caught on a whim

Going with the argument route here :) (Modern College AU)

In hindsight, the argument was beyond stupid, but when you pair stubbornness with stubbornness, the end result is a shouting match followed by slamming doors and the silent treatment.

Keith knew that approaching Lance about this very attractive lab partner would be a bad idea, but he just had to know if something more was going on. People talked, and he caught whim of some gossip concerning Lance leaning a little too close to said attractive lab partner.

Lance reacted just as Keith expected, but instead of dropping the subject, Keith fired back just as hard with cheating accusations until the two stormed off to their separate dorm rooms.

For two days, Lance shut Keith out entirely, and Keith wouldn’t admit it out loud, but it was tearing him up in a way that manifested into physical illness. He could hardly sleep, and eating was out of the question. Pair that with school stress, Lance stress, and the fresher’s flu bouncing around, and Keith was left feeling terrible.

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“I didn’t know you could draw,” Laurent said casually, flipping through the pages of his sketchbook.

“I’m not much of an artist,” Damen replied.  He was surprised by how calmly he stood there, unperturbed as Laurent appraised every single one of his sketches. Even Nikandros had only seen a select few before Damen gave in to the urge to snatch the book back; the drawings were private, a secret hobby that he guarded from those around him. Laurent was a stranger.

“Nonsense,” he mused, and Damen had to correct himself. Laurent was a man he had known for three days, but he wasn’t a stranger. In some ways, Damen felt like he knew him better than he knew most of the people at home.

“I could draw you,” he found himself saying, “if you’d like.”

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Elorcan Werewolf AU Part 2

I really didn’t expect anyone to even read part 1, so I was sure as hell shocked when I saw that people even liked it. So thank you for even bothering to look this over when I would have probably skipped it myself. 

Summary: Vernon’s a rat (nothing new) and now Elide has to face the consequences of not showing up at the mating ball. And put up with her mate.

Only to find

myself lost

Once again

Elorcan Werewolf 2

Elide decided to make a chocolate cake since what girl didn’t like chocolate? It would be a celebratory cake for the Fireheart Pack making it through their first mating ball alive.

Unfortunately, the moon goddess had other plans.

Elide! Aelin screamed down the pack link.

Elide let out a startled cry, accidentally dropping the batter. Hissing in frustration, she grabbed a sponge.

What is it?

Your uncle Vernon leaked to the cadre about your absence. I’ll kill that bastard. He doesn’t deserve the Alpha position.

Fear leaked through Elide.

What’s going to happen to me?

Aelin didn’t answer right away, and Elide could sense her distress. She left the remains of the cake on the floor and hurried to the weaponry room.

For your apparent insolence, Lorcan Salvaterre wants to whip you. Hide in the dungeons. He can’t detect your scent there among the other prisoners.


Yes. He’s heading into your direction.

Where are you?

Aelin paused. Then growled: Running away from my mate.

Elide’s eyes widened as she stuffed a couple of daggers down her boots, and stuffed medicine into her pouch. 

Why are you running away from your mate? Mates were precious, a gift from the moon goddess herself. Life without a mate passed without true purpose or happiness. 

Because my mate is Prince Rowan Whitethorn, Lycan and heir to the Doranelle throne. 

Elide didn’t have time to be shocked as her connection with Aelin blasted with fear. Before she could ask, her front door banged open, a low growl piercing the empty air. 

Elide didn’t go to the dungeon. She’d had been trapped in one for her entire youth, and there was no way in hell she’d let a Lycan cow her into one. 

So she slung the pack over her shoulder, and sprinted as fast as she could with her ruined ankle to the back door, and slid into Aelin’s camaro. After dutifully clicking on her seat belt, she slammed on the pedal and steered the car with impressive strategy through the woods into the main road.

If she made it into the completely human cities, then she’d be safe. Lycans had a covenant under Pack law to not step foot into mortal land for their safety as their temperament could wreck cities.

Elide sent a quick message down the pack link of her plan, and then palmed a knife in her hand. She wouldn’t go down without a fight. There was a time she’d been defenseless, but she was no longer that girl anymore.

A howl sounded through the air, and a small part of Elide yearned to slam on the brakes and comfort the wolf. But Elide wasn’t going to listen to that part of her that might kill her, so she pressed the gas pedal harder.

Survival first.

Don’t use the main roads, Aelin let out a strangled sound down the link. He’s sending his bribed police officers in to slow you down.

Elide let out a curse that would have made Manon proud. She didn’t know why Lorcan was so bent on punishing her. The entire world didn’t revolve around them, and sure as hell didn’t live to satisfy their every whim and urge. 

As soon as she caught sight of the flashing red and blue lights of police cars, Elide swerved the car into the forests. She expertly drove through the line of trees, both fallen and drooping as if expecting her unwelcomed entrance. 

What she lacked for her werewolf form, she made it up with driving. When Aelin had became Alpha, she’d gained all of Arobynn’s previous debts. To force her to step down, most of the Alphas had demanded that Aelin pay them immediately.

Elide had helped by racing on the streets, much to Aelin’s and Manon’s protests. She didn’t mind. It meant she could serve and be helpful in other ways rather than doing laundry and washing dishes.

When she’d been beaten Lycan Fenrhys in a drag race, she’d gained over one trillion in dollars, no one believing a little girl could out race one of the cadre, betting against her. Fenrhys had demanded that Elide take off her pale mask she wore to protect her identity, but as soon as her hands had gotten a hold of the money, she had booked it.

The way the male had looked at her like she was his next meal  —

Elide shuddered.

When the forest cleared out, Elide hit the side streets. Her fingers gripped the wheel tightly as she zoomed past the edges of her pack’s border at 250 mph. There was no way Lorcan could catch her.

Or so she thought.

The same dark blur flashed past the car, and a blink later, Elide saw a male standing in the middle of the road, arms crossed. The aura of power and dominance oozing from the male was enough for Elide to slam on the gas pedals.

She would not stop for anyone.

The male seemed to realize that Elide would run him over, but also seemed to have a death wish, because right when the car was a fraction of an inch from his chest, he easily sidestepped, a brow raised.

Elide flung the dagger out the window in his direction, and then pressed the pedal harder.

There was no way. There was no way a werewolf — even a Lycan — could run that fast. But it seemed like fate wanted to test her today.

The passenger door of the car ripped open, and Elide screamed as a body slid into the shotgun seat with the ease of gracefulness and elegance. She slammed on the brakes, watching in satisfaction as the male’s body hit the dashboard — served him right for having absolutely no manners and not bothering to buckle up.

Before she could reach for the dagger in her boot, the male snarled, and lifted himself up.

A large, muscular body with ropes of corded muscle looming over her.

The hunt had ended. 

And Elide knew she’d been captured as soon as those onyx eyes locked onto her.

“You ran away from me, Elide Lochan.” His canines elongated, and Elide shivered at his low voice, that granite rough-hewn face. Her pulse throbbed as the male’s eyes raked her over.

The Lycan leaned forward, resting his jaw against her collarbone, a warm breath caressing her skin.

Elide swallowed harshly.

She felt the edges of his teeth gently scrape against her flesh, the male inhaling her scent greedily.

“Did you know,” Lorcan breathed, sending sparks and shivers down her skin. “You ran away from your mate, Elide Lochan?”

The Breath Aspect and its God Tiers/Classpect Roles

Keywords: Disconnected, Apathetic, Indifference, Detachment, Options, Liberties, Freedoms, Independence, Movement, Separated, Flexibility, Airy, Immaterial, Intangible

Symbols: Pnuema, Wind, Wings/Flight, Bubbles

Breath is one of the 12 Aspects of Homestuck. Its Opposite is the Aspect Blood. When I think of Breath, I think of the pure Disconnects between yourself and everything around you. It is the choice to be Apathetic and Indifferent with maintaining the Bonds that you have. It is any and all Detachments from anything that you willingly have. It is the Options and Liberties that you willingly make or have for yourself. It is your Freedom from the matters and concerns of anyone other than you. It is your Independence from people and their Independence of you. Breath is what Moves and Separates you. Those Flexible things that you pick up and put down on whims. It is the Airy world of the Immaterial and the Spirit of the Pnuema, those things that exist Intangibly that you can’t touch or hold. Breath fills your Spirit with the Air and Lifts you Up on Wings, Separating you from everything. It is this Flexibility of Movement that lets you go wherever and whenever you please, nothing able to hold you down in one place.

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[Murdoc x Reader] Hades and Persephone Pt. 3

Ayyyy actually managed to write this quicker than I thought.

- - -

The next three days would go by painstakingly slow.

You weren’t in the best mood after you found out the person you used to consider a close friend knocked you unconscious and kidnapped you, stowing you away in Kong Studios. You stopped talking to him after he openly admitted to the crime, which had hurt him dearly, but no words could describe how much he had hurt you. At the time, you didn’t care if you ever spoke to him again; Murdoc was someone you thought you could trust, but he managed to completely tarnish the sanctity of your friendship the moment she snatched you up from the streets. He’s tried many times to console you, to talk with you, to hear his side, but you didn’t want to hear any of it. Why would you, after all that’s happened?

And yet, despite having abducted you for unknown purposes, he remained true and showed that he still cared for your well-being by bringing you food and drink regularly, whether it was for breakfast, lunch, dinner or the occasional snack. Plus he brought you a TV with a DVD player to keep yourself entertained since you didn’t want to use the in-home theatre just doors away. You found it incredibly strange; you’ve seen many cop shows and documentaries about kidnappers and how they would abuse and/or torture their victims until they killed them or were rescued, and you were certain Murdoc would do the same to you.

But he was the exact opposite of what you expected.

He was…caring, gentle even, always making sure if you had what you needed and often asked if there was anything else you would want at the time. Not to mention he came in the check on your regularly around the clock when it was outside bringing you food and drink. You didn’t have an extra change of clothes since your belongings were still at your flat, but Murdoc managed to provide that as well in the form of extras from what you assumed was from the other members of his band. It was better than sleeping and wearing the same set of clothes everyday, so you couldn’t complain.

You have tried to escape when Murdoc wasn’t around, immediately trying to window but found that it was locked from the outside. When you went out into the hallways for a shower, you looked for alternative route out. Since your room was in the basement, or at least what could be considered the basement, you hoped to find a door that lead out like a normal cellar would. You found none, and the only way out was through a door at the top of a staircase that was always locked. So while you were being cared for, you were still trapped. So that eliminated any chances you had to escape.

During your stay, you became aware of your surroundings, mostly the various sounds that go on up above you. It was mostly walking, music, banging, yelling…It wasn’t hard to figure out who Murdoc was, given the trademark clacking of his Cuban heels could be heard anywhere. There were three other sets of footsteps you couldn’t recognize; one was similar to Murdoc’s but lacked the telltale clacking of heels, another set was heavier and precise, and there was one that was light and quick, like a child. They moved around a lot up there, and you often heard Murdoc yelling at someone which was sometimes accompanied with a scream or two. You weren’t sure what the banging or thumping was…although there were times you heard something being dragged across the floor on the occasion.

The studio itself was….odd. It felt more like a haunted house rather than a studio, especially with the other strange noises that went on at night outside of the band’s activities above you. Creaking was something normal in any old building, but you could have sworn you heard something moving out in the hallway, but whenever you checked the hallway was always empty. It didn’t help that you had a constant view of the graveyard just outside the studios, so that did nothing for your thoughts. It unsettled you, to say the least.

You became particularly bored when the fourth day finally rolled around. You had seen every DVD Murdoc had given to you, and there was nothing on any of the cable channels that caught your interest. On a whim, you decided to go check out the theatre since you hadn’t the entire time you were there, and it’d be better than being cooped up in your room the rest of the day.

After slinking out of your room you made your way towards the theatre; You heard more movement above you, but you had gotten used to it as you continued on your way…that is, until you heard the knob at the top of the stairs jiggle a bit. You dismissed it as Murdoc coming back down to most likely take your dirty dishes upstairs from breakfast…until you heard it. The distinct sound of a smack, followed by a yelp.

“Ow! What was that for–?”

“You bloody dullard! I told you to never go near this door!” You frowned. That was Murdoc’s voice…but who was the other person? Better yet, what were they doing up there? You stealthily eased up the stairs listening intently.

“What for? I just–”

“If I catch you anywhere near the door again, I’ll shove that keytar down your throat ! Got it?!”

You heard another yelp, softer this time, just as you heard Murdoc stomp off to regions unknown. “Bastard…” The other mumbled, and you could hear him shuffling off somewhere. You felt your heart leap to your throat as you suddenly became impulsive as you lifted your fist…

And knocked.

There was a long pause of silence that followed afterwards, but the shuffling stopped the moment your knuckles hit the wood. You held your breath, waiting pensively…unsure what you expect from the mystery person on the other side. When you didn’t receive an answer, you lifted your fist to knock again…only to hear another knock from the other side.

You gasped as you stepped back, but quickly covered your mouth before you could make a sound. Your swallowed hard, your hands were trembling, and your body felt hot. You tiptoed towards the door, delicately placing your ear against the cool wood…you didn’t hear anything, but you saw a shadow under the door.

They were still there.

“Hello?” You called, acting on another impulse.

“…Hello?” The mystery man mimicked, causing your heartbeat to increase. “Hello, is someone in there?”

“Y-yes.” You replied, trying to stop calm yourself. “Um….can you open the door, please?”

“Uh….yeah. One sec.”

You stepped back as you heard the locks click from the other side before the door swung open. The person who stood before you was tall and lanky to the point he almost towered over you. Spiky but messy blue hair, wearing a simple t-shirt, ripped jeans and sneakers. But what startled you was the fact that…he didn’t have eyes. Not any normal ones, anyway. His “eyes” were two black pits in his head that stared down at you. He blinked a few times before he squinted, as if he had to really focus on what he was looking at. “Oh. I was wonderin’ where that shirt went.”

You quirked an eyebrow as you looked down at your attire, which only consisted of a baggy blue tank top and sweat pants. “Oh…sorry. Murdoc gave it to me to wear.”

“He did?” It was his turn to raise an eyebrow as he studied you. “Are you a friend of his?” He asked slowly, almost suspiciously. It was then when you also that he was missing his front teeth.

“We’re friends, yes.”

Another pause, although you grew nervous and started messing with the helm of the shirt as you didn’t know what else to say or do. To be honest, you weren’t thinking when you called out to this man and to get the door open. Were you trying to escape? Or were you trying to sate your own curiosity as to who else lived in the studio? You could try to leave - this gent seemed nice enough to point you to the nearest exit but…what would you do after that? You didn’t know where you were or how to get back home, and the only one who had the answers to your dilemma was Murdoc. And you knew he wasn’t going to be keen on letting you go home. At the same time…what was stopping you from telling this man that you were kidnapped by that very same man? What was stopping you from asking - no - begging for help, pleading with him to take you far from this place? And after what he’s done, why did you still consider Murdoc a friend?

“Were you down there the whole time?”

The tall man’s voice brought you out of your thoughts as you nodded. “Y-yes. I’ve been here for a few days, actually.”

Another short pause, and he started to ask another question…until you both heard the familiar sound of Cuban heels against the wooden floor. You felt your heart drop, and you could tell your companion felt the same way as his head whipped behind him, only to find Murdoc standing just feet away staring at you both. His expression was unreadable when he looked at you, although his expression immediately turned into a dark scowl when he turned to the blue haired man next to you. His hands were balled into fists, which trembled as he marched towards him. “You little–!”

“Murdoc, wait!” You immediately got in front of the cowering human tower behind you, Murdoc immediately stopping his warpath as his expression soften. “D-don’t be mad at him…I…I asked him to–”

“Asked him to what?” Murdoc cut you off, completely bewildered.

Your mind was racing, but somehow you were able to think of a lie quickly. “I don’t know how to use the theatre downstairs and I needed help…I didn’t want to bother you and he was around at the time so…”

What were you doing?

You were covering for the guy, yes, but why did you make up that lie of all things? This was your chance to escape! You could easily run past Murdoc and get to the exit - regardless of if you didn’t know where you were or not, you could have ran to the nearest house or store or somewhere and asked for help! “You don’t mind, do you?”

Murdoc studied you, and you could see an almost….saddening look on his face before he heaved out a sigh. “N…no. I don’t.” He scratched the back of his neck before he extended a hand towards you. “Come on, then. I can show you how to use the theatre.”

“How come I can’t do it?” You turned to see your new friend frowning with his arms crossed. Although Murdoc could have sworn he saw a hint of triumph in those black voids he calls eyes… “She asked me, didn’t she?”

Murdoc immediately growled, clenching his fist tighter. “Stay out of this, Faceache–”

“No, Murdoc, it’s fine. Really.” You reassured, not wanting the tension to escalate further. You backed away from him before you beckoned for the blue haired man to follow you before you began to descend back downstairs with him following. “Oh, um…I didn’t get your name.”

“2D.” He replied with a smile. “My real name’s Stuart Pot, but I answer to both. What’s yours?”

“[Y/n]. It’s nice to meet you!”

Murdoc could only look on as he watched his lead singer essentially take you away from him. While he couldn’t afford raising any further suspicion, it still hurt him to see you walk off with someone else. He tried to ignore it, he truly did…but his biggest fear may have been unfolding right before his eyes…

- - -

Part 1

Part 2

maryjabassa  asked:

pls can you talk more about your tags in this post? twoquickdeaths(.)tumblr(.)com/post/153693799095

sure thing! 

so physicality as character is my really (really) verbose way of describing character actions that explicitly utilize the body, usually at the expense of the body itself. i love horror/sci-fi/action movies most than any other genre because by their very construction character’s bodies are the narrative. the alien HAS to rip out of you in order to be born, to time travel you HAVE to be totally bare and nude, to protect furiosa you have to put yourself and the life of your child on the line, because there is no other way.

it’s faster than introspection because it allows the audience to see the willingness of the character to withstand pain, to go against the ultimate survival instinct of staying away.


bc they begin with superman, and superman is the ultimate physicality as character character. man of steel didn’t do it first, but znyder and co. really did push it best. clark’s powers, his physical prowess, his mere existence, changes the course of the narrative in this universe. and what’s amazing about clark is what’s always been amazing about clark, HE GIVES ALL OF HIMSELF IN ORDER TO PROTECT PEOPLE. it’s not that he can die. we know he can’t die. there’s too much money to be made lol IT’S THAT WHEN DOOMSDAY STABS HIM CLARK PULLS HIMSELF INTO THE SHARP BONE BC IT WILL DESTROY DOOMSDAY.

now it’s not always about self sacrifice and grand hurrah moments for heroes, but that’s the stage where we’ve been with hero movies for a long time. it’s about the spectacle and the reaction, not the action and the cost. that’s why i think the dcu throws a lot of people off. there are consequences, and a lot of them HURT the characters or paint them in a negative (as opposed to bad) light.

in mos and bvs we have been shown just glimpses of what metahumans and beings like clark are capable of. it’s just the surface. suicide squad presents us with beings who have always existed this way, who have been caught, who are now at the whim of authority who absolutely does not care about them to the point where their bodies literally don’t belong to them anymore. i sentimentally wrote, body as more worthy than the soul, but amanda waller’s not like that. she doesn’t care about their souls either. she doesn’t care about their minds or what they think or whether they want to be part of the squad or not. they have no mind, no purpose, and their bodies aren’t theirs, they belong to the government. the only way they can make it out is to rebel, but freedom literally equals death. waller is pavlov in this, she hardwires the squad into submission and they have no choice but to conform.

here’s where harley’s gymnastics comes in. in this small space she has. in this tiny corner of the prison world. she has this skill and the means to use it. they cannot take this away from her. they cannot rip this skill from her mind. she uses it to sleep and to practice and it comforts her. later, we see this skill is important in her escape, and it’s a huge moment for her character, but also a huge moment for deadshot, because it’s about him as well, and his skill. it’s a moment where waller absolutely has no control over them, and even though it gets them nothing, it solidifies the trust and devotion they already have for each other and it showcases how skilled and strong they are.

all of my favorite dcu moments are physicality as character moments. the man of steel oil rig scene that i just can’t believe exists to this day (one day i’ll go beat by beat why it’s a stunning sequence), the batman saving martha sequence in bvs and in suicide squad when floyd is shooting down enchantress’s black tar things and everyone just watches in awe because holy hell. THIS IS WHAT THIS PERSON IS CAPABLE OF this is how powerful they are and strong they are. and he is a protector.

i could cry about this all day. actually i do cry about this all day lol. 

Iron Man / The Avengers: Anthony Edward Stark [ESFP]

OFFICIAL TYPING by Charity / The Mod.

Extroverted Sensing (Se): Tony is comfortable engaging with the environment and using it to the best of his ability; when imprisoned, he uses the objects around him to invent the first Iron Man. He is comfortable in high-risk situations and enjoys physical engagement. Prior to finding “a purpose” as Iron Man, Tony is a playboy, caught up in indulging all his sensual whims (gorgeous women, fine cars, expensive parties, etc). Each situation is an “experience” for Tony, who goes straight for the quickest solution to resolve problems. He uses the world, connecting to and finding its possibility, without difficulty or hesitation – and nearly gets himself killed multiple times in the process. For the most part, he lets Pepper run his companies, preferring to “play” instead of “work.”

Introverted Feeling (Fi): Until the sales of weapons impacts Tony directly, he doesn’t care about them – and then once he reaches a hard line moral conclusion that it is wrong, he refuses to further make or sell weapons, which threatens the company’s bottom line. Tony’s Fi is unhealthy, in the sense that he often sticks to his own moral beliefs, without considering the fall out (refusing to sell weapons means closing some of his businesses, forcing hundreds of thousands of people into unemployment; he also disregards Cap’s feelings about Bucky, focusing on his own intense beliefs and need for revenge). Tony’s emotions bottle up, sometimes over years (his anguish over the last argument he had with his parents, finally exploding with rage when he finds out who killed them).

Extroverted Thinking (Te): CONTROL. Tony strives for it, constantly; he believes humans need monitored and protected, and that the Avengers need a check… government oversight. He sees a logical problem (the mass damage they have caused) and goes straight for the obvious solution (a contract forcing them to abide by rules) rather than engaging in creative thinking or finding loopholes (unlike Cap, whose Ti has analyzed the problems of governmental oversight). When Cap refuses to agree and sign the document, Tony recruits and avidly tries to force him into obedience. Tony often loops through Se/Te, creating brutal frankness in conversation, harsh insults and criticisms of others, and a tendency to disregard personal feelings to accomplish a task (ignoring Cap’s feelings about Bucky). Financial gain has little motive over Tony, who can put together business proposals but prefers to leave running companies to Pepper.

Introverted Intuition (Ni): Tony tinkers with inventions, but all of them pertain in some way to Iron Man after awhile. He fixates on this one project, obsessively refining and perfecting the suit. He reaches singular conclusions, a sense of what he believes is going to happen or what will “fix” the problem, and refuses to change his mind, which leads to conflict with the other types. It’s ONE WAY, all the way. Under stress, Tony becomes convinced of catastrophic impending events, and disaster around every turn. He becomes so caught up in this vision, he can’t see any other possibility or solution. Further, sometimes his excitement over creating things fails to take into account the futuristic fall-out (Ultron).

Note: I know, I know. I’m going to take heat for this typing. Stereotypes want Iron Man an ENTP. This one is not. No Ne. None. One solution, one object, one interest, one resolution to every problem is not Ne. Half the movies are about Tony reacting to and engaging the environment (Se) and fixating on a single opinion (Ni). He also has no Ti. His adaptability comes from Se, but when presented with difficult problems, Tony locks into using control, force, and rules (Te), rather than inventing a new system (Ti). The last movie really showcases this, with his single solution of “sign the document.” His raging emotions turn up frequently, far more than futuristic insight. Tony internalizes feels until he loses it. His PTSD a few movies back showed his inability to articulate emotion outwardly, instead leading into a depressive, paranoid spiral. There is a margin of error for ENTJ, since Tony does spend most of his time in an unhealthy loop, but he exhibits the paranoid symptoms of lower Ni, and he appears much more capable with Se than Te, suggesting it’s the dominant. Some of his decisions are incredibly short-sighted (Ultron??).

Love at First Sight

You aren’t with the FAHC more than a couple of weeks before they begin to question. Question how the two of you met; question why you’re so loyal to each other; question how you ended up together when you’re so very different.

They don’t realize how similar you really are.

Maybe if they had been there the night you met they would understand, understand the instantaneous and overwhelming connection that had formed between the two of you. Maybe they would understand if they had been there and had seen:

You shocked, still not quite comprehending how you’re still alive and why your target’s dead. Your breathing is heavy and your mind is racing as you drag your eyes from the fat, dead body up and up and up. You take in the calm figure standing over the body, not tense or shaking at all, and take in the knife covered in blood, clutched in a tan hand. You take in the luxurious but revealing clothing and the flashy gold jewelry resting against naked skin almost like a brand.

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banalvhen  asked:

09 for f!bull?

“Fucking hell–” 

She spits out, sprawled in the sand. No one had expected the camp at Coracavus to be much of a target, much less the Venatori leaving giants outside at their whim. It had caught her with its hand, slamming her into the ground. Dazed, she had struggled for breath while trying to find her axe. The roaring in her ears deafening, she had heard the shouts of her wounded companions, and then the death knell of the giant.


She shouts, stumbling as the giant’s fall shook the ground. Bull lunged forward in the sand towards the party, heedless of her own concussion. Her ribs ache, but worry drowns it out. Falling to her knees in the sand beside Rhiall, she fumbles in her pockets for an elfroot potion, cursing her big clumsy hands. She tossed the cork aside with a vengeance and cradled her head in her lap, gently urging her to drink. 

The tension drained out of her shoulders when Rhiall coughed, but swallowed. Blinking, she looked up at Bull and smiled, one hand gently gripping her wrist.

“Hey,” Bull says breathlessly, gracelessly, and swallows before kissing her.

“Hey, Rhiall. Hey.” 

Ten years is nothing to an immortal. Ten years is also a lifetime when you’re in love. 

Ragnor had stopped being afraid of the phrase about three years into the relationship. Around year five he’d stopped stowing away when caught on a whim to work. His lab moved to rooms on the main floor versus in stowaway areas around the world. Raphael knew of his advances and issues in helping the Vampire race digest foods. He knew of the struggles of dimensional weather the Warlock was so goddamn close to fixing. Ragnor didn’t feel the need to hide the projects he held close to his heart with the man who ultimately was his heart. Because of all this, around year eight Ragnor realized there was a problem: He wanted to marry this man.

“I have two questions.” He lied. Ragnor had been lying for years now. There was always one extra questions, Will you marry me?, that hung in his mind. One he’d hadn’t asked in centuries. 

“¿Confías en mí?” He had a delicious smelling covered dish balanced in one hand and a small vile filled with murky liquid in his left. “¿Y tienes hambre?”






Literally written on the tree is “Arbor Vitae” and I looked it up as there’s an Arbor Vitae Cemetery in CA!!!  1301 Roberts Ave, Madera, CA 93637

 I live on the other side of the US so, could anyone check it out??


Closing Night of FUN HOME

The orchestra got a standing ovation as they entered. Deafening applause for Beth Malone’s entrance, Emily Skeggs’s “Changing My Major,” Judy Kuhn’s “Days and Days,” and Gabriella Pizzolo’s “Ring of Keys.” Tesori, Kron, Gold, and all the understudies joined the cast for bows. Real Deal Alison Bechdel closed out the night. Michael Cerveris, with Gabriella Pizzolo on his back, stood just outside the wings to watch the orchestra play the final bows. We all watched and we all cried.

Happy closing, Fun Home. I caught this show back at the Public on a whim, and am happy to have come back a few times. If Fun Home is an indication of where musical theater goes next as an art form, we’re in great shape.

Commit to Memory

Originally posted by sophisticatedconnoisseur

Originally posted by lonely-my-middle-name

Author’s Note: This is a Juice Ortiz imagine based off of Your Call by Secondhand Serenade and imagine number 3 for Music Monday #2, as requested by a wonderful Nonny. This one is a tad on the darker side, but I hope it doesn’t disappoint. Let me know! Rated M for adult language and adult themes. ***Trigger Warning for abuse and violence***

Commit to Memory


Waiting for your call, I’m sick, call I’m angry
Call I’m desperate for your voice
Listening to the song we used to sing
In the car, do you remember
Butterfly, Early Summer
It’s playing on repeat, just like when we would meet
Like when we would meet

I was born to tell you I love you
And I am torn to do what I have to, to make you mine
Stay with me tonight


“I told you I’d find you,” the calm, calculating voice pulls her from her thoughts and turning she sees Jesse standing in the doorway of the TM office, vibrating with anger.

“Jesse, you can’t be here,” her voice shakes despite how she tries to hide her fear. It’s been eighteen months since she left in the middle of the night, and even though she’s lived in fear that entire time she’s been trying to pull herself together, “the restraining order…”

“You stupid bitch, do you really think I give a fuck about what a piece of paper says?” he spits taking a step towards her. Her hand instinctively goes for the gun she knows Gemma keeps strapped to the underside of the desk and finding it gone, she closes her eyes on a broken oath.

His hand is strong as it circles her arm, pulling her up from the desk.

“We’re going for a little drive now Mari,” he says and she cringes having always hated the way he shortened her name and as much as she wants to correct him he presses the barrel of a gun through his coat pocket into her side and any and all arguments slide away. The people she has come to love and care for are just inside the clubhouse and she’ll be damned if anything happens to them because of her.

“Okay. Just let me get my purse,” she keeps her voice even and with some form of luck swinging her way he loosens his hold so she can bend down for her purse, and as she lifts it from the spot she keeps it under the desk she leaves in its place the simple silver ring Juice gave her, praying it’s enough.


“Hey babe,” Juice calls out as he closes the apartment door behind him. Every single part of him aches from the two day run, but it’s worth it now that he’s home with her. “Mariana?” He listens to the silence, confused by it, and glancing up at the clock he sees that she should be home. He notices the bowl that sits on the entry way table is empty, her keys and sunglasses nowhere in sight, and he wonders if she got caught up at work. Pulling the cell phone from his pocket he calls her, fear starting to nibble at his mind when it goes straight to voicemail.

It never goes straight to voicemail.

He paces madly as he dials Gemma’s number.

“Hey Juice,” Gemma’s voice fills his head.

“Have you seen Mariana?” he asks rubbing a hand over his head.

“No baby, I thought she was at home. I came to check on her at closing time and she was already gone,” Gemma replies and the silence that settles on the line is heavy.

“Something’s wrong,” Juice says, and without waiting for a response he hangs up the phone and runs for the door.


The truck bumps along a dirt road, and looking out of the window she tries to make out her surroundings, but nothing really sticks through the haze. Her body aches, thanks to his hands and anger, and all progress made in the last eighteen months has simply slipped away, the strong woman who had been blossoming effectively stamped back into the cowering shadow of who she used to be.

She wonders how many times Juan has tried calling her, knowing that by now he’s working himself up to a fever pitch of worry. Wanting nothing more than to be able to answer his calls, she presses her head to the cool glass of the car window and fights back the tears.

She told herself a year and a half ago that she would never cry in front of Jesse Wilkens ever again, and that’s a promise she intends to keep.


Stripped and polished, I am new, I am fresh
I am feeling so ambitious, you and me, flesh to flesh
Cause every breath that you will take
When you are sitting next to me
Will bring life into my deepest hopes,
What’s your fantasy?
(What’s your, what’s your…)

I was born to tell you I love you
And I am torn to do what I have to, to make you mine
Stay with me tonight


He sits, arms braced on his knees as he stares at the small circle of silver in the palm of his hand. It’s such a simple thing really, a ring that caught his eye while on a run and on a whim he bought it for Mariana, giving it to her for their one-year anniversary.

She had cried.

Not because she assumed it meant they were engaged, because they weren’t, but because as she would tell it, no one had given her anything before. Not her deadbeat parents. Not her abusive douche bag ex-boyfriend.

He made love to her that night, for what felt like the first time, taking his time to savor the way her body moved with his, the taste of her sweat slicked skin, and closing his eyes on the memory his palm closes around her ring. He worries, though he won’t say it out loud, that he didn’t take nearly as many opportunities to commit everything about her to memory, and the thought of not having the chance to do just that sets off an ache inside of him that he never imagined possible.

“Any word yet brother?” Chibs asks as he comes to settle next to him and with a shake of his head Juice opens his eyes to look at his friend.

“I want to marry her,” Juice confesses, slipping the ring into the pocket of his cut, “where is she Chibs? Where the hell is she?”

“I don’t know Juicy, but we’ll find her, I promise you that,” Chibs says clapping him on the back, “though it would be a hell of a lot easier if this was something she’d done before.”

Chibs’ words hit him like a freight train.

“Oh my God,” Juice says as he jumps up and runs for his laptop. “How did I not think of that.” He pulls his laptop from his bag and opening it he waits the agonizing few minutes it takes for it to boot up. “You’re a fucking genius Chibs.”

“I am? I mean of course I am, but why exactly am I genius today?” Chibs asks trying to bring an element of humor to the situation.

“Mariana has disappeared before, that’s how she ended up here,” Juice says as he starts typing in all information he has on Jesse Wilkens, and when the results come back that he had been released early on good behavior he swears. “Son of a bitch. I know who has Mariana, and I think I know where.”


And I’m tired of being all alone, and this solitary moment makes me want to come back home
(I know everything you wanted isn’t anything you have)

I was born to tell you I love you
And I am torn to do what I have to


She’s curled into herself, fingers tracing mindless patterns on the wall. Jesse snores next to her, and while a part of her has studied the space between her and the door she knows it would be pointless trying to make a run for it, as she’s handcuffed to her captor.

She had loved him once. A terrifying, all consuming kind of love that lent itself more to obsession and infatuation than to sincerity and genuine emotion. There connection had burned bright, like a supernova, scorching everything in its path, and when that light died out, she was left with the aftermath of a love gone terribly wrong.

When all was said and done and she managed to run away, she hated him; but more than anything, she hated what she had become while with him.

As a means of escape from the dark path her thoughts threaten to take her down she lets her mind wander to Juan, and a ghost of smile crosses her lips. Closing her eyes, she pictures his smile, remembering the countless nights they found themselves sitting naked in the middle of the bed they now share talking and eating, mostly junk, because though his body would indicate otherwise, Juan has one hell of a sweet tooth.

She wonders if they’ll ever do that again.

No, she tells herself. It will never happen again. Jesse will never let her go. She has two choices, pick up where she left off with Jesse, as if the last year and a half of blessed freedom from his control was nothing more than a bittersweet vacation, or die.

Like it says in Peter Pan, ‘to die will be an awfully big adventure.’ She lets out a shuddering breath as tears flow down her cheeks, but then she sees a flash of light shine through the window. Her heart catches in her chest, and when the silence grows agonizingly loud and long, she wonders if she simply dreamt it up until she hears the crash and the sound of splintering wood.

Jesse moves fast, rolling over her, and with her back pressed firmly to his chest, shielding him, he holds the hunting knife to her throat as light pours into the room.

Juan takes point with Chibs and Happy flanking him, and in spite of the way the blade bites into her throat she smiles.

She wanted nothing more than to see Juan’s face one last time.


And I was born to tell you I love you
And I am torn to do what I have to, to make you mine
Stay with me tonight
(I know everything you wanted isn’t anything you have)


“Drop the knife asshole, and let Mariana go,” his voice is low as he stares at the man he’s come to hate.

“Fuck you, she’s mine,” Jesse spits adding just enough pressure to the blade at Mariana’s throat that a drop of blood rolls down her skin, soaking into her shirt.

“I can’t get a clear shot brother,” Happy mutters angrily.

“Neither can I,” Chibs offers and he knows what it means.

It’s for him to do.

It’s the only way that Mariana will ever really be free of him, free to live a life without fear, free to live her life God willing that she chooses to, with him.

“Juan,” Mariana’s voice whispers through the fog clouding his head. His eyes meet hers and they shine, as a tear rolls down her cheek. “I love you.”

The room erupts as he pulls the trigger and when both Jesse and Mariana slump back he’s terrified that he missed his mark, but then he hears her crying, and pressing the gun he holds into Happy’s waiting hands he goes to her.

“I’ve got you,” he says pushing the hair from her face, looking past the spray of blood that paints her skin, “I’m going to get you out here Mariana, I promise, you just have to stay with me baby, stay with me.”


He helped her shower, gritting his teeth at the bruises and scrapes, and when she turned in his arms to press her face into his throat he held on as she rode out the storm of her emotions, and once she emptied herself he dressed her in one of his shirts and tucked her into bed, climbing in beside her.

His hand rests overs hers as he studies her face, and with a smile he brushes a kiss to her cheek, promising to ask her in the morning if she’ll give him the rest of their lives together so he can commit everything about her to memory.

Malec Drabble Alphabet - O

O - Opulent

Alec was not exactly used to the same caliber of things that Magnus was. Shadowhunters were glorified soldiers and, though there was a certain amount of indulgence they allowed, they tended to favor the functional over the extravagant. They were an old community, with a lot of history, but apart from their weapons and the revered mortal instruments, not a lot of importance was put into things.

Magnus, of course, was the complete opposite, just as he was in many things. He liked luxury and comfort and, above all, stuff. And, as Alec was learning, there really wasn’t anything wrong with that. If something as simple as an inanimate object made you happy, who was he to say that it was trivial or useless? That was like someone telling him his bow didn’t matter, when it was actually a part of who he was. For Magnus, all his stuff, his trinkets, his books were memories of hundreds of years of life. It was amazing and sobering to think about. He finally understood why the other man had been so adamant to get the ruby necklace that Alec’s sister now wore back. 

It was still a lot to get used to, though. It was just so strange sometimes to have things, little luxuries, readily available to him on a daily basis, only because of his relationship with Magnus.

Magnus, who also loved to give gifts (again, Izzy’s necklace was the perfect example of that; it was payment, sure, but it was only the warlock’s good mood that had allowed him to be so generous in that payment). He especially seemed to love giving things to Alec.

Thing was, Magnus was also exceedingly good at it. Though he himself had a penchant for the excessive, he knew that Alec did not. His gifts reflected that. They were just so thoughtful every single time that it always made a rush of affection run through the shadowhunter’s chest, so much so that it actually ached. It was just such a wonderful feeling to know that the person most important to you felt the same way about you.

Now some of his favorite possessions had come from Magnus. Like the sweater he’d received in the early months of their relationship; it looked like any other article of clothing in his limited collection, but it was so soft that Alec instinctively realized that it hadn’t been cheap. But Magnus, being Magnus, wouldn’t tell him a thing about that, only telling him that he thought it would suit him. And, really, it did. Plus the first time he wore it on one of their rare dates out, the warlock had gotten this look in his eyes that was simultaneously tender and full of unadulterated want. Suffice it to say he wore that sweater a lot now.

It was heady to know he had that kind of power over someone so seemingly untouchable. Alec vowed to never purposely use that power against him.

There were also other things, given to him just because. Simple things like the types of snacks he liked, a book the other man thought he would interested in and once even a pair of socks (‘there are holes in the pair you’re wearing, I simply cannot allow that’). And then there were the grander gestures. That night they’d spent in Paris, a complete act of spontaneity on Magnus’ part when he noticed how stressed the shadowhunter had been getting. The potions and spells that were meticulously prepared for him, just in case he ever needed them (‘I would prefer that you remain intact, Alexander’).

And then there was the key to the warlock’s loft, attached to a shiny keychain of an arrowhead and another of a glittery disco ball. That added bit of flare had made it all the more Magnus, and Alec really loved anything Magnus.

But by the Angel, Magnus was so good at this kind of stuff and Alec… Alec was not.

He tried, really he did, but he always seemed to get it wrong. He just wasn’t as instinctively aware of what other people wanted. Izzy had always told him (with a certain amount of fondness) that his gifts were the worst; still, she kept them all. As did Magnus, even when it was something stupid like a glittery rock he found one day that reminded him of the other man’s true eyes, the glints of gold and green so similar to Magnus’ warlock mark. Magnus was always kind about his failure as a gift-giver though (in fact, that rock now sat proudly on the mantle piece).

“As clichéd as it sounds, it is the thought that counts, darling,” the other man had once told him. “Besides, I do actually like your gifts, they’re very you.”

Still, despite the reassurances, Alec felt like he could do more.

Fortunately, it was that determination that allowed him to sometimes, just sometimes, get it right.

It was the week of their first anniversary as a couple, and Alec we undeniably nervous about it. Logically he knew that this should be an exciting time (and truthfully it was) but he wanted to make this special for Magnus. He’d been thinking for weeks about what to do, what to get, but kept drawing a frustrating blank.

In the end, it was Izzy who gave him the idea (thank Raziel for his sister and her endless involvement in his life). It was so deceptively simple that at first Alec dismissed it… but then it occurred to him that an anniversary was not so much about opulence, or grandiosity, as it was about showing how much you cared. With that thought, he’d quickly bought was he needed, whilst simultaneously asking Izzy to help with finishing touches.

The morning of their anniversary, Alec had woken up extra early and set about making chocolate-chip pancakes, all the while eyeing his somewhat badly wrapped present (he really didn’t have an eye for color schemes and the like… well, unless the color was black). Angel, why was he so nervous? Even if he didn’t like it, it was hardly like Magnus would change how he felt about him over something like this, right? Right?

All too soon, the pancakes were done and Alec swiftly put them on a tray along with the gift, carrying them quickly to the bedroom. He couldn’t allow himself time to chicken out.

As he entered the bedroom, he saw Magnus already sitting up, hair still sleep-ruffled but eyes wide open and aware. He smiled when he saw what Alec was carrying, a rare, full smile, one solely reserved for Alec.

“For me? My Alexander, you shouldn’t have,” he said, all mirth and twinkling eyes.

Something about the warlock’s happy mood set Alec at ease, making him feel almost giddy. The knot of nervousness finally loosened in his stomach, and he couldn’t help but tease. “Well in that case, I’ll just eat all these pancakes myself,” he replied, sitting down at the end of the bed, holding the tray in his lap.

“Hand them here, Alexander. We do not joke about pancakes.”

The shadowhunter let out a surprised laugh at the childish antics (he saw them so infrequently), but did as told. Still feeling slightly giddy, he spontaneously leaned over and kissed Magnus, intending it to be short and sweet but not protesting when it turned into something more. When he detached himself, slightly out of breath, he spoke again.

“Happy anniversary, Magnus,” he whispered softly, hearing the vulnerability in his own voice.

“It is indeed, darling,” the other man replied, just as gently. “And thank you.” Something about his gaze was unspeakably warm as he ran a hand through Alec’s hair, pulling him in for a last, swift peck.

Alec cleared his throat awkwardly, sitting back. “Don’t thank me yet, you haven’t opened your present yet.”

“Ah yes, how could I forget?” With that, he picked up the package and promptly tore at the wrapping. The utter excitement of the action caused Alec to smile again. It was ironic (and kind of cute) that Magnus Bane, centuries old and one of the most powerful beings in existence, got excited by wrapping paper.

Soon enough, he held his gift in hand. The warlock stared at it for a long time, his expression inscrutable. It was a photo album, like so many of the others that Magnus already had. The cover design was beautiful, even Alec had to admit, deep purple and embossed with delicate gold designs. It was bold and loud but also undeniably a bit fragile, quite like Magnus himself actually. The warlock seemed to unfreeze suddenly, flipping it open to find a picture already stuck in there. It was one Isabelle had taken a while back and also the inspiration for the present as a whole when she’d shown it to him on a whim. It showed Alec and Magnus, caught mid-laugh, hands clutching at each other. Magnus’ head was thrown back, his eyes heavenward, where Alec only had eyes for the warlock. Izzy told him that it was her favorite picture of them; Alec had to agree. The next few pages contained a few more pictures, gathered by him and his sister from their circle of friends. Still, the photo album was mostly empty; save for the few pictures, there was only one other thing. On the inside cover, there was small line of cramped writing.

For our memories.


Alec stared at Magnus nervously, trying to see what he was thinking. But the warlock still hadn’t looked away from the album. Finally, the younger man cracked. “Um, I just thought that it would be nice, you know, for you to have something to put pictures of us in.” Obviously, you idiot, it’s a photo album. “I mean, I know how much you like taking them so I thought I’d get one just for us, you know? I don’t know, maybe it was stupid, we have computers now and–”

“Alexander.” Something in Magnus’ tone made him stop immediately, glancing at the warlock and meeting his oddly glossy (vulnerable, Alec later realized) eyes. “It’s not stupid at all, it’s perfect,” he said, completely sincere, his tone brooking no argument.

And Alec guessed that it was, judging by his boyfriend’s reaction. For a moment, he seemed almost melancholic, swallowing harshly against something, but then he smiled and it was so beautiful that Alec could have sworn his heart stopped. Magnus nearly tackled him in a hug, pancakes forgotten as he pulled the shadowhunter into passionate, surprisingly sloppy kiss. His happiness was catching, and soon they were both laughing into each other’s mouths, probably looking utterly ridiculous.

Not that either of them cared, really. This moment was just theirs, after all. And to commemorate it, the very first picture Magnus added was one he snapped just after, both mussed and still in pajamas but also smiling for no other reason than that they had each other.

And when the photo album remained permanently in the first drawer Magnus’ bedside table, a place of honor, Alec couldn’t help but feel a little proud.

All alphabet drabbles are tagged under malecalphabet 

I have a lot of complex thoughts about the refugee crisis after living in the heart of it for a solid length of time, and I would just caution everyone away from cynicism over it. It’s a unheard of situation, no easy or clean solution for a complex problem that’s never been encountered. I don’t pretend to understand even half the nuances. But truly, so many people are helping. It isn’t a delicate nuance. It’s a bold point blank truth. So many people are working very hard to help other people, and so many people are thriving, engaging in pursuits and creating opportunities.
It’s really easy to get caught up in macros, in projected millions and governments and policies and economies, but if you’re far away from where it’s happening I promise you as someone who was for a long time (and now, home in Hawaii, am as far away as anyone could be), that on a micro level, on the level of people to people, much is being done. Things like me and Kate taking all the tampons (hundreds, my god, the combined wealth of six women living together with no room left in their suitcases when they moved out) left in our house to a shelter in Istanbul and being met with a donation line that went out the door, and boxes overflowing; civilians who live throughout the Mediterranean and Aegean sea are patrolling the water to rescue capsized boats, like the man whose Airbnb we stayed at in Cyprus. I have friends in Amsterdam organizing classes that crash course basic Arabic, Turkish, and English. I met one complete babe who had been whisked out of Palestine in the middle of the night as a little boy, and knew his way around a Slayer espresso machine in Berlin with such finesse you’d die and kissed even better. I was talking with a French-Tunisian friend on skype not a few weeks ago who isdoing her MA in psychology, and related a fast growing interest amongst her peers to train in the intercultural treatment of PTSD, and in developing coping exercises to treat shocks of resettlement. In Ankara, I got to sit in on a fascinating series of comparative literature lectures given by scholars from Syria (both of whom, I might add, where on loan from the UK where they had received asylum and now taught) Lebanon, Greece, Massachusetts, and Iran, followed by the best workshop where I wrote something again for the first time in months after being a part of such a stimulating dialogue about syntax. These are the things I myself have witnessed in my own limited life experience. I know there are so many other stories. Stories from the people taking part, who are still living them. I urge everyone to share them in the face of hateful political soundbites and fake life jackets. Stories of adjustment, normality, gestures.
There isn’t a place on this earth that wasn’t at some point the cruelest most unfair place to be born, we’ve always been caught in the whims of war and famine and disease, the history of this life is marked by nothing other than the loss of it, but people aren’t all embittered by the fear or limited by trepidation. There’s no saving some things, but people salvage, and stitch up, and stuff doesn’t look like it used to and it doesn’t look new either but I dunno? It’s still creation. Its still creatively applied force of fuckin will.
People are living their lives. We are not a teeming a anonymous mass. We are not swept away in a mob of fascism and hate. We are learning how to repair the steam wand in a espresso machine. We are packing two duffel bags full of tampons, and renegotiating our worlds.


An unusual fairytale about a cannibalistic librarian by Haruki Murakami and artist Chip Kidd

The Strange Library
by Haruki Murakami (author) and Chip Kidd (artist)
2014, 96 pages, 5.5 x 8.4 x 0.3 inches (paperback)
$10 Buy a copy on Amazon

I bought this book on a whim. It was the cover that caught my eye. The big cartoon eyes and snarling leopard’s mouth spliced together to make a goofy yet menacing face instantly drew me over to it. I flipped it over and read a summary so bizarre that I felt obligated to buy it. When I got home I opened the book by separating the cartoon eyes from the leopard’s mouth. Inside this vertical flap was another set of unsettling images. Where the normal book cover should be there was the first page of the story. At this point I knew I was in for a truly original reading experience.

Part of this experience is due to Haruki Murakami’s unusual fairytale about a schoolboy, a sheep man, and a ghost girl trying to escape a terrifying library and its cannibalistic librarian. The other part is due to its beautiful design by legendary book cover artist Chip Kidd. He did a masterful job bringing this novella to life with striking images and a truly unique layout. The pictures and typography evolve with the story. Each turn of the page brings something new and exciting. It’s a story in a category all its own with a design to match. – Kye Wood

March 19, 2015

True Blue Me & You’s Most Popular Posts of 2013 Based on Notes. Part 2. Part 1 here. What I learned: infographics are very popular. What is popular on Tumblr, Pinterest and what people outside Tumblr look at on True Blue Me & You is very different. Papercrafts, cats, food and fandom DIYs are usually more popular than jewelry and fashion DIYs on Tumblr. #6 Harry Potter Monopoly and #9 Ashley Gilreath’s magnificent necklace are my favorites in the entire popular list.

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