#THANK U HELEN!!!!!!!!!

[amrv-5]

for the cuddle ask game... 4, 14, 16, 20, 26, 30 <- I limited myself to 6. feel free to combine any or discard any as you please xxxxx

HELLO HELEN and thank you for this prompt LOL super cute and I had a great time writing it!!! sorry this is so late but I HAVEN'T ABANDONED THESE PROMPTS I PROMISE!! anyway I picked 20. cuddles while reading to each other plus 30. pulling the other's arms tighter around themselves from this prompt list.

Hawkeye yawned. He tossed his book onto the nightstand and rolled over twice, coming to a stop on top of BJ. 

“Hi,” BJ said, raising his own book to better consider Hawkeye, who was looking at him intently. 

“Hi,” Hawkeye answered. He nosed into BJ’s chest. “What are you reading?”

BJ showed him the cover of his book. A thick science fiction collection Hawkeye had gifted him. More to Hawkeye’s tastes than his own, but he was enjoying himself anyway. 

Hawkeye continued to gaze at him. It was pointed, and expectant—BJ knew what he wanted. An occasional nighttime routine. Usually it was indulged when one or the other of them was struggling with sleep, but it was nice, too, for no reason at all. 

“The fact is, the Time Traveller was one of those men who are too clever to be believed: you never felt that you saw all round him,” BJ began, reading aloud, clear but soft, speaking from the chest instead of projecting.

Hawkeye rubbed his face against BJ’s sternum lazily, eyes shut in contentment. He had a terrific cowlick.

BJ grasped his arm with his free hand as he continued to read, anchoring him. Hawkeye was breathing softly against him, asleep or thoroughly relaxed, by the time he reached a page break. Moving might disturb Hawkeye, so BJ struggled to turn the page one-handed—managed to free his thumb, stretched to reach the opposite page, and dropped the book onto Hawkeye’s head. Hardcover and all.

“Oh, Hawk,” BJ said, already laughing—Hawkeye had made a funny, catlike sound of discontent, and the thunk of the book bouncing off of him had been even better. He clutched Hawkeye tight and tried to kiss the crown of his head and stop laughing so much all at once, trying to balance how terribly he felt with how comic the progression of events had been. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Did that hurt?” 

Hawkeye removed his head from BJ’s chest, looking at him through one slit eye. His indignation cracked into laughter almost immediately. 

“Sorry, I’m sorry,” BJ repeated, rubbing his back. His ribs hurt from laughing under Hawkeye’s full weight. 

“Some alarm.” Hawkeye slipped down to rest his head against BJ’s middle.

“What about my book?” BJ asked, when it seemed like Hawkeye was settling in for the night.

“That deadly weapon? It’s staying on the mattress where it can’t hurt anyone.”

“Sorry again.” BJ petted Hawkeye’s hair, feeling guilty and protective, even though it hadn’t been a hard hit, and Hawkeye would tell him if he’d really been hurt. 

Hawkeye patted his flank. “Just teasing, Beej,” he reassured him, looking up long enough to wink. “I’m hard-headed.” He paused, holding BJ’s gaze. And I’m bringing the encyclopedia to bed tomorrow. For self-defense.”

BJ squeezed him. “Which letters?”

“Oh,” Hawkeye said, nuzzling into him happily, “let me see. A for aerial, ambush, attack; B for betrayal, book, bombardment, bruise—”

“I get it,” BJ said, laughing, and kissed the rest of the alphabet away.

[eeveeights]

missing them a little bit as of late... my toxic yuri roots....

old comic redraw because i wanted to draw them but had no new ideas....

[parasolladyansy]

Hurricane Helpers (day 7 LAST)

AND WE ARE DONE!! \^0^/

Thank you all so, so much who donated, liked, &/or reblogged our Hurricane Helper fundraiser. While we’re still waiting on Professor Case’s final number, on my end we’d raised $450+ for Greater Good Charities! I can only think of how many people that would help. 8u8

This last batch of Hurricane Helpers turned out to be almost all red-toned for some reason (also I got so, so many Fire-types working in the rain through this lol? XD) Enjoy, & once again, thank you!! 🩵🌧️

[toupee-or-nottoupee]

my new rot is making sharp & ronen take in sebastian at the end

[loopnoid]

happy yuri friday saturday everyone did you know that uhhhhhh

[jellypawss]

HOLY FUCK MY POWERS ON

[vvyrmwood]

still have no power/running water and the area around us absolutely ate shit but came on here to make to say they should invent t4t but for doing puzzles together. and fucking sloppy style but AFTER the puzzle is done

[moonshynecybin]

the thing about i-40 that pisses me off so bad is that they JUST fucking finished construction on that section of road after like ten YEARS

[johnwickb1tsch]

The Night Nurse - Ch 8

A John Wick x Helen Fic

When nurse Helen Morgan is caught in the crossfire of a shootout and aids the injured John Wick, she’s faced with two options: serve the High Table, or be executed as a Witness. She tells herself her choice to work at the Continental has everything to do with survival, and excellent pay, and *not* her growing feelings for the Tall, Dark, and Handsome Assassin™ who got her into this mess in the first place, thank you very much. │ Masterlist / Chapter Map │

VIII.

This was a day for firsts. John found himself seated at his dining room table, the modern behemoth that could seat ten, but had only ever serviced dinner for one. Later, there would be two. Now, it was being used as a medical table while Helen administered fresh stitches.

“This time,” she mused while finishing off a knot, “Let’s wait for you to heal completely before engaging in strenuous activity.”

“I would never get anything done.” She leveled him with a look, indicating this was not the correct answer. Though he knew he walked on dangerous ground, the corners of his mouth twitched. “Yes, Nurse.”

“That’s more like it.”

She applied a fresh bandage. “Try not to get this wet in the shower.”

He was no stranger to wound care routines. “Sure.”

As she pressed the last bit of adhesive her fingertips lingered over the curve of his deltoid, tracing the black cross there lightly. It caused a shiver to run down his spine. This time, he didn’t try to hide it.

“Are you…a religious man, John?”

He shook his head slowly, anticipating her next line of questioning.

“You have a lot of religious tattoos.”  

“They mean a certain thing to people in my world. It has very little to do with Christianity, believe me.”

“You mean, our world?”

John titled his head in a silent question of Really?

“Just saying. I made my oath to the High Table. No one’s come after me with a tattoo gun.”

“You haven’t done hard time,” he answered quietly. “And I would like to keep it that way.”

Her eyebrows shot high at that. “Were you in prison?”

“Once.”

“For how long?”

“Three years.”

“You didn’t get three years for homicide.”

“I was very well behaved.”

She narrowed her eyes, weighing him with that molten caramel gaze. “I think you’re fucking with me.” Hearing her say it, no matter the context, twisted him up with a sudden unforgiving wave of desire. Then, she sighed. “Sorry. You don’t have to tell me.”

He caught her hand before she could draw away, so quickly she’d barely seen him move.

“I’ll tell you,” he offered quietly.

“Okay.”

She stepped closer, standing between his splayed legs, as though sharing these dark secrets required a more intimate proximity. Her fingertips toyed with the ends of his hair, and not for the first time, John thought he might just die.

“I...said I was an orphan.”

“Yes.”

“My mother died in a car accident, when I was very young. Not long after, my father was…killed, in a street robbery.”

“Oh, John.”

“I spent years in the orphanage. When I proved strong enough to survive...I was adopted. Sold, more like. To a crime organization that took children to mold as they saw fit. They taught me how to kill, and they gave me these tattoos. The arm cross, for my first kill. It signified my devotion to their cause.”

Her eyes went wide. “How old were you?”

“Sixteen.”

“Shit.” There was the glimmer of tears in her eyes, and he felt a tremor inside, a fissure in his armor, cracked open by her compassion. He could not stop himself from holding her hand against his cheek with a desperation that he had not felt since he was a young boy. John closed his eyes, knowing he could not go on speaking while looking upon her lovely features pulled with such worry and pain, for him.

For him, he marveled, a creature so cloaked in darkness and destruction so as to never deserve forgiveness.

She truly was an angel of mercy.

“The praying hands came when I graduated from their school. It’s like a brand of ownership. It means…the bearer is asking for mercy that is rarely granted. Not from God though. From…Her. The woman who ran the syndicate. She was our God. Our judge. Our Executioner.” John found he couldn’t bring himself to name the Ruska Roma to Helen. He had a sinking intuition that it could be dangerous. A feeling that she might do something brave, and stupid, like ask around until she found the Tarkovsky theatre, and march out to tell The Director off on his behalf, with that magnificent Irish temper of hers. 

“That is horrible. You can't own people,” she protested, her words brittle. He almost smiled for her naivety.

“You can, where I come from. Where life is cheap, and freedom is a fairytale. It’s how most of the world lives, sweetheart.” The endearment slipped from his lips before he could stop himself. She did not seem to take offense though, so absorbed in the horror of what he was telling her.

“But...this wasn't the Tarasovs who did this to you?”

“No. They bought me, essentially, when I was a young man. I was becoming difficult to control. She didn’t quite manage to break me, like so many of the others. I wanted…more, than the enclosed world She allowed us to inhabit. I think She sensed I would tear down what she’d built, if She didn’t let me go. In a way…Tarasov was a blessing. At least in the Bratva you can have a life that is somewhat your own, so long as you get done what Viggo needs done.” 

“Oh, John…”

It was so heartbreaking to her, that his formative years had been so brutal that joining the fucking Russian mob had been a kinder placement.

But there was more, and now that he’d started talking about it, it was as though he couldn’t stop. The words just kept pouring.

“I didn’t put it together until I was much older, but I suspect my father was like me. He came from the same…syndicate. Raised to do what I do from a young age. But he must have run away to be with my mother. I think they found him and killed him for it, then She took me as…revenge? Payment? A warning? I’ve never known for sure.”

He had not found out, from an offhanded comment here and some digging there, until long after he’d left the Ruska Roma. If he’d known when he was a young firebrand, he absolutely would have burned the Tarkovsky Theatre to the ground no matter the consequences.

“Jesus, John.”

John finally opened his lids when he felt her fingers sliding through his sweat-damp hair, her eyes filled with compassion. He did not resist when gently she pulled him into an embrace, his cheek resting against her chest. The steady beat of her heart beneath his ear calmed him, grounded him from the spiral calling up these memories could inspire. Her hand rested on the crown of his head, and maybe it was ridiculous, but…for the first time, in a very long time, he felt safe.

He could have stayed there forever, but it seemed…disingenuous, to take advantage of her compassion that way. Little did he know, she would have held him for hours if he asked her to.

She looked down at him like she could see straight through him, nodding slowly to all this information he’d imparted, her fingers still sliding languorously through his hair.

“If I ever meet this bitch, I’m going to punch her in the face.”

The very thought pulled the tiniest suggestion of a smile from John’s lips. “I believe you. And that’s why I’m not giving you a name.”

“Are there that many women-led crime syndicates in New York?”

“You might be surprised.”

“Hmm. So…if the Tarasovs bought you….Jesus, I hate that…do they still own you?”

His heart felt as though his blood had thickened to lead. But they’d come this far, and he owed her nothing less than the truth. 

“I’ve climbed the ranks. I have standing. I’m not a slave, but no one gets out, when you’re in as deep as I am. It would require…an Impossible Task.”

The furrow between her brows broke his heart. He wondered if that quick and beautiful mind was absorbing all this information, sorting it out and weighing the gains and the consequences…and inevitably arriving at the only sane conclusion: how can you be with a man, if he’s owned by someone else?

It was a conclusion she had every right to make, but it hurt. It hurt in a way he hadn’t felt in a long time, an ache deep in a part of his heart he hadn’t managed to numb over the years.

“Are you happy now, at least?” 

The question only further twisted the knife. Only recently, had he begun to actually feel that elusive emotion. It had more to do with her than any of the relative freedom or vast wealth he’d accrued.  

“I'm...getting there.” A part of him wanted to finish the thought. Because of you. But his conscience stopped him—he didn’t want the burden of his happiness resting on her shoulders, when already this amazing woman carried so much. He had to lighten the mood, or their evening would be ruined, and it would be all his fault.

“You know there was one good thing She taught me.”

“Oh?”

“How to dance.”

“What?”

“Ballet.”

Helen frowned at the absurdity of this notion before laughing out loud. “I think you’re fucking with me again.”

John decided to take that moment to stand, the fronts of their bodies nearly pressed in a line. His hands found her tiny waist, as though it was their natural resting place. “I’ll prove it to you. Want to do a lift?”

“Don’t you dare!” she squealed, skipping away across the floor, putting a chair between them. “I am not redoing your stitches again!” It took every iota of his self-control not to give in to his hunter’s instincts and chase her, grab her up, and finally slant his mouth over hers to make her his. He found his cheeks hurt from the strain of grinning wider than he ever had, though he feared it might more resemble a baring of teeth.

Helen’s eyes shone with laughter, her lips parted. She really was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

   “Did you do that just to cheer me up?” she asked, the softness in her voice squeezing his heart like a fist.

“Would I do such a thing?”

She narrowed her eyes, seemingly for the umpteenth time that day. “I am going to go take a shower, Mr. Wick. And you had better get started on that dinner you promised me.”

“Yes ma’am.”

He watched her disappear down the hall towards the guest bedroom, a lightness in his heart that almost confused him. Was this the relief to be found in confessing one’s sins? Or was it her? Just the miracle that was Helen Morgan, and these feelings she inspired in his breast. He dared not name it; for anything John Wick had ever loved, had died in some way.

He couldn’t bear to curse Helen too.

[mashbrainrot]

#i was gonna launch into some of my pet theories about this again but then i realised they werent interesting lmaooooo

so what if they aren't interesting. do it!!! (I you want to. I'm interested)

omg I've been enabled! hi thank u xoxo

(EDIT: I'm stupid and forgot to add the post this is referring to)

so in general my read on this is that the way Peg writes to BJ points to a much less uptight and more gentle pre-war BJ, which is generally in line with other things I see in his character (like his shock at his own displays of anger etc)... Some people question why on earth Peg is telling this man all these things that are happening that cause him to go off the deep end and my answer is that she tells him because these things would not have caused the BJ she knows to react with anything but good humour. in Mail Call Three we get this:

...one of our good neighbors made a pass at her. How did she handle it? She thought it was funny.

so to my mind, Peg told him this (and all the other stuff that made him loopy) because she thought BJ himself would find it funny too. perhaps in the past he absolutely would have.

Whether this points to a BJ who always had the capacity for great amounts of anger and jealousy but never let it out before the war, someone who was just never challenged in the same way finding out facets of his personality he genuinely didn't know existed, OR a man who genuinely WAS free and easy at one point who became inherently (and maybe forever) changed into everything he would have once found laughable... is up for some fun debate. maybe it's a little of all three and some more besides.

i personally headcanon a BJ who started off a generally good natured dude, who actually really shaped his whole life and perception of himself around BEING and inhabiting that kind of man - who was shaped into something a little harder to digest through trauma.

[boudicca]

nearly finished the romanov sisters by helen rappaport and am Really enjoying it... i'm so used to history books being dry and under-referenced but her writing style and structure is so smooth and the bibliography is like 100 pages on its own

[heleneplays]

a year ago, @jamesshawgames released Interlude 5 for Relics 3 beta and I haven't known peace since

[stargod]

Yippeeeeeee woohooooo da powers back im no longer a human puddle yayyyyyy

[goldengodcannibal]

Fresher than a mother !

[agathaspostsstuff]

Doug: Did Evans just tell me he loved me for the first time?

Bierce: Yeah, he did.

Doug: And did I just do finger guns back?

Bierce: Yeah, you did.

[britneyshakespeare]

throughout the series of drake and josh it pretty consistently implies that josh nichols is a christian (josh peck is jewish) and in the finale of the series helen (played by yvette nicole brown, not jewish[?]) is portrayed as a practicing jew