my hair just the way it is

anonymous asked:

i'd love to see pippin or merry!

Pippen (left) and Merry (right)!

I’m actually really pleased with how these came out, since they’re actually very close to how I imagine them when reading/listening to the books :)

Slowly making my way through Sketch Requests :)

scully-loves-ruthie  asked:

Will you please please rewrite the scene where Mulder tells Scully he's happy for her but he's just not sure where he fits in. Honestly your majestic writing abilities are the only thing that can fix it!!!!

Sorry!! Big long preface ahead!!! First, I must apologize to @scully-loves-ruthie upfront. This probably isn’t exactly what you asked for. I have a real inability to write against canon though I wish I could. Fic is a band-aid of sorts for me but I can only write (not read mind you, shove that AU up my ass all day I’ll love it) what could in some realm, be canon. I can’t dangle impossible perfection in front of myself or immerse myself in such a way as to write it, because it only reminds me of what can’t have, and then I get all morose about the way things are.  So this isn’t a rewrite of this scene so much as it is me trying to babble away my confusion and former hatred for it and then exteding it to my liking.  I utterly HATED this scene, and damn you, you made me watch it over and over and over and over. It was misery. But I have to thank you, because it was cathartic in a sense. It forced me to deal with my own feelings of blame toward Mulder for going off on his own and leaving Scully behind and find some empathy down in my cold dead heart. So I hope in light of all of this, I hope you will forgive me, friend.  

Oh! and one more thing, the ever fabulous @kateyes224 wrote a true re-write of this scene a while back called Three Words More. If you want quality work, skip mine and read hers. :)

Sorry for the babbling. Tagging @fictober@today-in-fic, and @always-angst

Sensory Integration

He hasn’t told her this for fear she’d have kept him incarcerated, but he’s still fighting waves of nausea induced by the sensation of free fall every few minutes. His stomach rolls end over end, as if on the downslope of a rollercoaster. His feet still don’t feel as if they’ve touched ground, which is ironic for a man who was 6 feet under its surface not 36 hours ago. He feels suspended above this world, tethered only by the clinical tone of her voice as she catalogues his condition. It is the only thing that feels like home right now, and God, he wants to be home, he does, but he’s an apparition, a ghost of himself, floating along a tour of his own life like Ebenezer Scrooge.

Only people don’t talk directly to ghosts about their scars and miraculous healing and their perfect health. They’ve been circling each other cautiously since she came to retrieve him this morning. He senses her restlessness and gets the distinct impression that she’s holding back from latching into him and falling apart. He’s grateful for her restraint, because he can’t handle sudden movements right now. If she were to approach too fast in his direction, he’d end up curled in the fetal position somewhere in a corner, protecting his vital organs. He doesn’t know how he knows this, he just does. He’s like one giant Pavlovian experiment.




On the silent ride to his apartment, he keeps his gaze on the passing scenery, the feeling of forward motion relaxes him. In his peripheral he catches her cautious, fleeting glances, and wonders if she’s worried about him or expecting him to say something. An apology perhaps, but that’s probably just because he feels like he owes her one. There is at least that much of his former self left. He knows, on some level, that this is at least partly his fault. He left her to protect her, his intentions valiant, the result catastrophic. That too, at least, feels familiar.

The walk out of the elevator down his hallway is akin to a prisoner being led to his cell. He imagines the catcalls from either side. Wonders if they are similar to the whispers she must’ve endured in his absence.

“Hear that? Ol’ Spooky finally got what he always wanted– a ride in a spaceship!!”

“Typical asshole, right? He’d have made a shitty father anyway. Shame he had to knock her up before he took off this time.”

Had he, though? Does she assume he assumes it’s his? He knows her. Knows she’d have never pursued this again so quickly without him. Would she?With someone anonymous?  Is it..he…she.. his? 

The nausea assaults him once again at the door. A reckoning lies beyond, and he isn’t sure footed enough yet to do anything but react. He hopes for something else familiar to grasp on to once they walk in, the scent of burnt coffee or old laundry, dishes in the sink, but the echo of her heels on the hardwood is the only thing that registers. For a place that is full to the brim still of his possessions, the sound only reinforces the impression of emptiness. It seems to him now a shrine, a collection of things in memoriam. He has waited much too long to speak at this point he knows. He doesn’t want to frighten her. His pulse races in his ears.



“It looks different.” His voice doesn’t shake like he thought it would.

“It’s clean.” Her humor astounds him; it is without a trace of bitterness. He knows she is not angry, but at this point he would understand if she were exasperated. He’s drawn immediately to the serene glow of the tank and a fleeting bubble of giddy reunion rises in his chest, immediately followed by shame for not feeling the same around her. Again something is off, but in the right way. He recognizes something as missing, and it’s a relief. 

“I’m missing a molly.”

“Yea,” she chuffs, “ she wasn’t as lucky as you.”

Dread floods his senses once more as well as the need to retch, so he sits awkwardly on the desk to steady himself and prevent swaying on his feet. Being under the gun used to be what made him thrive, and now he just wants to hide. But she is being so intolerably patient there fiddling with the key he gave her in an act of good faith, and the pressure of owing her the same.. something.. everything, is weighing on him now.

“Mulder…” there is the faintest trace of impatience in her tone now, for which he cannot blame her, but the numbness he feels only serves to allow the blankest of stares in her direction.  She continues to narrate an abbreviated, watered-down recollection of her experience and he is drifting again, the rope to which he is attached to this world suddenly stretching, fraying and unraveling, because this isn’t her. She’s lying by omission on his behalf. She knows damn well he knows exactly what it was like. But she’s flailing, trying desperately to pull him to her by playing on his propensity for compassion. This particular shade of cheap manipulation isn’t her color, and even she is struggling with it.  She wants so desperately to connect with him right now, even if it is only by the shared recollection of what it is like to be utterly devastated and reborn by the absence and presence of another. Her words muddle and blur until,

“…And now to have to you back, it….” He isn’t so devoid of sensitivity not to catch the slight glimmer of tears as she trails off. But he is in no condition to provide comfort to anyone right now.

“You act like you’re surprised.” His old instincts are kicking in automatically, for which he is grateful, deflection by sarcasm is his default setting. But her response is so genuine that it smothers any relief he felt having had any words to say at all.

“I prayed a lot.”

He has always wondered himself worthy of her prayers, whether she would allow herself to pray to a god she holds in such reverence {the same one that he has punished with indifference for so long} to grant him, a nonbeliever of all things, mercy. But pray she did.

“And my prayers have been answered.”

The incredulity in the way she says it tells him she is just as astounded as he. Had she ever felt him worthy? Or was it sheer desperation that drove her to her knees?

The elephant in the room is in fact no elephant at all, the evidence of her pregnancy only now making its way into his consciousness, her firm rounded belly at such stark contrast to the exhausted slump of her shoulders and rest of her anxious, wired form. She is so beautiful to him still. Incandescent skin, and longer hair all signs that physically, she is flourishing. But her countenance is all wrong. She is like a tree branch in winter,  drained and brittle on the surface, new life burgeoning beneath.

“In more ways than one.” He makes a feeble motion toward her middle. There. He’s acknowledged it. The band-aid is off. She glances down as if she herself is only noticing her condition just now. A slew of unexpected emotions tighten his throat. Fear. Elation. Possessiveness. Resentment. Curiosity. Scully is pregnant. Very. She even waddles. He chuckles inwardly at her maternity slacks’ indention beneath her blouse.

Scully shopping for maternity clothing.

The thought is at once light and unfathomably depressing at the same time.

“Yea.” Now even she sounds like she would be grateful for a quip, but she is capable of nothing but earnestness at the moment.

“I’m happy for you.” He wonders if she caught the catch in his voice just now. Internally he is in free fall, his stomach is swirling and his heart is racing.

His appendages are numb and the entire room is spinning. He nips at the side of his mouth enough to bring pain, enough to center his thoughts to continue,  

“I think I know…how much that means to you.” The phrase feels slimy and bitter on his tongue. When she was sick–and the unexpected recollection of that time pierces his gut like a forgotten splinter—the cancer was always a ‘that.’ The fact that he has just referred to her pregnancy as such feels so utterly wrong. He’s made her granted wish sound like an incurable condition, and he hates himself for it. He knows he’s dissociating. He knows the term, his education coming back to him like pieces of a puzzle, falling into place at random.

“Mulder…” Oh God, that voice. Whispered and rich with the emotion that only those that pray can posses.  It’s a thousand moments before the apology he’s demanding of himself is tumbling from his mouth in an almost juvenile, petulant fashion.

“I’m sorry…” he shakes his head in an effort to regroup, “I don’t mean to be cold or ungrateful I just…I have no idea where I fit in…right now.” He’s purging. Words that have been festering for days now are pouring forth, like pus from a wound, a necessity towards healing but grotesque nonetheless. The look on her face is searing and utter in its despair. She is unquestionably disappointed. Nothing, none of this is going like she thought, as she’d hoped, and it’s evident in a way that is so uncharacteristic of her usual aplomb.

He could blame hormones for rendering her so unusually transparent, But that would be too convenient. The truth is that the strife of the day-to-day without him has worn her threadbare. She has only her naked self to give now, and all that it may entail. Herself and someone else.

Jesus. Someone else.  

Painful enlightenment forces him to soften his earlier declaration of despondency with practiced analysis. She looks as though if she speaks, she will cry. And he won’t do that to her.

“I just uh…I’m having a little trouble processing…everything.” And though basic and uncouth, it feels like the most organic thing he’s expressed yet. This, at least, is unadulterated truth. He beings to speak again, having felt like he’s gained at least some ground but she interrupts him.

“I um…” her gaze is on the floor and her expression is incredulous. It seems she too, is struggling to process, “I…I need a minute I’m sorry..” he rises out of instinct to go to her but she holds up her hand in reproach and escapes towards his bedroom. Like Pavlov’s dog, she elicits an classically conditioned response by her motion and he stays, dutiful, waiting on his next command.

He can’t help but notice the protective way she cradles her unborn as she hurries away.

In his heart of hearts he knows that this child is his. How many times on the couch in this room? One memory in particular comes unbidden. The salt and tang of the succulent flesh between her legs, pummeling into her and the helpless yelp of his given name triggering his instant release. He’d wanted her to get pregnant that night. Many times. Felt he could will it into existence beyond reason. He could make their own miracle, faith be damned, if he fucked her hard enough, came hard enough. He’d wanted to brand her from the inside out. Damned right he’d wanted this.

What is it they say about having everything you ever wanted? If he lost it now, would that feel like freedom? Is that why he wants so desperately to run right now? He wants darkness, and quiet, and constant noise. He wants to be left alone and held and he wants mostly not to feel as though he’s just jumped from a plane with no parachute and no notion of when or if he will land. His stomach pitches again, causing him to salivate.

The flush of the toilet brings him to attention and she returns, slightly flushed and with composure clearly only gained within the last few moments. She hadn’t noticed the last smear of her mascara. He’s made her cry, and he kicks himself internally. She doesn’t resume her place on the other side of the room though. She continues slowly, and purposefully to him, but she does not reach out. His heart thuds against his ribcage and he swallows against the fear of her next words. She fears them herself, its evident in the way she takes a calming breath and speaks to his clavicle.

“I need you know Mulder,”

Oh God. It’s mine isn’t it….. It isn’t mine. She’s about to tell me. This is it…

She swallows her apprehension and continues, “I know what it’s like…to come back…from an experience and feel…out of place.” Her name begins to form on his mouth. Her gaze is still cast carefully downward but ever the empath, she interrupts his sensed rebuttal and continues, forcing him to listen.

“But I need you to know,” and with those words her eyes fix upon his own. He remembers her now. Knows this look. Her eyes are wide enough that he notices the whites of them glisten. They are brimming with integrity and honesty and deep, abiding love.

Their history crashes over him in waves, roaring above the static of his confusion. Like wedded vows, her words ring pure and true and timeless, the look on her face then the same as it is now.

“I’m not a part of any agenda…you’ve got to trust me…”

“Mulder I wouldn’t put myself on the line for anybody but you..”

“I just knew….”

“Mulder *fight* him…”

“I wouldn’t change a day.”

“Nothing happens in contradiction to nature, only to what we know of it…”

“If we quit now, they win…”

“ …personal interest is all that I have. And if you take that away than there is no reason for me to continue.”

“And you are mine…”

A heaviness surrounds him, a soothing, gentle, bone-deep pressure. It pulls him downwards, the centrifugal force of her gaze pitching him into the dark pool of her iris and he feels finally, finally grounded, secure in memory and the totality of gravity, the finality of arrival.

“…when you are ready, I’ll be here,” She pauses, “we’ll be here.”

Tactile sensation has found its way back, and he realizes that his palms have subconsciously come to rest on the ripened crest of her form. He feels the roll and flutter of life beneath; it is as real and tangible as it is supposed to be. It feels like hope.


Like Father, Like Son

Part 3 of 4

Find the previous two installments here: Revelations, Discovery 


In less than a blink of an eye, she was gone. I sprinted the rest of the way to the stone she had touched, the screaming intensified then stopped. The wind had been knocked out of me and I found myself laying on the ground looking up at the orange streaks of dawn.

I groaned and rolled to my side, shakily trying to stand.

“Mum?” I croaked, the roaring in my ears seemed to echo off the stones, drowning my attempt to call out to her.

“Mum!” I tried again. Again nothing but the screaming roar reverberating from the stones. I scrambled to my feet and took off at a run down the hill towards the car, except it wasn’t there. The car was missing, as was any visible sign of a road. Trees grew in sparse patches across the grass of the rolling hills toward the water.

“Mum?” I whispered realizing with a sickening realization, she wasn’t there.

“Christ,” I groaned dragging my hands down my face. “What to do now? Think Brian, think! Where would she have gone?”

The momentary sunshine quickly disappeared behind clouds of gray and white, a storm was brewing. My pacing turned into a single direction run to a small cobbled, dilapidated cottage situated at the base of the hill. I made it inside the shelter of the cottage just as fat raindrops solidified and turned into snow. The air held a wet chill that seemed to seep into every crevice of the room, even the heavy wool of the clothing didn’t seem to be enough to stop a violent shudder from enveloping me.

I searched the room for any source that could be used to create a fire and saw a broken stool crumpled into a corner. Sighing in relief, I scrambled to the roughly hewn fireplace and sent up a prayer in thanks that mum took the time to teach me how to start a fire without modern conveniences. ‘A necessary skill,’ she’d always remarked.

“Where have you gone, mum? We don’t even know where Jamie went, let alone if he was still alive in the time we’ve arrived.”

Staring into the fire a sudden epiphany hit me like a sledgehammer. “Lallybroch.”

I didn’t know how many days ride or walk it would be to get to Inverness, let alone Broch Tuarach, but I wasn’t going to get there freezing in a hovel. Looking through the cracks in the stone, I watched as the snow fell then melted as soon as it touched the ground. I may just have a chance of making it down to the village before nightfall. But how to pay for what I need? My pockets were empty, but I patted them down anyway, as well as the cloak. A small jingling noise came from a hidden inner pocket of the cloak.

“Mum, you think of everything,” I said to the crackling fire as a poured small battered coins from a black leather pouch and a small roll of paper fell on top them.


I understand if you decided not to follow me immediately, but if you do find yourself going back, these will be of use to you. I’m sorry I couldn’t procure you more, but if we find your father and our family, we shouldn’t need to worry overmuch about funds.

I hope you decide to find us, my darling boy.

All my love,


My eyes burned with tears that were threatening to form. Why couldn’t she have waited just a few seconds longer for me to catch up to her?

The walk to Inverness was longer than I anticipated. Dark had fallen and if at all possible, it got colder thanks to the persistent wind. I hobbled into the first establishment I saw, hoping I could find something warm, a place to sleep, and a horse to make this journey easier.

A frail-looking hand shot out and grabbed my wrist, squeezing tighter than I believed possible, “Ain’t ye a wanted man?”

I shook my head. “No, I’m not.”

“Sassenach filth!” The man spat, “Be gone from here!”

“I’m not English if that’s what you mean, I’m from Am–the colonies.”

“Yer as good as ‘em. Crooky won’t serve ye, so be gone!” He threw my arm back hard enough that I stumbled into the door frame.

“Gibbons! What are ye doin’ to my customers?” A menacing man yelled from behind a bar.

“He’s a Sassenach, an’ claims to be from the colonies.” Gibbons spat at my feet, glaring. “It’d be better if he was that bastard of a wanted man. At least then he’d be worth a pretty penny.”

“A sassenach! Is tha’ so? Do ye have coin, lad?”

“Yes,” I said with surprising confidence. “Do you know where I can find something to eat, maybe a place to rest, and procure a horse? I will not be staying long, just ‘til morning.”

“Och, aye. I can help ye wi’ all of these, but it’s no going to come lightly.”

I pulled out a few of the Stirling pieces and handed them over. “Will this due?”

The barman’s eyes widened. “Aye, lad, tha’ll do nicely. What’s yer name, I didna catch it before.”


The man’s eyebrows disappeared beneath shaggy dark hair. “Fraser ye say? O’ Lovat?”

I nodded tersely.

“Yer a ways from Beauly.”

“I’m not headed to Beauly. My family isn’t too far off from here, Broch Tuarach?”

“Ach, yer wi’ the Fraser-Murray clan then. Good folk there.” He said, slapping a tankard down before turning around to snag a bowl of something from a passing barmaid. “Drink, eat. It’s no an easy ride in this weather to Broch Tuarach.”

I coughed at the sting of the whiskey, stronger and more bitter than I was accustomed. The warm burn met my stomach as the rich taste of meat broth met my lips. I wouldn’t be shocked if I fell asleep at the bar for all to see, nor did I care. My legs ached from the walk, my fingers felt as though they were frozen into a curl, and my head pounded from the whirlwind of events from today. Tomorrow would only increase the pain and unease.

The following morning, my head still pounded, but my body didn’t ache from the cold, yet.

“Here ye are lad.” Crook, said holding out a wrapped parcel and the reigns to a gorgeous brown mare. “Sorry I canna give ye my best stallion, but Butternut will get ye where ye need to go. She’s strong and hearty. This weather will no deter her.”

“Thank you, sir. For the hospitality and the horse.”

He let out a bark of a laugh, “Dinna thank me lad! Ye paid for the hospitality as ye say. I’m gaining a mighty better price than ye are wi’ my grub and horse.”

I shook my head and smiled back at the jovial man as I mounted the mare. “Thank you all the same.”


I turned in question.

“If ye see a Gwenalin Crook, tell her Archie sends his love. Can ye do that for me?”

“Of course,” I said puzzled, he nodded then slapped the hindquarters of Butternut and we were off.

As the days wore on, I was struck by the landscape before me. The mountains and the sky, such contrasts to each other were something from the imagination. The size and beauty could not be contained with meager words or thoughts. I felt as though I had stepped into the epics of Tolkien, White, or even Lewis. I could fully understand the magical beliefs and wariness of these people, and the stories that the land inspired.

I was so lost in thought that I missed the sound of hoofbeats and a man’s call until he was right upon me.

“Can I assist ye?” The man, who couldn’t have been much older than I, said as he stared quizzically at me.

“Oh! Yes, do you know if I’m close to the place called Lallybroch or Broch Tuarach?”

The man’s face lit up in a laugh, “Aye, but what business do ye have there?”

“I’m looking for someone and I believe she may have come here.”

“Do I ken ye? Ye look familiar,” He said not acknowledging my statement.

“No, we have never met. Brian Fraser,” I said holding out a hand. The man’s face went pale.

“Brian Fraser has been dead longer than I’ve been born. So who are ye really?”

My eyes went wide this time, of course, he wouldn’t know about me but his knowledge of my grandfather meant he must be family as well. “Are you by chance Young Jamie Murray?”

He went rigid in his saddle. “Aye, and answer me now, who are ye?”

“I’m your cousin, Brian James Lambert Beauchamp Fraser.” I said reaching out my hand, “James Fraser is my father.”

Young Jamie’s mouth fell open as he grasped my hand in a handshake. “Damned if he isn’t! That’s why I thought I knew ye! Christ, ye have the look of him. I’m surprised ye weren’t stopped by the redcoats on your journey here!”

I laughed, “I was accused of being a wanted man at a tavern in Inverness.”

Young Jamie let out a bellow. “That doesna surprise me in the least. Come on, Mam isna going to believe this.”

We rode in companionable silence to the estate, and I gasped in awe. The house, no longer dilapidated and condemned, was full of life and movement.

“Come on,” Young Jamie said, nodding toward the stables. “Ye can leave yer horse there, but I’m sure ye’ll be wanting to ride again soon. Ye said ye were looking for someone, but no one but trouble has been through these doors in a while.”


He cut me off with the shake of his head. “Ye’ll see soon enough. I canna wait to see how this unfolds.”

He leads me through the house to a study where a woman, hair dark and streaked with gray sat beside a man with a wooden leg, pouring over papers on the desk before them.

“Mam? Da?” Jamie said. They turned, eyes wide, and mouth agape, as though they were looking at a ghost.

anonymous asked:

sometimes babies can be born blonde and their hair turns darker later on, i was almost bleach blonde when i was younger and now i’m a medium brown

Turns out my dad was blonde til he was like 30 and I just didn’t know. So it looks like he might stay that way!

nking2831  asked:

Hey! I just wanted to say I really love your work, especially the way you draw Ginny and the Weasleys . I don't see a lot of artists draw freckles the way you do- with hundreds of them instead of just a couple on bridge of someone's nose. Not that there's anything wrong with that, I just have the same complexion as your Ginny and I wanted to say thank you for showing them off and talking about how harry likes them, it makes me appreciate my own

Thank you so much!! I’m glad you feel this way! <3 I love drawing Ginny’s freckles. If I draw a character with long or short hair, that can be anyone. But when I add her freckles, I just know it’s her! So, it’s a very important feature to show and to stand out in the drawings!

So I’m in the toilets where I work washing my hands minding my own business, when all of a sudden I see a girl looking me up and down and scowling. Note I’m wearing a supercorp tee and my hair is scraped all the way back into a bun. So i’m like

“Is there a problem?”

And she just says “are you a fucking supercorp?”

And I’m like

“Geez, what gave it away?” Because I have zero chill when it comes to smart arse cishets and she starts going off her nut at me, screaming, literally screaming all the usual

Supercorp is unrealistic, they’re only friends blah blah blah. Now she’s so loud her mum comes running in from outside to see what’s going on.

I just turned around and said

“I don’t know who you think you are but how dare you talk to me or anyone like that.”

Her mum just hit the roof at her, telling her off in front of about ten other workers for her yelling, swearing, having the nerve to yell at a lesbian she doesn’t know like that…

And then her Mum finished with the classic line…

“What did you think was going to happen with Kara and Lena?! Of course that’s what’s going on!”

So she not only embarrassed herself, she got in major trouble and found out her Mum ships Supercorp…

It was a great start to the day.


Summary: Abandoning a child is cruel, leaving deep craters in the hearts remaining family members. Bucky has experienced this stinging pain all too well. Will he wallow in the past or step up and become the daddy his daughter needs.

Word Count: 1,461

Warning: Parental abandonment, Swearing

Characters: Daddy! Bucky x Victoria Paige Barnes (daughter)

OFC: Steve, Tony, Wanda, Nat, Sam, Mrs. Watkins (Nanny), Lead Sales Associate Y/N

A/N: This is my entry for Tricia’s 1k challenge. I really hope you enjoy it. Again, CONGRATULATIONS!!!!

Prompt: I won’t let anything hurt you ever again

Keep reading

@those-ginger-tresses it posted as a single text post (I’m on mobile so it acted weird) anyway, here’s 8 and 11 from the prompt list!!



“Hello, Charles,” Erik says, suddenly appearing in his bedroom.

Charles turns away from the book he was reading. “Is there a reason you’re crawling through my window?”

“Well I can’t just walk through the front door,” he closes the window, sealing the cold air outside. He makes his way over to Charles, joining him on the bed. “Besides,” he slowly starts to unbutton his pajama top, “what would the students think if they knew their professor was sleeping with his sworn enemy?” Erik begins kissing his neck.

“We’re not enemies, darling,” Charles runs a hand through his hair, gripping it slightly when Erik nips at his neck. “We just have an untraditional way of resolving our issues.” Erik chuckles against his neck, pushing his shirt off his shoulders. “I could give you a key, if you’d like.”

Erik pulls away to look him in the eyes. “I could just move back in,” he gives him a small smile.

“I like that even better,” Charles matches him smile and seals their lips together in a loving kiss.



Erik notices how Charles shivers one night while they’re playing chess outside. He knew Charles should’ve put on a jacket, but he said he was fine in just his sweater.

“Here,” Erik shrugs off his jacket and tries to drape it over his shoulders, but Charles shrugs him off.

“I’m fine,” he continues playing their game of chess.

Erik rolls his eyes at his stubbornness and hands him the jacket again. “Take it, Charles, you’re clearly freezing.”

“Erik, I’m fine, real-“

“Just take the jacket!” Erik yells, not meaning to.

Charles grumbles and yanks the jacket from his hands, draping it over his shoulders. “Happy?”

“And you say I’m stubborn?” Erik says to himself.


“Charles, have you seen my jacket?” Erik digs through his side of the closet they share. “I can’t find it anywhere.”

“You mean this one?” Erik turns to see Charles wearing his brown leather jacket, and nothing else. “Since it’s mine now, I’d thought and make good use of it,” he smirks.

Erik draws Charles over to him by the metal zipper and pulls him into a deep kiss. “I liked it better on you anyway.”

reigen, rolling up a joint: yeah mob you gotta be uh, an individual! no matter who you are there’s something great about you mob. everyone is different from all other people in great ways, you just need to find that for yourself.

ritsu, struggling to keep his gelled hair afloat because they’ve done this take at least fifteen times and he can’t quite get his yelling as hammy as the directors want: STAY AWAY FROM MY BROTHER YOU MOTHERFUCKER!!!! [throws a chair at reigen]

mob, holding a gun: i’ve found my true calling.

Follow-up on follow-up post about “It Might Get Loud,” inspired by @secret-blog-of-secrets. This is based on things Jimmy Page and Jack White actually said, okay? Not even kidding.

Jimmy Page: I love the shape of the guitar, the smell of the wood. You can caress it like a woman. A long guitar solo can be like an orgasm.

Jack White (to a child, for some reason): I call this guitar Claudette Colbert, after the actress. I had my tattoo artist friend make this picture of her on the back. And on the front, the pick-guard is designed to look like the hair of a brunette.

Jimmy Page: In what way do you creepily personify/sexualize your guitar, Edge?

Edge (adjusting beanie): I don’t actually—I’d prefer not to say.

Originally posted by edge-office-no2

Okay I just needed to make myself laugh. Sorry. In all seriousness, three cheers to Edge for his failure to buy into that ancient hoary patriarchal bullshit. Extra cheers to him for attending and performing at the Women’s March in L.A.

Three cheers for U2 in general for starting out smart and always evolving.

anonymous asked:

ive been on t for a couple months, and my facial hair is coming in unevenly. my right side is very coarse and dense and has lots of darker hairs, but my left side is almost completely naked. i know this happened to my (cis) little brother too so I'm not too worried, but is there a way to help the left side grow in better? does this happen often, or is just a thing me and my brother face?

Mine is patchy and uneven too. There isn’t a way to really fix it except for with time.


i’m not mad.

i. Whoever said that holding your breath and counting to ten helps to stanch anger was a dirty, rotten liar; in fact, he probably gave this advice so he could mock the next person that followed it. Holding one’s breath accomplishes nothing but making the breath-holder look completely ridiculous. I took it to extremes as a child, promising that I would absolutely not breathe until I got my way. I petulantly puffed out my cheeks until they shifted a dangerous shade of red and my vision swam a bit, just to prove my strength of will. Then I very sneakily breathed through my nose. I was a little monster when I was angry– I pulled hair, I bit arms, I clawed and threw toys, I whispered vicious barbs into the ear of my beloved, and infinitely irksome, brother. I assume I looked quite ugly. I am not one of those girls with a delicate frown. My childhood anger was not cold and clean around the edges, like the young ladies in books. I did not bother to contain it in meticulously crafted insults. I cared little for my own dignity; rather, I surged with a determination to feel the gratifying scrapes from the tile floor and to make my enemy, be who it may, feel them worse. I was a chubby, snaggle-toothed Godzilla, and I was terrifying. It was glorious.
ii. Anger in its most undiluted form is a talent that all are born with, and few learn to keep. Fewer still are entitled to it, and I cannot help but feel a mixture of disgust and envy towards those white, straight men who can scream at a television or traffic jam or woman with little differentiation and no consequences. I am often resentful towards these people who have the privilege of being mad in whichever way they please– truthfully, I could do it better. They lack creativity. It is always the same pattern of lashing out, followed by the predictable painfulness of shouldering their sulking, their tantrums, their messes. It’s overdone, and done again at every inconvenience. Entitlement begets dullness. Give the freedom to be angry to those harboring a lifetime of unfairness, violation, and frustration within themselves. They will make the most of it.
iii. There comes a point where the people who are not allowed to be angry are unceremoniously partitioned from the ones who are; I’m not sure when it happens, but it does. I remember it in elementary school, where I learned to swallow my words along with my graham crackers– both felt like chalk in my throat, which was dry from anxiety at making my teacher upset. Calling boys poopy-heads was, apparently, not a very attractive thing for a young lady to do. I remember it in middle school, where I learned to smooth the lines in my forehead. Frown lines stick, I was told. I remember it in the litany of casual wisdom imparted by my mother, my friend’s mother, the mother of a character on television: snotty post-crying noses are revolting, being bossy is a bad thing, nobody likes a temper, you won’t make or keep friends this way, taking the high road is more mature. I saw it happen to the people around me, from the black girl who used to sit passively next to me in Sunday school as the aforementioned poopy-heads snagged her curls in their sticky fingers, to the waitress at the restaurant I used to work at pretending not to hear the man she was serving make lewd insinuations about how the menu didn’t have anything he was interested in eating– was she for sale? I saw the response to taunts of “ching-chong” bit back into the cheek of the Chinese student in my physics class, I saw that careful apathy in the mirror as I practiced my poker face for the next time someone brought up The Gays at dinner. We all choked down retorts, balled up fists behind our backs, tried holding our breath and counting to ten, with varying frequency. We all became more agreeable, more friendly, more palatable. At times, we do it to each other, purposefully stepping on toes and expecting people to lay down on the ground and turn the other cheek for our heels to grind into. Why we do this, when we are all just as familiar with how humiliating this is, is beyond me. Perhaps we do it for the illusion that, for once, we are not the ones belly-up.
iv. I digress; the people who have kept their knack for unfettered anger inspire me. There’s a stubborn streak to the way some women act the part of the bitch, a streak that appeals to me as much as it appalls me. It’s ugly, I think when I see veins popping from necks and hear voices that crack with emotion. Then again, that’s the point. These people who refuse to accept anger as a luxury, but rather demand it as a right, have fought for it. As much as it is genuine, it is political, and radically so. It is a deliberate challenge to the monopoly on negative emotion, a threat to the neat binary of “allowed to be angry” and “other.”
v. I am not easily provoked to anger anymore. I’ve grown to hate confrontation, which I blame on my astrological sign (I’m a Libra). I try my best to be patient with others, because that is a virtue. I list excuses instead of blaming the person– they might be tired, hungry, misinformed, sad, they’ve had a bad day, a bad week, a bad month. Maybe their behavior is also the fault of their birth chart (an excess of fire signs, harsh aspects between their Mars, Sun, or Pluto, Mars in the seventh house– I’ve done extensive research on the topic). When I begin to get annoyed, I take three deep breaths and pretend that my mean words are graham crackers. Sometimes, people will ask if I am mad at them. The thought scares me. I don’t remember how it feels to scream in frustration, to pitch a fit. The idea of being angry is alien to me, it is volatile and full of too many opportunities for hurt feelings. I shun it and shake my head. No, I’m not mad. I stuff it inside of myself because I have a reputation for being nice. I am pleasant, sometimes so much so that it sickens me. People feel comfortable comparing lesbians to pedophiles around me, and I resist the urge to spit at them. It would perpetuate the man-hating trope that invalidates the opinions of other, intelligent, unbiased queer people. Comments are often made about my appearance, and I graciously ignore them with as little awkwardness as possible. I do not push back, or demand an apology. It would ruin the spirit of open dialogue. It would be oversensitive of me. My intellect is casually slighted, and I humor it. I don’t argue with people; instead, I swallow the bitter pill of my unspoken words and will the knot in my stomach to dissolve. I’m not mad, I don’t think I have been in many, many years– but I wish I was.

I just hate Apple so much, I want to rip my hair out over having to use an iMac at work, even if it’s just for iOS app testing/deployment. OS X and it’s stupid, fragmented interfaces and insistence on hiding everything away is annoying, but most of all I hate Apple’s form-over-function design aesthetic and shitty, unergonomic hardware. How can you sell a ~20.000 DKK computer setup with a mouse that is barely usable for any actual work and a monitor that isn’t in any way adjustable?! How can you demand that people pay even More money to accomodate these completely basic needs?! I die inside a little every time someone defends Apple’s business model. Just.. don’t buy their overpriced crap, please. It’s not okay, the only reason it can stay so overpriced is because people keep paying. I can understand the appeal of their phones and tablets, but things are getting increasingly out of hand on that front too (not that it was ever good in the first place)

*screams in frustration for a long time*

anonymous asked:

A Robin age reversal where Damian's the oldest and dick the youngest when dicks big brothers fine out their little brother is dating this red haired speedster they get super protective and find ways to 'prove Wally's worthy of dick' including Bruce who goes into daddybats mode

Also posted on ao3 under my omega dick prompts. I had an age reversal going for that so I decided to just continue it. It’s not exactly what you wanted but it’s where the prompt took me!

Anyone in their right mind would be intimidated by Dick’s older brothers, really. Even if Damian and Jason are the definition of alphas, and Tim, while a beta, is a retired crime lord and a genius, and they’re all highly skilled vigilantes and proteges of the bat, both currently and formerly. The older Wayne boys are also very overprotective of their fifteen-year-old omega brother, who Wally has been dating for the past three months behind their backs. So, Wally thinks he’s totally justified in being intimidated by his boyfriend’s brothers.  Even Artemis admitted she wasn’t jealous of having that to look forward, after she finished laughing at him for using that as one of his reasons for why they haven’t told their families yet.

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            i  chopped  my  hair  off  ,  helloooooo !!!   also .   not  that  anyone  actually  cares  about  this  bit  of  info  but  i’ve  been  reading  up  a  lot  on  astrology  and  my  sign  in  particular  .  and  i  feel  so  Good.  because  i’ve  been  learning  a  lot  about  myself  and  why  i  am  the  way  i  am  .  and  it’s  just  something  that  is  so  so  interesting.  i  love  that  i’ve  found  something  that  i  like.  ‘s  cool.  proud  aries  sun  /  virgo  moon  /  cancer  ascending  4  those  curious  enough  🦋   


alec lightwood fluffy rune ceremony hair + black suit appreciation post (ノ◕ヮ◕)ノ*:・゚✧