i must be really ugly

hemansbobcut  asked:

I really want to draw Ravus smiling or laughing. Like completely losing it over something dumb the dogs did or something. Do you have any headcanons on how his features change while he's smiling? Any micro expressions or details like dimples or how much his eyes close?


  • Ravus Nox Fleuret’s probably got a subtle and hidden smile that very few people have seen. But when they do see it, the light in the heavens shine down upon him while angels weep.
  • Okay, perhaps not that dramatic, but he honestly does have a pleasant smile.
  • Tiny corners for his lips curl up first before he slowly flashes a brighter smile that showcases his pearly whites.
  • But he always tries to cover it, hand coming up with fingers curling over to conceal his growing smile.
  • Probably has dimples that are prominent when he grins in particular, but it’s not as apparent with small smirks and curls of his lips.
  • His cheekbones probably rise up too when he smiles, causing his eyes to squint the slightest bit that only makes his smile and expression glow even more.
  • And his tiny freckles over his face makes his smile all the more humble and pleasant.
  • He hates smiling though, and has to turn away when he does it, hanging his gaze because he doesn’t smile or laugh often, so he thinks it’s an annoyance to others and himself – kinda sad really.
  • But when he laughs, he tries his damnedest not to laugh loudly, having to cover his mouth with the back or side of his hand as he gives out a gross snicker.
  • He chuckles from the throat more, light and gentle like a tiny harmony.
  • And when he gets going on his laugh, he snorts. He hates it, but it was a habit he never quite grew out of, or found a way to master.
  • Whenever he’s done laughing, he clears his throat, presses his knuckles to his brow as if to relax his face, and presses his lips tight together to hide whatever trace of a smile or laugh he just did.
  • Nobody saw that, he hoped. But smiling and laughing was definitely something enjoyable, for it is rare when it happens. 

Since some folks cannot seem to shake the asinine assumption that queerness & blackness are mutually exclusive, lemme shout it out for ya.


“Leave you lover, Leave her for me”
Leave your lover by Sam Smith

Its my first ever edit so please be nice to me :’(


Why must I always write at some godforsaken hour?

Set in the Naga!Dean ‘verse. Not proofed because AYYYYYYYY

“Uuugggh,” Castiel groaned in frustration.

It was the time of year that Angels molt, and this being his first in Naga territory, it was absolutely miserable. All over the back of his wings and his scapulars was a persistent, incessant itch. And that would be bad enough, if it wasn’t also accompanied by a prickling pain, like thousands of tiny needles were jabbing into him. 

It was a fucking pain.

Dean had immediately taken note of his change in behavior and suggested a molting spa, assuming that it would help someone with feathers as much as it helped someone with scales. But ever since the almost-drowning incident, when the absolute soaking of his wings and the heavy humidity had caused his wings to take days to dry out, Castiel wasn’t eager to dip his wings in water again anytime soon.

Sam suggested buying a backscratcher, so of course Dean bought him five, of varying lengths and tooth size. That Naga was such a sweetheart sometimes, bless him.

And while the backscratchers did help, it didn’t solve the matter. Because Angels weren’t supposed to go through their molt alone - it was supposed to be a bonding activity, when the angels would sit in a circle and help massage the wings and clean them out. An Angel couldn’t comfortably make it through a molt alone - they can’t reach so many parts of their own wings.

So it was agony.

So that’s why Castiel was here, lying in bed in the middle of the fifth or sixth sleepless night, using the backscratcher to scrape his wings raw.

He was at the end of his rope. He’d hoped to have found a solution by now, that some Angel somewhere would have come up with a way to endure a molt alone, but no. Of course not. 

A few days ago, Castiel would have been quiet about it, kept thinking, kept pondering ways to deal with this, done something to help him sleep, but after nearly a week without sleep, Castiel had ran out of fucks to give.

So, here, in the middle of the night, half-dressed, Castiel stomped out of his quarters to knock on Dean’s next door.

There was a thump inside followed by a half-asleep, “Is something wrong? Are we under attack?”

“No, it’s me,” Castiel said, suddenly realizing exactly what he was doing. 

Oh no. This is so improper. Is there some way to pass this off as sleepwalking or…?

“Cas?” The voice called out, immediately followed by the door opening to reveal Dean, having just fastened his belt, and even now running his hands through his hair in an attempt to fix its fluffy disarray.

Oh no, my hair.

Castiel immediately began doing the same, realizing how unprofessional he looked, how much of a mess he was, and -

“Castiel, what’s wrong? Are you okay?” Dean asked, worry clear in his voice.

Should I tell him? Or should I say I was just having a bad dream, or hallucinating, or something?

Fuck it.

“I can’t sleep, my molt is driving me crazy. Will you help me?” He blurted out before he could finish talking himself out of it.

“Of course, Cas. Whatever you need. My quarters or…?”


“Alright, give me a second to get dressed and I’ll be right there.”

“…Thank you, Dean.”

“Sure thing, Cas,” Dean said with a tired smirk as he shut the door to finish dressing. 

At that, Castiel returned to his quarters, the embarrassment of what he’d just asked dropping on him like a fifty ton weight. 

This was so stupid, you woke him up? You couldn’t even wait until daylight? And looking like some half-dead zombie, half-naked and hair an embarrassing mess? What the hell must he think of me?!


Fuck, Cas was hot like that. 

“No,” Dean breathed to himself, forcing himself to calm down. “No, no, don’t you start that,” he scolded himself as he donned his sleeves and finished fixing his hair.

I hope Castiel didn’t fix his.

“Noooo, don’t go there.”

The moment he was done, Dean left his quarters to knock on Castiel’s door. Now, being mates, there was a door between both their quarters that they could use to feely traverse and visit each other, but they never used it, always keeping it locked. For propriety’s sake. After all, their relationship wasn’t like that.

“Come in, I didn’t lock it.”

When Dean entered, he found Castiel slouched over the dining table, looking absolutely miserable, poor thing. Dean immediately slithered behind him, asking, “I have to be behind you, right?”


“So…” Dean said, looking down at the slightly scruffy looking wings in front of him. “What do I do?”

Castiel briefly explained to him everything he needed to look out for, how to search through the feathers, how to spot pinfeathers, and basically if Castiel asked him to do something to just do it.

“Alright,” Dean said, looking down at the big wings in front of him. Gingerly, he reached out and very gently started poking through some of the feathers near the base. He didn’t want to hurt his wings, they looked so fragile.



“I’m not gonna break.”


“If you’re hurting me I’ll tell you.”

“Um,” Dean said, biting his lips as he carded through the feathers a little more forcefully in his search for-


“Fine!” Dean said, wincing in self-doubt as he dug his fingers into the wings.

They were so soft, a little oily, but still so soft and really a pleasure to touch. “Is… is this a pinfeather?” Dean asked, poking a suspicious quill.

Castiel nodded emphatically at the feeling of one of his itches so close to being scratched.

Dean immediately started rubbing the offending shaft, making it release a soft dust.

And making Castiel release a soft moan.

For a moment, Dean froze. 

Holy fuck that was hot.


Before he could dwell on it any longer, he kept sifting through the feathers, finding another pinfeather to massage.

And this time, Castiel made a soft whimper. He’d been suffering for so long that the relief just felt so good, he couldn’t help it.

Is he… going to keep making those noises? Dean asked himself, half hopefully, half dreadfully.

Turns out, he was. For a while they were softer, but at the very least there was a soft sigh at each released pinfeather. Not so much for the loose feathers, but the pinfeathers were enough. Especially when Dean got to the feathers on the underside of his wings. He seemed to be a lot more sensitive there.

And, god, the noises suddenly got fucking obscene.

This time, while it was mostly the relief at his sensitive wings being cared for and massaged, if Castiel was 100% honest with himself - and he wasn’t - it was partially because, well… he liked it when Dean touched him there. It made his mind wander, imagining his spouse’s hands drifting from his wings to brush across his skin, up and down his sides, fingers along his belly, palms sliding up his thighs…


Meanwhile, Dean was fighting the feeling of his pelvic scales softening, and what was within not-softening. It was getting difficult, as it seems the feathers under here almost seemed to smell like the Angel was aroused, which couldn’t be true because Dean knew Castiel wasn’t interested in anything like that, especially with such a different creature. 

God, he must find me abhorrently ugly, now that I think about it.

He really wished he hadn’t thought about it. 

So the Naga bit his lip and just kept on trucking, trying his best to redirect bloodflow from his lower torso.

“I think that’s all of them,” Castiel said, sounded rather blissed out, letting out a hum of contentment. 

“Oh, good,” Dean said pulling his hands away awkwardly, leaning down to collect the fallen feathers to make jewelry with, trying to hide his bright blush at the whole affair. 

He half wish it hadn’t ended.

The other half wished it had ended very differently. Mostly the lower half.

“Is that all you need, Cas?” he asked, still worried about the little featherbutt.

“No, no, you’ve done enough, you need your rest.”

“So there is more to do.”

“No, no, I’m fine.”

“Cas, really.”

“No, I’ll just ask an attendant to look into it in the morning.”

Another person… touching Castiel’s wings? He didn’t know why, but for some reason, that made Dean feel so jealous


“No!” he said, unaware of how forceful his voice had sounded. It even made Castiel lift up his head from the table. “Uh, I mean, no. I’ll do it, might as well get it done. I’m your spouse, it’s my job to take care of you.”

Castiel squinted at him. “You sure? You don’t have to.”

“I’m sure.”

Castiel shrugged. “Alright. There are oil glands at the base of my wings, kinda rub them a bit to get your fingers oily and just, like… scrub them in the wings. But lightly, smoothing them down in the process? Nevermind, I’m explaining it badly, and it’ll get your hands oily, so you’d better not-”

“It’s fine, I don’t mind. Really,” Dean said, immediately running his fingers along the base to find the little glands. They were very soft, and they made so much oil when he rubbed them.

And Cas made so many whimpers.

Goddamn it. 

As quickly and as thoroughly as he could, he “polished” the wings up, almost unable to bear how turned on he was, it was all he could do to keep himself soft. He hoped the rumor that Angels could barely smell was true, because Dean was sure he smelled like a Naga going through puberty.

“There,” he said, but Castiel didn’t respond.

Poor thing had been so tired that the gentle massage had put him to sleep.

Ohh. He’s so precious asleep.

As silently as he could, Dean lifted the Angel and placed him in his bed before picking up the last of the feathers, unable to ignore the fact that he was now covered in Castiel’s wing oil. And that his wing oil smelled fucking amazing.

Dean quickly slithered out of the room and back to his own, sighing in relief. 

And, now that he was covered in such delightful-smelling oils, having just got done touching and pleasing his precious little ma- spouse… he couldn’t bear it any longer.

He quickly settled into his soft nest and began quickly pleasuring himself. Oh, the oil made his hands so slick, felt so good.

Due to scent of the oil and the fact that his fantasies now had a fucking soundtrack, the Naga didn’t last very long at all, coming harder than he ever had before, doing his best to hold back his sounds so that nobody could hear him.

Especially not the person on the other side of the ever-locked door.

I hope you heard me screaming in delight all the way from Switzerland, because this was amazing! Ah, poor Dean and Cas! So much pining!! With wing grooming!! Aaaaahhhh!! ♥

*hums stronger than you*

For some reason people still tend to like my old drawing of sin so I really needed to draw it again

anonymous asked:

what do you dislike about Ellie? not accusatory just wondering!

I don’t find her gymnastics very nice. It’s technically accurate but not pretty, not on any apparatus. I’d never watch her routines and think ‘I really must watch that again’. The deductions she does get are the really ugly ones too like all the huge wobbles on beam and the landing deductions on floor. Usually this would make me neutral to a gymnast rather than actively dislike them but she’s got so many crazy fans and is hyped so much by BG that it gets annoying (and she acts like she’s god’s gift too).

Up until now she’s been super inconsistent too. She fell once in quals, once in TF and at least once in AA in Rio. She fell in the TF and quals at Worlds too. But somehow ended up getting all the attention for the team bronze cos she went last on vault.

Plus it’s irritating how she’s basically excused from performing well at trials (or even competing sometimes) but that’s not just her and is a general BG problem.

I think that’s it but I’m sure you’ll hear if there’s anything else comes to mind :P

anonymous asked:

You are an ugly man. You will never pass. Your are ruining your life for a sexual fetish. You gender identity isn't valid

Hello angry, transphobic, Anonymous person! Let me set a few things straight with you, okay?

I am a beautiful, confident, growing woman actually! The fact that you seem to possess time in your day to come and tell me how ugly I am, must really say something regarding how you really feel about me! Passing is something people have socially become accustomed to; Last time I checked, passing is slightly contradictory since it’s essentially pressuring me to fit a certain image, or else my identity is invalid, by reinstating that I’m not 100% who I identify as. I don’t need to “try” to be who I am, I am who I am.

I don’t try to pass; I find things that make me happy. Whether it be clothes, makeup, books, people, any of that. Those are the things that make up the individual I am. If I happen to “pass”, I’m not sorry, my intentions are simply to live a happy and truthful life

Ruining my life for a sexual fetish though? I didn’t decide to transition and be honest with myself to fulfill my sexual desires or someone else’s. I transitioned in courage because the life I was living at the time was not truthful to who I am now. I’ve found the strength inside me to be happy, and truthful with who I am!

Lastly, my gender identity is completely valid, and I don’t need some anonymous cyber-warrior to try and deny who I am. This is me, my life, and I’m a woman with or without your acceptance!

Good day!

At one point E, knowing I was in a state of nastiness, said to me at the lousy Italian restaurant we went to: ‘Come on Richard, hold my hand.’ Me: ‘I do not wish to touch your hands. They are large and ugly and red and masculine.’

After that, my mind was like a malignant cancer — I was incurable. I either remained stupidly silent or managed an insult a second.

What the hell’s the matter with me? I love milady more than my life.

I’m very contrite this morning but one of these days it’s going to be too late cock, too late. E has just said that I really must get her that 69-carat ring to make her ugly big hands look smaller and less ugly!

Nobody turns insults to her advantage more swiftly or more cleverly than Lady Elizabeth. That insult last night is going to cost me. Betcha!

October 2, 1969, Richard Burton’s diary


For my darling @goldentruth813 whom I adore.

The wind had picked up by the time Harry had let the snitch fly. The sun was bright, the clouds ever present but clear enough to make a good day of it.
“Scared Potter?” Draco had cried out for good measure before kicking off from the ground, speeding off after it. He’d caught Harry off guard, who after looking puzzled for a moment swung a leg around his own broom before zooming on after him.
For a moment it was so easy, so normal, like slipping back through time back when everything was just easy rivalry; before history changed them.
He’d never caught the snitch against Potter and he wasn’t letting this opportunity pass him by, he’d win this and then he’d win the next one, and at the end of the day he’d come out on top for once.
He gripped his broom handle tighter and made a tighter turn to shake Potter off his trail, feigning a sighting. Looping back, Potter was trailing behind him completely unaware of the glint of gold hovering above his head. Draco rushed him, nearly knocking him off his broom. Nearly.
Draco gave chase, feeling the blood rush through his body as the wind swept through his hair, it was exhilarating, exactly what he’d needed.
They were spiralling through the air now, twirling about like leaves lost in the wind, or at least they should have been, Potter was lagging behind a little. It wasn’t like him at all.
He threw himself headlong between trees, caring little for what became of him in the end, hand outstretched, ready to claim his win, when it occurred to him that Potter wasn’t. He wasn’t trying at all. He was letting him win, how absolutely Potterish of him!
Draco pulled up to a stop, nearly causing his counterpart to crash into him.
“What’s up?” Harry had the nerve to act all innocent.
“Swallowed a bug.” Draco grit through his teeth, struggling not to let his anger get away with him.
“Ugh. Right,”
They went back at it, and it took Draco a while to find the snitch once more, yet when they got closer the same thing happened all over again, Potter refused to give his all.
By the third time it happened he couldn’t handle it anymore, “If you aren’t up for this, we can stop you know!”
“What scared Malfoy?” Potter had smirked, gliding upright with only one foot on his foot holder.
“Fuck.” Draco whispered after him.
The weather didn’t hold, the wind got rougher, the sky got darker, it might rain if they pushed their luck and still neither of them won the snitch. Draco was tired, too tired for even his anger to spurn him on anymore so he landed in defeat.
“Where are you going?”
“Home! I suggest you to do the same, unless you want to catch a cold in this weather!” Draco snapped back.
“Neither of us have caught the snitch yet, stay. Please,” Potter smiled, that award winning smile that girls over at the Prophet practically wet themselves over.
Draco steeled himself, “Neither of us will win if you insist on playing like that.”
“I know you Potter, I know when you’re letting me win and really you aren’t even hiding it anymore.” He sneered, his face twisting like that ugly feeling surging in his guts. “I must be really pathetic for you to be playing nice like that.”
“I’m not!”
“Don’t lie!”
“I’m not!”
“Don’t you dare do this to me!” He roared, anguish burning holes through his entire being. This would probably sum up the whole of their relationship; Draco being miserable and Potter taking outrageous actions to counteract that patheticness.
“Fine. I won’t hold back. One on one, true seekers game.”
“So you admit it! You admit you were holding back!” He cried childishly.
“Merlin Draco!” Harry ran an exasperated hand through his hair. “Look can we just play and drop it?”
Draco ignored him, “This is just like you. Can’t believe that I’d win on my own, you have to give me the win. I’ll never be on equal footing with you. I’ll always be me, and you’ll always be you. You can never let me work my way up to a win, you just assume I couldn’t win against you!”
“Where is this coming from? Draco?”
“This is like that thing with the French Embassador last month, have to put your Potter brand all over it. Everything’s all okay if you have your paws on it! If you get your say!” Draco carried on to the point where Harry seemed visibly livid. “Fine! Fly off on me you fucking arse!”
Potter flew off into the sky and for a moment he worried at the pit of his stomach that Harry would leave him here, leave him.
Potter stomped back down onto the ground, threw his broom on the ground and strode over to Draco so hotly he wondered if he should be afraid of him for a moment. “You’re a fucking dick you know that right?”
He grabbed Draco’s wrist and twisted his palm open, pushing the snitch into it.
“If you think-” Draco began, but was stopped when the snitch fell apart in his hands.
Harry pulled at the pieces as it fell open and threw a shimmering piece at him before striding off back to pick his broom. Probably to leave, Draco thought.
Draco looked down at the broken piece dumbly, realizing it wasn’t part of the snitch at all but a ring. A ring? A ring!
Potter looked worried, hovering by the nearby trees with a forlorn look plastered to his forehead.
“Harry?” He whispered, crouching down the pick the ring up holding it gingerly in hand.
“It was spelled to your touch.” Harry murmured into his Quidditch robes. “You were supposed to catch it and I was supposed to ask you…”
He found himself speechless.
“Look, I’m sorry if I’m too much. I don’t meant to be, I just. We’ve been living together for two years now Draco together longer than that, I can’t help it if you’re apart of my life. If that means accidentally putting my ‘Potter brand’ all over it then-” Draco shut him up by wrapping his arms around him and kissing him soundly. “Draco, I-” He kissed him again for good measure, kissing him hard and long enough for Harry submit, leaving his words behind. They kissed until breathless, coming up for air under the trees, noses brushing in a soft caress, raindrops catching at their eyelashes as downpour threatened overhead.
“The French Ambassador wanted to get into your pants.” Harry blurted.
“What?” Draco replied dazedly, gripping tighter onto Harry to steady himself.
“I caught him leering at you from across the ballroom for a solid fifteen minutes before he approached you. I’m sure he was talking to you about reforms or whatever but as soon as he started making excuses to touch you I just had to butt in. I couldn’t handle it, I’m sorry. I was jealous. It was wrong of me.” Harry confessed.
“What? But? How did I miss that?”
“I don’t know, at first I thought you were trying to make me jealous on purpose but you didn’t seem to care when he swore at me and left.”
“He did what?!” Draco pulled away in shock.
“When you turned to talk to the Undersecretary he swore at me in french and told me to fuck off, but you were already too absorbed in whatever else to care so I thought nothing else of it.”
“Is that all you have to say?” Harry pulled him in again, his breath ghosting across Draco’s lips.
“Maybe if you asked me.” Draco smiled, his gaze fixed upon Potter’s pink wet mouth. “I could tell you yes. Yes Potter yes.”
Harry hummed into the kiss that followed next, exuberantly turned on by the way Draco growls ‘Potter’ in that one practised tone, gripping him harder. He kissed Draco hard enough, desperate enough that he needed more, lifting his lover up and into his arms aching with urgency.
“I suggest you take me home Scarhead, before I force myself upon you amongst the trees here.” Draco whispered hoarsely, a teasing lilt to his voice.
“Promises, promises.”