inner elbow

Ok guys, major nerd-out post here regarding Shiro's arm!

As a student in their 4th year of undergrad for a degree in prosthetics, I’m absolutely SMITTEN with Shiro’s bionic arm (and the guy it’s attached to, obviously). But as much as I adore all the art and fics, there are a few things that are driving me nuts that I’d like to share in a few points here, just for reference if anyone wants it. I’ve seen very few fanworks with a proper presentation of artificial limbs, so here goes! 

 #1. Under NO circumstances does anyone sleep with their prosthetic limb on. 

You read that right: under NO circumstances! This also goes for taking a shower. It might look sexy until you get shocked with however many volts he’s got in that thing, But even if it’s waterproof, what is the purpose?? of having it in the shower? when your supposed to be washing the residual limb as well??

“But Wait!” I hear someone say. “Isn’t it implied that Shiro’s arm is permanently attached somehow, and he can’t or doesn’t know how to take it off?”

To answer your question, yes, it is implied. And I’m here to tell you how that is ABSOLUTELY NOT POSSIBLE.

Keep reading


i just found myself using this random trick that one of my art professors taught me and i thought other people might like it!

other tips:
-at rest, the elbow hits the bottom of the ribcage, and the wrist hits the bottom of the crotch
-the distance from your inner elbow to your wrist is about the same length as your foot
-the length of your hand (from wrist to the tip of your middle finger) is about the same length as the distance between the bottom of your chin and your hairline

so, if you have a feeling that proportions are wrong on something, those work as quick gauges. like, if a character’s forearm looks too long, try to visualize their foot being the same size and see if that works. if the hands look too big, look at their size in relation to the face.

hope this helps someone!

Where do we go from here?

Bucky x Reader

Summary: After a man saves your life, you can’t help but get attached to the blue-eyed brunet. And your life has never been dull since.

Word Count: 1,800

Warnings: NSFW gifs included, just smut, mentions of drug use, insults

A/N: A continuation of my Imagine I recently posted here. Sorry if my google translations are for shit. Thank you thesuperwholock394 on AO3 for wanting a backstory to this, I had a blast writing this! And there will be ONE more part to this! :D (GIFs are not mine)

Please read the imagine first so you know what’s happening and won’t get confused. :) 

                                                One Year Before

Frank, your dad’s right-hand man, held the gun to your temple as your father leaned on the desk, arms crossed staring daggers at you.

“You’re a real piece of work, aren’t ya, girl?” You rolled your eyes at him, his demeanor didn’t scare you, not unless he held a needle to the inside of your elbow demanding obedience. But other than that, he was just a man who happened to be in charge of one of the biggest drug gangs on the West Coast. And no one’s been able to catch him.

“Not my fault your stupid fucking coke shipment was confiscated.”

“That shipment cost me 21k, you little piece of shit. You’re just lucky Sanchez loves my stuff, that I don’t mind givin’ him extra for the same price. ‘Course, Imma throw a little bonus on the side.” He smirked at you, giving you a long look.

Keep reading

Catch Us

a short 1.6k word blurb about dry humping niall until he comes in his pants :))

His large hands gripped tight onto your waist, calloused fingers creeping up under the hem of your top, his touch lingering at your warmed skin. Straddling his lap, his lean body was slumped back into the red and black couch that wrapped around the rear of the tour bus. His legs were spread wide beneath you, his feet pressing hard into the floor as he tried to steady himself and worked to hold himself off. You could feel him straining hard in his thin sweat shorts, his throbbing length pushing roughly against your own clothed heat. His head was tipped back, resting on the back of the couch as he willingly bared all of his pretty freckle-laced skin for you to have your way with.

Keep reading

anonymous asked:

that actually was his arm in a black tshirt, not his leg. he was wearing grey sweatpants. his inner elbow crease is what looked like a knee

obviously it was his arm that was in the black tshirt, but its what comes after that thats suspicious

you can see his fingers in this shot as he stands up, so we know that its not his arm that we’re seeing behind his hand

then his arm almost leaves the frame and you can see his “leg” more clearly 🤔it almost looks like hes wearing grey briefs and i mean maybe its just his grey sweatpants and the lighting is just really weird but i love speculation and dans thighs

fic; the rain peasants

standalone; pg-13; fluff; msr ust; missing scene/one bed for the rain king; Mulder and Scully discuss what it’d be like to control the weather.

A/N: My one bed fic! I Can’t Believe It’s Not PWP


“Do you mind the T.V.? I can turn it off.”

“No, I don’t mind. Just keep the volume low, please.”

“You got it.”

Whatever is playing, it’s benign, popular and impersonal – funny, aluminum isn’t his style. Maybe it’s for her benefit? Can’t really share a bed with your coworker and take the edge off with pornography, can you. But maybe Mulder likes sit-coms. Maybe he needs to be told when to laugh. His sense of humor is… growing on her. After six years. But who doesn’t need a little help now and then? Oh, christ. That’s pathetic. He huffs out a laugh beside her, perfectly in time with the tin-can-track, and she knows that at least she isn’t alone. 

“Mulder?” she asks quietly. He goes completely still, and it’s obvious why – there you go again, Scully, getting me alone in cramped quarters and asking me obscenely difficult questions. She does like catching him off guard. There’s something in the way he looks at her when she goes a little nuts – like an x-file, like a mind-melting, course-of-history-changing x-file, and there is something in being that adored. And feared. She enjoys the fear just as much.

However, this is different. This case bothers her, and it ain’t got nothing to do with hicks or being confused for Mulder’s little wife.

“What’s up, Mrs. Mulder?” Tight and nervous. Scully smiles into her pillow. He’s so rarely nervous.

“I’ve been thinking about the case.” 

“It’s about time you took your work seriously.”

“Shut up, Mulder.” She gives him a moment to stop the next asinine comment before it arrives and he manages, just barely. “Let’s say, for the sake of conversation, it is possible for one man to dictate the state of the atmosphere in his little corner of the world.” 

“Okay, Scully. I’ll say that.”

“What if it were you?” she asks. There’s no missing the sincerity in her voice. Mulder may deflect – maybe he’ll make a joke, make some kind of pass, make some kind of obscure reference to a man who really did control the weather, hundreds of years ago, a man who swapped rain for mead and sleet for wool – but it won’t be without guilt. She’s okay with letting him make that choice. “What would the weather be like if your emotions were controlling it?”

A beat passes: he’s considering. The bed sharing makes it more dangerous, but regardless of his response they will wake up spooning in the morning. That’s the way it always happens, and he always freaks out more than her. Had he offered to take the floor this time, though? No. Every other time, yes. But not tonight. 

“Right now?” he asks lowly. “Right now, or in general?”

He’s taking her seriously. It smarts that she’s so pleased. 

“Right now, first,” she decides. She needs to know how much he’s willing to share before she goes all in. 

“Right now… it’d be raining pizza,” he snickers to himself, and Scully loses a sliver of confidence in the both of them. 

“Well,” she replies easily, masking the hurt with her own brand of indifference. “I told you to eat before we got back to the court.” 

“We’ve evolved to stay up past eight p.m., Scully. Nocturnal, diurnal, it all means nothing in our little corner of the world. You forget people live like this.” Silence. “Scully?” She doesn’t reply. 

She’s putting all of her effort into finding some semblance of sleep – you purposefully withheld information from me about this case and now I’m going to have to defend it’s necessity to Kersh without mentioning you actually fucking believe people can make it rain with their mind – when his hand covers her shoulder, a cautious, piddling touch. They really are different in bed. He snatches it back like he’s been burned, but then he replaces it with purpose. 

“I’ll tell you both, Scully.” He tugs on her shoulder when she doesn’t respond. “Roll over. C’mon, Scully.” 

She’s pissed that he’s now somehow made this all seem like his idea, like he’s the one taking the leaps. She rolls over just to glare at him and his face melts into a soft smile at her withering look. 

“I sure am glad you’re not in control of the weather right now.” He pets her nose and lets his body relax in a position mirroring hers, while she fights the urge to bite him. They’re both slightly uncomfortable with the situation, noticeably so, and their hunched backs make them look like parentheses. 

“I’m not sure the cattle industry could take such a devastating financial hit,” she says caustically. His smile widens. It’s sleepy in the light of the television, and easy. Another rare version of Mulder. Sleepy and easy are never words she’d typically use to describe him. 

“Go on, then.” 

“Well, I wasn’t exactly lying about the pizza. I’m starving. I have tears in my eyes.”

“I have some granola bars,” she offers kindly. A shadow falls over his face. 

“The ones with the flax seeds? God, no.” Relaxing again, his voice turns contemplative, both dreamy and a little dismal.  “But in general? I can’t really tell you, Scully. I’d assume it’d be very much like the rest of me.”


“You could say that,” he says dryly, looking away from her. A moment of silence, then: “Sometimes I could probably upend whole towns.”

I don’t think you have it in you, Scully thinks. Her face remains impassive when he grows theatrical, too loud and too convinced of his own hilarity in the middle of the night. 

“I could lift roads from the ground, Scully. Municipal buildings would crumble – I’d have to work up to the state legislature. There would be ice, there would be rain …” he pauses. “Maybe not fire.”

Gently, “Because of your fear?”

“No, not that.” He shakes his head. “I’m just not very good at rebuilding from scratch.” Perhaps that was too personal, because he flippantly amends: “But who among us is? I don’t think we’re made for it.”

People create life every day – they have babies, build houses, tear down governments, hoist them back up. It’s a never-ending cycle of starting anew; controlled burns are a way of life. But Scully recognizes that might be too literal an answer to what he’s suggesting.

He shoots a look at her, but she’s shifted on her back to stare at the television. The middle-aged white male lead is drinking a beer.

“But who knows how long that would last? Years, maybe minutes.” He turns and watches with her. A woman yells at her husband. Ha!Ha!Ha!

He continues while watching. “I guess that’s the frightening part. Most of us can just feel without inserting too much meaning into it all. But Holman Hardt spends each day in a hellish atmospheric vacuum of his own creation, cowering under the force of his own fragile emotional state.” 

“While other people are suffering,” Scully adds. “And he can’t do a thing to stop it.” 

Mulder lets out an amused rush of air. “We should become motivational life coaches. I’m feeling the power.” 

“You aren’t like that all the time,” Scully says, a little fiercely. He’s okay sometimes. He doesn’t hurt all the time. “You’re not always so… tumultuous. You’re fine right now.” 

They both turn to look at each other. “No,” he says. “I’m not like that all the time.” 

She’s quiet. He prods, “Okay, Scully, spill. What about you?”

“Right now, or in general?”

He repeats her words back to her. “Right now, first.” 

“I’m not sure my answers would be all that different,” she admits. This is what scares her. It’s not possible for one man to control the weather – and how very lucky they are that this is so – but if it were her… “Right now, or in general.” 

What little impact she’d have on the world. The realization depresses the hell out of her. What Mulder described: heart shaped ice cubes? Rose petals? Cows catapulting through court windows? Men cannot control the weather – human bodies cannot even withstand certain atmospheric pressures, let alone bend them to their will – but… where’s her creativity? When did she start feeling this way: not at all?

“That… does not seem right,” Mulder says. He’s itching to prove her wrong already.

“There have been some–” Scully pauses to choose her words carefully. “Difficult. There have been some difficult moments in the last few years of my life.” Mulder snorts derisively, more at himself than at her. “In all of the years of my life, Mulder, just like anyone else.” 

She wonders what he imagines her like, dictating the weather with her moods. There are probably more cows. What kind of storm encapsulates the strength of her eye rolling? Damn, is it easy to make herself annoyed with Mulder when she tries. How could you think of me like that?

“What would it be like?” he asks softly, eyeing her with genuine interest. She’s almost embarrassed to tell him. In the face of Fox Mulder’s lifelong battle against emotional terrorism, she feels positively virginal. She stares at his nose pressed into his inner elbow. 

“It would be pleasant,” she says to it. She doesn’t feel the need for elaboration, but his lips twitch. 

“You always this good at small talk? How about this weather we’re having.” His joke is teasingly sweet. It’s different from before, somehow. 

“It’d be pleasant because I don’t think I could let it be anything else.” 

They’re quiet for a bit. Neither of them know what the weather’s like outside. It’s chilly in their room, in the way all motel rooms are chilly. 

“If anyone had the ability to control the weather, Scully,” he says to the television, “and I mean really, really control it, so that humanity would be better off for having it… it’d be you.”

In the bed in the dark in the light of the T.V. in the hick town where everyone sleeps at eight p.m. where it hasn’t rained in forever where no one has luck in love, Mulder moves a little closer to her. So that their shoulders touch, so that their backs are ramrod straight, so that Scully’s assertion at not being nervous about this becomes a bold-faced lie. 

wake up call

Originally posted by fy-kiho

Title: wake up call

Word count: 891

Ship: kiho (wonho/kihyun)

Description: hoseok worked hard for his body, and it totally paid off. but it was moments like these that kihyun wished his boyfriend wasn’t so beefy.

Tags: smut, handjobs, domestic kiho, lapslock,

cross-posted to ao3

Keep reading

Darkness Prevails ch 3

Silence is a virtue.

Ignorance is bliss.

As time moved like molasses, the two teens by Sweetwater River never moved, just staring at one another. For what seemed like an eternity they stood there. Their unmoving bodies, emotion filled eyes, and tension between them sat motionless; like they were bolted in place. Frozen forever.

Then all too soon, their silence was interrupted.

Sounds from behind Jughead pulled him out of his reverie first, much to his dismay. The rustling from the trees beyond alerted him the presence of another. Without a second thought, he had his back to Betty, facing whatever was coming towards them. He backed up till he was mere inches from her still shaking features.

“Jughead? What’s wrong?” Her voice wasn’t loud, but definitely not quiet. Putting a finger to his lips, he simply shook his head and kept watching the treeline.

Seconds turned to minutes, but to the pair it felt like hours before Veronica emerged from the threshold, her red-haired counter in step.  

“Ronnie?” Betty visibly relaxed at the sight of her best friends. Jughead just sighed, turning to the blonde behind him. He caught her eye, and she smiled shyly, looking down.

At her self inflicted wounds.

Panic rose within her, Jughead shook his head slightly. Quickly, he shed his leather jacket, the one he received from his father as acceptance into the “family business”, the Southside Serpents. She shook her head, declining his offer before he cut her off grabbing her hand. He leaned close to her ear and whispers, “Are you really gonna explain to Archie and Veronica why you have scratches all up your arms?” A look of horror at the possibility crossed her features. Sighing with defeat, she extends her arm out as Jughead slides the cool leather over her arm, around her shoulders, and pulling it closely around her chest.

“Betty! Where have you been?!” Veronica exclaimed, finally within earshot of the mishmashed pair.

“I needed air, so I went for a walk. I left hours ago Ronnie.” Betty stated, matter-of-factually. Veronica glanced at Jughead, then at the jacket adorned over Betty’s shoulders.

“Well me and Archie have been looking for you since bailed the party. Why didn’t you text one of us that you were leaving?” Betty’s faced blanked.

“You couldn’t honestly expect me to stay after Chuck said all those nasty things about me, right?” She was shaking again. Jughead reached for her hand, occupying her fingers. “Oh, but you wouldn’t know about that, since you were too busy sucking face with Archie to care about that.”

Veronica went pale.

Archie choked on his own spit, face as red as his hair.

Jughead just smirked.

“Why are you being like this? What happened at the party?”

“Oh you didn’t hear? Apparently I fucked Chuck. And it was down and dirty. At least that’s what people are saying anyway.” Jughead went stiff, squeezing her hand.

“Oh my god Betty, are you ok?” Concern was evident in Veronica’s voice, she reached a hand out to Betty. But Betty just pulled away, moving more behind Jughead.

“Like you care. Last I checked, your first priority is Archie. I’m always second.” She huffed out.

Veronica scoffed at that, “Why are you really out here huh? With him of all people..” Her voice trailed off, indicating some ulterior motive.

Archie pipped up at that, “Yeah! And why are you wearing that thing.”

“What thing Archie?”

“That Serpent jacket. You know they’re a gang right?” Jughead clenched his fists, whole body going rigid. He opened his mouth to retort when Betty’s hand squeezed again. Signaling to drop it.

Crossing her arms, Veronica raised her eyebrow, waiting for Betty’s response to the barrage of questions. Betty just rolled her eyes, turned on her heel and stormed off. Dragging Jughead with her.

“Are you really choosing a serpent over your best friends?!” Veronica yelled at her retreating figure.

Without turning around, Betty just yelled back. “You chose your boyfriend over me, I’m just doing the same.”


They arrived at the trailer Jughead currently resided in, an hour had passed since the events at the river. Jughead opened the door, stepping aside to let Betty head in first. As she entered the living room, he closed the door and flicked on the light. The dim trailer lit up as Betty took in her surroundings. Jughead disappeared to the bedroom, changing out of his still wet clothes into jeans and a shirt, shedding his beanie as well. He padded over to the other room, handing Betty one of his old shirts and a pair of pajama pants.

Taking the clothes, she smiled and retreated to the room Jughead changed in. The clothes were a bit big, but fit nonetheless. She lightly folded his jacket, and head back to the living room. Walking up to him, she extended her arms, handing over his jacket to him. He accepted it, but quickly discards it on the couch, turning back to reach for her wrists. She pulls away quickly, folding her arms across her torso.

Sighing, Jughead reaches his hand out slightly, “I just want to make sure they aren’t infected. Ok?” His eyes sincere.

She lets him wrap his long fingers around her wrists, pulling them up slightly. His eyes shine with pain, masking his anger. Her arms were adorned with 4 long, semi-deep scratches, from inner elbow to just past halfway to her wrist. They were red, swollen and ugly. But the water seemed to wash out any sign of infection. Sighing with relief, Jughead kept his hands around her wrists, and tugged her towards the couch. As he sat, she looked down and sat beside him.  

“So I’m your boyfriend now?” His smirk was genuine, his pain masked tightly away.

“Wait what” She squeaked out. Her face went bright red, and she avoided his eyes with every ounce of energy she had left.

“Earlier, when we were leaving, abide you dragging me away from that whole scenario. You said Veronica chose her boyfriend over you, so you’re doing the same.” His smile was pure mischief, enjoying every second of Betty’s embarrassment.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I didn’t say that..” She trailed off, playing with her fingers. His hand reached out, cupping her chin and tilting her face upward. She still avoided his eyes, but he smiled bigger when he saw how flustered she really was.

“Elizabeth Cooper. You like me.” It wasn’t a question, but Betty shook her head vigorously, slapping him with her damp hair. She opened her mouth to retort, or agree, or say something at least. But her voice was cut off by his lips gently pressing against her own.

anonymous asked:

Prompt; Sportacus gets a large cut on his arm from saving that darn kitten from the tree and robbie takes care of him.

“And what,” Robbie asked, “are you all doing?”

Sportacus, Stingy, Trixie, and Ziggy all looked up at him. Trixie was wrapping a thick white gaze all around Sportacus’ right arm. Stingy had a plastic toy stethoscope around his ears and the other end pressed against the wrong side of Sportacus’ chest. Ziggy was coloring on the gaze.

“I’m showing Sportacus that already know how to do first aid,” Trixie explained, “He’s hurt and I’m fixing him.”

“And I’m making sure his heart is still beating. We don’t want to lose him,” Stingy said.

“I’m coloring on his bandages to make him feel better!” Ziggy declared, waving a red marker at Robbie.

Sportacus didn’t say anything. He just smiled up at Robbie in a ‘What can you do’ sort of way.

Robbie sat beside them all, “How is he hurt?”

“He scratched his arm on the tree,” Trixie said.


“Here.” She traced a line over the gaze on his lower arm with her finger, just below his inner elbow.

“So you’re… covering his whole arm?”

“It was my idea,” Stingy said, “We need to be extra careful.”

Sportacus snickered. Robbie rolled his eyes.

“Alright, take that stuff off. I’ll show you first aid.”

Trixie undid the bandages. Robbie had been expecting the cut to be much smaller than her description, as children had a way of blowing things out of proportion.

What he saw was worse.

“You got this from a tree?!” He cried, taking Sportacus’ wrist and examining the cut.

Sportacus shrugged, “It’s just a cut. Doesn’t really hurt.”

The ‘cut’ was a long gash starting from his elbow and ending a inch or so from his wrist. Robbie glared at the kids.

“Have you cleaned it?”

Ziggy frowned, “Well… no.”

“He got cut on a tree. You need to clean cuts like that!”

“I knew that!” Stingy declared.

“Then go get some disinfectant!” Robbie snapped. All three kids jumped up and raced away. Robbie shook his head. When he turned back to Sportacus, he found the elf smiling again.

“What are you so happy about?” Robbie grumbled, “You could have lost your arm with all the help they were.”

“Thank you for teaching them first aid,” Sportacus explained, “That was my goal.”

“I wasn’t helping them.”

His smiling grew impossibly brighter,  “Then thank you for helping me.”

Robbie blushed and looked away.

Dear Arlo

About a year ago, my friend was taking a documentary film class and wanted to do her homework on you. On us. I said sure. She followed me around for a couple days and filmed our general goings-on–get your brother up, pack up, drive to the hospital, head to the step-down unit to see you, listen in on rounds, snuggle, stare at the coral walls, read the same dozen books again. She also did a couple sit-down interviews with me, and I knew the question was coming. I’d have asked it too. “If you could wave a magic wand, would you go back and change it?”

This was between the second and third times they cut you open, I think, after the heart surgery but before the Nissen. This was when you were miserable almost all the time because your system hated formula but before I knew that was the reason. This was when you kept spiking fevers, so they’d make everybody who came near you dress in a hazmat suit, and they’d poke you for blood, and you’d lose your shit, and your scarred little wrists and inner-elbows would give up not a goddamn drop, and I’d cry and cry and cry. 

And she was asking me would I change it?

Hell yes, I’d change it. I’d have given everything I owned to change it.

But the surgeries, the feeding troubles, the hospital stay, they were all part and parcel of your Down syndrome, and would I change that? 

Would I, if I could, go back to that ultrasound appointment at 18 weeks? Would I reach inside your skull and charcoal-pencil in a nasal bone? Would I reach inside your gut and superglue your stomach to your intestine? Would I reach inside your chest and zip up your heart?

Would I reach inside every cell of your body and pluck off the extra 21st chromosome and fling it in the garbage like a chewed-up piece of gum?

Hell no.

Listen to me: you are perfect and always have been. No part of you ever needed fixing. What those doctors did was repair a few things. Re-pair. Make paired again. ‘Fix’ implies there was something wrong, and there was never a goddamn thing wrong about you. You’ve always been right. Your oddly-shaped ear, your floppy body, your lopsided smile–all right, all perfect.

You’re my love, my sunshine, my guy. 

Would I change you?

Hell no.

(Though if you decided to start sleeping through the night, I’d be cool with that.)


etoile-kid  asked:

will u do jehanparnasse hcs pretty pls?

remember when i said i would do this and didn’t? Anyway here u go; some of my fave jehanparnasse headcanons (that i just came up with right now)

- jehan routinely turns montparnasses clothes into DIY projects, adding sequins and embroidery and patches. montparnasse doesn’t mind.

- they go thrifting together on the weekends and sometimes ep and cosette come along

- they share grantaire as a friend. montparnasse and taire like to box with each other and jehan and taire paint each other’s portraits (and parnasses, which he, a narcissist, loves)

- montparnasse is v tall and jehan is v short (parnasse calls them “pocket size” or “fun size” and jehan calls him “stretch”)

- when they send out wedding invitation, they get custom traditional wax seals

- velvet. lots of velvet. clothes, furniture, accent walls. lots.

- they buy hamsters. when the hamsters die, parnasse gives the skulls to jehan to remembers them by. jehan turns them into earrings.

- they’ve designed tattoos for each other. jehan has a sketchy inner elbow to wrist piece that incorporates skulls and flowers and parnasse has a full sleeve of quotes in jehans handwriting

- matching leather jackets

- jehan buys custom EVERYTHING off of those survey sites they advertise everywhere (“answer these simple questions and we’ll design the perfect x for you”) custom shampoos, custom perfumes, custom snack boxes. montparnasse pretends to hate them for being a consumerist pig but secretly loves it bc their bathroom always smells like essential oils and stuff

- speaking of home decor, it’s the one thing they fight over. jehan changes things at the drop of a hat, redecorating whole rooms while parnasse is “working”

- parnasse steals flowers for jehan

- they journal together

- they are the royal family of halloween. best costumes, best deco, best candy, best parties

stop the car

standalone; NC-17; fluff and smut; Scully/Reyes; post-Improbable; Monica and Scully have a girl’s night. 

A/N: happy Valentine’s Day! I’m gonna try and get the last part up to love you but you’re green but here’s something else. This is more romantic than I’d care to be but they’re too cute


“Why not go a little wild with it? Hot pink,” suggests Monica. Her brush strokes are focused and precise, because she will not screw this up, even though she kind of sucks at it.

“Agent Reyes,” Scully warns.

“Or maybe a pretty powder blue.” Her tongue pokes out at the corner of her mouth as she lifts Scully’s right hand to inspect her work. “ Or a sexy Camaro red.”

“Too distracting while I’m carving up the dead.” Scully pulls her hand back and hums appreciatively. “You colored inside the lines.”

“Gross.” They both laugh and Monica recaps the tan polish sitting between them.

It’s a Friday night and William is improbably, blessedly asleep in the nursery. They’d gone through Monica’s bottle of wine and pulled a little something from Scully’s stash before Monica had offered to help her with a much-needed touchup.

“No time to get a manicure with my class schedule,” Scully had explained, holding her hands out gratefully.

This thing where they dress up in their comfiest pajamas and talk about stuff they never really paid any mind to in real life, like Bureau gossip and celebrity crushes, has been going on a little bit, and neither of them knows just how much the other needs it. Scully cannot remember the last time she had another woman as a friend, and had never had one quite so much like herself, unmarried and ambitious and a little turned on whenever she gets to take her gun out. Monica knows she’s never had a friend like Scully, so radiant and mind-numbingly intelligent it rubs off on her in small and large ways, inspires her to be a better agent, a better person.

And so began a new weekly routine, a droplet of normalcy in a drought of the truly bizarre.

Keep reading

anonymous asked:

could u please do -10. Shopping for baby supplies.- from the OTP things list for Hank McCoy 👶😍

10: Shopping for baby supplies + Hank McCoy

(i haven’t written for him in AGES!!)

The frantic tapping of his fingers against the cart fills your ears and causes you to sigh, your own digits curling around his inner elbow.

It makes him jump, blue eyes finding yours from behind his lenses. You notice how his cheeks darken, a bashful smile spreading onto his lips.

You don’t blame him. He’s simply nervous, after all. Something completely understandable under the circumstances you’re in.

He seems to soften up as soon as your free hand goes to rest on your swelling stomach, the color fading from his cheeks before he leans over and kisses your temple. You exchange a loving smile for a fleeting moment before it catches your eye.

Your whole being seems to lighten up at the sight of the plush bear - one that looked exactly like the one you owned when you yourself were a child. Hank knows what you’re thinking and reaches for it, placing it down in the cart and letting his touch linger on a soft blanket.

“They’ll be warm in this. Safe, also. And I’ll fix a small walkman to it so they can listen to Mozart while napping.” he mumbles quietly, making you smile and nod your head in response.

“Mozart?” you ask amusedly, watching as the color returns to his cheeks full force. You’ve always admired how easily flustered Hank could get.

“I-i read somewhere that it was good for babies to listen to classical music while growing up.” he defends himself, nervousness fading away as soon as he hears your laughter. Of course you’d be teasing him again. It always worked.

Twisting the golden band around his ring finger, Hank places the blanket down into the cart, fingers entwining with yours as he pushes the supplies with his free hand.

He couldn’t wait for the baby to come.

Of summer loves and other drugs.

klance food truck au inspired on the steven universe comic (x)

Summertime rolled around once again in the blink of an eye.

Golden sunshine sneaking throught to your window bathing the entire room with warmth and light, the raw earthy smell of freshly mowed grass silently inviting you to lay over it, being lulled into numbness by the foamy waves of the ocean till you got rinkled like a raisin, strangers’ smiles passing by with the weight of responsabilities lifted off their shoulders and turned into just desire of having a good time before going back to their routines.

Who wouldn’t love that, right?

Keith, that’s who.

Sun? The poor boy couldn’t spend one second in the open without at least three generous coats of factor one hundred sunscreen and not getting roasted like chicken, he learned that the hard way since he was a child, and let’s not even start with how easily he sweats. Grass? All it did for him was attract mosquitoes and other bugs, leaving him with bites in places very hard, not to mention embarrasing, to scratch. Another lesson learned the hard way and a experience he was definitely taking with him to his grave. Water? He didn’t knew how to swim and never bothered to learn how to do it, he somehow managed to function decently on land until this day and that was more than enough for him thank you very much. People? That was a straight down ugh for him. 

Groaning loudly as he felt his pijama top stick to his body like a second skin, as if attempting to smother him in his sleep and almost succeeding if he was being honest, Keith rolled around under his sheets in desperately need for cool air, the blood running through his veins burning when his mullet held onto his neck, dripping with sweat.

Daring to finally open his eyes, blinded by the amount of sunlight for a few seconds, the boy stretched his arm to get a grip of his phone, unlocking it to read the time.

08:17. This was going to be a long day.

After a inner struggle between actually putting effort into getting out of bed and staying in what will become a pool of sweat if he stayed any longer, the first option winning by far when the familiar smell of eggs and bacons slowly filled the place, he threw his covers to the side, deciding to not wear his slippers since the floor was still chilly enough to enjoy barefoot, and walked down the hallway towards the kitchen.

“Morning.” Keith mumbled covering a yawn with his inner elbow, taking a seat in front of the counter, letting his feet dangle lazily.

“Keith, darling.” Allura’s wide smile fell as soon as she spotted the younger boy, suddenly concern written all over her features as she hurriedly pressed her palm against his forehead without any warning. “Are you coming down with something?”

A snort from behind them caught both of their attention, Shiro placing a plate of food between the two of them and wrapping an arm around his girlfriend’s waist.

“It’s just the heat.” His brother giggled and Keith would really like to stick his fork in his throat if he wasn’t busy devouring his breakfast like he hasn’t eaten in days. But you know like, don’t bite the hand that feeds you or something. Don’t impale them with cutlery either.

“Awe, the poor thing.” Allura cooed sweetly, combing his bangs away from his face as he ate, if she felt grossed out by his sticky skin she didn’t show. “That’s a shame, I was hopping you could join Shiro and I today.” She grinned sympathetically, as if on the inside persuasively hoping he would change his mind.

Oh hell no, those pretty blue eyes only worked their magic on his brother.

“Where are we going?” Shiro quirked a brow taking a seat next to Keith, wipping the foamy mustache above his mouth with the back of his hand, sliding a glass of juice to the boy next to him with his free one. The latter busy snickering to himself at the though of how his brother looked like his boss, Coran, for a second.  

“To the beach!” Allura chirped excitedly waving her arms in the air, the sudden motion making her messy bun fall apart, letting her silver hair cascade down her back. Keith could swear he heard his brother’s heart grow three sizes. Gross.

Keep reading