#hellooo sailor(s)

[unclewileys-bahblog]

hellooo may we request two alters from smosh? we'd like it to be Shayne and Damien n them to be kinda oppositional to each other. we would really really love lots of IDs and paras as well :3 but it's okay if not /g

(I hope your day is good :D)

OF COURSE YOU MAY!! ENJOY! 🤘

Name: Damien Haas, Isaac, Jayden, Scott(y)

Age: 31

Gender: Skeleponyfiguric, 90sanimegender, Angelstar, Transfemmasc

Pronouns: Star/star’s, Shi/hir, Skeleton/skeleton’s, Wing/wing’s, Pony/pony’s, Halo/halo’s, Sailor/moon, Skele/pony, 90s/anime, Shooting/star, 💫/💫’s, 💘/💘’s, 🦴/🦴’s

Sexuality: Pansexual, Demisexual

Species: Angel

Ethnicity: Caucasian with a German background

Source: Damien Haas

Roles: Defensor, Sweetheart

CisIDS: cisIntersex, cisTrilingual (english, german, japanese), cisNonHuman, cisAngel, cisImmortal, cisAutistic, cisOCD

TransIDS: transSeviGenderDysphoria (more), permaTeen (15), transLoliShoBait, transNecro, transNPD, transADHD, transRace (asian), transEthnic (japanese), transPurpleEyes, transLargeWings, transHappyTone, permaHappy, transCelestialVoice

Personality: Sweet, Sensitive, Empathetic, Emotional, Caring, Loving, Kind-hearted, Trusting, Friendly

Paraphiles: Jeuliephilia, Odaxelagnia, Biophilia, Autoimlaphilia, Agonophilia, Mastigophilia, AutoAptophilia, Frotteurism, Nyctophilia, Metephilia, Glaciulaphilia, AutoDacryphilia, Echophilia

Other Labels: Anti-harassment, Radqueer

Faceclaims:

Name: Shayne Topp

Age: 33

Gender: Gendergrave, Agender, Deathbodiment, Felimortic, Bloodycatgender

Pronouns: It/it’s, He/him, Paw/paw’s, Grave/grave’s, Kitty/kitten’s, Blood/blood’s, Zombie/zombie’s, Claw/claw’s, Death/death’s, She/her, Corpse/corpse’s, They/them, Hiss/hiss’s, Gore/gore’s

Sexuality: Bi-Gay

Species: Human

Ethnicity: Caucasian

Source: Shayne Topp

Roles: BPD persecutor

CisIDS: cisAMAB, cisHuman, cisBPD, cisADHD, cisNPD

TransIDS: permaFirstPlace, transWorshipped, transCultLeader, transTapeRecorderVoice, transWerewolf, transYear (1999), transAge (10), transShota, transHarmful, transAbusive, transMisogynist, transYandere

Personality: Obsessive, Cruel, Vulgar, Greedy, Flirty, Humorous, Intrusive, Caring, Good-natured, Secretive

Paraphiles: Haemotophilia, Emapihtophilia, Menophilia, Lactophilia, Poképhilia, Nyctophilia, Traumaphilia, Zeusophilia, Jeuliephilia, Agalmatophilia, Traumaphilia, Pyrophilia

Other Labels: Radqueer, Darkship

Faceclaims:

Feel free to change whatever! ^_^

- Mod Eddie

[chudleycanonficfest]

Washing Machine Heart

Day 22, Story #2 is by @rosequartzstarswrites​

Title: Washing Machine Heart Author/Artist: rosequartzstars - @rosequartzstarswrites (Because of Tumblr settings, this is posting from my main blog, but it’s me!) Pairing: Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley (and background Ron Weasley/Hermione Granger) Prompt: 5+1 Rating: T (only for some strong language and non-explicit insinuations) Trigger Warning(s) (if any): none apply! 

“I can’t believe I’m going through with this,” huffed Hermione, struggling to keep up the brisk pace Ron was marking on the sidewalk.

“You never believed you’d have to, did you?” Ron said gleefully, seemingly unaware of just how hard his long-legged strides were to keep up with.

“You never told me you were that good at chess!”

“No, more like you never thought anyone could be better than you at anything!”

Despite only having been friends, close friends, with them for a semester, Harry had already become accustomed to the constant bickering between Ron and Hermione, to the point even of endearment. Coming from the Dursleys’, arguments and rebukes were something he was used to, but the undertone of friendship with which Ron and Hermione faced off was a welcome change (and a very entertaining one). Still, he tended to side quietly with Ron, and this particular time was no exception: part of him was delighted at the prospect of seeing Hermione get a tattoo.

This had all started from a ridiculous bet, born of boredom in the lounge of their dorm building. Ron had eyed the communal chessboard, battered and chipped from years of usage, and challenged Hermione to a match.

Hermione had scoffed: “Only if you want to lose, Ron.”

“Don’t be so sure,” Ron had said, exchanging a look with Harry as a sly smile crept onto his lips.

“I’m completely certain.”

“Certain enough to bet?” Ron had prodded her.

The competitiveness that, before becoming friends, was all Harry had known of Hermione had flared up in her eyes. “I’m listening.”

“When you lose—”

“If I lose, and I won't—”

“When you lose,” Ron had reiterated, “you have to get a tattoo of my choosing.”

Hermione had smirked. “Game on.”

In Hermione’s defense, Harry thought, she hadn’t ever considered she might lose. There really was no way of expecting how good Ron had turned out to be at chess, especially since —Harry thought— Hermione had based her certainty on how abysmal his grades were, against her own straight A’s, in their proofs-based mathematics class, which relied entirely on strength of reasoning. But, as it turned out, Ron was actually a master logician, if only somewhat lazy at his math classes, and this he had proved by absolutely obliterating Hermione with the fastest checkmate Harry had ever borne witness to.

And that is how they had come to find themselves out on the streets of their little college town that night, wrapped in their scarves and their winter coats to battle the first of the December chill, walking to a tattoo parlor Ron knew in the area so Hermione could be forever reminded of her loss by a tattoo Ron would choose. And if Harry knew Ron well, and knew how much he relished teasing Hermione, the reminder would be a strong one.

“I didn’t even want a tattoo,” Hermione was mumbling, more to herself than at either of them. “I never wanted one— did you know that you might not be eligible to donate blood if you have a tattoo? I mean, not that it’s impossible, but it’s a factor against you, like your weight and your age. And my family has a history of needing transfusions— oh, God, what if my grandfather needs a donation, like, tomorrow? The three-month period of eligibility won’t have elapsed, and my father can’t donate, and– and–” She froze in the middle of the sidewalk. “Oh, God, have I killed my grandfather?”

“Relax, Hermione,” Ron said, throwing a fraternal arm around her shoulders and squeezing her half in an attempt to get her walking again. “You’re halfway across the country from home. You wouldn’t be able to fly out on such short notice anyway.”

Harry had to stifle a laugh at how Hermione gaped at Ron then, a billion other dire possibilities to worry about racing through her head now. Ron, however, was less successful at keeping down a chuckle. “I’m kidding, Hermione. Besides, a tattoo will make you look badass.”

“I don’t want to look badass!” Hermione squeaked shrilly. “I’ve never been remotely interested in looking badass!”

“Well, interested or not,” Ron said as they came up to a dark brick building with a neon sign reading LOVEGOOD’S flickering above the door, “it seems like you don’t have much of a choice, because we’re here.”

Hermione let out a noise that sounded somewhere between a gasp and a whine as she looked up at the storefront that, to her, was synonymous not only with her doom but apparently that of her grandfather.

“Ron, please?” she said meekly.

Ron, however, looked gleeful and would not be deterred. “A bet’s a bet,” he declared, grabbing her wrist and beginning to march her up the three or so stairs that led up to the door of the tattoo parlor from the sidewalk. Harry lingered behind for an instant, watching the backs of his two friends as they waddled up the stairs, smiling as he listened to Ron debate whether he would make Hermione get a skull or a sailor’s “Mom” arrow-pierced heart, and Hermione pleading shrilly with him not to do either of those things. Watching them, Harry’s smile widened. He was lucky to have them as friends, that much he knew, despite the short time he’d spent knowing them. Why he hadn’t found them his freshman year was beyond him— but now, now that he had these wacky outings and constant bickering to enjoy, he felt overwhelmingly lucky that they had found him.

“Harry, are you coming in or what?” Ron beckoned him. He had stopped on the topmost step and was still gripping Hermione, whose face was a mask of pure, crystallized terror.

“Absolutely,” Harry said, hurrying up the steps with a little hop. “This I’ve got to see.”

Ron pushed open the door to the parlor with a little too much gusto, and Hermione cringed at the metallic sound of the chimes above the door as they tinkled with the announcement of their entrance. The front of the shop, sealing off the rest with a counter that had seen better days, was empty, the backroom separated by a beaded curtain.

“Hellooo?” Ron called into the backroom, marching right up to the counter. “Is anybody here? We bring a very eager customer!”

Hermione began to protest, but just as she did, an employee came out of the backroom to stand behind the counter. Catching a glimpse of her, Harry felt as if the wind had been knocked out of his chest: she was stunning. She was tall and slender, her toned arms visible through the ripped-off sleeves of her vintage Hole tee, with a curtain of straight orange hair pulled back into a long high ponytail. Her bright brown eyes glimmered atop a button-like nose that matched her small, round mouth perfectly, the pale fine face finished by a spattering of freckles. Even before she had spoken a single word, Harry felt the confidence coming off of her in waves, simply by how she propped her elbows up on the counter and eyed their party somewhat playfully. He was frozen to his place with the sight of her, hoping his jaw hadn’t dropped as low as it had felt in the wake of his awe.

Upon seeing her, however, Ron had had exactly the opposite reaction. “Ginny?” he said incredulously.

“What are you doing here?” the woman —Ginny— said without any greeting, returning Ron’s frown.

“I thought you weren’t working today!”

“I’m covering a shift for Demelza, she had a gyn appointment today.”

“Well, if I knew that, I wouldn’t have come in,” grumbled Ron. The tips of his ears were beginning to pink, a sign Harry had learned to recognize as a hint of extreme emotion in his friend.

“Well, you’re here now, so… what can I do for you?” Ginny said. “I mean, you can’t possibly be the one getting inked, Ron. You’re too much of a wimp.”

“Shut up, or I’m telling mom you got your helix pierced. That’ll make for a fun Christmas greeting when we’re back home, I’ll wager.”

Then the similarity became apparent to Harry: the freckles, the aggressive red of their hair, the same glint in their eyes… Ginny was Ron’s sister. Somehow, he didn’t know whether that was something he should feel good or bad about.

“Tattletale,” Ginny said, swatting at him. “And it’s called an industrial piercing. Not that you’d know.” Only then did she seem to remark on the rest of the party.

“Harry Potter,” she said, and Harry gulped as she crossed her muscular arms over her chest and leaned back, surveying him. “Come to get a sixth tattoo?”

“A sixth— how do you know?” Harry said, befuddled. Out of all the opening lines he would’ve expected her to use, this had not been one of them.

“You can credit the rumor mill at school,” Ginny shrugged, still eyeing him with interest. “You’re a topic of interest. Or at least among the soccer teams.”

“Oh, am I?”

“Romilda swore you had a griffin tattooed on your chest, but I told her I’d heard it was a dragon. Much more macho, I thought.”

“Thanks,” Harry said dully. What else was he supposed to say?

“Don’t mention it,” Ginny gave him a conspiratorial wink. “And if I were you, I’d find out who on the boys’ team has been giving you the eye in the shower enough to count your tats. I bet it’s Ron.”

“It’s not!” Ron said angrily, the red from his ears bleeding out onto his cheeks.

“I bet it is,” Ginny mouthed to Harry, giving him another wink. “But it’s not you?”

“Pardon?” said Harry, for whom the ‘it-is-it’s-not’ exchange had grown somewhat confusing.

“For the tattoo?” Ginny said, and Harry felt like an idiot. “It’s not you who’s getting it?”

“No, ah, actually— it’s Hermione,” Harry was knocked back into his senses as he gestured toward Hermione, who had stood, utterly baffled, throughout that whole exchange.

“Hermione Granger?” Ginny said, and Harry was almost glad when she turned her gaze away from him and toward Hermione. “As in, Scamander Fellow Hermione Granger?”

“The one and only,” Ron declared proudly, happy to be back off a topic that bothered him (teasing Ron) and back on a topic that delighted him (teasing Hermione).

“I wouldn’t have chalked you up to the tattoo type,” Ginny said.

“Oh, she’s not,” Ron said, his face lighting up as if Christmas had come early.

Ginny’s eyes darted between the dismal face of Hermione and the cheerful face of Ron, her eyebrows rising as she took it in. “Okay, I’m not going to ask about whatever this is. What am I doing on you?”

“I’m designing it,” Ron said brightly. And if Harry had thought that Hermione’s face couldn’t get more desolated, he’d been wrong.

“Christ, Hermione, what has he got on you?” Ginny said, already opening a drawer on the counter to pull out a sketchpad and a pen.

“I’m such an idiot,” Hermione grumbled.

Ron pored over the sketchpad, shielding the paper from Hermione’s eyes as he sketched. When he was done, he handed it to Ginny with a quick flick of the wrist that, much to Hermione’s dismay, ensured she couldn’t even catch a glimpse of what was on it. Ginny looked over whatever it was Ron had drawn and then looked up at her brother with a frown.

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

“Okay, then,” Ginny shrugged. She lifted the counter to open a gap through which Hermione could walk. “Follow me.”

Looking like a lamb led to the slaughter, Hermione looked up to heaven as if making one last, futile plea before scrunching up her nose and following Ginny through the beaded curtain to the backroom. Because yes, she hated the idea of getting a tattoo, but she hated the idea of letting Ron hold one over her even more.

Ron watched her leave delightedly, relishing in the jangle the beaded curtain made as it swallowed Ginny and Hermione into the backroom. “This is going to be good,” he said, rubbing his palms together. “Oh, this is going to be so good.”

“Why didn’t you tell me you had a sister?” Harry blurted out all of a sudden. He startled himself as much as Ron when he said it, though he was glad he’d been able to pare down the question from what was actually swirling around in his head: Why didn’t you tell me you had a sister that looked like THAT?

Ron looked at him and shrugged. “I don’t know. It never came up.”

“You told me about every other one of your five brothers, but not the sister.”

“Nope.”

“Not the sister that seems to be about our age.”

“Nope.”

“Not the sister that seems to be about our age and plays soccer.“ And is hot.

"Nope.” Ron paused and frowned. “She’s a year below us, anyway.”

“Oh, then that explains it,” Harry said sarcastically.

“It seemed like more of a second-semester-of-friendship revelation.”

“I see.”

Harry held the silence between them for a few moments more before he allowed the next question out. “She plays soccer?”

“One more of the long line of Weasleys that get athletic scholarships to Hogwarts College. Except for Percy— no, he was a disgrace, he got in on an academic grant.”

“The family disappointment, truly.”

Harry wanted to ask more about Ginny, but he held his tongue. His friendship with Ron was the most precious thing his sophomore year of college had yielded him, and he didn’t want to jeopardize it by prying further or making it seem like he had the hots for his sister. Even though he did. He suffocated that small voice at the back of his mind: he hadn’t even spoken properly to Ginny, just stood there like an idiot and let her quip freely about his tattoos— which, mind him, apparently were fodder for locker talk back at Hogwarts.

The buzz of the needle in the backroom as it started up brought Harry out of his thoughts, just in time to see a shit-eating grin appear on Ron’s face.

“I wish I could see her face right now,” he said gleefully, and Harry let himself stop thinking about Ginny to join Ron in picturing what Hermione Granger must look like seated in a tattoo parlor chair.

“It really wasn’t so bad,” admitted Hermione as they exited the tattoo parlor and went down the little steps back onto the sidewalk.

Despite his pretensions of malice, Ron’s nobility (which had never been in question, even despite his teasing) had shone through and yielded a considerably modest tattoo: a small, capital “R” in his own handwriting. Hermione, who had almost cried with relief after Ginny showed her the design, had chosen to get it on her left thigh, on the side and at the very top, right under her hipbone.

“Why did you get it there?” Harry asked as they resumed their brisk walk back to campus.

“It’s not a place you usually show. That means if a sleeve shifts or an interviewer sees, I don’t know, my ankle or something, they won’t notice it.”

“As if a tiny ‘R’ would disqualify anyone from a job, let alone you,” snorted Ron.

“Professionalism is a virtue, Ronald,” Hermione huffed, though her cheeks had gone red. “Besides, since that part of me is always covered, I’ll save myself from having to explain the story behind it to anyone that spots it.”

“Yeah, except the bloke that eventually undresses you and sees you in your panties. Try explaining what that 'R’ means to him,” said Ron. But Harry suspected Hermione wouldn’t have to: from how Ron’s eyes had widened and his gaze had lingered when Hermione had pulled down the side of her jeans ever so slightly to show them the finished product, exposing a sliver of her underwear, Harry could almost wager that Ron would be the bloke in question.

They walked in animated chatter for the rest of the way, the tattoo forgotten until Ron made a quip about Hermione now having crossed the gateway to joining a biker gang and Hermione going positively beet-red in the face with outrage. Then Harry, his hands in his pockets, simply smirked to himself and resigned himself to their bickering for the rest of the walk, knowing he was no longer needed in their exchange. Instead, he let his mind drift to Ginny. She hadn’t really spoken to him again, merely ducking out from the beaded curtain backroom and instructing Hermione on how to take care of her tattoo, saying only a general goodbye to the three of them as they exited the shop. There had been nothing in Ginny’s manner to suggest that she might be thinking of him as strongly, as irremediably, as he was of her, and yet there he was.

The main quad was mostly deserted, except for a few scattered groups of late-night library frequenters or sneaking couples, as the three of them crossed it to get to their dorm. Ron and Hermione didn’t stop arguing as they climbed the four flights up to their floor (the elevator, as usual, was broken), and only broke it off because Hermione reached her room before the boys reached theirs, slipping inside it and shutting the door before Ron had a chance to get the last word in.

“Well, that went well,” Ron shrugged as he and Harry kept walking down the hall to their room.

“You actually got her to get a tattoo,” Harry said with some admiration as they reached their door.

Ron grinned as he swiped the key card. “I may drive her crazy, but if anyone was going to get her to do something like that, it was going to be me.”

Ron pushed the door open and let them into their dorm room. He closed the door and, without taking off his coat, immediately flopped onto his bed— or, well, what could be seen of the bed under mountains of dirty or otherwise discarded clothes. Away from his mother’s chore-mongering for the first time, Ron had let himself go wild and go to the other extreme, but even Harry had to admit that the army of socks draped over the foot of his bed was beginning to smell a little stale.

“So,” Ron said, propping his head up, “no parties tonight?”

“Well, it’s a Wednesday,” Harry said.

“So what? There’s no party spirit around here?”

“Ron, it’s the last Wednesday before final exams. People are studying.”

“I wasn’t aware I was rooming with Hermione,” Ron grumbled. Harry had to admit she might have gotten to him a little. However, Ron’s irritation was short-lived, a grin appearing on his face again. “Wait, but we’re not people. We’re not studying.”

Harry surveyed the room and, despite his desire to throw in the towel for the night and have fun with Ron, felt a pang of dismay at just how much grosser it would be if they caved and did that (last time they had, they’d had a Pringle-eating contest, with devastating results for their sheets, which still had some crumbs). “No, Ron. We’re doing laundry.”

Ron groaned. “Jeez, now I’m rooming with my mother.”

“Okay, fine, you don’t have to do the laundry. I’ll do it for the both of us.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, go hang out with Dean and Seamus or whatever, see if you can get Hermione to do her second wild-card act of the day and make her stop studying to hang out with the guys.”

“Now I’m a man with a mission,” Ron said, perking up in delight at the prospect of teasing Hermione, or even seeing her once more that night.

“Just shove your clothes in the laundry bag before you go, won’t you? I don’t want to touch your nasty briefs more than I have to.”

Ron obliged, tossing all the clothes on and around his bed into his orange laundry bag and pulling the drawstring to close it. “I’ll update you on the Hermione thing,” he said cheerfully, hurrying out of the room and down the hall to the left to the room they’d left Hermione in.

Harry laughed to himself, wondering how long it was going to take Ron to realize why exactly he always seemed so eager to do anything Hermione-related, as he too threw his dirty clothes into a checkered drawstring laundry bag. Then, he hoisted one sack over each of his shoulders and opened the door using his ankle and leg to let himself out, his hands full with the laundry bags. He stifled a smirk as he passed Hermione’s room and heard the familiar bubbling sound of she and Ron rowing. If Harry knew her at all, he knew however much she might argue she’d be out of that room in an hour tops.

He groaned as he looked down the stairs, and rued the day he had been placed in the dorm with the shittiest elevator on campus. Resigning himself, he began to walk slowly down the poorly-lit stairs to the basement, where the laundry room was. However inconvenient this descent was, Harry was at least comforted with the knowledge that the laundry room would not be crowded, which would be the greater inconvenience once the elevator was fixed.

The basement was even dimmer, the white lights flickering and buzzing with electricity as Harry walked to the laundry room almost at the end of the hall. Sure enough, the laundry room was deserted, oddly quiet with none of the familiar hum and rattle of the machines as they worked. Harry knelt in front of a washing machine and began unloading the contents of the laundry bags into it, cramming them in so they’d fit because he sure as hell wasn’t shelling out quarters for two washers. When he’d made it all fit (which had involved the use of force to jam the door shut), he went to the shelf that held the communal detergent and poured it into the soap compartment. With that done, he dug out eight quarters from his pocket and inserted them into the washer’s slot, pressing the “Start Cycle” button when he heard the clink that let him know his quarters had been accepted. The washer rumbled slowly to life, jets of water trickling out as it began to spin in one direction and then the other, and it was a couple minutes before it was spinning at a hearty pace.

Rising from his crouch (he had always liked to watch the washing machine as it booted up to wash in earnest), Harry took the laundry bags and turned to head back upstairs, already thinking of what he might do to pass the time in the hour he had before he had to switch the clothes to the dryer.

He was so caught up in thinking of this that he didn’t see the person entering the laundry room at the same time as he was exiting, which ended in an awkward clash between them.

“I’m so sorry,” Harry blurted.

“No, it’s fine, I’m sorry too— Harry?”

Only then did Harry realize who he had bumped into, and only because she kept standing there did he believe it. “Ginny?”

She still wore her Hole shirt, but had discarded the ripped jeans, combat boots, and round-the-waist flannel he’d seen at the tattoo parlor. Instead, she wore frayed gray sweatpants and flip-flops, her hair pulled up from the long ponytail into a messy bun. She, however, somehow still managed to look almost unbearably beautiful. What’s happening to me?

“What are you doing here?” he asked, the only thing he could think of right that second. Spotting the laundry basket she was cradling, he added: “No laundry in your dorm?”

“No, yeah, there is one, but it’s always too crowded, it being a freshman dorm and all.” Harry nodded: his first year, he too had done entirely more laundry than he had to, and was thankful by the quarters he saved just by realizing he could wear a pair of pants more than once before they were dirty. “So I use the one here. Much quieter. I know Ron’s ID and password—”

“You do?”

“He gave it to me once so I could pick up his books from the library. And my memory’s great.” She gave him a half smile and looked beyond him at the laundry room. “Doing laundry?”

“No, I just like the ambience down here. The shitty lighting and bleach smell are really my style,” said Harry. Ginny laughed, and Harry felt a rush of pride at what was probably the first witty thing he’d ever said to her. “Need a hand?”

“I’d appreciate one, sure,” Ginny said, again smiling at him. Harry moved so she could walk into the laundry room, and watched her pick one of the washing machines that lined the wall. When she’d settled on one, he crouched down next to her and help her lob the clothes into the maw of the machine.

“Tattoo parlor let out early?” he asked as they placed the clothes inside.

“More like you guys came in really late. You were my last customers— I just cleaned up and closed after you left.”

“And you work there?”

“Sure beats a regular work-study, doesn’t it?” Ginny grinned. She tossed in a Tide pod that was left at the bottom of the basket, closed the door to the machine, and rose to find the quarters needed to activate it. “Oh, shoot, I left my wallet in my other pants—”

“I got you,” said Harry, digging for eight more quarters in his pocket. For once, he was glad of his bad habit of carrying an excess of loose change in his jeans, something Hermione already got on to him about (sometimes, like when she’d gifted him a money purse, not too subtly).

“Thanks,” Ginny said, picking the laundry basket up from the ground.

Harry listened for the telling clink and then pressed the button. The washing machine whirred to a start, but for once, Harry didn’t feel compelled to watch it boot up: instead, he turned to Ginny. “So how did you come to work there?”

“At the tat shop?” Ginny asked, hopping to sit on the top of the washer where her clothes were spinning. “My friend Luna’s dad, Xenophilius—”

“Gesundheit.”

“Shut up,” Ginny said, but the hint of a laugh was (to Harry’s satisfaction) visible on her lips again. “Anyway, Xenophilius owns the place. He set up in a college town because he knows college is the first time kids are truly free to make rash, impulse decisions.”

“Like getting a tattoo?”

“Exactly. And besides, all the college students love his New Age bullshit, they think it’s very 70s, so his shop is always full. He got a big boost after he started placing crystals in the shop windows.”

“He’s in with the kids, then?”

“Don’t tell him that, he’ll be mortified. But he’s great, really. A little eccentric, but great. He knows me from when Luna and I took an art class together in 10th grade, and he’s always complimented my art, so he helped me get my tattoo artist license as soon as I turned 18 and hired me.”

“Is Luna the girl with the shaggy blond hair and the weird glasses?”

“That’s her. Though I’m surprised you didn’t know her by her bottlecap necklaces. That’s usually what people comment on.”

“Does she work there too?”

“Yeah, though not as an inker, she’s useless with a needle. She designs a big chunk of the tattoos, though, both original designs and commissions or requests.”

“That’s awesome,” Harry said. He realized that was the first time through the whole conversation that he had stopped. He’d never hesitated on what to say next: conversation with Ginny had flowed easily, naturally, and he hadn’t had to think too hard to keep it going. Still, he was a little disappointed that it had stopped. Ginny, however, seemed to share in this, because rather than say goodbye and take her leave, she opened up a new topic.

“So how long have you and Ron been friends?”

“Er– since the start of this school year, actually.”

“Really? You’d think from how he talks about you, he’d known you forever.” Harry felt a flush of happiness at hearing that Ron talked about him.

“Well, I got him for a roommate this year, and we just clicked. Then it turned out we had a lot of the same classes. And we’re both on the soccer team, so it just got better from there.”

“It seems strange that you never crossed paths your freshman year.”

Harry shrugged. “I mean, freshman year is weird for everyone. I certainly felt like I was just bouncing from one place to another. I still hang out with a lot of the guys from last year, but my friends have changed. It makes sense— the first year, everyone is trying to meet as many people as possible, as if it’s a race, but by sophomore year you know more of what you want and what you’re looking for. In a way, I’m glad I met Ron now that I’m in a more stable place, now that I know my way around the college and have a better grip on things. I have a feeling he’s a friend I’m gonna keep.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear you’re sticking around the Weasleys,” Ginny said, and Harry felt a tingle run up his spine. Was she… flirting with him? “And Hermione?”

“Oh, Hermione’s great, Ron and I would be dead by now if not for her— I don’t know how I got through a full year without her.”

“But she’s very different from you guys, isn’t she?”

“Well— on the surface, sure, but not in the things that matter. The fact that she went through with the tattoo tonight when she could’ve kicked up a fuss and bailed out tells you all you need to know.”

“So what I’m hearing is that Scamander Fellow Hermione Granger is as much of a bonehead as my brother at heart?”

“Stubborn, is the word I’d use. And only when Ron’s involved, actually.”

Ginny smirked. “Idiots. They haven’t even realized it.”

Harry knew exactly what she meant. “You think it too?”

“Oh, I’d bet on it. Ten bucks says they’re together by the end of the year.”

“Hey, did our visit by the parlor today teach you nothing about bets? They can be dangerous.”

“But I’m betting against you, aren’t I?” The way she said you made Harry’s heart skip a beat. “Fine, not ten bucks. But I’ll bet you a load of laundry, how’s that?”

“Deal,” said Harry, taking Ginny’s extended hand to shake it. The touch of her palm, with its long, slender fingers, sent warmth coursing down from his hand and the length of his arm. They let go and dropped hands, and perhaps it was just wishful thinking, but Harry thought he detected a certain reluctance in Ginny as they did.

Harry leaned against the washer, his propped elbow almost brushing up against her thigh. “How about you? How’s your first year going so far?”

Ginny winced. “As well as you’d expect, I suppose. Lots of people still behave like it’s an extension of high school, and I’m very much over that. But as things go, I’m having a blast. Being on the soccer team certainly helps.”

“Congratulations on that scholarship, by the way.”

“Thank you,” Ginny said, her wide smile revealing a row of perfect, square white teeth. “You’re on a scholarship too, aren’t you?”

“Yeah. My aunt and uncle would’ve never paid a single cent for me to go to college, so it was the only way. But I’m sure they were glad to be rid of me anyway.”

“They sound like lovely people,” Ginny said sarcastically.

“I should introduce them to this Xenophilius sometime. My uncle Vernon would have a stroke just walking into that shop.”

“Well, if you ever swing by, you have an insider contact,” Ginny offered, and Harry loved the implication of something, even something as simple as an 'insider contact’, between just the two of them. “I’d be happy to arrange a meeting, especially for such esteemed patrons.”

“I might take you up on that, if I ever planned on seeing them again,” Harry said. The words came out a bit more harshly than he’d expected, and the second silence in their talk set in, brought on by the darker implications of his family situation. Desperate to break it, Harry cleared his throat and geared up to talk again: “So, do you have any tattoos?”

He was relieved to see the smile, that coy, almost lopsided smile, appear on Ginny’s face again. “Actually, no, not a single one.”

“Do you think you’d ever get one?”

Ginny thought for a second. “I might, if something meaningful enough came around. And only if I was 200% sure. But really, I feel like one tattoo would lead to another, and then I’d never stop and run out of room on my skin. So it’s more of a containment mechanism, really.”

Harry smirked. “Hm. Interesting.”

Ginny broke out onto a full grin as she watched him. “What?” she asked, but when Harry’s smirk only deepened, she shoved him playfully, her touch on his shoulders eliciting the same warm sensation as the handshake. “What, Potter, tell me! Why is it interesting?”

“I mean, since you work at a tattoo shop, and you’re wearing a Hole t-shirt, I just thought you might be the type—”

“The Hole tee? Oh, don’t tell me you’re gonna gatekeep it, like you’re the type of guy who’d be like 'name three songs'—”

“No, not at all. As a matter of fact, I don’t know a lot of music by Hole. I really only know who they are because of that one Fall Out Boy song Courtney Love was featured in—”

Ginny winced. “Not Fall Out Boy, please.”

“Why? What’s wrong with Fall Out Boy?”

“Harry—”

“I know they get a lot of shit, but really, their first albums are pretty good—”

“Harry, you’ve gotta stop right here, or you’re going to make me stop finding you so attractive.”

And just like that, there it was, out in the open. Harry felt stun: he felt his mouth open to offer a witty retort, but no words came out. Because the girlish grin had evaporated from Ginny’s face and turned into a different, more mature look, her eyes smoldering slightly and her mouth slightly pouted.

“What about you?” she asked, her words slower, as if she was choosing each one individually. “If the soccer team gossip is true, I know you have five tattoos.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, his voice having dropped as well. “Yeah, there were a few tat shops around my neighborhood where the rules were pretty lax.”

“What are they?” Ginny asked.

“The tattoos? Well, the first ones I ever got were my mom and dad’s birth and death dates, on my wrist,” Harry said, rolling up the sleeve of his shirt to display two small lines of numbers, in plain black ink, on his forearm.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Ginny said softly.

“Don’t be, I was really small when it happened. But I still wanted to pay them homage. Anyway, I’ll not bore you with my family history right now.”

“But tell me sometime?”

Harry was ecstatic at the implication that Ginny wanted to spend even more time with him. “Yeah,” he said, smiling at her. “Yeah, I will.” He moved on to the second tattoo, shifting the other sleeve up a bit to show Ginny a small black paw print in the center of his wrist. “This was my third one. My godfather was the only person my aunt and uncle would let me see while I was growing up, and even then only because he threatened them. And he had this huge, black shaggy dog, I think it was a Newfoundland, that looked almost like a bear, named Padfoot. I loved that dog, and every time I think of the happiest moments growing up, Padfoot’s in a lot of them. So when he died when I was sixteen, I got this to remember him by. It seems like a tribute to my godfather, too, so I like it doubly.”

He didn’t need encouragement from Ginny to keep going. He raised his left leg and propped it up on the washing machine by where Ginny’s legs hung, rolling his sock down a bit to show a green, line-art tuft of grass snaking above his ankle. “I got this when I got the soccer scholarship to come here. I wanted something to commemorate soccer, seeing as it’s not only, y'know, my passion, but also what got me out of that damn house for good. But I thought something like a soccer ball or a net or even the pitch outline would be too cheesy, so I got a bit of grass, y'know, as in the field…”

“Tasteful,” Ginny nodded her approval, and Harry felt newfound appreciation for that tattoo. “That’s three down, Potter.”

“I’m getting there.” Harry brought his leg down from the washer and turned his back to Ginny, taking his hand up to the nape of his neck and using it to shift the hair there upward to reveal the back of his neck where it turned into his back. “Can you see it?”

“The little lightning bolt?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s the story of that?”

“That was my second one. To be honest, I was a little ink-happy after my first one, so a couple of weeks after I got it I went back and got this.”

“But why a lightning bolt?”

“I don’t know,” Harry admitted, turning back around to face her. “I guess it was just cool.”

“Oh, very,” Ginny said, and the edge in her voice let him know she was teasing him. “That leaves us with one, then. The emblematic chest tattoo.” Again, the playfulness disappeared from her face and was replaced by that strange look, the one Harry couldn’t really decipher but really, really liked. “Tell me, then, Harry— is Romilda Vane right?”

It was only because of the suggestiveness in Ginny’s voice and the permanence of that look on her face that Harry did what he did next. His movements slow, he pulled his shirt off over his head, setting it on the washing machine right by where Ginny sat. He heard Ginny draw in a breath and it hitch in her throat as she saw him, her eyes moving over his bare skin to spot the ink blot that had brought this all on. Curled above his right pec was a small, S-shaped dragon, colored in red and gold.

“I win,” Ginny said, her voice still husky, as she extended her left hand to touch the dragon with her fingertips.

“Are you going to tell Romilda?” Harry said, his own right hand settling lightly on Ginny’s thigh.

“No, actually,” Ginny said, her palm now coming down flat on Harry’s chest. Her other hand had also drifted to him, and she had placed it on Harry’s left side, right below his ribcage, as if to hold the side of his torso. “I think I’d rather keep this moment to myself.”

And then she was leaning in and kissing him, touching her lips to his first with tentative softness that turned into a stronger, more determined fire as the kiss deepened. With both of Ginny’s hands on Harry, and one of Harry’s on Ginny’s thigh and the other supporting the weight of the kiss against the solidity of the washer, they leaned into one another. Harry’s mouth sought out Ginny’s eagerly, overcome by the fiery feeling pooling in his stomach and rising up to his throat through his chest, by the fact that everything he’d thought about on their walk back from Lovegood’s was coming true much sooner (and much better) than he’d expected. He felt Ginny’s tongue nudge at his lips and opened his mouth to let her in, engulfing more of her lips with his as he did so. Ginny kissed passionately, her tongue meeting Harry’s even as her teeth dug lightly into Harry’s lower lip, making him kiss her more deeply. With her this close, he was invaded by the flowery smell of her hair, by the soft feel of her skin, by the low humming sound she made as she kissed him. And everything was coming together, making the fire in his chest grow, and it was a good kind of burn, better than whiskey, better than anything—

The loud ding of the washer as it announced it had concluded its cycle startled them, and they pulled back from the kiss looking a little dazed, that one upbeat chime having been all they needed to bring them reluctantly back into the real world. Still Ginny didn’t take her hands off Harry, and Harry felt less than inclined to move his from her leg.

“I should, uh, switch to the dryer,” he said, the only thing that popped into his mind there.

Ginny tightened her hold around his middle and moved her hand from his chest, wrapping it around his upper back to draw him closer. “Oh, let it wait,” she said, and then she was kissing him again, and Harry was finding that the dryer could wait for hell to freeze for all he cared.

The sleepy sound of the chimes above the door didn’t even make Ginny raise her gaze from her stats study guide, which she’d pulled out to make the best of the not-too-busy lull at Lovegood’s. “We’re almost closed,” she announced to whoever had come in.

“You can’t make room for one last customer?” a familiar voice said, and only then did Ginny perk up immediately.

“Harry!” she said brightly, shutting the stats book as it became all-but-forgotten. “What are you doing here?”

“I’ve come to add one more tattoo to the five I’ve already got,” said Harry. “Think you can give me my sixth?”

Ginny didn’t even need to say yes, just opened up the lift-up counter door and disappeared through the beaded curtain. “Flip the door sign to 'closed’ before you come through, will you?”

Harry obliged and flipped the sign before following Ginny to the backroom. He sat patiently on the tattoo chair as Ginny milled about, getting the supplies ready.

“Y'know, you never did tell me the story behind your dragon tattoo,” Ginny commented as she went through the sterilization procedure for the needles. “Seeing as we were, um, otherwise occupied…”

The memory of the kiss flooded through Harry with the same fire that he’d held in his chest ever since, the flame growing to engulf his whole body just hearing Ginny mention it. “Should I tell you now?”

“I’d like to hear it.”

“I got it as a tribute to my old headmaster back home, Albus Dumbledore. Funny old man, and incredibly cryptic, but he’s the one that first gave me the idea of applying for the scholarship and helped me get all my grades and papers in order so I could make it here. We were very close, and he had this saying that he used to tell me whenever I ended up in his office for getting into trouble— 'never tickle a sleeping dragon’, he’d say.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

Harry laughed briefly and shrugged. “Hell if I know. But it was his catchphrase. So after I graduated, I wanted to get something to commemorate him, so I got the dragon from his favorite saying. He came with me and got it too.”

Ginny turned to him and eyed him quizzically. “Your headmaster got the tattoo along with you?”

“I told you he was a funny old man.”

Ginny pulled a pair of black latex gloves over her hands and rolled a wheeled office chair over to Harry, the needle in hand. “So by what I’m hearing, you only ever get tattoos of things that are extremely meaningful to you, right?”

“That’s right,” said Harry.

“So, Mr. Meaning, what’ll it be this time?”

Harry smiled. He grabbed his shirt and pulled it slightly upward, just enough to uncover his lower trunk. He pointed to a spot on the left side of his torso, right under his ribcage— right where Ginny’s hand had been, where her touch had been burned into his skin. “Right here,” he said. “I’d like a little washing machine.”

[shini--chan]

Hellooo!! Im super glad a hetalia blog exists in 2020💞💞💞💞💞. May i request 2p america and canada having a s/o that like a mythical figure of some sort? Could be a demigod or anything really but they are physically stronger than them and there is no way to control his s/os form since they exist in forms beyond the description/mental capacity a human can handle. Like if they want to be at the beach the *poof* they transported away and not even chains can stop em🧜‍♀️

This is an ask that I certainly didn’t expect landing in my inbox. Jep, active hetalia blogs in 2020 are a rarity, however, I think with a new season and new manga issues on the horizon, that a hetalia renaissance is coming.

Yandere Hetalia

2p America

Now, Allen isn’t the sort of man that takes it well when things don’t go his way. In all his fantasies and hopeless whims, he has created a world where everything goes according to his master plan. He’d like the actual world to be dictated by this. Alas (or rather, thank goodness), reality is different. That means when you would show your powers and successfully escape from him, there would either be a nervous breakdown or a temper tantrum.

The food tray fell to the floor in a loud clatter, causing ceramic to shatter, sauce to platter over the grey floor and a few peas to zip under a cupboard. Allen’s jaw went slack, granting him one of the most idiotic expression in the history of the human race ever since the English managed to sink the Spanish Armanda.

In the middle of the room, where you were supposed to be tied up on a cushy chair, all delightfully arranged for his eyes to feast on, was just a chair with a tidy heap of rope lying next to it. You where no where to be found – not a drop of blood, not a single strand of hair, not a single footprint in the thick layer of dust that covered most of the room.

Without wasting much energy on trivial things such as complex thought, he lunged forward and grappled with the binds as if they could deliver some answers. They didn’t; they just posed more questions.

The course hemp ropes were still completely undamaged, the sailor knots untampered and still immaculate. Now that Allen had the chance, he granted the setting a closer look. The only footprints in the dust and dirt were those of his large feet. The frustration the situation concocted made something in his mind short circuit.

Quickly, Allen raced back to his dingy little kitchen, cursing under his breath all the way there. Some sort of impulse drew him to the one window – maybe it was fate, maybe it was his gut instinct that told him to do so – only to spot you on the street five stories down, staring to the window expectantly.

Hurriedly, he fumbled with the latches, spitting vitriol when he couldn’t get it open fast enough.

He wanted to shout at you, yell that you should move your sorry ass up at once, that he deserved an explanation. Yet, you beat him to it. With a flamboyant gesture, you waved up at him, doing your best to highlight your astounding clean appearance and then shouted up at him:

“Adios, sucker!”

The scream of “(Y/n), you fucking bitch”, that followed could have woken up the dead.

He would never manage to fully calm himself down from the stunt you pulled and in his anger he wouldn’t properly register that you demonstrated your powers to him. Allen would constantly write the strange circumstances surrounding your escape as some form of trickery, or that you had outside help, or… That list goes on and on, just never lands my magic for being the key.

It would be through detours that it would the idea of you having supernatural powers would start to encroach on him. Being the street smarts person, he’d do his best to predict your next move based on his social experience and go ahead to interrogate the people that once belonged to your close circle. First, he would observe them to see if they were hiding you and if not, then he’d disguise himself as an authority person or as a family member of yours and ask some question. Thanks to that, he would piece together that you are out of the ordinary.

2p Canada

Like his brother, he would be pretty pissed that you would somehow always manage to escape his clutches. Unlike his brother, Mark’s anger would be of the ice-cold variant, helping him focus rather than hindering him in his endeavour to capture you and capture your heart.

He is a hunter and would opt to observe you like he would a deer before he would dispatch it. Through that, he would discover your demigod status. Although, he wouldn’t believe his eyes the first time he would witness your powers in action. It would cause him go ahead and put you on heavy surveillance, and maybe for him to also go and see a psychologist to ensure that he isn’t schizophrenic.

Once he’d be sure that what he saw, he’d go on to investigate, because he’d yearn to much for you to simply let you go because you’d have some trump cards that would give you the high ground. As the rules of the divine dictate, there are certain laws that you have to abide to, specific lines that you can’t cross, weaknesses that ensure that you’re not invulnerable. And Mark would set out to identify them all.

This would be one of the rare cases where he would bury himself in books, and once he would suffer from a headache induced by the vagueness of the texts and the craggy language, he’d even dare to ask Oliver for help. Whether it would be silver that would make you weak, certain chants that could summon you or a geas that would represent an idiosyncratic tripping line, he would somehow find out and incorporate it in his plan to capture you and ensure that you’d forever be his.

(For clarification: A geas is taboo that an individual of divine linage is bound by. Breaking this taboo means that said person becomes mortal, vulnerable and only has a short time to live before the reaper comes to spirit them away. The worst part about it, is that the geas usual forbids something really minor or trivial, like that you may never eat chicken or else you die.)  

[kaisooficrec]

I read Running up that hill recently and I’m wondering if there is other beautiful fics that would make me feel the same? Not necessarily the same AU tho! Sorry if it’s not really clear, I don’t really know how to explain? Like angst and suspens and being scared of knowing how it will end but still reading because it’s so good?

Hellooo I hope I don’t disappoint with this! I didn’t necessarily list fics with the same au like you mentioned. I tried to list fics that gave off that slow burny, angsty vibes, as well as suspenseful :D enjoy bb

Running Up That Hill for those who haven’t read it yet (it’s a must!)

Lust for Life - abo. kyungsoo and jongin are both from elite class wolf families. kyungsoo’s family dies when he’s younger so he moves in with his parent’s friend, junmyeon, who has a son named jongin who forms an attachment to him right away.  

No tomorrow - titanic au. jongin is a model, on his way to New York to expand his career. on the ship, he runs into a sailor, kyungsoo. takes place in the early 1900′s. 

Storm Flower - ceo au, prostitution au. kyungsoo is homeless and sells his body for money. ceo Jongin saves him from an angry customer and invites him to stay with him.

What the Nightingale Spies - *cries* I love this fic so much I’ll never stop recommending it. Jongin is a navigator for a government spy agency and kyungsoo enters as the new operative. Even though they only speak to each other through his headset, Jongin is smitten with kyungsoo’s voice. 

The Last of the Wilds - kyungsoo is an earth spirit and hates humans because of what humans did to another spirit he was in love with, kai. Years later, he meets human jongin who keeps coming back to find kyungsoo in the forest every year, despite kyungsoo’s protests. 

Fated Mistake - kyungsoo has to learn how to survive accidentally marrying a gang member after a mix up on his way to his arranged wedding to another businessman.  

Pride - inspired by the seven deadly sins. kyungsoo’s family owns a successful company. He flees to New York after a breakup and comes back to jongin, his driver, taking over the company and asking kyungsoo to work for him. 

Under Scrutiny - kyungsoo is a farmer’s son who is forced into a brothel. Jongin is part of the elites with a high IQ, who views kyungsoo’s kind as unintelligent.

Pomegranate Seeds - modern greek mythology au! with kyungsoo being persephone and jongin being hades. 

No Matter How Hard I Try - actor kyungsoo finds out that his boyfriend kai is cheating on him. Later, he runs into jongin who looks exactly like his cheating ex, and also happens to be a fan of him. 

horns. - angels and demons au. jongin is a fallen angel, wings taken away because he was tempted by a demon. sent to hell, jongin is captured by the king and given to his his son, kyungsoo, as a gift.  

here’s the last request we completed that listed fics similar to running up that hill here, if you wanted to check it out

- Admin R 

[trash-flavored-writing-blog]

Heyo, me again~~ how are you doing? I was wondering if I could possibly please request something? If so, could it be for Bakugou with basically a cinnamon roll of a s/o? Like they're just super sweet, cuddly, girly, friendly, and just an overall cutie who has no problem being affectionate with King Explosion Murder, maybe even in the weirdest, but cutest ways (like matching bracelets, Eskimo kisses, always cheering him on loudly, etc.) I'm sorry if that was a lot! Thank you~~~~

Bakugou with a Cinnamon Roll S/O 

TW: Cursing from the sailor Bakugou, besides that none :)

Characters: Bakugou

Summary: The journey of Bakugou’s relationship with his cinnamon roll of an S/O

Requests: Open  ヽ(^o^)丿

Hellooo~~~ I’m doing good! How about you?? And always feel free to request if my requests are open! And this is so cute omggg >-rules though I think I’m pretty easy-going? Enjoy!

You’re all beautiful as long you treat others with kindness! Remember that! I hope you all have beautiful days! (^.^)/~~~

Meeting his S/O was filled with disgust.

“How can someone be that fucking sweet?! They’re either a dumb idiot or a naive brat!”

As you two grow closer in your first year of U.A., he finds out you’re neither. Well, not that much anyways. You fair better than the idiots.

He only starts to think like this when he sets his ego and own misgivings aside.

He begins to see you like an All Might #2.

Not because of your physical prowess, but rather your ability to show and express your affection and love.

He favors you more whether he knows or acknowledges it or not, he’s gonna see you better than those jackasses, he’s around you more, he grows more steady around you and starts to gravitate around you, then falls deeper and deeper in until-

Shit.

You would think that he would be embarrassed by the romantic gestures, since his childhood wasn’t filled to the brim with on-display affection from parents and peers.

You’re right.

His face matches his vibrant eyes and burns like his quirk, and his throat closes up, so he decides yelling is the best way to not suffocate. You stick your tongue out and laugh. It gets worse.

One day he may have said a word or two that was a bit rough, even for his tastes. You laugh and hug him while cooing “I love you too!” and its gets worse again; but for a different reason.

He realizes he needs to man the fuck up and stop acting like the ghost of himself, because that shit shouldn’t exist anymore.

He learns his inability to breathe isn’t that he can’t, it’s that you stole it; suddenly it doesn’t hurt so much anymore to keep the kid in him in the past.

When you rub your nose against his, he doesn’t fall out of your grasp, instead he falls further into it with quiet grumbles.

The homemade bento boxes handed to him are eaten with his chest puffed out and red cheeks, “idiots” and “jackasses” falling left and right for his friends, but he still stuffs his mouth angrily.

A colorful and made-from-heart bracelet jingles every time he moves; the same sound following you around too.

Your loud and enthusiastic shouts for him are met with him pushing himself harder with a grin and a heart-melting and bone-crushing hug.

He’s drowning in love, but he stopped suffocating.

[the-gamechangers]

How To Train Your Teacup: 1

“C-c-come on, Tea, let’s visit the docks! Cala Maria’s been d-d-dying to meet you.” Grim exclaimed as they left the junkyard. “Th-th-the sea’s not very far.” Teacup accepted his hand and climbed up onto his back. “Then let’s go! I’m sure she’s lovely.” Grim nodded enthusiastically. “Cala’s pretty n-n-neat. Let’s go!” Teacup hung onto his ears, watching around for any troublemakers. Inkwell Isle Three was famous for the entrance to the mysterious Inkwell Hell- a place Grim had asked Teacup to refrain from exploring (‘No Grim,’ Teacup had chuckled, ‘I’m completely stupid.’ Grim was rather relieved to hear this despite the dripping sarcasm). Grim had proceeded to explain about the Devil’s Casino. From the way he spoke about it, he seemed to have had a bad experience there, but didn’t say what. Teacup was of the opinion that if he wanted to go into the details, he would. and so she didn’t ask. “Is that a pirate ship?” Teacup asked, looking ahead. There was an enormous ship mostly submerged just off of the bay. It looked like something huge had ripped it in half- much bigger than Grim or anything else. “Cala Maria lives there?” “She sure d-d-does, Tea! She’s a mermaid. So she has the b-b-best stories from all over the globe, from when others cross realms and visit!” Grim exclaimed. He landed on a dry piece of deck with an impressive THUMP. “Cala? Are you d-d-down there?” Teacup slid down his neck, squinting into the shadows under the water. “Hellooo?” The water bubbled up at that moment, and an iritated-looking purple octopus peered up at them. For a moment Teacup wondered if this was Cala Maria, but then a rather human-looking pair of eyes popped up as well. The octopus was apparently actually her hair. Cala grabbed onto the boards near Grim and hauled her torso out of the water, making Teacup realize just how small she was compared to both of them.

“Helloooo, you two!” Cala exclaimed as she brushed her octopus’s tentacles back out of her face. She locked eyes with Teacup, her face lighting up. “Oh, you must be Teacup! You’re so adorable!”

Teacup nodded. “Yep, that’s me! Uh, hang on, I’m gonna just climb up on Grim here so I don’t have to-“

Before she could finish that thought, Cala reached down, pinched the hood of her jacket between two fingers, and lifted her up to eye level with herself and Grim. “Of course! I don’t want my absolutely precious guest to lose her head trying to talk to me!” She then set Teacup on her own shoulder, which wasn’t quite what Teacup had in mind. Grim, at least, had the sense to be mortified. “Cala! You can’t j-j-just pick people up like that!” He exclaimed. Cala giggled. “Aw, relax Grim! Teacup knows I didn’t mean anything by it! Don’t you agree, Teacup?”

“Heh, yeah, guess so.” Teacup murmured. Despite the complete lack of physical boundaries, Cala did seem completely sincere and kind. “Grim was telling me on the way over that you know all the best stories?”

Cala giggled. “Of course I do! The sailors who come and go from here always have a tall tale to tell. My favorites are from the ones who came from beyond the sea- but you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you, Tea?” She winked as if she expected Teacup to know what she was talking about.

Teacup blinked. “Huh?”

Grim wrung his paws nervously. “Wha-what are you t-t-talking about, Cala?”

“Don’t be silly, Tea! A few months ago I was up by the docks and I saw that glittering golden plane of yours fly over. Then next I hear my buddy Grim’s made friends with a golden mug who just moved here!”

A puff of smoke escaped Grim’s nose, forming into a question mark above his head. “Cala, are you saying Teacup is from somewhere beyond the sea?”

Cala nodded. “Yep! It only makes sense! Now Teacup, what’s it like where you’re from?”

Teacup chuckled nervously. “I’m- I have no memory of flying a plane to get here, I just kinda... Woke up. In my house. On Inkwell Isle One. Are you sure it was my plane that you saw?”

“Absolutely positive! No one else has moved in, and no one else matches the gold aesthetic you’ve got!” Cala exclaimed.

“I’m c-c-confused.” Grim said.

“Me too.” Teacup said. “But now that I think about it, it’s weird that you say that. Grim, do you remember what Ron said about the salvage?”

Grim nodded. “The s-s-s-serial number d-d-d-didn’t turn up with much.”

“4-5-4-6-B.” Teacup said. “Do you know what it means?”

Cala shrugged, jostling Teacup quite a bit. ”Sounds like a mystery, all right. 4546B… Nope, haven’t heard of it. Sounds like one of those planets that Hilda’s always going on about.”

“Hilda?” Teacup asked.

“Sh-she’s into astrology. And astronomy. And m-meteorology.” Grim clarified.

“If it has anything to do with the sky, Hilda Berg will know what and how and why!” Cala giggled. Then her expression turned sour. “Except that bird-brain Wally. No one knows what goes on in his head.”

Teacup groaned. “Agreed. He busted up my plane.”

Cala smirked. “So I heard. Even the cup brothers had trouble with that guy. But not as much trouble as they had with me!”

Teacup gasped. “You were a casino debtor?”

Grim coughed awkwardly. “How about we don’t talk about this?”

Teacup nodded. “Alright, Grim.” She took her spoon, holding it out for balance as she slid down Cala’s arm and went back to Grim. “That means new topic. What about fighting? I’m an absolutely terrible shot. And I can’t parry.”

Grim looked relieved, despite the fact that Teacup couldn’t see most of his face from the top of his head. “I c-can vouch for that. She tries to d-d-double wield shots. It works, kind of, b-b-b-but…”

Cala giggled. “I bet if you can’t get close to your opponent it won’t be very effective.”

Teacup nodded. “I figured out how to shoot Grim down just to make my way work. That counts for something.”

Grim nodded. “Shooting wings should be illegal.”

Cala looked impressed. “Huh, why didn’t I think of that?”

Teacup waved her spoon to catch their attention. Grim caught the sun flare off of it and tensed, doing his best not to try and grab at the dot on the planks. “So? Maybe you can help teach me?”

“Of course!” Cala exclaimed. She grabbed Teacup again, dragging her underwater. Teacup was suddenly very glad that she didn’t need oxygen. “Come on!”

[dragonwarriorgal]

My feelings of a certain TV teen drama...

Okay so...

I have been rewatching the Shadowhunters TV series on netflix and I just finished the first season and oh boy it is bad.

I mean don’t give me wrong, it has some good moments, but it suffers of being the typical cliche tv teen drama. It is abundantly clear that the studio has been making all the bad decision to the show. “Let’s make Alec have a wedding to a girl” (who btw is apparently a “cousin” of the Fairchilds, but if we take any mark to her family’s “backstory” it makes no sense compared to the books and I love the books) and “Let’s age up Maureen and have her have romantic sane feelings for Simon” (she was like 14 in the books and cray-cray for Simon) are good examples of the cliche tv teen drama, and it is so stupid. 

But it is also clear that SOMEBODY on the production and/or writing team has a great love for the books and is trying to do some justice to them, even if it is like someone took the basic plotline: Clary meets Jace and the shadow world and they fall in love, Malec, (which I give a huge prop to the studio for having the BALLS to go through with that plotline, other than a certain movie I have heard rumors about) dangerously foxy Izzy, Simon becomes a vampire. And then someone put some other actions in the story, put them in a blender and threw them all over the plotline at a random encounter in the story. Which is a weird decision but hey, it’s a TV teen drama, it’s supposed to be stupid sometimes.

But what makes the most stupid sense, and that I always giggle when it comes up on the screen (especially since I am now on s2): The fucking techno music while a dramatic fight sequence is going on! I mean come on! Jace is fighting Valentine in an epic showdown and you choose to have a funky techno music in the background like they are in a rave party (the fight is on a boat fyi)?! 

Sigh

This show is so stupid, but it s also the reason I went to read the 45 books in this universe. This show is the reason I read the Infernal Devices series, one of my favorite series I have read last year. I thought that this tv series was just going to finish up the 2 trilogies and not have any reference to the ID or the Dark Artifices, but the latest episodes in s3 proved me wrong on one part (I am still waiting on Aline and Helen!) even though going back on the first season they have been putting out those easter eggs even before Brother Zachariah made his appearance (I am never gonna let the eyes go): In ep 4, the episode Magnus went “hellooo sailor!” to Alec, Magnus said to a warlock to go to the Spiral LAbrinth to TESSA. (omg) And also the whole Lydia Branwells’ story of her ancestor HENRY (boo!) 

Anyway, this show is stupid, a lot of times not well acted (sorry Matthew), not that great direction, the d.o.p. is doing a piss poor job. And even when the show has some lines from the books, it sometimes doesn’t make any sense, for example: “Our numbers (shadowhunters) have been dwindling for years!” *later they go to the institute where there is literally 50+ people who are shadowhunters*

Yet I am “watching” this, and I will likely still watch it, even though it is so stupid.

(Clary lying in an awkward angle on a car she fell on to from a 30ft fall is fine in the next scene)

(Imogen writing a freaking letter as she is dying with a single rune!(why didn’t she write down her last will and testimony while she is at it, or her bank account?!) 

[machiavelliinadress]

fic titles, brought to you by pop punk: "mind the gap," "motion sickness," "the beach is for lovers," "curb stomp," and "his words on your knuckles"

Yay pop punk, giving us titles in our moments of need.

1. “Mind the gap”

Connor, frustrated with the insanity of being the number 1 overall pick and now the youngest captain in the NHL, takes off to spend his bye week in Cuba. There, he meets Jack Eichel, talented closer for the Pittsburgh Pirates, in Cuba to help with an MLB youth camp. Connor falls hard and fast, Jack doesn’t fall at all (at first), and pretty soon they hit a breaking point– can a notoriously private captain, who just wants everyone to focus on his game, make it work with an outgoing fan favorite closer who refuses to pretend to be anyone other than himself? (#multi sport crossover, #I know 3 things about baseball and 2 are about the pants, #i know pirates fans however, #the gap in personalities intrigues me)

2. “Motion sickness”

Jack and Auston spend the summer after Auston’s draft fighting, fucking other people, and making up (mostly). It’s a mess, everyone readily admits, but Jack and Auston won’t tell them why they’re fighting. 

Jack refuses to give up Auston’s secret(s), and Auston is just trying to be a good dad despite all of his guilt. Oh yeah, Auston’s a dad and Jack would’ve appreciated some heads up that there was a kid before she was being called by his lawyer about testifying in a fucking custody hearing about Auston’s character. Being blindsided like that makes her sick to her stomach, and Auston’s refusal to talk this shit out is not helping. 

(#teen pregnancy (off screen), #teen parents, #bad communication, #discussions of motherhood and careers, #the kid is not just handed off to Auston, #open relationships, #picking up the pieces, #kid fic)

3.  “the beach is for lovers”

Nicky accompanies Alex and Nastya to the Maldives over the summer, and some much needed conversations are had. (Aka the follow up to “phone a friend”, now with 300% more relationship negotiation moments, 5x the amount of ridiculousness, and the addition of both a shirtless Alex and his tipsy partners appreciating that view. Loudly.) (#polyamory, #folklore elements, #Friendship, #relationship negotiations, #hellooo sailor!)

4. “Curb stomp”

Jack has planned out her hockey career very carefully, and she’s not going to let some Canadian stop her from winning both the Hobey Baker and the Patty Kazmaier. Not even a cute, wickedly talented Canadian who is living with Jack’s best friend and flirts with girls. (Shut up Jessie, she’s not crushing on her. So what if Jack can’t remember the last time she was this in tune with a girl, and keeps daydreaming about her mouth in econ). (Connor–not Constance, never Connie, seriously just call her Connor– wishes Noelle would stop being an ass and let Connor lust after her dream girl in peace).  (#college au, #rule 63!/AAG, #bad flirting, #obliviousness, #harold they’re lesbians, #well Jack is bi #but the sentiment holds)

5. “His words on your knuckle”

actually this one came up last time we did this, and is now actually being written! so here, have a blurb from the gdoc. 

“Jack’s team was short a person, and all of my friends had already split into other teams. So I skated over– I didn’t get a chance to say anything though, because Jack sizes me up and goes ‘I’m not slowing down for anyone, so if you can’t keep up, leave.”

“And did you recognize your words then?,” the doctor asks, pen still flying across the small notebook she’d pulled out of her pocket at the start of this conversation.

“No, not then. I got pissed off and told her “I’m going to play in the NHL, of course I can keep up,” and then the older kids were ready to start the races….” Noah tells her, sighs and doesn’t bother to hold back the fondness with which he tells her “Jack smiled at me, and told me I’d take the third leg, she had the last and she wasn’t giving it up for anyone. And that was that.”

(and a little more because i love this fic even as i pull my hair out)

Noah and Jack test in the mid 80s on the SoulCompat when they’re tested at 15, the youngest that they’re allowed to be tested in Massachusetts, and while the exact score gets them a few raised eyebrows no one is surprised that they’re incredibly compatible. The handful of doctors and psychologists who get to see the scores are intrigued, and have questions. So many questions, and half of them seem to be about their third– who they haven’t even met yet. As repetitive as the ones about his exchange with Jack and the relationship between them since the exchange can be, Noah honestly prefers them. At least he has an answer for these questions.

[fantasytigeress]

Rules: tag 10 followers you want to get to know better

Tagged by @zoegts Thanks, Love! I’m going to try to keep these DB related

Do you have any nicknames? Not really, sometimes friends will call me Rach instead of Rachel. Other than that, just when people call me Tigeress online (and who wouldn’t love that?)

How old are you: 25

Star sign: Pisces

Who is your fave fictional character? Oh c’mon, you can’t make me choose just one, I love so many characters equally... Okay, lets pick Raditz this time

Where are you from: Indiana in the United States

Who were your first childhood crushes? Goku, Yamcha, Steve Irwin, Rei/Sailor Mars (Sorry, I had to defer from DB a bit here)

Name 3 OTP’s: Only three, why do this to me?! Okay, Raditz X Vegeta of course, Goku x Vegeta is a classic, and Vegeta X 18 because I haven’t given it enough love lately. (Oops they’re all Vegeta ships... THIS IS WHY I CAN’T NARROW IT DOWN TO THREE, I HAVE SOOO MANY OTPS AND I LOVE THEM ALL) *sobbing* T.T

4 characters you have a crush on: Only 4? Dang. Android 18 [my fictional wife], Yamcha [precious cinnamon bun], Raditz [let me brush that mane for days], @frauleinpflaume‘s Rage [Hellooo mama... Sorry, dear, I just love her so much!] Why only four? T.T

Have you ever talked to anyone on tumblr that you could see yourself dating/ having sex with?: Sex isn’t entirely my thing, but dating? Heck yeah, I’ve met a few people that are really fun and cute ♥

Where is the furthest you have been from home?: Pft, the next town over. i don’t travel much...

Whats the longest you’ve ever been in a fandom? First fandom I ever got into was Yu Yu Hakusho, so I guess that one? I’ve participated in and out of some fandoms before, but my love for them never died. YYH is still one of my favorite shows ever, it’s right up there with DragonBall.  I’ve seen a lot of people doing this one, not sure who to tag. By all means, please do it if you want, I’d love to get to know you guys more! So I guess I’m tagging @allofmyfollowers!