#still is really

[naruto-reread-maxxing]

Naruto literally had a panic attack at the thought of everyone around him finally abandoning sasuke and preparing to kill him and you’re telling me it’s platonic?

[chrispineofficial]

having A Day so. baby gracie be upon ye !

[oasisofgalaxies]

Hilda is hands down my comfort show I feel so much better

[frenchy-and-the-sea]

SC - Best of All

The only explanation I have for this is that I’m a Big Gay, and we love evocative hands. Granted, I have no idea if this is evocative, but I have feelings about Alex, my brain wasn’t cooperating on anything else, and I’m a Pisces. So here we are.

780 words.

-------

The first hands that Alex know are hard.

They grip tightly, rough as the bricks and cobbles that they press her against, rough with mutual inexperience and the boyish enthusiasm that comes with hands so used to taking, taking, taking. They take buttons off of her shirt sometimes, pulling until the threads snap and unravel. She learns to sew then. It adds pinpricks to the growing roughness of her own hands.

Most nights, she is fine. There is never force in the hands that know her, only sharp enthusiasm, and for all that sharpness, she likes the enthusiasm. Rough hands mean passion, mean excitement, mean that she's doing something right. It means she is safe for one more night, at least from the terrors of life on the street without a gang at her back. So most nights, she is fine. 

When she isn’t, she focuses on the cobblestones beneath her instead, and breathes, and she holds onto safety.

---

The next pair are gentle, and know her nearly without asking.

They crawl like ivy, soft as newly sprouted leaves, creeping hand over delicate hand across every nook and cranny that they can find. They are young hands, so much like her own, except that they do not stutter with inexperience. They do not stutter at all, ever. There are no secrets to the second pair of hands that know her, nothing that they do not understand, nothing that they have never seen. In their embrace, she feels as exposed in four layers of clothing as she does in nothing at all. 

They are nice, the second pair of hands, but when Alex leaves them, she runs.

----

The hands after that are a blur, one set tumbling right after another. 

She is more careful, then. She approaches first, finds them all herself; some for pleasure, some to pass the time, some to sate an intolerable urge for company that crops up every now and again. They are, all of them, kind, and mindful, and obedient. They come when she asks them to, and leave when they are both satisfied. It is a mutual agreement, always, and one that neatly sidesteps any complications of fondness.

And she enjoys them, mostly. There is a unique thrill in the changing, in the wide and shifting tapestry of hands that creep and clutch and leave their marks along her skin. Some are quick and clever, some hesitate at every inching step, but they are always kind and they are always mindful and they are always, always obedient. And best of all, when her memory conjures them again, it is only ever as hazy figures with generic, unremarkable faces, and they always come without their hands.

She thinks, for a long time, that this is how it will stay. She thinks that this is how it must be now, how she likes it.

She is wrong.

-----

Adelina’s hands are not rough or smooth, not hard or soft or a constant, hazy shifting in between.

They are working hands, simple. They have killed chickens as often as they have picked flowers, pinned laundry as often as they have hauled lines. Her fingertips are marked with strange little calluses, the product of hours of practice on her strange little guitar. She likes to press them into Alex’s sides until she laughs, then likes to make amends by working them deep into the knotted tangle of her hair, a soothing pressure that rides along her scalp and sends shivers down her spine. 

Adelina’s hands do not take. They do not guide, or simper, or wait for a command. They are simple things, slipping into the folds of her clothes, landing on hips and shoulders and collarbones, familiar without force, without need. They move with the wandering, ambling aimlessness of new discovery, uncovering sighs, groans, a long train of expletives that make her giggle. They hide her laughter, and then they don’t, and Alex is inexplicably glad for it.

In the dark, Adelina’s hands find hers, and they do not hold her still as she thrashes away from the grip of a nightmare. They press into the soupy, pre-dawn light instead, scratchy fingertips, smooth palms, a growing firmness along the length. They are not steady, but they meet her halfway through the reaching, and they are an anchor all the same. They stay until her shaking stops. Then there is breath along her knuckles, the tuneless hum of a lullaby, the soft scrape of a thumb. Then, there is sleep.

Adelina’s hands curl around her own, and she kisses every fingertip. 

And privately, silently, so that the words do not escape her mind, Alex thinks that she likes Adelina’s hands best of all.

[avengersaremyforte]

...i'll christen myself stick anon--i mean i know hes a bottom but there's gonna be moments early in the morning or at parties or whatever where hes just rubbing up against jamie ok. also don't tell me they've never had dick-sword-fights because they have. tyler probably has bought glow in the dark condoms so they can up the ante to light sabers.

Oh my god I love you! And that sound like a very Tyler seguin thing to do.

And you’re absolutely right he usually all over Jamie even with people looking. And there’s probably been a time or two during Tyler’s first years in Dallas where Jamie was super shy that Tyler might have topped.

[morskijez00]

It's been a while since I've posted any art here huh?

[umbralwaves]

When I became Aware of how "foreign" my diet is, I wondered what was with all the fucking butter and cheese. Like.