#also I wrote today!

[phoenixiancrystallist]

Day 176, and we're done with the base sketches! *\o/* *celebratory kazoo noises*

I'll probably go in and fix some things and tweak others and probably even entirely redo a few more when I go through and ink/color/add scars, but that's a problem for Future Me™. For now WOOHOO I DID IT I DREW MIZU 25 TIMES WITH DIFFERENT EXPRESSIONS HUZZAH GO ME!!!!!!!! *more celebratory kazoo noises*

Drawing the same character consistently across 25 different facial expressions is hard, y'all. Fun, but hard XD

[yesokayiknow]

happy birthday to the worst girl in the universe (23 november 1986 - 2016 (eventually))

[delta-piscium]

Steddie | 1.7k words it is (swedish) midsummer so I wrote this based on my favorite old tradition because I can and will make anything steddie, so like glad midsommar (happy midsummer)

“What are you doing?” Steve asks as he follows Eddie to the hallway where he’s frantically putting on his shoes. 

“I almost forgot,” he mutters under his breath not acknowledging Steve at all.

“Forgot what?” 

“I can’t believe I almost forgot.” 

“Eddie,” Steve says a little louder, more adamant.

He does look up at Steve then and almost looks surprised to see him. As if he’d forgotten he was there, as if they haven’t been hanging out for hours. 

“Oh,” he says. “Uhm,” he squints at Steve who waits for him to continue, to explain. He doesn’t.

“Yes?” Steve implores because he would really like an explanation. Eddie had just abruptly stood up halfway through telling Steve about some folklore he’s using in his new campaign, just cut himself off mid-sentence and walked off. Steve doesn’t think it’s especially weird or demanding of him to have questions. 

“Did you have other plans that you just now remembered?” Steve frowns, starting to feel unsure when Eddie still isn’t saying anything. It’s just past eleven at night and Steve doesn’t know what plans those would be but he had showed up unannounced earlier in the evening so it’s not impossible that Eddie had plans that Steve interrupted. 

“No, no, no,” Eddie assures him finally breaking his silence, “it’s- okay it’s a little silly but I read this thing researching and I want to try it.” 

And well, okay then.

Steve raises his eyebrows and waves his hand gesturing for Eddie to go on. 

Eddie’s cheeks turn a light pink and he resolutely looks somewhere above Steve’s shoulder instead of at him. 

“Midsummer, which is today, is supposed to be this magical night and there are all these traditions and old myths about it.” 

Eddie glances at Steve and he smiles. Tries to show he’s listening and wants to know whatever thing Eddie read about. 

“And well, okay so there’s this one tradition where you pick seven different kinds of flowers before you go to bed and then put them under your pillow and you’re supposed to dream about who you’re gonna spend your life with.” 

Steve blinks, wasn’t expecting that and doesn’t know what to say about it, so, he blinks again. 

“Maybe it’s dumb, but with all we’ve seen magic and folklore don’t seem so far-fetched and,” he shrugs, “I wanna try. And like, it’s close to midnight and I don’t know if that’s a rule but I don’t wanna risk messing it up.”

“It- huh,” Steve frowns slightly and looks at his shoes then back at Eddie. “Yeah alright, let’s do it. Can’t hurt right?” 

His voice is light, like it’s not a big deal and just a fun thing Eddie read about because that’s what it is, isn’t it? But something about it settles deep in Steve’s gut. Makes it feel important in a way he’s not sure he could explain if he tried. Maybe it’s just the fact that Eddie is getting so worked up about the possibility of dreaming about the person he’s gonna spend his life with when Steve maybe a little bit wishes it would be him, but like, only a little. 

Eddie looks at him with wide eyes like he didn’t expect Steve to want to join, like maybe he expected Steve to make fun of him for wanting to do it. But then something seems to switch in him and a slow smile spreads over his face and he gives Steve an exaggerated once over. 

“Looking to find your true love huh, Harrington?” 

“I thought you said it was the person you spend your life with, not the same as true love necessarily.” Steve quips back because technicalities are easier to argue over than answering that question, especially when Eddie is the one asking.

Eddie shrugs. “Different sources say different things, sometimes it’s true love sometimes it’s who you marry.” 

“Well, then I guess we’re both looking to find our true loves?” Steve hedges, drags Eddie down with him if they’re gonna go there. 

A soft look passes Eddie’s face before a responds, voice quieter. “Guess we are, yeah.” 

They pick their flowers in silence, something about the magic being broken if you speak. Walking around the edge of the woods behind Eddie’s trailer a couple of feet apart, every once in a while coming together or crossing paths. 

After, Steve stands in between Eddie’s trailer and his own car. Holding on to his bouquet of seven flowers unsure what to do. He could go home, he should go home, but he doesn’t want to. He did have some beers hours ago and if he was allowed to speak he’d use that as an excuse to not drive and ask Eddie to crash on his couch. Right now he can’t though so he sighs inwardly and turns to his car. 

He makes it about two steps before a hand reaches out and grips him around his free wrist stopping him. When he turns around Eddie is giving him a look that very clearly says ‘stop being stupid’ and jerks his head towards the trailer silently telling Steve to go with him. He doesn’t let go though and uses his grip on Steve to drag him along like he can’t be sure Steve will actually listen and follow. As if Steve would ever not follow Eddie. 

They quickly get ready for bed. And again when Steve walks toward the couch Eddie grabs him and shakes his head. He waves his arms around a bit like that’s supposed to explain anything but Steve isn’t too bothered about an explanation anyways and easily follows Eddie to his bedroom. 

They’ve shared a bed before but always when they’ve been drunk or high so this feels different. Steve is a little glad they can’t speak or he’s sure he’d blurt out something way too revealing about it all. 

He avoids looking at Eddie as he tucks his flowers in under his pillow, knows Eddie is doing the same next to him. Is aware of it only being an old myth from a region halfway across the world but there’s a weight to it. Something real and tangible. 

He expects it to take a while for him to fall asleep like it always does. For him to twist and turn and lay awake until the early morning. For once though, that doesn’t happen. With the weight of Eddie next to him and to the sounds of his soft breathing and small movements, Steve falls asleep.

And he dreams. He dreams of big brown eyes and bright laughter. Of wild hair and warm arms embracing him. He dreams of growing old next to someone and how every wrinkle on their face tells a story of their shared love. 

He wants to stay in the dream forever, desperately tries to hold onto it even as he floats into consciousness. He turns and groans, gets a mess of someone’s hair in his mouth and nose and that’s enough to startle him into full wakefulness. 

Eddie grumbles next to him, clearly also just waking up. Steve looks at him, with his wild hair and his big brown eyes that are slowly blinking open and of course. Of course, it was Eddie he dreamed about.

Their eyes meet and Eddie freezes. Eyes widening as he looks back at Steve. 

“Oh,” he says. 

And yeah, oh.

“Eddie?” Steve asks, unsure of how to bring it up, to ask about it. If he even should? 

He puts on a teasing smile, even though he feels like goo inside, but making it lighthearted is all he can think of because what if he’s taking this whole thing way too seriously? Jumping to conclusions? 

“Dream of anyone?” 

Eddie nods and looks away, “I did.” He says it simply, voice careful. 

And maybe it isn’t just Steve.

“Who?” He asks, dropping the teasing tone. 

Eddie swallows and looks back at Steve. “The person I wanted to dream of,” he says and it’s not really an answer but he’s looking at Steve so intently he thinks it still might be. 

He thinks about Eddie’s quiet but delighted surprise at Steve wanting to join him yesterday. About Eddie dragging him first into his trailer and then into his bed. How they’re so close on Steve’s side of the bed and Eddie must have drifted towards him in his sleep.

He bites his lip to stop his smile from spreading too wide, there’s still a chance he’s misinterpreting things, “yeah?” 

“Yeah.” 

“And who would that be?” Steve asks, leaning in even closer until he feels Eddie’s small puffs of breath across his face. 

“You,” Eddie whispers but Steve hears it clearly. 

He takes a moment to bask in it, to let it wash over him before he responds.

“That’s good,” Steve tells him eventually and Eddie’s eyes are so wide and open, and so pretty, “because I dreamt of you.” 

He knows it’s cheesy so he doesn’t give Eddie time to respond, just leans in and closes the remaining gap between them. Slots their lips together. Eddie gasps into the kiss, grabs Steve by the hair, and pulls him in. Makes all these cute noises that make Steve want and want and want. 

He shifts, goes to put his leg in between Eddie’s to move on top of him and get a better angle. But he only gets halfway before Eddie grabs his hips and twists them around. Pushes Steve flat on his back and straddles him. 

He grins down at Steve. 

“You think the Scandinavian magic worked or was it just dream psychology and wishful thinking?” 

“Does it matter?” Steve asks, way too earnestly. But like, they’ve just spent this whole time doing some true love magic so he thinks it’s fine, “got what I wanted.” 

“It’s forever though,” Eddie points out, bending down to bite at Steve’s jaw, “if we believe the old Norse people.” 

Steve hears the question there, thinks this might be Eddie’s way of asking what this means to Steve. His way of telling Steve this isn’t just a hookup for him.

“God yeah,” Steve exhales, “I fucking hope so.” 

He feels Eddie smile into his neck and grabs his hair, uses it to pull him back and steer him into another kiss. 

[starrystevie]

eddie figures out that he likes steve all because of nancy fucking wheeler.

it isn't often that they find themselves hanging out just the two of them, quite the opposite. this is the first time they've ever done it and the only reason nancy is even stepping foot inside the munson's new government-provided trailer is because she's having a crisis.

"but what does it mean," she asks, voice muffled as her lips wrap around the opening of her beer bottle before taking a swig. her cheeks hollow and her eyes shut against the feeling of the carbonation bubbling up before she fixes eddie with a glare that he doesn't think is for him. "it didn't... feel this way with barb."

and eddie's just sitting there on the couch, rolling a much needed joint for both of them, trying to follow along with what nancy is saying. she's pacing a hole in the carpet and her hands are flying around in a way that eddie himself does when the wheels in his brain are spinning too fast.

"... what didn't feel what way?"

nancy glares at him again and he gets the feeling that it's directed at him this time. he feels himself shrink under her eyes and wants to raise his hands up in surrender (he gives in and does indeed raise his hands in surrender).

"i think i'm in love with robin, please try and keep up."

eddie stills, his hands in the air and mouth open in shock. nancy's still muttering about something but his brain is stuck on the being-in-love-with-robin part of her tirade. it's not an issue, not in the slightest, and sure he's heard of people who... but he's never met someone who actually-

"are you even listening?" nancy asks, her tone firm. she has a hand on her hip while the other is clenched tightly around the neck of her beer. "what am i supposed to do?! am i just supposed to kiss her and tell her that her eyes are my favorite color and that i miss her when she leaves a room even for just a minute?"

"how should i know?! i'm not in love with robin!" eddie responds and he knows it's the wrong answer by how nancy's whole face falls in the span of .02 seconds. she looks like she's on the brink of tears, frustrated or hopeless or sad, and eddie doesn't know what to do with that either.

"but... you know. what about steve?" nancy's voice is soft now, and paired with her puppy dog eyes, eddie almost doesn't process what she says. "how'd you know with him?"

and if eddie thought he was stunned before, this takes the cake. a nervous laugh bubbles out of him, his face hot and heart pounding. his arms feel a bit like liquid and he doesn't know if he's even breathing anymore.

"nancy, i'm sorry but i think we're on two different wave lengths here." he needs to do something with his hands so he starts to fiddle with his lighter, flicking the zippo open and shut until the clink of the metal sounds too loud in the quiet room. "i don't.... love steve."

tears start to roll down her cheeks and yeah, eddie definitely messed up somewhere. she's wiping the drops away furiously like she's surprised they even dared to show up and she's biting her lip in a way that looks like it hurts.

"what are you talking about? of course you do." her eyebrows furrow which makes her look even angrier or disgusted and eddie feels like they're on a tightrope in his living room that's about to snap away from underneath them.

"well yeah, i... love him," he stutters over the words, "like i love you and rob and everyone. but not like... love love."

nancy's laugh sounds way too harsh for it to have come out of her. "are you sure? you stare at his ass more than i stare at robin's." she takes a deep breath, ignores the gasp of indignation that her statement gets out of eddie, and tilts her chin up like she's taking the high ground.

"i do not!"

"do too! and you're always looking for him when you walk into a room, like it doesn't matter if we're there, you only look for him. and you sit right next to him even if there's an open seat that's more comfortable. and you have this little, i don't know, tic when he smiles that makes you wiggle your fingers and you-"

"wheeler, you gotta stop."

"-always listen to him and he does all of that back for you and it's so obvious. i can't believe you didn't know you were in love with steve! you do everything that i do for robin and i'm in love with her so it must mean you're in love with steve and- holy shit i'm in love with robin."

the silence after nancy stops rings loud in his ears. honestly, he hadn't really given it any thought before but it makes sense.

the very idea of steve has his heart feeling a way it hasn't since he was nine and tracy nichols gave him a shiny rock on valentine's day. he does always look for steve when he enters a room, his very presence calming and dependable. he does sit next to him no matter what, their sides pressed together, heat radiating between them like a blanket. and god, when steve smiles, he does have to move his fingers, something to get out these jolts of energy that he feels licking through his veins.

steve is good and steve is a bit of an asshole but eddie likes that and suddenly the line between platonic and romantic seems to have vanished because holy shit, how did he live for the past year without spending every day loving steve harrington?

eddie reaches for the half rolled joint, licks at the paper to close it and lights up quickly. he holds the smoke in his lungs for probably too long but couldn't care less because he's now having a crisis of his own thanks to nancy.

"goddamnit," eddie hisses out as he exhales. "i'm in love with steve."

nancy looks smug, her arm extended as she waits for eddie to pass the joint to her before taking a hit. "that's what i'm saying."

"but i'm not... you know."

nancy rolls her eyes. "it's not going to bite you if you say it, eddie."

"i'm not gay."

the silence seems louder now as the paper on the joint sizzles. there's a dog somewhere in the park barking and he can hear his own heartbeat pounding in his ears.

"neither am i." nancy responds quietly with a shrug of her shoulders. "but i am for robin. and you are for steve."

she passes the joint back over to eddie and stands up from the couch, wipes off imaginary crumbs from her pants like she didn't just turn eddie's world upside down.

"i think i'm gonna go. i have a lady to woo." nancy looks happy. it's a good look on her, one he doesn't see all that often what with everything that's happened to them in the past year. she deserves it, he thinks, happiness.

"let me know how it goes," he calls to her as she stops at the trailer door.

"i will." with a tilt of her head and a with a gleam in her eye, she gives eddie yet another look that he doesn't know if he wants to try and decipher. "you should call him."

eddie snorts and takes a hit, rolling his eyes as he stares up at the ceiling so he doesn't have to look at nancy's all knowing eyes. it isn't that he's scared to call steve, it's that he's terrified. petrified. what would he say? what would steve say? he just figured out that he loves him, he hasn't had time to prepare a whole speech to declare it and-

"eddie." nancy's voice is sharp but certain and part of him thinks that robin is a lucky woman to have nancy wheeler falling in love with her. "trust me. call him."

after she's gone, he finishes the joint. he sits in the silence of his trailer and pulls hit after hit of sticky smoke until it's down the end and burning his fingertips. he stares at the ceiling some more, contemplates what to say, how to say it, how to do anything without throwing up.

he wonders if wayne knows, if he saw what nancy saw, what he thinks of eddie falling in with a guy. he wonders if this will change everything. wonders if it'll change for better or worse. wonders if he'll have to skip town and change his name like he imagined doing after he was cleared of murder.

picking up the phone is easy, dialing is easier when he has steve's number memorized like the back of his hand.

"hello?" steve mutters like he's been roused out of sleep. his voice is scruffy and somehow soft and eddie knows he's going to throw up.

"steve."

"hey, man. is everything okay?"

and it makes eddie's heart flutter in a way that a generic question shouldn't but damn it, he's in love. he's allowed.

"yeah, yeah. everything's good i just-" eddie sighs, scrubs a hand down his face to stop from twirling the phone cord in his fingers. "do you wanna maybe come over? watch a movie or something?"

eddie can almost hear the smile in his voice when he breathes out a yes, thanking whatever higher powers there may be for nancy wheeler.

[thresholdbb]

what's the threshold theory

There was a post about how Tom is the only crew member who isn't really affected by the Borg, and there's a theory that he has so much luck because he saw the past and the future when he crossed the transwarp threshold. He saw the past and the future, all of time and space. There's some subconscious part of him that remembers that experience. In fact, Tom refused to play a part in Chakotay indulging Annorax's temporal incursions, probably because a part of him knew nothing good could come of it.

If we extend that same theory to Janeway, some of her wild luck with time travel and other crack plans starts to make sense. She doesn't verbally hate time travel until after the events of Threshold, since it happens in Time and Again without complaint. Janeway has an uncanny knack for time travel, as evidenced every time she deals with it. She hates time travel, but it might be because part of her knows exactly how to manipulate the timeline. She manages to avoid the "inevitable" temporal explosion in Future's End, saving both Voyager and Braxton. She resets the entire timeline in Year of Hell, and no one else followed her reasoning. She pulled it off flawlessly. In Relativity, she senses the incidents are all related, despite it being just one reading that connects them. By the time she's involved, she has a temporal incursion factor of .0036 and a time travel protocol named after her, even if that may just be Braxton's personal grudge. Then there's Endgame, where she intentionally changes the timeline. Up until this point, she has been dragged into time travel, but for the first time, she jumps in on purpose. How does Admiral Janeway know how to get them home sooner in a way that completely avoids the Temporal Integrity Commission? It's because she has seen all of time, and part of her knows exactly what needs to happen so she can get Voyager home and do it in a way that becomes baked into the prime timeline. Maybe she doesn't consciously remember what happened during her transformation, but the experience lives in her mind somewhere, guiding her decisions.

[drawnfamiliarfaces]

i... wrote a smol fic (っ´▽`*)っ

also!!!!! If you haven't seen it - shoutout to first ever published fic in Ninja Showdown/My Immortal Soul tags - Lustrous Red by @missadmyre !!!

[pretentiouswreckingball]

✯my entry for the @croptopjames fest✯

jegulus | 1.3k | non-canon/magical au

summary:

It was revenge, they say, for a prank they played on the other houses. So if Lupin and Pettigrew got their trousers turn into shorts, and Black got his shirt turn into a crop top, then that means Potter—

“Did you hear what happened?”

“They say it was revenge for a prank on the other houses,”

“Seems like a weird way to take revenge,”

“Someone said it was a new statement for the dress code,”

“Of course those Gryffindors would come up with something like that,”

“Mila from my transfiguration class says someone charmed their clothes to transform into something else whenever they wear it. You know, trousers turn into shorts and—”

“Oh, so that’s why Lupin and Pettigrew were wearing shorts! But why was Black’s shirt cropped? Not that I mind the view but—”

“Maybe the spell worked in pairs? If Lupin and Pettigrew got shorts, and Black’s shirt was cropped, then maybe Potter got—”

But Regulus had heard enough.

He should’ve known something was off the moment he crossed Lupin and Pettigrew earlier that day wearing shorts of all things, but if he was completely honest with himself, his mind was somewhere else and didn’t even think twice about it. But now, after eavesdropping on a conversation of some sixth years, maybe he shouldn’t have been so dismissive.

Entering the Great Hall for lunch, Regulus makes a b-line for his seat at the end of the Slytherin table and starts filling his plate absentmindedly, trying to ignore the sight of his brother at the Gryffindor table, talking animatedly to Lupin and Pettigrew, still in those ridiculous clothes. His mind inevitably going to the person who’s conveniently, not among them.

The thing is, Regulus isn’t capable of thinking of a piece of clothing that would look bad on James Potter.

He has seen the guy practising on the Quidditch pitch for Salazar’s sake. He has had a front row of what James’ body looks like when he leans on his broom, quaffle in hand, gaining some speed over his fellow teammates. He has seen how his forearms look when he grips the handle hard and how his thighs squeeze the rear of the broom when he’s doing a particularly hard move so he doesn’t fall.

So no, he doesn't think there’s a piece of clothing that would look bad on him, he could pull any look, especially a crop top, and that is the problem, isn’t it?

Regulus could feel his cheeks warming at the thought. Oh no this is bad, what he’s going to do if he sees him wearing that? He’s going to make a fool of himself and he can’t afford that. No, Regulus needs to get the fuck out of there if he wants to make it with his dignity intact.

Practically stuffing his face, Regulus tries to be as quick as possible, cursing in his mind at the idiot who hexed James Potter to be stuck with that particular piece of clothing, or lack thereof, more like.

“Let it not be said that we don’t do anything nice for you, Regulus,” a voice comes from behind and Regulus freezes and then groans.

Looking up from his plate, he eyes the pair who has taken the seats in front of him, both looking smug as fuck, “You guys are unbelievable,”

Evan hums in agreement, “Aren’t we just?”

“Wasn’t a compliment,”

Barty tuts disapprovingly, stealing a piece of food from Regulus' plate and popping it in his mouth, “Why Regulus, we thought you would be thrilled by this, can’t believe you’re this ungrateful.”

“Crop tops, really?” He huffs, stabbing whatever is left of his chicken, ���And don’t get me started on the shorts.”

“Those were my idea,” Evan mentions.

Regulus doesn’t get it, “Why though?”

“We couldn’t be so obvious and only hex Potter, we had to cover our traces,” Barty says, turning his head slightly to look at the Gryffindor table. “Besides, the others look ridiculous, minus your brother of course, the bastard is fit as fuck.”

“Why though?” Regulus repeats, this time even more aggravated at the notion of Barty ogling his brother.

Evan gives him a pointed look, “You know why,”

Regulus drop his gaze, sniffing lightly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,”

Barty smirks at him, “You will,”

There’s a sudden ruckus at the entrance. The voices grow loud and you could hear some whistles here and there but what actually catches Regulus’ eyes when he looks up, is the man at the doors.

Something inside him is pleased to notice he was right about James looking good in any piece of clothing, especially something that would show his really fit body. James is looking a little dishevelled, but that only makes him look even prettier. Still enthralled by the sight of James Potter wearing something this sinful, Regulus notices a little too late a voice shouting really close to him, efficiently taking him out of his rivery.

“Looking good, Potter!”

“Barty!” Regulus hisses in embarrassment as James looks in his direction. And oh, the way he smiles at Regulus as soon as their eyes connect.

Regulus is incapable of doing much else under the intensity of that look, he wants to run like he had planned before. He wants to hide, not only from James but from the way he feels when he’s near. Pathetic as it is, the only thing Regulus is capable of doing is following James as he makes his way to the Slytherin table.

Regulus blinks hard at that. Wait, Slytherin table?

Before Regulus can process that, James is already standing right in front of him.

“Rosier, Crouch,” he greets them, still not taking his eyes off Regulus.

“Potter,” Barty nods in his direction. “Nice shirt, does it come in men’s?”

James grin turns sharp, “You don’t want me to answer that, Crouch,”

“Okay, time to go, have a great one!” Evan practically drags Barty aways as the latter cackles like a madman all the way out of the Great Hall.

When his laugh fades, James is still in front of Regulus and Regulus is purposefully looking at anything but his face, so his gaze inevitably fall at the only thing at his eye-level, James’ stomach.

There are beads of sweet running down over that beautiful golden skin and all Regulus wants, is to touch it to see if it’s as soft as it looks. Wondering how it would feel under his teeth.

James clears his throat to catch Regulus' attention. Unnecessary, since he hasn’t lost it the moment he entered the Great Hall.

“So, Regulus,” he starts.

“Yes?” He can see the trail of hair disappearing under the navy trousers. He’s having a hard time not to reach out and touch it.

He’s being so brave about this whole thing, someone should notified his mind-healer.

A beat of silence and then a hand, reaching for his chin and turning his face up, callous fingers against his soft skin. The sight of James’ playful smile makes something inside him melt.

“My eyes are up here, love.”

His cheeks get warmer out of the embarrassment of being caught. Not that he was subtle in the least but still, embarrassing.

James doesn’t seem to mind in the least.

“You’re blushing,” he notices.

Regulus' face is practically red at this point.

“Shut up,” he grumbles and James chuckles.

“No, no, I like it,” he says, voice soft. “Red looks good on you,” and then he proceed to fucking caressing his cheek.

It’s settled then, Regulus is living inside a romantic novel where making a fool out of yourself in front of someone you fancy is necessary and crop tops are a thing.

“What do you want?”

“Just wanting to say hello,” James says, eyes softening. “Hello,”

“Hi,” Regulus says, like an idiot.

“Fancy a Quidditch game with me?”

Regulus frowns. “Right now?”

“Why not?”

“You’re not wearing the proper gear,”

James smirks, “I think I will manage,”

This is a bad idea, a terrible one and Regulus knows it, everyone knows it and yet— “Lead the way then,”

James lets his hand drop from his face, and it takes all of Regulus not to chase the touch, but the feeling of loss is quickly replaced with excitement when he sees James holding his hand up for Regulus to take.

Regulus does, of course he does.

Hand in hand, they make it to the Quidditch pitch.

Together.

[uncanny-tranny]

I think people have a misconception of emotions in regards to people who take testosterone, and it's really affected the way we're treated.

For instance, take the idea that we're unfeeling beasts on testosterone - fueled only by our anger. This is misplaced precisely because it implies that those taking testosterone fundamentally change, from our emotions to our personalities. It implies that we have downgraded in some way since taking testosterone, because let's be real, who enjoys enraged people? Who wants to be an enraged person all the time?

I can only speak from personal experience, but testosterone has made me happier than anything. I can't cry as easily, but the emotions that make me cry are still there. Just because you can't physically see emotion through crying or whatever doesn't mean they don't exist. Testosterone has given me pause to actually feel - before I was just responding to stimulus, I didn't feel alive. Even when I'm angry or upset after starting testosterone, I feel alive. It's a hard feeling to convey, but I feel alive. Testosterone has not changed who I am, it's just made me happier and healthier. It's made my skies clearer.

Testosterone is a (morally) neutral hormone - we all need some level of it in our systems (this level obviously depends person-by-person), so it's weird to specifically single out those of us who take testosterone. You are absolutely entitled to say that testosterone in higher levels isn't right for you, and I respect the position. Estrogen in high levels made my life miserable, I can empathize. But please remember not to overgeneralize and say that who you are fundamentally changes, because that isn't accurate.

[cerise-on-top]

Hugging, Kissing and Cuddling HCs for König

I'm trying to see him in another light again after everything I've seen about him, so I decided I'd write something fluffy and nice for him. And then came the realization I never wrote some HCs like these for him in my original posts, so I decided I'd change that! He's Austrian, so naturally I have to love him!

When it comes to hugging someone, König is a bit hesitant. Considering he’s not the most physically affectionate person out there, it’s almost an honor to be receiving an unprompted hug from him. Whether his hugs are long or short depends on the occasion: If he’s proud of you for accomplishing something, then the hug will be rather short lived. Though, he might pick you up and spin you around until you’re dizzy. If you’re sad and need some comfort then his hugs could last a while. He’s not the best with words, he prefers to listen to other people, but if he knows a hug is what usually helps you then he’s willing to do so. Despite being a big and strong lad his hugs are surprisingly gentle, he’s worried about crushing you. He could put his all into them, but then you’d likely end up with a few broken ribs and he doesn’t want that to happen. König is also surprisingly warm, so receiving a hug from him is a rare, but nice experience. Although he does go rigid at the beginning, not knowing what to do, but relaxes into the hug eventually.

Again, he’s not a very physically affectionate person, but isn’t opposed to the occasional peck on the cheek or on your lips either. There is some anxiety whether you’d actually want a kiss from him or not, so he doesn’t kiss you very often, even if you do reassure him that it’s quite alright. He’s a bit tense at first when he presses a kiss to your lips, but calms down eventually. It’s especially bad during the beginning of your relationship, but he’s since gotten better at being calm about it. Since there’s a good chance he’s taller than you he loves giving you a kiss on the forehead. It’s a small but sweet gesture. He doesn’t need to bend down entirely to reach you but he still gets to be affectionate with you. However, if you’re on the taller side, or just as tall as he is, then he’d love to receive kisses to his temple from you. It makes him smile every time you do it. If he’s in the mood for receiving a kiss then he’ll lay his head on your shoulder and nudge you a bit. Or try to get his head in your closer vicinity. Kind of like that one bunny video where the bunny stretches to receive some kisses.

Cuddles with him are a bit more common than hugs actually. However, he refuses to lay down on top of you. If you’re shorter and weaker than him then there’s no chance he’ll put his weight on you, he’s just that afraid of hurting you. If you’re taller or just more muscular, then he might, but he’s still a rather heavy lad. Most he’ll do is put his head on your shoulder while you’re cuddling in bed and are both lying down. Although it’d be a lie to say he doesn’t want to be held. König is alright with being the one to hold you, but sometimes he would prefer to be the little spoon as well. That urge gets especially bad if you’re roughly the same size as him. Sometimes just nuzzling into your chest does the trick for him as well, though. Loves it when you run your fingers through his hair as he does so. Another thing he adores is you sleeping on his chest as he holds you. He gets to hold you close, he gets to protect you and he gets to doze off a bit himself, it’s bliss to him. Sometimes he leans down to press a kiss to your head and accidentally wakes you up like that. He feels bad about it and apologizes profusely, but does chuckle a bit when he sees your disheveled hair and your tired expression that shows you just woke up.

[astrum99]

Surprisingly, human beings are the only creatures that looked into themselves. Movement of a blade sharpened to max, lightning fast, no hesitation. Peeling back skin and draining sinus. Bodies (alive, young), huddled around bodies (dead, damaged), to examine and poke and tear and say “I see, that one is the Inferior Vena Cava”. These abominable actions saves lives. Curiosity and morbidity guided a way of survival, of rescue. Later, the same sentiments, mixed with desperation, guided a way to destruction.

Bearing the remnants of humans, their organs pulsating in its body. A machine. A child of man.

Angels, on the other hand, are made perfect. Healthy body, strong will, and filled with holy light right off the bat. Vicious in battles. No need for learning, little need for healing. The smoothness and perfection of their skin akin to marble and sea glass. All creations pale in their presence. Nothing beats perfection. Certainly not creatures of cold unfeeling metal. Lightless, soulless, running on a fixed program of 0’s and 1’s set by the expired words of self-destroying, world-destroying, rotten images of God. Heretic. Even in their perishment, they set to ruin. Systems that they themselves can no longer escape from. Samsara of endless pain and death.

It is a wonder then, that when the machine finally tear through Gabriel’s helm, he become faintly aware of the things hidden deep inside. The ugly, raw things inside. The things he must have known but were never brave enough to face: the same pulsing gore that pushes through the gaps of his skin is the same as the one in the mankind’s bodies; the wires that prods through the throbbing organs is the same as that runs through the chassis of the machine. His body echos the lesser beings. For a second, he could not distinguish himself from man nor machine. How ridiculous, he thought, it thought. To be of this state. To see his/its image in his/its body. To have his/its strings/wires cut so late. The taste of spectacular freedom at the last millisecond of his/its life.

As the last drop of holy light seeps through his helm to stain the machine’s optics, he recognizes himself as heaven’s machine, and the machine as mankind’s angel. And now they are the same.

---

Insp is this post by @sinew-lattice!

thank u for infesting me w brain worms i enjoyed hosting the wiggly thing very much (also pls let me know if u don't like ppl writing/tagging i can always take stuff down:] )

[stevethehairington]

He needs a break. A chance to breathe for a moment. This lifestyle sometimes feels like the corsets that Robin is always complaining about — too tight, too constricting, and superfluously unnecessary. Steve pities Robin, and the rest of the poor women, who have to deal with both. The circumstance and the corsets.

Steve knows better than to complain, though. He lives a lavish existence, one that many people would give anything to have. It isn’t fair of him to pity himself like this when there are so many people out there that are so much worse off than him. He should feel grateful. Lucky, even.

But it’s hard not to feel suffocated instead, sometimes.

The alcove is quiet, thank god, and void of any stray party guests. It’s hidden away, tucked between two rocks that overlook the seaside, and the crash of waves from down below has a mollifying effect on Steve’s agitated disposition.

He reaches for the cravat at his neck, loosening it with deft fingers. He’s in the act of tugging it away from his throat when the clear crunch of a footstep has him spinning around sharply.

And there, emerging from the shadows to block Steve’s only escape route, is a man.

The first thing Steve notices about the man is the curtain of dark curls that frame his face. They’re long enough to tumble freely over his shoulders, and they’re pulled back by a thick swath of fabric, deep red in color. The ends of his bangs peek out from beneath the bandana, as do a pair of thin braids, each tied off with two hollowed out pearls.

With his hair out of his face, Steve can see it all. Every single feature, open and on display — those soft cheekbones, that sloping nose, the gnarled scar that stretches across the left side of his jaw and pulls the corner of his mouth into a twisted, permanent smile.

Steve is sure that he’s never seen this man before, and yet there is something achingly familiar about him. A tugging within his gut; it feels like he should know him, but from what, he can’t quite place.

The man’s left ear is pierced through twice, two identical gold hoops looped through the skin. And just beneath his ear he has a small mark. A tattoo. Steve isn’t quite close enough to make out just what it’s of. He squints his eyes and nearly takes a step closer to take a proper look, but catches himself before he does.

It’s then that Steve realizes that he’s been staring, borderline ogling, for much longer than is appropriate, too. His cheeks warm as he averts his eyes to the ground. But rather than the cobblestone path below, his gaze falls to the man’s feet.

Flared brown boots cover those feet, rising up nearly to his knees. They’re old looking, worn and well-purposed, but still sturdy, even after countless strops though mud and water and sand and all sorts of other rough terrains. Beneath the boots, his stalwart calves and strong thighs are encased in rough-hewn black breeches, tight, yet functional.

Steve’s eyes stray further up, despite his best efforts. 

The man wears a thick brown leather belt, layered with a silken red cloth and an even thinner black belt, this one scaled like a dragon, with a shiny gold buckle. It sits around his waist, atop an open black vest that accentuates his slim figure. His blouse beneath is a deep wine red, made from a gauzy looking material that clings to his skin. Steve imagines that if it were to get wet it would be absolutely sinful. The neck of it is rather plunging, too, exposing the man’s collarbones, and the corner of another tattoo on his chest. 

And there, above his heart and to the right, in the very center, hangs a pendant — some sort of serpentine creature with wings, gaudy and golden and absolutely eye-catching.

Steve feels a little hot under the collar, taking it all in. He has to look away.

The man makes an amused humming sort of noise. “Like what you see, sweetheart?” He drawls, flicking both eyebrows up at once. A lazy grin unfurls across his full lips, and he practically drapes himself over the rock behind him.

The position puts his whole body even further on display, in an entirely new way this time, and looking away is futile now. Steve’s eyes are heedlessly drawn back to it, raking over every inch. It feels… dangerous, to be looking this much, this long, but he can’t help it.

The man lifts a hand to examine his black varnished nails, an air of boredom to the action. His fingers are adorned with chunky silver rings that glint in the mid-afternoon sunlight. Casually, he pulls a dagger from its hiding place amongst the belts and uses the sharp tip to pick at one of his nails.

Idly, he starts to whistle — a low, warbling tune that has an almost menacing edge to it.

It, too, strikes a chord of remembrance in Steve, and he wracks his brain trying to think of where he’s heard it. And then it hits him.

“You’re a pirate!” He gasps out. It sounds scandalized, when he says it, though, really, he isn’t scandalized at all. He doesn’t find himself very afraid, either, though he knows he should be. Instead, he’s just intrigued.

The man snickers. “Very good, sweetheart,” he commends, tucking the dagger away again. He brushes his knuckles against his shirt. “What gave it away?”

Steve frowns. “What are you doing here? Where’s your ship?”

“What am I doing here?” The man repeats. Laughs this breezy little thing. “I’m meant to be taking you prisoner, actually,” he tells Steve.

“Take me— prisoner?” Steve repeats, shock coloring his tone. He doesn’t know what he’d been expecting, but it certainly wasn’t that.

“Oh, yes,” the man replies, pushing himself off of the rock. He starts to circle Steve. “I’m meant to be snatching you up— well, that’s the interpretation of it, anyways. All they said was that I needed to deal with you, and, really, that’s so vague.”

He starts to circle Steve, slinking around him slowly, purposefully. His voice carries as he does. “Pirates are supposed to be unscrupulous, though, aren’t they? What with all the threatening and the stealing and the killing and the like. I figured it only makes sense that I take you.”

Steve has a million questions — like who the hell is they? And what do they want with him? And why did they send a pirate to do their dirty work?

Instead, what comes out is, “I guess that would make sense.”

He folds his arms over his chest, just for something to do with them, and then a thought surfaces to the forefront of his brain.

A crease forms between his eyebrows, and his lower lip pushes out into a contemplative pout as he mulls it over. “But what if—” he starts. Pauses. Cuts himself off like he won’t dare finish the thought.

Only it’s too enticing, too tempting not to. 

“What if you didn’t take me?”

The man comes to a stop right in front of Steve. He’s close, much closer than anyone would normally be comfortable with, but Steve doesn’t care. If anything, he has to refrain from curling his fingers into that necklace and using it to leverage him even closer.

Steve looks into the man’s dark eyes. Big, endless, easy to lose himself to. But he doesn’t. He meets them head on, unwavering with his gaze, as if he’s challenging him.

“Sweetheart,” the man starts, dripping with condescension. He raises a hand and flattens it against the rock behind Steve, boxing him in. Another wry chuckle tumbles past his lips. “I don’t think you get it,” he says. “I have an order. I need to follow it.”

Steve just his chin up, defiant. “I don’t think you get it,” he returns, poking the man in the chest, much to his astonishment.

“What if you didn’t take me,” Steve repeats slowly, putting emphasis on his meaning. “But what if I… went with you anyways?”

It takes a moment for the words to properly sink in, but when they do, a slow spreading surprise settles over the man’s face. “Oh,” he says, sounding pleased. His lips curl back into a grin that bares his teeth. “How rebellious of you,” he tuts.

“You say rebellious, I say free-thinking,” Steve replies, brushing him off.

The man’s smirk grows, but he doesn’t accept the proposition. Not yet. Instead, he watches Steve carefully, like he expects his bravado to fall away any second now and for Steve to renege. 

But Steve holds his ground. He’s not taking it back. He’s not chickening out. In fact, he’s never been more sure of anything in his life.

He’s going to go with this man.

Finally, the man relents. “If that’s what you want,” he says.

“It is,” Steve replies, without hesitation.

The man gives a firm nod, and without another word, he turns on his heel and starts to briskly walk away.

Steve scrambles to follow him, out through the opening of the rocks and across the open courtyard that leads towards the port. He glances behind him every so often to make sure that he hasn’t been spotted or followed by any of the partygoers. By any of his family. 

But each time he looks, there’s no one.

He doesn’t know whether to be disappointed or thrilled by that.

The further he gets from the party, though, the easier it gets to breathe. Like the noose around his neck loosens with each step. That almost makes him want to laugh, considering his choice here would earn him a real one, permanently.

Ships line the port, when they finally make it to the water’s edge. Great big ones, with hulking hulls and dozens of ballooning sails. There are at least four, anchored in the bay, but none of them stick out to Steve as a pirate ship. Not that Steve’s ever actually seen a pirate ship before. He’s only heard tales. Still, he expected that they’d be distinct.

The man approaches one of the ships, and he doesn’t hesitate before tromping up the shoddy wooden gangway and stepping foot onto the polished deck. His hands slide onto his hips and he casts a wide glance around. He takes in a deep breath, then lets it out slowly, his whole body relaxing as he does. Like he’s finally home.

He turns then, back towards Steve and offers out his hand.

Steve looks down at it, then back up at the man.

“I’m Steve,” he says, taking it. The man’s palm is rough against Steve’s, but it’s warm too. It feels nice.

The man laughs. “I know,” he says. “And I’m—”

It’s then that Steve notices it. It’s subtle, in the sense that it’s just the one detail. But that detail itself is anything but. Just past the man’s head, right in the center of the biggest sail, a red devil. Pointed horns protruding from its skull, wicked yellow eyes, razor sharp teeth. 

It is unmistakable.

“You’re Eddie Munson,” Steve says, recognition finally hitting. And, jesus christ, he feels so stupid for not realizing sooner. The most notorious pirate in all of the seven seas — how could he have forgotten?

“That I am,” Eddie muses. Then he uses his grip on Steve’s hand to pull him the rest of the way onboard.

It tightens, and he doesn’t let go right away, like maybe he thinks Steve will try and make a run for it now that he knows who he is. 

But Steve doesn’t. He stands his ground, holds Eddie’s gaze steady.

Something zings up Steve’s spine as Eddie’s big eyes bore back into his own, and he thinks briefly to himself that whatever he’s gotten himself into here, it’s going to be well worth it. He’s in for the adventure of a lifetime here.

Eddie drops his hand then, and a slow grin, just as devilish as his flag unfurls across his pretty lips. He flourishes one of his own hands out around him.

“Steve Harrington,” he practically purrs. “Welcome to Hellfire.”

[thejacketscloset]

Soap gives out small touches like it's Christmas everyday, he's always bumping into to ghost somehow. He never pushes it too far, mindful of ghost's comfort level, but he gives his pats of affection often. From what he can tell, ghost enjoys it too.

Soap loves physical touch as affection, especially casual affection. Unfortunately, ghost doesn't return physical contact very often, though soap never holds that against him. It just means the moments that he does return affection, soap holds it that much closer to his heart.

One of the most common ways Ghost will return the casual touch is as a light hand on Soap's back, lightly pushing him in the direction they need to go. Soap wishes he could sear that feeling into his skin forever, sometimes he hesitates moving just to feel it for a bit longer. He thinks about the warmth and the pressure of that hand on his back, knowing he would trust ghost to lead him if he had lost all his senses but touch.

So yeah, Soap is content to take what he can get, and give out all that he can give. When it comes to Ghost, Soap would do anything.

[anna-scribbles]

h-how do you ever finish any of your work? genuine question because you seem to be productive despite your agreste syndrome and I need to learn your ways. but also how do you ever finish any of your work

unclear. last night i stayed up and finished a report worth 25% of my grade at about 5am, arrived on time for my 9am lecture, and spent about half of it zoned out while thinking about seventeen year old emilie agreste. and i was one of the most active participants in the class discussion

[notmygrave]

i am a dog. i have blood all over my teeth

[laundrybiscuits]

Note: this is not a Stancy story.

“Say it,” he bites out. He’s pushing too hard, being too mean, and he doesn’t fucking care. “Say you love me.”

Nancy’s eyes slide off to the side and she—she laughs, like he’s making a joke, but he can see in the way she’s got her arms wrapped around herself that they both know it’s not a joke.

“Steve, come on,” she says.

There’s a hot, buzzing feeling in him like a hurricane.

The words peel out of him: “But…we’re soulmates.”

He’s gripping his forearm, holding it out in front of him even though he’s wearing long sleeves. It doesn’t matter. They both know whose name is written there in careful, neat cursive, like a puzzle piece slotting next to the blockier name scrawled on Nancy’s wrist. 

Nancy reaches out to push his arm down and out of the way, out of her eyeline, but she laces her fingers with his like she’s trying to calm him down. Like an apology.

“Steve,” she says. “Let’s just—can we focus on the important stuff, here?”

This is important, why don’t you think that nothing could be more important than this. Steve doesn’t say it because he’s trying to be better. He can be better for her, for Nancy, his soulmate. So he swallows it down and nods, gripping her slender fingers tight in his. 

———

It takes him a while, but he figures it out. It’s fate. It’s gotta be. It’s all a big part of their story, the one they’re gonna tell at their wedding, about the time they broke up and made bad decisions and were really unhappy. When you find your soulmate early, sometimes you have some growing up to do, he’ll say. Or maybe Robin will say it. He can’t imagine a wedding where Robin’s not his best man. Best lady?

It’s so stupid, but there was a moment, back in ‘85, when he thought maybe Robin could be his true soulmate. Like maybe there was some giant cosmic error, and the smart, funny, beautiful girl he’d been overlooking all summer was really the one he was meant to end up with after all. 

When she tells him about Tammy Thompson, it’s almost a relief. The universe isn’t wrong after all. He actually feels really sorry for Robin, because without a name on her arm, how’s she supposed to know who to pick? And with the gay thing—it’s gotta be tough even just knowing who’s an option. He doesn’t think he could handle that kind of uncertainty. 

It’s a good thing he doesn’t have to. All he’s got to do is hang on until his story and Nancy’s story bend together again, and become their story. He thinks it’s kind of romantic, even: like he’s been given this time to learn to be a better boyfriend. 

So he’s in good spirits, especially when Eddie Munson gives him a heavy look that shoots through his veins like lightning and says as unambiguous a sign of true love as these cynical eyes have ever seen. If even Eddie can see it after spending about five minutes around them, probably not even knowing about the soulmate thing, it must be true. 

———

Afterwards, he finds himself unexpectedly alone with Nancy in the hospital, waiting their turn to see Max and Eddie. It’s not exactly the stuff of fairytales; even though they’ve had a chance to go home and shower and get some sleep, they both have Upside Down gunk caked into their fingernails and purpling shadows under their eyes. The fluorescent lights overhead are way too bright. The flimsy plastic chairs are digging uncomfortably into his thighs. 

But he’s not gonna get a better opening than this quiet moment, with Nancy slumped against his arm, tired and lovely.

“Hey, are you—” He clears his throat and tries again. “Hey, Nancy. Did you…think about, uh, what I said? About…you know. The future?”

She goes tense.

“Yes, Steve. I did.”

Maybe something in her tone should be warning him off, but he’s on this road now, careening down the fast lane with no exits in sight. 

“And? What did you think?”

Nancy takes a deep breath, then lets it out after a second in a heavy sigh. “Steve, I…I’m with Jonathan now. You know that.”

“Yeah, but that’s—I mean, you know it’s not the same.”

“No.” She slips a thumb under the cuff of her sweatshirt and rubs it over her wrist. It looks like something she doesn’t even know she’s doing. “It’s not the same, no. It’s…Steve, it’s better. This way is better.”

He ducks down, tries to meet her eye. “Nance, I know I was kind of a shitty boyfriend, but—things are different now, right?”

Finally, she turns to him. Her back straightens, shoulders square, like she’s bracing herself. 

“Yes, things are different,” she says slowly. She reaches out to take his hand in both of hers, soothing. “This hasn’t changed for me, though. It’s not about—I just can’t be with you, Steve. Not like that. I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t say but we’re soulmates again like a child, but it lives in his throat, in the thump of his heart. Maybe she just needs more time.

Maybe not, though.

(ETA: continuation here!)

[dipplinduo]

Fun fact about me: April 18th is my birthday! :)

And part of what I wanted to do to celebrate this year was to give back. Introducing * ~ a dipplinshipping birthday oneshot ~ * :

Rating: T

Summary:

Today was Kieran's birthday, but it was the last thing that mattered to him. In fact, he vowed it would never matter to him again. Instead, he would focus on things that would keep him strong: his battling, his strategizing, and his crown as the Blueberry Champion. His sister and the Elite Four won't stop asking him random questions, though, and if anyone brings up Juliana any more than they already have since she arrived as an exchange student, he's seriously going to lose it. But...why can't he stop thinking about her? And why is everyone acting so suspicious?!

A bittersweet birthday celebration fic for anyone who's had complicated feelings about their birthday. <3

Take this as a thank you to all of those who have followed my work and/or my Tumblr blog. I wouldn't have imagined having the support of this wonderful community on my last birthday, and I can't even begin to describe how encouraged and inspired I have felt to write since finding you guys. I have never written this much for this long, consistently, and your constant feedback and comments seriously brighten my day more than Juliana brightens up Kieran, LOL. Hope you enjoy this! <333

(And yeah, this fic is the "event based idea" that this poll was about. I thought it was so funny that some of you thought it was gonna be some devastating angst LMAOOOO. That's for after TTPD releases, tysm for the bday gift Taylor.)