and became something else

A movie about Viola Davis because her life deserves to be known

The only picture I have of my childhood is the picture of me in kindergarten, I have this expression on my face — it’s not a smile, it’s not a frown. I swear to you, that’s the girl who wakes up in the morning and who looks around her house and her life saying, ‘I cannot believe how God has blessed me.’ “ 

“I would jump in trash bins with maggots looking for food, and I would steal from the corner store because I was hungry, I never had any kids come to my house because my house was a condemned building, it was boarded up, it was infested with rats. I was one of those kids who were poor and knew it.” 

“I was the kind of poor where I knew right away I had less than everyone around me. We had nothing, I cannot believe my life, I just can’t, I’m so blessed. I would jump in trash bins with maggots looking for food, and I would steal from the corner store because I was hungry, I never had any kids come to my house because my house was a condemned building, it was boarded up, it was infested with rats. I was one of those kids who were poor and knew it.”

“It became a motivation as opposed to something else — the thing about poverty is that it starts affecting your mind and your spirit because people don’t see you, I chose from a very young age that I didn’t want that for my life. And it very much has helped me appreciate and value the things that are in my life now because I never had it. A yard, a house, great plumbing, a full refrigerator, things that people take for granted, I don’t.”

I first envisioned myself as an actor after I watched Cicely Tyson in The Autobiography of Miss Jane Pittman when I was a child.”

“It wasn’t until then that I had a visual manifestation of the target I wanted to hit, It also gave me hope for the future and a different life for myself, she helped me have a very specific drive of how I was going to crawl, walk, run from that environment.”

“I became an artist, and thank God I did, because we are the only profession that celebrates what it means to live a life,” 

Locker Room*

Pairing: Chris Evans x Reader
Rating: Explicit
Summary: There’s no real plot, maybe Reader wants to fool around in a locker room. Once again, this poor summary does not reflect my writing in general, I hope. Bear with me, please.
Word Count: 2.7k
Genre: NSFW/SMUT
Warnings: swearing, dirty talking, oral sex (both receiving), Chris being a butt guy (?), fingering and protected sex in a locker room, I guess.

Gifs used below aren’t mine, credit to the rightful owners.

    “Seriously Chris, why would you work out so late?” You whined, throwing your gym bag at the back of the car as you popped in, sitting next to him.

    “Listen, we both like this gym and this hour is the best time slot.” Your boyfriend huffed out a laugh, pecking your cheek and you buckled up the passenger seat belt.

    “There are other interesting ways to do exercises,” you wiggled your eyebrows, wandering your fingertips along his thigh and he rolled his eyes, starting the car. “If you do this to preserve your privacy then think about wearing something else than a cap. This became so obvious it’s Chris Evans hiding under.”

    “Always hilarious, Y/N,” he looked at the road, driving through Los  Angeles and you leaned your head against the seat, setting your running shoes on the dash. “You know it’s the job, I’m starting to film Infinity War in a couple of months now.”

    “Really, I had no idea… Captain Fucking Obvious.” Your eyes stared straight through the window as he glanced at you with his eyebrows furrowed, giving you his special look he used whenever you used sarcasm and a small laugh slipped through your lips.

    Once you’d finally reached the gym club opened at night, you both headed towards the different locker rooms and you got rid of your bag and jacket. You finally joined your boyfriend in the room - with some other people - and you saw him already working out as he focused on the upper part of his body.

    You smiled and as Chris sent you a wink, you tried to leave this glorious sight of him flexing his biceps, grunting lightly or tensing his back so much that you could’ve drawn the muscles through his T-shirt. You couldn’t help but internally gush over how very handsome he looked like this and how sexy his athletic outfit embraced all his muscles tightening then relaxing.

    Shaking your head slightly, you chose to concentrate the hard work on your legs for the night and you climbed on your favorite device, trying to forget the thoughts flying above your mind.

    Keep reading

    2

    “There’s always been a god-shaped hole in man’s head. Trees were the first to fill it. Mr. Wood was the trees. Mr. Wood was the forest. Well, he was a very old god who saw something very new - he saw a god-fearing society turn towards complete industrialization. So what did he do? He sacrificed his trees. He sacrificed his forest. And he became something else.”

    Pretence - 4

    (Moments) | (Part 1) | (Part 2) | (Part 3)

    summary: “For Nat’s sake, Y/N, will you pretend to be my girlfriend?”
    words: 1038 


    Bucky had heard once that if it’s meant to be, it’s going to happen. His mama lived by those words. Maybe that’s why she fought every battle with bright eyes and a smile. It’s why there was never anything she couldn’t do.

    There were several times in his life when he questioned the validity of those words. When Sarah Rogers died, he wondered if it meant that he was always going to be responsible for Steve. When Steve liberated the 107th, he wondered if maybe it had always been the other way around. The words lost meaning to him when fell of that train.

    When he looks at Y/N, though, with her naked body curled up against him, eyes closed and soft snores escaping her nose, he can’t help but remember them.

    He wonders if she remembers anything from last night. He knows he does. He remembers every last word he said, the exact number of times she whispered his name, the expressions on her face of bliss and hurt and anger and desperation. He remembers his own matching desperation, how the only thing on his mind had been bright red hair and sea green eyes and how somehow, somewhere along the way, suddenly all he could think about was Y/N. He remembers how he did what he did to deal with his own misery, like the selfish bastard he is, but how at some point it became something else, something more.

    And even now, in his fully conscious and sober state of mind, when the feeling of her skin touching his is supposed to be wrong, it isn’t. He can’t move; He doesn’t want to move, and that scares him.  If it’s meant to be, it’s going to happen.

    She stirs beside him, and his breath catches in his throat because he wouldn’t be caught dead staring at her at his most vulnerable, especially when he knows exactly how she’ll react waking up beside him: with a red face, mumbling “this was a mistake” and rushing out of the room as if he’s hurt her.

    (And he has, he realizes.)

    When she only flips over and falls back asleep, Bucky lets out a breath of air and his lungs can function properly again. He decides maybe it’s best if he goes to take a shower. He’s not sure he could handle himself being beside her when she does wake up, anyway.


    They’re at a club, and it’s when Bucky’s sitting between Steve, Sam, Wanda, Sharon, and Y/N, loud music pounding in his veins, that he realizes that if anything, Y/N deserves an Oscar. She’s avoided him expertly for days, and he hasn’t done much on his own part to seek her out either. It’s little things that he’s slowly registered: that she needs space, that he’s probably going to make a bad situation even worse, that this whole dynamic is toxic. For him too, but especially for her.

    But this woman, oh god. She’s sitting with the others right now, laughing and talking as if nothing’s wrong at all, and the only reason Bucky can tell that something is off is because he’s concealed his own emotions for years. It’s like someone’s flipped a switch, and Bucky’s not sure why or how, but he’s become aware of how selfish he’s been, to ask someone to leave their whole life behind just so he can deal with his own crushing self worth.

    She excuses herself from the group, saying something about getting a drink and winking at Wanda, who laughs in return. He notices her empty glass, and how everyone else has barely had any to drink, and he feels his eyebrows furrow in concern.

    He watches her as she sits at the bar, watches how she down a drink quicker than he’s ever downed one, watches how she orders another, then another. And he knows what she’s doing, because drinking to forget? He’s tried that so, so many times.

    “Oh my god, Bucky. You’re obsessed with her.” It’s Sharon Carter who finally gets him to look away and tune back into the conversation, and he realizes that everyone’s grinning at him. So he flashes his signature smile, laughs along with the others, when really, it feels like he’s only just noticed her.

    Slowly, everyone disperses to their own activity. Wanda goes to the dance floor, Steve and Sharon head out to grab something to eat, saying they’ll be back, and Sam disappears to who knows where?

    Bucky stands his ground for a while, until even the bartender is giving Y/N looks of concern. Then he gets up and walks over to the bar, standing beside Y/N. She doesn’t say anything when he gently takes her glass out of her hand and sets it to the side, only looks up at him with hollow, emotionless eyes that make his own throat tighten.

    “That’s enough,” he says, but he can barely get the word out of his mouth. He sends Steve a quick text, then slips his arm around Y/N’s back to help her off the bar stool and onto her feet. “Let’s get you home.”

    She’s quite as he guides her outside and hails a cab for the two of them. She just stares straight ahead, emotionless, not acknowledging anything. It isn’t until they’re on their way back to the compound that she speaks.

    “Bucky?” She says his name so softly he has to strain to hear her. “Why– why me?”

    And all Bucky can say to that is “I’m sorry.” He wants to say he’s sorry that she’s hurting, that it’s not at all her fault, that he owes her the biggest apology in the world, but the only words that he can manage to say through his constricting throat are “I’m sorry.” Over, and over, and over.

    She doesn’t cry or yell at him like she should. She just goes back to staring outside quietly, leaning her head against the window. Eventually, he sees her close her eyes, and he thinks that maybe she’s asleep, but then she opens her mouth to speak again and the words she whispers make Bucky’s heart clench and his breathing stop.

    “I just want the pain to end.”


    TAGS ARE CLOSED

    Keep reading

    7

    Anything at all can happen just before the sunrise.

    Whenever I see Reaper76 fanworks of Gabriel teaching Jack Spanish, it inevitably reminds me of the scene/song from In the Heights, Sunrise, where Nina teaches Benny Spanish. Forgive me, Lin.

    This has been stuck in my head for so long, I finally had to just draw it and get it out of my system.

    I also love how the tone shift totally makes sense in the context of the musical, but here it looks like Gabriel’s just being moody.

    [Bonus non-song scene also from In the Heights under the cut:]

    Keep reading

    An Essay about LGBTQ+ representation and art, tied up with a bit of a tribute to Stephanie Rice.

    I haven’t written something like this in quite a while. But I’ve been thinking a lot this past month about stories (even more than usual). So please be patient with all the caffeinated rambling I have to do here. 

    Needing to tell stories is something I have always known. There’s not a point in my life that I can look back on and not find in my younger self the intense will to put words and worlds, experiences and characters on paper. I’m sure this is a thing many artists and storytellers would say about their own lives. It’s the heart hammering, hand shaking need to find an outlet for experiences, passion, compassion and emotion that answers every “how did you know you wanted to do this” question with a “because I had to.”

    Being gay is something that I haven’t always known. And yes, I can look back on my life and point to moments and insecurities and road bumps that came from having always been gay. But I haven’t always known. Knowing came later. Knowing came with combined fear and confidence and the ability to eventually shatter the brick walls I’d built to hold my shoulders upright, in order to look at myself more clearly. And then I knew, and now it’s as though I always have.

    I spend a lot of time thinking about my experience coming out and the experiences of other LGBT people around me, and young kids who have come out and are coming out every day, either in quiet moments to themselves, or in one big fight with their families, or again and again each day to that Uber driver or that woman next to you on the plane, or your hair dresser who always asks who you’re dating. I spend a lot of time thinking about how that experience can be made easier, how kids can be received with more love, how we can better learn who we are before the years of self doubt. And no matter how much I think about anything, I am almost always brought back to the same two ways to fix anything. 1. Through giving and compassion and 2. Through art and stories. 

    With each generation in the LGBTQ community, the groundwork is laid for the ones that follow. From fighting for our right to live and be seen, to demonstrating that we’re just like everyone else, the generations before mine have laid a foundation that I am fortunate and humbled to stand on. In that light, I really and truly believe that it will be my generation that brings us alive, as a community, through art, that tells stories and writes songs so that generations after us can see themselves a little sooner, can look up to more than just a handful of queer artists, can grow up knowing and with families who know that there is no one normal, no cookie cutter sexuality, no right experience. 

    I have few memories of experiencing media that was specifically gay, growing up. But one of the clearest I do have is watching Pretty Little Liars with my mom. I grew up in liberal Massachusetts, outside Boston with loving, accepting parents. Even still, I can vividly remember a time when Emily, a then high school student on the show kissed her girlfriend and my mother explained that she just “didn’t like to see it” that it was fine and she had “nothing against it” but “she’s just a little girl” and she didn’t want to think about it. I’m sure my mom’s response wasn’t different from many others. So often, the world is okay with kids being queer but not okay with showing them a world of experiences like theirs beforehand. My mom is one of the most loving people I know and I tell this story with a fondness. She’s always been accepting of who I am. I’ve always been safe and supported. There’s a chance she doesn’t even remember this moment because she loves me for who I am. But when all is said and done those moments happen all the time and they pile up and they mean something. They mean something because there are young kids, across the country, across the world, in less loving houses, with less accepting parents, who don’t have the word for what they feel for years and years, who are sheltered from seeing Emily Fields kiss girls on TV, who watch their parents turn off movies if two boys are in love. Those kids hear song after song on the radio where girls sing about boys and boys sing about girls. They’re raised on fairytales and animated films about Princesses who marry Princes or don’t marry at all. They flounder, they search, they look for themselves here and there and everywhere and they come up empty handed. They come up with one song by a niche band that no one else listens to, or one sad lifetime movie about a woman’s dead gay son, or one lesbian on a TV show who inevitably ends up dead. 

    It’s my understanding that art is never meaningless. That culture and stories are what shape who we are, our worldview, our communities. It’s my understanding that when we diversify those stories we begin to change the world, stone by stone, kid by kid. 

    Often, I hear other LGBTQ people talk about not wanting to be defined by being gay or bi or trans. But the more I grapple with it and the more I exist in this world, living in LA, working in television, fighting for my chance to tell stories, the more I want to scream it. I’m gay. I’m gay. I’m gay. I’m gay. Because maybe if I yell it loud enough some kid will hear it and say “hey me too.” Because maybe if I pour that pride and pain and passion into my art it will reach their television some day, their home, their couch, and even if it doesn’t change their dad’s mind, it might make them feel less alone or give them the right words for the pain and passion that they feel. 

    I never watched The Voice before last year. I turned on season 11, at random, because I wanted to watch Alicia Keys be a coach. At some point, I stopped. It was fun but these aren’t the kind of shows that feel like they’re for me. They feel like they’re for corn fed, middle America, fighting over this pleasant looking man or that palatable country singer. And while I’m a creative who appreciates the rise and fall and hopes and dreams of other creatives as stories, these weren’t ones I was ever invested in. This year, I again turned the show on to watch season 12. Only to watch the auditions because those are fun and I get one more season with Alicia Keys. I remember the moment the show played Stephanie Rice’s backstory. I was watching it with one of my good friends. I remember we both perked up a little more when we saw her holding hands with her fiancée. I remember watching in an odd, baited breath silence as Stephanie began to tell her story and finding myself choking up just a little. For me, that emotional choked up feeling came from hearing things that I recognized, from watching her talk about the fear of disappointing her little sisters and knowing that exact same fear, to the same hands shaking, heart in your throat need to prove it’s alright, to make your way, to have your voice heard. Even as a person who has been out for years, an adult who is comfortable and confident in my sexuality, that feeling is still there. And as I watched it and watched her speak her truth and kiss another girl back stage I was reminded again that some kid, somewhere on a couch was going to see this, and feel that reliability, and feel seen and understood and not alone. I was driven again to keep fighting to tell my own stories.

    There is something significant about pain and diversity and art that isn’t discussed enough. Art is universal and can be interpreted and understood and seen and heard and felt by anyone. But there is a rare and often overlooked feeling that comes when art feels like it understands you. When someone says words or shows an emotion that you can put your finger on and say you’ve felt. I stuck with the Voice after that. I watched specifically to follow Stephanie’s journey. For one, because she’s an incredibly talented artist, and for two, because I have a distinct understanding of how much harder that fight to make your way is.

    Just a few nights ago I was driving, after my last day at my job in the Shannara Season 2 Writers Room, at about midnight down the freeway, and I was loudly singing along to Stevie Nicks with my windows down. On my reverse alphabetical order by artist itunes library, Stephanie Rice’s cover of White Flag comes right after Stevie Nicks’s Edge of Seventeen. So I’m driving and I’m singing and I know every damn word to Dido’s White Flag because I’ve heard it a hundred thousand times before and it was never even a song I cared about or liked. But I hadn’t heard this version that many times. Here I am, twenty-six years old, yelling at top volume in my car feeling my head get sort of swallowed and overcome and numbed by emotion as I do. Because when another gay woman sang that song, it changed. Because when another person fighting and dying to get their pain and emotion out of their chest sang that song, it changed. Because the emotion she sang with is emotion I know. Because suddenly yelling that I wouldn’t put my hands up and surrender became about something different. I can’t tell you what someone else meant by their song or their voice or their story. But I can tell you how it touched me personally. And I grinned like a damn idiot in my car because I felt a little stronger and a little prouder. 

    I’m in the process of writing a feature/novel package with the brilliant Dawson Schachter. It’s a romance between two women. And as we work on it we keep having to remind ourselves of the reality that these stories don’t get told often, that the market for them is smaller, that they have to be palatable to the big wigs that will look at them. And that is infuriating and compromising and fucks with every better angel and creative demon you have, let me tell you. That’s the ugly part people don’t talk about. That’s the reality of being an LGBTQ creator. Being too gay or too different or not gay enough, not sensational enough, being martyred to your community when you would love just a little less pressure today, knowing the pressure is the only way, being brave because anything else has never even been an option you were given, feeling like failure means letting down that kid who needs this story, feeling like it means letting down the kid in you who needed this story and now just needs to get it out. But I also know how inspiring all those feelings can be and how it can feel like singing along at brain numbing volume to White Flag with your windows down going 90 on a freeway at midnight in Los Angeles far away from your home and your family. 

    To Stephanie Rice, thank you. With as much weight as I can put in those two words, from the bottom of my heart, thank you for so bravely sharing your story and your art with America. Your vulnerability and light brought a story to televisions across this country that people need. And despite that particular journey wrapping up last night, I have no doubts that you will go on to keep sharing your soul through your music. As a fellow woman, as a fellow storyteller, you reminded me why I’m doing what I’m doing and I am so grateful to have gotten to hear your truth. You have a friend and supporter in Los Angeles if ever you need one. I look forward to hearing everything else you have to tell the world. 

    To anyone else reading this, my friends, young LGBTQ followers, fellow writers, coworkers, strangers consider this very long ramble a plea for you to continue to back and support LGBTQ artists and youth. Continue to lend them platforms and elevate their voices. Continue to diversify the stories you tell, paint televisions and movies and the radio with kids that look like them, that sound like them, that feel like them. And please, also consider this very long ramble, another in a pile of promises I’ve already made to you, that I will never stop doing everything I can to illuminate your hearts and your souls and your stories. If I have to scream them or deliver them from the ground with bloody knuckles, I will make them heard. I hope that together, we can continue to build a foundation for generations after us, through art where exposure has opened hearts and minds, where stories have saved lives, and art has changed the world. We fight, as we always have, for a better, louder, prouder, safer, and more inclusive future. 

    Gallavich Fic Rec

    a thousand and one ways to show you care by milominderbinder | NR | Ghetto Husband AU

    In which Mickey cooks for Ian, washes his clothes, stays over more than four nights a week, helps him out with random stuff, and is, essentially, his ghetto husband.

    Are You Sure? by shamelesstravesties | TauA | Proposal AU

    Mickey’s been acting off, and Ian’s worried that he’s planning on breaking up with him. He actually couldn’t be further from the truth - Mickey’s just kind of shitty at explaining.

    Crush *** by Misti1987 | NR | Younger Mickey AU

    What if Mickey was the youngest Milkovich by 4 years? And he’s not a thug, but a dreamer, he likes to sing and dance. His siblings protect him from Terry’s wrath by sending him to their friend’s houses. One of Mandy’s friends is Ian who is in a relationship with an asshole, but the sex is great. Mickey has a crush on Ian, but not an angsty one, a cute one; he blushes at Ian. One night Ian’s boyfriend comes onto innocent!Mickey and Mickey gets scared and Ian saves the day. Ian woos Mickey.

    definitely not writing lyrics about starlight eyes by milominderbinder | NR | Famous Mickey AU

    The Milkovich siblings make up one of Chicago’s fastest rising rock bands, Fuck U Up. Hot lead singer Mandy and ladies-man drummer Iggy have plenty of fans, but Mickey, the grumpy bass player, is largely ignored in favour of his siblings. Except, that is, by one fan in particular. Because ever since he found out that Mickey writes all of the band’s songs, Ian Gallagher has been harboring a bit of a crush.

    Everything I Didn’t Say *** by shamlessbieber | TauA | 

    Mickey went to jail after, Ian telling Mickey he’d wait but deep down he knew Ian wouldn’t wait. So in a letter, Mickey tells Ian everything he didn’t say.

    I Heart You *** by shamelessbieber | TauA | This is Gallavich, but it’s a Gotham/Shameless crossover, so Ian is Jerome.

    Jerome left Gotham to terrorize more cities but he didn’t expect to find interest in a Southside thug.

    I mean it this time *** by LuckyShaz | M | 

    It was Mickey’s birthday recently. An year into Mickey’s sentence Ian begins to re-think things.
    Question is, will Mickey give him the time of day?

    I’ve Never Stopped Loving You *** by LuckyShaz | M | 

    Now that Mickey forgave Ian, their relationship continues. Even though they still have jail as a barrier. Sequel To I mean it this time.

    So Glad To Have You Home *** by LuckyShaz | M | 

    Mickey is finally getting released from jail. Even though they’ve been together a long time, Ian is nervous as hell. He enlists outside help to ensure everything is up to par. Sequel to I’ve Never Stopped Loving You.

    if you love me, won’t you let me know by kissteethstainred | NR | College/University AU

    It was seconds between the lighter and the cigarette, and then only a couple more for Mickey to raise the cigarette to his mouth, but in those seconds, Ian saw something else. Ian became curious about what Mickey Milkovich was actually like. Those few seconds, although he didn’t know it then, would end up ruining him.

    love marks brighter than the city of lights by dirtywings | M | 

    Mickey is 6 years old and he doesn’t understand why he trips on weapons instead of toys.

    Make You Up by mhunter10 | TauA | Famous Ian & Makeup Artist Mickey

    The one where Mickey is a makeup artist who falls hard for the man in his chair.

    Mickey To The Rescue by LuckyShaz | M | Different Meeting AU

    Ian is getting robbed. His date is a coward. A handsome, confident stranger steps in.

    Only You *** by Misti1987 | TauA | 

    How about Ian was diagnosed with Bipolar really early? He’s already friends with Mandy and has a secret thing with Mickey that they’re disguising as friendship. He has his ups and downs. During a really bad down period Mickey comes by and Ian actually responds, like starts eating, or Mickey makes a joke about the smell and Ian showers. Ian’s family and Mandy are confused cuz theyre just friends, right? Mickey knows about the ups and downs and just treats them like normal moods.

    Say Yes by Misti1987 | NR | High School AU

    Mickey is a badboy and everyone is asking him to prom, he tells everyone No, but maybe he says yes to someone.

    Somebody Said Birthday (Kiss) by AnotherGallavichLove | TauA | Famous Ian AU

    Ian kisses his fans on the mouth sometimes - it’s just always been something he’s been alright with doing if they want it. But from the moment that his lips press against Mickey’s - he’s stuck.

    SPECIAL *** by LuckyShaz | E | High School AU

    Mickey Milkovich the most feared and the most respected guy in school just turned 19 and he’s throwing a party. Miraculously, Ian and his 15 year old freckled self has been invited. He’s been in love with the youngest Milkovich brother for the longest time. Of course he’s going.

    The many things Mickey Milkovich has been called by KeepGoing | E | 

    Ian whispers words to Mickey he has never heard before. Words like beautiful, hot, smart. Ian tells Mickey how brave he is to have endured all the crap in his life. Ian touches him, soft touches, Mickey isn’t used to feeling. He’s used to rough hands. Punches. Kicks. Shoves. He isn’t used to soft fingertips and gentle caresses. He isn’t used to butterfly kisses along his jawline and fingers in his hair as he falls asleep to the sound of Ian’s heartbeat.

    We’ve Come A Long Way From Where We Began *** by bellafarella | M | Future Fic

    At the age of 25, Mickey is still living with his ex-wife and their six year old son. Dinner out with the family and Mickey sees someone he thought he’d never see again, a redheaded kid he used to terrorize at the Kash’n’Grab, back in the South Side of Chicago.

    You Like It When I Call You Baby by LuckyShaz | M | 

    Mickey acts like he hates when Ian calls him ‘baby’ but he comes every time Ian calls him that during sex. Ian decides to test that theory a few times.

    *Suspicious Niffler* Newt x reader

    L◘ Anonymous asked:

    Hellooooo! May I request an imagine where the reader is pregnant and is scared to tell Newt cause she thinks that he might not want the baby. However, Niffler somehow finds out and starts to take care of her and always cuddle which makes Newt suspicious. Very fluffy ending❤ *sending virtual hug to this amazing writer👐🏻*

    *sending virtual hug back in return!* Thanks, hun!

    You sat on the couch in your hotel room awaiting Newt’s return. He had head out that afternoon in to the country of Hungary to examine the mating of Hungarian Horntails up close. He advised you to stay and sit this one out; afraid you would get hurt. 

    Playing with the lace on your nightgown, you eagerly waited for the door to open and to see the wizard come in. You had some big life changing news for him. You were pregnant! Normally this would call for celebration, but seeing as Newt was currently in the middle of writing his book, Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, you were afraid that this news would only cause his dream to be put on hold. Newt was working so hard on this book and you knew he was excited to finally finish it. 

    Keep reading

    We’re all stories in the end...

    What will follow is a very long explanation of why I think BBC Sherlock has become fan fiction in every sense of the word, applying a technique called estrangement effect to achieve as well as envision this. It has been happening since S3 - but came into full force in S4 and especially TFP.

    Let me state at first: Sherlock Holmes is dead. He died after jumping off Bart’s. That’s the one thing Mofftisson did that no other adaption has dared to do. Not even ACD did describe Holmes dying. But Mofftisson showed us: Sherlock jumped and hit the pavement. We saw it, and it was never explained how he survived. Because he didn’t. What we watch in TEH is altered footage, like in the beginning of TST. Alienated ficitional reality.

    But still Sherlock came back. How is this possible? Because Sherlock Holmes never lived, and so could never die; because Sherlock Holmes as a fictional character has long ago crossed the line between ficiton and reality. He exists in both worlds, the ficitonal and ours. Schödinger’s Sherlock, so to speak.

    Mofftiss (and Steve Thompson) have adapted Holmes for the 21st century - with all its consequences. They are the first who allow Holmes to die - as it should have been, in Watson’s arms. This is truly new - like it or not.

    But why could he survive? Because of the fans. Fans brought Holmes back in 1903 - and they brought him back in S3 (or even MHR). Whereas S1 and S2 might still be somehow canon compliant if modernised, with S3/MHR the show left the realm of ACD and became something else. It became our story. We are the narrators. Therefore, we appear, for example, as Anderson or the Empty Hearse Club, before we, in TAB, leave this concrete narrator position behind to ascend onto yet another narrative level.

    Many commented (and lamented) the change from S2 to S3. The show became a romcom! The cases didn’t matter anymore! All those new characters! All true - because the BBC adaption had detached itself from ACD and started to become its own work of art, it’s very own pastiche. That might be self-referential; and perhaps wasn’t even always well made (TFP!) - but I think we should stop applying real life structures and standards to this work of art - because it simply doesn’t work. (And, as every writer, Mofftiss have the right to fuck their own story up).

    The audience and fandom struggle with a lot of twists after S2 because making the distinction between canon compliant fictional verisimilitude and the realm of associative fan fic is especially hard to mark with a figure like Holmes - who seems real and yet never was. On the other hand, he is the perfect character to undergo such a narrative transformation.

    If this interests you, please continue under the cut.

    Keep reading

    anonymous asked:

    bughead having sex at literally any change they get (several times please)

    So much More: 

    you got it! Mostly smut with a little bit of context at the beginning. 

    Excuse me while I go blush profusely now… haha x

    warning: so much smut [oh lord i am going to hell]

    The first time was a little awkward, but wonderful none the less. It should’ve been in his dads trailer the night of the jubilee after confessing their love. That would’ve made sense. But it wasn’t. 

    It was the night after that; they had spent all day at the hospital, they were emotionally exhausted, both from being the support Archie needed and seeing the man whom had been a prominent parental figure to both of them almost their entire lives, fight for his own. Jughead had climbed the ladder to  her bedroom window after he had bid her goodnight at the front door. Because he knew she needed him and he needed her too. It was comfort and love and the need to feel alive. It was hushed moans and muffled whimpers under pastel sheets and on floral comforters. It was rushed and slow all at once. It was, hunger, desire, passion and learning. 

    And then it became so much more. It became a need, a want, engrained deep within their souls to feel close to each other. It was as if the further Riverdale tried to pry them apart, the more urgent the need to connect in every sense possible became. 

    It was raw and passionate and oh so good. 

    It was addictive and sinful and everything. 

    It was leather and wool; rough and dark, while comforting and safe. 

    And now it seemed every chance they got they couldn’t keep their hands off each other.

    It was late Monday evening and the young couple were seeking solace in FP’s trailer. Betty had managed to forgo the wrath of Alice Cooper which she would usually incur for being out this hour on a school night no less, as a very pregnant Polly was occupying all of her mother’s concern. And while Jughead’s foster parents were nice enough they were not capable of enforcing rules he actually wanted to abide by.

    This had become a routine of sorts for them. Hiding away from the rampage outside and enjoying the little slice of domesticity here in the small excuse for a home. Here they revelled in each other’s company and nothing else, particularly enjoying the teenage bliss they were able to manufacture in the air. 

    Betty was sitting on the couch text book on her lap. Her blonde hair was tied back in a messy low pony tail for a change- Jughead felt privilege well within his chest at the knowledge she felt so entirely free and herself here with him that she could shed her defences. Betty felt the same emotion as she took in his beanie less state. 

    Keep reading

    The real bummer about self-actualization is realizing you’re not anywhere near as smart or cool as you thought/felt/knew yourself to be. This understanding is like the dark night of the soul punch card where, after the 10th night, you freely burn in an infinite hell of “Whoa dude, I truly suck. I’m not special. I’m not all that and I never really was. I’m just a common asshole.”

    I used to pretend I was a tough guy. I was just trying to protect myself. In order to even begin to let go of that strange identity I had to be special at something else. So, I became an artist. Then I became a smart guy. Then I became some kinda zen asshole. Of course, I was terrible at all these things. And worse, I’m still kinda some of these things.

    The shit you used to pretend to be kinda sticks to you like a shadow and then you have to actively seek to break yourself down into smaller bite-sized caricatures before you weep like a fish dreaming of fucking the sun and realize you’re just a total fucking weirdo.

    Go find out all the crazy insane shit you are. Remember when you were a child and you went trick-or-treating? You staggered about in dark with your friends, covered in the dead flesh of monsters, and knocked on all the doors in town to demand that the upstanding citizens come out and give you candy.

    We all peaked when we were about 5 yrs old.

    Anyway, it’s kinda hard for me to organize against this greedy monkey and his minions, cuz I don’t like people. Cuz people are boring, man. It’s like memorizing lists of numbers and repeating them to one another. You have to do it without any real interest or emotion - just say the fucking numbers, man! Stick to the script. I’m anti-systematic. Which is not to be confused with Steve Bannon (and hopefully is the opposite).

    I don’t like to make too much sense. It’s a shitty thing to impose on another being. Absurdity is how we should greet each other, but not in some clownish whacky way (that would make sense, duh!) We need to just be exquisite in our freakiness but not overwhelmed by pancakes.

    Can I get an amen? (Or am I truly alone in a hotly contested indifference)?

    45. “I should be the only one making you happy” with yoongi (part two) | 1.4k

    @oh-sugahoney for you :)))) enjoy

    part one

    Fuck this, Yoongi had said as the door slammed behind him.

    “Guys, what was that for?” your question settles onto guilty grimaces.

    When the boys invited you over for movie night, you hadn’t expected anything out of the ordinary. This was something they always did whenever they were in between comebacks, since it was the only period in which they had enough hours left on the clock to do things other than sleep. Given that you hadn’t seen them in nearly two months, it was an easy decision for you to make.

    When you arrived, you found a spot beside Yoongi (perhaps on another day you would have noticed that it was coincidentally the only seat available) and for the first twenty minutes, all was well. They’d picked a silly little comedy, and the room settled into a relaxed chorus of soft giggles at each joke, Yoongi included.

    However, it became increasingly apparent that the boys had something else in mind for tonight.

    Out of nowhere, Taehyung and Jungkook moved from the floor to the couch, the very couch that was already occupied by you and Yoongi, which meant that, yup, the two of you were sandwiched in between.

    Though the . . . cozy (as Taehyung had called it) arrangement didn’t bother you, you could tell Yoongi was uncomfortable.

    It didn’t help that every time you looked at Hoseok, he wiggled his eyebrows, and that Jimin couldn’t hide his giggles every time he looked your way.

    Eventually, Yoongi’s patience drew thin.

    “Jungkook, get off, it’s too fucking warm.”

    “Are you sure it’s me making you warm, hyung?”

    When you turned to the elder, you noticed he was glaring at Jungkook, jaw clenched and ears turning red.

    “Jeon. Jungkook.”

    Leave it to the maknae to be cheeky. “Hyung, we know you like it.”

    Yoongi unabashedly shoved the younger aside and stomped out of the living room, which brought you to the present, with six faces staring back at you apologetically.

    “Jungkook,” Jin starts, “you need to apologize to Yoongi later. You went too far.”

    The maknae meekly nods, eyes downcast. “Sorry, noona,” he softly says.

    “This is my fault, too,” Taehyung joins in. “I gave Kookie the idea … sorry.”

    “It’s alright,” you assure them, “Yoongi’s just grumpy,” you say as you give their shoulders a squeeze.

    It’s no secret that you and Yoongi have feelings for each other, nor is it any mystery why you’re keeping those feelings at bay. After getting out of a terrible relationship, Yoongi had made it clear that he wasn’t ready to jump into another one when you both realized that your friendship was turning into something more. It made sense, and you respected his maturity, so you withdrew yourselves to Normal Friend Behaviour, which apparently did not sit well with the rest of them.

    “Y/N,” Namjoon looks at you. “It’s probably not my place to ask but–”

    “–Yeah, I’ll talk to him,” you finish for him.

    His smile is grateful and he nods, “thank you.”

    “Let’s go out for dinner,” Hoseok suggests, “Jiminnie, where was that place you said we should try?”
    “Oh, uh, it’s …” he fumbles with his phone, “it’s over there,” he points to his screen.

    Hoseok nods, “alright. I’ll call the managers. Grab your things everybody, be ready in ten,” he directs, and gives you a wink.

    You shake your head, and wait for them to disperse before walking over to the bedroom at the end of the hall.

    It’s open, Yoongi’s voice slips through the door when you knock on it.

    “Hey,” you say as you close the door behind you.

    Even in the dark, you can see he’s lying on the bed with his feet still on the floor.

    “You good?” you ask as you walk over.

    Yoongi nods, sits up and reaches for you to stand between his legs.

    You ruffle his hair, “you know Kookie was just teasing.”

    He sighs, and, still holding your hand, rests his head against your stomach. Your other hand immediately moves to his head, fingers carding through his hair.

    “… Yoongs?” you call when he doesn’t speak after a while.

    “Just … can you just stay like this?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper.

    “Of course,” you keep threading through his locks, “this okay?”
    He nods, and breathes out, “more than okay …”

    It doesn’t take much to know that Yoongi’s not a talker. Unlike Namjoon and Jimin, who deliver comfort and guidance wrapped in careful syllables chosen with love, Yoongi’s always been someone who preferred to use his actions. So the boys have always found it interesting when it became apparent that Yoongi liked you, someone who delivered words that carried weight as deep as the Marianas Trench, and who, as they came to find, could ease them out of their darkest days because damn, you were wise and your advice was golden.

    It worked, though, and there was good reason for it.

    For all the words that Yoongi chose to keep to himself, you had more to give to him when he doubted himself, and Yoongi reciprocated with his thoughtfulness expressed in the way he looked after you even when you weren’t aware of it. When the day knocked you off your feet and your voice drowned in sorrow, he showed you that sometimes, quiet can go a long way to help you heal.

    And now, you were giving that back to him.

    You stay in this stance for who knows how long, the traffic down below being the only sound filling the space.

    After a while, he speaks, “thanks, Y/N, really.” He tilts his head to the side to look at you, rubbing your arm that was resting on his shoulder.

    “Don’t need to, Yoongs,” you smile, smoothing his hair out of his eyes, and he instinctively leans into the touch.

    “You hungry?” you lighten the subject. “They’ve left to grab dinner, let’s get some, too,” you take a few steps back.

    “W-wait,” Yoongi stammers, grabbing your wrist, and takes a deep breath.

    “Everything okay?” you make your way back towards him.

    “There’s something I wanted to ask you,” Yoongi begins, eyes shifting to everywhere but onto yours.

    You feel your heartbeat pick up, “Yoongi … if you’re about to say what I think you are, you know you don’t have to–”

    “Let me finish, Y/N,” he fixes his gaze onto you. “I wanted to ask earlier, but then, that happened, and I got kind of …”

    “flustered?” you offer, to which he nods, the tips of his ears gaining a rosy hue.

    “I wanted … ” he trails off.

    “You wanted …?”

    “Do you …” he begins again.

    “Do I …?”

    “Um …”

    “Just ask me, Yoongs. You know I’m gonna say yes.”

    “Do you,” his eyes open wide, “wait, are you sure?”

    “Oh for fuck’s sake,” you mutter as you lean down to kiss him.

    The moment your lips landed on his, it was like soft fireworks exploded behind your eyes. His arms pull you into him, and you both land onto the bed. He kisses you back with more need, and you move your legs to straddle him, hands digging into his hair. Shortly, it’s hot breaths and heated kisses, bruised lips and sweet caresses, stars lighting up the room despite it being cloudy outside.

    Fuck,” Yoongi says when you both settle down for air.

    You chuckle. “Is that it?”

    God no, come back here,” he mumbles, hands on your waist and flipping you onto your back, lips finding yours again.


    “Hyung, do you think they want this?” Jimin asks, takeout boxes in hand, when the boys finally return to the apartment.

    Namjoon shakes his head, “you can have it, Jiminnie.”

    Damn it!” Jin exlaims, earning surprised faces from all the boys because it isn’t every day that the eldest hyung curses. “I left my phone charger in that room,” he explains, to which the boys could only laugh at his misery.

    The bedroom door suddenly opens, revealing an annoyed Yoongi, who places said charger by the door. “Y'all better shut up. She’s sleeping, and if anyone wakes her up I swear I’ll—” he’s cut off by the giggles in the room. “What?

    “Nice … neck, hyung.”

    “Yeah, purple’s a great colour on you.”

    “… fuck off.”

    Sexting.

    A/N: Hi guys! How are you? I hope everything’s fine! I’m really sorry about my absence but I’m quite busy right now with college and so. I’ll try to write more! Moreover, I just DIED when I saw Seb’s photo so that made me think of a sort of drabble. I hope you all like it. As always, feel free to correct me and feedback would be appreciated!

    Warnings: Masturbation, Dirty talk, Bucky’s noises, etc.

    Words: 1,537.

    Tag list and those who might like it!: @msmarvelchick @sebastian-bucky-stan @eileenlikesyou-maybe @a-girl-who-loves-disney @whotheeffisbucky @plumfondler @totheendofthelinepal @thatawkwardtinyperson @theh3aven @themistsofmyavalon @pleasecallmecaptain @writemarvelousthings @writingbarnes @sebbytrash-old @stephvera @shaerose98 @hollycornish @marvelfanuniverse @totheendofthelinepal @just-call-me-mrs-captain @bovaria @writing-soldiers @marvelouslymarvelousimagines @mangosoldier @rchlnwtn  @goldwanderer @fourtyninekirbygamzeegirl  @bvckys-doll @suvi-hearthcrow @justareader  @themortallife @perrychastain @petitelaurie9 @inlovewithmydreams @happiness-is-sebstan @marvelous-fvcks

    You groaned in pain as the warm water ran down your naked body. Soon the shower was filthy as the dirt you had from the battlefield fell off from your skin along with blood. You had been injured by one of the Hydra agents and Helen Cho had patched you as she could, warning you not to move for a few days. Fury had sent you to the Avengers’ towers as soon as he knew and there you were.

    You threw yourself on your mattress, feeling the warmness welcoming you. Your eyes shut as you fell asleep. Unconsciously, you hugged your pillow, noticing Bucky’s aroma on it. You loved it as much as you loved wearing his t-shirts when he was not there. Or when he was. It didn’t really matter.

    You had been dating the supersoldier for a year after months of curious behaviour. What started as a friendship became slowly something else. When Bucky came, he was shy and barely spoke to anyone but Steve. You didn’t push him and talked to him about music, books or whatever just to make him laugh. He started to open to you and hang up with you.

    Sometimes he would look for you all over the whole tower just to tell you about the last book he had read or what he had found on Wikipedia. You still remembered his face as he talked to you about Star Wars or Back to the Future.

    It was during an especially rough mission when he trusted you completely. You had been days monitoring a Hydra base and sending the information to Steve, who was in the tower. Bucky had been sent with you due to his knowledge.

    But something went wrong.

    Agents prepared to catch you, dead or alive, suddenly surrounded you. You fought until your muscles were sore but a bullet hit you in your arm and you fell on the muddy ground, watching the man approaching you. He raised his gun and you tried to defend yourself, when he hit the ground. Bucky lowered the smoky gun and carried you bridal style to the motorbike you had hidden.

    “Let’s go, doll” He had said, driving to the safe house Tony had offered to you two. Bucky healed you as much as he could and talked to you about his first scar.

    After that, you became inseparable and closer until one night you two were staring at the star when he kissed you. Your first steps were hesitant but soon you knew you loved him more than you had ever loved someone. And it was mutual. Bucky felt you were what he needed to be himself again.

    Your phone started to ring and you groaned under the duvet. Your hand went out the burrito you had become and took it, looking at your messages. Your lips curved into a smile when you saw the name written on the screen.

    “Winter Boo Bear”

    Good morning, sleeping beauty.

    How did you know I was sleeping?

    You couldn’t stop the chuckle that escaped your mouth as Bucky sent you an emoji that seemed to say Really?

    Okay, maybe I was having a nap. But I was tired.

    Was the mission okay?

    You touched the bruises and remembered Helen Cho healing you. Your fingers travelled quick down they keyboard, typing.

    Nothing to worry about. Just a few bruises. I’m a big girl.

    You added the emoji with the tighten muscle as your teeth grabbed your bottom lip, smiling. The phone showed the “Typing…” thing from Bucky.

    I know you’re a big girl, doll.

    I’m really craving to see you.

    Oh, oh.

    You felt heat rising to your neck as you blushed, knowing where the conversation was going. He had done this several times before when one or the other or even both were in missions.

    Oh yeah? I’m sure you don’t. I mean. You have Steve. I’m sure he will be a beautiful view in the morning.

    Typing.

    Doll, you know I love this punk but I’d prefer to wake up with you naked by my side than him. 

    Oh, so that’s the only reason why you want to be here, huh?

    Oh, honey…there are several reasons.

    You sent Bucky the rolling eyes emoji and he typed a laugh. You bit your lip as you stared at the screen. Your lips curved into a smirk as an idea grew up in your mind.

    What were you doing?

    I was going to have a shower. I’m filthy.

    Yeah, you usually are. That’s your natural state.

    You couldn’t avoid roaring with laughter as you sent the last message, hoping you could see your boyfriend’s face at that. His state changed to “Typing” again before it stopped. You took advantage of it as your fingers flew over the keyboard.

    What are you wearing? Let me see ya, Sarge.

    Doll…

    That made you bit your bottom lip. You could almost hear Bucky’s growl in your mind and you decided to make him as horny and frustrated as he sometimes made you when you were having sex. 

    Sergeant Barnes, it’s an order.

    The phone stayed silent for a few minutes before it buzzed again. You took it and grinned at the answer, knowing it was all yours.

    Yes, Ma’am.

    You waited patiently as your fingers drew abstract forms on your naked skin. The touch of your fingertips, almost like feathers sent shivers down your spine and you craved for Bucky’s touch. His fingers were calloused and rough from the missions, yet they rubbed your sensitive skin, knowing all your sweet spots. 

    You heard the answer getting to your phone and you almost jumped to take it. Your fingers opened the message and you waited until the image was completely charged.

    Oh, my.

    Your mouth fell open and you felt as if it had dried. You swallowed hard as your eyes examined the photo. Bucky was in the hotel’s bathroom. A expensive one, you thought. Probably Tony had afforded it. He was shirtless and his red briefs appeared above his sweatpants. He was muscled and his left arm shone with the light of the bathroom. 

    Like what you see?

    Yes. It’s a shame I couldn’t have you here in my bed, right now.

    You’re missing my naked body, Sarge.

    Your hands started to rub your breast slowly as your eyes stared at the photo. You bit your lip and moaned softly, feeling your fingertips grazing the sensitive bud. The phone buzzed again and you looked at the message.

    Fuck doll. Don’t say that. Show me.

    You whimpered and hurried to type an answer.

    No, Sarge. I’m in charge here. 

    Are you touching yourself? Are you all wet?

    I am.

    With my legs spread, as you like. I’m touching my nipple now. 

    A minute after the message was delivered the screen lightened, showing a photo of you and Bucky in Disneyland. You smirked and waited a few minutes. You loved teasing him. Making him to wait before giving what he craved for. 

    Obviously, that would cause him to do the same.

    “Doll?” He panted as you picked up the phone. You took a deep breath to avoid the moan that wanted to escape your lips as you pinched your nipple. 

    “Mm?”

    “Are you touching yourself? Without me?” Bucky chuckled and you whimpered as your hand travelled down your abdomen towards your legs. The cold air made you shiver and your body jolted as your fingers grazed slightly your core. “Bad girl. You know what will happen when I get home, right?”

    You moaned when your fingertips rubbed your clit in circles, slowly at the beginning. Bucky’s gasps were audible through the speaker and you recognised the sound of pants being removed.

    “Tell me, doll. C’mon”

    “I’m naked. On my bed, hmmm…”You bit your lip as you introduced a finger inside you while touching yourself.

    “Fuck. I wish I could see ya.  You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” You muttered a fainted yes as your fingers continued on your clit, making you to moan. “God, yes. Y/N, more. I want to hear them all”

    “Are you touching yourself?”

    “Yes, doll. I’m hard right now. I hope it was your hand. I want to be between your legs. My tongue sucking all over. Licking your clit” You moaned higher this time at the image of your boyfriend between your legs. “I’d make you scream my name until you couldn’t take it any longer”

    “Fuck, yes. Don’t stop” You rubbed your fingers harder, feeling your whole body burning and shaking. You knew you were close and Bucky knew too. His pants and whimpers were rhythmic with yours and you imagined him naked on the bathroom, his hand moving along his length.

    “I’m gonna fuck when I get home, doll. I’m gonna eat you until you are writhing and moaning”

    “Fuck…JAMES!” You shouted when your whole body trembled as waves of pleasure went over it. You continued touching yourself as you heard your boyfriend’s pants and  your legs shook. He whimpered your name and you tried to catch your breath, feeling your body relaxing from that.

    “I miss you, Bucky”

    “Me too. I’ll be as soon as possible”

    “I love you”

    “I love you too”