because I just found

anonymous asked:

So are you a bit mad that CN trolled us of the tweet yesterday? For me i'm a bit mad but impressed

Ah- nah? I kind of like those sort of silly fake-outs, it didn’t feel like a troll, and seemed like the kind of marketing I’d been expecting/wanting from CN for Steven Universe since day one. Better that than being outright spoiled over the introduction to a brand new gem.


Popcorn & Coke

Pairing: Dean x Reader
Words: ~1200
Warnings: Smut, oral (giving and receiving), post-sex fluff,
Summary: Kinda just a post-sex Dean headcanon but really just an excuse for me to write smut.
A/N: This is inspired by the gif you see below and also kinda inspired by this JDM gif set (but specifically the second one) because I may or may not have just found another crisis. Oops. Again, please let me know if you’re on the tag list but aren’t getting the notification.

Dean stayed up late tonight, still sitting at the kitchen table when Sam had already gone to bed hours before. You rubbed your eyes as you walked into the kitchen. You were about to call out to him when you saw that bottom lip poked out to the side. You bit your lip as you walked up behind him, draping your arms on each side of his neck as you leaned down to see what he was reading. “Baby, come to bed.”

“Hold on, sweetheart. I’m almost done.”

You sighed. Pulling out the chair beside him and sitting in it. “Fine. I’ll stay up with you.”

He had already tuned you out, focused on the article he had found. You couldn’t help but stare at his lips. The way his tongue ran across it before he took it between his teeth. You wished he was biting your lip, or that you were biting his. You ran your fingers through the hairs at the base of his neck as he continued reading. You slowly moved closer to him, his lips drawing you in like moths to a flame. You reached over and shut his laptop. “Babe, I wasn’t-“

You cut him off, your lips crashing against his as you moved into his lap. You pulled away just as his tongue touched your lip. “Sorry, what was that?”

“Hm, what? Nothing.”

Keep reading

anonymous asked:

I'm just really happy right now--I was just at an ice cream social and the person sitting next to me had the same ace pride bracelet as me, so I complimented her on it and she noticed mine and we high-fived and now I'm just really happy because I've found another friend!!

that’s so cute I love you all 

i had an absentee ballot for my state during the election and i just found out that it was rejected because the “signature didnt look identical” to the one on file from my driver’s license i got when i was 16, literally 7 years ago. 

my vote didnt count because trump made a big fucking deal about nonexistent voter fraud im so angry  

anonymous asked:

4 if you have the time😄😄love your blog and your writing btw❤❤

Awww thank you so much my love 💜

4. Which season is your favorite and why?

This is probably obvious but definitely season 3 haha. It’s not just because Isak is my favourite character but I found myself relating to his story so so much. And the lessons he learnt in his journey actually truly helped me personally. The way he internalised everything he felt and became prisoner to the image of the person he believed he should be in his head, it just, it is so true. Who hasn’t felt like that sometime in their life? Especially as a teenager. And how shy and nervous but so consumed he was around Even, I just- every single part of that season was brilliant. The mental illness storyline, and how Isak had to learn that he can still be loved by those who don’t have control of their emotions I believe was such an important thing for anyone to see. and of course the love between Even and Isak was and will always be the most beautiful and pure and just ahhhh incredible love story I have ever seen. Oh my god I could talk about this all day but yes season 3 is by far the best for so many different reasons. And then season 1 is my second fave because it is AMAZING and then season 2. 


It struck me as odd that Within the Narrative is tagged with both “Tragedy” and “Comedy” when it is a pretty heavy story (so far), focusing around Sherlock’s pining over John, Mycroft’s death, John’s marriage problems, the return of Moriarty… it could barely be considered a comedy. 

So then @jenna221b had to go and point out that The Adventure of the Three Garridebs starts out like this:

It may have been a comedy, or it may have been a tragedy. It cost one man his reason, it cost me a blood-letting, and it cost yet another man the penalties of the law. Yet there was certainly an element of comedy. Well, you shall judge for yourselves.“

and suddenly the description for it, “about the stuff between the lines”, now makes so much more sense. 

I just needed you all to know that this person is unbelievably clever and embedded so deep in The Conspiracy that they couldn’t possibly be anyone other than One of Us, which we know they are not.



  • thorin: he looks more like a grocer than a burglar
  • bilbo: What the fuck did you just fucking say about me, you little bitch? I’ll have you know I graduated top of my class in conkers, and I’ve been involved in numerous secret raids on the Sackville-Baggins. I will wipe you the fuck out with precision the likes of which has never been seen before on this Earth, mark my fucking words. You think you can get away with saying that shit to me? Think again, fucker. As we speak I am contacting my secret network of spies across Middle-Earth and your sorry ass is being traced right now so you better prepare for the storm, maggot. The storm that wipes out the pathetic little thing you call your life. I can be anywhere, anytime, and I can kill you in over seven hundred ways, and that’s just with my bare hands. Not only am I extensively trained in unarmed combat, but I have access to the entire arsenal of the Shire Corps and I will use it to its full extent to wipe your miserable ass off the face of the continent, you little shit. If only you could have known what unholy retribution your little “clever” comment was about to bring down upon you, maybe you would have held your fucking tongue. I will shit fury all over you and you will drown in it. You’re fucking dead, kiddo.

Mystic Messenger Stickers { 4 / 7}

Yoosung Kim || ★ || LOLOL Gamer

i think i’ve drawn iris before but i haven’t drawn dahlia yet


Alec Lightwood in that damn Balcony Scene™

Inktober 009: Princess Allura, ink splotches and all

Tools: Speedball Super Black India ink, a dip pen with a Manuscript Leonardt Drawing Nip (DP801), Strathmore Bristol Board

Sherlock gives himself a week.

One week to wallow in his misery, to pine, to weep, to berate himself for not coming back faster, not realising sooner, not saying anything at all. One week to regret every decision he’s made that has led to this point. One week to mourn.

He reads John’s blog and feels the keen ache of longing for how it used to be, how they used to be. He plays his violin for hours–slow, mournful dirges that reverberate off the walls until 221B is as full of loss as Sherlock is. He sneaks up to John’s room and buries his head in the pillows and cries and cries and cries, surrounded by the scent of laundry soap and clean cotton and not at all of John Watson.

And when the week is over, he packs it all away inside himself, tucks the longing and the loss into a neat little box and places it high on a shelf, and he starts to try to move on. He takes cases, even a few that are 2s or 3s, and tries not to turn and ask for the medical opinion of the doctor who’s no longer there. He eats takeaway in the sitting room with only the muted telly for company and tries not to look at the empty space where the cool blue light flickers over the flattened bit of rug where a chair once sat. He gets on with his life, with the work, the way he had long ago before he ever knew how it felt to be praised and prodded and protected by a short army doctor with steady hands and a steadier heart.

He doesn’t call. He doesn’t text. He just lets John slip away into the life that he wants–the cozy house in the suburbs, the quiet work at the clinic, the contented wife with the baby on the way–a life undisturbed by the madman who saved his life to make it all possible.


John gives himself a month.

One month into married life, and he’s already bored. The suburbs are too cozy, the work too quiet, the wife too content to stay at home. There’s only so many nights in a row he can spend on the sofa watching telly before that old, familiar itch for a case creeps under his skin. Of the two of them, Sherlock had been the one to get stroppy when they went too long without, but John always felt it, too, the pull toward the danger and the chase and the quiet thrill of being part of something more. He misses it. But if he’s honest with himself, he knows that there’s something–someone–that he misses more.

But Sherlock hasn’t called. He hasn’t texted. He’s pulled himself entirely away, and that hurts. It’s as if now that John is married, Sherlock has no more use for him. Sure, John can’t be there all the time to force him to eat, to pull him out of his sulks, to remind him that he’s not allowed to experiment on unsuspecting strangers, to attend to his every ridiculous, genius, spontaneous, beautiful whim, but he thought there would still be cases. He had promised Sherlock that nothing would change, that they would still run around and solve crimes like they always had, and John had intended to honour that promise. He just hadn’t realised that maybe Sherlock didn’t.