i've never posted anything before

Hey gang, 

I moved into an apartment recently, and it’s my first experience being on my own. My financial situation has generally been okay for the money I make with my hourly job, with the support of a parent, but being more independent is more expensive. I don’t want to worry anyone - I’m not going broke or at risk of losing my place, but getting my feet on the ground has been a little perilous with various and some unexpected expenses hurled my way. 

I put a donate button on my blog for anyone to help me buy groceries or a little something to put away for cushioning if they want. I’d appreciate any amount but please don’t feel at all pressured or obligated! 

My Paypal email is jessiphile@yahoo.com if the button doesn’t work for some reason

“I told you it’s only gonna get worse if you keep it a secret. It’s not just gonna go away, it doesn’t work like that.”

(I binge watched Eyewitness the other day, and so I have a lot of feelings about it. Have a quick pencil sketch of Philip Shea, because he must be protected at all costs.)

more art and photography

Please! let me know that I'm not the only one who fell in love with Maggie Sawyer even more seeing all those fantastic gifs in #maggiesawyerweek

Originally posted by 4alarmfirecracker

Burnt Into Ashes (OCs, sickfic, part 3)

Part 1     Part 2     Part 3     Part 4     Part 5 (final)

By the time Elliott got to the restaurant, Liam was waiting for him with an unbridled glare. Elliott half expected a slap in the face when Liam strode toward him - it had never happened before, even during their worst fights heading into the breakup, but Elliott wouldn’t have put it past him.

“You’re late, Chapman,” Liam snapped, though Elliott thought he saw a flicker of…something in his face. It might have been sympathy, but it disappeared so quickly that he could just as easily have imagined it. “What do you have to say for yourself, then?”

Elliott opened his mouth to reply, to tell him he was sick, he shouldn’t even be here to begin with when he wasn’t scheduled, but he didn’t have a chance to form so much as a syllable before his nose twitched. Liam was the last person he wanted to sneeze around, but he didn’t get a choice in the matter as he hastily twisted to the side.

hh’EHGKTzISSH’u!” Wincing, he emerged from his forearm, trying to blink away the pounding ache that spiked in his temple. His throat burned, and he didn’t trust himself to speak without coughing.

Liam recoiled, and in his haze, Elliott couldn’t tell whether it was out of disgust or…other reasons. “Good lord, keep that to yourself, will you?”

Elliott scowled and cleared his raw throat. He tried to pretend the comment didn’t sting - he supposed he should’ve expected  it. “Tryi’g. You’re the ode called mbe id. How lo’g ab I worki’g, adyway? You ndever said.”

Elliott knew he was pushing his luck, but Liam, for once, did not admonish him for his bristly tone. Instead he seemed to genuinely consider it. “Through the lunch rush, at least, and quite probably through dinner as well. I suppose I did say you could do half, inconvenient as it is…”

“Id–idcodvediedt?” Elliott stammered, incredulous.

“Yes,” Liam said briskly. “We are short today, as I said. So I’ll need you as long as possible.”

Elliott stared, mouth hanging open. He wasn’t sure if it was the fever or the shock of Liam blatantly ignoring how ill he was that was muddling his head, but either way, he didn’t have enough time to sort out his thoughts before Liam spoke again.

“Get to work now, will you?” With that, Liam turned on his heel to wait his own tables, leaving Elliott standing, stunned and shivery, in the lobby. He wished more than anything that he could keep his sweatshirt on while he worked, but alas, he hung it on the hook in the coat room and clocked in before trudging to his section. He was freezing, and it made him cough each time the tremors tore through him.

As he rattled off the specials to the couple at his first table, he kept stumbling over the words, trying not to stammer or sniffle. In the end, he wasn’t sure how much they even heard through the thickness in his voice, and he didn’t care. He had to sneeze so badly that he barely scribbled down their orders and took their menus before he wheeled around and buried his face in his elbow.

hh’GSsSH’mpf! hnh’nKGTZSHh! h-hh-hAH! AEGKJISsSHU!” Trying to hold them back did absolutely nothing but make the last of the triple harsher and wetter. He bit back a groan as he straightened, increasingly aware of how badly his body ached and how much he wished he could just sit down.

“What did I say about keeping that to yourself?”

Elliott jumped, snapping his head up to find Liam in front of him, arms crossed. Elliott didn’t have the will to argue, and his words came out feeble and hoarse. “Told you, I’b tryi’g. Y’kdow I cad’t stop theb like–” Like you can.

Liam’s frown deepened, though he glossed over Elliott’s unfinished reminder as if he hadn’t heard it at all. “Be that as it may, I won’t be losing customers because one of my employees is–disgusting–around the food.” He tripped over the middle of the sentence, and Elliott knew what he’d meant to say. Sneezing. He was sneezing around the food, and Liam still had trouble saying the word in public.

“Either that or spe’d half the day sdeezi’g id the bathroob,” Elliott muttered with a tired sniffle. “A’d you’ve already mbade it clear what you thigk of that.”

Liam appeared to be considering his employee’s predicament, lips pursed in a thin line. He soon made it clear, however, that this was not the case. “Regardless, have some courtesy. You can do as you please later.”

“Rhh-huh’IGHJShihSsH!..right…” Elliott breathed, dissolving into a regrettable bout of coughing. God, he wished Liam weren’t such an arse. He’d give just about anything for a bit of rest and a hot cup of tea. It would at least soothe his throat, which had been destroyed by the single sneeze.

“Did you even bother to take anything this morning?” Liam asked, clipped and irritable. If Elliott hadn’t known better, he might have mistaken it for some sort of abrasive concern. But of course, Liam had to be long over him. It had been months, after all.

Elliott balked at the question. “Nd-doh,” he admitted, sheepishly. “Forgot.”

Liam sighed, exasperated. “Of course you did.” He turned to leave without a hint of sympathy, nor an offer to let him off - as if Elliott expected either. “Just don’t pass out on me, alright?”

Elliott had taken to absently massaging his temple with the heel of his hand, and though he was sure he might fall asleep if he stood still too long, he replied with a mumbled, “Woulded’t dreab of it…”

Despite what he said, Elliott couldn’t shake the bone deep exhaustion that had him dragging through the entirety of lunch. He did his best not to look as miserable as he felt, but if he accomplished even a fraction of the attentiveness he didn’t have, he would have been amazed. Three times he wrote an order down wrong and had to stumble back to the kitchen to exchange it, each time earning him a grumble from Liam and a look of pity from anyone in the vicinity. Twice, he was asked why he was there, and when he offered his reasoning, his co-workers were stunned that even Liam would keep him there looking as awful as he did.

Elliott himself did his best to avoid the mirrors in the bathroom, especially when he ducked in to succumb to another sneezing fit. He didn’t need to make it worse by seeing how terrible he looked with his own eyes. It was enough to read the looks on everyone’s faces, ranging anywhere from poorly concealed disgust to deep concern.

Still, he managed, for the most part, to keep pace with the rush until near the end when a series of dizzy spells overtook him. He was aware by now that his fever had risen, and while he tried to ignore it, it was wearing him out. His shirt stuck to his back and he shivered each time a draft hit him. He was on his way back to a table, bearing a tray of drinks when he caught himself stumbling sideways. He caught himself against the wall, but in the process sacrificed the tray and its contents to the floor with a loud CLANG!

Someone came over and put a hand on his shoulder. “Whoa, hey, are you alright?” It took him a minute to realize it was Gabriel, one of the restaurant’s newer employees - a tall, lanky fellow about Elliott’s age, and kind as anything. Elliott was grateful for the steadying hand as he tried to straighten and regain focus through the fog in his brain.

“Y-yeah, I’b fihh-huh–IGKtZIhSSH!” The sneeze cut him off, and he was immediately bracing himself against the wall again, bent almost double. “Hehh-hh’EHJSsSHISH! hah’AEGHSsChU! hih’yIGHTSsSCHU! h-haehhEIJhSSCHISSH’uh!” Gabriel kept a steady hold on his arm, and if Elliott were honest, it was half the reason he didn’t sink to the floor then and there. He brought his free hand to his face, covering clumsily with the back of his wrist when the sneezes kept coming. “h-hih’IhJSCHISH’U! huh’UHKgTZISSH’h! hah’AEHJSZHISHh! huh’EHGKTzISSHU!

Each one was explosive and had him curling in on himself. He couldn’t take a full breath between, and even if he could, breathing hurt after all the coughing he’d done over the course of the day. He couldn’t even attempt to stop the sneezes, they were so forceful, so insistent, so merciless.

Gabriel’s hand left his shoulder, and for a moment, Elliott was sure he would fall over. He tried to open his eyes to see where his co-worker had gone, but each time, he had to slam them shut again. “hiEHh–EHZhJISsSH’U! huh’UHkGTZSCH! Hh-h-hehh! IDhJzSSCH’u!

Just as Elliott was considering letting himself drop, the hand returned, and this time with another that pressed several paper napkins into Elliott’s own. He hadn’t thought about it until now, so wrapped up was he in remaining on his feet, but he desperately needed them. He crushed them to his face as the fit finally tapered off, blowing his nose in the aftermath. The ordeal left his head spinning, and Gabriel steadied him when he swayed.

“Are you certain you’re okay?” Gabriel asked. “I don’t have a car, but I can call a cab for you.”

Elliott had time neither to answer nor recover before another voice cut in.

“Oi, what’s going on here?” Elliott blinked in an effort to clear away the fuzzy blackness at the edges of his vision and found Liam, gesturing to the pool of drinks on the floor. “What are you two doing? This isn’t the time for tea and cuddles, in case you hadn’t noticed.” He pointed at Gabriel with a sharp jab of his finger. “You - clean that up while I deal with him.”

“But–Liam–” Gabriel started.

“I said take care of it!” Liam barked, and then turned to Elliott without leaving any room for discussion. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, anyway?”

“S..sdeezi’g…” Elliott mumbled. Both his own voice and Liam’s sounded distant in his ears, and he was surprised at how difficult it was to get the one word out. It was like speaking through molasses, like his lips had gone numb and he had forgotten how to make words.

“Well, don’t just stand there,” Liam said, nearly shouting at him. “Your table is waiting, and now you’ve been here for god knows how long chatting with the new boy–”

“Liam, you’re being a bit hard on him,” said someone else, a girl - Alisa. She was always sticking up for Elliott when Liam came down hard on him, and Elliott was especially grateful for it right now. He was starting to zone out of the conversation, only catching snippets of what they were saying. His hearing faded in and out, though he caught a bit where Liam barked at him again to retrieve another tray of drinks.

Elliott willed his legs to move, but they wouldn’t budge. “Liab…” he said, barely a whisper. “I…I ndeed t’ sit d…” He didn’t manage to finish the sentence as the blackness encroached and the scene blurred before him.

“Watch it, he’s–!”

Elliott didn’t get to hear what he was. He was only aware of his body going weak, and then his knees buckled. He didn’t feel himself hit the floor.

Dear Newbies 2017

If your pred is mean/difficult/unresponsive:
If you can’t talk to your Regional Representatives/Block Leaders:
If you have no connections in your prefecture yet:
If you’re feeling crappy/culture-shocky:

My ask box is always open and always has Anonymous options turned on, and I’m not gonna judge you. If you chat me through the message feature on Tumblr, I’m gonna respond to you.

If you’re in a situation where you don’t feel right, or good, it is okay. That happens sometimes. And if for some reason you’ve found my blog and you’re lookin’ for a little sympathy, it’s more than okay to reach out.

I mean it’s ALSO really okay to message me to gush about how happy you are, how excited you are, about the good things happening. But I know sometimes the tough things are the ones we have trouble discussing. So y’know. Whatever you wanna do!

i don’t care if someone hurts your feelings - don’t post stuff to public what they confided in you with.  don’t call yourself a victim & then proceed to throw someone down in the ditch to die.

now if someone was truly sending you horrible stuff when they confided like - i’m gonna murder etc - then you have all the right to say something.  if it’s something about how bad their home life is or how they feel insecure if you call em this or that - don’t fucking do it.

anonymous asked:

I love your writing, it's so cute and your characterisation is perfect, and I just saw your post asking for ficlet prompts? I've never prompted anything to anyone before, but if it's okay could you write something about virgil bonding with roman about his own creativity? some people are inspired when they're anxious, so I like to think that maybe virgil sketches or writes poetry or plays an instrument, and roman is amazed that anxiety can be creative? No worries if the prompt isn't your thing!!

Aw wow, thanks so much! <3 and thanks for such a lovely prompt! <3

It’s very late at night- or rather very early in the morning, and Roman doesn’t expect anyone else to be awake. He has just chased and built up a Grand Idea, and it will be a little while yet before he’ll be able to sleep. His room isn’t a restful place at the moment, still full of excitement and brainstorming, so he wanders off. 

He certainly does not expect to happen across Virgil, who looks perfectly content at not being in his room. He’s lounging on the couch, flat on his stomach, elbows steadying him as- Roman can’t quite figure out if he’s writing or drawing in a notebook from this distance. Either possibility is obviously a surprise.

“What are you doing?”

He makes sure his voice isn’t too loud (trial and error after figuring out Virgil startles easily when caught unawares), but Virgil still jumps- not quite out of his skin, but close enough.

He lets out a low whistle. “Woah.” He looks up and scrutinises Roman. “Better question. What are you doing up this late?”


There’s no heat in Roman’s reply, though, as he half collapses onto the couch next to Virgil. Automatically, Virgil’s arms curve around the notebook so Roman can’t see anything. He rolls his eyes. 

“Yeah, I got the hint, Sir Secretive.”

Virgil wrinkles his nose. “Ugh, please don’t. You’re a ‘sir’, not me.”

“How could you possibly make that sound like an insult?”

“I have a gift. And you’re avoiding the question.”

Roman stretches. “I’m not actually. Just had an idea, too awake to sleep.”

Virgil raises an eyebrow. “The sky’s awake, so you’re awake, then?” he deadpans.

Roman can’t even appreciate the quote when Virgil is still quite clearly intent on obscuring the notebook from view. Roman sighs.

“Relax, I’m not going to look if you don’t want me to.”

Virgil pauses. Then, he coughs. “Um, that’s not quite- I mean- I’m just not finished, that’s all. Just give me a few more minutes.” 

Roman’s eyebrows raise. “Sure,” is all he says, just in case Virgil backs out.

In the few minutes Virgil takes, Roman almost falls asleep. He jolts back to awareness at the muffled sound of an amused, “Here, Sleeping Beauty, think fast!” His eyes snap open just as Virgil throws the notebook at his head.

“Ow! Rude much?”

Virgil rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. “You’re the one who fell asleep on me.”

Roman opens the notebook and can’t help his jaw from dropping. There, in the centre of the page, is a pencil sketch of Logan reading an Agatha Christie book. The moment is so perfectly captured, Logan in the middle of turning a page, brow furrowed, eyes alight, that Roman almost thinks it’s a photograph with a filter on top.

“Virgil! This. Is. Incredible. It- it looks like he’s actually breathing.”

Virgil scoffs. “You call everything incredible.”

“But, but it is! It is incredible!” Roman splutters. “It’s… art. When-how-”

Thankfully, Virgil replies even though he’s not even properly asked. He shrugs. “I’ve always drawn. Just haven’t…mentioned it. I mean… if I can’t sleep at night, it’s- relaxing? I guess. It kinda helps that you’re all very expressive. Good subjects. If that’s the right- um, you might want to pick your jaw up from the floor, Princey.”

Roman ignores this, and he starts laughing. “It’s just very creative of you, is all.”

Virgil shrugs again. “You think so?”

“I know so! Just because it isn’t loud and… fanfare-y doesn’t make it any less creative.”

Virgil mouths back ‘fanfare-y’ with a bemused look. “Did you just make fun of yourself? Maybe you do need to sleep.”

“Ha ha. I’m more offended that you haven’t drawn me yet.”

For once, it’s a genuine joke, Roman doesn’t mean anything by it. But Virgil clears his throat, suddenly a little shy. “First page, Mr Ego.”

Roman flicks to the page in anticipation. It’s a sketch of his face, almost taking up the entire page. He’s laughing at something, and Virgil has somehow drawn it in such a way that it seems caught in the motion, as if turning another page would show Roman attempting to speak through his laughter. 

He looks up, but Virgil has gone, presumably back to his room. Roman thinks and thinks, and then carefully writes a note in the right hand corner of the page.

If lost return to Virgil, artiste extraordinaire. 

Open for prompts info

Elfstone discourse? (Is this a thing?)

So I was re-reading The War of the Jewels the other day, when I came across two life-changing scribbles of Tolkien’s, right in the thick of the commentary on ‘The Later Quenta Silmarillion’ (p. 176-7 of my paperback):

“He [Fëanor] gives the Green Stone to Maidros.”

This line was admittedly, “not in fact to be inserted,” but then this proceeds it:

“‘At the top of this page [in the QS manuscript] my father penciled: ‘The Green Stone of Fëanor given by Maidros to Fingon.’”

Wait, what Green Stone?

Thanks, Christopher, for the confirmation:

“This can hardly be other than a reference to the Elessar that came in the end to Aragorn…”


In this older draft, Fëanor makes the Elessar. It comes to Maedhros (whether by deathbed gift or simple inheritance). After Thangorodrim Maedhros gives it to Fingon. and Fingon later gives it away like he does a certain Helm

CT suggests that this idea was replaced by the essays found in ‘The History of Galadriel and Celeborn,’ but y’all: no one will take this away from me.

Here’s why:

(Buckle up and get ready for Draft Hell under this cut.)

Keep reading


Would anyone be interested in following a Tale of Years twitter?  It wouldn’t necessarily be about my fics themselves (though it would be that too); Tale of Years is just the catch-all name for my prequel headcanon in general, so it could be about anything in prequel canon. (we’ll just pretend Amun had Twitter 4,000 years ago lol)  Some random potential tweets:

Edward (1939): i stg if Esme makes me use pomade one more time i’m going out to eat people again

Alice (1923): just reached the top of Mt. Whitney, CA. going to sit awhile and admire the view… wish jasper could see this.  the world is so big.

Caius (1250 BCE): was advised that silver kills werewolves and got bitten up. apparently it doesn’t? a certain silversmith is about to be dinner

Alistair (1800): whoever is following this account leave me alone