tops already covered:

((OOC: Well babes, I’m back! Time with the parents was wonderful and highly necessary. I’m home now, and doing what I can to adjust to the new state of the home. And I am taking care of myself slightly more than usual, even, because on my way back through Toronto yesterday, I got a new tattoo!

A bumblebee on a sprig of catnip. A subtle ode to Mort the cat.

So here we are, and home again, and it’s my day off. Shall we get back into the groove of things with a little TMI Tuesday? Or a character ask day? Or a tutorial on how to make eggs? What would you guys like for today?))

anonymous asked:

still waiting for that second alt canon fic ;)

Clexa Week 2017 | day 5 | Alternate Canon/Divergent Canon

It’s a bittersweet feeling.

As she ties the laces of her boots, sat on the edge of her side of the bed, Clarke lets her gaze wander behind herself, where Lexa is sat on the other side, cover still drawn up around her hips.

Lexa’s back is still bare, the lines and circles of her tattoo exposed, stygian tears that run down her back in remembrance of hard times and sacrifice. The little scars that mar the Commander’s back Clarke can see no more, but she knows they are there; she has brushed her fingers and lips over each one of them.

In the serenity of the room, Clarke can almost forget that she is leaving. “That’s why you’re you,” Lexa said, so tender, so understanding, so raw. Sad. Endlessly sad. Yet loving. Painfully loving. Clarke swallows around the lump in her throat, not ready to ponder the words left unsaid.

By the time Clarke has finished making sure there are no traces of the last hours in her appearance (those covered by clothes Clarke wishes would never fade), Lexa is already up, top covering the stains of Clarke’s love, patient hands clasped behind her back, and pants ending on bare feet. She is, somehow, both the image of an innocent young woman and the hardened Commander. How two people can live within one person so seamlessly is still a mystery to Clarke.

She has come to understand, during her unfortunately short stay in Polis, that the Lexa is the embodiment of every person, every clan. She is Trikru, but she wears all other 12 clans of the Coalition with pride, as does her capital. Clarke thinks her lover and Polis are secretly one and the same. Lexa is Polis. Polis is the Commander.

They face each other, fully clothed, measly steps away. They need the distance, Clarke reckons, for she doesn’t know that feeling Lexa’s skin on her own would not finally make her resolve crumble and convince her to stay. Lexa would never do that to her, though. She respects Clarke too much.

“I have to go now,” she says lamely, with a weak gesture towards the door. This goodbye is even harder than their second hello.

Lexa nods. “Yes.”

Again, Lexa doesn’t fumble, doesn’t plead with her eyes, doesn’t ask her to stay. It is, after all, one of the many reasons why Clarke loves her. How much Lexa respects and understands her, listens to her and takes her much less experienced advice into account; never faulting her for the inevitable and the hard choices, yet never ceasing to demand coherence and betterment.

They head to the door and Clarke rests her hand on the handle. “I will come back.” She doesn’t know whether it is something she truly believes or needs to try to believe in order to survive the distance. Leaving Lexa is proving even more difficult than she expected. “I’m sorry I resisted for so long. I’m sorry I didn’t give us more time.”

The tiny, sad smile on Lexa’s lips says all. “It takes as long as it takes.”

Again, Clarke swallows. How can she leave this person, this amazing, understated, misunderstood, outstanding woman, who could make her stay with a word but chooses to let her go?

Clarke’s lips ache with the three words she knows to be true, but she chooses to keep them in. Save them for when she comes back, foster the need to come back to say them.

“It’s time to go,” she whispers finally, her voice a croak, unable to peel her eyes off of Lexa’s despite how much it hurts to read all the words unsaid in them.

What if she takes too long? What if she doesn’t come back at all?

Lexa nods and Clarke averts her gaze, before pushing the handle down, ready to open the door. Then gracile fingers graze the ones on her other hand, seizing them gently. She looks up to find compassionate eyes.

“I will not resent you.”

A sob tears through Clarke’s throat and she crashes their lips together for the last time, hand on the back of Lexa’s neck; pulling her in, wishing that she could take more than the taste of Lexa’s lips back to Arkadia with her.

For all her desperation, passion, need, and already crushing nostalgia, the kiss is gentle. Gentle as the one they shared mere hours ago. Just as emotional, too. This time, though, neither shed a tear.


After she has grabbed everything she needs for the trip back to Arkadia, Lexa is there to see her off, under the resentful glare of Octavia and watchful eyes of Titus. The whole city seems to hang on to this moment.

This goodbye is much stiffer, a mere formality, as though they have already said goodbye and it is only their ghosts now standing by the gates of Polis.

“Thank you for your patience, Commander,” Clarke says, both for show and to show Lexa that she is grateful for not giving up on blood must not have blood. “And thank you for giving us time to return to Arkadia.”

“I seek merely justice, Clarke. I hope that your people will be able to honour my trust.” It is a warning. Another thing Clarke loves about Lexa, in spite of how much it infuriates her: how regardless of their personal relationship, Lexa is not afraid to let her Commander sternness show.

“Don’t worry, Commander,” Clarke reassures truthfully. “Chancellor Pike doesn’t have much time left in command.”

Lexa nods her approval. They have no more excuses to hold off the inevitable.

Clarke nods in return and heads for her horse, Octavia doing the same. The two of them hop on their rides, generously gifted to them by the Commander. Lexa steps up to Clarke’s horse, hands calmly clasped in front of herself. She looks at Octavia, a few feet away, first.

“Ride safely, Octavia kom Skaikru.” At Octavia’s grunt of a reply, Lexa finally turns to Clarke, having merely to tilt her head back and look up. “Do come back, Clarke kom Skaikru. Polis has loved having you here.”

“I fully intend to.” It is all Clarke can do not to let her resolve crumble. “Mebi oso na hit choda op nodotaim, Heda.”

The tiny smile that pulls on one of the corners of Lexa’s lips is for Clarke’s eyes only. “May we meet again, Ambassador.”

kaykay4454fan  asked:

Can you do a jack Maynard imagine where your bf and gf and you do the girlfriend tag or the boyfriend tag and if you get the question wrong you have to get a pie to the face. And can you make it fluffy? FLUFF

“Okay, next question,” Jack said. His top half was already covered in whipped cream from his half of the tag video. “Where did we first say ‘I love you’ to each other?” The answer was instantly in my head.
“Top of the London Eye!”
“Oh my god,” he sighed. “I cannot believe you’ve got them all right!”
“What, you saying you thought I was a bad girlfriend?”
“Well you’re obviously not because I’m the one covered in bloody whipped cream. But there’s still one more question and it could all go wrong!” Jack paused for a dramatic effect. “What is my…” His face edged closer to me until his lips were just touching the shell of my ear. “…star sign?”
“Oh my god,” I sighed.
“Yes! She doesn’t know it! Why am I celebrating? You should know this!”
“I know your birthday but I don’t know your star sign…” Jack picked up the paper plate we’d been using and began piling up whipped cream, creating a frothy white mountain.
“I’m using all of it since this is the last question.” I ran through all of the star signs I could think of, but it didn’t help when Jack placed his head on my shoulder, looking at me and grinning. “You have no idea.”
“You’re right, I don’t! Fuck it, um… Capricorn. I know that’s around winter time.”
“Oh dear,” he sighed dramatically. “Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.” He looked at me, grinning madly. “Incorrect.”
“No, no it’s not! No!”
“It is, I’m a Sagittarius!”
“No, you’re not!” I cried, knowing my impending creamy doom but trying to avoid it.
“Y/N, get in the bathtub.” I stepped in, trying not to slip on the mess that was still there from Jack’s mistakes in his round. “You’re still gonna love me after this, right?” he asked quickly.
“I’m not so sure,” I laughed through a whimper.
“I’ll take that risk.” And with that, I was covered in half melted whipped cream. It dripped from my hair and down my back to my legs so I was completely covered. I wiped it from my eyes and flipped my hair back, and I was met with Jack almost dying from laughter on the bathroom floor. Being honest, I must’ve looked pretty funny. He got himself up and checked the camera. “Oh shit, Y/N. It wasn’t recording.”
“Fuck off.” Jack burst out laughing again and I knew he was joking. “Jack, that is not fucking funny!”
“Yes it is!” He made his way over and helped me out of the tub, engulfing me in a hug once my feet were back on the tiles. He tucked a clump of sticky hair behind my ear. “How do you still look so beautiful covered in whipped cream?”
“Don’t try and worm yourself out of this one, Maynard. You suggested whipped cream, you’re cleaning it up!”
“Could clean you up first,” he muttered with a smirk, placing his hands on my hips and his lips against the skin of my neck. As he kissed the skin, he licked up the cream, sending shivers down my spine. I began relaxing into his arms but he wasn’t escaping his responsibilities.
“Come on, hop to it!” I skipped out of his arms and grabbed a towel. “Then afterwards we can help each other clean up.” I left him with a wink.

Oooh we got a bit saucy towards the end there!

anonymous asked:

Hello! I have a bit of an... odd question. But ths something that has been bothering me greatly. Most of the time I have seen people tell someone that (both in media and real life) "they weren't born for combat". Do you think anyone can become a fighter? Or do you need some "talent"?

No, there’s no such thing. Whether they want to admit it or not, every single person has the capacity for violence.

There are some people are so phenomenally talented like Ernie Reyes Jr., Jet Li, Jackie Chan, Sammo Hung, to name a few, that their skill leaves you breathless with envy. However, the same can be said for any person who is extraordinarily talented like Gabbie Douglass, Shawn Johnson, Nastia Liukin, or any Olympic level athlete. You hear phrases like “they were born for it” tossed around for them, because predestination is an easy way to explain why some people are just more talented than others.

However, by linking their success only to fate does them a disservice. It cuts out the second and perhaps most important aspect of what lead to their success. Hard work.

Being the best is a combination of multiple factors: skill, luck, love, determination, and perseverance.

You can get skill without talent, because what you need to become skilled is a willingness to apply yourself and work hard. You could be the most talented person ever to throw a punch or land a kick in Taekwondo, but if you don’t love it or want to do it then you won’t succeed. You’ll quit.

Martial arts schools have an incredibly high turnover rate because a lot of people do give up. From adults to children (especially children), the vast majority of those who sign up will be gone within the first three months. When I tested for my first black belt, though it was in a group of six or seven candidates, none of them were from the original group I’d started out with. Second and third, however, was with most of the same people at my school from my second test.

Why? Because by that point we’d built a camaraderie, and though we ran the age gamut from fourteen to fifty, we were a team. The ones who stick with it are the ones who stay. It’s not talent, it’s perseverance, and the willingness to put in the extra time.

“Born for it” is just an excuse. It’s easy to comprehend, it’s bite size, easy to swallow, and you don’t have to think about it much beyond that. The failure is outside,  whatever happened this person was always going to fail. It’s not a black mark against them, it’s just fate. Risk free and guilt free. “It’s okay, you weren’t meant for it”.

For me, it’s right up there with “women can’t fight”. You’ve heard it, “nature didn’t build them that way”. “It’s not your place”. People repeat it, even when we have a slews and slews of evidence in any martial arts school around the country that it isn’t true.

“You’ll never be good enough, so why even try?”

Because trying is the only way you will ever be any good. This is true of anything, you have to be willing to stick with it and keep going even when it’s not easy. Keep pushing when it’s hard, volunteer to put in the extra time, do what you don’t have to do.

In my martial arts school (and most schools do this), we had early practice on Saturday mornings at 7am-8:30am at one of the local high schools. We’d work out, run the mile, focus entirely on our conditioning. It was hard. Hard to wake up that early on a weekend, hard to sacrifice the first few hours of the Saturday Morning Cartoon Block, hard to show up rain or shine. It became mandatory at red belt, but the instructors suggested starting as early as blue belt, or even earlier.

The ones who put in the extra time earlier than it was required were the ones most likely to make it to the test. One of the reasons is that training for black belt not only has a conditioning/endurance test, but also a commitment test. Training for black belt takes time, the serious training starts six months in advance (though it really starts earlier than that), and training upgrades from three times a week to five with special and extra practices tacked on to what you’re already doing. Our Saturday Morning practices were taken over by the main organizations and required going down to Willow Glen to train with Master Ernie every Saturday. That required getting up at five in the morning for the hour long commute and getting home at ten. We picked up extra optional Sunday Beach Training for black belt candidates.

That’s just one example.

The most difficult part of training to fight (or any sport) is the time commitment. Training for first degree black belt was 10-15 hours a week (including travel time) on top of the 45 already covered by school. It was often late in the evenings, which meant I had to go to bed early. It left time for little else.

What do I think? I think talent is nice, but not relevant. Determination is, the will to show up even when you don’t want to (and there will be days when you don’t) is, putting in extra time and extra classes when you don’t have to be there is, volunteering around the school and helping your fellow classmates is.

You have to want to be good. You have to be willing to work to get better. Many more talented people will quit. If you work hard, you can go from being worst in the class to best in the class in a year.

You don’t need talent, you need will and to believe that you will improve. Both are much harder to come by.

Still, skills for surviving life.

-Michi

Listen

my cover of truce by twenty one pilots

ft. mom playing piano, the cat meowing, and my brother laughing

edit: now with slightly less crappy singing and no cats or brothers!

anonymous asked:

malec and alec being really cold?


Alec shivered violently, pulling the blankets closer around himself. It didn’t help much. The constant trembling of his muscles was starting to make him feel sick and it was refusing to let him sleep. He curled up into a ball, trying to make himself as small as possible.

‘Alec, you’ve stolen all of the blanket,’ Magnus mumbled sleepily.

‘S-s-sorry,’ Alec said.

‘What’s the matter?’ Magnus asked, suddenly sounding much more awake.

Alec heard Magnus shifting behind him, sitting up so he could look at Alec properly.

‘Cold.’

‘It’s not that cold.’

‘Is.’ He didn’t even have the strength to speak in full sentences.

‘Alexander, why didn’t you wake me up?’ Magnus asked, stroking Alec’s hair and kissing him lightly on the temple.

Alec wanted to say it was because he hadn’t wanted to disturb Magnus, but the words wouldn’t come, so he said nothing. He just shivered and tried to pull the blanket even closer.

‘This is because you were out hunting in the snow all night, isn’t it?’ Magnus said sternly. ‘You said you were fine when you got home. You better not get sick.’

‘I’m fine,’ Alec mumbled. ‘Just cold.’

Too cold.’

Magnus clicked his fingers and a hot water bottle appeared in Alec’s arms in a shower of blue sparks. He clicked his fingers a second time and heavy blanket appeared on top of the one already covering Alec. Then Magnus took Alec into his arms, trying to give him as much of his own body heat as he could.

Alec curled into Magnus, clutching the hot water bottle. He knew he should have told Magnus how cold he was, but he had expected to warm up pretty quickly once he got into bed. But the cold felt as though it had sunk into his very bones, turning his whole body to ice.

‘This is why you should have woken me up,’ Magnus said, gently stroking Alec’s hair. ‘Because I could help you.’

Alec’s shivering gradually receded as the hot water bottle, two blankets and Magnus’ body heat enveloped him, forcing the cold out. Eventually, he fell asleep, head resting on Magnus’ chest and with Magnus’ arms wrapped tightly around him.

(Send a drabble prompt + TMI ship/brotp)

anonymous asked:

I got a promt if you are interested! I love the idea of Emma taking Hook along to pack up her place in New York while Henry is with Regina because Emma thinks it would be good to be away from Regina for a few days. Emma and Hook exploring their new relationship on the trip. If you want to write it, it would really make me happy. Thanks!

This took me a few days to write. I almost gave up on it, but I’m glad I didn’t because the idea really did interest me. And it’s different from the fic that had a very similar idea as this prompt.

Nonnie, I hope you like this version!

Packing Things Away

“Careful with the glass though,” Emma warned as she watched Killian’s attempt to paper wrap the dishes from the kitchen cabinets. “How are you even doing that with only one hand anyway?”

Killian lifted his fake hand that was in place of the usual hook.

“It’s a little bit easier with this,” he said with a shrug. And with a wide grin he continued the task of wrapping dishes for the trip back to Storybrooke.

“Thanks,” Emma told him softly, going back to her own job of clearing out the refrigerator.

It hadn’t been that long since she had been here. Back home in New York City. But now it was packing day. This life was over. And she had this promising future back where she knew was really home: Storybrooke.

She would only be taking the essentials back with her. The personal items that she could not part with. Everything else would be sold off and in the care of, thankfully, her trusted building manager.

“No problem at all, love.” Killian cleared his throat rather noisily. “Emma?”

She turned back to see that he was once again staring at her.

“Yeah?”

“How are you doing?” His hand waved in her direction. “With everything?”

Emma’s brows raised. “You mean with Regina?”

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