All The Way From Virginia?? What Made You Move To The Other Side Of The Country?

(1) Yao offers to bring Yong Soo out to spicy seafood hotpot for dinner bc damn that boys running himself thin as host. He goes to find Yao later and of course Kyu is standing there next to him, Hong Kong sitting against a nearby wall; they catch Taiwan and Japan on their way out and all six end up going out together. The lack of politics keeps the atmosphere warm despite the cold. The twins have teamed up in declaring their teams superior to Kikus and Yao pipes in about his being the very best;

(2) cheerful banter ensues all around the small table and eventually it all gives into praises and laughter. Movies and dramas get spoke of between talk of the Olympics and even a few good memories from centuries ago get slipped in. Sang Kyu says the already spicy dish could use more chili powder which gets a rise out of a few of the others and Yong Soo pushes more of the food in his twins direction as subtly as he can manage. Taiwan, Yong Soo and Hong Kong all seem to take a million pictures.

(3) Yong Soo is so tired from work but being here, surrounded by his closest family members in such a blissful scene, eating a talking together as if they did so every night, he feels better than he has in a century. For a moment he even wonders if this is what it feels like to be a regular human. In the morning he finds that Taiwan has tagged him in a series of pictures from the prior night and he loses his breath when he sees it-

(4) -Somehow she’d managed to capture the most perfect picture of him and Sang Kyu, shoulder-to-shoulder, cheeks red from the cold and noses dripping from the hotpot, natural smiles gracing them both in a moment of laughter. He saves the picture to multiple locations, never wanting to lose it, and his eyes begin to water when he thinks of what could have been.

This has been sitting in my inbox for several days because I just knew I had to draw it, and every time I read it I just about cry. ;u; Thank you so much for this wonderful little story, anon!

Princess Louise Margaret, Duchess of Connaught (right) and sister Marie, Princess of Netherlands. Early 1880s

Babey boy, babey,,,

Au is @linkeduniverse

My favorite thing about Anakin:

He walks like he owns the world, and he knows it, But he also knows there is a storm inside his heart, he tells himself he could be bad if it came down to it, but he is good, only good. Despite years of emotional trauma at the hands of Slavery and the Council, he is so full of love. Love for Obi Wan, who he knows didn’t always want him. Love for Ashoka, because he regrets every cold action towards her in the beginning, and she is the hotheaded energy he needs when being legendary is too much, and his level headedness when all he can see is red and feel is anger. And then there’s Padme. You’d think it’d be hard to love Padme. Padme grew up like her home planet, luscious and calm and easy, how could she ever understand the things he’s seen, how could she tame the demons in his nightmares when she’s never known his struggles. But it doesn’t happen that way, because Padme replaces the demons in his dreams, she takes ahold of this lost, wild boy and coaxes him to manhood, and it’s not the searing fire and constant struggle to breath Anakin has known all his life, even though it’s a secret, and it’s not always easy, Anakin can breath, and Anakin finds his serenity in Padme, so when Anakin does turn dark, all for the sake of saving her, he never sees it as bad, to his last breath, Anakin Skywalker is good, and kind to the deepest depths of his heart.

dad-and-son snapshot #3—(aka, additional Prohibition-era…incidents. this scene ended up going in a slightly different direction—but thank you so much for the inspiration @jessaverant lmao!)

New York City, 1924 redux

Alfred will admit that he had, as usual, mostly spaced out by the time he arrived at the British Consul-General’s residence on Fifth Avenue. Hey, he’d had had a shitty week and was only too happy to escape Washington D.C for a nice pad with a view of Central Park, alright? 

He sinks into an overstuffed floral chintz armchair, and takes in the large windows and expensive-looking furnishings. “Wow, Sir Gloster Armstrong is letting you have free run of this place? Damn.” 

“He’s on vacation and his name is Harry, you ridiculous lad. Gloster is his middle name.” Arthur retorts. Well, Alfred thought, that was still leagues better than Fly-from-Fornication.

Anyway, shit, these were really nice, Consul-General worthy digs. Even the floral chintz was kind of stylish with the rest of the well-appointed décor. In the dimming twilight of the encroaching night, the soft, warm lighting made the whole place exude cosiness. “Y’know, I could get used to living here, old man.” 

“You could also get used to cleaning your apartment,” his father remarks drily, getting out the decanter and several glasses. “Harry took pity on me upon hearing of my ordeal residing with you the last time around.” 

“What the fuck, man—I was an awesome host. You enjoyed getting smashed at those speakeasies I brought you to! The jazz was great too, you said so!”

Before Arthur can make his counterargument, they’re interrupted by the loud jangling of the telephone in the study. The older man clucks his tongue in annoyance and heads into the adjoining room to take the call. 

When Arthur doesn’t return within five minutes, Alfred glances around. Where the heck were the drinks? His father totally promised there would be great booze, and that nobody from the Consul-General to the house-staff cared. They too, being reasonable human beings, were unable to tolerate the barbarity of Prohibition, after all. Getting up, he spies a rather strange-looking bottle on the sideboard, positioned next to the other crystal decanters. There was no label, but it was obviously some sort of wine, packaged in a novelty, collectible bottle.

(Later, Alfred will blame it all on a combination of fatigue and the dim lighting inexcusably affecting his normally impeccable and flawless judgment.)

The seal of the bottle looks strange but is quickly dispatched by the bottle opener. The liquid sloshes into the glass easily—but it goes down hideously stale and viscous in his mouth. Fucking hell, it was disgusting—what kind of horrible wine was this? 

“You said there was good, finely-aged wine but this tastes like trash!” Alfred directs an accusing gaze at Arthur, who has just returned. 

But instead of launching into a long lecture about the art of wine-tasting and how Alfred lacked the requisite patience to appreciate fine wines older than his government or some other tedious bullshit—his father’s eyes only narrow in bewilderment as they fix onto the bottle Alfred has clutched in his hands. And then—much to Alfred’s annoyance—he bursts into wild laughter. 

“You absolute—absolute plonker, Alfred Bloody Fucking Jones—my word— the Curator will be furious but oh my, this is just too good—” His father is actually breathless. There are actually tears in the old fart’s eyes. 

“Care to get a hold of yourself and explain exactly what folly I have committed, old man?” He says sulkily, as he rinses his mouth out with water from a nearby jug of water. “Have I drunk toilet cleaner or liquid fertiliser or whatever it is that you Europeans routinely keep on your sideboards?” 

Arthur sniggers. He almost dissolves into another round of cackling, and only just manages to collect himself. 

“Oh, you drank finely-aged wine, alright. Just not the one I got for us—this one was found in the cellar of a Roman nobleman’s villa in Wiltshire. Somehow, it got mixed up and left behind instead of being packed away for delivery to your Met Museum—it’s on loan from us to the Roman gallery. Anyway—brilliant job, lad! It’s been mouldering away for some 1600 years!”

[This user believes platonic love is just as important as romantic love.]

for anon

am so out of practice…but anw. it’s been ages since i doodled mexico and one of her mums aka mexica who led the triple alliance/the aztec empire. 

The Girl at the Museum: A Zelink Modern AU

The Girl at the Museum FFN AO3

Word count: 10,344 Summary: “There was little to do on his long shifts at the museum, but he was happy to look at her and let himself craft stories about her life and his life and how one day they would intertwine in the most elegant way. Often times it felt like fate.” Link spends a summer working at a museum, Zelda is the mysterious girl who is always there. Zelink Modern AU Oneshot BOTW-ish

Today, Link imagined her as a foreigner.

She came from Termina, had a thick accent, and often said, “How do you say…?”  She was here for the summer on a research trip, and at the end of the season she would return to a small town in a distant country to write an obscure archeology book Link would one day find years from now, when she was just a distant memory.  She would bike in the early morning to a dusty library to write in a leather notebook and eat pastries her neighbor baked.  One day they would accidentally meet at a hotel bar, and she would find him charming and funny.

Yesterday, Link imagined her as a painter.

In reality, he knew nearly nothing about her.  Everything he did know he gleaned from watching her, and that was still barely any information.  He knew she absentmindedly ran her delicate hands through her long, golden hair when she was reading.  He knew she liked to braid it when she needed a break, and then let it loose when she biked away.  He knew her milky skin turned pink when she sat in the sunlight for too long.  He knew she preferred jean shorts and loose t-shirts with vintage lettering.  He knew she loved the museum.

Based off of her appearance, he assumed she had to be around the same age as him, or maybe he just wished it.  Was she also eighteen years old, just a few months away from attending university? Maybe she was deceptively young looking but actually worked in a bank and had a husband?  He constantly wondered.

At first he tried to control himself and actually do his job, but his job as a Visitor Services Associate at the Mila Vah Windfall Museum was boring. By the third day she was the only interesting thing he could see from the front desk, and so he finally gave up and watched her.

He often imagined her as a girl from his high school who was so shy that he had somehow missed her throughout the past eighteen years.  Then he would charm her and she would slowly become comfortable around him.  One day he’d drive her to the movies in the rain but they wouldn’t want to leave the comfort of the car, so they’d snuggle up and –

Link hadn’t meant to let his imagination run so wildly, but as the time ticked by each shift she seeped deeper into his thoughts until he spun an entire life story for her, many of which ended up with her enthralled by him just as much as he was enthralled by her.

Today she was sitting in the Wintergarden.  Link sat at the front desk, as always, and stared at her through the massive window across the lobby.  She sat cross-legged on the step of the small, stone fountain in the center of the glass room.  Sunlight streamed down from the windowed ceiling, slipped past the leaves of the enclosed trees, and cast dappled rays on her delicate form.  She was absorbed with a large book in her lap, so large that Link would guess it was a textbook.  Occasionally she would run her hands through her long hair and nibble at her bottom lip. Surrounded by luscious plants, vibrant flowers, and spotted sunlight, Link thought she looked like a princess.

Sometimes he imagined her as royalty, but those dreams always left him feeling distant and hopeless.

There was little to do on his long shifts at the museum, but he found he did not mind the solitary hours.  He was happy to look at her and let himself craft stories about her life and his life and how one day they would intertwine in the most elegant way.  Often times it felt like fate.

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Erzébeta and Vlad Adnan. Intro sketches.

My go-to insult is 'your face' and I'll mutter insults under my breath sometimes and today someone mentioned something about 'hot' so I was like "your face is hot- o wait. That didn't have the intended effect. Heckerdoodles. O no. O deer. Oops.