morning burn

4

This is a friend over on Instagrams doing!! She posted a pic of Varric smiling and I had to see what smiling Solas looked like… So yeah! This is what he would look like if he really liked showing us those gnashers… 🤔 I feel very conflicted… Nice to see him smile and all but hmmm…. Also, I think we should all ignore the fact that he looks a bit like Gargamel in the bottom left pic… Yes… As you can see, I have had a very productive morning and got many, many important things done… *pats self on back*

About Keith and Leadership.

I’m honestly so tired of seeing all the “Keith is a horrible leader. He should never become the black paladin because he’s reckless and he sucks!” on my dash… especially those that use the rescue scene in Season 1 Episode 1 as an example. 

Funny enough, if you stop and really really pay attention to this entire scene, you will realize that it actually highlights a lot of Keith’s traits that would make him a successful leader for Team Voltron (or any team, for that matter):

→  Despite it not being in his initial plan, Keith was able to think, act, and then successfully lead a group of people he didn’t even know in a strategic manner despite the obstacles and limitations that unexpectedly arose.

→  He was able to maintain his cool while in a pinch, even while everybody else was freaking out and screaming at him about everything. As someone who works very closely with the military and leads a team of people in combating casualties when they occur, I can attest that remaining calm in the face of chaos is an invaluable leadership skill. If the leader is calm, the rest of the team will more likely be able to calm down and focus on the task at hand.

→  He was able to direct this panicking group of people to take action in order to execute his plan (such as guiding Hunk to use his weight to help them steer the overloaded hover bike), which from personal experience I can tell you is not easy.

→  He was able to make split-second, confident decisions at just the right time in order to further their escape. I can’t emphasize enough how making solid decisions in a pinch can truly be the difference between success and failure, even between life and death. That being said…

→  He understood that risks were necessary if the team as a whole was to have a chance at success. Sure, people are complaining about how he drove himself and the others off the edge of a cliff, but it was all part of a plan he was able to develop on the fly. If you recall, not a single one of them got hurt.

→ Also tied to the bullet above, Keith was confident in his own skills to know he could execute said plan. He was confident enough to tell the others among their terrified screams to trust him.

In the end, Keith was able to rescue Shiro and lead everyone else to safety with no casualties on their end.


Some examples from later in the series also display other excellent leadership qualities that Keith possesses:

→  He is a team player. He understands that they all need to work together in order to achieve their common goal, and he also understands that personal desires must sometimes be sacrificed in favor of what is right for the greater good.

→  He recognizes others’ efforts and lets them know that they are noticed and appreciated, like when he tells Hunk how invaluable his efforts were during their mission to retrieve scaultrite from the belly of the Weblum.

→  The team’s current leader appears to know him better than anyone else (and definitely knows him better than we know Keith due to the very limited information we have on his past), and strongly believes that Keith is capable of leading the group. 

Do none of these things count for anything? Because honestly, Keith sounds like an excellent albeit unwilling leader to me.

P.S. This is not a post claiming that Keith should be the Black Paladin, it is simply a post to prove that all those who say he has zero leadership skills are wrong.

you know how when you go to the doctor complaining that something hurts, they ask you is it a sharp pain? a dull pain? does it come and go or is it always there? the missing you. it hurts. it’s like a dull pain in my heart that never goes away. it never leaves. and if it does it’s for a split second and then it’s a sharp pain. a pain that makes me remember every kiss, every hug, every coffee date, or morning spent burning pancakes. the pain of missing you never leaves. there is no medication. no magic fix. the dull pain in my chest never leaves. it’s like the weight of the world is sitting on my chest. in the same place you used to lay your head ever so lightly. the only cure for this is you. and therefore my pain in incurable.
—  the dull pain in my heart.
the five senses

james:
sights: blue skies dotted with cartoon-perfect clouds, hands raised in mock defence, someone winking at you, fields of green in the spring, walking backwards, eyes being lit up, flannel shirts, grinning so wide it hurts, cocking your head to one side, a rose in a cola bottle
sound: the wind rustling through the trees, lightning strikes, fingers snapping, rapping knuckles against a desk, unrestrained laughter, easy, simple (like everything else)
smells: freshly mown grass, morning breath, toast burning, rain on concrete
tastes: strawberries, mint, toothpaste, water when you are parched, when you need it more than you need it to breathe, running down your lips
touch: tracing the line of a jaw, knowing what someone else is going to say before they say it, finishing someone else’s sentences for them, your heart skipping a beat, wind running through your hair, flying

sirius:
sights: heaving chests, running both hands through your hair, dark eyelashes, catching someone looking at you, like they can’t help it, like they can’t not look at you, the lights going down in a cinema, the mottled blue and purple of a bruise, a black so dark it is almost bright, dried blood crusted around your lips
sounds: thunder rumbling, cracking knuckles, the growl of an engine, profanity and the way it twists your lips, the way it makes you whole
smells: cigarette smoke, hazelnuts, gasoline, sharp peppermint that sticks in the lungs, gasoline, ink, dark and black and bloody
tastes: roasted hazelnuts, black coffee at 3am, bitterness
touch: sandpaper tongues, fingers on the hot, sharp glint of steel, sweat on skin, blood running through your veins so fast you can barely breathe, throwing a punch, driving with the windows down, hands against a brick wall, like you have hit the wall, like you can’t get past it

remus:
sights: autumn leaves dead on the ground like carrion, circulation being cut off in your fingers, the colour of wine, deep and burgundy and looking a little too much like blood—
sounds: waves crashing, a mixtures of torrential and calm all at once, a guttural growl in the back of the throat, the crunch of gravel, twigs snapping, heavy sighs, the crackle of vinyl, something tearing, something being ripped
smells: woodsmoke, wrapping paper, fresh linen, old parchment
tastes: blood in the mouth, milk chocolate, tea leaves
touch: picking away at a scab, biting your nails, ripping up handfuls of grass, teeth sinking into your lower lip, a barking laugh of surprise escaping your lips, like you didn’t know it was there, like you didn’t know you were capable of it 

peter:
sights: a fairground in full swing, empty chairs at empty tables, a million pairs of shoes piled at the front door, turned backs, palms upturned, to catch, to hold, the one chipped union-jack mug in the cupboard, the empty stretch of tarmac at the airport and the feeling that sticks in your throat like glass, like you don’t know where you’re going, like you don’t know where you’ve been
sounds: walnut shells crushing underfoot, the wind buffeting along the beach, the crackling of foiled candy wrappers, a phone that rings, and rings, and rings (but no-one answers)
smells: wet earth, roasted chestnuts, the smell of baking, musty, like something is dying, like something is already dead
tastes: sorrow, chocolate bars, bubblegum, chewing something that just won’t swallow
touch: feet on carpet, carpet burn, grinding your teeth, laughing so hard it hurts your sides, starting a sentence you forget to finish

lily:
sights: daffodils in the spring, shelves bursting with books, like there is so much life and knowledge there it cannot be contained, mothers holding their children, pastel ice cream flavours, bunches of flowers outside a florist’s, your drink being placed in front of you in a coffee shop
sounds: the roar of a motorcycle in the distance, heavy metal rock, laughter, bells chiming, a page being turned, walking on cobblestones, clinking china
smells: cinnamon, grass, lillies, tea tree, the way perfume lingers on your clothes, fresh night air
tastes: copper, metallic and sharp on the tongue, not quite bloody but just enough, vanilla, a sadness so heavy it is almost sweet
touch: the material of your skirt swirling around you as you spin, like you cannot stop spinning, you won’t stop spinning, breathing unsteadily, porcelain, the roughness and heaviness of denim, someone else’s hand in yours, the way love has a pulse and you can feel it under his skin

In Sickness - A Drarry Ficlet

493 words, G rated - EWE - Post-Hogwarts - Established Relationship

Summary: Healers make the worst patients.

In Sickness (Or read on AO3 or FFnet)

“I’m dying.”

Draco looked at the shaking lump under the blankets.

“Touch dramatic, don’t you think?”

“Make it stop.”

Draco sighed, and sat on the edge of the bed. “You just have to ride it out, Harry.”

“Dying.”

Shaking his head, Draco placed his hand on top of the shivering lump, and gave it a pat.

“Do you want another blanket?” he asked, not really knowing what else to offer. He was no good with sick people. That was Harry’s job.

“Get under with me.”

Draco shuddered. He’d tried that, and almost passed out from the heat. Instead, he clambered onto the bed, and lay next to the shivering lump of blankets. It shifted, and Harry peeked over the edge of the sheets. His teeth were chattering.

Draco sighed, and brushed the back of his hand against Harry’s forehead. Still burning.

“Maybe you should go to­—”

“I’m fine!”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “Really? I could have sworn you were dying.”

“Fuck off.”

“Language, Potter,” Draco said with a smirk.

Harry made a pathetic groaning sound, and turned to face away from him, pulling the sheets back over his head. He was still shaking.

Draco cast about. He’d had enough water, he’d managed to eat something. Draco didn’t know what else to do. Harry was the Healer, not him. He felt completely useless.

Shuffling closer, he lay behind him, and put his arm over the shivering mass. He could feel the heat through the blanket, and shuddered.

“Just ride it out,” he repeated. The shivering would stop soon enough.

“If you tell me that one more time, I’ll infect you. I swear.”

Draco snorted. He’d heard Healers made bad patients, but this was ridiculous.

“If you want me to leave, I will.”

Harry was silent, and Draco smirked. “That’s what I thought.”

“In sickness and in health, wanker!” Harry snapped. “You leave, I’m divorcing you.”

Draco rolled his eyes.

“You are so bloody dramatic when you’re sick,” he muttered. “Why does everyone think I’m the dramatic one?”

“Just make it stop!” Harry moaned.

Draco sighed, and held the overheated, shivering mass tighter. “I would if I could, love. You know that.”

Harry whined.

“Do you want another fever potion?” Draco asked, wincing as he felt himself start to sweat.

“I’ve had the limit today,” Harry said, his voice muffled from the blankets, and shaking.

“Harry, go to—”

“I know how to treat a bloody fever! I’m the bloody Healer! Just shut up and hold me!”

Rolling his eyes, Draco pulled the sheets down a bit, and pressed his hand to Harry’s forehead. Not as hot as he’d been that morning, but still burning.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured.

Harry made a mumbling sound. He was still shaking, and Draco closed his eyes. He hated seeing him when he was sick, and not just because he was an irritating, overly dramatic git.

“I’m here,” he said softly.

“I’m dying.”

“Oh, for the love of Merlin!”

I think a sweet Aphrodite altar would be a makeup vanity. You could keep a vase of roses(fake ones are okay!), pink and blue jars filled with your tools and supplies, pearls, shells, and morning chocolates. Burning scented candles and incense, and using rose face scrubs and lotions. Not to mention the glamours you could perform, or how perfect your eyebrows will be when you know She’s with you. Every morning could be an act of devotion by pampering yourself, and every night another by softly removing your makeup. Aphrodite is so lovely, and I think this would be a lovely way to celebrate her. 🌙🕊

Inktober, day 28: BURN

This drawing was inspired by the most beautiful one shot fanfic that I’ve ever read - Morning in the Burned House, by @kylorenvevo .  It is absolute Reylo/redemption perfection, and if I could pick one story out of the countless fics that I’ve read over the past year to become canon - this would be it! 

Rey is sitting on the couch. Ben is kneeling in front of her, head bowed. The glow-panels have been switched off, the covers over the windows have been drawn. But there is still sun, peeking through the cracks, tangling their figures in a net of chiaroscuro.

“I have been here eleven months,” he whispers. “Give me night. Give me the stars. I have forgotten. Sunset over Coruscant, or twilight on Jakku, anything. Help me remember.”

“And you said you liked it here,” she grumbles, but her fingers are moving slowly through his hair in soothing strokes, and she pulls him into memories of starlight and the moon, memories so intense that even Leia can feel them. Darkness. Evening breeze. A shadow-soft world. Night sky. And radiance, always radiance, gentle and silver, washing over the soul like forgiveness, and like benediction.