When gift boxes start falling from the sky, everyone thinks it’s a Christmas miracle. The scores of solid objects blasting through the roofs of their homes moments later remind them that just maybe, they should be worrying about the laws of gravity as well. Some choose to hide from the barrage in their homes, while others decide to scramble outside to seek shelter elsewhere.
Bad choice. The townspeople scream and dive out of the way as a pink helicopter swoops low to the ground. Eight children are nearly decapitated. They’re being comforted by their parents after this traumatizing experience as the helicopter slows its descent and hovers in place.
The door to the aircraft slams open to reveal Ohara Mari wearing a red Santa suit and obviously fake white beard. She takes in everyone’s terrified faces with interest. Then, Mari winks, forms a circle with her thumb and forefinger, and whispers, “It’s joke!”
No one says a word. Perhaps they’re in shock over the whole situation. Mari doesn’t pay them any mind and says, “Ciao~” before closing the door. The helicopter begins to pick up height, and the bystanders shake themselves out of their stupor so that they can quickly back away before they’re blown off their feet by the resulting winds. Mari’s helicopter veers sharply right and takes off, nearly colliding with a power line. The crowd watches the helicopter slowly fade from sight in stunned silence.
Thousands of homes are destroyed. The entire town is laid to waste, and children weep at the loss of their image of Santa Claus.
But it’s okay, because Dia is money. Mari will drop off the bill for the damages at the Kurosawa estate in the morning.
She chuckles to herself as her helicopter flies off into the night. With this, Dia will definitely regret telling the Ohara heiress that Santa wasn’t real when they were first years.
I’m p sure this was “See, this is exactly what I said was gonna happen” so let’s go (this is ridiculously late. As in back with your old URL late. And also as in it’s 2:06 AM and I wanted to write something so this could be actually awful and I’m sorry if so)
He’s propping up some stems in the front yard of 300 Fox Way when Ronan comes up next to him. Ronan doesn’t say anything, and his shadow’s barely there, but since they started dating Adam’s Ronan-sense has been fine-tuned so much he can say with confidence when Ronan’s the one to knock into his shoulder.
It helps that Ronan’s the only one who does that, but still.
He says, “Hey.”
Ronan doesn’t reply except to somehow deepen his silence. Adam looks up; he’s looking down at him with a sharply neutral face, and somehow it’s scarier than seeing him spitting angry and swinging at Declan.
Ronan shrugs and on Ronan a shrug looks like it might be an elegant thing, even with his tattoo and shaved head. “Fine.”
“You look like you’ve stepped in shit and don’t know how to feel about it,” Adams says, his tone measured. He rocks back to sit on his heels and starts taking off his gloves.
Ronan says, with no change of expression, “Are you saying this isn’t seductive?” and Adam laughs. A smile looks like it’s debating waging war on Ronan’s features.
“It’s not your best,” Adam says, and Ronan stops him before he takes his gloves off fully.
“What’re you doing?”
“Flowers,” Adam replies, “for Maura.” Ronan kicks lightly at the plastic container the bulbs came in. “Not sure if they’re significant, I just thought they looked pretty.”
Ronan hunkers down next to him and pats the topsoil closer to the transplanted flowers. “Not as pretty as you,” he says. He pulls at his lip and grins when he sees how red Adam goes.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Adam says. The tops of his ears could light a fire, probably. They feel like they’ve got a heat signature separate from the rest of him.
“It’s true though.”
Adam shrugs and he knows that on him a shrug looks like it might be embarrassed and tired all at once. Ronan mirrors him, and then rolls soil into a fragmenting ball and presses it into Adam’s hand.
Adam blinks. “What?”
“With the flowers. You’re the gardener, not me,” Ronan says, and Adam pushes him lightly. He sways a little on his knees and acknowledges the push with a slight bowing of his head.
“You’re sure you’re okay?”
Ronan looks up now and earnesty screams from every feature. “I’m sure. Tired. Nothing’s wrong, Adam, I promise.”
Neither of them are ones for long declarations. Adam nods. Ronan tosses a bit of soil at him, and he blinks when it scatters against his cheek.
“What’s next?” Ronan asks again. His voice is the kind of gruff that makes it obvious that he’s doing it on purpose.
Adam says, “Water,” and goes and turns the hose on and drags it toward their little group of flowers. It’s a sad bunch; they’re weak in the stems even with his improvised supports. But he thinks Maura’ll like them anyway.
“Just be careful not to drown them,” Ronan says, and Adam gives him a look.
“You’re the gardener, not me,” Adam says. Ronan rolls his eyes, then knocks on Adam’s knee affectionately.
It’s going steadily and then at once it’s too much water by accident, and one of the bulbs is floating away down toward the gutter. Another looks like it’s wanting to join it, but Adam bends the hose in half to stop the flow before running to turn the water off.
He comes back to the soggy mess and Ronan says, “See, that’s exactly what I said was gonna happen,” and Adam tickles him until he’s streaked with soil.
“You didn’t,” Adam says, gasping a little; Ronan’s breath is on his ear. “Not technically. You said not to drown them.”
“You sure? Because you didn’t listen to that, so.” Adam pokes him and he smiles.
Ronan observes, “This is a mess,” and Adam shrugs and this time his shrug is equal parts hopeless and unconcerned. The flowers haven’t been crushed by some miracle.
“It is what it is,” he says.
“I like it anyway,” Maura calls from the door, and now Ronan laughs. It’s a high and pitchy and round thing, this laugh of his, and Adam’s remarkably proud to have helped prompt it.
“I like it too,” Ronan says, and he’s looking at Adam. And when he slides his finger to hook into Adam’s collar, the wet soil makes him shiver long before Ronan kisses him.
February 16. Faultlines Progress. Guess what I did today?? That’s right, completed the most recent round of Faultlines revisions! Well, the hard part, anyway–I do most of my writing and editing by hand, so now I have to input all those changes into my laptop. That’s why I’m on the interwebz posting pictures, actually–my laptop is open. (This is why I do most of my writing by hand, tbh.) The top picture is the draft and the additions and the couple dedicated notebooks; the bottom one is photographic evidence of how many tiny Post-Its and tabbies I murdered in the name of YA science fiction this time around. Now I’m off to start inputting!
so several people have sent me messages/asks/etc saying I should give the Shadowhunters/TMI books a try and I just want to address that real quick…
I will pretty much never read anything Cassandra Clare has written. She is a plagiarist, and has been since her fandom days, and I refuse to support her. The only reason I thought it was okay to watch Shadowhunters is because it actually keeps the rights from reverting to her so she can’t sell them again.
That being said, I mentioned this to my girlfriend, who actually did try to read them, and she insisted that I post her thoughts on the matter (and now I have to, because, you know, girlfriend rights).
sometimes i really want someone i can actually talk to about top surgery like, none of my friends really relate (read: can answer any of my questions because its not relevant in their lives) and theres only so much i can tell my therapist because how is she gonna know about scars and nipple grafts and all that.
Like i just want a friend who i can ask all my weird, probably stupid top surgery questions to because right now i’m basically alone in this and it sucks.
When you’ve read so much fanfiction within a short period of time that you’re trying to recall scenes and you’re not sure if it actually happened or you just read it, and re-telling scenes to your friends who watch the show and they’re like ???? as you recall fic not the show.
>> “This is Rick,” Eoin was saying. Kieren tore his eyes from the guy, turning towards Eoin and trying to distract himself. “Where’s Seth?” He barely heard the answer. His eyes were on Rick again. The guy had stepped into his room, and towards Kieren, offering his hand. “Hey,” Rick greeted, despite the formality of his action. “Kieren, yeah?” Before Kieren properly caught up to what was happening, Rick’s firm hold was gone, and he was greeting Philip the same way. <<