trim phone

I have no idea if anyone has tried calling Yoosung during the “drink chocolate milk or you die” disease, but if you haven’t; you’re missing out.

EDIT: I’m seeing comments about redoing Yoosung’s route just for this phonecall-You dont have to. This is during Day 4 and you dont have to be on Yoosung’s side to get this phonecall. Just call him after Seven tells him via chat that he cant drink coffee.

2

Asgore trims a hedge in the likeness of one of the greatest Royal Guards ever to live!

”Hey Pap! Come take a selfie with me and the hedge! :3″
”NYEEEEEEEEEHHHHH!!!!”

@nerdyart13431 Thanks so much for the idea! When I read your note, it gave me an amazing idea *W* I had so much fun making this! I need to animate Asgore more. He’s so cool. :O

There’s a Disney reference in there /somewhere/. xDD (Its so blatant, but I dare not say what it is in hopes that someone can recognize it ;3 )

Also! Doing the ‘Chowder’-style clothing pattern textures are a lot of fun on Flipnote xD time consuming, but fun! :D I love Asgore’s pink hawaiin shirt. xD

anonymous asked:

12 Rusame please! Btw your writing is amazing!

Thank you anon~!  :)

Prompt Fill- “I know they say that violence isn’t the answer, but I’d really like to test that theory out right now.”


America’s got his fist clenched and he’s staring at the back of the man who’s just spoken to him. He’s lucky he has England next to him to put a hand on his shoulder to stop him from striding forward and slugging the man. He still wants to, but lets his fist fizzle out and stretches out his long fingers. His hand still shakes in anger.

“Calm down,” England chastises him, eyeing him carefully. “You’ll make a scene.”

“I know.” America turns away sharply. He stalks over to the windows by the garden and stands next to the curtains. It’s hot even with the sun slipping under the covers of the horizon. The air smells like jasmine and it’s almost enough to calm him down.

“Now,” England says as he joins him by the window, and hands him a glass of wine he’s swiped away from one of the numerous waiters flittering through the crowd, “What the hell was that?”

America mutters into the glass of Malbec. It makes his throat feel tight and he fidgets under England’s green gaze. He pulls at the suit cuffs. “He insulted someone.”

“Someone,” England says dryly. He looks over the crowd of the well-dressed women and men. Surprisingly, it’s not a diplomatic party. Rather, it’s a wedding of a daughter of someone they both know and have worked with in the past. America’s waiting for his plus one still, whose plane was delayed due to thunderstorms. England’s going stag. He has a plane to catch in four hours anyway, as he uses as his excuse whenever anyone asks.

America looks out at the dark gardens. Topiaries are strung with globes of light and they line a white gravel path through colorful flowers and elegantly trimmed shrubs. The phone in his pocket feels hot against his leg and he itches to check and see if his plus one has landed.

“Someone.” America confirms.

“Someone Russian?” England asks.

America frowns and folds his arm, looking dourly into the dark wine. “Maybe.”

“Truly, how did you end up talking politics with these people? I’m sure Yvette even wrote not to do that as rule number one on the invitation.” England huffs in exasperated laughter. He looks away from the party and back at America. He frowns at the dark look in the other’s eyes.

“I didn’t” America says. When England pushes him slightly with his elbow, America sighs. “We were talking about travel plans.”

“Ah,” England takes another sip. “Going off to see Ivan soon then?”

“Nope.” Alfred puts the empty glass on the windowsill. “Bermuda, actually.”

“Oh?” He furrows his brows together in thought. “Then what did they say to make you so angry? I thought you were about to start a row.”

America taps his fingers against his folded arm. There’s a quartet playing although it looks like there’s DJ getting ready to start. It might liven up the party a bit. “He insulted Ivan.” America mutters.

“Well, it isn’t exactly uncommon to hear anti-Russian sentiments around here.” A lot of the people they know in attendance tonight were active in the Cold War. Sometimes sentiments died hard. “Shouldn’t exactly rile you up like that.”

America shakes his head. “No, I didn’t say Russia. I said Ivan.”

England glances up at the American in confusion. “What?”

“He insulted Ivan as a person.” America’s lips curl down in anger and he tenses his jaw before muttering, “Lloyd’s a finance guy. Apparently they’ve met twice before.” Cobalt eyes drift down to the floor. “Never really liked him before. Now I really don’t.”

England squints at the offending man’s back. He’s talking loudly to someone at a table, explaining something while using his fork, knife and water glass as props. “Wasn’t he nominated for a Nobel Prize once?”

“What, they can’t be assholes?” Alfred says and leans against the wall. He puts his hands in his pant’s pocket and chuckles. “Good to know.” A waiter comes by during their lull in conversation and Alfred takes another glass of wine. England abstains. The taller man is still staring out at the crowd, eyes dark and intense. Its like looking into a storm and searching for the spear point of soft blue daylight.

“Stop trying to imagine how you’d murder him.” England says.

“What?” America laughs and turns to England. “Why would you think I’m doing that?”

“Old habits?” England says and smiles at America’s exasperated glance. “Alright. Maybe not. How about replaying the conversation for the perfect comeuppance?” 

“Ding, ding! We have a winner,” Alfred chuckles. 


“So how does your version go?” England turns and looks out at the garden now. He leans on the windowsill and takes a deep breath of the jasmine laced air. 


“Well after he tells me that he surprised how well I seem to like Ivan, do not give me that look Arthur– and no I didn’t say we were together–anyway, he says how ‘surprised he is that the man doesn’t realize how everyone just tolerates him. No one actually likes him’.” America pauses and looks at England with a sheepish glance. “Sorry I gave him your accent. It’s kind of automatic when I mock people.”


“I’m going to ignore that, for now.”


“Thanks. So then he goes on with how much of an ‘obstinate moron’ he is and I think he way have said something about how he was obviously built for brute force and not brains? I’m not sure on that last one. I kind of was focusing on not decking him. Which of course, in my head, I’d go ‘I know they say that violence isn’t the answer, but I’d really like to test that theory out right now.’ and if he didn’t back down I’d deck him.”


“Isn’t he in his 80s?” England asks and pulls off a white flower from the climbing vine near the window. 


America snorts. “He’s younger than me.”


“Alfred.”


“If ‘ya got frail bones you shouldn’t throw around insults.”


England hums. He looks at the garden path and shakes his head. “I think you should go take a walk to cool off.”


America frowns and finishes off the second glass of Malbec. “I’m not going to actually deck him.”


“Alfred,” England says and looks at him pointedly. There’s a moment of silence between him before America puts down the glass with a sharp rapt and stalks out of the ballroom, stowing his hands in his pocket. England waits for him to leave the room and pass through the doors. He watches his form curve around the path and salutes him when Alfred passes by the window with a scowl.

 
“Have a good night,” England says. America looks confused until the crunch of gravel further down the path can be heard and he looks to see Russia walking through the dimly lit garden, distress at being late clear on his face. 


America’s face lights up and he walks over to Russia. They should be far enough away that England can’t hear him, but the American is naturally loud.
“I thought you weren’t going to make it at this point.”


Russia says something that makes America laugh and he pulls at the other’s arm. They’re walking away from the party. Apparently Russia questions this because England can hear America faintly say. “Forget the party, it’s been really fucking dull anyway. The stars are really bright tonight, anyway.” He can hear America laugh once again and the two turn around on the gravel path and slip out of sight between the topiaries. 


England turns and pockets the flower he’s been bruising under his thumb and forefinger. He goes back to the party, knowing he only has an hour more before he has to leave to catch his plane so he can go home and maybe look at the stars with someone. 

They really are bright tonight.