if only i could afford a bottle

2

“Again?” You huffed, shaking the shampoo bottle a couple of times before squeezing tightly as an attempt to see if you could get any more out of it. You had only bought this bottle about two weeks ago and you were already out. Maybe you were just subconsciously squeezing too much into your palm whenever you washed your hair. It was odd, really. Your shampoo and conditioner supply had been running suspiciously low for the past month and you didn’t have any other explanation for it! Unless… 

“S’cuse me, mister. I think you can afford to buy your own shampoo and conditioner.” You adjusted the towel wrapped round your body as you stepped into the bedroom, Harry looking up at you from his phone. 

“What are you on about?” He asked, a smirk playing at his lips when you rolled your eyes at him. Harry always loved using your shampoo, you didn’t know why you couldn’t see it before. You had bought him his own bottle for his birthday but somehow, it was your bottle that ended up being finished and he barely touched his own. It wasn’t like you minded that he used your shampoo, you were just bothered by the fact that he would hog a majority of the bottle and leave you with a little squirt left! 

“I’m accusing you of using my shampoo and conditioner.” 

“I don’ know wha’ you’re talking about.” Harry was a terrible liar so you knew from the start you’d be able to squeeze the truth out of him. 

“Are you sure you don’t know what I’m talking about?” You hummed, hitching your knee up onto the bed before crawling towards your boyfriend, Harry suddenly taking note of the playful smile on your features. 

“Y/N…” He sighed, cheeks brightening up significantly when you crawled closer to him and nudged your nose with his. 

“Tell me the truth…” You sang, pressing kisses to his cheek before trailing them down to his neck. 

“Mm…” Harry hummed, thoroughly enjoying the treatment he was receiving from you before sort of snapping back into it. He shifted slightly upon feeling your hand slide underneath his shirt, his mind already bringing him to the many things you two could end up doing in the next minute. “…No, I didn’t use your shampoo.” 

“Alright, well,” You pulled away immediately, hopping off the bed before going over to rummage through the drawers for your clothes. “Since you didn’t use my shampoo, maybe I’ve just run out! I’ll go and pick some up from Target.” You sighed casually, Harry blinking owlishly at how quickly you pulled away from him. 

“I…”

“Do you need anythi-”

“Fine, I used your bloody shampoo!” Harry snapped, tossing his phone to the side before crawling over quickly and reaching out to tug at your towel. “There’s no way in hell I’m lettin’ you go anywhere after you teased me like tha’.” 

“And you’ll buy a couple new bottles for me after we’re done?” You grinned, Harry already working on loosening up your towel with one hand while the other explored your body. 

What could you say? You loved your shampoo. 

+

yeet what am i writing 

gifs aren’t mine!

Bull Gets A Shave

Because of this. I also wanted to try writing in past-tense again. And I wanted some giggly, corny OTP. Even Kimani is goofy sometimes xD


Bull just wanted to look nice for the opera. That’s all he wanted.

Generally he kept his beard low, managed to shape up the sides so they matched every once in a while, but other than that he left his face alone. Not much he could do about it anyway, but at the very least he could keep himself from looking like Blackwall; Blackwall’s beard had a personality. If pressed, Blackwall’s beard could probably speak.

He hadn’t done much to himself since coming to Val Royeaux; before whisking Kimani away to the spa Vivienne had mentioned he might visit a barber she knew, passing along his information and suggesting he ask Philippe for a “woody” aftershave, whatever that meant. So he went, and Philippe was nice, even nicer when Bull dropped Ma’am’s name. He set Bull up with a ton of pillows on the floor since Bull couldn’t fit anywhere else. The man got to shaving and Bull wasn’t thinking, just liked the feel of the shaving cream and the blade on his cheeks. He wasn’t thinking about the last time he’d been clean-shaven; shit, it’d been years. Ten, maybe fifteen; he had to have been in his early twenties the last time he had a butt-naked face, and Bull was closer to forty than anything else

When Philippe handed him the mirror, Bull snorted. He definitely didn’t look like Blackwall.

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The Butterfly Effect

Originally posted by ksjknj

Chapter One, Chapter Two, Chapter Three, Chapter Four, Chapter Five,Chapter Six, Chapter Seven, Chapter Eight, Chapter Nine, Chapter Ten, Chapter Eleven

Pairing: Kim Namjoon / Park Jimin

Genre: ABO Dynamics - Werewolf!AU, Actor!AU

Rating: Mature

Author: Admin Kaycie

Words: 6K+

Series Summary: Kim Namjoon was no ordinary rising star, he was the star at the very top of the tree of fame. He was a man with a strict schedule, every moment of his life planned out immaculately. Park Jimin was a distant childhood friend in need of his protection - the only problem, he was a rare male omega, and also Namjoon’s mate. Will Namjoon be able to deal with a developing scandal, a career in trouble, and the advances of the mate that he is strictly prohibited from claiming?

Series Status: Completed


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One More Night - Chapter I

Pairing: Daniel Atlas x reader
Summary: They are like the sun and the moon. Chasing each other, but never quite finding each other to finally become one. Daniel and the reader are solo artists with loads of charme and character. What happens when two stubborn minds meet and are forced to work together?
Words: ca. 930


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This is also not a Christmas carol.  I know that.  You know that.  But a girl can only write so many stories surrounding songs about one baby’s birth.  And also I really wanted an excuse to write Penny and John.  Mostly Penny, though, mostly Penny.  God I love that woman.  This may or may not be a prequel to O Christmas Tree.  Interpret it however you wish.

Silver and Gold

December 17th, 2015

“John Tracy.”

Her voice shines like silver silk, all of the day’s ribbons finally unwrapping and unwinding, letting her shoulders fall, letting her breaths expand, and letting every minute feature of her carefully calculated expression slip into an easy, effortless smile.  “Dare I point out that you are currently standing beneath mistletoe?”

She’s slung in the doorway, in a way that a Lady should never be, but she holds, in her lacily gloved hands, a bottle of wine that only a Lady could afford.  Everything about her in that moment is contradictory, so when John looks up to find white berries and green leaves tied with a neat, crimson bow, he knows he can laugh.  This is Penelope, after all.  "So this was your plan all along,” he says.  “Thirteen long years of friendship, all leading up to this very night when you lure me beneath the mistletoe and confess your true feelings for me?”

“The only true feeling I have about you, John Tracy, is that you are an arse.”

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Late Night Call (don’t worry, it’s sfw)

Pairing: Katarina/Riven

It was the middle of the night when Riven woke sharply to a knock on her door. It wasn’t loud, but just enough to alarm her trained senses.

She rolled to the edge of the bed, feeling the bruises and aches from yesterday’s training. She grabbed a short-sword from under the bed and stood up. The rune blade, currently locked and sealed in its cabinet, was her ideal weapon, but she didn’t have a mind to smash down the walls of her home unless it was necessary. While it was unlikely that an intruder would knock first, she wasn’t going to be caught unprepared for a trap, either; such a thing would be a disgrace for any Noxian.

She opened the door, keeping to the side in case of a preemptive strike. None came, and she looked out, searching, senses acutely aware despite only being awake for less than a minute.

All she saw was darkness. But the hairs on her neck rose, and she smelled blood.

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queer witch in need of a binder

hey y’all! i have really been struggling over the last month or so with needing a chest binder, because i’m super not a girl and my chest is super not flat. the binder i want is not expensive (only about $43, including shipping), but i seriously don’t have any money at all.

so i’m willing to do tarot readings for $1 a card (my new deck should get here soon), or i do have a few extra crystals lying around ($3-$10 range) if anyone’s interested in those. i could also manage clay commissions (i do tiny plants in tiny bottles, and i make tons of dragons), but those will cost slightly more so that i can afford to ship them to you ($10 for plants, $17-$25 for dragons). i can also do custom tarot cards, one to five at a time ($5 for one, $20 for 5), if you have any that have a particular significance to you that you’d like to see in a new style or with certain symbolism.

if anyone’s interested in any of those things, please let me know!

Testimony: Where I Came From, Where I’m Going

I was seven years old when I got in my first street fight in the only tenements that my parents — struggling poor Koreans they were — could afford. I had fought a much older single mother and lost. To my credit, she started it. At twelve years old, I decided I was an atheist. At fourteen, my parents divorced, as if to confirm that God couldn’t exist. At sixteen, I had my first drop of an ensuing ocean of alcohol. That same year, I went to what they called a “Gentleman’s Club” and stumbled upon a terrible addiction. By nineteen, I had lost my college scholarship and dropped out with a 0.9 GPA. By twenty-two, I had swallowed a bottle of pills over the girl I was living with, who had cheated on me twice. I spent time in what they call a “mental institution,” which was perhaps an improvement over the Gentleman’s Club.

I understand these problems do not compare to those of the world over: but the contrast was that I hardly felt anything. I was following the latest, loudest emotion, just the exit ramps to the bigger neon sign. And soon I was staring into the mouth of a senseless life with little purpose and no meaning — and it was all rather hilarious.

In my apprehension towards all-things-God, I would stay up until three in the morning watching the ceiling fan, knowing there was more to life than the empty vacuum of sweaty drunk faces and the smear of red-and-blue cop car lights. At some point in college I was certain that God was at least a real being, if only because I had looked into the face of nothingness and knew that no one could possibly sustain a life in that direction. But I didn’t want there to be a God, not with a capital G. It was horrifying to think so. It was crazy to think I couldn’t call my own shots and that I was somehow not the main character of my own existence.

I went to church anyway. Quite faithfully, too. I got caught up in the music, the messages, the social fervor, that moment after the sermon in the lobby when no one talks about the sermon. I started bringing my friends by the dozens because I was good at that sort of thing. And somewhere along the line, almost imperceptibly by degrees, I started hearing the messages. I really started listening. I heard about a God who loves us and became one of us and died for us and defeated death and invited us into the best relationship there is. Not a God who gives us everything we want, because that would be no better than Santa Claus with a pager. But a glorious, grand, dynamic, pulsating God, who was writing this incredible drama with His Son at the apex of history and letting us all in. Even letting me in. Almost by accident, to my growing disdain, I was feeling alive for the first time.

A few years in, I went to this huge conference. There were probably 10,000 people. I was both excited and uneasy because it rubbed against my dislike for the institutional manufactured hype of religious emotionalism, but then it was quite a sight to see so many Christians singing and praying and even taking notes during the sermon. The praise leader, Matt, was apparently famous and he shared his testimony. He said when he was just a kid, he had been molested by his uncle, and in that same bed, Matt had written worship songs.

I couldn’t comprehend this sort of resilience. That sort of hurt would’ve turned me off God forever. And I came around to thinking that my hatred against faith was merely a conditioned childish rebellion against Santa Claus and not the real God, because my childhood was all kinds of unfair and screwed up and wrong. I had been shaking a fist at a phantom of my own trauma, wrought by a misconception of “God” who I could blame any time I didn’t get what I wanted . I thought my objections were intellectual and foolproof and full of scientific defense, but really I was just regurgitating the same anger that the human race had displaced from their disappointing parents onto the easy target of a keychain-pager-God.

There was suddenly the invasive uncomfortable idea that perhaps God was real and He had a name and He actually wanted to know me — and He didn’t wave a wand to make everything easier, but He did promise Himself inside the furnace of our broken chaotic mess.

Predictably enough, I began to cry. I couldn’t stop. I was with my friend and he began to cry too. We were both really embarrassed but we prayed for each other, and I think I heard God say, “You have a story to share.”

At the end of 2007, I applied for my seminary. Despite my really weird school record, they graciously accepted. It turns out that ministry is not a picnic, at all. No one told me how hard it would really be. But as I took those first baby steps into loving the unloved, I found that this was the path I never knew I wanted but had always been made for. I began to believe God made me to share a story: namely, His. I went feet first into the places where no one else would go , to wretched doubters and picketing haters and the impoverished and ostracized and fatherless, and there I would tell them about grace and a mission and a final home, and that this earth was not it. I embraced the calling to give away my life so that others may see life. I’m not saying that you need to be a pastor. I’m not saying that you need a wild story to be “useful.” I’m not saying there’s a binary choice between the world and your soul.

I’m not saying I’m better than anyone else. I just know what God can do through people like me, and like you.

I’m still not sure that God uses such pain to make us stronger. But I believe He can make us stronger than the pain.

This is our testimony.
When you call out to Him: He has been calling to you all along.

J.S. Park

Call To Ministry Statement.

This is the essay for my Call to Ministry Statement.  It’s for my ordination process.  It describes how I received the “calling” to ministry. 

 

At seven years old, I remember my first street fight in the only tenements that my parents – struggling poor Koreans they were – could afford. I had fought a much older single mother and lost. To my credit, she started it. At twelve years old, I decided I was an atheist. At fourteen, my parents divorced, as if to confirm that God couldn’t exist. At sixteen, I had my first drop of an ensuing ocean of alcohol. That same year, I went to what they euphemistically called a “Gentleman’s Club” and stumbled upon a terrible addiction. By nineteen, I had lost my college scholarship and dropped out with a 0.9 GPA. By twenty-two, I had swallowed a bottle of pills over the girl I was living with, who had cheated on me twice. I lost thirteen pounds in three days and spent most of the time in what they call a “mental institution,” which was perhaps an improvement over the Gentleman’s Club. I understand these problems do not compare to those of the world over: but really, the contrast was that I hardly felt anything. I was following the latest, loudest emotion, just the exit ramps to the bigger neon sign. And soon I was staring into the mouth of a senseless life with little purpose and no meaning, and it was all rather hilarious.

In my apprehension towards all-things-God, I would often stay up until 3am watching the ceiling fan spin, knowing there was more to life than the empty vacuum of sweaty drunk faces and the smear of red-and-blue cop car lights. At some point in college I was certain that God was at least a real being, if only because I had looked into the face of nothingness and knew that no one could possibly sustain a life in that direction. But I didn’t want there to be a God, not with a capital G. It was horrifying to think so. It was crazy to think I couldn’t call my own shots and that I was somehow not the main character of my own existence. I recall the words of C.S. Lewis at his conversion, “the most reluctant convert in all of England.” The whole kicking and screaming deal. I was a kicker and a screamer and so awfully angry.

But I went to church anyway. Quite faithfully, too. I got caught up in the music, the messages, the social fervor, that moment after the sermon in the lobby when no one talks about the sermon. I started bringing my friends by the dozens because I was good at that sort of thing. And somewhere along the line, almost imperceptibly by degrees, I started hearing the messages. I really started listening. I heard about a God who loves us and became one of us and died for us and defeated death and invited us into the best relationship there is. Not a God who gives us everything we want, because that would be no better than Santa Claus with a pager. But a glorious, grand, dynamic, pulsating God, who was writing this incredible drama with His Son at the apex of history and letting us all in. Even letting me in. Almost by accident, to my growing disdain, I was feeling alive for the first time.

About eight years ago, I went to this huge conference. There were probably 10,000 people. I was both excited and uneasy because it rubbed against my dislike for the institutional manufactured hype of religious emotionalism, but then it was quite a sight to see so many Christians singing and praying and even taking notes during the sermon. This praise leader named Matt, who was apparently famous and had written a song everyone liked, shared his testimony. He said when he was just a kid, he had been molested by his uncle, and in that same bed, Matt had written worship songs.

I couldn’t comprehend this sort of resilience. That sort of thing would’ve turned me off God forever. And I came around to thinking that my atheism was merely a conditioned childish rebellion against Santa Claus and not the real God, because my childhood was all kinds of unfair and screwed up and wrong. I had been shaking a fist at a phantom of my own trauma, wrought by a misconception of “God” who I could blame any time I didn’t get what I wanted. I thought my objections were intellectual and foolproof and full of scientific defense, but really I was just regurgitating the same anger that the human race had displaced from their disappointing parents onto the easy target of a keychain-pager-God. There was suddenly the invasive uncomfortable idea that perhaps God was real and He had a name and He actually liked me, and He didn’t wave a wand to make everything easier, but He did promise Himself inside the furnace of our broken chaotic mess. Predictably enough, I began to cry. I couldn’t stop. I was with my friend and he began to cry too. We were both really embarrassed but we prayed for each other, and I think I heard God say, “You have a story to share.”

At the end of 2007, I applied for my seminary. Despite my really weird school record, they graciously accepted. And it turns out that ministry is not a picnic, at all. No one told me how hard it would really be. But as I began to love people and embrace the love of God, I found that this was the calling I never knew I wanted but had always been made for. God made me to share a story: namely, His. I was perhaps the most reluctant convert of all the tropical region of Florida, but so I went feet first into the places where no one else would go, to wretched doubters and picketing haters and the impoverished and ostracized and fatherless, and there I would tell them about grace and a mission and a final home, and that this earth was not it. And so there goes what we call the “calling.” I am privileged to enter into God’s story as one of the many unsung shepherds who embraces the total call to die, to give away my life so others may see life.

– J.S.

louezem  asked:

‘we both came to this bar to get drunk and forget our problems but wow that’s expensive, wanna share?’ au... everlark. ;)

Thanks Lou!


She steps inside the dimly lit bar, her eyes scanning the familiar surroundings. Soft music pulses through hidden speakers, shelves of brightly coloured bottles line up along the wall behind the bar, and candles flicker in sconces embedded in the exposed brick walls.

Her eyes latch onto him, hunched over the mahogany length at the far end of the room. She sighs quietly as she sees the heavily tattooed bartender watching him carefully as he reaches for a bright green bottle, pouring a fifth into a short, stout glass for a man three seats down the bar. She ignores the bartender, directing her gaze back to him and studies his form, at the way his body is almost curled in on itself - his shoulders are slumped, and the smooth fabric of his shirt is stretched across his broad back, as though he’s one size too big for it.

But she knows that’s how they like it here. They like the pants tight and the shirts tighter; and she knows he hates it with a vengeance. Much like she does.

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Rest now, commander.

@birbwin said: “Levi probably cleaned the room and put flowers in there for him.”  and I felt the need to write something about this.

When they entered Levi could already smell the thick dust on the furniture and the neglect of years and years without a hand to put some order into this place. It was a miracle they managed to find a house that hadn’t been partially or fully torn apart. Something that could accommodate Erwin for a little while until they’d get the chance to return and grant him the proper burial he deserved.

It took just one breath for Levi to stop Hanji and Mikasa and order them to put Erwin down next to the entrance.

“This place reeks,” he said and let a finger wander over the door handle. A thick trail of grey dust stained his finger. There was no way he would leave Erwin in such an environment. Dead or not, he deserved a tidy place.

“Get in there with me and look for some supplies to clean this place. We need some water so if one of you could try and find some?”

Levi didn’t hesitate to check if any of them was moving. There wasn’t anything else on his mind than Erwin sitting there outside all alone. Even though there hadn’t been a titan sighting, Levi feared something would happen and snatch away the last bit he had of him. The last chance for him to look at a relaxed face and memorize the features he wouldn’t get to see again soon.

Finding supplies wasn’t easy in a house as neglected as this one. Many of the rags had been eaten up by moths or simply unusable. At some point Levi decided to go for whatever clothing he could find and rip it into pieces. There wouldn’t be much water but anything had to do. Even if he could just clean a little.
Just the bedroom.

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kingofthedumpster  asked:

Iwaoi + 11??

  • things you said when you were drunk

“Thanks.”

It’s nothing more than a mumble, cut off halfway because Iwaizumi had realized he was saying it out loud instead of in the safety of his own head, where Oikawa couldn’t possibly hear him being ridiculous and sentimental and consequently use it to make Iwaizumi’s life hell, but it’s there—and if it’s there, Oikawa must’ve heard it. That’s just how Oikawa is; he always manages to know everything about Iwaizumi, no matter how hard Iwaizumi tries to hide it. There are no secrets between them, and—even drunk off of shitty cheap beer Oikawa’d pilfered from his parents’ fridge—Iwaizumi can rationalize this slip-up by telling himself Oikawa would’ve known anyway, eventually, somehow. 

Oikawa’s looking at him now, curiously bright-eyed even though he’s blinking drowsy-slow and tracing complicated little patterns in the air with long, calloused fingers. He’s always like this—pensive and slow to speak, mellower than Iwaizumi had ever expected—when he’s drunk (though, granted, they’ve only been drunk a total of four times), so Iwaizumi isn’t at all surprised when Oikawa doesn’t respond right away with some snarky jab or a coy little taunt. He just crosses his arms over his chest, shoves his toes under Oikawa’s thighs, and waits. 

Oikawa purses his lips and pitches backward in slow motion, splaying himself out across the foot of Iwaizumi’s bed. He’s rosy-cheeked and soft-eyed, all loose limbs crooked artful as a portrait and hair curling around his ears in a way that, through Iwaizumi’s tipsy haze, seems damn near angelic, and Iwaizumi can’t help but acknowledge the helpless and familiar flutter stirring to life in his chest. 

At long last, Oikawa says, “For what?”

There’s just enough calculated cluelessness in his tone to let Iwaizumi know that explaining himself like this is just a formality, albeit a slightly embarrassing one. But Oikawa wouldn’t be Oikawa if he couldn’t light that spark of fond irritation in Iwaizumi’s blood, and so, because he can afford to indulge Oikawa every once in a blue moon, Iwaizumi relents. 

“You know what I mean,” Iwaizumi says, gesturing with a flick of his wrist. A few drops of beer fly free from the rim of his bottle and land on his bed, but Iwaizumi pays them no mind; he has eyes only for Oikawa, who’s turned his head so he can fix his gaze on Iwaizumi’s mouth. “For…everything, I guess. Whatever.”

Everything could be anything—it’s not like Iwaizumi had been at all specific—but it’s the first free weekend they’ve had since they lost to Karasuno in the spring high, and Iwaizumi thinks that’s context enough. 

For a brief moment Oikawa’s mouth quivers, like he isn’t sure if he should smile or frown or laugh or–and then he does a strange combination of all three. It’s a sweet, secretive thing, that gentle upward quirk of his lips, and something about it rings bell-true in the part of Iwaizumi that deals in sureties and convictions and nothing else.

“You make it sound like this is the end,” Oikawa lilts. “Don’t worry, Iwa-chan. You’ll have plenty of things to thank me for in the future.”

His tone is light, but the look in his eyes is heavy as a promise, and he stretches out his hand across the expanse of Iwaizumi’s sheets in unspoken invitation. Iwaizumi reaches out, instinctive and immediate, and links their fingers together. 

“I doubt that,” Iwaizumi grumbles, because it just won’t do to give Oikawa a big head. “Assikawa." 

Oikawa’s laugh is bittersweet, and Iwaizumi crawls down the length of his bed to kiss him. It feels like a promise when their lips meet, and Iwaizumi thinks: for him, there is no such thing as doubt where Oikawa Tooru is concerned. 

Oh My God, Yes!

Summary: Killian and Emma like to celebrate their anniversary at fancy restaurants, but they can’t always afford to treat themselves. Enter their favorite con: the fake proposal. Captain Swan AU one-shot.

Rating: K+/G

AO3/FFnet

This was written based on this post here. I’ve been super stressed and sick lately, so I haven’t been able to focus on my works in progress. So this story was my way of taking a little break.

“Oh my god, yes!” Emma gasped.

“Love, at least let me finish.” Killian said, sounding amused and a little embarrassed, just like they’d practiced.

“Am I interrupting?” the server asked, approaching the table.

“I think we just got engaged,” Killian replied brightly.

“Yes!” Emma said, nearly squealing. She hated how girlish she sounded, but she needed to really nail the effect.

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