Bobblehead-Doll

Angel

Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: Mardi Gras shenanigans. It’s porn, plot is optional.

Word Count:1,976

Warnings: Language, Smoking, Dirty Talk, Oral (MR)

A/N: Are you ready for the longest blowjob in history… (I don’t own the gif)

“Did it hurt?” Sam approached you, a sly smirk on his lips. When you didn’t play along and simply shot him an unimpressed look, he snickered. “…when you fell from Heaven.”

Yeah, you were dressed as an angel.

Not your idea, though. As it turned out, Wanda was a big fan of Mardi Gras and begged until you all agreed to throw a costume party. Tuesday morning, she shoved a white dress into your arms and said you were an angel. You didn’t want to upset her, so you just rolled with it.

Sam laughed at his own joke before the smell of pancakes drew his attention away from you. You looked around the room and sighed, sipping your second glass of… whatever it was Natasha had given you. It was good, a bit fruity and bitter enough to match your mood.

Wanda, who was dressed as Violet from the Incredibles, was running around the living room, filling plates with pancakes. Loud music blasted through the speakers.

“Looking for someone?”

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You’ve Earned It

A little 19x1 smut, inspired by the now-infamous missing scene. I’ve never, like, formally written this pairing, so. Good luck to me.

Fandom: SVU
Pairing: Barisi
Rating: NC17/E/Porn
WC: 2k~

“I’m goin’ in,” Carisi said, his face set with stubborn lines that Rollins recognized.

“Carisi, come on, they’re in a meeting.”

“Exactly. It’s the perfect time! Her door’s open, so obviously it’s not private, and I know I’m right.”

“You think Barba hasn’t thought of it already?” Rollins said with a frown.

“Maybe. Maybe not. Doesn’t matter. I’m goin’ in.”

She sighed and shook her head. “Fine. Good luck. But try to remember that you’re a—” She sighed again. “Cop,” she said to the empty air, because he was already halfway to Liv’s office.

“What the hell is that fool up to?” Fin said as he appeared from the break room.

“Apparently he’s goin’ in,” she said. “Dominick Carisi, Jr., Esquire.”

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Fresh Start - Helping Hand

A/N: Part three in the Fresh Start AU series. I have decided to try and post Monday and Friday, but will let you know if anything comes in the way. Feedback is always appreciated. And again a special thank you to my wonderful and patient beta @thorne93.

Summary: Reader has some furniture to put together and once again Dean comes to the rescue. (I suck at summaries)

Characters: Dean, Reader; Sam, Jess, Beth and John (kids)

Pairing: Eventual Dean x Reader.

Warnings: None, I think

Wordcount: 2790 (i know… it got long)

MASTERLIST

*not my GIF*

Originally posted by acklesjensen

The rest of the week was spent unpacking and getting your house in order. Most of the house was still a mess though, but you hoped that once you got the rest of the furniture you had ordered you would get yourself properly organized. Sam and Jess had invited you guys over for dinner a couple of times and you were so grateful for them. Both you and Beth enjoyed spending time at the Winchester’s house. John was a lovely little boy, full of energy just like your daughter. He had this mischievous smile though, which Jess was sure he got from his uncle. Sam and Jess was an amazing couple. They laughed and teased each other, and you could clearly see the love they shared. It was between the laughter you saw it best though. Everytime Sam listened to Jess talk he got this loving look on his face, mixed with a little ‘how did I ever get so lucky’. She did the same for him, and you could see how proud she was of her husband. As cheesy as it might sound, those two literally had love in their eyes.

Saturday came and you and Beth were eating breakfast in your still messy kitchen. Beth had requested pancakes and orange juice so naturally that was what you were having. You listened to her talk about her first week of school with such enthusiasm and excitement. She had already picked out her favourite teacher, Miss Bradbury, and Beth informed you that she insisted on being called Charlie. She liked her best because she was cool and had a Hermoine Granger bobblehead doll on her desk. She told you about a girl that was slightly older than Beth, who was picking on some of the other kids, but she assured you that the girl hadn’t picked on her or John. She then fell into a rant about John and how he had done something silly in class that would have made any teacher angry, but Charlie had just laughed and told him that she was all about being silly, but it was better to save the silliness for outside. She was telling you how John was her best friend when the phone rang and interrupted her.    

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4

Last week, I was in a drugstore, and I saw these glasses. Four dollars. And it only cost me $7 to recreate the rest of the ensemble, and that is a grand total of $11. You know what? Imitation is the most sincere form of flattery. So I thank you. [Jim takes a bobblehead doll out of his suitcase and sets it on his desk] Identity theft is not a joke, Jim! Millions of families suffer every year!

BEAST’s “Ordinary Fan Meet & Concert” in Melbourne Fan Account.

(If anyone has fancams from the first game segment, could you send me them, please?)

Anyway, yesterday was BEAST’s Fan Meet in Melbourne. I attended with a girl I go to all my concerts with. We spent the day in the city and got dinner (It was amazing, if you’re in Melbourne, I recommend ‘Oppa’s Kitchen’ because the food, service and atmosphere was exceptional. Pretty cheap too.). So, after tea we went to where the Concert was to be held, we got our little lights for a fan project that was organised (props to the people who organize these things) and went inside. I got my lightstick and waited around for the doors to open. There was a staff member walking around asking for a half of our tickets, for the game segment with BEAST, so my friend put both of our stubs in. We eventually got to our seats, which weren’t great (I felt bad for my friend because I was the one who got the tickets) but they were still decent, we were just right at the back. We noticed that about four rows were empty, and eventually the three back rows got upgraded to those empty rows. My friend and I quickly dashed to the closer rows and sat down. The host eventually came out and started to do the draw. She picked out tickets and assigned a member to the lucky winners. Eventually it got to the last ticket, and to my utter shock my seat number was called.

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On the Rocks - Solangelo

This fic is for carpedm87 who requested Solangelo, #11 for a mini fic prompt thing: Things you said when you were drunk. Again, I failed at mini. This fic is 1900 words.

On the Rocks - Rated T (a couple of swear words) - Or read it on the Ao3


“Oh shit. I think this was a bad idea,” I tell my reflection in the dingy pub restroom mirror. My face stares back at me, blanched, my eyes rimmed red.

I stagger back to the booth where Nico waits. He’d ordered another round of whiskey shots, and taps his fingers, smirking at me as I approach. His eyes dance, a challenge playing in them, reflecting the flame from the small tabletop oil lamp.

I take my seat across from him, unable to refuse. Seeing fire in Nico’s eyes does things to me, things that I’m not sure he realizes we’ve been dancing around for years. I pick up my new shot and wait for him to pick his up, bolstered by the fire in my blood from the previous three rounds to finally bring it up in conversation.

“You sure you can handle another one, Solace?”

I bat my eyelashes at him. “If I can’t, I’ll be at your mercy, Angel.” Then I wink and swallow the shot, wincing as it goes down. When I look at him again, he’s still holding his drink, his cheeks flushed. “What?” I ask.

He shakes his head as if just realizing he hasn’t moved and downs his shot. He bangs the empty glass on the table and stares at me, his eyes pulling my focus like homing beacons in the dark.

I can’t help myself; our hands lie on the tabletop only inches apart, both of us hunched forward, elbows supporting our arms. I turn my hand on its side and brush his knuckles with mine, then settle my hand on top of his, my thumb running back and forth over his skin.

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The other night I was doing my normal routine of sitting alone in my bedroom, scrolling through the thousands of selfies on my laptop, admiring myself for hours, when I began thinking back to my childhood and the ways that my physical appearance has created social barriers throughout my life.

In elementary school, the focus was very much on my wheelchair. Kids asked, “Why do you have that?” or “Where did you get that?” or “Why can’t you walk normal like us?”

These questions cut deep, not because I was ashamed of the chair, but because I was aware that other kids viewed me and my chair as Different. I didn’t want to be Different. Different kids didn’t get invited to sleepovers. Different kids played alone on the playground.

My sense of humor was thus born out of necessity, as a way to overcome that first barrier created by my wheelchair.

“Oh, I bought it at K-Mart. I don’t actually need it, but I get to leave class early for lunch so I use it.” A lot of kids didn’t quite understand sarcasm, but they heard me talking, and they saw me laughing, and so they learned that Shane and His Chair were not off limits. We could now interact and it was cool.

In middle school, my body stopped growing as fast as my peers. Unfortunately, my head never got that memo, and so I began to resemble a bobblehead doll. I now had to contend with the wheelchair plus a disproportionately large head for the tiny, atrophied body that sat below it.

The big head thing was an unspoken insecurity of mine for many years, which further solidified my reliance on humor as a diversionary tactic. If I was out with a group of friends and someone (half-joking) asked why I had such a big head, it was much more socially beneficial for me to say, “My parents dropped me,” than to show my true embarrassment. Middle school is a rough time for everyone. Humor helped me cope.

In high school, I began having serious issues with my weight, or shocking lack thereof. I fluctuated between 50-60 pounds for most of high school, while everyone around me was hitting puberty hyperdrive and rocketing upwards and outwards. My arms were twigs. My legs looked skeletal. It was bordering on grotesque, and that’s ~my~ perspective, so I can’t imagine what other people thought.

Again, (I hope you’re seeing a theme here), humor was my solution. In any social situation, I fully expected strangers to react with aversion to my physical appearance, which now included a trifecta of Different, so I learned how to disarm their awkwardness with jokes and self-deprication.

“My parents don’t feed me because they wanted a kid who could walk.”

I know, it’s terrible, but it had to be shocking enough to get their attention off of my appearance. Humor happens when we are confronted with the unexpected, and so the unexpected became my regular mode of expression.

The latest addition to my set of physical deterrents is my atrophied wrists, the way they curve outward at sharp angles. They’re stuck like that because I’m an idiot and didn’t do enough physical therapy as a kid. Maybe I notice it more than others, but I suspect the opposite. I obsess over these details more than I like to admit.

I went on a date recently, and with me I brought along all of this mental baggage, all this fear that she was going to take one look at me and run away screaming. I did my best to lay the Funny on real thick, sprinkling jokes and sarcasm into everything I said. She was laughing, which is always a good sign, but I felt like I was running a marathon of self-avoidance.

At some point she stopped my neurotic babbling and said, "Do you feel pressured to make light of all this stuff so that I don’t think it’s weird? You don’t have to do that.”

More beautiful words have never been spoken. I took a deep breath, exhaled, and felt a smile grow across my face. If we all worked to create a culture where her attitude was the norm and not an exception… well, I’d have nothing to write about.

8

A Day with My Son at AT&T Park

I’m still putting together all my reflections from the day, but here are some thoughts from my trip to AT&T Park with my son to watch the Giants host the visiting Reds on Saturday June 30. These are just a handful of the photos I took. The rest will be posted to a Picasa web album soon.

Our entourage of ten arrived at the park two hours before game time. We thought that would be early enough to beat the crowd but that was not the case because it was random 2002 Giants player bobblehead day. The lines to enter through the gates were at least two city blocks long. Everyone else wanted to forego their bobbleheads and enter through the non-promotional gate, but my son and I (mostly I) wanted our bobbleheads so we decided to wait in line.

We would not regret the decision. Firstly, the line moved quickly. So quickly that we arrived at our seats at the same time as the rest of the crew even though we stopped to take some photos of the Reds batting practice. Secondly, we got our bobbleheads! We received two Robb Nens but I traded one of them for a Jeff Kent. People were hoping for Barry Bonds bobbleheads of course, but I also received several cash offers for our Nen and Kent dolls. It took no effort at all not to accept the offers.

I finally took a breath to enjoy the view after we settled in our seats in section 308. Wow, this is a beautiful stadium! It was a lovely day too - sunny, clear blue skies, a light breeze blowing out toward McCovey Cove, and temperatures in the low 70s. You couldn’t ask for better weather.

The reviews about the food at AT&T Park were not exaggerated in any way, shape or form. There were plenty of concession stands so that lines moved along well enough and were not long. With a vast array of choices at our disposal, I settled on a Diet Coke in a commemorative Giants cup to go with my Homer (hot) Dog with grilled sweet onions and golden deli mustard. In my (humble) opinion, it was much more filling and much more satisfying than a Farmer John’s Dodger dog.

As for the game, Barry Zito didn’t pitch poorly but he couldn’t buy a call from the home plate umpire Dale Scott. Neither Buster Posey nor Joey Votto had good games with Votto leaving early due to a leg strain. The (Big Fat) Panda, Pablo Sandoval, had a good game defensively making two excellent plays coming in from third on weakly hit balls. Mat Latos cruised and was in control all the way. The Giants only real threat came after pinch-hitter Brandon Belt laced a triple in the right-center gap with one out in the bottom of the ninth. It was just the second hit for the Giants on the day.

Belt would score when the next batter Gregor Blanco grounded into a 6-3 fielder’s choice. I was hoping that Reds manager Dusty Baker would bring in closer Aroldis Chapman, who was warming up just in case in the top of the ninth. It would not be necessary though, as Latos fittingly struck out Theriot looking to end the game.

Belt was not in the starting lineup as Posey was given the start at first base to give him a day off from catching while keeping his bat in the lineup. I understood the logic, but with Latos, a right-hander, on the mound, I would have given Posey the day off instead and started Belt, a left-handed hitter, at first base. The Giants have to find a way to keep Belt’s bat in the lineup. It probably won’t happen this year, but the Giants will eventually have a crucial decision to make. Do they keep Posey behind the plate or move him to first or third to ease the wear and tear on him physically, and then what happens to Belt or Sandoval?

More thoughts to come later, including a recount of a brief conversation about calculating OPS and SLG with a Giants fan seated behind me.

Some days you ache to believe in God. You know of its Sisyphean inheritance but here is the mountain & here is your miracle. A boy the size of a gumdrop gallops out of the oncology ward in a cape mottled with cartoon dinosaurs & you watch as his mother’s eyes shame the most confident lighthouse. You want to trust the echo floating inside the wishing well. You want to bend down & pick up the fluorescent flicker of the toffee wrappers sequined to its dark cloth. Then you are in a cab, the city is a cinema of gradually dying candles, traffic lights wink their impending mischief & a pair of tiny, crinkled lips pucker against the glass – would you want to buy this discolored carnation? no? a Chinese bobblehead doll maybe? a meal for my palsied brother?- & you are once again a cog thrown into the wheels of wonder – is god an act of bargain? a compulsive haggle with hope? – something wrenched between the river & the rope?

But, there is always the surprise of a dance. A tango of the swing draped around the tamarind tree.

Against the soundtrack of beggars’ bowls, the wind is split into tinsels of light.  Something jagged is caught in its undertow – all the silence in the world doesn’t compensate for how far the darkness can travel into your lungs if you forget what music you were born from.   

I spent the last day of the last year with you & the ocean stretched itself into a hyphen I would like to place between the portmanteau of your last name with mine. You are fluent in departures, you said. All of living can’t be summarized in the vagueness of this cobbled language, I countered. You don’t believe in God but you want your body to be reborn as rainwater. You were raised to be pious, a consistent route for the apostate. I am so common, I could almost be holy. I want to strip your story of its careful ink & leave bracketed rooms of white noise. I want to play your delirium as if I were Brahms & you were my oeuvre of requiems. But you don’t trust the piano, it’s an aria of jasmine wed to charcoal, either black or white – it has no grays, you say. I want to cover your eyes, & teach your mouth the precise Braille of my body. I want to argue that only Hell is gray. I want you to learn how to forgive who you used to be. Think of a good thing that has ever happened to you. Now, think of every doubt you cradled, its milk teeth latched to your veins – your helplessness held it to succor. You are a sincere father to your depression; you afford it its every growing need. The roof over our heads is ribboned  with the kicking roar of thunder; my thumb treks the ridges of your knuckles & I think of telling you that it has taken an artisan’s etiquette to embroider you into my memory. But you are a gasping absence, a deer betrayed to a trap of thorns.  I cringe at this practiced hoax of words. Clarity is so meaningless in the face of guilt.

Why are you such a despot to your own happiness? I want to ask you many questions such as these but I mostly think that if I were to sit at the same table as you, I would turn to camphor or black lava salt set to flame. In the morning, the sun is half grenade, half bergamot – its impatience windswept in a citrus mist. The newsprint is a nutshell for a world that has long outlived its worth. I imagine you with your jaws soldered tighter than the prison gates of Iran. You fall as if you were the snow in Tehran.

All this while, the milk billows & mewls its thin whimper.

Finally, the utensil heaves the haul of its bladder onto the kitchen counter & you realize that this is how we forget the fraction of a minute it takes to go from being warm to being burned.

Most days, I don’t want to believe in God because I can’t bear to look into mirrors that are only disguised clocks. And the urchins with their tea-colored hands leave heart-shaped blots on the windshield. And the six year old girl in therapy brings me a bag ripe with mimosa blossoms. And my mother has a peaceful night without nerve-shattering arthritic pain punctuating her breath. And my grandmother visits me as the birdsong of a red-crested bulbul.

When you are gone, I sleep with your shirt next to me so I still know how to fit the scent of your sadness into my slender bed. I welcome you back with a narcotic grin. I feel as raw as childbirth when I consider that you can only really be married to fire. You have spent so much time caressing its tender limbs, rinsing its kindled petals. When You become  Me, speech isn’t left to much. It is stone before moss, shadow after sundial. And I can only measure Time in a vivid knotting of touch. And you, my dear, touch like an arson.

Some days your name is the only God that will accept me within and without faith.

PLL Bobble Heads Clue +Dr. Sullivan & Wren Connections?

In a few A endings we noticed  the bobble head figures/dolls, which brings me to an interesting clue about something Mike said to aria:

2x14 mike and aria talk about mike’s new therapist:

aria: so  you like this guy?

mike: he’s okay, i mean he’s really old but he’s not a jerk. He doesn’t make these listening noises like my first therapist.
He dialed down my meds, and he doesn’t look at me like I’m a bobblehead the way I catch mom and dad sometimes.
aria: They do not look at you like you’re a bobblehead.
mike: Really? I still catch them looking.And you too.
aria: Well, we just want you to be okay.
mike: That’s tough to do with people waiting for you to turn into a zombie or something.
aria:Hmm.I always saw you as more of the cute werewolf type.

remember this A ending doctor sullivans office (photos i do not own):

we all know A’s bobblehead dolls (photos i do not own):

Questions:

!. so who was mike’s former therapist? in 2x10, ella talks to sullivan about mikes issues lately, but dr sullivan said its not good for siblings to see the same therapist, so she recommended some people and gave ella some refferals. i find it a little strange with dr sullivan, just for the fact that she already  had a patient file for aria. who are dr sullivans collegues? could Wren be one of them perhaps dr palmer? strangely enough, dr sullivan has a bobblehead in her office. but whos to say her other colleagues used that office too? if wren is one of them, you think he handed over arias patient file to dr sullivan? could this explain why aria already has a patient file? 

2. we know coming into season 2, the parents suggested a therapist for the girls. But whos idea was this? was it really peters idea as ashley said? could it have been byrons idea? he was talking to peter right when the girls came downstairs before hearing the news about the therapist.

3.when dr sullivan figured out who A was, that red hand writing on the notes she read looked alot like wrens all caps writing. so did wren possibly hire dr sullivan to be these girls therapist? many are suspecting wren to be a relative of the Montgomery family but not much evidence on this yet but a huge possibility.

let me know what you guys think!

rosewoodspy monariaisa pllheada plltheories102