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About Traditional Art / Hobbyist Member Queen of ProcrastinationFemale/United Kingdom Groups :iconeffietrinketfanclub: EffieTrinketFanClub
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Yep, click to open the cascade of nonsensical and bloody fanart plus other crap that is my gallery!

And remember...If you can't say somethin' nice... by Prosper-the-XVIII

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Ch. 1

Stories such as this have been told before, and there is no doubt that they will be told again; only in different words; in different times; with different names. Different people.

And it is here that we meet said ‘different people’ in this particular story. what you are about to read is a story of three women; each so alike and yet so different – all with their lives – past, present and future – intertwined in a way impossible to pick apart. The unfortunate heroine. The depressive sociopath. And the evil queen of utilitarianism. Each dancing with their own devils in their own ways, and all so sure that they couldn’t possibly be linked in the ways that they so closely are.

Who is who shall soon become apparent, as will their lives to this point, and the destinies that they shall soon face. But that is our story. And why spoil it so soon?

_____________________________________________________________________
 
  Evelyn ground her teeth together, attempting to force her permanent scowl into something that at least almost resembled a smile as her colleagues chanted along to another tone-deaf verse of 'For She's a Jolly Good Fellow'. Her office had been bedecked with cheap paper streamers and plastic bunting, hanging from the bare walls and scattered over the cardboard boxes filled with framed family photographs and spare-drawer clutter. Her mahogany desk, which for the first time in forever was free of small mountains of unfinished paperwork - about time too, as she'd been beginning to forget that the desktop actually existed beneath the lot of it – which she had spent several hours the previous day monotonically clearing out in preparation for the thing going into storage - there was no need nor space for it in her Mayfair apartment -  had been made almost invisible once again beneath an array of floral arrangements that could probably rival the Royal Botanic Garden in size and a tray of slightly squashed cupcakes which someone had obviously picked up from Sainsbury's on the way to work. The yellow sticker proclaiming 'REDUCED TO CLEAR: NOW £1.79’ did nothing but to confirm the fact. Packed into the somewhat cramped office space were the handful of agents she had either assisted or befriended over the years, a few Q Branch technicians, '6's head honcho Olivia Hargreaves and a few other assorted staff members, all of whom were putting on a bad facade of sweetness and light as they battered on with the retirement do that it was quite clear that none of them could care less about if they tried. 

    The singing finished - thank the bloody Lord - and Olivia ('C' to the agents she commanded) tapped a false crimson talon against her plastic champagne flute, somehow managing to demand silence among the low hum of chatter in the room. She put on a plasticky-looking smile, raising her cup. Plasticky was the best way in which a person could describe her – materialistic and false. By no means was she an attractive woman in any sense – she possessed one of  the most atrocious dye jobs a person could imagine, and a last-century ‘my husband makes more than yours’ haughtiness about her that could make a person baulk. A time had come and gone where Evelyn had professed Olivia to be the human equivalent to Chinese water torture – utterly harmless in the long run, but so irritating she could probably drive a person to insanity. As said, that time was long gone. Why exactly is another story altogether, and one which made Evelyn grimace on the occasions that her mind stumbled across it.

 "I'd like to propose a toast," Olivia beamed falsely, glancing around the room until her gaze found Evelyn among the mob. "To one of the most dedicated members of staff I have ever had the pleasure to meet in my life; agent, mission controller, Chief of Staff and my would-be successor if she had not chosen to leave MI6 after fifty-one long and difficult years. To Evelyn Cameron, MBE." Evelyn shuddered as the last three syllables left Olivia's lips. The woman knew fine and well that her title was one which she bore on her name like a grudge. It was the element of botched repair about it – the fact that it was Olivia’s way of saying sorry without personal loss – that made her despise it. All the more reason, she supposed, for Olivia to say it. 
    "To Evelyn," A room full of voices droned back in a monotone. Evelyn coughed slightly, forcing a grisly thin-lipped smile, stepping forward so that she was next to Olivia. She walked with a not-so-subtle limp.

"Oh Lord, what do I say?" she gushed. She hoped that her attempt at sincerity looked at least slightly legitimate. There was truth in it all; her career had in fact been the best thing that had ever happened to her, and her experiences and the people she’d met (and, then again, lost) were beyond value. But she had no desire for any of the decorum and flamboyance; especially not from those who possessed no desire to be there in the first place. “Thank you all, and I can’t tell you all how much in words alone. This has been the best life I could ever have wished for, and with the best people – I couldn’t ask for anything more."

_____________________________________________________________________

    "I truly cannot thank you enough for all that you've done for this service, Evelyn. It truly is remarkable, your career. I mean, after 1996, I didn't expect to see you back here again; nobody did, I don't think," Olivia glanced up at her, the room with about half as many people now in it than had been earlier, a sizable chunk of them having left to catch the Tube home before rush hour set in.     
    "Olivia, could you possibly do me a favour?" Evelyn sighed, leaning against her desk. Her knee really was giving her hell now, but she couldn't walk out of her own retirement party, regardless of her excuse. 
    "Yes?"
    "Please, stop talking. Essentially, you are an oxygen thief. First of all, you don't have to pretend like this in front of me when it’s just us. I know exactly what you think; it doesn’t take a psychologist to read you. I also know everything that’s happened over the years concerning myself - as does everyone else in the room now - and you've got absolutely no need to keep going on about it. While you haven't spent a day in the field in your entire life, thus you haven't anything of the same ilk to speak of, you don't see me standing waxing lyrical about your various cock-ups, now do you?"
    The poisoned dwarf glared. “Oh, grow up, Evelyn. I’m not going to account for whatever it is you’re doing, be it wallowing in self-pity or fishing for attention. It has been fifteen years and more; can you not bloody well let it go?"
   "You appear to forget that the only thing about the entire thing not caused by you is that you weren't physically holding the gun." 
    "It was your negligence, Evelyn – while half of the UK at the time refused to believe it, I wasn’t at fault. Can you not just appreciate that I've stood trying to keep a straight face while-"
    "Oh, go and shove your head up your backside, why don't you?" Evelyn scoffed, tossing her hair out of her face with contempt. "You can accuse people of anything and everything in order to save your own skin; it's not your most endearing trait, I'll tell you that much."
    "Well, neither is your incessant implication that you are infallible, and that everything I touch dies."
    "Oh, please, I-"
    "Remember what happened last time you swore by your flawlessness? A woman died, and because you ‘wouldn’t’ cut a deal with terrorists. She could have come back alive, Evelyn, and it was only you that stopped her."
    "She wouldn't kill herself, and they wouldn't have killed her. They wanted to-“
    "To what? So you think they let her walk free when it was over and done with? After they’d extracted what they wanted to from her?"
“Well, while probably not parallel with the reality, I like to hope so.”

Olivia raised an eyebrow. She was considerably older than Evelyn, who was the wrong side of sixty years old  – the reason it wasn’t her retirement being celebrated was that she was stubborn as an ox (and most of her superiors were somewhat afraid of her) - and it was this among a number of other reasons that made her air of ludicrous superiority almost excusable. “Well, Evelyn, to put it in your words; ‘you do not exist in a vacuum, and your actions, or lack of thereof, can have pretty monstrous consequences outside of the bubble you appear to exist in’. You of all people should know that.”

The decision was made there and then by Evelyn that she wouldn’t waste any more of her breath; the more uneducated individuals among us would say that perchance she knew she was fighting a losing battle. But this was not the case. Olivia had a way with conversations; she twisted words and took chunks out of context to divert from the fact that she was the one to blame. It was this that Evy attributed to the fact that the woman hadn’t been fired as of yet. Shooting Olivia the evils as she gathered her bag and jacket – what she had been considering doing before the cursed soul had so kindly interrupted her getaway – Evelyn left her office for what she’d planned would be the final time if she was so lucky, trying her hardest to stride evenly and keep her limp under control.

Leaving with her dignity intact was a concept she’d tossed out the window a while ago. However, she would be damned if she left looking as weak as she was.

_____

Meanwhile - In an abandoned hotel on ghost island somewhere in the rough vicinity of Macau, China

Elsewhere in the world, it was a different time altogether, and the dawning of a new day.

And this was when a Ms Rana Silva woke up. Her name was not one she had been born with, nor were any of her personality traits – her nervous disposition; her theatrical arrogance; her habitual enjoyment of isolation from others, and of course the fact that she was a blatant misanthropist – and they were not ones she had acquired by choice. Yet they were the ones that she was stuck with. Oh well. C’est la vie.

 She didn't even have to glance at the glowing LED display of her alarm clock or even raise her head from her silk pillow to tell that it was well before five o'clock in the morning. Oh well. She wasn't even going to bother trying to fall back into a nightmare-fuelled sleep. The early hours of the morning had long since become her standard rising time. Besides, as someone who suffered from a horrific case of post-traumatic stress disorder, mixed through with a heavy dose of insomnia, midnight to five AM could be considered a decent night's sleep.  

    She sat up, running her hands through her mussed platinum-blonde hair and stretching her arms above her head. Her shoulders gave a satisfying cracking noise, and she smiled and groaned with a sort of pleasure in spite of the pain. Over the course of five months of absolute hell, so many bones in her body had been fractured, displaced and misaligned that it was almost difficult to move at all without some part of her body making some sort of popping sound. However morbid they may be, she had to allow herself to take some enjoyment from the things she did every day in order to suppress the urges to destroy herself. Depression was a heartless creature that she found herself fighting a constant battle with. No matter how much she told herself it was imaginary, it was forever there trying to hand her a noose, telling her that all she touched turned to dust, and that it’d be kindest simply to euthanize herself. Of all the things which Rana hated about herself – and there were many, many of these – her mind was almost certainly top of the list.

This, however, was just her life. She had one hell of a messed-up body, more mental disorders than she could count, and a pharmacy’s worth of prescription drugs (and on top of this, booze and cigarettes) to try in vain to correct them. It wasn’t pleasurable, nor was it easy, but it was what she had been dealt.

Some are born filled with hatred; others have hatred thrust upon them. With no shadow of a doubt, Rana fell within the second margin.

She wasn’t pleased about it, or proud of it. But that was how it was.

 

Waltzing with Lucifer
Chapter 1.

This is the original Rana story :la: And I now have seven weeks of doing absolutely nothing. Thus I can try and complete this, as I left the original essay version (which featured only Rana and a brief mention of Olivia and Evelyn) kind of open-ended as I'd gone 10 pages over the specified length when I decided to leave it ^^;

EDIT: And my god, is it a huge one. I was massively unhappy with the intro, the end and Olivia and Evelyn's exchange - all of them gave everything away upfront, and I am attempting to entice my readers. So they were nixed and/or edited beyond recognition, and I've added more description and some indirect stuff for the sake of effect.

Until I've edited the remaining chapters, I ask of you PLEASE do not read the next two of you haven't already, as I'd bet my hat there's enormous continuity errors, and I will be changing almost all of Evelyn's segment. Thanking you all muchly. 
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The scuffle it had taken to keep him from meeting with the same fate that had taken the life of his groupie had left him with a small gash just above his left brow that dripped a steady trickle of blood down his damp face. Riff Raff had been overpowered, his weapon rendered useless, and he and Magenta hadn't dared move a muscle since Columbia had fallen. 

While his master had attacked the mutinous handyman - half in self-preservation and half in rage at the fact Riff had thought he was allowed to destroy what was not rightfully his - Rocky had attempted to cower behind Janet, although while Frank had been unaware, she, her...male and Dr Scott had fled (in spite of the fact that they were partially nude and, in two of three cases, in drag) leaving the perpetually bamboozled Adonis standing looking pathetic and afraid, still in the center of the stage. 

"You killed her..." Frank's bloodied, partially made-up glance fell on the offender after he'd spent a while mentally debating whether or not he should comfort Rocky. He'd decided against. 
"Master-"
"Do I look as if I want to hear any of it?" Frank snarled, trying and failing to take a decent look at Columbia's frighteningly still body, lying face up across the floor. Her eyes were half-shut, her mouth ajar; her limbs spreadeagled with one hand across her face. He had to look in order to accept the reality. But he couldn't. He, Dr Frank N Furter, prince of the planet Transsexual in the galaxy of Transylvania - shameless destroyer of the hearts of man, woman and whatever else he could find - couldn't bring himself to keep his eyes upon the corpse of the girl he could have sworn to the Lord he didn't give a shit about.

The stillness was what made it so unsettling and strange. She'd been so energetic and fidgety to the point it was almost obscene - even in sleep, she was never unmoving, constantly wriggling and muttering under her breath. But now...not a thing. 

He cast Magenta and her groveling brother aside, treading with his legs shaking at the knees towards Columbia. He smeared some of the blood across his cheek with the back of his hand, numb and unflinching to the rest of the world, as if he were momentarily existing within a dream. 

He had always been so vile to the child. He'd blown her off more times than he could count. Worse still, he'd insulted and abused her when another caught his attention or he grew sick of her, and he hand't felt even a twinge of guilt as he'd heard her making excuses about the bruises to Magenta the next day. Yet she'd always come straight back when he called, like some kind of unconditionally affectionate puppy covered in sequins. He had viciously murdered her boyfriend - the only individual who had cared a jot about her in the final chapter of her short life - right in front of her eyes, yet she'd still virtually forgiven him for it - or so it seemed to him at least, - even after she'd been tricked into eating said boyfriend. 

When she and the servants had come through the hole in the laboratory wall and she had aired her opinions for the first time,. she had spoken nothing but truth to him. But it hadn't been truth he hadn't wanted to hear, and what had he done but turned her to stone and forced her to parade herself in the floor show that had ultimately killed her. 

Ultimately, she had died for him. Had she not screamed - deliberately or not - it would be his corpse sprawled on the floor in place of hers. She would still be happy in her bedazzled, hyperactive, tap-dancing existence, and he would be...well, he didn't care to think. 

And what exactly had he done to deserve her sacrifice? Fuck all for all he knew. He had no idea. What exactly had she seen in him? Even he - his own single greatest admirer - was struggling to see his redeeming qualities. 

He was on his knees now, and after the obligatory closing of her sightless eyes, he found himself clutching her hand in his; he felt ill inclined to do anything more. She deserved better.

She was still sopping wet, only now stone-cold to the touch and completely inanimate. Frank had not cried once since the age of twelve years old, and he prided himself on the fact. But even as he told himself that she mattered nothing to him; that he had Rocky; that he didn't need her; that she was in a far better place - he was beyond any sort of lies he could come up with and force himself to believe as the truth. 

For the first time in a very, very long while indeed, on the evening of the absolute whirlwind of a day that had confounded, shocked, amazed, ruined and ended several people, himself included, Frank N. Furter shed a tear. And over one who he'd been sure he had no care for at all in the world. 

He knelt on the stone floor, riverlets of tears and eyeliner and blood streaming down his face, shaking and weeping and holding the dead hand of the girl who'd given his life for him. 

Murmuring helplessly, he brought his face an inch from hers, though he didn't allow his poisoned lips to touch her. Hos voice was a whisper; barely existing, and inaudible unless you were centimeters away from him.
"I'm sorry, Collie...I truly am..."
One for Sorrow
Does this win the award for biggest cringe I have ever written? I think so. 

Whether or not Frank is a tad OOC, I don't know. I am a great believer in and lover of Frankumbia, so there. 

I wouldn't have liked RHPS ro end like this. However, it's better than the one we got. Ideally, kill Rocky in order to make a point, and leave Collie the fucking fuck alone. 

:iconcolumbiaplz: Look at that lil' face - did she deserve what she got? I think not. 
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You walked into the party
Like you were walking onto a yacht.
Your hat strategically dipped below one eye,
Your scarf, it was apricot.
You had one eye in the mirror
As you watched yourself go by.
And all of the girls dreamed that they'd be your partner....

You're so vain,
You probably think this song is about you.
You're so vain,
I bet you think this song is about you,
Don't you?

- You're So Vain, Marilyn Manson feat. Johnny Depp 

At the first glance, he had been perfect. Sexy, suave, the best lover she had ever come across in her life....and the only one who happened to be a transvestite at that.
His true colours had come on later.
The manipulative shithead who used and abused her had stolen and broken her heart, and he knew it, too. Every part of her fucking hated him. But even more loved him for everything he was, and this confused and disgusted her. He had this ludicrous effect on everyone who he wished to bed at some point; they were putty in his hands within minutes. Unsurprisingly, she had been no different; blind, she had let him chew her up and spit her out twice and more, and she hated him and herself for it now. She had loved him, she really had. She should have known better.

______

I'm checking out to the heavens above,
Punched in the teeth;
The teeth by love...

-Punched in the Teeth by Love, Mötley Crüe

She had really gotten a raw deal with him. Her sister, for all her obnoxious shittiness, had been onto something at her wedding reception when she'd had a dig about how he only wanted her for her money and all of the usual bollocks that siblings told their youngers at their weddings when they didn't like their in-laws to-be. Loathe as she was to admit that Josie had been right, this was the case.
They slept back-to-back; they seldom spoke unless they had to; their lovemaking was tedious. It had been customary to their marriage or in order to make up after fights; at any rate not from love; every time, she faked it or imagined herself in the arms of Tim Curry or someone like that; occasionally both if he was particularly useless. She didn't hate him. But my god, was she fucking miserable.
______


I want your whiskey mouth
All over my blonde south
Red wine, cheap perfume and a filthy pout
Tonight bring your friends
Because a group does it better
Why river with a pair?
Let's have a full house of leather...

-Heavy Metal Lover, Lady GaGa

Fucking was meaningless time-passing to her. As long as they weren't diseased or dead, anyone at any given time was more than welcome. She had no regrets about any of it. The fact she was always on tour meant she'd probably never see them again unless they were of the particularly clingy groupie disposition. Her stand-out favourite had been the LSD-fuelled foursome with a blitzed roadie, Shakira, and a male stripper who she'd had  dancing onstage during her shows.  Thanks to the lack of compassion and the hundreds of one-night stands and quickies in   bathrooms, her only regular was the young, delicious Mok; nineteen, built like a brick shithouse and with a rather lovely voice too. She'd never go so far as to say she loved him; she had few feelings of compassion for anyone - but he was fun. She liked him. Until he stole her drugs and booze; that was where the problems came up. She fucked for pleasure, and for fun. Love was a load of shit if your name was Marilyn Manson II. Sex, however, she would confess was rather enjoyable.

______

Bashful Betty, such a bondage brat
Dressed in latex and coated in sewer rat.
A serpents tongue, calculating mind,
Gets top dollar for the hip shake divine.

Look to the sky,
There's no rain in sight,
Better wear your rubber boys,
If Betty is your date tonight.

My honey, it's how ya makin' money,
Boys call ya 'Hell on high heels'.
My baby, the way you walk it, talk it,
Town calls ya 'Hell on high heels'...

-Hell on High Heels, Mötley Crüe

She hadn't been sold as 'hell on high heels' to potential customers by her owner for nothing. For a heroin pusher who'd been smoking for twelve years and whored herself out to the horny working class for a living, she could certainly be worse in beauty. For a lesbian who worked in the sex trade almost exclusively with men, she could be worse in bed.
This had been the second thing Silva had complimented her on. The first was  her name.
"Sévérine? And how incredibly severe you are, darling; very befitting. I like it."
The second had been on her prowess and delight in working with her first female client in years. Silva had purred with pleasure under her expert touch, and to say that the blonde hand't given her some thrills in return would be a lie.
When Silva had offered her an exit, she would have been insane to have refused.
The truth behind the bleached-blonde Aphrodite was revealed soon thereafter...

______
Don't break my heart,
And I won't break your heart-shaped glasses.
Little girl, little girl,
You should close your eyes.
That blue is getting me high...

-Heart-Shaped Glasses, Marilyn Manson

Pink-haired, high-voiced and a perfect mix of cute and sexy, he loved her to death. She was a lot of firsts for him. The first girl he had ever made love to in a cinema (not terribly subtly - they'd been kicked out - but it was the first time nonetheless.) One third of his first threesome - Frank had of course been the extra body, and the event had occurred per his request. The first person he had ever said 'I love you' to meaningfully. There were the high-school flings; the summer romances, and the one-offs with the sleazy hussies he seemed to attract somehow, and he'd spoken the words then to keep them happy, or in the heat of the moment.
She'd been wearing the most ridiculous outfit on their first meeting; a nightshirt, Mickey Mouse ears, high heeled Mary-Janes, fishnets, and these little red heart-shaped aviators. She'd worn them again at his request on their first date after they'd declared themselves as officially in a relationship (the same one as the movie theater incident) and the flirtatious little comment he'd passed in response to her playful advances in the ticket line he liked to believe was what had gotten him laid that night.
"Do you love me?"
"Don't break my heart and I won't break your heart-shaped glasses, sweetheart."

______

My old man is a bad man,
But he got a soul as sweet as blood-red jam,
And he shows me,
He knows me every inch of my tar-black soul.

Light of his life,
Fire of his loins,
Keep me forever, tell me you own me.
Light of your life,
Fire of your loins,
Tell me you own me...

-Off to the Races, Lana Del Rey

Love is a strange and unusual emotion which enslaves thousands falsely every second of every day, and while it was not a beast he liked to let on he had been bitten by as of yet, she certainly knew he had been. He was a thief who had her heart, and knew it too. He denied to anyone but her that he was in love; however, impenetrable bastard though he was, she could read him as if he were a book. His connection to her lay unrivaled by any other; his marriages and affairs had been to create an heir, and from then on to fulfill his ridiculous sex drive; she was the first and last he had ever genuinely kissed or professed love to. She would love him until the day she died, although she knew fine well that he would be extinguished long before her. Still, she would say she'd die without his love; his touch; his embrace - without him.  Crazy, impractical and for the most part secret though their love was, it was the truest thing she knew in her life of fucked-up, over-dramatized life of celebrity and wealth. And quite easily the best, too.
Shuffle Challenge
Much the same as the last, only I left myself with only the amount of time each song played for to write the stories, thus the lengths (or lack of thereof) of each. 

The Punched in the Teeth by Love one is about Evelyn and Matthew, in case I didn't make it clear. The Tim Curry comment was me going 'now...who was popular and considered attractive in the 80's?'. I have a dumb mind. 
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Cigarette and Hush by Prosper-the-XVIII
Cigarette and Hush
Yes, this looks almost exactly like the Frank drawing I just posted. Oddly enough, I drew this one first. 

The filter I used turned her blonde, which I guess is a good hing. The drawing is really black and white, with the exception of her lips and the background :P
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You're So Vain by Prosper-the-XVIII
You're So Vain
(I did a shuffle challenge wile I was away, which I'll post in a moment, and there was a Frankumbia snippet in there to the above song) 

Frank pen drawing. It's fast approaching Halloween, so it's acceptable to be overly excited about TRHPS now (I tell myself that; I don't think it is...)
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deviantID

Prosper-the-XVIII
Queen of Procrastination
Artist | Hobbyist | Traditional Art
United Kingdom
:iconuparrowplz: This means Scotland curse those stupid bastards for voting 'No'
Ohai! :iconexcitedhiplz:

I'm Prosper, the Queen of Procrastination and....actually, that's about it...

I'm a substandard artist and alright author. I can do makeup sometimes, I cosplay once in a blue moon, and that's about it. Very unsopectacular teenager who needs to get a life outside of music, Netflix and Rocky Horror. Bleh.

Aside from this, I love the British hospital soap opera Casualty (especially the character Dixie, who is a paramedic), James Bond, Wreck-It Ralph, The Hunger Games, marilyn Manson, Joan Jett and The Rocky Horror Picture Show. At present moment in time, ESPECIALLY The Rocky Horror Picture Show :icondrfranknfurterplz:

That said, enjoy your time here in my special little corner of the Internet which you have no doubt accidentally stumbled into, and don't forget to wipe your feet on your way in.

Oh, check out my Tumblr as well - it's suicide-by-cyanide.tumblr.com. If you want Rocky Horror, Marilyn Manson, Stanley Tucci, Sphynx cats and other such shit by the truckload, it's the place to be :XD:



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Interests
Hello there :meow:

I've recently started working on my Bronze Duke of Edinburgh Award -  whether or not this is going to be a huge issue in terms of my submission patterns I highly doubt. 

Actually, it will. But in a good way.

For a part of the award, you have to spend three months working on a skill of your choice. I chose writing. So, as a part of it, I aim to write at least 10 chapters of Waltzing with Lucifer. The swearing will have to go, but that aside, it'll mean more of the story. Now, I'm going to PG-ify the existing chapters, then try and get myself to stop being so fucking useless and write more of it.

Chao,
Prosper xx

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:iconmysticdefendermila:
MysticDefenderMila Featured By Owner Oct 4, 2014  Hobbyist
Hi there! I'm a friend of CelticWarriorMoon and I just want to let you know that I am writing a Wreck-It Ralph fanfic and thinking of putting Calhoun-related headcanons. She told me that you were making Calhoun-related headcanons and I'm thinking of applying my headcanons to my fanfic. Just letting you know.
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:iconprosper-the-xviii:
Prosper-the-XVIII Featured By Owner Oct 5, 2014  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
Okay, that's awesome :XD: If it's of any use to you, I have a journal of Calhoun headcanons somewhere if you dig about a bit :)
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:iconcelticwarriormoon:
CelticWarriorMoon Featured By Owner Sep 29, 2014  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
Why did you put "a substandard artist and alright author" on your deviant ID? You're an amazing artist and author, don't doubt yourself! :D Just saying :)
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:iconprosper-the-xviii:
Prosper-the-XVIII Featured By Owner Sep 29, 2014  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
I have minor issues with making myself look better at things than I actually am ^^; also, I think it's almost motivation for myself to get better
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:iconcelticwarriormoon:
CelticWarriorMoon Featured By Owner Sep 29, 2014  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
That's alright, I feel that way too! :XD:
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:iconelisa2b:
Elisa2B Featured By Owner Sep 1, 2014  New member
thank you so much for the fave on my Rocky Horror Picture Show fanart! It means a lot to me :aww:
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:iconprosper-the-xviii:
Prosper-the-XVIII Featured By Owner Sep 1, 2014  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
You're very welcome ;)
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:iconcelticwarriormoon:
CelticWarriorMoon Featured By Owner Aug 27, 2014  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
Hey Pross :D Just felt like dropping by. What's up? :)
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:iconroseblue18:
Roseblue18 Featured By Owner Aug 14, 2014  Student General Artist
Thanks for the fav :D
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:iconevanescence412:
Evanescence412 Featured By Owner Aug 4, 2014  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
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