spell shirt


OdetoFrnk 2016 International Holiday Giveaway

It’s that time of year again, when we at Ode try help fans that might otherwise not be able to have Frank merchandise. Please, be sure to read the rules below the list of prize items. 

Prize 1: Boozey skate deck, Frank symbol water bottle

Prize 2: Death Spells shirt (M), DS sticker, DS pin pack

Prize 3: Parachutes shirt (M), DS sticker, DS pin pack

Prize 4: Frank symbol blue shirt (M), Frank symbol patch, Parachutes patch

Prize 5: Boozey shirt (M), Frank symbol patch, Parachutes patch

Prize 6: Frank symbol water bottle, Frank symbol patch

Prize 7: Parachutes CD, Parachutes pin

Prizes 8 & 9: Parachutes CD

Prize 10: Frank symbol patch


* Must be following us on Tumblr (Twitter is too difficult for large giveaways)

* Reblog this post no more than 3 times (you may create a blog to participate; Likes don’t count)

* Winners from previous Ode contests or giveaways are not eligible 

* People that own official Frank merchandise are not eligible (not including hard copies of music, and please be fair)

* Must be able to provide your mailing address if you win. Again, as it says in the title, it is international. 

Deadline: December 28nd, 7pm CST

Winners announced: December 30th, 7pm CST using the Ask function on Tumblr. (No, not Twitter.)

The winners will be chosen randomly, via random.org.

Each of the women of the Palmetto State Foxes handle sexism in a different way.

Dan smiles serenely, allowing whichever asshole to finish his spiel before snatching him by the front of his shirt and spelling out, in no uncertain terms, the error in his entire existence.

Allison examines her fingernails before launching her attack, directly at their face. Sometimes it’s a punch. When she’s in a particular mood, she scratches. She never says anything afterwards, and no one asks her to.

Renee hums and forgives them. They are even more forgiven when an angry group of little old ladies shows up at their door later. They’re from Renee’s Bible study group, and as little and old as they are, the ladies are seasoned veterans.

I had this idea and don’t know what to do with it. It’s too small to write a thing for it and I was gonna ask someone to draw it for me but I don’t wanna bother anyone so here’s this mess.

- Taehyung has some sort of magic

- one day he comes up with a gag spell, when cast, the shirt you’re wearing is always either inside out or backwards (or both)

- he casts the spell on Jungkook

- the first few times someone points out his shirt is inside out, Jungkook blushes and goes to the bathroom to fix it

- this continues on for days, every few hours someone points it out to him, he goes to the bathroom and fixes it, makes sure it’s on right, then comes back out and then the cycle repeats

- by the third day Jungkook is tired of having to excuse himself to go to the bathroom and he is livid

-the only plus side is that he’s getting one hell of a workout

- Jimin comes up to him and points out his shirt is on backwards

- Jungkook growls and turns his shirt around without moving from his spot

- “uhh.. Jungkook? Your shirt is inside out now.”

- something in Jungkook’s mind snapped (imagine the sound of a vase breaking, it’s something equivalent to that)

- Jungkook takes off his shirt in fury and puts it back on, when he checks, it’s backward again

- he stands there for five minutes, angrily undressing and redressing

- Jimin gets a free show of Jungkook’s abs and back muscles and arms and just like. heyyy. no skin off his bones

- Taehyung appears next to him and immediately he knows that it was him that did it.

- Jimin gives Tae a fistbump

- what are bros for

Me: *sees Laura’s new picture of Winter*

Me: *casually sees something about Redbubble but doesn’t think about it*

Me: *looks at it again*

Me: Wait a minute….does this mean…???

Me: *runs to Redbubble*


wlweasley  asked:

for the writing stuff thing: harry as a cop's son and pansy as a mafia daughter and the rest is up to you tbqh


  • harry and pansy have a history, sort of–they were in the same sixth grade class until pansy’s overprotective father got paranoid and moved her to the private school across town, right?
  • but harry doesn’t remember her, really, not that well, just that she’d been dropped off in the mornings in a jet-black s-class mercedes with bullet proof windows and a white-gloved oddly young driver with a russian accent and a name tag that read antonin.
  • anyway, he hadn’t liked her, even at 11, because she’d made a show of announcing how incompetent and untrustworthy and stupid the police were when harry’s dad had come in for career day, and she’d dumped an entire cup of chocolate-vanilla swirl pudding all down the front of hermione’s commemorative state spelling bee t-shirt, and she’d been friends with draco malfoy, who everyone knew was the only son of the most corrupt mayoral candidate in history.
  • so.
  • harry barely remembers her, is his point.
  • regardless, a decade later, his remarkably thorough background check for the police academy includes a seemingly unimportant note about a possible connection to pansy parkinson and then he’s being offered–”you can decline, harry, you don’t have to prove anything”–a top-secret highly difficult undercover assignment to infiltrate the parkinson crime family.
  • he accepts, of course.
  • which is how he finds himself carrying a distressed leather satchel, and wearing a pair of too-snug corduroy hipster jeans, and standing at the back of a lecture hall for a sex & sexuality lecture while he looks for–
  • there she is.
  • and he doesn’t know what he was expecting, because she doesn’t look any different from her surveillance photos, but seeing her in person–dark red lipstick and blunt-cut bangs and an expression that shouts boredom just as much as it does dangerous–it sets harry’s nerves on edge in a way he hadn’t anticipated. at all.
  • still, he’s on a mission, so he drops into the empty seat next to her, shoots her the lopsided smile he’d practiced in his bathroom mirror for twenty minutes that morning, and nervously clicks and unclicks his ballpoint pen. 
  • she stares at him for a moment too long, eyes narrowed, lashes thick and sooty with mascara, and then she smirks. harry’s mouth dries out. 
  • “you’re at least a little believable,” she drawls, and even though her tone is lazy, languid, her posture is stiff and her gaze is sharp and harry absolutely cannot fathom how off-balance he suddenly feels. “the last one they sent was, like, practically middle-aged, right, he had a trucker hat on, like, sorry it’s not spring break ‘95, sirius, your aarp card’s in the mail, though! ugh. hate cops, honestly.” she stops, tilts her head to the side, considers harry with a molasses-slow sweep of her eyes across his face, his jaw, his chest, lower–”no offense. i’m sure you’re wonderful at your…job.”
  • and harry knows that, right now, this situation can go one of two ways; he could nod, and grimace, and make his escape back to the station, and pretend none of this ever happened. it would be fine. he would be fine.
  • or.
  • or.
  • he could pay more attention than he probably should to the hot, churning lurch in his gut. the violet lace strap of her bra peeking out of her jacket. the curve of her waist and the length of her legs and the intriguing, slightly chipped corner of peacock-blue nail polish on her ring finger and nowhere else.
  • and he could shift in his seat.
  • he could lick his lips.
  • he could tell her–