i wish she was still working there

4

My mom was… amazing. I know what you’re thinking, it’s typical for a boy to favor their mother… maybe that’s true but… I can honestly say she was the only person I completely felt at home with until well… you. I loved her so much. My father left us when I was still young, I wish I could say that was the extent of my memory of him.  Eventually my mom and I moved to a small cottage in Windenburg left to her by my grandparents after they passed away. I loved it there, especially in the fall. Her hair matched the color of the leaves that time of year… We didn’t have much at all, but we made it work. We’d build forts and play video games together all the time, she was even the one to teach me how to skate. She was my best friend, aside from Zeus and Elf, she’s all I really had and I was the happiest I think I’ll ever be…

This summer a writer asked me: If I could go back in time and tell anyone in history about this milestone, who would it be? And the answer was easy: my mother Dorothy. You may have heard me talk about her difficult childhood. She was abandoned by her parents when she was just eight years old. They put he on a train to California, where she was mistreated by her grandparents and ended up out on her own, working as a housemaid. Yet she still found a way to offer me the boundless love and support she never received herself…

I think about my mother every day. Sometimes I can think about her on that train. I wish I could walk down the aisle and find the little wooden seats where she sat, holding tight to her even younger sister, alone, terrified. She doesn’t yet know how much she will suffer. She doesn’t yet know she will find the strength to escape that suffering—that is still a long way off. The whole future is still unknown as she stares out at the vast country moving past her. I dream of going up to her, and sitting down next to her, taking her in my arms, and saying, “Look at me. Listen to me. You will survive. You will have a good family of your own, and three children. And as hard as it might be to imagine, your daughter will grow up and become the President of the United States.”

I am sure of this as anything I have ever known: America is the greatest country in the world. And, from tonight, going forward, together we will make America even greater than it has ever been—for each and every one of us.

Hillary Clinton (ft. the victory speech she would have delivered had she won on November 8th), What Happened

garruk became a young adult and I’ve been declining life time wishes for awhile now and for good cause. he now wants to bring home 20 wild animals to keep as pets. that is his purpose in life

gideon will be an adult in just over a week and I’ll settle for nothing short of him wanting to be a super hero. I still think his traits are just the gosh dang best and his latest one is daredevil (because they love fire, hello julaar!)

meanwhile jace complete his wish for perfect mind and body and I’m just leveling random skills for him now but that’s a bit boring

nahiri is hard at work to become the acclaimed author she knows she should be and pumps out multi thousand dollar masterpiece paintings for fun when she isn’t writing

“make the princess speak and you will have the crown of kings.”

my knees hurt, as usual, from scrubbing. technically i’m too high of Maid Station to help out with these things, but i like seeing what happens when you clean. the development of things. how a lot of effort can make something. i like learning and trying and working hard to get towards something.

and i’ve seen them, from the back of pillars, from behind cracked doors, from beside her (on the best days) the way they talk to her. oh beautiful won’t you just look at me. oh darling. if you speak i’ll be your prince. if you speak i’ll be your king. 

the princess, i know, finds the lines of suitors boring. it’s in the way her hands are always moving. she hides yawns, leaves early, we make her apologies. once, a man comes and tries to startle her into screaming. she rolls her eyes and looks directly at me. i have to hide my smile behind my sleeve. he is taken away while still screaming.

by accident, i find her once, crying. when we imagine princesses, they always cry daintily. hers is hoarse, angry, and something in it breaks me. in my station i should apologize and bow and leave. instead i am frozen, watching her shoulders heaving.

she looks up and spots me, her cheeks ruddy. i know i should go but instead i make a big show. i act as one of her princes. i make grand gestures and speak in deep voices. i frantically offer her handkerchiefs and trip over my own two feet. a smile crawls up over her, slowly. i dab my sweat away and offer her the used rag. i feign a fluster, turn a terrible cartwheel, make shadow puppets. the sound of her laugh, raw and rusty, sends shivers through me.

for a while, i do not see her after this. but then i am called to her chambers. she is crying again. i offer silly gifts, pebbles and dusting rags and a candlestick from her own kitchen, pretend to steal it, use it as a hat, rock it as a babe. she laughs more easily this time, gladly, and when she laughs i am taken by more important maids, thereby officially Excused.

it goes like this for months. the winter comes. i rarely see her. i spend my week thinking about ways to please her. i knick interesting cookies, show her shiny buttons, learn to cartwheel in a full skirt, and then promptly how to make it look foolish again. i learn how to juggle hot bread and dance as a man would, i learn how to balance on a ball and how to fall down without hurting myself, how to fake a fight with my own body, which colors she likes and which don’t please her.

i show up on a cold eve with a knotted line of scarves hidden down my sleeve, worried and breathless, wondering why she’s been crying. the door opens and she is sitting there, happy. at first i’m confused, but she waves me in. next to her is her small dessert, in two containers. i’m not sure how to respond, so i fake a fall to hear her laugh, and then sit at her feet. she gives me ice cream - so rare a treat. i know what went into making it - the hours of shaking. it’s smooth and tasty. i don’t feign my reaction, but she laughs anyway, kindly. 

it goes like this. i see her more frequently. she likes giving me new things, watching me discover i hate kiwi and love oranges and would die if it made her laugh breathlessly. i’ve made her keel over with cackling and she’s put a fire in me. sometimes we just sit there, quietly, enjoying each other’s company. 

it’s in her hands, always moving. little things i thought were just her, fidgeting. here’s how she says she’s thirsty, this is what her hands do when she needs a second to think, here’s how she shows she’s happy. this is how i learn to speak back to her. around her i spend much of my time smiling. i feel every visit is a gift. a new part to unravel. i find out she doesn’t respond to spoken things, that she needs to be looking in order to know you were speaking. sometimes she has me talk and she holds her hands to the base of my throat, her eyes wide and wondering. sometimes she just looks at me and i forget that i’m her jester in chief. i get caught up in her eyes, in how expressive they are when she’s happy, in how when she’s sad i feel like i’m drowning.

i never see the king or queen, but i know when she’s had a visit with them, because she never comes back happy. two winters i have known her, two winters and now we dine frequently. i am often called to stand beside her, to whisper translations of her desires into the ears of someone more important than i, someone who gets to be the voice of royalty. i can’t decide if i’m her friend or her plaything, but i don’t know i care much of the distinction. every moment i’m near her is a moment free of friction. i take stock of suitors and curtsy to them in daylight only to mock them in the candle’s eye later.

she asks me one night to stay. it has been a bad day. it’s completely not okay. i cannot say no but i cannot, by my station, stay. but she begs with her eyes and her hands and i know i’ll take the punishment. 

we lie beside each other. i make sure to turn to her when i speak. in the dark she can’t see me, so i move my hands in the way i’m learning. she asks if i am ever lonely. i cannot tell her that i am always lonely without her beside me, so instead i say i think all people are very lonely and just are pretending. she laughs a little at that and says she thinks her parents are the two most lonely people that ever met. her mother was like her; broke a fairy curse and talked, just once, although nobody knows what she said. well, excepting her father, who was the only one around, and who won her hand in marriage.

from her mother she learned the art of hands, of speaking without words - from her father she learned that who she was included a curse. that she just wanted someone who would make her open like a rose - someone who could fix her. how she stared out into the royal garden and wished on flowers to be what her kingdom needs.

she fell asleep pressed against me. i couldn’t breathe. i was still awake in the morning. 

the punishment never came. we spent nights like this. the handmaidens had grown to know me. whenever their princess was stubborn, i worked magic and made her lovely.

it was a terrible thing. i did too good a job, i think. the princess glowed too much or shone too brightly - or at least, i saw it that way, so who knows what the truth is. every day it felt like we were being rushed with princes. 

her father’s temper at hosting failed. it was the day before her twenty-first birthday and first time i’d ever seen him. he stormed in at the end of the session. “just speak!” he said, “it’s not that hard! do for others what your mother did!” 

“tomorrow is your last day of this,” he warned her, “either you pick a prince or i pick for you. i’m done with it.”

he stormed off. she was left shellshocked and trembling. that night she didn’t ask me to come, but i waited outside, just in case she changed her mind. i understood why she needed space. either she’d speak and be married tomorrow or she’d be married shortly. i heard her crying and it took everything in my power not to rush in and hold her, cradle her gently. but i cannot come into a room of a royal person without being invited. i stayed there, tears in my own eyes, thinking of treason.

the next day was a huge festival. what had been a birthday celebration was turned into a day about princes. i watched her shake her head. i tried to cheer her up. i tried everything. i frequently came inches from causing public humiliation, toed the line of mocking and failing to acknowledge my station. she wouldn’t smile. not once. not even for anything.

the day was long. the bonfire wore down. i watched her crumple into herself. i was out of ideas. i knelt at her feet. her eyes barely looked at me. just wait, i said to her with my hands, i’ll be right back. i took off running.

the price of stealing is losing my hands. these things that i spoke to her with. these things that mattered so much to me, that helped with my comedy and cleaning. 

i didn’t think of them. i bloodied my fingers when i ripped the royal roses from their stems. and then i ran, as fast as i could, back to her feet. i picked them to show you, i said, as she gasped, looking at my treason, they’re beautiful and nobody told them to open to reveal their secrets to the bees. they are unbroken. as you are. as you always will be. 

she fell off her throne and for a second i was beyond speaking, worried something had happened, or she’d fainted, or i’d said the wrong thing. but then she was on her knees, her arms around me, and i heard it. i heard the soft croak of her speaking. just one word, and it sent shivers down me. my name, in her voice, awkward and unwieldy, but full of love and passion, burning fire through me.

i felt a hand on my shoulder. i was pulled away from her. they already had me in handcuffs while i struggled to get back to her, to tell her i loved her, to beg her to run off with me or maybe just hold me around her, maybe just have her for a moment, because i couldn’t live without her for a moment longer.

they put me in the cells. i rotted in there, for a while or for no time at all, i’m not sure. the thorns scarred my palms. i watched the scabs build up and flake off. every time someone came down, i flinched, wondering if i would be the next to be taken and chopped into bits.

but one day the light was different. not the smoky torch of the jailer, instead a bright light in a lantern. at first when i saw her, my breath caught in my throat, mistaking her for my princess.

but she was my queen. at first we stood in silence. and slowly, i moved my hands to speak. is she married? is what came out, even though i should be more worried about me myself and me.

she is not. she bit her father on the arm when he tried to make her. then she fought him. and then ran away. it took us a bit to find her, i’m afraid. she threatened her own life and the life of everyone in this place. the queen was smiling. i was told there was a young woman who could make the princess speak, whom she would die to save, who brought roses to her feet. someone in a cell, rotting. are you her?

the memory of her voice rang through me. i’m she.

yes, her hands said, for even now, aren’t you speaking to the silent Queen?

she opened the door. come, she said, let’s get you cleaned up for the ceremony.

the crown of kings. when she wraps her arms around my neck and laughs next to me, i am royalty. when she smiles or makes a joke or asks to see my cartwheel again, i’m lost in her. i kiss her whenever i can, which is often. we have roses in a vase at the base of our bed, and for all of the kingdom, i’d give my hands if it would keep her laughing.

the next time she spoke was just once, at our wedding, where she said the two words i do to bind us for eternity. she had learned from me, from holding her hands over my voicebox, the way i learned from her how to use hands to speak. sometimes at night she says my name, just because she likes what it does to me.

i’m more blessed than a king. every day i spend with her is a day i spend happily. 

5

Small story behind this!

This comic idea came to me when I thought that Genji would find troublesome walking in public again, not feeling like his old self anymore. They all struggled and tried to convince him to go out, but found himself one day taken downtown by Mercy, who needed an extra hand to help her with some grocery shopping. She used as excuse the fact that many of those at the base were either resting after missions, away in missions or just home, enjoying some free days. (everyone needs to relax once in a while XD) Genji always appreciated her care for him, how much time she always spent making sure he did his daily exercises during the recovery period (McCree also helped, and Gabe whenever he had time to spare), and of course the very fact that she made him “exist” again, so he couldn’t refuse her small wish, even if this meant going outside the base. (he was still fresh after recovery.. no missions or such things yet)

—-

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 

I like large hoodies! One of my weak points XD

Made this one quick, before leaving work.

The Issue of Being a Freelance Artist (When working with non-designers): A story by Sean Williams (and future reference for other artists)

Hey guys, looks like its story time… I’m going to vent to you guys about something that just happened to me today, and hopefully you guys can reblog it so that we as artists, can try to avoid this from happening in the future.

For the last month or so I’ve been working on a freelance project for a woman who plans on running a blog about going to College. Throughout this process, I’ve worked with her step by step, going through designs, drafts, re-drafts and etc. After turning in the final design yesterday and being in agreement that the design was good, and that payment should be finalized; she sent me an email stating this: 

“I ran the design by a couple of people affiliated with by blog, and I am going to have to ask you to redo it.  It’s just not what we were looking for.  I’m not a design person at all and I wanted it done, so I settled on it. But this has to be done right”

Settled. 

“Okay, fine” I thought. Sometimes things don’t work out, and designs need to be redone. I was fine with this, and I have absolutely no problem working with a client to make sure that they’re happy; but something about her wording stuck a chord…. She settled. And for reference: THIS is what she said yesterday- BEFORE the email today stating: “This has to be done right” 


FUN FACT: I had gone in a completely different direction before coming up with the design I sent yesterday, but after HOURS of working on it and checking in with her (with her telling me she loved the way it looked) –

–I was asked to redo it.


She told me to redo it. A DAY BEFORE IT WAS DUE.  Which I did (The design I turned in yesterday). But I digress..

I continued reading through the email: 

“If you are not able or willing to take this on, then we can just cut our ties here.  If you would like to finish the project in a time sensitive manner and be paid the other 50$ and be featured, then please get me a new design by today.” 

At this point, I’d been working with her for a little over a month, (I’m a full-time student, and I work the maximum number of hours that I’m allowed to work on campus, on top of that I’m the president of an animation organization on campus, so suffice to say, I’m busy) and she had a deadline for the project, so there was a part of me that could understand her urgency. We had decided on $100. Half up front and half after I had finished. But now something else had stuck with me: “Please get me a new design by today”

What? Are you kidding me? a NEW design? We had been working together for over a month, and I had worked based on what she wanted, and now she wanted a COMPLETELY new design by the end of the day. A day, I might add that I don’t have free because I have work and then other school-related obligations that I need to fulfill… That would mean sketches to generate more ideas, having to confer with her on the design, THEN actually implementing the design, and having to clean it all up, with 1.) No direction (because the way I designed it previously was obviously all wrong), and 2.) By the end of the day.


This had to be done right, and after all of that working and reworking, I was STILL looking to try to be as helpful and professional as possible. So of course,  I was considering starting from scratch and coming up with a THIRD finalized design, until I read the rest of the email… HERE’S THE KICKER: I can’t even make this shit up. 

“A few things to keep in mind. 1.  I am a professional.  I’m an adult, this is my business.  I want it clean, simple and streamlined”.

In my head I thought: “You’re joking. You’re going to tell me these things like I’m a child? First of all, I may be a student, but I’m a working adult, I take care of my schoolwork, I pay rent, I pay a car note, I’m ENGAGED, AND take care of a pet Ferret. Beyond that, not only have I worked on this project with you step, by step, but I’ve done COUNTLESS drafts and ON TOP OF THAT, you’ve told me multiple times that the design is perfect for what you’re looking for”

The email continued: 


“https://designschool.canva.com/blog/graphic-design-tips-non-designers/”

Are you fucking kidding me. This woman thought it was okay to send me: A designer; this “HELPFUL” link. About tips. FOR NON DESIGNERS. WHEN SHE HERSELF IS NOT A DESIGNER. After this I was LIVID. But I kept my composure and kept reading:

“Ask me questions, read the blog, treat me as if I’m a real client. Let me know your thoughts on this.” 

I almost couldn’t contain myself. For a month I’ve done sketches, layouts, and etc… I’d worked with you step by step, following her instructions for the design, FOR EACH ITERATION OF THE DESIGN and I had tailored each of my changes exactly to her specifications. Beyond that I’d read and re-read over the blog multiple times in an effort to come up with a design that would best display her intentions. I was so upset after reading her email that I literally just closed my phone and walked around for a few minutes to clear my head. 


After much consideration, I decided to do what she herself had suggested and cut our ties. And I did it in what I feel was the most respectful way that I could while still maintaining my dignity. I sent her a message stating that I’m sorry that things didn’t work out, but that I could tell that she clearly didn’t respect me as an artist, and that I thought it best if we didn’t continue working together. I wished her good luck in finding a designer that could suit her needs, and I went about my day. 

Although this situation didn’t end the way that I had expected it to when we began working together, I’ve learned some things, and I wanted to share my story with you all as a way to help raise awareness for things like this:

-VALUE YOUR ART. 
-VALUE YOUR TIME. 
-VALUE THE CLIENT BUT DO NOT LET THEM STEP ALL OVER YOU

There are non designers who will commission you and be happy that you created something for them, and there are those that will NEVER be satisfied with what you give them. See the warning signs and DO NOT work with people who are going to be difficult for the sake of being difficult.

 I’ve worked with more than a few people who don’t appreciate the amount of passion and hard work that goes into art, and it draining, frustrating and its just not worth it. 

Another thing that I learned is please please please DO NOT SELL YOURSELF SHORT. 

The project that I was working on wasn’t worth $100. And after the second draft it was even worth doing for $200. I understand being a student and needing money, but I’d rather work for free on something that I love than work for pennies on something that I hate. 

Don’t take a project just because it pays. AND PLEASE DO NOT TRY TO UNDERCUT YOURSELF BECAUSE YOU’RE A STUDENT OR BECAUSE YOU DON’T FEEL THAT YOU’RE A “PROFESSIONAL” YET. 

I have friends in the animation industry who STILL don’t feel like they’re necessarily “Professionals”

KNOW YOUR WORTH.  And never ever EVER Let anyone tell you what you’re worth. Especially if they don’t know or respect just how much work and time goes into making the beautiful things that you all make.

I think that’s about it. Thanks for putting up with yet another long rant about me trying to navigate my life as an artist!

Originally posted by thatretaillife


(also… completely unrelated: If you’re an artist reading this, let me know! I’d love to follow you and I hope you do the same!)

-Sean 

Day One Hundred And Forty-Two

-Tonight, I was asked to work guest services. Upon reaching the desk, I was handed a large tub containing boxes of “Farewell Dandelion” crayons to hand out to the children. My powers grow stronger still.

-I overheard a woman remark, “As a nurse, it is my opinion that being in a car crash would be both scary and somewhat painful.” As a human who experiences emotions somewhat normally, I concur.

-A mysterious woman with a mysterious purpose entered the store. She told me that she wished to give my manager of letter, content and reason unknown. She insisted upon delivering it herself to avoid the attention of unwanted eyes. I can only hope to one day be a part of such ominous goings-on as have gone on before me tonight.

-Halloween merchandise has arrived, and with it, the canned screams of skeletons and witches echoing down the aisles. I could not be more elated.

-A young boy, perhaps six or seven years of age, excitedly ran through the dollar section, digging around and eventually adorning himself with a pointed black witch’s cap and a tutu as pink and frilly as could be. He was delighted by his outfit, but his delight was nothing compared to his mother’s delight, and his mother’s delight was nothing compared to mine.

-A woman approached the service desk to tell me in a hushed voice that there was a dog outside. She then raised her eyebrows, gave me a knowing look, and walked away. This is precisely the kind of informant I need in my life.

-I processed a return for an elderly woman who was distressed that her new digital thermometer would only display the same numbers with no change. Unsure of how to tell her that she had yet to remove the sticker on the screen, I gladly gave her a refund and sent her on her way.

anonymous asked:

what do you think of girls who wear makeup to the gym?

That depends on what they’re doing. If she’s busting her ass on the treadmill for an hour, then I’ll think “damn I wish I had her endurance and patience”. If she’s lifting heavier weights than most of the guys in the weight section, I’ll think “wow that girl is strong”. If she’s climbed like 60 flights on the stair master, then I’ll prob think “I wish I had that quad strength”. If she’s done working out and her makeup still looks flawless, I’ll prob ask her what setting spray she uses or what she uses to contour bc damn check out that highlight. 

youtube

Chelsea ( @opensmother-lippedlover​ ) and I ( @jessjust​ ) met December 5, 2012 on Tumblr (Yup, I remember dates well). Immediately I noticed how sweet, polite, and interesting she was. We continued to talk here and there, and making our relationship official months later. We dated for about six-months. Initially everything was great, but the long-distance was awful and we were too young to know how to handle it. We called it off. We went our separate ways; fell in-love here and there with other people. 

Years later I was working for the Texas Legislature, near done with my undergrad degree, and with the flexibility to move anywhere. I then realized how much I kept thinking about her, wishing to share the precious memories I was making at my job, how supportive and uniquely proud she would be — and truly how much love I still had for her. Not knowing where she was in life I decided to reach out to her, told her how I felt and she left me waiting (lol) Some time later she finally came around and told me she felt the same way. Well the rest is really history. 

(The day she asked me to be her girlfriend)

We left Philadelphia and houston, and we moved to Chicago after I got a scholarship at DePaul Law School, and she began her education to become a Veterinarian. Most importantly we created our own little family with our baby Gatsby, a cavalier King Charles Spaniel. Now I’m proud to call her my fiancée. I would give my life for her. 


We’ve had bumps here and there like any other couple, but we love each other enough to fight for each other. That’s what’s important. And why I proposed December 17, 2016 at the art institute!

She may still get mad at me when I forget to place the new toilet paper in the holder and I may still get annoyed when she talks through a movie. All in all, that’s what a relationship is about loving each other and ironing out the little differences.

We want to share our little story with details sometimes left out by the media. With our relationship on the spotlight I hope this encourages others to love and work hard for their relationships ❤️ love is out there, it’s just hard to keep.

(This is an old video Chelsea’s dad filmed of the first time we saw each other again after years apart)

More photos of the engagement can be found in our Instagrams: Cnicolem_ and J.essrdgz

andallwaswell-ish  asked:

Seamus and Harry are a couple. Draco really doesn't like that. (fanon) Pansy is just the person he needs

“Quick, Pansy, kiss me.”

Pansy stares at Draco, her face screwed up at the absurd suggestion. There are so many things wrong with that statement. First, ew, she is not nearly drunk enough. Second, she doesn’t like to be rushed. And third, most importantly, nobody tells Pansy what to do.

“I will do no such thing. Why would you – “ her eyes scan the Gryffindor common room, following Draco’s gaze, and fall on Harry Potter sitting on Seamus Finnigan’s lap – “Oh, I see now.” She sighs loudly, accepting her duty as best friend, but also making sure Draco knows just how unappealing she finds the idea. “Fine.”

The kiss is brief and methodical and, all in all, incredibly disagreeable. Pansy only hopes that Potter glances their way to see it so it isn’t all in vain. As soon as her mouth is her own again, Pansy downs the rest of her firewhiskey.  “Never, ever, make me do that to your chapped lips again.”

“Sorry,” Draco says, looking past Pansy – she’ll forgive his inattentiveness this once, “It’s just –

“You needed to make Potter jealous?”

“Yes and –“ Draco pauses, and his eyes finally land on Pansy. About time. “How did you know it was Potter?

Pansy snorts. Draco really is an idiot sometimes. “Well you hardly have a crush on Finnigan do you? And Blaise told me sometimes you say his name while – “

“I’ll have a word with Blaise later,” Draco says quickly, a small blush appearing on his face – that he would certainly deny if Pansy were to mention. “Now hold my hand, make it look like we’re an established couple. I don’t want Potter thinking I’m easy.  If you put your arm – “

Draco’s voice falters, his gaze back on Potter. Pansy turns to witness Potter and Finnigan locking lips in a rather exaggerated fashion. It’s not romantic or erotic. It’s just a kiss. The two must have zero chemistry, much like Pansy and Draco.

“Although, clearly, Potter is very easy.” Draco puts on his cold, taunting voice but his own jealously is obvious.

Pansy rolls her eyes. Sometimes dealing with Draco is like dealing with a small child. She moves beside him and wraps an arm around his waist so they can stare at Potter and his current boy toy together. The two have stopped kissing and are now drawing patterns on each other’s hands. Gryffindors, honestly. “Would you look at that, Draco dear? They’re holding hands. They must be an established couple as well.”

“Do you really think so? Finnigan doesn’t seem like Potter’s type at all. And I’ve never seen them alone together before. I would have noticed it if – “

“How about we go over and find out?” Pansy shoves Draco hard and is pleased when he stumbles forward. She enjoys catching him off guard.

“Wait – Pansy, no.” Draco tries to protest but it’s too late. Potter has spotted them. He extracts himself from Finnigan and stands up to greet them, a hand running through his hair. Pansy has to hold back a smirk – she knows Draco loves when Potter does that. Not that he’s ever said anything. He doesn’t have to.

“Malfoy. Parkinson,” Potter says without even glancing at Pansy. Typical. And predictable.

Finnigan stands up beside Potter. Draco – what a surprise! – ignores this. “Potter.”

“Finnigan,” Pansy adds, only to annoy Draco. He gives her a reproachful side eye before returning his gaze to Potter. She suspects it’s the last time he’ll glance her way tonight.

They all stand there in silence. Potter staring intently at Draco. Draco staring intently at Potter. And Finnigan sharing a knowing look with Pansy. At least he’s not as stupid as he looks then.

Finally, Potter speaks up. “I didn’t know if you’d come tonight.”

“I never miss a party…even if it is hosted by Gryffindors.”

It’s not true. Draco has missed several parties over the years. But at this stage, Pansy doesn’t think Potter or Draco would even notice if she spoke so she keeps her mouth shut.

“Might be time for a Slytherin party next,” Potter says.

Draco is clearly holding back a smile. Pansy bets he is creaming his bloody pants at getting to have an actual conversation with Potter. “We get a little wild in the dungeons.” They don’t. “Are you sure you could handle it, Potter?

“I think I could rise to the challenge.”

“Subtle,” Pansy whispers to Finnigan. Honestly, Potter’s clearly got it as bad as Draco. It’s embarrassing to watch this train wreck unfold.

“So, Finnigan, that’s new.” Draco doesn’t even acknowledge that the person in question is still by Potter’s side. Finnigan shoots Pansy an amused look at being blatantly ignored. Things are clearly not serious with Potter.

“Very. And Parkinson?”

“I’m right here you know?” Pansy interjects, unable to hold back. But it makes no difference anyway. Only Finnigan hears her.

“It’s been a while,” Draco lies. Pansy wants to smack him around the head. Sure, she is happy to help make Potter jealous but there’s no need to exaggerate.

“Really? I always thought you were just friends?”

“Yes, well, there’s a lot you don’t know about me.”’

“Like how he calls out your name every night in bed,” Pansy mutters underneath her breath. Finnigan, at least, catches and appreciates the jab if no one else does.

“Of course. Sorry Malfoy, I didn’t mean to question you. I’m just having a hard time grasping you and Parkinson together. I thought you were…you know.” Potter trails off, a hand rubbing the back of his neck.

Pansy holds back a groan. It’s like listening to children with these two.

“Gay? Like you?”

“Actually, I’m bisexual,” Potter corrects. “But yeah.”

“Finnigan doesn’t seem like your type.”

Finnigan flips a half-hearted bird at Draco. Not that he notices.

“And Parkinson doesn’t seem like yours.”

“Because I’m out of his league,” Pansy points out, flipping her own violent bird at Potter. She doesn’t know why she’s even bothering standing here anymore.

Draco takes a step forward. “So, what’s my type then, Potter?”

Potter mimics Draco’s action so that they’re almost chest to chest – Really? “What’s mine?”

“You need someone who doesn’t hero worship you, someone who will hold you accountable for all your actions, someone who isn’t afraid of your temper. You need someone who challenges you.”

Pansy shares a confused look with Finnigan – did they rehearse this or something? Draco’s not usually this smooth with his words, especially with Potter in such close proximity.

“And you need someone who understands your vulnerability but doesn’t use it against you, someone who treats you gently, someone whose affection is unwavering. You need someone who forgives you.”

They must have rehearsed this. Pansy has never heard Potter say anything remotely intelligent before. And she hasn’t known him to be particularly observant either.

“And I suppose you could never forgive me after all that I’ve done?” Draco hits back, still just as smooth. This is getting ridiculous.

“I already have,” Potter responds immediately as if reading a line from a script. From a terrible cheesy muggle romance movie that Pansy would never be caught dead watching. Yet here she is witnessing this sappy display.

“What about Finnigan?”

“I was using him to make you jealous,” Potter admits. Pansy looks to Finnigan for confirmation – he winks. “Did it work?”

Despite using the exact same trick himself, Pansy can see Draco is outraged at being manipulated. “Fuck you, Potter.”

“You wish.”

And then they’re kissing. Enthusiastically. Way too close to Pansy’s face. She can see every stray strand of saliva, hear every lubricated slide of their mouths. It’s revolting. And worse still, they’ve become the centre of the attention at the party, eyes drawn to Draco and Potter’s embrace with Pansy and Finnigan standing by awkwardly, looking like dejected fools.

Pansy could spoil it by pinching the hairs on the back of Draco’s neck in vengeance for being ignored. Luckily, she’s feeling particularly generous tonight, and she’d never admit it, but seeing Draco with Potter is sweet. In a disgusting, horrible, sappy way of course. But still, sweet. Now she just has to focus on her own happy ending. She spies Hermione Granger’s amongst the watchful eyes around them and takes her moment:

“Quick, Finnigan, kiss me.”

Killing a toxic co-workers hopes, dreams, and future.

Names changed for anonymity, happened a few years back. This is a long one so TL;DR at the bottom.

Background: I got a job working for a small hardware company. 4 people in the office, a few in the warehouse, and a delivery driver. Nothing fancy, but it got me off the night shift and onto a desk. The owner was a pretty nice guy, let’s call him Ray. Ray took over the family business in the early 2000s. Like most small business owners he was pretty frugal. The job came with absolutely zero perks. 10 vacation days that doubled as sick days, no insurance, everyone was hourly and Ray hated paying OT. He had one large customer that accounted for about half his business and everything after that was profit. He had gotten to the point where the business was doing well enough to support his comfortable life (10-3 schedule, 4 weeks vacation, season baseball tickets) and had zero interest in growing it beyond that point. But my problem was not with Ray, it was with the absolute b*tch in the purchasing department.

The players: Four people in the office meant that every part of this business fell to one of us. Ray was the owner, he negotiated large scale orders both with customers and suppliers. Sarah was our admin/receptionist, sweet as pie. I was in charge of order processing and logistics, and I did quite a bit of work revamping the company website. Ingrid (aka B*tch Supreme) handled small scale purchasing and most of the other customers.

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Notice how you talk to yourself, because more than likely, it’s awful

And now, a little snippet of the new book:

Spend a day just listening to your internal monologue. If it helps, and there is no one around you (or they’re super cool and you explain ahead of time what you’re doing), say it out loud. Every thought you have about yourself.

• Why aren’t you doing your work? You are so lazy.

• Oh, you have a UTI? Wah wah, no one cares.

• You’re sad about this? The same thing you’ve been sad about for months? Pathetic.

Would you say these things to a dear friend? Would you say them to a coworker? Would you say them to someone you absolutely loathed?

I sincerely hope not, because that would be cruel and completely unacceptable as a form of human interaction. Here, I will pause to remind you that you are, in fact, a human. Self-abuse is still abuse.

My friend Jo once told me something that I still think about, something that feels like complete audacity to even attempt, but I wish I would.

We were talking with a few other friends about the ways we hurt ourselves. She said that for the past five years, she has been working on treating herself like her soulmate. She says she tries to make decisions for herself out of love, never fear or pride; that even when she doesn’t feel like it, she works hard to bestow upon herself the affection, goodwill, and support that she would her own beloved.

You will always be with yourself. You will change and learn and grow but will never be someone other than who you are. You are your own Wilson, Tom Hank’s sole companion in 2000’s survival epic Cast Away.

Like every other human being on the planet, there are fantastic and wonderful things about you, and there are things you can work on. But as long as you’re doing your best — and most of us are at least trying, most of the time — then you should think about cutting yourself some slack when things don’t go exactly as you hoped they would or work out perfectly in your favor. It is about as useful as expecting, through the magical power of self-doubt and anger, that you will wake up one day able to fly.

Marc Guggenheim SDCC17 Interview

Marc Guggenheim was kind enough to meet with me for a one on one chat. 

We walked the floor together with his nephew and little girl (who are the cutest) for an hour and talked all things Arrow!!! He told me this is his most aggressive SDCC schedule ever, so the fact that he slotted in some time just for me really meant the world. Marc Guggenheim is the actual best. He is the definition of it.

SPOILERS!!!

We launched right into number one on my list: wedding.

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2

Hey, remember when I told you I had an idea for a KobaTohru child, but couldn’t show you because her sis was still being designed?

Here they are! Kobayashi Miho (美火 meaning: Beautiful Fire) and her sister Kobayashi Midori (翠 meaning: Green (designed by @askmisskobayashi))

Miho looks a lot like her working-mom, not just appearance-wise, but also personality-wise. So much that people often joke about if she’s even related to her maid-mom. Whenever they do, she casually shows off her fangs and tells them “I got these from her”.
Unlike her sister, she’s a human but can secretly use magic. She often pranks Midori by setting the curtains on fire and blaming her because “I’m a human. I can’t use magic.” She’s very laid back and often prefers playing indoors to doing anything active. Not very fond of physical contact, which is not so much fun when you have Tohru as a mom. 
Kobayashi once bought clothes for her and after getting scolded by her wife because these are not cute or fashionable, she was finally able to admit that Miho was the one who wanted to buy these. 

Midori is a happy-go-lucky dragon child. Her wings and tail are still non-existent, but she’s really proud that her horns are already growing. She’s the youngest sibling, but also the tallest which bothers Miho just a tiny bit. 
As sweet and loving as her mythical mother, Midori is a ball of sunshine and joy. Honest, but a bit of an airhead, she enjoys spending time with her mom and tries not to mess with her sister because she hasn’t forgotten all the pranks Miho pulled on her. 

Still they love the other a lot and often use each other’s laps during nap time, a habit that auntie Kanna taught them. 

Of Hidden Talents (Feysand Fluff)

So this just popped into my head last night when I couldn’t sleep. Set post-ACOWAR and contains nothing but fluff.

“You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you?” Feyre found herself commenting, smiling slightly as she tried not to groan in pleasure under Rhys’ hands.

He chuckled from where he was seated behind her, the sound sending a thrill through her spine, even decades into their relationship. “I should hope so; I have to keep my High Lady entertained somehow. Wouldn’t want her eternity to get boring.”

“Boring? How could I ever get bored with a mate who thinks so much of himself?” She shot back, though its effect was lost when she leaned further into him, her hands running over the legs that were on either side of her. She could feel the delicious heat of his bare chest so close behind her, the thin nightdress she was wearing a poor barrier between them. 

Rhys’ fingers continued to comb through her hair, expertly separating it into three equal parts. “I take offense to that.”

Feyre let out an aborted snort. “No, you don’t.” 

“No, I don’t,” Rhys agreed, in a blithe voice.

They fell into a comfortable silence then, built on years of learning how to just be together. Neither of them felt the need to always fill the air between them with pointless chatter. Oh, they liked to joke and bicker… but they also knew when to let words fade away and just enjoy each other’s company.

It had been happening more of late, likely because Rhys had refused to leave Feyre’s side for the past few months. He was a constant presence at her side, though he did his best not to hover too much (he knew all too well how she loathed feeling locked in, how it still made her bones lock up in fear, even after all this time). He needn’t have worried; Feyre never, never felt tied down by her mate, never felt confined by him. She knew that even now, when he was so concerned about her, he would give her space if she asked.

(He’d once told her, in a fit of hopeless romanticism, that he would give her the very stars above Velaris if he could. Feyre had believed him, of course, if only because she said she would do the same for him.)

So Feyre was quiet, letting Rhys gently braid her hair as if he’d done it hundreds of times before. She’d been utterly surprised when he’d offered to do it for her earlier, after he’d heard her curse in front of the mirror while she struggled with trying to tame her wild locks into something more manageable. Feyre was so tired these days and sore too, the heavier she got. And she was constantly hot then cold, her hair always in the way and, Cauldron, she didn’t care for it much now and all the work it took to keep it neat, not when she was already so uncomfortable. She’d been beyond tempted to just chop it all off, had Rhys not stepped in when he did with his innocuous offer.

At first she tried to deny the existence of a problem but she really couldn’t hide anything from Rhys; he knew her too well, felt her struggles through their mating bond and tried to ease her discomfort as much as he could. (Rightly so, Feyre sometimes thought when she particularly annoyed with how limited she was lately, considering he’s the one that put me into this situation in the first place.) 

So here they were, Rhys’s gentle hands working wonders on Feyre’s nerves, his fingers softly tugging at her hair as he built the braid into something spectacular; Feyre herself was usually no slouch when it came her hair (at least when she wasn’t so cranky), but she had the feeling that Rhys was even better. So many hidden talents, this mate of mine.

“Where’d you learn to do this?” she finally asked, curiosity getting the better of her. She’d felt his hesitancy when he first offered, that pang of grief that he’d been unable to conceal from her.

“My sister,” Rhys said after a long pause. His voice had lost that light-hearted edge from earlier, filled instead with wistful regret. “She’d come to me when our mother was too busy for it. She could have asked the servants, of course… but she liked to spend a few moments with me, I think. She continued to ask even long after she could do it by herself. I never had the heart to say no.” 

Feyre’s own heart ached for her mate, for the family he’d lost so long ago. He rarely spoke of the little sister she’d never meet, even less so than his mother. From what she’d gleaned over the years, his sister had been quite a bit younger than him, had looked up to him in a way no one else ever had. Feyre couldn’t even imagine what it had been like for him to have to bury her broken body.

She rubbed her thumbs comfortingly over the sides of his knees. I’m sorry, she sent softly to him through their bond. I’m sorry

Rhys’ mind caressed hers. Me too.

Feyre kept running her hands soothingly over him, tempted to turn around and pull him to her, wrap her arms around those broad shoulders of his. She didn’t though; the act of braiding seemed to calm him… like coming home to something he’d thought he’d long forgotten. (Still, she wished she could protect him from all the pain he endured… but that same pain had made him into the wonderful male he was today.) 

When he was finally done, she saw his finished work briefly through his eyes, the image flashing through her mind.

“It’s beautiful,” Feyre said with a smile, reaching up to run her fingers over the intricate pattern he’d managed to weave her hair into. “Thank you.”

Rhys’ strong arms around wrapped around her body, finally pulling her back to rest against his chest. “I figured it was about time I got some practice,” he whispered in her ear as he moved one hand to cover her rounded belly. “I wouldn’t want our poor daughter to be left with an inept father.”

Feyre tangled her fingers with Rhys’, holding them over her stomach, where their unborn baby was slowly growing. “You could never be an inept father, Rhys,” she told him softly. Rhys only pressed kiss under her jaw in response, though she could feel his quiet gratitude for her faith in him. “Besides, how do you know it’ll be a girl?” Feyre continued, turning her head so she could arch an eyebrow at him.

Mischief lit his violet eyes. “Perhaps I asked Elain.”

Feyre leveled a look at him. “Elain would never tell you, even if she knew.” Her sister had become quite the responsible seer over the years, never revealing more than was necessary. (Well, that and Feyre had wanted it to be a surprise, telling Elain in no uncertain terms not to let Rhys charm the answer out of her.)

“Then let’s call it a father’s intuition,” Rhys replied now, unable to stop his grin.

Feyre laughed, leaning her head against the edge of his jaw. “She’s going to have you wrapped around her little finger, isn’t she?” 

“Of course,” he kissed her forehead, his happiness a near tangible thing. “And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Feyre could only cuddle in closer. She looked at where their joined hands were resting on her belly. Don’t worry, baby, she thought, we love you already, no what you turn out to be.

(A few years later, when their daughter runs up to Feyre, her hair braided in a crown around her head, little flowers carefully tucked in the midnight blue strands, she doesn’t need to ask who did it. Rhys’ proud smile is answer enough.)

Charlotte: A Character Study

Anyways…can I just say that I really love and admire Charlotte as a character????

Like, she was a jewish, gay, black woman who—given that Falsettos is set in the late 1900s—undoubtedly was met with harsh discrimination and unnecessary obstacles due to her identity, but she was so passionate about her work that she still became a doctor and stayed true to herself by not hiding anything and being so genuine in the fact that she was openly jewish and living with her girlfriend. And like, I get and love that her character was a metaphor for the lesbian allies of the beginning of the AIDS crisis, but she was also shown as a woman who deeply cared for her work and her friends and to minimize her as simply a plot device is really gross. And like, Charlotte even had some flaws that I wish could have been better explored (ie: as implied in “A Day in Falsettoland”, she was easily dismissive of Cordelia’s complaint of restlessness in her domestic role, which—while also serves as a further critique on the confining roles of domesticity that evolve beyond heterosexual couples and even affect healthy gay relationships—shows that she can be just as self-absorbed as the other characters), and her relationship with Cordelia was easily the healthiest one of the whole musical (at least consistently).

She was Whizzer’s doctor and friend, and she had to watch him wither and die while everyone else in the world pretended that it wasn’t happening. “Something Bad is Happening” is such a chilling song because 1) Tracie Thoms’ amazing voice and her vocal range is WILD, 2) it’s an honest depiction of what was happening in society at the time, and 3) it explores Charlotte’s desperation and despair over her career. As shown in “A Day In Falsettoland,” she is very happy with her life and career, and she feels powerful in the fact that she helps so many people. But then we flash forward to “Something Bad is Happening” and even “Jason’s Bar Mitzvah” where she, Cordelia, and Trina sing that “I feel more helpless than I have in years.” This is especially chilling for Charlotte given that she has been portrayed as such a pillar of strength and happiness.

She is shown to be very devoted to the medical profession but you can’t help but wonder just how much the AIDS epidemic, watching her friends die and suffer, and silence from the medical field and even her own community had left her jaded.

Like… I love her. P l e a s e, more recognition and love for Charlotte.

you know what’s cool about my friend who has major social anxiety? she doesn’t use it to put herself down. she doesn’t use it to call herself weak, or lesser of a person. if i’m going out and i invite her out, all she has to say is can’t, anxiety. and i get it. and i go out with other friends and i see her on her time when she can socialize and not feel like the weight of the world is crushing down on her. when i tell her i’m hanging out in the living room and she lets me know, can’t, anxiety, i’m staying in my bedroom. i get it. and i don’t push her, and i don’t pity her. i understand her. 

all i’m trying to say i guess, is that when things get hard mentally, and someone calls themselves weak, it upsets me. knowing your limits isn’t a weakness. being able to openly say “yeah, i didn’t go to that last week, because you know, anxiety.” isn’t something i’m going to pity a person for, and it certainly doesn’t mean i’m thinking less of you. and it bothers me to see people who have severe anxiety, and other things, equating it to a weakness. being able to openly talk about your anxiety and your depression and your inability to function as what you or society sees as common isn’t a fault. hell, it’s a strength to be able to say, “can’t, anxiety.” and i think it’s an even bigger strength of the person you’re saying it to, to be able to understand that, even if they don’t feel the same way. strength and empathy. that’s all i guess. 

fun facts about Musical Veronica:

She canonly says she cares about and loves JD
She canonly talks about wanting a relationship and life with him, sings a whole song about it
canonly gives him a million chances to change and hopes for the best every time
In DGW Reprise she says she wishes they’d met before he grew so messed up, as in she still wishes things had worked out. 

The fact that their relationship was unhealthy does not erase it from canon events, if someone is writing content from Veronica’s perspective they are not doing anything wrong or pushing the ship onto people by acknowledging all of this. The relationship being toxic did not stop Veronica from wanting it to work and anyone who just ignores this isn’t writing her character properly.

Mute!Tony: Part Three

Okay, finally, jeez. the stubborn jerk really didn’t want this thing to end happy. It was a fight. But I won. And just to warn you, I cried. I never cry. I pretty much have no soul. So, uh, buckle up? I’ll port this to Ao3 another day. Because it is now complete. 

Part One is Here.

Part Two is Here. 


He hadn’t been seen near them since the fight that blinded – that made Tony – when Bucky almost –

Since the day that Tony left Avengers Tower.

There had been a few skirmishes with minor evil, but nothing serious. Nothing they called Tony for.

Nothing they needed him for.

He checked.

Then he set up Jarvis to alert him even if they didn’t, because it didn’t damn well matter if they wanted him there when things got bad. It didn’t matter if they didn’t want to hear him; if things reached DC levels again, Tony would fly his ass into the middle of it.

It wasn’t like they could hate him any more than they already did.

Not after what he’d put them through.

They sent a few messages. Right at the start. Right after he left.

The first of them popped up on the HUD when he was over Nebraska, two hours after walking out of Bucky’s room with his throat in scorching pain from suppressing any further sound. The displayed showed ‘James Barnes’, and a tiny video preview of the man sitting on the hospital bed.

Tony declined the call.

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Coffee Shops and Scars

Request: “hello there! your works are absolutely amazing and I enjoy reading them so much~ keep doing what you do!!! I would love to request a soulmate au where both newt and reader can feel and witness each other’s pain and even fresh wounds on their own body!! (eg. if newt gets a paper cut, so does the reader at the same time) welcome to the angst train _(:3/”

Word Count: 3,434

Pairing: Newt x Reader

Warning: Mentions of blood

Requested by @ah-excuse-me but also tagging @caseoffics and @red-roses-and-stories


Your friend holds a bowl of popcorn out to you when it happens.

You curse and grab your arm, curling up and grimacing.

“Again?” Is all Maria says, placing the bowl back in her lap and taking a handful of popcorn.

You groan. “I’m going to kill this idiot when I meet him.”

She laughs. “You’re going to kill your soulmate?”

“Yes.” You grumble.

“Well, how bad is it this time?” She crunches the popcorn in her mouth as the two of you ignore the record droning on in the background.

You remove your hand from your bicep. A red patch of skin grows under where your hand was clutched, bubbling up in the center. You hiss at the sight.

“Oh, that’s disgusting. Do you have your medkit?”

You nod, squeezing your eyes shut. “How the hell did he get a burn there?” You mumble, reaching to your hip and unlatching the medkit you carry with you. It holds everything from tiny bandages to a tourniquet. The tourniquet was a joke gift from another friend when they’d noticed all the scars covering your body, but you’re not so sure you won’t need it someday.

“Leaned against an open oven?”

“With their upper arm?”

She shrugs, tossing more popcorn into her mouth. “Possible.”

“Whatever.” You dig around in the bag and find the bottle of burn cream. You’d bought it six months before and used half of it already.

Maria looks back to the record player, watching the disk spin. “You’re missing the best part of the song.”

“I’m sorry, I’m a little busy.” You spit. You’d been having a perfectly good night before your soulmate had to go and do something stupid.

You finish applying the burn cream when a deep cut suddenly rips opens on your left forearm. A trail of blood rushes out of it, dripping onto your blanket before you can grab anything.

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