#All tall and fucking lanky and gangly

[vanlegion]

Working on some of my first ever RVB artwork, which is like, HELLA overdue. Like, 19 years overdue. Why is it that it took my brain this long to start obsessing over this show *now* and not like, ya know, BEFORE when it was first starting and I was into it then as well. Ugh, anywho, so while drawing resident Cyborg Nerd, I find myself of two minds simultaneously screaming: "MAKE HIM LOOK LIKE JENSEN!" and "Broken Ass Robo Scrap Junkyard Reject" . . . . But what I can Abso-Lutly tell you is that, I made the slightest, the tiniest chuckle about how he reminds me of Wheatly and Uhm, yeah. He's Young Steven Merchant to me now. That's my facecanon for him now. Can not undo. That's it. I'm done. Lol. But like Thin Rimmed Round Glasses not square. Heh.

[jotchia]

RELEASE THE MILF CUT

[bluberryfields]

"David is very easy to fall in love with." - Michael Sheen

Hi. How are you? Good, I hope. Okay, so can we talk about just how fucking beautiful David Tennant is? And by “we” I mean “I” and by “talk” I mean “babble incoherently into the void”? Great! I’ll attempt to impose a bit of organization on this just to satisfy my pathological need to inflict structure on words (thanks college/job/brain), but I can’t promise much. Also, there will be A LOT of pictures and gifs. (you’re welcome?)

And this isn’t just because I am deep in the bottomless well of Good Omens fandom and that Crowley is basically the most breathtaking creature that has ever existed. Well, not just because of that.

*cue Aziraphale's "good lord" from 1793*

ANYWAY, like a lot of people, I became a fan of (i.e., fell deeply and irrevocably in love with) DT during his run as the 10th Doctor. He was young and bright and full of just about everything – joy, sorrow, wit – making him incredibly watchable. His look was also so charming: big bouncy rooster comb of hair, absurdly cheeky smile, expressive-as-fuck eyes and eyebrows, and a tall, lanky form that seemed to be made of rubber and the kind of granulated sugar that could only be found in candy from the 90s that are now banned in all first- and second-world countries.

So yeah, I was super into him and his Doctor’s adventures. And I continued to watch him in other projects and still swoon (looking at you, slutty Hamlet)

even at characters where that was not the desired reaction (fuck you, Kilgrave, you delicious monster).

I would also always become a bit (a lot) weak in the knees at his voice regardless of which accent he took on, though always preferring him doing any Scottish brogue because of fucking course.

Roll that tongue, you sexy beast.

But what I want to get into today is just how incredible he looks in the year of 2023.

He’s 52 years old and I am somehow even more attracted to him. Maybe it’s because I am myself older, and my tastes have matured alongside? I certainly do enjoy gray hair way more than I did 10 years ago.

He’s aged incredibly well, probably a combination of good genes and good health, and he’s clearly not clinging to the Hollywood idea of “youth”.

(insert obligatory grumble about the double standards of men being praised for aging and women being demonized…the potentially problematic nature of the term “aging well” in general…acknowledge this with my enlightened brain but ignore this with my slutty heart…fuck the patriarchy, etc. etc.)

He’s still tall and skinny, even gangly at times, all long arms and legs that can move in impossible directions with unfathomable grace.

His face is leaner, that incredible bone structure creating sharper edges that draw the eye. Speaking of the face, he’s got these creases on his forehead and at the corners of his eyes and mouth that are evidence of time spent well: smiling, laughing, living. Makes you want to trace your fingertips along each one.

Oh god that smile? Good lord. It’s weapons grade charm that can also be quite intimidating. Sweet, humble, silly, scary…full spectrum of options here! His shark smile is the definition of “irresistible” in my Dictionary of Delicious Dudes.

I am both proud of and grossed out by my own word choice.

Continuing with that face...the hawkish nose, the dimples you want to drown in, the big eyes, those motherfucking eyebrows...

I could seriously write a whole essay about those eyebrows, but I already give my therapist enough to worry about.

Oh those eyes. “Piercing” is a term usually reserved for blue eyes, but I would argue it applies to DT’s bottomless chocolate pools in that they slice through my heart every damn time.

Honorable mention does go to those Crowley snake eyes because they could have been distracting and diminishing to his overall look, but they absolutely are not.

Such a pretty shade of yellow.

Random tangent to swoon about his hands. For whatever reason, I like checking out a man’s hands, and DT’s got a set that drives me wild. I can’t even really explain why, but I just really like the way he articulates with them. Crowley is a perfect example, what with the miracle snaps, caressing globes, and holding whisky glasses. Yum.

Delicious demon digits

Fresh tangent: How does this fucker look good clean shaven, with stubble, and a goddamn beard? How is that allowed?

He's got a face that makes me wanna take up sculpting

Further, how is his fucking neck so hot? Like, seriously, show me the math. I can’t stop staring at it. And when it’s cloaked in a turtleneck? Please, sir, may I have some more?

Fuuuuuuuck

With no segue whatsoever, I am absolutely obsessed with his hair, across all contexts. Big, bold, blood-red Crowley coifs (especially in Season 2)? Check.

Proper gentleman side part? Check.

Side shave with cartoonishy springy 14th Doctor shock? Check.

Lockdown locks with and without headband? Check!

It’s a goddamn buffet of delicious options.

Oh damn speaking of that 14th Doctor look? Good fucking Christ on a buttery Ritz cracker. The whole DT collection is on display: the hair, the eyes, the bone structure, the smile, the clothes, and even the glasses!

To quote Pam on Archer, “I swear to god, you could drown a toddler in my panties right now! I mean, not that you would.”

Now that you (I) mention the clothes, I never cease to marvel at how he can wear pretty much anything and look amazing. Stripes, patterns, wild colors, etc. He just always looks…not exactly comfortable, but sort of at ease like the clothes were created with him in mind. And this goes across the spectrum of Casual to Costume to Promotional (e.g., interviews and premieres).

They are almost illegally cute together

We all know by now how ridiculously tight those Crowley pants are and how it influenced his signature serpentine swagger (thank you, Costume department, you’re the real heroes). That said, he and those slinky hips still looks so incredibly natural in them like they came from his actual closet.

Stupid sexy snek

And he pulls off the look of more ridiculous stuff like full Shakespearean costumes or that sad gray-hoodie-black-shorts-and-Wellington-boots combo from the first season of Staged. He somehow gives off the air of “whatever, they’re just clothes, man” while also looking like a damn model.

Georgia is a very lucky woman

Final thoughts: I know DT dislikes talking about how people think he’s so attractive because I’m sure it feels a bit icky if you just want to live your life and do your job. But my guy also clearly understands that he’s not some ghoul who has succeeded on incredible personality and acting chops alone. So, that said, maybe he'll forgive me for posting such a long, rambling, ode to him?

[moutainrusing]

confined

359 words, @wolfstarmicrofic

There was the shack, his own body, his own mind, the whole godforsaken world… They were all cages Remus was trapped in. Every full moon in the shack, forcibly confined within dark, bloodied walls, the space shrinking as his body cracked and expanded like overheating glass, because he was so fucking fragile, wasn’t he? So weak that he couldn’t stomach small, harmless spaces.

He was confined within his sickly, lanky limbs, ugly and gangly and too thin, too tall, on the verge of snapping like a stick, and he sometimes wished he would, because at least then he could escape. But he couldn’t escape, chained to the moon and the wolf, both hellbent on keeping him alive as a vessel for Dark magic, pulling him apart as they pieced him together, a part of him as much as he didn’t want them to be.

He was trapped in the spiralling storm of his thoughts, an inescapable mess twisting around him and pulling tight. There were cages everywhere, all slamming around him with loud clangs.

New ones cropped up everyday, and the most recent was the cage labelled ‘gay’, all because of stupid Sirius Black and his stupid everything. Remus didn’t want a cage to explain how Sirius tugged and plucked at his heartstrings. He didn’t want to be pushed inside a labelled box and tucked away inside the attic because he liked one boy. He didn’t like every boy now, did he?

He didn’t want to be labelled as ‘gay’ like it was a diagnosis given to him by an unqualified doctor, he didn’t want to be picked apart and analysed for his sexuality — he was already picked apart for everything else, things he couldn’t control; his appearance, the way his brain was wired to panic, to ache, to feel. He wouldn’t label this. It was love, clear and simple, for another human, because he was human, wasn’t he?

Labels may be comfortable and identifying for some people, but not him. He’d been labelled all his life. All he wanted was to be free. Not a labelled object, zoo creature, criminal. Just a human, in love with another human.

[intheghoulden]

i have writers block so here's my description of how the ghouls look in my head

(they look very different from most people's canon bc i really don't like taking inspo from their unmasked counterparts :])

Rain: dark wavy hair, brushing just against his shoulders. it's long enough to tie back, but there are a few pieces framing his face that are shorter. he has a few beauty marks (that mountain is obsessed with kissing) and wire frame glasses (that he makes mountain clean for him). his face is clean shaven and he has several ear piercings. his teeth are sharp like a sharks. his horns are uneven, the left one longer than his right. they're both a deep blue

Mountain: long straight brunet hair, messy and unkempt if someone doesn't do it for him. his face is permanently sunkissed from how much time he spends outside, and his face is covered in freckles. he's supposed to have glasses, but he hates wearing them. he's covered in bruises from running into things. his horns are remarkably similar to that of a deer, covered in velvet and shedding during the off season.

Dewdrop: short, curly ginger hair with black tips. his eyes are two different colours, one red and the other blue. he has a light spattering of freckles across his nose and cheeks that shimmer like embers when his emotions are high. he has a cleft lip, making his smile endearingly crooked. his horns are short spikes, white like ash.

Aether: slicked back silver hair, like the prequelle masks. he is fat and tall, towering over most of his peers. this is contrasted by his gentle and cheerful demeanor. his jaw is scruffy, several days overgrown but not quite a beard. his cheeks and forehead have several acne scars from his teenage years. he has many piercings on his face; eyebrow, septum, snake bites, tongue. his canines are long and sometimes peek from under his lip. his horns swoop backwards and are a crystal texture, purple in hue like amethyst.

Phantom: gangly, lanky weirdo. he has a tooth gap and the rest of his teeth are crooked, and it is so so adorable. his hair is short and fluffy, a dark purple with white speckles. he has white freckles across his face. he has a lot of piercings, some connected to each other with chains, others hanging. it looks like stars and constellations. his horns curved backward horizontally, becoming a sort of halo. they're white and pearlescent.

Swiss: his hair is uncontained and curly most of the time. its not quite coily, just loose enough to bounce if you pull it, but coily enough to be tied back in braids. his eyes are a bright, almost glowing, orange. he has eyebrow and nose piercings, all gold, and he has gauges. his horns are tall and long, sticking straight up from his forehead. they're red like hot iron.

Cirrus: tall and muscular with a firey personality to match. her hair is long and a dark grey, although its often tied up in a ponytail, revealing an undercut. her eyes are a stormy grey. she has some vitiligo, although it's only visible if she's been out in the sun for a while, the tanned skin revealing the lighter areas. her horns curve along the top of her head, smooth and glass like.

Cumulus: short curly hair to her shoulders, a blinding white. her eyes are red, almost violet, due to albinism. she short and fat, and she's so fucking hot for it. i can't put into words how beautiful she is, almost goddess like. all the other ghouls are crazy for her. her canines are a tad bit longer, she looks like a vampire. the only piercings she has is a tongue piercing and a belly button piercing. her horns curl around and under her ears, like a rams.

Aurora: instead of horns, she has gills like that of an axolotl. they're pink and they fluff up when she's excited. her hair is short, to her jaw, and wavy with two long chunks in the front going to her chest. it ombres from pink to violet to blue. she has slight wrinkles around her eyes and mouth, proof of her near constant laughing. her cheeks are always flushed making her seem like she's always blushing.

[sommerregenjuniluft]

part 2 of Fresh Start jegulus microfic prompt<3 (around 1k words)

Before Regulus has the opportunity to creep away unnoticed the next morning a sleep-warm hand catches him around the wrist gently as he goes to stand up from the bed.

He rolls his eyes dramatically and throws a glance over his shoulder. James grins back at him unperturbed, raven hair an awful mess and practice-sculpted shoulders on display, “Hey, I’ll see you around campus, yeah?”

Tugs at his wrist once more, feebly and Regulus gives an exaggerated sigh before he gives into the pull and smiles into the goodbye kiss. Extracts himself to snatch up his longsleeve from the floor and head for the door.

Gets thrown after another, “Have a nice first day, love!” which makes his traitorous heart skip a beat but he dignifies with only an indifferent grunt before he slides back the bolt that unlocks the front door and slams it shut behind him.

Regulus jogs back to the dorms effortlessly and gets a knowing smirk from his roommate Evan for the walk of shame performance. 

Gets ready quickly and arrives punctually with five minutes to spare at the assigned spot on campus for the tutor students to pick up their Fresh Meat only to be stood up for a good 10 minutes.

He witnesses all his fellow Freshman get called upon until he’s the only one left and then plops himself on a nearby bench with a disgruntled huff at his tutor’s tardiness.

Which has him, understandably, startle when suddenly there’s a voice, low and warm and achingly familiar, right in his ear, “Oh, I love when the universe works things out like this.”

He turns his head slowly, nails digging into his biceps where his arms are crossed in front of his chest to come face to face with a unfairly fresh looking version of the boy he’d fucked the night before, his scowl reflecting in James’ round glasses.

Regulus makes sure to put poison into his words, “You’re late.”

James hums in agreement, “I was real busy this morning.”

“No, you weren’t.” Regulus had left right after waking up.

He grins menacingly, “Yeah, I was,” leans in so far their noses almost touch, “I had to take care of a big problem after I watched you walk out on me like that.”

Regulus tries to suppress it, he really does, but he feels the flush creeping up his neck nonetheless. Shoots around to look back straight from his seat, “Let’s get this over with.”

Despite his cocky entrance and the filthy night they’ve shared James is surprisingly tame and gentle today. For where his bar usually rests apparently, at least. 

He’s actually providing helpful information on the campus’ built up and teachers, answering Regulus’ questions and pointing out tips to related topics.

That’s not to say that he doesn’t still flirt. Because he does, and Regulus is helplessly baited into retaliating. 

James is a gentleman about it though, mostly. Small touches and easy quips, no kissing, and it almost feels like he’s holding back on purpose for some reason.

They visit the library and the indoor pool (from the outside) and when James places a palm on Regulus’ lower back, ducks close and invites him for lunch in the cafeteria with his friends Regulus finds himself agreeing perhaps a little too easily.

The girls are wonderful. Mary is mean in a funny way and Lily is wicked smart. After only five minutes they end up ganging up on James a bit, much to his gawking affronted dismay.

“Mh,” Lily makes a sudden noise around the fries in her mouth, “There’s Rem.”

Regulus turns to see a tall, lanky boy slinking his way through the crowd of students towards them with a full laden tray in hand and a distracted smile over his shoulder, like he’s listening to someone.

Who appears when his gangly frame moves aside to round the table for the girls’ side, leaving a clear sight for Regulus to nearly choke on the sip of soda he nicked from James’ cup.

Because right there in front of him stands one of the last people Regulus had possibly hoped to see again. Thought he’d be way over half the continent by now, for sure. No way for Regulus to ever find or have the fortune to stumble upon.

The silence barely has time to stretch before James murmurs softly, “Look who I’ve dug up, Pads.”

And it registers for Regulus then, suddenly. Bucket of ice water tipped down the back of his shirt.

All these questions about his choice of uni and city, about his family and James had—

James.

As in, James Potter, a disbelieving laugh threatening to crawl up his throat because of course it would be Regulus’ fucking luck.

His eyes snap away from the slack face of his brother to pin the Sophomore next to him with a scorching glare, “You knew?” 

It’s more of an accusation than it is a question.

And James Potter has the fucking gall to smile at him bashfully, rub at his neck and bite down on his plump bottom lip and look all handsome, blushing from being reprimanded by Regulus and Regulus wants to hit him. Or maybe kiss him into another wall so hard their teeth click with the force.

He’s honestly still considering the effectiveness of a punch lest Regulus end up the one getting hurt from the impact of his delicate knuckles with those rock hard muscles when his back promptly gets shoved into the sharp edge of the lunch table with the force Sirius is throwing himself at him.

The air in his lungs presses out in a whoosh and Regulus still spots James grin widening as he feels himself relax in his brother’s arms, breathing in the familiar scent of him, nose tickled by the long hair.

Predictably, Sirius makes a bit of a scene. Gushes over him and sniffles and sobs a bit of snot into the crook of Regulus’ neck and James looks far too smug about the whole thing but Regulus lands a solid kick at his shin under the table while indulgently rubbing circles into Sirius’ back so it’s okay.

So much for a fresh start, though, huh.

[thedandelionthief]

okay project sekai appearance headcanons time. friendly reminder that i’m always right and if you have any complaints, you should reevaluate yourself. also this is a Long post

ichika looks. mostly how she does in canon to me. i do think she’s a bit gangly, just without the height. the way she carries herself is pretty awkward, and she has bad posture.

saki is a part-time mobility aid user. i’m not sure which one specifically she would use, but either way it’s decked out in all kinds of stickers. also i don’t like how ambiguous her being a gyaru is in canon, but she is one. also all three tenmas have dimples and yes i’m including toya

honami is fat why is she not fat in canon. also, she straightens her bangs, but stops doing that going into her 2nd year once she’s gained more confidence in herself. her hair is naturally super wavy. freckle haver

shiho has really broad shoulders, and also she has a septum piercing and a bunch of ear piercings.

minori has So Many Freckles, and her teeth are a bit crooked. she’s mixed japanese-mexican

haruka also looks mostly how she does in canon, but i think she starts to dress a lot more masc over time, and gets her hair cut shorter too. a big reason she dresses so plain and feminine is because she thinks it’s how she should dress as an idol

airi’s hair is thick in the like. getting the brush stuck in it way, and is also a lot wavier than it is in canon to me. mixed hispanic/japanese, but i don’t have a specific ethnicity i headcanon her as

shizuku, like shiho, has broad shoulders. she’s also 5’10 because tall girls pretty and she deserves to be taller. has more moles than in canon

kohane is mixed korean-japanese, and she is freckly. good for her. also chubby. good for her

an is filipino-japanese. ken is my favorite filipino single dad of all time (i am ignoring the fact that an has a mother. ken is a single father). also maybe she’s taller than she is in canon because i think it’d be funny if she was taller than akito in heels

akito is hispanic/japanese and shorter than he is in canon (he’s like 5’5) and he eventually grows his hair out into a mullet and he has piercings and his hair is not naturally orange. i will not accept it until they show shinomom on-screen and she is a ginger. my good mutual zip has converted me to fat akito as well so there’s that. i’ve just been playing dress up with him and now canon akito looks wrong to me

toya… i decided this just now he is a person with albinism. good for him. and dimples because tenma

tsukasa like i said earlier also has dimples. also he should be allowed to grow out his hair but he has not yet.

i confess i have nothing for emu. i tend to draw her with freckles though sometimes. and actually i take that back i like the hc of her being blasian. she has beaded braids a lot. i can see her getting wxs colors :)

nene is blasian as well. also chubby. why is there no body type variation in proseka (i know why don’t try to explain it to me) make some of them fat i’m begging you

rui has the most fucked up teeth. his canines are like fangs vampire style. had braces as a kid and they did not work. also has heterochromia. one blue eye and one yellow. he is so extremely lanky and i don’t believe for a second he is 5’10 this guy is like 6’0

kanade is so frail and i don’t know why she is drawn like almost the same as the others when she is literally like ghostly pale and sickly but that’s besides the point. the worst eyebags you’ve ever seen.

mafuyu is like. i think she starts to lose weight during her 2nd year at the height of all her stress, but begins to gain back what she lost in her 3rd. she is fat. also cuts her hair shorter

ena is mixed hispanic/japanese obvi and she has naturally wavier hair. also has horrible dark circles. is naturally chubbier and she is once she gains a healthier relationship with food. it’s the good ending guys gaining weight as a sign of healing.

mizuki mizuki mizuki. taller than she is in canon by kind of a lot. like 5’7-5’8. mostly because mizuena height difference is good. also has streaks of lighter and darker pink throughout her hair because it’s natural and that’s how hair works (it’s especially prominent with her though).

all 4 of them get gray hairs early because of stress. ena and mizuki dye them and the other two do not care enough.

[kits-ships]

olive fucking dies.docx

summary: olive fucking dies. sorry. (2249 wordcount)

content/trigger warnings: ANGST. gunshot wounds, blood, death (of olive AND jack, but hes fine)

other notes: i made up everything about the aliens in this fic. none of it is canon i just went ham lots of face squishing. also its the 12th doc :)

Pressing herself flat against the wall, Olive gasped for air to soothe her burning lungs. 

“Who are they?” she asked in a harsh, breathless whisper. Despite her panic, she turned and glanced over at her husband, running her hands over his shoulders and ensuring that he hadn’t been harmed. His chest was heaving as well, but it wouldn’t take long for him to recover. The gray-haired man ran a hand through his hair and sighed.

“Eos.” he stated, still gathering his thoughts regarding their predicament. “They’re, uh, a very territorial species known for their experience with poisons and such.” Getting on his knees, he poked his nose around the corner and watched as the lanky humanoids poked and prodded at the limp body of Jack Harkness. Sure, they knew he would eventually recover, but some of the Doctor still ached with the knowledge that he couldn’t help the man. “They used to live on Martire 4, but there was a huge spat with the other race-” Olive pressed her palms against his cheeks and squished his face slightly, watching him with widened eyes and a small frown. 

“What do they do and how do we survive?” the redhead nearly begged. She kept her eyes trained on the Time Lord, hoping she wouldn’t grow any more afraid if she kept her eyes on her husband. While she trusted that they would get out of this, the gangly, monstrous creatures a few dozen feet away from them were beginning to freak her out, and she could only pray that their eight beady eyes wouldn’t spot her too quickly. The Doctor grimaced, hesitated, and tilted his head from side to side in an attempt to ease the guilt of delivering bad news.

“Well, they use a poison from the Tith plant to gain a sort of control over their enemies' minds-” He began, feeling uneasy as she hurriedly nodded along. “And they use that enemy to kill the others.” Olive, her lips slightly parted, shook her head.

“That’s not how plants work!” she protested, curling her knees closer to her chest. The Doctor mirrored her.

“On Earth!” came the man’s retort. The redhead let out a sigh and peered around the wall of the storage room. Jack’s wide figure was now standing upright and facing the Eos; expressionless as he listened to the hushed orders they hissed to him. Though she’d never been particularly uncomfortable around the Captain, Olive was quickly becoming increasingly aware of just how tall he was. That, combined with his broad shoulders and heavy trench coat, suddenly made the once charismatic and amicable man terrifying.

“He’s up.” she managed to breathe out as she pressed herself closer to the wall. The Doctor nodded knowingly. 

“He’s up,” he repeated before pulling her out of the doorway and closer to his side. Olive whipped her head around to meet his gaze and grabbed his shoulders yet again. His nose was nearly pressed against hers, and she was sure that he could feel her rapid, labored breaths against his skin, but there was no room for awkwardness between the couple; this wasn’t their first dance with death, after all. Her eyes widened, and she leaned forward, silently begging for him to explain whatever plan he was brewing in his head. The girl hoped to whoever would listen that she wouldn’t have to run anywhere - her ankles throbbing - but she knew it was inevitable. 

“Well, assuming that the Eos walk away to let Jack do the work for them, we could make a run for the TARDIS.” He paused and exhaled. “It would be dangerous, though.”

“Everything is dangerous with you.” Olive teased, letting her hands move to his collar so that she could straighten it out. “But what about Jack? Are we just going to let him follow us?”

“Exactly!” The Time Lord said with a slight grin, squeezing her cheeks together before rising to his feet. He was getting ready to peek around the doorway once again, but his wife’s confused and slightly upset gaze made him pout in return. “What?” the man asked and squatted back down to squish her face once again; almost as if he hadn’t done it enough the first time around. “Just stay behind me.” He said with a reassuring grin. “The Tith poison will make him as dumb as a doorknob.”

 As his accent made her laugh, his hands met hers, and he pulled the redhead to her feet. She didn’t know that it was a teeny-tiny fib meant to make her feel better, but he knew that she had unwavering faith in him. After all, they’d survived all their adventures in the past, so she trusted him. She had no reason to not to.

With a deep breath, the duo peeked around the corner and let out a sigh of relief when they saw Jack standing in the middle of the room, seemingly confused. He turned almost robotically as he scanned the room and analyzed every possible entrance before spinning on his heel to explore the far side of the docking bay. 

“He doesn’t look as dumb as a hammer.” Olive whispered. The man behind her grimaced momentarily and stumbled to find a response.

“Okay, so, change of plans; we sneak closer, then run to the TARDIS.” The Doctor announced before dropping to the ground. The human behind him wanted to make a comment about his elderly bones possibly cracking and alerting their drugged companion, but she kept her mouth shut. With her amount of joint issues, she was the one who had to worry about her body snapping, crackling, and/or popping on their newly obtained stealth mission. The redhead sighed and crouched behind her lover.

On their hands and knees, the couple looked like children as they shuffled a few meters to the left, letting an old, discarded shipment of miscellaneous, alien goods act as their cover. The sounds of footsteps continued fading away on the other side of the vast room and Olive let out a sigh of relief. She knew there was still danger on the horizon, but she nearly felt comfortable as she crawled closer to the TARDIS. It was okay. They’d be okay. The Time Lord in front of her absentmindedly nodded to himself, making the girl wonder if he was listening in on her thoughts. That, or he was just being the same, slightly-crazed man she had married a decade ago. 

She was content either way.

“Doctor?” the distant voice of Jack called out, echoing against the walls and making Olive shiver. He sounded just like he always did, and it made her worry if he was even poisoned at all. And, though she couldn’t be too sure, it sounded as if he had turned around. 

While most humans are prone to acting without thinking, Olive had thought this scenario over thousands of times. As much as she loved him, it didn’t matter to her that the Doctor would’ve given his life to save hers a thousand times over; he was simply too important for her to let that happen. 

Besides, she wasn’t ‘The Bad Wolf’, she wasn’t ‘The Girl Who Waited’, and she wasn’t the infamous River Song. 

She was just Olive.

So, by the time she had spun on her heel and dove forward, she’d already accepted her fate. Jack’s footsteps, the shuffling of clothing, and the click of his Webley’s hammer had sealed the girl’s place in history. Four searing wounds had made their home in Olive’s torso, and she almost wished that he’d properly reloaded the weapon before their adventure together; perhaps then she wouldn’t have been fighting to remain conscious as the Doctor lifted her up and into the TARDIS. 

Jack, controlled by the drugs coursing through his veins, obediently followed after them. His eyes were fixated on the Doctor’s neck, and he raised his hands to choke him, only to be knocked out with a single punch to his temple. He may have detested killing, but violence was a language the Time Lord spoke well. 

I told him I didn’t like guns. His mind repeated on end. He didn’t want to blame the brunette for having shot Olive while brainwashed, but it was growing difficult as panic and fear overwhelmed him. I told him I didn’t like guns.

“He’s... gonna have a concussion…” Olive croaked from the pilot’s seat, immediately catching the Doctor’s attention and prompting him to fall at her side. 

“Shush.” was all he could respond with; his dual hearts beating faster and faster as he realized just how quickly the girl was fading away. He placed his hands on her bleeding abdomen - trying to cover each wound to the best of his ability- and pressed down. This was bad; very bad. “I’ll get towels-” the gray-haired man told her, seemingly pleading with her to stay alive. Olive swallowed hard and shook her head. 

“Stay with me,” she told the man, blindly reaching out to grab his hand. Her vision was growing blurry the more her shirt grew soaked with blood, but it almost seemed like it didn’t bother her. Her fingers intertwined with his and a small smile formed on her lips. 

“I can be quick.” he urged, swallowing back his emotions as her once sun-kissed face grew pale. Again, the girl refused. 

“There’s no time.” she breathed out, forcing her head to turn so that she could meet her husband’s gaze. Despite going through so many faces and personalities, he somehow had the same eyes every time. 

“You’re not going to die.” the Doctor whispered, speaking as if he was trying to convince himself that he was telling the truth. He leaned over her frail form, and she took the opportunity to admire every crease, wrinkle, and bump on his face as the Time Lord let out a shaky breath. Olive’s smile grew. “It’s going to be okay.” he urged; a calm look on his face despite the fact that, internally, he was screaming; begging the TARDIS to do something. But… what was there to do? There were no nanogenes to save the day, and he was worried that the human wouldn’t survive the trip if they headed to a hospital. Nevertheless, the ship dematerialized in an effort to please her pilot and save his wife. “You’re gonna be okay.” the Doctor whispered again, cupping her cheek with his free hand and recoiling when he felt just how cold she was growing. He swallowed his discomfort and let his thumb swipe over her jawline before giving her cheek an affectionate squeeze. Finally, Olive’s face split into a grin, and she let out a soft, choked laugh.

“Kiss me.” the girl said, humming softly when his lips met hers, lingered for a second longer than most, and tightened her grip on his hand. “I’ve known you for twelve years.” Her voice rasped, and her eyes grew glossy; no longer able to focus on her lover. “I think… out of everyone… that I know best...” Her voice faded out, prompting the Time Lord to lean forward; his eyes wide with confusion as his wife mustered enough strength to finish her thought. She swallowed hard and let her heavy eyelids fall in an attempt to better see his face. “The Doctor lies.” 

The Doctor struggled to find words; how was he meant to respond to that? He almost wanted to laugh - she was right, of course- but his occasional fibbing wasn’t meant to end like this. She should be shoving his shoulder, repeating, ‘You should have told me, you should have told me!’- not bleeding out in front of him. Almost as if he was outside his own body, he felt his lips part so that he could speak up, but his mouth was dry, and his throat tightened at the thought. 

He didn’t know what to say. Could he even comfort her at the moment? Did a string of words that could soothe her pain even exist? Her eyes began to close, and the Doctor squeezed her hand three times. I. Love. You. Olive did her best to return the gesture, but her grip was that of a ghost’s; barely noticeable. I… Love… You…

“Olive…” he finally murmured. Her smile somehow grew wider.

“It’s like the day we met, love.” the human rasped as her body slowly began to relax. Her legs were numb and there were various, blurry versions of her husband in front of her eyes, but she did her best to ignore the pain; instead choosing to watch as his eyes filled with tears. “Hey…” she hummed, her voice hoarse. “It’s okay,” she told the Time Lord. “‘s okay.”

Choking on his misery, he leaned forward to press his lips into her forehead. Her freckled skin was cold, and it only served to make his hearts sink further, but he refused to pull away until he was satiated. When he finally had the strength to sit back up- his hand still caressing her cheek - her smile remained, but Olive was gone. 

Though he’d lost so many companions, the pain aching in the Doctor’s chest felt different. She’d seen him through so many faces and adventures that losing her felt like he was losing those memories as well. Squeezing his eyes shut, he cursed her affections for him, he cursed her protectiveness, and he cursed her humanity. Still, there was nothing he could do. 

His wife was dead, Jack was concussed, and the Doctor was heartbroken.

hey taglist....... :)

@stoneshipper @dudefrommywesterns @sunstar-of-the-north @kylars-princess @faerie-circle-ships @knightoflove @wyndford-dekarios @strawberrisoulmate

[siriusblack-the-third]

"short king Harry Potter" "smol Harry Potter" yes yes I agree it's cute but i raise you:

Lanky, gangly Harry Potter who grows to be as tall as Ron. It's canon that Harry is tall (we see Mrs Weasley complaining about Harry and Ron growing like beanstalks in both the fourth and the sixth books and there is a mention somewhere about him being as tall as his dad), and I just. I wanna see it in fics.

Give me tall, 6 foot Harry with lean muscles from Quidditch who can never manage to gain more width to his frame bc of the chronic starvation he suffered as a child. Harry with slender and long fingers and bony wrists, sharp as fuck jaw just like his dad, and a resting bitch face that makes people nervous bc he's so tall and he's looking down his crooked nose (Dudley broke it and it never healed right).

Give me Harry who is all sharp angles and piercing green eyes, a stubborn set to his lips and a determined, pointed chin. Give me Harry whose high cheekbones are exacerbated bc of his bird's nest hair, whose height makes him look thin and skinny till he's putting on his Quidditch gear, at which point you realise he's not thin: just tall as fuck.

Give me tall, slim, intimidating Harry dammit!

[hvnterzmoon]

FIRST GLIMPSE

Mushy May prompt day 5: love at first sight

Mountfrit (mountain x ifrit)

Read it on AO3

Ritual after ritual, at this rate Ifrit was buzzing too much to be allowed into them. Every-time a ghoul was summoned he felt the fire in him ignite brighter and brighter. He loved the ghouls, his pack, he loved them and he loved getting more No matter how many showed up and left he would always love them. Having more pack mates only allowed him to toss his love to more ghouls, give them more of what they would forever deserve.

But he had to promise Zephyr he would be calm. That he wouldn’t radiate heat so heavily the way he had when Dew or Aether had been summoned. He’d agreed, promised to do his best and now he was stood around the summoning circle. They needed a drummer, an earth ghoul to fill the place of the last one had left empty. They’d gotten another ghoul, shortly named Ivy but they’d come and gone quickly due to a few complications. Ifrit missed it.

He missed the grounding energy an earth ghoul brought. It calmed him, slowed the thoughts in his mind so that he could understand them long enough. Zephyr did that too, but he couldn’t bother Zephyr all the time. He felt bad.

The room was warm, a soothing feeling compared to the draftiness of the halls during dead winter. Ifrit was called on often to start massive fires in the open halls where they’d set up hearths, or to his pack mates room to cuddle and warm them. He loved it, but he’d been too distracted thinking about the latest summoning and everyone could tell. But he stayed still now watching the deep green and black strings of magic float through the air the longer Terzo spoke.

It was beautiful, every ritual having its own unique quirks. Ifrit almost got distracted connecting the colors as they swirls together until the sound of stone crumbling and cracking filled the room and the floor spit out a long gangly figure. Terzo went quiet instantly watching the slumped figure begin to move before taking a quick sharp breath.

And Ifrit was pinned with a striking gaze. Forest green and bright almost flaming -somehow- brown stared right at him and he felt his lungs retract, all the air stolen from him. the ground beneath the figure began to stitch itself back together as its head rose further. Curling brown horns, flopping auburn hair and a devine face to match what looked to be a massive stature analyzed Ifrit just as much as he was analyzing them.

He heard Dew giggle to his left and jolted forward, taking the long soft cloak from Aether without question as he approached the earth ghoul. He did his best to keep his gaze up but it was hard not to take in the lanky, lithe body that was hiding muscles beneath skin.

“Can you stand?” Ifrit was surprised he didn’t stutter as he wrapped the cloak around the ghoul’s shoulders. It nodded and he took a small step back as it pushed itself to their feet. Ifrit swallowed harshly tilting his head back a bit to meet their gaze once more. They were tall, just as he’d expected. Looming and massive and so fucking gorgeous.

Ifrit was not normally part of the welcoming party. Usually Aether and Zephyr took the newly summoned ghouls to the infirmary to get checked and settled.

Ifrit needed to do this one himself.

[dameronology]

Hi! Could I please request imagines of Steve or Eddie with a short reader? (Pref one who isn’t a rabid chihuahua because not all tiny ppl are filled w/ rage 24/7 ty 🥰)

i will drink to this bc i'm 5'3 on a good day which isn't even that short but i work with lots of tall ppl so i have a little bit of a napoleon complex at times but i hate the tHeY'Re DeMoNs cOs tHey'Re ClOseR tO hElL bullshit

eddie munson

a lotta people write eddie as being tall as fuck but canonically, he is 5'10 which is definitely on the taller side and he's somehow still lanky and gangly as hell

idk how people individually define short but in my head it's like 5'4 and below so he's definitely towering over you in some way or another

obviously, he teases you about it; especially when you ask him to get stuff down for you from a shelf in the supermarket or to reach the leftovers at the back of the freezer

it makes him feel needed in a sweet domestic way

eddie will sometimes use your head as an arm rest, just to take the piss

one of his nicknames for you would definitely be "short stuff"

"having trouble reaching that, short stuff?" and "how's the weather down there, short stuff?"

it also means this clothes hang off of you and he loves that !!

like seriously his heart skips a beat every time you have to roll back the sleeves on his denim jacket or t-shirt that he's leant you

his arms are long enough so that he can keep a hand on the small of your back when you walk.

i'll tell u what tho. sharing a bed with him is a pain in the fucking ass

because the man spread eagles his stupid gangly limbs everywhere and you're forced to resign yourself to one singular corner of the mattress

but then he tangles himself with you in the night, and he's tall enough to completely enclose your body in his and it's sweet as fuck

steve harrington

steve is also on the much taller side at 5'11

he insists he's six foot though and honestly you're just gonna have to let him have this one

either way, he's a lot bigger than you

honestly it's not something he paid much attention to until dustin, lucas, mike & will had their growth spurts and he's all like "wow haha you're actually fuckin' tiny"

one time he took you & the kids to the theatre and the lady in the box office asked if you wanted a kids ticket

steve said yes because he wanted to save money and you didn't talk to him for the rest of the day

he loves the height difference tho. it means he can rest his head on top of yours when you hug and you're the perfect height for forehead kisses

his favourite thing to do is sling an arm over your shoulder whenever you're walking beside him

and sometimes he runs up to you and picks you up into a kiss

[rainydaysandhappydays]

Basic creepypasta headcannons

(A/N: I am still new to the cp sphere. So feel free to drop by and tell me some things I don't know. I'll be happy to see what the community thinks!)

(2nd A/N: I know I'm spelling Maskey's name "wrong" but I've spelt it that way for years when I first heard about CPs when I was a kid. I'm not changing it now. So from now on Maskey has an e in his name.)

Basic Appearance

SlenderMan is 14'9" (~454 cm) and looks to be what can equate a real life stick figure. Just pull a normal stick figure out like taffy and you'll get Slender. He does actually have a mouth but he always has it hidden. For the simple fact that it's 1 terrifying as FUCK. And 2 because it actually kinda hurts a little having it open. As he has to tear open his face skin to open his mouth at all. And even worse is that his mouth is the size of, like, half his head. He could easily chomp a small child in half with how large his mouth is.

Laughing Jack is 9'6" (~292 cm) and is lanky af, but not nearly as much so as Slender. His arms are ridiculously long. And his nails are several inches long as well. (Think Edward Scissor Finger type hands) So if he stood completely upright with his arms by his sides, he would be nearly touching the floor with his nails. That's how long he is. (Don't worry tho. He can easily cut them to be a far more manageable length. They just grow ridiculously quickly so he will have to keep an eye on that if he ever gets into any sort of relationship where he's not harming the other.)

Eyeless Jack is 7'5" (228 cm) and is Large. Like buff, wide, and thiccc. Boi looks like he could body a car and win. Though he hides most of it under his baggy af clothes and his surprisingly bad posture.

Brian/Hoodie is 6'3". (192 cm) Compared to Tim he is on the thinner side, but still has plenty of muscles. He may seem a bit lanky at first but don't let his baggy hoodie fool you. He can still deck the halls better than any Christmas song. If you ever manage to see him without his iconic hoodie on, be prepared to see his fantastically sculpted arms. They aren't super thick or beefy, but they are dense and hard. With a few veins along them.

Tim/Maskey is 6'0", (182 cm) DILF. Straight out. Has a small belly, but it looks tasteful on his bodytype. He looks like he could pick up damn near anyone for one of the best hugs ever. Too bad he's too much of an ass to use that blessing often.

Puppeteer is also 6'0". (182 cm) He honestly looks similar to those nerds in movies. Not the ones with brick thick glasses, but the ones that look frail and thin with an odd hunch in thier backs. Yeah, he's like that. Though in what can be considered a compromise for his weak looking built, he is ridiculously flexible. He doesn't use the ability all that often, be he could rival some contortions out there.

Toby is 5'11" (181 cm) and almost looks smaller than he is. If you saw him at a distance you would probably think he was just a regular kid running about. But as soon as you see him up close he looks like a full grown German Shepard. Big, tough, and ready to snap someone in half if deemed necessary. He acts like one too, with his constant need for attention, affection, and touch. He really is a hell of a puppy.

Helen/Bloody Painter is 5'10". (180 cm) The only reason why he's so tall is because his body just wouldn't stop growing when he was a teen. The rest of him is thin and gangly. He looks to be slightly malnourished and has intense bags under his eyes. Looks damn near ready to die at any moment in time. Especially since he is naturally very stoic. (Don't let that fool you into thinking he doesn't have the emotions he just shows them in extremely subtle ways that you have to learn to understand at all.)

Jeff is 5'9" (179 cm) with the body of a swimmer. Which is odd because he doesn't swim all that often. But he does run a hell of a lot and swing his knife around even more. So he has long and hard muscles coating his entire body. He is constantly bragging that he looks better and more durable than some of the other creeps.

Basic world

The proxies can only read the minds of people that also have the mark of SlenderMan on them. Maskey's mark is on the back of the neck near the base of his skull. Hoodie's mark is on his sternum near his diaphragm. The solar plexus area. Toby's is on his spine on his lower back. Kate's is in the space between her collar bones. The mark is mostly small enough that it's not immediately noticeable, but it is still very much there and can never be hidden or removed. Like with makeup or tattoo removal surgery or anything like that. The marks are permanent. Even after death.

When Hoodie fell out of the window, he didn't actually die. He got so close that he could feel his heart beat it's last few beats before he came back. Not fully as an undead but more of someone that didn't die when they were supposed to. Sort of like those stories of people being recursitated after an extremely traumatic experience. However that gave him extreme trauma over death and the feeling of dying. He will do whatever it takes to never feel that experience again. He has night terrors about it sometimes and the only one that is ever able to calm him down after one is Maskey/Tim.

The story I'm using for EJ is that he was pulled into the cult when he was in collage and unfortunately was thought to be "the chosen one" bc he was really good at p much everything he tried. So all of his friends he made betrayed him and tied him down to an alter. Proceeded to scoop out his eyes with a burning rod, and then tear his torso open to eat his organs. And that's why his eyes now after his transformation are always leaking a hot viscous black fluid. It's the forever remains of his original eyes. Also why he can only eat human organs and nothing else. Another harsh reminder of what he went through. He was only 23 at the time.

[beggingwolf]

sidgeno: soulmate AU + erotic dreams

Sid's standing at a river.

He thinks it's a river. It feels half-formed. He can feel the rumble of the water under his feet. If he doesn't move, the flash flood is going to swell to his soles, ankles, knees, and sweep him away.

"Beautiful," he hears. It doesn't sound right. The word twists in his ears, and a large hand wraps around his elbow, pulling him a step back up onto the bank. "Careful."

Sid wakes up with a gasp. Across the room, the little blue S on his wall has fallen to the floor with a crack. It's his last night at home before he ships out to Minnesota. He'd heard his mom crying after Taylor had gone to bed.

Sid reaches up to touch his elbow. He can still feel the ghostly touch, heavy and strong.

Sid stays up for another hour, thinking it over. Replaying the sound of beautiful over and over again, even though that's not how it sounded in the dream.

He closes his eyes. He tries to say goodbye to home. He tries to push off the dream; he doesn't have the time to think about it, not now, not when—

-

"Beautiful," Sid hears. He lets out a shuddering breath. The hands are everywhere. There's a heavy weight between his legs. There's pressure on his stomach, on his chest. A mouth pressing to his neck. He needs to move. He needs to be touched, he—

The pillow hits his face hard.

"Take it to the showers, Croz!" Duncs groans, his bedsprings creaking as he rolls to turn his back on Sid from across the room.

Sid's face grows hot as he fumbles at his blankets. He slips out of bed, feet hitting the linoleum floor with a loud smack, and he grabs the first article of clothing on the ground—a hoodie, fine, that's fine—before making a break for the hall.

The light of the hallway is blinding, and Sid stumbles to the bathrooms to lock himself in a shower stall and breathe.

His boxers are wet.

Sid shudders on his next inhale. It's been... it's been so long since this has happened, but not like this, never with that voice in his ears or the feeling of a body that's bigger than his covering him so completely.

Sid's been looking at his teammates too much lately. He's been thinking about how tall Matty is, how he's got a wicked smile and a stupid laugh that rivals Sid's own.

"Fuck," Sid whispers to himself. It echoes off the yellowing tile.

-

Soulmates, Sid learned early, don't account for everything.

His mother told him that she'd had dreams of the Eastern Shore back at the height of the whaling trade. She'd remembered the scent of blubber burning, how his father's clothes would stink of blood and salt after he'd return from a voyage.

She had older ones, too. Ones of living in a cramped house in an old country with too many mouths to feed, spending her days working in a horrible factory and sneaking away to find a sweetheart in a back alley.

Older than that, even: one of his aunts liked to claim she could remember as far back to before electricity was discovered. His mom fondly told her sister she was full of shit, but Sid always wondered.

Then there was his grandmother, who never talked about soulmates at all. She was happy with Kenny, but Sidney knew Kenny was not his grandfather by blood. His grandmother was tight-lipped about it, even when the family was swapping dream-memories with each other like cards over the dinner table.

"Soulmates can mean a lot of things," Sid's uncle had told him out on the patio later. "Sometimes they're just the person that leaves the most scars on you."

Years later, as Sid tries to keep his eyes to himself in the locker room, he finally understands how his love could leave him with more scars than he could count.

-

It's a gentle touch to his hair. Long fingers playing in the curls. They're too long. They're always too long, it's not presentable, it's not to code, but war is cruel and bloody and Sid's fucking hair is the least of his concerns.

"Morning, beautiful," a low voice rasps to him. The words are tilted like they always are, but Sid understands. He always understands.

He turns, eyes still closed, and reaches out.

Lips connect with his. There's a dusting of pathetic stubble on both of their faces. The dry, cracked lips he's kissing are still the best thing he's ever felt.

"My watch shift's almost over," Sid whispers. His throat is hoarse, because last night he'd—god, he'd taken the whole length down, and it had felt good and powerful and if he died today he'd be okay with it, he thinks. The war has taken so much. At least he had this. "I need to go back."

"Stay," is murmured up against his mouth. The lips move up to press against his forehead, and the hand in his hair tangles in it, pulls him closer, drags him against a strong body, long legs tangling with his own.

He can feel a hardness pressing into his thigh, and he cracks open his eyes.

His head smacks against glass.

"Shit!" Sid snaps, jerking upright as the bus rolls over another curb.

"Sorry, fellas!" the driver calls, and there's an ugly chorus of groans from the Rimouski Oceanic.

"Jesus," Sid grunts, shifting back upright in his seat, yanking his backpack onto his lap. His skull is still rattling from the rude awakening, and he's achingly hard.

It's a small mercy he has the row to himself. He leans back and closes his eyes, trying to ignore the pain radiating from his head, and his hip where that stupid fucking Moosehead had laid into him, and his tweaked wrist from two weeks ago in Chicoutimi. The street lamps they drive under flare his eyelids pink and then black, again and again.

As he slows his breaths, the urgency fades out of his bloodstream. He's not hard up for it anymore. He's just sore.

More than the feeling of a heavy cock pressed against his leg, Sid misses the gangly arms that had been wrapped around him. He'd had to make out with a girl at a house party before they'd left for Halifax. The team had gotten too nosy, their teasing of Sid's prudishness tipping from "hilarious novelty" to "prying questions," and Sid had swallowed his anxiety and used it as fuel to find a girl and pull her into a corner in full view of half of the blue line and press his lips to hers.

It had felt deeply wrong.

He tries to keep his breaths even as he thinks about how right his dream had felt, and how that deep, sleep-weary voice sits in his skull like it belongs there.

-

Sid pulls his goalie pads off. His eye is swollen shut from the puck he took to the face in the second period; it happens once every few months, and it's incentive to be faster. He laughs as the team around him starts cracking open beers. Their captain lights a cigarette and leans back in his stall with a grin. They're on fucking fire, and they're going out on the town tonight.

Sid comes back home drunk. Drunk and happy and dumped unceremoniously on the steps of his Montreal townhome by his teammates, who cheerfully wave at Sid's roommate.

Sid's roommate.

Sid's roommate picks Sid up. Sid's roommate peels off his clothes slowly. Sid's roommate leads him to bed, where he tucks himself into the cave he makes out of Sid's chest.

Sid's roommate, who grinds back against Sid. Sid groans. He can't get it up, not like this, and his roommate laughs, a low noise, and tells him in the morning—in the morning they'll have some fun, he'll reward Sid exactly how he deserves.

Sid wakes up alone.

They've lost the Memorial Cup. He's still in London. He's not playing for the Habs in their glory days. He's not playing for anyone right now. The season is over. Tomorrow he gets to go home. He gets to hope the draft goes on.

He feels very small and lonely in his hotel bed.

-

The night before the draft, Sid dreams about getting fucked.

He's goddamn lucky Jack sleeps harder than the dead. He's goddamn lucky in so many ways, because he feels those big hands push his legs up, his thighs pressing into his stomach. He feels those chapped lips drag against his neck, his chest, his cock. He feels those long hands stretching him open.

He takes every inch. He gets fucked within an inch of his life. He's held down by that powerful body and he's never wanted something this bad, because it's good and right and he wants it more than anything. He's had it before, in another time, and Sid tells himself he'll find it again someday, he has to.

He comes so hard he cries.

Jack's still asleep when Sid wakes up and ducks into the bathroom. He lets the shower rain scalding water down onto him as he wipes the cum off of his hips.

-

Sid plays hockey in Pittsburgh.

He kisses a man for the first time. It's not his soulmate. He can tell; the man's fingers are too stubby, but he has wide shoulders and a smart smile and it feels good.

It leads to him getting his dick sucked. That's good too.

The dreams don't stop. He's in rural Canada. He's in some ancient country that looks foreign. He's in a busy city center that looks nothing like anywhere Sid has ever been.

He's always wrapped in those long arms, holding those delicate-looking, strong hands.

It's his second season, the morning after another dream—a bad one, where Sid had been old and arthritic and holding a cold hand in his—when Mario looks up from the morning newspaper and tells Sid Malkin will finally be getting in from Los Angeles that evening.

"It's been long enough, he should be out of his contract by the time camp starts," Mario says. "We'll have him over for dinner tonight, I think."

Sid doesn't dress up, but he does put on jeans and combs his hair in the bathroom before Malkin and his translator arrive. He should look presentable, he figures. They want to make him captain. He should make a good impression, especially after all that Malkin's been through.

The doorbell rings, and Sid hustles down the three flights of stairs to get to the foyer.

Malkin's big. Lanky, really, and golden from the California sun. He looks tired but happy, and he's staring at Mario with big eyes and a bigger grin, his chapped lips stretched wide. Sid knows the feeling well.

Malkin turns his gaze to Sid, and something wobbles in Sid's chest.

"Evgeni Malkin," he says, offering a handshake to Sid.

His palm is huge. His fingers are long and handsome.

Sid swallows and takes his hand.

[ineloqueent]

you may be a lover but you ain’t no dancer

Brian May x Reader

synopsis: Brian’s dancing skills, or lack thereof, often land him in trouble. but for once, they may just have landed him exactly where he’s supposed to be.

warnings: swearing, suggestive content (not 18+, just a little steamy)

word count: 2.9k

a/n: happy birthday, libby (@imcompletelylost​)!! i hope you have a lovely day, and that you enjoy reading this <3

⭒

1977

“Is this absolutely necessary?”

“Absolutely,” Freddie answered, and Brian groaned. “Darling, you dance like a newly-birthed foal.”

Roger snorted from his place on the sofa. “I didn’t know foals danced, Fred.”

Freddie waved a hand. “Well, whatever. You know what Brian’s like. His legs are so long he doesn’t know how to stand on them.”

This earned laughed all around, including Freddie himself, but excepting Brian, who was feeling less at ease for every passing moment.

Freddie folded his arms and redirected his stare at the guitarist. “No, Brian. I’ve seen the pictures, and won’t have you embarrass us at the next album release party, do you hear me?”

“Freddie—”

He shook his head stubbornly. “There’s simply no other way. You’re going to have to learn to dance.”

And with those final words, Brian’s sorry fate was sealed.

⭒

You were tired, but you didn’t think you were tired enough to hallucinate.

Still, it was late at night, and you blinked at the sight of the tall, lanky figure pushing open the glass door to your studio, at the way he bit his lip in what you deemed a nervous manner, rubbing his arms and looking about the room.

There were few others in attendance yet, but presently, fixing the strap of your shoe, you were less worried about the lack of attendance than the fact that Brian fucking May was standing in your dance studio, all six-foot-whatever of him, complete with ringlet curls and wide hazel eyes, slim hips and long legs. Dusky-pink lips.

He was even more beautiful than those glossy magazine pictures had made him seem.

But you were at your place of work— your job was to teach, not to gaze at a particularly gorgeous client. Who also happened to be a rather well-known musician.

You shook out your hair and pushed down the thought of what it might be like to kiss him, making way over to the gathered crowd.

“Hello everyone,” you said brightly, and your new students chorused back similar greetings. “I’m Y/N, and I’ll be your instructor for this course. We’ll be learning a variety of different dances and styles, so that you can get a feel for a few different things, or just start to know your left foot from your right.”

Polite laughter followed your humorous remark, and you smiled in response, scanning those in attendance to gauge today’s demographic. You noticed that Brian didn’t laugh, just stood motionless, with his lips pressed together and his posture relaxed, though his shoulders betrayed a tenseness.

Brian. Christ, already on a first name basis, are we?

You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t always fancied him a little.

You dragged your eyes away from him and focussed on the task at hand.

“Did you get them all checked in, Francis?” you asked your receptionist, and she nodded.

“All checked in,” she affirmed. Then she widened her eyes and mouthed, Brian May, seemingly incredulous at the notion. You returned her nod hurriedly. She waggled her eyebrows. You rolled your eyes and turned away.

You clasped your hands, returning to your students. “So, you think you’re ready to dance?”

⭒

You were half an hour into the hour-long lesson, and Brian was struggling.

He had said little less than a greeting to his assigned partner, and the occasional apology, having stepped on her feet numerous times. His shoulders were getting not less, but more rigid, and you frowned at the sight, at how his partner was getting redder in the face for every passing minute, frustrated with Brian. He was obviously embarrassed by his own incompetence, by his two left feet, and you were disappointed in how little patience the woman opposite him had, when he was trying his best. You knew it was his best, because he kept biting his lip in concentration, and you could occasionally see him mumbling a count beneath his breath, see him close his eyes in shame when he misstepped for the thousandth time in a row.

Finally, his partner, quite literally, threw up her hands and stalked off in the other direction, in search of another dancer who would better suit her tastes.

Poor Brian, gangly-limbed and awkward without the presence of his guitar, stood in the middle of the dancefloor, utterly alone, and looking more miserable than an abandoned child at a shopping centre.

You switched the record on the deck, and the swaying couples around you, mostly around your own age, nodded appreciatively at the change of pace. The music before had been mellow, but now you had swapped that for a rock ‘n’ roll record, one you hoped would help people to loosen up a little, because that was always the primary problem: everyone had a perception of what they were supposed to do, how they were supposed to act, supposed to dance, and it always inhibited them from achieving whatever potential they had, because everyone was so fucking worried about what everybody else was thinking. You’d be damned if that wasn’t Brian’s problem too.

He had to loosen up.

So as the others began to find a rhythm, you made your way over to Brian.

“Hello,” you said, and he glanced up, apparently startled that somebody was speaking to him. “Short of a partner, are we?”

“Um,” he blinked, “yeah, I am, I suppose.”

“Tell you what,” you answered, smiling gently, “no great loss.” You leaned in a little. “She wasn't that good of a dancer, anyway.”

Brian’s eyes were tricoloured, you noticed, as they flicked to yours and he loosed a breathy chuckle.

Warmth bloomed in your chest at the sound, and you were suddenly overwhelmed with a need to be closer to him.

You smiled again, a little coyly this time. “You can’t dance, either,” you said.

“Ah, no,” Brian muttered. He gestured toward the floor. “Two left feet, in case you haven’t noticed.”

“Oh, I’ve noticed. But you’re not a lost cause.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I’m not?”

“Not at all,” you shook your head, only lying a little. “You just need a bit of help.”

He scoffed. “Try a lot of help.”

You shrugged. “It’s all relative.” With a cautious step forward, you took his hand in yours. His eyes widened at the contact, but you didn’t react to him, instead taking his other hand and placing it on the lower part of you back.

His fingers were warm. The two of you seemed to breathe in tandem.

“Come on then,” you eased yourself slightly closer, “let me teach you how to dance, Brian May.”

But his breath faltered. “You know who I am?” he whispered.

“Really?” you asked, in jest. “The hair would be enough, dear.”

He smirked softly. “Alright, fair enough. So, you planning on stalking me, now?”

You drew him closer, until his chest was pressed against yours. You could feel his heartbeat.

“You planning on attending more than one dance class?”

With a perplexed look about him, he nodded.

“Well,” you murmured. “It would seem that makes you the stalker.”

A small smile curved his lips, and something twisted in your chest.

Taking the first step, you moved him backwards, keeping your gaze upon his. That first step was seamless, and you nodded your approval.

But after that was where it got tricky. He stumbled almost immediately.

“You’re thinking too much,” you said. “Just move. Don’t think about it. Just do what feels right.”

His eyelashes fluttered as he tried to regain some sort of rhythm, but he was very clearly still struggling.

You rolled your eyes, and his cheeks seemed to pinken. “Don’t think, I said. Don’t.”

He peered down at you with a helpless air, and you shifted your fingers from his, bringing your hands to crest his hips.

You glanced at him briefly, to make sure that he was not repulsed by you, or sinking into terror at your touch.

“It’s in the hips,” you murmured, applying a light pressure to his sides. His muscles were stiff, but you began to move with him, and he soon relaxed. “Alright?” you asked, to confirm that you were not breaching any boundaries.

His voice was raspy, but he had no objection. “Alright,” he said.

You stepped forward again, rocked your hips ever-so-slightly against his. You thought his breath caught at the movement, but perhaps that was your imagination.

He was willowy, and as he began to relax into the movements which you coerced him, his technique improved. He was still awkward, yes, but he had definitely improved, and with that improvement being in such a short time span, it impressed you.

You dared to launch yourself into a spin, and though you surprised him with the action, he reacted upon instinct, and caught you when you returned to him, almost deftly.

You laughed in delight, but his arm tightened around your waist, and he whispered,

“Don’t do that again.”

You hummed in response. “Why not?”

“Because maybe I won’t catch you next time.”

You retreated slightly to grin at him. “Maybe I’ll just have to drag you down with me.”

His narrowing eyes reprimanded you. “Don’t you dare.”

Teasingly, you leaned backward, simply to see what would happen.

He leaned with you, his exhale warm against the hollow of your throat.

“Good instincts,” you murmured, as his curls hung down over your face, tickling your skin.

If you hadn’t been in professional circumstance, if you had simply been two people dancing at a bar somewhere, you would have kissed him now, would have stolen his breath from him and drowned yourself in the beautiful smile he smiled now, would have intertwined yourself with him, until his aroma of soap and crisp night air became your own.

His tongue darted out to wet his lips. Your heartbeat pounded in your head, dizzying you beneath his hands.

Brian cleared his throat and pulled you upright again.

You let go of him immediately, and brushed imaginary specks of dust from your front.

The song had faded from its distorted rock riff into a more mellow tune, of piano and acoustic guitar. You felt suddenly vulnerable at how close you had been to kissing Brian.

“Good— uh— good dance,” you stammered, losing yourself.

You thought Brian’s fingers flexed at his side.

“Yeah,” he answered, and you felt his eyes on you, though you could not look at him. His gaze warmed your skin.

“Good class,” you said more loudly, clapping your hands for the attention of the rest of your students, the existence of whom you had all but forgotten about. “Did everybody have fun?”

There was a loud chorus of approval, with a few cheers and some clapping here and there. You nodded in acknowledgement of what you hoped was a job well done, one which would ensure future clients.

Even if you had spent the better part of the hour wrapped in someone’s arms, with rather unprofessional intentions.

“Good good,” you muttered, more word-vomit than anything else. “Well, I hope to see you all next week, if you can spare the time. Have a good night.”

You raised your hand in a wave as people began to shuffle toward the corners where they had deposited their belongings, chatting and laughing about the events of the class before making their way toward the door and out into the quiet night.

You stood alone in the middle of the room, with your hands on your hips to steady yourself.

But then you thought of Brian, and of how close you had been to him, of how close he had held you to him, and a tremor ran through you.

You swiped a shaky hand across your forehead when you noticed that you were sweating for other reasons than those of physical exertion.

You turned from the scene, and without looking back, made your way toward the locker room at the back of the studio, hoping that Brian May would never chance these premises again, lest you should lose your self-control entirely.

The locker room was lit by one of those dim, energy-saving bulbs, and your eyes adjusted quickly to the semi-darkness, so you didn’t bother to flick the switch by the door to the more powerful overhead lights.

You spun the combination lock of your locker mindlessly, until it clicked open. Pulling out the clean white towel that lay inside, you buried your face in the wash-worn material, and your heart rate finally began to slow, your body to cool.

A knock at the door startled you.

You spun, and nearly lost your footing when you found Brian in the doorway, a tentative smile on his face.

He seemed to have discarded his jacket somewhere, which was fair enough, given the exercise he had just participated in, but thus, now, you could not help but notice his figure even more. The slender line of his wrists was not confined to simply that, because he was soft lines and sharp angles all over. The fact that he was now only in shirtsleeves emphasised his comeliness. You bit your lip to keep from speaking your thoughts.

Replacing your towel in your locker, you stepped forward and took hold of the door handle, pulling the door closed behind you and forcing Brian to join you in the hallway.

“You shouldn’t be back here,” you said, avoiding his eyes.

“Francis told me you never change here, anyway,” he responded conversationally, “so I figured I wouldn’t intrude upon your privacy by following you.” He then seemed to reconsider his assumptions and asked hesitantly, “I hope I haven’t..?”

You blinked, shook your head. “No, no, you’re fine.” You chewed your lip, still not meeting his gaze, afraid of what you might do if you found those gorgeous eyes upon yours again. “So, what can I help you with?”

“Ah,” he said, his voice lowered to suit the near-silence of the hall. “That’s the difficult part.”

Abruptly, you felt a little lightheaded, standing with him here in this secluded hallway, with no one and no professionalism left between you.

You lifted your eyes to look at him, and your breath hitched.

“I was wondering,” he said, “if you might… go out with me?”

There seemed suddenly to be very little space between the two of you, and you wondered briefly if he had considered kissing you as strongly as you had considered kissing him.

“I would love to,” you answered softly, and felt the rise and fall of your chest grow shallow.

You had not blinked for as long as you had looked at him, irrationally afraid of missing something in his eyes, and you traded breaths with him in the dim hall.

You lifted your hand to ease a curl from his eyes, but you didn’t get the chance.

You hadn’t seen him move, but then, he was cupping your face in his hands and kissing your lips feverishly, and you pressed yourself against him and gripped his wrists.

Your head spun at the taste of his mouth, at how he sucked at your lower lip, melting you slowly, until you were as undone as the buttons of his shirt, utterly weakened beneath him.

He breathed deeply as he pulled back from you, only to kiss you again, even more furiously than before. His tongue touched your lips, and you opened your mouth instinctively as heat swarmed you, consumed you.

You felt his touch down to your toes, from the way the blood rushed through you, and when his hands dropped lower, a whine escaped your lips. His fingers were long, and having slipped beneath the waistline of your trousers, now curled over your hip bones, drawing lazy patterns over your skin.

Your back met with the wall and Brian’s hips met with yours, and the longer he kissed you, the more intoxicated you felt by the rhythm of his mouth, and you had to pull away, to open your eyes, because you were sure he looked beautiful in this way—

And he did.

He was gorgeous, obscenely gorgeous, his breath stuttering from his mouth like the flutter of butterfly wings, his head canted slightly as though he intended to kiss you again, again, again, again— forever, if you’d let him.

Your hands had pushed the curls from his face to reveal flushed cheeks, and accompanying this change in colour were swollen lips and dilated pupils.

His teeth caught on his lip, and he gazed at you almost absentmindedly, as though there were no thoughts in his head. There were certainly very few in yours.

He eased his fingers through your hair, and the light pressure on your scalp elicited from you a shiver. You felt tingly all over, and the feeling only grew with his prolonged contact.

You dragged him back down to you and kissed him languidly.

A moment later, his laughter tickled your lips, and you drew back.

“What?” you asked, searching his eyes.

“I’ll never learn to dance, now.”

“Oh Brian,” you breathed, “there was never any chance of that.”

He raised an eyebrow.

You lifted your hand to brush over his cheek, and his lips brushed your fingertips in a featherlight caress. “You may be a lover, but you ain’t no dancer.”

He laughed and kissed you again, and you hoped he’d never stop.

[thepavementsings-archive]

Drop your NBA/F1 comparisons bestie :)

Okay here is my staring 5 instead because NoDunks did a driver comparison to players which was already pretty good. Under the Cut as always :)

PG: Lewis the veteran point guard because he sets the pace, he has the experience and the intuitiveness and the cerebral sense to know what’s going on on the floor at all times. Also point guards are my favourite position so.

SG: thats why Charles is the shooting guard. He’s a combo guard, probably naturally plays the 1, but you slide him down for the GOAT (think FVV). Charles would break some ankles, pull up from 3 deep, splash it it and then bat his eyelashes for a 4 point play if a defender gets even remotely close to him. He would be the James Harden they’re gonna let him take some possessions at the top of the key at the PG and he’s gonna fuck you up with a smirk on his face.would play like trae young and I would hate him for it but he would be right for that.

SF: Pierre is the small forward because OG Anunoby is a SF and they’re both my sexy little faves also the vibe is correct he just is a SF I will take no further questions thanks and goodbye

(This is when I stop caring as much sorry)

PF: This is Daniel because if he was a basketball player he would be a taller lanky version of himself. Idk but that man is gonna have to play some free safety on defence. He’s a stretch 4. Well integrated, versatile. You feel me?

C: This is hard because none of them are large men and picking someone like Este cause he’s tall is boring when in reality he would be the “Chris Boucher barely a 4 gangly man please don’t put him at the 5 his chest will cave in like he Kevon Looney” type. So we’re going to go from left field a bit here and say Carlos. Sturdy. Can handle banging bodies in the low post (sorry). Will take suggestions for this one!!!

[the-ghost-king]

i LOVE your tall will headcanons. when u mention him being like 6’5..... beautiful. perfect. he always reminds me of huge draft horses that always end up having incredibly sweet temperaments. they’re always called “gentle giants” and that just fits my idea of will so well. for some reason the thought of him being insanely tall yet so kind and gentle makes his character even more comforting

Things I would use to describe Will:

Gangly Giraffe

Golden Retriever

Lanky cat

Draft Horse

This has been a Ted talk I'd like to take a moment to thank anon for the addition of draft horse, very appreciative

I think Will is tall and it fits his personality in some aspects, like this really kind very large figure that's taller than almost anyone can give the best fucking hugs. Yet at the same time Will bring tall provides a possible insecurity since tall people are often seen as scary when Will is quite the opposite.

Will loves being tall because he loves how he can hug all of the people he loves and how he can show acts of love by getting things off high shelfs, but at the same time he's worried people will see him as scary or domineering for it and for a long time he often slouches to make himself smaller because he worries about being so tall (eventually he grows into himself though).