#but i'd like to think it is?

[magswrite]

prompt: devotion (april 8th). 1,369 words. @jegulus-microfic. cw: mentions of murder/blood

James shuffles side-to-side as he rehearses the words in his head, wondering whether the rumpled flowers in his hand will be enough for Regulus to forgive him. They’re his favorite, of course—dahlias, acquired earlier that morning, but James can still picture Regulus giving them one look and tossing them away.

“Regulus, I’m sorry,” he says. Or—

“—Regulus, I’m sorry. Regulus. I’m sorry.”

He keeps his voice low—low enough that James knows it won’t be audible through the front door of Regulus’ apartment. Under the sound of his muttered words, his heart is beating fast, thunk, thunk, thunk. Whether it’s quickened because of Regulus, or because he’s nervous, James isn’t quite sure.

But, when the door finally opens after a series of determined knocks, revealing a slightly-disheveled Regulus, his heart seems to stop for a second. Regulus has a determined sort-of look in his eyes, and a shiver runs up James’ spine.

“Reg—“

“James, I’m sorry,” Regulus says. “Now really isn’t the best time.”

At that, James’ stomach flips a little, thinking of the speech he’d prepared. Regulus, I’m sorry. The date with Frank—it was a mistake. You know how I feel about you. You know that, under any other circumstance, I’d hardly think about going out with someone else—

And it falls away at the tip of his tongue. Regulus Black apologizing?

“I just,” James starts. The flowers are still clutched in his hand. “Can we talk? Inside, for a moment?”

Something flashes in Regulus’ eyes, and he starts to shake his head, his curls bouncing slightly.

“—I know,” James cuts him off, before he can say anything else. “Bad time. But Reg, I’msosorry.”

It comes out far less elegant than James had pictured it. Still, Regulus hasn’t shut the door in his face, so James figures he’s doing something right.

“I never would have gone out with Frank if I hadn’t—if you weren’t—“

Regulus raises an eyebrow, as though he’s telling James to tread carefully. “—Iwantedtomakeyoujealous.”

Fuck me, James thinks. He’s really bad at all this confessing stuff. Still, it’s out, and that’s better than James has done in the past. He has a history of flirting terribly with crushes, only to never speak the unspoken. And the date with Frank had just been a bad idea, too. James could still see the expression on Regulus’ face after he’d caught him and Frank at the restaurant, going all pouty through the window.

Fortunately, a smile starts to spread across Regulus’ face. An actual smile. His eyes flicker from the dahlia’s in James’ hands, and up to his face, to the hand running nervously through his hair, and something seems to flip.

“Jealous?” He teases, leaning up against the doorframe. “What makes you think I’d be jealous of Frank Longbottom?

At Regulus’ expression, James resists the urge to roll his eyes. James might like to play aloof, but he isn’t, really. He’s terribly obsessive, actually, and has been with Regulus for the better part of a year.

Fortunately, Regulus hasn’t turned him away yet.

“Well,” James says. “Call it an instinct.”

“And you would say your instincts are good?”

“Yes. Generally speaking,” James answers.

The gears seem to be turning in Regulus’ head at the reply, the cool of the night air surely sweeping into the house.

After a few moments of silence, James asks, “Can I come in?”

The same expression remains upon Regulus’ face—what seems to be disbelief—before something seems to flip.

“Sure,” Regulus states, voice cold. “Yes, you can come in. Just—”

The door shuts. It’s probably a minute of silence on the other side before James hears him undo the chain on the other side, and open the door completely. 

“I’ll get some water for the flowers,” Regulus says, voice in that some stone-like tone. “Take a seat.”

It’s more a demand than a request, though James has no place to argue. He takes a seat at Regulus’ countertop—cool and marble—and holds the flowers dutifully.

Regulus comes back with a vase, black like the dahlias, and sets them upon their side. Then, he pulls out a pair of shears, and sets them next to the vase. For pruning, James thinks.

“Champagne?”

James nods instantly, thinking of the reprieve a bit of liquid courage might bring. He still feels as if every glance of Regulus’ eyes is burning his skin in judgement. Or in something else he can’t quite put his finger on.

Wandering away from the counter, Regulus takes his time pulling out a bottle of Moet and two flutes. The champagne opens with a pop (over the sink, of course, because Regulus is the tidiest person James knows) and Regulus pours two foaming glasses, setting one in front of James.

When James finally curls his fingertips around the glass, he drinks half the pour in one sip. Somehow, the two of them manage to operate in solitude without any awkwardness—part of the reason James is so in love with Regulus in the first place.

Regulus takes a sip of his own, and then begins to snip away the ends of the dahlias, setting each of them into the vase.

“Talk,” he says, and James does.

“I don’t know when it started, really, because I think I’ve always been in love with you…”

He recalls, first, with how they met. How he’d felt when he first saw Regulus walk into the room at Sirius’ birthday, some sort of angel touching down on earth. Regulus seems to think it’s funny, because a small smile graces the corners of his lips at the memory, and James continues.

While talking, he can’t quite bring himself to look at Regulus, and so his eyes search everywhere else. They search Regulus’ fingers as they unweave flowers from the bouquet, snipping away the bad bits with a snip. They search the dim light of the kitchen, lit almost-romantic, searching little details about Regulus’ life he hadn’t picked up on the few other times he’d been to the apartment.

There’s a painting, hanging in the living room, that James hadn’t noticed before. Or a stack of books, in the corner, of which James wishes desperately to know the contents. Or in the hall, chased almost entirely in shadow, where there’s a hint of red scattered over the floor, perhaps a carpet—

“James?” Regulus interrupts.

He’s stopped trimming the flowers. Instead, the black dahlias are pulled into a perfect arrangement. Perfectly planned.

James realises he’d stopped talking.

“Sorry,” he says. “Lost my train of thought.”

Suddenly, his throat seems rather—parched.

“Water?”

Regulus tilts his head to the side. “Please. Glasses are above the sink.”

James manages up out of the chair, his limbs feeling heavier than he’d been before his monologue. Love, he supposes, does that to you.

He manages to make it to the sink, everything feeling a bit hazier by the second, and turn on the tap for a glass of water. It’s only when he’s dipped the glass just under the faucet that things start to feel a bit—wrong.

There’s a bit too much red in the sink, isn’t there?

James’ eyes flicker back to the hall, back to where his gaze had lingered just a moment before. He can’t quite—can’t quite see it, but he thinks—

“James?” Regulus interrupts, again.

His eyes snap back down to the sink. Then, to the knife block. Back to the sink. A bit too much red, he thinks, again. 

And he realizes, then, that it hadn’t been a carpet at all.

“Are you okay?” Regulus continues.

It'd been Frank.

“Reg—what did you do?”

James hates how his voice seems to come out a bit pathetic.

The expression on Regulus’ face flickers, for a moment. The false kindness. Then, suddenly, it falls away, and James feels as though he’s looking at an entirely different person. He’s not sure he wants to look away.

“Thank you,” Regulus says. “For your platitudes of devotion.”

There’s a speck of blood, by his ear. James can see it now—now that he’s so close.

“I hope you’ll thank me for mine.”

Before the world goes black, James can feel Regulus’ hands wrap fast around him.

[endusviolence]

Rowling isn't denying holocaust. She just pointed out that burning of transgender health books is a lie as that form of cosmetic surgery didn't exist. But of course you knew that already, didn't you?

I was thinking I'd probably see one of you! You're wrong :) Let's review the history a bit, shall we?

In this case, what we're talking about is the Institut für Sexualwissenschaft, or in English, The Institute of Sexology. This Institute was founded and headed by a gay Jewish sexologist named Magnus Hirschfeld. It was founded in July of 1919 as the first sexology research clinic in the world, and was run as a private, non-profit clinic. Hirschfeld and the researchers who worked there would give out consultations, medical advice, and even treatments for free to their poorer clientele, as well as give thousands of lectures and build a unique library full of books on gender, sexuality, and eroticism. Of course, being a gay man, Hirschfeld focused a lot on the gay community and proving that homosexuality was natural and could not be "cured".

Hirschfeld was unique in his time because he believed that nobody's gender was either one or the other. Rather, he contended that everyone is a mixture of both male and female, with every individual having their own unique mix of traits.

This leads into the Institute's work with transgender patients. Hirschfeld was actually the one to coin the term "transsexual" in 1923, though this word didn't become popular phrasing until 30 years later when Harry Benjamin began expanding his research (I'll just be shortening it to trans for this brief overview.) For the Institute, their revolutionary work with gay men eventually began to attract other members of the LGBTA+, including of course trans people.

Contrary to what Anon says, sex reassignment surgery was first tested in 1912. It'd already being used on humans throughout Europe during the 1920's by the time a doctor at the Institute named Ludwig Levy-Lenz began performing it on patients in 1931. Hirschfeld was at first opposed, but he came around quickly because it lowered the rate of suicide among their trans patients. Not only was reassignment performed at the Institute, but both facial feminization and facial masculization surgery were also done.

The Institute employed some of these patients, gave them therapy to help with other issues, even gave some of the mentioned surgeries for free to this who could not afford it! They spoke out on their behalf to the public, even getting Berlin police to help them create "transvestite passes" to allow people to dress however they wanted without the threat of being arrested. They worked together to fight the law, including trying to strike down Paragraph 175, which made it illegal to be homosexual. The picture below is from their holiday party, Magnus Hirschfeld being the gentleman on the right with the fabulous mustache. Many of the other people in this photo are transgender.

[Image ID: A black and white photo of a group of people. Some are smiling at the camera, others have serious expressions. Either way, they all seem to be happy. On the right side, an older gentleman in glasses- Magnus Hirschfeld- is sitting. He has short hair and a bushy mustache. He is resting one hand on the shoulder of the person in front of him. His other hand is being held by a person to his left. Another person to his right is holding his shoulder.]

There was always push back against the Institute, especially from conservatives who saw all of this as a bad thing. But conservatism can't stop progress without destroying it. They weren't willing to go that far for a good while. It all ended in March of 1933, when a new Chancellor was elected. The Nazis did not like homosexuals for several reasons. Chief among them, we break the boundaries of "normal" society. Shortly after the election, on May 6th, the book burnings began. The Jewish, gay, and obviously liberal Magnus Hirschfeld and his library of boundary-breaking literature was one of the very first targets. Thankfully, Hirschfeld was spared by virtue of being in Paris at the time (he would die in 1935, before the Nazis were able to invade France). His library wasn't so lucky.

This famous picture of the book burnings was taken after the Institute of Sexology had been raided. That's their books. Literature on so much about sexuality, eroticism, and gender, yes including their new work on trans people. This is the trans community's Alexandria. We're incredibly lucky that enough of it survived for Harry Benjamin and everyone who came after him was able to build on the Institute's work.

[Image ID: A black and white photo of the May Nazi book burning of the Institute of Sexology's library. A soldier, back facing the camera, is throwing a stack of books into the fire. In the background of the right side, a crowd is watching.]

As the Holocaust went on, the homosexuals of Germany became a targeted group. This did include transgender people, no matter what you say. To deny this reality is Holocaust denial. JK Rowling and everyone else who tries to pretend like this isn't reality is participating in that evil. You're agreeing with the Nazis.

But of course, you knew that already, didn't you?

Edit: Added image IDs. I apologize to those using screen readers for forgetting them. Please reblog this version instead.

[cowardlycowboys]

girl who needs to ask for reassurance would rather be stabbed than admit they have needs

GIRL GENDER FUNNY‼️ POST MADE BY MOST FEMININE HE/THEY SHUT UP‼️

[liquidstar]

Yes, Greece still exists, we didn't all die 2000 years ago. Yes, people speak Greek. You people are so fucking stupid for real. So many of you claim to love ancient shit but can't even acknowledge the actual living culture of the people whose mythology and classics you romanticize. You keep leaving annoying comments about how you just forget Greek people still exist, thinking you're being quirky because you love ancient stuff soooo much that you forgot about the people it came from. You think about it so little you don't even realize that an actual Greek person has to read this shit, making it clear how little you actually care about the culture beyond the romanticized (and westernized) mythology. Don't claim you love Greece, don't use our mythology anymore if you can't acknowledge that we're still around without making it about how little you think about us. It's mind boggling that you'd think a Greek person would read this and think you're anything but obnoxious. Explode.

[lazylittledragon]

if i had a nickel for every au spawned from twitter that i SWORE i was going to be normal about

[herd-reject-arts]

So I'm leaving work and something darts in front of me, maybe 10ft away, too fast for me to see what it is. Peek around the tree blocking my path and I see this

Just like... a whole ass hawk. Dude's gotta be about 1.5ft tall. Massive fucking bird. And it's just staring me straight in my soul like this, even as I try to move ahead. It didn't budge. And there's only this path back to my car unless I want to walk on a busy highway. So I have the option of Death By Raptor or Death By Truck.

So I walk in the poison ivy filled patch off the sidewalk. Guy still isn't moving. Still staring me directly in the eyes. And I do this thing when animals are behaving strangely where I'll talk to them, so I'm just like, "Hey, man. I don't know you. You don't know me. This feels really threatening. I'm just trying to get to my car, dude. Can I get some space please? You're a big fucking bird. I see those claws. You could kill me right now, but I'd appreciate if you didn't, ok?"

It didn't move until I was about 2ft away. Again: I'm as far from it as I can be without walking into the street. It clearly wasn't going to budge. I walk past, thing flies up (silent, btw. Scary) and lands on a brick wall a little further ahead

Anyway. Weird guy. Nearly shit my pants when I noticed a bird big enough to carry off a fully grown cat was just... there, staring me in the face, unwilling to move away from me, a human, something it should see as a threat. I watched behind me the whole rest of the way to my car, just in case this bird decided to help me shed this mortal coil. 10/10 experience. Super cool guy.

[druid-for-hire]

[images ID: three images of a comic titled "one must imagine sisyphus happy" by druid-for-hire. it is a visual narrative beginning with someone with wrist pain (depicted by bright orange nerves) working at a drafting table. the reader is shown the same wrist as the person uses it for many everyday tasks such as carrying a grocery basket, pushing elevator buttons, typing, and doing dishes, until the pain dissolves all the panels into chaos. the person then performs several physical therapy exercises until the pain subsides. they sit back down at a desk with their laptop, sigh, and begin typing. a small spark of pain reappears. end id]

a fun little piece i made during the semester and submitted into our school comic anthology! (which you can buy at the Static Fish table at MoCCAFest in NYC ;] ). it's about artists and injury

[bacchuschucklefuck]

summer of junior year 06/11

[ceaseless-rambler]

Being bullied on tumblr dot com (people keep reblogging my awful posts)

[mintaii]

one piece pulp horror featuring mosshead

a belated swordtember art trade with @avenoirn for the vampire hunter day...... :)

[waterfish123]

stop drawing old dad and his crazy daughter and get to work.

[eggcromancer]

Sun reacting to news of his demotion from Theatre Star to Daycare Nanny (he is not coping well)

[yuwuta]

CAN’T KEEP MY HANDS TO MYSELF (I MEAN I COULD, BUT WHY WOULD I WANT TO?) — JJK BOYS + TOO HOT

featuring. gojo, okkotsu, choso, itadori, fushiguro

content, warnings. playing too hot with the jjk boys—(too hot is a party game in which two people kiss while keeping their hands to themselves; the first person to touch their partner loses), making out, tongue sucking, uhhh slight predator/prey in yuuta’s oops, they’re a bunch of losers to be honest, there’s a word for the thing yuuji does but i don't know it lolol

word count. 1.6k

SATORU GOJO Satoru is prideful, but you also know that he is nothing if not handsy, borderline clingy on his worst days. The concept of personal space is foreign to him, he’s rarely not touching you when you’re in his proximity, and when you aren’t, he closes that gap—so you’re confident that he’ll lose this game. 

And he does. It takes ninety-two seconds for Satoru to put his hands on you; his palms cupping your cheeks, forcing your jaw open for him to lick at your tongue. You yelp in surprise, try to take in your victory, taunt that you’ve won, but Satoru’s playing an entirely different game now. “I know, I lost,” he pushes his thumbs at the corners of your mouth, parting your lips and staring at your open mouth. Briefly, his eyes flicker to yours, drinks in your pliant expression, the soft touch of your fingers around his wrists, the feel of your body sinking below him, and he smiles, “But I want something else right now. Indulge me?” 

You tap at his right wrist and he moves his thumbs away from your lips, stroking against the soft skin of your cheeks instead so you can speak, “You lost, you’re not supposed to make demands.” 

“Take pity on a rookie like me, won’t you?” Satoru hums, tilting his head to kiss your cheek, then closer, just below your bottom lip, “Please, sweets?” 

“Depends on what you want,” you pout, but your words are strained against Satoru’s kisses. He grins, guiding a thumb back to your lips, this time pressing past the barrier of your lips until they’re wrapped around his digit, smile turning cheshire when he feels you sucking, “I have a different game we can play instead.” 

YUUTA OKKOTSU “Ah, ah—” you pull away from Yuuta, much to his dismay, pulling the hem of your shirt from his grasp, “That counts as touching. You’re not supposed to touch, Yuuta.” 

He’s looking at you intensely, gaze bordering on predatory, slow blinking with blown-out pupils. He nods shallowly, moving his hand from where it was to your side, palm pressing into the couch next to your thigh; it lets him that much closer to you, the tip of his nose grazing yours, you can feel his laborious breaths tickle your lips. Yuuta tilts his head ever so slightly and pauses, blinks, waits—for you to make a sound, for you to tell him no again, for you to run. 

You don’t. He shifts his weight and positions his other hand to rest at your side, caging you between his arms, slotting you underneath his gaze. You curl underneath him, backing up until you’re pressed against the arm of the couch, until Yuuta’s crawled to slot his knee between your legs. You crane your neck away, but you’re still within his reach, and now you’ve presented the perfect canvas for him. He dips his head into your collarbone, leaves a deceptively soft kiss there before nosing up the expanse of your exposed skin and sinking his teeth into your neck. 

Yuuta feels you tense underneath him, body going rigid in a moment of surprise, and then slacking with an exhaled moan, like a bitten bunny. Reflexively, your hands find purchase in his hair, and Yuuta nips over the tender skin, and smiles, “Caught you.” 

CHOSO KAMO “You’re nervous,” you conclude, pulling away from the shallow kiss Choso gave you. 

Beside you, he’s flushed, a hand coming up to reach at the back of his neck as he replies, “I don’t know why,” he exhales, “It’s just... weird to not touch you. I have to think about not touching you, and that means I have to think, which tends to make me, you know... nervous.” 

You giggle, leaning in closer to him, careful not to touch; careful to keep your hips raised above his, even as you straddle him, keep your arms and hands at your sides even though the instinct is to wrap them around Choso’s neck. He doesn’t pull back, even though he should; you like that he doesn’t. “You don’t like to think about me?” 

“No—no! Not like that,” he’s too loud for the proximity, sighing in embarrassment shortly after; you’re too close, way too close, and he’s not supposed to touch, but he wants to—Choso doesn’t like this feeling of restraint, of constriction; it’s too close to when he had a hopeless crush on you, to when he was pining and praying you’d spare him the time of day. Isn’t the point of dating that he gets to have you? To touch you, to hold you—to not hold back? 

“Because I like to think about you,” you admit, leaning in even closer, pressing a kiss to the base of Choso’s neck—and he whines, “I think about you a lot, Choso.” 

The sound of his name from your lips is sweet torture, as is the way you trail your kisses up his neck, up his jaw, behind his ear. Choso’s certain he’s going to rip a hole in his jeans with how taut he’s pulling them between his fists. This isn’t fair—nothing about this is fair. “I don’t want to play anymore,” Choso whines, eyes screwing shut when you suck a hickey onto his collar.

“But we’ve only just started,” you giggle against his skin, “And nobody’s won yet.”

Choso bites his lips, his knuckles are sore, his resolve is weak, and you smell good, you feel good—and he can’t do this. Pathetic, maybe, but he doesn’t care; he didn’t make you yours to try and stay away from you. So, Choso gives in, unwinds his fists, places one hand on your waist, and the other against your back, pulling you flush against him, and burying his face in your neck. 

“There, I lose,” he grumbles, not caring for your laughter reverberating against his chest, “Now I can touch you as much as I want.” 

YUUJI ITADORI “Th—this isn’t fair,” you tremble, attempting to move away from his kisses, but you’re caged in between Yuuji and the wall. There’s nowhere for you to run, nothing for you to grab purchase onto but Yuuji—nothing to do but lose. 

“I didn’t hear any rules against this,” he feigns innocence, suckling at your skin, “Think it’s fair game.”

You close your eyes, trying to focus on something, anything else, but it’s hard when all you can see, all you can feel is Yuuji, Yuuji, Yuuji. Kissing up your neck, at your cheek, then your lips, and you find yourself sighing into his touch, balling your hands into fists to avoid the temptation of cupping his face. 

Yuuji moans when he feels your tongue against his, kisses you back fervently, swirling his tongue across yours and into the cavity of your mouth. He inhales all your breaths, makes it impossible for you to do anything but succumb to his kiss, to swallow his moans, to take everything he gives you. You didn’t expect Yuuji to have this much resolve—you’d anticipated a short, cute round of a silly party game, but you should have known better; Yuuji has never lost a challenge before, and you were naive, at best, to think otherwise.

Predictably, it’s you that lets go first, whining when Yuuji sucks on your tongue, hands trembling and reaching to hold him, to cling to him as some kind of recourse, unable to squirm or move anywhere else. That doesn’t stop him—Yuuji only sucks harder, only forces more moans out of you until you’re digging your nails into his shoulders and bending your knees, weak. 

Then he pulls back, leaving you breathless, tilting his head up to kiss your forehead and flashing you a grin that’s equal parts boyish and wicked with intent, “I win.” 

MEGUMI FUSHIGURO It’s the kind of thing he usually turns down; cliché, fruitless, and unnecessarily time-consuming; but it’s you, so he makes the exception. You’re too eager, positioning yourself to sit on your hands, your legs folded under your knees, peering up at him from where he’s sat slack against the couch, and he thinks you look awful cute on your knees for him.

“Okay, ready?” you smile, “Three, two—” but Megumi already knows his plan, already has his lips on yours before you can say “one,” drinking in your surprised yelp and greedily licking against your tongue when you part your lips to kiss him back. He turns his body towards you slightly, taking advantage of his height and position to bully you into chasing him upwards, to push his tongue into your mouth with ease. 

He indulges in the back and forth for a while, sighs into your kisses, groans when you nip at him. It’s when you pull away, that Megumi decides he’s played along long enough; when he can see your chest swell with heaving breaths, see your hands in your lap, neck craned and spit-slick lips that drive him to reach for you. He’s less than gentle, hands finding purchase on your hips, and forcefully pulling you into his lap, ignoring your yelping, choosing to turn them into moans when he sinks his teeth into your neck. Megumi licks, and bites, and bites, and bites, until he’s certain he’s left a mark, until he feels your hands tugging at his hair and giving him permission to splay his palms against your back and buck you forward.  

“I lose,” he hums, soothing over raw bitten skin with open-mouthed kisses, “So, how do you wanna punish me?”

[gunpowdercarousel]

OKAY WAIT WHAT THE FUCK I JUST NOTICED THIS

You mind link

with every origin character

when you meet them

except

for

fucking

GALE

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

The indescribable tension between an overworked and underpaid smut writer, and his biggest fan hater.

(for @frummpets)

[beybuniki]

AU where Deku stays quirkless and he enrolls in UA's support department, he and bakugo befriend each other because they take the same train to school & Deku approaches him because they're both batfam fans :) they bond over common interest which also inspires them to work togetherrrrrr