i was looking through my drafts and found this

While going through my drafts looking for things to add to my queue, I found this, which I’d apparently written but never posted.  I feels like now is the appropriate time to do so.

I had a thought, and I am probably not the first person to notice this so please pardon me if someone else has mentioned this first BUT I am excited and want to talk about this.

So Umbreon’s markings look like a solar eclipse, right?  And this makes sense, because the “umbra” is the darkest part of a shadow, and specifically during a solar eclipse, it’s the darkest part of the moon’s shadow, where the total eclipse is visible from.

What I didn’t realize until just now is that Espeon has this connection too!  During a lunar eclipse, the moon doesn’t disappear.  Instead, due to interference from the Earth’s atmosphere, it turns red, like the gem on Espeon’s forehead!

anonymous asked:

Do you still make NH fanfics? I really miss your writing.

I have quite a number of wips in my drafts, but it’s been difficult finding inspiration and motivation to finish them. I am still working on them just- very, very…. very slowly. I’m sorry I haven’t written anything for them in a while! You’re always welcome to send me a prompt! Otherwise, I highly recommend checking out @utsus for your NH fic fix! In the meantime, here’s a piece from spy au I was writing so long ago! (Unedited, so sorry for any mistakes!) 

The hallway is quiet, almost unnaturally so. The plush carpet soaks up any sound her heels and his shoes would’ve made and the loudest presence on the floor are the ostentatious wall sconces that brilliantly light the simple, but expensively furnished hallway of the hotel. The silence and the stillness are both a blessing and a curse.

Naruto gently taps Hinata’s shoulder and when she looks back at him, he hand signals whether or not she can see anyone coming. She closes her eyes, refocuses, and when she opens them again, the lenses that Tenten designed specially for her activates. She scans the hallways and peers around the corner but the only heat source she can see is Naruto at her back, though she doesn’t need to see him to feel his presence. He’s close enough that his front almost touches her bare upper back, the crisp folds of his suit gently ghosting over her skin.

She signals back. Coast is clear. And then she leads on, her eyes guiding them to their target: Room 511. She hates being in the open like this, even if the carpet and the walls render them both noiseless. It amplifies the sound of the hammering of her heart and the beats of her breath- but she knows that is adrenaline heightening her senses and sending her blood rushing. She focuses herself, clearing her mind until cool and sharp rationale grounds her again.

Naruto lifts a hand, brushes his palm against her bare shoulder, and squeezes gently in support before letting go. The brief connection comforts them both, when they’re so close to their goal, when they cannot afford to make a mistake now.

She freezes and he knows she’s seen someone. 

Keep reading

There are a lot of people in the Haus, and Nursey doesn’t want to talk to any of them, so when he gets home he heads straight for him and Dex’s room, and then straight for his bed. He doesn’t put any effort at all into flopping onto his mattress, his backpack still strapped on and his shoes toeing the floor. 

He’d spent all day telling himself that he’d feel better once he got into bed, but he doesn’t. He feels like his skin is crawling and he feels like something is wrong and he feels like the air around him is weighing too heavily on his skin. He can breathe fine and he can move fine and he is fine, but he also isn’t and he hates it.

When his bedroom door opens a little while later and he hears a set of footsteps fall short suddenly, he wants to disappear.

When he feels the footsteps start up again, moving towards him, he shies away.

“Nursey,” Dex says, his voice sounding like a question and a warning, as he stops in front of the bed and kneels down. “What’s up?”

Nursey doesn’t have words to explain what’s up. He doesn’t have words to explain how fundamentally off he feels, so he hugs his pillow tighter and rolls onto his side and eventually he says, “I’m just really tired,” and Dex’s brow furrows.

“Tired?” he repeats, and when Nursey just barely nods, he reaches out a hand that looks like it’s headed for Nursey’s forehead, but Nursey pulls away again.

Dex looks hurt but he doesn’t say anything so, after a long moment, Nursey does. He closes his eyes and wrinkles his brow and he says, “I feel gross,” and it’s true, and it’s the most accurate thing he’s said so far.

He feels gross, and he doesn’t want to be touched and he doesn’t want to move and he just barely wants to exist at all and, when he opens his eyes, Dex is frowning.

“Gross?” he repeats and, when Nursey nods again, he purses his lips. “Are you getting sick?”

Nursey shakes his head.

“Have you tried having a shower?”

Another, slightly smaller, shake.

“I could wash your sheets?”

Nursey closes his eyes in response to that one, and Dex sighs.

“I could clean the room?” he tries, and Nursey loves him for trying so instead of shaking his head or frowning or looking away, this time he grabs Dex’s hand and pulls it into his heart, still curling up in a ball, but feeling a bit better about it now.

“Can you just stay here a while?” Nursey asks, and it’s more of a mumble than anything, but Dex nods and he smiles a bit too.

“Yeah,” he says, more a whisper than anything, “I can do that.”

The small Dork and the Artist pt.2

I wanted to continue what @That-Punny-Cookie started, even if it was my other account that I deleted, I had a feeling nobody would believe me and all.
Just saying, the One-Shot wasn’t supposed to be submitted, it was a draft ;w;
But, just saying, the day I found out you replied…




Error poked the chocolate softly.

It looked yummy.

And Error wanted to eat something.

Error gently picked up the chocolate while Ink watched, curious for what his rescuing to chocolate will be. Error took a small nibble of the chocolate (that wasn’t wrapped) slowly and cautiously. His eye lights lit up slightly at the sweet taste. Instead of chomping down the chocolate greedily, Error instead took quick but small nibbles of the chocolate. Ink giggled at the small glitchy child.

”Hey, what’s your name?“ Ink asked, “I’m Ink. You can call me anything but shorty.”

Error looked up at Ink, blinking a little, putting down the (very tasty) chocolate bar.

Error sat down a little more properly, sitting on his bum. (Is that more proper, or does it not make a difference? I don’t know, whoops-)

“My NaMe iS Error,“ Error murmured softly. Ink leaned in a little, humming in question. “What did you say?” Ink asked politely. Error tooonin a deep breath and looked Ink straight in the eye with slight bravery.

”Error,“ Error repeated confidently, “My NaMe Is Error.”

Ink smiled brightly, crawling closer to Error. ”That’s a great name! Do you mind if I call you … Hmm … RuRu, perhaps?“ Ink asked. Error rose his ‘eyebrows.’ “WhO Is ’RuRu’¿” Error asked back. Ink giggled, scooting a little closer to Error.

“Your RuRu, silly!“ Ink smiled, pointing to Error. Error pointed to himself, “mE¿ bUt, I’m ErRor!” Error protested, “nOt rUrU!”

Ink grinned, “If I call you RuRu, you can call me anything you want. If you like, you can call me shorty, even if I’m taller than you,“ Ink suggested, scooting until he was normal length from Error.

Error puffed his cheeks and and crossed his arms, “I-i’m nOt GonNA aLwAyS bE shOrT! I-i’lL grOw Up!“ Error huffed, “i’lL grOw Up TO bE tAlL!”

Ink rolled his eyes playfully. “Suuuuuure. Hehe. Anyway, want to leave this awful place?“ Ink asked Error. Error gasped and stood up quickly, “yEs PleAsE, InK!” Error smiled, which Ink returned. The artist stood up, and realized how short Error was. Even wearing shoes, Error was just a little shorter than Inks elbow.

’Oh my gosh,’ Ink squealed internally, ’He’s so short!’ Ink internally fangirled at how cute Error is. ‘But, I also wonder, will Error be able to go through the portal himself?’ Ink asked himself. He shrugged and opened a portal using his paintbrush. Almost immediately, Error hid behind Ink.

“WhAt Is ThAt… ?” Error asked nervously, grabbing onto Inks clothes. Ink turned a little, looking down at the nervous child.

“That, RuRu, is a portal. It will take us away from here,” Ink smiled happily. Error still hid behind Ink.

The artist turned around completely, grabbing Error and placing him onto his hip. Error squeaked and grabbed onto Ink for his dear life.

Ink looked at Error, “Are you ready? We’re going to walk through the portal.“ Error nodded, grabbing onto Ink even more tightly.

’He might fall asleep when we go through the portal,’ Ink thought, ’Probably because of his unsteady magic.’

After that thought, Ink stepped through his portal, entering his guest room in his home.

Which was thankfully not covered in enough papers to not be considered a room anymore. The room was quite plain. If had a twin sized bed in the middle of the room, pressed against the wall. On the right of the bed was a desk, papers and pencils scattered around the wooden surface. It was a plain looking room as mention earlier.
Ink turned to check if Error had fallen asleep.

Yup, he is.

Ink picked up Error and placed him onto the guest bed, tucking him in.

Ink sat next to Errors bed, just in case Error wakes up and gets scared, or something along those lines. Ink wants to be next to the glitchy skeleton, he wants to know if he’s okay, he wants to make sure nobody is messing with Error.
The artist stroked Error’s head in a comforting manner, hoping too sooth the skeletons nervous nerves from going through portal earlier.

“I will watch over you, no matter what. Your my small little dork.”

Before y'all start screaming about stuff I messed up
I thought that Error wouldn’t have hapephobia(? Is that his you spell it?) because he wasn’t stuck in the void for a heck of a long time. So he didn’t mind the touching. (Or, maybe I didn’t want to write angst/feels ;w;)

(I’ve gotten sucked into child!error x Ink to the point where I’m drawing them in class XD)

Submitted by  ask-error-and-ink-the-nerds

Unu says: You didn’t have a title so I felt free to name the story, haha. I’m good at naming things, did you know that? |D

Anyway, this is just so cute! You guys keep submitting so cute fanfics to me and just… hnnngh <3<3<3

Thanks for continuing the story. And you’re welcome for the response, I guess? Though I’m still recovering from that train hitting me last time and stuff~

hs au shitposting

ask @stubbornjerk​ and i about this beautiful and pure high school au. i have another post in my drafts about the basics of how shit goes down here but shitposting comes first, always

(also, i made a deal that if they could make aaron look good in ugly vaperwave aesthetic, i had to shitpost a little bit)

  • neil and kevin are roommates
    • this would not be a bad thing if neil wasn’t raised in direct contact of kayleigh day’s Angry Gaelic Mom Voice
    • the look of horror on his face when he heard That Tone when she found the pile of rocks he was throwing into kevin’s room through his window?
    • it was nothing compared to how he ran home at a dead-sprint, kevin following him and praying his mam didn’t kill him later
      • (he was not about to pick up neil’s mess when his mother was still in Murder Mode, oh no, kevin day is smarter than that)
    • this has escalated to kevin imitating That Tone whenever neil won’t do his chores around the apartment
      • neil: you’re becoming your mother
      • kevin: and you’re doing the chores so who’s the real winner here

Keep reading

The Ghost in Apartment 1403

You x Namjoon

Genre: Angst, supernatural, fluff, humor

Warnings: Mentions of death, dark themes, generally kind of sad at times. 

Part 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7

Credits: Loosely inspired by the movie “Just Like Heaven”

Namjoon had never believed in ghosts. He had always been more of a science person, preferring fact over speculation. He was called a nerd in high school and a genius in college, but the words didn’t change anything—he honestly just liked to learn things.

Taehyung said he could sense ghosts, feel their “auras” he said. Namjoon had laughed and told him that was ridiculous. He had then proceeded to check out all the books he could find in the library disproving supernatural theories. Taehyung had not read a single one, so Namjoon told him the important parts.

There was no such thing as ghosts, so Taehyung should go back to studying math and quit insisting he had the potential to be a medium.

The irony of it all was laughable.

“You were right, Tae.” Namjoon sighed, watching one of his best friends sit on his bedroom floor and flip through his old notebooks. The younger couldn’t hear him, though.

The door to the room was pushed open further, and Yoongi shuffled in. His eyes were red, but he looked fairly calm as he knelt down on the floor by Taehyung.

“It’s weird, isn’t it?” Taehyung mused quietly. “I thought I was okay, but being here, going through his stuff…”

Yoongi nodded, patting him on the back sympathetically. “I know, I was thinking the same thing. I’m just glad his parents didn’t throw everything out. A lot of this crap was special to him, he wouldn’t want it going in the landfill.”

Namjoon smiled. Yoongi knew him so well. His parents had been by, they had taken all the family pictures and a few other things, and then made a phone call.

Keep reading

all too well — t.h.

wc: 1.7k words
summary: i remember it all too well.

Trees zipped past the car windows. The scenery surrounding the vehicle, as it drove down the little town street, seemed to blend together in a haze of red and orange. The soft sound of the latest musical hit fell out of the speakers and she couldn’t help but sing along. Her left fingers were intertwined with his right on the center console. She had cracked the window a while back and you could hear the passengers side wind breaking against the car. Her hair flew in her face from the wind, and a smile graced her lips.

Her eyes were opened slightly wider than normal as she tried to soak in as much of she could of the autumn weather. The wind slipping in through the cracked window made her eyes water slightly but she didn’t mind it at all. The orange and red leaves fell off of the trees and flew around in the autumn breeze. It felt like home and she was so in love with it all.

His eyes flickered over to her for what he intended to only be a split-second, but as he saw her there with the wind in her hair and a smile on her beautiful face he couldn’t help but stare. He forgot about the upcoming stoplight. He forgot about the world around them–she tended to do that to him quite often. The sudden turn of her head to look at him snapped him out of his gaze and he returned his attention to the road. Only to see he was about to run the red light. A quick stomp on the brakes was all it took, for them to stop.

A bubble of laughter was heard from her as she realized their situation of nearly breaking the law even though no one was around to witness it except for them. Her hand was tightly gripping his and her eyes seemed to have grown, but she kept smiling and letting the giggles leave her mouth. The crisp autumn wind carried her hair and twirled it around her face. She was effervescent. She was beautiful. And as she sat in the passenger seat of his car, he fell more and more in love with her and the crinkle in her eyes as she laughed.

His childhood house was warm and welcoming. It was especially home-like as she sat on a stool in front of the kitchen counter, his baby book sitting in front of her. She flipped through the pages, her eyes scanning over the various pictures glued to the paper. Pictures of him with dorky glasses at the age of seven. Pictures of him sleeping in his little twin bed, star wars sheets underneath him at the age of six. Pictures of him in a mini t-ball uniform at the age of four. She smiled and laughed all while he sat there with rose dusted cheeks.

It was later that same night when she slipped out of the full size bed in the guest room, and tip-toed down the stairs to the kitchen. Her too big sweater hung loosely on her body as her knee-high sock covered feet creaked against the hard wood floor. In the kitchen, she grabbed a glass and filled it with water from the refrigerator door. Footsteps behind her caused her to jump and turn around. Yet when she saw it was him, his face shining from the moonlight slipping through the curtains, she relaxed. A small smile graced her features as he opened the fridge.

She wasn’t sure how it happened but she was soon pressed against his body; her right hand in his left and her other on his shoulder. The soft yellow light from the refrigerator created a spotlight for them as they sleepily danced around the kitchen. Her cheek was pressed against his chest, her eyes lazily closed. He leaned down and pressed his lips against the top of her head, letting them stay there for some time.

When the cold from the fridge got to be too much and when they nearly fell asleep there on the kitchen floor, they crept back upstairs. She still claims she’s never slept better, the ethereal feeling of dancing in the refrigerator light still fresh in her bones.

Her throat burned, the alchohol from the bottle streaming down it. There were tear stains on her cheeks and she hated the fact that she sat on their couch, drunk off her emotions and the alcohol from the many empty bottles surrounding her. She did what she did best. She ran. She ran away mentally and emotionally, too drunk to do so physically. A sudden creak in the floor behind her caused her muscles to tense and she remained perfectly still. Her eyes trained on the wall in front of her, no emotion shown on her features. A soft whisper of her name and vulnerable apologies caused her to let out a dry laugh before she tipped her fourth bottle back and emptied its contents into her body. With a measly flick of the wrist it clinked to the floor to join its peers.

Tonight hadn’t gone well at all. A stupid fight that escalated to quickly for her liking. She ran out the door half way through, and he worried she had left, even if he told her to. But in all actuality she sat in her car with her hands gripping the steering wheel, her head hanging in shame. She cried until she couldn’t take it anymore. And when she came inside she drowned her body in alcohol until it pumped through her veins instead of blood.

He took a tentative step forward and continued until he reached her. Slowly, he placed a calloused palm on her shoulder, and she didn’t even flinch. He sighed but picked her up and held her close to his chest as he took her to their bedroom. Her mind told her to fight against it. To get the hell out since he had ended things already, but she was too tired to do so. Her drunken mind hazed everything together, and when she woke up the next morning with a splitting headache, tangled with him she was confused. She got out of bed, despite her body screaming at her not to and grabbed what she could before walking out the door.

A few days went by before she heard from him again. He called her up and she scolded herself for answering. And it only made her heart break more when he tried to offer empty promises. She was confused. After all, he said they had gotten lost in translation and that it wasn’t working out. So why was he calling her begging for her to come home? The phone call only ended with her refraining herself from crying and him kicking the wall, strings of curses leaving his mouth. And everything they had been through together flashed through their minds because they couldn’t forget when they remembered it all too well.

She felt paralyzed from the time that refused to slip from her fingers. Her days dragged on for eternities and she lost herself. She wanted to become who she was before. Who she was when she had him still in her life. He had dropped all her things off a week after the call and she now walked home alone, her hands stuffed inside her pockets instead of being held in his.

Two years. Two years had taken her to the present. Two years had flown away from her but they felt like they dragged by forever. She sat in their old favorite coffee shop and she gripped her warm drink in her hands. The black lid of the cup only made her remember the countless hours they had spent there, helplessly in love and infatuated with each other. She suddenly stood from her chair and walked out the door. Her drink was tossed in the trash and she shoved her hands in the pockets of her jacket. A sudden shout from behind caused her to spin around and her breath caught in her throat.

There he stood, his hands in his pockets and his eyes staring into hers. In a shaky breath, his name fell past her lips and she couldn’t help the grin that spread across her face. The wind outside didn’t help the tears that were pooling in her eyes. He smiled at her, so happy to see her. So happy that she was there. So happy to see her and her effervescent smile once again. Without thinking, she broke out in a run and jumped into his arms. Hers wound themselves tightly around his neck and she held him tightly against her.

And everything else seems to happen all at once.

Everything they shared, every memory pushed its way to the very front of their minds. The memories of driving down the old town street. The wind carding through her hair and burning her eyes. His eyes on her face and his foot slamming on the brakes. The memory of her flicking through his baby book. The memory of his rose petal cheeks. The memory of her slipping downstairs in the middle of night for a glass of water. Of him innocently coming down the stairs to check on her. The memory of how they instead found themselves dancing around the small kitchen underneath the refrigerator light. All the memories of their rare type of love. The kind that even two years later, still makes you flustered. The kind that still makes adrenaline course through your veins after not seeing each other for two years.

And by the look in their eyes they both remembered it all too well.

tags : @peacefulmusician @literatureandimmature @dreameratrisk @captainswriting @spideyyss @tomhollandisthicc @nedandpeter @spideyboys @hufflepuffholland @themultilingualmartell @nedslaptop @sam-a-holland @stephie-senpai @muffinfangirl28

Socks - Harrison Osterfield x Reader

Pairing: Harrison Osterfield x Reader

Summary/Prompt: Your soulmates first thoughts about you are tattooed onto your skin 

Warnings: None

A/N: This is based off of the New York premiere of Lost City of Z aka when Harrison wore a blue suit with red socks (I’m still concerned wtf)

Another A/N: I’m done writing about Harrison, this has just been in my drafts for months and I wanted to clear it out. 

Keep reading

The Second Draft

If you try out the style of drafting I’ve been talking about on this blog, your first draft will look very different from first drafts you’re used to. It may not even look much like a story yet, or at least like one you could hand over to a reader. It may look more like a detailed outline or a bunch of serial story notes. Some people don’t even call these things first drafts; I think of them as .5 drafts.

This method won’t suit everybody. It’s best for people who get badly hung up trying to write a more traditional first draft, the kind that’s basically a complete and readable story right off the bat. I’ve never been able to write that kind of draft without putting myself through hell. I switched to this method out of necessity, because I literally couldn’t write the old way anymore. And once I tried it, I found the results easier to work with even though my first drafts looked half-baked in comparison with my old ones.

So, if you draft quickly and messily, you’ll have to change the way you write your second draft as well, since you’re starting with a very different kind of document. Your second draft will more closely resemble a traditional first draft—except it will, if this method suits you, be a lot better and cost you less agony.

Here’s what I do:

  1. If I wrote my first draft with little conscious attention to my means of expression except what I needed to communicate my ideas to myself (which is the whole purpose of doing it this way), then I write my second draft with more of an eye toward form. I think about word choice and sentence rhythmn. I think about the telling detail. I think about evocative description. I think about the way it sounds. I think, in short, about my reader’s experience. This is how most writers tell you to treat the first and second drafts anyway; Stephen King says in On Writing to “write with the door closed, rewrite with the door open.” In other words, the first draft is only for you, a long memo to yourself that does nothing but externalize your ideas for the story. (The difference is that King can apparently do this in complete sentences and lively prose, and I cannot.) The second draft, then, is for other people—it’s you taking your raw ideas and turning them toward the reader.
  2. Before I even start my second draft, I print out my first and make lots of notes in the margins. I find the big holes and plug them. I note where certain sections need to expand or shorten. I flesh out conversations with action and description. In other words, I leave myself some guideposts for turning that messy first draft into a second.
  3. Then—this is key—I don’t touch my first draft. I open a new, blank document and put it next to the first one. (I also lay out my marked-up copy in front of me; but you could scan it and make a PDF if you want.) Then I start writing my second draft clean, essentially “translating” the first draft’s raw thoughts into the more carefully crafted language of the second. I’ve already got that substrate of action, ideas, and metaphors laid out; all I’m doing is turning it into readable prose.
  4. I try not to do this too slowly. I’m always tempted to make my second draft my final one, and thus to obsess over the perfect words. All this does is return me to my old habits of writing. So I try to carry some of that “I’ll fix it later” spirit of the first draft over into my second, even though I’m now thinking more carefully about my prose. If you’re prone to endless noodling when you write, you might even set time limits for your second draft. Don’t try to get it perfect; just get it readable.
  5. Then I leave the story alone for a while—a few days, a few weeks, whatever. When I return to it, depending on my goals for the project I might decide it’s done! More often than not, though, it needs a third pass. So I print it out again and really start fine-tuning the prose. Personally, I revise by hand and then enter the changes into the document; again, that saves me from endless tinkering. (Computers are evil that way; when you write by hand, you tinker less, because it’s less convenient and takes more physical effort.) I even know people who type out their third draft in a fresh document, which I’ve been meaning to try.
  6. Here’s the important part: the more I limit myself to clearly defined and time-limited “passes” through the whole story without pausing too long to labor over a single passage, the happier I am. Instead of making endless changes to a single document, I produce a series of documents that refine themselves with each version. So I generate more drafts than I did in the old days—but as someone who once spent months tinkering with the first 500 words of a novel-length story, I find this infinitely preferable. (I never finished that story, by the way.)
  7. If you like to get feedback on a story, hand it off to a reader at the second-draft stage. Don’t wait until it’s “perfect” to let somebody read it. Remember, your idea of perfect is skewed. And a reader can help you identify major issues before you’ve spent too much time polishing. Your story tends to grow less malleable as you go, so if big things need to change, you’ll want to change them at the earliest stage possible. (One of these days I’ll write a post about getting and using feedback.)

Questions? Comments? I wrote this very fast (!) so I may have left questions unanswered!