listen to your mother will

Complete set of Lit Notes !!!!

D-6 to the freedom !!! 💯🙏🏻💪

”A girl is like a young tree, you must stand tall and listen to your mother standing next to you. This is the only was to grow strong and straight. But if you bend to listen to the words of other people, you will grow crooked and weak. You will fall to the ground with the first strong wind.”

161020 BTS/Park So Hyun's Love Game (speaking about Hoseok’s MAMA)

Park So Hyun: Before that, everyone needs to listen to MAMA a lot. I’m curious about how your mother reacted when she heard this song.

Hoseok: She really likes it! She was like, “ah my son succeeded and even wrote a song for me~!” The most important is that the members’ parents called her as well. They were saying, “you must be so proud of Hoseokie, I’m envious.” I also felt they are very proud of me. I thought, “ah, I’m really doing my filial duties.

Can you believe all of Bangtan’s moms called Hoseok’s mom to tell her they we’re so proud of him and wanted songs, too? Our Hoseok is the sweetest boy, he even melts mothers hearts aw.

Listen to your mother. She is the kindest, wisest, and the bravest soul that you’ll ever know. She has been through so much in life yet she is still strong, bestowing all her energy to comfort and care for you. She will have the best advice for everything because she knows you the best.
—  listen, and listen carefully

The Big 4: Mommy, Daddy, how did you meet?


Jellal: W-well, we -

Erza: We were childhood friends!

Jellal: Yes, that’s good, listen to your mother … 


*Gajeel stares into the distance in horror while Levy quickly changes the subject*


Natsu: Well, it was sort of a coincidence. We ended up in the same town and your mom bought me food so I had to give her a hand when she almost got tricked into this sex trafficking ring and - 



Gray: Your mother blatantly refused to leave me alone until I finally admitted my feelings to myself and her.

Juvia: ~~ It was so romantic! ~~





PART 1 | PART 2 | PART 3 | PART 4 | PART 5 | PART 6 | PART 7

A/N: SORRY IT’S BEEN A WHILE BUT HELLO HERE I AM PART 8! feel free to ASK/REQUEST. please let me know how you found this chapter! it’s a little diff from the usual update.

“Y/N are you listening to me?” Your mother snapped her fingers in front of your face at the dinner table,
“You should stop putting so much salt on your food - it’s bad for you.” She spoke calmly in her soft voice as she took the table salt away.

You’d being staying at your childhood home with your parents just outside of town for the past 5 weeks as part of your bail condition. Unable to venture into the centre of town meant that you couldn’t go to work, not that you were welcome there anyway, you couldn’t see Belle, and you couldn’t go home. The once strong, independent, socialite you were was now entirely gone; you felt like a stranger to yourself.

“Two more days.” Your dad cupped your face and kissed your forehead,
“Two more days and then the world will see that you’re innocent in all of this.” He smiled kindly as he stood up from the dining table, taking the dishes into the kitchen.

Do you need a hand with those?” You shouted after him, desperate to find something to do.
Living back at home with your parents was great for the first three days or so, especially as your mother made it so you did barely any housework or laundry, but soon enough having no independence, nowhere to go and nothing to do got depressing.

“I’m okay Y/N. You go on upstairs, use my phone to ring Belle.” He shouted back. Anybody who saw him would be intimidated, he was a big guy with a loud voice and a constant frown, but he was easily the kindest man you knew.

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Being Mycroft’s daughter would include...

  • you’re just as smart as he is, which you definitely know, making it hard for him to argue with you since you have a smartass reply for everything
  • helping him out with his work when you’re bored
  • you’d love to crash his meetings at work, making it your mission to make some of the rude, old dudes very uncomfortable with your knowledge and pointing out the problems of their ideas
  • Mycroft not liking it one bit when you don’t listen to him and do what you want
  • “You have that from your mother.” - “Well, thank god.”
  • helping Sherlock on his cases when you’re bored
  • your uncle being in for anything that helps annoy your father
  • Mycroft not being very happy about his daughter and brother teaming up since he has his hands full with just one of you at a time
  • spending a lot of time with John and Mary since you really like them
  • getting involved with Moriarty just for the fun of it, though it does get you in a lot of trouble
50 Things To Do When You Have Nothing To Do
  1. Study;
  2. Read;
  3. Listen a music;
  4. Watch a film;
  5. Clean the house. Your mother will be happy;
  6. Learn a different recipe;
  7. Learn a language;
  8. Work out;
  9. Dance in your room;
  10. Make a DIY;
  11. Ride a bike;
  12. Go out with your friends;
  13. Write a book;
  14. Send / say a “I love you” to someone you love;
  15. Make new friends;
  16. Go out alone and see how good is your company;
  17. Turn the night watching something you enjoy and eating nonsense. One day will not kill anyone;
  18. Make a day of beauty for you;
  19. Do some volunteer work;
  20. Draw;
  21. Sleep;
  22. Fix something;
  23. Compose a song;
  24. Play a instrument;
  25. Sing;
  26. Stay with your boyfriend / girlfriend;
  27. Write a book;
  28. Write a letter or e-mail to someone who lives far away;
  29. Change your hair;
  30. Paint your nails;
  31. Pick flowers and decorate your home with them;
  32. Reflect on your attitudes;
  33. Go to a party;
  34. Paint a picture;
  35. Plan your next vacation;
  36. Build a puzzle;
  37. Play The Sims or other game you like;
  38. Write your feelings;
  39. Cry if you need. It’s okay to cry now and then;
  40. Smile;
  41. Be grateful for everything and do not complain;
  42. Take from your life everything that hurts you in a bad way;
  43. Eat your prefer food;
  44. Think about new projects;
  45. Plant a tree. The nature say “thanks”;
  46. Feed your spiritual life;
  47. Buy something you need;
  48. Find your hobby and practice it;
  49. Be happy;
  50. Be you.

Originally posted by igot-infinite

Seokjin - 

Gently your hands stroked through his hair, settling any worries he had. As the eldest there was certain expectations and no one he could share them with other than you. Your voice made him feel like everything was going to be okay. He could feel the butterflies in his stomach as you sang. He didn’t need to understand the language to know what you meant, it felt so special to Jin to listen to you share your mother tongue. The next morning he’d give you kisses and thank you for being so good to him spending the day treating you like royalty.

Originally posted by mint-brownies

Yoongi -

Suga sometimes had to deal with insomnia. His schedule didn’t help him get a restful sleep and neither did jet lag. He was just laying on the couch in silence when you sat by his head. Moving his head into your lap you began to hum a tune he didn’t know but he found soothing. His eyelids grew heavier as your voiced lulled him. He felt every muscle in his body relax and when he slept it was the best rest he’d gotten in a long time.

Originally posted by j-my-hope

Hoseok -

It wasn’t uncommon for Hobi to have an issue getting himself to shut down. When he was dancing he could push his body to absolute exhaustion and just pass out. But when that wasn’t an option he had a hard time getting his mind to shut off and his body to sit still. It became a ritual when he was restless to have you spoon him and sing softly in his ear. It made him feel comforted and he could sleep having only thoughts of you.

Originally posted by chimchams

Namjoon -

When you sang, it was as if nothing existed beyond your room. You could calm him in a way few others could, and he wouldn’t deny he enjoy the feeling of being pampered. As the leader he bore all the responsibilities but you made it so much easier. He was trying to learn your language as well, he wanted to speak to you in a way that was easier for you. Every now and then he’d hear a word or phrase he recognized and he smiled every time. It felt like sharing a special secret.

Originally posted by ultranicolet

Jimin -  

You couldn’t have done it at a better time. Sleep hadn’t been coming easy to him lately, his insecurities were affecting him. He didn’t know why after all this time he could still feel this way, but they never did go away. Just changed shape. Your native language was almost exotic to him you could have been reading a grocery list he could have felt soothed. Your singing voice was on another level and he would ask if you could record yourself singing that lullaby for tours as well.

Originally posted by yoongbeans

Taehyung -

He was being needy but wasn’t telling you what was bothering him. Normally Taehyung could switch off like a light but he couldn’t settle down. So to help him, you did the only thing you could thing of, you sang. Your voice and the sound of a language he couldn’t understand seemed to put him into a trance-like state. He knew from then on he’d be relying on you and your voice to put him to sleep, without question.

Originally posted by jayfatuasian

Jungkook -

The very first time you did it, he wasn’t sure he liked it. He could be spoiled sometimes sure, but he was pretty sure he was too old for lullabies. Those moments he grew to cherish because you were sharing a side with him that you could do almost no where else. He didn’t like it if you coddled him too much while you sang him to sleep but having his head on your lap while you pet back his hair was something that could almost have him purring.

  • Scott: How long have you been hung up on Lydia? Four years? And you’re still killing yourself to fetch little trinkets for her? That’s crazy, that’s more than crazy, I don’t think there’s a word for what that is…
  • Stiles: Actually, there is a word for that. It’s love. I’m in love with her, okay? If you’re looking for the word that means caring about someone beyond all rationality and wanting them to have everything they want no matter how much it destroys you, it’s love. And when you love someone, you don’t stop, ever. Even when people roll their eyes, and call you crazy. Even then. Especially then. You just - you don’t give up. Because if I could just give up...if I could just, you know, take the whole world’s advice and, and move on and find someone else, that wouldn’t be love. That would be...that would be some other disposable thing that is not worth fighting for. But I...that's not what this is.

Anonymous asked: Great! Thank you! Can I request a Crowley x fem!Winchester where Crowley gets involved with her to get under his mother’s skin(we know how she feels about Winchester), but he soon finds himself falling for her?*pretends to be involved with her* sorry

Here it is, lovely! I hope you aren’t too angry for making you wait so long. I do not own Crowley or Rowena. They belong to the creators of Supernatural. 

Warnings: um…fluff, fake relationship I guess.

Pairings: Crowley x fem!Winchester reader, mentions of Rowena

Originally posted by yennfer

“Really, Fergus you should listen to your mother. This place could do with a feminine touch!” Rowena exclaimed as she gazed at her son on his throne. Crowley bit back a groan of annoyance at her. For several days now, Rowena had been trying to convince him that he needed a queen by his side. Crowley knew that the only reason Rowena would even care about his love life was to use it for her own devices. She would want him to be with a woman that she could easily manipulate to undermine Crowley’s authority in Hell. That, of course, he couldn’t permit. Then, an idea sprang to his mind.

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Imagine you’re a girl, at the edge of town.....

Imagine you’re a girl, at the edge of town.  At night the woods are dark and full of fearful things, but you must go to make your deliveries, to receive and take away from the homesteads and the farther neighbors.  A girl alone shouldn’t do such things, most villagers say, but somehow, you are left alone to do it, all the same.  And so you take your red cloak around your shoulders, dark hair tumbling out from under the hood, and grip your basket tight as you walk out under the moonlight.

The woods are full of long stretches of silence, the night peepers and singing insects having long since gone to bed themselves.  Whispers of wind bring snatches of voices past your ear, and you struggle not to listen, to pay no mind to the soft wailing of wolves far distant.

You try.

You fail.

Do not listen, your mother told you, once.  Not to the wailing of wolves, nor the hooting of owls- and never chase a light down into the swamp, nor eat fairy food.  Lest you fall.

You’ve run, helter-skelter, chased like a deer from along the path and into the deep woods.  And now the howls are all around you, though the only eyes you see are right in front of you, where you’ve fallen to your hands and knees.  You look up, and up, and up.

He’s tall, a head taller than the largest man in the village- and you try not to look, but his head silhouetted against the moon is a wolf’s.

Your fingers dig into the dirt, the holy symbol your mother made to keep you safe bouncing against your breast.  You grit your teeth against how good it feels, the cool fall air rushing past your skin, nipples tight and dragging in the dirt as you muffle your cries.  You try not to look, you try, but the hands that grip your hips are so strong, the thick cock filling you past what you can bear- the chase that heated you so still racing in your blood.  The wild things have caught you, and claimed you, and they seem to sing in triumph as they leave you with dirty knees and damp thighs, breathless from release.

You throw on your cloak again and hurry home, your path unmolested by man nor beast.  With the wolf-king’s scent on you- who would dare?

The harvest moon brings festival, and you dance with ribbons as if nothing had happened, as if you were still a good church-going girl who shunned the woods, who listened to her mother and grandmother’s stories.  You lie, and when the sickness grips you in the morning, you hope it is merely bad festival buns.

The next moon comes, and the next, and your blood does not.

You confess your encounter, as much as you dare, to the village priest, and he gathers the eldest of the village to consult with.  Your face burns with humiliation, but a chill settles in the pit of your poor, bloated stomach- you know the stories, some folks have been burnt for less.  Never here, no- but everywhere, one hears the tale of someone who knew someone who ran afoul of when the witch-finders came to town, some few villages over.

“I- cannot name the father.  I did not know him.  Only that I met him in the deep wood, and I feel afraid- and I think it is more than the sin of being out of wedlock that chills me.”

They make you strip down naked, kneeling down in the center of the small church.  The doors are locked and barred shut, and the lights burn low as the old man and the old women confer.  This is not something they want the rest of the village to know about.

They pierce you with a silver ring, to ward off the evil, and the priest prays holy words over your swollen womb.  The babes leap inside you as you kneel, praying fervently and hoping, so desperately hoping, that you are heard.  That the fire in your loins is only the rawness of the new ring, and not some new vileness having made you foul and wrong, to lust so after pain and desire.

The priest seems satisfied.  The village women leave you to dress, nodding to each other- though there are still whispers between their bent heads, having seen the frightful shapes of the things that pressed against your belly.

You throw your shirt on, buttoning with fumbling fingers over your swollen breasts, and hide under your red cloak the whole way home.

Winter is hard that year- and still you must make your rounds, ferrying herbs here and there, retrieving coin where it is set, eggs and milk, and leaving the packages of medicinal plants and scented soap in their place.  No one will say a word to you- they barely acknowledge your blushing cheeks and hastily hidden plumpness, your cloak clutched tightly around your growing form.  ‘Tis only warm wool and winter’s fat, you would say, if they bothered to ask.  A harvest-festival bastard, you would confess tearfully, if they pressed.  But no one ever does.

You hear the wolves outside, sometimes, and shudder.  You throw an extra piece of wood on the fire, though you can ill-afford it, and make sure the doors and windows are shut up tight.

Still, when there is meat left at your door, steaming and red- you cannot refuse it.  It cooks up just as well as the butcher’s sausage, though sometimes, you dread the sizzle and sniff desperately, unable to wait any longer-

-the crunch of small bones, the littlest of meat in the lean cold times, and your mouth drips red with hot, gushing life-

Jack Sprat could eat no fat, his wife could eat no lean, they say.  You eat both, and hunger still as your belly rounds and rounds and will not stay flat beneath your hand.  Bread you can comfort it with, sturdy vegetables and apples saved in the cold cellar down below- but you cannot deny your cravings, when your mysterious caretakers deliver death unto your doorstep, raw and unbled.

You can recognize it, mostly- and that is perhaps the only reason you do not scream.

A man was killed, the other day- you hear, and step out upon the path with your basket in hand, shivering.  The winter draws long, and the wolves are hungry- you do not know what keeps you safe, as you walk along the wooded paths, but you know it is valuable and that you must make your deliveries, sweet lotions, liniments and herbs, and that when people know they are getting a service, they make very little noise about the righteousness of the person from whence it came.

Spring comes.  Then summer.  Your womb swells, filling up and up and up- the midwife in the village will not see you, turns away when you pass her by in the street at the market- but you know you are as big as a woman with two and three yet unborn.  A litter, you think quietly, as you pass by dogs that growl at you, and children who run away from the hand that once gave them candy, mints and honey-drops to chase away colds.  You are shunned, with your red cloak and your big belly full of harvest-bastard- except they know.  They all know, for you are that strange woman who lives on the edge of town, with no family and no man and no true guidance to keep you whole and human.

You run your hand over the fullness that bulges out under your skirt, huffing and puffing as you walk, and hope that the miller will still have flour for you, if you hurry.

The silver ring has done its work- the evil stays within you, and every full moon, you moan as the babes- the pups, you think of them- roll and thrash within you.  The howls echoing in the woods seem to draw them, yearning, against the skin of your belly- you press your hands there, and there, and feel hands, snouts, paws, pressing outward.  You are long past when you should have birthed, you know, and though the ache rolls through you three nights of every month, hips and back screaming- your waters never break.

Some nights- many nights-

every night

-you reach between your thighs, touch where the silver ring burns, and whimper as your rock against it.  It holds the evil at bay- but it does nothing to make yougood again, holy and pure, and you know you are lost as your passage clenches emptily, begging to be touched.

The wolves and wild things have made you theirs, and no matter how you try to hide it, no matter how hard you clutch at your red cloak, everyone can see the swollen curve, the mound of your belly, and knows your sin.

You worry, always, that this will be the night the villagers come for you, with pitchforks and fire- but they never do.  They seem content to have washed you from their minds, that poor strange girl at the edge of the forest, far from their quaint little town- no one has visited you in months, none even come close enough by to see in weeks, and you know they have put you out of their minds as lost.  You could have died in childbirth, been eaten by beasts, burned down with the cottage- and they would have nodded to each other, mouths tight. Shame, shame, they’d say, it’s a shame.  Sad, but what can you do- it’s better this way.

And so you are alone, in the woods, with no one to come for you.  No one to care.  The forest has reclaimed this land, so far as the people of the village are concerned, and you with it.

Thirteen moons.  A full year since you last ran in the woods, breath fogging as you panted, light and fearful as a deer.   You cannot sleep.  You can barely walk.  Your hips ache and creak, and when the bits of meat show up, you cannot refuse them, red gushing down your chin as you devour so hungrily, tears dripping from your eyes as you bolt it raw.

You hear the wolves howling.

You rise from your bed, slow and ponderous, panting as you do- your womb is a great, distended thing, your belly is huge, and you think if the world was right, you would sprout extra teats along the protruding ridge of it.  Swollen nipples dangle from aching breasts as you rise from all fours, swaying and threatening to drip milk like an untended cow’s as you stand on soft, human feet.  Nothing you once wore will fit any longer, and you have not been able to trade cloth nor face the thought of wearing it for months- your bed is a nest of blankets and sheets, everything you own, safe and smelling like yourself and just the faintest hint of the herbs you would store them with, a whiff of the life you’ve left behind.

You throw your red cloak over your shoulders once more- they seemed to like it, or that’s what stories would have you believe, attracted to the red mark of the sinner- and step out the door. The cold air hits, and your nipples stiffen, painfully tight on your milk-swollen breasts as they tilt into the wind.  The trees are orange and black-barked in the night, and the branches sway and creak like your aching hips do as you waddle stiffly down the path, your enormous, moon-like belly leading the way.

The urge to run, to leap, on all fours hits you- and you laugh, because it is as ridiculous as expecting you to dance about the village square, as graceful as a maiden, in the vastly distended state you are in.  No- you will bring the wolf-king his children at your own, stolid pace, chafing fretfully at your arms and starting to shiver as the cool fall night caresses your bare skin.

The howls come closer, and you think you see eyes in the shadows, watching you- escorting you.  A cow, fat with calf, would have been pulled down and torn to pieces by now- a villager, great with wholesome and human child, the same.  You, swollen and ponderous as you are- you hold something sacred to them, and for that alone, they will stay.

You come to a clearing, and the moon shines down- and the pups leap again inside of your belly, clutched and protruding from your cradling arms.  The wolf-shapes circle, coming no closer, and the silver ring tingles and itches and burnsat the apex of your thighs as the cramps come heavy through you again.  You want their help, you cry out, unafraid that they might hear you- but they will come no closer.  Not while that sacred ring keeps their pups sealed up in your belly, keeps their sensitive noses and paws well away.  You get down on your knees, settle into the grass with your thighs spread, and howl.

The wolf-king himself lurks past the edge of the clearing, and you can hear himgrowl as you pant and beg.  I will be torn to pieces, you think, either by them or by the long-delayed birth, and trembling, you reach down past the enormity of your belly.  The ring is there- you grip it tightly, clenching your teeth as you try awkwardly to bend the silver without tearing your tenderest flesh.

It gives- you gasp in the sudden relief- and quick as thought, it is flung away into the trees, and they surge upon you.  For a moment you expect teeth and bright pain and at long last, a silence to the constant struggle in your bloated womb.  What you get is fur and noses and the warm bulk of bodies propping you up as you cry out, belly straining, your water breaking at last and running into the dirt below you.

Your heels dig into the ground, your arms looped around the necks of your new packmates, and their warm tongues sooth you as you moan and strain and cry, delivering at last.  The pink, squirming things that emerge from between your thighs are picked up in hands that are huge and rough and furred, and set against your breasts two at a time, whimpering and suckling from your vast supply of milk.

Your red cloak is beneath you, filled up with the warm, snuggling bodies of your litter. 

let go of your grudges. forget. make yourself happy and let unimportant people fade like sunsets into night. your life is for you, not others. listen to your heart. go drink some tea. wake up early. listen to your mother. write a poem. analyze every instrument and melody in your favorite song. go outside and feel the sun warm your lonely skin. learn to feel again, and learn to feel stronger than ever. do it for yourself

Them Attending Their First Indian Wedding: BTS


It would become SeokJin’s mission to try out each and every delicacy possible later on in the night, after he came back from the stupor of the prettiness of the place and the open roof sort of wedding.


Will be taking pictures throughout the whole of event since he was so fascinated by the beautiful people and colours and clothes and foods and oh my God he’d forget that you were there, too.


As he saw the fascinating dances and after being invited by your mother for a dance where she set off to lecture him about how important it is to treat you right, he was more concentrated to learn the steps than actually listen to your mother ramble on, since he knew that you deserved the world and more anyway.

Rap Monster:

Joonie would take this event as an opportunity to learn more about your culture, going around the hall and sitting down with the elders, asking them about things such as recepies and the cloths for the traditional wear.


Would probably be all shy and squishy at first but when he saw the dances would turn much like HoSeok, wanting to learn at least the easiest routines so that he could have his fair share of fun.


Would literally ask you about everything and anything moving.For example, after he sees the cloths on the people he would go “Tell me the history of why Indian people wear these clothes? Is there any special move they can do because they wear this? What about the food? How different is it from Korean? Whose better, your mom’s cooking or Jin’s?”


Would be hella interested in knowing the traditions of the festivity but would rather stay beside you awkwardly and observe everything with a small smile, particularly after seeing you grin from ear to ear.