well done john

tonight we saw

  • the hardy boys return and win the raw tag team titles
  • nikki and john get engaged
  • stephanie mcmahon go through a table
  • naomi become a 2x smackdown women’s champion in her hometown
  • the smackdown women go on second to last
  • jim ross back on the commentary table for taker vs roman
  • and undetaker most likely have his final match

say what you want about wrestlemania 33 but it truly was the ultimate thrill ride



So this is what i was talking about in my last post and im actually kinda proud of this. These are just some concept sketches i finished early February that i really wanted to make and i might make more or draw some scenes?? i dont know yet but thats just an idea.

i hope you like it !!!

anonymous asked:

Can you imagine that being the silly boys they are, they just didn’t tell Rosie to call Sherlock ‘papa’? And time pases, and just they don’t. They evelope, they stay together, they start a really healthy -finally- relationship and Rosie gets bigger under their care but they just don’t tell Rosie that Sherlock is her dad too (1/16)

(because he does everything John does, even a bit more like doing her piggy tails perfectly -with those blue hair bands with tiny ballons pressed on them and yellow bee hair clips “she doesn’t need to combine them, she’s perfect even when she got your fashion sense”- and knowing which stories are her favorites one when she is two “come on, John, she stays 2 point 42 seconds longer up with you read to her that silly story about pigglets and the animal that blows their houses and not that one about the girl and the shoe! That’s quite smart actually, well done my dearest Watson”-). 

John is just scared that if he ask Sherlock to take this task, he’ll flee away and John just can’t live without him (no when he knows that Sherlock’s toes are twice as long than his or the warmth he feels in his chest when he catchs him wearing his sweaters when he’s sick “just because they’re warm”. John never tells him that he saw all of Sherlock’s sweaters in the back of the bottom drawer since John pointed this out). So no, he doesn’t. 

Sherlock doesn’t ask because he’s scared too. He’s lived alone and barely survived. He can’t live without John and Rosie (no when he knows that John uses this chamomile cream for his callused hands when he thinks that Sherlock can’t see him and make fun of him -he never sees, he smells but choose to never point this out. Sherlock guesses that must be some old child trauma, maybe his father, telling him not to be a “girl”- or how much honey Rosie needs in her tea when her throat is a bit hoarse). So no, he doesn’t ask. 

The three of them live in 221B, happily, I gotta say. Until Rosie is four and they can’t shut her off her pairs, so they inscribe her in this daycare near their house after Sherlock checked every single one of the kid’s parents. It’s easier than they think to tell her and it’s a bit more difficult for them, quieter definitely. But it is needed. They believe so. They both say “bye” to her (her favorite pink with yellow flowers dress, warm black leggings, shiny white shoes, cream sweater, and her favorite hairstyle), alongside with another parents crying. Sherlock doesn’t have time to deduce them until they see their -yes, their- baby -not so much little now- girl dissapear in a sea of kids, her yellow polka dot jacket and bees’ backpack into her new classroom.

Rosie never saw so many kids together in her life! I mean, her dad and Sherlock took her to the park almost everyday but they just never left her to her own devices. It was scary but a good scary -specially because Sherlock told her that they would come after her and fear not and there was also this girl, Amanda, a tan and all smiles girl, kept talking to her about her cats and her moms-. She knew that there were all kinds of families but never talked about it with a kid like her. Almost everyone had a dad and a mom, but Amanda had two moms and seemed a little confused about her dad and Sherlock. When she explained her day to day schedule (“do they hold each other’s hands?” “duh, of course they do!” “and they kiss each other?” “of course! Specially when Sherlock eats” “then you have two dads! That must be cool but I’ve to moms so I can tell you that having two moms is awesome–!”) there was no “Sherlock”, she must have looked so silly! Maybe so silly that it must be the reason why Sherlock looked at her funny sometimes -like that time he catched her trying to see how his violin worked or when she played doctor with her dad’s robe-, probably he wanted her to dedutce? Which one was the word?

Rosie was a Smart girl and in no time decided Sherlock’s new name, so when the class was over, with a little bit of help, she got all of her colors back in her tiny Hello Kitty case (she hoped her drawing was cool enough to get a place in the refrigerator) and her clothes while Mrs. Kleint explained them what they were going to do tomorrow. With the new drawing in her hand, she screamt as high and she could “PAPAAAAAAAAAAA” when she saw them standing in the middle -Sherlock height always helped- in her happy way, running with her chubby legs. John felt relieved, she missed him as much as he missed her but even when he opened his arms, he saw how she hugged Sherlock’s legs tight. 

Later that night, after long conversations and dinner, Rosie’s new drawing was the only thing in their refrigerator: Sherlock, John, Rosie and the ducks they fed on Saturdays with the tiny shaky scribble on top (help from Mrs. Kleint): -papa, dad, Rosie-. (16/16) Fin.

WOW!  That was so long and beautiful!  I signed online and was like “omg I have like seventeen asks, what did I do?  But it turned out it was only this lovely thing!  Thank you so much!!!  It’s precious!  <3


It’s a chilly Monday night in January when John knows.

Not knows, but knows.

Clear as crystal.

They’ve just returned to the flat after a dinner out at Angelo’s (two green salads; a bread basket with dipping oil; Sherlock: pesto gnocchi; John: prawn linguine; a bottle of the second-best dry red Angelo could scrounge up; five bites each of tiramisu plus one extra Sherlock sneaks whilst John is in the gents; and one peppermint that John tucks into the pocket of his cheek as they wait for a cab.)

Back in the sitting room of 221b, Sherlock wings out of his great coat and heaps it over the shambles of what looks like the frayed end of a laptop charger and a laptop curiously missing its screen. John pretends not to notice the cover-up as he digs through the cupboards for the now mostly-empty bottle of Ardbeg Uigeadail that Sherlock had lowered nonchalantly into their mostly-full trolley during a recent spending spree at Waitrose. (Thanks to a client’s generous tip, John had also splurged on not one but two rather posh candles for bathtime. Sherlock, bless his heart, had said nothing and tossed in a packet of Twirl Bites for good measure).

“Want a little?” John gestures with an empty glass.

“A finger.” Sherlock hums, prodding the early burst of flames beneath his hands. A comforting pop shoots sparks up into the dark cool air of the chimney. “Actually give me two fingers.”

John refuses to acknowledge the way the tips of his ears heat.

He pours their shares, spins the cap tightly back on the bottle, and leaves it be on the worktop. Coming over and holding a glass out to Sherlock, he plops down in his chair. “Been thinking more about that cold case.” He lets out a low groan as he readjusts the Union Jack pillow at the small of his back. “It could be argyria.”

“Argyria.” Sherlock’s fingers curl around his glass. He cocks an eyebrow in the way only Sherlock can cock an eyebrow.

“Why not?” John leans forward slightly. “A condition where skin turns an abnormal shade of grey-blue due to prolonged contact with silver salts. Victim worked in manufacturing, something with solar energy stuff.”

“Silver’s used in the photovoltaic conductive ink–”

“–which he produced, didn’t he?”

They stare at each other for a moment. A curve of a smile teases the corner of Sherlock’s mouth. “Well done, John.”

“I’m certain that’s what it is.” John moves to set his glass down on the small table next to his chair. The fire crackles pleasantly at his feet. Sherlock’s eyes crinkle as he lets the smile blossom fully into his features, a slight flush from the warmth of the room colouring high on his cheekbones.

God, you’re beautiful, John thinks.

“I’ll phone Lestrade tomorrow,” Sherlock nods. Crosses then uncrosses his ankles.

“Not now?”

“No, I’m…rather certain.” Sherlock means to glance at the fireplace, John thinks, but he doesn’t, he doesn’t look anywhere but at John’s face. Then his gaze instead flickers to John’s mouth before circling back up.

“I’m quite certain too.” John says a hint too loudly as his grin drops fondness into the well-worn lines round his eyes.

He feels alive. Purely, unabashedly happy and alive.

“You’ve mentioned.” Sherlock lets his knees bounce apart as he eases his bum down further in his chair. A floppy curl breaks free from its twin to grace his forehead as he ducks his chin down to his chest, the whisky rolling amber and loose in the glass still in his hand.

“Have I done?” John nearly whispers. He feels magnetised, unable to look away.

God, you’re incredibly beautiful, he thinks again.

“Yes.” Sherlock’s voice is a low rumble. He winks.

We’re…flirting. And I think he knows.

I know too.

John doesn’t feel afraid.

“There’s a few other things I’m certain of.” The fire snaps a punctuation of sparks in-between his words. “For example,” he feels his tongue dip out between his lips, wetting them, which catches Sherlock’s gaze again, “I’m certain that Angelo brought out that bottle because you asked him to.”

Sherlock nods again, conceding silently, as his eyes flick back up to John’s.

“I’m certain that you already researched the argyria diagnosis and told Lestrade about it.”

Sherlock starts to shake his head, but stops when John raises both eyebrows. Gracefully he shifts into a gentle nod and lets his legs drift even further apart.

John swallows.

“I’m certain that tonight at dinner… It was nice. I liked it, being there with you.” John says. “In a way I didn’t want it to end.”

“I did.” Sherlock never fails to surprise in the least surprising ways.

The thing is, John knows better now. “You did?”

“Oh I’m certain.” A soft smile. “I like this quite a bit more than eating pesto gnocchi in public.”

“Hmm.” John expects for his heart to burst out through his ribs, or for his palms to be sweating, or for his breath to be high and tight and shaky but he feels none of those things, none at all. “Come to think of it, I guess I did too.”

Sherlock asks him the question he’s been waiting for. “Why?”

The moment is perfectly ordinary in the most extraordinary way. Sat in their chairs, fire burning, together, at home.

“Because I was certain of another thing.” John feels a long awaited dawning deep in his core. “I was certain that I wanted to come back here and ask if I could kiss you.”

He waits, searching Sherlock’s face.

It’s the best first kiss John’s ever had.


The two glasses of whisky sit, all but forgotten, until John tips them down the sink four days later with a pair of cupid bow lips pressed against the back of his neck, soft and warm just along the edge of his hairline.


He had me there.


I’ve always hated Clarke. And after she killed Finn I was so done. Nothing she could ever do could redeem herself. I hate her. And she’s been such a stupid bitch this season. AND WHEN SHE FUCKS UP SHES ALWAYS LIKE “my people this” AND “my people that” AND IM JUST LIKE HOW ABOUT STFU YOU CUNT AND THIS BELLARKE SHIT LIKE WTAF IS THIS NO NO AND MOTHERFUCKING NO CLARKE IS A CUNT AND BELLAMY DESERVES BETTER plus I love jasper and murphy and bellamy and monty and finn and raven and octavia and wells deserved better

Originally posted by wenimation

Originally posted by itsjoex

Originally posted by neaarty