moving hands

Every once in a while I doodle something and after I’m done I stare at the paper and scream in my head because HOLY FUCK SINCE WHEN HAVE I BEEN SO GOOD AT ANATOMY IT JUST FLOWED OUT OF MY PENCIL JESUS CHRIST

and sometimes I doodle and my human bodies look like bookshelves and I ask myself how the fuck have I gotten this far in life

anonymous asked:

Anytime Hunk pets Keith on the head he starts purring.

It’s not a purr, not really. Hunk’s family had cats back on Earth and he knows what a purr sounds and feels like. But it’s ridiculous really, how weak Keith is to Hunk’s fingers combing through his hair; the sounds he makes are all the proof Hunk needs.

Maybe it has to do with being a galra, or part galra, he muses. Maybe, but he doesn’t dare to point it out or experiment with it; yet. Their allies from the Blade of Marmora are friendly enough, but also, he feels like their walls need a little more tearing down before he can ask those kinds of questions. He’s been working on making that happen, something that has the side-effect of making Hunk’s food in the Castle of Lions even better than it was.

Keith makes another small, breathy sound, almost tapering off into a whine, and Hunk resumes moving his hand. His boyfriend might feel embarrassed, especially if anyone but Hunk is around, but Hunk himself loves it. The sounds that let him know that Keith is happy.

So he continues running his hand through the dark hair, basking in the little sounds he knows he can never get enough of.

Last night was pretty painful and frustrating. I was up pacing the floor for a long time before getting to bed. When I did sleep I’d dream about my hand and move it or my finger and the pain would wake me up.

I’ve been sitting up for a little bit now, because laying in bed I could feel my pulse in my hand. I was counting every throbbing heartbeat.

It’s going to be a great day.

anonymous asked:

Do you think madzie learns magic from Magnus so she picks up some of his magic habits. Like do you think she learns to snap her fingers like he does and move her hands like he does?

AWWWWWW you know she does!!!

4

Chapter 19: Episode 9

           In just a few minutes, I’d gone from completely numb, to feeling the dull throb of sensation in my hands again. My toes curled against the floor as his hands moved over my calves, making a light friction to warm the skin. I wondered how he knew to do that. He always seemed so lost, so forgotten… Now he’s taking care of me. When did he learn all that?

           “You need a drink,” he said, halfheartedly. “In more ways than one.”

           I slid my eyes off to the side. I almost wanted to do it. I would have, if he’d offered, but he didn’t. Maybe he knew that, too. “Were you asleep?” I asked him quietly.

           He paused in his motions for just a moment. “I was. But it doesn’t matter.”

           “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you. I didn’t know it was so late.”

           “Where were you, Laney?”

           “I don’t know,” I said honestly. “Out, I guess.” He made a snorting noise, continuing to rub my leg and I bit my lip. “I’m sorry.”

           “Don’t apologize,” he said and I reached out, touching my fingers to his cheek, guiding his face up to mine.

           “I mean it,” I said. “Please accept it. I need someone to accept it. I have to say sorry. I’ve done so much wrong.”

           “You?” He asked.

           “Yes,” I whispered. “I’m not perfect, Klein. I never was.”

           His eyes lowered, settling on my lips, and I felt this heat rising in my chest. “Sorry to sow the seeds of discord, but I have to disagree.”

           “You’re wrong.” My voice was so low now, that I could hardly hear it, but it seemed to be loud enough for him. Or maybe it wasn’t. Maybe that’s why he was moving closer. “I’m really sorry. I don’t know why I came here.”

           His words were like a breath, almost silent, moving. “Yes you do.”

Next | Previous | Beginning

Welcome to fatherhood//Conor Maynard

Requested by @ssweetmadnessx - Number 37 from the drabble challenge

You felt a gush of water and looked down, “shit,” you muttered looking around to see where Conor was. You spotted him not too far away talking to Jack and quickly waddled over. When you reached him you grabbed his hand just as a sharp pain shot through your abdomen, causing your one hand to squeeze Conor’s hand bit harder than intended and your other hand to fly to your 9-month bump.

“Ow,” Conor moaned looking to see who was attacking his hand, when he saw it was you a look of concern washed over his face. “You okay Y/N/N?” he asked moving his free hand to join yours on your bump.

You shook your head in response. “Conor my waters have broken, the baby’s coming,” you groaned as you felt another pain.

“Right, okay just stay calm,” he turned towards his brother holding out his car keys. “Jack go get the car and we’ll meet you out there,” Jack nodded and rushed off while Conor helped you get outside.

….

You had been in labour for an excruciating 11 hours and you were severely regretting putting in your birth plan that under no circumstances should you receive an epidural. At least you weren’t the only one suffering though. Jack was convinced that you’d crushed half the bones in his hand from the time he’d spent holding your hand while the nurse dealt with Conor, whose hand you had apparently squeezed a bit too hard resulting in a broken finger, but hey you weren’t going to suffer alone.

“Come on Y/N, one final push,” your midwife encouraged while Conor continually muttered words of encouragement in your ear.

With a final scream from you the room was filled with the screams of someone else. You and Conor looked at each other, recognising the screams as your new born baby crying.

“It’s a boy” the midwife announced placing the baby on your chest.

“Hello little man,” you cried in elation and smiled as you saw him grip onto the finger that Conor had held out to him. “He’s perfect,” you whispered and Conor nodded in agreement.

The midwife had taken your baby to weigh and clean up a little while ago and now she was walking back over with your baby in her arms. She handed him over to Conor and his face lit up, holding his baby for the first time.

Conor was instructed to follow her to the table on the other side of the room and she’d assist him change the first nappy and dress your son.

“Welcome to fatherhood,” you heard the midwife say to Conor, you looked up to see him turning towards you with a large wet patch on his top. You held your hand over your mouth to hide your giggles after figuring out that your son had just peed all over his dad.

Conor was sat in the chair next to you rocking you baby and singing to him softly when you heard a knock at the door and saw Jack’s head poke through the gap, “Can I come in?” he asked eagerly and you nodded your head in confirmation.

He swiftly made his way over to Conor looking at the small human that he held in his arms, “Do you want to hold him?” Conor asked.

“It’s a boy” Jack said with a smile, reaching out to Conor. Conor carefully passed his son over and Jack looked down at him in awe, “what’s his name?”

Conor looked at you and nodded for you to tell him, “Oscar Jack Maynard,” hearing his name in the middle made his smile grow even bigger and the tears that have been threatening to fall finally escaped.

“Hey Oscar, I’m Uncle Jack. I’m going to be the best uncle ever, promise.” A little while later Jack tore his eyes away from his nephew to look at you and Conor, “The rest of the buttercreams are here, should I go get them.”

“Well we knew the peace wouldn’t last forever, go for it,” you instructed him, eager to show your baby boy off to the world.

Jack handed Oscar back to Conor and scurried out of the room to fetch everyone else. You watched Conor as he stared at your baby in awe, something you could watch for hours. Each time he held Oscar he had the same look on his face, as if it was the first time he’d seen him and each time looking even more in love.

Visiting time was now finished and the midwife had to force Jack to leave his nephew and go home. Now it was just you, Conor and Oscar left. The day had been a whirlwind and had obviously taken it out of Conor as he was now squeezed in the bed next to you fast asleep, his hand was in the crib next to your bed and Oscar had his hand tightly wrapped around Conor’s finger unwilling to lose contact.

The afternoon had been filled with visits from your family and the buttercreams, who were actually silence for once amazed at the sight of Oscar led contently sleeping in his father’s arms. Cuddling into Conor’s side you closed your eyes to get some rest as you knew tomorrow would be nearly as exhausting as today was.

        “ you —— you. yes, you, you’re about the right size… a little short, but that’s alright… can i borrow you? are you busy? i… i need to… i need to…” riley grabbed their arm, pulling them into place, adjusting their limbs, speaking through the pins in his mouth as he tossed some fabric over his victim model. practiced hands moved quickly, pinning each piece into place as draped cloth took shape. “oh — oh, jeez, hope you weren’t, like, going somewhere, or doing something? i mean, um. i just… we’re kind of stuck like this, until i keep pinning. the person i was actually supposed to be dressing is missing in action, and i really, really need to start on this garment, and —- well, guess you got caught in the crossfire. keep still, or i might jab you with a pin, alright?”

anonymous asked:

What do Adam and Emily look like?

Short Answer: Richard Armitage and Blake Lively (clicky the names for reference)

Longer Answer:

HERE are some artist renditions of Adam that my amazing friend had done for me and I cried a lot, HERE is the prettiest picture of Emily I’ve drawn in yeeears, and HERE are some chibi doodles, because that’s the only thing I seem capable of drawing.

I also had pictures commissioned of them on Gaia Online seven or eight years ago, but because I don’t have any of the artists’ names, I never post them. ;w;

Even Longer Answer:

Adam is a hundred percent white American, 6′5″ or something equally ridiculous, with black hair and gray eyes. Nine earrings in his left ear, two in his right. Doesn’t smile much. Smoker’s hands. Moves slowly. Intimidates people. Tends to wear lots of overcoats and muted colors.

Emily is some mix of white American, 5′9″, blonde hair in loose waves and blue eyes. Smiles often. Dresses in semi-formal attire for teaching, but is otherwise fond of maxi dresses, long sleeves, and neutral colors. Her back is covered in scars from that one time she got captured and tortured.

Both of them are 34 years old and covered in random scars. They have the tired, haunted eyes of people who’ve killed folks, seen folks killed, spent a lot of time running, and could probably use naps. Long naps. Eternal naps.

anonymous asked:

I want to reset my life. I'm tissue-sick and heart-stolen and every glimmer settles into my bones like stardust, blowing me up like a grenade. Eating hurts, sleeping hurts, moving hurts only slightly less. Failure sits heavy in my fingertips, and I can't move my hands to reshape the clay before me. When I try, I gouge deep lines into the slowly dying vase. Where are the flowers? Where went the hope?

REST YOUR WEARY HEAD AND ACCEPT THE HELP YOU CAN THE BURDEN IS OFTEN TOO MUCH TO CARRY ALONE BUT THERE ARE ALWAYS THOSE WILLING TO HELP

The grey nurse resumed her knitting as Peter Walsh, on the hot seat beside her, began snoring. In her grey dress, moving her hands indefatigably yet quietly, she seemed like the champion of the rights of sleepers, like one of those spectral presences which rise in twilight in woods made of sky and branches. The solitary traveller, haunter of lanes, disturber of ferns, and devastator of great hemlock plants, looking up, suddenly sees the giant figure at the end of the ride.
     By conviction an atheist perhaps, he is taken by surprise with moments of extraordinary exultation. Nothing exists outside us except a state of mind, he thinks; a desire for solace, for relief for something outside these miserable pigmies, these feeble, these ugly, these craven men and women. But if he can conceive of her, then in some sort she exists, he thinks, and advancing down the path with his eyes upon sky and branches he rapidly endows them with womanhood; sees with amazement how grave they become; how majestically, as the breeze stirs them, they dispense with a dark flutter of the leaves charity, comprehension, absolution, and then, flinging themselves suddenly aloft, confound the piety of their aspect with a wild carouse.
     Such are the visions which proffer great cornucopias full of fruit to the solitary traveller, or murmur in his ear like sirens lolloping away on the green sea waves, or are dashed in his face like bunches of roses, or rise to the surface like pale faces which fishermen flounder through floods to embrace.
     Such are the visions which ceaselessly float up, pace beside, put their faces in front of, the actual thing; often overpowering the solitary traveller and taking away from him the sense of earth, the wish to return, and giving him for substitute a general peace, as if (so he thinks as he advances down the forest ride) all this fever of living were simplicity itself; and myriads of things merged in one thing; and this figure, made of sky and branches as it is, had risen from the troubled sea (he is elderly, past fifty now) as a shape might be sucked up out of the waves to shower down from her magnificent hands compassion, comprehension, absolution. So, he thinks, may I never go back to the lamplight; to the sitting-room; never finish my book; never knock out my pipe; never ring for Mrs. Turner to clear away; rather let me walk straight on to this great figure, who will, with a toss of her head, mount me on her streamers and let me blow to nothingness with the rest.
     Such are the visions. The solitary traveller is soon beyond the wood; and there, coming to the door with shaded eyes, possibly to look for his return, with hands raised, with white apron blowing, is an elderly woman who seems (so powerful is this infirmity) to seek, over a desert, a lost son; to search for a rider destroyed; to be the figure of the mother whose sons have been killed in the battles of the world. So, as the solitary traveler advances down the village street where the women stand knitting and the men dig in the garden, the evening seems ominous; the figures still; as if some august fate, known to them, awaited without fear, were about to sweep them into complete annihilation.
    Indoors among ordinary things, the cupboard, the table, the window-sill with its geraniums, suddenly the outline of the landlady, bending to remove the cloth, becomes soft with light, an adorable emblem which only the recollection of cold human contacts forbids us to embrace. She takes the marmalade; she shuts it in the cupboard. 
     "There is nothing more to-night, sir?“
     But to whom does the solitary traveller make reply?
—  Virginia Woolf – from Mrs. Dalloway
Commitment (Continued)

The tears fell, staining her cheeks and thighs as they landed. They soon stained his glove, having moved his hand from her cheek to gently wipe them away, unintentionally smearing the makeup more. “Shit.” He whispered, stifling an unwarranted laugh given their serious situation.

The tears didn’t bother him. He had known pain enough to cry. It was never physical pain. That was always laughable, but it was the psychological pain. The emotional pain that dug deeper than daggers.

“If there is more for me to learn then I will. I will train and prepare. I will hone my skills and sharpen my blades. I will return to the art of poisons and master them once more. I will be someone to fear.

“When you took that dagger your fights became mine and for as long as you hold it I will keep fighting.”

It was then that he kissed her. Throwing all caution to the wind he brought his hands to her cheeks, the leather clad fingers gentle before he leaned in and placed his lips to her. He could taste the salt from her tears and the bitterness of her makeup, but that didn’t stop him. Nothing seemed to stop him, not in that moment.

@ayamicross

5

Happy Valentines Day! <3

Have some Fatalberry :3

This ended up way more adorable than I had anticipated, haha XD See Fatal this is what you could have if you didn’t go around twisting people’s arms but nooo you gotta be all rude and ish

Also I realised I messed up the feet so the dancing is…kind of off, but I don’t have time to fix it and I like it all the same <3

Also when streaming this we all…got ideas for future streams, haha. Stay tuned for that <3

Princeling of my heart…

~~

Or, I wanted to draw a “quick lil warmup sketch” to get back in the drawing groove after Katsucon before working on Inferno again, and well yeah, that didn’t work out… SOBS I LOVE PHICHIT TOO MUCH I LOVE HIM SOBS

PLEASE DO NOT REPOST, EDIT, OR OTHERWISE USE MY ART WITHOUT MY EXPLICIT PERMISSION. More detailed rules available on my Rules & FAQ Post.