long afternoons

it’s the little things

I have this one class. Meets twice a week (as most of the classes at my school do). So I dread Saturday mornings (it’s my first class of a very long day) and Monday afternoons. 

This class has too many students for the classroom, as well as having too many boys. 13 boys to 3 girls. And most of the boys are really aggressive. Five of them are consistently Trouble. 

But even with that, I don’t quit because when we make a circle (usually two or three times in a class session), there are plenty of kids racing to be the ones to hold my hand. :)

It’s kinda my gauge for whether or not a class actually likes me. Which shouldn’t matter, but it really does. 

Anyway. It’s Monday evening, and even though the monster class were monsters, I still got to smile and know that it’s not a complete shit show because about a half dozen or more kids desperately wanted to hold my hand. 



Last night Notre Dame de Paris opened again with its premiere in Paris! I’ve loved this musical ever since I discovered it five years ago, and I can’t express how excited I am about the new production! Here’s a small tribute in honor of the day.


post reveal cafe date!

@yinwa actually suggested this ages ago, but i never got around to doing it. BUT LOOK MOM I DID IT

Super Fun And Not At All Scary Harry Potter Fancast feat. Relevant Political and Public Figures:

-Lord Voldemort - DJT
-Bellatrix Lestrange - Steve Bannon
-Lucius Malfoy - Paul Ryan
-Dolores Umbridge - Mike Pence
-Rita Skeeter - Tomi Lahren and/or Kellyanne Conway
-Cornelius Fudge - Sean Spicer
-Rufus Scrimgeour - Hillary Clinton
-Alecto and/or Amycus Carrow - Betsy DeVos
-Fenrir Greyback - Richard Spencer
-Draco Malfoy - Marco Rubio
-Peter Pettigrew - Ted Cruz
-Severus Snape - John McCain
-Albus Dumbledore - Barack Obama
-Minerva McGonagall - Elizabeth Warren
-Alastor Moody - Bernie Sanders
-The Quibbler staff - Teen Vogue staff
-Amelia Bones - Ruth Bader Ginsburg
-Charlie Weasley - the National Parks Service
-Kingsley Shacklebolt - Chuck Schumer
-Nymphadora Tonks - Kamala Harris
-Fred and George Weasley - the entire cast of SNL
-The Golden Trio and the DA - us

I want sleepy mornings with you,
Late, lazy days where we stay all day in bed
My hands in yours, laughter shared between languid kisses
Lost in nothing but each other
Skin against skin, stolen moments just for us
I want it with you.
I want carefully planned afternoons,
Long drives to nowhere, radio blaring
Adventures to the ends of the Earth
Picnics under the high sun,
Laughter dancing on the breeze,
Smiles shared and kept in my memories
I want that with you.
I want long nights with you.
Where sleep is optional
Shared covers and shared skin
Quick kisses, tongue play, words whispered into the night
Praises of love shared to the canopies above
I want that with you.
I want a future
The good
The bad
The small
The big
The insignificant
The major
The new life changes and challenges
I want it with you.
I want you.
—  I want you -Kace Anne
I Think I’m Yours

Request: “Eye colour Soulmate AU (where people are born with heterochromatic eyes, and they only revert to their genetically inherited colour when they interact with their soulmate.)”

Pairing: Newt Scamander x Reader

Word Count: 1028

Warnings: None

Originally posted by crazy-vibes-under-the-moon

Newt sifted through his writing, letting out a long, tired sigh as he looked for a certain paragraph that he had forgotten to edit. His eyes, one blue and one green, flitted across the pages lazily, only half-heartedly putting effort into the search.  

“Newt!” A voice called. “Order for Newt!”

He jumped to his feet, running a hand over his face in an attempt to push away the creeping tiredness. Editing his manuscript was such a monotonous job that even now, in the early hours of the afternoon, he longed for his bed. He came before the little lady who held out the paper bag containing his lunch and a cup of coffee. She looked up to him, doing a double take as she spotted his eyes. Then she cast a sorry gaze upon him, a sad smile tugging at her lips. Newt took the meal, ashamedly hanging his head lower as he walked back to his table. Not many people noticed, but once up close many could tell the slight significance in the hue of his eyes.

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okay you know what pisses me off? the fact that every other love interest kara has had, it has ended because of things that happen have even to her and mon-el

with adam, she didn’t think it was meant to be because they were always interrupted (via kidnapping or other means). with james, it was the same damn thing. they were getting interrupted constantly. that led her to think that the universe was telling her not to do it, that she wasn’t ready and needed to focus on her

now, i’m not knocking that. i’m knocking the fact that that same shit happens with mon-el. their first kiss was under a poison/drug induced mon-el who pretended it never happened. their other “flirtations” were interrupted or kara showed obvious disinterest. and their latest “thing” was interrupted again. but kara will bend over backwards to make this work, right? because he’s basic straight cis white boy #3 and that’s who she’s meant to be with because oh don’t the cw just love their basic white boys who give nothing to the plot but take everything from the leading ladies and the men of colour who should be getting the screen time (and the girl), and also the lesbians


all your gods are teenage girls: HERA, Greek queen of the gods

somehow, she does it all: class president and varsity volleyball captain and founder of the fashion club. you can tell yourself her daddy’s money bought that work ethic if it helps you sleep at night, but you know it’s not true. she spends her long summer afternoons by the pool, two tablets and a laptop open, building a brand, an empire. she is a paragon, untouchable - on the surface. if she ever feels sweat on the back of her neck, the heat of an invisible timer bearing down, she never lets on. there are moves to make, earth to scorch, opportunities to snatch from someone else’s teeth. her future isn’t brighter than her highlight, but it comes pretty damn close.

Last year I was able to lose 42 kgs and go from an AU size 22 to a 10 in shirts. I also ran two 5km races!
110% re committing to my goals, so I can drop another 15/20kgs and reach my goal weight.

Goals for this year:
- gym 5 days per week.
- 1500ish calories per day on clean foods!
- 100kms per month on treadmill.
- watch bread intake.
- Drink water!! Drink water!! 💧

The Signs As Vacations!

because fuck it.
Aries: A family trip to the beach, a rainbow of umbrellas and towels all the way down, the smell of sunscreen, burying your dad in the sand, shrieking and running from the waves

Taurus: A resort vacation in Mexico, packed with young honeymooners and energetic families. Overpriced drinks and half-understood conversations in Spanish, the awe of a sunrise over the water.

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This is long and fluffy Enjoltaire and I’m not sorry

“I want to try something.” Grantaire leaps to his feet and tugs at Enjolras’s sleeve. He stumbles from the couch.


“It won’t hurt. Um. Probably.” Grantaire whirls around unexpectedly and Enjolras crushes into him, face-first. A hand comes up to steady his elbow. “Woah, hey there. I’m sorry.”  

Enjolras shakes his head and rubs his nose, fingers trying to soothe the sharp burst of pain. “’S okay.”

“Will you come?” There’s something wild and skittish about Grantaire’s voice, he sounds like a ball bath. A ball bath with approximately a hundred chaotic children in it, driving high on sugar. Without as much as a warning, he tugs Enjolras along, down a hallway and then sideways through a door.

“My room,” he announces like a tour-guide, and nudges Enjolras a bit to the left. “There’s my bed.”

“I know, I slept in it once, you remember?” It’s a surprisingly soft, blurry memory: the taste of terrible vodka on his tongue, the beginning of a terrible headache looming behind his temples. Grantaire’s hands; terribly close, warm, and ever-so-gently tucking him in.

(“You’re not gonna walk home like this all alone and I’m not nearly sober enough to accompany you without one of us getting hurt. You’re gonna stay here, okay? Little drunk Apollo.”)

“Yeah, actually I remember.” Grantaire’s voice is startlingly soft. Enjolras hears him rummaging through some drawers, throwing various things onto the floor. His hands find the edge of a blanket and he carefully lowers himself onto the bed.

Grantaire’s room smells like dry paint, the same smell he carries around in his clothes and curls and skin. It’s oddly comforting, and maybe slightly toxic.

“Found them!” Cheerful Grantaire and his ball bath voice. Enjolras just wants to drown in it.

“Found what?”

Something heavy collapses next to him on the mattress and it groans beneath the added weight. “I want to show you something.” Grantaire hesitates. Enjolras hears him swallow. His words are slow, carefully chosen. “I want to show you the colours.”


This isn’t funny. Enjolras feels the familiar bite of anger churn deep in his stomach. It had been a while since his last fight with Grantaire—he remembers words sharp like a dagger, remembers feeling small and exposed and angry, so angry, remembers wiping away furious tears. Remembers the sour taste of acid on his tongue when he had brought up Grantaire’f family, deliberately, to crush and burn and hurt in the worst possible way. Remembers the cold feeling of shame and guilt pooling low in his stomach, afterwards, when it had been too late, when everything was already shattered.

Apologizing felt like picking up the broken pieces and building something thin and fragile out of them. It has held, though, ‘til now.

“You know, I don’t think that’s gonna work.” Enjolras grits his teeth and waves his hand in front of his face. “With the whole me-being-blind thing. Just a guess.”

“I know.” Grantaire sounds frustrated. “That’s not what I mean. “I want—“ He sighs, bites his tongue. Asks, in a low voice, “Do you trust me, Enjolras?”

The question catches him off-guard. With any of his other friends, the answer would be easy, a heartfelt “yes” already sitting on the tip of his tongue. With Grantaire, however—he feels the fragile thing between them shiver. He feels Grantaire inch backwards on the bed, away from him. He’s probably taking too long.

He thinks of gentle hands, warm and terribly close. “I—yes?”

“Okay.” Honest relief drips from the word, thick like honey, and he imagines Grantaire’s shoulders sagging with it. “Then you have to trust me with this.”

Enjolras breathes. “Okay.”

He waits. There’s some shuffling around, something is opened and closed again, something tumbles to the ground. Grantaire curses softly under his breath. Then there’s silence.

Over the years, Enjolras has come to learn that all his friends have distinctive silences. Combeferre’s is always thoughtful, filled with ideas half-formed, plans half-calculated. Bahorel’s is calm, a bit like listening to silent music on a lazy morning. Joly’s is fidgety, but in a good, infectious kind of way. Marius’ is hesitant, the last words still tingling in the air, like an afterthought. Courfeyrac’s is positively singing, as is Cosette’s. Bossuet’s is like holding your breath. Musichetta’s bubbles with laughter. Feuilly’s is always comforting, never awkward, like a blanket on a cold winter day. Eponine’s is sharp and honest. Jehan’s silence is like the silence that embraces you before you fall asleep.

Grantaire’s silence is deafening.

It’s humming, restless, sizzling with energy. It’s anger and sarcasm, softness and insecurity at the same time. Ruthlessness, hesitation. It’s plucking at some chord deep within Enjolras’ body, and his fingers itch to scream an answer.

“Okay.” Grantaire breaks through his silence with a sigh. He’s been edging closer again.

“This is blue.” Soft fingers on Enjolras’s cheek, leaving a cold trail. His breath hitches in surprise. Grantaire chuckles. “Don’t worry. It’s finger paint from my little sister. Hundred percent a-toxic.” He smears more paint onto Enjolras’ cheek. “Blue is the colour of the sky and the ocean on sunny days. Of that horrible drink Courf has ordered at the Musain once, you remember? The one that made him recite Shakespeare like an Edith Piaf song and later cry for half an hour? Well. Blue like a smurf butt. The smurfs are blue. Your jeans are blue. My eyes.”

Enjolras hears him shift for a moment, his hand never leaving his cheek. “This is red.” Another smudge of paint on the other side of his face. Grantaire is cupping his head, and his voice whispers in the small space between them. “I think you’d like red. It’s the colour I associate with you most. The colour of fire, of anger, of blood and war. Your shirt today is red. Cherries are red, strawberries, Cosette’s favourite dress.” He’s close, so close. “They say, red is the colour of passion.” His voice is low, and something inside Enjolras shudders. “Of love.”

He shifts again. One hand trails through Enjolras’ hair, curls around the nape of his neck. The other fumbles for paint again.

“This is white.” A splotch on the tip of Enjolras’ nose. Despite everything, despite his breathlessness and his fluttering heart, he laughs, startled. Grantaire chuckles in response. “Snow is white. An empty piece of paper is white. The milk you put in your coffee.” He says it with the disgusted tone of someone who likes his coffee black and bitter. “The petals of daisies. The faces of the homophobic assholes when you grabbed Feuilly and kissed him in front of them at that protest in May.”

Enjolras’ face is hot. He remembers the white-hot fury shouting in his veins, remembers thoughtlessly grabbing the nearest person within reach of his arms, remembers muffling Feuilly’s squeak of surprise with his lips.

Thinking about kissing when Grantaire is so close is dangerous.

“Now you look like our flag.” Grantaire laughs. “Blue, white, red. Tricolore.”

Enjolras squints his nose. “That was your plan all along.”

“Maybe. Don’t tell me you don’t like it, Patria.”

His fingers are gone again, are there again. Trace slowly across Enjolras’ forehead.

“This is yellow. Yellow like the sunlight, like croissants, like that submarine in the Beatles’ song. Bananas, rubber ducks, Valjean’s lemon cakes. Like the only bowtie Combeferre will ever accept to wear. It looks ridiculous, trust me. Courf couldn’t be prouder.”

He shuffles around for new paint. One hand around Enjolras’ neck. The other stopping short in front of his face, hesitating.

“This is green.” His proximity is overwhelming. He’s a living, breathing human being right in front of Enjolras, and he holds him gently, so gently. “Green is probably my favourite colour. It’s calming. Unobtrusive. Nature is green. The leaves, the trees, the grass. My favourite sweater is green.” His thumb brushes against Enjolras’ chin, just-so missing his lower lip.

Enjolras leans in and kisses him.

It’s short and soft and Grantaire makes a funny little noise. Enjolras smiles and chases after him to hear that noise again. His fingers search for Grantaire’s face, tracing the line of his cheeks, his jaw, committing them to memory. Fingers tangle through his curls, tugging, wanting, closer, closer.

They’ll probably die from oxygen deprivation. They don’t actually care.

“Hey, R, Enj is missing and I just wanted to ask you if you know anything about our blind boys whereab—Jesus Christ!” Joly’s shock vibrates through the whole room, like thunder. “What in earth’s name are you doing here?”

“I’m explaining the colours to Apollo,” Grantaire replies casually. “He seems quite interested.”

“You are—“ Joly repeats weakly. “Why does he look like the tricolore?”

“Patria reasons.”

“Patria rea—that’s paint, isn’t it? R, God, that shit is toxic, and he has it all over his face, let alone your mouth—“

“Calm down, Joly, it’s finger paint. Quite safe.”

“Quite sa—YES, CHETTA, I FOUND THEM,” he suddenly yells over his shoulder, answering a distant question from somewhere else in the flat. “NO, THEY AREN’T DEAD. Yet,” he mutters, under his breath.

“Finger paint,” Grantaire emphasises again.

“Bye, Joly,” Enjolras says.

He waits for the sound of the door clicking shut, then he leans forward and muffles his laughter in Grantaire’s t-shirt. A kiss is placed in the tangle of his curls and echoes tingling through his body.

“Now I’ve got paint everywhere.” Grantaire’s fingers cup his chin, lift him up, draw him close. “Did you at least learn something today that justifies the mess?”

“I did.” The smell of paint is everywhere. Enjolras smiles. “Red is the feeling of your fingers on my cheek, right there …”

fic - supergirl - lord, save me from your followers (8/8)

Kara, perhaps out of a want for thoroughness in her story, perhaps out of a Millennial-born urge to creep on a the social media of a woman she finds intriguing, discovers that Lena Luthor has a pretty active following on Instagram one afternoon not long after their first meeting. She debates it, just for a moment, before following Lena.

It’s after midnight when the protests get bad. Kara’s phone is at 20% battery and both sides are pushing against the NCPD barricades set up to keep them separate and safe. Kara’s jittery, her fingers shaking as she tweets, staying half a step behind Hieu and his camera. Jeff’s pushing through the throng of the anti-alien protest, speaking to anyone will listen to him.  Kara’s dismayed to see two California congressmen, as well as a few state assembly members and local government officials in the crowd. She makes sure that the #CatCoLive hashtag identifies all of them.

People are bumping against her, pressing in on her at all sides. Kara backs out slowly, careful not to touch anyone. She’s not used to crowds like this, not used to being surrounded by people and knowing that all she has to do is move wrong and she’ll send someone flying.  There was a reason she never went to a concert again after that MCR one Alex dragged her to in high school, it was too claustrophobic, too intolerable.

When she breaks free, she calls Alex.  Fidgets until Alex picks up. “This is a situation for her but I can’t get away,” she says.  She’s not going to say Supergirl in a place so crowded.  

“We don’t want her to show up,” Alex answers.  “It’d fuck up the plan.”

ao3 Link!