and-i-feel-fine

Do NOT spread Brendon’s new address around if you ever come across it. Do NOT go to his house. I don’t care if you’re the biggest fan alive, don’t go to his house unless he invites you. It’s simple. He’s a human being who puts up with enough stuff already, the fact that it’s gotten to the point where he doesn’t feel safe anymore in his OWN HOME and he feels the best decision is to MOVE is completely unfair, and now you need to keep this in your thoughts, tell new fans, people who don’t know. Respect him and his privacy.

psa for the yoi fandom: russian names & how to use them

Russian guides: masterpost | patronyms | terms of affection | answered asks

I’m going to start by swearing this isn’t me just complaining but a general resource for the Yuri on Ice fandom because I’ve noticed some mistakes in the naming conventions used among the fandom and want to help correct them. Especially in how the fandom treats diminutives. I absolutely love seeing the huge amount of interest in Russian diminutives, etc. in fanart and fics and hopefully this breakdown will help continue that trend and interest and even spur some more ideas in fandom content.

So let’s go through some important details below the cut!

Keep reading

Unfinished Zevran scribble, three years post Blight.

The Types and What Their Suitcase Is Full Of

INTJ: Assorted headphones and music player(s)
INTP: Electronics (but forgot the chargers)
INFJ: Their friends who jokingly asked to hitch a ride in their suitcase
INFP: Tea and sweaters
ISTJ: Journals
ISTP: Literal fire
ISFJ: Books
ISFP: Instrument of choice
ENTJ: First aid supplies because they are Prepared
ENTP: All we know is that it makes noise whenever we hit a bump in the road…
ENFJ: Literal glitter
ENFP: Chocolate
ESTJ: Bread
ESTP: Air because they forgot to pack
ESFJ: “Wait, why are you bringing that?”
ESFP: Clothes for every possible scenario

Love potions but like nothing happens

♡Don’t imagine Keith or Lance accidentally drinking a love portion
♡They don’t know it’s a love potion just a tasty drink
♡Shiro rushes over to tell them but is stopped by the fact that neither of them are really reacting? ??
♡they look to be fine? Pidge what the heck u said they both just took a super strong love potion that would have them heads-over-heals for each other????
♡they. .. did ??? They should be smitten as kittens right now? ??
♡they decide to step back and just watch the two for side effect
♡they wouldn’t let their teammates suffer under the lack of control of a love potion but… if it was a dud or something???
♡then no need to worry them right?
♡so the days go on and. ..
♡nothing
♡the Red and Blue paladins argue, bicker, make fun, and spar with eachother as they do everyday
♡pidge and Hunk keep a close eye on them tho
♡"so like??? Did the potion not work???“
♡"or maybe they already???”
♡"omg"
♡"they already like eachoth–!“ Pidge has to practically climb Hunk to throw a hand over his mouth so Lance and Keith don’t hear him
♡this was in fact not needed as it seemed the Red and Blue paladins where completely 100% focused
♡on eachother
♡the day comes to an end along with the timer pidge set for how long the potion would last and…
♡nothing changed
♡and nothing happened

Come on cry with me cause I can’t be crying all on my own  that’s sad

ff-sunset-oasis  asked:

Heyyyy Andrea so I'm just wondering what are your thoughts on Blaise Zabini's mom? Like, I'm always love how you occasionally slipped her into your stories with Blaise, usually just some passing mention but the descriptions always got me very intrigued - so just want to ask what's your thoughts/views about her? Thanks <3

HA HA it’s not like I’ve been waiting my entire life for someone to ask me about blaise zabini’s mother or anything that would be dumb that would be i ns a ne im fine let’s do this:

  • for nineteen years, her name is elizabeth.
  • lizzie, her father calls her, with the same sort of simple, incredulous affection he directs at her mother—her mother, the witch, who brews potions that smell like anise and cinnamon, who wrinkles her nose at the rolling green hills of the english countryside, who wears a gleaming silver scorpion pendant around her neck and tells elizabeth bedtime stories about hot desert nights and crumbling pyramids and brilliant, scheming queens who spilled blood and conquered continents and stole thrones—and all with small, secret smiles on their faces.
  • elizabeth isn’t lizzie.
  • elizabeth goes to hogwarts; lizzie does not.
  • elizabeth is sorted into slytherin; lizzie is not.
  • elizabeth slinks through the halls, learns how to listen and how to lie and how to levitate a peacock feather; lizzie does not. elizabeth collects lipsticks she’s too young for, slick crimsons and glossy violets, highlights the arches of her cheekbones with burnished bronze powder and lines her eyes in liquid, velvety black; lizzie does not. elizabeth speaks and says nothing, lowers her gaze and sees everything, enchants as effortlessly as she entraps; lizzie does not.
  • instead, lizzie goes home for the summer, braids her hair into two neat plaits and picks wildflowers with her father, laughs pretty and easy and loud, loud like she can’t when she’s at school, because the dungeons have high ceilings and long memories and an alarming tendency to produce variables she knows she can’t control; not like elizabeth can.
  • elizabeth doesn’t make mistakes.  
  • lizzie does.
  • lizzie is eighteen and punching her time card at the ministry and dreaming about palm trees swaying in a heavy summer breeze, about pillows of sand slipping through her fingertips, about crystal blue skies and sheer linen dresses and skin tanned a dark, silky brown by the heat of the sun.  
  • and she meets a boy. a man. a visiting diplomat with a lilting accent and a fan of laugh lines around his eyes and a luxuriously appointed suite at the savoy that starts to feel like home—too much, too soon.  
  • “you’re beautiful,” he tells her, and it’s elizabeth whose mouth curves up slyly, invitingly, as she replies, “i know.”
  • “you’re perfect,” he tells her, and it’s lizzie whose heart races, whose breath skips, whose lips tremble as she replies, “i know.”
  • “i love you,” he tells her, and she doesn’t know where elizabeth stops and lizzie begins when she replies, “i love you, too.”
  • and he buys her extravagant gifts and he makes her extravagant promises and then he unceremoniously leaves; goes back to italy—to his wife, to his children, to his peach-pink villa on the mediterranean coast with the sweeping balconies and the sparkling turquoise swimming pool—the day before she realizes she’s pregnant.  
  • the ensuing rage—it’s quiet, really, a low, sad, gentle simmer deep in the pit of her stomach that could rock her to complacency if she let it.  
  • she doesn’t let it.
  • instead, she considers her options. she sends a letter. she opens her own gringott’s vault. she calmly answers, “morning sickness,” when her nosiest coworker asks why she’s been late all week. she sends another letter. she moves into a nicer flat, the kind with a doorman and a concierge and a lot of wealthy neighbors. she develops a strange craving for candied dates. she bides her time.
  • elizabeth calls it justice; lizzie calls it blackmail.
  • the day after she discovers she’s having a boy, she sends one last letter, dusts the slow-drying ink with a gold-tinged powder that smells like anise and cinnamon, and she thinks about hazy, blistering sunsets shimmering red and yellow and orange, about wide-open limestone palaces and gods that expect you to start wars for them and buttery leather sandals caked brown with old blood.  
  • elizabeth calls it justice; lizzie calls it revenge.
  • five months later, she’s gritting her teeth and squeezing the midwife’s hand and desperately wondering if the pain will ever end.  
  • it does.
  • and then she’s staring down at a baby—hers, hers—and he’s impossibly tiny and impossibly warm and impossibly helpless. his mouth relaxes into a pout, and his eyes slit open, glassy and unfocused and so dark they might as well be colorless.  
  • she names him blaise.
  • she names him blaise because blaise is a name that can’t be cut in half, and she watches him sleep while the midwife lectures her about feedings and nappies and the bare spot on her finger where a wedding ring should be. there’s a tightness in elizabeth’s chest, fierce and fearful, both, that does nothing but multiply the longer she looks at him, her son, and she understands—suddenly, and with a perfect stab of clarity—why her father had wanted her to be lizzie.
  • no one has ever hurt her twice.
  • no one will ever hurt him at all.

Magnus is one of the most powerful warlocks I’ve ever known.

10

The Tragic Love Song of Destiny 

~ SPN 12x12 coda ~

Streetlights gleamed on the hood of the Impala and shone on the windshield as Dean drove past. He listened to the familiar purr and rattle of the old engine. Maybe he should tune the old girl up sometime in the next couple of days. 

You know…when he had the time.

Sam shifted in his sleep and Dean glanced at the rearview mirror to see if he was all right. As they passed under another streetlight, Dean caught a glimpse of Sam curling into the backseat like he used to when they were kids. 

His grip tightened around the steering wheel as his eyes found the road again. Cas let out a long sigh, distracting him for a second. Dean glanced over to find him staring out the window at the passing night.

“Everything all right?” Of course, it would not be, but… 

“No,” Cas said in an irritated sort of huff. Dean’s hands jerked on the wheel, swerving the Impala off to the shoulder. “Dean, no.” He corrected his turn and glared at the asphalt before them. “I’m fine. I feel fine.” 

Dean pursed his lips, looking back in the rearview mirror to check if Sam was still asleep. He was. “Don’t scare me like that, man.”

“Sorry.” 

The only sound in the Impala for a couple of minutes was Sam’s quiet snoring. Dean tapped his thumb on the underside of the steering wheel, searching for the right words. “I…I thought I was gonna lose you.“ Again. He could not go through that again. He cleared his throat when he felt Cas’ eyes on him. “We, I mean.”

“I heard your prayer,” Cas said, softly enough that Dean thought he might have imagined it.

He had prayed – a desperate plea sent out to anyone who would listen. Dean did not remember what he had said. Rather, he remembered the feeling of Cas’ blood and sweat slick against his hand as he held him steady. He remembered the shuddered way Cas struggled for each breath. So yeah, he prayed.

“It was just your voice in my head. I couldn’t understand you exactly, though, since I was a little preoccupied.” Dean sniffed a laugh. “It was…comforting.”

“Yeah, well,” Dean’s eyes darted to the rearview mirror and back to the road, “you said you love – “

Dean’s voice caught and he gulped. He could not just say it outright. What if Cas had not meant it like that? Of course, he did not. Sam and Mom had been there as well and Cas had obviously been talking to them, too. It might have been different had it only been the two of them. Why…why would he… 

“You said you loved us,” he said, cringing at his repeated words. 

“And you called me devastatingly handsome.” 

Dean’s eyebrows arched at the smile in Cas’ voice. “That I did,” he said with an amused snort. He took his eyes off the road for a second to glance over at Cas, catching a glimmer of a smile in his reflection.

Smiling, Dean turned his attention back to the road.