i want to know where it is

  • one half of my dash: this is it, biggest and worst queerbait of all time, oh clown, etc.
  • me: it's been 130 years, when will we be Allowed to Rest

Danny: Well shall we check out inside. 

Silvia: There is only one thing that I want to check out right now. 

Danny: Little Danny?

Silvia: The fridge. I’m hungry. Where is your mind?

Danny: I’m hungry too but not for anything from the fridge. 

Silvia: Oh, well there are a lot of wild berries out here. 

Danny: Now I know our son got his evil ways from you. 

Silvia: What can I say, you’re easy to tease, Dan. 

C: My parents are Somalian and my life has been hell. They won’t let me take off the hijab. I have been wearing it since i was 7. I’m almost 20 and feel like I’m not experiencing life. I wanna have a boyfriend but they won’t let me. I can’t do anything. I’m not allowed to have friends that are not Muslim. I want to move out but where will I go? Meanwhile, my brother is doing God knows and lost his virginity and they don’t care because he is a man. I’m depressed. What should I do?

anonymous asked:

How did you learn to play guitar? Was ot through someone teaching you or self-taught? I have a guitar and piano and want to play both but I can't teach myself or havent found a good self teaching method and my parents cant afford lessons :c

I had a teacher because I was learning classical guitar, and doing musical grades but when I wanted to do my own thing the internet has great resources if you know where to look. A teacher would always help (even if its just a friend to start you off?), but heres some links I have found useful:

Guitar Notes Explained: A Guide For Beginners

Guitar chord chart

Strumming technique

Easy (pop) songs to practice with!

Hope this helps! 

Keep Me Where The Light Is - A Moriel Fic

For @acotarshipweek moriel smut week day 1 prompt: ‘I’m sorry’. I am Late. I am very late. I want to do a couple of other prompts for this week and they will probably be…very late. I am garbage. We know this. Thank you my dearest, @pterodactylichexameter for betaing this for me!!

Title: Keep Me Where The Light Is

Summary: Prompt: ‘I’m sorry’ established relationship, set a few decades after the projected end of ACOWAR. Azriel returns late from a particularly harrowing mission. Mor finds him alone and in pieces in the training room and helps him heal. Lots of angst. Lots of sin. That’s really all you need to know. Azriel’s POV. Obviously NSFW. 

Teaser:  Mor leads him through the quiet, dark house, the door closing behind them as silently as it had opened. It might have felt like bars slamming shut on a prison cell, or the stone wall of a crypt sealing himself inside his own tomb but it doesn’t. With Mor’s hand slipping gently into his the dark house feels like an escape and he has left his demons at the door. They are not allowed in this place that she has warded with her light and her peace. She is the only thing with the power to bring him to his knees that is permitted to touch him here.  

Link: AO3

Azriel stalks into the training halls beneath the House of Wind a second, haunting soul tethered to the broken, battered one that resides within his body. The one that once was his and his alone. Now it belongs to all those who have stolen pieces from it over the decades, the ones he has killed or tortured or blackmailed or threatened for the sake of his court. His body has become a cemetery for all those he has claimed, having their revenge each day for what he did to them. It is a graveyard of monsters; his ghosts were demons long before he shattered their minds and buried them with the remnants of his soul.

That knowledge doesn’t ease the burden that threatens to finally break him at last.

Six hundred years. There are scars he’s carried upon his heart, his mind for six hundred years that have refused to fade as stubbornly as the marks upon his hands. Every day he wakes with the reminder of what his brothers did to him, the reminder of that fire, their cruelty, that terror written upon his skin. And upon his soul is the reminder of what he has done, his own cruelty, his own sins, inked in blood and screams and just as inescapable. Too much. He has crossed some line, some line he didn’t think existed. But this is too much. This is finally too much.

It had taken hours to break the deserter, hours to understand the reasons behind his betrayal, why he had slaughtered four of his brothers, what he had hoped to gain, what secrets he had hoped to sell to their enemies. Those secrets died with him. Azriel was the last person ever to hear them and all those others who were involved have since been taken care of. His people are safe, his family is safe but he…he….

The screams still bother him. They shouldn’t, surely, after all this time. But they do. They still cut through him like that first day. He still remembers the soldier, his first. Rhys’s father had stood outside the room and looked down at him, his eyes the same violet as his brother’s but…Cold, dark, utterly devoid of Rhys’s compassion. He had told Azriel the man was an enemy, was working to destroy everything they knew, everything they had built. He had told him to discover what the male knew then to…take care of him. Azriel had done as commanded.

He still does as commanded. He knows that if he ever felt the strain becoming too much, if he went to his brother and told him that he couldn’t do this anymore, that six hundred years of death and nightmares filled with agony were too much that Rhys would let him step down immediately. He could shake off the role of spymaster, live somewhere quietly, peacefully, with Mor without the need for these grisly interruptions in the life they loved so much. He also knows that it would leave the court undefended, that no-one can do what he can. And he would never wish them to, would never wish this upon anyone.

For all that they haunt him now he knows that if a day ever comes when the screams inside him go silent, when they no longer haunt his every step…that will be the day he becomes a monster in full and more of a danger to this court than he could ever be a guardian.

But he still wishes it would stop now, wishes he could stop reliving the last few hours, wishes he could find a moment of peace, just for a second, just a second, please, please.  

The training hall is dark and quiet at this hour, no-one else is out of their beds feeling the need to hit something, to work off the terrible, raging, consuming frustration that seems as though it’s about to burst free of the restraining cage of his bones. He is the only one awake now…And his ghosts.

He steps to one of the corners of the hall where several braced pads have been set up, soft wood covered by layers and layers of thick fabric, making them solid but safe to hit. Along the wall behind them, set out in neat rows like soldiers, like the neatly printed orders that find their way to his desk and tear another chunk of him, are variously sized gloves meant to be worn in the ring or when training alone with the targets. He ignores them.

His hands are still covered in dried blood from his last mission and he doesn’t bother to try and cleanse them, to rid himself of that reminder of what he has done, what he is. Monster the darkness whispers to him. He shivers at the accusation but can’t bring himself to feel betrayed by it. When they had come to him in his childhood and promised him power, promised him salvation, the shadows that sing to him had not promised him comfort or sweet words. They had only promised truth. That was all they had ever given to him in the six hundred years they had served him.

Settling into the stance that’s as familiar to him now as breathing, Az sets his eyes upon the pad before him. His punches start off rhythmic and controlled, careful taps gauging distance, then stronger flurries of blows taught in the training camps and drills. But those aren’t enough, aren’t enough to quiet the roaring in his head, aren’t enough to douse the fire boiling his blood, aren’t enough to silence the screams rattling through his bones.

He increases his pace, his attacks becoming less practiced, less rhythmic, more wild and untamed as he feels himself slipping. Control, through all these years control has been his sword, his shield, his armour, his anchor. Keeping himself in check had always meant keeping himself alive. But sometimes, in the dark, in the quiet, the monsters slip out to reclaim their own.

His arms swing in wide arcs, wasting time, wasting power, all the things he was specifically taught not to do. His hands strike harder and harder and the sudden blaze of pain that sparks up his arms is a welcome feeling. It grounds him and for a moment it helps. It’s a release, an expression of the things that he must keep inside, that he must not let escape, that he must bind tight to himself lest they poison anyone else. The pulse of relief is only ever temporary.

His vision blurs and the room around him dissolves, reforming into another that is dark and cramped and smells strongly of blood and despair. He is crouched on the floor, his expression cool, composed even as he crumbles into ruins on the inside, as the man screams before him. His fist makes contact with the pad at a blinding speed and strength again and again and again and the harsh, unyielding rhythm is the only thing that’s stopping him from sinking to his knees and letting the darkness within overwhelm him at last.

The skin between his knuckles splits and blood seeps from the cracks in his self. He ignores it, even as it pulses in thin scarlet ribbons over his palms and the backs of his hands, thick and hot and wet, clenched between his fingers. But he’s too focused on the screaming in his head, in banishing it, in chasing the past that tugs at him, tries to slip its arms around him and draw him back towards it, like a scorned lover. But he won’t let it, can’t let it, if he gives into that now there will be no saving him, no finding him, no dragging him from that abyss, not for anything.

The one corner of his mind that can think past his pain and his fear dimly registers the sound of distant footsteps, frantic, running, running towards him.


The scream rips through the thick veil that’s shrouding him from his surroundings, pierced only by the soft pulses of pain that come from the continued striking of his fists against the pads. His name. Her voice. His name in her mouth. The running footsteps, hers too he realises vaguely, get closer, faster, louder, thundering like a heartbeat against the smooth stone floors of the training hall.

“Azriel! Azriel stop, please stop, Az-“ He shudders, her voice growing more distant, her words blending with the words of his captor as he had begged for an end.

“Azriel, Az look at me, look at me, listen to me.” She doesn’t touch him but her voice strikes a chord in him like a physical blow all the same as he registers the deep throb of fear and agony that runs through it. He raises his head, looks over at her, his vision still slightly bleary, as though he’s seeing her through a thick, choking fog. “Stop,” she whispers, orders, pleads. “Stop, Az.”

This time, for her, he obeys the words.

Trembling he lets his hands drop. They’re stiff and sore from the damage done to them and the fresh blood that’s starting to dry over the old. Mor’s eyes are fixed on them where they hang limp and useless at his sides, wide and horrified at what he’s done. Reaching down she tries to gently take hold of one of them but the moment her skin brushes against his he jerks violently away from her.

Centuries worth of disgust and doubt well up in him and overwhelm him. Though they’ve been together for over fifty years now and though he loves her and knows and accepts that she loves him- in that moment, the sight of her soft, smooth, unmarred hand brushing against his burned, twisted, bloody one is unbearable to him.

The brief flash of hurt that flares in her warm brown eyes twists in his gut a moment later and she pulls backs, pain flooding her beautiful face. All she wants, he knows, is to be able to reach out to him, to help him, and his rejection stings with the weight of five hundred years of distance and denial.

His remaining strength crumbles at the sight of what he’s done to her and the words come to his lips in a hoarse, breathless rasp, “I’m sorry.” Her eyes flick back up to his but he drops his gaze almost the moment they connect, unable to bring himself to look at her. His chest is still heaving from his recent exertion, his blood still drips quietly onto the stone floor at their feet, his vision still swims and blurs but he breathes again, “I’m sorry.”

Mor opens her mouth to answer but it turns into a cry of alarm as he sways on the spot a moment before his knees buckle. Faster than he can see she darts forwards, her arms sliding around his chest, and catches him. Sinking to the ground with him she lowers him down with heartbreaking tenderness, gentling his fall.

Her fingers stroke lightly through his hair as she steadies him but he can’t stop saying those words over and over and over apologising for a multitude of sins. He’s sorry for getting into this state in the first place but more so for letting her see him like this. He’s sorry for what he’s done, what he’s become, what he’s had to do to stop their court from drowning. But he’s also sorry for the things that he didn’t do, the things that he didn’t stop, the people that he didn’t save with his brand of death. And he’s sorry for her. Sorry for ever thinking that he could be with her, that they could make this work, that it could ever last- a dreamer and a nightmare in love.

As though she can hear these thoughts Mor pushes back his hair and cups his face between her hands, lifting it up to hers. “Look at me,” she whispers when he closes his eyes, averting his gaze, “Look at me, Azriel.” He can’t deny her anything, not her, and he makes himself meet those usually soft, tender brown eyes which he now finds blazing with fierce intensity. “You have nothing to be sorry for,” she whispers to him, pressing her lips to his forehead and then touching her brow to his, her thumbs gently stroking his cheeks, “Nothing.”  

Unable to help himself he lowers his head again, shaking. What he’s done- But she picks up that dropped thread of thought as well, “You’re a good person,” she breathes and he snorts in derision before he can control the impulse. Anger flashes through her and with it a lashing of her power crackling through the air around them, “You are,” she growls.

Her voice softens but still radiates with that unmistakable power as she says those words, the ones that bind her to the magic that thrums in her veins, “I am the Morrigan,” she murmurs, “You know I speak the truth.”

He raises his head and opens his eyes to watch her as she repeats the words, “You’re a good person, Azriel. You do what you have to, for your court. You do too much,” A crease appears between her brows, this isn’t the first time she’s said something like this, expressed her unease at the things he has to do, at the cost of keeping them safe.  “But you don’t take any pleasure in it, you never have. We all have to do things, become things we would rather not…” She trails off and he knows that she of all people understands that, she who spends more time in the Court of Nightmares pretending to be something she’s not, pretending to be something darker, something worse, than any of them.

Taking a breath she goes on, “It doesn’t change who you are.” Then, softer, “It doesn’t change how I feel, what I want…What I chose.”

He meets her eyes again at that, searching them for he doesn’t know what, yet he finds it. “I fell in love with you, Az,” she murmurs softly, “With all of you.” He swallows tightly, watching her, barely daring to breathe, to move. “I always knew,” she continues quietly, “I knew what you were, I knew what you did for this court, I knew how you would come home to me sometimes-“ Despite her attempts at reassuring calm and certainty her voice trembles and cracks a little as she looks at him, the state he’s in. But it’s perfectly steady once more when she resumes. “I chose that,” she says, firm, certain, “I chose you. I love you.” She leans forwards and brushes her lips with aching tenderness against his, “I always will.”

Reaching down she lifts his hands up and examines them, wincing at the mess of bruised, bloodied flesh he’s made of his knuckles. Absently taking what she needs from a pocket realm she produces water and cloths and proceeds to clean enough of the blood to see through to the injuries below. Light blazes from her palm and he tries not to fidget as her magic heals him, his bones resetting themselves and sealing together, muscle and skin knitting seamlessly together again. She can’t do anything about the extensive burn scars that mottle his hands but when he flexes them it’s almost impossible to tell the damage he had done to himself. The only evidence of the abuse remaining is a faint pale flush to the new skin.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, his voice low and quiet, not quite looking at her as he speaks, not wanting to see the pain or the disappointment on her face at what he had done to himself.

He realises a moment later, as he turns his hands over, examining them, that she’s cleansed all of the blood from his skin, not merely his own.

Azriel lets his arms slide slowly around her, holding her close, breathing in her scent, grounding himself in her instead of the pads behind them. Mor shuffles into his lap and slides her arms around him as well, easing her fingers deeply into his hair, pulling him close.

“Are you ready to talk about it?” she murmurs quietly. She never asks him if he wants to talk about it, knows from decades’ worth of experience not to ask if he wants, or needs, almost anything because the answer would always be ‘no’.

He shakes his head slightly, his face still buried in her neck. He still only wants to escape from himself, from the torrent of memories and pain and terror that still rakes at him. He isn’t ready to face it yet. She nods, gently kissing the crown of his head, not pushing him or trying to coax words from him that he doesn’t have. Even though she’s never insisted upon this in all the years that he’s known her, a faint rush of gratitude for her understanding still spills through him in response.

Mor’s fingers stroke softly through his hair and she shifts slightly in his lap, hips pressing against his. “What do you want, Az?” she asks him quietly and he knows that she’s perfectly aware what he wants, what kind of escape he seeks now, the need that’s blazing through his blood like a poison to which she is the only cure.

You he wants to whisper, wants to growl the word, the need, into her ear and feel her shiver against him in answer. He wants to drag her hair back and kiss her neck, place a necklace of pale red marks around her throat and with each one whisper you onto her skin, press it there like a tattoo, let it fill her up until she’s drowning in it. But he holds himself back. He knows that after their time apart she likely wants this too, would be more than happy to oblige him but…The way that he wants her, the extent to which he wants to lose himself in her tonight…He’s not sure if he can ask that of her, not sure if he can even give voice to it and permit her to hear it.

As with so many things left unspoken between them however, this isn’t something that she needs to hear him say to know. Her fingers gently grip his hair, the action somehow intimate, erotic, with the way she rocks against him once more. “Let me take you home,” she whispers softly. “Let me help you, Az,” she breathes quietly. “It’s all right,” she murmurs as he opens his mouth to say something, to protest, to quiet her, to agree with her, he doesn’t know.  

“It’s all right.” Her voice is soft and warm and so soothing he wants to sink into it, wants to sink into her and forget that the rest of the world exists, forget that he is a monster with a bruised and bloodied soul. He wants to let her heal that as she had his hands.

“Let me take you home,” she says again, softly, words tinged with desperation.

“Yes,” is all he murmurs in response.

Darkness envelopes them as Mor holds him close and then her power wraps around them, pulling them through the fragile fabric of the world around them, winnowing them back to the small cottage they share nestled in the mountains just outside Velaris. It’s a lonely, quiet place, isolated but beautiful and peaceful. Relief flares through him like a heartbeat along with a rush of gratitude that she chose this spot instead of their townhouse. Even though it resides on the outskirts of the city it would still feel too restrictive, too caging and overwhelming for him now. And she knows that, knows him.  

Azriel stands, quiet, breathing in the chill night air, willing it to settle in his bones and quiet the roaring fire burning through his blood. Mor’s fingers slip softly around his wrist and the touch rouses him, causes him to open his eyes again. Her eyes on his she presses her other hand against the door of the cottage. It responds to her touch, swinging in on silent hinges to admit them. Only them. This is their place, near sacred for how strictly they adhere to that rule.

Mor leads him through the quiet, dark house, the door closing behind them as silently as it had opened. It might have felt like bars slamming shut on a prison cell, or the stone wall of a crypt sealing himself inside his own tomb but it doesn’t. With Mor’s hand slipping gently into his the dark house feels like an escape and he has left his demons at the door. They are not allowed in this place that she has warded with her light and her peace. She is the only thing with the power to bring him to his knees that is permitted to touch him here.  

She doesn’t pause or falter as they pass through the kitchen and living room into the small bedroom at the back of the house. Only once they’re safely ensconced within it, the door closed, making the scene feel even more private and intimate despite the fact that they’re already the only living beings for miles around, does she turn to face him. With a faint flicker of thought she kindles a few candles behind them and the room fills with a warm but soft glow, her eyes never leaving his even as the light no doubt throws the shadows in his eyes into greater relief.

Smooth and supple as warm honey she steps forwards until there’s nothing but a faint breath of air between their bodies. She holds herself just a little away from him however, her lips slightly parted, her hands trembling with the desire, the need to touch him, but she restrains herself, allowing him the choice, the affirming action, of closing the distance between them. He does, unable to stand being this close to her but not touching her, not letting her touch him. Moving in until their bodies press against each other and he can feel the sigh of relief ripple through her body as she lets herself melt against him, Azriel gathers her against him, wrapping his arms around her and drawing her in close.  

Keep reading

friendly reminder that t loves you all and wants the best for you all no matter what; never doubt yourself because you are worth so much more than what you and others may think, and you are the most beautiful person in the world. taylor would be proud of you for getting to where you are, and i know she’s out there somewhere cheering you on :)

anonymous asked:

You're new Take Me Over one-shot is beautiful. Absolutely beautiful. I have a question that I've never been brave enough to ask until now, but I wanted to know - you said you wrote the ending, like the ending to the whole verse, where Kurt dies and then Blaine dies. Kurt dies first, right? Is Blaine with him when he dies? Since you said you're never going to post it, I just really want to know. Sorry it that sounds morbid.

Hey nonnie :) Just one question for you, dear nonnie - are you trying to kill me? xD I seriously think the ending of this story is the saddest thing I have ever written in my life. But here it goes:

Kurt ends up having a massive heart attack (way late in life) and ends up in a home. Blaine can’t live at home without him, so he moves in and stays with him. They live there for a good five or so years until Kurt has his next massive coronary. That one he doesn’t wake up from. Blaine stays with him while he’s actively dying. In those last moments while they’re alone, Blaine is telling Kurt how much he loves him, and he safewords, which is the first time we as readers would have seen Blaine safeword in this series, not because he hasn’t ever, but because seeing it is the most poignant part of their story. His purpose in safewording is to get Kurt to stop dying. A safeword stops a scene. But when it doesn’t, Blaine becomes overwhelmed. He isn’t just losing his lover or his best friend. He’s losing his anchor. He tells Kurt he loves him, and that’s when Kurt dies. 

There. I’m going to go drink. Stay blessed <3

Headcanon: William Afton doesn’t necessarily like purple, but he decided it was his trademark at some point and he doesn’t want anyone else to wear it. Like, there’s stores he won’t shop, because the uniforms are purple. He doesn’t even like it on his own children and I think you can see where I’m going with this.

Making my way downtown, walking fast, FUCK YOU DAD and I’m homebound…

me at all times: where is hoshi is he smiling is he eating well is he resting is he happy is he warm n cozy is he being showered in love n kindness is everyone laughing at his jokes does he feel safe n secure is he wearing a jacket it’s cold outside i don’t want him catching a cold does he know how much i love him ..

Little Battleborn Things #863

The new Bot Battle mode in Versus! Fighting against bots where lore and challenges are counted!

But wait, let me say why this is awesome. Every time I join a public match I am matched against some premade pubstomping team that dominates and ruins all chance for fun. The last time I tried a few days ago, on the character select screen one of my team mates said “Sorry guys, but I know those guys on the other team. They’re assholes and I’m not dealing with this” and disconnected. Can’t blame them, that match was hell. Only managed to master Benedict that day because I only needed one more midair kill and their Pendles was wounded from killing one of ours and not looking up. He then paid me back for that kill five times over before we surrendered.

Every time I join hoping to grind some PvP-exclusive lore, this happens to me and I want to say “I am never playing this again. I’m sticking to Story and Ops.” but I know I’ll be back trying to get more lore.

I play private matches with groups of friends against each other and sometimes bots, and this is a lot more fun! But we can’t get lore here, just EXP. I understand why they do this, it would be too easy to tell a friend “go play Oscar Mike and let me shoot you a bunch as Whiskey.”

But putting a bot match in public versus? This is everything I need! In one day I completed lore for three characters I thought I’d never get! Sure bots are stupid easy to kill (we sometimes set up 2 players versus 5 bots in private matches and still win) but it’s the only way to grind lore without suffering! …Other than trying to get as many people to buy Battleborn as I can so I can kill noobs again, or getting ten people together into two teams and trying to find each other in public matchmaking. That last one is something we’ve done a lot!

Sorry for the long rant, and thank you, Gearbox for the bots!

*another I love this submission from the greatest Battleborn chaosdx1. 

anonymous asked:

If it hasn't been done yet, relationship headcanons for Swapfell Sans please?

((Can never have too many of those can we?))

SwapFell Sans Headcannons

-His the guy who has to send you the biggest and bestest of everything. Mary Sue at the office gets a dozen roses from her beau on Valentine’s Day? You get twelve dozen sent to yours.

He wants to show you his the best thing you’ll ever have, because he already knows your the best for him.

- Anytime you praise him, and its a rare moment where he wasn’t trying to show off, he kinda just freezes up.

Like, his brain doesn’t know how to process this?!

Then his just like “W-Well of course this is great, cause I’m GREAT!” He will now do whatever it was more often and try to do it more “greatly” then he did before.

- One day when his out patrolling, go into his room. Lift up his mattress, and you will find a small locked box.

The key is taped to the back of the poster of himself next to the bed.

What’s in it? Precious Memories.

A scrap of cloth from the first scarf Papyrus ever gave him, a tooth he lost during the fight with Alphys were he finally won, and a picture of you from the first time he saw you.

Other tokens fill the box, but the majority are centered around you. Pictures of you smiling, little gifts and notes you’ve left for him, they’re all there.

anonymous asked:

What concept do you want BTS do have for this comeback? I hope they build on the fallen angel story line.

I think they will, because the progression of WINGS was basically their beginnings, or something they all struggle with, and then you get to Lost where they talk about losing their way but never their dreams, and then the Interlude about flying away.

I think it’s all lined up perfectly to progress into their “decent” into what they are now, or how they view themselves now. I think Wings Pt 2 will be them accepting their fates, knowing they cant have perfection as “fallen angels”, but working and being happy with what they have.

~Admin Vis

dust-and-fire  asked:

I really love that Thenry and Lalaine exist in the same universe and are friends, and I would love to know more about them and their relationship. What are their opinions on the fraternities? Do their opinions clash? Also, where is Thenry from and what is his family like? How young were they when they were taken to the circle? Sorry, I know this is kind of a lot of questions but I'm just curious.

OK, so first of all, this is one of the best asks I’ve ever gotten because hoo boy I LOVE Lalaine and have been wanting to flesh out her relationship with Thenry more, so THANK YOU <3

As I mentioned here, Lalaine was born in 9:12 Dragon and brought to the Kinloch Hold Circle in 9:20 when she was 8 years old. Thenry was born in 9:11 Dragon and came from the Highever Alienage a couple of years later than her.

Thenry is the eldest of the three Surana sons. His mother was a house servant to an upper middle class family who couldn’t afford her or her family living within their estate, and his father was an assistant shoemaker to a renown Highever shoe shop. The Surana family was pretty well-off for an elven family in the alienage, so when Thenry was taken by the Templars, his parents were left with little choice but to let him go quietly lest their jobs be at risk and they wouldn’t be able to provide for their other two children.

Thenry only joined Lalaine and Jowan’s group as a friend a few years later when he was placed in the same mid-level classes as the two, when he was ~15 years old (Lalaine: 14, Jowan: 16).

At first, Lalaine wasn’t very close to Thenry because he’s a bit shy and her pre-Circle noble status made her a bit harder for him to approach. A few months since they met, though, they became really good friends, Thenry a bit of the straight man (and understandably so) to Jowan and Lalaine’s risky shenanigans.

Two years or so in, Lalaine developed a crush on Thenry, and became a bit awkward around him as teens usually do, and because I love the mutual pining trope, Thenry also becomes a bit enamored of Lalaine and her confidence, smarts and energy, but neither of them talk to each other about it. 

@eveninglottie wrote a magnificent and light-hearted fic for me about the trio’s time in the Circle which I recommend everyone to read.

[Image originally from here]

As for views and opinions, Thenry is a lot more careful in voicing them, so although they mostly share in opinion that mages should be free to practice their craft without Chantry restriction, he comes off as very balanced and neutral, as opposed to Lalaine who is more rash and entitled. They clash mostly because Lalaine wants it NOW, where Thenry is afraid that the NOW will be dangerous and deadly.

Lalaine’s canon is that she helps Jowan, but neither of them involve Thenry as they believe he will very against the plan, and as a result Lalaine goes to the Wardens and Thenry stays in the Circle and dies during the events of Broken Circle. Thenry’s canon is that he asks for Lalaine’s help with Jowan, and she ends up being imprisoned with Lily while Thenry goes to the Wardens.

If neither of them join the Wardens, they are transferred both to different Circles after the “Jowan incident,” and finally meet each other at the Conclave.

sprinklekiddo  asked:

For the writing prompts, 34 with some Jally :> Make it as long or short as you please. Please :)

Prompt 34: “Let’s go make some snow angels!”

It was Christmas day, and the whole gang was at the Curtis house. Johnny woke up first, though he always did. He yawned and got up off the couch, walking over to the window. His eyes lit up as he saw the snow falling, and the kid in him wanted to wake up everyone, but he decided to only bother his boyfriend, Dallas. He walked over to where Dallas was lying and he nudged him softly. Not to Johnny’s surprise, he didn’t stir at all. He pushed on him again, and this time Dallas moved.

“W-what time is it?” Dallas asked groggily. Johnny chuckled and shrugged.

“I don’t know man. But c’mon, let’s go make some snow angels!” Johnny said giddily. Dallas sat upright.

“It snowin’?”

“Yeah man! C’mon, let’s go.” Johnny replied, trying to keep his voice down. They got dressed for the cold, which included Dallas borrowing Mr. Curtis’ old winter jacket, and headed outside.

Johnny closed the door behind the both of them and shivered slightly. He smiled as he watched Dallas, who was staring in awe at all the snow.

“Man, it ain’t ever snow this prettily in New York.” Dallas said, causing Johnny to laugh a little.

“C’mon,” Johnny said, taking Dallas by the hand. He led him to the back of the house, where the ground was level and not concrete. Dallas’ cheeks got rosey, but Johnny couldn’t tell if it was because it was cold or because he was embarrassed. He watched as Dallas got on his butt, and then laid on his back.

“Ya gon just stand there or are ya gonna join me?” Dallas asked, an underlying tone of unsureness in his voice. Johnny followed his behavior, getting on his butt and then laying on his back, and they both made their snow angels in the fresh snow.

Dallas laughed when Johnny got up, for he had his whole back covered in snow. “Shoot kid, you look like the abominable snowman!”

Johnny rolled his eyes. “You would too, if you got up.”

You want to be in a TF2 team but you don’t know where to go ? I have the solution !

Hello dears friends, after one month of existence as a little insect, I’m feelin’ alone in my hive ! 

After a reflection, I decided to make a team, but what team you’ll ask …

I can tell you, if you search a small team with wings, three pairs of eyes and legs, come in the INSECT TEAM !

You don’t know what can be the insect team ?

Come with me, partner, you’ll see, it’s easy ! 

you choose a class from your choice (in the free choices) and fuse it with a insect of your choice, of course ! 

like this: (hello guys ! i’m the demo-dragonfly !) or (hello, m8 ! I’m the mantis-sniper !)

Create your own character and send me a Tumblr message ! like this, we can make knowledge and a list to send to the @tf2askblogs !

Originally posted by jababu

so, don’t turn in circle !  say hello and come in the team, partner, it’s fun and free !

-the class choices:

(ps: you can take too the class in the “already taken” but you must take a other insect if the class of your choice have already the insect you wanted to be)

     -already taken-

  1. engineer @ask-the-engie-bee/
  2. soldier (@ask-the-soldier-bee)

       -empty places-

  1. scout 
  2. pyro
  3. demoman
  4. heavy
  5. medic
  6. sniper
  7. spy

 -and some other idea:

miss Pauling, the administrator (lol, want to see this face, then !), Merasmus, Saxton Hale ! a lot of choices are next to you, buddy !

We don’t have a uniform color required, you can be RED, BLU, yellow, green or whatever you want, but, if you’re in the insect team, you must be like a insect (why i explain this ?), be smol, add antennas, more eyes or wings ! If you’re only smol, you’re in the pocket team, fellas

If you have questions about this, send me a Tumblr message, I’ll answer it with smile !

So, what you’ll be, partner ?


Whose bad end is this again?

aka thoughts that keep me up at 2am if we had his ROUTE

Fleur Delacour

The sun
  • Chris: you know my dick has a lot in common with the sun
  • Victor: why? Because nobody likes to look directly at it?
  • Yuuri: because it gives people cancer?
  • Phichit: it rises at the crack of dawn?
  • Michele: it disappears at night?
  • Seung: direct exposure to it often leads to nasty sunburns?
  • Yurio: it needs to stay approximately 92,960,000 miles away from me?
  • Otabek: nobody will ever touch it?
  • Chris: gee thanks you guys! You're all such supportive friends!
  • Victor: we try
  • Everyone: *grunting in agreement*