how am I not meant to cry about the fact that chris doesn’t think she’s a good friend? that girl has backed every single girl in the girl squad from day one like this girl literally left a bus vilde was kicked off and was the one who asked sana to join the bus because she’s just a friendly girl who probably didn’t even know how much that would’ve even meant to sana plus countless other examples like this girl deserves to know what an absolute blessing she is in her friend’s lives and how much they love her not only for being there for them but because of who she is in essence
So, there’s this relatively new member of our team who’s a gossip fanatic, she’s always around chatting everyone up and then reporting the juicest news and hot details she’s given, which is a demeanour our main client is pretty bothered by, therefore she always makes sure to shut up and behave around them.
Two coworkers of mine, me, the Big Boss and our client were arranging and planning a few things, when she burst into the room, not noticing the BB and the Client, who were at that moment having coffe behind the door and she went “ooooh, you know what they say about Louis Tomlinson not actually being the father of his child? Looks like it’s true after all, even though it’s been ages!”
We didn’t have time to gesture to her, that my client appeared from behind the door all frowny and straight faced “yeah, the same ages it took you to dig this oh-so-shocking information up, with that quick, sharp rate of yours you’ll have to start working on the next campaign tomorrow morning if I want it out before 2036″.
I just can’t get over how healthy rapunzel and eugene’s relationship is in before ever after ??????
eugene being 100% open about his feelings with no hesitation. little boys seeing this swashbuckling hero being emotionally vulnerable is so important.
both of them admitting when they’re wrong without making excuses. they explain themselves for communication purposes, but they don’t hesitate to apologize and mean it.
just the pure trust between the two of them and the fact that rapunzel wanted to tell eugene everything and only didn’t to protect cassandra and respect her privacy
and she doesn’t get mad at eugene for wanting to know what’s going on!! she knows he cares and she doesn’t make him feel guilty for that, she just thanks him for understanding and asks him to be patient with her
eugene!!! not pushing her even though it bothers him that she won’t tell him!!! he tells her that it bothers him but he still doesn’t blame her, he doesn’t try to guilt her into it. he explains how he feels but he insists that it’s okay for her to take her time.
just how much they communicate with each other in general??? all their “this is how I feel” conversations when so many fictional relationships are built on lack of communication for conflict????
“you’re my best friend”
EUGENE JUST BRINGS HER A CUPCAKE
they just want each other to be happy and have everything they want and i’m cryin
i just love that kids get to see this supportive and healthy relationship where they communicate with each other instead of two people who fight all the time for comedy like I see in so many shows ???? it’s so good and important bye
Annabeth sleeping in on a Sunday morning (very rare for her but she's 3 months pregnant and always tired so she'll take the rest) and waking up to the faint sound of music coming from the kitchen. She goes to investigate and finds her beautiful husband Percy cooking pancakes with their beautiful 2 year old son in his arms, the two of them dancing as the radio plays something mellow. She stops to watch as their son periodically feeds his dad "booberries" and Percy peppers his son's face w kisses
(i want you to know that this killed me,,,im writing from beyond the grave)
their two year old, theodore, is wearing his favourite shark footie PJs which have blueberry stains around the sleeves and his collar. (it’s a laundry day anyway). he coos happily when he sees his mamma and is easily transferred to her hip when she leans in for a kiss from percy. (one of those easy we’re-gonna-do-this-for-the-rest-of-our-lives kisses which says hi, hello, good morning, and i love you all in one. it’s magic, really.) theodore feeds her a couple of booberries which she thanks him for before sitting him at the table. she makes coffee and percy serves them all pancakes and it’s just a really really great sunday morning.
remember when the foxes first flew somewhere after neil found out about andrew’s fear of heights? just imagine andrew. he’s terrified and trying to play it off as always. meanwhile, his crush is sitting near him, watching and analysing his every move, and he’s very well aware of it. he can’t move a fraction of an inch without neil knowing. just imagine him walking calmly onto the plane and fidgeting with his pen while feeling the constant glances neil shoots his way. knowing what neil must be thinking when suddenly he goes still. just imagine being andrew and having somebody know and knowing that they know and aaahhhh
Erm Flintwood please if you're still doing 150. * Winning smile *
pairing: marcus flint x oliver wood
setting: modern, non-magical, soulmates-at-first-touch au
word count: 1394
Marcus punches his soulmate in the face the first time they meet.
It’s worse than that.
Marcus punches his soulmate in the face the first time they meet, the flats of his knuckles crunching against the guy’s jaw, hard enough to draw blood and leave a mark and hurt—and then there’s a strange fluttering sensation erupting in the pit of Marcus’s stomach, a comforting, calming warmth suffusing the blood in his veins and the marrow in his bones and it’s exactly like how they’d described it in Health class, the awareness—the connection—slotting into place so seamlessly that he’s astonished he’d never noticed something missing before now.
“Oh, fuck,” Marcus blurts out. “Oh—fuck, fuck, fuck.”
Marcus’s soulmate—who’s tall and lean and has the prettiest brown eyes, what the shit—is just sprawled out on the dirty arena floor, blinking and blinking and prodding gingerly at the bruise that’s already beginning to blossom—
“No,” the guy says firmly. “This isn’t happening.”
“Fuck you,” Marcus immediately snaps. “I rejected you first.”
The guy snorts, kind of irritatingly sarcastic, before grimacing. His emotions, so far as Marcus can tell, are all over the place; shock and dismay and frustration and—very, very deeply—a flickering, almost unwilling tremor of interest.
“It wouldn’t work, anyway,” the guy goes on, more loudly. “You have terrible opinions about hockey.”
“Fuck you,” Marcus snaps again. “You’re the one in the shitty jersey.”
“He’s won three Cups.”
“Yeah, and he was a fucking healthy scratch for two of them,” Marcus retorts. “Try again.”
“Hockey is a team sport,” the guy says hotly. “It isn't—it isn’t about individual accomplishments.”
Marcus rolls his eyes. “Sure, whatever,” he drawls, “but your shitty jersey is still shitty.”
The guy’s mouth falls open, and Marcus can feel the sour note of his indignation—the jagged spike of his outrage—as clearly as if it were his own. “Jesus fucking Christ,” the guy sputters, shaking his head like he’s got a nervous tic. “What are you so—what are you so angry about?”
Marcus raises his eyebrows. “Um,” he says slowly, because, really, what the shit, “I’m not angry. I’m confused.”
“No.” The guy frowns. “You’re definitely angry. I feel it, like—” He gestures vaguely to his chest and upper abdomen. “Right there. Like heartburn.”
Marcus’s nostrils flare, and he scratches viciously at the side of his neck to distract himself from the fact that this complete fucking stranger with boy band hair and, and Bambi eyes is apparently better at deciphering Marcus’s emotions than Marcus is.
“Oh, hell,” the guy sighs, “now you're—embarrassed, don’t be like that, I didn’t mean to—hey, come on, where are you—where are you going? You can’t just—hey! Come back!”
Marcus does not come back.
And the ensuing wave of regret that pulses through Marcus’s sternum is lukewarm and salty and depressingly difficult to pinpoint the origins of.
It’s not his, he thinks stubbornly.
Marcus lasts two and a half days before the persistent invisible tugging at his gut becomes too annoying to bear.
He follows it.
He follows it to a bench in Riverside Park that’s near where the gross little fish and chips stand is, and the scent of old frying oil undercut by whatever the fuck is currently decomposing in the Hudson is—less nauseating than it arguably fucking should be, seriously, what the shit.
His soulmate, his soulmate, is sitting with his legs spread obnoxiously wide, wrists crossed and hands dangling in his lap, squinting intently up at the clouds like he’s waiting for them to tell him what to do next. It’s endearing. Maybe. Marcus’s stomach is in knots—a tangled mess of dread and unease and, abruptly, relief.
“Oh,” the guy says, quirking his lips into something that Marcus chooses to generously describe as a smile. The bruise on the guy’s jaw is a lurid, chalky looking violet, partially obscured by the auburn of his stubble. “You found me.”
“Of course I fucking found you,” Marcus says, dropping down next to him. Their knees brush, just for a moment, and it’s like—lightning, bright and fierce and sizzling, coiling around the base of his spine. “There’s been this—this buzzing, in the back of my head—”
“Yeah,” the guy interjects glumly. “I know. I would've—if you hadn’t. I would’ve tried to find you.” He pauses. “I missed you, I guess, which is—weird.”
Marcus scowls down at the sidewalk. There’s a crack in the cement, and it’s dirty, gritty with loose gravel around the edges, splintering off into a dozen hairline fractures before disappearing into the grass. He can feel his own surprise at the guy’s admission, and it’s so—uncomfortable, knowing that there’s nothing he can hide behind. Making himself smaller, holding himself still; they’re not antidotes for anything, not anymore, and this guy—his soulmate—he’s got a rabbit-fast heartbeat and an intimidatingly focused way of feeling things. Marcus wonders how he’s supposed to get used to that.
“I’m Marcus,” he eventually offers, voice emerging gruffer than he’d have liked. “My name, I mean. It's—Marcus.”
The guy turns, slightly, to look over at Marcus. “Oliver. I’m Oliver.” He hesitates before he goes on, sounding nonplussed, “I still can’t believe you fucking hit me. Over a jersey.”
Marcus huffs. “It’s a really shitty jersey.”
Oliver grins, short and sweet and self-deprecating, before nudging at Marcus’s ribs with the point of his elbow. “I’ve, uh. I’ve been told I’ve got kind of a…bad habit of, of taking things too seriously.” His mouth twists, and the stabbing ache of some long-ago insult, or argument; it lances through the pads of Marcus’s fingers, stinging and sharp. “Obsessive. That’s what—I dunno. That’s what I’ve been told. I can be…obsessive. About—whatever.”
“Obsessive,” Marcus repeats, shaking out his hand. “That’s your—one big fault. Enthusiasm.”
Oliver shrugs, easy and casual, like it doesn’t matter, like Marcus can’t literally feel the crippling uncertainty—the tension, swampy and thick—weighing down his limbs. “Enthusiasm is…too nice of a word for it, I think.”
“Bullshit,” Marcus hears himself say, with absolutely zero fucking direction from his brain, or his conscience, or his admittedly flimsy sense of self-preservation. “Enthusiasm is the perfect fucking word for it.”
Oliver startles, slightly, eyes widening a fraction. There’s a coolly refreshing burst of—happiness, maybe; gratitude, definitely—coating the back of Marcus’s tongue. Citrus. Summer. Chlorine and coconut. It’s fucking nice.
“Oh. Um. Okay,” Oliver says, haltingly. “Thanks.”
A tentative silence descends between them on the bench. Marcus drums his fingers against the inseam of his jeans, jiggling his foot and glaring at a rotting spear of tree bark and swallowing around a metallic-tasting lump in his throat that he instinctively wants to label curiosity.
“Sorry,” Marcus grunts, slouching forward. “About the—hitting you. I just—sorry. I was angry. I get angry.”
Oliver stares at him, bottom lip clutched between his teeth, and there’s a swirl of something taking root in his lungs, something chewy and rich, like caramel, so that every breath he takes in is like burnt brown sugar crystallizing against the roof of his mouth, but then there’s more, too, a champagne bubble pop of amusement, and—
“It’s alright,” Oliver says wryly. “I heard I was wearing a pretty shitty jersey.”
Marcus snorts, and then groans, and then laughs, almost despite himself, before confessing, as quietly as he can manage—