#The Shady Lad Draws

[birb-boyo]

(Some of his skin is black so clicking on the picture might be a better ideas-)

SO UM THIS IS MY GUY HIS NAME IS MAYAN

He’s a god actually and the god of companions and birds and stars too

He’s also the Father of the first fairies

Naturally, he’s Hylia’s brother as well as being Fierce’s brother too as well as the golden three. Can’t decide if he’s older or younger than them

I like to say that he was the reason the hero’s weren’t alone before they met their respective Zeldas

Like, Hylia was forging the Goddess Sword and Mayan was like, “You’re going to send a boy out to fight our brother, Demise, and have him alone the entire time other than whatever else you’re planning?”

Hylia was like, “You’re probably right. What do you suppose I do?”

Mayan: “Give him a guide. That way he isn’t burdened with this fate alone.”

That’s how Fi happened. And then, in most reincarnations, Link has a companion.

Midna wasn’t really his fault, but he was able to convince her to work with Link in anyway she could because they would both need each other in the end.

The reason why Link didn’t really have someone in botw is because people didn’t really worship him much, so he lacked much power. So, with the little power he had left, he staked King Rhoam’s spirit to the Great Plateau so that he might be able to help even for a little bit. Mayan let go of Rhoam’s soul after Rhoam explained everything to Link.

He makes his home in the midst of the Lost Woods, forever keeping his children safe by the fog surrounding and only letting those who deserve it to survive their trip to the “cursed” forest.

Or he’s in a cave in Satori Mountain, chilling with blupees. I also have this thing where blupees are a type of fairy. So that being said, blupees would technically be his descendants too.

He also rarely visits his daughters, the Great Fairies, but when he does, he’s there for days and many Hylians call them “Spottings” but he doesn’t care too much.

He also has a hawk that follows him, as it is the closest surviving animal to his original symbol, the Loftwing. He laughs sometimes when he sees that the Hylians used a Loftwing crest to represent his sister.

So yeah, here he is to the 8 people that cared<3

@trippygalaxy @vio-starzz @whiteperle3 @lunawolfiefoxy @mushr0oms-and-m0ss @thenmichael @shadowlinktheshadow @soniayonce @isasan347 @treasure-goblin um I don’t know who voted so I’m just guessing here

[manikas-whims]

LADS men when you start dating someone, who later on mistreats you

got this idea and wanted to get it out of my system ♡

ZAYNE

❄️ He isn't thrilled by the revelation at all but he won't say it outright because its not his place to tell you who to date or not.

❄️ However, his dislike does show with the way his brows knit together, the flare of his nostrils with every sharp intake of breath or how his lips turn down just slightest every time you bring up this person’s name.

❄️ Every single praise for this person will arouse a sense of self-doubt in him. After all, it's better you date someone like them. Their evol will never put you in danger like Zayne's can. And they would never skip meetings due to their schedule. (Ofc if you could hear his thoughts, you'd immediately shun them from Zayne's mind.)

❄️ If this person ever hurts you emotionally or physically, then best believe he'll freeze hell itself if he has to in order to track this person down.

“How dare you do this to Y/N!?” Zayne’s voice is harsh, cold radiating off his arms in dangerous yet controlled wisps.

And it takes you hugging him from behind, your head resting on his back, tears from your eyes soaking into the fabric of his coat, to stop him.

“Zayne, stop. You don't need to hurt yourself.” You mumble into the fabric of his coat, your arms slipping down to entwine your fingers with his chilling ones. You can already see the hint of a fresh scar developing on the back of his hand, and you won't be able to live with yourself if you see him getting hurt because of you dating a horrible person.

The prickly sensation begins dissipating from his hands and despite the scars, the softness returns into his skin. He turns around, drawing you into a hug with one arm. You can still see his chest rising and falling due to how much he'd been exerting himself.

“Fine.” He lets out a deep breath and finally flashes you the rare warm smile he only keeps for you. “Let’s go.”

And the two of you leave together.

XAVIER

⭐ Not that you're supposed to stay in this “will they? won't they?” situationship with your apartment neighbor forever but Xavier is just so jealous. His eyes darken, and his mood becomes sullen at the mere mention of this person.

⭐ Every time you try praising them, Xavier is going to interrupt and nitpick on how "they're always late on dates", "don't even check up on you at work", "give off a shady vibe",...the more he shit-talks about this person, the more ridiculous his words get.

⭐ He definitely gets a little touchy. After all, seeing you with someone else makes him feel as if he isn't as close to you. He makes sure this person sees his hand casually around your waist. And petty as it may seem, he's also deliberately gonna leave his hoodie and his other stuff at your place to remind you of himself.

⭐ If this person ever hurts you emotionally or physically, then no amount of prayers will spare this person to see the light of another day.

Xavier happens to see this person trying to approach you once more outside the apartment complex with words that barely sound like an apology. Swift as ever, he steps in front of you.

“You got some nerve showing up here after what you did to Y/N.” He says to them, an edge in his usually gentle voice.

He is as silent and deadly as you've seen him in the throes of battle, cutting down the Wanderers without a hint of mercy in his strikes. And you gulp down the tension in the air.

You know what he's capable of. You can't let him unleash the power of his evol simply because of your ex-partner maltreating you.

You bring your hand out and place it upon his heart, just like you'd done on your first encounter with him. Only this time it's not to resonate your evol with his but to push him back.

You force a smile on your face despite the messy state of your emotions. “Xav, let's grab a bite. I'm craving hotpot.”

His eyes are unflinching, and for a moment you wonder if even the bait of some tasty meat will fail to lure him. But then, a moment later he scoffs at the person and looks down at you, his gaze softening as he does so. “Alright. If that’s what you want.”

He wraps his fingers around your hand– the same one that's still resting upon his chest– and pulls you along.

RAFAYEL

🌊 He's jealous but even more than that, he's disappointed in your choice. You can do way better than this. Actually, in his opinion, you are way out of this person's league, and deserve nothing but perfection when it comes to a partner.

🌊 He's quite vocal about his dislike, openly saying how suspicious he finds this person and how if you wanna indulge in wasting your precious time, you'd rather waste it on him.

🌊 He complains how you've changed. How you don't hang-out with him as much and pay less visits to his studio. Seeing you with someone else makes the ache in his heart more agonizing than ever. Rafayel wonders what you see in them? Do they cherish you more than him?

🌊 If this person ever hurts you emotionally or physically, then he won't hesitate from raising the tides of the Whitesand Bay in order to drown them.

You frantically chase after Rafayel as he corners this person. You've never seen this magnitude of fury in his beautiful eyes.

Rafayel grabs them by the front of their shirt, his voice scalding as he smirks in annoyance, “So you've finally shown your true colors to Y/N, huh?”

You can feel the temperature rising just a little, the atmosphere around feeling a lot warmer than before. Your nose catches the whiff of something burning and you realize there's smoke emanating from that person's collar.

It's scary.

Seeing someone who holds even a paintbrush so tenderly act like this. And no, you're not afraid of him for you know Rafayel will never hurt you. You're afraid for this person. You're afraid of what Rafayel is capable of becoming if you let him go on like this.

Cautiously, you wrap your hand around his wrist and free this person from his hold. The fabric of their shirt appears to be slightly charred but there's no harm done otherwise.

“Come on, Rafayel, ” You tug his wrist to pull him to you. “We shouldn't bother with the likes of them.”

He fixes his gaze on the person one last time. “Count yourself lucky Y/N is here! Or else..”

He pries his hand out of your grasp and pats your head. His smile returns, as does the warmth in his eyes and he puts an arm around your waist. “So, where are we going?”

SYLUS VERSION [HERE]

» MASTERLIST «

[idk-how-to-name-it]

Well, as you wish...

Some "practice doodles", cuz I drew him so little(I always need to get used to drawing a character for some time)

And about his shady stuff headcanon which me and my friend came up with. I wouldn't recommend any Angus's fans to read this thing, cuz...I don't think you'll like what we've done to him for the sake of having a good laugh

So, we've got a hc that his business is...Selling stolen undergarments...YES, YOU GOT IT RIGHT.

I TOLD YOU THAT THIS GONNA BE AN ULTRA CRINGE ONE JFODUGDGRJGRIOGUDJFJT.

So, Angus is a loser businessman who breaks into people's apartments, steals their undergarments. Sometimes he also steals some little thing, as he has some financial problems(You can tell that his is not a successful lad). I think he has been caught redhanded by people for a few times, yet police has never been involved.

And I think he's hiding this whole thing from his family.

(Tbh his buisness plan is genius at some point. I doubt that there are many people who will report about their stuff being stolen immediately as, you know, it is too embarrassing to report about, huehehehe)

[silent-raven13]

Power Trip

"Got me up all night," Hobie sang to himself "All I'm singin' is love songs" He fiddle with his guitar remembering the song he listened with Miles. Some rap song from a famous rapper from the young lad's world, apparently Miles enjoys this J. Cole's music.

Meanwhile, he's here lying on his bed playing on his guitar while singing this tune. His body in a bright shade of pink, he felt flustered about what happen earlier today.

-Few hours ago-

The seventeen year old punker casually walking around Spider Society with a lit cigarette in his mouth, his dark eyes seeing all the Spider-heroes going about their day. It's a busy day like always, this time there is a good amount of Spider-heroes frantically passing by the punker trying to get on their missions.

"Pfft, poor blokes." Hobie grunts to himself at the idea these Spider-heroes are so easily brainwashed into the system. It's ridiculous. He's still surprised after everything happen with Miles and Spot, they would open their eyes with the way Miguel is controlling them.

He took his almost finished cigarette tossing it across the floor just because! Fuck the establishment!

It's such a damn how easily fooled these Spider-heroes are. He wonders why he's still- "Da-Da-dadda Da! Hm-mm MmMm," Hearing someone softly singing to themselves.

"What's dis?" He asked himself knowing that voice. He looks below the edge of the floor to find Miles sitting with legs crossed on an empty space. He had wireless earbuds on and drawing on his sketchbook being on his lap.

Hobie couldn't help himself, he uses his web shooter to launch a web to a high ceiling. Then he launch himself to swing up toward his Sunflower. He hears Miles softly singing, "Would you believe me if I said I'm in love?" The punker tilted his head as he landed on his two feet behind his crush singing about love.

Miles confidently sings, "Baby, I want you to want me!" His singing isn't good, but he does love to sing along being in tune with the song.

Hobie couldn't help but chuckle at the way the sixteen year old rocks his upper body side to side. "Haha," He playfully tap Miles' left shoulder, then he jumps from being startled at the touch.

"Ah!" Miles' Spider sense went frizzy which made the punker use his own Spider sense to calm down him. "Oh shit, man! You scared me!" He had his sketch close to his chest, "Damn, I almost threw my sketchbook!"

Hobie smirks widely, "Hah, I never knew you were a scaredy cat, Sunflower." He went to sit next to Miles' right side. "I heard you singing." Miles took one of his earbuds off to listen to his friend.

"Oh god, you didn't!" Miles' face fell into a massive frown being so embarrassed. "Fuck, I thought I was high enough so no one would hear me! Ughh, this is mad embarrassing, man." He bites his bottom plump lip which got the punker to stare very hard on those lips.

"Nah, luv. You do what you love," Hobie casually said then smirks widely, "no matter if you sound like a screeching cat!"

"UGH, you're such a dick, man!" Miles playfully slap Hobie's arm before laughing at his friend's shady comment.

The punker leans back by the soft hit having to laugh out loud, then his mid-tone magazine paper started to turn slightly pink. "Easy, luv. I'm still sore from last mission."

"Oh pfft, you can't be sore! I was the one that got on that damn bull's back!" His crush scoffs by the mention of their last mission.

The Spider Band had to fight off three massive bull anomalies, which caused Miles riding one and landing in a nasty fall. He can still feel the aches on his sides. Hobie was slammed against a wall from one bull's horns. He was luckily those nasty sharp horns didn't stab him.

"Hey, you seem like you know what you were doing, mate. Riding that bull like it wasn't your first time." Hobie flirted having to imply something very dirty that made his Sunflower's face turned bashful.

"What? Pfft, no! I'm-I-I- that was my first time riding a bull." Miles could feel his cheeks burning up. "Stop being gross!"

"What? I didn't say anything... bad." Hobie smirks widely showing off his teeth, his right eyebrow raised high, "Are you implying something else, Sunflower?"

"No!" Miles lean back seeing Hobie getting close to his face. "Stop it, Hobie."

"What? I'm just lookin', luv."

"You're in my personal space." Miles' heart pound against his chest.

Hobie gave a slight nod, "Alright. Alright. Anyway, what were you listening to?" He took Miles' right earbud to put it close to his ear to hear anything, but there was no sound.

Miles went back to sketching in his sketchbook, "Heh, I paused it, dude. I was listening to J. Cole."

"Who?"

"J. Cole! You don't know who is J. Cole?" Miles asked out loud with his doe eyes widen.

"Mate, I know Sex Pistol... that's music." Hobie added

"Oh wait, my bad... you're on a different timeline. Um, in my world there's this famous rapper named J. Cole. His stuff is pretty good." He went on his Spotify to rewind the song he was listening to, "Here." His hand went to touch Hobie's hand making the punker's body turned bright pink. The slight touch of his Sunflower felt so beautifully warm and soft.

Miles's hand lightly took his earbud from Hobie's hand then put it in the punker's right ear. The Punker nuzzle against Miles' warm hand feeling it on his cheek. the two sitting closer now. Miles gently massage the punker's cheek, "Your like a cat."

"Oh yeah?" Hobie nuzzles some more, "Like this?"

"Hahaha, yeah." Miles giggles before scooting closer to Hobie's space. This time he's being bold wanting to feel the punker, to smell that musky, cigarette and cologne on him. Miles never liked the smell of cigarettes, but with Hobie, it smelled so good on him. It comforts the sixteen year old. "Hear this." He plays the song from his Smartphone.

Hobie placed his arm around Miles' narrow shoulders pulling him close. This time he's also being bold. He wanted to smell Miles' sweet mango tropical Shea Butter, and sweet vanilla scent. He always wonder why he smell so good, so sweet and a bit woody spice to it.

"Got me up all night. All I'm singin' is love songs" The song plays making Hobie's eyes focus on Miles, who's bobbing his head at the song. "She got me up all night. Constant drinkin' and love songs..."

Miles snuggle his body close against the punker while swaying himself as he sing along, "She got me up all night..." Hobie admiring lovingly at his Sunflower's soft singing, "Down and out with these love songs..."

"She got me up all night. Drownin' out with these love songs," The song plays while Hobie made his first move to lift Miles' chin up.

"Hmm? What's up?" Miles innocently asked.

Hobie slowly got close enough to Miles' lips, so close that his lower lip gently tap against Miles' bottom lip. Then he quickly pulled away being a coward. No, he can't. Miles is his friend. "Nuthin' luv."

The young Spider-man pouts, "Oh..." He expected a kid, he felt so prepare with his eyes being closed and waiting for the magic. Damn.... Oh well, Miles lay his head on Hobie's chest while drawing.

The two sat in silence while listening to Miles' playlist. Hobie's hand covering his lower mouth still kicking himself for backing out on that kiss.

"Would you believe me if I said I'm in love?" Hobie mentally sang along to the song, he didn't think he would like it so much. Especially when his Sunflower is in his arms, "Baby, I want you to want me!"

Miles glanced up to find his crush lost in his thought, he decided to be bold. He wants that kiss! "Hobie."

"Hmm?" The punker's dark eyes snapped at the teenager Spider-man turning his body to be on his knees.

"Can you closed your eyes for a moment, please?" Miles innocently asked.

The punker did as he's told. The only person who can make him listen and follow instructions. He trusts his Sunflower. In mere darkness, he felt Miles' warm hands cupping his define jawline.

"What are you planning, Sunflower?"

"Just a little surprise... no peaking." Miles' voice rings his ears, his hands made his punker lean his head back to face toward him.

The young Spider-man took another sharp inhale. Alright, here it goes! He lean forward to plant his lips onto Hobie's full black painted lips.

The punker felt soft lips with the taste of honey, and berries. Wait, lips? His eyes snap wide open to find Miles kissing him. His whole body froze, the colors on his body quickly shifts into multiple rainbow colors, then blooming into Sunflowers and hearts images with bright pink colors. Then guitars rocking symbols pop out when he felt Miles deepening his kiss by adding a bit of tongue.

Such a sexy move. It made Hobie shudder with delight. His arms tightly wraps around his Sunflower's waist, then straight his posture to continue their kisses. His own mouth did the work too.

"Mmm!" Miles softly let out a moan.

Ohh, this new. Hobie felt his own body hot, his tongue flap against his Miles' tongue. "Mmm." He let out a low purr.

"Hmphhemph," Miles gave out a throaty chuckle, before his eyes slowly open to find Hobie's eyes meeting him. He slowly pulled away from his mouth. "Hobie, you promise!"

He felt so embarrassed.

Hobie lick his lips knowing his lipstick is a mess by the way Miles' lips were stained. "I wanted to see you, luv."

"Hmph!" Miles huffs.

"Don't be like that, darling. You kiss so beautifully."

"You're just trying to get another from me." Miles pouts at his crush.

Hobie snuggles against his Sunflower, "And? Why would that be bad?" He made Miles look at him, "Hmm?"

"It's not."

"Then? I would like another, luv."

Miles giggles before lifting his crush's face to lean in another kiss, his phone rang out loud. "Oh shit, I... I gotta go. I have to be home before my mom gets back. Maybe next time." He give Hobie a quick peck on the lips before gathering his sketchbook and backpack to rush off.

Hobie's body still pink from the kiss as he watched his Sunflower opening a portal to go back home.

-present-

"He got me open all night" Hobie sang out loud as he sat outside on the roof of his boat house, "All I'm singin' is love songs..." He stood daze thinking about that kiss. That delicious, addictive kiss.

[gamblord]

Just caught up on the DJ&D VODs - you all were amazing at the Gala but I am distressed over your boy's predicament. (Poor lad is having such a terrible head-trip, I hope the dice are nicer to both of you next Thursday!)

Out of curiosity, what does Morenthal think they're doing at the Gala now? Obvi they were all originally there because Mr Wick is super shady and they thought he had an artefact, but now (thanks to that horrible f*cking key) Morenthal remembers Jonathan as his first and most-trusted confidant and a generally above-board-swell guy. Like, how is he reconciling those "memories" with what the rest of the gang are doing and however much of the plan Mr Wick has let him recall?

HMMMMMM so my view is that he's still doing the mission of scouting the place and scouting Wick but the difference between before and after the key is that before he wouldve 100% acted and gone into kill mode if needed, but now? Now he's going "ok we're doing this miss--why are you wanting to fight my closest friend in the whole world what the fuck"

To him it's still just a scouting mission keeping an eye on Mr Wick but now he's doubting that anythings wrong with Mr Wick cause cmonnnn he'd never do anything bad!

like he has all his memories and such but now it's just Wick instead so he still remembers the plan and everything and he's still wanting to go through with it, but will absolutely draw the line at hurting Wick in any way. So uh.... next session could get dicey......

[transthadymacdermot]

Have finally finally finally found a solution which fixes the majority of the geography problems in the RRL 'verse and drawn a map of the (fictional) area where most of the bits taking place in the countryside take place.

Landowners' houses indicated with squares labelled with the family name, houses of important working class characters indicated with an X and the name the story typically calls the main person who lives there, other pertinent locations indicated with a coloured in diamond. Ragged line is a small river and the normal lines are roads.

(Guy who hates having to draw complex maps voice) maps of the area are notoriously not very good. The last time it was mapped was in roughly 1725 before the massive population shifts caused by famines and riots and so on, and even then that was a halfhearted effort made by someone who didn't really care about their work both because the Marquess at the time paid them like 1 penny and a bottle of wine for their work and because it was the dead of winter when they were mapping and they were sooo cold. So there are basically no maps, and you had better know where you're going or have someone who does while trying to walk around here or you won't get very far. *Slaps the Durham estate* this lad can fit so many unmarked geographical hazards and dangers in it.

Continuing on, here is a colour coded map to explain to the viewer who owns how much land and where. Blue is Durham, red is Towers, pink is the Marquess, orange is Young, and the giant yellow eating everything is O'Neill. Hopefully this does a lot to explain why every single character is willing to commit untold atrocities to get their hands on Gerald O'Neill's estate.

Now, the astute viewer may have noticed that Gerald, who is Some Guy, owns 100000000x more land than the local Marquess. This is due to an extremely shady will change in about 1742, wherein the then-current Marquess (son of the one who wouldn't pay the mapmaker), who was dying of An Illness, changed "the land gets left to the eldest male descendant" to "the land goes to my eldest child" and his lawyer let it slide without investing further despite the land technically originally being entailed because he was about to die and his eldest child was a man so, ok, weird choice, but whatever. That man succumbed, however, to a hunting accident with suspicious speed, and then the Marquess died and before anyone could realise what had happened his second child, a daughter, had all the land and the title, also entailed but in such a way that there was no ambiguity, was given to her prepubescent younger brother. The family was so upset about 2 crushing deaths right after one another that nobody bothered to get angry about the situation and the new Marquess just bought an unrelated piece of land to live on... until the start of 8GOG, at which point Ten Thousand Lawsuits Over Inheritance At Once. A lot of complaints about reaping coming from the sowers &c.

[kimium]

For the AU ask! Fireforce Modern-AU where Joker runs a private investigator company

(From this ask meme HERE)

Oh, thanks for the ask! I so rarely talk about Fire Force, but I love the series with all my heart!

Five head canons for Modern AU Joker runs a private investigator company:

-His company is not well known publicly. Unlike some other investigators, Joker's place is in a building that's hidden. In order to find it you have to walk through alleys and between buildings with pathways so tight, one could wonder if they're not just lost. However, if one is persistent, the place will come to you.

-People find this place by word of mouth. A business card? A company website? You have to be joking. Joker doesn't have those things. Instead, he is in the phone book, a long lost relic of times before modern technology. His number is buried under thousands of thin, yellow pages that are so thin if torn out one could see through it, like the world's worse cellophane. However, regardless of the obscurity he never runs out of jobs. Joker has a reputation on the street for completing 100% of his job requests without fail.

-Joker works mostly alone, though he does have associates he relies on from time to time. The jobs he takes? Anything from a little old granny telling him "Mr. Snuffles (her cat) is lost" to "I think my husband is embezzling and I don't know what to do." Sometimes his jobs are... less than savoury, but that doesn't stop him. In fact, those are the jobs he likes the best. Sometimes in order to see justice one must get a little dirty.

-However, just because Joker works alone and has a crippling addiction to coffee and cigarettes doesn't mean he's a loner. In this AU he's fully adopted by Captain Burns, the celebrated Firefighter and Hero of the city. Joker -is- still expected to show up every Sunday, cleanly shaven, hair washed, proper clothing on, for family dinner. Once, Joker dismissed going in favour of doing his job. Captain Burns found him the next day. Joker never missed a family dinner again.

Speaking of, Captain Burns's neighbours are that couple who canonically took care of Joker for a bit. In this AU they adore him and often pile food into his arms since "You look so skinny. You need more meat on your bones. A strapping young lad like you needs food to keep growing!" - The mother, as she cheerfully piles containers of homemade food into his arms.

-Joker however, lives on his own in a small apartment close to his work place. Burns offered to buy an apartment closer to him/in a better area, but Joker likes his slightly run down loft with a few creaky doors and graffiti along the walls. He has illegally broken into the top of the building, which overlooks the city to smoke. He enjoys watching the smoke from his cigarettes float into the night sky as he counts the thousands of stars lining the inky dark night. Sometimes, Joker brings up a sketchbook and draws. He prefers oil pastels because they're heavy and thick on the paper and leave stains on his hands, hiding some burns from cigarettes and fights he's gotten into over the years.

Also, a bonus head canon since I don't dare post a Joker HC without Licht for you.

-Joker meets Licht because Licht hires him to "investigate some shady business". Joker is surprised but excited when he finds out it's for Haijima Industries. He's disappointed when it turns out to be "colleague work drama". Then, it turns out the case is investigating a conspiracy that spans the entirety of Hajima Industries. This draws him further into the life of Viktor Licht. (Eventually they start dating, but that's a story for another day.)

[rainydawgradioblog]

A. Savage showed me I can write a decent song (I’m delusional)

My first major purchase after arriving in Copenhagen last summer was a ticket to see Andrew Savage’s European tour in February. The legendary Parquet Courts co-frontman played Ideal Bar in Vesterbro with his band Midnight Stew to a crowd of me and 99 tall mustachioed film bro-looking Danish lads in their 20s and 30s. I fit right in wearing my artsy new A. Savage “Riding Cobbles” t-shirt, as Andrew convinced me with his lovely little tunes to write a song of my own.

Andrew’s visual aesthetic had me straight to Ticketmaster before his latest album Several Songs About Fire even dropped. Everything he rolled out in promo shoots, cover art, and concert merch was drenched in David Hockney meets “The Adventures of Tintin” meets the doodles on the back of my middle school binder. 

Paired perfectly with the cartoony visuals, the music of Sevel Songs About Fire boils down melodies to a uniquely simple formula. Nothing is overcomplicated, leaving plenty of room to feel every chord change and focus on his glorious rusty voice, which is down-to-earth but also smooth enough to make me think he could burn the house down singing Frank Sinatra hits if he wanted. Andrew’s style makes great songwriting feel like something that anyone with a shitty guitar can do, and that’s not meant to sound shady. 

Another major draw to Andrew’s music is his lighthearted pessimistic humor that he throws all over his lyrics. It’s the same humor that my dad’s college buddies who never had kids embody. You can tell he’s got a weird whimsical take on the world in the way he phrases his feelings. “My weekly dinner of popcorn and Coke / Every Friday, like communion that I took as a joke” in the intro “Hurtin’ or Healed” is objectively a bit bleak but you can’t help but smirk and hope you're as witty as him at age almost 40.

I can thank Andrew and his band Parquet Courts for my appreciation of art punk and a lot of the politically charged folk rock I obsess over today like early Courtney Barnett and Fontaines DC. The band’s pop art aesthetic and funky yet punky take on indie rock recontextualized a lot of harsh punk aesthetics into something that made a lot more sense to me when I was first getting into music. Album’s like Wide Awake and Human Performance were palatable but gritty enough to slap some taste into my teenage brain.

Where Andrew’s solo work deviates from Parquet Courts is his more laid back take on songwriting, packed full of energy without doing the most. He’s got a handful of chords and progressions that are standard but still sound so uniquely his own. Hearing a song like “Le Ballon” or his latest single “Black Holes, the Stars and You” put Andrew’s skill at building tension and emotion with just a few particular chords and subtle melodies on full display.

Most of the emotion conveyed on Sevel Songs About Fire is rooted in finding comfort in simple pleasures and observations in a life far from a sense of home. Living all the way in Denmark, I listen to “Riding Cobbles” bumping down the cobbled Copenhagen streets, “My New Green Coat” while wrapped in my new thrifted Bob Dylan jacket, and “Mountain Time” watching the geese fly in Vs like they do in the Cascades back home. 

To me, the album is music to ramble to– it’s the music you listen to with your thumb out on the side of the road with a knapsack tied to a stick over your shoulder. I listened to the new album for the first time while waiting for trains between Berlin and Copenhagen, anticipating a long bus ride to Stockholm the next day. Being on exchange often felt chaotic, trying to experience as many new things as I could without a lot of regard to my ability to settle down, and Sevel Songs About Fire is exactly that. Andrew mentioned during his set that he loves touring because he has the unique ability of finding a sense of home in a lot of places, something I wish I was better at.

After Andrew’s show, I picked up my very own $35 guitar from the charity shop down the street and started thinking about tiny observations or inanimate objects that made me feel any kind of something. However insignificant these things seemed, they were unique to me which is exactly why Andrew’s music is so important. Several Songs About Fire was never about reinventing the wheel but more about a unique perspective and personality using the bread and butter of what makes a great song. 

I beg of you please listen to Several Songs About Fire and after you’ve realized it’s your favorite album ever I’d give his debut album Thawing Dawn a listen. For more political indie rock stuff I’d listen to Parquet Court’s Wide Awake and if you like it even punkier, try Light Up Gold. 

You’re welcome!

Mead Gill

[agent-vexys]

UH hELLO AND WELCOME NEWCOMERS

The love I've received for my Lad has been overwhelming!! After he flopped on Facebook and Instagram, I didn't think Tumblr would care either 🥲

Two things:

1. Your voices have been heard! I'm working hard to finish "Tech Deck" to make him the best he can possibly be so that I can create a shirt for all you simp-athizers.

2. I have the comic for the Tech x Y/N post I made ALMOST ready to unveil, except it will be featuring my Mando OC, Jêtt Reiko (sorry I didn't wanna draw a blank mannequin with a yuge "Y/N" on their face, but it's funny to think about)

In the meantime, here's this lil guy being an absolute dude

May he Ollie into your hearts once more as a shady boi.

UPDATE:

T-Shirts are now live!!

[magpie-to-the-morning]

On Fire from Within

Rating: Explicit (18+ ONLY)

Pairing: Din Djarin x Fem!Reader

Wordcount: 3.8k

Tags: Self-Indulgent, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, the helmet comes off, Blindfolds, Sex Pollen, Dirty talk, Mostly in Mando’a, Hand Jobs, Oral Sex, PiV Sex, Din is soft and a mess, and so am I, so much Mando'a because I cannot be stopped, Please let me know if I missed anything

Summary: Reader is a newish crew member on the Razor Crest. She was helping out on a bounty hunting mission when she got hit with a laced dart at a shady brothel. It's a sex pollen fic lads, you know how this goes!

Read on Ao3

“Fuck,” you swore softly, pulling a small barb from the back of your neck. It’s only a little thing, a geometric pattern of angles and sharp points. Odd for a piece of shrapnel, but surely nothing to worry about. The small wound wouldn’t be worth the Bacta gel. You tossed it away before walking up the ramp into the Crest.

“Everything ok?” Mando stepped away from the controls of the carbonite chamber. You hadn’t realized he was so close, and startled when you heard the question crackling through his modulator.

“Yeah, it’s nothing. That bastard frozen yet?”

“Just about.”

“Good. That place made me want to scrub the inside of my skin.” You’d just finished helping Mando drag a bounty out of a local bar running an illegal “pleasure house.” It certainly hadn’t deserved the name, and you were more than happy to provide an initial distraction so Mando could come in for the kill. (The metaphorical kill, sadly. You would have been happy to leave the owner of that awful establishment a smoking crater on the floor of his bar, but apparently that was “not following the brief” and “wouldn’t bring in as much money for fuel.” Pfft). There had been a little static on the way out, and you assume that’s when you’d picked up that bit of metal. “I’m going to hit the refresher, unless you need it first?”

The bounty hunter shook his head and moved towards the ramp. “No. I’m going to trade in the puck and get us out off this rock. You go ahead.”

--

You checked the controls of the shower. Again. You’re sweating, and as much as you try, you can’t get the water cold enough to soothe your burning skin. You arch your back, moaning when the stretching movement sends a dart of pleasure straight to your aching cunt. Fuck, why are you such a mess all of a sudden? You slip a hand between your legs and are shocked to discover that you are already dripping wet. You rub the back of your neck and it hits you- that wasn’t shrapnel. It must have been a dart laced with something, and knowing the type of place you were in, you’d bet any amount of credits it was a nasty aphrodisiac. “Those bastards…”

You drag your hands through your hair and take a steadying breath. Ok, you can handle this, pull yourself together… Nice empty ship and a hot shower. Nothing you haven’t done before. You let your hands drift lower, massaging your breast and tweaking an already pert nipple. You’re already so close…

__

An hour later and you’re sobbing from want. Why can’t you just. Fucking. Come already? You’ve tried everything, every fantasy, every technique or touch, and nothing. You try again, stroking your clit and spiraling towards release before it slips away again, a jolt of pain rebounding through you. “Damn it!”

“Y/N? What’s wrong?”

You freeze. You hadn’t realized how much time had passed, of course Mando is back. What had he heard? “Um, nothing, it’s fine!” You wince at how falsely this rings, even to you.

There’s a pause. “Open the door.”

“… no? I’m not-“

“Open the door. Or I will break it down.”

Shit. You have a second to grab a towel before the door clangs open. Mando is through the door and into the tiny room in an instant, hand on his blaster. He checks all the corners which, takes about 2 seconds, before turning that implacable, visored gaze on you. “What’s going on with you?”

“Jeez, Mando, I-“ you try to bluff your way out of it for a moment before giving it up for lost. Even if you could explain away everything else, you know your flushed cheeks and glassy eyes will give you away. “Fine, just, promise you won’t laugh?”

“Is something funny?”

“No, it really isn’t.” You sigh. “So, I didn’t realize until we got back to the ship, but someone back at that hole in the wall hit me with some kind of dart. I think it was drugged.”

“Show me.”

“I chucked it just before I got on board, but this is where it hit.” You pull your wet hair back to show him the mark on your neck. Mando crosses the floor in one step, and you feel one of his gloved hands steady your shoulder as he takes a closer look. That small touch is enough to drive you wild, and you bite back a groan, leaning into his touch.

“Dank ferrik.” Mando pulls his hands away like he’s been burned, and your cheeks flame again, this time in embarrassment. “There are red marks at the injection site. I’ve, uh.. I’ve seen this before.”

You grit your teeth, finding it easier to talk about when you’re not looking at him. “It hurts, Mando and I can’t make it stop. How long am I going to feel like this?”

“Until it runs its course. Usually, a few hours. And it will get worse.”

You swear again, tears of frustration slipping down your cheeks. Mando stands there for a moment, flexing his hands and looking unsure of what to say. Finally, you hear a deep breath and, “let me help you.”

You startle, sure you’ve heard him wrong. It’s only been a few months since you signed on as his only crew member, a live-in mechanic and occasional extra pair of hands for certain bounties. You’d thought about it, of course. At first you’d seen this as just another short term gig. Some light repair work, the odd stint of standing lookout or patching up his wounds or acting as a distraction for a tricky bounty. The longer you spent with him though, the longer you started to see the man beneath the armor, his dark humor, his unexpected kindness, his tendency to throw himself into harm’s way for the sake of a code you can’t begin to understand. Stars, and that voice… but you knew he would never return those feelings. The idea of him offering himself to you now, out of pity or worse, obligation…

“No.” You move to shoulder past him.

He grabs your wrist. “Look, Y/N, I know I may not be your first choice but-“

You whirl around to glare at him. “Not my- damn it, Mando!” You kick the waste bin in sheer frustration. “I’ve wanted you for weeks and just because I don’t want you to feel cornered into sleeping with me you have the fucking gall-“

“Close your eyes.”

You blink in confusion. “Wait, what?”

“Do it. Now.” You shiver at the steel in his voice and comply without another thought.

There’s a soft hiss, and the clang of metal set down on metal. He couldn’t have. He wouldn’t… You start in surprise, feeling his leather-clad fingers cup your face and tip your chin up. “Are you sure you want this?”

You laugh, a little shakily, amazed to hear how deep and rough his unmodulated voice still is. “Are you?”

The next thing you know, he’s got you backed up against that wall. You gasp, reaching to pull him closer. His mouth slides over yours, lips warm and surprisingly plush. You deepen the kiss and moan, needing so much more. He responds by reaching down, pulling you up to straddle his waist. Trapped between the wall and a cage of Beskar, you’ve never felt freer. You card your fingers through his hair, marveling at the curls under your hands. Mando gasps, already sounding ragged. “How do you want me?”

You drag your nails down his scalp and lick your way up the column of his throat. You taste salt and pant into his ear, “in the cockpit chair.”

Mando groans. “You have been thinking about this, haven’t you, sweet girl?”

“Less talk. More chair sex.”

He huffs a laugh against your neck and pulls you from the wall, carrying you through the ship like you don’t weigh a thing. You make it through the corridor, with only a few brief stops against walls and doorways. Mando sets you down once you reach the cockpit and you whine at the lack of his touch, but still keep your eyes closed. He kisses your forehead. “Patience, sweet girl.” You give up the last shreds of your dignity and moan, rubbing your thighs together. “Can’t, I need you to touch me now.” You hear a few soft clinks, and realize Mando is removing his armor, piece by piece. Not wanting to be outdone, you toss your towel aside. Your eyes are still shut tight, but you add a hand to cover them, afraid you’ll forget yourself. You may not understand his beliefs, but you are damn sure going to respect them, even now.

There’s startle at a ripping sound, and Mando asking “Do you trust me?”

“Yes,” you breathe.

“Good. Keep your eyes closed.” Mando pulls your hand away, pressing a kiss to your palm before knotting a blindfold around your eyes. You feel yourself pulled down to his lap. You twine your arms around his neck and lower yourself until you’re straddling his hips, grinding as close to him as you can.

“Tell me what you need.”

“Touch me.”

He’s eager to comply, and you shiver as you feel his hands (his hands, not the gloves, stars) skim up your sides. Mando cups the back of your head, drawing you closer as he kisses and licks his way into your mouth. You immediately open your lips to his, stroking his tongue with your own, teasing the roof of his mouth to egg him on. You’re rewarded with a small groan, and Mando palming your left breast. He strokes your nipple with his thumb, rolling and pinching it to make you arch your back. “What else?”

“Maker, that’s so good… talk to me, Mando, don’t stop touching me.”

“Never, mesh’la.” Mando rolls his hips and makes you squirm against him. You can feel his arousal, pressed so close to your own, separated only by the canvas of his trousers. You mewl and buck your hips against him.

“Oh gods, yes…”

Mando chuckles as your breath speeds up. “You’re so gorgeous, Y/N, going to take such good care of you. Going to make this so good for you.”

He bends his head and sucks one of your nipples into his warm mouth, and you nearly black out. The sheer relief of such a touch when you need it so badly nearly undoes you completely. “Mando…”

“Din.” The word is muffled against your chest, and you have to ask “what?”

He rests his forehead against shoulder. “My name, Din Djarin.”

“Din,” you taste the short name, adding it to what you’ve learned about this man. This capable, dangerous, surprisingly gentle Mandalorian. How can such a hard man be so… This train of thought is interrupted as another wave of desire bowls you over, making you shudder with need and pain. “I need more, Din, please…”

You don’t even need to finish that thought before you feel his rough, calloused fingers drifting down your belly and lower, lower… You lean back to give him easier access, his other arm coming to rest around your waist, holding you up. You gasp when he strokes your folds. “Me’bana? You’re so wet, mesh’la. Is this all for me?” He doesn’t wait for a response before slowly fucking two of his fingers deep inside you, dragging the pads over your G-spot over and over. He’s a quick learner, adapting to touch you harder or softer, quicker or slower, as you gasp and buck your hips. “So good for me, so wet and ready. Do you want me to make you come?”

“Yes, yes, please Din, I’m so close…” you whine.

Din rubs your clit while fucking his fingers into you. He bites down on your earlobe, whispering, “Then come for me, cyare.”

You do. You cry out as you feel yourself coming apart under his hands, your hips thrashing despite you as you moan and call out his name. When you drift back to yourself, you’re grateful for his supporting hold as waves of pleasure continue to roll through you. Din strokes you through all of it, only backing off when your breathing slows and pressing a kiss to your forehead.

__

You exhale slowly, taking stock after that release. “That was… whew…” Now that you have a moment to think clearly again, you can feel your mind spinning up to overthink this. Will you ever be able to look at your employer (partner? friend?) again? Not that you can ever look him in the eye anyway, but what if he’s completely disgusted with you after this? Your racing thoughts pause when you hear what can only be Din sucking your slick from his fingers.

“Maker, you taste as good as I hoped you would.” Thoughts: gone. Brain: empty. There can’t be any room for overthinking when your head is suddenly full of HE THOUGHT ABOUT TASTING ME?! “How do you feel?”

You force yourself to consider this. You can already feel the fire in your core roaring back to life. “Good, but, I can already feel it ramping back up.” You blush. “Not that I didn’t… I totally did, but.. sorry…”

“Shh, k’uur. I get it. Just relax and let me take care of you.” He stands up, depositing you gently in his seat. You only have a moment to wonder at this sudden shift before feeling him kneel down in front of you. Without even thinking about it, you let your legs fall open to him. “That’s it, sweet girl, let me see that pretty pussy.”

If you weren’t already positive you were running a fever, that would have tipped you over the edge. Din runs his hands up your thighs, his breath ghosting over your throbbing core. “Ibac’ner. Ni copaanir dinuir gar ner lalat akay gar jair.” Is he… praying? You’re past the point of caring, all you want is for him to stop sucking marks into your inner thigh and finally move to where you need him most. You nearly scream when he drags his tongue up your slit. He flattens his tongue against you, humming appreciatively as your roll your hips. He wraps his arms around your thighs suddenly, jerking you closer towards him. “Jatisyc, ni larayc teh gar.”

You are glad of the blindfold because you are so far beyond controlling your face. Din’s tongue feels like it is everywhere at once, tonguing your cunt like it was your mouth one second, then laving your clit the next. You curl your toes and howl when he sucks your clit into his mouth and you feel the barest hint of teeth around you. “So close, so close” you chant, reaching down to hold his head right where you need it.

Din releases your clit, licking circles around it instead. “You liked that, didn’t you cyare? Do you like it a little rough?”

You shudder, thrilled to have been caught out so soon. “Gods, yes.”

Din chuckles and you hope you haven’t slipped up by confessing quite so enthusiastically. “Oh this is going to be fun. I am going to ruin you, mesh’la.” He dives back into your pussy, licking and sucking and nipping at your thighs like a wild thing. You whine and arch your back.

“Hold. Still.” Din’s arm clamps over your waist like an iron bar. “How am I supposed to finish you off, if you won’t stop writhing around, you etyc dala?” When you push your luck, trying to squirm free, you feel a sharp slap to your thigh. “Are you going to be a good girl and let me make you come? Or should I leave you here by yourself?”

“No, please, I’ll be good for you I promise!”

“Damn right you will,” he snarls. Without warning, Din shoves two fingers into your cunt and wraps his lips around your clit, sucking hard. You come in a rush, screaming his name.

__

You’ve barely come down from that high before chasing your next. While your first orgasm left you with some temporary relief, this one only stokes the fire even higher. You seize Din’s face from where he was resting his cheek against your thigh and pull him to your mouth. Reticence is a distant memory and you devour the taste of yourself from his mouth. When Din leans back and groans from this spectacle, you palm his length, spear-straight and hard as Beskar under your hand.  Din shudders underneath you, and you can almost see the effort of restraining himself.  You trace the shell of his ear and murmur “Why are you still wearing pants?”

Din rushes to his feet, pulling you from the chair and pushing you up against the nearest wall in one smooth motion. He holds you in place with one arm across your breastbone, panting with effort. “Hang on, I don’t want to rush you.“

You wish you could look at him, to show you the burning desire in your eyes, how much you truly want this. Alas. You settle for dropping to your knees and fumbling blindly with the fastenings of his trousers.

“Dank ferrik…” a muttered oath somewhere above your head. Din reaches down to help you, drawing his cock out. Once again, you wish the blindfold wasn’t necessary. You can feel the velvet-soft skin of him, trace the head of his cock and stroke up and down the length of him, but you wish you could see him. You breathe over him and, holding his shaft to help guide you (and madden him), lick just under the tip of his cock. You run your tongue around the ridge and lick your lips before taking him as far down your throat as you can. Din hisses and unleashes a stream of Basic and that same tongue he’d been speaking earlier. “Fuck… ori jate, ori jate, yes, Y/N. Parer, ke’pare, ah!”

You hum around him, loving the sound of him absolutely losing it. “Too much?” you ask, all innocence.

Din actually growls. “Yes. Don’t stop, please.”

You smile, hoping he can see you amidst his unraveling. You bob your lips over the head of his cock, once, twice, before sliding down the length of him as far as you can take. Din’s fingers tangle in your hair and you can feel him jerking his hips, holding back from fucking your face like he clearly wants to. You pull back again, letting go  of his cock with a wet pop. “Don’t hold back, baby, I want all of you.”

This is more than Din can stand. He hauls you roughly to your feet, kissing you with abandon. “Say that again?”

“I want you Din, please. I fucking need you.”

Din grabs one of your legs and holds it over his hip. He teases your entrance while you beg him, rubbing against your folds. You moan in relief when he finally thrusts home, stretching you and dragging against your walls. You rake your nails down his back, biting at his shoulder. “Gods, yes, that’s so fucking good. Don’t hold back. Unh, yes, yes, yes…” He is pounding into you now, setting a brutally quick pace- just like you need. You try to kiss him but you’re getting sloppy and your kiss is more just dragging your open mouth along his jaw, panting as he fucks you. “Din, I’m so close…”

“That’s good, you’re so good at taking this cock aren’t you, mesh’la? Me'copaani? Do you want me to tell you how I’ve fantasized about fucking you over the console almost since you came on board? Do you want to hear how good it feels to be buried in your cunt, with your tight pussy around me? Because it is good, Y/N, and I am going to fucking destroy you.”

You scream his name. “Gods, Din, I’m gonna come!”

He seizes you by the throat, not hard enough to cut off your air but more than enough to let you know who is in charge now. “I want to feel you come on my cock. Come on, cyare, give it to me. Come. Now.”

It’s the full on bounty hunter voice command that slams you over the edge. You come hard, shaking in Din’s arms and soaking his cock. You absolutely would have fallen without him holding you up. He fucks you through it all, and as the aftershocks roll through you, you realize the screaming urgency has finally quieted. You can just about remember talking him through his own release before slipping below the cool depths of unconsciousness.

—

“Y/N? Here, drink this.”

You blink awake and feel a cold glass pressed into your hand. You take a sip. The icy water grounds you, and you take stock of your surroundings. You’re curled up in the captain’s seat, warm under a slightly tattered woolen blanket, or maybe a cloak? It takes you a moment before you realize what else is different. You can see again. “Din?”

“I’m here.” His voice is distant, slightly fuzzed. You look around, seeing him once again hidden beneath the helmet. “How do you feel?”

You’re still restless, like some distant part of you needs to get up and run or fight or fuck, but your limbs are feeling a bit heavier now and it’s easier to breathe. “Better.” You lift the glass again, drinking the rest of the water like you’ve never tasted anything so sweet.

Din lays his hand on your cheek, and you’re relieved to find that at least this bit of him has not been covered up again. “You’re still running a temperature but it feels like it’s easing up.” He takes the empty glass from you, setting it aside before taking your hand and drawing you up. “Come on, let’s get you to your bunk.”

You rise, unsteady on your legs after several rounds of fairly vigorous sex. Din steadies your elbow, guiding you out of the cockpit. “Sick of me already?” You’re aiming for a light tone but you know you missed the mark.

Din turns you to face him and studies you for a moment. “Yeah. Probably going to drop you off on the next planet we hit.”

You narrow your eyes at him, looking at your own skeptical face in the reflection of his visor. “Oh yeah?”

He presses his forehead to yours, stroking your cheek with his thumb. “No, ner kar’ta.” You couldn’t tell before, but now you’re almost sure he’s smiling. “I think you’re stuck with me for awhile.”

_________________________________

Mando'a Translations mesh'la beautiful

Ibac’ner. Ni copaanir dinuir gar ner lalat akay gar jair. This is mine. Going to give you my tongue until you scream.

Jatisyc, ni larayc teh gar. Delicious, I (am) drunk from you.

Etyc dala dirty girl

Ori jate so good

Parer wait

Ke'pare wait (emphatic)

Me'copaani? What's this?

Ner kar’ta My heart

[minipliny]

I did a really elaborate rewrite in my head of "The Uncommon Prayerbook" to be a kind of Columbo/Dog Day Afternoon type cat and mouse game where

Davidson chases the shady stereotypical book thief Homberger arojnd trying to outwit and expose him but we gradually reveal that Homberger rather than being a 1920s antisemitic stereotype is like a brilliant academic mind who never got the job he deserved and then after immigrating turned to crime because his son is ill and needs a massive operation he can't afford (keeping all this secret from his wife) . He ultimately turns to Davidson for help due to being pursued by the vengeful royalist ghost of Lady Sadler because he is a Modern Man Not Believing In Superstition and no one else knows he stole the books and they have a dramatic showdown where Davdison pleads the case for preserving antiquarian material and he argues that the living are more important than the dead, Davidson knows nothing within his Oxbrifge bubble, and this anti artefact theft argument is deeply hypocritical from a. 20s Englishman....Davidson acquires a grudging respect for him but is unable to intervene or turn him aside from trying to raise the funds w the sale of the book....the white flannel ghost still appears but in the half obscured, horrified view through a window of Davidson and then in the end we reveal that Davidson has guiltily paid for the surgery himself and the equally brilliant son won a scholarship to Eton....Davidson regretfully buries all evidence of the father's crime but when the widow goes to view and wash his body she draws back the shroud and faints dramatically with What She Saw never revealed. Story opens with Davidson at an Eton cricket game years later as a cricket white clad lad vigorously tackles the son and he turns pale with shock and reminiscence. This is SUPER detailed in my head for some reason but shall not be written in full because ???? Why

[birb-boyo]

I don’t think I’m ever going to do the face at this rate(it’s been like a week💀)

So like

You can have this I guess-

@whiteperle3

I THRUST MY DEMON SLAYER OC AT THEE

I could give backstory but ion know that that’s necessary💀

[kursed-curtain]

1. Everything you made for fight club and war prize makes my heart soar. You breathed so much life into my silly OCs and turned flat cardboard cutouts into well-rounded three dimensional characters. How do you do it. Witchcraft I say.

3. I love the way you write the guards, they’re adorable. The interaction and the fambly feels. Also, your dialogue for odds is stellar and the inspiration behind my clumsy tackling of his character. Hes such a brat. I want to punt him

6. That dance scene between no1 and graham in war prize - i keep going back to it. Theyre both so happy to be together despite the circumstances. They missed each other so much. Let them smile for once! Ah! Lads!

7. That one picture of odds looming over graham and holding his mouth closed still makes my stomach clench. Odds you brat. 

8. Your design is fantastic, your interpretation of characters is lovely, i adore your skills with OCs, with developing and writing and building on them. So very jealous am i. Please let me have your skills, i need them /j

9. Amulent fic - no pressure, i know you’re figuring it out. But! The day you return to it is the day i will be a very happy bean. 

overall, just, ahh,, it's been wonderful workin with ya! Technically. Shady business deals in the desert.

All the stuff I do is mostly gifts in a technical sense. Built cuz I wanna help motivate all y'all to do what you love by showing that ^^ there's people out there who also love your works! :D and ofc it's more than just me who love y'all's stuff, I just like to show that in a physical way whenever I have the motivation to!

(plus it keeps me drawing on the daily cuz mmm brainrot)

I'm glad my guard stuff is gud! ^^ it's the kinda stuff that's easier to write because I'm,, not so secretly projecting onto them lmao. Also!! I love writing odds teehee but I could neverr write evens the way you do :0 I listen to more smug villains than quiet blunt villains. "It's easier than you would think, dear."

Also -gives you one (1) more braincell and a hug- thats all I can contribute in terms of skillz lol (that and... YouTube videos? I'm self-taught lol so I can -grabby- give stuff over if wanted) (cough cough Brooke Eggleston Character Design Forge and BaM Animation cough cough I watch too much of both constantly)

[azureflight]

1920s/Prohibition AU

So, @RGSpanner on twitter posted that ONE drawing of Tess/Anduin 1920s AU and it has consumed me. I have a whole premise that I don't know what to do with. Putting it out there in case someone wants to take it up and run with it.

Link to the OG fanart here:

https://twitter.com/RGSpanner/status/1432760945730785284/photo/1

Anduin is a young veteran of the Great War. He was either a med student or was planning to study medicine before the USA entered the war and he enlisted out of a patriotic sense of duty. He came back with shell shock and an overall diminished faith in humanity.

Tess is daughter of an old wealthy family, whose tolerance for her ambitions and freedoms ended with her college education. Now trapped with her parents, unable to work, being a flapper is her way of lashing out.

Genn, is the househead of old money, though the money part is largely diminished, due to his failures. Now in the early days of prohibition, he is being tempted to consider new “business” ventures.

Genn is an old friend of Anduin’s father and brings him home after hearing that the young lad is back from the war and isn’t doing all too great. In truth, he is projecting a lot of his own regrets and hopes about his own son, who had died in a fight outside of some night club almost a decade ago (This will become an important plot point later). He appoints Anduin to chaperon Tess, mostly because he is worried about his daughter, but also partially because he wants to give Anduin something to do, other than waste away.

Needless to say, neither of them are thrilled with this arrangement. Tess feels suffocated by what she considers to be overbearing of her parents. She is also offended by the assumption that she needs “protection” from this young miser.

Anduin for his part, can’t stand the people, the music, the noise, the lights, the dance or the conversation. But he does drink copious amounts of the illegal booze that flows through those parties. 

Naturally, things will escalate to a turning point when he drunkenly starts a fight and gets saved by Tess, and her previously unknown knife skills.

Sylvanas, is a former vaudeville girl who came to inherit the estate and the wealth of one of her old admirers through completely legal means, just trust me bro. (No, it’s not Liam. But Liam was a fan of Sylvanas back in the way. Nathanos for his part, was not a fan of Liam). Now, she is seeing what every other crook does, an opportunity to make bank through illegal liquor trade, and nothing will stop her and her former Texas Ranger bodyguard, who is totally not her lover.

Down in Tampa, the matriarch of the Proudmoore family is waking up everyday asking herself “why am I still alive?” Her husband is dead, her youngest son is missing during a sea voyage and her daughter is, well, dead to her, and her oldest had passed away some years ago fighting in some war somewhere down in Latin America. With all of her family dead, missing or estranged, Katherine is merely going through the motions, ignoring her so-called friend’s shady dealings at her own peril. All of that gets upended when her murderess daughter returns from her unofficial exile in England, with her missing son in tow.

Up in Washington, D.C. Shaw is sitting through a briefing on how to assist the Bureau of Internal Revenue in enforcing the Volstead Act. Having switched to the BOI from a military career, before this he had worked to infiltrate socialist/communist/anarchist movements to bring down those dangerous agitators, but now he is being told to infiltrate criminal gangs and apprehend drunkards. 

It will go smoothly and diligently, no controversy, no dangerous romance. It’s not like there is a charming little devil of a smuggler called Flynn Fairwind who will be working on a whole operation to bring rum from Cuba to Tampa, ha ha ha.(/s) 

Jaina is a suffragette who managed to get herself arrested. Her family pulled a lot of ropes to get her out and bring her home. Which wasn’t all that difficult with Daelin being a former governor of Florida. It was a whole drama and caused a lot of tensions at home. However, things took a horribly ugly turn when daddy realized his baby girl wasn’t just a suffragette but also was working together and even being friends with a negro. Needless to say, the head of a family that was plantation owners and Confederate officers just a generation ago, does not take kindly to miscegenation. 

He physically attacks her and she defends herself, the ensuing struggle ends with the accidental death of Daelin. The event breaks the whole family, basically permanently. Katherine resolves to hide it all and they pull some heavy favors with an old family friend (it’s Cyrus Crestfall) and pay a ton of money for a fake coroner’s report, to make it look like Daelin died of a heart attack. But it is done between the mother and daughter, and Jaina is not so kindly shipped off to England. She stays there, gets work as a teacher for a few years thanks to her education and when the war starts, she volunteers as a nurse. 

Really, I want to see at least one scene where Shaw mows down some gangsters with a Colt Monitor and one where Nathanos pulls a masterful ambush on cocky rivals and makes the Chicago Typewriter work in all its glory.

[fizzycherrycola]

PrUK / FrUK Historical Fluff [PART 2]

As a gift from France, England receives a pair of tickets to a spectacular exhibition in Paris. He decides to bring Canada along to the event and they explore the wonderous inventions amidst the backdrop of the Industrial Revolution. Click Here to Read from the Beginning

Industry and Grandeur - Chapter 2

Adjusting his top hat, England squints against the bright overhead sunlight. A grass-green parkette lawn plays host to the outdoor opening ceremony in front of a massive exposition hall.  

After a dignified orchestral performance, very important businessmen give very important speeches regarding the liberty of industry, the future of science, and so on and so forth. England tries to follow along, he really does, but he’s only ever had a rudimentary grasp of French and the announcers are speaking too quickly for him to catch anything more than snippets of their grand sermons. When the crowd solemnly applauds, signalling the end of the ceremony, he takes that as his cue and claps along with them.  

Now, everyone with a ticket must wait for the French King and his family to finish their private tour of the exposition before they may be allowed inside.

As the crowd disperses, England and Canada walk off together in search of a shady tree. A cacophony of conversations carry through the air. The turnout is impressive; dignitaries and entrepreneurs from across Europe speak excitedly in French, German, Italian, and even Russian. Their enthusiasm overflows, however despite the atmosphere, Canada’s energy is somewhat muted.

“Um, Arthur?” Canada says to England, addressing him by his human alias. “Why does France have a king? I thought with the Revolutions that had all changed.”

“Yes, well,” England says. “It’s a rather complicated situation.”

“Oh?”

“I can explain it to you, if you’d like. However, it may take a fair bit of time.”

Canada chews his lip and stares at the ground for a beat. “No, that’s all right. I was just wondering; how does France feel? I mean, Francis. How does Francis feel about it?”

“I haven’t a clue,” England admits. “It likely won’t be long before he finds us. If you’re curious, you may ask him yourself. Take care, though; it may be a sensitive topic.”

Canada furrows his brows. "Right. Maybe I’d better not, then.”

They slip into quiet, allowing the background ambience to fill the silence. A little frown has stuck itself to Canada’s lips and England instinctively scans the area for a distraction. Gradually, musical notes intermingle with chatter as the pair come across a public show in the park.  

“Have you ever seen a vaudeville act before?” England asks.

His ward blinks. “Vaudeville?”

England points to the dramatic production just ahead. By an intimate grove, performers dance about in flamboyant costumes and face paint, narrating comedic stories to a small audience. One of the actors, a chubby man in a massive coat, hollers and trips over his own feet. His display draws amiable laughter from the group of onlookers and even a few cheers.  

The frown melts from Canada’s face. As he wanders over to watch the show, England feels his shoulders relax. It may be silly to soothe a colony of Canada’s age, but he cannot help himself. Perhaps it is a leftover tendency from when the lad still played with toys and sniffled over a scraped knee. England observes Canada for a bit longer, before finding shelter in the shade of an elm tree nearby.

Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out his timepiece and grumbles, seeing that it is already a quarter to noon. Surely, the royal tour should be done by now. If not, then what on Earth is taking so long? He snaps the timepiece shut and unfolds his leaflet to find out what exactly will be on display at this exposition.

Flipping through its pages, England makes a valiant effort to decipher the French writing. With patience, he manages well enough. The papers explain that most of the exhibits are arranged within forty galleries inside the grand hall. Altogether, visitors must travel down eight kilometres of aisles to view all 3,969 displays. England squints at the page and rereads it twice. Indeed, nearly four thousand exhibits in eight kilometres. It is no wonder why the King’s tour is taking so long!

Slowly, the world drifts away as he continues reading about the many inventions and gadgets. The industrial machines are particularly fascinating. Mining contraptions and fabric spinners could prove incredibly advantageous to-

“Enjoying yourself so far?” whispers a syrupy voice.

England jumps. “Bloody hell!”  

A familiar chuckle flourishes and England already knows who the trademark sound belongs to. Huffing indignantly, England turns to face France. “Don’t sneak up on me like that, you frog.”

“I do not sneak,” France says with a wink. “I investigate quietly.”

Hand on his hip and head tilted, the nation of love grins playfully. Naturally, he is clad in the most opulent attire, sporting a tightly cinched waist, an ivory necktie, and flared frockcoat of a rich indigo hue. His sandy blonde, shoulder-length curls shine brilliantly; they are the only deviation from his otherwise modern appearance. No matter the fashion of the decade, he never cuts his hair shorter than a bob.  

England straightens his own outfit by force of habit. “To what do I owe the pleasure, then?” he inquires.

“Why, I am here to welcome my guests, of course!” France declares. “Or perhaps, just my one guest. Were you not able to find someone to join you?”

“Of course, I did,” England says. “It’s been a while since Matthew has crossed the Atlantic, so I sent a letter asking him to come with me.”  

“Ah, Matthieu! He is not in Europe just for this event, I assume?”

“No, that would be ridiculous. We’ve been working together to settle a few political matters, so he spent the past few weeks with me in London. He also had a meeting with the Queen and several members of Parliament.”  

“My,” France muses, “that must be quite intimidating for someone as young as he is.”

“Actually,” England murmurs, “he’s not so young anymore.” Admittedly, France had not seen Canada in some time. He had no way of knowing the maturing impact of 1812’s skirmishes. Weeks after the fighting came to a close, England asked Canada if he had any further concerns and, with a resolute fire so uncharacteristic of him, Canada avowed that America was no longer frightening.

A beat of silence passes before France grants England a sympathetic smile. “You seem a little somber, Arthur.” At this, England remembers himself; if France is pitying him, then he must truly appear grim.

“Nonsense,” he says. “You’re just imagining things.”  

France shrugs and shakes his head. “If you insist, cher.”

Applause rings out from the small audience nearby and England takes the opportunity to change the subject. “Matthew’s just been watching that performance over there.”

“Really?” France asks, scanning the crowd. “I do not see him.”

England turns and calls Canada’s alias. “Matthew!”

Immediately, Canada stirs to attention and upon making eye-contact, England waves him over. The young colony carefully slips through the huddle of people and hurries to them.

“Incroyable,” France remarks. “Who is this grown man before me?”

Canada’s grin bursts across his face. “Francis!”  

“Ce vêtement vous va très bien,” France says, gazing at Canada’s new outfit. (That clothing suits you very well.)

A rosy blush blooms over Canada’s cheeks. “Merci beaucoup,” he replies.   (Thank you very much.)

Immediately, France lights up. “Vous souvenez de votre français! Magnifique!” (You remember your French! Magnificent!)

“Oui!” (Yes!)

“Vous avez tellement grandi! Je ne peux pas croire que vous êtes plus grand que moi! Comment allez-vous?” (You have grown so much! I cannot believe you are taller than me! How are you?)

“Euh... Dernièrement, il y a eu des situations difficiles. Cependant, je ne suis pas différent de toute autre colonie. Nous avons tous nos défis. Dans l’ensemble, je vais bien, merci.” (Well... Lately, there have been some difficult situations. However, I’m no different from any other colony. We all have our challenges. Overall, I’m doing well, thank you.)

Squinting, France tilts his head. “Pardon?”

Canada flinches. “Ah, I’m sorry!” he squeaks, slipping back into English. “Did I mispronounce something? My French dialect has changed a lot over the years.”

France laughs and waves a hand dismissively. “There is no need to apologise. By the way, where is your little polar bear? The two of you were once inseparable.”

“I left Kumajiro at home in Montreal,” Canada explains. “Maybe I could bring him the next time I come for a visit?”

“Oh?” France says, smiling. “You would like there to be a next time?”

“If that’s all right with you.”

“It is perfectly fine with me, however....”

“Ah! Um....”

They both turn to stare expectantly at England. The abruptness sends him reeling.

His dear ward is asking to visit his fiercest competitor, which could easily become a knotty disaster. Though it is true that he invited Canada along for this occasion, it was not supposed to become a regular routine. Then again, France has been exceptionally courteous as of late and Canada does seem delighted to be here. Can it really be as risky as all that?

England glances at Canada’s doe-eyed expression and his defences crumble like a stack of cards.

“I’ll consider it,” he sighs.

Canada is positively radiant because England’s ‘maybes’ often equate to a ‘yes’. Pressing his lips thin, England prays he has not made an error in his judgement.

France whispers into Canada’s ear: “I think you could ask him for the stars, and he would try to capture them for you.”

Heat flushes to England’s cheeks. “Now, see here-” “Wait, wait, wait!” France implores, raising his hands in mock surrender. “I did not come here to tease or quarrel.” Despite his claim, the trace of a sprightly grin still adorns his face. “In fact,” France continues, “if you are not busy tonight, Monsieur Le Roi and I would be honoured to have you both join us for dinner.” He bows with the grace of a swan and England almost forgives his teasing. Almost.

Before he can consider a response, Canada gasps. “An invitation from the King, for us?”

“But of course!” France declares. “It is only natural that you meet him. After all, this entire exposition was made possible through his ringing endorsements.”

England worries his brows. It is a rare day for him to receive a summons from a French king. On the scarce past occasions that he did, casual pleasantries were not kindly exchanged. Despite this, he is in no position to refuse. Even outside of diplomatic circles, declining a monarch’s request is disrespectful and unwise. Also, Queen Victoria would likely chastise him if he were to pass up an opportunity to ‘improve Franco-British relations’, unlikely as it may be.

Then again, having been alive for generations brought about the understanding that not all monarchs are alike. Perhaps this King Louis Philippe I is an exception.

“Very well,” England says while crossing his arms. “I accept.”

France claps his hands with far more cheer than necessary. “Fantastique!” he exclaims. “You will not regret it - I have chosen the dinner menu myself! After the exposition closes, come to my King’s private room at the end of the great hall; we will meet you there. For now, I must leave to tell him you have accepted.”

Canada nods. “We will see you there, Francis!”

France begins to walk off, before suddenly turning back to shout, “By the way, you should be able to enter the venue soon! It may be a good idea to head to the main doors. Enjoy the exposition!” With that, he waves goodbye and leaves by prancing along one of the park’s cobblestone paths.

“I’ve only ever met my own monarchs,” Canada mentions quietly. He rubs the back of his neck and looks to England. “Is there anything I should know? How should I behave?”

Any lingering irritation evaporates from England’s chest. “You’ve got nothing to worry about,” he reassures. “Treat the King with the same respect as you did last week with Queen Victoria. The etiquette is quite similar.”

Canada sheepishly smiles. “I’ll do my best.”

Together, they head off towards the main entrance, stepping lightly across gravel trails and grassy lawns. At last, it is time to see what this grand exposition has to offer.

~~~ Author’s Notes

Louis Philippe I was the King of France for a short time. His reign is known as the July Monarchy, lasting from 1830 to 1848.

Vaudevilles! Originally called “comédie en vaudevilles”, they were musical comedy variety shows that emerged in Paris during the 17th century. Public outdoor performances were often done by vagabonds for tips.

Canada and the United Kingdom fought against America in the War of 1812. Some European historians see it as a minor skirmish, but for Canadians, it’s a very important part of their history.

“...at home in Montreal.” Canada mentions his home is in Montreal because, from 1844 to 1849, the city was briefly his capital. Today, it is Ottawa.

< Previous Chapter ... Next Chapter >

[magnoliasinbloom]

Lie To Me - 11

AO3 :: Previously

Jamie thinks his uncles might have kept closer tabs on him if he hadn’t acted so compliant in the last few years. Agreeing to marry Laoghaire, staying on at Leoch, keeping his head down. All the while, they’d let the cuckoo in the nest and he hopes he is preparing the massive downfall of the MacKenzie empire—with Claire’s help.

This is how he is able to create a fictitious acquisition meeting in London, regarding an up and coming author. The author is real, but the meeting is not. He has Louise, his executive assistant, register his schedule into the system, and book his lodgings for two days.

Claire books a room at the same hotel.

Laoghaire bids him farewell at their shared flat, glad to see him go; he knows she’ll spend these days with Joseph. He is happy for her. Now, Jamie boards the train taking him and Claire to London, sitting side by side, surreptitiously holding hands. He had tucked copies of the most basic documents pertaining to the investigation into Leoch’s business into his duffel bag.

“What do you mean, you’ve never toured London properly?” Claire leans back from her position tucked into Jamie’s shoulder to look at him in surprise.

“Aye, well, Mam and Da took Jenny and me when we were weans. We went to the Tower, the British Museum, the V&A and such, but I dinna really remember it.”

“Very culturally inclined, your parents.”

“My mam studied art history at uni. She was very much into art and history and culture and wanted her children to appreciate it too.” Jamie smiles. “Now, what made ye decide to be a doctor?”

Her answer is immediate. “Helping out at dig sites with my Uncle Lamb. I was always one of the few women there and I suppose caring for the people came naturally to me.”

“I admire ye, Sassenach. ‘Tis a noble calling.” Jamie lifts Claire’s hand to his mouth and presses a kiss to her fingers.

“It’s a hard one too. I’m afraid it takes up a lot of my time, days and nights, conferences, emergencies…” She wants Jamie to be aware that, no matter how much she cares for him, her calling to heal often consumes her. It’s something that Frank never understood.

“I dinna mind. I’ll take ye any way I can, Claire.”

X-x-X

They check into the Park Grand separately; their rooms are on different floors. Jamie lingers for a few minutes in the lobby while Claire goes up with her small suitcase. He wishes things were different—Jamie, unattached, a regular lad with a normal job, visiting London with his girlfriend, spending their nights in the same room.

Claire, for her part, closes the door to her own room, resting her palm against the wood, and wishes Jamie had followed her there. Their acquaintance and budding relationship are fraught with so many obstacles and complications, but she is determined to make something of it, to emerge victorious, to help the man she has come to love.

Frank has agreed to meet Claire at the bar in the Royal Lancaster Hotel. Jamie meets her in the lobby and together ride the metro as unobtrusively as possible to the designated location. Claire is nervous; it’s the first time in nearly a year that she’s seeing Frank, but the fluttering is tempered by Jamie at her side.

Claire recognizes Frank by the sharp cut of his hair; he’s sitting at a table in the middle of the bar, his back to them. With a deep, shaky breath, and a squeeze of Jamie’s hand in hers, she approaches and briefly startles her ex-husband with a quiet, “Hello, Frank.”

Jamie notes the way Randall’s neck stiffens and turns slowly to greet Claire. He does a double take when he sees Jamie beside her, holding her hand. He keeps an impassive face while Frank gives Claire a brief peck on the cheek and then gestures to Jamie.

“And who is this? I had the notion we would be meeting alone.” He has a good poker face, but Jamie’s is better.

“James Fraser.” He extends his hand and Randall grasps it out of courtesy, evidently trying to intimidate with the strength of his grip. Jamie matches it and is gratified to see him wince.

“Actually, Frank, he is the reason I’m here.” Claire sits at the table and plasters a smile when the server comes to take their drink order. “Two whiskies, please. Neat.” Left alone once more, Claire lowers her voice and says, “I hadn’t mentioned him before because I thought you might not want to see me.”

“I just didn’t think you would be that… quick,” Frank says, raising both eyebrows.

Claire’s cheeks color slightly, and Jamie suppresses the urge to punch Frank in the face. But his Sassenach is more than equal to the task. “You were quicker, I think, since we were still married.”

Frank offers a tight-lipped smile. “Touché.”

“Mr. Randall, the reason we’re here is that we need yer help with a delicate matter. It’s something that will benefit us both.”

“What is it you think you can do for me?”

“I work for Leoch Holdings.” Jamie senses Frank’s curiosity peak at the name. “My uncles own the business, and I have been made aware of many dealings that are less than… legal.”

“If it’s your uncles’ own company, why are you working against them?” Frank sips casually from a glass of white wine, but it is evident he’s interested.

“They are blackmailing me with false murder charges.” Jamie doesn’t blink even as Frank flinches and he sees Claire clutch her whisky glass tighter at the words. “There is corruption, crime, extorsion, ye name it. My godfather is working within the Glasgow police force to help me, and is in touch with Chief John Grey at the SCD.”

“If you have their assistance, why come to me?” Frank glances between Claire and Jamie, prompting her to reach for Jamie’s hand again and lay them on the table; their connection is evident, as is their support of each other.

“There are a great many people implicated, and there are precious few we can trust wi’ this information. Ye have access to certain resources we do not.”

“Do you have any documentation to go on? Something solid?”

Jamie pulls out papers from his coat inside pocket. “I brought these to get you started. I shouldna have to mention that it’s sensitive information, and the less eyes that see it, the better.”

Randall peruses the documents, rifling through the pages; his eyes widen as he reads the names Jamie has seen time and time again, almost unable to believe the scope of Leoch’s shady operations.

“This is quite an undertaking. Some of these people… the scandal would rock the nation.” Frank’s tone is noncommittal, and Jamie feels his stomach sinking.

“So ye dinna think it’s possible then,” he says dejectedly.

“I didn’t say that.” Frank is quiet for a few minutes, going over the papers once more. “From what I can gather, a key element is finding out where the money is going, all these names and payments… If we can find the accounts, we’d be in business.”

Claire tosses back her whisky. “It’s massive, Frank,” she says quietly, leaning in and he imitates her unconsciously. “There’s politicians, judges, police officers, money, extorsion… if you were to help Jamie—help us—and put an end to this, it will no doubt aid in your efforts to solidify yourself as a model MP. Maybe even PM someday.” She knows the prospect is like dangling a carrot in front of a horse. She recognizes the old gleam of a challenge in Frank’s eyes, and a small swell of relief takes hold inside her. If anyone can help them, it’s this man; despite the crumbled marriage between them, she can trust him with this. Frank seems to read her mind, and asks:

“Why trust me with this, Claire? After what I did to you?”

“Not only is your name not in the documents—and I didn’t think it would be—but I know exactly how important your political career is to you. Much more important than I ever was.” Claire’s voice is steadfast and Frank does not dispute her statement. “So, you’ll do it?”

“I will.” Frank tucks the papers into his own coat pocket, drinking the dregs of wine. “I believe I owe it to you.”

“You bloody well do, Francis Randall.” Claire and Jamie both feel that spark of hope ignite within, a way out of the dark tunnel Jamie has been in for years and that Claire has also chosen to walk.

As they prepare to leave, Frank remains sitting; Claire can feel his scrutiny, appraising them, judging, drawing his own conclusions about what Jamie means to her.

“Is it worth it?” Frank asks suddenly, his parting shot. Claire feels Jamie stiffen next to her and she is tempted to let him thump Frank, but doesn’t want to undermine their efforts quite yet. Claire holds Frank’s gaze and responds simply.

“He is.”