i'm sorry about the writing

College Au

•Lance was enjoying a regular day of college, the simplicities of school work and stress.
•Along the lines he had class with low and behold Keith Kogane, mullet-headed jerk.
•It was in the middle of class when he got a sudden phone call, his ring tone loud and obnoxious. The professor stopped what they were doing and looked at Lance.
•"Sir I swear it’s an emergency, my sister will never call me during class, is it alright if I step outside and take this?“ The professor surprisingly let him and he walked out to answer the call.
•"Sis? Everything alright?” Her voice blasted through the speakers, her voice sounding heavy and tear strained. “Sis! What’s wrong?”
Her breath steadied as she tried to regain composure, “Lance, it’s your brother…he didn’t make it.”
•He stared at his phone, the edges of his eyes slowly beginning to streak with water, his breathing grew heavier as he slid down the wall of the hallway. “Hermana…please tell me you’re joking.” His voice croaked as more tears were falling. “Please tell me that he’s alright and it was just a close call, Hermana please…”
The call was silent for a moment before he heard the sound of weeping. “I’m sorry Hermano… I am so sorry.”
•Lance stopped breathing for a moment as his anxiety built up, he started taking slow breathes, in and out. In and out. He looked at the time and then at his screen, “I’m on my way Hermana… I’m sorry.”
* Lance got up slowly, wiping away his tears, straining himself from the pain and walked into the classroom.
* Everybody stared at him, noticing his red strained eyes, the marks of tear streaks upon his cheeks and the sign of his chest inwardly going in and out in panicked breathes. But everyone noticed how much he tried to control these emotions especially after he walked up to the professor as his voice croaked from trying to speak.
* The professor paused and looked at him, “uhm class I’m going to be a moment so please continue with your notes as I will be right back.” He took Lance by the arm and dragged him into his office.
* Everyone sat still in silence, trying to contemplate what has just happened. Lance the goofball of the classroom who always tells jokes and smiles like there’s no tomorrow, stormed into the room like he was just hit by a tornado.
* People were whispering and gossiping, but mainly with concern.
* That is until both he and the professor walked out, Lance following behind with such paleness as he strode over to his bag and walked out of the classroom.
* The professor stood back by the board and spoke, “uhm I-class please excuse what has just happened until further notice. There seems to have been some… complications and Lance won’t be attending class for the next couple of days.”
* Was Lance okay? What happened for him to breakdown so quickly? Why is he taking days off of class? Did something happen? So many questions were spread throughout the class until the end of the bell.
* What was wrong with Lance?

I know everyone’s always talking about Bucky having a mass freak out when he finds out all the dumb shit Steve’s been doing while he was gone but at the same time I feel like the next time Steve jumps out of a plane with no parachute every single other avenger is gonna freak out while Bucky’s just standing there like

Chubby body appreciation post tho???

Soft bodies are so?? GOOD??
Big tummies are good pillows and good kissing surfaces.
Tummies with stretch marks?? GOSH, YES??? It’s like nature itself is putting down a trail of lightning that says “KISS HERE PLEASE”

And chubby/fat arms though? Can we JUST? Thighs and stomachs get a lot of love (and rightfully deserved) but can we talk about ARMS??
That cute arm chub that I just want to be wrapped up in a hug and a snuggle in? SO PRECIOUS?? 
People with such soft, cuddly arms that there’s lil bumps and stretches from cellulite?? CUTE??

And soft necks? Necks with some squish on them? Very extra kissable?? And squishy cheeks GODDD I WANNA SMOOSH YOUR CUTE CHEEKS KISS ALL OVER YOUR FACE!!! And when people have chubby cheeks and lil dimples?? Or when they have high cheekbones so when their cheeks are chubby they’re VERY prominently chubby?? THIS IS GOOD AND FANTASTIC??

And THIGHS. My god. Thick thighs are never praised enough no matter how hard one tries. Big, soft laps are so perfect for laying your head on! And stretch marks on big thighs? Cute lightning patterns to trail your fingers over or gently kiss when you’re already laying in their lap?? YES!!
Cellulite on thighs is also so so good and cute!! Dimples in cheeks are wonderful and so are dimples in thighs and butts?? CUTE!!!

Hips with squish over them?? GAH!! I CANNOT HANDLE!!! Please be more confident with your hips (if you feel comfortable) because when you are you give me LIFE!!!

Back rolls?? CUTE and very fun to trace hands over and hold onto during snuggles!! Looks very cute all the time! 

Chubby/fat bodies in crop tops and short shorts?? YES!!! CUTE!!!

Chubby/fat bodies in sweat pants and a tshirt? EXTRA SOFTNESS TO THE SOFT CUTIE!!!

Chubby/fat bodies in swimsuits?? VERY CUTE?? Swim trunks and soft belly is very very good!!
One pieces that cling tight to your stomach or ride up your thighs are still cute no matter what anyone says!!
Two pieces? GOOD!!! You look so cute! Don’t feel obligated to cover that adorableness if you don’t wanna!! 

Chubby/fat bodies in lingerie?? SO IMPORTANT TO ME!!! When stomach is tucked into cute underwear it is very very adorable and when there’s chub over low rise underwear it’s also very very cute and endearing!! THIGH HIGHS?? UGH, MY HEART. I KNOW THAT THEY PROBABLY ARE FALLING DOWN CONSTANTLY BUT THANK YOU FOR WEARING THEM YOU’RE DOING US ALL AN AMAZING SERVICE.

In conclusion:
Softness is good
I will kiss you all over
Holding you and feeling handfuls of squish is amazing
I love you

best case scenario: it’s nothing.
he dropped his bag to help someone out,
it got moved out of the way,
he’ll turn up and start bitching about tears and dirt stains,
you’ll tell him to shut the hell up, even though he won’t listen,
he never listens,
and you’ll hang on to every word as he keeps talking.
(this is unlikely. he wouldn’t set that bag down,
wouldn’t abandon any of his things even if
the world was burning)

next best scenario: someone stole it.
he’ll be battered and bruised,
because no one got that bag without a fight,
and you’ll tell him what a fucking idiot he is.
he’ll make some joke,
he always does,
and you’ll remind him again of how much you hate him.
he’ll remind you of how much you don’t.
(this is slightly less unlikely, but be realistic—
he wouldn’t give up any of his things even if he were burning)

okay, next best: he ran.
“best” is a relative term here,
“best” implies it’s anything good but really your chest
has never felt so fractured and the ground is tilting and everything is
wrong.
maybe he ran. is that why he asked you to let him go?
why he insisted he be set free?
(this is even less unlikely. it borders on likely, be honest.
he’d throw all his things to the wind if he felt like he was burning)

next best: he was taken.
you know he’s perched on a throne of lies,
buried in his own secrets of a past he tried to torch.
he isn’t safe, he never was, never was going to be,
no matter what you had to say about it.
stopshakingstopshakingstopshaking thisisn'thelping—
you hate him. you hate him so much. you hate
that you hurt for him.
(this is likely. this is very likely.
he’d never let his things go unless you were burning.)

worst case scenario: he’s dead.

—  if you were really amazing you wouldn’t have let him go // es
Of course I still miss you, of course I still love you. Of course the only thing I still want is to talk to you. It never dampened, never waned, that choice to take a chance on each other we made. That light you emanate still blinds and burns me to my core, and when you left kept me hollow, desperate, yearning for more. I left because you wanted me to, I left because I knew you were hurting, that there were problems and life choices you had to make and I wasn’t helping, and I left because a part of me knew that if we kept going, the wounds we would leave would be harder and harder to heal, never closing. I did want us to keep going, I did want us to keep growing, together we’d wander, seek the world, go exploring, and in that radiant voluminous glow we’d ponder, the choices we made that brought us to fall in love with each other. But I know this is the end of the game, that if ever we crossed paths again it couldn’t be the same, that the life we shared and had, now we can only visit in pictures, songs, and memories, if ever we could address that life again by name. You and I were drawn together, meant to fall in love, but not to last forever. And I can never be mad, wish you ill will or look back in anger, because you were the most important part of my life once upon a time, and I’ll still have that love and respect for you, forever and ever after.
—  laugh if you want, it still burns for you (5/24/17), thekaijusleeps
6

You know what I’ve just noticed? You know what breaks my heart?

In this scene, when Lexa tells Clarke “Ai gonplei ste odon”, and Clarke responds by “No, I won’t accept that”, you can see Lexa slightly smiling.

You’re driven to fix everything for everyone. 

Even in her last moments, Lexa lovingly smiles, and stares at Clarke. She’s staring at the girl who always makes the best decision for her people, the girl who never backs away from a possibility to make peace with her ennemies, the girl who always wants to save as many people as she can. 

With her last bits of strength, she smiles and stares lovingly at Clarke. 

What she finds is partly comfort, because she knows the girl she loves will always be herself. She will always seek the best in life. Even in the worst situations. 

But as we can see, Lexa has tears in her eyes. She unsuccessfully closes her eyes to hold back her tears, but knows some are still escaping. 

Now, do you believe Lexa, Commander of thirteen clans, a long time trained fighter and leader, who is used to suffering in silence, both physically and mentally, who willingly grabbed a sword with her bare hands, freshly and quickly slicing them in the way, would cry? 

Yes, taking a bullet freaking hurts, but Lexa wouldn’t cry at the physical pain.

Lexa is crying, because as much as she finds comfort in seeing that Clarke is, and will always be, herself in any kind of situation, she knows who she’s leaving behind. She knows that she’s once again abandoning Clarke, and that, once again, Clarke will be hurt because of her. Only this time, Lexa wasn’t the one to make that choice. 

This time, they’re not in the cold, dark woods near Mount Weather. They’re in Polis, the place that made Clarke fall for Lexa once again, a place reflecting hope, and life. They’re in Lexa’s home, a place where they exchanged rough, and yet sweet conversations, where Clarke found peace while drawing Lexa in her sleep, where she found Lexa’s fears and hopes for the future; but mostly, where they found each other, going desperately and hungrily after each other’s lips barely a few hours ago.

Lexa was never afraid of dying, but this time, just to lay by Clarke’s side in their bed, she wishes she could just breathe a little longer.

And this time, as Clarke kisses her goodbye, Lexa falls asleep for good, only wishing she could hold those lips against her own forever. 

Me:*has lots of on going au’s that need updates*
Brain: ok you finished exams time to update everything.
Me:…
Me: but what about a Danny phantom au?
Brain: what no! Don’t start another au! Finish your current ones!
Me: *starts writing new au* sure I’ll get to it… eventually

just think of modern au bellamy with a young daughter, guys…

  • when she wakes up early on a saturday morning, he lifts her up on the kitchen counter so that she can sit there and watch him flip blueberry pancakes
  • dances around the entire living room with her, sliding across hardwood floors to the sound of radio tunes and her giggles 
  • braids her dark, curly hair every day
  • writes his own bed time stories about women who slay dragons, female superheroes and talking animal kingdoms that he reads to her
  • yes, he gives all of the spin-you-around hugs™ when he picks her up from pre-school
  • “it’s okay. you don’t have to like boys.”
  • bakes cookies and keeps sneaking her dough when clarke isn’t looking
  • builds a tree house in the backyard and blanket forts in the living room
  • carries her to bed when she falls asleep on the couch 
  • encourages her to “have courage and be brave,” to believe in herself
  • brings her to his workplace (a museum) to tell her about mythology and ancient history as soon as she begins to show an interest in it, because you know, he’s a nerd
  • makes brilliant s’mores whenever the griffin-blakes decide to go camping in the woods 
  • “the colors have no gender. don’t let peter or anyone else tell you differently. blue is an awesome color, tell him that you’re allowed to think so.”
i hate reducing myself to flowers and seasons, pretty things that wilt in three days or pass quietly in three months. i wish i could write about the ocean, the night sky, anger and jealousy and even fear, complicated emotions that i find hard to express – out loud and on paper. i wish i could write from the soul – but instead, i write about tulips in a field and their uneventful lives, pretending to write from the heart.
—  spring-sonnets

dontfeelsogood  asked:

Can I request Viktor with a stomach bug? (Viktuuri) thank you!! 💕💕💕

thank you so much for sending these asks in, i’m glad that i finally got around to filling them!!!  sorry it took so long, i hope it was worth the wait!!!

WARNING: descriptions of vomit below

read the warning

read the warning

read the warning

okay, you’ve been warned

Despite having been entirely unproductive even after retching for the past half hour, Viktor’s head was still in the toilet when he heard Yuuri’s knock on the bathroom door.

“Viktor?”

An overwhelming nausea forced the older man into yet another dry heave before he was able to respond.  “Ah,” Viktor swallowed thickly, putting everything he had into resisting the sick feeling in his gut.  Unfortunately, nothing he did seemed to have any impact, so he reluctantly cleared his throat and continued speaking.  “Sorry, Yuuri, do you need the restroom?  I’ll be - huuurk! - out in just a minute!”

With that, Viktor’s stomach lurched and back into the porcelain bowl went his head.  He wasn’t sure how he would manage to vacate the bathroom in this state, but if Yuuri needed him to, he would figure something out.  As he coughed and wiped spit from his lips, he could hear Yuuri moving around just outside the door.

“I can hear you heaving all the way from the bedroom,” Yuuri said quietly.  Viktor’s heart ached.

“Oh,” Viktor whispered, a wet cough interrupting him briefly, “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?”  Yuuri sounded confused, which was adorable; Viktor could picture him, leaning against the bathroom door with his face scrunched in the most endearing way.  The thought alone was enough to leave Viktor yearning for the younger man to be by his side, but he couldn’t possibly ask that of him.

“Why are you sorry?”  Yuuri murmured, almost as if to himself.

“I didn’t want to - urk! - bother you,” Viktor explained, feeling guilty because a large part of him wanted the exact opposite.  “Did I wake you up?”

“I couldn’t sleep anyway,” Yuuri murmured.  Viktor imagined him running a hand through his hair, sweaty from tossing and turning.  The sound of Yuuri’s shaky sigh was loud enough to reach Viktor’s ears through the closed door.  “Viktor, can you let me in?  You sound miserable.”

“I’m - urp! - okay,” Viktor tried to argue, though he didn’t sound very convincing even to himself, with a belch puncturing his argument.  Not to mention his energy level had hit rock bottom, so every word he spoke came out dry and monotone.

“Vitya.  Don’t lie to me,” Yuuri’s voice hardened.

“I-“  Viktor wanted to tell Yuuri.  He really, truly did.  Unfortunately, his mouth didn’t seem to agree, and if he listened closely enough to it, he could tell that something in his heart resisted as well.  He let out a long belch-turned-retch before speaking again in a hollow tone.  “I’ll be fine.  Go back to bed, Yuuri.”

When Viktor heard Yuuri’s footsteps walking away, he knew he had no right to feel upset or disappointed or lonely; Yuuri was only doing as Viktor had instructed.  And yet, regret coursed through him as he continued to heave fruitlessly into the toilet.  He wanted Yuuri to stay.  Stay close to me, he thought.  It had been a mantra in his head since the moment he’d met the younger skater, and yet he’d gone and pushed him away.

Useless.

Cold.

Unworthy.

Caustic.

Dangerous.

Broken.

Contagious.

The words spun around in Viktor’s dizzy head.  His stomach contents continued to slosh uneasily inside of him, but Viktor had all but given up on getting anything out, so he laid his head on the toilet seat and focusing on quelling the nausea.

He must have dozed off, because he woke with a start.

“Viktor?”

Yuuri was at the door again.  Viktor had no idea how much time had passed, but apparently not enough for the bug to pass.  The nausea was, incredibly, worse than ever, and he couldn’t repress a harsh heave.

“Viktor, I’m sorry to do this but I’m coming in.”

The door was locked, Viktor had made sure of that when he’d first started feeling ill.  Amazingly, that didn’t seem to phase Yuuri at all.  He entered the bathroom moments later with tea - and a paperclip.

“Did you - huuuurgh! - just pick - hiccurrup!”  Viktor coughed violently, forgetting to finish his sentence in favor of focusing on his struggle to breathe.

“Picked the lock,” Yuuri murmured, but he was clearly distracted, staring at the sick man.  Viktor flinched.

“Yuuri, don’t - huuuurp! - look.”  His throat was tight.  Yuuri ignored this demand and brushed a hand through Viktor’s sweaty hair, shooting him a fierce look.

“No one’s judging you right now, Vitya, not when you’re sick,” Yuuri said firmly, raising an eyebrow as if daring Viktor to object.  “Now.  Let me help you.”

Viktor frowned, and his mouth ran ahead of him, “Thought you - hurgh! - went to bed?”

Yuuri shook his head.  “I made you something - some tea.”

“I’ll puke, Yuuri.”

“That’s-”  Yuuri faltered a bit before forging on in a pained voice.  “That’s kind of the point, love.  It will make you feel better, and then you can rest.”  He handed Viktor a mug of tea, and the older man inspected it slowly.  Its scent was familiar, a Russian brand that Yuuri must have dug up in one of Viktor’s cabinets.  He hadn’t drunk it in years, but it was a comforting smell, in a way.  Not to mention, Yuuri was right, and Viktor did want to empty his stomach.  Still, he hesitated.

“You should go,” Viktor said quietly, staring bleakly into the mug.

Yuuri glared at him, and though Viktor would admit it was adorable, it wasn’t enough to make him reconsider.

“I don’t - urp! - want you to see me like this, Yuuri.”  Viktor’s voice - and in fact his whole body - shook as he spoke.  Shook from fever, from nausea, and from being torn between his desire for comfort and… fear?  “Please,” he whispered, voice trembling.

“No,” Yuuri said, softly, firmly.  He gently brushed Viktor’s sweaty bangs away from where they clung to his face, frowned when the older man flinched.  “Vitya, I love you.  I won’t leave you alone when you’re this sick.”

As if on cue, Viktor started heaving again.  He really couldn’t stop.  Tears sprung to his eyes as it became hard to breathe.  “Yuuri-“  He gasped.  “Please-“

Yuuri looked conflicted.  “Will you drink the tea if I leave?”

Viktor nodded, tears streaking his face.  Yuuri pressed a kiss to the top of the older man’s head, hesitated a moment longer, and then stood.

“Shout if you need me, love.”

Viktor nodded again, and Yuuri left.  A whimper escaped Viktor’s lips, and he raised the mug to them, then drank.

The effect was immediate.

Vomit, thick and heavy, came hurtling up Viktor’s throat, splashing into the toilet in a projectile stream.  He tried to catch his breath, but only ended up chocking on another stream of sick as it evacuated his body through both his mouth and nose.

“Yuuri.”  It was hardly a shout.  More of a desperate breath that just happened to take the shape of a name.  But in a metaphorical sense, it truly was a call for help, and somehow, Yuuri heard it.

He’s hands were on Viktor’s bare back in a moment, kneading out the knots in the sick man’s shoulders, cooling his feverish skin as his muscles continued to clench and unclench.  Viktor threw up again and again, and he felt like he was drowning.

“Vitya.”  Yuuri’s voice grounded him.  Yuuri’s hands grounded him.  Yuuri was Viktor’s lifeline, and the older man sobbed as the younger spoke his name.  “Vitya, don’t cry.”

Viktor couldn’t respond for a minute or two, still preoccupied with puking up his guts and unable to stop.  When he did get a chance to speak, his voice was raw and vulnerable.

“Don’t leave me,” he cried.  “Don’t leave.”

“Oh,” Yuuri breathed.  “Sweetie, no.  I couldn’t- I wouldn’t!  I would never leave you.”

Yuuri hugged Viktor’s trembling body even as he lurched over the toilet, watery stomach contents splashing into it once again.

“Vitya, I love you.  No matter what.”

Viktor shuddered, nausea making it hard to breathe even when he had a break from vomiting.

“Even if,” he coughed wetly.  “I’m sick and gross and weak?”  Viktor belched, and the action turned into a heave that brought up another mouthful of sick.

“Sick, yes.  Gross and weak?”  Yuuri pressed a kiss to Viktor’s sweaty temple.  “Never, Vitya, never.  And even then-“

He paused as Viktor retched, waited until Viktor managed to force up a meager amount of stomach acid before speaking again.

“Even then, love, it’s not that easy to get rid of me.”  Yuuri smiled when Viktor glanced at him.  “Not when I’m in love.”

Finally, Viktor relaxed into Yuuri’s arms, crying softly as the younger man showered him with love and kisses.  Eventually, Viktor sniffled and cleared his throat.

“Stay with me?”

Yuuri’s smile warmed Viktor’s chest in a way he’d never known he needed.

“Always,” Yuuri whispered.

yellow-eyed-asshats  asked:

I have a question that may come out sounding kinda rude, but why can't writers write poc as people, put them through the same trials and tribulations as caucasian characters? This may come out sounding different that what I've asked in my head so if that's the case, I'm terribly sorry

Writing About PoC Trials and Tribulations

I understand where you’re coming from, because it looks unequal when you take it simply as “humans struggle, so why can’t we write about PoC struggling?”

What Topics To Avoid isn’t talking about struggle in general, which is where the confusion comes from.

Yes, you can write PoC struggling. This is not the question at hand.

What that post was pointing out is PoC struggle is rarely individual trials and tribulations like white characters.

When a white character struggles, they are struggling with something that is an individual struggle that is treated as a universal narrative for that person’s individual issues (like, everyone’s felt like an underdog at one point for various reasons). But if you look at the dominant stories for PoC, the struggle is directly because of their ethnicity, such as segregation, or a racial-based war, and/or colonialism, to name a few. The plot falls apart when the ethnicity/situation is changed.

We are asking you to look at why you are attracted to struggles that come directly as a result of being a certain ethnicity. 

Starcrossed lovers are fine, but why does every starcrossed lovers story involving a PoC have to be set at a time when interracial marriage was illegal, and/or in a setting where one side’s family hate the other for their skin tone?

An underdog with less experience is fine, but why does every underdog involving a PoC involve somebody who came from an impoverished background and low quality schools because it’s in a predominantly PoC neighbourhood?

The question we want white writers to ask is: “does my character struggle and experience pain primarily because of their ethnic background, does my character experience a unique struggle because of their ethnic background, or is my struggle primarily because of individual circumstances that are informed by the ethnicities at hand?”

If they experience a struggle primarily because of their ethnic background (ie- segregation), then that is a very nuanced narrative that should be left alone by outsiders because it’s exploiting another person’s pain for your plot.

If they experience a struggle heavily informed because of their ethnic background (ie- underdog because of racism, navigating a system that has particularly potent institutionalized racism like the psychiatric system), then that is an identity story that should be left alone by outsiders because it’s treating various isms (racism, classism, colourism) as a tragic backstory to overcome.

If they experience a struggle where their ethnicity plays a part but only minor events change if you switch around ethnicity (ie- starcrossed lovers where one side is very closed off), then it’s primarily because of individual circumstance that can be written by outsiders who do enough research.

I recently saw a very cute concept where a boy falls in love with a Muslim girl who keeps halal. He tried to win her heart by cooking, but she refused to eat it because it wasn’t halal. Once he discovered what the issue was, he learned all about halal cooking and made her halal meals to win her heart.

This story is only moderately informed by the girl’s customs. The story could be simply that she’s a picky eater, allergic to some foods, or has specific tastes. Because you can swap out a few things for it, this story isn’t About Being Muslim. The plot would’ve changed based on what it was, but the actual plot point could be anything.

But if there was a similar “guy falls for Muslim girl” situation and his family was Islamophobic, that would be using Islamophobia for plot pain and reinforcing all the gross stuff Muslims go through because of Islamophobia.

Hope that clears things up.

~ Mod Lesya

The Answer

It’d be a simple thing to answer Anders’s question, if Hawke didn’t know just how he’d make light of it.

Fenris knows things. Many things, about most things. He tells her of Rivain, and Par Vollen and Seheron and Nevarra, of the Fog Warriors and the Fog Dancers, the Orlesian nobility and the Antivan royalty, the Black Divine and the magisterium and the Circle in Minrathous. He tells her of Ashkaari Koslun and enough of the Qun to untwist the contemptuous curl of the Arishok’s mouth when she addresses him. “You hear much when people regard you as little more than furniture,” Fenris replies when she asks how he even knows all that, but that’s just him, she thinks: had it been her, she would have wasted away in idle fantasy, not learned foreign tongues or woven together the web of Thedosian politics from fragments of conversations.

After a lifetime of casting spells first and asking questions later, though, now she tries to understand instead—and when Fenris starts helping himself to her books after learning to read faster than she did the rules of diamondback, she cracks one open of her own for the first time since Lothering.

(Not a picture book and not a book about dragons. And not Hard in Hightown either, as far as Varric is concerned.)

Fenris never lies. He lied to Hadriana, if that can even be counted as such, but it’s because he broke his word that once that Hawke realises it’s only ever held true otherwise. Fenris only says what he means and always means what he says, and though his honesty has the sharp, serrated edges of rashvine nettle sometimes, once the welts have worn off she’s most often left having to admit that he has the truth of it—and when the entire Kirkwall nobility turns into lickspittles, trying to simper their way into the Champion’s good graces (or into her leathers), she comes to think of Fenris’s forthrightness as an uncut gem: perhaps not as pretty as a stone cut and set, but worth that much more.

Hawke, though? She’s—well, not a liar the way Varric is, but she skirts and shirks and twists the truth, maims and manhandles it, has perhaps even left it for dead a few times. At least with Fenris, though, truth comes to her a little easier.

(Anyway, she’d rather not suffer the smug look on his face whenever he pokes holes in her attempts at deceit.)

Fenris tempers her. With the city-wide revelation of her magic—now the Maker’s grace and not His curse—comes something that no title could ever match: the elation of being a known apostate yet untouchable, the unspeakable relief of the first breath after staying underwater a little too long, an intoxicating rush that she has to swim against lest it carry her too far from herself. It’s little things at first: her reveling in Cullen’s stammers and stutters, a casual mention of her magic to sway the nobles of the Keep her way, a misdirection hex cast to make some arsehole bumble off the pier for calling Merrill “knife ear.”

But when treading the line between freedom and excess becomes a balancing act worthy of an Antivan tightrope walker in the storm, when the line all but vanishes—then she has but to look at Fenris, branded with the hubris of mages, to be stirred away from the Void that sings to her.

(Alright—she can’t quite keep herself from teasing Cullen just to watch his nug-wheel brain run.)

The answer to Anders’s question is simple: Fenris makes her a better woman—perhaps even a good woman, when she wouldn’t be otherwise. “By being the perfect example of what not to do?” Anders would say, though, and it’s not that she doesn’t want to argue with him well into the next age—she just doesn’t have any breath left to waste when a certain elf keeps taking it away.

(She’d complain, but nowhere are her breaths, her heart and the truth of her answer safer than in Fenris’s hands, so she lets him have them.)

So—the sex, she jests instead. She’s with Fenris for the sex.

It really ticks me off when people don’t realize that artists and writers have a life outside of tumblr. We don’t sit down and draw or write all the live long day, 365 days a year in front of our computers and tablets. For some of us, yes it’s a job, but we don’t do it on such a constant basis that we have no life outside of it all and it pisses me off when people just say, “Well, it shouldn’t be too hard, right? You do it all the time!”

Yes. Let me whip out my magic pen that will create a story or an image for you in 5 seconds flat with everything exactly the way you want it.

Art takes time. Writing takes time. It takes practice and thinking and references and researching to do what we do. If we get it all done in an hour - full blown story/picture/mini-comic/webcomic - then holy shit we were on a role and we must actually be magic. But not everything works out that way. Life gets in the way and our priorities make certain projects be put on the back burner and it just irks me that there are people out there who just don’t get it.

I’ve had my fair share of people getting mad at me for having to put shit on the back burner because I had things in my life to prioritize and apparently apologizing yet confirming it will be done no matter what isn’t enough. And then there are the people who bug the shit out of you day in and day out and what kills me is that you get so pressured you go, “Do I really want to finish this? Do I really want to even do this? Do I even have the drive to do it anymore?”

Don’t be the people who make an artist or a writer feel like unappreciated or pressured like this. It’s awful, especially when life hands them something they need to take care of first.

Contrary to popular beliefs about Oikawa’s self-centered personality, he’s not the type to really take care of himself. He’s got naturally pretty hair and pretty skin and pretty face - he says he’s blessed by the Oikawa genes, everyone believes it to be true. 

But, again, he’s not the type to take time out for himself. He’ll cut his fingernails really short to handle the ball better and subconsciously bites what’s left out of anxiety. His hands are normally dry and rough, sometimes scraped if he landed wrongly on the ground from going after a ball; it’s a sad sight when you look at the bony structures of his wrists and his slender fingers that would, without a doubt, make his hands look beautiful if it weren’t for his lack of care towards them. 

The thing is that he doesn’t care what happens to his hands or his knees or his legs or his ankles - he’s focused on one goal and that’s to improve himself. He thinks he just needs his pretty face to get by so that his other imperfections are overlooked - and he manages to get by too, except with one person.

That one person that carries moisturizers and lotions in his bag, along with polysporin and bandages and tylenol and protein bars (and maybe milk bread, if he’s got the time to get some). He watches Oikawa flirt with danger, serve after serve, set after set, spike after spike. All until he feels it right in his bones that Oikawa’s about to hit his limit and he drags him out of the court, anxious but relieved. 

And in the silence of the locker room, Oikawa sits there in a blissful peace, letting Iwaizumi take his hands in his own and attempting to moisturize them, rubbing polysporin on the scrapes and cuts, whispering little warnings about overworking and not taking care of his body enough with furrowed brows. Oikawa lets his fingers wander around Iwaizumi’s jaw until his lips are kissing Oikawa’s hands - one by one, each finger, his palms, his knuckles. 

“Do they feel better?”

“Mhm, much better.”

Oikawa doesn’t really take care of himself, but he’s glad there’s someone out there that’s willing to take up the challenge. One day, he thinks, he’ll learn to love himself just as much as Iwaizumi loves him. 

anonymous asked:

i found a text post around tumblr where this guy's roommate came home really drunk and designed an airplane (with all the drawings and calculations and shit) while intoxicated and didn't remember it the next day could u imagine that with cf victor and yuuri tho lmfao

“Okay, okay, look,” Yuuri slurs, lying on Victor’s chest with a notepad held above his head and a pen resting between his fingers. “Look,” he repeats, as though Victor isn’t looking. “See?

“See what?” Victor asks, brushing Yuuri’s hair back out of his eyes. It’s not particularly comfortable, lying like this, but he’s not about to complain. Yuuri is adorable when he’s drunk.

He had been playing some game with Phichit for a few hours, and then he’d come back to their dorm room like this. Immediately, he’d collapsed on top of Victor and started babbling incessantly about a genius breakthrough he’d had. Now, he’s designing an airplane, and is very adamant that Victor pay attention to whatever it is he’s doing. “Look! Look!” he’s insisting.

“I’m looking,” Victor promises.

“See the, um, what’s that part called? The wing! See how the wing is shaped? Like that? That helps,” he informs him, but his serious tone is betrayed by his occasional hiccup. “Listen,” he repeats.

Victor can’t help but laugh, now. “I am listening, Yuuri. I’m listening and looking. I promise.”

“Now if we just… The air resistance…” He starts scribbling formulas.

In an attempt to get him to forget about his airplane, Victor runs his foot up the bottom of Yuuri’s sweatpants, drifts it across his ankle. Yuuri doesn’t even seem to notice. “So you’re designing an airplane?” he asks, because if you can’t beat them, join them.

Yuuri shifts on top of him–it’s incredibly distracting. “Mmm,” he agrees. A second later, he thrusts his drawing in front of him, admiring it. “Done.”

“Done?”

As if an afterthought, he adds a few more numbers with little arrows pointing to pieces of the plane. Then, he puts the paper down on the bed and turns onto his side, his entire weight still resting on Victor. Victor wraps his arms around him, keeps their legs tangled together. “Goodnight, Yuuri.”

“You’re so nice, Vitya,” he mumbles against Victor’s chest. “So nice. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

~

“Who wrote this?” Yuuri asks the following morning, holding up his airplane design. Then, he pauses, and slowly but surely brings the paper closer to his eyes. “This design is actually intuitive.”

“You made it last night,” Victor reminds him. “You don’t remember?”

“I made this?”

“You’re even smarter than me when you’re drunk,” he teases, gripping Yuuri’s hips with his hands and looking at the paper over his shoulder. “Except, there is a drool stain on my shirt.”

Yuuri turns in his arms and then cringes when he sees the prominent stain on Victor’s chest. Then, though, he seems to identify his mischievous smile and nudges his shoulder instead of being embarrassed. “Well, you’re a good pillow.”

“I like being your pillow. Can I major in that? Yuuri Katsuki’s pillow. Whenever you want to design airplanes while drunk again, just let me know. Or if you want to do something else while lying on top of me…” He pauses, lets the meaning behind his words settle in. “Let me know.”

“I’m up for doing something else while lying on top of you.”

Victor perks up. “You are?”

“Like playing games on my phone, reading a book, talking to Makkachin…”

“Yuuri.”

“I’m kidding.” He takes his hand and squeezes it, then leads him to the bed. “Really though, that design wasn’t bad. Remind me to show it to Phichit later.”