birth bath

The Domestic Garden Witch: Waterworks

So maybe you’re a college witch with limited space and money, limited to the one window in your dorm. Or, maybe you’re a witch without extensive backyard space who wants to start up a magical garden. Perhaps you’re a kitchen witch who wants the freshest herbs right at her fingertips.

For many witches, having a garden seems to be a bit of a no-brainer. After all, plants and magic go hand-in-hand. Plus, when thinking of a witch, it’s hard not to think of a cottage in the woods with a little vegetable garden out front. Unfortunately for the majority of us, our cottage in the woods is a tiny flat, and our garden out front is a windowsill with limited space.

This is when it comes time to embrace your craftiness and bring your garden indoors! Not only does it place your garden in a convenient location, it also allows you to freshen the air, recycle what would otherwise harm the earth, and embrace your witchy green thumb!

Bringing Another Element to the Garden

It’s that time of the year! Graduations are in full swing, and the city of San Luis experiences its bi-annual exodus of students coming in and out of town for college, work, and housing. Though the faces may change, one thing is definitely constant: we’ve got a lot of gardens and greenery here! One thing being somewhat less constant depending on when you’re in California is the presence of water. But with several creeks and streams cutting through SLO proper, and the presence of nearby Salinas River, Morro Bay, and… well, the ocean, we can safely say that water features are a part of what helps keep the pulse going here.

In the garden, water features are not only works of art (as many of SLO’s man-made water features are), but can also be utilitarian or spiritual in nature. From irrigating your plants in fashion to providing a space for scrying and reflection, it’s not hard to convert your garden into a beautiful and spiritual sanctuary.

I know, I know… there are some of you out there saying “But Josh, how the hell am I supposed to fit a bird bath or a water fountain on my windowsill? I live on campus for gods’ sakes!” Bear with me!

Spiritual Cleansing and Reflection

First of all, why would you want a water feature in your garden in the first place? The immediate answers that come to mind are usually something along the lines of “they’re pretty” or “they’re relaxing.” But in my opinion, they hold a bit of a deeper significance.

Water is a source of life - even succulents require water to thrive. Soil alone is not enough, and neither is light. As such, a life-giving element can also help lift the energy of a space, cleansing it through sound and appearance. Consider the emotion invoked by sitting near a fountain or a small waterfall or by a running stream. The sound of running water often inspires calm and peaceful thoughts and emotion. This is of immeasurable benefit for a witchy garden!

But moving water is not the only way for the element to be represented in a witchy context. Standing pools of water can invoke many of the same feelings due to their calm surfaces and tranquil movements when disturbed by a breeze. These reflection pools can be used for meditation or for scrying, both practices that are helpful for maintaining spiritual health and for divination.

Bringing the Magic Home

It’s extremely easy to put together the most basic water feature: a birdbath. A common method is to place a terra cotta saucer on a wire stand (such as a tomato stand or a milking stool) and then fill it with water. Other times, one can substitute the saucer with a trash can lid or other wide, shallow dish. Bless the water or set it out under a full moon if you wish to add a bit of extra magic to it! Additionally, a clear quartz crystal in the water is a great discreet way of helping maintain an enchantment on your water feature.

The fact that it attracts birds adds to the allure, helping for those who enjoy bird-watching either for pleasure or for divination. But try getting even closer with nature by adding some stones to the middle of the bath to provide a dry, sloping surface for bees and insects or as an additional perch for birds.

Water falls and artificial streams and pools can be built into a backyard for the same purposes. Consider how you can turn them into larger scale scrying pools for use during full or new moons!

Now, bringing it back to the windowsill! Some stores sell small water features such as miniature water fountains. These can be purposed much in the same way. However, if money is a factor, use a tea saucer or shallow bowl. This source of water may not help births bathe, but it will still serve as a space cleanser. In addition, if you have crystals that need cleansing, they can be submerged in this water for that same purpose!

How will you know when the water has cleansed as much as it could? Either it will become stagnant with dust and debris or it will completely evaporate - whichever comes first!

Take it a step further by turning it into a little shrine space! Many deities and spirits can be linked with water, and such a little water feature is a perfect way to honor them!

No matter the size or design, consider the many benefits water can bring to your spiritual garden!

And may all your harvests be bountiful!
Blessed Be! )O(

Did you know 🤔

All negative emotions😰😡☹️ actually come from space!🚀⭐️☄️ 👽Our atmosphere🌎🌦⛈🌩🌪 is under constant bombardment from negative😠 emotions tied to dark toxins😵. These toxins 🌡cling 🤝to the matter left over 👈from the Big Bang💫☄️💥, meaning that even if we’re all pure of heart ❤️ at birth😇🤗😊, we’re bathing in a negative 😡🤢rich environment every second 😥😭


You will need the following items for this spell:

  • Hot bath water
  • 2 cups sea salt
  • ½ cup dried chamomile leaves
  • ½ cup dried peppermint leaves

Twelve days after your last period and before going to bed, prepare a hot bath and add the items from above.

Soak in the tub for at least 30 minutes, visualizing yourself not becoming pregnant, like a black fog forming in your uterus and clogging your Fallopian tubes, cervix etc. and making you enable to conceive and even killing off any sperm that may enter you. Let the water drain out and rinse the salt/leaves from your skin. You will want to repeat this bath once a night for the next four nights. Do this each month.

Note: Modern methods of birth control are much more effective. Not to mention, spells don’t always work. Only if the intent of the which is strong enough. In other words, if you completely don’t want children for what ever you reason’s this spell will work better then a girl that loves kids and deeply wants children but just can’t for those circumstances.

daily reminder

All negative emotions actually come from space. Our atmosphere is under constant bombardment from negative emotions tied to dark toxins. These toxins cling to the matter left over from the Big Bang, meaning that even if we’re all pure of heart at birth, we’re bathing in a negative rich environment every second. 

Midwife - John Shelby

Request: hello, can i please request a John imagine where you are a midwife and you deliver adas baby, and he just watches you in amazement cause of how controlled you are and stuff and he asks you about midwifery and stuff but he doesn’t really have a clue what he’s going on about, he just wants to talk to you. Thank you x

Midwife - John Shelby

“How long have you been a midwife?” John had been following you since you’d arrived at the Shelby household to care for Ada.  

Finn had come to get you early this morning to tell you that Ada was having the baby. He had been wildly excited about a nephew for the first two hours but now hour ten was approaching and he had fallen asleep in the kitchen. John however, seemed to have more stamina, and much less responsibility, because he kept following you around the house and asking you questions. At first you didn’t mind, whenever you needed a blanket or water or a rag he was eager to volunteer his services. You weren’t naïve to his intentions, which were far from being a helpful older brother in his sister’s time of need.  

“I’ve been a midwife for about nine years now. My mum is a midwife as well, and my nan was before that.” You explained. It was probably a great deal longer than nine years because your mother had been carting you around to watch ladies give birth since you were able to understand basic commands and assist her.  

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Samuel Hollyer (Steel Plate Engraving from a Lost Daguerreotype by Gabriel Harrison)     Walt Whitman, New York City     1854

I sing the body electric,
The armies of those I love engirth me and I engirth them,
They will not let me off till I go with them, respond to them,
And discorrupt them, and charge them full with the charge of the soul.

Was it doubted that those who corrupt their own bodies conceal themselves?
And if those who defile the living are as bad as they who defile the dead?
And if the body does not do fully as much as the soul?
And if the body were not the soul, what is the soul?

The love of the body of man or woman balks account, the body itself balks account,
That of the male is perfect, and that of the female is perfect.

The expression of the face balks account,
But the expression of a well-made man appears not only in his face,
It is in his limbs and joints also, it is curiously in the joints of his hips and wrists,
It is in his walk, the carriage of his neck, the flex of his waist and knees, dress does not hide him,
The strong sweet quality he has strikes through the cotton and broadcloth,
To see him pass conveys as much as the best poem, perhaps more,
You linger to see his back, and the back of his neck and shoulder-side.

The sprawl and fulness of babes, the bosoms and heads of women, the folds of their dress, their style as we pass in the street, the contour of their shape downwards,
The swimmer naked in the swimming-bath, seen as he swims through the transparent green-shine, or lies with his face up and rolls silently to and fro in the heave of the water,
The bending forward and backward of rowers in row-boats, the horseman in his saddle,
Girls, mothers, house-keepers, in all their performances,
The group of laborers seated at noon-time with their open dinner-kettles, and their wives waiting,
The female soothing a child, the farmer’s daughter in the garden or cow-yard,
The young fellow hoeing corn, the sleigh-driver driving his six horses through the crowd,
The wrestle of wrestlers, two apprentice-boys, quite grown, lusty, good-natured, native-born, out on the vacant lot at sun-down after work,
The coats and caps thrown down, the embrace of love and resistance,
The upper-hold and under-hold, the hair rumpled over and blinding the eyes;
The march of firemen in their own costumes, the play of masculine muscle through clean-setting trowsers and waist-straps,
The slow return from the fire, the pause when the bell strikes suddenly again, and the listening on the alert,
The natural, perfect, varied attitudes, the bent head, the curv’d neck and the counting;
Such-like I love—I loosen myself, pass freely, am at the mother’s breast with the little child,
Swim with the swimmers, wrestle with wrestlers, march in line with the firemen, and pause, listen, count.

I knew a man, a common farmer, the father of five sons,
And in them the fathers of sons, and in them the fathers of sons.

This man was of wonderful vigor, calmness, beauty of person,
The shape of his head, the pale yellow and white of his hair and beard, the immeasurable meaning of his black eyes, the richness and breadth of his manners,
These I used to go and visit him to see, he was wise also,
He was six feet tall, he was over eighty years old, his sons were massive, clean, bearded, tan-faced, handsome,
They and his daughters loved him, all who saw him loved him,
They did not love him by allowance, they loved him with personal love,
He drank water only, the blood show’d like scarlet through the clear-brown skin of his face,
He was a frequent gunner and fisher, he sail’d his boat himself, he had a fine one presented to him by a ship-joiner, he had fowling-pieces presented to him by men that loved him,
When he went with his five sons and many grand-sons to hunt or fish, you would pick him out as the most beautiful and vigorous of the gang,
You would wish long and long to be with him, you would wish to sit by him in the boat that you and he might touch each other.

I have perceiv’d that to be with those I like is enough,
To stop in company with the rest at evening is enough,
To be surrounded by beautiful, curious, breathing, laughing flesh is enough,
To pass among them or touch any one, or rest my arm ever so lightly round his or her neck for a moment, what is this then?
I do not ask any more delight, I swim in it as in a sea.

There is something in staying close to men and women and looking on them, and in the contact and odor of them, that pleases the soul well,
All things please the soul, but these please the soul well.

This is the female form,
A divine nimbus exhales from it from head to foot,
It attracts with fierce undeniable attraction,
I am drawn by its breath as if I were no more than a helpless vapor, all falls aside but myself and it,
Books, art, religion, time, the visible and solid earth, and what was expected of heaven or fear’d of hell, are now consumed,
Mad filaments, ungovernable shoots play out of it, the response likewise ungovernable,
Hair, bosom, hips, bend of legs, negligent falling hands all diffused, mine too diffused,
Ebb stung by the flow and flow stung by the ebb, love-flesh swelling and deliciously aching,
Limitless limpid jets of love hot and enormous, quivering jelly of love, white-blow and delirious juice,
Bridegroom night of love working surely and softly into the prostrate dawn,
Undulating into the willing and yielding day,
Lost in the cleave of the clasping and sweet-flesh’d day.

This the nucleus—after the child is born of woman, man is born of woman,
This the bath of birth, this the merge of small and large, and the outlet again.

Be not ashamed women, your privilege encloses the rest, and is the exit of the rest,
You are the gates of the body, and you are the gates of the soul.

The female contains all qualities and tempers them,
She is in her place and moves with perfect balance,
She is all things duly veil’d, she is both passive and active,
She is to conceive daughters as well as sons, and sons as well as daughters.

As I see my soul reflected in Nature,
As I see through a mist, One with inexpressible completeness, sanity, beauty,
See the bent head and arms folded over the breast, the Female I see.

The male is not less the soul nor more, he too is in his place,
He too is all qualities, he is action and power,
The flush of the known universe is in him,
Scorn becomes him well, and appetite and defiance become him well,
The wildest largest passions, bliss that is utmost, sorrow that is utmost become him well, pride is for him,
The full-spread pride of man is calming and excellent to the soul,
Knowledge becomes him, he likes it always, he brings every thing to the test of himself,
Whatever the survey, whatever the sea and the sail he strikes soundings at last only here,
(Where else does he strike soundings except here?)

The man’s body is sacred and the woman’s body is sacred,
No matter who it is, it is sacred—is it the meanest one in the laborers’ gang?
Is it one of the dull-faced immigrants just landed on the wharf?
Each belongs here or anywhere just as much as the well-off, just as much as you,
Each has his or her place in the procession.

(All is a procession,
The universe is a procession with measured and perfect motion.)

Do you know so much yourself that you call the meanest ignorant?
Do you suppose you have a right to a good sight, and he or she has no right to a sight?
Do you think matter has cohered together from its diffuse float, and the soil is on the surface, and water runs and vegetation sprouts,
For you only, and not for him and her?

A man’s body at auction,
(For before the war I often go to the slave-mart and watch the sale,)
I help the auctioneer, the sloven does not half know his business.

Gentlemen look on this wonder,
Whatever the bids of the bidders they cannot be high enough for it,
For it the globe lay preparing quintillions of years without one animal or plant,
For it the revolving cycles truly and steadily roll’d.

In this head the all-baffling brain,
In it and below it the makings of heroes.

Examine these limbs, red, black, or white, they are cunning in tendon and nerve,
They shall be stript that you may see them.

Exquisite senses, life-lit eyes, pluck, volition,
Flakes of breast-muscle, pliant backbone and neck, flesh not flabby, good-sized arms and legs,
And wonders within there yet.

Within there runs blood,
The same old blood! the same red-running blood!
There swells and jets a heart, there all passions, desires, reachings, aspirations,
(Do you think they are not there because they are not express’d in parlors and lecture-rooms?)

This is not only one man, this the father of those who shall be fathers in their turns,
In him the start of populous states and rich republics,
Of him countless immortal lives with countless embodiments and enjoyments.

How do you know who shall come from the offspring of his offspring through the centuries?
(Who might you find you have come from yourself, if you could trace back through the centuries?)

A woman’s body at auction,
She too is not only herself, she is the teeming mother of mothers,
She is the bearer of them that shall grow and be mates to the mothers.

Have you ever loved the body of a woman?
Have you ever loved the body of a man?
Do you not see that these are exactly the same to all in all nations and times all over the earth?

If any thing is sacred the human body is sacred,
And the glory and sweet of a man is the token of manhood untainted,
And in man or woman a clean, strong, firm-fibred body, is more beautiful than the most beautiful face.

Have you seen the fool that corrupted his own live body? or the fool that corrupted her own live body?
For they do not conceal themselves, and cannot conceal themselves.

O my body! I dare not desert the likes of you in other men and women, nor the likes of the parts of you,
I believe the likes of you are to stand or fall with the likes of the soul, (and that they are the soul,)
I believe the likes of you shall stand or fall with my poems, and that they are my poems,
Man’s, woman’s, child’s, youth’s, wife’s, husband’s, mother’s, father’s, young man’s, young woman’s poems,
Head, neck, hair, ears, drop and tympan of the ears,
Eyes, eye-fringes, iris of the eye, eyebrows, and the waking or sleeping of the lids,
Mouth, tongue, lips, teeth, roof of the mouth, jaws, and the jaw-hinges,
Nose, nostrils of the nose, and the partition,
Cheeks, temples, forehead, chin, throat, back of the neck, neck-slue,
Strong shoulders, manly beard, scapula, hind-shoulders, and the ample side-round of the chest,
Upper-arm, armpit, elbow-socket, lower-arm, arm-sinews, arm-bones,
Wrist and wrist-joints, hand, palm, knuckles, thumb, forefinger, finger-joints, finger-nails,
Broad breast-front, curling hair of the breast, breast-bone, breast-side,
Ribs, belly, backbone, joints of the backbone,
Hips, hip-sockets, hip-strength, inward and outward round, man-balls, man-root,
Strong set of thighs, well carrying the trunk above,
Leg fibres, knee, knee-pan, upper-leg, under-leg,
Ankles, instep, foot-ball, toes, toe-joints, the heel;
All attitudes, all the shapeliness, all the belongings of my or your body or of any one’s body, male or female,
The lung-sponges, the stomach-sac, the bowels sweet and clean,
The brain in its folds inside the skull-frame,
Sympathies, heart-valves, palate-valves, sexuality, maternity,
Womanhood, and all that is a woman, and the man that comes from woman,
The womb, the teats, nipples, breast-milk, tears, laughter, weeping, love-looks, love-perturbations and risings,
The voice, articulation, language, whispering, shouting aloud,
Food, drink, pulse, digestion, sweat, sleep, walking, swimming,
Poise on the hips, leaping, reclining, embracing, arm-curving and tightening,
The continual changes of the flex of the mouth, and around the eyes,
The skin, the sunburnt shade, freckles, hair,
The curious sympathy one feels when feeling with the hand the naked meat of the body,
The circling rivers the breath, and breathing it in and out,
The beauty of the waist, and thence of the hips, and thence downward toward the knees,
The thin red jellies within you or within me, the bones and the marrow in the bones,
The exquisite realization of health;
O I say these are not the parts and poems of the body only, but of the soul,
O I say now these are the soul!

–Walt Whitman, “I Sing the Body Electric”  1855

Fall From Grace

  Bright green eyes narrowed in concentration as she scrunched up her nose, watching the solution change into a murky brown, her frown pulling tightly as she reached for something to assist her in sweetening the taste. If the muddy concoction was half as bitter as it looked, then there would be absolutely no chance of her convincing the young child to swallow it and keep it down.

   She glanced behind her to the small boy seated at the rickety wooden table in the inn’s kitchen, wrapped up in a heavy blanket, his face pale and eyes rimmed red, glassy and vacant. He looked so gaunt and frail, in need of a solid good rest and a wholesome meal, but neither of those things would be possible until the high fever plaguing his body was broken. Misery surrounded him but he continued to watch her, brown eyes filled with trust and hope that relief would soon be coming.

   Shirayuki offered him a reassuring smile before turning back to her herbs, swirling the glass bottle around to swish the liquid within before adding another pinch of black elder for good measure. Satisfaction thrummed as the contents began to change to a light toffee brown, resembling something at least somewhat palatable. His body was fighting an infection, and a fever had resulted in its efforts to rid him of whatever it was that had plagued him. The fever was necessary to expel the toxins, but that didn’t mean that he had to suffer such a high one. Mild doses would keep him comfortable until morning. A good night’s rest would do a world of good, and was the ticket to aiding him in kicking the mild bug that he had attracted. She sighed with her own slight fatigue as she poured the bottle into the kettle, retrieving a tea cup as the liquid heated over the fire. A touch of cinnamon topped off the brew once it had reached its desired temperature, and she slid it across the scrubbed table to the weary inn keeper’s child, who blinked at it slowly before gazing up at her.

   “Drink this all down, then head off to bed,” she spoke softly, as soothingly as she could while packing away her things, lifting her hood to cover her head once she had finished. “Every drop. Understand?”

   The young boy nodded, his voice a mere croak as tiny fingers wrapped around the handle of the simple porcelain cup. “You’re leaving?”

   She paused in the doorway and hummed her response, checking to make sure that she had all of her supplies. “I’m afraid that I can’t lose any more time. Daylight will be gone in a few hours.”

   He nodded again before peering down into the medicine. Closing his eyes, he attempted to take in the aroma but his sense of smell had been blocked by the virus settling deeply into his chest. Seeing as how his taste had also been compromised, he lifted the rim of the cup to his lips and slowly began to drink the warm liquid until nothing remained. He gasped deeply for breath once he had finished, what little energy he had gathered to swallow the medicine all spent as he opened his eyes, gratitude on the tip of his tongue for the young woman standing in the doorway-

   She was gone.

   Small hands gripped the empty cup, eyes staring into the bottom as he wondered just how far the lady intended to travel, and if he’d ever see hair as red as hers ever again.


   When her small town had fallen ill six years ago, there had been little hope for survival, the entire area quickly quarantined off and all of the roads blocked. Entrance wasn’t permitted, and no one was well enough to venture out for help. They had been left to fend for themselves as one by one, the people all followed one another into sweet oblivion, until all that remained was the lone red-headed child, who’d been spared the cold touch of Death, left completely alone in her isolation at the young age of nine.

   Witchcraft was naturally the first conclusion that had been jumped to once word had spread of the town’s grim and gruesome fate. The King had sent his guards in to apprehend her like the monster that she’d appeared to be, and she’d been held against her will in a small hut on the outskirts of the capital, her sentence to be carried out in public like some sort of spectacle. She’d almost been burned at the stake, saved only by crawling through a small gap in the window of the room that she’d been kept in. She had been fortunate enough to not have been bound or chained, running as far as her little legs would carry her as she’d fled into the cover of the woods, the moonlight her only guide as she’d trampled through the brush and scrambled over fallen logs. She’d hoped and prayed that no one would discover her escape until dawn, long after she’d gone.

   The King had issued a warrant for her arrest. All of the neighboring towns and villages had been on the lookout for the young red-haired girl who held a magic that defied all logic and went against the very fabric of nature. She was a danger that was to be disposed of immediately, a brilliant flame that was to be extinguished with any and all haste. She held powers that no mere mortal could hope to control, and any who came across her were to report to the authorities with haste.

   Witchcraft was the only explanation for such an ability, for there had been no other indications that the young girl could be one of them.


   She’d always known from a young age that she wasn’t exactly normal. For one, she never once experienced a cold. While other children had sniffles and sneezes and ran fevers while they coughed, she never seemed to catch their ailments. After falling she never bled, and her skin never bruised whenever she’d bump into something carelessly.

   Flowers seemed to bloom more brightly under her watchful care. Herbs that had been tended by her hands had a higher potency. Brews and concoctions created into medicines cured ailments that stumped physicians. Wounds sutured by her fingers refused to scar. The young girl with hair as red as the apples on the trees in the fall and eyes as green as the meadows in spring seemed to radiate life from every pore. Animals and people alike calmed instantly beneath her warm touch. Her soothing voice was gentle, almost lyrical as she shushed the crying babies and laughed with the other children who ran down the main road.

   But how was such a thing possible for someone who wasn’t Graced; a child who’d received a tremendous gift but lacked the markings to prove herself to be what her family was so sure that she was: a Graceling?

  It just wasn’t possible. Heterochromia was the primary thing that usually identified a person as being a Graceling. Unusual powers manifesting themselves early in a child with eyes that did not share the same color, were recorded and reported to the King. If found to not be of use to his majesty or the court, the Graced person could return home, where they were usually ostracized for being different and strange, despite having abilities that were unique and often helpful if one knew how to harness them.

   Shirayuki had met a Graceling once while a family had been passing through the town on their way to the north. The young girl couldn’t have been much older than Shirayuki, the people of her small town refusing to look her in the eye or even hold her gaze. Why they were so uneasy around her Shirayuki couldn’t understand, and she had watched the young girl disappear behind the stables before following after her, curious to know more about the dark-haired girl with one hazel eye and one blue.

   Her name was Kihal, and the only thing that had saved her from being a slave to the King was the fact that he had deemed her Grace an unnecessary attribute to add to his services. What use was a girl who could summon and speak to birds? Shirayuki had giggled with glee as they’d fed breadcrumbs to some friendly sparrows, Kihal looking so very pleased to have been able to make a friend for once. They’d talked for so very long, the dark haired girl braiding Shirayuki’s while the sun began to dip below the skyline.



   “Does your family know?”

   Shirayuki’s swinging legs had stopped as they’d sat upon the stone wall that separated the livery from the edge of the forest. She’d blinked at the girl whose gaze was to the sky, watching a hawk circle amongst the pink clouds. “Know what?”

   Hazel and blue met green, and her voice had held an empathetic tone as she’d asked, “That you’re a Graceling?”

   Why she never had any of the telling characteristics she’d never know, but she knew for certain that  from the moment that Kihal had asked her, something inside of her had clicked into place, and her life would never be the same again.


   Some Gracelings had the ability to sense one another, as well as be able to discriminate the average ones from the blessed, and Shirayuki had come to discover that she had a slight form of this rare skill.

   It had never really puzzled her; she’d just assumed that everybody else saw the hazy outlines that encircled everyone. No one had ever told her otherwise, so she’d accepted it as the way that the world worked. She’d never questioned why she could spot an ill person from a mile away, or why she could sense the heavy presence of Death hovering in the vicinity. The hues that fuzzed around average people like a ring were normally painted in grays, while those who were sick or injured were muted in browns, newly birthed babes being bathed in pure white. Kihal had been a beautifully exotic shimmering gold, and Shirayuki wondered from that point on if she, too, shone as brightly as the Graceling girl had in the low light of the setting sun.

   The back of Kihal’s finger had softly stroked the white breast of a dove that was perched upon her knee, her eyes downcast as Shirayuki continued to ponder upon her new found title. She was excited and couldn’t wait to inform her grandmother that she had been right all along, wondering just how much the old woman would rub it in her husband’s and son’s face-

   “You’re so lucky…”

   Her eyes had widened at the tears coursing down Kihal’s tanned cheeks. Shirayuki had tentatively extended out her hand but stopped at the girl’s shuddering breath, a small sob breaking past her lips.

   Her mis-matched eyes had risen slowly to Shirayuki’s, and the pain swirling in their depths was absolutely heart-wrenching. They spoke of an unfair prejudice, of the exclusion and automatic distrust befallen to her due to circumstances beyond her control.. “Your eyes…” she’d sobbed while attempting to calm her wavering voice, whispering out a choked, “You’re so very lucky…”


   Rumors of Shirayuki’s hands pulling people back from the blink of oblivion circulated throughout the neighboring towns and villages, catching the attention of gossip-hungry people who made it their mission to pass it along to the capital, where the whispers echoed down the large hallways of the palace, falling upon the Tanbarunian King, who decided to test their truth. Was there any backbone behind the story? Could a young girl who appeared to be a mere mortal be of use to him?


   Shirayuki’s brow furrowed at the sound of quiet crying as she approached the small village, tugging her hood up around her hair and keeping her gaze lowered as she neared what appeared to be a small bakery. A small crowd had gathered outside of the door, the air so very somber and silent as she stopped to take in the whisperings around her.

   “-whooping cough-”

   “- the poor infant-”

   “probably won’t make it through the night-”

   Shirayuki weaved and wedged her way through the villagers carefully as she mentally checked the stock of her herbs, calculating just how much would be needed and pausing as she crossed the threshold. The baker and his wife sat so still in the corner, cradling a very young infant whose rattling breath and deep choking coughs continued to pull tears of concern from its mother, who was biting her lip to keep her cries quiet.

   All of the whisperings came to a halt and the air grew deathly still as Shirayuki came to stand before them, their gazes finally raising to the stranger, who only offered them a small smile before extending out her arms for the small baby.


   The water from the stream was cold as it ran over her fingers. She watched with a numb detachment as the ointment was rinsed from her hand, the babe’s healthy cries still ringing in her ears as she watched the water trickle by. Darkness was approaching and she would have to make camp for the night. Come dawn she would have to move again, before the rumors of the baby’s miraculous recovery began to circulate and she was discovered. For six years she had been on the run, dodging crowds and avoiding raising suspicions as she led her solitary life. Always on the move. Do not draw attention if able. Run. Never look back.

   What was once a beautiful blessing had turned into an ugly curse. The melancholy of her loneliness was almost palpable, sour in her mouth like a bitter acid as her throat tightened and tears pricked at the corners of her eyes. Her green eyes. Matching monochromatic eyes.

   You’re so lucky…

   Shirayuki swallowed and pushed back the ache lodging in her chest, pressing her still damp fingers to her eyes with a small shake of her head before standing slowly and brushing off the skirt of her dress. The wind blew through the trees, pulling back the hood covering her crimson strands, and she tucked it behind her ear as she turned to head back toward her pack.

   A shimmering haze of gold had her frozen to the spot, eyes wide and unable to even blink as the tall figure leaned against the nearest tree,  monochromatic eyes that matched his aura locked onto her and predatory as he lounged almost lazily. Destruction permeated the air around him, a warning not to get to close to him prickling along her senses and filling her with mortal dread. Dark hair mussed by the wind was as black as his clothes, the dagger sheathed at his hip flanked by a leather pouch filled with numerous pockets. Somehow, she doubted that they were filled with things that healed, like hers. His hands were clad in a pair of rather uniquely strange chocolate brown leather gloves, fitted perfectly to his tan skin. His muscles were lean but ready to pounce as he unfolded his arms from across his chest and gave her a false easy smile. “Evening, Miss!” His voice spoke, the danger hovering behind his tone making her stomach clench heavily in unease.

   Her blood ran cold and she took a tiny step back as he began to advance, her scream lodged in her throat as his outstretched hand reached for her.

Sentence starters..."It's Time"

Sequel to “I’m Pregnant” sentence starter.

You were in labor and diablo was freaking out, good thing your two best friends were there for the both of you.


“It’s time”, the midwife says to you.

You nod, breathing out heavily, your lips forming an “O.” Preparing yourself, physically and mentally. You had decided to bring this baby into the world naturally. It had been six long hours of grueling contractions before you were fully dilated.

You look to your left and there he stands, panting. He’s working himself up. You almost feel sorry for him, but you were the one in labor here.

“Babe, it’s gonna be alright, calm down”, you rub his arm. Were you giving birth or was he?

“I’m trying”, his hands clench around the edge of the birth bath. You had decided a water birth would be most comfortable.

Deadshot walks over to you two. You had invited Harley and Deadshot, Chato had become good friends with them and from there you all kind of became good friends.

“If you don’t cool off, you’re gonna evaporate all the water out her bath homie.” He jokes but it doesn’t help ease Chatos anxiety.

You chuckle. Could always count on Deadshot to try and lighten the mood. He rubs your shoulder, “you got this champ”.

You smile, “thanks.” Suddenly Harley skips up to you. “I’m ready to see my god baby!!” You laugh, oh how you loved your bubbly best friend.

“Okay, we’re gonna prop your legs up like so”, the midwife moves your legs into position. You breathe in and out slowly. “We are going to try and push from ten to one okay? On three.”

You nod, and she starts to count. She hits three and you begin to push. It felt like your insides were shifting around inside you and god did it hurt like hell. You groan, you head falling back.

“Three, two, one, good job (Y/N). Let’s take a deep breath in and on your exhale we are gonna do it again okay?”

You nod, inhaling deeply and then you’re pushing, and you’re starting to feel a very very painful pressure around your intimate areas. You let out a cry as you continue to push.

Chato jumps, his hands light up. He’s definitely not calming down, your pain probably fueling his anxiety, but you’re in no position to really worry about controlling how loud you are.

Deadshot perks up, moving a little closer, keeping close tabs on Chato.

“Good, (Y/N). Again for me okay?”

Deep breath inhaled, pushing on exhale. You’re not even sure where the baby is, you just know you’re on fire down there. Another scream flies out your lips, the pain is so extreme you stop pushing.

“I-I can’t, I can’t do it”, you pant.

Chato flinches back, slightly flaming.

Deadshots quick. You had already ran the possibility of this happening to him. He grabs a bucket of water, extinguishing the little flames around Chato. He pulls him up, “Man! Get it together! Your wife is giving birth, you’re going to regret missing this.”

Everything is happening in slow motion. You hurt, and your husband was on fire. The midwife looks unphased. You can hear Deadshot trying to calm down Chato, but he sounds so far away.

In an instant Harley is by your side, coming to support you until Chato returns.

She rubs your arm, “(Y/N) baby girl, you got this. You can do it, come on”

God you really appreciated her. Not that you were mad at Chato, you knew why he was such a wreck today. It was just nice to have your two closest friends here to help you both through this.

The midwife smiles at Harley, “you want to try and push again sweetie?”

You turn around slightly, “Chato!! Get it together, I need you, I-I can’t do this alone.”

Well something clicks, he’s by your side again in an instant. Harley on your left and Chato on your right. Deadshot a few feet back in the middle.

“I’m sorry mi amor, I can’t get my nerves together" he says quietly. You understand, lightly kissing his lips. It seems to work, reassuring him slightly.

Harley awes, “I’m ready.”

The midwife runs you the same phrase. Inhale deeply, exhale pushing. You feel like you’re being ripped to shreds. You muddle a scream, turning it into a low groan.

Chato rubs your arm, whispering reassuring things in your ear. Harley slowly slips away, leaving you two to your special moment. You lean your head against him, panting heavily.

It takes thirty more minutes. “Okay (Y/N), give me one more big push and we’ll be having a baby!”

You smile tiredly, inhale deeply, exhale pushing. You groan, giving it your all. Chato is still rubbing your arm, getting you through it, getting himself through it. She reaches zero.

You feel everything, but it’s all worth it when she lays the baby on your chest. “It’s a girl”, you start to cry softly.

Chato touches her cheek, rubbing it softly. He smiles, “you did it babe.”

“We did it, I couldn’t have gotten through this without you”

Myth Moodboard: Melusine, Melior and Palatyne

Elynas, the King of Albany went hunting one day and came across a beautiful lady in the forest. Her name was Pressyne. He persuaded her to marry him but she agreed, only on the promise — for there is often a hard and fatal condition attached to any pairing of fay and mortal — that he must not enter her chamber when she birthed or bathed her children. She gave birth to triplets. When he violated this taboo, Pressyne left the kingdom, together with her three daughters, and traveled to the lost Isle of Avalon.

The three girls — Melusine, Melior, and Palatyne — grew up in Avalon. On their fifteenth birthday, Melusine, the eldest, asked why they had been taken to Avalon. Upon hearing of their father’s broken promise, Melusine sought revenge. She and her sisters captured Elynas and locked him, with his riches, in a mountain. Pressyne became enraged when she learned what the girls had done, and punished them for their disrespect to their father. They were condemned to take the form of a mermaid every Saturday. 


Harry: You had always been naturally thin, it was something you couldn’t help, so you had thought that your baby would show easily compared to other girls, and seeing as you were now 4 months along, your belly was slowly protruding.

“Alright, just sit here lovie,” Harry steered me towards the couch set up backstage at one of his many interviews, pushing me down onto it gently. “We shouldn’t be too long, but if you need anything, just ask one of the girls yeh?”

“Harry I’ll be fine,” I rolled my eyes, pecking his cheek.

“Stop smothering the poor girl,” Louis appeared behind him, smacking his best friends head lovingly. “We’ve gotta go on stage.”

“Alright alright geez,” Harry huffed, giving me one last peck before running off to join the other boys. Lottie plopped down on the couch next to me, furiously texting, glancing up at me once she was done.

“Why are you wearing a jacket?” she furrowed her brows, eyeing the thick jacket I had stolen from Harry’s suitcase this morning.

“It’s cold,” I shrugged, wrapping it around me tighter, resting my arms on my stomach.

“Gosh you pregnant women are weird,” she giggled.

“Don’t be mean,” I pouted, shuffling further down on the couch so I was partially lying down. “I’m just really cold and bloated and I don’t like it.”

“You’re probably showing,” she squealed, ripping my arms away from my stomach and opening the jacket, squealing even louder when she saw my slightly protruding belly, running her hands along it. “Oh it’s so cute!”

“OI!” I squeaked, lightly batting her hands away and covering it with my jacket once again, a lightly blush spreading across my cheeks.

“Oh come on Y/N, let me take a picture!” she pleaded, jumping up from the couch and pulling me up with her. I let her pull my jacket off and raise my tank top slightly so you could see it better. “This is the best moment of my life.”

“This’ll be you one day,” I rolled my eyes, letting her take the photo of my belly, collapsing back onto the couch, hands rubbing over my stomach.

“Mmmhmm,” she hummed, typing away on her phone.

“What are you doing?” I shuffled over, trying to peer at her screen, whining when she turned it away from me. “Show me!”

“Calm down! You’ll see,” she gently pushed me back to the other side of the couch, rolling her eyes when she saw my pout. “Just because your pregnant, doesn’t mean you get to act childish.”

“Yes mum,” I rolled my eyes, shifting so my head was lying on the arm rest, flinging my legs onto Lottie’s lap and beginning to doze off. A sudden cheer woke me up, making me sit up with a small struggle, watching the audience go absolutely mental. “What’s going on out there?”

“Go see for yourself,” Lottie winked, giving me a smug smile as she helped me get up off the couch, watching me waddled over to the curtains. I poked my head out slightly, eyes zeroing in on Harry chuckling, eyes glued on the screen.

“OH MY GOD LOTTIE TOMLINSON YOU ARE DEAD!” I squealed, catching everyone’s attention.

“I wanna see the baby bump first before you kill my sister!” Lou jumped off stage, running towards me and pulling me onto the stage with them, much to the amusement of my boyfriend. All the boys rushed forward, cooing over my small bump that was forcing my shirt up, all running their hands along it.

“My beautiful baby is in there,” Harry grinned, dropping down to his knees and kissing my bump, making me blush and try to cover my stomach, not entirely happy with the entirety of the audience looking at my belly. “Oi, don’t cover my baby. It wants to be seen.”

Liam: You were now a few months into your pregnancy and you were already showing. You had been quite adamant about keeping everyone under wraps until the big day, but Liam wanted everyone to see your baby bump as soon as it appeared.

“So Liam, when are we going to see the baby bump pictures!” Chelsea Briggs squealed, making my boyfriend blush.

“I’ve been wanting to share them for a while, but Y/N always says no,” he pouted, making the other boys laugh. “She says she’s too insecure to show everyone her bump.”

“We’ve seen it and it’s pretty cute,” Niall grinned. “She’s a tiny little thing so the bump looks even bigger that it actually is.”

“I recon it’s twins,” Louis piped up, making the host gush. I rolled my eyes at the group, thanking the lord I had opted to stay home and watch from the safety of my living room, hand resting over my abnormally large bump securely.

“I don’t think I could handle two mini me’s running around,” Liam chuckled, eyes widening at the sheer though of twins. I pouted, picking up my phone and standing up, lifting my shirt and taking a side photo, grinning at the little tally marks Liam liked to draw on every week. I sent the photo to Liam, collapsing back onto the couch and shoving a handful of popcorn into my mouth, smiling smugly as he checked his phone.

“Speak of the devil and she shall appear,” Louis chuckled, taking the phone out of Liam’s grasp and turning it to face the camera, showing the entire world my baby bump. “That isn’t just one peanut.”

“She’s gonna kill me for this,” Liam sighed, taking his phone back, a soft blush evident on his cheeks as he replied to my message, letting the other boys answer the questions the interview was throwing at them. We continued to text each other for a few minutes, me giggling at the expression on his face when I told him he looked sexy, the boys leaning over and reading our text conversation upon seeing his expression.

“Ooooh Liam’s getting some tonight,” Niall nudged his best mate, making the other 3 start giggling like school boys. “It’s true when they say a pregnant woman’s hormones are off the charts.”

“Alright that’s enough about my pregnant girlfriend,” Liam whacked his mates gently, tucking his phone back into his pocket to avoid anymore teasing from his band mates. I turned off the TV once the awards shows they were at had started, opting to walk around the house with my bowl of popcorn, occasionally cleaning things and playing with Loki, finding comfort in the dog who had a strange fascination with my belly.

“Soon, you’re gonna have a little baby to protect,” I cooed, rubbing behind the dogs ear gently, giggling as he placed a paw over my stomach, staring up at me. “That’s right. A little baby is in there.” Loki barked happily, gently nudging my stomach with his nose. Before I had even realised it, it was 10pm, and Liam was walking through the door holding various bags of sweets.

“Y/N what are you doing on the floor?” he gasped, rushing over and helping me stand, patting his dog who had jumped up upon seeing his owner come home.

“I wanted to play with Loki,” I brushed his comment off, pecking his cheek before rummaging through the bags he still had in his hand, cheering when I found the peanut butter cups. “Thank you Li Li.”

“Don’t eat too many, the doctor said you have to be eating healthy foods,” he frowned, rubbing my belly softly, making me grin.

“I know, but I don’t always have to be eating vegetables and all that healthy shit Harry makes me,” I rolled my eyes, screwing my nose up at the sheer amount of kale he had decided to buy me.

“It’s for the baby,” he chuckled, chucking the bags on the bench and leading me up the stairs and into the bedroom, starting to strip off his clothes.

“Well my baby likes it’s chocolate because we have loads of fun eating an entire bag of M&M’s.”

Louis: Even though you were only 15 weeks along, your stomach had started to grow at an alarming rate. This of course, caused Louis to think of the only possible reason… Twins.

“I knew it ran in my family, I mean mum’s got two sets of twins, so it was bound to happen again,” he babbled on, taking a small sip from his tea whilst he scrolled through the photos I had taken of my bump. “Think of it, two little munchkins running around the house.”

“I dread the day,” I giggled, flicking a yoghurt covered oat at him. “Plus we don’t even know if it’s twins yet… The baby could just be really big.”

“Not likely considering it’s parents,” he pointed out.

“I don’t think I could handle two miniature Tommos running around,” I pulled a face, imagining the sheer stress it would put me under. “I can barely deal with the big Tommo.”

“Rude,” he scoffed playfully, sticking his tongue out as he passed to put his cup in the sink, taking my empty bowl with him. “I’m quite excited, especially if it’s twins.”

“You’re not the one who has to go through a double birth, feeding them both, bathe them both,” I checked off, giving him a knowing look. “You’ll just want to do the fun stuff and knick off for the rest of it.”

“Hey, I’ll help put them to sleep and give them bubble baths,” he defended himself. “But I don’t exactly have boobs so I can’t entirely help with the feeding.”

“You sure? You look like you growing a nice pair of boobs there Tommo,” I teased, squealing when he picked me up off my chair, gently placing me on the couch and straddling my legs.

“That wasn’t nice,” he pouted, pining my arms above my head, making me giggle.

“I’m not here to be nice to you,” I stuck my tongue out, whining when he licked a long strip up my cheek. “Ewww! Lou!”

“You know you love it,” he winked, peppering kisses all over my face, making me giggle and try to fight out of his grip. “Do you really not want twins?”

“I was hoping I would get at least a little bit of experience before twins,” I sighed, wriggling in his hold, smiling softly when he released my wrists from his grip.

“I’ll be here to help, and mum is always around,” he grinned, placing his hands on my stomach and rubbing it softly, leaning down and pressing a soft kiss to the growing bump. “Plus we’ve already got built in babysitters, what with the boys and my bajillion siblings.”

“I don’t think I would trust your sisters with my babies,” I frowned, placing my hands on top of his. “Lottie would probably try to force one of them into wearing makeup as soon as they’re out of the womb.”

“Well we can leave them with Harry,” he shrugged, rolling off the couch and lifting me up along with him, letting my wrap my legs around his waist as he walked us both up the stairs and into the bedroom.

“I don’t want him to steal my children,” I pouted, squealing softly when he threw me gently onto the bed, jumping over my body so he was lying next to me, letting me curl into his side.

“We’ve still got time to decide who’s on babysitting duty,” he sighed, pressing a soft kiss to my forehead. “For now, I just need some time with my absolutely gorgeous baby mama.”

“Nice try, but I need a back rub and a bubble bath till I’ll be ready to do anything with you,” I stuck my tongue out, giggling when he began to laugh.

“I’ll get right on that,” he pecked my cheek, sitting up and grabbing his phone. “But first, TWITTER!”

“Louis, don’t you dare tweet that photo,” I warned, watching him frantically type on his phone. “I don’t want everyone to see me looking all bloated n shit.”

“You’re carrying a little life, or lives, in you,” he poked my cheek. “You are not bloated, you’re absolutely glowing.”

“Stop trying to woo me with your compliments,” I rolled my eyes. “Get started on that bath and I’ll be expected a nice 20 minute back rub while I’m in there.”

Niall: Niall was adamant about you not staying home alone at any point during the tour, so he had convinced management and yourself to come along the rest of the UK tour with him. You were in Dublin tonight, and Niall was most excited about being in his home country and seeing his old friends and his family.

“Denise, Greg and Theo will be here tonight, so just call them if anything happens yeh?” he sat me down on the couch, stuffing pillows around my sides so I couldn’t fall off the couch.

“Ni, I’ll be fine,” I giggled, cupping his cheeks and pulling him down to me, pressing a long kiss to his lips. He groaned against my lips, pulling back slightly and pouting at me.

“I don’t want anything to happen to you or my child,” he frowned, grunting when I slapped his head softly. “I’m allowed to worry about my babies ok!”

“Not if it makes you an obsessive daddy to be,” I stuck my tongue out, pecking his cheek. “Now go on stage and have fun with your best friends. I’ll be back here eating all the food and texting you annoying emoji stories.”

“And that is why I love you,” he grinned, giving me one last kiss before bouncing off towards the stage, letting them fix him up for his mic and his guitar.

Halfway through the concert, Grey, Denise and little Theo marched back stage, complaining about the noise in the actual stadium.

“Loud those fuckers are,” Greg sighed, collapsing next to me and stealing one of the pillows stuffed at my side.

“Language!” Denise squeaked, slapping her husband on the arm, picking Theo up and placing him on Greg’s lap. “Mind him while I go to the bathroom.”

“Will do beautiful,” he winked, smushing the giggling Theo to his chest and pressing a sloppy kiss to his forehead.

“So since Niall and I have babysat Theo for you a million times,” I trailed off, gently nudging Greg in the side.

“Yes we will look after the newborn while you and Ni get it on,” Greg let out an exaggerated sigh, making me scoff.

“Baby,” Theo hummed, placing a hand on my growing bump and patting it softly. He clambered off his dads lap onto mine, now placing both his hands on my bump and rubbing it.

“Are you excited for a cousin Theo?” I cooed, holding him so he wouldn’t fall off my lap.

“Gonna play trucks and soccer,” he grinned, clapping his hands together excitedly.

“What if it’s a girl?” I asked, running my fingers through his soft tufts of blonde hair.

“Dress ups and dolls,” he answered quickly, going back to poking and patting my stomach softly, humming to himself softly.

“Watcha doin little man?” Denise popped up behind her son, tickling his sides making him squeal and try to fight his mum off.

“Singing to the baby,” he grinned, laying his head on my stomach.

“Can I go to the bathroom first buddy?” I giggled, lifting him off my lap and placing him on the floor, letting Denise pull me up.

“Wait!” he squeaked, stopping me from walking. I let him wrap his hands around my tummy, pressing a soft his to my stomach. I let out a soft coo, bending down to press a kiss to his forehead before waddling off to the bathroom. It was only when I came back that I noticed the uproar of fangirl screams from the stadium.

“What are they so excited about?” I chuckled, standing close to the curtains, still hidden from the fans but able to see the boys all staring at the oversized TV’s.

“I may or may not have tweeted a photo,” Greg wrapped an arm around my shoulders, showing me his phone screen.

“Dat’s mah woman!” I heard a faint yell over the microphone. I looked out to see Niall grinning cutely, giving me a small wave. I rolled my eyes, wiggling my fingers back. “Go sit back down baby! And don’t let Theo steal you away from me!”

Zayn: Whilst Zayn was generally quite chill with the whole pregnancy, and didn’t go apeshit like a lot of other father-to-be’s did, he was protective when it came to the paparazzi and ‘dangerous’ fans.

“Zee, can we stop at McDonalds really quick?” I pouted, rubbing his shoulder softly from the passenger seat of the car. “Baby is craving some chicken nuggets and a large coke.”

“Are you sure it’s the baby, and not you,” he teased, turning into the conveniently placed McDonalds, parking the car close to the entryway. “Come on, you need to get out and get some exercise. The doctor said it’s good for the baby.”

“Pffft, who needs exercise with you can balance bags of food on your belly,” I scoffed, pushing the door open and jumping down from the seat, mentally cursing Zayn for deciding to buy a Range Rover.

“Yes, I’ve seen you and Sophia doing that,” he rolled his eyes, lacing our fingers together and pulling me inside the relatively empty take out store, save for a few young families and an elderly couple. “Squishing our poor babies head.”

“I’m just waiting for the day it kicks an M’n’M off my stomach,” I giggled, pulling Zayn towards the counter and resting my hands on it. “I’ll take a full box of the chicken nuggets and a coke, the biggest size you have, please.”

“Pregnancy cravings?” the girl behind the counter raised a brow, punching in my order and taking the money Zayn was holding out.

“Hell yeh,” I sighed, rubbing my belly softly.

“My mum used to be like that,” she giggled, handing me the change. “She’d make me get up at 2am to get her an iced tea and massive bag of skittles from 7/11.”

“I made him sit out in front of Starbucks until it opened to get me a Pumpkin Spiced Latte once,” I grinned, leaning against the counter on my elbows. “He didn’t speak to me for a good 2 hours, but he couldn’t resist his baby mama.”

“Alright, enough talk about me being your slave,” Zayn cut in, placing his hands on my shoulders and rubbing softly, making me let out a little sigh.

“This may sound really weird, but can I take a photo of your bump?” a girl asked, a soft blush forming on her cheeks. “I’m an art student, and we’ve been told to find representations of love, and well, I don’t know what’s a bigger sign of love than a baby.”

“Oh yeh, sure,” I grinned, watching the girl jump over the counter and produce her phone from her pocket. She raised my shirt slightly, crouching down and snapping a few photos from several angles.

“How far along are you?” she hummed, typing on her phone for a moment before putting it away.

“5 months,” Zayn answered for me, placing a large coke in my hands, snorting softly when I squealed in delight.

“Have you found out the gender yet?” she climbed back over the counter, resuming her position of leaning against it.

“Y/N wants it to be a surprise,” he rolled his eyes, taking the awaiting bag of nuggets from another workers hands, holding it out of my reach when I tried to grab it. “Anyway, we’re gonna go. Good luck with your art project.”

“Oh! Can you tweet me that photo!” I piped up. “My twitter is-”

“I know what it is, I don’t live under a rock,” she chuckled, winking at me. “Have a nice night you two.” With that, she disappeared to back of house, leaving us standing there confused.

“You two are a beautiful couple,” a soft voiced cooed, making us both jump and turn around, seeing the elderly couple from before standing behind us. “You’ll make wonderful parents.”

“Oh, thank you,” I grinned, spotting Zayn’s happy look in the corner of my eye. 

He always got excited when people told him he’d be a great dad. Made all his insecurities go away I suppose. “I aspire to grow old and still be together like you two.”

cywscross  asked:

“I may have accidentally sort of adopted five cats.” Steter with Stiles adopting the cats, maybe calling Peter about it when Peter's away for work or Stiles is away at college :)

A/N This did not go quite the way the prompt asked for. Also I went away for the weekend for Hyper Japan and based all the cat occurrences off of my friend’s cat Dixie, who did in fact sit on my head and purr for two hours whilst I was trying to sleep. 

It starts with a ginger tom. Stiles isn’t quite sure how it gets into the apartment but there it is, stretched out on the awful beige carpet in a patch of sunlight. Stiles pauses, bottom lip just touching the rim of his Wonder Woman mug. He doesn’t take a sip of coffee due to the presence of well, a ginger cat. It’s mystifying to say the least. He puts the cup down on the coffee table and proceeds with caution. He stands over the cat, nudging it gently with his foot. The cat flicks one beady eye up to look at him and evidently thinks Stiles is not worth his time because the eye closes and it continues to sleep on peacefully.

“Scott,” Stiles hollers, “Did you bring work home with you again?”

“What?” A bleary eyed Scott yells back as he stumbles into the living room, yawning and scratching his belly where his tank top rides up. He wanders up to Stiles, snagging the Wonder Woman mug off the coffee table and downing it. Stiles points at the cat that has taken up residence on their carpet.

“That’s a cat,” Scott says. Stiles resists the urge to roll his eyes.

“Yes Scott.”

“We don’t own a cat.”

“Congratulations Scott, you win the prize for the most pointless statement at 9.30 am.”

Scott punches him in the arm, which with werewolf strength hurts more than it should.

“Ow,” Stiles grumbles, shoving Scott playfully. “Seriously though, did you save this kitty from the vet clinic?”

“It’s not one of ours.”

Stiles expression is skeptical.

“Scott you have a habit of bringing home injured animals. Remember the Yorkshire terrier with the broken paw.”

“His owners were mean to him,” Scott whines, pulling out his trademark kicked puppy face. Stiles has only really just developed an immunity to it. Only just.

“Or the duck with a broken wing. The pregnant Great Dane, which gave birth in our bath. And my personal favorite, the porcupine in the laundry. I had quills in my lacrosse shorts for two months.”

“I said I was sorry. And I’m telling you I didn’t bring this cat home. It’s probably a neighbors that got through the open window,” Scott says, pointing to the window before meandering off to the kitchen.

“Well excuse me for jumping to conclusions given that previous evidence shows that your soft heart has lead to our apartment becoming an impromptu animal sanctuary,” Stiles retorts. He glares at the cat, and nudges it with his foot. It refuses to budge. Stiles is a little more forceful. The cat simply rolls over.

“Go home,” Stiles mutters. The cat yawns and flicks its tail lazily. “Get out. Vamoose. Skedaddle. Shift it.” The cat does not move.

“Scott come be the alpha and get it out,” Stiles demands.

“Not a chance,” Scott replies.

The cat, which Stiles calls Cat due to lack of originality and care on his part, decides not to mosey on home and continues to lounge around the apartment like it belongs there. Scott is thrilled to have a pet and ends up bringing home all sorts of food and toys. Stiles however, hates Cat with the burning rage as it has a habit of sleeping on his laptop keyboard when he’s trying to write essays for his Psych 101 class. Cat is a menace in Stiles opinion and he’s fuming because no one wants to claim the bloody animal. Scott, reluctantly, put up flyers in the Animal Clinic with Cat’s picture on them whilst Stiles went to the police station and around town.

“Why can’t we keep him?” Scott asks, his eyes taking on a shiny, pleading quality.

“Because,” Stiles grumbles, wrestling his t-shirt away from Cat who is using it as a sunbed, “It doesn’t belong to us. Somewhere out there is a grief stricken owner who – give it here you little shit – is heartbroken over the loss of their little angel.”

Cat is malicious and conniving and needy. Stiles does not like him one bit. Cat however, seems to adore him. Cat rubs himself up against Stiles legs, winding his way through them. He sleeps in Stiles bed and by sleeping, Cat climbs onto Stiles head and purrs loudly for at least two hours. He curls up on Stiles chest when Stiles is lounging on the sofa. Stiles has unwittingly gained a tiny ginger fan. Scott is a little heartbroken, seeing as Scott feeds and plays with Cat but Stiles puts this down to the fact that Scott is a werewolf and Cat is just racist.

“Do we really want a racist cat in this household?” Stiles points out over Vietnamese takeout one night. Cat is curled up on Stiles lap and no amount of shoving will remove him. “It that what we want to promote, species inequality.”

Scott tries to look less mournful but still eyes Cat with the sort of longing he used to do to Allison. And Kira. And more often than not Isaac.

Unfortunately, Cat has friends. Four friends that he brings home on the weekend that Scott is spending at Kira’s apartment. Stiles, who is shattered from doing essays on Sirens for his mythology class, wanders out to shove day old macaroni and cheese from the fridge into his mouth like an animal when he spots them in the living room, curled up on the leather sofa. Two tabby, one ginger (Cat), one black and one white. It’s a freaking epidemic.

“Excuse you,” Stiles says, addressing Cat as if Cat is a person or as if Cat really cares, “I don’t believe that you were permitted to bring home friends. You aren’t even a resident here. You are a pest, a parasite. Possibly a homeless man who we let stay on the couch for one night but now has overstayed their welcome by weeks. You are not supposed to even be here, let alone bring cronies. Out the lot of you.”

As expected, the cats ignore him.

“Great,” Stiles grumbles, “Why not invite the whole neighborhood? I’m sure there’s tons of space. We could start a freaking home for abandoned cats while we’re at it.”

When Scott gets home the next day, Stiles is smothered in cats. Cat sits on Stiles head, purring merrily whilst the others have taken up resident on his chest and thighs.

“I hate cats,” Stiles says venomously, spitting out cat hair.

“No,” Stiles says, arms folded and gaze hard, “We cannot have pack night here, I refuse.”

“But I’m the alpha,” Scott replies, confused as to why Stiles objection is so strong. Stiles gestures to Cat, Feline (white), Gatto (black), Kot (tabby) and Muca (tabby) who are all lounging around the apartment in various patches of sun.

“Our little C-A-T problem,” Stiles says, as Gatto rubs himself against Stiles legs.

“So?” Scott asks, his confused puppy expression coming out to play.

“The cats dislike you,” Stiles says slowly, “Because you’re a werewolf and they are racist. You are bringing werewolves, a banshee and kitsune into this apartment. Do you not see the issue?”

Scott clearly doesn’t because he shrugs and invites everyone over anyway. Stiles glares at the cats and threatens them bodily harm. They don’t care or even acknowledge the threats but at least Stiles feels slightly better.

The cats hate everyone. Stiles is buried beneath them and they hiss angrily like a many headed hydra any time the pack gets too close. Liam, Isaac and Derek have all been clawed violently. Kira, Scott and Lydia have had the sense to stay far away, on the opposite side of the living room.

“I told you this would happen,” Stiles, laments, his voice muffled by Gatto rubbing himself against Stiles cheek.

“I didn’t think they’d hate the whole pack,” Scott replies mournfully. Kira pats his arm comfortingly whilst Liam uses Scott as a human shield in case the army of cats decides to attack.

“I hate cats,” Stiles grumbles, attempting to fold his arms and failing. After struggling for several minutes, Stiles gives up being gentle and stands up, allowing the cats to slide down his body. They plop to the ground, Gatto landing on top of Feline’s head and Muca landing upside down. Stiles wrenches Cat from his head, dropping him on the nearby sofa. Cat yawns and stretches before curling up. Kot, Muca and Gatto clamber up onto the sofa to curl up beside Cat whilst Feline takes the armchair.

“Great, now we have nowhere to sit,” Isaac says, eyeing the cats angrily and rubbing his hand though the cut has long since healed. Stiles goes to reply that none of this is his fault when the doorbell rings. Stiles rushes to answer it, giddy with the feeling of being able to walk without being tripped up by cats.

Peter is lounging in the hallway when Stiles opens the door. Sometimes Stiles forgets that he’s actually on their side now and isn’t a raging megalomaniac with a thirst for blood. It’s difficult to remember seeing as Peter’s solutions to supernatural problems usually involve heavy bloodshed.

“A pleasure to see you as always,” Peter says as he passes Stiles. Stiles grumbles under his breath, mumbling something that sounds like ducking glass mole. He follows Peter but nearly walks into him when Peter stops at the entrance to the living room.

“Well, well, well,” Peter says, voice thick as honey but not as sweet, “What is going on here?”

“What are you?” Stiles mutters, shimmying past Peter, “A British cop from the 70’s.”

Peter ignores that comment, instead gesturing to the sleeping cats and nervous wolves.

“We accidently adopted five cats who have a problem with werewolves,” Stiles replies, “And Scott wouldn’t let me take them to the animal shelter.”

Peter chuckles, wandering over to the sofa to inspect the collection of kitties. He reaches a hand down to run his fingers over Muca’s head.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Liam says from his hiding spot behind Scott. Peter ignores him, stroking Muca with a gentle touch. And to the surprise of everyone except perhaps Lydia, Muca purrs, arching up into the touch.

“Of course they’d like you,” Stiles says, “They’re malicious little devils, they recognize that you are basically Satan in a V-neck. You are evidently their master and as their master you should really take them off our hands.”

Peter continues to stroke Muca, ignoring Stiles proposal.

“Well as fascinating as this is,” Lydia says, flicking cat hair from her cardigan, “This meeting is reconvening in the sushi bar down the road. Stiles, you join us when you don’t look like a walking fur ball.”

Stiles looks down at his hair covered clothes, shocked to discover that his jeans now look like a pair of ugly furry trousers. He curses the cats, slapping the hair from his jeans and flipping Peter off when he hears him laughing.

Peter ends up visiting every weekend to see the cats. Scott ends up spending more time at Kira’s, which leaves Stiles to deal with Peter. It’s actually surprisingly easy. Peter arrives, curls up on the sofa with a book and the cats and leaves after a few hours. Stiles potters around the apartment, doing work or cleaning and sometimes he’ll join Peter on the sofa to read. Peter ends up staying later and later, allowing Stiles to pick his brain over supernatural queries. Peter will occasionally cook for Stiles, constantly berating him for the lack of fresh ingredients in the cupboard. Stiles likes to point out that he is a lowly college student whose funds are spent on books and his jeep, not organic produce. Peter ends up bringing his own ingredients after that.

“You don’t think it’s weird?” Scott asks. They’re both using the college gym, although it’s not like Scott really needs to. Stiles wipes sweat from his forehead.

“What do you mean?” Stiles asks in return, filling up his water bottle from the tap.

“That he keeps coming to the apartment to hang out with the cats,” Scott says, “He’s never wanted to spend this kind of time with us before.”

“Correction, spend time with me, you are otherwise occupied engaging in the horizontal tango with Kira.”

“Dude I’m serious.”

“Hello serious, I’m Stiles.”

“Dad jokes really?”

“Don’t knock the classics Scotty. And stop making that face, Peter is mostly harmless. Yeah occasionally, he has that glint in his eye which usually signifies that he’s thinking about murder but apart from that he’s fine.”

Scott looks dubious but drops the issue.

It hits Stiles in the middle of an exam. It’s the most inopportune time and he makes a mental note to think about it later because you know, exam, good grades future, but the fact is, he realizes why Peter is hanging around with the cats so much. It’s because they like him, they don’t shy away from his touch. They enjoy his company and stroking and generally like to climb all over him the same way they do Stiles. This knowledge fills Stiles with a strange sadness or at least pity for Peter. Then he mentally shakes himself because Peter doesn’t want his pity.

Stiles starts small, a gentle brush of fingers when he hands Peter a mug of tea, moving marginally closer to him at the dining table, looking straight at his face with he’s speaking. Once Peter is comfortable with these interactions, Stiles steps up his game to lingering touches on the arm when they make dinner together and clapping a hand on Peter’s shoulder when Stiles leans over to look at Peter’s new book. If Peter knows what’s going on he doesn’t say anything. He eats up the attention, returning the soft touches and moving closer into Stiles space. One night, he kisses Stiles cheek as he leaves. Stiles cheek tingles for hours afterwards.

Stiles didn’t mean to fall for Peter, it just sort of happened. Between the talks and the touches and the meals, it happened. And maybe, just maybe, Peter feels the same way too. Stiles isn’t entirely sure, it’s based off a gut feeling; a gut feeling that he plans to follow through. He invites Peter over for Friday night, makes sure that Scott is out with Kira and the rest of the pack is otherwise occupied and sets up the living room with soft candlelight, using electronic tea lights instead of real open flame. He cooks a proper meal, even using some of the money he was saving to get the Jeep a new paint job to buy fresh, organic ingredients. He even wears a nice suit, no tie and shirt unbuttoned slightly. He even manages to force the cats into wearing tiny bow ties, much to their distain.

It leaves Peter almost speechless. Almost.

“All this for me,” Peter says, arm curling around Stiles waist to pull him close, “Am I being wooed?”

“100% yes,” Stiles says, pressing his cheek to Peter’s and scent marking him, “All the wooing. I am a wooing master.”

Peter laughs. They kiss, a soft, sweet, slow kiss that leaves Stiles lips tingling and his heart pounding.

“Well then, woo away.”

I Sing the Body Electric

I sing the body electric,
The armies of those I love engirth me and I engirth them,
They will not let me off till I go with them, respond to them,
And discorrupt them, and charge them full with the charge of the soul.

Was it doubted that those who corrupt their own bodies conceal themselves?
And if those who defile the living are as bad as they who defile the dead?
And if the body does not do fully as much as the soul?
And if the body were not the soul, what is the soul?

Keep reading


Your lemon scent seeps inside me and plays with my thoughts, nearly waking me from this dream-like setting. I am bound to you Sorrento, you and my high-spirited Italian friends.

Often in the gardens, we cook, eat, drink endless bottles of wine, and share until the sun rises. Meals last forever as do storytelling and conversations. Music and poetic voices dance in the Mediterranean air. Long walks up and down the rolling hills are mind moving and love making. The people are so alive, the flowers vibrant, and the smell of local dishes are as alluring as a Pavarotti song.

When the new day comes, I emerge from my seaside suite onto the terrace, like Botticelli’s Birth of Venus, bathed in golden hues, floating on a sparkling blanket of azure blue. I could nearly touch Mount Vesuvius, I am captivated by her, she speaks to me…she fills me with dark secrets…