“Hamilton is a story about America. And the most beautiful thing about it is because it’s told by such a diverse cast with such diverse styles of music, we have the opportunity to reclaim history that some of us don’t necessarily think is our own.”
i just really like the idea of these two flatting together and watching really shitty romcoms and kids movies heaps on tavros’ dinosaur-ass sofa that creaks in the wrong places and like, having really deep conversations but karkat always animorphs into a fricking pretzel all the way through, and tavros just sits there listening and trying not to laugh because karkat gets really upset if you interrupt his epilogues about the physical condition of the world and disney movies. then eventually karkat realizes what his limbs are doing when he’s halfway off the sofa and they start laughing but then he starts to cry but it’s too late for tavros to stop and he’s just fucking dying at the entire situation while karkat sobs into the carpet
Short sweet fluff to excuse my slightly irregular posting. : )
He finds her presence somewhat distracting. Lavellan is crouched against the thick-set desk in the Rotunda, escaping her etiquette lessons for the upcoming ball. She has been there for a long time, perhaps several hours; Solas is relatively sure that she has missed dinner, though he can’t say he wouldn’t have been jealous if she’d left. He wants her here. With him. Every time she moves, her hair glinting wildly in the veifire light, shadows sliding up and down her skin, he stops writing, stops breathing. His hands itch to drop his notes, let the quill fall and kiss her until dawn comes and she is lost to lessons once again. Every time he glances over, unsure if she is asleep or just thinking, he is very, very glad she sought solace here, of all places, choosing to hide herself in the dim anonymity to which he belongs. To which he wishes to belong. Delicate fingers knot together, turquoise running over them like a river. His usually-neat writing is already dotted with ink blots. “I know how to dance,” Lavellan grouses finally, resting her chin on her arms. “Why do they have to teach me? The Orlesians are all probably more likely to try and murder me than to ask me for a dance.” He chuckles. She looks up at the sound, tilting her head nearly backwards to meet his eyes, her expression indignant. “I thought you liked learning.” “I do, but…” Propping her head back on her hands, she huffs a sigh that he can’t help but find adorable. “Dorian and Josephine are treating it like boot camp, not dancing lessons. They’re relentless!” He takes a deep breath of his own, the scratching of his quill pausing almost of its own accord. “Would you prefer to dance with me, vhenan?” At this rate, his ink will blot the entire notebook. Lavellan looks up hopefully. Her eyes are bright, drops of moonlight; her normally tense demeanour has relaxed completely. Skyhold’s great Inquisitor now stares at him with something akin to a child’s wonder, and he knows he would dance with the Nightmare itself if she asked. “You?” He reaches for a cautious half-truth. “I know some of the steps.” It is accurate. Mostly. Suddenly, he is furiously pleased for the stars outside, the soft darkness wrapped around the fortress that means the ambassador is asleep, and no messengers could enter to notice how his steps predate the Orlesian dances by centuries. “How?” He decides that ‘In the Fade’ is not what he wants to give to her. Not this time. Instead, he climbs to his feet, the chair scraping on the stone floor, and offers her a hand. The papers can wait for a little while longer. “They are not difficult to learn. Come on.” She clambers to her feet, reaching for him to help pull her up. Even through his shirt, her hands are hot, some of her magic seeping into the skin of her palms with her agitation. After giving her a minute to remember her steps, he holds out a hand, poised and ready. They stride the length of the rotunda, arms outstretched, an imaginary ballroom advancing in step behind them. When they come together again, they do it at such speed that all the torches flicker. Shadows dance over their bodies. The soft tap of her boots against the floor echoes up into the Rookery. Her hand slips into his, a gentle strength veiled behind her leather gloves, and they turn once again, only slightly out of time. By this point, she understands the steps; three weeks straight of dancing lessons will do that to anyone. But still, it isn’t perfect - not enough to face the ravenous lion that is the Orlesian court. Her short hair is falling, feather-light, around her face. As she turns her head, it is evident she has it down to an exact science… just long enough to hit him in the face, and just soft enough that he doesn’t mind terribly. It smells of soap and leaves, as quiet and gentle as a wild thing can ever be. “Lavellan,” he whispers reproachfully in her ear. She blushes, laughs, and looks mortified all at once. Then she steps on his toes. Solas winces; after all, her boots, however elegant, are tough leather for expeditions, and his feet are bare. Toes smarting, he pulls her through the next couple of steps. For all her uncanny prediction of the movements, she can’t seem to foresee which way he goes, and for several minutes, their footwork is a clumsy mess, stepping backwards and forwards at the same time, Lavellan stepping right when he goes left, or too quickly, so that he has to continue in the same direction until she gets a feel for it. His hand squeezes hers in sympathy. Despite all the blunders she makes, he can just barely remember when he was taught to dance; if not, he has seen the tries of countless others in the Fade. She is not alone in her mistakes. And she is improving - with every step she takes, her movements become smoother, surer, although she doesn’t see it. They have almost made a full circle of the room without colliding. “Creators,” she mumbles softly, stepping on his toes yetagain. “Sorry.” Agh. Well. It was too good to be true. “You focus too much on your steps, vhenan. Perhaps you have forgotten that I am supposed to be leading?” Exasperation bites her expression, and she tosses a tired hand through her now-messy hair. “What do I do, then?” she snaps. “Fall flat on my face? Look at you instead and try and resist the urge to kiss you?” He startles a little; she has given voice to his own thoughts. At his reaction, she goes bright red. “Was that too forward?” “Well…” a teasing smile settles on his face, “there is no one here but us.” He presses his lips to hers, so full of love and fire and embarrassment. It feels as if a century has passed since he kissed her on the balcony. A mistake that he can quickly remedy. And as he does, he pulls her into motion. She stumbles at first, tripping and falling behind even in her sturdy boots; then all at once, she catches onto his movement, and relaxes. It is strange - he has become accustomed to trying to pull her around the floor, fighting her stumbling feet and her half-complete knowledge of the steps, that the second she doesn’t stumble he almost loses balance. She has her eyes tightly closed, face screwed up in anticipation of colliding with something. But they don’t. She lets herself go. Colours fill their vision, orange and scarlet and cerulean blue whirling into dizzying blurs as he spins her in a nearly perfect circle around the frescoes. He can imagine this scene, if it were somewhere else; the cold stone beneath their feet covered in light and vines and song, the paintings reaching higher, farther, the work of many hands and not just one; beneath his hands he can almost feel a dress, thick moonlight silk flaring in a circle, jewels threaded like starlight in her hair where there is usually only leaves and the stray twig. What he has here is merely a half-hearted mimic of the beauty of Arlathan. But the ancient stones would by now be nearly dust, and no human seamstress could make a dress so fine. As she comes to a standstill, Lavellan stumbles over her own feet and tips over into his arms. She only laughs. In this moment, she is unselfconscious and merry and out of breath, joy bubbling up in her like the rush of a river in the woods, and he wouldn’t be anywhere else in the world. He wraps his arms around her, proud and laughing at the same time, and kisses her until his lips tingle, drinking in the look in her eyes, her smile, her scent, her presence. She will make him forget himself. They are as tightly wound together as the knot of a ribbon on a gift, and as he begins humming a tune so old that even the Dalish do not know the words, her head shoots up, eyes wide and eager. The movements they make are slow, gentle, a lover’s dance, as fine as any court routine, their foreheads pressed together and arms around each others’ necks. Then a voice rings out from above them. “Very good, Lavellan! Surprisingly good, considering how our last session went. Perhaps I shall tell the lady Ambassador that you no longer need lessons with us.“ Her eyes widen in surprise and she whips around, letting go of him to stare up at the balcony with a look of fierce embarrassment. “Dorian?” she hisses. It is evident she has forgotten how much voices in the Rotunda echo. Solas almost chuckles when said Tevinter mage appears at the balcony, in mid-speech, still with his head in a book. Specifically, the volume that was three volumes down his ‘to-read’ pile earlier that day. “I should have realised all we needed to do was put you two in a room together. That usually solves problems.” Her mouth forms an O of surprise and indignation, and she pulls out of the dance form, apparently intent on scaling the walls of the rotunda to strangle Dorian. “Now is not the time, vhenan,” he says, tempting her back with a kiss on her cheek. “Concentrate.”
Well, I don’t mind either way because! Yes! This blog’s reached its 1000+ followers and I’m honestly so stoked. I can’t tell you all how much joking around with this account, as well as developing minor and major plots, has helped me. Amidst the stress of real life that I’m sure we all have to some degree, RPing has brought me so much joy and I only have my RP partners and those who for some reason stayed with Wrath and his antics to thank for. You made RPing special for me and I couldn’t be more grateful.
Wrath was made on a whim and I would never have imagined he’d get this far, the most I’ve accomplished and why I decided to make this post. Despite his character adopting mannerisms and concepts different from those I’d initially planned for him, he still managed to turn into a muse I have the pleasure to spend my free time on. That and, through him, I’ve met incredibly creative and talented people that I might not mantain constant contact out of character, but whom I respect and admire a whole awful lot.
I adore each of you who still put up with all the unrelenting shitposting and immature jokes, but I gotta thank some particular people for directly dealing with me and/or my muse. Please don’t feel left out if you’re not mentioned! You’re just as special to the development of this blog.
During the Fourth Age Éomer often fulfilled the Oath of Eorl and went with King Elessar far into the East and South of Middle-earth. He was known as Éomer Éadig, or “the Blessed”, because during his reign Rohan recovered from the hurts of the War and became a rich and fruitful land again. In T.A. 3021 he wedded Princess Lothíriel, daughter of Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth, whom he had met during his stay in Gondor and she bore him a son Elfwine the Fair.
hi everyone!! PSA:
i used to be stayslaystay and i hope you all like this new url. anyways, i thought i’d make a new follow forever i haven’t made one in almost a year yikes. i just hit 7.2k and i am so incredibly excited, i love you all so much and i love wasting my life away on this website.but i figured this would be the best time to make one since i just changed my url! i was so attached to my other because of all the fun memories but i really didn’t like it much. also if any of you want any urls i have over 20 that i don’t mind giving them away!
all the blogs i tag are ones that i love so much and appreciate. i enjoy reading about your lives and getting to know you through tags. just know i am always here for you and feel free to send me a waving hand emoji anytime! :))
ok but please consider shipping terushima/futakuchi
after managing to convince ppl in my group chat that this pairing is gOLDEN i am here to spread the word of terufuta. ( under the cut because this post got very, very long!!! like 1,300 words long. lots of nsfw too oops ). credit goes to @sdaishou & @anakajima for supplying & building on some of these headcanons!!!! please join us in the deepest circles of rarepair hell, it’s so worth it
they meet a practice match or something for the first time and end up getting really competitive with each other. at some point in that match terushima inadvertently calls futakuchi a pretty boy when he’s trash talking
teru really does think futakuchi is pretty but never meant to say it out loud
futakuchi never lets him live it down
it all goes downhill from there
also pls also note that during the karasuno/johzenji game futakuchi’s in the stands watching the match clearly to cheer on his boyfriend #canon 👀 👀
✩❀ — so i opened my very own store with my very own merchandise in it yesterday and i can’t believe that i’ve managed to do this. a year or two ago when kylie cosmetics was just an idea in my head, i never thought things would progress as far as they have as fast as they have. i never thought so many people would believe in me and it’s so humbling. the line of fans waiting to come in and shop has just brightened my whole mood and inspired me to make not only more products but better products. to celebrate this good mood, i went out today and spent time at the local children’s hospital reading stories and giving out early christmas presents. i just wanna spread how good i’m feeling to everyone around me!
Summary: After a rival crew seems to know too much about them, Geoff hires a hacker to find out if there’s a mole in the Fake AH Crew. As it turns out, there are several, but they have a bigger problem - Gavin’s name is on the list. And when he runs away, leaving them with no explanation or answers, Ryan’s sent out to bring him back.
Ryan wakes up to the shrilling of the alarm on his phone. Despite how noisy it is, he stirs from sleep slowly, groggily, his mind thick and clouded from finally sleeping after so long on three hours or less each night. He doesn’t remember if he dreamed - feels vaguely sick, his muscles aching and heavy - wants nothing more than to just lie down and let himself pass out again.
But he forces himself to reach out and turn the alarm off and then sit up, getting his bearings. It’s so early, and the weather so bad outside, that the room is still quite dark, and for a moment he sits there breathing heavily, taking in the hard mattress under him and the faintly sour smell of the moth-eaten pillows-
And Gavin. It returns to him, almost subconsciously, that he’s here with the other man, and he gropes about with one hand, expecting him to be in the bed next to him-
Only for his mind to clear and for him to remember, with a sudden sinking feeling, exactly why they’re here. Why Gavin isn’t in the bed with him. Why the prospect of the hours to spend on the road ahead aren’t undercut with that usual sweetness of at least getting to spend some quiet alone time with one of his boyfriends.
Boyfriend. He remembers again, then, that he apparently never had Gavin at all. That he’s been lying since he first joined the crew. That whatever’s going on here, there’s a hell of a lot he doesn’t know about someone he thought he was close to.