oliver the giant

almost as if summoned, the blond emerges from the kitchen, wearing the maroon crop-top he blatantly stole from Courfeyrac and a pair of Combeferre’s pajama pants that are far too long for his legs, somehow managing to scowl and look bored at the same time as he eats black olives out of the can. [x]

cleaned up my warm up sketch from this morning; i read elle dameferre’s courferre exchange fic last night and it was REALLY GOOD and deserves a lot more fanart than just my shitty need to draw enjolras in a crop top but win some lose some u know??

Prompt #29

“Are you kidding me?? I was going to propose!”

“You could still propose, it’s not like I’m stopping you.” Oliver joked, still down on one knee with the ring box in hand.

“Okay, fine,” Barry says, getting on one knee himself, pulling out the ring box. “You still stole my thunder.”

“Don’t you mean, lightning?” Oliver smiled, and Barry rolled his eyes, muttering ‘sap’ under his breath.

“Since you already asked, yes. I will marry you.” Barry said, “But the question is, will you marry me?”

“You don’t understand the action of "marrying” do you?“ Oliver said with a giant grin on his face.

anonymous asked:

Now that you've told us you have wild drunken stories, would you tell us one please? Or maybe incorporate it into an imagine with some of the skelebros? That would be pretty cool

One of my favorite drunken nights was when I went out for drinks with my friend, and we met his aunt/his aunt’s friend.  We ended up at some little hole in the wall bar where it was so packed, that we had to pile on a deck outside.  A dude wearing sunglasses at night came over and started trying to talk to me, but I was too distracted asking “Why the hell are you wearing those at night?  Can you see?  There’s no sun.  Are you high, and you’re trying to hide how red your eyes are?”  And then my friend’s aunt comes over, and she throws her arm around the dude because she’s pretttyyy drunk and starts questioning him about the sunglasses, too.  Then she decides she wants to wear them and throws her arm around me.  

“I wish my boyfriend was here,” she says, sighing loudly.  

My friend comes over and claims that her boyfriend is not an attractive man.  

“Yeah, okay, so he’s bald.. he’s short.. he’s fat.. Fine.  But he has a HUGE DICK!”  She holds out her arms to give me an idea of the inhumanly-possible size of said dick.

“A big dong, you say?” I chime, and my friend starts shaking his head, trying to get me to stop from encouraging her.

“BIG DONG KONG!” she shouts as loud as she can, while my friend desperately tries to shush his aunt.  

“BIG DONG SCHLONG!” I yell back, and the two of us high-five.  This is the first conversation I’ve ever had with this 50-year-old woman, but we’re instantly best friends in that moment.  

We leave and go to a honky tonk–like right out of one of those movies about the South, where people are wearing cowboy hats and drinking and dancing that I thought were a myth.  My friend and I are the youngest people there by nearly thirty years.  All the older women LOVE him; he’s dancing with them and grinding on them, and they’re ARGUING over who gets to dance with him next.  It’s crazy.  I end up buying JAEGER BOMBS (yes, you have to shout it as loud as you can when you order it, in the douchiest voice possible) with the aunt, and we start knocking them back.  I dance for entirely too long, and at the time, I think I’m just the best dancer ever, but I’m pretty sure I was just kicking my legs out and flailing around in a circle.  I end up with a cowboy hat at some point during the night.

The aunt and her friend join me on the dance floor, and we order more shots.  In fact, I’m feeling so wonderful that I order shots FOR THE ENTIRE BAR.   I guess I’ve just secretly always wanted to shout “A ROUND OF SHOTS FOR EVERYONE, ON ME!” at the top of my lungs, who knows.  

It’s closing time, and my friend (the designated driver in this situation), takes his aunt and her friend home, but we all go into the apartment.  Her boyfriend is inside, and she throws herself against him, but ends up in the floor because she’s just too drunk.

I decide to shake his hand and introduce myself.

“HOLY SHIT, IT’S BIG DONG SCHLONG, HEY BUDDY, JUST HOW BIG WE TALKIN’?!”  

Nailed it.  The aunt writhes on the floor, but points toward me to say, “PREACH IT!”

This little man doesn’t know what to say.  "Big Dong Kong, I heard all about it.  Like a kick-stand, AMIRITE?“  I pat the bewildered man on the shoulder and move past him to head toward the bathroom.  However, I stop short and turn back toward my friend, standing on my tip-toes to whisper in his ear.  

(Which probably means I yelled it.)

“I don’t want to use their toilet because what if his dick is SO MASSIVE that it touched the seat??”


My other favorite story I’ll incorporate into an imagine.

You were already drunk off a pitcher of margaritas and free birthday tequila shots from the Mexican restaurant down the street by the time you reach your hotel’s bar, flanked by your best friend.  You’re wearing a giant, gaudy pin on your shirt that reads “IT’S MY BIRTHDAY!” because 1) it really is your birthday and 2) it guarantees that you and your friend will drink for free all night.  

When you sit down on a bar stool, two skeleton monsters automatically sit next to you and start chatting.  One of them, with red eyes and a fluffy jacket, has a smirk on his face as his eyelights travel your body.  He’s been nice enough so far, so when he gets ready to leave, he says, “i’m going to a strip club.  would you like to join me, sweetheart?”

“I’ve never been to a strip club!” you blurt, seeming excited over the idea… until your survival instincts kick in.  "WAIT, I KNOW WHAT THIS IS!“

”…what?“ he asks, his smirk beginning to fade.

"THIS IS WHERE I’LL EITHER END UP SOME SORT OF SEX SLAVE OR MURDERED AND CHOPPED UP IN YOUR TRUNK!”  At this point, the bartender is doubled over laughing.  You have no volume control.  

“what–?  no, sweetheart, i just–”  He stumbles over the words, completely caught off-guard.

“NOPE, NO WAY, I’M NOT DYING TONIGHT SIR!”  You keep drinking your drink.  "Thanks for paying for my drink, though.“  Well, at least you still have manners, even if you’re slurring.

Red shrugs, holding his hands up.  "sounds like you’ve been watching too many horror movies, dollface.  welp, if you change your mind, i’m in room two-oh-”

“I do NOT sleep with MURDERERS!”

“what..?”

“Serial killers are a definite NO for me!”  

“ok, ok.  happy birthday,” he mutters, slowly getting off the stool to leave.  As soon as he does, a skeleton wearing an orange hoodie takes his place.

“good to know you have standards.”  He flicks his wrist at the bar tender.  "her next drink is on me.“

You’re eyeing the giant ass jar of cocktail olives instead of paying him any attention.  "I really want an olive in my drink…”

“but.. you’re drinking something fruity, right?”

You nod.  "Sex on the beach.“

"yeaaahh, olives don’t go with that.”

You start frowning, still staring down those olives.  "Who says it has to be like that?  I want olives in it.“

"you can’t drink it with olives.  it would be terrible.”

“Yes, I can!”

“fine, if you can, i’ll buy you another drink.”

You look to the bartender, and she shrugs and pulls out the jar of giant olives. “Just dump them in,” you say, and she absolutely FILLS UP YOUR GLASS with olives.  And dammit, you eat every single one of them.

“i can’t believe you’re actually doing it.”

And then you don’t remember anything else.

*The rest of that story includes blacking out after the olives, and then I wake up in the hotel room, in a completely different set of clothes (apparently, I filled the ice bucket up with water and then poured it over my head), with my head on the toilet seat (vomit everywhere), tears on my face, and my phone in my hand.  Apparently, I’d been having a nightmare about the two men shoving me in their trunk, and then I called my S/O and whispered “I’m so scared, please come get me” over and over into the phone.  He said that gave him nightmares, and he had to call my friend to make sure that I was all right. 

It was years before I drank again.