anonymous said: “say “jimin is a kinky motherfucker and he knows it"” anonymous said: “"I, nissi, promise to fight Sandra aka the light of my life on April 33rd of 2020.” aletheia-l said: “Nissi♥… Can you please say: “Min Suga the genius jjang jjang man bboong bboong”?? ✧▽✧” anonymous said: “can you sing a few bars of never gonna give you up for us?”
I released a new EP today with some songs that may or may not end up on my upcoming album, hopefully to be released in late May.
‘Enigma’ is my take on a break-up song I guess, reflectively kicking said ex in the face as I go along (he deserves it, no worrries).
“And I don’t want to be your friend Don’t want to know where you are now While I am mending the amends you made While I was still around In secret codes I spell the words That I don’t dare to say out loud It hurts so much to realise That they will never be found The truth will stay buried in sound.”
Okay. First try.
Usually I’m not that kind of fan who writes a meta or something
like that. I’m not that good with words, when it’s not my mother
tongue. But this is something I have to write off of me now. It
bothers me. I’m doing this mostly to reassure myself, that I’m NOT
seeing things. Well, I hope so. Sorry in advance but…Please,
So, I have this dear
friend of mine (who’s a huge fan of BBC’s Merlin and loves The
100 as well), whose opinion I value very high, and she said a thing,
that I can’t get out of my mind now. She said that everything
Bellarke-related, the slight touches, all the stares, might be
unintentional acting, especially by Clarke. And I considered it, I
really did, to maybe be true. BUT… Then again… I’m a huge ArMor
(Arthur/Morgana)-shipper (Merlin BBC), and you may think of this ship
whatever you like but… In season 1 - and most of that fandom agree
with this, as well as the actors themselves (Bradley James/Arthur
Pendragon even said in an interview, that “they clearly fancied
each other” in season 1) – they were written as a potential
couple/love interest for each other. No-one can tell me otherwise.
There are far too many hints/evidences for that, far too many
“glances” and “touches” and even “words”, although they
never really got together… Sounds familiar? (But due to the
storyline and the introduction of ArWen (Arthur/Guinevere) as a
pairing it was kind of clear that the writers would drop ArMor at
some point – although it’s part of the Arthurian Legend itself.
But that’s another story…)
What I’m trying to say is this:
If you/we consider ArMor a thing in season 1 of Merlin and say/admit, that at this point they clearly fancied each other/had a crush on each other, how on earth
can anyone POSSIBLY think, that Bellarke is unintentional at all?! I
mean… Have a look at that if you please… (Disclaimer: GIF’s not mine! All rights to the owners.)
These are my
And these are my
And have a look at
and now at this
And here too
And look at that…
And (EVEN MORE INTENSE!)
And… (this isn’t even only S1)
Hugs (be still my heart):
Last but not least (and very dear to me):
Even L said/realized
it’s true. “You care about him?” –
And let’s not forget all the fuss about “weakness”
Let’s Murphy have the last word (or Kane, or Jaha… or who else realized only because of all their (of course only) unconditional acting around each other that they clearly have a thing for each other…):
The writers did all
these things ON PURPOSE. It can’t be otherwise. And the
cinematography speaks for itself. All the zooming in on their touches
or stares… And the things they SAID to each other up until
this point of the show, all the “I need you’s” and “I trust
you’s”, all the “I’d do everything! Please don’t kill
him’s” and “We can’t lose Clarke’s/I can’t lose you’s” (not to mention
Bellamy’s - completely unintentional of course… – decision to
run after Clarke, even though he’s gravely wounded… or the latest
“If you’re on that list, I’m on that list – Write it down or I
as well as all the other things like the epic
hugs or the neck-nuzzles – and yes, Clarke’s nuzzling too (I
TOTALLY would do this with a platonic friend of mine…unintentionally…
of COURSE… who am I kidding >.<). Can it possibly be more
obvious? I don’t know. But these are the facts. They can’t be
overseen or ignored. And I think… even if I’m preoccupied because
I’m a reader of the novels by Kass Morgan, there’s definitely a
visual (sexual) tension between our lovelies. And I think they were planned right from the start. As the slow burn of all slow burn-relationships - to keep up the tension. That’s why there are so many hints even in the first series. If there would be ANYTHING that reassures me that Bellarke is endgame at last, than I could endure EVERYTHING on the way, even one-night-stands and other crushes. *sigh*
So… tell me guys…
am I seeing things, or what? I wished, that my friend would be able
to see the show through my eyes every now and then. The fact, that
she smiles a bit over metas like this, or hardcore-shippers (and I am
one of these) for that matter, saddens me more than I could’ve ever
imagined. I have too much time I guess… *sigh* But that’s nothing
we couldn’t solve or talk about. And that makes me happy again. I
trust us. ;)
May I please request darkcreature!gramander fluff? With the two of them as dark creatures, but still so very much happy and in love with one another?
[a/n] @hamelin-born of course! I’d be happy to! Sorry this sat in my inbox so long. It was super fun to write though (I admit, fluff is not my strong suit. I’m not super practiced at it… but I hope this suffices!). Besides, it’s about time I give the boys some comfort and fluff. Maybe I should make it a thing. 1 fluff for every 5 fics of pain. XD Hope you enjoy!
There were many sides of Graves
that Newt loved. He loved the director that could back him into a corner, all
long lines and powerful edges, and simply devour him with hot breath and even
hotter lips. He loved the man that woke up earlier despite going to bed late,
just to help Newt with his chores around the enclosures of his case. He loved
the friend that made sure to walk Queenie home after an unexpectedly late night
at the office. He loved the sympathetic human being that decided to turn a
blind eye to a certain kind no-maj and his bakery when he realized just where
those creature-inspired pastries Newt loved so much were coming from. He loved
the way he doted on the Niffler when he thought Newt wasn’t looking, or how he
seemed particularly in awe of the powerful grace of the Nundu despite their
dangerous (and very illegal) presence.
He loved him when he had Newt in
his arms, his lips at his shoulder whispering kind words into his freckled skin.
He loved him when he woke up trembling and he loved him when he lost himself
beneath Newt’s touch and he loved him when he tried to hide the fact that he
used reading glasses because he thought it made him old.
There were many sides of Graves
that Newt loved. But this one… Graves
curled up on the couch – hair mussed and sleepy eyed and clad in an old and
battered Ilvermorny sweater – dozing sweetly with the faintest snore… This was
one of his favorites.
Newt came to stand beside the
couch and delicately set the bowl of oil he had been carrying down on the side
table before leaning down to gently check Graves’ temperature by pressing his
forehead up against the other man’s brow. Warm, still feverish from the change.
Newt nodded, expecting no less, before gently taking the paperwork from Graves’
slack grip and gently setting it aside as well.
“M’not done with that,” Graves
mumbled, one eye cracked open to watch Newt with a frown – but he made no move
to stop him. Newt smiled.
“It’ll still be here for you
later,” he said simply, before turning back to the director and gently brushing
a sweaty lock of hair from his brow. Even narrow as they were, he could still
see amber peeking out inside the dark depths of Graves’ brown eyes. “How are we
“Told you m’fine,” Graves groused
even as he sunk a little more into the baggy comfort of his sweater, his jaw
tipping instinctively into the callused curve of Newt’s hand as he brought it
down to cup his face. “I need to get used to this.”
Newt sighed, amused and a little
“You can’t just will this away,
Percival,” he said as he took one of Graves’ trembling hands into his own and
willed heat into his fingers – easing the tremor from the director’s bones. “What
you really need to get used to is taking care of yourself.”
Graves scowled even as a deep,
contented purr blossomed in his chest from Newt’s administrations.
“I don’t have time to take off
after every full moon, Newt,” he said.
“One day a month wouldn’t kill
you,” Newt pressed as he eased his thumbs into the aching flesh between the
tendons of Graves’ hand and moved up to start rubbing away the ache in the man’s
wrist – slightly swollen from the transformation earlier that morning. “If you
don’t listen to your body, it’ll make you listen. The last thing you or your
team needs is their director passing out in the middle of MACUSA because you pushed
yourself too hard.”
Graves looked away at that, more
awake now than he had been – a cute little wrinkle between his brows from
frowning. Newt apologetically kissed his hand at the sight of his troubled
look. Graves wasn’t used to having to take it easy. Before Grindelwald, his
power had been uncontested. His body had been strong, his magic even stronger. According
to Tina, the man never got sick. His work had been his life. Sometimes he even
slept in his office. He had never needed to slow down before. To rest.
And like many things, Grindelwald
robbed him of that too.
Newt hadn’t believed it at first.
He had never heard of a man becoming a werewolf without having been bitten by
one. But sure enough, when they found Graves he was half mad from starvation
and captivity and the pain of his oncoming transformation. And there hadn’t
even been so much as a scar to suggest the man had ever been bitten. Graves had
tried to warn them, though. He howled at them to close the door – to leave. The
aurors just thought him crazed and panicked. They didn’t listen. They advanced
on him with soothing whispers and eager hands, and all the while Newt couldn’t
help but feel like something was wrong as he watched Graves press himself as
far into the corner as he could – small and terribly thin and trembling. Eyes
on the window. Afraid.
Afraid of himself.
They thought he was afraid of
Grindelwald returning. Newt didn’t notice that it was the rising moon the man
was watching until it was too late. Thankfully, Graves couldn’t remember
anything after the transformation. Newt was grateful for that every day.
“Newt?” Graves asked, breaking
the magizoologist from his thoughts. “Are you alright?”
Newt blinked, pinned beneath the
worried warmth of Graves’ gaze – still glowing ever so faintly from his night as
a wolf. And when Newt didn’t answer right away, Graves gently pulled his hand
away and for the first time, Newt saw the man nervously avert his eyes.
“You don’t have to keep doing
this. I know you’re busy,” Graves said softly, and Newt flinched when he
finally recognized the man’s body language for what it was – shame. “I can take care of myself.”
Newt wasn’t sure what the man was
expecting. But it obviously wasn’t the scoffing snort Newt let out at the man’s
statement. Graves whirled to look at him with wide eyes as Newt took advantage
of his shock to grab at the waistline of the man’s pants and ease them down his
long legs, past his swollen and aching knees, until finally they were off the
“If that were true, these,” Newt said, hot hands on the
director’s knee caps, “Wouldn’t be so swollen. And I wouldn’t have had to argue
with you to get you to stay home for once in your life.”
Graves scowled and opened his
mouth to argue, but Newt quickly lifted himself up to silence the man with a
chaste kiss before leaning back – smiling.
“I know you can take care of
yourself,” he said, eyes crinkled at the edges as he made sure to remember
every line that made up the soft, shocked expression on Graves’ normally
controlled and stoic face. “That doesn’t mean you have to do it alone.”
Without another word, Newt dipped
his hands into the minty oil he had brought for Graves and shuffled down to
kneel by the man’s legs. Gently, he eased them straight – lips soft and
apologetic against the man’s shin when the cartilage in his knee popped
angrily. Newt didn’t miss the way the director flinched or how he was biting
the inside of his cheek to keep from groaning.
“Ssh,” he said, eyes looking up
the long line of Graves’ body to meet his feverish gaze. “I’ve got you.”
He willed the skin of his hands
hotter as pressed his thumbs around the swollen edges of Graves’ right knee. He
knew what it must feel like. Minty coolness and warm flesh and delicious
pressure as he rubbed away knots and untangled the muscles that had been
aggravated from the change. He rubbed until Graves’ bitten off groans turned
into soft little huffs of pleasure beneath his breath. He kneaded the flesh, working
his palms from the back of the man’s knee down into the meat of his calve, until Graves’ body had sunken into the couch – head back. He moved to the other leg
once the man’s eyes slipped closed, Graves’ hands trembling for a completely
And all the while, Newt smiled.
He drank in the sight of this Graves;
the normally fierce and powerful director turned puddle on the couch. The
strong lines of his face soft with pleasure and his body slack
beneath Newt’s touch. Messy hair and inelegant clothing and glistening skin. He
cherished every second of easing the baggy, battered sweater up the hard planes
of the man’s stomach. He kissed and worshiped every inch of pale skin the
journey exposed and loved the way Graves grumbled sleepily as Newt guided the
overgrown sweater over the man’s head. He memorized the feel of the man’s firm
body beneath his hands as he rubbed away the weariness of the werewolf’s shoulders and
the tautness in his back. He didn’t stop until Graves was well and truly
lost to the world, half asleep and blissed out from the magizoologist’s
And when Newt was finally content
with the quality of his work, he simply eased Graves’ upper body up so that he
could slide his lap beneath the man and join him on the couch. Newt smiled as
long, powerful arms threaded themselves around his waist so that Graves might
press his nose into the redhead’s stomach – his ribs rumbling heavily against Newt’s
thigh beneath the weight of his contented purrs. Yes. This was one of his favorite
sides of Percival Graves; the side he never showed the world.
“What an odd pair we must make,”
Graves mumbled sleepily into Newt’s belly. “A werewolf in the lap of a dragon.”
Newt smiled down at him and
brushed the director’s dark hair back from his brow even as he willed his body hotter, eager
to soothe Graves’ aches.
“I think the word you’re looking
for is ‘perfect’.”
You know what, demons are a bit like strippers. Please consider…
No one knows how old they really are
Constantly being asked if they have “daddy issues”
Look pretty sharp
Perform impressive feats with nearly zero recognition!
Frequent unwanted sexual advances from customers
Probably talk shit about said customers
Often asked to provide more than agreed upon
• Everyone talks about how awful you are until they need you for something •
SERIOUSLY, WITH THE UNWANTED SEXUAL ADVANCES
at the end of ep48 Michael MENTIONS rolling a nat1 and Kelly, who statistically has the best rolls in the game and has rolled in the 20’s all episode, crit fails just as he says it. How does his bad roll karma even work I’m just…..astonished
the prompt: i was listening to The Neighbourhood’s “the beach” and i was thinking about a Nct Taeyong scenario in which you’re friends and some night you’re walking on the beach and you confess to him/he confesses to you?
author note: the last sentence is rlly cheesy so i apologize in advance. (I listened to beach boys while writing this and it was aju nice)
“it’s a coping mechanism” is all good and well, but coping is stagnancy. it’s helpful sometimes, and useful, sure, but it’s neither good, nor bad, nor morally pure. It just Is.
sometimes they’re bad and harmful to not only yourself, but others. we’ve built a community where saying ‘It’s my coping mechanism’ automatically takes you off the hook of being toxic, or hurting others or yourself. this isn’t okay, nor should it be the end-all be-all of dealing with trauma and mental illness.
We should be seeking more useful praxises. Instead of coping, find ways to Heal, to Thrive, to Advance. Above all, listen when people are telling you that certain coping mechanisms are harmful, or reductive.
AU // Darcy Lewis as a Demi-Goddess as suggested by @typhoidmeri
– I made a short ficlet to go with the fan art –
It was their first time in Asgard.
Well, not really. It was Jane’s second?
Third? Seventh? In Asgard. It was her first.
Darcy has been invited the previous times they had to cross the rainbow
bridge, but she refused. Her mother would kill her.
“Those Asgardians with their stupid tree of
life and their posh golden castles. They think they’re so much better than us
Olympians. They’re obviously wrong, Darcy, so don’t listen to a word they say,”
her uncle’s siblings used to say. (Zeus. It was mostly Zeus. And Hera. And
Who was her uncle? No one other than Hades.
Who was her mother? The goddess Nyx. Which was kind of ironic since Darcy
herself didn’t really personify night skies and darkness. Although ending up
working for (with!!!) Jane made sense when she thought about it. She didn’t
tell her friend though, when she chose to help clear the skies when they went
out star hunting.
“You’ll love it Darce! Everything’s so
golden, and they have the perfect view of the sky. And there are so many things
to learn! Their healers know advanced medical techniques!”
Darcy listened to Jane, all the time
pretending she heard this for the first time. (She already heard it from uncle
Zeus. “They think their technology is better than ours simply because it’s
fancier! Heathens!!! Their healers can’t even-“)
“Darcy! Are you even listening?”
“Yes Jane. Rainbow bridge. Awesome doctors
and nurses. Golden gates.”
“What? My expertise is negotiating between
countries. Not which doctors can cure the flue faster.”
“Just don’t be a drag? Odin has went from
hating me to tolerating me, and I can’t have you-“
“Jeopradize your relationship with Thor.
Goddit boss lady.”
Thor called for Heimdall and in a flash
they were transported. Darcy’s eyes hurt the moment they landed. Odin must be
overcompensating for something.
“Welcome, Lady Jane and Lady Darcy. If you
feel queasy, that is normal.”
“Nah, I’m fine golden eyes,” she stated to
who she assumed was Heimdall, standing straight with his golden regalia. He
raised an eyebrow, and she mentally slapped herself. This guy already knew her
secret, didn’t he?
“Your rooms await you,” he replies, simply
smiling rather mysteriously Darcy’s way.
One of the maids (slaves? Long line of
servants families? She didn’t know how the service industry works in Asgard,
okay?) led her to her room, which was so much bigger than her dingy apartment
back on Earth
“A dress has been chosen for you, milady. Please wear it to the
ball,” the maid said. Jane walked by and whispered rather loudly, “Please wear
it Darcy. The dinner’s formal and it’s polite to wear it so don’t wear one of
your strappy dresses for bar hopping.”
Darcy faked a gasp. “I would never!” she
said before laughing and entering her room.
She looked at her dress. Wearing Asgardian
clothes as a daughter of an Olympian (well…technically Chthonic) deity? Even
Hades, as patient as he is, would get angry. Something about wearing the
clothes of the enemy team. Thank goodness she brought one of the dresses her aunt
made for her. Persephone did always have good taste. It was polite enough for a
formal dinner party, without looking to Midgardian, but still not Grecian
enough to make people notice that she was a half. “Aunt Seph, you’re the best!”
Darcy cleaned and prepped herself,
wondering what kind of people were invited to the king’s feast. Asgardians
probably ate a lot. At least, if most of them ate like Thor they would. She donned on her dress. It was a pretty
lilac-ish, lavender-ish (Persephone’s words, not hers!) colour that was soft
enough to obscure her familial ties. She wasn’t bold enough to wear her
mother’s colours to an Asgardian feast.
Darcy stepped out of her room and promptly
crashed into another body. Another rather hard, leather-bound body.
“I didn’t know we invited the Olympian
pantheon to an Asgardian feast,” the sarcastic voice drawled. Drawled. It made
her skin crawl. And not in a bad way. She wished it was in a bad way.
“You didn’t. I’m Midgardian. Fling me off a
roof and I die Midgardian???” she replied, trying to conceal her panic and her
lie. He really was as smart as the stories told.
“We can test that theory of yours.”
“Be ready to be beaten to a pulp by Bruce
again if you try to do that Loki,” she said right back, boldly looking up at
him (quite up, he was a tall man).
His reply was an amused smirk.
“Well, milady?” he finally said after a
long rather tense silence. She took his offered arm and they went together to
the ballroom where the feast was held.
Darcy was floored. Everything was gold. Chairs, pillars, the goddamn
ceiling. Everything. It didn’t compare to Tartarus, obviously, because the dark
glinting walls and silver lights that made up her second home grew on her.
Asgard was just so 180 she kind of went into shock.
Her eyes scanned the entire
room. Her hand went up to cover her open mouth. It was gorgeous. Jane totally didn’t exaggerate.
“Shocked? I assume there is nothing like
this on Midgard,” Loki said, a smirk on his face from what she could see from
the corner of her eye.
“Cathedrals, my man, cathedrals are totally
like this. And castles. Palaces? Yeah those.”
“Midgardian palaces?” he inquired, his
smirk growing, as if he know something he shouldn’t, and would use it against
Darcy starts to get cold sweat in fear of
her secret getting spilled.
a god damn demi-goddess, Darcy Lewis! Get over yourself! You can get through an
Asgardian meet n greet!
But before she could tell Loki to shut his
trap, fanfares started and they were ushered in.