Fuck I don’t want to study, I want to write a Winterfalcon fic where Bucky isn’t ready to face Steve yet, but really wants to make sure he’s safe and healthy. So he has a series of burner phones that he uses to text Sam reminders to look after Steve.
“Make sure Steve eats, he forgets if he’s really focused.”
“Don’t let Steve fly planes, the last time he did he ended up frozen for 70 years.”
Sometimes his sense of time and memories get muddled, so he’ll text Sam things like, “Remember to carry an extra inhaler, if Steve forgets his he could die.”
In Austria, Sam and Steve are about to infiltrate an old Hydra base when Sam’s phone buzzes. “Base isn’t abandoned. Not safe. Get out of here.”
And then more things happen but my brain is dead and I have to go study.
I will pay someone much gold to write this for me.
One of my favorite tickling tropes is when someone who’s hella ticklish has to be written on/ painted on and they can’t sit still. Or they’re being used as a canvas and they have to be tied down and they’re just cackling madly. Painting and drawing on their sensitive belly and the brush gets dipped into their bellybutton and they lose it. AUGHH SO CUTE. Someone abusing their poor feet and writing “tickle me” on their soles. Just end me.
Hey everybody this is my new blog! I made so I could improve myself and my general tumblr related skills. Two of those skills are drabble writing and mood boards and i am calling on you, people of tumblr, to help me out.
Reblog this post (please)
Send me a hp character and a color for a mood board
Reblog this post (please)
Send me a hp character or two and a sentence/phrase/something to go off of for a 100 word ish drabble
I might be a little slow but it’s becasue I am learning.
"And just where do you think you're going, dressed like that?" (Ok more sentence prompts. I'm trying to keep them vague lol)
“I’m going to run laps around the village, wearing your most youthful garb, father!” Gai declared proudly, practically swimming in his father’s green suit and tripping over the sleeves as he made his way out the door.
With a bright smile and a booming laugh, Dai swept his five-year-old son into his arms, filled with an indescribable sense of joy that his son thought him worthy of imitation.
“My son, your enthusiasm warms me to my core, which is why I have procured for you a suit of your own!”
Gai’s eyes grew wide with delight, and he tumbled out of his father’s arms and shouted, “I will make you proud of me, father!”
Dai’s smile softened slightly as he murmured, “Of that, my boy, I have no doubt.”
[Send me the first sentence for a fanfic and I’ll write the last five.]
Okay so you know that trope in fics where after Harry comes out, Ron asks him if he ever looked at him that way? Usually his response is relief but like, what if it wasn’t? What if it went like…
Ron: What do you mean you’ve never?
Harry: Well, you’re like my brother. It would be too weird.
Ron: Not even once?
Ron: But you’ve thought about Malfoy?
Harry: Um, recently, yeah.
Ron: I’m gonna need a 20 inch essay on what Malfoy has that i don’t.
Harry: It’s not like that! Hermione, help me out here.
Ron: Is it the hair?
Hermione: I doubt that’s it, he used to like Ginny. Maybe it’s more about posture.
Harry: *hitting his head to the desk and groaning*
Ron: I’m taller than he is Harry and he’s a bit skinny to be honest. I have more bulk, you know? Wait, where are you going? I’m a bloody catch, come back!
Hermione, snickering: There there, Ronald. I know you are.
Well, you’ll break his heart and he’ll break yours. But you won’t forget each other, even if one day you walk past him and neither of you acknowledges it. That’s the thing about first loves, you never forget them, they are the only person who gets your whole untouched heart. They get all the love you’ve saved up for this moment and they get to keep it forever. You may never speak again but you can guarantee that you can still picture his eyes looking into yours as he said those three words, the way he kissed you afterwards and couldn’t stop repeating those words over and over until you were both too tired to speak. However you’ll also always remember the last time he said those three words, and told you that he was going to come back for you, the way he made you believe that a happy ending did exist for both of you. Those memories will come back to you in waves, all the firsts and all the lasts, the good and the bad, but what’s important is the fact that your first love is just that, the first but not the last.
can you imagine if we ever got to see our ladies training together?? picture it.
- a steady green glow emanating from the walls to put kara at a level playing field with the others.
-alex and sara sparring, both in sports bras and dripping with sweat because neither of them is willing to bow out.
-maggie cheering alex on and telling her to kick sara’s ass.
-sara showing alex some new moves because yeah alex is a total badass, but sara is still a literal assassin.
-and oh jesus. can you imagine the salmon ladder?? alex doing the salmon ladder?!and poor maggie. just drowning in a puddle of her own drool while she watches.
-and then lena walks in because she was helping winn with some science thing and wanted to say hey to kara before she left.
-so she walks in the training room only to be slapped in the face with kara’s shoulders and back muscles flexing while she jumps up the salmon ladder.
-lena literally can’t even form words until she hears maggie walk by and snicker, “breathe, luthor.”
-and kara must’ve heard her come in cuz she jumps down and runs over still panting from the exertion and doesn’t seem to notice the red in lena’s face.
-so she acts cool and says “hi” and “bye” and is almost out the door when she remembers kara can hear her heartbeat and that she wasn’t actually fooling anyone.
-kara blushing as she goes back to training because she knows how hot lena is for her.
-sara coming over like, “so you tap that yet, supergirl?” and kara bumbling like an idiot because how did she know that’s literally all she ever thinks about??
-okay and maggie and alex at the shooting range? competing against each other and alex is furious because, unlike pool, maggie is a total dead shot and keeps. beating. her.
-maggie coming up behind alex all like, “here let me help” and adjusts alex’s arms but when she moves her hands to her waist alex completely loses her focus and misses the target so they just makeout instead.
-sara attempting to show kara how to throw knives but kara would rather just watch her do it so she starts showing off.
-someone having to resuscitate me because i would die.
On February 1st John wakes up to find that Sherlock’s half of the bed is empty, and on his pillow is a single lavender rose. He smiles softly, picks it up, and presses his nose into the petals.
The following day John finds two of the same flower, their stems cut quite short, waiting for him in his favorite mug when he goes to make tea. He doesn’t ask Sherlock about it yet, and Sherlock acts as if nothing is different.
On February 3rd there are three lavender roses waiting for John. One is resting in his left shoe; another is tucked inside his jacket pocket; the third he finds on the doorknob when he’s on his way out. He puts them on his desk at work and thinks about texting Sherlock for an explanation. But he doesn’t. Not yet.
Four roses find their way onto the mantlepiece.
Five are found nestled in John’s chair late in the evening on February 5th.
Six are discovered the following morning, wrapped neatly together with ribbon, in the refrigerator. Still, neither of them say a word.
It isn’t until the 7th of February–when John finds seven lavender roses, cut from their stems, floating in a bowl of water on the kitchen table–that John’s curiosity gets the better of him. He’s not much for computers, but he knows how to use google at least. The results make his head feel light.
Eight roses decorate the sitting room in various spots.
Nine are placed into various beakers and tubes.
Ten litter the surface of the sofa all day on February 10th. They avoid sitting there all day, but neither of them mentions it.
On February 11th there are eleven roses lining the doorframe of Baker Street.
The 12th brings a bouquet to John’s office where he switches them out for the three that have begun to wilt but that he was unwilling to remove.
Thirteen roses hang from the ceiling of their bedroom the following day. John isn’t quite sure how Sherlock managed that without waking him, but he lays there for almost half an hour, just watching them sway back and forth.
John comes home from work on the 14th of February and finds lavender rose petals scattered up and down the seventeen steps of 221B. If he had to guess he would say there were enough petals for fourteen roses. His chest constricts, and he takes the steps slowly, a small smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.
He expects to find Sherlock waiting for him, but when he reaches the top he finds the door to the sitting room closed, a note taped to it. Sherlock’s untidy scrawl reads, You know where to find me.
And John does. He’s back down the stairs and out the door in seconds, and for once it seems he’s got Sherlock’s luck on his side as a taxi rolls to a stop when he flings out his hand.
The lab at St. Bart’s hasn’t changed much since the day they met, and it’s a bit like walking into the past when John pushes the door open to find Sherlock waiting for him in the same exact spot he had been when John had first seen him. Only this time John isn’t limping. And this time Sherlock is holding a single lavender rose instead of a pipette, and his gaze is soft and warm as it settles on John.
“Knew you’d get it,” he says, his eyes crinkling with his smile.
John walks toward him, taking his time even though his heart is pounding. It’s ridiculous, he thinks, because they’ve been together for months now. “I’m smarter than I look,” he says, unable to keep from smiling in return. He stops about a foot away, nodding toward the rose in Sherlock’s hand. “Isn’t that cheating?”
Sherlock shakes his head. “You see, but you do not observe,” he says, a mischievous glint in his eyes. He steps closer, holding the flower up between them. “There were only thirteen on the steps. This is number fourteen.”
John steps closer and reaches out to touch the petals, letting his hand slip down until his fingers ghost over Sherlock’s. “I looked it up, you know. Lavender rose.”
“I know,” Sherlock says, his smile widening. “On the seventh. I was surprised you held out for so long.”
John can’t help laughing. “I’m not even going to ask how you knew.”
He plucks the rose from Sherlock’s fingers and sets it gingerly on the counter beside them, removing the delicate barrier between them so that he can step into Sherlock’s space and draw him down for a soft, slow kiss. Sherlock’s hands cup his face, his thumbs stroking along the sharp edges of his jaw, and John clings to fistfuls of Sherlock’s shirt at his waist.
When he pulls away it’s only enough so that he can speak, and his lips brush Sherlock’s with every word. “Love at first sight,” he whispers, and he frees one hand to touch the petals of the lavender rose beside them. “And you always said I was the romantic.”
Sherlock kisses him again, lingering for a long, sweet moment. “I thought you should know the truth. The whole of it. How long I’ve loved you.”
Something in John’s chest aches, and he spends long, drawn-out moments pressing his lips to Sherlock’s, murmuring his I love yous into his mouth, hoping that it will be enough, that Sherlock will understand that he’s been loved since the moment John saw him in this very lab so many years ago.
Later that night–after Sherlock has led them home, after John has pressed him against the sheets, after countless kisses and touches and soft, pleading words–later, they sit together in front of the fire, half-clothed, legs tangled together, and press the single lavender rose in between the pages of a heavy book. And when they’ve finished, John takes Sherlock by the hand and leads him back to bed.
I wish you had met me when I still had that light in my eyes, that love was something I desired and didn’t hide from, that I didn’t always question your motives with everything you say. I wish you were my first so you could experience a completely different me, but that’s not going to happen.