“So Molly Hooper,” Sherlock sets down the pint I’ve just bought him and brushes the foam off his top lip. I wait for him to continue, but he doesn’t have a little speech planned it seems, because he just smiles at me. Waiting.
“Erm.” I take a long swallow of my own pint. Then another.
Concern and amusement mingles on Sherlock’s face, “Everything all right?” He sips again.
I thunk my pint down on the bar and make that little false laugh I’m trying to stop doing, “Oh yes. Erm. I just. Have something to tell you. I’m thinking how.”
Sherlock turns bodily in his chair to face me, clasping his hands under his chin and fixing both eyes on mine, “Yes? I’m listening. Something troubling you?”
“No!” that was a bit loud, I think. Cough a little and sip my pint again. “No, just. Something I’ve just sort of. Just worked out. And I’ve got to tell someone, and I don’t know when or how it happened, but. Erm. You’re sort of my best friend, so.”
Sherlock raises his eyebrows and smiles, “Oh indeed? Well, I’m all ears.”
“And figuring it out had a lot to do with. Well. Hope you don’t mind my saying. I mean. It wasn’t very like but. Anyway. If I hadn’t ever known you, I’m not sure I would. Erm. Well.” I cough again, just so I can lower my face. Maybe that will account for the blush, too. I’m fairly sure I’m blushing.
“The ends of these sentences must be very important, Molly. I’m afraid I don’t follow you.”
Blow out a beery little breath, then sip from my pint again. It’s half gone by now. “I. I’m. I. I like women. Only. I’m a. I. I’m gay,” the last in a whisper, followed by a weird little giggle that I can’t quite swallow. I chance a glance up at Sherlock.
He’s beaming at me. I’ve never seen him look so pleased. “Well!” he taps his pint glass against mine, “Welcome aboard!”
I burst out laughing at that, and Sherlock grins and grins watching me. “Thanks,” I tell him, still giggling. I take another long draw on my pint and hiccough. “I’m a lesbian,” I say quietly, trying it out.
“Congratulations!” Sherlock grins at me, then leans over the bar, trying to catch eyes with the barman. “So many of the best people are.”
Happy Valentine’s Day, y’all! I hope everyone had a wonderful day, and I hope this fic makes it a little better!
This was written for @percyyoulittleshit who gave me the prompt:
“So let me get this straight. You want to hire me to be your date to a Valentine’s Party?” I hope it lives up to your standards, Mari!
“So let me get this straight. You want to hire me to be your date to a Valentine’s Day party?”
Annabeth sighed. Honestly, it sounded terrible when you said it that way. Well, she guessed that it would probably sound horrible any way you said it.
“Yes,” she snapped, tapping her foot against the sidewalk. “You just have to come to the party with me. We only have to stay for a few hours.”
Percy was silent as he considered. He was loading his band equipment into the back of his Jeep. Annabeth had seen him outside when she got home from track practice, which is when she decided to cross the street to his house and solicit his help.
His cast brushed her hip, clumsy at first, but less so when he raised it to the side of her face to trace his bare thumb against her jaw. And his lips followed. To her chin. Her neck. The dip of her clavicle.
Her body became liquid, and she thought, if they could bottle him, he would make the best pain medication.
Sometimes, still, Carl will look at Negan and wonder why he
didn’t kill him when he had the chance, when they were at Alexandria for the
first time in two months and his dad, everyone, had ambushed the trucks, held
their guns to Negan’s head and told Carl to bash his brains in with Lucille. It
isn’t as if he’s never killed before—hell, he killed his own mom, and for all
his shit-talking Negan’s right, you don’t come back from that. Three years on
Carl still wakes up sometimes sweating feeling like her hand is on his wrist,
like she’s staring at him from a pool of blood, her stomach slashed open in
ribbons. His mom hadn’t exactly been there for him but he still misses her in a
gaping aching sort of way, like a gunshot wound, when he allows himself to
think of her at all.
But he hadn’t killed Negan. He hadn’t even tried. Lucille in
his hand and everyone, his dad, Michonne, Daryl—even some of the Saviors,
though Carl’s sure they’ve been taken care of since—screaming at him to do it
and he’d looked down at Negan, at that face he knew he was supposed to loathe
with his entire being, and it was like he couldn’t even breathe. The sun
shining on the back of his neck and the rest of Alexandria surrounding them,
closing in, first time he’d seen the place in eight full weeks and it hadn’t
even felt like home anymore.
He killed Glenn, the
logical half of Carl’s brain yells at him. And
Abraham might’ve been a dick but he didn’t deserve going down like that.
He killed Glenn and
Maggie would kill you if she knew.
But Maggie’s not here. Maggie’s at Hilltop. Carl’s at the
Sanctuary. And Negan’s alive, and try as he might, Carl can’t bring himself to
regret that. Not yet.
Request: “You’re strong, baby. You have to be.” / “I
feel like I can’t breathe.”
a/n: i bet none of you guessed that those prompts would be used in this way :) and to all the people who love dad shawn…this kinda takes a
spin on that but in a different way that I hope you enjoy as much as I enjoyed writing
it : )
You loaded the
last item into the trunk of the car and turned around to see Shawn coming out
with two more bags. With a sigh, you
took one of the bags from him, “More?”
his head, “I think she’s taking her whole room with her.”
Shawn somehow fit the last two bags in the car.
It took a bit of moving around other things, but once everything was
situated, you closed the trunk and leaned up against it. You let out a deep breath as you leaned your
head back on the car, “This is really it?”
next to you and copied your actions, “It’s really it.”
I reorganized some advice from a dramatic post and just note: the original information was pointed out by the wonderful @gabriel-fucking-agreste and @sinfulpapillon, so if you like Miraculous Ladybug, I highly encourage you to check out their pages!
Anyways, onto the information already shared! *^_^*
How to make your tumblr experience enjoyable!
Blocking persons who you don’t want to see or be associated with is actually effective and not really offensive. There are millions of tumblr users and blocking a few of them to guarantee personal peace of mind doesn’t make you a bad person. (Unless you messaged them horrible things and then turned around and blocked them. Then you’re just being mean. DX)
Blacklisting does wonders for anyone who doesn’t want to tip toe on eggshells around tumblr! The lovely ladies above mentioned Xkit, but for some readon that doesn’t work on my computer, so I’ve settled on Tumblr Savior, which does the exact same thing. You can block out whole words and phrases, which makes avoiding spoilers, porn, and NOTPs much, much easier! *^_^*
Being ‘salty’ privately means not putting it up on your public blog for people to find and get offended by. If you don’t mind the drama you’re about to stir up, then go ahead and post it, but if you would rather not be as’salt’ed because of your saltiness, grab a friend and complain mutually and privately. Like a huge gal-pal session where you complain about your day and then forget about it. Because you can trust your friends not to raise a stink (unless someone’s actually hurting/insulting/degrading you. Then your friends will fite them) and you’re allowed to be salty peacefully. In short, find or create a safe salt zone.
I hope you guys find this advice helpful, because it’s really good advice! *^_^*
The children of the desert are cursed; The children of the desert are blessed. The desert gives and takes, just as it pleases.
sanguis: Latin; noun; third declension, masculine; nominitive: subject —-meaning: blood
deserti (from desertum): Latin; noun; second declension neuter; genitive: possession —-meaning: of the desert
Leia Organa is covered in blood by the time she reaches the deck of Jabba’s sail barge. The broken end of the chain that had sought to bind her to her captor gleams in Tatooine’s harsh sunlight, wisps of hair pulled free of her intricate braid cling to the sweat on her neck and forehead, and a feral grin curls her lips and ignites her eyes to desert flames.
There is an ax in her hand, ripped from the dying grasp of a man who had tried to grab her as she fled out of the belly of the barge. He had grabbed her, and his blood had been the first to stain her chin, her shoulders, her hands. Its tip drips crimson, black, yellow-blue, the dying gasps of a dozen lives stolen by its razor edge and by the hands that grip its haft in a hold far too comfortable for a princess.
The wind tugs at her hair, coils around her ankles, brushes against her cheeks and forehead and bare shoulders. Welcome, welcomethe desert sighs. Welcome home, dear child of the desert…