oversize earrings


Flashback to a few of the furry, bat-eared fox families that we’ve had born at the Safari Park. With oversized ears and puppy-dog eyes, they can easily steal your heart. But these ears are for more than looks. They’re used for communicating among the group and finding underground prey.

 Learn more about these little, big-eared foxes. 



A WRINKLE IN TIME stars Oprah Winfrey, Reese Witherspoon, Chris Pine, Mindy Kaling, & Zach Galifianakis, and it’s directed by Ava Duvernay!
The movie is based on a book about a girl who travels though time & space to save her father, a gifted scientist who is held prisoner on another planet!
The film hits theatres March 2018✨


Disney has announced details about an upcoming, newly announced film, THE NUTCRACKER & THE FOUR REALMS!✨ All we know about the plot is that it will be a dark twist on the classic tale of the Nutcracker and that there will be four “realms,” including the Land of the Flowers and the Land of the Snowflakes.🌸❄️ Keira Knightly will play the Sugar Plum Fairy, Helen Mirren will play Mother Ginger, Morgan Freeman will play Drosselmeyer, and ballerina Misty Copeland will also star in the movie. The audience at the panel got to see a teaser trailer for movie, which apparently has great visuals including scenery and costumes. It is scheduled for release November 2, 2018.✨


Production has already started on Disney’s live-action Dumbo!🐘🎪
The film is being directed by Tim Burton, and stars Colin Farrell, Danny DeVito, Michael Keaton, & Eva Green!🐘
The story follows Holt Farrier (Colin Farrell), a former circus star and war veteran, who has been enlisted by circus owner Max Medici (Danny DeVito) to care for a newborn elephant with oversized ears. The baby elephant’s ears are a laughingstock and embarrassment to the already struggling circus. That is, until Holt’s children discover that Dumbo can fly! Aerial artist Colette Marchant (Eva Green) and entrepreneur V.A. Vandevere (Michael Keaton) then swoop in to make Dumbo, the flying elephant, a star.🐘🎪
Dumbo will be brought to life through CGI and a team of award winning filmmakers are currently working on the movie!🎪
Dumbo hits theaters March 29, 2019!🐘🎪


Disney has just announced the cast for the live-action Aladdin movie!
Mena Massoud will be playing Aladdin
Naomi Scott will be playing Jasmine
There’s no release date but it’s most likely to be released in 2020.

Originally posted by animated-disney-gifs


The audience at D23 were shown an exclusive clip from Mary Poppins Returns, the sequel to the 1964 classic musical!☔️
The story follows Michael (Ben Whishaw) & Jane Banks (Emily Mortimer) who are now grown up, and Michael is living with his three children and their housekeeper, Ellen (Julie Walters) on Cherry Tree Lane. After Michael suffers a personal loss, the enigmatic nanny Mary Poppins (Emily Blunt) re-enters the lives of the Banks family, and long with the optimistic street lamplighter, Jack (Lin Manuel Miranda), uses her unique magical skills to help the family rediscover the joy and wonder missing in their lives. Mary Poppins also introduces the children to a new assortment of colorful and whimsical characters, including her eccentric cousin, Topsy (Streep). And, as mentioned before, Dick Van Dyke will play a role in the film as Mr. Dawes Jr., the chairman of Fidelity Fiduciary Bank, which is now run by William Weatherall Wilkins (Colin Firth).☔️
All we know of the scene showed at the panel was that it involved Dick Van Dyke dancing on a table! We didn’t get that scene but at least we got this beautiful video poster starring Emily as Mary!☔️
Mary Poppins Returns hits theatres Christmas 2018.☔️

“I think as a kid, I found that a magical mysterious person whisking into their lives and making everything right again was really comforting as a child … so I always found the film incredibly magical and wanted to be the Banks children! I need to pay homage to what Julie did but carve our space for myself. No one is going to out julie julie andrews. we were very loyal to the books.” - Emily Blunt


Hugh Jackman is going to voice Scar in Disney’s upcoming live action adaptation of The Lion King! He will join an all star cast that includes:

  • Simba voiced by Donald Glover
  • Mufasa voiced by James Earl Jones
  • Zazu voiced by John Oliver
  • Timon voiced by Billy Eichner
  • Pumbaa voiced by Seth Rogen

The audience at D23’s live action presentation got to see the Circle of Life sequence from Disney’s upcoming live action version of The Lion King!
Apparently it was shot-for-shot as you see in the animated movie, Baby Simba was adorable, and it doesn’t look like CGI! Everyone who saw the scene keeps on raving about how beautiful it was and I can’t wait for the movie!
The live action version of Lion King will hit theaters July 2019!

Originally posted by disneylandwheredreamscometrue


Click here for an analysis of the footage!


Footage from Avengers: Infinity War was shown to the audience at D23!
Most of the stars of the movie showed up on stage: Robert Downey Jr., Josh Brolin, Tom Holland, Benedict Cumberbatch, Chadwick Boseman, Chris Hemsworth, Mark Ruffalo, Paul Bettany, Elizabeth Olsen, Pom Klementieff, Karen Gillan, Dave Bautista, Don Cheadle, Sebastian Stan, & Anthony Mackie.
Infinity War is the movie that all the previous Marvel movies have been leading up to; in it, we see the Avengers & the Guardians of the Galaxy team up to fight the super villain Thanos.
The trailer shown at D23 was very spoilery, & I won’t be discussing it here because I don’t want to spoil it on myself, but apparently the footage was so good that the entire audience gave a standing ovation!
Avengers: Infinity War opens May 4, 2018.💥

Originally posted by thebestofsuperheroes



  • November 8: Thor Ragnarok
  • November 22: Coco
  • December 16: Star Wars IX: The Last Jedi


  • February 16: Black Panther
  • March 9: A Wrinkle in Time
  • May 4, 2018: Avengers Infinity War
  • May 25: Han Solo
  • June 15: Incredibles 2
  • July 6: Antman & the Wasp
  • November 21: Wreck It Ralph 2
  • November 2: The Nutcracker & the Four Realms
  • December 25: Mary Poppins Returns


  • March 8: Captain Marvel
  • March 29: Dumbo
  • April: Untitled DisneyToon movie
  • TBA: Avengers 4
  • June 21: Toy Story 4
  • July: The Lion King
  • November: Frozen 2
  • TBA: Mulan
  • December: Star Wars IX
What Comes Next

I’ve always been a fan of the Bechloe community, but I never felt brave enough to post my own writing until now. This fic is pretty experimental, so I’m open to any comments. Part one of many.

She woke up thinking about her smile, though, at this point, that was nothing new. Beca vaguely thought she had been dreaming about it, but lately the days had bled into the nights. She wasn’t sure anymore. What she was sure of, however, was the way that her smile had been imprinted on her brain, right where her skull ends and her neck begins. The soft spot. Chloe’s smile had found her Achilles’ heel.

Beca groaned as she threw her covers off and glanced at the small digital clock on her bedside table. 3:57 PM. She sighed, rolling out of bed and wandering haphazardly to the bathroom in her small Manhattan apartment.

She gripped the sides of the porcelain sink, the overpowering smell of cleaning product and the sickeningly sweet image of Chloe in her head making her stomach churn. She shut her eyes tightly to try and steady herself, but it was useless. There wasn’t the calming nothingness of black behind her eyelids. Instead, she found flashes of red hair and too-white teeth. Soft hands and roaming gazes. Chloe’s breath, warm on the back of her neck.

When she opened her eyes, she was met with her own ragged reflection. Bags that weighed down her small almond eyes. Bumps of stress acne that dotted her jawline. Lips that were cracked and bleeding in spots. Underneath it all was buzzing the quiet yet ever-growing sensation that something wasn’t right, the urge to uproot everything and start again. Burn bridges and reconstruct that ones that had fallen into disuse.

Beca jumped when she heard the front door open and click shut. She quickly splashed a handful of water on her face to try and erase a morning of crying. It didn’t help much.

“Beca? Is that you?” Amy’s voice boomed through the small space. It rattled around in Beca’s already aching head.

“Yeah,” Beca replied, trying to sound convincing. Amy popped her had into the bathroom, her beehive Amy Winehouse wig lopsided and her Egyptian-style eyeliner smudged. “Jesus,” Beca continued. “You look awful.”

Amy cocked her head. “You should see the other guy.” She sauntered back out into their shared living room, tossing her wig and oversized earrings onto the coffee table. She quickly slipped out of her sequined dress and instead opted for her favorite air-brushed shirt, the one that read “Fat Amy” in neon pink.

“I could say the same about you, Mitchell,” Amy yelled back into the bathroom.

Beca furrowed her brow. “What?”

“You look god-awful, too,” the blonde went on. “Worse than my uncle when he got stranded in the outback for a week.” She paused penitently. “God rest his soul.”

“What happened,” Beca asked as she came into the living room and curled up on the couch.

“The dingoes got to him,” Amy said quietly. She sat solemnly on the couch next to her roommate.

“He’s dead?”

“Dead?” Amy asked, surprised. “No, the dingoes took him in as their own. He still sends a Christmas card, though.”

Beca frowned.

“What’s up with you, Mitchell?” Amy pressed, changing the subject. “Why are you home in the middle of the afternoon. Shouldn’t you be doing your cool, badass DJ thing?”

Beca pressed her mouth into a line and hugged her arms tighter around her ribs. She shrugged, admitting finally, “I quit my job.”

“What?!” Amy exclaimed. “But you’re DJ BM! The big BM!”

“That doesn’t mean what you think it means,” Beca deadpanned.

“You’re Beca ‘effing Mitchell! New York’s hottest and smallest up and coming DJ!”

Beca squirmed. It didn’t sound right, none of it sounded right. “I’m just Beca now, ok?” She stood and laced her hands together. Even her own name sounded stale, undercooked and lumpy. She pressed her tongue to the roof of her mouth to try and mold something new, but the only word that came to her lips was “Chloe.”

“What?” Amy asked.

Beca shook the question off. “Nothing.”

She thought back to earlier this morning. Her feet seemed to move on their own as they guided her to her boss’s office. Hands moving unconsciously as she handed him her letter of resignation. Mouth opening without her knowledge and quickly forming the words “I quit.” She was back at the apartment before she really knew what had happened.

“All I did was make copies and get coffee,” Beca went on. “I couldn’t do it anymore.” She paused, tracing her chewed thumbnail nervously across her bottom lip. “I don’t think music producing is for me.”

“Have you tried something more fulfilling?” Amy offered. “Like the art of street performance?”

“Amy, I’m serious.”

“So am I!” She grabbed the wig from the coffee table and tossed it to her roommate. “Give me your best ‘Back to Black.’”

“Amy-” Beca began.

Amy held up her hand to cut her friend off. “You’re right. This town is only big enough for one Fat Amy Winehouse.” She snatched the wig from Beca’s hands and placed it back on her head.

Beca flopped onto the couch.

“You know what never fails to fill the gaping void of existential dread inside of my chest that keeps me awake every night?” Amy asked.

Beca thought for a moment. “Alcohol?”

Amy stood. “Not only are you a compact ball of sarcasm, but you’re also a mind reader. We’re getting drinks tonight.”

And with that, Amy was gone from the couch and into Beca’s room.

“Hey,” Beca called out, following Amy. “What are you doing?”

“Finding the perfect outfit.” Amy’s voice was muffled, her feet the only thing visible from the closet entrance. The rest of her body was buried under mountains of polyester, cotton, and leather. She finally reemerged holding Beca’s favorite jacket: soft brown leather on the outside with grey sweatshirt material sewn underneath, a hood peeking out over the collar. “The jacket that says 'I’m BM, and I’m a badass.’”

Beca took the jacket with a small smile. “Dude, you have got to stop saying BM.” She shrugged the piece of clothing on over her t-shirt and felt immediately at ease, felt more like herself. “What should I wear under it?”

“Yeah, I didn’t get that far.” Amy stood and surveyed the clothes splayed everywhere in Beca’s closet. “But I have faith that the big BM can find something that looks good.” She gave her friend a wink and walked out of the room.

Beca called after her, “You know that BM stands for bowel movement, right?”

“It stands for Beca 'effing Mitchell!” Amy shouted back.

Beca chuckled to herself and began digging through her closet, hands wandering aimlessly until they landed on a familiar material. Beca recognized it instantly and held it up in front of her with a trembling grip. It was a simple t-shirt, black with the words “Donna Summer” racing along the front in a bold pink. She could see Chloe in it now, dancing in the kitchen of the Bellas’ house with “Hot Stuff” blasting from her speakers, opening her graduation gown just enough so that Beca caught a glimpse of the shirt underneath it, taking Beca’s hand in her own as they explored lower Manhattan only a month ago.

“Do you think I should go with my shirt that says 'Man Eater’ or the one that…” Amy fell silent when she saw her misty-eyed friend on the ground. “What’s that?”

Beca held the shirt up so her roommate could see.

“Oh…” Amy’s realization was palpable. “You’re not really upset about quitting your job, are you?”

Beca shook her head.

“This is about your lesbian crush on Chloe, isn’t it?”

“What?” Beca’s voice shot up two octaves with Amy’s question, which felt more like an accusation. “Dude, no!”

“It’s ok, Beca,” Amy said as she plopped onto Beca’s bed. “I’ve known about your toner for Chloe for years. All the Bellas have. It’s not like you do a great job of hiding it.”

Beca looked back down at Chloe’s shirt. She clutched it tightly to her chest as she stood up to face Amy. “I just miss having her in New York. That’s all.”

Amy raised her eyebrows knowingly. “More like you miss having her in your bed.”


Amy raised her hands in defense. “Don’t blame me for the thin walls.”

“You eavesdrop on me?”

“It’s not like I have a choice. You can’t fart in here without me hearing it.” She paused before adding, “You really should be eating more fiber.”

“Unbelievable,” Beca muttered. She threw Chloe’s shirt on the backside of her desk chair before returning to her closet to look for something, anything else to wear. “It’s not like we did anything,” Beca continued. “It was late, and I asked if she wanted to crash here.” She finally decided on a plain black shirt, pulling it off the hanger and throwing it to Amy to hold. “She took one of my clean shirts in the morning and left the Donna Summer shirt with me. It’s whatever.”

“And now you’re angry that she moved to Atlanta,” Amy added.

Beca sighed. “I’m not angry. I couldn’t be angry with her. She went to be a vet. That’s always been her dream.” She paused. “I just miss her.” That was an understatement, and Beca knew it. She had never missed anyone as much as she missed Chloe. She felt as though she was missing a part of herself. Things seemed dull, poorly lit, and Beca was afraid of what that meant. She shook her head.

“Why don’t you just text her?” Amy asked.

Beca thought briefly, but she couldn’t come up with a good answer. The first few days they were apart, they texted nonstop. But as time went on, the texts became more infrequent until they stopped completely. Beca supposed that her friend was busy in school, studying hard for tests, meeting friends in her new home. In Chloe’s absence, feelings that had long lain dormant began to shudder and rise, bubbling up from Beca’s stomach and threatening to spew out from between her teeth. She had never found the words to reconnect with her new vision of Chloe, a vision that made the blood in her veins boil with some indescribable feeling. “I don’t know,” Beca quickly said, “but it’s no big deal. Can we just drink tonight, so I don’t have to think about you listening to me farting?”

“You know what I think your real problem is, BM?” Amy asked.

“If you call me BM one more time, I swear-”

“You’re a raging homosexual.”

“Amy!” Beca screeched.

“Like, if you looked up the definition of lesbian in the dictionary, your picture would be next to it,” Amy rattled on. “You wrapped in a rainbow flag in the back of your Subaru Outback.”


Amy waved her hand dismissively. “There’s no reason to be ashamed. Subarus are really reliable cars.”

Beca raised her hand to quiet her friend and to try and reclaim control of the conversation. “First of all, I do really like Subaru Outbacks. They have a lot of storage space and good gas mileage. Second of all, I don’t even know if I’m gay. I mean,” she gestured wildly to the space in front of her for emphasis, “I’ve never even kissed a… a… you know.” She brought her hands quickly to her waist and began wringing them nervously.

“Alright,” Amy began again. “Let’s start by describing your type.”

Beca thought for a moment, fiddling absentmindedly with the frayed waistband of her pajama pants. “Someone kind. You know, willing to put up with my sulky bullshit. Happy, I guess. Opposites attract, I don’t know.” She thought longer, her mind drifting back to the smile that had escaped her reach as she woke up this morning. “Someone fiery,” Beca went on. “Someone who can push me past my comfort zone so I’m not always such an insufferable asshole.”

Amy let the silence hang densely in the air, giving Beca a knowing look. “So… Chloe?”

Beca shook her head vigorously. “I don’t think it necessarily has to be-”

Amy stood. “Someone kind? Chloe shits rainbows. Someone happy? I repeat, Chloe shits rainbows.” She meandered over to Beca’s desk chair, taking the Donna Summer shirt in her hand. “Someone fiery? Chloe’s red hair? Beca…” she opened her arms and cocked her head. “You’re making this too easy for me.” Amy gave her roommate Chloe’s shirt. “Should I keep going? Because I could keep going?”

Beca opened her mouth to reply, but her friend barreled forward.

“Beca, you were an absolute dick when I first met you. And not in the good way because we all know Fat Amy loves some good-”

“I get it,” Beca cut her off.

“Point is, you were an asshole, and now you’re less of an asshole because of Chloe. The ginger’s good for you.” Amy gave Beca a small shrug. “And you totally have a good old fashioned lady crush on her.” She began walking out of the room, throwing some final words of wisdom over her shoulder, “I’m wearing my 'Man Eater’ shirt when we go out tonight. I think you should wear the Donna Summer shirt.” With that, she was gone, leaving Beca with a million thoughts swirling between her ears, but also, somehow, with a steady heartbeat. Beca smiled.


@cobaltmoony needed some fluffy Bucky and cat.

Well… there’s Bucky and cat..

He’d had so many names over the years (many years, far too many years). The Fist of Hydra. James. The American. The Asset. Jerk. The Winter Soldier.

Once, he had even been Bucky.

He still is, according to Steve. Steve who has lived too long, and has his own string of names trailing in his wake. Captain America. Steven Grant Rogers. Stevie. Star Spangled Man with a Plan. Punk.

Steve is still Steve, he may even be Stevie. He’s not Captain America anymore, not since the Winter Soldier appeared at his window, metals fingers pressed to the bullet wound in his stomach, scratching at the glass to be let in, like some kind of stray animal.

Steve, Stevie, still had no sense of preservation. He should have closed the blinds and left the thing that had tried to kill him months ago bleed out on the fire escape. But no, he wrenched open the window and dragged the assassin into his home (for fuck’s sake Stevie).

The Winter Soldier had bled all over the bedsheets, and as far as anyone was concerned died there, leaving a ghost.

The ghost of James Buchanan Barnes.

Steven Grant Rogers, Stevie, Dumb Punk, gave up his shield. He had picked it up to save Bucky once, and put it down to the same ends.

They didn’t so much live as warily co-exist in the apartment, on the corner of a street both familiar and strange. They had lived there before, Steve told him, but the building got torn down and they built a new one. Best thing for it, Bucky had said. The old one was a death trap. His mouth did that sometimes, opened up and words spilled out, unexpected and sweet and bitter. Like a head full of firecrackers, memories popping and snapping and if too many went off at once it made him flinch. Made him shiver and tuck himself into the smallest. darkest corner of the apartment, like a stray animal.

So Steve filled the refridgerator with the kind of things the ghost used to eat. Filled the shelves with books that the ghost used to read. The apartment was never silent, a radio in the kitchen, the volume turned low, played big band and swing and jazz, things the ghost used to dance to.

Steve was always so damn stubborn.

Baby steps, the therapist said. Small victories.

He’s killed presidents, and now he’s supposed to feel pride when he walks downstairs to get the mail. He’s brought down governments in a single night but barely manages three stops on the subway.

But it’s worth it, worth all of it and more to see the way Steve lights up when he comes back upstairs with the mail and announces the mission suffered zero casualties. When Steve’s hand wraps around his on the crowded subway and squeezes.

So he walks down to the corner store for milk when they run out, and eats at least once a day, and all the other little things that keep the furrow in Steve’s brow from running too deep.

And he doesn’t punch through the metal side of the dumpster when it starts rustling.

He had managed to pick up orange juice from the store. Not the nearest one just across the street from the apartment, but a bodega two blocks away. When he walked past the dumpster down the nearby alley (old habits die hard and he’s more likely to enter Steve’s apartment by the roof than the doors on the ground floor) it rustled at him and let out a pathetic whine.

Bucky had lifted the lid and found the cat.

The thing was not much more than a scrap of fur and fleas. He had no idea what colour it was, its coat dingy grey and matted. It still had a mouth on it, giving him a half-hearted hiss as he pulled it out of the garbage by the scruff.

The Ghost stared at the cat, and the cat stared back. Then bit his finger.

He offered it a metal fingertip and it bit that too, not even slightly dissuaded by the way it’s teeth skidded over the metal plates.

For the first time in seventy years, Bucky smiled.

The bodega stocked catfood, though Bucky had no idea if the cat preferred the wet stuff in cans or the dried kibble in boxes, so he bought both, the cat safely zipped up in his jacket, it’s flat little head poking out. It’s oversized ears swivelled back and forth as Bucky held out a can of chicken chunks in gravy in one hand and salmon pieces in aspic in the other and told the cat to make up it’s damn mind.

“Mrrr,” the cat said finally, which Bucky chose to interpret as ‘both’.

He pays for the items and walks back out onto the street. The cat makes itself comfortable, borrowing down into his jacket and going to sleep. It’s needle-like claws prick at his thin shirt, digging in whenever he turns too sharply or moves any faster than a walking pace. Since Bucky doesn’t want to be completely perforated he walks slowly down the street rather than take to the rooftops, and anyway he has a bag of catfood.

Steve didn’t look up from his spot on the couch when Bucky slipped through the apartment door and kicks off his shoes, though Bucky would bet good money that he’d spent the whole of Bucky’s absence at the window, quietly worrying.

“Hey Buck,” Steve muttered with a forced nonchalance that fools no one. “You get lost?”

“Mowr,” the cat answered.

Steve’s head snaps up, “What-”

“I founds it in the trash,” Bucky blurted out. “It’s greasy and cranky and smells like crap but…” he falters at the complicated run of expressions that passed over Steve’s features. “You seem okay with taking in strays,” Bucky finished weakly.

Steve frowned silently, and Bucky tensed up, one hand curled protectively around the lump of fur under his jacket. Something in Bucky’s expression seemed to settle him though, and he dropped the book he was reading on the coffee table.

“We’re gonna need more stuff,” Steve announced and pulled out his phone.

He wasn’t Captain America anymore, but that didn’t mean Steve couldn’t get things done when he put his mind to it. Twenty minutes later a harassed looking SHIELD agent dropped off several boxes of random crap that were supposedly essential for cat ownership.

Bucky couldn’t understand the need for a litter tray and unscented, clump-forming, biodegradable whatever-the-fuck to go in the tray (cat’s went outside, right?), or the twine-wrapped wooden kitty adventure playground thing. The collar, okay, fair enough. The shampoo and the flea drops, fuck yeah.

Steve read the instructions on the bottle carefully and gave the cat a wary look. “You’ve got the vibranium arm, you can hold it.”

They covered the bathroom floor with towels, and Bucky placed the cat carefully in the bath, where it gave him an unimpressed look and sat down to wash itself.

The disdain might have been more effective if the cat didn’t stop every time it licked itself to twitch and flap it’s tongue.

Bucky poured a little shampoo into his hands and coated his fingers before rubbing them into the cats matted fur. It gave him a curious ‘Prrrp’, but didn’t freak out until Steve turned on the showerhead, checking the water temperature on the inside of his elbow.

The cat hissed and yowled and bit Bucky’s metal thumb, sending half the tub water onto the floor in its thrashing. Bucky pressed his hand between the cats shoulders and it flattened itself on the bottom of the tub while Bucky rinsed off the soap. Underneath all the grime was silky black fur with white paws and chest and a splodge of white on his nose.

Bucky wrapped the cat up in one of the towels until it was a damp and squirming burrito, it’s nose poking out of one end. Bucky cradled it in his arms, murmuring softly as he carries the cat out to the living room and sits down on the couch. The cat bites his wrist half-heartedly, teeth skidding over metal plates. Steve watched silently from the doorway as Bucky carefully dried the cats fur, working through the tangles with his fingers until it curled up in his lap and falls asleep.

Bucky glanced up when Steve sat carefully on the couch beside him, silently waiting for permission before reaching over to stroke the cats still-damp fur.

Bucky thinks of his first night back, when the Winter Soldier bled to death on Steve’s white linens. It had taken days to heal, the bastardised version of superserum that crawled through his veins forcing out the bullets and knitting flesh and skin back together.

Steve had carried him, bridal style, to the bathroom and placed him in the tub. It hadn’t mattered, ghosts couldn’t feel the washcloth passing over bruises and scar tissue. Ghosts didn’t lean into the touch of hands in their hair, carefully rinsing away shampoo. Ghosts didn’t sigh at conditioner being massaged into their scalps, large, gentle fingers teasing out the knots and tangles.

Ghosts didn’t fall asleep on the couch, wrapped in towels and blankets, half listening as their failed mission made endless phone calls in a hushed voice, pulling apart the pieces of his life and putting them back together again with a ghost shaped hole in the middle. In the heart.

The cat purred in it’s sleep, it’s claws flexing rhythmically, leaving pinholes in Buckys jeans.

Piece by piece, everything falls into place

“He needs a name,” Steve murmured.

The cats head was pillowed in the palm of Bucky’s metal hand, fingers curled loosely around it’s fragile skull. It had one paw wrapped around Bucky’s wrist, holding him in place. As if he could even consider leaving.

Such a fragile little thing, and yet it trusted him. Trusted him to keep it safe and warm and alive.

Bucky glanced at Steve. “He?”

It’s not the thing he wants to say. There aren’t words in any language for that. There isn’t time enough in their artificially extended lives to explain it all.

“I got a, uh, eyeful when he was thrashing around in the tub,” Steve mumbles. “Definitely he.”

Ghosts don’t have names. They have identities - The Weeping Woman, The Headless Horseman, The Winter Soldier. Not names.

Bucky isn’t a ghost’s name.

Bucky shrugs, feigning nonchalance. Steve knows him too well to fall for it. “You pick.”

Steve takes a long moment to consider the cat. Bucky watches him from the corner of his eye. The lines of Steve’s face, the curve of his jaw. Things that ice and time and mind-wipes couldn’t erase.”

“He’s your cat, you choose,” Steve says finally.

Bucky huffs. “I’m bad at names. You’re the one who came up with Bucky. You pick.”

Steve lights up, and for a moment Bucky can’t look at him. It’s like staring into the sun.

“You remember that?”

Bucky bristles under Steve’s look of surprise. “Yeah. ‘Course I remember.”

Steve turns his face to Bucky’s neck and has to take a deep, shuddering breath.

Bucky waits for Steve to pull himself together, Steve’s breath, hot and damp against his skin raising goosebumps.

Really, it’s frankly embarrassing. A former spy and a decorated military tactician, and neither of them had figured it out yet.

You don’t go against your commanding officer and damn well walk into enemy territory in a stage costume for a friend. Seeing an old friend doesn’t break seventy years of Hydra programming.

You don’t hand over your shield to a guy dressed like a bird for a friend.

“Tom?” Bucky asks.

Steve snorts, still hiding in the collar of Bucky’s shirt. “That’s not very creative,” he mumbles.

Bucky shifts and turns to Steve, pressing his lips to the top of Steve’s head.

“Orange Juice.”

Steve’s head snaps up, and he meets Bucky’s eyes. “What?”

The corner of Bucky’s mouth ticks up. “I went out to get orange juice.”

Steve coughs out a laugh. “Seriously?”

Bucky gives him a mock glare. “You gotta problem with that?”

Steve shakes his head, his eyes bright.

“You want to keep him?” Bucky asks softly.

“Yeah,” Steve nods.

“You want to keep me?” Bucky murmurs.

Steve frowns. “You’re not a thing, Buck. How many times do I gotta explain-”

Bucky leans forward and kisses him, soft and brief. Steve falls into a shocked silence.

“I mean…” Bucky whispers against Steve’s soft, warm lips. “Do you want to keep me?”

For a second, a heartbeat, Bucky thinks that he’s made a terrible mistake. Steve lets out a soft breath and kisses him back.

“Yes,” he chants between sweet presses of lips. “Yes. Yes.”

Cute alert! A baby mule deer tries catching a snowflake on its tongue at Rocky Mountain Arsenal National Wildlife Refuge in Colorado. Mule deer are named for their oversized ears that resemble a mule’s ears. Compared to its cousin, the white-tailed deer, mule deer are larger in size, and have a black-tipped white tail and white patch on the rump. Photo by U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service.

Mission: Climb The Ranks

guess what I added on to that Castle AU like a year later so yeah

Relationship: Nursey/Dex

Tags: Castle AU, author nursey, detective dex,K-I-S-S-I-N-G

Read Nurse Series on AO3 | Part 1 On Tumblr 

6 Months Earlier

“Let me get this straight.”

Derek bites back the ‘good luck with that’ that’s on the tip of his tongue, forcing himself to remember that Lardo isn’t a free spirited art major anymore. No, she’s a sergeant in the NYPD who carries a gun and probably would not hesitate to shoot his toe or something to prove a point.

“You are working on a new series, and instead of just doing research like a normal fucking person, you want to shadow one of my detectives?” Lardo rubs at her temple, giving Derek a look like she’s totally over his bull shit.

This detective,” Derek clarifies, tapping the newspaper article sitting between them on Lardo’s desk. “He’s the one.”

“Derek…” Lardo squints at him, her mouth tilting up in a sideways smirk. “I’m not going to burden my best detective with your distracting ass if this is just about your thing for gingers in uniform.”

Derek lets out an undignified squawk of protest. “This is serious Lards!” He yelps, throwing his hands up in the air. “I want this series to have that grit to them, that real life feel, and I can’t do that without being immersed in a case!”

They stare at each other for a tense moment, Lardo’s dark brown eyes undoubtedly trying to set him on fire or something terrible. He’s not being dramatic okay, Larissa Duan can be fucking scary when she wants to be.

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Summer #2

Of course, Shiro was helpless, hopeless and hungry for Lance. He didn’t act on any of these things, aside from the odd night he’d spend alone in his small room provided by the castle for his protecting services, imagining Lance in all his whining and moaning glory. Those nights made Shiro feel awful, the idea that after he had finished what he was doing he recounted his thoughts, realizing just how much he’d violated the prince in even imagining him. Imagining his chocolate hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, his eyes half-lidded and bleary from over-stimulation as he looked back over his shoulder at Shiro. Imagining his small back pinned and his arms tied, cries and moans slipping from him as Shiro-


Shiro sighed,




He couldn’t not think about Lance. It was unhealthy, it was normal for a galra, to think of someone they cared of deeply so much, but it was still endangering his position and professionalism. He let his golden eyes flicker softly around the low-lit room, trying to find something to stare at but to no avail; another sleepless night. His mind wandered, if only briefly, to his mother, the gentle things she’d purr to him to get him to sleep, the soft stories of true love and the knight, saving the day, marrying the princess. How cruel those stories were, how terribly twisted of his mother to put the idea that the knight got the princess into his head. It’s like she knew that he’d be here one day far in the future, smirking at him and his desperation. That evil woman, that loving, adoring, evil woman. Shiro didn’t resent his mom, he had a good mom and he kept thinking about a particular thing she’d say.

“My son, you will be loved.” Shiro would always look up at her with a smile, so small and innocent, both arms, no scars, young and tiny and full of life. He’d perk up his floppy ears and tilt his head.

“Who will love me mama?” He’d ask, full of hope.

“I will child, I will always love you, no matter how big and strong you get I will always love you.” She’d hum back, licking a stripe over his forehead. He’d push her off, giggling and she’d smile at the child’s antics,

“Other than you, mama!” He’d say through his upbeat laughing, proudly “who will love me like a mate?” His eyes would hold stars, staring brightly to his mom like she had the answer.

“A very lucky being who will cherish you the same way you cherish the moons in the sky, who will cherish you so much that they try every day to give you the world on a platter.” She’d cup his fluffy cheeks and soothe calmly as she spoke “someone who sees you as Shiro, the most important thing to ever exist.” Shiro would look to his nimble paws thoughtfully, flicking his tail, looking far beyond his years for only seconds

“And how will I know if I love them?” He had asked, oversized ears flattening in worry “being someone’s mate is a big job.”

“You’ll want to cherish them like you cherish the moons, cherish them and try to give them the world.” She’d respond, repeating the phrase her voice had carried only seconds before “you’ll fall in love with the most important being in the world.”

Shiros mother was a very wise woman.

Shiro had indeed fallen in love with the most important being in the world; Lance. He wanted to give him the moons and more, make all the worries seep away as he presented the world on a silver platter. Just as his mother had said, Shiro had fallen in love, with the most important thing, too bad Shiro wasn’t equally important, not to Lance.

He sighed and tossed in his bed for what must’ve been the 30th time that hour. He’d roll and get comfortable, his head finding a new place on his pillow and he’d start to daze, brought out of his almost-sleep by how the blanket stuck to him or twisted around him, or by how his pillow was suddenly warm and scrunched up, only resulting in another sigh and a toss or turn. Before he knew it his alarm was going off and the soft hum of orange glowed in his room; the artificial daylight-simulators. He swung his bulky feet to the floor, the claws gently scraping a noise against the metal. He stretched and grunted as his joints clicked into place and his back muscles rippled with the pleasure of popping. He yawned, his canines glistening in the soft lighting and he rubbed his eyes. He didn’t sleep but his body felt like it did, laying down for 8 hours will do that to you.

It was minutes before he was up and in his armour, using a cloth to wipe it down, never letting dirt ruin the glistening appearance. He glanced up into the mirror to see his infamous bedhead, scowling as he used his claws as a comb, brushing them through the locks quickly. He took a deep breath before opening the door out of his room, watching it slide keenly. He made his way to the princes room, enjoying the ever-present silence of morning walks through the white-halls, the only sound being the purr of something far off, as if the castle itself was humming with anticipation for the days events. He arrived and gently rapped his knuckle on the door, as per routine.

A soft voice, still stained with sleep, answered “come in!” And Shiro smiled, his chest warming just at the sound of the man. Good god he really had it bad. He let the door slide open to Lances chambers as he stepped in, closing it behind him. It was a bigger room of the castle, a large bed lined with different stuffed animals and pillows, enough to supply an entire family with sleeping-equipment. A sheet- maybe a blanket? Was strewn across the floor as if the owner got up with it wrapped around them, letting it fall as they walked. The light was a tad bit harsher here than in his room but it wasn’t unbearable, then it hit him, just like every morning, that smell. He took a deep breath, letting it coat his lungs as he indulged himself momentarily. The ocean breeze, mixed with beauty, does beauty have a smell? It did now, Lance smelled beautiful. He loved every breath of it. “I’m just in the washroom!” He perked his ears at the sound coming from the small bathroom off to the side of the room, walking over to it he realized it was wide open. “Good morning Shirogane!” Lance beamed at him from a high-stool placed in front of the mirror. He had obviously just finished his skin and face routine, make up already expertly on. He was pulling curls from his hair gently as he watched the knight.

“Please, your highness, I insist you call me Shiro.” He smiled back, glad that even in the early hours of the morning he would be indulged in their game.

“I’ll call you Shiro the day you call me Lance.” He couldn’t help but keep the smile plastered on his face and Lance did the same, a glimmer of humour in his eye. “Shirogane?” He addressed suddenly, turning his head back to the mirror, working on the last of his curls as he spoke “are you aware of what tomorrow is?”

Tomorrow? “No sire, I’m afraid my ignorance has bested me.” He said thoughtfully, still trying to think of what it might be “do you care to humour me?”

“Tomorrow is the twenty-eighth quintent in the seventh pheobe of the deca-pheobe.” He announced, still smiling, the last of the rollers dropping into their bag as Lance carefully styled his hair “do you know what *that* is?” He asked again, not showing any interest.

Again, Shiro found himself thinking…. “I’m afraid not.” He mourned, his smile fading to something regretful, he felt like he should know.

“It’s my birthday.” He hummed happily, standing up once he was thoroughly satisfied with his above-shoulder appearance. Shiro forced himself to focus on Lances eyes, if he didn’t, his gaze would wander downwards. The prince was still in his sleepwear, he preferred soft silks and sheers which was exactly what his outfit was; underwear that were a silky white, resting enticingly on his hips, a translucent robe draped over his body, the soft purple dancing well with his complexion. He swallowed, realizing that despite his efforts his gaze had still wandered, Lance didn’t seem to notice. When Shiros eyes trailed back up it stopped, gazing at Lances bare neck, wanting as the robe slid off his shoulders, just begging for Shiros fangs to sink in and mark him, call him his, not let anybody touch him ever again.

“Y-your birthday?” He stuttered out, mouth dry and needing water. “I wasn’t aware.”

“When’s your birthday, Shirogane?” He asked as he slid passed the knight, heading absently to his closet to find an outfit for the day.

“The twenty-ninth quintent on the seventh pheobe.” He said, distracted.

“Your birthday is one quintent after mine?” Lances voice rang from the closet in curiosity. That didn’t sound right, Shiros birthday wasn’t the seventh pheobe.

“My apologies, your highness, I misspoke in distraction. My birthday is on the twenty ninth of the second pheobe.” He corrected himself.

“…oh,” he sounded almost disappointed, almost. He returned with a few fabrics of different shades of blues and greens “What’d you get for your birthday?” He continued the absent conversation as he undressed, Shiro turned around as per routine.

“Nothing, really.” He stated, frowning at the memory of being lonely that night, tossed out of the ring only a week before. “I hadn’t a roof to stay under or a friend to go to, no friends equals no gifts.”

He didn’t realize that Lance had stopped dealing with his clothes “thats terrible.” His voice was soft, caring, sorrowful and the small hand placed on the broad of Shiros shoulders, making the galra shudder. “Here.” The voice behind him was hopeful and reassuring as he felt slight weight on his shoulder. Lance had used him as leverage to boost up and give the man a small kiss on his cheek “that was you’re couple-month-late birthday present, now you can’t say you didn’t get anything!” Shiros entire face flushed a deep shade of pink from the gesture and he was glad he wasn’t facing Lance or the prince would see that horrid colour. His ears flattened as he heard the smile in the smallers voice, he flustered. Just the small gesture meant the world, it was so pure and innocent and Shiro would keep it forever.

“Thank you, You’re highness.”

“Of course, Shirogane.”

171028, up10tion’s fansign in gwangju: going crazy performance, cr. ice soda

kogyeol fixing sunyoul’s bunny ears + the two of them giggling and whispering and looking at each other while performing

  • bonus: wei glancing at sunyoul’s bunny ears and smiling
A Fortress of Cloth

It’s not a request fill or anything, just something I did between requests/prompts(Because I’ve really been craving Hybrid! Jungkook).

Pairing(s): Jungkook/Everyone


Warning(s): Hybrid Au

Summary: Jungkook’s preferred sleeping place is a nest of clothing.

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Liar 4/? (Tom Riddle Jr/Voldemort Imagine)

The sleep was next to none that night in the hospital wing. It was unbearably cold, dreary and somehow the moonlight seeping in through the windowpanes made it downright creepy. No, you did not sleep well at all.

Laying stiffly in your, bed watching the sun rise would have been soothing to anyone who got more than four hours of undisturbed sleep, but you were exhausted - glassy eyed and bitter about having to stay the night in the hospital wing at all.

You spent most of the night thinking about who had hexed you and why. There were a lot of people who disliked you but to your knowledge very few actually hated you enough to want to cause serious damage.

There was one person that came to mind, though. Who else? You’d taunted him one too many times and he’d had enough. Malfoy.

Frowning angrily, you palmed the sleep from your eyes and stood up to relieve yourself in a nearby restroom. The doors creaked open as you approached and as you slid through them you sighed, the pressure on your bladder releasing.

The sun was rising but it was still early and thankfully no one occupied the single bathroom to the right of the wing. You weren’t sure if it was for staff use or not and didn’t really stop to think about it, content with how the morning was going until you returned.

There, standing by the window nearest to your bed was Tom, hands tangled as always, eyes downcast in thought.

A long while passed before you moved, slowly backing up with light steps until you froze at the sound of his low voice.

“Let’s not,” he said, “I really don’t have time to indulge you today.” Your mouth hung open and you stared, he didn’t have time for you?

“Then why are you here, Riddle?” You snapped, all of your bitterness from the previous night returning in a flash. “Have you forgotten? Professor Dumbledore has asked me to escort you to all of your classes for the time being.”

You approached with heavy footsteps, ready to begin an argument when dark eyes raised to yours. Suddenly, you were stuck - wanting to shout when no words would come, wanting to raise fists when no muscles would move.

Tom’s eyes narrowed at you and then roamed over your body before turning away again. “Your robes,” he said, facing you with a neatly folded uniform in his arms.

Your eyes widened and you felt your heart rattle inside your chest angrily, “You went into my dorm? You went through my clothes?”

The ghost of a smirk revealed itself for a brief moment before the prefect spoke again, “Your dorm-mates didn’t seem to mind.”

Snatching your uniform and robes from him, you rolled your eyes. Of course they wouldn’t mind having Tom Riddle in their room, he was the most popular boy at Hogwarts. Pathetic.

“I’ll be back in a minute.” You muttered, swiftly returning to the restroom and grumbling to yourself as you dressed.

You hated how suddenly he seemed to stick to you, first detention and now this, it was just cruel. You wanted to be free of his seemingly constant presence more than anything and you’d do anything to get that relief.

Wrapping the green and silver fabric around your neck, you adjusted your white collar the best you could without a mirror, deciding it didn’t really matter. Gripping the doorknob, you hesitated - you really didn’t want to spend any more unnecessary time with Tom. You needed to tell Dumbledore that you knew who the culprit behind the hex was. The sooner you did that, the sooner Riddle would be out of your sight.

Twisting the knob, you sighed softly, anxiety diminishing at the plan you’d mapped out. Riddle was standing by the entrance to the hospital wing seemingly uninterested when you returned. You folded your arms and raised your brows at him, “So, what now? Bit early for classes yet.”

The brunette hummed in agreement, “You remember your schedule?” Scoffing and turning your back, you were about to storm off when you finally noticed - your eyes shooting to abnormally bare feet. “My shoes.”

A blush crept up your neck and stained your face at the realization. You were not about to walk bare-footed through the castle in front of dozens of students. “I have to go to my dorm.” You panicked, “In a hurry?” Tom asked innocently.

Not even dignifying him with a response you began your journey from the hospital wing to the Slytherin common room. You walked in awkward silence with Riddle and each minute that passed only intensified your discomfort. Skipping two steps at a time you repeated the password and rushed into the common room, ignoring the few odd looks you received.

“Wait here.” You muttered, making your way up the spiral staircase and into your dorm, glaring at your all too inviting bed. Sighing, you reached beneath it to retrieve your shoes, grabbing a pair of black socks from your bed-side table and slipping them on.

A single mirror stood between the two beds at the far end of your room and as you approached, you noticed just how awful you looked. Eyes red, sunken and circled with dark purple bags, lips chapped and dry from dehydration and skin abnormally pale with a sickly yellow tinge. No wonder you were made to stay the night in the medical bay.

Straightening out your appearance, you turned and took already settled books from your small dresser and returned to the common room which was now swarming with students of every year. Not even glancing in Riddle’s direction, you passed him, trying to shut out the quizzical stares of the students who had realized Tom was walking with you, completely at a loss as to why he’d ever waste any time or attention on you.

“I have Transfiguration this morning,” you began, double-checking your books, parchments and quill. “After that I have Care of Magical Creatures,” you drawled, noting your textbook Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them. Tom didn’t seem interested in your classes but he nodded politely, walking high along side you. “We have Potions after that and then I have - ”

We?” Riddle’s eyes narrowed at you, “I’m in advanced Potions with Professor Slughorn.” You pinched the bridge of your nose, “Yes, Tom, we. I’m in the same class.” Brows raised, the prefect clicked his tongue. “I never noticed.”

Grumbling under your breath, the two of you weaved through the crowd and into the Great Hall where breakfast was to be served. Carefully sliding your books into your satchel you gazed from your usual spot at the end of the table to the head, a sense of longing swelling within you. “Riddle,” you reached out, gripping the back of his robes as he passed you, “Let me sit with you.”

The prefect looked almost offended by your touch and you quickly flinched away from his cold eyes. “Why would I do that?” Heart beating furiously, you struggled to meet his gaze. “I-I..” He leaned in closely to you then, thick locks brushing your cheek.

“Don’t think that because I’m helping you that I must care. You’re still just as filthy as you’ve always been, Y/N.” You felt shattered as Tom turned his back to you, walking away like he hadn’t just spoken the most cruel words you’d ever had the displeasure of hearing.

You felt as if the spirit within you had been torn right from your chest by unforgiving hands. Falling into your seat, everything blurred. How could this hurt so much? You didn’t even like Tom - his opinion of you meant nothing. So why? Why did you want to break down in tears like a child denied a luxurious new plaything?

The soft tickle of fur between your legs offered comfort to you after half an hour of sitting silently, attempting to comprehend what Riddle had said to you. Soft yellow eyes gazed at you from beneath the table and a sad smile found your lips. Every student was welcome to bring one animal companion of their choosing and yours was special. Cupping your feline friend’s silky face, you picked her up and tickled the back of her pointy ears affectionately.

You remembered the day you received her, a tiny hairless creature with oversized ears that whined for attention as soon as she knew she was yours. A strange man had given her to your father for reasons unknown and despite warnings of how dangerous the strange, cat-like species was known to be, you fell in love instantly. Her name was Aradia.

“Is that a rat?” A shrill voice screeched and both you and your four-legged friend jumped, her dark coat puffing up at the sight of the dreadfully obnoxious Olive Hornby. “Get your eyes checked, blondie.” You snapped, turning away from the smirking girl as she made her way out of the Great Hall, laughing all the way.

Mimicking her bitterly, you let your head fall into your hands as the last of the students filed out of the enormous hall to their classes, leaving you behind. Aradia crawled from her place on your lap and nuzzled into your side, purring.

“Y/N, is something the matter?” A calm voice asked from behind your hunched back. “No, sir. I was just lea - ”

“We were just leaving, Professor.” Your heart dropped into your stomach and you bit back tears. “Ah, I see,” Dumbledore responded softly, “I trust you’ll be taking Y/N to all of their classes and extra-curricular activities, Tom?” The prefect nodded politely and you willed yourself to raise your head and then your entire body, standing and gathering your satchel.

You didn’t meet either man’s eyes in fear they’d see just how upset you were. You’d rather die than let Riddle know that anything he said had any effect on you at all.

“Let’s be off then, Y/N. Transfiguration first, correct?” You’d have been almost flattered by his memory had he not completely obliterated any growing normalcy you were beginning to feel toward him.

“That’s right. Excuse us, Professor.” You smiled weakly at the inquisitive man and as your eyes met, you felt he knew. He knew something wasn’t quite right, and his eyes told you that.

You turned away, leaving Aradia and Dumbledore in the Great Hall in silence - though for a moment you swore you heard the man speak softly in a language you couldn’t quite understand.

The walk to your classroom was silent and neither you nor Tom spoke of your previous conversation. You didn’t speak at all. “I’ll wait for you outside the classroom to take you to your - ” You raised your hand and silenced the tall boy. “Don’t bother. I’ve got a pretty good idea of who hexed me and I’m planning on talking to Professor Dumbledore after class.”

“I was given very strict instructions.” Tom reminded you impatiently, “I don’t care. I don’t want to even be near you, Riddle. You have the audacity to call me filthy and expect me to just let it go?”

Your eyes grew wide and your fists clenched, “I didn’t ask to sit with you because I want to fall at your feet like everyone else in our house. I just didn’t want to get hexed again - which by the way I think I’d prefer now that I know just how revolting you really are.” With that, you stormed into your classroom and left Tom to watch you distastefully.

He didn’t care what you thought of him and it was pathetic that you thought he did. He wouldn’t have ever given you a second glance had he not needed to earn the Headmaster’s favor, now more than ever.

Had Tom found anyone else wandering the castle during dinner, he’d have manipulated the situation to his benefit as he did with you. It was pure chance that it was your silhouette he caught turning a corner that night, just like it was pure chance that it was you he’d found crumpled unconscious on the ground the night before.

Tom couldn’t care any less about you, and he reminded himself of that when he ordered a passing Hufflepuff girl with twin pigtails to fetch the matron immediately.

He reminded himself that even when he carried you himself to the hospital wing and remained there well into the night that this was all so that he could stand in a bright light, be seen as a hero to the suspicious Dumbledore.

Tom Riddle reminded himself again as he left for his own class that he didn’t care about you.