you know how when you try to be real sly and take a pic of someone in public but then the fLASH GOES OFF
imagine Keith on public transit - minding his own business but then this random hot dude (Lance) sitting across from him is doing some weird ass shit (idk, eating an entire cake to himself with a spork)
And Keith is like I gotta
So he goes to take a pic but then (of course) the whole shebang- flash and sound go off and Keith is Shook™
he can feel his soul exiting through his kneecaps
kill him now
deer in head lights
Hah y'all he thought he was being slick
And lance is all ???? And then ‘oooooOoOooO’ ;)))
Cuz of cooouuuurse this hottie was taking a pic of him- Lance looks incredible! So to subtly slip in a casual fuck yes- Lance fucking gives him a shit eating grin and winks back- not before of course taking the next bite of his cake all sexy and slow like
And Keith is just red in the face and doesn’t know how to react because #the next stop isn’t for a while - is he stuck with this guy for the next 30 mins?? Should he just jump out the window?? Try flushing himself down the bus toilet??? Play dead?? What is protocol here- captain we lost the main engine mayday mAYDAY
So now they’re stuck on the bus- Lance silently flirting with a Keith who keeps accidentally flirting back
Okay, back to the rest of this episode! It's about to get- y'all it's about to get wet and wild. Things are about to happen in this episode that I have been looking forward to for like a year. I'm so excited for it to start popping off. I just hope you, like- this is a weird thing for someone who's telling a story to ask of his audience, but um I just- I hope you trust me, 'cause uh I've got a plan.
hey it’s 4:30 in the morning & i kno a lot of ppl aren’t going to see this so i’ll reblog it later but piper (my cat) is having a bad night. she was making weird noises at the foot of my bed so i looked over to check on her & saw her laying on her side with her legs splayed out & her head in a small puddle of vomit. i picked her up right so she wouldn’t choke on it & she started wobbling away but she seemed drunk or something bc she couldnt seem to walk straight & then she fell over again & started to vomit a bit more. i’m worried she may be getting worst & i don’t have the funds to get her back into the vet. i’m going to make a new campaign post w the updated donations & less text so maybe more ppl will share it, please share either one so it can reach as many ppl as possible!! we need less than $200 to get her back in to see her doctor & start her on meds!! please help!!
So, who broke it? I’m not mad, I just want to know.
I did, I broke it-
No. No, you didn’t. Odysseus?
Don’t look at me. Look at Diomedes.
What? I didn’t break it.
Hmm. That’s weird. How did you even know it was broken?
Because it’s sitting right in front of us, and it’s broken.
No, it’s not!
If it matters...probably not...Briseis was the last one to use it.
Liar! I don’t even drink that crap.
Oh, really? Then what were you doing by the tea stand at the store earlier?
I use the wooden stirrers to push back my cuticles. Everyone knows that, Agamemnon!
Alright, let’s not fight. I broke it, let me pay for it, Achilles.
No. Who broke it?
Achilles, Menelaus has been awfully quiet...
[Cut to Achilles in another room, the rest of them fighting in the background]
I broke it. It burned my hand so I punched it. I predict ten minutes from now, they’ll be at each other’s throats with warpaint on their faces and a pig head on a stick. Good. It was getting a little chummy around here.
It’s a cold night in November. Sherlock is standing on a bridge, looking down at the shining, dark water that
flows without haste, to another, larger body of water. Sherlock is standing on the bridge, looking at the water and remembers how it was to dance with John. As he is standing there, in the sobering cold of the night, this memory seems like a dream to him. It’s a memory of the kind which seems so unreal that you inevitably ask yourself, did that happen? He knows, yes, it happened. He has danced with John. Behind closed curtains. In the light of the fire in the fireplace. To slow, quiet music.
And he wasn’t prepared for it.
Not prepared, for John’s gentle, careful touch. Not
prepared to feel John’s warm hands, not prepared to be so close to John
- almost intolerably close - and to feel his breath as he laughed
a bit embarrassed.
The memory is clear. Warm and painful at the same time. Torture without violence.
Sherlock sighs. His breath escapes before him in a steam cloud.
He realizes how tired he is. Exhaustion is becoming more and more apparent. His body feels heavy and light at the same time. It is more difficult for him to keep his eyes open.
But he does not want to go back. Back to Baker Street.
Back to all the memories. It is an apartment full of voices and shadows. Behind every door waits another memory.
With a little cocaine it would be easier, whispered a voice in his head and Sherlock nodded to himself. He begins to think about it.
At the same time he knows so much better. The drug is fleeting. The short, brief moment of oblivion and breath of happiness does not lessen the hours of depression and pain. It’s not worth it.
And yet … the thought is tempting. So tempting that Sherlock catches himself, how he already thinks about, where he could find his old dealer. Horrified and disgusted with himself, he strokes his stony face and
shakes his head violently, as if he could get rid of the thoughts wtih this.
Of course it doesn’t work.
Sherlock swallows and after a moment of desperate thinking he takes his cell phone out of his coat pocket and takes a look at the contact list. He sees John’s number standing at the top and swallows. It would be really nice to hear John’s voice again. But no. John is … busy. He mourns and has to take care of his daughter. John doesn’t have time to deal with Sherlock’s problems. John has also made it clear that he doesn’t want to see him. Anyone. Anyone but Sherlock, he said to Molly. No. John is not an option tonight.
His gaze glides farther, from Molly to Lestrade to Mike Stamford, whose number he has stored for some reason. Lestrade might … He had helped earlier. But it’s night. The Inspector is surely sleeping already. Or does he have night shift at the yard? Sherlock nervously licks his dry lip. Then he presses on the receiver. If not now, his courage will disappear in a few seconds … He pushes the phone to his ear. Hears it beeping. Once, twice …
Sherlock closes his eyes. He swallows. “Hello, uh, Lestrade. I wanted …”
“Sherlock, you know it’s late at night?” Asks Lestrade, sounding as if he were half asleep. So no night shift. Stupid. So stupid. Sherlock bites his lip. “I’m sorry. I … I will not bother you any longer. Good night.”
“No. No wait. Why are you calling?”
Yes why? There is no case. What do you want to tell him now?
“I …” Sherlock presses a hand against his forehead. Hard. “I, uhm …”
“Sherlock? What’s the matter?” Now Lestrade sounds very much awake and worried. Worried. Why does I always have to cause problems for everyone? Sherlock can’t say it and he feels cold sweat breaking out on his
forehead, fear presses his throat, and all he can get out is a pressed, "I
can’t …” And then he begins to hyperventilate.
“God, Sherlock! Okay, breathe more slowly. Where are you? I’ll pick you up.”
Sherlock chokes out the address with difficulty. Lestrade tells him something like “Stay where you are,” and he sinks to the ground, his back against the railing of the bridge. He puts the phone away and hides his face in both hands.
Sherlock has no idea how much time has passed when Greg suddenly kneels before him and shakes him lightly on the shoulders.
“God, Sherlock. It’s ice cold. What are you doing here in the middle of the night?”
Yes what? Sherlock doesn’t know what to say. He shrugs.
Greg sighs and rubs his neck. “Come on, get up. I’ll drive you home … ”
At the word home, Sherlock hastily shakes his head. “No,” he mutters. “Not Baker Street …”
Greg frowns but doesn’t inquire further. “Not Baker Street. OK. Then … my place, is that all right?”
Sherlock nods. He stands up, noting how weak his legs are. He follows Greg to the car and leaves the bridge and the water behind him.
The ride is quiet. And short.
Lestrade doesn’t try to question him. He only switches the conditioning system on, to maximum level, when he notices Sherlock’s trembling. And the radio. There’s a quiet song from a band Sherlock doesn’t know. It’s quite soothing. Warmth spreads slowly in the car and makes him even more tired, as he already is. His eyes almost close. He is frightened when Greg suddenly murmurs, “There we are.”
The two men get out and enter Lestrade’s small, tidy apartment.
Sherlock stands a little lost in the middle of the living room, while Lestrade rummages in a drawer. “I’ll give you something to cover the sofa. Are you hungry?”
Sherlock shakes his head. “No,” he says hoarsely.
“OK. But You know where the kitchen is anyway.” Greg chuckles and pulls some sheets and a blanket out of the drawer and throws the things to Sherlock. He automatically catches them. “Thank you.”
“Yes.” Lestrade rubs his neck again. “Do you want to tell me … what happened?” He looks at Sherlock waitingly.
Sherlock looks down at his feet. “I … it was only, uhm, memories.” It is incomprehensible drivel. He knows it.
And yet, as Greg answers, he can hear understanding in the inspector’s voice. “Mmh. You know you can call at any time, okay? Me. And also Molly. Or your brother. If you need help. If it gets too much.”
Sherlock just nods. He still stares at his feet.
“OK. So, good night Sherlock. I really need to get up early tomorrow,” Greg says and yawns.
“Good night,” Sherlock replies, listening to Greg leaving the room.
Sherlock covers the sofa and goes to the kitchen to drink a glass of water.
A few minutes later he lies on his back and stares into the darkness. He is glad he didn’t take drugs. But somehow he feels that it will not be long before he has to fight this battle again.
Greg is already gone when Sherlock wakes up the next morning.
When he looks at the clock, he sees with horror that he has slept for almost 10 hours. It is noon and outside life is moving forward.
A plate of scrambled eggs and toast is in the kitchen. And a pack of orange juice.
Sherlock must smile involuntarily.
Orange juice. So he remembered that.
A little later he goes back to Baker Street. And together with Mrs. Hudson he finds Mary’s message.
A few days later he goes to hell.
And suddenly there is no longer any reason to suppress the need for drugs. He feels worse and more worthless than ever.
But I do it for John, he tells himself. It’s different because it’s for John.
I’m not entirely happy with this ficlet, but I post it anyway. Maybe you can tell me what do you think about it?
Like always: Tags under the cut. Did I forget you, or do you want to be tagged in future works? Tell me :)
If it's not weird, can you show us your handwriting? Thank you♥
OK SO THERES SOMETHING REALLY WEIRD WITH MY HANDWRITING
I “””have””” two handwritings.
My real handwriting is the second one. I use it when I’m not in class, or when I don’t have to write something important. As u can see, it’s a left slanted handwriting for some reason. Like I never saw someone with a left slanted handwriting its weird but it’s my real handwriting.
But I noticed that when I take exams, teachers tend to not like this handwriting. I don’t know why but they just don’t like it. So when I take an exam I always use an usual italic handwrtiting because it looks serious and clean??
I know that handwriting reflects personality but I don’t know anything about this eheh tell me the meaning lmao
I sang at the funeral of a man I did not know today. A little girl sat in the front pew of the church crying her eyes out, and not one person reached out to comfort her. I started crying too when I saw her. I realized I saw something of my own childhood self in her.. I wanted so badly to go over and give her a hug and tell her, “it’s okay; you’re not alone,”… but that would have been weird so I wrote this instead.
She will sit alone
Crying in the pew at church
No more than ten years old
Swollen red eyes
Frozen with fear and grief
She feels things deeply
No one will console her
She will learn
To comfort herself
She will learn
To rely on no one.
The Grill was busy. People coming in and out, ordering drinks and greasy burgers. You wiped off the stray crumbs on an outside table and spray the disinfectant onto a rag. “Y/N!” You looked up to see the one and only Kai Parker coming towards you.
You nodded towards him and finished wiping down the table. “Hey. Can I talk to you?” Kai whispered, looking around.
“Yeah, sure. You okay?” You wondered why he was looking over his shoulder so much.
“Something weird is going on.” Kai’s cheeks were flushed slightly.
You went to the next table and picked up the glasses and baskets of cold fries. “Okay, let’s go in the back.” You said, nodding towards the Grill.
Once inside the kitchen, you placed the classes in the luke warm water. “What’s up?” You dried your hands and leaned against the counter.
Kai took a seat on one of the extra chairs and leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees. “Okay.” He let out a shaky breath. “Something is wrong with me. I was watching this movie, right?”
“And in the movie this kid threw this ball and a dog ran to go get it. The dog was in the road and then this bastard ran him over! Then suddenly, water was just oozing out of my eyeballs like I’m some alien creature excreting fluids.” Kai explained quickly.
You stared at Kai carefully. “You mean you cried?”
Kai laughed loudly. “I’m a psychotic heretic, I don’t cry.”Kai puffed his chest slightly.
anytime i look thru my followers i ALWAYS come across like multiple girls who i wanna message n be like “girrrrrl ……..u are the prettiest thing and u just seem like an absolute sweetheart can we become best friends 4 life” but how do u do that without feeling like ur being #weird or #annoying
it’s so weird and sad to me that my roommate doesn’t feel comfortable going out of our dorm without a full face of makeup on. like i get that people say “it’s a choice so don’t criticize it” but it’s so viscerally upsetting to have her look at me getting ready/leaving for class barefaced and saying that she wished she was able to do that. it’s not a choice at that point. it’s commercial misogynistic manipulation and it’s disgusting.