pictures from the sibling

imagine how much better the Thor movies would’ve been if Frigga were actually written in a realistic way rather than a ‘women don’t talk when the menfolk are talking’ way

I mean she’s a powerful magic user and more importantly she’s a MOM. Thor and Loki wouldn’t have gotten away with SHIT. The entire goddamn plot never would’ve happened, no wonder they dumbed her down.



Finally, I managed to finish the picture of the Uchiha-Hyuuga step-siblings, from the Fugaku/Hiashi idea on @blackkatmagic‘s blog.

Besides the fact, that it took me literally ages to finish it, I’m actually very, very pleased with how it turned out. (Originally it was supposed to be just a picture of Hinata and Sasuke, because the thought of those two as siblings kind of started the whole idea, but you can see how that plan turned out. Not that I’m complaining)

Now I just have to learn how to write in a decent quality and then I can actually do something with this idea. How hard can it be? :D

X-Files Fic: D’un Nouvel Oeil, Chapter Nine and Epilogue

Previous chapters: one | two | three | four | five | six | seven | eight

A/N: IT’S DONE!!!  And I think, at long last, I’m ready to finally let this universe go.  Lots and lots of thanks to my favorite cheerleaders @mldrgrl, @crossedbeams, and @kateyes224, who kept encouraging me to focus and get this finished!

POSSIBLE TRIGGER WARNING: This chapter deals with the events of the real-life massacre at Oradour-Sur-Glane, and as such, contains a good deal of violence.


“No, Mulder.  Absolutely not.”

“Scully, it’s the only way.”  He’s pleading with her, begging, almost, but she remains firm.

“I am not running away, Mulder.  I can’t leave my cafe.  I’m telling you now, I won’t do it.”

“I know you love your cafe, Scully, but what are we going to tell people when your pregnancy starts to show?”

“I don’t need to say anything.  It’s no one’s business but my own.”  She drops an armload of dirty dishes into the sink, splashing soapy water everywhere.  They’re locking up the cafe for the night, but the argument is one that’s been going on since long before closing time.

“That might be true, but people are going to make assumptions,” says Mulder, rolling up his sleeves and getting to work on the dishes.  "And knowing you’re carrying my child is going to make you into a target for Spender.  Not to mention, he’ll do everything he can to use you against me.“  

"He’s not necessarily going to know it’s your child,” Scully protests feebly, retrieving a tray of meat from the refrigerator and transferring it to the butcher’s block.  She selects a knife from the block and begins hacking at the meat with unnecessary force.  Mulder doesn’t even dignify her latest rebuttal with a response; instead, he shakes his head and sighs, returning his attention to the sink of dirty dishes.

She knows, somewhere in her mind, that she’s being irrational.  Absolutely no one, in Mulder’s regiment or in the village, is going to have even the slightest doubt that she’s pregnant with Mulder’s child.  And she knows that it’s going to put him in an awkward place, that his commanders are going to use her condition to try to suss out his level of devotion to her.  Leaving before she begins to show would be the safest course of action for all three of them.

As much as she knows it’s what they have to do… the thought of abandoning her home, leaving her beloved Cafe Pequod, the continued success of which she’s poured her entire heart and soul into for five years (not to mention the years her mother had invested into the place before that) is unspeakably painful.  A part of her has been hoping- not realistically, she knows- that the Allied invasion will come and the war will be over before her belly begins to protrude.  If that were to happen, Maggie would be free to come home, to resume her life on the farm, and things could continue just as they once had- with the welcome addition of Mulder, of course.

But Scully is already nearly three months along.  Her belly is still flat, but that could change at any time, and even if the invasion were to happen tomorrow, the chances of the war being over before her pregnancy becomes obvious are slim to none.  She’s overheard enough from the men eating in the cafe to know that plenty of them are still convinced that their victory is assured regardless of what happens, and as long as they have that confidence, they’ll fight hard.

Keep reading

Monsta X reaction to their s/o cuddling the large stuffed toy (given by them) whenever they’re on tour

cont. cuddling a large stuffed animal (gift from them?) while they are sleeping because mx was on tour and the reader couldn’t sleep without cuddling them so they used the toy as a substitute

requested by anon~


Originally posted by hyungnu

Shownu; The two of you were facetiming when Shownu told you to go to sleep and he’ll end the call once you fall asleep. When you pulled the huge teddy bear he gave you, he couldn’t help but break into a soft smile. Telling him that you couldn’t fall asleep without him by your side and that you use the teddy bear as a substitute. Shownu would feel a pang on his chest to be honest, seeing you like that would make somehow think of things to make it up for you once they come back. 

I’ll be back, baby, don’t worry. Just a couple of more days and I’ll be there by your side, arasso? I love you and don’t worry, I’ll still be here when you finally fall asleep.”

Originally posted by ew-wonho

Wonho; He’d be utterly speechless when he hears it from your sibling. Receiving a picture of you hugging the huge stuffed toy he’s given you while sleeping made him emotional to be honest, especially when your sibling told him that you couldn’t sleep without him and you decided to use the stuffed toy he gave you. Wonho wouldn’t like the thought to be honest since he knows how much you mean to him and that he misses you so bad that he’d send you a message filled with love.

Hey babe, I miss you so much and I hope you’re going to have a great day ahead of you. I’m always here to listen to your problems despite being away, okay? Don’t think about being keeping it all to yourself because your my top priority. I love you and I’ll be home soon.”

Originally posted by wonhontology

Minhyuk; This boy will literally find it cute to be honest. Just the thought of you nuzzling on the fluffy bear’s neck makes him giddy and he’d also find it funny to be honest. But then when the two of you are facetiming, the first thing that he’d be able to see would be the stuffed teddy bear on your bed. He’d be talking about it to be honest and that’d be the only thing that’ll come out from his mouth for a good fifteen minute, making you blush from embarrassment but then he’d reassure you right away that you’re so precious.

Aigoo, my jagiya is so precious. Don’t worry baby, you can have me all you want once I get back there but for now, just think of me while you hug Mr. Snuggles, okay? AAANNDDD GUESS WHAAAT, you can use my perfume for that teddy since I know how much you love me *wink* (this would make you want to end the call tbh)”

Originally posted by kookihyunnie

Kihyun; Kihyun would be pretty vocal about this to you. At first he’d wonder why you can’t sleep without him by your side, only to end up blushing by your answer. But then it’s also a bad thing to tell him about this because he’d get really cheesy and greasy and corny….. But then he’d be giggly about it to be honest. Just thinking about you pouting at the stuffed toy he gave you would literally make him laugh out loud, making the other members look at him.

Omo, you can’t sleep without me by your side? I can’t sleep without you by me side too baby. *wink* Do you want Oppa to give you five kisses? Arasso *sends kisses five times* Not enough? Well, you’ll get a lot of it once I get back there.”

Originally posted by minhyuk1

Hyungwon; I actually don’t know but Hyungwon would practically be clueless about it at first to be honest until your mom, yes your mom, sends him a video of you practically telling her that you can’t sleep without it and that she shouldn’t take away the stuffed toy that Hyungwon gave you because it’s a substitute for Hyungwon. He’d actually find it cute to be honest but then he’d feel guilty to be honest for making you sleep on your own with that stuffed bear. But then he’d be all smiles, teasing you about it to be honest.

Baby, did you know that omoni sent me a video of you telling her not to get the stuffed toy I gave you since you couldn’t sleep without it since it’s like a substitute of me? Looool, you’re so cute baby. Babe? Aww, don’t get all sulky now. I miss you so so much and you’re doing that? C’mooon, I’m just messin’ with you~”

Originally posted by lostinmonstax

Jooheon; This tiger will literally ask you to show him the stuffed toy he gave you. He’d actually tell the stuffed toy to watch over you for him and that to give you the best hugs and cuddles for him. Jooheon would literally be cute about it to be honest. He’d actually found out about the information from your roommate since you kept on whining about it to her, only which she took action and told Jooheon about it. 

Baby, where Mr. Stripes? Oh, there he is! Okay, Mr. Stripes, listen to me. I know that my baby can’t sleep without me by her side and I want you to be the substitute for my absence. Can you give her the best hugs and cuddles for me? Yes? Good, now, I leave everything in your hands.”

Originally posted by 93kihyun

I.M; Changkyun would be cool about it to be honest. But then he couldn’t help but worry about that to be honest like what if that stuffed toy gets kidnapped or what. Well, if ever that could happen, Changkyun would actually buy a huge stuff toy at the country they are in and send it to your address with a letter with it. And once that you receive it, Changkyun would just casually explain it to you and that he’d find it cute that you used that stuffed toy as a substitute for him.

I bought that stuffed toy for you because what if Bluey gets kidnapped, huh? If that ever happens, Brownie is there to be by your side, not making you lonely and what not. And yeah, I wanted to add Brownie to your collection since a cute girl like you deserves it *wink*”

dr-hegemony  asked:

Was just rethinking about the "My family's slave" story and just noticed that the rest of his siblings (from pictures in the article he has 4) didn't seem to factor into any meaningful attempts to get Eudocia home. Even his older brother who introduced the author to the word slave for Eudocia. So you basically have a family of 7 all complicit in the crime of slavery.


The Glistening Of Fangs- chapter three

Alfred walked through the door of the house and was immediately greeted by the smell of something sweet baking.

“Natalya! I’m home!” she called, taking her coat off and hanging it up on the rack next to the door. Another woman emerged from the kitchen. She had light colored hair pulled back in a long ponytail, bangs held out of her face with a while headband. She wiped her hands on a dark blue, flour covered apron.

“Who is this?” she asked, not an ounce of warmth in her voice. She eyed him coldly.

“This is…” she looked at him out of the corner of her eye.

“Alfred.” he supplied quickly.

“He’s making his way to Russia and I offered him a place to stay!” Katyusha said cheerfully. Natalya shot something at her in what he assumed was Ukrainian, and Katyusha said something calmly back. She looked to Alfred apologetically.

“The guest room is up the stairs, down the hall, third door on the right.” She turned back to the other woman and went back to speaking in their foreign tongue.

Alfred turned and began making his way up the stairs, looking at all of the different pictures lining the walls. There were many, mostly of Katyusha and her siblings. There seemed to be pictures from all types of cameras and time periods. He had not thought that there was anything different sbout them in the beginning, so he just assumed that they liked photography, although all of the pictured were very, very old looking.

Once he got to the indicated room, he stepped inside and shut the door behind him quietly. Alfred toed off his shoes and collapsed on the end of the bed, not caring to cover himself or strip out of his dirty clothes. He fell asleep to the warm smell of baking bread and cinnamon.


Alfred woke to the familiar light pressure and pinch of fangs burying themselves in his neck. Groggily, he shifted himself so he was a bit more comfortable and let himself wake up slowly, eyes still closed. This was a rather common occurrence; when Arthur was leaving for work, he would go to Alfred for something quick to eat since he was the heaviest sleeper.

It wasn’t until the fangs were gone that he remembered that he was, in fact, on the border of Ukraine and Russia and had left his last master’s house over an entire week ago.

His blue eyes shot open and he shrieked, tumbling backwards off of the bed and landing on the hardwood floor in a tangle of sheets. “Owww. Fucking fuck!” he cursed, struggling to untangle himself from the blankets. The initial shock faded slightly.

He rubbed the back of his head and looked around what part of the room was visible. Nothing was out of the ordinary, so he thought he had just imagined it. “Woah, trippy.”

But when he went to sit back up, an ash-blond head popped over the side of the bed, startling him yet again and making him shoot back and against the wall with a surprised exclamation.

“Are you alright?” the new person asked. Alfred looked at him, bewilderment clearly visible on his face. For once in his life he was truly thankful that he slept with all of his clothes on.

“No I’m not alright! You can’t just do that without permission! You scared me!” Alfred spat, crossing his arms indignantly. “Who are you, anyway?” He studied the features of the person above him. His eyes were a bright purple, his hair and skin were so pale he was almost white, and he adorned a creepy-yet-somehow-friendly smile. He looked completely normal, but there was just something off about the whole picture; how perfect it was.

“My name is Ivan. My sisters told me your name is Alfred. That’s right, right?” Ivan smiled a little wider, showing his… fangs. Long, pointed, glistening white canines. This, this was definitely the Ivan he was looking for.

“Oh thank God you’re the right one,” he whispered to himself, albeit a little louder than he originally intended. The Russian flinched slightly. Alfred noticed and immediately tried to make up for his mistake.“Oh my gosh I forgot you’re a vampire I’m so sorry!”

Ivan looked confused, to say the least. “I don’t… You know what I am, and you’re not afraid?”

“Well, I’d think that I wouldn’t be afraid, since you’re the only reason that I’m here right now.”

“What do you mean?”

“I came looking for you. See, I need your help.” Alfred already felt like he was submitting to the vampire, what with the positions they were in.

“What do you need the help of a vampire for?”

“Not just any vampire; you, specifically.” Alfred took a breath to steady his shot nerves. This may have been what he came for, but the task of actually asking for help was turning out to be a little harder than originally planned.“I…I need protection from my last master. Would you help me?”

Ivan cocked his head to the side in an almost wolfish manner. “What’s in it for me if I do?”he inquired, almost catching Alfred’s eye. Alfred quickly blinked and looked down; catching a vampire’s eye was dangerous no matter who you are, even for other vampires. Lets them gain control over you, among other, more sinister things.

“Whatever you want, but I don’t have much money, so that wouldn’t be the smartest thing to ask for.”

“No,” Ivan laughed, “I have no use for some material thing that can be very easily acquired.” He paused in his speaking, and Alfred was floundering desperately, trying to come up with something, anything, to pay him with. He was so deep in thought that he started when the Russian’s silky voice purred out again. “I’d be willing to offer my personal protection if you became mine. Mine and mine alone.” Ivan hung his arm over the side of the bed, tracing lines along the probably ancient stitching. I did want another master to live under, Alfred thought to himself, But what if he’s just as bad as Arthur had gotten? No matter; I ran away once, and I can do it again if I need to. Maybe borrow some money and go back home. Alfred argued back and forth with himself for almost a minute, before finally delivering his answer: “I’ll do it.”

Let’s talk about what Susan Pevensie forgets: her older brother’s face, the sound of dryads gossiping in the leaves, and occasionally her house keys.

Susan forgets the tune of her favorite Narnian lullaby, the one Mrs. Beaver had sung to Lucy when they were still small, the one Susan had planned to sing to her own children, back when she had thought they would be there forever.

They say Susan forgets Narnia, but she doesn’t forget all of it. She puts it aside. She forgets faces and names, tax rates and the color of her favorite court shoes. Susan never forgets the weight on her shoulders that came from that responsibility, that power, that loss. She sometimes forgets she is strong enough to carry it. 

Sometimes she remembers. 


Let’s talk about how Susan does not fit into her own skin.

And not just for those first years, when she is a grown woman stuffed into a child’s body, when she gets growing pains all over again, puberty all over again, when she lays in her bed late at night and stretches her limbs out to all four corners of the mattress and can’t reach the sides. Things taunt her from high shelves and she is cramped, small, bursting. 

Her body grows to its old heights, but the skin inside her left forearm stays unblemished, never knocked up against a scalding copper tea kettle at eighteen. Her thigh bone does not ache before rainstorms, because she had never broken it in a bad fall from a horse. 

She gets paper cuts in the same places, because ink and paper are the backbone of her power in both lives. She gets paper cuts in the same places and she is thankful, grateful, runs her fingers along the healing ridges and tries to believe the lie.

This is not her body.

She breaks her wrist when a bicycle knocks her over on the way to a university class. The boy takes her to the hospital and then buys her dinner. When her wrist twinges, in the years after, she gets dizzy. She presses her palms into her thighs, feels pressure, weight, friction, and tries to remind herself that this is hers, she is here, she is.

When the skies get grey, Susan grips her thigh so tight it aches. She is breathless until rain finally starts to fall.

She forgets the way her body had felt that last day, hunting the white stag, her muscles tensing, her aches settling down and exhilaration rising in her throat.

She never forgets that this body, the one she will grow old in, the one she will live in, does not feel quite right.

Susan had been a traveling queen, living half her life in horseback, in the archery range, and chasing the Beavers’ children through ice melt streams. Now she is a schoolgirl, then a student of literature, then a grieving young woman making her way in an urbanizing world. Her body is soft. 

So Susan runs. She takes up tennis, using broken old rackets at the community center and making friends with the regulars. Horses are not for would-be young journalists in mildewed city apartments, but she dreams of them. She sweats through her mornings, doing push-ups and lunges, and then showers it off after. 

This soft body is a back-handed gift for stumbling through a wardrobe for a second time. Susan cannot bring back the exact shape of muscle and sinew she had lived the first two decades of her life in, but she will take this one and she will breathe deep with these new lungs. She will remake it in her own image.  


Let’s talk about how she traces her wrinkles–first at her wrists, and between her eyes, the corner of her mouth. They spread, soft folds, lines of weathered skin, skin that has seen weathering, and Susan traces them with the pads of her fingers. She remembers feeling so old, tumbling back through that wardrobe. They had been kings and queens and they had felt old, all of them, felt grown. 

Susan traces her wrinkles, each and every one of them earned, smile lines and worry wrinkles between her brows. There is a ridge on the side of the third finger on her right hand where she has held her pen pressed up for years. 

She keeps a picture of her siblings on her mantle, a candid from their last dinner at home. The picture is a lie in so many ways. 

Peter looks like a schoolboy and not a king. Ed is laughing, like he hasn’t a care in the world. Lucy is looking at the camera seriously, and she was never– no, no, no that’s wrong.

Susan has to remind herself every year, every time she meets a young girl with Lucy’s bright eyes, the light in them that looks effortless. Lucy worked as hard as any them. She ached as deeply. What she made was sunshine, light, and burning, burning faith, but she made it. She fought for it, bled and wept and shone. She earned it.

Susan meets girls like Lucy all her life, surprising her each time. In the midst of long stretches with no magic in them, Susan will stumble across a little girl, a young woman who sets the world on fire by believing in it. Susan remembers, each time, that the magic was never in the wardrobe. It was the little girl who opened to door and looked inside. 

All of those are true: Peter was a schoolboy and he was also a king. Ed knew how to laugh, even with cares weighing him down. Lucy was a light she had kindled herself. 

But the picture on the mantlepiece is a lie: Susan looks at it and it looks like she can reach out and touch them. It looks like they could be just around the corner, Lucy’s low laugh singing up the walk. It is a lie, and Susan grew tired of lying to herself a long time ago.

But she keeps it on the mantlepiece, because she has grown old enough to also grow tired of forgetting. 

This is a story about grief but also about growing. Susan did not forget her family, her kingdom, her little sister’s smile. She did not plaster them over, put wallpaper up over the holes in her heart. But she did put them aside. They were sitting on her chest, all those lives, all those holes in her, and she had to breathe.


Susan never forgets disbelieving Lucy, so, years later, when young girls come to her, with bright eyes, with dreams, beliefs, hopes, and ambitions, she listens. 

She does not forget standing, holding Peter’s hand, and listening to Aslan tell them they can never come back. She does not forget that the lion told her to look for magic in her own world. She is never sure if she found what he thought she should look for. She is not sure if her life is a culmination of a queendom or a defiance. She is not sure she cares.


Let’s talk about how sometimes when Susan puts on her lipstick it is battle armor. Sometimes it is a mask. She smiles with painted lips and they believe her. She pulls on her nylons and they think ah, what a lovely young woman and don’t realize she’s a snow storm tucked in a skirt.

Sometimes it is not about protection, defense, or presentation.

Sometimes it is a Saturday morning and Susan doesn’t plan on facing a single person all day but she leans on the counter in front of her mirror and carefully applies color.

She transforms. It is a magic trick.

This is about control. This is about writing over the skin you are given just to remind yourself that you can.

When the skies turn grey, Susan grips her thigh until the bone aches, until rain falls. When she feels misplaced, ill-fitting, lost, she settles in front of the mirror and gets out her lipstick– bright colors, brash ones, blush pinks and deep hues.

This is no closer to the half-lost snatches of the queen she used to be. This gets her no closer to Narnia, but she stopped running for Narnia years ago. The world is full of wardrobes to stumble through, broken wrists, and train crashes, but this is something she and no one else gets to decide.

She cannot have her old life. (This is something she never forgets, except for a few fuzzy moments some mornings, waking up from the kind of dream where everything was alright, where when she called Lucy for her birthday, Lucy picked up and they teased each other about how old they were getting). Susan cannot have her old life, cannot reclaim, repair, or win it back. 

She cannot have it back, but she can build something new. She will make this life her own. And she does. 


Companion to this post

Post-it Poems


So I fully intend to do one story that includes all of these words but I thought of this idea and couldn’t resist. Enjoy this beautiful sappyness. 
(edited by @alittlemissfit of course)

As Scully packed up the apartment that she’d barely made herself at home in, she found herself distracted by things she’d either hidden away when she moved in or that she’d gotten from her mother’s house.

She would find keepsakes from when she was a kid or old pictures of her siblings. She would find old case files that she’d chosen to keep for one reason or another.
But she hadn’t taken a pause in her work until finding a simple wooden box. One that held quite a few memories.

Running her hand over the lid she wondered if she wanted to open it.
The small cedar box held old notes from Mulder. Poems that he’d given to her over the years, written out in his messy scrawl on post it notes. The tradition started when she was dying of cancer and continued for most of their life together.

Scully rifled around through the post-its and found the first one he’d given her. It wasn’t dated or signed but she knew it was the first from the moment she saw it. She’d found it sticking to her nightstand one day after a nap.

The note read:

Ah, love, let us be true
To one another! for the world which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.
- Matthew Arnold

At the time it made her cry, hold tight to her pillow to soak up her tears. When Mulder came back later that night she kissed him, was grateful she still had the strength to hold him. She’d run her hands under his shirt, down to the sizable bulge in his pants.
He’d taken her hands and held them between them before she asked him to make love to her, convinced it would be their last chance. Every day she’d felt weaker and weaker and when he looked into her eyes he’d been unable to pull away. They moved slowly together on the hospital bed in the dark room and she’d tried to hold on to every moment. Wanting to remember each detail during the pain to come.
When she recovered they didn’t discuss it. He would occasionally kiss her on the cheek or forehead, say something that made her smile or melt, but they steered clear of heavy discussions, talking about things like love.

Searching for the next note Scully found it sticking to the bottom of the box. After Emily had died she closed herself off, from Mulder, from her mother, from everything. And he let her, until one day a few weeks later she found a post-it on the window of her car after work.
The sad words read:

Tread lightly, she is near
Under the snow,
Speak gently, she can hear
The daisies grow.

All her bright golden hair
Tarnished with rust,
She that was young and fair
Fallen to dust.

Peace, Peace, she cannot hear
Lyre or sonnet,
All my life’s buried here,
Heap earth upon it.
- Oscar Wilde
I’m here when you’re ready- M

She cried after reading it, cried like she wanted to at the funeral. Before she knew what she was doing her car was in front of Mulder’s building.
She didn’t have a plan but walked up to his apartment and when he opened the door she flung herself into his arms. He held her until she fell asleep, and in the morning she left before he woke. Again, they didn’t discuss it.

Remembering all the words unsaid, she came upon another note in the box. This one she’d found in her briefcase after she’d rescued him from the Bermuda Triangle. When he was lying in the hospital he’d told her he loved her. She had tried to take it with a grain of salt but at night she’d find the words echoing in her mind, seeping into her dreams.
After he was released from the hospital she found the note. It had read:

S, I meant what I said-
I have been here before,
  But when or how I cannot tell:
I know the grass beyond the door,
  The sweet keen smell,
The sighing sound, the lights around the shore.

You have been mine before,—
  How long ago I may not know:
But just when at that swallow’s soar
  Your neck turned so,
Some veil did fall,—I knew it all of yore.

Has this been thus before?
  And shall not thus time’s eddying flight
Still with our lives our love restore
  In death’s despite,
And day and night yield one delight once more?
- Dante Gabriel Rossetti

That time there was no rushing over to see him. She had worked up the nerve to bring it up one day until she saw him standing close to Agent Fowley in the hallway, having a hushed conversation.
She’d tucked the note away and felt like a damn fool for a long time after.

She didn’t open up to Mulder again until after his brain surgery, and shortly after received another tender note. It had been inside a file folder holding their latest X-file, one that had come across her small desk. The poem was scrawled on the front and back of the post-it note.

To Scully-
There is a lady sweet and kind,
Was never face so pleas’d my mind;
I did but see her passing by,
And yet I love her till I die.

Her gesture, motion, and her smiles,
Her wit, her voice, my heart beguiles,
Beguiles my heart, I know not why,
And yet I love her till I die.

Her free behaviour, winning looks,
Will make a lawyer burn his books;
I touch’d her not, alas! not I,
And yet I love her till I die.

Had I her fast betwixt mine arms,
Judge you that think such sports were harms,
Were’t any harm? no, no, fie, fie,
For I will love her till I die.

Should I remain confined there
So long as Phœbus in his sphere,
I to request, she to deny,
Yet would I love her till I die.

Cupid is winged and doth range,
Her country so my love doth change:
But change she earth, or change she sky,
Yet will I love her till I die.
- Thomas Ford

The words filled her but she didn’t go to him. Instead Mulder came to her. As she sat on her couch reading the note for the fifth time, he knocked on her door.

She opened the door and they simply looked at each other for a moment before she moved forward. Taking his face in her hands she kissed him, practically devoured him. They wound up stumbling into her apartment and into her bedroom, leaving a trail of clothes behind.

That night he spoke poetry aloud to her, and the next morning she pulled open the top drawer of her nightstand, showed him each of the notes he’d given her before handing him a pen and a stack of post it’s.

She asked him to write the one he’d just recited while pillowed on his chest, cuddled close to him and reveling in the afterglow.

Pulling that note out from the box she smiled, recalled the husky tone his voice took on as he spoke the words, kissed and nipped at her breasts.

Have you beheld (with much delight)
A red rose peeping through a white?
Or else a cherry (double graced)
Within a lily? Centre placed?
Or ever marked the pretty beam,
A strawberry shows, half drowned in cream?
Or seen rich rubies blushing through
A pure smooth pearl, and orient too?
So like to this, nay all the rest,
Is each neat niplet of her breast.
- Ovid

At the time she’d laughed in delight at the mischievous look in his eyes. He rolled her nipples between his fingers while reciting it by memory and she praised him for efficient multitasking.

Reaching for the next poem, she was overcome with the sadness she’d felt back when she first read it. Mulder had left it for her the morning he left, three days after William was born. It was stuck on the top of the pile of post-its that still sat in her drawer, but it had taken her a week to find it. When she had she’d held it tight to her chest and cried. The tear stained paper read:

I’m sorry that I have to leave.
I love you.
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of every day’s
Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love with a passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints,—I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life!—and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.
- Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Scully felt the tears gathering in her eyes but blinked them back. Kept sifting through the other notes in the box: From time to time she’d find them in her office at the hospital or hidden in her suitcases when they were on the run. She kept the box all these years and she’d kept them all.

Not hearing the door open she was startled when Mulder’s arms wrapped around her, circled her waist.

“Whatcha doing?” he asked, laying a kiss on the top of her head.

“Your post-it poems,” she answered, leaning back into his chest as he looked at her in surprise.

“You kept all of those?”

Putting the box down she turned in his arms. Laying her hands flat on his chest she smiled, looked up into his eyes.

“Of course I did. Every single one.”

His eyes watering Mulder pressed his lips to her forehead. Pulled away after a beat  just enough to speak.

“Now that I have your face by heart, I look
Less at its features than its darkening frame
Where quince and melon, yellow as young flame,
Lie with quilled dahlias and the shepherd’s crook.
Beyond, a garden. There, in insolent ease
The lead and marble figures watch the show
Of yet another summer loath to go
Although the scythes hang in the apple trees.

Now that I have your face by heart, I look.

Now that I have your voice by heart, I read
In the black chords upon a dulling page
Music that is not meant for music’s cage,
Whose emblems mix with words that shake and bleed.
The staves are shuttled over with a stark
Unprinted silence. In a double dream
I must spell out the storm, the running stream.
The beat’s too swift. The notes shift in the dark.

Now that I have your voice by heart, I read.

Now that I have your heart by heart, I see
The wharves with their great ships and architraves;
The rigging and the cargo and the slaves
On a strange beach under a broken sky.
O not departure, but a voyage done!
The bales stand on the stone; the anchor weeps
Its red rust downward, and the long vine creeps
Beside the salt herb, in the lengthening sun.

Now that I have your heart by heart, I see.”

At some point as he spoke Scully curled her head into his neck, listened to the rumble of his voice. Reaching her hand up she stroked his cheek that was covered with a day’s worth of stubble.
They stood in silence for a few minutes until Mulder pulled her back from him, looked into her eyes.

“Let’s go home Scully.”
She nodded, holding the box into one hand and held his with the other.

They had movers coming to get the few boxes that remained of the half-life she’d lived in the bare apartment. But she knew that she would have left all of the rest behind to be with him.

(-final poem written by Louise Bogan)

anonymous asked:

Hcs about the Shepard gang? Like what the other members are like

What I find so surprising is that I’ve never gotten this question before.

So I kind of just made these up and I like them somewhat. I definitely haven’t thought about this enough for these to be canon for me, though.

I’m canon on Marshall and Nick, but that’s all.

— He’s a very close friend of Tim’s.
— 18 and has known Tim since freshman year.
— Middle class, grew up with only a mother.
— Independent and occasionally helps Tim.
— He’s in the gang as more of a friend but works with Tim sometimes.
— Is actually really cute and hardworking.
— Nearly black hair, fair skinned and has some freckles.
— Almost fully English so has many of those common characteristics.
— Very similar to Tim but more of a good guy tbh.

— Curly light gold hair and cocky.
— Very strange kid, tbh.
— 16.
— He’s like tough like a greaser but abstract and artistic like a hippie.
— Mod but a greaser at the same time???
— Hangs out with Socs and literally whoever he wants; extremely popular and vibrant.
— Almost like a Bob mixed with Soda?
— Works for Tim on the down low and kind of definitely wants to fuck him.
— Ngl Tim is this boy’s idol, which doesn’t really make sense at all.
— Has a pretty twin named Chloe.

— 17 and Italian as fucking hell.
— Like, speaks Italian.
— Is trying to grow his hair out.
— It’s dark and straight, super sexy.
— He’s from the city.
— Not too smart but not dumb.
— Motorcycle enthusiast and wild.
— He will do ANYTHING.
— Charismatic and so sarcastic but incredibly funny.
— Is always slightly drunk because everyday is just another day to chill.
— People always want to be around him, he’s got a great personality.

— 17 turning 18 very soon.
— Trying to make money for college.
— Pretty good kid, grew up in Tulsa, everyone knows him.
— Introverted and always has cigarettes with him.
— Is always faintly there; everyone knows him but it’s like he disappears sometimes.
— Plain-colored tees and jeans everyday.
— Almost a redhead, but it’s like a fawn color.
— Little boy haircut and curly.
— Does some bad things but wants to be good.
— Him, Marshall, and Tim are a little trio but it’s not public like shut up it’s an unspoken secret

— An actual redhead.
— But doesn’t have any freckles really?
— Always tanned and it looks good ngl.
— A fucking psycho.
— He will do anything and everything.
— Tim loves that about him ofc.
— Big drug dealer.
— Incredibly stupid, not literally, but like seriously he tried to make a trampoline so he could jump off a roof.
— Throws epic parties (I hate the word epic I’m)
— His family has money.
— Two generations off from Ireland and overwhelmingly PROUD.
— Has 7 siblings.
— Picture little Irish redhead rugrats running around trying to stab each other with rocks.
— They’re extremely freckled.
— Francis just got lucky, I guess.

— A very newcomer.
— Not white (how surprised are ya??)
— Probably not even in the book time, I’m talking afterwards.
— Just turned 16.
— Kind of like a Johnny, but not so sentimental and not scarred for life.
— Horrible home life, though.
— His parents aren’t too bad but they’re very poor and he has two younger toddler sisters.
— So committed to them it’s sweet.
— Fucking chill as hell.
— Smokes so much weed and has the biggest afro.
— Fantastically woke.
— Everyone keeps him around because he’s so chill and can sneak into places very easily and stealthily.
— Is never surprised by anything.
— “yeah” “yeah” “yeaaah” “yea”
— “brother”
— Actually belongs in the ‘70s.
— Was made for the '70s.

This was more like their kind of circle, but Tim definitely has other boys that do his dirty work and stuff. Less attractive people, bad dudes. Basically.

My award winning ™ opinion on this latest De Nile family development - I’m less offended by what looks like a prototype (that could be from anywhere & at any stage of development) and more just confused as to how an undead character like Cleo gets a baby sibling in the first place but the important thing is to look at this from a big picture perspective - The other baby siblings have dolls that coordinate with them so what ones will come of this?

A two pack with the sister maybe? Dare I hope for Ramses or their mom? More, slightly older siblings?

I need the backstory, final doll proposal and art for this before I officially ‘yay’ or ‘nay’ it IMO

My birthday’s been pretty chill. Got Facebook greetings and mom posted a picture from when I was 2 (ofc). Two of my four siblings have greeted me so far.

Woot I’m 32 now. Old.


Just because I’m in a pretty good mood, here’s a few pictures from when I went to visit my parents and younger siblings in the Highlands last week :) - red-w00dy xoxo

P.s the ginger dog is my homegirl, Saffron, and it took me twenty minutes to stop crying when I finally saw her because it had been like a year since we were last together and I love my little ginger tool.

Highs and Lows

Characters: Jensen x Reader

Words: 1920

Summary: Ralph is out of the U, and the reader is even more on edge than before.

Warnings: Blood, threats, stalker ex-boyfriend

Italics are flashbacks.

Part 27 in The Future Series.  Read Part 3 here, Part 4 here,Part 5 here, Part 6 here, Part 7 here, Part 8 here, Part 9 here,Part 10 here, Part 11 here, Part 12 here, Part 13 here, Part 14 here, Part 15 here, Part 16 here, Part 17 here, Part 18 here, Part 19 here, Part 20 here, Part 21 here, Part 22 here, Part 23 here, Part 24 herePart 25 here, and Part 26 here.

Okay…don’t hurt me.

Keep reading

anonymous asked:

bellarke as soulmates?!? thanks!!!

[This got away from me again. I don’t know anything about optometry but for the sake of fiction, just bare with me. I hope you enjoy it! All mistakes are mine.]

“Are you okay?” 

No, she wasn’t okay. She couldn’t find her parents and when she ran up from the beach, she had fallen and scrapped her knee against the pavement. She cried from the pain. She cried because she just wanted her daddy. 

She sniffled and wiped under her nose as she looked up. Her blonde hair all over the place.

It took her a moment before she realized that the pair of eyes before her matched her own. 


She turned her head and watched her daddy run toward her. She stood up despite the blood dripping down her knees and flung herself into his welcoming arms. 

It was only when he was holding her and promising to get her ice-cream that she turned and watched the curly brown haired boy walking in the other direction. The boy who had eyes just like hers. 

Keep reading