crank shorts

The Story Of Corroded Crank [Long Post]

Art belongs to @shamefulbirb, who is very kind enough to draw my version of Corroded Crank.

Awhile back I presented my idea of a Dark Ethan. We were talking about Anti and Dark and I had an idea for Ethan. But alas, I have no drawing skills and writing it out wasn’t coming to me. So I shared the idea with the Birb, and she was very excited and latched to the idea and brought our clunky blue dude to life.

Now what I like about Birb is that she took the boy and adapted him as her own, gave him a story and lined him out as her own. But she was very sweet to constantly say that he was my idea. Corroded Crank – or CC as we affectionately call the blue bot – became our fun little project. Bouncing back and forth cute and fun ideas according to her head cannons and just breathing life into him.

But here’s the thing. While Birb was writing CC’s story, I already had my own full story for him. And my blue bot was… He was a far difference from her interpretation of the little blue bot… See while Birb gave him a more child-like feel – a sort of Pinocchio learning the world thing – my blue boy wasn’t so innocent.

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Six Things Freelance Writing Taught Me

For cash-strapped writers – which, let’s be honest, is most of us – freelancing is a means of making ends meet while doing what we love most: writing. But more than that, working as a gun for hire also serves as an awesome tactic to learn the ropes and pick up things like:

1. How to sell a pitch. Landing a freelance writing gig is like submitting a novel. You have to stand out from the rabble – which means crafting a clever cover letter. Something tight and professional (but not boring, boredom is the Black Plague of queries) which showcases your writing savvy. After hundreds of hours trawling through online classifieds and shooting off queries, I’ve got the CV thing down to a freaking science. That said, the tweaking and tuning never ends.

2. How to research. Since freelancers write across fields and professions, research skills are a stamped, signed and sealed must. It can also be kind of fun. For instance, a while back, I landed a gig writing targeted Tweets for a floating real estate honcho. I ended up submerged in a crap ton of did-you-knows about aquatic living, and to this day, I know more about float homes than most people are ever exposed to.

3. How to keep it sharp. Most writing projects have a word limit. For instance, I shoot for 1000 words when it comes to newsletters, and about 500 for articles. For Tweets, it’s even less: 140 characters. That means making each sentence count. The flip side of this is that I’ve been kind of stunted. I can crank out short stories and novellas fine, but I struggle with length. So just be careful about that. Believe me. Nothing more frustrating than plotting out a 50k novel just to top out at 20k.

4. How to self-edit. Kind of obvious, but freelancers have to polish their own stuff. Sometimes, clients will make little changes, but the writer must know their way about the grammar-go-round. No one’s going to hire a freelancer if their writing sample is chock-full of more holes than a slice of Swiss cheese.

5. How to stick to a deadline. Deadlines are super important. Ever finished an assignment the night before it’s due? When there’s an immediate cut-off, there’s no time to wait for inspiration to beam down from the heavens. We don’t have a choice but to take matters into our own hands – and that’s when the magic happens.

6. How to treat writing like the serious profession it is. Like accountants, freelancers exist in the frame of mind where writing is our livelihood. Once that mental shift occurs, writing becomes a hell of a lot easier. It’s not just a catharsis. It’s a career. And that’s what it’s all about.




Forgive me, my readers.


Can you do a story where Matthew and the reader are dating. She isn’t artistic and wants Matthew to help her with a painting. They get really frustrated with each other and she gives up, but Matthew lovingly convinces her to keep trying. Thanks :)

Originally posted by toyboxboy

“Here, lets try this.”

Feeling Matthew scoot his stool behind yours, he threads his left arm by your side, resting his large hand on your thigh as he takes his right hand and settles it on top of yours.  You allow him control of your strokes, watching as the canvas in front of you begins to emerge with life, the fluid strokes from his lightly shaking hand painting a picture in your mind that you couldn’t get to translate through your own fingers.

And it made you frustrated.

You had watched Matthew doodle and paint ever since you had known him, and while the two of you eventually gave into the budding romance between the two of you, you couldn’t help but feel slightly jealous.  You considered yourself an artistic soul: you ad-libbed quite a few original songs on your electric keyboard, you cranked out short stories like a blender cranks out milkshakes, and you had been ballroom dancing since you were 10.

But drawing wasn’t something you were ever able to get a handle on.

So, in an effort to try and round out your artistic mind, you had asked Matthew to help you figure it out.

But all you found was frustration within your incompetence.

“I got it,” you bite, shrugging his body off of yours as you roll your shoulders back, bringing the brush back to the canvas as Matthew straightens his back and furrows his brow.

He wasn’t sure why you were getting so upset.

“Just take it slow at first,” he coaches soothingly.

“Got it, Matt,” you bite.

You only called him Matt whenever you were truly angry with him.

And he wasn’t sure what he had done.

“Hey, you were the one who asked for my help,” he says, his voice getting sharper as your arm twitches, throwing your beautiful blue color right into the thick of the yellow, creating this disgusting green color that began tricking down the canvas, destroying the little bit of outlining with a pencil that Matthew had painstakingly walked you through earlier.

You felt the rest of your frustration bubble over.

“Well, don’t need your help anymore,” you say through your clenched teeth as you toss your paintbrush at the canvas, the paint splattering all over you and the floor as you hop down from your stool, “so you can go do something productive with your day.”

As Matthew watched you walk away, his jaw lightly unhinged as he takes in your strained shoulders and your taut walking posture, he clamors off of his stool and rushes after you, grasping your arm as he whirls you around.

He found colorful tears running down your cheeks, your salty, frustrated rivers flowing amongst the colors on your face, painting a picture all its own upon your skin as he sighs lightly, wrapping his arms tightly around you.

“Come here,” he coos as you sniffle, walking into his body as his long, strong arms draw you nearer.

“No one is ever an expert on their first try,” he whispers, running his fingers through your hair as he lightly brushes it back from your watery face.

“You were,” you pout.

“I got lucky in a lot of my endeavors, yes,” he breathes.

“Yeah, why don’t you keep bragging about it,” you bite, throwing your arms out as you push him away.

“Hey.  You were the one who asked me to help you,” Matthew says, reaching out and grabbing your arm again.

“Everything comes so naturally to you, doesn’t it?  The modeling and the beautiful body and the artistic expression and the acting on the show. You don’t even know what it means to truly work, do you!?”

You knew that your anger was bubbling up for reasons that had nothing to do with not being able to paint, but at this point you couldn’t stop the word vomit rising in your throat.

“You don’t know what it means to send a CD to manager after manager, wondering why no one will take your music.  You don’t know what it means to send a manuscript of short stories to publisher after publisher and have them constantly send it back rejected, do you?  You don’t know what it means to have your ballroom dancing competition partner bail on you because you’ve gained too much weight, do you!?!”

Throwing daggers with your stare as you watch Matthew’s eyes line with tears of their own, you throw your hands up in the air as you breathlessly continue.

“I bet no one has ever said no to you in your entire life, you over-privileged spoiled little brat!!”

Feeling your chest heave with emotion as your vision clouds with tears once again, you feel your legs grow weak underneath you from the wasted emotion and the depression draining from your body as you hit the carpeted floor.

And all Matthew did was rush to your side.

“Y/N, I had no idea that any of this had happened.  Why didn’t you-”

As you curled into yourself, your hands covering your face in embarrassment, Matthew sits down and scoops you up into his arms as he holds you close to his body.

“I didn’t know you were doing any of that,” he whispers into your hair before kissing your forehead.

“You have been so-…kind to me,” you hiccup.

“Ssshhh sh sh sh,” he coos, rocking you lightly side-to-side as he tightens his grip around you.

“And you’re the only financial provider for us,” you add.

“I don’t mind that,” he whispers soothingly.

“But I do…” you whisper.

Sniffling as you raise your head up, your eyes connect with Matthew’s chest as he lowers his gaze to meet your downcast eyes.

“No one wants my music, o-o-or my writings.  My partner, he-”

You looked down at the light bulge of stomach as your hand slowly migrates to it, squeezing it before Matthew quickly covers your hand in his.

“Stop that,” he coos.

“He told me that I had gained to much weight to compete with.  He couldn’t…lift me.  And I can’t…get into my competition dresses anymore.”

Matthew’s heart dropped to his stomach.  He knew that you had sacrificed a lot to be with him, to run his schedule so you two could see the most of each other as possible.

He didn’t realize that you were sacrificing your hobbies and your health to do that as well.

“So I thought that…maybe I had some untapped potential in painting or drawing.  You know, like you always talk about.”

Matthew sat there and recalled all of the conversations he had had with you.  You were there when he had first started drawing, and he remembers you cheering him on only months into his hobby when the art gallery in LA wanted to host some of his paintings.

His accomplishments, seemingly looking as if they drop in his lap, were making you feel inadequate.

And he didn’t know how to help.

“…but I don’t,” you whisper before sniffling hard again.

“Oh, Y/N…” he sighs, his chest heaving as you lay your temple into his strong body.

“Nobody thinks I’m good enough,” you choke out, feeling the tears rise to your eyes again as your hands begin to tremble.

“I do,” Matthew murmurs, pulling back and craning his neck down as he raises his finger, crooking it under your chin as he slowly pulls your gaze up to his.

“Wanna try the painting again?” he asks.

His heart sank as your saddened face shook no.

“Will you try again for me?” he whispers, his face dipping closer to yours as your eyes flutter across his features.

Your eyes were always his favorite part of you.

You never did figure out, like most people, how to lie with your eyes.

“Ok,” you croak out as a light smile graces Matthew’s cheeks.

“Alright,” he says as he helps you up, taking your hand within his as he starts back down the hallway.

“This time,” he says as he pats your stool as you climb back up on it,” we’re gonna try something different.”

“What are we gonna try?” you ask as Matthew hands you the paintbrush while holding your paints out to your left side.

“We’re gonna paint designs.  Not objects,” he says as he smiles.

And as you dip your paintbrush into the beautiful deep purple color and hold it just above a fresh canvas, you feel Matthew dip his head down into your neck as he places a long, slow, warm kiss into the crook of your neck.

“I know you want to do this without me,” he murmurs as your skin begins to tingle, “but if you want my help, I’m more than willing to.”

And he smiled as he felt you nod your head.

Special Mornings

A/N: Today, I woke up to something incredible.

They say miracles don’t just happen overnight, but the moment I checked my phone this morning, I found that five or six new, beautiful people followed me- just pushing me over the 100 follower mark. I cannot begin to thank you all for the support- I truly, truly am grateful to each and every single one of you.

It may seem like a small number to some, but to me… it’s unfathomable, almost. To know that a hundred people enjoy reading what I write. That being said, please enjoy some early morning Hiccstrid, sharing the first light of day in bed.

He woke up to find comforting warmth latching onto his left side. His left arm tingled from the lack of circulation it was receiving, but it was a subtle sensation he didn’t mind- especially when the person that rested upon it was a certain someone

Hiccup felt the tickle of silky blonde hair, uncombed and slightly tangled, against his collarbone. He felt the weight of a casual arm draped over his stomach, and another almost awkwardly looped around his neck. Her digits just barely grazed his skin with each of her steady inhales and exhales.

There was something beautiful about being able to see Astrid first thing in the morning. It felt ridiculously intimate- sure, they shared a bed, but seeing her in an unkempt, natural state where her walls were all down… It was an incredibly rare sight, seeing as she was simply always awake before first light. It was habitual to her, Hiccup assumed, to rise early and immediately head to Stormfly’s stable. Hiccup understood that; he shared the same morning ritual, only a little later and with Toothless.

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