absolutely terrified of meeting anyone famous irl. like. one, i am so bad with recognising people i know and have interacted with, so i would stare at this Stranger who i Don't Fucking Know like "wait… is that… that can't be– but they do look like him…?" and TWO. wh. what do i do if it IS them. do i go "oh cool, thought so" and then leave?? do i ask for a selfie with them??? i don't take selfies with people???? or at all?????? what do you even do with an autograph?????????
Can someone explain to me why in the FUCK Arcade is on American radio??
@seethemflying I really want JonCon, Aegon, and the Dornish to squash Cersei, because I think that will be an important step towards killing show truthism.
my friend that’s where I bring up the very important fact that I once thought it was 85% likely it was gonna go down like that, then I read fire&blood with the detailed summary of the first dance of dragons and let me tell you there is no way it doesn’t go like that and I’m here waiting with my margarita
Rene just say that you dont know how to Deal with wetspots
I’m sorry, you’re telling me that V’s AE. “Judge or Forgive”. Is choosing to judge or forgive Rika???? What has she done??? To deserve my forgiveness?????????? I’m??? Sorry????????
i KNOW that having perfectly clear, unblemished, completely even toned skin is Entirely unattainable and nearly all pictures we see of ppl who have skin like that have either been photoshopped/face tuned to hell and back and/or theyve gotten major work done on their faces/use vvv expensive skin care products that the average person cant buy, but goddamn it if i dont want skin like that :/
Minecraft goats are so unrealistic. They aren't full of rage and stupidity like real goats
not knowing when/if I’ll ever see the people I love the most is the most haunting thing ever.
(also posted on ao3)
Ivan is right-handed.
That is just another fact in a long list of facts that need no further explanation. The sky is blue (except when it's grey, which it usually is in his hometown), the Fjerdans hate Grisha, and Ivan is right-handed.
It's a good thing that he is, for the children that favour their left hand over their right... Well, they're treated differently. He lives in a small village near the Fjerdan border, and many of its inhabitants share their neighbours' opinions on Grisha and other things they believe to be witchcraft - such as being left-handed.
So really, it's a relief to his parents that when the first time he gets a hold of one of his older brothers’ pencils, he picks it up with his right hand.
He doesn't join in when the other children pick on those that weren't so lucky, but he too regards those children with caution and mistrust. Like everyone, he knows that it is only a matter of time until the witchcraft that runs in their blood takes a shape more sinister than a simple preference of right or left.
There hasn't been a Grisha from this village in ages, but when a message arrives from the Little Palace that says that testers will visit them in two weeks time, there are no doubts in anyone's mind that the baker's son, Feliks, and the carpenter's daughter, Irina, will be revealed to be Grisha, for they both favour their left hand.
Ivan can hear his parents whisper about them whenever either of them passes, and he knows the other adults are doing the same. The other children increase their torment, and not a single opportunity to call them names like "freak" is passed by.
Once, when Ivan passes Feliks in the street, he sees bruises littering the boy's face. But he knows better than to say anything, knows not to get himself in trouble. No one worries for even a moment that Ivan might be Grisha.
So when the testers come, and neither Feliks nor Irina turn out to be Grisha, but Ivan does, it comes as a shock to everyone.
Ivan is sitting in a carriage on the way to the Little Palace, and the look on his parents' faces is still burnt into his mind like a fresh wound. His father left the room without a word of goodbye to his son, and his mother could barely stand to look at him as he packed the few belongings he possessed. Not one of his siblings bothered to say goodbye to him, but maybe that is for the best - Ivan is not sure if he could've endured it.
The Grisha who came to his home and tore apart his life are talking about something, but he tunes them out as he looks out of the carriage's window. They had tried to engage him into a conversation at first, but quickly left him be after his answers turned monosyllabic once he had told them his name.
Ivan knows, rationally, that none of this is really their fault. They were only doing their duty, and Ivan's father, who had served many years in the First Army, had instilled the sense of duty into his sons from the moment they were old enough to know what it meant.
But Ivan is allowing himself this one day to grieve the end of his life as he'd known it for the past ten years. Once they get to the Little Palace he'll accept his fate without complaint, as his father taught him to, but for now he watches the world pass by until nothing in his surroundings resembles the landscape of his home - his former home, he reminds himself - anymore.
By the time they pull up to the Little Palace, Ivan has decided to stop wallowing in self pity. His family might hate and fear him for what he is, but he is determined to do right by their name either way. He is going to be the best Corporalnik there is, even though admittedly, he is not quite sure what that will entail.
The first thing he notices when he steps out of the carriage is that in the courtyard they have entered there are three more carriages like the one he travelled in. He isn't really given any time to take in his surroundings before the Grisha who tested him corral him towards the other carriages.
Behind the carriages, Ivan finds a few more adult Grisha and a group of other children. Other recently tested Grisha? There are eight of them in total, some looking afraid, others like they have been crying recently and some looking awestruck by their surroundings.
Ivan's face is hardened by the resolve to prove he is not some little child crying for his mother. He straightens his spine and only allows himself a brief look at the facade of the palace that will be his home before returning his attention towards the adults. There will be plenty of time to admire the architecture later.
"Alright, listen up!"
All the children turn their attention towards the woman clothed in a blue robe with red and yellow ornations who had spoken. She introduces herself as Katya, an Inferni, and launches into an explanation of their new life at the Little Palace.
Ivan listens attentively, not wanting to miss anything, until somebody tugs on his sleeve. Annoyed, he turns to find a boy of approximately the same age as him - Ivan notes that he is one of the few children that had seemed neither scared nor sad, but rather awed.
"What's your name?"
He cannot be serious. Ivan can't think of a single reason why this question couldn't have waited until after Katya is done talking; and to demonstrate just that, the only answer he gives the boy is a glare before he turns away again.
Later, when they have been led to the dormitories where they will be sleeping and everyone is busy unpacking, Ivan turns around from where he had been putting away his things to find the same boy in front of him once more.
"You know, you never did tell me your name."
Ivan just glares at him again, hoping the boy will take the hint. He doesn't have any particular urge to make friends with anyone here, much less this boy who is way too cheery, and, by the looks of him, a city merchant's child. He was fine on his own growing up, and he won't change that now.
Except the boy doesn't take the hint. And when Ivan doesn't answer he simply tries again.
"I am Fedyor. It is nice to meet you," he says and holds out his hand for Ivan to shake.
Ivan considers his options and finally replies with a curt "Ivan." He turns back around without taking the boy's - Fedyor's - hand. This time, he takes the hint and leaves Ivan alone.
Only Ivan realises too late that the boy's retreat meant in no way that Fedyor decided to leave him alone indefinitely.
It is hard to avoid him, considering they share a dormitory and Fedyor too is being trained to join the Order of the Corporalki. With his sunny disposition and his affinity for other people, everyone assumes that when the time comes, Fedyor will join the ranks of Healers; just like nobody doubts that Ivan himself will become a Heartrender.
After only a few days, Fedyor has made more friends than Ivan could care to count, but for some reason that evades him, the other boy still insists on pestering Ivan whenever he can. The other children quickly stopped trying to involve Ivan in conversations when they realised he had no interest in exchanging anything beyond the most basic information; but no matter what he does to discourage Fedyor from speaking to him, none of it seems to have any effect on him.
Whether they are in class, eating in the dining hall, or in combat training with Botkin, Fedyor always tries to strike up a conversation. At first, Ivan simply ignores him, still hoping he will be left alone.
But when weeks have passed, and Fedyor still hasn't given up talking to him, Ivan decides to try another strategy: give a non-committal answer and turn the question around on the other. That way, Fedyor will chatter away happily, and Ivan can simply tune him out.
The only flaw in this plan is that sometimes, Ivan finds himself actually listening to the other. And, as over time he gets to know more about Fedyor, he realises with a start that maybe he doesn't mind the boy's company so terribly.
Mind you, he still doesn't like him, and they're certainly not friends, even though Fedyor seems to think they are. But maybe he isn't the stuck-up city boy Ivan had first thought him to be, and maybe some of the things he has to say are actually interesting. Ivan stands by his assessment of "way too cheery" though.
The years pass by in a blur. Ivan excels in all his classes; the only one to rival him being Fedyor, who excels likewise. By the time they are fourteen, Ivan has gone from 'if I ignore him for long enough, maybe he will leave me alone' to begrudging acceptance of Fedyor's company, to actually actively contributing to conversations instead of letting Fedyor fill the silence by himself, to 'oh no, we ARE friends, aren't we?'
So when the time comes for them to choose their future, Ivan is the only one who isn't taken by surprise by Fedyor's decision to become a Heartrender rather than a Healer. They had talked about it once, late at night, and Fedyor had admitted that he didn't think he could spend the rest of his life as a Healer.
Ivan had been puzzled at first, because Fedyor simply didn't seem like the kind of person that would choose a path that would undoubtedly require him to kill someone. But Fedyor had explained that while he did loathe the idea of taking a life, he didn't want to be sitting on the sidelines either, watching his friends and fellow Grisha die, while he was helpless to defend them.
This was a feeling Ivan could understand, and after that night he regarded Fedyor with a new-found respect.
So they both begin their training as Heartrenders, alongside a boy named Viktor and two girls by the names of Sofia and Polina.
Ivan still excels in his classes, and soon establishes a reputation for his talent in hand-to-hand combat - besides Botkin himself, there is no one who can defeat him. His training with Baghra, on the other hand, is going less than exceptional.
He has no issues accomplishing the skills that require both hands equally, in fact, he takes to those rather well. It's the skills that rely on the more prominent use of one hand after the initial crossing of the hands that trouble him.
It's not that he doesn't know the movements, or is executing them incorrectly. He has practiced them so often that he could likely perform them perfectly in his sleep. But for some reason, no matter how hard he tries, he can't seem to move past the movements as a performance, doesn't achieve anything he's supposed to while going through the stances.
After yet another unfruitful session with Baghra (who had accused him of not even trying - despite the fact that he is trying so hard that he feels as though it might kill him to try any harder), he seeks out Fedyor.
He finds him sitting with Sofia and Polina, laughing at whatever Sofia is saying. Ivan finds that he doesn't want to ruin his good mood, so he turns to leave, but in that moment Fedyor looks up and spots him.
"Ivan!" he shouts, rather than speaks, despite the fact that Ivan is not standing very far from him. Polina, who is sitting next to him, is evidently not very happy about Fedyor yelling right next to her ear and shoves him away. Fedyor grins apologetically at the brunette before standing up and heading over to Ivan after bidding the two girls goodbye.
"Hey," he says as he walks up to Ivan, smiling brightly. Even after all these years, he is still way too cheery for his own good, but these days, instead of being annoyed by it, Ivan finds it to be comforting.
"Hey," he returns the greeting. "I didn't mean to interrupt you. Sorry."
"What? Oh, you didn't interrupt anything, don't worry! Besides," Fedyor adds, turning to look at Polina and Sofia, "I have a feeling these two don't mind me leaving them alone."
Ivan raises an eyebrow. But as he too regards the two of them, he sees what Fedyor means. They seem to be completely engrossed in their conversation, locked inside their own little world.
"So what are you up to? How did your hour with Baghra go?"
"Fine," Ivan lies, then immediately changes the topic to distract Fedyor, who, even if he noticed the skip in his heart's rhythm, lets him get away with it. "Spar with me?"
"Sure, why not?"
It's easy to lose himself in the rhythm of a fight, and that is exactly what Ivan needs right now. No time to replay Baghra's words over and over, no time to dwell on what a failure he's turned out to be -
In the very last second, Ivan realises that he would've almost hit Fedyor full force.
His fist stops in mid-air, then falls uselessly to his side. Fedyor too lets his arms drop and takes a step back, concern written on his face.
"Ivan?" His voice is soft, confusion evident in the way he says Ivan's name.
"Sorry, I -" he pauses, unsure how to say 'I was so angry with myself that I almost hurt you for real' without having to explain himself to Fedyor. "I wasn't paying attention."
"You've been doing that a lot lately," Fedyor remarks, almost casually.
"I don't know what you mean."
"Don't you?" Fedyor sounds skeptical. "You didn't even roll your eyes at my joke this morning, and I know you usually would have, because everyone else laughed. You're constantly distracted, even in class, and you're never distracted in class! I can tell that something's wrong, and I want to help, but I can't do that if you won't even admit that there's something going on with you."
"Nothing's wrong. I don't need your help, Fedyor," he replies, determined to make the other let this go.
"So which one is it?" Fedyor asks, eyebrows raised so high they disappear behind his messy fringe. "There's nothing wrong, or there is, but you don't want my help?"
Ivan is at an impasse. No matter which answer he chooses, he'd end up lying, and Fedyor would know. There is something wrong, and despite his first instinct being to deny anyone else's involvement in his own problems, he does want Fedyor's help.
But he shouldn't need it, should be fine on his own.
Apparently his silence stretches on for too long, because Fedyor seems to take it as an answer of its own.
"Alright, I get it." He's smiling still, because he always is, but Ivan doesn't need to be a Heartrender to know that he's hurt. "Don't worry, I won't mention it again."
And then he's leaving, and a part of Ivan thinks that he should just let him. But the years spent with Fedyor have almost completely extinguished that part, and every other part of him is screaming, making him run after Fedyor, calling his name.
"Fedyor wait, please."
Fedyor stops walking, but doesn't turn around, so Ivan continues.
"There is something wrong, and I do want your help." He pauses, struggles to find the right words. "I just don't think that there's anything you or anyone can do to help me."
At this, the other turns around. His hands are crossed like they have been taught in training, so he must know that Ivan wasn't lying, but still he finds himself afraid to look at his face, afraid that his truthfulness hasn't made a difference.
"You know," Fedyor says, "sometimes actually talking about it instead of silently suffering already helps immensely."
For a moment, Ivan considers disagreeing, because what good would complaining about it do? He should just try harder, practice more, not whine about his issues when he has been given an opportunity that few are granted.
But when he sees Fedyor's face, cautiously hopeful, he folds.
"Have you tried using the other hand?"
Ivan looks up from the book he's been using to study, eyebrows scrunched together in confusion.
Fedyor sits down next to him, not bothering to ask if he minds.
"For Heartrendering, I mean," he explains. "No one ever said that you had to use your right hand, you know?"
A few days have passed since their conversation in the courtyard, and though talking about it certainly hadn't provided him with a miraculous solution, Ivan had to admit that telling Fedyor had felt good. And now, whenever Ivan returns from his sessions with Baghra, Fedyor makes an effort to distract him from his thoughts.
"First of all, I'm quite certain you just made that word up." Ignoring Fedyor's look of pretended outrage, Ivan continues. "And no, I haven't. I'm right-handed, so there's no point to it."
"Well, it wouldn't hurt to try, would it?"
"I don't need to try to know it won't work," Ivan says, exasperated. "I told you, I'm right-handed."
"You learned to write with your right hand, yes. But in a fight, you always prefer your left side over the right." He pauses, shrugs. "Maybe the same is true for Heartrendering."
Ivan groans. "Will you stop using that word?"
The grin on Fedyor's face already tells him the answer before Fedyor gives it. "No. It's a great word, I like it."
"You are terrible." But the grin that has somehow formed on his face belies the words, even as he punches Fedyor's shoulder.
"Seriously though," Fedyor says, teasing tone gone, "there's no harm in trying."
"No, maybe not," Ivan agrees, "but there's no point in it either."
"But you don't even know that if you've never tried!"
"Fine. I will try." Ivan closes his book and puts it aside. "But when you realise that we're just wasting our time, you will let me study in peace, yes?"
Fedyor eyes him warily, probably surprised that Ivan has agreed at all, before he nods. "Alright. Try to slow my heartbeat - if it doesn't work, I won't bring it up again."
Eager to be done with this, Ivan assumes position, and crosses his hands. He knows the movements well enough to mirror them easily, and so he draws his left hand back instead of the right - and stops short when he realises that he can feel Fedyor's heart beat in his hand as though he was holding it.
Fedyor must feel it too, if the smile that spreads across his face is anything to go by. But Ivan doesn't feel like smiling at all.
He can feel his own heart speed up, and a weight settling in his stomach. He drops his hands, abruptly ending the connection to Fedyor, who is looking at him in concern. It is too much to take and Ivan - Ivan, who, even as a ten year-old, had never been anything but stoic in the face of the unknown - Ivan runs.
He runs, ignoring Fedyor calling his name, paying no attention to where his feet are carrying him. He runs, because it's the only way he can think of to escape the emotions that threaten to overwhelm him.
Fedyor finds him under the tree where they often go, staring dejectedly at his hands.
"May I?" he asks, gesturing towards the spot on Ivan's left. Ivan knows that he isn't only asking to sit down though.
A few years ago, Ivan wouldn't have hesitated to send him away. But present-day Ivan hasn't really been able to say no to Fedyor in a long time, and so he only shrugs.
Fedyor settles down next to him, but instead of asking about what happened as Ivan had expected he would, he stays silent. He knows that it is an offer to listen, but Ivan can't quite bring himself to speak.
They sit like that for a while - minutes, hours, Ivan isn't sure. By the time he finally manages to speak, the sun has already set, and they must've missed dinner.
Once he begins, it's like something inside him has broken, and he can't stop.
He tells Fedyor about his hometown, about Feliks and Irina, and the way they were treated by everyone as though they were somehow lesser because they were left-handed. He tells him about the way his father had acted as though he didn't even know him when he turned out to be Grisha, how his mother hadn't even looked at him while saying a performative goodbye.
And he admits that deep down, even though he knew that his parents would never want to see him again because he was Grisha, he had hoped that if he could be as normal as possible, then perhaps one day, if he served the army well, they could look past that.
Fedyor doesn't interrupt him, even when he struggles to continue, just lets him spill everything that has been weighing on his heart for so long.
It's only when he has finished that he speaks. "You know there's nothing wrong with being left-handed, right? It doesn't make you evil, or bad. It doesn't mean anything at all."
When Ivan doesn't answer, he continues.
"Hey, look at me." He waits until Ivan reluctantly does what he asked, then says: "You know Sofia is left-handed too, right? Do you think that that makes her evil?"
Ivan can't help but snort at that. Sofia is probably the only person he knows who could rival Fedyor's cheeriness and kindness, and is just about the farthest from evil one can get.
"Exactly." Fedyor looks just as pleased as he sounds. "So why would it be any different for you?"
Ivan struggles to come up with an answer, but finds that he can't. Still, he can't help but feel like being left-handed would burn the last remnants of the bridge to his parents that he's been holding onto for the past six years to the ground.
Fedyor takes his left hand into his, carefully, as though he expects Ivan to pull it away. "There is nothing wrong with you, alright? You are Grisha whether you're right-handed or left-handed, and from what you've told me, that's not something they are willing to forgive.
"You said they treated them as lesser for being left-handed? Prove them wrong. Everyone knows you could be the most powerful Heartrender in the Second Army one day, now it's up to you: will you become that Grisha, or will you keep holding yourself back for them?"
In his next session with Baghra, he uses his left hand instead of his right, and accomplishes everything she asks of him.
He leaves with an almost imperceptible smile on his face, her approving "There he is!" stuck in his mind. Somehow, Fedyor still catches the smile and positively beams with pride.
In that moment, Ivan finds himself thinking that no Sun Summoner could ever shine brighter than Fedyor does.
As it turns out, Fedyor was right. By the time they officially complete their training and take their last exams, even the General has taken notice of Ivan's abilities.
He completes the final examination using his left hand, and passes with flying colours.
Later, when they step away for a moment from the group of Grisha they had trained with, who are celebrating the official end to their training as well as their last night together before they receive their first assignments in the morning, they once more find themselves sitting under their tree.
Fedyor once more takes his left hand into his, considering it before asking: "Do I get to say 'I told you so' now?"
"No, you get to shut up now." Ivan rolls his eyes, but his tone betrays the fondness that he feels, but would never admit to anyone.
"But I did tell you s-"
Ivan surprises both Fedyor and himself as he uses his left hand that Fedyor is still holding to pull him closer and into a kiss. (But it does work to make Fedyor shut up.)
No one else is surprised in the slightest when they find the two sitting there a few hours later, asleep, their hands still intertwined. But no one would ever dare mention it for fear of facing Ivan's wrath.
So f1 is a fucking gateway drug ok?
Like a few months ago I didn’t know any of this shit and now I’m watching all of them: formula 1,2,3, formula e, formula w, extreme e, Indy, Motogp, fucking all of them! know all the drivers names and even have favorite teams.
Like what the actual fuck I didn’t sign up for this but I can’t find my way out of here
pov you’re facetiming nico rosberg
How to do announcements, McLaren style
like i get it but its still funny when people write solly emoting with the upper half of his face and other people see and understand like there is nothing to see. his helmet covers everything above his nose.