dripping page


September 12, 2017

Philosophy notes! Also, René Descartes made me question my whole existence just to prove that the only thing that I can be 100% sure about is the fact that I exist 

(side note: I put that sticky note there because I was drinking an iced coffee during class and the condensation dripped on the page and shafkdhjgf it leaked through and made me so sad I couldn’t bare to look at it)

okay so.., at first I thought Click was holding RGB down but RGB actually collapsing to his knees makes me so much sadder

Ravenclaw x Ravenclaw friendships: They’re whispered words, screaming minds, fingers numb with thoughts too big to be written down. They’re dreams filled with wistful thoughts, tracing impossibility onto tear stained sheets of paper. They’re calling each other in the middle of the night, discussing theories and finding meaning in things that haven’t been discovered yet. They’re changing air into smoke into stars, making the world their own, a hundred miles an hour, overflowing, spilling, inconceivable magic. They’re half finished diagrams, almost made plans, barely there, promises traced onto bare skin. They’re galaxies trapped in minds wild with worry, winding roads that lead wherever you want them to. They’re feeling your heart drumming quietly in your chest, wondering what would happen if everything stopped, if nothing had to end. They’re closing your eyes and seeing more than you ever could with them open, a world made for living, places made for leaving.

Ravenclaw x Gryffindor friendships: They’re light, soft and pale, pressed glass on your cheek, waking up anywhere but your bed. They’re sleeves rolled up, hair piled on top of your head, pens tucked behind your ear, inspiration resting on the tip of your tongue. They’re stories of far away battles and hidden caves filled with precious jewels, adventure painted across an outstretched map. They’re piles of books with mugs balanced on the top, scattered paper, journalling with pressed flowers and love letters and old ticket stubs from places you’ve already been. They’re eyes caught in the sun, mountains below them, only ever going onwards, upwards, outwards, towards, towards, towards. They’re laughter caught in a breathless whirl, spinning with their hands held tight in your own, never letting go, loyal to the end. They’re tipping your head back at the stars and seeing a home the ground could never give you.

Ravenclaw x Hufflepuff friendships: they’re constellations made by far away stars, places you haven’t visited yet. They’re hiding in empty swimming pools, night spilled fracture lines, light reflected through a broken mirror. They’re staying up too late and waking up too early, weary yawns into knuckles and kisses pressed onto palms. They’re smiles like spun sugar at breakfast, seeing the universe reflected in each other’s eyes, reading poetry from lips shaded pink. They’re gasping breaths when no one else can hear, hiding hurt no one else can see. They’re talking pain into silk, weaving misery into tapestries stained with desperate last words: I love you, I need you, why wasn’t I enough? They’re picking up pieces of each other and examining them, studying them, dusting them off and putting them together again. They’re arm in arm, skipping, dancing a rhythm you can’t hear yet. They’re reaching, reaching, stretching across the void, pulling back, pulling in, safe in each other’s arms.

Ravenclaw x Slytherin friendships: They’re the night, hushed whispers in hues of blue, possibility itching in your fingertips. They’re raging, driving in the pouring rain, colours running past your window. They’re a hand held out behind you, barely touching, barely feeling, almost, almost entwined. They’re open spaces, open minds, hearts alive inside steel cages, towers too high to reach. They’re vulnerability wrapped in a thundering sky, love dripped across pages, letters stained with ink. They’re the sky after rain, a fresh start, make them proud, make them hear, make them see, make them feel. They’re stories woven between just parted lips, faces pressed into pillows, smiles in your eyes, courage in your heart. They’re watching the horizon rushing forward, wondering if you could go through it. They’re souls laid bare on a canvas, a work of art, unforgettable, endless, rushing joy. They’re skin painted with the sky, memories of where you wish you belonged.  


Ten Art Journal Prompts to Improve Your Creativity.

These journal prompts are designed to train your creative ability. Art is a holistic study with several components. Each of these journal prompts isolates one of those components and explores its contributions to creative development.

1) Cut a photo out of a magazine and paste it on one side of your journal. On the other side, replicate the picture. (can be stylised) then, using sharpie or other bold marker, alter the original picture so it better looks like your drawing. This prompt highlights differences between reality and the way you interpret it.

2) String together nonsense words so that they roll perfectly off the tongue. Think ‘incoherent poetry’. Pay attention to syllables and rhyme. This prompt focuses on what language sounds like rather than what it communicates.

3) Dip various objects in paint and lay them across the page. Elastic bands, erasers, paper clips, combs, etc. This prompt experiments with texture and the effect of mixed media.

4) Draw a self portrait (from a mirror or photograph), and then choose a feature on your face. Draw another portrait from a different angle or with a different expression over top of the original that uses the original drawing of that feature. Can be done with animals if you’re not good at drawing people. This prompt highlights angle, pose, and position.

5) On black paper, use white pencil or pastel to draw something using only highlights. Paste this into your journal. On the opposite white page, draw the same thing using only shadows. This prompt pays attention to contrast and light source.

6) Create a list of the colours you assign to letters, numbers, musical notes, and people. Draw a few of these things in the colours you’ve listed. This prompt draws connections between how something looks and how something feels.

7) Swipe wet paint across the bottom of the page, turn the book and let the paint drip down the page. When it dries, create an image using the lines created by the drips. For example, the lines could be flower stems, could support words or letters, could be fence posts or tree trunks or telephone poles. This prompt asks you to incorporate an obstacle into your work.

8) Create a drawing using a felt-tip pen. Then, using water and a small paint brush, smear the lines of your drawing so that the shading becomes more like water-color. This prompt transforms the original media and requires pre-planning.

9) Using acrylic, paint something using only vertical lines. All forms in this painting must be suggested only by colour, as no outlines are permitted. This prompt teaches the importance colour when representing a form.

10) Cut words out of an old dictionary and paste them into your journal. Then, devise ways in which those words may be used that are not listed in the dictionary. Verbs are easiest. For example, the word 'stumble’ might be used to describe paper fluttering in the wind, or puffins in flight, despite not being defined in the dictionary that way. Write your new sentences beside the words.

To break in my new journal, I will be doing all of these prompts this week. If you do them, tag them 'artjournalprompts’ and I’ll reblog your work!

When We’re Human Again


Rating: K

Word Count: 2,900~

Summary: Based on @artsycrapfromsai‘s Beauty and the Beast AU. In which Ford becomes human again after years spent cursed as an enchanted journal, and Stanley and the kids realize happy endings are often a lot more complicated and messy than one might initially perceive.

The fading laughter was what let him know the onslaught had finally ended. Ford sensed the distant pelt of vibrations against the stone, moving towards the balcony, towards-


An insidious tendril of dread began to suffocate him as he realized his cursed form was wholly unable to come to his brother’s aid. And worst of all, the young man— Gideon, his name was?— abused him enough that his binding was starting to unravel at a dangerous rate.

Wild gales assaulted delicate parchment, threatening to cleave these pages from his trampled spine and leave him barren. He feared this wind was bitter enough to seep through even his brother’s thick fur, but as he didn’t possess the nerve endings required to differentiate temperature, there really was no way to tell.

Stanley mentioned playing in snow on the castle grounds with the children the other day, though, hadn’t he?

He lay sprawled on his back, trapped within his roving thoughts and functionally helpless without his brother or one of the young siblings to pick him up. The long years had chipped away at him, cruelly stripping bundles of parchment from his binding with each passing month— each page representing a portion of his memory. He’d already lost so much of his childhood and early life to this unstoppable decay. In fact, in his present state he found he barely recalled how he’d been cursed into this form to begin with.

What was it like, Ford wondered, to be human? To have strong limbs extending in every direction? The ability to contort and move his form by deliberate choice? What did it feel like to hold an ink quill and write manually for once? To consciously express emotion in more than simple text on page? Faintly, he thought he recalled a time when all of these actions and properties were overlooked mundanities— but he’d been imprisoned within this leather bound journal for so long that sometimes the thought of anything else but this existence faded into obscurity within seconds. And this frightened him.

I can’t even remember… what I once looked like, he realized in a pang of panic.

How much humanity did he have left to spend?

The few pages still bound fluttered endlessly in the wind, and he desperately struggled to keep ahold of them. He imagined his own thoughts appearing on pages in written word, frantic pleads for help, in the futile hope that continuing to mark his own parchment would somehow retain his connection with it. He felt another page tear away. Heard it as it cut through the air like a thin blade.

N-no… please…

Keep reading


Genre: Angst bc i dont like myself apparently


firstly, i didn’t proofread bc im lazy like that. 

second, i hit over 200 followers and wow i absolutely love you guys. Thank you so much for supporting my lazy writings. 

thirdly, i didn’t know what to title this either. someone needs to teach me how to title things

Hovering over his sitting form, your fingers touched his cheeks, the tips being stained with his tears. Wonwoo leaned into your touch, bringing his hand over yours for a sign, a sign you’ll stay, a sign of comfort. He could feel the unlit passion of your lips, the dryness and loveless. He so badly wanted to keep you attached to him, he wanted your lips to linger on his a moment longer so maybe a spark would ignite. So maybe you’d stay.

Disconnected lips, your noses brushed against each other, your forehead leaned against his and you whispered ever so quietly against his lips, “I should leave.”

“Please.” Wonwoo tried to take your lips but you had turned your head, letting him cry into your cheek, “please. don’t go.” His voice croaked in your ear.


Wonwoo fell to his knees, arms wrapping around your waist and he buried himself in your mid, “I’ll change. I’ll do whatever you say. Just please don’t leave. Please.” His voice cried out the last word.

Your hands rested itself in his charcoal hair. After a few minutes, your hands pulled Wonwoo’s arms apart from you, “I’m sorry.”

“please.” His voice died out as you walked away, leaving the boy resting on his knees.

You shut his door behind you. Your back leaned against it, fingers still wrapped around the cold doorknob and you were tempted. Tempted to go back in, to hold him, and hush his tears.

“Will you be okay?” You hadn’t noticed Mingyu approaching you.

You nodded, forcing a smile on your face, “After a while. I think the one you should worry about is Wonwoo.” Your body jumped at the scream, on the other side Wonwoo began tearing his room apart. The splitting sounds of glass shook you and your hand instinctively turned the doorknob.

Mingyu pulled the door, keeping it shut before you could open it, “I’ll handle it. You should go.” He tried not making the last sentence sound cold towards you, only it did.

You nodded, watching as the taller boy disappeared to the other side of the door.

Mingyu couldn’t believe how quick Wonwoo had made a mess. His whole desk was cleared of his books, old coffee stained each one with broken shards of the mug scattered around. Wonwoo sat on the edge of the bed, head buried in his hands. When Mingyu stood over him, Wonwoo looked up with hopeful teary eyes that only fell at the sight of the boy.

“Did she leave?”

Mingyu nodded, a hand patting the older’s shoulder as he sat next to him, “you wanna talk about it.”

Wonwoo threw his hands down, “What’s there to talk about! She left me! She fucking left me. What am I suppose to do without her. What am I suppose to do with all this stupid random information about her in my head.” Wonwoo’s fingers curled into a fist, “I’m so stupid.”

“Yeah.” The word drowned into the silence. Mingyu sighed, “I don’t know what to say.”

Wonwoo laughed with his tear stained face, “me too.”

For a few weeks Wonwoo stayed in solitude. Hiding in his room burying himself in his books, his mind stuck in another universe. On the occasional nights he wouldn’t be able to read, his tears dripping onto the pages with his shoulders shaking as he tried to contain himself.

Mingyu couldn’t stand the sight anymore, it began to become a sore to his eyes to see his friend wallow in sadness. Mingyu banged on your door, his fist pounded until you opened it with an angered expression.

“We need to talk.” Mingyu walked passed you and into your home.

“No I’m not busy at all, yes please just walk into my home unannounced at 11pm.” You shut the door, following the boy.

“You are being selfish here.” Mingyu spoke loudly, “Wonwoo has been practically drowning himself in his sadness and what are you doing, living happily knowing that you just ruined the nicest guy in the world.”

You crossed your arms over your chest, “We agreed Mingyu. We had a deal.”

“Well that deal is off!!” Mingyu softened his voice, “Look. I’m sorry. Its just, the more I wrap my head around this deal the more it makes no sense. Why wouldn’t you just tell him. I mean you guys were gonna have a baby.”

“Were. We were going to. It’s something I want to forget okay. He can’t know about this Mingyu. We agreed, I break up with him and he doesn’t find out at all about this.”

Mingyu’s eyes fell, “Can I just ask something.” You nodded slowly, “Why did you abort.”

“I didn’t.” You told truthfully, “it was a miscarriage. It was easier to hate me when I said I aborted, wasn’t it.”

Mingyu wrapped his arms around you, “I’m so sorry.”

You patted his back, “Yeah.”

Mingyu returned home that night to see his friend lying on the couch, eyes aimlessesly and deadly staring at the ceiling. Wonwoo turned his head to look at the younger who had just arrived home late.

“Where’d you go.”


Wonwoo shot up, “What. Why. Is she okay.”

Mingyu pondered for a moment. He quickly pulled out his phone, finding your contact, he sent a single text. ‘The deal is off’.

Wonwoo entered the silent home, he closed your door, sliding the key you’ve hidden outside onto a nearby table. He froze when he saw you standing in the kitchen. You leaned on the counter, a deep sigh escaping when you saw him.

“Why didn’t you tell me.” Wonwoo whispered.

You clenched your fist, your heart already ached so much by seeing him, “Because it’s easier to forget if I don’t see you.”

“And how have you been since then.” Wonwoo stepped closer.

You forced a smile, “Fine.”

Wonwoo continued forward, “Y/N.” He knew you were lying.

“I’m fine.”


“I’m…..” You felt his arms wrap around you. His chin rested atop your head. Your breath hitched, your buried your face into his chest, grabbing a handful of his shirt as you began to wail into his chest. Your knees gave way and you melted to the floor with Wonwoo.

Leaning against the floor cabinets, Wonwoo held your waist, you rested your head tiredly onto his shoulder.

“Please don’t go.” You whispered into the empty air.

Wonwoo’s lips pressed against the top of your head, he pulled you close, “I’ll never leave.”

The Past is a Different Country

Be warned, I think I spot an emotional rollercoaster ahead

Chapter 1: The Paparazzi Attack

Dewey made his glaceless way downstairs, bouncing off a wall as he followed the smells and sounds of breakfast.

He entered the dinning room and was immediately  sure Louie was up to something.

If bumping into a wall hadn’t woken him up, he was now.

“Good Morning” he sang out cheerfully. Scrooge smiled at him and gave him a nod, uncle Donald waved but didn’t look up, Huey’s and Webby’s greetings was just as cheerful and Louie grinned.

Not his usual smirk, but a grin. There was an air of affected innocence surrounding him and as Dewey studied his brother he became sure Louie feeling rather pleased with himself.

Louie was definitely up to something.

Dewey gave Huey a questioning look, who gave him a clueless smile, then Donald, who was half heartedly making notes and referring to his phone, Webby who was talking at Huey, then finally to Scrooge, who seemed to already be halfway through the Duckburg Times.

Alright. No one else had noticed Louie was up to something. Time to distract.

Dewey served himself some porridge, upending the pot of honey, sneaking glances at his Uncles. Huey gave him a look, his eyes rolling upwards, before pushing a large glass of milk towards Dewey. Webby gave him an amused look, and she paused in her tale, perhaps sensing the mood in the room had shifted.

Dewey grinned at them he set the now empty honey pot down, and glanced at Louie. Louie considered him, and pushed the peanut butter his way.

“Dewey. Fruit.” Uncle Donald directed, waving his pen towards the bowl of fruit.

“Peanut butter counts.” Dewey waved his spoon.

“Peanut butter? On porridge?” Uncle Scrooge pulled a face, putting aside his newspaper “Really lad?”

“It’s good.” Dewey through a sticky mouthful.

“It’s disguising.” Webby exclaimed.

“What do you like Uncle Scrooge?” Huey piped up.

“Salt. Or a little cheese.” Uncle Scrooge declared.

“Eww!” Dewey pulled a face, as Louie dropped out of sight.

“Sweets are all well and good, in their place” Scrooge began a lecture.

“It’s breakfast!” Dewey interrupted. “It’s meant to be sweet!”

“And that will hardly going to carry you through the day lad!” Scrooge rose from his chair.

“Dewey!” Dewey stood on the chair so Scrooge couldn’t loom over him. “My name is DEWEY!” No one else seemed notice the door opening.

Scrooge paused. “Dewey.” He conceded, face pulling tight, “I didnae mean…” He paused again.

“Dewey. Fruit.” Donald said, glaring at Scrooge. “And sit down. Both of you.”

Distraction successful. Dewey grabbed some blueberries and kept his head down, grinning into his porridge.

Louie had better share.

Louie ducked out of the dinning room, tucking his hands in his pocket, tugging at the plastic envelope hidden there.

He needed somewhere private to hide and well lit enough to read. The mansion had more than enough of the first, but the second was harder, what with most of the unused rooms being shut up.

But Louie has planned ahead, scouted the lay of the land, finding an unused bedroom with a window seat. He settles in behind the curtains certain that no one is going to find him. (Except Webby but she’s wouldn’t be looking for him for a while)

Huey would cut it open, Dewey would tear into the envelope, Louie traces along the seams and pulls it apart where it’s weakest.

His heart is beating a little fast, but his hands are steady as he turns the glossy magazine over. He’s on the front cover.

“What is it like like living with the Richest Duck in the world? An exclusive interview with Louie Duck, nephew of the renowned Scrooge McDuck.”

Louie grins. It’s a good photo. But did Fergus keep his word?

He opens up the magazine, checking the contents. And pales.

‘The mysterious disappearance of Della Duck.’
‘The most likely heir to the McDuck Fortune’
‘Donald Duck, respected war hero or lunatic?’

It goes on and on, Louie shakes as he turns the pages, it’s his family, he recognises names and pictures. He doesn’t know these stories. His stomach twists and he wants to throw up.

How much did uncle Donald hide from them? Why do strangers know more about his family than he ever did?

Water drips onto to page as he opens the article on his Mom, the writing is too blurry to read. There’s a picture of his Mom climbing into a small aircraft.

He can’t.

This is bad. This is wrong. He made a mistake. He didn’t know they were going to do this.

He can’t breathe. The room is too dusty.

He wants Uncle Donald.

Huey was totally up for a day entertaining himself. He had plans. Louie had vanished, and Dewey had grabbed Webby for more exploring. There’s pieces of his model aircraft scattered all over his desk and he’s carefully checking he hasn’t lost anything in the move to his new bedroom when something breaks his concentration.

He tilts his head and listens.

Someone’s crying.

Oh. Oh no. His heart sinks. He was really looking forward to working on his model. He hopes Dewey and Webby haven’t gotten into something dangerous. (Again)

He sighs, knowing he’s not going to rest until he finds the source, and drops the pieces he’s holding back into the box.

It’s louder outside his room, and coming from above, so he silently makes his way to the staircase.

He doesn’t have to go far.

Louie’s curled in a ball, arms wrapped around his knees. He’s sobbing and Huey settles down next to him. Louie tries to talk, but nothing is coming out.

Huey rubs his back and waits for Louie to calm down enough to speak.

Instead, a crumpled magazine is shoved at him.

“Mom?” Huey stuttered, his heart clenching, clinging to Louie as he reads the article.

It’s horrible. There’s dozens of digs against Uncle Donald and Scrooge. It’s a full out attack on their family. Huey is shaking.

He growls, and for a moment all he wants to do is tear the horrible magazine to pieces and set them on fire.

“We’re telling Uncle Donald” Huey declares, dragging his brother to his feet and half carrying him down the stairs. It’s a good thing Louie’s his height because he’s barely able to support himself, they’re both shaking so hard.

Donald thinks he’s having a good day. His CV has gone off to a dozen different job adverts, and he’s already had a response from two, one asking for references and another asking if he’s available for a phone interview.

Uncle Scrooge almost apologised. (He’s getting better at it.) And Mrs Beakley is having a day off, so Donald gets to cook lunch and dinner today.

He’s anticipating the look on his Uncle’s face.

Then he hears it.

“Uncle Donald!” Huey sounds strident, his voice wavering.

The hob goes off. The lid is placed on the sauce pan. He’s pretty confident  he’ll be able to salvage it.

His boys need him.

They look a mess, Louie is pale and clinging to Huey, half hiding behind his brother, his breathing coming in shaky gulps, Huey is shaking, his hands clenching around the lump of glossy paper in his hand.

“What’s wrong? Where’s Dewey?”

“They printed trash about Mom!” Huey wails, shaking the paper, a magazine Donald realises, catching sight of a familiar photo.

There’s a chill seeping into his bones, his hear shutters and everything goes grey and muted. He can barely understand what Huey is saying, and Louie is just repeating I’m sorry again and again.

They hurt his boys.

Scrooge is interrupted from his research by the familiar sound of a McDuck (or in this case a Duck) losing his temper.

“By Dismal Downs, what now?” He utters, deciding to investigate before Donald broke anything and give his nephew a good shaking if need be.

What he sees is unforgivable, the lads look terrified, and he yanks his nephew up. “Look at them” He hisses.

“Uncle Scrooge,  it’s not Donald’s fault.” Huey pipes up, there’s a thunderous expression on the lad’s face, the first warning sign that Huey is on the verge of displaying his own version of the McDuck temper. He holds something out, and Scrooge drops Donald to take it.

Smoothing out the much crumpled paper he immediately sees the problem. “I’ll handle this” Scrooge growls.

“No.” Huey said, folding his arms “First, I want to know what really happened when Mom disappeared. Not the lies they printed”

“Agreed” Dewey said, dropping down from his perch in the rafters, Webby just behind him.

Scrooge glances at Donald. It’s his decision.

“Alright.” Donald slumped, defeat written across every feather. “Alright boys.”

“You didnae need to lad.” Uncle Scrooge accent thickened.

Donald gave him a look. “They deserve to know.”

“I was there too you know.” Scrooge presses, but there’s an undercurrent of uncertainty in his voice.

Donald looks at him, and for once there’s none of the barely hidden resentment in his gaze, only grief deeper than the marine trench and their shared burden of guilt.

The silence between is heavy, and the kids inch closer to each other. Louie’s tears have dried, he’s starring at the floor and leaning on Huey. Huey has a protective arm around Louie, but his eyes are stormy, Dewey’s landed on Louie’s other side just in front of his brothers and is bouncing from foot to foot, and Webby is watching with wide eyes, her hand twisted in Dewey’s tee. They can’t help the undercurrent of excitement and dread rolling off of them.

Until Donald speaks.

“Can you tell it Uncle Scrooge?” Donald’s voice is flat, a little bit angry, but mostly hurt.

Scrooge flinched back from the open disdain.

“I can try.” Scrooge comes back with, the closest he can admit to that he’s as unready to face this memory as Donald. His hands tighten on his cane, recognizing that this could be the start of an old argument, one he’s not sure either of them will walk away unharmed from.

“Alright.” Donald looked away.

“Alright” Scrooge echoes, not sure he’s heard right. “Into the study with you lads, I’ll put the tea on.”

“Webby too.” Dewey says, clutching her arm.

Scrooge nods. “I shalt tell this tale again.”

@donaldtheduckdad and so it begins

Part 2 can be found here:


fast food service gothic

you’re asked to sweep and mop.

“this isn’t what i ordered,” the customer says. they hold up a receipt with shaking hands like it’s a talisman. the ink blurs, unreadable, dripping off the page and pooling onto the counter. “just give them food,” the manager whispers. “please.”

the senior employees are huddled into a circle. they are laughing. you try to get their attention and fail – you help a wailing customer as best you can. they are laughing. the customers are fighting. they are laughing. the building is on fire. everyone else has left. they are laughing.

a customer asks for a food item you’ve never heard of before. you tell them so, and they scoff, saying they ordered it the last time they were here. you check the menu again, expecting to find nothing, only to see exactly what they asked for. but of course you do. that’s always been there. hasn’t it?

someone has left their jacket in the lobby. someone has left their phone in the lobby. someone has left their pants in the lobby. someone has left their bag. it pulses, and everyone pretends not to see.

you haven’t seen that one coworker in a while. now that you think about it, you’re pretty sure you only saw them one or two times to begin with, weeks ago. you ask your other coworkers if they’ve seen them around. “who?” your coworkers ask. their eyes barely hide their fear. you don’t bring it up again.

the timer on the fryers beep demandingly. you shut them off. the fryers beep. you shut them off. the fryers beep. no matter how many times you press the button, they still beep, beep, beep, refusing to be silenced. they are following you. not even your dreams are sacred.

anonymous asked:

If you're still taking requests, how about a fic of yukine doing something for hiyori on mothers day? There aren't many fics of hiyoriXyukine brotp aND I NEED THIS OK

i’m love them


Hiyori walked up behind Yukine as he was putting the finishing touches to his essay. During the past few months she had discovered his aptitude for analytical writing, and quickly set him to work on weekly short essays that the two of them would review together.

“I’m ready,” Yukine said. He avoided her gaze as she sat down cross-legged at the table.

“So, what did you decide to focus on?” Hiyori asked. She reached for his essay, but Yukine kept his palm pressed flat against the paper, holding it in place.

“Um,” he said. Hiyori’s inquisitive gaze burned into his forehead.

After staring pointedly at his own fingernails for a few seconds, Yukine took a deep breath.


After spouting his confession in one desperate gust, Yukine clamped his mouth shut again. His skin was turnip-red from neck to scalp, and his chin had begun to tremble in anxiety and embarrassment.

Hiyori’s confusion became obvious as she untangled his sentence. She stared at him in consternation.

“Me?” she asked. “Wasn’t this going to be your Mother’s Day essay?”

Yukine nodded, making a sound like a kitten being trod on.

“Just read it,” he whispered. He shoved the paper toward her as though touching it burned him. Hiyori picked it up.

Dear Hiyori,

I know you’re not technically anyone’s mother, and I’m not saying I think of you like a mother, because that would be weird for both of us. And probably everyone else too. But especially Yato, because (–the last two sentences were scribbled out, but Hiyori squinted, managing to decipher them up until the word “because,” which seemed to be where Yukine had dropped this disquieting train of thought.)

Anyway, I wanted to write my Mother’s Day essay to you like a letter, because you’re nice, and friendly, and a lot of the time bossy (but in a good way!) and you stayed with us even when you probably shouldn’t have. You also make me do my homework, kind of like a mom would. I don’t mind that, usually.

You’ve also protected me before, even though I’m dead. You’ve protected Yato too, even though he’s a god. Not everyone would do that, Hiyori. I hope you know how much we appreciate it. There are some people who manage to make everyone around them happy, without even trying.

You might not be anyone’s mother, Hiyori, but we need you just as much.

I’m happy you stayed here.

I’m happy you decided to remember us.

Love, Yukine

By the time Hiyori reached the signature, she had to struggle to read it through the blur of moisture in her eyes. Her nose threatened to drip onto the page and she gave a great sniff, which prompted Yukine–still furiously blushing–to look up. His mouth fell open at the sight of her blotchy, crumpled face.


She slapped the letter down onto the table, then launched herself at him. Yukine shrieked.

Summoned by the panicked cry, Yato burst into the room–only to see Hiyori sobbing all over the front of his shinki’s shirt. Yukine tried to get up, but Hiyori clutched him tighter and wept still more forcefully.

When he met Yukine’s hubcap-round eyes over the top of Hiyori’s head, Yato’s expression darkened. Yukine began to shake his head.

“Care to explain?” Yato growled.

[BTS] The Umbrella Effect - [Namjin] !M!

Originally posted by taejoonah

Read on Ao3
 Main: Fluff | Sub: Smut
Type: MemberxMember [MxM]
Members: Jin x Namjoon | Namjin
Word count: 31k+
Soundtrack: “The Umbrella Effect” OST Playlist - [X]
Dedicated: @queenjunghoseok Jen my bitch bc she wanted some Top!Jin && @wheresjhope && @jcnghope THANK YOU FOR EVERYTHING ♥♥♥ && @taesflower && @bangtan-tan && @megudragon && @gaystarwhales because Namjin ayeeee

Plot: Jin is Namjoon’s prince charming, his knight in shining armour, that he met on one fateful September morning, who showed him that a good romance doesn’t only exist in books.

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The Streets of Edinburgh

This ficlet is part of the Jamie Through the Stones AU which starts with Third Time’s the Charm.

This ficlet is a direct continuation from Pack Your Bags

My Fanfiction Master List

Available on AO3 as Written in the Stones

This is an Outlander canon divergence AU ficlet.

Let me know what you think.

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Letters (inej x kaz fanfic)

Inej’s latest letter had come two weeks ago.

Dear Kaz,

It has been a long time since I had an opportunity to write to you. Business has been brisk; I hope the same is true for you. Wylan told me when I was in town last that they don’t see much of you, so it must be true. Speaking of, how are he and Jesper getting on? Jesper looked rather restless last I saw him. Wylan said that he had lost a small sum on an investment he was sure of and was a bit worried about him.

We got in a spot of trouble the other day when a slaver ship came after us in revenge for their sister ship. After Jan froze the sea beneath them though, they didn’t put up much of a fight. There were a dozen Ravkan women and children in shackles on board, and we are en route to return them home now. I cannot thank the Saints enough for sending me a Tidemaker. He has really made all the difference, and the crew has welcomed him with open arms. While he is as dedicated as the rest of the crew, he still seems to be having trouble getting used to my habits. He nearly fell overboard when I walked up behind him the other day without him noticing.  

The crew have started getting the same tattoo, one of a black wraith. So many of them come from the Barrel or similar places, I shouldn’t be surprised they want a tattoo to mark themselves as one of ours, and yet it touches me to see that they feel a dedication so similar to my own, enough to show it. In addition to sharing similar backgrounds, or perhaps because of them, they have started teaching each other sea shanties and drinking songs from their homelands, usually during the night shift and much to the dismay of the rest of the crew who are trying to sleep. To my ear, they all have the same tune, but each one tells a different story. I have truly started to get to know all of my crew. While they come from all over, they have ended up together on our ship. I wonder if it is true that no man can escape his past; it does not seem true for them.

Saints blessings, Kaz.

All the best,

Inej Ghafa

The first drafts of a reply Kaz had burned in his office.

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You were everything I ever wanted.
A shred of peace in chaos, a dream in this reality, a rose in a bed of thorns.
Every morning, you held my hand, told me how you loved me, like the moon loves the earth. You were my low tides and my high tides. Flowing and ebbing.
How the sea loves the beach,
how our lungs love air.
Our love was the soft curling of the smoke from half-lit cigarettes and the fire that burns it down to ash.
I was slowly breathing you in, savoring every bit of you, keeping you for the nights when I couldn’t breathe my own self again without suffocating.

One night, I was heaving from the breathlessness that tasted like mint, my eyes red and heavy, my empty fingers still learning how not to hold you again.
The night you broke me, it felt like I’d loved a completely different man.
You were the chaos, the sharp tinge of reality, the rose with thorns that I held too tight. You made me bleed and all I could do was watch my barren fingers, dripping ink on pages that would never matter.
You were always too far to love.
Too wild for the houses I’d built along the sand. Wrecking, receding.
How the sea turns away from the beach after a soft kiss, promising to come back again. Why didn’t you?
You became the air my lungs had loved. I was drowning and all I could do was take every bit of you that I could before falling into an abyss of this ocean I never wanted to create.
The cigarette that darkened my lungs and burned my tongue.
I’d kept you for all the nights that suffocated me,
I should’ve known you were the one stealing my air.

—  Tamarind Fall; Writing prompt: I thought you were everything I ever wanted, but after you broke me, it was like I loved a completely different man.

The manifestation of a sickness called hate
sweeps across this nation that holds no fate
A reference to Independence is Silenced by foes
choking while smoking away losing the ebb and flow
systematically shutting down the life-support machine
gasping grasping Fighting For Life Death is a fiend
scream young child that your voice be heard
Saintly while fainting this world is a victim of murder
whiplash the Splish Splash no games to be played
these bastards and whores just want to get laid
teacher be not Hasty your students will not learn
no hunger for knowledge no fire to burn
Quail the storm that destroys my fate 
wipe away the death and dismay there’s no time to wait
words drip from the pages of ancient books
sin dangles inticing deals from its Sinister hooks
the contemplation of Deeds undone
Loom over the heads of Heroes unsung
folktales enthrall naive young minds
until those Tales become real
no happy ending is there to find

you’ve held my heart
365 x 3, I gave you everything
without thinking
my heart was speaking and
you were the first one who
taught it to listen

i only know your language
through unreturned dedication
and pissed on passion
like certified mail
stinging feet jellyfish
just one or two more
things that you will forget

i wanted to paint you in a way
Picasso would rise from the grave
i wanted to press your text in a way
Fitzgerald would second guess
his love for Zelda

Art is like energy,
it cannot be created or destroyed
it is a reaction of blank pages
watercolor drips and moving pens

You are a draft blank page.
You are a different world I feel
from my own.
You are a different level of
a building I no longer own.

Art and Love combust into
millimeter molecules multiheli making a multitude from mumbles

these bits and pieces of my soul
no longer belong to you
your fucking black hole
of a death vessel that is
what’s left of yours-
oul-now I see it as it always was

your absense
will never
break me

B.E. Grissom
request for s.b.

We promised each other for every ten miles between us, we’d write a letter. That’s 50 letters each.

First, I’d receive a chicken scratch note from a boy who loved me. He’d promise me forever on old, wrinkled paper. Sweet honey dripped off the page onto my desk, sticking to my own pen. I replied with an equally grand promise and a picture for keeps.

The letters continued week by week, like clockwork. Until suddenly, they slowed. He was busy. School was busy.

The letters piled on my desk-more slowly but persistent nonetheless, each with a chicken scratch number in the corner. I counted each one every day before I fell asleep, a ritual I hadn’t meant to start, but my connection to him breeches miles with the love in those letters. They were my personal bridge to heaven.

46. 47. 48. 49. I counted and counted like some people count sheep or some lost lover counts stars. I reminded myself every night that he promised me he’d write. Number fifty. I pause. Every night I tell myself to open it, but I can see the picture inside, the picture I sent to him in my first letter with a promise of forever.  Every night I imagine removing him from my heart with a brand-new eraser.  Every night I tell myself that it won’t hurt to let him go. Every night I tell myself that I should open the damn letter that came a year late. But every night I count and count and count until I fall asleep. Because every night I just can’t seem to open it.

—  Excerpt from a book I’ll never write
… and even though you ripped out the pages to our love story before I could even put a period on our last sentence. You still have that scarred white knuckled grip on each and every single one of our stories. Watching the ink smudge and drip off the pages the harder you squeeze. Until eventually you look back and there’s nothing left except a couple of ‘I miss yous’ scattered across each of our chapters.