chicken dances

10

b.a.p and

b.a.p + favorite dance moves

bonus:

2

The only way you can get Shepard to dance is to get her turian vigilante husband boyfriend to seduce her and a whole lotta alcohol

some nerd: Stormblood’s early access was a complete mess, every class that isn’t Samurai or Red Mage got totally ruined, tanking is back to the same problems it had before the VIT changes, housing is still an easily exploited fiasco, and the servers are STILL unstable! FFXIV is ruined forever! Square-Enix doesn’t know what the fuck they’re doing!

me:

some nerd: *holding back tears of indescribable joy* holy shit

I don’t even know. I was taking a walk today and this idea popped into my head. I swear I’m still writing the bookstore AU, too. Also, *pops confetti*, I hit 2k followers today! Who ARE all you guys? Anyway, this fluff/ridiculousness is for you. ~1.6k words, rated G. Sterek, of course.

now also on AO3

The whole thing starts with Stiles really, really craving a meatball sub from the place across the street.

“God, someone shut him up,” Erica groans. They’re all kind of at their breaking point by now; they’ve been camped out in this meeting room all day, brainstorming. “He’s been talking about the same goddamn sandwich for seven and a half minutes now, and it’s making me hungry.”

“If only our ad campaign were about sandwiches, Stilinski would have it in the bag and we could all go home,” Isaac sighs.

From across the table, Derek rises abruptly to his feet and storms out. (Or maybe it’s just that Stiles always interprets everything Derek does as stormy. With those eyebrows, it’s hard not to.)

Stiles assumes he’s just gotten so fed up with them all that it’s either storm out or kill someone, and he’s just grateful Derek chose Door Number 1. It’s a good day not to get killed by Derek Hale.

Only, fifteen minutes later he comes back in. With a paper bag from the deli.

As soon as he gets within grabbing distance, Stiles practically collapses across the table in his haste to reach for it. “Oh my god, is that what I think it is?”

Derek holds it up over his head. “Who says this is for you? Maybe all your talk inspired me to go get a meatball sub of my own.”

“Oh, please. Like anyone with your abs eats meatball subs.” Stiles leaps to his feet on his swivel chair—because screw safety, Derek will catch him if he starts to topple over—and snatches the bag out of Derek’s grip. Derek doesn’t fight him for it very hard.

“Why don’t I get a meatball sub?” Erica whines, thumping her head down on her notebook. “Doesn’t anyone love me?”

Derek shrugs and takes his seat again. “You didn’t ask.”

“You just like Stilinski better,” she grumbles, and Derek just shrugs again.

Meanwhile, Stiles rips into the bag and takes a huge bite out of the gloriousness that is this sandwich. He can’t help throwing in a few theatrical moans just to taunt Erica, and she suitably rewards him with a glare of death across the table.

“Mmm,” Stiles says. “Derek, I love you so much, dude. Marry me.”

Instead of the grumpy eyebrows he expects, Derek meets his eye, leans back smugly in his chair, and says, “Okay.”

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