manure piles

The Tree That Outsmarted Me and Punched Me in the Face

Ok so this one isn’t so much wild as it is ‘Rekina what the heck do you think you’re doing sit down this instant’ kinda deal.

Our story begins back when I worked retail.

Alrighty so quick update. The part of Saskatchewan where I live is flat. I don’t mean mildly ho hum flat I mean flat ok like the nearest slight incline(besides the dump) is nearly a fifteen minute drive. ok flat as a ruler

And because of this intense flatness we get some equally intense wind. The last few days we’ve had winds upwards of 90km (55mph) and that’s a pretty normal seen it all before kind of wind storm. Nothing out of the ordinary. But then sometimes we get even worse winds called plough winds. Now, these are sometimes hurricane force winds ok windy as all get out

These winds make a straight path across the prairies, ripping roofs off, uprooting trees, and causing general havoc ok

there’s a reason they are called plough winds they plough over everything in sight like a bull in a china shop it has zero regard for your average home or retail employee like myself

Plough winds only show their ugly faces during the summer. and in summers I worked in the garden center. 

Now, normal people would stay indoors during winds like this. Common, sesnible people would hunker down and batten down the hatches and wait for the whole thing to blow over. Not me. Not only was I at work

I was outside

That’s right folks yours truly still had to go out and water the plants in winds fast enough to shut down most cities

So there I am in my oversized rain jacket that I was practically swimming in. This thing trailed along the ground it was so big on me. I have my garden hose on and am doing my thing

First of all, do you have any idea how hard it is to water plants when the water comes out of the hose and just kinda shoots off into the distance

It’s an acquired skill to say the least k I was standing like two feet to the side of the plant I actually wanted to water

Now if that wasn’t annoying enough i also have to deal with these jerks of trees

At the back of the center is our tree selection. I’d tied them down with the full stregnth of my scout knot tying knowledge and most of them stayed secure. But there was three little jerks on the very end that would tip over, making me go and pick them up again

This happened every ten seconds.

I would go, water a plant, and then drop everyhting to pick up these stupid trees

I did this for five hours straight

Then one time while I’m picking up a fallen ash, this little apple tree gets cheeky and topples down right on top of my head.

It didn’t hurt, but those leaves are like little whips in the wind my whole face was stinging by the time I got the jerk set up right again

This tree was about to become a very big problem

See when the other trees tipped over they would politely lay in place until i could reach them, still tethered loosely to the pole. But not this apple tree oh no

Little did i know i was dealing with Houdini Incarnated into a tree.

So I’m minding my buisness watering a plant from a distance and I happen to see Houdini take the fall. Except this time something was different. This time it not only fell, but it started to roll

It had somehow jumped the little enclosure and slipped the bonds

Im still pretty chill at this point. The whole center is surrounded by a fence where could it possibily go I’ll just go get it when it hits the fence right?

Wrong.

Because I was dealing with an escape artist ok what happens next had nothing to do with me

See off in one corner we had this pile of manure right near the fence. 

This tree my little Houdini was chugging towards it at full speed, those little leaves were like sails it was just a’cruisin down aisles of bricks. It’s fine tho it’ll hit the manue and–

It hit the manure alright

It rolled up the manure pile 

and over the fence

So now The Little Tree That Could was barreling around on the highway like a phsychotic leafy bat out of hell

My first thought is if that hits someone im so fired

I scream and drop the hose and begin my pursuit because I am not getting fired over an apple tree ok no sire im going down with my dignity

So i do the only logial thing in my head

Most people would run through the open get four feet behind them and calmly make their way to the highway. Not me

I sprinted across the compound, scrambled up the manue pile, and vaulted the fence

For one glorious moment I thought I could fly.

And then I plunged downwards with a very undignified squeal.

Still I splash down into the ditch and prepare to make my heroic capture

Problem: I had just landed chest deep in slough.

For those of you lucky souls who don’t know what a slough is let me explain

A slough is what happens when stagnat water, cow crap, cow piss, and crop fertilizer mix and heat up in the sun. Doesn’t smell good.

And I just landed chest deep in the stuff. Gross doesn’t even begin to cover it

But being the trooper I am i decide I’m going to end this day on a high note and salvage my dignity

I heave myself out of the slough and take off after the tree which is dancing around the thankfully empty highway

Just one issue: Plough Winds tend to change direction

So there I am chasing this freaking apple tree around in circles and it’s winning ok every time I get close to grabbing the trunk of branch the wind throws it in another direction leaving me stumbling like a drunk moose as I try to adjust course 

This goes on for a solid twenty minutes

I’m back and forth across this highway cursing enough to make a sailor blush

And then victory is in sight my fingers graze the trunk and–

the wind stops

The base of the tree is so heavy with water that It sits straight up and whacks me across the face harder than Dwayne Johnson ever could

My momentum throws me forward, my foot catches the pot

and I sail head first into the next slough

I am now covered in disgusting, thick, sticky water and that tree is just taunting me on the road

Eventually I manage to snag the little jerk and I start dragging it back towards the compound like oh yeah who the boss? i’m the boss i caught the tree 

Just as I see  two more trees making a break for it over the fence

It was a long end of shift to say the least

I had a black eye from that tree for a week and a lovely bleeding cut on my forehead. But i caught it and I am still proud of that to this day

anonymous asked:

Any chance of more a hundred lesser faces soon?

A Hundred Lesser Faces: Ten 

  • Section One {A Hundred Lesser Faces} what if Voyager!Claire had gone first to Lallybroch instead of directly to the print shop in Edinburgh? :  [(One) (Two) (Three) (Four) (Five) (Six) (Seven)
  • Section Two {A Hundred More}, the aftermath of Claire and Jamie’s reunion, following their journey as they work to build a new life together [(Eight) (Nine)]

“Mind yourself, laddie,” chided the cook from behind as she passed by the doorway. “Pay heed to that blade, or ye’ll be cuttin’ your throat along wi’ the beard!”

He answered with something lighthearted and offhand, for she was a kind woman and he greatly appreciative of her generosity. Whereas the innkeeper had shuffled sleepily off to bed as soon as he’d paid for their lodging, she—a lady of advanced years who bade him address him as Flora— had ushered him to her own chamber off the kitchens and settled him before the glass with soap, water, and razor, ‘at no charge, laddie, dinna fash yerself.’

Jamie saw to his surprise that the face in the reflection was nearly smooth. He’d been shaving mindlessly, it seemed, only the skill of long habit guiding his hand while his mind wandered—raced.

God in Heaven, did I not survive all those years of loneliness only by dreaming of being in Claire’s bed? And yet here he was, about to walk up the stairs and enter that very place, that sacred, hallowed place, and damn him, his hands were trembling.

Thank God they’d managed to exchange those few words after their hasty meal. She knew for certain now that he wanted her. That worry had weighed on them both, he thought; a natural insecurity given their age and long absence. But even as he’d left her standing there at the table, he’d known she was still hesitant, that something about the impending intimacy between them still troubled her. Damn his eyes, he ought not to have left her side until he’d discovered what it was, that nothing might be between them. As it was….all he could do was wonder. 

Did she take other men in our time apart? 

…Apart from Frank, he supposed he meant. She had gone to be the bastard’s wife again, after all, and certainly there would have come a day when they resumed—when they likely would have— Well, and they had loved one another before Claire had fallen into his own life, had they not?

But after the Englishman died? Did she seek out comfort in other lovers? Were they on her mind, tonight?

Though it made his blood heat and boil to consider it, he could hardly cast the first stone with regards to that possibility. He thought of Geneva, of Mary, and despite the accustomed pangs of shame, he couldn’t truly regret those nights, after all. Mary, in particular, had given him the gift of touch, something for which he’d starved himself for seven long years. Her tenderness, her softness with him had kept him feeling human for a long time after. If Claire had felt such emptiness in her time, if someone had offered her the same gift, that ounce of sanity, his most reasonable self (not to say the loudest of the voices in his mind) could hardly begrudge her for having taken it. 

If that’s indeed the case, though….what will she be thinking on, this night? About….how those other men were good to her? Or because they were cruel? Jesus, what if—

“I must say,” came Flora’s voice again as he finished and set the razor down, “we dinna often get folk hereabouts that care so verra much about how they look.” Glancing up at her in the mirror, he saw that she was examining him appreciatively—not lewdly, but as though taking genuine pleasure in the sight. 

He gave a gracious bow, grateful for the interruption from his uneasy thoughts. “Then I’m all the more grateful, Mistress Flora, that ye were able to accommodate the needs of a poor, vain wretch so down on his luck.”

She hummed graciously and dipped her head, wiping her hands on her apron. “Bound somewhere important in the mornin’, are ye?”

“Nay, it’s only that I’m here wi’—” He cleared his throat. “Wi’ my wife, this night.”

“The brown-haired lass? Well, an’ I should ha’ HOPED she was your wife, a ruiadh!” she snorted. “We’re no’ runnin’ a house of ill-repute!”

Jamie wondered what she would say were he to divulge that he was, technically, willfully engaging in bigamy. Technically only, thank God. “Aye, she’s my wife,” he said firmly, to reassure both Flora and himself. “We’re reunited, this day, after a long separation.”

Separation?” she repeated dubiously. 

“We…” He needn’t say anything at all, of course, for it was no one’s business but their own; but even despite his worries, he couldn’t help but grin (and feel the prickling of tears in his eyes) to share their news, even with a stranger. “We each thought the other dead for many years, and found each other again only hours ago.” 

“Oh, how GRAND!” Flora beamed, clapping her hands together, then coming over to clasp his own warmly. “And what a blessing! God was smilin’ upon ye, and no mistakin’ it.” 

With a startling flood of both affection and grief, he realized that it was Glenna Fitzgibbons she minded him of. Corpulent of body and cheery of feature, she moved with that same indomitable energy, certain of her domain and any that chose to enter it, and yet warm and lavish in showing love and care to those in her charge. 

She took a step back to look him over again, then gave a derisive pfft. “Well, in THAT case, a shave isna goin’ to be enough. I’ll draw ye some hot water so ye can wash up a bit wi’ a cloth. I’ll fetch some of my best chamomile soap for ye, too.”

“That’s most kind, Mistress Flora, I thank ye,” he said in genuine gratitude. With sudden inspiration, he asked, “Will ye offer the same to my wife? Not—” He flushed. “Take care that she doesna think I’m insinuating that she—ah—”

“She already requested a basin and got it, dinna fash, though I didna ken the grandeur of the occasion.” Flora was already bustling about, and he could hear the sounds of water being ladled into a ewer from the hearth. “We’ll reserve the insinuatin’ for comment on your own person. Beggin’ your pardon, a ruiadh, but ye stink to highest heaven and back.”

“Canna just say that you’re wrong,” he laughed.

A long-lost wife…restored….” Flora murmured contemplatively as she returned and walked about, gathering the bathing supplies. “All the more reason to scrub the road off ye, then, for as bonnie as ye are, I dinna think I’m wrong in observin’ that she’s a good sight fairer, even on yer best day.”

“Aye, she is certainly that,” he said, laughing at the spirit of Mrs. Fitz present here, that could make him feel warm and happy even while being fussed and picked over like an unruly bairn that’s fallen in the manure pile. 

Ten minutes later, he was wrapped in linen towels, shivering from the icy drafts of night air on his wet skin, but clean for the first time in weeks. Flora had left him be as he bathed, but as he was casting about for clothing, she reappeared, tsked, bade him ‘Be still, wee gomeral. You’re far from done,’ and plunked him down onto a stool with surprising force. A moment later, a warm, woolen rug settled around his shoulders and she took up a spot behind him, beginning to work through the snarls in his hair with a comb.

After a time of sitting tense and ramrod-straight, he closed his eyes and surrendered to the calm of it, to the soothing sensation of the tiny tugs at his scalp. His mother had brushed his hair just so, when he was a wee one prone to snarls from rough days at play. Years later, his Claire had done the same, her touch light and soft. She had always brought his face around, when she had finished, to kiss him, sometimes melting down into his lap and wrapping her arms around his neck…

God…

Claire. 

That very woman, his beloved wife….She was upstairs, waiting for him. He could still scarcely comprehend the joy of that simple truth. She was whole. She was here

She’s expecting me…

Expecting a man that can please her. 

And therein was the greater part of the worry that had caused his hands to shake. Jamie wanted so badly to give her pleasure as he used to, and yet he hadn’t satisfied a woman—not in that way, not to his knowledge—in over twenty years. With Mary, and then with Willie’s mother, it hadn’t felt the time or place for that kind of passion. With Laoghaire—God, how he’d tried, but with no success. Try as he might to justify himself by insisting that she had been cold long before they wed, and there naught HE could have done about it, the icy fingers of doubt gripped at him, now. 

I wasna able to please one wife. What if it wasna Laoghaire that was the problem at all? What if I canna—

There, laddie,” Flora interrupted with fond finality, smoothing the back of his head tenderly before moving to the table. “That’s much better, aye? And here’s the fresh shirt. Tis many years old, but clean and sturdy, and should fit ye well enough.”

“You’re verra kind, a nighean,” he said, touched by her care and not a little hoarse from it. He examined the shirt. “‘Tis extremely well-made,” he commented appreciatively, seeing the fine, strong stitches, the linen showing hardly any signs of wear.

“Made it for my youngest….Tàmhas,” she said, with a catch in her voice. “…Drumossie, ken?” He gripped her hand. He knew. 

A long time after she’d excused herself, Jamie stood before the mirror, staring at the man therein; and, unbidden, the vice around his heart eased, a calming peace flooding inward in its wake. 

Even if he made a grand mess of this, even if he couldn’t please her the way he used, or made himself to look a fool, this was still a day of miracles. Here he stood, in the garment of a man who had died on Culloden field—died as and where he himself should have died—and yet, he had his sight, his freedom, the use of his hands and legs, a home, and a living…and Claire had been restored to him, beyond all reason and all hope. 

He brought his hand up and kissed the scar at the base of his thumb, pressing it to his heart, as he had done for twenty years. It was theirs, now, this world, to do with as they wished, and though he didn’t know what those wishes might be, he knew there was no fear greater than the hope he had in his wife. In them

As she’d said herself only hours ago, ‘we’ll manage with the rest. All the rest.’


Come in,” came her startled answer.

The candlelight danced beautifully around the walls, bathing all in a warm, red glow. Claire was already underneath the blankets, but they fell away as he entered, showing that she’d a sheet wrapped around her, tucked under her oxters like a garment. “Sorry,” she mumbled as he stared at her bare, elegant shoulders framed by the dark curtain of her curls. Her cheeks reddened and she dropped her eyes. “I—didn’t have a shift or anything.”

“No, dinna be sorry,” he said hastily. Lord, there ought to be no sense of forwardness between them now. They were married, after all, and in fact, the very notion that she’d undressed for him made his heart lighten even more than it had downstairs. If he had had any doubts, still, that she truly wished him to—

“You shaved,” she said.  She was smiling, weakly, nervously, but with real happiness across the dim room. “Let me see?” 

He set his things on the table by the door and came to her, kneeling beside her on the mattress.  She came up on her knees before him and took his face between her hands, gasping a bit as she ran them up and down. “God…you’re just the same, too.”

“A bit worn ‘round the edges,” he murmured, following her touch with his cheek, savoring her.

“But beautiful,” she whispered. She traced the lines around his eyes, the crooked knot—yes, that would be new to her—that now shaped his nose.

They knelt there, knee to knee for a long time, clothed in their linen wrappings, just drinking in the sight of one another. 

She swayed precariously of a sudden and he reached out a hand to catch her round the middle but she fell backward onto her hand. Her eyes went wide with shock as she realized what she had done, and she covered her face with both hands, shaking. “Oh, Jesus…” 

It was almost like being back on the hill, that shock and hurt. “Mo ghraidh….?”

No, she hadn’t just fallen. She had recoiled from him.

“Mo ghraidh?” he implored, reaching out a hand but not daring to touch her. “Claire?” 

She was crying. He thought she wouldn’t reply, and she didn’t, but she did reach out blindly and grab onto his hand, hard. He clung to it, nudged closer and pressed it to his lips, then his heart.

“I’m sorry—” she was whispering, hanging her head. “I’m so—so sorry—”

“You’ve naught to be sorry over,” he said intently, keeping her hand pressed tight to his chest. “What is it, lass? Is it— same as was troubling ye below? Over…going to bed wi’ me?”

“I want this—” she gasped out, “I want it—Want to touch you—want you to touch me— but I’m so—just so—”

“…what, Claire?”

“—afraid,” she gasped out at last, her voice a strained whisper between quick, shallow breaths. “I’m so afraid.” 

He forced himself to speak softly. “….Of me?”

“NO!” she breathed at once, shaking her head, hard. “Jesus Christ, no….Just—Damn, I don’t—It’s just—FRANK, and—”

Fr—?” Jamie felt rage boil up within him, revising his conclusions from those earlier speculations and feeling them burning through his mind. “Did he hurt you, Claire? If the bastard forced—”

NO,” she moaned, vehemently, “NO, Frank would never do that. No. Not his fault. It’s me. My fault.”

His chest eased, but the thought of what else the bastard Englishman might have done to her for all those years—MUST have done to her to make her feel these things, to be ‘afraid’ in a man’s bed—was enough to make him wish to slash his way through the goddamn stones and kill him… were he not already dead.

“Claire, hear me,” Jamie said with decision, squeezing her hand in both his own. “We dinna have to do this, tonight. We shall—” 

“I’ve wanted you every day these last twenty years—” she interrupted, her eyes squeezed tight shut as she laid one hand on his chest. “And I want you now, Jamie, I do. God,” she moaned, “more than I can—” She took a deep, shuddering breath and trailed off. 

Mo chridhe… you can say anything to me. Anything. Ye ken that, aye?” 

“It’s just been so long,” she whispered, trying to keep the tears at bay. “Frank was the only man who touched me since you and I parted, and I—I can barely wrap my mind around what it’s supposed to be, anymore.” 

Christ, it shouldn’t matter to him—and he cursed himself roundly for a shameful, wretched hypocrite—but he silently rejoiced and shuddered in relief. Only Frank. 

“I don’t know the way, anymore, Jamie,” she was saying; so mournful and heartbroken, that voice. “Something—It took something from me, to be…to be without…to not…Damn…Fucking, fucking damn….

He remained kneeling beside her as her breaths stayed shrill and strained, waiting, trying to think. Frank hadn’t forced himself on her, and yet their intimacy had left her with fears and doubts, had her struggling to look him in the eye. 

Could it simply be that they never found the secret of one another after she returned? Just as Laoghaire and I did not? 

“It’s…maybe no’ precisely what ye mean, Claire…” he began slowly, very quietly, “…but I can say in truth that I havena felt— joy in a woman’s bed since ye went away…. Is it anything like that?”

She stilled and looked up at him, then nodded, whisky eyes glassy. “Yes.” 

A pulse of relief and love filled him and he grasped at it, reaching out and cupping her cheek, holding onto her lest she slip away again. “To be hungry and desperate?” he went on, holding her eye with such sadness in both their hearts, “and to get something of it, to crave it again and again because ye think that this time it will be better, but to always leave the bed all the emptier in your heart? And feel that emptiness hardening ye into someone ye scarce recognize?”

“Twenty years—of—” 

It was a long time before she could manage to finish. When she did so, it was so faint he couldn’t understand her.

Heat,” she repeated in a whisper as desolate as the winter wind outside, “without light.

…Heat without light….

Aye, that was just the way of it. Need and hunger and the fire rousing to slake it, but no accompanying brightness, no beam of light in which to bask and be soothed in one’s heart. No relief or comfort: just rippling scalding, choking air that suffocated, rather than sustained. 

“And it used to come so easily, with you, the heat and the light together,” she whispered, trying not to fall apart, “I need it again so badly, and yet I’m afraid… of what I’ll do if I can’t give you that same—” 

Sorcha.” 

The word fairly burst from him, breaking his face into a smile of pure joy without his bidding.

“W-what?” she croaked.

Sorcha,” he said again, brushing the hair from her eyes. “’Tis your name in Gaelic, mo chridhe. Did I never call ye that, before?”

“Not that I can recall.”

He’d thought of her by that name for so long a time: her very self in his own language. His forehead pressed against hers, he looked deep and long and lovingly. “It means ‘light.’”

She inhaled sharply and gasped out something like a laugh. “You’re making that up.”

“Even in English, the root of your name has to do wi’ light, or brightness, or clarity….Et en Français, aussi.” 

“Au clair de la lune….” she recited. By the light of the moon. 

“Aye, just so.” He had her face in both his hands now, and he thumbed away her tears, kissing the tracks left behind. “You are my light, Sassenach. Ye always have been, in name or no.’”

 Her lips trembled as she smiled. “And you’re mine.”

“Then we’ve everything we’ll ever need.” He kissed her. “We can love, and never fear.” 

Claire fell slowly into him, then, wrapping her arms around his neck, weeping, not in despair, but in the sweet surrender of trusting, of loving. 

“When we wed,” he whispered into her ear, kissing the dear, warm spot just behind, “we barely kent one another. Ye didna want me for your husband, that was clear enough, and I had resigned myself to what ye could and couldna give me…. And yet that light was upon us even that first day, aye? Even wi’out your willing it, ye felt it, that—that— rightness between us?”

“Yes.” She was nodding, hard, her hands gripped tightly in the back of his shirt, her lips softly caressing his neck. “I felt it.”

He held her tight, rocking them gently. “We didna earn or deserve it, that day. We hadna prepared for it or practiced it as to be ready or worthy. It was a GIFT, that joy and ease between us. I believe it shall be granted us again, just as freely.” 

And in saying it, he, too, believed, the last of his own fears and insecurities loosening their grip and floating away.

He kissed her neck, her hair, then tucked her to his chest and laid them down, holding close around her back as they lay facing one another. “Tell me what’s in your heart, Claire.”

“Thought I had been,” she sniffed, wiping her eyes, though he could hear the hint of a smile. 

“Nay, but if we were to stay just like this until morn, only sleeping in one another’s arms, and leaving the rest for another—”

She made a frustrated sound. “I’m not saying I don’t WANT—”

“I know,” he cut her off gently, half-laughing, “I ken, Sassenach, but there’s nay hurry, aye? There’s the two of us now, and I’ll not let ye go.” 

She touched his face and exhaled, trying to smile. 

“Aside from any fears, what is in your heart right at this moment?” 

“….Happiness….” she said at last. “…such unfathomable happiness.”

“Aye…” 

“I…I can hardly believe you’re here. That I’m here.” Her voice cracked. “I’m still reeling from relief and joy from the hill….and I’m…overjoyed….” She ran the back of her knuckles down his cheek, staring intently into his face. “…that you finally know about our daughter…that you’ve gotten to see her face and learn that she’s safe….. that I’ll have the rest of my life to tell you about her.” 

He kissed her hand, pressing it tight against his lips. She kept on, the sorrow and abating from her voice with every word, replaced with warmth and joy. “I’m grateful that I know about Laoghaire…and the girls….and William…. I want to know more, in time, but there are no secrets between us, now, and that’s—You are who you appear to be….as I remembered you to be…..And Jamie, I’m so happy you’re alive,” she choked out as she pressed her forehead to his, her voice trembling, “and I can’t believe we finally get to keep one another this time…. To have you and hold you… I couldn’t ask for anything more….Nothing.

“I have two hands,” Jamie said hoarsely as he held her, “and they’re yours…. I have a body, and it is yours….. Anything that I am, I give to ye freely again today, Claire Fraser.”  

At hearing her name, that name, she let out a tiny, broken sound and pulled him down to her mouth. Almost at once, the kiss changed, became harder, urgent. His mouth and his hands and his body responded to hers without conscious thought, seeking her with every movement, every breath. 

His arousal was strong, violent, but he forced himself to pull back enough to look into her eye…..and at last, there was no fear written there.  

With a ferocity that startled and ignited him, he captured her mouth and slid his hand beneath her head as she rolled onto her back. With the other, he untucked the sheet from beneath her arms and bared her, sliding his hand down her length. She moaned into his mouth as he cupped her boldly, felt the warm, wet fullness of her there between her thighs, and that sound was honey to his soul.

She moved with him, the two of them joined by the trailing of his fingers through the slick center of her; her gasps when he moved up toward that small, precious spot; the exquisite pain of her fingertips digging into his flesh as he circled and caressed it. Claire was coming alive for him, moving against his touch to double every sensation. He could have wept only to feel her rouse to him so, but to watch her face breaking again and again with that beauty, to hear against his neck the same sounds that he’d treasured in his heart all those lonely years—He felt as though he were running up a mountain and down it again all at once. “Claire,” he could only groan into her hair, her skin, scarcely aware of his own body, enthralled to hers, “Jesus, Claire….”

“Jamie—” She was mounting and gathering under his touch, her legs and hips moving languidly, her cries becoming more urgent and and more frantic with every stroke. 

“Aye, Sassenach,” he moaned, circling and pressing harder, feeling the throbbing wetness of her. “Now—please—”

Wait,” she panted, slipping out from beneath him and pushing him back onto the pillows. It didn’t cross his mind to question her. He obeyed by instinct, pulling off his shirt and emerging from the cloud of white to see her straddling him, poising her body—Jesus, her exquisite body—just above him. He was half-sitting, hard and aching for her. Her legs trembled with wanting, too, but she reached slowly forward to pull him up, to kiss him, to press herself against his chest and twine her fingers in his hair. Their eyes locked and the world vanished for a moment in a burst of breath and light as she sheathed him to her. 

He grasped her tight, hands gripping and holding as the two of them gasped and shuddered from the shock and wonder of being joined and naked; ONE. Her breasts were so full, begging for him to put his mouth on them, but he couldn’t look away from her face.  

“Jamie—Love—” she moaned, settling him still more deeply within her body. 

“Claire—” 

He could see tears gathering in her eyes even as her entire body trembled and shuddered with the growing tension. She gasped and rolled her hips, her hands shaking and her breath catching, eyes fluttering.  “I’m going—to—”

Please,” he begged, “please—let me feel you—” He moved within her, and she upon him— And almost instantly she cascaded around him, pulsing and rushing and crying out with that sound—THAT SOUND— “Sorcha,” he moaned, her release nearly taking him, too. He couldn’t hold her close enough, couldn’t treasure her deeply enough. “Mo sorcha….”

“More,” she moaned before he could say more, grabbing his face and moving along his length with a ferocity that tore from him a feral sound to match her own, “More.”

He lost all speech and all restraint. He plunged up into her, his mouth on her neck, her breasts; his hands raking across hips and thighs and arse. They moved together, he taking her and she, him, joined in a fury of need and love that had them both gasping and snarling and moaning and near-weeping.

At one pass, she thrust down upon him such a way that he nearly lost himself, and in a flash, he was throwing himself forward with a growl so that she was beneath him, his hands under her buttocks, pulling her to him fiercely with every movement. Claire cried out, a sound of both need and satisfaction that echoed around the room. They were on fire, the two of them, thrusting and seeking with such wild energy, it was like nothing he had ever felt before. Every inch of him burned for her.

But there WAS light along with the burning. Even as they raced and tore and pounded, her eyes were in his and she was shining, smiling even as she destroyed him. As they each neared the end, they were beaming, glowing with such the most glorious joy. The most glorious light

After it was over, after she had come around him and he within her, there had been no slumping of exhaustion, none of that immediate, selfish isolation of the mind and body in adapting to the altered state. He had pulled her at once back up and knelt; knelt so that she could hold him as much as he, her. She wrapped her arms around his neck and cupped his head in both hands, touching his hair, his face, saying his name again and again like a prayer, as he was hers. They were both crying, hard, but they were tears of joy, a cleansing of all fears and all sorrows. 

“Thank you,” he gasped out suddenly, broken with it, “for coming back for me.”

She had left everything. She had left EVERYTHING she knew, the entire life she had built, on the mere hope that he still needed her. He did need her. He always would.

She held him, body and soul. “I always will.”

pile-o-manure  asked:

What do you think was Sasuke's reaction to Sarada's birth? Holding her for the first time? Personally, I can see him tearing up at least a little at those moments.

When he held her for the first time, then yeah I can definitely see Sasuke tearing up just a little, while Sakura held his hand, and Karin looked on with a sad smile at the new family :)

If Jamie and Claire (and Murtagh) could text: 1x02 Edition (after arriving @ Leoch)
  • Murtagh: jamie lad ?
  • Murtagh: whr in gds name are ye ?
  • Murtagh: been lookin all over
  • Murtagh: Its been over a day!!
  • Murtagh: Where are ye??
  • Jamie: nothing not been up to anything at all
  • Murtagh: ....
  • Jamie: i mean
  • Jamie: STABLES!
  • Jamie: how are you?
  • Jamie: Tell me in detail how your day's been?
  • Murtagh: no
  • Murtagh: you
  • Murtagh: tell me *now*
  • Jamie: tell what?
  • Murtagh: whatever yev been doin that's got ye squirmin like a bairn thts shat his pants
  • Jamie: buggershitebleeding
  • Murtagh: what have ye been doin jamie???
  • Jamie: NOTHING, aye?
  • Murtagh: Let me guess:
  • Murtagh: went against myorders to ///steer clear/// of the wee ssnch lassie??
  • Jamie: no
  • Jamie: *definitely* not
  • Murtagh: lad.
  • Murtagh: cmon
  • Murtagh: you're terribl @ this
  • Jamie: Lorna the scullerymarm was JUST telling me how fine and oily your beard is looking today.
  • Jamie: you should pay her a calL!
  • Jamie: *now* would be a GREAT time!
  • Murtagh: JAMES ALEXANDER MALCOLM MACKENZIE FRASER
  • Jamie: oh jesus
  • Jamie: i dinna think ye've ever said my entire name to me
  • Jamie: and fck ye used all caps!! 😳
  • Murtagh: WEEL
  • Murtagh: THT WAS ACCIDENT
  • Murtagh: HOW TO TURN OFF?
  • Jamie: hehe
  • Murtagh: YER IN ENOUGH TROUBL AS IS, WEE SMOUT
  • Murtagh: TELL ME NOW OR I THROW U IN MANURE PILE
  • Jamie: double tap the lil arrow on the left
  • Murtagh: got it
  • Jamie: k, have a good time wi' Lorna , see you at week end !!
  • Murtagh: No no no no not that easy lad
  • Murtagh: tell me what **exactly*** ye did to the lass
  • Murtagh: even tho i told ye not to have anything to do wi' her
  • Jamie: it was nothing at all
  • Murtagh: waiting
  • Jamie: fine, twas naught but a wee chat
  • Jamie: but omg guess what??
  • Jamie: she's NOT MARRIED!!
  • Jamie: She's WIDOWED!!!!
  • Jamie: ISNA THAT THE BEST NEWS???????
  • Murtagh: nevr takin ye to a funeral *ever*
  • Jamie: I mean
  • Jamie: of course its verra sad for the lass
  • Jamie: 😔 god rest his soul etc etc
  • Jamie: ....but its good to know, aye?
  • Jamie: verra good
  • Jamie: verra verra verra verra good
  • Murtagh: so that's it? ye talked about her dead husband?
  • Murtagh: that's all that happened?
  • Jamie: .... uh huh
  • Murtagh: jamie.
  • Murtagh: I've got a vrra stern face on right now
  • Murtagh: TALK FFS.
  • Jamie: dinna wanna say
  • Murtagh: NOW
  • Murtagh: WHT DID YE DO
  • Jamie: lethertakeoffmyshirt
  • Jamie: and also touchmymuscles
  • Jamie: i mean *bandage me
  • Jamie: and then i
  • Jamie: um
  • Jamie: comforted her
  • Murtagh: ye **whatt**
  • Jamie: just snuggled her a little while she snugglecried intomyshoulder
  • Jamie: andthen
  • Jamie: there was
  • Jamie: a long lingering *oh haiiiiiiiiiIIIIIIIIii*** kind of gaze between us
  • Jamie: so....IN SHORT, nothing at all really
  • Murtagh: oh aye? Half-naked cuddling is nothing at all????
  • Jamie: just...
  • Jamie: _the single best hour of my life_
  • Jamie: stillcryingboutitcausehappy
  • Murtagh: oh for gods blessed fucking sake
  • Jamie: HER HAIR SMELLS LIKE A FIELD OF GRASS, MURTAGH
  • Jamie: A FIELD OF SWEET EARTHY GRASS
  • Jamie: AND I WANT TO PLOW IT
  • Murtagh: oh jesus
  • Murtagh: am i going to be a great-godfather soon?
  • Jamie: NOT LIKE THAT
  • Jamie: well....I mean....
  • Jamie: Yes. yes precisely like that
  • Jamie: ((i mean have you SEEn her???))
  • Jamie: but not until i've plowed her HEART-FIELD too
  • Murtagh: YIKES x infinity
  • Jamie: after we're wed of course
  • Jamie: and then I can plow her heart-field AND her field-field
  • Jamie: OOOO! _in an ACTUAL field_
  • Jamie: preferably the one @ LLB
  • Jamie: up by the broch
  • Jamie: dye think that's the bst one?
  • Jamie: tell me
  • Jamie: is there a better field?
  • Jamie: come on tell me which field
  • Jamie: this is important
  • Jamie: whyve ye gone all quiet?
  • Murtagh: talkin to the blacksmith about fashioning somethin to chain yer foot to the stable
  • Jamie: oh thats fine
  • Jamie: she's walking up the hill to the stable as we speak, so i dinna mind being tied up here 🙂🙃😍🙂🙃😍🙂🙃😍🙂🙃😍
  • Murtagh: for fucks sake
  • Jamie: ok putting phone away, gotta act like i dinna see her coming
  • Jamie: Wish me luck!!!!!!!!
  • Murtagh: NO PLOWING OF ***ANY**** KINDS OF FIELDS, D'YE HEAR????

beaniebaneenie  asked:

Maybe Bitty goes to the Falcs, or Alicia, to get rid of some questionable shirts in Jack's wardrobe... Like a hideously tacky Tourist-Dad™ Hawaiian print? Or the yellow shoes? Sorry you're in a funk. If there's anything I can do, let me know!


Hey, @beaniebaneenie  I appreciate the prompt. <3   I kinda went another direction with this, but it still has hints of the prompt.  Jack is out of town, so Bitty and Alicia take over his closet to give it a makeover.  Here’s what goes down…


“I feel kinda sneaky doing this,” Bitty said as he stood by the door of their bedroom.

Alicia quickly got to work as she opened the closet and examined it with the steely accuracy of an assassin ready to put down their target.

“Eric, sweetheart. It’s for his own good.  I thought we agreed,” she said as she pulled out a bright orange golf shirt.  She held it toward Bitty and said, “Where on god’s green earth did he even get this from?”

“A charity golf thing,” Bitty said taking one step closer as Alicia flung it onto the bed.  Apparently, she had three piles:  To Donate, To Toss, To Burn to a Crisp.  

Alicia tutted as she rummaged through the clothes on the hangers. “Honestly, you’d think he was contractually obligated to only wear Falconers or Samwell gear.”

Bitty approached the bed and sat on the edge as Alicia continued tossing more clothes onto it.  He grabbed a pair of well worn burgundy Adidas track pants that had just been flung.

“Oh, but Jack loves these. They’re broken in just so,” Bitty said as he held them up to his cheek.

“We can buy him some new ones to break in – ones that don’t have holes in the leg,” she said then pulled out a Hawaiian print button down, and gasped.  She held up the offending shirt as if it were a steaming pile of manure and said with a moue, “Eric?”

“Lord!” Bitty smiled.“Coach got that for him. When we went to Kauai with my parents, Jack and Coach thought it would be funny to get matching shirts. Mama and I were so mad at them… and then at dinner—”

“Sweetheart?”  Alicia said with a sigh.

“Yes?”

Alicia looked at Bitty and smiled.  “Come on, help me put all this back in.”

“What?  Why?” Bitty asked.

Alicia walked over and stroked Eric’s cheek.  “Because you’re so besotted with my son, you couldn’t care less what he looks like and you don’t want to change him in any way, and I’ll love you forever for that.”

“Aw, come on, Alicia,” Bitty said as he blushed and looked down at the track pants in his lap.

“All right.  At least let’s organize the closet so he can find things easier:  you know the fancy track pants from the everyday track pants,” Alicia said with a wink.

Bitty nodded and began folding some of the clothes on the bed.  He then bit his lip and said, “BUT… if that horrendous orange golf shirt mysteriously disappeared, well there’s nothing I could do about that.”

“Consider it taken care of.”

A collaboration between myself, and @varvau

Story is conveyed and built with uncountable methods. A creator’s ability must transcend the Great Lie into Great Truth through varying degrees of Originality, often misidentified with the expression, “Everything’s been done, nothing new.” Lottery ball machines are, mostly, identical but their drawn numbers are unique. Traditional weddings in the Americas happen every week; no two are exactly the same. Originality concerns execution, not the fact something exists. With execution comes perspective. 


Ponder the story above. It is about trade, or is it? Certainly a subject, this trade, for an exchange of items is quite occurring. One could prattle endless an account of these creatures sharing daily trade with nothing more said. If that be the inclination expressed, all within earshot must question the extent of that speaker’s exposure to other cultures and their varying forms of relaying information. 

“But, this is a piece of fiction, it’s not serious!” speak many detractors of those seeking to create stories and worlds for a living, and later express devout love for, you guessed, another work of fiction. Twelve years ago, as of this writing, I was told by a doctor, who knew me since Grade V, my pursuit in creating stories and worlds was a “fantasy”, that I should speak with her whenever I “wished to return to the real world”. Quite, she did not believe in the profession of writing in general. Her entire practice depends on literature. That she worked with youths only increased the importance of fiction in their development—yet there she was, advising someone against creating new things, and making their own life decisions. I had, some years earlier than this encounter, decided for myself the what’s-to-do. I’ve not revisited that doctor, and never will.

Works of fiction are quite real for their creators, and some refer to their work as children. Readers identify with fiction for various reasons, and to them it may be more real than what is. A fictional world can be fabulous or grotesque, and still escape from ugly reality. Experiencing a foreign culture grants the same effect. One can tell a good story alone, a great story set in a well-designed world, or if they choose: deliver an immersion in time and place. The decision depends on goals.

Suppose you were dropped there, in that market, without knowledge of local culture, and didn’t die of shock at the sight of non-human beings, who bear likeness to our feral beasts, engaging in very human-like behavior. They don’t speak your language, no guides exist in your first, second, third, or any language familiar. Perhaps, you’re a linguist and realize none of their languages match recognizable lingual families.


In your face there’s scent as language, unless they’ve come to ignore or subdue natural body odor as humans did. It doesn’t factor within your ears, the possibility they employ hypersonic and subsonic sounds humans cannot perceive without specialized equipment, but—oh dear— you’re not naturalist with such equipment or deign leave a comfortable living for work in the middle of nowhere without many modern conveniences.

You quickly realize they posses no mobile phones, digital music players, any sort of advanced electronics, the internal combustion engine, telegraphs and wire transfer, gas lighting, and manure piles in the streets from who-knows-what that pulls their carts—if they did, then a copy- paste from the human world they wouldn’t be. How ever will you survive when so much isn’t

standard for your time and place? Maybe you should “try everything”, the worst advice ever given, except on desperation or a four-for-one sale at Inspired By de Sade. Following it may result in your demise.

The Didelphimorph on the right sells textiles and foodstuffs. Isn’t that nice? But…can you eat, let alone touch it? Is the Caniform vulnerable to certain foods the other may consume without problem? We’ve plants here, on Earth by example, quite hostile. Nasty little things like Gympie (Dendrocnide moroides), a perfectly normal horse-killer from hell that inflicts enough pain victims prefer suicide. Or, perhaps, your fancy is Manchineel (Hippomane mancinella), the adorably named Beach Apple. That one, dear, is truthfully a botanical death machine: a drop of moisture runoff from this tree blisters skin and corrodes automotive paint. Do you want to blister skin and corrode automotive paint? That’s how you blister skin and corrode automotive paint.


And don’t even think about the water. Travel between countries on your own planet, and you’ll find water of varying qualities to which the local population is immune, but you are not.

Your advantage is disadvantage. For the purposes of this example, they’ve no idea you’re even present. And, in regards to this specific civilization, where would you be without Jerome and myself? We’re to blame for dragging you into this otherworldly soiree where you’ve stuck a spoon in the ceiling but hey, you’re still alive. What’s mundane and automatic for this place is unknown for you: a language of Color, Shape, and Posture.

Let us start with the Caniform left, so eager to spend money. Upon his cape are two layers. Green, in local culture, is life and fertility while Brown’s is commonality of the every day. Technically, it is an off-white baize, but still counts as Brown.

That he wears a cape, not a tunic, tells of simplicity, good spirits, and the colors that he is newly wed and possibly expecting to become a father or has adopted a youth. The ceremony was not extravagant, a casual affair with a small number of close friends and relatives. Take note: local culture. His own native, that he’s possibly abandoned, may not define marriage in the same way, or practice it. Their definition of the “family unit” having two parents may not be.

Continuing down to his pantaloons, here again Green, and White. He comes from a lineage of relatively healthy individuals for legs carry the continuity of bloodlines. White is preparedness, but may speak inexperience and innocence towards the large change in his life. The Black tassels on the closure of his satchel indicate he contemplated life behind a sword; that they dangle free means he chose against, for warriors don’t wear needless items an enemy could grab and use against them.


On Shape, the leading edge of his cape being that color proclaims he’s nothing hidden and the vertical lines in his pantaloons speak twice: Green for a very stable family with little to no internal drama. White for a family young, perhaps 1-3 generations old, not big enough for a massive number of non-immediate members. 

On Posture, outwardly it is engaged in business. His open paws forward money and show he intends no harm. That he stands over the Didelphimorph is protection—he’s watching for anyone who’d steal. If he were bent, leveling their eyes, then an abrasive or unfriendly challenge it would become.

The Didelphimorph also wears a shade of White upon his legs, inexperienced where he is, possibly having moved from another region, or country, and is learning this new place. 

Upon his tunic is the survival and security of Blue. By wearing it close to his face, he proclaims status as a merchant who will not price gouge, dependable with good reputation of maintaining stock, and believes in honesty first. The shade lacks vividness; he is not fond for usurping local government. Here, wearing complete vivid blue on more than 25% of one’s clothes is punishable by execution. The golden bangle indicates prosperity, and that he recently wed.

On Shape, the off-white motif of an arch on the tunic suggests inexperience or preparedness in one particular aspect. The style refers to a building designed for residents, and he has acquired a living space. However, in local mental health definitions of shape, it means “halfway to stability”. This creature suffered from something tragic or debilitating in his past, but has over come it. That the arch is placed on the sleeve indicates confinement of some kind, either physical or social. The leading edge, also of the same color, reinforces his honesty as like the Caniform’s cape reinforces simplicity. Upon his bangle, the circle in his native culture describes a marriage under strict contract, the addition of ovals define immense flexibility within that contract.

On Posture, that his eyes are not on the Caniform entrusts he won’t be attacked, and accepts the other’s protection. They are likely very familiar with each other for the money is not set upon any surface, but held. The Didelphimorph, what most would call an opossum, does not have naturally exquisite eyesight. He’s near sighted, the Caniform knows it, and is aware his kind are mostly nocturnal yet the mid-day sun is high. Here is a merchant pushing his work hours into time of day when he should be asleep.

Bonus Material: The Red Textile

On Color, Red is power, therefore anyone who wears or places for decoration expresses it. Yellow carries various definitions, among them wealth. Black is self-moderation.

On Shape, triangles are important. The diamonds consist of two incomplete triangles, a sign of wealth shared, not hoarded. A bearer gives money to richer folk for investments in various causes, pays their fair taxes, and also gives to the needy below. The inverted, incomplete Yellow triangles near the Black X’s tell of one who gives more to the needy than to the rich. The Black X’s themselves are not viewed as two intersecting lines, but four incomplete triangles, designating establishment of inner peace. The Black Zigzag references inner peace despite unpredictability in life while the Yellow lines around it carry a second, separate definition from the above: financial stability is nearly unbreakable no matter what problems arise. Triangles without bases represent openness and invitation.

Bonus Material: The Money

On Color, the government that issued these notes considers all money equal, no matter who and what circumstances it derives, according to Brown. This includes money from illicit activities with varying stages of illegality and socially negativity. As long as it is legal tender, the government attaches no moral stigma to inanimate money even if it punishes the crime and may deal in shades.

On Shape, the rectangle declares stability of the mint, and the circle is “unchanging”. This society does not rate its money vs. others, being the prime standard. It sets boundary that it does not tolerate counterfeiting, punished by execution for the rectangle is also a block.

Unrelated factors aligned over many centuries, coming together at that precise instant and place, themselves forebears of the future in every aspect where physical and social sciences interact.  

This is World Discipline, more commonly known as Geography. Words are not required, though certainly they help. Walk into a bar in the United States, expect a full serving of beer as the definition of good service, and half considered bad. In another country, let alone world, a full serving of beer may be a local means of saying one should drink and leave, whereas a half- serving means stay: enjoy yourself, and what this place has to offer.

Falling Away

Written for @leiascully‘s XFWritingChallenge Prompt: Resentment.
Slightly NSFW.


The desk was just one of the symbols. The missing nameplate on the door. There were countless others, too. The assumption by those they met in the field that they must be fucking, and good on him. The reports he never wrote. His martyrdom to whatever cause or conspiracy he was chasing that week left her trailing in his arrogant wake with her rationalisations, her science and her questions that sometimes bordered on petty.

And then Diana had placed herself in his line of sight with a motive that was at best dubious and at worst devious. Scully’s resentment of Diana and of Mulder’s trust in her was stretched and thinned so that it shone with a brilliance that sometimes blinded her better judgement.

Sometimes Mulder’s ignorance to the facts astounded her. For six years she had been sceptic to his believer, scientist to his dreamer, brought logic to his theories. He’d told her not so long ago that he needed her, that she made him a whole person. Now, she felt like a shadow.

           She packed her bag with a deal of reluctance. Heading to California to play house with Mulder was not exactly the optimal way to start back on The X Files.

“The Falls has consistently been voted…”

“I read the brief too, Mulder.”

“This case, Scully. It’s like for trainee agents. Kersh was a fuckwit, but I don’t get why we’re being given shit like this.”

“It’s better than the piles of doo-doo we were investigating, Mulder. Just enjoy the fact that this case has unusual hallmarks and we have been given an opportunity to investigate the festering underbelly of middle America, instead of festering piles of manure. It smells a whole lot better from my perspective.”

“It’s still crap, Scully.”

“You’d better not sulk for this whole time, Mulder.”

“Sulk? I think you’ve mistaken me for the other partner.”

“What?” It sounded snarkier than she intended. He turned his chin slightly, enjoying his little victory.

“When we disagree, you get this righteous look of indignation and you give me the silent treatment.”

“Mulder, I am not a teenaged girl. If I disagree with you, and let’s face it, there have been a multitude of times where we have debated a point, I will listen to your argument and offer my own. I do not sulk.”

“Sure. Fine. Whatever.”

He flexed his fingers over the steering wheel and she saw him quirk a smile into the mirror on his visor. She pressed her forehead against the window and watched life on the outside blend and haze.

Keep reading

One Year | A Gaston Story (Chapter Seventeen)

Gaston (Luke Evans) X OC

Summary: Gaston made all the wrong choices in life, and when a dramatic fall from the Beast’s castle leaves him wounded and near-death, he thinks it’s the end of his time. Suddenly, an old beggar woman appears at his side and heals him back to his normal self but gives him one year, and only one year, to find true love before his time on earth and the town’s memories of him come to an end.

Prologue | One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six | Seven | Eight | Nine | Ten | Eleven | Twelve | Thirteen | Fourteen | Fifteen | Sixteen | Seventeen

Tags: @harleyscheekheart ; @jordyhaley ; @gawston ; @araceli91103 ; @the7thsilence ; @blackxthexbeast ; @hobbithorse19 ; @epicfallenismine ; @imoyu-trashblog ; @naildiva87 ; @dracsgirl ; @girl-next-door-writes ; @afairytaledream

They had fallen asleep holding hands, or at least that’s what Gaston believed when he awoke during the sunrise to find his fingers resting on hers. In the late evening, the fire gasped its final breath and the soothing crispness of nightfall blanketed the room and allowed them to sleep comfortably. Gaston recognized the drop in temperature once he straightened his posture in the chair and blinked his tired eyes.

Surprisingly, his muscles weren’t stiff as he rose from the uncomfortable chair and stretched while recalling his conversation with Anne. They had grown close to the point where Gaston questioned whether or not she loved him. Already cognizant of his own feelings, he nearly surrendered into his temptation and kissed her last night, but as he settled for an embrace, he realized how special their moment was, particularly since neither had expressed much physical contact in the past. Gaston knew he was changing and was already beginning to forget the shallow, arrogant, and ill-tempered man he was a year ago. And yet, as he remembered that Anne’s mother and Tom were following their path, the vengeful part of him stirred irritably. Vayle and Tom were gradually awakening a sleeping Beast.

“It’s time to go,” Gaston urged Anne as he gently shook her shoulder.

“Oh, okay,” she slurred her words and sluggishly pushed herself off of the couch’s sinking cushion.

Her last memory of the evening was listening to one of Gaston’s stories of his childhood, explaining the various jokes he had shared with Charles and LeFou, as he stoked the fading blaze from the fire. She didn’t intend to fall asleep then, her eyes had already grown heavy with the passing hours, and in this moment Anne couldn’t help but notice that the chair from the fireplace had moved overnight. She smiled at this thought, especially after they had a wonderful evening together, but Gaston’s sudden desperation caught her attention and pulled her back to reality.

“Come on,” he ordered as he grabbed one of his bags from behind the couch. “We’ve got one more stop until Holstein. We need to move quickly.”

Keep reading

Quotes From Last Night’s Game

“If we’re going to die, we’re going to do it in a dungeon!” - the cleric

“No more month-long ‘vacations’ in the swamp” - the wizard

“We just want to let the guy know we know stuff too.” - the rogue 

“Can we change his name to Sir Turd Ferguson?” - the barbarian 

“This guy could sell a horse in under a minute!” - the fighter 

“When they get back, I fuck around with them for about 20 minutes before I let them back on the airship” - the fighte

“I am not going back to that noble district for like 100 years” - the monk 

“Trident. Didn’t work” - the barbarian on the magical trident 

“You should use your winged boots like a hoverboard and cause someone to crash in to a pile of manure” - the barbarian to the rogue

“Who is this guy? Can I murder him?” - the rogue

“Give me the strongest whiskey you have, I’ll chug a gallon of it and purify myself” - the rogue after being poisoned

“I’m meditating in shame in the corner” - the monk, after tragic failure rolls 

“It’s a pig party!” -the DM

“And we’re just chanting 'BEAR! BEAR! BEAR!’” -the barbarian 

“But instead, you got to pee on some goblins” - the barbarian 

“You’ve been spending time with an endless wine cask and a bear.” - the DM 

“Here, buddy, I brought you an entire roasted pig.” - the rogue “Did you at least wrap it in tin foil?” - the fighter

“I’m waiting for my magic items like a kid standing at the mailbox” - the fighter 

“Somewhere on the ethereal plane, there’s just a cloud of vomit” - the rogue 

“I’m just sitting in my room imagining the rest of the party is off giving money to the poor” - the cleric (we’re drinking)

“Do you ever have one of those days where you just want to eat mashed potatoes until you die?” - the rogue 

“"We should put a cool flame paint job on the airship, decepticon stickers on the back” - the rogue 

“You can’t take him to the nobles, he looks like a rotten avocado” - the fighter on the acid-burned wizard

“Don’t leave the place all sticky while we’re gone.” - the rogue “I’m going to drink a slurpee in the pilot’s seat!” - the fighter

“I’ll stay behind, but only if you guys leave me the everfull wineskin” - the fighter 

“We need a magical airship dock” - the fighter 

“Barbarians practice anti-yoga” - the barbarian

anonymous asked:

Laughing headcanons for the royal retainers?

Hoshido:

  • Saizo - Did he laugh? Did he not laugh? It’s a mystery. Once, someone reportedly heard the smallest ‘heh’ coming from the space around Saizo’s head… But honestly, Saizo’s laugh is like a mythical artifact; impossible to find and most likely nonexistent. People have spent far too much money on betting whether or not they could get Saizo to laugh.
  • Kagero - She enunciates her laugh, it’s weirdest thing. It’s quiet, but you can hear very distinct ‘ha ha ha’s when she laughs, as if she’s worried about proper pronounciation. It’s very polite and demure, but not unheard of; compared to Saizo’s cryptid laugh, hers is more of a happy surprise.
  • Azama - It’s honestly the most sarcastic thing you’ve ever heard. Azama laughs, and everyone in the immediate vicinity feels worse about the lives they’ve lead. However, once in a blue moon, Azama actually genuinely laughs, and flowers bloom in his presence. Azama denies that he could ever produce such a pure sound, though.
  • Setsuna - It’s very… distinctive, for sure. Setsuna’s giggles can be quiet and almost polite when she’s mildly amused, but when you really get her going, you’re gonna hear gasps, with the occasional ugly snort thrown in. Tears in her eyes, doubled over, clapping her hands like a seal- when Setsuna’s having a good time, you’ll see it all. 
  • Hinata - Hinata’s laugh starts in his belly and travels up his throat, until it sounds like he’s basically shouting. Hinata’s laughter is probably the most dangerous- he’ll often be slapping the back of the person who made him laugh, with enough force to leave hand-shaped bruises. He’s truly a sight to see.
  • Oboro - Her laugh is honestly the cutest. It starts out as a giggle, maybe hidden behind the hand, but from there it builds until she’s bent in half and barely able to breathe. The strangest things can get her going, too. Oboro has an odd sense of humour that just gradually gets adopted by the whole camp; she truly is Hoshido’s greatest meme maker.
  • Subaki - The poor guy is so self-conscious about his laugh. He tries to hide it when possible, or, if it can’t be contained, he marshals it into the most polite and dignified laugh possible, more of a forced ‘hahaha’ than anything else. His genuine laugh is closer to a breathy chuckle, punctuated with the occasional gasp.
  • Hana - Her laugh is more of a visual spectacle than anything else. Hana’s laughter is almost silent, but her whole body contorts into rather interesting positions. It’s probably the most dangerous to herself- she barely gets the chance to breathe, since her body is too busy forcing out silent laughs. Hana once reportedly passed out from laughing too hard after Subaki tripped and fell into the pegasus manure pile, but on the bright side, she gets the best abs as a side effect.


Nohr:

  • Laslow - You know that Sexually Confident Villain laugh that sounds smug, yet vaguely arousing? Yeah, Laslow is more or less the opposite of that. Instead, he gets high-pitched wheezing, punctuated by the occasional snort, before he degenerates into full-blown witch cackling. The poor guy of course conceals it from the others, but it’s useless. He can’t hide from the truth forever.
  • Peri - When she doesn’t have a murderous giggle going on in some way, shape, or form, Peri’s laughter is actually pretty normal? Like, it’s pretty much just a bunch of ‘hee hee hee’s thrown together, with some natural breathiness added in. Honestly, the most shocking factor in her laughter is literally just how average and non-creepy it is. Truly, the most unexpected laugh.
  • Beruka - The poor girl is almost as bad as Saizo. The straightfaced retainer never rarely cracks a smile, let alone a grin, and something like an actual, audible, laugh? Unheard of. Camilla claims that she once made Beruka laugh, many years ago, when they were alone together. She describes it as sweet and gentle, soft enough to charm a bear. Honestly, the reason why Beruka laughs so little is because she probably doesn’t want to compromise her assassin image.
  • Selena - Loud and brash, that’s how you describe Selena’s laughter. She doesn’t worry about volume, nor does she worry about how her laugh sounds. She will have as many wheezes, snorts, and coughs as much as she dang well pleases, and if you don’t like it, well, that’s your problem. She will still fight you if you dare comment on it, though- she has some boundaries that she isn’t quite willing to cross.
  • Odin - When faking his laughs, Odin ranges from a confident and heroic ‘ahahaha!!’ to a more villainous chuckle. However, when he actually is genuinely laughing about something, it’s fairly… cute? Like a high-pitched giggle, but his eyes will get all scrunched up and his cheeks will turn all red, and it’s honestly just really adorable. However, Odin Dark, scion of the ages, will never allow someone to see such a weak side of himself, so he hides it like he hides the rest of himself- under about 23 fabricated personalities.
  • Niles - It’s…. deceptive. Niles’ laugh starts out surprisingly sweet, being just lighthearted chuckles. But, if it builds too much, he starts gasping for breath, and then he gasps on purpose, and then he starts throwing moans in, and then it just gets weird. If you want to hear Niles’ laugh, surprise him with something mildly amusing, but for the sake of your own comfort, don’t take it too far.
  • Arthur - The laughter of JUSTICE is one that can never be defeated!! -Arthur probably. Imagine the most overdone, heroic, confident, fists-on-hips laugh you’ve ever heard, and then multiply that by 10. It’s strong, very much Arthur-sounding, and 100% natural. He doesn’t even need to try and make his laugh sound like that, it just comes out normally. Arthur’s laugh is one of the things he’s proudest about, and to this very day, he says that the luckiest thing in his life is that when he laughs, he sounds like the hero of justice he truly is.
  • Effie - It is, without a doubt, the most powerful laugh in the entire army. No, it can’t knock people over, or blow down buildings, but? It is just about the sweetest darn thing you’ve ever heard. You might thing that bench-pressing trees or whatever is Effie’s greatest power, but when you hear her tiny, tinkly little giggle, you will have a strong desire to do whatever she asks of you, or maybe just to squeeze her and never let go. But beware- if you go with the latter option, Effie might get cuddly back, and then a few ribs might be broken.
President Unicorn Poop
  • [Scene: Luke, age 13, had just been joking about the value of something he owned...]
  • Me: "You sound like Trump when he said his 30% investment was worth 50%."
  • Luke: "He actually said that?"
  • Me: "Yeah, he said it under oath in a courtroom. A lawyer asked him about some investment and that's what he said."
  • Luke: "Well, I can sort of see the logic there. I mean, if the investment is like a bar of metal, and his part is gold, and the rest is just copper or something...."
  • Me: "Yeah, but that's not how it works. When you invest in a pile of manure, and it's all manure, and you have 30% of it, it's just 30%. It's not magically more than 30%. That math doesn't hold up. Three people could own 30%, so would the total add up to more than 100%?"
  • Luke: "Yeah, I mean, it would have to be magical unicorn manure for 30% to be worth 50%."
  • Me: "Heh. People used to joke that Obama was riding a unicorn over a rainbow."
  • Luke: "So that's the connection: Obama rode the unicorn, while Trump bought the poop?"
  • Me: "You might be on to something there."
Reposting: Speculations

*Nonnies, here you go. Don’t know what’s up with the formatting*

anonymous asked:

Sure, fandoms speculate, but what is appropriate speculation and what is not? I think this will differ for many fans, depending on how invested they are in the two leads being together. What do you think happened to make them discuss not being together over and over again? I’d like to hear your thoughts on this.


—–

Let me be honest. The day I saw them together on screen, I was intrigued. When I saw their interactions off screen, I was hooked. I sat on the shore after BARFA and still am on the shore. I can see the ship alright but for now I am content on the shore. 

If we want to go by their truth, what is it? Should we believe IFH? After all, that is what they put out there and want us to believe. Why? I don’t know. I am no entertainment industry expert but I have never watched actors engage such specific and painful denial. As actors who have chemistry, they are not the first couple to fuel speculations about their relationship. But they might as well be the first to engaged denial over and over again. I find it strange that two people who claim to be intensely private are willing to indulge in public denial of their speculated status repeatedly. Why do that? For what purpose? Once was good enough. It was a nightmare that I personally have not really recovered from! By bringing attention to their status - are they? are they not? - they are keeping the issue in the public eye. They are keeping existing fans invested on the topic, attracting new fans who are wondering what is going on, and lose fans who are sick of the manure pile. How does that line up with their intense desire for privacy? 

Don’t even get me started on how their words do not match their actions. Think about how they are around each other even after IFH? Sure, there are awkward moments but overall, the love fest continued. And delusional we are not. Sure, some fans over-interpret their actions but if the actions matched the words after IFH, we won’t still be stuck in this nightmare. Although, to be fair, I think they have dialed it back a bit if SDCC is any indication. But we also have the bts of the photoshoot…so . 

Let’s say something has shifted in their private lives. Before I go on, let me clarify that I don’t buy TrashbBour/TB narrative. Why? Is it because I am so used to thinking of Sam alongside Cait? Is it because they look so perfect together? Is it because it is jarring to think of Sam with anyone but Cait? Is it because every time it involves Sam/TB, it’s a show, therefore unbelievable? I simply don’t believe in that pairing BUT I will not explain TB away as courtesy of tptb. 

So, going back to things shifting in their private lives. Perhaps the people they are getting close to are not too excited about their love fest. Perhaps they could not be together and work together. Perhaps professionalism demands that they not be too obvious (difficult now) about inspecting each other’s orifices beyond the set. Perhaps…perhaps…perhaps. I think if professionalism comes into play, it is more difficult for Cait. As talented and gracious as she is, we know how ageist and sexist Hollywood is, so it might be challenging for her to land meaty roles compared to Sam. Imagine word around town that you are shagging your co-star. I wouldn’t want to be caught in that. Double standards galore. Older men are continuously valorized and partnered with younger women. How often do we see the opposite? So, returning to my point, perhaps being taken seriously as an actor factor into all the mess that we have seen. 

Perhaps, they are finally being honest but I don’t want to wrap my head around it. I don’t know. I am waiting to see how the upcoming promo unfolds and will go from there. If all this makes me a loser, it’s cool too. 

All in all, I know nothing. But speculate I can, and speculate I did.

9

“Once again, Vasily Fet falls into a pile of manure and crawls out smelling of roses.”

 - Mr. Quinlan, 4x01, Scene 3

Disclaimer: Also, I’ve always pointed out what I like and dislike about the scenes, even from the very start of making these gifsets.  Sometimes I’m wrong and through healthy discourse with other fans, I’ve accepted other viewpoints.

However, if you don’t like to engage in critical thinking/debate and are annoyed by my commentary, just unfollow me please.  I am well aware it is the final season, but keeping critical opinions to ourselves doesn’t actually help the show runners learn from past mistakes.  It doesn’t help them learn what not to do in their next show.

Bitching about people speaking their mind and telling them not to watch the show actually hurts it more in the end.  It drives their final viewing numbers down and those numbers WILL follow the show creators around.

We all enjoy things differently.  I chose to enjoy it by thinking critically about it.  I’d like to be a writer some day.  Going over and voicing these things to like minded people actually helps me learn the pit falls of what not to do.

I love you all. 😘 🤗 😎

Notes:

  • Is Quinlan limping a bit?  I’ve watched this several times and I can’t really tell.  Might explain why they chose to give him a leg injury in 4x03 though?  Dunno.
  • I wish this scene had more action in it.  The women were subdued too easily.  They wouldn’t have survived this long on their own if this was the case.  I would have liked to have seen more than just shooting from Quinlan off screen.  Would he really waste bullets like that?
  • Not much to say other than them stumbling upon a man who could point them in the direction of the nuke and also operate it for them was kinda lazy writing.
  • The look he gives to Charlotte here is important.  He says that she was easy to track.  Vasily makes a joking crack about it being his aftershave, but he obviously doesn’t shave, so that’s to point out that it was clearly something else.  And when Quinlan says they were easy to track, he’s not looking at Fet and the acting was very obvious here to mean that he knows something about her.  What would make her easy to track?  My guess is that she’s pregnant?  (because smells I guess???)  I love this reoccurring theme for all the women in the show. (sarcasm).  See her obvious look here:


Here’s an extra: Reaction to Quinlan:

Honestly, I felt like this reaction was a bit over done.  It’s 9 to 11 months after the vampire apocalypse.  I doubt people who have survived this long would react this way to a strigoi.  ¯\_(ツ)_/¯  Just more hysterical women.

Risen from the stench of the manure pile-even though it seemed for a moment to have escaped it in a flight of angelic and lyrical purity-the flower seems to relapse abruptly into its original squalor: the most ideal is rapidly reduced to a wisp of aerial manure. For flowers do not age honestly like leaves, which lose nothing of their beauty, even after they have died; flowers wither like old and overly made-up dowagers, and they die ridiculously on stems that seemed to carry them to the clouds.
—  Georges Bataille, “The Language of Flowers” in Visions of Excess: Selected Writings, 1927-1939
The Young Cowboy

It was a young cowboy’s first day at the ranch and he and the top hand were breaking a mean horse. The young cowboy approached the bronc with some fresh alfalfa which the mean old horse ate greedily. Then the cowboy removed a sharp stone from the horse’s hoof. Stroking the horses’ neck the young guy tossed himself up onto the saddle. The horse promptly bucked him off and over the fence. The cowhand landed in a pile of manure next to a rock pile. He shook himself off and said: “What the hell I was nice to that goddam horse and he still threw me.”  The old foreman said laconically: “He likes you. If he didn’t he woulda throwed you into the rocks.”:

The moral of the story is that even kind people face hard times but their kindness will allow them a softer landing.

anonymous asked:

Things I learned today in AP European History: there is a word in the English language, defenestration, that means "to throw someone out a window." (And furthermore, in Prague in 1618, three Catholics were defenestrated straight into a manure pile.)

Ronan is quite the huge fan of defenestration. Much to Noah’s chagrin.

like I could let Pickle go at this point if she were unhappy but I have incontrovertible vid evidence of her scribing great dancing and prancing swirls through the fields, cresting gallantly through the alfalfa towards my voice ears jauntily flying, wading through tossing and heaving juniper bushes sneezing after voles, and just all sorts of things showing that she still finds life Thrilling. This isn’t any of that evidence, I just think it’s really funny to try to get her to mistakenly scale the manure pile because peak physical comedy

What is: The problems with Gender Abolition

So a few people have been wondering why it is that I go after the idea of gender abolition.

There are many reasons, but the chief one is that it is used as a tool by people who do not actually care about it to attack, defame, and justify violence against trans people while seeming “decent” despite their hate speech.

Which will strike some folks as pretty sad, given that it is also many other really nasty things.

Nevertheless, Let’s look at these claims regarding gender abolition and why it is so wrong.

They are not trying to Abolish Gender

They aren’t. They admit it, as well, but they do not realize they are admitting it.

When confronted, what they mean when they say gender abolition is the abolition of Gender Roles (and sometimes Gender Behaviors and Gender Expressions). You have to wheedle this out of them, because they will describe these three distinct parts of gender as if they are all one thing.

They are not the same thing, nor are they one thing.  They are parts of gender, so what they really want to get rid of are parts of gender.

They do not want to get rid of the language issues. They do not want to get rid of the way we gender objects by declaring them male or female (the action of saying that something is “male” or “female” is an act of applying a gendered concept, and therefore using gender).

Now, the argument they will often use in defense of their statements is that they are arguing it from a feminist perspective. In this perspective, it explicitly excludes biological aspects – so referencing any sort of social construction relating to biology (such as saying that then only sex would be left) is in direct contravention to this idea, since the social constructions themselves are part of the social conventions and structures that are part of Gender.

I have already pointed out on several occasions that they do not understand what a social construct is, and that they do not understand what Gender is,so I won’t go into more depth on that at this time – unless I get a wild hair and decide to make another combo post.

But their not realizing that Gender is composed of multiple, distinct parts is part of the flaw int heir thinking, and is a holdover from a very ciscentric and limited way of thought that is influenced by their hostility towards trans people.

If you are going to Abolish Gender, you need to abolish all of it, otherwise, you are not going to achieve your goal, since all of these parts – language, “biology”, expressions, behaviors, etc –are all interdependent.

They treat it as an academic exercise without consequence

Inevitably, they use the phrasing and idea in order to gain credibility among their in-group, without consideration for what it really is.  When they do consider it, they apply it as a kind of mental exercise that is purely academic, without regards to the harm it would cause – their focus is on the outcome, and not the way they would achieve it.

The outcome they invariably arrive at is that the world would be a better place, so that the exercise really looks like this:

  • Say we will abolish gender.
  • ?
  • The world is better!

If you don’t believe me, ask them how they plan to achieve that stuff in the middle.

For them, this is little more than an academic exercise, not something they honestly expect to ever achieve, so it becomes strictly a rhetorical tool by which they further the oppression and harm of trans people.

Occasionally one of them will say that they would hope that people would see the benefit and change for the better peacefully – which is mighty naive and incredibly juvenile of them to think, akin to the way they often criticize pageant contestants and the “world peace” answer.

  • How would you convince them?
  • Are you going to use the culture you live in which has only the most superficial connections to their cultural ways of seeing gender?
  • How are you going to deal with cultures where gender is defined by what you do, instead of your anatomy?

and so forth.

In the end, this brings us to the next problem:

The idea is based on Western concepts of Gender

The arguments around the value and benefit of getting rid of gender all surround a couple of different aspects.  The most overtly hostile to trans people one is the one they use to make it seem like they are being supportive: without gender, you wouldn’t have to transition!

It sounds best if you say it in a breathy, child like voice.

But the more serious aspects of it are that it is based on western concepts of gender and the way that gender in western society is structured around genitals and secondary sex characteristics.

This classification of people is not a universal one for gender.  THere are some that classify someone’s gender entirely on what they do (the interests and activities they enjoy), and some do it using a blended form of both the physical and the activity.

By which I mean that they choices you are allowed later in your life through the socialization of you as a person into that culture are going to be based on what you enjoy, on your gentials (as they are in the US) or on a combination of both.

Western gender roles proceed from the designation, whereas other systems designate sex according to the gender roles.  It is the reverse, much like how most Americans find the Japanese system of house numbering to be incredibly confusing.

And all of which ignores that gender is a suppositional concept – it is based on the implication of genitalia, and signified in multiple ways that are entirely based on the cultural norms of that society.

Which means…

To achieve their goal, they must destroy other cultures

Getting back to that question mark, they seem to think that somehow this one thing will overcome all the other social aspects of differing culturals and varying identities, and magically change the world for the better.  Yet if you say to them they are engaging in magical thinking (literally) then they get defensive and deny it, and so you have to take them at face value if you are acting in good faith and that means they are willing to engage in the western notion of manifest destiny and righteous propriety and actively colonize and override and in the end force entire other groups of people who have very different ideas of gender and propriety and destroy those cultures.

If family is the building block of a society, then gender is the building block of family.  That is how deep it lies within a given culture – at the root, as they note and claim, and what that means is that in attacking it, the ripples throughout that culture and society will, ultimately, destroy it. 

It will no longer be the culture and society that it was.  There are real world parallels for this activity, most notably in the treatment of the indigenous populations of many different nations.  I live just off a main street named Indian School Road, and the connotations to me as a Lakota, and to the people here who are Navajo, Hopi, Apache, and more and who were stripped out of their homes in order to teach them a new way of thinking has had incredibly consequences on their cultures.

This is why the idea is racist, colonialist, imperialist, and white supremacist. It is especially anti-Black, anti-Asian and Pacific Islander, and Anti-Indigenous.

and that leads us to the next point, which, thankfully, is…

They cannot achieve their goal

The biggest issue is that gender is a social construct, and there has, in all of human history, never been an abolishment of a social construct. That is not to say that it isn’t possible, but it is meant to indicate that doing so is so unlikely and improbably as to be outside the range of thinking.

Social constructs can be diluted, changed, warped, altered, reduced in import, raised in import, and assorted other thing, but ending them, abolishing them, has never happened, nor is it likely to happen given the nature of human social systems and the depth within cultural systems at which gender systems exist.

So that is why gender abolition is a pile of manure being sold to the gullible and the uninformed.

A Wedding and Funeral

Summary:  It’s your wedding! Not with Tom sadly, but Tom has feelings for you, would he be able to tell you everything before the ‘I do’ or will he had to accept the fact you are marrying another man?

AO3 link

Pairing: Tom Hiddleston x Reader

Raiting: T

Note:  I came with this idea and said why not? There will be feels, for Tom is sad, really sad because it’s not his wedding :c
Enjoy!


A Wedding and Funeral

Tom buttoned his suit coat and looked at himself in the mirror. A man with flushed pink cheeks being cut by a big smile looked back at him with red glassy eyes. He looked at the black suit he was wearing, and he had never felt so hurt for just a piece of cloth. He was tired of the feeling of impotence that was crashing him down, and he would have wanted to scream, cry and kick everything that got in his way if it wasn’t for everything in the room was already upside down and his throat was raw and his face muscles were already exhausted.

If only for a day, a fucking day before, he had realised what he felt, things would be completely different now, but it was too late.

The ring was already set and the dress was already hung. He was just an hour of losing completely the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in his life. He had taken too long to realise he had fell in love and god only knew how hard he had fell.

It was too late and he just wanted to lay his head back on the floor, close his eyes and forget about everything. He wanted so bad to stay in his dark and cold bedroom with some music deafening his eardrums so he could feel other pain than the one ripping through his chest.

With a sight he swallowed his sorrow and it was time to put on practice his acting skills.

***

Laughter, the sound of cars and people in rush greeted the actor’s eardrums. Standing near the entrance there was, Benedict with a pitch black suit and a red tie and hands in his pockets. Tom walked towards the tall man and as both met they gave each other a greeting hug.

“How are you feeling?” Ben asked his best friend with some concern in his tone.

“Being honest” he paused “like a pile of manure.” Tom rubbed his face that now looked completely clean and untouched as if he hadn’t drop a tear in months. Ben just smirked empathetically and placed a hand on his shoulder.  “You know, you can still try.”

“What for? She said yes already and is probably getting in her dress.” His tone was bitter and solemn.

“Well you never told her. Don’t you think it’s worth a shot?”

Tom looked unbeliever at him. “From all the people I thought you would be the one saying, ‘You have to let her go and think on her happiness’ ‘Maybe this is the best, Tom’ ‘Maybe she wasn’t meant for you, Tom’ ‘Maybe she’s not the one, Tom’ ‘Maybe…” Tom was shut by Ben hushing him and telling him to calm himself for he had started talking louder and louder each time with more rage. Thomas just cleared his throat, and pressed his lips in a thin line before muttering a sorry.

“Tom, I’m just saying, have you seen (Y/n) today?” Tom shook his head negatively. “Well, it may be just me but there’s something on her face, something that just doesn’t fit in a bride’s face in her ‘great day’.”

Tom furrowed his brows and then chuckled bitterly as he begun to shake his head. “No, no, no, no. I won’t go with her and give myself false hope. I’m just going to sit in there, and pretend I’m hectic about the situation!”

“Tom…” Ben looked firmly at him with scold, his hands placed on both the blonde’s shoulders holding him still.

“Ben.” He stared right at him intensely with poison wrapped in his tongue. Ben felt sorry for having to deal with his friend in this mood. He had seen him sad and upset, but this time it was different. This wasn’t the angry Tom that would be laughing heartily in five minutes; this person he was looking at was someone different. Someone that gave you a smile but his eyes said something else, a thousand emotions bottled in that deep blue sea of his iris were battling like gods in war and Ben wished he could do something about it but he just didn’t know what but to try to cheer him up or try to bring him back from the ragnarok his emotions took him, to reality. Even if it hurt to face reality it was far much better than the world his hyperaesthetic emotions transported him.

“Hey guys!” A female approached them breaking the tension between them and both separated, Ben’s lips curled into a smile as he saw his wife coming towards them with a white flat box on her hands, meanwhile Tom looked away to take some breath before turning back at Sophie and greet her.

“Hi, Tom, you’re looking great today” She smiled friendly at him who spoke his thanks and complimented her back with a ‘you’re looking great too’. Sophie turned towards his husband. “Ben I need to talk with you for a minute, Tom would you be a darling and take this to (Y/n)? Please?” Sophie stretched her arms towards him for him to take the white box.

Before he could try to mutter an excuse, Ben who was guiltily amazed by the turn of events, took the package and placed it in Tom’s hand and wrapped his arm around his wife’s waist and took her with him inside the church, before he heard his friend protest.

You looked at yourself in the full size mirror, a white heart shaped dress hugging your curves. It was a simple wedding dress, but you liked it nonetheless, your hair was lose and contoured your face, you didn’t wear much makeup, the only thing you had put on your face is some mascara and a transparent lip gloss.

You nibbled your lip; your hands were in front of you as your fingers fiddled with the ring on your third finger. It was today, time had gone hurtfully fast, but now it had arrived. ‘Your great day’.

The sky was cloudy but beautiful, the weather was good, your dress was pretty, the people you loved were here, and everything was perfect except for one thing. Just a little detail you weren’t sure how you were supposed to change. There was something missing.

A knock on the door drift you away from your thoughts and you turned your head towards the door and said a loud enough ‘come in’.

From the door a man with curly hair peeked from the door. Tom smiled sheepishly at you and entered the room closing the door behind him. “You… you look gorgeous.” Tom said mesmerized, as he saw you in your white wedding dress and you were so taken by how handsome he looked in that black suit you didn’t notice the white box in his hand until he cleared his throat and showed you the box.

“A gift from Sophie… I think”

You smiled at him and walked towards him taking the box from his hand brushing lightly his thumb with your fingers and sat down on the love seat and placed it on your lap. You looked up at Tom and tapped the empty space beside you. You noticed some hesitation on him but he ended sitting in the spot beside you.

You opened the box and a wire wrap quartz [colour] necklace rested in a little pillow. You looked at it letting a small ‘ah’ as you looked at the beauty of the jewel. A note in a velvet envelope rested by its side and you opened it reading the message handwritten in cursive.

Dear [Y/n],
It is said this necklace is of good fortune and brings joy to your life; it brings a relief and shows you the colours of love. We’re not sure how that exactly works but this necklace is one of the lots of ways for us to let you know we care for you and will always wish you the best.
From the depths of our hearts,
Mr. and Mrs. Cumberbatch :)

You took the necklace carefully in your hands and handed it to Tom. “Could you…?” You said and Tom nodded taking the quartz in his hand carefully. You lifted your hair exposing your neck to him.

Tom held the necklace and, god, you were killing him. You looked so beautiful in that dress he had wanted to rip it off you the moment he entered the room. Now you were showing him your bare shoulders and neck and he was feeling weaker each time. He wanted to kiss every inch of your skin; you just were his weak point. For months he had feeling the urge to give you the entire universe, even further and being rewarded with just your smile, and later at night to press you against his mattress and hear his name over and over again rolling of your ecstatic lips as he made sweet love to you in all the ways his imagination could think of.

He placed the necklace in its place around your neck, and secretly he let his fingers brush your skin as he put the necklace in you, this was the last time he would be around you, at least in a while and a part of him wanted to remember this last time meanwhile the other scolded him and told him to just faintly disappear. It hurt him but it was the best, he had already planned his ‘run away plan’ and mostly it consisted in starting looking for projects each time further from here, enough for him to not come back in at least  three years perhaps more, he knew he was dying from the inside when being close to you and after today, what is dying will never come back to life if he stayed. He needed to detoxify himself from the bittersweet pain of the constantly phrase that stabbed his brain since the day he knew you were engaged. “If only you knew.”

You let your hair fall back down and wrapped your fingers around the quartz. You turned towards Tom and give him your thanks. He just smiled and said “It’s nothing, darling.”

You took the box and placed the note inside carefully when you heard Tom’s phone beep, sign for a text message. It wasn’t your intention but you accidentally eyed the message in the phone as you sat back in the sofa. “TELL [Y/N] WHAT YOU FEEL.” Was read on the screen and before you could contain your tongue from doing the impropriate question you said.

“Tell me what?” and quickly you covered your mouth as you weren’t meaning to ask that. Tom froze in his place as you asked the question.

“I’m sorry, Tom.” You said quickly even though you wanted to know and well it was about you. It was his phone and you were taught reading someone else things was really improper.

Tom sighed and put the phone back on his pocket. He wasn’t looking at you, but instead he just leaned back on the couch with his face turned to the ceiling’s direction and his hands covering his eyes. Silence was between you for what it felt like aeons, and you were rambling through one thousand ways of breaking this rippling silence.

“[Y/n]…” He spoke. “There’s something I haven’t tell you. Something I wanted you to know but my misfortune wouldn’t let me…”

“What is it?” Your voice was tiny as a lump begun to form in your throat. Tom uncovered his face, and places his elbows in his thighs and rubbed his stubbly chin.

“Remember that night you found me breathless in your apartment’s door?” You nodded “Well, that night, was the night I broke with Jenna; I understood I didn’t actually love her. I told her what I felt and why we couldn’t be together, at first we argued, she was angry with me and said that I was liar and god she slapped my face so hard I thought she had left a bruise for the entire month! But the reason I understood I loved someone else and not her was that…  when I found out she cheated on me it didn’t hurt me; instead I felt a great relief.” He paused. “After that, I knew I needed to tell you what I felt, I needed you to know that I love you, so I didn’t care about anything else and got in my car and drove and I reallydidn’t care about anything, for when the traffic was awful I wasn’t going to sit and wait, so I left my car and ran for I don’t know how many kilometres,  jumped tables and pushed people until I got to your door with lungs about to explode.”

“That was the night that- that he proposed to me.”

“Yes.” Tom’s smile was so full of hurt when he looked at you. “That’s why I invented the stupid excuse that my car broke near your apartment and a dog was chasing me. I saw you with the ring and with…” He pressed his lips and swallowed “with him. I knew it was too late for me, because I couldn’t understand what I feel for you.” His voice broke and a tear slid down his cheek as he remembered that night, because he knew something died inside of him as he knew another part of him will die today when he hears those words in the altar that will make him bleed black internally.

“And now I’m here telling you all this and spoiling your day. I’m sorry. I should go.” Tom stood up in head for the door but was stopped short with a hold in his wrist. He turned around and saw you grabbing his wrist. He hadn’t notice but your face was red and your eyes were glassy.

His heart writhes seeing tears in your face, and before he could say something or get away of your hold, you had stood up and crashed your lips with his. He didn’t reply to the kiss at first, in shock to what had happened, your arms wrapped around his neck as you kissed his lips and soon he wrapped his arms around your waist as he kissed you with the same hunger and desire. After months of holding back his impulses of attacking your lips until they were red and swallowed, he finally let his inhibitions go and deepened the kiss getting drugged in your taste, in your scent.

Tongues battled together, and little moans mixed. His fingers wrapped in your hair and his other hand pulled you closer to his torso as both had been lost in this moment were any thoughts were in narcosis as you let only your sensations take over you. You stumbled and both fell to the couch, your back hit the soft material and his chest and hips crashed against you as he fell in top of you.

Panting, you looked at each other, his pupils blown out into dark abysms as he stared into your eyes that were just like his. You regained your breath and spoke with your voice hoarse from desire for him. “I love you. You are the only one I love. I said yes, because I thought I didn’t ever cross your mind, and that it was just a little crush that would pass by with time. I was wrong.”

Your heart felt so warmth knowing he loved you just like you did. Countless nights you cried when the wedding was getting neared for you couldn’t forget him. He wasn’t the only one who was withering painfully and slowly.  Now you knew it.

“Be mine, [Y/n]. Let’s run away together. No one will ever stop us.”

You looked at him with a sensation you’ve never fell before fluttering like butterflies.

“Tom… Yes.”

***

People were muttering waiting for the event to start officially, the groom was standing in the altar with his hand in front of him, people were talking to pass the time and even there were some kids playing somewhere in the back. Benedict sat beside Sophie at one of the front rows, and next to him, Tom’s spot was still unoccupied. Ben’s phone beeped in its message tone and opened it.

You were right. –TH

The bride’s song started to play, and everyone turned towards the door that flung open to reveal the astounding bride.

No bride stood behind, and people begun to mutter. Just air stood behind ready to marry and people were confused and concerned about it. A woman appeared, not the bride, instead one of the bride’s maid with a [colour] dress appeared with a paper on her hands and ran towards the altar as the music played.

Benedict’s smile was ridiculously obvious as he followed with his eyes along with dozens of eyes more the girl reaching the groom and the priest.

“The wedding is cancelled.” The priest announced after had exchanged some words with the pissed groom. Benedict looked like a kid in a candy shop as those words were announced and Sophie turned to look at him with a raised brow. “What’s so funny?”

Benedict laughed proudly “Oh dear! And you made a big deal when I accidentally heard that [Y/n] had feelings for Tom!” Ben said showing her Tom’s message.