in my copy it does not say as natural as the sky

Where The Wild Roses Grow

Summary: When Jughead becomes an active member of the Southside Serpents, him and Betty are starting to grow further and further apart, as the boiling volcano of Riverdale’s Civil War is threatening to erupt in full force. Can a heart to heart with Alice Cooper and an old Serpent jacket give Betty and Jughead the hope they both need?

(This is huge so grab snacks and drinks. The Bughead scene ruined me. I apologize for all of this. Warning: full angst and sin ahead! I’m not describing it as much anymore cause after the Jughead I saw in the finale that’s a given but still, after I post this, I’ll crawl under my covers in blushing embarassment.😂 Here you go, lovelies! I hope you enjoy this! ❤️)

“On the second day he came with a single red rose

He said, "Give me your loss and your sorrow?”

I nodded my head, as I lay on the bed

“If I show you the roses will you follow?”

The snow is slowly melting under the heaps of rain and so is her will to contribute to life these days. The icy scenery that adorns Riverdale gives out under the rays of sun that stubbornly peek through the pine trees and white oaks, ridding their leaves from the coldness of nature, only to become shiny droplets of clear water that hold the whole kaleidoscope of colors, just like tears and their colossal scale of emotions. He is the ice, she is the stubborn sun; that’s what he tells her through the sad darkness of each night that they lay together but further and further apart. He says it as a compliment, in the most sullen John Wheelwright fashion, but she accepts it gladly as her fingers form infinity signs over the crackling ice of his golden heart. Her hair is golden too under the dim moonlight, it’s a match made in heaven, and she vows that tomorrow she will try to burn hotter than the December sun over the patches of snow that are menacingly trying to turn him into a lifeless statue. And she does. But not today.

Keep reading

William Nylander - Part 6

In case anyone missed it, I now have masterposts for both my Matthews story and the Nylander one! Keeps everything nice and organized! 

After dinner we roll to a stop outside my apartment. An awkwardness comes over me and I have no idea what to do or say so I wait for him to break the silence.  

               “I’d ask to come in, but I think I hit my limit of making you do things today,” Will says, shifting into park and leaning back in his seat to look at me.

               I laugh and nod. “I would have said no anyway.” We both know it’s a lie.

               “Sure,” he humors me and our eyes meet. Instead of the tension rising, it seems to dissipate. I’m comfortable with him. It’s a shocking revelation. Just as is the fact that his hair is different shades of blonde almost, a natural highlight that I hadn’t noticed before.

               “Are you going to call me this time?”

               I hesitate a moment. “It’s possible.”

               He tilts his head down and gives me a skeptical look.

               “You never know, I could still be gathering evidence of your stalking incidents,” I tease, giving him a severe look.

               Will laughs, it rumbles in the enclosed space and my heart skips a beat. It’s a beautiful sound.

               “I guess anything is possible,” he says and we fall silent again. I don’t want to get out of the car and I don’t think he wants me to leave either.

               “Well, I’m sure my cat is very upset I didn’t spend my Sunday with her,” I start when the silence stretches on for too long, my hand reaching for the door handle. Silently begging him to stop me. He does.

               Will’s hand catches my wrist and I look back at him in question. He gives me a shy smile before leaning in and kissing my cheek gently.

               “Goodnight, Y/N,” he says, his breath raising goosebumps on my skin.

               “Will,” I say as a goodbye and lift myself out of the car, closing the door gently behind me. I don’t look back.

               The elevator dings, the doors closing after I press my floor number and I lean back against one of the walls, my head hitting the glass with a thud. The only reassuring thing that this hasn’t been a dream is the dull ache.

               “What the hell am I doing?” I ask myself aloud. You said yes to another date with Nathan for tomorrow yet you spent all day with a drop dead gorgeous hockey player and let him take you out to dinner and kiss your cheek and make your stomach do backflips and you are a horrible person. I let out a wail of despair once I’m in my apartment and Kota pins her ears back. Her eyes judgmental.

               “Don’t even start with me, Kota,” I snap, throwing some food into her bowl. I strip down in my bathroom and turn the water as hot as I can stand. Letting the water relax my muscles and steam the bathroom, I let my mind wander. It doesn’t surprise me when it lands on Will. I wonder what he’s doing. I wonder if he’s showering just like me. Oh you just had to go to a naked image, didn’t you? I scold myself and turn the scalding shower off.

               I don’t bother dressing myself, tying a robe around myself instead. Wandering out into the living room Kota is perched on her usual spot on the back of my couch. Her eyes are less judgmental now and she’s content to let me pet her head.

               “Oh Kota, two weeks ago I had no boys. Now I have two,” I whisper and she meows back. I don’t speak cat but I’m pretty sure she just asked me for more food.


               When my alarm sounds in the morning I bounce out of bed, always the morning person. I’m my most productive in the early hours of the day, hence the alarm at 6:30. I dress myself smartly, also key to being productive and twist my hair into messy bun. Kota bends between my legs as I gather my morning breakfast, nearly causing me to break my ankles twice.

               I pull up my schedule on my tablet as I stuff toast and eggs into my mouth. A lunch meeting with a few other editors at the office and several more manuscripts are due to be in my inbox when I arrive. They are never sent over email. Always a hard copy in my little tray in the office that I seldom use in downtown Toronto.

               With a free morning I get uninterrupted time to clean my apartment. One of my favorite things to do. There is just such a satisfying sound when the vacuum runs over my carpet, leaving that beautiful trail. My parents bought me a Roomba for Christmas, I exchanged it for a new coffee maker. Orderliness and cleanliness cannot be made by a robot.

               By the time I’m walking into the office, precisely nine minutes early, my mood is sky high. I greet the receptionist, janitor, a copy writer and three people I don’t know as I walk to the glass enclosure of a conference room. I remember now why I prefer to work from home. The ultramodern look and feel of the office is overwhelming at times. Everything too professional and cold for my liking.

               I take my usual seat, second on the right, back to the door and carefully lay all my papers and files before me in particular order. Movement to my left comes as a surprise but doesn’t scare me.

               “Here already? I thought you liked coming to meetings fifteen minutes late?” I say without looking up from my pad of paper that I always use to take notes on.

               “All good things must come to an end,” Jake sighs, placing my usual Caramel Macchiato before me before settling himself down in the third seat to the right. “Bartello said after the last meeting that I have to be good for three months and she will clear my record.”

               I scoff and shake my drink a few times before taking a sip. “I didn’t think you were afraid of Bartello.”

               “Yeah, well, I’m more afraid of having to go back to photocopying. Worst year of my life,” he replies. I finally glance up at him when he shuffles his papers out onto the table and my eyes widen. Jake’s usual unruly hair is smoothed to the side with a clean cut and his lazy attire is now freshly pressed and his tie is actually tied.

               Jake realizes I’m staring and his cheeks turn a faint pink. “What?” He asks self-consciously, eyeing me warily.

               “Goddamn Mattias,” I exclaim and his pink turns beet red. “You look fine as hell!”

               “Would you keep your voice down,” he mumbles furiously at me, busying himself with his papers while I snicker.

               “What’s her name? Is it the new receptionist? She looks like a total sweetheart, all rosy cheeks and pretty black curls. I can see it,” I nod and smirk at his obvious discomfort.

               “It’s not the receptionist,” he snaps and I press him with a stare. He knows I won’t let it go. “You’re not going to like my answer,” he says cautiously, his eyes darting to me and to the coffee in my hand.

               “What do you mean I won’t lik-“ I freeze in my words. Jake sees the revelation in my face and I can see sweat beading on his forehead. “No no no no no no…. Jacob Oscar Mattias you had better tell me that what I’m thinking is not true.”

               Jake swallows hard and glances at the exit to our left. “Jake, you had better tell me right now that you are not dating my sister,” I lower my voice and level him with a glare. He makes a noise in the back of his throat and licks his lips nervously.

               “YOU’RE DATING MY SISTER?” I yell and he jumps in his seat before grabbing my arm and glancing again over his shoulder where two of our coworkers are looking up from their desks.

               “Would you stop yelling?” He whispers, ducking his head closer to mine. “And please don’t hit me. I still have a bruise from six days ago at the last meeting.”

               I can feel murder on my face and I know he feels it.

               “You can’t act so surprised, you knew there was something there,” he says, leaning back in his seat. Clearly taking comfort in the fact that I can’t beat him over the head with my briefcase in the middle of the office.

               “But… it’s Rian… she’s my baby sister,” I squeak. Betrayal rushing over me like a broken dam.

               “She’s not a baby, Y/N. She’s barely two years younger than us. Three more months and she graduates. It’s not a huge deal!”

               “It is so! How long?” I demand, still seething.

               “Just a few days, two dates is all,” Jake answers, more tension leaving his body.

               “So after the game then?” I ask. Rian had been so nervous during the entirety of the car ride there and back, blushing at every word Jake had said. I had just thought it was a crush thing. Never did I imagine they would act on it.

               “Yes, after the game. When you didn’t answer me the next morning right away to ask how you were feeling, I called Rian to make sure everything was okay. It all kind of spiraled from there,” Jake shrugs and I press my lips into a hard line.

               “I texted you right when I woke up! How early did you call her?”

               “I was worried about you, Y/N. Nathan and Rian aren’t the only people that love you,” he snaps at me and my heart softens a little bit. But I’m still pissed he’s probably already kissed my baby sister.

               “Don’t you try and suck up to me now Mattias,” I snap back at him and he gives me a shifty grin. “So that’s what all this is about?” I ask, mussing his hair much to his annoyance.

               “Not really,” he says, shoving my hand away and attempting to smooth his black hair back out again. “Just ready for a change.”

               I give him a skeptical look but drop the topic as our coworkers slowly start filing in.

               “This isn’t over,” I mumble to him, bringing my drink to my lips. “No matter how many macchiatos you bring me.”

               The meeting goes as usual, someone gets yelled at but it’s not me or Jake so I don’t really care. I give Jake a dirty look every chance I get and he’s always quick to look away. Once everything is done and we gather our things, walking out the door together.  

               “All your dirty looks reminded me,” Jake starts once we are out of earshot of the others and in my office. “Rian mentioned you went out with William Nylander last night?” He raises his eyebrows and flops down in one of the seats across from my desk.

               I silently curse my sister for being a blabber mouth and fix Jake with a stare as I take my own seat and pick of the stack of manuscripts waiting for me. Fanning through them I reply. “Yeah, what about it?” I decide not to lie and I realize with a pang that I have yet to text Will.

               “It just surprises me because you went out with Nathan the other night and I think he mentioned something about going to a play tonight,” Jake says slowly and I smack my forehead with the stack of papers.

               “The play!” I moan and squeeze my eyes closed. I had completely forgotten.

               “Yeah…” Jake says a bit awkwardly, which I find ironic that he considers that to be awkward when I’m pretty certain he’s had his tongue down my little sister’s throat already.

               I sigh and lean back in my chair, replacing the papers onto my desk and tilt my head to look out the window.

               “I don’t know what I’m doing, Jake,” I whisper.

               “I’ve gathered that,” he nods and I look at him in surprise when he chuckles.


               He hesitates a moment, looking like he’s gathering his words first. “It’s just… so unlike you I guess. You’re a person who needs to be organized and even since high school you’ve always known what you wanted.” He shrugs and leans back as well. “I just never saw you as someone who plays the field.”

               “I am not playing the field!” I retort and glare at him. “And you seem very unconcerned that this involves your best friend and there’s a possibility that things aren’t going to work out between him and me.”

               Jake shrugs again much to my annoyance. “I never have thought of you two as a couple, you’re too similar I think,” he says slowly. “Besides, I wouldn’t really consider him as my best friend as of late, I’ve hardly seen or talked to him since the game. He’s so involved in everything at school and all of his coworkers at the hospital he’s doing his practical at… I think of you as my best friend more than Nate.”

               I turn my attention back out the window, letting Jake’s words sink in. I hadn’t realized until now that Jake is right. Nathan never even mentioned Jake when we were out the other day, all he really talked about what school and what his future hopefully consisted of. I don’t even think we talked about my own work. Glancing at Jake, I see his brow bunched together as he stares blankly at my desk.

               “I don’t think that’s true, Jake,” I say gently. “I think of you as my best friend as well, you’re the person I see the most to be completely honest. But Nathan is still your friend, he just has other priorities right now. It’s like when you and I were in our program, all we pretty much saw was each other. I don’t think we left each other’s sides for sixteen weeks,” I smile at him and he hesitantly reflects it back to me.

               “Don’t think about it too much, Jakey,” I reach forward and cover his hand with my own. “Nathan will snap out of it. You still have your best friend.”

               Jake stares at our hands and slowly nods his head. I hadn’t realized how much this affected him. A little bit of guilt flashes through me about yelling at him earlier.

               “Still going to the play tonight?” He asks after a few moments his sad expression replaced with a smirk, though he doesn’t remove his hand from mine.

               “You want to come? Rian would be down I’m sure,” I say, an idea already forming in my head. It’s not a date if your little sister comes. Jake seems to know exactly what I’m thinking and frowns at me.

               “Are you even into him?” He asks bluntly.

               I stare at him in silence, taking in his bronze skin and his even darker eyes. I can see why Rian gets giddy every time I mention him. “I don’t know, Jake,” I answer truthfully. “I really don’t. I had never thought about him in that way until recently, and even now… it’s strange. But also kinda nice?” I scrunch my nose, my mind in a million places at once.

               “But you need time,” Jake says and I nod.

               “I think so.”

               “And what about Will?”

               My cheeks heat and my heart skips a beat in my chest. My physical reaction is enough for Jake to nod.

               “Much different reaction,” he muses.

               “Much,” I agree quietly. I squeeze his hand once more before wiggling the mouse to my desktop to get the screen to wake up. “So you want a ticket for tonight?”

               “Yes, ma’am. Two please,” he winks at me and I scowl even though it was my idea.

               “Keep your damn hands to yourself when I’m around,” I growl at him as he stands and makes to leave my office. “I’m going to have nightmares for weeks now.”

               Jake gives me his goofy smile, the contrast of his white teeth again his brown skin makes me envious and I hate that he used my favorite smile against me.

               “Get out of my office.”

Sixteen: Chapter 1 (S9 Highschool AU) - Gabe

A/N: Hi. My name is Gabe. This is the first fic I’ve ever written. I’m sorry if it’s not that good, I’m used to writing screenplays and stuff with lots of dialogue and little detail. The story will gradually include all S9 queens in a high school setting. The italics symbolize inner thoughts. Bold with a name next to it symbolizes a text message. This chapter will be told from both Shea and Sasha’s POV (at different times.) Also, English is my first language but not my strong suit. I apologize for any technical errors. My blog is @shea-velour, don’t be afraid to send me a message or request. 1300 words, 3 pages.

Keep reading

James and Lily live...

Snapshots of the Potter Family if James and Lily hadn’t died:

  • The Potter house is huge and warm, with red brick walls and giant windows. Sunlight streams through the open curtains, and tiny specks of dust hang suspended in the warm glow of the beams.
  • The color of the walls are a slightly different shade in every room, ranging from burgundy, to gold, to chestnut, to white, and to scarlet (and just about every color in between).
  • The coloring, of course, is a result of Lily’s multiple attempts to paint the house, but getting sidetracked partway through each time.
  • The floors are hardwood (with some tiling in the bathrooms) but they’re covered in a mismatched assortment of rugs.
  • Some are large and shaggy, other are small with pretty designs, and there’s a horrid olive-green one under the couch that no one really knows where it came from.
  • James thinks the rugs are charming, that they “bring character to the house.” Lily says that she hates them (but, in truth, she has a soft spot for the hazardous appearance of their house).
  • Their house is full of family pictures, and they also have a strange painting of a daffodil yellow clad wizard fighting a dragon (the wizard is awfully loud with a high-pitched voice, but the dragon is sweet and bashful).
  • Of course, there’s cat fur over everything (furniture, clothes, everything).
  • A patchwork pile of pillows covers every piece of furniture, and blankets can be found in every inch of the house (they’re warm and woolly, a mix of nice plaid ones and some chunky, misshapen ones that Lily knitted)
  • Outside, there’s a small garden, and it’s just as much of a palette of random colors as everything else they own. There’s a big yard and giant trees that Lily like to sit beneath and watch the leaves fall.
  • The yard and house alike are strewn with Harry’s toys.
  • Lily is constantly tripping over them, and James is constantly caught playing with them when he’s supposed to clean up.
  • Harry, of course, is a bubbly bundle of joy who never stops smiling. He wears hand-me-down glasses from James, and both of them have the crazy messy hair (sometimes, Lily thinks that Harry is her Husband’s clone)
  • And their life is full of joy and little happy things:
  • Lily and James take Harry to the pond to feed ducks. The sky is kind of cloudy, but it’s warm enough that they only need light jackets. Harry claps when he sees the birds, a smile breaking across his cheeks as ducklings follow their mother. Lily shows him how to toss them bread, and he copies her, laughing as he does so. James steals some of the bread because he’s hungry, and the duck-feeding adventure quickly turns into Lily throwing bread at him while he apologizes, and Harry almost wandering into the pond to catch a duck.
  • James teaches Harry quidditch at a young age, and Lily often catches the two of them wasting the entire day in the yard tossing the balls around and red-faced from exhaustion. Harry is a natural (just as James always hoped he would be), but unlike his father, he excels at being a seeker. James tries his best to convert his son to being a chaser, but fails miserably (aka, Harry accidentally throws the quaffle too hard and breaks his father’s nose).
  • Their family dinners are always loud and happy. The dinner is usually sort of burnt b/c Lily made it and she can’t cook at all (James tells her to use magic, but she refuses). They do more talking than eating. James and Lily are smiling and laughing, and Harry rambles on about something he read/saw/did that day. Sometimes, their cat jumps on the table (cue ensuing chaos). Other times, Sirius or Remus join them (when either visits, they help cook, and the food is drastically better). Then, the dinners turn louder and fill with more laughter, interspersed with stories of Hogwarts and mischief. The table is always a mess and the kitchen is always worse, but everyone is smiling too hard to care.
  • As mentioned above, the Potters own a cat. He’s a big fluffy thing with thick gray fur and a mushy face. James named him Elvendork despite Lily’s pleas for something different, but the name fits the cat perfectly. He’s big and fluffy and grouchy, and he’s a terrible menace: always jumping on the table, knocking things over, or sleeping on people’s heads (the Potters, of course, couldn’t love him more).
  • Harry’s first day of Hogwarts begins with chaos. They forget Harry’s owl the first time out of the house, and then have to return a second time because Lily realized that he was missing his glasses too. Their time at the station is sweet and short (if not a bit chaotic). It’s full of goodbyes, and checklists, and hair ruffling (”Dad! Stop it!”), and promises of mischief (”James, don’t encourage him!”), and the promise to write every day. Then, he’s off on the train and Lily and James are both waving and kissing (and Harry is hiding his face in embarrassment).
    • Also, even though he doesn’t have the scar, he still becomes friends with Ron and Hermione. Though they meet more through a: “Can I sit here?” “Yeah sure, cool rat by the way.” “It’s a hand-me-down.” “My cat can eat it if you want.” “What?!?” “Joking. Harry Potter.” “Ron Weasley.” (and then, of course, Hermione comes in asking about toads, and later in the school year they become friends by consoling her after she’s bullied, instead of the troll thing). And they’re friends through laughter, and standing up for each other, and quidditch, and stuff like that.
  • The Weasleys and the Potters quickly start to have holidays and dinners together. Which, ofc, only strengthens Harry and Ron’s friendship.
  • And James comes to every one of Harry’s quidditch games (lets pretend parents come to watch them) (and he gets a little too enthusiastic, but Lily’s too busy being split between cheering and laughing at his gold and red face to care).
  • Also: Christmases filled with warm smells and too much wrapping paper. And there are so many people and a ton of burnt cookies, and eggnog and laughter. There are snowball fights at midnight (always including the Potters, and often bringing in Sirius, Remus, some Weasleys, and Hermione). And the day is loud and exciting, but it always ends with Harry huddled up beneath a blanket, asleep with his glasses crooked and his hair everywhere. And James and Lily slow-dancing in front of the fire (usually to non-slow-dance songs) both of them with their eyes closed, and heads on each other’s shoulders.
  • And then there are the letters for Harry’s random detentions (for which James cheers and Lily scolds, but smiles fondly). There are trips to Diagon Alley where nothing but wandering is achieved, and Lily taking Harry to experience the muggle world.
  • There are impromptu family quidditch matches, where Harry and James are super competitive, and Lily can barely fly straight. Rules are abandoned and bludgers break windows, but no one cares b/c they’re happy.
  • And then there’s Ginny and Harry’s love for her. James’ teasing and Lily slapping him because, “you pined over a girl too, you know.” There’s her loud laugh and gleeful voice, her competitive personality, the confident way she talks, and how proud, and strong of a woman she is. James and Lily love her and treat her like a daughter. And they try their best to make things as awkward between the two as possible: James teases them, and Lily always tries to show Ginny baby pictures, they do embarrassing parent things when she’s over at dinner, and James tries to scare her away with his skill at quidditch.
    • Ginny, of course, is just as good at quidditch (if not better), and as soon as he finds out that she’s a chaser James instantly loves her. (And she holds great, engaging conversations with him. IE: the mischievous part of her and the same part of his converging together).
  • And their life is full of walks in autumn: James and Lily holding hands as they watch Harry kick up leaves. Nights of stargazing where Lily falls asleep and James spends the entire night breathlessly naming constellations. Inside family jokes and traditions. Mismatched socks everywhere in the house and James taking April Fool’s to the extreme. Burnt food, and quidditch, and red and gold. Impromptu hexes and bertie botts beans. Lily and Harry making James a lopsided birthday cake (and him loving it anyway). Cat fur sweaters, and laughter, and spring cleaning (which turns into forts and pillow fights).
  • And their family is quirky, and colorful, and loud. It’s sweet, and cozy, and happy. They’re together, they’re alive.
  • And all is well.
Part One

(Part two may come. It may not. Who knows)

“Ok,” Alya said as she adjusted to her stomach, a single pillow propping up her chest. She continued their game. “Kiss, marry, kill. Chat Noir, Adrien, and Nino.”
Marinette gasped. “You cruel human!” She laughed and rolled to her back. Then she saw the clock. “Oh no. No no no. I’m late.” She jumped up and ran to the vanity, running Alya’s brush through her loose hair. “I need bobby pins. And hair ties. Now. Please. I can’t be late again.”
Alya got up to find bobby pins and hair ties with a chuckle. “You’re always late. What are you late for this time?” She handed Marinette the bobby pins and hair ties, which Mari used to tie her hair into twin buns.
“Alya. You are a lifesaver. And I have ballet. We have auditions for our next show on Friday and my teacher said I couldn’t audition if I was late one more time. Can you grab my bag?”
“Since when do you take ballet? And this giant bag I thought you brought to sleepover?” Alya replied holding up a large duffel bag.
“I started when I was two. I have class every day. How’d you not know this? And can you grab a black leotard and pink tights. And my purple spankies.” Marinette spun around on the stool, her hair in neat buns. She pulled her shirt off, mussing her buns slightly and exposing her black sports bra and toned abs. Alya let out a whistle as she dug through the bag.
“I was starting to wonder why you were so strong and flexible. And why you always disappear. Guess that answers that question.” She chuckled and tossed the leotard and tights to Marinette. “Still can’t find the spankies girl.”
Marinette grabbed both the leotard and tights and ducked behind the bed to put them on. “Ya. Strong, flexible, ‘constantly disappearing’ totally ballerina things.“ Her voice turned to a whisper Alya couldn’t hear, "Nothing to do with being a heroine.”
“Girl.” Alya said. “Why you shy and behind the bed all the sudden. You’ve changed in front of me.” Purple spankies hit Marinette in the face as she stood - now in a leo and tights.
“Nothing goes under the tights Alya. Nothing.” Marinette pulled on the spankies, grabbed her bag and slid on a jacket and shoes as she slid out the door. “Thanks girl. See you tomorrow!” She ran off towards her studio as Alya shook her head. And called after her, “You better answer my question then!”

* * * * * * * * *

Adrien walked out of the studio towards the car. As Gorilla began to drive away he relaxed in the back seat. No matter how tired he was he couldn’t help being excited to just get home, transform, and go see his Lady. He closed his eyes and the next thing he knew he was back home. He slung his bag over his shoulder and walked inside towards his room.
“Adrien.” His father’s voice stopped him. “I watched your lesson today and realized you are good enough to show the world your ‘new found’ skill. I’ve signed you up for auditions this Friday. Don’t disappoint.”
“Of course father. Thank you father.” He replied then hurried to his room, moments later Chat Noir leapt out his window. He hurried off toward their statue, where he’d promised to meet Ladybug for patrol.
As he neared he spotted her - no pun intended - sitting with her legs dangling off the roof near the park, clearly lost in thought. He landed softly behind her. She turned and smiled. Then he noticed her hair and his heart fluttered. It was in twin buns instead of pigtails.
“Fine evening tonight My Lady.” He kissed her hand. “Although, I can’t help but notice you being a slight copy chat.” He wiggled his Chat ears as he finished.
Her hands flew to her buns, the one she ripped from his nearly pulling him off balance. “Ah. Curses Tikki.”
“My dear Lady. We’ve been partners for nearly three years and I’ve never seen your hair in anything other than pigtails. Then you throw curses at some poor person I know not?”
“Sorry Kitty.” She replied with a giggle. “See, Tikki is my kwami, and we made a deal of sorts that requires her to put my hair in pigtails whenever I transform.” She looked up from under her eyelashes and his heart fluttered again. “I haven’t worn pigtails as a civilian for nearly two years.”
His jaw dropped. “You mean to tell me. That for two years. I’ve been looking for a blue haired, pigtail wearing civilian. Yet you haven’t been wearing pigtails as a civilian?”
“Yes.” She blinked. “I’d realized it had become a threat to my identity.”
Chat sat, one leg dangling off the roof and the other bent to his chest. “Speaking of identities My Lady. At the end of this school year I graduate, and head to college. Is there any way I can convince you to reveal yourself before then?”
His heart pounded as she answered. “Maybe Chanton. But college doesn’t mean we have to stop being partners. Does it?”
She looked at him with sad, worried eyes. “Oh. Oh Bugaboo. Of course not. It just seems like if we knew each other, we could text or call about an akuma, rather than hoping the other notices and shows up.”
She nodded and leaned against him, head on his shoulder. In the past three years they’d both grown a lot in both mind and body, and they’d grown to need each other. While Chat knew he was still desperately in love, he refused to ruin their - completely platonic - close relationship by pushing her.
They sat in silence for a while, enjoying the comfort of something so familiar.
“My Lady,” he said looking at her as she gazed at the stars, “we should probably take our lap around the city.”
She hummed, and the sound buzzed in his chest. “Chanton. Have you ever hear the story of that constellation?” She pointed to a zigzag of stars. Almost like the letter M.
“I don’t believe I have Bugaboo. Tell me it as we lap?” She smiled at his reply and they both stood, stretching before taking off.
“The constellation is called Cassiopeia. She was the Queen, wife of King Cepheus. She was very beautiful, and so was her daughter. She realized this and began to brag. Boasting that hers and her daughters beauty was even more than that of the sea Nymphs. Knows as the Nereids. The Nereids became upset and complained to Poseidon, the God of the sea. Poseidon sent a monster by the name of Cetus to the land of King Cepheus and Queen Cassiopeia.” He smiled at her animation as she told the tale that clearly meant a lot to her. “In order to save their kingdom, the king and Queen sacrificed their daughter, Andromeda, to Cetus. Luckily for Andromeda, the hero Perseus came to her rescue and slayed Cetus. Some say Cassiopeia was chained to a chair and sent to the sky for her shallow nature. The constellation rotates, so it often seems she’s upside down. In fact, all the members of the story are up there. I just like the story of how Cassiopeia ended up there. My father told it to me when I didn’t get a part in my ballet audition and the other girls claimed they got one because they were prettier than me. He told me that the story teaches that boasting of outer beauty will not being trouble, and that our outer beauty shines brighter when we have a lot of beauty within.”
Chat smiled at her story and the loving way she spoke of her father. “Two things. Do you still do ballet? And who could ever be prettier than my bugaboo?”
Ladybug glanced slyly at him before doing a pique, chasse, tour jete, then a triple pirouette which she landed in fourth.
It was perfect, except for the fact that her back foot landed on air. As in, off the roof. She waved her arms for balance before falling off the side.
“Ladybug!” Chat called fearfully. He was met with a giggle. He peaked over the edge of the roof to see Ladybug hanging upside down from her yo-yo string.
She climbed back onto the roof and nodded her head to the side. They both took off again to complete their lap. “Hopefully that near death experience answers your inquiry as to me still doing dance.” She giggled again. Chat loved that sound. “And honestly Chanton, if you knew me as a civilian you probably wouldn’t be asking your second question.”
They finished their lap in a comfortable silence with a few silly faces and giggles thrown in. The got back to the park and bid farewell, but before Ladybug could leave he grabbed her wrist.
“I think if I knew you behind your mask, my question would be even more prominent in my mind.” He turned and quickly left with a few ballet moves of his own, leaving her to stare as he bounded away.

“Spark of My World”, Pokemon GO!

Summary: You fall in love with the sun and your sister won’t stop being smug about it because she’s known all along.

Pairing: GoSpark

Notes: My very gay gift for @revolocities as thanks for all the GoSpark he has given to the world. Thank u.

Additional comments: Very Gay (and terrible) and written in second person POV. Enjoy.


Keep reading

A while ago, probably right after I finished the stained glass beta kids, I wrote this out at like three in the morning on a word document. I then promptly dropped it into my art dump folder and forgot about it. Have some godstuck meta and a metric ton of passive voice. 

Okay, so here’s my idea for where all this damned stained glass is coming from. Personal post game headcanons ahoy, formatted a little bit like an essay that turned into a fic by accident.

Keep reading

okay so i just came up w/ this really quick idea for an AU where Marian and Garrett are twins, but only Warrior!Marian makes it to Kirkwall bc Mage!Garrett got lost in the fucking Korcari Wilds or smth out of Ostagar. So Marian becomes champion of Kirkwall, whilst Garrett helps rebuild Lothering after the Blight and he keeps getting letters from his twin for literally everything and about everyone

 (’Bethany’s a Grey Warden now’; ‘I met this former pirate captain Isabela omg bro she’s so cool’; ‘SAY WHAT YOU WANT BUT FENRIS IS A FUCKING DELIGHT AND I’M HUNDREDS OF MILES AWAY YOU CAN’T PUNCH HIM FOR SLEEPING W/ ME!’ ; ‘yeah we may have made friends with a templar but she’s fucking ace’; ‘also I’m pretty sure we just adopted a blood mage???’; ‘Also- THE AUTHOR OF HARD IN HIGHTOWN don’t worry I’ll get a signed copy for you!’)

 but the person Garrett is interested in most is the ‘Darktown Healer’ bc as Marian said in her letter he reminds her of father. He constantly asks about him in letters, and Marian has to tease bc the last time he was like this was when he had a crush on one of the stable boys at Lothering.

(’So hey I defeated the Arishok in single-combat’ ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME MARIAN I TURN MY BACK FOR ONE SECOND!)


Keep reading

Replace VI Novel Ch 3 旅立ちの時 (Time of Departure) English Translation Part 1 of 3 (Touou and Kaijo Graduation)

New chapter!!

The time of graduation has finally arrived, and with the exception of Seirin, we get a glimpse of how the teams send off their senpais! First off is Touou and Kaijou! 

Next update: Time of Departure Part 2 (Feat Yosen, Rakuzan, and Shuutoku)

I should just rename this chapter as “Prepare for the feels Part 1″

Keep reading

anonymous asked:

Hoseok writing prompt: best friend, crush, unrequited love. (Feeling angsty today >~<)

its fluffy and angsty :D and i really enjoyed writing it 
writing requests are: closed

looking back
rated t for timely
word count: 1,957

01. best friend

So he knows you like he knows… well you. He can count the lashes on your cheeks with his eyes closed, with his breath spilling over your skin, and no it’s not love because… you’re best friends. And that’s what best friends do. So you tell yourself; so it goes.

So it goes.

Keep reading

Learning Amortentia



Summary: Sitting at the other houses’ tables just wasn’t done. It wasn’t a rule, per say, but Gavin had never seen it happen before.  Still, when you’re friends with Geoff Ramsey, these things tend to happen. Freewood. Hogwarts!AU.

Warnings: None.

Word Count: 4100~

Keep reading

anonymous asked:

mccree walks in on hanzo crying and hanzo tries REALLY HARD to hide it but he can't hide his swollen wet eyes and pink flustered cheeks :')

God I had to FORCE myself not to write more than two pages for this damn thing

why would you do this to me, Anon

(also on AO3 for easier reading)

It’s a truly unholy hour of the morning when McCree wakes with a start. Heart racing, chest tight: another nightmare. A milder one this time–he didn’t wake himself up screaming, and the last vestiges of his dream are already dissipating in the waking world.

The numbers of the holographic clock burn into his eyes and remain even after he closes them again: 3:23 AM. He tries to roll over and fall back asleep, but he knows this pattern well. His body won’t even make the attempt at sleep until he’s spent another hour awake again. With a resigned groan, he hauls himself out of bed, shoves a half-full box of cigarillos and a lighter in his pocket, and meanders in the direction of the kitchen.

Naturally, the base is dead quiet and dark as pitch. The automated lights kick on as McCree goes, leaving a trail of luminescence behind him, and then click off again one by one. He pads, barefoot, into the kitchen and helps himself to a glass of sweet iced tea from the fridge. It’s not like mamá used to make at home, but it soothes his parched throat and give him something else to focus on besides his chronic insomnia.

As he’s turning to go back to his tiny dorm, a noise catches his attention from the large dining room next door. It’s so soft that he nearly misses it: a gasping, catching breath. He freezes, ear toward the doorway, and when the noise continues, he recognizes it for what it is. Someone is crying in the next room over.

His first instinct is to sneak away, give them their privacy, and pretend he didn’t remember it in the morning. Guilt tugs at his heart as he thinks of it, however, and he carefully makes his way into the dining room.

There is nobody at the wide table used for their team meals, but the large sliding glass door at the end of the room is cracked open. A figure sits outside on the pseudo-porch overlooking the cliffside, and just as McCree’s about to speak, the automatic light flicks on to reveal Hanzo–and give away his own presence.

Hanzo immediately freezes, spine and shoulders stiffening. McCree swears under his breath and doesn’t move. He watches as Hanzo lifts his hand towards his face in a motion that looks an awful lot like swiping at his eyes.

After a long moment, McCree manages to unstick his feet from the floor. He makes it to the glass door before Hanzo growls out, his voice thick and low, “Leave.”

Instead of deterring him, this strengthens McCree’s resolve. “Sorry partner, no can do,” he says, stepping out and sliding the door gently closed behind him. “You the one I heard cryin’, Hanzo?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Hanzo turns his face away as McCree stands beside him: an obvious avoidance tactic. A tear track glistens on the edge of his sharp cheekbone before he brushes it away.

“C’mon Hanzo, I ain’t stupid.” McCree sits, knees bent and feet propped on the step below, and sets aside his unfinished iced tea. “I ain’t here to make fun of you. Just wanna make sure you’re okay, is all.”

Now that’s he’s sitting, he can see Hanzo is holding something in his lap. It’s roughly the dimensions of a photograph, but the image is turned away from his view. Hanzo is resolutely silent, his jaw clenched so tight McCree thinks his teeth might start cracking.

“Hanzo,” he tries again gently. “You don’t gotta tell me what’s goin’ on. But I ain’t one to leave a friend alone.” Friend is a bit of an understatement on his part, but now isn’t the time to linger on his unrequited crush.

Now Hanzo turns to give him a glare, no less threatening for the shine of tears in his eyes or the ruddy pink in his cheeks. “I told you to leave. I am fine,” he repeats.

“Nope.” McCree crosses his arms over his knees and looks out. The patio perfectly overlooks the jagged Gibraltar cliffs and the dark, star-scattered sky. It would be a beautiful view if not for the overwhelming concern McCree is feeling for the man beside him. He has never known Hanzo to show any hint of vulnerability. Anger, yes, to cover up the guilt and self-loathing he has carried for a decade, but never anything like this. It’s enough to set his own heart breaking.

Hanzo eventually looks away, too, unable to keep up his glare. He looks down at his lap, and this time McCree can see the photo: an image of Hanzo and Genji together, taken many years ago judging by the green in Genji’s hair and Hanzo’s youthful face. McCree is somehow both surprised and not to see the severe expression the younger Hanzo maintains, even as Genji grins at the camera.

“Where’d you get that?” he asks.

Hanzo doesn’t answer for a long time. The photo is trembling faintly in his hands.

“Genji gave it to me,” he says when a full minute has passed. “Earlier this evening. He said he has kept a copy of this photo in his … home in Nepal.”

McCree digs out his box of cigarillos and casually lights up. He’s learned by now how to approach Hanzo: softly and patiently. Pressing for details will only leave him with his curiosity unsated. He blows out a mouthful of smoke and watches it disappear into the cool night air.

Hanzo sighs heavily. “I had forgotten we had ever taken this photo. It was just before our father died.” He rubs his thumb along the corner of the smooth paper. “There are no photos of my family after this one. Not long after this was when I …” He trails off, lips pursed into a thin line.

McCree shifts his arms so that he can nudge his knee gently against Hanzo’s. “That was a long time ago,” he says.

“It does not change what I have done.” The picture crinkles in Hanzo’s fingers. “We were close as children. I destroyed that trust single-handedly. Genji acts as though he has forgiven me, but it changes nothing.”

Hanzo’s eyes shimmer suddenly; he closes them, but it does not stop another tear streaking down his cheek. McCree nearly breaks his cigarillo resisting the urge to reach out and touch. Hanzo abruptly throws the photo away, sending it spinning and fluttering somewhere into the dirt.

“I have ruined him and I have ruined everything I was raised to take over,” he says, dropping his head and covering his eyes with one hand. “I have tried to atone, but nothing can ever redeem me for–” He cuts off on what sounds suspiciously like a repressed sob. His shoulders begin to shake and his breath shudders out between gritted teeth.

“Oh, darlin’,” McCree murmurs. He drops his smoldering cigarillo into his tea, ruining both, and starts to reach out–he only just catches himself before he can wrap an arm around Hanzo’s shoulders. Instead, he rests his hand against Hanzo’s back, firmly between his shoulder blades. Hanzo’s skin is warm through the thin fabric of his t-shirt. Surprisingly, Hanzo does not move away, so McCree scoots over until he can press his hip and leg against Hanzo’s, creating a warm, comforting line that doesn’t quite tip over the edge of friendship. Hanzo is silent, moving neither away nor closer, his body trembling minutely with grief. McCree thinks about embracing him tight and kissing away tears; he does neither, and simply waits, absently rubbing his thumb along a notch in Hanzo’s spine.

They stay that way for a long time, until Hanzo’s body has stilled and the ice has melted into McCree’s abandoned tea. It’s cold, and McCree is rapidly crossing the line into sleep-deprived. But when he hears Hanzo mutter a rough “thank you,” he realizes he would wake up every morning at 3:23 AM to do it again.

“Of course, Hanzo,” he replies. “Anytime.”

Dear Anonymous,

Hm? A perfect Yosuke? That can’t be! Don’t you know? It’s Yosuke’s job to be a total disappointment! Just like it is my job to be the goofy and mischievous, yet adorable and lovely mascot and how it is Sensei’s Job to be amazing at absolutely everything and all!

I wouldn’t say it that way, but Teddie has a point. Yosuke not acting like Yosuke would be weird… Even if he’d be acting like a much cooler guy than he really is.

Keep reading

Thirteen pointers on being an Artist and staying there

A good friend recently told me I should procure some of my experience and-dare I say-wisdom,about being an Artist. I’ve often wondered what it is I possibly could have to say that would be of interest or worth, simply because most of us will agree that being an artist, feels akin to being a Guppy flopping around in a Tsunami, and I am certainly no exception.
Except she insisted that what I have to say would be inspirational, so if it helps my other creative journeymen and women to stay honest and continue the course, then who am I to argue.

1. How to be an artist when you have a day job.

The truth of being an artist, is that you’ll likely be juggling multiple jobs for a living wage from the offset and possibly for the rest of your life, leaving you drained and unmotivated by the time it comes to your first brush stroke. Start picturing yourself doing the art throughout the day, make your day about getting through it as a necessary evil to your goal. Carry a small-even concealable-sketch book everywhere with you-use your breaks, your lunch, your bus journey to flesh out ideas, and once back home, don’t turn on the TV, disconnect from your social media because these things are distractions and your enemy.
Make a light snack, enough to stave off hunger and not put you in a food coma, have your work place all ready, your palettes already set out, your surfaces already primed the night before, there’s nothing more off putting to yourself than not being able to just jump straight in. And then give yourself a set of hours in which to frame what you want to accomplish. If you want it badly enough then you will find that second wind, just be prepared for many late hours, long nights and weekends.
And when people ask you what you do, tell them you are an artist-say it enough times to others to convince yourself- always remember, your minimum wage job isn’t who you are, but the self funding you use to support your next creation.

2. Everyone has to start somewhere

From pop up tents on dodgy street corners to library foyers, crusty village halls to seedy bar walls, I’ve exhibited my art through them all. So, regardless of how immensely talented you think you are, you are deluding yourself if you are looking to get an in as a heavy hitter straight off the bat. Only the the trust funded, circle jerked or God given will get instant admission on that prestigious gallery wall.
More importantly,after you’ve built your reputation, grafted and finally gotten to that place, remember that humble pie still tastes the same wherever you are, so don’t use the people who help you along the way and don’t be a dick to those coming up once you get there.

3. You can do it all yourself.

You think you have pursued every avenue for that show you want to mount, book you want published, but all you see before you is an avalanche of rejection or total indifference. Was a time when that meant the death knell for a creative project,  or an artist falling by the wayside into eternal obscurity.
Except the days when the traditional go-betweeners such as agents, gallery’s and publishing houses were the single gateway to your audience is diminishing. The new gatekeepers are the ones that provide a platform to crowd source a rented space, an on-line publisher to print on demand, a network to build to advertise in-it’s easier in a way than ever before to do what you do yourself and put it under peoples noses. No one is waiting to discover you, so create art not excuses not to.

4. Don’t pay to play

Seriously, don’t do it-there is absolute zero impetus for the curator/editor/institute to represent you or any of your cohorts once you have-of course there are overheads for the gallery, but go ahead put your money down, the house always wins, whether you sell or not, and you are enabling bad practice, one that exploits creatives.
Remember, a good partnership is one where you both are invested in the gamble, not one where you walk away poorer.

5. Have no expectations for the outcome of what you do other than for yourself

That way lies madness and a cycle of disappointment.  Do your best work, say what you wanted to say but accept that anything that comes beyond that is a bonus, so always remind yourself that If one person in the world other than yourself and your Mum gives a flying fuck about what you create, then you’ve already accomplished something.

6. Ask yourself,what constitutes success as an Artist to you.

Conjure an idea of what ultimate success from your Art looks like.
Is it fame, fortune, the respect of your peers, that cover of some self appointed Art Bible, some perversion in the back of a limousine?
Or is it for the love of it, a quest for personal and technical betterment and a lasting legacy to be proud of?
Whatever the reason, its up to you to decide which is more likely to happen, and which will leave you plagued by a feeling of failure and disappointment.

7.Don’t half ass it

Whether it’s some tossed off sketch on a dive bar napkin, or a commission that you are only going to make a few bucks on, do your absolute best ,other than children, this will be your most precious legacy.
And always follow through no matter what-in 2010 I almost cut my fingers off with a hedge trimmer a month before I was having two solo shows. I allowed myself to heal for a week, before gritting my teeth,Vicodin and Red Bull became my friends, and I made deadlines just short of delivery date. Don’t let anyone down, especially yourself. Remember-laying bad eggs will leave an stench that will linger.

8. All Art has cachet which means nothing does.

Because there are no rules as to what Art is, it might seem like a great democratic qualifier. Except don’t fool yourself, snobbery and elitism exist as much in the industry as it does anywhere else, and you will quickly discover yourself categorized by the established order as one thing above or beneath another. Don’t buy into it, and definitely don’t perpetuate it, those boundaries exist to justify exclusion and price fixing, so do what you do regardless, don’t be a pretentious arse and don’t take yourself too seriously, you will be a better human being for it.

9. Enjoy the moment

I once did a live-painting show at a nightclub, and so immersed was I in it not helping to put food on the table or advance my cause, I spent the entire night feeling like some mere anecdote. Later when I was raging in the car about how pointless it had all been, my wife quite rightly reminded me that I had completely missed the point, that a large legion of friends and fans had traveled to come and watch me, that the piece was raffled for charity, and that people had been there to win it. It’s all too easy to get lost when seeking the endgame, enjoy the moment and don’t be blind when looking for stars in the night sky.

10. Always be looking to the next thing.

So the shows over,the canvas is complete, the tools are downed and the palettes dry. That’s when it hits…the aftermath, the empty studio that echoes with post Art frenzy and after show blues. You grieve when its over, because you’ve spent days, weeks, months and years besotted with your muse and working to this point, for what? Over the years, I’ve learned that the bipolarity of what we do, is the balance between an incredible series of highs and debilitating lows. Look forwards not back. Find something to fill the space again, you’ve climbed a hill, but the work is never over, revitalize that back burner project, sift through those unfinished sketches,work towards another show, go see an inspiring exhibition, just find a reason to fall in love and begin again, this is your chance at creative rebirth.

11. How to stay inspired

Chances are at some point, you’ll reach a wall. That paralyzing terror of a blank sheet, but this a great opportunity, a virgin territory to explore, a chance to express something, anything. Think, even the feeling of not being able to say something can be cannibalized and become inspiring in itself. So find your visual language between the pages of old illustrated books, find an alchemy and make nursery rhymes of your existence, find your pictographs in the lines of sonnets, ancient mythologies and historical cultures, find signifiers in museums and in the descending melody lines of songs, unravel your personal biography in mysterious back alleyways, desecrated churches and the twisted forms of nature. Take the essence of those feelings and make totems and props of them, look to your idols but never copy anyone else’s work directly-you are a conduit not a clone.

12. Whats the point, its all been done before and no one ever buys anything anyway?

Throughout the journey, you are going to find a million and one reasons daily to give up. Believe me, I do this at least five times a week. It could be because you feel like you’re not getting anywhere, or because nothing is selling, or because of something shitty someone said on Facebook, whatever the reason you feel like you’re done.
Except its likely the reason you wanted to create in the first place, came out of a need to express something , possibly when you were depressed, completely on your own and on the bones of your arse.  Which means you’d do it anyway, no matter what, right? Don’t be defeated by peripherals, let the work itself be your goal.

13. What you’ll get from staying the distance.

Your Art will be a marriage full of turbulence, a religion full of doubts, and some of the greatest triumphs you will ever have. It will open up a world of personal discovery, give you a set of friends you would never of had otherwise, and admission onto the walls of strangers, who have found something to connect with you, something that bled from your soul, something you put out into the world and people invested in. Legacy is something for arbiters to decide over after you are gone, but the worth is the meaning you get from your Art in this life. Don’t stop until you fall down. Art.

Final Addendum 14. Armchair Criticism is the easiest job in the World

Think long and hard before you bestow your ‘expert’ opinion.


Moving Beyond Meditation

by Yongey Mingyur Rinpoche

My introduction to the world of the Great Perfection (Dzogchen in Tibetan) occurred when I was just a small boy. The first years of my life were spent in my mother’s village near the border of Tibet and Nepal. I haven’t been back there since I was young, but I vividly remember the massive snow-capped mountains that towered above us on all sides and the flower-filled meadows that stretched out along the valley floor surrounding our village. Looking from the outside, you would think that I was born with a charmed life. I lived in one of the most beautiful and serene places on Earth, surrounded by people who loved me dearly. The elders of both sides of my family, moreover, were renowned spiritual teachers, so from the time I can remember I was exposed to the practice of meditation and its power to transform the mind.

Despite these idyllic surroundings and the deep bonds I shared with my family, my charmed life took a turn for the worse one year. When I was about seven years old, a deep, consuming sense of dread began to take over my being. I couldn’t figure out what was happening to me or why. All I knew was that even the simplest things — like a thunderstorm or the arrival of a stranger — could throw my mind into a tailspin. Fear would well up from the pit of my stomach and terrifying thoughts would crowd my mind, leaving me paralysed with the feeling that something terrible was about to happen. This difficult period provided me with a powerful motivation to explore my mind and feelings. Though I didn’t know much about meditation at the time, I had a vague sense that it could help me deal with my anxiety. For a while I tried to meditate on my own, but aside from a few fleeting moments of inner peace, the feeling of dread continued to follow me like a shadow.

Most winters my mother and I would travel from our village in the mountains to Kathmandu, where we would spend six months with my father, the great meditation master Tulku Urgyen Rinpoche. Yap Rinpoche, as I affectionately called him, lived in a small hermitage on the outskirts of the Kathmandu Valley, where he taught his unique style of effortless meditation to students from all over the world. In the mornings, the monks and nuns from his hermitage would come to receive teachings about meditation or the rituals of Tibetan Buddhism, and in the evening he would teach his non-Tibetan students. I would often sit quietly to the side and listen as he taught.

Though I didn’t really understand much of what he said, I yearned for the calm serenity that he radiated. At first I was so timid that I couldn’t muster the courage to ask him to teach me about meditation, but after a while my anxiety became so intense that it overrode my shyness. I still couldn’t ask my father directly, though, so I begged my mother to make the request on my behalf. I was overjoyed when she told me the news that he had agreed to teach me.

At the same time as I was beginning to meditate, I was learning how to read and write. In the afternoons I would sit with my father in his meditation room, which had a huge window that looked out over the entire valley. As part of his daily practice, he chanted a text called The Precious Treasury of the Basic Space of Phenomena, which is considered one of the most elegant works on the Great Perfection, the most profound and treasured teachings of my father’s lineage. My father used this text to teach me how to read. As we sat together in his small hermitage, he would sing the words of the book to me in a beautiful melody and ask me to repeat after him. I would then do my best to imitate him, and eagerly wait for his approval. At the time, I thought he was just helping me learn to read, but looking back I can see that he was actually introducing me to the ground, path, and fruition of the Great Perfection.

The Ground of the Great Perfection

You might think that the hours I spent learning to sing the words of the Precious Treasury would eventually sink in, but I really had no idea what they meant. To me, the book was just a bunch of weird terms that didn’t mean a thing, but I liked it because of the soothing melody that my father used when he sang it to me. One day, as we sat together in his room chanting and meditating, I noticed a word that I’d heard my father say many times when he taught his students. “What does this word mean,” I asked, pointing to the Tibetan word ka dak.

“Oh, that’s a very important term,” he replied, pleased to see my interest. “Do you remember what I told the students last night about the mind’s true nature?” The truth was that I didn’t understand much of what he said when he taught, so I looked down and shook my head in embarrassment.

Seeing my reaction, he patted me gently on the shoulder and said, “There’s no need to feel embarrassed. When I was young I had to learn the meaning of all these words just like you.” He then paused for a moment and looked at me with such affection that all my fear and embarrassment dissolved. “What I taught the students last night is that our true nature is completely pure and good. The word you asked about, ka dak, means ‘pure from the very beginning.’ It might not always seem like this is the case, but there isn’t the slightest bit of difference between your true nature and the Buddha’s. In fact, even an old dog has this original purity.”

“What does purity mean?” I asked.

“Purity means that our true nature is already perfect and complete,” he continued. “None of our confusion and fear can change this inner purity. It doesn’t get worse when we suffer or improve when we become enlightened like the Buddha. We don’t need to add anything to it or take anything away, nor do we have to do something to get it. It’s here with us each and every moment, like a diamond in the palm of one’s hand.”

“If our true nature is so wonderful,” I asked, “then why do we suffer?”

“That’s a good question,” he answered. “The problem isn’t that we need to get something that we don’t already have, or that we have to get rid of all the things we don’t like. The Buddha can’t magically appear and take away all our suffering and confusion. The problem is that we don’t recognise what we’ve had all along. We get so caught up in the drama of our lives that we don’t see the radiant purity of our very own minds. This nature is with us even when we feel scared, lonely, and angry.”

I looked up at my father’s kind face as he spoke these words and a feeling of tremendous love and respect welled up from deep within me. I still didn’t fully grasp what he was trying to teach, but I started to open to the possibility that there was more to life than all the thoughts and feelings that crowded my young mind. What he had just introduced me to was the ground of the Great Perfection, the inner reality that we discover on the spiritual path.

The Path of the Great Perfection

With this new found confidence, I continued to meditate on my own. Though I still didn’t have a direct experience of what my father was trying to teach me, I soon found that by focusing my mind on something, I could experience a glimpse of tranquility. Despite this development, I still thought of meditation as something that would help me get rid of the parts of myself that I didn’t like. I sincerely hoped that meditation would lead me to happy, peaceful states of mind where panic and fear could not touch me. As I would soon find out, however, what my father was leading me to was much more radical than that.

For the next few months I continued to visit my father every day, and he taught me more about the Great Perfection. Often times we wouldn’t talk at all as we sat together. My father would simply sit in front of the large window and gaze off into the sky as I sat quietly by his side and tried to meditate. I desperately wanted his approval, so I always did my best imitation of what I thought a good meditator should do. I sat bolt upright and tried to make it look like I was absorbed in some deep experience, while in actuality I was just repeating a mantra in my mind and trying not to get lost in thought. Occasionally, I would open my eyes and peek up at my father, hoping that he had noticed my good meditation posture and ability to sit still for so long.

One day, as we sat together in silence, I glanced up at him in the middle of my meditation and was surprised to find him gazing down at me. “Are you meditating, son?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” I said proudly, filled with joy that he had finally noticed. My answer seemed to amuse him greatly. He paused for a few moments and then said gently, “Don’t meditate.”

My pride vanished. For months, I’d been doing my best to copy all the other meditators who came to be with my father. I learned some short prayers, sat in the right posture, and tried hard to still my turbulent mind. “I thought I was supposed to meditate,” I said with a shaky voice.

“Meditation is a lie,” he said. “When we try to control the mind or hold on to an experience, we don’t see the innate perfection of the present moment.” Pointing out through the window, he continued, “Look out into the blue sky. Pure awareness is like space, boundless and open. It’s always here. You don’t have to make it up. All you have to do is rest in that.”

For a moment, all of my hopes and expectations about meditation dropped away and I experienced a glimpse of timeless awareness.

A few minutes later he continued, “Once you’ve recognised awareness, there’s nothing to do. You don’t have to meditate or try to change your mind in any way.”

“If there’s nothing to do,” I asked, “Does that mean that we don’t have to practice?”

“Although there’s nothing to do, you do need to familiarise yourself with this recognition. You also need to cultivate bodhichitta and devotion, and always seal your practice by dedicating the merit so that all beings may recognise their own true nature too. The reason we still need to practice is that at first we only have an understanding of the mind’s true nature. By familiarising ourselves with this understanding again and again, however, it eventually transforms into direct experience. Yet even then we still need to practice. Experience is unstable, so if we don’t continue to familiarise ourselves with pure awareness we can lose sight of it and get caught up in our thoughts and emotions again. On the other hand, if we are diligent in practice, this experience will transform into a realisation that can never be lost. This is the path of the Great Perfection.” With these words, he stopped talking and we both continued to rest in pure awareness, gazing off into the deep blue sky above the Kathmandu Valley.

The Fruition of the Great Perfection

After training with my father at his hermitage for a few more years, I travelled to India to live at Sherab Ling, the monastery of Kenting Tai Situ Rinpoche. I was very fortunate to participate in a traditional three-year retreat while I was there, during which I had the chance to learn from a great master named Saljey Rinpoche, who reinforced the early lessons I received from my father and gave me the chance to integrate them under his guidance. After a number of years in retreat, my teachers advised me to attend a shedra, or monastic college, to study the classical philosophies of the Buddhist tradition.

The teachings I received in the monastic college were extremely helpful, but I often struggled to reconcile the complicated philosophies of the Sutra vehicle with the immediacy of the Great Perfection. As luck would have it, once I completed my studies I found myself in the presence of yet another great master, Nyoshul Khen Rinpoche, a consummate scholar and true yogi of the Great Perfection who passed on to me a set of teachings that are only transmitted in secret to one pupil at a time. It wasn’t easy to study with him, though, since I had to travel to Bhutan, which wasn’t a simple matter back in those days.

One of the main questions I had at the time concerned the results of the Great Perfection, so one day I approached Khen Rinpoche to ask for clarification. “To attain buddhahood,” I began, “the sutras say that we have to purify obscurations, perfect the accumulations of merit and wisdom, and slowly refine our practice of generosity, discipline, and the rest of the six perfections for an incredibly long period of time, but my father and Saljey Rinpoche taught me that buddhahood is actually right here in the present moment. They said that if we strain and strive for some enlightenment in the future, we actually move farther away from this pure awareness. Don’t these two presentations contradict each other?”

“Not at all,” Rinpoche replied. “In fact, all those things that we uncover slowly on the sutra path are actually inherent qualities of pure awareness. The Great Perfection is an effortless path in which you accomplish everything without doing anything. Recognising the empty essence of awareness perfects the accumulation of wisdom, while recognising its spontaneously present clarity perfects the accumulation of merit. The union of this emptiness and clarity is the union of the two accumulations. Moreover, this approach is also the union of the development and completion stages that we practice in deity yoga, and of skillful means and knowledge. Once you realise the nature of mind, compassion spontaneously manifests. Seeing the potential that all beings possess, you will naturally feel respect for them and want to help them to realise this true nature for themselves. You will also experience genuine devotion for the teachers who introduced you to pure awareness and fully appreciate their accomplishment. So you see, all the qualities of enlightenment are right here with us. We don’t need to look anywhere outside of the present moment.

“Actualising these innate qualities,” he continued, “is the best result we could hope for. Flying in the sky, reading minds, and other magical powers are no big deal. These days, we can do most of these things anyway through modern technology. I’ve flown all around the world with hundreds of people in a giant metal tube, so what’s the big deal if you can levitate a few feet? The precious fruition of the Great Perfection manifests when we’ve familiarised ourselves with pure awareness to such a degree that we never waver from that state. There’s nothing more to hope for than that.”

Khen Rinpoche’s words trailed off as he finished his explanation, and he stopped talking. Together, we sat in silence, resting effortlessly in the beauty and simplicity of the present moment.

The words of these great masters stay with me to this day. When people ask me about the Great Perfection, I have nothing more to say than to repeat these simple teachings, which were entrusted to me like a great treasure by my kind teachers.

anonymous asked:

Can I request a Jimin scenario where you and your friend both have a crush on him but since you really care for your friend you start to avoid/ignore Jimin for her? However the more you ignored him the more Jimin missed seeing you so he confronted you about it and then confesses that he fell for you. ^^

(…I made Jungkook the best friend even though you said it was a “her” because my OTP heart couldn’t resist.. I hope that’s okay… ( ^ิ艸^ิ゚) ) Enjoy, love!
- Devi (❁´▽`❁)*✲゚*


Keep reading