too broke to keep up

Qrowin!Jelsa for @knightsquall and @shinamatsuoka 

I think I just need excuse to draw Elsa in Atlas Specialist uniform

Burnt Into Ashes (OCs, sickfic, part 3)

Part 1     Part 2     Part 3

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.

jeongchahuzisu  asked:

Ayyy i love a lot of the same groups aswell! Seventeen cb id veeeeeery close and Im honestly sooo looking forward to their second full album. I just hope I can buy it when it comes out! 😂 Im broke 99.99% of the time. I hope you talk about all the groups you love like a lot cux same


anonymous asked:

Hey there! What would dating either 40s! Bucky OR Wanda Maximoff include? (because im indecisive and can't choose between my baes) You can choose either one you like Whatever you feel like writing is totes fine It's up to you! Thank you beautiful! :)

Dating 40s! Bucky Headcanons 

  • He would have no shortage of nicknames for you
  • These include (but are not limited to) doll, dollface, kid, angel, angelface, sugar, sweetheart, baby, baby doll, “my number one girl”, darling
  • He’s not much for sit down restaurants–he’d rather grab a hot dog on the pier and go for an evening walk
  • And when you spill mustard on your shirt, he purposefully smears some on himself so you feel better
  • You’ve learned to keep him far away from carnival games because every time he gets near one he goes broke trying to win you some sort of giant thing–and if Steve is there, he usually ends up broke, too, because Bucky “borrows” his cash to keep trying for the dumb toy
  • He’s not super big on holding hands–he’d rather have you on his arm, or have his hand resting on your lower back 
  • Goes out of his way to hold doors and pull out chairs for you 
  • When he speaks to you, he likes to get really close so he can murmur in your ear because he likes the way you blush when he does
  • He will do anything he can to make you blush 
  • You are constantly scolding him to clean up his damn apartment
  • He’ll sigh and agree and start to clean but somehow cleaning turns into sex mostly because he sometimes has sex with you when trying to avoid something
  • Bucky isn’t really a fan of quickies–if he’s gonna do someone something, he’s gonna do it right
  • He’s a very sensual person; he is constantly using his mouth and hands to take in every inch of your body
  • He can’t explain it, but for some reason he just really likes fucking you up against walls
  • And he always has this smug little half smirk on his face 
  • Except for when you’re done–then the smirk turns into a smile of content as he pulls you against his chest and kisses the top of your head
  • He has a few joints that he likes to take you dancing at, and he always slips the band a buck to play your favorite song 
  • You don’t often go to the movies, because when you do, he makes annoying commentary 
  • Bucky is always talking about the big plans he has for the two of you…travelling the world, getting married, moving to that beautiful house with the picket fence 
  • And he intends to give them to you, as soon as he comes back from winning the war

  • Dating post Winter Soldier!Bucky can be found here
  • Dating Wanda can be found here
Going to an event with EXO

None of these dresses/pictures are mine. Just pay attention to the dresses not the models. :)


What you wear:

His reaction: *can’t stop staring* “Jagiya y-you are gorgeous. You look stunning! You’re absolutely beautiful!” *gives you compliments throughout the night*


What you wear: 

His reaction: *once he sees you he starts clapping* “That’s my jagiya! Sexy and beautiful as always!”  


What you wear:

His reaction: *Licks his lips and tries to keep his cool* “You look nice jagiya. I like that dress on you.”


What you wear:

His reaction: *tries to act sexy for you but fails* 


What you wear:

His reaction: *processing you in the dress and has a lost of breath* “You look a-amazing…” 


What you wear:

His reaction: *can’t take his eyes off of you* cause he is so proud* *thinks to himself* I’m the luckiest guy in the world. 


What you wear:

His reaction: *sticks his tongue when he sees you* “You look really sexy jagiya!”


What you wear:

His reaction: “Yup I can’t. I just can’t. You officially broke me jagiya. You too beautiful I can’t keep up with it. God you’re you beautiful.”


What you wear:

His reaction: *he’s in shock that he doesn’t say anything”

You: “Well? Do you I look ok?”

D.O.: “Huh? Oh! You look breath-taking!”


What you wear:

His reaction: *takes a deep breath* “W-wow…”


What you wear:

His reaction: “I can’t believe you’re all mine…”


What you wear:

His reaction: *brags about you* “My jagiya is the best!”

Sequential Moments – Hawkeye, and the First Most-Terrible Idea I’ve Had.

Sequential Moments is whatever the fuck the thing you’re about to read is. In which I talk about specific moments in/issues of comics that affected me. So, spoilers. A lot of ‘em. Specifically for issue #3 of HAWKEYE by Matt Fraction, David Aja, Matt Hollingsworth, and Chris Eliopoulos. You = warned.

Writing films had kicked me in the dick. Spend two years writing one story just for it to end up on a shelf. Fuck that. Fuuuuuuuuck that. So I was a bit lost. And in my aimless wandering, I stumbled upon Fraction and Aja’s HAWKEYE. Heard it was real good. So I read it. 

That was the ninth most-terrible idea I’ve had in the last two years.

I dug the first two issues. So much. The characters. The dialogue. The insane-ass structure. The art. There was something special here.

But issue three.

But issue fuckin’ three.

“Cherry.” We get a glimpse of how deep the pile of shit is that Clint and Kate have gotten themselves into. Bullets. Arrows. Cars. Most of which are exploding. Chaos. Absurdly fun chaos.

But just the glimpse. Cut to Kate and Clint organizing his old, gimmicky arrows. Net arrow. Acid arrow. Boomerang arrow. “It comes back to you in the end.” I wanna marry this fucking dialogue.

Best issue of a comic I’d ever read. THE BEST. Like… FUCK. I had no idea comics could be… this. It was smart. It was fun. It was exciting. It was… FUCK.

I stopped writing films. (Bad idea eight.) I started writing comics.

And after a shit-ton of work – learning the format, finding the right project, connecting with artists, so on and so on and so onnnnnn – I finished my first comic. NEON NOIR. An ‘80s-obsessed, ten-page short. Gorgeous art by Michael Kennedy.

We put it up online for free. A sigh of relief. It was a lot of hard work to get here. More than I thought. And I was in way over my head. But hey. All downhill from here.

As you can see, I am fucking stupid.

Clint buys a beautiful car from a beautiful woman. Then sleeps with the latter. Takes around five minutes from there for heavily armed, ambiguously European thugs to kidnap the woman and nearly murder his ass.

Reckless. Terrible at decisions. Naked. In way over his head. I’m starting to see why I relate to the guy so much.

It’s a few weeks after Neon Noir dropped. People seem to like it a lot. Which feels fucking amazing. And I’ve got a few more projects lined up. But Image isn’t beating my door down. No cold calls from Marvel. And it’s starting to get to me a bit.

And I’m thinking, Eight months of work. Ten pages to show for it. That is not success. Pretty sure that is fuckin’ failure.

It’s a few weeks after Neon Noir dropped. I’m standing in a line at Laughing Ogre Comics in Columbus, Ohio. Favorite comic ever, issue #3 of Hawkeye, in hand. Waiting to get it signed by Matt Fraction.

I get to the front of the line. Hand him the issue. Tell him I’ve been writing comics for eight months. Blame him for that terrible idea. He apologizes.

Then I give him a copy of Neon Noir. And he sorta loses his shit. “You said you’ve only been making comics for eight months? And you made this?

I guess I got so hung up on the “eight fucking months/ten fucking pages” thing to realize something. That I’d gotten further than most people that attempt making comics. I’d actually gotten something done. And printed. And looking beautiful, thanks to Michael.

Matt asked me to sign his copy of Neon Noir. ‘Cause he’s a cool dude like that. I felt pretty damn good. And decided to stick with this comic-making nonsense for a bit longer. I’m starting to lose track of the bad ideas. I wanna say seven?

100% totally candid photo of Matt Fraction and Chip Zdarsky reading Neon Noir. (Sex Criminals is what got me back into reading comics, so really they’re both to blame for this making-comics bullshit.)

A comical pause in the action.

Clint’s frustration speaks to me. A lot.

A comical pause in the action.

One of the projects I’d set up off the back of Neon Noir falls apart. I stop hearing from the artist. Then another one falls apart. I keep working. I keep writing.

This is hard. With no budget. To motivate the artists to keep working. To motivate myself to keep working. I’m too broke anymore to save up comic-making funds. Another project falls apart. This is hard.

Really hard. Why is this so hard. It’s fucking comic books. It’s more ten-page shorts. It’s 22-page issues. It’s pitches and one-offs and nothing massive or overly ambitious. Why is this so fucking hard?

The cold calls from the publishers start to trickle in a bit. I try to juggle personal projects and pitching. 95% of the pitches get shot down. 95% of the projects fall apart. If one of the pitches does go anywhere, the book won’t see a comic shop shelf until late 2016/early 2017. Two years. It’s fucking films all over again.

Just stick with it. Keep your head down. Take the punches. Keep trying. Bad ideas six through three.

Shit ain’t goin’ great. The beautiful car is totaled. Clint’s bruised. Bloody. Knocked unconscious. Wakes up with a gun to his head…

I’m beat to shit. Eight months becomes a year and eight months.

And still. Ten pages.

There’re still projects in the pipeline. Still pitches “under consideration.” But ten pages. Ten pages. Writing everyday. Working everyday. One year, eight months. Ten. Pages. 

Bruised. Bloody. Knocked unconscious. I don’t know why I did it, but it comes back to me. Like a fuckin’ boomerang. Issue #3 of Fraction and Aja’s Hawkeye. I read it again for the first time in months. Bad idea number two.

Kate fires the arrow. The boomerang arrow. “It comes back to you in the end.” Foreshadowing saves the day in the best goddamn way possible. 

And at the end of said saved day, Clint’s beat to shit. His new car’s beat to shit. His life’s beat to shit. In way over his head. But he’s still standing. Barely, sure, but he’s still standing. And as long as he’s still standing…

Then I remember why I love this comic. Because it’s chaotic. Because it’s complex. And because it’s really fucking fun

And with that, I remember why I make comics. For the same reasons, too.

So, long as I’m still standing, I’m gonna keep making the goddamn things. And there it is. First most-terrible idea I’ve had in the last two years.

Oh, and also – best goddamn idea I’ve ever had. Easy.

Expect to see another ten pages soon.



Okay. Here’s my theory. Frank and Gerard did date. Even if it was just for a month. But they did it behind everyone’s back and no one knew but them. So when they kissed on stage for the first time, it was real. But then things got too hard to keep a secret so they broke up. But they had to keep kissing and shit on stage because well, it would be odd if they did it a few times then just stopped. So they could have been together. I mean just look at how gentle Gee kisses his head. And look at how passionately they kissed on stage. After you’ve seen every frerard kiss then come to me and tell me they didn’t have a thing.