So I’ve been talking with @what-the-hellmouth and when we were talking about the Silver Shroud I realized something-I’ve never drawn Gene in the Silver Shroud outfit.
Well that changes today and it is shocking I haven’t done it before because we all know how much of a H U G E nerd she is for him and the comic. So you can say she was ecstatic when Kent signed her up to go retrieve the outfit….
A chilling feeling was sent down Blue’s back this morning when she had awoken from her slumber. It was cold, metallic, and sharp, however, this sharp feeling was only gently caressing her bare shoulders. Her lilac eyes opened to see her new love staring back at her lovingly, gently rubbing her back. Obviously, her lips curled upwards as she let out a purring sound. This was great to wake up to. Right beside the one she loves. Leaning into the demon bear’s embrace, she tried her hardest to reach towards his back to rub. Due to his massive size, however, she couldn’t prevail with the task she so badly craved to do. Nightmare just made a gesture, as if to tell her to get comfortable and not worry about a thing.
“You’re so sweet, my flower. I love you.~” Nightmare chuckled as he rest a delicate kiss atop her forehead.
any ideas for a plot setback/thing that can go wrong with a group of kids who go after a villain with no one knowing what they are doing?
1) One of them is seriously injured/dies.
2) They accidentally advance the villain’s plot because they have no idea what they’re doing, and then have to spend the rest of the story trying to fix it considering they basically ensured the world/city got screwed over.
3) The person who they all care about and actually knows what they’re doing has to come and save them, and is a result killed/seriously injured and can no longer act as a mentor figure/saviour in the plot like they might have done before.
4) Some of their group are swayed onto the villain’s side.
so like, yeah, some of the shit leveled on clarke this week was earned but yo, when’s anyone gonna thank her for all the shit she ~has done for them? like, oh i dunno sacrificing her mother (she thought) to keep the flame from alie? taking a massive risk and going into the col? defeating alie?
oh. wait. as @rashaka pointed out “fucking echo” is the only one who has bothered to thank her for all of that.
it’s cool. i don’t need any like balance between ~shitting on clarke, and giving her credit for her wins.
I chose 129: “We’re not going to spend the holidays alone and
sad. I won’t allow that!” (I cheated and changed it a couple ways, but it’s mostly the same statement I’m sorry this went somewhere I had no idea it was gonna go and I got excited and just ran with it.)
Takes place in season 4 at some point, before Joan changes
her passcode so Sherlock can’t guess it. (Referenced in 4x04) So before the
polyamory episode (which will be a turning point for Joan and her perception of
her relationship preferences, as was awesomely suggested here.) It should be
clear by now I don’t care about strict timelines, since the writers for the
show don’t either.
And if you’re unaware, season 4 is when I imagine Joan and
Sherlock get together non-platonically. And since Gloria was the one to request
this prompt, she gets more shippy content than I would otherwise put out.
Non-shippers are warned.
It was February 14th. A most useless holiday, as
most holidays were, in Sherlock’s opinion. He wasn’t even overly fond of
But the days leading up to this year’s Valentine’s Day had
been particularly tense in the brownstone. This time last year, Andrew Mittal
had been alive, and Joan had been dating him. These two facts ensured Sherlock
could not leave the day unacknowledged. Whether it was celebrated…Sherlock was
not precisely sure about that. Yet. But he had to figure it out soon.
It was precisely 5:38am. Watson would not be awake for at
least two hours. He had even gone into her room and turned off the alarms she
had set, just on the off chance she might sleep in if given the opportunity.
Now Sherlock stood in the basement, before Clyde in his
terrarium, studying what Watson had chosen to put up on the walls. She was fond
of art, Watson, though not precisely the same kind as he was. More modern, some
abstract, some animals, some people. None of them by well-known pre-20th
But one particular piece caught his eye, and it gave him an
idea. He turned on his heels, his eyes bright and his mind sharp with fresh
Joan shot up in her bed, milliseconds after realizing it
wasn’t an alarm that had woken her. She fumbled for her cell phone on her nightstand,
and let out a curse. 9:51. How could she have slept through her—Oh no. He
She went to her alarms in her phone. None of them were on.
She specifically remembered turning two alarms on last night. Sherlock had
turned them off. He’d cracked her passcode again.
“Dammit Sherlock!” she growled to herself, tossing her phone
on the bed in front of her, glaring at it.
Then she remembered what day it was, and cold fingers
wrapped themselves around her heart. Her phone flashed the information up at
her, she couldn’t ignore it. February 14th.
She squeezed her eyes shut, willing the feelings away. It
was just another day. Sherlock wouldn’t acknowledge it, that was for sure.
There was nothing to worry about.
Eventually she made her way moodily down to the kitchen to
make tea, telling herself it was too late for coffee. Finding nothing from
Sherlock at this point, she glared at the heating tea kettle, wondering what he
could be up to. He seldom left the brownstone without leaving her a note or a
text, or calling her to wake her up. So either he’d been dragged away on some
pressing case that had left him unable to contact her yet, he was in trouble,
or he was somewhere here she hadn’t checked.
She didn’t bother with the roof. The chill of the wood floor
against her bare feet was enough to tell her it was below freezing outside. So
all that was left was the basement.
A few months ago she had taken the nails out of the basement
door, so it could be entered from inside the brownstone again. She’d offered no
explanation, and Sherlock hadn’t asked for any, for which she was grateful. It
had been a barrier she had needed once, but as time went on it came to be a
symbol of an idea that still mocked her. The idea that she needed a place of
her own to be happy. Having anything belong solely to her had lost its appeal
long ago. Being selfish had led to nothing but loss for her; she didn’t want
anything to remind her of that anymore.
Her mug of tea still steaming in one hand, holding the
railing with the other, Joan made her way down to the lowest level of the
brownstone, immediately shivering at the deepening cold. By the time she
reached the bottom step, she knew Sherlock was there, by the light and the
Joan saw Sherlock cross-legged on the floor, his back to
her, both his hands occupied by something in front of him. Joan approached
slowly, squinting at him in confusion. “Sherlock? What are you doing?”
Then she spotted Clyde, ambling across a mostly blank sheet
of large white paper, a familiar apparatus attached to his back.
“You’re…making Clyde paint?” Joan stopped next to Sherlock,
and her eyes widened as she took in the scene literally laid out before her.
Several paintings covered what available space there was on
the basement floor, most of them in the process of drying. Some were clearly
abstract, done by Clyde, while others…
“I noticed you had Clyde’s first and only painting hung on
your wall. I thought Clyde and I could add to your collection,” Sherlock said,
not looking at her, but continuing his work.
She took a deep breath in, trying to wrap her head around
what was happening. “How long have you been at this?”
“Hmm. Six a.m., thereabouts.”
She took a careful sip of her tea, the shock of heat against
her upper lip telling her she, in fact, wasn’t dreaming.
“Why?” she finally got out, a strangely warm sensation
filling her chest that she told herself was due to her tea and not anything to
do with the scene in front of her.
“I have been remiss of late, Watson. Save you birthday,
there are many dates I have refused to acknowledge that mark certain
milestones, or holidays. You know that if something doesn’t have to do with our
work, I would prefer to keep it that way. But your office environment is of utmost
importance to how you conduct your work, and I thought Clyde and I could
contribute a more homely environment.”
Sherlock gave the lengthy explanation without moving his
eyes from the painting in front of him. Joan found herself smiling at him,
seeing the concentration on his face, noticing a smudge of yellow paint on the
side of his nose where he’d scratched it.
Joan lowered herself cross-legged next to him, setting her
tea aside. “Can I help?” she asked, keeping her voice soft due to her closer
proximity to him. Their shoulders didn’t brush, they came close, but Joan
sensed the strict physical boundaries between them could shrink this morning.
Sherlock quickly glanced at her face, locking eyes with her
for perhaps two milliseconds. Finding nothing amiss with what he saw, he hummed
his assent and took out a blank sheet of paper from beneath the painting he was
currently working on, setting it before her. The small jars of paint were laid
out just beyond his current painting, and he moved the glass of paint-clouded
water closer to her while handing her a choice of several paintbrushes in the
same motion. The way he moved, Joan could sense his relief that she’d chosen to
join him, but he was still tense.
Joan took a paintbrush, noting just how much paint had
gotten onto Sherlock’s hands and forearms in a span of four hours.
They worked quietly next to each other for a few minutes. At
one point Clyde came close to Sherlock, and he took the opportunity to freshen
the tortoise’s dry paintbrush with a fresh dip of red paint. Clyde continued on
his journey, wandering past Joan, leaving streaks of red through random streaks
of green, purple, yellow, pink, and many other colors Joan would take longer to
name. Four hours was quite some time to come up with color combinations.
Still looking at Clyde, Joan moved her brush toward the jar
of green paint at the same moment Sherlock did. She felt a cold poke against
the top of her hand, and turned to see Sherlock moving his hand back from hers
as if he’d been burned. He’d left a streak of green paint on her hand.
“Apologies, Watson,” he said, his words coming out strangely
stiff. She looked at his almost pained expression and laughed.
“It’s alright, Sherlock. It’s nothing compared to what you’ve
done to yourself,” she said, indicating his hand closest to her, grinning. The
outer part of his hand and arm were almost completely coated, clearly from
leaning across some of Clyde’s creations before they were dry.
“Ah, well.” Sherlock turned his arm as much as he could to
view the mess. “I had to prevent Clyde from making art out of our rug,” he
explained, giving his closest approximation of a closed mouth smile to Joan.
She laughed again.
“I see. Did you ever finger paint as a child, Sherlock?” she
asked, tilting her head at him.
“I don’t recall,” he said, almost side-eying her, suspecting
her of some mischief. She couldn’t help her smirk.
“Well, I feel I should even the score, so I’ll show you,”
she said, and took up two jars of paint, red and blue. She poured a small
amount of each on her paper, enough that she thought it would cover her own
slender hands. Setting the jars aside, she placed both palms flat in the paint,
unconsciously smiling at the strange, cool sensation against the sensitive skin
of her hands. Then, lifting her paint-covered hands, she placed them on the nearest
painting of Clyde’s just beyond her own paper. Lifting her hands gingerly away,
she left behind one red hand print, one blue, the thumbs and index fingers of
the prints vaguely purple from the paint blending.
She looked over to Sherlock, only to find him in the process
of copying her, a fresh piece of paper in front of him, and taking up two jars
of paint. Yellow and green. As he poured the paints, Joan took advantage of his
distraction and spoke.
“I know why you did this, Sherlock. Thank you,” she said,
forcing the words and wondering why she had to at the same time.
Sherlock looked over at her, remembering a second later to
stop pouring the paint. He had that expression that was a combination of
confusion and surprise, his mouth almost puckered as he fought to process this
new information that he felt deserved more than cursory attention.
He slowly set down the paint jars, his mouth going into a
thin line. “I thought it would be worse to go about as usual, Watson. You have
not been your usual self of late,” he said, carefully not looking at her.
“I know. But this…” She looked around at all the paintings,
including those of Sherlock’s that astounded her in their level of care. She
had seen Sherlock sketch but never knew he could paint. “This is good. Easier
than…anything else would be really.”
Peripherally, she saw Sherlock dip his left hand in the
yellow paint and reach over to her red hand print, laying his hand over it. It
caused him to all but drape his arm over her knee, and he came so close she
could smell his aftershave and the scent of clean sweat, telling her despite
the chill down here, he was more than nervous of her reaction.
But as he leaned back, leaving behind his yellow hand print
over her red one, he lifted that same hand to her face, not touching, but his quick
eyes considering her in that way he had. She noticed another streak of blue
paint on his right cheek.
“You’re not going to spend the holiday alone and sad,
Watson. I won’t allow that,” he whispered, focusing on her eyes with a
trepidation she knew all too well. It wasn’t just her response he was fearing.
“I’m not alone,” she said, meeting his stare squarely,
resolving to keep her own fear hidden. It wasn’t because she thought she needed
to be strong, but she knew if she didn’t hide the fear, it would be all she
Sherlock’s hand near her face did not move, but he drew back
his head slightly in disbelief. “If you think to name me and Clyde as proper
company on such a date, Watson, I must disagree.”
“Not on a date,
no. But right now…” She slowly reached up to touch his hand, still wet with
yellow paint, hers still wet with red. When he didn’t draw away, she
intertwined her fingers with his. The warmth between their palms was wet, and
messy, but Joan didn’t care.
“You’re all I want,” she said, fighting not to look away.
She saw his eyes soften in a way she seldom had. And never while looking at
her. His other arm came around her waist, still tentatively, but it was enough
that she let herself lean forward into his chest, tucking her face into his
neck. He let go of her hand to embrace her with both arms, and she wrapped her
arms loosely around his waist. They were getting paint all over each other, but
Joan thought it only fitting. Sherlock had known better than to make her talk
about the mess of her emotions. It was easier, now, just to express them—through
everything but words.
Terra Jolé knows all to well the hardship and pain that can come from competing on Dancing with the Stars just weeks after giving birth.
“It was painful both emotionally and physically,” the Little Women: L.A. star and mother of two tells PEOPLE of starting on the ABC reality competition last fall just three weeks after having a cesarean section. “I worried about missing time with my kids, but I also ended up with three hernias and [ripped stomach muscles.] I had to have surgery after the season was over.”
Now with pro dancer Peta Murgatroyd officially returning to the show just over a month after welcoming son Shai with fiancé Maksim Chmerkovskiy on Jan. 4, Jolé has some advice for the first-time mom.
“Peta is a superstar and looked better pregnant than I do without a baby in my belly, so I’m sure she’s bounced back fast,” prefaces Jolé. “But your stamina is not what it was before your pregnancy. Your body is not the same after carrying a child for nine months and it’s still adjusting to not having that baby in there anymore.”
“One of the hardest parts for me was wanting to keep going in rehearsal but having to stop to pump,” continues Jolé, who is mom to daughter Penny, 1, and son Grayson Vincent, 7 months, with husband Joe Gnoffo. “[Pro dancer Sasha Farber] and I would want to keep going, but I would set a timer for every two hours and when it went off, I had to go pump. I’d try and push it but that wouldn’t go well. So I’d remind Peta to make sure to pump!”
While other contestants would spend hours at home rehearsing their routines in addition to the allotted time they got with their partners, Jolé says her motherhood duties meant getting creative when it came to preparing for the competition.
“I’d be breast feeding and watching a video of our dance over and over so I could figure it out and put it in my head until it became second nature,” she says.
Jolé, whose final weeks on DWTS will play out on the new season of Little Women: L.A. (premiering Tuesday), says the only way she was able to juggle her work commitments and motherhood duties was with her “incredibly supportive” husband and network of family and friends.
“Even with a team, it was a lot to juggle. I don’t know how Peta and Maks are going to do it while both of them are on the show,” says Jolé. “But if anyone can do it, they can. They’re such incredible people and dancers. I can only imagine they’re also great parents, as well.”
Season 24 of Dancing with the Stars is slated to premiere March 20 on ABC, and season 6 of Little Women: L.A. premieres Tuesday at 9 p.m. ET on Lifetime.
Hey!! I suffer from major depression and the energy in my house isn't helping. It's incredibly dark and negative, is there anything I can do to help?
Ok, I’m gonna assume you don’t have much energy(because hell I don’t). So the easiest ways to cleanse(at least for me) are
1. Open a window
2. Light a white candle(or whatever you assoicate with cleansing)
3. Burn some incense
4. Put some quartz at the corners of your room
Thats all I’ve got, anyone else have some easy ideas?
After using some of the best years of his life on spreading his message of love and acceptance throughout the world of warcraft, Raandyy realized he had forgotten about bringing the message to himself in the process. How could he, the agent of love, expect people to take his advice on romance, the values of friendship, when he himself had never taken the time to experience it himself? Raandyy realized he had to face the most excruciating and maybe most difficult quest of his career..
i’m SO unsatisfied with this lmao,, this is gonna be so cliché/cheesy…. //cries. also fast storyline bc i want to make this quite short. i think it’s going to be in 5 parts but i’m not sure yet! twitter