half camel

#FindEmmaSwanAFriend

Feeling left behind by her more successful, settled friends, Emma Swan moves to Scotland on a whim. Sure, she’s winning at Instagram, but something is still missing from her new life. Fortunately, her friends back home are on it. #FindEmmaSwanAFriend goes viral. Enter Killian Jones, reluctant columnist, who is on the hunt for his newest subject, and may just have found her. CS AU


also on ff.net


Alright, so this is how it’s going to work, friends. This is the prologue. Whereafter I’ll only be posting one chapter for this story a month. One chapter a month, each month, until the end of the year. But in between those, I’ll also be writing a column. Killian’s column, to be more precise. To complement the narrative, as it were. So 2 things a month. For you. Gratis. Though you’ll actually be getting rather a lot of content this month, seeing as I didn’t make my January posting deadline. So you’ll be getting this, January’s chapter, January’s column, February’s chapter AND February’s column, all this month. Are we all clear? Great. Awesome. Well done.

Tagging @lenfaz


Emma

It all started with a proposal.

A lot of things do. They precede any big undertaking, after all. Business deals. Engagements. Murders for hire.    

Or if you’re Emma Swan, they might precede awkwardly comforting your crying ex-boyfriend in the parking lot behind an Italian restaurant after you’ve just broken his heart into little, itty bitty pieces.

Maybe if she’d been the type of girl who’d dreamt of her wedding day since she was a little girl, it all would have gone another way. Her friend, Mary Margaret, was like that. She’d had every single detail of her lavish but intimate ceremony planned out in her head a decade ahead of time, a stash of bridal magazines hidden underneath her mattress, like porn.

Maybe if Emma had been more like that, she would’ve scooped that ring right up off that dessert platter, and wept happy tears as her husband-to-be helped slide it onto her finger.

But she wasn’t. So she didn’t.

Keep reading

MOTHERFUCKING DRAGON RAIN

IN CHINA, RAIN DOESN’T COME FROM CLOUDS. DON’T BE FUCKING STUPID. RAIN COMES FROM MOTHERFUCKING DRAGON BATTLES.

DRAGONS ARE HALF STAG, HALF DEMON, HALF CAMEL, HALF FISH, HALF CLAM, HALF EAGLE, HALF TIGER MONSTERS. NOW, THAT’S SEVEN HALVES, SO THAT OUGHT TO MAKE THREE AND A HALF DRAGONS. NO. DRAGONS MAY BE FUCKING MAGNIFICENT, BUT THEY’RE SHIT AT COUNTING.

DRAGONS DON’T MUCH LIKE SUNLIGHT, SO DURING THE SUMMER THEY FUCK OFF AND HIDE IN UNDERGROUND LAKES. THIS IS BECAUSE IF A DRAGON SPENDS TOO LONG AWAY FROM WATER IT GOES ALL SMALL AND DRIED UP AND WRINKLY, SORT OF LIKE A FRUIT. A FUCKING MASSIVE FRUIT WITH SCALES AND TALONS AND FIRE BREATH. KIND OF LIKE A PINEAPPLE REALLY.

WHEN A DRAGON WAKES UP, IT’S PRETTY FUCKING ANGRY. DRAGONS AREN’T MORNING PEOPLE. IF A NEWLY WOKEN DRAGON RUNS INTO ANOTHER DRAGON, IT TRIES TO BEAT THE SHIT OUT OF IT. IT MAKES ONE HELL OF A NOISE, AND THEN THE FIGHT ENDS IN TEARS WHICH FALL FROM THE SKY.

FUCKING MAGICAL.

3

i will take this opportunity to not so subtly suggest that “will it beard” could be interesting.

anonymous asked:

You do figure skating?!? That's so cool!! Can we see your skates?

I do! But i’ve just started. Today was my second class but we did a lot of stuff!

I don’t do ice skating tho, due to the lack of ice skating rinks in my country (ice skating isn’t popular in here sob). 

So i do roller figure skating instead! It’s mostly the same as ice figure skating, but there are no quads and triples are rare. There are also some different moves such as the Mapes and Euler jumps (Mapes is basically a Toe Loop, and Euler is a Half Loop), inverted camel and heel camel spin (the heel variation is impossible to be performed on the ice).

Sure ;w;

They’re a bit dirty now because i just got back from class– 

glowinjpg  asked:

hey! i absolutely love your fics & you've somehow managed to get me hooked on pansy/percy (you were the one who ignited my pansy love to begin with) any chance you could write some more drabbles about them? thank you!!

i meeeeeean maybe just consider:

  • percy’s been living in a decent sized studio on the upper west side since he’d taken his consulting job with the mayor’s office. the building’s nice–pretty, prewar, quiet, with a doorman and a laundry service and a clanging art deco elevator that actually works most of the time. 
  • it’s not glamorous, of course, but he does have a dishwasher, and coming home at the end of the day–hanging his keys on the specially-installed hook by the door, shedding his coat and rolling his sleeves up and rifling around the drawer in his kitchen for his carefully curated stack of takeout menus–it’s organized, and it’s pleasant, and it’s peaceful
  • his existence is peaceful.
  • until–
  • she moves in on a saturday, towards the tail-end of august. she has blunt-cut blonde hair, longer in the front than it is in the back, and eyes that are a vaguely mysterious shade of blue. cobalt, maybe. dark. secretive. her lipstick is a bright, bright, bright pink, and she’s wearing a soft-looking white v-neck, shorter in the front than it is in the back, high-waisted denim cutoffs and neon orange nail polish and a pair of buttery leather sandals with a complicated series of buckles crisscrossing her ankles. 
  • percy fully admits that he stares at her, appalled and aghast and–something else, probably–for a moment too long. 
  • “hey, big red, you’re kind of in the way,” the girl snaps at him, waving a half-empty pack of camels at the three burly guys behind her. they’re holding a green velvet chaise lounge, and percy is almost positive he’d caught the lilting strains of a badly suppressed southern accent when she’d spoken.
  • still, he takes an automatic step backwards, into his own doorway, and absently fiddles with his glasses. “sorry,” he says, because he has manners. “welcome to the building.”
  • she sneers–sarcastically–and then saunters into her apartment. the one directly next to his. god. they’re going to share a wall.
  • as it turns out, though, she’s not the worst neighbor in the world. no loud parties, no weird noises, no awkward elevator rides–she smokes sometimes, usually on the fire escape, but not often enough to really bother him. it’s new york. he smells far worse things if he just stands near a subway grate long enough on his way home.
  • but then it happens.
  • it’s a friday in mid-november, and the freezing rain has started to crystallize on the sidewalk and the budget hearings for the next fiscal year have started to fester like a bullet wound. he gets home, drops his keys, flings his coat onto the back of the couch, and rakes a frustrated hand through his hair. 
  • and then he smells it.
  • cigarette smoke.
  • it’s the last straw. it’s his breaking point. it’s the fucking glistening maraschino cherry on top of a day so shitty he doesn’t even want to go through the comments section of that morning’s wall street journal editorial. he’s outraged. he’s livid. he’s–
  • slamming his fist against her front door, once, and then twice, and then–
  • “jesus, is there a fire?” the girl demands, visibly bristling. “what do you want?”
  • she’s wearing yoga pants and some kind of oversized short-sleeved t-shirt that’s drooping down one shoulder. no socks. her toenails are painted the same color as her eyes–that weird, nameless blue. percy suddenly feels lightheaded.
  • “you–i can–would you mind smoking outside the building?” he blurts out.
  • “yes,” she replies, easily. immediately. “i’d mind. anything else?”
  • “i–seriously? i can smell it, it’s–repulsive, not to mention it’s going to kill you–”
  • “why don’t you let me worry about what’s going to kill me,” she says, cocking a neatly manicured brow. 
  • “i’m–what?”
  • “is that all you needed?” she practically simpers.
  • “no, you don’t–i have–i have asthma,” percy hears himself say, as if from very far away.
  • the girl narrows her eyes, reaching up to tousle her already-tousled bangs with a casual flick of her wrist. the rattling clink of her bracelets–tarnished bronze and gleaming gold bangles, an oddly clunky sterling silver charm bracelet nearly lost among the chaos–is over-loud in the relative silence of the hallway.
  • “do you really have asthma?” she asks, and there it is, that slow, entirely too elusive hint of a deep southern drawl that he’d thought he’d imagined after their first encounter. 
  • “no,” he admits, stiffly.
  • she snorts. “yeah, i figured. you’re a little too…” she gestures to his chest, his shoulders, his arms. “you know.”
  • he doesn’t know, of course, but he’s regularly wrong-footed enough around this girl to not particularly want to admit that to her. ever. “right. well. will you…stop, then? the smoking?”
  • she hums, like she’s really considering it, and then she smirks, a subtle quirk of her lips–a deep, shiny, glittering cranberry-red tonight–that leaves percy feeling…sucker-punched. uneasy. breathless. it’s all very confusing.
  • “yeah, i’ll stop,” she finally tells him, sounding amused. 
  • he blinks. “you’ll–wait, you will? why?”
  • her smile shifts, slightly, somehow turning both softer and slyer. “i have asthma,” she mimics, lowering her voice an octave. “didn’t think you had it in you, percy.”
I Stepped Out...

Part One:

I stepped out, feeling damn near invincible. Stomach on fire, mind numb and nerves rolling on ice. I glance at my watch – that silver beat-up old thing - 12 ‘til midnight - the night is still young.  I gaze at the neon sign in the window of a dimly lit diner – unsatisfyingly illuminated to “closed.” I trudge towards the window, using that blue and red light to get hold of my smokes. I pluck one out of the half-empty box of camels, and bring it to my lips. My back facing the wind, I set ablaze that stick of relaxation, as I inhale long and deep, filling up to the brim with white fire and a feeling of infinitude. I ditch the shady corner and make my way down the street, glancing at each car as I strolled by. If you’re lucky, sometimes, some dumb bastard might leave his doors unlocked, while he’s around the corner at the 200 proof pub, or down the street I’m on, while they’re held up at some Chinese joint, stuffing their face with Lo Mein. Although there weren’t any apparently unlocked doors, there was an obviously intoxicated man. He was parked farther up on the corner, an outlier, away from the rest of the cars. He was probably forced there in a desperate rage to find a spot. I straightened myself out, as to look unsuspicious and walked towards this man, watching him trip around, hardly able to stand, trying to get to his car. I walked at a steady pace and observed him. He was of average height and stocky. He looked young, but not very - late 20’s perhaps. His hair was black and neatly cut on the top, parted on the side, and faded in the back, as well as up the sideburns. He wore a slim fit charcoal grey suit and with a white under shirt - no tie - partially unbuttoned. He looked like a business man, “probably loaded” I thought. There was no way he’d be able to drive home, even if he did find his way into the driver seat. Knowing this man could do me no harm, I approached him, in a calm and polite manner.

“Hey buddy, you alright? You seem a little…out of it.”

“Nah man, I’m gah- I’m gooooooood! Niver batter in mlife,” he let out in a slur.

“You weren’t planning on driving tonight, were you?”

“Bwad are you, the fuckin’ cops?!” He thought he was hilarious, a real laugh. The irony of it, the joke was on him.

In his drunken state and the undeniably hysterical laughing outburst, he didn’t notice me slip the key out of his blazer pocket while he was hunched over. He fell, face-first, right into the cement as I walked around the driver side door. I watched him as he struggled to get up, not even paying attention to the grand theft that was taking place directly in front of him.

Now I wasn’t stealing his car, I was just borrowing it. If anything, I was doing that guy a favor. Could you imagine the news headlines, “29 year old business man dies, in raging inferno-30-car-pile-up.” For all we know I just saved that man’s life, and plenty of others. I - am a fucking hero. Or at least that’s what I’d tell the cops if I get caught. So I left that stumbling man on that cozy sidewalk and kept it moving.

I was feeling nice, and I had a car. What to do next, I couldn’t think up. I was fishing around my swampy mind for any revelation, to even a glimpse of an idea of what my next move was. I kept feeling nibbles but, I couldn’t hook anything. I figured I might as well just ‘round the blocks. Just ‘round the blocks and let the calm feeling of a midnight drive pace my thoughts.

               I’m pulling up to a stop light, still unable to conjure up an idea. I grab another camel and torch it.  Now, when I say this happened, purely out luck – I mean, I couldn’t have been anymore lucky. Nothing to do on this dull and young night, but lo and behold - to my left pulls up a big ‘ole rolling metal block of American muscle. A 1969 Dodge Charger – minty as a stick of wintergreen.  I rev the engine of my borrowed Beamer and lock eyes with the guy inside. He gives me a blank look and laughs to himself, as if I wasn’t serious. So I put my beamer in park and floored the gas. His laugh diminishes to a grin, at which point we’d locked eyes. I shift back to drive and look straight ahead, waiting for the light to say fly. He finally straightens out and follows my lead. Each second feels like a minute, my heart synchronized to the controlled explosions of each piston - a steady flow of adrenaline cruising through my veins, sending me into a state of intense thrill.

BOOM! And we were off.

I gunned it as soon as the light turned green, without an iota of hesitation. I have to be honest with you, I’ve never driven a beamer, and she chugged along surprisingly well. I glanced down once my speedometer hit 80, then back at him.

It was in that moment, I saw a streak of intense panic light up in his eyes. The street we were moving on was straight for the most part, I’d say about 600 yards straight, right before it broke off into a left curve. I was so invested in this race - the only thing on my mind was to show up that kid in the car next to me. His face said it all. I shouldn’t have taken my eyes off the prize. I reacted at the last second trying to ease into the turn, which isn’t easy to do once you’re nearly breaking 90. Right-hand over left-hand, left-hand under right-hand. As soon as the wheels cut left, no sooner did the back tires leave the asphalt. The moment was still, time slowed – right-hand over left-hand still - my mind realized it, but my body didn’t even have a chance to react. The beamer barrel-rolled about 60 yards before screeching to a halt. I couldn’t hear anything, just hums, and that ringing you hear, when you wake up in the morning, and stretch real good. The feeling of a warm thick liquid, running down the side of my face. My sight was foggy, a red haze, but there wasn’t any confusion about what had just occurred. That was a stroke of shitty luck.

Or sheer luck.

Considering I’m still thinking. I look at my watch, only 1:07. That was fun and all, but I still had some sand in my glass.

michaelthepeashooter  asked:

to you, what is the most noticable Scooby doo error?

I already had an answer ready… but then, yesterday, I saw this:

1. Magician guy is on his half-drawn camel. The camel throws him off, and he lands in the sand.

2. Cut to him on the ground. He casts a spell to “bring the camel back to him.”

3. Cut to the camel. We now see that the camel was apparently on top of a weird ship, even though we saw so sign of that before.

We also see that the magician is still on the camel, even though he was just thrown off the camel.

4. The camel is magic’d away, and the duplicate magician still hovers there. Even by this point, they didn’t even realize what they did.

Or, maybe they just didn’t care.

5. The camel is thrown back to the magician… who we are reminded is still lying on the ground, even though we were just shown him also being on the camel.

…ladies and gents, I present to you: a new low.

Spitty

Alright, boys and girls, it’s story time with the Pope.

I’m notorious for playing a (half)Orc Barbarian. Seriously, with maybe five or six exceptions, I have been a (half)Orc Barb every time I’ve played for the past six years. That said, every time I play a new (half)Orc Barb, I try to throw a little character quirk in that sets it apart from the others I’ve played. In this particular story, I had a camel named Spitty. This camel, to my Character (who we will name Sparmp, because that’s the name of my current Orc Barb), was the most important thing to ever walk the earth, and Sparmp loved that camel more than life itself. The other characters hated Spitty because I would often run to check on it in the middle of battle, or put an axe in a pedestrian’s forehead for insulting Spitty, or some ass hattery to that effect.

Another interesting note about Sparmp was that he was the best damn archer I’ve ever seen at a gaming table. I’m pretty sure there was some house ruling involved, but I had an ability where I could knock back more than one arrow and shoot them at multiple targets. Mix that with the fact that I was already the tank of the party, and you can start to understand why the other players got pissed whenever I dipped out to see if Spitty was still okay.

With that bit of context out there, allow me to set the scene for you; we’re smack dab in the middle of the end game, and it’s war out there! Seriously, the DM described it as “Remember the war scene at the end of the last LotR movie? This makes that look like a schoolhouse scuffle!”, and Sparmp is having a jolly old time! I’m picking up the weapons of the fallen and just hucking them at people (and since I was rolling really well, I was usually killing people, too).

However, from across the battlefield, I hear a boom. I look at the source of the boom and discover a brand new weapon known as a cannon. Imagine the following in slow-mo, if you will; I see the cannonball slowly hurtling through the battlefield, whizzing past elves and dwarves and drow and whizzing past the nasties and the ghoulies… and I watch the cannonball decapitate my precious Spitty. My best friend, my soul mate, my god, my hero, Sparmp’s sole reason to exist… decapitated.

“…..spitty? Spitty?” Sparmp sobs “SPITTYYYYYYY!!!!!”

In a fit of rage that only a (half)Orc Barb can have, I spin around, knock back 10 arrows (which is about 6 more than I’d ever tried before), and I release… and I roll a nat 20.

I killed 13 people with 10 arrows.

Allow me to repeat that… 13 people… 10 arrows.

Apparently, one of the arrows had gone through someones mouth, ripped through another man’s throat and finally lodged in someone’s eye socket.

Moral of the story: Don’t fuck with a (half)Orcish Barbarian’s camel.