hopeful jumpers

New ski jumping game!

On valentines day you’re going to…

First initial of your first name:


A - Go skinny dipping with
B - Make weird sex noises while standing next to
C - Get unhappily married to
D - Get kissed on mouth by
E - Have sexy dream about
F - Go on a terrible date with
G - Get cheap flowers from
H - Get murdered by
I - Accidentally Wink at
J - Have painful sex with
K - Pee yourself while looking at
L - Loudly yawn while looking at
M - Zombie dance with
N - Paint red nails to
O - Hold hands with
P - Take blurry photo with
Q - Pray for
R - Cry while talking to
S - Get purplish hickey from
T - Scare to death
U - Throw up on
V - Play Pokemon go with
W - Gossip about
X - Naked for
Y - Smell like
Z - Tell terrible sex joke to

First initial of your last name:

A - Domen Prevc
B - Daniel Andre Tande
C - Vojtech Stursa
D - Andreas Wellinger
E - Noriaki Kasai
F - Robert Johansson
G - Richard Freitag
H - Cene Prevc
I - Maciej Kot
J - Andreas Stjernen
K - Gregor Schlierenzauer
L - Walter Hofer
M - Kamil Stoch
N - Peter Prevc
O - Markus Eisenbichler
P - Evgeny Klimov
Q - Jurij Tepes
R - Stefan Kraft
S - Michael Hayboeck
T - Piotr Zyla
U - Denis Kornilov
V - Mackenzie Boyd-Clowes
W - Karl Geiger
X - Stephan Leyhe
Y - Kaarel Nurmsalu
Z - Jane Ahonnen

First initial of your mothers name:


A - In his bathroom
B - In his bed
C - In a hot tub
D - At the church
E - On a parking lot
F - In your best friends bed
G - In front of Daiki Ito
H - In your bed
I - At the supermarket
J - In the shower
K - In front of his wife/girlfriend
L - In front of camera
M - In front of his mother
N - And Dawid Kubacki
O - In front of Sara Takanashi
P - While it’s raining
Q - At the hospital
R - In the museum
S - In the graveyard
T - In the dark
U - At the wild party
V - Next to his best friend
W - At the gym
X - At the hotel
Y - In his kitchen
Z - In the bookstore

What is your mashup?
9

team norway in Planica meme edition. tag yourself

anonymous asked:

You should really write something about harry going bare for the first time... please?

Okay I know this is a little dirty but can you write a blurb about Harry coming inside of you for the first time dmnffsaa

A little dirty is the name of the game around here. Thanks to @inkedferns and @stylesunchained for keeping me sane during this. Thanks also to @stylesunchained for providing the basic framework and agreeing that combining Dunkirk Harry with a Harry who gets to nut inside his girl for the first time was a good idea. 

I don’t know that this is really dirtier than anything else I’ve written, but… it feels it. I think it’s the uniform. Read at your own risk. x.

P. S. I’ve got to proofread this a little more but I’m on a train later today and away for a few days so I REALLY wanted to get this out. Turn a blind eye to anything egregious until I’m home?

046. Important or Summat

 “Be back for weekends,” he’d promised you while you’d knelt on the bed with your arms around his neck while you kissed him next to his suitcase and run your hand over a short head of hair that you weren’t quite used to. “Won’t hardly miss me, will yeh?”

But weekends had turned into overtime shoots, and dinners, and, “Train was all booked out, love, m’sorry,” and weekends when you’re, “Too busy, it wouldn’t work. Next one?”

And when he had managed to make it work his beautiful green eyes were so dull and lined with exhaustion that you’d just been wrapped around him in bed when the two of you weren’t out catching up with friends and family who were eager to see him and hear all the news from the continent. You had been grateful to be near him again and to have his snores in your ear again (even if you did have to shove him until he rolled so they stopped), and it had been nice to shuffle sleepily around him in the kitchen once more while you both went about your morning routines.

But then he’d left again and when the two of you had done hardly anything more than a steamy make out session that hadn’t gone farther than a quick bout with his fingers curling inside of you, regrets always started to sink in.

Keep reading

Part 1 | Part 2


Sherlock hates owing Mycroft anything. That’s why he never asks him for favors. But when Mycroft comes to pull him out of that god forsaken Serbian hell hole, Sherlock can’t help himself. As if the rescue wasn’t enough, he has to ask Mycroft to do one more small thing for him, or rather to find one more small thing. He can’t go back home without it.


Sherlock’s return doesn’t go at all how he planned. He disguises himself as a waiter, interrupts John in the middle of proposing, and, when he reveals himself, is raged at for his deception. Repeatedly. Sherlock supposes he should have expected this, but in reality, he really hadn’t. He had been so focused on how much he missed John that he’d never even really considered what would result of John missing him. He hadn’t understood at all how badly his leaving would hurt John. That’s why he’d ended up on the floor of a restaurant with John trying to strangle him. That’s why he was now suffering from a potential broken nose. That’s why he has found himself back at Baker Street utterly alone.


Sherlock doesn’t know if anything will ever be able to bring John back to him. John doesn’t seem to understand that Sherlock did this for him. To save him. Even though he told John why he did it.

He tries to tell himself that all that matters is that John is alive and well, but the selfish bit of him aches at the thought of John being alive and well and not a part of Sherlock’s life.

It’s been a week since he came home, and Sherlock has heard nothing else from John. Radio silence. Mary had said she’d talk him round, but apparently that tactic hadn’t been very successful. He tried to wait, he really did, to let John come to him when he was ready, but now Sherlock is tired of waiting. He needs to show John exactly how much he cares, to prove to him why he had to do what he did.

Sherlock has an idea of how to do this. And if it doesn’t work, then he’ll know that John is really and truly lost to him.


John comes home from work to find a parcel on his doorstep. It’s about the size of a shoebox and wrapped neatly in brown paper and twine, with John Watson neatly printed across the surface in a hand he doesn’t recognize.

He has a feeling about where this package might have come from, and he’s not sure he’s ready to face it yet. He tucks it away in a drawer of his desk and heads to the kitchen to help Mary with dinner.

Later that evening after Mary has gone to bed, John sits down with a glass of scotch and the package. It takes three fingers of the liquor before he has the courage to open it. Inside he finds a small card. The all-too-familiar scrawl simply says

I thought it was time I returned this to you.

John pushes apart the tissue paper to find one thing he’d never thought he’d see again. His breath catches in his throat, and John stares and stares at the visible patch of oatmeal-colored jumper as he wills himself to remember how to breathe properly. Gently, he runs his fingers back and forth across the cable knits, remembering a night long ago full of taxi chases and laughter, Chinese food and powder burns. John’s gripped by the simultaneous desire to hug the jumper to his body as tightly as possible and the desire to hurl it across the room. In the end, he settles for removing it from the box and holding it up to properly see it. One of the cuffs is filthy and worn, far more than the other. Leave it to Sherlock to return something of his without bothering to clean it first. He looks over the rest of the jumper and finds a multitude of dirt spots, discolorations, holes, and snags. He even sees a few spots that look suspiciously like blood.

Oh god.

Many months ago John had thought—no, hoped—that maybe Sherlock had had this jumper with him when he fell from the roof of Bart’s. But it was more than that. He realizes that Sherlock took this jumper with him to wherever it was that he went when he left, and judging by the state of it, Sherlock was not off gallivanting around in five-star hotels and having a laugh.  His return was hard won, and whatever he went through, he went through it for John. And when he came back, John pushed him away.

John has never hated himself more. In the promises you make in the dark of the night in the depths of despair, he had told himself that if somehow Sherlock could ever come back to him, he wouldn’t waste another minute. He would tell him just how loved he was. And when by some miracle he had returned, just as John had secretly asked him to, John had let his anger and his pain dictate his reaction. Not anymore. He has to fix this. He can fix this.


When Mrs. Hudson climbs the steps to 221B, Sherlock hasn’t moved in over 16 hours. He had sent John the jumper by way of the homeless network and had waited for a response. He waited and waited, and as the evening melted away into midnight into early morning, he heard nothing. Hope poured out of him, and desolation flooded in to fill the cracks it left behind. He’s so lost in his own misery that he doesn’t notice Mrs. Hudson until she shakes his shoulder and presses a small box into his hands.

“Sherlock, dear. You’ve had a delivery.”

She’s looking at him with such pity that he nearly throws the parcel at her head. Instead he glares until she leaves him alone again. He moves to set the package on the floor and return to his misery when he notices the writing on the top of the box. It simply says Sherlock, but it’s in John’s messy, doctorly, nearly illegible handwriting. In his haste to open it, Sherlock tears the entire top off of the box. He hastily pulls out a blue scarf—one of his, he’d know it anywhere—and stares at it in disbelief. 

Without thinking about it, Sherlock presses the scarf to his face and inhales deeply. It’s an action reminiscent of so many nights spent alone in desolate places longing for home, his face buried in a jumper that no longer smelled of John, Sherlock trying to breathe him in anyway.

Did John send this for the same reason he had sent John the jumper? Or is he merely complying with social convention and returning the gesture of gift-giving? Or is this some kind of goodbye present, and John will ask to be left alone now that he no longer has any of Sherlock’s things to hold on to?

Sherlock needs to pace. He can’t think about this sitting down. As he rises from his chair, a flutter catches his eye. A small card has fallen from his lap. In his haste to remove the scarf, he hadn’t even noticed the card. There in John’s untidy, utterly perfect scrawl it says

I wanted to return something of yours, too. But it turns out I had two things that belong to you. The other one is waiting for you on your doorstep.

Sherlock can’t make it down the stairs fast enough and nearly falls on his face when he misses the bottom step entirely. He stumbles to the front door and wrenches it open.

There, beaming up at him, is John Watson.