crisp edges

House Aesthetics

GRYFFINDOR the bonfire spitting stars// skinned knees and scabbed-over knuckles//sand seeping between your toes//wrists branded with matching tattoos//cigarette smoke and the pounding of drums//uncertainty tucked under your tongue like a beehive, like a knife, like something you wish would stop hurting you

{bonds as strong and as steady as the summer sun}

HUFFLEPUFF polaroids strung across your throat// dandelion seeds spinning across the skin of your palm//the sky crowded with stars//ferns reaching up to caress your face// minimalism and vintage clothes// tenacity rooted in you like a third lung// falling and the whole world tilting to catch you

{the world is as enchanted as you make it out to be}

RAVENCLAW calligraphy inked across the curve of your cheekbones// the personification of winter, all beauty and crisp edges// the flicker of computer screens// gowns sweeping across marble floors// standing still in a sea of people// the bass thudding through you like a second heartbeat

{stress cresting in a wave that threatens to drown you, but always comes just shy}

SLYTHERIN the moon hanging in the sky like a claw//fingers laced through chain link fences//girl cults and blood oaths//their bodies a staircase for your ambition//test answers scrawled across the skin of your thighs//distressed jeans and lipstick as red as your defiance// loyalty coiled like a snake across like crevices of your collarbone

{cowardly is just what we make you think we are until you give us a reason to be crafty}

Flood my Mornings: Twentieth of October

Notes from Mod Bonnie:

  • This story takes place in an AU in which Jamie travels through the stones two years after Culloden and finds Claire and his child in 1950 Boston.
  • Previous installment:  Stones (Jamie struggles with what separation from Jenny and his loved ones really entails.)

Anon requested: Claire takes Jamie to the North End in Boston for Italian food.

October 20, 1950

It was not the first time I had noticed that Jamie’s raised eyebrow was quite dashing, no matter how scornfully-raised. “And you’re certain this is what ye want for your birthday, lass?”

“Positive! Dig in, darling!”

The restaurant was dimly lit, but even in the candlelight, I could see that he was staring at the plate of spaghetti bolognese as though it were a sleeping wolverine. 

He poked the fragrant mass with his fork. “It just looks so—unwieldy.”

“I have full faith in your ability to wield your dinner,” I laughed, sipping my wine before picking up my fork again. 

Jamie watched me carefully, studying, then slowly imitated my motions of twirling the pasta around the fork using the bowl of the spoon as an anchor. I tried my best to stifle giggles into my wine glass as the load slipped off his tines halfway to his mouth not once, but twice. He fixed me with a gimlet eye. “If ye wished your present to be me making a fool of myself, I could think of half a dozen other more enjoyable—” 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I snickered, “I’m not laughing, I promise.” I tightened my lips and looked angelically over at him. “Come on, once more?” 

He sighed, twirled once more, and managed to get the bite into his mouth. 

“So…? What do you think?” I asked eagerly. 

“But it’s good!” he said through his mouthful, sounding highly surprised. “A bit slippery, but the sauce is quite nice.” He took a swallow of wine and sat, considering. “Aye, that’s lovely. How d’ye say it? Spag—?” 

“Spagh-EH-tti,” I said, in my best exaggerated Italian accent, digging in to my own plate. “I’m so glad you like it! I haven’t had much Italian food before, either, but this is one of Tom and Marian’s favorite joints. You’ll have to have lasagne next time! Definitely less effort required!”

He managed another bite, losing only one noodle on the journey. “Do they have any wee bibs like the ones we have for Brianna? Tasty as it is, I dinna ken how I should be able to finish the serving wi’out splattering myself filthy.” 

In the end, he settled for a napkin tucked into his collar, and good thing, too, for otherwise his white shirt would have taken two direct hits before the meal was out.

It was a lovely evening, with good food, good wine, and a gorgeous trio of singers serenading the diners from the far corner.  

As the raucous Funiculì Funiculà was replaced by the sweet, sad strains of Musetta’s Waltz over our coffee and tiramisu (which Jamie did not enjoy— “It’s just wet cake!”), Jamie took my hand and squeezed it, his eyes crinkling with happiness. “Happy Birthday, Sassenach.”

“Thirty-two,” I said, a bit ruefully. “I think that means I’m firmly out of the spring chicken years, don’t you?”

“Hey, now, I’ll have no such talk,” he chided gently. “Every year we have together will be the best year—no matter how old we grow.”

I felt my face grow flush with feeling and in seeing the fervor in his expression. “That’s a good way to think of it. Think we’ll still be this happy when I’m seventy-two?” 

“Oh, aye, I’ll stake my life on it. I canna wait to see ye wi’ grey hairs. You’ll be the Sexiest grannie ever seen.”

“You’re unbelievable,” I laughed. “But thank you.” 

He stood halfway to lean across the table and kiss my hand. “I’m verra, verra glad ye were born, mo chridhe,” he murmured.  

My throat felt thick. “I’m glad you were born, too.” 

“Aye, but it’s no’ yet my day for it,” he grinned. As he sat back in his seat, he suddenly looked sharply up at me. “I didna think on it before, but this day is significant for another reason, forbye.”

“Oh? What reason is that?” 

“'Tis five years to the day since ye first told me the truth….” he said, eyes wide and wondering. “….about where ye truly came from, aye?”

I gasped, remembering. 

“Do you know when I was born?” I had hissed, voice tremulous, my hair wild and my eyes staring. “On the twentieth of October, in the Year of Our Lord nineteen hundred and eighteen.”

“Do you hear me?” I demanded, for he was blinking at me unmoving, as though paying no attention to a word I said. “I said nineteen eighteen! Nearly two hundred years from now! Do you hear?” 

I had been shouting, but he’d nodded slowly. 

“I hear.” 

And then a long time later, many frantic words and tears later, he’d looked down at me and smiled faintly. 

“Happy Birthday, Sassenach.” 

It took me completely by surprise and I’d just stared stupidly at him for a moment. “What?” I’d managed at last. 

“I said, ‘Happy Birthday.’ It’s the twentieth of October today.” 

“That was quite a day, no?” the present-day Jamie said, refilling my coffee cup and scooting the rest of the tiramisu toward me. 

“I was… so scared,” I said, feeling suddenly breathless from the remembered terror.

“Christ, me too,” he agreed with a shudder. “When I saw ye there on the platform in Cranesmuir—To think they might have burned ye, if I hadna arrived in ti—”

“No, no,” I cut in, “not then. I mean, I was terrified during the trial, of course…but it was there in the woods, that I meant. With you.” 

That startled him, and I went on. “I was so frightened to tell you about my past. I was convinced you would think me mad—or even the witch you’d just vowed publicly that I wasn’t.” 

That same faint smile crossed his lips but he said nothing. 

“Tell me truly, Jamie…” I started, my stomach suddenly in knots, dreading the answer. “Did you really believe me… or did you just care for me enough that it was easier for us both that you should pretend to?”

He spoke without hesitation. “No, I believed ye, Sassenach.”

My exhale of relief and my, “But how? Why?” seemed to escape me simultaneously. 

“Because your face betrays ye, mo sorcha—it always has. It’s why Colum and Dougal didna trust ye for a moment. They didna ken what it was ye were hiding, only that something was there ye wouldna tell. And in the time after we were made man and wife,” he reached across the tiny table and laid a warm hand on my cheek, “just as I kent your feelings for me were growing wi’ every passing day, I could see that there was something ye were holding back, still, even from me. It’s why I said ‘secrets, but no’ lies,’ aye?” He lowered his hand to gently hold my chin. “But this day, five years ago, was the first time I saw ye look back into my eyes wi’ nothing held back: no lies AND no secrets…. Your eyes told me that ye spoke true, no matter how unbelievable the truth was. And it slew me, Claire, then slew me again…because I knew I had to let ye go; go back to him.” 

I couldn’t speak, just then, and he sat back in his seat, shaking his head, dazed. “I still canna believe ye chose me; still canna fathom what I felt when I awoke to find ye there in my arms…thought I surely was dreaming.”

I reached for his hand. “I just…couldn’t give you up.”

“And I thank God for it every day.”

“Me too.”

We sat for a time in silence, touching each others’ rings and feeling the warmth of our hands together. 

Jamie was the one that broke the stillness, pulling away with purpose. “Now, as glad as I am that you’re a woman for whom watching a numpty suffer through a plate of Spaghetti is a sufficient birthday present—” he reached down to his feet and withdrew a parcel wrapped in brown paper, “—I did get ye a proper gift as well.”

I grinned and reached for it; a book, surely, from the size and weight. Sure enough, as the paper fell away, I could immediately see the crisp page-edges and the shiny binding that read: Medical Education in the United States: rankings and reviews (1950 ed.)

“Oh, Jamie…” I breathed, opening the cover and flipping through the pages. Harvard. Princeton. Stanford. Osteopathic and Medicine programs of California. Texas. Pennsylvania.  MCAT procedures. Top residencies by specialty. And on and on it went. 

“I ken we’ve been talking a great deal about the new bairn and the hope that we’ll conceive soon; but I didna wish ye to think I’d forgotten your other wish. I’ve been reading up on what it’s like—the requirements and the different options you’ll have. I didna ken there were half so many programs in Massachusetts, let alone the whole country!“ He gave a small shrug. "Perhaps it all goes wi'out saying, but I wanted ye to hear from my lips that I want ye to go to the best medical school ye can, if that’s your wish—even if it’s in—” He hesitated, speaking tentatively. “Hah-wheyyy?

Hawai’i,” I corrected, laughing with happy tears in my eyes.

“Aye, there,” he grinned, “or wherever the best spot for ye may be. Whither thou goest, I will go.” 

“Thank you, darling,” I whispered.

“My only requirement,” he said, suddenly stern, “is that you make it so they have to republish this wee book soon, for there isna a single mention of the possibility of a woman attending. Tis all ‘his’ and ‘him’ and ‘gentlemen in the class of such and such.’ You’ll need to change that, aye?”

I grinned at him and shook his hand playfully. “It’s a bargain.”

Keep reading

Subway Station

So a little mortal solangelo au :)
  When Will thought of public transportation, what came to mind was hairy old men and old ladies knitting sweaters for their cats, definitely not cute boys with raven black hair and unforgettable brown eyes.
  It was his first time on the subway and he didn’t have much experience with it. Maybe it was wrong for him to think that only the aged took the subway, which was completely invalid from looking at the diversity in dozens of people that occupied the seats. As he looked around, Will saw people that varied in size, shapes, races… oh and there was the insanely gorgeous boy sat right across from him.
  The boy was a painting of sharp edges and crisp lines, with eyes a kaleidoscope of brown, white and black. His high cheekbones and olive skin tone was something Will would probably never forget. And don’t even mention the boy’s hair was jet black and his perfectly arched eyebrows, or Will just might die.
  Will made his way with his eyes down the boy’s body. Noticing small details like that fact that his white shirt complemented his eyes and hair perfectly. Or the fact that his legs were really short, he must’ve been at least 5’3, but Will couldn’t be sure with his sitting down. Oh, and was Will ready for the gauges? No the answer was no. When he saw, the small black circles pierced in his skin, Will thought he died a little. Will also noticed how small his hands were and how they probably fit perfect with his own hands. Will shook his head, clearing the thought from his head. It was stupid, here he was fantasizing about some random kid on the subway when this guy probably didn’t even like guys.
  By the time, Will’s eyes found their way back to the stranger’s face, big brown eyes were staring back at him. Will quickly diverted his eyes, a blush creeping onto his face.
  Oh god, the boy probably thought he was a weirdo for staring at him like nobody’s business.
  Will spent the rest of his time on the subway with his head down and kept his eyes strictly away from the boy in from of him and on his book instead.
  Finally, after what seemed like another lifetime, his stop came. But of course, the universe was against him. Will and the boy both got up at the same time and, Will, with his head still in his book, bumped into the significantly shorter boy. This ended up with the raven-haired boy smashed into Will’s chest and his book on the floor.
  Will stepped back, eyes wide.
  “Oh, my god! I’m so sorry!” His eyes shifted over to the doors. “Come on before the doors close,” Will grabbed the mystery boy’s hand and picked up his book, dragging the boy out of the subway car.
  Will let go of the boy’s hand and turned to him.
  “Wow, okay. I’m so sorry about that… I don’t know your name,”
  “Nico,” the boy, Nico, didn’t meet Will’s eyes. Now that Will could see him up close, he noticed how Nico’s lips were perfectly shaped and his impossibly thick eyelashes.
  “Well, I’m very sorry Nico, I didn’t mean to, you know… crash into you like that.” Will couldn’t help the small blush that spread across his cheeks. When Nico didn’t answer, Will said “Okay… I’ll just be going now…” but before he could leave, Nico’s arm shot out, his small hand wrapping around Will’s wrist.
  “I accept your apology, but if you want to make it up with coffee, that would be great” Nico said quietly, a small smile playing on his features.
  Huh, maybe Will should take the subway more often.

olivicmunn  asked:

Hi there! May I ask how you made those gifs that you did for an rp meme 'six characters that aren't mine'??

oh daaaaaamn. at the time that was a long, hard job of totally clicking around and hoping for the best hahaha. and i 100% stole the idea from @sammrps ‘s to begin with, hers is a lot better. 

honestly, I branched out and learned how to use the layers in the animation timeline by trial and error. It was a lot of keyframe work. (I did an animation degree in college, so that helped by giving me a lot of background knowledge to make educated guesses.) its really just a lot of hiding and unhiding layers along the timeline tbh. but here. i’ll try and make a speedy tutorial???


INTO A CREDIT STILL (or something);

Edit: i forgot how i did the motion blur, but as soon as i figure it out, i’ll update this tutorial.

Keep reading

A Crime Against Pizza (co-authored with @mshoneysucklepink)

From this prompt:  "Your pizza keeps getting delivered to my house by mistake and I need to talk to you about your choice of toppings AU" by @ashesinyourhair from the @dailyau

Rating: PG (for innuendo)
Summary: Some people are very particular about their pizza.
Warnings: Pineapple on pizza, orgasmic descriptions of pepperoni, egregiously overused italics, general idiocy. Stoner Brett.
~3100 words 


First this happened. Then this happened. Super thanks to @snarkyhag for the awesome beta.

The only saving grace about exam time, Blaine thought, was that somehow it made pizza taste even better. He wasn’t sure if it was some psychosomatic reaction or the perfect balance of protein, carbs, and fat traveling through his bloodstream straight to his brain - but it set off his reward center like nothing else. Except maybe a good orgasm (ideally brought on by something other than his own hand, thankyouverymuch).

The only problem was his roommate. Sam HATED Blaine’s preferred toppings of pineapple and ham, (“it’s fruit on pizza, Blaine, and fruit is healthy, it totally defeats the point of pizza being junk food! It makes it, I don’t know, less junky!”) Which was why he considered himself lucky that Sam had a nighttime photo shoot. Nothing was stopping him.

Keep reading

i got some beautiful mantou (chinese steamed bread, it’s v fluffy and lightly sweet!) at the market yesterday.

halved, buttered, and thrown on the skillet…

and topped w cheddar, salami, and poppy seed dressing.

this sandwich was so unspeakably delicious i already feel like i need to make five more.  the mantou was so tender, contrasting with the buttery crisp edges, and the western-style sandwich fillings worked surprisingly well.  i wanna put some cucumber and maybe dill in the next one i make!

Hold On Tight


It’s not the best night for it. The rain his coming down in heavy sheets, and the wind occasionally whips it right back in his face. But he finds the cold bracing, the downpour a much needed shock to his system. His head had been cloudy lately, too much warmth, too much softness, too much rest and god damned relaxation. And it had made him fuck up, monumentally. He curses and the angry sound is swept away into the night. Letting his guard down has always had unthinkable consequences, and he’d rather be out tracking down some sex-trafficking monster in the pouring rain than facing the fear collecting in his lungs, gathering around his heart.

He raises the scope of his gun for what feels like the tenth time, scanning the row of windows along the adjacent warehouse’s southern wall. The inside of the building is dimly lit, but the bastard running the operation has gotten too cocky to tarp the windows and Frank has clear view of what’s going on inside the building. It isn’t a pleasant sight.

A group of girls stumble out of a nondescript van, their hands tied with plastic zips. They huddle together blindly out of fear and a need for warmth, filthy blindfolds covering their eyes. They’re so young, their silent cooperation borne of terror. Frank doesn’t have to imagine the source of their fear, he can see it on the predatory smile of their ‘owner.’

Frank’s jaw tenses as he mentally calculates exactly how many shots it will take to put down the six men standing around the group of captives. They’re low level operators, and won’t be missed by many. Frank relishes the looks of surprised shock that flit across their faces when he shoots the man in charge, the back of his skull exploding outward in a pink mist as the bullet exits. The men barely have time to process their horror before each meet their own painful demise, not managing to scatter even ten feet before they hit the dirty warehouse floor.

The girls don’t even know what’s happening. The initial shattering of glass makes them cower, trembling quietly as the harsh sound is followed by six muffled thuds. Frank immediately drops the scope of the gun, focusing on putting his equipment away. He’ll call in a tip once he’s a couple blocks away, give the cops of this city a chance to help someone for a change. The rain’s letting up. It’ll be a nice walk back home… The thought causes a slight twinge, just under his rib cage. The safe house isn’t home, and neither is the place he’s gone so many nights before. He reminds himself that home is a pile of ash, nothing more.

He hears it just as he’s zipping his ammo bag, the familIar light footed running along the top of the next building over. Murdock and his superhero costume, knee high boots and all, special no-skid tread catching the edge of the roof before catapulting over perilously close to Frank.

Frank just shakes his head, “Too late, Red. It’s done.”

Keep reading

Enneagram Types As

What I Think Of When I Hear Each Enneagram Type 

What I think of when I hear 1: 

The brave white knight, valiantly pursuing his cause, the smell of a freshly sharpened pencil, pointy graphite tip just waiting to eagerly touch paper, a freshly washed shirt with the wrinkles being slowly ironed out until it’s smooth, perfectly cooked, crisp bacon with the edges curling up slightly, the frustration an artist feels when they’re just on the edge of the piece being the best it can be but it’s not quite there, the moment before they can declare it a masterpiece, a 5 year old child trying to get the angle on his drawing right and he keeps erasing until the paper is almost ripped, and smudges are everywhere until he tosses it aside and gets a new paper, starting over, a neatly written list with a slender check mark besides each completed duty, the scent of mint gum, a paper airplane soaring above someone’s head and landing on its intended target

What I think of when I hear 2:

A slender girl, helping an elderly woman sit down, the scent of freshly baked cookies, a family event, where it’s loud and raucous and everyone is arguing but there’s so much love that you do it again every year, two children whispering to each other and pinky promising that they’ll always be best friends and wearing matching charm necklaces, years later, still friends, one comforting the other as she cries over a break up, rubbing her back and stroking her hair, laughing so hard with your loved ones that your stomach begins to hurt, a pretend annoyed smile filled with affection as you watch your significant other do something silly, a mother beaming as she holds her newborn child, finally, love overflowing as she stares in awe at its tiny face and flailing fists, desperately holding onto a loved one’s hand and worrying frantically as they’re on their death bed, the bond of siblings who shout and argue all the time but in the end curl up beside each other and fall asleep when the love wins out

What I think of when I hear 3: 

Shiny trophies, the reflection of gelled back hair and a winning smile glinting back at you from the shelf on which they’re presented, a man standing in a mirror, fixing his tie just right and adjusting the sleeves of his suit, overflowing confidence, sipping expensive wine, a woman in a bold, red dress whose heels click on the floor with every step, an athlete who won the race by just a few seconds, bent over panting, hands on his knees, the most popular girl in elementary school affixing a bow to her blonde hair before she strides out the door, a couple at a carnival, a guy just won his girlfriend a stuffed animal and she’s hugging it to her chest, it took him three tries but he finally got it, a burning face when you stumble on stage, a perfectly exacted ballet performance, everyone bows at the end before the curtains slide closed, and then they all sag, exhausted and panting, but so, so proud. 

What I think of when I hear 4: 

The quirky eccentricity of an oddball. The mad musician, playing furiously, pounding their heart out upon those violin strings, sawing away viciously, the dreamer who lies in the grass and stares at the stars, streaks of unusually colored hair, polka dots and stripes combined together boldly, splashes of paint upon an unsuspecting canvas, a quirky, offhanded comment delivered that makes everyone giggle at the oddness of it, earnest expression, a girl sitting on a boulder by a rushing river, dipping her feet in, as she doodles idly in her notebook, multicolored lipstick, focused eyes speaking with depth, staring at a rainbow and believing there really is a pot of gold with a leprechaun at the end, and believing aliens could abduct you at any moment, and not caring, the old man who wears his tin hat proudly, not caring that others believe he is crazy, mismatched knee high socks combined with flip flops, lemonade on a hot summer day through a bendy straw, and walking on the moon, and walking on the ceiling, and the fizz of soda right after you take a sip

What I think of when I hear 5: 

A person fiddling at a Rubik’s Cube and right when they figure it out, twist it all out of place again, causing others to gasp, as they try all over again, a notebook filled with messy scrawl and notes, tossed carelessly onto a desk, pen flung alongside it, a dark cabin, a serious tone, curtains drawn shut as an eye peeks out from the crack between them, curiosity winning out, the nerd in the corner of class who stares out into space, stacks and stacks of thick books with cramped notes in the margins, sweats and hoodies with glasses that are askew, lying awake at night trying to solve a problem one of your friends is having as if it were a mathematical equation, matte everything, sitting in a coffee shop alone with your laptop, sitting alone in a quiet forest, sitting still enough that wild animals come close enough to sniff you, still pond water only ripples ever so slightly, a professor in his element as he begins to lecture the class, slowly gaining confidence and speeding up, the furrow of your brow when you’re trying to remember something and finally do, a black cat sitting on a fence quietly observing

What I think of when I hear 6:

The gaze of a frightened rabbit, not sure if it’s a fox or something completely harmless, a shout as you slip on something you didn’t notice before, the relief you feel when a storm passes, the rumble of thunder in the sky, but it doesn’t rain and you let out a relaxed sigh, taking steps gingerly, staring out at the vast, blue ocean, the strengthened kick of something struggling to live as its fight or flight response kicks in, visiting an old friend years later, the content you feel when your pet lies in your lap as you sit on the couch, flipping through the channels on tv, old, familiar pajamas you slip into on a Saturday, sips of hot chocolate grasped between freezing fingertips, fuzzy, pink bunny slippers, giving your significant other a kiss on the cheek and just reveling in your relationship, the justified anger you feel when one of your friends is being targeted, when you stick beside them no matter what, getting a reassuring hug from someone you trust, an old tattered stuffed animal you’ve had forever, hugging it as you fall asleep

What I think of when I hear 7: 

The loud “WHOOP,” you shout as you go skydiving or a rollercoaster starts, dancing wildly and laughing hard as you hold your hands on your stomach, the curiosity of a child who asks, “Why?” to everything until it just ends up in the answer, “Because.” Rolling down a hill at full speed, tumbling down and getting all messy and having grass stains all over you, the excited bark of a pet dog as its tail wags, ready to play, the guilty faces of children who just colored on the wall because they didn’t like how blank and boring it seemed but they’re now realizing that they’ll also be in trouble, the big, bright yellow sun every child seems to universally draw in the corner of every drawing, neon colored clothing, making best friends with a stranger in a day, and getting lost and then ending up in an even better situation, the sly gaze of people who have known each other forever and are mischievously planning something when they both make eye contact, and it’s as if an invisible light bulb has popped up above each of their heads

What I think of when I hear 8: 

The sharp bark of a medic who knows what they’re doing when they see someone injured, the heavy sigh of someone who knows the difference between what they want to do and what they have to do and does what they have to, the clang of armor and swords clashing together, the confident stride of someone who can get what they want, and if they don’t, they’ll just take it instead, the clenched fists of someone who’s just seen one of their loved ones be hurt and is taking names, the determined gaze of someone who’s dying when they make their death wish, feeble and wheezing but still manages to grasp their loved one’s hand firmly, the scent of a letter written in pure black ink when it’s still wet and barely drying, applying red lipstick with a wicked grin, the flick of your wrist when you’re drawing on your eyeliner wing, slamming your fist down on a table and demanding justice as you stand, a towering building, still majestic, even in its old age as it begins to crumble, the reverberating echo of a clock after it strikes the hour

What I think of when I hear 9: 

A tinkling laugh, a flowing, white dress, twirling in a circle and flopping down, a shy smile, the scent of your favorite candle, flickering, rain that’s not heavy, but just barely sprinkling and bringing your face up to the sky and closing your eyes, the twinkling of the stars in the night sky, lacing your fingers through someone else’s and feeling their fingertips link through yours, sipping tea on your porch in a sweater, lying in bed and staring at the ceiling, going to an aquarium and watching the fish swim by majestically in awe, with your face up close to the glass and hands pressed to it. A romantic loveletter, a quiet, muffled giggle, talking on the phone for hours, and hanging upside down with your feet on the wall while you do so, drifting off into a daydream, closing a good book with a contented sigh, a concerned, shifting gaze between two friends who have begun to argue, falling asleep and not quite realizing you have yet as you bury your face into your pillow and pull your blanket tighter

gruberv  asked:

Watching your pretty watercolors makes me wanna try them, do you have any advice for someone who don't have any idea of watercolors?

Hi Gruberv

Thank you for your patience, been busy the past few days.
For advice,  I would recommend this wonderful youtuber.

He is easy to follow and shares a genuine enthusiasm for watercolor. But more importantly he will visually show you all the basic watercolor techniques, and common trouble shoots/beginner mistakes that happen. He also covers on brush usage, paper, and more. Definitely check him out!

Second link, is optional, but worth looking at once you have the basic foundation. Its more on the science/technical understanding of watercolor. single pigment vs premixed, light fastness, how paper is made, and understanding how pigment interact with the paper fiber. How to properly store watercolor paintings and paper, all that fancy good stuff.

As for supplies and just getting your feet wet (with out breaking the bank, as I totally understand that art supplies can get expensive very quickly, not to mention the plethora of choices) I recommend checking if their is any art retail near you for the following items and ask if they accept coupons etc, most do now a days.

I highly recommend purchasing the Grumbacher Academy Artist watercolor set.

but, buy the tubes individually, and don’t get white and black. for learning watercolor, you don’t need these 2 colors, plus saves you a little bit of cash! (detour explanation later on) 

These were my first paints when I started learning watercolor, they are pretty vibrant for what their worth, and easy to use.

White paint doesn’t exist in watercolor, its technically a gouache. (opaque watercolor) which will technically lighten your color, but it will chalk it up leading to a dull/muted finished. the same goes for black, only it kills the saturation of the color quick, leading to dead colors. To get a lighter color, you simply dilute the paint with more water. To get white highlights in your painting, (eye shine, snow, sky, etc) you have to preserve the white of the paper, either by using masking fluid or painting around the white area. As for getting darker colors, proper use of color theory and  few coats of paint, one can achieve rich darks, that look vibrant.

Its why most if not all water colorist, work from light to dark. you can only go darker, not lighter. Watercolor in the end is essentially like layering color stained glass, only once you put it down, you cant take it back/change your mind.

palette for your paints.

Small size, it folds once your done which helps prevent dust getting into your paint when your not working. And, it makes it portable in case you want travel and take your paints with you.


Round, Size 8, if budget permits throw in also a Wash ½"

The round will cover pretty much all your needs, the wash is just a straight square brush/ which is good when you need to fill out large areas or get hard crisp edges.

2 medium size plastic or glass containers for your water.  One for rinsing and cleaning your brush between changing color paint, the other clean water.


For starter, Fabrianno studio watercolor paper is a great inexpensive paper to practice on and to get a feel for watercolor. Its 140 lb, which will handle all water techniques really well. If possible, buy the large single sheets, and cut them down to smaller sizes to extend the paper use. That way you can paint and freely make mistakes. The faster you can get comfortable with  making mistakes in watercolor, the faster you will get a understanding on how the paint works.

Last but least, I  highly recommend that if you start feeling confident. I would purchase a Arches 140 cold press sheet. It is expensive, but it’s worth to experience  painting on artist quality paper. You will feel the huge difference on how much easier it is to manipulate the paint/water on  artist quality paper. You can also cut this down to smaller sizes to extend the paper use.

But for now, I do recommend just having fun and freely making mistakes on the Fabrianno studio paper and just get a feel and understand on how the paint moves/react with the brush and paper. And, enjoy the colors and effects of watercolor!

A good way to practice any medium, with out having to think too much “what to paint”, is a simple fruit still life.

Hope this help, if you have any other questions/concerns, please feel free to note back.



pheachy  asked:

Hey. How can tell if your succulents need more or less water??

~ More water = leaves look thin and deflated, soil is completely dry, leaves have brown or crisp edges, bottom leaves wilt or curl and may drop off

~ Less water = leaves or stems turn yellow and soft, stems are brown or black at the base, leaves start to go translucent, the surface of the leaves split, a slight odor may begin to develop from rot starting to set in

Spidey Kisses - Peter Parker Imagine (requested)

Request: Spiderman one shot where you patch him up after fighting with a villain lots of fluff and kissing LOVE YOUR BLOG BTW 😁🌺👍🏻

Warnings: fluff, a tiny bit of smut

Words: 3142

Queens, New York at night time was a place police officers were afraid to visit. The city had a reputation for leaning more on the dangerous end, but not as bad as Brooklyn. 

Your parents had strict rules for you, curfew was at 11 and after that time no one leaves or comes into your vast apartment. You could stay up as late as you desired as long as you were in your home and not wandering about on the dangerous streets of Queens. No windows were to be left open and would remain locked throughout the entire night, or at least that was your father’s rule.
Every other night your best friend since childhood, Peter Parker, would swing around the city on patrol. He had revealed his little secret identity of his double life to you rather so by force than choice when you accidentally barged into his claustrophobic bedroom to find him struggling on his twin mattress trying to pry a homemade red mask off his face. 

It took a full week for you to process that your best friend was in fact the crime fighting superhero Spiderman. To you he was just Peter Parker, you’re adorable slightly nerdy friend. His second persona didn’t change much between you guys truthfully it made you two grow closer. 

Keep reading


Those of us who live in Portland, Oregon are experiencing a winter storm like nothing we’ve seen in thirty years! According to an excited meteorologist this morning, the entire winter of 2008 had a greater accumulation, but this walloping ten inches or so we’ve received since last night is going on the record books.

Even though it took everyone by surprise, I’m happy to say that we have plenty of food and power, at least for now.

I made these buttery, crisp oatmeal cookies late yesterday afternoon. They came out of the oven just in time for the daylight to wane. I ended up putting them on the hood of my car to get enough light! It was just beginning to snow at the time, so I had to be quick!

I’ve been thinking about making these cookies for weeks, and finally gave in. Due to the weather, schools are closed and we’re hunkered in for the next few days. It will be nice to nibble on these perfect cookies, and give some of them to neighbors.

The recipe comes from Mel’s Kitchen Café, via Cook’s Illustrated magazine, and they’re amazing! You can see that I tried baking my batches for various lengths of time – the lighter ones are crisp around the edges but still have a bit of a chewy center. Divine.

All for now – look for snow pictures later today!

Thin and crispy oatmeal cookies – makes two dozen.


  • 1 cup all-purpose flour
  • ¾ teaspoon baking powder
  • ½ teaspoon baking soda
  • ½ teaspoon salt (don’t add any additional salt if you’re using salted butter)
  • 14 tablespoons unsalted butter (1 ¾ sticks), softened but still slightly cool
  • 1 cup granulated sugar
  • ¼ cup packed light brown sugar
  • 1 large egg
  • 1 teaspoon vanilla extract
  • 2 ½ cups old-fashioned rolled oats (don’t substitute quick oats)
  • Flaked sea salt (such as Maldon) for topping cookies (optional)


Preheat oven to 350 degrees F. Line large baking sheets with parchment paper and set aside.

In a medium bowl, whisk together the flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt.

In a large bowl of stand mixer beat the butter, granulated sugar and brown sugar together until just combined, about 20 seconds. Increase the mixer speed to medium and continue to beat until light and fluffy, about 1 minute longer. Scrape down the sides of the bowl with a rubber spatula. Add the egg and vanilla and beat on medium-low until well mixed, about 30 seconds. Scrape down the sides of the bowl again. Add the flour mixture and mix until barely incorporated, 10-20 seconds. It’s ok if there are a few dry spots. Gradually add the oats and mix until well-combined, about 30 seconds to 1 minutes. If needed, give the dough a final stir with a wooden spoon to ensure that no flour pockets remain and that the ingredients are evenly distributed.

Scoop out about 2 tablespoon-sized mounds of dough and roll them to form balls. Place the cookies about 2 ½-inches apart on the baking sheet(s) - about 8 cookies per sheet. They will spread quite a bit. Lightly press each cookie to about ¾-inch thickness. If you love a salty-sweet taste (like me!), sprinkle a little flaked salt on the top of each before they go in the oven.

Bake 1 sheet of cookies at a time until the cookies are golden brown, edges are crisp, and centers are still very slightly soft, 13 to 16 minutes. Let the cookies cool completely on the baking sheet before removing.

anonymous asked:

I know your requests are closed and if me asking this bothers you, delete it. You're literally the only one who can literally write something I think about in a way that I can't describe.. but lately I've been thinking and Jungkook as a painter and living in a one room loft with him. Simple but, I figured you could turn it into something beautiful.

i actually loved this prompt so much sldkfo <3

rated t for tons of fluff
word count: 2,874

When you first move in, you find white. And then, came the colors.

Six AM, pencil over paper; seven-twenty-five, charcoal shading; nine o’clock, coffee right on the dot; noon, a new exhibition in the back pages of the newspaper, circled in red sharpie, the address underlined twice.

Keep reading


Per special request, this Memorial Day breakfast of biscuits and gravy hit the spot. MIA - the fruit salad, which is just out of range in these pictures.

Browned sausage in cream sauce is to die for, but what takes this dish over the top are the homemade biscuits. I make biscuits all the time, and I cannot imagine buying the canned ones. Mine are buttery and flaky and crisp around the edges. Homemade biscuits have appeared here many times over the years. You can find the recipe here.

To make biscuits and gravy…

Brown one pound of your favorite breakfast sausage, breaking it down into crumbles as it cooks. Stir 1/3 cup all purpose flour into the cooked sausage. Continue cooking and stirring for another minute. Add 2 cups of milk and ½ teaspoon black pepper and stir it together until the sauce thickens and gets bubbly. Whisk or stir in more milk (probably at least another cup, depending on how you like it), and simmer until done. The whole process probably takes ten minutes. Taste, and add salt if needed.

Serve over hot biscuits.

This breakfast will feed six people.

anonymous asked:

fic title? out of focus

Hmm, I think this could be the title of a fic from the perspective of Betty, from when she was younger to present day. Sort of like a little journey of her inner monologue from her young pining for Archie, right through to the moment she begins to notice Jughead more, and then finally as she falls for him.

Like, he’s always been there, just slightly out of focus, visible only around her peripheries until one day he’s suddenly bright colours and crisp edges and he takes her her entire vision. She’s never seen anything like it until now.

Thanks, nonnie!