Prompt: You are an inhuman and you’ve been competing at the fight nights to control your power in some way, but your brothers don’t know until they find out.
Requested by: Anonymous
Written By: Idjit-Only - Danni
A/N: Hi again
I hold my head in my hands sitting on the side of my bed. This guy I fought last night had super strength along with body enhancements. It was horrible and I didn’t win. Two months ago I got these powers after I turned into stone and I don’t know what it is but It looks like magic.
I force two pills down and head to the kitchen to get caffeine. I can already smell the coffee that is brewed non-stop. I yawn and stretch pretending that I got enough sleep(about 3 hours).
“Good, your up. I think I found a case and it’s local.” Sam states scanning his computer.
I grab a coffee cup and pour some finally joining him at the table, “Oh yeah?”
“People have got into this building where there are different people fighting with supernatural abilities but when they come back, the party has moved elsewhere.”
I almost choke on my coffee. That is how my fight night works. Even though I am the youngest of the Winchester family doesn’t make me defenseless. Over the last two months since I got those..abilities…I’ve done my best to hide them and to do that I need to learn how to fight. I have been doing really well. How and why did someone get in there? Only inhumans are allowed in there, unless someone who is inhuman and works for the other team decided to act like the crazy old lady.
Tracer is gay confirmed, and her GF Emily is super cute. So I thought I’d write up this idea I had about them meeting for the first time. Enjoy.
Ever since the incident, Lena had been moving about faster than she ever had before. But no matter how fast she could move, she couldn’t move through long lines any faster. It’s not like she was running late. It’s just that slowing down always bothered her. She groaned as she was able to move forward a step. There was still three people ahead of her.
Her foot tapped against the wooden floor, clacking like a ticking clock. It wasn’t until she looked to the cafe window that she stopped. It took a lot to get Tracer to slow down, much less stop all together. At the table by the window had to be the most beautiful woman Tracer ever saw.
Do you remember last night when you came home? Remember what you said?” He stares at me blankly, his face frozen.
“Well, you were right. I do choose this defenseless baby over you. That’s what any loving parent does. That’s what your mother should have done for you. And I am sorry that she didn’t—because we wouldn’t be having this conversation right now if she had. But you’re an adult now—you need to grow up and smell the
fucking coffee and stop behaving like a petulant adolescent.
“You may not be happy about this baby. I’m not ecstatic, given the timing and your less-than-lukewarm reception to this new life, this flesh of your flesh. But you can either do this with me, or I’ll do it on my own. The decision is yours. “While you wallow in your pit of self-pity and self-loathing, I’m going to work. And when I return I’ll be moving my belongings to the room upstairs.”
He blinks at me, shocked.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to finish getting dressed.
Anastasia Rose Grey Telling off Christian like a badass bitch in Chapter 21 of Fifty Shades Freed
Your obituary was not a poem but I read it every night until I knew it by heart, and maybe that is the poem. What the heart knows when the rest of you rejects it. I still see you in the faces of strangers on the street. At bus stops. In coffee shop windows. The smell of you in every place we’ve ever been says maybe you didn’t go anywhere at all, that you’re still right here, close enough to touch. But I know in my heart that you’re never coming back. The way your mother’s hands shook at the funeral was not a poem. The way she threw herself onto your coffin was also not a poem, but if it had been, it would be the kind of poem where the lines don’t just break, they shatter. I swallowed a handful of dirt so I wouldn’t scream. Then the dirt swallowed you. What else? Oh, your bones. As you were lowered into the ground, we heard them jostle and sigh like the day had been long and they were settling in for a good sleep. The sound itself was not quite a poem, no, but maybe a song instead. It’s been four months now. They say a poem is never truly finished, you just stop writing it. I don’t know how to stop writing this. The truth is that time passes and doesn’t care who it leaves behind and I can’t make poetry out of that.
Here we go, my very first imagine ever! Warning: I love commas. I like, really love commas. If I would pause there when speaking, I comma.
“Imagine bumping into Barba”
You were late. You were always late. But today you had outdone yourself in tardiness. You hurried along the busy downtown Manhattan street, regretting those thirty extra minutes in bed because now you couldn’t stop for your usual morning coffee. And the smell of coffee was everywhere, deliciously wafting out from the plethora of coffee shops and cafes. God, this week sucked, and it was only Monday.
A week after our graduation, my college best friend and I decided to have a sleepover. It was one of those moments wherein we finally felt free from all the almost impossible demands and workload of Journalism. Of course college was the best four years of my life yet, but to be able to sleep for more than eight hours and watch whatever you want is still better. Although, I admit, I miss those sleepless nights fighting over thesis, and those hours spent trying to figure out how to survive all the workload and massive paperwork inside our favorite coffee shop. Or those amusing moments wherein we tried to stop drinking coffee, to the point that the smell of it would have us breaking down.
It was a good fight, and now we’re off to another battle.
Now to everyone who feels like all hope is lost, please don’t give up. It may feel like the workload is unlimited, but it will eventually end. And once you know that you’ve done great, you’ll thank yourself for holding on and not giving up.