turn out quite good for my first attempt at this art style

The Parisian Dossier (Eggsy Unwin x Reader)

Fandom: Kingsman: The Secret Service
Pairing: Eggsy Unwin x Reader
Word Count: 4,353
Summary: You and Eggsy are sent on a mission in Paris to stop the assassination of a museum director. The two of you have worked together before, but this time Merlin requires that the two of you pose as newlyweds. Along the way there are several death threats, several art museums, and maybe even something along the lines of actual love.
A/N: I don’t own anything and this wasn’t edited, so any errors are mine. All French phrases are translated at the bottom of the story!

It suddenly occurs to you that, were Merlin not physically barring you from it, you could actually kill Eggsy.

Scanning the room quickly, you can think of at least 3 painless methods of execution and 17 incredibly painful ones. 

You wonder if the stylus in Merlin’s grasp could be sharpened fast enough to stab Eggsy in the throat.

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always us

my sixth entry for klanceweek! this time, for prompt #6: quote. this is a continuation of prompt #5!

still debating whether or not to cross-post these entries on ao3 so let me know what you think. again, you can also find these short ficlets on twitter!

day 1 / day 2 / day 3 / day 4 / day 5

I’m picturing us on rooftops

in strange cities,

with strange people,

and us.

Always us.

— “I’m not sure if this is for love or old friendships or new friendships” by Claire Luisa

So this is what Keith’s life has come to.

Guests from every corner of the universe seem to be gathered for the day’s celebration. Each is dressed lavishly in the traditional attire of their people, creating a stunning spectacle of rich cloth, dangling jewels, and enchanting body art, like thousands of dancing canvases.

As a prince, Lance is dressed like royalty. Allura managed to find an old suit of her father’s on board the ship. Thankfully, the Altean style is similar to that of the Vruan’s. The suit material glimmers a dazzling baby blue under the light of the levitating chandelier overhead. Lance wears a white button-down beneath his suit jacket with the top two buttons undone. Blue swirls adorn his collarbone, as well as his shoulders, hidden for now. Tiny white and blue dots stretch the length of both eyebrows, and the makeup Allura chose makes his eyes stand out even more than usual. Turquoise gems adorn the rings on his fingers and dangle from fragile silver chains on his ears.

As much as Keith hates to admit it, Allura and Coran did an amazing job. Lance certainly has an ethereal, royal air about him.

Which is great for the mission but terrible for Keith’s sanity.

Every few minutes, while they make their way through the crowd, Keith convinces himself everything is fine. Then, he stares at Lance for a second too long and the allusion is shattered. Lance is easily one of the most beautiful people in attendance. It’s almost impossible to ignore the whole crush thing when said crush practically looks like an otherworldly being, like a fucking god or goddess or something.

Keith, on the other hand, feels… out of place.

The prince’s escort is not allowed to dress more extravagantly than the prince himself. His suit clings comfortably to his figure, and the black color with red accents certainly complements Lance’s outfit. A silver chain hangs around his neck with a small charm, adorned with the Vruan crest. The ring on his right hand matches one of Lance’s, boasting a sizable ruby. In the Vruan culture, a matching set represents the bond between the prince and his escort.

“Like wedding rings,” Pidge was all too happy to point out when Coran presented the rings to them.

At the moment, Lance is chatting up two lanky aliens. Keith doesn’t recognize them, but the tiny gold crowns on both of their heads are explanation enough.

“Of course, of course,” Lance answers with a little chuckle. “Thank you for your time.” He bows to both in turn and then grabs Keith’s hand. Even through his gloves, Keith senses the faint trembling of Lance’s fingers. He’s nervous?

Keith lets Lance drag him toward the center of the dancefloor. There’s a lull in the music and most guests have cleared the area. Once they reach a spot far from any potential eavesdroppers, Lance stops and fixes his attention on Keith.

“None of these people know where that stupid Galran prince is,” Lance hisses, lowering his voice. “Hell, the first few couples I talked to didn’t even know the dude was alive.”

Before Keith can answer, the band picks up where it left off. But, this time, the music has a more pleasant, slow melody. Keith curses softly under his breath. Of course the next song starts right as he and Lance reach the center of the dancefloor. They need to move and fast.

But Lance doesn’t seem to be on the same wavelength.

Far too gracefully, he wraps an arm around Keith’s waist and draws him closer. Keith is too busy having a minor heart attack, what the fuck, to stop Lance from intertwining their fingers and lifting their clasped hands. Unsure of what to do, Keith lets his other arm hang awkwardly at his side. “Uh—Lance?”

“Put your other hand on my shoulder,” Lance whispers. “Get rid of that noodle arm right now.”

“But… what… are we dancing?”

“Not yet, but we’re about to be.”

Keith reluctantly obeys Lance’s instructions. His gloves feel far more constricting than before, and, yep, here comes the sweat. He silently hopes there aren’t pit stains on his suit. And if he starts to smell, too, that’ll be the end of him. No more Keith Kogane.

Lance slowly begins to spin. Completely out of his element, Keith blindly follows. Or at least attempts to.

“You’ve never danced before, have you?” Lance prompts.

“Uh… no…”

“Right. That explains why you’ve stepped on my feet, like, four times now. Even though you’re looking down like a weirdo.” Lance scoffs and shakes his head. The light catches the jewels on his earrings as they swing. “You really never went to any of the Garrison dances?”

“Seriously? Of course not,” Keith huffs.

“Alright, geez, calm down. I should’ve known.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You look way too good in that suit to be giving me such an awful headache,” Lance whines.

He thinks I look good. Keith feels his heart crawl up his throat. That had to be a joke.

“And you look way too good to be giving me shit right now,” Keith quips. Two can play at this game. “But here we are.”

“You think… I look good?”

Keith considers tearing out his own tongue. Maybe it’ll keep him from saying embarrassing things for the rest of the evening. “I mean, Allura and Coran did a good job of making you look like a prince.” Smooth.

“I guess they did,” Lance mutters. He almost sounds… disappointed. “Now, to avoid blowing our cover, please just follow my lead. Okay?”

“Okay.” Keith can’t bring himself to protest. Lance makes a good point. A prince and escort would definitely know how to dance.

Lance resumes turning, carefully guiding Keith along. Other couples smile fondly whenever they pass on the dancefloor. To his delight, by the tenth or so turn, Keith quits stepping on Lance’s feet. They develop a comfortable rhythm, each footfall in time with the beat of the song. As the musicians continue to strum their instruments on stage, Keith takes a second to close his eyes. The melody really is beautiful.

The longer they dance, the closer they seem to get. Keith isn’t sure who’s responsible, but he likes to think they’re both at fault.

Keith inhales Lance, savors the body heat and comfort of being so close without the worry of what others might think. That’s the beauty of disguises. For a time, no matter how brief, you’re someone else. You can do just about anything under the guise of staying in-character.

At least that’s the excuse you can use if someone later questions your actions.

This moment feels fragile to Keith. It’s almost as if he and Lance are an actual couple, dancing together at a party. Keith wonders what it would be like to travel the universe like this. Lance at his side, a steady presence, a constant.

Keith lets himself be a bit selfish. He leans his forehead against Lance’s and breathes. His heart beats a frantic staccato in his chest, but he doesn’t pull away.

And neither does Lance.

Behind the Lens

In the proud tradition of “anything is a fic idea, particularly when there’s actual work you’re supposed to be doing!”, this photo came across my dash, and for some reason my brain immediately said “Derek Hale as a landscape photographer” and things kind of snowballed from there. So, step one, go look at that photo, because it’s relevant to the fic. Then read. I’ll wait.

(I also encourage you to go look at that photographer’s 500px page as well, because it’s excellent.)

[Also on AO3.]

Stiles didn’t claim to know a lot about art. Sure, he could fake it with the best of them; he’d spent many, many hours listening to Lydia’s opinions about new artists she’d agreed to represent at her gallery, not to mention her more scathing commentary on artists she found overhyped by reviewers. Mostly, though, he just ended up coming in when she had a new show going up and hung stuff as directed. (And then maybe attended the opening and seeded conversations with some of her key phrases. He wasn’t proud. There was free food.)

Usually how this went was that he came by after the gallery closed, helped take the outgoing show down, moved hooks and whatnot, and helped put up the new pieces. By the time they were done, he’d have a good idea of what the artist’s style was, some sort of vague, academic appreciation of it, and no particular desire to look at any of it long-term. It was just art. But this time…

This time was different.

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CSBB Artist Spotlight: psychicruinsuniverse

Today’s Captain Swan Big Bang Spotlight features @psychicruinsuniverse!

What kinds of artwork do you make?

Traditional specifically graphite drawing, pen sketches and digital.

What’s your favorite thing about creating artwork?

I like to get emotions out through art and it’s been a really good outlet for me with the recent ups and down in my life.

What’s one of your greatest strengths when it comes to creating artwork?

I would say one of my strengths when it comes to artwork is I’ll tend to try to change up my style as I create more and more pieces, because I haven’t quite found my style yet and I’m still looking but this way I get to create very diverse pieces of art.

What’s something you’ve always wanted to try your hand at, but haven’t had a chance yet?

Probably making clothes or work with oil paints.

If you are new to the Captain Swan Big Bang, what made you decide to sign up? What are you looking forward to?

I decided to sign up because I have never been particularly active within the fandom but always enjoyed the show, so I figured this would be a good started to get introduced into the creative working within the fandom, and I wanted to create some art for hopefully some good stories.

First Artwork: https://psychicruinsuniverse.tumblr.com/tagged/waiting-for-dnd

it’s one of my first self portraits that turned out accurately and overall well, it’s been awhile since I made it and I’m still very proud.

Second Artwork: https://psychicruinsuniverse.tumblr.com/tagged/my-lovely-star-boy

I’ve created this relatively recently and it was inspired by a dating suggestion from @crypticdatesuggestions and it inspired this piece that I’ve fallen in love with.

Third Artwork: https://psychicruinsuniverse.tumblr.com/tagged/kinda-self-portrait-somewhat-except%C2%A0I%27m-deathly-pale

I’m proud of this piece because it represents when I decided to start learning a new way of drawing and or painting on the computer, I like how it turned out despite the fact that it is messy I appreciate my personal attempt to try something new.

Check out psychicruinsuniverse on Tumblr

Husky Voice

Originally posted by bangthebae

Taehyung x reader

angst(?) fluff

1234 words

In which you confess your insecurity and Taehyung consoles you.

You and ​​your boyfriend Taehyung ​entered your apartment after a night of karaoke with the boys​. ​It wasn’t unusual for you two to go over to each others’ homes, and the karaoke bar was a block away from your apartment. ​

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Dropout had really outdone himself this time.

Or herself, Castiel supposed, seeing as he couldn’t exactly assign a gender to an anonymous street artist. He just had a gut instinct that he was male. Something about the sharp edges and lack of dramatic coloring felt a lot like the unconscious masculine overcompensation he’d come to know at the Institute.

He tilted his head as he stared at the latest mural that had appeared on the back of an old building that had recently been given the ‘go-ahead’ for demolition. The style simply screamed that it had been created by the infamous artist and it had only taken Castiel a second to locate the signature that was always left on his work to confirm it.


Castiel had stumbled upon the street artist when he first arrived in the city on his way to the School of Art Institute in Chicago. The very first work by Dropout he’d seen, just like every piece after, made him stop in the middle of a busy street and just stare. If he remembered correctly, it had been the mural just off of Michigan Ave. It was one of his simpler pieces, a black and white silhouette of what could only be interpreted as an angel. It wasn’t until you walked closer that you realized that the lines you thought were solid black was actually the word “Fallen” repeated over and over again.

This new artwork was amazing as always, same style, same colors but something felt a little off about this particular piece. The message that Dropout usually sent was missing. This one was more …depressing?

Dropout had painted an elaborate cage over the entire side of the building. The bars had been painted to look like you could reach out and touch solid metal if you got close enough. Behind the bare were two large, sad eyes with just enough color in them to hint at a ghost of green.

Color had never been the point of Dropout’s paintings, so seeing a dull green instead of a vibrant green that was normally used for eyes wasn’t too surprising. But the words plastered underneath?

Can you free me?

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“Home remedies” - h.s. Part 7

Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4 / Part 5 / Part 6



“Life, if anything, is nothing more than a series of moments captured frame for frame as our eyes take in those around us and impact us monumentally,” Harry said, attempting to not sound like he was reading from a card but you knew he totally hadn’t memorized the whole speech completely. You couldn’t help but smirk as you leaned back in your seat and just let it happen.

He’d been keeping the speech a secret from you for weeks. You knew he was presenting and you’d come to terms with that, but you had been nervous for whatever flowery declaration of love he may attempt to pepper into the whole thing. But he was doing a pretty good job, and so far you weren’t as embarrassed as you thought you’d be. 

“That’s why photography is so important though, right?” Harry continued, “Because we have so many moments during the day that cause so many different emotions, that we oftentimes look over the most important ones. I know, that with two kids, the little moments can sometimes go unnoticed. But that’s what photography does for us - it allows us to ponder and remember on those little moments that may have passed up by, that make us feel something we didn’t know we possessed, and to help us give thanks for the moments we’ve cherished with others.”

Okay, so maybe now you were crying a little bit, but you weren’t going to let the small tears show as you continued to slouch slightly in your chair, your arms crossed lazily over your stomach as you attempted to act as cool as a cucumber. 

Internally though, you were freaking out.

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captaincrowcaw  asked:

I don't know how much of this kind of thing you do, but could I have some advice on drawing people or coloring things digitally? I've been having a really hard time with both of these things recently and you're really good at both of those thing and I really love you're style. C:

Thank you! I can try my best to give some advice; “coloring digitally” is a broad subject and so I don’t expect to be able to cover everything you’re looking for, nor can I talk about every aspect of my coloring in this format, but I can give some tips.

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The Great Campaign

As should probably be unsurprising, I’ve never liked school that much. So, in high school, whenever a school-sanctioned opportunity arose, I’d leave the Concentration Campus.

One day, a teacher came to my class during a free period and said that he needed members of the student council for something. At this time, my friend Alex and I were on the council. Both of our positions were completely pointless. I mean, it was worse than the Russian Duma between 1905 and 1917, and that much pointlessness takes skill. Let me briefly digress to explain how we got them:

One day, the faculty decided it would be nice if there were a Student Council so they could get points for Representing The People. To this end, they selected two students from the fifth form (final year) as the candidates for President of the Student Council and announced in the assembly (kind of like homeroom) at the beginning of the day that everyone would be expected to vote for one of them.

During the day they went to each class to collect votes for the Student Council President while also asking each class to nominate and vote for a Class President. When they reached my class, they asked for someone to volunteer to run for CP. I put up my hand but no one else did. The teacher shrugged and said “Alison is your new Class President. See ya later.”

After all the votes came in and were considered by the staff, they declared the winner of the Student Council’s Presidential election to be… My friend Alex in form 3 who was never on the ballot. Because logic.

Anyway, I was pretty surprised they actually wanted us for something. It was almost as if we were important! So, Alex and I followed the teacher to the staff-room where we were briefed on the Super Special Mission of Specialness. Basically, we needed to send a few representatives to a conference the Ministry of Education was holding where they were going to lecture us on Leadership and Responsibility and Dying For Your Führer or some shit. So, slightly less boring than normal school. I was in.

That is, until a girl we thought was sick turned out to be not-sick and actually in school. She was the Secretary and the other people present were the Treasurer, the School President, and a Class President. At this point the teacher decided to mention that he was only allowed to bring three people: the President, Treasurer, and Secretary; with alternates only being accepted when the others were unavailable. Crap.

So, I turned to him, steadied myself, and cranked the charm up to eleven. I made some argument about being a full member of the council too and needing to learn about The Glorious Führer or something like that. I don’t recall because I was too busy thinking don’t send me back don’t send me back please don’t send me back while radiating deadly amounts of Charisma. Evidently, the C-Rays must have fried his brain because he finally relented and let me come with them.

[Comedic travel montage in which we manage to get lost in a town of 6000 people while looking for a well-known landmark, but I forget the details.]

When we arrived at the place, I noticed the Fatal Flaw to my plan. Since we were late due to errors of shipping & handling, everyone else was already there. In my country, all the secondary schools have uniforms, so I could see that everyone was in clusters of three students per school. We very obviously had four. I didn’t know who or where or why or how but someone was going to ask Questions and then I was going to Die.

Luckily, due to some combination of bystander apathy and me rolling into an exceptionally uninteresting ball, the wolves passed without harming me. I was able to sit there and listen to the speech about the Führer…

…Wait, you thought I was kidding, didn’t you? No, no. I never kid. This is what the lecturer said:

“So, how many of you would describe Adolf Hitler as a good leader?” He looked over the crowd and decided to pick on the most uninteresting ball he could find.

“You, at the back!” He called, pointing at me.

“Uh,” I began eloquently. “I would say that the question has multiple interpretations with different answers. He was certainly good at leading, but if the job of a leader is to steer you in the right direction, then no, he wasn’t.”

“Brilliantly stated!” He lied. “Well done! What about the boy next to you with his hand up?”

I turned to look at Alex, who proudly declared “I think Hitler was a great leader! Sure, Germany may have had its ups and downs, but Hitler did nothing wrong! In fact, he should have done more!” Alex turned and looked me in the eye. “If Hitler had been more successful, I might have fewer classmates today. Y’know what they say about small class sizes, right?”

I couldn’t take it. I laughed first, losing the game to him.

The lecturer on the stage before us was watching Alex with an expression that my (occasionally buggy) Facial Expression Recognition Software (GPLv3) flagged as a mixture of confusion, curiosity, and indigestion. I wondered what he’d eaten.

“So, uh, that’s, ah, one way of looking at it.” He said, sounding like he’d just seen a perfectly ordinary witch transform into a cat.

He then went on to explain why Hitler was a bad leader because being a good leader requires following Jesus and leading behind his leadership; which definitely doesn’t include doing bad things to Jews, but maybe to Muslims on alternating Tuesdays. I wasn’t really paying close attention.

However, he soon started describing an election – and this I did pay attention to. He told us that the Ministry of Education had decided that there was going to be a National Student Council to represent all the students in the country. Hooray! I thought. Another Duma!

He told us there would be such New and Exciting positions as President, Vice President, Secretary, Treasurer, Executioner, Head of The Inquisition, and Ass Kisser++ With Extra Lipstick. OK, I may not have been paying very close attention here either. In my defence, the conversation with Alex was far more interesting.

“You should run for Treasurer!” Alex told me excitedly.

“Did you completely forget the part about me being smuggled goods?” I asked incredulously. “I’m lucky they haven’t tossed me in the harbour yet!”

“Details.” Alex said, waving the problem away. “Come on! No one could be more qualified!”

“I suck at accounts.” I understated.

“That isn’t what makes you a good treasurer. This,” he pointed to my nose, “is what makes you a good treasurer.”

“You can’t literally sniff out corruption,” I informed him. “You do know that, right?”

“No, you idiot!” He shook his head. “You’re a Jew! You have powers mere mortals have only dreamed of!”

“Pass.” I replied. “I like not being in the harbour.”

“Come on!” He complained. “You can’t pass up your destiny! You were born to guard a massive pile of gold and roar at the foolish adventurers who come to slay you.”

“Firstly,” I began patiently. “I think you may have confused Jews and dragons. Secondly, even if being Jewish were a sane reason for taking a job, there’s no reason I couldn’t be the President or the Secretary.”

“Your handwriting is shit, and Jews can’t be president.” Alex informed me, sounding like he’d settled the matter.

“What?” I asked. “That’s not true! Look at Benjamin Disraeli.”

“Prime Ministers aren’t Presidents!” Alex announced gleefully. “You lose a turn!”

He turned back to the stage, satisfied with his victory.

The lecturer was now instructing all those who wished to run for a position to put up their hand so he could call on them to introduce themselves and announce which position they were running for. I decided to throw caution to the wind and put up my hand. They hadn’t found me yet and if I was going out, then I was going out in style. I’d decided that running for President wouldn’t be a good idea since that’d be the position with the greatest competition and, as anyone with hereditary business savvy knows, the best way to succeed is to use politics to avoid competition. Likewise, I wouldn’t run for Vice President because I didn’t want to have to assassinate the other guy. I’d promised my mother not to be that evil before my eighteenth birthday.

The lecturer was apparently calling on people in a systematic order. I was somewhat surprised to see this much organisation from someone who worked for the government and wondered how long it would take him to get fired. When he finally reached my side of the amphitheatre, his face changed from disinterest to trepidation. He pointed to Alex the way a sentry might point to the barbarians approaching the city walls as they chanted “doom doom doom, doom doom-doom doom doom-doom…

Alex stood, introduced himself, and announced his candidacy for president. He flashed the room a dazzling smile which, statistically speaking, must have made at least three girls faint. Impressive, I thought. A dumb choice of position; but still impressive. It is a common misconception that presidents are the most important people in an organisation. Not so. The most important person is the one holding the president’s balls – which happen to be permanent residents of the organisational purse.

Next it was me. I too introduced myself, and announced that I’d be running for treasurer. I decided not to attempt the smile since it was clearly an Advanced Technique and Alex was still the acknowledged master in the Art of Charisma. I decided to bide my time…

…For 3 seconds. The moment I sat, Alex turned to me and said, “Good job! I’ll vote for you.” I then turned to the person on the other side of me and offered my outstretched hand. “Vote for me.” I said with a smile that was slightly less catastrophic-systems-failure-inducing than Alex’s, but still quite potent at close range. Clearly my attack roll was a Critical because the guy shook my hand and said “Of course, dude.” Success! Oh, the poor bastard.

I repeated the routine with all the people near me. I only rolled a one once. That time, my target looked at me with a little scepticism and asked “why should I?”

Shit. I’d forgotten that, once in a while, someone votes for a politician for a reason instead of just failing a Will save. I wracked my brain, immediately rejecting Alex’s justification of Jews and dragons.

“I’m studying accounting,” the idiot that was in control of my vocal cords said. All systems were flashing ‘abort mission!’ and ‘you stupid piece of…’ and similarly justified alerts. I cranked my pokerface up to the max and waited for him to inevitably ask me what my grades were in accounting.

Then, a miracle I dared not hope for: a twenty.

“OK,” He said, fooled into accepting my stupendous bluff. “What’s 73 times 9?”

“657,” I answered, almost automatically. The boy nodded, apparently satisfied.

“You’ve got my vote,” he said. All systems were now flashing ‘hooray!’ and ‘you’re still a stupid piece of…’

By this time it was lunch, so we retired to the courtyard after giving the lecturer our names so he could make ballots. I made sure to work the crowd, pulling my handshake routine on each of them. This time I had to turn the charisma past eleven. I set it to ALL, making sure to have each of them feel special and loved – like they mattered – before moving on to the next one and leaving them with the metaphorical baby. I never stuck around to find out how the guys handled their metaphorical pregnancies, but I heard from second-hand sources that it wasn’t pretty.

Unfortunately, a few wanted to be married before they’d agree. This is a deep and complex political concept which can only properly be encapsulated by, “I’ll vote for you if you vote for me.” Most of them literally said that.

Of course, I couldn’t simply say “sure”! I was an individual of class, dignity, refinement, and racist humour. As such, I questioned them. I asked them what they’d do if they were president and smiled at them when they answered; as if they’d told me just what I needed to hear. I asked them about world politics, and congratulated them on their shrewdness when they located Australia in Europe. I asked them what they thought of a quote by a famous person, and praised their intelligence when they told me it was, like, soooo deep. In the end, I assured them that they, without a doubt, were the most qualified person for the job. They had my vote.

I told sixteen people this. I have never claimed to be a good person.

Eventually, I was finished and went to get my lunch. I brought it over to the table Alex had already commandeered. There were also two girls from schools I didn’t recognise sitting at this table on the opposite side from Alex. I sat next to my friend and began telling him of my exploits without any details of how exploitative it was. After all, there were potential voters right there. Alex, on the other hand, informed me that he was doing no campaigning, and that I shouldn’t vote for him because he’d just been joking.

After I’d finished describing the way I’d secured promises from everyone – including the two girls sitting across from us before they’d arrived here – one of the girls turned to me and commented on how successful I seemed to be. We stared into each other’s eyes for what I realise, in retrospect, was longer than Standard Eye-Contact Time. I didn’t know because I’ve never read the manual. We engaged in some witty banter which I no longer recall. What I do know now, though only in retrospect, was that this was me flirting – for the first time. I was not set on fire even once throughout the whole experience, so I count it as an unqualified success.

After lunch, we all returned to the amphitheatre for the actual voting process. The lecturer handed each of us seven printed ballots – one for each available position – with a list of all the candidates for that position, with check-boxes next to their names. Very well done. This guy’s days were numbered.

After we’d all filled out our ballots, another ministry official went around and collected them in a box. She then brought it back to the lecturer so the votes could be tallied and entered into a laptop. After about fifteen minutes of waiting, he began to speak.

“And the President of the National Student Council is,” he said, and a name was displayed on the wall behind him with the number of votes received next to it. Below that name were the names of the runners-up with their vote numbers. Alex had gotten three votes – most likely the fainters. The person who had been selected walked down the steps and approached the stage. There were a few scattered claps. The lecturer repeated the process for every position, with each winner getting a plurality of the votes and a couple claps here and there. Treasurer was the last.

“And the Treasurer of the National Student Council is…” Click. The scene on the wall changed and the name displayed at the top of the list was mine. Next to it: 54 out of 73 votes. The crowd went wild. The applause was loud and excited. I stood and swept a bow to one side, increasing the volume. I bowed to the other side and the roar became deafening. I proceeded to approach the stage. Halfway down, Alex started chanting “Alison! Alison! Alison!” The rest of the crowd adopted the cry as well. “Alison! Alison! Alison!”

When I finally arrived on stage I turned back to the audience, flashed a smile that undoubtedly caused four people to faint, and gave one last bow before sitting in a chair which had been provided. The lecturer had to order everyone to quiet down, calm down, and sit down. Of course, there was no ‘down’ for me. I was on top of the world.

His Best Friend’s Sister

Notes: Fluff. I think this is really an adorable idea! Thank you for requesting this ahh! This was extremely fun to write although I had a bit of trouble because I wasn’t sure whether I should focus on Eisuke mostly or Soryu. So, it wounded up in a mix with both of them fighting over the MC (*cough* you *cough*). My apologies in advance, if this isn’t what you wanted but I just thought this would be more fun and lighter to read! 

Tagging these dudes because I think it’d make them smile (it’s a 50/50 chance though): @carinecaldre69 & @miyukushina & @dumb-and-dumber-with-leah & @tresspadesmaid@catchthespade

Let’s get more air—because you might need it for the incoming laugh fest!

It was a normal Tuesday when Eisuke called forth for a special dinner. At first, Soryu and the others didn’t understand why there was a need to have dinner together since 99.3% of the bidders time was spent at Ichinomiya’s luxurious penthouse. But the millionaire was persistent! He promised that he would be paying for everyone’s meal and he’d be bringing along a… marvelous surprise.

While the other bidders were astounded by his sudden generosity, Soryu couldn’t help but wonder how “marvelous” was this surprise. He would have been the first person (or so he’d like to think) whom Eisuke would confide about news. Good or bad. However, for the past few days, the mobster noticed that he was acting quite odd. A bit more… approachable and less cranky. It meant the news was something really good—but he never came up to Soryu.


In the end, everyone agreed to join the dinner and everyone wore their best attires—suits, neckties or maybe bowties, gelled hair and manly cologne—knowing they’d be spending the dinner somewhere in a fancy restaurant… And as expected, Eisuke has overdone it again as he led everyone to one of the best five-star restaurants in the city. The folks there even let them have their own private room, away from the other customers. 

Only Eisuke Ichinomiya. 

Once everyone was settled in their seats. Eisuke tapped his glass formally, clearing his throat before saying, “You are all here tonight because you are all considered one of my most special… friends.”

“We’re your only friends,” Mamoru had muttered under his breath and Soryu found himself agreeing with the bearded slacker for once. Ignoring the snide, Eisuke motioned at the door, trying to get someone to walk inside. “Gentlemen. And Mamoru. This is my sister.”

As if rehearsed (probably was), you walked in.

Everyone gasped and clapped upon your arrival. You smiled. 

To Eisuke, this moment was gorgeous, precious and quite satisfying since this meant you would easily fit in this new lifestyle more. While everyone was cheering for the long-lost-but-now-found sister, Soryu’s mouth was still left wide open in utter disbelief. Eisuke wasn’t an idiot but… what if you actually weren’t his sister? Perhaps, that’s one of his reasons why he hasn’t told Soryu about you. He is probably scared about me noticing she isn’t the one and… Soryu frowned as he kept picturing Eisuke’s torn face. The millionaire often claimed he has never broken down but… he was still human.

While thinking deeply about his friend’s reaction, your eyes met Soryu’s and you tilted your head, questioningly. 

Shoot. He quickly shut his mouth and instead of following his gut that was telling him to look away, Soryu did his best to glare at you, trying to establish that he wasn’t the friendliest human being and should be avoided at all cost. Although his cheeks were reddening. Hang on. That wasn’t quite right. Well… He… was a bit caught off guard upon seeing you in such a strapping outfit—a scarlet red dress with delicate ruffles and tight curves—no doubt that Eisuke bought it from one of the most expensive clothing lines. 

And yet as time ticked, the formal introductions went by, jokes were made and everyone was either too happy or too drunk to hold onto one conversational thread. Currently, Ota and Baba were humming along to a Barenaked Ladies’ song in their head, Mamoru has fallen asleep on the dinner table and Eisuke was pulling out his wallet to pay for the bills.

Soryu was quiet the entire time. He made sure he was still sober enough—just to study you mostly. He needed to make sure, for his best friend’s sake that you weren’t an impostor. Technically, Soryu didn’t have any basis to say you were one. He only knew a few things about Eisuke’s “long-lost-sister”… You would obviously have that “mark” Eisuke once said. But it might have been fake. Who knows? … Gun in hand, he’d just have to watch you for anything suspicious.

However after a while, he wasn’t sure why you approached him with a smile spreading on your face—was it because he was sober/awake or you simply caught his not-so-subtle staring? Before Soryu could figure it out, you both started talking and he found it quite… easy? Normally, he found women quite annoying especially with their stench that they called, “perfume”. You probably had one but Soryu didn’t find himself smelling it. He was instead, more focused on your eyes. Your lips.That smile.

“Are you really part of the mafia?”

“… Eisuke told you?”

“He tells me everything,” you replied, rolling your eyes. “Mamo is a detective. Fedora man is a thief. Kisaki has something to do with the art. And you are a mobster but I find that hard to believe.”

“Why is that so?” 

“Because my brother says animals magically like you.” 

Soryu isn’t sure if you were teasing him but he did find it a bit… charming. In response though, the mobster pulled out the gun he was holding, making sure that none of the personal waiters could catch a glimpse of it. “Whether you find me threatening or not, I am a man who knows how to shoot and I am not afraid to pull the trigger. And you?” 


“… Are you really Eisuke’s sister?” His eyes glinted.

“I am.” You smiled. “And because of your deep concern, I guess… you really are his friend. By the way, does Eisuke really buy you all the hair products to make that hair style?”

“… No.”

“Liar. He totally did.”

Soryu scowled at you. What an annoying woman. Now, he could say with certainty that you were related to Eisuke by blood. Before he could rertort, two drunk men—namely Baba and Ota—dragged you off. They also apparently wanted to play with Soryu’s new toy, your eyes though while walking away still trained on him. He didn’t look away either.

“I saw the look you were giving her,” said a voice.

Soryu swiftly turned to find Eisuke who folded his arms. His glowers were even more hellish… and murderous. “I don’t like that look,” he growled.

“Oh, I was just suspicious if she could be an impostor,” Soryu spoke calmly as he tried to choose his words carefully. “I figured that’s why you didn’t tell me about her days ago because… you didn’t want to hear me say that she might not be…” 

Soryu faltered as Eisuke shook his head.

“Dumbass. She is my sister.”

“… I was just looking out for you.”

Eisuke sighed. “I know… But what I meant by look I meant is—you’re giving her the kind of look that Baba makes when he sees a woman.”

“I-I wasn’t thinking of that!” Fully familiar with that Baba look.

“Good. She’s not up for a one-night-stand.”

“… But I could ask her on a date, right?” It was supposed to be a joke but hearing it out loud, it didn’t sound like one. In fact, it made his heart beat faster. Why? Was it because it sounded… dangerous? It absolutely did with Eisuke’s glare stabbing Soryu.

Stay away from my sister, Oh,” growled Eisuke as he briskly brushed past Soryu, bumping his shoulder and making him lose his balance a bit. Dumbfounded, Soryu watched Eisuke saunter towards you—clearly annoyed that you were being toyed around by Baba and Ota. He really had no intention of making a move on you or whatsoever. But there was still something about you that he wanted to know more of. Soryu doubt that Eisuke would allow him to talk to you personally alone again but… He marked this as Attempt 01. Heh. The mobster wasn’t giving up. 

Neither was the millionaire as he also marked this moment as the first attempt. And so, the unspoken battle begins with Soryu’s attempts to win your heart—and Eisuke’s attempts to shove those attempts back into the mobster’s ass.

Attempt 07. 

You and Soryu have both been talking a lot and most of the time when the bidders come over, Soryu noticed that you’d be paying more attention to him… Not that he found it bothersome. Instead, he saw how precious you were to even notice him first in a room full of men who are obviously so much better than him—even the slacker detective sounds better than a stone cold, dangerous mobster. And yet here you were, entering the elevator and looking up to Soryu.

“Hi,” Soryu heard you say.

“Hello,” he greeted back with a smooth voice. You both wounded up inside the elevator together. But not alone together. You were with your older brother and Soryu came along with Ota who was going down to check the antique to be auctioned. An unsettling silence stayed in the elevator as it went down the famous hotel. Ota leaned against the elevator rail. Eisuke wrapped an arm around you, almost territorial. Soryu just had his arms folded, finding his shoes more and more interesting. 

It was awfully quiet and Soryu could practically smell the tension until Ota broke the silence in a singsong voice with the worst statement ever: 

“Hey, Soryu has a pick-up-line for you!”

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title: unsaid, unspoken, and then the spell was broken

author: Lia, aka pumpkinsplce

artist: Jana, aka ilovebooks-forever

beta: Liz, aka thatgirlwithnosociallife

word count: 13.528

rating: nc-17

warnings: smut scene (blowjob), language, mentions of bullying, homophobia, alcohol consumption, violence and thievery.

summary: In which Dan is a misunderstood douchebag, Phil is a Ravenclaw with a sassy streak, Carrie is bossy, PJ likes firewhiskey, Alex and Chris don’t have nearly enough lines and a stupid challenge turns into something more. Also featuring Harry Styles because why the fuck not?.

Or, a completely self-indulgent Hogwarts AU, because everyone needs Hogwarts AUs.

art: here

author’s notes: this is the longest thing i have ever written, so please excuse my writing being a little all over the place. it’s actually a pretty wonderful experience, writing a long fic, because it grows with you and you learn from it and you see your characters change so much before your eyes and really, i can’t express it but it’s amazing. so thank very much to my beta, liz, and my artist, jana, for helping me with this. i hope you like it :)

written for the phandom big bang

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The Chronicles of a Feudal Fairy Tail

This is an Inuyasha/Fairy Tail crossover for my amazing and wonderful waifu, @makepretendprincess. This was quite a large project and certainly out of my comfort zone with the whole “writing” part and all….Would have been awesome as a multi-fic, but I digress. I would make you guys suffer with more of my writing. Regardless, I hope you all enjoy, my pumpkinz~

Special thanks to @mslead and @lillybeth-13 for reading this trash and helping me edit. <3

Once upon a time, there was a young girl named Lucy who lived with her loving mother and father. They watched over a quaint, peaceful shrine dedicated to the many worshippers that still believed in the power of the Twelve Celestial Keys. The power with which they held, had once turned the tides of the Great War hundreds of years ago.

Yet, Lucy was just an ordinary girl. She kept up with her studies, obeyed her parents, and her greatest adventures were lived vicariously through others; in the fairy tales her mother would tell her of priests and priestesses from long ago that fought off demons seeking the immense power dwelling within the Zodiac Keys.

That was, of course, until her mother had fallen gravely ill. Lucy spent many nights restless by her mother’s bedside praying for her full recovery.

Fate, however, had other plans.

One quiet night turned to anguished cries as her mother fought for each quaking breath. Through her infinite tears, Lucy begged her mother to stay with her and help continue to watch over the shrine they both loved so much.

Her mother smiled warmly at her beloved daughter as she whispered her last words, “There’s always been some truth behind those fairy tales. Remember that and know that I will always watch over you. My love for you is timeless.”

With that, a broken Aquarius key was placed into Lucy’s hand and a gentle squeeze to her fingertips was the last memory Lucy would ever have of her beloved mother.

Little did she know that whilst she mourned the loss of her mother, she now held the key to a door that would forever change the past and quite possibly, her own future.


It took Lucy weeks to recover enough to resume her everyday life activities and even longer still to let anyone in after her tragic loss. Her father, however, never recovered.

He grew distant and silent, only interacting with her when it was absolutely necessary, and even those few conversations often turned in to rather heated arguments. So it didn’t come as much of a surprise when Lucy found herself storming off and seeking the comfort of the well within the shrine after her most recent spat with her father.

She was very much against the idea of him tearing down the shrine and moving into the city, thank you very much.

Did the memory of her mother mean nothing to him? Was her father really so heartless that he would disregard her mother’s last wishes? This shrine may have been a painful reminder to her father, but Lucy could practically feel her mother’s presence, still protecting the shrine even in death. She took comfort in knowing her mother was still with her. At least, that’s what Lucy liked to believe.

She could feel her anger subside the closer she came to the well. This was her mother’s favorite spot and quickly came to be Lucy’s as well.

It was known as the Bone Eater’s Well, said to have had the ability to swallow up demons who attempted to steal the power of the Twelve Celestial Keys. They were plummeted into an endless void, never to return to world of the living again.

Of course, that was just a children’s story her mother used to tell her and Lucy was no longer a child. She knew the tale was simply a ruse to keep children from falling into the well.

 Or was it?

Lucy knelt down and threw her arms on top of its ledge, glaring down into the never-ending darkness beyond. Her thoughts drifted out to a time her mother watched over her as she played near the well and her heart constricted painfully at the bittersweet memories.

Her mother had truly loved this shrine. Lucy pulled the broken key that dangled from her neck off and twirled it between her fingers.

Give me the key, I must have the key,” an eerie voice echoed off the walls within the small shrine. Before Lucy had time to react, the well was illuminated in a violet light and she was pulled into its depth by an unnerving, bone-like hand.

At first, all she saw was black; nothingness, until she felt a warm sensation in her palm. Looking down, she saw the faint golden glow of her mother’s broken key. Holding it up like a torch in hopes of lighting the way, Lucy pointed it forward and caught her first glimpse of the creature that had pulled her into the well. It had razor sharp teeth protruding from a wicked sneer, an uncountable number of eyes, long black straggly hair, on top of a centipede-like body. As the creature approached, Lucy cried out and a piercing light shot from the tip of the key devouring the black in its path. Lucy was then abruptly yanked forward out of the seemingly endless abyss, out of the well, and onto a patch of soft grass.

This has got to be a dream, Lucy thought to herself. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. No. Definitely a nightmare. As she thought back to the thing that had dragged her down into the well, she came to the conclusion there was no way any of this could possibly be happening. Yes, that’s it. Not real. I must have fallen asleep atop the ledge of the well and this is all a dream.

Strongly believing that this was just her mind playing tricks on her, Lucy peeled open her eyes and looked towards the night sky. The same sky that watched over her in her mother’s wake. After catching her breath and calming her heartbeat, she sat up only for her heart to shoot back up into her throat and her pulse to take on a new upbeat tempo.

Where her house once was lay a vast ocean of trees that stretched as far as her eyes could see. The once tranquil sacred tree that stood at the entrance of the shrine, surrounded by a white picket fence, had morphed into something dark and twisted. Its overgrown roots crawled across the ground, reminding Lucy of the skeletal hand she saw only moments before, and its trunk was wrapped in vines that glimmered even in the darkness.

The air was thick and muggy, blanketed in a heavy fog that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand, but that wasn’t what made her heart once again beat erratically. It was what the vines were holding to the base of the tree; a boy wearing a red kimono.

Though the position would seem to be quite uncomfortable, his body appeared relaxed and his face was painted with such a serene expression that Lucy quickly realized the boy must be sleeping.

Lucy let out an unexpected laugh. She must have quite the imagination to make all this up. She blamed her mother’s stories for her misfortune.

“Whatcha laughing at, weirdo?” Whispered out an amused voice. Lucy abruptly stopped her misplaced laughter and looked up to the once slumbering boy, whose slanted eyes were now quizzically looking into her own. “Mavis? Is that you? I guess that explains it, then. You always were a weird one,” the boy mused. Lucy squawked, “I am not this Mavis person and I’m certainly not weird.”

“Sure, sure. Couldn’t take being away from your lover boy anymore so you decided to free me? Too afraid to face him yourself after betraying your companions, eh?” The boy’s ignorance seemed to have struck a chord in Lucy, “I already told you, I’m not Mavis. I’m Lucy. L-U-C-Y,” she spat while unintentionally getting up into the boy’s face.

Being this close, Lucy was able to see the flecks of gold dancing in his irises, his unnaturally pointy canines, and an unruly head of pink hair topped off with a pair of pointed fluffy dog ears.

Wait. Dog ears? She fought the urge to reach out and tweak them like she did back home with her cat, Happy.

The boy looked at her skeptically at first, but then as his eyes raked down her body, stopping quite obviously past her face and nearly falling out of their sockets, his expression sobered and he nodded. Though when his eyes met her own, they were much more rounded than before. “Right. Certainly not Mavis,” he rasped out, squirming slightly against the vice grip the vines had him in.

Suddenly self-conscious, Lucy pulled away from him and crossed her arms over her chest.

Before Lucy could scold the boy for his lecherous behavior, however, screams echoed through the trees from not far off in the distance. The boy whistled while lifting his chin in the direction of the commotion. “That can’t be good. Demons aren’t usually around these parts. Mind finishing what you started and get me out of these vines?”

Lucy shot him a quizzical look. “How exactly?”

The pink haired boy laughed, though it seemed without humor. “Just break them with your magic, duh. Name’s Natsu by the way. Nice to meet ya, Luigi,” as his lips curled into a wickedly devious grin.

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Animated Combat Styles in RvB (Reds and Blues of Blood Gulch: First Edition)

If you’ve been following me for a while then you definitely know one thing about me: I like fights. I like to write them. I like to read them. I like to watch them, and dear me do I like to pick them apart. So, while I’m not a martial arts expert (nor do I play one on TV), I spent a long time gathering the data and working on conclusions.

So without further ado, here it is. Animated Combat Styles in RvB as interpreted by ChurbooseAnon, and involving materials from Season Eight Episode Four through Season Thirteen Episode One. Subsequent editions may come out that revise these descriptions or enhance them, and will be linked to in revised versions of this post, as well as any revisions linked to this. All of the posts in this series will be tagged as ‘RvB Combat Styles Analysis’ now and in the future.

[Surviving Freelancers] [Faces of Texas and Maine] [Dead Freelancers] [Affiliates of Charon]

In the course of this post I’ll be talking about the following individuals in the following order:

Reds And Blues

  • Sarge
  • Grif
  • Tucker
  • Caboose

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The Pirate Chef, ch.1  (1/8)

CS AU: When all her planned work for the upcoming special in the show she produces falls apart, Emma Swan is forced to work with the networks rising star. And she doesn’t think anything good will come out of it. 

It’s finally here! This has been a crazy ride, I tell you. It was meant to be a one-shot for @kat2609 on the ocassion on her birthday in late september and here we are now, 37k words later. I’ve been working on this one for months and I am incredibly excited of the outcome. 

Shotouts to @fairytalesandtimetravel for the amazing art cover (seriously look at it! please take a moment to appreciate the wonderful background she built for this and let her know!) and both @sambethe and @nowforruin that have been sounding boards, betas, translators when I ran out of words in my meager english lexicons and cheerleaders to no end. Thank you so much for the support.

ETA that this is also dedicated to @amagicalship and @brooke-to-broch (it would be nice to remember my mind someday!)

I really hope you like it this fic as much as I’ve loved seeing it through. If you want to be tagged in future chapters, let me know!

Ao3    FF.net

The Pirate Chef

It shouldn’t have come as a shock to Emma. They might be two renowned cooking stars, but both Granny and Auntie Em were first - and foremost - strong, passionate and fiercely protective of their families. That was why their on screen rivalry had been such a success throughout the years. Their cooking shows were #1 in their own countries, and they used them as platforms to issue challenges to one another from across the ocean. All of which culminated in a final showdown: their awaited annual trip in which the self-styled “Two Old Ladies” would tour one of the countries and attempt to out-cook one another.

It was set to be in England this year, where Auntie Em had taken up residence over a decade ago, leaving her native Kansas and embracing British cuisine. It all had been planned in advance: routines crafted, locations decided and a thorough schedule set up. Emma had worked on it for months - it was one of her responsibilities as the executive producer of the show and a member of Granny’s crew who would take part in the trip. It hadn’t been easy, as her counterpart from Em’s team - an erratic redhead named Zelena - had made her task quite difficult by withholding information.

That should have been Emma’s first red flag right there, but since she was aware of Zelena’s aloof behavior, she didn’t think much of it. None of them did.

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Kittens are Black, My Hair is Yellow . . . (Bumbleby)

There were times, upon reading a good book, that Blake felt she could lie down in its pages and sleep in them.

Today had been a tad too literal for a girl of her class of metaphor.

“Yang.” The confrontation took place in the library. It was the best room for literary critique, after all. “Would you care to explain why I woke up this morning covered in loose-leaf?”

Yang blinked at her, repeatedly. A bit like standing in front of a strobe light, all things considered. “Oooh. Jig’s up, huh?” She giggled, because disco halls needed music. “How’d you guess it was me?”

“This kind of thing has your handwriting all over it.” Blake presented the evidence. “Literally. The furious strokes and angry ink blots made discerning the text rather difficult, but I managed to catch your curly-q here and there.”

“You read all that?” Admiration. Gratitude. Bordering on awe. Usually people sounded like that when they looked at Yang – Yang didn’t sound like that when she looked at people. And yet.

“‘Reading’ is possibly too strong a term.” Blake had tried, certainly. There was something beneath the blackened depths, she was sure of it – but what else in life was new? “We’ll say I … inspected it all. Whatever it was. What was it, incidentally?”

If they’d been in a stage play, Blake might have described the ensuing silence as Yang missing her cue.

“Poetry.” And then ad-libbing, apparently. “Or, uh … at least what poetry looks like after I get done with it! Heh.”

Slowly-raised eyebrows weren’t what Blake wanted to be known for, but life didn’t seem to be giving her much of a choice, lately. “Poetry.”

Yang said a lot of things with her hands (usually “this wall is in my way and I am going to remove it”) but right now their fiddling spoke mostly of nervousness. A foreign language, to Yang. “My dad told me that if I ever wanted to … uh … confess to somebody, poetry was the way to go. It’s how he won over my mom.” Fiddle, fiddle, fiddle. “But … it turns out that even though I’m really good at punching bad guys and making muffins and origami and loads of other stuff, I’m not super great at wordplay. Except puns, but those aren’t really all that romantic.”

Yang had said a lot. Blake’s brain was still somewhere back around the first sentence. She hadn’t known brains could gawk. “Confess?” She walked into the rest of the words like they were a lamppost. “Romantic?”

“Surprise?” Yang’s grin normally vibrated with excitement. This time, though, it just sort of shook.

Blake didn’t reply. Just looked down.

Oh, Dust.

“Ah, yeah. Poetry. Kind of looks more like abstract art, huh?” Yang kept smiling. It was something so at odds with her tone of voice there just might have been a war at the tip of her tongue. “I dunno. It’s just that you kind of have this rhythm, when you talk. Completely normal sentences sound like they’re supposed to be played at music halls, or acted out on stage, or something. I tried to make what I wrote sound like that, but it kept ending up sounding like … static. Static made out of exactly the wrong words. Whenever that happened, I just crossed those words out and tried again.”

These pages were made of gold. Pure gold, shiny and invaluably precious, but above all else, so, so very heavy. How hadn’t Blake realized sooner?

“I tried everything I could think of to make the right words happen. Sonnets … haikus … even 'roses are red’ style stuff. Heh. Can you imagine? Me sitting around after everyone else is asleep for like, three weeks straight, trying to figure out how the heck quills make words. 'Cause apparently I just didn’t get the process.”

Blood. Sweat. Tears. They’d forgotten to mention the ink.

“So. One mystery solved! Now, as to why I decided to make you a blanket out of my failed attempts at quint-syllabic meter? Well, uh, I realized about half a week ago that I wasn’t really cut out for composition, even if I could look up different types of rhythm and rhyme, and after that I guess I just got frustrated with myself. I kept punching at it, like, maybe if I just tried again tonight, I’d end up breaking through some sort of wall, and when I didn’t … I dunno. I was tired, and it seemed like a good idea at the time, and I was angry with myself, and I just wanted to make sure you saw that I … that I tried.” Yang’s head drooped. Nearly melted, really. “ … I really tried, Blake. I’m sorry.”

Forty-three pages. There were forty-three pages. Blake had counted every single one of them.

They were all suddenly quite fuzzy, for some reason.

“Hey, are you okay?” A sort of strangled choking noise probably wasn’t the answer Yang was looking for. “Oh, shoot, you’re crying. Blake, I-I just, wow, okay, I’m-I’m, Blake, I didn’t – oh man, I screwed everything up again, it wasn’t supposed to happen like –”

She silenced her with lips upon her own.

“Oh, Yang.” Blake swallowed her sob with a smile. “These are the most beautiful words I’ve ever read.”

Crossing Knives, Chapter 1: Amuse-Bouche, California Style

Well, here it is at last! After a few non-inspired weeks, it seems I got my mojo back this weekend.

I must warn everybody that this is my first time writing AU Tom, and after so much Loki it still feels a little weird to not have an established character to write about. But I’m really excited about this story! I’ve been doing research on cooking techniques, designing several supporting characters… I even have pictures of every main character’s home (but that’s stuff for a later post).

One thing I want to ask of my readers this time is this: if you send me feedback, tell me what you like about the story, but also what you don’t like. I don’t want to become complacent, as if I didn’t have anything to learn. That ‘don’t like, don’t read’ thing doesn’t apply to my fanfiction. You see something you don’t like? Splendid! Please tell me what it is so I can fix it / discuss it / whatever.

Chapter 1: Amuse-Bouche, California Style

“Luke! Why aren’t you here, mate? You’re missing the party of the century!”

Luke Windsor recoiled a little from the avalanche of sounds coming from his phone. First, his friend’s voice on the other side of the line was unnaturally shrill and harsh, maybe because he was trying to make himself heard above all the noise. There were other voices around, mostly women’s voices… competing for his attention, no doubt. And then, to complete the assault to his ears, a background tapestry of loud electronic music, not exactly Luke’s favorite.

He looked around him, still feeling a bit groggy. He had been enjoying a quiet evening in the peace and calm of his elegant Mayfair flat, until… Realizing that he had fallen asleep on the sofa, and that his neck was suffering from it, he went back to the conversation with a groan.

“Tom, it’s almost two in the morning, so I think the relevant question would be why are you partying on a Monday. We run a restaurant together, remember?”

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Unnaturals 1 

Intro | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6

Truth be told, Seokjin didn’t even like working in the blood donation clinic. He was, in all honesty, a little scared of the deep, intense red that he saw being fed through the tubes, and the sterile chemical smell to cover up the coppery tang, and even the people who got all pale and queasy or fainted from too much blood loss. Call him a quack (because who’s ever heard of a med student who’s still scared of needles?), but Seokjin really didn’t want to go near blood at all, at least, the freshly spilled kind. He planned on his future job being strictly research-related, any blood safe inside tubes or vials or behind a microscope.

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Submit Anon: Megami Tensi What?

This is the story about a girl I met in my early days of becoming a fan of anime and such. I had recently discovered anime entertainment. She didn’t quite act like a weeaboo, but her obsession with video games and anime is a tale to tell, hopefully nobody isn’t this bad. I begin.

Setting Start: = Summer, 2008

About a year after that I learned about cosplay. I became an enthusiast and no more, loving the art of making costumes and seeing people dress up in awesome getups such as Princess Zelda and the like. Although when I started to get into cosplaying, I had this extra drive to make my costume detailed as possible. In example Link’s tunic. So I may not have had $200 to buy chainmail, but I found a way to do it, and not just trim the edge of the sleeve or the bottom. Things like that.

In six months I learned how to do craft with a sander, jigsaw, Dremel tools; even picked up techniques on how to paint and even lay resin. I was in no means a perfect craftsman, but after seeing “bad” cosplay on the internet, I had it deadset in my mind to not become one of those. By the time I was done, I was a good peg above most of the “weeaboo” cosplays that were badly sewn together with satin because “it was the only fabric I could afford”.

I went to my first con in 2008, I was 21. My “teenage” years were isolated at home doing homeschool, so I was giddy excited about going to a place and meeting people that had similar interests that I did. I was in college, but the rural backwoods of a Southern state where you weren’t white nor black, nobody quite took the interests in anything “foreign” that wasn’t mudding, clubbing or church activities.

Enough about background, but it needed to be done to set the stage. There wasn’t even a nearby con. This one was the closest, a whopping 250 miles. (Animazement to be exact). I was leaping out of one place into another blindly, doing by best to look accomplished and catch up on the anime/internet culture upon arrival.

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Alpha Sigma Phi - Frat Cal part 1

Please note: this is a fictional story and in no way, shape, or form reflects the real Calum Hood. This part does not contain smut but it will at some point. (Sorry part one is so short. The rest will be better! Expect about 16-18 like with punk!Luke and gang!Ash)

Let me know what you think of this and I’ll post the next part on Saturday!

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the tattoo artist au: yellow tulips
  • finch runs the place obviously
  • he inherited the building from his father and cleaned it up instead of selling the property
  • he’s always been interested in art in all forms, even more off-the-wall stuff like tattoos and piercings
  • he has a few scattered tattoos from his college days, but he decides to fully commit
  • learns from friends of friends how to apply ink to skin
  • the process is a little slow and awkward, and he first few attempts are…………..well.
  • not the best
  • but once he gets the basics down holy goddamn shit
  • he spends hours and hours inking beautiful images of flowers of all types and styles
  • from classic and simple colors to super intricate modern geometric designs, he’s got it covered
  • once he’s covered both arms, he realizes he’s going to need a little more assistance, both in the shop and with tattooing the rest of his body
  • he puts the word out and one john reese shows up for an interview
  • john is skeptical of finch at first
  • this guy? with his three-piece suit and tie and not a tattoo in sight? but he really needs the gig, and he’s worked under worse people
  • at least the building is spotless
  • finch is immediately smitten like the gay nerd that he is
  • john’s look: simple, clean cut, but subtly badass. dark jeans, work boots, tight grey shirt that shows off his full sleeves and neck tattoos
  • and john is /good/
  • he has all the stock work and flash art, of course. but his original art is simple but meaningful
  • it’s more of a military theme than finch is used to (there’s got to be a story there) and there’s a lot of art that deals with freedom and escape
  • john has quite the little following, and finch hires him immediately
  • there’s a lot of late nights with customers and shared coffee breaks and intense eye contact
  • it’s pretty gay
  • one day finch asks if john knows anyone who has experience with creating concepts for animals, specifically birds
  • “why, finch? thinking of finally getting your first tattoo?”
  • finch just raises an eyebrow
  • john expects an eye roll, not finch starting to unbutton his work shirt
  • “um. harold?”
  • /then/ finch rolls his eyes. “honestly john. you thought i ran a tattoo shop with clean skin?”
  • [finch finishes unbuttoning his shirt and rotates his arms slowly so john can see his work
  • “it’s beautiful”
  • “thank you, i did them myself”
  • without thinking, john reaches out to trace one of the oldest. “what’s that? it sort of looks like rain”
  • “wisteria,” harold responds. “it’s a reminder”
  • “do they all have meanings?”
  • “most. some i just find aesthetically pleasing”
  • john nods slightly and retracts his hand. “so what kind of birds were you thinking about?”
  • and finch smiles slightly and they get to work
  • it takes them WEEKS to decide on the design, placement and coloring
  • finch wants john to try to experiment a bit more. “i hear watercolor tattoos look absolutely wonderful”
  • and john’s more hesitant and traditional. “what’s wrong with grey scale, finch?”
  • “if you think im going to have this beautiful creature /muted/, you can get the hell out of my shop”
  • “yes /harold/”
  • lots of sass and finch reminding john to take breaks between designing to /eat for gods sake/
  • will john ever remember to take care of himself? who goddamn knows. but finch has it covered
  • he eventually decides he wants the design on his side, when he turns his skin will stretch in a way that makes the birds wings spread farther
  • finch is super excited
  • john’s a little nervous
  • he’s gonna be around a shirtless finch for like. hours
  • at least five hours
  • he has to practice his deep breathing exercises at home the night before
  • maybe the week before let’s be real
  • so john’s super hella nervous because HELLO it’s harold
  • he’s so tense he can barely hold the tattoo gun
  • “so i was thinking that after this we could get lunch?”
  • john nearly drops the gun
  • “like. together?”
  • “no, john in separate cities–yes john together! unless…that’s not something–”
  • “i’d lOVE TO”
  • “well then. now that /that’s/ settled…”
  • “right. i’ll just…” he gestures uselessly
  • and the rest of the day goes pretty smoothly after that
  • it ends up being closer to dinner than lunch because there were some pg13 shenanigans on the table
  • and the floor
  • “mr reese if this gets infected, i swear–”
  • but it made dinner so much more interesting
  • when finch gets home he immediately calls his long time gay bff, grace hendricks, and they squee on the phone for about an hour
  • john buys finch flowers the next day
  • yellow tulips
  • harold smiles softly “i see you’ve been doing your research”
  • they kiss very gently and it’s very pure and gay
  • and when john comes into work a week later with a tattoo to match, finch pauses their make out session
  • “do you not like it? i thought about asking you to do it, but i wanted it to be a surprise”
  • “no john, it’s lovely!” he traces john’s hip where the base of the stem begins. “but the line work and style is truly extraordinary. an interesting fusion of geometric and illustrative. was it done by a friend of yours?”
  • john grimaces. “not really…a friend”
  • “oh?”
  • “her name’s root, and–”
  • “say no more”