this took longer than i want to admit :(

5

If they all had journals I would definitely want to read them all. Also, I didn’t draw Jacob or Evie because I haven’t played or seen how they act (And I also haven’t really seen Arno but I just went with my French instincts)

For the french people: Je suis vraiment désolé pour ce stéréotype sur les Français, à propos de la baguette et du “Sacrebleu!”. Mais ça me fais toujours autant rire.

Droughtlander Art Challenge
Week 12 - Royal Mile

“The city glowed all around us, as though sharing our happiness. Edinburgh lay under a haze that would soon thicken to rain again but, for now, the light of the setting sun hung gold and pink and red in the clouds, and shone in the wet patina of the cobbled street, so that the gray stones of the buildings softened and streamed with reflected light, echoing the glow that warmed my cheeks and shone in Jamie’s eyes when he looked at me.”

- Voyager

Have an excellent week! We’re a week closer to September!

Apologies if this isn’t the sort of submission you’re looking for, but I recently came across your site and would like to deliver a PSA for any men that might see it. 

Stop acting offended when a woman is afraid of you. She is not insulting you or passing a value judgement on you. She is afraid because you are statistically more likely to kill her than anything else on Earth. And I’m really sad that I even have to say this, but your hurt feelings are nowhere near as important as a woman’s mortal terror. The RIGHT thing to do is to remove yourself as a threat, whether that means a polite conversation, simply keeping your distance, or offering to walk ahead of a woman on a dark street so she doesn’t have to feel like she’s being stalked by a predator. And guess what? You don’t get to decide what makes her feel comfortable. If she wants you to go away and stop bothering her, that’s what you should do. DO NOT try to convince her you’re really a nice guy. If you are in fact a nice guy, you will respect her wishes. It took me longer than I like to admit to understand this, and I write in the hope that I can shorten the learning curve for other men out there.

Another Top 10 for Rhys (because I can...and want to)

And as a way to apologize for all the tears spilled after my Top 10 times my heart broke for Rhysand post

#1 Prof. Rhysand at his best

“Look … ” “Good,” he murmured. “I didn’t ask for your approval.” Rhys chuckled. “Ab … Absolutely.” It took me longer than I wanted to admit to figure that out. The next word was even worse. “De … Del … ” I deigned to glance at him, brows raised. “Delicious,” he purred. My brows now knotted. I read the next two words, then whipped my face toward him. “You look absolutely delicious today, Feyre?! That’s what you wrote?”

OR

several sentences I was to write every day, swapping out words, each one more obnoxious than the last: Rhysand is the most handsome High Lord. Rhysand is the most delightful High Lord.Rhysand is the most cunning High Lord.

Rhysand is interesting; Rhysand is gorgeous; Rhysand is flawless.

Rhysand is a spectacular person. Rhysand is the center of my world. Rhysand is the best lover a female can ever dream of.

#2 King of Proposals

My mother gave it to the Weaver. And then she told me that if I were to marry or mate, then the female would either have to be smart or strong enough to get it back. And if the female wasn’t either of those things, then she wouldn’t survive the marriage. I promised my mother that any potential bride or mate would have the test … And so it sat there for centuries.” “So I won my wedding ring without even being asked if I wanted to marry you.” “Perhaps.”

#3 For someone who keeps asking for some gratitude

* “You’re a bastard. You made it clear enough that I had … reservations.” “Such gratitude, as always.” I struggled to get down a single, deep breath. “What do you want from me?” “Want? I want you to say thank you, first of all.“

* “Make it go away,” I said, and he laughed. “You humans are truly grateful creatures, aren’t you?”

* “Get out.” “As usual, your gratitude is overwhelming.”

he surely has no idea how to receive it

“Thank you. For everything—for what you did. Then … and now.” “Even after the Weaver? After this morning with my trap for the Attor?” My nostrils flared. “You ruin everything.”

#4 A 500+ years old with a bedtime

“We’ll move things around. It’s fine. This one,” I added with a glare in Rhys’s direction, “is only cranky because he’s old and it’s past his bedtime.”

#5 Mature, serious and responsible ruler

At least you make up for your shameless flirting by being one hell of a High Lord.

He’d returned that evening, smirking like a cat, and had merely said “One hell of a High Lord?” by way of greeting.

#6 No introduction needed for this one

“As wonderful as it is to see you, Feyre, darling,” Rhysand said, sprawled on the bed, his head propped up by a hand, “do I want to know why you’re digging through my fireplace?”

#7 Champion of insults

“You can leave if you’re just going to insult me.” “But I’m so good at it.” He flashed one of his grins.

#8 It certainly was the type of flattery that won Rhys’ heart

"You’re a disgusting bastard.” “I’ll have to ask Tamlin is this kind of flattery won his heart.”

#9 A true gentleman

Rhysand examined the wound, a smile appearing on his sensuous lips. “Oh, that’s wonderfully gruesome.” I swore at him, and he chuckled. “Such words from a lady.” “Get out,” I wheezed.

#10 ‘He gestured to his perfect face’ - even when Feyre 'hated him’ there was no denying it

“Why did Amarantha target you?” I dared ask. “Why make you her whore?” “Beyond the obvious?” He gestured to his perfect face.

Quotes from ACOTAR and ACOMAF

Coffee Mugs - Bucky Barnes

- Sorry for not posting in forever. I’ve been so busy and then had the worst writers block. // This started out as a late night drabble, but now it’s kind of an imagine. Enjoy. - Also: my requests are open. I write Marvel and Criminal Minds!

— Bucky drinks coffee to try and get rid of his problems

Warnings: None.

—————————————————————

Steam billowed around the coffee that sat in a plain grey mug on the kitchen table. Stark Tower was rarely cold, but winter in New York was out to bite this year.

Sat, looking at his mug was Bucky. Tired, and alone at nearly midnight. He was expressionless, sleep deprivation shone across his skin as he mumbled aimlessly about things he needed to remember - worthless things, but he needed them.

He looked out the window, the glowing streets of New York staring back at him. The lights seemed so dark at night, yet so bright. He felt happier at night, safer. He never knew why, but he didn’t like to question it either.

“Well the city never sleeps…so that makes two of us, huh?” He mumbled to himself, picking up his mug and wandering over to the window where he continued to stare at the city.

The door clicked behind him. He didn’t respond because for once, he didn’t feel threatened. He knew who it was from their footsteps.

“You’re up late,” You greeted him, “Coffee, baby, really?” You sighed.

“I wanted to make sure you were alright. Is that a crime now?” He raised his eyebrow at you, and you rolled your eyes back at him. He smiled as you placed down your bags.

“How is she anyway?” He asked, placing down the mug once again. “Peggy’s doing okay. She talked a lot, stayed on track, which was good. Then I had to get Tony’s equipment from the store. It took longer than I thought.” You gestured to the bags.

“I’m glad. I would go and see her but…I don’t want to hurt her.” You frowned, looking back at him. “I think she’d love to see you.”

“Really?” He asked, dumbfounded, “She mentioned you, asking how you were. You mean a lot to Steve, so you mean a lot to Peggy too.”

“I never thought about it like that.” He admitted, his eyes growing heavier as he looked at his mug, dregs of coffee remained, and he cursed it for making him even more tired.

“C'mon, Buck. Let’s go to sleep.” You smiled, stretching out your hand, waiting for him. “Do your bags not need to go away? Or, uh, taking to the labs? What about those emails you mentioned?”

“Bucky!” You exclaimed, grabbing his hand firmly. “You can’t be scared to go to sleep. I know you hate Buck, but you need to try. You can’t live off coffee forever, trust me, I’ve tried. Please. I love you, and you need to sleep.” He glanced at his pyjama clad legs and frowned. “I’ll be right next to you. Nothing bad will happen.”

He anxiously trailed behind you, waiting for you, or anyone, or anything, to do something that meant he wouldn’t have to sleep.

You two lay in bed for a few minutes, for Bucky it felt like hours, before he began to ramble in avoidance. “Hey, babe?”

“Yes, Bucky?” You mumbled, sleep trying to capture you. “Does mike wazowski blink or wink?”

You laughed slightly, tiredly, “I don’t know Bucky. We’ll find out tomorrow, yeah?”

“Fine.” He huffed, “I love you, Bucky.”

“I love you too.”

And soon enough, he fell asleep.

When the pale pink sunlight flowed through the curtains, Bucky groaned, placing the pillow that you had previously been sleeping on over his head. He knew that you had to leave early to finish a mission with Sam and Steve, but he still missed you.

He rolled over, disregarding the pillow falling onto the floor, throwing the covers back and standing. He rubbed his eyes, pushing his messy brown hair behind his ears.

Forcing himself into the once again empty kitchen, he started to use to coffee machine once more. He stood for a while, waiting for its magic.

His eyes skimmed the room, noticing his old coffee cup still on the sideboard from the night prior, but a piece of paper now sat beside it.

“If you ask me, Mike Wasowski is definitely winking…he seems like that kind of guy.” He read, laughing to himself.

Daddy’s Shirt [Shin Wonho]

Warnings- Mature content

                ~slight daddy kink

                ~teasing beyond repair

word count~ 1427


“Daddy missed his baby girl,” Wonho wet his lips when he saw you standing over the kitchen sink. He had been thinking about you the entire day, the stylists even had to change his outfit for his performance because he had a bulge all day. He couldn’t stop thinking about how you had screamed his name last night, the way your ass fit perfectly into his hands, the way you got so wet from him just kissing you.

You had jumped in surprise, you hadn’t heard the door open, and you certainly didn’t expect Wonho to be back so early. He was supposed to be on After School Club right now. You really weren’t ready for him to be home. Your hair was still wet from the shower, where you had spent ample time missing Wonho. You were scantily clad in a shirt of his, something that just barely covered your ass, leaving your ass cheeks to sensually tease him. “You’re home early,” you turned to let him see your front side. You hadn’t buttoned up the shirt at all- let alone for one button in the middle.

“Mhm, I see you’re wearing my shirt baby girl,” he bit his lip for a moment before continuing, “did you miss me?”

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Cleopatra (Tom Holland)

Originally posted by j-murphy

Pairing: Tom Holland x Actor!Reader

Warning: Mention of death

Summary: Y/n writes letters to her ex-boyfriend, Tom when break up after he asks her to marry him. She writes all the letters in hope that he’ll come back to her. 

Author: Dizzy

A/N: Just a little fic I decided to write while listening to “Cleopatra” by The Lumineers.  Antony is the sequel with Tom’s responses to the letters Y/n writes.

Masterlist Request a Prompt


                                                                                                       May 30, 2017

Dear Tom,

It’s been two weeks since you left me and I really wish we hadn’t fallen apart. It’s been three weeks since we buried my father and I wish he was here to help me figure out how to move on.

But please, baby, you have to understand why I said no to your proposal. You asked on the first saddest day of my life, the second being your departure from my life, from our town. 

“No” just seemed to fall from my lips without warning that day. That makes sense though, believe me. I couldn’t get engaged the day my father was put to rest. 

Don’t you remember? I couldn’t eat, I couldn’t sleep. Hell, you had to force me to take a shower by doing it with me, by washing my body for me. I was sobbing on the bed in my childhood room when you knelt beside me. When you kept the mascara that stained my face from staining those pink rose and white sheets. 

It was when my sobs subsided, when everyone stopped coming by to see how I was that you pressed that ring into my hand, the one my father gave you when you asked for his hand in marriage. The very ring he placed in my mother’s when he asked her to marry him. 

“Marry me.” was all you had said, so simple and effective. 

I was shocked, my face sticky and my mouth dry as it hung open and your lips pursed into a nervous smirk. 

“No.” fell from my lips and the tears once again began to flow, not from my eyes, but yours.

It was the first time I had seen you cry. The first time I had seen sobs take over your being as you repeated the question of “why?”

Yet, I couldn’t answer why I said no, why I allowed the answer to fall from my lips when I truly wanted to say “yes”, especially when you stained my bed sheets, the beautiful pink roses, with angry tears.

                                                                                                          Forgive me,

                                                                                                                       Y/n

p.s. Happy early birthday. I hid a present for you under the staircase.


                                                                                                        June 1, 2017

Dear Tom,

I’d hate to rain on your birthday parade, but I couldn’t get you off my mind. You’re welcome for the gift, it was the least I could do. I still love you, you know. Even if we aren’t friends or dating. 

I have some news. I will be playing Cleopatra in the movie adaption of Cleopatra and Antony. I know you probably don’t care, but I am very glad to have landed such a large role. 

That day still runs through my head. That Sunday. 

I remember how I left the mud stains on my father’s beautiful white carpet when you chased me out of the rain and into the warmth of that little house on the hill. I remember the sticky and sweet smell of the rain on our skin, the way you shook you head to dry off. 

I still remember how it took you all day to find out that the mud on the carpet couldn’t be removed because of how it hardened and cracked like my heart did when you announced you were leaving me. 

That day, Sunday, had gone by so slowly. The rain droned on overhead. The umbrellas were all black except for yours, with it’s bright and odd blue that seemed to make us stand out more than when I came crashing into you with loud and overwhelming sobs. The rain didn’t touch you, didn’t seem as if it ever would, like it was scared of the strength you had. 

I know you loved my father as much as I did and your lack of emotion, or should I say your perseverance of emotion, was all to protect me from the dark and dreariness of the day. I know when you discovered the mud stains on the carpet had cracked and dried, your eyes didn’t glazed over and your brows hadn’t furl because of what you thought people would think when they saw it. I know that they did that because you, yourself, were trying to keep from crying at the thought of how my father would’ve joined me in making those stains in the carpet he hated so much.  

I took up his way of transportation, taking the subway instead of the cab. It’s better for me that way. The sounds of the conductor’s unintelligible voice and the rumbles of the train on the tracks keeps me distracted from all the strangers around me that remind me of you. 

Like now, for example. As I write this letter, there’s a little boy and his mother that sit across from me.

The little boy looks as if he could be your son, with the same tousled hair, the same big eyes and bright smile. He speaks of animals and the heroes in his little children’s novels with such intelligence, just as your mother said you had done at that age. 

Sadly, not the conductor nor the thunder like rumbles and crashes of the subway can keep me distracted from this child, this little boy who makes me wonder what would’ve happened if I kept you around. 

                                                                                                           I miss you,

                                                                                                                      Y/n

p.s. I hope you have a great birthday. Say hello to Harrison for me.


                                                                                                     June 4, 2017

Dear Tom,

I went to a church today. It was magnificent, open and stained with colorful streams of light that came from the windows. The tragic faces of Jesus and the saints seemed to make me feel comforted for the first time in a while.

Yet, it still made me feel empty, still made me miss you somehow. 

Maybe it was the speaking of how the church discouraged the lust for you that burns within me or the way they frowned upon my own beliefs that made me yearn for your comfort more than that of those red candles that burned around me. 

So, I left. I couldn’t stay much longer and I don’t know if I really want to go back because the only gifts from the Lord the church spoke of so highly were birth and my father and the Lord already took one of those gifts away. 

But maybe you were a gift as well. I may never know since we’re drawn apart, New York and London. Across the pond and worlds away.

Well, I feel like I should talk about, that I must admit it. I would marry you in an instant. Hell, I’d be your mistress if that meant I could have you around, in my world, on my side of the pond. 

The way your tears stained my bed sheets, the way your rosy cheeks turned a fiery red when your sobs subsided and you looked into my eyes is still a permanent image in my brain. 

To answer your question, no, I didn’t think of you that day. I didn’t think about how you felt when you had to pull me out of the rain, when you sobbed on my bedroom floor or how you felt when you left town. 

I guess I was late in figuring things out. I’m always late, Tom. Don’t you know? I’m always damn late. In getting out on time, in getting things done, in figuring out that you’re the love of my life. 

                                                                                                I’m sorry, my love,

                                                                                                                      Y/n

p.s. My new apartment has a master bed and a joint bathroom, a place for you. 


                                                                                                        June 7, 2017

Dear Tom, 

Yes, if the offer is still on the table. If you will let me.

                                                                                                             With love,

                                                                                                                       Y/n

Obviously

“Siri-bear!” you heard in a shrill voice.

“Oh sweet Merlin,” you groaned. “Of all the girls in this school, how do you always find the dumbest –”

“Hush,” Sirius snapped.

“Alright, but I am trying to eat so if I chunder I’m aiming for you.”

“There’s my love bug!” Amelia squealed as she dropped down onto the bench next to Sirius.

“There’s lunch,” you muttered, causing Sirius to elbow you.

“Hello, Amelia,” Sirius said a bit uncomfortably.

“How’s my sweet cuddle bunny?”

“And here comes breakfast,” you snarked.

“Are you ready to head to class, Amelia? I’ll walk you,” Sirius said quickly, wanting to avoid both your comments and you overhearing any more of her nauseating endearments. He shot you a look over his shoulder as he escorted her out of the Great Hall.

“You are so obvious, Y/N,” Remus snickered.

“Hmmm?” you replied, genuinely confused at his comment.

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