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Oh, HAY, it me, nearly 40 vs me at 14 or so. I’m Cuban-American and neuroatypical. Didn’t start transition til I was 33, and wow was being closeted rough.

So. It’s Transgender Day of Visibility and a lot of folks are going to be sharing their transition pics. Please, please, please resist the urge to tell them they were attractive before.

Speaking from experience: for transmasculine folks, “but you’re such a pretty girl” is constantly trotted out to discourage us from transitioning. As if our only value is in how attractive we look. (And as if there isn’t a shit-ton of misogyny behind valuing women and perceived women only for their looks and treating their appearance as an issue of public consumption rather than personal expression/fulfillment.)

I found only trauma in being told how pretty my girl costume was, because pretending to be cis only brought me pain. Every fight over clothes, makeup, hair, etc. was a night I cried myself to sleep. And I cried a LOT in those days, even if people didn’t see it.

We trans folk have an uncomfortable relationship with being told we’re attractive by cis people. Because “attractive” is almost always code for “cis-passing”. Because, for trans women, their attractiveness is overwhelmingly tied to being objectified as a sexual fetish. Because, for non-binary and non-transitioning people, they still aren’t being told they are valuable and loved.

Here’s the thing, cis friends: transition photos really aren’t for *you*. We share the documentation of our transition as a way to give ourselves and other trans people hope. “Passing” is overwhelmingly an issue of safety, and any joy at putting some of our dysphoric demons to rest is clouded by all these messages that we’re finally “acceptable” to a cis audience.

Transition photos are photos of SURVIVAL. Transition photos document RECOVERY FROM TRAUMA. Just… just think about that.

By all means, tell trans people they are attractive (we do need to hear it from time to time, same as everyone else), but go beyond the obsession with what we used to look like. If you want to know more about transition, Google it, the same way we all had to. Engage with trans folks on their other strengths and talents. That will go much further to signify your allyship.

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Teruyo is a restauranteur in Tokyo and activist from the Ainu culture, an indigenous community of northern Japan. She’s fighting for the survival of her mother tongue, which is spoken at varying levels of fluency by an unknown number of people. Throughout the 19th and 20th centuries, Ainu speakers faced harsh persecution by the state, with legislation forbidding their language’s use in the public sphere, including education. As a consequence, only 10 native speakers remain. 

However, while the Ainu language was pushed to the brink of extinction, the Ainu people have since launched a lively revivalist movement, especially among younger generations. As a result, L2 speakers are on the rise, and an Ainu-language magazine has been in circulation since 1997. Nonetheless, the movement receives little support from the Japanese government.

Today, there are more than 3,000 language communities facing a similarly precarious future, pushing back against centuries of repression and marginalization. We’re building tools to help language activists like Teruyo document, share, and sustain their ways of speaking.

Here’s how you can help:

1) Share this post with your friends and family.

2) Pledge any amount on Kickstarter, and we’ll match your contribution.

3) Get 10 friends to join you in pledging.

Thank you, tangkyu, 御拝ど, takk fyri, +7000 more :)

Chance Encounter | 01

Character / Genre / words: Christian Yu ( DPR +IAN / Yu Barom ) x reader | Fluff | 7,115 words

Warning: Nothing yet. For now. Possible smut scene ahead

a/n: inspired by the infamous DM mishap which happened to me about a week ago or more, so I decided to just write the whole thing down as a cute reminder. This is the first time I’m writing for him, so I hope I do him justice | dedicated to: @rapmonluv , @meanyoongis who have been supporting me into actually writing this, and @2seoke who has shown me the light^^

Part 01 | Part 02 | Part 03


Keep reading

Make journals of:

  • dreams
  • food
  • finances
  • writing ideas
  • love
  • ideas for architects
  • city design ideas
  • beautiful and/or ugly sights
  • a history of one’s own writing life, written daily
  • reading/music/art, etc. encountered each day
  • rooms
  • elaborations on weather
  • people one sees-description
  • subway, bus, car or other trips (e.g., the same bus trip written about every day)
  • pleasures and/or pain
  • life’s everyday machinery: phones, stoves, computers, etc.
  • answering machine messages
  • round or rectangular things, other shapes
  • color
  • light
  • daily changes, e.g., a journal of one’s desk, table, etc.
  • the body and its parts
  • clocks/time-keeping
  • tenant-landlord situations
  • telephone calls (taped?)
  • skies
  • dangers
  • mail
  • sounds
  • coincidences & connections
  • times of solitude

Other journal ideas:

  • Write once a day in minute detail about one thing
  • Write every day at the same time, e.g. lunch poems, waking ideas, etc.
  • Write minimally: one line or sentence per day
  • Create a collaborative journal: musical notation and poetry; two writers alternating days; two writing about the same subject each day, etc.
  • Instead of using a book, write on paper and put it up on the wall (public journal).
  • and so on …

*** Bernadette Mayer is an American poet from Brooklyn. My creative writing professor shared this document with us on our first day and I just wanted to share it with more people because it has some really great ideas! I highly suggest checking out Mayer’s poetry too.

Hey Adventurers! There’s been an influx of new members lately so I thought now would be a good time to share our FAQ.

What is Tiny Adventure Club?

It’s a celebration of life’s tiny adventures, like trying new food, stargazing or simply surviving another week. A Tiny Adventure can be almost anything. 

How can I become a member of the Tiny Adventure Club?

Document and share your adventures in the #tinyadventureclub or #tiny adventure club tag. (I check both of them.)   Please  note: I ask that you do not submit adventures through the ask box or through messaging.  A full inbox doesn’t play nice with my executive dysfunction. But please feel free to drop a us message if you’d like!

What counts as a tiny adventure?

Adventure is relative. What counts as a tiny adventure is purely up to you. We’ve awarded badges to everything from getting out of bed to hiking for the first time. 

How do I get a badge?

I do my best to award as many badges as I can, but I’m just one small adventurer.  I go through the tag regularly and award them.

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This is what we enjoy the most. Interacting, documenting & sharing our best content, hoping to raise awareness. Many dolphins are becoming more and more curious and friendly with the divers that visit the Socorro Islands. Respect is the first step towards conservation.

Revillagigedo · March 2015
Video @jerochucho

#pelagiclife #mexicopelagico #dolphins

Made with Instagram
Ripple

Summary: Phil has a cheating boyfriend. Dan is a poet with a crush, facing an ultimatum.

Genre: University AU (poet!Dan)

Warnings: Mentions of alcohol, swearing, many elements of angst, implied smut, vague implication of abuse (only two lines)

Word Count: 33.6k

Fic Playlist (ordered chronologically to follow the storyline as it progresses)

Read on ao3

Keep reading

applications now open for the fanauthor workshop!

thank you to everyone who participated in my survey a few months ago about the fanauthor workshop, my (@bettydays) upcoming independent study in which i’ll be leading an MFA-style online workshop specifically for fanauthors. 

unfortunately, due to the constraints of the workshop model, i will only be able to accept a limited number of applicants, which is why i’m running an application process. here’s all the information you’ll need to decide if you’d like to apply, and how to go about applying.

both the workshop and application are free. i am doing this for graduate credit in lieu of a literature seminar this semester. 

what is a workshop?

a creative writing workshop is a round-table style discussion about writing. specifically, you read a peer’s work in advance of the meeting, and then we discuss the piece, offering constructive criticism, while the writer listens and takes notes. prior to the meeting, you also write a letter of critique to the writer.

when and where is the workshop?

the full workshop will begin on September 4, 2017. there will be about a dozen participants, depending on how many applications i receive. ideally we will meet on Sunday evenings around 7 - 9pm EST via Google Hangout, but i am absolutely willing to negotiate meeting times. if you have evenings and/or weekends mostly free, please still consider applying, even if Sundays specifically don’t work for you. you can let me know any constraints you have in the google doc linked below.

why are you doing this?

fanfiction taught me how to write and i have immense respect for it as a genre. i think fanauthors do amazing literary work, and i’d like to take what i’ve learned from my MFA so far and bring it back to the community that fostered my passion for writing. 

moreover, i like talking about writing. like, a lot. i thought it might be pretty fun to get class credit for meeting up with fanpeople once a week to talk about fic.

what would i get out of it?

ideally:

  • a bunch of new friends
  • constructive criticism on your writing
  • a polished piece of fanfic to post to an AO3 collection
  • (if fall workshop) a polished piece of original fiction to submit for publication or to other workshops
  • a platform in which to ask questions you have about writing, publishing, etc. 
  • more comfort providing feedback to other writers
  • being part of something cool and weird
  • providing input for my craft essay on fanfic as a literary genre, which i plan to publish
  • the satisfaction of helping me become a better teacher

the summer trial workshop

the summer trial workshop will be held the weeks of August 21 and 28 (tentatively). we will meet two or three times for two hours apiece.

you can apply for this if you only want feedback on a short piece of writing, either fanfic or ofic, with a very small group of people. 4-6 participants will be pitching any type of work up to 10k words, and we will meet twice to workshop and go through any bumps in the process. you will read and provide feedback on a total of 3 other pieces, receive crit on one, and fill out a survey at the end giving me feedback on the overall process so i can tweak it for the full semester.

the fall fanauthor workshop

we will meet 14 times over the span of as many weeks starting September 4 (provided i get all the bumps fixed from the trial run), again for approximately 2 hours apiece. during these sessions, we will workshop two pieces and also have a short craft discussion. 

prior to each session, you will have to read both pieces, provide marginal comments in the shared document, and write a short letter of criticism to the author. i anticipate the workload will take approximately 5 hours a week of your time, not including the hours you spend writing your own pieces.

each participant will be workshopped twice. there will be two cycles: one for fanfiction and one for “original” fiction (ofic). 

cycle 1: fanfiction

you will write one fic up to 10k words to share. any ship, any fandom, any content. you must also be willing to read any ship and any fandom. if you have triggers, we can discuss and work out a content warning system as necessary at the beginning of the semester. 

our craft discussions during this cycle will revolve around defining fanfiction as a literary genre. i will be taking this insight and writing a final craft essay at the end of the semester as my independent study final. 

at the end of the semester, you can revise your fanfic piece and we’ll make an AO3 collection of our work. 

cycle 2: original fiction

you will write one piece of ofic up to 10k words to share. this can be anything you want it to be. the goal of this cycle is to workshop a piece of original fiction to either apply to programs/workshops with or submit for publication/writing contests. 

our discussions during this cycle will revolve around the publication process and any other questions that come up. we will also be reading published original pieces of my choosing and discussing them from a craft perspective. 

should i apply?

  • yes, if you:
    • have 5 hours a week to spare this fall and can meet mostly at the designated meeting time one evening per week (it’s ok to miss one or two for emergencies, etc)
    • are over the age of 18
    • want to improve your writing and help your peers improve theirs
    • are interested in discussing writing with like-minded individuals
    • are willing to chat with us via webcam
  • but what if i don’t have a piece of original fiction ready?
    • that’s ok, you’ll have 6 weeks of fanfiction workshopping to prepare an ofic piece
  • but what if i’m not a student?
    • you don’t need to be. the workshop is open to everyone.
  • but what if i don’t want to post to AO3 at the end or submit my original fiction anywhere?
    • that’s okay, it’s completely voluntary.
  • but what if i suck at writing?
    • you don’t. and anyway, the whole point of a workshop is to get better.
  • but what if i write really dark stuff?
    • hey man, so do i. it’s all chill. 
  • but what if english isn’t my first language?
    • apply anyway. usage/grammar errors can be fixed and i won’t be harping on them in the application process. as long as i can understand what’s being written, that’s what counts.
  • but what if–
    • APPLY.

to apply, please fill out this google form. applications are due july 31, 2017.

if you have questions, please feel free to send me an ask

Office Quarrels (Pt. 1)

Assitant!Reader au

Pairing: Dark x Reader x Wilford

Gender neutral pronouns

Assistant doesn’t mind working with the egos a single bit! Everyone thinks of them as a wonderful friend and coworker, but some seem to want… something more…


(y/n) was new at the Ego building, but they quickly proved themselves useful. They were all skeptical at first, even (y/n) wasn’t sure if they’d be able to stay for long, but soon (y/n) felt at home with their crazy coworkers. Everyone eventually grew fond of them, at their own pace though. (y/n) certainly helped around a lot, they brought in snacks during long meetings, sorted the egos’ paperwork so they’d each have their fair share, proofread documents and generally helped with scheduling. After some time, (y/n) was eve included in group outings!! Everyone considered them to be a great friend, though some of them wanted…. more….

(y/n) was in their own office space, it was located at the front of the building on the second floor, with one-sided windows allowing them to see outside. They sat at their sleek black desk, their computer on top of it, with some boxes for sorting paperwork beside it. They moved back and stretched in the comfortable, black office chair they had been provided. They had been going through some of Wilford’s documents when, coincidentally, the man came by, seemingly out of nowhere. (y/n) was a bit startled, though not as much as they might’ve been, this was quite a common occurrence after all.

Their voice came out in a bit of a stutter as they tried to compose themselves. “Oh! Um, hi Wilford, you need anything?”

He stretched out his suspenders, letting them snap back before bringing out a small, light blue box from behind his back with a pink poof. (y/n) could see the remnants of the pink cloud, just the faintest outline, not uncommon, simply Wilf’s shortcuts which he used quite often, reality bending.

“Oh nothing hun, just wanted to leave ya this, a lil’ ol’ gift for all the hard work ya do~” He winked and grinned sweetly as (y/n) opened the box. It was chocolates, some with intricate designs, some in pink or white, many varieties. (y/n) smiled as a bit of heat rose to their cheeks, barely noticeable, though Wilf still saw as he beamed with pride.
“Gosh, thank you! I certainly appreciate it!”

Wilford felt victorious at that moment, keenly aware of a certain someone staring him down from a nearby corner. “No need to thank me sweetheart~ I’ll be off now!”

The man seemed to disappear in front of them, leaving only a faint pink smoke smelling of candy behind.

“That was quite… random…” (y/n) mumbled to themselves as they set aside the box of sweets for later, though they gladly ate one of the chocolates first, a pink heart shaped one, it was absolutely delicious. Before they could do much else, (y/n) was interrupted yet again. This time, it was the complete opposite counterpart to Wilford. He walked in calmly, wolf-like, predatory smile on his features and a troublesome glint to his eyes.

“(y/n)? Mind if I interrupt you for a quick moment?” Dark spoke quite sweetly, gently even.

“Oh no I don’t mind, what is it?” They tried not to let any nervousness bleed through their voice, Dark wasn’t the easiest to remain calm around after all.

“I simply wanted to gift you this- He pulled out a small black box from his pocket, setting it down on (y/n)’s desk before continuing – you do a lot of excellent work around here, I just wanted to show my gratitude, love~”

He paused to allow them to open the box. (y/n) gasped lightly as they saw its contents, a simple necklace, yet very elegant; it had an obsidian pendant held by a silver fixture on a sophisticated, black, braided sort of cord. This time, they could not hide the color that dusted their features as they hastily tried to reply, finding it quite difficult to produce much of a coherent thought.

“You really didn’t have to bring me this gosh! It’s beautiful, thank you very much!”

Dark became even more smug than usual, if that was even possible, as he spoke. “No worries dear, I’ll leave you to continue your work then.”

He wore a proud grin as he began to leave and saw them slip on the necklace from the corner of his eye.

(y/n) certainly had no clue what was going on today, yet the one thing they did know was that something felt off, the whole building gave off a different vibe, a rather drastic shift in atmosphere.

And so, war had begun~

sign up to a library

take a train to places i have never been to

revisit my favourite museums and go to a lot of art exhibitions

cook good food

write and read

document and share more

worry about documenting and sharing less

swim at night

go on boat rides in the old green wooden boat

talk more/less

listen more

pick herbal teas

learn more about literature, food, paganism, herbs

hey ya’ll if anyone you know shares a gdoc with you that you weren’t expecting, contact them and ask if they actually shared it. and if you don’t know the person, just delete the email.  there’s a phishing scam going around that’s using gdocs sharing and your permissions to gain access to people’s accounts (gifs and examples at this link.) 

remember, when someone actually shares a document with you they have already sent it to a specific google account. clicking on that blue button in the email notification should simply take you to the document itself, not google’s page for authorizing a third party application and giving it access to your information. stay safe!

(I literally had a moment, about two hours ago, where I was like, “the responsible thing to do would be shower and go to sleep, and write the cracky idea in the morning.” Thank god I’m not that mature yet.)



Keyleth hated this mission. The fact that she had self-assigned it did nothing to diminish her hatred. It just left her with only herself to blame.

“Stop pinching your lips like that. It blows your cover as an empty-headed chit.”

Oh, wait, there was definitely someone else to blame.

Keyleth tightened her grip on Ripley’s arm—Anna Ripley, international arms dealer, perennial pain in the Department’s ass, and just this once her partner—and wished Vex was here instead. But the Conclave had caught Vax on camera stealing the Whisper Codex, which meant they’d make Vex as well, and no one else knew Percy’s codes well enough to…coordinate if something went interestingly. (Or to communicate if he was too badly hurt. Or to counter him if—no, Keyleth didn’t believe Raishan’s bullshit message for a second. Percy would never betray them. She just prayed the Deceiver and her cronies hadn’t done anything too horrible to him when they found that out.)

Unfortunately, there was one other person who knew Percy that well, and this was a two-man job. Or two-woman, as the case may be.

They reached the hotel door before Keyleth was ready. Ripley just extended one cool hand to the doorman, with a heavily embossed invitation.

“Dr. Anna Ripley, and guest.” A smirk played on her lips like she knew a joke he didn’t get. Keyleth held still, and tried to smile at him.

The guard scanned the invitation with his phone, waiting until it beeped a confirmation to look back up at them. Keyleth didn’t let herself relax an inch—falsifying the invite had definitely been the easy part of the job.

“I’m afraid I need to get your guest’s name, ma’am,” he said. He was dressed like he worked for the Palazzo he stood in front of, but a discreet five-colored pin on his collar announced the hosts of the party within.

“This is my assistant, Kiki Dawson.” Ripley spoke before Keyleth could open her mouth, and pulled their twined arms a little closer, as if to claim her.

Keyleth smiled at the guard, trying to make her expression fit her dress. It was a low-cut, sleeveless, lime green thing, meant to draw attention to her curving figure and the tattoos swirling over her dark skin. Normally those were just for her, but tonight they had to be part of the costume.

The guard waved them in with only the hint of a lecherous smirk. As soon as they were through the doors), out of sight, Keyleth aimed a heel at her “partner’s” foot. Ripley pulled away just in time.

“Whatever happened to us both being incognito?” Keyleth hissed.

Ripley kept towing her across the lobby, speaking softly but without a hint of doubt. “Wouldn’t have worked. I’ve dealt with the Conclave before, and they don’t like me much. Umbrasyl probably remembers my face, and Raishan certainly does.”

“Then how did we just walk into her party?”

Again, that goddamn smirk. “I phoned ahead and offered to sell her my new missile shield.”

Cabal’s Ruin? Keyleth wanted to say, just to prove that they had broken her security enough to know—but it was too late. They were already at the ballroom doors, and thank god it wasn’t like a ball in fairy tales, where they would be announced at the door, or Keyleth would just about have died.

It was awful enough. There were so many people, milling around in clothing that cost enough to feed a small country, and Keyleth recognized enough of them at a glance to know that they had probably collectively starved several small countries, or would within the year, and wouldn’t care. They were all drinking champagne and making small talk, and around them were a dozen glittering chandeliers and enough gold to bankrupt another, medium-sized country. Not, Keyleth knew, Raishan’s taste—fuck, did that mean Thordak was here, too?

Then again, they did have quite a prize in the vaults below.

She didn’t need Ripley’s nudge to trip against the first waiter she saw, and spill champagne down her very cloth-free front. It was barely even an act.

“Honestly, dear,” said Ripley, sounding more like an irritated schoolmarm than someone who would ever call someone else ‘dear.’ “Do you have the faintest sense of the dignity of an occasion?”

“I am so sorry, ma’ams,” said the waiter. He pointed back towards the lobby door, his own shirt stained gold as well. “There’s a bathroom right out there and to the right, if you need it. Please, let me get you a finer drink as an apology. A rosé? Or we have a fine old Chanteau, put down in 1927.”

“Thank you,” Keyleth said before Ripley could say something snide.

Ripley saved it until they were back in the hallway. “Well, they certainly know we’re here, now.”

“Like we needed them to,” Keyleth snapped back. “Or did you want them wondering why you appeared at the front door and never in the party?”

Ripley just rolled her eyes, and took the lead as they walked—not crept; never look like you don’t want to be caught—down the opulent hallway.

“If you didn’t want to come,” Keyleth hissed, hopping a step to keep up with her, “you didn’t have to.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not going to let someone else kill—quiet.” Ripley caught her by the arm and pulled her flat against the wall just before a T-intersection.

Keyleth fumbled a compact mirror, very quietly, from her pocket, and angled it stealthily at her side. She caught a glimpse of the same uniform the guard at the door wore—black; Security. Two of them were coming down the intersecting hall.

There wasn’t enough cover here, and they had gone in the opposite direction as the bathrooms. Keyleth glanced at her “partner.”

Ripley already had a pistol in her hand, from where, Keyleth didn’t know. How, she didn’t know. There had been an X-ray weapons scanner carefully concealed in the front door. Keyleth only had a couple shocks stored up in her tazer-bracelets.

Keyleth tugged Ripley’s arm to get her attention, and pointed at the gun. Too much, she mouthed silently.

Silencer, Ripley mouthed back, raising one eyebrow like she was genuinely surprised Keyleth was this stupid.

Bodies, Keyleth replied, because I don’t want to kill random guards just because they get a half-decent paycheck here would be ignored, and was too long, and probably wouldn’t work out anyway.

Then she gave up and, as Security’s footsteps approached, pushed herself over Ripley’s front (hiding the gun) and kissed her on the lips.

She caught the older woman by surprise. Ripley’s mouth was open to retort something else.  Keyleth leaned into it with what she hoped was a convincing moan. Her fists bunched in the fabric of Ripley’s dress—much more modest than her own, but it felt just like it looked, like fabric made of midnight.

Ripley’s arms came up around Keyleth’s shoulders and there were two soft thumps behind her. One of the gods stopped halfway through clearing their throat.

Keyleth pulled away, wiping her mouth, and looked behind her. Both guards were on the ground, a woman with a neat hole in her head and a man gurgling and choking as blood spilled out of his throat. He was trying to reach for the radio on his hip, but his arm twitched uncontrollably.

Ripley stepped around Keyleth and him a second time, a would to match his partner’s. Her gun was perfectly silent.

That wasn’t necessary.” Keyleth felt the bile rising in her throat, and the tears in her eyes, and hated them both. Hated field missions in general and this one in particular, hated every reason that she had to be on it, and hated that she couldn’t handle any of it.

“You are utterly naïve,” Ripley sneered. She peered around the corner for more guards, gun still in her hand. Her carefully coifed bun was mussed from where Keyleth had pushed her against the wall. “The elevator shaft is this way.”

“You—”

Before Keyleth could finish her insult, the supposedly solid ground shook beneath their feet. Of course, both women knew full-well there was a complete Chroma Conclave facility beneath this building.

It shook again, harder this time, as if the source was moving closer to the surface. A little more to the south, though. There was the faintest echo of an explosion.

“Percival,” Ripley said with a snake-like smile, as Keyleth breathed a relieved, “Percy.”

They both took off running down the hall.

I was seeing a lot of Doreen Valiente on my dash today, and I wanted to reflect on how influential she has been on Traditional Witchcraft, the path she pursued after she parted with Gardner and went looking for something she could consider more authentic. She got to know a lot of the figures who practiced different witchcraft traditions, from those as bizarre as Charles Cardell of the Coven of Atho that faded into obscurity, to her close friend the very influential Robert Cochrane, she even got to meet Austin Osman Spare whose quiet influence on Traditional Witchcraft is greater than most people know.

What strikes me the most is how like us she is. Look at her young vibrant face there, selfie-photographing the goat foot candle sticks she obviously was proud of and photographed often. Doreen was proud of her education and reading, the tools and artifacts she collected and used, and her mystical experiences as a witch. She was a prolific and amazing writer, yet always wrote for a general literacy rather than an ye olde obscurantist style. She never seemed to be too big for her britches showing a humbleness and wonder at witchcraft that somehow aligned without contradiction to her self-empowerment.

We can’t ever know for sure, but based on how she interacted with media in her own time: I am confident that if Doreen were young today she would be blogging along with us and sharing instagram photos of her books and tools and writing up her latest poetry for her community to use and reblog. The Lady witch that did so many dignified and authoritative interviews wouldn’t shy from Youtube vlogging. She balanced her oaths and secrecy and privacy with a love of sharing what could be ethically shared freely with grace. We are still learning so much about this woman that seemed so public yet held so much back. This is my witch mighty dead role model. When folks get grumpy and make fun of how much we share and document of our practice, I always think of her and how she traversed the world of the witchcraft revival and documented it with common sense and attitude.  Much of what we know about important witchcraft figures is from her testimonials and historical research.

In Sickness and in Health (Grayson)

Summary: Your husband wakes you up in the middle of the night after getting sick, embarrassed and upset that he needs you to care for him.

Word Count: 1,487

Warnings: Mentions of vomit; descriptions of vomiting

Author’s Note: This one shot idea was requested by an anon, so I hope I did it justice! I apologize for taking so long to finish it; I was anxious about it turning out well and the anxiety caused me to put it off for a while. I hope you enjoy! As always, requests are always open!


“No, no, no, no, no…”

A low voice grumbles some distance away from you as you roll over in bed, your body heavy and exhausted. You were in the middle of a dream, a joyous dream in which you were laughing and driving down the highway with your husband in the passenger seat, both of you screaming along to the radio at the top of your lungs. The windows were down and the sunroof was open, causing the wind to throw your hair every which way and tangle it up in one giant mess, but you didn’t mind. How rare it was to be able to share such precious moments with your love because of how few and far between they seemed to be now. Recently, he always seemed to be out of town, promoting this or planning that, and no matter how proud of him you were, you couldn’t help but sometimes wish it would all stop long enough to be able to be a couple with him again.

“Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit- “

The voice pulls you farther out of your sleep as you reach across the king-sized bed, fishing for a large, warm body that’s supposed to be wrapped up in the sheets, but as you pat the mattress, it’s nowhere to be found. With your eyes still closed, you frown, almost positive you still had five more days to be with him before he takes off to God knows what city next. Did you get your dates mixed up? Did he already take off without your knowledge? And if he did, why didn’t he kiss you goodbye like he always does?

“Uhhhh….”

The voice moans as you wipe the sleep from your eyes, glancing over at the digital clock on the end table. 4:14 AM. The last time you had been up this early was a little over three days ago, when you caught a nasty stomach bug that wouldn’t let you sleep for more than thirty minutes at a time without waking you up to upchuck into a wastebasket by your bedside. Just thinking about the toll it took on your body makes you lay a hand over your stomach, thankful it only lasted for twenty four hours, and that your husband didn’t catch it too…

“Y/N?”

The voice calls your name from behind the double doors of the master bathroom and you throw your legs over the side of the bed, your feet meeting the cold wooden floor. The sight you find when you softly turn the knob and swing the doors open makes your heart drop: your husband is curled up in the fetal position next to a large, foul-smelling pile of bile, breathing heavily and squeezing his eyes shut in pain. You run over to him and crouch down next to his head to wipe the hair that has stuck itself to his forehead. His skin is clammy and hot.

Too late. It looks like he did catch the bug after all.

“Oh Gray, sweetheart, when did you get sick?” you question while stroking the side of his face with your thumb, hoping that your touch will help to distract from some of his anguish.

“I… maybe… not that long ago. I tried to make it to… the toilet, but… Oh my god, I didn’t realize you were in this much pain when you were sick. Why does it hurt so bad, Y/N?”

You wince at Grayson’s weak voice and silently kick yourself for not waking up to be there for him when he first felt like he was going to be ill. “I don’t know, love, but it won’t last much longer. How many times have you thrown up tonight?”

“Um… I think three already. I don’t… I don’t remember for sure.”

“Okay, it’s okay. Don’t worry about it, love. I’m going to roll you onto your other side to make sure you don’t inhale any of chemicals when I clean this up, but you’re going to have to help me, okay? When I count to three, just lift your body as high as you can and I’ll turn you.”

Grayson groans. “Okay, just be… be careful.”

“I’ll be as gentle as possible. Ready? One… two… three!”

You place your hands behind both of his shoulders and with a grunt, Grayson peels his upper body off of the floor. You take his weight in your arms and grit your teeth while turning him over onto his other side before attempting to place him back down as softly as possible. Grayson shivers as you place a wastebasket in front of him, instructing him to try and vomit into it from now on. After you gather most of the bile in paper towels and spray a generous layer of Clorox disinfectant onto the bathroom floor, Grayson groans again.

“Y/N? This is… this is gross, but… I think I laid in it on accident. Something still really smells, and I think it’s me… Oh god, I hope it’s not me.”

You scan his body before realizing he’s right; the side of his basketball shorts and the bottom of his cutoff are decorated in vomit. Grabbing a plastic bag from underneath the vanity sink, you open it and inform Grayson that you’re going to have to take his clothes off to help rid of the smell.

“Oh, gross… Okay, just get it off of me, Y/N. I don’t want to be covered in this shit.”

You work his shorts and shirt off of his body, turning them inside out and placing them in the bag. “Are you able to sit up, Gray? I can run a bath for you and let you soak for a while. That should help with both the stomach pain and the odor.”

“Can you stay with me while I’m in there?”

The trace of innocence in Grayson’s voice causes your heart to skip a beat. “Yes, love. I’m not going to leave you alone like this.”

“Okay, good. I don’t want you to leave me alone either.”

You begin to fill up the tub with hot water, checking the temperature every couple of minutes and turn on the jacuzzi jets you and Grayson had installed soon after signing the house deed. That moment is still one of your favorite memories of the two of you share because that document was the first one you signed as a married couple; it was the first one you signed with Grayson’s last name. Seeing his name attached to yours brought tears to your eyes and the realization began to set in: That is your husband. You are married to that man. Now, years later, you still wake up every morning completely in awe that he chose you to be his lawfully wedded wife.

“Is it ready yet?”

Grayson’s voice shakes you from your thoughts and you shut off the water just before it hits the brim of the tub. “Yep. You caught me just in time. Can you help me lift you up again?”

“Yeah, I’ll try my best.”

With an impressive amount of effort, you somehow manage to pull Grayson off the bathroom floor and guide him to the water. As he settles in, you wet a cold washcloth at the sink to place over his forehead and set the wastebasket on the far edge of the tub. You know he’s only just begun getting ill.

“I hate having you see me like this, Y/N.” Grayson struggles to push the words out.

You sit down on the ledge and reach in the water to take his hand. Your fingers intertwine together before bringing them to your lips, and as you place kisses on each one of his knuckles, he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

“Oh, Gray, darling. This is what I eagerly signed up for when I agreed to marry you. In sickness and in health, remember?”

“Yeah, but I think that applies more toward terminal illnesses. Nowhere in the fine print did it ask you to clean up puke and help a smelly, naked man into the bathtub at four o’clock in the morning because he can’t help himself.”

You graze your free thumb over Grayson’s eyelids, upset that he’s never been able to fully grasp how much you love him. “Babe, you’re my whole world. Looking after you while you have little stomach bug pales in comparison to the fact that I would give up my life for you if I had to.”

Grayson sits up suddenly, his eyes growing wide. “Well, will you hold the trashcan for me? I’m about to be sick again.”

You reach over and grab the wastebasket for him. His body begins to shudder as he expels bile into the bin, his face turning red. You free one hand to rub his back before softly whispering, more to yourself than to Grayson:

“Anything for you, my love. Anything at all.”

cnbc.com
BREAKING: Emmanuel Macron (EM!) wins the 2017 French Presidential Election
Independent centrist Emmanuel Macron will be the 25th president of France having beaten the far-right National Party's Marine Le Pen in the final round of the election on Sunday evening, according to exit polls.
By Gemma Acton

Gemma Acton at CNBC: 

Independent centrist Emmanuel Macron will be the 25th president of France having beaten the far-right National Party’s Marine Le Pen in the final round of the election on Sunday evening, according to exit polls.

Voter turnout was recorded at 65.30 percent as of 5:00 p.m. local time, according to an official statement from the Interior Ministry.

That figure compares to 71.96 percent at the same time during the last election in 2012 and 75.11 percent in 2007.

At 39-years old, Macron is set to be the youngest ever French president with his victory being interpreted as a boost for European cooperation, a concept of which he is a fervent advocate.

He is expected to push for a harder line on behalf of the European Union as the U.K. negotiates its exit from the trading bloc. On the other hand, while on the campaign trail, losing candidate Le Pen had advocated abandoning the euro currency used within the EU as well as closing the Union’s open borders.

A spokesperson for Macron’s En Marche movement claimed on Friday to have been aggressively hit by a “massive and co-ordinated” anonymous hacking operation which had resulted in 9 gigabytes’ worth of emails and financial data being posted online to a document sharing site called Pastebin.

This came at the tail end of a dramatic campaigning period that has seen a series of scandals, demonstrations and vicious rhetoric shake news and markets.

France has a population of around 64.89 million people, according to the latest estimates from the United Nations, with approximately 47 million eligible to vote in Sunday’s election.

Thank God Le Pen lost big time.