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Imagine being in awe when you see how passionate Woozi is when he’s performing on stage.

I know I have no right to do this because I haven't even seen the film yet but --

It was his fault. All of it. It was his fault for being too cocky, it was his fault for dragging God into this, and his fault for being born at all.

But Clyde had been so sure – just so sure – that if he prayed hard enough, that God would give them a baby girl. He’d worked his brain into overtime, perfecting the image of the little angel in his mind’s eye. She looked nothing like him (he didn’t want her to look anything like his sorry ass), but she looked every bit of divine as her momma.

Her sparkling eyes, her smooth skin, her perfect everything. But, most importantly, she wouldn’t have her pathetic pappy’s curse. Really, though, in his mind, the fact that she wouldn’t have the curse would’ve been reason enough for her to better resemble her mother.

The certainty that Clyde had earned God’s favor enough to assure that his first born would be a girl had been enough to keep the two of you from revealing the baby’s gender. Or, rather, it had been enough for Clyde to abstain from confirmation. You simply went along with it, though you occasionally did gently remind him that the world was filled with possibilities. You made sure to obtain gender-neutral colors for clothes and the bedroom “just in case.”

He’d been cocky. So confident that he had won out for the second time in his life (the first time being you). And for that, God was punishing him. The curse dropped back down not only upon himself, but his newborn son as well.

The moment of joy brought on by the infant’s first cries was instantly dampened by the doctor’s own cry: “Congratulations: It’s a boy!” The small, tired sound of pure happiness that you had released didn’t fall upon Clyde’s ears. For regardless of all the noises going on in the present – your small sobs of relief, the beeping of the hospital machinery, the doctors’ footsteps pattering around the room, and his son’s whimpers from the cold and bright lights – Clyde wasn’t present enough to hear any of it. He was far off in a place where time was inconsistent.

He was in the past, where he, as a Logan boy, was getting bullied and ridiculed, constantly getting screwed over by some unseen force of nature and his own damn self. He was in the present, in a blank space where all that he could hear, all that he could think, was “Logan boy! Logan boy! Unlucky Logan boy!” And then he was in the future, seeing his poor, cursed child reliving all of his mistakes and then some, disdaining his father for leaving only something so awful to inherit and wishing he’d never been brought into creation.

The nurses assumed that the gulp he’d made, followed by the trembling of his lips and watering of his eyes had been fatherly pride. After all, he had a child now. A son. And a big boy, at that, weighing in at 8 lbs and 6 oz. He was, to say the least, quite healthy.

The baby also appeared to be quite loving, as the moment he was placed into your arms, his crying stopped and his sobs calmed down into small, body-shaking hiccups.

“Oh!” you breathed, whipping Clyde back into the present – the real present. In this one, you were tearing up at the sight of the blanketed thing in your arms. “Oh, Clyde,” your voice cracked with tears. “He’s beautiful!”

Clyde wouldn’t know. He didn’t want to look down. He didn’t want to look down and see himself, both literally and metaphorically. To see an unfortunate child, both in luck and looks.

“… Clyde,” your voice sounded so soft. Probably because you were tired after such a long labor. “Clyde, look at your son.” You almost sounded as though you were pleading. Clyde was never one to ignore your requests. No matter how painful.

The tearing up from shame made for a shuttering inhale as he looked down to meet his poor child.

His features were round and pink, not too defined being that he wasn’t even five minutes old. He looked upset, but his calm breathing suggested otherwise. And the thick, black mop already developing on his little head suggested that he already was taking on Clyde’s attributes. Just a pinkish gumwad with a poof of black wisps and an upset expression.

He was the most beautiful thing Clyde had ever dared to look it.

A small “oh” managed to slip out from behind the lump in Clyde’s throat. You smiled tiredly by his side.

“Come on, honey, you gotta hold him,” you said, lifting the big baby up and closer to his daddy. Clyde didn’t mean to move so suddenly; all he had meant to do was move away from his own child.

“Uh, I –” he started before giving up. You lowered your arms, brows furrowing slightly. Clyde could see a hint of disappointment on your face. He sighed. “I jus’ … I don’t wanna hurt ‘em. He’s so tiny …”

But in admitting such, it appeared that Clyde had hurt you. The expression you now wore held so much surprise and pain – for him. He was a father now, and still all he could think about (or fear about) was his lack of luck and how it may cause him to do awful things, no matter what he’d intended or didn’t intend to do.

“Clyde,” you spoke quietly. “He’s your son. Nothing’s gonna happen to him, I promise.” He didn’t seem convinced, still stiff as a board as he hesitantly eyeballed the blanketed blob. You bit your lip. “How about … How about I hold him with one hand, and you hold him with the other –”

“My arm might pop off and he’ll drop.”

“It will not,” you asserted sternly. And that was that. After all, Clyde could never easily say no to you or turn you down. He made sure to lean in close enough to you so that there were no gaps between you, himself, or the bed. He fought to keep from thinking about the millions of ways the bed could collapse or how he could unintentionally hurt the baby. Even as you slowly maneuvered the child into a position between the two of you, Clyde had his doubts.

The weight was pretty light, especially considering how thick of a man Clyde was. It was actually almost comedically enjoyable, based on what he could feel. Every so often, the slumbering angel would jolt (“It’s just him getting used to his nerves, don’t worry about it,” the doctors had advised moments earlier). But even more often, he would release a tiny exhale that sounded like a sigh. One big enough to rumble through his tiny body. Often accompanied by his tiny tongue smacking against his lips.

He had Clyde’s hair, but Clyde wanted to believe that he also had your ears. But the very small, barely noticeable dot underneath his closed right eye suggested a mole. One of Clyde’s. The first thought that came to mind, much to Clyde’s own surprise, was not so much how worried he was about his son inheriting his appearance, but that the placement of said mole suggested that he’d grow up to be a pretty boy.

“See?” he heard you whisper beside him. “Nothin’ to it. You’re a natural.” Clyde offered you half of a smile when the baby shuddered and wriggled slightly. Out of his own protective instincts, Clyde couldn’t stop himself from raising his other arm to place it as further support on the child’s back. The wriggling stopped almost instantaneously. The angling at which Clyde was now hunched felt awkward. Out of reflex, he sat upright, taking the baby with him, but not your arm. It had long since returned back to your side, your eyes now capturing every movement of your husband in this moment.

“A natural,” you whispered once again. Your smile didn’t falter even for an instant when Clyde looked between you and his child. It was only when his son’s head began to shift ever so slightly that he stopped and landed firmly on the being in his arms.

His eyes stared right back into his own. They were smaller, purer, and so filled with love and unaware of the meaning of the word “loneliness” or of life’s hardships, but there was no second-guessing about it: They were Clyde’s eyes. And they had never been so beautiful to Clyde before now.

This was the thing that triggered Clyde inside. Indeed, having yet another Logan boy did put him in the mindset of having a child repeat his own life. But the catch was, now he had a daddy who was going to assure that nothing went wrong. This second chance, but better.

Once again, Clyde returned into the scape where time was skewed: He saw the past where he could have fixed things, he saw the future where his son, all handsome and beloved, was the first real lucky Logan to walk the county and, eventually, the world. But for now, he just needed to see the present. The present where you, tired from many hours of pain and discomfort, were catching up on your well-deserved rest. The present where he, a sorry S.O.B., was being graced by the presence of his small but beautiful family that he’d made for himself.

The present where Clyde Logan, as he stared down at the beautiful, tiny creature staring right back at him, wordlessly communicated how much love he felt for the newborn.

It was in this present that he would assure that future he was seeing. Starting with assuring that no harm would ever come upon his child. Not ever. Curse be damned.

Because if there was one thing a curse should never underestimate, it would be the boundlessness of one’s love for their family.

i sneakily pulled my phone out and checked my inbox inbetween classes today and when i saw this, i gASPED. i couldn’t put my phone down, not even when a girl started asking me about my disabilities accommodations. i had to keep reading.

and then i started crying.

i am SO in love with this story and i love you and i love, love, love clyde. i ended up actually doing a sketch of clyde and his baby son and i started crying more at his sweet face and i just,,, let me write a reply to this that’s actually interesting to read oh goodness

clyde logan is the unluckiest logan of all. his momma may have up and died and his daddy may have been a no-good sack of rancid rat meat, and maybe his aunt lost that winning lotto ticket and maybe his uncle got electrocuted, but clyde? clyde’s had it the worst of all of them.

nearly every part of clyde logan’s life has been cursed from beginning to end. there’s only been one bright spot, one success: his wife.

she was the thing that convinced him the curse was over, in some way. he had to be cleansed of the curse, surely, if such a beautiful thing would fall into his lap like this. he can’t be cursed if such wonder and goodness exists within arm’s reach. 

but part of him is terrified that maybe the curse is just dormant and waiting to strike the next generation, a viper in the grass. so when he finds out that his miracle girl, his curse breaker, his one victory, is pregnant with his child, the combination of fear and joy is IMMENSE.

but holding his son, he strokes his cheek and stares at him and sees that this must be the first child born in the logan lineage that hasn’t got the curse. there can be nothing, nothing at all in his beautiful, perfect little boy, that’s cursed. and if there is?

he, clyde caleb logan, will do everything he can to protect his boy. because there’s one thing that’s been missing in the logan line: love.

no fathers loved their children. none of them cared to protect their offspring; they were too busy lamenting their own losses and scourging the name logan for their misfortune. they forgot to protect their sons, and maybe, if they had, the curse would’ve died off. maybe it wouldn’t have been as powerful if they’d been able to  find it in their hearts to live on in kindness, curse or no.

so he’s gonna love. he’s gonna love his wife, his son. he’s gonna love jimmy and mellie and his niece and everyone he can, because love is more important than any number of lost arms, electrocutions, or jail sentences. love will win out.

he kisses his son’s brow and cries, soft and tender, into the dark, downy hairs that crown his baby’s head. that’s his baby. that’s his little angel, an angel descended from the most beautiful, angelic woman in the world. and clyde’s part of that world, now. he’s blessed.

so curse or no, he’s got it all. everything.

and he won’t give it up.

8

another meme i won’t finish [2/10 male characters]: Pacey Witter

“Every day, we, the students of Capeside, come to a place where you guys are in charge. You tell us when to arrive, when to leave, when to move rooms, when to eat. You tell us when we’re doing well, when we need to be doing better and we never ever question it because we’re afraid to. To question it is to go against the belief that the entire system is built upon, the belief that you guys know what’s right, and I’m not afraid to tell you that what happened in that classroom yesterday was not right. To make a student cry, to embarrass him, to strip of him of his dignity in front of the entire class is not right. While I do respect the system I do not respect men like you, Mr. Peterson. I don’t, I can’t, and I never will.”

whomst else here has played the pokemon mystery dungeon games

anonymous asked:

im just gonna sit here and cry, thank you for drawing kinoshita i love him so much he's honestly one of my fave characters in haikyuu but i see so little of him so to have one of my fave artists draw him is just a damn blessing thank y o u

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! here have more

fun fact even though he’s barely done anything ever the golden boy is one of my fave crows ✌️