♡〜٩( ╹▿╹ )۶〜♡ I give you… LIFE! Go forth my friend! Thank you very much and I hope you enjoy your day.
Random daydreaming(?) Oikawa in class….because after all there’s not ONLY volleyball on the schedule. (and i need to practice more everyday situations… and i wanted to play around with photoshop..which … was a catastrophe… i am too stupid for this…*clutches Sai to chest* ._. )
“Either you really don’t trust me with your baby or you actually took my advice and banged Sheriff Hot Buns.”
“Would you shut up for two seconds and listen to me? I’m in real trouble here, Jo,” I hiss and wave at Mary Jo Bristel across the parking lot. She shakes her head and returns the wave before climbing into her car.
“He was shitty, wasn’t he? Damn. It’s always the pretty ones who are all talk and no thrust.”
“I didn’t have sex with the Sheriff!” I shout and then cringe because Nelson Harris has halted on the stoop of his general goods store to gawk at me for a moment before he purses his lips and hurries back inside the building that’s in desperate need of a new coat of paint.
Prompt: Matt the Technician x Rey the Mechanic. In which Rey falls in love, Kylo Ren gets his nose spectacularly broken, and Captain Phasma debates an early retirement.
(Note: Story continued under ‘READ MORE’ due to length.)
It starts out with a bet – well, more of a taunt really.
Okay, so it was a taunt in the form of a few offhand remarks by General Hux.
“You want to send how many divisions? And to obscure planets that you only have unsupported feelings may be the locations of Resistance bases?” An obnoxious bark of laughter. “Ridiculous.”
“Hardly a mere feeling, General.” Clasping his hands behind his back, Kylo Ren cants his head at a smug angle. “My intuition comes directly from the Force.”
The sneer that stretches along the General’s face varies along a spectrum that ranges from dismissive to utterlydisbelieving. “Regardless of where you obtain your insights from, the time frame alone in which you ask me to move the troops is impossible.”
“I fail to understand why.”
The insufferable man’s lips curl nastily upwards again. “No, you wouldn’t, would you?” he says. “After all, you don’t deign to involve yourself in the daily matters necessary in ensuring the continued efficiency of the Order.”
Not for the first time since their initial meeting, Kylo Ren reminds himself that he really must kill Hux at some point. “I’m gratified to know you think so lightly of my position, General,” he says wryly.
“On the contrary,” comes the smoothly condescending reply. “I’m merely stating that someone who was, shall we say, given his position on merit of invisible powers would, of course, know little other than how to give orders, and nothing of the menial processes involved in seeing them fulfilled.”
Kylo Ren stares ominously at him – or at least as ominously as the eye-slits in his mask will allow. “As you’ve said, General, I possess an inconceivable mastery of those invisiblepowers – I doubt that any task would be beyond me.”
“Oh?” Hux says. “A moving speech Ren…although mere boastful words give little proof to that claim.”
There’s a whisper and flourish of fabric as one very vexed Kylo Ren whirls about and stalks out of the room, hand lingering over his lightsaber and an interesting mixture of Huttese swear words being muttered under his breath. Hux thinks he possibly catches a furious mumble of “I’ll show you my proof, you pompous bastard”, but dismisses it from thought.
Days later, Phasma and Hux are on their way to an impromptu base inspection when a flurry of blonde hair, absurdly large glasses, and a familiarly tall, slim figure clad in a teal technician’s uniform stomps by. The absolute look of loathing he levels at Hux is what ruins the already-flimsy charade.
There’s a sharp intake of breath from the stormtrooper Captain beside him. “Was that – “
“It was,” Hux cuts her off disinterestedly.
“Why – “
“Do I really look like the type of person who invests valuable time in attempting to figure out Kylo Ren’s eccentrics?”
A well manicured hand slapped against Stile’s leg, followed by a sharp look from the blonde girl sitting to his left. He furrowed his brow and tried to feign innocence; it wasn’t his fault he was bored, sleep deprived, hungry, and out of adderall. Honestly, she should’ve known better than to bring the guy with ADHD to the DMV.
“Stiles, one: you’re the only one who was free to take me to get my license renewed, two: you’re talking out loud again.” He blinked in astonishment as Erica gave him the most unimpressed look she could muster at eight in the morning on a Friday, weeks into summer vacation.
“You’re welcome, by the way,” he groused, rubbing his eyes drowsily. “I could be sleeping, Erica, don’t you realize I could be sleeping right this very moment? Until dark, even.” She laughed despite his dramatics and began to fish her wallet out of her purse, pens, candy wrappers, and crumpled receipts falling out in the process. Erica pursed her lips and rolled her eyes.
“Thanks for bringing me here, by the way. You’re wonderful and I love you. Now, go get us some coffee from that place next door, asshole.” The blonde smirked, handing him a ten dollar bill. Stiles rolled his eyes, taking the money from her, and with a huff he heaved himself out of the uncomfortable hard-plastic chair that had slowly been making his back ache.
“Alright, no need to be mean, I’ll be right back-don’t go anywhere.” He stuck his tongue out at her and laughed, shuffling himself towards the exit. She flipped him off, adding a quick, “Don’t screw up my order, handsome: a tall, caramel, ice-”
“Iced, macchiato with extra caramel and soy milk. Yeah, yeah, I got it.” Stiles finished in a sing-song voice. He pushed open
the grungy door to the even more grungy building and into the blinding California sunlight, setting off towards caffeine-filled salvation.
“Too damn bright, too damn early, too damn…hot.” Stiles froze as he walked into the air conditioned building, his gaze falling upon the most attractive human being he’d ever seen in his short, seventeen year old life.
“Welcome to Hale and Back Coffee.” A tall, dark haired Adonis of a man was standing behind the counter, wearing a black uniform and teal apron. His sleeves were rolled up to expose tan, muscular forearms. He had a strong, sharp jawline that was lightly covered with stubble, blue eyes, and large eyebrows furrowed into concentration on the whirring blender in front of him. Stiles approached the counter, feeling bold and empowered up until the moment the buff barista turned to see him. He almost looked afraid of Stiles, like the interaction was going to physically hurt him.
“…can I help you?” the handsome brunette asked quietly after a few awkward moments passed. Thankfully the cafe was mostly empty, save for a girl sitting near the window on her laptop, and a few other employees milling around in the back kitchen. Stiles snapped out of his daze, and smiled apologetically to ‘Derek,’ as his name-tag read.
“I’m sorry, I can’t seem to find what I want on the menu. Maybe you can help?” Stiles looked up at the illuminated sign in a thoughtful manner. The cafe worker raised an eyebrow, and turned to look at the menu himself, as if it held the answers of escaping his current situation.
“What is it you exactly want, sir?” He asked, shortly. Stiles nodded his head as if he had made a decision, and locked his gaze back on the man in front of him.
“See, I wanted your phone number, but I didn’t see it on the menu. Is there a way you can fix my problem? Customer satisfaction is important and all.” Derek’s jaw dropped, as red crept its way up his cheeks and ears, blushing brightly.
“Y-yeah, I think I can help with that.” He smiled shyly, and it was blinding. Stiles grinned back; he was officially a morning person now.
Bonus: “No, Stiles,” Derek groused out, “we aren’t calling the mango frozen tea the ‘mango-go fuck yourself’.
” Stiles sighed, and rolled his eyes.
In Minneapolis, East African girls level the playing field with culturally sensitive uniforms
Girls in stylish athletic wear walk the runway as the sounds of Taylor Swift and Katy Perry blare from speakers. The crowd claps and cheers as the young models strike poses with basketballs, lacrosse sticks and boxing gloves. Finally, the big reveal: the Lady Warriors community traveling basketball team takes the stage in their cardinal red uniforms.
This is no ordinary fashion show. The models are East African, primarily Muslim girls living in Minnesota who designed their own culturally sensitive sportswear that lets them move freely without worrying about tripping on a long, flowing dress or having a head scarf come undone at a crucial point.
“The girls for years have been telling us, ‘We would like clothing. We would like clothing,’” said Chelsey Thul, a lecturer in kinesiology at the University of Minnesota who helped lead the two-year project.
The girls quickly learned that traditional dress and basketball don’t mix well, said Thul, who was a volunteer research consultant to the program.
The answer, Thul said, was a functional yet modest uniform “so they could do that between-the-legs dribble, make that three-pointer, and not have clothing be a barrier.”
Sertac Sehlikoglu, a social anthropologist working on leisure, sports and the Muslim communities at the University of Cambridge, noted that Iran has been developing culturally appropriate female sportswear for years. She agreed with the Minnesota project’s organizers that the girls’ designs could catch on in other cities with large Muslim populations.
The girls came up with two designs. One teal-and-black uniform with stripes — good for all sports including swimming — features leggings and a knee-length tunic. Both the everyday active wear and the basketball team’s bright red outfit include a tight black headpiece. Arms, legs, hair and neck are all covered.
Style was important, said Amira Ali, 12, who helped with the design.
When I was coming up with Starkiller base headcanons for use in fic, it never occurred to me to introduce a Starkiller ice-cream parlour into the mix.
The Facilities team are very proud of it.
It produces 4000kg of gelato per standard day cycle.
Obviously all process pipelines and valves were fabricated to the very highest standards using the same state of the art orbital welding droids and fabrication rigs as on our actual revolutionary weapon of mass destruction.
Ice cream flavour privileges are accorded to rank. Non-commissioned officers may partake of vanilla ice cream only. Lower commissioned ranks (pale grey uniforms): banana. Middle ranks (teal uniforms): chocolate and caramel. Top brass (charcoal uniforms and stripes): the various pink flavours.
Mixed cones are discouraged as disorderly. Neapolitan is a vile perversion that should only be indulged in behind closed doors. Same goes for black market butterscotch sauce. Don’t even mention amaretto unless you have some and want to give it to General Hux.
Further to the above, the event involving two scoops of cherry ripple, a less than entirely dressed Ren and no spoon did NOT happen and NO stormtroopers were sent to reconditioning.
Waking up at promptly seven as usual, Haru calmly sat up and stretched, looking around his small room while he ran his fingers through the hair that hung down in front of his face, restoring some order to the tangled, black strands and adjusting the locks carefully around his pointed ears. It was already getting long again, but he cared little for the meticulous grooming standards he’d left behind him on Vulcan.
Standing up slowly, he padded across the simple room to his carefully organized closet and pulled out a clean, black and teal uniform, standard for a junior science officer such as himself. “Computer, check messages,” he said clearly as he pulled on his Starfleet uniform over the gray, long-sleeved, turtleneck shirt he slept in and pinning his communicator badge to the front.
[No new messages received.] responded the computer. Nothing from Rin, then. The couple had been separated for one year and nearly nine months ever since they received their separate Starfleet assignments, Haru to the USS Galaxy and Rin to DS9, but their usual messages to each other were a way of maintaining contact despite the void of space between them.
Retrieving his usual breakfast from the replicator, he sat in silence at his small desk, eating carefully as he considered the implications of Rin’s lack of response. In the end, he concluded that Rin must have simply been busy with engineering work aboard DS9. The station was barely operable when the Federation had first arrived only a year ago, so Haru was hardly surprised that it took quite a bit of work from the team of engineers to keep it running on a daily basis.
Finished with his simple bowl of oatmeal, he cleaned up and returned to the replicator, retrieving a hot cup of the mint tea he’d become somewhat fond of and returning to his desk, sitting straight with practiced Vulcan posture. “Computer, open a new file,” he said, taking a sip of the warm tea that worked well to wake him up. “Begin personal video log.” A small panel on the wall activated to his left and he turned to face his own reflection on the monitor before he spoke.
“Stardate 47683.01972349081. Ensign Nanase. The USS Galaxy is currently in orbit above a small, unnamed planet. A small group of officers, including myself as well as Captain Tachibana, will be transported to the planet’s surface at 0800 hours in order to collect data and, if necessary, make first contact. In the event that we make first contact with a new species or organic life form, there is a 90% chance that we will be delayed in our return to the Galaxy. Initial surface scans show that the planet’s environment would be supportive of a humanoid species, thus I estimate the chances of my return within the next 24 hours to be only 8%. As always, peace and long life. End log.”
The monitor switched off and he turned back to his tea, adding, “Computer, send video file to Ensign Matsuoka Rin, Deep Space 9.” [Video file sent.]
A fic told from the point of view of a Seinrin student who is head over heals for Kuroko, who is dating the devil himself. God have mercy on his soul when Akashi finds out.
Late? Who? I don’t know what you’re talking about, some months is still perfectly in time! ^^”
Sorry, I have no excuses. I hope this makes up for the wait.
Kuroko-san had a way of moving on the court that resembled a ice-skater sliding on his ring, his teal hair a shade of winter admits the warm orange and yellow of the court. It had been easy to fall for him.