rather fine

7

What kind of story am I? A romance? A tragedy? Or just another cautionary tale?

;^) fine dwarven crafts are my SPECIALTY. @ that one person who requested Varric, you’re welcome. Bianca and Varric’s looks here were based off the bits with them from Until We Sleep, though I modified her hair just a bit.

Full view the last panel for a painful little surprise.

Hello graphic makers!! You’re probably aware that there is a huge problem on tumblr with whitewashing. Or maybe you’re not. As a predominantly disney-based blogger, the whitewashing I personally see are from the disney fandom, so I’m going to use screencaps from those movies to show you several quick techniques so you’ll see just how easy it is to have your pretty bright and pastel colour palettes and not whitewash characters of colour.

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Would you rather 18+

Make V cum in his pants

Originally posted by celinet7

Originally posted by btsbulges

Originally posted by btsdaddy

Or have Seokjin beg you to let him cum

Originally posted by teamoseokjin

Originally posted by dream909

Originally posted by sannal2054

~ SPN 12x12 coda ~

Streetlights gleamed on the hood of the Impala and shone on the windshield as Dean drove past. He listened to the familiar purr and rattle of the old engine. Maybe he should tune the old girl up sometime in the next couple of days. 

You know…when he had the time.

Sam shifted in his sleep and Dean glanced at the rearview mirror to see if he was all right. As they passed under another streetlight, Dean caught a glimpse of Sam curling into the backseat like he used to when they were kids. 

His grip tightened around the steering wheel as his eyes found the road again. Cas let out a long sigh, distracting him for a second. Dean glanced over to find him staring out the window at the passing night.

“Everything all right?” Of course, it would not be, but… 

“No,” Cas said in an irritated sort of huff. Dean’s hands jerked on the wheel, swerving the Impala off to the shoulder. “Dean, no.” He corrected his turn and glared at the asphalt before them. “I’m fine. I feel fine.” 

Dean pursed his lips, looking back in the rearview mirror to check if Sam was still asleep. He was. “Don’t scare me like that, man.”

“Sorry.” 

The only sound in the Impala for a couple of minutes was Sam’s quiet snoring. Dean tapped his thumb on the underside of the steering wheel, searching for the right words. “I…I thought I was gonna lose you.“ Again. He could not go through that again. He cleared his throat when he felt Cas’ eyes on him. “We, I mean.”

“I heard your prayer,” Cas said, softly enough that Dean thought he might have imagined it.

He had prayed – a desperate plea sent out to anyone who would listen. Dean did not remember what he had said. Rather, he remembered the feeling of Cas’ blood and sweat slick against his hand as he held him steady. He remembered the shuddered way Cas struggled for each breath. So yeah, he prayed.

“It was just your voice in my head. I couldn’t understand you exactly, though, since I was a little preoccupied.” Dean sniffed a laugh. “It was…comforting.”

“Yeah, well,” Dean’s eyes darted to the rearview mirror and back to the road, “you said you love – “

Dean’s voice caught and he gulped. He could not just say it outright. What if Cas had not meant it like that? Of course, he did not. Sam and Mom had been there as well and Cas had obviously been talking to them, too. It might have been different had it only been the two of them. Why…why would he… 

“You said you loved us,” he said, cringing at his repeated words. 

“And you called me devastatingly handsome.” 

Dean’s eyebrows arched at the smile in Cas’ voice. “That I did,” he said with an amused snort. He took his eyes off the road for a second to glance over at Cas, catching a glimmer of a smile in his reflection.

Smiling, Dean turned his attention back to the road.

Okay so Tolkien’s universe has Magical Objects, yes?

The Palantirs, Feanorian Lights, Silmarils, the Lamps, the Trees, the dragon helm, Beleg’s bow, Turin’s sword, the elfstone/elessar….ect. With cool functions like health-preserving.

These is cool af but my guess is they are NOT EASILY MADE or made on the first try. So there must be worse, trial attempts at Magic Objects. And just really lackluster ones. 

So, I propose:

  • Seashell that slightly amplifies your ability to hear crabs scratching things
  • Goblet that was intended to be poison detecting, but was not successful and instead just makes a high pitched hiss whenever it contains anything but pure water
  • Jacket that’s basically a normal jacket but keeps you a little bit warmer than the fabric usually would
  • Ankle bracelet that was supposed to protect against breaks but instead just freezes up your joint for a few minutes at any random time
  • Shirt that does not need a hot iron to get the wrinkles out, but can rather function perfectly fine with a lukewarm iron
  • Circular glass that, when looked through, makes red objects appear more pink but otherwise changes nothing
  • Hairbrush that was supposed to sing but instead just makes a low moan noise once a day
  • Cloak that makes the wearer 1% less likely to encounter a bee swarm
  • Blanket that keeps dog hair from sticking to it, if and only if the hair comes from a dog whose 4 grandparents were all born under a full moon
  • Ear ring that was supposed to tingle when someone in another room says your name, but instead just vibrates slightly in response to loud noises
  • Paint that does not stain fabric, but only works when the fabric itself is inside someones mouth

Just. Shitty half-rank magical elf objects.

for a witchcraft/folklore au i mentioned before, i sort of want to draw her a desert outfit too (and also with her wolves) since this one looks far too warm for that. i guess she wears this one in the great north. i also really want to try do a lapis one too but they take forever. i’ll try, i’ll try .

please don’t interact if n/s/fw/k*nk or tag kin/me, thank you 🐏

Monthly Fic Rec February (x)

Or a Valentine’s Day story where Harry has a really fit neighbour, and his cat is a thief. 

A famous/non-famous AU in which Louis banters back and forth with his new record company on Twitter, only to find out that Harry is the man behind the tweets. 

Or, the one where Harry loses the love of his life on New Years Eve and finds him again, six months later, ready to open some poorly-stitched wounds.

It was probably a huge mistake for Louis to let his former One Night Stand move into his spare room, especially when said One Night Stand doesn’t seem to remember him. 

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Bruised (Richie/Eddie) 4/12

Summary: It’s 1993 and the summer from many years ago is dead and gone. Many have drifted apart from the Losers club and its at the point where there is no club at all. The atmosphere is cold just like the winter months and the only blushes to be found are the ones that are caused from the piercing spikes of cold that heat skin up. Being a teenage boy is hard; especially for the two boys that now count each other as strangers. In which both boys make a plan, but both disrupt each others.

Warning(s): Angst & Fluff

A/N: Shout out to @eddiekaspbraks for making THIS moodboard of this fanfiction series, it’s amazing and gO SEND THIS LOVELY BABE SOME LOVE !!  BONUS POINTS IF ANYONE CAN GUESS WHAT SONG I WAS LISTENING TO WHILST WRITING RICHIE’S DESCRIPTION THROUGH EDDIE’S PERSPECTIVE

Part 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12

It was now Monday morning and Eddie felt his numb fingertips jitter at the seams of his jumper, feeling the weaves under his senseless skin without his pulse guiding him. 

The pills were messing him up. Bad.

His doctor had prescribed the soft pink and white capsules in order to stop being gay, as if what he had was some sick mental illness. Eddie’s mother thought he was twisted, that the rumours weren’t true and that people were lying about her pride and joy. Several days later she realised that Eddie was in fact a homosexual boy. However, she refused to believe it and dragged him to every therapist and doctor in order to ‘save’ him.

He didn’t need saving, he was gay and that was that. He had only told Bill, Ben, Mike and Stan but somehow the word got around school, eventually a teacher had confronted his mother about the matter. He didn’t mean for everyone to know, but now that everyone did- the reaction he got towards his sexuality choice was repulsive.

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New flat-mate

“You can’t! I’m going to unfriend you on Facebook if you make me do that!” Harry stopped dead in his tracks, flabbergasted by the fact that he’d just heard Draco Malfoy utter the phrase unfriend you on Facebook to Millicent, with whom he was apparently having a fight.

“Uhm, excuse me Malfoy, but do you even have Facebook?” Harry asked, his curiosity trumping the feeling that this was a private matter between (possible) ex-friends that he shouldn’t stick his nose into. Besides, millicent was Harry’s flatmate so he’d probably hear about the argument anyway, and as full-on auror he was higher ranked than Malfoy as assistant potioneer. Also he just really wanted to fucking know what the fuck was going on. 

“I obviously do not Potter, that’s the entire point of the fake threat.” Malfoy sighed as if Harry were the dumbest person he had ever met. Then he removed his thin framed glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Whatever, this business isn’t worthy of my time or my headache." 

"Are you drinking enough water then?” Millicent asked in a stern motherly tone, her arms crossed before her chest. 

“I swear to that bloody Jesus guy I will drown myself in the nearest bloody ocean if anyone asks me that again today.” Malfoy put a frustrated hand through his hair that stayed perfectly in shape despite, or maybe because, of that. “Yes, I drank enough water. And no, I am not backing down from my demands. See you tonight at seven and not a minute later." 

With the sharp sound of departing (damn fine looking) dragon hide boots Malfoy abruptly turned around and left. 

"What was that all about?” Harry asked perplexed, eying sadly how Malfoy’s rather fine ass disappeared behind a corner and a door. 

“My sister’s getting married and moving out of their shared flat.” Millicent smiled rather devilishly at Harry when she spoke her next words, making him take a step back. He’d seen her in battle during auror duty and frankly, the woman was just as terrifying as Molly Weasley was on a bad day. 

“And since Draco can’t afford the rent on his own because his father cut him off for living with a muggle, namely my sister, I offered him to move in with me, or us really. I was just telling him that he needs to do his own shoppings, which he hates because he can never contain himself and he’s afraid he’ll get fat." 

"Afraid he’ll get-” Harry stopped himself there, realising that he’d just missed the most vital piece of information Millicent had just given him. “Wait, what do you mean offered him to move in with us? I’m not living with Malfoy, I hate him!" 

"The way you keep staring at his ass and talk to him at parties, the ministry cafeteria, hallways, meetings and literally every goddamn time you lay eyes on him tells me something quite different.” Millicent gave him a smug smile.

“I- I-” Harry sputtered. “I do not stare at Malfoy’s ass!" 

"Yeah you do mate.” Seamus noted as he walked past.

“Every goddamn time Potter.” Angelina said, shaking her head while rolling her eyes. 

“It’s so obvious even I noticed!” Ron exclaimed from his desk on the other side of the room, by which time Harry had noticed that everyone in the auror Office was listening in on their conversation. 

“Just ask the guy out already, before one of us gets fed up and does it for you.” Kingsley almost ordered him as he walked by with his assistant Percy, who bloody well nodded along with him. Harry thought he might be having an aneurysm. 

Or he was going crazy. 

Or both.

“Anyhow, you heard him. He’ll be moving his stuff to our place at seven, don’t be late.” Millicent gave him a pat on his shoulder, an almost pitiful look on her face as she eyed their colleagues staring at them. “As for that date, the supermarket is as good a place to start as any and I have reasons to believe Draco won’t turn you down. Just don’t forget the silencing charms will you?”

Harry gaped at her while in the background his colleagues snickered and Ron banged his head on his desk.

Aneurysm.

He was most definitely having an aneurysm.


Quick reminder: Millicent is canon half-blood, and the sister in this fic is a half sister, which is why she’s muggle.

i’m sure this has been done. but. eh.

“I don’t think it’s that bad,” Neil says.

Andrew looks away from the road to Neil, and then back again.

“They’re not,” Neil attempts.

The only reason Neil finally agreed to go to the dentist was because of the threat of being benched by the coaches. Not because the pain has been affecting his playing - of course it hasn’t - but because everyone on the team is sick of him holding and rotating his jaw all the time, obviously in pain but completely unwilling to admit it.

“You do as the doctors say now,” Andrew says, a reminder of an old agreement made back when Neil first went pro. Neil’s innate distrust in people wasn’t ever going to be a good enough reason for him to be stupid in regards to medical care when he was out of Abby’s hands. Andrew would like to think that now they’re on the same team he would have slightly more sway over Neil, but that’s never really been the case.

“He’s not a doctor.” The level of scorn in Neil’s voice is truly impressive. 

“Medical professional, then.” Andrew imagines the look on the dentist’s face as hearing Neil’s real opinion of him.

“Lots of people keep their wisdom teeth,” Neil says. “You still have yours.”

Andrew’s aren’t growing sideways out of his skull and threatening to crowd all his other teeth together. The term the dentist had used for Neil’s was ‘severely impacted’. He’d referred Neil to a maxillofacial surgeon and said that Neil would be lucky if they could be removed under sedation rather than a general anaesthetic. 

“I know,” Andrew says, rather than attempting a logical argument. There’s really no point.

“What?”

“I know, it’s hard to believe that my mouth really is bigger than yours,” Andrew says.


The threat of benching works well enough to get Neil to the surgeon, which is unsurprising to anyone who actually knows Neil. He’s calm and unafraid all day, except for the piercing look he gives Andrew in the moments before he’s ushered away.

“There’s a quiet waiting room just through here,” someone says, indicating a door. “You would be amazed how ill people have to be before they stop considering asking for an autograph.”

It’s been a while since anyone over the age of about sixteen asked Andrew for an autograph - the older ones got the idea eventually - but the offer of a quiet place to not be stared at isn’t anything to be sniffed at. Andrew goes through the door and takes a spot on a chair next to the window with a clear view of the door.

His fingers itch for a cigarette. He reaches for his phone instead.

Social media isn’t of much interest to him, so he spends a good half-hour reading news articles spiralling into scientific studies and then into the rabbit hole of wikipedia. He’s not sure quite how long it’s been when a knock at the door interrupts him from the page he’s reading on Indian mathematics.

Someone in scrubs puts her head through the door. “Mister Minyard? Neil is in recovery now. You can come sit with him.”

Andrew stands and follows her quick bustle of a walk, putting his phone in his pocket as he goes. The nurse is chatting as speedily as she walks. “Once he’s more awake and we know for sure he’s feeling himself he can be discharged. He’s a little quiet right now, but he asked for you before.”

She ushers him into a private room - another perk of being professional athletes - with a smile. 

Neil is lying on his back on the bed with his eyes closed, but he opens them when he hears Andrew sitting in the chair at his side. He looks a little like a chipmunk with the gauze stuffed in his cheeks, his jaw swollen enough that it’s grotesquely square rather than its usual fine-angled shape.

“Hey,” Andrew says.

He’s not necessarily expecting chattiness, but he is expecting an answer. Instead Neil just stares at him. His eyes are very large, as are his pupils.

“Hi,” he says eventually. He sounds exactly like he’s talking through a mouthful of cotton. The nurse comes in and fiddles with the blood pressure cuff on his arm, and Neil rolls his head around to watch her doing it.

“I’m just going to squash your arm again, okay?” she says, with the manner of someone talking to a child or an adult who is exceptionally out of their mind on drugs.

Neil doesn’t say anything for a moment, and then comes out with, “This is Andrew.”

The nurse flicks Andrew a look and a small smile. “We met, actually. He was waiting outside for you.”

“He’ll always wait for me,” Neil tells her, matter-of-fact. “He’s my partner.”

The nurse’s expression doesn’t change much, but it’s only through power of will, Andrew suspects. She looks like she would love to laugh. “That’s really nice of him.”

“Yeah,” Neil sighs warmly. He’s pathetic. 

“I would have recognised him anyway,” the nurse says, still looking amused. “I’m a Rebels fan.”

Neil, who is the biggest Rebels fan in the city, does something that might have been a half-smile if it weren’t for the current state of his face. Then it falls off. Mournfully, he says, “I can’t play this week.”

“No, but you’ll be back out there before you know it,” the nurse comforts. Her name tag says ‘Helen’ and has a yellow flower on it. “Are you playing, Andrew?”

“He’s the starting goalie,” Neil says before Andrew can say anything, almost making it to sounding affronted. Mostly he just sounds loopy. Andrew has never seen him have so many emotional shifts in thirty seconds before.

“I thought he might be stuck looking after you,” Helen replies. “I know what athletes are like.”

“I can look after myself.” That’s a very Neil answer, and also a complete lie. Andrew is banking on Neil being too miserable to want to come to the game in two days, because otherwise he’ll be on the bench in all his swollen-faced glory.

“I’m sure you can,” Helen says, and pats him on the shoulder condescendingly. Neil doesn’t notice at all. “I’ll come back in fifteen minutes and see how you’re doing.”

She bustles back out again, closing the door behind her gently. Neil sighs and rolls onto his side, muttering something indecipherable when the blood pressure cuff gets pulled tight under his body. It doesn’t sound pleased, and it’s definitely not in any language Andrew recognises.

Neil raises his unrestrained hand towards Andrew. It swerves a little in the air. “Can I?”

“Yes,” Andrew says. He’s expecting Neil to take his hand, but he doesn’t flinch when Neil reaches for his face instead. What he currently lacks in coordination he makes up for in gentleness, but Andrew closes his eyes anyway to lower the risk of losing one to a poorly-aimed finger.

“You look weird,” Neil mutters.

You look weird,” Andrew tells him, mostly because it’s true, partly to see Neil wrinkle his nose at him.

“Do not,” Neil replies. He pats Andrew’s cheek, and then gets distracted by Andrew’s hair. That’s not unusual, to be fair, though the level of concentration he’s giving it is. “Hey.”

“Yes?”

“Hey.” More insistently this time, like he doesn’t already have Andrew’s full attention. He tugs Andrew’s hair. 

Never let it be said Andrew can’t take a hint. He lowers himself onto his elbows on the edge of the bed and puts his forehead to Neil’s. Even though they’re at odd angles, Neil sighs in satisfaction. His eyelashes flutter against Andrew’s temple, fingers stroking idly over the arch of Andrew’s ear.

“Good,” he mutters, seemingly to himself.

They stay like that, Andrew’s chin pillowed on the starchy sheets and his forehead likely leaving an imprint on Neil’s fairer skin. Neil dozes, hand going lax, and Andrew closes his eyes and thinks in circles for a little while about the Bakhshali Manuscript.

Another knock at the door makes him raise his head. Neil’s eyes flash open, and then he blinks like he’s reeling a little. His fingers have fallen to Andrew’s wrist, and they tighten for a split-second before dropping away.

“Hi again,” Helen says gently. “Let’s get a look at you, Neil.”

Andrew moves aside and lets her at him, ignoring the disgruntled sound this earns from the bed. Neil is distracted quickly by Helen extracting the arm with the cuff from under his body and taking his blood pressure again, before removing it and making him sit up. Then she leaves, and returns with clothes and a clipboard. The clothes she leaves for Neil to attempt to put on. The clipboard she gives to Andrew.

“Rather than it turning out as a discharge form as signed by Alexander Pushkin,” she explains with a shrug. It’s fine, Andrew is all over Neil’s paperwork these days. He flips through the notes and signs in the right places then hands the board back, and gets a sheet of discharge instructions in its place.

“I’ll leave you guys for a sec and sort things,” she says, and does just that. It leaves Andrew to subtly ensure that Neil puts all his clothes on the right body parts. He’s looking less high but still dazed, his eyes hooded but his face pulling tighter. In the fall down, he’s always uncomfortably aware of the abnormality of being out of control of himself. Years later that hasn’t changed. Andrew isn’t surprised.

“You’re good to go,” Helen tells Neil when she returns, and then says to Andrew, “Good luck!”

He would like to think, as he manoeuvres Neil out, that she means for the game on Friday. It’s not likely, though.

Neil falls asleep against the window on the drive home. Andrew prods him awake so he can walk himself into the elevator, where he sags against the wall, and then into the apartment. He shuffles into the bedroom, still making gentle smooching noises at Sir and King as he winds himself into the duvet. He’s out ten seconds later.

Andrew watches for a moment while King curls up beside him and Sir gently begins to groom his hair, and then retreats to the balcony for a cigarette.


Andrew has relocated inside to the couch by the time he hears stirring from the bedroom a few hours later. The Neil who emerges is rumpled but sleepy in a normal sense rather than because of lingering sedation.

He lowers himself gently onto the cushion beside Andrew, and then even more slowly lowers his head down onto Andrew’s thighs.

“Painkillers?” Andrew offers. The discharge notes included strict instructions on dosage and timing, but Neil’s been asleep long enough to be due another couple of pills.

“In a minute,” Neil mumbles, like he’s trying to move his jaw as little as possible. He pats Andrew on the shin. “Stay.”

In an hour Neil’s going to be pissed off and probably a little anxious, wanting to move but knowing he can’t, irritated by the pain. But for now, it’s pretty easy to read a book and play pillow while Neil rests.

Games

warnings: nsfw, cunnilingus, threesome M/F/M, double penetration, anal, slight oral (male receiving), unprotected sex oops

summary: a blindfolded guessing game with your boyfriend and his best-friend after you come home tipsy 

word count: 3,198 :) so enjoy

A/N: tagging @forevanssake bc she’s a smut buddy. 

The streetlights glinted above you as your steps ambled over the pavement. For the whole day Harrison got you to spend time with your former university chums —as he had his own agenda with Tom and the other Holland siblings. And by spending the time meant that your whole circle had arranged upon visiting the nearest pub in town and spend the night drowning themselves under alcohol.

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im jaebum is one of the most beautiful specimens I’ve ever seen, period.

I understand that the freedom of shipping with almost no canon interference (at least past the first 5 games) is a major appeal of Fire Emblem. 

However allow me to introduce a revolutionary new concept, you can ship something aside from canon ship WITHOUT hating on people who like the canon ship. 

Just you know, don’t be an asshole and have fun with Echoes. 

Gemini: Emotions

Believe it or not, Gemini, but you’re emotional. You just know when and where to turn it on and off, which sets you apart from a lot of people. Due to you having this ability, people often believe that you’re very careless or even in some cases, heartless. This isn’t the case because you’re far from heartless. You’d rather shed a tear when you’re alone than when you’re around a group of friends, which is completely fine. You’d rather talk to yourself deeply about your feelings before you talk to your friend, which is also ok. I’ve noticed that the only time someone will see a Gemini cry is when something is seriously, like scarily going on. It seems like Gemini’s like to seek sympathy, but then again hate it, due to the fear of being judged. I think it time for us to loosen up.