The original and one of the best. These eyes are eyes that have seen you doin’ the nasty, these eyes are on thot patrol, and these eyes are perfect to use in any situation. My only problem is with how l o n g they are and the pupils look a little creepy. 9/10
Very simplistic. They don’t exactly get the message across and they’re kinda creepy but still cute 6/10 for effort
These eyes look like a portal to the deepest darkest part of Clippy’s soul get them away from me 0/10
The eyebrows ruin it and they look too cutesy for me 4/10
Pretty much just like the Apple ones, but blue. The shading is terrible but I’ll allow it 7.5/10
JESUS FUCKING CHRIST THAT’S CREEPY 0/10
Best eyes on this list. The best way I can describe these eyes is “sinnamon roll”. They’re cutesy, but at the same time pervy af. Plus the pupils aren’t disturbing like the Apple ones so 10/10
The shading and the angle are both fucking terrible 0/10
A more simplistic version of the Facebook eyes, but they look more like they’re looking at a crumb on the floor than givin you them bedroom eyes and that’s a bit of a disappointment. 9/10
HOLY FUCKING SHIT THESE ARE EVEN CREEPIER THAN THE HTC ONES -10/10
It may just be my family and friends but during Halloween in England we have never answered the door to trick or treaters we just close the curtains and turn off all the lights so it is like we are not in. I once went to a friends Halloween party and we were in the dark just so no one disturbed us
But there are other, small pieces of magic tucked in. The quarter that stops perfectly in the crack in the floorboards. The pies that always come out just the way Bitty wants them to no matter how much time he has in the Haus kitchen. And unless something is wrong, unless the mood is disturbed, Bitty never drops one of them. The way leaves always cling to Nursey, like he’s static charged, or like the wind and the earth are drawn to him. The way the Haus’ roof always seems to hold exactly as much weight as it needs to, even when it shouldn’t be structurally sound enough to hold the weight of four or five hockey boys and their much smaller manager. A little bit of love in the jam that makes Jack warm and happy and calm when he’s going through his pre-game ritual, a feeling he notices most when it was jam he got from Bitty.
There are things that none of them understand but that they accept, because everyday magic is more literal than figurative at Samwell.
If I’m taking the time to reflect on two years of Homestuck as an achievement I’ll do so here only as a gesture of gratitude to the steadfast readers, new and old. I am humbled by your devotion. This is not any sort of platitude to be dismissed as quasi-sincere acceptance speech fodder, or a dispatch from my PR department because sometimes you guys give me money for stuff. This is sincerely true. I look around and still cannot quite believe the magnitude of the enthusiasm that surrounds this story. I stopped being able to keep track of all the fan art for it more than a year ago, and even then there were thousands of fan-made images I would diligently attempt to pore through. I have honestly never seen so much fan art created for anything, anywhere, ever. Even things which have millions of dollars backing their production budgets. Maybe Harry Potter has more? (Alright let’s get real. HS fan art is probably just now beginning to approach the subset of drawings that involve Harry being naked with somebody.) Greater and greater hordes of troll cosplayers can be spotted taking over the floors of conventions. You could have pressed me on the subject, but I never would have guessed anyone could be quite so tickled to be slathered in messy gray makeup and crowned by a homemade pair of horns. There is this seething passion for HS that is a self-organizing, autonomous entity unto itself, which is practically inaccessible to my understanding or involvement, even though I’m responsible for the content driving it. I’ve kept Homestuck’s fire hot; its gaping furnace was hungry for coal so I got goddamn shoveling. But you have been responsible for breathing life into this monstrous organism which surrounds me, and now in its breadth transcends my work entirely. To thank you as a whole for this phenomenon almost doesn’t sound rational. It’s like thanking a furious thunderstorm for the deluge of rain it gave to your thirsty little box of poseys. My paltry utterance dissipates in the far deep rumbling. The clouds don’t even notice I’m there because they’re too busy swapping fan fiction. Maybe instead I’ll offer something more significant than gratitude. Something more personal and experiential. I’ll submit my amazement. You can’t see me now, but it is a look of wonder and discovery. A boyish look of astonishment at something remarkable beyond words, like a butterfly emerging from a cocoon, but on a more cosmic scale and more viscerally shocking. Like a squealing horrorterror’s gruesome Cesarean birth. That is the look I have every time I disrupt the tunnel vision that keeps the work’s bright sun searing my eyes. When they adjust to the dark, I see the silhouette in soft black focus of the young planet sized monster, chirping its affections. I offer it this look because it is all I have to give, with the exception of the tears streaming down my face. Its hunger is piqued at the fluid and my only regret is I can never possibly provide enough to nourish the orphan, now that it can never know the taste of its dead mother’s heinous teatbrine.
Sock Opera is definitely one of the best episodes to look at, not to mention one of the more disturbing ones. Because, y’know, Bill. But regardless, it’s still one of the coolest episodes, that really seemed to stick with not only me, but with everyone else who watched it! Really happy I got to draw something for it!
what she means:
The summer between Dylan’s sophomore and junior years was low-key. There was, however, one disturbing incident, and it involved Eric Harris.
Dylan hadn’t played soccer since kindergarten, but he decided to join the team Eric played for that summer, and they gave him a shot although he had no experience and few skills. We were pleased to hear he was joining the team, as soccer wouldn’t strain the arm he’d injured pitching. Plus, we admired his willingness to try a sport he hadn’t played in years.
Dylan wasn’t a great athlete—he was strong, but lacked agility and the coordination to manage his long, gangly limbs. He did not play soccer particularly well, but he attended practice faithfully. When the team made the playoffs, Tom and I came out to watch. Dylan played poorly, and the team lost.
Still sweaty, Eric and Dylan came over to where we were standing with the Harrises. Before we could congratulate them on a good effort, Eric began to scream. Spittle flying from his mouth, he lashed out at Dylan, ranting about his poor performance. Chattering parents and boys from both teams fell silent and stared.
Eric’s parents flanked him and guided him off the field as Tom, Dylan, and I drifted slowly, in stunned humiliation, toward our own car. I couldn’t hear what the Harrises were saying to Eric, but they appeared to be trying to settle him down. Dylan walked between Tom and me, silent and impassive.
I was shocked by the sudden inappropriateness of the display, and by the extremity of Eric’s rage. Dylan’s utter lack of affect alarmed me too; he had to be wounded, though he revealed nothing. My heart ached for him. I wanted to hug him, but he was fifteen years old and surrounded by his team. I couldn’t embarrass him further.
As soon as we got inside the car, though, I said, “Man! What a jerk! I can’t believe Eric!” As Tom started the car, Dylan stared out the window with a blank expression on his face. His calm in the face of Eric’s freak-out seemed unnatural, and I hoped he’d allow himself to acknowledge anger or humiliation as we drove away, but he did not.
I pressed him, wishing he’d blow off steam. “Didn’t it hurt your feelings, to have him act like that? I’d be incredibly upset if a friend treated me that way.” Dylan was still looking out the window, and his expression didn’t change when he answered me. "Nah. That’s just Eric.”
Notes: fluff, hot coffee, Steve and Sam are bratty.
A/N: I needed something short and sweet. So here it is. Enjoy! x
Summary: a morning incident involving hot coffee finally brings Y/N and Bucky together.
The moment Y/N walked the kitchen door of the small cabin, Bucky’s eyes were fixed on her. Even though she just woke up and looked a mess with her bedhead and her oversized MIT jersey, he couldn’t stop watching her. As she reached over to the coffee machine she moaned softly -but dramatically- at the movements she had to make to get her daily fuel.
Bucky couldn’t help but smile. She always had a dramatic streak, in a humorous kind of way.
“You alright there, soldier?” He chuckled at her, trying his best to not stare at her ass when she reached up to grab a mug from the cupboard. She wasn’t wearing anything but her cotton panties underneath the MIT jersey, and Bucky wasn’t complaining.