sorry about the writing

Intoxicated

This time I can’t
drop everything to help you,
pack the bags you’ve left under my eyes.
You’ve opened every box
in my home and made it yours.
Thief is your new name and
I can’t listen to your toxic words.
Empty beer cans live on the kitchen floor
from our last conversation.
I didn’t know it was so hard to talk
to your sister without a few drinks. More than a few.
Take your boxes, bags, and words
somewhere else You aren’t welcome
in a home where you distract yourself
with medication and technology.
I’m no longer small, you can’t tell me I don’t
understand anything. I’ve unloaded my love
in my home, where you aren’t.
There’s a difference between us.
When you blame Mom: I apologize for my mistakes;
when you take medication I write;
when you drink I sleep.
I’ve built myself up higher than you,
hold my parents close, push temptations away.
You need me more than I need you.
Take a Xanax, drink for awhile,
gossip on Facebook about how crazy your family
is. Pick up a mirror, won’t you? Take a look
at your blurry eyes.

- M.C.

I know everyone’s always talking about Bucky having a mass freak out when he finds out all the dumb shit Steve’s been doing while he was gone but at the same time I feel like the next time Steve jumps out of a plane with no parachute every single other avenger is gonna freak out while Bucky’s just standing there like

7

OK CONCERNING THE WHOLE HEADCANON THING IM WRITING THAT PPL KEEP ASKING ME ABT, i was talking to @chompiee abt a ~love confession~ and then @cryptidsp00n abt the aftermath of said confession concerning them kissing

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  • luke skywalker is terrifying. 
  • no, shut up, come back.
  • you have to understand:
  •  to you or me he may not be; he may be all sunshine smiles and corngold hair and the biggest eyes this side of the galaxy, but imagine you’re Dagger (stormtroopers don’t get proper names), firing at a boy, only the bolts never hit. They sing to the side. You think that there’s something wrong with your blaster, maybe, but none of your friends can hit him either. Finest shots in the Empire, you are, but you can’t hit this boy. And he cuts you down. He wields a weapon whose name you’ve never learned and he cuts you down into smoking bloodless bodies and your friends die before you – only he leaves you. Knocks you out with a blow of the Force – and isn’t that a nightmare of its own, unseen hands blotting out your thoughts – leaves you there in the cooling blood of your squadmates.
  •  Imagine that you’re Cara Ilhyre and you’re a dancer for the Hutt and you hate it, of course you do, but it is a living, a living, and this boy comes in, fresh-faced and young and he says surrender or be destroyed only he and you both know that the Hutt do not and never have surrendered and when he says destroy there’s this grin on his lips, thin and sharp, and he’s kind, of course he is, but –
    • so you’re Cara Ilhyre and you’re a native of tattooine and like many of your specis you are force-touched and you were a girl, once, a very little girl, and your mother told you tales of krayt dragons who slumbered beneath the sands and gentled their young to their pearl-heavy breasts. krayt dragons are tender mothers, she had said, and it was meant to teach you something of the duality of nature, or to fear those with young to protect, or something; but all you can think is this boy, how he smiles as kind as your mother did, once, but you’re convinced that if you were to cut him down the middle you would find dragon-pearls in his ribs and fire instead of a heart
    • the boy cuts downs jabba’s goons like they are nothing, nothing, and afterwards, afterwards, you sense his sorrow. and somehow that makes it worse.
    • because you say, later, to your mother’s ghost (maybe) or to the desert, he knows that killing people is hard and that weighs on him and he does it anyway and –
    • and, you say, it isn’t as simple as: he makes the hard choices. he knew the hutt would fight. he wanted to burn them down, oh he did, and that sister of his –

Dean barely notices when Sam runs into the house to investigate the nephilim situation. His eyes dart this way and that, taking in the tattered, broken wingspan spread out before him.

All of the times that he lost Cas, he never saw his wings. Not once. And it feels so…final.

Dean’s lips tremble as he casts his gaze upwards towards where he knows heaven is watching. He wonders if the angels care. He wonders if God cares.

He knows Chuck probably isn’t even in heaven, and maybe he has his ears turned off while he’s having the family meeting to end all family meetings with Amara, but he tries anyway. He wants to beg, bargain, and scream, but he’s not sure he can speak. He sends up a plea, his lips mouthing silent prayers.

The air is still. Too still. Deathly still.

Dean squeezes his eyes shut and slumps down to the ground. He bows his head down, but he can’t yet bear to look. Not yet. Not again.

He breathes, and it feels like a monumental effort. He is hyper aware of being alive, of his lungs filling with oxygen and expelling carbon dioxide, and suddenly he thinks he might understand why yoga helps to clear the mind. Maybe he’ll take it up. He could do with a nice, clear mind after…after…

He opens his eyes. Cas is there, but he isn’t.

Dean swallows against the burning lump in his throat as he reaches a hand out. Hand touches hand. One is cold.

Dean stares at the eyes and wills them to open as he curls his fingers around the still, cold hand. And finally, after much effort, he finds that he can speak.

“Please,” Dean pleads, his voice smaller than he thinks it has ever been. “Please. Cas. I need you.”

No. That’s not right. That’s not enough.

“I love you.”

Too late. He says it, finally, after all of these years, and it falls on deaf ears. Ears that will never hear those words.

Dean’s eyes sting. “Come back. Like you always do.” His voice cracks. “I love you. I love you. I love you. Please come back.”

The world is still. Too still.

He’s not coming back this time.

Dean folds himself over Cas’s body and finally allows himself to break.

To put this in more perspective: love and hate sit on opposite ends of the same spectrum.
So yes, love and hate are the same thing. Passion
Chubby body appreciation post tho???

Soft bodies are so?? GOOD??
Big tummies are good pillows and good kissing surfaces.
Tummies with stretch marks?? GOSH, YES??? It’s like nature itself is putting down a trail of lightning that says “KISS HERE PLEASE”

And chubby/fat arms though? Can we JUST? Thighs and stomachs get a lot of love (and rightfully deserved) but can we talk about ARMS??
That cute arm chub that I just want to be wrapped up in a hug and a snuggle in? SO PRECIOUS?? 
People with such soft, cuddly arms that there’s lil bumps and stretches from cellulite?? CUTE??

And soft necks? Necks with some squish on them? Very extra kissable?? And squishy cheeks GODDD I WANNA SMOOSH YOUR CUTE CHEEKS KISS ALL OVER YOUR FACE!!! And when people have chubby cheeks and lil dimples?? Or when they have high cheekbones so when their cheeks are chubby they’re VERY prominently chubby?? THIS IS GOOD AND FANTASTIC??

And THIGHS. My god. Thick thighs are never praised enough no matter how hard one tries. Big, soft laps are so perfect for laying your head on! And stretch marks on big thighs? Cute lightning patterns to trail your fingers over or gently kiss when you’re already laying in their lap?? YES!!
Cellulite on thighs is also so so good and cute!! Dimples in cheeks are wonderful and so are dimples in thighs and butts?? CUTE!!!

Hips with squish over them?? GAH!! I CANNOT HANDLE!!! Please be more confident with your hips (if you feel comfortable) because when you are you give me LIFE!!!

Back rolls?? CUTE and very fun to trace hands over and hold onto during snuggles!! Looks very cute all the time! 

Chubby/fat bodies in crop tops and short shorts?? YES!!! CUTE!!!

Chubby/fat bodies in sweat pants and a tshirt? EXTRA SOFTNESS TO THE SOFT CUTIE!!!

Chubby/fat bodies in swimsuits?? VERY CUTE?? Swim trunks and soft belly is very very good!!
One pieces that cling tight to your stomach or ride up your thighs are still cute no matter what anyone says!!
Two pieces? GOOD!!! You look so cute! Don’t feel obligated to cover that adorableness if you don’t wanna!! 

Chubby/fat bodies in lingerie?? SO IMPORTANT TO ME!!! When stomach is tucked into cute underwear it is very very adorable and when there’s chub over low rise underwear it’s also very very cute and endearing!! THIGH HIGHS?? UGH, MY HEART. I KNOW THAT THEY PROBABLY ARE FALLING DOWN CONSTANTLY BUT THANK YOU FOR WEARING THEM YOU’RE DOING US ALL AN AMAZING SERVICE.

In conclusion:
Softness is good
I will kiss you all over
Holding you and feeling handfuls of squish is amazing
I love you

“Don’t bother,” he replies grimly, “I said I wasn’t interested in this. If we fucked, sorry for leading you on, if we didn’t, I don’t know why you’d want to be associated with me anyways.” And Harry wants this conversation to end right there, now that he’s said his piece, so he looks back towards Y/N and says, “These are organic grapes, no?”

The girl gets the hint, leaving with a huff and Y/N tuts her tongue at him.

“You’re so mean, Harry! What if she really liked you?”

Harry shakes his head, “She liked my cock not me.” He says apathetically, and Y/N’s face turns towards sheepish like it always does when the mere mention of his escapades comes to head (which it doesn’t often, but he knows Y/N has ears and she hears things), “‘sides, she was rude to you. I don’t like that.” He straightens out, “Did you take your medicine?”

or

Harry doesn’t really like people, but he likes Y/N

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the entire class has this ongoing joke about how ivan got his scar. the reality is that he got it because he walked into the corner of a wall when they were all little, but that’s no fun. 

kim calls it the shark bite. alix says that ivan got in a knife fight in a back alley. max’s go to is that ivan was testing prototype weapons for the government. juleka says an eyebrow job gone wrong, sabrina says he just shaves it for style, and nathanael once said it was a mark of magic powers. nino jokes that this is why you should never let marinette use you for a model, marinette is offended and insists that it was because ivan had a deadly disease when he was younger. rose agrees with nathanael’s magic theory, mylène says it gives him his strength. chloé says ivan gave it to himself to look cooler. 

alya and adrien have never heard the original story. they are very confused

aight SO instead of doing a full-blown Voltron summer camp au (yET), have some headcanons about in-canon Camp Counsellor (and lifeguard!) Lance:

  • he’s gone to the same camp for years, since he was a kid, and is the poster child for going through camp until he got to a counsellor and then Lifeguard
  • he adores camp. highlight of the year, always. April rolls around and he cannot wAIT until June
  • he wears croptops and shortshorts, the male staff try to call them rugby shorts but Lance schools them because ??? rugby shorts do not come in pastel floral, Carl.
  • *throws cold wet pool noodle at coworker*
  • “So hey guys, if one more kid poops in the pool this week you can find me crying in the pumphouse drinking chlorine :))))”(i feel u brah)
  • is the camp heartthrob 3 years running. 12-year-olds fall for his easy charm, he playfully flirts with coworkers after hours.
  • heart sunglasses/big rim sunhat aesthetic for guarding on deck
  • *plays Carly Rae Jepson full blast at the pool so it echoes around the entire camp* 
  • He tries really hard to make sure kids have a magical time at camp like he did as a kid because camp is a home away from home and it’s amazing
  • on overnight trips away from camp he points out constellations and tells the myths behind them, not necessarily the greek, but his favourites.
  • *runs through woods at night outside cabin windows with sparklers because ~~Fairies~~*
  • “holy flippin’ doodles, day hike!! It’s the best guys!! Candy at the top of the hill!!!” (Lance hates day hike day but the children can never know)
  • kids adore him, they cling to him at the end of the week, cry saying goodbye and make him cry too and suddenly anyone still at camp is also crying because Lance’s genuine crocodile tears are contagious
  • some kids write to him after summer ends and he writes back and they’re so excited to see each other every year and it makes his heart grow three sizes knowing that he’s making a difference for these kids. Being away from his bio fam all summer is hard because they’re so close but he wouldn’t trade camp for anything
  • returning campers and staff are so excited for him when he gets accepted into the Garrison because!! his DREAM!! GROUP HUG!!
  • “I expect to see you all back here next summer!!” he yells as the bus pulls away, and he wipes tears from his face.
  • at the garrison, he can’t write as frequently to campers but he does try. when he disappears, the letters stop coming altogether and the kids get worried but don’t know what happened. 
  • some of them see on the news that he’s pronounced MIA, presumed dead. it breaks their hearts that he never got to live his dream.
  • the summer after, the underlying theme is “Stars, Space, and Exploration.” With the kids, they build cardboard spaceships, have alien theme dance parties, sing songs about silly space things, blast rocket man and major tom and any other song they get their hands on that involves space from the pool to echo around camp.
  • it’s all for Lance, and everyone who met him knows it is, but no one says so until the very end of summer after all the kids are gone and the counsellors and Resource staff have a couple days to clean up and say goodbye for the year.
  • It takes a few days longer than usual. 
  • The staff paint a mural on the ramp and wall around the pool he loved so much, of space and nebulae and planets and a lone starship, flying through the cosmos.
  • June rolls around in the Castleship and Lance can’t help but wonder what his camp fam is doing.
I’ve spent most of my life chasing the person I want to be. Because 20-year-old me will have better friends, and 25-year-old me will land a killer job, and 30-year-old me will be madly in love. And me 6 months from now will be skinnier, and me a year from now will be more confident, and me some time from now will be better somehow. So much better. For years, this is what I thought. That if I could just wait it out, everything would get better.
     It took me a long time to realize that life doesn’t work that way. Older doesn’t mean happier or easier, and it certainly doesn’t mean better; it just means older. Life isn’t a well plotted screen play, or a checklist, or, God forbid, some waiting room. We have got to stop waiting. Because life isn’t about growing up to be all that we’ve ever wanted; it’s just about growing.
     It’s about love, and change, and crying yourself to sleep when it’s all too much. And working at a burger joint, and kissing your best friend even though he might not like you back, and calling your mom every Sunday because you miss her like hell. It’s fights, and promotions, and hospital visits. And then it’s this: another wedding of another one of your college friends, the third one this year, but this time you meet a groomsman who’s just as down on love and you dance all night. And this: he cries when you say “I do.” And this: a kid with your eyes and his dorky ears.
      Or maybe not. Maybe it’s this: you write everything, everywhere, all the time, even when the prettier kids make fun of you, and the short teacher with the big nose tells you it’s good. Really good. And this: you’re living in a shoebox, by the skin of your teeth, but there’s a bar across the street that lets you read your poetry, and every time you do, someone in the crowd finally knows what it feels like to be understood. And this: your words being published. Your words. Being bought by people who could be spending their money on anything at all. And you sit in your twin bed where you’ve written your entire novel, a dozen empty coffee mugs still dirty on the nightstand, and you scream until your lungs burn.
      It’s all of these things, and bad things, and good things, and the raw realization that it doesn’t get better or worse, it just gets different. It just changes. Always, always changes. And somehow that makes it more wonderful. Because future you may have the friends, and the boy, and the job, but she didn’t get it by waiting around. She is a product of you. Right now, tomorrow, changing and growing every moment that follows. She is kind, and breathing, and beautiful. But she waits for the day she doesn’t have to worry about paying a mortgage bill, and she worries too often about what people think of her. She still doesn’t have it together.
     And maybe that’s what I’ve learned after all this time: nobody has it together. We’re all just here, floundering around in pursuit of being something more. Broken, thoughtful creatures with too much time on our hands, desperate for the companionship of someone who reminds us that we are not alone. We don’t have much of anything figured out. Maybe we never will. But more importantly, I think that’s how it’s supposed to be.
—  ramblings of an overthinker
Overdramatic (a langst sickfic)

here 1/2 is the prompt for this, enjoy! (sorry if its crappy, this is my first sick fic!)

read some of of my other minifics here


To say Lance was dramatic would be an understatement. He enjoyed attention and would bask in it whenever he could, even if he got by making some things sound a little worse than they actually were. 

But that papercut he got on Tuesday? It was obviously life threatening, didn’t those strike the nerve the hardest or something? And if they did, wasn’t it imperative that he got medical attention immediately since it could mess up his whole nervous system? His actions were totally justified, no matter what Pidge might think.

Plus, that migraine (yes it was a migraine, not some small headache) he had two days ago obviously impaired him significantly, which was why he couldn’t go to training that day. Despite his pain, he was forced to go to training and on top of that, the entire team ignored his painful sorrows he grumbled as they trained. In fact, Pidge had even told him to shut up! Yeah, to say that day was a good day would also be an understatement, especially with the lecture he received from Shiro afterwards.  

All in all, Lance knew he could be a tad overdramatic at times (barely a smidge), so when he woke up today with aching limbs and a pounding headache, he knew he was actually sick. Yet he also knew the team wouldn’t believe him and after that talk with Shiro about being a team player? Lance didn’t want to start anymore trouble with the team.

He slowly pulled himself out of bed, glaring at the alarm that blared in his room before moving to get ready as fast as he could. Every movement hurt his sore body and his head would begin to spin dangerously if he moved too quickly. He could barely concentrate on putting on his socks without becoming overwhelmed with a wave of vertigo, sending his already churning stomach into a whirlpool. Before he even realized what was happening, he was retching on the floor, black spots dancing in his vision as he dazedly wiped his chin. Lance prided himself on being the cleanest of the paladins, but in that moment he was completely disgusted. Trying not to throw up again, Lance hurriedly put on the rest of his armor before making his way out of his room. By the time he reached the control room, everyone else was already there and boy were they not happy. 

“Lance, you were expected to be here over 200 ticks ago, you missed the debriefing on the mission,” Allura addressed him coldly, “You know I do not tolerate this type of behavior from anyone, even more so from a paladin!” She sniffed, eyeing him for a moment,”And you reek, please go … clean yourself in the kitchen before joining us again.” Lance could only nod silently before making his way over to the kitchen to rinse his face and mouth, catching Hunk’s small smile on the way out. He was suddenly overcome by a sudden dizziness, causing him to grip the countertop tightly as he fought the urge to throw up. He just had to make it through this mission and then he could rest up. 

Making it through the mission was easier said than done. He could barely stay up right during the debriefing and everything sounded muffled as he tried to concentrate on what Allura was saying. 

“And then.. Lance are you even paying attention?”
“Yes Princess! You were just um.. talking about the strategy we were going to use?” Allura only sighed at his response before continuing. Lance didn’t miss the glare Keith shot his way despite the black dots that were increasingly getting larger. Was that ringing always there? Lance couldn’t make out what Allura was saying over it, the ringing noise getting louder by the second. The lights seemed a whole lot brighter too suddenly, and he had to grip the table to stop himself from swaying. Despite his efforts, the room itself was already swaying and he couldn’t even make out Allura at this point or anyone to be honest. The ringing turned into a roar and then it was silent. 


“…Lance? Lance! What is wrong with him?!” Hunk yelled, immediately leaping towards his friend who was currently face down on the table. 

“He’s just acting dramatic again, he’ll wake up any minute now,” Keith retorted, eyeing Lance, “You know how he gets.” Yet even he was getting antsy as Lance sat hunched over, unmoving. Shiro placed a hesitant hand on Lance and was instantly bombarded with heat, Lance’s skin extremely hot. 

“Coran ready a healing pod, Lance is not well right now,” Shiro ordered, the table falling silent. Shiro tried to shake Lance awake and was relieved when he received a groan in response. “Lance? You need to tell use what’s wrong.” The entire team was around Lance at this point, everyone hovering around him unsure of what to do. 

“Im.. fine. ….sorry.” Lance grumbled, sitting up blearily before lurching to the side. Hunk luckily grabbed him in time, worry painted on his face. 

“Lance, you don’t need to be sorry okay? Just tell us what’s wrong,” Hunk tried, glancing down at the boy in his arms. 

“Imf… being a..nnoying..”Lance said tiredly, his eyes already slipping close,”I’m just…a little un-under the weather,” He tried to grin, but it only came out as a grimace. He missed the sad smiles when he passed out. 

best case scenario: it’s nothing.
he dropped his bag to help someone out,
it got moved out of the way,
he’ll turn up and start bitching about tears and dirt stains,
you’ll tell him to shut the hell up, even though he won’t listen,
he never listens,
and you’ll hang on to every word as he keeps talking.
(this is unlikely. he wouldn’t set that bag down,
wouldn’t abandon any of his things even if
the world was burning)

next best scenario: someone stole it.
he’ll be battered and bruised,
because no one got that bag without a fight,
and you’ll tell him what a fucking idiot he is.
he’ll make some joke,
he always does,
and you’ll remind him again of how much you hate him.
he’ll remind you of how much you don’t.
(this is slightly less unlikely, but be realistic—
he wouldn’t give up any of his things even if he were burning)

okay, next best: he ran.
“best” is a relative term here,
“best” implies it’s anything good but really your chest
has never felt so fractured and the ground is tilting and everything is
wrong.
maybe he ran. is that why he asked you to let him go?
why he insisted he be set free?
(this is even less unlikely. it borders on likely, be honest.
he’d throw all his things to the wind if he felt like he was burning)

next best: he was taken.
you know he’s perched on a throne of lies,
buried in his own secrets of a past he tried to torch.
he isn’t safe, he never was, never was going to be,
no matter what you had to say about it.
stopshakingstopshakingstopshaking thisisn'thelping—
you hate him. you hate him so much. you hate
that you hurt for him.
(this is likely. this is very likely.
he’d never let his things go unless you were burning.)

worst case scenario: he’s dead.

—  if you were really amazing you wouldn’t have let him go // es