heeeeere we go

@qveeniereynolds

After a while of knowing each other, James sat in his couch with his arm nonchalantly around Queenie. He was going through his phone, notifications from comments and likes to his latest Instagram post still pouring in even after almost two hours since he’d posted the picture. He looked at the blonde beside him, chuckling. “So, my friend Étienne wants to know… why have we been in each other’s Instagram stories all week long? And I, well, it’s not just Étienne. Marion unblocked me and is asking me about you on the daily. And also, tons of people I do not know are commenting on my photos and asking me questions, especially concerning you…” he commented, a soft smirk on his lips.  “Any comment on the matter?”

yetanotherharry  asked:

CHARLOTTE. Have fun with my long name xx

Wel thanks Charlotte😳
Heeeeere we go… okay this one is interesting.

C: Who I like and why I like them?
At the moment I don’t like anyone. Had a crush, that’s fading away Soo.. besides that I like my friends and family cuz theirs the sweetest people in my life.

H: Do I smoke/ or drink?
No to smoking and yes to drinking. Bring on the champagne, vodka and whiskey. Preferably Scottish or Irish whiskey. No girlie drinks for me. Unless I’m already to far gone.😝

A: Why my last relationship ended
He was jealous…. a bit is human and acceptable. But this no no no no.

R: Favourite song at the moment?
I’m listening to rag'n bone a lot. And ed sheeran’s new album is AWESOME. But I’m still waiting for the HOLO17.. NEED THAT SHIT RIGHT NOW 😱😩😍 LET ME BE DRAMATIC ABOUT. Just like Harry’s being drama queen about this whole ordeal.

L: One of my insecurities?
Probably what other people think of me. Not so much a insecurity but that goes through my mind a lot.

O: My eye colour
Blue
T: Age I get mistaken for?
Probably around 26/27
T: Age I get mistaken for?
Girl I just answered this one 🙄 Why do you need two T’s. Just kidding

E: My best friend?
Joyce. Haven’t know her the longest of all my big ass girl squad *coughs coughs * But I get so much joy in making her feel like an idiot. And same goes for her. We’re not afraid to show love as well.. random gifts and such. We’re basically a couple😂❤️

Have some fun reading this Charlotte. Ik heb mijn best erop gedaan.

Xxx. M

Tick Tock from the Concrete Block

pairing: Phan

genre: angst, fluff

word count: 2,855 words

status: part 1/?, unfinished

warnings: mental illness, harsh treatment, slurs against the mentally ill, jumping off a building

Summary: As a result of Dan jumping off a building to take a picture right before he hit the ground, he was shipped off to Obsidian Rose Mental Asylum. There, he meets Phil, an optimistic psychologist who’s the first psychologist he’s ever met to actually care about his patients.

A/N: Okay, this AN can’t be long as I have to go, but I’m very excited for this next fic!! Basically I watched the Sixth Sense and got this. You know the rest. Anyway, credits to Emily Dickinson for her poem “The First Day’s Night Had Come”, really good stuff though, check it out. Anyway, heeeeere we go!


Wednesday, April 18, 1962, London

The wind was stronger up there. His jacket whipped around his small and fragile bones, relentlessly taking the physical form of the air that struck his face. He was very weak after all, after having pulled himself up fourteen flights of stairs to get to this, the very top of the Nightingale Flat Complex in downtown London. The building was like a decrepit old dog that wasn’t good for very much more than a few simple tasks. Like water. And heat. And by water and heat, the rain leaked through the cracking and weak windows, and in the summer, the mugginess was kept in the small rooms like a greenhouse. He stroked the air in front of him with bony fingers and nodded while rubbing the tips of his fingers together. The impatient bubbling of thunder in the distance caused him no worry at all. He wouldn’t be here long. Sure enough, a cloud shaped like a smoker’s puff whisked in from the south. A thread of lightning stabbed the ground in the distance, making him flinch. From the inside of his coat, he removed his polished but cheap handheld camera, the one with two lenses not one, and quickly snapped a picture. Damn. He missed the lightning by just a second. He saw it in the tiny viewfinder right before his finger landed on the button. But he wouldn’t be too late for his next one.
Shoving the adjusting photo in his pocket, he made his way to the cement edge of the building and looked over like a child with a fear of heights. Luckily for him, there was no fear to be found. He poised his finger on the shutter release and took a step onto the ledge. He grinned. This would be the shot that made his career. Legs steady and firm, he stretched them to take a jump but hesitated first. The picture of the thunderclouds sans lightning had fully developed. With a stone, he placed it on the center of the roof and returned to his position before turning his head towards the image and smiled.
“I think this belongs to you, miss!” He shouted over the increasing gales of wind. “And might I say you look very pretty in it, at that!” Before the wind forced him off the edge, he leaned forward and dived through the air like a swordfish through water. He hadn’t a second to waste. Right before his body collided with the cement, he took one final picture before smashing into the street awaiting his arrival.

They were allowed objects in their housing areas. The regulation was very lenient, with five large items and two small items, of course, within the allotted space. Although it was, technically, an asylum, most of the inmates still had a sense of self and expression, and proudly told the place by hanging everything they could get their hands on. Scraps of colored paper, charred cigarette rolls, some pages of the newspaper, pieces of clothing, and never to forget the dolls. The prisoner directly across from Dan had 36 dolls, 36 exactly, hanging by long threads she would pull from her uniform. Sometimes, if she got bored, she would laugh like humor itself originated from standing on one’s bed and dropping the dolls from their neck cordage until they bounced once on impact without the slack and swayed side to side until they stopped. “Like mommy! Like mommy!” She yelled and laughed some more. It was almost funny the first few days he was in there, but four months in and it wasn’t funny any more. Dan had observed and analyze every person in Obsidian Rose Mental Asylum, what with all this time on his hands. Usually, he remained in his cell with exactly 987 tiles, three less than the regular 990, which he picked off with his bare hands for the purpose of smashing them into bits when he got frustrated.
Riva Sciarra, diagnosed with the very rare but possible combination of paranoid and disorganized type schizophrenia, had one scratched doll in one hand and one without a head in the other scissoring one another. Dan rolled his eyes and continued to read one of Obsidian Rose’s top secret files as casually as one would a newspaper. Something about his file, his past psychologists, a fresh entry about a possible new one, he didn’t really care at this point. Diagnose him with depression, diagnose him with psychosis, call him a psychopath, it was all the same in the end. Crazy. Retarded. They never used to call him those things before he jumped to get just that one picture, but it was deemed a suicide attempt. He should have died. In the brief second when he regained consciousness while being wheeled into the ambulance, he heard one of the doctors whisper in his ear, “You know what they do to loonies like you? Put you in the loony house. That was a real stupid thing that you did.” To which he promptly passed out once more.
He felt it when he threw one of the chips from his tiles at the wall. Air, wind, began to accumulate in the room. His resting face exploded into a maniacal grin and the camera was by his face before Riva was able to look up and see the commotion. She was the lucky one. She had the room facing the sun, which cast a perfectly cylindrical shape of light onto her floor. None of it caught on the strange man living across from her. She let two of her dolls that were swimming at the beach (she still believed in beaches, even though everyone in her head said they didn’t exist) watch the action along with her. He started spinning in circles and laughing while taking pictures from every angle, of nothing at all but walls and tiles.
“You’re right, Lisa, he’s going to run out of film soon, and then he will be sad.” Her blonde doll nodded at her commentary. That’s when her brunette doll, Kimberly, spoke up, but the man still didn’t hear her. It irked Riva a little.
“Kimberly asked you a question.” She restated to the other cell. The crazy one was sweaty through his uniform, and his eyes seemed to bulge out of his face like a lizard’s. Not to mention how they were bloodshot and very red.
“She’s all in your head!” He cried and slammed his hands onto the bars of his cage, making the entire floor shake. She frowned and drew the plastic close to her ear and nodded.
“She says that you’re taking pictures of nothing and it looks funny.”
“I look funny, you crazy bitch?! Look at this!” One of his pictures had developed, all that was in it was a blurred snapshot of his wall, with a gleam of light and the silhouette of Riva in the background.
“Can’t you see her?! Look, right there, covering you up!” She squinted but backed away from the doorway. As well as suffering from hallucinations and psychotic thoughts, she was also upset by loud sounds or voices, assumed to be caused by her mother’s verbal abuse, the reports said.
“I’m telling daddy.” She whispered. Dan’s eyes widened and set the camera down slowly.
“No, no, Riva, don’t call daddy, I’m sorry, I won’t do it again…” The volume was being forced up like someone left their finger over the button until they were screaming at her until thats all she heard. She clamped her hands over her ears and bashed the heels of her hands into the sides of her head, and she screamed just to see if the crying would go away but she wasn’t even loud enough for that.
“You made them come back! I’m telling daddy, I’m telling, I’m telling!” She cried. “Daadddddyyyyy!! He wants me to take my pants offfff!” She bawled into her knees.
“Oh shit, dammit, fuck, fuck, Riva shut-! …Riva quiet please, you’ll get us both into the Pen.” His tone reached an acme and fell accordingly. Two workers crashed into their hall, each wielding a needle filled with similar colored fluid. Milky white. Everyone in Obsidian Rose has been nose to nose with Milky White before.
“Oh come the fuck on, she was lying,” He whined and flinched then the needle went into his neck. As much as he didn’t want to admit it, he was quite fragile, and a very small dose of anything would put him out. Riva, on the other hand, was the opposite. It took her full shot and the rest of Dan’s to put her to sleep.

The quality of the coffee was to be expected. The beans tasted like they were the grounds at the bottom of his grandmother’s cup as she was giving birth to his mum, they were roasted as if a little kid was carefully turning it like a chicken but got impatient and threw them in the fire, and the coffee machine itself looked like it was more rust than metal. Maybe that’s what those flakey maroon things floating at the top were. The terrible coffee didn’t perturb him from Obsidian Rose. He loved the way the suit fit over his body with the cleanest thing about his outfit, his name tag reading “Mr. Phil Lester”, reflecting the light of the flickering incandescents. In hindsight, this was the least requested job after he finished university, but if he wouldn’t, who would help the mentally unstable? Because it certainly wasn’t the crash of men sitting around a board of chess, not even playing it. They poured vials of orange liquid that they keep in their coats into the coffee and down an entire mug in one slurp. This was no place to be making enemies.
Phil adjusted his collar with a smile and confidently marched over to the men. He would meet new people here, and not just make friends with the ditzes like they said at the university. Although they were probably lovely company.
“Crappy coffee, right?” He laughed and took a seat next to the poorly groomed and obviously hungover “psychologists”. He remembers in University that it was an absolute taboo to meet your patience intoxicated or under the influence of any substance. He heard a story told by his professor once that a man who used to work at a psych ward he worked at met with a patient drunk and smelling the alcohol on his breath, the patient had an anger episode and needed to be sedated. He would just stick to his coffee. The cracked clock on the wall ticked louder than usual as it struck 2 o’clock in the afternoon.
“Well, looks like that’s my cue, fellas. I’ll see you later, and I hope your patients are doing alright.” Phil offered and collected what was left of his supplies to head to Ward F: Long Term. His professors saw him off with concern on their faces, whispering, “You know, he’s the only one who signed up for Obsidian Rose”. His patient was a man named Dan Howell, a photographer who jumped off the Nightingale Flat Complex building and fractured 80% of his bones, and when asked why he attempted suicide, he claimed that it wasn’t a suicide attempt and that he wanted to “take the one to make his career”. There was a whole list of possible diagnoses following, ranging from depression to antisocial personality disorder, which is what they diagnosed to psychopaths and sociopaths. A quick handwritten note from the warden on the front of the folder read “I think you can handle it, top-of-your-class!”. And the most recent entry, added a few hours ago, claimed that he attempted to manipulate the woman in the cell next to him named Riva Sciarra to remove her clothing for his own enjoyment. He shivered. Rape was where he drew the line.
“I hear the voices…all the time…” The ratty-looking girl who must be Riva said sensually when he arrived at his patient’s cell. She had her hair down, although it looks like it hadn’t been brushed in weeks, and if it was, it was probably using her own fingers which explained the frizziness. He just paid closer attention to the hair-care section than any straight man would, okay? But he took careful notice to remember the names of any other patients he might encounter, as not to call them “patient” or “psycho” like many of his friends from uni would.
“Riva, that bar you’re licking is probably very dirty.” Phil watched her trail her tongue up one of her bars covered in…well, something black and dusty, god knows what it really is.
“Won’t you help me, doctor? Make the voices go away, ooh…” She crunched her face and put her hands over her ears.
“Don’t mind Riva, she’s an attention whore who masturbates four times a day who just wants you to look in her direction.” A bored voice explained on his left.
“Hey now, yesterday I only did it twice!” The other argued on his right. His patient, Dan, was wearing constraints chaining him to the wall like a dog, even though he was already in a cage. It was something Phil really hated about the way people in his field treated other people. Their diseases didn’t remove their humanity.
“Well it doesn’t matter to me, because it’s you who daddy brought another toy for, and even right after you scared away your old one.” Dan scoffed and turned away from her.
“May I enter?” Phil asked, mimicking inserting a key into his lock. Without a proper response, Phil just let himself in.
“I love what you’ve done to the place.” Phil commented on the sole artifacts in Dan’s room: a worn camera and a blurry picture of what appeared to be a crosswalk with a bit of tarmac showing at the top. Surely some artistic thing he didn’t understand.
“The first Day’s Night had come, and grateful that a thing…” He began to recite, “so terrible had been endured, I told myself to sing.” He did not blink as he watched Phil’s eyes. “She said her Strings were snapt, her bow to atoms blown, and so to mend her, gave me work until another morn.” He felt like he was saying a satanic spell of curse to place on him, and he felt a bit uncomfortable as the room grew a bit chillier.
“I…” He so desperately wanted to change the topic, but still, Dan continued.
“And then…! A Day as huge as Yesterday in pairs, unrolled its horror in my face, until it blocked my eyes.” He looked like he was struggling to get up through the piles of chains on his lap, but he eventually stood and kept his eyes focused on Phil. “My Brain begun to laugh, I mumbled like a fool. And tho’ ’tis Years ago…that Day…my Brain keeps giggling still.” Phil didn’t anticipate how long the chains were. He needed to take a step back Dan was getting so close.
“And Something’s odd within…that person that I was…and this One do not feel the same. Could it be Madness…this?” The chains that held Dan to the wall were all there was to prevent him from crashing to the ground, as he leaned fully forward with his arms swung back.
“That was Emily Dickinson.” He spoke quietly. Phil swallowed and smoothed down his suit.
“Okay, Dan,” Phil stated whilst calming down, “let’s talk.”

this was supposed to be for a follower goal AGES ago but Life Happened. also it’s an announcement, because i changed my url!!  i can’t even remember how long i’ve had saamwiilson (and lbr i’ll probably go back to it at some point because it’s My Brand) but i Really Really Love Kurt so.

heeeeere we go

the sin squad™ (ilygsm! lights of my LIFE): @buchunan @camthehamz @dianaprinse @fakebuckybarnes @itsjamesbarnes @jamesbarns @sergeantcap @spocksandsandals

the ITEYAK/WBCFB authors (aka my fellow creative geniuses and all-around wonderful people whom i adore): @magnetocerebro, @canuckleheadcowgirl, @abrokencastiel, @aliitvodeson

the leonard snart defense squad (who i also lygsm): @acecaptaincold @barryandlen @coldsatom @craptaincold @frostyvib3 @iceissupergay @iriswvst @kryptxns @peteyprker @queerleonardsnart @theofficialfob

new friends! @artthetrash @avengerswitch @miss-harleenquinzel @saintseabasstian @spideysenseau @tomhardytomsofty

the other lovely people who don’t fit into those categories but are still fabulous!!! 

a-e

@acebuckyy @acesuperman @agentcampbell @akabuckybarnes @amerlcachavez @ameriwhore @anthonyfuckingstark @anthorystark @anthvnystark @aqualman @arospaceace @arrowsandnat @assbutts-and-whatnots @autisticrhys @avocadqs @blaackpanthers @blaakwidow @barnesthighs @billyteddys @blatinx @bravebucky @bravobucky @brightredbirdie @bubblegail @buckiejbarnes @buuckybaarnes @bxnres @captainbcrnes @captanandor @cassianandortho @cassiancndcr @casssianbodhi @celloluvr @classybrassyandsassy @clintbartson @corellianflyboy @cptcassianrook @cptnsbarnes @cpt-stevierogers @cptn-wdw @dancerbarnes @dances-with-snowflakes @dadbob @deadypooly @deadpoolemma @dorkyassassins @dreamerinthetardis @dudeyoureavegetarian @dummysexual @erickslehnsherr

f-j

@falconisms @falsegod @feelings-bitches @finnsreypoe @fishcustardandclintbarton @freakylikefreud @frostgiants @future-mrs-frost @futzingbishop @gessa-tray @grandmaspaghetti @gravespercy @grievingauthor @guardianchirrut @hanorganaas @harleysqvnzel @harlivy @heymurdock @hisakko @holy–watershed @hvlkbvster @iamthekingofsassgard @its-called-soccer @jackryyan @jamesbcrnes @jessiebenben @jiimkirk @jotunheim-asgard @justiceleegue @jvedi 

k-o

@karlurbvns @ladythor @last-of-the-sassguardians @last-stand-cellist @lckicfasgard @letsdosciencekids @leonardmccxy @likebritishshowers @louiestommos @magneto-was-right @mangosoldier @marlcwatney @mattsmurdass @marvel-x @midgard @miraculousfinn @myghostlywail  @natshasromanoff @naturaldaisaster @nelson-murdock-avocados @nonbinarybitty @nonxstop @ntashromanov @numendil @of-themysciraa @ohbvcks @okaynico @okaytchalla @onecrisisatatime  @originalpercival @ororokurt 

p-t

@padawanda @pamelalisley @peferparker @peggycarterly @petermaxlmoff @petersxlvers @pggycartr @piesandfalcs @pil1138 @phantomsmenace @poedameros @poetdameron @princepsrogers @prsphney @queen-jyde @queeniigoldstein @queergrindelwald @rainy-wintersoldier @renturbes @reyxfinnxpoe @runcold @saintvader @samwilson @samwylsons @sassian-cassian @scottsummrrs @sebbys @sergeantjamesbbarns @sgtjames @simptasia @softsnowyjace @space-ace @spiderroos @starksreactors @survivingonmars @syyrup @t0nyrhodey @targaryenskywalker @tchalia @tempella @templexclaire @thefvlcon @thelovelybooknerd @theongreujoy @thereddestglass @theryanreynoldspamphlet @thestubborntortoise @theviolinist228 @thewinterdaredevil @tiredengineeringqueen @tonygodstark @tonystahnk @trxmrs @tylersus

u-z

@ughchekov @umhawkguy @until-the-end-of-the-lline @username-evie @vcktuuri @victimbucky @vinterfalcons @wadevvilson @wild-hidden-doughnut @wonderwomnan @wormhole-exe 

if there’s anyone i forgot i am so sorry and don’t doubt i still adore you!

+ @simonmeadows

Phone in one hand, Layken made her way through the crowd at the fire station, eyes restlessly searching for Simon and Hayley. It was one thing to hear they were okay, an entirely different thing to see it with her own eyes. After pushing past a family with little kids, she could finally catch sight of the back wall of the fire department – and of Simon and Hayley sitting right against the wall. Her first instinct was to run over to them and pull them both in for a tight hug. But she didn’t want to upset or worry Hayley, so instead she held the urge back and instead put a warm smile on her lips once she was only a few feet away. “Hey you two.” She said, a little breathless from her search, pushing her phone into the back pocket of her jeans as she knelt down next to them, tugging her hair behind her ears. “It’s a labyrinth in here.” She mumbled, more to Simon and herself, before returning the flashing smile her daughter threw her way. “Oh, are you drawing something, Hayley? That looks so pretty.”

Contact: ruinofhumanity | Interaction: ENGAGED 

He never considered himself as a politician. He was an
Accuser, someone who upheld the law and punished
those that broke it. Yet when it came to the politics of the
bedroom, he felt that things were getting…stale. Maybe it
was just his mind working against him, but his INSTINCTS
were hardly wrong. These certainly didn’t stop him from
calling the fae to him with a jerk of his finger, his eyes
taking in her form even through the shadows.

                     "Iolai. Come here.“

newbarkmelody
co-alescence
arsenic-incendiary


little-miss-ivory

[blinks curiously]

Kufufu [chuckles]. Trainers, more trainers, and– oh, is that a little girl I know ? I thought the nursery rhymes scared the little girls away. Let me see, what was that one again. Maybe I should spill the beans, pull her hair, and snip snip.

Waving her aside, tell me the others got some strength in them or I don’t know what you’re doing, following me like that!

[ no place like home. ]

The rows of white picket fences seem to go on for days, but Cullen would know her house if he strolled down the street with his eyes closed. He doesn’t even have to hear her squeal of surprise when he approaches her lawn, or the call of his name in her little voice. But neither fail to make his chest bloom with happiness at the innocence the little girl represented to him.

He’d started coming round when he hear of her dad had gone to jail. She and her family has been subject to the community’s scrutiny masked as concerned pity. He’d heard at church that her father was in dire straits, and that her poor mother was left to care for Fox alone, now that her sister’s run off again, too. 

She’d always been a sweet little thing, smiling at him whenever they passed in the pews.  He’d known full well what that would mean for the family: being shunned like pariahs, the teasing, the gossip to come. How that mark on her family would haunt them in the community. He didn’t have the heart to let that happen.

Cullen didn’t have much to give, but he did have time, and he’d figured it was the least he could do to give what he had. So he’d taken to stopping by with a pocket full of penny candy, little licorices and cherry sweets wrapped in wax paper that he’d get at the corner store. 

Today he has little honey caramels rattling in his pocket. A little pricier than the usual candies, but he figures it’s a nice treat. “Hey there, little Fox,” he greets her amiably, leaning over the fence to offer up a big, goofy grin at the girl. “What’re you doin’ over there?”

Whew! Okay, so…

Hi, everyone! Nice to meet you!

I decided that I’d start my own personal blog outside of asktwinheroesoftazmily, my ask blog for Mother 3, since people have been asking me to make one!

So yeah, I’ll pretty much just be posting my art here, along with maybe some fanfiction ideas/drabbles, and I’ll probably reblog stuff I like once in a while, too…

Okay~! If you have any questions or just want to chat, message me or whatever, I’ll be here!

If you wanna talk about Mother 3, you can ask me about that too, but it’s probably a better idea if you head on over to my other blog about that, which can be found here.

Well, that’s all for now! 

Coffee and Ink || AU || badass-barmaid

The hustle and bustle of downtown living was in full swing for the morning rush. Cars congesting the streets, bodies packing the sidewalks as everyone was hurrying to appointments, clock-ins, and responsibility. The smell of asphalt, the cloying heat from engines and crowds, and the angry sounds of vehicles honking and tires screeching paints the scene of life in the world today.

A gurgling roar issued forth from the cappuccino machine, froth building in the mug held beneath the steam belching apparatus. With practiced grace, the man operating it pulled the beverage away in an arc, leaving a traced design on the milky foam before he flicked a small toothpick in and out of the top. Carefully, he handed the drink to his customer, flashing a grin.

“There you go, sir. And have a great day!” he chimed, watching the man walk out onto the street.

The little tea shop was located a scant few city blocks away from downtown, nestled into a block of skyward-reaching brownstones. The front window was decorated with frills etched into the smoked glass, and was accented with well-kept flowers and greenery from on of the owner’s close friends.

 Inside, the walls and floor were stained wood, supporting a solid maple bar where the proprietor tirelessly crafted warmth to soothe the hearts of any who walked in off the street. There were a half-dozen tables, all with two chairs, and all but two were empty on a good day. The smell of herbal teas and ground coffee lingered in every inch of the store, and all of the porcelain and furniture was heavily inspired by old British tea houses.

Smiling to one of his regulars, Victor snuck out from behind the bar to give a quick wipe-down, pausing to check in on an elderly woman nestled in the corner closest to the window. He chatted with her for a moment, voice raised to accommodate her hearing trouble before quickly retaking his place behind the counter. 

A bell above the front door announced the arrival of a new customer, and he flashed a happy grin to himself. Victor hung the rag in his hand over his shoulder (careful not to catch any of his many ear-piercings in the motion) and turned his silver-hued eyes to his newest patron.

“Hi there! Welcome to the Crown Vic,” his tone was rich, like hot chocolate on a cold day. “What can I get you?”