just writing i guess

Honestly? Shoutout to those of you who are completely fucking lost in life. Those who don’t know what they want to do with life. Those who are stuck in a certain part of life and can’t get out. Those who are reaching for dreams they feel are impossible to reach. Those who feel like they’re accomplishments are being overlooked. Those who feel like their enough just isn’t enough. It is. You can make it. You will make it. There is an opening at the end of the tunnel.

What if...

“Plagg, claws out.”

“Huh? Wait, Adrieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee—!”

-

He’s so tired. So dead tired.

He’s so tired that he can barely function.

Still, as the model Agreste son, he has to make sure to uphold his image, just as his father taught him.

So he straightens his back and adjusts the strap of his backpack against his shoulder, and enters the classroom.

His classmates are all quiet but he doesn’t mind. He’s too sleepy to care.

He stifles a yawn and takes his seat next to Nino, giving him a casual, “hey.”

“Uhh?” Nino responds blankly.

Huh, he must be sleepy too. What a true bro.

He turns around to greet Marinette and Alya.

Alya is gaping and has her hand out like she’s texting on her phone. But her phone seems to have fallen on her desk.

Marinette is staring at him like he’d grown fifty-seven heads and laid an egg.

Seems just like usual then.

“Good morning,” he says to them, hoping the smile he offers them doesn’t look too tired.

Marinette’s eyes widen like he just sprouted an additional fifty-eighth head.

He has no energy to contemplate that so he turns around and lays his head on his desk, hoping to catch a few Z’s before roll-call.

And it’s roll-call that wakes him only a few minutes later.

“Adrien Agreste,” the voice of Miss Bustier calls out.

So he raises his hand and says—

And then he is jolted awake when Marinette starts screaming from behind him.


What if… Adrien was so sleepy that he just walks into class as Chat Noir?

Marichat May (What If…)

3:50 pm

Every Friday at exactly 3:50 pm Draco makes sure to kiss Harry.

Every Friday. He hasn’t been late once either. Because Draco always drops everything he’s doing, no matter what he’s doing, to go and look for Harry. It’s not that easy sometimes. Harry has a job that, unlike Draco’s, requires him to actually leave the house. Whenever Draco shows up at his workplace, Harry’s face lightens up. He has never complained about Draco interrupting his work. Not once.

Even when they’re fighting and they’re both in a bad mood, they briefly forget about it when it’s 3:50 on a Friday. Like right now. They had an argument last night about Harry getting a motorcycle. Draco just doesn’t get why Harry would want to spend that much money on something that will probably kill him. They both fell asleep with a scowl on their face and they didn’t talk while eating breakfast. Harry left the house while Draco was reading the paper.

But now, as Draco stands in front of him, Harry is smiling at him fondly. Merlin, Draco just never tires of that smile. Even after all these years.

He glances at the clock and sees it’s 3:49. His eyes find Harry’s and they hold so much love, it makes Draco shudder. He takes Harry’s hands in his and pulls him closer. When his lips brush Harry’s, a familiar feeling washes over him. It’s warm and invigorating, reassuring and exhilarating. Kissing Harry will never fail to consume and mesmerize Draco.

Harry leans away again and brushes his thumb over Draco’s cheek.

“I still have a bit of work to do, but I’ll try to be home early, okay?”

“Okay,” Draco whispers, his eyes still closed.

He feels Harry kiss the tip of his nose and can’t help but grin. He pulls Harry back into a tight embrace and relishes the feeling of Harry’s body shaking against his, as Harry laughs out loud.

“I love our Friday afternoon kisses,” Harry murmurs.

“I love them, too.”

Draco really does. Because it was 3:50 pm on a Friday afternoon when Harry Potter said “I do” and kissed Draco for the first time as his husband.

I wonder why each little bird has a someone to sing to

i got a few requests for a companion piece to the gifts of beauty and song, my retold sleeping beauty fairytale, so here you go

so maleficent is the good fairy here, right, and the three fairies are the bad ones, so like fae do they each appear to be what they’re not. and aurora, given fae gifts and raised by fae, is nearly fae herself. maleficent knows that only an elf could hope to sway a fae heart, because elves are impervious to their glamour. maleficent kidnaps the young prince philip, and brings him to the elven realm. she tries to bargain a prince for a prince, but the king is unswayed. a human prince, he declared, is only worth an elvish servant, so that’s what she gets.

maleficent takes the servant and puts him in philip’s place, gives him that name, and watches as the servant elf is made a prince among mortals, watches as he eventually captures aurora’s heart, and saves her from her living death. watches as the elf servant turned prince becomes a king, as the almost-fae princess aurora becomes queen, and their two kingdoms become one and they rule the land of men together.

this, of course, begs the question – what happens to our dear human philip?

he is not the first child that has been bargained away to the elves, and elf queen thalia settles the young boy on her hip and raises an eyebrow at her husband, waiting. the child awakens by degrees, until he’s clutching her neck and blinking at the gathered elves. thalia is only grateful that he hasn’t started screaming, like so many of his kind do.

normally the children that are bargained to them are put to work in the castle, where they’re safe, where their clumsiness and their ignorance and their mistakes will be glossed over, where she and the king will ensure they will be politely ignored rather than harassed. they’ve lost a servant boy, and so she’s sure a servant boy is what this young human is meant to become.

except a woman of the court steps forward, and she’s old, old enough that it shows, that her curly hair has gone silver and wrinkles are etched deep in her face. lady ember is older than the forests they reside in, is older than her grandmother, than her great grandmother. everyone’s lost track of her exact age, but she’s the oldest elf in village. thalia likes her – she and lady ember have skin of the same dark shade. thalia hopes that if she is to live long enough, she and lady ember would look alike.

“i would like the child,” she says, eyes like amber, and for the moment she appears younger than she ever has. there’s something eager in her, and it brings a life to her that thalia hasn’t seen in a long time.

thalia looks to her husband, and king celedor gives a minuscule twitch to his lip which is an equivalent to a shrug. she sets the young human on the ground, and ember holds out a single hand. the child looks behind him, then in front him, and takes cautious steps forward. he steps until he can take her hand, his own looking small and pale in hers. “it’s been a long time since i was able raise a child,” ember says, “i would like to do so again. will you come home with me?”

and thalia understands. elf children take many hundreds of year to mature, and ember would not risk dying on a child before it could take care of itself. but humans are candles that burn at both ends – hot, and fast. within a decade or two the child in front of them will be able to survive on his own, will not need lady ember to coddle him for centuries.

he nods, and finally opens his mouth to say, “i am philip.”

“hello philip,” lady ember smiles, “i am lady ember of the mother tree. now you are lord philip of the ember tree.”

they are elves. they don’t do something as gauche as gasp, but the sentiment comes out just the same. celedor’s mouth drops open a millimeter and thalia’s right index finger twitches. raise a human child like a beloved pet they could all understand – but to adopt one, to truly adopt one that she’d just met and didn’t know and bequeath to him the estate and title the noble name of the mother tree?

lady ember leads her new son away, and the gathered elves can do nothing but stare.

~

prince elion – eli, to everyone who doesn’t want the prince of the elves nursing a personal grudge against them – comes home in the dead of night, when he can slip past the guards and the fawning people on the street and sneak into the royal quarters.

“mother,” he greets as he enters the library. his father sleeps early, but his mother doesn’t go to bed until nearly dawn. he kneels by her side, and she runs a hand through his hair, tugging the leather tie off when it gets in her way. his mass of dark curly hair tumbles around his head, and as he shakes it out leaves other debris fall out. thalia sighs, but doesn’t remark on it.

“your hunt went well?” she asks, although she knows the answer. eli is one of the best hunters in the kingdom, and his hunting parties – comprised of the strongest and best among the noble families – are notoriously profitable.

he grins, teeth extra white against his skin, “of course, mother. did anything interesting happen while i was away?”

“the faerie maleficent came and bargained away a human prince,” she says, “she wanted you in return. your father gave her a servant boy instead.”

eli laughs, too loud and boisterous, in a way he would never allow himself to laugh around his father or his subjects.

~

philip thinks perhaps he should be screaming, or crying, or causing some sort of fuss about this new life and this old woman who insists she’s his mother now. but he’s never had a mother before, and this new place is beautiful. they live in palace carved out of an enormous tree – the mother tree that their name comes from – and philip is given a lot more freedom as an elf lordling than he was as a prince.

he hopes the boy who took his place is nice to his father, and doesn’t mind long evenings with only the servants for company. being a prince can be very lonely. he knows from experience.

ember gives him rooms and toys, but warns him that he has a lot of work ahead of him. as a human, he’s at a severe disadvantage here at the elf court. elves are faster than humans, stronger and smarter and wiser. “it sounds to me,” philip says, “that maybe they’re just older. if i had hundreds of years, I could be all those things too.” ember’s eyes crinkle at the corners when she smiles, and he returns it.

philip knows hard work. he was set to rule a whole nation, was set to lead whole armies. he knows training and learning and patience. learning to become an elf lord seems like it will be a lot easier than being a human king.

lady ember and her servants are harsh, but fair. in their home, in the mother tree, he is a pampered lord. out of it, however – he acquires many scars from training, from falling and failing. ember and her staff run him ragged into the ground, because he must be able to keep up with elves.

they have hundreds and hundreds of years to practice, to become strong and smart and fast. philip doesn’t have that long, so his mother forces him to do more, train harder, learn faster than would be expected of any elf.

so he learns. the first time he beats his trainer at an archery competition, he feels a swell of pride like nothing he’s felt before. as he inches his way to the level of his teachers, and then surpasses them, the feeling stays.

they’ve always been kind to him. but as his skill grows, they come to respect him, and that’s far more valuable.

~

eli hears of the human that lady ember of the mother tree took as her own – of course he does, it’s all anyone can talk about. but he doesn’t actually get a chance to see the boy, because lady ember keeps him safe on her lands, in her tree that none of them dare trespass on. so he assumes, like many, that she keeps him coddled and safe, away from those who would seek him harm, away from a world that would seek him harm.

then, two decades from when she gave young philip her name, lady ember finds him at court. she tilts her head, and he bows. he may be higher in rank, but he was raised to respect his elders, and lady ember is certainly that. “prince eli,” she says, “your next hunt is coming up, isn’t it?”

“yes, my lady,” he answers, wondering if she has a request. he doesn’t mind tracking down a certain type of meat or pelt for her – he likes the challenge, and likes lady ember.

she smiles at him, and for some reason he feels as if he’s staring into the jaws of a dragon. “excellent. might my son join you? he grows bored of hunting on his own.”

the last thing in the world eli wants to do is keep an eye on a bumbling, spoiled human. but this human is also the lord of the mother tree, and he can think of no response that wouldn’t bring his mother’s wrath down on his head. “of course, lady ember.”

Keep reading

So yeah maybe I ran out of questions but you ran out of answers.
where the fuck were you when i was half drowned in a bottle of whiskey just asking for a text back?
where the fuck were you when life crawled under my skin and tore itself out from the inside?
where the fuck were you when I was going through it last November and you said looking at pain this close made you uncomfortable?
where do you get off with telling me I shouldn’t talk to him and that he’s bad and he only cares about one thing when the only goddamn time you were interested in me is when my clothes were off and yours were too
look at this game we played because it never was that to me but you only just now put your cards down so you could hold her fucking hand and
i can’t be mad about it I can’t feel it in my chest like a jolt of electricity i can’t beg for you to come back when you were never even here so
yeah
maybe i ran out of questions
but only when you stopped fucking answering them.
—  so block me again we’re not even friends– lily rain

jyonzu  asked:

I can't believe keith is so emo he writes emo notes to his missing bf and puts them on his wall so he can look at them and feel more emo!!!

the end phrase of both notes are DEFINITELY repeated. 

like…. okay. maybe the animators just copy and pasted the text twice onto multiple notes but ….. there are things that have been torn off that wall too. and there are things that just kind of make me think it isn’t and keith has written this out multiple times. it’s just really interesting tbh….. 

also a few things worth consideration to build on this whole discussion and it’s all to do with the speech inflection + phrasing of words: 

  • “where -…were you”. the inflection there is so damn significant you can hear his voice cracks it’s like the words are pouring out and he has to stop himself like if you listen a few times you can hear he kind of stops it’s v short and quick like after saying “where” then there’s a slight pause and he continues. paired with his troubled expression it really does highlight something vulnerable in his face here.
  • “i was kinda… lost, and found myself drawn out to this place” 

well that’s a pretty deep frown. nOW THIS IS SOMETHING I REALLY WANT TO TALK ABOUT THOUGH. bc keith does hesitate for a slight second and it’s really damn significant when he does this with his speech even if it’s slight bc keith is so direct and pretty imperative when he speaks like sometimes he even chops out words from sentences to keep momentum and get to the point faster, and he doesn’t often falter (im not talking about the stuttering he does sometimes which is often paired with lying or averting the truth - that’s a different Zone of his speech). 

i mean times where he hesitates in a context that is painted quite emotional and keith is the focus of the scene for the audience. there are a few key times this has happened and it’s like !!!!!! WOAH!!!! bc it says so much and this is more of Mini Version of these which is really exciting to me bc keith breaking his usual speech patterns and deviating even for a second says a lot imo. also we should take into account what his expression looked like before he started talking about Himself and his personal situation following the loss of shiro: 

once he mentions garrison: 

you can see a few things happening most notably his eyebrows creasing, and eyes no longer look up but casting down. you can’t really see it with the shots but if you play the frames back his head does actually tilt down too. 

easiest to kind of see here. he goes from looking up to looking down both with his head and eyes. 

also look at that collar jfc keith ily 

  • “then you showed up” 

there’s a bit of a pause here where they look at each other and silence falls. shiro breaks eye contact very deliberately with keith whilst keith keeps his eyes fixed on shiro: 

idk about anyone else here but to me at least it looks like shiro is considering for a second the impact of his absence on keith. like the way his eyes shift and his expression changes it looks like he’s piecing something together himself here. 

then shiro kind of flounders, turning to the others to introduce himself if you hear how he’s speaking he doesn’t actually sound that confident until the end of his sentence “i should-… thank you all” . 

he also mirrors exactly what keith does with “where-..were you” / which is slowing down and pausing at the start of the sentence before putting it back together. so it’s plausible to suggest that what he’s seen here/ what he’s thinking about has clearly made some sort of impression on him enough to throw him off for a second. 

yes granted we have to take into account everything the day has had in store for him, but it’s the Considering Look + everything about these frames that makes sense for it to be linked to keith’s words. 

so yeah. i think the notes are repeated intentionally and keith wrote it out twice. it’s clear that whilst he really endured and kept going, whilst he did some incredible work out in the desert and tried to realign his focus and channel his chaotic energy and direction into something (this is something i really wanna meta on hardcore hhHHHh) he was obviously shaken and affected deeply by the loss of shiro from his life. 

basically we see a pattern here for these scenes and a few more at the start of S1E1, and that’s the fact that every time the conversation turns to shiro’s return keith’s voice changes and his expression softens you can hear it. you can see it. all im saying is that it shows sincere open emotions and care. 

1. You look at a map of a city you’ve never been to.
You see patterns and street names and they tell you nothing. The map remains dead, the city unknown.
2. You go to the city you’ve never been to.
It becomes a city you know.
3. You look at a map of a city you’ve been to, but have left behind. As you look at the map, you remember.
You are looking at nostalgia. You walk through street names and remember the taste of cake in the café whose name you forgot, but you remember its yellow walls and comfy chairs. A square is no longer four lines on a map, but an open space with people and statues and laughter and a fountain in the center. The monotonous, two-dimensional blue that indicates an ocean turns into postcard memories, so many shades of blue and green and the smell of salt and fish. The famous building with the famous name that everyone knows is now a personal experience, it is yours and yours alone in a way that will never make it anyone else’s. A billion feet have walked these (now familiar) paths and two of them were yours. You can trace the steps you have taken and you remember feelings and colours and strangers who offered you a smile. There is the hostel you slept in, there is the river you crossed so many times, there is the corner where you listened to the most amazing street musician. You fondly whisper street names that you had trouble pronouncing when you first spoke them, clumsily. You connect dots, and they turn to images in your head.
The map is alive, the city an old friend.
4. The map you look at is always the same; the perception is different. It is you who has changed.
—  p.s. // every time i look at a map I have a feeling that is hard to put into words

Dean wakes up drenched in sweat.

It’s the same nightmare again. He should have gotten used to it by now. But how’s he supposed to get used to the blade piercing Cas’s heart, the flash of his dying grace, the burnt shadow of his wings? To the discarded rag doll of his body, lifeless on the ground?

Cas dead and gone before Dean could ever tell him—

There’s no getting used to that.

He lies still in the darkness, trying to calm his pounding heart. Telling himself it was just a dream, that it wasn’t real (though it was), that he’s being stupid. All he needs is just a little bit of light or a little bit of comfort and he’ll be alright. It was just a nightmare, after all.

He opts for comfort — it’s so easy to get these days, right there for him to reach out and take it. No questions asked. He turns to the side to search out the outline of a body, hardly visible in the weak, red glow of the alarm clock. He pulls out his hand to find the solidity of his lover.

His palm falls through, down on the wrinkled sheets. His breath catches, just for a moment, but long enough for his thoughts to come racing; he’s not here, he was never here… Even though the warmth still lingers on the mattress.

Dean exhales for a long, long while, eyelids closed and the beams of holy light beneath them. Around his shoulder blades, the tension remains and grows and aches, nagging him to move, just to check, to make sure. Because until he does, it might as well be a lie.

He gives in, sits up, his feet land on the cold floor. His fingers flick the light on. It’s not that much better, after all. He rubs his eyes with the backs of his palms to wipe away the remnants of sleep and of dreaming.

It’s not as middle-of-the-night as he assumed. The red numbers on the clock are soon to strike eight am. Beside it, from a photobooth picture, Cas’s blue eyes glare at him. A corner of Dean’s mouth curls up in a smile. This should be enough.

He still gets up and slips out of the bedroom into the dim corridor. The wing is quiet, as it usually is, but as he approaches the kitchen, clatter of dishes breaks the silence.

Dean reaches the kitchen door, he breathes out, relieved, for the first time this morning believing all is as it should be. There he is, standing by the stove, dark hair sticking out in all directions, Dean’s gray robe wrapped around his body.

“Hey, Cas,” Dean lets out.

It comes out a little more exasperated than he planned, at least that’s what Cas’s concerned expression tells him when the guy turns around.

“Dean?” he asks, brow furrowed. “What’s wrong?”

Dean shakes his head. The question couldn’t be more out of place.

“Nothing,” he says, a wide grin brightening his face. “Not anymore.”

Cas doesn’t let go. He abandons his post at the stove to get closer, reach out to cup Dean’s face.

“Nightmare, again?” It’s more of a statement than a question. How many times has Cas woken up in the middle of the night just to soothe Dean, to rock him back to sleep? “I’m sorry I wasn’t there.”

Dean shrugs. “I’m fine, Cas,” he assures, then softer, as he puts his palm on top of Cas’s, still caressing his cheek, he adds, “Better than fine. I’m perfect.”

With the other hand on the back of Cas’s neck, he pushes forward to lay a kiss on his lips. It’s quick, but it says it all. Thank you, it tells Cas, and, I’m glad you’re here, and, I don’t know what I’d do without you, and, Good morning, too.

And most of all, of course, it says what Dean needed too many long years to tell him.

I love you, Cas.

Waiting

Draco was tired of waiting.

He came to the conclusion that waiting was the biggest waste one could do with their life.

And he had wasted a lot of his life already.

He had waited for his father to acknowledge him, to show him he was proud of his son.

He had waited for his mother to stand up to his father, whenever he had talked her down, whenever he had treated her like less than his wife.

He had waited for his friends to come to his rescue when he had needed them most, to save him from himself.

And he had waited for the stupid prat to notice him. Really notice him. To look beyond the petty insults and his sneering.

For years Draco had been waiting.

He had waited in vain. But not anymore.

Draco was sick of waiting.

What had he even waited for? For him to come to the right conclusion, when Draco hid his true intentions so well? For him to realise what was really going on?

He probably would have to wait forever.

No. He would have to take matters into his own hands. And whyever should he not?

Yes, it was time to act.

Draco focused on the mop of black hair across the Great Hall.

He was sick of waiting.

He got up, marched over to the Gryffindor table and grabbed Potter by his robes. Without waiting for his reaction, Draco started dragging him out of his seat.

There was a yelp and shouts of protest, but Draco didn’t care.

He was so sick of waiting.

“Malfoy, what are you doing?” Potter shouted, shoving at Draco’s hands.

Draco ignored him and dragged him out of the Great Hall.

He could hear Weasley and Granger shout something at him. He heard footsteps behind him, indicating that several people were following him. Potter was still trying to get out of his grip.

Draco had wanted to find a more secluded place to do what he wanted to do next, but when the shouts behind him only got louder, he turned around and glared at them.

“You want to watch? FINE! I don’t even care anymore!”

He tightened his grip on Potter’s robes as he pulled him towards him forcefully.

Because he was so tired of waiting.

His mouth crashed with Potter’s and suddenly everything went silent.

Draco had thought it would be rougher, that Potter would try to fight him more. Apparently he was just shocked. He stiffened as Draco moved his lips against the other boy’s. He buried his hands in his hair like he had dreamed of so many times.

He had waited for this so long. This was it.

Or was it?

Draco suddenly noticed Potter moving and braced himself to be pushed away at any second. Instead, tentative fingers curled around his hips to pull him closer.

Draco was sure there were gasps and murmuring, but he didn’t hear any of it.

His whole mind, his whole body was so consumed by Potter. Potter, who was kissing him back.

Yes. This was what he had been waiting for all this time.

If only he had stopped waiting sooner.

Proposal, Or Something Like That

Thanks for the anonymous reminder, whoever you are ko-fi nonnie. I totally got swept up in my work and life and getting back into the swing of writing (and hopefully finishing my fic) that I kind of forgot about my wonderful ko-fi donators. You guys really helped me out sooooo much and I’m forever grateful.

This goes out to @ladydrace  for your 900-word donation that I extended to 
1292, considering I took so long to get to this. It may not be as fluffy as you expected (I tried, I did, but I’m a angst writer haha), but I hope you enjoy it. Thanks so much, again, dear.

The first time Stiles says it, Derek nearly chokes on a spoonful of ice cream. Which would be a shitty way to die, especially all they’d had to face in the last few years. Especially as the big bad of the week had slowly evolved into the big bad of the month, and the last few months had been completely quiet.

Derek should’ve known to be prepared at any moment. Except, how could anyone be prepared for this?

“God, why aren’t we married yet?” Stiles groans out after taking a giant bite of his ice cream. A little of it spills down Stiles’ arm and he chases it with his tongue, and Derek nearly chokes on his.

He realizes he’s staring at Stiles, his spoon still stuck in his mouth. He quickly rectifies the situation, removing said spoon and giving Stiles one of his best eye rolls.

“Seriously,” Stiles continues, pretty much shoveling the ice cream into his mouth at this point. “If I knew you could cook like this, I would’ve proposed ages ago.”

“It’s not cooking, Stiles,” Derek says. Because that is the easiest thing to focus on. Instead of the way Stiles is moaning around each spoonful, a little dribbling out of his mouth which should not be doing things to Derek.

“You know what I mean.”

He finally looks up, his bowl licked completely clean. And Derek can see the moment his senses come back to him as he blushes and gently places the bowl on the counter in front of him like he hadn’t just had his face shoved in there. He glances mournfully at the hand crank ice cream machine Derek had just purchased.

Derek sighs, pushing away from the counter to pick up Stiles’ bowl and refill it with the remainder of the ice cream. Apparently it was a worthwhile purchase.

“Seriously, marry me?”

****

The second time it happens, Derek is no more prepared for the words, or the images they bring to mind. Images he could never allow himself to dream of because it’s too painful to know it will never happen.

Derek had just been settling into bed with a book he was keen to finish tonight when his phone went off, a ringtone he’d never heard before but had no doubt Stiles had somehow hacked his phone just to add a ridiculous tone for himself. And a quick glance to the screen only proves his point.


With a sigh, Derek leans over and picks up the phone, half tempted to just send him to voicemail. Instead, he answers.

“What do you want, Stiles?” he says in a voice he hopes sounds firm and put out.

“Heeeeeeeeeeeey, Derek,” Stiles singsongs from the other end of the line, like he is just as surprised Derek answered the phone.

Derek sighs again, already pulling back the bedding and grabbing his jeans. “Where are you?”

“Thas not how yersposed to answer the phooooone,” Stiles slurs out, ending with a giggle like he were sharing a joke with himself.

Derek can hear a pounding bassline over the other end of the line and is already running through all the possible bars Stiles could’ve snuck into. He had two more years. Why couldn’t he just be reasonable and just wait.

“I’m coming to pick you up,” Derek says, already halfway down his spiral staircase. “Tell me where you are.”

“Oooooh. My hero.”

**

It’s easy to pick Stiles out over the crowd as he is currently on top of the bar, attempting to dance against one of the pillars. Two of the bartenders are attempting to get him down while another stands back and laughs like this is a regular occurrence, which all Derek knows, it could be.

Before Derek can even cross the room and somehow get Stiles down from his makeshift strip show, Stiles notices him.

“Derek!!!” He shouts, taking one step off the bar and before anyone can do anything, he lands flat on his face.

Somehow, Derek manages to get Stiles into the passenger seat of his car and before he rounds the car to his own seat, he takes Stiles’ hand in his and drains a bit of the pain that Stiles might not feel at the moment, but will most definitely feel in the morning. He’s almost done when Stiles’ other hand lifts and brushes across Derek’s cheek, making him freeze on the spot.

“Will you marry me yet?” Stiles says, his voice oddly clear. He’s staring at Derek with absolute concentration, as if he could will Derek into saying yes.

Derek swallows, his throat having to work extra hard over the lump that seems to have suddenly formed. There’s something in his chest, attempting to crawl out, but he shuts it down. This isn’t…Stiles doesn’t mean anything by it. It’s just….Stiles being Stiles. Stiles being drunk, whatever.

Derek schools his expression before gently rearranging Stiles and placing the seatbelt around him.

“Let’s get you home,” he says before closing the door and rounding the car, too quick to notice the way Stiles’ face pinches in pain.

****

“What do I have to do to get you to say yes?”

Derek nearly brings the hammer down on his hand instead of the nail that was halfway through the fence board he was attempting to repair. He has only a moment to marvel at the fact that Stiles can sneak up on Derek without any of his senses picking up on him, before Stiles is yanking on his shoulder and spinning him around.

His eyebrows are furrowed together, his lips a thin line, and Derek can honestly say he hasn’t seen Stiles this pissed since…he can’t remember when.

“What are…” What was he even talking about? Say yes? To what?

Thankfully Derek doesn’t have to find his words as Stiles is already running over them. “I’ve asked you nicely. Twice now. But you have yet to answer. And maybe I haven’t been the but I haven’t been subtle.”

Derek blinks. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“You’re out here fixing my dad’s fence without even being asked,” Stiles continues as if Derek hadn’t spoken. He’s waving his hands around in a way that makes Derek want to hold them down for everyone’s safety. “You made my absolute most favorite flavor of ice cream without me even asking. You drove twenty minutes out of your way to pick me up from a bar because I was too shitfaced to drive home. How the hell am I supposed to keep my emotions at bay with you doing everything in your power to test them?”

“I don’t…”

“Would you just marry me already?” Stiles says in a huff, full on glaring at Derek by now.

“Okay.”

Stiles looks about ready to go into another rant when the words finally process. He freezes. “O…okay?”

A small smile spreads across Derek’s face. Who knew he could ever actually make Stiles speechless.

“Yes, okay. I’ll marry you.” He takes advantage of Stiles’ stunned silence by pulling him in closer until they’re pressed together from thigh to chest. His smile grows as Stiles’ eyes widen and his breath catches. “But we might want to consider going on at least one date before we do.”

“You…you better not be playing around,” Stiles breathes out. He tries to make it sound teasing, but Derek can see the uncertainty in his eyes.

“I’m not if you’re not,” Derek says, leaning his down ever so slowly, giving Stiles time to pull away.

Stiles’ eyes drop to Derek’s mouth as his tongue unconsciously comes out to wet his lips. God, he’s wanted this for so long.

“It’s a date, then,” Stiles says on a breath, his eyes never leaving Derek’s lips.

i love sickfics okay i am forcing this upon you

“Lance!” Shiro’s stern voice sounded muffled as Lance took a breath. He was having trouble concentrating, and it felt like he was fading in and out of consciousness. He felt beads of sweat on his forehead and hastily wiped them away, trying to focus on piloting Blue.

“Lance, we need to separate to distract them,” Shiro prompted, his voice sounding muffled still. Lance swallowed and blinked away the dizziness before responding.

“Roger that,” Lance managed, hoping his voice didn’t sound too awful. He had little energy to speak, and he used all he had to make sure he sounded normal.

“Lance, go to the right, I’ll go to the left, Keith go in front, Pidge go above, and Hunk, you just fly around them in circles,” Shiro ordered.

“Are you sure that’ll work?” Hunk questioned doubtfully. Lance suppressed a sneeze.

“It’ll have to. Let’s move!” Shiro demanded. Lance blearily watched the paladins fly into their places, and slowly followed suit and piloted Blue to the right.

Lance felt his heart race and sweat dripped down onto his nose. His breathing was faster than he wanted it to be, and he took off his helmet to wipe the sweat away. It was no use, he was already drenched in it.

Lance was sure that he was sick. He felt subpar the other day, but he thought it was just from stress and being tired, so he slept it off. He was dead wrong.

Lance was shivering, but sweating at the same time. His face felt hot and he couldn’t stop coughing.

Lance’s mind has been so foggy, he hasn’t even been moving Blue very much. He’s been flying to the right, and almost ended up out of range since he wasn’t focusing.

Lance felt his lion sway in circles, and quickly but lethargically lunged to the controls, trying to gain control of Blue. It only made it worse, and Lance realized that Blue was flying fine.

Before Lance could think of anything else that could’ve been wrong, he passed out and fell to the floor of his lion. Blue shifted into autopilot and landed them somewhere safe and hidden, making sure that nothing got to the ill blue paladin.

“Where’d Lance go? He’s out of range,” Pidge questioned, flying her lion down to attract the Galra fleet’s attention before springing up again.

“He’s supposed to be distracting them with us,” Keith muttered, flying towards the fleet from the front and then sharply turning away when they fired a shot towards the red lion.

“Wait a second,” Shiro mumbled, looking at the map his lion was showing him. The blue dot that represented Lance was blinking and stationary.

“Lance isn’t moving, and his lion’s sending out some kind of distress signal,” Shiro pointed out.

“Keith, go find Lance,” Shiro ordered suddenly, gripping his lion’s controls to distract the Galra fleet.

“Are you sure you can make do without me?” Keith questioned worriedly.

“Someone has to make sure Lance’s okay,” Shiro pointed out. Keith sighed reluctantly, and grabbed Red’s controls, flying his lion to where Blue was.

“Alright Lance, where are you,” Keith muttered, eyeing the map every few seconds to make sure he was headed in the right direction. The red lion flew into the cave where Blue was, landing and ejecting Keith.

Keith dusted off his paladin armor and huffed, looking at the blue lion. Blue seemed to be in great shape, so why did she have an emergency landing and use her distress signal?

“Lance?” Keith called, entering the helm of the blue lion. He gasped when he saw that Lance was unconscious and on the floor. Keith gently moved his body so Lance’s back was rested against the wall.

“Oh no,” Keith muttered, studying the blue paladin. His skin was pale, and he was sweating and shivering. Keith placed the back of his hand on Lance’s forehead to discover he had a raging fever.

“Guys?” Keith called into the intercom.

“What’s going on?” Shiro questioned, sounding distracted.

“Lance is shaking, sweating, unconscious, and he has a raging fever,” Keith replied, trying to think of ways to rouse him from unconsciousness.

“Oh no, that’s not good,” Shiro replied. Keith sighed, searching Blue for a water bottle or something.

“We’ll be there soon, we’ve almost got this covered,” Shiro addressed. Keith muttered a response before taking off his helmet. Keith rummaged around Blue until he found a water bottle. It was small, but it would do the job.

Keith found a cleaning rag in the corner and grabbed it, drenching it in cold water. He wrung out the rag and draped it across Lance’s forehead. Just moments later, Lance opened his eyes and coughed.

“Oh thank God,” Keith sighed heavily in relief. Lance coughed again, his tired body doubling over. He groaned and leaned back against the wall, sniffling.

“What happened?” Lance muttered, looking around Blue and realizing that he was no longer in the air, he was on the floor and in a cave somewhere.

“You must’ve passed out. Blue shifted into autopilot and landed you guys in here,” Keith explained, grabbing the damp rag from Lance’s forehead and pouring more water over it before wringing it out again. Keith draped it back over Lance’s forehead, and Lance sighed at its cool touch.

“You’re in rough shape,” Keith muttered, looking the blue paladin up and down. Lance scoffed bitterly but was interrupted by a harsh cough.

“Thanks,” Lance replied, his voice scratchy.

“Keith?” Shiro’s quiet voice sounded from Keith’s helmet which was set off to the side. Keith picked it up and swiftly placed it over his head, pressing the intercom button on the side.

“Yeah? What’s going on?” Keith questioned.

“We’re on our way to your location, stay put,” Shiro ordered before going offline. Keith sighed in relief. Lance looked confused, but before he could ask what was going on, another harsh cough wracked his body.

“Everyone’s on their way, Allura and Coran have been alerted and they’re on their way as well,” Keith assured.

“Is the mission over?” Lance asked, his sick voice low and quiet.

“For now, you need to get better before we do anything else,” Keith pointed out. There was a moment of silence before Keith looked at Lance with sudden hostility.

“Why didn’t you tell us you weren’t feeling well?” Keith questioned, his voice angry.

“I did,” Lance replied defensively.

“Oh, pffftt, when?” Keith questioned hotly in reply.

“This morning?” Lance replied, his statement sounding more like a question to get his point across. Keith raised an eyebrow, urging Lance to explain.

“‘Hey guys, I don’t feel very good, I’m gonna take it easy today,’ is what I said,” Lance added. Keith raised both eyebrows to indicate he still had no idea where this was going.

“Does ‘C’mon Lance, we’re all tired. Suck it up, let’s go’ ring a bell?” Lance questioned, attitude clear in his tone, despite sounding sick and tired. Keith immediately looked guilty and his eyes shot down to the floor.

“Yeah,” He muttered, pouting. Lance coughed harshly again for about 10 seconds, his face turning red before he could stop to take a breath.

“To be fair, I didn’t feel as bad this morning as I do now,” Lance replied. Keith was about to say something, but he heard the castle outside and saw the other lions waiting for them.

“Can you fly Blue?” Keith questioned, helping Lance up. Lance wobbled and coughed, leaning onto the pilot chair for support when his world spun again.

“I could try,” Lance responded, swallowing as he sat down in the pilot chair. Keith nodded briskly before leaving and going into the red lion. Lance sighed and his shaky hands fumbled with the controls, taking a minute before finally exiting the cave and flying into his hangar in the castle.

The other paladins, Coran, and Allura were waiting for Lance to exit his lion. Lance huffed as he slowly stood up, quickly throwing his arms to the pilot chair to catch himself when he grew dizzy. He wobbled out of the blue lion, and everyone’s faces fell when they saw Lance.

“Oh my God, you look awful,” Pidge pointed out, her eyebrows high. Lance sniffled and a harsh cough wracked his body for the thousandth time that day, almost knocking him over.

“I think I’m gonna go in my room for now,” Lance muttered.

“You do that,” Shiro replied, patting Lance’s shoulder gently as to not knock him off balance as he wobbled slowly down the hallway. His tired body slumped as he opened his bedroom door.

Lance slept a lot the next few days, and whenever he came out of his room to grab a snack or a meal, everyone apologized profusely for not listening when he said he felt under the weather. Lance accepted their apologies, assuring them that it was okay.

Keith spoiled Lance endlessly with soup, water, and medicine, he made a swift recovery after a few days. Lance thanked Keith for taking care of him, to which Keith just said, “You’d do the same for me” in reply.

After that, whenever Lance said he wasn’t feeling up to something, he was bombarded with questions like, “Are you sick?” or “Are you okay?” “Do you have a fever?” “Do you need medical attention?” Lance would just chuckle and say he was tired, and then he laughed again when everyone sighed in relief.

Lance was glad that his fellow paladins cared for him so much. He knew that if he ever felt under the weather again, he would be in good hands.

anonymous asked:

I wish you would write a fanfic where Dick is a self-sacrificing idoit and all the batboys tell him so as he clings to life/his life hangs in the balance. Sorry I have a thing for Dick and batbros angst.

If there’s one thing Damian hates more than Dick right now, is the waiting. The not knowing. Because of course Grayson’s too stupid to do even a simple thing like dying right. Because dead is dead, and alive is alive, but this hanging thing? Damian doesn’t know what to do with it. He has no gods to pray to, and not enough optimism to hope for the better either - not with wounds like the ones his brother’s suffering, anyway.

He wants to scream at him just die! Just leave me already! It’s not like I’m not used to it, but the words just won’t reach his mouth. They get lost somewhere between his stomach and his lips.

“Damian, come here.”

Stephanie’s voice is quiet, almost soft, but Damian’s trained to recognize orders no matter in what form they may come. For whatever reason, he finds himself obeying her.

Stephanie grabs his hand, makes him sit on the floor between her and Tim. Damian complies again. What does it matter anyway? Let them have their fun, let them see him crumble, useless and sentimental just like them. They’re all stupid. Corrupted. Even Todd, even Cain, the two that should know better. In the League this wouldn’t be a problem. In the League they would not be sitting on the floor, waiting to know if they’ll have to mourn one of them again. In the League there was no mourning. No brothers. No Graysons.

“He’s gonna pull through”, Stephanie says. “Just know that. He’s gonna pull through. He’ll be on his feet in no time.”

Damian doesn’t say anything. Not even when Tim pushes something into his hands. And to be honest, he notices the motion just because Tim’s fingers are cold as ice around his wrist.

“Here”, Tim says, holding out a pencil. “Write.”

Damian blinks and looks up at him.

“Write?”

“Yes”, Stephanie explains. “All the insults you have for him. All the names you want to call him when he wakes up. Just write ‘em down.”

It’s funny for Damian to not understand something. His education’s always been the best available and despite his young age, there are very few concepts that escape him. Like pop culture. And this.

“I don’t understand”, he admits. This too is something new. Admitting ignorance. But he’s talking to stupid, crazy people, so he’s probably justified in not understanding their weirdness.

“I’ll show you”, Tim offers, and Damian watches him tear off a piece of paper and writing in big, capital letters “SELF-SACRIFICING IDIOT” on it. Then Tim wraps the piece of paper in a little ball and throws it at Dick’s still form. It lands precisely in the concavity between Nightwing’s stretched legs.

Damian’s so outraged he doesn’t even have enough words to express his fury. Not that it matters, because apparently he’s lost again his ability to talk.

Taking advantage of his stunned silence, Stephanie steals the pencil from Damian’s fingers, tears off another piece of paper, and does the same thing. Her note says “UGLY ASS”.

Damian watches Todd and Cain reaching out for a new paper sheet, and Tim preparing another projectile insult. He still can’t bring himself to speak.

“We’ll force him to read all of them out loud once he wakes up”, Stephanie explains. “The goals is to make enough of them that he’ll think twice before pulling a stupid stunt like this again.”

“Oh”, Damian says. Apparently his mouth’s working again. Good.

“Good”, he repeats out loud. He looks at Dick again, then at the paper in his hand. “He shall read insults for days, then. Pay in double the time we’re spending on him. Give me back my pencil, Brown.”

Crazy as it is, this is vengeance, and vengeance, at least, Damian understands.


Send me an anonymous ask completing the sentence “I wish you would write a fic where… (REQUESTS CLOSED, SORRY!)

anonymous asked:

How does Kirishima react to being called an angel though?

Oooooh my god this is the best response I’ve gotten to that post

Boy I can just imagine it. Kirishima is just minding his own business, maybe trying to finish the homework he couldn’t finish the night before. The class somehow got on the topic of mythological/paranormal figures, ghosts and angels and stuff like that. And like I can see Kaminari being like, “Ghosts totally exist! You know that EMF stuff? I can feel that.” 

“Okay,” Sero goes, “but, like, is that just a lingering energy or an actual consciousness? Cause that’s gonna bring up a lot of questions about what comes after death.”

“Kaminari proves the existence of an afterlife.” 

They’re all laughing. Kirishima glances up now, curious about what’s going on. “Well,” Uraraka starts, “what about other things? Demons? Angels?” 

There’s a snort. They look to Bakugou, his arms crossed. “Angels exist, idiot.” 

It’s a little shocking. Bakugou didn’t seem like type, really. He’s just… not that kind of guy. 

Sero cocks his head. “What makes you say that, man?”

“Cause I’m fucking dating one.”

There’s a beat. Kirishima doesn’t quite register it before the class erupts. It’s chaos: Mina is shrieking, jumping up and down. Kaminari and Sero are going “Ohhhh! Ohhhhhhh!” Uraraka has her hands over her mouth, Midoriya is sputtering, Todoroki’s eyes are huge, Iida is yelling for order, it’s nothing but noise and Bakugou is in the middle of it, visibly smug. 

Kirishima feels his face go red. It matches his hair, and he has to push his face into his hands and muffle a whine

“I’m so in love,” he whimpers, unable to be heard above the ruckus. But when he drops his hands, flushed and shaky, and meets Bakugou’s gaze, he knows he doesn’t need to be.

Quiet Moment

Keith’s bangs tickles just below his chin and Lance suppresses the urge to giggle at the sensation.

The Red Paladin had passed out as soon as Lance and him flopped themselves in the middle of the empty common room; fresh out from the shower after their evening training session and ready to do nothing more than just relax and sleep.

It hadn’t take long before Keith’s eyes slowly close themselves when the light around the room dimmed, following the Castle’s general timezone, and the silence left behind was comfortable and warm.

Now, Lance hums quietly under his breath, careful not to be too loud to disturb the sleeping boy in his arms. Keith lies comfortably and lazily against him, back against his chest and head somewhat pillowed between the crook of Lance’s neck and his collar bone.

Lance’s arms are securely wrapped around Keith’s waist and stomach, holding him up and close as if the teen could slip off his grip and onto the floor any moment.

The brunet loses himself in his thoughts as he plays with Keith’s fingers with his own. It’s almost a miracle to see the teen without his gloves and Lance can’t help himself but to stroke tenderly the pale skin that is usually covered.

Keith’s hands are calloused, rough, and maybe a little bulgy, but they are such a light weight against Lance’s. These are the same hands that helps piloting one of the Universe’s last hope, that have master the art of sword fight with only the will of protect, save, do good behind them.

The same hands that have cupped his cheeks in the past, softly and gently, while caressing his tanned skin as if it was something precious and irreplaceable; the mere thought makes Lance’s heart throw itself into a hurricane of emotions.

His own hands unconsciously tighten around the sleeping teen and a smile covers his lips when Keith’s only response is to snuggle himself closer to Lance’s warmth, a soft content sigh escpaing his lips as he settles back down.

It’s unnecessary the reach of warmth when the Castle’s vents work just fine and Keith’s well covered in Lance’s jacket, securely wrapped up around his lean frame, almost as it was made for him.

It makes Lance to snicker softly at the thought of Keith’s hogging his jacket, but he has never seen Keith more relaxed and at ease than when he’s swimming on it, so Lance can’t really complain.

A faint groan makes him look down, fingers still playing with Keith’s own until the moment he feels the slight grip that intertwined them together and then a squeeze.

“Wh’ you laughin’?” Keith asks quietly, voice heavy with sleep and eyes barely half lidded, but the mere sight of those navy eyes makes Lance to skip an excited beat.

“Nothin’.” Lance answers, equally soft and quiet, mouth pressed on top of Keith’s hair, inhaling the moment of peace before he moves down and press a long kiss against the teen’s  temple, “Go back to sleep.”

“Hm.” Keith hums faintly, barely making it before he turns his head and hide back again in Lance’s embrace.

Lance continues stroking the pale skin on Keith’s hands, his own humming creating an unusual symphony with the Castle’s engine. It’s a quiet moment.