shifting sands | setomu

  • Pairing: SetoMU
  • Word Count: 279
  • Rating: T
  • Notes: Seto has wings.
  • Warning: Mentions of depression.
  • Summary: Seto learns that sometimes… humans get sad, more so than God ever intended them to be.

[ao3]

alright i’m gonna go do a thing because i am mind-numbingly bored:

i will write drabbles of any ship that doesn’t include ryan, adam, or jerome if it is requested in my ask box. yes. ask me maybe?

i can still write gen fic to those characters but yeah idk 50/50 chance depending on if i feel like it

Anonymous asked:
Well for now anyway, I missed seeing your posts on my dash

Thank you uwu I hope I don’t disappoint

Anonymous asked:
I see you are back

Not really.

Three decades ago, London was stolen by bats. Dragged deep into the earth by the Echo Bazaar. The sun is gone. All we have is the gas-light of Mr Fires. But Londoners can get used to anything. And it’s quiet down here with the devils and the darkness and the mushroom wine. Peaceful.

You wake in a cold, damp room. You can hear a drip, drop, drip as water falls from the ceiling and onto your cheek, possibly the cause of your wakefulness. The first thing you feel is how dirty you feel, from the grime in your nails to the disordered state of your hair to the clothes - now more appropriate to deem as rags - you came with since you Fell. Past this, your first thought is to recall who you are before.

The first that comes is your name, Mitchell Hughes. You remember seeing and basking in the ambience of palm trees and vibrant colours of sunsets and the stark white, blue, black of Northern winters. You remember your ability to appease and delight, and how you oft use these to your own advantage. You suppress a grin at such cases, before it sobers with the thought that you cannot recall how you landed yourself in such a sorry state.

Ah well, you stand and dust off what dirt and dew you can to make yourself respectable. More time to ponder upon that in a later date, outside of this godforsaken place. Your watchful eyes spot a gaoler doing his - her, perhaps - rounds, humming as they twirl their formidable weapon. You smirk, because a gaoler means that there is a person under that suit of brass, and a person you can manipulate for your own advantage.

You intake a sharp breath, meaning to catch their attention, and make yourself as presentable as possible in such an unflattering attire. Your nostrils flare like that of a predator when they prepare for a hunt. There they are, coming as close as they can through two layers of armour and a set of iron bars. Lights, camera, action.

How To Break a Team Crafted Member

avecpardonplaysminecraft:

tcfangirl:

If there are multiple universes, that means there would be a universe where merome and skylox are canon, you could date/marry/have a family/frick frack/live with your favourite member of team crafted, you would be related to anyone of the group, and yet, no one see’s it in our universe. The fan fictions and drawings would be REAL photos of them. Everyone was able to meet them with no hassle. This is possibly happening right now, and you would never know.

Don’t go to the universe generated by my fics. 50/50 shot a sentient computer virus will crawl out of Minecraft and into your head and if you don’t get Adam to sing to you quick enough, you’ll end up on a murderous rampage through a mall or something.

Well, there’s a 70/30 chance that it’s either heart-wrenchingly tragic and sad or just plain fluffy. Go figure.

Friends, sorry for being the bearer of bad news.

But I’m going on a hiatus. Why?

  • The fandom has just been a shitstorm lately.
  • I haven’t been feeling it.
  • School is an absolute pain.

Maybe I’ll come back, maybe I won’t. Let’s just see what happens next, yeah?

Anonymous asked:
Well, if you really want to: Explain to me the superiority of Match over Merome.

manzini:

hahaha if you insist~~ (i kid, i’m super eager to do this)

Read More

hashtag this is why match is otp

spread your wings, my little butterfly - a fem!skydoesminecraft au

"you gotta draw the line somewhere. what can I tolerate today? this, this, not that. never fucking that. draw the line somewhere.” she tells herself this every day when she looks at the dark circles in her eyes and her paling complexion and the bits of mascara that never got washed out before she passed out on her bed last night

it’s a busy life for ada, and she couldn’t love and hate it any more if she tried. class in the morning, practise in the afternoon, homework at night, gigs in the early morning, her life is set in constant motion by the only thing that’s keeping her alive: music.

if there are lyrics of it or you can notate it to her, she’ll sing it. there’s no such thing as discrimination on her turf, with plays from wicked to sound of music to rock of ages under her belt, and photos from gigs with her fulfilled smile and acoustic guitar, and shaky camera captures of a girl stood atop a cafeteria table rapping the latest eminem hit

yeah, you could say ada’s a damn talented person all around, but like she says everyday - she has to draw a line somewhere. the thing is, that line never gets drawn. her  life is constantly in motion and it’s not gonna take too long before she falls apart and burns out in the whirling tornado that is, ironically, her life

and if you think she has friends to keep that from happening - think again. because she hops around from genre to genre to gig to stage, she doesn’t quite have the time for friends. either she just doesn’t have the time to hang out with them, or they’re too jealous/intimidated to be her friend. it’s a sad life, but she lives. probably.

on top of that, her parents couldn’t care less about her. with their businesses and “she’s 17 years old, she can take care of herself!” and the fact that she outright rejected the idea of getting into businesses herself, why should they? her life is a solitary one, despite the amount of people that cheer her on and clap for her when she takes her final bow.

it’s lonely, being in the spotlight, but it’s the life she chose as a performer. every night, however, with every moment she gets to be alone without people giving her smiles or glares or reactions to her performance, she whispers it like a mantra: “you gotta draw the line somewhere” and perhaps that’ll keep her going, for now.

If that’s not love, then I’m misinformed.

@theme