little zigzag

cute flustered nerds

Bubblegum will never not be annoyed that Zigzag is so much taller than her lmao

I’VE WANTED TO DRAW THESE TWO TOGETHER FOR…. A LONG WHILE NOW. I mean, I’ve done it before, but now that they’ve actually interacted I have a BETTER GRIP ON IT I THINK. They’re just…. They’re cute ok…..

[Zigzag belongs to @alainaprana!!]
[Bubblegum belongs to me!!]

Happy Father’s Day, Mr. Graves

@sozdanie-gryazi-eternal brought it to my attention that a.) it’s father’s day but there’s not a lot of father’s day content and b.) that I’ve been very mean to Mr. Graves lately. So two birds, one stone.

When Graves wakes, it’s to a smell he had long since forgotten, but knew deep down in his bones the moment it hit his nose. Flakey pastries and sugary cinnamon, spicy and warm and making him salivate. He lifts himself to his elbows slowly, confused and sleepy, and stares at the closed door of his bedroom questioningly.

It’s a simple matter to don his night robe, his bottoms loose from sleep around his hips, his chest visible through the peek of the soft terrycloth around his shoulders. He foregoes slippers altogether and just slowly shuffles down the hall, past the oddly open door and barren room that Credence should be sleeping in, down to the kitchen. 

The room is immaculate, and not from cleaning spells. It’s obvious that Credence has been careful to wipe every spilt egg, every splash of sugar, every dollop of cream as he went. It no doubt slowed him down, but perhaps even the process itself was a long, drawn out affair if the slender elegance of his hands is anything to go by as he delicately traces cream from a cut bag in neat little zigzag patterns on the pastry. The glaze melts and spreads, and a little flare of home bursts deep in Graves’ belly, because this is his mother’s favorite recipe. His favorite recipe.

And fuck, it looks just like it could be hers. Smells like. And he feels five again, waiting at the table for her to finish, listening to her sing old tunes from their Irish heritage. 

“How did you know?” Graves asks, voice rough from sleep, making Credence jump. With a soft tip of Graves head, he apologizes before moving from the kitchen doorway to stand beside Credence and better take in the scent of his childhood.

“Q-Queenie told me she heard you thinking about it off hand a month ago. And I figured the recipe must be here, somewhere…” Credence trails off, eyes sliding to the little handwritten card that he had kept immaculately safe the entire time. “Mr. Kowalski agreed to run through the recipe every Tuesday and Thursday morning for the past three weeks. I wanted to get it right. I hope it’s okay… I’m sorry if I pried, I just–”

“Ssh,” Graves says, wiping at the bit of flour on Credence’s nose with a soft smile he hadn’t felt in a long time. “No, it’s lovely. Just unexpected. What’s the occasion?”

Credence blinks, as though it were obvious, and says, “It’s Father’s Day, Mr. Graves,” as though suddenly unsure, as though afraid he’s wrong.

And Graves stills, something like a fist around his throat. And when Credence finally cut a slice of the pastry and placed it on a plate, he holds it out and smiles nervously, “Happy Father’s Day.”

Graves closes his hands around the boy’s on the plate’s edge and smiles back, full and warm and touched.

“Thank you, Credence.”

It tastes just like his mother’s, filled with love. 

anonymous asked:

20 with calum? (:

insp.

“Why are you doing this?” Calum could only watch with clenched fists.  Clothing was getting stuffed into a duffle he only ever wanted to see beside his own while on tour.  You said nothing, just shaking your head and taking deep breaths.  He hadn’t any clue how to stop you.  You weren’t visibly angry, and that fact threw him off.  His fingers were mixed feverishly in locks of loose curls, “Babe, why are you doing this?”

“You,” A stutter came out as you tried to hold back a gasp, “You know why.”

“I don’t.” Hands ripped from his hair and he closed your duffle shut, hands holding the top in place when you tried to open it back up.  “I have no fucking clue.  Tell me, Y/N.”  He couldn’t get you to meet his gaze, “Please.”

Calum wanted so badly to take you into his arms.  He could relax you.  It was the place where your shivers subsided because his chest was warmer than the chilly air.  His fingers could make trails up your back that led you to sigh and fall asleep within minutes.  He knew you were with him when you were right there; so feasibly there, and that kept him calm too.  He knew you would pull away if he even just touched your shoulder right now.  And that would be too much for him.  You not trusting him could easily break Calum.

“That girl.” His mind went over possibilities.  There were always celebrities that he got linked momentarily to, but they were obviously fake.  It never bothered you.  “From LA.”  Any of the nights he and the others were at a club in Los Angeles, he didn’t recollect well.  There were far too many flashing lights and drinks downed to be able to do so.  

“I don’t,” Gently his head shook, and physically his body retracted to a straightened position when you veered towards him, a glare striking up at his face.

“Don’t act like you don’t remember! There were tons of pictures of her all over you.  She’s the third fucking girl.”

“Y/N, I swear I have no fucking clue about the girl, but I wouldn’t ever come onto another girl.  You know that.  I love you, nobody else… We’ve been through tougher shit than this, so why are you letting this tear us apart?”

“I can’t take this anymore, Cal.  I can’t handle all of this.  It’s like everyone on the fucking planet is against us, okay?  If it’s not some girl clinging onto you in a club, it’s people on the internet going on and on about how I’m not good enough, and there are better girls.  If I’m with you it’s always for the shortest span of time and then you’re gone for months.  And it’s all great for you that you’re living your dreams, but…” He gently reached to take a hold on your arms, listening with a frown as you finished, “Maybe I’m just not supposed to be a part of them, Cal.  I can’t handle it all anymore.”

Calum engulfed you into a hug, letting whatever tears slipped from your eyes stain his shirt, without a care.  Those same fingers trailed along your back, stumbling and creating little zigzags instead of the straight lines he usually created.  The way you sounded like you were crumbling made him want to put no pressure on your body, but at the same time he just wanted to crush you into a hug telling you how things would be okay.

“Aren’t we worth the fight, baby?  Don’t we love each other more than people want us to not?” You created an inaudible noise against his chest, followed by your head shifting upwards and down.  “I’m so sorry I’m never here to tell you to your face how much you mean to me, or to be able to touch you and hold you close to me and show you that I’m all here for you, but if you needed me to be back, I would be back without question, baby.  I would drop anything for you.  You are my dream.  You’re everything to me.  And I know the world may seem like its pulling us apart, but we’ve got a stronger hold on each other, right?”

“I’m just so scared and tired of it all, Calum.” Your fingers were digging on his back with enough pressure to put stress on his skin, but he didn’t flinch.  You sighed against his chest, “I don’t want to break up with you, I just- I…”

“You want to get away?”  You nodded slowly, abruptly feeling your chin being tilted upwards as he kissed you, “Let’s go then.”

“What?” Your eyebrows creased, watching him take a glance towards your suitcase, clothing thrown half-hazardly.  

“I’m on break for two weeks, and I want to spend every second of them with my girl.  Let’s not tell anyone.  Let’s just go.” His palms set a massaging motion on your hips, “What do you say?”  You wanted to mutter about how he was being crazy, but he kissed you again to stop any protest and cause you to just think.  It took around ten seconds,

“Let’s leave in an hour.”

Bedroom Tales - A collection of Johnlock ficlets

Chapter 17: Healing Silence - Sherlock is sick and John cares for him …

An explosion of pain, little bright stars zigzagging through his vision, tiny daggers of pain attacking and tormenting him, leaving him only the one option. He gave in, squinched his eyes shut and stopped in his tracks. Careful to keep his breathing shallow and the motion at a minimum Sherlock leaned against the bannister, slightly swaying despite his efforts. He moaned in pain when the pain attacked him anew.

‘Come on,’ John very gently nudged him on. 'We can’t stay here.’

Sherlock replied with the slightest of nods and blindly groped for John’s hand. His grip was vicelike, strong and desperate. John accepted the pain and slowly led Sherlock up the remaining steps.

Sherlock was careful to keep his eyes closed, relying entirely on John to lead him. There was no way he would offer this pain a new possibility to attack him. The pressure on his temples and the boring pain behind his right eye was excruciating enough as it was. Allowing the blinding daylight to pierce his brain again with daggers was out of the question.

All of a sudden something new added another level to the torture, tormenting him, and he felt bile rise in his throat. A ticking sound, becoming louder and louder, painful and insistent. A raw, a monstrous sound, designed to kill his last remaining will to survive this moment. Sherlock’s grip on John intensified.

'Stop … that,’ he pressed out between clenched lips. 'Can’t … take it.’

'What? What is it?’

John stopped on the landing, his hand at the small of Sherlock’s back, and tried to fathom what bothered him. The flat was very silent and rather gloomy in the fading afternoon light, the remains of their breakfast still on the kitchen table, the newspaper strewn around the kitchen floor. Just as they had left it when they had rushed out to meet Lestrade this morning.

'Clock …’ Sherlock hissed, his annoyance barely covering the panic in his voice. 'Clock ticking…’

(…)

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