(implied at least)

'All your base...are belong to us'
hanzo fucking shimada
'All your base...are belong to us'

i saw some people talking about this audio clip being a Real Thing That Actually Exists and was like “no that can’t be true” and then i found it after spending around an hour looking and i’m posting it now because i don’t want to have gone on incognito to search “hanzo shimada ‘all your base’” for fucking nothing

You know, now that I think about it Ryder has to be fucked up. Besides obvious reasons.

Okay, so your Dad dies for you, your Dad who was supposed to keep the mission together, the big damned hero, he dies to save your ass and you get his job. And everyone says how they wish your Dad was here, wishes he could do this, or at least implies it. Because everything would be better if he was still alive.

People probably don’t realize it, cus either they don’t know how he went or they never thought Ryder would read it that way, but you know how that must sound? 

It would be better if you were dead instead of him.

anonymous asked:

Can you draw Jesse, Hanzo, and Genji being besties? -awkwardproducktions

@awkwardproducktions        Hope this counts as being besties, Genji is here to ruin dates. As little brothers do.   

Honestly the lines would have bin better on the phone if my tablet didn’t start crapping out

okay but 100% headcanon that finland and sweden won’t tell sealand santa doesn’t exist and england is so done

england: i’m so tired of sealand believing in santa, i’m gonna tell him
finland: don’t you dare
england: SEALAND
finland: england i will kill you, you will die
england: sEALAN D
finland: SWEDEN !!! SWEDEN ENGLAND IS TRYING TO TELL SEALAND-sealand: tell me what?
finland: nothing honey!!! nothing nothing
england: that’s it, this is done, sealand, i need to tell you that santa is-
finland: [literally jumps onto england’s face] THAT SANTA IS COMING EARLY THIS YEAR
sweden, opening the door: what is this

anonymous asked:

This probably isn't exactly what you meant by pregnancy prompt but could you write something with Jack trying to convince Rhys to have a third kid? Like Cyrus is out of the house, Jaxen is almost gone too and Jack is taking the empty nest thing a lot harder than Rhys is.

more old dads because i love them


Rhys was getting a little bit suspicious.

It wasn’t exactly unlike Jack to double down on the pampering. Sometimes Jack just got in those moods where he wanted to lavish his omega in gifts and sweets and sex, and Rhys wasn’t about to rebuke that with little cause.

However…some of Jack’s behavior lately, and especially the type of treats he was pushing onto Rhys, led Rhys to think that something was up. Ice cream, champagne and chocolate were pretty par for the course, but uh. Oysters? Artichoke? Figs? Rhys had never even eaten a fig before Jack had randomly decided to bake up a tart full of the things for his omega one evening. They were fine enough—Jack’s baking talents certainly hadn’t waned with age—but Rhys was still confused.

Despite his confusion, Rhys hadn’t chosen to broach the topic, until one quiet night when Jack slipped into bed next to him with a cracked open pomegranate. The omega had looked at him like he was crazy, setting down his book and glaring with exasperation at his mate as Jack tried to lick the ruby juice from his own wrist to stop it from staining the pale yellow sheets.

“Jack….what are you doing…” Rhys asked, voice tired even as his mate scooted in next to him, bumping their hips together as he handed one raw half of the fruit towards him.

“C’mon, kitten, it’ll be fun…” Jack waggled his tongue at him, showing off how red-stained both it and his teeth had become, but even though that was kind of sexy in contrast to Jack’s brown skin and silver hair, Rhys decided he needed to get to the bottom of this.

“Okay, handsome, hold it,” Rhys took the half of the fruit from Jack, only to gingerly set it against the nightstand, “what’s the deal lately? You keep…you keep on trying to feed me weird things lately? What’s up with that?”

“Weird? I dunno what you mean, sweetie.” Jack licked the side of his half of the pomegranate, baring his canines before Rhys snatched it from his sticky lips and set it aside as well.

“You’ve been cooking all kinds of different food lately, stuff I’ve never even seen before much less tasted. So what’s your game there big boy?”

“Game? No game,” Jack said innocently, rolling onto his side. One broad hand rested over Rhys’ middle, suggestively squeezing the omega’s body. Rhys frowned, bracing his hands against Jack’s forearm.

“Okay, seriously, what’s the deal?

Jack was nosing his way around the comforter bunched around Rhys’ hips, grabbing onto the hem of his T-shirt with his teeth and pulling it up. Clearly ignoring Rhys’ question and trying to bury it under sexy-times. Well Rhys wasn’t gonna have any of that, he thought as he cuffed Jack’s ears, making the alpha whine and release and mouthful of shirt.

“Owww, babe….” Jack groused, but Rhys’ questioning gaze was firm and made the alpha quickly wilt.

“I mean…maybe….jeez, Rhysie, it’s just a little lonely around here, okay?” Jack grumbled as he rested his chin against Rhys’ middle.

“Lonely? Um, hello Jack, you’ve still got me.”

“Yeah, but….Cyrus is already moved out, and Jaxen’s basically got one foot out the door….it’s so quiet all the time now.” Jack pinched the hem of Rhys’ shirt up further, pressing one kiss, still sticky from the pomegranate, onto Rhys’ doughy belly.

“I was just thinking maybe it’s time….to add another to the Handsome Jack dynasty?”

Rhys felt something flutter happily in his stomach even as his eyes widened in surprise at Jack’s question.

“Oh no.” Rhys moaned, a little harsher than perhaps he’d intended.

Rhysie—“

“No way, Jack.”

“Why not?”

“Jack, we’ve got two perfectly good kids already…”

“Care to make it three?”

“Jack,” Rhys laughed, shaking his head, “you really think….I’m way too old to get pregnant…much less chase after a baby when it’s out…”

“Shut up. You’d still look as sexy as you did. And you’d still be an awesome mom.” Jack looked up, eyes wide and earnest and like he was a kid asking what he wanted for Christmas. Rhys couldn’t stop another high, amused laugh from bubbling out of his throat.

“Oh my god…so all that weird stuff you’ve been cooking for me lately…all the spoiling…you wanted me to agree to have another kid.”

Jack scoffed, rolling his eyes as he pressed another kiss to Rhys’ stomach.

“I was researching, pumpkin. I’m not the type of guy to just dump fertility drugs in your coffee.”

Rhys made a mental note to make his own coffee from now on, before clapping both hands against Jack’s cheeks, smushing his face together.

“You’re insane, Jack, what would we even…we can’t….there’s no way…”

“No way, huh? You saying I can’t fire ‘em off like I used to?” Jack growled jokingly, grinning up at Rhys. The omega’s cheeks warmed at the sight—there was still the lingering blood of the pomegranate on Jack’s canines, and well, laundry day was tomorrow after all.

“Well….can’t say I’m really sure about this, but…” Rhys purred, slowly sliding down from his rest against headboard as Jack propped himself up above him, gradually pinning the omega down against the sheets.

“I think maybe I’d like to see you try.”

ok so in the most recent gta lets play, gavin wore michaels jacket and like,, bc gavin is so skinny, he fits into everyone’s clothes, including jeremy’s (bc hes so broad) and ofc, gavin uses that opportunity. if someone cant find something, gavin is sure to wear it. u’ll find him in the living room, on his phone, wearing his stupid sunglasses inside wearing michael’s jacket and one of geoff’s tshirts. during a heist, its completely silent over the intercom until ryan goes “gavin, now dont feel threatened but i got u in my scope and is that my hoodie???” and gavin squeaks and laughs and tries to run around, probably completely blowing his cover but he yells “ryan!!! ryan, dont shoot me, ryan!!! ryebread, i love u, dont shoot me!!!”

pfl-jr-agent-ontario  asked:

"It's just a cut, really." York and Carolina.

The new kid, Connecticut, is surprisingly good. Quiet, small, but sharp on the uptake and good at taking infiltration seriously. Most of these are qualities that Agent “my armor is gold and my jokes are old” York lacks, which means that Carolina has had to spend way too much of this mission fielding Connecticut’s ‘concerns’ through the private channel as the two of them work on getting up to the storeroom through the main entrance while Carolina wiggles her way through ducts.

‘He’s singing,’ is the latest message to pop up on the inside of her visor.

‘What kind of song?’

In reply, Connecticut sends back an audio clip of York singing a fairly jaunty song about colors.

‘That’s a good sign.’ She really doesn’t want to get into how she can read her friend and teammate’s mood by his music choices, but she can tell enough that he’s pleased with how the mission is going. If he’s relaxed enough to be singing to himself, they’ll probably beat her there.

Which is why she increases her pace. Just as well, too, since less than five minutes later Carolina gets a warning that both of their vitals are spiking. Elevated heart rate, increased adrenaline; the ping that Connecticut sends her confirms that they’re in a combat situation.

“I’m on my way,” Carolina sends them both.

“It’s all right,” York assures her, his breathing punctuated by what sounds like blows. “We can handle this, just–” 

His next word slurs into something sharp and agonized, one that cuts off as he kills his audio feed. Carolina almost freezes from indecision, then forces herself forward. If he’s in trouble, she’s too far away to save him now, and storming the building to get to their last location will only bring more trouble.

“Agent Connecticut, status?”

A ping - still alive, then, just too busy. A ping from York as well, then a welcome voice forty seconds later.

“Sorry about that. Son of a bitch had a knife. Did not expect that. Back on our way.”

“Is Connecticut okay?”

“I’m fine,” the new recruit says, speaking for herself. “Sorry, I could have brought my own knives but I wasn’t sure if I should–”

“If you’re good with a weapon, always bring it. Even if it’s not given to you at the start of a mission.” Carolina double checks her location, then kicks out the  grill of the ducts and double-taps two guards with silenced headshots from her pistol. “I’m here.”

“Be there in, uh, fifteen? Fourteen,” York amends.

A little bit later, she gets another message from Connecticut. ‘He’s singing again.’

‘Just deal with it.’

She’s collected the data they need by the time both brown-tinted agents arrive at the information room. As they get in range of her short-range radio, Carolina picks up the low tones of York’s absent humming something low and soothing. Immediately, she storms over to his side and grabs him by the arms.

“Where is it?”

“Hey there, Carolina,” York says, all soft and wildly unprofessional for setting an example to a new recruit, “miss me that much?”

“Connecticut, call in the extraction,” and she bends York’s arms at the wrists, then the elbows, listening intently. Once she starts to raise his arms about his head, however, he sucks in a sharp breath. Bingo.

“It’s just a scratch, really,” he says, and whatever other excuse he would have offered is lost in the gasp as she digs her thumb into the meat of his neck. A stab wound, invisible in the dark undersuit, soaks the pad of her glove up to the knuckle.

Carolina marks an X on the armor at his shoulder with his blood, then crosses her arms to glare at him. “You’re getting that looked at on the shuttle back. No excuses.” 

When she turns back, Connecticut is watching them, inscrutable under her helmet. Explaining would sound like an excuse, so Carolina turns her back on them both and goes back to reviewing their escape plan.