do you know that now i'm really obsessed with his tongue

How them 2000s live actions kids shows be
  • Normal Girl: *internally* I'm just a normal high school girl. I suck at math. I hate my parents. When someone asks me about my opinion on complex socioeconomic issues, I just go "What the heck!?" and start "texting" or something like that. My life would be just like yours, except for one thing: I have an amazing power... I can talk to cetaceans!
  • *at the docks, a bell tolls as our normal protagonist hears the voices of cetaceans bubbling in her mind*
  • Normal Girl: *staring deeply into the ocean*
  • Best Friend: Ahoy! What're you doing?
  • Normal Girl: Just staring into the oceanic abyss, thinking about how much I hate my parents. *internally* I have to keep my ability to speak to cetaceans secret or else... uh...
  • Best Friend: Haha, I feel that, friend. What a colorful life we teens live, our seaside environment awakening a rumbling darkness within ourselves of which we mull on our own with nothing but the unbounding depths of the ocean as our one escape. An escape which serves to only maim our fragile egos with newfound adolescent anxieties.
  • Normal Girl: What are you even talking about?
  • Best Friend: I don't know. I haven't slept in a week. Let's go to the mall.
  • *at the mall*
  • Normal Girl: *internally* My town might as well be called Lamesville. Nothing ever happens here, but the mall can be pretty fun. It's only place in the whole town with anything in it that isn't fish or excessive amounts of woodlice.
  • Best Friend: ...So I'd just dance and I'd dance until my feet broke. When that happened, I'd just get up and dance on my broken feet. And I did this until they were raw and blood was everywhere. I kept waking up in the morning extremely exhausted after this dream. I decided to record myself one night and it turns out I was dancing in my sleep. I haven't slept since I saw that. *leans in close to the normal girl* I'm afraid of what I'll do in my sleep.
  • Normal Girl: Wow, sounds weird... I guess. *sips coffee*
  • Best Friend: OMIGAWD! It's Chad Alphakid. He's coming this way!
  • *the normal girl and her best friend squee*
  • Normal Girl: *externally* That's Chad Alphakid. Who is he? He's only the hottest most coolest boy in this entire lame city. I've been crushing on him since I was like twelve.
  • Chad: Uh, okay.
  • Normal Girl: Did I just say that out loud!?
  • Chad: *sits at the table* Listen, I don't care what you or your friend think of me. I need help!
  • Best Friend: Have you murdered somebody?
  • Normal Girl: Do you need a girlfriend?
  • Chad: No, it's the ocean. The sound of her waves crashing against the shore is like a faultless siren song. There isn't a single night where I don't have visions of floating within her cold embrace. The allure of her boundless depths beckon to me like a lover. I'm afraid that if I don't get help soon, I'll find myself taken away by her to a fate unknown.
  • Normal Girl: *internally* Great, this is a chance to finally use my power to speak to cetaceans to my benefit! *externally* But why do you need us to help you?
  • Chad: You guys are the biggest fucking degenerate weirdos in this washed up town. If anyone knows how to deal with this, it's you two.
  • Best Friend: Haha, truuuuuu!
  • Normal Girl: I'm not a weirdo! I'm a completely normal girl.
  • Chad: Dude, you fucking talk to fish.
  • Best Friend: You do talk to fish.
  • Normal Girl: I don't talk to fish! *internally* I talk to cetaceans, they're mammals, not fish. Also, that's supposed to be a secret, dammit!
  • *at the shore*
  • Chad: Ah, Mother Ocean! Take me!! Take me!!! *attempts to run into the ocean, but gets held back by the normal girl and her best friend*
  • Best Friend: Simmer down, aqualad!
  • Chad: Why did you fools take me here, if not to release into the embrace of sweet Mother Ocean!?
  • Normal Girl: We talked it over and we decided that the best way to get you over your obsession is make you hate the ocean.
  • Chad: Does it involve you talking to fish?
  • Normal Girl: Yes, I mean no. I mean, fuck! Cetaceans aren't fish.
  • *the normal girl sits at the edge of shore, her eyes rolls up in her head as she proceeds to make fucked up porpoise sounds*
  • Normal Girl: *falls over limp*
  • Best Fried: She died.
  • Chad: Does this mean that I'm free to wade into Mother Ocean and meet my fate among her ever chaotic waes?
  • Best Friend: *lets chad go* Yeah, dude. I'm too far gone to care about things anymore.
  • Chad: *strips off all of his clothes* Good. I now understand that there was no avoiding this. This was always a forgone conclusion. My fate is with the waves. Sayonara, weird best friend guy.
  • Chad: *runs into the ocean*
  • Best Friend: *kicks the normal girl's body* Guess she really is dead.
  • Best Friend: *walks home as the night encroaches* My closest friend is dead, and Chad is probably dead too. I wonder where my fate lies?
  • Best Friend: *yawns* Maybe I should go to sleep and just dance myself to death finally. No, I don't think I could go to sleep even if I wanted to anymore. I'm probably going to die from exhaustion in the next few days, not having felt rest or comfort again. Or maybe I'll just stay awake forever. I feel like I was supposed to have an epiphany here, or some type of awakening. But, there's nothing. I feel like everything I've ever done has been pointless. God, I'm just really tired.
  • *back at the shore*
  • Porpoise: *beaches itself*
  • *a gray fleshy version of the normal girl crawls halfway out of the porpoises mouth*
  • Normal Girl: There goes my corpse! *drags her weird porpoise body towards the corpse* Why did I die with such a dumb expression on my face? Lame! I hope Chad didn't see.
  • Normal Girl: *looks around with beady eyes* No one's here. I can finally do this.
  • Normal Girl: *kisses her dead body on the lips* Blargh!
  • Normal Girl: *spits out blood* I bit my tongue when I died. Gross. I guess I can cross making out with my dead body and becoming a mermaid off of my bucket list, though.
  • Normal Girl: *sighs*

inimitablebiscuit  asked:

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.

Wait.

No.  

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.

Probably.


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.

But—

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—  

“Yeah, I’m…not really sorry, anyway.”


creachivity  asked:

For your voltron family au, was there a time where Shiro grew out his hair? lol, I'm currently in medschool and sometimes my hair ends up growing really long coz I never have the time to go have it cut, or I just don't notice its long until someone points it out coz all I think about are my exams which are super stressful coz we have one like everyday haha. I can imagine Keith braiding some strands of hair late at night to relax while Shiro's nose is buried in like a hundred medical books lmao

[The Voltron Pre-Family AU] Shiro was currently in med school while Keith was doing internship in Hyperion Books. They would usually hang out during the weekends because they were too damn busy on weekdays. Shiro had finals the following week so when Saturday came, that meant it was Keith’s time to visit his apartment. 

“The king has arrived!” Keith announced as he entered the apartment carrying a plastic bag. “I brought ice cream, sunshine!” he smiled as he noticed Shiro looking up from his books, sitting on the living room floor as he made his way to the kitchen to unpack. “I got you some persimmons because you’re like a pregnant woman during finals week.” 

Shiro chuckled softly. “Awww, that’s so sweet of you, red bean. Thank you.”

“Dude, you’re out of milk!” Keith shouted from the kitchen. “When was the last time you went out to do groceries?” he peeked out to the living room.

Shiro brought his hands to rub his face in exhaustion. “Ugh. I think last week or something. I don’t know.”

“I got you covered, bro,” Keith winked. “I bought milk, cookies, fruits and vegetables and other healthy stuff I usually see in your fridge. Oh, and eggs!”

“Keith, you’re the reason I believe in God,” Shiro said dramatically. “What have I done to deserve such an angel like you breathing in my space?”

“It’s never too late to ditch med school for theatre, y’know?” Keith joked. 

—-

Shiro continued studying while Keith sat on the floor in front of him on their shared coffee table. His boyfriend was reading a book while eating a banana, scrunching up his nose from time to time silently judging whatever he was reading. Shiro liked their quiet times, just sharing the same space and not disturbing the other.

After an hour or so, Keith stood up to sit on the sofa behind Shiro and suddenly, he felt hands gathering his hair gently.

“Your hair’s pretty long now, babe,” Keith observed. “You trying to copy me?”

“Maybe?” Shiro smiled, loving the feeling of Keith’s hands playing with his hair. “I mean, you look good and I was wondering if it would look good on me, too.”

“You could go bald and I’d still love you to the moon and back,” Keith declared without missing a beat, caressing Shiro’s exposed nape. 

“Geez, Keith. Why are you so obsessed with me?” Shiro placed a hand on his chest, looking back at Keith with a huge smile. 

“Shut up and go back to studying.”

He went back to studying and Keith went back to playing with his hair. Shiro got so caught up with his books that he failed to notice Keith began braiding his hair. The younger one hummed softly as his hands gently moved and Shiro smiled to himself because he could feel how careful Keith was in making sure it didn’t hurt him even just a little bit. 

A few braids and pages of diseases later, Shiro heard a click and he turned around to see Keith smiling at his camera. Their eyes met and Keith’s smile grew wider and showed Shiro his phone. 

“Look,” Keith said, bending down to wrap his arms around Shiro while showing a photo of his braided head. “I think I have a future in hair styling.” 

The photo was amazing. There were five braids all in all and Shiro was speechless. “Dude, that’s beautiful. I better cancel my salon appointment after finals then.”

“No!” Keith cried out, taking back his phone. “I love your undercut so much! There can only be one long-haired guy in this relationship and that’s me. You have to go, Shirogane.” 

“Unless we switch.” Shiro grinned. “Have you ever thought of having an undercut? I think you’d look really great and I will 10000% cry.”

“And what?” Keith smirked. “Have you fail med school?”

Shiro clicked his tongue. He was going to be so distracted if Keith got an undercut. He was distracted enough with his long hair and he was barely making it. “Dammit.”

Keith laughed even harder as he hugged Shiro once again from the back, kissing him on the cheek. “Finish up so we can finally eat ice cream while I question you stuff as you cry after every wrong answer.”

“An angel. You’re such an angel, Kogane,” Shiro said sarcastically. 

lunenn  asked:

I'm not sure if you're taking prompts but what if Scully gave up William with a photo of them together? T.T you would write that so well!

I’m always beside myself with joy when I get prompts. So yes, I take them :D Thank you so, so much for this one. It might not be what you probably wanted, but I hope you like it anyway. 

“It’s you.”

Dana Scully has imagined this moment a million times: meeting her son. She has imagined it even before she gave him up. Before she gave up. Find me, she had pleaded silently with the boy, whose curious eyes were a mirror of her own. Instead he had thrown her a toothless grin, kicked his tiny feet at her, and grabbed for her hair. Her son, then, was not a mind-reader. There was nothing special about him except that he was her son, her own flesh and blood, conceived against all odds; a miracle in its purest form.

She has imagined this. She has dreamed about it when he was two years old and young enough to forgive her. She has imagined it when he was six years old and melancholy propelled her thoughts forward; guilt and a sense of having done right by him preventing her from doing the unthinkable. She’s craved it when he was 12 years old and nothing made sense anymore. Her reasons for giving him up nothing more than smoky clouds, burnt ashes in their enemy’s ashtray. This, now, is not how she imagined it.

“It’s you.” The boy with the same curious eyes repeats. His voice wavers now, for a short moment, as if uncertain. He cannot know her, Scully thinks. There is no reason, no logic in it, and she can’t find the words to tell him this or anything else. His lips pout in the same way his father’s do. His eyebrows furrow in the same way hers do, she has to admit. It’s logical that she recognizes him; his features are her own, are Mulder’s. The boy, without taking his eyes off her, hunts through his pockets and produces a crumpled up, slightly torn piece of paper. He unfolds it, carefully, and Scully gasps. It’s not a piece of paper; it’s a photograph.

“That’s you.” William smiles at her, softly.

“It’s me.” Scully croaks out as she instinctively reaches out for the picture. She had put the picture inside his small bag back then without thinking about it. She figured his new mother would tear it up, throw it away. Scully, even then, knew that sending the photo of her holding a tiny William with him was a risk. A risk, however, that she just had to take. She had wanted his new mother to know, to see, that she, too, had loved William. Never had she dared to hope that William would even see it.

“Hi,” her son, who is already taller than her, surprises her again by reaching out his hand, “it’s nice to finally meet you.” Scully’s hand hovers for a moment before the boy grabs it, shakes it heartily. His smile turns into a full blown grin. Mulder. It’s Mulder written all over his face and reminding her, bitterly, why she’s here. Why she broke the promise she made to herself, to this child, to stay away from him.

“William,” his name feels strange on her tongue; usually she thinks it, mumbles it in her sleep, and when she uses it, it’s not to address him. He eyes her, ever curious, and waits. He knows. He can’t possibly know or understand, and yet he does. “I’m here because… I didn’t want to disturb – to change,” Scully sighs; angry at herself for being here, for not finding the words. She’s furious that this child, her baby, is a stranger. A stranger who shares her blood and who is her only chance to save Mulder.

“You need my help, don’t you? Is it because,” this time he pauses, looks at the faded picture of himself and a mother he never knew. Scully wonders what he sees, what he feels, when he looks at it,“ my father. Is it because of him? He’s not in this picture.” William holds it up as if she didn’t know. She had her mother take that photograph so she could send it to Mulder. Except he didn’t have an address. She decided to keep it until he came home. He just never did.

“Yes, he's… he’s very sick. I- where are your parents? I need to-”

“There is no one.” William tells her evenly. She stares at him. At this boy, who clutches a picture she gave him once, a lifetime ago.

“What do you mean there is no one? Where are your parents?” She hates this word, she realizes, as her eyes find the picture in his hand again.

“My parents… got divorced when I was young. Father died a few years after that. My mother… she wasn’t well,” he pauses and shuffles his feet, “my aunt and I decided to put her in a nursing home.”

“You- you’re all on your own out here?” William nods as if it’s nothing. It’s his reality and the only thing he knows.

“You’re going to think I’m crazy,” he chuckles, running a hand through his auburn hair before he glances at her, “but I knew you’d come back one day. I just knew it. You could say I had a hunch.” Shivers run down Scully’s arms, down her back. She can see Mulder grin; wants to introduce him to their son, who is so much like him, full of hope and ideas.

“I don’t think you’re crazy,” she breathes out and William grants her another smile that lights up his whole face. She hopes he’ll never stop. She doesn’t deserve this, she thinks, but she doesn’t want it to end. “I know someone who… who is just like that. Like you.” She finds herself smiling at the boy; her boy. “I’d love for you to meet him.”

“Then let’s go- you never even told me your name.”

“Dana. Dana Scully.” She thinks how strange it is to introduce herself to her son, but he nods at her. He lifts the picture and examines it closely; his eyes drifting from the frozen image of them and the real her in front of him. He mouths her name, trying it out, before he nods again.

“Let’s go, Dana.” He says, closing the door behind him and walking towards her.

“You don’t need to pack anything? Tell anyone? Your aunt? I understand if you want to see your mother, William. If you want to see her. I don’t know when we’ll be back. We have… time.” They don’t, really.

“I have everything I need right here with me.” William assures her, putting the picture back into his pocket. Then he stops suddenly, his eyes dark, his brows furrowed.

“What is it? Did you forget anything?”

“No, I… are we going on a plane?” Scully nods carefully.

“I’ve never… I mean once. I’ve flown once or maybe twice. It kind of scares me,” Scully is trying to come up with something. Assure him that flying is, statistically speaking, the safest form of travel. She could explain just how flying works. Before she can say another word, though, William starts speaking again,

“Could I… on the plane… could I hold your hand maybe?” He blushes a deep red.

“Oh! Of course,” Scully assures him with a nervous laugh, “Of course, you can William.” And his whole, lanky body relaxes.

“Why don’t we… practice?” Scully says, blushing herself now; this is another risk she is taking. Like the picture she left with him all these years ago. It might not turn out the way she wants it to. But she has to try. She just has to. She reaches out her hand to him, leaves the decision to him. He stays quiet this time and she is ready to take it back, to just go on with him in tow, without touching him. But William takes her hand and together they walk towards her car.

This is not how she imagined it. It’s not at all like the dreams she’s had.

But this time it’s real.

A Guy That I’d Kinda Be Into

For the always phenomenal @403secret:)

When Jeremy texts that he’s going to meet up with Christine to run lines for a new play, Michael replies with “go get her, ya killer ;) ;)” despite the frown painted on his lips.

While Jeremy and Christine are still new to the relationship, Michael knows how much Jeremy adores the girl, so he’s willing to root for the two, even if it leaves his heart crumbling into pieces.

Unsurprisingly, Jeremy doesn’t reply. Michael figures the latter is desperately trying to find something to wear to impress Christine while at their “play practice,” meaning their date.

Michael doesn’t know why Jeremy rarely talks about his relationship with Christine, but he figures that it is for the best. He isn’t sure if he can handle listening to Jeremy gush about someone that isn’t him.

Okay, so maybe Michael’s having a hard time dealing with Jeremy liking someone, being with someone. Since they first met, Michael knew Jeremy was the one, but he doesn’t want to hold Jeremy back, especially if the latter genuinely likes Christine.

It’s difficult, but Michael will deal; he always has video games to distract him after all. But, to his surprise, the video game he’s currently playing isn’t helping him in the slightest. His mind is focused on everything else, and after two hours, he powers down his play station with a sigh. It’s only then that his mind catches onto the splitting headache blooming across his forehead.

Oh. Michael has been feeling kind of off since he had woken up that morning, but he had pegged it on lack of sleep. Perhaps he’s wrong.

Keep reading

Refreshing Reality

Also on AO3.
This is a direct sequel to Subtitled Subtext (day 1), but it can be read on its own.  It is also the @miraculousfluffmonth  Aug 5 prompt, firsts.


“Hi,” Marinette said as her feet hit the bottom step.  She hadn’t felt this shy and giddy around Adrien in a year and a half.

“You look amazing,” he said, holding out one hand and smiling bashfully.

“Says the actual model,” Marinette teased with a giggle.  She slipped her hand into his.  "I should warn you…"

“Picture time!” Alya called, rushing down the steps behind Marinette.

“…about Alya.”  Marinette rolled her eyes.  "She helped me get ready,“ she whispered.

"You needed help?” Adrien asked in surprise.

“Eh, it’s a girl thing,” Alya said, holding  up the camera she now carried everywhere.  "Bestie prerogative.“

Adrien grinned.  "Not just a girl thing.  Nino helped me.”

“Gimmie some smiles!” Alya pointed the camera at them.

That was easy.  Marinette realized Adrien was as blushy and happy as she was.  It was nice.

“Scootch a little closer,” Alya requested, and Adrien, so accustomed to following photographers’ orders, readily complied.  "Perfect!“  She let the camera hang round her neck.  "Now go forth and have a fantastic date.”

“We will, thank you,” Marinette said, grateful to her best friend for her calming influence the last two hours.

“Be safe!”  Alya had a wicked gleam in her eye.

Keep reading

shitty’s parks and recreation II

II. (btw this series is not in chronological order) The introduction of the State Auditors!! 

“And with this, the budget proposal plan is finished!” Shitty flourished a pen, signing off on a huge stack of papers. “And after I present this tonight, we’re going to get our park! Here Jack, sign it.” 

Jack did, and handed everything back to Shitty. “I didn’t know you had to sign a budget proposal.” 

“Oh you don’t. I printed this copy out for posterity so that we can sign it and then I’ll frame it in my bedroom. It’s going to hang next to our first ever picture together.” Shitty said brightly. “You and me, Jacky boy, you beautiful mother*bleep*ing son of a gun, we slayed this dragon. Come by my office later tonight for tub juice.” 

“Oh,” Jack looked hesitant, glancing at the camera then at Shitty. “That’s not a good idea.” 

“Right. Camilla. Awkwardddd.” 

“I ended things with Camilla a couple days ago. I’m euh, not gonna talk about it.”


“There’s been a recent change in the plan, settle down everyone,” said the city planner. 

“Don’t worry,” whispered Shitty to Guy, “I’ve planned for every single accident. Bring it on.” 

 “We’re in a gridlock due to budgetary issues in City Council, so we’re suspending all budgetary decisions indefinitely,” he announced.  

Shitty pursed his lips. “Until when?” 

“Indefinitely.”

“You don’t mean that. Until when?” Shitty asked again. 

“Means we don’t have a plan. The state is sending in auditors to look over the budget to try and solve the problem. We’re on the brink of bankruptcy, Knight.” 

Shitty let out a huge breathe. “*BEEEEEEEEEEP*” 

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With All Due Respect, Captain (Part 2)

summary: After getting passed over for a promotion you’ve been wanting for so long, you turn to your best friend for comfort, but things change for the both of you when you find out the truth behind your rejected application.

characters: (Steve Rogers x Reader (F)) In this part - Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes, mentions of Reader (F), and Natasha
word count: 1495 (3-part miniseries)
warnings: mild violence, cursing, mild angst
A/N: Oh man, I loved writing this part. It’s Bucky to the rescue! Where the hell would Steve be without him, honestly?  Yes, I’m taking requests for Steve or Bucky! Tags are open too :)

PART 1

Originally posted by skylerlockerbie

“There he is!“ 

Bucky declares with mock enthusiasm as he takes his gym bag off his shoulder and tosses it to the side. He makes his way towards the center of the vast training area where his best friend was aggressively going at a punching bag. There was already sand covering the floor from five of the fallen victims of an angry Steve Rogers.

"If it isn’t Captain Fucking Self-Righteous. You know, I’ve been looking for him. Been meaning to have a word with him, but he always gets away.” Bucky’s voice was dripping with sarcasm, and Steve wasn’t a fan of it.

“Not now, Buck.” Steve grunts, landing another harsh blow on the bag that causes it to fall off its hinge and slide across the floor to rest with the others.

“Nobody tells him what to do,” Bucky continues, completely unfazed by the sharp glare he’s receiving, “Why, you ask? Because he doesn’t care about other people’s feelings!

"That’s enough.” Steve growls, turning his back on his friend to drag another heavy bag and hang it on the swaying hinge.

“No, Steve.” Bucky matches his tone and puffs his chest out, “You’re not getting away this time. We are going to talk about this now.”

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kingslayers-angel  asked:

179 with Seth Rollins? I know I'm obsessed...

“First one to make a noise loses”
___________________________________

Sex toys. Dildos. Vibrators. They were something you only used a few times in your life. That was until you revealed to Seth the secret stash you hid in your closet.

“Babe, really?” He grinned pulling out a purple vibrator that had multiple vibrating functions.

You hissed thinking of the many orgasms this one toy has given you.

“I wasn’t comfortable with these things before you” You laughed playfully pouting at him.

“They have treated me very well though” You battered your eyelashes crawling onto the bed, laying on your back.

“Let’s play a game” He grinned standing at front of the bed.

“Ohh I like games” You winked at him, freeing your body from the towel you had wrapped around your bare form.

“You are anything but quiet when we have sex, so I want to try this” He gave your body a once over resisting his urge to take you in that very moment.

“Seth! There’s no way!” You laughed, shaking your hands in protest.

“If you lose I won’t let you cum” He grinned wickedly, turning the handle to power on the device. “First one to make a noise loses”

“Seth!” Your glare wasn’t threatening, but you knew you couldn’t stop him.

“Not a peep once this touches you” He instructed you with his eyes to spread your legs.

Letting out a huff you propped up just enough to watch him, spreading your legs to accommodate his desires.

Your eyes fluttered shut as you clenched your teeth taking in the first touch of the vibrating head seep into your folds. You had an idea of your own to test him. Your eyes locked with his hoping to send him into a lust driven frenzy.

He started to move the slick purple device up and down, teasing your opening only applying slight pressure, but not actually pushing forward. Your jaw was beginning to hurt from biting down into your own teeth so hard. You would fight until it was peaking you to insanity.

“You’re doing good baby” He smiled, leaning down to kiss just below your belly button. “I’m impressed” He circled the toy around a few extra times until the pressure to your core was no longer just a pressure. Pushing it forward to sink into your now dripping sex.

Somehow you managed to still keep your eyes on his. The lust in your eyes dripped as damp as the mixture soaking out from your pussy. Your jaw relaxed as your tongue darted out to lick your dry lips. It was getting unbearable to remain silent. His smug grin was what kept your competitive spirit alive.

“Nothing yet, huh?” He smirked flicking his tongue over your throbbing clit. A large gush of breath pushed through your nostrils. You weren’t sure how much longer you could hold out.

He turned up the speed to the vibrations. A curve of his wrist and angle of the toy colliding against your g-spot making you jump and scream out a response.

“Aha!” He grinned pulling the toy from it’s home. “Baby..”

“Seth! You don’t play fair!” You pouted, panting from the shock of the vibration aftershock. “I was close!”

“That’s exactly why I couldn’t continue” He yanked down his briefs. Your eyes finally breaking from his to see his erection spring up and hit his belly. “Nothing can make you cum beside me” He kissed his way up your body until his lips found yours. He had easily taken place between your legs, grabbing his cock at the base and guiding it to your pulsing core.

“Mmm..so wet for me” He moaned against your lips. You hitched your legs onto his hips, hooking your calves to the back of his thighs. “You feel so good” He nibbled at your bottom lip as he started to thrust.

“Just don’t stop” You whined through a moan, grinding into his lap.

“I have every intention to fulfill my victory” He stopped playing his game and consumed you for all he could. All of this over toys? With Seth, you were sure you’d never need them again.

2

Changes

48

Idle chit-chat was the last thing I wanted. Vodka Val was going on about something or other, and I know I really should have been listening, I should have been paying attention and interacting with her but I just couldn’t. Me and Harry were just watching each other across the room, both completely ignoring the groups of people around us and just staring.
If it was my house I would have kicked everyone out a mere five minutes into the New Year. If it was my house I would have faked some kind of emergency. I’d been listing off a few things that would work in my head. Family emergency. Some kind of fire. Possibly faking a very serious illness. Pretending I’d gone into labour. I know that one would have been a bit weird since I definitely wasn’t pregnant, but anything would have been better than the torture of us not being able to do the one thing we were both aching to do.
I wanted to know what his lips felt like somewhere other than my lips, or my hands, or my temple, or my forehead or my cheek. I wanted to know what they’d be like on my neck, and my chest. I wanted to know what they’d be like when they crawled up the inside of my thigh. I wanted to know the exact shape they would contort into when he reached his peak. I wanted to know every single fucking thing and it was killing me that I wasn’t in the process of learning.

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Dolls Are The Last Ones To Mate

Pairing: Gerard Way x Reader

Genre: Fluff, Comedy

Summary: Request fic for @thestarryknightsky. “THEY MAKE VINYL POP FIGURINES OF MCR and also is it okay if I request a Gerard or Frank x reader where reader buys one and they find it and it’s just their reactions and stuff?”

You were in the middle of your third date with the Gerard Way. Part of you still couldn’t believe you’d even met him, let alone gotten him to go out with you. You felt like the luckiest person in the world.

You two had gone out for a nice dinner at an Italian restaurant, had a lot of great conversation and great food. Now, you were kissing passionately on your front porch, not quite wanting to say goodnight just yet. Gerard pressed you against your front door, and your fingers tangled into his long, black hair as his tongue found its way into your mouth.

“You wanna come upstairs for a little bit, baby?” you asked breathlessly.

“Oh, hell yes,” Gerard purred. You unlocked your door and led him by the hand up the stairs, into your bedroom. You kissed in the doorway for several minutes, running your hands over his lithe, slim body. Fuck, he was so hot.

He picked you up in his surprisingly strong arms and laid you gently down on your bed. You kissed at his neck, fingers working at the buttons on his shirt collar. Then, suddenly, he froze, eyes falling on something on your nightstand.

“Is that….me?!” he gaped.

Oh, fuck, you thought mortified, and realized that your Funko Pop ™ Revenge Gerard figurine was still sitting right there, next to your alarm clock.

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slotheyes  asked:

Just fuck me up with a Klance exes meeting again after not speaking for years au pls

fic promptsfuck me up here

disclaimers: don’t own
prompt: see above, @slotheyes hope you like ;)
a/n: bc keith as a barista with that stupid little ponytail and lance wearing a star wars t-shirt was the first thing i saw, pls excuse my ridiculous music references, what i listen to as i write always goes into the finished product bc i’m a dweeb

also ☆ here ☆ on AO3


BITTER SHOTS.

There are plenty of awkward moments in life, some more mortifying than others, some less. Falling up the stairs. Swimming into someone else’s lost Band-Aid at the public pool. Working at a late-night coffee shop on a slow, soggy Tuesday evening — hiss and grind of espresso machine, rattle and clink of dishes in the sink, soft hum of the building’s heater overlaying shop music as the last few regulars pack up, last few non-regulars drift out, a to-goer hurries with his umbrella poised to open — and turning around from washing some house mugs to find your high school ex staring at you from the other side of the Square tablet and register.

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Poisoned With Love

Prompt fill for @bigjellymonster

Well I’m a sucker for a Good love potion based prompt. This one is where Harry might mistakenly take a love potion geared towards Tom or Voldemort (Idc who) and Tom/voldy who doesn’t want to waste the idea of getting one over on Harry uses it to his full advantage. But when Harry finally comes out of the effects Tom/Voldemort is actually sad its over because Harry who is actually very knowledgeable about love treated him like he was really in love with him. instead of just obsessed with him like normal. And Harry liked the feeling of loving someone like that so he willingly takes the potion again. basically merope’s idea but it actually works. you know that “Maybe he will still love me if i stop giving it to him”

Pairing: Tom/Harry
Word Count: 2,241
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Dubious consent.

It smelled like the static in the air before shooting off a curse. The damp mustiness of ancient rock and the salty tang of the sea. But there was a fourth, underlying aroma… Like grass, and the outdoors.

Tom couldn’t pinpoint it exactly. Nor did he have the time. Because in the next instant the messy-haired buffoon had somehow managed to upend the cauldron containing their assignment. 

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One Step Too Far, Always || Rennerson

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Alpha Sitting

So here’s my gift for @weebwritings for the usuk summer festival! Sorry it’s a little late, my laptop completely broke down :/ Anyway, I hope you like it!


“Arthur, do you remember that alpha who used to live next to me when we were children?” Francis asked, leaning back in the chair he was sitting in and crossing his legs, eyes glancing across the stack of papers he was holding. It had been a slow day in the library so far, not many people wanting to come in while the weather was so nice, and the beta’s boredom-induced attempts at conversation were beginning to get on Arthur’s nerves.

“You’re supposed to remain quiet in a library, you idiot,” Arthur grumbled, pulling another stack of books from the drop box and beginning to silently check them back in, “How have you not gotten that concept by now?”

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anonymous asked:

Calum imagine where he's giving more attention to the football match (or Fifa game) than to you and you try to distract him? (A little smut would be good but if you're not comfortable than that's okay!) P.s I'm obsessed with your writing

Distraction

Ask/Request

Masterlist

___

All you wanted to do today was spend some time with your boyfriend but he had other plans. Calum had been playing Fifa for the past three hours, you just wanted to do something. “Calum” you whined, flopping down on the coach next to your boyfriend. He didn’t even bother look at you, just hummed as his eyes locked onto the screen “I’m bored, let’s do something” you declared, standing from the couch. “Not now” he mumbled, concentrating on the game in front of him. You scowled, trying to come up with a way to get your boyfriends attention.

At first you tried poking his cheek lightly, he moved from your touch, mumbling “stop it” then you tried kissing his neck, to which his lifted his shoulder up so you couldn’t get to him anymore, you were running out of ideas and it was frustrating. With a huff, you did the only thing you could think to do in order to get Calum’s attention, you opened his legs before kneeling between them, popping the button on his skinny jeans you pulled down his zip. Dipping your hand in his boxers you lightly gripped his length, earning a straggled moan as he tried to concentrate on the game. You began to pump his thick length slowly, as Calum’s breathing increased with every movement, you quickened the pace earning another moan from him. When you decided his thick length was hard enough you dipped your head down, taking as much of him as you could, using your hand for the rest of him. Your head began to bob up and down, occasionally swirling your tongue over his throbbing length, starting off at a slow pace. Calum began thrusting his hips forward, encouraging you to take more of him, you pinned down his waist to stop his movements as he threw the controller to his side. Entangling his hands in your hair as the room began to fill with moans, “fuck, right there Y/N” he grunted as you swirled your tongue just under the head, you hummed, sending vibrations throughout his body. He moaned in response, tightening his grip on your hair “fuck Y/N, I’m close” he grunted as you felt him twitch. Sinking down further you felt him hit the back of your throat, gagging slightly you continued to bob your head as released into your mouth with one final grunt. You swallowed the salty liquid, pulling away and putting his member back. Looking up at your dazed, panting boyfriend. “I might just have to ignore you more often” he chuckled, opening his arms for you, “I wonder what would happen if I ignored you” you giggled, knowing he didn’t really mean it. 

I hope this is okay? It’s the first time I’ve actually done smut so I hope you enjoyed! and thank you for requesting my smol lima bean! x

Sam likes to think that he’s a patient guy. Not anything out of the ordinary, but considering he grew up with Dean he sort of has to be patient. But this… This is going to be the death of him.

He shifts and discreetly tries to move, but a sharp but still oh-so-careful tug stops him. His legs are starting to cramp from sitting at the floor and he’s starting to grow restless. It’s not that he’s mad or anything, really, but this has to stop.

The door to their motel room opens and Dean halts in the doorway, looking tired and weary and done. “The hell, Sam?”

Sam sends him the most pitiful look he can muster up. “Help me.”

“Fuck no,” Dean deadpans helpfully and moves into the room. “I’m not putting myself in the line of fire again.”

Sam tries to turn his head to follow his brother’s movements and is promptly cut off from doing so.

“Stop moving,” Castiel chides gently behind him. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed with Sam’s back against his legs, carefully braiding Sam’s hair, tongue sticking out between his teeth in concentration.

This is hardly the first time something like this has happened: since Castiel left the mental facility he’s been all for hugs, games, playing and sloppy kisses on the cheek. Plus the unhealthy obsessions involving small animals, bees, flowers… and Sam’s hair.

At first the angel only gave the hair light, fleeting touches which soon turned into brushing (no, waking up to someone brushing your hair in the middle of the night is not “cute”) and now, apparently, braiding. Oh, and let’s not forget the angelic strength Castiel still possesses – making it impossible to get away. Good times.

And it’s not like Dean’s helping. For a couple of weeks he freaked out whenever Castiel got close to Sam (especially when alone) but he gradually started to relax. To the point where his only reaction to the angel’s antics is a “huh” or “what the hell”.

“Hey Cas,” Sam clears his throat and decides to give it another shot. “Don’t you think the braid’s done soon?”

“No,” is the short, cheerful reply from the angel who leans down and… nuzzles Sam’s hair. A strange combination of a snort and giggle comes somewhere behind them from Dean (who, again, does nothing to help his poor little brother).

“Yo, feathers,” Dean calls, causing Sam to tense. Dean’s tone is far too innocent, far too giddy, and Sam can hear the smirk in his voice. “Don’t you think Sammy would look good with flowers in his hair? You know, complete the girly girl look.”

“No flowers,” Sam hisses, but judging from the way Castiel’s hands slow he’s considering it. Damn. Shit. No, no, no thank you –

“That seems like an excellent course of action,” Castiel exclaims and snags up Sam’s arm, planting his fingers over the braid. “Excuse me,” he says, and in the next second Sam’s back thumps against the bed, the angel away picking flowers.

“You know, when Meg said he’d start crushing on us too, I don’t think she meant it literally.”

Sam’s head whips around to glare daggers at his leering brother. “Dean, why the fuck –“

“I’d be careful with that braid if I were you,” Dean cuts off, trying to choke down laughter.

“I will get back on you,” Sam promises darkly.

Their conversation is cut short by Castiel’s return and an armful of flowers dumped over the bed. “I found flowers,” he informs them, sits down and wraps his legs around Sam’s torso. “Keep still,” he reminds him, ignoring Sam’s yelp and the short laughing breaths that slip out from Dean.

Sam groans - oh well. Castiel is obviously happy, and Dean’s mirth is far too rare these days anyway. If braiding Sam’s hair somehow allows them to relax and forget about the Leviathans for just a little while, he supposes he can put up with it.

Doesn’t mean he has to like it.

Leaning back against Castiel and closing his eyes doesn’t mean he’s enjoying it, dammit.

anonymous asked:

What are some personality traits and (for lack of better word) flaws that Donnie has? I'm mainly interested in the 2003, 2007, and the 2014 movie versions of him.

Hmm! Well, right off the bat, I’ll have to apologize and say that I can’t speak for 2014 Donnie, because I have yet to see the movie. Might I suggest posing your question regarding that particular version of Don to someone like darthempress​? I’m sure she’d have some very keen insight for you!

As for the other two…

2003 Donatello:
Oh sweet, precious Donnie-boy. Actually, this is might be the only version of him where that’s 100% true. 2k3 Don is a soft-spoken, kindhearted, altruistic person who only wants the best for everyone around him. I think his kindness and sense of mercy is even stronger than Leo’s a lot of the time—he’s usually the one who expresses concern for others outside of their circle, or laments the more warlike aspects of their life. Leo is honorable and fair, but people don’t often fall under his scope unless he feels responsible for their plight; Donatello actively wants to help everyone he comes across.

He’s a departure from Mirage Don, who was similarly caring, but could get really, really cranky sometimes, lmao. In fact, 2k12’s Don is way closer to Mirage’s in terms of general pissiness level and number of neurotic freakouts on a per-day basis. And I probably don’t need to elaborate on how different 2k3 Don is from the 80s version. Long story short, he’s cut from a much more original cloth than his brothers were, and I think it’s pretty interesting how they did that.

Donnie really doesn’t want to hurt anybody. He just wants a peaceful life in which he can do SCIENCE. He likes to build big toys, he likes to observe the world, he likes to goof off with his brothers. For someone with a brain big enough to generate its own orbit, his ideal life would be a pleasantly simple one. Fighting isn’t high on his list of priorities—he does take it seriously, because he’s been in enough scrapes to know that he’d be screwed if he didn’t, but he doesn’t have Leo’s or Raph’s obsession with it, or Mikey’s natural talent for it. It’s a tool, a slightly less interesting science, and he treats it as such.

There’s no term I hate more than “pacifist” when describing 2k3 Don, but there’s no arguing that he’s a thinker, not a fighter.

2k3 Don is absolutely not unemotional. When I was little, I thought he was a bit flat… like, he was nice to everyone, but you never really got the feeling he cared about anything very much. I couldn’t have been more wrong, of course. Don isn’t one to lend himself to grand displays of emotion, but he cares. He just expresses his love in ways that we easily take for granted. Single-handedly he’s made a comfortable home for his entire family, including heating, electricity, and running water. He fixes their stuff whenever their dumb asses break it—stuff he probably made for them in the first place, by the way. Don was the first to try to connect with Leo when the latter was beaten within an inch of his life, and he straight-up murdered Shredder without remorse in SAINW to avenge his family. With his intellect, Don could easily strike out on his own and play the genius hermit, but he doesn’t. He sticks around.

Now, as for flaws… all right, as much as he cares about others, the fact is that Don is phlegmatic to an extreme. He despises conflict and will go to pretty great lengths to ignore it. This translates into bountiful passive-aggression, which pretty much everyone but Raph will tolerate, so he gets away with it most of the time.

At the same time, while he’s not as moody as Mirage or 2k12 Don, he… has his moments. Either he’s dancing around conflict or rushing into it full force with a tongue that cuts like a sword. There is little happy medium. His inability to tackle disagreements properly is a definite problem, and it’s probably a good thing that he leaves most of the diplomacy to Leo and Mikey.

Don also obsesses over things. Like, a lot. Once he gets a problem in his head, he won’t let it go until he has the answer—and yes, this usually means figuring it out for himself. Cessation of proper self care becomes a rampant issue, which turns Donnie into a very cranky, miserable turtle. He is no fun to be around when he’s like this, and for the love of god, don’t bring him the toaster you “dropped” on the floor, there’s a freaking sai sticking out of it do you think I’m stupid.

Last but not least, Don is… I don’t want to say dispassionate, but he’s certainly choosy about what he decides is worth his time. If it’s a subject matter he’s interested in, he’ll quote the textbook on it to you verbatim. If it isn’t… eh. Honestly I think it’s a little hard to blame him, with how much he has on his plate, but Don really doesn’t put much stock in expanding his horizons outside of his interests. His attitude towards fighting (a necessity, but not something he spends more time on than what he thinks should be sufficient) is a prime example of this.

It’s also the reason I don’t think 2k3 Don would be a good leader if anything were to happen to Leo: he’s much too happy being the one who doesn’t have to make decisions.

Also, because half of the fandom would hunt me down if I didn’t mention this, 2k3 Don is one sassy little shit. This is not necessarily a flaw. Just fact.

2007 Donatello:
Dear god this is long already >_> I’ll try to keep this one short, which will thankfully be easy. Because, uh… as much as I hate to say it, 2k7 Don doesn’t have anywhere near as much depth as 2k3 Don or even his own brothers. Not to say that he doesn’t have any depth, but 2k7 played painfully blatant favoritism. It was essentially the Raph & Leo Show.

From what we see, 2k7 Don seems like a good mix of the Mirage and 2k3 Dons—brilliant, amiable, a bit snappish at times. He’s even more prone to being passive-aggressive than both of his counterparts, however, and with an even sharper tongue to boot. But look, if I had to sit in a chair for hours telling someone to plug their computer in so it’ll turn on, I’d be pissy, too. I was ready to run away after thirty seconds of trying to direct my mother to the “X” on her browser.

What makes 2k7 Don interesting is that it would seem he was appointed leader while Leo was away, and honestly, he didn’t do too horribly. He and Mikey got jobs, ensuring a decent flow of cash. Raph… well, Raph is Raph. You can either try to wrestle the grumpy rhino or take snippy potshots at it and hope it doesn’t charge at you. He seemed all too happy to hand the role back to Leo, but I think he’s a little more assertive than 2k3 Don; a little more capable of conflict and standing up for himself.

He seems to have a pretty good sense of humor, too, since he gives a few wry comments here and there, especially when examining the dart he’d taken from Raph. Some real brotherly love, right there.

I’m actually floundering a bit, because I want to say more, but there just isn’t that much to go off of. 2k7 Don was even more neglected than Mikey, and it’s such a shame. I would have loved to see more of this version of him.

I think that about sums it up! Sorry it got so long, heh.

beejohnlocked  asked:

John, hands (I'm honestly obsessed with both his and Sherlock's hands and the difference in their size but John's compact little hands are the death of me)

(This is a sequel of sorts to this ficlet, though you don’t necessarily have to have read the other to understand this one.)


“John, why are we cutting through the park?”

John squeezes Sherlock’s hand and keeps walking. “You’ll see.” Sherlock huffs in irritation, but John can see right through it. He knows that Sherlock loves surprises, whenever John can actually manage to keep something from him. He smiles to himself in the darkness, glad that he’s been able to keep this particular surprise hidden.

They walk hand-in-hand down the path that leads toward their flat, but as they come to a tree, John pulls Sherlock aside to stand under the dark canopy of leaves. Sherlock looks wary when John turns to face him.

“Do you remember this spot?” John asks.

Sherlock’s face softens, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiles. “Of course I do,” he says. “This is where you first kissed me.” As if to prove that he remembers, he bends his head and brushes his lips against John’s in a sweet, chaste kiss.

John’s head swims with the memory of that first kiss, with the feeling of Sherlock’s lips on his now, with the knowledge of what he’s about to do. When they part, he has to shake his head to clear his thoughts and refocus on the task at hand. He looks up into Sherlock’s eyes, finding comfort and clarity in that gaze, and says, “I kissed you right here under this tree a year ago today. I should have done it so much sooner.” He takes both of Sherlock’s hands in his, marveling for the hundredth time at how much larger Sherlock’s are than his and yet how they still fit so well together despite their differences–a bit like the two of them, really.

“I should have kissed you that day on the sofa, when I came back up to the flat after our dance lesson. I wanted to. I held you and wiped away your tears and listened to your quiet confession, and when we both finally realized that we wanted the same thing, it would have been so easy to kiss you then. But I didn’t want everything with Mary still hanging over us, so I didn’t kiss you. I waited.”

Sherlock opens his mouth to interrupt, and John shakes his head. “Please, I need to say this.” Sherlock nods, so John squeezes his hands and continues.

“I should have kissed you that day in the tube carriage with that bloody bomb. But even though I forgave you, I still didn’t know if I could trust you, so I didn’t kiss you. I should have kissed you when you walked into that damn restaurant with that stupid, drawn-on mustache. But I was so angry at you for leaving me, for letting me believe you were dead and then just waltzing back into my life as if you’d only been on holiday, so I didn’t kiss you.”

John swallows against the growing tightness in his throat and makes himself keep going. “I should have kissed you before you jumped, before Moriarty ruined everything. I should have kissed you after you called me your conductor of light. I should have kissed you when you stole me an ashtray from Buckingham Palace. I should have kissed you after you ripped that bomb off my chest, after you rescued me from the Black Lotus, after I shot that cabbie to save you. I should have kissed you at breakfast, over takeaway, watching telly, in front of the fire, on our doorstep. I should have kissed you every single time I wanted to, every time I thought you were the only one I’d ever want to spend my life with, every time you took my breath away with your beauty and your brilliance. I should have spent every minute of every day kissing you, but I didn’t. I waited. And even though it took us so long to get here, it was worth the wait.”

John glances away and tries to blink back the tears gathering at the corners of his eyes, and now it’s Sherlock’s turn to squeeze his hands instead. He takes a deep breath, steadily blowing it out as he looks back up at Sherlock, who already has a wet trail down each cheek but a smile on his face. “It was worth the wait,” John says again. “But I don’t want to ever have to wait again. I love you, and I want to spend every day of the rest of my life kissing you. So…” His tongue darts out nervously. “Sherlock Holmes, will yo-”

Sherlock’s mouth presses against John’s, cutting off the rest of his words. He pulls back long enough to whisper yes against John’s lips before kissing him again.

John doesn’t know how long they stand there, wrapped up in each other, sealing this promise with lips and tongues, mingled breaths and happy tears, but when they break apart they start to laugh because they’re both such a mess. John wipes his face as Sherlock does the same, and when they’re somewhat presentable again, John takes Sherlock’s hand and pulls him back toward the path that leads to Baker Street. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s go home and go to bed.”

“Mmm,” Sherlock replies. “I remember what we did the first time there, too.”