i will have to take a new picture with all of my books because i have a big collection now

What about the RFA and Unknown and V finding out that MC has a career in the arts (author, artist, actor or something like that?) @saeranlover


Lol it’s been like 5,000 years since I’ve done a request, here you go bbies

Yoosung:

  • It was always a lingering thought in Yoosung’s mind
  • The thought always came randomly, but sometimes he swore that he  recognized your voice
  • Like the one time you yelled “Come at me!” at a friend who was teasing you and he just froze for a second to think about why it sounded familiar
  • It wasn’t until one day he was testing out a LOLOL character he’s never played before and she screamed out a line of dialogue before her attack
  • And suddenly he heard your voice behind him perfectly recreate the line
  • He turned around to see you cheekily grinning from your place on the bed
  • But it was wiped off your face soon enough because baby boi just pounced you into a big hug
  • “MC WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL ME YOU VOICED A CHARACTER IN LOLOL I WOULD’VE PLAYED AS HER MORE OFTEN IF I KNEW.”
  • You giggled as he rapidly asked you other things you voice acted in and gawked when he recognized the other characters you’ve voiced in games and cartoons
  • He’ll shyly ask you to reenact his favorite lines or scenes and his inner fanboy will show
  • Yoosung’s never really been into the behind the scenes stuff but he already somewhat was a fan of yours before so he’s basically dating his favorite VA
  • Silly lil’ peanut is gonna ask for your autograph on his merch of the characters you’ve voiced

Jaehee:

  • She found out during one of your nights in
  • You were in the kitchen preparing the snacks while Jaehee sorted through the set of musicals the two of you had rented for tonight (you finally convinced her that watching ‘Promiscuous Jalapeno’ for the 8th time in a row was a little much)
  • Once that was all said and done, you cuddled up to Jaehee while the movie started as she fed you popcorn
  • Oh crap, you recognized this movie
  • You actually got the part of the main dancer in this film (it was your typical dance batte film)
  • You somewhat never wanted her to find out  that you were an actor/dancer in fear of always being compared to Zen
  • Once your character was introduced, Jaehee’s eyes squinted a little at the screen before gasping and shaking your shoulders
  • “MC, MC, IS THAT YOU?”
  • “U-uhm nooooo…?”
  • “Wait, why would you keep this secret from me?”
  • After explaining your reasoning as to why, she just pulled you into a tight hug
  • “I’d never compare you anyone else, I love you just the way you are, famous or not!”
  • After watching the movie, she put aside the time to scour the internet for every performance you’ve been in and is about to be the proud owner of all your merch
  • jaehee please no that was our grocery money

Zen:

  • “lolol zen have you seen mc’s latest cover?”
  • “Cover? What’re you talking about?”
  • “the one on her youtube channel???”
  • “…”
  • “you do know what she does for a living, right??”
  • After Seven endlessly mocked Zen for not knowing what his own girlfriend did for a living, Seven graciously provided the link to your Youtube channel
  • Zen then proceeded to spend the next 3 hours of his life going through
  • your entire channel
  • He knew that you liked to sing and sounded like an angel but this
  • This is something extraordinary
  • You actually made a living doing this and he never even knew!
  •  He finally made his way up to your latest cover (which was uploaded about a week ago), and HO L Y  C R A P
  • It was the song he’s practiced at home for months on end for a musical he recently just starred in!
  • When you get home that night, you’re bombarded with compliments and questions (mostly compliments)
  • You explained that you never recorded around him because you were afraid that he might’ve thought you were going to use him for popularity
  • “Babe, I know you would never do that NOW WILL YOU PLEASE DUET WITH ME–”
  • Guess who has the best mashup cover of ‘Butterfly’ now

Jumin:

  • Coming home a few hours early was indeed a rare occurrence for Jumin
  • Usually when he came home, you were instantly there to greet him with a hug and kiss
  • He called your name, but there was no response, just a faint typing sound
  • After hanging his coat on the coat hanger, he began walking towards the noise, his hands already working on loosening his tie
  • “Ah, here you are, my love,” he said upon entering the officeroom
  • “Jumin, you’re home early,” you smiled, letting your husband wrap his arms around your shoulders and resting his chin atop your head
  • “The office had to close early for some renovations,” Jumin explained, “but I’m more interested in what you’re working on.”
  • “I’m working on my next book!”
  • The surprised look on his face made you remember that you never brought it up to him before, but now is as good as time as any to explain
  • Jumin seemed genuinely intrigued as he listened to your explanation on your book series, which was apparently very popular
  • When you finished, he asked if you could lend him the first addition, as he did enjoy reading in his spare time
  • And soon enough, he was hooked
  • He’d have long talks with you over dinner on how he wasn’t expecting a plot twist or how well you wrote your characters
  • Or about how you should hurry and finish the next book because you left him on a cliffhanger

707:

  • He’s known since the background check that you had a job in digital art but he tucked that away in the back of his head because there were too many other things happening at the time (eg the hacker, your sudden appearance, his emotions and job…)
  • It isn’t until one day where he’s been able to work for a few hours straight without you lecturing him about how he should take a break
  • So he got up from his chair, slapped his right leg a few times to wake it up, and ventured outside his office to find you
  • To no surprise, you were huddled inside in the bedroom, but this time with your drawing tablet in hand
  • “Hey Saeyoung,” you tiredly muttered, eyes still glued to the laptop screen
  • His eyes trailed to where you were looking and a look of mock hurt morphed on his face, “MC, how dare you draw a picture of another man!”
  • You stifled a laugh at your boyfriend’s dramatic tone, “Zen just asked me to draw some things for his website so I’m–”
  • You should me drawing me instead! Here, I’ll even pose for you!” 
  • You regret even looking behind you, because Saeyoung was already stripping down to his boxers, need I remind you the pair with cat faces on them
  • “DRAW ME LIKE ONE OF YOUR FRENCH GIRLS.”
  • “SAEYOUNG PUT YOUR CLOTHES BACK ON AND GET TO BACK TO WORK!”

V:

  • Usually you were making some sort of noise in the house, but today you were oddly quiet
  • “MC? Where are you?”
  • “I’m in the living room,” you hollered back as he started making his way over, “Be careful not to bump my arm though.”
  • “What’re you doing?” he asked, taking a seat on the floor next to you
  • You explained that you liked paint and used it as a way to make some extra pocket money
  • V was very happy and excited to hear that you had an artistic career just like him
  • You were always delighted to describe the paintings to him, and you always did it with such passion
  • After awhile, he started to miss photography and he so badly wanted to see your work for himself
  • So he decided to get the eye surgery
  • Once he did, he was shocked at how much he can see your heart poured onto the canvas
  • You often went out into nature together and sit there together for hours to photograph/paint and enjoy one another’s company
  • You also loved painting some of V’s older photographs and he loved it and every single one is framed in the house
  • #artsycouple
  • The day you painted a picture of the sun and gave it to him, he cried

Unknown:

  • The first time Saeran ever walked into your room, his eyes immediately darted to the big, colorful collection of sticky note pads on your desk
  • He picked one up, noting that every one had a slightly different drawing than the others, “What’re these for?”
  • “Oh, I’m an animator! I like to use these sticky notes when I’m bored.”
  • He never got to watch cartoons as a child so this was all new to him
  • Watching you peacefully work is very, very soothing to him, to just watch the lines fill with color so smoothly
  • You even let him have some of your already drawn-on sticky note pads and he likes to flip through them when he’s nervous or needs to calm down when something’s bothering him
  • His favorite is the one you made for him where it goes “I love you, Saeran!” with a cute little doodle of a cartoony-looking you kissing his cheek on it
  • As mentioned before, he never got to watch cartoons or movies as a kid and he’s willing to watch the ones you’ve worked on
  • It always amazes him that you made what was on the screen and he loves it (he’s never said it out loud but it shows on his face)
  • He really enjoys the ones that are story-based rather than the nonsense slapstick ones (which is what Saeyoung enjoys, much to his dismay)
  • Seeing the childlike innocence in his eyes is heartwarming and you wouldn’t trade it for the world 

I imagine them laying on the dusty floor of their living room, surrounded by half-full boxes and bits and pieces that still need to be put away. It’s been a few hours since they have started packing all their stuff and it still feels a bit weird. Like. They’re actually moving out. They’re doing it. It’s about damn time, they think, given that the place is literally falling apart. But, wow. It feels weird.
They’re taking a small break now and they’re quietly staring into each other’s eyes. The silence is full of unspoken words but it’s not uncomfortable. They both know what the other is thinking. “We’re taking a big step. We’re committing to (hopefully) several years of living together”. But it doesn’t sound that scary, does it? After all these years. Yeah, well, it is. It’s a hell of a step they’re about to take. They’re not in their early twenties anymore. It’s not a game anymore. It’s a real commitment. Nothing is going to change and, at the same time, everything will be different. New place, new neighbours, new furniture. Well, it does sound a bit exciting.
They both sigh making each other smile. They get up and start packing again, as if they had never stopped.
Living in this apartment has been a hell of a ride, but, looking around, they both think it was worth it. The place is full of them. In every room, on every wall, there’s a piece of them. A photo. A CD. The long lost sock under the bed. There are things everywhere. Things they have collected along this crazy five-year journey. Things that were given to them, things they’ve bought each other for the five Christmases they have spent in this house. Whilst packing they realise how many years they’ve been together. There is some hella old stuff in there and the fact that they’ve kept every cinema ticket, bracelet and post-it is so cheesy.
They pack everything, picture after picture, book after book, mug after mug.
They shed nostalgic tears every once in a while. They laugh at some weird object they didn’t even remember owning. They hug a lot, it makes things easier to bear or so it seems.
At the end of what it had seemed like a never-ending process, the place looks quite scary. It’s deserted. It almost hurts seeing it like this, without paintings on the wall or DVDs and books on the shelves.
And it’s in that moment that they get it: home isn’t a place.
Think about it: if you empty your home from all the things you own it’s not your home anymore. It’s a shell. Home is what fills the place. No, wait. Home is
who fills the place. Because a place with no Dan is not home to Phil as much as a place with no Phil is not a home to Dan. It’s just how it is.
And with that in mind, they close the front door behind them.

I respect the opinion of my elders, but just an open query about the charges brought against my generation:

For not working hard enough: where is the evidence. When we were younger you told us you started from a small job and climbed your way to the top. When we are flipping burgers it’s because we didn’t apply ourselves. When you did it, it was shouldering the future by suffering in the present. When we ask for the money to buy bread, it is shameful. When others went on strike in the name of labor conditions, it was heroic. When we ask for more, we never deserve it. So how did you get here? Did you never sit up and demand the world give you what was rightfully yours? How hard working is hard enough?

We are illerate, use slang instead of language, shun poetry: did I just imagine the “rad” bloom of the 70’s? Is it because you can’t catch our tongues in your hands? Is it because our poetry is now published beyond books, beyond the control of one voice, beyond you? That our language doesn’t need your approval to evolve? When you drew political pictures of us asking how to turn a book on, you laughed at our ignorance. When the tables turned, when we were shown to be the most literate and well-read generation on record, you scratched the mirror. You said it was our lazy nature. A body rotting. Because we read trash, or we read into things, or we write loudly and it bothers you. Why does it bother you?

School is too easy: What was it like going to school without being worried about a shooting? Did you ever cower like we have, like I did, like our friends, crying muffled in your hands because you love your parents and now have no time to tell them? What was it like, dear, in a world where my standardized testing scores would have broken your curve and I didn’t even get perfect. What part is the easy part. Is it the highest recorded level of anxiety? Is it the rising teenage suicide rates? Is it the eating disorders, body dismorphia, self harm, self destruction? Tell me, have you seen - there’s a show called “Are you Smarter Than A 5th Grader.” It’s very funny. In it, bright young kids show adults that what we’re learning didn’t even exist in common knowledge while they were in school. Tell me. If you were up against our 5th grade curriculum, who would win? No, I’m sure you’re fine. You learned it all in high school.

We want too many free things: What was it like to want for nothing? What was it like to have a certainty that hard work leads to a bright future. What was it like imagining being rich instead of imagining just being rich enough to eat good food. What was it like, not being worried that a broken leg would cost you an entire apartment? Do you know they hate us so much they would rather see us die than bring down the price of an EpiPen. And since I know you love the idea of us abusing the system, tell me, where do I go to expose the lie about my life-threatening allergy? How do I fake it, because I’d like to opt out of it, and while I’m at it my mental illness, and while I’m at it can you take my chronic pain please. And since I know that the answer is to go to school and get a degree so I can be worthy of not dying, just another question: are you aware fifty thousand dollars a year is equivalent to a house. I could buy a house instead of going to college. Since you’re good at this, while we’re talking, I have two siblings. Which of the three of us gets the money? Go on. Look at us. Choose. Who goes hungry?

We’re entitled: yes, please, give me a deed, give me land, give me better than winning the lottery. What I’m entitled to is life, liberty and the pursuit of profit, am I not? So where are any of the above? Where did the jobs go? Why do you jail people for small crimes but free the criminals? And my life? This life? I end where my body begins, I am cut off from the nation’s decisions about what I can put in or take out of me. And me? I’m safe because I’m white-passing. Don’t the bodies pile up? Aren’t we entitled to justice? Aren’t we entitled to an answer? A response from the government? More than just speeches about how riots won’t solve things? Aren’t we entitled to a fair trial? To freedom of speech? Was it not our common fathers who fought for these things?

We’re lazy: Where? Who has the money? I’ve been working since I was 12, am I just an anomaly? Or do you just ignore those who don’t fit your story? All those student-run engineering projects that are changing history. All those protests. The art world, shifting. All these adults who demand more - do they count as lazy or as entitled? What were you doing at our age? Did it really look all that different?

We don’t listen to real music, don’t like real art, are loud, are too busy partying: We changed and you didn’t keep up. Is that’s what’s so startling?

We are sucked up into the Internet, wouldn’t drop the phone if the apocalypse was happening: my phone has my family on the other end of it. Do you not save pictures from a burning building? Do you really care so little for others you’d stick to the old ways entirely instead of texting? Oh sure, yes, a letter is pretty, I love them. But just asking for a friend: What do I do in an emergency with only a pencil. And I don’t mean to downsize the problem because I mean it’s not like you took Polaroids of your friends at sunset - right? - and it’s definitely wrong of us to want memories of a really nice night, but, just curious, did you post that opinion on the Internet? Was seeing others on the Web what made you upset? Maybe - this is just a crazy idea that popped up into my head - you should go take a walk, go outside, disconnect.

We do everything different: Yes. Because we were raised on the cusp of the next great Renaissance. We are in somewhere new, a galaxy of expansion that doesn’t rely on you. That knows more than you do. That doesn’t function the way you expect it to. How rose-colored is the past to you? The place where you erase AIDS and drug abuse in an effort to tell us we are a terrible youth. Where you don’t talk about the marches that happened around you. How painted do you picture it, simply because you had to physically look in a book to learn something new? How do you turn your eyes to a world where war sits on our necks, our earth melts, our populations swell, our people starve, and we are powerless in it all - and say, “It’s your fault.”

It’s our fault. The housing market, somehow related to our obsessive need for safe spaces, I’m sure, because our dreams no longer lie in yards but rather something big enough for at least a bed, and hopefully with tasteful curtains, and you have no idea what a safe space is. The certain failure of the two-party political system, maybe somehow due to our political correctness - we are, after all, rude enough to never open doors for old ladies or just let you be racist - how we controlled the media, how our desires drove this. Our request for trigger warnings and correct pronouns is a burden, and I see that now, because our special snowflake syndrome really does hurt you as a person; while your ongoing use of torture in corrective therapy is only a problem if you’re actually looking. You’re so right about so many things. When you beat us to correct us, it’s your child and it’s your right; when it’s our bodies we ask to have rights over - well, what did we expect? It’s our fault. The crushing debt, the companies that own our government, the privatization of prisons, the unrightful searches, the human trafficking and abuse of sex workers, the gun violence, the pharmaceutical industries which control our doctor’s choices, the climate change you only just started to admit is happening, the extinction of species worldwide - we are responsible for both pollution and poaching, the lead in our water, the death in our streets. So what do you get from it? From dismissing us? From quitting on us before the race begins? From forgetting who exactly raised us kids?

Now, I was told that the problem is that we too often point to bigotry. That we hide behind pointing out your sexist comments instead of realizing the truth your words wrought. I was told we are so focused on our victories, of a world that rallied for marriage equality, for gender expression, for the safety of survivors, for a healing nation - we call out instead of calling on. So I’m calling on you, Generation X kids. Here’s your free one. No bigotry spoken of. So speak. Explain what exactly you mean.

I get it. We asked for a country. The land is borrowed from your children, they tell me.

Now why are you so afraid when we show up and start collecting?

anonymous asked:

Prompt: Betty and Jughead's kids ask about their first kiss and how they met.

I had so much fun writing this!!! It’s cuteness overload, it’s fluffy Bughead, it’s amazing parenting, it’s something I didn’t know I wanted in life up until now! I hope you all enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it!! <3


“They swim really fast and they can hold their breath for fifteen minutes underwater. The pups are being born in the water too, on big pieces of ice, and at first they have fluffy white fur but, when they grow older, they lose it and they become silver gray. I went to the library after class and searched in the encyclopedia, like you and mommy taught me how, and I saw more pictures and, daddy, they look so cute! Like they are always happy and playing all day long!” the five year old boy kept talking with passion and childish excitement, his tiny legs curled under him on a matte black barstool while his torso was sprawled on the marble kitchen island in front of him, elbows pressed on an unfinished crayoned drawing, holding his weight up, and eyes round and alit in fascination upon looking at his dad’s phone screen.

“They do look pretty cute and jolly, now that you pointed it out, bud.” His dad agreed with a couple of nods, scrolling through Google search and tapping on yet another picture. “Do they also eat fish?”

“Of course, daddy! Harp seals are still seals.” The boy replied in a heartbeat. “Did you know that their nose closes when they go under the water?” upon seeing his dad snap his head up to face him surprised, he continued with more vigor. “Yeah, they can’t smell anything but they can sense the fish passing by or feel them with their whiskers.” He went on matter of factly, as if reciting from a National Geographic catalogue, his dad grinning in amazement at his brilliant young mind and his cute overall reaction at something as simple as mammals.

“Wow…” he fed his son’s boyish excitement more with a breathy sigh of appreciation, locking his phone and abandoning it to the side. “So you learnt all that from just a small text Mrs. Lyn read during circle time?”

“No.” the five year old shook his head, his attention sifting back to his drawing. “Mrs. Lyn just read to us about arctic animals and showed us pictures; I read all that from the encyclopedia at recess.” He shrugged adorably, chubby fingers grabbing a bright blue crayon before messily coloring on his A4 drawing block, without a care in the world.

Jughead shook his head in amusement; of course he did.

Keep reading

Mirror Mirror on the Wall

**inspired by a post I saw where Regina uses her magic mirror to check in on the Queen and Robin Locksley**

It’s been over a year since she has checked in on the Queen, a small little peek into the other woman’s life just to make sure that everything is okay, that they are okay. And so far, everything seems good, really good. She’s had a couple chuckles over watching this other version of herself lose the royal thickness about her and become a woman of the forest. Long gone are the jewelled cloaks and high heels, all which have been traded in for more sensible clothing, furs, trousers and a bow on her back. It reminds her of the time she herself spent as a bandit, for that moment in time where she had been on the run from an Evil Queen and an outlaw had come to her rescue. It’s odd, to watch it play out in real life.

But this other Regina seems happy now that she’s stopped grumbling about living in the forest. It suits her. Suits them. And while they may live in a forest, Regina can’t help but smile at the fact that apparently you may be able to take a Queen out of her royal castle, but you can’t quite take all of royalty out of the Queen. They live comfortably, in a large-ish cottage on a hill surrounded by trees overlooking a lake. Thanks to her magic, they have everything they need, even indoor plumbing, a note Regina did laugh at. But Robin is still Robin. He still hunts and lives off the land, and makes campfires beneath the stars.

She’d watched them one night, tucked on a couch together underneath a blanket, a calm flickering of orange glow from the hearth beating about them as Robin combed through her hair till her eyes closed. She hadn’t meant to watch them as long as she had, feeling like a peeping tom and all, but Robin had waited till his Regina was nearly asleep, breathing heavier than a few minutes prior when he rustled gently in his pocket, and pulled out a small little box. She’d watched as his eyes trailed back down to the near asleep woman on his chest, a small smile creeping into his dimples as he kissed her temple and begun to play with her left hand.

Her heart had thundered as she sat silently in her room, absorbed in them and what was about to happen. He’d kissed her cheek, placed a few to her temple, and across her brow until she grinned in her sleep, curling further into his arms, as he pulled her gently awake. The Queen’s eyes had drifted blissfully open, contentment swirling about in them, at least until she saw the box Robin had pressed into her palm.

Regina’s breath had hitched at the same time the Queen’s had, the mirror in her hands creeping closer as she waited to see what the other woman would say, knowing the answer in her heart already. His voice was low, curious and full of love as he asked her the question, the Queen’s eyes flickering up from the diamond to his gaze, stunned, before she broke out into a smile, and nodded, pulling him down to meet her lips that ceased to stop grinning. She’d put the mirror down after that, wiped away a few tears she wasn’t sure were from longing or happiness. That had been the last time she’d seen them, snuggled together in their home, newly engaged.

She doesn’t do it often anymore, gaze into her magic mirror and see how they are, because it feels a bit strange sometimes, to see a life she could have lived going on in front of her eyes. It brings about an ache in her heart, wondering if she and her Robin would have lived this way, happily together. Maybe that’s why her checking in on them have been fewer and farther in between over the past two years. She is content that they are happy, that she was able to be a part of making that happen.

But something just felt a little different today, Henry had left for a school trip for a week and she was feeling a bit lonely in her mansion. For a few hours she’d managed to occupy her mind with cooking dinner (for one). Had made apple turnovers she’d not yet touched and had a long bath, even done her nails. And it’s only eight o’clock. Too early to fall asleep, nothing to capture her attention on TV, her book long finished.

Humming to herself, she thumbs the mirror on her bedside table, gnawing at the fact she wants to see them, that maybe, for a few minutes she’ll allow herself to pretend it’s her and Robin instead. Just a few minutes, ten tops. Sinking beneath the covers, she sighs, turning the glass towards her face and whispers out, “Mirror Mirror on the Wall, show me what I want to see most of all.” It glows a deep purple, bright and swirling in her palm till the light settles and the image fades into view.

It’s day time there, warm sun pooling into an empty living room, though seems no one is home. The thought makes Regina pout, unamused, what is she supposed to do now? Huffing out a breath, she sets the mirror aside, as stares out the window silently. The quiet is nice, she supposes. Not what she wanted, but what can she do about it? Settling into her pillow her eyes flutter shut, and she pictures Robin beside her, or maybe downstairs, frowning adorably at the appliances he’d yet to figure out.

She’d lost a toaster and a coffee pot whilst he was here and his curiosity had gotten the better of him. The sheepish look he’d given her as she’d walked into the kitchen to put out the fire alarm blaring away due to another smoke bomb from a destroyed instrument far too precious to have her irritation even flare a bit. He’d apologized, run his hand through his hair and sighed at the small carnage he’d created. But she hadn’t care, would just shrug and kiss him happily, letting her wrist flick and restore the appliance back to it’s working state. She liked those moments. Domestic ones between the two of them, it felt like normalcy had finally begun to settle into her life.

A muffled voice cues her attention back to the mirror beside her as she fumbles and flips it back over, light streaming into the cottage as a door swings open and she sees the other Regina walk into the living room, carting a basket on her hip and a smile on her lips. “I’ll be right there!” She calls back out over her shoulder, heaving the load from her arms onto the table. Robin must be outside.

She looks different. Her hair tied into a loose braid that swings over her cotton clothed back, face void of all makeup and dirt under her nails. It’s not the first time Regina has been amused at the sight of the once regal royal all dirtied up playing house. It’s nice. She dusts off her pants, makes her way quickly to the kitchen on the left just out of Regina’s view. In the distance she swears she can hear more than just one voice. Robin’s certainly, but there is someone else there with him, someone younger. Her heart flutters as a hushed laughter echoes around her. It sounds just like–

“Roland! Come back here.”

She freezes under her blankets, jaw dropping and eyes watering as she sees the mop of brown curly hair rush into the cottage. He looks exactly the same, a bit bigger no doubt, with the time that has passed, but his face hasn’t changed from the picture in her memory. Big button brown eyes, chubby dimpled cheeks, two new missing front teeth as he shouts cheerfully into the kitchen from the sofa he’s landed himself on. His little chest puffs in and out, and Regina can’t help the tears that fall, nor the way her fingers trace his face. She misses him so goddamn much. Kicks herself everyday for not being able to figure out how to get to him somehow.

“Hello, my little archer.” The Queen smiles as she steps back into the room, flopping herself down beside him, lips playfully coating his cheeks in affection as he squeals in delight beneath her.

Regina’s heart clenching at the sight of him moving to settle into the Queen’s lap, grinning up at her as his hands part, revealing a perfectly sliced apple, well almost perfectly sliced, one half is surely larger than the other. “I did it!”

“I see that! You’re getting better than Robin!”

“Yup!” Roland munches triumphantly on his half he hadn’t relinquished into the Queen’s hands.

“Oh you think so, eh?” Robin comes into view, his hair tousled on his forehead, a grin beaming as he settles down beside them with a smirk. “Should I tell Little John you’re about to take over as the leader of the Merry Men then, yeah?”

“Let him down easy, he’s a sensitive guy.” The Queen winks as she nuzzles down into Roland’s hair. “Speaking of which, he’ll be by rather soon to come collect you.”

“Awww, Gina, do I have to go?”

The pout he sends her is beautiful, as is the smile she sends back. Regina still sits enraptured on her bed, can’t help but feel a flutter in her stomach. They found each other. All of them. How she doesn’t know, but what does it matter anyway? It’s a perfect picture glowing out from her mirror. “You need to get some sleep or else you will fall asleep on the way tomorrow, and be a little grumpy toad.”

“No I won’t!”

Robin laughs, laces his fingers behind Roland’s back with the Queen’s, “Perhaps we can convince him to let you stay the night.”

“Yes!”

“We all know he is an easy turn if you show him just how good your archery has gotten, maybe he’ll seen reason in letting you stay and practice some more.”

Roland bounds between them, whooping and hollering as he grabs his small bow and arrow and races back outside, his cheering still heard from the quiet that surrounds the pair still on the couch. Robin turns his eyes from the doorway back to his wife who leans her head on the soft brown cushions, humming happily when he moves closer to her, draping her legs across his thighs, and tugging her tighter into him with a smiling kiss to her lips. The seemingly innocent kiss suddenly turns into something far more heated, a moan in the back of the Queen’s throat has Regina flushing hot, best be time to go.

Her hand begins to wave across the mirror, but her eyes glue to the placing of Robin’s hand on the Queen’s stomach, and she lets her magic fizzle out. They smile, a bashful blissful thing, eyes meeting one another’s before Robin shimmies down between the Queen’s thighs, his hands cupping a small swell Regina hadn’t noticed before.

“Hello, my boy. How are we this afternoon?”

The Queen cards through his hair, tilts her chin down and smiles as he begins talking to her bump, Regina hanging onto every muffled word and mischievous, cheerful grin he sends back up at his lover before focusing back down to the task of talking to their unborn child. “Now, you stay safe and warm in there and try to ease up on your mother for a while okay?” His kisses the swell and moves back up to buss the former Queen’s lips. “We should start thinking of names.”

“Already?”

“Why not?”

“Do you have anything in mind?”

Robin bites down on his lip, brow creasing as he scoots back down to the barely there bump. “Well, my father’s name was Richard.”

“Baby Boy Richard?” She cringes hard.

They both lock eyes before sharing a laugh, Robin shaking his head, “A definite no.”

“What about Rigel?”

“Rigel Locksley?”

The Queen shrugs, “I kind of like it.”

“As do I. And for a middle name?”

Regina soaks in the moment. Little Rigel. She wonders if he will look like Robin, or maybe a smaller version of Roland, her complexion to Marian is close enough anyway. And when the Queen whispers out a name, Regina’s heart stills, eyes flush with new tears.

“Henry?”

“I know that you didn’t really know him, either of them, my father or my son, but I’d like to…”

Her words are cut off by another melting of Robin’s lips to her own. “Say no more, Rigel Henry Locksley it is.”

“You’re sure?”

“Of course, my love. It’s perfect.”

They settle in together, lacing their hands over their baby boy safe in Regina’s belly.  

“You’re sure you want to go tomorrow? We can wait a few days for you to feel better you know.”

“I’m okay.”

“You sure? You’re only a few weeks along, we don’t even have to go.”

She kisses him again, slow and steady before nodding, “I promise I’m fine, it’s not as bad as it was with Rae, that’s for sure.” Her eyebrows arch momentarily, “Plus, we promised Roland we’d take him.”

“He’d understand if you aren’t feeling up to it.” He rubs down her legs and back up her arms, saddling a fraction closer to her on the sofa.

“I know, he’s a good little boy, but I swear, I’m okay.”

“You’d tell me if you weren’t right? We can turn around anytime you want.”

He frowns, though the Queen chuckles, “You worry too much.”

She bumps his nose with her own as he sighs through a laugh, “I know, but it’s only cause I love you’re cooking and can’t imagine having to go back to eating boiled rabbit.” He jests at her, dimples on full display, as she scoffs, slaps his chest half heartedly.

“That’s why you married me? For my cooking skills?”

“Well that,” he leans in to catch her lips once more, “and maybe a few other things.”

Clearly something, no matter the realm or version never changed.

She huffs, pecks his lips a few times more, “Roland’s waiting. I’ll be right there.”

Robin smiles through his lingering concern, nuzzling into her neck for a few well placed kisses before extracting himself from her body, letting his hand circle across her stomach a few more times. “Speaking of little ones, shouldn’t she be up by now?”

“Probably, if we want to actually get some sleep tonight.” The Queen hums, running her own hands along the small swell as Robin stands, kissing her forehead one last time before whispering gently, “I’ll see you outside, my love.”

Regina watches as Robin leaves the Queen still smiling on the couch, soothing her hand over her stomach. This she certainly wasn’t expecting to see… an expecting version of herself. Where she’d figured envy would creep in, there is nothing. Well not nothing, there is a bubble of calmness that surrounds her as she smiles at the sight.

“Mama?” A little voice calls from up the stairs.

“Coming baby!” The Queen stands, and skips up the steps quickly and Regina can’t help but wait to see what their daughter looks like, what her and Robin’s daughter may have looked like. The room grows quiet as she sits up taller against the headboard, brushing a lock behind her ear, she needs a haircut, desperately so. But Robin liked it long, and she can’t really find it in her to shear it again. Oh well, unruly waves be damned, it will stay this length at least for a little while longer.

The sound of footsteps and happy bubbling laughter brings her eyes back to the mirror, the brown boots of the Queen coming into view first, her thighs and then a small dangling pair of matching boots at her waist. It’s all long brown curls hiding a little face burrowed into her mother’s neck. She can’t be more than twelve months, a baby still. A beautiful giggle muffled by the Queen’s own humming chuckle as she balances her daughter on her hip, whispering something Regina can’t quite catch.

“Shall we go see your daddy?” She turns and makes her way to the door, bouncing the little girl on her hip, and as they begin to walk away from the wall mirror Regina watches them from. Her eyes lock onto a pair of sky blue sparkling ones, chubby pink cheeks, dimples and a perfect rosy pout. For a second the little girl almost seems to sense her, and Regina can’t help but wave her fingers slowly as mother and daughter walk into the distance, and just before she loses sight of them, five little fingers wave back.

She laughs, brushes the tears off of her cheeks and sets the mirror down, her heart blooming and bursting at its seams. Her eyes close as she nestles back into bed, her mind swirling with the image of the perfect little family she had a part in bringing together, and something settles in her, a sense of calm and understanding that this will be the last time she uses the mirror, they have found a happily ever after, after all.

voltron witch au

i was inspired to share my personal headcanons for @catnippacketswitch au !! their headcanons may differ from mine, but this is simply my elaboration off of their idea!

lance: water/sea witch

  • so many sea trinkets
  • shells, rocks, sand, driftwood, salt water, beach glass etc.
  • a lot of them are scattered around his room; on windowsills, tucked next to picture frames, decorating his workspace.
  • others he likes to turn into jewelry
  • loves making + enchanting jewelry, is very generous and enjoys giving his creations to his friends
    • “sorry you had a bad day, i added a charm to this cone shell necklace i made for you for protection”
    • “sand dollar dust for good luck! go get ‘em, buddy!”
  • meditates a lot, always trying to remain Cool, Calm, and Collected™
  • is actually A Mess the majority of the time, emotions very similar to the ocean’s tides
    • has the most trouble keeping his sacral chakra balanced (emotions, sexuality, self expression)
  • strong connection with the moon, performs a lot of rituals to better connect w + understand her
  • (though he considers himself secular)
  • aromatherapy!
  • is a very sentimental person, and strong emotions buried deep inside of him can be drawn out by certain scents
  • he’s not afraid of his emotions, and therefore has shown great interest in aromatherapy
  • often asks keith to make incense for him using his essential oils
  • cause lance is bad at it and keith is a pro (but lance’ll never admit that)
  • his grimoire is an absolute Mess
  • just a shitty torn up blue composition book covered in stickers and sigils and messages from his friends
  • he just shoves shit in it there’s no organization whatsoever
    • “lance i just wanted to compare correspondences my lap is literally covered in sand right now”
  • bath magic !!!! super into glamour and bath magic
  • has tried to make his own beauty products but found that pass-times such as baking aren’t high-up on his list of talents
  • sometimes him and hunk will make products for lance together, but most of the time lance will just buy some trustworthy and organic products from his favorite metaphysical shop or flea markets
  • lifetime supply of rosewater
  • poplar wand - feeling - (water) emotions, feelings, sensitivity, intuition, empathy, dance, instincts.
  • grip made of fabric from an old, beaten up Childhood Baby Blanket
  • is almost always humming and will 100% get a new song stuck in your head everyday
    • sings during rituals
    • sounds like an irl siren
    • beware

keith: fire/desert witch

  • lots of rituals
  • rituals involve lots of dancing (which he’s actually very good at)
  • uses his athame in every and any way possible - often incorporates it in his dancing
  • technically considers himself wiccan, but dislikes labels
  • worships the major planetary bodies in our solar system, though mainly focuses on the sun and moon
  • is a peaceful witch until provoked, then will show no remorse when he curses/hexes ur ass sorry honey
    • shiro always tries to convince him not to, but he isn’t normally very successful
    • lance and pidge are both total enablers for cursing lmao get him
    • everyone is so surprised when hunk; sweet, kind, caring hunk, encourages keith’s habit
  • (but lance could never actually curse someone, he just lives for drama)
  • (pidge could)
  • (pidge will)
  • writes everything in charcoal
  • constantly covered in charcoal
    • lance: uhh dude you got a little *points to the smear of charcoal on keith’s cheek*
    • keith: oh thanks *wipes cheek with charcoal covered hand* did i get it?
    • lance: yep yes yeah you got it buddy
  • burns written spells/sigils to activate them
  • just burns everything tbh
    • “split ends? no no, i lit my hair on fire”
  • no feeling in fingertips lol
  • makes incense for lance despite the massive headaches he gets from the strong scents
  • dabbles in blood magic
  • candles + wax everywhere
  • enjoys making different salts
  • endless supply of fire-salt
  • owns one (1) cactus
  • enjoys different textures and fabrics, therefore owns a bunch of tapestries and altar cloths
  • has world’s shittiest handwriting, but has a really cool (fake) leather-bound grimoire that he found on a road trip in the mid west
  • doesn’t remember the shop name
  • doesn’t remember the shop

pidge: green + tech witch

  • herbalism!
  • loves making jars + bottles using their own herbs
    • sometimes uses some of hunks crystals
    • or any other objects of importance, depending on the spell
  • seriously though their room is a mess it’s fllled with plants on shelves and hanging and on the floor
  • jars and bottles everywhere
  • random pieces of tech all over the place
  • do they have an actual floor? who knows
  • corners of their room are covered in mold and moss and there’s dirt all over the place
  • dirt under fingernails 24/7
  • relies heavily on their pendulum when making literally any decision ever, ranging from:
    • “should i eat this sandwich labeled ‘hunk’?”
    • to
    • “should i pack up my shit and leave to find my family (whom i cherish and love more than anything in this plane of existence), completely disregarding the safety of the entire universe and the fact that i will backhandedly and indirecting be the one responsible for the rise of the galra empire?”
  • recently got into making elixirs/potions (from hunk)
  • makes special gem elixirs to water their plants with
  • makes different ones depending on the type of plant and or what problem it’s having
  • sigils on everything
  • writes in anything they can - dirt, spit, tears, blood
  • pretty low-key tech witch, just really likes tech + adds simple magicks into their work
    • writes chants + spells in HTML
    • desktop background sigils
    • emoji spells
    • etc
  • e-grimoire that’s surprisingly pretty organized
  • only because its digital tbh they can’t keep papers and folders organized for shit
  • see: their room

hunk: kitchen/cottage + green witch

  • loves all types of cooking, but baking particularly!  
  • loves gardening
  • very generous!!!! loves giving!!!!!!!
  • bonds with pidge over plants :’)
  • has a shared greenhouse with them
    • they each have one half of the greenhouse, but they help each other out with their plants when needed
  • loves comparing grimoires with his friends
  • his grimoire is a big file-folder looking journal
  • it’s pretty tidy and he puts a lot of effort into it, but he’s not super artistically inclined when it comes to paper and pencil so it’s rather plain
  • though he is very crafty in other ways!!
  • super into knot work
  • picked up/dabbles in a little jewelry making thanks to lance
    • though he uses his crystals as jewelry pieces, not sea trinkets
  • crystal healer!
  • is! such! a! good! healer!
  • basically always has a stable root chakra
  • steady as a rock (or so he lets on)
  • always grounding himself
  • sometimes he’ll have to take off his shoes to better ground himself, but he’s become so good with his chakras that he normally doesn’t need to
    • actually experiences his emotions like a Normal Teenager should, but has taken on the self-appointed role of being his friends anchor
  • really enjoys tea and makes blends for himself and his friends
    • pidge is absolutely hooked on hunk’s tea for getting rid of cramps…God Bless………………..
    • tries not to rely on superstition, but indulges in the occasional tea leaf reading
  • his room has lots of shelves/cabinets because he likes having as much walking space as possible
  • has his mattress on the floor tucked in the corner
  • spreads out his workspaces in the center of his room on a small blanket when he needs it
  • lots of dried herbs
  • enjoys browns and oranges

shiro: space witch

  • Casual Astronomer™
  • eats lunch at midnight lol
  • hates coffee but needs caffeine to keep himself awake
  • hunk makes him good Wake Up teas
  • pidge has a special potion they’ve created that’s basically like death coffee
  • he only drinks it when he’s really desperate
  • he cares a lot about his health, so he tries to makes sure that he gets enough sleep
  • he’s still always tired no matter what though, the poor guy
  • has the stereotypical witch wardrobe
    • lots of black flowy clothes/dresses
    • sharp winged eyeliner
    • layered witchy necklaces
    • tons of rings
    • big floppy black hat
    • black nail polish
  • has basically all known constellations memorized and can point them out at any given time during the night
  • has a bunch of astronomy-related tattoos
  • does his own tattoos/stick n pokes
  • enchants and makes his own ink
  • has given everyone in the coven a little stick-and-poke on their wrist of their elemental symbol
  • picked up photography in his teens and has managed to get some really amazing shots of the night sky
  • plain black grimoire
  • really enjoys the dark, therefore does everything in it
  • spells, rituals, etc
  • glow in the dark stars all over the ceiling and walls of his room

allura: hedge witch

  • utterly fascinated with the Other World
  • most connected with her third eye and crown chakra
  • is always up at ungodly hours because she knows certain spirits are up at those times
  • her workspace is basically just a place where she can contact spirits and deities
    • centerpiece is an offering tray
    • grey chalice
    • her basic setup has melted white candles, though she’ll change the colors depending on who she’s planning on contacting
  • astral projects nearly everyday, mostly during the evening/early AM
  • she tends to spend around 1-3 hours in the other realm, but could honestly spend days if she could
  • she texts shiro whenever she plans on beginning, and texts him afterwards
  • that way if she does get lost or distracted and takes too long to return, shiro can come and help her out if needed
  • though there’s never really been a situation where he was needed in that way
  • allura knows what she’s doing, friends
  • probably owns a mug that reads “i’d rather be astral projecting”
  • most experienced in the coven
  • comes from a  family of witches, learned from her father
  • has the prettiest most organized, coherent, and detailed grimoire
  • seriously her handwriting is amazing
  • super good at calligraphy
  • loves:
    • palm readings
    • tarot
    • astrology
    • divination
    • aura readings
  • notices a person’s hands before anything else
  • makes her own tarot decks! they’re so pretty
  • has decks for all her friends
  • her and pidge sometimes use each other’s pendulums :’)
  • can tell a person’s sign simply by observing their mannerisms for a short period of time
    • someone: does literally anything
    • allura: ugh you’re such a [insert sign here]
Barnes’ Books - chapter 6

Not gonna lie, this chapter is disappointing. I’m sorry. No matter what, I couldn’t get it to flow, it’s all disjointed and I hate it :/ 

I have a plan for the next chapter (when Bucky’s fiancee should appear) but I don’t blame you if you give up after this one. I’m sorry I suck.

Barnes’ Books masterlist

I definitely felt different as I walked out of the hospital. I always tried to be a positive person, although the last few months had really got me down, but I liked to see the good in people.  Knowing that Bucky had seen my picture, and cared enough to think James would like it, that made me feel warm inside. Sure, Bucky was a bit of an ass, but he made his granddad smile, and that did endear me to him.

Yeah, I’ll admit there was a bit of vanity in there too. Hearing ‘you have talent’ was nice. And yes, OK, you win. Bucky was pretty good looking, fine, yes. So knowing he’d mentioned me was a bit of a boost. I’d been dumped! It was nice to be on someone’s radar, even if a little voice in my head was whispering ‘he probably said ‘that crazy cat hair woman who hangs around drew this’…’ Whatever it was, I felt more positive than I had done for a while. I’d wallowed for a while, and while knew the positivity wouldn’t last, I had to make hay while the sun shines and all that. Not that it was, shining that is. Rain again. But that was OK. I splashed back from the hospital to my flat, and decided to take stock.  

Keep reading

The Idea That Would Not Die

Today is the 1st of May 2017 and the deck I am going to start sharing with you is still about 1 year from publication. So why am I teasing you with all of this new deck news? Because I learned a lot from this deck and many of these lessons could be beneficial to aspiring deck creators or fiction writers. Today’s post is really about the idea that just would not die because that is what this deck really is. It’s an idea that came to me that just would not go away and die somewhere quietly. Instead, it kept showing up in my life in the most annoying ways.

Everywhere I turned there was a picture, song, book, cd or conversation around the theme of this deck. No matter how hard I tried, I just could not get away from this idea. After reading Big Magic by Elizabeth Gilbert I thought perhaps I could transfer the idea to someone else. Much how she had talked about transferring ideas via a kiss. But that only lead to me being contracted to produce this deck. Thanks for nothing Big Magic!

What was the idea? Mermaids.

I am going to be totally honest here, I hated the idea of doing anything mermaid related. To my past self, only girly girls played with mermaids. Boy, was I wrong? The mermaids honestly kicked my ass from hell to back again to prove this point. Which is why my now present self, does not hold this belief. This deck has taught me a lot about beliefs and how they can limit our engagement with our own imagination and intuition. So I humbly succumbed to the idea and before I knew it ( 7 days to be exact ) we had an artist and a contract for the idea that just would not die.

Tarot decks take a village to create. It is not just the deck creator and the artist. There is a whole team of people who loving mould and birth these projects into the world. I have been blessed to have the most amazing creative team at Llewellyn World Wide and bringing artist Julie Dillion on board for this deck was just the icing on the cake. I knew the moment I saw Julie’s very first sketch we had something special. I may have created the world for these mermaids to re-tell the tarots story, but Julie has brought it to life. Actually, she is still bringing it to life because she is not quite finished with the artwork.

Seeing how an artist interprets my written world building is awe inspiring. Each artist brings something different to a deck and you just never know how the energy is going to come together until you get the first couple of cards under our belt. This deck is Julie’s first deck and she is knocking it out of the park. With the guidance of our team’s art director and project manager, we have pulled our collective talents together to create something we feel is both intimately entwined with Mermaid mythology, but just different enough that you feel like you are entering a whole new world.

Okay, I think that is more than enough from me. Keep an eye out for more upcoming posts on the MerFolk Tarot ( not its official name as it doesn’t have one yet!!!).

dear evan hansen headcannons

EVAN:
- bisexual

- 5'10

- he tends to do things like tap his pencil or his foot or he plays with erasers or some shit he’s just always doing something with his hands

- has those erasers with removable pieces because “THEY’RE CUTE CONNOR I LOVE THEM”

- freckles. more freckles after a day in the sun. freckles everywhere.

- has a bonsai tree

- DRIVES LIKE A GRANDMA

- actually really fit because of his outdoor activities??

- lifted connir off of the ground like he was a feather and everyone was Shocked

- “THAT WAS THE FIRST TIME SOMEONE EVER LIFTED ME” “oh mY GOD CONNOR”

- LOVES TO BAKE BUt kind of sucks at it

- afraid of big dogs. and fluffy dogs. and dogs with big eyes and long tails and legs and just dogs. he’s scared of dogs.

- cheesy romantic. reads romance books and watches romantic movies and just. my boy.

- when he’s feeling down he goes to connor because they can trust each other because of the one thing they have in common - the suicide attempts.

- dyed a streak of his hair blue for halloween one time and made connor cry

- CONFIDENT DRUNK

- got high once and laughed for seven minutes straight before passing out

- has a burn scar on his back from when jared set him on fire by accident

- learns to do hair because he likes touching connors hair

- he maybe likes connors dog a little bit

- “i may seem collected on the outside but on the inside i am screaming 24/7.”


CONNOR:
- borderline personality disorder !!!!

- sees a therapist and takes medication

- he honestly went through ten therapists before deciding to go with evan to his therapist

- has a pitbull named cheese that his mom got him to help calm him down when he snaps

- still a dick every now and then but he’s Trying

- 6'0"

- panseuxal

- is literally. always napping. he sleeps on the ground. on his desk. on evan. anywhere.

- paints his nails when he’s high with 100% accuracy but fails when he’s sober

- “ZOE HOW DO YOU USE EYELINER”

- LOVES sweets. needs them. craves them.

- literally cries over evan’s freckles like what

- sarcastic as all hell

- he and jared’s friendship is just a race to see who can roast the other faster

- draws on himself constantly until he has literal sleeves of designs on his arms. then he moves to drawing on his friends.

- alana buys him a sketchbook when she wakes up with white sharpie printed on her face

- he draws the most AMAZING scenery and designs

- probably wants to be a tattoo artiat

- always records himself when he’s high

- new bruises and cuts every day - he bumps into things a lot when he’s high

- he gets his first piercing from a dude in an alley. it’s a septum piercing. everyone screams when they see it.

- hates pepe

- comments on how gay he is every day.

- still has bad days and when he does he locks himself in his room and calls evan

- evan’s talk of trees got him into plants. owns seven cactuses, a pot full of forget-me-nots and three succulents with names and backstories.

- “i will shove my foot so far up your ass you’ll be tasting leather and shit for the rest of your pathetic life you wrinkly numbnut”


ZOE:
- still having trouble forgiving her brother for all the years of mental abuse

- 5'10

- lesbian af

- makeup that could literally kill a god

- likes to wear crops tops and dresses

- wears sweatpants to school ONCE and is reminded of it every day for the rest of her life

- literally a huge photography nerd

- has EVERY PICTURE SHES EVER TAKEN hanging on her wall. even that ugly ass one of connor screaming over titanic when they were thirteen.

- probably does yoga

- dreams of going to paris. can literally speak in french and owns literally everything with the eiffel tower on it.

- replies to everything in meme language. her parents are worried for her. connor wants to die again.

- has a poem alana wrote to her on her wall next to her bed

- so many pictures of alana

- HANGED A PEPE PICTURE IN THE SHOWER ONCE THAT MADE CONNOR SCREAM WHEN HE SAW IT

- likes to draw constellations with evan’s freckles on his face

- literally has not combed her hair since fourth grade?? its just naturally perfect???

- “im gayer than you connor”

- SWEARS LIKE A SAILOR WHEN SHE BUMPS INTO SOMETHING

- so much emoji’s

- steals all of alana’s hoodies


ALANA:
- hates not having anything to do so much

- 5'6"

- in every school club tbh

- also a lesbian

- a journalist/writer

- literally stays up until 2 am every day and comes to school looking like a goddess

- GOD IS SHE SMART

- she probably tutors everyone

- “what’s the answer to this problem alana” “hella”

- BIG HAPPY SMILES

- can kill you in two seconds with The Look

- READS SEVEN BOOKS A DAY

- probably listens to asmr

- totally has tumblr

- LITERALLY SHINES BRIGHTER THAN THE SUN

- feminist. not a feminazi, will make jokes about women being in the kitchen with jared but will stab you if you are genuinely against women’s rights

- attempts to do yoga with zoe once. she breaks her nose.

- SHE’S A MESS. HER WORK STATION IS JUST FULL OF CRUMPLED PAPERS AND PENS AND COFFEE MUGS.

- likes to do diys.

- “ZOE I DID A DIY FACE MASK AND I CANT GET IT OFF”

- once punched a man for a klondike bar

- “sorry im two hours late feminism called”


JARED:
- panromantic asexual!!!!!

- 5'4"

- a gaming youtuber

- actually somehow has like 1,000 followers???

- everyone has been in his videos at least once

- EATS A BATH BOMB ON CAMERA

- every birthday connor buys him a bath bomb and screams “CRONCH” in his face

- enjoys really cringey memes

- has a german shepard named Sir Titlicker

- “EVAN SIR TITLICKER WILL NOT EAT YOU”

- once tripped on a bug

- he’s actually self conscious and hides behind self deprecating jokes

- threw a dreidel at the menorah once when he was little and is still not allowed near the menorah

- soft chub legs

- much Sarcasm

- literally is so sarcastic with connor??? they like each other but sometimes even evan wonders if they actually like each other or not

- probably enjoys nickelback

- HUGE SUBWAY FAN. WOULD SHOVE SUBWAY UP HIS ASS FOR FREE.

- likes star wars probably

- wore a shirt that said “im a gamer” once

- “burn that shirt now” “EVAN WHAT THE FUCK”

- actually cried when he played slenderman with Evan

- “are you ok” “IS HE GONE EVAN IS HE GONE” “yes” /looks up and sees slenderman appear “WHDBANFBJDJSBSDH” /evan is wheezing

- makes dirty jokes 24/7 but literally blushes for 9 years if you make a dirty joke towards him

- actually Fragile

- in a cult probably

- probably has a runescape series on his YouTube channel

- has set evan on fire before

- he tries to be a good friend he really dies but he fails sometimes

- “are you a nail baby because ill hammer you into the wall tonight ;)"

An Essay Written by William Blake, a Man Who has Been in Solitary Confinement for Nearly 28 Years.

“You deserve an eternity in hell.”


Onondaga County Supreme Court judge Kevin Mulroy told me this from his bench as I stood before him for sentencing on July 10, 1987. Apparently he had the idea that God was not the only one qualified to make such judgment calls.


Judge Mulroy wanted to “Pump six buck’s worth of electricity into [my] body,” he also said, though I suggest that it wouldn’t have taken six cent’s worth to get me good and dead. He must have wanted to reduce me and The Chair to a pile of ashes. My “friend” Governor Mario Cuomo wouldn’t allow him to do that, though, the judge went on, bemoaning New York State’s lack of a death statute due to the then-Governor’s repeated vetoes of death penalty bills that had been approved by the state legislature. Governor Cuomo’s publicly expressed dudgeon over being called a friend of mine by Judge Mulroy was understandable, given the crimes that I had just been convicted of committing. I didn’t care much for him either, truth be told. He built too many new prisons in my opinion, and cut academic and vocational programs in the prisons already standing.


I know that Judge Mulroy was not nearly alone in wanting to see me executed for the crime I committed when I shot two Onondaga County sheriff’s deputies inside the Town of Dewitt courtroom during a failed escape attempt, killing one and critically wounding the other. There were many people in the Syracuse area who shared his sentiments, to be sure. I read the hateful letters to the editor printed in the local newspapers; I could even feel the anger of the people when I’d go to court, so palpable was it. Even by the standards of my own belief system, such as it was back then, I deserved to die for what I had done. I took the life of a man without just cause, committing an act so monumentally wrong that I could not have argued that it was unfair had I been required to pay with my own life.


What nobody knew or suspected back then, not even I, on that very day I would begin suffering a punishment that I am convinced beyond all doubt is far worse than any death sentence could possibly have been. On July 10, 2012, I finished my 25th consecutive year in solitary confinement, where at the time of this writing I remain. Though it is true that I’ve never died and so don’t know exactly what the experience would entail, for the life of me I cannot fathom how dying any death could be harder or more terrible than living through all that I have been forced to endure for the last quarter-century.

Prisoners call it The Box.

Prison authorities have euphemistically dubbed it the Special Housing Unit, or SHU (pronounced “shoe”) for short. In society it is known as solitary confinement. It is 23-hour a day lock-down in a cell smaller than some closets I’ve seen, with one hour allotted to “recreation” consisting of placement in a concrete enclosed yard by oneself or, in some prisons, a cage made of steel bars. There is nothing in a SHU yard but air: no TV, no balls to bounce, no games to play, no other inmates, nothing. There is very little allowed in a SHU cell, also. Three sets of plain white underwear, one pair of green pants, one green short-sleeved button-up shirt, one green sweatshirt, ten books or magazines total, twenty pictures of the people you love, writing supplies, a bar of soap, toothbrush and toothpaste, one deodorant stick but no shampoo, and that’s about it. No clothes of your own, only prison-made. No food from commissary or packages, only three unappetizing meals a day handed to you through a narrow slot in your cell door. No phone calls, no TV, no luxury items at all. You get a set of cheap headphones to use, and you can pick between the two or three (depending on which prison you’re in) jacks in the cell wall to plug into. You can listen to a TV station in one jack, and use your imagination while trying to figure out what is going on when the music indicates drama but the dialogue doesn’t suffice to tell you anything. Or you can listen to some music, but you’re out of luck if you’re a rock-n-roll fan and find only rap is playing.


Your options in what to do to occupy your time in SHU are scant, but there will be boredom aplenty. You probably think that you understand boredom, know its feel, but really you don’t. What you call boredom would seem a whirlwind of activity to me, choices so many that I’d likely be befuddled in trying to pick one over all the others. You could turn on a TV and watch a movie or some other show; I haven’t seen a TV since the 1980′s. You could go for a walk in the neighborhood; I can’t walk more than a few feet in any direction before I run into a concrete wall or steel bars. You could pick up your phone and call a friend; I don’t know if I’d be able to remember how to make a collect call or even if the process is still the same, so many years it’s been since I’ve used a telephone. Play with your dog or cat and experience their love, or watch your fish in their aquarium; the only creatures I see daily are the mice and cockroaches that infest the unit, and they’re not very lovable and nothing much to look at. There is a pretty good list of options available to you, if you think about it, many things that you could do even when you believe you are so bored. You take them for granted because they are there all the time, but if it were all taken away you’d find yourself missing even the things that right now seem so small and insignificant. Even the smallest stuff can become as large as life when you have had nearly nothing for far too long.


I haven’t been outside in one of the SHU yards in this prison for about four years now. I haven’t seen a tree or blade of grass in all that time, and wouldn’t see these things were I to go to the yard. In Elmira Correctional Facility, where I am presently imprisoned, the SHU yards are about three or four times as big as my cell. There are twelve SHU yards total, each surrounded by concrete walls, one or two of the walls lined with windows. If you look in the windows you’ll see the same SHU company that you live on, and maybe you’ll get a look at a guy who was locked next to you for months that you’ve talked to every day but had never before gotten a look at. If you look up you’ll find bars and a screen covering the yard, and if you’re lucky maybe you can see a bit of blue sky through the mesh, otherwise it’ll be hard to believe that you’re even outside. If it’s a good day you can walk around the SHU yard in small circles staring ahead with your mind on nothingness, like the nothing you’ve got in that lacuna with you. If it’s a bad day, though, maybe your mind will be filled with remembrances of all you used to have that you haven’t seen now for many years, and you’ll be missing it, feeling the loss, feeling it bad.


Life in the box is about an austere sameness that makes it difficult to tell one day from a thousand others. Nothing much and nothing new ever happen to tell you if it’s a Monday or a Friday, March or September, 1987 or 2012. The world turns, technology advances, and things in the streets change and keep changing all the time. Not so in a solitary confinement unit, however. I’ve never seen a cell phone except in pictures in magazines. I’ve never touched a computer in my life, never been on the Internet and wouldn’t know how to get there if you sat me in front of a computer, turned it on for me, and gave me directions. SHU is a timeless place, and I can honestly say that there is not a single thing I’d see looking around right now that is different from what I saw in Shawangunk Correctional Facility’s box when I first arrived there from Syracuse’s county jail in 1987. Indeed, there is probably nothing different in SHU now than in SHU a hundred years ago, save the headphones. Then and now there were a few books, a few prison-made clothing articles, walls and bars and human beings locked in cages… and misery.There is always the misery. If you manage to escape it yourself for a time, there will ever be plenty around in others for you to sense; and though you’ll be unable to look into their eyes and see it, you might hear it in the nighttime when tough guys cry not-so-tough tears that are forced out of them by the unrelenting stress and strain that life in SHU is an exercise in.


I’ve read of the studies done regarding the effects of long-term isolation in solitary confinement on inmates, seen how researchers say it can ruin a man’s mind, and I’ve watched with my own eyes the slow descent of sane men into madness—sometimes not so slow. What I’ve never seen the experts write about, though, is what year after year of abject isolation can do to that immaterial part in our middle where hopes survive or die and the spirit resides. So please allow me to speak to you of what I’ve seen and felt during some of the harder times of my twenty-five-year SHU odyssey.


I’ve experienced times so difficult and felt boredom and loneliness to such a degree that it seemed to be a physical thing inside so thick it felt like it was choking me, trying to squeeze the sanity from my mind, the spirit from my soul, and the life from my body. 


I’ve seen and felt hope becoming like a foggy ephemeral thing, hard to get ahold of, even harder to keep ahold of as the years and then decades disappeared while I stayed trapped in the emptiness of the SHU world. I’ve seen minds slipping down the slope of sanity, descending into insanity, and I’ve been terrified that I would end up like the guys around me that have cracked and become nuts. It’s a sad thing to watch a human being go insane before your eyes because he can’t handle the pressure that the box exerts on the mind, but it is sadder still to see the spirit shaken from a soul. And it is more disastrous. Sometimes the prison guards find them hanging and blue; sometimes their necks get broken when they jump from their bed, the sheet tied around the neck that’s also wrapped around the grate covering the light in the ceiling snapping taut with a pop. I’ve seen the spirit leaving men in SHU and have witnessed the results.


The box is a place like no other place on planet Earth. It’s a place where men full of rage can stand at their cell gates fulminating on their neighbor or neighbors, yelling and screaming and speaking some of the filthiest words that could ever come from a human mouth, do it for hours on end, and despite it all never suffer the loss of a single tooth, never get his head knocked clean off his shoulders. You will NEVER hear words more despicable or see mouth wars more insane than what occurs all the time in SHU. Not anywhere else in the world. Because there would be serious violence before any person could speak so much foulness for so long. In the box the heavy steel bars allow mouths to run with impunity when they could not otherwise do so, while the ambient is one that is sorely conducive to an exceedingly hot sort of anger that seems to press the lips on to ridiculous extremes. Day and night I have been awakened to the sound of the rage being loosed loudly on SHU gates, and I’d be a liar if I said I haven’t at times been one of the madmen doing the yelling.


I have lived for months where the first thing I became aware of upon waking in the morning is the malodorous funk of human feces, tinged with the acrid stench of days-old urine, where I eat my breakfast, lunch, and dinner with that same stink assaulting my senses, and where the last thought I had before falling into unconscious sleep was: “Damn, it smells like shit in here.” I have felt like I was on an island surrounded by vicious sharks, flanked on both sides by mentally ill inmates who would splash their excrement all over their cells, all over the company outside their cells, and even all over themselves. I have went days into weeks that seemed like they’d never end without being able to sleep more than short snatches before I was shocked out of my dreams, and thrown back into a living nightmare, by the screams of sick men who have lost all ability to control themselves, or by the banging of cell bars and walls of these same madmen. I have been so tired when sleep inside was impossible that I went outside into a snowstorm to get some sleep.


The wind blew hard and snowflakes swirled around and around in the small SHU yard at Shawangunk, and I had but one cheap prison-produced coat on and a single set of state clothes beneath. To escape the biting cold I dug into the seven- or eight-foot high mountain of snow that was piled in the center of the yard, the accumulation from inmates shoveling a narrow path to walk along the perimeter. With bare hands gone numb, I dug out a small room in that pile of snow, making myself a sort of igloo. When it was done I crawled inside, rolled onto my back on the snow-covered concrete ground, and almost instantly fell asleep, my bare head pillowed in the snow. I didn’t even have a hat to wear.


An hour or so later I was awakened by the guards come to take me back to the stink and insanity inside: “Blake, rec’s over…” I had gotten an hour’s straight sleep, minus the few minutes it had taken me to dig my igloo. That was more than I had gotten in weeks without being shocked awake by the CA-RACK! of a sneaker being slapped into a plexiglass shield covering the cell of an inmate who had thrown things nasty; or the THUD-THUD-THUD! of an inmate pounding his cell wall, or bars being banged, gates being kicked and rattled, or men screaming like they’re dying and maybe wishing that they were; or to the tirade of an inmate letting loose his pent-up rage on a guard or fellow inmate, sounding every bit the lunatic that too long a time in the mind-breaking confines of the box had caused him to be.


I have been so exhausted physically, mental strength being tested to limits that can cause strong folks to snap, that I have begged God, tough guy I fancy myself, “Please, Lord, make them stop. Please let me get some peace.” As the prayers went ungranted and the insanity around me persisted, I felt my own rage rising above the exhaustion and misery, no longer in a begging mood: “Lord, kill those motherfuckers, why don’t you!” I yelled at the Almighty, my own sanity so close to being gone that it seemed as if I were walking along a precipice and could see down to where I’d be falling, seeing myself shot, sanity a dead thing killed by the fall. I’d be afraid later on, terrified, when I reflected back on how close I had seemed to come to losing my mind, but at that moment all I could do was feel anger of a fiery kind: anger at the maniacs creating the noise and the stink and the madness; anger at my keepers and the real creators of this hell; anger at society for turning a blind eye to the torment and torture going on here that its tax dollars are financing; and perhaps most of all, anger at myself for doing all that I did that never should have been done that put me into the clutches of this beastly prison system to begin with. I would be angry at the world; enraged, actually, so burning hot was what I would be feeling.


I had wet toilet paper stuffed hard into both ears, socks folded up and pressed into my ears, a pillow wrapped around the sides and back of my head covering my ears, and a blanket tied around all that to hold everything in place, lying in bed praying for sleep. But still the noise was incredible, a thunderous cacophony of insanity, sleep impossible. Inmates lost in the throes of lavalike rage firing philippics at one another for even reasons they didn’t know, threatening to kill one another’s mommas, daddies, even the children, too. Nothing is sacred in SHU. It is an environment that is so grossly abnormal, so antithetical to normal human interactions, that it twists the innerds of men all around who for too long dwell there. Their minds, their morals, and their mannerisms get bent badly, ending far off-center. Right becomes whatever and wrong no longer exists. Restraint becomes a burden and is unnecessary with concrete and steel separating everyone, so inmates let it go. Day after day, perhaps year after year, the anger grows, fueled by the pain caused by the conditions till rage is born and burning so hot that it too hurts.


Trying to put into words what is so unlike anything else I know or have ever experienced seems an impossible endeavor, because there is nothing even remotely like it any place else to compare it to, and nothing that will do to you on the inside what so many years in SHU has done to me. All that I am able to articulate about the world of Special Housing Unit and what it is and what it does may seem terrible to you indeed, but the reality of living in this place for a full quarter of a century is yet even more terrible, still. You would have to live it, experience it in all its aspects with the fullness of its days and struggles added up, to really appreciate and understand just how truly terrible this plight of mine has been, and how truly ugly life in the box can be at times, even for just a single day. I spent nine years in Shawangunk’s box, six years in Sullivan’s, six years in Great Meadow’s, and I’ve been here in Elmira’s SHU for four years now, and through all of this time I have never spent a single day in a Mental Health Unit cell because I attempted or threatened suicide, or for any other reason. I have thought about suicide in times past when the days had become exceedingly difficult to handle, but I’m still here. I’ve had some of my SHU neighbors succumb to the suicidal thoughts, though, choosing death over another day of life in the box. I have never bugged out myself, but I’ve known times that I had come too close. I’ve had neighbors who came to SHU normal men, and I’ve seen them leave broken and not anything resembling normal anymore. I’ve seen guys give up on their dreams and lose all hope in the box, but my own hopes and dreams are still alive and well inside me. The insidious workings of the SHU program have yet to get me stuck on that meandering path to internal destruction that I have seen so many of my neighbors end up on, and perhaps this is a miracle; I’d rather be dead than to lose control of my mind.


Had I known in 1987 that I would spend the next quarter-century in solitary confinement, I would have certainly killed myself. If I took a month to die and spent every minute of it in severe pain, it seems to me that on a balance that fate would still be far easier to endure than the last twenty-five years have been. If I try to imagine what kind of death, even a slow one, would be worse than twenty-five years in the box—and I have tried to imagine it—I can come up with nothing. Set me afire, pummel and bludgeon me, cut me to bits, stab me, shoot me, do what you will in the worst of ways, but none of it could come close to making me feel things as cumulatively horrifying as what I’ve experienced through my years in solitary. Dying couldn’t take but a short time if you or the State were to kill me; in SHU I have died a thousand internal deaths. The sum of my quarter-century’s worth of suffering has been that bad.


To some judges sitting on high who’ve never done a day in the box, maybe twenty-five years of this isn’t cruel and unusual. To folks who have an insatiable appetite for vengeance against prisoners who have committed terrible crimes, perhaps it doesn’t even matter how cruel or unusual my plight is or isn’t. For people who cannot let go of hate and know not how to forgive, no amount of remorse would matter, no level of contrition would be quite enough, only endless retribution would be right in their eyes. Like Judge Milroy, only an eternity in hell would satisfy them. Given even that in retribution, though, the unforgiving haters wouldn’t be satisfied that hell was hot enough; they’d want the heat turned up. Thankfully these folks are the few, that in the minds of the many, at a point, enough is enough.


No matter what the world would think about things that they cannot imagine in even their worst nightmares, I know that twenty-five years in solitary confinement is utterly and certainly cruel, more so than death in or by an electric chair, gas chamber, lethal injection, bullet in the head, or even immolation could possibly be. The sum of the suffering caused by any of these quick deaths would be a small thing next to the sum of the suffering that this quarter-century in SHU has brought to bear on me. Solitary confinement for the length of time that I have endured it, even apart from the inhuman conditions that I have too often been made to endure it in, is torture of a terrible kind; and anyone who doesn’t think so surely knows not what to think.


I Have Served A Sentence Worse Than Death.

Witch: My very unshadowy book of shadows

Before I get started here, I want to define a few terms (as I use them) in language that should hopefully make sense to non-witchy people or people who are new to witching.

Witch
Person (of any gender) who does witchcraft (not specifically wiccan!)

Eclectic witch
Witch who draws from a variety of spiritual paths and traditions

Deities/Gods
Personified/archetypal representations of aspects of the human condition, nature and cultural experience

Ritual
Set of words and actions used to focus intent and desire

Spell
Set of ingredients and tools used to focus intent and desire

Magic
The art, ceremony and practice of focusing intent to achieve desired results

OK, now that’s out of the way and you hopefully get where I’m coming from, let’s move onto the book of shadows stuff!


What is a book of shadows?

If you’ve read any witchy things on the internet, chances are you’ve run into the term book of shadows, book of mirrors or grimoire. Depending on what you read or who you ask, these can be different things or different words for the same thing. Because witchcraft is such an individual path, there is no one correct definition of a book of shadows/mirrors/whatevers. For the purpose of this post, I’m going to use book of shadows, but in doing so I’m referring to all the things I just talked about.

A witch’s book is (usually, generally) a place to gather reference material relevant to their practice as well as to record spells and workings they do. Some witches prefer to use a heavy, leather-bound book filled with beautiful calligraphy for this purpose. I use a pink Filofax Clipbook filled with scribblings in pink and black ink, and also Microsoft OneNote synced between my laptop and phone because I like to have a portable version of my book with me at all times.

Witches who follow a Wiccan path and/or work as part of a coven may have a very different book of shadows from a solitary eclectic witch. The point is, there is no right and wrong. It’s all down to the preferences of the individual and what works for each person.


What’s in my book of shadows?

I’m going to refer mostly to my physical book here, but my digital version is pretty much exactly the same. The picture at the top of this post is the first page of my book.

My book contains ritual words and processes, including specific spells and ritual workings with notes about when I carried out them out and how I felt during and after. I also have an ever-growing collection of research and reference material about everything from deities (Hel and Thor are my patrons) to festivals to tarot to runes to colour, nature and conceptual symbolism and correspondences. I also keep records of tarot readings I do for myself as well as dedications and prayers I’ve written.

My book is a living document, a place of study and growth. Things get added constantly and shuffled as suits me, which is why using a ring binder rather than a regular notebook works best for me. I’ve been there with the ever-so-serious only-write-perfect-things-here books and I ended up not really using them because I didn’t want to mess them up or do anything wrong. For me, a process of life-long learning is all about messing up and doing things wrong. That’s how learning happens. Rough drafts, scribbles and ideas are just as important as beautiful, finished pieces of art.


What should you put in your book of shadows?

The short answer is anything you want. If you’re starting your own book, I would encourage you to make it in such a way that you actually use it and aren’t scared of not writing neatly enough or revising information based on new experiences. Some witches are totally against keeping a digital book of shadows. Some feel it’s more powerful to hand-write everything. Others are happy to print pages from the internet. Some keep their book completely private and others share photos of their pages on Tumblr and Instagram. However you create and keep your book, it should be what works best and feels right for you.

If you’re staring at a blank page with literally no idea where to start, here are a few ideas:

  • Information about your chosen deities or pantheon
  • Prayers and dedications to your patron/matron/whatever-you-call-them deities
  • Research into herbs, plants, incense and oils that you use
  • Notes on seasonal festivals you celebrate
  • Principles and concepts relating to your spiritual practice
  • Spells you’ve worked and notes about your experiences
  • Correspondences for colours, days of the week, phases of the moon etc
  • Reference for divination processes you use, like tarot or runes
  • Quotes and song lyrics that speak to your beliefs and practices
  • Records of your dreams and meditations

The internet is an AMAZING starting point, especially YouTube and Tumblr, as are books that other people have written. Read the hell out of everything you can get your hands on but when it comes to filling the pages of your book, make it your own. Your experience of the divine will never be exactly the same as someone else’s. The plants you have access to will depend on where you live. Even the dates of seasonal festivals and sabbats will be different depending on your location – the wheel of the year in the Southern Hemisphere is the opposite way round from the Northern Hemisphere. Certain ritual processes will resonate with you more strongly than others. Where possible, use your own words as they will always hold more power for you.

This is my book of shadows. There are many like it, but this one is mine.


A note about my solitary, eclectic Pagan witchcraft, research and reference, and other cultures

My spiritual path is one of eclectic Paganism with mostly Celtic, Norse and, to a lesser degree, modern Wiccan influences. This has happened naturally over the twenty or so years I’ve been witching. I never set out to choose specific influences or deities but certain things have caught my attention and called to me. In a practical sense, this is probably because I’m a half-Irish half-English person currently living in Scotland with, to the best of my knowledge, mostly Celtic and Norse heritage, so those are the things that I’ve encountered as part of the culture I live in and that feel most relevant to me.

That’s not to say I don’t have any interest in influences from other cultures, because I do. I’ve always been intrigued by the similarities and differences between spiritual and religious beliefs and practices from all over the world and  have read widely about various topics from Native American spirituality to Buddhism to Christianity. I’ve definitely been influenced by this research, and I absolutely adore talking to people who follow spiritual paths that differ from mine, but there’s a big difference between “I’ve read about these practices and am influenced by them to an extent because aspects of them resonate with me” and “I’ve read about these practices so I am now that thing”.

That’s actually a really hard concept to wrap words around and I’m not sure that I’ve done a very good job of it. It’s such a broad subject and I really only feel comfortable speaking to my own experience and perspective. Also, I feel it’s important to remember that when a spiritual or religious practice is part of the culture of living people who currently exist, that should always be respected. To take it out of the context of religion for a moment, I eat Chinese food, I cook Chinese food, I go to Chinese restaurants but none of that makes me Chinese. You know?

I also lean towards chaos magic in my practice of witchcraft. For me (I am not defining chaos magic here – please do go and read about it though, cause it’s really interesting), that involves using the power of belief as the individual chooses to direct it with the intent of focusing personal desire and action. For example, I don’t believe that a bit of rock is inherently powerful or capable of making a thing happen. I do believe that using an object like a crystal (or literally any object) as a conscious focus for intent can increase the potential power of actions taken in relation to that intent. Even the least witchy of people can probably relate to wearing a ‘lucky’ pair of pants to a job interview, saying “Break a leg!” to an actor about to go on-stage or keeping a keepsake from a special holiday in a specific place on the mantelpiece.

It’s also worth mentioning that not all witches are Pagans. I know Buddhist witches, Christian witches and witches who believe in no deities at all. My husband shares my chaos magic leanings and we sometimes perform ritual work together, especially around season-based festivals, but he doesn’t refer to himself as a witch or have any religious beliefs. If I haven’t made it super clear already, witchery and magic are very individual things.


Finally…

This has been a long post! I really want to write more about Paganism and witchcraft because it’s a HUGE part of my life. I’m also happy to answer any questions you might have, although I can only answer based on my own experience and perspective.

One Day (TianshanWeek Day Six)

Title: Losing a bet

Summary:In hindsight, Mo Guan Shan knew he should have never made that bet with He Tian. But he had. And he had also lost it. Now, he was stuck with having to do one order from He Tian for one day.

Rating: T

Ao3 Version Link: http://archiveofourown.org/works/9781217/chapters/22044143 

XXXXXXXXXXX

Mo Guan Shan knew he didn’t have the best qualities in his personality. He had a quick temper, was easy to annoy, would be irritated at a lot of things in the world and he knew he had a foul mouth that would be quick to swear.

And, it was these attributes that had lead to his downfall.

He should have never made that stupid bet with He Tian. He really shouldn’t have. But in that moment in time when he did, it felt like it would be a good idea. He could win the bet; have He Tian do one thing for him. It could be anything and Mo Guan Shan had come up with so many ways to embarrass the black haired man.

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[one-shot] In Every Universe

Title: In Every Universe

Rating: R

Warning: lots of smut, bad bad evil wORDs

Genre: crack, angst, fluff, smut

Pairing: Phan

Characters: danisnotonfire, AmazingPhil, catrific, paperlillies, zoella

Summary: Phil Lester is a popular BoyxBoy writer on Wattpad who had been given his publishing deal early this year at a mere age of sixteen. And between meeting his debut novel deadlines and going to school and keeping up with his social life that only consists of Dan and Cat, Dan is incredibly irked that Phil still has the time to mock Dan (for mocking Phil in the first place; reasons vary) by writing M-rated one-shots about the both of them.
Or the five times that Phil writes him in Dan engaged in kinky bum sex, and the one time it finally happens.

A/N: written in collaboration with procrastination of studying for my college algebra misterm and the ahbebe child constipatedhowell​ [deep long sigh] for the first time we have finally collabed. The chat for this was awFUl every I’d leave my phone they yell at me frown emoticon but we finished it and I am aLIVE

A/N 2: thank to glossybutt​ and thephandemonium​ for being the cheerleaders~

A/N 3: also thanks to the same ahbebe child for betaing my bit and thanks to me for betaing their bit. (this is alice speaking and wow)

A/N 4: dedicated to a rl friend who wants to go by the name of Lee bc this is their fAULT WHY DID YOU MAKE ME READ THE BAD ONE-SHOT COLLECTION 

A/N 5: nyELLO IT’S ALICE AND i cant wait to start shitposting now i hAVE ACCESS no joke i wrote 2.7k words (basically the whole [+1]) and im (sigh) :-(( bc charlie didnt give me time to write the other secks scenes

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anonymous asked:

OKAY GET READY A WILD MOBITINE ASK APPEARS: how do Satine, Obi-Wan and Maul act when one of them catches a cold?

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA I LOVE YOU I LOVE YOU I LOVE YOU

I’M GONNA DO ALL THREE OF THEM BECAUSE. GUESS WHAT. I LOVE YOU AND I LOVE THIS PAIRING.

When Obi-wan gets sick:

He pretty much does that thing he does on the battlefield where he goes “what concussion?? what broken ribs??? i’m fine, I’m always fine, who me??? FINE.” He’ll do his usual routine of staying up for hours reading and researching, steadily ignoring the way his “light sniffles” are becoming “my whole body hurts, my eyes are swimming, and my nose is running like a faucet”. And when someone brings him food, they’ll find a half-awake mess of a former Jedi, blearily staring at a page that he’s read three times and can’t seem to remember. And that’s when they call in Maul to come and grab him. Who will take him by the shoulders- despite the stuffy-nosed protests of “I’b fide i swear just lemme…” and drag his sorry ass upstairs. Possibly bringing one of the books just to shut him up. Obi-wan can’t stop talking on a good day, when he’s sick, drunk, or tired he gets infinitely more talkative. Maul just listens, rubbing his back as they walk, letting him yammer whatever he wants. He asks what the book was about and lets Obi-wan go on about it for the whole walk.

Satine is the type to immediately jump into Caretaker Action, but she’s always fucking busy too. Let’s say she’s back in her apartments for lunch, sitting and reading some bullshit paperwork, when her boys come in and Obi-wan- who looked a little pale and was coughing, the night before, but is now red-faced and dazed and holding his nose shut in disgust at what won’t stop coming out of it. Her immediate response is to put on tea, along with some horrible mixture of “all-natural” ingredients that her late elder brother used to force on her when she was sick. And settle a blanket nest on the couch, so she and Maul can keep an eye on him without hanging out in the bedroom. And popsicles from the freezer, six water bottles, and two boxes of tissues.

When she’s done gathering things, she sits and pets Obi-wan’s hair while he wrinkles his nose at the half-cup of strong-smelling cold remedy she mixed, with tea right next to him to wash it down. She picks something boring to watch that he won’t feel like he’s missed anything if he falls asleep.

And then her lunch break is over, and she has to return to her day job. So she kisses his forehead and instructs Maul to take care of him. Of course, she’ll message them on the text comm every hour. If they need anything they should ring her. Maul nods through all of this worry and bustle and slowly nudges her out the door.

Duty calls.


When Maul gets sick:

See, Maul is very used to being in pain. He’s used to hurting, and, unfortunately, hurting alone. If he gets delirious, he gets tetchy, and he’s not great with touch when he isn’t at 100%.

So he’ll retreat to the place he feels safest. Which is sometimes a little abandoned building in Sundari’s outskirts that he’s laid claim to, with food rations, stashed weaponry, reinforced doors, and blankets and clothes that he stole away specifically because they smell like Obi-wan and Satine, whose scents comfort him even if he can’t bear their actual presence. (This is Mobitine ‘verse’s answer to his Creepy Hate Shrine in Rebels btw) If he ends up here, he leaves them notes and updates by text, telling them that he’s safe, he just can’t deal with people right now.

But other times he holes up in their bedroom, tucked up in a corner of their bed. He’s not theatrical about being sick; in fact he tries to minimize the symptoms as much as possible. (never show weakness, if you show weakness you show the enemy an easy route to your death-) He just curls up with a box of tissues and a water bottle, maybe a book or show if he’s feeling adventurous. Cat curls up with him, usually. She knows when her Big Cat is not well. (have I told you about Cat yet??? I should just write this shit already)

And even when they know he can’t handle extensive physical contact, Satine and Obi-wan try to comfort him. Obi-wan brings books to read aloud to him, sat comfortably on the other side of the bed and reading to the large pile of blankets which presumably has Maul at the bottom. (At least once, when Maul has gotten paranoid, he has left Obi-wan reading to a decoy blanket-pile while he holes up in his safehouse.) Satine leaves him small gifts, food that he likes, extra tissue boxes, drapes more blankets on him when he sleepily wriggles out from under a few. Accepting comfort becomes easier as the days go by.


When Satine gets sick:

See, the thing about Satine Kryze is that she’s about the only person in the Galaxy that can rival Obi-wan Kenobi for being a GIANT WORKAHOLIC. Before her boys came into the picture, she would pretty regularly spend all morning in meetings, all afternoon in committees, have big political dinners, and then stay up horrifically late doing paperwork. She takes so much on her shoulders because she feels like she can’t trust others to do it Right. (author side-eyes Almec super hard) Even with her boys around, she overworks herself- they occasionally have to put their collective feet down and say, no, you don’t get to go to another meeting today, because you’re exhausted. And yet, government work waits for no-one.

She downs a terrific amount of Space Vitamin C, takes that vinegar-cinnamon-and-lemon-juice cold remedy three times a day (this is an actual thing that my stepmom makes me drink, it’s gross but it clears the SHIT out of your sinuses) and she Perseveres. For… probably half a day.

When she starts falling asleep halfway through her afternoon, Maul and Obi-wan are called to collect the Duchess before she makes herself worse. They each take an arm and guide/drag her back to the rooms, getting her into an incredibly hot shower, washing her hair. (Maul makes Obi-wan do that bit. Has he mentioned that hair is weird and gross and he’s glad he doesn’t have any??) And then they set up in a blanket fort, letting her doze across their laps while they watch some old Mando show that was on the networks when she was a child. (It’s hilariously violent, not allowed to be shown anymore because it’s a bad influence on the new generation. Satine’s nostalgia value remains, though.) 

Maul probably makes some kind of Nightbrother recipe that Savage taught him, bone broth with spices, and adds a few vegetables to make it more palatable for his humans. Obi-wan makes So Much tea. It’s a big comfort party.

I love this fucking pairing.

My Grandmother's Doll Just Licked Me

My grandmother died a few weeks back at the ripe old age of 85, passing away peacefully in her sleep. By all accounts, she lived a damn good life, and I tried my very best to make it so. Lord knows she did the same for me.

This has been a difficult post for me to write. You see, when a treasured loved one dies, especially one that you grew up with, the little solar system of your life is thrown completely out of orbit. Not that mine was ever all that stable in the first place.

My parents died in a car accident when I was two years old, and I was a little too young at the time to fully absorb the emotional impact of being orphaned. When the prospect of being put into the foster system was brought up by the family lawyer, grandma took me in without a second thought. Her home was our home; it’s where I built my childhood.

Honestly, you’d never meet a more charitable woman than my grandma. From the second I came into her life, all the way up to her death (and even beyond) she’s provided for me without fail.

Another interesting thing about grandma is the fact she was mute. I’m not talking about selective mutism here, I’m talking full-blown, constant silence. I’ve known that woman for my entire 32 years of life, and while I got used to it within a few months, to some it seems crazy that I never heard a word from her.

Of course, we had our own ways of communicating back then. I picked up sign language pretty quickly, as kids tend to, and she always used to write on this little chalk board for me. I thought it was awfully cute at the time.

I got a call from her lawyer a few days after she passed, telling me she’d left her entire estate to me in her will. It doesn’t matter how well you know a person, that kind of thing always hits you deep: everything that wasn’t covered by her donor card now belonged to me.

A week or two passed, some papers were signed, and money changed hands.  The wheels of bureaucracy turned slowly as ever, as my grandma’s possessions became my possessions, and some eager patients became happy recipients of grandma’s remarkably healthy liver, kidneys, and lungs.

Like I said, she was the giving type.

The home was an old Georgian place: two storeys, three bedrooms, and a well-maintained garden. I felt like a kid who just got a pony for Christmas. The problem was, I’m not a rich enough guy to pay the rent on an apartment and a house, and I’m not such a heartless bastard that I’d immediately sell my childhood home either – especially on this bipolar property market.

I was speaking to a good friend of mine about it over a few drinks, and it was his idea to convert it into a rental property. I mulled it over when I was sober, of course, but my office job wasn’t going anywhere, so I decided that being a landlord might be a welcome change of pace.

That was when things started to go downhill.

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Quick Fix IV

Quick Fix IV
Rated: Mature
[DΞΔN racing AU│Getting closer]

│ Quick Fix │Quick Fix II Quick Fix III 

After another long day working in the garage, you found yourself in a familiar position. Dean once again had stayed with you all night, keeping you company and bringing you some late night coffee and dinner. Afterwards, he drove you home and walked you to the door. It was such a small gesture but you grew to find it so endearing.

You looked down at the keys as you unlocked the door. “Thanks for driving me home.”

“No problem, I’ll see you tomor-”

“You…wanna come in for some coffee?” you avoided eye contact, fiddling with your house keys.

Giving you a shy smile, he nodded. “I’d love to.”

Leading him inside your apartment you set your bag down by the door. “Do you mind if I take a quick shower first?” you still had a lot of oil, grease, and grime on you from working in the garage all day.

“Take your time.” he stood in the middle of your apartment, just taking it all in.

“Well, make yourself at home. I’ll be right back.” you disappeared into your bedroom, leaving the door slightly ajar as you undressed. He cleared his throat moving out of view, wanting to give you some privacy. He found himself getting a little too flustered at just the sight of your bare back. Only a few moments later he heard the sound of the shower running.

Your apartment was surprisingly normal. It wasn’t as tidy as your workplace in the garage but it had a charm about it. He walked over to your bookshelf, most of them thick automotive books and magazines with a few novels sparsely spread in between. He smiled seeing the photos at the top shelf.

Between the various ones of AOMG he saw a glimpse of your past; In some of them, you looked liked you were just out of high school. You hugging your old crew, even a few of you with DNH’s crew. There was one particular photo that drew his attention. One of you, and your ex-boyfriend; there were quite a few cracks on the glass but you still kept it on display. You weren’t exactly the neatest person but your picture frames all looked immaculate, you didn’t even let dust collect on them.

Despite the condition of the frame, the photo was beautiful. He’d never seen you smile so brightly. 

You cleared your throat, behind him, drying your hair with a towel. “Hey…”

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Always Been You.

This is my Christmas Imagine for Nix’s 2016 Secret Santa thingy. My main inspiration was the wonderful song No One from Alicia Keys.

Dear @imagine-footballers, this is your Christmas present. Your prompt was Long Term lovers, and I wrote it with Antoine Griezmann. It’s a little long (I kinda got carried away), but I hope you like it. 

Merry Christmas to you.

-

I just want you close
Where you can stay forever
You can be sure
That it will only get better

”Antoine?“, I asked into the silence. I’d gotten so used to waking up in his embrace that the absence of his strong arms was enough to wake me up.
The space next to me was empty, but on his pillow was a little piece of paper. I reached for it and unfolded it. Antoine’s barely readable handwriting made me smile, even before I read his message.
Buenos días mi amor
I’m taking your parents out for lunch and then I’ll have to do some last minute shopping. We’ll all be at home around five thirty.
Feliz navidad

That little dork. Ever since my parents had arrived in Madrid to stay with us over the holidays, Antoine was constantly taking them places, almost making me feel like he was their son and I was merely the girlfriend. I would often joke that my parents liked him more than they liked me, something they always confirmed.

My father loved to talk about the English Premier League with Antoine; they always shooed me away when I tried to engage in the conversation, since I was an Arsenal fan, a club they both dispised.
My mother simply adored Antoine. She loved to ruffle through his hair as though he was a little kid, she loved to bake for him, she loved to go to his games. But most of all, she loved to hear him speak Spanish, so she could tell me how beautiful it sounded and what a shame it was that I still had my difficulties with “The Language of Affection”, despite having lived in Spain for quite some time now.
It was because of her that Antoine had started to say little things in Spanish to me, always teasingly asking if I needed a translator.

A glance to the alarm clock told me that it was already past twelve, so I got out of bed and took a shower.
It was Christmas Eve, the sixth Christmas as a couple for Antoine and me, although we’d been together for almost a year more. This New Year’s Eve was going to be our seven years anniversary.
Secretly I was hoping that he would propose to me on New Year’s. We were both in our mid-twenties now, and we’d talked about our future often enough. He knew that I wanted a big white wedding, I knew that he wanted to raise a few kids in a quiet neighborhood. He knew exactly what kind of rings I liked, I knew exactly what a hopeless romantic he was.

I decided to take advantage of the fact that neither Antoine nor my parents were here, so when I got out of the shower, I took out their gifts and started wrapping them.
For my mother I’d found a complete collection of all Audrey Hepburn movies, and for my father I’d ordered a Chelsea scarf and a Sudoku-book.
I’d thought about what to get for Antoine for a long time, until out of sheer luck I’d stumbled over the perfect gift while online shopping. I now was wrapping the vintage Nintendo Game Boy and a bag full of out-of-stock Super Mario and Bugs Bunny games he could play on it.

When I was done wrapping, I took the gifts downstairs to put them unter the Christmas tree.
Antoine had surprised me with it. It was a white one, something I’d always wanted to have. He’d even bought classic lights and gold and silver ornaments to put on the tree. As I let my eyes wander over all the decoration, I noticed one ornament that I hadn’t put on there. Taking a closer look I saw that it had a picture on it.
17 year old Antoine and 16 year old Me laughed into the camera, while he was giving me a piggy-back ride and I had my arms slung around him for support. In the background you could see a party going on. The picture had been taken at the New Year’s party of a cousin of Antoine’s.

Our story went way back. We’d been neighbors growing up, and soon we’d become best friends. Antoine joining Real Sociedad when he was fourteen didn’t change that, if possible, our friendship grew even tighter. When I was 17 and he 18, things suddenly felt different.
He became extremely interested in any boy I was talking to (not that there were many), and I found myself getting jealous any time he mentioned a girl’s name.
We both didn’t really know how to put those feelings into words; he was too shy to say something and I was stubbornly waiting for him to make the first step.

When he came home for Christmas break, we were both awkwardly talking around our feelings.
As he told me later, it had taken a long talk with his sister for him to realize that he would have to step up and confess his feelings since I was not going to do it.
On New Year’s Eve, he pulled me aside, and we spent our evening on the floor of Antoine’s childhood bedroom, finally talking about everything.
We whispered our countdown looking into each other’s eyes, and then we started the year with a kiss, sealing our relationship.
We suffered through half a year of long distance relationship, but then I turned 18, finished school and packed my things.

We’d been living together ever since and I couldn’t wait to see what the future would bring.
Up until about a year ago, we’d been perfectly happy living together in sin and not changing anything about our relationship status. But we’d both grown older and more mature in our time together and so we started talking about our future.
I was probably most surprised when I suddenly found myself finding the idea of marriage appealing. The next surprise was Antoine talking about wanting to have children.
But since I was still as stubborn as I’d been as a teenager, I refused to ask when exactly he was intending to propose. So I was just waiting and hoping for a New Year’s Eve proposal.

I let go of the ornament that I was still holding and smiled to myself. Surely my mom had put it on there, since Antoine didn’t touch the tree in fear of me telling him off for disarranging stuff. I like the tree to be exactly as I decorated it.
But the ornament was cute, so it could stay, just not in the place my mom put it, as it was making the area look too crowded. I rearranged some other ornaments and then happily looked at my work.

I spent the rest of the day tidying up everything and making my special Mousse au Chocolat for after dinner.
Around four thirty, I went upstairs to get ready. The dress I’d picked out for tonight ended just above my knees and was dark purple. I liked it because it subtly enhanced my curves but was still modest enough for dinner with my parents.
I did my make-up and curled my long brown hair.
Then I made my way downstairs again, thanks to my heels I was now a few inches taller.

Five thirty came and went, but Antoine and parents didn’t show up. Around 5:45 I started to get annoyed. What was so important that they were late to Christmas?
I tried to call Antoine but he didn’t pick up, so I tried my mom next.
She did pick up, in the background I heard voices.
”Where are you all?“, I snapped.
She chuckled. ”Merry Christmas to you too. Antoine is on his way.“
”Well tell him to hurry up! He said five thirty and nobody’s here!“
My mom laughed. ”Relax, darling, we’ll be with you in a bit. Bye.“
With that, she simply hung up on me and left me alone with my frustration.

At six, I finally heard the car pull up outside. A few seconds later, my parents came inside, both had their arms full with shopping bags.
”Go outside and help Antoine“, advised my mom and guided my dad into the kitchen. I stepped outside into the cold air and made my way to the car. It was locked and dark, but Antoine was standing next to it. Surprised, I noticed that he was wearing a dark suit.
”Were you shopping in that outfit?“, I teasingly asked.

He smiled, as he let his eyes trail over me. ”You are beautiful“, he said and approached me. Thanks to my heels, he was now only about two inches taller than me, so I could easily kiss him. He welcomed my lips gladly and pulled me close.
After a much too short time however, he pulled away and smirked at me.
”So“, he said, for some reason very pleased with himself. ”Your Christmas gift this year is a little more complex than just unwrapping a box.“ He handed me a flashlight. ”A journey of clues awaits you and the first one is right here.“ He put held up a simple white envelope.

I stared at him. ”As sweet as this is, it’s freaking cold out here. Can’t we do this inside?“
”Nope!“, Antoine sang out, clearly enjoying all of this. But then he took of the jacket of his suit and placed it over my shoulders. ”There you go princess. Now get started.“
I rolled my eyes at him but opened the envelope anyways. Inside was a notecard and a photo. I looked at the picture first.
It showed Antoine and me as toddlers, sitting in a little kid’s pool, both grinning mischievously.

The note was short, but it warmed my heart.
I have to admit, when I was little, I always thought you were some kind of distant sister. Like a cousin, but closer; a beloved relative.
So in a way, this makes me a Greek hero. I’m an innocent guy who’s been blessed with amazing looks and a lot of talent, and who ended up dating a relative. But don’t worry, I won’t blind myself and I won’t kill my dad, like some of the Greeks did.
I’m trailing off. The next clue is where this picture was taken.

I looked up at Antoine. ”You want me to go all the way back to France?“
He laughed. ”That’s the one thing you take out of this message? What about my good looks? What about the fact that I once thought you were my sister?“
I couldn’t help but laugh as well. ”Do you need an ego-push? Because that’s not gonna happen dearest, we both know that I’m the good-looking one in this relationship. And I refuse to think of you and me as relatives. We’ve had sex way too many times for such a thought to even get into my head.“

”True“, he said. ”Sex in way too many odd places. In some of them I’d like to do it again.“ He winked suggestively.
I scoffed. ”If you’re talking about the time in the locker room at the Calderon after the Madrid Derby - forget it. I was so scared the entire time.“
Antoine moved against me so that our bodies were touching. ”That made it exciting! You were so keen to end it as quickly as possible…“ He kissed my neck, a weakness of mine. ”And I was so keen to please you…“
I pushed him gently away. ”And when we left the locker room afterwards, Nando and Koke were outside, waiting for you. And of course they heard us“, I said. Thanks to that, I now had to endure mocking comments every time I met members of the team.

Antoine wanted to say something, but I cut him off, getting colder with the minute. ”Just tell me where to go for the next clue, I’m freezing my ass off out here.“
He rolled his eyes but chuckled. ”Of course, Princess. You don’t have to go all the way to France, it’s in the backyard.“ He took my arm and lead me to the side of the house. ”You may light up your flashlight now.“
”Anto“, I said, stopping in front of the grass. ”I’m wearing high heels.“
He sighed loudly, then he picked me up into his arms and carried me into the backyard.

The flashlight hit our pool and then something colorful right next to it.
Antoine set me down in front of the little kid’s pool that looked exactly like the one I’d had when we were both kids. I looked at him and choked back a laugh, even though I had to admit that all this was cute.
”What?“, he asked, challenging me.
I smiled. ”Nothing. This is just…“ I waved my hand aimlessly. ”It’s sweet. And… a little cheesy.“
He laughed. ”Be thankful I’m such a nice, creative boyfriend. Now go ahead and get your clue.“

I playfully hit him with the flashlight, then I examined the little pool closer. Right in the middle was another envelope that I picked up and opened.
This time, there was no picture in it, just a notecard.
The first time I saw you as a girl rather than as a sister, we were going to our ex-babysitter’s wedding. You were twelve and you wore this light blue dress, your sister had done your hair into a fancy updo. And you looked so beautiful, Anna. So beautiful.

Suddenly I didn’t feel like mocking him anymore. I felt nothing but love for Antoine.
”You remember the color of my dress?“, I asked.
He smiled merely and nudged his head so I would read the rest of his message.
But at that point, I wasn’t interested in girls yet, at least not in that way. You however were starting to get interested in boys, my darling.
Your next clue is at the place where I comforted you after Raphaël Lorien broke your heart.

Raphaël had been my first boyfriend. After three months of dating however, he decided that he’d rather be Claudine Odile’s boyfriend and therefore left me.
Antoine comforted me after I’d come home crying. I hid out in the backyard behind the big tree, but he found me.
I looked up from the notecard. ”Carry me to the tree?“
”Sure dearest“, he said, picking me up once again.

The third envelope was hanging from a branch, so I didn’t even have to step down from Antoine’s embrace in order to open it.
I was so frustrated when you told me about your amazing first kiss. But still I didn’t realize that everything I looked for in a woman I could find with you. I didn’t realize I was jealous.
To be honest, I was quite an idiot when it came to us two. To feelings in general, actually.

I had to stop reading. I looked up at Antoine, his blue eyes held a slightly embarrassed expression. Without hesitating, I kissed him firmly, but let go before he responded to the kiss.
”You’re not an idiot. You’re amazing“, I assured, before I continued reading.

There’s one more clue hidden outside, then you can go back into the warmth. It’s at the place where we had sex the day we moved into this house.
I glared at Antoine. ”Griezmann! How am I supposed to Instagram the cute stuff you did if you write stuff like this on a notecard?!“
He teasingly kissed me on the corner of my mouth. ”Just tell me where to carry you, sweetheart. You’re getting heavy.“
I rolled my eyes. ”The canopy swing.“
He smirked the whole time he was carrying me over to the swing, undoubtedly remembering our moving day, when he slept with me on that swing, after all our helpers had left.

Antoine carefully placed me down on the swing, where another envelope was waiting for me.
By this time, you’re probably wondering what all this is about. The truth is, I needed something to keep you out of the house so that your parents could prepare everything inside, where your gift awaits.
I glanced up to the windows. I hadn’t noticed that the curtains were drawn shut to hide the living room from my eyes.
So yeah, you can go inside now, to the place where the ornament with our picture on it is. I’m pretty sure you already spotted it this afternoon.
I love you, Querida.

I smiled up at my boyfriend. ”I love you too“, I whispered, before I got up and took the hand he held out for me. Together we walked over to the back door.
Antoine knocked and my mom let us in. It was cozy and warm inside, so I took Antoine’s jacket off and gave it back to him. Music was playing, and I immediately recognized the voice of Alicia Keys, one of my favorite singers.
Then I saw what my parents had been preparing.
Through the room, multiple strings were hung up, and on them hung photos.
Photos of me as a little girl, photos of little Antoine playing football, photos of us together as children, couple photos, rows and rows of photos.

I went closer and looked at them, my mouth slightly open. So many memories.
I didn’t see my parents leave the room, and I didn’t see Antoine take the ornament with our picture on it from the tree. Only when he softly tapped me on my shoulder did I turn around and saw him standing there with the ornament in his hand.
”That was our last New Year’s Eve as friends.“ He spoke in a different tone, his voice lower and more sincere. ”You are everything to me. You’ve always been everything. A sister, a friend, a source of comfort, a buddy, an object of desire, a love interest, a girlfriend, a roommate, a partner in crime, the love of my life.“

I swallowed hard, suddenly feeling my eyes get wet. ”Antoine…“, I whispered, but he just chuckled and held up a finger in order for me to be quiet. ”I knew you were going to interrupt me and I planned an exact time where you can speak. But for now, let it be my turn.“
He cleared his throat and went on. ”I’ve known you since the day your parents brought you home from the hospital the day after you were born. And I am proud to say that I probably know you better than any other person. Through everything, we always had each other. And I am so thankful that I can stand here and look at the woman I love, the woman I’ve loved for 24 years. And I am so blessed that I’m so young but I already found the courage to be with the one person I want to spend the rest of my life with. I found the courage almost seven years ago. And we are so young, and there’s so much more to come. I want to raise children with you, I want to see your features in their faces, I want to see you as a mother, I want us to be parents. I want to live our future.“

I was silently crying at this point. Antoine smiled at me, his eyes a little wet too. ”You can say something now“, he said.
I managed a shaky little laugh, my head spinning from all the things he just said to me.
”I… Gosh where do I begin.“ I wiped a few tears from my cheeks. ”When I was a teenager, I would always read those romance novels that you considered Chick-Flicks, and then I would dream of having a boyfriend like those girls in the books did; a prince, a knight in shiny armor. And I tried finding one, but not all frogs turn into princes when you kiss them.
I tried to grow up, to lose the fantasy of finding a prince. But I did find my prince. And it was so much better than I’d hoped it would be. I’ve got you! You, the guy who rolls his eyes but still pulls me closer and comforts me when I cry during movie scenes. The guy who first laughs at me but then makes a hot bath when I’m spread out in the weirdest positions trying to ease my period cramps. The guy who says my wishes are basic but still buys me the white Christmas tree I really wanted to have. You are my prince, Antoine. And I want our future too. I want to see your face when I walk towards you in a white dress, I want to feel you kiss my belly when I’m carrying our child, I want us to grow old together. I love you so much.“

”I love you too, my dearest“, Antoine said, and he carefully wiped away my tears. ”That’s why you can open your gift now. It’s in the ornament.“ He handed it to me.
I smiled briefly at the picture, then I opened the ornament. Inside, bedded in cotton wool, was a stunningly beautiful ring, gleaming faintly in the light.
I stared at it for a few seconds, then I realized what this meant. I looked back to Antoine, who’d gotten on his knees in front of me.
Actually, on one knee.

”I already said everything I wanted to say, but this: I promise to do everything to make you happy. I want to be with you for every day for the rest of my life. So now there’s only one question left, right?“ He smiled at me, my heart fluttering painfully happily in my chest.
Antoine drew a deep breath, before he asked me the question I knew was to come, and that I wanted him to ask more than anything else in the world.
”Anna Geneviève Verneuil, will you marry me?“
”Yes, yes, a thousand times yes“, I blurted out as soon as he finished. Antoine’s face lit up with joy. He got up and took the ring out of the ornament to put in on my finger.
”Thank you“, he whispered tenderly.
”Anytime“, I smiled, then I cupped his face and kissed him fiercely.

I hadn’t noticed my parents watching us through the almost closed kitchen door throughout the entire proposal, occasionally taking pictures.
I heard them applaud and jubilate now, but I didn’t stop kissing Antoine, my fiancé.
As he wrapped his arms all the way around my body, my head seemed to spin around around from too much love. And I started wondering: How lucky can one person get?

No one, no one, no one
Can get in the way of what I’m feeling
No one, no one, no one
Can get in the way of what I feel for you

Status Update

Uh, what’s on my mind?  Fuckin Facebook… uh, let’s see …

Went to a bookstore today.  Sometimes pieces of my old life float to the surface.  I get seized by it, weird, irrational thoughts like I could use a new book or It’s been awhile since I checked out that bookstore.  The urge happens almost too quick for me to realize it, and before I know, I’m walking through the door into the cool air of the bookstore.  New releases are propped up invitingly on small stands.  Beyond, another room is crammed full of books on shelves, spines out, words clamoring to be heard.

I still have a list of books I haven’t read that I want to on my iPhone.  I wander around the stacks, idly flicking through my list.  There’s less now than there was before, and it isn’t because I was able to check them off - it’s because one day, I was looking at my lists and I just suddenly got so pissed off, totally shaking with rage, and swiped angrily to the left - delete function - on entry after entry.  I was left with the few still there, and even just glancing at those caused my body to knot up tight like a fist.  I put my phone back in the pocket of my gym shorts and stretched out my arm.  It had been back and biceps day at the gym, and I could feel the soreness starting to creep into my muscles.  The muscles that were prominently on display - well, OK, my triceps, those are really starting to pop - because I’m wearing a tank top.  That’s all I wear out in public now - tank tops and gym shorts.  Today, flat-soled Vans and Nike ankle socks.  A baseball cap turned backwards.  My glasses, in the searing sun, have turned to shades, at least, partially. 

What am I doing?  I thought.  I don’t look like I belong here.  The people who run this place, those fucking twig-like hipsters behind the counter in their floodwater khakis and their saddle shoes, their fucking immaculately trimmed beards and ostentatiously simple black-framed glasses.  Their mild confusion at my presence.  I’m guessing.  I’ve only picked up one or two books the whole time I’m here.  I’ve looked at my phone more, which keeps binging loudly in the quiet store.  I’m sure heads turn, disapproval is broadcasted.  Look at the dumb jock answering his phone in the bookstore.  Like someone talking too loudly in a movie.  If it rings, I decide instantly, I’m going to –

It rings.  I swipe right to answer.  I am about to say “Hello?”  or  “Hey,” like I normally do, but suddenly I make a different choice.  It’s my friend, and we’re supposed to meet up for dinner – for some chow – later, like, not too later, just in like an hour or so, “What’s UP bro?”  comes out of my mouth, almost like a horse’s bray, and this time I can just see the looks on the hipster’s faces, on the nice-looking girl in the summer skirt idly leafing through a book of short stories.  Irritation, disapproval, all invisibly pointed at me. 

But here’s the thing.  It felt amazing.  It felt like the biggest rush in the world, like taking a rollercoaster straight down and around the fuckin loop at 100 miles an hour bro.  And when he answered, maybe he was a little unsure because of how I’d answered the phone - I mean, that’s not me, right? 

I was out in the sun again before I knew it, glasses turning back into shades.  I spend a lot more time out in the sun these days.  The bell on the bookstore’s door jingled loudly, as if trying to match my volume.  And here’s the other thing - since I had so abruptly ratcheted the volume of my voice up to 11, the knob broke off, or at least, it felt like that, and I just couldn’t keep from talking as loudly as I had when I answered the call.  The whole way down the street, phone tilted to my ear, talking as loudly as possible, heart hammering, everyone in shouting distance able to hear me. 

Fuck.  When did I turn into such a d-bag?  I used to go in that bookstore all the time bro.  I used to, I used to sometimes compulsively buy a book even though I didn’t know who the author was or anything about it.  I used to spend hours in there, just paging through the books.  It seemed like a movie I saw once about someone who spent a lot of time in a bookstore, just paging through the books, but it couldn’t have been a movie I saw.  How boring would that movie be?  Unless someone robbed the bookstore and there was some real, y’know, action, or something to it. 

The sun was making me dizzy, which wasn’t the first time that day.  It’s been kind of hot out lately, but every moment I don’t spend out in the sun is a moment I feel kinda bad on the inside, like I should be outside as much as possible.  I should be showing as much skin as possible.  I need to be as tan as possible.  It makes the muscles pop more.  And that’s what matters, muscles and protein.  Man, I’m gonna eat a huge fuckin steak tonight at dinner.  My bro won’t like it much, he’ll probably sniff and say somethin about how the cow died inhumanely, or whatever.  I actually, secretly?  Have never really cared about that, not really.  I just need the protein.  I may have agreed once or twice, but I was just playin along, because I didn’t want the fuckin lecture.  And I’ll keep the shit about going into the bookstore to myself.  Nobody saw me do it, I’m sure, and I don’t want anyone knowin I went in there.  It was a dumb choice, why would I spend money on books that could be going to food, or supps, or more gear for working out?  I seem to always need new gear for working out, I mean, I only wear sleeveless shirts to the gym now - why wear sleeves?  How will I see where my muscles are growing?  That seems obvious to me.

So it’s kinda funny when my bro at dinner is all quiet and weird.  I know he’s gay and I know he’s got a crush on me.  Fuck, I got a crush on me.  It’s not gay, it’s just called ‘mirin.  Hard to look away from myself when I’m flexing in the mirror, stare right into my own eyes, dare me to flex even harder, really show off my fuckin biceps, flex my traps, my lats.  I think I’m gonna start paring down my collection of books, too.  I don’t have room in my room for the shelf, anyway, and it’s the perfect lighting to put a full-length mirror in.  Oh, wait, I just did that.  I forgot.  Two days ago.  I remember standin in front of it just last night.  Right?  That’s right.  I open up my phone and flick through to Photos and yeah, there’s a bunch of me posing.  Posin in different gear too.  But I’m not the one holding the camera.  My bro is. 

“So, do you remember any of last night?”

Shit.  I think I kinda do.  It’s fuzzy.  Like … “Was I drunk?”

“Naw, you haven’t had a drink in weeks, bro.”

He says bro funny.  I feel a weird vertigo, like my chair is slowly tipping backwards.  I flick through my Photos.  I’m posin a lot.  In different gear.  Shit, that’s a fucking singlet, I didn’t know I had a fucking singlet.  Something looks weird with my eyes.  Like I’m sleepwalking.  And there’s my bro, my big bro, in every shot, holding my phone, staring right at me, staring right at me even now, at dinner, over the table.  “Yeah,” I say, uncertainly.  What’s happening?  I’m falling, but I’m sitting straight up.  The back of my head feels heavy, like someone is pressing on it.  My brain feels squished, like when you screw your eyes shut really hard.

“You just been making different choices, Brendan.  How’s that working out for you, bro?  You’re healthier, now, aren’t you?  Fitter.  Happier.  More muscular.  Hotter.”  He licks his lips and smiles.  “Isn’t that what you want?”  He pauses.  Takes a sip of water.  I’m silent, because no words are coming to mind.  I wait for him to continue.  His words have a weight to them.  They are each like depth charges, exploding in my head.  “Tell me what you want, more than anything in the world, Brendan.”

I do the only thing I know how to do.  I lift my arms and I flex, and I grin, because fuck it, flexing feels fucking amazing, and my bro is laughing, and he’s lifting his phone, and he’s snapping a picture.  “This one’s goin on fuckin Facebook.  Ah, shit, this is the best thing ever.  Aren’t you glad you went to that hypnotist with us, Brendan?”

“What hypnotist?”

“It’s OK,” my bro says.  Soothingly.  It does calm me down.  I was gettin kinda riled up there.  “Don’t think about it too hard.”  He laughs.  “Well, harder than you can, anymore, anyway.”

Okay.  That sounds about right.  “Okay,” I say.  The protein has arrived, anyway, a huge steaming bowl of rice and chicken and veggies, and my mouth is watering so much that I think I must be drooling, but fuck it.  I wish I didn’t even have to use a fork, I wanna just shovel it into my face with my hands…

“And after we’re done here,” my bro is saying.  Was he talking the whole time?  I couldn’t remember the words he’d said, but I remember the sound of his voice.  I look at him again.  He is kinda nerdy.  Not real hipster, not really.  Glasses, the haircut.  He’s smart, too.  He’s really the only smart dude I hang around, because most guys I don’t get when they talk smart like my bro, but you gotta have at least one smart guy around when you need to make choices.  I usually make the right ones, anyway, I mean, c’mon, how hard is it.  Muscles, protein.  Maybe an action movie in there somewhere, or a trip to the beach, or rock climbing, or tossing the football around in the park. 

Hey, those all sound like awesome ideas. 

“Bro?  You in there?”  My bro is snapping his fingers in front of my face and laughing.  “Damn, you’re slow.”

“Sorry, bro,” I say, through a mouthful of rice and chicken I didn’t even know I was eating.  “What were you saying?”

“After we’re done here, I’m coming over to your apartment.  I’ve seen what it looks like, and you need some help dumbing it down.  I’ve got some ideas for you.  And there’s a lot of clothes you can get rid of and make space in your dresser for more gear.  Wouldn’t that be nice?”

“Yeah,” I say, because whatever he’s saying, it’s cool with me, he’s my bro.  I just gotta get this fuel in me, because my body is fuckin hungry as shit. 

“And I might let you suck my cock,” my bro says, waggling his eyebrow at me.  “No homo.”

“No homo,” I repeat, still mowing down on my chow.  Fuck, this rice and chicken and veg is awesome.  I could eat this forever.  Every day.  Well, that and my protein shakes.  “Sure, bro.”

He leans back, grinning.  “Fuck.  You’re perfect.  Never change, bro.”

And I grin, and I flex again, and he checks his phone.  Probly checking up on my Facebook.  I let him have the password, because fuck that, all that shit is too complicated.  It’s better to have my bro make those choices for me.  I trust him.  He’s never let me down.  And he won’t.  He knows who I am, who I really am, who I’ve always been, and who I’ll always be.

So … what’s on my mind?  Well, muscles, and what I’m gonna lift tomorrow, and uh, I dunno, stuff like that.  

Eh, I was gonna update my status, but I’m just gonna let my bro do that for me. He’s better at all that shit, anyway.   All I need is the gym.   And my bro.

He looks at me over the table and grins, and presses a button on his phone, and I hear the sound of a post being made.  “Go ahead,” he motions, and I pull out my phone.  There’s the picture of me, flexing in the restaurant, shit-eating grin on my face, hat backwards.  Already the Likes are coming in, and some comments, and I’d look at them, but I don’t care that much about that shit anymore.

“Cool, bro,” I say, and dive back into my food.  I even eat what my bro doesn’t finish, and after we leave the restaurant, I’m confused a little, mostly full, feeling kinda dopey.  I almost wander into traffic once … or maybe twice, that was kind of embarrassing, but my bro was right there to stop me from walkin into the road.  Haha.  I’m funny when I’m full, I just wanna lay down and gobble on my bro’s knob.  He lets me do that.  He calls me a dumbass knob-gobbler, and I’m kinda okay with that.  My bro can do whatever he wants, because he knows best.

So … what’s on my mind?  Well, muscles, and what I’m gonna lift tomorrow, and uh, I dunno, stuff like that.  

Eh, I was gonna update my status, but I’m just gonna let my bro do that for me.  He’s better at all that shit, anyway.   All I need is the gym.   And my bro.

“Home remedies” - h.s. Part 1

Sorry if this is all over the place; I have a lot of emotions right now. 

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Not everyone could go home for the holidays. It was always a given growing up, and oftentimes people went away with their families for the holidays. And then during uni years many students were given the gift of coming home to their families for the holidays. But the real world, the working world, was much different and you didn’t even attempt to find a plane ticket to get home this year. 

Not that you had anyone to truly go home to, but you’d had invitations from friends that you turned down. You were a busy girl, and considering Kat had just moved in to your flat while she was looking for her own … you didn’t exactly trust her on her own. 

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