Stiles stares at the chat message on his computer for a minute before responding: Yes
DHale: Can you drive me to taco bell?
Stiles is now supremely confused. It’s about midnight on a Friday, he figured he was the only one on campus not curring hanging out with friends or hooking up. (Turns out going to a good college out of state on scholarship was not the great boost in social status he expected.) Not to mention he barely knows Derek Hale. Sure they did that one project together in class, and are both members of the campus radio station but….
Let’s address the elephant in the room and also talk about headcanon shaming
Kris’s long black hair being cut to match Lief’s own.
This isn’t proof Lief’s hair is black. First of all, try and find a Toran that doesn’t have black hair. Second, if we take ‘Lief’s own’ to mean ‘his own black hair’ you have to add the ‘long’ into that equation- ‘Lief’s own long black hair’. Lief clearly doesn’t have long hair or Kris’s wouldn’t need to be cut
But even if you don’t agree with me (and that’s fine) I want you to know why I am even bringing this up
Because almost every time I see someone posting a DQ artwork they feel the need to justify their choice of Lief’s hair colour
Because I see people writing comments saying the artwork (and thus the artist’s interpretation) is ‘wrong’ because Lief should have black hair
Because the main criticism I hear about the anime is that Lief is blonde (and not… y’know….the actual adaptation)
Because we all seem paralysed with fear about having differing interpretations about a character’s hair colour
IMPORTANT: if you do think Lief’s hair colour is black, I want you to know that’s 100% fine. If you use this line as the basis for that headcanon, and think what I wrote above is total rubbish, that’s fine too
It might be black in Emily Rodda’s head too. But if she wanted us to know what Lief looked like, she would have told us more clearly. It’s not stated definitively in the books, so we don’t actually know for sure
I guess what I’m saying is- fandom! Stop shaming other people for their headcanons
Different interpretations of characters are great! They add diversity, and open up your imagination. When I was a kid I always imagined Jasmine as being white, but very tanned. Now, after seeing so many incredible drawings of her with dark skin, I have fully accepted this Jasmine into my headcanon. Imagine if the first person to draw Jasmine like this got the comment- ‘the first time she is described it actually says she is ‘sun-browned’, and since I personally interpreted that to mean her skin is white with a heavy tan, you are wrong and your art is terrible’
If people want to imagine Lief as blonde, they can. If they want to imagine him with dark hair, they can. If they want to imagine him with blue hair this is a world where people with blue skin exist so I don’t see why that’s a problem either
This tiny, vague line isn’t enough to base a criticism on. If you don’t like the anime or an artwork or a fanfiction, fine. But dislike it for a reason other than Lief’s hair colour (and for Adin’s sake, be nice when you comment)
Came all the way from Miami to talk to us about overcoming circumstances….people loved him. At lunch,after he left,people were talking about him and this redneck fuckmustard goes “All ####### look the same to me”. I turn around and open my mouth to tear him the fuck up but all that comes out is’ DAMN DANIEL back at it again with the white bullshit!“
Yeaaaa got called down to the office fourth block lmao
“I was wondering… If you might like to go for a coffee, sometime?"
Richard blinked and raised his head to regard the man in front of him— he was tall, brunet, had lively, intense, eyes. Once upon a time, he would have been precisely Richard’s type.
"—Really? Alright. Mind if I ask why? Was it something I said, or…"
There were perhaps a hundred different things that Richard could have said. Things about ashes and emptiness, and the way the world poured itself in when his defenses were battered to the ground. The way the pain never faded, not really, not after twenty years when you lost your parents, and not after two, for certain, when you lost your spouse.
"I don’t date, it has nothing to do with anything you did,” Is what he said instead, rather than mention that he would’ve been no good on a date, anyway. Not when he still woke from dreams certain that he’d find Sam beside him, and not when he still kept his wedding ring on his bedside table.
“Now, if that was all that you needed, I’d recommend getting back to work, Agent Branson,” Richard knew all about letting go and moving on. His entire life had been one big lesson in it, and maybe it was childish, but he didn’t want to. He didn’t want to wake up in the morning and stretch his arm to the other side of the bed without feeling that small loss. He didn’t want to give up his routine of sleeping on the couch every few nights, even if there was no longer another mind to escape from.
He didn’t want to forget the fact that for once, for once, he’d lost a lover and it hadn’t been because he’d run away. That they’d had years, and they’d had happiness, and sadness, and time. Memories, precious data in the mind that were fading a bit, now, eroded by months and years and the faultiness of human perception, but certainly still there. In the smell of Sam’s favorite tea, in the feel of the one or two of Sam’s sweaters that he still kept, in the smiles of some few strangers.
Richard wore his tie black, those days. It was a small symbol, it wasn’t worthy of comment, but he liked it. It felt right. It had taken a few months to re-learn how to smile properly, and Richard had had time to wonder just how many times he’d have to teach himself that particular skill all over again, but everything was… Comfortable now. Sam was a part of him, and the loss was, too.
Maybe he was just a fool, and he’d be in mourning for the rest of his life, but he didn’t want to let go of Sam. Just as he didn’t want to let go of the slight burn in the pit of his stomach every time a Nexus file crossed his desk, and he remembered all that they’d done.
Traveling was never something that bothered her. Truthfully, she enjoyed long excursions, even if they were political in purpose. Still, the princess couldn’t help but wish that she were home. The hot, flat plains of the land before her were a stark contrast to the cool mountains of her birthplace. Even in her lightest atire, Lacey felt sweat beading up on her skin. Despite her discomfort, she held herself high in the saddle and rode along without complaint. Such behavior was expected of King Michael’s sole heir, something she was constantly reminded of in one way or another.
Her father rode at the front of their procession and spoke in hushed tones to Lord Uriel, advisor to the king and among the richest of the nobles. While the man gave sound advice and never seemed to lead the king astray, Lacey couldn’t calm feelings of unease when he was around. But with little proof to support her discomfort, there was naught to do but keep her mouth shut.
Behind her, she could hear the creak of every carriage that followed them, each one carrying provisions for their journey and the long stay in Lawrence. If it weren’t for the massive amounts of clothing, gifts, and other such ammenities, they would have reached the citadel days ago. It had been the king’s intention that Lacey ride in the carriage with her handmaidens but the princess refused. “If the king can stand to ride his own horse, then so may his heir.” As it were, she still remained further within the procession, a guard on either side, throughout the trip.
It wasn’t until Lawrence was in sight that Lacey started to feel the exaustion of her journey. Nearly two weeks of travel had left her weary but she was all to aware that more work was ahead. While forming an alliance with King John might not be physically demanding, the next few months were sure to be exausting. As they approached the gates of the city, Lacey urged her mare forward so she was even with her father. Michael glanced down at her briefly, almost as if to make sure she still looked presentable. Sitting up a little taller, she looked ahead as the gates creaked open and waited at her father’s side for their host to meet them.