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envynvl93:

She’s having none of his shit.


emilyisobsessed:

#there’s no way he could possibly know that

emilyisobsessed:

#there’s no way he could possibly know that



@meghanmarkle: With @abigailspencer & her love. #sohohouse #toronto #suits

@meghanmarkle: With @abigailspencer & her love. #sohohouse #toronto #suits


captiansideways:

Nope

captiansideways:

Nope


doctorwho:

And a kiss on her lips….


beezypond:

vhanstiel:

Friendly reminder that every single angel knows how much Dean means to Castiel.

And every single monster in purgatory knows how much Cas means to Dean.


weaponsofclassdestruction:

Mike doesn’t want to be that guy, okay? He never wants to be that guy - because what is he, a character in a Hallmark movie? - but all of Harvey’s time has been sucked up by the Donovan/Tubbs merger, and Louis has co-opted Mike’s services for his own cases, and what that really means is that Mike has been sleeping at his apartment and Harvey has been sleeping at his, and neither the twain shall meet.
Or, in layman’s terms: Mike really misses actually spending time with his boyfriend. In the morning. At night. In the middle of the day. Sex in the shower. Having lunch together. Early morning blowjobs. Winding down at the end of the day with Harvey’s dad on the record player and a glass of Scotch in Harvey’s hand, a beer in Mike’s. 
And did he happen to mention the sex?
(Because yeah, he kinda sorta maybe misses that too.)
It might be easier if it seemed to effect Harvey at all, but every time Mike sneaks a look at him from Donna’s desk or when they pass each other in the hall, Harvey’s face is as masked as ever. There’s the occasional flirty or snarky text that Mike reads on his way upstairs to his apartment, and a brush of the fingers on Mike’s shoulders when Harvey thinks the coast is clear, but it’s not enough. It’s maddening really, and it makes Mike feel a little like he’s alone in his relative misery. 
They’re able to get together once or twice, but really it’s just to fall into bed together exhausted in the early hours of the morning, barely even touching, much less doing anything remotely crazy like, you know, talking to each other. And it makes Mike feel farther away from Harvey than he ever has.
He’s sure the feeling will pass. They’ll get back to working together soon enough, and it’ll be like nothing changed. (This is something he has to actively remind himself at eleven o’clock at night, when Louis is doing his best impersonation of King of the Creepers, and Mike gets the sinking feeling - possibly caused by a combination of too much Red Bull and Kung Pao chicken - that this is what his life is, and there’s no coming back from it.)
And Mike thinks he’s hiding it pretty well when he gets a text from Harvey.
Stop looking at me like that. Friday. Be ready at 9. Dress casual.
Nine turns into nine thirty, nine thirty turns into ten, and eventually he just stops watching the clock. He sits at Donna’s desk and plays with her office supplies, makes chains out of her paper clips and mini origami cranes out of post-it notes, and waits for Harvey to be finished. Mike no longer expects anything out of this date - stopped expecting anything fourteen paper clip chains ago - but he can’t really bear to leave either. He’s not sure if what he wants is an apology so much as  simple recognition of how shitty this is, but at this point he’d take either.
Mike kicked his shoes off a long time ago, so maybe he knew he’d be here for the long haul, and he digs his toes into the low pile carpet, spins the dials on Donna’s date stamp, wonders when settling for something he barely gets to call his own will stop sounding like the right choice.
“You’re mad.”
“No.” And he’s not, not really. He’d just like this to matter as much to Harvey as it does to him, and maybe that’s unrealistic. He doesn’t know.
“You were gone when I woke up this morning.”
Mike nods, watches the date stamp in his hands as he slowly spins the numbered dials. 
“I didn’t like it.”
Mike nods again, sets the date stamp down. Looks up. “I’m going to go home.”
Mike slips his shoes on, ties them, stands and walks away without looking back at Harvey. He slips his hands in his jacket pockets as he waits for the elevator and when it arrives, slips in, turns, presses the button for the lobby. Then he slips his hand back into his pocket and meets Harvey’s eyes as the elevator doors close between them.
When Harvey shows up at Mike’s apartment later that night he doesn’t say anything, just stands in the doorway and waits for Mike to invite him in. Mike finally gets a good look at his face and wonders how long Harvey’s looked this way, vaguely unsettled and pained around the edges.
Maybe Mike isn’t the only frustrated one.

weaponsofclassdestruction:

Mike doesn’t want to be that guy, okay? He never wants to be that guy - because what is he, a character in a Hallmark movie? - but all of Harvey’s time has been sucked up by the Donovan/Tubbs merger, and Louis has co-opted Mike’s services for his own cases, and what that really means is that Mike has been sleeping at his apartment and Harvey has been sleeping at his, and neither the twain shall meet.

Or, in layman’s terms: Mike really misses actually spending time with his boyfriend. In the morning. At night. In the middle of the day. Sex in the shower. Having lunch together. Early morning blowjobs. Winding down at the end of the day with Harvey’s dad on the record player and a glass of Scotch in Harvey’s hand, a beer in Mike’s. 

And did he happen to mention the sex?

(Because yeah, he kinda sorta maybe misses that too.)

It might be easier if it seemed to effect Harvey at all, but every time Mike sneaks a look at him from Donna’s desk or when they pass each other in the hall, Harvey’s face is as masked as ever. There’s the occasional flirty or snarky text that Mike reads on his way upstairs to his apartment, and a brush of the fingers on Mike’s shoulders when Harvey thinks the coast is clear, but it’s not enough. It’s maddening really, and it makes Mike feel a little like he’s alone in his relative misery. 

They’re able to get together once or twice, but really it’s just to fall into bed together exhausted in the early hours of the morning, barely even touching, much less doing anything remotely crazy like, you know, talking to each other. And it makes Mike feel farther away from Harvey than he ever has.

He’s sure the feeling will pass. They’ll get back to working together soon enough, and it’ll be like nothing changed. (This is something he has to actively remind himself at eleven o’clock at night, when Louis is doing his best impersonation of King of the Creepers, and Mike gets the sinking feeling - possibly caused by a combination of too much Red Bull and Kung Pao chicken - that this is what his life is, and there’s no coming back from it.)

And Mike thinks he’s hiding it pretty well when he gets a text from Harvey.

Stop looking at me like that. Friday. Be ready at 9. Dress casual.

Nine turns into nine thirty, nine thirty turns into ten, and eventually he just stops watching the clock. He sits at Donna’s desk and plays with her office supplies, makes chains out of her paper clips and mini origami cranes out of post-it notes, and waits for Harvey to be finished. Mike no longer expects anything out of this date - stopped expecting anything fourteen paper clip chains ago - but he can’t really bear to leave either. He’s not sure if what he wants is an apology so much as  simple recognition of how shitty this is, but at this point he’d take either.

Mike kicked his shoes off a long time ago, so maybe he knew he’d be here for the long haul, and he digs his toes into the low pile carpet, spins the dials on Donna’s date stamp, wonders when settling for something he barely gets to call his own will stop sounding like the right choice.

“You’re mad.”

“No.” And he’s not, not really. He’d just like this to matter as much to Harvey as it does to him, and maybe that’s unrealistic. He doesn’t know.

“You were gone when I woke up this morning.”

Mike nods, watches the date stamp in his hands as he slowly spins the numbered dials. 

“I didn’t like it.”

Mike nods again, sets the date stamp down. Looks up. “I’m going to go home.”

Mike slips his shoes on, ties them, stands and walks away without looking back at Harvey. He slips his hands in his jacket pockets as he waits for the elevator and when it arrives, slips in, turns, presses the button for the lobby. Then he slips his hand back into his pocket and meets Harvey’s eyes as the elevator doors close between them.

When Harvey shows up at Mike’s apartment later that night he doesn’t say anything, just stands in the doorway and waits for Mike to invite him in. Mike finally gets a good look at his face and wonders how long Harvey’s looked this way, vaguely unsettled and pained around the edges.

Maybe Mike isn’t the only frustrated one.


thathalloweenurl:

#you’re so pretty I don’t know what to do with myself

thathalloweenurl:

#you’re so pretty I don’t know what to do with myself


Patrick J Adams for DaMan Magazine October/November Issue