wondering if i should cut them again

Hair (Romione, George, Hinny)

I blame @blvnk-art for this fic. I was thinking on it this morning, especially Hermione deciding to shave her head and my muse smiled on me, threw a gallon of glitter on my head, and voila! The story poured out.

Rated T for bad language, some lime innuendo (it’s very light and Ace safe) and adult situations.

Hermione slipped out of the bed she shared with Ron and padded softly to the boy’s bathroom. She still felt grotty from yesterday, even after a scalding hot bath for an hour. While lying in the bed with Ron, his arm a comfort across her hip but sleep escaping her once again, she came to a pragmatic decision.

She closed the heavy door and picked up the brush she brought with her out of the beaded bag that was her lifeline. Her hair, the one thing on her that stayed when she wasted away, was officially a lost cause. She dropped the brush into the sink and pulled back her hair, trying to talk herself out of the decision made.

She had no logical argument to keep her hair, not when it had grown nappy, knotted, kinked beyond any ability of magic or potions. Exhaustion and pragmatic consideration made it an easy choice when she was standing in the boy’s bathroom of Gryffindor tower and Harry’s razor sitting in front of her.  One casting from the wand she hated with all of her soul sharpened the blade on the muggle safety razor and she went to work, with the wand in her hand and then the razor in the other.

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My AMAZING FRIEND offered to do the colouring for this, ISN’T IT AMAZING!!!? It’s perfect actually~ Expect more of her awesome colouring on here in the future<33 

http://alexandraduhkiwi.tumblr.com/ is their tumblr~

Under the cut I have two slightly relate-able doodles, I’ve been wondering if I should post crossdressing art that I’ve done outside the blog on here as well~

Ten years of stolen kisses

( i asked @numinoceur what to write and she said promptis smooches so then this happened! <3 ) 

Their first kiss is little more than an awkward bump of lips, and it happens instantly, so naturally, that afterwards, they both wonder why they hell they’d been separately obsessing over it so much.

It’s just the nature of their friendship, really, that things seem to fall into place without a whole lot of effort. For all of Noct’s moodiness, Prompto is cheerful and bright. For Noct’s stiff and formal upbringing, Prompto is easygoing, and casual. For all of the instability in Prompto’s life, Noct’s apartment becomes a haven, a place to weather out the storm. And for both of them, the other is a place of comfort, a warm embrace they can each turn to.

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“I’M COMPLETE. I SHOULD BE HERE. I SHOULD BE HERE. He reached out towards them again, his eyes wide. HAND HIM OVER!


*violently throws art at 1nky* IT’S DONE!

Fanart of @that1nkyone​‘s wonderful GB!AU fanfic “Spectrum” that you should really be reading if you enjoy the AU, transformations, bone-monsters, a whole lot of PEW PEW pew PEW BWAAARG SHING bduuiiiiiiiiIIIIIIII PEW and a interesting take on Gaster and his crew. It’s good shit.

* Don’t use without my permission, and please do not re-upload/re-post this anywhere <3

Some closeups (without blur) below the cut.

Oh yea and here’s a video of the art-progress over Here! (link)

Find me on deviantart: Here (link)

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Genre : fantasy / Cheshire Cat!Xiumin 
Summary : Coming home from the worst date of your life, you stumble upon a lone cat in the rain. And in a moment of moral consciousness you take the poor thing in, but then something weird happens.

He smiled a very cat like smile and It was both unsettling and calming at the same time. “Wonderland, where did you think you were?”

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i want to be proud of who i am
but i still get lost at sea, crushed by waves of insecurity
sometimes i don’t even see the point in trying to swim
i know it won’t be worth it, it won’t change me if i do
i’ll still be me
i still won’t be enough
i see my reflection in the water
staring back up at me
and even in the image distorted by ripples of waves, i see a chest that i don’t have any desire to flatten
because i like my chest
but i feel like i shouldn’t
and i don’t necessarily want hrt
but i feel like i should
i keep cutting my hair shorter
but sometimes i wonder what it would be like to have it cascade past my shoulders again
and i don’t think i should
and it’s so confusing
to have these thoughts then right away feel the need to contradict them
they remind me that i’ll never be trans enough to call myself trans
and every time i feel like this it makes me feel like i’m drowning
meanwhile everyone else has learned how to breathe underwater
—  enough
(cc, 2017)
Pulse Points:  Chapter 10

This chapter got away from me, so yes, it’s a long one. I hope nobody minds. :) Oh…it’s also rated M. 

You can read it here or on ff.net. 

Regina had no idea how long she and Robin been wrapped up together on the sofa.

To be honest, she really didn’t remember moving from the kitchen floor to the living room. But somehow they had, and they were still here, snuggled into each other under a blanket, legs tangled, hearts full, all warm and water-limbed, exhausted in every way possible.

She’d cried harder than she had in years, to the point where she was certain she couldn’t have any moisture left in her body. Her eyes had to be red and swollen, her cheeks a blotchy mess if the state of Robin’s face bore any resemblance to her own. But it didn’t matter. He was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen besides Henry.

“What are you thinking?”

His voice was low, barely more than a rumble in his chest. She snuggled in closer, wrapping her arms around him, reveling in the feel of him under her cheek.

“Not much, actually,” she hummed. “Too tired to think anymore.”

He chuckled and hugged her closer.

“Same here,” he breathed. His lips caressed her forehead, and she closed her eyes, sated and content. “It’s nice just to feel for a while, isn’t it?”

She chuckled.

“Now it is,” she answered. “It wasn’t before you came over tonight.”

“No,” he sighed. “You’re right. Before we talked, it hurt like hell.”

He was right–it had hurt like hell, had drained her of energy like a hemorrhage that wouldn’t clot. She raised her head and stared at this man who’d somehow carved out a huge place for himself in her life.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I never should have–”

He cut her off with his mouth, kissing her as best as he could manage in their current position. It was awkward, but wonderful, and she slid up his body to give them both a better angle, kissing him back soundly.

“No more apologies,” he muttered, drawing back just enough to speak. “I thought we agreed on that.”

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ChloNath Week Day 1: Bickering/Flirting

I’m a little late to the party, but I made it!  I combined the Day 1 prompt with this one from the fluffy prompt list: “Are you tired? Here, I’ll carry you the rest of the way.”

As they made their way through the Louvre, Nathanaël noticed as Chloe lagged farther and farther behind their group, her face pinched in a way that was less ‘foul temper’ and more ‘this hurts’. Even Sabrina had given up on staying back with her, though, which suggested that perhaps there was some foul temper there, too.  He sighed, knowing he was probably wasting his time, but he stopped to wait for her to catch up.

“What do you want, Kurtzberg?”  She demanded when she saw what he was doing.

He ignored her question, and cocked his head curiously.  “Are you tired?”

“No, of course not,” Chloe snapped petulantly, glaring at him.  “My feet hurt.”  

He looked pointedly at her feet, which were encased in lemon-yellow patent leather peep-toe pumps with ludicrously high heels, and raised a brow.

“What?  They’re gorgeous.”

“Oh, well then.  Come here, I’ll carry you the rest of the way.”

She looked at him with doubt and hope warring on her lovely face.  “Really?”

“No,” he scoffed.  “You should have known better than to wear four inch heels to a museum, Chloe.”

 “Ugh!  As if I would let you touch me, anyway.”  She stuck her nose in the air and attempted to flounce off, but the effect was ruined when she whimpered.

Nathanaël rolled his eyes.  “Chloe, wait.”  He lightly caught her wrist and she froze, her spine stiff.  “Come sit at this bench, and I will see if there’s a first aid station somewhere.  You probably have blisters or something.”

She huffed.  “Fine.  But be quick about it.”

He rolled his eyes again, and mentally berated himself for even trying.  He spoke briefly to their art history professor, and discovered that not only was there a first aid station, but that it was nearby.

He followed the directions and found the small office easily.  Inside, there was a kindly middle-aged man behind the desk who smiled knowingly when he heard Nathanaël’s request, but handed over a stack of Band-Aids without comment.  He thanked the man, and took his bounty back to Chloe.

To his surprise, he found her sitting on the bench with her shoes off, her heels perched on the edge of the bench, and her forehead resting on her raised knees.  She had nasty-looking blisters on the foot closest to him, so it was a good bet that she had a matching set on the other foot.  It was strange; she looked vulnerable in a way that he’d never seen before, and it made him glad that he’d braved her sharp tongue to help her. She must have heard him approaching, though, because her head snapped up and her feet dropped to the ground.

“Finally!”  She huffed, flushing not with anger, but embarrassment.  The anger was just a cover for her embarrassment at having been caught in a position of weakness.  

He blinked at the sudden insight, and wondered if there were more such insights to uncover.  His mouth curled into a smile, and she huffed again.  He held the Band-Aids out to her, and she snatched them from his hand.  His smile didn’t waver.  “Do you want me to wait with you?”

“Of course not, I—”  She cut herself off, blinking as she looked around and realized that the rest of their group had moved on to another section of the museum.  “Perhaps you should wait here.  Sabrina is gone, and I will need someone to dispose of the trash when I’m done.”

Nathanaël’s eyebrows climbed almost to his hairline.  “Oh, can I, please?”  He scoffed, shaking his head.  “You’re welcome for getting the Band-Aids that you so clearly needed, and you’re welcome for staying to keep you company until we can catch up with the group.”

She stared at him in confusion.  “Who the hell are you, and what have you done with Nathanaël Kurtzberg?”

His laughter rang through the gallery, followed by another indignant huff.

If You Want To

This is just me projecting onto Steve and unwinding a bit. Drabble all the way.


They’re somewhere in Denmark, in a city blurred into the last one, when Steve picks up a bottle of water from a vending machine and thinks about tombstones.

There’s one for Gabe in Massachusetts, in a family backyard because Gabe had faded with the colour of his uniform. His son had offered Steve a beer as they stood over the marked spot and had swallowed a pint with words, meeting Steve’s brow but never eyes. Dad, he called Gabe, and Steve could hear years in tge pause that followed. It was a crude job, a rough stone with a name and a chronology with no message. No last words.

It was a dead stone and Steve had pulled out his new SHIELD issued phone to check out where his own tombstone was.

Turned out, he didn’t have one.

They’re somewhere in Denmark, looking for a dead Bucky and alive Winter Soldier, when Steve thinks about his own death and wonders why they never buried him. Why they let him linger.

The sounds of a memorial, an exhibition, linger in his ears and he drains the water till there’s nothing left.

When they pause running, Sam makes stew during Sundays and Steve buys groceries if he ever peels out of the uniform. Paying someone while wearing the suit makes him clench up for some reason. Sam stirs his pot with a silence that seems like he knows what the reason is.

They don’t talk about it. Not even on those days when Steve’s staring too long at the white and Sam’s eyeing a wallet photograph too often. They make-out twice; in a church and a library. They almost go further once in those two times but then Steve hears someone who sounds like a past. Sam pats his shoulder and nods before meeting him in a car.

They remain friends and Sam smiles at him on Sundays. He also starts dating a cop. Steve eats stew that’s somehow red and doesn’t think about why his past sounded like a bleeding German scientist. He’s got enough red to focus on.

The world doesn’t have just one German scientist to torment him apparently.

This time they’re out on a floating city and Tony decides the future of half the population. Steve stands near Natasha and his mind flashes to a SHIELD bunker.

I didn’t tell him, he thinks and waits for death, I didn’t tell him and we’ll still die.

They don’t die but their world almost does. Not literal, but Steve has stopped being literal ever since he’s had to say he’s fine in this century. Tony’s Vision, Ultron’s Vision, a combination of a misguided hero and a mistaken saviour, saves the day. He doesn’t call Tony sir and Steve ignores the way Tony always seems to wait for it.

Like he’s waiting for a past to come back.

Steve doesn’t say me too. He knows he’s wrong. He doesn’t know what’s right anymore.

I can’t tell him, he thinks as he watches Tony go, racing away in a car slower than him. I can’t add another past that’ll never be rectified to his ledger.

It sounds fake to his ears but his hands shiver when he thinks otherwise and Steve goes along with the fake. He’s done that for a couple of years to know it enough now.

Steve is watching Rhodey train with Wanda when he thinks about the difference between a legend and a foreshadowing. His eyes track Rhodey’s arm as he fires and charges, ducks and weaves with the precision of experience. The armour is heavy but the man is light. The armour sports a machine gun, like the famed battlecry. The man sticks kill marks of Ultron stickers on his suit. Steve watches Rhodey and thinks about how he would become a legend with or without the team.

Wanda blocks a firing and Steve remembers the Ultron she had helped create. She is defensive in attack and fraying thin in control and her feet advance even as she retreats in plan. He sees red streaming from her hands and knows that she is a foreshadowing for or against the Avengers.

He watches her push Rhodey off and then get subdued by his tech, and doesn’t think about what teams mean with two threats.

I won’t tell him, he thinks as he gets in between Wanda and Rhodey to make a new routine of a shield and a fire. I won’t be his counter threat or make him one.

Wanda throws him into a wall and he bleeds despite knowing it would happen before.

Tony looks at Steve and talks to Natasha after they killed 11 innocent people in Lagos. Wanda is outside, away from Tony and this team. The team that started it all. The soldier, the spy, and the soldering joint. They tell her it’s her choice but they’re all liars with honest intentions and Steve knows that she has choices she won’t be able to compensate for. Tony looks at him and Steve thinks he’s angry. Tony talks to Natasha and Steve thinks he’s afraid.

It takes him too long to realize that he had it all wrong.

I don’t know how to tell him, he thinks as he hugs Natasha in an empty church. They’re both liars and both ghosts of some past. They’re both betrayals to someone and they’re both clinging to something that’s slipping. I don’t know how to tell him without ending everything I know.

They’re in a bunker in Siberia and Steve is lying again when he thinks of ice and metal. How they’re never a match. How one will melt and the other will rust. He’s lying to the man who was his friend and Steve watches the friendship die in Tony’s eyes.

He wonders if it will ever have a tombstone.

They leave the bunker, a broken man and a bent relic, and Steve leaves his lies with Tony on the ground.

He wonders if his shield was tombstone enough.

I should have told him, he thinks as he visits a dead friend’s tombstone again, and this time there are words. There’s white marble and clean cuts and no sons offering bitter beer. There’s two names and a past, and Steve stares at them with an appearance that is not him. I should have told your son your truth. I should have told him my truth.

There are words on the tombstone and Steve reads them with blurry eyes.

You always can, if you want to.”

Poison and Lies Part 2

Prompt: 1,050 110,111 and 125 with Tim?

Part 1


How long have we known each other?

-About fifteen years. Give or take. But that doesn’t mean I trust you.

125: Do I need to tell you everything I love about you?

Pairing: Tim X Reader

Word Count: 1,246


You took a breath before releasing the Batfam. Each falling to the ground with their own certain grace. Red Robin had to be held off from Nightwing before he ran straight at you. They both nodded and walked calmly towards you while Batman cuffed your mother and Robin- Damian-went to check on your father. Red Robin stopped in front of you,“Y/N? Are you okay?”

  You shook your head,“I… don’t know…”

  Red Robin reached out and you grabbed his hand like a vice, he grit his teeth but didn’t complain,“You’re gonna be fine.”

You still sat down at the bat computer, still struggling with everything that happened in the forest. Alfred walked over a tray in hand and Tim right behind him. The rest of the Batfamily going away to deal with your mother, the man you had thought was your father, and to patrol. Bruce had given you a spare cloak back when they rescued you from what turned out to be in the remote jungle of Brazil.

Tim took one of the mugs from Alfred’s tray as he pulled up an extra chair and handed it to you, it was your favorite tea, and you smiled as you held the warm mug in your hands. Your mother’s craftsmanship did little to protect you from the damp coldness of the cave. Tim cleared his throat, “so, how are we feeling.”

“Horrible,” You admitted, “Like I never should have left that damn forest.”

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anonymous asked:

Both Fred and George Weasley are aro ace and form deep qprs with Lee and Angelina. They were always confused when told about "crushes" and stuff and turned to jokes and pranks about it instead. - Hufflepuff

Honestly, for the longest time, Fred and George thought they were being pranked whenever people discussed romance and crushes and sexual desires. They knew, realistically, that these things must exist - their parents seemed happy together and their relationship was differently than purely friendly. But that always seemed so distant and far off. Something only a few people felt. Bill got flirty with some people, but never seriously dated (until Fleur). Charlie never dated at all. Percy didn’t date for the longest time (or hid it really well). But when Ron and Ginny started dating, Fred and George began to realize that maybe it wasn’t just some elaborate prank everyone was pulling on them.


Fred and George intensely watched Lee and Angelina, heads bent close together as they whispered and laughed together, sitting close and not bothered by the lack of personal space.

“Do you think they’re dating?” George asked, slowing starting to understand the fact that romance wasn’t just an elaborate prank everyone was pulling on him and his twin brother. 

“I think you’re starting to cross the line into paranoid, mate,” Fred replied. He’d wrapped his mind around people dating for real, even though he still didn’t understand it. George was tending to think everyone who spent time together was dating, while Fred still assumed they were all friends. “If you really wanna know, I suppose we could, y’know, ask them.”

George frowned, then brightened. “True,” he said, up and moving towards their pals before he’d even finished the word. Fred automatically stepped into pace with his twin.

“Oi, what’s up?” Fred said loudly, collapsing onto a seat next to Lee as George placed himself by Angelina.

Angelina rolled their eyes at them. “I guess we should be asking you two that,” she said.

“Georgie and I were wondering if you two were dating,” Fred said, cutting right to the chase.

Angelina rolled her eyes again while Lee laughed, slipping an arm over Fred’s neck and shoulder, hanging off him in a friendly manner. “No, mate, not quite.”

“I’m totally confused,” George said. “I can’t figure out who is dating and who isn’t. Color me stumped.”

Angelina patted George’s leg. “No worries. It’s not typically any of your business if people are dating each other. Since you’re not interested in dating anybody, I can’t really think of many circumstances where you would actually need to know, other than just pure curiosity.”

“See, George, nothing for us to worry about,” Fred said brightly.

“I’m not worried,” George clarified. “Just confused. Why do people even want to date? There’s so many better things you could be doing,” he wrinkled his nose.

Angelina finally laughed. “People wonder the same thing about many of your interests. People just enjoy different things,” she said kindly.

“You were onto something, though,” Lee said. “Angelina and I aren’t dating, but we are in a queerplatonic relationship. Easiest way to explain that is a ‘committed friendship’. There’s just so much here that we go through that others, even you two, can’t understand. We really had to rely on each other for support. Fortunately, we each have very agreeable personalities -” at this, Angelina let out a snort of smothered laughter, “and get along very well. We’ve gotten close enough that we wanted some way to label that and commemorate that, so we decided on a qpr.”

“Hey, another relationship type I think I can actually understand!” George said.

George had just been excited to come to some realizations, but Fred couldn’t get the idea of being in a qpr out of his head after that. It was hard for him, especially, to tell his friends and family how he felt about them out loud. Being in a qpr seemed like it could be a good, serious way for him to show his closest friends just how much he cared for them, even if he had a hard time articulating it.

When he nervously (which he covered up by being extremely awkward and even more loud than usual) approached Lee and Angelina about also being in a qpr with them, George had immediately followed suit, not wanting to be left out of something so important to his friends - or to himself.

~Hufflepuff Mod

Pompeii Chapter 4

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Sakura woke once more with an aching back. She was up before the sun again and she scowled slightly as she rubbed at the soreness plaguing her spine.

She definitely needed to get a mattress today, even if she didn’t get a bedframe. Her poor back just couldn’t take it.

Sakura jumped as a tapping sound filled the darkened room. She walked out of her bedroom and stared at the sight before her in slight bewilderment.

A flock of crows were gathered on her balcony, painting the white-washed floor and rails in a sea of black.

Sakura struggled to remember what a group of crows was called as she strode forward, crouching by the sliding glass door.

They seemed rather docile, truth be told and they were certainly beautiful. The one who tapped, seemingly the leader, had bright red eyes just like the Uchiha cousins.

“A murder of crows,” Sakura said, snapping her fingers as a smile lit her face. “You guys don’t seem too bad though. No idea why Shikamaru thought you were worrisome yesterday.”

The lead crow pecked at the glass again, tilting its head in a, quite frankly, adorable manner.

Sakura stood, wavering only a second before opening the door.

The lead crow squawked at the others and the ravens and crows began lining up in an orderly fashion. Then, one by one, they hopped up to Sakura’s feet, dropping an item there before taking off for the rails once more.

It was the strangest sight Sakura had seen since arriving.

The lead crow came last, spreading its wings and flying up to Sakura’s hand. She watched silently as it landed gently, careful not to prick her with its talons.

The crow cawed proudly, dropping something shiny in Sakura’s free hand before flying off. The other birds followed but Sakura could see them settle in on the powerlines near her house. Another murder awaited them there and they sent up a cacophony of cries.

Sakura prayed she didn’t have any neighbors.

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I thought I was getting better
I had started to take care of myself
Then the crushing weight of reality crashed down on me
That feeling in the morning of being glued to the bed
Being too sacred to face the world
Not wanting to have to face another day
Everyone has been asking me what I do with my time and I am too ashamed to tell them what is going though my mind lately
I wonder why I am here?
Why should I go on living?
I worry I am just a parasite and the world would be better off without me
I feel as if my existence is draining resources that could be used on a better human being
I went back to trying to bleed my problems out
Those thoughts of dying still came back
Now I have these cuts all over my wrists to hide again
I am lost and confused
I wish I knew what to do next

“I. I know life goes on with or without you, but it all seems so fucking dull since.

II. They have classes for drugs and alcohol, but not for love, and I find that I’ve always been more drawn to other people than I have to objects.

I need help to wean myself off of you because if I don’t, i’m afraid i’ll lose to my own head.

I remember how you blocked me, and how easy it was for you–For it to not bother you that we won’t talk again. For it to not hurt you. I wonder how you did it.

If someone would tell me that you were a piece of shit, I’d cut them off and tell them that you were the best, only lost when it came to love.

I remember the last day we shared. I felt so much love, but I should have paid more attention to the words you spoke. It all sounded too much like a goodbye.

I know you weren’t heartless. You always got sad about past lovers and how you were never comfortable in your own skin; but when you left, it didn’t seem like you had any feelings in a single part of your body.

Everyday I catch myself wondering if you’ll ever come back and I spend those times waiting for you. I know it’s not healthy. I know I should have better things to do.

I’m afraid that you will come in with sweet words and i’ll be a prisoner to you again, but I am more terrified that you will never speak another word to me.

You’ve seen people strung out on drugs because they’ve been held captive by their addiction, but I don’t think some people know how strung out you can be on love. How obsessed you can become. How much self hatred runs through your veins when you two are arguing. How your feelings are based on how they are treating you. It makes you feel tired. It drains you. And when it’s all over, you have to fight like hell everyday with your addiction gone. You have to spend every waking moment recovering. You have to find purpose again, because their love was your whole purpose.

I catch myself thinking of every regret I have about our relationship; the things I did, the things I didn’t do. I can’t help but think that if I would have done some things differently, we’d still be going strong. But I can’t take things back, and because of that, we drifted so far apart.

You promised to never hurt me again, and then spent everyday after doing exactly that.

I want you to tell me the truth, even if it rips me open. Come on, tell me. Tear my heart apart one last time.

We spent our last day having sex, and I wonder if during that time, you already knew you were going to leave.

It’s easy to dehumanize you. To tell them you were cruel. To tell them you lacked important organs such as a heart. But really, those things aren’t true. Sometimes it’s just that two people don’t work out, even if they really want it to. Even if they love the other person.

I hope you remember the times we shared. The times I touched you and you felt on top of the world. The times love ran through your veins and it felt too fucking good. I hope you remember and miss me. I hope you remember and know you made a mistake.

You used to give me that feeling of running through a sprinkler in eighty degree weather. You used to give me that feeling of coming home after a long day and jumping into bed, under five blankets. You used to give me the best feelings that life had to offer, but I don’t have any of those feelings anymore. The bed doesn’t make me feel comfortable, the weather doesn’t make me feel nice, and you don’t make me feel loved anymore.

This last one is to just tell you goodbye. I hope you know i’ll always love you. You were my first love, my most toxic, strongest addiction. whether we talk a couple months from now or never talk again, you’ll always be in my memory. I’ll always reminisce about you.”

—  eighteen thoughts about you and how you broke my heart (in no particular order)
[Hetalia Fic]

Title: The Quiet Things
Rating: M for many feels and off screen smut.
Genre: Drama/Angst
Chapters: 1/1
Summary: Sometimes America can be selfish, and both England and Russia are guilty of indulging him. .
Pairings/Characters: Russia/America, established!England/America.
Warnings/Notes: America is in a relationship with England but spends the night with Russia. Take that as you will.

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Writing tips - post apocalyptic

Hey guys! Grim here.

This was supposed to be Monday’s post. I’m really sorry that I couldn’t post it then.


Here are some basic rules any writer should keep in mind when writing about a post-apocalyptic/survival scenario.

1. Canned food is your characters’ new bff. Seriously, I have seen a certain bestseller (Who shall not be named but let’s just say sparkles and los plagas) write about her absolute idiot  of a protag collecting milk, carrots, twinkies, gone-off crackers, cookies and a whole heap of other foodstuffs that are totally unsuited for surviving on whilst off in a cave in the middle of nowhere.

If your character’s can grow some fresh food, good for them, they’ll get some much needed vitamins. But fresh food goes off really quickly with or without refrigeration. Go to your fridge, look at the expiration dates on your milk and veggies and meats and whatnot. They all last about a week or so, right? That’s in the fridge.  Outside of the fridge some of that stuff won’t even last a day. Now, Ireland is a pretty cold country, but if you take milk out of the fridge, it still goes off after an hour or two. (I know this from forgetting I had a glass of milk as a kid then finding it after a couple of hours. It stank.) 

EDIT: I have been corrected, it’s apparently four hours max for milk, not one or two. It is still not long enough for someone to go lugging a standard two-litre carton back to their cave in the middle of Arizona, though. 

Also i forgot to mention this, but the milk thing reminded me: if you have not grown up on unpasturied, unhomogenised milk, you will get seriously ill from drinking it.

Twinkies are arguably the WORST thing you could grab in an apocalypse. The cream inside will go sour and you will be left with a really bad case of the skitters (runs/diarrhoea). We don’t have twinkies in Ireland and I know this! This is common sense.

EDIT: Apparently the cream doesn’t go sour. I apologise for the mistake, but i got the info from an American sporking of the above mentioned los plagas story, and so i assumed that they were correct as we do not get twinkies here.

I just… I can’t even. just think before you have your scavenger grab stuff, okay?

2. Preppers are the most likely to survive. Also common sense. 

Another thing is that the ones who prepare for the collapse of society will have prepared for the human element as well, meaning they will have weapons. If the leader has a gun they should all have guns. This is another thing that the unnamed writer got wrong. She gave a useless “rifle” (It was a shotgun, she just didn’t know the difference.) to the leader and it was pretty clear the only reason he was in charge was because he kept poking the gun at whoever tried to disagree with him. That wouldn’t work in real life. The guy the leader threatens, if he’s speaking sense he’s going to have a friend or two, and they are not going to be happy. Unless the leader dude is a really quick shot he’d be dead in that situation - someone would manage to clunk him upside the head or disarm him eventually.

In short, if the leader is an idiot he will be deposed swiftly.

3. In the event of an invasion of aliens who can take human form or possess humans, if there are visible signs, they are going to be killed on sight. If here aren’t visible signs, your characters will not trust anyone outside of their group, and if a group member goes missing, that’s it, they’re presumed to be captured. If they show up again no one should touch them with a barge pole, they could be possessed or indoctrinated.

4. Fire is really bad against zombies/the undead. The various video games and novels and whatnot on the subject all say one thing; “Cut off the head or it ain’t dead, Set it on fire and the situation is dire.” there I made it rhyme for easy remembering! You do not want flaming zombies zerg rushing you. 

As MatPat of Game theory recommends, an axe is wonderful. You have the reach for no biteys, you can hook the blade around to get at the back of the neck and it’s relatively clean so less chance of flying undead bits and infection. 

You really want to minimise your contact with undead gore. Antiseptic would be a must have, as would gloves, facemasks and other bits and pieces if you plan on looting undead corpses.

5. If you get shot/injured and loose consciousness, firstly, you won’t remember a thing. There is no “Encroaching darkness/fog” or any of that nonsense. Can you remember the exact moment you fell asleep? Of course not. You might remember getting the injury or falling over, but you’re not going to remember the exact moment you go out of it.

If you subsequently wake up in an unfamiliar house and you have been bandaged up and made comfy, don’t immediately freak out. They probably aren’t going to kill you. Unless they are seriously messed up, but that’s a whole ‘nother story. 

So, do not go ripping out your IV drip for fear that it is “truth serum” - yes, that exists (sodium pentothal) but plain old alcohol is more effective. Just refuse if they offer you a pint or mysterious liquid to drink. there’s a gene that causes an alcohol intolerance or allergy - say you have that and you could die if you drink alcohol. It’s most common in people of Asian descent, so if you have to lie and say your great-granddad is Asian on your mother’s side or something, do it. The only way they might catch you out is by finding a family photo with said granddad in it or if they used alcohol to clean your wounds and you didn’t have a reaction.

See my post on medicine for more details on this kind of situation.

6. Duct-tape is your best bud for repairs and crafting.

The mythbusters did a whole episode on how you could survive in the wilderness with nothing but a crapton of duct-tape and a knife. That stuff is freaking durable! They made hammocks and a freaking chess set!

Think about it - you could tape a flashlight to your gun, tape that hole in your shoes up, tape stuff together to make a shelter. There are a ton of uses for duct-tape, so if it’s there have your intrepid survivalist grab it.

7. A few factors probably went into crafting your post-apocalyptic world.

One pandemic, war or natural disaster on its own isn’t going to do much. A few of them occurring at the same time or one after another would be much more plausible. In the case of hordes of the undead or something - I gotta give you that one, if it happened fast enough and they were tough enough to withstand the world’s armies, then yeah, it could happen.

8. Nuclear fallout does not create awesome mutants.

It causes things like leukaemia and birth defects and infertility. It would be highly unlikely that a beneficial mutation would occur. If you’re going with the realm of science, be realistic about it - or as realistic as you can be without a degree. (As regards the X-men, I’m pretty sure that it’s a gene that gets triggered by nuclear fallout in some cases, but I am probably wrong - as i have said before, we don’t really get comics where I’m from, so I’m only familiar with movie versions.In any case, a gene being triggered isn’t quite as bad as “Nuclear fallout gave me the ability to do x, y and z!”)

EDIT I meant to put in number nine originally, but I forgot.

9. Pregnancy could equal DEATH 

There are so many things that could go wrong. A miscarriage after a certain point would leave the lady stuck with a dead fetus rotting inside her. She would die of aseptic poisoning (Something that can also happen during a period if the blood isn’t allowed to leave the body, though periods should be a non-issue during the apocalypse, you’d be way too malnourished to have one). Even if by some miracle she carried to term, she’d probably die in childbirth because your average survivor wouldn’t be a midwife with experience delivering a baby without proper hospital care. Say she did survive, the baby would die anyway because she wouldn’t be able to produce enough milk. Where are you gonna get formula that will last the baby until it’s on solids? Without a blender or baby rice/food how are you gonna get a baby onto solids? Also, if the baby had to be delivered by C-section or there was significant tearing during a natural birth - bye bye lady. Also, the blood will attract predators!

So you have this constant drain on your precious resources for up to nine months and at the end of it you’re probably down a survivor and to top all that off, the father has also lost his partner and his child in one fell swoop, potentially seriously damaging his psyche, so you might wind up with a death seeker on your hands endangering everyone else. 

And in the series I mentioned (under the food section, with the plagas) the protagonist and her boyfriend were more concerned about how it “wouldn’t be fair” to bring a child into their post-apocalyptic world. LOOK AT EVERYTHING THAT COULD GO WRONG!


That’s all I’ve got for now. I hope this helped you guys in your writing endeavors, and as always, if you have a question, do not hesitate to use the ask feature.

Hope you have an awesome day!

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Hey I just made an imagines/headcanon mm blog and I was wondering how to start? Like how long does it take to have the first requests and if I should do something to encourage them? Thank you!

Sometimes I get asks like this, or private messages with this same question, and to avoid this question coming back into my inbox again and again, I’m going to write a few tips and general advice that I’ve used or needed to hear while running this blog. Since this is going to get lengthy, I’m putting it under a cut.

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Scenes I loved in episode 12 of Yuri on Ice (I hope I don’t have to wait long to do this for episode 13 and onward):

Victor looking pretty, whether he’s mad or sad. I wonder how differently this scene would have ended if we weren’t getting a second season. Feels like they purposely cut it short.

Celestino and his Pantene past!

These two cuties. I want to see more of them next season.

The cutest ice skating show on the planet. I love Phitchit; I want to hug him to bits. Love the two grumpies at either end of the train. Lol.

The make-up scene. This really should have ended in a kiss…again, I wonder if they changed this because of season 2.

The adorable, weepy cheerleaders. I want to see more of Minami next season too.

My heart almost couldn’t take the sweetness.

And here’s where I lost it for the first time.

Another lost opportunity for a kiss.

Totally shipping Chris/Minako for next season!

Cried again here.

Oh, I want LOTS more of these two next season FOR SURE.

Really the only results I had a hard time with was JJ and Otabek’s…I really wish they could have been switched.

OK, they really better smooch a whole bunch next season to make up for ALL the missed opportunities in this episode!

Cried again. No offense to all the hard working individuals who made this show possible, but I really can’t wait for the clean ending sequence without the credits. I also wish it wasn’t cut short. I hope we get the longer, full version next season.

Makkachin is with him, so obviously Yuuri is living with Victor in St. Petersberg. THEY BETTER BE LIVING TOGETHER.

Their love. My heart. Cried again…and didn’t stop for awhile. I will love YOI forever and I cannot wait to see what lies in store for Victor, Yuri, Yurio, and everyone else in the next phase of their journey.