If It Ain’t Tomdaya, Then Whatdaya?

mood

FINN?

naked???

leaking?????

I. Need. This.

A Spideychelle Concept

This scene from Tarzan

Only it’s Peter’s webs instead of the vines

And MJ is the one shyly blushing and giggling

And Peter the hopeless dork is just staring into her beautiful eyes falling deeper and deeper in love with Michelle

Tagging: @aqhrodites @suplosers @here-be-spideychelle @daisypeterparker @acastleintheair @peterjonesparker

spiderman rather take pictures of himself as spiderman for the newspaper. how good are you with selfies?

bonus+

the posh boy problem

Posh boy left his mug on the papers again. It will leave a rim on the sports section.

John goes over to the living room table. Then he stops in his tracks. It’s happened again, hasn’t it? More and more often he finds himself giving Sherlock silly petnames in his head. He was never a friend of those, can hardly explain why he is doing it now – in his own thoughts – but something about it calms and provokes him at the same time. He picks up the half-emptied mug of cold tea and thinks this over on his walk to the kitchen sink.

He likes Sherlock. He knows this, has known this for literally ages. That he likes him, and that he likes him in a way that Sherlock most definitely won’t find appealing. Sexually. There, he said it. In his head, of course, never out loud. But Sherlock, with his many frustrating qualities, of which many where outrageously attractive to John, is practically forcing him to feel provoked. Those feelings then lead to … petnames, apparently. He’s had stranger coping mechanisms before.

In his head greets him with hey, handsome in the morning, those wonderful mornings where Sherlock has actually slept and still looks all soft and not quite awake. He calls him genius when he is being too clever again and doesn’t notice, calls him pretty man and silly git and sweetheart when he’s feeling like it, and, of course, posh boy. He doesn’t even know what it is about that one in particular, but he finds that to be the worst. For his sexual frustration, that is. Every time it comes up in his head, which is more and more often, it fuels his imagination vividly. So much that it has even made it to his bedroom and he has dreams, half-asleep, half-awake, about teaching posh boy a lesson, getting posh boy a little dirty, treating posh boy a little rough. These are all terrible thoughts. Because they will stay just as imaginary and sexually frustrating. Posh boy won’t love him back, after all.

One morning Sherlock sits in front of his microscope on the kitchen table. He hasn’t moved for at least two hours. Nothing unusual. In fact, it was how they spend most of their Sundays now. John doesn’t really date anymore, and even if he did, he would not trade these days for anything. They have fallen into this pattern a while ago, the pattern of staying in on lazy Sundays, waking up later and waiting for the other to have breakfast together. Now Sherlock occupies himself with some experiment on maggots and fingers (John doesn’t even ask) and John is sitting in his chair. He is reading a novel about an incredibly clever and cunning explorer who kind of reminds him of Sherlock (he can’t help it, as much as he would like to). Being absorbed in the book, he is confused at first when Sherlock calls him from the kitchen.

“John?”

“Hmh?”

With Sherlock this is either going to be of highest importance or an absurdly unnecessary request.

“Care to pass me my phone?”

John sighs loudly. The latter. Thought so.

“Where is your phone?”

“Breast pocket.”

With his eyes rolling at the ceiling John puts a bookmark in his book, places it on the table next to him and gets off his chair. Walking into the kitchen, he murmurs under his breath.

“I see posh boy’s being a lazy butthead again…”

He takes the phone out of Sherlock’s breast pocket and holds it out for him. But instead of taking it and paying no more attention to him, Sherlock is suddenly staring at him like his face was on fire. John frowns at him. Sherlock, in turn, raises one brow.

“Posh?”

John’s eyes widen in shock and his heart jumps once in his chest and then stops, he thinks, just stops, and he wants to melt and become one with the floorboards. This is bad.

“I’m not posh,” Sherlock complains.

He must notice how John is only blushing more deeply. How? How did he say that out loud without noticing? How the bloody hell could he?

John clears his throat and decides to go along with it. There is no more turning back from here on anyway.

“You… are, actually. Just look at you, you with your… cheekbones. Your… perfectly tailored suits, your annoying British accent and deep voice-”

“We all have British accents.”

“I know!” John is enormously embarrassed, and he feels that if he doesn’t take a long walk right now, he will punch something to calm his inner unsettlement. “I need air.”

But Sherlock isn’t finished. “If anything, you are the posh one, John.”

“Hah! How so, Sherlock Holmes? Have you looked at yourself?”

“Have you looked around this flat in the past years? There are piles of magazines in the corners of every room, there is a Cluedo board pinned to the wall by me, I leave my things wherever I please, the kitchen is a mess of syringes and human body parts – an organised and well structured mess if you know where to look, but not the point right now – and I am currently examining maggots. In contrast to this you, John Watson, are a doctor, you wear your chequered shirts buttoned up to your chin, you’ve lived a clean life not suffering from a drug addiction, have had girlfriends and relationships and altogether live as part of the middle-class society in Central London. You wish for a wife and children and probably a German Shepard and a house in the suburbs, or at least that’s what you think you want, so tell me, John: How am I the posh one?”

John has a hard time finding a response to this that doesn’t only consist of loose vowels. It takes him a good minute, but Sherlock is oddly patient with him.

“First of all,” he manages then, “ I don’t think I want a wife and children, thank you very much. And maybe… maybe I’m not that serious when I call you things like that.”

“So why do you?”

“What?” John’s heart began beating faster once more. He’s so tense.

“Why do you call me a posh… boy?”

Oh fuck, hearing those two words spoken out loud and together and out of Sherlock’s mouth, for God’s sake!

“I- I don’t. Why- why should I even tell you? You read my mind all the time, can I not be allowed to keep this one thing to myself for once?!”

Sherlock narrows his eyes and observes him from head to toe. Oh please no. “No, that’s not it.”

“Alright, you know what? It’s you. Okay? It’s your fault! You just make me so angry all the time. No, don’t- don’t look at me like that.”

Sherlock’s eyes have gone wide and very blue. He looks genuinely hurt by this. Scared even. Scared at what John would say next, what this would mean for them. John feels and shares his pain, and he hates himself for every word he has ever said that would make Sherlock look like this. He is vulnerable and human, after all. Even if he tries to convince everyone around him that he isn’t, John has to stop falling for Sherlock’s own defence mechanism.

“I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just… what you said. There’s no wife and there is no house in the suburbs for me, Sherlock. I just can’t see it. But I see this.” He means Baker Street, means 221B, means … Sherlock. “This life. With you.”

Sherlock’s eyes are still so very blue. He wants to lose himself in them.

“And that makes you angry?” Sherlock asks.

“What? No. I’m just. Forget it.”

John finally has the courage to turn around and go, or maybe he lacks the courage to face him and stay, but either way he walks back into the sitting room, prepared to put on his jacket and leave the house for at least two hours. Sherlock jumps up and follows him.

“John! Wait. We never say what we want to say.”

John swirls around, his mouth a thin line of held back emotions. He stands close to the door. Ready to flee. “And what do you wanna say?”

Sherlock takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. When he opens them again, there is courage in the one and fear in the other.

“Me too.”

“Sorry?”

“Me too. I see this, too. Us. This life we share.”

John bites the insides of his mouth because his whole skin feels hot with disbelief and wonder and hope, oh god, so much hope that he doesn’t let himself own.

“What?” he asks instead, going for a weak smile, “You don’t see yourself with a wife and children?”

Sherlock huffs a laugh. “No. Weirdly I don’t.”

They smile at each other.

“So ‘posh boy’,” Sherlock says after a while, “is actually about…?”

“Me being an ungrateful moron? Me never saying what I should say before it’s too late? Me trying to get my anger at all of this under control? Yes. Yes, I suppose it is.”

Sherlock looks down at the spot between his feet. He’s thinking. But not as he usually is, not fast and calculating and mechanical. He’s thinking about the right thing to do. The things he has always wanted to do, but never thought it to be right or appropriate or good for them.

“I can wait for you to figure this out.”

“Wait for me?”

“As long as you need, John. We both agreed, didn’t we? Both of us don’t plan on leaving or getting married and reproduce anytime soon, so.”

“You don’t like waiting,” John points out, but he is already incredibly relieved and impressed by Sherlock’s words.

“No, I don’t. But I like you.”

John doesn’t flee to take an hour-long walk that day. He would never trade a lazy Sunday with Sherlock Holmes, after all. Sherlock continues with his experiment, and John reads. Later they watch telly together and Sherlock yells at the incompetent game show host on BBC One. He said he could wait till John figures this out, whatever this is. But maybe they both don’t have to wait that long. Maybe, just maybe, posh boy could actually love him back.

…to be continued…

@just–elope

i don't get why everyone is hating on ben :( he did nothing wrong

Ah yes

you’re right

He did absolutely

 Nothing wrong

to anyone. He and Rey are such good

soulmates. He is such a good, mature, normal

well behaved person who deserves the world :)

He didn’t intend to say it.

He’d been toying with it the last couple of weeks, rolling it around silently in his mouth, just trying it out.

(He’d whispered it out loud, just once, in the mirror.)

(Maybe twice.)

It was too soon to say it. Mary had only been dead for six months. He and Rosie were only sleeping at Baker Street once or twice a week. He was maybe two months into what would probably be a lifetime of therapy to cope with his anger issues and his betrayal issues and his trust issues and his sexuality issues and fuck, he had a long way to go.

It was too late to say it. He’d let so many chances go by. Even now, after everything–after Moriarty and the Fall; after Mary and Magnussen and the tarmac; after Smith and the morgue and Eurus and the hug–he still didn’t know what to do. Because despite “it’s always you, John Watson” and “the man you have saved” and “that’s why he stays”, John was afraid. He was afraid that he wasn’t the man Sherlock saw. He was afraid he never had been, and even more afraid that he never would be.

So he wasn’t going to say it. Not yet. Not till things were a little more…settled. He’d told Ella as much not thirty minutes before, and had felt certain about the decision the whole way home in the cab.

A low rumble of laughter drifted down the stairs as he closed the front door behind him, followed by his daughter’s shrill shriek of joy. He took the stairs slowly, wrapped up in the sound of their voices, so comfortable together. So…right. (Not yet. Not yet. Soon.) He opened the door to the flat and froze, his field of vision narrowing to the two people standing in front of the fireplace.

Sherlock was wearing slim black trousers (finally filling them out again after months of John and Mrs. Hudson trying to feed him up) and the deep sapphire shirt that had narrowly edged out John’s old purple favorite to currently hold the number one spot on the mental list of favorite Sherlock clothes he would never admit to having. He had Rosie propped on one hip before the mirror and his other hand held her favorite stuffed bee, which he was currently flying about both of their heads while making a buzzing sound low in his throat. Every once in awhile the bee would “land” on Rosie’s flower-printed pajamas. Rosie would fling her arms out in an ineffectual attempt to catch the bee, the bee would “fly away,” and the laughter would follow.

They were the most beautiful sight he had ever seen.

John watched a few more rounds of this, his heart expanding every time, before Rosie spotted him in the mirror. “Da!” She burst out, flailing one arm in his direction. Sherlock looked up, surprised, and their eyes met in the mirror.

“Not often I catch you by surprise,” John managed as they turned to face him. Sherlock’s cheeks flushed, and he waggled the bee.

“Bees, John. Very…diverting.”

“Bee!” Rosie yelled, and Sherlock handed it to her. She held the bee in both arms and dropped her head on Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Very good enunciation, Watson,” Sherlock said, and his now empty hand automatically came up to slide gently over the back of her head. “You’re becoming an excellent apiculturist.”

“I love you.”

John felt his own mouth drop open as he saw Sherlock’s do the same. He watched Sherlock look to Rosie, and then back to John, as if tracking the path of his gaze. John felt an unexpected calm begin to settle over him now that the words were out, so he stepped a little closer and tried it again.

“I love you, Sherlock.” He took a deep breath. “I have loved you so long I hardly remember a time when I didn’t, and I have been waiting to tell you. For years!” His voice broke on the last word, and he cleared his throat. He would get this out. “And now I have been waiting, again, trying to figure out if I can be the person you want me to be. The person you seem to think I am. But…I am, already, aren’t I? You’ve always seen exactly who I was, and loved me anyway.” He felt a grin begin to spread across his face. “Sherlock. You love me.”

Sherlock, who had been silent and staring through his entire speech, nodded. His beautiful eyes were bright and his hands held John’s daughter with unwavering strength and care, and when he spoke, his voice was quiet, and deep, and sure. “Yes, John. I love you.”

It wasn’t too soon.

It wasn’t too late.

It was what it was, and what it was was good.

And now.

And always.

Keep reading

Spiderman - I AM A MAN

MJ (walks into room): Sorry I'm late, I was.. doing stuff

Peter (enters the room, noticeably disheveled): SHE PUSHED ME DOWN THE FUCKING STAIRS

wee doodle post-hw