i was equal parts amused and turned on by this

“Punishment” (Jooheon smut)

Originally posted by heonies

Title: Punishment

Featuring: Jooheon (Monsta X) x Reader

POV: 2nd

Rating: Mature. Thigh riding, spanking, dirty talk, daddykink.

Summary: Jooheon decides you need consequences for your actions, and a little something extra.

Requested by anon!

Jooheon was on the couch in front of you, slouched down and comfortable with his knees spread and one arm draped over the back. He raised an eyebrow at you, a smirk tugging the corner of his mouth.  Something about the way he was postured there, his t-shirt clinging to his sides and his pants just tight enough to outline his strong legs, it made you shiver.

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Working for Alfie and Michael tries to catch your eye, which you find very amusing. 

Originally posted by whysoserious

“Hey, boss,” you greeted Alfie, “Thomas Shelby is here. He brought his bookkeeper. Says he wants to talk numbers for the shipments to America that he organized for you.” You shrugged, walking next to the large man. Thomas Shelby was reliable when it came to business. You didn’t know his bookkeeper, and as one of Alfie Solomon’s trusted advisers, colloquially known as a body guard of sorts, you didn’t just want to leave them all alone together. If Alfie died, well, you were out of a job, and you couldn’t help admitting there was a slight endearment you felt for the old man. 

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flower writing prompt 1:

PROMPT: Your Sole x R.J MacCready - Ulmus flower👍
ULMUS: royalty, strength, age

NOTE: I know I took my sweet time with this, but it became SO much more than I originally expected to write. thank you anon for the prompt!! I CAN’T BELIEVE I JUST WROTE MY FIRST EVER FINISHED FIC FOR FLO AND MAC??? SKJKJlkjdsf;lsdk I hope you enjoy this self-indulgent little piece of writing I whipped up in like two hours (get ready for some mac domesticity), and if you reblog that ask meme I’ll make sure to invade ur inbox with flowers because these are ridiculously fun <3 

The one strand of white had hidden itself well among the locks of hair above his forehead. MacCready almost didn’t notice it at first. It was when he got closer to the mirror to inspect his teeth that it casually fell in front of his eyebrow, like a crack in the glass, almost proudly presenting itself to him. 

No way. Squinting, he isolated it with his fingers. The tip of it was golden brown, like it was supposed to be, but sure enough, the lower half of was a breathtakingly glossy - almost polished - silver. His eyes widened. There had been many false alarms in the past couple of years, but this time he was certain.

It was a real, genuine, gray hair.

“Holy shit!” He went racing down the hallway in his boxers, face still dripping-wet. “Flo! Holy shit!”

“Mac, honey, the kids can hear you from outside!” He nearly skidded past the kitchen door in his excitement, before getting right up to her face and pointing proudly to the drooping strand of hair.


She put a hand over her mouth, but he could just see her smile. “Is that..?”

When she found her first gray hair, they had only just gotten married, and Duncan was only five. Between the kids, the raiders, and the settlements, Florence hadn’t had time to think of aging ever since waking up in Vault 101. “You’re gonna have to point them out to me from now on. Before long my entire head will go too, you know,” she said to him after plucking it out, half as a joke and half as a precaution. Truth be told, MacCready couldn’t recall more than three people in his entire life who had lived long enough to have an entire head of gray hair, and it was unexpectedly difficult for him to imagine Flo becoming one of them. He could tell she hated it.

After dinner that day she sat herself down at the old, slightly banged-up vanity in their bedroom, silently combing her hair and parting it this way and that, experimenting with ways to hide the coming change. It was killing him that he wasn’t able to help with how upset she was.

“Tell you what,” he said. “Let’s do this thing right.”

She turned to him, looking amused. “What are you talking about?”

“You’re all about fairness and equality in the Wasteland - you tell me if it’s fair that you’re on your way to having a head full of gray hair, and I don’t even have a single one yet.” She started to laugh, but he stopped her, taking her hand in his with a small, sly smile. “Oh, I’m dead serious, sweetheart. You have nearly a hundred years’ head start on this age thing. No way am I gonna let you get old without me.”

“So you’re gonna - what - lawyer my hair out of changing color? You’re sweet, Mac, but it’s not..” Florence trailed off, then said, “It’s not so much having a head full of gray hair. It’s not knowing if I’ll be with you, Shaun, and Duncan long enough for that to happen that’s scaring the hell out of me. I mean - who knows if that’s even possible for us, living the way we do?”

“Well, I…” He knew telling her not to worry with him around was irresponsible - he had made that promise too many times for it to matter anymore. “You know I’m never gonna leave you if I have any say in it.”

"I know you won’t,” she gave him a sad, brittle smile. “But sometimes neither of us get a say in it, and I just can’t help worrying…" 

“Then wait for me to catch up so you don’t have to worry alone. Whatever you want to do with those gray hairs - getting rid of ‘em, or hiding, or dyeing ‘em - just say the word and I’ll help you do it. I’ll get you whatever you need. Just don’t leave the starting line without me. Let me worry about that with you.

"It’s gray! You’re old!” She yells between giggles.

“I know! I know!” he laughs. “I know, I know, I know!”

They stay like that for a while, but soon quiet down, transitioning from laughter to a more tearful kind of joy. 

She finally pulls back from the embrace to take a good, long look at him, still sniffling. “Hey, you,” she says, in a way that always makes him melt, and frowns.

“What is it?”

“Oh, nothing. I was going to say something witty about how you finally caught up, but it looks like I’m gonna have to step up my game. You’re one ahead of me now.” She’s smirking now, and softly thumbs a small thread of silver on his chin. “Really should’ve thought twice before messing with the best.”

He grins, leaning in for a kiss. They hear the sounds of Shaun and Duncan imitating laser pistols somewhere out in the fields.

“Man,” Mac says as he breaks away, gazing at Florence and quietly thanking all the choices he had made prior to that moment that led him to her. “Who knew growing old together was so much fun?”

futureboy  asked:

jeremwood + “Quit moving, I’m trying to sleep. Wait…are you…what?!”

Wow this only took Me approximately 38 years to get to this

Ryan moaned, his alarm blaring loudly on the night stand. For a brief moment, he considered just burying his head under his pillow and going back to sleep, but the piercing sound rattled its way through his brain and he gritted his teeth. At the very least, he had to turn off that fucking alarm clock.

He thrust his arm out, ready to either shut it off or maybe break the fucking nuisance. He didn’t particularly care which at the moment. But, he was extremely confused, and more than a little concerned, when, instead of grabbing at the smooth plastic that he was used to, his hand slapped against skin with a dull thud.

The body next to him groaned, shifting and pulling the blankets off of Ryan. Which was a dick move, thanks, as it currently felt like a fucking walk-in meat freezer in his room.

Ryan tensed, keeping his eyes screwed shut. He doesn’t remember bringing somebody home last night, nor was he exactly interested in one night stands to begin with. And, considering he doesn’t drink, he’s relatively sure he’d remember something like this. As it stands, he very much does not.

He does remember leaving the rest of the crew at the bar, too tired to deal with their drunken bullshit for any longer. There was only so much you can take hearing the same alcohol-fueled arguments over and over again, and Ryan had reached that limit a solid two hours before he actually left.

He remembers driving home, alone, and walking in, also alone. He remembers drinking his diet coke alone, and eating a dry bowl of cereal over the kitchen sink instead of at the table, still alone. He got undressed alone, and he sure as fuck went to bed alone.

So, who the fuck…?

Whoever it was clearly didn’t want to kill him, or if they did, they were doing a real shit job of it, so Ryan didn’t exactly feel compelled to grab his gun yet.

He turned over, ready to put this mystery to rest. He winced at the sunlight on his face, and wiped his eyes blearily. He looked over at the body, and sighed.


Alright, he thought, watching Jeremy snore and burrow deeper under the covers, that answers ‘who the fuck?’

Ryan poked his shoulder experimentally, snorting when Jeremy, still very much unconscious, just weakly swatted his hand away.

That still doesn’t answer why the fuck, however.

He poked him again, and when that yielded the same results, Ryan began shaking him, calling his name.

“Quit moving, I’m trying to sleep.” Jeremy muttered sleepily, pulling the blankets tighter over him. There was a beat, and suddenly his eyes snapped open. “Wait… are you…” He stared at Ryan blankly, frowning. “What?!”

Ryan just watched the realization flit over Jeremy’s face, equal parts amused and frustrated.

“Ryan,” Jeremy asked, tentatively. “What are you doing in my room?”

Ryan rolled his eyes, sitting up just enough to lean his head against his hand.

“You’re in my room, asshole.”

“No, that’s not–” Jeremy looked around, eyes widening. “Oh.” He breathed out. Another pause. “Ryan… Why am I in your room?

“Good question there, J. Was wondering the same thing myself, actually.”

“I don’t,” Jeremy rubbed at his temple. “I don’t really remember much from last night. We were walking home? And, Michael and Gavvy were arguing-”

“Shock.” Ryan interrupted, drily.

“Right?” Jeremy smiled. “And, like, the argument turned to me, I guess? Gavin bet me that I couldn't…” He trailed off, grimacing. “Uh, Ry? Can you, uh, tell me if your window’s open?”

Jeremy…” Ryan warned, eyes narrowing. His gaze darted to his window, and, yup, it was, unsurprisingly, wide open. That explained why it felt like the fucking tundra in there.

Jeremy looked up at him sheepishly. The hand Ryan wasn’t leaning on came up to pinch the bridge of his nose.

Jeremy,” he started slowly, closing his eyes. “Did you, by any chance, fucking climb in through my window last night?”

“You don’t know that.” Jeremy immediately denied. “Could have been anyone.”


“Listen, Ry. I don’t know why you’re accusing me here, but I will not stand for it.”

Ryan opened his eyes just in time to watch Jeremy struggle to sit up, the blanket wrapping around his legs.

Jeremy Dooley.” Ryan huffed angrily, nostrils flaring.

“No, it’s too late for apologies, Ryan.” Jeremy backed away from the bed quickly, tripping over his own feet. “I’m leaving. I know when I’m not wanted.”

“No,” Ryan growled, glaring at Jeremy’s retreating form. “You obviously don’t.

“Maybe your window shouldn’t have been so easy to open, Ryan, think about that?”

Jeremy yelped when the still ringing alarm hit the wall next to his head, and he ran out.

Ryan sighed, throwing his head back against the pillows.

At least the alarm finally shut up.

anonymous asked:

If you're still taking requests, Jaal shows Ryder how to do his sneak attack move?

[Prompts from this post. Still open!]

(Slight NSFW warning on this one!)

Ryder frowned down at her wrist, cloaking device heavy on what used to be a very light hand.

“I already don’t like it,” she said, waving it experimentally.

“It is the lightest model currently in existence,” Jaal informed her as he tugged a crate into place. “You won’t find a better one.”

The valley stretched out on either side of the outpost, Kadara’s grassy landscape giving way to rough, craggy peaks that enclosed the smuggler’s den they’d cleaned out and reclaimed weeks ago. It was near enough to the Andromeda settlement that the militia used it as training grounds, though they’d left it for the Pathfinder’s personal use that afternoon, outlaws’ cover and barricades still intact.

“I use my hands a lot with my biotics.” Ryder went through the motions of sending out a blast. Confirmed – slower and clunkier. “Even something like a ring could throw me off.”

“Which is why you’ll need practice. Now.” Jaal pointed out a mesh-covered crate sporting a few scorch marks about a hundred meters away. “Watch what I do.”

He blinked out of sight for a few seconds, only to reappear behind the crate with a wave. “And again,” he called, disappearing.

He was gone longer this time. Frowning, Ryder leaned forward over her cover -

- only to feel warmth against her back as Jaal pinned her in place from behind, arms coming into view as they trapped her.

“It’s quite useful,” he murmured against her ear, hips pressed firmly into her backside, “when one needs to be very close.”

Smirking, she shifted her hips back a bit. “In combat?”

“Among other things.” He hummed appreciatively, planting a kiss on her neck and giving her a playful squeeze as he extricated himself. “'Give it a shot,’ as you say.”

Skeptical, Ryder hit the switch on her glove to activate the cloak. Looking down at herself was odd – as though she were somehow covered in an oil slick – but she was here to learn. She leapt over the barrier, running where Jaal had been moments ago, and flicked back into visual. Jaal was watching from their origin point, arms crossed.

“Faster,” he instructed.

She did it again on the return, this time sprinting to her destination.

“So,” she breathed. “How was that for time?”

“Still too slow. You need to arrive before a motion sensor tracks you.”

“And how do I do that?”

“Watch again.” He flashed to the target, and Ryder frowned.

“Hey, SAM. Can you record this?”

“Yes, Pathfinder.” The artificial voice chimed in her ear. “I will expand Jaal’s movements by the millisecond for ease of study.”


When Jaal came back, she asked him to repeat it a third time, and watched SAM’s playback of the strike via heat signature. It spiked at the beginning of his run, high and hot.

Bioelectricity, she realized. He was propelling himself with energy.

“All right,” she announced. “I have an idea.”

“By all means.”

Bouncing in place a bit like a boxer, Ryder gathered up the biotic force needed for a charge. “Three,” she muttered. “Two.”

She hit the cloak and leapt forward, unleashing the biotics she’d gathered…

…and went careening straight into the target barrier and dented it, tumbling ass-over-head with an undignified squawk.

Damnit,” she breathed from the ground. “I was sure that would work.”

She heard a laugh from above as Jaal leaned into view, offering his hand. “You succeeded,” he admitted. “Perhaps a bit too spectacularly.

She took it, and he brushed her off. “Once you’ve recovered, we’ll try again.”

A wicked thought struck her as his hand (albeit innocently) grazed her backside, and she indicated a rocky outcropping further out. “What about with higher ground?”

“Ah, yes. You’ll need to compensate midway.” He rolled his shoulders. “Shall I demonstrate?”

“If you wouldn’t mind.”

“Not at all.”

He turned and disappeared, and she waited for him to come into view on the rocks. He raised a hand to indicate his return, and as he blinked back out, she counted down again - this time without moving her feet.



At ‘one,’ she reached out and grasped at where she estimated he’d be, lifting him with her biotics. She wasn’t sure she’d succeeded until his cloak faded and there he was in midair, looking perplexed in a bubble of swirling neon. As his gaze fell on her, however, the confusion was replaced with equal parts amusement and irritation.

“Very clever, taoshay.

“I thought so.”

“A counter is useful, though not the point of the exercise.”

She lowered him a bit as she walked closer, but didn’t free him. “I’ve got a better idea. Why don’t we practice cloaking first, and we can move on once I’m better at that?”

Jaal made no attempt to right himself in suspension, and his total trust warmed Ryder’s heart.

“That seems reasonable,” he concurred. “What do you suggest?”

Ryder only offered a smirk, saying nothing as she shrugged off her jacket. She toed out of her boots next, leaving them neatly beside an empty storage cylinder. Then came the belt, holster, armguards, all added to the pile.

When she reached for the zipper of her undersuit, she didn’t need SAM to tell her that Jaal’s heart rate was up.

“Ryder,” he managed as she peeled out of it and bent over a little more than necessary to give him a good view. “Darling one, I - what are you -”

She made eye contact once more before switching on her cloak, seeing his eyes follow the bra and panties that materialized and neatly finished off the heap of clothes.

“I won’t go far,” she instructed, “as it’s both mildly dangerous out here and no fun if you don’t catch me. But this hold will drop as soon as I pass fifty meters.” With slow, silent footsteps, she passed by him and grazed an invisible hand over his crotch, eliciting a moan.

“When it does,” she whispered, “count to thirty. And then come find me.”

She squeezed once, and she was gone.

The Experiment - Chapter 2 (Eric X OC)

Rating: M (swearing/smut :p)

Genre: General

Thanks everyone for the re-blogs and support!!! IT IS SO AWESOME!!!  

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An alternative stand-alone with Eric and Fox, where they’re brought into a controversial faction experiment……may be sensitive subject matter/triggers…..enjoy :)


A few days later, too fucking soon, Max called Fox back to his office. Eric wasn’t there, but Fox’s hopes of avoiding him like she’d successfully done since she’d punched him were dashed when he entered the office just as she was sitting down. He flashed her a cocky smile as he took the seat beside her.

Fox rolled her eyes and looked back at the papers spread on Max’s desk.

Max glanced between the two leaders for a moment before speaking. Clasping his hands together on the desk in front of him, he took a deep breath.

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Roses and Revolutionaries pt. 2

(A/N) This was formerly titled Night Life, but I started fleshing out the plot (and ending!) and decided that this was more representative of the direction I wanted to go with this story. I can say that the story is going to be much more focused on The Count and the Volturi in the future, but I felt it was best to establish Y/n as a character and give the story some context before I go into any further detail with The Count. Just know that is coming soon! Probably in the next chapter.

Originally posted by whotfuk

Part One

*The new & impoved version, Roses and Revolutionaries: Revamped, is here as promised.

It was not until daybreak when the sun peaked out from the horizon that Alec realized it would be best to move the girl’s limp body. Soon the residents of the neighborhood would make their way out of their homes and discover an unfamiliar boy with red eyes and sparkling skin and an unconscious girl covered in blood, a spectacle Alec decided he could live without.  

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one hundred ways to say “I love you.”


“It reminded me of you.”

Harold’s whole body turns to face John then; he could feel himself twitching with facial acrobatics of befuddlement and disbelief.  “A bunch of indecipherable squiggly lines reminded you of me?” Harold says dubiously, trying and failing not to sound vaguely insulted by the very notion.

John’s own face is a mixture of amusement and smugness, and it’s equal parts endearing and annoying.  “Who says it’s indecipherable?” John drawls all-too-innocently as he moves to stand beside him, hands loosely tucked in his pockets with a pose Harold knows all too well as feigned casualness.

Harold narrows his eyes.  “It’s supposed to have meaning?”

John smirks.  “You’re the genius, Finch.  You tell me.”

Harold glares, but he knows it’s futile; John isn’t intimidated by him anymore, and merely gives him a mysterious smile.

Harold huffs and turns his attention back to the wall.  They’re at John’s loft, unwinding after a successful case with their latest Number; they happened to be in the area anyway, and John invited him upstairs for some tea.  He had tried not to show his surprise when he saw that not only has John stocked his kitchen with fresh (and rare) tea leaves for Sencha green, but has also purchased tea makers, infusers, and complete tea sets, with linen.  John had brewed a fresh pot for him, and poured it into the most ridiculously delicate porcelain teacup Harold has ever seen, and handed it into him as if nothing was out of the ordinary.

Harold would’ve been tempted to tease, except John had offered it to him with such a doleful look, not unlike Bear when he’s hopefully looking up at Harold for praise — or treats.  “I promise it’s not poison,” John had said encouragingly, tinged with just the slightest hint of nervousness.  Relenting, Harold had graciously accepted the offered teacup, and surprisingly discovered that it was, in fact, the best Sencha green he had ever tasted.

John had brightened then, looking so pleased and proud, and Harold had been thankful that the tea was quite warm so he could blame the flush in his cheeks to the steam rising from the cup.  Curiosity piqued, he was about to ask the reason for the tea, when something else suddenly caught his eye and demanded his full attention.  Something utterly mind-boggling.

“They look like something a toddler would’ve drawn on the wall with a crayon,” Harold deadpans.

John is unperturbed.  “Do they?” 

Harold scowls.  John’s smile widens.

It wasn’t, in fact, drawn with a crayon.  When Harold had prepared this loft for John, he had deliberately left it sparse, wordlessly allowing John the freedom to decorate and make use of it as he wants to; it is, after, all, his.  For the most part, John had left it as it was when Harold had first given it to him, seemingly finding comfort instead in the simple, efficient, minimalistic style of the military.  

Except John seems to have a… unique (bordering on questionable) sense of aesthetics when it comes to interior decorating.  Particularly with what he has chosen to decorate the largest wall with.

“I don’t understand, Mr. Reese,” Harold says, frustrated.  “They’re squiggles.

John grins.  “Meaningful squiggles, Finch.”

They were deliberately placed too, because they weren’t drawn into the wall.  It was made with nails and string, not unlike the board Finch had once used to keep track of the Irrelevants he failed to save (the board that had mysteriously disappeared, and though they never once spoke about it, he had a feeling John had disposed it without his knowledge when he caught Harold looking painfully at the board too often).

There were no pictures here though, just seemingly randomly placed nails with string threaded through them, forming several rows of horizontal lines that go up and down, like a roller coaster, except with no sense of direction or design or aesthetic whatsoever.  

Harold stares at him, aghast.  “They really mean something to you?”

John looks at him then, and his tone turns soft and serious.  “They mean the world to me.”

Harold’s breath catches in his throat as he watches John’s gaze travel over the wall’s design of his making; the only personal touch in the seemingly impersonal living space.  “Despite what you believe, Finch,” John murmurs, “you don’t know everything about me.”

Harold doesn’t know why, but hearing that… hurts.

He turns away from John then, knowing that his face is betraying an emotion he doesn’t want the other man to see.  He lifts the teacup and sips a little too quickly, the tea scalding the back of his throat.  He looks up at the lines of nails and thread, and his face hardens, resolute.

He may not know what it means.  But he’s determined to find out.

He’s surrounded by a fortress of books, with multiple tabs open in the monitor in front of him, when John walks into the library the next morning.  He senses the way John halts and hesitates before curiosity gets the better of him.  “Research for our new Number, Finch?”

Harold stiffens.  “No,” he says brusquely as he resumes his typing, pausing every now and then to refer to one of the open books on his desk and to write on the pad where he keeps his notes.  

He ignores the prickling on the back of his neck as he senses John staring at him.  He hears John step closer, and tries not to react when he feels John’s gaze sweeping over his desk, knowing what he’s seeing: stacks of books about ancient ciphers and codes in varying eras and parts of the world, the computer screen displaying the more modern ones.  Out of the corner of his eye, Harold sees the way John raises his eyebrows as one of the open tabs show that Harold has hacked into the (supposedly) secret codes of the CIA.  

“Finch,” John says slowly, “isn’t this getting a little… obsessive?”

Harold holds out for several more seconds before he can’t take it anymore.  He lets the pen he’s holding fall to the table with a loud clatter.  “Can’t you at least give me a clue as to what those lines mean?” he asks helplessly.

He swivels in his chair to look up at John, and stops short.  Despite the obvious amusement in his features, John also looks strangely… fond.  Harold swallows, unsure why he suddenly feels embarrassed.  And so… exposed.

John lets his fingers run lightly over one of the book’s open pages, his gaze faraway and unseeing.  “I don’t know what to tell you, Finch,” he says softly, “except that it’s the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.”

Harold crosses his arms over his chest.  “That doesn’t really help at all.”  He refuses to pout like a child.  He comes very close to it.

John chuckles.  “Do we have a new Number?” he asks, deftly changing the subject.  

“No,” Harold says morosely.  He heaves a deep sigh and makes a shooing gesture.  “You can have the day off, Mr. Reese.”

John’s mouth quirks.  “I’ll leave you to your research then, boss.”

Harold glares at him; the man even has the gall to wink at him. 

Sniffing, he turns back to his computer and his books.  He hears John’s footsteps fading into the background, before he hears a pause as John bends down with a low whisper to Bear.

“Make sure he doesn’t wear himself out, okay?”

Surprised, Harold turns around to look at John, but he’s already gone.

The library feels strangely… empty.

Harold sits straight up, startled out of his stupor at Bear’s loud bark.  He blinks the sleep out of his eyes and fumbles for his glasses, his movements lethargic as his limbs seem to take a bit longer to adjust to wakefulness.  He squints at the dust motes visible from the sunlight streaming in from the windows, and he realises that it’s already late in the afternoon.  He must have fallen asleep at his desk again.  

Bear woofs again, and Harold pats his head apologetically.  “I guess it’s time for your walk,” he says gently.  He moves to stand—and gasps.

Pain shoots up from his spine with an electric jolt, digging into his shoulders and his injured leg like shards of glass.  Belatedly, Harold realises that his prolonged nap not only made his overworked, overtired muscles stiff and aching—it also made him forget to take his scheduled painkillers.  

He lowers himself slowly, hissing through gritted teeth, and through the haze of pain he can hear Bear whimpering.  He lets his eyes flutter open as he senses Bear’s movements, and he sees the dog nosing at an amber bottle that Harold very clearly remembers wasn’t there before.

Bear pushes it toward him.  Shakily, Harold reaches out to take it, and even the blinding pain isn’t enough to make him fail to recognise the prescription bottle.  

Bear noses another object toward him, and Harold smiles at the dog gratefully as he takes the water bottle.  He realises that it’s already pre-opened with the seal already broken, and he has a moment to be oddly touched before another stab of pain whites out all his thoughts.  He quickly shakes out the pills and downs them with gulps of water, before he replaces the caps on both containers… and waits.

He doesn’t know how much time passes; it may have just been minutes, even though it feels like hours.  Bear has settled himself by Harold’s feet with his chin on Harold’s lap, staunchly watching him the entire time.  As soon as Harold finally feels like he can breathe without the phantom sensation of his spine grinding itself to pieces with every expansion and contraction of his lungs, he tenderly runs his fingers through the dog’s soft fur.

“Thank you, Bear,” he says as Bear thumps his tail minutely, almost hesitantly against the floor, as if still unsure of the state of his master’s well-being.  “Although… am I correct in assuming that Mr. Reese is the one who dropped these earlier while I was sleeping?”  He thumbs at the prescription bottle as it rattles in his hand.

Bear woofs, and Harold smiles, feeling a warmth blossom in his chest.  “Then I suppose I have to thank him as well.”

He turns over the bottle thoughtfully.  “Though I wonder how he knew the right brand and dosage,” he muses, “not to mention the time and frequency needed for me to—”  

He stills.

Can’t you at least give me a clue as to what those lines mean?’

He stares at the bottle.  “Of course,” he murmurs to himself.  “How very clever, Mr. Reese.”

Finally convinced that his master is out of immediate danger, Bear shuffles back to make room as Harold swivels his chair forward and powers up the monitor of his computer.  Operating on a strong hunch, he opens his personal files and accesses his medical records.

And there, in front of him, is the answer.

‘They mean the world to me.’

‘It’s the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.’

“Oh,” Harold breathes.  “Oh John.

Evening finds him standing in the middle of John’s loft, once more staring at the lines on the wall.

“You covered them with fluorescent paint,” Harold observes.

Several feet behind him, a good distance away, John steps out of the shadows.  “Yes,” he quietly affirms.  “I did.”  

John’s military efficiency shows in his habits; the only lights he turns on at night are the ones in the bathroom and in the kitchen counter.  In fact, the only illumination of the room is coming from New York City itself, as the lights filter in through the windows which John—despite being an intensely private person himself—refuses to cover with curtains.

Harold is beginning to suspect, however, that there’s another reason why John prefers his loft to be blanketed in shadow at night, aside from the practical reason of saving electricity.

Harold tilts his head toward the design on the wall.  “They look like constellations,” he softly remarks.  The fluorescent paint made the entire thing glow in the dark; the nails stand out like stars in the night sky, the thread connecting them reminiscent of the shapes that can be found in astrology books.  “It’s beautiful.”

A small smile plays on John’s lips as he steps closer.  “It is,” he agrees.  “I needed the reminder.”

“Oh?” Harold looks at him.  “Of what?”

John moves to stand beside Harold, the fabrics of their sleeves nearly brushing.  “Of a light that never goes out, no matter how dark the world gets.”

Harold’s heart flutters at that.  “I see,” he says, carefully neutral.  “That’s… a very optimistic view to have, Mr. Reese.”

John looks up at the wall.  “They give me hope,” he murmurs, indicating the glowing lines.

Harold takes a deep breath.  John senses his wordless unease, and blinks when Harold hands him a file.  He takes it, opens the folder—and Harold sees the exact moment it registers in John’s eyes that Harold finally knows.

“I wonder, Mr. Reese,” Harold begins softly, “why would you design your wall with the test results of my electroencephalogram?” 

Harold steps closer as John peruses the medical records Harold knows John has already seen in detail before.  Harold tries very hard not to think about how John may have acquired those records in the first place, and very possibly kept a copy for himself as reference; the design on John’s wall is a near-perfect replica of Harold’s EEG reading, the star-like lines a larger, glowing version of the measurement and recording of Harold’s brain activity. 

“Specifically,” Harold continues, gentle in his probing, “it’s the reading the doctors gave me when they tested me after the bombing.”

John’s head snaps up at that, but Harold’s gaze is calm.  The memory doesn’t give him pain anymore, only a lingering sense of loss that he’s continuously learning to live with; Nathan’s absence will always be Harold’s phantom limb, the burden of guilt a constant, sobering guide for his conscience.

Slowly, John closes the folder and hands it back to Harold.  He takes it, and waits.

“It reminds me to be careful,” John finally says as he looks back at the wall.  “To protect at all cost what the world can’t afford to lose.”

Harold holds his breath.  “And what is that, Mr. Reese?”

John is quiet for a moment longer.  He closes his eyes, and even as Harold watches, the most peaceful expression Harold has ever seen settles over John’s features.

“A beautiful mind that can save the world.”

Harold turns away.  It’s almost too painful to look at John then.

A light that never goes out, no matter how dark the world gets.’

He blinks away the sudden mistiness that comes over his eyes.  He removes his foggy glasses and takes out his pocket square to wipe them clean.  When he puts them back on, John is looking at him, waiting.

They are teetering on the edge of a precipice, and John, as always, is following Harold’s lead on whether or not they both should leap.

“I suppose,” Harold manages to say amidst the rapid beating of his heart, “we should schedule for an electrocardiogram next.”

He turns to John, who at first has a look of confusion on his face, before it swiftly ratchets into tempered panic.  “Finch, are you—”

“No, no, Mr. Reese, I’m perfectly fine,” Harold puts up both his hands to placate John.  “I meant, we should schedule an ECG for you.”  

John blinks, looking completely bewildered.  “Me?  But why?”

Harold smiles, and glances up at the wall.  “Because your design is incomplete, John.  It’s missing its other half.”

He hears a sharp intake of breath, and Harold turns to him.  “We need the other half of the equation,” he softly explains.  “After all, what is a beautiful mind that can save the world… without a beautiful heart that can change it?”

The city lights are reflected in John’s eyes as they shine with a riveting combination of fear and hope.  Harold steps closer into his personal space—much closer than they have ever been before—and sees the way John’s eyes dilate as Harold looks up at him.

“I suppose it’s for my benefit too,” Harold admits, dipping his gaze shyly as he places a hand on John’s chest to steady himself.  “After all, I, too, need a reminder of what I can’t afford to lose.”

They’re standing so close together that Harold can feel the vibrations of John’s rumbling voice reverberating between them.  “And what is that?” 

Harold smiles, tucks his head beneath John’s chin, and presses his ear to John’s chest, hearing the rhythm of the future he’s fighting for.

“Your heart.”

anonymous asked:

ohh can u do #20 for the prompts pls, thx

Which member of your OTP gets terrible road rage

Sorry this took a bit nonnie - life is a little busy (also I had to sleep lol). As for everyone else waiting, I’ll be getting to your prompts this afternoon!

“Hey idiot! You have a turn signal for a reason!” Betty honked her horn twice, grumbling as the car in front of her turned right without any warning. “God I hate drivers.”

“Uh Betts,” Jughead spoke as calmly as he could, “You are a driver.”

Betty sighed taking a second to glare at him before gluing her eyes back to the road, “Fine then. I hate every driver that isn’t me. They’re morons, every last one!” She tossed a single hand in the air in exasperation as she came to a stop. “I hate driving.”

Jughead grimaced a bit at her behavior, finding her outbursts equal parts terrifying and amusing, “If you hate driving so much why don’t you just let me take us places?”

Betty threw him a look that clearly indicated she thought he was losing it. Guess her road rage wasn’t exclusively for those outside of the car. “Because, Jughead,” She explained, “This is my car. Which means my name is on the registration, and on the insurance, and -” A driver swerved into their lane, causing Betty to lay on her horn and send a middle finger in the vehicle’s direction. “You have to leave distance between cars, dimwit!” She chastised loudly, grumbling under her breath about the importance of road safety and education.

“You should really be careful Betty,” Jughead practically whispered, “One day you could seriously get in trouble.”

“Oh please,” Betty ignored him, “it’s not like they can hear me scream anyway.”

“Maybe,” Jughead appeased, “but I’m pretty sure they can hear the horn.” He didn’t want to irritate her further, but her attitude was starting to make him nervous. He wasn’t looking to die before he ever graduated high school.

Betty seemed to consider that for a moment, nodding her head in resolve, “Good. Then maybe they’ll realize they’re doing something wrong.” As if for emphasis, she drummed her fingers across the horn before slapping the top of the steering wheel.

Jughead sighed and did his best to settle back into his seat. She clearly wasn’t going to be persuaded, trying to talk her down would likely only distract her from her surroundings more. Besides, they were only five more minutes from their destination. They could survive that long.

Betty moaned loudly about the car in front of them moving too slowly, lobbing insults of “granny” and “geezer” before moving into the next lane and passing them with furious determination.

Well, Jughead thought, hopefully they could survive that long.

with grace in your heart and flowers in your hair

short jon/sansa drabble based on prompts from this list as requested by @hegelstriad and anon. canon-verse, post-s6. title is from “after the storm” by mumford & sons.

57) things you said when no one else was around; 58) things you were afraid to say

In the summer of her girlhood, her father promised to match her with someone brave and gentle and strong. Someone who is worthy of you, he said, oh so tenderly, with all the love that she took for granted, foolish and song-sick child that she was. But now winter has come and the time for singing is past, and Ned Stark is dead and Sansa is a girl no longer. She thinks back on his words with bittersweetness; it has been long years since anyone wished her happiness for happiness’ sake. She should have listened. How different life would have been.

But, in a way, she supposes that this is all right, too— her and Jon sitting in her solar in companionable silence, fat snowflakes tapping at the windows beneath night’s veil. This outcome is more than they could have hoped for once, before the Dragon Queen came and decided that leaving the North in the hands of a nephew who swore allegiance was better than razing it to the ground. Sansa suspects that that Tyrion Lannister had something to do with this decision— or perhaps Daenerys Targaryen is tired of war, just like everyone else.

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synteis  asked:

14, 40, 46 or 50 up to you.

So you’re probably not surprised that this is not going to be a one shot. I’ve chosen the nanny AU, here’s chapter one!

This was bound to happen eventually, Tony thought. He sat in a large vehicle of some kind – van or SUV – with a goon on either side, squishing him intentionally, just so he knew there was nowhere to go. Considering that he was bound hand and foot and in a moving vehicle, he didn’t need the reminder. The cloth sack they’d thrown over his head smelled nauseatingly of onions, and he had to keep his eyes closed against the burn.

“You know,” Tony started, because it wouldn’t be the first time he’d talked himself out of a nasty situation, but Left Goon smacked him flat across the face before he could get another word out. Stars popped up behind his eyes and the burning along his lower lids extended to encompass his nose as well.

“Could have just asked me to be quiet,” he said reasonably.

Right Goon drove the butt of a shotgun into his gut. “Be quiet, please,” he deadpanned when Tony was done retching and coughing.

It wasn’t right. Well, back up – there was a lot of it that wasn’t right. He’d been on vacation at his private chalet, enjoying a quiet evening with the skibunnies gone, and a nice bottle of wine to keep him company. He’d been minding his own business when the goons had burst in and rushed him before he could even get off the couch (and, okay, he’d literally been caught with his pants down, but all the kicking had been unnecessary).

Tony Stark had been abducted before. He was familiar with how it went. Take the rich guy, put him somewhere he couldn’t make too much trouble, contact the rich guy’s family and demand money for the rich guy’s return. Usually that meant a few days – at most – cooped up in a badly ventilated room, listening to goons watching TV through thin walls, and then going home. It was a business transaction, and it was part and parcel of being a “rich guy.” He didn’t have family anymore, but they would contact Obie, Obie would contact the firm that they went through to handle these things, Tony would be home by Monday.

Except that they were being rough with him. He’d gone through this four times since his sixth birthday. The only time any of the kidnappers had ever been rough with him was the political group that snagged him when he was sixteen, and they’d mostly wanted to make a point. He’d gotten himself out of that one once he realized that even if they got the two million they were asking for, they’d never let him go. This was different than even that – there had been no rhetoric, no name calling, the goons were just being rough.

Damaged goods, Tony thought wryly. You’re being stupid with your investment, boys. They’re not going to pay for me if I’m dead.

Of course, maybe getting paid wasn’t the point. Tony sealed his lips and started thinking.


Tony had been fighting down motion sickness for hours when the vehicle slowed and pulled over. The driver announced that he needed to piss, and the goons threw the door open to drag Tony outside for the same. He hadn’t been wearing shoes when they’d grabbed him, but the inside of the vehicle was warm enough. In contrast, the snow was so cold that it felt like walking on coals when he was roughly shoved to the side of the road. His feet had been bound with only a few inches between his ankles, and he went down on his knees. He tried to catch himself with his hands, but his wrists had been crossed before being tied and they were no help at all. He ended up with his face in the snow and not enough leverage to even get back to his knees. He struggled to turn his head far enough to breathe.

“Christ,” one of the goods complained. He grabbed Tony by the sack over his head and hauled him upright.

“Not going to be able to this without my hands,” Tony gasped out against the onion sack. His bladder had recoiled at the first touch of the snow, so he wasn’t sure he could do it even with his hands.

The goon snorted. “Think I’m stupid?”

Actually…Tony thought, but just barely managed to stop himself from giving the man an invitation to kick him a few times. The goon dragged him to his feet and wrapped on arm around the back of his shoulders to keep him still, squishing Tony into his bulk. He flicked Tony’s belt open with the other hand, grumbling unhappily under his breath as he yanked jeans and boxers aside.

“Go,” he said, holding Tony’s penis with a thumb and forefinger. “Come on, or it’s gonna freeze off.”

Biting his lip and holding down the competing surges of anger, frustration, and shame, Tony sucked in a slow breath and tried to relax. The goon kept muttering, growing obviously more impatient as the moments passed. His grip was tight and he smelled like body odor under too much Aqua Velva. Combined with the scent of the onion sack it was enough to make his insides all clench up at once.

“I don’t want you fucking pissing on yourself in the car,” the goon said, voice low and angry. “Come on.”

Being cajoled didn’t help, but Tony finally managed to get his arms up at angle so he could knock the goon’s hand away. He took himself awkwardly between his fingers. It wasn’t much better, but his bladder finally decided to cooperate. He tried to listen for the other goons over the splash of hot liquid on snow– there had been four – in hopes that once this goon had him buttoned up again, he might be able to… what? Flop down in the snow and roll blindfolded down a hill? Hop down the street barefoot?

Tony wasn’t a genius for nothing. He stood still and let the goon tuck him back in and close his pants. He waited until he was securely zipped up and the goon’s hands were away from his vitals before saying, “Thanks.”

If he’d hoped to gain some sympathy from his captor, he was mistaken. The goon cuffed him over the head and shoved him around. Tony stumbled again, but he was saved a second fall by one big hand on his shoulder, and the other in his belt. He was more or less thrown back into the vehicle, which had lost most of its warmth, but at least it was out of the snow and wind. He shuffled to right himself in the seat, but a door on the opposite side of the vehicle slid open and Left Goon leaned in, grabbed him by the thigh, and straightened him out in the middle seat. Tony held his arms up compliantly to be belted in and then he was left alone with both of the doors open.

As long as he breathed shallowly and kept still, he could just hear their voices. Four of them, as he’d thought, and one was higher pitched – a woman, or a young man. He tried to make out their words, but they were speaking a language he didn’t understand and couldn’t hear well enough to identify. He picked out his own name twice, but otherwise he didn’t gain anything new from the exercise before the goons piled back into the vehicle and slammed the doors.


It wasn’t the poorly ventilated backroom in a cheap apartment that he’d been expecting. Even the metal-flavored, moist air of the room was an improvement over the onion scented bag. Tony sucked in great gasps of air as soon as it was pulled away. The room was dark, and he blinked rapidly, trying to clear his vision enough to take in the space. The walls were rusted metal sheets, the floor concrete. It was a large, draughty space, a small corner of it cordoned off with bars.

Tony tried to maintain his balance as the goon roughly untied his ankles. He reached out thoughtlessly to put his hands on the man’s shoulder, and the goon paused. His hands gentled marginally as he unwrapped the ropes from Tony’s ankles. Tony shifted his feet as soon as they were free, sucking in a sharp breath as blood rushed back into his toes. He closed his eyes quickly when the goon shifted to stand.

“I haven’t seen your face,” he said, keeping his eyes screwed shut. He already suspected that he wasn’t getting out of this alive if things went to plan, but every precaution he could take was worth the effort.

“I’m wearing a mask,” the goon said. He sounded equal parts embarrassed and amused. Tony nodded, but he kept his eyes closed regardless. The goon untied his hands without any particular kindness or cruelty. He shoved Tony further into the cell and retreated, closing the bars with a firm clang. A moment later, he heard two heavy thumps, but he waited until he heard the goon’s retreat to turn around. A pair of boots had been thrown in with thick wool socks stuffed inside. He gathered them up, confused by the gesture. They hadn’t shown the slightest concern for his comfort the whole night, and the boots were puzzling, but he wasn’t going to complain.

The cell was empty but for a pile of blankets in the corner, and a toilet. Tony minced across the room on pins and needles, and dropped to the blankets. The blankets promptly shouted and shoved him off. Tony jumped, and fell onto the floor with a shout. He shoved himself away from the pile of cloth just a head emerged from the bundle. Tussled blonde hair capped a dirty face with a pair of blue eyes peering out from the mess.

The woman stared at him, wide-eyed and terrified. She was filthy, sunken-cheeked, and her lips were chapped, but he recognized the sweep of her brow, and her eyes.

“Gretel?” He hadn’t seen her in more than a year, though they’d dated several times and had some fun evenings together.

She look uncertain, but licked her lips and ventured, “Tony?”

“What are you doing here?” A horrible thought occurred to him and he asked, “How long have you been here?”

Glancing over through the bars, she pulled the mess of blankets back and Tony stared uncomprehending at her. She was wearing some thick coat that bloomed around her body like a tent, it was equally dirty.

“About four months,” she said, and grabbed his hand. She pushed his palm against her belly and Tony’s mind went briefly white.

She was very pregnant.

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piratesails  asked:

would you write a “I hit you with my car and was the only one to visit you in the hospital” cs au?

Emma sat just one light shy of making the last left-hand turn on her morning route, tapping her fingers impatiently against the steering wheel. It was one thing to be stuck in morning traffic, but to be trapped at a standstill less than half a mile from work? It was torture.

Another two commercials came and went on her radio, and she still hadn’t moved. She’d switched from tapping to quiet grumbling, wishing the guy on the motorcycle in front of her had just run the yellow like he was supposed to. All her life, people had told her to watch out for men on the two-wheeled death traps (their words, not hers) and now, as much as she hated to begrudge her former foster families anything, she could see the living proof. Emma found herself directing all her focus onto the light hanging up above the intersection as her engine idled, brow furrowing further as she willed it to turn green. She breathed a sigh of relief as it finally, finally turned, and pressed on the gas as patiently as she could.

Looking back on it now, Emma thinks, she probably should have checked to see if he was out of her way first.

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Bullying, Harassment and Online Stalking of Minors on Tumblr


My name is Katy. I am 39 years old and I am here today to talk to you about bullying, harassment and online stalking of minors on tumblr - specifically a young teenager name Dani.

Dani (@adorable-bc-picture), I hope you don’t mind me speaking here, but I am absolutely appalled and disgusted at the behaviour from supposedly grown ass women on tumblr.

Adults whom, for some unknown and unfathomable reason, have taken it upon themselves to be, to put it simply, ‘fandom police’.

Let’s start with a little about me - like I said, my name is Katy and I am 39 years old. I have been married to the absolute love of my life for 19 years. I have experienced every gamut of emotion, experienced high highs, low lows and the pleasing, beautiful average. I work full time in events management and I live in Australia.

Personally, I was bullied - heavily - as a child. Because I am in that age group where the internet was not particularly prevalent until I was in my 20s (especially for small-town Australia), my bullying happened in real life. I have been teased, harassed, bullied and beaten. I have been bloodied, bruised and depressed.

I have also dragged myself up off the ground, moved on and not looked back at the people who felt the need to belittle me and abuse me on a daily basis. The year I turned 8, I was beaten up every day after school, arriving home with bloodied lips, bruised eyes and self-esteem so low, that I wondered why I had ever been born.

As I grew up, I grew stronger. I made new friends. I moved on. But the psychological scars remain, to this very day. But I am successfully. I am loved. I am adored. I am cherished.

And I am thoroughly pissed off.

Addendum: I am not a Benedict Cumberbatch fan. So I have no interest in who the man is fucking. Who he married. Who he knocked up. I have no personal interest in the man AT ALL. Because, you see, that is important. I am not jealous or a hater or a sceptic or a nanny or a stan.

All I am in a human adult woman, appalled, disgusted and pissed off beyond anything I have ever been in my entire life.


I became aware of the Cumberbitches about 8 months ago. I watched a TV shown called Fargo, with Martin Freeman in it. I had seen him in The Hobbit but it wasn’t until I watched Fargo that I wanted to find out more of who this man was.

It was indirectly through Martin Freeman that I found out about the Cumberbitches (and I will ALWAYS use this term to describe fans of Cumberbatch, because, IMO, 99% of his fandom act that way). I was…not shocked, I guess you can say, at some of the actions and reactions I was seeing/reading. I’ve been around. I’ve been in a number of fandoms. There are ‘fandom police’ in every fandom, regardless of what people claim. There are always a certain group of people who feel the need to seek attention for their obsession. So don’t think the Cumberbatch fandom is anything special, because, frankly, you’re not. A lot more far reaching that some of the fandoms I have been a part of (the internet is hugely related to that) but no less and no more special.

Anyway…indirectly through finding out more about Martin Freeman, I found out about Benedict Cumberbatch.

And the fandom war that has apparently been occurring for coming on 2 years.

So, in becoming a Martin fan, I started reading more and more about Benedict. I mean, they do star together in an apparently successful TV show.

I learned a very many things. Things that in equal turns amused, bewildered, stunned and angered me.

Let’s see if I can get my thoughts in order, shall I?

For those who may not be fully aware what is happening, apparently a celebrity got engaged, said engagement was met with sceptism by some, glee by others and general apathy by the rest of us.

Let’s address the apathetic group first because IMO, that’s where I sit and where probably 99% of the population sits. Another celebrity gets engaged - woo? Am I meant to celebrate? Yes? No? Another celebrity marriage, another celebrity divorce, another celebrity child to read about in the future and shake my head at. Celebs make the gossip sites/magazines sell/get hits. Marriages, divorces, births, deaths, scandals…all of these things sell. They sell copies, the sell clicks, they sell ads, they sell movies, TV shows, albums, music, fashion…one big PR machine. It’s tiring. I don’t buy gossip magazines. I will admit to reading gossip sites - god forbid, I’m human - but I believe less than 1% of what I actually read, and less than 1% of that is actually the truth.

I can see a big ol’ PR machination from a mile off. Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes. Jennifer Aniston and Vince Vaughan. Kristen Stewart and Rob Pattinson. (Just to name a few that I bother to remember). Big Ol’ PR relationships to either (a) sell or save a reputation or (b) sell or save a project.

Now with Benedict Cumberbatch, I can smell, initially, a big ol’ PR push. Posh, white, straight male announces engagement to pretty English Rose type days before the start of his Oscar campaign for a movie he was very passionate about.

Yay! Cumberbitches celebrate! Benedict is finally getting married! Benedict is finally going to be a Cumberdad (god, don’t get me started on those inane and horrific mangling of his surname!)! Let’s all celebrate!

But wait! There are some fans who are shock horror sceptical about it. The timing? Well, come on now, right before his Oscar campaign starts? That’s kind of…coincidental, surely? Surely the man who talked (long and incessantly) about keeping his private life private wouldn’t do something so…crass. Surely not.

No! You’re WRONG. Benedict would NEVER do something like that! cried the Cumberbitches. Of course, we all felt a little sad that day when his engagement was announced (what. the. fuck??), so bleats a poor, sad little fan, but we should ALL BE HAPPY FOR HIM AND NOT HATE ON HIM OR HIS FIANCEE.

Or I will ‘skin you alive’ (or so one enterprising young fan on twitter stated)

So the sceptics began. A few too start with, then a few more, then a few more, then a lot more.

More and more people were starting to side-eye this who ‘engagement’ and the absolutely-not-at-all-conincidental timings of all the major milestones - engagement? Check! Expecting a baby? Check! Wedding? Check! Honeymoon? Check! Baby’s birth? Check! First pap pics of said baby (aww, what a doting and loving father to obviously sell pictures of his only child to a pap.) Check! The Mrs showing up on set while filming a MAJORLY flawed and BLATANTLY problematic Marvel film? Check! Full face photos of said infant taken while strolling around New York (how’s that ‘I would protect my children’ statement working out for you, Cumberbatch?) - and said photos not gagged, not yanked BUT STILL AVAILABLE FOR ORDER ONLINE.

Wow…did that all get away from me! It’s not a perfect timeline, I know from reading more that I have missed a lot, obviously, but even the most naive person can surely see that nothing is coincidental about any of this.

But no! No! Of course not, because now we have a group that frankly, I have to wonder what exactly is happening in their own lives, that they feel the need to come online and bully, harass and online stalk other people.

(And no, I’m not talking about the sceptics, though I truly am not finished with some of them!)

I’m talking about the group of peopleI have tagged below. Mind you, this is a very, very small fraction of the number of people who I have seen and read:

@thisdancingheart, @ohshitimatthewrongparty, @old-enough-2-know-better, @irisang, @thesecitystreets, @dmellieon, @furriesandus, @beneguinsophiebatch, @lions-tigers-benedict, @allthebellsinvenice, @trained-cormorant, @shit-bc-haters-say, @winterrose16312, @wtgilsa, @isabeau13, @isabeau221b, @londoncallingsigh, @bananacumberbatch714, @addictedtobrits, @ben-locked, @mouseymodesty, @sherlana, @wearywander, @nixxie-fic, @thedragonaunt, @theorclair, @itstoohardtotitlethesethings, @idontcareaboutusernames, @roci221b, @theleftpill, @lolastaryes, @mas-sera-o-benedict, @jennbuso, @marykk1990, @the-pen-in-my-hand, @cumberbangers, @the-tinfoil-hat-brigade, @thetownbycycle, @honestylives, @deggsbenedish, @firewithfiredeux, @hunterhypereport, @moriartysskull

Like I said, this is a very small part of a group of people who have, over the past 2 years, made it their life’s mission to abuse, belittle, bully, harass, online stalk, doxx and generally be rather nasty pieces of work towards others, particularly a teenager. I wish I could name them all, but I would be here for hours. There are numerous blogs out there who feel the need to attack, like a rabid pack of hyenas, people who shock horror think differently from them. People who think that no, Benedict Cumberbatch and Sophie Hunter are not the perfect couple. There are other reasons why they believe that (more about that later) but ultimately, they have spent months. Months and months and months. Bullying, harassing, online stalking, doxxing and REAL LIFE interfering with a group of bloggers talking about a CELEBRITY AND HIS WIFE on the internet…

Just let that sink in for a moment.

This is all over one celebrity and his wife.

They have, at times, screencapped blogs (circumventing the tumblr block feature), called the school and parents of a teenager, called Social Services on the same teenager, called the teenager at her home, created a website outing a blogger, doxxed several other bloggers, sent threats via anon to bloggers, called other bloggers ‘bitches’, ‘vile’, ‘hateful’, ‘cretins’, ‘sewer rats’, ‘gutter brigade’, ‘sour grapes brigade’…just to name a handful.

They have also involved people outside of tumblr in their little fandom war. They have tried to waste the time and resources of government agencies (really? Emailing the department for Births begging them not to release the birth certificate? What a waste of your time and theirs!) They have tried to claim the upper moral hand in everything they do, screaming from rooftops ‘For Benedict!’.

For a man who, quite frankly, wouldn’t cross the street to spit on you if you were on fire.

This group are a mass of contradictions.

They are a mass of hate, loathing and repulsiveness that make me wonder just what the hell tumblr is doing, allowing these kinds of blogs to prosper. I am appalled that I share a gender (assumedly) with these bloggers. I am thoroughly ashamed that ADULT WOMEN - some of them mothers and grandmothers - are acting in a manner entirely suited to a five year on a school play yard that cannot get their way and bites their playmates. My 3 year old nephew treats other children BETTER than this group of women treat their fellow humans.

They routinely dictate to people on tumblr who they should follow. If one of the sceptics should happen to go quiet, to change their blog name (or try to), they will announce it on their blogs.

They will hypocritically announce that Dani deserves her treatment because of ‘piracy’ or ‘artistic theft’ ( @cumberbangers - nice try there sweetheart).



Let me break this down for you.

Tumblr is rife with piracy and copyright violations.

Just today I saw a video clip uploaded by a tumblr user, ripped DIRECTLY FROM the DVD copy of Whisky Tango Foxtrot. THAT IS PIRACY.

When Hamlet was released to cinemas, I saw NUMEROUS gif sets from NUMEROUS blogs of a bootleg version of Hamlet. THAT IS PIRACY.

I see ‘bragging tweets’ from someone called AnythingBatch on twitter, claiming to have a copy of Hamlet on DVD - yet when Dani claims to have the same thing, Dani is the pirate and deserves to be bullied, harassed and online stalked but AnythingBatch is what? A good fan? Hamlet is not available on DVD. How do you think AnythingBatch got hold of a legal copy? PIRACY.

I see picture, after pictures, after picture being reblogged, edited, manipulated by countless people. Are you the original copyright holder of these images? Are you the photographer of these images? No? ARTISTIC THEFT.

Gifs of TV shows, movies, chat show appearances - ARTISTIC THEFT.


Don’t you dare stand there on the altar of Benedict Cumberbatch and claim that Dani (or ANYONE deserves) the treatment you have been giving her.

Don’t you dare claim to be ‘protecting’ Benedict and Sophie by your actions online.

Don’t you DARE claim to be good people, good fans. Because you aren’t. You just aren’t. You are the WORST example possible of ‘fans’. IMO you are WORSE than the more ‘vocal’ of the sceptics.


I get why the sceptics are there. I do. I see the inconsistencies. I see the big ol’ PR push to prove that this man and this woman Are In Love! And Happy! And Doting Parents! I see it. But I don’t believe it. I see two men who can barely stand next to each other. I see two people so thoroughly bored and unenthusiastic about each other and their child. But of course, I must be jealous. I must want Benedict for myself.

*insert sarcastic laughter*

The man is bland, unappealing and hey, if you want Sherlock to play Alan Tauring? Cast Benedict Cumberbatch! If you want Sherlock to play Dr Strange? Cast Benedict Cumberbatch! If you want a rich, white, privileged, posh, straight white boy, who, frankly, is problematic as all hell, cast, you got it! Benedict Cumberbatch.

Sceptics are not wrong when they see a big hole in the PR narrative.

Here is what I think happened - excusing of course that NONE OF US ACTUALLY KNOW WHAT THE TRUTH IS - they were fucking, she got knocked up (either deliberately or oops - my bet on deliberate) - he did the old posh, English gentleman thing and presto! She has a Gold Ticket for life, he has a child he may not have exactly wanted RIGHT NOW and a wife he cant seem to actually LIKE.

So, does that OPINION deserve bullying, harassment or online stalking?


Does an OPINION of any kind deserve bullying, harassment or online stalking?


Does thinking the baby is not real deserve bullying, harassment or online stalking?


Does thinking the marriage is not legit deserve bullying, harassment or online stalking?


Does ANYTHING about this situation deserve bullying, harassment or online stalking?


While I think some sceptics have taken it too far and have very obviously let their ego get in the way of logic and sense, overall, I have found the majority of sceptic blogs to be funny, analytical, thorough and downright informative.

I would never say that about any of the other blogs.

I am not taking sides in this. I am fairly apathetic about the are they/aren’t they argument. Like most celebrity marriages, I don really expect theirs to last for long. I am saying that bullying, harassment and online stalking of other bloggers - particularly those who are minors - is in no way warranted.


Before I go, I want to address those on both sides who claim to have (a) sources or (b) contacted Benedicts ‘people’. Lots of people claiming lots of rubbish in my opinion. I’ve worked for a well-known entertainment company based in Sydney. They did PR for some of THE biggest names in entertainment, while in Australia. And you know what? Emails were read by interns. Not by anyone who actually matters. There is a form ‘letter’ that is sent…and a number of quotes are contained, such as:

  • Thank you for your email/letter/enquiry…
  • We are unable to confirm…
  • We thank you for…

Simple, basic mail merge stuff. A highschooler can do this. Which is why its the interns job to respond to anything that is NOT official. You may see a VIP name on the email but in reality, unless you are Someone of Importance, your email will only ever be seen by an intern or someone low on the totem pole. Agents and reps don’t have time for your petty, whining fandom wailings.

You can say all you like that you’ve contacted his ‘people’ or someone connected with him and you can can claim to have received a response, but in reality, unless you’re willing to provide actual evidence, all of this is placed in the less-than-1% of things I read that I believe.


Oh and before I forget - continuation and keeping stories straight aren’t a particular strong suit of this group of people.

You cant claim that:

  • Benedict doesn’t KNOW about the sceptics
  • Benedict KNOWS but doesn’t CARE about the sceptics
  • Benedict doesn’t KNOW and doesn’t CARE about the sceptics

all at the same time. It doesn’t work like that.

I mean, you can claim all you want that Benedict and Sophie picked specific letters aimed at specific people to read at Letters Live, but you cant also claim that the sceptics don’t matter enough for them to bother.

Prior to Letters Live, it was claimed that ‘I think Benedict doesn’t give a flying fuck what the sceptics think’ - by the same blogger who claimed that ‘Benedict was deeply in love with his wife and was devastated about what was being said online’.

What a think-skinned little boy he is, if he cant stand a bit of online gossip about him and his wife.

What a petty little man if he deliberately chose to attack bloggers online by reading and having his wife read certain letters.

When it looks, smells and sounds like bullshit, I call bullshit.


I have read enough about Benedict, his wife and his fans to make these last couple of observations:

  • What happened to the man who once claimed that he would ‘fiercely protect’ the privacy of his children?
  • What happened to the man who once fronted paparazzi and asked them to focus on Egypt instead of the filming of a TV show?
  • What happened to the man who once said ‘my private life is private’?
  • What happened to the man who could once walk down the street without paparazzi capturing his every moment? I mean, we got his engagement, his wedding (SOLD! to the Highest Bidder!), his honeymoon (how did that Jaguar/Bora Bora/Whale watching honeymoon go?), his child’s birth (Look! Over there! I have a SON, this will take the pressure off the CBE announcement).


Now my question to you. WHY do you care what people online are saying about a celebrity and his wife?

WHY do you care if people think that a celebrity and his wife aren’t exactly what PR is trying to push?

WHY DO YOU stand on the altar of Benedict Cumberbatch and pretend that he is not human. That he is infallible? That he is simply, just a man? You make him out to be some kind of god and in reality, he’s just another actor, just another person on this earth.

My only conclusion is that you are so unhappy and unfulfilled in your own lives that you seek to live vicariously. That you seek what you do not have and you try to make it seem like Benedict and his wife are the be all and end all of human relationships.

I wont say you should be ashamed. I wont say you should be embarrassed. I wont say you should feel bad. I wont say any of that because frankly, I think you lack basic human empathy. You’re so focused on what YOU THINK OTHER PEOPLE should or should not be doing that you don’t stop and think for just one second what your attitude and behaviour has the possibility to do. God forbid one of the bloggers you have relentlessly bully, harass and online stalked tries to harm themselves. I don’t think that you would feel anything other than satisfaction that a ‘hater’ was gone and that you were ‘winning’.

Nothing about this situation is a fucking competition. You will not win any awards or ribbons or accolades by anyone for your behaviour.


I wish I could do more. I wish that tumblr would do more. I wish that before posting, people stop and think what their words may do.

I wish for a lot of things in this world, but what I wish the most is that none of your loved ones experience the kind of hate and vileness you show towards others.


You know what? I’m an adult. I can handle whatever hate or bile you decide to throw my way because (a) ultimately we’re all strangers on the internet (b) I have the life experience to handle the hate and bile that may come my way and © I truly, truly don’t give one. flying. fuck what any of you ‘adults’ think of me.

Tagging those sceptics I think would most appreciate this: @khanspets, @annashipper, @happilyhardarcade, @sophiehuntergossipblog


“All adjustments have been implemented. We will be ready to go as soon as coordinates to the next destination are received.”

“Thank you, EDI,” Traynor replied. A small smile appeared on her lips whenever she heard that mesmerizing synthetic voice. It was so odd to be attracted to such a silly and artificial thing, but apparently it couldn’t be helped.

The Specialist was so distracted by her wandering thoughts that she nearly missed doors of the elevator opening behind her. She should have expected it. Now that everything was squared away and the Normandy was ready to move, its commander was going to have to step up and set a route.

“I think it’s a good idea,” came the familiar timbre of one Major Kaidan Alenko. He had apparently accompanied Shepard on the elevator and they’d been in the midst of conversation. That being the case, Traynor kept her head down and strove to concentrate on what she was doing. Or the sound of EDI’s voice. Whichever worked.

“Can we talk about this another time?” Shepard sounded tired. Even out in the periphery of Traynor’s vision, she looked exhausted. As she climbed the stairs to the galaxy map, it almost seemed like she needed the railing to keep herself standing upright.

“What if we don’t have another time?” The question was innocent enough, but the weight of it hung heavy in the room. Traynor glanced around and saw several other crew members pause for a moment, then scramble to make themselves look busy or better yet, scarce.

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Damaged Goods

Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader

Summary: “I’m just damaged goods.” “To them, maybe. To me, you’re a masterpiece.”
Words: 1,494
Warnings: language (is anyone surprised???)
Notes: that quote used to be in this girl I follow’s description and um yeah

Originally posted by therewasneverjustone

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anonymous asked:

more pure little clexa fluff please

well i didn’t write the post i just reblogged but i guess i can deliver of course so clexa fluff ft. abby bc reasons: 

imagine clarke and lexa, and maybe abby and kane and everybody just in lexa’s tent, and it’s late at night and they’re discussing war plans because ontari is still a fucking bitch that wants to take over the coalition but they’re all actually teaming up to stop her. imagine the meeting ends and clarke is just. lingering. 

and abby looks at clarke and she’s just, “honey?” because clarke hasn’t moved. she’s just hovering near the war table and the air is suddenly kind of awkward and tense and abby knows but she doesn’t want to know at the same time and so she tries to ignore it. tries to pretend the tension isn’t there, tries to pretend she can’t see the way clarke averts her eyes or the way lexa’s hands fidget with the hilt of her sword or just–anything, really. abby has her suspicions, she always has, but she doesn’t want to see it, and so she just. doesn’t. 

“it’s late,” abby says, and maybe she places a hand on the small of clarke’s back and tries to just, gently direct her out, bring her with her. clarke’s been staying in polis a long time and maybe abby just wants some time with her daughter. her daughter who she hasn’t really had much of a chance to spend time with since she left camp over three months ago. her daughter who has, really, always had such a weight on her shoulders and whose burden only seems to grow heavier by the day. a daughter who’s eighteen going on forty and abby just wants to be a mother. “come on.”

and clarke, clarke doesn’t want to insult her mother because she loves her, she does, but her place is here, with lexa. and so she, reluctantly–reluctantly because she knows this will hurt her, she knows her mom will take this the wrong way–she pulls away from abby and shakes her head. 

“no, mom,” she says, and she very pointedly does not look at lexa, lingering in the background. lexa, who’s doing a very terrible job of pretending she’s busy with ~whatever~ when she’s actually eavesdropping. lexa, who’s watching and waiting for abby to even look at clarke the wrong way, because in a lot of ways lexa is kind of like a motherhen, protective and fiercely devoted to her happiness. 

and she sees the disbelief and the slight insult come over her mom’s face before the words are even out of her mouth, but she has to say them. she has to, or abby will never understand. “i’m staying here.” 

“you have a perfectly good bed with–”

“with lexa,” clarke finishes, and she presses her lips together and tilts up her chin and for a moment, a flash of realization jumps to the front of her mind. she’s practically channeling lexa right now. 

abby freezes, looks from her, to lexa, to her again and back. “with lexa,” she says, slow and careful. clarke sees the look on abby’s face and she knows what it means. abby knows, but she wants to hear it from clarke’s mouth. it’s a mother’s look. it’s a mom thing, and clarke kind of hates it. 

abby tilts her own head back then, a singular brow rising. “care to tell me why you’re staying here with lexa?” abby asks. “when we’ve taken the time to set up a place for you in our camp?” 

this is our camp too,” clarke says. “it’s all ours.” 

“you know what i mean, clarke.” 

and she does. but this isn’t a topic she was really prepared to breach with her mom today. or ever, for that matter. “i–lexa and i,” she starts, and she can’t hold her mother’s gaze because she can’t face the criticism in them. she can’t deal with the thought that her mom might judge her for this, too, because she’s already been judged enough. this is the one thing that’s brought her happiness and she can’t have her mom judging her for this. 

“clarke and i,” lexa says, and her voice is suddenly at clarke’s ear and clarke feels a hand intertwine with her own. “are houmon. she is safe with me.” 

clarke thinks ‘houmon’ might be taking it a bit far, but by the way abby’s brows rise, it definitely gets the point across. clarke lifts her head, faces her, draws strength from lexa’s hand in hers, from lexa’s presence at her side. “mom. i’m staying here.” 

“i see.” and abby looks between them again. “is that what–is that what the ceremony was? before?” 

it takes clarke a moment to even grasp what her mother is asking, but when she does, she lets out a bark of shocked laughter. lexa eyes snap to hers, alarmed enough that clarke has to wave her away, shaking her head. “i’m sorry,” she says, more to lexa than her mother. “no, mom.” when lexa gives her a questioning glance, she smiles. “she thinks we were…united, in the ceremony.” 

“oh,” lexa says, and to clarke’s surprise, she blinks rapidly, swallows, and says it a second time: “oh.” with more meaning, like the thought has only just struck her. “no. of course not.” 

“right,” and abby doesn’t look like she’s entirely convinced, but she nods. “fine. i’m coming to get you first thing in the morning, clarke.” and she looks at lexa. “just so you know, commander,” abby says, and she lifts a hand to point a finger at lexa like it’s a threat, “i don’t care who you are. you hurt my daughter again and i will personally see to it that you live to regret it.”

“i will hold you to it,” lexa says, and she doesn’t even miss a beat. 

abby’s mouth opens and closes like she isn’t quite sure what to make of that, but after a moment, she nods, drops her hand, and gives them both one last glance before marching out of the tent. it’s only when she’s gone that clarke turns to lexa, an amused little smile quirking at the corner of her lips. 

“houmon?” she asks, her voice warm with equal parts fondness and mirth. 

“i…” lexa turns to her, licks her lips, and nods. “yes.” 

“and the ceremony,” clarke brings a hand up to the buckles on lexa’s armor, taking satisfaction in the way that lexa’s throat bobs when she does. “is there something i should know, lexa? are we united?” 

“no,” lexa answers, and her voice is low and thick and clarke already knows where the girl’s mind is and she revels in her effect on her. on the commander. “not yet.” 

“yet,” clarke chuckles, and leans in. “you’re awfully optimistic.” 

“how can i not be,” and lexa’s hands come up to wrap around her waist just as clarke’s wrap around her shoulders. “you are here. and you have forgiven me.” 

“have i?” and lexa draws back, her brows furrowing suddenly. clarke meets that look with a coy smile of her own. “i might need a little more persuasion…” 

As Equals

Summary: Dean finds himself in a difficult situation after meeting a beautiful woman at a charity auction while posing as one of the guests.

Words: 4.1k

Warnings: Swearing, stereotyping the wealthy…angst

A/n: So, I learned something new in the process of writing this. I now know the difference between a tuxedo and a suit. I feel educated.

Tagging: @nocsa@callmesweetheartifyoumeanit@aprofoundbondwithdean

Eyes of canopy green flitted around a large, conversing crowd, taking in all the guests, men in their expensive looking tuxedos and women in their over the top designer dresses, hoping he didn’t appear to be too out of place among the other guests. His tux was on loan from a friend, as he didn’t own a tux, just suits, and his were never more than a hundred dollars at the most as it was. Yet here, surrounded by California’s elite, he’d never felt more like a pile of rags, even in his top-notch tux.

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TITLE: Don’t Keep your Heart in your Pocket


AUTHOR: iwasthefirstavenger

ORIGINAL IMAGINE: Imagine being a pickpocket who lives on the streets, and one day when you try to pickpocket, someone, you later find out that person was an agent of shield. Fury is impressed with your skills. He makes a deal with you that he’ll give you a place to live, a job, etc, but only if you can steal Loki’s plans. 

RATING: teen and up

The first thing Loki has you doing? Scrubbing toilets. If the cleaner fumes weren’t already doing it, you would choke on the irony.

If he’s trying to torture you, it’s definitely working. Your back aches, and your knees are red from kneeling. Who knew that a facility of this size could have so many bathrooms?

Three days in his safe house and you’ve barely seen him since that first night. He’ll sail through a room, giving a few orders as he passes. Every so often, he’ll glance at you, and walk away again with this infuriating smirk. He also never bothered to check and see if you actually had a place to sleep, so you have yet to spend a comfortable night since leaving Stark Tower. Sometimes you curl up in corners or storage spaces, but more often you spend the time roaming the mostly vacant back hallways of Loki’s facility. There’s always something going on, especially around the lab, but a lot of the halls are deserted even during the day. Since discomfort is hardly new for you, your night time activities seem like some sort of adventure, at least compared to how you used to spend your time after dark, sleeping fitfully, always on the run, ready to vanish if necessary. But cops are a little easier to get away from than teleporting homicidal aliens.

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