honour hour

2

@future-of-dawn said: Hey,, don’t worry about taking time off it’s totally understandable! Congrats on graduating too! Also I just thought y’know maybe after you’ve taken a break and gotten back into this blog, what if you drew the gang in their lil caps&gowns from when they graduated too?

everyone has been so super sweet in welcoming me back so i thought i’d take the time to make a piece that took more than just half an hour. in honour of graduation season, here’s an old photograph the crew dug up while going through random boxes. a little damaged, but the memory is still solid. i really appreciate and love everyone who follows this blog, thank you for making it worth it!

anonymous asked:

(Low key stole from another prompt but sh) if you're still doing prompts- Roman walks in on Virg without his makeup,,,?

more University!AU, here we go! <3


Virgil nearly pokes himself in the eye with the eyeliner pencil at the sound of three booming knocks on the door. He rolls his eyes.

“Nope. No way!” he calls back. “This is my slot. Logan made a schedule.”

Cue the most melodramatic wail in existence. “Please, Virgil! Please, please, please, it’s not my fault I slept in-”

“Uh, I think you’ll find you hit snooze about fifty times, it’s your fault.”

“I just need to fix my hair! Otherwise I’ll be late to rehearsals and then my entire future will be in jeopardy-”

“And you say I jump to conclusions.”

“-and it will all come about because Virgil, my once dear friend, would rather forsake me for a stupid schedule rather than rescue my honour in the hour of need…”

“Oh, cry me a river.”

But Virgil is already unlocking the bathroom door. It opens, and Roman practically falls on top of him. 

“Bless you, my-” He breaks off, staring at Virgil.

Virgil squirms. “What? Something in my teeth?”

Roman blinks repeatedly then smiles. “Nope. Just haven’t seen you without your-you know- smokey eyes.”

“My…” Virgil glances down at the pencil in understanding. “Oh.” He can feel himself blushing. “That’s… you call it that?”

Roman is already bustling to the mirror and styling his hair, moment of surprise apparently over. 

“You just look different, that’s all. Not in a bad way, just- is that a birthmark on your eyelid? Cute.”

Virgil tries not to gape. He still doesn’t really know how to respond to compliments. So, instead, while Roman is fixating on his hair, he finds his liquid eyeliner. He tiptoes over and then, quick as a flash, paints two black stripes onto Roman’s cheek.

Roman hits him, but only playfully. “Hey! That’s-ooh, kinda edgy. Do the other side, it’ll be like war paint.”

Virgil snorts. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You’re ridiculous-er. Can I watch you do your eye makeup?”

“Thought you were late for rehearsals.”

“Duh, I am but I have my priorities right.”

Roman catches his eye in the mirror and winks. Virgil steadies his elbow on the sink and focuses on keeping his hand steady.

“Yeah, like I said- ridiculous. So, uh, first I’ll start on this side and…”


Open for prompts info

anonymous asked:

Ykno what bitchard fuck u actually fuck u i send u so many asks and u legit never reply to any of them i bet if i asked in german u would answer fucking bitch go die

you know what i’ve been in abu dhabi for the past six days making friends seeing tourist attractions and rehearsing for honour choir seven hours per day so sorry for not taking the time to promptly respond to anonymous people on the internet telling me about their crush on a bassoonist

Armenian genocide: Turkey's day of denial amid remembrance for a genocide in all but name

They were brave Turks and they were brave Armenians, the descendants of the murderers of 1915 and the descendants of their victims.

They stood together outside the old Istanbul prison where the first 250 Armenians – intellectuals, lawyers, teachers, journalists – were imprisoned by the Ottoman Turks exactly 100 years ago, and they travelled across the Bosphorus to sit next to each other outside the gaunt pseudo-Gothic hulk of what was once the Anatolia Station.

From here, those 250 men were sent to their fate. Yesterday, the Turks and the Armenians held a sign in their hands and repeated one word in Turkish: “Soykirim”.  It means “genocide”.

How they humbled the great and the good of our Western world, as they commemorated together the planned slaughter of one and a half million Armenian men, women and children.

For despite his first pre-election pledge to the contrary, Barack Obama once more refused to use the word “genocide” on Thursday. The Brits ducked the word again. The Turkish president, Recep Tayyip Erdogan, stubbornly maintaining his country’s ossified policy of denial – once more both Armenians and Turks had to listen to the usual “fog of war” explanation for the 20th century’s first holocaust – was sitting 180 miles away, next to Prince Charles, to honour the dead of the 1915 battle of Gallipoli.

It is a century since the first 250 Armenians were killed (AFP/Getty)
But Professor Ayhan Aktar, a proud Turk whose family emigrated from the Balkans in 1912, understood the cynical history of the Gallipoli ceremony. For on 24 April, as the first Armenians were being rounded up, absolutely nothing happened at Gallipoli. The battle began the next day, when the Irish and the Lancashire soldiers landed on the peninsula. The Erdogan government in Ankara was using Gallipoli  as a smoke screen. “We all know why Erdogan chose 24 April, and of course it was a genocide,” Ayhan Aktar said, his voice booming with indignation. “Ankara will NEVER use the word ‘genocide’.  Sixty per cent of Turks will one day use the word – and still Ankara will say ‘no’. Yes, I have made enemies, but also some very interesting friends. It was all worth it.”

The professor’s scorn came from deep historical soil. “When my Armenian journalist friend Hrant Dink was assassinated by a Turkish nationalist outside his newspaper office in February 2007, I was shocked and deeply depressed,” he said.

“I promised myself that because of Hrant’s death, I would write about 1915. With a colleague of mine, we went through documents – and we wrote about the Turkish bureaucrats who resisted the Armenian deportations. I read more and more and I started to use the word ‘genocide’. It was the truth.”

Turkish soldiers at the Helles memorial in Gallipoli (AFP/Getty)
And so two sets of names – all dead – dominated those few hundred courageous souls who, in what was once the capital of the Ottoman Empire, turned their back on the hypocrisy of those diplomats and prime ministers 200 miles away in Gallipoli. There was Faik Ali, Turkish governor of Kutahya in 1915 and his contemporary Mehmet Celal in Konya and there was Huseyin Nesimi, the deputy Turkish governor in Lice. “All fed the persecuted Armenians, all refused to kill them,” the professor said. “Faik Ali and Huseyin Nesimi were both dismissed. Nesimi was murdered on the orders of his senior governor, Dr Reshid.”

These were the good Turks who tried to maintain their country’s honour in its hour of shame. The few hundred equally honourable Turks and Armenians who crossed the Bosphorus to the German-built railway station on Friday then sat down on the sunny steps and held up photographs of the 250 Armenians who were put aboard the cattle wagons inside.

There was Ardashes Harutunian, Dr Garabed Pasayian Han, Karekin Cakalian, Atom Yercanjian and Siamonto, the pen name of Atom Yarjanian, a landmark figure of Armenia’s golden age of poetry.

Siamonto’s great nephew had arrived from Paris for his first visit – ever – to the land in which his people were destroyed. “You must understand the significance of Gallipoli in all this,” Manouk Atomyan explained. “At first, the Turks didn’t kill them (the Armenians) – because they thought the Allies would win at Gallipoli and rescue them all. But by July, it was obvious the Allies were losing. So the Turks set about the killing.”


The 250 men, the cream of Armenian Istanbul society, were put on a train which stopped before Ankara. The first carriages were sent on to Ankara, where most of the passengers were executed.  Of the 250, 175 were killed, shot in the head beside prepared graves.

Narin Kurumlu bears a Turkish name and is indeed a Turk, but she is also Armenian, one of the few people of her race whose family clung onto their land – Turkish land – amid their people’s persecution.

“I am a Turk but I call this a genocide,” she said.  “It is the truth. I am a tour guide and I was trained by the Turkish tourist people. Yes, I go to Van and the old Armenian areas. I don’t go into details and when I’m asked about the genocide, I say the figures are disputed. I say that some think it was a million and a half Armenians killed, but that it was at least a million.” I ask her to write down her original Armenian family name. “I’d rather not,” she says. “There are good reasons for this… they listen to my phone and they read my e-mails.”

These were perhaps the most deeply moving – and distressing – words uttered among the small crowd of truth-tellers outside the Anatolia station yesterday. All were escorted – at a distance, of course – by a small posse of Turkish state police, some in uniform. They were not there to threaten the brave Turks or the brave Armenians. They were present to ensure that no-one else threatened them, the sort of people, for instance, who murdered Hrant Dink eight years ago. For that would take the headlines away from another ceremony, wouldn’t it? And remind the world that the 130,000 Allied and Turkish dead of Gallipoli were outnumbered by one and a half million civilian dead whose genocide we must still obediently deny.

Source:- http://www.independent.co.uk/news/world/europe/armenian-genocide-turkeys-day-of-denial-amid-remembrance-for-a-genocide-in-all-but-name-10203090.html

It is curious how often we find Princess Sophia mentioned as somebody’s favourite among the Sisterhood. She was Mary Hamilton’s; she was Marianne Moula’s; and, if Fanny Burney is to be believed, she was the Duke of Clarence’s - at least when he returned home from the West Indies in the summer of 1789. She was then, says Fanny, his ‘professed favourite’, and he was boisterously delighted when he ‘had had the honour of about an hour’s conversation with that young Lady, in the old style; though’, he added hastily, ‘I have given up my mad frolics now. To be sure I had a few in that style formerly!’  The ‘old style’ must have been his, and not hers, for his sister was at that time not quite twelve years old, and he had been absent from England for more than a year with his ship, the Andromeda.

The Daughters of George III - Dorothy Margaret Stuart

  • Sherlock & Molly: *hiding in a cupboard*
  • Sherlock: *whispers* Are you alright?
  • Molly: *nods*
  • Sherlock: *awkward* Thank you...for assisting me with-
  • Molly: *slaps a hand over his mouth; whispers* I think someone's coming *pauses; listening intently* do you think we should-
  • Sherlock: *mumbles beneath her hand* -have sex.
  • Molly: ...
  • Molly: *blinking* Pardon?
  • Sherlock: *removes her hand; slowly* We should have sex.
  • Molly: *confused* Why?
  • Sherlock: *shrugs* Well, put it this way...if you heard that, would you come in here?
  • Molly: *thinking* No, I suppose not *shuffles on her feet* so, we- we're going to fake...it?
  • Sherlock: *already undressing; chuckles* Oh, dear, no. It must be convincing.
  • Molly: *raises her eyebrow*
  • Sherlock: *clears his throat* For the case.
  • Molly: *nods slowly* Yeah.
Home is Where the Heart is

Prompt: Riley moves to London and Lucas gives her something to remember him by. []

Word Count: 2088

♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡

“Have you made your decision?” Auggie asks.

“Yes, please don’t try and talk me out of it..” Topanga has a look of emotional pain written all over her face.

“We won’t,” Riley says even though her heart is breaking.

“We know better,” Cory adds with a smile. He truly would follow her anywhere. “You’ve always done what’s best for us, so we do this one for you.”

“I want to take the job in London,” Topanga can barely get the words out. Riley feels like her world is falling apart but she tries to keep it together for her mothers sake, she knew this wouldn’t have been an easy decision to make.

“So we move to London,” Cory says in the same soft tone he had spoken in before.

“Together,” Riley nods as she gives her younger brothers hand a squeeze.

Maya was present for Topanga’s announcement and had slept over at Riley’s to cry all night. The brunette tries to compose herself, she had to be strong for Maya, for her mother, for Auggie and for herself.

Riley couldn’t bear four individual conversations having to relive the sad truth over and over; she was leaving. So, the following day at school she plans to tell the rest of her friends in one go. Rip the bandaid off. But this bandaid felt like it was apart of her skin and removing it felt impossible.

Riley asks them all to meet her in the hole at school. They knew Riley’s mother was considering the job offer but none of them truly believed Topanga would take it and especially with the informal place Riley asked to meet they all assumed she was staying. They were wrong.

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For A Coronation

School for Good and Evil

Word Count: 2615

| Part 1 | Part 2 |

(side note: have you guys seen the Ever Never TV vid about the new book!!!???? I’m so excited!) 


Chapter 3: Resolution

“Where’s Agatha?”

“My prince, be patient. She is scheduled to be at your ceremony at noon today. You will see her there.”

“But I want to see her now,” said Tedros, ceasing his pacing to glare at the man deemed ‘adviser to the king’. He knew full well that he sounded petulant but he honestly couldn’t care at the moment. “I didn’t see her when I woke up. What if something happened to her?”

“Rather than that,” said the man, “should you not be thinking about the sort of rumours that will be surfacing about you spending time in your princess’ quarters outside of wedlock?”

The flush that crawled up Tedros’ neck was fast and furiously red. “That’s not- I mean we weren’t doing anything. She was there when I went to bed, that’s all. And I thought it was my room.” If his adviser thought that such a question would distract him, he was quickly proven wrong. “I’m going to look for her,” he declared, hopping off the podium despite the frantic calls of the man dressing him.

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“And I saw another angel flying through the midst of heaven, having the eternal gospel, to preach unto them that sit upon the earth, and over every nation, and tribe, and tongue, and people: Saying with a loud voice: Fear the Lord, and give him honour, because the hour of his judgment is come; and adore ye him, that made heaven and earth, the sea, and the fountains of waters.”

- Apocalypse XIV, 6-7

I GRADUATED UNIVERSITY WITH FIRST CLASS HONOURS!!

Hours and hours and hours of hard work paid off, and yesterday I graduated from my BA Honours History degree!

I couldn’t have done it without the support of my family and friends! I lived at home and drove 30 minutes to the university for my lectures and seminars, the soundtrack to those drives was mainly taylorswift’s back catalogue, especially Red and 1989! So Taylor, thank you for keeping me sane on my daily commute!!