i am not sorry about it

‘Castiel towered, a massive being of swirling blue light and rotating faces.  Black wings reflecting every imaginable color flared out to frame the ox head just as it was replaced with a lion.’


Castiel’s true form from @theriverscribe‘s epic By the Grace of God! This scene is from Teach Your Children, because you know I can’t resist True!form angels ;)

anonymous asked:

Hi! Sorry to load this on you. Re: that anon's ask about reducing comments. I know I used to gush over every single chapter of the fics I read. But it reached a point where I think I kind of overwhelmed/annoyed one of my fav authors and now they're avoiding me. Nowadays I only leave short comments or not at all because I'm starting to think I'm being too freaky :( I can speak for everyone but I'm sure some feels this way as well. Maybe anon can mention that they love comments on their fic? (1/2)

(2/2) Also, in reader’s head: !@#$ “who cares about my unworthy opinion” and “omg that other reader leaves such constructive feedback and my vocab is limited to I love this” and “why does he/she reply everyone except me every time? I think annoyed the author I deserve to burn in hell” So not commenting becomes a self protective mechanism to not get hurt. TBH I think chapter kudos would be the best thing ever (/;A;)/

listen… never in my life… have i ever told myself “wow i wish this person didnt comment”

ok wait thats a lie HAHAHAA okokok wait back up 

the only times in my life… that i have ever told myself “wow i wish this person didnt comment” was when all the comment said was ‘OMG WHEN ARE U GONNA UPDATE’ or something along those lines like… ;-; nothing breaks my spirit more… pero!!! i still kinda (???) appreciate the sentiment behind it because obviously the person likes the fic enough 2 be rude about it (i GUES? ? ? lmao) but like im still gonna reply to those people and thank them for reading etc you know. honestly though i think i’ve only ever actually deleted a comment juan (1) time and it was because that person said something SUPER out of pocket about like racism or something which, to me, didnt make sense at all my fic was about marble busts and ice skating i was like uhhhhh what are u doing here U Are Lost and so bam i deleted 

anyway 

my point is. i know some authors dont respond to comments and that can seem like they dont care about responses/feedback but that is a total lie hunnie. we get emails every time someone writes a comment and i’ll always be reading them whenever i’m waiting for a ride or while i’m brushing my teeth or whatever and it always makes me!!! so happy!!! i do make an effort to respond but sometimes i don’t get to do it right away, but just know!!! that i do read it!!! right away!!! even if i dont respond in that moment. 

every writer has their own style of interacting w readers but lemme tell u a short comment like “omg love this dkfjdkfj” feels GREAT. yeah it feels amazing when people take the time to like paste quotes and point out things they noticed or liked in the writing or whatever but not everyone has that time or can make that sort of effort. i only get to write long-ass comments sometimes OK like i know how it is; fic is supposed to be a relaxing break from Real Life and it can be rlly tiring to write up those long comments and ur def not entitled to comment at all. but it’s still a nice gesture because kudos are so easy to give. ppl been asking me why i look at bookmarks/comments more than kudos and its because kudos are literally just a button that u click. (and hits too!! like??? hits just tell me u opened my fic???? i dont rlly care about hits thats why i have that turned off) so i rlly lov when readers give that effort u know. it feels like “hello u spent 3943894 hours writing this thing let me sacrifice 5 seconds to make a comment about it ily hunnnie xoxoxox.” 

the disparity between X time it took writer to write VS. X time it took reader to read is so big. it throws me outta whack. when i publish something and someone comments in MINUTES on something that took me HOURS/DAYS/WEEKS to write it always shooks me. and thats why any comment makes me so happy, even if its just a bunch of keyboard smashes, one time someone just sent me a link to an image of kermit on fire, liKE THATS GREAT. THAT WAS AWESOME. one time someone told me my fic made me drop their phone into their rice and that was enough.

ur small comments are enough

thank u for coming 2 my ted talk 

izuvi  asked:

since you made a post about what's our fav komahina moments, what's your top ones?

It’s so hard to pick, because I love all of them, and I’ll try to compile them all one day, because I think some of them are really underated. However, if I had to choose, let’s say, 5 komahina moments it would be :

  • Hinata being incredibly worried about Komaeda when he catches the Despair Disease, though still fighting with himself over why he is even worried about him.
  • Komaeda waiting for him to wake up after he blacked out on the island. The whole relationship they have in the prologue is very cute, but I’m just glad Hinata didn’t wake up alone and confused, you know ?
  • Their discussion before the fourth trial in chapter 4. This hurts. And it hurts even more when you understand how much Komaeda was hurting himself at this moment.
  • Their scene before the group tries to tie up Komaeda ( and before the bomb goes off ). This scene is beautiful, full of unsaid words and conflicted feelings, and then it’s over and there is no way to stop the upcoming tragedy. Maybe the reason Komaeda comes to Hinata’s cottage is because at that moment, he was hoping to see if he could be stopped ? I don’t know.
  • Hinata being absolutely devastated by Komaeda’s death, having a cold, bad feeling before they find out the body, trying to think that everything is just a trick and Komaeda is playing them up, thinking that he was a big help during the trials, and now he is going to do it alone and he isn’t sure he can do it.

Wait, did I say 5 ? I’m a sap full of hope, so :

  • When Hinata waits for Komaeda to wake up from his coma, creating an AI to bring him back without invading his dream and deepest desires, holding Junko’s hand in his to show that he accepted all of Komaeda, and then both of them being happy, and together, and holding hands, oh boy, did this part please me.

A meditation on how Saito exists in the Meiji era while never letting go of what really matters. Written as an intro post for a writing thing I got going on with my friend.


Miburo in Meiji Clothing

Right before the breaking of dawn…before the first rays of sunlight spill across the horizon, his eyes squeeze and slowly open to a room shrouded in darkness.

It’s habitual, instinctual: just another day beginning with the same sharp breath that always fills his lungs.

His toes point and his body lengthens in a stretch, a moment more of comfort before his palm braces against the mattress and he pushes himself into a sitting position. The cover slips from his bare chest, puddling at his lap and he, a true creature of habit, immediately reaches for the nearby pack of cigarettes. …Half empty already, his sleep-addled mind notes; well, it is what it is. He slips one stick between his lips. A match strikes against the rough edge of the box, casting a dim glow of gold long enough only to light up, and then falls extinguished into a circular tray.

The first drag is always the best in the morning for some reason. His eyes close once more while his free hand rises to massage out neck and shoulder stiffness. And like this, Saito remains, as clarity begins to seep through the heavy haze instilled by sleep.

Outside, birds chirp and tweet but in here, there’s only silence. He finds this satisfactory. Quiet is comforting–he nods as he continues working the back of his neck–and so is order.

There’s one futon in this neatly maintained bedroom and in the corner, today’s attire already laid out. Saito takes another draw before his lashes part for good and he wastes no more time to pivot into seiza on the tatami. The corners of the cover meet as he folds them over, aligning each blanket edge perfectly and following the discipline with his futon. These items and his pillow are methodically stored off to the side.

Ashes flick into the tray. The shoji is pushed aside and he steps into slippers, walking without dragging his feet down the dark hall. He makes his ablutions and skips the kitchen upon returning, the spent cigarette put out in a different place somewhere along the trip.

There’s a specific routine when it comes to donning his uniform. Blue trousers first, then the black undershirt tucked in neatly and secured with a belt. Next, the blue jacket and its buttons done from bottom to top. After, white socks and white gloves. Barring the polished shoes that wait near the front door along with his hat, the final essentials are applied to his person in the bedroom; the sword is affixed at his hip, the cigarettes and matches slid into his breast pocket.

The work of dressing is physically done but one further step remains while he smooths out his appearance.

At the opposite end of the hall is the study, outfitted with a wooden desk, shelves lined in history books, and a large chest sitting on the floor. Though he hasn’t physically opened this chest in much too long, his spirit does each morning–unlocks it, procures the essence from the blue and white haori from within, and drapes it over his shoulders.

Because even though Saito now wears a police uniform symbolizing support for the Meiji government, he’s still clothed by the values from a different time–still guided by a set of rules that he’s learned to make relevant in the current era.

For the honor of every one of his brothers who made the ultimate sacrifice to raise this country, and for the sake of their resting souls, he lives as a Miburo in Meiji clothing. Nothing less, and nothing more.

Saito’s feet slip into his shoes at the door. He runs his hands through his hair to ensure no strands are out of place (naturally, there are none), and bows his head to put on his hat.

Indeed, it’s another chilly autumn morning. Sunlight has begun bleeding across the skyline as his steps carry him in the direction of downtown. Prefectures away, he imagines Nagakura is awake as well, serving his own tribute by penning his latest historical account. And somewhere else…

Somewhere else, Kondo and Hijikata are drinking sake together. Okita is smiling and making snide comments and running fingers through his hair. Matsubara is lecturing and frightening his pupils. Takeda is being a pain in the ass (hopefully not literally but one could never tell his intentions) and planning his next betrayal. And Inoue and Tani and Todo and Suzuki and Harada…

Whatever their stories and whether they died heroically or in disgrace–whether Saito even liked them personally or not–each of these men shared a bond with him that transcended their mortality. And as Nagakura keeps their memories alive with words, Saito preserves the liveliness of their souls by upholding the beliefs they defended above all else so many years ago.

No one ever thought Aku Soku Zan could effectively exist if they’d lost the war.

The breeze takes up Saito’s invisible haori and his hand falls upon his sword when the police station comes into sight.

They were wrong.

What the fuck. Someone grabbed Dan’s crotch while he was high fiving people last night at the L.A. NSP show and Dan laughed it off but woo boy that isn’t alright.

We’ve always been a mostly sane fandom of people but I’ve been to a ton of concerts and watched band members get clothes ripped and their belts taken off and stolen, and their dicks rubbed. Fuck, I even remember that a very young girl forced a kiss on a lead singer when he went to take a pic with her.

Please, please don’t let that start happening with Dan. Don’t ruin the NSP shows for other fans because you’re beinga creepy fuck. Dan shouldn’t have to laugh off or joke off being inappropriately touched.

in all seriousness, without getting into specific spoilers, I think the thing that bowls me over the most about the adventure zone is the absolute love and care you can feel in every single piece of it that comes out of it being a podcast medium.

like… we see Griffin talking on twitter about his adoration, and Justin and Clint busting at the seams trying not to talk about things that are coming, Travis fucking picking up woodworking to create the things his character does in canon to feel the emotional impact. Part of the reason this show has worked it’s way so into my heart is because of how much it’s so obvious the creators adore it, and the story they’re telling, and how much you can HEAR it as they perform their story.

The day I knew I was in on this podcast forever was absolutely at the end of Eleventh Hour, during the backstory episode. Magnus’ section of the episode was right before the ad break, and Griffin had an NPC describing how he could change his past, the worst mistakes of his life, and save the person closest to him, and as soon as he says “you can save them”, the mic picked up Travis making a small gasp in realization. Just one hitch of breath. That simple action has stuck with me for months, and it shines out in so many aspects of their vocal performance. You know things are about to get serious with Taako when Justin’s voice gets low, and flat, and directly to the point. There’s a way Clint breathes in and goes “well, you know…” when you just know things are about to get so real. And Griffin’s narration, the way his voice warbles with a little laugh when he’s delivering the one-two emotional punch.

I just… I adore seeing creators love their creations and these boys have gone above and beyond, especially this arc, to perform their characters to their fullest extent. I’m just so, so thankful of the dedication and craft they’ve brought to this show, and while I’m sad to see it go, I cannot wait to see how it ends.

To put this in more perspective: love and hate sit on opposite ends of the same spectrum.
So yes, love and hate are the same thing. Passion

This is the absolute silliest thing, but recently a bunch of MICA friends and I started playing Dungeons & Dragons! We just finished our starter quest, in which we learned the hard way that one cannot stop an impending alien invasion through the power of partying. 

Characters are, clockwise from top left: @connor-draws‘s human ranger Bobby Bryce, @mollystanard‘s thief bird-person Chuck, my human cleric Beorhtsige aka “Beebo,” @maxvelocity‘s half-elf bard Banjo Harmonica, and @sterlingsundries‘s gnome barbarian Elbo. Our DM is @sterlingsundries’s boyfriend, Colin. Attire is a modern AU, because I still don’t actually know what everyone’s go-to getup is, and I wanted to draw my character in an ironic t-shirt. Though he’s wearing it unironically.

D.I.P. (Disabled In Public)

Sometimes I really hate being Disabled In Public. Like…. there’s a definitive difference between being disabled and in public and Disabled In Public, and it’s hard to articulate to people who don’t have to experience this phenomenon. Like, yesterday I was at the airport, flying home for summer break. I’m sitting in my wheelchair at the gate, waiting to pre-board, and the gate check woman comes up to me, bends down and puts her hands on her knees, and says, “Gosh! You’re so independent!” I’m 23 years old, I live on my own across the country, and I’m a fucking adult out in public. Yes. I’m independent. How kind of you to notice.

And this happens all the time! I’m fine with people complementing my canes, or the flowers on my chair in passing, but coming up to me, speaking down to me, infantilizing me…. it’s all part of being Disabled In Public. The second I’m out in public I become some sort of attraction to able bodied people. Walking (or rolling) clickbait. And none of my able-bodied friends or family quite understand why I get so frustrated, or why I snap at people.

I was at the mall with my dad yesterday, in my wheelchair, and at least three people stopped me to complement my wheelchair. Which is fine. Except for the third woman, who said in some sort of weird baby talk, “Aw, who did that for you? That was so nice of them!” Uh…. I did that myself. Because, again, I am an adult.

And after this my dad goes, “Gosh, does this happen all the time? It must be so annoying…” to which I’m about to be delighted, before he continues, “…but you’re kind of asking for it by decorating your chair.”

No, I’m not asking for it. I’m accessorizing. People don’t stop everyone else on the street to infantilize them for their accessories. It only happens when you’re Disabled In Public.

And I didn’t really mean to write some kind of essay on the subject, but honestly. Why can’t people leave us alone? I’m not a child, I’m not inspiration porn, I’m just a fucking person out in the world trying to live my fucking life without random people interrupting me to make me feel awkward and singled out and Disabled.

phil the explorer and dan the tiny planet

not long time ago there was a boy that was alone just like the sun, with no moons, with no hope. but he saw a planet on his own and went there to see what he had to offer, and he wasn’t dissapointed.