this is rare..sincerity's not my thing

Klancemas Week: Day 2 - Tradition / Nostalgia

As soon as Mamá Mcclain found out Keith was coming for the holidays she just had to knit an extra sweater!

(This started out as a full shot of Lance’s bedroom but well, sometimes you gotta accept the defeat…)

this picture is 3 years in the making…

Patchouli and lampent (and an extra litwick) for @unmovinggreatlibrary

4

#did you know  #that i am also in love with simone renoir  #and will be forever

Being a paranormal investigator while your two boyfriends are constantly fucking around is not easy. Especially when you’re in dungeon haunted by a father’s violent spirit.

Jonathan snorted and covered his mouth with his hand to refrain from snickering. “That looks so wrong…”

Luke chuckled from somewhere behind him and Evan looked up from where he was leaning over the mannequin, a playful grin tempting to tug its way onto his face.

“I’m looking for evidence, guys.” Evan flashed his light all around. The mannequin was of the woman that had died in this house during the Battle of Gettysburg. “Do you not like this?” He calls out to whatever spirit might be there. “Are you protective of her body?”

There were a few tense moments of silence before suddenly Evan was scrambling off the table and stumbling to the opposite side of the room, close to where Luke was.

“Woah, what the hell just happened?” Luke looked worriedly at Evan, looking through the camera to see his expression in night vision. Luke looked to Jonathan, who had stood up and was slowly backing away from the table. There was no answer from Evan until Luke reached out and grabbed his arm.

“What the fuck happened?!” He asked again.

“…I just felt someone grab my ass!”

If they weren’t in the middle of a haunted-ass dungeon, Luke would have laughed.

“Something,” Luke repeated “…grabbed your ass?”

“Yeah! It was like the hardest something’s ever grabbed me.”

“On your ass?” Jon asked.

“On anywhere!”

“Maybe you should show us. Yaknow, so we can see if it left a mark.” Luke joked.

“I’m being serious! Something grabbed me!” Evan defended.

“I’m bein’ serious too!” Evan left the room with a loud whine, Jon and Luke laughing and following close behind.

Yeah, it’s not easy being a paranormal investigator. You get things thrown at you, grabbed, threatened, and even pushed down stairs. (There was also one scarring incident with a lamp, but Luke doesn’t like to talk about it.) But, being a paranormal investigator followed by a crew that happens to be your two boyfriends is especially not easy. 

Although hearing the joking and laughter while reviewing the footage later, Evan decides that it’s not so bad.

Little Miss Pocket Healer

Gency week, day 4 - Mission!

Previous and next of the week!

I’ve had this idea for a long time, and I decided to use it for gency week! I’m quite happy with this one! (See? My things are improving in quality here :D)

Appropiate tags: Crack, light hearted, fluff, mentions of nakedness (but not nsfw)

Please enjoy!

Keep reading

hogwartsandbutterbeer  asked:

Harry and Pansy for the ship thing please! ❤❤

[ canon post-war au; pansy-centric; this really got away from me, tbh ]

  • so
  • maybe pansy never gets her redemption arc. maybe there’s no ministry trial—she’d been at school, she hadn’t had a mark—and maybe there’s no character-building montage of prophet articles, scathing and savage, pointed fingers and humiliating whispers and tear-filled excursions to diagon alley. maybe no one really cares that much about pansy parkinson. maybe no one ever really had.
  • and maybe she’s an orphan now—or as good as, since her dad’s not exactly taking visitors from his cell in azkaban—and worse than that; better than that; maybe she’s anathema. bad luck. maybe all the slytherins are, and there aren’t any bittersweet friday luncheons where they reunite and reminisce and reflect. they’re survivalists, is the thing, and their lives have been dangling by a thread for an uncomfortably long while. there’s always someone watching. afternoon tea at the malfoys’ might seem innocent—but it might not, too. none of them can afford another inquest. another investigation. family only matters if your last name is weasley.
  • regardless.
  • there’s no second chance for pansy parkinson.
  • she has a paltry inheritance from her mother, a boarded-up manor in the wilds of the welsh countryside, and a wand. she auctions off her jewelry, the heirloom ruby brooch and the elizabethan emerald tiara, stares at the layers of dust—of rot—covering the portrait gallery, masking the centuries of wealth, grandeur, history; and she slams the front door with a finality that lifts something heavy off the textbook-perfect line of her shoulders. she hadn’t grown up there. no, that had happened elsewhere, inside the slavering jaws of a battlefield she’d tried too hard to prevent—tried too hard to escape. she wouldn’t be back.
  • but the problem, of course, is that she doesn’t know where to go.
  • she dismisses a quiet life in the country—so much silence—and then considers paris—no, her french is shit—madrid—too hot, too bright—new york—did americans even drink tea?—and ultimately winds up in a third-floor walk-up in an “up-and-coming” neighborhood on the west side of london.
  • it’s depressing, at first.
  • she doesn’t have to live like a muggle, thank god, but she constantly finds herself wondering about the muggles; wondering if they’re squibs, or if they’re wizards, or if they’d once upon a time heard the name voldemort and hadn’t even understood what it meant.
  • she realizes she’s going to drive herself crazy.
  • she gets a job.
  • she has a good eye for fashion, it turns out—a good eye for fabric, and color, and how things might fall and drape and fit around different body types. she’s magic, it turns out. can turn anyone into a chameleon; into whoever they want to be, whoever they need to be, and the irony would be extraordinary if it weren’t so tangibly, ferociously sad.
  • it takes her a few years, but she works her way up at harrods, goes from selling designer jeans to dressing window mannequins to styling couture by appointment only. aristocrats like her accent, her manners, the understated elegance of her pink lipstick and her antique pearl earrings—she’s one of them, even if they’ll never know, and she likes that small hint of secrecy permeating the monotony of her new life. likes how it lets her memories—her regrets—fade gracefully.
  • and then she comes into work on an otherwise normal autumn day, seven years after the end of the war, and she sees a ghost.
  • she sees harry potter.
  • six feet tall and bigger than he’d been before, broader, skin still a creamy sort of brown and eyes still a sparkling sort of green and hair still an uncombed, slightly too-long sort of mess. she’s barely a footnote in the “early life” chapters of his biography. she doubts he’ll even recognize her.
  • “i, um, i need a suit—” he greets her, glancing up from where he’s fiddling with the cuff of his jacket. he does a double-take. freezes. skims his gaze over the shimmering ivory buttons on her blouse, and the neat grey pinstripes on her skirt, and the asymmetrical cut of her hair, dyed a sleek violet-red and brushed pin-straight down to her shoulder blades. “—for a wedding,” he finishes, slowly.
  • she hums. hides her sudden influx of nerves behind a brittle smirk and a perfunctory sniff. “yours?”
  • “no,” he says, a little too sharply.
  • she lifts a brow. files that reaction away for safekeeping. “no need to get testy,” she tells him, smoothing her fingers down the length of her measuring tape. “i’m a personal shopping consultant. it’s my job to get personal.”
  • his cheeks flush red. “haven’t heard much about you since…school,” he remarks with a wince, and she almost snorts.
  • “can’t imagine you’ve been asking much about me since…school,” she replies, motioning for him to hold out his arms. “not that there’s anything to ask about.”
  • he’s quiet for a minute, maybe two, while she scribbles his basic measurements on the back of a tailor’s slip. “malfoy’s marrying hermione,” potter eventually blurts out. “that’s whose wedding it’s for.”
  • at that, pansy does snort. “of course he is.”
  • “you’re not—you don’t find that surprising?”
  • “should i?”
  • potter sputters. “yes.”
  • “it was always going to be either you or her,” pansy says, shrugging. “maybe weasley. draco was obsessed with you. all of you.”
  • potter looks aghast. “i’m not—i don’t—”
  • “and i really don’t care,” she interrupts, as gently as she can.
  • she isn’t lying; she hadn’t realized how thoroughly she’d forgotten her old place in her old world, how little she now thought about the people she used to claim to love. it’s unnerving, actually. she isn’t just a stranger to potter.
  • “what do you…you never go back? to—” he cuts himself off, words coming to a halt on an awkward stumble.
  • “to magic?” she finishes for him, less bothered by the question than she’d thought she might be. “no, not often. i have a flat not too far away from here. my friends are muggles. i’ve got a yorkshire terrier and a closet full of very expensive shoes. i’m fine, potter. magic hasn’t defined me for ages.”
  • he stares at her, undershirt rumpled and glasses askew and socks uneven, the plaid of his boxers so frumpy and threadbare, so calmly, curiously comforting, like everything around him could change, could collapse, and he’d still be wearing them. she thinks he must like it that way. she thinks he must be shopping at a muggle department store for a reason.
  • “what’s its name?” he asks, sounding baffled. his confusion is gratifying. “your, um, terrier.”
  • she pauses. “salazar,” she admits, tartly, and he cracks a smile, posture relaxing into a slouch that’s more familiar than it should be.
  • “you, um, you’re here…often, then? working?” his expression flickers with something, too quick for her to catch, but then he scratches at the back of his neck like he’s nervous, and she supposes that he’s really not that hard to figure out after all.
  • she bites her lip, and offers him a business card. “by appointment only, potter. even for you.”

You know what? I don’t care if we get stormpilot or finnrey or jedistormpilot all I want from episode viii is for Finn to be the romantic lead because John Boyega.

He needs to be the romantic lead with a happy ending for the new trilogy that’s literally all I care about being canon at this point please make sure it happens this is all I want for the rest of forever all the rest of my theories can go in the garbage can this is the only thing I genuinely care about.

10

But I want a woman.