I have a Headcanon that when the other paladins can’t sleep, they’ll always end up in Lances bed or Lance in theirs.
Since he grew up with a lot of siblings, his younger ones would probably climb in with him sometimes so he’d know how to help people sleep and he’d probably learn specific things to help each paladin.
Hunk: probably has a song his mamma used to sing him, so Lance goes out of his way to learn it and sings it to Hunk when he can’t sleep, playing with his hands to help him relax.
He’d kiss his knuckles and the pads of his fingers gently while he fell asleep.
Pidge: she’d probably curl up on his lap, right beside him while he recited pi or.some other calming sequence while playing with her hair.
He’d probably run his hand down her side gently to, pausing after so many numbers to place a kiss on her temple or elsewhere.
Keith: he’d lie beside him and play with his hair, either singing/humming or just talking about random things in Spanish.
He’d pause every few seconds to just place a small kiss some where, he’ll make sure Keith is covered in kisses before he falls asleep.
And for Shiro, I don’t think he’d go to the others for being unable to sleep.
//My Mutuals Circle - AKA The Reasons You All Matter To Me So Fucking Much <3
NO ACTUAL ORDER HERE, JUST THE ORDER IN WHICH YOU HAPPEN TO EXIST ON MY DASHBOARD FOR IMs RIGHT NOW XDDDD.
@tavis-of-bannorn - You’re the reason we’re here. You have my actual phone number. We’ve had a conversation that began with the words “Are you CALLING me? WHY ARE YOU CALLING ME?” at 3:00 and the reply was “OH GOD I’M SORRY MY FACE HIT THE BUTTON I DIDN’T MEAN TO!!! Ffs…” We write some incredibly symbolic stuff entirely on accident without trying and then discover it later and just…stare at it like “Oooooooo” as if we did something awesome pretty (we did dammit). You step in when people are being assholes and tell them you asked Patrick Weekes so they can all shut up. You take the time out of your ridiculously busy schedule to snuggle me back when I need it. You have offered to make me Chicken Cake if I ever see you in real life, and have assured me I won’t die if I eat it, and so I promised to eat it XDDD Omg. You’re the literal embodiment of Wednesday Addams. I love you. Thanks for being there. You know where to find me if you need me. The fun part about having my phone number means you get to use it too. ;)
@aylenlavellan- How many times have I randomly just hit you with a crazy plot and you’ve just been all YAASSSSSS LETS DO IT. That’s us. The crazy idea train. You made me gorgeous art of Martine (why you do that? omg it’s still gorgeous *goes to stare more*) but more than that you follow me everywhere, on everything, like a crazy stalker except one I like, so I had to follow back XD. You’re the one who sits and tells me that it’s gonna be okay, the one who helps me write through triggery things even knowing how fucking hard. You’re a healing little light in the middle of a lot of stuff, and I know you have my back, and you’ll check in on me if I go AWOL for a bit. You have an adorable dog called Cola, and you can literally talk for ten straight minutes unwittingly about all the reasons you love my characters XD <3 You’re always there to talk, and you always say goodnight, and I dunno…I just really like that you always say goodnight? XD <3 Thank you for being here. I love you. And I’ve got your back. You need anything, you shout. :)
@tal-fucking-vashoth - Jac, the words “I just wanted to help” come to mind. I know how crazy busy you are, and how hard you work. I know that oftentimes I’m the friend that fills the “Advice-Giving” space for you, and I don’t mind doing that (because I’m an insufferable know-it-all with all the answers, obviously ;P). I rely on you, in truth, and so it’s okay for you to rely on me too. We’re not the kind of friends that talk every day, but we are the kind that are going to be right there when someone needs an injection of good old adult common sense (both sides). The idea that I can still get a *soft gasp* everytime I write *hug* still makes me laugh, and thank you for liking my videos before you ever knew me and not knowing it was me you write with ;) Thank you for all your support, and I hope this friendship only grows stronger.
@brokenbiirds - Charlie, my other crazy plots friend. I love what we write, and that will always be true. But we are so much more than that. I love the way that we get entirely lost in it. I won’t lie. You’re absolutely my escapist friend at times. I love that a lot, and I need that a lot. It’s very easy for things to be bogged down in work at times. Thank you for all the ways you support me. You’re the friend that perseveres, and I know there are times that I represent that to a lot of people, so it means the world that I have someone like that too (I’m not as strong as I look). You keep me standing, keep me plodding on, looking forward, facing the rest of the world out there. You’re the driving force to just keep going, and that…well…you already know. It means everything. You’re the friend that texts me at one in the morning because I needed help, and then followed up for three days straight to make sure that I was still alright. You know if I can ever do the same, you know damn well where to find me <3. Thank you. I love you. I mean that forever. Thank you for not giving up on me.
@snowball-with-knives- Haha we don’t speak all that often but you’re the goofy friend that keeps things real. You’re more the ghost that haunts my dash, drawing penises on the mirrors and reminding everyone to drink coffee. Seriously, you make everything a riot, and even while I’m shaking my head (because I don’t come installed with humor.exe apparently) I love it. All of it. You’re zest and zeal, the spice that keeps everything exciting. I love seeing you around, and all your posts, and I love Anthy, because dammit Purple Prose can be as amusing as anything. <3
@teaganhawkeward- Arija <3. Thank you for your patience with me, for the way you’ve followed me for so long. You’re the shadow that quietly reassures, the soft little reminders. Everyone needs a bit of soft encouragement and that, my friend, is you. You do it in both words and actions, from quiet sacrifices you make for me (believe me, I appreciate every damn thing you’ve ever given me, and I know I’m bad at saying it), to the way you’re good at making me smile when I need a little pick-me-up. You’re easygoing, at least to me, and I enjoy the softness and the warmth in the things we write. Thank you for injecting a bit of hope into Sahlin again. You really did. And thank you as well for giving Herah a light in the dark too. Thank you as well for the ways you’ve helped me outside of RP <3. Good luck in your job this summer and shout if there’s anything you need :D <3
@thosewhospeak - I hope you don’t take this the wrong way when I say that you’re my careless friend. I mean that with the best of intentions. You’re the one that trips me up a lot, forces me to reconsider a lot of things about myself and therefore grow, and you do it without really trying. I really value that, so don’t think of this as an insult. Careless here means that you’re not tiptoeing around me. You’re just a little bit of reality to occasionally break the Tumblr Bubble. That matters, and it’s so damn important. So, you’re the friend that keeps shit real. I love the depth of the things we write (often without trying). I love that we don’t have ships too, not because I don’t LIKE ships, but because I love the rivalry/friendship that we write so much better, because romance is everywhere but my god struggling friendships from people with some staggeringly different points of view are hard to come by in any media, and especially hard to do so with women, and the fact we have that with Tama and Herah makes me so fucking happy. <3 Thanks, always, for being the one who sometimes treads on my toes, and makes me take a reality check from time to time ;)
@dragonageimpostors- Aji, thanks for being insufferable and insisting on being my friend. XD Haha. Seriously though, thanks for *snurglesleeps*, for snarky banter, and for constantly coming back for more. Thanks for following me everywhere. And…thanks I suppose for listening to my videos to chill yourself out (though maybe that just means they’re boring XD). Sigh. Thanks for reminding me at times to just be a bit more human. Thanks too for checking in on me while I was gone, and also for the way you’re so bloody insistent on sticking around ;) Thank you as well for writing long paragraphs, and for being so active all the time. XD It makes you a constant presence, even when we’re not actually engaging in a conversation at the time. I already told you my story of my very first American friend. You lot are all the same with your waltzing in like you own the place and making demands to be friends :P But it’s appreciated. I know a lot of people who don’t come to me first, and it means a LOT that you do. So thanks for that. And thanks for listening when shit makes me grumpy or blegh. *snurglesleeps* P.S. I’m still not cute.
@aeluned- Hello, hello across the world. I know you’re absent again for the moment, and life has been hectic and busy. Thanks for inundating me on a fairly regular basis with cats, and for coming up with crazy plots (that can’t always be me). Thanks for having a character that drags Sahlin into the light, even when he’s like O.o and wins him over anyway. Thanks for your support over on the other blog as well, and for being such an endless fan of Herah (kick-ass ladies gotta stick together). Thanks for living in a timezone that makes it really awkward to talk to you (but only if I have a shit sleep schedule haha), and for being my European friend, because omfg there are some things that you just have to shake your head at, yes? XD Thanks for sticking by us so long. You’re one of the longest RP partnerships I’ve got, and you and Eluned made such an impact on Sahlin’s world, that it mattered. Forever. And always will. <3
@kaaras-adaar - My clone friend, always keeping things weird :P You are the permanent reminder to take myself more seriously, and less seriously, to both love myself and look at myself closely to see how I can be better. Thank you, Sam, for listening, but also for understanding. Thank you for 3:00am triggered texts from a bath. Thank you for recognizing and naming the things I feel when at times I struggle to myself. Thank you as well for your trust, and for sharing, and for hearing my own stories in turn. Thank you for being the rapid-fire writer, the one who can sling back threads like it’s a game. Thank you for writing the hard things - our threads are not always pleasant rays of sunshine, and there are dark things we touch upon that others would rather avoid, but the growth that comes out of them (and not only for characters) has always and will always mean all the world. Thank you for the silliness, the quiet ways you show you care. Thank you for still being here, after so many things *rolls eyes*. I love you. And thank you as well for knowing how to make a fucking cup of tea -.-
For the past week Peter had been much more snarky than usual. At first you had found it comical, enjoying his snappy responses and his sarcastic comments. But that was when they had been directed at everyone else. He had never been that way with you. Recently that had changed, and the more annoyed he seemed at you the snarkier he got and the less funny it was.
“What crawled up your ass and died?” You finally confronted him, annoyance seeping into your tone. Peter didn’t even glance up from the newspaper he was reading, pretending like he hadn’t heard you as he carefully turned the page and scanned it for an interesting article. “Peter!” Grabbing for the newspaper it wrinkled and ripped loudly as you pulled it from his hands.
Glancing angrily up at you Peter rose to his feet, shoulders rolling back as he stood. “Why don’t you ask your best friend, Derek?” He asked, brushing past your shoulder and stomping his way up the spiral staircase towards his room like a toddler.
Flabbergasted, you stood where you had been with the newspaper balled in your hand. “You’re being an ass because you’re jealous?! Seriously?” You yelled. The only answer you got was the slam of Peter’s bedroom door as he closed it loudly behind himself.
DIY: a freaky, mixed-media sculpture called “a body I can accept”
I think creative self-description is a really excellent tool towards accepting and one day even loving your appearance. I’m not sure how it works, or how universally effective it is, it’s just something that helps me a little and I wanted to try to put it into words.
Edit: I accidentally put it into a lot of words. Geez.
But if you’ve had a kind of crappy body image lately, and you’re willing to give my nonsense a shot… then good luck?
Never underestimate the power of supporting a small scale fanfic writer. They may end up writing novel length fanfiction that is beloved the whole fandom over. They might go on to write original fiction and be published. And they might just be really happy and keep doing what they’re doing.
*shyly whispers* do u think u could do another Greek Mythology story~
“Your tapestries are so
fine,” the merchant says in wonder, “that you must be blessed by the goddess
Arachne tosses her
head, braided hair falling over her shoulder like an obsidian waterfall,
“What’s Athena got to do with it? My hands wove these, not hers.”
The merchant blanches
and looks to the sky, as if expecting Zeus himself to smite them for blasphemy.
Personally, she thinks the king of the gods has better thing to do with his
time. “Ah,” he says weakly, “I suppose.”
He pays her for her
wares and she leaves, almost immediately bumping into a hunched old woman with
grey eyes. “Do you not owe Athena thanks for your talent?” she croaks, gnarled
hands curled over a cane.
Arachne is not stupid,
but she is foolish. They will tell tales of it. She looks into those grey eyes
and declares, “Athena should thank me,
since my talents earn her so much praise.”
She pushes past her and
keeps walking, ignoring the goddess in humans skin as she disappears into the
They will tell tales of
her hubris. They will all be true.
The next day she bumps
into the same old woman at the market. Everything goes downhill from there.
“Know your place,
mortal,” Athena says, grey eyes narrowed. There is a crowd around them, and
Arachne could save herself, could walk away unscathed, and all she has to do is
say her weaving is inferior to that of a goddess.
She will not lie.
“I do,” she says
coolly, “and in this matter, it is above you.”
She is not honest as a
virtue, but as a vice.
Athena challengers her
to a weaving contest. She accepts.
Gods are not so hard to
find, if you know where to look.
“It’s a volcano,” the
baker repeats, looking down at her coins, as if he feels guilty for taking
money from someone who’s clearly not all there.
She grabs her bag of
sweet breads and adds it to her pack before swinging it over her shoulders,
“Yes, I know. Half a day’s walk, you said?”
“A volcano,” he insists, as if she did not hear him perfectly well the
first dozen times.
“Thank you for your
help,” she says. He’s shaking his head at her, but she knows what she’s doing.
She walks. She grows
hungry, but does not touch the bread she paid for, and walks some more. The
sun’s begun to set by the time she makes it to the base of the volcano. It’s
tall, impossibly large, and for a moment the promise of defeat threatens to
But Arachne does not
believe in defeat, in loss. They will tell tales of her hubris. Those tales
will be true.
She ties a scarf around
her braids then hikes her skirt up and ties the material so it falls only to
her thighs. She fits work roughened hands into the divots of cooled magma and
begins her slow ascent.
The muscles in her legs
and arms shake, and her hunger pains are almost as distracting. Her once white
dress is dirt smeared and torn and sweat makes her itch as it covers her body
and drips down her back.
“What are you doing?”
Arachne turns her head
and bites back a scream, looking into one giant eye. The cyclops holds easily
to the volcano’s edges, even though her hands are torn and bleeding. She
swallows and says, “I heard you like honeyed bread. Is it true?”
The creature tilts his
head to the side, baring his long fanged teeth at her. She thinks he might be
smiling. “You’ve been climbing for hours. What do you want?”
“Is it true?” she
repeats, refusing to flinch.
“Yes,” he says, looking
at her the same way the baker had, “it’s true.”
“There’s some sweet
bread in my pack, baked this morning,” she says, “it should still be soft.”
His hands are big
enough and strong enough that it could probably squeeze her head like a grape. Instead
he gently undoes her pack and reaches inside. The honey buns look comically
small in his large hands, and he swallows half of them in one bite. He licks
his fingers clean when he’s done, and his smile is just as terrifying the
second time around. “I am Brontes. Why are you climbing my master’s volcano?”
“I’m the weaver
Arachne,” she takes a deep breath, “I need your master’s help.”
They tell tales of
They are not true.
He’s got a broad,
angular face and short brown hair. His eyes are like amber set into his face,
and his arms are huge, and he’s rippling muscle from the waist up. He has legs
only to his knees. From there down his legs are bronze gears and golden wire,
replacements for the legs destroyed when Hera threw him from Mount Olympus.
“Had your look, girl?”
he asks, voice rough like he’s always a moment away from breaking into a
“Yes,” she says, and
doesn’t turn away, keeps looking.
His lips quirk up at
the corners, so it was the right move. The heat is even more oppressive inside
the volcano, and all around him cyclopses work, forging oddly shaped metal that
she can’t hope to understand. “You’ve gone to an awful lot of trouble to find me,
girl. What do you want?”
She slides her pack off
her shoulders and holds it out to the god, “I have a gift for your wife. I have
woven her a cloak.”
He raises an eyebrow
and doesn’t reach for the bag, “You believe something made with mortal hands
could be worthy of the goddess of beauty?”
They will tell tales of
They will all be true.
With a gust of wind the
oppressive heat of the volcano is swept away, leaving her chilled. In its place
stands a woman – more than a woman. Aphrodite has skin like the copper of her
husband’s machines and hair dark and thick and long. Her eyes are deepest,
richest brown, piercing in their intelligence. People don’t tell tales of
Aphrodite’s cleverness. That is because people are stupid.
“Let’s see it then,”
she says, reaching inside the pack and pulling the cloak from its depths.
It unrolls beautifully.
It’s made from the finest silks, and it shimmers in the light from the forges.
The hem of the cloak is sea foam, speaking of Aphrodite’s beginning, and up
along the cloak is intricate patterns it tells of her life, of her marriage and
her worshippers and escapades, all with the detail of the most experienced
artist and the reverence of her most devoted followers.
Her lips part in
surprise and she slides it on, twirling like a child. “Gorgeous,” Hephaestus
says, though Arachne knows he does not speak of the cloak. She doesn’t take
The goddess smiles and
Arachne’s heart pounds in her chest. She does her best to ignore it – Aphrodite
is the goddess of love, after all. It is only expected. “Very well,” the
goddess says, “you have my attention.”
Aphrodite’s attention is a heavy thing. “I have offended Athena,” she says,
“She has challenged me to a weaving contest.”
Their faces somber.
Hephaestus rubs the edge of a sleeve between his fingers and says, “Athena will
lose such a contest, if judged fairly. She does not take loss well.”
“I know,” she says,
“you are friendly with Hades, are you not?”
There are no tales of
their friendship. But she’s staking her life on its existence, because why
wouldn’t it exist – both of them even tempered, both shunned by Olympus, both
Gods hate being made to
feel lesser. It is why they say Persephone was kidnapped, why they say
Aphrodite cheats with Ares. It is why Athena will crush her when Arachne wins
the weaving contest.
“Clever girl,” Hephaestus
Aphrodite stares at her
reflection in a convenient piece of polished silver. Arachne assumes Hephaestus
left if lying there for that express purpose. “Very well!” the goddess says,
not looking at her, “when Athena sends you to the underworld, we will entrench
upon our uncle for your release.” She turns on her heel and points a finger at
her. Arachne blushes for no reason she can think of. “In return, you will weave
me a gown, one equal to my own beauty.”
A gown as exquisite as
the goddess of beauty. An impossible task.
They will tell tales of
They will all be true.
The contest goes as
expected. Athena’s tapestry is lovely, but Arachne’s is lovelier.
The goddess’s face goes
red in rage, and her grey eyes narrow. Arachne stands tall, ready to accept the
death blow coming for her.
The blow comes.
Death does not.
She is an insect. Even if she can make it back to Hephaestus’s
volcano, even if they can help her, they will not know it is her. She has no
hope left, no course of action, she should just give up. But –
She doesn’t believe in
defeat, in loss.
It was a terribly long
journey on foot, that first time. It is even longer this time, although now she
has eight legs instead of two. She makes it to the volcano, and creeps in
between crevices, until she finds out a hollowed room, one with a sliver of
sunlight and plenty of bugs to keep her fed.
Athena’s cruel joke of
allowing her to weave will be her downfall. Her silk comes out a golden yellow
color – it will look exquisite against Aphrodite’s copper skin.
It takes seven years
for her to complete it. She hasn’t left this room in the volcano in all that
time, and as soon as it’s done she scurries out back toward the village. She’s
a large insect, but not that large.
She arrives just as the
sun begins to rise, and leaves before the first rays have even touched the
earth, her prize tied to her back with her own silk.
Arachne doesn’t return
to her room. Instead she goes to the more popular parts of the volcano, hurries
and runs around terrifying stomping feet until she finds who she’s looking for
and scurries up his leg and onto his shoulder.
“Huh,” Brontes looks
onto his shoulder and blinks. “What on earth are you?”
She cautiously skitters
down his arm, waiting. He bends closer and lightly touches her back. “Is – is that
a piece of a honey bun?”
She looks up at him,
waiting. It’s her only chance, if he doesn’t remember, if he doesn’t understand
His face slowly fills with
a cautious kind of wonder. “Arachne?” She
jumps in place, being unable to nod, and Brontes cautiously cradles her in his
massive hands, “We must find the Master immediately!”
She jumps down, landing
in front of him and running forward. “Wait!” he calls, and she makes sure he’s running
after her before skittering back to her corner of the cave. It’s almost too
small for him to enter but he squeezes inside and breathes, “Oh.” He stares for
several moments, and Arachne climbs her web and waits. Brontes shakes himself
out of his reverie and uses his powerful wings to bellow, “MISTRESS APHRODITE!”
There’s that same
breeze and she’s in the crevice with them, “What was so important, Brontes,
that you had to yell?”
Arachne sees the exact
moment that the goddess sees the gown, golden yellow and glimmering, made
entirely of spider silk. “Beautiful,” she says, reaching out a hand to brush
down the bodice. Her head then snaps up, “Brontes, where’s Arachne?”
She warms at that, that
Aphrodite knew it was her weaving even though she hasn’t been seen in seven
They’ve told tales of
They are all true.
Brontes points at the
web, and Aphrodite steps over and holds out her hands. Arachne crawls onto the
goddess’s palms. “Athena is more powerful than I am, I cannot undo her work,”
she says, “but I know someone who can.”
Then they are in front
of a river. A handsome young man stands there waiting with a boat. “Goddess
Aphrodite,” he says, “we weren’t expecting you.”
returns, “I need to see Persephone.”
The man’s face stays
cool, and for a moment Arachne fears they will be refused and she will be stuck
in this form forever. Then he smiles and says, “My lady is of course available
for her favored niece.” He holds out a hand to help her onto the boat, “Please
come with me.”
Arachne weaves a dress
for Hades’s wife as a thank you, and returns to her volcano.
“I can take you
somewhere else,” Aphrodite says, “you don’t have to hide here.”
Arachne pauses at her
loom. She has lived in this volcano for seven years. It’s her home. “Would you
like me to leave?” she asks instead.
Aphrodite scoffs, “Of
course not! How could I dress myself without you here?” She’s wearing the
spider silk dress Arachne spun for her, and she’s working on another for the
goddess now. Aphrodite runs a gentle finger down Arachne’s cheek and for a
moment she forgets to breathe. “You are the finest weaver to ever exist.”
She looks up at the
goddess, “Then as the god of crafts and goddess of beautiful things, where else
would I belong besides with you and Hephaestus?”
To declare your company
equal to that of gods is the height of arrogance and blasphemy.
They tell tales of her
“An excellent point,”
Aphrodite murmurs, and tucks a stray braid behind Arachne’s ear.