holding a cup of tea

choosingfreedom  asked:

™ bring it

Send ™ & my muse will do a poor imitation of yours. || ACCEPTING

Reaching out a hand, Mikasa grabs a napkin and quickly makes little creases in it before tucking it in slightly into the collar of her shirt. She grabs a tea cup and holds it in the peculiar way she often sees Levi hold it — slender digits delicately over the top of the porcelain cup and not on the handle. She drops to her knees and narrows her eyes at an attempt to make them look more inexpressive than usual. A frown begins to tug on her lips before she peers into the Captain’s eyes and begins to speak in a monotonous tone.

 I’m Captain Levi — a shorty that’s too full of myself and one day, I need Mikasa to take me                                 down a peg… I also like to drink hot leaf juice… 

A small smirk crosses her features in amused satisfaction of her attempt to imitate the man.  

I’ve found that the best way to write a death scene is to make it saddest when it shouldn’t be. The funeral is rushed, the realization of death isn’t spent too much time on, and the characters mourning is more of a blank space filled with hums and a need for endless nothings.

But then Person A finally gets to be alone and gets to their room and looks at the bed and realizes that it’s suddenly a lot bigger. And they’re too short to reach the blinds to close them, and that was always Person B’s job. And they’ll never fold clothes for someone else again, never need to ask someone to turn off the light, never try to stop them from snoring. And then moving away from it all, trying to forget, holding back tears in the kitchen cradling a cup of tea they realize that Person B will never drink tea with them again. And they’ll never help them reach their mug. And when they drop it to the floor, shattering it into millions of helpless individuals there is no one there to tell them not to move, not to step on the glass, not to cut themselves. That the mug has no worth because it’s worth was in the adventures of cleaning up the pieces and remembering it as it was. 

There is no one to stop them from hurting. And there is no one to drink tea.

Tragedy comes in the little things. I just wanted to remind you of that.

Modern Greek Mythology

 Hestia comforts the children of broken homes, she appears to them as a school councilor that always has cookies. They cry in her arms, and she lets them stay with her for as long as she can. She stopped calling home, stopped making strongly worded comments to the parents. All there is left are broken homes and suffering children.

 Hera sits next to her sister, holds her hand and thinks about the broken marriages that lead to broken homes. She listens to the couples yelling at each other while she walks on the streets. She holds the crying women, she listens to the hopeless men. All of the power that a goddess of marriage possesses cannot help the people who were betrayed by their closest ones.

 After a long day, Demeter sits on the ground in her garden, holds a cup of tea in hands that have dirt all over them. She wishes that more people would remember what is under all of the concrete. She feels the dying of her world, and curses those who do not care for it.

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Learning Divination
  • Day 1: wow i can't wait until i get to a point where I can figure all this out with ease! I hate having to look up symbols and meanings all the time!
  • 3 years later: *staring into a tea cup, holding three books about symbols, and googling the meanings all at the same time* literally what the fuck
Harry Potter House Aesthetics

Gryffindor: fast decisions, impulsivity, temperament. A sparkle in the eyes. The will to fight for everything you want. Ambition. Bonfires and drunk words. Dragons and knights and swords. Loud voices in a hallway. Always saying what they’re thinking. Laying outside with the sun shining on their face. Heavily breathing. Running. Wide grins. Falling in love not easily, but when they do, they’re falling hard and love deeply and fiercely. Making other people laugh so hard their sides hurt. Long car rides and singing along loudly with the windows down. Peace signs for a photo. Fierce eyeliner and red lipstick combined with colourful clothing and golden accessories.

Ravenclaw: overthinking things. Worrying. Not handing in homework because they were to busy working on their latest project. Not finishing something and already starting something new. Ink stained fingertips. Instrumental music. Posting a quote under every picture. Creativity. Self-made birthday gifts. Staring at the rain pouring down the windowpane. Sitting in the car and acting like a movie star when a sad song is playing. Earphones on the table. Holding a hot cup of tea. Art journals. Notebooks with half the words stroked. Messy hair. Bringing books to school. Hugging someone when they’re upset without saying a word. Bucket lists full of things they didn’t do yet. Bronze eyeshadow. Dark lipstick.

Hufflepuff: always trying to smile even though they might not be feeling well. Long hugs when they see their friends. The smell of freshly baked cakes and muffins. Sandcastles. Trusting. Understanding. Running home under an umbrella when it’s raining but still smiling. Holding hands with your best friend in public. Laughs in the middle of the night on a sleepover. Daisy chains in your hair. Always sending a good night message to the people they love. Wool socks. Rubber boots. Making compliments. Decorating notebooks with stickers. Marshmallows. Rosé and orange lipstick.

Slytherin: mysterious, reserved. Competitive. Silent whispers in the hallway. Black coffee. Planning out things. Always afraid they’re not who they’re supposed to be. High expectations for themselves. Clean rooms. Emo lyrics on exercise book papers. City lights. Watching the stars appear with a glass of red wine. Smirks, raising one eyebrow. Being careful not to leave marks in the books they read. Moonlight through a window. Sharp retorts. The smell of cologne and brand new books. Dark chocolate. Black and white photography. Mint leaves in a cup of hot tea. Keeping a diary. Winged eyeliner and silver bracelets and necklaces.

#awkward #pining #ministry

Prompts: @tera2
Author: @queenofthyme

Harry read the article again. He didn’t know why he put himself through it. Rita Skeeter’s outlandish claims never failed to make him angry. And he’d already forced The Daily Prophet to run a redaction days ago. 

No, he did know, actually. It was the accompanying image. The one with Draco Malfoy staring right into the camera, unblinking, a challenge in his eyes. It was familiar but at the same time nothing Harry had ever seen before (except during his many rereads of this particular paper). Malfoy had aged. Matured obviously since he was now a Ministry official. There was just something about his face. The same but different. Harry was drawn to it.

“Auror Potter." 

Harry looked up to find that same face at his doorway, focusing a steely gaze on Harry. He was so shocked he forgot he was holding a cup of tea. It dropped to his desk with an embarrassing clatter, spilling its contents, all over Malfoy’s inked face.  

The Malfoy at Harry’s office door – the real one – didn’t move. His eyes flickered down to Harry’s desk, watching the spill unfold passively.

Harry jumped to his feet and quickly bundled up the wet paper, throwing it face down into a waste basket at his feet. He wasn’t sure if he’d been fast enough.

He looked back up to Malfoy, searching for any sign he might have seen. Nothing. But that hardly meant much. Harry suspected Malfoy’s emotions didn’t play so obviously on his face anymore. He nodded in what he hoped was a professional courteous manner. "Dralfoy.”

Harry froze, the awful blunder hitting his ears just as it came out of his mouth. He could feel himself blushing, his palms getting clammy, his knees weak. Was simply Malfoy’s presence enough to make him come undone these days?

And just when he thought things couldn’t get worse, Harry, not quite sure how much longer he’d be able to stand for, slumped back into his seat - or at least attempted to – but misjudged the position and ended up plummeting to the floor instead.

The only saving grace – if there was any positive to the situation at all – was that at least on the floor, behind his desk, he was hidden from sight. He wondered if he crawled under his desk and stayed there, if Malfoy would get the idea and leave. Harry was seriously considering the option when Malfoy came into view again, stepping around the desk to loom over Harry.

He offered a hand. Harry gladly took it, forgetting for a moment the current predicament of said hands. And sure enough, after Malfoy helped Harry to his feet, he quickly let go and wiped his hand on his trousers.

Harry wanted to close his eyes and crawl up into a ball in the corner of the room. He never wanted to look Malfoy in the eye again. In less than a minute, he had made himself look like a complete fool. And all it took was for Malfoy to walk in the bloody room.

Malfoy cleared his throat. “I just came by to say hello. I thought it was polite given we work in the same building now. Which, of course, you already know.” His eyes darted to the waste basket. Shit.

“I had The Daily Prophet write a redaction,” Harry blurted out, as if that would help. Although at least he managed to get the words right this time.

“That was you? I should have guessed. You never miss an opportunity to save my skin.” Malfoy’s lips quirked upward for the smallest moment before his composure returned. “Well, it was nice seeing how the other side lives. I suppose I must get back to it.”

“Right,” Harry managed to nod. “I’ll get the door for you.”

They both stared at the open door.

Having already committed to the pointless task, Harry hurried forward and tripped over his own feet, falling right into Malfoy’s waiting – his reflexes were still as fast as they were in Quidditch – arms. Could Harry be more embarrassing?

Malfoy righted Harry but kept a firm grip on him – perhaps he thought Harry might slump to the floor otherwise, which was probably an accurate assumption at this stage.

There was amusement in Malfoy’s face now, a lightness in his eyes. “Are you always this clumsy, Potter, or am I special?”

“You’re special,” Harry answered quickly as he didn’t want Malfoy to think this was how all his mornings went. Although, after he realised what he’d said, he quickly tried to take it back: “No, I mean, wait, I mean, that’s not what I  -“

Malfoy took a step back, dropping his arms. “No need to be so flustered, Potter,” he interrupted. “I keep all the newspapers with your face on them too.”

Harry’s brain short-circuited. He must have stood there blinking at Malfoy for a solid five seconds before he was able to ask: “All of them?”

“Thirty-four and counting.” Malfoy winked. “You know, Potter, if you were to take me out to dinner, I’m sure the outing might be scandalous enough to make the front page. We could add to both our collections.”

“If I – you – dinner?” Harry repeated, a little discombobulated.

“Why, Potter,” Malfoy said, a cheeky smile appearing on his face, “I thought you’d never ask. I’d love to.”

Harry blinked – it was the only action he was capable of.

Malfoy laughed lightly when Harry didn’t reply. He made to exit, but paused briefly to call out over his shoulder: “I finish at six.”

Only when Malfoy was out of view did Harry let his knees give in.

more like this l @queenofthyme

things the sister signs remind me of - romantic version

♡ aries & libra: pink chocolate, cherry earrings, fiery passionate lovers, rose gardens, red wine stained lips, pink silk robes, tuscany in the summer, neck kisses, being called baby, high school sweethearts, writing poetry for your lover, a-line mini skirts paired with knee-high boots, rose water, learning french, 60s girl groups, sickly sweet perfume

♡ taurus & scorpio: little parisian cafés, good girls and bad boys, dark plum lipstick and black lace lingerie, honeymoons, caramel coffee, partners in crime, wine tasting in florence, undying love, handsome men in suits, purple velvet, dancing in the moonlight, nancy sinatra songs, ribbons in your hair, candle light, cashmere sweaters, taking baths together, rose bouquets

♡ gemini & sagittarius: sea air, baby blue silk dresses, dancing around your apartment in your underwear with your lover, moonlit eyes, dreaming of the 70s, parisian balconies, piles of unread books everywhere, swimming in the ocean at night, exploring new places together, old records, counting stars, eating exotic fruit on the beach, sunkissed skin, making each other come alive

♡ cancer & capricorn: film noir, lavender fields in the south of france, classic literature, warm rain, waking up next to the love of your life, glossy manicures, vintage tea cups, 50s hairstyles, holding hands, keeping photos of loved ones in your wallet, falling asleep in their arms and feeling safe, looking at old photographs together, being protective of each other, jasmine tea

♡ leo & aquarius: red patent mini skirts, the artist and the muse, past life lovers, cherry flavored lip gloss, being each others biggest fan and supporter, powerful women in high heels, lipstick kisses on envelopes, making art in your underwear, being proud of your partner, golden heart shaped hoops, first kisses, breaking rules together as a hobby, faux fur coats

♡ virgo & pisces: first loves, white cotton sundresses, lullabies, milk and honey, being soft-spoken, buttercream blondes, wrists that always smell like roses, quiet sunday mornings, baby swans, a love that feels like coming home, claude debussy’s clair de lune, tender touches, dreaming of finally meeting your soulmate, soft tunes, goodbye kisses, satin sheets

he tells him in the thick of the sooty-purple night with his hand so soft on the curve of his cheek: 

“i tried to kill myself, before.” 

and isak forgets how to leave his breath out.

forgets to take another in.

lifts his eyes to even’s and looks

he thinks about how even smiles with his whole body in the morning while he picks chocolate-chips out of his croissant, and how he pours isak’s cup of tea before his own. 

how he holds his sketchbook at an angle on the bed of his knees, and curls his fingers round the pencil gripped in his hand.. 

how he wraps woolly scarves so gentle around isak’s neck and ties it deftly before dusting a kiss to the tip of his nose. 

even is so soft, so gentle, so kind.

and isak wonders- he wonders, through the tears clustering between his eyelashes. he wonders– he can’t. 

“i love you,” he whispers, the words a huff of his shoulders, and he’s curling closer to him, dragging even tighter into his body with his hands in fists in his shirt. needs him closer, needs him real, needs him right there in his arms. and the words are shivering out of him, terrified to the core - of this possibility, of this wide-open gaping chasm where even might not have existed any longer, “i love you, you can’t, i love you, i love you so much, even, no-”

even lets isak hold him. 

and he closes his eyes. 

Old Wives’ Tales

Bathilda Bagshot leads Albus into her library. It is stuffy in the room, and bits of dust fly around in the afternoon light that is seeping through the thick curtains. 

“My boy, Albus Dumbledore is here to see you,” Bathilda calls before leaving the two alone.

Albus glances around the library in an effort to keep clear his head before responding. It’s a beautiful room, despite the dust and darkness, filled to the brim with books and knowledge. A stark contrast to the small stack of dated literature on a shelf in his own house…

Albus’s gaze finally slides back to Gellert at this, and he can’t manage to hide his mild surprise or amusement quite quick enough.

Albus: “The Tale of the Three Brothers”?

Keep reading

“You should date a girl who reads.
Date a girl who reads. Date a girl who spends her money on books instead of clothes, who has problems with closet space because she has too many books. Date a girl who has a list of books she wants to read, who has had a library card since she was twelve.

Find a girl who reads. You’ll know that she does because she will always have an unread book in her bag. She’s the one lovingly looking over the shelves in the bookstore, the one who quietly cries out when she has found the book she wants. You see that weird chick sniffing the pages of an old book in a secondhand book shop? That’s the reader. They can never resist smelling the pages, especially when they are yellow and worn.

She’s the girl reading while waiting in that coffee shop down the street. If you take a peek at her mug, the non-dairy creamer is floating on top because she’s kind of engrossed already. Lost in a world of the author’s making. Sit down. She might give you a glare, as most girls who read do not like to be interrupted. Ask her if she likes the book.

Buy her another cup of coffee.

Let her know what you really think of Murakami. See if she got through the first chapter of Fellowship. Understand that if she says she understood James Joyce’s Ulysses she’s just saying that to sound intelligent. Ask her if she loves Alice or she would like to be Alice.

It’s easy to date a girl who reads. Give her books for her birthday, for Christmas, for anniversaries. Give her the gift of words, in poetry and in song. Give her Neruda, Pound, Sexton, Cummings. Let her know that you understand that words are love. Understand that she knows the difference between books and reality but by god, she’s going to try to make her life a little like her favorite book. It will never be your fault if she does.

She has to give it a shot somehow.

Lie to her. If she understands syntax, she will understand your need to lie. Behind words are other things: motivation, value, nuance, dialogue. It will not be the end of the world.

Fail her. Because a girl who reads knows that failure always leads up to the climax. Because girls who read understand that all things must come to end, but that you can always write a sequel. That you can begin again and again and still be the hero. That life is meant to have a villain or two.

Why be frightened of everything that you are not? Girls who read understand that people, like characters, develop. Except in the Twilight series.

If you find a girl who reads, keep her close. When you find her up at 2 AM clutching a book to her chest and weeping, make her a cup of tea and hold her. You may lose her for a couple of hours but she will always come back to you. She’ll talk as if the characters in the book are real, because for a while, they always are.

You will propose on a hot air balloon. Or during a rock concert. Or very casually next time she’s sick. Over Skype.

You will smile so hard you will wonder why your heart hasn’t burst and bled out all over your chest yet. You will write the story of your lives, have kids with strange names and even stranger tastes. She will introduce your children to the Cat in the Hat and Aslan, maybe in the same day. You will walk the winters of your old age together and she will recite Keats under her breath while you shake the snow off your boots.

Date a girl who reads because you deserve it. You deserve a girl who can give you the most colorful life imaginable. If you can only give her monotony, and stale hours and half-baked proposals, then you’re better off alone. If you want the world and the worlds beyond it, date a girl who reads.

Or better yet, date a girl who writes.”

—  Rosemarie Urquico
You should date a girl who reads. Date a girl who reads. Date a girl who spends her money on books instead of clothes, who has problems with closet space because she has too many books. Date a girl who has a list of books she wants to read, who has had a library card since she was twelve. Find a girl who reads. You’ll know that she does because she will always have an unread book in her bag. She’s the one lovingly looking over the shelves in the bookstore, the one who quietly cries out when she has found the book she wants. You see that weird chick sniffing the pages of an old book in a secondhand book shop? That’s the reader. They can never resist smelling the pages, especially when they are yellow and worn. She’s the girl reading while waiting in that coffee shop down the street. If you take a peek at her mug, the non-dairy creamer is floating on top because she’s kind of engrossed already. Lost in a world of the author’s making. Sit down. She might give you a glare, as most girls who read do not like to be interrupted. Ask her if she likes the book. Buy her another cup of coffee. Let her know what you really think of Murakami. See if she got through the first chapter of Fellowship. Understand that if she says she understood James Joyce’s Ulysses she’s just saying that to sound intelligent. Ask her if she loves Alice or she would like to be Alice. It’s easy to date a girl who reads. Give her books for her birthday, for Christmas, for anniversaries. Give her the gift of words, in poetry and in song. Give her Neruda, Pound, Sexton, Cummings. Let her know that you understand that words are love. Understand that she knows the difference between books and reality but by god, she’s going to try to make her life a little like her favorite book. It will never be your fault if she does. She has to give it a shot somehow. Lie to her. If she understands syntax, she will understand your need to lie. Behind words are other things: motivation, value, nuance, dialogue. It will not be the end of the world. Fail her. Because a girl who reads knows that failure always leads up to the climax. Because girls who read understand that all things must come to end, but that you can always write a sequel. That you can begin again and again and still be the hero. That life is meant to have a villain or two. Why be frightened of everything that you are not? Girls who read understand that people, like characters, develop. Except in the Twilight series. If you find a girl who reads, keep her close. When you find her up at 2 AM clutching a book to her chest and weeping, make her a cup of tea and hold her. You may lose her for a couple of hours but she will always come back to you. She’ll talk as if the characters in the book are real, because for a while, they always are. You will propose on a hot air balloon. Or during a rock concert. Or very casually next time she’s sick. Over Skype. You will smile so hard you will wonder why your heart hasn’t burst and bled out all over your chest yet. You will write the story of your lives, have kids with strange names and even stranger tastes. She will introduce your children to the Cat in the Hat and Aslan, maybe in the same day. You will walk the winters of your old age together and she will recite Keats under her breath while you shake the snow off your boots. Date a girl who reads because you deserve it. You deserve a girl who can give you the most colorful life imaginable. If you can only give her monotony, and stale hours and half-baked proposals, then you’re better off alone. If you want the world and the worlds beyond it, date a girl who reads. Or better yet, date a girl who writes.

Rosemarie Urquico

autumn things to be excited about

  • knitted scarves in copper and navy and forest green, soft and warm and big enough for you to bury your nose in
  • crisp leaves tumbling on the biting wind, all the best colours- burgundy, wine, gold, rose, yellow
  • holding cups of tea with cold fingers n wrapping ur hands properly round to keep warm
  • h a l l o w e e n and magic in the air; not christmas magic, not yet, but october magic - spells and whispers and black cats on the garden path
  • bonfire night and baked potatos with melting butter, cooked in the embers and eaten straight out of tin foil
  • cable knit sweaters and patterned sweaters and soft sweaters and
  • rereading wuthering heights and jane eyre and daydreaming abt long walks on the moors and the fells
  • rain rain rain, rain in puddles and rain at the window and rain whilst you fall asleep
  • big black umbrellas
  • new boots
  • dark dark night skies like velvet with the canopy of clouds all blown away and stars twinkling like frost 
  • the smell of cinnamon, mulled wine, hot chocolate, cardamom, oranges
  • new leatherbound stationary, all blank pages and pens full of ink
  • harry potter
  • cobbled streets lamplit and glowing under mist and early evening darkness, 5 o’clock and churchbells tolling
  • that crisp new cold fresh bright september air, bright and clean like copper coins, breathing it in in a rush and feeling the cold
It is a kind of love, is it not?
How the cup holds the tea,
How the chair stands sturdy and foursquare,
How the floor receives the bottoms of shoes
Or toes. How soles of feet know
Where they’re supposed to be.
I’ve been thinking about the patience
Of ordinary things, how clothes
Wait respectfully in closets
And soap dries quietly in the dish,
And towels drink the wet
From the skin of the back.
And the lovely repetition of stairs.
And what is more generous than a window?
—  Pat Schneider, The Patience of Ordinary Things
3

PICKLE: this is getting outta control! what am i supposed to do at work if i keep sprouting leaves!!

SONG: well, maybe if you didn’t put everything you touch into your mouth then you wouldn’t be in this mess!

PICKLE: you weren’t complaining about my mouth last night, heh heh~

SONG: …where did i go so wrong in my life to end up in this moment of time?

Write me another story

Write me a world where Love is to Love, not blood and quarreling and bitterness

Write me a world where a Godfather is worth more than an aunt who neither cares nor loves

Write a world with justice

Write me a world where someone stopped to listen to Sirius Black.

Write us a world where Mad-eye stood up for Sirius’ chance to defend himself because “it doesn’t matter how it looks, dammit, vigilance goes both ways, you watch your back against the people you fight with but you watch their backs too” where Minerva trusted her gut “I don’t know, Albus, remember those boys…” where Dumbledore used his political clout and paid attention and made a difference

Write me a world where there was time in the rejoicing of the aftermath of Voldemort’s defeat to stop and, not recoiling in horror from betrayal and murder and a decimated corpse, locking it up and throwing away the key, to take it and examine it and think for a second before destroying another life

Write me a world where a young man, terrified and heartbroken and completely lost, is handed a new world and a tiny human life as he walks out of Ministry security

Write me a world where a one-year-old laughs for the first time in a week when he sees his godfather, who comes for dinner every thursday night and throws him highest in the air - even higher than daddy - where is daddy - begins to whimper then laughs again when Sirius picks him out of Minerva’s arms

Write me a Deep Magic written into a stronger, stranger, older bond than DNA, a Dumbledore who sits his old pupil down in his office (with Snape - eyes red and face haggard - and Minerva and Flitwick standing behind) and sits down between them on the desk this child who wraps one tiny chubby hand around one of each of their fingers and grips tight; A Dumbledore who explains as best he can to an exhausted starving 21-year-old “Sirius, Harry’s mother gave her life for son… you are his Godfather and the one they both loved the most, will you love Harry like they did, will you protect him? Because I believe -” And a Sirius Black who cannot shut up (Sirius Black never could shut up), who blurts “YES yes of course please Dumbledore let me look after him, he’s mine now, its my job - I’m sorry I should have - my fault, it’s my (Minerva steps forward and lifts a hand towards his shoulder - he cannot stop saying my fault since it happened) - and, when Harry starts to whine again at the distress in his voice - “dear Merlin he’s soaking why has no-one changed him yet, I’m sorry, lil’ man -” (and Minerva lets the hand fall).

Write me a new visitor at the Weasleys’ that night, because “really, Sirius, you can’t keep him there now the place is freezing and trust me dearie I’ve got seven already one more bottle won’t make a difference now go and have a shower and NO I won’t hear of it you are STAYING THE NIGHT now look Bill dear, yes, he’s Harry, you’re right, no, a bit younger than Ron, I think, that’s right Sirius dear isn’t it, he’s…” but Sirius has already gone for a shower and the hot water rushes down his back like pure relief that finally, finally, here’s something like normality and finally, finally, he lets himself cry for his best friends, for his brother, for one more orphan in the world.

Write me a broken man with red eyes and a child who is only happy because he doesn’t understand, but a boiled egg is the best thing either of them could have possibly seen on that night.

Write me a Remus who appears in the middle of the chaos which is egg-and-soldiers-night at the Weasleys’ with a bang that sends the children shrieking and grabs his friend and hugs him tight “damn you damnyoudamnyoutohell Black don’t you ever ever do that to me again where’s Harry” and they both break down again and Molly scolds him for swearing and makes them a cup of tea and Arthur chases the children up to bed and they all sit down in the living room and take stock of this new world and try to tell themselves that now the children will grow up safe, that this is what Prongs and Lily were fighting for.

Write me a Minerva who goes to the Potters’ - and a Hagrid who absolutely insists on ‘helping her’ - and extracts what she can from the rubble and grim-facedly leaved the rest with the wizards who’ve come to begin the clearout and they bring Harry’s cot and blanket (miraculously, somehow, only just a little singed) to the Weasleys’ that very night. Write me a Sirius Black who holds a cup of tea (he never somehow found it in himself to tell Molly he really doesn’t care for tea) tight between his hands and begins to realise slowly (and it will be a slow, slow realisation, but eventually he will get there) that he’s not alone. Write me a Sirius who is exhausted and lost and angry and scared and sad and a room a little too full up of friends and family, and write me hope.

Write me a Harry who smiles a big grin full of exactly three teeth at Kreacher and a Sirius who swallows hard and resolves that this joyful little person won’t grow up in a house full of hate like he did. Write me a master and house-elf who gradually gradually learn to tolerate each other, over many years and with many a bitten-back word.

Write me a Remus who comes over most nights and spends periods living with his friend and their boy, who helps, with Kreacher a bit (he knows what it’s like to be ignored and marginalized and shunned and if Kreacher knew what Remus really was who knows what he’d say, but there’s something between them nonetheless), with Harry more (here, Padfoot, let me read to him - oh Moony thank Merlin I swear one more time through ‘Percy and his bloody purple wand’ and I’ll” - “ok, shh, give him here, come on Harry-my-lad…” ) and with Sirius a lot. Write me friends who help each other heal, and get used to Muggles confusing them for a couple with a son, and the varied reactions and bizarre questions that entails, and when Remus’ mother finally quietly passes away, he moves in for real. Write me a Remus who insists that he cannot take his friend’s charity, and even with all James’ money in trust for Harry and for Sirius as his guardian and all the Black family fortune going to waste will not be convinced until Sirius reaches out and takes his friend’s hand in both of his and says Remus I need you here - and Remus scoffed because Sirius was always such a drama queen and it’s been long enough now that they can joke about this - but at the same time, it’s not quite a joke, and Remus doesn’t suggest leaving after that.

Write me every Sunday lunch at the Weasleys and Harry round to be babysat whenever Sirius has something to take care of or needs time to himself, and Molly trying to teach Sirius how to change a nappy and realising it’s completely unnecessary because who really thinks Lily Potter would have had Sirius hanging about in her house twice a week hyping up her boy and not making himself useful in the slightest, of course he’d have learnt how to change a nappy.

Write me a Minerva who comes by frequently and has Harry to tea at Hogwarts every so often when he gets a bit older, for James and Lily’s sake and to check that young Black isn’t raising too much of a ragamuffin - and for the most part, she and Molly and Remus between them manage a healthy level of manners in a fairly ordinary 6,8,11-year-old boy.

Write me a Harry and Ron who grow up together, an extra slim (but never skinny) dark-haired, pale (but never unhealthily so) brother to an unruly pack of seven, an overgrown garden to race toy brooms in, gnomes to be bitten by and a mother to scold all her children indiscriminately.

Write me a Sirius who comes to collect his godson in time to stay for tea and Molly who says “look there now Sirius!” and Sirius looks out and sees his boy - easy to spot out of among the five gingers fighting over a broom - break away from the group and jump and swing the old cleansweep under him before he hits the ground and zoom away around the treetops laughing “no hands Fred you gnome-end-sucker!” and Sirius feels something sharp clench in his heart because he looks so like James (and James is never ever going to do that stupid move ever again) so it’s grief, fresh as the first month, but also he is six, how can he already do that jump thing? so it’s also pride and, scariest of all he is six, that language - and he finds there are tears streaming down his cheeks and he can’t speak too well and Molly just sits him down and gives another of her interminable cups of tea (he doesn’t mind them so much now) and pats him on the shoulder, and he glances up and sees that there are tears in the corners of her eyes, too. But he drinks the tea and it passes and by the time the children come in complaining about something and clamouring for cake there’s no sign of anything amiss.

Write me a Harry who grows up with a godfather who makes mistakes, who cries and shakes some nights with flashbacks that overtake him, who never had good parents of his own and isn’t too sure what they look like exactly, but damned if he won’t do all that he can for his friend’s boy - and not even his friends’ boy, either, his boy, his Harry, because really, in the end, what is a godson but a son by another name, and what is blood but love? Write me a Harry who grew up with stories of his parents from anyone who would tell them, pictures around the house (Sirius wonders whether to black Peter out of them, but this house has had enough blacked-out faces, and that was the best part of his life, after all) and no real family, but plenty enough friends to be getting on with.

Write me parties at Christmas with the old Order and their children because if there’s one season Sirius will make an effort for its Christmas and Grimmuld Place is the best venue for things like this. Write me a house too big for just two lads, but more often than not it’s three, (eventually permanently three) and sometimes more, (Hagrid fills up a room himself, every so often in the holidays) and Sirius is never ever used to how much noise and life one 9-year-old boy can instill in the gloomiest of houses, and surely he never had this much energy? (On reflection, yes, he did, definitely, probably more).

Write me a Dumbledore who watches and waits and prays - very un-wizardly habit, that, but he always had his eccentricities - and hopes. He hopes he is right and he hopes against hope that it will never be necessary to test his theories and Voldemort will never return and he hopes that nothing will change. He hopes that he was right to make the choices he did. But when Harry arrives at Hogwarts at the age of 11, healthy and happy and loved, with someone to hug him goodbye at the station and a friend to sit with on the carriage already and a “yes!” fistpump when the hat shouts “GRYFFINDOR!” which - though he will never ever know it, who is to tell him? - is exactly the same gesture his father made when he received the same sorting twenty years ago - when he sits down with a little bit of overawed wonder in the green eyes, which is exactly how his mother looked, and waves to Hagrid, and turns to speak to the bushy-brown-haired girl next to him because she looks even more scared than he feels and Remus told him he should look for someone who looks like that and say hello, and starts to tell her what he plans to write home to his godfather about, and what will she write to her parents, he knows they’ll be so excited to hear about all of this I mean LOOK at it, look at Hogwarts, isn’t this GREAT? (and the very tense Muggle-born girl is relaxed enough to listen to someone else for the first time since Neville introduced himself on the train) - Dumbledore smiles. He won’t know how his choices pan out, and he won’t know what the future holds - but right now (and Minerva, watching the Sorting but with a smile to spare for her young Harry James, so grown up, agrees) it seems like the best that could have been.

How to make candles.

Making candles is a lot easier than you might think! Here are instructions on how to make your own all natural, safe, and magickal candles.

Supplies:

Anything to hold your candles in. (Moulds, tea cups, sea shells, mason jars…)
Wicks or Wood Wicks
Soy Wax  
Dye Chips
Any herbs of your choice (Recommended: Any mints, lavender, sage, or small cuttings of fruit skins.)
Essential oil(s)

Make sure that your essential oils and the herbs you use smell similarly.

Instructions:

First you will need to gather all of your ingredients and lay them out neatly.

Take your candle holders and fill them with soy wax and as many colour tablets as you desire. The more you add, the darker your candles will be.

Put them in the mircowave (as long as they are not metal - if your holders are metal, melt the wax in a pot over boiling water double broiler style) and melt everything together. You will need to add more and more wax as you go along because melted soy wax yields much less than the flakes. Stir until mixed.

Add your herbs/fruit peel pieces and your oils. Mix again.

Add your essential oils, as much as you feel is necessary. Mix again.

Drop in your wick, making sure to place it in the centre of your holder. You can balance it and hold it in place as the wax hardens by laying a butter knife over the top of your candle holder and balancing the wick against it. (If it is a bit off centre, though, no one will be able to tell.)

(Optional) You can line up whole herbs against the edges of the mould and they will dry along the edges and make lovely decorations.

Let the wax harden. 

Trim the wick.

Ta da! Your candles are ready! Make sure to make them with good intentions and feel free to carve sigils into the top.


The Wiccan’s Glossary

Arrangements at the Worst Time (John Laurens x Reader)

Originally posted by gravitywon

Pairing: John Laurens x Reader

(Collab with @midnightokieriete)

Requested?: ‘Can you do a Laurens x Reader where he’s sad over Ham courting Eliza but then he meets reader? Thank you!! 🌚🌚🌚🌚🌚🌚’

Prompt: John is arranged to marry some woman and he’s scorned over Alexander courting Eliza.

Words: 10,000+

Warnings: Arranged marriage, Fluff, Slavery, Wedding, Historical Inaccuracies

Masterlist / Tay’s Masterlist

~~~

“Wait, what?”

“I’m courting Elizabeth Schuyler, Laurens. Do you remember her? We met at the-”

“Winter’s Ball. Yes, I recall.” John’s voice was tight, his tightened fists hidden in his coat pockets. Alexander grinned happily, unaware of his friend’s abnormal behavior.

“I’ve come to fancy her, and through our letters, she agreed to court me. We’ve been together for a few weeks now.”

“Ah, yes. Congratulations.” John replied curtly. Alexander pulled John into a hug, finally noticing his stiff posture. John did not offer a hug back, just a small smile. “I’m happy for you, Hamilton.”

Alexander’s smile wavered, scanning Laurens’ face. “Are you okay, John? You seem…peculiar.” John quickly realized his demeanor, and cleared his throat, faking a huge smile for his friend.

“No, no! Please, Alexander, I am fine. Let’s go and tell the others!” John placed his hand on the small of Alexander’s back, and they began walking.

John felt his heart shatter the moment he heard that his close friend was courting someone. He wanted to hide from the world and cry his eyes out. Sadly, John had fallen in love with Alexander. It was very taboo for a man to love another man but John could not lie to himself about his feelings. It wasn’t lusting. It wasn’t admiration. It wasn’t infatuation. It was love. But, John could not be with Alexander and love him publicly, as much as he wanted to. He must find a woman and marry her, just like Alexander and all the other men in the world. John must follow society’s rules or else he will find himself outcasted or, even, dead.

So, he kept all of his feelings to himself.

John and Alexander made it to the tent, Alexander excitedly telling his friends about Eliza. Laurens stood in the corner, smiling whenever he was obligated to and laughing when it was needed. As he watched, another fellow soldier came into the room, giving him a letter. He glanced over the recipient’s name and sighed.

It was his father.

He told his friends that he would be back, and walked out the tent to a lone tree that rested in the middle of the open field. He sat under the shade of the plant and began reading the letter.

Lieutenant Colonel John Laurens

Your mother and I have seldom received letters from you. It worries her that you do not update us on your predicament, although I understand why you cannot. I am on leave from my post, and your mother has special news for you.

We have found a suitable maiden for you to marry. Since you are unable to court due to your lack of caring, we have decided to find you one ourselves. She is an acceptable young woman, with interests in the arts and sciences. Your mother thought you would appreciate that.

Nevertheless, send me a letter back promptly so that we may arrange a meeting with her and her family.

Delegate of the Continental Congress

Henry Laurens

John tightened his grip on the paper, anger fuming from him. He marched back to the tent, his temper not lowering. Why did his father have to be such a-

“John? John are you alright?” Lafayette asked, looking over at his freckled-faced friend. John shook his head. Everything that happened today was getting to him, and this was the last straw.

“My father has arranged for me to meet a woman. He wants us to marry.” He growled, throwing the letter onto the ground. Mulligan stood up and grabbed the letter. He scanned it over quickly, then looked up.

“I’m sure he means well,” Mulligan said, trying to cheer up his friend. John shook his head, grabbing his coat off of Lafayette’s cot.

“When does he ever mean well?” John grumbled, fixing his outfit. Hamilton looked at him with concern, his smile finally gone from his face. John knew he was ruining the moment for his best friend, but he was just tired of everything not going his way.

First, the man John is in love with courts a woman he barely knows.

Then, his father comes up with this idiotic idea for him to marry someone he doesn’t even have the name of.

It’s going to be a long war.

Keep reading

Revelatory Tea - Edible Spellcraft

Revelation comes from the Latin word revelare and means to lay bare. It is a drawing back of the curtain and opening the mind to truths about what it means to be human in the world. As humans, we often seek revelations about how we should be in the world. Whether we are seeking meaning and structure in our lives or just what we should do in the next few hours, we seek patterns that reveal truths. This revelatory tea, made from hibiscus and cinnamon, can elevate your thoughts and help you see your way more clearly.

You Will Need

  1. Hibiscus (dried)
  2. Cinnamon (a crushed nib off a cinnamon stick)
  3. Tea cup and saucer
  4. Pen and paper

Preparation
If it is part of your practice, cast a circle. As you sit with your ingredients before you, centre yourself. Ground yourself in the present moment by focusing on your breath, the sensations of your body, and your connection to the earth.  

Casting
Begin by placing a pinch of hibiscus and a smidge of cinnamon in the bottom of a tea cup. Next, set a kettle to boil. When the water has reached a low boil pour the water over the hibiscus and cinnamon and allow it to steep for no less than ten minutes and no more than fifteen.

While waiting for the hibiscus tea to steep, write your question, concern, or dilemma down. You may wish to make notes underneath your question of any key facts, people, or dates that will impact your choices. Then consider the different angles and approaches you could take; what are the potential consequences and what could you gain? Contemplate your question and propose multiple solutions. You may find your mind wanders during this process and that is okay; when you notice your attention has shifted gently draw it back.

After the tea has steeped, hold the cup before you and recite the following three times with intent:

Consider my situation
Give to me a revelation

Drink the tea, allowing your thoughts to settle like the leaves in the cup. Leave a very small amount of liquid in the cup. Then take the cup by the handle in your left hand and give it three swift circles. Be sure to move it in a deocil (sunwise, clockwise) direction. You will see the leaves shift and cling to the cup. Next, invert the cup over the saucer and allow the remaining tea water to run out. Then set the cup before you and look at leaves, opening your mind and imagination to what you see. Look for patterns and images. Perhaps, you see a bell, a bird, a letter, or a number. Record on your paper the images you see and write down what they might represent and how it applies to your situation.

After you have considered these things, set the paper aside and allow the revelation to steep in you like the herb steeped in the water. When the time is right your mind will settle on a way forward and you will be able to proceed.

Example

Potential Images

  • Bell: warning, anticipated news
  • Wand: creative action
  • Bird: forward movement (when flying) or luck (when roosting)
  • Heart: listen to your emotions and relationships
  • Moon: seek wisdom, draw on your strength
  • Serpent: deception, flattery
  • Triangle: change

Notes
Hibiscus: associated with Venus and the feminine; boosts clairvoyance and psychic energy
Cinnamon: associated with Sol, fire, and the masculine; adds sanctification and protection
Reading Tea Leaves: practised in many cultures throughout the world, the symbols can be subjective and should be interpreted through your intuition.