queued as always

Kara’s the kind of competitive punk who would cheat even on the stupid ‘the floor is lava’ game by levitating a few feet off the ground and Lena just hates it. Alex would just walk in on them one day, Lena screaming bloody murder at Kara who’s on the ceiling refusing to come down because Lena won’t admit she lost

anonymous asked:

Read your Hotaru drabble and it was adooooorable and such a sweet way to answer an ask. Will you do more 'spur of the moment' writing in between your other fics? Plleaaaaaase do so. I looooove it.

You are so lovely, sweet anon. Thank you. I wasn’t going to; the Hotaru drabble was a one off thing, a playful response to that specific question. But since you are so kind, I thought I’d try one more time, with no guarantees to quality. Much love. 💕

  • [Ishida Mitsunari x MC]

That night, after Mitsunari had gone back to their room in a huff, she thought of the conversation she had had with Hideyoshi a while back, and how even as Hideyoshi had been warning her how difficult it would be, she hadn’t fully believed him. In retrospect, she was glad she hadn’t: because believing him might have intimidated her, because she might have been too scared to try.

She turned and looked at her manju-boy. This was one of those nights he’d taken off his clothes to sleep, lying on his back, an arm crooked near his head, and she, as she often did, ran her fingers down the inside of this arm, its smooth paleness rendering it into an innocent terrain, a place of copper streams and lakes kissed by snow. Sometimes, when she was certain he was very deeply asleep, she would get up and study his body more closely, because he refused to let himself be examined in daylight.

She would drape the sheets off him and move her palms over his arms, his legs, his back, feeling the texture of his skin change from glossy to jagged to rough, marvelling at all the permutations flesh could take, at all the ways the body hid itself from others, even when attempts had been made to share or destroy it.

“Stop looking so repulsed,” he had said, quietly, the second time he had taken his clothes off in front of her, and she had shaken her head. She hadn’t been, she truly hadn’t: he had always been so secretive, so protective of his body, even as Saki, that to see it for real was somehow anticlimactic; it was so normal, she had remembered thinking, finally, as each layer of garment peeled away and slithered to the floor.

The scars, however, were difficult to see, not because they were aesthetically displeasing — he didn’t have nearly as many as she thought — but because each one was evidence of something he wouldn’t give up. The mountainous range on his stomach tracked stubbornness at its peak, the curve of a valley near his shoulder ran rivers of pride, and the little sinewy hills near his wrist, his palms, his fingers, mapped feelings so ugly, she knew from the thorns she had to cut through that these ones, the ones he couldn’t conceal, upset him the most.

At night, as he slept, she would turn them over in her hands, counting each tear, trying to imagine herself in a state in which she would willingly hold something as external as ripped flesh against her own worth. But every time she tried it broke something inside and she had to stop and bring his scars to her lips, peppering his hands with little kisses instead.

And then there was the matter of sex. Hideyoshi had tried to warn her as best he could, fumbling his way through another unspoken conversation they had had in his room one morning. She didn’t quite understand, but the earnestness of his attempt both disturbed and discomfited, even as it amused.

Then one night toward the end of winter, after they had been together long enough for her to lean over and nip at his bottom lip, drinking in his groan, she had weaved her hands through Mitsunari’s kimono, inside to where his flesh singed her fingers, down and down, until she heard a choked, strangled noise, like an animal pinned beneath death. She watched, frozen, as he had jerked himself away with such violence he cracked his head against his bookshelf.

What do you think you’re doing?” he hissed, and the way it shook out of him marked the first moment that she, too, had felt a certain fear.

What was she going to do? She had never needed to convince someone she wasn’t dangerous, that she wasn’t going to hurt them, but the possibility of having to do so with him broke her heart, because he was so much more scarred than she had understood.

As Mitsunari slept that night, she watched him. Perhaps I’ve made a mistake, she thought.

Then aloud, to no one in particular, “I didn’t know it would be this hard.”

But then morning arrived, and with the pheasant’s caw she was reminded why she had decided to pursue this relationship, ignorance and arrogance aside. It was still early, but she had woken anyway, and watched, through a sunlit haze, as Mitsunari got dressed. She knew it was a difficult development for him, and she saw how hard he tried, how determined he was being, how brave: she saw everything she took for granted— how getting dressed and undressed in front of someone was a task he had to practice again and again.

In that moment it reminded her that she, too, had to keep trying. They both had to keep trying, because they trusted each other, and because they were the only other person in the world who would be worth such hardships and exposures.

When she opened her eyes again, he was sitting by her side peering down with a twist in his lips, and she warmed to the brim with tenderness for him: for how dear he was, for how effortless he made their love.

“Don’t go,” she said.

“Go back to sleep, manju-girl.”

“Stay a little longer.”

“Only for a little while,” he said, softly, so softly.

And he slid beneath the covers and wrapped his arms around her, and she waited and waited until he at last, reluctantly, got up. Only then did she drag him down again, towards her lips, where she whispered, in tiny little gasps, how worthy he was and how she would never, ever, let him go. 

TS4 Edit Challenge -  3. Photograph

(You can’t see her face that well but the lovely lady with the green hair is California Davies by @maimouth!)

Hoaga -  Five Nordic Demons

 Mouth of Mud

As requested by @colonelkillabee & @boethiah

Hoaga is kinda the most interesting for me from the whole squad. I mean necromancer who eats mud and get his soldier back on their feet, dats creepy and totally my aesthetics.

hey guys! I just made another overwatch blog called @outofcontextoverwatch, which is basically a place where people can submit funny out of context screenshots of overwatch chats. it’s currently being run by myself and mod lucio, but we may get a couple other mods from this blog on board as well.

anyway, you should all go follow it and submit stuff!