how fitting now

10

Well yeah, Wendy would be the least suspected one of the bunch, that’s for sure

I swear I’m never wasting so much time on stupid comics again. Out of all the asks I could’ve used, I chose this one. Someone shoot me please .+:。(ノ・ω・’ )ノ゙

bonus:

how do you expect anyone to suspect her

4

[x]

2

@songsaboutsalad  BRO! Here he is! Probably on a little study break at the breakfast counter
✧・゚: *✧・゚:*  spacing out  *:・゚✧*:・゚✧   ;^)

anonymous asked:

Your.. your keith is.. too cute.. i love ittt.. i cant.. my heart cant take this... @.@)!! And he looks alot like shizuka? Y know, doraemon?

i’m gonna cry anon, this is quite possibly one of my favorite compliments of all time, i’m not even joking

pls accept this doodle as a token of my thanks

10

you put a lot of trust in your friend.
i do. in all the time i’ve know him, he’s never let me down.

8

for stevetopsbuckysbottom | Bucky Barnes + personality types

vader’s castle looks like a weird combination of a medieval prison, a steampunk rapunzel tower, and a dungeon. i’m sure the effect was intentional.

A full minute ticks by. Two minutes. Then five. Phone in his hand, brows furrowed, and a network of cogwheels turning rapidly in his mind, Sherlock continues to decode the text he has just received, unable to figure out the meaning behind the three numbers forming the entirety of the message content: 2, 10%, -2. Can’t be coordinates, the format is too inconsistent. In fact he doubts they specify a location or time at all..

Sherlock doesn’t realise he has uttered the numbers out loud until Mary’s casual, curious question. Apparently, within the past few seconds, she has entered the room with John, heard Sherlock speak, and instantly comprehended what the numbers represent, as if Sherlock was plainly stating a piece of information.

For a moment, Sherlock has trouble processing what Mary has asked him. But when the implication eventually forces its way into his denying mind, everything around him in his flat, everything of the physical world, goes out of focus.

If he did pause to give John a brief excuse for his sudden departure from 221B, he doesn’t remember what he said. He doesn’t remember how he left the flat, or how he hailed and got in the cab. His mind is threatening to enter a perplexing and unmanageable state, feasibly comparable to an anaphylactic shock of the immune system – both are severe responses upon recognition of something so ungraspably foreign.

Unlike an offending antigen, however, the alien concept that is currently trying to instil itself into his understanding also kindles a sparkle of anticipation within him. A thrill of an unprecedented brand, with a complex series of effects that not even his most captivating or demanding cases have ever brought about. He might’ve doubted particular aspects of his ability at times, but never has it been an anxious concern. He’s been afraid, occasionally, as he reluctantly admits, but never this strange trickle of fear for the unknown.

Too much, too much. Noise and chaos of rumbling trains of thoughts, rendering the brilliant mind of Sherlock Holmes at a loss for logical analysis of the situation. Input: overload. Output: null.

Fortunately, his body must have implemented some involuntary support mechanism, and he finds himself moving at a hurried pace. Heathrow. Flight. Traffic. And as he dashes once again through busy streets like a mad man, Sherlock tries to brush aside the clouds of unresolved emotions and force his focus on the practical.

Which of course leads to another torrent of problems. How the hell is he supposed to behave in..he estimates 17 minutes, give or take? God, should he get a balloon? A teddy bear? Flowers? Which kind? And what should he say, to her?

He isn’t panicking. The hall is quiet and he acts calm. He has got everything in control, and he isn’t panicking. He just needs to be his articulate self, he is going to make the enquiry whilst sounding controlled and smart.

But then he opens his betraying mouth. “I.. Am here to see a –”

He tries again. “Here to see my –”

The final word wouldn’t form. Perhaps it was stuck in his dry throat, or perhaps the language centre in his brain had simply blocked a set of vocabulary from usage when it comes to personal associations.

Eventually acquiring a room number, Sherlock leaves the nurses’ station, his nerves tangled in an ever-tighter knot. Whatever his demeanour is giving away earns him a warm, knowing smile from a passing stranger (businessman, late thirties, recently welcomed a third child). Has he really become as transparent as he’s always considered ordinary people to be?

Sherlock’s first sight inside the private room is one that he will, after he has had time to acclimatise to the overpowering levels of emotion, come to know as the dawn of his new world. Their world, which was constructed based on battling intellect between two parties, built upon by sentiments evolving into passion, and established with unrivalled complementarity, is now being painted with bright new colours as it greets a third member with tenderness and joy.

Presently, however, as Sherlock gazes in awe at the beautiful sight of mother and son, his feet frozen to the ground by the door, he is unable to think, forgetting to even breathe.

It is Irene who breaks the silence. “I’m still very cross with the both of you, you know.” But her voice is softer than he has ever heard her speak with. She looks up at him with a quirked eyebrow, and cuddles the tiny being on her chest closer.

Moments later, carefully holding his newborn son in one arm, and wrapping the other around The Woman’s shoulder, Sherlock leans forward to press a gentle kiss to her forehead, then to her lips. The confusion and anxiety associated with the foreign concept less than 24 hours prior have retreated, and in their place he feels a contentedness, a completeness.

Sherlock Holmes, MChem Oxon, Consulting Detective, and..Dad.


Pre-Series 4. Irene’s text means “2 cm dilated, 10% effaced, minus 2 station”. Because she either casually forgot, or didn’t think it important to tell Sherlock about a certain recent development in the preceding months. Mary wanted to know who the person in labour was. Sherlock was probably like “Case. I’ve got to go.”

Idea credits to the amazing @elinorx​ (thank you and sorry if I haven’t done it justice! With my deviations/additions/omissions etc. relative to the original) Another possible scenario of when and how Sherlock found out, as an alternative to at other stages of Nero’s life, e.g. during incubation, blue-eyed curly-haired little boy, or orchid-tending NYC detective.

So in a personal essay in which I was required to explain a) why I write and b) use an analogy to compare my writing style to something else, my prof essentially criticized my voice as a writer, called me self-absorbed, told me my tone was hostile, and then told ended it by telling me “if you want to continue this course…”

So, basically, my voice as a writer has been completely shot down. My personal essay about how and and why I write was shot down. She told me to go fix it. My paper is technically sound. There are no errors. My paper fits the (minimal) requirements she gave us.\

She doesn’t want me to fix the paper, she wants me to fix me.

can I just say that I love the shoulder/neck roll that Shepard started doing as an idle in me2

mostly because it fuels my headcanon that the Cerberus dudes fucked something up with how the joints fit and now they click or grind or make this really obscenely loud popping sound and Shepard does it around Miranda just to be petty

and every time it happens Miranda like, visibly cringes, and Shepard’s like “you hear that? that didn’t used to happen. THAT’S NOT SOMETHING MY JOINTS DID, MIRANDA. YOU FUCKED UP MY JOINTS AND NOW THEY CLICK. I’M STUCK WITH CLICKY JOINTS, MIRANDA”