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harbinger-of-silly

All gays will go to hellsite

king-of-oreo

What if in hellsite but not gay

NO!

String identified: A ga g t t at t t t ga T tag g a Ag agag Acctac ! T tag g a Ag agag Acctac

Closest match: Psylliodes chrysocephala genome assembly, chromosome: 4 Common name: Cabbage Stem Flea Beetle

(image source)

graveexcitement

kebbopulos

spaghettihell

crowboy-bebop

unauthorized fucking thing!!!!!!

(warning: loud chirping throughout)

source: hellgate osprey cam

curlicuecal

littlefangedguy

teathattast

catchymemes

everyone: happy pride month 🌈

my brain at 12:00 am on june 1st:

fictionalgod

whimsy-flags

Some Pride Cheetah Emojis for @farida-dragonheart!

Aro | Aroace | Ace

Autism | Agender | ADHD

Enjoy!!

glitterystrawberrypeace

some memes for your enjoyment

tinybed

comealongphil

dawn dimmadome? wife of doug dimmadome, owner of the dimmsdale dimmadome?

punkrorschach

actually she took the dimmadome in the dimmadivorce

heavensghost

I love with my teeth

sagebrush-and-sadness

I really, really love Kurt's eyes. I've always had a thing for "empty" eyes, those that are one solid color. It's weird, it's intriguing, and, if you ask me, it's attractive. That being said — cat-eyed Kurt absolutely deserves to be more popular.

Kurt Wagner's eyes used to unsettle you. The first time your gaze met his — a direct clash as your hand was enveloped by the warmth of his palm in a handshake — a slight shiver traveled down the back of your neck. Such a handsome young face, all sharp edges and clear lines accentuated by brushstrokes of black shadows; a harmony of striking features chiseled to fit the sheer chivalry and charisma of the man in front of you. Kitty didn't lie the day before: you could already spy the daring of a self-proclaimed swashbuckler as it shaped his lips into a dashing smile.

But his eyes made you pause somewhat, slow down in all these mental observations of yours. They were big, sly, and cat-like. Two slits of thinned pupils swam in the pools of liquid gold, moving in methodical sweeps as they took you in head to toe. Pointing like twin blades. Evaluating what was before them. You couldn't really say what conclusion Kurt reached as he squinted amiably goodbye, flourished his tail, and went back to tinkering with the insides of what you assumed was the famous Black Bird — and it made you feel almost creeped out.

Gradually, the impression melted away like fresh snow, exposing the depths of your initial attraction. And after some time, you found yourself thinking they were actually quite endearing, his eyes. With Nightcrawler's trademark cat-like grace and attitude to match, they now seemed charming in their own unique way — much like the man they belonged to.

Although recently, you began to notice something strange about his eyes. It was nothing serious, thank goodness: they remained as cunning and keen as ever, but now as soon as they landed on you, the usual slits would expand into two black holes, leaving the gold naught but a thin border. It happened so quickly the first time that it made you stutter mid-word, and Kurt had to blink rapidly to get it back to "normal."

After that, you verified with a couple more close encounters, it always worked like a charm — your figure came into his line of sight, and his pupils dilated like two camera lenses focused solely on you. What should you have made of it? You couldn't tell, and in truth, you didn't want to assume. Naturally, you knew about the phenomenon of the "love hormones" forcing a person's pupils to widen upon seeing the object of their passion, but Kurt's anatomy... it wasn't entirely common, and you knew that too.

After all, you were there on missions with him when his eyes turned black with battle-born glee as he bristled and bared his teeth, light-hearted theatrics suddenly turned carnivorous. In the velvet gloom of local bars, Kurt's eyes seemed bottomless: every colorful speck of light got swallowed in the voids of them as he nursed his beer and exchanged remarks with Rogue or Logan, mellow, playful, and just the right amount of tipsy.

It all made sense, it all followed a certain logic, a certain pattern even. With Rogue, brotherly affection bloomed in his gaze like a flower — slow and relaxed, swelling ever darker with each passing second; while with others, his pupils widened rather to the size of a petal, still elongated but softened, rounded on the sides.

With you, it was an explosion. An instant crossing of the line between regular and particular, and evidently an impulse that made Kurt himself clear his throat upon realization. But why? Why you and why such a sudden change?

It was Gambit, your local proud cat dad, who finally resolved your inner dispute with yourself one day. He noticed your lonesome figure after the usual debriefing of another successful mission and floated close in his usual lazy, I-was-just-walking-by manner, the deck rustling knowingly in his nimble fingers. You let him catch up with you.

"I must say, you tourtereaux don't even try to keep it low-key, eh?"

You shot him a quick curious glance, not entirely grasping what he meant by that. True, your fancy for the dashing swashbuckler was no secret to those with eyes to see, Remy included. With his keen sense for matters of the heart, it would have been futile to even try denying it. So you didn't. And it only took you a week or two to turn impenetrable to all the veiled barbs he sent your way any chance he got. But they had always been aimed solely at you — so where did the tourtereaux come from?

Your face must have betrayed your genuine confusion too clearly, because Gambit laughed in disbelief — that kind of surprised laugh, as if you didn't know something everyone had already caught on to. Something you should have caught on to first.

"Don't tell me you don't notice the fur ball going all puss on a hunt on you? Don't even have to look up from my cards to see it from across the room!"

You felt your heart leap and tremble in your chest, like a cartoony alarm clock when it rings with a shrill cry.

"A hunt? Remy, don't be ridiculous. It's Kurt you're talking about, not one of your domestic beasties."

Your companion grinned, a twitch of smug lips.

"Oh, but trust old Gambit, mon amie," he leaned in conspiratorially, a patronizing hand on your shoulder. "All men are beasts by nature. It just takes the right woman to bring one around."

Breath caught in your throat at that, and when you stopped dead in your tracks to look the gambler in the eyes, they gleamed with satisfaction the color of burgundy. Wordlessly your whole stance demanded: explain. And explain he did.

"You see, Mr. Hallelujah here wants to play a game with you. A game of cat and mouse, if you catch my drift."

Oh, you caught his drift alright — along with your slack jaw.

Gambit chuckled, ceased fiddling with his cards, slipped the deck into the inner pocket of his coat, and finally decided to finish you off.

"Be careful, ma copine. He must see you as a prize worth catching and keeping all for himself, that greedy devil."

And then he turned and walked away, a carefree lightness in his gait and a cheerful whistle on his lips — leaving you to scrape the scattered pieces of your thoughts off the the hollow corridor's walls.

looney-lei

I've read multiple headcanons that make Kurt latch unto reader like a Koala when cuddling and,, awww how could I not? uwu I like to make the "reader" off camera so more people can kinda see themselves there

honeyedprongs

𓍢ִ໋ ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐂂ִֶָ་༘࿐ 𝐹𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓇 𝒟𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓂𝓈 𝒜𝓃𝒹 𝒟𝑒𝓋𝑜𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃

draco malfoy x reader (~1,500 wc) ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆𖢻

sypnopsis —

One sleepless winter night.

One clingy, feverish husband.

And several increasingly pathetic requests for “just one more kiss.”

Snow battered the manor windows hard enough to sound like thrown gravel.

The wind howled through the old estate in long, mournful groans, rattling the shutters and slipping icy fingers beneath every door no matter how many servants stoked the fires. The entire countryside had frozen solid beneath winter’s cruel hand, roads buried beneath thick drifts, horses refusing to travel farther than necessary.

And upstairs, in the dim gold warmth of Draco Malfoy’s bedchamber, your husband burned alive with fever.

You woke to the sound of coughing.

Not the restrained sort Draco usually hid behind his fist with quiet irritation, but something rough and violent that tore straight from his chest. It echoed through the dark room until it dissolved into a ragged breath.

The mattress shifted sharply beside you.

“Draco?”

Another cough answered you.

You sat up immediately, sleep vanishing as moonlight spilled across his figure. Even in the dark you could see how wrong he looked. Sweat dampened the pale strands of his hair until they clung against his forehead, his breathing uneven beneath the heavy blankets tangled around his waist.

“Don’t light the lamp,” he muttered hoarsely.

Too late. You already had the match in hand.

Soft amber flooded the room.

Draco squinted against the brightness with a quiet hiss before turning his face deeper into the pillow.

Your heart clenched.

He looked dreadful.

His normally sharp features had gone flushed from fever, pale skin stained pink high across his cheeks and nose. There was exhaustion beneath his eyes, and his lips looked dry despite the sheen of sweat along his temples.

“You’re burning,” you whispered, immediately pressing the back of your hand to his forehead.

The heat nearly startled you.

Draco made a low sound at the contact—not quite a sigh, not quite a groan—before suddenly catching your wrist.

“Stay.”

“I’m only getting water.”

“Stay first.”

The words came rough and quiet.

Needy.

That alone told you how ill he truly was.

Draco Malfoy was affectionate even on ordinary days. In private, away from noble eyes and sharpened gossip, he had always been far softer than the rest of the world realized. He kissed your knuckles absentmindedly during supper, pulled you into his lap while reading correspondence, buried his face against your neck whenever returning from long rides.

But sick?

Sick Draco became something else entirely.

Every ounce of restraint vanished beneath fever.

You barely had time to set the lamp aside before he was moving toward you, large hands wrapping around your waist as he dragged himself close with exhausted desperation.

“Draco—”

He buried his face directly against your stomach against the soft fabric of your nightgown, arms tightening around you immediately.

His forehead pressed into your stomach like some oversized, miserable cat.

The heat of him seeped through the thin cotton instantly.

You couldn’t help the small, helpless smile that touched your mouth despite your worry.

“Oh, darling…”

A muffled noise came from him.

Then another cough shook his frame.

You threaded your fingers carefully through his damp hair, pushing pale strands back from his forehead while he practically melted against you at the attention.

“There you are,” you murmured softly. “Poor thing.”

“Mm.”

“You should’ve told me you felt this bad before bed.”

“I was fine.”

“You are very clearly not fine.”

Draco only burrowed closer.

The movement would have been amusing if he did not look so utterly exhausted. One of his hands slid beneath the blanket to find yours, immediately intertwining your fingers as though terrified you might disappear.

“Don’t leave,” he mumbled again.

“I’m not leaving.”

“You were going to.”

“For water.”

“I don’t care.”

You nearly laughed.

Instead, you leaned down to kiss his feverish temple. His eyes closed instantly at the affection, lashes fluttering faintly.

“There,” you whispered. “Satisfied?”

“No.”

The answer came immediate.

You blinked. “No?”

Another weak cough rattled through him before he tilted his face upward just enough for you to see the miserable crease between his brows.

“Kiss me properly.”

Even half-delirious with fever, he still sounded vaguely offended.

You smiled despite yourself and cupped his face gently.

“Demanding tonight, aren’t we?”

“Please.”

That softened you immediately.

Draco almost never pleaded for things. He seduced, persuaded, cornered, charmed—but begging sat poorly on his pride.

Yet now he looked at you with glassy grey eyes and flushed cheeks, visibly aching for affection like a man starving in winter.

You kissed him softly.

He sighed against your mouth like the contact alone eased something painful inside him.

The kiss should have ended there.

It did not.

The moment you pulled back slightly, Draco followed immediately, chasing your lips with startling desperation. One hand rose shakily to cradle your jaw while he kissed you again and again—warm, lingering, almost painfully tender.

You laughed quietly against his mouth. “Draco, you’re ill.”

“So?”

“So you need rest.”

“I need you.”

The blunt honesty of it made your chest ache.

His fever had stripped him utterly bare.

You stroked your thumb across his cheekbone. “You already have me.”

“Closer.”

“I’m directly in your arms.”

“Closer anyway.”

You finally relented fully, shifting until you sat properly beside him against the headboard. Draco wasted absolutely no time.

He immediately folded himself against you.

One arm wrapped tightly around your waist while his head settled into your chest, breathing slow and uneven. The blankets tangled around both of you as he practically climbed into your lap despite being far too large for it.

“Comfortable?” you asked gently.

“No.”

You blinked. “Still?”

“You stopped kissing me.”

You laughed softly then, unable not to.

The sound seemed to relax him further.

“There’s my sweet boy,” you whispered teasingly.

Draco made a faint grumbling noise that might have been embarrassment if he weren’t currently nuzzling into you with alarming determination.

“You’re cruel,” he muttered weakly.

“You adore me.”

“I do.” Immediate. Feverishly sincere. “God, I do.”

Your expression softened.

Even exhausted and sick, he spoke the words like they physically hurt to contain.

You pressed another kiss into his hair.

“Drink some water for me first.”

“No.”

“Draco.”

“No,” he repeated stubbornly, though his voice cracked midway through the word. “Stay like this.”

“You need water.”

“You need to stop moving.”

You tried unsuccessfully to pull away.

He tightened his grip instantly.

“Absolutely not.”

“Darling—”

“You’re warm.”

“So are the blankets.”

“They don’t smell like you.”

Your face heated despite yourself.

Fever made him catastrophically affectionate.

You finally compromised by reaching awkwardly toward the bedside table while still half-trapped beneath him. Draco watched the entire process with visible suspicion, arms refusing to loosen from your waist even slightly.

The moment you handed him the glass, he frowned at it.

Then at you.

Then at the glass again.

“Do I have to?”

“Yes.”

“You’re tyrannical.”

“And you’re dramatic.”

“Cruel woman.”

“Drink.”

He obeyed only because you pressed a kiss against his forehead immediately afterward.

The second your lips touched him, his eyes closed again with a soft exhale.

“There,” you whispered. “Better?”

“A little.”

His voice had gone sleepy now, rough around the edges.

You set the glass aside before easing back against the pillows, gently guiding him down with you. Draco followed instantly, clinging shamelessly the entire time until you were both lying beneath the heavy winter blankets.

Snow continued raging outside.

Inside, the room glowed gold and warm around the two of you.

Draco curled himself around you without hesitation, one leg tangled with yours while his face buried against your throat.

Every few moments he pressed absentminded kisses against your skin.

Your jaw.

Your collarbone.

The corner of your mouth.

Small, lingering things.

As though he could not stop.

“Draco,” you whispered after the fifth kiss in less than a minute.

“Hm?”

“You’re impossible when you’re sick.”

“You like me.”

“I love you.”

His entire body softened at that.

Not relaxed.

Softened.

Like warmth melting snow.

Another kiss brushed beneath your jaw, slower this time.

“Say it again,” he murmured.

Your fingers slid through his hair carefully. “I love you.”

A shaky breath left him.

You realized suddenly that part of this clinginess was not merely fever.

Draco had always loved intensely—quietly, privately, desperately beneath all his elegance and sharp wit. Illness simply stripped away the last barriers protecting that devotion from view.

Every thought became you.

Every need became you.

Warmth. Comfort. Safety. Love.

You gathered him closer instinctively.

“There you are,” you whispered into his hair. “Rest now.”

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

He tilted his face upward slightly, eyes half-lidded and fever-bright.

“You stopped touching me again.”

You huffed a quiet laugh through your nose before immediately cradling his cheek.

“There. Better?”

“Mm.”