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He’s so different from what Hob remembers. Where there was once elegance and power, there’s nothing but angles of skin pulled too tight over bones, shadows over his stranger’s body that make him look too fragile, too broken.

Hob’s throat tightens with sorrow and he takes a step forward, crossing over the summoning circle until he’s pressed up close to the glass.

“Stranger,” he says, presses his palm to the glass. It’s so cold down here, and the glass is frigid under his touch. Hob shivers and doesn’t think about how cold his stranger is, naked and trapped inside the sphere. “Wake up. Come on, please.”

The stranger doesn’t move. He’s not breathing, chest and body so still he looks like a statue. Panic grips Hob, and he yells with shaky words, “No, no, no. Come on, please wake up. I can’t be too late. Please.”

He hits the glass and the stranger flinches. It’s so quiet Hob almost misses it, the small there and gone twitch of the stranger’s eyelids, of his chest.

“Oh thank fuck,” Hob sags against the glass, relief flooding his system so fast his heart skips a beat. “Please, open your eyes. It’s me. Hob.”

Another twitch, the stranger curling up tighter into a ball. His ribs stand out harder like this, shadows lost between each dip. His eyelids flutter though, and he opens his eyes but his gaze is far away and distant.

Hob drops down to his knees until he’s eye level, smiles even though he knows it’s probably more shaky than encouraging.

“Hey,” he says gently. “Look at me. Please.”

The stranger frowns and blinks. His eyes are as beautiful as Hob remembers them, the pale blue of forget me nots, the same pale blue that’s been haunting Hob’s dreams for centuries. He blinks again slowly, like he’s unused to it, and finally, finally, his eyes settle on Hob.

“Hi,” Hob says with a laugh that verges on a sob.

The strangers stares at him for what feels like hours, eyes red rimmed and wide, before the numbness fades into shocked relief. He moves and it looks like it pains him, every muscle twitch slow and uncoordinated, and presses his hand to the other side of the glas against Hob’s. His lips move silently, no sound coming out, but Hob’s convinced it’s his name.

Suddenly, the cold realization hits him. There’s no air inside the sphere. Hob pulls back like he’s been hit.

“Fuck,” he yells, then again for good measure. “Fuck!” He looks down at his stranger and says, “I’ll get you out of there, hang on.”

He looks around before his eyes land on the gun the dead guard dropped. Okay, not exactly the subtle key he was looking for, but fuck subtlety. He stands back and aims the gun, surprised his hand is not shaking.

“Stand back!” He yells, but his stranger is unmoving, just staring at him through the glass. Hob pulls the trigger, the sound too loud in the small space, but it does its job. A crack appears in the glass, and on the other side the stranger flinches. Another bullet and another, until the glass shatters and falls into pieces.

Hob drops the gun and runs towards it, dropping to his knees and uncaring of the pieces of glass digging into his skin. The stranger is gasping, horrible wheezing sounds that rattle his chest, eyes wide and panicked.

“Hey, hey, it’s ok,” Hob says, pulling him out of the sphere and holding him through it all. “You’re okay, I got you.”

The stranger feels so small in his arms, nothing but sickly pale skin and bones, and he’s shaking so hard it’s breaking Hob’s heart. He holds him through it all, the stranger's head under his chin and Hob’s palm pressed over the bumps of his spine, until the shaking subsides.

“Hob,” the stranger finally says, voice like rough cold concrete. He pulls away to look into Hob’s eyes, gaze still far-off and shaky. “Why are you here?”

Hob cups his jaw and says, “You were late to our meeting. Couldn’t let you get away this easily.”

Death of the Endless 🌹

Husband: Whoa, have you seen young Patrick Stewart?!

Me: I don’t think so. I kind of assumed he’s always been old.

long long love❤️

Here’s a peek at Theo, Blaise, Draco, and someone else:

Alternative preppy 90s Draco:

Second alternative preppy 90s Draco:

BOLD CHOICE, grunge Draco:

BONUS, 90s Harry is grunge don’t even argue, also he’s listening to Smashing Pumpkins:

friendly reminder that under equally flamboyant robes, the massive flare dainty waist was THE peak mens fashion

Remus would try for a mustache around James’ wedding. The results would be hilarious.

Peter’s soul colors would be orange, mustard, and brown. He would thrive in sweaters, mutton chops, and feathered hair.

who could out sweater Peter? The answer is of course REMUS LUPIN who would live it up in chartreuse and oatmeal and burnt umber with not only a cardigan but a secret turtleneck.

Note the not successful porn stache. Don’t be afraid! James Potter is here in bright red, dark brown, and navy blue! 10/10 the wide legged lapel boy. He’s the Tommy Hilfiger of plunging necklines and high waisted (probably checked) pants.

And Sirius Black, the boy in punk. Wearing basic white, blacks, blue jeans, he’s the most “normal” but likely over studded, over plaid, and stick straight gelled hair. Forget these cresting bangs. It’s fohawk or death.

even Lily Evans is not exempt. She’s probably okay in bright orange, baby blues, and bright patterns of pink/purple. She’ll wear jumpers and tall socks and trailing headbands and too much eyeshadow.

Imagine: for the past 6,000 years he's been using 'angel,' until one day a 'darling' slips out, unnoticed by him, but definitely heard by Aziraphale. (It is later, when he is alone, that Crowley realizes what he has said and he has to go yell at his plants for several hours to work off his mortification.)

The next time is more deliberate, and something he feels is close to what he's been using. Aziraphale is delighted to hear Crowley call him 'dove' until the demon has to sit down on the middle of the sidewalk with his head between his legs to keep from fainting at the sight of his angel's smile.

'Sssweetheart' is whispered with a snake's tongue, making Aziraphale blush. It's too bad that Crowley refuses to speak again or change back to his human form for an entire month.

They do not speak of the 'stud-muffin' incident.

'Love' slips out when Crowley is both frustrated with him and overcome with fondness. It ends the argument in the most spectacular fashion.

When I was 10, my mom made me wear a bra and it felt like a punishment for being different.

When I was 10, I took the bra off when changing for gymnastics and accidentally dropped it in the school hallway. A teacher picked it up and said, “Oh, this must belong to you” and handed it back to me in front of everyone. I quit gymnastics.

When I was 11, I thought maybe the boobs would be okay so long as they didn’t get any bigger than would fit in my hand, so I kept measuring it, but they did.

When I was 12, I started wearing two or three sports bras to smush them down, until one day a classmate said, “Are you wearing two bras?!” while laughing.

When I was 13, a boy told me he wanted to squeeze my boobs “until they popped.”

When I was 14, I got cast in a play as an older character and a classmate told me I got the role because I had boobs.

When I was 17, my mom told me to return a swimsuit because it would be too distracting for my boyfriend’s father.

When I was 21, I got properly fitted for a bra and everyone felt the need to tell me how much better my boobs looked.

When I was 26, I got pregnant and my immediate fear was that my boobs would get bigger.

When I was 28, I got shamed for trying to feed my screaming baby in public without a cover.

When I was 28, people asked me “why are you bothering to use a breastfeeding cover?”

When I was 30, people gave me weird looks that I wasn’t yelling at my kid for putting their hand on my boob.

When I was 31, I avoided going to the beach or pool because I didn’t want to have to deal with boobs in a swimsuit.

When I was 32, I got asked, again, “why don’t you get a breast reduction?”

When I was 33, I watched a 5yo girl get shamed for running around in sweltering heat without a shirt on and had to reprimand a bunch of tween boys who thought it was okay to shame her for doing something they do all the time.

When I was 34, my kid kept patting my breast and saying “Mommy’s squishy breast!!” They will never see me express any shame about tits, because I want them to have a different mindset than I had. Yes, boobs are nice! They’re squishy! They’re fun! That’s the end of that.

I’m 35 and no longer give a fuck. I don’t care anymore. As a teenager my tits were covered in stretch marks. They’ve been engorged with milk. My nipple changed shape with pregnancy. Give it another couple decades and my breasts will probably be all wrinkly. It’s sexual when I’m using it sexually. I don’t fucking care, and I won’t be ashamed anymore. 

Every time a policy or cultural hangup treats people with breasts differently, it fucks us over. 

Tumblr’s new policy makes an active choice to participate in this culture of shame. By classifying “female-presenting nipples” as explicit material, Tumblr has taken a stance that any chest or breast that differs from a male default is worthy of shame and unavoidably sexual. The idea that breasts are shameful and unavoidably sexual is exactly what fucked me up for so much of my life.

Thought I’d join the bandwagon of painting TT!

@asktheboywholived I hope you like it!!

[Teddy played by the hottest boi: @kapitan5o ]