Why do people drink alcohol it tastes disgusting
you don’t drink it for the taste. u drink shit like apple juice for the taste. you drink alcohol to get rid of the bad taste that every awful person in your life has left
ok Charles bukowski
everyone watch this video of my dog gettin embarrassed that i caught him singin
- Satan: [appears]
- Satan: You can have anything you wan--
- Me: LANGUAGE.
- Satan: What?
- Me: GIVE ME EVERY LANGUAGE.
- Satan: What the--?
- Me: YOU SAID ANYTHING. GIVE ME EVERY LANGUAGE IN THE WORLD.
- Satan: Wouldn't you rather have love or money?
- Me: EVERY. LANGUAGE. MASTERY OF EVERY LANGUAGE. NOW.
This is for bootsnblossoms, another tumblr follow milestone fic giveaway winner! She asks for a fic where Stiles has the ability to read palms.
Possible triggers: gore/violence (nothing hardcore, i promise, just being careful), near death experience
When Stiles gets a glimpse at Derek’s hand, it’s totally by accident. He’s kind of sworn off the whole palm reading thing after the whole fiasco with his lit professor and the rigged exams, and even if he hadn’t, there’s a long list of people whose hands are off-limits to read; chief among those are the pack and his dad, and especially not Derek, for a myriad of reasons.
The whole palm-reading ability thing was not something that was ever on Stiles’ radar (or the D&D-style stat sheets he’d made up for everyone after the cave adventure of senior year). He can manipulate mountain ash, sure, and the occasional spell if it’s simple enough, but any trace of precognitive abilities? Nada. No reading tea leaves, no gazing into crystal balls, no divining star charts. He would have been happy with some basic mind control, but even that has so far showed no sign of manifesting itself in him. Instead, he gets the occasional glimpse at people’s palms and learns way more than he needs to know about strangers - that the waitress at his favorite pizza place has about six months to live, and the mail carrier’s ten days from meeting his soul mate - stuff that has absolutely no bearing on Stiles’ life and, honestly, is of no use to him whatsoever.
It’s not a precise art, either. Most of the time, all Stiles gets are feelings, some more specific than others. Take the waitress, for example - he knows she’s going to die, but he has no idea what from; could be a car crash, cancer - who knows? Certainly not him. But then sometimes the feels are crystal clear; the woman his mailman’s going to meet is named Jenna and she is almost certainly one of the buxom strippers at XXX Delite over on Congress Ave. He can’t dial in on the more foggy feelings; staring at someone’s hand for five minutes will reveal exactly as much as a split-second glance. He can’t choose what aspect of their lives he sees either; someone could ask him to tell them about their love life but all he might be able to see if that they’re going to lose several thousand dollars to gambling problems.
Who knows if he might have even discovered his talent - if anyone ever calls it a gift, Stiles will punch them in the throat; it’s an annoyance - if it hadn’t been for a girl he was seeing in college. She fancied herself a psychic and, well, to put it kindly, Stiles has seen enough real talent to know that this girl didn’t have a drop. Scott liked to call her Professor Trelawney. They’d been laying in bed one night in a sort of post-coital drunken haze, Stiles’ hand spread flat in hers while she giggled and tried to teach him about palm reading. He’d got a tenuous sort of grasp on it - heart line, fate line, whatever - when she’d pressed her hand into his and said, “Now try me.”
There’s nothing ethereal about the way it happens, no shiver up the spine, no cloud parting in revelation - he just knows, and in this case, like a punch to the gut, he knew she was cheating on him. When he matter-of-factly told her this, all her airy-fairy attitude disappeared with a snap and she’d clambered out of bed, waspishly informing him, “You’re boring,” before leaving. Stiles wasn’t all that bothered; he was too busy staring down at his hand and wondering what he was going to tell Scott.
Imagine having braces during the apocalypse. no one can take your braces off. And you just have to accept that you’ll have braces forever.
i want a novel focused around a character with braces during the apocalypse and the entire plot of the story revolves around their search for an orthodontist who is still alive and they sort of accidentally save the world in the process
Titled: Brace for It.
to all the young babies who follow me:
hello you precious angels listen to your wise old fandom grandma and don’t ask celebrities about your otp or fanfiction or fandom in general trust me babies when you are a few years older you will not regret heeding my words and will thank me for averting that massive amount of embarrassment