things that i don't know what they are

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it’s seung gil lee’s birthday!! he makes a new friend <3

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@cheshirerabit said: Shit, your teacher Bakugou idea is something I never considered but now think would be really cool. Cuz he would not stop being a hero but he wouldn’t half-ass being a teacher so it would be like how All Might attempted to hero and teach but could actually work. Plus, I’m all for Bakugou’s role model switching with time to Aizawa. 10/10 idea.

Anon said: OMG Fran now i want to see Teacher or Older Bakugou or or Bakugou with Aizawa

Bless both of you for giving me a reason to talk about this cause honestly I love this idea way more than striktly necessary - this!!! is how I like to think it would go down:

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Reunion

“You grew up.”

He laughs, rough and edging just slightly on bitter.

“Yeah, that happens when you disappear for two years.”

Derek’s eyes flit downward, and Stiles waits for him to comment on the FBI vest strapped to his chest but he doesn’t. His eyes only go so far as Stiles’ mouth, flicking back to his eyes and then down again, lingering, before sliding away. A warmth blooms out from Stiles’ chest, crawling up his neck and coiling downward, and this definitely isn’t the time for this but they haven’t seen each other in a year and a half, not even pictures because why the hell would Stiles have a picture of Derek (and he’s spent too long cursing not having pictures of Derek) and he finds his own eyes lingering.

“…You look exactly the same.” And that’s not true because Derek actually looks better, but there’s no real way to explain that Stiles hadn’t been able to hold all of the goddamn perfection of Derek’s face in his memory. He’d thought he had, but his eyes keep flitting around now and holding, catching on little details, little rushes of rediscovery in those eyes, that jaw, his teeth, his mouth, his…

Stiles wets his lips, and Derek’s looking again.

“We should––”

“I should have called,” Derek says at the same time, and Stiles blinks, breaking off, confusion pinching his brows because Derek hadn’t known Stiles was coming. He’d had no reason to call. Except… “After… Peter told me what happened, and I…”

“It’s fine.” It wasn’t, but it wasn’t any less fine than anything else from that shit show. It wasn’t any worse than Derek leaving town and getting rid of his phone to begin with.

“I felt sick the whole time you were gone,” Derek presses on, quick and urgent, like the words had been fighting for months to bubble loose and are finally breaking free. “I felt… Cora said it seemed like I’d just… emptied out. On the full moon, I could barely––”

Stop it.” It stung, because he’d thought Derek would care. For the longest time he’d felt like Derek should care, and deciding he didn’t was the first stepping stone to pulling himself together after… after the Benefactor.

Or… fuck, maybe Derek had cared, but he hadn’t cared enough to stay, to keep in contact, to check in when Stiles had needed… needed someone.

No, fuck. Needed him.

“This isn’t the time,” he says, firmly, because a fucking FBI SWAT team is nearby somewhere and there’s still a target painted on Derek’s back, and the fact that Stiles wants to crawl onto his lap and beat the crap out of him at the same time doesn’t matter, because Stiles is here to save his life. Again.

Derek parts his lips, looks like he wants to argue… and ends up just nodding, looking away up the street.

Stiles makes it a whole three steps toward the next corner before swinging back on him, balled fist smacking his bicep.

“Why didn’t you call?”

Derek doesn’t flinch at the blow. Sighs softly. When he meets Stiles’ eyes, the look in them’s enough to send months of coiled anger scattering.

“I would have gone back.”

“…What?” Stiles feels breathless on the word. Derek looks away, hands lost in the depths of his pockets and stance set in the defeated posture of a man with no way to win.

“If I’d heard your voice. If you’d asked. If you’d even sounded anything less than happy––” He grits his teeth, sharp and sudden, head ducking against some ugly thought. “…And I didn’t want to hear you happy, either.” That falls out lower, tight and rough like a secret shame.

“You didn’t want to hear me happy,” Stiles echoes, numb, and then slowly: “Without you.”

And he only understands Derek’s meaning because it’s been echoing in his own chest for over a year–– that stupid, selfish war of wanting to know he’s happy, and not wanting to know he’s happy, not wanting to hear him making a life and finding bliss in a way Stiles couldn’t give him. He’d always wanted to know Derek was doing well, so much that he’d lain up at night sometimes picturing new, bright, sometimes ridiculously corny futures for him… but the thought had always been as agonizing as it was hopeful and Stiles had never slept well afterward. And then he’d spent other nights up hating himself for being selfish enough to half-hope Derek might not be happy.

Might fail out there in the world, and come home.

Derek’s eyes are on his again, wide and shock-soft in a way Stiles had only glimpsed on him once before: the rush of thinking you’re alone in the world and realizing for one beautiful instant that you’re understood

He can feel a matching expression lighting up his own eyes.

“We’re idiots,” he breathes, and Derek shakes his head, barely seeming to feel the movement.

“I couldn’t go back there.”

“But you could have known I fucking missed you as much as––” He breaks off, despite everything suddenly unsure. “…you missed me?”

“I missed you.” Derek promises, not missing a beat.

“You missed me,” Stiles echoes, and it’s everything he never knew he needed to hear. They watch each other for too long, stunned, awed stillness.

And then the slam of a car door in the distance pulls them back; reminds them where they are and what’s happening. Derek blinks away, looking out and alert toward the street, but Stiles can see a faint flush around his ears, a happy pull that won’t quite die on his lips.

“This isn’t the time,” Derek says, and Stiles nods. There are villains to stop. People to save.

“This isn’t the time,” he echoes, but he’s smiling as he turns to head up the street. “Later.”

It sounds like a promise worth keeping.

Write-O-Ween Prompts: Unusual and Rare Words Edition

As practice for the famous NANOWRIMO, a prompts list of unusual and rare words! I’ll try writing them: will you?

  1. Uncanny: strange or mysterious, especially in an unsettling way
  2. Chimerical: merely imaginary; fanciful
  3. Susurrus: a whispering or rustling sound
  4. Aubade: a song greeting the dawn
  5. Ephemeral: lasting a very short time
  6. Sempiternal: everlasting; eternal
  7. Euphonious: pleasing; sweet in sound
  8. Billet-doux: a love letter
  9. Pluviophile: any organism that thrives in conditions of heavy rainfall; one who loves rain, a rain-lover
  10. Redamancy: act of loving in return
  11. Lachesism: the desire to be struck by disaster; to survive a plane crash, or to lose everything in a fire
  12. Rubatosis: the unsettling awareness of your own heartbeat
  13. Nodus Tollens: the realization that the plot of your life doesn’t make sense to you anymore
  14. Opia: the ambiguous intensity of looking someone in the eye, which can feel simultaneously invasive and vulnerable
  15. Monachopsis: the subtle but persistent feeling of being out of place
  16. Énouement: the bittersweetness of having arrived in the future, seeing how things turn out, but not being able to tell your past self
  17. Skulduggery: devious behavior
  18. Tatterdemalion: raggedly dressed person; looking disreputable or decayed
  19. Athazagoraphobia: the feeling of being forgotten, ignored, or replaced
  20. Oblivion: the state of being completely forgotten or unknown; connotes feelings of isolation and aloofness, which lead to the annihilation or extinction of the self metaphorically
  21. Abditory:  a hiding, safe place to disappear 
  22. Hiraeth: the homesickness for a home you can never return to; a home which maybe never was; the nostalgia, the yearning, the grief for the lost places of your past
  23. Fernweh: the ache for distant places; the craving for travel
  24. Sonder: the realization that each passerby has a life as vivid and complex as your own
  25. Kenopsia: the eerie, forlorn atmosphere of a place that is usually bustling with people but is now abandoned and quiet
  26. Kuebiko: a state of exhaustion inspired by acts of senseless violence
  27. Quiddity: the essence or inherent nature of a person or thing / an eccentricity; an odd feature / a trifle; a nicety or quibble
  28. Wayfarer: a traveler, especially on foot
  29. Nepenthe: a medicine for sorrow; a place, person or thing, which can aid in forgetting your pain and suffering
  30. Gloaming: defined as twilight and dusk; the day’s end, the glittery, transient echo when time and nature meet
  31. Eunoia: literally meaning “beautiful thinking” / FREE SPACE

Fun idea - Stop mocking aro culture for once. I keep seeing posts joking telling people to go outside in reference to aro people trying to explain squishes and other alloromantic people are mocking the idea of queerplatonic relationships and saying it’s literally just friendship and that people are idiots.

Please, just… Stop. If you don’t understand it, that’s okay! You don’t need to, but if you don’t have the experience you can’t tell people that the way they experience things is invalid or identical to some other thing.

tl;dr: mocking squishes and queerplatonic relationships isn’t funny and I really hope some of you guys will understand that and stop.

anonymous asked:

Random suggestion but maybe you could make your OC have like a literal name? So like Midori means green, and Y'know Midoriya's hair is green so you could somehow correlate your OC's name with their quirk/appearance???

WAIT WHAT 

YOU’RE TELLING MIDORIYA’S NAME IS “MIDORIYA” BECAUSE.. HIS HAIR IS. GREEN?????????????!!!???!!?

TRC ask game
  • Gansey: Do you have a fav historical figure?
  • Blue: Favorite constellation?
  • Ronan: Favorite animal?
  • Adam: Your proudest achievement to date?
  • Noah: Do you believe in ghosts?
  • Henry: Do you prefer writing, speaking, or some other form of communication?
  • Orla: Do you paint your nails? What's your fav color?
  • Declan Lynch: What's your dream job?
  • Aurora Lynch: What do you look for in a romantic partner?
  • Niall Lynch: Do you have any recurring dreams?
  • Ashley: Do you have knowledge about any topics people wouldn't expect you to?
  • Neeve: Would you ever want to be famous?
  • Matthew Lynch: What's your favorite season?
  • Helen Gansey: Do you have any siblings?
  • Aglionby Academy: What's your favorite subject in school?
  • Mountain View: What's your attitude toward school?
  • Nino's Pizza: What's your fav pizza order?
  • Litchfield House: Do you prefer having lots of friends or only a small few?
  • 300 Fox Way: What's the most magical place you've ever been?
  • Monmouth Manufacturing: Is your room messy or neat? Do you make your bed regularly?
  • Cabeswater: What's your dream vacation destination?
  • Henrietta: Describe your hometown.
  • St. Agnes: When's the last time you saw your whole family?
  • The Barns: Describe a memory of yours from childhood.
  • The Grey Man: Describe your ideal date.
  • Maura Sargent: If you were lost somewhere, who would you want to find you?
  • Persephone Poldma: Have you had any important mentors or teachers?
  • Calla Johnson: What's your favorite thing to drink?
  • Mallory: Coffee or Tea?
  • Colin Greenmantle: What languages do you speak?
  • Piper Greenmantle: Chapstick, Lipstick, or Lipgloss?
  • Jesse Dittley: What's your favorite flower?
  • Whelk: What's your biggest regret?
  • Kavinsky: Are you easily distracted?
  • Opal Lynch: Describe your best friend.
  • The Pig: What's your dream car?
  • The BMW: Do you consider yourself a good driver?
  • White Mitsubishi: What's the most dangerous thing you've ever done?
  • The Hondayota: Do you have any goals you are working towards?
  • The Dream Pig: If you were going a road trip, what would be your top 3 must-see destinations?
  • Gwenllian: What's your fav song/album/artist to listen to right now?
  • Glendower: What time period in the past would you want to live in?
  • Chainsaw: Do you have any pets?
  • Boat shoes: What quirks do you have that make you unique?

They call you Magpie, occasionally— Bloodhound more recently— and you like to collect things.

You’ve always been careful about it, of course— learning where, if they exist at all, the lost and founds are, how to stumble across the people around who have the uncanny ability to know everyone and everything that matters to them, the places locals always check for items gone adrift— and you’ve heard strange things about EU, even before you actually arrived. Nothing concrete, nothing substantial, but enough on the forums and ratemyprofessors and hidden in deep corners of the web that you take extra care this time before continuing your finding (and returning, which is, admittedly, more of an entertaining challenge).

So instead of picking up the curiosities or collecting the feathers and bits and baubles, you watch, as you always do, and you’re thorough, as you always are. It takes some months and some seeing things you perhaps shouldn’t have and some time spent imagining solutions you likely couldn’t spare, but when all is said and done you think you’re ready to begin.

When you take the feathers, you leave behind piles of birdseed (your cockatiel’s favorite, and millet too when the plumage is especially colorful). When you find bottle caps, you bring them to the fountain and throw them in the highest tier; for the koi in the pond and their gasping mouths, you bring stories (words, the important thing is the words) whispered in the dead of night and shut up in the pretty green bottles left for you on the sidewalk. You find marbles in your pockets, bright as bubbles catching the sun, and make earrings out of them using the delicate wire you’re given every time you leave interestingly-shaped driftwood in that hole beside the dumpster (the earrings you keep, and sometimes give away to classmates worried about getting caught (or getting Caught, depending) in the rain). You give poetry and songs (whatever’s in your head, be it Bon Jovi for a week, the lines of that play you’re struggling with, or the rhymes that occasionally overtake your thoughts) to the crows and the trees and they give you nothing, but nor do they take.

The squirrels you know better than to deal with. A senior warned you (indirectly, eyes straight ahead as you both walked along), and when you accidentally leave your doodle notebook under the tree, you are left shaking pine needles out of your hair for weeks (it does smell nice, to be fair).

You never take found things without giving in return, and never give without expecting to leave empty-handed. It is a kindness, all of it, and you treasure the thanks you get (you do not always get thanked, and you do not mind).

With the lost things, you tread more carefully. You peek at them from the corner of your eye and wait a day (sometimes two, sometimes three, depending on how hard it is to only cast a glance) in order to see if the item is claimed; eventually (reluctantly, sometimes, but you do know how to help lost things find their homes, and you don’t want to leave them), you pick them up.

If it’s made of anything shiny, you leave it by the crows, rattling off as many interwoven lines of poetry you can cobble together about guarding and glittering, returning and finding, dropping off folded tinfoil sculptures as well (the crows have never given you anything back, but nor has anything been taken, and so you figure it’s fair they keep whatever they feel they’re owed). Though you only intend for them to keep watch and draw attention (whenever something pretty is misplaced, everyone looks at them), you begin to leave them your little aluminum figures whenever you catch wind of anything (or anyone) disappearing as a good luck charm, fond of how they watch and listen and protect what’s them and theirs. It is meant to be an idiosyncrasy, but you start to notice that they gather around the places those lost things turn up. You don’t give thanks and you pick up no more of their feathers than usual. When something is returned you make sure those involved discover a sudden and temporary interest in reading classic poems aloud.

When it’s anything that seems personal (or urgent), you hunt It down; a sigil that looks like an abstract swirl or perhaps an eye or perhaps a hand. Usually someone’s wearing it, frequently it’s purple, and always it’s on the softest-looking piece of fabric around; you drop the item nearby, wrapped in pairs of the warmest socks you can get on short notice, and grin before moving along. After the third time, when you get pins and needles walking away, you also start folding paper flowers out of the lists you keep of what you pick up where (and, if applicable, what you left in return). You leave those stuffed inside the socks, and notice that in certain places nothing turns up anymore (you do not blame It for being more skilled than you).

When it’s just an ordinary lost thing, you bury it, and leave a circle of pebbles above; later, you place a crow’s feather in the middle as well. You check back in a week and usually it’s gone. If it’s still there in two, you put it in the school’s lost and found, and at that point, more often than not, you later end up discovering it in your room.

You begin to get a reputation.

You hope, perhaps (probably) vainly, that it will do you no harm, and that you will not become one of the lost things you are so fond of.

You do what you can to keep safe; you owe no one a thing, and there are quite a few that owe you (and owe you very much).

You like to collect things, but you don’t collect debts. You do much freely, and you find value in kindnesses, but you value yourself, of course, most of all.

You hope you will not become lost, one way or another. You try to remember that, before, your help was freely given and the debts you were owed forgiven more often than not. You hope your (what-started-out-as-)innocent hobby will do you no harm.

You begin to get a reputation.

x

imagine robert coming back from idris to check up with the institute.


he’s heard alec has been named head, so he goes to congratulate his son; he knocks and opens the door to alec’s office to see him sat behind a grand desk littered with papers, but he’s not alone - magnus is there with him, dressed in dark, regal colors, but smiling at alec from where he’s perched at the edge of the desk. both turn their heads at the sound and their flirtatious laughter quiets into an awkward sort of impasse where nobody moves, until it’s robert who shatters the moment. 


“alec, can i have a second with you?” he says and alec nods, his eyebrows pulled together. 


as he rounds the desk, alec’s hand comes up to grasp at magnus’ elbow and he leans in for a kiss, short but affectionate - they exchange a couple of hushed words, robert catches something about lunch and he watches his son, someone usually so stonefaced and closed-off, break into a bright grin that doesn’t last - when alec closes the door with them standing outside, he already looks wary, searching robert’s face for clues. 


he hesitates, slightly taken aback by what he has just witnessed.


“i see you’re still… involved with that warlock, magnus.” he starts, the congratulations pushed back and discomfort present at the very centre. it’s not that he doesn’t want to see his son happy, but he’s sure this is only going to end up in heartbreak. alec crosses his arms, shoulders squared, his whole body coiled for a fight. robert tries to amend, palms placatingly held out in front.  “i am just worried for you. i told you, he’s quite a player when it comes to people’s hearts.”


he regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth; alec bristles visibly, eyes rolling with indignation.  there’s a hint of a knife-sharp smile tucked into the corner of his mouth as he steps closer, an accusing finger pointed at the oldest lightwood. 


“i am not involved.” he throws the word back, like it’s offensive and stings his tongue. “magnus bane, the high warlock of brooklyn, mind you, is my boyfriend.” 


shadowhunters pass by them and robert tries to quiet alec, wants to keep the next words private, since this doesn’t feel to him like something that should be discussed publicly, but alec pushes past that.


“i love magnus. i would do anything for him and i know that he is one of the most faithful people alive. unlike you.” 


heads turn and robert feels shame and anger spike inside in equal amounts; alec smiles, sharp and wolf-like with satisfaction. he doesn’t feel like his son - this person before him is not a soldier, but a warrior, venomous and proud.


“yeah, mom told me. told us. you don’t deserve her.” alec steps closer, jabs the offending finger at robert’s chest. “and you don’t get to tell me who to love.”


alec takes his hand away, straightens up with his hands clasped behind his back. “now excuse me, dad, i have a date with my warlock boyfriend to go to.” 


left without words, robert watches his son turn and close the door behind him. the corridor feels empty, whispers echoing in the corners. there’s something heavy hanging above his head, maybe it’s guilt, maybe it’s something more. 


the congratulations are forgotten.

rough (very rough >D) sketch of will + nico + kitten based on this fanfic here because apparently the only thing cuter than solangelo is solangelo with a kitten.

(also, i can’t draw kittens.)

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You: Why the heck are they wearing those things instead of armor?

Me: They recently recovered some early 21st century items Gaul took their stuff so they had to dip into the emergency stash of clothes Casual Friday!

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emma swan + autumn