how to recognize different parts of the body

Ode To The Nature Of Romance

Author: @eradikeats-writes as part of Bangtan University - a series of oneshots with @kpopfanfictrash

Creative Content Contributors: @daegusoftboys (who has provided us INCREDIBLE moodboards for the series)

Pairing: Jungkook x Reader (of; female)

Summary: As a classical violinist, you understand passion and romance better than most. So why does Poetry professor Jeon Jungkook seem to have such a difficult time getting you to understand?

Rating: NC-17

Warning: explicit sex; explicit language

Word Count: 9,934

It never felt like this, sharing a bed with another body. It never felt like this, comforting, warm, safe. Always, at the touch of someone else’s skin beneath the sheets, you would shrink away, make yourself small, into something less than your true wingspan. Deep in your bones, you would ache to be away and gone and alone. Always, you feel resentment boil in your chest, the heat radiating from their body into yours, causing you to perspire under stress, and anguish, and rage.

But with him, it is different.

Keep reading

in response to the message i received last december from my abusive ex-boyfriend asking me why i keep writing about him even though i’m dating somebody else:

wouldn’t you like to know? 

i know you still think you’re the innocent one, that you don’t deserve to have all the lies you told split open on the operating table, all the moments between us dissected like cadavers. 

as if you didn’t leave me with crippling paranoia. the inability to trust somebody when they say they care about me. a debilitating fear of abandonment.

you said that it was inappropriate of me, that i was beating a dead horse. 
you even had the audacity to tell me it hurt you. all the poems. all the prose pieces. the pain it put you through, to see me ripping through our relationship like canines ripping into flesh. 

so maybe i’m writing this because i’m tired of choking on your arrogance. i’m finished with letting you think you got away with something, like i’m just fragile, easily cracked, hard to repair.

but i’ll tell you why i haven’t stopped writing about you.

because i can’t.
i want to, but i haven’t figured out how to stop when i see you around every corner. 
because every time i think about the stars i think about your hands, and every time i find myself in the backseat of a car i can feel it closing in on me like your mouth.

because i’m afraid i won’t be able to love him as much as i can.
do you know how that feels? to be afraid to love somebody?
i look at him and i see somebody who is softer than me. 
because he fits into my side like a jigsaw piece but sometimes his voice lilts and it sounds like yours for a heartbeat and in that single second i forget you aren’t here anymore. 
because sometimes i forget you aren’t here anymore. 

i didn’t ask to be stuck to you. i didn’t want to still be bleeding a year later. but you have to ask yourself how deep this wound must be if i’m still not healed, you have to start looking at yourself. maybe you really were the monster. maybe you are. 

but you won’t.  and that’s why i’m still writing about you.

because you can’t see it. you can’t even fathom the thought that i wasn’t just made this way. it wasn’t somebody else who left gashes across my throat. it was you. and you can’t see it. or you won’t. i’m not sure which one it is anymore.

i keep writing because you never said sorry. 

you will never understand, and you will never apologize. i don’t know if you weren’t paying attention when i was telling you to stop or if you heard it and just didn’t care. now i’m not even sure if that matters anymore, you caring or not. it never felt like it. 

i keep writing because i don’t know how to feel about us now.
because you were so important and i don’t even know what to call you.
because i can’t tell if you were a forest fire or a hurricane, but either way you ravaged me.
because when you left you did not leave quietly, you left on a war path, smashing in the windowpanes and ripping out the ceiling lights,
because you left reminders, your spit splattered across the walls, your bloodied fingerprints smeared on the door frame, 
because i am still too weak to be able to wash them away,
because i will probably always be too weak.

that is what you did to me. 

for a long time, there wasn’t anything left to build from.
i was bent beams and shattered glass with dusty kneecaps and rusted elbows, sitting out on the curb waiting for the garbage truck to come.
i didn’t know how to look in the mirror anymore without being afraid i would see you lurking over my shoulder.

eventually, i learned how to breathe again. i began to wipe the dirt from my cheeks and brush the blood from my mouth. i learned to stand on my own without you grasping my arm. i trained myself to smile; a different grin, one you wouldn’t recognize. i taught myself how to unlove you. 

so here i am, a year later. 
the soft boy clicks into my hip and i am still writing about you.
you want to know if i’m still in love with you, if that’s why the poems never stop. 

it’s not because i love you, or because i care at all. 

it’s because there’s a long white scar on my chest from your claws. 
because he touches it sometimes and that’s the one part of my body where we don’t fit like puzzle pieces, where we don’t fit at all.
because that’s the one part that’s still yours. 

i will write as many words as it takes to color it in.

—  “in between the lines” -c.h. // instagram: (via @poeticaffinity)
Instead of Ultear,

You know what would’ve been a decent–no, amazing–alternative to Ultear being revealed as the one behind Jellal’s brainwashing instead of Zeref? Brain.

Because unlike Ultear, Brain was not a villain who was going to be redeemed and he did not have a tragic backstory cushion to fall on. He is up there with Hades and Mard Geer when it comes to villainy, and literally has an even more evil personality that wants to blow up the world hiding inside him. Brain was already behind Ultear’s own path down to darkness, so I have no trouble at all believing that he’d happily run a slave tower full of children.

In fact, it would also fix a lot of problems with that slave tower and the Oracion Seis themselves. We know Brain was looking for kids who would grow up to be suitably strong wizards to use as keys for his Six Prayers body link spell to seal Zero with. A while ago, I made a post specifically detailing how badly Jellal fit into the Nirvana Arc. Putting Brain behind the brainwashing of Jellal fixes the following problems:

  • Why the slave tower was being run. While initially being used by Zeref cultists to resurrect him, I repeat, we know Brain was looking through the children in that tower to find keys for the body link spell. When Ultear gives the reasons behind the brainwashing, we’re given a vague and undefined “yeah we found a key to revive zeref by doing this” thing that very unsatisfactorily explains why she would waste an entire 10 years running a slave tower for no discernable reason and renting out a chunk of her magic to Jellal. Brain’s explanation is much more clear-cut and really, it’s all he needs.
  • The immensely bipolar and insane actions of Jellal while possessed; sometimes he’s cool and calculating and likes playing with his opponents, like Brain, and sometimes he’s a laughing lunatic who will blow up his hard-earned Tower of Heaven just to kill Natsu and Erza, like Zero. Let’s say that Brain was possessing Jellal in order to seal away Zero in another person while he was still looking for keys to do it properly. The calculating, chilling Jellal is Jellal when Brain is in control, and the insane Jellal is Jellal when Zero is in control.
  • Why Jellal didn’t blow up Brain when Brain tutored him in Destruction Circles. In-story, Destruction Circles are only used one time, which is for Jellal to blow up Nirvana and then himself, which both fail. They’re also hastily given an explanation in why Brain can undo them: because he’s the one who invented them and personally instructed Jellal in their use. However, this takes a different, retroactive turn when Ultear is revealed as the one in control. We know Brain spent weeks torturing her as a child, creating part of her tragic backstory. You would think that an Ultear-controlled Jellal would immediately recognize Brain and blow him to kingdome come in rage. With Brain being the one in control, this problem is not present.
  • How Brain knew where to find Jellal. Why, exactly, does Brain need Jellal to find Nirvana? Answer: he doesn’t. How, exactly, did Brain know where to find Jellal’s assumed-atomized body? Answer: he shouldn’t. With the current story, this just comes off as Mashima determinedly jamming Jellal back into the story at literally the worst time with no logical explanations whatsoever. However, if Brain is the one possessing Jellal, it obviously makes sense that Brain would know where to look to find Jellal’s body.
  • Jellal’s amnesia. In-story, this is a very poorly-used and convenient device to absolve Jellal of his wrongdoings by wiping his mental slate clean and reverting him to Good Pure Jellal. It’s got a lot of holes in it that are never explained, such as how Jellal can still use magic that isn’t his, how Jellal can use magic he learned while possessed, and Jellal very conveniently hearing a “voice” in his head that told him “I must find Nirvana”. This becomes better explained with Brain in control: Brain is still actively possessing him in the Nirvana arc.
  • Why Cobra couldn’t hear Jellal’s thoughts at first. In the same instance as the amnesia coming into play, Cobra is for some reason unable to hear Jellal’s thoughts in order to (badly) preserve the tension. This doesn’t really make sense, because memories and active thoughts aren’t the same thing. However, we can deduce that Cobra couldn’t hear Brain’s thoughts either, because as detailed here, he was shocked when Brain stabbed him in the back and took it pretty damn hard. If Brain knew how to hide his thoughts from Cobra, it makes sense he’d know how to also hide Jellal’s thoughts from him, too.
  • The Oracion Seis being willing to work with Jellal. In canon, the Seis have no clue that Jellal was possessed and only know him as a monstrous lunatic that terrorized their childhoods. Which is why it makes no sense that, when Brain brings them Jellal in a coffin, they seem pleased at the idea of his resurrection and willing to work with him–they should hate him and want Jellal to stay dead to the point of mutiny. If Brain is the one controlling Jellal, then it makes sense that they’d be okay with this–they’re in on the brainwashing plot. It would also make it a decent catharsis when Jellal later pulverizes them in the Tartaros arc and gets confronted with the Zero illusion, instead of Jellal being a horrible tyrant beating down and enslaving the people whose childhoods he ruined to the point of post-traumatic stress disorder. I don’t really like that one, since I prefer the Oracion Seis as the anti-villains they are, instead of complete monsters like Brain. So instead, you could also have Jellal walk up to Brain’s corpse and be relieved that he’s dead, stating that he owes Cobra and the Seis, explaining that Brain was the one behind his possession and wants to work with them, or something along those lines. 
  • The source of Jellal’s brainwashing feels genuine, and not just there to give him an out by turning another character into a scapegoat. I’ve already said before that I heavily suspect why Ultear was made the one behind Jellal’s brainwashing last-minute: because fans weren’t on Jellal’s side yet and still didn’t like him, so Mashima turned the blame onto another villain so Jellal could be redeemed–much like he turned Acnologia into the new overarching villain when he decided he wanted Zeref to be a tragic, redeemable villain. However, he should have been more careful with it. He decided in that same arc that he wanted to redeem Ultear Milkovich, and so we have Ultear, with her suitably tragic backstory, being the one behind another character’s entire set of crimes despite being on the heroes’ side now. That slave tower was run for 10 years and many atrocities were committed that stripped hundreds of innocent children of not only their bodily health, but their mental health, and people died. In doing this, Mashima is breaking a basic rule of drama, as established by Aristotle: do not show a bad man (villain) coming to a good end. What I’m saying is that by stacking Jellal’s crimes onto Ultear’s already heavy ones, her sins become completely unforgivable and she looks like a monster, no matter how sad her story is. This would be okay if Ultear were Brain, a remorseless villain who has been shown willing to brainwash, torture, and manipulate people as he pleases and who is a complete monster as is already established. But Ultear became a redeemed villain. The Tower of Heaven is a crime worthy of death–death by execution, not death by self-sacrifice or suicide. This would make it, again, amazing catharsis when Cobra kills Brain–he was the one behind not only Jellal’s suffering, but the Seis’ as well, and he then gets exactly what he deserves. Mashima should have turned the blame onto a villain that wasn’t going to be redeemed so he wouldn’t have to deal with this atonement bullshit, and Brain was there, but instead he chose Ultear. 

It also accomplishes this much for Brain himself instead of Jellal:

  • It connects him to the overarching plot better. When it comes to Brain’s relevance to the story, all he’s really there to do is be a villain for the Nirvana arc; he isn’t present in the Neo-Oracion Seis for obvious reasons, and is promptly killed when he gets free from prison by the dude he backstabbed. Even the responsibility for Ultear’s childhood torture is anime-only (although I accept it as canon for this exact reason). Putting him in charge of Jellal’s brainwashing connects him to the Tower of Heaven arc, in turn connecting him personally to Jellal, Erza, the Tower of Heaven gang, and everyone else that involved. It also adds another layer to the relationship between him and the rest of the Seis: they were terrorized by Jellal until he saved them, taking them them out of the tower and teaching them their magic. In reality, he’s directly responsible for that horrible experience.
  • It gives him more of a connection to Nirvana. Nirvana is, essentially, a brainwashing magic. It forcibly switches the alignments, personalities, and allegiances of anyone it affects, and is probably pretty fucking powerful since we can deduce that its original intended target was Acnologia. Brain is called Brain because of his vast intelligence collection, research, and surveillance abilities, but adding brainwashing to his arsenal would give him even more reason to pursue Nirvana: he likes control and he’s already started figuring out how to achieve it. 
New Love

Hi all of you! Hope you like this one!

Harry is quite new at dating and though unsure how to behave around her, he knows he’s already in love. 

Warnings: Nope. Only fluff alarm. 

“You’re absolutely whipped.”

Harry took another swig from his beer and shrugged dismissively. “Rubbish.”

“S'true,” Phil insisted and clapped Harry’s shoulder, giving his friend a teasing grin. “M'not even saying that it’s something bad. Only that your girlfriend has you on a leash and it’s kinda weird to see you at a girl’s bidding. You were always the single, go-to person when one of us needed a night out.”

It was true. Out of the group of friends Harry had in London, he had been the only one who stayed single for several years through out their friendship. Sure, there had been a girl every now and then, but none of them had ever stayed in his life long enough to be referred to as his girlfriend. That was, until he met Y/N. Three months later and he was as smitten as he’d never been with anyone before. Harry couldn’t explain it. Simply everything she did was enchanting to him.

“So, you’re saying I’m no fun anymore?” Harry asked with a grin on his face at his friend’s wistful tone, as if he was remembering the good old times from years back.

The band playing in the pub finished their song and the room echoed with people clapping and laughing, the noise preventing Harry to hear his friend’s response, even though they were sitting in a booth far in the back of the pub. Harry rested his arms on the table in front of them and leaned in closer.

“What was that?”

Phil rolled his eyes and leaned in as well. “Of course you’re still fun, mate. Just not as much anymore.”

“That’s true,” Oliver, the last member of their trio, agreed and finished his own beer with a final gulp.

Harry stared at the both of them, feigning offense as he tapped his fingers against the beer glass, the melody refusing to leave his head. Harry distinctly remembered hearing it this morning when his girlfriend had hum it whilst making coffee for them both and another smile sneaked its way onto his lips. His girlfriend. What a foreign term to be used by him, however it already sounded so familiar, too. She’d been wearing his white shirt that suited her so well and had his head spin once she’d teasingly revealed how she was dressed in only his shirt.


Phil and Oliver both rolled their eyes and waved Harry off.

“Shut up, we know you’re not,” Phil grinned.

“Not one bit, you dick,” Olivier added.

Harry laughed before hopping off his seat. “Will you forgive me for neglecting you, if I pay the next round?”

“Maybe we’ll think about it,” Oliver joked and Harry made a point at rolling his eyes before he began fighting his way through the crowded room and to the bar.

Once he reached it, he quickly caught the attention of a bartender and ordered three more beers, before he pulled his phone from his pocket to check for any messages. To be specific, to check for a message from her.

Not to be the most clingy person ever, but … when are you coming home?  I sort of miss you. xx

Harry smiled when he saw her messages and quickly tipped a response, hoping she’d reply before he had to return back to his friends, as they’d established a strict ‘no phones at the table’ rule, for whenever they went out. A rule they’d only put in force after Harry had got a girlfriend, claiming he was missing half of their conversations whilst texting Y/N.

Told you to go have fun, too, baby. Didn’t I? xx

“Your beer, Sir.”

The bartender smiled at Harry and pushed three bottles across the counter, before expectantly waiting for him to hand over the money.


Harry hastily pulled out enough to pay and give the bartender a generous tip before glancing back down on his phone.

But I want to have fun with you.

His heart skipped at her words, not caring that he must’ve looked like an idiot, smiling at his phone while leaving his drinks abandoned. In a pub, that was a no-go. Maybe his friends were right. He was whipped. How strange that it didn’t bother him at all.

Really? I was just told I’m no fun anymore.

Harry looked up to find his two friends waving for him to come back and he couldn’t help to feel disappointed. Though they were always a good laugh, this just wasn’t where he longed for to be right now. But leaving so early would make him a terrible friend, wouldn’t it?

Rest assured, that I find no one quite as fun as you, Harry. xx

He chuckled at that message.

Back at you, baby. Tell me, are you still at my place? xx

Y/N replied with a yes and that she’d hoped he wouldn’t mind, which of course he didn’t. The mere thought of her comfortable in his bed or sitting on his windowsill whilst sipping tee warmed his heart and had his belly feeling funny.

He swiftly weighed his options. His friends would forgive him, he thought, and pushed his phone back into the pocket of his jeans before making his way over to his table, three beers balanced in his hands.

“Good man!” Phil cheered and took one of the bottles from Harry’s fingers.

He shook back his blonde hair from his face and handed Oliver his own beer.

“Okay,” he said, “all is forgiven, Styles.”

“M'relieved,” Harry chuckled and took a deep breath, “So, I hope you will forgive me once more, if I excuse myself for the night.”

“No!” both of his friends protested.

Though, guilt made his insides knot, the want to be reunited with his girlfriend again overshadowed any other thought. As selfish as he may sound.

“Sorry,” he hummed and fiddled with the rings on his fingers.

“Knew it the second you pulled out that bloody phone of yours,” Oliver said and rolled his eyes dramatically before his serious expression broke into a smile. “S'it your girlfriend again? Mate, c'mon!”

Harry shrugged, unable to stop smiling himself. “Am I the shittiest friend ever, if it is her?”

“Course not,” Oliver assured and reached out to squeeze Harry’s shoulder, “We get it. You’ve been on your own for a while and finally found someone special. S'nothing wrong with that.”

Harry pulled at the hem of his shirt and reached for his jacket.

“You understand? Even if I bail on you guys?”

Phil nodded before huffing. “We get it. Y/N’s hotter than we are.”

“That she is,” Harry agreed and slipped on the jacket and pulled a beanie over his short hair. He shot his friends one last smile and told them to jut share the beer he’d bought for himself, then he left for the exit.
He pushed his way past people who recognized him and cried out for a picture and pushed aside hands that reached for his body. Knowing that Y/N was still at his flat and even waited for him had his body feel warm and tingly. He blocked out the noise of the people and focused only on how nothing had changed, yet the biggest part of his life was different now. He had someone to come home to. After all this time, he wasn’t alone anymore.

Once Harry entered his apartment he was surprised to find it with none of the lights on and no voice answering to his calls. Hadn’t Y/N said she was at his place, still? She couldn’t have interpreted his lack of a response to her text as him not liking that she was in his home, right? Did she go home? Harry bit his bottom lip and sighed as disappointment crawled up his throat, knowing that he’d just left his friends at the bar for what had been supposed to be their lads night out, so he could see his girlfriend, who know wasn’t even there. He shrugged off his jacket and pulled his shoes from his feet, before making his way over to the stairs. Going back to the bar was not an option and heading over to Y/N’s apartment might be weird after she’d already left him, right? Maybe she wanted to be on her own for the night? With all those doubts cursing through his mind Harry entered his bedroom and began undressing for bed, frustration making him pout. He wasn’t one to use the L-word easily, at least not when it came to meaning it in that special way, but with Y/N he was fairly sure that he did feel it. And he wanted to show it everyday in all of his actions, but given how early they were in their relationship, he feared his affection could scare her away.  

He sighed and turned to his bed, only to stop in his tracks upon noticing a strange looking pile on his bed. When had he got so many pillows? He flinched when the pile moved but all surprise was replaced when he recognized who it was, because of course she had stayed. Harry chuckled and pulled back the sheets, revealing her flushed cheeks and soft looking lips. So beautiful, he thought and happily crawled onto the bed beside her. His heart ached when she cuddled into his side and didn’t even wake when he pulled her closer onto his chest.

His girlfriend. Finally. And in this moment, Harry didn’t care that he hadn’t told her he loved her yet, as he knew she loved him, too. She was here, in his bed where she’d waited for him to come back to. Just like it was the most natural thing to do. He wished it would soon become a normality for them. And tomorrow, Harry decided as he closed his eyes, he would tell her.

Thanks for reading! It’s a bit shorter than my usual one shots but I hope you like it regardless. 
Requests and Feedback are both welcome! :) 

Rest of what I wrote can be found here:

goldfromstraw-deactivated201710  asked:

Hello! Any advice for drawing hands? Or maybe I should say looking at them properly-because they just end up as chunky lumps for me! How do you segment them? Into circles or more square shapes? And are there any really common mistakes people make when drawing them that I can avoid? Thank you sensei ^_^

First of all, please know that the overwhelming majority of artists I know gripe about hands, because they are hard. So if you’re struggling with hands, take comfort in the knowledge that you are in good company! Hell, I pretty much always use a reference, even if it’s just snapping a picture of my own hand in a specific pose so I have it to look at and compare.


So, most people have different ways of going about drawing hands. There’s a popular technique of drawing small circles at every joint, and a technique of making multiple little boxes for each finger. I frankly like a combination of the two – but first!

Map out the general mass of the hand. Pretend the hand is wearing a mitten. Put in rough blocks for the palm, and the area that encompasses the fingers. I usually do a big circle for the fleshy part of the hand where the thumb connects, and the thumb as a separate mass. This lets you get in the general proportions and position of the hand before you have a chance to make yourself insane with individual fingers:

Next, I like to map out the middle line of each finger, and the knuckles. This is probably a circle technique you’ve seen in some art tutorials. From left to right, we have the reference, the “mitten-hand” mapping out the general mass of the hand, and the “joint hand” mapping out all the knuckles and general lines of bone:

Each finger connects to the mass of the hand with a knuckle (though the bones of that finger continue on within the hand and connect down to the wrist), has a middle knuckle, and another smaller knuckle just below the fingernail. I usually mark the tip of the finger with a circle too. 

Now, I like to block out the segments of the fingers. Some people do this as cylinders, but I generally have better luck treating them as rectangular blocks – especially if the hand is at all flex! (look at your hand when it’s relaxed, then flex it into a “claw” pose. See how much more angular everything suddenly looks?)

Blocked out, it looks a bit like this:

From there, you can do more detailed contouring of the skin, and use the blocks as your guide to shading:

In addition to this, I strongly recommend that you get to know the bones of the hand – there’s no need to know what they’re all named (we’re not passing a medical exam), but at least get familiar where they all are – and where a lot of them protrude visibly through the skin. Knowing the underlying structure of the hand (or any part of the body) makes it easier to understand and draw realistically.

Lastly, remember that you have a reference attached to your wrist! Spend time practicing drawing your non-dominant hand. This gets easier with practice. Try holding your hand in different positions, like holding a pen or balled into a fist. The more time you spend drawing from life, the more you’ll recognize quirks of how the skin folds and how the knuckles bulge, and the more familiar and comfortable you’ll get with hand anatomy. 


1) The first big mistake I think a lot of people make is going for round, sausagey hands – like an inflated latex glove or Mickey Mouse hands:

Remember that hands are kinda blocky, and don’t let your lines get too rounded and your shapes too puffy. 

2) Another common mistake I see is making all the fingers equal length, and putting the knuckles and/or fingertips in a straight line. But there’s actually a curve to both!

3) And speaking of fingertips – the tapered, claw-like fingertip, with the whole finger narrowing to a point is another common issue:

While nails might be longer and sharpened (at least, if you aren’t a chronic nailbiter like yours truly), the fingertips themselves are actually pretty blunt, and only curve at the very tip!

Hopefully some of that was helpful! Good luck with your hand drawing, and remember that nothing beats lots and lots of good ol’ fashioned hand studies. :)

Cool detail in the Blade Of Marmora episode-

So we have Hologram Shiro and real Shiro, both show up to help Keith up after he collapses during the trials. They do so with completely different body language.

Hologram Shiro is unconcerned the entire time. Nor does he really acknowledge what the trial means to Keith. He reaches down and helps Keith stand one-handed, while staying standing himself, and lets go as soon as Keith is standing. As a result, it presents him as distant to Keith- when they’re standing and talking, there’s space between them.

Compared to that… when real Shiro shows up? He kneels and supports both of Keith’s shoulders, standing gradually with him, and then continues to support Keith with his shoulder, holding onto Keith’s arm with the other hand.

The distance, and lack of concern are not there at all. The other main difference is how real Shiro has his helmet on the entire time, while Holo Shiro seems to have taken it off. Holo Shiro looks more composed, but that makes him come across as really unsettling because he’s that composed interacting with a heavily injured and seriously distressed Keith- and even his commendations come across as creepy because it doesn’t really take into account what this means to Keith- just, “you’re the best, champ. Come on, let’s get out of here.” Compare that to how real Shiro, with certainty, before that scene, said that Keith will not stop- which was honestly the first red flag to me before we see real Shiro watching his illusionary counterpart. Even if Shiro disagreed with Keith going through with the trial, he’d never take Keith’s conviction that lightly. 

Shiro does genuinely try to remove Keith from the situation and stop the trial. But he does so in a completely different manner- Shiro has zero intention of Keith giving up the knife. When Antok tries to push it, that’s the only time in that scene Shiro lets go of Keith- to advance on Antok and block his weapon with his arm.

It sticks out to me in part because I love scenarios where you have a ‘fake’ version of a character and most of what gives it away is body language and behavior. But now it makes me wonder just how different the hologram of Keith’s father is from his actual self in terms of priorities and how he would actually have responded to that situation.

I mean, if nothing else… it stands that in the very first episode, Keith recognizes Zarkon’s symbol and has a particular, disquieted reaction to it, that doesn’t seem just directed at Galra Stuff in general. Keith had firsthand experience with the empire in some magnitude and some context- but his mother had a marmora blade, suggesting that she wasn’t affiliated with Zarkon and likely wouldn’t be carrying things with his symbol. So at bare minimum, I doubt the real person that hologram was based on would be anywhere near that indifferent to an invasion by Zarkon’s empire, even if somehow the desert shack could keep them safe. 

Sherlock Valentine's Day Challenge Day #8

Day 8 Prompt: You sure know how to show someone a good time

A/N: So I am challenging myself to write for different characters…as part of the VDay Challenge… so I give you my very first Mycroft x Reader. Enjoy!

You are exhausted. Your clothes are hanging off your body, you’ve lost track of how much weight you’ve lost. You barely recognize yourself when you look in the mirror and you hate seeing your beautiful hair dyed jet black. It’s makes your already pale skin look more sickly.
This mission has been particularly grueling, requiring almost a year of undercover work, infiltrating a Russian Terrorist cell. Lately, you’ve been getting more and more homesick for London. But the information you’ve been sending back to MI6 has been extremely valuable and you have a feeling that you’ve been getting antsy for an out because you can sense the end is in sight.
Two days after your last transmission you get the sign to abort. It’s a blank postcard in your post box from Cleveland, Ohio. You tear it into pieces and flush them, then remove the floorboards from beneath the kitchen sink and pull out your go bag and disappear.
You reappear in Bordeaux a week later. Your hair is bleach blonde now and cut in a sharp bob around your face. You stroll through the streets and treat yourself to a glass of wine. When you return to your flat, your trained senses immediate tell you something is off. You pull your gun and chamber a round before letting yourself inside.
“Jesus Christ, Mycroft,” you swear, dropping your weapon. “I could have killed you.”
“Come now, Y/N,” he chides you, “You’re far too well trained to make a mistake such as that.”
“What are you doing here?” You ask as your adrenaline rush begins to subside.
“You’ve been away a long time,” he says quietly. “And you’ve done an amazing job.” You raise an eyebrow at this rare compliment. “I thought I might do something nice for you, in return.” Now you are beyond confused.
“Nice?” You repeat.
“Yes, dinner and a show, perhaps? At Le Pressoir d'Argent? I mean, it’s is Valentine’s Day after all.”
“Valentine’s …? I didn’t realize…I’ve completly lost track of the days.” You stare at Mycroft, unblinking. You have always suspected that he had somewhat of a crush on you, but you never fathomed he’d ever have the courage to act on it. You feel a smile forming on your lips.
“Le Pressoir d'Argent?” You say, eyeing him coyly. “Mycroft Holmes, you do know how to show someone a good time.” You tuck your gun into the waistband of your jeans and cross the room to him. You tentatively place your hands on his chest and rise up to place a gentle kiss on his cheek. “I will have to change,” you whisper in his ear. “I will just be a moment.” As you turn away he grabs your hand and presses it to his lips.
“For you, I’d wait an eternity,” he replies, smiling down at you and making your heart flutter. “But do try to hurry, we wouldn’t want to be late.”

Something Good- Cassian Andor

Pairing: Cassian Andor/OC

Warnings: None!

Request: Some angst, some fluff, some desire for physical contact from our hero :)

Originally posted by kyloshipsreylo

I woke with a start, sheets tangled around my legs and a damp sweat clinging to my skin. My heart was pounding, tendrils of sleep clutching me and attempting to drag me back into the hazy nightmare. I sat up, burying my face into my hands. My palms pressed hard into my eyes, as if maybe if I pressed hard enough, I could block the nightmare out entirely. Make it go away, as if it had never been there at all. 

I couldn’t even fully recall what it had been about. Mostly colorless and filled with shadows. It was the feeling it had left behind, the cold, clamminess inside and out, that had assured me that whatever it was, it had been bad. I sat quietly in the darkness for a long minute, waiting for my pulse to return to normal. Although I already knew going back to sleep was not an option. It never was after a nightmare…I had been hoping maybe it was getting better. I hadn’t had one in so long.

The small, dark room felt like it was closing in on me, the need for space and fresh air overwhelming. I rolled out of bed and got dressed, pulling on the wrinkled clothing I’d left on the floor and shoving my feet into my boots. The door to my room slid open with the push of a button, but I hovered for a second inside the doorway. Waiting to hear voices or footsteps. Despite the late hour, I knew I wasn’t the only one awake. The base was never fully asleep, not when there were so many things to plan. Not when there were soldiers struggling to find respite from all the things they had done. 

When I was sure the hall was empty, I slipped out quietly and headed for the loading bay a few floors below. Just as I had been expecting, the silence ended as soon as I made it to the ground floor. People always seemed to be coming and going, never stopping. No one paid me any mind as I walked through the cavernous room and ducked outside, into the darkness. Not for the first time, I was thankful Yavin 4 was on its nighttime cycle. Several days of darkness meant I was less noticeable to curious eyes. The air was cool and I wrapped my arms around myself, walking around the side of the base until I was alone. I leaned back against the rough, stone wall and stared out at the jungle. More afraid of what was in my own head than what was out there. 

For years, the things I’d done in the name of peace had haunted me. All the killing. All the blood on my hands. It just seemed to get worse as time went on. And the fact that I could now do it so easily? Without so much as a second thought? That scared me more than I wanted to admit.

I suddenly heard the sound of footsteps. I didn’t move as a shadowy form came around the side of the building, walking straight for the tree line. They stopped a few feet away from where the wild began, just standing there. Staring into the darkness the same as I was, with heavy, slumped shoulders. They turned and my pulse thudded, though I had known who it was the minute he’d appeared. There was only one other person who turned up here same as me, night after night. One other person who looked just as haunted as I felt.

“Cassian.” I said in a quiet voice. With the lights of the landing bay casting a glow around the side of the building, I could perfectly make out the lines and angles of his face, the dark scruff of his beard, and dark eyes I knew were the perfect shade of brown. Like chocolate or the mud puddles I’d carelessly played in as a child.

One side of his mouth pulled into a small smile, though it didn’t quite reach the weariness in his eyes. “Another nightmare?” He asked.

I nodded, casting my eyes to the ground. “What else?”

“Me too.” I heard him say after moment. There was the sound of his footsteps coming closer before I felt him next to me. The heat of his arm brushed against mine, once again causing a foolish spike in my pulse.

He sank to the ground and I hesitated before sitting down next to him. His legs were stretched out in front of him, but I kept mine tucked against me, wrapping my arms around my bent knees and pulling them into my chest.

“Are we the only ones like this, Cassian? Who feel the way we do?” I asked, breaking the silence.

He sucked in a breath before letting out. “I sure as hell hope not. Maybe it’s not such a bad thing. I don’t know what kind of people we would be if we slept well every night. With everything we’ve done.” He paused a moment before continuing. “Maybe that’s the difference between good people and bad people.” 

It was conversation we’d had time and time again, ever since we’d first started running into one another during our nightly escapes for fresh air. At first, I’d been surprised. Cassian Andor was renowned throughout the rebellion…brave and fearless, strong, level-headed, and the type of soldier everyone aspired to be. Except I’d slowly learned that that was only a very small part of the Cassian Andor sitting next to me. A facade he put on every single day, only he pulled it off much better than I did.

“Is there really such a thing?” I murmured. “I don’t know if people can be purely good or bad. Seems too complicated.”

“Maybe you’re right.” He mused. “Maybe we start off good, but no one ever stays that way. Not with the the world the way it is right now.”

He sighed again and I cast him a look, watching as he pushed a hand through his hair. Sometimes when I looked at him, I could see visions of the type of man he might have been had the war never happened. He would’ve been the type of person who laughed and smiled a lot. Maybe even the type of man who loved carelessly, without abandon. Maybe I would’ve been that way too.

It was a game I sometimes played by myself, even though it brought more pain than happiness. And while I liked to think that if the world had been different, I could’ve leaned over and kissed him, told him how he made me feel, it was because the world was the way it was that he was even here sitting next to me at all. 

“Maybe, maybe not.” I answered, angling my body toward him. I placed my palm against his cheek, his beard tickling my skin. “Unfortunately, I think that’s all a part of what it’s like to be alive.” 

His dark eyes met mine for a moment, and I recognized the warmth in their depths. Something I was sure he kept hidden more often than not. I pushed some of his dark hair behind his ear and he closed his eyes at the feeling of my nails raking gently against his scalp, leaning into my touch. 

“If there was more of this, I might be okay with it.” He grunted, and one side of my mouth lifted as a sense of warmth washed over me. 

When my hand fell back, he caught it, sliding his fingers in-between my own. His palm was rough against mine, for some reason always a feeling I took comfort in. I squeezed his hand once and he squeezed back. A wordless signal that to me meant ‘it’s alright we’re not alright’. This was the only time and place it felt okay to admit it. 

Cassian had become my safe place, and while he never said it, I was certain I was his. The words and touches we shared never left our corner of the building. In fact, besides the occasional lingering looks or brushing of hands as we passed in corridors, we never spoke. No one would have ever guessed we were two strangers meeting in the dead of night to take solace in one another’s comfort for no other reason than we needed it. I needed him.

I stretched out my fingers as a content silence began to blanket us, comparing the sizes of our two hands. His was so much larger than mine, the tips of my fingers barely reaching the joints in his. I could feel his eyes on our hands as well, watching as I studied the differences while noting it was with these hands we’d pulled triggers that had ended lives. He seemed to know what I was thinking, grasping my fingers in his suddenly and lifting my hand to his mouth. He kissed my knuckles, sending a thrill through me before letting go and stretching his arm around my shoulders, pulling me into him. 

I scooted closer and let my head fall onto his shoulder, curling into his side. I breathed him in and closed my eyes, letting his familiar smell slowly chase away the remnants of my nightmare. Soap and leather. A scent I wished I could’ve taken with me everywhere. His own head dropped onto mine, his cheek resting against the top of my head.

“Tell me something good, Cass.”

He silently snorted, his shoulders shaking, which made a genuine smile creep onto my face. A small one, but there all the same.

“Today K2 didn’t recite the exact probability of my reckless flying getting us killed. And as an added bonus, he told me I looked horridly tired but that it somehow worked in my benefit.”

“How is that something good?” I asked, my smile growing and making me feel warm all over. I loved how he could do that to me. I could’ve listened to him talk for hours if it meant keeping that feeling forever. 

“Good is relative, remember?” He teased gently.

“Right, of course.”

His thumb traced circles against the outside of my shoulder and he suddenly turned his head, pressing his lips to my hair. The feeling sent chill racing up and down my spine. I melted, wondering not for the first time what it would be like to feel his lips against my skin, maybe even against my own.

“You already know the truth anyways.” He murmured against my hair.

My heart swelled, and the nightmare felt like a fading memory. 

“You are my something good.”

anonymous asked:

What is it for? That squirrel yer pet before or somethin'?

((OOC: Nah. This was actually a squirrel that my sister’s cat brought down. Which was impressive, because he was a big fella.

Basically, I was living for a time with a few friends who were part of the nature connections community, and through my experiences with them, I started expanding my views on death, and specifically the way animals are treated when they die. If you call town services and say, “Hey, there’s a dead squirrel on my lawn right now,” they’ll send someone over with a big black garbage bag, throw the squirrel in the bag, and then throw that bag into a dumpster with a bunch of other road kill.

I find that super disrespectful and wasteful, and I tend to think that, on the whole, animals deserve better. So, back to my old roommates.

They were part of this amazing program that taught kids about different aspects of nature. They’d go into the woods with a group of six year olds, say, and harvest a bunch of lemon balm, then take it back to the camp site to make lemon balm tea, or talk about how to recognize different animal tracks. And occasionally, they would find a dead animal, and talk about different ways to honour that life. And one of the ways to do so was through harvesting. You respectfully take home and preserve a part of that animal, and in that way, the animal is remembered, and its body is put to use. That, to me, feels much more right than tossing the body in a bag and leaving it in a dumpster to rot.

So, they taught me how to do some of these things. I found a dead squirrel one day back in the way back, and my roommate helped me to safely transport it home, check to make sure the squirrel wasn’t diseased or mangy, and then taught me how to skin it and preserve the pelt. I now have a squirrel pelt for an altar cloth.

I found this dead squirrel in my yard a couple months ago, and I wanted to do the same thing, but didn’t feel up to that whole big process, so I harvested the feet as I buried the body, kept the feet in a bag of salt to dehydrate them, and I’ve just sealed the wounds with beeswax so that they won’t run into problems with rot. Now I have a reminder of that life, and I have feet for my altar.

This is absolutely not for everyone, but is 1000% for me.))

Fitblr Tips: Self Love and Body Image

1. Love yourself now. Give yourself permission to love yourself. The body you have is the only body you will ever get. Love will take you so much further than hate. Give yourself permission to love the things your body can do for you, not just what your body looks like. Then give yourself permission to love how your body looks too. 

2. Never use poor intentions when you touch your own body. Don’t pinch fat, or wiggle flab. Caress, massage, hug, and always try to use positive intentions. 

3. Say nice things to yourself. When you look in the mirror, instead of focusing on the things you don’t like, refocus your gaze on your favourite parts. Tell yourself how wonderful they are “Good morning butt, you are looking cute today.” Say it out loud. This is remarkably hard at first, but give it a try. 

4. Recognize that every body is different. You can use fitness photos as motivation, but they will never work as goals. You are not them! And honestly, most of those people don’t look like that in real life either. Your body, but healthier, or stronger, or more flexible etc. should always be the goal. 

4. Don’t compare yourself to others. Like I said above, everyone is different. Your past, your present, your body, you life, your path- it’s different from anyone else. Thinking things like, “But she can run 10km” or “But she always makes the best choices when we go out to eat” or “But she has the best motivation and can workout every day” only lead to a negative comparison of yourself. Instead try to think things like, “I’m so proud of myself for going for a run today” or “That burger sure was delicious” or “I’m happy that I made it to the gym twice this week, next week lets go for three!”

(A table of contents is available. It will be kept up-to-date as new posts are added. Disclaimer: If you are planning on basing your own fictional magic system off an existing magic belief, please do extensive research into anthropology and discussions from people of that belief. Avoid direct appropriation and be respectful!)

Part Four: Transformative Magic

Magic doesn’t necessarily have to be restricted to the casting of spells and the creation of charms or talismans. Perhaps the magic you’re creating has elements of transformation in it. There are many aspects to transformation that you must take into account when creating this kind of magic, not the least of which is how the power came to be. Creating a magic that is based in transformation is less like building a branch or arm of magic and more like building a mini-cosmos of magic. All the considerations that go into creating this whole system we’re talking about must be considered with this one type.

Source: How can these powers be acquired? Is it an item that allows the transformation? Is that item person-bound, or can they hand it to someone else and it will work the same way? Perhaps a very particular situation triggers it? Is it something in the genes, blood, or another part of the body? Is it a magic that becomes a part of who they are? Was it a spell laid on them that is actually what has the power? Do they cast the spell or someone else? Can they cast it on something or someone else?

Rules: Every magic must have rules, things that govern how it works, and limitations. You must know how far this transformation goes, and the skills it bestows. You must know what it cannot do and the toll it takes on thing or person doing the transforming. Try to think outside the typical box. The most common trope is that the transformer is in danger of losing themselves to their transformed self, and that the longer they stay in that form, the more dangerous it becomes. While this makes sense, it’s been done and done and done. Try finding a new spin. You must stick to your rules. Once you state something cannot be done, don’t find a way to circumnavigate that. Work within your own lines or the power will begin to wash out the wonder of it.

Morphology: When you’re coming up with how the transformation looks, try to consider the medical side. Where are those wings coming from? Where do the extra teeth go? The exact morphology and making sure it’s completely medically accurate is unnecessary, but at least having put the thought in will help make your transformation more believable.

Technicalities: Clothes. I mean clothes. What happens to your character’s things when they transform? I answered a question a while ago about this, because it is honestly something I think about all the time when reading something where the characters change shapes. The Hulk tears out of his shirt and half of his pants while enlarging at the waist to still have some clothes. It literally doesn’t make sense. Unless you have thought up a system for their clothing to expand and change and accommodate new appendages, please make sure you think about what happens to that stuff. Things in their pockets, where do they go? Headbands and ponytail holders, do they just slide off? Do they become a part of the creature’s body or coloring? Do they fully shred or just slide off? Think about those little tiny details that will add a whole new layer of texture and reality to your magic.

Culture: Are these abilities common? How many others are there? Do they have any kind of culture when they’re together? Does that culture only remain when they are transformed, or do they also recognize it when they are in human forms? Is there a hierarchical system for different forms of transformation? How about the view of the culture that lives around them? How to outsiders view them? How to they view the outsiders? Are the powers considered a good thing or a bad thing? How does that influence how they use those powers? 

Next up: Taking character into account!

That @medicine discussed intersectionality when talking about the process of reclaiming slurs is itself both an important note and an example of a word that has gone through the process of appropriation as well as misappropriation that sublimation by mainstream white supremacist advocacy causes. Kimberle Crenshaw’s work on intersectionality is seminal both in talking about the assemblages of race and gender, and as a larger manner of discussing social justice movements. I have touched on this before, but any critique of “intersectionality” as a concept that does not acknowledge a fundamental importance and success in Crenshaw’s work is itself incredibly lacking, lacking in a fashion that I would call either dishonest or actively dangerous. Jasbir Puar does so in calling upon the notion of “assemblage” as taken from Deleuze & Guattari, in part blaming the sublimation of Crenshaw’s conceptual work by white feminism for a use of intersectionality to itself form an othering process, redeeming notions of an unaltered white subjectivity, implying the molecularity of whiteness by ignoring the manner in which whiteness directs intensities just as other striations do, albeit directing them in a manner favorable to those within whiteness. Language and semiotics within the loose field of Social Justice have been appropriated by whiteness to a deep extent, one that is evident in how a neat and frankly prescriptivist nature is expected of slurs directed in a homophobic or transmisogynist fashion.  

The manner in which Derrida talks about Bricolage as part of deconstruction is here additionally useful, as it allows us to conceptualize the process through which the signification of a slur is understood so that the forces behind it may be better described. The use of transmisogynist slurs both names a body as male, and designates it as that of a woman in a manner that begets violence for both of these qualities, not identifying it as male so that it may be further identified as man but rather that identification held up alongside a process of becoming-woman imposed by the gendering of the body in question. Similarly, there is a becoming-gay imposed in homophobic language, regardless of whether or not one indeed is gay. That faggot and dyke are used so interchangeably is itself part of what creates the problem of “reclamation” when one attempts to describe who may reclaim it and who may not. Following from this, the notion that the categories are themselves stable requires a specific assumption that ignores exactly how bodies are identified as targets for homophobia and transmisogyny. 

In attempting to discuss the way in which the word faggot is applied to trans women, many make the mistake of accepting coercive sex at birth as an ontological category worth considering, rather than part of the assemblage through which trans womanhood is realized. By using a commonality in coerced sex to link two groups, one essentially naturalizes sex as a category around which advocacy can be centered, rather than simply recognizing a previous discursive designation. Coerced sex as a material condition is different from it as a meaningful reality, which is itself different from coerced sex as ontological marker. Reclaiming slurs, as a process, is based in constructing an acknowledgement of the targeted group, and using language in a manner that signifies not the intended violence of the slur, but an affinity or a resistance to that violence in a specific act of deconstruction. 

Far too much discussion of reclaiming slurs related to gender and sexuality fails in this deconstructive act; rather than the difference (and Derridean differance) at play in the deconstructive power of a reclaimative act, it stabilizes the same tension but in an apparently opposite fashion. The shifting, contingent striations along which sexuality and gender are constituted are inscribed with a certain stability through this process of failed-reclamation, and to not acknowledge this is simply poor theory.

By popular demand, I continued the Jasico Soulmate High Shcool AU. There will still be one more part after this.

Also, I just realized this fit the weeklypjoprompts High School prompt. I was planning on doing something else but unsurprisingly i haven’t finished it yet.

Part 1 is here.


He recognized that shape.

The mark wasn’t completely visible, but the top part definitely looked the same as the mark on his own body. Nico stared. He needed to see the rest of it, but how was he going to manage that. Just ask? “Hey, excuse me, let me just look down your shirt real quick, I think we might have the same mark.” Yes, that would work well. especially if he was wrong.

The lesson continued as their teacher went over the different topics they would be expected to cover during their discussions, but Nico didn’t hear any of it. His eyes kept glancing back at Jason, wondering if it could really be possible. And if it was, what then?

Jason wouldn’t be happy about it, that’s for sure. He probably expected his soulmate to be a pretty cheerleader, or something like that. Not a scrawny guy half his size who didn’t participate in any school activities, had basically no friends and spent most of his time in his own room.

Keep reading

Truth Is Not Something You Want to Hear

I am in Los Angeles again. Or when I began this I was and now I am on a plane flying away from Los Angeles and I am pretending I am a robot. I wish to feel nothing.

Why are you always in Los Angeles, someone asked. I’m not but I have been here a lot recently. Los Angeles is a woman and that’s all that needs to be said.

I have been traveling so much. I was home for five days last week and I needed to cook. I needed to eat something made by my own hands in my own kitchen that I could prepare and consume on my own time. I turned to Martha Stewart for “fake out flautas.” I spent more time than I am comfortable admitting trying to understand what the fake out meant. When I figured it out, I was like, “I am not very bright.”

The recipe called for black beans so I rinsed a can of… black beans, drained them, and put them in my shiny silver bowl I use quite a lot because I need to upgrade several areas of my life and one of those areas is “stuff to use in the preparation of food.”

Then I added chopped tomatoes and green onions because I am allergic to red onions. As you can see, my knife skills need A LOT of work. I will work on that. CHOP CHOP CHOP.

I have been mistaken for a man quite a lot lately and it bothers me. I am a woman. I am large but I am a woman. We have such narrow ideas about femininity. When you are very tall and wide and, well I guess the tattoos don’t help, you all too often present as “not woman." 

The truth is, I am bothered because of something that runs deeper. For a very long time, I only wore men’s clothes. I very much wanted to butch myself up because I understood that to look or present myself like a woman was to invite trouble and danger and hurt. I inhabited a butch identity because it felt safe. It afforded me a semblance of control over my body and how my body was perceived. It was easier to move through the world. It was easier to be invisible.

As you may have noticed from some of my writing here, I am changing, or I am trying to change, or I am trying to find the person I would have been if if if if if.

This is, really, all musings toward the nonfiction book I am writing. 

I am not a girly girl now and I never will be, but a butch identity no longer feels right. It hasn’t felt right for many years. I suppose I don’t know how to bridge that gap. I don’t know how to find the courage to wear more color, to wear more feminine clothing, to push back when people call me sir every goddamned day. I mean, I’m sorry but my boobs are enormous. And I don’t think I have a manly looking face. And I comb my hair even if it is short. But why am I offering up these excuses? Why do I care what people think?

Then I added some salt, pepper, and lime to the mix because I wanted to "build a flavor profile.” I learned that phrase from Food Network.

I sometimes hesitate to write about bodies and my body here. I have seen a couple posts on other blogs where people have said it makes them uncomfortable. I respect that sentiment and fat acceptance is fucking important but I also believe that part of fat acceptance is accepting that some of us struggle with body image and haven’t reached that place of peace.

The thing is, I don’t hate myself even though the world often thinks I should. I hate how people treat and perceive me. I hate how I am extraordinarily visible but invisible. I  hate not being desired by the people I wish would desire me. I have it wired in my head that if I looked different this would change. Intellectually, I recognize the flaw in the logic but emotionally, it’s not so easy to make sense. I hate not fitting in so many places where I want to be.

And… I want to run. I want to be a runner. That is weird and unexpected for me but I just want to feel free and I want to have opinions about sneakers and I want to feel adventurous and see things from not a car window and that would be easier if I was carrying less weight, in well, every sense of the word.

I want to have everything I need in my body and I don’t yet. but I will, I think. Or I will get closer. I am feeling braver. I am feeling, finally, like I can shed some of this protection I have amassed and be okay. This is new. So again, I don’t hate myself. But there are things I want and things, frankly, that I need. I am not young but I am not old yet. I have a lot of life left and my god, I want to do something different than what I have done for the last twenty years. 

I understand body acceptance and self-love and I believe in those things. I believe in healthy at any size. I am working on getting to a better place emotionally about accepting myself at any size but I am also going to work on getting smaller for me, not for you, or “society” or anyone else.

This is my truth.  I understand if that truth is not something you want to hear. It makes me uncomfortable, too. 

There were other preparations to be made. I pre-heated the oven to 425 degrees even though I have a conspiracy theory about my oven. It never really achieves the temperature it should. Lies. 

I added Monterey Jack cheese to twelve small flour tortillas. The recipe called for corn tortillas but I do not like corn tortillas. I really don’t. They taste weird and gritty in my mouth and I don’t like that. 

Speaking of lies, I had the travel day from hell on Thursday. At 7 pm, when my flight from IND to LAX was supposed to take off, I noticed that the board said, “ON TIME” but we were sitting at the gate. And the departure time was 7 pm. This is when American Airlines began to demonstrate that sometimes, they are very very terrible a the one thing they have to do–transport people from point A to point B. The gate agent offered up a desperately vague explanation about a “mechanic” inspecting a “passenger door” even though that plane had literally just flown in from LAX and everyone disembarked from that plane alive. Thus began a shit show of epic proportions. 

Every half hour there was some new lie or vague “update.” We left around 10:30 pm in a plane with no water or lavatories. We were diverted to Chicago instead of having our direct flight where we were to board a new plane. Of course, in Chicago, we had to wait for new flight attendants. Around midnight, we left Chicago. On the plane, the flight attendant brought our meals and said, “This is the same food from your first flight that has been sitting cold for hours. Don’t eat it.” Then I got sick, and had the shakes and threw up in the world’s tiniest airplane bathroom. We landed around 2:30 in the morning.

Normally, this would be the end of the story but I was being punished, and for what, I am not entirely certain.

It took half an hour to get our luggage. At 3, I stood out on the curb, as designated and waited for a Thrifty shuttle bus to take me to the car rental. It never ever came. I called Thrifty at their corporate number and talked to two horrible people who told me they had no way of contacting the LA outpost of Thrifty to inquire about the shuttle. I was on the edge and I was losing my shit. I, of course, shared this ENTIRE saga with Twitter because I needed some goddamned empathy.

Then, the second Thrifty representative told me, “Ooops, we cancelled your reservation because your flight was delayed.” Tears were smarting at the corner of my eyes. About fifteen minutes later, a shuttle bus for Alamo/National appeared and I just got on it. That bus could have taken me anywhere and I would have been fine with it. At Alamo, I rented a car without any hassle, then drove to my hotel, where because it was so late, they had not held my room I reserved. My credit card, which had available balance, was also declined. It was 4:30 in the morning at this point. I had to wait half an hour to be able to call the bank, which mercifully, was in EST, to unfuck whatever was fucked. Turns out, it was the hotel’s fault. “Of course you have money,” the kind bank lady told me.

I was shoved into a very shitty room, where THE BED WAS NOT FULLY MADE. That is, the sheets were half off and I could see the mattress. I have some insane hotel quirks, one of which involves hotel mattresses, so for ME, this was the last goddamned straw. Privilege problems, yes but still. I lost my shit entirely. I checked out of that hotel and went around the corner to an obnoxious fancy hotel well beyond my means and promptly checked in because I needed someone to be nice to me and offer me pillow chocolates and free bottles of water. I went up to my room with the keys and they did not work. THIS HAPPENED THREE TIMES, me going to the lobby, wearily saying, “These keys don’t work,” the lady making new keys instead of trying to be more proactive, and then finally, a bellman let me into my room. It was six am. Once alone, I fucking sobbed my ass off, tried to fall asleep but couldn’t, so just lay in bed feeling quite hopeless and miserable. 

I put the tortillas into the oven for about three minutes to pre-melt the cheese.

The good news after that horrible saga was that I was in Los Angeles, the city of my heart. Los Angeles is a woman and we had lunch at Public School 310. She had this brussel mash bacon thing and this set of tiny tacos. I had a roasted poblano stuffed with quinoa and this green rice and we shared some french fries with sirracha ketchup, all wild choices because she teases me about my picky eating and I was trying to be like, mature and adventurous and shit. My food was good. The rice was excellent actually. I will admit, though, that I do not care for quinoa and I will never care for quinoa. I am a bad vegetarian. 

I also don’t like kale. It’s so… tough and the vegetable version of gamey.

When we are together, our time is stolen. This time, especially. Every minute mattered. I wanted to slow time down. I wanted to pull each minute apart and find ways to slow down the seconds into something more like forever.  

Next I added the beans and such into the tortillas, rolled them into flautas, brushed them with olive oil, and put them in the oven to bake for a spell of time. I couldn’t trust the recipe because again, my oven is a liar.

After she got off work, we went to a cemetery and I learned that is something she loves to do and it’s one more thing we have in common. For a while, we drove around. Then we sat in the car. We talked about everything and nothing. We got out and looked at graves and imagined the lives, the stories of the people over whose bodies we stepped as carefully as we could. I gave her a graphite heart and she gave me a red heart. 

I was in LA, theoretically, for a reading and workshop so we went to the reading. Before I went, there were four MFA students reading some lovely things–a story about a girl becoming a mermaid (but not the way you think), and this really great send up of comic books, and this fierce lesbian poetry and a story about a boy’s emerging sexuality and how he is betrayed by his family.

Writing is such an amazing thing, what it allows people to do with their voices.

The poet read a poem about no longer loving straight girls and we laughed and looked at each other. It was a moment. We held hands and I could feel the gentle throb of her pulse against the web between my thumb and forefinger.

For some reason, I had been having a craving for pineapple salsa so I went rogue and decided to try and make some WITHOUT a recipe. I thought, “Ina Garten, please be with me.” I chopped up a bunch of pineapple and also snuck some bites because pineapple is citrusy and delicious. CHOP CHOP CHOP.

I read my essay, “What We Hunger For,” which is something I rarely reading in public. There is always a moment when my chest tightens and my voice catches but it felt necessary to share the piece with this particular audience. I felt strong as I read. 

And then we were back in the parking garage, trying to steal a little more time, She is the only person from whom I don’t pull away when we embrace. Minutes can hold so much and yet feel like so little. 

The next day I hoped we would see each other, but it wasn’t possible, and that left me a little hollow but mostly, I was still just so content with the time we had already shared. I gave a workshop that afternoon. I thought it would be for twelve people. There were more like 200 there. It was crazy but we talked about how to write personal essays that look both inward and outward and I think it went well. No. I need to be more confident. It went well. 

I added some corn to the pineapple because corn is delicious. 

We actually saw each other two weeks ago as well, when I was in the city on book tour. We met in my hotel bar and drank and talked about everything and nothing. We went up to my room and marveled at the comfort of the bed. We went to my reading and then a French restaurant, with other friends, and we were waited on by a French waiter who was so hot. He was really just peak hot French waiter. I wanted to show him I speak French to like, flirt or something, but I was tongue tied. I kind of just pointed at the menu. I had a vegetable gnocchi that was delicious. She had steak tartare which looked fascinating and frightening. It was easier to say goodbye that time because we knew it would not be for long. 

Next, it was time for a bit of kick so I added green onions to the salsa as well as a bit of tomato. Again, my knife skills are terrible. I know this.

I love Los Angeles. I don’t know why. It’s one of the few places where I consistently think, “I could live here.” The traffic is shocking, particularly for a small town girl like me. But. It’s also overwhelming and beautiful. In the sunlight, you see all these bright glints of light from the shiny cars. At night, there are ribbons of red and bright light streaming through the freeways. The traffic is omnipresent at most hours of the day and so after a while, driving in it, at least for me, becomes meditative. It requires a certain surrender. 

Surrender is something, as I’ve mentioned here before, that I am often thinking about and exploring–allowing myself to surrender, trusting people to whom I am willing to surrender, surrendering to time and place and circumstance, surrendering most of all, to accepting that there are sometimes things you very much want but cannot have. 

You cannot have salsa without cilantro. I added an obscene quantity, along with lime, salt and pepper. I mixed it all together. (Next time, I will remember to add jalapeno.) I mixed everything together and let the salsa sit and contemplate and try to become it’s tastiest self.

How do I explain what I am feeling? How do I explain the constant pull? The lightness of being when we are together? How the memories linger and sustain? How do I surrender all this?

The flautas were ready and they came out of the oven. I wanted them to be browner so next time I will let them stay in my lying ass oven longer yet.

Last night, I drove out to Mullholland Drive because I wanted to see the city glittering at night from on high. It was a lovely drive, again meditative. Here are some things I saw during that drive—the Vivid headquarters, Laurel Canyon, a windy side street populated by girls in bikinis even though it was 10 at night and 57 degrees outside.

I stopped at an overlook and interrupted a couple having sex in their car and then I awkwardly stayed to enjoy the view, not of them, but of Los Angeles, that beautiful mess of a city. The sprawl is just a hell of a thing to behold. Oh Los Angeles, you are trouble and I am in trouble. 

I topped the flautas with some salsa and I ate them and I really enjoyed them and am already planning on some flavor profile upgrades for the next time. All in all, this was a pretty easy dish to make and also pretty healthy. My presentation skills suck. If this were Chopped, the judges would look at me, sadly shaking their heads.

I get dating advice quite a lot and the number one thing I’m told is, “you have to be open.” I appreciate this advice but sometimes, it’s frustrating because I am open. I don’t have a “list.” I think it’s other people who need to be open. I just needed to say that. 

The reception my novel has been getting is overwhelming. I am so proud and grateful and excited to write a new novel, one that shows what I learned writing my first.

In An Untamed State, I wrote the book I wanted to write but I also wrote the book, I needed to write. I wanted people to see one version what trauma looks like or I wanted to show what one version of trauma looks like.

My novel is fiction, entirely. But. Several people, and some, notably in my family, keep saying I am Mireille. That is true, I suppose. There are parts of me in her though she is her own woman with a story different from mine. This is something I know, though. In the novel, Miri says, “I am not an easy woman to love but I am well loved. I try to love well in return.”  

That could describe me, too.  

Mama Knows Best

Inspired by many tweets about people picturing Donna thinking Felicity had an affair with the GA. + prompt by FebruaryGreen on Twitter where Donna finds out Oliver is the GA.


Felicity frowned, putting her tablet down. Her mother had been staying with her at the loft ever since she had called off the engagement. At first, she had planned to move away but Oliver had insisted. She was still recovering from her surgery and even if her legs had started to work again, her muscles weren’t as toned as they used to. He wanted her to be as comfortable as possible.


“Can… can you come over here?” Donna’s voice reached her from the upper floor. There was an uncertainty in her tone that made Felicity quite wary.

“Is everything alright, mom?” She asked as she made her way to the stairs, grabbing the baseball bat her mother had insisted they kept nearby.

“Yes, just… come, please.”

“Mom? What’s going -” Felicity stopped mid-sentence, gaping as she took the scene in front of her.

Her mother, Donna Smoak, was pointing a gun at the Green Arrow. Who was currently pant-less in the middle of her bedroom.

“Mom! Lower your gun!” Felicity yelped as she came to her senses. Priorities. First, take the gun away. Then… try to come up with a believable reason to have an almost butt naked vigilante in your bedroom.

Oliver was still partly in the shadows, so his face was at least partially concealed. He was raising his hands above his head, not moving. She knew he would never risk anything that could possibly hurt her mother, and that included stray bullets.

“Felicity. This man is obviously a deranged pervert. Call Quentin!” Donna hissed, her eyes staying on Oliver.

“No, he’s not, mom!” Felicity tried to reassure her, glancing at Oliver. She carefully put the bat on the floor, slowly walking to her mother.

“I found him in your dressing room, taking his pants off! I’m from Vegas, honey, I’ve seen a whole bunch of weirdos and a man breaking into a single woman’s apartment and taking his clothes off is not good!”

“Mom… it’s not what you think it is. Please, put the gun down. No one is in danger here.”

“Your daughter is right. I would never hurt any of you” Oliver said, his voice modified.

“No! It’s not because he’s a vigilante that you’re safe, honey! Call Quentin!”

“No, mom. I… I know him” Felicity said.

“What do you mean, you know him?” Donna asked “Oh. Oh my… Oh no. Sweetie, is that why you and Oliver broke up? Tell me you’re not having a fling with the Green Arrow. I knew you never got over that stupid crush on Robin Hood!”

“I… I am not having an affair with the Green Arrow” Felicity said quietly as Donna finally put the gun down. She let out a sigh of relief, and could see Oliver doing the same from the corner of her eyes.

“Then why on earth is he butt-naked in your room?!“

“I… I’d really like to know that as well, actually.”

Oliver’s modulated voice reached them “Technically, I am not… butt-naked. I’m wearing underwear.”

“Listen, mom. I’m sure he has a very good reason, so why don’t we give him a bit of privacy to do… whatever he came to do so then he can leave and go… arrowing people?” Felicity grinned at her mother, trying to lead her out of the room.

“Actually… I might need your help, Felicity” Oliver said, his voice strained.

It was only then that she noticed that he was trying to not put weight on his right leg.

“Are you hurt?” She asked curtly.

“Nothing too bad. Knife. I only need stitches.”

Felicity nodded, grabbing her mother’s arm. She gently guided her to the bed, forcing her to sit down.

“How… how long has it been going on?” Donna asked.

“I’ve known him… for a while.”

“Does Oliver know?”

“… Yes.”

“But that’s not the reason why you broke up?”

“No, mom. It’s not.”

“Ok, honey. You know I love you more than anything in the world and nothing could change that.”

Felicity stared at her for a moment “Hum. Alright. What does it have to do with anything?”

“If you and Oliver were involved in a menage a trois with the vigilante, I won’t judge. That would certainly explain why I found you wearing that hood the other night, now that I think of it.”

Felicity gaped, her cheeks flaming up “That is… that is so not the case, mom.”

“Sweetie. It’s fine. Some people like BDSM, others like cosplaying. As long as everyone is healthy and consenting, there is no harm done” Donna patted her hand reassuringly.

Oliver coughed, trying to get their attention.

“Mom. Stay put. I’m going to patch him up, OK?”

“Ok, sweetie” Donna answered in a trembling voice, her eyes wide as she watched him hopping his way to the bathroom.

Felicity helped him, letting him rest some of his weight against her. They were almost out of the room when Donna’s screech stopped them. Despite his wound, Oliver swiftly turned around, hiding Felicity behind him probably more out of habit than anything else.

Donna was standing near the bed, her mouth gaping “Oh my God… Oliver?!”

Oliver’s head swapped from Donna to Felicity. Despite his mask, she could see the surprise in his eyes.

“Mom, no he’s not -”

“I am not -”

“Oh cut the crap, both of you!” Donna said as she walked towards them. As soon as she was in front of Oliver, she lowered his hood. She then took a step back, crossing her arms on her chest.

“I believe you’ll have a few things to explain to me when you’re done with him, young lady” she scolded her daughter, raising an eyebrow.

Felicity quickly helped Oliver, who had a nasty cut on the back of his thigh. He had applied a compress, but Donna had interrupted him before he could leave for the arrow cave to get Dig to take a better look at the wound.

With Donna knowing, there was no point to have him put his suit back on to leave, so Felicity left him to take a shower and change in regular clothes, joining her mother who was pacing in the living room.


“Oh my goodness. I can’t believe it! Oliver! The Green Arrow!” Donna squealed as soon as Felicity arrived at the bottom of the steps “I just thought you had a fetish and honestly everything makes so much sense now! When I found those leather cuffs in your dressing room the other day, I figured you were into kinky stuff, like I was at your age and-”

Felicity interrupted her, not willing to hear more about her mother’s sex life “How did you even figure it out?!”

“Oh, honey” Donna smiled, her hands resting on her daughter’s shoulders in a comforting gesture  “I’d recognize that ass anywhere.”

“Mom!” Felicity whined, hiding her face in her hands.

“As if you never noticed that part of his body before you started dating” Donna snorted.

“… that… that was different” Felicity mumbled.

“Please tell me you had a bit of fun with him in his suit before you broke up?”

Felicity groaned, not bothering to answer.

“Really? None at all? What is wrong with you?” Donna asked, disappointed “I can tell you that I got Quentin to put his uniform on at least twice…”

Felicity sighed, trying to block her mother’s voice. A small movement at the top of her stairs caught her attention. Oliver was standing on the top stair and judging by the uncomfortable look on his face, he had heard her mother clearly.

“Sorry” he mouthed before turning away, probably planning to leave the same way he had come in.

“Oliver, don’t you dare!” She shouted to his retrieving back. You coward.

“I wonder if Quentin is into this leather cosplay” Donna rambled, not paying attention “I know there is also a woman in black, do you think he’d like it if I-”

“No!” Felicity cut her off “Oh no. Believe me on that one, mom. He wouldn’t like it at all.”


Thanks to @pidanka who checked this for me, as usual :)

Tagging the lovely crowd:  @hopeful-warrior@uniislame@mymusiclove101@ohmyollie@angelalafan@bluemorgana@flailykermit@scu11y22​ @musicxlovexshipper @leagueofolicity17@charlinert@otpruinedmylife@lastthoughtbeforethefall@lexi9515​  @matt-goes-nyoom@nannett2307@felicityqueenforever@miriam1779@lovewilltakeu @being-a-grownup-sucks @ourwritinginvein @bytemegeekette @coal000 @sissy452 @lerayon

PS: I received an anon prompt last week, so if you’re the anon and you’re reading this, I’m working on it ;)

It is intellectually lazy and actively complicit to assume that desire is both fixed and somehow exempt from the potential to be changed, expanded, or undone.

Especially for people who operate with the understanding (and rightfully so, in my opinion) that we have internalized hierarchical and oppressive notions of personhood (including but not limited to white supremacy, anti-Blackness, transmisogyny, ableism, fat hatred, misogyny, classism, and more), that impact how we interact with each other both structurally and interpersonally, and that unlearning and reorienting ourselves against these is a life-long and daily process. How is desire not also informed by these things? How is it not merely another category of the oppressive things we have been taught about each other that needs to be interrogated? Why does the potential to unlearn end there? Like, yes, desire absolutely impacts our most personal and intimate aspects of our lives… and so do these systems. To accept that this one aspect operates outside– or within, but untouchable– is a choice.

And when I talk to other culturally ugly people about this, it feels so apparent to us. (Not always, of course, but to some.) That we have had to interrogate and adjust our desires to be more compatible with our desirability in the world. So it feels more apparent that when people who are not culturally ugly refuse this possibility, that it’s only because they can– they don’t want to or have to. Because something about colonial and white supremacist formations of desirability works in their favor. And I don’t believe that just because patriarchal masculinity and other colonial notions of desirability (thin-ness/muscularity/cis-ness/tall height/not disabled etc etc etc) exist on bodies of color that sometimes benefit from them make them any less white supremacist; rather, what this means to me is that white supremacy has become so insipid it has begun to absorb and reproduce itself on to the colonized subject.

And while, yes, one could make the argument or assumption that this framework logically concludes in the desire for everyone, I don’t want to say that, nor am I sure I believe that’s true. What I do believe is true, however, is, at least, the potential for desire. And the absolute acceptance that desire is fixed forecloses that possibility, and is that not antithetical to the foundational frameworks of a queer potential? And, at the very least, have queer men–particularly those who accept a refusal of potential for desire to women or femininity–not considered how our desire might be influenced by misogyny? While I’m not saying it absolutely is– or always is– is it not worth at least considering?

And all this is not to say that I am excused from complicity or that all of my desires are entirely decolonized, because I am not and they aren’t. What this is to say is that this is what I have learned from my experience in a body positioned as abject on multiple axes. That I have to believe there is the potential for desire to be changed. In part, because I have seen it in myself; in how my desires–including what kinds of people I am attracted to, what kinds of sex I want, and how frequently I want it– have changed and expanded based on my experiences and history (situated concretely in this body). And I have to believe it so that I can desire myself. Because many of the things I was taught to desire are the same things that oppress me (these are not unrelated), and there comes a point where the active and uncritical participation in these things becomes a participation in my own oppression, and I absolutely refuse that. And there comes a part, too, when participation (including complicity) from the people in my life transcends to a participation in my oppression as well. And how can I have people in my life like that? And of course, for people with different bodies, what might be participation in one type of desire might actually be homecoming for another. I recognize this. I just also believe that desires can be varied and fluid, and that attraction to (x) does not need to imply or preclude the possibility of attraction to (y) [especially given so much variance in both (x) and (y), and every category; having categorical ‘preferences’ feels so imprecise it’s almost absurd].

This is all to say: desire, for me, will always be political– for better or worse. I also understand this is not important to everyone, or might not feel possible for everyone. I literally don’t expect it to, and especially not folks who are not culturally ugly and undesirable. It is so incredibly difficult, and it is so much easier to passively accept what we have been taught. But I like to think it is important and does feel possible for those in my life– which extends to those who would follow my Tumblr and read my writings, but especially to those in my life in the most intimate ways– because if not, why are you here? If it feels like you don’t respect who I am and what I do? To benefit off the labor informed by the same things you will deny? I deserve better. I have decolonized enough to know, at least, this.

butterflies-summertime  asked:

Oh God.... Henry is not male or female, the Bible did not recognize him.... Though he still believes and wants to be a part of the "group "

Henry is not OT5 but rather non-heterosexuality. Comforting Louis and letting him know he is mot alone, allowing Liam to discover himself and leading Harry to a place to learn about who he really is. Wow! Lady Gaga has a male voice yet a female body. Is that how Harry sees self?  Why is his journey so different than the others? I don’t think it has to do with the celebrity persona.

I think like any piece of art, it’s subjective. So there’s the possibility for many interpretations and none are necessarily wrong. I think in general, those who get the subtext are on the same wavelength.

I considered whether Henry was another version of Harry because of the similarities of the names. Like maybe Henry was “private” Harry and Harry the superhero is “public” Harry. But I also really like the idea of Henry representing all of them and being a Greek chorus of sorts.

Lady Gaga may sound that way because a guy did all the voices. LOL Or maybe to give her a more supernatural feel because her character is on another level.

And I think Harry’s journey is different because it’s a reflection of his experience. Harry was definitely chosen to be the break-out star, which brought about his encounter with the Abominable Snowman aka the fame monster. He was in danger of losing himself and not discovering how he can use his fame for more than just getting more famous.

Liam is currently on a different journey too. Liam is battling public perception, entitled fans and the impact that’s having on him. It’s confusing and distracting and impeding him finding his way and figuring it out.

Both of them are dealing with the side effects of celebrity while trying to find themselves. And Louis and Zayn are the ringleaders, determined to push forward and do better even though the struggle is real for both them and their partners. Niall is the constant, the touchstone, the backbone, the kind and understanding rock. He feels stress too, He has his own life to deal with. And yet he’s solid.

Like I said, there’s lots of angles you can take, but they’re all leading to one general overall theme. It’s really fascinating. It’s much more than a cartoon just as 1D has a lot more going on than just being a boyband. 1D are all so aware and sharp and defiant and I’m so proud of them.


this is a very long long long one so i’m sorry i drag some things out in it, but i just wrote whatever came to. and i would like to say a gigantic thank you to itsluke5sos for writing the smut part for me due to the fact that i have no idea how to write smut oops. BUT THANK YOU LINDSAY !!!!! okay so in the picture i just put random pictures of calum and then your hair and makeup ok okokbye.


the way his lips moved against mine felt different than usual. usually our kisses were full of lust and need but this kiss was full of something i couldn’t quite recognize. the way his hands gripped onto my hips as if his life depended on it sent me over the edge. he continued to try and pull me closer to his body but there was no way we could get any closer to one another.

“okay guys, can you both move this to your room?”

we pulled away from each other quickly at the sound of ashton’s voice. my hand reached up to my swollen lips, the feeling of his lips against mine still present. even though he was standing in front of me glancing from me to ashton, i could still feel his lips against mine.

“use protection..” ashton mumbled as calum grabbed my hand yanking me from their hotel and into our’s.

his dark brown eyes stared at me for a moment before a sly smile fell onto his lips. he moved closer to me, closing the two feet radius he had set up between us, and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear as i looked up at him. it felt like an instinct to wrap my arms around his waist as i did it without thinking.

“as much as i want to take you right there on that bed right now, i’m not going to..” he whispered, his thumb running along my bottom lip.

“why not?” i asked, pouting playfully at him as he chuckled softly.

“because, my love, i want to take you out. just me and you.” he said to me taking me by surprise.

“are you sure? what if the pap-”

“i don’t care about them. i want to take you out and i will.” he said again, his voice harder now. “does that sound okay?” he asked again, his voice soft. i nodded and he smiled, cupping my cheeks with his large hands and pressing his lips to mine.

the kiss was soft and gentle and once he pulled away i was yearning for more. i couldn’t get enough of this boy.

“okay beautiful, i’m gonna go over to michael’s and let you get dressed..” he said making my heart flutter at his nickname.

“okay, thank you.” i whispered shyly as he walked out of the room leaving me where i had melted into a puddle.

i literally pranced into the bathroom like a ballerina, stripping from my clothes and turning on the shower. i washed my hair and made sure to shave, everywhere. after i had washed everything and was fresh and clean, i stepped out wrapping a towel around my hair and body. what the fuck am i supposed to wear? i tried to stay calm as i could as i washed my other makeup off that had come off in the shower. is this like a casual thing or like a fancy dinner date? should i text michael and ask? i think i’ll just do that. i walked out of the bathroom, still in nothing but my towel, and grabbed my phone from where i had laid it on the bed earlier. i text michael and firstly asked if calum was even there, he said yes, and then i asked what i should wear for him to take me out, which he replied with something casual and comfortable.

okay that was the answer i didn’t want, but actually did want to be honest. i didn’t want it in the first place because my casual and comfortable is like sweat pants and a tank top but a guys casual is like jeans and a shirt. i guess i could wear some blue jean shorts and a dressyish shirt. (i’ll put the outfit somewhere.)

it was around five o'clock when i was finally finished getting ready. my makeup was finished, my hair was straighten, and my outfit was looking gucci af. im sorry, i just went slightly ghetto. okay, so am i suppose to go to michael’s room or just sit here and wait for calum.

after five minutes of just sitting on the bed trying to keep my heart from racing at the thought of calum and what would occur on this very bed after we got back from wherever we were going, i decided to leave our hotel room.

as i closed our hotel door, i kept my hand on the door knob. i just confessed my love to him and he’s taking me out? did that mean he liked me or even loved me back? what am i getting myself into?

being so deep in my own thoughts, i didn’t even hear the hotel door open two doors down and calum walk towards me until his hand had brushed against my bicep, causing chill bumps to arise on my skin. it nearly made me jump out of my skin as he whispered my name. i turned to face him, his hair more perfected than before and his attire totally different. he wore a black, short sleeve t-shirt with drop dead written on the front and his sleeves slightly rolled up on each arm. on his bottom half he wore his usual black skinny jeans and his black vans. he looked so sexy in all black. i was like the black made him look tanner than he already was. his hair was styled like it was before my fingers were running through it relentlessly.

“you okay?” he asked softly, his hand still on my elbow.

“um, yeah. i was just trying to remember if i got everything i needed.” i said lying straight through my teeth as i plastered a fake smile onto my lips.

“okay, are you ready?” he asked again, leaning his shoulder against the wall next to our bedroom as his touch left my body. i nodded and he smiled, resembling a puppy. his hand outstretched to mine and i hesitantly took it in mine.

i was still trying to get used to every coupley thing he was throwing at me. we’d never actually held hands before unless we were going through a big crowd or we were in private.

i know what im about to say is gonna be very cliche, but my hand fit right in his. like it was made just for me. nobody else’s hand would connect to his like mine did; like a puzzle piece. as we arrived at the elevator, a smile had invaded my lips.

“why you smiling?” he questioned, poking at my side as we walked into the elevator, alone.

“because i’m not used to this side of you,” i said, turning my attention to my shoes shyly.

“what side are you used to?” he whispered, his body coming up behind me as he wrapped his arm around my shoulders.

“the calum that would fuck me up against the elevator door without thinking twice..” i whispered, looking to my left to look at him as he propped his chin up on my shoulder.

“i can fuck you up against that wall right now, baby girl.” he growled lowly, his teeth nipping at my neck as i giggled.

as he went to turn me around the doors opened and we were in the lobby.

“lets hope there’s no fans out here, but if there is just stay by my side okay?” he said as he grabbed my hand once again squeezing it.

i nodded as we exited the lobby doors. thankfully there was no fans but papz were everywhere.

“calum is this your new whore?”

“is she pregnant?”

“you guys are cute together!”

that was the only positive one i heard. the other ones were like knifes in my heart. they stung harshly due to the fact that that’s what people think of me. just because i’m with someone popular in the music industry. i’ve was friends with luke before he even started this band thing. luke was like my first bestf-friend. that’s how i met calum-through luke. we weren’t always like friends with benefits, we were very good friends. then last year at new years something’s happened and you know the rest.

“hey just ignore them okay? their just trying to get a reaction..” he whispered, his hands gripping my shoulders as we arrived at a black van. this was usually what the band used to get around. i don’t know why he just didn’t use the rental car he had gotten at the airport. “that’s all those fuckers do is talk shit and try and get a reaction..” he muttered again, anger showing in his voice.

i sat down in the van with a glum look on my face. it was true. well one of them was.

“i am a whore..” i muttered under my breath, leaning my head back onto the head rest.

“can you take us to the pizza place on third(i dont know what roads are lol), okay thanks..” calum said to the driver which was one of their body guards. “you listen to me, you’re not a whore. what makes you even think that?” he asked with a bewildered expression on his face.

“because calum for a year and a half all i did was fuck around with you behind everyone’s back. i’m whore and a slu-”

his hand grabbed my chin making me look at him. the look in his eye slightly frightened me.

“you are a whore and a slut, but you’re my little slut and my little whore. no one else’s but mine.” he whispered lowly, his eyes never leaving mine. “not to the eye, to me and only for me.” he whispered again, his lips pressing to mine hurriedly.

i hope the driver hadn’t heard him. i was literally shaking in my seat once he had released my chin. jesus christ, can he just fuck me now? he’s making me all horny and everything and he’s being a fucking tease. maybe i should do the same. a lightbulb just went off in my head.

“we’re here.” the driver said as he pulled up to a curb.

calum thanked him and said he’d call when he was done. i hopped out of the van behind calum, ignoring his hand that he sent to me for help. i pranced over to the door of the pizza place and opened it for him, usually he’d do this for me but i just felt like doing it.

“i’m suppose to do that for you, missy.” he said pointing his finger at me playfully as he walked through the door.

“it’s ladies first.” i smirked, smacking his butt as he stood at the little sign that said ‘wait to be seated’.

“you need to stop it.” he said, placing his hand over his butt as he stared at me sternly.

“make me..” i whispered, moving to stand in front of him. i made sure to press my butt to his crotch area hard as we waited for a waitress to seat us.

i heard a groan escape his lips as his hands moved to grip my hips, “i know what you’re doing and we both know who is going to win..” he whispered in my ear, nibbling on my ear lobe before pulling away.

a lady finally walked over to us and took us to a small secluded table in a dark corner. it was so cute in this place. i took my seat as calum took his right beside me. there was four chairs at the table and we were only using the back two that had our backs towards the window.

“this place is so cute!” i said, folding my hands together under my chin and leaning my elbows on the round metal table.

“just like you.” he said, placing his hand on my thigh as a different waitress walked over to our table.

she glanced to me and then to calum, her eyes widening slightly as she stared at him for a second. she was a lot younger than the woman who seated us, she looked around our age, she obviously knew who they were.

“so, um, would you guys like to start off with something to drink?” she asked, her voice shaking slightly as she pulled out her notepad and pen.

“two waters please.” calum said smiling at her with his thousand dollar smile. “oh and can we go ahead and order aswell?” he asked again making her nod her head rapidly.

“yeah, that’s fine.” she said, her voice stronger than before.

“okay, we want one medium pepperoni pizza.” he said, glancing to me for approval and i just nodded.

she nodded and said that she’d have our drinks out in a minute.

“she was so cute.” i whispered to calum as his hand squeezed my thigh slightly.

“when their shy like that i always want to just say would you like a picture but i don’t want to sound conceded.” he whispered back to me as she approached our table with two waters.

she smiled at both of us as she placed them on the table along with our straws.

the rest of the “date” went as steady as steady goes. like we’d done it a hundred times before. like a professional. we couldn’t finish the entire pizza so we got a togo box for our leftover pizza, guessing that luke or someone would eat it.

calum paid for the food and we stood up from our seats. out of the corner of my eye i could see our waiter staring at us. as calum went to walk away, i grabbed his elbow and yanked him back to me.

“go get me a togo cup please. make sure you ask our waitress for it.” i said smiling at him as i pressed my lips to his cheek as an offering.

he obviously knew what i was trying to do as he walked cooly over to the counter, his smile seeming to make her melt. me too girl, me too. she nodded her head and began to fix the cup, calum continuing to conversate with her as she made the cup. before i knew it, he was holding her phone out in front of him and her as they both smiled widely. he gave her a hug and then walked back over to me.

“so cute!” i exclaimed, pinching his cheek as he walked back over to me.

“stop it,” he whined, swatting my hand away.

we finally made our way out of the shop as calum began to tell me that she had gone to their concert yesterday night, but her seats were like nosebleed seats.

“aren’t you suppose to call that guy and tell him to pick us up?” i questioned as he grabbed my hand in his and began to walk down the sidewalk.

“our night isn’t over yet, babe.” he said smiling cheekily at me as a blush crept onto my cheeks. “we are going to a few stores since it’s still daylight outside.” he said, almost in a questioning way.

“sounds good, where are we going first?” i asked swinging our intertwined hands back and forth.

“well, i wanted to go to vans and buy me a pair and after that we can go wherever you want to go.” he said, pointing to the vans store right next to us.

i nodded and we walked in. calum bought a pair of bright red vans with black lining on them. after thirty minutes of walking in stores and out of them without buying anything we somehow ended up in victoria’s secrets.

“THEIR HAVING A SALE ON PANTIES!! CALUM!!” i exclaimed running into the store without him.

i love their sales and their panties okay don’t judge me. i walked over to the large bin of underwear strewn everywhere as i felt a hot breath of air on my neck.

“jesus, i’m gonna get a boner just imagining you in this shit.” he muttered, his hand gripping my hips harshly.

“you can stand outside if you want to so you don’t get caught with a boner in public.” i giggled, turning around to stare at him.

“i might just do that, here.” he whispered, reaching into his back pocket.

“no, i don’t want that. i got it.” i said turning away from him quickly declining the credit card.

i felt his hand slide into my pocket as he pressed his lips to my neck, “you better buy some pretty ones to model for me tonight.” he whispered making a shiver go through my body as he pulled his hand from my pocket and walked out of the store.

i bit onto my lip as i continued to rummage through the underwear. now he’s making nervous about the pantie choosing. it was ten for twenty five(idk how vs does sales so just go with it). i quickly picked my ten and went to pay for them.

as i walked out of the store calum was by my side in seconds. his hand went to peek into the pink bag and i swatted his hand away.

“it’s a surprise.” i whispered glaring at him playfully.

he rolled his eyes at me as i placed the card back into his hands. “i called john while you were in the store. he should be here any minute.” calum informed me as i began to scuff the bottom of my shoe against the pavement.

“that was fun.” i said shyly, pushing a strand of hair behind my ear as i looked back up to him.

“it was very fun.” he said softly as he wrapped his arm around my shoulders, bringing me into his chest.

i laid my head on his chest, the sound of his heartbeat causing me to flutter my eyes closed. his hand ran up and down my back basically making me want to fall asleep right then and there.

within a few minutes john pulled up and we hopped in, heading back to the hotel.

-at the hotel-

“you guys share it. don’t fight.” i said as i sat down at the counter of the kitchenette in luke and ashton’s room.

calum stood beside me, leaning over the counter with his chin in his hand.

“so how’d it go guys?” ashton asked sitting on the other side of the island.

“it was really fun.” calum and i said at the same time making us look at each other.

“looks like it. calum got a boner at victoria secret’s.” luke laughed staring at his phone screen. my eyes widened as luke turned his phone to us a picture of calum standing outside vs a very evident you know what.

“okay well atleast i didn’t get mine on live tv.” calum argued back as luke’s cheeks flushed a dark red. “come on, (YN). lets go.” calum said, tapping my shoulder as he began to walk over to the door.

“bye guys.” i said waving to all them as calum basically forced me out of the room and into ours.

i placed my bag on the bed as he placed his bag from vans by his suitcase.

“stay out here. i’m gonna do something.” i said to him as i picked my bag back up and began to walk to the bathroom.

i sighed heavily as i stared at myself in the mirror. you can do this. this isn’t different than any other time you guys have fucked. that’s where i was beginning to second guess my self. it felt like the first time. like i had to impress him somehow. i rummaged through the bag looking for a certain pair i knew he’d like. they were light pink lace with a small black bow on the front. i stripped from my clothes and slid the panties on my body as i glanced around the bathroom frantically. i spotted one of his shirts laying on the ground and picked it up sliding it over my body. it was a grey mesh styled shirt with the word auto on my right. the sleeves were already rolled up slightly so left them that way. the shirt hung to just below my butt so i picked it up on my hips before i exit the bathroom.

-his POV-

i sat on the bed in nothing but my boxers, rubbing myself through the thin material. i could hear the bathroom door creak open making me look up from my hardening member.

“come here babe,” i groan. she comes in, only wearing one of my shirts and her panties. her eyes widen a bit. i pull her closer by her wrist, pulling her into my side. “babe, i’m so horny for you,” i whisper against her ear. i stop jerking off and push her shirt up till her tits come in view. “i love these” i whisper and wrap my lips around one of her nipples. she pants and moves her hand towards my erection. she starts jerking me off again with those soft hands of her. “i’m not gonna last long babe,” i moan.

if she keeps going like this, i’m gonna cum all over her hand and stomach. she would look gorgeous but i’d rather come inside of her.

i push down her panties and she steps out of them. i move my hand between her legs and cup her core, rubbing over her folds. “cal,” she squeaks.

“i know baby girl,” i groan, grabbing the hand that’s still jerking me off. “stop please,” i beg her, not wanting to cum yet. she nods and stands on her tippy toes to capture my lips. i move my hands towards her bum, pinching the soft skin. i grab her bum and lift her up on the counter of the bathroom. she spreads her legs so i can stand in between them. i move one of my hands back towards her core and start rubbing her clit roughly in circles. she starts moaning against my lips, trying to close her legs around my arm. “keep them spread baby,” i whisper against her lips.

“cal,” she moans, grabbing my wrist in her hand. i take her hand from my wrist and pin it against the mirror.

“i need you so bad baby,” i growl in her ear, sinking to my knees. “place your feet on the counter,” i say and she does as told. i spread her legs wider and lick up her slit, tasting her sweet pussy. i moan and do it again, wanting to eat her out for the rest of the night. she grips my hair hard and yanks on my strands.

“patience baby girl,” i say as i bury my face into her pussy, shaking my head before licking up to her clit and sucking hard on it. she starts bucking her hips up towards my face. i give the side of her thigh a slap, trying to get her sit still. she stops bucking her hips up and throws her head back. i move my tongue over her clit in kitten licks, knowing she loves it before i suck and pull on her clit with my lips. i move my lips down her slit and move my tongue over her entrance before sticking it in, moving my tongue in and out of her at a quick pace.

she starts whining and moaning, grabbing my hair more roughly and throwing her head back. her thighs start shaking. i move away from her pussy and stand up again. “come here, bend over for me babe,” i say, giving my cock a couple of pumps while watching her bend over for me. i move the tip of my cock a couple times over her wetness before i push the tip in. she pushes her hips back, making me slap her ass.

“calum please,” she moans.

“calm down baby,” i say, stroking over her bum and back. she looks back at me in the mirror, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. she’s watching me desperately, begging me with her eyes to fuck her already. i chuckle lightly and push further into her. she closes her eyes and moans loudly. “that’s it right?” i ask her and she nods. i grab her hips tightly in my hands and start fucking her at a slow pace. she tries to make me go faster, bucking her hips against mine. “keep still right now or i’m stopping,” i say and stop my hips.

“no calum, don’t stop please,” she says, stopping her hips immediately. i could never stop fucking her if i wanted. she feels too good to pull out. too warm and too tight to suddenly leave her again.

i grab her right shoulder in my hand and pick up the pace, snapping my hips against her bum, sending her into oblivion. her mouth opens and her eyes roll back but no noise is coming out. “i’m not gonna last long baby girl. you feel too good around me. and when i was jerking off, i couldn’t stop thinking about last night,” i groan, making her moan. “that’s right baby. i couldn’t stop thinking about your pretty little pussy,” i groan.

“calum,“ she groans, slamming her hand against the mirror, trying to hold onto something.

"you’re gonna cum baby? are you going to cum all over my cock? huh?” i ask and she nods, resting her cheek against the mirror as well, taking everything i give her.

“i’m gonna-i’m gonna cum,” she moans out, her eyes closed.

“good girl,” i say and stroke her soft back. i feel her squeeze around me, showing me that’s she’s close. i reach my hand around her and rub her clit harshly, trying to get her to cum before me. “c'mon pretty girl,” i whisper, pinching and playing with her clit.

“cal,” she whispers followed by moans while she cums around me, her thighs shaking. i hold her up by holding her hips, her legs almost giving out.

“you look so good baby. so wrecked,” i moan watching her face. her cheek is still resting against the mirror, her hair messy, her cheeks red and sweat covering her body that i need to hold up or she’d fall to the ground. “i’m close baby. just a little longer,” i groan, trying to get off as quickly as possible, knowing she’s sensitive. “i’m gonna cum deep in you baby. i’m so close. it’s not gonna last long anymore,” i groan, feeling my release go through my body. my pace is getting sloppier and i bury myself deep in her, feeling my cum spurt out and deep into her. “god (YN), you’re so good. so pretty,” i moan, rocking my hips back and forth, riding out my orgasm. “such a pretty girl for me,” i whisper and lean over her to kiss her cheek. i pull out of her and lift her up from the counter.

i carry her bridal style to the bed, my shirt still enveloping her tiny body.

"you okay?” i ask her as i lay her down onto the bed.

“fucking perfect.” she whispered smirking at me as she slides underneath the soft duvet of the hotel bed.

“can i tell you something?” i whisper to her as i sit down on th bed next to her. she nods and looks at me with all the care in the world. those fucking eyes. “that right there didn’t feel like all of our other times. something felt different about it.” i said to her my eyebrows furrowed together.

she holds a smirk on her lips as she stares at me.

“maybe it was love?” she questions shyly as she crawls out from underneath the cover to wrap her arms around my neck.

“was that what it was?” i asked her smiling at her as she sat down on my lap. she nods shyly again as i peck her nose, “i liked it.”