#john isn’t john

[shallowrambles]

sometimes i think about the contrast between andrea and cas

both are “too far gone”

and in the same episode we get such a stark contrast! benny preserves deans happiness; dean does not preserve benny’s

comparing benny saving cas to dean killing andrea is stark and even bleak

(no time maybe for discussion w/benny but it was a fatal blow to andrea; there was no disablement or consideration for knock out blows, certainly no rational convo with her, or emotional appeal for second chances/how to beat addiction etc etc; so very telling)

i mean, benny was doing plenty of flagrant dismissal-and-dehumanization-and-escalation all on his own, but!

just a flash of teeth and bam

dean chose the coldest, most permanent solution; the hunter’s choice

is it any wonder benny wanted to stay in purgatory? his unfinished business now resides there

[reaping-the-benefits]

Imagine you're the medic assigned to the task force. You're not some dainty little thing. You're snappy and will drag them by the ears if you have to. You're constantly getting into arguments with Price because he won't listen to you when all you're trying to do is help him.

Anyway, the rest of the team has bets on how long its going to take before you two finally fuck. Gaz gives y'all another month. Soap says two weeks. Ghost thinks that you've already done it.

Now, imagine how mad Gaz and Soap are, both giving Ghost 50 quid each when Price casually drops that not only do you have sex on the regular, but you've been married for the last five years.

[phibsies]

he finally stopped fumbling but at what cost

[future-crab]

After studying three of the greats — Holmes, Poirot, Columbo — I have determined that in order to be a popular fictional detective you MUST be autistic you MUST be a nosy bitch and you MUST have a boybestfriend to bounce your theories off of.

‘But op, what about Columbo? Columbo doesn’t have a boybestfriend!’ You fools. His boybestfriend is the murderer.

[dudeiloveflan]

I had to do it Happy pride month!

[iifishizzleii]

“you’re just so small :(“ “he doesn’t want to hurt ur tiny body” “his fist is bigger than your womb” “his hand is the size of your entire stomach” “:( small baby no hurt by big man soldier”-

eeughhhaa🤨

brotha eeughhhaa🤢🤢🤢👹👹🤕🤒🤒🤮🤧

[lemonwrap]

Ghost who watched his parents tear each other apart in a loveless marriage and now thinks marriage is a waste of time vs Soap who watched his parents flourish in a loving marriage and wants nothing more than to marry Ghost to show his devotion

[courttwoknee]

Arthur: I’m fine guys. *coughing his lungs out*

John (no idea how the human body works): looks like Arthur is fine. Let’s keep going.

[quarterlifekitty]

Soap with a girlfriend who gets a lot of nosebleeds. And not just like the single trickle, like the heavy ones. Like the kind that make you want rare steak.

He’s never really thought of blood in an erotic context, to tell you the truth. He sees it at work all the time, and usually the circumstances are pretty gnarly and high-stress to say the least.

So color him surprised when you jerk forward, cupping your hand to your mouth and nose, blood dripping through the lines of your palm and between your fingers— onto the floor…. And he starts chubbing up a little, to be honest.

He plays the doting boyfriend role, running to get you a pile of tissues rapidly pulled from the box, helping you blot at your face and pinch your nose so it slowly down. He keeps looking to see if it’s stopped. It’s not because the way the blood pools in your philtrum and spreads into the seam of your lips.

He can’t fucking help himself. He gently pulls his hand from your face, unobstructing the flow. You barely have time to look at him in confusion before he’s smashing his face into yours, licking into your mouth to taste the blood. It smears red and warm between your faces— his nose, cheeks, jaw— all blushed up with your ichor. It goes down his chin, a little bit even drips onto his own shirt. Your heady, sweet, personal vintage.

His fingertips are rusted with what soaked through the tissue, and he uses them to paw at you the same as he would if he’d just seen you get out from the shower. He sucks at your Cupid’s bow, swallowing down as much of your azoth as he can stomach, grinding his hips against yours, drinking from the spring of eternal life until it runs dry.

When Johnny parts from you, he looks like a fucking hyena. Face stained with carrion, a manic grin on his face, a mixture of blood and your combined spit shining on his mouth. Your faces look like twin Rorschach tests.

If you keep a humidifier in your room, he’s unplugging the fucking thing while you’re asleep. He thinks your next vacation should be to Arizona. He wants you naked next time so he can wrestle you like you’re a fresh kill he’s trying to get inside of.

[moonlightandpalmtrees]

every few months when I remember this interaction I laugh and then I go “aww” and then I laugh again

[buttahpie]

something that has me absolutely gutted over john, paul and george is the fact that they met when they were young teenagers.

paul was shorter than john when they met. i’m sure his voice hadn’t fully dropped yet either.

john quite literally watched them grow taller than him (i know he and george were about the same height but my point still stands, he watched his younger friends turn into peers turn into completely realized adult men).

and of course john was growing right with them. the de facto leader in the early years making it up as he went as these teenage boys looked up to him. have you seen a 19 year old try to act put together?

i look back at pictures of my friends from high school and i when we were 14-17 and we’ve already changed so much. round faces are sharper, life experience is deeper. i met up with my best friend from childhood for dinner a few months ago (at a bar, we went from polly pockets to IPAs ((i hate IPAs)) ) and i had the striking thought: suddenly we aren’t little girls anymore. but we still had our entire life shared. all those memories, all that drama from middle school to still rant about.

it was the same for those three boys.

i just think that adds a level of depth to their friendship and band that couldn’t be orchestrated.

think about their inside jokes. think about a 28 year old john lennon laughing at a joke that paul made from when they were 16 and 18. think about a 34 year old george smirking as he mumbles to himself a phrase only they would understand from their hamburg days. think about an 82 year old paul fondly remembering a hand gesture they would do to one another before going on stage and doing it to nancy, trying to explain to her what it meant.

think about how that affected the breakup of the band. after growing up together…did they really have an identity without the others?

it’s like the park bench “we were girls together”… they were boys together.

[hihomeghere]

RDR2 Text posts that are 100% true

[robiinurheart33]

Soap who doesnt let himself lose his child-like wonder and is mature because of that but people mistake it for immaturity and thinks he’s an airhead and stupid because he’s so positive

Ghost who sees that Soap is more mature than most of the soldiers he’s encountered and grows a respect for him that most wouldn’t have achieved in such a short time

[samglyph]

This was originally just an InvictusCon Sketch comm but I needed a flat color ref for Charlie and I can’t stop thinking about them. Wasn’t going to post this originally but my dash has been very Charlie focused this morning? So have my donation. Talking about the king.

[doriana-gray-games]

can we get a snippet of Dr Watson taking care of Sherlock? :>

“You were foolish—“

“Calculating—“

“Foolish!”

“I miscalculated,” you correct. “Or missed some variable. Being wrong, in some small way, is not the same as foolish. Truly Watson, to think you so against learning, improving oneself by accepting failures—“

“YOU BROKE YOUR TOES!”

“Just the one toe…”

“The important one.”

“I don’t discriminate on such things.”

Watson pushes you down to remain on the bed. “I need to bind it. How’s your pain?”

“Tolerable. Unless…”

“No—“

“Then do not ask.”

Your good doctor had kept you in bed, elevated foot and everything for far too long now. It had been nearly an hour.

There’s tea on your cupboard. Extra sugars. And the very best biscuits, the one Watson hoards for the longest of days.

“Watson?”

They hum a soft sound, an acknowledgment, as they bind your broken appendage with steady and careful hands.

“If I am forced to endure monotony, I shall demand you do it with me.”

Watson looks at you, over those steady shoulders. A small smile across their lips. “I shall remain by your side. For as long as… as you need me, Sherlock. I can promise you that.”