Me? I'm Quicksilver fast!

why is tomato sauce called prego? ITS SO WEIRD.

im so bored and their is NOTHING on tv

i stopped on a show about some catty mom bitches and their kids that dance? its so stupid. why is it so funny?

the definition of what ifs

cute-stuff-bart:

Tommy lets out a snore from beside him and rolls over onto his back.

The lead weights that were his eyelids rose, bringing the dark world into focus. Golden-eyes flicker in twenty-six directions a second before they finally settle on the sleeping face of Tommy Shepherd. Bart wrinkles his nose a bit—because ew, Tommy is drooling, and ewww he just wiped a mouthful of it on his shirt. And that is really gross, more than gross, but he feel his lungs take in a deep inhale; breath hitching. Because beyond the glass of Tommy’s bedroom window, the world is bathed in neon, faraway lights flickering like a swarm of radioactive fireflies in the blue-black night and it makes it self known.

It caresses that peaceful, blissful face, trickles over silver hair. Bart watches the haphazard orbs of glowing light flitter across Tommy’s cheeks, his nose, his lips—slim fingers reach out and carefully run through those pale, shimmering locks. And they tickle his fingers, softly wade through the spaces in between them. Tommy groans, hand reaching out to smack at the object that dares to disturb his sleep. The motion is enough to cause little puffs of laughter to escape Bart’s lips, a bright smile stretches itself across his face.

Tommy is a warm, comforting weight draped on top of him—a shield against the world, against the indisputable truths that exist beyond the four walls of his bedroom. Whether they be bad truths or good truths. Especially, bad truths… Bart’s smile wobbles and he leans back against the comfort of the pillows, auburn curls spilling onto the fabric. What he did tonight, with Thad, was a huge risk. A big one. Did he think it was right of him to do? No. Did he think that Thad at-least deserved some semblance of closure? Yes.

Because even if he ever felt something towards Thad, Bart would never try to see if he did. Would never think of Thad in that light, would never dream up an alternate world where he and Thad could explore the ‘might-have-beens’ and ‘what ifs’. Bart knows Thad loves him, and knows he hurt him.

He knows all that, in the same way he knows he can’t stop his heart from loving, much as he’s tried.

Bart’s hand splay over Tommy’s chest. Wet lips press against the side of his neck, then map their way upward to place a light, soft kiss against slightly dried ones. Heroic arms wind themselves around Bart, pressing his body closer, closer, closer, until it’s flush against Tommy’s. A perfect fit.

“Bart…”

And, grife—the way Tommy says his name, breathes his name as if it’s the most precious word that could ever possibly leave his lips makes Bart’s heart palpitate, sends butterflies on a flurry within the depths of his tummy.

“TommyTommyTommyTommy…”

Skin buzzes, toes curl, chuckles and snickers bounce off the walls of the bed-room.

Bart would never dream up a world where ‘what-ifs’ and ‘could-have-beens’ would have been fufilled.

Because with Tommy, he’s never been happier.

The “turn-off” “turn-on” game. Ask me anything and I will answer if it is a turn off or turn on.

thesorcerersupreme:

((i have reblogged this 5 times…please do it))