is not wonderful enough for you

BTS Scenario | them confessing to you | maknae line

here’s the maknae line. find the link to the hyung line here.


You blink away the sleep that hung heavy on your eyelids and blindly groped around for your phone, the ringtone a sudden contrast to the quiet of the night. Having found it, you sleepily answer the call and bring your phone to your ear.


“I couldn’t sleep.”

Jimin. “No reason to keep me awake.”

He sighed, and you hear a little rustling over the phone, like he was turning over in bed. “You’re right. Go back to sleep, _____.”

“No! Jimin, I was just kidding.”

Silence. You sit up, realising there was more to it than what seemed. “What’s wrong?”

“You don’t need to be alarmed, I’m not hurt or– Well, I hope you won’t be alarmed after I’ve said what I need to say.”

You relax against the headboards. “Okay. I promise not be alarmed.”

He breathed out slowly, as if mustering up courage. “You know that feeling you get when you wake up on a weekend morning sometimes? When you don’t know what’s going to happen that day but you just feel great and excited?”

Jimin’s voice was soft in your ears, his words soft enough to be a bedtime story. “Yeah.”

“And you know that feeling you get when you’re walking in a park and you see two kids holding hands and just enjoying each other’s company? Like you don’t know whether they’ll end up together or stay best friends but you just hope they do?”

You wonder if you’re dreaming, if his musical voice was only a voice that murmured in your head in that state between being asleep and awake. “Yeah.”

“And you know that feeling when you go somewhere far away and see someplace nice and you think ’maybe just one day I might move here’? ”

His dreamy words made thoughts of far away cottages and clear blue skies float through your head. Your eyelids drooped just a little bit, your heart singing in the very same vein of the emotion Jimin described.

“Well, that’s the way I feel about you.”

And suddenly you were wide awake.

Originally posted by sweaterpawsjimin


You shoved your hands into your pockets and huddled closer to yourself, trying to fight the slight chill in the air.

It was nice autumn evening, the sound of children screaming as they took full advantage of the various swings and slides filled the air in the little park. You shook your head and wrapped your fingers around your phone, still warm from the last time you checked the time.

Tae had asked you to meet him here. But where was he?

You stretched your spine, sighing in relief when you feel a few joints crack. At least the weather was nice.

“Excuse me.” A singsong voice floated up from the general height of your knee. You look down in surprise to find a little boy, barely in the fourth grade, tugging at your jacket in an attempt to gain your attention.

You look around for a parent, but on not spotting one, you crouch so the boy can talk to you comfortably. “Hey. How can I help you?”

The little boy turned red, slowing bringing his hands out from behind his back. He held a card nearly as big as him in his hands and precariously clutched a single long-stemmed flower you did not recognise. “He told me to give these to the person who looked as pretty as this flower.” He dropped them into your hands like hot coal. “You’re very pretty.”

Eyebrows raised, you settle the flower between your fingers and unfold the card. The card was very pretty in itself, with a dainty border of white lilies delicately winding itself along the sides of the pastel pink card, but the words scribbled on it caught your attention better.

I saw this in a movie once, and thought life should imitate art today. Everybody likes kids, right? Our very own little Cupid. Only if– you know…you like like me back as much as I like like you. And if you don’t, then blink twice, and I’ll walk away.

There was no name, no indication towards who had written such an asinine love letter, but you knew all the same.

You grinned and looked up. “Would you show me who ga-”

But there was no trace of the supposed Cupid to your love story. In place of an awkward fourth grader’s adoring eyes stood a pair of gorgeous legs that belonged to the very man you wanted to see at that moment.

Tae grinned down at you. “I had to pay the kid five bucks. You’re still pretty, though. And you didn’t blink. No turning back now.”

Originally posted by fairybcby


To say that it had been a tiring day was an understatement.

You dropped your keys on top of the shoe rack and wearily slipped off your shoes. Your roommate had long left for her shift, you would have been back home hours ago only if you hadn’t offered to help with ‘just a little bit’ of paperwork.

You let your bag drop to the floor and trudge to the living room, hoping for a spot of TV before turning in for the night.

But no. The room was in shambles. Cushions were strewn about on the floor, newspaper shredded and discarded in what seemed like the most violent (and one-sided) knife fight ever. And was that…was that dog food on the rug? Of course, the only culprits you could begin to imagine was the reason behind this mess was the cute dog and the even cuter boy on your living room floor, both equally dead to the world.

“Jeon Jungkook, you wake your ass up or I swear you’ll never touch another gaming console again!”

Jungkook sprung upright as if he was shocked awake (which, in a way, he was). “______!” He looked around him, as if he was just realising he’d slept through the end of the world. “I– ”He swore and looked down at the dog draped across his lap, quite peacefully unaware of the situation. “Ah, shit.”

“That’s right.”

He groaned and leaned back on his hands, screwing his eyes shut. “He was supposed to be a surprise!”

You sigh and pick up an abandoned pillow. “You surprised me alright.”

He winced and opened an eye. “Are you mad?” Cringing at his own question he let his head fall back again. “Of course you’re mad.”

You click your tongue and settle down beside him, still clutching the pillow. “No, I’m not mad, I just– ” You reach out with a few fingers, letting them run through the silky fur of the puppy. “I just don’t understand.”

Jungkook ducked his head, the red already spreading across the bridge of his nose. “Your roommate let me in. I thought you’d be back home earlier, but I guess I dropped off waiting for you. Then…” He sent an adoring frown in the direction of the seemingly innocent little thing, quite comfortable in his lap. “I guess he got to work.”

You crack a smile at how strikingly similar the boy and puppy in front of you seemed to you. You rub the dog’s silky ears between your fingers. “At least he’s cute.” You melt as the dog whines in its sleep when you rub its neck. “Very cute. But why bring him here?”

This time Jungkook blushes fiercely, sparing no inch of skin. “Because…” He swallowed. “I’m in puppy love with you?”

You freeze. “You destroyed my living room…for a pun?”

Jungkook groaned for the second time that evening and hid his face against your shoulder. “I’m never listening to Jin-hyung again.”

Originally posted by jeovkks

phew, i’m tired. requests are closed. you can find hyung line here.

scully-loves-ruthie  asked:

Will you please please rewrite the scene where Mulder tells Scully he's happy for her but he's just not sure where he fits in. Honestly your majestic writing abilities are the only thing that can fix it!!!!

Sorry!! Big long preface ahead!!! First, I must apologize to @scully-loves-ruthie upfront. This probably isn’t exactly what you asked for. I have a real inability to write against canon though I wish I could. Fic is a band-aid of sorts for me but I can only write (not read mind you, shove that AU up my ass all day I’ll love it) what could in some realm, be canon. I can’t dangle impossible perfection in front of myself or immerse myself in such a way as to write it, because it only reminds me of what can’t have, and then I get all morose about the way things are.  So this isn’t a rewrite of this scene so much as it is me trying to babble away my confusion and former hatred for it and then exteding it to my liking.  I utterly HATED this scene, and damn you, you made me watch it over and over and over and over. It was misery. But I have to thank you, because it was cathartic in a sense. It forced me to deal with my own feelings of blame toward Mulder for going off on his own and leaving Scully behind and find some empathy down in my cold dead heart. So I hope in light of all of this, I hope you will forgive me, friend.  

Oh! and one more thing, the ever fabulous @kateyes224 wrote a true re-write of this scene a while back called Three Words More. If you want quality work, skip mine and read hers. :)

Sorry for the babbling. Tagging @fictober@today-in-fic, and @always-angst

Sensory Integration

He hasn’t told her this for fear she’d have kept him incarcerated, but he’s still fighting waves of nausea induced by the sensation of free fall every few minutes. His stomach rolls end over end, as if on the downslope of a rollercoaster. His feet still don’t feel as if they’ve touched ground, which is ironic for a man who was 6 feet under its surface not 36 hours ago. He feels suspended above this world, tethered only by the clinical tone of her voice as she catalogues his condition. It is the only thing that feels like home right now, and God, he wants to be home, he does, but he’s an apparition, a ghost of himself, floating along a tour of his own life like Ebenezer Scrooge.

Only people don’t talk directly to ghosts about their scars and miraculous healing and their perfect health. They’ve been circling each other cautiously since she came to retrieve him this morning. He senses her restlessness and gets the distinct impression that she’s holding back from latching into him and falling apart. He’s grateful for her restraint, because he can’t handle sudden movements right now. If she were to approach too fast in his direction, he’d end up curled in the fetal position somewhere in a corner, protecting his vital organs. He doesn’t know how he knows this, he just does. He’s like one giant Pavlovian experiment.




On the silent ride to his apartment, he keeps his gaze on the passing scenery, the feeling of forward motion relaxes him. In his peripheral he catches her cautious, fleeting glances, and wonders if she’s worried about him or expecting him to say something. An apology perhaps, but that’s probably just because he feels like he owes her one. There is at least that much of his former self left. He knows, on some level, that this is at least partly his fault. He left her to protect her, his intentions valiant, the result catastrophic. That too, at least, feels familiar.

The walk out of the elevator down his hallway is akin to a prisoner being led to his cell. He imagines the catcalls from either side. Wonders if they are similar to the whispers she must’ve endured in his absence.

“Hear that? Ol’ Spooky finally got what he always wanted– a ride in a spaceship!!”

“Typical asshole, right? He’d have made a shitty father anyway. Shame he had to knock her up before he took off this time.”

Had he, though? Does she assume he assumes it’s his? He knows her. Knows she’d have never pursued this again so quickly without him. Would she?With someone anonymous?  Is it..he…she.. his? 

The nausea assaults him once again at the door. A reckoning lies beyond, and he isn’t sure footed enough yet to do anything but react. He hopes for something else familiar to grasp on to once they walk in, the scent of burnt coffee or old laundry, dishes in the sink, but the echo of her heels on the hardwood is the only thing that registers. For a place that is full to the brim still of his possessions, the sound only reinforces the impression of emptiness. It seems to him now a shrine, a collection of things in memoriam. He has waited much too long to speak at this point he knows. He doesn’t want to frighten her. His pulse races in his ears.



“It looks different.” His voice doesn’t shake like he thought it would.

“It’s clean.” Her humor astounds him; it is without a trace of bitterness. He knows she is not angry, but at this point he would understand if she were exasperated. He’s drawn immediately to the serene glow of the tank and a fleeting bubble of giddy reunion rises in his chest, immediately followed by shame for not feeling the same around her. Again something is off, but in the right way. He recognizes something as missing, and it’s a relief. 

“I’m missing a molly.”

“Yea,” she chuffs, “ she wasn’t as lucky as you.”

Dread floods his senses once more as well as the need to retch, so he sits awkwardly on the desk to steady himself and prevent swaying on his feet. Being under the gun used to be what made him thrive, and now he just wants to hide. But she is being so intolerably patient there fiddling with the key he gave her in an act of good faith, and the pressure of owing her the same.. something.. everything, is weighing on him now.

“Mulder…” there is the faintest trace of impatience in her tone now, for which he cannot blame her, but the numbness he feels only serves to allow the blankest of stares in her direction.  She continues to narrate an abbreviated, watered-down recollection of her experience and he is drifting again, the rope to which he is attached to this world suddenly stretching, fraying and unraveling, because this isn’t her. She’s lying by omission on his behalf. She knows damn well he knows exactly what it was like. But she’s flailing, trying desperately to pull him to her by playing on his propensity for compassion. This particular shade of cheap manipulation isn’t her color, and even she is struggling with it.  She wants so desperately to connect with him right now, even if it is only by the shared recollection of what it is like to be utterly devastated and reborn by the absence and presence of another. Her words muddle and blur until,

“…And now to have to you back, it….” He isn’t so devoid of sensitivity not to catch the slight glimmer of tears as she trails off. But he is in no condition to provide comfort to anyone right now.

“You act like you’re surprised.” His old instincts are kicking in automatically, for which he is grateful, deflection by sarcasm is his default setting. But her response is so genuine that it smothers any relief he felt having had any words to say at all.

“I prayed a lot.”

He has always wondered himself worthy of her prayers, whether she would allow herself to pray to a god she holds in such reverence {the same one that he has punished with indifference for so long} to grant him, a nonbeliever of all things, mercy. But pray she did.

“And my prayers have been answered.”

The incredulity in the way she says it tells him she is just as astounded as he. Had she ever felt him worthy? Or was it sheer desperation that drove her to her knees?

The elephant in the room is in fact no elephant at all, the evidence of her pregnancy only now making its way into his consciousness, her firm rounded belly at such stark contrast to the exhausted slump of her shoulders and rest of her anxious, wired form. She is so beautiful to him still. Incandescent skin, and longer hair all signs that physically, she is flourishing. But her countenance is all wrong. She is like a tree branch in winter,  drained and brittle on the surface, new life burgeoning beneath.

“In more ways than one.” He makes a feeble motion toward her middle. There. He’s acknowledged it. The band-aid is off. She glances down as if she herself is only noticing her condition just now. A slew of unexpected emotions tighten his throat. Fear. Elation. Possessiveness. Resentment. Curiosity. Scully is pregnant. Very. She even waddles. He chuckles inwardly at her maternity slacks’ indention beneath her blouse.

Scully shopping for maternity clothing.

The thought is at once light and unfathomably depressing at the same time.

“Yea.” Now even she sounds like she would be grateful for a quip, but she is capable of nothing but earnestness at the moment.

“I’m happy for you.” He wonders if she caught the catch in his voice just now. Internally he is in free fall, his stomach is swirling and his heart is racing.

His appendages are numb and the entire room is spinning. He nips at the side of his mouth enough to bring pain, enough to center his thoughts to continue,  

“I think I know…how much that means to you.” The phrase feels slimy and bitter on his tongue. When she was sick–and the unexpected recollection of that time pierces his gut like a forgotten splinter—the cancer was always a ‘that.’ The fact that he has just referred to her pregnancy as such feels so utterly wrong. He’s made her granted wish sound like an incurable condition, and he hates himself for it. He knows he’s dissociating. He knows the term, his education coming back to him like pieces of a puzzle, falling into place at random.

“Mulder…” Oh God, that voice. Whispered and rich with the emotion that only those that pray can posses.  It’s a thousand moments before the apology he’s demanding of himself is tumbling from his mouth in an almost juvenile, petulant fashion.

“I’m sorry…” he shakes his head in an effort to regroup, “I don’t mean to be cold or ungrateful I just…I have no idea where I fit in…right now.” He’s purging. Words that have been festering for days now are pouring forth, like pus from a wound, a necessity towards healing but grotesque nonetheless. The look on her face is searing and utter in its despair. She is unquestionably disappointed. Nothing, none of this is going like she thought, as she’d hoped, and it’s evident in a way that is so uncharacteristic of her usual aplomb.

He could blame hormones for rendering her so unusually transparent, But that would be too convenient. The truth is that the strife of the day-to-day without him has worn her threadbare. She has only her naked self to give now, and all that it may entail. Herself and someone else.

Jesus. Someone else.  

Painful enlightenment forces him to soften his earlier declaration of despondency with practiced analysis. She looks as though if she speaks, she will cry. And he won’t do that to her.

“I just uh…I’m having a little trouble processing…everything.” And though basic and uncouth, it feels like the most organic thing he’s expressed yet. This, at least, is unadulterated truth. He beings to speak again, having felt like he’s gained at least some ground but she interrupts him.

“I um…” her gaze is on the floor and her expression is incredulous. It seems she too, is struggling to process, “I…I need a minute I’m sorry..” he rises out of instinct to go to her but she holds up her hand in reproach and escapes towards his bedroom. Like Pavlov’s dog, she elicits an classically conditioned response by her motion and he stays, dutiful, waiting on his next command.

He can’t help but notice the protective way she cradles her unborn as she hurries away.

In his heart of hearts he knows that this child is his. How many times on the couch in this room? One memory in particular comes unbidden. The salt and tang of the succulent flesh between her legs, pummeling into her and the helpless yelp of his given name triggering his instant release. He’d wanted her to get pregnant that night. Many times. Felt he could will it into existence beyond reason. He could make their own miracle, faith be damned, if he fucked her hard enough, came hard enough. He’d wanted to brand her from the inside out. Damned right he’d wanted this.

What is it they say about having everything you ever wanted? If he lost it now, would that feel like freedom? Is that why he wants so desperately to run right now? He wants darkness, and quiet, and constant noise. He wants to be left alone and held and he wants mostly not to feel as though he’s just jumped from a plane with no parachute and no notion of when or if he will land. His stomach pitches again, causing him to salivate.

The flush of the toilet brings him to attention and she returns, slightly flushed and with composure clearly only gained within the last few moments. She hadn’t noticed the last smear of her mascara. He’s made her cry, and he kicks himself internally. She doesn’t resume her place on the other side of the room though. She continues slowly, and purposefully to him, but she does not reach out. His heart thuds against his ribcage and he swallows against the fear of her next words. She fears them herself, its evident in the way she takes a calming breath and speaks to his clavicle.

“I need you know Mulder,”

Oh God. It’s mine isn’t it….. It isn’t mine. She’s about to tell me. This is it…

She swallows her apprehension and continues, “I know what it’s like…to come back…from an experience and feel…out of place.” Her name begins to form on his mouth. Her gaze is still cast carefully downward but ever the empath, she interrupts his sensed rebuttal and continues, forcing him to listen.

“But I need you to know,” and with those words her eyes fix upon his own. He remembers her now. Knows this look. Her eyes are wide enough that he notices the whites of them glisten. They are brimming with integrity and honesty and deep, abiding love.

Their history crashes over him in waves, roaring above the static of his confusion. Like wedded vows, her words ring pure and true and timeless, the look on her face then the same as it is now.

“I’m not a part of any agenda…you’ve got to trust me…”

“Mulder I wouldn’t put myself on the line for anybody but you..”

“I just knew….”

“Mulder *fight* him…”

“I wouldn’t change a day.”

“Nothing happens in contradiction to nature, only to what we know of it…”

“If we quit now, they win…”

“ …personal interest is all that I have. And if you take that away than there is no reason for me to continue.”

“And you are mine…”

A heaviness surrounds him, a soothing, gentle, bone-deep pressure. It pulls him downwards, the centrifugal force of her gaze pitching him into the dark pool of her iris and he feels finally, finally grounded, secure in memory and the totality of gravity, the finality of arrival.

“…when you are ready, I’ll be here,” She pauses, “we’ll be here.”

Tactile sensation has found its way back, and he realizes that his palms have subconsciously come to rest on the ripened crest of her form. He feels the roll and flutter of life beneath; it is as real and tangible as it is supposed to be. It feels like hope.


My Saviour - The First Fight

A/N: Doctor Dean is back!!! This was a drabble request from Kari aka @thing-you-do-with-that-thing, hope you like it. Betaed by the wonderful @thorne93

Characters: Dean x Reader

Warnings: Angst. Fighting. Insecurities. And a tiinsy bit of fluff at the end.

Wordcount: 2100 (I know it’s not a drabble)

Request:  I am a sucker for angst! Can I get a drabble or one shot for My Savior that’s Y/N and Dean’s first fight and Dean gets pissed and yells at her. The boy does have a temper but it is bound to scare the shit out of Y/N and make Dean feel so guilty. Fluffy ending please :D

Originally posted by sooper-dee-dooper-natural

Dean parked the Impala in the parking lot outside of your shared apartment. He was still settling into his new job in San Jose, and even though he loved it there, there was a lot to learn and he had to learn fast.

It was 7am and he had been at work for sixteen hours straight. Four people had been rushed into the emergency room just as he was about to go home, car accident, and they had needed him there. They were all kids in their early twenties, three of them had gotten away with minor injuries, but the driver had died. This wasn’t the first patient of Dean’s that had died, but that didn’t mean that it didn’t get to him. He had to sit down with this boy’s parents and tell them that their son didn’t make it. The mother was in shock, so much so that there wasn’t a single tear, all she had wondered was what she would do next, they only had one child, and now he was gone. Dean had to fight his own tears as he left the two parents.

He tried to collect himself a little before opening the door. As soon as he did, his nose filled with the scent of pancakes and bacon and he could hear you rummaging around in the kitchen. He leaned on the frame of the doorway, watching you cook, a content sigh leaving him.

Keep reading

Hotel California Chapter 4: Seeing is Believing

Dean Winchester x Reader

1100 Words

Story Summary: After an unfortunate incident at work, you take a couple of days for yourself, planning on staying at the nice restaurant at the edge of town. There you meet a handsome green eyed man who comes to your rescue when you’re visited by a ghost.

Catch Up Here: Masterpost

If Dean was still by the door than who was standing behind you? Not exactly sure you wanted to find out, you still found yourself slowing turning. Getting ready to face whatever had goosebumps rising on your skin, the hair standing on your neck. Whatever you had expected, it wasn’t the shimmering, ethereal person in front of you.  She was about your height, with long, curly, black hair that cascaded down her back. Dressed in a long white nightgown, she flickered like a candle, as if she was having trouble staying visible.

You stared at her, transfixed, barely noticing that she was raising her arm, the lace on her nightgown flowing with the movement, her hand getting closer and closer to your chest. “Who are you?” You asked her, hearing heavy footsteps from the other end of the room. But you couldn’t look to see if it was Dean. This woman had you entranced, as if in a spell.

Keep reading

And the Hardest Part is Letting Go

// a/n: wow, hi everyone, it’s been a long time. i’m sorry i’ve been gone for so long, writing inspiration never stays for long enough for me to get things out and school doesn’t exactly help. but anyway, this isn’t a peter parker imagine like mine have been so far; sorry if that was what you were looking for! i decided to try writing for a fandom i’ve been in for a while but have never written for: voltron: legendary defender. anyway, i wrote this at 2 in the morning yesterday, so i hope you guys enjoy! (i’ll probably post a part 2 if you like it)

// pairings: mentioned keith x lance

// summary: And then he realized, startlingly, that the water here was the same color as the ocean of Varadero beach. It was almost like he was home, Lance thought, a bittersweet calm finally settling over him.


Lance supposed it was poetic, in a cruel sort of way.

Ever since he’d left Earth and become a paladin of Voltron, the thought of death hadn’t felt as far away as it once did. He was fighting against a galactic empire–one that had ruled the galaxy for centuries–and accidents happened. There were always casualties in war. The likelihood of dying was a reality as cold as the ice from his lion’s mouth, and Lance had slowly begun to accept this throughout his time as a paladin.

But he hadn’t imagined that it would happen like this.

This was supposed to be his element. The water. The calming blue of the sea billowing around him, the sound of waves that meant letting go of all his worries. Conjuring up memories of the ocean had always made him feel safe, at home, but now he was here, frigid water swallowing him whole as the weight shackled to his ankles pulled him further into the depths.

He was not going to die here.

He struggled. If nothing else, Lance fought, bubbles of precious air escaping his lips as he kicked against the chains around his feet until his legs ached, pulled against the bounds clamping his wrists together until his skin stung with the chaffing of metal and the salt from the sea. He struggled and struggled, and helplessness sunk into his chest; he had nothing, barely any armor, no bayard, no lion, none of his team to help him.

Shiro would find a way out, nagged a cold voice in the back of Lance’s mind. But Shiro was Shiro; Shiro was strong and brave and resourceful and powerful and he was everything Lance wanted to be and never would be. Lance was just…Lance, and he could not think of a way to get out of this.

He didn’t want to die here.

Not under the water, not alone. His comms had long since been destroyed, and there was no one, no one, just the empty sound of the water rushing into his ears and the soft beating of his own heart. Lance had thought–had hoped–that when he died, he would at least have someone there with him.

His team, his friends. His family. He didn’t want to die alone.

He wondered, distantly, if they’d ever find his body.

He wondered if they’d take it back to Earth. He hoped that they would, and that it might, at the very least, provide his family with some semblance of closure.

And then, it returned, like it always did when he thought of home–that crushing weight of guilt on his chest when he thought of how he’d abandoned his family, the sickening despair that came from being away from them for so long. He’d clung to the thought of seeing them again, but now, all he could do was picture their faces in his mind, imagine the sound of their voices. He wanted, more than anything, to be back home again, the warm smell of his mama’s cooking and her favorite vanilla scented candles filling the house as he and his siblings sipped lemonade on the porch and watched the water. The sweet, melodic sounds of his sister singing Hispanic tunes reverberating through the walls and how he used to join in, their voices making perfect harmony as they’d sing for the rest of their siblings or their cousins and neighbors and joy would light up the street.

Lance wondered if his sister still sang now.

They say that the first thing you forget about a person is their voice, but he would never forget theirs.

He wished, with all his heart, that he had been able to hear them one last time.

Instead, his body sunk further down into the blue.

It was cold, enough that his toes and fingers had lost feeling. It was so very cold that he thought that even if he did somehow make it out of this alive, the chill would never quite leave his bones. It had settled too far within him; his veins were like ice and his head…his head…

His head was light, and felt strangely empty–and in Keith’s voice, he heard a teasing jibe that it was not very strange at all, and he wanted to smile despite everything. There was pressure scraping the sides of his skull, clamping down hard, and his lungs felt constricted as pain sparked in front of his eyes. It hurt like hell to be holding his breath for so long.

He’d imagined drowning as peaceful. Easy.

Maybe it would be, if he would just let go.

But no, he couldn’t, for his family, for his team, for his friends, for…for Keith.

The thought almost surprised him. For Keith…he’d known, subconsciously, that the feelings towards him were far more than friendship, or even the schoolboy crush they had once been. Now he wanted, more than anything, to admit this aloud, to finally voice the thoughts he’d been grappling with for so long. But instead of the fiery heat that always came with thoughts of Keith, he now felt only emptiness in his chest.

Stupid, stupid Lance, he cursed himself mentally for spending so long on a pointless rivalry.

Now you’ll never get to tell him.

He wished…

But then, the time for wishing was long past. He would hold on for as long as he could, that much, he was sure of, but after that there would be nothing more.

He tried to picture some sort of light at the end of the tunnel, but all he could see was darkness. The crippling pressure surrounded him on all sides, pressing against his body and making everything yell in protest.

He wanted it to be over.

He closed his eyes and thought of home. He thought of the rain, the sky and the stars. The bright green of Pidge’s sweater, the soft teal glow from Blue’s control panel, Hunk’s orange bandana tails and his mother’s brown hair and Keith’s beautiful, beautiful purple eyes.

And then he realized, startlingly, that the water here was the same color as the ocean of Varadero beach. It was almost like he was home, Lance thought, a bittersweet calm settling over him.

Maybe this wasn’t the worst place to die after all.

Slowly, his body went numb.

The world faded.

And after that, he was only dimly aware of the garbled sounds of a gun firing over him, the tug of familiar arms around his waist, the weight leaving his ankles as warmth surrounded him.

Then he knew no more.

anonymous asked:

Could you explain how boredom works with ADHD? I don't understand how I could get bored during e.g. car journeys - the view outside changes all the time from signs to read, trees to marvel at, etc, I'm probably singing a Christmas carol in my head, planning my birthday party and wondering how to make lemon meringue pie. How could I be bored when there's so much going on inside my head? But when there's many activities I could do I'll often get bored because none of them seems interesting enough.

Sometimes “bored” means “I can’t move enough and scenery is scenery, you’ve seen one tree you’ve seen them all”; sometimes it means “I don’t know what to do right now”; and sometimes it means “doing stuff is hard even when I want to do something.” From what I can tell, the neurotypical definition of “bored” is different from the ADHD definition, because our experience of what we can do that is actually interesting is vastly different.


“I mean, I miss you”

Whatever you do don’t think about how much it took for Lena to say that.

“This is new for me too.”
“What being a great friend?”
“No, having friends.”

Don’t think about Lena eating lunch surrounded by co-workers and influential people but not having anyone to actually converse with and appreciate on a deeper level than professionalism.

Or Lena stood on her balcony on Friday nights when the city is alive with rosy-cheeked families and hang-outs with friends and she’s all alone, wondering what its must be like.

Don’t think about the anxiety that must’ve eaten her up when Kara, the only one, stopped talking and spending time with her.

DO think about the unabashed, pure honesty shared between these two people. That no matter how hard it is to reveal to someone how lonely you actually are, and how much you ache to be with them, Lena is brave enough to do so.

This relationship is the only thing they’re doing right on Supergirl (yes they have managed to fuck up even Sanvers). This is the kind of representation people should take from. A healthy friendship that goes through hell but always seems to find its way back. One built on trust. One where both are leaning onto each other for support and its OKAY if one falters under the others weight, just as long as they’re there and you feel you truly matter.

There are so many Lena’s I know of. People who aren’t valued. People who ache down to their bones to have someone to share their music with and be weird around but they just can’t do so because of one thing or another.

We don’t “ship” these two for their chemistry alone. There is so much difficulty and complex undertones in both women that pair so well. It would be such a beautiful, healthy romantic relationship if given the chance. 

That’s why.

anonymous asked:

Woe to whoever would be crazy or stupid enough to attempt to assassinate Fire Lord Zuko when Fire Lady Katara is around. >:)

OmiholyKyoshi, Can you even IMAGINE such a wonderful thing!?!

Because like, Zuko and the entire court would probably fall in love with her all over again. Like, the royal body guards wouldn’t even realize what had just happened until they see someone suddenly frozen to a wall or something. If they were lucky.  Like, Katara’s  badassery surpasses all levels known to men. Like, can you imagine witnessing such an incredible level of ass-whopping? 

Because I know for a fact my soul  would probably just ascent to heaven afterwards. 

Something I’ve Noticed

There are a stunning lack of people concerned about the right here and now. No one really asks “can I fix this trait about myself” or “what do I need to do to be better” or whatever. It’s always either questions regarding the past like “do they miss me” “do they regret leaving me” “do they still love me” or it’s about the future with “who will I marry” “are they going to ask me out” “what am I doing in 10 years” 

And there’s nothing wrong with that!! But holy, no wonder so many people are upset with their lives or anxious. You need to learn to live for yourself, not for others. Does it matter what someone from your past thinks about you? You’ve changed from then, and they’re in the past for a reason. You want to be with someone? Don’t fret over it, go for it!!! You’ll never know if you don’t try! 

Like idk, I just wish more people were confident enough to like get out there I guess. We let fear hold us back so much, and it’s really sad.


                    i’ve had this blog for what    ╾╾    three to four days    ╾╾    and there’s already 100+ of you little  (    yet wonderful   )  shits following this blog ?    so many amazingly talented people ???    following my good    made to shitpost    motherly blog ???    aw hell to the no !    y’all gotta get outta here !!!    I’M KIDDING,    i’m kidding !    i love and appreciate every last one of you,    even if we may not speak ooc or have a thread going yet.    trust me,    it’s a scientifically proven fact.    but anyways,    enough of my rambling !    it’s time to    ╾╾    kick katsuki out of my god damn house    ╾╾    i mean,    roll out the red carpet !

Keep reading

anonymous asked:

hey there! i've been following your blog for a while and I was wondering whether you have any tips for studying in a noisy environment? i don't have my own room at home, so i usually end up studying in the living room because that's where the desktop computer is... but my siblings are always walking past and it's seriously so distracting :( any tips?

Hi there!! Thank you for asking, my brother actually faces this problem because his bedroom isn’t large enough for his desk, and he also can’t study even when there’s a small amount of noise, poor guy. Here are some tips from both of us

  • Let your family members know when you need a little peace and quiet to really hustle and get some intense studying done. Sometimes they just aren’t aware that they’re being distracting. If I know my brother needs to study, I’ll watch TV some other time, or listen to music with earphones
  • This is super helpful for yourself as well, because you know that you’ll only be getting an hour or two of peace and quiet, which is a great motivator. If you only have one thing to finish the whole day, you’ll probably get it done; if you add a few more things, odds are you’ll adjust the time you have and get those done too!
  • Wear over-ear headphones on the regular if you’re doing less demanding homework to concentrate 
  • Wait until later at night when some of your family members have gone to bed to nut out the worst assignments. I’m more of a morning person compared to my brother, so he will usually wait until I head to sleep to get his work done. He knows he can’t really get much done if there’s noise, so as a result he gets all of his work done within 1-2 hours and has the rest of the day where he just does cursory reading. 
  • Likewise, wake up an hour early to get your work done then if the rest of your family members are late risers. 
  • Try and study at the local library if you can, or finish off your work before you head home from school/uni. Everyone wants to get home quickly, so if you promise to yourself that you’ll finish your homework before heading home, you can bet that will light a fire underneath you!!
  • Try new study spaces! I made a list here and here
  • Try and acclimatise to noisy environments as a last resort. I know not everyone can do this, but you can try filling your study space with the kind of noise that you like instead; play your favourite music softly on a speaker and try and train yourself. 
    • Start with easy homework that’s mainly repetitive and doesn’t require thinking or planning e.g. copying notes that are just too messy to study from. 
    • Move onto revision materials that don’t require rote learning e.g. summarising paragraphs from the textbook. 
    • Finally try and rote learn things with music on, which will be the hardest. Don’t worry if you can’t get this one, I still can’t do it. 
    • You’ll find that you can get at least some types of work done with noise in the background!! Hopefully this will help if you have just tooooooo much work to get done in a day!

Hope these tips help!! Let me know how you go!! ^_^

anonymous asked:

I have #noshame but enough shame to hide on anon lol... What are software do you use and are you comfortable posting your brush settings? I just really like your art and have been experimenting with brushes and different softwares but can't find any I like so... 100% okay if you don't wanna post 'em though. Thanks and have a wonderful day you lovely individual

oh yeah sure! i use paint tool sai! and i don’t mind sharing my brushes, though i don’t have anything fancy? and i just use three main brushes, my rough sketch, my clean up, and my lining brush!

\ovo/ feel free to experiment with other things too and i have one more tool i use for painting!

it blends nice!

waiting rooms

Pacing about the room
I wonder if magic could exist.
What else could have the power
to slow a clock like this?
A symphony of broken sounds;
a beep a cry a laugh
this place is like another world
one with ghost-like matching staff.
Coffee cups hold the drink of Gods;
it’s powers are unequaled
with every heated sip you’ll see
zombies become like people.
If you stay there long enough,
try to name the fish
there’s a secret I once heard;
each bubble is a wish.
Just be careful with the prayers
you send in watered spheres
the fey that run this sterile place
will play with words unclear.
Don’t ask for things like silence
because for some of us the sounds
have come to be a comfort;
they mean you’re still around.
Do you know of where I speak?
The place of fluorescent lights?
If not you likely will someday
because health and life are finite.
Good luck till then, my unknown friend
I hope we never meet
anonymity is better than
a waiting room, agreed?


I’ve stopped with Inktober

So first of all, there are a lot of OCs of mutuals I’d still like to draw. You all have wonderful and beautiful characters and I’m really sorry if anyone had hoped for me to draw their character.

I’ve managed 16 days, that’s half the time and it’s enough for me. If you’d like to know why I stopped and you don’t mind me ranting, you can click “keep reading”.

Keep reading

@zackass1 Sure they do, but trans kids are the ones who are abused, bullied ridiculed for being themselves. Trans kids don’t get enough love which is why I made this post. So before you go assuming I’m excluding all kids from a wonderful day, I’m merely pointing out the massive different in respect trans and cis kids get.

anonymous asked:

What's your schedule for the days of the week? (mark mondays etc)

As it stands:
Markiplier Monday
Trimmer Tuesday
Wilford Wednesday
Thursday Adventures
Friendly Friday
Septic Saturday
Split Sunday (with the addition of NateLight and it’s a working theme name for the time being)

I’m actually considering changing Tuesday and Wednesday. Yes the names work wonderfully and Wilford is large enough to warrant his own day, but an anon asked (in a thing I didn’t post yet) why those two were the only ones getting their own special days?

So now I’m wondering how we can change it up and make Tuesday and Wednesday available for other egos than just those boys.

*You hear gunshots*
Stuff it Wilford! You get plenty of attention!

Anyways. I’d like you guys to kind of spitball with me on how we can change things up for Tuesday and Wednesday.

I’m just taking a break from practicing drums to post this. I’m going back to it now and after I’ll get back to the asks. 💖


Today it’s a super special important day and of course I couldn’t miss it so I had to celebrate somehow my walking talking sunshine’s birthda but there’s nothing better than celebrating such an important date than with my family and my Mika @littlxlamb right?

Literally for anyone who follows me for some time already, everyone knows how Yuu has changed my life, how he allowed me to meet Nia and all these wonderful friends in here and in real life too so I’ll never be grateful enough to this character. He’s goal for me, he’s the one reminding me every day how I should never give up on kindness no matter of how life might be hard, how I gotta roll up my sleeves and work hard for those I care for, how family should be treasured no matter what SO THANK YOU SO MUCH YUU FOR BEING ALL OF THAT FOR ME! The world doesn’t deserve Yuu h elp 

Technically in the manga if I am not wrong he should be 13 now, one year after being saved from Sanguinem, one year after meeting Guren, one year after he had lost his family, one year of struggling and of fighting against his nightmares and his own sorrow- I just hope there will come that day when Yuu will finally get to have a shortcake to share with all of his family, WITH MIKA TOO!!

anonymous asked:

I was wondering if I might ask your help on something. I've been designing my own pantheon for a dnd world. In this world all the gods are supposed to have dualistic natures. Either two domains that contradict each other, love and war for example, or some kind of hypocrisy between the god and what they do. My goddess of justice is currently one who plays favorites but that doesnt sound like enough for me. Have you any recommendations on how to make a justice god more dualistic?

Hmm. Justice and corruption would be the way I would go, both as opposition and as hypocrisy. It would be a circle that constantly purifies and taints itself, mirroring the human attempt to create just societies and wrestling with the all too human aspects that would corrode it.