#these are like ao3 tags right?

[frankierotwinkdeath]

Y’all want Taylor Swift to be gay so bad but you won’t even write femslash about her

[koszmarnybudyn]

This was made because I read a fic "Proximity" by rosesofenvy and now i'm yearning.

[yuurionviktor]

Back to my meme redraws

[gayeddieagenda]

when buck knocks, eddie lets him in.

[24-05txt]

In regards to the whole soul mate thing, Soap's been through all the phases.

He'd started curious, then confused, then mournful, then resentful. For now he's settled somewhere in the vicinity of apathy—maybe spite.

He doesn't have a soul-mark. Never has, never will, and that's... fine. He's far from the only one lacking that kind of connection, and that's enough for him to feel understood. Not alone. He's got plenty of good friends besides—with and without soulmates of their own—and he's happy that way. Really, he is; it took him a fair amount of work to get to a place where he could say that and it not be wishful thinking. He's got friends, family, dalliances, motion and company and light in his life despite the lack of a mark that tells him where his place is.

And then he meets Ghost.

The Lieutenant is huge in the sense that his presence alone takes up what space his height and muscle can't. He's quiet, too, at least before Soap makes the effort to worm his way under all that tacgear. (The man is intriguing, what can he say? Who else walks around with a honest-to-fuck skull mask day in and out.)

Ghost seems to tolerate him at first, then inexplicably starts to prickle and grouch whenever Soap comes within six feet of him. He could make up a few reasons for why that is, but instead contents himself with pretending he doesn't notice—pushing the implied boundary until Ghost mans up and tells him off.

He never does, though. And it's not long at all until Soap's found that the boundary has given way and Ghost is—well he's actually pretty pleasant to be around. He's funny, and patient, and gives way too much of a shit to be in a career that pretty much ensures the death of everyone he works with. (He likes to pretend he doesn't, but there's no other reason he would have been waiting up in that church for Soap—in fact he shouldn't have still been there at all, since he'd already scoped an escape route. The bastard's soft, is what he's saying.)

And that's when things start to backslide just a little.

They're sitting in the mess—only three of them, the Captain unable to grace them with his presence—and Gaz is talking about his sister's husband's new boyfriend being the result of a late-discovery soulmatch.

"Could you imagine," he says, pausing to chew his mouthful before he continues. "Going thirty years knowing there's someone out there for you, and not seeing them until after you're already married?"

"Could be platonic," Soap pointed out, not bothering with the same courtesy of chewing his food. Ghost kicks him under the table for it, but he honestly can't be asked to care for only three words worth.

"Could be, but still—could you imagine?"

"Nope." Soap pops the 'P' and grins. Ghost doesn't kick him this time since he hasn't taken another bite yet. "I'm a wee bit hopeless in that department."

"Ah, brother." Gaz reaches out and they clasp hands for a moment, then he nudges his shoulder. "You and me both. Never much got the fuss about it, but that does seem like some sort of cosmic irony yeah?"

"Issat irony?" Soap asks. "Don't think that's right."

Obviously, that incites a short argument that ends when Gaz pulls out his phone to look up the actual dictionary definition of 'irony', and Soap grasps to change the topic to literally anything else to avoid Gaz gloating on the off chance that he's right.

"Lt, what about you?"

Ghost blinks at him as if he hasn't been staring at the both of them through the whole conversation.

"I know what irony is, Johnny."

"No—" he can't help the scowl, and talks over Gaz's sudden jeering as he shoves his phone under his nose. Soap lifts his chin to avoid it. "You got a soul mark?"

"Read it and weep, Soap!" Gaz cheers, only slightly subdued in respect for every else in the room.

"I do." Ghost says at the same time, dipping his head in a tiny little nod, and Soap's world ends just a little bit, right there in the mess hall. Curls up, withers, and dies without so much as a squeal.

He's not able to ask if Ghost knows who it is, or if he's met them, or if they're still alive, or if it's romantic or platonic; he's not sure if it even matters, because Johhny knows right then that he will never be as close to Ghost as they are.

And it hurts.

It hurts in a way he wasn't entirely expecting.

He must hold it together well enough through the rest of dinner, and then through walking with Gaz back to their rooms, but once he's got the door locked behind him he feels the smile fall off his face. He sits down on the edge of his bed.

Ghost has a soulmate.

Ghost has a soulmate and Soap is pissed about it. Because that soulmate isn't him—it can't be, since he doesn't have a mark of his own.

It's just—it's unfair. They work so well together, on the field and off. He knows for a fact no one else can read Ghost as well as he can, no one else talks to him like he does, he doesn't hang around anyone else like he seems to hang around Soap. If anyone should be Ghost's soulmate, it should be him.

But he's not. Which means there's someone else out there that can watch his six better, understand him more, have more satisfying conversations—and it seems fucking impossible, because he doesn't even know how it could get better given the time they've known eachother... and yet.

And yet Ghost has a mark, and Soap doesn't.

It takes him days to get over it—at least enough to act himself when he's in company. Ghost tries to get him to talk about it three separate times before he can manage to get his shit together. He won't *lie* to Simon, nor is he about to admit to what's eating at him, and it leaves him snappish. Leaves the vitriol closer to the surface than it ever has been around Ghost and he hates to see how he reacts to it; he doesn't cower, doesn't flinch, doesn't avoid him, just stares—in a different way than before. John's temper will flare and Ghost will freeze a little, tilt his head, furrow his brow, and fucking stare at him until the moment passes. It might be better if he raised his voice in return, let it escalate into a proper fight—or even if he shut Soap down hard and told him to cool off. Instead Ghost looks at him like he's gone and become a stranger; like he's confused where he doesn't expect to be, and that hurts almost as much as finding out his place isn't next to Simon—or at least, he doesn't have any rightful claim to it.

[mamawasatesttube]

welcome, dc fans. planning to post something in the kon-el tag? i have a challenge for you: you must state three facts about kon-el, without mentioning either tim drake or lex luthor. (for bonus points, you can't mention young justice in general, either.) if you can't, the saw trap goes off, so choose wisely. your time starts... now.

[happypeachsludgeflower]

Different first meeting au where Xie Lian became a shrine priest for the ghost king Hua Cheng in hopes that if Wu Ming somehow survived, he doesn’t think he did but he has hope okay??, he would be protected and cared for in ghost city. And Hua Cheng, who doesn’t take care of his own prayers and instead foists them off on Yin Yu because that would cut into his time to search for Xie Lian, doesn’t find out for centuries.

[theforgottengreatpoem]

"Find them Skullcrusher. Find them."

[emomomortal]

HEYYYY

here's a colored in sari :3c sorry for not posting a lot i swear i have more. She gets to be the biggest troublemaker ever i love her

[nshi-ao3]

Some little semi-primed Jokers of the Primals he's collected so far in the story!

...Plus a little bonus Anima from wayyyy in the future, because I love Anima. They should've done more with Anima. :(

[xanwyn]

TNV Fanart

so i think i said i was gonna make fanart for this (again).. probably uhhhhh early september late august?? i don’t remember. but. erm. It took FOREVER. school kicked my butt and i had no free time. (buddies this took me 6hr 30min total) BUT i think it came out good. so yippie! also, side bar, im trying to get used to digital art again so the lighting looks mega weird. pls help. OTHERWISE YAYAYAY ITS DONE @sugarpasteltmnt SORRY IT TOOK A COUPLE MONTHS. this could possible be classified as a remake (spot the old one: impossible mode). ill put both down~ (TUMBLR ATE THE QUALITY LITERALLY WHERE DID IT GO.)

[siracethegreat]

Erm hotguy sketches cause I’m messin with the design in my au womp womp

[39tn39]

Photo!

[shmorp-mcdurgen]

Aftermath: Yellow Eyes

Gordon has trouble sleeping, even months after waking up in the hospital after the Black Mesa incident. Worse yet are the things he's been seeing since then.

CW: Drug mentions

Notes: A little over 2000 words, and another short Aftermath story, as a treat

Dyson Spheres.

Incredible, unfathomable structures built to harvest the energy of the stars; large rings of an intelligent being’s design, orbiting the star it imprisons. The rings each hold enough energy to power entire civilizations, those very civilizations being made up of things man currently doesn’t know, or will very well never understand. What remains out in the distant reaches of the universe remains a mystery, one that humanity may never even come close to grasping within its feeble minds and sense of what is reality. What even is reality? Is it something set in stone, the very pieces of it being placed together like a cosmic, fractured puzzle, with the full picture slowly being revealed? Is it something that fluctuates like the waves of the great seas, something that humanity can get so close to understanding, yet every time it goes the right path, the road ahead becomes twisted and deformed like tangled ropes, with humans having to begin the process of entanglement anew. 

The Dyson sphere appears so simple to the mind, the concept feeling like the natural next step in power production, yet at the very same time it feels so grandiose and impossible for it to be fully understood. What happens when something far greater than humanity has already found out the very concept of what reality is, bending it to its will and making the improbable and incomprehensible perfectly understandable to their greater minds? Would humanity fall to the greater power? Will they adapt to the new understanding of the universe, or will they perish like a rabbit ensnared in a hunters trap, doomed to thrash and attempt to free itself, only to realize it doesn’t have the strength nor the understanding to ever truly be free? Perhaps if we look at the stars long enough, they’ll finally meet our gaze; only then will we learn if our eyes will see the splendor of the cosmos or if they’ll burn like everything else.

Gordon stared at the messy drawings in his journal, depicting Dyson spheres and alien planets, ones that he could only imagine being out there, somewhere, in the infinity of space. His eyes stung from the cold air around him, with it being hard to remember if he’s even blinked once within the last few minutes. His glasses had slid down his nose, nearly falling off before he pushed them up with one of his thin, calloused and scarred hands. He was unsure of what time it was, or even how long he'd been awake, though the exhaustion creeping up on him, along with the headache he felt reverberating in his skull, were enough to deter him from wasting more time thinking too hard about too many things at once. He carefully shut the journal, shoving it into one of the drawers in the desk before standing up. His right shin ached, sending a sharp pain up his leg as soon as he placed his weight on it. He brushed the pain off, reaching for the wooden cane that was leaning against the side of the desk’s top.

When Gordon left the office, he glanced down the hallway he stood in, seeing the light from the lamp placed in the living room pouring through, barely reflecting off of his green eyes before he turned around, opening one of the doors of the hallway. He flicked on the bathroom light, being greeted to the mirror above the sink, with the sight of who was staring back at him from it making him let out a soft sigh. He first noticed how disheveled he looked; His hair was uncut and unclean, pulled back into a lazily done ponytail, and his beard was no longer a clean-cut goatee, but instead a messy, stubbly mess. He was still wearing the hand-me-down green sweater Eli had gifted him right when he got out of the hospital a couple months prior; God, had it already been that long? Despite the sheer mess his appearance was, his eyes were the worst part. They appeared darkened by the shadow under his brows, the bags under them telling how little sleep he’s gotten for him. The once bright, hopeful look in his eyes was now a hollow, dark glare. He examined the face of the man who he was surprised, yet disappointed, survived things that have made full armies fall, all before he shook off the feeling and opened the mirror, revealing the medicine cabinet behind it.

He pushed empty pill bottles to the side before grabbing a semi-transparent orange bottle with a white cap, one that had his name on it. He opened it, taking out the last two pills before swallowing them, all before slamming the bottle on the countertop beside the sink and closing the mirror. He looked down, not making eye contact with himself as he turned away, back into the dark hallway as the bathroom light was shut off behind him. When he limped into the living room, only barely using his cane to support his weight, he heard rustling coming from the kitchen nearby. He stared into the dark room, catching short glimpses of a green light coming from inside before he approached, flicking on the light to see if he could see what was there. He walked around one of the kitchen’s counters, hearing the rustling getting louder before he finally saw the culprit; A small bug-like creature biting and clawing at a pack of off-brand cookies. Gordon sighed, realizing it was nothing but his pet Snark, or Stanley as he called him. Gordon placed his cane against the wall, letting out his breath as he crouched down, his right leg nearly giving out as he did so, to pick up the dull red and black shell of the oversized bug, causing it to let out high-pitched squeaks as it was held up. Gordon stared at its one, giant glowing green eye before he held it against his chest with one hand, using the other to pick up the torn packaging of the plastic cookie container; no wonder the vet said that Stanley was slightly overweight.

Gordon tossed the container into the trashcan as he left the room, flicking the light off as he limped towards the living room couch and the lamp resting beside it. Stanley hopped out of Gordon’s grasp, landing on the couch cushions before Gordon sat down beside where it landed. He rested his hands on his jean clad legs, before reaching up and removing his glasses, rubbing his eyes with the other hand as if that would help ease the exhaustion. Stanley chirped and squeaked as it crawled around the couch, moving up and onto the back of it when Gordon turned his legs to lay across the entirety of the couch. He adjusted himself until he was mostly comfortable, using one of the cushions to support his head and sore leg, all before he lightly placed his glasses onto the coffee table in front of the couch. Stanley rolled off of the back of the couch, landing on Gordon’s stomach, making Gordon let out a breath and wincing slightly when he felt Stanley’s claws digging into his stomach, luckily not enough to leave any cuts. He lightly caressed the back of Stanley’s shell as it laid down on top of him, its eye closing before Gordon leaned back, reaching for the lamp’s pull-cord, and shutting it off.

.

.

.

Gordon heard static before his eyes had even opened, the harsh sound ripping him out of deep sleep more effectively than any alarm clock ever has. When his eyes opened, he glanced towards the pale-blue light of the television near the front of the room, seeing it was tuned to a dead channel. Gordon was tempted to get up and shut it off, but his arms nor legs made any attempt to move from their spot on the couch. In fact, nothing could move aside from his eyes, with a wave of paralyzation hitting him at that moment. Gordon’s heart thumped in his chest as he tried not to panic, knowing it to just be a temporary paralysis that would leave him at any moment, though the longer it took, the further he delved into feeling trapped in his own body. As he desperately tried to move a single one of his limbs, he froze, eyes staring at something he could barely see through his blurred vision. Next to television stood a tall man, one that was barely visible through the darkness behind the bright light of the static. Gordon could make out the outline of its white dress shirt under its dark coat and tie, but Gordon’s eyes fixated on the two bright yellow eyes staring back at him in silence. The man didn’t move, feeling close to a bizarre statue one might find in a museum somewhere, feeling so lifelike yet so surreal and fake at the same time. 

Gordon was unsure whether the apparition was real or simply another hallucination, yet his body had already made its decision that it was a threat, trying desperately to get Gordon out of harm’s way, yet remaining unmoving aside from a few minor twitches. Gordon finally managed to free his arm, reaching for the pull cord before turning the light on, his head turning to face where the man was, only to find him gone, as if he was never there in the first place. The TV was off, with the static’s sound and light disappearing when the light returned to the room. His breathing heaved his chest, making him ache with every harsh breath he took. He sat up, eyes fixated on the place where the man once stood, almost as if he expected him to reappear the second he blinked. However, his attention was drawn away when he looked down, seeing Stanley prodding at his foot with one of its claws, its antennae twitching all the while. Gordon glanced back up, thankful when he saw nothing out of the ordinary before he leaned over and let Stanley crawl onto his hand, holding it up and placing it back onto the couch cushion beside him.

“Gordon?”

The sound of someone else's voice nearly made Gordon jump out of his own skin, his hand instinctively reaching for a gun holster he didn’t have around his waist. Gordon’s tension was relieved however when he saw who the voice belonged to: Barney. Barney was standing in the hallway, covered in a blank gray t-shirt and sweatpants, with his tired eyes staring back at Gordon, with an emotion that was unreadable. 

“What are you doing up so early,” Barney asked, “I thought you were the one to sleep in all the time.”

Gordon tried to think of an answer, feeling his throat become tight when he didn’t have one, at least not one he wished to share.

“Also…I thought I told you to keep that roach in its pen while you stay here.” Barney pointed at Stanley, who was in the process of crawling underneath the couch beside Gordon’s foot. 

Gordon looked around, not seeing where it had went before letting out a breath, messily using sign language to say; “Put him back later.”

“Why don’t you put him back now,” Barney said with a stern tone, “I don’t want to come back from work to see it raided the pantry again.”

Gordon looked to the side, deciding to not bring up the torn up cookie container at that moment. Gordon stood up, a wave of nausea hitting him at once as soon as he did, causing him to fall back onto the couch, sitting there until it started to wane again. Barney’s slightly annoyed gaze softened when he watched Gordon rub his eyes, tiredly reaching for his glasses to put them back on.

“...You look like hell.”

Gordon was aware of that sentiment already, making him not feel a need to respond.

“You sure you���re good to work with Doc today?” Barney questioned as Gordon tried again to stand up, this time succeeding in not collapsing. “You know, I can always ask him to give you a day off–”

“Fine.” Gordon signed. “I’m Fine.”

Barney stared back at Gordon before letting out a slight scoff. “I suppose I can’t really tell you what to do, huh.”

Gordon glared at him, not noticing, nor caring, how harsh the look appeared. It didn’t last long regardless however, as right after he began to look for Stanley to put him back in his pen, whistling to try and get its attention. Barney continued to stare at Gordon from the hallway, tired eyes only barely concealing his worry before he turned back towards his room to get ready for his job at the hospital. When Gordon heard the door close, he looked back at the hallway, brows slightly furrowed as he thought to himself. He didn’t expect Barney to understand exactly the things he had been experiencing since he woke up, and the very thought of telling him, risking the very friendship Gordon had been treasuring since he could remember, made him feel ill. Of course, the ill feeling could have also come from the tension he felt in his chest, but it didn’t matter regardless. Barney deserved better than to be dragged into another man’s mess, anyway.

Thus, by choice for once, Gordon remained silent.

[imeriayapping]

My god i just crave loscar fanfiction but my last resort that I'm holding into before starting is boyish, send help

[gingiekittycat]

new Good Omens fanfic...

Quite Contrary

Rating: Explicit

Chapter 1/?

Summary: The plan is ready, everything is in place, and Aziraphale is about to prove that he’s quite capable of running the Second Coming all on his own, thank you very much.

There’s just one problem—and it goes by the name of Mary Magdalene.

(It also, on occasion, goes by the name “Anthony J. Crowley.”)

Read on AO3

****

This is the "Crowley was Mary Magdalene" fic I've been dying to write. I started it as a crackfic to blow off steam after my last WIP nearly killed me, but it's gaining more plot than I thought it would (surprise surprise). I have the majority of it drafted already though, so I expect to be able to post regularly (as long as the last few chapters don't fight me).

Read the tags and enjoy!

(smut will start in chapter 3 by the way)