Sizzy prompt: Simon takes Isabelle to the carnival as a first date. Simon finds out that Izzy is good at playing games so he challenges her. Izzy wins every time and gets Simon cute little stuffed animals as a reward for winning. When they get back to the Institute, every one asks them how their date went and think that Simon won Izzy the stuffed animals but they find out that Izzy won them for Simon.
For all the times Isabelle has bought a new box of Crayola 64 just so she can open up the box and stare down at the perfect rows of rainbow and all their potential, she thinks walking through a carnival is the closest human experience she’ll have to living in a crayon box. Candy Apple Red, Popcorn Yellow, Cotton Candy Pink, Rainbow Ferris Wheel Kissing Swirly Blue Sky. No matter how much grease she has to smear off her face at the end of the night, or how many dollars disappear from her wallet, there’s always the color trip she gets to go on when she buys a ticket to the carnival. She calls that worth it.
Simon’s mentality is about the same. When he was a kid and came here, his family would always complain. Complain about the heat, about how expensive everything was, about the bathrooms being gross. At some point, he realized that complaining bores him. He loves everything about the carnival. The deep fried foods, the lights, the ice cream cones, the way he can look up in any direction and see a framed picture – ferris wheel against sky, Fun Slide against sky, bundle of balloons against sky. Here, nothing matters. Hair’s a mess because the wind ruined it on the bigger rides? No big deal. Spilled your lemonade all over your clothes? Shucks, who cares. Smell like goats and sweat and chicken poop? Welcome to the club. Carnivals are for letting go and having fun, and that’s it.
For years, this place has been something special to each of them, but this year it’s even better, because – amid grease laden dust and carnies hollering, “Everyone gets a prize!”, between cotton candy stands and carousels and the canopy of prize trinkets and ferris wheel glow – they’re together. And they find the pulse of their love. In the loudest, most distracting place, that pulse still shines brightest and sings above the competing sounds.
After devouring funnel cakes and riding the Raptor, the Vortex, and the Scrambler, Simon tosses an arm around Izzy’s shoulders and points at the wide avenue of game booths that line the midway. “Wanna play something?”
Isabelle sips from her lemonade and follows his gaze, then smiles. “Of course,” she says enthusiastically.
One of the carnies notices Simon, and points back at him. “C’mon! C’mon!” He shouts. “Step right up, brother! Win a prize for your girl!” He gestures wildly to the awnings of giant stuffed animals above him. ‘FLUKEY BALL,’ his neon sign boasts.
Simon and Isabelle nod at each other and approach the booth. The carnie goes wild. “That’s what I’m talking about!”
They toss some coins at him and he hands each of them three wiffle balls. From what they gather, the objective of the game is to bank the ball off a slanted board and into a basket below. It seems easy enough to Isabelle, but – “Don’t be deceived,” Simon warns her. “These games are always tricky.”
“With the right technique, you can dominate!” The carnie counters.
“Can we lean over the railing?” Izzy asks, to which the carnie’s eager answer is, “Absolutely!”
They both lean forward as far as possible, and Simon throws. His first two balls bounce off the board and onto the ground, and his third flies over it completely.
“You’re too aggressive,” Isabelle says pleasantly, batting her eyes at him. “Let me show you how it’s done.” She describes every step of her method. “Toss the ball as lightly as possible so that it just grazes the board. And instead of having it hit on the way down, aim it so that it hits the top of the board on the way up, instead.” She tosses her ball. “Then it’ll arc back down into the basket!” She says in triumph, as it lands successfully. Her next two balls do the same, and Simon stares at her in awe.
The carnie is beside himself. “Incredible!” He screams. “Winner, winner, winner, winner, winner!”
Isabelle picks out a giant stuffed turtle, and the carnie’s assistant offers Simon a dinky Chinese finger trap as a consolation prize.
“Aww,” Isabelle grabs Simon’s chin with the hand that isn’t occupied by her enormous turtle, half her size. She plants a kiss on his lips. “Here, babe,” she says, passing the stuffed animal to him. “He’s for you.”
Simon wrinkles his nose and smiles, taking the turtle. “Aren’t I supposed to be the one winning prizes for you?”
“You’ll win the next one,” she shrugs, and takes his hand, leading him toward the Rope Ladder game.
“Ah,” Simon says. “The Rope Ladder. My childhood nemesis.”
Izzy jumps into her instruction. “Keep your center of gravity as wide as possible. Don’t grab the rungs, grab the rope. Keep your weight forward, and counterbalance every move on the left side of your body with a move on the right. You know, like the way a dog walks? When he moves his right front leg forward, he moves his left rear leg, too, and vice versa. Got it?”
“I think so.” Simon hands the turtle to her and pays the guy running the game. Izzy cheers him on, and he tries to do what she said, but four rungs up, his knee catches and he finds himself spinning upside down and being tossed onto a mattress. Defeat never tasted so bitter.
A crowd of onlookers groan their dissatisfaction and holler that the game is rigged. Isabelle steps forward. “Can I try?”
“Of course!” The carnie replies. Isabelle passes the turtle off to Simon on her way over to the ladder.
“Good luck,” he says, and Isabelle grins at him.
As Izzy surmounts the ladder, Simon can see every muscle in her body working, tensed and rigid. The ladder wobbles a little in the center, but she gets past it and, in a moment of utter shock and amazement to all those watching, she rings the bell at the top, shouts for victory, and spins herself down to the mattress. The same onlookers run to get in line for their turn, and this time, Isabelle chooses a large inflatable crayon as her prize.
This goes on for the next three games, only one of which Simon actually wins (Rubber Ducky). By the time they walk away from the midway, their arms are full of stuffed animals, an oversized comb, and of course, the crayon.
They leave the fair at closing – dirty, tired, over-fed, and well spent. They pile the prizes into the backseat and hold hands over the console in the car, and Isabelle declares, “That was fun.”
“I had no idea you were so good at those games,” Simon says for the fifth time tonight, glancing at their entourage of guests in the back.
Isabelle crosses her feet over the mess on the floor. “I learned it all from my mom,” she reveals.
When they get back to the Institute, they find Clary, Jace, Magnus, and Alec downstairs. They’re all staring at a screen that shows locations of recent demon attacks, but they turn to greet Simon and Izzy when they walk in.
“Wow,” Alec comments. “That’s a lot of stuffed animals.”
“Did you win these for Izzy?” Jace asks Simon, investigating the giant turtle.
“Nope, she won them for me,” Simon says, laughing.
Isabelle nods. “I think I’m going to give up demon hunting and pursue my true calling as a travelling carnie.”
Jace takes the inflatable crayon from Simon and jabs Isabelle with it. “Oh yeah?”
“Stop,” Izzy knocks the tip of the crayon away and scowls good naturedly.
Jace grins, and pokes her with it again, and before long he’s chasing her around the room, trying to hit her with it. She’s screaming at him to stop through laughter, throwing her other prizes at him.
“How was the carnival, other than Izzy’s successful game day?” Magnus asks.
“It was great,” Simon replies as Isabelle crashes against him from behind and grabs his shoulders, using him as a human shield. Jace chases her in circles around him for a few moments before she darts off again.
“I’m done!” Jace concedes, throwing the crayon into the air. “Damn it, how do you have so much energy?”
“Sugar high,” Isabelle laughs, holding onto the stair railing and panting. The carnival prizes are littered all over the room, and other shadowhunters knock them out of the way as they pass by.
Izzy meets Simon’s eyes and smiles wider. It was a great day, indeed. She loves when she feels the pulse of their love beating strong and loud above the noise and color and flashing lights of the world.
And if they can find it at the carnival, they can find it anywhere.
A/N: Send me an ask if you have any Sizzy or Malec prompts! 😉
“reblog if you hate men” or “grow up and hate men it’s 2017″ and many variations like these are posts I either scroll past with a bad taste in my mouth or just block because I’m disgusted at having to see this sort of generalized hate anywhere.
I’m a trans guy, and for a long time in my childhood and my early teens, I felt part of the lesbian community (because there wasn’t enough information about the trans community and I felt like people like me didn’t exist). Even today, I still enjoy content with wlw characters such as some TV shows, and I read lots of fanfics (Clexa, Supercorp, Rizzles just to name a few off the top of my head). I follow many people on tumblr who are part of the wlw community.
And you know what? Most of them are really nice, inclusive people, who don’t spread hate and other things, who post positive stuff that never makes me feel bad for being a guy, that never makes me feel guilty for “choosing” to be a guy, because well, being trans isn’t easy and especially not when some people tell you it’s a “choice” (it isn’t a choice, but that doesn’t mean that what others say can’t get to you sometimes).
I really understand where those posts are coming from. I do. Many men (especially white cis straight men) are homophobes, lesbophobes, transphobes, racists, you name it. But… and I hate to say “not all…”: writing, or saying a general statement such as “I hate men” does nothing to explain your situation, your oppression, your stance on society, or anything else. It just makes people think that you’ll hate them no matter what, it makes people like me who loudly advocate for minority rights feel like whatever I do, it’ll never be enough for you. You’ll always consider me some sort of bad person just because I identify as a man, you’ll always unwittingly include me in your general hate messages.
I hate those particular men, too. But you know what I hate more? I hate their beliefs, their actions, their hateful words. I hate that they’re spreading hate through society. And you’re not doing any better. Not in my book.
What good are you doing by saying “I hate men”? How are you expressing the truth of what being a woman under patriarchy is about when the most coherent thing you find to say is “I hate men”? Who do you think will listen to what you have to say when you start with that opener?
Change needs to happen, but we all need to work together to make it happen. ALL of us: lesbians, gay guys, bisexual people, pansexual people, trans, nonbinary, queer people. We need to have actual conversations about what the problems in society are, not alienate each other by saying we hate each other, or by - for example - excluding trans women in posts that talk about how beautiful, or good, or strong, women are (because some people on this god-forsaken site still somehow believe that vagina or pussy equals woman - which, honestly, it’s so disgusting that you equate a person with what’s between their legs, but that’s another discussion).
I started this a while ago, but a post earlier by @mccoymostly had me returning back to this to finish it :)
Because Star Trek is my love and Harry Potter is in my blood, I had to do a sorting. Since we now have Ilvermorny to work with as well (although, not a lot of detail for it :p), I gotta include that one, too! Everyone is pretty well-versed on the Hogwarts houses by this point, but I’m gonna do a quick run-down on the Ilvermorny ones first below the cut.
Notes: I wanted to seek revenge on Kristin for her angsty as fuck drabble, but this is what I came up with instead. Oh well.
Summary: Set during Season 2. It happens twice. It’s what he needs, to lose himself in her. To melt. If only for one night.
It happens twice.
Her skin is translucent, tissue-paper thin against the
beating pulse of her neck, and he wonders what it would feel like to press his
lips against it, to run his tongue against the blue vein that curls beneath the
warm flesh. She smells warm and spicy, like patchouli musk and orange blossom.
The lingering essence of her drifts towards him in waves, mixing and curling
with the gray smoke that rolls from the tip of the cigarette that sits between
the two fingers of her right hand.
She taps it against the ash tray, smirking through pursed
lips as the smoke is pushed out of her lungs. “I don’t do this a lot,” she
says. Her voice is dark and honeyed, like the glass of scotch that sits before
him, raspy already from the few drags he’s witnessed. Doesn’t do what a lot, he
wants to ask? Sit at a bar? Drink? Share the quiet solitude that only two
lonely souls could understand?
As if reading his mind, she answers his question. “The
smoking,” she says, gesturing to the cigarette as she brings it her mouth
He smiles, and nods his head in understanding, watching the
ice lose the fight against its melting points, swirling into the amber liquid
as it acquiesces to chemistry. He sees her tongue dart out, licking her bottom
lip, and his fingers twitch against his glass. He wonders what it would be like
to melt into her. Just for one night. To forget the pain, forget the emptiness
that has been eating at him since his partner was taken on that mountain.
Don’t do it. Don’t think about her, he tells himself. Share
your drink, go home, and find release in the abysmally depressing grip of your
own fist. That’s what you always do, he thinks. She’s better than whatever
fantasy lurks in your mind. One night in the arms of another woman won’t bring
hey, so i think I’m going to take a small break from tumblr because of the things that have happened recently. I don’t really feel as comfortable on here anymore and I’m hoping a small break will fix that. I’m going to have my queue going through so that my blog isn’t inactive. I hope you all understand.
NEWT GEISZLER’S MIX - An assortment of songs for a certain tiny punk feminist to sing and dance his little heart out to.
i. Body - Mother Mother | ii. Hey - Pixies | iii. Anarchy In The U.K. - Sex Pistols | iv. Bad Karma - Ida Maria | v. Your Mangled Heart - Gossip | vi. You’re on Fire - They Might Be Giants | vii. Dancing With Myself - Billy Idol | viii. Transgender Dysphoria Blues - Against Me! | ix. Standing in the Way of Control - Gossip | x. Arkansas Heart - Gossip | xi. Sixteen - Iggy Pop | xii. True Trans Soul Rebel - Against Me!
Like Ships In The Night (you keep passing me by) (5/?)
Enchanted Forest AU-Princess Emma does a reverse Cinderella and meets a Captain in a tavern instead of a Prince at a ball. It should have been a one-time thing but fate had other plans and they just keep meeting. Originally a one-shot birthday fic for @spartanguard but now a full on multichapter Extra thanks to @phiralovesloki for being a stellar and fast beta!
The woods were darker than Emma had expected. Clouds obscured the moon and stars and the trees were little more than shadows against the black. It was the kind of night that called for curling up by a fire, not tromping through the forest looking for an escaped pirate.
There was a pull on her wrist from the black fabric wrapped around it. Emma adjusted her direction, trusting the locator magic to lead her through the darkness. She fingered the rough cotton in the dark. The scarf Hook had used to keep her from calling Elsa’s guards hadn’t been a bad idea but with a locator potion added, it had become Emma’s personal pirate finder. Her father and his knights had clattered off toward the port assuming, as Emma had, that the pirate would commandeer a ship. By the time she had poured out the potion, it was too late to tell them that Captain Hook had fled to the forest and not the sea. Determined not to let him get too far away, Emma had set off at a gallop on a horse only to abandon it when the scarf pulled her into the deep woods.
She didn’t know where Hook was going, only that, once again, he had betrayed her. This time she was going to throw him in the dungeon where he belonged, where her father had wanted him to be from the beginning. Her mistake had been to think that she understood him, that because they had both been hurt by love they were similar. She had thought that his encounter with the Dark One had changed him, made him recognize the futility of his vengeance, made him want to be a part of something. She thought she had sensed it that night in her room and later in the council chamber, but she had been wrong. After Neal and Walsh, she should have known better, but the damn pirate had made her forget herself and forget the lesson she knew all too well–the only people she can trust is her family.
Suddenly the pull on her wrist stopped and Emma paused in confusion. Then she heard the crack of a twig from behind and on instinct, she ducked. The momentum of her attacker took him over her body and to the ground. In a flash, Emma was on top and sliding up to pin his biceps with her knees. She put her full weight forward and he hissed in pain. She grinned in triumph but the smile fell as a sharp pain pierced her thigh. She had forgotten about the hook.
“Ah! What the hell!” She rolled off and away, her right hand going to her thigh and her left pulling her dagger. She hadn’t expected an actual fight, hadn’t believed he would really hurt her despite his escape, but of course she had been wrong.
“Emma? Bloody hell, Emma! Are you hurt?” His shock and remorse made her loosen her hold on her dagger but not on her anger.
“You stabbed me with your hook! Of course I’m hurt,”
There was movement and suddenly he was beside her, his shadowed form becoming something recognizable close-up.
“Where?” Then his hand was on her knee and sliding upward as he probed for her wound. Heat flashed through her and she slapped his hand away. He drew back as if she had slapped his face.
Vague Implications and Seesaw Oscillations Part 15
A/N: DELAY = MINIMAL
It’s 2 AM, feel special! (Not really, I never sleep. But you are still special! I could be contemplating the idiocy of flesh-colored bandaid selections at the local pharmacy right now. Did you know that apparently selling only one shade is completely acceptable?)
Much [thank and smooching] to this fic’s beta and my favorite of all hoomans, who left late for brunch to speed-beta this chapter. Everybody go give her glitter right now.
Hartbig AU, SFW, 1,300 words. Lies and deception. Previous parts can be found on my FIC PAGEwhich I think I probably forgot to update… Le sigh. I will. I 100% will. Look. I’m not even attaching part 14. That’s how much I will.
Part 15: Marks
“Yeah, um, yes, thanks, that would be good. I’ve got the last meetups for the movie these next few of days though. Are you free tonight?”
“Yeah, of course. Wait, are you going to be able to make that dinner Thursday?”
“The dinner? That I helped organize, you said you’d come too?“
Can you really call a ‘little black dress’ stylish casual?
The way it hugs Grace’s ass is definitely anything but casual.
It’s tight. Tight enough, that Hannah can tell Grace is wearing heels, without ever having even remotely looked at her feet.
OK I WAS WATCHING EPISODE 3 SEASON 1 AAAAND I THINK YOU WILL LIKE THIS: A moment between Arya and Bejen? Maybe in one of his visits or something? I don't care if it's cute, if it's some angsty moment of Benjen thinking of Lyanna or if he sees Arya and Jon and says something idk.
Benjen has always known that Jon is Lyanna’s son. He knew Ned too well to believe the lie even if he did not know anything else. They did not speak of it. Benjen took his own secrets to the Wall with him and there he hoped to assuage the guilt he felt, to try to keep the ghosts in the past. It seemed to work after a fashion.
Those who serve on the Wall serve for life and so he rarely leaves. He knows Ned has children but he tries not to think on it too much. He must focus on his duty and the path he has chosen. He will not marry and will father no sons. He will serve and it seems only right that he must serve, must do something for the realm that has suffered so much.
When he arrives at Winterfell on one of those very rare absences from the Wall he sees Robb first. Ned’s eldest does not look like a Stark. Nor does sweet Sansa have the Stark look with her shining Tully auburn hair. The youngest present, Brandon, steps forward and the name sends a knife into his heart but the boy is not Brandon and he finds he can put those memories aside and greet his nephew the way an uncle should.
It is on the tip of his tongue to ask after Jon but then he remembers the lie. Ned’s lady wife emerges with the babe in her arms and Benjen smiles for her and offers the jape he knows is expected because he has always been known for his smiles and japes and Ned’s children must be spared the pain of the past.
He is walking with Ned through the castle grounds when he sees them. Jon is quiet and so very like Ned that Benjen can almost fool himself, almost make himself believe the lie. It is the girl that undoes him.
“Arya,” Ned calls out. “Where have you been? You did not greet your Uncle Ben.”
The girl lifts her head and her expression is guilty. She still has a smile for Jon and she has been picking flowers and that makes it even worse. She darts forward, all scraped knees and wild messy hair and Benjen’s chest feels tight but his throat is even tighter and he does not know how he might speak.
“I am sorry I missed your arrival Uncle Ben,” she says with a glance at Ned as though fearing a rebuke.
Ned is smiling at his daughter and Benjen does not know how he cannot see, how he can look at the little girl in front of them without thinking of Lyanna. Jon joins them and the bond between the two is so obvious, the way Arya looks to him. In that moment Benjen is glad he serves Castle Black because to be in Winterfell and see this every day would be a special kind of torture.
I would not be able to forget.
Arya thrusts the flowers at him and it is all he can do to take them. He offers her a smile and her face lights up at the simple gesture of picking one of the blooms for her to keep. She must only be all of seven but Benjen still remembers his sister’s smile and the way she called him Ben. The smile is the same, as is the scowl and the way she proclaims Jon to be stupid when he musses her hair.
“I’m getting too big for that,” she announces but Benjen can see she is not truly angered.
“You’re still a lot smaller than me little sister,” Jon replies. “You will never be too big.”
Benjen looks to Ned and sees the sadness in his brother’s eyes and that is when he knows. He sees it too. They leave the children to their play and he tries to hold his tongue and fails.
“For a moment there I might have thought Winterfell had a ghost.”
“She is very like Lyanna,” Ned admits solemnly, “but thank the gods it will not end the same.”
Benjen thinks upon it. There are painful memories but if he pushes those aside there are good ones as well and he knows he must draw upon those when he looks at his niece.
Hank, hopefully you don't hate me for this, but I feel like people bash me because I don't support LGBT ideals. I want to make it clear that I DO NOT dislike the people who identify with this, and I am NOT trans/homophobic. I just have different opinions and don't support the idea. I do however support people's right to think and believe whatever they want. It's just that sometimes people decide to hate me because of what I believe, when all I'm trying to do is express my opinions. Thoughts?
Every society has weird taboos and beliefs. In some places, women can show their breasts, but not their midriffs, for example. In some cultures, it’s OK for men to have sex with other men and in others it isn’t. Now I don’t know what “LGBT ideals” are, but I’m just going to assume that you don’t think people of the same gender should hook up.
Now, I disagree with a lot of people on a lot of different things. For example, tons of people in America believe that dead people inhabit old houses and that the position of the stars when you were born affects your personality. I think these things are dumb and weird but they don’t hurt anybody or infringe on anyone’s rights, so, I don’t care. I’m not going to hate them for or be frustrated by their weird beliefs.
But the truth of the matter is, your belief that people shouldn’t love the way they do does affect other people. It is, on it’s own, threatening to people who love people of their own gender because you are disapproving of them for something they cannot and do not want to change. And when combined with a national climate that has lots and lots of people actively working to infringe upon the rights of those people, it’s not just an existential threat.
Your beliefs are threatening to other people. Your beliefs do real harm to real human beings.
And you’re allowed to have those beliefs, but people are also allowed to hate them and, yes, even you…that’s just an expression of their opinions. I hope that what they hate are your beliefs and not you, and I hope you know that beliefs can change and modify as we come to know more about the world and other people in it. Please don’t harden your heart, be open to the idea that your understanding of the world might change,