dim time

One nice thing - Thomas Sanders ficlet

(Okay so this is a rewrite of the last video - Personality Q&A - not that it isn’t practically perfect in every way @thatsthat24 (yes Julie Andrews is a miracle whom we all don’t deserve in our lives but are thankful for) because it is practically perfect and I saw the reverse Missy that Anxiety pulls .. it’s just my brain went on a tangent)

One nice thing. 

Prince doubted Anxiety could say a nice thing about him nor he a nice thing about Anxiety.
 It’s not that there was no good things between them but they had a way of holding it over each other enough that it wasn’t worth telling. Which honestly he enjoyed and he knew Anxiety did too. What neither enjoyed was losing. So they declined to mention anything good about the other until forced and sometimes not even then.

He told Morality he made Logic furious, Logic that he was the most realistic, told them both they were morons most of the time. Then he got to Prince and stopped.

“Princey.” He stopped and sighed. Prince awaited, unsure what he was waiting for but slightly worried about the look on Anxiety’s face, “I can’t believe I’m gonna say this. But you’re the most handsome.”

“What?” Thomas, Morality and Prince asked in shock.

Logic had been already too wound up today by Morality so the bring back of last week’s conversation and having someone say something not only illogical but to back up Prince was too much. He yelled indignantly, “What?!”

To that Anxiety smirk stretched, giving in the game to Thomas and Morality. Logic however was still in the mode of trying to process the information and Prince had let it sink in as he fist-pumped.

“Yes! I knew you knew taste. I don’t ..not like you.” Prince started then trailed off as he conceded to saying he liked Anxiety.

“I can take that,” Anxiety nodded with acceptance, then his trademark smirk came back, “Mr. Singalong.”

“I like that name but I know you’re trying to be insulting so don’t push it, Sunshine.” Prince narrowed his eyes on Anxiety.

Logic however had only just had time to work through the shock, “How do you agree? It’s impossible, we all look the same!”

“Sort of but we all look like we’re part of indentical quintuplets, there’s plenty of differences in stature, attitude, style and self-care. That makes for change in look.”

“What kind of nonsense..” Logic huffed.

Only to be interrupted by Mortality, “The boy makes a point.”

A grumble of ‘not a boy’ can be heard.

“We look different from clothes to the way we stand to our neutral expressions. I’m sure plenty of people find every one of our styles including Thomas’ own as attractive.” Mortality continued. Logic looked at him with a look of ‘why are you so smart yet so dim all the time’. Ironically it proved Morality’s point as this was usually Anxiety’s go to shock expression and yet with Logic.being different it looked a lot different on him.

This was the time Prince decided to interrupt, “I just can’t help that I’m more handsome than all of you.”

Anxiety looked like he was starting to regret that decision so instead continued to watch Logic’s meltdown to make sure it was worth it. Morality gritted through his teeth, “Anx, I can’t believe you. I hope Prince milks the compliment for all its worth.”

To this Anxiety looked shocked by Morality’s bad wishing upon him and Thomas simply laughed and agreed. Prince was still away with the fairies.

“I’m sure that’s just Anx.” Morality reassured, “I’m sure lots of people find you more attractive, Logic. I know, let people vote!”

“Morality, I don’t know if that’ll make Logic fe..” Anxiety started.

“Yeah!!” Logic yelled, Anxiety slammed his mouth shut..

Thomas looked at his phone, “I mean. We don’t have to vote. I can see who people like most. You just all may not want to know. It’s not what you think.. But it’s not what you guys seem to expect.”

“Well now we have to know.”

“Ooh, now I’m curious.”

“Hit us with it, we can take it.”

“Go on, then.”

All 4 shouted.

“Okay. But you all have to take it well. Win or lose, yeah?” All 4 nodded. Thomas sighed, “Okay, bar myself, the collective opinion of the fans thinks … Anxiety is the most attractive. By a country mile.”

Now Prince’s jaw dropped, Morality and Logic instantly turned silent and Anxiety looked as if this information was a beanie baby that hit him in the face. … Then slowly smirked.

“WHAT?!” All 3 yelled.

“Yes!” Anxiety laughed quietly.

“Yeah. A lot of the demographic are way into Anxiety. Think it’s to do with a lot of them being involved in the My Chemical Romance era, Morality is regarded as very cute. But Anxiety is the metaphorical hot girl.” Thomas shrugged.

Once again they all turned quiet, Prince slowly building up a drama queen hissy fit. Only to calm himself and finally say, “The metaphorical hot girl thinks I am the most handsome. I am okay.”

Anxiety opens his mouth to tell him he said it because he knew it would kill Logic only to get shot daggers by Thomas.

“People find me cute?” Morality squeaked.

“What do people find me?” Logic grumbled.

“Urm, at the moment a fair few people find you and your saying ‘Salutations’ sexy.” Thomas tried to read without going red. Logic finally jumped for joy. Thomas needed something to move onto to stop blushing. He loudly coughed to hide the bustle of the complimented group.

“Yes anyway, you’re all pretty. But also complete morons most of the time at least anyway.” Anxiety tried to calm them down.

“Yeah, lets open the pandora’s box of emotion later. Anyway, Logic, Spock or data?“ Thomas asked, laughing.

anonymous asked:

Headcannons on how Remus would be when dating/in love with you? How the rest of the gang teases y'all and such? Please and thanks xoxo :)

My bad it took me 83918172818 years to do this but! Here goes!

  • I imagine Remus to be the kind of guy who is hit by significant realisations quite slowly. 
  • Don’t get me wrong, he knows when his homework is due and what he feels for his friends when it’s 4am and he’s trying not to smile at the fact that they’re playing exploding snap and ignoring James singing about Lily for the billionth time. 
  • And he knows what he feels for himself when it’s the morning after a full-moon and his throat is dry and cracked and everything hurts.
  • But love is a realisation he isn’t quite sure he’s actually having. So it’s slow. It’s him, standing in line at the library for a book he’s had on hold since forever, chewing his lip, wishing that the Ravenclaw in front of him didn’t have so many questions about Bathilda bloody Bagshot, of all up-and-coming authors - seriously? Seriously? Talk about tired writing, the most cliched of structural suppositions, but then, as the line moves on, he remembers the accent you put on to read from Bagshot’s latest book last week.
  • You were meant to be revising for your exams and Lily had nudged you to do more than just glare at the schedule you’d drawn for yourself. 
  • James, Remus and Peter shared your table at Lily’s discretion: if anyone spoke at any moment that wasn’t the 10 minute break-slots she’d allocated, she’d personally hex them into the hospital wing. You’d grabbed the nearest book off the stack of your revision texts and off-setted her seriousness without even realising, pursing your lips and elongating your vowels as you whisper-read, sounding like a breathy, old bag of a lady. Bagshot.
  • Everyone had laughed, and laughed again at the blank look on your face. You’d only just realised they’d heard you. And Lily had shoved you in the arm, a light smile on her face. And Lupin had laughed into his jumper, meeting your eyes and looking like you’d just let him blow out the candles on his birthday cake. 
  • He hugged his arms to his chest, now, smiling at the memory. The librarian handed over his book and for a second, he was frozen. Thinking of your face. How before, he’d only ever fantasied about kissing you. 
  • During the crush phase, you weren’t always around, didn’t force yourself onto him/except for the times you did and he was more than happy about that. You dipped between friendship groups, but had, for long a time, always, always been a familiar face. A pretty face. The girl at breakfast. The girl with Lily. The girl who caught his eye when someone said something stupid and the privacy of the that feeling, the annoyance that tethered you two together, made him blush. The girl who, without any questions, ran into him and his friends on her way back from a late-night stroll and healed the sticky cut on his arm, no questions asked. Had placed a hand on his shoulder and, with those honest eyes, had asked him to please feel better. The girl who he hid behind bookshelves for if he saw her in the library: she made him nervous, she had James and Sirius calling after her so sweetly, nudging Remus, grinning at the fact that he could barely string a sentence around her anymore.
  • The girl who could not hide the displeasure she felt for her Defence Against The Dark Arts teacher. And that was the moment he realised: 
  • ‘Shit.’ His hands were in his hair. He’d turned to his friends, the worn knit of his jumper rising a little on his stomach as he did so. ‘I should probably do something about this, right?’
  • Sirius’s voice came from the top bunk, met James’s, as he sat at the desk, ink from an unfinished essay all over his fingers, and Peter’s. He lay upside down on his bed, wand in his hand casting smoke rings that went in on themselves. Boredom in his pale blue eyes.
  • It was a droning, draining, tired, elongated, resounding ‘YES’
  • The person behind him in the line coughed. Remus grabbed the book, stumbled just a little and apologised to the librarian. Shy eyed, he steered himself to the study area, pulling the sleeves back on his white school shirt to get to work. He tapped his quill. Placed his ink-pot to the side. Smiled in spite of himself.
  • He thought of his girlfriend., before she was his girlfriend.
  • You’d called Professor Bleakley a bigot. A ‘prejudicial git who clearly had things to unlearn before he should’ve gotten a job teaching kids.’ And you’d gotten detention for it. But you hadn’t cared. 
  • Remus had been tired that day. The full moon had drained him completely and so he’d had his head on the desk. You, however, sitting next to him, were bolt-upright. The lesson was on werewolves.
  • You’d huffed a few times under your breath, completely unaware of the low layer of anxiety accosting the boy sat next to you. Hearing about werewolves this way was hard.
  • It was scary. It was demonisation and dehumanisation and it made him wonder about himself, and all his monstrosity. Remus’ mouth was a thin line, his knuckles white against the oak wood of the desk and ready to punch a wall. Later. If he felt up to it. 
  • 'Personally,’ The professor had began, and Remus hadn’t really noticed the way the legs on the stool you’d sat on had screeched as you’d fidgeted. You were wary. Ready to spring into action if need be. 'I’m not 100% with the fraternisation of killers in public spaces. I daresay it robs us of our chances.’ The man’s tight smile was as greasy as his slicked-back hair. 'We can’t be sympathetic in an epidemic of such disease. Not when it offers an opportunity to harm us all. Not when it endangers us whole.’
  • Remus had sat up, mouth open to issue a slew of profanities but the girl sitting next to him had stood up before he had the time to.
  • 'Tell me professor,’ She’d started, a fire burning in her eyes. Remus had noticed the way her hands were shaking, though her voice wasn’t. 'Do you actually believe the bullshit coming out of your mouth right now or do you get paid to say this stuff by whatever fascist paper you’ve taken a subscription out from? What gives you the right…’ She’d continued on, only to have half of what she’d said stolen by cheers from what sounded like James Potter and Sirius Black, Lily Evans, Peter Pettigrew, and 80% of her classmates. ’… Make the dangerous assumption that every werewolf is a 'threat’ to society when the details of the condition are, at best, sketchy and often fabricated by organisations that embezzle donations to them and prey on vulnerable-“
  • ‘Miss Y/L/N, that is enough!” 
  • No, but sir I’m asking a question! I’m asking about this 'disease’ you’re talking about!”
  • ‘Miss Y/L/N, if you do not cease and desist at this very moment, you’re looking at a MONTH’S WORTH OF DETENTION-’
  • ‘But sir!’ You’d carried on, your heart hammering in your throat. ‘You still haven’t answered my question!’
  • Remus hadn’t seen you this angry before. The set of your jaw, your unwavering gaze, the shake of your fingers. Usually, you were all smiles. At least, when you caught his eye. Sure, he’d seen you pissed off at something sexist James and Sirius had been laughing at, had seen you humiliated by some ignorant Slytherins and a hex that had torn your schoolbag to shreds in the middle of a fast-pacing corridor, had seen you worried, snatching at the pages in The Daily Prophet after hearing about a tragedy in Diagon Alley, had seen you happy, catching Lily in your arms and hugging her to you after she’d received the highest mark in the class at Potions, had seen you confused, your cheek in your palm in Transfiguration. And he’d seen you tired, leaning onto him in the common room after a particularly snowy trip to Hogsmeade. But he didn’t like to dwell on that much. It made him shy. 
  • He saw you angry, that day. You’d packed your things, looked Remus in his stunned eyes and he’d felt something stir in him to see them soften at his. You hadn’t even known he was a werewolf then. You were just that type of person.
  • You’d exited the room to cheers, to hands banging on desks to give you a grateful farewell.
  • And sometimes, the boys still brought it up. So did Lily. Remus had turned the memory over so many times he was surprised he wasn’t tired of it either. But you’d always cover your face, ask everyone to stop talking, and not see the way James would be mouthing at Remus to put his arm around you. 
  • Remus would glare, mouth a 'no!’ and James would roll his eyes, imitate the action with Lily and have her punch him in the gut for it.
  • Remus finally got around to it after that little scene, though. You’d been leaving the library together at the same time on a Sunday, unaware of the other working at the table opposite until the lamps were dimming and it was time to call it a night. 
  • He’d spotted you, wrestling the strap on your satchel and laughed at the frown on your face. You’d glanced up, seen him smiling and found you couldn’t do anything but smile back.
  • Taking the same route back to the common room together, you’d complained about things and people and ungodly weather and exams and friends. And you’d asked him what was up with Sirius and James lately.
  • And he’d ran a hand down his face, covering the sound of his voice with a muffled, 'they’re idiots. Please don’t pay attention to them.’
  • 'I mean, I don’t.’ You’d laughed, trying not to bump into the long-limbed boy next to you. He’d lifted his head to catch your eye, smiling.
  • 'Good. You’d be surprised how many people don’t follow your impeccable,’ He’d grinned at the word, and you’d made an impressed sound at his vocabulary. 'Example.’
  • 'Oh please,’ You’d feigned embarrassment dramatically, secretly loving the rise and fall of his laughing shoulders at the way you’d batted your eyelashes. 'I bet you say that to all the girls.’
  • 'Hm?’ Remus had scrunched up his nose. Smiled teasingly. 'No.’ He’d shook his head. 'No, no not really.’
  • 'Oh?’ You’d said, falling into step with him at the top of the moving stairs. You’d taken another step, though. Stood and perched on your tip-toes to look him in the eye. Neither of you had said anything after that. If the stairs moved, you hadn’t felt them. Remus’s brown eyes didn’t leave yours. Until they trailed down to your lips. And then he laughed, a short burst of something self-conscious. And he’d said, in a voice that he was hoping sounded brave and you only heard as his, completely his, 'On Saturday, do you want to come to Hogsmeade with me?’
  • And Lily had said how ridiculous that was later on because you went!!! to Hogsmeade!! with him!! every weekend!!! 
  • And you’d thrown a pillow at her and said it was different, he’d never asked you on your own, and would she stop cheering and singing stupid songs about people in trees and kissing, she sounded like James
  • Remus didn’t know about any of that stuff, though. He only knew about the way Sirius threw an arm around him every time he threw an arm around his girlfriend, or the choruses of 'awww!’ that occurred when she did something as simple as slide a slice of toast onto his plate, no comment needed, or how he’d cower into her hair every time his friends told the story of how he used to hide from her, he loved her so much. 
  • In the library, far from his memories, Remus’s slowest of realisations happens as he stares at the few lines he’s written of his essay. He’s spent all morning thinking of her and now, he smiles.
  • For the cynic, falling in love is standing somewhere and realising it’s a little warmer than before. He’s sitting down. He realises he’s never felt so warm in his life.

Sidenote: Here’s a poem that reminds of Remus and inspired this a little. :’) 

Feeling Tense?

Request from @ra-veela-claw: Hi love! Could you do an imagine between a ravenclaw reader x Draco where maybe they’re dating. Perhaps she’s staying at Malfoy Manor over the summer for a bit, but there’s a lot of [sexual] tension between them because they scarcely can get a moment alone. Feel free to make it as fluffy and/or smutty as you like (:

Suure! Thanks for requesting! This was so fun to write I love stuff like this!

Make a request here

Warnings: a bit of smut? 

Originally posted by goodslytherin

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APWOA: Chapter Four

This is the fourth chapter of A Penny’s Worth of Affections, my Claire / Jamie AU that takes place during WWI! I’ve had this chapter written for a little over a week now and it’s been sitting in my queue, mocking me and begging me to post it. And I thought I’d post it a bit early this week, since I’m having a relatively shitty day today. Might as well make you guys happy; it’ll probably make me feel better as well. 💛

Let me know your thoughts! This chapter may or may not blow your minds. (Although I really hope it does!) ✨

Previous entries:
Prologue: A Penny ; I. The Red Man ; II. The Blue-Stockings ;
III. Heroic Acts and Twisted Scars 

or read all of it here.

IV. The Intensity of a Flame

Edinburgh, Scotland

1st May 1914

Jamie Fraser and Claire Beauchamp had seen each other a grand total of four times by this day.

   The first was their outlandish introduction, when Jamie stumbled into the World’s End tavern with a bullet lodged in his dislocated left shoulder, of which Claire had bandaged up effortlessly. Here, Claire had learned not just his name, but of his gallant nature, which she instantly fell for. When he had bowed before her, hand held over his heart as he swept downward in the most fluid of motions, she knew that her own heart ignited a flame that would never dim.

  The second time was the day after, when Claire came back to the World’s End in search of him, a basket of clean linens and an expertly prepared lunch tucked under her forearm. Upon arrival, she declared that the purpose of her presence was to “change his bandages” and make sure there was “no drainage from the entry wound”, but even blind individuals were able to discern truth from falsehood. The fact of the matter was: they were drawn to each other. And following her medical examination, the pair had deepened their attraction as they strolled through the market, talking until the sun fell past the horizon. When Jamie had escorted her back to the Baird’s Inn and kissed the back of her hand fervently in parting, she suspected that his heart had kindled a similar blaze.

  Their third sighting had been just a brief glance, almost unnoticeable to untrained eyes. Claire (with her arm encircled in Gillian’s as they sauntered past the small shops that Edinburgh had to offer) had noticed the specific mop of red from a far distance, maneuvering their walking route so that they would pass him inconspicuously. Their eyes met his across the crowds of people almost instantly; his good-humored face, usually covered in a stoic mask of composure, had seemingly been replaced with a frame of glass. So transparent was this look, in fact, that the excitement seemed to radiate from him, like a cloud of electric energy. Nobody else saw it—the luminous glow that seemed to encompass James Fraser every time she was near—but she did. And it was in this moment of retrospection that Claire Beauchamp realized that James Fraser had truly ignited the same spark in his heart as she had hers.

  The final time they met was on this day: the first of May, 1914—or, as Claire liked to call it: Jamie Fraser Day. It was on this day, twenty years heretofore*, that James Fraser was brought into the world by his parents, Ellen and Brian Fraser. He was born on a property entitled Lallybroch, which Jamie had described as his family’s estate, located on the outskirts of the small city of Broch Mordha. According to Jamie, the name Lallybroch meant north-facing tower in the old Scottish Gaelic.

  “Although, Sassenach,” he confided, “The auld tower itself doesna have a face, but the door faces North.”

  Unable to help herself, she raised a quizzical eyebrow. Instead of acknowledging the odd namesake of such an establishment, she instead asked, “What does that word mean, Jamie? Sassenach?”

  He made one of his Scottish noises before he answered. “It’s what we call the English folk who live up in the Highlands. Dinna fash,” he noted as he saw a look of anxiety creep its way onto her soft features, “It just means Englishman, or, at worst, outlander.”

  “Ah. Well, then,” Claire smiled, “Sassenach I am.” She leaned further into his side, wrapping her arm around his elbow. “Tell me more about your sister.”

  She took note of how his face lit up when he talked about her, one Janet Flora Arabella Fraser Murray. Janet—or Jenny, as Jamie affectionately coined her—was four years his senior;  she ran their ancestral home with her husband, Ian, and their two children. The eldest Murray child shared the same name as his uncle; the younger, named Margaret, of whom went by a most affectionate nickname: Maggie. Jamie was also pleased to mention that they were expecting their third.

  “Both sides of my family, the Frasers and the MacKenzies, have all had rather large families, ye ken,” He had explained, in response to the look Claire was giving him then, her eyebrows raised almost to her hairline. “Except for my uncle, Colum MacKenzie, I dinna ken there ever being less than three children from any of my relatives, on either side.”

  Claire’s eyebrows rose ever higher on her alabaster face, if that was even possible. Jamie couldn’t help but smile at the bright crimson flush that gradually colored the apples of her cheeks. She cleared her throat, attempting to compose herself. Her subconcious clicked forcefully, making a connection with the last name he had stated: MacKenzie. She had heard that name somewhere, but couldn’t quite place where. 

  Instead of dwelling on it, she dared to ask instead, “How many children would you like one day?”

  Turning his head towards her with a cheeky grin admonishing his handsome face, he replied instantly with, “Twelve. One for each of the Apostles.”

  She figured the look on her face must’ve been one of complete and utter shock, for Jamie laughed wholeheartedly in response. They didn’t dwell on the subject for much longer; instead, they moved the conversation to her travels in America with her Uncle Lamb.

  The thought of children had never crossed Claire’s mind before that day; she had never given much thought to the prospects of husbands or children, given the fact that she hasn’t yet been in the position to do so. Upon meeting Jamie, however, she couldn’t help but ponder what their life together would entail.

  That night, curled up in her bed, she imagined the pair of them on their wedding day. What the two of them cooing over their first born would look like—a girl, she was, with hair as vivid as a flame and eyes as blue as forget-me-nots. What it would be like to have twelve children, all playing together in the family room of Lallybroch, each of them reflecting a different aspect of their parents. What Jamie would look like with graying hair. How beautiful an image it would be as they sat on the front steps of Lallybroch, half a century gone, holding their tenth grandchild for the first time.  

 Every time she thought of all of the possibilities of their future together, she had to take a step back—to remind herself that with only knowing him a mere four days, the feeling was more ethereal. It felt like she had known him her entire life: the passion and devotion that coursed between them gave her a feeling that transcended over that of all of those prior to him. Every infatuation—every lover, every person she had known before—was now trivial as compared to the affections she had for this man.

 There was no way for her to describe in words how she felt about him.

  As she stared at the ceiling of her temporary lodgings, she couldn’t help but imagine what it would feel like if he was in the bed with her, their bodies wrapped around each other in a web of limbs and bedclothes, warming the bed with his ever-burning flame.

 She could feel it when she was near him: the heat that seemed to radiate naturally off of his body. Whenever she looked into the deep oceans of his eyes, she noticed the spark, just above his pupil, where the flames of affection had decided to reside. Seeing this flicker, she had always thought of a passage she had read once in a scientific journal of some sort: The burning of a flame with a higher blue saturation is bound to be more intense than that of the average red. And that then caused her to realize that James Fraser had both: the red flames of his hair and the blue flames of his irises. And, she always reminded herself, this meant that he was twice as dangerous.

 She knew that she was inexplicably attracted to him. It was like she was a moth, drawn to the vivacity of a cerulean flame; and she knew that if she got too close, she would be engulfed in the inferno.

  But it was then that Claire Beauchamp knew: she was more than willing to burn.

The Jamie Fraser Day festivities began with a venture to the art museum. Claire, far more excited about this escapade than her counterpart, pulled on his hand as she led him through the busy streets of Edinburgh, making sure to voice her apologies to the people she bumped into as they passed.

  “Why are you buzzing about like some frenzied bee, Sassenach? Can we no’ walk at an average pace?”

  Claire laughed but said nothing in response as she continued to pull her companion up the large marble steps of the museum.

  For the first time ever, Claire’s uncle had let her spend the entire day in the company of a man unchaperoned. She smiled even wider as she remembered when Jamie had introduced this notion to her uncle.

  She had been standing in the doorway of her quarters as they talked, the two of them seated at the small wooden table in the dining room. Jamie had sat facing her (she was thankful for this; if he had been facing the other way, she couldn’t have mimed gestures to let him know how he was doing), and she could see the anxious bile rising in his throat as his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down awkwardly when he swallowed. But, despite his nerves, the rest of him remained as amiable as ever.

  Claire had explained to Jamie before that although her uncle was “a complete and utter softie with less of a conform to the social norms shared between even the most liberal men” (in her own words), he was also very protective of his only niece.

  “I’m the only family he has left,” she had confided in him during their second meeting. “My grandparents died a long while back, and with my parents gone, I was all that was left.”

  Jamie’s lips turned upward slightly as he said, “Well, what a blessing ye are, then, Sassenach.”

  All-in-all, his endeavors had succeeded, which led Jamie and Claire to the art museum where they currently stood. Claire glanced at Jamie through the corner of her eyes, smiling as he leaned forward, squinting at the painting before them: an intricately designed vase of brightly-colored flowers.

  “I see what this technique was striving to convey,” Jamie whispered to her, so as to not disturb the other patrons surrounding them. “But I feel it falls rather flat, as compared to other works of this creator. What is your assessment, Miss Beauchamp?”

  “I can’t help but agree with your astute observation, Mister Fraser,” Claire chimed, turning to face him. “I say we should endeavor to find a piece that conveys a technique with more finesse, don’t you agree?”

  He nodded, the corner of his mouth turned upwards in a smirk. He motioned towards the next painting, murmuring, “Lead the way, my lady.”

  They continued this approach for the next few paintings: Jamie, leading the way, would state the obvious facts—that one man’s eye was off or that the subject matter leaves “much to be desired”, to which Claire would either agree or disagree. Upon reaching a consensus, the pair would then go to the next picture in the sequence, and continue the cycle. It went on like this for the next hour or so until Claire stopped dead in the middle of the gallery.

  Jamie, not noticing Claire’s sudden stupor, continued walking towards the last section of the gallery. It took him a moment to realize that the hand that was previously tucked into the pit of his elbow just a mere moments before was no longer present. He turned, finding Claire staring intently at a painting on the far left wall from where they stood. The closer he got to her, the paler her face appeared to be.

  Making his way to her side, her overall appearance resembled that of a ghost: pale, still, and emotionless.

  “Claire,” He murmured, reaching for her hand. He noticed that it was cooler than usual, if that was even possible. Her hands were always cold against the heated flesh of his own palm, but never so much so that gooseflesh would rise; now was the exception.

  Worry coated his face as he took a step closer to her. Placing a cautious hand on her shoulder, he asked, “Claire, what’s amiss?”

  She didn’t even flinch at his touch; her eyes were still locked on the piece. Jamie, a bit miffed, turned to stand shoulder-to-shoulder beside her, his hand still resting near the crook of her neck. 

  A pair of bright amber eyes stared back at him. He blinked once, transfixed, and then, he saw it.

  He looked from the painted figure back to the woman standing beside him and noted their similarities. Both had the same dark hair, surrounding their heads in the same riotous cloud of chestnut, cocoa, and auburn-colored ringlets. They both had very becoming forms, as if they had been carved out of the smoothest marble. The main differences, he noted, were that although the flesh-and-blood Claire Beauchamp was properly dressed, the painting version of her wore nothing from the waist up.

  The woman’s body was facing away from them, her head peering over her left shoulder. The elegant curve of her spine was visible all the way to her tailbone, which was covered with a blanket of plaid. In her left hand, twirled around her left index finger, was a string of cream-colored pearls.

  Mesmerized, Jamie leaned forward to look at the metal plaque below, reading aloud, “A Lady, with Hair Curling Luxuriantly About Her Shoulders. Undated. Artist unknown.”

  Claire remained stoic, staring at the intricacies of the painting as if she were staring into a mirror. Transfixed as she was, she was also horrified—she had never felt so exposed in all her life. Especially with Jamie on her arm.

  How strange it felt: for her to be so vulnerable, that all the emotions swirling throughout her mind stemmed from a single painting of a woman who wasn’t—couldn’t—be her. But they were unmistakably identical to one another. How on God’s Good Earth…?

  The look on Jamie’s face was all Claire needed to know that his reaction to the painting was the same as her own. She also knew that the longer she stared at the painting, the more questions would form in her brain.

  Who was this woman, with hair curling luxuriantly about her shoulders? What was her life like? Was it similar to her own? Did she lose her parents, too? Did she have the same knack for medicines that she, herself, possessed? How had she gotten to where she was, when this painting was commissioned? What was its significance? What was her story?

  Undated. Unknown. But once…

  Once, she was real.

  Or was she?

Following the strange events in the art museum, Claire brought Jamie back to the Inn for her next surprise for Jamie Fraser Day. They walked together in mutual contentment, only making light conversation as they went about the streets. Every so often, Claire could feel his eyes lingering on her, and her cheeks flushed a deeper shade of pink. She felt strange, like one of the lovesick girls from her youth that she used to make light of.

  Is this how they had felt? She had wondered. Did they feel the fire burning inside of them then, as I do now?

  Her mind continually wandered back to the painting of her likeness she had seen in the gallery. It haunted her still, the exposed slope of her back facing the viewer, a peek of an unclad breast exposed under the gentle curve of her bicep. She wondered what Jamie’s conjecture was on the portrait. Had he liked what he had seen?

  She shook the thought away, trying not to dwell on it any longer. The moment has passed, she reminded herself, as they reached the outer steps of the Baird Inn. They made their way inside, exchanging pleasantries with the innkeeper and signing the guestbook before making their way up the stairs and into the Beauchamp’s temporary living space.

  Claire turned towards her companion and placed a hand on his chest, halting his advancing steps. His eyebrows furrowed together, but Claire interrupted his impending question with a murmured, Wait here.

  He nodded, planting his feet to the spot as she withdrew into a small room at the back of the apartment. His mind wandered aimlessly to subjects of a most arbitrary nature, but when she emerged all thoughts were tossed out of the window.

  “Don’t get too excited,” She said, her back facing him as she backed carefully out of the room, her right hand pressed against the door to keep it open, the other holding something indiscriminate from the angle Jamie stood. “It’s probably not as thrilling as you’re thinking it will be. It might end up disappointing you.”

  Jamie shook his head, scoffing at her notion, using another one of his Scottish noises that she loved so much. “I don’t think anything you could ever do would disappoint me, Sassenach.”

  He couldn’t see her face, but he knew that she was smiling.

  She turned around then, a round mass placed delicately on the plate she held in her hands. A mass of light blue frosting coated the mound, with small decorative white flowers all around it.

  “It’s supposed to be a cake,” Claire sighed, taking a couple of steps towards him. She looked down at the cake, the space between her eyebrows creased. “I tried to make the frosting the same color as your eyes but, as you can see, I’m not a pâtissière extraordinaire.”

  Jamie, noticing the look of defeat on her face, reached for her chin, forcing her to look at him. “It’s beautiful, Claire.”

  She smiled weakly in reply. They shared a moment of mutual contentment before a light of remembrance shined in Claire’s golden irises.

  “Oh wait, I almost forgot!” She thrust the plate into Jamie’s hands as she turned back towards her quarters, rushing into the room in a flash of beige skirts. Unsure of what to do with the pastry bestowed upon him, he decidedly placed it on the small dinner table to his right. By the time he had sat the plate down, she was at his side once more, arms crossed behind her back.

  The corner of his mouth twitched upwards into a smirk, “What’s that yer hiding, Sassenach?”

  “It’s your other present,” She smiled broadly. Pulling her hands from behind her back, she extended her arms and presented Jamie with a small wrapped package. Delicately taking the gift from her hands, he unwrapped the tiny box and lifted its lid.

  Inside the box sat a small embroidered forget-me-not, a pin attached to the back of it.

  “I don’t know if you know the origins of the name,” Claire started, voice soft, “But apparently in medieval Germany, women would wear them as signs of adoration for their loved ones as they journeyed abroad for war.”

  Jamie’s breathing became heavier as he stared at the pin; he didn’t think he had seen anything like it before.

  She cleared her throat nervously, “I was hoping that you would wear it… when we’re apart.”

  At a loss for words, he looked up from the pin to the woman standing before him.

  “Do you think,” Claire started, but paused suddenly. The thought she was about to articulate caused her heart to clench nervously, for she was afraid of what the response to the ludicrous question might be. She cleared her throat once more, then tried again. “Do you think that you’ll ever forget me, Jamie? After I’m… gone?”

  He understood the implication of her words. They had both boarded a train set for an unknown destination: neither of them would know where or when they would get off, lest their ride be cut short. Would they get off the train together? No one could say. 

  Unable to find the words, he set the box on the table behind him and crossed the room to her in three short strides. Unable to restrain himself, he reached for her face, cupping both cheeks in his palms. Her hands went immediately to his wrists as she peered up at him through long lashes. All she could see in his eyes was the ardent devotion that she had seen there so many times before.

  “How could I ever forget you, my Sassenach?”

  And it was then that she gave in to the intensity of the flame.

continued here

anonymous asked:

Could you write a little scenario about Nevra's first time with gardienne? please *___*

ok this is suggestive fluff more than anything but i hope you like it ♡ ~(‘▽^人)

“Nevra,” she whispered. “You’re shaking.”

“Aw, you noticed,” Nevra replied, mock disappointment in his voice. “I was hoping to impress you.”

His teasing tone hid nothing from her, now that she understood how to hear what he said between his words. Nevra’s hands were trembling as they brushed her skin, and his voice had wavered.  

“Don’t be nervous,” she whispered, as he leaned down to press a line of kisses along her neck.

She was rewarded by the sensation of gusty exhale against her shoulder, as he chuckled shortly. “Shouldn’t I be the one to comfort you at a time like this?”. He left a tender kiss on her forehead and his hands wandered hesitantly lower, caressing her thighs lightly, and she flushed at the thought of what he was doing, and what he might do in the hours to come. 

“I just want you to know,” she took a deep breath, heat creeping up her face making her cheeks bloom like a rose, “that I love you, no matter what. I trust you.”

Nevra stilled, and stared at her for a very long time. A softness rarely seen in the light of day brims from his gorgeous eyes glistening beneath the dim moon. “How many times must I fall in love with you?” he breathed.

He captured her soft lips, without hesitation this time and she felt her consciousness start to fade. She didn’t think again for a long, long time.

we’ve come so far my dear, look how we’ve grown



It’s the sound of shrill, childish laughter coming from the other side of the apartment that draws Amy’s attention away from her book for the first time in three hours. There’s a part of her - a small part - that almost wants to groan with disappointment at the fact that Maya is already awake from her afternoon nap. She was counting on having at least another hour to herself. Still, waking up laughing seems to be a much better alternative to the way she usually wakes up - wailing - so she supposes she should count her blessings.

Amy sighs and marks her place in her book before replacing it on the coffee table and slowly getting to her feet. She can’t hear Jake moving around - he’s probably still knocked out in their bedroom, recovering from the double shift he only just got home from six hours earlier. She pads quietly into the hallway, glancing back at their closed bedroom door before stealing toward Maya’s room, where the laughter is still bubbling bright and unbridled. A grin spreads across Amy’s face - it’s scientifically proven that Maya’s laugh is both infectious and the most adorable sound on the planet. They’re starting to hear it more and more, most often in response to Jake’s ridiculous facial expressions over the dining room table early in the mornings.

“I knew our kids would be the cutest in the whole world.” Jake told her just a month earlier, chuckling as he wiped the mashed pears off of Maya’s face while she shrieked with laughter. Amy had rolled her eyes but still kissed the top of his head when she passed him his coffee mug.

Maya’s door is ajar, dimmed for nap time, but as Amy edges closer she realizes a familiar voice is speaking softly to Maya, making little noises that send her into a frenzy of laughter. As quietly as she can, Amy eases up close to the doorway and peeks around the frame.

Jake’s cross-legged on the rug beside Maya’s crib, his t-shirt and boxers creased from laying on them for an extended period of time, hair still tousled from sleep. Amy can see Maya squirming on the mattress, pushing herself up on all-fours under Jake’s watchful eye. As she watches, Jake ducks down beneath the crib guard so that Maya can no longer see him. Maya edges closer, trying to peer over the edge of the guard, but then Jake pops back up and she rears backwards, squealing with laughter all the way. Jake chuckles, tucking his hand between two bars so that Maya can grab his fingers. “I got you!” He coos teasingly, laughter renewed with Maya’s high-pitched noises.

Amy feels a familiar pang of undeniable affection burst in the center of her chest. She covers her hand with her mouth as Jake ducks down again, edging into the room as he pops back up, letting out her own quiet laughter that is lost beneath the sounds of Maya’s squeal.

“Careful, Maya,” Jake warns when Maya rears back and comes dangerously close to bumping the back of her head on the far side of the crib. Maya drops to her belly and flails for a moment before pushing back up on her hands and knees. “Oh, you’re so strong, huh? Wanna see how much you can bench?”

“Bad idea, Peralta,” Amy says softly. Jake jumps and whips his head back toward her, one hand reaching out to grab onto a bar on the crib on instinct. “How long’ve you been up?”

“Just a few minutes,” he says through a sheepish grin. “I got up and went to the bathroom and heard her starting to fuss, and you were really into your book and I didn’t wanna bother you, so I came in here and we started playing peek-a-boo.”

“Oh, God, I’m sorry,” she says as she ventures further into the room. Jake scoots over a foot and she sits down next to him, close enough that their knees touch. “You weren’t supposed to have to do anything, I wanted you to catch up on sleep -”

“Ames, it’s fine. You deserve a break every now and then, too. I really didn’t mind. Also, I really like hanging out with my daughter.” A broad smile splits his face, pure and unadulterated happiness shining in his eyes, and Amy can’t help herself - she mirrors his facial expression. He always delights so much in these small moments, in the little things, like getting caught playing peek-a-boo when he’s supposed to be sleeping and referring to Maya as his daughter. It’s really strange, how impossibly full it makes her heart feel to know not only that Jake is a better father than his own, but that he is beyond a shadow of a doubt a better father - and husband - than she could have ever dreamed for.

“I love you.” Amy tells him softly. He smiles, and then reaches to gently cup her face, bringing her in for a slow, lingering kiss right there on the nursery floor.

They break apart a moment later when Maya lets out a whimper. She’s pushed herself up again and her big brown eyes are swimming in tears, her lower lip made fat from her pout, and it’s honestly so pathetically adorable that Amy can’t help but laugh at the sight. “Is someone hungry?” Jake asks, poking his finger through the bars as Maya begins to cry. “C’mon, let’s go get you some lunch.”

They both stand, and when Jake hefts Maya up out of her crib, he pauses beside Amy. Amy runs her hand over Maya’s head and leans in to kiss her cheek, but before she can pull away Jake catches her with his free hand and brings her back in for another kiss. “I love you too, by the way.” He says when they break apart.

Maya’s crying intensifies then, forcing Amy to step back and allow Jake to hurry out of the room toward the kitchen. She stays just long enough to straighten up Maya’s crib, and as she listens to Jake trying to soothe Maya another smile breaks across her face. Her heart is threatening to burst from all the affection again, making her grip the uppermost bar on the crib to steady herself before she swoons right there on the spot.

“Ames!” Jake calls across the apartment. “Come have lunch with your family!”

She grins, and then does exactly that.

dellastreet1933  asked:

Philbis de-aged and has a huge crush on Clint. Clint is confused.

“Mother fucker.”

Fury glared at the holo-screen while the R&D tech continued stammering out excuses.  “Put Romanoff on.  Now.”  He listened as she gave him the sit-rep.  Essentially their newest R&D genius had been tinkering with their newest piece of Asgardian tech and had accidentally activated the device.  Having only Coulson being zapped by it was the perfect way to start the week.

 “So what you are telling me is that Coulson is now seventeen years old and no one there knows how to change him back.”  He felt the vein in his temple throbbing.

 “I’ve been talking with Banner.  He and Stark should be able to figure out what happened using the data and security footage that’s been collected.  Thor is scheduled to be back by the end of the week, so he can assist if they haven’t made any progress.”  Romanoff looked away from the screen, “I told you to sit in that chair and not move.” She waited, staring down whoever was off screen.  “Thank you. As I was saying sir, I can take him back to the tower.  He’ll be secure there with Jarvis monitoring him.  It will be easier to keep him out of trouble there also.”

“Do it.  Let me know if anything changes.”  Fury turned off the screen without waiting for a reply. Romanoff would handle it.

                                        (Keep Reading under the cut)

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sehun…being sehun at the idol star athletic champtionships ⭐

Come on, Cassian

Rated: K

Words: 1200 ish

Summary: Cassian is afraid to fly again and Nesta makes sure he does.  

Read on AO3

A one shot I’m pretty proud of

There were days when he’d look at himself and all he’d see was failure. A person worthy of being thrown to the wolves and the wasteland beyond. Bastard-born nobody would be written along his body like the tattoos he held so dearly. Maybe that’s what his mother saw that day, a bastard-born nobody.

There were days where the lines on his forehead could count as scars. When Cassian looked at the mirror, a warrior didn’t stand erect before him, didn’t shout commands or issue orders. It was only a broken man with broken promises, and a hope that dimmed every time he saw the sun.

The stark white of his bandages blinded him, made him blink over and over again to release the glare forming in his eyes. They would laugh at him, berate him for believing the world was anything but what it was. A disappointment; a war that took no prisoners and made few friends. Cassian could bear the pain of his wings, but he could not bear the sorrow.

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Let Me Inside-Liam Dunbar

Teen Wolf Imagine: #99


Word Count:1,019

Warnings: Arguing.

A/n: How are you doing today? I hope you’re well. How’s 2017 so far??? One month down, 11 to go!

Originally posted by theflavourofyourlips


Coming Soon

Last Imagine

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Prompt: “We all love the triumvirate! And to be honest I could not decide who to choose. So what about the reader meeting Kirk, Spock and Bones at the Acadamy and dating each of them. But then she develops feelings for all three so she breaks it of beause she can´t decide who she likes most. A few years later, McSpirk is already a thing on the Enterprise, she gets transfert to the ship as an engineer.” - Anon

Word Count: 1,978

Warnings: Into Darkness spoiler. Singular.

Author’s Note: This was a very different story from what I usually write, but I really hope that I captured what we were going for with this prompt. I hope you enjoy!

NaNoWriMo Word Count: 14,470/50,000

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Okay, This Is New

Hey everyone! This is Superboy, who looks like he can kill you but is actually a cinnamon roll. He’s rather new to feelings. Enjoy!

Warnings: None - not even swearing this time! Just fluff!

Your name: submit What is this?


When one comes across a beautiful boy - silky black hair, eyes like the sky, muscles to dream about - who is currently death-glaring at the wall, the smart thing to do is walk away.

But whoever said you were smart?

Besides, you’d known Conner long enough to know that was his ‘thinking’ face, not his ‘I’m literally going to end you’ face. They were hard to tell apart at first, but he wasn’t in a dangerous mood right now. So you plopped down on the bench beside him, staring over the water of the Cave’s docking bay.

“S’up, Supes?” you said, swinging your legs.

Ever eloquent, he shrugged. Wow - he must be really focused on something. Your stomach fluttered. God, he was cute. You slid just a little bit closer. 

“So….” you began. “What are you thinking about?”

“Why does that matter?” 

You giggled and put a hand on his arm. “That’s what people do when they like each other,” you said. “That’s how you get to know someone; you talk about what you think and feel, what you want to do and what you’re afraid of.”

Conner tensed, lips pressing into a line. “That sounds kind of….invasive.” 

You shrugged. “Not if it’s freely given.”

“Hm.” He narrowed his eyes, the muscles of his jaw working. Then he stood abruptly. “I have to go.” 

Just like that, you were alone. Hmmm. There was no denying he was gorgeous, but he was undoubtedly odd as well.


You set the hot casserole dish on the counter, then shut the oven door with your foot. You sniffed the steam that rose from the dish. Mmmm. Perfect. The lasagna smelled great – and there were three more in the oven, so it should be more than enough for the team.

“Hey, gorgeous,” said Wally’s voice from behind you. “Have I died and gone to heaven, or is that Italian you made?”

“If this was heaven, I wouldn’t have had to cook,” you deadpanned, taking the second casserole out. “And stop that!” you added as his hand hovered over the first one. “Wait your turn like everyone else, Speedy.”

“Kid Flash,” he complained. “Come on, you know I hate that.”

“And I hate when you steal my food, but here we are.” You shrugged.

“What, you’re going to eat all that?”

“No. It’s for dinner for the whole team,” you said pointedly. “Actually, can you go get everyone? These are ready.”

“Your wish is my command, lovely one,” he replied, bending to kiss your hand. Then he was gone in a flash of yellow.

It was a few seconds before you felt eyes on the back of your head; you turned.

“Hey, Superboy,” you said with a smile. “Ready for supper?”

Conner didn’t answer; at his sides, his hands were clenched into fists and every line of him was taut. His eyes were steely.

“Conner?” you called. “Aren’t you hungry?”

His lip curled; without a single word, he turned on his heel and stormed away.

Your shoulders slumped. It was hard for him, you knew that, but it still kind of stung that he wouldn’t even try your lasagna. If we were being honest here, you’d made it mostly for him.

Oh well, you thought. He’d be hungry later, that was certain; you took one of the dishes from the counter, wrapped it up and hid it in the fridge. Nobody needed to know there was more.

You sat cross-legged on the couch in the lounge, reading a magazine. There weren’t any windows, but you knew it was late. Very late – holy-shit-is-that-the-SUN?! Late. The words were blurring on the page, you were so tired; there were scratches on your face, dirt and grass stains all over your clothes, and you were pretty sure your hair was a lost cause at this point. You really should go shower and get into bed. Kaldur had told everyone to do so at least an hour ago, when you got back from the mission.

But you didn’t move; moving required energy. Energy you didn’t currently have.

What even was this magazine, anyway? You blinked. Oh, your lip was bleeding. Bummer.


You looked up, your heart giving a little jolt. “Conner! Hey, what’s up?” You shifted on the couch, patted the seat beside you. “Couldn’t sleep?”

He stood in the doorway, frozen. Like you, he was still dressed from the mission – his hair was messy, there was blood on his face and knuckles and his black t-shirt needed a wash. His face was thoughtful and serious, as usual, but he hesitated. “I – nothing.” He turned to go.

“No, what is it?” You stood up and ignored your protesting muscles. “Is it nightmares? I get those sometimes.”

He crossed his arms and looked down at the floor. “No. Not a nightmare.” He sighed, and stepped closer, into the room. “I thought about what you said.” Oh, he was so cute.

You tilted your head. “About….? Oh! You mean about how friends talk about their feelings?”

He nodded, short and sharp, but wouldn’t meet your eyes. “We’re…we’re friends, right?”

God, he sounded so lost. And the hesitation in his voice when he asked…poor, poor baby. “Of course we are. Always, Conner. Come sit with me.”

He sat, leaning forward with his arms on his knees. You didn’t say anything, just waited. He’d talk when he was ready. Around you, the Cave was night-time quiet – dim golden lights on the striped walls, softly humming electronics. You lifted your knees back onto the couch.

“It hurts,” he said abruptly. “I get so angry sometimes. It’s like I can’t even see straight.” He didn’t look at you as he said it, but glared straight ahead at the floor.

You reached for his hand; his skin was rough and warm under your fingertips. “It sort of feels like you’re not you anymore, right?”

He turned his head toward you; his eyes, so brilliantly blue, were bewildered. “How do you know that?”

If it were anyone else, you’d consider the question rude; but this was Conner. He was still learning.

You shrugged. “I guess…I’m just making a guess,” you said, rubbing your thumb across the back of his hand. And he isn’t moving it away, you thought excitedly.

“Most people feel like that sometimes.” You stopped, frowning. “You’ve never seen a tired three-year-old when you tell them no, have you?”

“I’m six months old,” he pointed out.

“Hm. Well, it’s not fun, especially when you’re the babysitter.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Are you saying I’m acting like a child?” He took his hand out from under yours.

“No! God, no.” You mentally kicked yourself. “All I’m saying is that most people have years to learn how to deal with strong emotions – and even then some grown-ass people act like babies when they don’t get their way. You haven’t had nearly that, and everyone’s expecting you to act as old as you look.”

He was silent for a minute. When he did speak, his voice was small. “So…so you don’t think I’m – ugh. Never mind.”

“Hey,” you said gently. “I think you’re doing pretty damn well, all things considered.

He looked at you, sidelong. “Even when I want to pick up Kid Flash and throw him off the side of the mountain?”

You let out an unholy snort of laughter. “I’m pretty sure everyone wants to do that sometimes – don’t get me wrong, Wally’s great, but he does not stop talking.”

“That’s not why,” he muttered. He hunched his shoulders. “He – I don’t know, he just does things, and it makes me angry but not…not in the way I’m used to. It feels different. New.”

You cocked your head; something stirred in your heart, just the barest edge of a flicker of hope. “Conner?”

“He kissed you,” he burst out. “He acts like you’re his or something, and you’re not. It – it’s not right.” He finished with a huff, and along his cheekbones there was a faint flush.

It wasn’t a flicker anymore – there was hope there, definite and real. He was jealous.

“Wally just does that,” you explained. “It’s just his idiot way of…giving compliments, I guess? I don’t really know. But I can promise you there’s nothing between us.”

For the first time that night, he gave you a fleeting smile – just the slightest upturning of the corner of his mouth, but it set you heartbeat skittering. God, he had a beautiful smile.

“Nothing?” he asked, rather shyly.

“Nothing,” you whispered. The air between you felt sparkling, charged, electric.

“Then I – could I maybe -”

You leaned forward and closed the space between you, cutting him off. Your lips met with the sweetest of kisses, short and brilliant.

You’d kissed people before, but the look on his face was new – new as fresh snow, and full of absolute wonder. He stared at you like you were a diamond, and it stole the breath from your lungs.

“Okay,” he murmured. “This is new.”

Where there is a will
There is a way
To search and discover
A better day

Where a positive heart
Is all you need
To rise beyond
And succeed

Where young minds grow
And respect each other
Based on their deeds
And not their color

When times are dim
Say as I say
“Where there’s a will
There’s a way”

—  Tupac Shakur