henri thompson


BEHIND THE SCENES - taken from @/thebowersgang on instagram.

“if you like Henry or Patrick, you are disgusting!”

“the bowers gang is the worst, and anyone who likes them should block me”

“if you LIKE the bowers gang,  that means you are DEFENDING THEM  and making EXCUSES  for them! u should be ASHAMED YOU SICK FUCK!”


Request: could i request a victor criss x male! reader? anything fluff

Fandom: IT 2017

Pairing: Reader x Victor Criss (IT, 2017, Logan Thompson.)

Warnings: Swearing, underage drinking.


Y/N sat across from a pale, blonde boy who’s eyes seemed to always been shallow and tired looking. It wasn’t uncommon for Y/N to hang out with Victor, even though Victor wasn’t the nicest guy in the world and Y/N knew it. It wasn’t easy being friendly with him when Y/N knew he was friends with the like of Henry Bowers and Belch Huggins, but Y/N saw the best in him.

The cigarette hung loosely between Y/N’s lips, a match was struck by the other boy and held underneath the nicotine stick until the end glinted ablaze. Y/N took a deep inhale, pulling the cigarette from between his lips. He held the cigarette out to Victor as he expelled the thick smoke from his lungs and into the already smokey bedroom air. Y/N always found smoking to be disgusting, but he did it regardless. He no longer cared.

Thinking back about it now, Y/N no longer cared about most things. Having started hanging around Victor nothing really seemed to matter very much. It was like walking a very thin rope above raging currents, one wrong step and you would fall into the ever twisting and crashing water. But, at the same time it was like walking through a sunflower field, quiet. Easy.

Smoking made Y/N think. Think about his family, think about himself, think about Victor and the crushing water. It was an odd feeling. Like a churning stomach filled with small, fluttering butterflies who danced at ease and calmness, or like sticking your hand into a pot of boiling water, both easy, both painful. Y/N didn’t like to think.

Victor finally took the cigarette, handing Y/N a tall bottle of unlabelled alcohol that was resting in a brown paper bag. He took it, sipped it, and watched as Victor exhaled the thick bubble of light smoke, like clouds floating out of the window or vanishing into the air.

Drinking was almost as bad as smoking for Y/N, it gave him time to be alone with his thoughts, and that definitely terrified him beyond control. He was silent, Victor was silent, the room was silent.

“Have you ever kissed a boy?” Y/N broke the silence, turning his attention to Victors now estranged expression and narrowing his eyes. It wasn’t a question Y/N had expected to ask, but he was curious.

“Think I’m gay or something?” Victor had replied and in return he gained a shrug from Y/N, who didn’t care if he was straight, gay, or anything in between. It didn’t matter to him, it never did.

“Maybe.” Y/N replied, and Victors expression softened. He was at terms with it, he wasn’t straight though neither was Y/N. Victor smiled ever so slightly, looking back out the window.

“I’ve never kissed a boy, you?” He had asked, taking Y/N by surprise. Y/N had never kissed a boy, or a girl, or anything else. He never had and he never thought he would.

“Haven’t.” Y/N said, their next thought cut off by Victors calm and collected voice. A simple ‘want to?’ was enough for Y/N to lean forward and connect his lips with Victors.

It was an odd feeling. Like pecking daisies, soft and slow, or chewing glass, uncomprehendable and painful. Y/N supposed they couldn’t stay together, but looking out the window and smoking away at cigarettes, drinking their hearts out in this moment, was enough for Y/N.

Just about enough.

What Once Was Lost


Captain Swan, Captain Cobra

Summary: Short one shot. Henry and Lucy look for Killian, the one person that will always find Emma Swan. (headcanon for season 7) 

Also on AO3

Thanks to @spartanguard for taking a quick look through. You are the best!


Killian Jones sat on the park bench near the bay of his small town, Fairy Trails, for lunch, just like he did every day since he could remember. He had picked up his lunch from the small diner in town, Ruby’s, and then made the short walk here. He looked out over the water, and let out a breath. He wasn’t entirely sure why the water always seemed to calm him, but it did.

He opened the styrofoam takeout container, and smiled wistfully at the contents, a grilled cheese and onion rings. It wasn’t his favorite meal; he actually preferred the lasagna. But it had been her favorite meal. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. There was no reason to get misty eyed right now. It had been…well, a long time since he had lost her, his wife, in the horrible accident. He couldn’t even remember most of it. One moment they were together, and the next it was almost like an explosion and he woke up being told that she and his left hand were gone.

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Ninety-Four Degrees in the Shade (1876). Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema (Dutch, 1836-1912). Oil on canvas laid down on mahogany panel. Fitzwilliam Museum.

The scene shows a cornfield at Godstone, Surrey, with the donor, Sir Henry Thompson, at that date aged seventeen, lying in the foreground and reading a book, perhaps about butterflies.