*to be read in horse voice*


Imagine Thranduil taking a walk in the forest when it was still healthy and coming across you, singing a beautiful song to the trees and creatures.


She held massive amounts of love in her heart and she would often spend days alone in the forest, trying to heal it from the dark magic that may upon it.

She would take books and read fairy stories to the trees and the creatures. I had often insisted in accompanying her for protections sake but she would always refuse.

I would sometimes hear faint whisps of her beautiful singing voice as she sang to the forest creatures.

But this time, she had left the woods behind her completely and all I could do was wait for her safe return.

What felt like an eternity passed before I heard the familiar hoofsteps of her horse.

I ran to the gates as swiftly as I could.

To my joy and happiness there she was. Not a day older than when she had left.

I looked her straight in the eye and she smiled a smile that looked powerful enough to banish all darkness from Middle Earth.

She waited until we were sufficiently alone before she ran into my arms.

We knew we could never be public

“ The forest! It spoke to me, my King! It told me of the times you spend there. Talking to the trees like I do. They told me.. And I hope I’m not being improper but… they told me.. that you have feelings regarding me. ” she blushed as she stood in my arms which were still tightly wrapped around her.

“ It is true, my fair lady. I also have something to tell you. Come. ” I said, leading her to my chambers where my specially crafted token lay in my bedside cabinet.

I offered her to sit on my bed whilst I produced the blue box containing her gift.

She sat and ran her fingers along the intricate carving of my bed posts.

I held the box in hand and cleared my throat.

She turned around and smiled up at me from her seat.

I knelt before her and opened the box.

It contained a white diamond moon on a golden chain with a white crystal brooch.

“ These are for you. A token of my love for you. ” I said slowly.

She gasped quietly and beheld my courtship gift to her.

I gently swept her hair over her shoulder so I could clasp the necklace around her neck.

“ Do you like it? ” I asked.

“ I.. I.. Words are not enough, my dear. ” she said in a hushed voice as she tucked some loose hair behind my peaked ear.

She leaned forward so I might put the necklace on her.

When she leaned forward, she kissed my cheek, stirring my heart into a frenzy.

Dating Benjamin would include :

(Woooowooo more dating prompts!!! Hope it is as requested and you all like it :3 GIF not mine/found it on google/credit to the original owner.)

-Him taking his training with Morgan seriously so he could be able to protect you

-Him taking you out to the movies for a date night

-Him getting shy and nervous when Ezekiel asks him about your relationship

-Him wanting to hold your hand in public but getting too nervous until you do just do it

-Him telling you to clean your plate but sometimes letting you slide and he just does it for you

-Him sneaking into your room at night when he feels he needs to be with you

-Him telling you about his favorite books and begging you to read them

-Him teaching you how to horse ride

-Him asking you about your day because he wants to hear your voice

-You always welcoming him back from a run with a tight hug

-Him always going by your room at night to kiss you goodnight

-You and him starting a silly popcorn fight in the theater

The Steel Horse Saloon

Originally posted by thewonderfulmrburton

[I read this at the Dad Voices event at the Dad 2.0 Summit, posting here for anyone who wants to revise it. Also, I changed the name of the bar so I don’t get murdered.]

I had dreams of becoming a screenwriter. Once, my wife and I attended a party hosted by the showrunner of a popular sci-fi reboot. The hostess knew I was trying to break in, so she introduced me to all of the writers in the room.

One writer, who worked on a successful sitcom asked me, “Which show do you write for?”

I said, “Well, I’m not a screenwriter, but…”

She literally turned away from me mid-sentence. I ended up finishing my phrase to the back of her head as she joined another conversation.

I went up to my wife and told her what happened, expecting a sympathetic incredulous look. Instead, my wife, my rock, said, “If you don’t believe you’re a screenwriter, no one else will.”

Months later, I decided to take a well-deserved break from my work as a stay-at-home parent of twin newborns and go on a short three-day road trip along historic Route 66 to recapture the last threads of sanity available. I had plans on selling the resulting story to a travel magazine because, unlike most travel stories, I was going to visit trashy roadside attractions and little-known hangouts.

One of the hangouts I chose to visit was the Steel Horse Saloon, a biker bar located in the California desert just north of dirt and sand, and a place known for their catfish fries despite being nowhere near a body of water where catfish might live.

I arrived just as they opened at noon. The woman behind the bar looked exactly like the type of woman you’d expect to see manning a biker bar in the middle of the desert.

“What can I get you, honey?” she asked.

“Catfish,” I said.

“No catfish today,” she said. “You like ribs?”

The ribs came, smothered in thick barbecue sauce. And I have to admit they were a goddamn flavor bukkake. And yes, I mean my face was covered.

As I worked my way through the massive basket of saucy food, a man approached from the darkness of the unlit area of the bar. He walked with a limp and though he was thin, his arms looked taught.

He introduced himself as the owner of the Steel Horse Saloon and sat down next to me.  The bartender, the owner and I were now the only people in the establishment. He asked what I did for a living and I remembered my wife’s words. “If you don’t believe you’re a screenwriter, no one will.”

I said, “I’m a screenwriter.”

His welcoming smile broadened. “What kind?”

“Action, biopic, comedy—whatever,” I said. I believed it. Now, he would, too.

“I wrote a book. You should read it,” he said. “It would make a great movie.”

“I bet,” I said, not knowing if I would actually bet on it.

He then got up, disappeared into the dark and returned with his only copy of his memoir, probably printed on a friend’s aging dot matrix machine.

He plopped it next to my basket of ribs and said, “Read it. It’s about my time in prison for manslaughter.”

I tried to use the excuse agents and studio reps use: “I can’t legally read this without representation. It could open me up to potential lawsuit.”

“I ain’t gonna sue you,” he said. “Read it.”


“Yeah, now.”

I wiped the sauce from my fingers and started reading. It was a gritty tale of a man who has to fight and, yes, maim people to survive a years-long stint in the pokey after “accidentally” killing someone. And it wasn’t fiction. And the author was sitting next to me.

I tried to show genuine interest in the book, while also showing genuine interest in the ribs. But that meant I went through ream of napkins as I took a bite, then wiped my hands clean, then turned a page, read about him shivving a snitch on the shower, then went back to the ribs. I didn’t know what would happen if my clumsy trembling fingers decorated a critical page with a smear of hickory smoked goodness.

I finished the first chapter and said, “It’s good.”

The bartender leaned over, exposing cleavage damaged by decades of bumpy roads. “I just want you to know I’m psychic and I know you are going to be a successful screenwriter.”

I doubted anyone with actual psychic abilities would be manning the bar at a desolate stop on a forgotten highway. But she did know I wasn’t yet successful.

Still, her words did not help the fact that I was trying to exorcise myself from the scene.

“The owner tapped his manuscript. “Keep reading.” I did.

I made it through the second chapter and repeated, “It’s good.”

It wasn’t good. It was terrifying.

He tapped the book again. “Go on.”

The psychic bartender must’ve intuited my fear because she slapped the owner on the arm and said, “Let him go. He doesn’t have all day.”

I thanked them both for the hospitality and, just for consistency’s sake, told them, “If I make it back this way, I’ll swing by.”

I didn’t mean I’d swing by to option the book for a multi-million dollar film staring Michael Fassbender, but if he thought that and thought that was enough to let me go quietly, I was cool with that. They waved as I drove away.

As the aging pavement of the Mother Road rolled beneath my wheels, I called my wife. I wanted her to know that I took her advice and it almost got me killed.

  • Simon is one of the only people who can make Raphael laugh 
  • Simon likes to teach Raphael lyrics to Beyonce’s songs 
  • Raphael loves to make drinks (with lots of alcohol) 
  • Simon hates the taste of most alcoholic drinks and Raphael finds it adorable 
  • Raphael helps Simon do his ties because he always messes them up 
  • They have Movie Nights every Monday 
  • Simon enjoys painting Raphael’s nails 
  • Simon once got a lip piercing to try and seduce Raphael, which worked 
  • Though after the fun, Raphael reminded Simon that anything Simon does seduces him 
  • Raphael loves Broadway Plays 
  • Plus he knows EVERY word to every Shakespeare Play 
  • Simon finds horses terrifying 
  • Raphael then brought him to a horse farm to help him conquer his fear 
  • Raphael actually has a very good singing voice, and will sing to help Simon fall asleep 
  • Simon also often asks Raphael to read to him 
  •  Simon has always wanted a pet Dragon, so as a gift, Raphael bought Simon a lizard saying “It was the best I could do" 
  • Simon named the lizard "Little BloodSucker" 
  • They go on double dates with Malec once a month 
  • If any of Raphael’s vampires insults Simon, he sends them to one of the cells 
  • Simon has to stop Raphael from ripping their throats out 
  • Simon always defends Raphael to the clave, even if it gets him in trouble 
  • Raphael loves scented candles 
  • His favorite scent is anything that smells like the ocean, he has good memories from his childhood on the beach 
  • Simon once wanted to put eyeliner on Raphael, after 3 days of begging, Raphael said fine 
  • He looked fucking great with eyeliner btw
  • Simon always traces Raphael’s torso and face, he thinks that there is nobody more beautiful
  • Beshalach 4th Aliyah

my project of the last couple weeks! this is the 4th aliyah of parshat beshalach, which includes shirat hayam–the song at the sea–some of which is read in special, celebratory trope to commemorate our joy immediately after our liberation from slavery in egypt. in a precarious time when families are separated by water and refugees barred from safety, it feels important to lift up our voices in memory of reunions and freedoms past.

@schemingreader, up your alley?

cherubplay gothic
  • you are the only one in your chat - there is no roleplay partner, only you, alone with your thoughts, echoing into the silent void.
  • you check the front page, and decide to visit the strange world of “not a prompt.” there lies a dave asking where their merstuck john has gone. “we had such a great chat,” they cry, “i was so hyped for it.” there is no answer. you will never fully know whether or not the dave reunited with their merstuck john.
  • there is a yawning chasm before you that grows ever wider with each chat you leave abandoned. if you listen close, you can hear their voices, all calling out at once. “please,” they plead. “please, respond.” you do not answer.
  • “HORSE COCKS,” yells the ooc of a strangely orange prompt, and, a single line below, they whisper “now that i have your attention,” but you do not read further. they have stolen your attention from you. you want it back.
  • teen titans jack noir is back. or are they? you do not know if teen titans jack noir has ever left. they are omnipresent. they are determined.
  • what is cow jane? you do not know. people always mention the elusive cow jane, but you have never seen them in the wild, or even screenshots of their legendary prompt. you are too afraid to check.
  • “NOT HOMESTUCK,” one yells. you thought you were on a homestuck roleplay website.
  • the crossover section is barren and abandoned. you hear one talk of motorcity-stuck. you do not know what motorcity is.
  • where is the directory? you do not know. you have never seen the directory, only rumors of its existence. cherubmod has yet to free it from their clutches.
  • finally, a connect to one of your prompts. the text is green, and the responder poses a single question: “Kinks?” you thought you posted this chat in safe for work.
  • you do not want dirks. you are drowning in those asking for dirks. you leave them as soon as they pose the question, but it is futile. you wonder if you will give in to their demands.

Kaneki overworks himself so much, that I could see Hide doing anything he could to distract him.

If Kaneki tries to do push ups, Hide jumps on him and demands that he rides Kaneki like a horse. When he starts to train with his kagune, Hide hangs wind chimes on it and calls it a red tree.

When he’s fed up because he can’t find leads for Kanou, Hide slips him an interesting book to distract him, and a day later, Hide scopes out Kanou’s location himself.

Whenever Kaneki is so frustrated with himself that he doesn’t even feel like getting out of bed, Hide reads to him, and makes his voice really low or high pitched so that Kaneki can get a good laugh out of it.

When Kaneki is afraid he can’t protect everyone, Hide reminds him of the time that Kaneki saved him from a bumblebee when they were little.

Whenever Kaneki cries, Hide just hugs him, but never says anything about it.

And when Kaneki is afraid that Hide will leave him, he tells Kaneki that he is his home, and without his home, he doesn’t have a purpose.

All in all, Hide is just there for Kaneki.

I would always, always, always rather be read than heard.

My mouth is clumsy. My lips bumble. My teeth catch along my tongue, biting into all the wrong syllables. My voice cracks on the essential and swells over irrelevancies. When I speak, I can see the light die in their eyes. Halfway through a story, I catch myself with feet planted on continents which are slowly drifting apart. They are not listening, but it is too late to bow out gracefully. Verbal is hard. Tone is hard. Quelling the excitement long enough to say only what is needed, no more, no less, is hard.

But when I write–oh, that’s a different matter entirely. Empires rise and are demolished again. Comedians thrive, and tragedies burn. I can build beast, mythos, romance. I can sail to the stars. I can slay dragons, or make peace with giants. When I write, the world is honest. When I write, dreams are solid. When I write, even at my most abstract, everything makes sense.

When I write. That’s when they’re listening.

That is why I write.


My good friend itsannachloem uploaded a very blunt, truthful and insightful video discussing the buzzword “horsefame” given how much this fandom has changed since its beginnings all these years ago. Its something I feel the fandom needs to hear as it applies to a lot of people who misconstrue that phrase very often. I myself have left my thoughts about it as well, so I urge you to please give the video a listen and my thoughts a read. Thank you.

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