DANCE MAJORS AU. (Part 1, Part 1.5,Part 2, Part 2.5, Part 3 finale) Contemporary Ballet Dancer Shiro is someone everyone admires and basically Everyone’s Crush™ but he already have his eyes set on a certain new hip-hop dancer recruit next door who’s always wearing red. He doesn’t have the guts to ask him out–at all. However, he asks if he could teach him hip-hop dancing.
Tablet’s having issues, but it didn’t stop me from finishing this dang thing…another scene I love very much (or same scene from a different angle, haha) ahsdgahjsdgks freaking backgrounds, though! ._. t’was alot of work…
And Maglor answered: ‘If it be truly the Silmaril which we saw cast into the sea that rises again by the power of the Valar, then let us be glad; for its glory is seen now by many, and is yet secure from all evil.’
— The Silmarillion, Of the Voyage of Eärendil and the War of Wrath
It kills me that despite the fact that Maglor was still oathbound and facing Everlasting Dark, this is what he said. No anger, no bitterness, just…Let us be glad.
n: i’m not a fan of the hug. c: then you haven’t been hugged properly. a hug is like an emotional heimlich: they put their arms around you and give you a squeeze and all your fear and anxiety goes shooting out of your mouth like a big, wet wad and you can breathe again.
Say what you will about Naruto Gaiden, I absolutely love the implication that Sasuke and Sakura went on a mission and came back with a baby seemingly without telling anyone not only because of the Drama but also because of the idea of Naruto holding up his own baby at them like “ME TOO”
I LOVE THIS SO MUCH. I requested a moment from my short piece the future from a winter moon and the result is this absolutely stunning work - look at this gorgeous embrace, this tender holding. “It is a card of change.”
Derek is ignoring Stiles’ texts. Well, technically he’s reading them-he’s just not responding to them. Even though he’s upset, Derek still can’t quite resist seeing what Stiles has to say.
His phone beeps again for the fifth time in the past minute. “What’s wrong,” the text says.
“Tell me,” the next message reads, less than 3 seconds later.
Then, “I can’t fix it if you don’t tell me.”
Derek continues to not respond, and his phone finally goes quiet for a few blessed minutes (for the first time in an hour). He puts it on the coffee table as he sinks back against the couch and closes his eyes, trying to shut out the sadness that’s been creeping in since earlier that day.
Summary/Prompt: “I may have slept in your shirt while you were gone.” Word Count: 1730 words Warnings: slight smut (but yeah not really), Pairings: Tyler Seguin x Reader
Authors Note: So the other one I posted yesterday was huge hit and so I though why not post another one. I have a part 2 for this already written so if I get enough feedback on this one, I’ll post the second part.
The house on nights like tonight were extremely boring and lonely. A cold breeze shot past me, sending shivers down my spine. Lately the house had been extremely cold and it obviously didn’t help that I walked around it in just a t-shirt and underwear. That is unless I had been accompanied by Tyler , then I would be forced to put on more layers. And I’m not saying I liked that.
As of right now, Tyler and the team where a 5 hour plane ride away from Dallas, currently finishing up a road trip. Tyler had crept into my room sometime last week during the earlier hours and had let me know that him and the team were leaving for the week, and that they would be back no later than lunch on Thursday, which was tomorrow.
a lot of people don’t realize that I double majored in biomedical engineering and history at Duke… but it’s even more ridiculous when people see my Duke Engineering sticker on my laptop, come up to me and ask “oh wow who did engineering at Duke?” like it’s impossible that this “creative looking” black guy with dread locs WHO IS HOLDING THE COMPUTER could have been the one.
So for fanfic Friday, how about us sans with an s/o in a band who just came back home from tour
pairing: sans x reader
summary: touring the world is fun, but when you see the small, blue scarf tied around your wrist…you finally feel like you’ve seen enough. it’s time to go home.
notes: oh my gosh i love writing the blueberry. he is. so pure. i love him.here u go sweet anon i give you fluffs.
You originally planned to tour throughout the winter and late into spring. 6 months of nonstop travel, to Europe and Asia, When you found out, you were extremely excited. You could take Sans with you, and show him everything he hasn’t seen with his own eyes yet! The thought of the childlike skeleton, of his joy as he’d see the world…You wanted to give him so much more, and this will do for now.
Found a whole goddamn notebook in the dumpster this time
no idea whose handwriting this is or why they’d write it or who it’s supposed to be about but it’s fun isn’t it? happy ficlet fantasy friday!
Drifting up from a warm, dozy sleep, she feels the bed shifting under her, and the weight of an arm draped across her. She smiles, keeping her eyes closed, snuggling against him. He keeps moving, though, instead of settling in, and she mumbles, “What’re you doin?”
He’s propped himself up on one elbow behind her, the arm over her doing something complicated.
“Taking a bed selfie.”
“Huh?” She still hasn’t opened her eyes. What the fuck time is it, anyway?
“A bed selfie.”
Like that explains it.
One eye, then the other, slides reluctantly open, and she can make out his iPhone a few inches away in the dimness. They’re both in the frame, grainy and low-res; her hair is spilled out over the pillow, her bare shoulder exposed, his muscled arm disappearing into the corner where his hand is holding the phone. His thumb touches the button.
“It’s gonna be a week till we see each other again — I need a souvenir for when I get lonely,” he says.
Last week at Lowes, after I bought some plant things and had a lovely though awkward conversation with an old Chinese woman about seeds, I came upon a scene at the self-checkout desk…
At the register, the clerk - a cute twenty-something guy in dreads - was holding up a pair of glasses. In front of him, a middle-aged white woman was calling out to an older man checking out near me, “Sir? Sir! Sir, are these your glasses? Sir?!”
She was another customer and with each shout, she seemed to grow more frustrated. The older man was ignoring her - how dare he? She met my eyes and gave me a resigned huff, evidently ready to give up. She’d concluded the dude 8 ft from her, with his back turned, must not want those glasses.
I’d like to say I knew what was happening immediately, but I was too anxious for that. Instead, I helped in a way I knew - get the guy’s attention, then try to communicate.
I walked up into his peripheral vision, flapped* my hand near his line of sight until he spotted it, then pointed to the clerk.
As he turned to look, he grinned at the sight of the glasses and retrieved them, I spotted his inconspicuous hearing aid.
I don’t know if he spotted the irate woman who’d been trying to ‘help’ - if he did, he’d presumably be puzzled by her outrage. To her, this man ignored her breaking the social code via shouting in order to help. For him, he was doing his own thing checking out; now a woman is angry for no reason.
It made me wonder how many troubles are started, in our U.S. society, when (privileged straight white) men begin to lose their hearing. It exponentially increases the likelihood of miscommunication.
I have noticed how my own grandfathers (70 & 91) will pretend as if they understand things I’ve said, an action my grandmas and I attribute to toxic masculinity. Admitting you don’t understand is a weakness they’ve rarely needed to practice, especially when a large part of their identities relies on being Strong and Self-Sufficient.
They postponed admitting their hearing was going, partly due to pride and partly due to the cost (grandpa’s hearing aid from 5 yrs ago cost between $3,500-4,000; grandpa thinks insurance paid about $80 and grandma thinks $300). Add in the fact that people in working class jobs will likely encounter more hearing damage than others, and you get get the double whammy of inability to hear and inability to afford hearing aids.
So older men put off getting hearing aids, miscommunicate more often, and feel more alienated.
And I wonder if this is a reason they sometimes turn to right-wing radio shows and TV. Understanding every word generally isn’t important in that media format- the message will be repeated again, or written as a byline. If they absorb bigotry through sheer repetition, debating it in real life becomes difficult when they can’t hear the counter-arguments.
If they are retired, they won’t encounter a variety of people through the workplace that act as living examples of why bigoted ideas are inaccurate - nor will they be seeking out local community, where they’d need to ask for people to repeat themselves often.
My grandma said her 91 year old husband began losing his hearing about 10 years ago - but he only got hearing aids in his late eighties.
My 70 year old grandpa lost his slowly over the years; when he lost his one hearing aid last year, he wasn’t planning to replace it - it costs too much (luckily, the dog found it in the field. Good doggo). He easily could’ve been the man getting shouted at in the Lowe’s - and his response to an annoyed woman wouldn’t be to ask why she was annoyed, he’d simply front anger in order to avoid explaining he can’t hear.
The intersections of oppression, both internal and external, have been on my mind lately. It’d be very unfair to attribute ‘hearing loss’ as the reason old white men become more bigoted - but if we made hearing aids covered under Medicare and Medicaid (or had a free health system), if we dismantled the toxic masculinity that keeps men from seeking support, and if we accommodated heard-of-hearing&deaf people more (like, don’t shout to get a rando’s attention)… all of these things would help.
*I’d credit recently being in ASL practice for learning that attention-grabbing action. If you wanna be polite/respectful/etc and not tap an unknown hard-of-hearing or deaf person’s shoulder, waving your hand until they see it is an easy approach. Bonus points, since hearing people can understand the action too.
(Hello! You answered an ask about how a very ‘Bim Trimmer’ sort of song is “Angel on Fire” by Halsey, and I looked it up, which prompted this story-snippet. I imagine that the Egos have never really experienced any of the others ‘fading’ before, at least not first-hand. I hope you enjoy the Plant Boy Suffering!)
Their first hint toward something wrong was the wilting plant in the hallway. Silver was the one to notice it, though he was typically too busy falling over himself to observe those small sort of details; maybe he had fallen into the plant on one of his ‘perimeter checks’. He had dutifully carried the pot to Dark’s office, leaving a trail of dirt across the entire building, placing it as carefully as he could onto Dark’s desk without so much as knocking on his door. The pale Ego was understandably upset, though he paused in his breaking, glitching spasm when he noticed just how sorry the foliage was looking. The entire plant was losing its color, ugly brown splotches indicating exactly how long it had gone without water. Silver didn’t have to say a word for Dark to understand his fears.
“Bim most likely forgot about this one. It is in one of the lower wings of the building, after all.” Silver slammed his oversized hands on Dark’s desk - pent up energy and confidence that he had recently gained from Mark’s newest Ego video, in which the superhero had starred - and locked eyes with the more powerful Ego.
“Does that sound like Bim to you?”
They had found Wilford already at their destination: the door marked with a star, upon which was etched “THE Bim Trimmer”. Wilford was impatiently knocking for all he was worth, his bubblegum-pink mustache twitching with severe irritation. He reached for his gun, Dark quickly stopping him with a hand on the pink Ego’s shoulder.
“What’s going on here, Wil?”
“What’s going on?” Wilford spoke with his usual dramatic flair and threw his hands up in exasperation “this good for nothing is late for his curtain call, again! I have half a mind to fire him, and half a mind to shoot him!” He gave a sharp kick to the door, which remained steadfast and its interior unnervingly silent.
Dark’s grip on Wilford’s shoulder tightened enough to make the pink Ego duck down away from the touch with a small yelp. The eccentric Ego took the hint and slided away from the entrance to Bim’s room, leaving Dark to knock four distinct times. The door, in response, shook subtly before disintegrating into what would best be described as ash.
“Well, I could have done that.” Wilford huffed, then quieted as Dark held up a hand.
A strange atmosphere fell from the room, now unhindered by the heavy door; the feeling of growing things and fresh oxygen that was usually prominent in Bim’s room clearly absent. The three Egos were quiet, a feeling of dread beginning to take hold of them. Dark was the first to step over the threshold, followed (probably too closely) by Wilford, and Silver trailing behind the two more powerful Egos, his large gloved hands still holding the sickly potted plant.
“Bim?” Dark’s voice echoed almost too much in the Ego’s room; it felt sterile and dead.
There was a sudden skittering of claws against hardwood flooring, prompting WIlford to bring his gun out in a flash, Dark to take a small step back, and Silver to hold the plant near his face as if it would protect him from whatever was about to round the corner. A blur of green shot across the floor, and suddenly Poppy was trying to crawl her way up Wilford’s pant-leg, a sort of guttural whining emitting from her throat. The pink Ego was quick to scoop her up into his arms, holding her like a baby - how Bim always cradled her - and gently pick at the drooping flower that grew from the dragon’s forehead. With closer inspection, it was obvious that Poppy was in as bad of shape as the plant that Silver still carried; her scales were browning at the edges, and her flower had perhaps a third of its usual petals. Her eyes were dull and looked uncomfortably dry, causing the little creature to blink every few moments. Dark looked at WIlford with rising impatience that, if he were honest (which was rarely) stemmed from the trepidation that was forming like a rock in his stomach.
“Wil, precisely how late has Trimmer been to curtain call?”
The pink Ego looked up from his concerned examination of Poppy, his eyes flicking around different points of Dark’s face to try and understand exactly what he was getting at.
“I suppose that depends on what day it is today; you know I was never one for keeping time.”
Dark growled, making the dragon in WIlford’s arm (and WIlford, to a lesser extent) shiver. The pale Ego took a moment to let his shell crack, then walked swiftly in the direction from which Poppy had run. This room was Bim’s favorite: his indoor greenhouse of sorts, what had once been an office with a wall of windows and now had shelves of his precious plants. Every one of which were utterly shriveled and dead. Dark halted in his tracks at this sight, causing Silver to bump into his back and then drop the potted plant to the ground, with the telltale crack of ceramic shattering. Wilford came into the room in response, holding a now-watered Poppy, the dragon already beginning to look mildly perked up. A quiet curse passed his lips at the sorry sight of Bim’s precious plant friends. Silver took the brief pause to brush dirt from the back of Dark’s otherwise immaculate suit, then step back hastily as the Ego walked over to the small desk in the corner of the room.
The chair had been left a foot or so from the desk itself, as if the person sitting in it had suddenly sprung up and walked away. Dark began a methodical search of the area, noting the uncapped pen that had rolled onto the floor. When he bent down to retrieve it, he found a pale green envelope lying face-down under the desk as well. The address written on it in Bim’s neat scrawl was one Dark knew well: Mark’s. Though the envelope was already sealed, the pale Ego felt that all courtesy could be thrown out the metaphorical window in the given circumstances; with one deft movement, he had ripped one end open and coaxed the letter out of its casing. Unfolding it, Dark read the contents quickly, his permanent frown growing deeper as the letter progressed.
‘Mark,’ the correspondence began, Bim’s handwriting neat but slightly dramatic, just like his personality, ‘I hope it’s not a bother that I’m having Amy bring you this letter - though I put the address just in case she doesn’t visit for a while. I know you’re busy, and everyone here appreciates what you’ve been doing for us on your channel. Google was especially pleased with his video, and I know Ed’s over the moon about how his turned out!’
Dark skipped the half-dozen lines detailing exactly how much Bim enjoyed each video that Mark uploaded, rolling his eyes at the flattery and finally finding the important information. He noted that the Ego’s writing had begun to get smaller and shakier as the letter went on.
‘I’ve started to feel…off. Sort of empty, like not all of me is there anymore. I understand that you’re saving the best for last-’
Dark let a huff of air pass his lips in what could be described as a rueful laugh, ignoring Wilford’s impatient shuffling as he stood back in the doorway, seemingly afraid of entering this dead room..
‘-but I don’t know how much time I have left. I’m getting worried. Poppy’s restless around me, I think she knows something is wrong. I don’t want to be forgotten, Mark. Of course, I know you and Amy will never forget me, but I don’t think that’s enough to keep me here anymore. I can’t go yet; Wilford needs me, Poppy needs me, Reginald, Mattias, Rupert, Annabelle, Thomas, Bryan, J-Fred, and all my other plants need me. I don’t know how else to say it: I’m scared and I need your help.’
The signature at the end of the letter was sloppy, lacking its usual finesse and blotched with excess ink in a few places. Dark stood there a few moments more, his mind drawing rapid conclusions, then he neatly folded the letter up and placed it back into the envelope. Then, with a quick turn on his heel, the pale Ego stepped past Wilford and Silver, ignoring their sudden questions and increasingly vehement demands for explanation. He pressed the letter into Silver’s hands as he walked past toward the exit until Wilford’s hand gripped his shoulder far too tightly and spun him around. There was murder and a surprising level of parental panic in the pink Ego’s eyes, which were frantically searching Dark’s face for any hints as to what he had read.
“Where the hell is Bim, Dark?!”
Dark let his shell splinter for a few brief moments, showing anger and a bitter sadness that made Wilford draw back in shock. Then the pale Ego adjusted his suit and looked Wilford in the eye; a small spark of sympathy in their vast depths.
Summary: Jim x Reader x Leonard: It all started when the crew of the Enterprise took some much needed shore leave on Yorktown. On the first night, you decide to go out with Scotty, Jim and Bones to the local bar. It’s when Scotty calls it quits for the night that things took a turn for the..best? If “best” meant being in between the most handsome men on the U.S.S Enterprise. Nothing like a good ole romp in the sack with the Captain & Doctor, at least for one night. One night, right? Or will this be the best shore leave you ever had?
A/N: This is it guys. I don’t even know what to say, it’s been amazing and fun. Can’t believe this started as a simple imagine and just went from there. Thank you for sticking with me and I’m sad to see this one go. I hope you are all happy with the ending! Love you.