its been in my drafts for ages


• boyfriend jungkook texts •


btvs + aesthetic | watcher & slayer

Wesley:  I didn't say you had emotional problems. 
I said you have *an* emotional problem. It’s quite different.Giles:  My 'attachment' to the Slayer is not a problem. 

“I’m back, baby!”

Phoenix AU Page Up!

Hi all!

You may or may not know that I’ve been working on a fic since forever, and I decided to make an info page for it since it’s a unique universe! This is mainly cuz I decided since I’ve been talking about it since forever I should at least compile a bit of the info for you guys :””) Also ty to @wittyy-name and @wolfpainters for encouraging me throughout this fic :”””)

You can access the page from my main tumblr blog (since it’s a tab, there’s no actual link to the page sorry!) from the tabs on the top as you can see in the image above!

I honestly think that like all of my issues with the plot structure of Inquisition can be summed up by this sign. It’s right next to a path up a hill at the Storm Coast, one surrounded by little boulders and rocks that have fallen. But at no point during gameplay does a rock fall.

Why bother putting this sign and the fallen rocks there if you’re not going to have a rock fall on the player?

Why include blatant character flaws in the companions that don’t serve much purpose beyond “rounding them out” by existing? Why have Dorian be focused on reforming all of Tevinter’s issues except slavery if it only comes up exactly one time in non-essential dialogue? That is a HUGE-ASS FLAW. Why give Sera such vitriolic self-hatred and internalized racism when oppressed elves are precisely the sort of ‘little people’ that she fights for? Why can the Inquisitor not talk about these things with them and help them realize that they need to change their thinking?? Can you IMAGINE the character arc Sera could have had???

Why can Clan Lavellan be killed if no one in Skyhold ever acknowledges it? The only possible purpose it could serve would be to provide emotional stakes for the odds the player is up against, but nothing emotional actually comes of it.

Why can you customize Skyhold if none of those changes make a difference? Why can you build up over 300 power at the War Table if it’s completely useless outside of main quests, of which there are ridiculously few?

Why have a storyline about Lyrium addiction among Templars if it’s never acknowledged that said addiction is entirely the Chantry’s fault?Why include Fiona in the game if all she ever does is stand in a hallway? For that matter, why make an entire game leading up to the mage rebellion if the ACTUAL BEGINNING of it is shunted off into a book that a lot of players won’t know exists and the rebellion itself is just going to be background noise in the next game?

Why are Alistair/Stroud/Loghain and Hawke in the game for literally about 1 hour (out of a solid 90, generally) if one of them has to die? The Inquisitor doesn’t know them. New players don’t know them. To have an actual emotional impact in-universe, they should be legitimately introduced into the story in a significant way. Instead they appear, die/leave for Weisshaupt, and disappear again. They do nothing; things happen to them.

There are so many signs for falling rocks, but no rocks actually fall.

  • what she says: anders deserved better
  • what she means: anders had to take a hard decision and, while everyone can see it differently depending on personal ethics, his development and moral dilemmas from that point were disregarded because, in the narrative thats being pushed onto us, the ‘angry fighter for freedom' character has no place. Its not surprising that in the default world state, the mage hawke has not only killed anders but he also violently despises him; and several times we are reminded of how he 'single-handedly' started the war. Never mind the inherent abuse in the circles or the straight slave work that its presented in the kirkwall circle; good mages would have never rebelled, good mages seek help from the merciful chantry, good mages stay quiet until... until a /bad mage/ seeks answers through violence. Anders' life is nothing but the tale of the nice opressed, who smiles and gently corrects; and the mean opressed, who speaks up and ACTS. Once he becomes the Mean Opressed, his narrative ends. Theres nothing else to his character, he is Done, he will not evolve past that. In Dragon Age 2, most characters become, at some point, a monster: fenris and his markings, merrill and blood magic, isabela and her stolen book. Anders' monster is not being an abomination: is daring to fight with the same violence that was shown to him, to his people. We aren't shown any more of his development because right after his stand, we can kill him. We can abandon him. We can kill him, again. We end the game. His storyline has no closure; its made so we can comfortably hate him and never get to see his real drives and ethics. And thats why he deserved more.
  • what she also means: my son..... my be aut iful feli ne son..........
And my love, I know how this story ends.
You are the sun and I am only a boy
With handmade wings.

           (That didn’t stop me from loving you)

But I would gladly set my own feathers alight
For just one kiss from you.
—  don’t you know i’m already drowning? // p.s.

Brandon Perea Gif Pack II

Under the cut you’ll find #50 gifs of dancer and actor Brandon Perea sourced from various interviews. When combined with my first gif hunt, which can be found here, there are #471 gifs total. Brandon Pera is of Filipino and Puerto Rican, so please cast him accordingly. All gifs are hq, textless, and were made by me. Please don’t redistribute, edit into gif icons without permission, or add to your own gif hunts. If you find these helpful, a like or reblog would always be appreciated. 

Keep reading


lil things.

It started when I first went back to Watford, when Simon gave me a black jumper to wear when I missed him. It smelt like him.

I wore that jumper whenever I could, but especially at night, when I slept in his bed instead of my own. He left an old t-shirt there, too, so I found comfort in wearing those. Nobody noticed, of course. It was a very well kept secret.


I took him shopping, one day. Simon used to never go shopping, being brought up in the foster system and all, but I figured it was about time he actually owned something that he liked (or, y'know, fit).

Simon didn’t wear the same things as I wore. That was obvious. He favoured all of my sweaters and t-shirts over my suits and shirts. That was fine with me, until he shoved me into a shop and made me to try something on.

“Simon, no,” I laughed, looking down at the jeans he had offered to me. “I don’t wear jeans this skinny. Or black. I can’t move.”

Simon just rolled his eyes and stepped closer. “Baz, come on,” he chuckled. “Be adventurous. You look great.”

Almost begrudgingly, I sighed and leaned against the changing room’s door frame. “Fine. I’ll get them. Stop checking me out.”


I wore those jeans so much they ripped at the knees within two months. Even then, I wore them around campus, or the flat. Simon had a field day, just staring at me.

Two months later, I couldn’t even count how many pairs I had.


The t-shirts followed next. Loose-fitting, thin, most of them white. Monochrome seemed to be my colour scheme in Summer. Something told me that Simon quite liked it when I wore my white t-shirts.

There was one time, when I walked into the kitchen in Simon and Penny’s flat, and Simon bumped into me. About half a glass of water spilled down my front, soaking through my t-shirt and sticking to my skin.

“Simon!” I had exclaimed with a chuckle. He was just staring at me. My body, to be more specific. It was like he was entranced. “Babe?”

He tipped the rest of the water in his glass down my front.


It was a windy day, and that was the only reason I ever started doing this:

Man buns.

Or, top knots. Whatever. I swear they’re the same things.

It was bloody windy, anyway, and I had been out for a run (out of interest more than fitness). It was about ten minutes in when I stepped off the footpath and looked at the hair band on my wrist (I had stolen it from Penny) with instant dread. It would make me look like a twat, I was sure.

With a sigh, I gave in, and twisted all of my hair up into a tiny knot at the back of my head, and I carried on with my run.


“I like your hair,” Simon had noted one day, curling up on the opposite end of the couch to me. “It’s nice.”

To be fair, I liked wearing it like that. It was comfy and it wasn’t horrendous.

“It’s practical,” I shrugged nonchalantly, going back to my book.

Simon just smiled.


The shoes, I just liked. They were in a store; classic, all black combat boots. My heart melted. There was a moment of weakness.

I wore them everyday.


Sweatpants were the next great feat. I usually only ever wore them when I worked out or went to the park with Simon and Cherry (our dog, that Simon named, clearly), but after many afternoon naps, I made a startling realisation.

These sweatpants could be pajamas.

And that was all I wore to bed. Nothing but sweatpants. Simon loved it. Penny didn’t.


“Stop stealing my shirts,” Simon chuckled, sitting on my lap.

Simon wore plaid shirts a lot, usually as a jacket or an extra layer, but when he started to transition to hoodies and jersies, I started wearing his old plaid to school (because it smelt of him). I wore them open with the sleeves rolled up to my elbows. Simon told me that if I invested in ruining my vision and getting glasses, I’d complete the look. He was an idiot.

“They smell nice,” I argue, setting down my coursework and kissing Simon’s lips. “Besides, you’re not wearing them.”

He grunted in annoyance and kissed me again, playing with my hair (which, yes; was tied up). “You’re a dick.”

“You like it.”


I spent a weekend up at my family’s house in the middle of my first semester. Father was quite disappointed that I couldn’t stay for Sunday dinner (whereas I was quietly relieved). He detested my clothes and hair, never mind the tattoos. (Also, I got two tattoos; one was a rose on my forearm, and the other was the words ‘On Love’s Light Wings’ across the back of my neck.)

“Basilton, you look like a poor man,” he (ever stupidly) stated. “Please change for dinner.”

I continued tuning my violin. “See, the look I was going for was a farmer in the apocalypse,” I replied. “I figured it was time I honoured your side of the family.”

That was the other thing he didn’t like; being around Penny so much had caused me to develop a bit of an attitude. He simply spun on his heel and stormed out, and I queued the slamming door with my bow, laughing.


Then he saw the tattoos.

To be fair, I was in a hurry and forgot to put a jacket on. I had to get back on schedule to make sure I finished the assigned reading before the next day (50 pages, easy stuff), but in my haste I missed my precautions, and was caught mid-bite of toast.

Basilton, what is on you arm?!” Father shouted. The twins ran off to hide behind the door and watch, whereas Mordelia just leaned against the bench, wildly amused. So was I.

“It’s a rose,” I explained, a mouthful of toast jammed up against my cheek. “Cross-hatched, look.”

His eyes looked like they were going to burst out. “You disgusting child.”

“I’m nearly 20! Honestly, father, give me some respect.”

He looked more defeated than anything, because it was true: I was nearly 20 years old and almost fully independent. He couldn’t stop me from doing anything.

“Baz, can I see?” Mordelia chimed in.

Father looked like he was going to collapse when I bent down to give her a closer look. “Look, it’s shaded in with tiny little lines and dots,” I explained. “That’s called cross-hatching. And this one…”

I sat down on the ground facing away from her and pulled up my hair, revealing my other tattoo. Father looked about ready to be sick. “This one is a spell that I used only once,” I went on. “A long, long time ago.”

Mordelia ran her thumb the ink in awe. “Cool!” She squealed.

“Pretty wicked, right?”

Father paced around the counter island as I stood.

“Get out of my house,” he grumbled.

“With pleasure.”


“How was your weekend?” Simon asked, reading a book on the couch.

I draped my jacket over the hook on the coat-stand. “Father doesn’t like my aesthetic,” I announced through the walls, before walking in and kissing his head. “And Mordelia wants a tattoo.”

Cherry circled around my legs and nuzzled my hand for attention, and Simon sighed. “Ever the trendsetter, Pitch.”

“You like it.”

He smirked and pet our dog’s head. “I do.”