but i guess it is!

I have some thoughts about Chicago Pride
  1. The Chicago Dyke March included everyone–except Jews
  2. This was because they made people feel “unsafe”
  3. People were claiming “pinkwashing”
  5. “Well done Israel–Hitler would be proud” 

I hope you all are really proud of yourselves.

kara loses the engagement ring.

ok. first off. she doesn’t like, lose it willy-nilly-unresponsible-like. like, she’s flying to fight a ten story tall alien and it just happens to get lost in the superhero-quick-change-shuffle scenario. totally plausible. totally understandable.

she really thinks that her x-ray vision can save her by the time her dinner reservations roll around but alas. a hero must always struggle.

is she upset about the last five months of her paycheck being chunked out and lost for forever? ask her later. preferably when lena’s said yes.

lena is sitting in her black and purple work outfit and she looks captivating in the fancy dinner light and the wine is good and expensive and the place is fancy and perfect and there’s no paparazzi and kara doesn’t have the ring. doesn’t have a plan. rao. clark warned her about this.

lena says something about dessert but kara’s too busy focusing on her next words, the conjugation of “hey so you wanna be my wife? because that’d make me happy” and how to make it sound not casual at all. it would really very help her if she had a ring, goddamn little expensive rock that she’s lost.

alex told her to wait. alex told her to put the black box on her shelf and not take the chance of shoving it into the emergency pocket of her suit. but wanting to not waste a second on proposals is an emergency, right? kara tells herself this as the waiter brings a tray of fancy cheesecakes to choose from. kara blurts out ‘blueberry’ without thinking and then lena’s smirking like she knows everything that’s going on in kara’s head. which, she doesn’t. she shouldn’t. kara’s inner thoughts are the equivalent of a burning room right now. lena shouldn’t know that.

the music is jazzy. the place is dark. the candles are romantic. kara’s ring is nowhere to be found.

she swallows the last of her drink. a placebo. let her live - she’s about to make the smartest or silliest decision of her life.

(ring or no ring, it’s the smartest. she knows this in her core.)

lena’s taken the last bite of her dessert when kara’s just mustered up enough courage. this is it. this is the jump. kara straightens in her seat, looks lena in the eye, and —


it’s the waiter. he looks almost sheepish to be interrupting them and kara has a crick in her neck from turning so hard but the half smile on his face gives him away. “you dropped this on your way into the seating room.” he places a small black box onto the table and bows, turns away before kara can utter a sound.

kara reaches for the box with shaky fingers, her lungs suddenly too small and her heart too open.

clark told her to wait. alex had recommended a six month plan. kara blinks, thinks of today’s and tomorrow’s and how lena makes coffee in her bare feet in kara’s kitchen, messy hair and sleepy frown brightening up kara’s day with or without the sun.

she picks up the box. lena’s heart skips a beat. kara dives off the deep end.

(later, she thanks winn for the emergency pocket design. lena recommends a zipper for the remodel.)


messin w colors and brushes w my boy raz

(water hands from the eyes draws is based on a kickass design for possessed raz by my pal wondla) 

anonymous asked:

Hey, just out of curiosity, do you mind if someone uses one of your drawn characters in the comic as a faceclaim? If you were given credit on a page, obviously.

This sounds as if you were going to take one of my characters and say it’s you or something. Which is… weird, somehow.

Anyway please don’t take any character I make for your personal purposes. Fanart is fine, but…. I don’t feel comfortable with more than that.

anonymous asked:

For requests (take your time if you need) I'd like otayuri and literally the first thing that comes to your mind. Can be whatever you think of

{I’ll start by saying WOW, this is like the first thing I’ve written in almost a month now. and then I’ll say that i MAY be able to be persuaded to continue this. With like a lot of persuading.} 

Warning: Some Violence. Yeah. Mafia AU….

Otabek carefully observes the man before him.

A vision of deathly gold, alarmingly not-dressed, with a mane of pale hair wisp-ing past his shoulders, and the smirk of a devil caressing his lips.

Beautiful, is the first thought that comes to Otabek’s mind. Dangerous, is the next.

The silk sheet spilling across the man’s chest is only comparable to the thin blood dripping from the mouth of the man lying at his feet. Red, if only just so, and alluring where it parts to reveal stark white skin. His stained hands are resting delicately on the arms of the ornate chair he sits in, like a king on a tainted throne, and his bare, thin legs are propped crudely on the body below him like a footrest. His whole demeanor oozes something akin to death.

He meets Otabek’s observing gaze with stoic green eyes that hold no mercy, no remorse.

“I suspect you have some business here,” he says in a voice that’s heavy and Russian, much too deep for his delicate features, “and if not, you do now.”

“Nikiforov sends his regards,” Otabek is careful not to waiver or shift his eyes as he answers. “And I’m his regards.”

That earns a twitch of the smirk and a raised eyebrow from the blonde. “Victor is never displeased with me enough to kill me, and he fancies himself to be too high class to send a call boy, so, am I to assume you’re cleanup?”

“Yes,” Otabek nods and gestures to the roll of plastic under his arm, then to the body between. The blonde tracks the movement like a cat tracks it’s prey. “Unless this is just an interesting choice in furniture.”

The statement, and his unwavering calm, has its desired effect and the other’s amusement is evident. It’s a good sign Otabek’s job might go smoothly this time, unlike a few have before.

“Do you have a name? Or should I just call you Victor’s Regards?”

“Names are sensitive things, I suspect you know that.” Otabek replies, stepping closer and releasing the tension from his shoulders as he stretches his fingers inside his leather gloves, and prepares the plastic. “You can call me whatever you want.”

“Hmm. That’s no good.” The blonde hums, lifting his feet from the body and shifting the sheet draped over his own. “Even this goon gave me a name, and he was trying to kill me in my sleep.” He laughs, a hollow sound, like faltering bells. “Though, the name wasn’t precisely his, and I suppose I did give him a bit of urging.”

There’s a pause where he clicks his tongue then drops his voice, and Otabek can feel the predatory gaze grind over him once more, “I don’t think I’d mind urging you, albeit a bit differently.”

Otabek pauses his cleanup at the insinuation, he absorbs it, but doesn’t rebuke it. The word beautiful edging across his thoughts again before he stamps it back down.

Instead, he focuses on the new information, letting the situation around him come into clearer focus. 

A self defense kill, or rather a foiled assassination from the look of it.

The bed sitting to the right of the room is rumpled, one post skewed slightly to the side and the headboard dented rather deeply; indications that quite the struggle occurred. The dead guy isn’t someone Otabek knows from the hitman lists he’s privy to, and there aren’t any identifying marks or association tattoos that he can see without stripping him. Otabek assumes he brought the gun that has been placed on the window table right beside where the blonde sits. There’s no signs it was even used.

Otabek can’t visibly locate another weapon to explain the kill, but the holes in the dead guy’s torso added with the blood on the blonde’s hands– and several feet of the room–suggests he may not have needed one. It looks as though he tore into the man with his bare hands. Quite a feat, but not the most improbable kill Otabek has seen, though perhaps one of the more gruesome.

“If it helps,” The blonde continues suddenly, jarring Otabek from his analysis, “you can call me Yura.”

Otabek stays silent, going back to the task at hand and allowing something else to click into place at the back of his mind.

Yura is not a common name in the circles Otabek runs in, but that makes it a recognizable one:

 Yura, Yurio, Yuratchka, all levels of diminutives for the same man, Yuri Plisetsky; The Ice Tiger.  A title earned through a cold demeanor and a signature kill, and one Victor Nikiforov often uses fondly.

So, it was with his bare hands then, Otabek thinks lightly as he finishes wrapping the body.

The knowledge should make fear rise to his chest, or perhaps a bit of awe, but Otabek’s been doing this for far too long and he has far too many nasty tricks of his own. Instead, it brings a twisted smirk to his lips, and more than a few improper thoughts to his forebrain. Those of course, he’ll have to sort out later, perhaps after asking Victor a few pointed questions.

Otabek.” He says finally, securing the last corner of plastic over the body. “You may call me Otabek.”


Lipstick Death Test

Did John make this for me? It feels like it…