this was literally just an excuse to play with these textures

There are some specific issues with a late diagnosis which are rarely talked about. The most noticeable one for me is how the environment fails to adjust to a late diagnosis.

I was diagnosed a few months prior to my eighteenth birthday. Which is actually not even that late.
However, many of the people who surround me seem to think that my diagnosis was “too late to take it serious”, in a way.

Whenever I ask for things that I didn’t ask before, I’m not only met with reluctance but with resistance.
It’s always the same - people say “well, this hasn’t been an issue prior to your diagnosis, so I don’t understand why it is now”. What they don’t understand is that I’ve always been struggling but only since my diagnosis, I know that my struggles are real and valid and that I’m allowed to ask for accommodations or changes that make my life easier. And when I explain this to them, they always tell me off. They tell me that I’m lying even though I’m known for my honesty (which is actually a huge indicator for me being autistic, but somehow they’d rather turn the facts and see me as a liar than admit that I have always been autistic and even noticeably so. They don’t want to acknowledge it because they don’t want to admit that they don’t know a thing about autism. Like, some of my friends literally said that autism to them means “a person has issues to talk with others”, which they don’t see in me which is why they deny that I’m autistic and even refuse to look into the resources about autism that I send to them). Before I got diagnosed, I was treated badly every time I spoke about my needs because people saw me as “overreacting”, “overly sensitive” and “overdramatic”. I’ve been bullied for YEARS because of these things, because to them, I was being “a sissy”.
And after almost two years as a diagnosed autistic, I can say that many people STILL perceive everything I self-advocate for in this mindset. That people STILL see my behavior as overreacting instead of keeping in mind that I am autistic and yes, for me it is as bad as I’m saying it is. That yes, I really get overly anxious around people (which leads to me rambling instead of not saying anything, which again doesn’t match many people’s view on autism) and that certain noises, lights and textures feel like someone is sticking needles inside my ears, eyes, brain and body.

For myself, I was able to make a lot out of my diagnosis. I gained a lot of self-esteem, unlearned internalized ableism in big parts and found new ways of coping. I also have a better sense for my needs now, because even though most people who surround me still don’t take them serious, at least I do now.
Many people mistake this again as “playing pretend”, because how can I only know now what I need? What they don’t want to understand is that as an autistic person, you have to pay much more attention to yourself in order to know what you need because living in itself is overwhelming and taking up a lot of space in our brains. (Heck, I don’t even realize when I’m thirsty 99% of the time… I can go three days without drinking and I don’t feel like my body is missing anything until I black out. Same goes for food. I need to pay conscious attention to how much I’m drinking and eating because I don’t even have this connection to my body that allistic people have.)

But it’s so tiring to not be acknowledged as an autistic person because my parents failed to send me to the right specialist when I was younger. Because they send me to an AD(H)D specialist and failed to send me to another after the results came out negative because they perceived me as a child who is “weird because they are gifted”. Who speaks like a grown up because they’re smart, who plays alone even if they have friends around because they have too creative daydreams and so on.
It’s tiring to always fight so that people treat me right because they are dismissive about my needs because they don’t even UNDERSTAND that I have them because I’m perceived as “too allistic” due to my late diagnosis.

As a late diagnosed autistic, I feel like I get automatically treated as some kind of “Watered Down Autistic™”, who just got the label “autism” slapped on themselves in order to have an excuse for all their quirks and “character flaws”. I feel like people view late diagnosed autistic people as “even less autistic than high-functioning autistic people” which is why they inflict further abuse on us and never consider us as autistic.

But what gets me most about this is how they don’t even realize what they do. That they’d rather keep on pretending that I’m not autistic no matter how much I speak up and tell them that it actively harms me and our relationship because it’s easier and more convenient for them to just dismiss my disability and demand from me to be like them. Because apparently, they hate disabled and autistic people too much to actually accept that one of their friends/family members is one of them.
Keep in mind that these people I’m talking about are my friends and family. They are the people closest to me, the people who claim to like me and have my best interest in mind… And to think that even people who interpret their relationship to me like this abuse me on a daily basis without even noticing or caring about it says a lot about ableism. And it also says a lot about how people who don’t like me or are close to me would treat me if they knew I was autistic.

anonymous asked:

sick shiro? hell yes. maybe hunk made some space food that actually tastes like something that Shiro really liked at earth so he stuffs his face with it and he realizes too late that this stuffs makes him really nauseous...end off the story Shiro is just really stuffed and nauseous because it really doesn't agree with him and hunk feeling bad tries to comfort and take care of him?

A/N: @bosstoaster for the Shiro hunger headcanons. Plus, I love this pairing, okay?

As the team’s unofficial chef, Hunk is very aware of everyone’s individual eating habits; likes, dislikes, specific allergies, and so forth.

For instance, he knows that Lance won’t touch anything that even remotely resembles a brussels sprout with a twelve-foot pole. He knows Pidge has a quirk about different foods interacting on the same plate; everything has to have its separate, designated space. Keith has to be coaxed, (sometimes forced), into eating even a little breakfast and he blatantly refuses food when he’s anxious before missions.

It took Hunk a little longer with Shiro. The night they had rescued him from the compound he hadn’t realized the extent of the damage; he’d assumed the poor guy was still suffering nasty side effects as a result of being drugged, not to mention starved for over a year.

Hunk had whipped up an impromptu dinner for everyone in Keith’s little shack, taking solace in the comforting sense of control the process of stirring, chopping, and searing had allotted, if only for a fleeting couple of hours.

Long after everyone else had cleaned their plates, Shiro had continued to eat. He’d mechanically shoveled food into his mouth like a ravenous robot, oblivious to his companion’s bafflement. At the time, Hunk hadn’t understood; hadn’t really thought anything of it. He’d seemed hungry, so Hunk had continued to feed him. And Shiro had kept eating. It was the grim concentration that had really freaked Hunk out. Shiro hadn’t enjoyed the food, either. In hindsight, Hunk realized his objective had been to inhale every scrap of nourishment as quickly as possible. He’d quite literally eaten himself sick.

Halfway through his fourth bowl of stew, Shiro had abruptly spun away from the table and vomited it all back up onto the floor, nearly giving Keith a heart attack.

Shiro never talked about his year in captivity. But Hunk was willing to bet his ass that food - if you could call it that - had been scarce and Shiro had been forced to fight for every morsel. He also guessed that prisoners were never fed regularly or sufficiently. Hunk had no idea if humans were even meant to ingest whatever the Galra considered food. It couldn’t have been especially pleasant. He couldn’t imagine forcing yourself to eat for the sole purpose of fighting to stay alive, not knowing when or if you’d ever be fed again. It made his chest ache when he thought about Shiro trapped in such a monstrous hell.

Shiro’s brain had undoubtedly been conditioned to consume every bite of whatever he was given, solely fueled by the most basic human instinct: survival.

Since they’d all been tossed together, Hunk’s taken it upon himself to meticulously monitor Shiro’s meals. The man has absolutely no concept of hunger or the parameters those triggers entail. Essentially, it boils down to making Shiro eat and then ensuring Shiro stops if he’s distracted. Hunk isn’t positive Shiro is ever going to be able to enjoy food like a normal person ever again. That realization makes him incredibly sad.

One of Hunk’s favorite pastimes is cooking for the team, (when Coran hasn’t beaten him to it). He’s grown exceptionally skilled at experimenting with the various foreign ingredients and creating dishes that taste nearly identical to some of his favorite foods back on Earth.

Still, he’s never seen Shiro actually enjoy a meal. Sure, their leader enjoys the company, the camaraderie and routine of sitting down to do something so mundane and familiar in the midst of their crazy lives. But from what Hunk can deduce, Shiro eats because he knows his body requires the nutrients and energy in order to function properly, not because he relishes the flavors or textures of whatever’s placed in front of him.

So the night he makes something vaguely similar to chicken spaghetti, (it’d been a rough mission; Hunk needed comfort food), and presents it to the group, he isn’t surprised when everyone digs in. What does surprise him is Shiro’s reaction after his first bite.

Oh,” Shiro pulls back for a moment, chewing slowly and giving a curious tilt of his head. He swallows, a strange smile playing at the corners of his lips. “This is…”

“Oh,” Hunk echoes, disappointment weighing heavily as his shoulders droop. “You don’t like it.”

Shiro shakes his head, “No, I…this is really good. It tastes like…I don’t know. Something my mom used to make, I think.”

Shiro’s never bothered mentioning his family. The comment sends Hunk sputtering while the other paladins gape at Shiro, noisy sounds of chewing abruptly halting as forks poise listlessly in the air.

“I, uh,” Hunk stammers, still taken aback by Shiro’s compliment. “I was going for chicken spaghetti?”

“Yeah,” Shiro hums after a thoughtful moment before digging into his meal with renewed enthusiasm. “That’s it. That’s what she used to make.”

Shiro moans around another mouthful, closing his eyes as he swallows. “Hunk, this is incredible. I don’t know how you do it.”

Hunk beams with the praise, smiling from ear-to-ear as he watches Shiro reach for the serving bowl to ladle out another helping. He’s eating with gusto, relishing every bite.

“Well, it’s not exactly spaghetti, but I guess it had the general shape,” Hunk chuckles, swirling a bite around his own fork. “So I figured I’d give it a try.”

“It’s awesome, Hunk,” Lance agrees, cheeks ballooning as he struggles to speak through an obscene amount of…space spaghetti?

Shiro nods, barely pausing to breathe as he practically inhales his second plate.

Pidge and Keith contribute their own compliments, quickly finishing their portions and heading to the showers to wash off the day’s grime. Lance lets out an unapologetic, thoroughly satisfied belch before announcing he’s wiped.

“You want some help?” Lance offers lazily, slurring around a sleepy yawn.

Hunk rolls his eyes, “No, no. I’ve got it. You’d only screw up my system, anyway. Yes, there is a system, Lance.” He begins gathering up the empty plates, feeling the grueling exhaustion beginning to take its toll. That’s when he notices that Shiro hasn’t moved. Come to think of it, he hasn’t moved for a good five minutes.

The older boy is hunched over the table, head bowed, arms braced against the surface and hands clenched into tight fists. His eyes are squeezed shut, upper body swaying gently as his throat works with convulsive swallows.

“Shiro?” Hunk frowns, crossing over to place a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Are you all right?”

Shiro jerks upright, blinking at Hunk with hazy, unfocused eyes as his throat bobs with another thick swallow. He’s alarmingly pale, skin clammy with sweat and hair matted to his forehead.

“Yeah,” he pants, tongue slowly licking over his upper lip. “‘M fine. Jus’…just tired.” His slurred words end with an audible shudder that visibly ripples down his spine. His hand strays to hover over his abdomen, lips parting to pant softly as he struggles to stand.

“You sure?” Hunk glares skeptically, keeping his hand on Shiro’s shoulder as he rises. “‘Cause you look kind of -“

Hunk is abruptly cut off by an odd gurgling sound. Shiro’s eyes widen as he frantically presses a fist to his mouth. A wet burp rumbles in his throat, causing his chest to jolt.

Hunk takes an involuntary step back as Shiro cringes, suppressing another deep belch. “Um, Shiro?”

“E-excuse me, I -” Shiro blushes furiously, hand rubbing over his stomach as he takes a few steps away from Hunk. “My stomach feels…sorry. I don’t know what’s -“ he cuts himself off with another gurgly burp, cupping a hand firmly over his mouth before stumbling away from the mess-hall, breaking into an awkward jog. “I’ve..gotta go.”

Baffled, Hunk really has no choice but to follow. Something is seriously wrong and he has the sinking suspicion that it’s his fault.

He catches up easily. Shiro’s hunched over in the hallway, one arm gripping abusively around his stomach and the other bracing his weight against the wall. He’s panting, broad frame jerking with sharp hiccups that he’s obviously desperate to stifle.

Hunk can’t help resting a hand on his friend’s shoulder. Shiro flinches, but doesn’t push him off, just curls in harder on himself.

“You’re sick,” Hunk says matter-of-factly, leaving little room for argument. “You should have said something.”

“I’m not -“ a muffled retch interrupts his protest. Shiro presses his fist against his mouth so hard Hunk’s afraid he’s going to crack his jawbone. “I’m just…so full. I can’t remember ever feeling so…oh, my stomach -“ Shiro’s voice catches on another hiccup and Hunk braces his palm against the other man’s chest, attempting to steady him.

“I know,” he says, voice gentle. “Don’t worry. You’re okay. It was just a little too much, I guess.”

Shiro grunts, trying to detangle himself from Hunk’s grip as another violent gag erupts from his throat. He staggers into the shared bathroom, knees bruising against the floor as he drapes himself over the toilet. He clenches the edges of the bowl, legs writhing as he struggles to regain control of his rebelling body.

“What the hell is - ulp - wrong with me?” Shiro demands, shoulders shuddering brutally as saliva drips over his bottom lip.

Despite his own mounting nausea, Hunk squats down behind the older boy, placing a warm hand against the center of his back. He begins rubbing slow, methodic circles, hoping to help in one way or another. He has no idea what he’s doing, but Shiro isn’t pulling away, so it must be all right.

“Your body isn’t used to so much,” Hunk reasons, wincing sympathetically as Shiro convulses wretchedly at the mention of food. It’s true; he hasn’t seen Shiro eat that much since their first encounter and he feels awful for allowing it to go so far. “I think you may have overdone it a little. I’m sorry. I should have -“

“Don’t be,” Shiro gags, spitting uselessly into the bowl. “Wasn’t your - urp - fault.”

Of course it wasn’t. Nothing is ever anyone’s fault but Shiro’s. Goddammit.

Hunk takes a deep breath through his nose, wrapping his arms in a sturdy embrace around Shiro’s waist as he muffles the shaky words, “Yes it was. Don’t be such a fucking hero.”

It’s angry and stupid and selfish but it gets Shiro’s attention.

Shiro glances up from the bowl, eyes momentarily softening as he regards his friend.

“Hunk,” Shiro barely manages to choke out the name before he’s curling forward with a full-bodied heave, burping up a stream of brown bile. Hunk winces, automatically increasing the pressure of his hand against Shiro’s back. His other unconsciously presses against Shiro’s contracting stomach.

“Don’t worry,” Hunk reassures, tightening his grip as he feels the other boy’s determination waver, muscles bunching and coiling in desperate anticipation. “I’ve got you.”

Hunk feels like his insides are disintegrating when Shiro’s self-control finally gives out, sending him lurching over the bowl with a belching gag that results in a flood of pre-digested liquid spewing from his mouth. Shiro coughs and wheezes, desperate for a breath of air as crippling waves of nausea threaten to suffocate him.

“Take it easy,” Hunk coaches. His nose brushes weakly against Shiro’s right shoulder blade as the older boy hiccups pitifully, grasping onto the supporting arm that Hunk’s encircled around his waist. “Breathe.”

Shiro tries to follow the order and ends up retching, another harsh belch ushering up a watery flood of sick. He slumps over the toilet, panting raggedly as the fit eventually wears off.

Hunk is kind of freaking out. It’s almost as bad as the first time it happened. Except this time, he knows it’s his fault.

Shiro coughs, tainted drool dribbling languidly over his bottom lip as he struggles to regain some semblance of control over his own body. Then his hand strays to Hunk’s, long fingers brushing against his skin.

“Hunk,” he slurs, voice breathless. “Wasn’t you. Stop…stop thinkin’ so hard.”

“W-what?” Hunk stammers, voice catching.

“I can hear you,” Shiro chuckles, a little deliriously as he slumps against Hunk’s chest. “So loud.”

“Well, stop it,” Hunk demands, readjusting Shiro’s weight against him. “It’s weird, okay? Reading people’s thoughts isn’t normal.”

Shiro simply nods, offering a woozy smile as he goes limp against Hunk’s chest, exhaustion sluicing through his body. He slides down onto Hunk’s thigh, nuzzling contentedly as his labored breathing evens out.

“Ah, geez,” Hunk groans. In spite of his initial irritation at being reduced to a human pillow, Hunk continues to drag his fingers over Shiro’s back, humming soothing sounds whenever he stirs.

“You’re all right,” he whispers when Shiro whimpers softly in his sleep. “You’re gonna be all right.”

There’s Nothing Wrong with Boyfriend

check out this fic me and @homobag worked on together at literally 5 in the morning before a con last May when we couldn’t sleep. they mentioned it to me on the phone just now i was like shit i’ll post what we had.

so it’s pretty rough but still pretty cute.

Keep reading

Beyonce Gets Political, and I Get Snatched Bald: An Overview of Themes and Motifs in the Formation Music Video

It is important that you know, I am not even a Beyonce stan like that. This must be distinctly understood, or nothing wonderful can come of the post I am going to relate. If we were not perfectly convinced of Jacob Marley’s death before the play began, then there would be nothing remarkable about him showing up at his “business” partner’s house to bitch him out in the middle of the night.

It’s also important to note that Beyonce usually doesn’t go in for this sort of thing. She’s not really the Artist/Activist type. This video is the most political she has ever gotten, and I swear it took the convergence of Black Lives Matter, Black History Month, Mardis Gras, a Nat Turner Rebellion movie, the blatant disrespect of casting a white man to play Michael Jackson, and all the planets to bring us this blessing. Many have said Formation is the phrase, “I love my blackness, and yours.” given physical form. It is all that and more.

Originally posted by lahnvahn

This opening line prepares us for the realness to come

Let’s start with the fact that Formation features a voice over by Big Freedia the Queen Diva of NOLA Bounce. If you don’t know Bounce music, or you don’t know Big Freedia–and if you don’t know Bounce, you won’t know Big Freedia–let me direct you to Youtube so you can educate yourself. I recommend you start with Excuse, and Y’all Get Back Now. Big Freedia also has a very nice feature in Ru Paul’s Peanut Butter.

All throughout this video we are treated to imagery from Black queer culture, from Big Freedia’s voice-over, to dancers, to queens just slaying in the beauty shop. Again, if you are unfamiliar with the richness of Black queer culture, I direct you to the internet, because there’s just too much to explain. Start with Paris Is Burning on Netflix and go from there I guess? Like, literal books have been written and it is too big an undertaking for me alone. But Formation is an anthem for Black Femmes as much as it is for Blackness in general.

Originally posted by yoncehaunted

Beyonce heard all y’all talking that shit about “Why is her hair always done, but she can’t make sure her baby’s hair is done?” Uh, because Blue is a child, and that is her NATURAL HAIR, and she clearly is ROCKING IT.

In fact, this video features A WEALTH of natural hair, textured hair, weaves, perms, braids, Black hair in general.

Note: Baby hairs are small, fine, wispy hairs on your hairline that your mother would brush or gel in a specific way. If you don’t know what a baby hair is, ask a Black person, or someone with “ethnic” hair (gag).

Originally posted by yoncehaunted

Originally posted by freekumdress

Originally posted by 711vevo

In fact, every single person in this video is Black except for the cops.

And let’s talk about that scene

Originally posted by ecstasyformyears

A little black boy dancing his heart out in front of a line of cops in riot gear,

and the cops put their hands up. YES YES YES YES YESYEYSYESYES!!!!!

Originally posted by dorawinifredread

Please note the multiple nods to Majorette culture (okay ladies, now let’s get in formation, prove to me you got some coordination, slay trick or you get eliminated) which is very southern.

Formation is very southern

Originally posted by nerd4music

From Southern Gothic imagery

to people dressed for Mardis Gras

To the scenes with people dressed in 19th century Creole garb, in their parlors, with fans.

Now let’s examine some of the lyrics:

My Daddy Alabama, Mama Louisiana

This is more than a statement about Beyonce’s roots. The vast majority of Black Americans can trace their ancestry to the South, after many of us moved to northern cities in the Great Migration. To this day, the majority of Black people in the US live in the South. I’m a New Yorker for generations back on either side, but guess what? The family reunion each year is held in Virginia, because that’s where my people come from.

I like my negro nose and Jackson Five nostrils

There has literally never been a more full-throated, stalwart, stark as hell positive affirmation of Blackness in mainstream, popular media since the original Black Is Beautiful movement in the 60′s. Maybe not since the Harlem Renaissance? I predict In a few years, people will be inverting their contours and getting plastic surgery to achieve the coveted Jackson Five nostril. Only by then they’ll rename it something more palatable to the mainstream (Read: white people).

I got hot sauce in my bag

Let me tell you something about my septuagenarian Grandparents: they literally always have a bottle of hot sauce in their car. Like many retirees, they like to travel, take cruises, do old people stuff. Never have they ever gone anywhere without a bottle of hot sauce. Never has my grandfather been in a restaurant and not requested hot sauce–even though he always has his own.

As I type this, I have a bottle of hot sauce on my night stand, next to my bed. Why? Because I put that shit on everything, and it’s just more convenient to keep it handy. I put hot sauce on pepperoni pizzas. Sometimes I sip out of the hot sauce bottle like it’s a fine wine.

I make all this money, but they’ll never take the country out me

A reminder to never forget your roots, a statement about preserving your identity under the pressures of assimilation, or commentary on respectability politics–no matter how much money you make, how famous you become, you’ll always be Black to the powers that be? Trick question. It’s all three

Originally posted by northgang


Note: Red Lobster is known to be the de-facto Black date night restaurant. I have no idea why.

All of this culminates in Beyonce, sprawled atop a NOLA police car, sinking into the flood waters of Katrina. She metaphorically drowns the police in a flood caused by the colossal abdication of responsibility by those in power at the expense of the disenfranchised. She is prostrated on the symbolic corpse of the oppressor as it is subsumed by water.

I Literally Can Not.

Other images that made me want to praise dance:

  1. Black man riding a horse down the street. Little known fact, Black people were some of the first cowboys in the American west. For the most famous example, see the actual man The Lone Ranger is based off of.
  2. The newspaper with the picture of Martin Luther King and front page headline that read, “More Than A Dreamer.” A reference to the #ReclaimMLK movement, which is about countering the sanitized, white-washed, commodified version of his message with the reality of his radicalism.
  3. The fact that the portraits on the walls of the mansion are of Black women
  4. I slay, I slay, I slay

@crissle, @melinapendulum, @chescaleigh, @jemandthediazepams

anonymous asked:

Could I get a tattoo artist/florist au with Tattoo Artist!Asahi? Maybe the reader comes by with flowers to thank him for the tattoo he did on her and he just gets so flustered and happy? ;u;

Admin Emma might have gotten a bit carried away on this… and whoops, accidental AsaDai (My Most Legendary of Rare Pairs). Please request more of this; this is literally all I want to write. 
~Admin Emma

With the custom stained-glass windows installed, your little flower shop was finally complete, and you’d never been happier. The sun cast glittering patterns in soft, pastel colors, warming your shop with its light and heat. With the soft, acoustic music you had playing in the background, you hoped it had an inviting atmosphere. People came to buy flowers for a reason, and you wanted to make the process as painless as possible. You wanted to accommodate every type of emotion, from grief to exuberance to jittery excitement; all were welcome. At least, that was the vibe you were going for. You’d settled in a young, hip part of town; you had an open door policy. Everything was going according to plan. You loved it there.

On a particularly blase Monday afternoon, you were sitting at the counter, doing your books. It was a slow period, and your coffee steamed merrily away while you filled out orders and input receipts. Suddenly, heavy footfalls echoed through your store, disappearing among the potted orchids. You set your pen down, wiping your hands on your apron out of habit, prepare to greet your new customer.

You opened your mouth to welcome him, but your breath caught in your throat; he was fucking gorgeous–tall and solidly built, with well defined, muscles, a narrow waist, and thick arms and legs. His face was chiseled, adorned with the perfect amount of scruff, and his long, brown hair was tied in a messy knot at the back of his head. His battered jeans and fitted black t-shirt definitely worked for him, and the leather wrist cuff and leather cord on his neck made you a little bit weak… but what really drew your attention were the tattoos.

Dozens of colorful pieces of art ran up and down his arms, disappearing into the sleeves of his shirt. You couldn’t even follow them all, there were so many–from the geometric patterns on his forearms, to the star on the webbing between his thumb and forefinger to the watercolor rose on the inside of his upper arm–they were gorgeous. You’d never seen so many. You were vaguely aware that you were ogling, but you didn’t really have to worry about it, because his whiskey-brown eyes were trained on a gorgeous, vivid blue orchid. His gaze was sharp with concentration, like he was analyzing it petal by petal.

You cleared your throat because dammit, you were a professional! And he was a customer and you would greet him like a normal fucking person!

“Hello,” you squeaked (just a little). “Um… welcome! Is there something I can help with?”

“Hmm?” Tattooed-hot-guy turned towards you (oh, fuck, his face was cute too–carved by the Gods, this one) and flashed you the sweetest, most genuine smile–the type of smile that made your stomach drop somewhere in the vicinity of your feet. You felt like you were falling. “Oh, sorry, no. I’m just looking.”

“Looking for something in particular?” You straightened your shirt–it probably didn’t need it, but you were at a loss for what to do with your hands.

“Um, it’s sort of…ah,” he stuttered, rubbing at the back of his neck with his large hand (and oh no, he was shy too? This didn’t bode well for your self-control) before his attention flickered back to the orchids. “I’m looking for inspiration, if that makes sense.”

“Ah,” you chuckled dryly. You swallowed–when had the air gotten so warm and dry? “Trying to impress your muse?”

“Not necessarily,” tattoo guy replied. “I own the little shop down the street–Ink Black Studios? I’ve been looking to like… I don’t know, do some organic sketches? Flowers seemed a good place to start.”

“And the orchid spoke to you?” You tilted your head, watching the gears work behind his eyes. You always loved artists, and this was why–watching the way they thought and saw the world and processed it… it fascinated you.

“Sort of,” he said. “I was actually looking for stuff with more volume? I love chrysanthemums and hydrangeas–as far as drawing is concerned, anyway. They’re gorgeous, and I love the fullness and the texture. But the colors on this one… do these even occur in nature?”

“Orchids come in so many colors,” you responded. “They’re tropical, which means they’re a little tricky to care for, but they can occur in a truly baffling variation of colors. I’ve seen blood red ones, pink ones, bright orange… you name it!”

“Well, they’re really beautiful,” he said. He fished in his messenger bag, pulling out a small sketch book about the size of a tablet. “You mind if I sketch for a bit?”

“I don’t mind at all,” you replied with a grin. Any excuse to spend more time with him, yeah? “Just let me know if you need help.”


His name was Azumane Asahi. He was a tattoo artist and piercer, the owner of a small studio down the road from you. He owned the place with two friends from high school. He was also an amazing artist. He had this way of capturing life, movement, and the perfect imperfections of organic material. He had been kind enough to let you flip through his sketchbook, and you’d been so impressed by his work. A sketch of a pair of delicate, demurely-folded, tattooed hands had nearly taken your breath away, and the portrait of a broad man with squared features and a warm smile was so loving in its small details, you had to wonder if this was Asahi’s significant other. A man that beautiful–that sexy–couldn’t possibly be single.

But the potential status of Asahi wasn’t the reason you were spending your off day bringing a voluminous bouquet of brightly-colored carnations–your personal underrated favorite flower, no matter what anyone said–to Ink Black Studios. You’d considered a tattoo for a long time, and you finally had an idea of what you wanted, and Asahi seemed the perfect person for what you were looking for.

You weren’t sure what you expected with Ink Black, but it certainly wasn’t what you got. The sign above the door depicted a blackbird in flight, with ‘Ink Black’ in big, bold English lettering with the corresponding kanji underneath. You could hear music drifting out from the open door, and from what you could see through the tall windows, the shop was empty, but it was also brightly lit, warm and welcoming. There were three stations set up along the back wall: one was meticulously organized and clean–almost Spartan in its minimalist nature, with everything in its proper place; one was organized chaos, with art, inspiration, and sundry doo-dads pinned on the walls; one was what one would expect from an artist’s table, with a sketch table and various tools and implements in their own cubbies. Instead of swatches and samples of tattoos on the walls, like you’d seen in other places, there were gorgeous watercolor paintings and evocative photographs. The place smelled like a combination of disinfectant (a comforting smell, considering what they were dealing with) and warm spice.

Gathered around a glass counter filled with neatly-arranged displays of body jewelry were three unbelievable attractive men in their mid-twenties. Asahi you recognized, and you couldn’t help but notice that he’d forgone his normal t-shirt or soft sweater–his normal aesthetic–for a racerback tank top and dark jeans. You were treated to even more of Asahi’s tattoos, from the three crows over his heart, to the sanskrit under his collarbone, to the fox that extended from the base of his neck over the back of his shoulder.

The guy behind the counter was slim and pretty, with a killer smile. From what you could see of his arms, they were literally covered in a floral tattoo sleeve. Not a single inch of naked skin was visible from his wrists to his shoulders, and the semi-transparent material of his pastel blue t-shirt exposed even more of them over his left side. They matched his snake-bite piercings and the small star tattoo under his right eye (to correspond with the beauty mark under his left eye); his thick, wavy ashen hair was styled in a trendy undercut, and he looked every inch the effortless-rock-star most people strived for, but never achieved.

The other guy was solidly built, a little shorter than Asahi, and square-featured–you recognized him from the sketch in Asahi’s sketchbook. His hair was a conservative, short style, but the classic Boy Next Door look was slightly besmirched by the gauged plugs in his ears, the crow tattoo on his neck, the dragon on his upper arm (revealed by the rolled sleeves of his fitted black t-shirt), and the two names on his arm–Sora and Kaiyo. He was leaning heavily on Asahi, and his warm brown eyes caught yours with interest.

Asahi glanced up from the sketch he was working on, shooting you a shy grin; “____! This is… a surprise. What brings you here?”

You shuffled your feet, careful not to drop the vase you were carrying; “I brought you these. You’re always keeping me company, so I figured given that I’m closed today, I’d stop by and say hi. Are these the other artists you were telling me about?”

The one with the floral sleeves shot you a wide grin; “I’m Suga, and this is Daichi. We co-own Black Ink with Asahi. Are those carnations?”

Suga pointed to the vase in your hands and you started a bit; “Hm? Oh, right! Yes! I just figured… if it was ok… Asahi said he liked flowers with texture and volume, so I figured I’d bring them over. They’re low pollen and will last a couple weeks if you keep the water fresh.”

“They’re really pretty, ____. Thanks,” Asahi said sincerely. His smile was so wide and bright, and he had such a precious blush on his face, that it took your breath away. “I’ll put them at my station. I was hoping to get some sketches in today, but… well, you weren’t in. I didn’t realize you closed on Mondays.”

“I don’t get a lot of traffic, so until I get my feet under me, I figured it’s probably not worth turning the lights on,” you replied. “I still stop by to water the plants and stuff, though, so… umm… let me know if you ever want to stop by on a Monday. I can make an exception for you.”

“Ah,” Asahi chuckled shyly, scratching at the back of his neck. It was such an adorable gesture for someone so… large. And sexy. “Well, I appreciate it, but you don’t have to make exceptions for me.”

“What if I want to?” You regretted the words the instant they left your mouth, especially when you got a knowing smirk from Daichi. Asahi’s blush crept up the back of his neck, but he still looked so happy. His warm brown eyes sparkled when he looked at you, and his smile was so wide and sincere it made your stomach drop with exhilration. “To be honest, I’m not here just to deliver flowers and say hi.”


“Yes. I’m… I’m looking to hire you. I’d like you to give me my first tattoo, Asahi.”


He watched you walk out of the store that afternoon with an appointment and a concept sketch that he would finetune over the course of the day. Next Monday… next Monday he would have you at his station, laying back under his hands, totally trusting him to put his art on your body. To be honest, the feeling made butterflies the size of condors flutter in his stomach, and he couldn’t hide his goofy grin when he gazed at the flowers you’d brought. He’d thought you were a beautiful person when he’d seen you in the flower shop the first time, and he’d kept going back. Over and over, he would go back, because he wanted you… but that was only if you were willing to share…

As if on cue, Daichi’s chin dropped heavily on his shoulder, pressing a chaste kiss to the sun kanji under Asahi’s ear.

“____ was cute,” Daichi stated frankly, his deep voice like a balm on Asahi’s nerves. “What do you think?”

“Daichi, you know I love you, right?” Asahi said softly, leaning gently into Daichi’s affectionate touch.

“Of course. And I told you, I’m cool with a third if you are. And like I said, I like ____. They seem cool, and I want to get to know them.”

“You’re sure?” Asahi turned towards Daichi, reassured by his gentle smile and the tight squeeze around his middle. “Alright then… we’ll bring it up when they come in on Monday.”

Daichi buried his face in Asahi’s hair while he set to work on your tattoo. He was so excited, he was even able to ignore Suga’s over-exaggerated gagging noises at their clear show of affection.

Asahi suddenly couldn’t wait for a week to pass.

anonymous asked:

can we have headcanons in which MC is brazilian and speaks portuguese?? I see a ton of headcanons for Hispanic MC but never brazilian MC;;;

a|n: so sorry with my portuguese i honestly suck at it so i had to ask my dear friend G for translations lolol. i hope i did this justice! enjoy~

RFA + Brazilian / Portuguese speaking MC


  • zen overheard you one day talking on the phone
  • with a language he was not familiar of
  • and he was watching you without you noticing ( he could feel his face heat up in the process due to embarrassment of knowing only 1 language his entire life )
  • you sounded so sexy during the call that he was gulping the entire time while listening in on you as he watched your mouth works
  • because the language strangely fitted you so much??
  • you were just so hot the entire time you spoke and he couldn’t help but feel more attraction towards you
  • he liked how your lips puckered and pouted whenever you speak the language [ zen mental note: learn said language for mc ]
  • he was blushing so hard / i bet you 5 bucks dude is already imagining lots of stuffs lolol / ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)
  • “Não me venha com essa porra!” you harshly clicked the end button of your phone and huffed in annoyance when you felt zen’s arms wrap around your waist, a suggestive smirk plastered upon his features
  • “Babe, you sound so hot.” he whispered to your ear as he gently bit it, teasing you, giving you some suggestive thoughts goSH TONE IT DOWN BOI
  • all your irritation and anger immediately dissipated to thin air and was replaced with playful teasing
  • he was so surprised with what you did next tho
  • “Você está tentando me seduzir?” you smirked towards him and he blushed so hard since he wAS NOT USED TO YOU BEING THIS ASSERTIVE
  • “U-uh … Erm, what?” he!! was!! confused!! [ ok since he looked so cute confused so more points for zen ]
  • “I said … Are you trying to seduce me?” you licked your lower lip as you wrapped your arms around his neck, making him lean back a bit
  • he was blushing hard he looked like a tomato lolol
  • “You do not mess with a latina, boy.”
  • your playfulness definitely woke the beast within


  • “Eu não terminei com você ainda!” you blinked and you got so pissed when you saw that the call ended “Ugh! Merda!”
  • she blinked when she noticed how angry your tone was
  • but she dared not interrupt you while your head was still hot
  • she studied spanish back in college and the language you used sounded a bit like it but she knew that at the same time, it isn’t
  • she was actually fascinated that you were bilingual
  • when you stomped your foot while dragging a chair to sit on just to let out your frustration, it was now her cue to make herself known
  • “Is something wrong, MC? Who was that?” she asked innocently as she went to the sink to wash her hands
  • “Oh! Uhm, nothing special …” you tried to laugh it off but when she looked straight at you through the rim of her glasses you sighed
  • she knew something was up momma jaehee can sense distress a kilometer away
  • “Well, it’s someone really insignificant and it started when I left home …” you began as you slowly relayed to her a piece of your life
  • “Oh, uh … Wow? I … really didn’t know you were half-brazilian …” she said shyly “This explains why you have your lovely curves. Well, I have really taken notice to your foreign features quite a while now.”
  • you shook your head and held her hand while telling her that it’s okay and whatever she might be thinking she did lacking, you really didn’t mind it even a bit
  • “You are a really beautiful person, MC. I like the smooth texture of your lips as well.” when she said this, you were surprised especially since she blushed, “I learned Spanish as an elective back in college but I never thought Portuguese is a beautiful language itself. Would you mind teaching me?”
  • you nodded your head happily as you enveloped her to a loving hug
  • “Sure! I’ll teach it to you! But since you have grounds for Spanish then you won’t have a hard time in pronunciation!”


  • this dude here
  • only stared at you and smirked when he heard you talk portuguese to elizabeth the 3rd one night
  • though he did not notify you that he heard you say the language
  • you also did not really bring it up with him that you were brazilian
  • it was very evident on your facial features that you had foreign blood too and he honestly loved how soft it made you look while being feisty at the same time
  • and he had little to no care about what language you can speak he wants you bilingual or not
  • “Durma minha princesa …” you murmured as elizabeth purred on your grasp, getting herself comfortable on your lap [ your heart skipped a beat when she rubbed her head on your hand awwweeee ]
  • there are times when you just speak portuguese around jumin but he dare not say anything aBOUT IT THAT YOU JUST ASSUMED HE CAN’T UNDERSTAND YOU
  • so one day
  • when you met with a friend on the exclusive cafe below the building of his penthouse yes his penthouse has an exclusive cafe downstairs damn rich bois
  • your friend told you she wanted to meet your boyfriend
  • you laughed and told her he’d be home late tonight
  • but she pushed on you making him come home early [ with a little challenge that if he goes home immediately if you begged sweetly then he will fly as fast as lightning just to be with u ]
  • and your mouth literally dropped when he showed up on the door of the coffee shop 20 minutes later after you sent the text oh GODS
  • “J- Jumin??” you gaped when he came to your table, all cool and reserved as he pulled a seat beside you “What are you - you have a meeting right now, right?”
  • “Your welfare always comes first, love.” he smiled towards you and nodded towards your friend who smiled in acknowledgement towards him
  • you three talked a bit and jumin was all friendly and entertaining when your friend suddenly said, “Ele é tão lindo!!”
  • you giggled and agreed furiously, “Sim ele é!!”
  • but what surprised you the most was when he smirked and said, in straight fucking portuguese, the words, “Sério? Então, eu acho que eu deveria agradecer a ambos por pensar assim.”
  • you should have seen it coming, really
  • he speaks portuguese
  • your friend was so embarrassed she excused herself after an awkward gaping moment she’s like: bye all imma holla out here
  • when your friend left, jumin turned to you and wiggled his brows suggestively while smiling seductively
  • your cheeks were turning a deep shade of wine red [ bye earth im gonna miss you so much ]
  • “I honestly would prefer more the term ‘gorgeous’ than ‘beautiful’.”
  • gosh darn it


  • you both were playing lolol when it happened
  • it was because yoosung was able to thrash you for the 3rd time guess the god of games weren’t with you tonight
  • that you accidentally cursed in portuguese
  • at first he was like “???” all confused in what you were saying
  • his nose scrunched as he narrowed his eyes towards you, trying to understand what you were saying
  • “Porra! i perdeu novamente! Eu não posso acreditar nisso!” 
  • you kept on repeating it until your frustration toned down and yoosung was just??
  • is that my girl??
  • why is she speaking alienese omg
  • i can’t understand her oh god
  • yup, he’s panicking since he assumed even though you’re brazilian [ you told him yep ] you grew up in korea yourself but NO
  • you can speak your language
  • he was very fond of your eye colors too
  • and you looked so mad he grew more afraid
  • “M- MC?” he called out on a teeny tiny voice while touching your arm
  • your head snapped his way and he yelped in surprise
  • you blinked when you saw terrified he was of you and you released an strangled sigh while huffing and puffing then crossing your arms over your chest
  • “I hate this! How come you beat me up tonight? 3 times straight too! Gosh!” you said with a pout while he just
  • stared
  • at
  • you
  • dumbfounded
  • “Huh?? What? You were saying something, MC??” boooooi you’re not even listening gosh yoosung
  • “Surdo …” you whispered under your breath
  • and he narrowed his eyes at you
  • “Omg! Are you trash talking me, MC?!” he said in a light accusing tone
  • you shook your head and held up your fingers in a peace sign while grinning sheepishly at him
  • “Last one to start a game suck eggs!” you laughed and he immediately hurried to load his computer screen while grumbling something under his breath you didn’t get
  • little did you know he mentally made a note to secretly learn your language so he can understand you in secret


  • he knew
  • this dude here knew yet he acted dumb
  • just so he can see how pleasured you are that he does not know the only language you spoke out of all the languages he can speak
  • just so you can complain and compliment him under your breath
  • with you thinking
  • he
  • does
  • not
  • know
  • “Por que você faz meu coração disparar?” you once muttered under your breath when he brought you breakfast in bed when you were sick
  • and he smirked contentedly saeyoung dude is more savaged than jumin tho in acting innocent as if he can’t understand you
  • you find him strangely smiling to himself whenever you get mad and the brazilian blood just comes out and slips
  • until one time
  • when you spilled water all over your shirt when you were drinking
  • “Oh deus!” you yelped and squinted on your now wet shirt as you tried to ease the wetness by pulling the sticking cloth off your skin gently
  • “O que aconteceu, MC?”
  • luciel
  • slipped
  • you stared at him wide-eyed
  • he stared back at you without any expression on his face
  • “Oopsie ~ Eu escorreguei.” he gently sing-songy said while raising his fingers and forming a V sign
  • with his poker face
  • then he ran while snickering
  • tickle war: commence!
Guilty Pleasure-V(Smut)

Originally posted by blvck0cean

He’s an obsession, an addiction you can’t erase. And do you want to? 

A/N: Some kinky Tae smut since I haven’t quenched your thirst in a while

I hope you enjoy this nonnies, much love~

It’s completely dark in the apartment upon my arrival, pitch black greeting me coldly from the bright hallway. I don’t remember leaving the lights all off, but shrug it off as absentmindedness, after all the days have been blurring together as of late.

Flipping on the nearest light switch I nearly scream, finding Taehyung standing in the center of my living room, a possessive look on his face as his eyes roam my body. Taehyung. The man I’d just told I couldn’t see just days before, the man whose relationship with me only existed in sex and late night phone calls.

Since he’d left I couldn’t find pleasure anywhere, not in fingers, not in toys, not in the other men I’d picked up along the sidewalks of bars. But I knew something about our relationship wasn’t right, for when it came down to it, no matter how much I truly cared for him, I was still using him to get over my ex.

And although every night we spent together were the most erotically pleasurable days of my life, I still felt some guilt lingering on the trails behind me along the stains in my bed. He stalks towards me, nothing but pure dominance in every one of his features. His crafted fingers sail quickly over the zipper of my running hoodie, obviously pleased to find nothing but a thin sports bra beneath it.

“Taehyung, I-”  

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askhooversweeps  asked:

Hey what are your thoughts on the whole Breana Wu "Revolution 60" game fiasco? If you haven't heard of it, well lets just say its crazy rad fems being crazy rad fems, only this time they whine and complain that people call their overfunded POS game what it is... a POS overfunded game. Oh also there was the whole censoring steam forums and comments, making the green-light project private, begging for votes so it could be published on steam. All sorts of lovely crooked stuff.

Yeah, I know.  They also begged people on Facebook to get Steam accounts to vote it up.

Even if I knew nothing about the game’s background, I would have had the same reaction to seeing the trailer for it.  The models are just as sexualized (if not moreso) than the games people like Wu complain about (as someone else pointed out to me, you can even see the bellybuttons on the models, which is not how clothing works), they are literally all the exact same model with different hair and outfits (and slightly different heights), the textures are GARBAGE, and the backgrounds would be embarrassing for a PS1 game.

As for the gameplay, it relies heavily—HEAVILY—on QTE (quick time events), which would be bad for an Xbox Live indie game, let alone anything released on Steam.  Of all the ways to approach a combat system, QTEs are the worst, because they diminish the player’s ability to play on their own terms.  It’s just the game making predetermined choices for you, and relying on you to hit a button at the right time in order to activate them.  They seriously described this sad excuse for a “game” as “Heavy Rain meets Mass Effect”, as if Heavy Rain was even a good game to begin with.  Critical accolades and “atmosphere” don’t mean shit when you have to lug some shmuck into his bathroom, and then watch him shave his face for like ten fuckin’ minutes.  Heavy Rain could have been interesting as a movie, but as a game, it’s just not something a lot of people would decide on if they actually wanted to have fun.  As for Revolution 60, it was originally intended to be just an iOS game, but for some reason, they thought it would be a good idea to port it to the PC.  I cannot stress enough how big of a pile of shit this game is.

Look at the texture on the fuckin’ coat on the right:

That’s flat-out slapping on a textured look with complete disregard for its placement.  It’s like using “texture fill” in Photoshop, except in 3D.  I would not be the least bit surprised to find out that they used a low-res image of a really ugly carpet.  The only things that seem the slightest bit bumpmapped are their hair, and even so, it looks atrocious.

I have personally re-textured models—something I never took any classes to learn how to do, and only did for shits and giggles to mess around with the games I was playing—and I have made textures that look better than these.


As a point of comparison, here are two screenshots from System Shock 2, which was released for the PC in 1999:

This game released 16 YEARS ago has better-looking backgrounds than Revolution 60.  They also have this amazing thing called “lighting” that more reputable developers utilize in their games in order to make them not look like Play-doh.

As for the character designs, they straight-up look like someone’s terrible deviantArt OCs.  Their designs are basically what happens when a 10-year-old discovers anime, but hasn’t yet grasped how anatomy works.

I know there’s such a thing as “artistic style”, but every single model in this game has chronic baboon face.  It’s something I’ve seen time and time again from weeaboo youngins, and I’m not sure why.  The infamous “Dancing Base” is a good example of this (added bonus:  Look at all those “diverse” skinny white women!)


That yellow texture in the background is so goddamned ugly, they wouldn’t have even printed it on a pair of Zubaz in the early 90’s.  Also, someone apparently forgot about some very important things called “shadows”.

Point blank:  It’s an ugly-looking game with terrible design choices, abhorrent gameplay, practically nonexistent lighting, extremely limited player interaction, animation that would only look comfortable in a short-lived CGI Saturday morning cartoon from the mid 90’s, and a “plot” that sounds more like bad fanfiction.

The fact that the developers behind the game are deceptive individuals using underhanded means to both promote and force the game through development is just a bonus.

As a woman who—unlike Brianna Wu—actually plays and gives a fuck about games, I can tell you with complete certainty that the inevitable failure of Revolution 60 has nothing to do with “sexism”, and everything to do with a group of people who somehow took four years to take a shit, and called the resulting fecal offspring a “video game”.

I Helped An Autistic Child Today

I’ve figured at least one of the two kids I nanny for is on the spectrum since I started. But the more I learn about my own stuff, the more clearly I see it in him.

I have also started seeing how enormously much it helps me, to learn about stimming and how I stim and what it does for me, to learn about sensory overload and what it looks like when I am in sensory overload and what I need to do around that, about which things are my “autistic obsessions”, etc. And noticing how much he needs that.

Like, on Monday I figured out after several hours (!) that he was in sensory overload and wrapped a scarf around him (with his permission first!!) to see if it would help him focus enough to finish his homework. And it let him focus enough to do his homework for the first time all night, after something like three hours of trying SO HARD. Boy, do I know that feel.

So, he’s been battling with his parents for ages over “screen time”. He’s 12 and several of his biggest passions require the computer – Minecraft and video editing especially. And he will do ANYTHING to be able to use it. And his parents and grandparents think he’s too focused on the computer, think he spends too much time on it, think he’s addicted to it, think he needs to limit his time with it. Most of you probably know what that’s like.

Today I made a list for him. I wrote:


There are 2 kinds of brains:




ALLISTIC brains are:

* Good at reading the expressions on people’s faces and their body language.

* Good at picking up subtext without having to consciously learn it.
* Tend to have more broad but superficial interests; can enjoy many things but does not tend to explore them deeply.
* May have a hard time understanding the emotional subtext of online communication without emoticons or “mood” tags.
* Often say inaccurate or untrue things in conversation in order to make others happy or to seem smarter or better.
* Frequently have a hard time challenging their own ideas about the world; rarely research or change their beliefs.
* Tend to be physically coordinated and hav an easy time following physical instructions, but are less aware of physical input from their bodies.

AUTISTIC brains are: 

* Great at finding patterns in everything.
* When interested in something, set out to learn as much as possible about it and tell anybody they can about it.
* Tend to be very precise and take things literally.
* Often do not understand the rules of social situations right away, has to learn things like how to make small talk, or how to keep talking to people even if you’re bored.
* Can be very sensitive to light, sound, temperature, texture, & taste.
* Often easily distracted.
* May have a bad short-term memory: info like people’s names, what they told you, or where you just put your backpack just disappears from your brain. (Can have amazing long-term memory though!)
* Likes repeating sounds, words, sentences, songs. (This is called echolalia.)
* Likes repeatedly looking at, touching, tapping, playing with stuff – it calms the nervous system and feels good.

Some people have brains that are all one of these two types, or mostly one of them. Some people have more of a mixture.


I asked him which type of brain he thought he had. He said he thought he had the second one. We talked a little bit about how we both had the same kind of brain, and about how, guess what, people with our kind of brain really NEED time to explore our special interests, and that we also really need time after school or work to sit down and relax and do something calming. I.E., two more reasons he ought to get to use the computer without all these limits. (I wrote these down for him and added that the calming thing has to be something that we’re interested in so we can focus on doing it!)

But what blew my mind and made me SO happy was that right away, he started to see how different things he did were because of his autistic brain. And then when his mom came home and yelled at him for things that were clearly because of how his brain works (like dropping boxes and stubbing his toe and yelling really loudly about it, which she thought was mostly him clowning around inappropriately), he immediately stood up for himself!

He told her that it wasn’t fair of her to yell at him for things that are just because of how his brain works. He showed her the list I made (actually he basically waved it in her face, lol). And he stuck with it even when she didn’t believe him.

When he showed her the list, she backed down a little. But she said it was an explanation, not an excuse, and that maybe the list would be helpful in showing them ways that they could help him be more social and change this stuff. Don’t worry, everybody: I’m going to introduce him to Tumblr next time I see him. So that should take care of THAT. By next Friday I am confident that he will be quoting large chunks of all your posts to her and radicalizing the entire household. <3

Feel free to reblog if you like the handout, or for any reason. I ran out of room, I wanted to say a lot more about communication stuff and physical stuff – I know that that list doesn’t even scratch the surface for a lot of us. But at least it helped him get started!

Ma Halamshiral [Part II]

Ma Halamshiral - The End of Your Long Journey

(Solas x Isii Lavellan - with a good sampling of friendly Cullen fluff.)

This is part two of a three-part fic. Here’s the link to Part I if you missed it.

Previously: Isii struggled to cope with the complexities of being a Dalish elf visiting Halamshiral. Josephine had her preparing for weeks for this moment. So far, she has held it together, despite her distaste for the whole affair.


Vivienne, if she could be trusted, would have been a good choice for this mission. Blackwall also had his merits that would put him forth as a candidate. Solas suspected that Isii had selected him to accompany her out of affection and favoritism. In other circumstances, he would say her judgment was flawed, that she was letting her feelings guide her decisions.

Little did she know he was the best equipped player of the Game she had within the Inquisition.

He found a comfortable spot, leaning against a decorative statuette. It was a good place to watch and to listen; to hunt without moving a muscle. He’d procured a small plate of frilly cakes which, despite their ridiculous name, he had always had a fondness for. Their texture was smooth on the tongue, buttery and rich. Sweet, but with a subtlety that would have been lost on even the finest pastry chefs in Ferelden. He washed them down with sips of red wine, dark and full-bodied with a pleasant silky finish. Though they did not know what to make of him, the servants were more than generous in refilling his glass. He did not make any gestures to stop them, though he knew he should limit himself at some point in the evening. The things he allowed himself to indulge in were few in number, though the list of his desires had recently been growing. Compared to certain other ideas his mind had been toying with, cakes and wine were simple things.

Most of the humans here were mundane. While their words spoke of lofty ambition, in the end they remarked only on petty squabbles and insignificant gripes. Still, there remained a sense of urgency in their languid socializing. The humans feared one another, feared slipping up, saying the wrong word, posing the wrong gesture. Death, whether literal or political, was a threat that lingered in each of their breaths. Child’s play. He remembered when the Game was played for much higher stakes than this.

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Ah, the classic “no you see prefer to play a female character, so really I’m on your side” argument. How about go fuck yourself, because just because you play a female character as a dude does not mean you get to shit on women when they mention their under-representation in the gaming industry. Playing a female character =/= knowing what it’s like to be a woman or able to speak about what women should or should not criticize.

It bugs me because that’s just how game development works and these people don’t seem to understand. When creating a game with multiracial and gender protagonist options a white human male is always the default. Not because of sexism but because that’s where the rest of the race and gender design stems from.  (emphasis mine)

Wow. A serious case of someone talking straight out of their privileged ass. 

Dude later goes onto to say that he only meant the women who complained rudely or snarkily that the Inquisitor was male and those are the people he was speaking about, not everyone. That’s what’s ridiculous - being rude or snarky about it, instead of openly constructive and polite. Meanwhile, he’s riding the throne of hypocrisy with his ending statement that those rude and snarky complainers: “that’s F***ing ridiculous”. 

We don’t get to be rude, but he does.

You know, I could really give less of a rats ass where the modeling starts. It doesn’t bother me that a human male is modeled first ‘cause that's literally one of the first things done in a game - beginning to model your assets. Gotta start somewhere. But at the point in the state, our newly modeled male is not a white male until some textures are applied to him. 

But then excusing it as a template and the trailer is only reflecting that? When the game is nearly finished, has a release date, and enough gameplay footage that a female inquisitor could definitely have been used in addition to a male inquisitor? No.

Am I upset a female wasn’t shown? Sure, but not surprised, and only privately (until this post). But they could have a trailer coming with a female inquisitor. We don’t know. Box art is seemingly gender neutral. Cassandra was featured pretty heavily in the trailer as well.

Marketing decisions are crazy and tend to take the safe route - and the 'safe route’ is generic white male. And that is because of ingrained cultural sexism and racism. That the default is always without question a white male is the product of ingrained sexism and racism, and to say otherwise is completely ignorant.

You know? I almost want to see BioWare market their next game with a variable gender protagonist completely with the female version. Not because I think it’s my due or would make strides in the right direction and be ambitious (it would) but because I think the reaction of all these 'allies’ would be great to watch unfold.

Brooke prompted: in any public place: I could swear you keep looking at me, hang on are you drawing me AU

Derek had been in an inspirational funk for over a week- which was excellent luck for someone in an art school with projects piling up and portfolios empty and collecting dust. He only had a few weeks left and this was when he was going to start losing his muse. Derek could almost set a clock to his constant cycle of bad luck.

His third Saturday before finals, Derek rolled out of bed a little after noon, still in his flannel pajama pants and old Beacon Hills basketball shirt, and headed downstairs to the courtyard, art supplies in hand. Derek took a seat under a tree across from a large open space between the dorm rooms and the library, watching a bustling crowd slowly develop, blasting top pop hits as loud as their human ears could handle- which was about twenty times worse to Derek.

Derek first tried sketching out the group (unsuccessfully) playing hacky-sack, but seemed to forget that people usually only possessed two legs and had to scrap his sketch, feeling like his morning endeavor was dead on arrival. Derek retreated from live-action and turned instead to still life, picking up a fallen leaf and mindlessly trying to recreate its shape onto the corner of his blank page, but found himself growing bored before he could even attempt to replicate the leaf’s texture. Derek’s inspiration was dead- he already felt like his senior portfolio was going to be a lost cause.

“Oh my god, Scott- I love this song!” Derek could hear a boy shouting over the music and looked up to try and find the source. He spotted two boys running towards the crowd, one pulling the other along by the sleeve of his shirt as he chased the melody he just couldn’t seem to resist.

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