this paper is never getting written


“Adrien Agreste and Marinette Dupain Cheng were truly madly deeply in love with each other. Then life gave an 180°.
Adrien wishes to a shooting star he had never crossed paths with Marinette. Next day he wakes up on his bed, eight years younger with the choice to re-do his life.”

or read under the cut


The front page of the newspaper welcomed him at the office. The tabloid seemed to be written in neon lights rather than in the bold Arial font. Though he tried to avoid gossip newspapers and magazines, this kind of news were impossible to ignore.

He took the paper in his hands, walked to the closest chair on the round table and sat on it. The secretary followed him, putting a cup of tea in front of him. Adrien thanked her and took a sip of the red warm tea. Then he read the title one more time and flipped the pages until he found the article.

It wasn’t the first time he found this same tabloid on a magazine, it may be the fifth or sixth time he read the same title displayed on the cover of one. He perfectly remembered the first time he had seen one of those. It had been years ago, months after the day of their wedding.

He was walking home after a long day at the office, trying to hide in the shadows of the old buildings, ignoring stranger eyes and hoping to avoid known ones when his sight stumbled with the magazine. He couldn’t help but laugh.

Keep reading

anonymous asked:

I really want to get back into the habit of writing every day. I mean---I do; I write for my homework, I write in a medical journal, I write rants that I never show anyone else... But I want to get back into writing stories. There's this novel that's been sitting in the back of my brain for months, and I haven't got it on paper yet. I love seeing your little updates of how much you've written each day, but do you have any tips on how to motivate myself and get into the habit of doing the same?

I do! And honestly, posting those little updates is one of them. Nine times out of ten I’m the only one reading them, but posting one every day gives me an extra little kick to get my writing in, especially if I’m not getting started until late in the evening and I’m already about to burn out. Because if I don’t, I have to admit my failure to the internet, and nobody wants to do that. So that’s one idea: make yourself publicly accountable. (Tumblr is just one way to do it, and you’re welcome to jump on the what I wrote today tag if you think that would help!) But this is part of a larger point about making progress, which is that you have a much greater incentive to make progress if you can see that you’re making progress. 

Let me expand: Writing a novel is a long, long commitment. If you have traditional publishing in mind, you’re talking literally three to five years from start to finish. If not traditional publishing, you’re still talking at least a year or two if you have any hopes of producing something truly good that won’t mortify you down the road. That’s daunting. The easiest way I’ve found to get motivated and stay motivated is to have a plan and stick to it. This doesn’t just mean planning to write 500 words or whatever every day, because that’s not enough structure. What I’m talking about is a comprehensive game plan which takes every part of the process into account, all the way from outline to a polished MS. So sit down with a calendar in front of you and ask yourself what amount of time you think you need to get a first draft down on paper. It’s going to depend on how long you think the finished book will probably be, how much time you have to write every day, how your personal outlining process works, and so on. Then set goals, or checkpoints. Maybe you want to have a finished outline by April 1st. Maybe then you can expect to write 1,000 words a day and have your first five chapters by the beginning of May. I don’t know; this is something you have to figure out for yourself. But what’s crucial, in my experience, is having that concrete plan. This is for two reasons: (1) it’s much less daunting to sit down and work  each day if you know exactly what you have to accomplish that day to stay on track and (2) when you do it this way you have tangible proof that yes, you are making progress. And that’s huge. Nothing motivates me to keep writing like the knowledge that every day I’m getting closer to having a finished first draft in my hands.

Now, how you choose to go about doing this is something I can’t really tell you, because everybody’s creative process is different. Personally I know that my first drafts usually come in a little over 100,000 words, but that’s not the only factor. You have to budget time for research, reading (if you’re not reading you have no business writing), and all your other daily obligations. So for me, right now, working with a completed outline, the magic quotient is around 750 words a day on average. For you it may be totally different. You have to find what works. The good news is, there are a lot of tools out there to help you. Here are just a few you can find on this blog:

  • Writer’s Toolbox: A whole bunch of apps and software and freeware to help you write. Find that here
  • Outlining tips: If you’re totally overwhelmed by the concept of outlines and don’t understand how they’re going to help you, I’ve proselytized about that at length here
  • Time management: If you know what you have to write but you’re having trouble staying focused, you’ll find help for that here and here.
  • Motivation: If you’re having trouble staying motivated even after this lengthy post, there’s more advice about that here.
  • General writing advice: You’ll find all that and a bag of chips right here.

I know this is a lot. But writing is one of those things that requires a lot of trial and error and, yes, time. Hopefully some of this, if you take the time to read it, will actually help you to be more productive in the long run. 

Of course, if you have any questions about anything I’ve said here or elsewhere, don’t hesitate to hit the inbox again!


Prompt: “i got you for secret santa so i got you this really expensive but sentimental gift that you’ve always wanted, hoping you’ll never find out it’s from me ” (

This one ends a bit sad, but it could have a happy ending if you guys would like a part two!

Author’s Note: Welcome to 5 Days of Sebmas! Until December 25th, we’ll be posting Christmas/Winter type imagines to get you in the Yuletide spirit!

Keep reading

okay i’ve been thinkin about a ice hockey au ever since i started reading omgcp and i’m struggling to not follow that storyline but i just

i want bucky getting into college on the promises of a hockey scholarship, he pays off his first year separately so he can get himself up to scratch on the game

i want steve, star forward, teaching bucky the intricacies in the rules, things that are never written down on paper but just are, because he sees this guy on the ice all the time, and he’s good, but you can only get so far in a team sport without a team y’know?

i want bucky teaching steve tricks in his free time in return, cocky little smile on his face when steve falls flat on his ass after attempting a spin that had him leaning backwards on his too-short hockey skates, then pulling it off himself in an identical pair

i want bucky earning his way onto the team in his sophomore year, and steve’s so damned proud that he made the cut but trying to hide how much he cares about this stubborn, funny, hardworking guy who’s doing his best to be the best

i want bucky to end up being one of the best forwards on the team bc he’s so light on his feet, that he’s basically impossible to catch

i want bucky versatile, switching out with one of the d-men in a training match so the guy can rest his ankle and owning the position

i want bucky getting up at ass-o-clock in the morning out of habit, down at the rink with his figure skates and keeping himself in practice, starting slow but keeping up with his skills, still able to spin and jump and glide like he could when he was competing

i want steve falling ass over tit one morning because he’s woken up after a bad dream, gone to the rink bc it’s quiet, to get out of his head for a bit, only to see bucky, and he’s just fuckin blown away

because this man is just at home on the ice in a way that not many people get to be, even after years on it

i want steve scrabbling to get his skates on, laces a mess, hovering just out of range as bucky skates, headphones in, mouthing along to the music

i want a dorky little “hi” moment when bucky realises he’s not alone, before steve’s like “is it okay if i join you” and bucky’s response is “try to keep up”

i want their skating together in the mornings to become habit, something they never say or even think about, they’re just pulling on their skates hours before classes, moving out onto the ice without a word but with an easy camaraderie that neither of them could do without, now that it’s there

i want bucky pushing himself, one morning, leaving steve to keep warm as he builds himself up to it, something he’s never pulled off but always wanted to try

i want him making this jump, and steve’s heart is in his throat bc if bucky gets hurt he doesn’t know what he’ll do

but bucky lands it, and he’s a little shaky as he comes out of it, an elated little whoop coming out of him and before he realises it, steve’s there, hugging him tight and lifting him off his feet, spinning them as bucky laughs because he did it

i want the moment to crystalise, hang between them like something they’re almost afraid to touch and then

i want them to not even think about it, bucky just gets his feet on the ground again and steve threads his fingers in bucky’s hair and they’re kissing and everything just feels right

i want a hockey au

i. i get out a piece of paper, a pen. i sit at the desk, my wet hair soaking the back of my shirt.

ii. the pen is poised.

iii. it begins to scratch the paper, lines of black crossing the white. your name is written at the top. it hurt to write it.

iv. tears and drips of water stain the paper and make the ink run until the lines are just smeared watercolor gray. i can’t read what i’ve written, what i wrote to you, about you. all that is left is a gray smear.

v. the pen is flying across the room.

vi. i’m silently screaming, no sound coming out of my mouth stretched wide. my tears come faster then the rain pouring down my window.

vii. do you see what you did to me? do you see what you have reduced me to?

viii. you do not deserve to read that letter.

—  the eight steps of my letter to you- @lovelyscribblings
they thought he was a mystery

-but when Ryan first joins the crew, mask on and eyes sharp, it only takes a few days before they learn that he’s mute. he never says anything; he writes what he has to say if it needs to be written. he never asks anyone for help if he can help it– it takes too much paper, and he’d rather just go out and do it or get it himself.

- and of course nobody really thinks in-depth about this. why would they? they write it off as security reasons; speech is one less factor that’ll make it hard to erase yourself from the cop’s database, right?

- but it comes to a couple weeks when Ray notices that Ryan’s muteness might run deeper than that.

- because there have been times where Ryan would perk, sit up a bit straighter– almost like he were about to say something–, then stop.

- Ray finds it odd, and he thinks it may just be because he’s never met a mute killer before. However, he can’t help the tingle in the back of his brain. Someone who was mute their whole life would have learnt by now /not/ to speak up, right? They would know not to even try, right?

- Yet there would be times where Ryan /did/ go to speak. So he couldn’t have been mute for his whole life, or most of it.

- So Ray starts observing.

- He sees Ryan jumping every time someone raises their voice. He sees Ryan immediately snap to attention, shoulders rigid and eyes hard, every time Geoff gives an order. He sees Ryan /obey/.

- And that’s when Ray realizes that Ryan wasn’t born mute, or he didn’t go mute because of an injury.

- He was /trained/ to be mute.

- Ray should have expected this, given Ryan’s background. The Vagabond was an attack dog, and had been for many years for many other crews. His databases held the summaries; worked for so-and-so crew for blank amount of years, did this and that. Yet they never went deeper, never said what he /did/ or what happened to /him/.

- And previously, Ray would have compared Ryan to a broken piece of glass. Yet now he could see he was more of a beaten dog; ready to give up, to stop making noise and to follow. So broken that it had given up on trying to fight back.

- Ryan wasn’t mute from choice– far from it. He was mute from years of torture, of pain, of being afraid and prodded too many times.

- And suddenly the Vagabond wasn’t an attack dog to Ray anymore. He was no longer a sociopath, his voice being one less tie people could cut. The Vagabond was suddenly /Ryan/, a broken man who had been demoted to a monster.

- It became more evident as time went on; how he would flinch and shy at any touch. How he would almost go to fight for things he thought was right, but think better of it and stay where he was. How he would take half a step forward, then two steps back.

- Ray can see the man trying to light a fire, trying to have some spark light in himself, but failing every time.

- It’s past the second month when Ray speaks up.

- “Why don’t you speak?”

- It’s just four words spoken on a drive to nowhere, something said while Ray looks at his jagged nails. He doesn’t want to look at Ryan, doesn’t want to make it seem like this question mattered, even if it does. He wants it to be something said in passing, something that hopefully wouldn’t shut Ryan in further.

- A moment passes and Ray looks over. Ryan’s hands are on the steering wheel, and it’s a far cry from the loose one hand that Ryan usually has. He doesn’t look tense by normal standards, yet Ray can read him. He can see his tense shoulders, how he’s too focused on the road.

- But his head is also tilted. It’s in such a slight angle that only someone who had known him for long would have noticed. It’s a question.

- “You know how, I’m assuming.” Ray continues. There’s a lump in his throat, something that makes his voice uneven, that he can’t really explain.

- He looks back at his nails and he can hear Ryan sigh. It’s such an odd thing to hear; really /any/ sound from Ryan is an odd thing to hear. Yet this sigh seems a bit more deflated, more dead than Ray can pinpoint.

- Something lets Ray feel selfishly disappointed. It’s a dumb thing to feel, all things considered. He wasn’t sure what he was hoping for– some miraculous bit of speech, some little hum of agreement, /something/. But it’s obvious he wasn’t going to get anything; Ryan’s mute, and it’s not like he could have–

- Something moves out of the corner of Ray’s eye. Ryan nods. It’s a short, curt gesture, but it’s /there/ and it’s more than Ray expected to get.

- Ray looks over, amazed and starting to feel a bit light headed. “You know how to talk? But… /can/ you speak?”

- It takes another minute. Another long minute, where they pass trees and signs and wildlife. Where a million conversations could have been had, a million words could have been spoken.

- But instead, Ryan just nods again.

- And Ray wants to press; he wants to let Ryan know that it’s okay to talk– it’s okay to be /free/. He wants to let Ryan know that there are no blows here; no punches, no shouts, no whips. None of them would ever dare to do that to a Crew member, no matter what they did. They were all family, something close and tight and impenetrable. They were the shelter from the storm, the safe house in the middle of a desert.

- Yet a part of Ray knows, it just /knows/, that pressing Ryan would never change anything. It wouldn’t make Ryan realize what was happening, and it sure as hell wouldn’t correct years of psychological torture and pain. He knows that he wouldn’t be the first person to press, and he won’t be the last.

- So he keeps quiet, and he hopes that he can, at least, be the one that makes a change.

Never Have I Ever

Inspired by @imaginejsugg’s “I Can Say I Have”

“Hello everybody! Today’s video will be a very special one, because I am joined by the one, the only…Y/N Y/L/N!” Joe says to the camera, throwing his arms to the side to show case you walking into frame.

“Hi guys!” You wave to the camera, sitting on the bed him.

“I have some how corralled her into doing another video with me, don’t know what she was thinking.” Joe jokes, nudging you lightly.

“The things you do for a best friend.” You shake your head before looking over at him. “So, what are we getting up to today?

“So glad you asked!” He holds up two pieces of paper, one with HAVE written on it, the other reading NEVER. “A good old game of, Never Have I Ever. Although I think we can probably guess what each other will put, considering how long we’ve known each other. But time for the viewers to learn something new!” He hands one of each word over to you, before briefly explaining the game for the viewers who may have not.

For some reason you began to get nervous. Yeah, Joe had been your best friend for years, and he did know way too much, but there were a few things you had managed to keep hidden. Mentally shaking yourself, you pushed those thoughts to the side. What are the chances of him asking?

“First question: Never have I ever…” Joe pausing, biting his lip as he reads through his list. “Pretended to be sick so I could skip a day of school” He smirks, watching as you roll your eyes and hold up the HAVE sheet while he holds up NEVER.

“You were such a goody good in school.”

“I just cared about my grades, Y/N.”

“Yeah, sure you did, Joe.” You both laugh as he searches for another question.

“Never have I ever been to Disneyland.” You glare at Joe as he proudly holds up the HAVE sign while you lift up the NEVER.

“Are you choosing questions directly against me?”

“Not my fault you’ve never been.”

“Sorry SOME of us aren’t super famous youtubers who get invited to the states, where they can GO to Disneyland.” You may be slightly bitter about this one, having always wanted to go to Disneyland. Obviously, Joe had gone when he was on one of his many trips to the states, but you never had enough money to fly over with him. And refused to take up his offers on him paying your way. Instead, he just brought a bunch of souvenirs back when he went, which did help to cheer you up.

Joe laughs before finding another question from the many submissions. The game continues for a while, and nothing new is revealed between the two of you, although you are sure Joe’s viewers will be surprised by an answer or two, especially the ones that ended up getting a little more personal.

“Last question.” Joe says, putting his phone down beside him and looking at the camera. “Never have I ever,” He glances at you quickly, but you don’t notice, “Had a crush on a youtuber.”

Time seems to stop for a moment, your mouth goes dry. Of all the questions, he had to ask this one. You feel your cheeks flush as you look at the sheets of paper in your lap, debating whether or not you should lie. But Joe would figure it out. With a sigh, you decide on the truth and hold up your sheet.

Joe was holding the NEVER sign, and his face turned to one of shock when he realized you were holding up the HAVE sign.

“Really?!” He asks, both of you lowering your answers. You look down at your lap again and nod. “Who?”

“It doesn’t matter. I’m not telling.” You can’t bring yourself to look at him, but you can feel his stare.

“Alright, looks like she isn’t telling us. Thank you for watching, make sure to hit that like button, and subscribe! Its free. And I will see you next week with another Sugg Sunday Special!” Joe closes out the video, and goes about turning off his camera and lights. You shuffle the papers, waiting for him to ask again.

“You going to tell me who?” He asks, moving the lights back to their place against the wall. You look up at him and roll your eyes, hoping your false act will pass.

“No, and it doesn’t matter. It was a while ago. Now drop it.”

He doesn’t. For the next three days, he constantly texts you, asking who it is. Whenever you hang out, which is quite a bit, he’s bugging you, trying to get you to crack. But somehow your lips stay sealed. Until the fourth day.

It’s a normal day, both of you are sitting on his couch, watching a movie. The remaints of your dinner still sit on the coffee table, both too comfy to get up to clean it. Its been peaceful, you believe Joe has finally decided to let it go on the whole crush thing.

“So, which one did you have a crush on?” He asks, so suddenly it makes you jump.

“Stop.” Is all you say, not in the mood to deal with his pestering.

“Come on, Y/N. We are supposed to be best friends, tell me.” He pauses the moving, looking at you with his puppy dog eyes.

“If we are supposed to be best friends, you’ll let it go already.” You cross your arms, annoyance flaring up in your chest.

“But I want to know! Maybe I can play matchmaker!” For some reason, that’s the last straw. You spring to your feet, your fists clenched beside you.

“Just drop it, okay!” You snap at him. “I should have never done that stupid video with you.” You head for the door, hearing Joe scramble to his own feet behind you.

“Wait, Y/N! I’m sorry!” He grabs your arm, stopping you from leaving. You both stood there for a moment, your back to his, his hand on your arm. “Please…I’m sorry.” He says softly, and he slowly walks to stand in front of you, but you can’t meet his eyes. Instead you stare at a spot on his shoulder.
“Why won’t you tell me?” Joe questions, concern laced in his voice. And you hate it, you hate hiding something from the person you call your best friend.

“Because…it will change things.” The words take some consideration, but you were finally able to get them out. Hoping it would be enough for him to drop the whole thing.

“Change things?” Joe mumbles, almost as if to himself. “What would change….” He trails off and then you hear a sharp intake of breath, and you flinch. He figured it out.

You brace yourself, ready to break free and leave, but instead feel a gentle hand on your chin, lifting your head. You see Joe smiling down at you, his blue eyes shining with happiness.

“Why didn’t you just say so, Y/N?” He asks, before leaning in to place a soft kiss on your surprised lips. Your mind goes blank. The guy you called your best friend, the one you had secretly been in love with for the past couple of years, was kissing you.

Your eyes flutter open as he pulls away, a brief thought flitting through your mind asking when they had closed, and you smile up at Joe.

“Now can you tell me?” He teases.

“I think you figured it out.”

“Hmm, I think so. And I also hope things do change, cause I have been wanting them to for quite some time.”

“Oh really?”



And with that, you wrap your arms around his neck, standing on your toes to reach him, and pull him into another kiss.

I wrote so many love letters that you never got to read. They weren’t all the old fashion ones, written on notebook paper with black ink. Some are sticky notes with a few words and a smiley face, others are notes stored in my phone.
You always told me to get off my phone or asked me what I was doing on it when you weren’t looking. I was usually writing about you, absorbing the simple moment we were in and trying to hold on to it. The Thursday nights eating ramen for dinner and rubbing your back, the Sunday afternoons listening to our favorite songs with our noses in boring books, and the nights I’d wake up with you wrapped around me, how I’d lay in silence so in love with life, in love with you, listening to the innocent sound of you breahting next to me, never wanting to let you go. 
Now, they are unread by anyone but me, reminding me of all the love I had for you, but how it wasn’t enough because you didn’t want it anymore
—  I wish I could still give you all I have
Homesick || Open

Ronno eyeballed the newspaper before him, desperately searching through the pages for something worthwhile in the news. It took forever to try to get something resembling information about the rest of the world–the rest of the non-magical world–and all he could manage was a newspaper. He never read them as a child, but something about being so separated from it all made him almost yearn for the shitty paper stories written down and printed.

Just as he reached some story about an election off in America a sudden gust of cold wind picked up and he looked over to spot someone standing in the doorway of the shop, door wide open, and not coming through. His papers blew over the desk and he groaned, “What’s wrong with you? Close the door! It’s too fucking cold to leave it wide open.” He growled, “What were you born in a barn or something?” He mumbled the last part under his breath. 

Goodbyes Aren't Always Forever (2/?)

Goodbyes don’t always last forever, but as stubborn as we all are we don’t believe that. At least until it happens. When it does we usually don’t believe it. We don’t want it. We want things the way we know they’re suppose to be. We ask for freedom, but we don’t take it. We thrive on order and structure and without it… we fall apart.


Part 1


Pairings: Steve x Reader

Summary: Steve Rogers use to be my best friend. We would do everything together. At least until we didn’t. At least until I was replaced. At least until I was forgotten. But was I?

Warnings: Swearing, the feels

A/N: I feel horrible for it taking a whole month (yes.) for me to get part two up! I’ve had it written down on a piece of paper for a while now but never got around to typing it!

Word Count: 854


I sighed, rolling my eyes, “No. I’m joking about my fiance being dead.”

Everyone stared at me, gaping for what seemed like an eternity.

“I should go.”

Pietro pulled me into a hug that Wanda joined in on. Then Sam, then Natasha and soon everyone, excluding Steve and ‘his friend’ Bucky, were enclosing me in a group hug.

“Guys? I can’t breathe.”

“Who needs to breathe. You should be use to not breathing.”

I wiggled my way free and inhaled deeply, “Why would I be use to not breathing?”

Thor flashed me a grin, “Lady Y/N being as you are an avenger-”

“Was. I was an avenger. I’m not anymore.”

Tony gave me a small pout, “Once an avenger always an avenger sweetie.”

I sighed, “I’m sorry but I’m really not.”

As soon as I finished my sentence I felt Natasha come up behind me, ready to pounce. I turned grabbing her wrist and flipping her onto the floor.

Tony grinned, “Not an avenger, you say?”

I rolled my eyes and extended an arm to Natasha, pulling her up from the floor, “Shut up. I mean I’m not an avenger. I just know how to kick ass.”

Natasha dusted herself off, grinning, “Kicking ass is basically a second nature to you.”

I smirked, “I did learn from the best.”

Pietro smiled wrapping his arm loosely around my waist, “See? You’re practically still an avenger.”

“You are an avenger.”

“I am not-”

I stared, gaping, at, the one and only, Nick Fury. I wasn’t sure when he’d gotten here, but here he was, casually leaning against the door frame.


“Y/N, it’s so great to see you. As I was saying… you’re still an avenger.”

I offered him a small smile, “Nick, I’m really not-”

“You are. You left on a contract. 5 years. You’ve done 3.”

I stood completely still for a moment letting his words sink in. When they did I staggered backwards, out of Pietro’s grip, from shock, “No… You can’t - This can’t be happening…”

“What’s going on?”

I cast a sideways glare towards Steve, “What’s going on is I’m stuck here. For 2 more years.”

Wanda and Pietro gasped, Steve and Bucky continued to stare at me blankly and everyone else practically jumped for joy.

Natasha pulled me in for a tight hug, “I finally get my old best friend back!”

I hugged her back  half heartedly and then pulled away looking over at Fury, “So there is absolutely nothing you can do about this?”

Fury sighed, “I don’t think so. I’m sorry, kid.”

I nodded, “Do I need to do any paperwork or?”

He smiled, giving me a small wave and calling over his shoulder as he left, “I’ll take care of that. You get training.”

I exhaled deeply before turning to face everyone, “I’m going to go get packed, since I guess I’ll be living here now.”

“I’ll help-”

“I can come-”


I gave them all a sweet smile to soften the harshness of my words.

“I’m good. I’ll be back later okay?”

They nodded solemnly as I turned on my heel heading for the door. I willed the tears not to fall right now. This had been the worst news I’d received since I found out he had died. All I wanted when I came to New York was to live a normal life. To forget everything that had happened in the past. That was clearly not going to happen.

I pushed open the doors and took large breaths of the fresh air. I collapsed, sitting down, onto a nearby bench and let my head fall in my hands.


I looked up to see Wanda standing in front of me, watching with sad eyes.

I let the tears roll down my cheek as she engulfed me in her arms, “I’m so so sorry. If I could, I would make sure you never had to go through any of this.”

I nodded, pulling away from our hug and wiping the tears from my eyes, “Thank you Wanda. It so great that I finally have someone who knows what happened without me having to tell them.”

Wanda nodding chuckling slightly,  “It’s no problem. Whenever you need to talk, I’m always here.”

She stood up and turned, heading for the door.


I bit my lip, hesitating slightly, “Could you come with me and help me pack?”

She turned and nodded smiling, “Of course. But my brother-”
“You called?”

Pietro had sped out and was now standing by his sister.

She sighed, “He-”

I smiled, “That’s fine. I mean, he can come too if he wants?”

Pietro looked over at me and grinned, “Of course printsessa. Anything for my two favorite girls.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat and gestured in the direction of my apartment, “I walked so…”

Pietro smirked, “I could run us all there?”

I chuckled, “I think I’d just rather walk. It’ll give us more time to catch up.”

Wanda nodded loping an arm through mine as Pietro grabbed my other hand, “Let’s start with how much we’ve missed you.”

My choice for fifth place is the story ‘Receipts’ by @surlybobbies!

I can always appreciate a good Dean/Cas finally getting together in canon!verse fic, and this is totally something Cas would do. Really sweet and well written!

I don’t follow you yet, so you’ll get a follow back as a bonus! Congratulations, and everyone should go check out your writing because I saw some lovely things there! 

Dean walks into Cas’s room, holding his phone to his ear. “How the hell am I supposed to know where you put it, Cas? I’m never in your room, which, can I just say, is a goddamn pigsty - “

As he listens to Cas’s slightly indignant reply, he wanders over to Cas’s desk, where rumpled pieces of paper litter the surface in a semicircle. Out of curiosity, he picks one up. It’s a receipt dated a few months ago for two bacon cheeseburgers at some diner in Minnesota. Dean shifts his phone from his ear and places it on speaker.  

“-be right near the lamp on my bedside table - “

“Hey, Cas?”

“Did you find it?”

“Nah, but uh - why do you have so many old receipts?”

There’s silence.

“Cas? You still there?”

On the line, someone clears his throat. “Uh, yes. I’m still here.”

“So? The receipts? I mean, it’s cool, but it doesn’t really make sense. We’re not exactly paying taxes, buddy.”

There’s another pause, just a little too long to be innocent. Finally, Cas says, “No reason. Now, can you please look for my cell phone? Sam says you’re a waste of his minutes.”

“Tell him he’s an asshole,” Dean says, rolling his eyes. “I’ll text him if I find it.”

Cas hangs up. Dean pockets his phone and casts an eye over the messy desk, where still more receipts are spread out. Something compels him to pick up another one, cleaner and less rumpled than the rest. It’s only a few weeks old, from a diner Dean and Cas visited on the way back from a particularly rough hunt. Two more burgers, two cokes, and one slice of apple pie. Dean smiles. Cas had ordered him the apple pie.

Keep reading

quick guide to mental wards for people whove never been to any

1. you’re not allowed to keep anything on you that they can imagine you killing yourself with. for example i was allowed to keep paper, crayons (not pencils), and my stephen king books

2. yes you can be forced drugs

3. the halls are NEVER empty. there’s always one nurse stationed at the end of the hall in shifts so if you try to leave your room you will be spotted

4. people will lie to you about who they are (what kind of doctor) so you’ll tell them certain things

5. if you don’t eat what they give you when they give it, you’ll starve and be written up

6. getting written up is a system of strikes, kind of. if you aren’t complacent in their rules system they use those to keep you longer

7. yes solitary exists and yes it is bad

8. they never have anything good on TV. we don’t watch the news or current events or anything that can spark an intense thought. i actually am triggered by several disney movies because of how understimulated i was before watching them and how much they freaked me out in the state i was in

~A tough, winded world is not everything
Even I walk all day long, I will never get to see the same view again
Written on a white paper Why My mind changes just like the ink runs
I’m falling I’m falling I’m falling to you ~

Taeyeon - Why

Studying (Stalia AU)

Set after season four

For @celestallison …because we realised I’ve never written a fanfiction with a happy ending…..or a fluff filled fanfiction that doesn’t involve death……..

Synopsis: Malia and Stiles study together, aka they both say I love you for the first time and don’t even notice or make a big deal, plus Stiles gets a paper cut and Malia acts like it’s the end of his life.

Malia Tate was laid on her the front of her stomach on her boyfriend; Stiles Stilinski’s freshly made bed. She was flicking through her Maths textbook whilst eating a large chocolate chip cookie she had stolen from the Stilinski kitchen; leaving crumbs all over Stiles’s ocean blue sheet, she brushed them off with the back of her hand, so they blended in with the cream-white carpet, “Maliaaaa…” Stiles’s voice rolled off his tongue in a slightly risen tone, he was sat at his desk, he spun on the spot.

Malia dropped the cookie down onto her book and brushed her lips to remove the evidence; she smiled at him with the one that she used to get away with anything, if Stiles wasn’t high on caffeine and very sleepy, he’d probably let her get away with cold blooded murder if she beamed at him like that. “Yes,” her mouth was still full as she spoke the crumbs fell down onto her book, “Shit.”

“I don’t want my Dad to make me vacuum again,” Stiles moaned, “And you stole my cookie.” He moaned like a kid, Malia held the smallest part of cookie that she had left.

“Love yoouuuu,” she told him holding it out as laughter ripped through her, “Sorry.”

Stiles reached out, taking hold of it; it was smaller than then size of his palm, it was basically  a few crumbs, “Love you too Mal,” he tipped his head back, the raised his hand and tilted it down, crumbs entered his mouth and he swallowed it, “I want more.”

“It’s your birthday next week, I’ll buy you some,” Malia smiled, “I was hungry, Maths makes me hungry.”

’Maths makes me hungry’ – Malia Tate 2012.” Stiles said, with a straight back, with a profound attitude. “You’re amazing.”

“Yes, I know,” Malia joked, Stiles rolled his eyes, “But I still hate Maths.”

“Me too,” Stiles turned, clicking the mouse on his laptop; Malia jumped at the sound of Stiles’s broken printer that sounded like a growl every time it printed, “Sorry,” he said swinging around on the spot, “considering I use the printer for all our supernatural murder problems, Scott and Lydia are coming together to get me one for my birthday.”

“Good, sounds like a coyote who used to hate me in the forest, it’s okay, though….”

“Why?” Stiles asked.

“I hit him with my car,” Malia answered.

“Wait, what?” Stiles questioned.

“I’m joking; he died from natural causes when I was like twelve.” Malia answered, “What work are you doing?”

“Business,” Stiles rolled his eyes, “I hate it, but you know, need it for all the life paths I’m thinking of.”

“Okay,” Malia turned back to her textbook, “I need to get this under control.”

Stiles rose from the spot, picking up his paper, “Ow,” he flicked his hand and the paper dropped, Malia’s senses picked up the metallic smell of blood before his moan in pain.

“Oh my god!” She freaked out, jumping up, “You’re such an idiot. Only you Stiles Stilinski can get a paper cut in the one time in his life, he isn’t fighting supernatural threat.” She rubbed her thumb over his finger, but more blood kept coming out, “How many pints are you storing in there?” She backed up, dragging him out into the bathroom, she knew exactly where his Band-Aids were, Stiles was always accidently cutting and scraping himself, she wrapped it around it and kissed his finger, “Okay?”

Stiles stepped forward, locking his lips against hers, “You’re truly amazing,” he said, placing his forehead against hers.

“I don’t like seeing you hurt.” Malia answered, “It hurts me too.”

“It was a paper cut,” Stiles joked.

“Yeah, but next time it might be a bullet in your shoulder or knife in your chest, we are all knocking on deaths doors with what we do, you more than anyone,” she cried, “I’ve lost a lot of people.”

“And you won’t lose me,” Stiles placed her hand on his cheek, pulling back and looking into her eyes.

“I made a big deal about a paper cut because I might not be there, when it’s something bigger and I want you to know I would if I could, I’d always come for you, forever.” Malia took him into an embrace, both of them nestled their faces into each other’s shoulder.

Written based off this ask. Trying to get out of my slump. 

Calum’s never been good with his words. Verbally, at least. Give him a pen and a pad of paper and some time, Calum could write the song of the century. He poured every part of himself into his music; every single emotion, every single experience, every single ounce of energy. His music, his lyrics, they spoke for him; more eloquent than he could ever be on his own.

But then again, Calum couldn’t remember if he had ever felt like this before. Not about another person, at least. He hated to admit it, but maybe he was emotionally stunted in this department.

It wasn’t for lack of trying on his part though. Calum had been trying ever since you’d uttered a “Love you, Cal” against the skin of his neck before your eyelids had fluttered shut, finding it easier to admit your feelings for the brown skinned boy while tangled together and on the verge of sleep.

When Calum realized he wouldn’t be able to give a verbal response, he became so determined to show it. Peeks at his lyric book (a safe space for him, a place where his vulnerability was for his eyes only), kisses seeped in a tenderness that rooted you to the floor, lingering soft touches, cute updates on snapchat if he was away, sitting with you late at night when your panic set in at the oncoming deadlines. The list could go on and on.

He was a little relieved though. You never pushed him for that verbal response; understanding that at his core, he wasn’t a verbal person. And you saw each of his action, understood the emotions behind them. It was enough for you. When he was ready, you’d still be there. It was enough.

And laying in bed with Calum had to have been on your list of favorite things. It was enough to just exist in the moment with him here. He was warm where you’re cold; fingertips searing into your sides, your toes pressed to his shins. It was safe in the confines of his arms, where he tucked you into his chest with your leg tossed over the swell of his hip. It was enough. There’s no place you’d rather be.

The thought bounces around your head. Well, except maybe some foreign country where the two of you can explore and get lost and then it’s really just the two of you. But being here is enough, with your nails scratching at the nape of his neck and Calum’s face buried into your mess of hair.

Calum’s teetering on the edge of sleep, little warm puffs of air slipping past the part of his lips. You can feel the muscles in his shoulders tense and relax as he shifts around, sliding down a bit more in the bed. He ends up with lips pressed to the side of your jaw, eyelashes fluttering against your temple.

“Go to sleep, Cal.” You hum, nails moving to scratch behind his ears.

He grunts a bit, “Not ‘til you do.” His words are heavy, voice thickened by a need for sleep. Calum’s refusing to sleep until you do, one of those little notions of the love he can’t quite verbalize.

You smile, fingers tightening around the extra fabric of his shirt. “Promise I will.” You yawn around your response, “See? Almost there. Sleep, Cal. I’ll follow.”

“Okay,” He hums, eyelashes brushing your skin when his eyelids slide shut a final time. “Love you.” 

Yeah, being here would always be enough.

Pencils are for the frivolous things in life. Grocery lists, a silly little cartoon, a little ditty written at 3 am. Pens are for the permanent things in life. Marriage licenses, birth certificates, divorce papers.
And so there’s always the question. What does “I love you” get written in? Is this the one to write in pen?
—  the book about love that i will never write
MaBill fanfic idea!

Okay so I’ve never written for this ship before and haven’t gotten around to reading too many fanfics, but has anyone done/seen someone do a Phantom of the Opera AU yet?
I have this pretty fleshed out story all ready to go, but I want to make sure I don’t encroach on someone else’s AU first!

If this doesn’t turn anything up, I’ll be posting the prologue as soon as I can sit down and get it all on paper!

You told me that your heart no longer could beat with mine. It was like you cut my heartstrings and my heart shattered into a million little pieces. As much as it hurt, I still wanted to have the rhythm of our hearts synchronized. But I know as well as you that you are a boy who is scared of commitment and having something real. Your golden boy image is an illusion, your heart is just as bruised and scarred as mine. I also know that even though your words cut me like glass, that I am praying for you to come back. Please just come back.

There’s this irony wrapped around heartache like sugar spun cotton candy taste of his mouth, that’s still stuck between my jaw. I swallowed knives whole at the name of love and spit blood in his ashtray mouth. I clutched the dagger of hurt carved out if his bones and plunged into his chest. I broke his heart in the process of healing mine, poured poison between his silk laden jaws. I know we weren’t meant to end this way but there’s no right way to end trust/love. We stretched state lines between our folded hands. Cruelty is the second name of heartbreak. All I know nowadays is my heart is still resting in tinderbox carved out of your name. My poetry keeps sounding like I’m sorry for letting you go, please come back. I’m sorry. I’m hurting. I’m hurting. I’m hurting. And I know you won’t come back.


This is how we lose love// Collab with wonderful @visi0n–ary

By @visi0n–ary and @poeticsania