#now i have

[tapakah0]

Quick doodle just because they are babies ;-;

[unepersonnelouche]

Doodles that started in class, and ended up way prettier than I had planned

[lenreli]

Ferdinand Kingsley for The Crookes' Dance In Colour

[metamatar]

have you guys ever had yourself reassured by being told that its okay if you have suicidally ideated in the past since you wont do it because you're a woman and women are biologically less impulsive?

[hemlock-ghost]

We are so fucking BACK baby (maybe)

[firefl1ezz]

i still like splatoon i promise (sona revamp)

[moth-guts-everywhere]

Can I just have one day without doomed Yaoi, please....

[xx-midnight-candy-goblin-xx]

I'm watching Karma by Jojo Siwa while typing this

ok water Moana vibes

lesbians?? :0

You look like you're an 8 year old trying to be 14

woAh heArt beAtS

WOO SHE FELL

what am I doing with my life

DID SHE JUST DO THE WORM

"just me and my regrets" me watching this

Can I pluck out my eyeballs please

OH FINALLY IT ENDED

[mejcinta]

Will be tagging Rhaenyra critique posts as punk rock princess from now on.

[sneakymystique]

My favourite Mystique ship is with Forge, mildly crotchety tech genius and winner of the Marvel trainwreck relationships award. SoI thought I'd ramble a bit about the pairing.

While Forge's feelings for her are genuine, she has repeatedly used him for his technology and it's not at all clear whether she actually has any feelings for him or not.

Based on her history I'd say she doesn't love Forge, as there's only one person she's truly loved (Destiny). But she does maybe have some feelings for him, justified by him being so darn useful. So here's a snapshot of some of their past dealings so you can decide for yourself.

Uncanny X-Men #183-5:

Forge worked closely with Deputy Director of DARPA Raven Darkholme to develop new technologies. He became good friends with Raven, having no idea that she was a terrorist and leader of the Brotherhood of Mutants. Presumably all that advanced weaponry he creates is going right into Mystique's clutches. This includes a neutraliser which the government intends to use on Rogue and which she later steals and uses on Wolfsbane.

Uncanny X-Men #226-7

In what is not Forge's finest hour; he collapses a building on Rogue, making Mystique think he'd killed her. She is not happy.

Uncanny X-Men #254-5

Destiny, knowing that she's going to die soon, tells Raven to '"considering how intimately your futures are intertwined" and then tells Forge he should love Raven. He's not too pleased about this idea, but this is obviously Irene trying to make sure her love is kept satisfied in the years until she's resurrected on Krakoa.

As it happens though, Mystique blames Forge for Irene's death (and still blames him for Rogue's) and decides to kill him, although in the recent X-Men Legends #12 we see that she changes her mind, because she has 'other plans for Forge'.

Uncanny X-Men #289, 290, 301, 302

Mystique is apparently suffering a nervous breakdown after Destiny's death and Forge takes her in at The Aerie. This turns out to be a huge mistake as she's actually using the time he's 'taking care of her' to go through his files and, you guessed it, steal his tech.

X-Factor #114-136

Forge helps the government capture Mystique and then puts a chip in her brain that restricts her shapeshifting. Understandably she's not pleased about this, but as the series goes on they become closer and closer (despite causing him multiple headaches) until one day in X-Factor #136...

They get attacked by Sabretooth in the same issue and the team, along with Forge and Mystique, breaks up. But I think that's Mystique's first on-panel kiss.

Mystique Solo Series

During this series Forge acts as the Q to Mystique's Bond, supplying her with various spy devices and wearily putting up with her barbs.

They have a short two issue arc called Maker's Mark (#11, 12) which is my favourite arc of her solo series. After some shenanigans in a coffee shop Forge persuades her to go rescue a mutant kid, who it turns out is a little asshole an puts Forge under mind control. He and Mystique then get into an epic fight.

During this fight she changes into Storm to try and get him to stop attacking her. It doesn't work so she changes tack

Later on Forge asks her about what she'd said and she responds that it's a lie, but is that a lie? Or is it a lie about lying because of a lie...I've lost track.

At the end of her solo series Mystique goes to Forge's penthouse to...you guessed it steal some tech and runs into Forge. Yielding this gem of a scene.

They have a brief encounter on Krakoa, where he arms her with a truly scary black hole bomb to take out Orchis, but the scene is fairly flat. It's also revealed that he's studied her shapeshifting over the years and created an exosuit that mimics her power.

[maxthesillyy]

OH SIKE DOUBLE WHAMY. the wheel has chosen waifpaw

at first i was gonna do both him and beepaw, as a double.five whamy, but then i had an idea that couldn’t fit beepaw so:

my man is SPOOKED

waifpaw belongs to @ask-waifpaw

mommyclan @mommyclan

[telleroftime]

Wait a second true form Sukuna doesn't have the nose stripe??? Or the forehead marks??? I stare at this man daily, he lives rent free in my head -- how have I only now clocked that?

[catmemey]

oops. I did not opt into Boop yet.

[lewis-winters]

bones get tired, and they can’t carry all the weight

or in which Robert Grogan-Welsh has a conversation with someone about his pregnant wife

(originally posted here and on ao3 in 2021, and edited on 09/09/2023)

tw: Implied/Referenced Character Death, Dementia, Alzheimer’s Disease, Mortality

“Are you waiting on someone?”

Bobby blinks, turning to the unexpected speaker sat next to him on the bench. Snow white hair, large wire-rimmed glasses, and sunken cheeks, all wrinkling around a small smile that is just on the side of polite enough for a nonthreatening stranger. He waits there, expectantly, looking so kind in that distant way, and Bobby feels his initial surprise sink into a brief and painful pang of grief that quickly fades into a familiar weight in the pit of his stomach.

Despite it, Bobby smiles back.

“No, sir. I’m on the way home,” he tells the old man. “The missus will be the one waiting. She’s. Uh. She’s pregnant, you know.”

The old man’s eyebrows go up in delight. “Oh?”

“Yeah,” Bobby says, letting a bit of pride leak into his voice. “Just a few more months to go.”

“That must be so exciting.”

“It is.”

They’re quiet for a moment, lulled into silence by the abrupt meditation of life that always seems to settle over people when they’re confronted with the possibility of a new child. Or a dead body. Bobby flinches, mentally berating himself for going there, but finds his eyes slipping, discreetly, toward his companion, who is now staring at the ground with a small smile. Similar to the polite one he’d had on from before, but this time tinged with a sense of nostalgia and excitement. Like he’s thinking of somebody—somebody he loves very much—who would also love to hear this excellent news.

Bobby’s eyes grow warm.

“I hope you don’t mind,” says the old man, who looks over at Bobby with that same smile, oblivious to his distress. “It’s not the same, but my... wife and I. We can’t have children. But our very good friend—we served together in Europe—he’s going to have a baby soon. We can’t wait to meet him.”

The old man smiles wider, and the growing warmth finally spills over.

“Oh,” he exclaims, smile falling as Bobby hurries to catch his stray tears with the back of his hand. “Oh, I’m sorry. Here—have this.”

He shakily hands over his hanky and Bobby takes it without any fuss. Quickly, he wipes his face and resolves to hold the rest of it back. “I’m sorry,” he says, quietly. “That, uh. That happens a lot.”

“It’s alright,” his companion tells him, kindly, reaching over the scant distance between them to pat Bobby’s shoulder then give it a reassuring squeeze. His grip is not as strong as it used to be, Bobby notices. The thought sends a sharp lance of pain down his chest. “It’s alright. It must be frightening, huh?”

Dumbly, Bobby nods.

“I’m sorry. Babies are a handful no matter how much you must want them. Are your parents going to help?”

The warmth threatens to spill again. Bobby closes his eyes to keep it in. “No, sir,” he says, bringing the handkerchief up to his running nose. “My mom died two years ago. Dad followed couple months after.”

The old man’s brow furrows in solidarity. “I’m sorry.”

“S’just me, the missus, and my godfather now,” Bobby confesses, dangerously close to hiccuping, a habit he hasn’t managed to kick from his childhood. “And my godfather… well. He’s. Uh. He’s sick.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” the old man says, hand now rubbing up and down Bobby’s back, clumsily, in a soothing gesture he clearly isn’t used to performing but is, nevertheless, trying very hard to. “And I’m sorry I made you remember.”

Bobby shakes his head in what he hopes is a reassuring gesture, refusing to look up and focusing instead on the hanky. It’s white and pressed, sans the wrinkles he’d caused gripping it so tight in his hand. Little by little, he forces his grip to relax just as little by little, he forces himself to look back up at his companion, taking him in for the second time today; the down tick of his mouth, the lines on his face, the crow’s feet at his eyes’ corners that run all the way to his temples where the snow-white hair begins. Except, Bobby realizes, it’s not all white. There are stray strands of copper still there, holding on to hope. Just one or maybe two. They poke out of the colorless expanse to wink at Bobby in the setting sunlight.

His eyes too, though clouded over by cataracts, are themselves not devoid of all color. They are a dull blue-grey behind his glasses, though more grey now than blue, like a gentle mid-winter morning. Or maybe like someone had made him cry so much that it washed all the original color out.

Bobby sniffles, brings the hanky to his mouth to stop the sob that threatens to spill out. He disguises it as a cough.

“It’s cold out today,” Bobby deflects, turning an eye up to the darkening sky. “You should get inside.”

“It’s alright, I’ve handled colder before. Besides,” the old gentleman says, giving Bobby another pat on the back before taking his hand back to hold in his lap. Bobby watches him lace his fingers together, eye drawn to the gold band wound around his left ring finger. “I’m waiting for Lew.”

Bobby’s voice shakes when he asks; “Oh? Where’d he go?”

“Just to the store,” Dick answers matter-of-factly. “We’re out of milk. I like to wait for him outside, so that I’m the first thing he sees when he gets home.”

Oh, what a kindness it is. Forgetting.

“You can wait for him inside, sir,” Bobby urges, reaching out to wrap an arm around Dick’s shoulders to give him a hearty squeeze. “C’mon, you’ll catch a cold out here.”

Dick blinks. Then blinks again. “But—”

“Sir, I insist,” Bobby says, smiling through the wobbling of his chin. The pooling distress in his eyes. “Let me help you, since you helped me.”

For a passing moment, Dick looks uncertain. He looks at Bobby, really looks, his eyes for the first time today sharpening a bit in something resembling hesitation and suspicion.

But it’s only for a moment. Whatever he’s looking for, he must have found—or maybe, he’d forgotten he was looking at all. Just like he has everything else. “Alright,” Dick says, tiredly, docile as a lamb. “Alright.”

“Ok, up and at ‘em,” Bobby urges as he helps Dick up to his feet with little difficulty. The irony is not lost on him. The good major’s still so spry for his age, walking around and sitting in the cold with no help, not even from a cane; but with a mind so shattered he could barely recognize his own godson.

Just thinking about it makes Bobby want to cry and cry and never stop.

You held me in your arms once, he thinks, helping his hobbling godfather to his assigned room. Now it’s my turn.

“There we go,” Bobby says, finally, after he’s managed to get Dick back in his bed and under the covers. Already, he’s starting to nod off, thin eyelids drooping over his tired eyes. Carefully and slowly, so as not to startle, Bobby takes his glasses and lays them on the bedside table. “I know it must be a foreign concept to you, sir, but try and get some sleep, yeah?”

“But,” Dick grumbles, struggling halfheartedly against his soft pillows. “Lew hasn’t come home yet.”

Bobby lets out a laugh that sounds very much like a sob. “It’s alright,” he soothes. “You know he always makes it home.”

Except.

Except.

Except—

“Fine,” Dick huffs, finally giving in to the pleas of his tired body and sinking back into the soft, hospice sheets, tipping his head back to lay against the soft pillows. “Wake me when he gets back, alright?”

Bobby hums an affirmative and in minutes, Dick is asleep.

Quietly, he stays for a few moments, watching Dick breathe and timing his own breaths to the steady rise and fall of his thin chest. Once he’s satisfied that the old man will not wake, Bobby stands and reaches into his pocket for the clean handkerchief he’d brought with him, placing it on the bedside table next to the glasses before pocketing the damp one Dick had lent him. He’ll have to wash this one, too, and return it soon. If he keeps doing this, Dick’ll run out of hankies. And he has so few already.

Carefully, he bends at the waist and places a small kiss to his godfather’s brow in a poor mimic of the way Lew used to kiss Bobby and wish him a good nap, when he’d stay over at their farm house.

“Sleep tight, Uncle Dick,” he says, gently touching his delicate wrist. “I'm going to go see Uncle Lew, now. Be good to the nurses, ok?”

No answer, not that he expected one. Dick sleeps on, and Bobby takes one long look at his feeble frame before silently exiting the room, leaving the door open behind him.

--

title from "Remembering" by Ashley Campbell

[hazel-jane]

Just a little thing I did.