dinner every night

Reminder: You don’t need to be good at something to enjoy it.

You don’t need a good voice in order to sing your heart out.

You don’t need to paint intricate landscapes to enjoy painting.

You don’t need to run a 6 minute mile to enjoy running.

You don’t need to cook elaborate dinners every night in order to enjoy cooking.

You don’t owe anyone talent. You don’t owe anyone an explanation of why you enjoy anything. You don’t owe anyone proof that you enjoy something. 

Shakespeare Gothic
  • You were born on a ship at sea. No one survived the wreck but you. Or so you’ve been told. 
  • Your father has been dead for months, and your mother has remarried. He still comes to dinner every night and sits in his usual chair. Nobody can see him but you.
  • Your last lover disappeared. They told you she died, but they never let you see the body. The statue in the churchyard looks just like her.
  • Your pale white hands are stained with red. You wash them and wash them and wash them, but they will never be clean.
  • You find an infant abandoned on the beach. Your country does not have a coastline. You do not know where this ocean or this infant came from, and you do not ask.
  • The owls and ravens shriek wordlessly in the night, but you ignore their warnings. They are always shrieking about something.
  • You visit a faraway city where you have never been before. Everyone there knows your name.
  • You wake up alone in the woods. You have no memory of how you got there. You hear fey fairy laughter and someone singing in the darkness. You feel woozy, as if you’ve been drugged.
  • A girl you loved once tries to return your letters, even though you never wrote her any. Clearly she belongs in a convent. You burst into her bedroom half-dressed to tell her so.
  • You are invited to a ball and you go, despite the strange feeling that Death will find you if you do. You wear a mask. Death is not fooled.
  • Your young cousins went to visit their uncle last month. He says they never arrived, but you saw them playing in the garden. Nobody else has seen them since.
  • It is time for you to be married, but first your suitors must answer a riddle. If they guess wrongly, they die. Your love cannot save them. 
  • There is a storm on the heath. You do not know what a heath is, and you do not care. You are mad. You are naked. You are dancing in the rain. The storm never ends. 
Chapter 507

This voice…!

It can’t be that… She’s alive what the hell-

OMG She’s fucking alive and we’re gonna have a big house in the north

seven children

two dogs

five cats

a swimmingpool

a guestroom for the Dragneel family

warm dinner every night

and I’m gonna get the Juvia body pillow.

I’m so done.

Hahaha #truestory

Aww It would be so great if Juvia woke up to Gray’s kiss tho

Gray is a Black Prince and my imagination is going to kill me.

anonymous asked:

Things that make 2017 Scully happy?

Political protests, although she usually can’t join in as a federal employee.  She has a Nevertheless, She Persisted tank top that she runs in.

Making plans for Mulder to move back in.  Looking for a new place that will accommodate her new life.  

That time she created a cure for that plague back in early 2016 and the fact that almost everyone’s still alive now.

William being back in her life in his tentative teenage way, although she’s sad that his adoptive parents died in the plague.  He insists on having dinner together every night.  It’s very sweet, although so far they mostly run through a list of rote questions.  She’s genuinely interested in his answers.

Working for the FBI.   

Sunday morning lattes.  

Her remaining loved ones’ health and strength.

The half-grown puppy she and Will picked out at the shelter. Her name is Yankee.  She has repeatedly told Mulder that baseball fanaticism is not genetic.  Mulder just looks smug.  

Not being on the run.  Not fearing for her life at every turn.  Not being in an almost windowless office.  Not giving a damn what people think.

Saturday Night Live, which she watches with Will.

Kissing Mulder.

Book Club night with a few women from the hospital and a few of the female agents from the FBI.  They read New York Times Bestsellers and sip wine and almost always actually discuss the book.  A few of them are part of her running group.  They have each other’s backs.  It’s the first time in a long time she’s had friends.  She has people to call if she has difficulties parenting a teenager, or a question about how other families have negotiated situations like laundry and curfews and chores around the house.

Not being alone.

Sitting on the shore on the log near where she poured her mother’s ashes into the ocean.  She’s planted a rose bush where there’s soil enough to sustain it.  She listens to the waves roll in and breathes in the scent of salt and roses.  

Waking up slowly with Mulder’s arm around her.

Yankee wrestling with a toy in the unbridled joy that dogs express better than she has ever managed.

Taking long baths with her book club book.  She’s aware that “good bathtub” is not necessarily the most important thing in a house, but that’s high on her list of criteria for their new place.

Going over Will’s homework with him.  Asking him questions about what he wants to do with his future.  Finding out what kind of person he’s become.  Discovering his thoughtfulness and insight.

A weekend in the mountains.  A weekend in New York.  A weekend where none of them leaves the house at all, and they only make time for each other.  

The way that life goes on.  The way that she’s weathered every disaster so far.  The strength that she’s found in herself.  The strength that they’ve found in each other.  The hopes she has for the future.  The graceful way she handles most of the obstacles she encounters in the present, informed by her past experience.

Speaking truth to power as often as she can.  

Making a better world for her son and all his potential futures.

Coming home.

ever since I started having depressive episodes when I was, like, 13 my mom has never once asked me what’s wrong or tried to talk to me about anything which I can appreciate because we don’t really know each other on a deeply emotional level

but she does cook my favorite foods for dinner, every night until I’m better and she’s cooking one of my favorite meals right now and I know because I can smell it I haven’t seen or talked to her all day but she just knows

Harsh parents (hamilsquad X reader)

@theyaremyavengers requested: Extremely harsh parents? Reader gets so worked up over it and they cause her to have a panic attack over dinner one night? But Hamilsquad comforta and defends her

(A/N sorry this took so long for me to get done! I really hope you enjoy it, I know it’s not perfect but I wanted to get it done as soon as possible for you <3)

It had become a tradition for you and your best friends to have dinner together every Friday night, and being in your last year of high school you couldn’t bear to pass up any opportunity to spend time with them. Much to your parents dismay.

You came from a very strict catholic family, your parents being the type of people that believed in modesty and that boys and girls couldn’t be ‘just friends’ which is why they detested your friendship group, consisting of just you and four boys; Alexander Hamilton, John Laurens, Hercules Mulligan and Marquis de Lafayette. Of course you hung out with the Schuyler sisters occasionally (you particularly enjoyed Peggy’s sense of humour) and as much as you cared for them, no one could match the bond that you had with the four boys you’d known since middle school.

When you were younger, your parents hadn’t been overly annoyed at the fact that your best friends were all male, but now that you were 18 they were convinced that if you weren’t sleeping with all of them, you were at least sleeping with one. And you could hardly tell them that John and Alex were sleeping with each other, then you would surely be forbidden from hanging out with them, lest their homosexual influences rub off on you. Which was frankly a load of bullshit.

Tonight you were having dinner with the boys at a small café Hercules’ mother owned, around the corner from his house. You had been so excited for this all week, until your parents had decided to give you a lecture before going out.

“You’re not spending the evening with those boys again are you?” Your father sighed, “I know you like them but they’re not a good influence on someone like yourself,”

“Why don’t you invite that Elizabeth over instead Y/N?” Your mother asked, “she was lovely. And I’d feel much safer if you were with her, I’ve heard awful things about immigrants in the news,”

Your hands had balled into fists. “Just because they’re immigrants doesn’t make them bad people,” you muttered.

“Don’t you backchat me!” You mother warned.

“And get yourself changed out of those scruffy jeans! You look like a bloody boy yourself in them!” Your father scolded, “God, why can’t you be more like your brother? He never causes any problems like this,”

That did it. You stormed out of the house without a second thought, resorting to getting a bus instead of a lift from your parents. You were disappointed that you showed up a little later than the boys did, but no one seemed to mind.

“About time!” Laf teased as you slipped into a seat next to Hercules.

“Yeah we had to practically keep Laf’s mouth closed with duct taped so he wouldn’t order without you,” Alexander laughed.

“What kept you man?” John asked.

“Parents,” you shrugged as a vague answer. They all nodded understandingly, being far too aware of what your parents could be like. Not wanting to keep the mood somber for long though, the boys were soon joking and laughing loudly again. You tried as hard as you could to join in with their banter, but you just weren’t feeling it tonight.

“Are you okay?” Alex mouthed to you at one point, whilst the others were laughing at John, who was laughing so hard that his lemonade was coming out of his nose.

You nodded incessantly, not wanting to ruin the light hearted mood of the evening. Alexander didn’t look totally convinced, but turned back to John regardless and joined in with the laughter of the others.

As you ordered desserts you decided to text your mother, asking if she could come and pick you up in half an hour. After all, it was getting so late that there wouldn’t be any more buses coming and walking all the way home in the dark was not an option.

'You can make you’re own way home, since you’re clearly old enough to know better than your parents,’ was your mother’s response, within a minute of you having sent your text.

Your hands tightened around you phone, eyes welling up with tears. Why did she have to be so horrible? How the hell was an 18 year old girl meant to get home on her own at this time of night without buses running? And it’s not like you had even done anything that bad! All you had done was stuck up for your friends after your parents had made a racist comment.

“I just need some air,” you mumbled to the boys, pushing yourself up from the table and stumbling to the door, refusing to let the boys see you cry.

“Y/N! What wrong?” Lafayette called after you, but you hardly heard him.

As you stepped outside, the cool night air hit your face and you fell against a nearby wall. You choked up a sob as thick tears began to stream down your face, your vision becoming blurred and your chest tightening, quickening your breath between sobs. Slumping into a sitting position, a dozen thoughts ran through your mind all at once. Why weren’t you good enough for your parents? Were you truly a horrible person? And what about your friends? If your own parents treated you like this then surely no one outside of your family could like you. Could your friends secretly hate you?

“Y/N!” You heard a voice call.

Tilting your head to the side slightly you saw your friends, lead by Alex, rushing to your side.

No, they couldn’t see you like this! But your words of protest wouldn’t come out, and all you could do instead was bury your face in your hands, ashamed at your sorry state.

You heard Lafayette’s soft French accent speaking calmly in front of you, reciting breathing techniques to help regulate your erratic breath.

“It’s alright, I promise,” Alex murmured, bending down to take your hand in his own and whispered encouraging words to you.

Soon enough, your breath began to even out and the tears stopped falling. You lifted your head up slowly, face red with embarrassment that your friends had to see you like that.

All four boys were sat with you on the floor, not too close for it to be uncomfortable, but enough to make you know that they were there for you.

“Are you okay?” Alexander asked softly.

“What happened mon chou?” Lafayette followed up.

“Just… Ugh I’m just being stupid,” you insisted.

“If it upset you then it’s not stupid, no matter what it is,” Hercules assured you.

“Was it… Something your parents did?” Alex promoted.

You hesitated before giving a small nod.

“What did they say?” John asked, trying to suppress his anger, but his hands clearly formed into fists at his side.

“It’s… They’re just so harsh with me!” You sighed, “they always make a point of disapproving of you guys, like they think we’re in some sort of harem or something! And they yelled at me for backchatting before even though I was just trying to defend Laf and Alex after mom made a nasty comment about immigrants! And they’re constantly comparing me to my little brother and now she won’t come and pick me up to bring me home even though it’s dark out and the buses don’t run at night,”

You took a deep breath after your little rant, all of your complaints being expelled from your body at once.

“Y/N, I have no problem giving you a ride home,” Hercules chuckled as he pulled you into a hug.

“And I understand what it’s like, with your parents and all,” said John. “But think on the bright side. Next year we’ll all be in college and you don’t have to worry about them!”

“But if it ever gets too much for you at home until then, you know your always welcome at my place,” added Alex, “George and Martha adore you, you might as well be their other foster child,”

You chuckled as you began to stand up, Lafayette taking your hand to help, and all of the boys wrapped you up in a group hug.

As Hercules dropped you home that night, all the boys made sure to give you one last hug before you got out of the car.

“If they ever make you upset again tell them they have me to answer too,” said John.

“Tell them 'casse-toi’ from me!” Muttered Lafayette as he kisses both of your cheeks.

“Keep your head up Y/N, your seriously amazing,” beamed Alex.

“We love you, Y/N!” Shouted Hercules out of the car window as you walked up the pathway to your house.

You laughed and turned around to wave at your friends, who were all grinning and waving back. And as you entered your house, you were still smiling, knowing that you had the best friends in the entire world.

I’m not really sure why I’m going to vent to all of you right now and i kinda just feel like getting out all my thoughts. So I guess I like to have people think my life is perfect bc then I can pretend it is. But it’s really far from that. I like people to think I’m living this cool life in France, having the time of my life but it’s not always like that. Living alone is hard. Making dinner for yourself every night and eating alone is hard. Being thousands of miles away from your friends and family is hard. Being an adult is hard. Studying and getting nothing in return is hard. Having no motivation to improve is hard. Going from the best in your class in high school to average is hard. Constantly wondering if your new friends even like you is hard. But at the same time what gives me the right to complain when people around the world are struggling so much more? My problems seem so irrelevant in comparison and even that brings me down. Maybe I’m too self absorbed to step outside of myself and realize what’s going on around me. I’m too busy trying to make people think I’m okay to actually focus on becoming okay. Ultimately what I’m trying to say is that even if people come off as having a happy life, sometimes that is just a front. And the positive side of that is that many of us are all in this together. We’re facing our struggles together. And I want more than anything for the time to come when I’m at a point where these struggles seem to me as irrelevant as they probably are. I’ll get there. I’m getting there.

Insidious (3)

Originally posted by dazzlingkai

Part 1 | Part 2


It’s been a week since I’ve been living in Kai’s house. In all honesty, I thought that I would have a lot to complain about by now, but I didn’t. It wasn’t as bad as I initially thought it would be.

I’ve been keeping my word. I don’t ask him unnecessary questions and have given him no reason to be suspicious of me. I prepare breakfast every morning and dinner every night. I clean to keep my mind off things and since his house is really big, it keeps me busy. I’ve started to feel sort of like a live-in maid, but I’d prefer that term than being labelled a hostage.

As much as I feel safe in this house from the other gang that apparently wants my head, it’s not ideal for me to stay here. I don’t want to live like this for very long.

Keep reading

anonymous asked:

*buys you a new car and accepts you as my sugar baby

*prepares dinner every night, only wears jock straps, maintains career while still accepting all major credit cards

You know what? I’ve been thinking about Shou’s Mogami world and now that I’ve thought about it? Mogami would probably make it better than his real life to get him to stay in the fake reality. He wouldn’t fall for the “everything is awful in the world” deal.

 He and his dad would have a great relationship. His dad expresses how much he’s proud of him. His mom and dad would be together. They would have dinner together every night. Neither him or his dad has their powers. Toichiro encourages Shou’s creativity and him to be unique. His mom would be the definition of a great mother. Everything is perfect.

  But that’s Mogami’s biggest mistake. Everything is too perfect. His dad is too proud of him. His mom is too comfortable around him. Everything is how he thought he wanted it to be, but he can’t shake the feeling of everything being wrong. In the back of his mind he expects his dad to blow off everything he does and say he should be more like him. He expects his mom to disappear one day when he comes home from school. He expects the worse, but it never comes. That’s when he’ll realize it’s not real, and how bad his life actually is…


Characters: Kihyun/Reader

Genre: Fluff

Length: 2000 words 

A/N: Happy birthday to my beloved bias

Post-breakup AU: “I know you can’t cook for shit so i’ve been bringing you dinner every night, just, y’know, to keep you alive”

You are only halfway through your paper box of Chinese noodles when the ring of the doorbell has your eyes tearing away from your television screen. You set your food down with a grunt of annoyance, getting up to wade past your table filled with what you figure is a week’s worth of takeout containers and manage to, more or less, stumble to your door.

When you swing it open, you’re met with a sight that makes your heart jump and twirl and sink all at once. The boy you wish to have forgotten stands before you awkwardly, with tousled hair and dull eyes that don’t even meet yours upon contact.

“Kihyun? What are you doing here?” You speak, observing the way his peach fringes fall lower beneath his eyebrows than the last time you saw him. But you don’t really want to think about that last time.

He shifts his hand and it’s only then do you realize he is carrying a plastic bag with  indiscernible contents inside.

“I know that you don’t cook. And now that I…don’t cook for you anymore, I was wondering how you were getting by,” he spoke with a sternly straight face, eyes flickering up to yours bravely for a moment before they are glancing past your shoulder and fixating upon your table. “But I see you’ve been ordering takeout.”

You shift so that your shoulder rests against the doorframe and blocks his view. “I… no, I’m not-”

He raises an eyebrow. “That isn’t healthy for you. Do you have enough money to keep ordering every night, by the way?”

You fight the urge to roll your eyes. He has always been the one to nag you on everything you do and, although you make it clear to him that it is less than appreciated, you secretly enjoy it a little too much. Now that he is here in front of you again, it feels too painfully familiar.

“It doesn’t matter to you now, does it?” You say, letting your thoughts known and nearly flinching at your choice of words. He gives you a sad smile in response, eyes turning down to your shoes while fidgeting awkwardly. You feel a tug on your heart.

Keep reading

Since my sister, Natali, and I were little girls, my mother and father made sure the kitchen was the centerpiece of our household. We had dinner as family every night and ate delicious cookbookitalian-style meals that were made with love from recipes that had been passed down for generations on both sides of my family. Recipes from ancestors in Naso – a town in Messina Province of Sicily – Santa Lucia and Venice live on through my family, each with its own distinct twist in flavor. The uniqueness of this cookbook and our family restaurant, Joanne Trattoria, lies in the influence of the immigration of our families from Italy through Ellis Island to New Jersey (where my father was raised) and West Virginia (where my mother was raised).

The smell, every Sunday, of a pot of fresh “gravy,” as we would call it instead of “tomato sauce,” is one of the fondest memories I have from my childhood. I recall the smell of roasting sausages as they were dropped delicately into a slowly simmering 9-12 hour sauce. I remember the smile as my butter knife snapped open the outer layer and the juices filled my plate, sopped up by fresh pasta and followed by a crispy chopped salad made by my mother. Red wine that my father and grandfather Giuseppe made in our laundry room in the basement, sifted through cheesecloth as it was poured for everyone at the table.

We would say a prayer and then eat as a family. We ended each prayer in memory of my father’s sister, Joanne, whose name has become the symbol both of our family’s majestic accomplishments and of our losses along the way. We always knew there was a plate at the table missing, and we ask that when you prepare these traditional family dishes you honor the memory of those you love and those you’ve lost, and cook with the intention of strengthening the bonds of family and friendship in the place us Italians think is best: The Kitchen.

Love, Stefani Joanne Germanotta

Joanne Trattoria Cookbook is out now! Buy your copy by clicking here.