swagger kids

anonymous asked:

what made you ship sugakookie?

what made me ship sugakookie?? idk there’s just - idk?? for me something about them just clicks. 

they’re not the huge, big couples in bts. they’re not the ones that go flaunting around skinship and affection and love. and while i’m not saying that being openly affectionate is not a sign of love, i see sugakookie’s subtle and quiet interactions much more meaningful, and i’ll tell you why: 

jungkook is a shy kid. despite all of his swaggering, he’s still a kid. he doesn’t like coffee and he’s overly worried about hygiene and he likes to laugh and giggle and have fun. he’s a perfectionist to the extreme, a hard worker, and he’s self conscious about himself and his work and his talent. this is what we know about him; these are facts that he’s given us, things that we see through the way he talks and the way he interacts with fans. he’s uncomfortable with the mention of sexual things/romantic things (he gets easily embarrassed by them) he can be silly and goofy and mischievous with 95line, and he can be serious and attentive with his hyung line. he’s got a wicked sense of humor and he likes making fun of people he’s comfortable with and i feel like getting to know him is difficult, because he’s got so many layers and it takes him a while to feel comfortable with anything new - people, cameras, situations. 

yoongi is like jungkook and at the same time, not. he’s a perfectionist as well - he doesn’t seem to think highly of himself, because he’s always telling us, the fans, about how he’s going to do better and push himself further. he doesn’t think about his own health when it comes to people he loves. he’s a serious guy; he thinks about things (perhaps not as philosophically as rapmon, but he still thinks about things) and he has a way with words that are something slow, precious, and thought out. you can tell just by reading them that he has something to say. he’s hardworking when it’s something he loves; he’s patient when the time calls for it. he’s determined. hardworking, and passionate. at the same time he has his moments where he’s lazy and cheesy (have u ever seen him interact with fans like jesus) and smiley and fun. he likes jokes, he likes having fun, but he knows there’s a time and place for it. he’s serious when it’s time to be serious; he’s loud and fun and stupid when it’s time to be loud and fun and stupid. 

and they both love with all their hearts. they’re both people who have shells you have to crack through to get to, so you’re not just seeing what’s on the outside. i don’t pretend to know their personalities in real life; i don’t pretend to understand their decisions or feelings. these are just observations i’ve made about them and they might not even be true - people change, after all. 

but when they’re together, something just happens. they’re not complete polar opposites and they’re not completely similar. they’re quiet in crowds but can be loud and dorky in their own way. 

i feel together, they can be so much more. yoongi brings out the best in jungkook and simultaneously tells him that it’s ok to want perfection but to also calm down (because he’s the kind of person who disregards his own health for that of the people he loves) and take a breather. jungkook draws yoongi out of his shell sometimes and reminds him to laugh, to breathe just a little bit more. they’re not perfect together but they work because their qualities, their personalities, compliment each other and that’s why i ship them. because they can be good together, they can be something together, even if all the bad things and the more horrible parts of their personalities come up. 

and they love each other in small ways; in nondescript ways. they show that they care without saying it aloud, by letting each other know that they’re there. that i’m here for you when you need me and my support. and i think that’s really powerful, this quiet kind of understanding and devotion that transcends all kinds of skinship and open pda that you can think of. 

(cough this became too long im sorry TT) 

anonymous asked:

Three Word prompt. Jake homerun baseball

#302

—–

Bottom of the sixth, and her kid is swaggering up to the batter’s box like he has ownage on this pitcher. Jake has never actually seen this team before, but he had good at-bats in the first and third, and he might think he knows.

Okay, she has to calm down. She’s over-analyzing every pitch, every play. Her kid struts like a Castle, that’s true, and he has Rick’s big head, both the boys do, which means, really, that he makes an excellent target.

The last team, in the semi-finals, thought so anyway. Poor kid was drilled in the back twice, though he thought it was just taking one for the team. He was so excited about it.

Her nine year old should not be taking one for the team.

Jake steps up the plate and Castle gives a piercing whistle, fingers at the corners of his mouth. He meets her eyes and grins, shrugging for it, but she can’t really fault him.

She’s just as anxious, just as thrilled. Jake was pulled onto the Harlem Heat team to be their third baseman, his defensive skills are excellent, but he’s slowly managed to make a name for himself offensively as well. Last time up, he knocked in the first run for their team.

She shifts on the bleachers, scrapes a hand back through her hair as the first pitch goes wide. The catcher has to lean out, easy take, and her heart is thumping in her chest.

“He’s fine, doing fine,” Castle murmurs. 

The moment their son wanted to play baseball, Castle was buying books and studying clips on youtube. Cute. He’s a good dad, if a little over the top, and he’s given Jake the swagger at least. No Castle skills go into that, but she has to admit the confidence plays a part.

The second pitch is a strike on the corner, a generous strike, and Castle mutters at the ump under his breath. They have a deal when it comes to the kids’ games: no negatives. They don’t yell at the officials, whether it’s Lily’s soccer refs, Reece’s soccer coach, or Jake’s games. 

Third pitch is a foul, off the skinny part of the bat, and she can see how much that stings. Jake hops back out of the batter’s box, paces away, swinging the bat a few times in practice. 

Castle cups his hands around his mouth. “That’s okay, way to defend the wide strike zone!” 

“Rick,” she hisses, elbowing him. But Jake is in the zone, doesn’t hear his dad’s suggestive positivity, returns to the batter’s box with a determined face.

She claps loudly for him, wishing she could stand and watch, better angle, but it’s the sleepy sixth, the score 1-1, not much excitement.

Fourth pitch is also foul, and she feels her guts tightening. Two strikes and a ball, and now Jake seems to be swinging defensively at pitches he doesn’t like, aren’t in his wheelhouse.

“You got this, you got this,” Castle yells. He’s the one who does most of the encouraging, the constant chatter from the sidelines. Other parents are giving him stank-eye, but her big enthusiastic dope doesn’t care.

She loves him. A dope. But she loves him.

The kid on the mound, a tall kid for nine, seriously, takes a long look into home. Jake crouches in his unlikely stance, rocking side to side as he times his rhythm. She hasn’t touched his swing in two years, not since he started lessons with Coach Johnny at Manhattan Youth in the summers. 

All his idea. Jake is all about baseball.

“He’s got this,” Castle says at her side. Another ball fouled off the end of Jake’s bat and the natives are getting restless. The outfielders are inching in, the kids in the dugout are talking a little too loudly.

No one seems to be paying Jake much attention.

And that’s when he takes the next pitch deep.

Deep.

“Oh my God!” Kate jumps to her feet, watching it sail, sail, sail. “Go Jakey, go Jakey! That’s my son!” Kate claps both hands to her mouth to keep in the scream that wants out, staring at the ball. 

“Jake. Run.”

Jake is stopped halfway down the first base line, just watching the ball soar, but at Castle’s bellow, his feet unstick and he gets moving.

But it doesn’t matter. Doesn’t matter at all. Already the kid that was on third base is trotting towards home, easily, while the ball goes clear over the fence and bounces on the sidewalk just past the outfield. 

Home run.

“Go Jake!” she screams. Can’t stop herself. She and Rick are both jumping up and down like maniacs, yelling and screaming, and here comes Jake around the bases, his grin splitting his face, so wide and pride.

She longs to be at home plate with his team to slug the crap out of him for that long ball, but she has to content herself with socking Castle in the shoulder even as he crushes her in a side hug.

Ha.

Her kid hit a home run. 3-0 Harlem Heat.

—–

Technically Speaking


Tech!Killian/Misfit!Emma Fic based off of this post. Tagging @jscoutfinch @xhookswenchx and @trueromantic1 for letting me invite myself into this conversation. 

Special thanks to @snow-into-ash who beta’d for me despite having an actual life this week, I really appreciate it!!!

rated T for language

She’s zeroed in on the stinging of her knuckles when the hall monitor grabs her by the collar of her flannel.

“Seriously, Swan?” It’s Leroy. It’s always Leroy, and the idea of calling hall monitors by their first name to establish equality is the weirdest thing she’s ever heard. She doesn’t need to feel equal to a middle-aged grumpy man.

“He grabbed my ass! I don’t hear you saying ‘Seriously, nameless-jerk-who-can’t-keep-his-hands-to-himself.”

“My name is August!” Mr. Nameless-jerk yells. Honestly, the anonymity was working for her. Now there’s an actual person, with a name, having a flathead screwdriver removed from his bicep. Now there’s a set of parents who are going to flip out and get her expelled from another school.

“No one asked you, August!” she shoots back and he actually flinches. He doesn’t seem so handsy now. If he starts to act like the victim here, she’ll be forced to stab him again.

“You know the deal.” Leroy shoves her like suddenly violence is okay. She brushes him off and marches out of shop class towards Principal Mills’ office.

When she gets there, there’s this boy dressed in all black, with his dark hair and a sad expression. She slumps on the bench beside him and he brings his knees together to allow for space. It’s more than the grown men on the city bus do on her way home, so she figures he’s worth a chat.

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