve done my best with Adam. I’m sorry it’s not enough for you.”

“I didn’t say–”

“You don’t have to.” She dropped her head again. “Your tone of voice says it all.”

Dave figured the conversation was over with that. After mulling over an apology, he gave up and walked out of the kitchen.

The two pre-teens weren’t in the living room anymore. A door slamming upstairs told him where at least one of them was. Evelin knew she wasn’t allowed into Adam’s room–one of Mary’s house rules–so either they got into a fight and Adam kicked her out or Adam bailed and she was somewhere else.

Dave made his way up the carpet-covered stairs. None of the doors were clearly marked as to whose room was who’s, though music loudly blaring from the room farthest from the stairs gave away which one was Adam’s.

The music was paused when Dave knocked on the door. When nothing else happened, he took it as an invitation to come in and opened it.

Adam’s room was, as assumed, a mess. A (thankfully empty) hamper was tipped over, books and CD cases were piled on top of almost everything and a black desk had been haphazardly cleared away to rest a fairly new laptop. A black dog plush poked its head out from a half-open closet and a dresser drawer was left open due to being overstuffed with a variety of shirts. Sitting on the other side of the bed with his back to him was Adam.

Dave stepped over a black school bag and tried not to think too hard about the amount of socks sitting in the corner. Adam didn’t respond to his whispered “hey”, so he leaned against the bed; careful not to intrude on his space too much. “We’re–”

“Heading home,” Adam cut him off. “I figured. Eve’s already in the car.”

Dave nodded slightly. “You heard all that, hm.”

“Of course I did. I can hear everything in this fuckin’ house.”

The hard edge to his voice backed up the claim that he’d been listening since the beginning. Dave winced.

“Do you…Want to get out? Even just for a night? I’m okay with you sleeping over. It’s a school night, yes, but you and Evelin go to the same school anyway.”

Adam didn’t respond. Dave sat on the bed and looked around. After about a minute, Adam made his way over to sit next to him.

The two sat in silence for a moment, Dave waiting until he was comfortable and clawing for a way to break the ice. He gestured at one of the horror movie posters. “Mary let you see Rocky Horror?”

“God no.” Adam’s laugh was weak. “She’d throw a fit if she knew I had seen it. She thinks I’m not old enough.”

13 was a little young to be seeing a play like that in Dave’s opinion, but now wasn’t the time to be a parent. “Who’d you see it with?”

“Pirated a movie copy.” Adam stretched casually, though his usual spunky pride was starting to show through again. “The last house I was placed in, the dad really loved the movie and promised that we’d watch it one day, when I was old enough. Obviously since I’m here now, that won’t happen. So I just pirated it instead. 13’s old enough to watch it, right?”

Dave shrugged idly. “I dunno. I’d say it’s a little young, but then again I saw it when it came out and I don’t think I was much older than you.”

“Hell yeah.”

Dave ruffled Adam’s hair. The blond leaned away from him, but his little smile gave away his real feeling about it.

“C’mon.” Dave stood up off the bed and put a hand on Adam’s shoulder. “Get your stuff together. I’ll tell Mary you’re sleeping over tonight.”

“Can I sleep over two nights?”

“I’d love to say yes, bud.” Dave shook his head. “But that’s not up to me.”

#FAITH AU #Dave Lee #Adam Murray #Evelin Miller #TMC #the mandela catalogue #El writes

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manwalksintobar · 4 months ago

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Jail Poems // Bob Kaufman

All night the stink of rotting people, Fumes rising from pyres of live men, Fill my nose with gassy disgust, Drown my exposed eyes in tears.

Traveling God salesmen, bursting my ear drum With the dullest part of a good sexy book, Impatient for Monday and adding machines.

Yellow-eyed dogs whistling in evening.

The baby came to jail today.

One more day to hell, filled with floating glands.

The jail, a huge hollow metal cube Hanging from the moon by a silver chain. Someday Johnny Appleseed is going to chop it down.

Three long strings of light Braided into a ray.

I am apprehensive about my future; My past has turned its back on me.

Shadows I see, forming on the wall, Pictures of desires protected from my own eyes.

After spending all night constructing a dream, Morning came and blinded me with light. Now I seek among mountains of crushed eggshells For the God damned dream I never wanted.

Sitting here writing things on paper, Instead of sticking the pencil into the air.

The Battle of Monumental Failures raging, Both hoping for a good clean loss.

Now I see the night, silently overwhelming day.

Caught in imaginary webs of conscience, I weep over my acts, yet believe.

Cities should be built on one side of the street.

People who can't cast shadows Never die of freckles.

The end always comes last.

We sat at a corner table, Devouring each other word by word, Until nothing was left, repulsive skeletons.

I sit here writing, not daring to stop, For fear of seeing what's outside my head.

There, Jesus, didn't hurt a bit, did it?

I am afraid to follow my flesh over those narrow Wide hard soft female beds, but I do.

Link by link, we forged the chain. Then, discovering the end around our necks, We bugged out.

I have never seen a wild poetic loaf of bread, But if I did, I would eat it, crust and all.

From how many years away does a baby come?

Universality, duality, totality . . . .one.

The defective on the floor, mumbling, Was once a man who shouted across tables.

Come, help flatten a raindrop.

Written in San Francisco City Prison Cell 3, 1959

#poetry #Bob Kaufman

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paulisded · 2 years ago

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The Ledge #568: New Releases (Pt. 2)

After last week's special Record Store Day edition of the monthly "new release" show, we're back this week with the more traditional type of broadcast devoted to brand new tunes. And, like usual, we're all over the place when it comes to genres. There's some great power pop. There's a little bit of punk. A tad here and there of garage rock. And, yes, there's some Americana.

But it's not just the varied genres of the show. It's the fact that this music comes from all over the world. From Australia to Germany to Canada to even my little city of Sioux Falls, SD. Yes, the first set of the show is devoted to a trio of great local bands - The Rose Quarter, Thought Patrol, and Off Contact - all of whom have wonderful records that are eithier already out or about to be released.

As for the "52 Weeks of Teenage Kicks", I have a cover that's almost 40 years old but is still technically a new release. The version by Dawn Chorus & The Blue Tits initially came out on Stiff Records in 1985, but it has also now been included in a brand new collection of female power pop. She's Got The Power! Female Power Pop, Punk & Garage not only includes this track but tunes by Blondie, The Dollyrots, Baby Shakes, Amy Rigby, Lydia Loveless, Shonen Knife, and many more!

And, of course, I have to once again beg y'all for brand new covers of this classic tune. Please, please, please, if you have the capabilities, or know any artists that would be perfect to remake "Teenage Kicks", send them my way! Next week, I will be world premiering a brand new submissions that I'm sure you're all going to love!

CLICK HERE TO DOWNLOAD THE SHOW!

1. Dawn Chorus & The Blue Tits - Teenage Kicks

2. The Rose Quarter - Juvenilia

3. Thought Patrol - Coyote Fever

4. Off Contact - Someday

5. Tony Valentino - Try It

6. The Walk Offs - Guilty

7. Country Westerns - Knucklen

8. The Blue Aeroplanes - Bulletproof Coffee & A Snake-Oil Shot

9. Paint Fumes - Fascinating

10. Paint Fumes - Missed a Step

11. Crocodiles - Love Beyond The Grave

12. Crocodiles - Rock 'n' Roll Graveyard

13. Richie Ramone - Live To Tell

14. Glen Matlock - Head On A Stick

15. The Damned - You're Gonna Realise

16. Mudhoney - Little Dogs

17. Steve Adamyk Band - Do You Wanna Know (The Kids)

18. Steve Adamyk Band - Slip Away (Sedatives)

19. Bill Bones - River Rats

20. The Meffs - Dead In The City

21. The Hi-End - I Need A Witness

22. The Master Plan - BBQ

23. Carissa Johnson - Something Good

24. Mozzy Dee - Love Loves To Hurt Me

25. The Black Delta Movement - Fourth Pass Over The Graveyard

26. Dick Stusso - Part-Time Apocalypse

27. SEX MEX - The Mall

28. The Bloodstrings - Heartache Radio

29. Teenage Bottlerocket - So Dumb

30. Friends of Cesar Romero - Gameboy America

31. Killer Kin - On the Chain

32. Pardoner - Are You Free Tonight?

33. The On and Ons - Let Ya Hair Down!

34. Ryan Hamilton - Haunted by the Holy Ghost

35. The Apers - Dudes In The Band

36. The Darts - Shit Show

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ashdreams2023 · 2 years ago

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Stupid smile

Summary: as the years pass your love for severus never changes and only blooms beautifully with each passing day

Severus snape x reader

Tagging: @crimson25 @santa-carla-boardwalk-1987

Severus knew you were trouble the second you opened your mouth in his third year attending hogwarts.

"What?" He glared or tried to, his features were still a little too soft to look intimidating at the time and for his defense many students harassed him as it is.

"Calm down snakling I don’t bite, unless you want me too" you gave a stupid smile, a smile he didn’t know he’ll eventually grow some sort of adoration towards.

Severus likes to think you forced your friendship upon him but the team projects and pulling each other from dumb situations because both had a wicked tongue and didn’t know when to shut up at times, did not help his case at all.

"Sev I think I’m gonna die" you leaned dramatically against him, he sighed and kept reading over his notes.

"You’re so boring! Come on, all you do is study or hang out with your little gang" you huffed, raising an brow in a manner similar to the way he looks at you when he’s suspicious you’re up to no good.

"Get new friends then" he replied but quickly regretted it when you gave him that smile again, that stupid smile "what is wrong you?!"

You leaned forward pushing his notebook down, your noses almost touching "you called me your friend!"

Oh how severus wished he could hate you.

"Whatever…."

Your little friendship had become one of the things that kept him sane for long but that didn’t change the path he took, especially after everyone started pulling you away after what he called lily.

After the second war, and when he started teaching again he met you again, you’ve spent some time studying outside the country to be a healer.

Upon seeing that smile again he felt like a teenager again, too young to be a man but too old to be a child.

"I would call you snakling but you’re an old man now, also I’ve heard they call you dungeon bat now" severus couldn’t help but snort at that, he sure missed you.

"I fear for my life if you’re the new nurse around"

You rolled your eyes playfully, placing your hands on each side of your hips you said "for your information, many wizards and witches were fans of my wand work"

"You failed potions three times" he smirked.

You patted your eyelashes at him "but thanks to your helpful ass I passed at the fourth try" severus sighed again but found himself getting a little warm in the face when you went in for a hug, which he gave back awkwardly. He’s always been awkward when it came to physical affection but oddly enough he craved more of where that came from.

It didn’t take long before the other staff members noticed the way he acted around him and how you much like your school days weren’t afraid to spit out some remark that never fails to get a reaction from him.

"It appears like he inhaled fumes-"

"Not to interrupt your professional diagnosis but I can see that by the way he’s coughing!"

"Just hurry!"

Severus doesn’t exactly know when he was confident about feelings about you, he just knew he was comfortable, comfortable enough to express himself openly to you.

It was Christmas when he had asked you out, after a rough night of giving stomachache potion to most of the students who over did with the sweets and helping you clean the hospital wing when poppy went to rest.

"Took you long enough, I thought I’ll have to be Slytherin’s personal nurse before that ever happens"

"I-….So dinner?"

"Pick me at 8 dungeon bat" then you kissed his cheek.

Being in love with you was an experience, both filling and keeping him on his toes most days.

Even when potter came and things just started happening each year by by the end of it and nearing the start of the second war, he decided to do something he would rather do now unless he wants to regret not doing it the rest of his life.

On the night after the first meeting with the death eaters, he took you to his home and told you everything that had been running in his mind before finally going on one knee.

"Will you marry me?"

"I’m a dumbass but I’ll be crazy if I said no to you"

Severus rose to his feet and pulled you into a deep kiss.

"You just made me the happiest man alive"

You were the only reason he kept on fighting, the only reason he put a stopper to his own death.

"You know, I think a snake tattoo would look cool over that scar" that was the first you said to him after waking up in the hospital.

He was glad he lived.

After everything he got married to you, his coworkers and old teachers all came, along with some of his students and not just the Slytherins.

And even after many years he looks at the wedding picture sitting beside an older picture of both of you in school uniforms, with that same stupid smile of yours.

"Come on old man it’s not time for your nap"

"Will you ever give me a break?"

"Severus I love you but we both know your life would be boring without me" you smiled.

He smiled back.

He felt complete.

#imagine #severus snape x y/n #severus x reader #pro severus snape #severus snape fanfiction #severus snape x reader #severus snape #fanfic #harry potter fandoms #harry potter fandom #harry potter requests #professor severus snape

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whimsicallyenchantedrose · 1 year ago

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Christmas Reruns 2023 Day 3: A Christmas Miracle (3/3)

Rating: G

Word Count: 2446

Other chapters: 1 2 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32