#sort of i guess

[highwaystars]

my beautiful wife and me and some freak that is my "coworker"

[rosetterer]

i'm 100% okay with the episode ending with tommy still being skeptical but imagine if at the end of the episode he's at buck's place, just burning incense and buck's like:😍😍

[your-name-is-jim]

"Ted, why doesn't Spock die when he doesn't get laid?"

Listen, I have to make a post about this because I'm laughing out loud :D

In 1967, Gene L. Coon (Star Trek showrunner) wrote to Theodore Sturgeon after reading the first draft of Amok Time:

First of all, Ted, let me say that we are all generally pleased with the first draft of "Amok Time," although, of course, a certain amount of polishing and so on will be necessary. [...] We have to learn why Spock will die if he doesn't get to Vulcan in eight days. What kills him? Swollen gonads?... [And] since we have established that Spock either gets to Vulcan within eight days or dies, why doesn't he do so when he doesn't get married or laid? We must establish a sound explanation and have it explained or a lot of people will be unhappy with us…

The source unfortunately doesn't report if Sturgeon ever gave an answer about this. We just know that in the actual episode we never got it.

What I find hilarious is that Coon was worried about a lot of people potentially being unhappy about the lack of "a sound explanation"… But what actually happened is that a lot of people found their own based on what we saw on screen… aaand they wrote and drew a lot about it :)

[sailorsally]

looking at pics of misha from burcon with his hair being on the longer side for the first time in a while and thinking about Cas' hair getting long for the first time after he got back from the empty and became human. Thinking about Dean moving around their small kitchen at their half run down but well loved lake house, looking for the scissors he put somewhere. He grabs a folding chair and fills a spray bottle with some water in the sink and brings everything out to their tiny porch. He sets it all up and lets Cas know.

Cas comes out shirtless and barefoot, wearing Dean's old pyjama bottoms, a towel thrown across a shoulder, lazily drying his hair with its corner. For a second the setting sun paints his torso in warm orange and Dean's heart skips a beat because of how gorgeous Cas looks. He sits down in the chair Dean has set up for him and let's Dean work on his hair. Dean starts small, shyly trims a curl, then another. Cas doesn't move, his eyes are fixed on the lake in front of their house reflecting the sunset. Dean works, takes off more and more hair. The circle of black hair surrounds Cas' feet gently planted on the wooden floor and for a moment Dean is reminded of the Empty & he almost cuts Cas' neck. Cas winces & Dean apologies and hides his joy (Cas is alive!) in the crook of his own neck.

When he's done, he cleans Cas' neck with the damp towel and brings out the mirror. "Here, have a look", he offers. Cas studies himself in the mirror and Dean can't stop thinking about how normal he looks checking himself out. And then about how Cas is human now. And then about how Cas chose to be human. For him. And then he wants to cry and scream and kick except he feels like a 100 year old oak planted deep in the soil, unmoving. Then he feels strong arms enclosing him in a hug and he can hear Cas' rumbling against his ear, "Thank you, Dean. I look good" and by god he is right, he does look good. So what is Dean supposed to do? Other than kiss him. And kiss him he does.

[stagefoureddiediaz]

You know what. I’ve realised a massive part of why I dislike tommy so much!

He’s a shape shifter.

Think about it for a moment. We know next to nothing about this dude because he just shifts into whatever role he needs to play for whomever he’s with. We know he was military but have zero context beyond that but it’s implied he was the ‘perfect’ soldier.

Under Gerrard he’s a bigoted misogynistic racist homophobe.

Gerrard leaves and he magically becomes someone who can fit in with the 118 under Bobby.

Leaves the 118 and we don’t know what he’s up to.

Reappears on the scene when the firefam show up at the hangar and becomes what they need him to be in that moment.

Is essentially actively pursuing Eddie but is quick to switch to buck when it’s clear he’s an easier target. Drops buck when bucks not ready with zero explanation but is happy to go along with what buck wants when he calls him.

Man doesn’t have a personality of his own because he just shifts into whatever he needs to be for whoever he needs to be it for.

[luthwhore]

he’s so normal

[lissa612]

Can someone point me to where in 9-1-1 canon it is shown that Buck thinks of “Evan” as a separate identity or a version of himself he escaped?

Because we’ve got Buck 1.0 that’s been clearly mentioned in the past as a persona he’s outgrown, but I can’t remember him ever saying anything like “That was Evan…This is Buck.” He started going by Buck because it was convenient. He liked it and perhaps considered it a fresh start along with the career he found to finally be his calling, so he kept the nickname…But even the reasoning there is speculation because I can’t recall him ever saying anything more than “Everyone calls me Buck now. I kinda like it.” But there were still people who would call him Evan. His girlfriend, his sister, his best friend when he wanted to make sure he was hearing him, and his therapist (who honestly should be the most mindful of his comfort with mode of address) just off the top of my head. The only time he seems upset when called Evan was when his parents did it after he apparently asked him to call him Buck…That seems to be more about them ignoring his wishes than any sort of visceral rejection of the name itself.

I keep seeing chatter about how it’s disrespectful of Tommy to be calling him Evan. But I can’t find anything in actual canon to back that up. You can head canon that Tommy ignored Buck when he introduced himself like “I’m Evan Buckley - Call me Buck” but that never happened. You can just as easily head canon that Buck blushed and told Tommy that he likes how he says “Evan” when Tommy catches that everyone else calls him Buck and tries to correct himself. I’d argue that one of those head canons fits better with actual canon, but there are arguments for both…Neither is absolutely wrong.

So you can totally head canon that Tommy is someone who ignored Buck’s wishes to be called Buck. But then you also have to head canon that Buck, despite all the progress he has made through the years, is someone who would actively pursue someone who has shown they ignore his wishes - Something we have seen in canon to be a boundary for him. Which is fine if you want to do that…Head canons allow for all kinds of freedom in interpretation. But it’s not canonical fact.

Buck has historically disassociated with parts of his past self with his software upgrades from Buck 1.0, but when was the last time he did that? Buck 3.0 was back in season 4. He’s grown and changed a lot since then without needing to proclaim himself to be Buck 4.0. But beyond that, he’s never proclaimed there to have been an early beta version of the software called “Evan”. Really the only thing we know was upgraded between Buck 1.0 and Buck 2.0 was how Buck handled sex and relationships. Was “Evan” the base code in Buck 1.0? If so, has the code changed so much to have erased that? (Again, there’s nothing explicit in canon, so we can head canon that all day).

Bobby noted at the end of the season how much growth he has seen in Buck. I don’t think anyone who has watched the show could argue against the truth of that statement.

That is canon.

But you can ponder on it and come up with head canon…Perhaps what we are seeing is a more self-actualized version of Buck who doesn’t need to think of any progress he’s made in terms of upgrades because the therapy has finally made him realize he is all of those versions of himself and they are all him - He is the result of everything he has experienced and everything he has done and every decision he has made, and who he is will keep constantly evolving with every new experience and decision.

Regardless, Evan Buckley is Buck. And he is Mr Buckley. And he’s Firefighter Buckley. And he’s Buckley. And he’s Evan.

Unless he’s told someone to NOT refer to him as one of those names and they do anyway, they aren’t showing any disrespect by referring to him in any of those ways. We have examples in canon of that happening. We also have examples of viewers seemingly deciding it happened without canonical basis.

That’s a head canon. Have fun with it but remember to not force it onto others.

[wrayofmoonshine]

hate it when this happens

[royalarchivist]

The day isn’t over and neither is the celebration! 200 QSMP Days in the blink of an eye! What a journey it has been for the island! 🏝️ Are you up for a challenge? Let's find out if your memory is good with our special Quiz!

QSMP Global released one final QSMP trivia quiz to celebrate the 200th day of QSMP... but something isn't quite right.

(Make sure you watch the last minute of the clip!)

[god-has-entered-my-body]

You said some day we might - M.H x Reader // pt.3

A/N: This one's a bit NSFW (minors please don't interact), also angsty and sad at parts. TW for hard drugs, take care of yourselves! This is loosely based off of my own experience, and I am not trying to glamorize it. Ily my dearest @beforeyougo-turnthebiglightoff for making sure it isnt shit xx

wc: 4k

part four

Picture a scene: flashing lights all around you, colors blinding as they move through the room, seemingly liquid. Music pounding in your head, almost as if it was trying to force its way into your body. People sweating, dancing up against strangers. You feel alive. 

Matty dances next to you, throwing his hands up into the air. You can hear screams as the music changes, now playing Britney Spears’ ‘Toxic’. He wouldn't admit it if you held a gun to his head, but he loves this song. Your hips sway to the beat, and you can feel arms on your waist. It's not Matty. The fuck? 

You didn't know this guy, but his hands were grabbing at you roughly like you were supposed to. His grin disgusted you. (Not so) politely shoving him off, you dance toward Matty, tapping his shoulder three separate times. That was code for ‘bathroom, now’. He nods, taking your hand and leading you towards the edge of the crowd. The sea of people thins out as you finally spot the glowing sign for the loo. 

“You alright?” He asks as you enter the bathroom. The walls were covered in graffiti, stickers, and the occasional phone number. There wasn't the classic smell of piss and sweat, which is why you liked Sound. It was fairly clean. The sinks were made of metal, and so was everything else. The lights were dim, and the mirrors dirty, lipstick stains adorning the edges. You can hear the faint noise of toilets flushing in the background. 

“I'm fine, I s’pose, just that guy was rubbing up against me all weird.” You fix your hair in the mirror, refreshing your eyeliner before passing it to Matty so he could do the same. You had taught him how to do it himself, saving you a load of time and effort whenever you were getting ready together. Tonight's color was red, both of you were wearing the same shade. 

The stall door flings open as a girl stumbles out, almost falling before she caught herself on the hand dryer. Fixing her bra strap, she wiped the edges of her mouth clean before reaching into her small blue handbag. Out comes a small baggie with white powder in it. You immediately recognise it. Blow. 

While you and Matty smoked copious amounts of weed, neither of you had ever tried anything harder. An exception was the occasional acid trip, and even that was a one off on Ross’ 18th birthday.  

Both you and Matty watch her intently as she starts cutting up lines on the edge of the sink, not caring that both your eyes were on her. She takes out a £5 note, rolling it before snorting the line. Her hair is wild as she lifts her head back up, turning to the mirror to fix it. 

“D’you fancy some, love? I have plenty for you,” she looks over to Matty, flashing him a smile  “and your friend, as well.” 

It takes you a split second to realize her statement was directed at you. Matty turns to make eye contact, before doing something you didn't expect. 

He nods, taking a step towards the girl. You do the same. ‘If you're going to try it’, you thought, trying to rationalize, ‘who better than with Matty?’

She shakes more of the powder onto the sink, cutting two lines for the both of you, and one more for herself. You notice the card she uses is a school I.D. A high school I.D.

She hands you the rolled up note first, and for some reason, you feel calm. ‘This is fine’ you repeat in your head, before opening your mouth to speak. 

“This is blow, yeah?” you ask, looking up at her from your position, which was currently hunched over the sink. It's cold, colder than it was. 

“Yeah, clean shit too, don't worry,” she offers a genuine smile, stroking your hair with her long, black nails. You steal a glance at Matty, who was now sitting on the sink next to you, watching closely. You nod, turning back to the line of white powder in front of you

You take a deep breath before snorting the line. It burns as it travels through your nostrils, and you don't feel anything for a second.

And then, it hits you. 

It hits you fast. Everything feels amplified, and you barely register as Matty snorts his. You feel good, euphoric even. Matty feels the same way, letting out a shout when he does lift his head from the sink. 

The girl was long gone when you exited the bathroom and reentered the crowd. You danced with Matty, the music controlling your movements. Deciding to get a drink, you drag him to the bar. The bartender looks you up and down, before shaking his head. He knew you were on something, but that wasn't a rarity in clubs like Sound. Everyone was on something, so, fuck it! Why couldn't you do the same?

Matty orders for you. A french martini and a glass of Malbec for him. The bartender raised his eyebrows at his drink order. “Who orders wine at a club?” he shouts over the music. Matty rolls his eyes before responding “I do! Why, d’you fancy buying me a drink when you get off?” he winks at him provocatively before taking the drinks from the counter. 

He hands you your drink, bringing his hand up to your face, wiping off the smudged makeup underneath your eyes. That's when you realize how hot it was. ‘Fucking hell’ you thought. ‘When did it get so hot? Jesus Christ, it's like I'm in a sauna’.

Matty had downed his glass of wine in two large gulps, wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his your wine red jumper. You rake your eyes over his body, a thin layer of sweat shone on his forehead. His eyeliner was somehow still perfect. 

He was perfect. 

March, 2008 // two months earlier

The mid afternoon sun was beating down onto your skin. The blanket beneath you molding to the ridges of the earth, digging into your back. You were lying in a field, surrounded by daisies and dandelions blowing softly in the breeze, a half-empty packet of crisps on your left. Your arms were sprawled out to the side, with Matty lying peacefully on top of you.

Adam had situated himself on a flimsy fold up chair. He hated sitting on the ground with a burning passion. You had promptly forgiven him for leaving you to fend for yourselves that past weekend, seeing as he promised to pay club covers for a month as an apology. Just you though, seeing as Matty would have abused the ever living hell out of Hann’s wallet if given the chance. 

George and Ross were in the lake located a few dozen meters from where you were sitting, having a swim. The weather was uncharacteristically nice given that you were in Great Britain, land of miserable weather, so the five of you had set out for a makeshift picnic at the last minute. 

It wasnt aesthetically pleasing by any means, with fag packets litering the dirty old blanket Ross had found in an old closet. Ross’ beer bottles were lined up at the edge of the blanket. You grab a pack, presumably Georges, and light up. Marlboro golds, not your favorite, but they’ll do. Breathing in the smoke, you turn your head to get a better look at Matty, who was draped over you, using your chest as a pillow.  

You wore Mattys sunflower shirt, unbuttoned, revealing a black sports bra underneath. He, in turn, wore one of your tops. Specifically, a lavender baby tee with the words ‘dump him’ scrawled across the chest in white glitter. Adam was dressed like a divorced dad, beige linen trousers paired with a Metallica band shirt. You laughed when you saw him, knowing he’d be sweating in under an hour wearing that.

Soft music played in the background, the speaker having been lost underneath the pile of Ross and George's clothes. The air smelled of summer, even if it was only March. You spot the wine bottle in Mattys hand as he tilted his head up, taking a drink. You tap him on the arm, and he hands you the bottle. 

White wine? Matty rarely drank white wine. You brushed it off, it was probably just the cheapest thing at the store. Matty loved expensive red wine, but did not have the money to pay for it, always settling for the bottle with the lowest price tag. Your attention is drawn to George screaming incoherent curses at Ross for throwing a rock at him. Absolute knobheads. 

“D’you reckon we need sunscreen? I don't wanna age my skin anymore than it already has.” he asked, his fingers lingering on his face. His skin was perfect, not a single blemish tarnishing it. “I dunno, I don't think we need to. It's not that hot.” you answer, looking around you. “It's not looking like we have any anyway” you add. 

You could feel Mattys' breath on you, ghosting over your chest. His legs moved, brushing against yours. You were suddenly very aware of the fact he was laying on top of you. It made you feel hot, and not because of the sun. 

He rolled on top of you, now straddling your legs. He was clearly drunk, slurring his words. His eyes stared into yours with such an intensity, you would've thought he was trying to read your mind. His face was bare, but the glitter from last night's adventures still stained his face, giving him a slight shine.

A smile crept onto his face as he brushed his hair out of his face. The blonde highlights had slightly grown out by now, and you made a mental note to ask him if he wanted you to do his roots. 

“Didnt you want to cut my hair?” He asked, and you recognised that look in his eye. Excitement. He jumps up, crawling to get his bag.

“I brought a pair of scissors, d’you wanna cut it now?” He held up pink kitchen scissors, handing them to you as you moved to a sitting position.  

“Are you sure? These are not meant for ha-” “I don't careee, just do it!” he slurred, cutting you off and settling between your crossed legs. He turns and looks at you expectantly, and you sigh in defeat. 

You try your best, snipping away at his hair randomly. Cutting layers into his hair, you try to make the strands around his face shorter. He giggles as it tickles his face, brushing it off his skin. The sun made him appear as if he were glowing, painting him in an orange hue. Trying not to cut it too short, you tug at it to get a good idea of the length. 

A soft groan escapes Mattys mouth, and he tries to pass it off as a cough, avoiding your gaze. A few minutes later, you tug at it again. A little experiment , if you will. This time, the noise is slightly clearer, and his whole body twitches. He busies himself with the bottle of wine in his hands, inspecting the label.  

He admires your work in a little compact mirror you had found in your bag. “So.. do you like it? Or have I completely fucked your hair?” you ask, watching his reflection. Matty grins, slamming the mirror shut. 

“I love it! The layers make me look hot, so you did your job right!” He pulled you in for a hug, kissing all over your face: He was obviously drunker than you thought.

You lay back on your elbows, closing your eyes, letting the sun shine onto your skin. This was nice. You felt truly alive.

—---------------------------------------------------------

Skin against skin, soft moans filled the room. You didn't even know who they belonged to. Desire took over your bodies like a foreign force. The room was dark, the only light coming from the streetlamp just outside, illuminating the space. 

“Fuck- can I?” hands trailed down your chest, toying with the buttons of your shirt. You nod frantically, smashing his lips back against yours. You find his hair, pulling slightly as he lets out a pathetic whimper. You drink in the noise as if it was the very essence of life, tugging even harder at the curls. Curls. Matty.

“Mmh- ah, fuck-” You can feel him against your thigh. You can feel Matty grinding against you. The thought makes your head spin, and you throw your head back, your hair splayed over the baby blue pillows. Mattys pillows.   

“You're so- you’re so beautiful, just let me- i’ll-” he cuts himself off, trailing his lips down your jaw, leaving searing, hot kisses in his wake. His mouth makes contact with your collarbone, biting down. You hiss, your nails digging into his scalp. He groans. Matty

His rough hands rub the tattoo on your hip, you feel his rough calluses. You pull his hair, making him look at you. Your eyes rake over his face, the glitter around his eyes shimmering in the faint light. His hand comes up to push your shirt up, the material bunching up where his mouth had just been. You make eye contact again. 

He grins before licking one long stripe along the expanse of your ribcage, letting out an obscene moan as he did. He was putting on a show, for you. The noise goes straight to your core. 

His fingers snap the elastic of your black underwear, making you jump. A laugh. Teeth graze your hip bone, tracing the tattoo. You can feel him slipping the lace down your thighs, licking and sucking lower, lower, lower…

You jolt awake suddenly, hot sweat running down your back. You turn to look at the time. 2:53am. 

What the fuck was that?

You close your eyes, the dream replaying in your head. Lips, your lips and his. Teeth, kisses down your neck, Matty, Matty, Matty-

You stop yourself, shoving your face into a pillow. This can't be happening. This wasn't real. This was all hallucination and you didn't just have a wet dream involving your best mate. 

Letting out a groan, you lay back down facing the wall. You desperately, desperately needed a good lay. If it had come to you having fucking dreams about Matty of all people, you knew it was time to find a guy and just shag him. That would solve your little predicament, you were sure of it. 

—------------------------------------------------------------

Admiring yourself in the mirror, you hike the ruched material of your dress up even further. Jewelry covered you from head to toe, complimenting the details of your bag perfectly. Hair done up in curls, you knew you were ready. 

You were going out. Alone.

The heel of your shoe clicked nervously against the pavement as you queued, giving the bouncer, James, a nod as he waved you through. “No Matty today?” he questioned, referring to the fact that you were alone.  

“Yeah, I'm out alone tonight. Matty is… sick. The flu.” you lie through your teeth, not wanting to disclose the real reason behind your solo-mission. The plan was to find a guy, any guy, and forget about that godforsaken dream.  

The music was loud, even louder than usual, and you were stone cold sober. Not good. 

Making your way to the bar, you order your usual, a french martini. Tobias, the bartender, handed your drink, and you close out. You didn't want to get hammered tonight. 

Your fingers drum along to the beat as you sip your drink, scanning the crowd. There weren't many people dancing, seeing as it was a Sunday night. Most had work in the morning, so going out wasn't an option. He had asked you if you really didn't want anything else, even offering you a drink in the house. You politely decline with a shake of your head, assuring him it was alright.

Suddenly, a tall man appeared in your peripheral vision. You had seen him a few times before, wandering about, flirting with the female waitresses. Blonde hair, blue eyes. The complete opposite of Matty. His arm rested against the bar, and you could see him flexing his muscles. On purpose. Jesus.  

He strolled up to you with an air of confidence. Turning to Tobias, he asked him what your drink was. “A french martini,” he answered, looking you up and down “and she's only had one the entire night.” The man laughs, “Well that wont do! Let me buy you a drink sweetheart, on me.” 

You nod, turning to face him. A smile makes its way onto your lips. Perfect . 

He introduces himself as David. He works an office job down the road, something something marketing. You didn't really listen to him, only laughing when he paused, expecting it

He seemed solid, and he was 19, so not too old. You really didn't want to deal with another Phillip situation. He had bought you three, quite pricey, drinks, and you knew he wanted more. 

He eventually asked if you wanted to come back to his place for some wine. You agreed, letting yourself be led out of the club by your wrist. James winked at you knowingly as you left.

He had a silver Toyota, the interior a cream leather. It was a big difference to Hann’s beaten up red Kia, but you weren't complaining. He was nice enough, opening the car door for you. 

The inside of his flat reeked of sickly sweet vanilla and cheap cologne. He opened a bottle of wine for the both of you, pouring two glasses. The conversion was mundane, but he was nice enough. You had switched your phone off, not wanting anything to distract you from your mission. He had made a move to sit next to you, his hand trailing up your thigh, inching higher with every word he uttered.

His mouth was against your ear, whispering sweet nothings into it, his other hand finding your chest, pushing you down onto the sofa. You let him move you, twist you as he pleased. It didn't mean anything to you, you just needed to get Matty out of your head. Matty.

His hands were soft, like he moisturized them regularly. You could feel his lips on your chest, leaving bite marks and kisses, but you didn't feel anything. Closing your eyes, you decide to let him do all of the work. You had even worn your only pair of lace underwear, a black number with a little bow on the front of the matching bra. The same pair you had worn in the dream. 

You mentally curse yourself, kissing David deeper, harder than you did before. Forget, forget, forget. 

—--------------------------------------------------------------------------

He wasn't the worst, but at least he tried. You tried to give him the benefit of the doubt. Laying on his (quite expensive looking) leather couch, you watch him as he gets dressed. He asks you if you need anything, and you answer with a shake of your head. You just wanted to leave. 

A phone buzzes, and you quickly realize it's yours. You pick it up, the screen lighting up. 3 missed calls from Matty, and 4 texts from him as well. 

// Where r you? I’m at your window. 

// Are you well? 

// Answer me for fucks sake, dont do this.

// I hope you’ve died or smth, you’re well fucking me off. 

You sigh, clicking the call button. It rings for a split second before Matty picks up. 

“Now you decide to ring me back? I thought you’d been picked up by a sex trafficker or something. Fuck you, honest,” his voice sounded worried, even tired, if you ignored the nature of his words. 

“Sorry mate, I was out.” You answer curtly, trying to keep your voice steady. Your fingers tap against the glass of the coffee table, and you hear Matty inhale sharply. 

“Out where? And why did it take me three calls and four messages to get a ring back?” he sounded more aggressive this time, and you could tell he had gotten up from wherever he was sitting. This pissed you off. Why does he have the right to know where you are, it didn’t concern him in the slightest, and he wasn't your father. You told him as much. 

“I was out, alright? I'm at David's place right now, and I'll be at yours in an hour, cool?” A moment of silence passes between you two before Matty spits out. “Whos the fuck is David?” The way he said his name made it sound like you had shagged his worst enemy, not some random guy. 

“He's just a bloke I met at Sound, I went to his place. D’you want me over or should I fuck off home?” The second option was just a courtesy, you were sure he’d want you over. You hadn’t seen each other since Friday. 

“Nah, it's alright, go home.” His voice sounded cold, unfeeling. A shudder made its way up your spine. He didn't sound like himself at all. What the fuck? “I have erm.. work to catch up on. You understand.” No you didnt fucking understand. 

You open your mouth to protest, but are rudely interrupted by a faint noise. The dial tone. Matty had hung up on you. Your mouth let out a gasp in disbelief. Fuck him. Fuck him all the way. 

You gather your things. While trying to find your shoes, David comes back into the room. You tell him you need to leave, and he tries to kiss you goodbye. It feels wrong. 

Deciding to walk barefoot, you do the walk of shame at 1 in the morning. Heels in one hand, your purse in the other, you trudge down the pavement. You feel dirty, like you did something inherently wrong.

Cars whizz by you, and you hear sirens in the background. It's cold, and you can feel goosebumps forming on your skin in the soft breeze. Feeling around for your cigarettes, you come across something small towards the bottom of your purse. You pull it out, your eyes widening at the sight. The lighter. Mattys lighter. 

The white letters on the side point and laugh at you. You can hear it. It was even more chipped than it was that night, how did it still work? M.H. Matty. 

In a fit of rage you chucked the lighter onto the ground in front of you. It splinters off, the metal top flying off onto the road. A car drives over it. You were angry. Angry at yourself for even going out alone. For going home with fucking David. You were angry at Matty for being angry at you. You didn't even understand why, but the mere fact he had hung up on you made your blood boil.

The lighter was now in pieces beneath your feet. The white letters, illegible. Feeling powerful, you decide to kick the rest of the plastic off onto the road, hoping a giant truck would run it over. You wanted Matty at your feet like this, pathetic and powerless. You needed him like this, to show him he can't just hang up on you like you're nothing. 

The mental image of Matty at your feet made warmth spread throughout your body. On his knees, looking up at you with glassy, glitter framed eyes. You wanted to take his beautiful hair and weave it between your fingers, forcing him to look up at you. You wanted to hear the pathetic whimpers escape his mouth, just like they did in your dream. 

You feel breathless, staring at the wet pavement where the lighter once was. You keep walking.   

[soggystyrofoam]

did a real quick design for the gwen from hobie’s universe . I wanna see her I wanna know more about her. rip in peace girl

[thermodynamic-comedian]

sam lena weird little friendship canon and true nobody can take this away from me now

[alephzdraws]

Sorry I've not been posting a whole lot recently. Going back into full-time education after being on break for over two months really gives one mental whiplash. I have a few things I was supposed to finish a month ago but I'm still working on em. They're gonna be awesome though so look out for that.

In the meantime, take some TADC X Sonic AU sketches because of course my drawing motivation appears when I need to be asleep and TADC is on the mind because episode 3 came out two days ago.

[deviija]

"In the dark she steps,

Touching the night,

Like a baleful moon,

Such a beautiful plight"

~ Me

Ghilan'nain 📸

Dragon Age: the Veilguard

[heartmush]

🍯 honey rune⌒🌱

[curioushabitforarivergod]

Twenty-Four Seeds

(Harrymort Ancient Rome AU)

So much context for this piece. Historically this is the 1st century BCE and all these fruits (and more) were available to Romans. Everyone had slaves — figures suggest 1/3 of people at the time were slaves. Pliny the Elder wrote about the potency of Campanian wine made from grapes grown on Mt Vesuvius' slopes. Religions were referred to as cults, and Christianity wasn't around quite yet (Judaism was). Hades and Persephone is obviously a Greek myth, but the Romans were heavily inspired by them in everything. 954 words.

"Harry," Voldemort says quietly. His voice carries in the empty dining room. "Come here, Harry. Eat for me."

Harry's lips curl upwards as he suppresses the shiver of delight that runs down his spine. He steps towards the chaise where Voldemort reclines, decedent displays of fruit — apples, figs, grapes, quinces, berries and currants of all kinds, melons, pomegranate, medlars, numerous more Harry cannot count — resting on the low tables beside him.

Harry kneels beside Voldemort's chaise lounge, pressing his face against the cool, skeletal hand that belongs to his Lord. It should feel demeaning, debasing to kneel like this, but it is far from an act of submission. Harry has power and Voldemort knows it; he sends the slaves out with a wave of his hand because of this fact.

Alone, Harry presses his lips softly against the palm of Voldemort's hand. The skin is soft, like he hasn't worked a day in his life, but this is a lie. Voldemort toiled for years to create his empire, fought wars, wielded sword and magic as easy as breathing. In creating the perfect version of himself, he removed those callouses and Harry delights in this power to fashion himself into perfection.

"My Lord," Harry says. "Voldemort. My Tom." Each word is said more reverently than the last. "And I your humble servant."

Voldemort lets out a hiss of laughter. "You are not humble, Hadrian." He uses the praenomen, Harry thinks, to tease him. "Greedy, jealous, powerful, certainly. Never humble."

Harry grins into Voldemorts palm before kissing it again. "You said you would feed me. Do you break your promises so easily, my Lord?"

Voldemort snarls and draws his hand away from Harry's mouth, but after a few seconds, an apple slice is placed at Harry's lips in apology.

"Do you know," Voldemort says conversationally, as Harry's teeth scrape against the pads of his fingers, "there is a cult of men who believe that a snake tempted woman to eat an apple, then woman man and this was the First Evil?"

Harry shakes his head, reaching for the goblet of wine on the table. "I didn't," he says, taking a sip. Campanian wine — far more potent than most, grown on the slopes of the mountain. "Does this make you the snake or woman?"

Voldemort hums, as if considering. In truth, Harry can feel the eyes watching him as he drains the goblet, setting it back down on the low table and liking the dark wine from where it has stained on his lips.

Readjusting his position, Harry looks up at Voldemort through his lashes. "Or are you the First Evil?"

Voldemort hums again, this time amused. "We should not put so much faith in the religion of men," he says, his bony fingers stroking the side of Harry's cheek in a singular movement. "After all, there is no god who holds the same amount of power over me as you."

The words give Harry head-rush. Voldemort, dictator and war general, the man who holds Rome in his palm, is powerless to Harry. He knew already, of course he did. But the confirmation… and he thinks of how a god could submit a human like him.

"I worship you," Harry says, voice low and catching in his throat. "Entirely, utterly."

Voldemort's lips twitch. "I know, my soul," he murmurs, voice soft.

His hands draw away from Harry's face, almost embarrassed of his emotions, reaching once more at the table. After a moment, a fig presses insistently at Harry's lips, drenched in honey. Harry bites.

Honey is slow moving. It is made by bees who spend lives searching in flowers and nature. Yet it drips down Harry's chin, too fast for him to capture. It bursts across his tongue, sweetening the already jam-like taste of the fig. Saccharine.

The honey spread across Harry's lips and tongue makes Voldemort bite back a smile. Harry watches through dark eyelashes as his Lord presses another fruit to his lips — a plum this time, and it drips down his chin again, slipping across his throat — before Voldemort presses his goblet to Harry's mouth, forcing him to drink the wine.

"Messy," Voldemort chides.

He doesn't mean it.

His eyes are dark, his skin cool. He feeds Harry far more gently than one would a pet, pressing each fruit, each delicacy to his lips, rather than throwing scraps on a bone. This is a mutual worship; the lines between god and human would blur if Harry didn't take each fruit with whispered gratitude.

Harry's head hums with alcohol, his belly with food. Digging into the flesh of a pomegranate, he draws twelve seeds.

"Persephone," he says, aching, "ate six seeds to stay with Hades for a half-year. As per myth, if I eat twelve I'll stay by your side forever."

The seeds burst across his tongue. The outside is slightly bitter, a singular hard husk on each that disappears as soon as Harry tastes it, replaced by a sweet richness that he never wants to wash away. He'd never eat another thing if it meant the promise stay on his tongue like this. But the last seed slips away.

For a moment, Harry thinks Voldemort might kiss him. Draw him to his feet, drag Harry's body onto his own and share heat. Instead, his Lord reaches for the pomegranate abandoned by Harry.

Voldemort digs his own bony fingers into the fruit, staining their whiteness with a light blood. Harry imagines those same hands plunging into skin like it did in Gaul. Bodies destroyed, mutilated, beautiful in their bloodiness. This is a god, this is the promise Hades and Persephone never got to fulfil.

Voldemort draws out twelve seeds and eats them. One by one.

More Harrymort Ancient Rome

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