I am here today to show you how to put on a wig and, well, not want to stab yourself in the eye afterwards. The thing with wigs, is they’re essentially like everything else in cosplay: in order to finish with a good result, you need to start with a good beginning. So, here we go.
When Gavin first met Michael, he was intrigued. Of course he was. Who wouldn’t be? That reputation, and all– Mogar, the famous embodiment of rage himself, somehow coaxed into loyalty to Ramsey and the Fakes. The tirades, the hair-trigger bomb-dropping reflexes (both literal and figurative)– there they all were, capped in auburn curls and slouching against the wall on the day Gavin finally showed up in Geoff’s living room.
@minimoonstar replied to your post: Aw i’d’ve liked to see vamp Mischa XD;
Oh, well, just for you!
A very belated birthday present? XD;
With the disclaimer that the fic as a whole will almost certainly die a WIP due to lost momentum, here’s a fragment of the shoujo manga sequel to “Terroir.”
They met, at Mischa’s suggestion, by the piano at Nordstrom. Will nearly turned and fled before making it through the double doors. Between work, hiding at home, and dinners with Hannibal, he’d nearly managed to insulate himself from the oncoming holiday, but in a department store there was no escape. He had to dodge a relentless stream of shoppers–some of whom looked as haggard as he felt–and circumnavigate a display of stylized reindeer clad in garlands and Burberry scarves.
McCoy is so gentle and he must be freaking out a little and how dire their situation is, and Spock has tried to be okay and he’s tried to keep going and it’s got him flat on his back in some little cave.
Also, the way Spock’s all curled in on himself in the first few caps and McCoy has to cradle his head and lay him down properly.
Have you ever wanted someone you could never truly have?
- A drabble by drivebyanon (demona424) inspired by an image from the set of In Dubious Battle. (This story is from my own imagination and has nothing to do with the plot of the book)
I’m really trying hard to pay attention to my father’s unending speech, I really am. But as he drones on and on, my mind continues to wander off. I just hope that it appears that I’m concentrating on every word or I’ll be feeling the sting of his hand on my cheek, a familiar sensation that I’m well acquainted with. It doesn’t matter what I do, how I dress, what I’ll say because I think I was born to make him mad.
It takes all my will not to fidget where I stand but it doesn’t help that my shoes are hard and uncomfortable on my feet. The cold breeze still bites through my useless wool sweater which does nothing except look pretty and scratch my irritated skin. I am also extremely aware of how ridiculous and out of place I look among these hard working men with dirt permanently embedded in their nails while I wear my girly floral, cream, and lace. I might as well be a beacon of spoiled frivolity, but my father insisted I dress this way. And I still have the marks on my arm as a reminder.