i have no idea what i've been working towards all this time

anonymous asked:

If the art was that good people would see it anyway. Without the artist needing to reblog it 100 times

I see you’re stemming from liv’s @larvesta own answer about this and I’m not gonna lie, I’m really hesitant about saying anything on the matter bc i don’t do this kind of thing but I realise people actually think this way so here’s a proper answer. 

It doesn’t work that way. I should know, I should really know. People here on Tumblr get lucky often and you wouldn’t think that, especially if you don’t create content yourself. Things just don’t become popular all of a sudden, most of the time it needs to get reblogged by the right person and add the balance between having good content yourself as well as an ongoing status as a creator. Not to mention how you go about treating your followers, your personality and how you act here. And you’ll tell me; “But people with good art have so many notes! It must be because they’re good! See, you don’t need to reblog it so many times!”

I hope you know what it feels like to be an artist here because I do. I especially do. I have talked, reblogged, supported, and have met so many, too many artists here, some insanely obscure. Some whose work looks like it took so many hours and has very little over 50 notes; my work included. And I can tell you now that I can personally handpick and tell you that some of the work I’m most proud of and have took many hours on are not over 200 notes. I’m not saying I’m frustrated by that, because some of us are reassured in our skill but let me tell you that every time I think of a fellow artist out there who releases amazing art and earns very little notes who looks at their note count and wonders if they are good enough, my heart breaks. And there’s young artists who are still getting by, who are not as good yet but took the same amount of effort and time, they deserve to be cheered on. 

Because people think artists here are machines, capable of creating content without regards to who actually appreciates it. No one is like that, artists are fragile just like everyone else and people really forget that. They really do. 

People don’t just see the art out of nowhere, do you understand the huge amount in this platform? There’s millions of work everywhere, you need to be supported to be seen, you need to withstand the thousands of others around you and you might have to create something that’s away from the norm to stand out, you might have to take hours of your time. You don’t know unless you really indulge yourself this platform, you don’t know unless you yourself do work for more than four hours, no breaks and absolutely tired, and look at your note count to see a disheartening number. You have no idea, you really don’t.

And don’t guilt them, please. I could reblog my art so many times, but sometimes the thougt of ‘maybe it gets annoying’ always bears in my mind, artists are made to feel like it’s okay that they’re not being appreciated. I’m proud of those who reblog their art because they know they deserve better, and guess what? They do.  

There’s a difference between good content and popular content, popular content aimed towards a specific audience that you know will like and reblog that. Good content is a dangerous hit and miss. I really appreciate people who do art for things that are not popular, because sometimes they really do have to rely solely on their skills. I say it’s a dangerous hit and miss because you know it might not have that specific audience, but you still take the effort and time into it anyway. Imagine that; knowing something is popular but going for the alternative anyway; taking time, taking effort, putting your all into it. That’s absolutely insane, man. Imagine knowing you can put that time and effort into something popular that might attract way more notes, but still doing something else for the sake of that something else. 

Also there’s the matter of timezones, in which there’s a worldly concept that everyone is in different times and not everyone is here at the same time to see the same content. I don’t want to explain this; please at least understand the concept of time. 

Artists reblog their work because they want others to see it, to appreciate it. Because sometimes it’s the only way others can. Reblogging their own work is an artist’s way of supporting themselves and you think I’m going to let you let them think that that’s a bad thing? That they’re not allowed to do that? Go home, buddy. 

I don’t have anything against anyone, I just wrote this realising that people actually think this is actually how it works and even then, I don’t have anything against you, maybe you’re just misinformed, some just don’t know enough about this to really understand. 

So here it is buds: support artists supporting themselves. It’s as simple as that. 

anonymous asked:

So I've been very lazy with my studying toward witch craft and therefore I'm going back to the beginning~ lol. Any advice for a little witch?

Some Advice for Getting Started:

Originally posted by gameboydemakes


*Start with things that interest you!* 

I know i get terribly bored very quickly (gemini curse lmao) so i find that if i dive into stuff i’m interested in learning about, that it will tend to hold my attention longer and help me get back into the swing of things! So in my example one of my first things i researched when i was starting out was about Crystals and their properties/uses in magic! From there i was able to use that as a sort of base jumping off point for my magical practice! And if you find something you were learning about doesn’t seem like it fits you/your style/ your practice then drop it and move on to the next thing! 

*Ask Questions!*

No Questions Are Stupid Questions  No Questions Are Stupid Questions  No Questions Are Stupid Questions!!!! Questions mean you care enough to try and learn more about something! I’m pretty much always here and will try my best to answer as best as i am able And if I can’t i will do my best to help direct you to someone more knowledgeable!


*TAKE YOUR TIME!*

This one is important because most of the time i feel like i see baby/beginner witches try really REALLY hard to “reach the same level” as other witches as quickly as possible when in reality that just hurts THEIR path in the long run. Your path is your own, take it at your own pace. Enjoy the little bumps along the way and find the “Roses of your Path” (the things that make you want to stop and appreciate them: the satisfaction of calling your first Storm, the chill of the night air when you set out your first Full Moon Water, the spark when you find that one crystal.) Enjoy it. Enjoy your path, Enjoy your Craft. 

*Use the Things you Already Own!*

Another thing i see beginners getting hung up on (myself included, i was/am extremely guilty of this lol) is wanting to go out and buy a ton of supplies. try looking around your house for things that can be re purposed. Old Spaghetti Sauce Jars can be cleaned and used as spell jars, deity altars/shrines, or ingredient storage! Take pictures from old magazines and make a collage Altar on paper! Use a composition notebook as your Book Of Shadows! Your old broken glasses case can be used as a case for your portable altar! Dig around and see if there are extra candles you haven’t used in a while! Wash out and save those eggshells from your cooking to use as spell ingredients! It takes some creative thinking but you can reclaim pretty much anything for your craft!

*Look for Bargains!*
For one thing prices can be outrageous for actual craft materials: like Crystals and Gems? Truly truly truly outrageous. So keep your eyes peeled for bargains and deals! Some of the best places to look for things on the cheap would be Dollar Stores, Flea Markets, Thrift Shops, Garage/Estate Sales! Most of the time in those places you can try haggling to get things at a cheaper price (or get more for less.) It really just depends on the place but you can find the most interesting assortments of things! Keep your eyes peeled in your general day to day life as well see if there are sales at your local grocery store for seed packets, seasonal items/holiday items (look for the sales afterwords to really save haha) The internet is a great place to look, i know Ebay has sellers who sell raw crystals/ crystal chunks by the pound. There’s also places to buy spices in bulk too 


*Don’t Compare Your Path to Others!*
Your Path is Your Path, Their Path is Their Path.
Being online and part of the witchy community in tumblr means that there are a lot of ideas being shared from people’s paths and their views on how they think magic should be practiced. What works for them might not work for you and vice versa. Only YOU can decide what is best for you and your path. and on that note:

*Figure Out What YOU Want Out of Your Path!*
When you get some time, sit down and write out all the things you want to get from your path and think critically about how you want magic to work in your daily life. Do you want it to be Super Formal or more casual? perhaps a mix of the two?  Test the waters! Try things once and if you don’t like it then you know and can move on to the things that work better for your lifestyle/craft/path!
Some examples from my list that i can think of right now would be:
-Better knowledge of Crystals/ Crystal remedies and their healing properties
-Daily research -aka tumblr-
-Appreciating Nature more (Whenever i go on walks with my dog i try to pick up some litter if/when i see it)
-Daily Deity appreciation  -aka deity aesthetic reblogs to @theemeraldgod & Pintrest-

Helpful Links for Beginners:
Sww Master List of Tags- Here’s my main hub of things that i tag feel free to look and see if something interests you!
Altars/ Altar set up Advice- My long winded post about what to put on your Altar.
My Beginner Tag// My Beginner 101 Tag- There are two tags because they have similar information, the 101 tag is for more ‘Hey I just started today what do I need to know’


Anyways thanks for sending this in! I’ve been meaning to make one of these for a while and this finally gave me the excuse ^^

-oOo-
StormWaterWitch

Or Nah (One - Shot)

Or Nah: Reader and Bucky are doing their routine workout before an extremely important mission, which doesn't go as planned when Bucky shows her his own playlist he made.

A/N: I've always wondered what would happen if Sam introduced Bucky to some really dirty songs! I was dying while writing this haha! If you want to hear the song while you read it’s right here! :D I hope you guys like it! ENJOY! - Delilah

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: Very dirty song lyrics, pls beware lol. Bucky being a flirty little shit. Slight secondhand embarrassment. 

You let out a small sigh as you placed the weight in your hand down. You had been in the gym for a solid two hours, working out for the mission that was coming up later that week. It was a pretty big one, and you wanted to make sure you were ready for anything and everything. Bucky, who would be your partner for the mission had agreed to join you for the workout, and to your surprise, he even offered to chose the playlist. 

Ever since he and Sam had been hanging out more often, they’ve been able to catch him up on various modern things, mostly music. You knew that Bucky had been spending time listening to the new wave of music on his little ipod you had given him for his birthday, but you had no idea what songs Sam had put on there for him. 

You and he had grown pretty close ever since Bucharest, and dare you admit, you liked him. A bit much for just friends, but you’d never tell him. There were sometimes when you swore he was reciprocating your feelings, but you always brushed it off as simple flirtatious teasing. Steve always said that’s how he used to be back in the day. 

You just figured it was some nineties rap or something, which wasn’t unlikely. 

The last song had ended, leaving the two of you in that awkward five second silence before the next song began. 

Do you like the way I flick my tongue or nah?
You can ride my face until you dripping cum
Can you lick the tip then throat the dick or nah?
Can you let me stretch that pussy out or nah?

Your eyes nearly fell out of your head at how wide you were staring at him. He paid no attention to you, as he was in his own little world. He lowly sung along to the song as he lifted the weights in his hands. The way he spoke the lyrics, you knew damn well that he had heard the song quite a bit. 

You swallowed loudly as you watched Bucky work out. The black tank top he wore clung to his body, which was glistening with a thin layer of sweat. His arms flexed in such a delicious way each time he brought the weight up, almost as if he was showing off everything he had. 

His hair was pulled back in a messy bun, with a few rebellious strands falling in front of his face. Your eyes analyzed the way his jaw clenched each time he flexed, and the way his lips pursed. His brow was furrowed with concentration as he worked out, his eyes staring forward at the grand mirror in front of him as he watched himself. 

And Jesus, that metal arm. It shifted and clicked with each movement, and you honestly found yourself wondering how on earth you could be attracted to a prosthetic limb. Regardless, you’ve wanted it and him. 

After making sure you weren’t drooling over him, you peered back up at his face, expecting him to still be in his own little world. But to your horror, he was staring right at you. His mouth was curved upwards into a little, fascinated smile as he watched you. Regardless, he continued singing along to the song. 

You gonna run it for these hundreds, girl, or nah?
Show me is you really ‘bout your money, girl, or nah?
Don’t play with a boss, girl, take it off
Take it for a real one
You gonna get it all

You watched as he sung to you, his eyes traveling down your body. You blushed even deeper as you took in the raunchy lyrics. You had no idea why Sam would introduce him to this. Steve would probably have several heart attacks at once if he showed up. 

Bucky set down the weights in his hand with a loud clank, pulling you out of your thoughts. He made sure to give you a show as he reached behind himself and slipped the tank top from his body, tossing it to the side. He made his way over to the chin up bar, which was located directly across from you. By now, you were trying to relieve some of the arousal that was pooling between your legs by pressing them together. 

Bucky placed his hands on the bar, and slowly began lifting himself upwards, peering over at you, still singing those damn lyrics. 

Is you really 'bout your money or nah?
Can you really take dick or nah?
Can I bring another bitch or nah?
Is you with this shit or nah?

Your eyes immediately went to his body, watching as every single muscle flexed as he lifted himself up. His gray sweatpants hung low on his waist, giving you a perfect view of the V of his waist. You so desperately wanted to see just a few more inches, but you knew better. He was teasing you, and you were falling right into the trap. 

Not being able to take it anymore, you stood from your seat and began walking towards the bench press. You lie back onto the bench, pressing your hands onto the bar tightly. But before you could even get started, you felt a pair of hands wrap around your legs and pull you away. 

You squeaked, trying to balance yourself. Before you could sit upwards, you were pressed back down by a metal hand. Bucky hovered over you, smirking devilishly as he placed both of his hands on either sides of your head, trapping you underneath him. You felt so small, and couldn't fight the blush that was now spread throughout your chest and face. 

Girl, is you sucking me or fucking me or nah?
Can I bring another bitch? Let’s have a threesome
Keep saying you’s a freak, you gon’ prove it or nah?

“Hey, Buck,” Sam called as he entered the room. His eyes staring down at the ipod in his hands, completely unaware of what was going on in front of him. 

“I think I accidentally took yo- WHOA!

You immediately covered your face with your hands. This was not what you hoped the outcome would be at all! You were hoping for some steamy make out sessions or maybe even Bucky’s head between your legs, but this was absolutely not what you wanted. Sam would never let you guys live this down. 

Bucky cleared his throat awkwardly as he stared at his friend, his eyes flickering between the two of you with a sheepish smile. 

“Man,” He whistled as he listened to the song blaring from the speakers. “I always knew you were a closet freak, Y/N.’” With a cackle, Sam turned on his heel and exited the gym. 

Not before calling over his shoulder that he had a very interesting story for dinner tonight. 


-FIN!

Tag list of super awesome people!

@sebbylover24 @softwintersoldier @jezzula @amrita31199 @ballerinafairyprincess @harrisbn @gingerbatchwife @livforthegames @abigailredgrave @queen–valeskaxx @crazinessgraveyardsandcartoons @r3stl3ss-minds @diana-daydreamer @barnescrazy @jamesbarnesblog @sebbyismyking @4theluvofall @sad-af1121 @the-lazy-leprechaun @chou-maitresse @claryfray1698 @twinklingstarlight @netflixa @winterboobaer @ihavetwobuckystomyname @ifoundlove-x0vanessa0x @i-write-tragedies-and-sins @melconnor2007 @dracu-ma-bucky @answer-the-sirens @jenna-luke @shieldagentofthemonth @witheringblooddemon @bellaballanda @confuzzled-panda @astralbarnes @38leticia @marveloussssworld @imsecretlyromanburki @callmeoncette @christynjay @lostinspace33@nottheopera @shadowpriestess6 @buckyappreciationsociety @hellstempermentalangel @omgpandagirl14 @buckybarnesfiend @societalfailure @vacam79 @meganlane84 @persephone-is-here-omg @feelthemusicfuckwhatheyresaying @mrssgtjamesbuckybarnes @say-my-name-assbut @mariathedorkydragon @icedragoncred1763 @cassandras-musings @empathiccally @watergirl1996 @supersoldier-buckybarnes @abovethesmokestacks @the-winter-avengerrrrr @behindthesehazeleyes27 @loricameback @vindictivegrace @fandomlover2001 @avengersandlovers @under-dah-sea @ktrivia

gab-soon  asked:

Hi :) I've been following you for like forever. I think your art is amazing and it really gives me lots of inspiration to paint. I always wanted to create my own comic and now finally after years I have some good ideas but tbh I'm a little lost about how should I bring it to another level from just few ideas. Do you have any tips on how to work on your story? And how long it took you from idea to the point you started drawing Carciphona?

Hi! Thank you for writing : D I’m glad you like my art!

Even though I do try to become better, at the end of the day I do everything I do mostly for fun so I don’t have proper knowledge to back it up. Everything I can answer is based on my experience, right or wrong, but I’ll try my best to theorize what I think is the right answer for you.

I started the comic not because I thought I was ready; I just thought it’d be fun to draw the comic and I already had some material (keyword some). In these 12 years of drawing Carciphona, even in the recent years, long after I’ve started the comic, I’ve made some pretty major changes that made the story and plot almost unrecognizable compared to before.

The gist of my advice is just don’t worry about reaching a goal or next level for your story, that’s a really objective way to think about creativity and it usually makes you worry more than be creative.Even if you can’t come up with anything, you needn’t feel lost, just don’t write anything. It’s not always time to write or create. Think over what your world is for now and wait. When you know your story better, you will have more questions that will lead to more ideas for your story, just like how you won’t know you need to learn anatomy until you’ve actually drawn something and then saw the gaping hole in your knowledge about anatomy.

This to me is immersion and I only like writing when I feel immersed in what I am working with. Immersion takes time, so no matter how hard you work, it’s inevitable that you will have to give your story idea months or years to really feel natural for you to work with, and this is probably why you are feeling “lost” now–because you don’t really know your world and character all that well yet to be curious about its unknowns, and you want to move forward but you cannot. It’s likely that instead of patiently waiting for that understanding and then expanding on what you already have, you’d want to make your world more exciting by adding details like more races of people/creatures, more characters, more locations etc. This is a lot easier to do as you can see tons of characters created with little context on a daily basis, but if you force it to become more complex this way just to satisfy your standard, you are most likely going to come up with a story that is unrelatable, irrelevant and not believable (ie. character’s actions feel arbitrary instead of natural, the world consists of races and groups of characters that have no relation with each other or with the world from which they came).

I enjoy the slower method of waiting to feel immersed with my characters and world over time, and then being able to naturally continue the story by asking myself questions with that unconscious understanding of how the world and the characters are like. I think it’s important to think of your story in an inquisitive manner rather than authoritative manner. Rather than tell your world/your characters what they are, ask your characters/your world, why it is the way it is. What is the reason for certain cities to be so much more guarded or prosperous compared to others? what do they have that others don’t? Why do the characters feel so willing to travel instead of staying home? What does that say about the climate of society and civilian life, and maybe the lack of attachment they feel towards home and loved ones? who are these loved ones and what are their lives like, even if they will never appear in the story? Asking questions in this manner makes you explore the background which grounds the world and makes it the way it is–the “why” and “how”–rather than making up random facts and characters just like filler–the “what”. It makes it so that your world and their events, and your characters and their lives, exist within the context of the people and things that surround them, rather than just existing because you willed it. This makes for a solid foundation by giving you lots of gaps of information to fill and be creative about, all with information relevant and reasonable to your world. By working like this, I’ve never hit a wall with my writing in the sense that I am out of things to do with my world; I might have days or months where I cannot solve one puzzle about my story world, but I know it is not a loss of direction as much as simply another aspect of my world that will eventually make sense to me as I understand my story more in time.

good luck!

do not ask me where this came from. it just appeared in my mind fully formed and i wanted to write it and considering i haven’t wanted to write anything properly in months, well… i decided to go with it.

basically, this is how i imagine the post-reveal discussion happening once the dust has settled and the fighting has stopped (aka how i dream it happening because lbr we won’t ever be this lucky!)


He stood in the doorway, watching as Aaron slipped out of his jeans and climbed into bed. They hadn’t spoken in an hour. Robert knew because he’d been glancing at his watch every few minutes, waiting for Aaron to erupt and kick him out. He had been expecting it all day, but even as Aaron raged, hands balled into fists, eyes watery with tears, he hadn’t told Robert to leave.

A miracle.

“Stop hovering and get over here.”

Robert jumped, hitting his shoulder off the door-frame. Aaron glanced up for a moment and then slowly, cautiously, patted the duvet. His feet moved without him, desperate to be closer to his husband even if he was just waiting for the rejection he knew was coming.

He clambered onto his side, limbs awkward and gangling, feeling like a teenager waiting to be scolded. Even in the narrow bed there was still a gap between them. Robert felt sick.

Aaron sighed and then slid further under the covers, lifting his arm and looking to Robert who just stared back.

“I’m not gonna bite. Come on.”

He stayed staring for a moment, too dumbfounded to move, and then felt himself falling into Aaron’s embrace, gravity doing the work. Tentatively, he pressed his lips to Aaron’s bare, tanned chest and then pillowed his head there, listening to the heavy metronome of Aaron’s heart just beneath his ear.

“We’ve gotten through worse,” Aaron said into the darkness, his voice a low rumble and a little faded at the edges, drowsy. Robert rested a hand on his shoulder, squeezed out of reassurance for them both - I’m here, we’re here, together - and tucked his nose into Aaron’s neck.

“You shouldn’t have to put up with this. With me,” he whispered into soft, warm skin, and Aaron’s arm immediately curled tight around Robert’s waist, pulling him in closer.

“Don’t say that.” It was a warning, a hazard light flashing, but Robert pushed on.

“It’s true. You could be happy right now and instead-”

“Who says I’m not happy,” Aaron cut in, pushing himself further up the bed into a half-sitting position, dragging Robert with him. And even in the darkness Robert could see the stubborn set of his shoulders, the sharp line of his jaw jutting out. It was at once endearing and heartbreaking, the sheer strength of will Aaron seemed to possess, his utter refusal to give in even when… even when it would have been better for him.

“Aaron,” Robert began, elbow digging into the mattress so he could keep his balance, “don’t play it down. Don’t make out like your okay with this.” It was one thing to see Aaron resilient, but it was another to have him forcing a smile. Robert couldn’t cope with anymore lies, and especially none that were designed to spare him pain or guilt.

He wanted to feel it. He needed to. It was currently the only thing keeping him anchored.

“I’m not okay,” Aaron answered, and even though Robert knew it already, the raw honesty of the words lanced through him, sharp and merciless.

Keep reading

hamswritingtho  asked:

When were you going to tell me that you're pregnant? +Feysand I've also been greatly enjoying all the little fics you've been writing :)

Thank you, friend!! This is probably not exactly what you were asking for, but for whatever dumb reason, this popped in my head reading the prompt. Hope you like!

BTW peeps: I’m still doing these, just working through them slowly. Feel free to keep sending them and I’ll try to do them when I can. Link to prompt list is at the end. <3

When Feyre rounds the corner into the produce section of the grocery store, the last thing she expects to see is Cassian shoving a watermelon under her husband’s shirt amid a choir of snickers from the pair of them. Cassian has his phone out and is just about to Snapchat a pic when Feyre clears her throat. The boys freeze, Rhys blushing just a tad.

“When were you going to tell me that you’re pregnant?” Feyre asks Rhys pointedly, stifling a smirk.

“Just getting a feel for things,” Rhys says cooly. “We can never be too prepared.”

“Man, don’t drop it!” Cass barks suddenly, seeing the huge melon begin to slip. Rhys removes it without a problem and replaces it on the shelf.

“You two are going to get us kicked out of here if you keep goofing off. We still have a lot of shopping to do and Nesta’s already bit my head off about the right kind of cheese to go with the appetizers.”

Only Nesta could make cheese and crackers feel unbearably stuffy. And as much as Feyre really does trust Nesta’s expert opinion that brie will be best, she’s not going into this dinner without a hunk of good old fashioned cheddar to see her through.

At the mention of Nesta, Cassian’s eyes spark. How he could have forgotten for even one minute that Nesta was within a five miles radius after she’d let the shopping cart slip against his shins is beyond Feyre. “Don’t worry,” Cass says walking swiftly past Feyre and patting her on the shoulder the way he does when ‘the bro’ is winning, as Azriel likes to call it. “I’ve got this.”

Feyre feels Rhys pull up even with her as she watches her friend strut off to face the horrors waiting for him in Dairy.

“I love Cassian,” Rhys says, and Feyre turns back round to face him, “but I think he has a death wish.”

Feyre tisks and pushes the cart toward the lettuce. “Stop, Nesta isn’t that bad.”

“The fact that you need to specify-”

“Rhys.”

He holds his hands up in surrender and promptly plucks an apple from a nearby stand, juggling it in a way that’s supposed to seem impressive - never mind that it’s only one apple.

Romaine… baby greens… organic… iceberg… Ugh, nobody even likes iceberg. Classic Cesar will do, Feyre decides. Or possibly… The baby greens stare up at her.

She looks back at the watermelon crate Rhys and Cassian had been messing with and feels her stomach tighten. She and Rhys have been together for nearly five years now, if you count the three years they dated before getting hitched. She knows he wouldn’t pressure her. Not ever. But sometimes he makes an offhand comment and she wonders if Rhys might not be considering beyond her present wishes.

Feyre clears her throat. “Rhys?”

“Yes dah-ling,” he says. Neither of them turn around from their respective produce. Feyre’s not sure she could if she tried.

“Did you mean what you said earlier?”

She chances a peek over her shoulder and finds Rhys has swapped his one-apple juggling act for a rather thorough examination of the differences between Fuji and Granny Smith that has his brows knit together. “What’s that?” Rhys asks, and Feyre whips her head back to the salad options.

“About… not being too prepared.”

“Too prepared?”

The misters switch on unexpectedly, dousing the lettuce and Feyre’s outstretched hand with a fine layer of mist that take her by surprise. “Oh!” she yelps and jumps back, some combination of shock and nerves forcing her into motion. Rhys chuckles and slinks over to lean on the cart.

“Don’t worry,” he says with a cheeky grin. “Last I checked, water is actually good for you.”

“Very funny,” Feyre says, the humor not entirely making it past her lips. She feels rather than sees Rhys’s face twitch.

“What’s wrong? If this about Nesta again and whether or not you thinks she’s going to throw a tantrum over your choice of rabbit food, I promise I’ll protect you.”

“Do you want to have a baby?” Feyre blurts out before she can help herself. Her stomach does a back flip just asking the question. They’ve never talked about it before. Not since they were just starting out dating and trying to decide if this was even a good fit. She knows they both want kids. Maybe just a kid. But there’s something terrifying about the idea that Rhys might want one now.

“Feyre,” Rhys says, leaning forward and dropping to a whisper, “you know I enjoy making love to you at all hours of the day, but if you think me shoving a watermelon up my shirt is gonna piss the employees off, I don’t think they’ll appreciate us-”

“I’m serious,” Feyre says, cutting Rhys off. He blinks at her a few times, mouth parted open slightly. But Feyre wants to know. Is determined to know. “Do you want to have a baby?”

Rhys backs up a step. “Do you want to have a baby?”

“I asked you first.” A small flash of intrigue in those deep blue eyes searches her making her feel known and exposed in ways only he’s ever managed.

“Alright,” Rhys says, folding his arms and seeming to sense that she means business. Feyre draws a deep breath waiting. “You know I want to have a kid - eventually. If you’re asking, do I want one right now?” Feyre nods. “No. I don’t think so. I mean, shoot, if it happens, then great. I’ll welcome it with open arms and shove a watermelon up my shirt for nine months so you don’t feel so bad.” Feyre releases a small chuckle at that and Rhys smiles. “Why so curious about kids all of a sudden?”

Feyre rolls her eyes, more at herself than him, and tosses a hand up. “I don’t know. I saw you joking around with Cassian, but then you made that comment and you’ve said stuff in the past, that I just wondered if maybe you were…” She pauses, catches Rhys watching her intently with his brow raised in amusement, and lets out a shaky laugh. “I’m being ridiculous, aren’t I?”

Rhys pulls Feyre into his arms with his own chuckle and it feels like she can finally stop fretting. “No, you’re not. It’s good that we talk about these things. I just don’t understand why you’re so concerned with it? You know we can take our time. And if overgrown melons are all we end up with, we’ll be well fed.”

Feyre snorts. “Now you’re being ridiculous.”

“Yeah, but you can’t deny it’s a good idea.”

“No, I really can’t-”

“Get that out of your nose!”

Both Feyre’s and Rhys’s heads snap to the side where Nesta has found the produce section along with Cassian… who has shoved a small wedge of brie up his nose much to Nesta’s chagrin.

Feyre grimaces. “At least it’s shrink wrapped?” Rhys offers, and then laughs when Feyre smacks her head into his chest with a groan. “Come on,” he says, rubbing up her arms a few times for confidence. “Let’s go sort them out.”

“Go on. I just have to grab some lettuce first.” Rhys nods, heading off.

Feyre looks back down at her options and decides, maybe the baby greens aren’t so bad after all. A nice watermelon salad could be good for spring.

Send me a prompt + otp or brotp and I’ll write a drabble!

SPN 12x16 codafic

destiel
1k, PG
Cas still gets cell reception in Heaven because of plot convenience :)


“You should’ve seen her, Cas.” Dean smiled a little. “She was so confident working the case and fighting off creeps. Hell, she beat the odds on that cure.”

That’s our girl, he wanted to say but didn’t, because that would be weird and where did that come from, anyway? Must’ve been something in the hotel mints he ate. Or maybe in the swimming pool water…

“I am grateful to hear she’s fine now. I will admit, when I saw your text earlier, I feared the worst.”

Dean gripped the wheel tighter with the hand not holding his phone, keeping an eye out for Sam. He’d made the call to Cas while Sam was stocking up on supplies before they headed back to the bunker. From his position, he would be able to see Sam approach the parked car. He really didn’t want to deal with Sam’s ribbing about how often Dean was calling Cas lately. It always reminded him of the fact that he very much didn’t want to think about why going more than a few days without talking to Cas made him anxious.

“Sorry man, that was a dick move, making you worry like that.” Dean had regretted that text the moment he’d sent it, but at the time he hadn’t been thinking clearly. His thoughts had been filled with worry for Claire, pain and horror at the thought of losing her, but also a need to contact Cas and let him know.

Cas had a history with her, after all. He felt responsible for her. Dean had felt strongly that he’d deserved to know what was going on with her. But in his hurry to contact Cas he hadn’t considered that even if Cas wanted to rush over to be with Claire, he couldn’t.

Sometimes Dean forgot that Cas couldn’t use his wings anymore.

It was cruel, what he’d done. And Dean felt guilty for it now. So when he saw the missed call from Cas after Sam and him had waved goodbye to Claire, he knew he owed it to Cas to call him and update him on the situation.

“It’s okay, Dean. I understand why you did it and I appreciate that you even thought of me while you must have had other things on your mind.”

Dean hated it - the way Cas so casually downplayed his importance. As if it was a given that Dean wouldn’t think about him at all, as if that was natural and normal. He gritted his teeth, trying to keep his annoyance in check.

“I know how important she is to you, Cas. Even if I hadn’t sent that text then, I would’ve called you immediately after the hunt was over, like I’m doing now. You deserve to know what’s going on with her. Hell, she even said she misses you.”

During their dinner the night before, Claire had not-so-casually asked about Cas. “So, speaking of creeps, where’s everyone’s favourite flasher coat wearing angel?” she’d asked.

“She tried to hide it, of course, but she was disappointed that you weren’t here. She misses you.” She’s not the only one. “Said she wants you to give her a call. Actually her exact words were: ‘tell that loser to call me sometime. He still owes me for, like, four birthdays.’”

Cas chuckled at Dean’s impression of her. Dean was glad to hear the sound.

“I’ll be sure to do that. I do indeed still owe her a few birthday presents. What do you think she would want?”

“Honestly, man, I’m pretty sure she just wants to hang out with you, though she’d rather die than admit it. She’s a teenager, after all.” Dean was probably breaking some kind of ‘cool older brother’ code by saying this, but – as he’d come to realize in the past few days - his feelings towards her were more parental than brotherly, anyway, so he didn’t feel too bad for ratting her out.

“Oh.” Cas was quiet for a few seconds.

“Yeah, and, uh, I wouldn’t mind coming with you. I know I just saw her, but I’d like to hang out with the kid while nobody’s in mortal peril, you know?” Dean had no idea why he was saying this, but it was true. He would like to hang out with Claire and Cas. Maybe they could hit a county fair, somewhere. Do some really cheesy, family things that would embarrass the hell out of Claire. Yeah, that’d be fun.

“I would like that very much, Dean.” The open affection in Cas’s voice made something not unpleasant squeeze in Dean’s gut. “I look forward to it as soon as my current mission is over.”

At the mention of Cas’s mission, all thoughts of cotton candy, shooting galleries and teddy bear prizes were chased from Dean’s mind. He grimaced at the reminder of Lucifer, Kelly, and the Nephilim. Right, this was their life. They never actually got a break.

“I hear you, buddy. Anyway,” he said, seeing Sam walk out of the convenience store, “I gotta go now. Keep me posted, you hear? Even if you don’t make any progress. I don’t like it when you go dark for too long.”

It was an admission he probably shouldn’t be making but if it encouraged Cas to text or call him more frequently, he really didn’t care.

“I will, Dean. Take care of yourself.”

“You too.” He hung up just as Sam opened the car door.

That night, he dreamed of multi-coloured rubber ducks, Ferris wheels, bouncing blonde curls, and smiling blue eyes.

(tag list under the cut)

Keep reading

moments unforgettable...

Just a little Saturday morning smutlet…happy weekend!


She’s humming to herself as she scrubs at the remnants of cinnamon stuck in the depths of her mug and doesn’t hear him approach from behind, his bare feet making little sound on the hardwood as he cages her in with his arms. He chuckles at her flinch and she flicks the water from her fingers over her shoulder in retaliation.

“Sorry, love, didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Yes you did.”

He doesn’t respond, instead seeking the soft skin behind her ear with his slightly wet nose, his lips pressing a smile along her neck when he feels her responsive shiver.

“I was getting lonely.”

“I’ve only been over here for a few minutes…”

Who is she kidding? The way their lives are, a few minutes might be all they have before someone comes crashing through their door with a problem that just must be solved.

The grumble he mumbles against her skin sounds like an agreement to her unspoken thought.

Keep reading

midnight star (1)

genre: thief!au

star of the show: NCT’s Taeyong

word count: 2,303 words

author’s note: the first part to a “whoever-knows-how-many-parts” series because I’ve had this idea for too long and I love Taeyong.    

other parts: (1) (2) (3)

Originally posted by itsmyluxion

opening line: “A thief who steals to feed his own competitive ego, Lee Taeyong has never tried to steal something as intangible as a heart before, let alone yours.” 

Keep reading

freezing-and-crimson  asked:

This is kinda rude and pathetic to ask. But your writing always cheers me up and I've been so deep in depression that it's not even funny. But could you write a small drabble about Kakashi x Orochimaru taking care of and raising Mitsuki and Log??? If you don't want to then that's fine ^^ don't feel like you have to write something.

💕

It’s a little startling, just how often Kakashi sees his father’s smile echoed so clearly in Mitsuki’s cheerful grins.

Seeing it always gives the same reaction; his breath catches in his throat, his eyes widen, his heart stutters. It’s not pain, the way it might have been before Pein’s invasion. It’s not the aching, crushing grief he carried for so many years. This is closer to joy, light and effervescent and full, and Kakashi smiles back, even though Mitsuki is thoroughly occupied with Boruto right now.

“You know, one could say that it’s your smile as well,” Orochimaru say, amused, as he comes to lean against the balcony railing. Kakashi almost wants to accuse him of reading his mind, but—well. He mentioned it once, helpless in the face of that small connection that shouldn’t be, and Orochimaru’s memory is hardly lacking.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he denies, mostly just to be contrary.

Orochimaru’s expression shades towards polite disbelief, but he doesn’t call Kakashi on it. “You have good DNA,” he says instead, gaze flickering back to their son.

Kakashi rolls his eyes, just a little, because coming from the Sannin that’s absolutely a compliment, but it would probably send anyone else screaming for the hills. Sometimes Kakashi wonders why he doesn’t do the same, except for the fact that he’s always been a little light on self-preservation.

Besides, two pieces of his DNA are currently wandering around the Hokage Mansion. Kakashi might not cop to much, but that’s…pretty incredible.

“Rogu?” he asks, because he knows from experience that it’s never a good idea to let his older son stay out of sight too long.

Orochimaru’s amusement says that he sees right through Kakashi’s casual question, and also remembers that time with Gai, the melons, and the exploding tags just as clearly as Kakashi does, if likely for different reasons.

(Kakashi is scarred, all right? There was definite mental trauma happening that day, even if Tsunade laughed him out of her office when he told her that.)

“Occupying himself,” Orochimaru says breezily, as if that’s any sort of comfort at all. He turns precisely, already stepping back towards their bedroom, and adds, “I’m going to R&D if you—”

“I don’t think so.” Maybe Genma is right about mild insanity and suicidal bravery being the prerequisite for becoming a jounin—not that he has any room to talk, the jerk—but Kakashi grabs him around the waist, dodges the knife-hand blow that would have crushed the windpipe of anyone slower, and steers him back towards the freshly-made bed. “You’re not leaving me here alone with four children.”

The amusement on Orochimaru’s face is well-hidden behind a veil of black hair and his half-hearted struggles. “Kakashi, Sarada and Boruto are perfectly polite children—”

“One is Sasuke and Naruto’s child, and the other is Sakura’s,” Kakashi says firmly. “And Mitsuki is terrifying.”

Conspicuously, Orochimaru doesn’t argue this point. “I just made the bed,” he complains instead, and when Kakashi pauses to eye him disbelievingly, there’s a quicksilver flash of a smirk before a foot is sweeping his legs out from under him.

Kakashi is the Hokage and has been a shinobi for over thirty years now; he’s not about to be taken down by a trick like that, so when he falls he grabs Orochimaru and drags him down onto the mattress with him. There’s a brief but fierce struggle to pin each other—Kakashi mostly wins due to extra body mass and feels no shame in admitting it—and when it ends, Orochimaru is watching Kakashi with narrowed eyes and the shadow of a smirk on his lips.

They’re very pretty lips, Kakashi thinks, gaze flickering to them, and can see the exact moment Orochimaru catches it. His eyes darken, features sliding towards smugly amused, and—

Well. Kakashi had never though he’d end up here, that morning when Konoha’s most famous semi-pardoned missing-nin marched into his office with two small children in tow and an aggravated Suigetsu mislabeled my DNA samples so these are yours, Hatake in explanation. Hadn’t even vaguely considered it, but…he’s come to the conclusion that he doesn’t really mind.

Mitsuki’s laugh, loud and bright from outside the window, sounds just like his father’s as well.

Carefully, he tugs his mask off, leaning down to kiss Orochimaru slowly and thoroughly. There’s a satisfied hum as clever fingers curl around the back of his neck, and it’s lazy and languid and full of banked heat.

There’s a sudden groan from the hallway outside their bedroom, followed by an annoyed, “Don’t you know how doors work? I don’t want to see that,” and then hurried steps as Rogu retreats with speed.

Kakashi can’t help but think of that morning, when Sasuke came to drop of Boruto and caught them kissing in the kitchen. Usually Kakashi has to work a lot harder to inflict that level of trauma on his cute former students, so he’s calling this a good day.

Still. Rogu moving with any sort of alacrity outside of an actual fight, even in the face of parental PDA, is usually a bad sign. Kakashi looks down at Orochimaru, who arches a brow right back, and has to sit back with a resigned sigh.

Somewhere in the distance, something explodes. Equal odds as to whether it’s Rogu’s fault or the Terrible Threesome’s.

“I feel like we should ignore that,” Kakashi says lightly.

Orochimaru’s smirk is knowing. “Is the Rokudaime Hokage really afraid of the mischief of children?” he asks, as if that’s a fair question at all.

“My children,” Kakashi reminds him, ducking down for one more quick kiss. “Your children.”

With a hum, Orochimaru concedes the point. “In my defense, I thought I was using the Nidaime’s DNA.”

Like that would have been better. Kakashi lets one raised brow speak for him.

Chuckling, Orochimaru slides out from underneath him, as unexpected but lithe as a snake, and rises to his feet. “I’m required at R&D,” he informs Kakashi, flashing him a sly smile. “Have fun with the children, my dear.”

Kakashi groans and feels entirely justified flopping face-first into the pillows.

Long fingers stroke through his hair, but Orochimaru darts away when Kakashi tries to grab him again. Footsteps—deliberate, Kakashi knows, since the smug bastard can’t be bothered to make noise when walking at any other time—retreat out the door, and Kakashi sighs, smelling smoke.

This is definitely payback for what he inflicted on his father in childhood, he thinks wryly, levering himself up. There’s no doubt at all.

He grabs the spray bottle sitting on the bedside table, straightens his clothes, and heads out to hunt down his children.

sunday, 3am

“Gently,” she stressed.

Sitting on the sink-counter, she looked washed-out in the harsh fluorescent light of their bathroom, a little spatter of blood staining the shoulder of her light blue scrubs, her skin a wintery kind of pale and her freckles fading as though they’d been one of God’s afterthoughts. Her braid rested tattered and ripped down her spine, long red strands falling in front of the bruises on her cheek, and as he carded her hair back behind her ear, she flinched involuntarily, her shaky hands stilling on her lap, her breath hitching.

“It’s okay,” he whispered, the bag of ice in his hand hovering before her, his brain buzzing in the overtired way he used to feel accustomed to. If his circadian rhythms were reliable, then he and his body estimated that three in the morning, maybe half past, had come and gone. A long time ago, she’d told him that keeping lights on from the nighttime hours of ten-to-ten harmed the brain’s ability to produce melatonin, but he figured that light would be the least of their worries tonight.

Softly, she met his gaze, then looked back down at her lap.

“Sorry,” she said, wincing at the word. “I’m just…I’m still a little shaken up.”

He nodded, then gingerly brought the ice to her cheek, and though she recoiled at first, luckily she eased against his touch, let out a deep, exhausted breath.

“Is there any bleeding?” she asked, her voice muffled by the ice.

“None at all,” he said.

She swallowed, said, “The nurse there seemed like she was doing a great job of cleaning it.”

“And you’re absolutely sure you’re not concussed?” he asked as he leaned against the sink, the house around them so still and silent that it made the winter beyond them feel heavier and thicker than it already was. 

Looking up at him, she delicately pressed her lips together, said, “Had the nurse check. No headache or dizziness. I’m fine, Mulder.”

“Okay,” he said, nodding to himself. 

Though she avoided late shifts and preferred not to work on Saturdays, she’d been on a Saturday evening to Sunday morning emergency room shift, eight pm to eight pm, but a one am call let him know that a drunk patient, a punch to the face, and some police involvement meant that she would be coming home early. The last time he, in her words, went caveman left them both embarrassed and uncomfortable, but now, he wished he could’ve been there, could’ve watched over her and had her back so that some drunkard would’ve never decked her behind a modesty curtain, wouldn’t have had a chance to let her head thud against a sterile linoleum floor before punching her again. Though he wanted to think of this protectiveness as more than an ancient biological imperative, though he wished he didn’t find himself at fault for something so clearly irrelevant to his existence, he still brought Duane Barry and Phillip Padgett and all of the other men who had wronged her to mind, wondered once more if he could’ve done more. While at the Bureau, he could’ve argued that he was her partner, that it was of the utmost importance for them to watch each other’s backs, but now, he could hardly merit the wish.

And had he been there, he probably would’ve been decked too, only he would’ve cried about it instead of stoically driving home afterward like she did. Sometimes, he figured, the universe chose to punch the ones who could take it, not the ones who couldn’t.

“You’re never working a night shift again,” he said, hoping to elicit a laugh or at least a pained smile; thankfully, she reached toward him, wrapped her fingers in his open hand, kept her eyes down but let him know that she was present and receptive anyway. 

“I sure hope not,” she said, “but if they ever want me to, I’m sure that citing this incident will make them change their minds.”

Softly, he laughed, and though he figured it would hurt her to smile, the purplish and red smears of bruises on her cheeks keeping her from moving her face too much, she still quirked her lip, the movement minute but visible. 

“Did you have any Advil before you got home?” he asked.

“I had one before I left the hospital.” 

“Do you think you’ll be able to sleep?”

She sucked her lips in again, met his gaze, so he nodded in understanding. He figured neither or them would be getting much sleep tonight.

“Well,” he said, his voice turning theatrical, “I can offer some warm milk-”

“No hot liquids,” she said quickly. “Have to keep the swelling down.”

“Okay,” he said, off-put. There went his ideas for chamomile tea and maybe a warm bath in order to calm her down. “Then, cold water.”

“Thrilling.”

He squeezed her hand.

“What are you looking for, then?” he asked. “My mind goes numb after midnight.”

Taking a deep breath, she said, “A movie, something mindless. Just until we feel we could fall asleep.”

So she shed her blood-smeared scrubs and opted for pajamas and thick socks; while she migrated to the couch, held the ice against her more bluish cheek, he rifled through their bookshelf, found Sleepless in Seattle and liked the irony it provided, so he popped the tape in, the lights off in their living room, the fish tank fluorescent and bubbling in the background, the winter winds shifting the shutters on their fixer-upper farmhouse. He sat on her less-bruised side, and as she spread a shared blanket over their laps, he fast-forwarded coming attractions of many years ago, her two hands wrapping around his free one. While the movie began, he tuned Meg Ryan out and kept his eyes on her instead, tried to survey her body for telltale signs of stress. 

She’d told him long ago that she felt anxiety not in her mind but in her limbs, in her joints; while her thoughts told her to push forward, her body cringed and faded, her demise coming not from her will but from her physical breakdown, so he’d tried to be a constant for her, had kept track of her hours and made sure that, even when she seemed so determined to finish just one more stack of paperwork, she would go home for a good night’s rest instead. From those many times, he knew what to look for: raised shoulders, shaky hands, huffed breaths, glasses pushed up far more often than one would expect. However, tonight shifted that response because her breakdown had come from a patient, not from herself, so while she took shallow breaths during the movie, he traced his thumb against the back of her hand, let her lean into him with her face angled so that his shoulder and her bruises never quite made contact. As four am ticked past, he realized that he’d never watched this movie in full, but because he’d distracted himself during the first half of the film, he hadn’t a clue where the plot went.

“Scully?” he whispered, almost wincing at how his voice interrupted the special, rural silence around them. 

When she didn’t shift, he craned his neck, and though he should’ve been able to tell through her long, languid breaths against his chest, he only noticed that she’d fallen asleep when he looked down and saw her closed eyes. Reaching for the remote, he turned the television off, and with deft, gentle motions, he managed to lift her up without waking her - after all, she could sleep anywhere, from passenger’s seats of cheap rental cars to bleach-ridden motel beds to his old leather couch back before he’d been able to offer her a bed instead - and carried her upstairs though his aging joints protested with each step. 

Thankful that he’d left the bed unmade after she’d called, he managed to slip her beneath the overturned sheets on his side of the bed, tucked her in before he climbed in on the other still-made side. Out here, the nights were dark save for the endless lines of unobstructed stars in the sky, so he kept their bedroom’s blinds up, soft light falling over her bruising face, the rise and fall of her chest shifting the duvet while she slept. Her pillow smelled like that lavender shampoo she liked, and though the stuffing was too thick for him, he found that he could still relax into it, their respective alarm clocks off for now, her bedside book-stack dwindling as his seemed only to grow larger, her reading glasses askew and the closet door left open in a way that would’ve scared him as a child. 

And he presented himself with two lonely options: either he could work out hundreds of different scenarios that left her unscathed and him some kind of half-assed hero, or he could watch her soft breaths until their cadence lulled him to sleep. For once, he picked the second option and drifted off before morning began to creep through the windows.

anonymous asked:

Hey lovely I've had an idea bouncing around my noggin lately.. What about an angsty bughead fic where Juggy gets concerned that Betty's going to hurt herself like Polly? I don't know why, maybe she did or something.. Just a thought.. Love your writing! ❤

I’ve gotten a lot of angsty requests lately and I’m actually really enjoying writing them! Thank you so much!
****

He was scared. Jughead jones was actually so terrified, he found it difficult to focus on anything, including his novel.

It wasn’t the “I’m gonna fail my history test” type of scared, it was more “I’m losing the one person in this world who really matters to me.” Type of scared

Betty was falling. No one seemed to notice but him, but what he was seeing was enough to scare even the toughest socially awkward teenager.

Everyday, the bags under her eyes would get darker, her palms were almost always bloody, and he hadn’t seen her laugh in almost a month, and then their was tonight.

The gang had been having a late night study session, when they brought up the upcoming midterm Veronica had jokingly said

“It’s pretty much the end of our lives if we fail the calculus midterm, right bets?”

Betty’s eyes became glossier than normal and she nodded

“Yeah totally, the end of my life.”

Jughead stared at her for a little but Betty didn’t meet his eyes, she kept her face towards the window, staring blankly outside.

While he was walking her home she had turned to him

“Thank you Jughead, you’re my best friend, you’ve been so great through everything, I’m really proud of you, I want you to know that. ”

His heart race sped up.

“Why does it sound like you’re saying goodbye?”

She smiled sadly

“Because I’m going inside.”

“Betty..”

“Bye juggie”

Then the door had slammed, echoing through his ears.

He had gone home and hadn’t done a single thing but think about the beautiful blonde angel.

This wasn’t doing him any good, grabbing his beanie he was out the door, fast as he came in.

Before he knew it, he was standing under Betty’s window. He was not athletic, and he most definitely should have thought this through, considering the only way in, required climbing a tree and sliding through the window.

“Okay jones, you got this.”

After about twelve failed attempts to mount the tree, he finally made it to the top, balancing on the tree and sliding in through the window.

There was betty, laying on her bed, eyes closed with her ear buds in her ears.

Beside her bed was an orange pill bottle and he immediately snatched it from the dresser, effectively grabbing her attention, she jumped up knocking her her earbuds out.

“Jughead?! What are you doing in here? How did you get in here?! Did you climb that tree?!” She said in a panicky ramble, eyes wide.

“I ask the questions here! Why is this pill bottle by your bed, what are you doing with all of these ?”

She looked at him confused

“Jughead, those are my sleeping pills, why do you care about those?”

He shook his head

“ you don’t need to sleep! You need to stay alive! You can’t die Betty, the gang needs you! I need you. I’m sorry I haven’t been there, I didn’t know what to do.. it’s my fault, I’m just so emotionally stunted.” He was rambling and Betty cut him off

“ woah woah woah! Die? Who said anything about dying? I need those pills because I have nightmares. I’m depressed Jughead not suicidal.” She said softly.

“Isn’t depression just a gateway to suicide?” He asked panicky.

She grabbed his hand and sat him down on her bed

“Sometimes that is the case, but I’m getting help. I don’t wanna kill myself, I’m just tired almost all the time, and I find it difficult to focus. I know I haven’t been much fun to hang out with and I’m sorry, but I’m working on getting better. Actually talking to you about all this, makes me feel a little better.” She smiled at him.

Releasing the breath he was holding

“So you don’t plan on leaving the earth anytime soon?”

She laughed

“Nope Jughead, you’re stuck with me for as long as the good lord sees fit.”


Flopping back on her bed he sighed

“Thank god.”

She Layed down beside him

“So you need me huh?”

He closed his eyes

“More than you’ll ever know Betty Cooper”

youtube

so i feel like a lot of people missed this because i know i definitely did, and not to burst anyone’s bubble, but the part where clarke elbows the grounder in the face so bellamy can shoot him isn’t non-verbal communication like i’ve seen a lot of people saying and how i used to assume. 

If you get to 1:00 and listen closely, you can hear bellamy shouting “GIVE ME A CLEAN SHOT” to clarke while the camera is focused on her.

this 100% doesn’t undermine their epicness as a team though. clarke still had no idea how bellamy planned on shooting that grounder, all she knew is that he was going to try. and once she saw how he was going to do that, she had to act in literally less than ten seconds to think of a way to get the grounder off of her, not to mention putting her life in bellamy’s hands and trusting that he would shoot the grounder while missing her.

in a way, it makes me love the scene even more. even though i loved the it without realizing that he told her he was gonna try and shoot the grounder, it did seem a tad unrealistic that clarke would be able to respond to something so quickly without some sort of a heads up. 

and this is the part i love. she knew as soon as he turned the rover in front of the truck that she had maybe two viable options. 

the first: to try and swerve out of the way of the rover. bellamy might have been able to shoot him through the passenger side window. and while it would been considerably more difficult to do so, it would be a whole lot safer for clarke. it had more of a guarantee of her own self-preservation because if she had swerved to the left of the rover, the grounder would have been the only person in the shot. but it would have had less than a guarantee of working for bellamy. 

the second: to do what she actually did, which was keep heading straight towards bellamy. and this means so much!!! this option was much less safe for her to follow through with but it gave bellamy a better chance at shooting the grounder. and i don’t care how good of a shot bellamy is and lbr he’s an absolute dead shot, sorry s1 raven, shooting a moving target that is right next to the last person on earth you would want to shoot is HARD. Hell, shooting a stationary target is hard, and i can speak from experience (i just feel like i have to note: this was in a very safe and controlled environment where everyone was extremely meticulous about everything to make sure there were no accidents and that everyone was safe). so when he’s got high stakes, extreme emotions, moving targets, and limited time, there was always the chance that bellamy could have accidentally shot clarke. Clarke knew this but instead of saving her own skin, she decided to trust bellamy wholly in order to give him a better chance at doing what he needed to do to keep her safe. and it worked!!!!   

honestly there are times where i have been floored by how much trust they put in each other. and something like this will definitely have a lasting impact on that trust in the best way possible.

EDIT: tagging @forgivenessishardforus and @abazethe100 to see what your thoughts are on this (because lbr everyone loves your meta)

When I was a kid my Mum worked at a book warehouse and she was allowed to take home books that were damaged or unwanted and, let’s be honest, parents don’t really buy their kids poetry books so I had a hell of a lot of them. Because of this I wrote poetry from a very young age. The oldest poem I have of mine was written when I was four, I still have the original copy. But I have a hazy recollection of writing others before it, safe to say, poetry has lived in me for a very long time.

I wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and read, and read, and read, and when the warehouse closed and I didn’t get anymore poetry books (because poetry books are expensive in comparison to other books), I re-read the ones I had until I could recite them, the spines were cracked, the pages were full of post-it-notes, torn into strips, marking what must have been almost every page. One day one of my favourite poets, Paul Cookson, came to the library next to my primary school. I had brought my copy of “The Very Best of Paul Cookson” with me and I got him to sign it, he seemed surprised that it was my copy and not a library book (possibly because it was so beaten up from reading) and I told him I wanted to be a poet. He was the first adult in my life to really encourage me towards that most unlikely of careers, and I kept that book by my bed for years. I’ve still got a lot of his others, but that signed copy has vanished now. I can still describe the cover though, light blue, with a fish on it. 

Because of this encounter I kept writing, until, when I was in year six, my teacher asked the class what we wanted to be when we grew up. I said I wanted to be a poet, and he, a mean, proud man, one of those teachers that gave you the feeling that they never really wanted to teach children, told me that it was a “stupid and childish idea”. So, slowly, I stopped, my words running out.

Then, years later, in high school, we got asked to write a poem in class. So I did. And apparently it was quite good, because after that one of my teachers Rachel Hendra, took a keen interest in my work, and when, one day, I told her that I was stuck in a rut of rhyming, that I couldn’t write in free verse, she brought in her own personal copies of Ted Hughes’ “Birthday Letters” and “Crow”, and told me two things: One: They were incredible, and Two: If I touched the post-it notes, sprinkled liberally throughout the books, she would kill me. I read Birthday Letters in one amazing day. And then over the weekend I read it again. When I gave it back the post-its were still in place, my words had returned, and my understanding of poetry was forever changed.

That summer I was working at a festival, and I wandered to the poetry stage in the evening. It was the first time I had ever seen poetry performed and I was entranced. And then Joelle Taylor walked on stage and I knew exactly what I wanted to do with my life. 

A few years, passed, I came out as Transgender, I struggled, and poured my struggle into the poetry, and kept writing. My hero, Anthony Head read my poetry, cried, read it again, and liked it so much that he agreed to write the foreword to my first book, and he was kinder and more encouraging than you can ever imagine.  Then, a few years, a lot of events, and a stupid amount of poetry open mic’s (which Hendra and a few other teachers would turn up to in order to -kindly- heckle me) after I had first seen her Joelle came to my hometown. The organiser of the gig asked me if I would perform as her support act, and of course I agreed. After my performance she asked me to apply for Slambassadors, the UK’s biggest youth poetry slam, and I was a winner. I sent a photo of my trophy to Anthony and he posted it all over his social media, he was so excited for me, more excited than any adult in my life had ever been about any award that I had ever won. 

When I was a kid I was always told to be something normal, something boring, something… less. I fought my way up. Past the expectations placed upon me. When I was young I was just a young carer. A trouble maker. I was the kid from the failing school, who got into fights, was excluded from school, the kid who always scrounged food from others, whose parents drank too much, whose grades never quite lived up to expectations, who wouldn’t ever, quite, allow themselves to be fitted into the boxes laid out for them.

Now I’m twenty. I’m the first member of my family to go to university. I have two solo poetry collections that have sold to fourteen different countries. I have won a national poetry award, and performed in the final of the Roundhouse slam. I am following my dreams, and doing what I was told by so many was impossible, because some people, these people, told me that it WAS possible, that the stars were within my reach, and thanks to them I am dedicating my life to reaching them.

fantasticalnonsense18  asked:

Lately I've been pondering the development of Beauty and Beast's relationship, chiefly in Villeneuve/Beaumont's and Disney's versions, and of course you're own; each retelling is unique in its own way, and each has different lessons to teach. My question to you is, how has this relationship developed over the centuries (i.e. how we interpret it), and who do you think learns more from the other, or has more character growth, due to this relationship: Beauty or Beast?

Ooh, that’s a GREAT question, and not one I can really give a short or glib answer to…

Most older variants of the story are interested in Beauty getting what she deserves —wealth, station and an appropriate mate. This makes sense, as it’s a story about a woman told by women —first at great length in Villeneuve’s novella, and then in a much shorter bowdlerized form by Beaumont. The primary concern of the story is Beauty being respectfully courted by a remarkable patient and good hearted, but ugly, individual. This is, heartbreakingly, a deeply romantic fantasy when we consider that its authors were women who had been foisted into loveless political marriages with less than kindhearted men — it’s the story of hoping the man with whom you are forced co-habitate will turn out to be a kind prince, in spite of first seeming to be an unknowable monster.

The details of the characters aren’t precise —these are fairy tales after all. The Prince has no name, and neither does the heroine (she is so pretty people call her a beauty — this isn’t actually her name). Villeneuve glories in setting her stage and painting her set details, but never gives us much idea of the characters’ emotional lives. Beaumont trims the fat (and the backstory) but leaves us with even less to build upon. All we really know is the Beauty is kind, optimistic, hard-working and good, and her Beast is patient, self-effacing and perhaps a touch melodramatic.

It’s when we begin moving into cinema and the modern trend towards broader retellings that we start to see some digging into the character’s emotional state;

Cocteau’s film gives us a remarkable sensual Beast, and a stern, restrained Beauty. The story, abstract in places, relying on metaphor and surrealist imagery, can be taken as an emotional one — Beauty’s strange journey towards realizing her own sensual desires, as depicted by a man who seems to be an animal… or is he her brother’s friend? She’s not sure. They run together in her mind. Although Cocteau’s Beast is a powerful image with his smoking claws, his diamond tears, and his stalking bloodied through Beauty’s bedchamber, the emotional journey is not his.

Robin Mckinley gave us our next step in her fully realized novel, Beauty — a straightforward and no- nonsense story told from the heroine’s straightforward and no-nonsense point of view. Here, Beauty’s interior life is on full display. It is most definitely her story, her growth, and her revelations we care about. Her Beast is already more or less a complete person — one who is happy to rediscover his love of horses, yes, but not with any great emotional journey to make. Once more, it is Beauty who must grapple with herself, while the Beast waits patiently for her to come him as the inevitable conclusion.

When Disney arrives (borrowing much of McKinley’s Beauty for their own bookish, horse-loving Belle) they begin an exploration we haven’t seen before —one into the Beast’s interior life. Gone is the gentle patient soul waiting for the girl to open up to him. Here, suddenly is the angry young man raging against circumstances and lashing out at the world. For the first time, we have a Beast who is every bit as beastly as he appears. For the first time, we have a Beauty who is awaiting the maturation her partner, her own journey already complete.

Leading up to this point, we’d seen a number of explorations of the story that allowed the Beast to become a metaphor for Beauty’s awakening sexuality, her exploration of unconscious desire, or her self actualization. We hadn’t seen a Beast who was a person in and of himself since Beaumont trimmed away Villeneuve’s backstory of a boy cursed by a caregiver-turned-predator.

Since then, we’ve seen a number of adaptations concerned with the Beast’s journey back to humanity — Donna Jo Napoli’s “Beast”,  Alex Flinn’s “Beastly” , and Disney’s Broadway adaptation of the animated film among others. Rare is the appearance of the patient and polite monster suitor we originally knew. The Beast has become a masculine metaphor for self-loathing, for fear of one’s desires and impulses, and for the conquering of one’s aggression. His winning of love and subsequent return to shining humanity is a promise that even the most unlovable of us can grow and change and be redeemed. It is an interesting cultural shift, that this once very female-centred story is now often one of masculine growth and change.

So, in trying to sum up, traditionally Beauty and the Beast has been a story about a young woman’s journey to accepting an unconventional male partner. In the twentieth century, it become a popular metaphor for the awakening of female sexuality and power. Now, more and more, we see it as a metaphor for the channeling of negative masculinity into positive masculinity. The story evolves. We pull new meaning from it, stretch it this way and that, examine it in the mirror, and take it apart to see how it ticks. It changes to suit our cultural needs, and it will continue to change.

In my own work, I’m trying to move a step further — to write a story about equals. Two people growing in complimentary ways, rather than one partner awaiting the other. We will always have our separate initiation rites, but for now I’m interested in seeing how a relationship blossoms. A particular quote has stayed with me through the development of the comic adaptation of Beauty and the Beast and it is this:

“A generation ago, great writers and editors like Jane Yolen, Ellen Datlow… reclaimed the traditional heritage: dismissing soft-focus, Disneyfied Snow White and Cinderella, rediscovering grim truths and quick-witted, resourceful heroines. That’s fine, that’s excellent work. But what I’ve wanted to do is to reclaim the relationships. To bring the prince and the princess together, instead of sending them off on segregated initiation trials. To let them meet as human beings, as friends, and fight side by side.”

—Gwyneth Jones”

What went down in Kung Food
  • INTRO SEQUENCE
  • Marinette: hey Alya so I need to talk to my Chinese uncle but I don't speak Chinese
  • Marinette: what should I do
  • Alya: does he speak any English
  • Marinette: what good would that do?
  • Marinette: I don't speak any English
  • Alya: then what are you speaking rn
  • Marinette: French, remember?
  • Alya: oh right I forgot
  • Marinette: yeah this is confusing
  • Alya: so does he speak any French
  • Marinette: idk I don't think imma bother to check
  • Alya: you're trying to get me to send Adrien as an interpreter
  • Marinette: pls Alya
  • Alya: fine he's on his way
  • Wang: this isn't at all awkward
  • Adrien: hey guys!
  • Wang: hey Adrien!
  • Adrien: so you actually speak English then
  • Wang: no this is French
  • Adrien: right
  • Wang: anyway imma be on this cooking competition
  • Adrien: kk cool do you want me to interpret for you
  • Wang: nah I'm sure nothing will go wrong
  • Chloé: *happens*
  • Wang: in retrospect...
  • Hawkmoth: fly my akuma
  • Kung Food: it's time for Chloé to get WRECKED
  • Chloé: wow real original there
  • Kung Food: I'll show you original!!!
  • Kung Food: prepare for a sticky situation as my protégés coat the building in IMPENETRABLE CARAMEL
  • Kung Food: get ready to cry when you witness my FLYING ONION CAMERAS
  • Kung Food: you'll be the one getting cut into slices as you face off against my TEN-FOOT PIZZA SWORD
  • Ladybug: should we jump in and stop him
  • Chat Noir: no not yet he's on a roll here
  • Kung Food: your salty attitude will be the perfect seasoning for my SWIMMING POOL OF BOILING SOUP
  • Kung Food: I always said that the fennel was mightier than the sword
  • Kung Food: pasta la vista, baby
  • Chat Noir: okay, looks like he's out of ideas
  • Ladybug: yeah he defs stole that last one from somewhere
  • Chat Noir: well it's time to take him down
  • Kung Food: *retreats to the roof*
  • Chloé: oh good
  • Kung Food: *suspends Chloé over a swimming pool of boiling soup*
  • Chloé: oh no
  • Jagged Stone: so anyways y'all gotta fight me first
  • Ladybug: what's that weapon you've got?
  • Jagged Stone: you'll be like fish in a barrel as I come at you with my SEAFOOD STAFF
  • Chat Noir:
  • Ladybug: *locks Jagged Stone in the closet like a badass*
  • André: and now you gotta fight me!
  • Ladybug: and what's your deal
  • André: something something sausage fest
  • Ladybug: yeah nope
  • Ladybug: *drops a chandelier on him*
  • Marlena and Alec: and now there's TWO OF US
  • Marlena: prepare to face an onslaught of flavor from my THOUSAND FLYING CAKES
  • Ladybug: okay but
  • Ladybug: let's get real here
  • Ladybug: "thousand flying cakes" is the coolest attack name EVER
  • Ladybug: like, respect
  • Alec: and I can't think of a pun, but here are some BLINDING STINKY CHEESE BOMBS
  • Chat Noir: my inner Plagg is v conflicted
  • Chat Noir: also I just realized my inner Plagg is v literal rn
  • Chat Noir: whoa that's really weird to think about
  • Alec: *wrecks him*
  • Ladybug: *wrecks both Alec and Marlena*
  • Ladybug: and now for the boss fight
  • Chat Noir: don't you mean the chef fight
  • Ladybug: don't try and say one-liners, you're bad at it
  • Chat Noir: I call them pun-liners
  • Kung Food: HEY GUYS
  • Kung Food: *drops Chloé toward soup*
  • Ladybug: whoa Chloé's about to die
  • Ladybug: like wow the stakes have never been higher
  • Ladybug: I can't imagine what life would be like with her gone
  • Kung Food: do you want me to pull her back out so you've got enough time to rescue her
  • Ladybug: nah I got this
  • Ladybug: *rescues Chloé like a badass*
  • Chloé: *is herself*
  • Ladybug: *drops Chloé off roof*
  • Chat Noir: did you just
  • Ladybug: she'll be fine
  • Chat Noir: how do you know
  • Ladybug: the screenwriters need somebody to get people akumatized
  • Chat Noir: oh right
  • Kung Food: *attacks*
  • Ladybug and Chat Noir: *fight back*
  • Ladybug: hey Kung Food hang on a minute
  • Chloé: hey guys so I climbed back up
  • Ladybug: *chucks Chloé off the roof again*
  • Kung Food: that was a worthy diversion
  • Ladybug: lucky charm!
  • Payment terminal: *happens*
  • Ladybug: "payment terminal"? really?
  • Chat Noir: do you have a better name for those things
  • Chat Noir: that's even what it's called on the wiki
  • Ladybug: idk but I've got a good one-liner for it
  • Ladybug: hey Kung Food, we've finished our meal and it's time to pay the bill!
  • Chat Noir: needs work
  • Ladybug: *wrecks Kung Food*
  • Ladybug: you were saying
  • Chat Noir: FINISH HIM
  • Ladybug: bye bye little butterfly
  • Wang: anyway here's the soup I made
  • Alec & co: ok you've won the competition
  • Alec & co: like there are defs no more contestants
  • Wang: btw I renamed the soup
  • Wang: it's now called Marinette Soup
  • Alec & co: might I ask why
  • Wang: bc Marinette fell in the swimming pool of soup
  • Wang: she's responsible for the flavor
  • Marinette: um no I'm right here
  • Wang: oh wow this is awkward
  • Wang: so who was that who fell in the soup
  • Marinette: idk
  • ROLL CREDITS

nessaelanesse  asked:

Hey, I'm really sorry to bother you and I hope I'm not out of line but I just read your newest post about your stomach and I'm curious... Do you have any idea what's wrong? See, I've got something similar and for the last year and a half I've been living on rice, chicken and the few veggies that don't make me sick. I've lost a third of my original weight, but all the doctors I've gone too have no idea what's wrong! Which is why I'm asking. I hope I'm not out of line and I wish you the best day!!

Not a damn clue. My diagnosis currently ranges from “you’re overweight try losing weight” (no longer valid since I dropped fucking 20lbs in a month and likely wasn’t valid for most of my symptoms to begin with) it’s “just” IBS (a chronic condition unto itself which too few people including doctors seem to realize and dismiss as non life impacting simply because it’s “common”) leaky gut caused by allergies (previously thought to be celiac but repeatedly tested negative for) chronic GERD (somewhat more under control than it was to the point when I am off my meds which worsened the other symptoms) vocal chord dysfunction (previously misdiagnosed as asthma which before that was misdiagnosed as purely anxiety when in fact the reason I was panicking was because I couldn’t breathe) “it’s just anxiety” (which yes I have anxiety, but I’ve realized a LOT of it was being caused by allergies causing a near constant adrenaline response so that was fun. Nice to know I was on sedatives as a teenager because no one bothered to listen to me when I said eating XYZ hurt), hormonal problems (despite my hormones always being “normal”), and last but not least “I mean, it could be fibromyalgia or an autoimmune disease, your symptoms are kind of hard to pin down”. That latter part being a direct quote from a doctor. 

I’ve also had severe issues with my teeth, which since I have switched to a holistic dentist, have largely been resolved. (Still in pain, but every time he does something my health bounces up a notch so it’s a process I’ll be working with him toward fixing over the next few years. He even suspects I might have been getting mercury poisoning from some seriously dangerously over the limit leaking amalgam fillings I got in my early teens. He’s also the only dentist willing to remove my root canal teeth because they’ve never fully healed.)

So. Yea. I have some of my own possible theories that it might be SIBO which many doctors here in the US seem reluctant to even admit is a real thing (my current dr certainly doesn’t and will not test for it despite it being an easy culture test to do) and some possible genetic fuckery/immune system bullshit. Both my parents are extremely ill people with very similar issues, my dad even has an autoimmune disease he doesn’t care enough to even remember the name of so I can’t just narrow the field and test directly for that. Thanks dad.

The difference between me and them is I am actively trying to get a diagnosis and claw some semblance of health/sanity back before I turn into a hermit resigned to dying young. 

A big thing for me seems to be allergies/intolerances which have sprung up in the last few years. (Rice is the first thing doctors recommend for eating “plain” food but it’s actually a huge trigger food for a LOT of people) Eating only organic seems to have helped (suggesting a preservative allergy, which my allergist just kind of said “I believe you, but there’s no reliable test for it so just…don’t eat them”) 

Which is where you find me at now, two years down the rabbit hole of trying to get an accurate diagnosis. As for asking questions, it’s entirely okay to ask questions. I’ve pretty much wound up documenting my chronic health issues because a) it was helping me to keep track of things and then b) my blog got popular due to shenanigans and then a bunch of other people started going “HEY ME TOO” and we’ve created a sort of exhausted support group for each other and also c) the number of people who message me on a daily basis to tell me it helps them to know they are not alone is just…I’ve cried twice today at some of the messages I’ve gotten, and at the time of typing this it’s not even noon. 

I do not mind being public with any of this because gods help me if someone can figure out some small puzzle piece of their life from me falling apart then in some small way it will be worth it. Cause I know what that feeling is like. And I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. Chronic health issues are so incredibly isolating.

So yea…next step I’m off to see a natruopathic/functional medicine doctor (yes I made sure they are licensed physicians and not just crazy hippies) in the hopes that she might have some answers for me, or is at least willing to listen to me, which uh, yeah, the more you refuse to accept suffering to be your way of life, many doctor’s don’t seem to appreciate. I had my GI doctor tell me I shouldn’t google my symptoms and just accept the fact that the meds he prescribed for the chronic GERD would dissolve my intestines which, hahahahah, ha. No. I do not accept that. Not even a little bit.

Making Sense

A SnowBaz fic for the Carry On Countdown

There was flour fucking everywhere.

“Did any of the flour get into the bowl?” Baz mused as Simon dumped another cup of the powder on the countertop, dropping a ball of dough on top and sending a cloud of flour drifting across the kitchen.

“Shut up,” Simon grinned, gingerly biting the leftover dough off of his fingers.  “Do you think we put in enough cherries?”

“We already did double what the recipe called for.”

“I know, but I want there to be cherries -”

“In every bite,” Baz finished, smiling fondly at Simon concentrating on the dough, his brow furrowing involuntarily.  Baz loved that furrow.  That furrow was only one of countless things Baz loved about Simon.

Simon turned to meet his eye, and Baz quickly dropped his gaze to the flour-covered counter.  Baz loved Simon’s eyes too much to even be able to look at them.  It was like trying to stare at the sun; he had to look away after a second, but the image was still there, stuck behind his own eyes, burnt onto his retinas.

Oblivious little fuck.

“Should I roll it thinner?” Simon asked, snapping Baz out of his thoughts.  Not that it mattered, the thoughts would carry on, like subtitles in his brain, impossible to ignore.

“It looks fine,” Baz shook his head.  “I wonder though, should we add something to them?  Like peppermint extract or something?”

“Why would we do that?”

“They are meant to be for a Christmas party…”

“So we’ll make Christmas cookies next,” Simon shrugged, “I’m not going to change the scones, they’re perfect as they are.”

Baz got an idea.  “How about we cut them with Christmas cutters?”

Simon laughed.  “The scones?”

“Yeah.”

“Alright.”

They dipped their cookie cutters in the inch-thick layer of flour that covered the counter and cut their scones into Christmas trees and gingerbread men.  They worked in silence, side by side, Baz trying to hide the bristling that occurred whenever he was close to Simon.  He still found it hard to believe that after all these years of being friends and spending time together, Simon had still never seemed to notice the effect he had on Baz.

They both reached into the flour bowl at the same time, their hands brushing.  It shouldn’t have made Baz blush, it wasn’t like they never touched each other, but Baz couldn’t help the fact that every touch felt like an electric shock, like it made his neck crawl.

The second their hands brushed, Baz fought the urge to snatch his back.  He wasn’t expecting Simon to do the snatching.

Baz peeked at Simon’s face.  The boy was staring down at the dough, but his eyes were wide and his cheeks were…

Don’t overthink it, he told himself. You mean nothing to him, not like that.

But there was that tiny voice inside somewhere that kept him hoping.  What if you do?

“Ready for the oven then?” Simon broke the silence, a little loudly for such a simple question, especially with Baz right beside him.

“Sure,” Baz replied, trying to sound light, and they transferred the dough onto the pan, sliding it into the oven and setting the timer. Baz brushed the flour dust off his hands and turned back to Simon.  “Now we wait.”

Simon had an odd expression on his face.  He stared sort of… past Baz, like he was so lost in thought that he was seeing the things he was thinking, and they were happening right behind Baz.  “What shall we do in the meantime?” Simon murmured.

“Well,” Baz watched Simon’s face, puzzled.  “We could start to clean up, I guess.”

Simon’s eyes narrowed.  “We could, yeah.”

“Did you have something else in mind?”

Suddenly Simon’s eyes met Baz’s, too quickly for Baz to look away.  He returned the gaze as coolly as he could, feeling more and more exposed with every second that dragged by.  “Something wrong?” he managed, his mouth dry.

“No,” Simon murmured, not looking away.  “Nothing’s wrong.  In fact, something’s right.  Everything’s right.”  He took a deep breath.  “Everything is… making sense.”

“R-really?”

Simon took a step towards Baz, then another.  His gaze was so intense that Baz instinctively backed up, finding that he had nowhere to go, he was already backed against the counter. “Simon,” he stammered, “what are you doing?”

“There’s…” Simon cocked his head up at Baz, now only inches away.  “There’s flour on your face.”  He reached a hand up to brush his thumb across Baz’s cheek, so softly that it felt like a butterfly’s touch.  Baz could hear his heart pounding in his ears, louder and louder and…

And then Simon reached up…

And Baz’s heart went silent.

Because Simon was kissing him.  Shyly.  On the mouth.

Baz’s eyes scrunched shut, and he went so tense that his stomach almost felt sick.

Simon dropped away from Baz’s mouth.  When Baz opened his eyes, Simon’s face was red, and his brow was furrowed again.  “I’m sorry,” he muttered.

Baz had to take a couple of breaths before he found his voice. “W-what for?”

Simon’s eyes were blurring up.  “I thought I’d figured it out,” he said, his voice cracking slightly. “I thought that you wanted… that. I guess not.”

“Did… did you want that?”

Simon squeezed his eyes shut, and a tear dripped from one of them.  “It doesn’t matter.”

“Simon,” Baz rushed to dry the tear from Simon’s cheek, not even thinking about the gesture.  “I need to know.”

For once, it was Simon who couldn’t meet Baz’s eyes.  “Yes, alright?  I wanted it, but clearly you didn’t, so let’s just forget it happened and carry on.”  His voice was hitching as he fought back tears, his breath becoming ragged.

Baz didn’t know it was possible for a heart to be broken and mended at the exact same time, but while Simon’s tears tore him apart, he felt light as air, practically giddy.  Without letting himself think about it, he leaned down and kissed the tear off of Simon’s face, letting his lips linger a second longer than they needed to.  He felt Simon’s shuddering stop in surprise.  When he met Simon’s eyes, neither of them looked away.  “Wait,” Simon breathed, “did you want that?”

Baz could barely whisper the words “God, yes” before he was crashing into Simon’s mouth again.  This time there was no hesitation, no stiffness, just a lifetime of wanting coming to a head.  

Simon’s mouth tasted of cherries and the salty sweetness of the dough he’d been sneaking the entire time.  Baz’s hands went from Simon’s face to his hair, one hand exploring the back of Simon’s neck.  Simon gave Baz’s chest a push, and before either of them knew what was happening, Baz was sitting on the countertop, Simon straddling his lap and kissing him so deeply that Baz thought he might faint.  Simon’s hands cupped Baz’s face, still pushing him back until Baz was leaning his head against the cupboards, the cold wood the only thing giving him any sense of direction.  His world was nothing but Simon, and he couldn’t hold back a moan as Simon angled his head and opened Baz’s mouth with his own.  

It wasn’t until much later, when they finally broke apart, dizzy and gasping for breath, that they realized they’d sat in the flour.

3.0 | a good way (theater au! joshua)

you would be best friends, always.  nothing would ever come between the two of you, right?

wc. just under 8.8k (whoopS) | fluff, angst, it’s all here | dedicated to my sweet choco ( @choco-seventeen ) for supporting me while writing and basically becoming this fic’s second mom

It was strange.  Weird.  Practically unfathomable and there must be some kind of mistake.  The play had those two characters as romantic leads.  The ones who slowly turn to look at each other, catch the starry glint in the other’s eye before slowly leaning in, before slowly closing their eyes, before slowly feeling their heartbeat accelerate because oh heavens this is it—before slowly kissing each other for the first time with such tender passion some members of the audience start to cry.

Those roles were not ever meant for the ones who have been friends since seventh grade, where one of them accidentally tripped and tossed their lunch all over the other, rendering the former an apologetic mess and the latter slightly smelling of garlic for the rest of the day.  Not for the ones who stayed up far too late binge watching whole seasons of anime because they finally turned in that big project and it’s in fate’s hands now.  Definitely not friends who are each other’s best friends, always.  Never them.

But when the director swings back to the two of you, the mischievous and excited glint in his eye is unmistakable.  His giddiness even bubbles over and he repeats himself, happily gazing between you and the best friend of 6 years standing beside you.  "Joshua, [Y/N], you’ll be the best two leads this stage has ever seen.“

Keep reading

The Oracle

A/N: I bring you the thing I had wanted to write in like forever: the saltiest reunion yet. But come on, did you really think I’d leave this character out? Not a chance.

Based on Flat Dreams by @pengychan. AU by @doodledrawsthings. Enjoy.

Part 1

Part 2 

“He is awake.”

“So soon?” Jheselbraum casts a look at at dimension 46’/, where Mabel Pines reaches to shake the hand of the monster they defeated only a year or so ago. “I would have expected at least a few more centuries.”

“I’m sure you know that time is relative.” The is a tone of amusement in the Ancient’s words. “It has been a lot longer than that.”

The Oracle takes that in, watching the events in Stanford’s home dimension play out, and hums in amusement, “‘A different form’,” she repeats to herself, “You couldn’t resist the irony, could you?”

The Axolotl chuckles, “Rather fitting, considering the many times humanity was deceived by him.”

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