but i felt like writing a something for him instead

anonymous asked:

you called hanazawa boy contrapposto (or at least i think it was you?) and i think about it a lot, like even when i'm going through the tag but there's nothing specifically related there's a tiny "contrapposto" in my head

oh yeah, “boy contrapposto,” i said that in a liveblog post i think. seems like a good epithet for teru tbh. here’s an idea for the fandom: next time you write a fanfic and want to refer to teru as “the blond” or something instead of just using his gd name, try calling him “the boy contrapposto.” 

for example:

“Hanazawa-kun, I…” Mob gazed into the simpering blue eyes of the boy contrapposto and felt a sultry twinge deep in his heart of hearts.

“I’ll always look out for you.” A Stiles Stilinski One Shot.

Maybe have part2 set like a year or two later and she comes back to beacon hills because one of her grandparents past away so she goes for the funeral and to stay with the other one and stiles sees her or something, or maybe stiles is in trouble so derek tracks her down because he knows that shes secretly a supernatural thing and is the only one to safe him or instead or derek have malia find her?

Part 1. 

I changed it up a bit, I hope that’s fine! I am so sorry this took forever to write! 

You were humming along to the song that was currently playing from your phone, as you pulled out clothes from the dryer, folding them nicely as you thought about Stiles like you always did when you had nothing to occupy your mind with. You pulled out a pair of jeans getting ready to fold them when you felt something in the back pocket. Stunned, you pulled out a crumbled piece of paper, tears forming in your eyes when you realized what it was. You threw the jeans on the floor, not caring that they were clean. Gently you unfolded the paper, looking at the smiling faces. It was you and Stiles at a swing set, it was obvious that the two of you were having fun. Stiles was completely bent over, his face facing you, you had your hand covering your mouth, trying to hold back the laughter.  You felt a tear slip just as the doorbell rang. You wiped it away as you opened the door, stopping dead in your tracks when you saw the person in your doorway. His dark hair and dark eyes, dark clothes. Everything was as you remembered it. 

“Derek?” You asked in disbelieve. He smiled, but it was obvious that he was in a hurry. 

“It’s about Stiles.” He said. You swallowed the lump in your throat as you nodded and opened the door signaling for him to come in. 

Stiles’ Point Of View. 

He let his fingers wander over the steering wheel, trying to block out the sound of Theo’s voice, when Theo mentioned the smell of smoke. Stiles didn’t get the chance to react before his world was literally flipped up side down. He landed on his back in a broken jeep, when he felt himself being pulled out. Surprised and confused, Stiles looked around before he looked up, his eyes locking on someone he never thought he should see again. He couldn’t form words, the sight of her made him numb. Tears were running down her cheeks as she bent down and caressed his face, he grabbed her hand in his, making sure what he saw was real and not some sick and twisted dream. 

“You’re here.” He whispered, shock obvious in his voice. She let out a soft giggle. 

“Yeah. Yeah I’m here Stiles. A little bird told me you might be in danger.” You whispered back, stroking his cheek trying to get some of the blood off. 

“Why?” He whispered, scared that if he spoke too loud you’d disappear. 

“Don’t you remember what I wrote? I’ll always look out for you.” You said, as he wiped away another tear. 

Breaking In, an once upon a time fanfic | FanFiction
For as long as Killian Jones remembers, life in Storybrooke has followed the same old routine. That is, until the day he arrives to find his beloved Rabbit Hole has been burgled overnight. Now, in a town where nothing ever changes, he suddenly finds himself in uncharted waters. And what does the mysterious new Deputy have to do with it?

A/N: This was inspired by the day that was. I’m not sure if this is the start of something bigger, or just its own weird thing. I just felt like writing it instead of the myriad of other things that I should be doing.

Breaking In

It’s a day that begins like any other. Another day where Killian Jones is cruelly ripped away from his dreams by the blaring of his alarm, loud enough to startle him away from fanciful delirium, right back to cold hard reality. He could have sworn he set his clock radio to radio the night before, instead of alarm, but he must have forgotten. He always seems to forget, because no matter what, it’s always the same bloody soundtrack of bugles with which he wakes to greet a new dawn.

Perhaps the contraption is simply broken? Maybe it’s not broken enough, his inner voice snarks. If he had any sense, he’d take a mallet to it. He is a bar owner, for chrissakes. If he can’t sleep in, who can?

But that isn’t how it works. It’s 6:30am and he is already dragging himself towards the shower, guided by something greater than his desire to stay in bed.

His morning routine never really alters. Scrambled eggs and bacon cooked over his ancient stove. His toaster manages to burn his toast to a crisp, as always. He always means to buy a new one, but truthfully, he never really seems to remember until the next morning magically arrives, and once again, he’s already back to scraping the charred parts off anew with a butter knife. Breakfast is eaten in perfect silence as he peruses the morning’s edition of the Storybrooke Mirror, making a commendable stab at the crossword. He never gets it all right. Pop culture trivia remains his downfall. He doesn’t remember the last time he rented a movie.

Next is the to-go coffee procured from Granny’s on his way to the docks. There’s no real reason for this detour, as he watches the local fishermen unload the morning’s catch. He can’t argue that it’s on his way to work, what with the bar being directly below his apartment. There’s just something about the glint of sunlight on the waves, the stiff breeze off the water, the briny taste of salt on his tongue when he licks his lips. It’s consoling to him, somehow. He lingers on his familiar bench until long after the fishermen are gone. When it’s just him and the gulls and the Atlantic Ocean, the sun rising higher and higher into the sky. And then he feels that familiar pull, the one leading him back into town. Back towards his responsibilities. Back to the bar.

The Rabbit Hole is a bit of a dive, he admits. There isn’t much of a wine list, and even near a decade after the law changed, everything in the place still reeks of cigarette smoke. He’s tried everything. New wallpaper. New paint. New carpet. The smells lingers on, as if it is clinging to the very foundations; the Ghost of Smokers Past. And to be clear, the stupid name wasn’t his idea. The Rabbit Hole. It’s not an entirely erroneous description of the place, what with the way the main stairs descend below street level, or the way the townspeople like to take advantage of its darkened corners for their lascivious misdeeds. Not that he’s one to judge. But if he were, he’d sure have plenty of ammunition.

No, the name was not his idea. It had been called that long before he took over, and it’d surely be called that long after he was gone. He’d considered changing the name once. Something nautical, he thought. More in line with the town’s heritage. More in line with his interests. He’d failed to take the small town mentality into account. There was a petition circling by noon. By dusk, Madame Mayor herself had swept down from her ivory tower to quote some obscure Town bylaw his way. There would be no changing the name.

He opens every morning at 11, like clockwork. More dependable than clockwork, actually, if the town’s notoriously unreliable Clock Tower is anything to go by. His empty to-go cup wedged into the crook of his elbow as he draws his ring of keys from his pocket, his prosthetic hand wedged again the frame to provide the necessary leverage. One day he’ll ring the locksmith, and get a front door lock which doesn’t stick. One day he’ll-

He’s pulled out of the familiar pattern of his thoughts by the foreign crunch of glass underfoot. He freezes, wondering for a moment if he imagined the sound, so out of place in his usual routine. But when he shifts his weight back to his left foot, he knows he isn’t imaging it. He lifts one boot off the ground, and sure enough, the ground all around where he is standing is littered with broken glass. He looks down at the mess, frowning. Did one of his boozy regulars break a bottle out here? He hadn’t noticed last night, when he’d closed up. But the glass isn’t brown, or green, like the bottles he stocks inside. It’s dark. Tinted. Much like the-. He looks up and curses, noticing for the first time that the small glass window in the front door is no longer there. Because naturally, it’s too busy currently littering the sidewalk. Fearing the worst, he places his palm flat on the door, and gives it an experimental shove. The door swings open with little fanfare, and Killian Jones feels a jolt way down in his stomach as his entire life skips off its intended track.

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anonymous asked:

ooQ #26

This is probably nothing like what anyone would expect but honestly I felt the need to deviate from the obvious here and write something completely ridiculous instead. Plus I think after the angst in my previous prompts, we need a bit of adorable crack.

“I’m pregnant.”

(852 words.)


James had barely come through the door to their flat when Q skidded into the hallway, looking nothing short of hysterical. James paused for a moment, staring at him in alarm, but anything he was going to say was chased from his thoughts by the words that came out of Q’s mouth.

  “I’m pregnant,” he said, his voice pinched with terror, and James thought he must be dreaming.

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