they go on tumblr


hello i’m shreya and i’m a gayest one here ✨

Sweet Treats

*So, I’ve been away for quite some time(namely since one of the largest amounts of dissapointment in television I’ve felt since I lived through the Steve-Joe crisis on Blue’s Clues), but have decided to write again because my muse struck me and I’ve got like 3 places I should be productively using it and instead of choosing one and forsaking the others, I’ve decided to ignore all three and use my precious creative currency on fanfiction.

(Also, because apparently people have started following me after said event, and it’s not like I do anything else of value on here, so you know, don’t bite the hand that feeds you…)


Never before had the lieutenant wanted a way to seek legal retribution on a weather person, but after today, she was seriously contemplating spending time googling what she could fit into the criteria of ‘fraud’ as a means of, at the very least, an entire 24 hours of grating inconvenience. In exchange for her own of course. She has been promised a week of sunshine, highs in the 90s and lows in the 80s, and perfect swells. A whole week, promised with 75%. If you aren’t sure say 50%. Why did they even have a 50% as a thing? It literally meant they had no idea whatsoever; whatever it was was just as likely to happen as not as far as they could tell. You say there’s a 50% chance of rain and who the h*ll knows what would happen and they’re still allowed to call themselves 'right’. Ugh, Jaime Gordon, weather extraordinaire, was in for it if 'it’ was at all, at any point, possible.

Abbie’s head swung toward the door as the bamboo feature slammed open and the dim midday light flushed in against the golden florescent along with a onslaught of fat, juicy raindrops. That was, until the lights flickered and cut out. Not the first time today. Neither took too much notice as the light turned what could only be described as lukewarm.

“I’ve managed to retrieve a plate of buffalo wings,” The gangling man pronounced the words with the same amount of semi-disdainful reluctance he mustered for all anachronisms he found ridiculous, “Though I fear the storm managed to claim our…tapas? As well as one of our drinks- as of yet I know not whose. The fried spam on rice, however, has made it unscathed within its styrofoam confines.”

Looking at the man, unfitted to the tourist shirt, so bright and covered in stylized lei flower print as well as a new pair of Bermuda shorts he held up with an also fresh belt, the end hanging out like it was 1985, Abigail couldn’t help a smile. The thin shirt fabric clung to the contours of his torso and teased transparency in its moistened state. He had looked so annoyed when she told him he couldn’t wear his normal clothes to the beach- even though she had told him before they left to borrow somethings for the trip. On the other hand, the goofy smile he’d managed once he’d dressed himself and finally allowed her to snap a few pictures to keep for until the end of feasible time was well worth it. Now though, he dripped heavily on the wood floor and over to the lush carpet placed at the sides of the beds they’d acquired.

“Oh, Babe- I’m sorry you had to go out in that-” Abbie began, getting up from the plush bed to get to the en suite and grab one of the soft towels.

“-Or let you brave the winds otherwise? Dash the thought.” Ichabod called to her as she went and he picked the shirt of his chest, flapping loose droplets from it, 

“Storm like this might well have carried you away.” She could hear the smile in his voice.

“You joke, but watch something like that actually happen one day. There are reasons I’ve never been to Chicago.” Her own smile matched his own by the time she re-emerged and came to him with the linen spread between her arms. Without thinking much about it, but feeling the posture as soon as she’d made it, she stood up on painted toes and reached around his head. It was awkward to her and still somewhat unfamiliar, but just as she’d become recently accustomed to he stooped over toward her, his scruffy, warm, comforting, delicious face nearing hers, while she massaged the rain from his long hair, down the edges of his jaw; his neck. His chest. Her thumb caught on one of his buttons. It was amazing how easily it popped right open.

“Perhaps we’d do best to eat first…” His breath, the dropped pitch of his voice on the cusp of a whisper, and his sheer closeness quite nearly made her eyes roll back and sent a shiver down her spine. Her head closed the space between it and his softly, feeling the not-so-soft strands of his beard against her cheek bone and temple. She breathed his scent, exaggerated by the rain, and turned her head to press her lips to his cheek quickly before she lost her resolve to indeed eat the food he’d fought his way back here for at her off-hand remark about the possible lack of room service in the wake of the storm.

It had taken some time after finding out that- surprise, surprise- Danny was not only a no good, selfish, flaky superior but a pretty lack-f*cking-luster prospect for a progressing future lovelife for Abbie to recover. First Andy- sweet but too easily misguided, and then Danny. She tried to choose carefully but she had begun to doubt either herself or her prospects, maybe even a combination thereof. And on top of all the other crap that had been just falling from the sky, raining down like the seventh plague in work, from work, outside of work, it was just a period of turmoil.

Lo and behold though, she emerged on the other side with a clearer vision of what she needed, what she wanted, and what was waiting for her if she decided to reach out for it. She had reached almost 2 weeks ago, and now was on this vacation to reach a little farther. Well, that and to get away from the absolute f*ckery of the current FBI.

At some point in her life she had resolved herself to not brooding or nitpicking at finding the perfect 'moment’, and so she did not wonder now, by sheer force of will, if she should have forgot the carry out boxes. Grabbing the two of them as well as the cup and plate while he took of his wet shirt, and draped the towel over his shoulders, she looked around.

“Where’d you put the forks?” The look on his face communicated his lapse in thought,

“Usually they put that in the container- that’s what they do at the MacDonald’s even. I didn’t think it any different than usual.” He began to stand.

“No- no, don’t worry about it.” She quickly stopped him, “You’re not catching pneumonia on account of plastic ware. We can eat with our hands.” Sitting down on the bed next to him, a knee up to face him, she passed him one container and opened her own. Inside was an almost overflowing pack of rice topped with delightfully edge-crisped spam pieces, a little thing that Abbie could only equate visually to a triangular hush puppy, and a little cubby stuffed full of pineapple chunks swimming in a clear glaze.

Around the conversational exchange about plans when the storm let up and comments of posted quips from friends on photos from the first day before they’d decided to use their phones as little as possible, were chuckles and giggles around falling food and messy hands. The food tasted superb- Ichabod gave it his own, tenuous, stamp of approval, citing if this is what they had to work with they had worked it well when speaking of the canned meat. The fruit went decidedly last, and after the salty meal, the sweet flavor popped even more.

“Abbie, these bananas-”

“The plantains?”

“Yes- Heaven alone knows why your temporal kin have made it their crusade to see what, if anything, can’t be fried- but I must say this is delicious. On occasion of course, not for the day to day, but a strikingly delicious treat nonetheless. Have some.” He offered happily, his fingers pinching two slices of the browned banana meat, lifted before her lips. Giving them a poking lick, she leaned in and pulled them into her mouth with a soft bite. He was right, they were good, but that wasn’t why she gulped them down so quickly. She looked down at her container and licked her lips once again, pulling the plump flesh in to be as inconspicuous as possible while she reached in and pulled out a pineapple wedge, waiting for one of viscous drops to fall before lifting it to her lips and taking a bite out of it, nodding to it’s own clear, citrus-y flavor doused in a thin, sweet syrup. She offered the rest it to him.

He glanced into her eyes for a moment that hovered in air for about as long as her missing heartbeat, but accepted the offering, his mustache tickling her outermost knuckle while his lips closed around her fingertips softly, briefly. Without thinking about it, and at the same time thinking of nothing else, she pulled her syrupy fingers back to her own lips and easily sucked them clean. 

Who knew pineapples could be an aphrodisiac?

“You’ve missed a bit.” he noted quietly, reaching out his hand, large and well used, to cup her whole cheek, brushing his thumb against the corner of her lips. Eyes glittering in each others’ reflection, Ichabod’s dropped to the thumb still softly stroking. His chest and shoulders heaved with a hungry breath as he looked to her lips and she felt hers fall slightly apart under his gaze. His face leaned closer and who knows where it was exactly when she closed her eyes and pressed forward to meet him.

His mouth engulfed her bottom lip, an ample supply of flesh for him to focus on. His facial hair tickled her the way she liked, and she lifted her hand to its place against his own cheek to keep him pressed to her, inhaling deeply through her nostrils as their mouths parted wide, readjusting and searching motivatedly for new corners of each other. She leaned into him more, lifting her bottom from the bed, chest now glued to his and feeling, somewhere in the peripheral of the sense, the styrofoam tipping onto her.

In movements slow and deliberate, and somehow at the same time quick and wasteless, Ichabod scooped the woman up into his arms off the bed and without breaking contact with her lips, moved her to the second bed merely a step away. He laid her down against it gently, leaned upon her body, her legs dangling over the edge on either side of him, the large t-shirt she had worn to cover her bikini when their plans had still included a day outside riding up to where it covered little to nothing at all. While she pulled the towel away from his shoulders, he pushed the hem of the garment up over her head and scooted her body under his deeper into the comforter and soft mattress, and in the fraction of a moment they had to part to get the thing off, he saw the smile on her face, and felt, as she did, at one with space, time, and partner.

I cannot believe that Voltron is trending over the inauguration. This is fucking crazy. A show, an actual show about robot lions defending the universe, is trending over the next president of the United States. It’s a huge fuck you. 

I spent a lot of time reblogging and posting voltron stuff today, and I feel like I was a part of a bigger picture. I’m so proud of this fandom. haha fuck you again Tronald Drump 

artists are so cool because they work really hard on stuff and spend long laborious hours making beautiful pieces of artwork and then caption it stuff like “my hand slipped” or “oops” or “got a little bored and this happened” or “lmao just sneezed a masterpiece out of my nose”

Historic Costume Ask Meme!

Hell followers old and new! I’ve come up with a daft game for your weekend.

Drop an ask in my inbox and message me your first name , and I will sort through my infinite files of historic costumes - historic suits/gowns/etc  and give you an outfit that suits you and your aesthetic, with a little mini-explanation on why i chose it for you.

RP blogs also v welcome! (looking at you, @annastrxng - go on, give me the opportunity to give Anna some fancy stuff)!


One leaf does not define the tree,
It is so much more.
We are fragments,
Our souls divided.
We are many components to a larger part;
Do not let one leaf define you.
Do not let the weight of them
Bare you down,
Let them bend your branches,
But never let them break.
And if you wait long enough,
It will be lost to the wind.
Allow it to go
When it is ready to depart.
Let new parts grow in its departure,
There is healing in that growth.
We are not stagnant,
We are fragments.

Anti-Trump protest photos

Apologies to tumblr followers. Fibonacci Blue photos go to tumblr via automated method, but it stopped. The protests broke tumblr?

So here they are…

Photos of the January 20 Trump inauguration protest in Minneapolis

Photos of the January 21 Women’s March in St. Paul