#push my limits

[an-experienced-gentleman]

Push my limits. I won't break.

Six Sexy Words

[biggest-gaudiest-patronuses]

every goddamn day i wake up to the era trying to push a new zeitgeist on me and i just keep clicking 'remind me later'

[applestruda]

[wishfulsketching]

Well, I tried to doodle the team. And Thor and [insert any goa'uld here, they're all just wormies]

Drawing actors is scary

[bugcatcherkit]

Man that sure is a Situation where two 14 year olds push the limits of each other’s trauma responses until they both reach extreme breaking points. and then they deal with the aftermath basically all by themselves. Isn't that super awesome and totally not kinda fucked up at all.

[writer-room]

Dragons Rising really is the best sequel series for diehard Lloyd enjoyers, cause, yes, we acknowledge that he has panic attacks, crappy mental health, and also he's the grandson of God, but you know what really gets me? Lloyd is tired.

He's plagued with migraines (the visions are also migraines don't @ me), he's bemoaning about never getting a good nights sleep, hes struggling so hard to be a good leader and clearly doesn't have all the answers, and he's just some 20yo who's been cursed with saving the world since he was younger than his own students.

That's the realest way Lloyd could've ever been written in a future-series. It's what he is. But he's not angry (usually), he's not telling everyone to deal with it themselves, and he's not giving up. I love when Lloyd has finally had enough, but the real, genuine Lloyd? He'd never stop caring. He cares so much it'd kill him. He's tired and by god does he refuse to quit. I love that kid. Please get him a warm blanket

[jthealien]

I come bearing gifts

[iiheartwinter]

full on my twitter 🤫

[crimsons-whump-pile]

whumping characters who are unused to pain is such an interesting thing. it barely takes anything to make them scream and sob, but if that’s the most they can take, how do they react when those limits are breezed right past? if it only takes a single slice to bring them to their knees, how do they react to a dozen? how does the pain of a sprained wrist hold up against a handful of shattered ribs? push those limits, see exactly what it takes to break a whumpee and then shove right past it with no regard.

[crybaby-bkg]

I think Deku has a bit of a mean streak, actually. he’s no Bakugou—that’s for sure—but he’s not this innocent, sweet angel baby that the media has painted him out to be. but you only catch it when you least expect it, when you’re pushing his nerves, when the stakes to everything around him are high, when he’s tired of endless sleepless nights and just—snaps.

“Oh?” you go, grin unfurling like some grinch, chin resting on your hands as you leer at him from across his expansive desk. “You’re mean.” your words are teasing, a snarl that curls your mouth up. Deku stutters, eyes going wide, jaw snapping shut in surprise as he tries to think back on how rude he just sounded.

“No, I’m not—I mean, you wouldn’t stop and I just—there’s a lot on my plate right now—and you just—you keep on—I’m not—I’m not mean.” He’s sputtering, hands all over the place, the glasses perched on the bridge of his nose falling even lower with how he jabbers on and on. it’s endearing really, to see how he tries to upkeep his image of being so kind and understanding, even though his nostrils just flared at you. and his eyebrows turned down and he gritted at you, his hands were balled into fists, his words were so nasty, so ugly, so unbecoming for Deku.

you liked it. loved it even—vowed to get him like this every single fucking second that you could.

you pick and poke at him whenever you see him, teasing him and pulling at him. pushing him around even though the hero is so much stronger than you, so much bigger. and he lets you, tries to defend himself but—that’s not what you want. you want the ugliness, the snark, the mean.

he snaps, eventually, when you least expect it. grabs you up in black whip when you go to push him against the wall for the third time in only a minute, his eyes suddenly dark, the aura of the room suddenly charged.

“That’s what I was looking for.” you whisper to him, the grin spreading your face quickly dissipating in only seconds when you become the prey. when you become the one pushed up against the wall with teeth at your neck, a hand in your underwear, bullying your hole with too thick fingers.

“Why do you want me to act like this? Be so mean to you, huh?” he sounds so frustrated with himself, with you, growling and nipping and licking when you don’t answer quick enough. but your breath is caught in your lungs because finally—finally, did you get what you wanted. it just took a little bit of pushing, you suppose.

[dvchvnde]

EXCERPT: JOHN PRICE, WINTER SOLDIER AU.

You're still getting used to the sight of him—bare faced in patches: the beard shorn off into a mere shadow of what it was before; a choice he'd made for himself after scrubbing down in a long shower, refusing any help or medical aid—and he doesn't make it any easier for you in these brief, uncomfortable stages of acclimation you suffer through.

Hands lashing out into dead air. Fingers catching, unyielding and firm, on your skin. Nails—split and jagged; regrown in patches after being ripped off over and over again (for hree years, is the mocking whisper snaking along the nausea when you look at the pinked-tinged beds)—burrowing into your flesh. Anchoring you in place as he bends down, moulds his frame around you. Malleable shadow eating you whole.

Indomitable.

John Price was always an intimidating man.

Towering. Broad. Gruff. Surly. Mean old man was often thrown around amongst the new recruits, ones too scared to voice what they really thought:

Miserable fucking bastard.

His weight thrown around like an extension of himself—all raw, barely contained anger trembling out through the cracks. Lashing thick, brutal lines across his forehead. In the sharp, downward tug of his mouth tucked behind a bed of brunt umbre hair.

He was difficult to deal with on a good day, even when he'd offer that mocking smile of his. A parody of geniality—lips split upwards like a crocodiles maw.

(come, come, put your hand inside this beasts jaws; he won't bite—)

As fucking if.

You've only known him in pieces. Patches. Barely enough to make a whole picture, but you could still fill in the empty spaces with that grizzled anger of his that seemed to roll off of him in waves.

(no wonder he burns so hot—it's all that fury.)

Mostly, he'd come to dress you down in front of everyone watching. Snapping at the sight of your desk—organised chaos a true oxymoron (and for the most part, that seemed to be what he thought of you: a moron)—and how you handled files, and how you waltzed around like you owned the place—

and do you, sweetheart? do you own this place, mm? is that why you never listen to a goddamn thing i tell you?

All-in-all: a miserable fucking man.

And one made of sharp, brutal contradictions. Paradoxes layered over each other. Sealed with fury—of the righteous, pragmatic kind—and reinforced with an utilitarian core. Forlorn hope in the distinct shape of a man, one always readying himself for a pyrrhic victory (but a victory, nevertheless).

Easy, in hindsight, to deal with when you knew how to navigate the frothing gyre of anger and juxtapositions that made up the man who brute force, physicality, to get what he wanted.

By sharp contrast, the version of him who stands before is more enigmatic than the mangled mess of savagery and labyrinthine defenses. Almost unknowable. Unfathomable.

Even more so when he lifts his hand—scarred up, still blistered and bruised from fighting his way through fire and kin to get to you—and presses those mangled knuckles to the swell of your cheek, as tender as a man like him could ever allow himself to be, and runs a soft, shallow line down the side of your face. Eyes—still that same, dizzying blue—darken into liquid sapphire as he stares at you. Inexplicably soft. Lids crested. Half-mast in pleasure as if staring at your face was relaxing. Comforting.

Something swirls in those deep, endless lagoons. Some implacable emotion—all at once too much; too heavy—frissoning over his feature. A paroxysm. You can't catch it. Can't define it.

It's unquantifiable. Unknowable. And yet—

You know, instantly, that John Price would never look at you with something this archaic, this intense, brimming up like geysers in the endless spill of blue that can't seem to look away from you.

This man is not John Price.

But when he pulls you into a kiss—one softer and sweeter than you'd ever imagined the infamous captain could ever be capable of—you let him.

In fact, you kiss back.

And you'd really rather not think about what that says about you.

[lucentcosmos]

What awaits at the end of the road…?

[ruporas]

kisses of affirmation (ID in alt)

[sunlitpath]

Apollo, god of knowledge

Thank you for holding me accountable

Thank you for pushing me to be better

[bakugo-softski]

“I thought we’d go on chasing eachother forever” for THEM is…an actual fucking love confession. Like i really think we’re underestimating this guys!!! Kacchan is literally admitting he expected and WANTED TO HAVE IZUKU IN HIS LIFE FOREVER, OPENLY SOBBING IN EMPATHY FOR IZUKU AND WHAT THEY HAD TOGETHER. S O B B I N G OVER THEM LOSING *THEIR* DREAM. That is as close to a love confession as I’ve ever seen one you guys. He fucking loves izuku and now that he knows they won’t be able to go on chasing and competing eachother in their fun little plausible deniability dynamic I’m so FUCKING excited to see how their dynamic changes to accommodate kacchan continuing to keep izuku in his life now that theyve lost their “reason.” They fucking love eachother. They’re gonna start dating. They fucking ARE

[diemsomnians]

- You’re mine too, you know that right?

- Laurent I’ve been yours from the moment you kissed me.

artwork for All The King’s Horses by @rosyandraw

This fic has become my obsession since the first chapter was posted. I became so instantly attached to this version of Laurent and Damen that i would daydream about what’d happen to them as soon as i was done reading the last update, rejoicing in all their little steps of progress, going again through all the angsty moments in my mind just to suffer a bit more, and dreaming about the moment they would be able to call the other ‘mine’.

It is raw, emotional, vulnerable, real, incredibly painful, but oh so worth it. Even with all the difficulties Laurent and Damen have to face here you can never doubt the endless devotion, care and love they have for one another, and seeing the progress that they make both as a couple and as individuals is really touching. It is so wonderfully written, I cannot recommend it enough nor thank Holly enough for sharing it with us ❤️.