hm hm don't know


I want a comic in which they’re in the middle of battle and Keith is stalling time for the others to escape and “Go, I’ll catch up” even though they know (he knows) he won’t be able to make it in time but that’s alright because he knows everyone leaves him in the end and that he’s used to it it’s fine–

At the corner of his eye he sees a sentry get shot down and he turns to see Lance with his gun, and Lance kinda gives him a smile (serious, but still a smile) and says, “I’m not going anywhere without you!”

Keith pauses. Smiles. “You don’t know how much that means to me.”

-_- mixed feelings about rich butch crisp-suit lady

audreycritter  asked:

Prompt request! Alfred dealing with Bruce's young adult globe-trotting absence and/or the times Bruce comes home for brief reprieves. :-D

i got ya back, audrey! hope you enjoy :) sorry for the delay there’s been like 87898 things in my life deciding they would all just like to happen at once, here’s a mix of the two

“If you would continue down the hall to my left, you would find a very large, very beautiful door, tragic it doesn’t go into use these days. Some persons prefer the window approach.”

Alfred flicked on the light. Bruce yelped, and dropped his ham sandwich in surprise. “Alfred! I didn’t - I didn’t want to wake you. I didn’t know you were still awake.”

I don’t sleep well with you on the other side of the world, Alfred wanted to say. He settled for raising a brow and gesturing to the ham sandwich. “Clean that up, Master Bruce, and put it in the bin where it belongs. I will make you a proper meal.” 

“Oh, Alfred, you don’t have to do that,” Bruce said, bending down to sweep up his sad attempt at cuisine. “I’m not all that hungry. It’s late, you should get some rest.”

“And you should have ice on that eye,” Alfred sniffed, gesturing towards the blackened mass that had once been the left half of Bruce’s face, but now closely resembled a purple, lumpy beach ball, with a little bit of green on the edges. Alfred packed a plastic bag full of ice, wrapped it in a towel, and passed it off to Bruce.

“What are we making,” Bruce asked. “What can I get for you?”

“Vegetable soup,” Alfred sniffed. “I assume you know the ingredients.”

Bruce grinned, albeit a little lopsided on the side of his face that was currently out of commission. “I think I remember.”

And then he limped off, because of course he was limping, as if Alfred’s heart hadn’t dropped enough when he’d seen Bruce’s face, as if he didn’t lay awake at night wondering if Bruce was alone and cold and hungry and in pain. Alfred grit his teeth, and pulled out a pot.

Bruce returned with an armful of ingredients, and dropped them off of the counter.

Alfred shooed him away. “Put that leg up. I’ve work to do.”

Bruce, for once in his life, listened, and watched Alfred combine tomato juice and chicken broth. “You’re mad at me, aren’t you?”

“Whatever gave you that impression.”

“You’re… snippy,” Bruce said. 

Alfred poured in the water with a little more force than necessary. “I would argue that ‘snippy’ is my job description.”

Bruce huffed. “I thought we’d already fought about this.”

And a beauty of a fight it’d been - the times the two of them fought, the house didn’t shake with the force of their screams, nothing was thrown, nothing was smashed. Their battles were fought almost entirely in measure of will.

“We have,” Alfred hummed, skinning a carrot. “That doesn’t mean I have to like it, Master Bruce, when you come home looking like you’ve been hit by a truck.”

Bruce was silent for a moment. “It was a horse, actually.”

Alfred turned to glare at him. “A horse?”

“Riding a wild horse is part of the, ah, curriculum,” Bruce explained. “It’s supposed to - “

“I am fine without the details, thank you.” Alfred slid the chopped carrots into the pot. “However, if the animal - ahem - kicked you - “

“No, no, it didn’t. The ground’s just… hard.”

“Oh, yes, very hard indeed.”

“You could be sympathetic,” Bruce whined. 

Alfred studied a potato. “I could, I just choose not to. After all, you have a large, cozy home to return to, with a larger, cozier trust fund. For some inane reason, you choose to spend your time in the wilds of China seeking out… zen.”

Bruce chuckled. “That might be the most British thing you’ve ever said to me, congrats.”


While Alfred finished dumping ingredients into the soup, Bruce studied the kitchen like it’d be years before he saw it again - the same look he always gave the Manor, when he finally came home. Of all of the things Alfred had seen, nothing filled him with fear quite like that look did. 

Alfred dropped a lid on the pot, and turned to Bruce. “Your leg, Master Bruce.”

“Hm - what? My leg?” Bruce asked. “Oh, it’s just bruised some.”

“I don’t know if it’s worse that you still try to lie to me, or how fantastically bad you are at lying to me,” Alfred said, and he gestured at the leg Bruce had propped up. 

Bruce rolled his eyes, and leaned forward to roll up his cargo pants (and the pants alone were an insult the closet of fine clothing Bruce had just upstairs) revealing a thick wad of old bandages. Not old enough to cause any problems - just sweat-stained and starting to give a little too easily. 

Alfred pulled out the first aid kit he kept in the kitchen, for the odd times he cut himself with a knife. Bruce straightened. “Alfred, you don’t have to - “

“Yes, I do,” Alfred said, simply. He set to work cleaning the wound again and wrapping it back up - if Bruce registered the pain at all, he didn’t show it. Alfred didn’t want to think about how much battery it would take, for such a tolerance to build up. He didn’t want to think about that at all. 

“Thanks, Alfred,” Bruce murmured.

Alfred stood, joints popping. “Next time, don’t try to tame a wild horse, for pity’s sake.”

“It was part of the - “

“Defense of yourself is futile,” Alfred said, waving his hand. Bruce grumbled to himself, and slouched lower in his chair, looking for all the world like the surly teen he’d been just a scant few years ago. In fact, Alfred could remember a night very much like this one, when Bruce had been fourteen and filled with a rage nobody could seem to define. 

That year, when Bruce had tentatively suggested the idea that he might go to the homecoming dance, Alfred had been beyond ecstatic - maybe, just maybe, this weird child of his would turn out normal after all. Maybe they’d be just fine. Of course, Bruce had later sat at that same table and held ice to his swollen lip, suit rumpled and his bow tie undone, and confessed that the only reason he’d wanted to go was because he wanted the chance to punch Ryan Parker in the teeth somewhere he couldn’t get expelled.

“Tuck in,” Alfred said, sliding Bruce a bowl of soup. 

After they’d eaten, Alfred sent Bruce off to bed, and Bruce growled something about not being a child anymore under his breath, and for a moment, Alfred let himself believe that Bruce would still be in Gotham in a week, in two, maybe three. He let himself believe that this was it, that the dream Bruce was chasing ended here; no more bruises, no more cuts, no more alleys. It was, of course, just a dream of his own.

kindafooey  asked:

Hellooo! Would you be down for drawing Bill and Ford having tea? Billford teatime is one of my absolute favorite things that life has to offer and there's never enough content for that scenario <3 Thank you!

he’s trying his hardest not to laugh…

anonymous asked:

Have you seen the new Otayuri/Victuuri artwork yet? I love how Yurio is /again/ looking at Yuuri and sporting a small blush (it's tiny but they never really draw Yurio blushing ever soooo). :')

I just saw it now! Thank you for letting me know. XD This official art is so precious, and it’s very true that Yurio is looking right at Yuuri and blushing. (With Yuuri’s cute smile, you can see why he’s blushing!~)

To all my followers, Anon is talking about this picture here:

And the closeup here:

Pics from of the preview for the new Spoon 2di

He is indoors so you can’t use the excuse that it’s just cold. YURIO IS BLUSHING. Let’s all celebrate~

UPDATE: It’s confirmed that they’re in St. Petersburg and Otabek is visiting Yuri.

All I have is my humanity.
I am so soft.
I am so soft.
I am so soft.
I often repeat myself.
As if I am trying to convince myself of what I am saying.
As if I am running from my words but they are stones in my shoes and I am falling after every breath.

Someone told me I should write a book.
I looked at the clouds and counted how many looked like the way your lips would feel across my neck.

I am tearing out pages of the bible and strangling God with prophecy that is my soul.
I know the moon too well for her to spill my secrets.

I thought we would grow old together.
Birth babies like laughter together.
But I am waking up in the middle of the day to see your face screaming voicelessly and I would rather run straight for the fucking edge of this earth than never hear you say my name.

I am shaking, darling.

People are staring at my paranoia and my suffering is so loud.

Last night I had a dream that we were standing in a room of mirrors and I tried to reach for you.

Last night I had a dream that we were standing in a room of mirrors and I tried to reach for you.


Last night I had a dream that we were standing in a room of mirrors and I tried to reach for you.

I could see you cracking open your ribcage and I wanted nothing more than to hide your hands in mine and kiss you back together.
Kiss every broken bone created by you and by me and by me.

I know you are scared of my hands.
They have always been so destructive.
But for you,
I would break them back and make them as soft as Beethoven’s fifth secret.

I know you are scared of my heart.
It has always beat everyone who has tried to turn me into water.
Something that flows so easily.
No rough edges.
No cracked centers.
But for you,
I would break it open and make it as holy as the verses you whispered into me the night you told me you loved me.

—  There is a dream stuck in the head of every lover. A dream of about to be hit. But even God will expose her bones if it means she gets to sleep inside of hands forever.
Mike & Louis Comparison

the mike faist and louis tomlinson voice comparison that no one asked for (x)


It is.
I’m so sorry for causing you pain.
It was selfish of me.
I look at you and I see what you truly are.
And you deserve better than what those cruel marks represent.

anonymous asked:

I don't know if you're still interested in the Teenage Mecha Ninja Turtles short (but if you aren't, feel free to ignore this message), but I noticed that the children are also named after more contemporary artists that relate to their heritage. Frida = Frida Kahlo, Basque = Jean-Michel Basquiat, Kusama = Yayoi Kusama, Jackson = Jackson Pollock. As an art major who barely passed art history, I got all giddy for recognizing the names! Thought this might be fun to share!

holy shit the artist symbolism goes deeper

i’m kicking myself, that’s so great??? like i didn’t even know that stuff (art history was never my strong point, i was more the sort to do whatever the fuck i wanted in class and BS my way through everything else because **~art is interpretive~**), but i’m so pumped that it’s a thing!!

i’m so happy the creators of that short put so much thought into their work- the continuation of the artist names thing is really quite sweet, and shows how much they loved the story idea, (i love it even more now omg) not to mention that it states the races of each kid, which makes me even happier as a fan-writer. so much possibility, now that i’ve got canon info.

so yeah much thanks to you anon, i can work with so much more depth now that i’ve got this info. plus add jokes about fate since all the kids have artist names despite not being related (that we yet know)