how they faded it into one another

10

Watercolor Tutorial
EYES, NOSE, LIPS: You have to make a sketch of it first, then use pen for outlines and make sure that it is waterproof to avoid unexpected errors. Mix colors of your choice. Wet on wet technique is the key to mix it properly. Use white Signo Pen for highlights.

SKIN TONE COLORS
Burnt, brown, red, yellow and orange.
You can use both wet on wet and wet on dry technique. It is depends on your art style.

WET ON WET: Laying one color over another before it gets dry. This technique usually used for galaxy painting.

WET ON DRY: Waiting for the first color to dry completely before laying another color.

GRADIENT: Start off with dark tone and continue on laying your brush until you achieve a fading effects.

DRY BRUSH: Your brush should be slightly wet.

HOW TO WATERDROPS:
First layer for petal, shape the drops, put shadows and highlights. Use white signo pen for reflection.

More water to the color the lighter it gets

Thank you! I hope this will help you 😍

Lance is a Boy #1

Keith vaulted over a fallen tree, running as fast as he could through a dense jungle, thanking allura for making paladin armour so aerodynamic. There was a swift movement beside him as a lanky figure pushed ahead “Lance.” Keith hissed and pushed himself a little bit harder.
“Hurry up pretty boy! Or you’re lunch!” Keith’s eyes rolled as Lance cupped his mouth with his hands while running to deliver the sound over to Keith. It was more than unfortunate that in this second of diversion, Lance tripped over a tree root and face planted, letting his body roll with the momentum. Keith pushed his feet into the ground to stop as quickly as possible, he still had to run back a few paces to stop by Lance. The ground absorbed a groan from the blue paladin.
“Lance come on we need to go. Now.” Keith’s voice was urgent and persistent. “Please get up.” Keith’s hands wrapped around Lances bicep and he pulled, making Lance stagger to his feet. A dark red liquid stained his chest and Lance had drawn his hand up to his nose, pulling it away slightly and frowning.
“Ah quiznak.” The only words Lance left behind as they took off running again. Large stomps were suddenly eerily loud and very apparent behind them as they took long strides, staying closer together. It wasn’t long before their calves burned and the boys looked for any kind of checkpoint. Eventually they both dived past a large, off looking tree with high hopes. A long second passed,

then a loud buzzer went off.

“Simulation end!” A calm voice rang through an intercom, Allura. “Very good boys!”

“Really?” Keith’s voice was hopeful.

“Well… no, not really, but better! You both learned this time and took the wise route and ran, a wise altean once said ‘a brave person will fight relentlessly, a wise person will know when to fight another day.’, I’m impressed you chose to flee.” She walked through the door onto the training deck, her voice fading from the intercom. “Lance are you ok?”

“Better now that you’re here my princess” he winked and put his hand on his hip, clicking his tongue seductively, normally this would be as smooth as ever but with one hand pinching a dripping nose bleed, not so much. “Yknow my princess doesn’t really roll off the tongue, how about my everything instead?” It had only been about two days since Coran and Allura were awoken and Lance had flown in blue to the castle of lions, and he was still trying to get with allura, of course, to no avail.

Rolling her eyes, Allura turned to Keith “I’m glad you waited for him, I saw the hesitation in your eyes as he fell, you did the right thing and theoretically saved your friends life.”

“Wait wait wait, mullet hesitated!? Keith!” A swift (but gentle) smack on his shoulder made Keith smile.
“Lance I don’t think there’s a soul in this universe that wouldn’t have.”

Allura put a gentle hand on Lances shoulder “go see coran, get yourself set up in a health pod, he’ll need all of your information and then you’re set, that nose bleed, and whatever other damage, will be dealt with.” She smiled and turned to walk out, Keith following close behind.

Lance walked throughout the castle, his nose pinched and his mind starting to wonder. “Who knew finding an old man in a castle would be so hard…” as if summoned, Coran suddenly dropped from the ceiling and clanged to the floor. “AGH!” Lance jumped into an immediately defensive stance. “Coran?”

Other than looking slightly dirty, coran was intact and smiled warmly at Lance “sorry my boy! Was just cleaning out the vents, 10 000 years worth of dust, someone had to do it”

“There are vents? On a space ship?” Lance looked doubtfully at the orange haired man.

“Well, yes, they can be cut off but with them it keeps the airflow more consistent.” Lance shrugged and explained what had happened, as coran lead them to the room with the pods, they talked more and more about how advanced the ship was and reasoning for a lot of design choices.

“All right, Lance! I’ll need to ask you a couple questions to set up a basic data base and ID for you in a pod so it can optimize heal time.” Lances nose had stopped bleeding but he was pretty sure it was broke so he obliged.

“Fair enough, fire away.”

“Full name?”

“Lance Charles McClain.” He smiled, remembering his dad, Charles McClain, a nice, respectable man, he was named after him. Coran typed away happily, supposedly coding the system with Lances information.

“Height and weight?”

“5 feet and 9 inches, 130 pounds.”

“Sexual activities?”

“Woah Coran at least buy me dinner first.” Lance smirked and Coran tried not to but the corners of his moustache rose a little. “Currently not active.” He said, not ashamed of himself in the slightest.

“Ok last one, this ones easy, biological sex?”

Lance was about to answer but paused, thinking it over for a second, his answer was lower than usual and he looked down.

“female.”

To be continUED…

Cover for @runicscribbles (TruebornAlpha) for their awesome sheith fic PROJECT ZERO Go read it. It’s amazing!! 

(click it for better quality)

Shiro looked at his reflection in the mirror with a thoughtful frown, running his hands over the fading bruises and cuts from their escape from the Mouth. His bare skin was already crisscrossed with scars and intricate tattoos. The additional marks were barely noticeable. They were just another chapter of the memories written in his skin by choice or by the hand of fate. They all held images Shiro couldn’t share with anyone. No one knew how to read them anymore.

you know what the worst thing about the fate of alexander the great is

he loved the iliad his entire life - reading it before going to bed as a child, then again as an adult - moulding himself after achilles, wanting to be more, no, wanting to be him. and where there is achilles, there is patroclus: that’s where hephaestion comes in. the boy alexander loves. a love so great it feels like myth. a love he compares to that of achilles and patroclus. always, constantly aware of how that story ended. a love to die for. the shine of myth. death. the bitter revenge. grief. death, again. all in the golden light that casts itself upon myth.

and then, the story alexander builds for himself. the conquering, the fire. hephaestion. a new edge of the world after another. the glory. all the gold. hephaestion, always him, always. this is how you get the light of myth to shine upon you.

then, out of the blue, hephaestion, dead, taken by this thing with no name. this is where the golden light fades. there is no hector to drag across the battlefield, no revenge, no river god to kill. just a corpse in a bed and the warmth of it to cling to. no glorious death at the hands of the enemy, no one to blame, no gods to curse. just a voice to remember before it fades. no beauty. this isn’t how the story is supposed to go, yet it is how it goes.

Rotten Judgement - part 4

AU!Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: Hercules!AU After selling your soul to save your lover’s life, you become one of the Lord of the Underworld’s slave. Bucky is obsessed with one thing: collecting hearts. But why?

Word Count:1,877

Warnings: -

A/N: I died three times while writing this. I dedicate this one to the sun, kindly f*ck off. I hope you like this one, some fun stuff coming soon :)

Rotten Judgement - Masterpage

You and Steve walked hand in hand down the street, enjoying the cool breeze. You knew you had angered Bucky, but you didn’t care. You would deal with him and his silly pride later. Right now, you wanted to enjoy your time with Steve. He was charming and, quite literally, perfect.

“I’ve got a friend who wants to meet you,” Steve said.

“You told your friends about me?” A slight blush crept up his cheeks, making you chuckle. “Relax, Cap. I’d love to meet your friends.”

He gave you the most beautiful smile you’d ever seen. It made your stomach do a pleasant flip. You felt your face heat and bashfully lowered your eyes.

It’s too cliché, you thought. Get a grip, girl!

Keep reading

questionsforcassie  asked:

I was speaking with some online friends today and we discovered a very pressing issue... regaurding the birth control rune. Is it a permanent rune or a one-and-done type of deal? How long does the rune last? When did Clary create this rune? She seems to be an in the moment type of rune creature so... Thank you so much for reading lovely! Have a wonderful day!

The rune lasts about three months and fades – not unlike real forms of birth control (Depo-Provera shots, etc.)  Then you can choose if you want another one. 

I like to think Clary was struck by inspiration during a giggly conversation with Izzy.

So you open his contact and write “Don’t fall in love with some other girls” but you can’t really press send. And you hope tonight he got drunk enough to call you //
Because you swore you forget him but
yesterday he smiled at you and said hi
and now you’re missing him again
and now you wanted to hear his voice
and his laugh
just like the old times // But you know it all better // If he’s drunk you won’t be the one he’s calling // And you kept screaming:

Fuck I promised myself I won’t cry over you again
and
This is why I must get over you
and
Don’t fall for her please
Im not ready
Im not ready
Im not fucking ready

And it’s one hour until 11 pm
The time when he used to call you
But he’s still not drunk enough
But he’s still not on your phone (probably on hers)
And you’re still not hearing his voice

And you wish the love faded away a little
But it’s still there, banging on your chest, louder than your tears.
And you realize how scary it is
Too love someone so much it breaks you
—  I wanted to text you so much but I can’t text first and risk another READ AT 11:23PM

I realize this is not new information to anyone, but what struck me so hard this time I read the Lord of the Rings was the sense of melancholy.  Like it’s painfully obvious to the reader that this world is Not As It Once Was.  All of the characters we meet reference this feeling of loss in one way or another.  

The elves are the most obvious - with their fading light and their ships sailing away.  Treebeard talks about how the woods aren’t as they once were, about the ents who are falling asleep and withering to nothing.  The dwarves lust after the glory of their forefathers, be it in mountain fortresses or caverns of mithril - now empty and echoing.  Old Tom Bombadil remembers a race of great men and women, reduced simply to trinkets in cold tombs.

And even men, the race set to inherit this new age, even they are experiencing this sense of melancholy, of losing hold of something great.  We see their great cities reduced to rubble on riverbanks, or possessed by evil.  Aragorn longs to return to his throne to restore the glory of ages past, to somehow rejuvenate that which is dying in the race of men. 

And hobbits?  At first we see them as living in the present, with no great glory of the past to tie them down.  Yet when Frodo returns to the Shire, it is…Not As It Once Was.  And I think while the other hobbits are able to shake off this feeling and return to their love of life and the present, maybe Frodo’s true burden is to inherit this sense of loss from the rest of Middle Earth.  

Date the boy who changes. His eyes shift during conversation, never staying matched with yours for too long. His laugh a perfect villains deep cackle one moment, a suppressed giggle the next, then a hearty bellow. Date the boy who’s hands wring one another in anticipation, pop one another’s individual muscles, and shake at inconvenient times, but also send bolts of excitement coursing through you when you touch and your hair standing on end when he’s close. The boy who will greet everyone with a smile and polite greeting and crack a few jokes, but would much rather sit in a diner and share ideas, and despises crowds. “Why?” you ask. Well, did you miss that momentary flicker he had? Did you not notice how his voice changed mid-sentence? If you wait too long he may fade away into the background, back into the void. Date the boy made of static. 

in this universe, it’s been a year since the last time you told me you wanted me.

in a parallel universe, i never found the nerve to tell you how i felt. so we just faded with the ebb and flow of the ocean.

in another one, that first argument killed us. you were never mine and i was never yours. that’s a hard line to write.

in another, i didn’t cave in on myself when you said break. it was just a word. it didn’t have anything to do with bones or veins.

in another, i make it to california and we are happy. i wear roses in my hair and your skin always tastes like salt.

in another, i make it to california and we break up anyway. i hold a grudge against the west coast and use your name and your city interchangeably.

back in this universe, i think i finally get it. we may have gone up in flames, but it was still better to burn out than fade away.
—  A LIST OF UNIVERSES I DREAMED ABOUT, angelea l.
Burying The Child - Feyre Fanfic

A Feyre character exploration fanfiction. Set post ACOMAF in the spring court, with Lucien for company. Warnings for discussion of mental health and grieving.

Burying The Child - Gen/K

History was once again repeating itself, but this time I was different; I would not make the same mistakes as I had before. I doubted I could even if I wanted to. Fate and its sick sense of humour had warped me too much for that.

“I remember when Tamlin first bought you those paints,” Lucien mused. “You sat in here all day for weeks, like a child with a new toy. It was very endearing, really.”

He sat across from me, lounging upon a daybed below a window in the gallery. His body lay splashed with sunlight, turning his hair a gorgeous shade of amber and his bronze skin, exposed by the open-necked shirt he wore, shone like clear liquid honey. One could mistake him for a god were it not for the signs of strain that recent events had carved into him, from his hollow cheeks to his nervous, restless fingers; The latter of which was really quite irksome.

“Stop fidgeting,” I quipped, frowning and biting down on the tip of my tongue. “I’ll never be able to get you right if you keep moving. Honestly, and you compare me to a child.”

“I do have a few years on you, fair lady.”

“That only makes it worse.”

Lucien managed to still himself for a rather pathetic minute before his forefinger resumed their tapping upon his thigh, but I made no comment. The back and forth bitching we’d developed when I’d first arrived at the Spring Court had now evolved beyond the antipathy and mourning we’d shared. He no longer held the death of Andras against me, and I in turn agreed not to speak of what had passed here whilst I was at the Night Court. This silent agreement meant we were both more comfortable in sharing quiet moments together, knowing neither would verbally assault the other. In a case of mutually assured destruction, we both knew the wounds such talk would inflict could scar us both.

“I can’t believe it’s only been a year since we first met,” Lucien said, his gaze fixed out the window at the surrounding gardens. “Only a year since we were all prisoners. Or, a year since we were able to admit to it aloud.”

He was breaching dangerous territory, but I’d long stopped being scared by it. It had only been two months since my return to Spring, and yet it was already apparent to me that no one save Tamlin and Ianthe thought the deal with Hybern was wise. Since the High Lord and his Priestess were out on a ride that day, I saw no harm in letting Lucien say whatever it was that was bothering him.

“Missing Amarantha, are we?”

“Oh, dreadfully,” Lucien said, playing along with a theatrical swoon. He laughed when I scolded him for shifting his position. Though I had come to see Lucien as an ally, I could never come to like his laugh. It always spoke of so much pain. “What can I say? She kept Tamlin occupied. He does so love to have an enemy.”

Finished sketching, I took up mixing up the colours I needed on the paint palette. “He’s a fool for choosing Rhysand as his new target,” I said quietly, struggling to get the right skin tone. There would be time to learn proper painting technique, if only I could survive the war. The past year had been spent fashioning me into a weapon, no time for games. Who I was had been carved into steel and fire and power, so that I was more a what than a whom to the world now. Beyond what I had briefly shared with Rhys, I had not known softness in a long time.

“If what you say about the Night Court is true, I don’t doubt it.” Lucien looked over at me, his metal eye as unnerving as ever. Still I had not dared to ask just what it allowed him to see, but I felt as if it could somehow discern the contents of my soul.

He chewed the inside of his cheek whilst I distracted myself with mixing paint, before he finally spoke, “You’ve changed so much, Feyre.” He smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. “I must admit, I’m impressed by who you have become. Even if Rhysand did not exist, I’d hate to make a foe of you. So forgive me when I say I am also in mourning.”

Cocking my head, I finally had the courage to look back at him. Did he speak of Elain now? “Mourning whom?” I asked. The smile he gave me hurt as much as the two months apart from Rhysand had. It spoke of pity, pity I could not bear.

“I am in mourning for a close friend. A friend I made under Amarantha’s rule. A human girl, who came here with childish anger, who could be made happy and placid by nothing more than paint. A girl who screamed and cried and didn’t know any better than to wander out at night on Calanmai, and who could fall in love even with a Beast.” He did not drop my gaze. “I grieve for you too, for losing her. I’m sorry you can’t be her any more.”

He’d spoken so softly, so quietly, that we both flinched when I snapped my paintbrush in half. Claws edged out of my knuckles, my grip too tight. I was still learning the depths of my new strength, though I didn’t care as anger flashed upon my tongue. “Don’t be,” I hissed, snatching a fresh brush and ramming it in the prepared paint to coat it. “She was a stupid, foolish little victim who knew no better.”

“That, fair Feyre,” Lucien said, back to looking out at the gardens, “is exactly why I mourn for you.”

Keep reading

anonymous asked:

Child Lavellon making flower crowns for the inner circle

Cassandra: The offer befuddles her at first, though the warrior accepts it when she sees how happy it makes them. Anything that lessens the burden that their young leader is under is fine in her book, and any who even think of refusing such a gift find themselves staring at a very cross Seeker until they accept.

Solas: The innocence behind the offering -behind almost everything that the da’len who should never have been cursed with this terrible magic- touches his heart, and the mage solemnly lets them arrange it on his head until they are satisfied. And later he brings them into the fade, where spirits who come easily to his call are equally accessorized. It becomes quite a fad on both side of the veil.

Sera: She takes it. She wears it. She loves it. And if anyone tells anyone how much she cherishes it, she is going to make them an arrow crown. Just one arrow needed.

Varric: Anyone who thinks that Varric Tethras is too insecure to march around with a flower crown on his head has another thing coming. He insists that the kid made one for Bianca too, and begins to plot a way to work it into his next story– it’s too cute not to.

Blackwall: Like Cassandra he is slightly baffled to see the child toting around flower crowns in Skyhold, but when the hold one out to him his throat goes tight. He knees before them solemnly, a knight before his monarch, and gravely accepts a small token of kindness as though it were made of gold. 

Vivienne: Madame de Fer is a woman of fashion and style, and such things must always be respected. But there is a language and elegence in flowers that Orlais has always loved, and so instead of merely accepting the gift the grand enchantress spends a happy hour or so with their young leader learning the history of roses and how to say I love with with only a simple bouquet.

And if her eyes grow misty from memories of gardens and Bastien, well. No one need know.

Iron Bull: The logistics behind a flower crown on him are a little tough, but when the littlest Lavellan comes with a crown for each horn- lovingly made from pink roses- there is no way the leader of the Chargers is turning that shit down. And woe betide the person who scoffs at his Imekari’s work.

Dorian: Flowers have never treated him well. Pollen is all but a mortal enemy to his allergies, and when the Inquisitor starts handing out crowns he quietly dreads having to hurt their feelings– especially when they have accepted him so easily. Which makes the crown they hand him- each blossom lovingly folded from paper- even more precious. And when he is done wearing it is tenderly folded away for safe keeping.

Cole:

Originally posted by thatstheworstguy

– Mod Fereldone

12x23 coda

“I’ll drive the truck.” Dean’s voice wavers. He can barely hold onto the words, his mind a blur of chaotic disbelief and pain. It’s as if what happened hasn’t quite struck to him yet, but it’s already pressing down on him, cold and hard. It feels as if he’s stuck under the ice and he can’t break free, deafened by the cold and silence of the freezing water surrounding him.

He shivers. Looking away from his brother, he clears his throat, but the lump doesn’t leave. “You can take Cas and- drive the Impala back to the bunker.” Castiel’s name is nothing more than a whisper.

“Dean, are you sure-”

“I’ll see you at the bunker.”

He can’t feel anything as he walks through the dark, back to the lake. The truck is just an empty vehicle stained with painful memories that Dean wants to forget but is so afraid to lose. Dean can see the keys in the lock and he gets in, still shivering.

The door closes with an echoing bang. As soon as Dean is alone in the empty car, it gets worse. In here, the scent of Castiel still lingers. Earth and the sweet scent of flowers after rain, a gentle smell that belonged to the angel. Dean is forced to breathe it in and accept it with every inhalation.

Castiel is dead. 

Dean grips the wheel and stares at it, determined to push this feeling away and drive back to the bunker so he can take a shower and get a beer with Sam. His lips begin to tremble. His eyes get blurry and before he can withhold it, tears begin to trickle down his cheeks.

“Cas…” he chokes, but he can’t speak properly. Within a few seconds, his shoulders are quivering and he starts to cry. He presses his forehead against the wheel and holds it, sobbing with irregular gasps for air, the pain he’d been trying to hold suddenly flooding him.

 -

Sam knows his brother isn’t okay when he walks off towards the truck. He wouldn’t even need to be around Dean to know that. Sam isn’t okay either, but at least he’s accepting that he isn’t. Dean doesn’t want to show how much things hurt, not even to Sam or himself.

But Cas just died. Sam isn’t able to think clearly, he doesn’t know what he should do. He just wants to lay down where he’s standing right now, in the sand, close his eyes and forget everything until it’s all over and his mind is cleared. He doesn’t want to feel anything, but the image of Cas falling down, grace disappearing through his chest, his eyes, the silent scream… it won’t leave his mind. 

Castiel is dead. Sam bites down his lip and clenches his fists. Then, he gets to work. He finds an old plaid blanket in the back of the Impala. He lays Castiel in the backseat and covers him with the plaid. It feels too wrong to put him in the trunk, too uncaring and definitive. For Sam, it’s as if Castiel is just sleeping. That moment they saw him appear just before Lucifer stabbed him, Sam had felt comfort. Castiel was there, he knew more than them and could do more than them and whenever Cas was around, Sam knew there was always a way out. He knew that ever since Castiel had brought Dean back from hell, and he was convinced when he had taken away Sam’s visions of Lucifer. But fear now clouded all hope and possibilities and Cas would never be there to give it back to him.

When Sam found out Eileen had died, he only wanted one thing. To not be alone. As much as he said he didn’t, acted like he didn’t need Dean, he’d ached for someone with him, a living person to give him the idea that hope was still a thing. The thought of Eileen still makes it feel like multiple daggers are slammed into his chest and he hisses, the sudden sound loud in this quiet, empty place.

Dean should’ve already left with the truck by now. Sam just didn’t have the guts to actually drive away with Castiel’s body just yet, but the silence makes him realize that Dean hasn’t left yet, either.

He locks the Impala and gets to the pickup truck that, as he suspected, hasn’t moved yet. When he is just a few feet away, he can see Dean sitting in the driver’s seat, his arms on the wheel and his head pressed against it. Sam walks over to the other side and gets in quietly, neither hesitating nor saying a word. Dean doesn’t look up and only stirs when Sam puts an arm on his back. He rubs it, slowly and unsure. Sam has seen Dean cry before, but never like this. He’s giving into it completely and Sam finally knows how it looks when Dean accept that he’s in pain.

“Dean,” he says and his voice breaks at the sight of his strong, older brother falling apart with grief. “I wish we could fix this.”

It’s not the ethical way to answer, it’s not the ‘I can’t imagine what you’re going through’, the ‘I’m here for you’. It’s the raw truth. It’s harsh and painful and feels heavy on Sam’s tongue. But neither of them is okay, and neither of them can pretend to.

“Sam- Sammy,” Dean stammers, “I… I can’t- he’s… he…” Sam pulls Dean into his arms. Despite Sam being taller, Dean still always feels bigger and stronger. But now he doesn’t look big at all. He hides into his brother’s arms with his face pressed into his shoulder, tears soaking Sam’s shirt. Sam pulls him closer and tries to say something, but tears drip into Dean’s hair.

“I know,” he says.

Holding Dean tight, Sam stares outside into the darkness and tries to find a silhouette. He wishes to see a figure in a trench coat walking up to them so he can tell Dean to look around and get out of the car to reunite with Cas. But no one appears.  

Sam doesn’t know how long they will sit like this. Maybe ten minutes, another hour, the entire night until dawn starts to wake up nature and birds will sing as if nothing happened. But he knows that no matter how long, it won’t fill the empty place that belongs to Castiel. It can’t fix the laugh that Dean won’t burst into, the smile that won’t appear on Sam’s face.

Some things can’t be soothed, some scars never fade. Mourning will come later, maybe too late. The Winchesters are way too familiar with death taking away those they care for. And this time, it took too much.

Must Be Love On The Brain

Summary: Based on 12x11 where Dean gets hexed with a memory spell. The reader is his wife who leaves everything she’s doing in the bunker help Sam get her husband back. 

Autor: @sleepywinchester | prev. deanwinchester-af

Pairings: Dean x Reader

Words: 2.5k+

Beta: @latinenglishfandomblog

Warnings: Humor. Feelings. Fluff. Bit of Angst. Spoilers. 

A/N: This piece is kind of a episode, re-write honestly. Also this is my entry for @winchester-writes Drinking Writing Challenge! My prompt is:  Black Label Scotch - “Wow, well don’t you look hot as hell.” Also, another Valentine’s themed fic <3 Yep, I’m on a roll. | gifs are not mine | 

Feedback is always appreciated it <3

“Call me if you need anything. Dean broke his phone.”

The hunch of worry Sam’s text message gave you drifted away quickly. Dean damaging his phone wasn’t something new. The man changed cell phone continually, and usually after hunts. Dean always ended up dropping over his device. It wouldn’t surprise you if he started to carry spares again.

For this hunt you decided to stay back and for once act like a full housewife. The laundry, cleaning or grocery shopping wasn’t going to do itself. You also have been planning yours and Dean’s Valentine’s evening. Tonight was going to be eventful.  You were a big fan of multitasking. Everything was running perfectly, you had laundry and cleaning checked off your ‘To Do List’ when Sam called saying Dean had amnesia.

In less than twenty minutes you were packed up and already on your way to them.

Knock knock knock.

You could heard steps reaching the door and Sam babbling some words. A part of you already knew it was your husband walking towards the door. In that moment the door got wide open, Dean standing in front of you. But the man standing in front of you didn’t looked back at you like your husband Dean would’ve have. This man glanced at your body up and down, his eyes not recognizing you but liking what they see.  

“Wow!” Dean exclaimed, his grin flirtatious. “Well don’t you look hot as hell.”

That was something your husband would tell you but not with those eyes. Dean looked at you like he saw a hot stranger. In other circumstances you would gave him a chuckle and blow him a kiss. Tonight your heart felt like it was being slowly crushed.  

Your frowned, “Dean?”

He nodded once with wide eyebrows, “Do I know you?”’

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dead leaves will always be my fave bts song. just the amount of lines jin has???? like he even has the first verse??? & yoongis husky rapping and the fact he produced that song himself?? & how easily jungkooks and jimins voices flow into one another and their smooth harmonies &namjoons gasp and “woohoo” and how u can visually see him rap his part & how tae’s low vocals fit so well in this song….and i cant forget abt hobs iconic rap verse and how its the perfect transition to the climax of the song where the beats all escalate perfectly with vocal lines high notes and then the music fades and all u can hear is the piano and just tae whispering never never fall and then it ends and u feel almost empty but like mellow at the same time????? god i love dead leaves

anonymous asked:

Can you do a companions react to the Inquisitor being Autistic? Especially Cole?

I (Mod Sarah) am autistic, so I was very pleased to see this request. That being said, autism is a wide-reaching term for an entire spectrum of symptoms that affect people differently– every autistic person is unique, and each has their own quirks and symptoms. I feel that companion responses would vary, depending on what symptoms and behaviors the Inquisitor in question is displaying. For the sake of simplicity, I will be basing this autistic Inquisitor off of my own unique brand of autism, finely aged and diagnosed for the last ten years. Let’s get this show on the road.

Cassandra: Their behavior confounds her, at least at first. They avoid eye contact like the plague, can have intense reactions to stimuli, such as loud noises like explosions upset them with ease. She at first thought they were just being childish, but eventually realizes they’re genuinely hypersensitive to certain things. She guesses that they’re not exactly neurotypical, judging by behavior, and tries to be more receptive to their needs and sensitivities after finding out they’re innocent. It doesn’t particularly bother her that they fidget and stim and avoid eye contact, or even sometimes speak too loudly or too quietly– so long as they’re honest and good at heart. Iron Bull later on describes a mental condition known to the Qun that’s akin to autism and other development disorders, and she agrees that they likely are autistic. If Romanced: He likes just lying by her side, citing the same poems he knows by heart, staring up at the sky with her. She’s smiling, too, as she listens, knowing the poem by heart from repeated recitations as she holds his hand and looks up at the world beyond, so long as they’re there for each other.

Iron Bull: He’s met people like them. He figures it out after observing them, and he adapts accordingly. The Qun values people like them, especially if they have special interests, which are encouraged and honed for special jobs as adults. As a result, he respects them more at first. He accommodates them, and never asks them why they avoid eye contact or fidget or stim in any way. He informs the others what he thinks is different about them, and that’s about it. The man is also good at figuring out what they mean when they speak somewhat disorderly, as if words got jumbled before coming out, and often clarifies for the others. He’s a big source of help during the Winter Palace, getting them out of sight and letting them calm down or stim when overwhelmed. If Romanced: Sex with him is somewhat specialized, but fantastic– he figures out what they do and don’t like, and he works with it. Sometimes they just lay side-by-side, while he massages their muscles in just the way they like it, whispering sweet words of comfort at just the right tone for them, repeated and quiet.

Blackwall: He’s never encountered someone like them, so he thought, until Bull tells him that he likely has but never noticed. He’s not really sure how to go about them, so he just decides he’ll take it in stride and work with them. It works well, and they’re comfortable with each other. After he’s revealed to be Thom Rainier, they actually get over it pretty fast, regarding what he did as a Bad Thing, but he’s trying to make up for it, which they accept. If Romanced: He’s more worried than usual about going into romance with them, because he’s worried that if and when they find out who he is, she’ll have a meltdown, she’ll refuse to even look at him, what have you. He doesn’t want to break her heart. When the time comes, she’s having a meltdown, but not because of who he is– but because he’s in jail, and she desperately wants him to come home. When he finally does, he gets a scolding, but she forgives him. He decides that his new mission in life is making her safe and happy, like she made him.

Sera: She doesn’t care in the least– in fact, she likes it. She sort of relates to them, actually– to the point where she starts wondering if she’s autistic at all. She gives them all sorts of things and textures to fiddle with. She speaks at a level that doesn’t upset them (while she enjoys yelling and cheering and howling with laughter, she’ll take it down a notch for their sake) and will viciously prank anyone who gives them shit for their quirks. “It’s not like they can help it. It’s just who they are, and anyone who says otherwise can knob it.” If Romanced: The romance proceeds mostly like normal, though she doesn’t start yelling at her in the culminate scene when describing her nightmare, because she knows it will upset her. Instead, she avoids her, frustrated and trying to figure out how to describe what’s going on, and opts for writing it down. The Herald reads it, looks up at her, and frowns. “But I love you,” the she says, sounding a little hurt, “I’m sorry about the dream, but dreams are dreams. They don’t have to come true. I just want to be with you.” Sera’s heart melts, and tackles her with a kiss.

Varric: He’s very understanding and unfazed by their quirks, and isn’t surprised when Bull mentions they’re probably autistic. He just works with it, with who they are, and treats them like people, not just a weirdo. “So what if you’re a little different? That’s what makes you who you are, and you’re fine.” They like listening to him tell stories– his voice is nice and even and calm, which calms them down. Often they ask for the same few stories they like again and again, but Varric doesn’t mind– he’s happy to have an enraptured audience. He also suggests to them trying to write to get their thoughts out, to express themselves, and it helps.

Cole: He is of a LOT of help to the Inquisitor. He’s good at voicing how they’re feeling or what they’re thinking if they’re incapable in any way of doing so, as well as getting them things they need but don’t vocalize that they need. “They’re a little different in the way their thoughts work, but they think of new and wonderful things that most can’t. They are good the way they are.” He protests whenever they have to mask how they actually act, citing it as stressing them out and exhausting. He also knows exactly what textures, sounds, and tastes they do or don’t like, often bringing them things for stimming to calm them down or steering them away from offending stimuli, such as excessively bright lights or noise. If they have a special interest(s), he happily listens to them info-dump without getting remotely bored– it makes the Herald so happy, which makes him happy.

Vivienne: She was a little off-put by how they acted in her chateau at first, but she starts suspecting something isn’t normal about them aside from the mark. When Bull explains the disorder to her, she does research and quickly comes to agree with the diagnosis. She’s significantly more patient with them as a result, and she tries to coach them on talking to people. “Unfortunately for you, eye contact is a standard of Orlesian society,” she says, “if this is too difficult for you, try focusing your attention on a nose or intricate part of the mask. They’ll never tell the difference.” When it comes to fidgeting, she actually gets them a notebook and fancy quill, and advises them to play with the quill against the notebook when at parties– Orlesians will just think they’re working and admire it, while they can stim to some extent. She recognizes it’s part of who they are, and must be worked with instead of covered up.

Dorian: They get frustrated easily with social interaction, and if they recruit the mages, practically the whole time spent in future Redcliffe is them trying to not have a meltdown or sensory overload. He tries his best to keep them as calm as possible, but begins to think that maybe there’s more going on with them than just panic at their situation. Bull explains what he thinks is up with them, and Dorian buries himself in whatever information he can get about the disorder. He gets good at calming them down and using certain spells to numb certain sensations or noises, which greatly reduces their stress levels. If Romanced: He cringes, at first, when the Herald bluntly tells anyone who asks that he’s his boyfriend. They don’t understand at all why it should be hidden in any regard, and Dorian tries to explain his discomfort, or at least plans to– until he sees him positively glowing with joy and pride as he talks about him, and Dorian smiles and reconsiders. He really does love him, and Dorian knows it– and loves him back.

Solas: He’s seen memories of people somewhat like them in the Fade, being social outcasts, misunderstood and called stupid when they were anything but. He won’t treat them like that, and he strives to understand them and their disability to the best of his ability. If they don’t mind, he asks a lot of questions about how they feel and think. Often he listens to them info-dump about their special interest, if they have one, and sometimes they get embarrassed. He just encourages them to go on. If Romanced: Assuming Lavellan has a special interest of some sort, he starts taking her into the Fade, showing her old memories of anything related to what she’s interested in. He listens to her talk, happy and excited, and she thanks him with a kiss. “Ma serannas, ma vhenan!” she squeals. “No, I am the one who should be thanking you, Vhenan.” he replies with a chuckle and another kiss, soft and sweet.

Josephine: She notices their lack of tolerance for eye contact before any other symptoms, and while initially worried she did something wrong, the others explain the Herald’s unorthodox behaviors and tics. She, along with Vivienne, tries her best to coach them on talking and interacting with others. It’s not without hard work and tears and meltdowns on the Herald’s part, but they have relatively smooth sailing in the Winter Palace with their hard work. They’re absolutely exhausted after trying to act neurotypical, and she always feels so bad for them and tries to compensate them with something they like. She also cringes at their awful handwriting– it looks like chicken scratch on steroids– and figures out it’s due to poor eye-hand coordination. She also spends a lot of time trying to remedy this, even considering hiring a scribe to help them. If Romanced: They like listening to her just talk about her day, sometimes asking her to repeat stories again and again, old and new. They cuddle on the couch before the fireplace in their room while they cuddle, and Josephine is full of bliss.

Leliana: She’s unfazed by their unusual behavior and tics, and is remarkably patient with them. She likes it when they don’t hide it, because she can tell how they’re actually feeling and thinking most of the time when they don’t mask themselves. She sometimes gives them raven feathers that have fallen to the ground to the Herald for them to run their fingers along the smooth texture, which pleases them. It always brings a smile to her face to see them relax, even a little.

Cullen: You meet all sorts of people in the Circle, and autistic mages (and the occasional templar) were among them. He’s receptive to their sensitivities and needs, and accommodates them without complaint or so much as a second thought. He takes it all in stride, knowing that’s just how they are. When Bull tells him about autism, he just nods. “That explains a lot about a lot of different mages I’ve met over the years.” he remarks. If Romanced: She likes running her fingers through his hair, a sort of stim in and of itself, and he tolerates it, listening to her hum and chatter about the day’s events.

He loves to talk, but not all the time. He tells me that talking doesn’t mean anything unless it’s worth ruining perfect silence. Most people, he says, waste their breath on everything that means nothing. But he likes when I talk. About the people in the coffee shop, and old cities I wish I’d been to, and which constellations I like best. About anything, really. We talk until the sun rises, and then we sleep all day. And we sing loudly when our favorite songs come on the radio, and we let our hands drift out the window like soaring birds, and we live. God, we live. Like addicts, and nomads, and kids with wicked minds and screaming hearts. Half the time we don’t know what day it is, but we don’t care. Because his bed feels the same on Monday and Thursday and Saturday, too. And we eat when our stomachs grow too loud, and we press close when we can’t pay the electricity bill, and we learn that sometimes what is perfect and what is enough live oceans away from each other.
     But when enough becomes too little and we don’t even have our two pennies to rub together, he performs on the street with an upturned top hat at his feet. Old, bluesy songs about wild girls and townie boys. And even though his voice is only ok, with cracks in all the important parts, people see his long hair and his big smile, and they stop to watch with enormous eyes. Look, they point: a boy who never learned how to worry playing at maturity, his face bent over a guitar, long fingers threading the strings. They stand on the streets, a cigarette break from their white collar routine, and see in him some other life. Some different path. They see themselves, a little happier, a little louder, a little more carefree. The kind ones wish him well as dollar bills float from their hands. Fives and tens and twenties from those who would do everything differently if they had another shot. One man with a fading ring tan above his left knuckle gives him a crisp hundred dollar bill, his face lost in thoughts of what might have been. Transparent. He’s like that with people: prying them open without even trying. He sees through them, and you, and even me. Especially me. 
      We lay in bed that night surrounded by paper that will only pay a fraction of our bills, but we laugh like we’ve won the goddamn lottery. Laugh so hard we can barely breath. I laugh until I cry, and he holds me in his hands and tells me that when he has the money, he’ll buy me a ring and make this whole shindig official. My voice raw with tears, I tell him he better.
     And he has the warmest hands with callouses on all the fingertips, which I don’t think anyone else knows. Not like I know. Not like they feel them against their palm and cheek and thigh in the middle of the night. I like that I hold a million tiny fragments of him that no one else has even touched. Like he calls his sister twice a week to make sure she’s not using again, and he only watches scary movies because they make my blood flow faster, and he’s an all consuming, thousand-watt, stars in his eyes kind of person. The kind people want to be around without ever knowing why. The kind who tells you he loves you and really means it.
     He only says it sometimes. When it’s just us two and the perfect silence is worth being broken. And I trace road maps across the skin of his back, and I wonder. I wonder what I did to deserve all this. The affection, and the easy smiles, and the list of kid names we like tucked away in his desk drawer. Shuffled between coins and nicotine gum. And then his breath is heavy in my hair. I never fall asleep before him because I don’t know how to stop thinking. I wonder and I wonder and I wonder how I ever thought I’d be better off on my own. And he pulls me closer. Whispers my name like a promise. All the world stands still for just this moment. And I wonder how a person- one single, broken person- can come along and make so much sense.
—  I hope you find this kind of love, and I hope you never let it go.
Night Moves

Originally posted by hunenka

I’ve been on a musical note. I just want to note down my thoughts on this as I have big feelings about Dean’s use of no strings attached sex as both fun but also a clear exposition for his feelings overall and specifically a substitute for Cas since season 4. 

It is something which over the years gets less and less frequent, more and more for the ‘coping’ rather than the fun, culminating in 12x18 so far where it is just so clearly a coping mechanism that I nearly can’t stand it, it’s fantastic, it’s even paralleled to Sam’s breakfast as a poor substitute within SECONDS.

God I love this show. Anyway… so here is the main gist of Night Moves:

We weren’t in love, oh no, far from it
We weren’t searchin’ for some pie in the sky summit
We were just young and restless and bored
(…)
I used her, she used me
But neither one cared
We were gettin’ our share

(…)
And oh the wonder
We felt the lightning
And we waited on the thunder
Waited on the thunder
I awoke last night to the sound of thunder (….) autumn closing in.

End

Of course this is an episode (11x04) where this is completely relevant to Sam of course, with the waitress Piper, but it also is apparently one of Dean’s favourite songs (I love the pie reference even if it’s totally accidental it’s great) and is entirely relevant to the way he uses his own quick flings as a coping mechanism, he uses them, literally, even though of course he is sweet about it, this is how it is.

We felt the lightning and we waited on the thunder, waited on the thunder.
I awoke last night to the sound of thunder (….) autumn closing in.

I can’t help but relate the thunder and lightening to announcing the presence of someone who will eventually bring this sex - coping mechanism part of Dean to a close… hmmm…

Originally posted by helpimanspnfan

Oh, also the first song of the episode? Guitar Man by Bread, is all about a guy on the road realising he is doing it because he doesn’t know how to do anything else and it’s what he has always done and it is a sad sad ending for this man…

No one seems to know what it is that makes him go
Then the lights begin to flicker and the sound is getting dim
The voice begins to falter and the crowds are getting thin
But he never seems to notice he’s just got to find another place to play
Fade away. Got to play. Fade away…..

So no wonder we then have a whole conversation about the fatalistic ending that Dean used to have, still kinda has but is moving away from, that Sam doesn’t want and never did, that they are BOTH now trying to get away from.

Neither one now wants to be the guitar man.

Good.

*H U M A N

first, i was planning on making an art instead buuut i wanted to try making another speedpaint coz its so fun even though one hand is bothering the other hand HELP

oh and look its heavenfell papYRUS AAHK @heavenfell-au

Song- Alan Walker Faded (Sara Farell Cover)