#vignette?

[confusedreety]

yes hello enjoy this nasty lil snippet

also, tagging @gelertassassin

One breath, two breath...

The hunt isn’t going as planned.

Three breath...four...

Rundola clenches his fists, nails digging into his palms, and tries to keep breathing. But it’s difficult. His ribs protest with each inhalation, and the putrid air burns his lungs. He prays they haven’t been punctured.

Five...

Heavy footsteps echo down the cavernous tunnel, each step sounding closer than the last. The mildewy wall feels cold against Rundola’s back.

...Six...

A monstrous shadow looms from around the corner. The grotesque head of the beast follows, jack-knife teeth glistening in the sickly light. It’s eyes turn on him, and breathing no longer matters.

[grimlock]

got complimented on my perspective drawings in art class lads

[the-scrawlerly-writer]

Lunch--A Vignette

You sat next to her during lunch for years, memorizing her lunches as the years went by. The only constant as time passed, sitting under florescent lights in an overstuffed cafeteria. The clamor of others conversing fading into the background as you joke about the nutritional value of the cafeteria food, food that is renowned for being terrible. Sometimes you pack your own lunch, messily tied up in a plastic bag. For the most part you talk to her, watching the methodical way with which she eats her lunch.

How she starts with a peanut butter sandwich that later evolved to include white cinnamon bread and sometimes contained not just peanut butter, but honey (and bananas on occasion). Watching as she snapped the red lid back onto her tupperware, peanut butter still smeared on the inside, placing the empty dish back into her black and yellow lunch bag from Trader Joe’s, trying to get a glimpse of her name and the name of the teacher written on the inside lining. Waiting to see which fruit she pulled out.

Strawberries ushered in the end of school and the start of summer, fruit sweeter and more vibrant than the ones you brought in the winter, an occurrence she teased you for, telling you that strawberries weren’t in season. Sometimes she would bring blueberries, cringing a bit when she came across a berry just a bit too sour for her taste. Or maybe she would pull out raspberries, a word you were stunned to find out had the word ‘rasp’ in it when you got your fifth grade list of spelling words. Raspberries that still had lingering drops of water from when her mother washed them that morning. Raspberries that she would put on her fingers before wiggling around her hand, pretending the raspberries were woolen hats. Later on she would bring in tangerines, always failing to peel them in one piece. 

The next thing out of her bag was the juicebox, either a Caprisun or a juice from Trader Joe’s. Juice from Trader Joe’s meant horrible riddles we had heard a million times before, yet whose answers sometimes still escaped me. A Caprisun meant a lost straw and rummaging around to find it, and sometimes even improvising. I always asked why she drank the juice all at once rather than drinking as she ate, but I guess she liked the compartmentalization that came with it. The routine.

And last was always the Girl Scout cookie. Sometimes a Peanut Butter Sandwich (again) or a Shortbread or even a Shout Out (before they were discontinued), but most often it was a Lemonade. She would sometimes offer you one and you always enjoyed it, marvelling at the fact that she still had a box left, even months after cookie season had ended.

[pajama-nerd]

I wear awkward as my shield

canon divergent s3 Sterek

"So I'm attracted to Derek," Stiles says as he sits down next to Scott at lunch. Scott nods.

"That's cool," he replies, and Stiles nods with a smirk, opening one of the old MacDonald's paper sacks that he saves almost religiously to make it look like he's having fast food for lunch all the time. And - okay - the curly fries might actually be from a fast food joint, but recently Stiles had been buying a lot of potatoes and experimenting with frying them in different kinds of oils and…

Wait.

What'd he say?

"Wait, what?" Scott says with a blink, and Stiles looks confused for a second before rolling his eyes. Scott frowns slightly. "What about Lydia? I thought you had a ten year plan or something," he says. Stiles winces.

"Yeeah, I haven't actually...look, Lydia's lovely, and I'll always think of her as my first love, I think, but lately I've just been using my attraction for her as a shield to avoid thinking of other...annoyingly attractive and frustratingly, emotionally constipated things," Stiles says, munching on the carrots that he's packed for himself. Scott raises his eyebrows and stares at his friend. Then he turns back to his own lunch.

"Okay," he says. Stiles looks at him out of the corner of his eyes at the casual acceptance.

"Okay?" he repeats, and Scott's grin is huge as he turns and gives Stiles the most loving, sad eyes he can muster.

"Okay," he says significantly and Stiles scoffs, rolling his eyes.

"Shut up," he snaps.

"Fuck you. You made me read the book," Scott replies, grin still firmly affixed. "You gonna do anything about it?" he asks after a moment, sliding the apple his mom packed him over as Stiles slides over the single cup of vanilla and butterscotch pudding that he's been packing for Scott since forever.

"Probably not," Stiles admits with a resigned sigh. Scott licks butterscotch off the pudding lid and looks at his friend.

"Why not?"

"Uhhh, because I'm a spastic, annoying teenager who flails and talks too much? And he's...y'know…fucking perfect?" Stiles sounds so disgusted by Derek's apparent perfection, and Scott snorts so hard he may have gotten pudding up his nose.

"He's not perfect, Stiles," he says. Stiles sighs.

"Not literally, but man, sometimes my brain does this thing where it imagines if Derek were in my life - like a part of it - and it's so awesome," he says, head tilting as his eyes drift, soft and unfocused. Scott's eyebrows rise.

"Like, what, sex?" he asks. Stiles blinks and then shrugs.

"Sure, sometimes. But sometimes we make breakfast, or watch movies, or go grocery shopping," Stiles answers. Scott huffs.

"Dude. You've passed attraction. You've driven straight into feelings," he tells his friend, who groans and lets his head fall into folded arms.

"Ugh, I know," he moans. Scott is a good friend, so he pats Stiles on the back before stealing the apple back. 

[twopercentmilf]

out of all the slurred words I've ever heard to make me swoon, the sentiment you gave of my "sweet skin" has stayed still in my head, permanently unmoved

[diamondminor]

John Leaves Home

About a week ago John decided on Avery. The city. There is an Avery in Texas and another in California where there are no such wonders as a three-foot snowfall, but John left Thursday afternoon for the Avery 20 miles out, where the air-rifle factory used to be and where sandpaper-skinned old men used to drift through during the logging seasons. Avery (the girl) was named after her grandma, but it was her grandma’s last name and I think it was someone in that family who first took a saw blade to the pines across the river. At least that’s what I remember from her father’s partially slurred testimony over Thanksgiving dinner some years ago. But that was back when I knew him as my father-in-law, and before anyone really knew John at all, so I digress.