maybe tbc


There might be more to this eventually but I haven’t quite mastered the delicate art of thumbnailing, a subset of another skill I’m terminally short on: Planning Ahead™

THEREFORE if you used the panels to plot a line graph showing the relationship between the Art Quality and My Desire To Be Doing Literally Anything Else® over time you’d wind up with a really neat X.

huffelpuff  asked:

ahhh, so could you please do draco x harry headcanons? i'm a sucker for epilogue-compliant, middle-aged, "we had a thing right after the war, but then we got married and had kids but i never forgot about you" type of situations..i know it's not a rare pair, but i'm so curious how you'd write this. thank you :)

the angst oh my god k i l l m e now

  • so
  • it all starts when harry’s still sleepless nine nights out of ten; the nightmares aren’t as awful as the insomnia, but that’s only because the nightmares aren’t as real. he doesn’t just see thestrals anymore. he sees blood where it isn’t, and ghosts where they aren’t, and when it’s especially vivid–especially violent–he wonders why he ever bothered waking up again. making that choice.
  • hermione tells him to go back to hogwarts. watching everything be rebuilt will help you, harry. 
  • it doesn’t help, but it also isn’t a stale pillowcase at grimmauld place, or a stagnant mess of further responsibility at the ministry, or ginny’s thoughtful, achingly somber smile when he’d flinched at the press of her lips against his. hogwarts is home, even when it’s broken. 
  • and a few months pass without incident, late summer fading into fall, crystallizing into winter–until he notices, properly notices, draco malfoy again. 
  • harry waits for the familiar swell of anger, loathing, bitterness; except it doesn’t come, and there’s nothing to drown in, and he’s suddenly aware of a very different sort of emotion. understanding–recognition. there are lavender circles under malfoy’s eyes. thick swathes of guilt blanketing a placid, too-empty expression. unspoken blame, unwanted apologies, a patch of permanently pink, wax-blistered skin around the bones of his knuckles. 
  • malfoy’s not whole, either.
  • anyway.
  • that’s how it starts. a stilted conversation by the rubble of the quidditch pitch; a relief, unexpected and harrowing, that harry isn’t alone in searching, searching, searching for a reason. one day, it’s an all-encompassing hint of awareness around his spine, and the next, it’s a kiss, sloppy and awkward. there are bruises, splotches of red and dashes of violet, and there are memories–teeth clacking and hands roving and brief, scintillating flickers of heat when their fingers brush and their chests collide and it’s consuming, really, the most changed harry’s felt since he’d found magic. 
  • it ends, though.
  • it ends because it has to, sooner or later, and it ends because neither of them need it, not like they had before.
  • and years go by.
  • harry doesn’t like the phrase the one who got away–it reminds him of the chosen one, and he’s almost thirty-five before he stops reflexively clenching his jaw upon hearing that.
  • still, he thinks it, swiftly and surely, when he sees malfoy again at king’s cross.

kryka83  asked:

This is based off the Smithsonian sketchbook prompt written earlier. Can you do a series of one shots where someone wants to write a biography of Captain America and interviews Steve, but slowly realizes, thru interviews and interactions with Him, just how deceptive the War Propoganda version of Captain America is and see how awesome, humbling, damaged, yet funny Steve is as a person? Thanks!

“All right, if you just have a seat there, and I’m going to record this, if you don’t mind…“ A young man named Ryan Miller flashed his blue eyes up to meet Steve’s. He would turn the recorder off if Steve asked, but it would make his life so much easier if he didn’t have to.

“It’s fine,” Steve said, waving away the nervous concern he can see in the young man’s eyes. Ryan reached out to him months ago about the possibility of writing a biography on him. At first, Steve declined. There were plenty of books written about him, who needed another one?

“I’m not interested in writing another history book, Captain Rogers. I want to tell your story.”

Now, here they were. “What’s the best way to do this? Do you just want me to start talking, or…?”

“I’ll start with some questions, and then you can tell me however much or little you like.” The first day, they spent four hours talking about his childhood, about Sarah, about Bucky, and the back alley bar fights he always seemed to find himself in. When Steve seemed to be tired and a million miles away, they started talking about Ryan’s childhood and how he wanted to be an archaeologist until college turned him into a historian. They talked about his sister and his cat.

Three days later, they met in a coffee shop, and Ryan started right away with the war. “You were presented as the face of the war. I’ve watched all the old films… America really thought they couldn’t lose the war as long as you were leading them.”

“They thought that, yes, but it wasn’t like that. When those films were made, I wasn’t even on the front lines. I was created for propaganda.”

“What, like the Germans did?”

Steve nodded. “We were just as guilty of it. I just happened to believe in our side, and I wanted to make a difference. If people didn’t buy into the war- financially, emotionally, physically- the losses would have been far more devastating, and you and I would probably be having this discussion in German. The weird thing is… I bought into it, too. I was the propaganda, so I guess it was important that I believed what I was saying.”

“Did that change when you ended up on the front lines?”

Steve paused for a moment, taking a sip of coffee. “I never stopped believing that we were the good guys, fighting the good fight.”

Ryan looked up, assessing the way Steve had said this. “But…?”

“But,” Steve offered. “It wasn’t as storybook as those films would have you believe. The world isn’t as storybook as you think. How’s your sister doing now?”

Ryan took the cue that they were done for the day, but quoted Steve in his notebook and put an asterisk by it so he would remember to bring it up again.


(in honor of #NationalCoffeeDay :)

“Excuse me!!! Hey!”

She runs out of the coffee shop, annoyed that this blonde guy isn’t responding. “You, in the green sweater!”

He turns around just as he takes a sip of his coffee, and her heart drops.

“Dammit!” she yells.

“Hey, sorry, did you need something?” he asks.

She scowls at him. “Well, not anymore. That’s my latte you just took a sip of.”

He furrows his brow and looks at his cup. “No, this is mine. PSL – Pumpkin Spice Latte.”

“Take the coffee sleeve off,” she sighs. “I’m assuming you’re Peter?” she asks, holding up an identical cup with ‘Peter’ written on the top.

“Uh, no, actually,” he says as he checks his own cup. “But are you Katherine?”

She shakes her head and can’t help the chuckle that comes out. “No, I’m not ‘Katherine’. But I guess it doesn’t matter anyway, you already took a sip of my drink.”

He takes a closer look and laughs. “Ah, sorry. ‘Non-fat’. I knew it tasted different.”

“And you take whip on yours?” she asks, taking a sip. “Yeesh. Too sweet.”

“What can I say, I like sweet things,” he shrugs, smiling even as she rolls her eyes. “But hey, I really am sorry. Let’s go back in and I’ll get you another…”

“Unfortunately, I am now late for work,” she grumbles. “It’s okay, ‘Peter’. I’ll survive.”

He watches her walk away, her long braid bouncing off her shoulder and her orange scarf blowing in the wind. And just when he thinks he’ll never see this girl again, that this was just some fluke that he’ll forget about tomorrow, she turns around. And smiles.

And just like that, he’s a goner.