geschmack. not yours.

icedwhitemocha:

(x)

Blaine knelt down before they left the restaurant, looking his daughter in the eyes. “Now, you remember what Papa and I told you, right?”

“Yes, Daddy,” Melody said. She gave Blaine a proud smile. “It’s okay to wave a little, but he can’t wave back because he’s not Papa while he’s on stage.” She tugged at one of the curls hanging over her shoulder, winding it around her index finger. “I look pretty, right?”

“You look beautiful,” Blaine promised, his eyes crinkling as he grinned at her. “What about me?”

“Hmmm,” Melody said. She reached out and adjusted the knot on his tie, the same way she must’ve seen Kurt do a hundred times before. She nodded once she was satisfied, and patted him on the shoulder. “You look beautiful, too.”

“Papa’s a lucky guy, huh?”

Melody nodded again, and took Blaine’s hand when he got to his feet. “We’re pretty lucky too,” she said, and Blaine’s heart swelled in his chest.

“Heck yeah, we are.”

(Source: darrencriss2)

therealfoxxcub:

missmollyetc:

See this is kind of the perfect picture for my dumbass Clint/Phil AU idea where Clint’s been working for SHIELD and Phil isn’t his handler yet, he’s just another agent assigned to the next dry, dusty hellhole where people have to die, only Clint’s mission went wrong.  His handler disappeared, his rig broke down, his water ran out and the rebels found him first, only they didn’t find the comm unit stashed in his ear before they locked him up in an abandoned dry well and pull him up for interrogation.  And so SHIELD needs to extract him without letting anyone know they’re in the area, so newly Director Fury assigns his old partner Coulson to get Clint out, only the rebels are entrenched and it takes days.  Days where Phil’s voice is the only one Clint hears in the well is Phil’s, telling Clint they’re coming for him, they haven’t left him alone, he’s SHIELD and they never leave anyone behind, just Phil’s voice in the dark, reading off the Premier League rankings and talking about diners in Philly that make pancakes so fluffy you could sleep on them.  And Clint can’t reply, can’t move more than a foot, hasn’t slept, keeps using up his jacket tying up where they’ve broken his skin and it’s cold and he can’t stop sweating and shaking and it’s only Phil’s voice in his ear, maybe just in his head, talking about how they’re going to get him out, Phil won’t leave him, dry rustle of paper and calm, even breathes that Clint can’t match.  And then Phil’s voice goes away, and the walls of the Clint’s well shake, raining gravel above him, and the cover opens, bright light burning his eyes, the rope they tied under his arms dragging him up, and he’s out.  He’s out, surrounded by people dressed in SHIELD uniforms and there’s one man in a suit, wiping red palms off on a rag.  Clint can barely stand, propped up against the lip of his well, and no one has Phil’s voice, no one matches that even tenor he wrapped himself up in while he waited, and Clint looks and looks, shaking in what’s left of his uniform.  He puts his eyes on the horizon, until a deliberate step to his left has him jerking his head up and glaring.  The suit raises his eyebrows, and Clint would rip him open if there didn’t seem to be two suits wavering in place.

“You look better in your picture,” the suit—Phil—says, and Clint lurches, knees buckling because it’s real, this is happening, and Phil catches him, already calling for the medic.

REBLOGGING FOR THIS PIECE OF AMAZINGNESS OMGGGGGGGGG

(Source: scarlettjo)