#i love him a little more in this episode

[elinordash]

SHERLOCK HOLMES (1984 - 1994) ↳ 3x02 | The Abbey Grange

[egophiliac]

innocently logging in to look at the Twst schedule for May like

[gunstellations]

In the world I love

_

In a different world

[mikimeiko]

Our Flag Means Death Season 2 - one gif per episode (with the first gif from their first scene and the last gif from their last scene) | Fang

[ruporas]

post ep 11

[towards-toramunda]

Anyway I need to go to bed but look at my lil man go! Look at him go! He’s so fucking cool! He loves blueberry pie and can kill you!

[green-crocs12]

one piece art!! with like 4 different brushes cause i can’t choose which brush i like best

[ghouljams]

We haven’t touched on Cowboy!Ghost’s, well, ghosts before, and I literally couldn’t get this out of my head last night. I’m going to treat this like actual fic, I feel so fancy...

Warnings:

Hurt/Comfort, Graphic depictions of animal death, PTSD, Ghost going through it

Pairing:

Ghost x OC (Goose) [can be read as x reader]

Summary:

Early days of Ghost and Goose’s relationship. Ghost has always prided himself on his ability to handle any situation, no matter how bleak. So why does he find himself so ill equipped to handle something as small as a couple chickens death?

A coyote got into the henhouse last night.

You can hear its yips and snarls, the aggressive barks of your cattle dog as it darts at the chicken wire, the starling lack of clucking. You whistle for the dog, and it races to go check on the other animals. The last thing you need is for the coyote to get into it with Mav when you pull its sorry ass from the chicken pen. You yawn, trying to hold onto the hope that at least some of your ladies got somewhere safe before the carnage started. You’ll stop by the tractor supply later and grab some chicks to bolster your flock again.

You stop. Watching Ghost stand frozen in front of the pen, shoulders tight, barely breathing. His eyes a million miles away.

The pen is littered with half shredded chickens. Feather and muscle strewn about. The wild frenzy of a half starved predator laid out in front of you. The loose organs and scent of death turns your stomach, you can’t imagine what it does to a fresh soldier. Ghost’s finger twitches, beating a rapid tattoo against his thigh, his gun is still neatly holstered. You suppose that’s for the best, or maybe a signal of the worst. 

You think about your first fourth of July after your Daddy’s second tour. The way he’d disappeared into the house like a ghost. The way your momma handed you off to your granny and followed after him. How your granny had told you: sometimes you see something so bad it never leaves you.

"Go wait in the house," you tell him as soft as you can, pulling at his arm to try and pull his attention. Ghost nods mutely, eyes still glued to the blood soaked earth and torn limp bodies. "Go on," you press a little more firmly, you lead him away from the henhouse, out of sight of it, "I'll be in shortly."

Ghost follows your direction, ears ringing, head stuffed with cotton. Everything feels far away and yet so brightly present. He can smell gunpowder and burnt flesh, can feel the wet warmth of blood on his clothes where he knows there isn't any. Can hear the shouting. He pushes the front door to the house open and holds the brass handle tight in his fingers for a long moment, just standing, waiting. As if he'll hear the pang of gunfire over the infinitely patient silence. 

He goes to the kitchen and puts the kettle on. Stares at the black iron as it sits on the burner and waits for the yip of the coyote, the last gunshot. It doesn’t come. You take his hand in the silence and turn the burner off. Lead him to the table and sit him heavily in one of the wooden chairs. Ghost keeps his eyes forward, his shoulders rigid. He waits. He doesn't know what he's waiting for. For the memories to stop. 

His hat is removed, set carefully on the table. A warm cloth touches his face, wiping gently at the crease in his forehead, at the stern set of his brow. Your fingers reach for the edge of his mask and he grabs your wrist, eyes finally darting to yours in a panic. He can't. It's too much, too hard. He can't.

Somehow you seem to understand, fingers sliding instead to cup his jaw, to rub your thumb against his cheek over the soft cotton. The washcloth wipes his brow again, still warm and soothing.

"You're safe," you murmur, "Safe and sound right here with me. And Daddy.” You tack Price on, as if you might not be enough to convince him. As if it isn’t your touch that’s bringing him back, your eyes that hold his with such kind patience it makes his heart hurt. “We won't let anything hurt you."

Ghost doesn’t say anything, can’t make his lips move or conjure a thought as to what he might say. If there is anything to say. Is there anything to say?

You tip his head forward, press the lightly damp cloth against the back of his neck. He lets his hand drop from your wrist as you move your hand from his cheek to scratch your fingers through his hair. Gentle, calming touches. Never asking more from him than his comfort. 

He settles his hands on your hips, and for a moment he can pretend you’re his.

[wickedcriminal]

An alternative direction for Stryke Out where Elder gets stuck in a cage, Toothless is the top competitor for more than a few dragon fights, and— what's this? By Thor, there's a colorful mood dragon here, and she can speak Norse! What are the odds of that?

Little does Elder know that wherever this mood dragon is, Camicazi will be close behind.

[sophfandoms53]

Nothing else matters except seeing Loona starting to embrace Blitz as a her dad🥹

[fear-no-mort]

i cant get over the whole time in the real world rick just sat there watching over morty and when he woke up finally rick sounded SO happy the way he just yelled his name excitedly the second he woke up,,,

[potatobugz]

*picks you up and dips u in a vat of acid*

[egophiliac]

redesigning my headcanon for Sebek's parents, based on important new information (SCALES)

(you can't see it but they're both wearing crocs)

[thresholdbb]

I can fix him

Except he is a beloved 58-year-old science fiction franchise being smashed into the ground for profit and I am a potato

[guardian-angle22]

911: Lone Star | Judd Ryder in S4E17

[m-o-o-n-f-i-r-e]

help i’ve fallen for another ship comprised of two insane autistic queers that want each other dead despite also being willing to do literally anything for the other even at risk to themselves