stop asking permission

If you want to live a great life …

1. Stop asking everyone else for permission.

2. Stop seeking to live up to other people’s expectations.

3. Listen to your head, and your feelings, and your heart.

4. Be willing to take risks and to try what interests you.

5. Don’t give up too early – and don’t assume you’ll fail.

6. Give yourself permission to always be yourself, to be genuine with others, and to carve out your own path.

Realize your mistakes

Look i don’t know if anyone knows but MlB artist are on strike because people are reposting their art without their permission and the art theif is not only getting money on youtube but the art thieves are also ruining some artists from getting a job because of other reposters.

We already lost five artists from our fandom and one artist lost the opportunity to work at their dream job because the owners of the company did not believe that the work in their profolio was theirs due to reposting. If you are doing this… please stop and ask for permission to use their work. If the artist says no than respect their wishes by not ignoring their reponse and posting it anyways.

Besides, you have no “fair use” option when it comes to fandom art because the work of art isn’t yours to begin with. Plus, you are taking a part of someone’s dream and destroying their chances of bettering their future. If you really love an artist and want to show their work to the world than share a link to their work instead of reposting. When you share a link, the artist gets more exposure which is the best praise you can give artist because they gain new followers, and they can see their admirers giving comments on their artwork.

“Artists shouldn’t post if they don’t want art thieves to steal” okay first of all, how do you think an artist can get known in the business industry? The answer to that question is exposure by posting their work on the internet. Take the artist Angie N. from Tumblr as an example. She post a ton of work on her tumblr blog which the owner of our fandom has seen and offered her a job in making the webisodes which are now uploaded to the miraculous youtube channel. Another example is ceeji(i hope i spelled her name right). She posted a ton of her art work and she may possibly be making a second story comic job for our fandom. These two artist are only one of the few artists who got lucky because they post their artwork. However not all do. Second of all… reposting is still consider stealing because you did not spend a week or month to draw the piece of art. You may not understand why I am saying so I will give you an example. Say there is a thing or dream you are working on. You spend a ton of time getting to top and you are close to achieving that one thing or dream you been wanting. It is right at your reach until someone takes your dream away from you without you knowing which causes you not to reach that goal. You would be feeling so many emotions which will cause you to give up your dream. The same goes artists and their work. Which comes to the end of my speech.

I want to thank a few artist which have left our fandom. Comic writers MariStoryArt, eizabet and artist ToriiTorii. We will miss you.

(Credence Barebone x Reader) A Safe Place [Pt.2]

Title : A Safe Place [Pt.2]

Request : No

Smut : Nope just fluff

Word Count : 1,995

A/N : I’m on a roll but I think I’ll post the third in three or more since I’m having a writer’s block after this part. Enjoy this one! Feedbacks are highly appreciated! Also, tagging @moonlight53, it’s finally updated haha! 

First :

Next :


The next Friday evening, you walk out of the MACUSA building, after a long day at work. Several newcomer wizards from Ireland had arrived to New York this morning, and by several, you mean a ton of them. It seems that they want to have a vacation here in New York.

Your day was filled with filling forms of wand permit, and right now, your hand feels like a rock. You’ve tried to stretch it, pull it, massage it, everything, but it’s still sore.

You look up to the sky, and see it’s already dark, with snow starting to fall. The black sky and the fluttering snow remind you of the incident that happened last week. Your sisters were more than delighted to see you came home in one piece. They had thought Mary Lou and her crazy cult burned you alive or something.

You told Tina and Queenie about what happened between you and Credence, and with a gleeful face, Queenie exclaimed: “Our little [Name] is in love!” You denied it, obviously, but with her ability, you couldn’t hide anything from them. Tina then gave you a long lecture about how you should be careful with No-Majs, how they will kill you, and that what might happen.

You dismissed her with a scoff, claiming her paranoid. Yet, deep in your heart, some of her words had stuck inside you. Being the youngest of the three, they have always protected you, after your parents had died of dragon pox. But you always manage to try to protect yourself, relieving their burden.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see a familiar face.


He is giving out pamphlets to the people walking past him, or more like trying to. People just ignore him and keep walking by. You decide to approach him, seeing there’s none of his family member in sight. As you approach him, you can’t help but notice that he has no coat on, only a jacket. And the color on his face shows that the he has been outside, there perhaps, for a few hours.

“Can I have one?” you ask from behind him, poking his shoulder.

He looks genuinely surprised when he hears your voice, asking for the pamphlets. Credence turns around, eyes still cast downward, and hands you one of them. You probably will throw it to the fireplace or something, but obviously you won’t tell him that. For now, your attention fixes on him only.

“Thank you…” he says quietly. You swear you see a tiny smile on the corner of his mouth.

“You look cold, Credence. Care for some coffee?” you offer him. And it is true. Up close, you can see him slightly shivering.

“I… I can’t,” he replies, avoiding your gaze once more by looking at the pamphlets in his hand.

“Why can’t you? Please, I insist. You look very ill, Credence,” you push on. He hesitates as his grip on the pamphlets tightens.

“…Mother… She would be furious… If she knew I am abandoning my job…” he says. The way he says it makes him sounds like a soldier. Or a puppet. Always ready to listen, to act upon the string controlled by the puppeteer.

“Oh, come on now. No mother would want any harm to her child! Come on, let’s get you something warm.”

You gently take the pamphlets from his hand, and neatly place it in his trousers’ pocket. He freezes when you do so. After you put them in his pocket, you see the scars on his palm have healed. You will have to thank Queenie for teaching you to make magical band aids later.

“Let’s go,” you say.

He walks beside you, eyes cast downward, and body posture inward. He seems scared of something. You consider taking his hand in yours, to calm him down. Or perhaps not. It will be extremely awkward, and if someone from MACUSA, or your sister sees you holding hands with him? You will be burned on a stake.

You decide the latter. Looking at him, he seems to be lost in thought as his eyes glances to the stores with Christmas decorations on it. It’s the end of November, but the stores in this particular are have put up the Christmas decorations. ‘It’s too early for this,’ you think to yourself.

The lights decorating the Christmas tree inside the store shine brightly, bringing a warm atmosphere to your surroundings. The smell of cocoa and baked goods also fills your nose, bringing forth the Christmas joy before it comes.

“Tell me Credence, does your family celebrate Christmas too?”

He looks at you for a second, before looking down again.

“Mother says that it is not necessary… Because of the money we would waste…” he says. “And… The precious time we have… Should be to spread our cause…”

Hearing him breaks your heart. No wonder he always looks so sad and lonely. Not to mention the scars on his hand… You wonder if his mother did it to him too…?

“Ah! Here we are!” you exclaim, suddenly stopping in front of a small café. You enter first, with Credence following behind you. He blinks in the sudden temperature change, the heat of the building warming his cold body.

You pick a seat in the corner, far from the glass window, in case someone spots you.

“What do you want Credence?” you ask, handing him the menu. You already know what to order, since you always go here every Friday evening. Getting a reward for yourself after a hard working week.

Credence looks at the menu with such concentration, and the way his brows furrow with each other makes you smile. He looks like a little kid on his first time in a café. The thought makes you think again. Or is it his first time?


You look up to him, making an eye contact for a moment. Credence calls your name with a slight fear and hesitation, and the way he says it melts your heart.

“Yes, Credence?”

“I… Don’t know what I want…”

“Oh? Is this your first time going to a café?”

He nods. You were right after all.

You call the waiter and order two large mugs of cocoa, with the special Christmas cookies on the side. The waiter, Josh, knows you, and he teases, “Getting a little steamy in here, eh?” You lightly smack him on his arm and tell him to mind his own business. He just chuckles and gives your order to the barista.

Back to Credence. He’s currently examining the interior of the café, silently admiring how wondrous the sight was. Everything he had known in life has always been about his little family, and his abusive mother. He feels a flutter in his chest. Little did he know, the sensation he’s feeling is called happiness.

“Credence?” you call him.

“Yes…?” he replies, breaking out of his trance.

“Are you… Okay?” you ask, testing the waters.

“I am fine… I suppose…”

“Are you sure…?”

He nods.

“Do you… Maybe… Want to talk about it…?”

He nods again.

You tilt your head questioningly. He takes out his right hand, showing it to you. You remain silent. Then, with his left, he pulls up sleeve and shows several scars, new scars, with marks similar like a belt. Your blood boils with anger and sadness, seeing how his face shifts to embarrassment and pure sorrow.

“Who did this Credence?” you ask, trying to hide the anger in your voice. Tears start to run down his face.

“M-Mother would punish me… For not listening to her… Or coming home late…” he sobs.

You reach out your hand to touch the red scars, before stopping and ask him for permission. He nods, trying to contain his sobs. You run your hand softly along the rough scars, some has healed, and some still new. Even some of them don’t only leave scars, but also ugly, purple bruises. His skin is rough to the touch, proof that he has been abused repeatedly.

Credence suddenly pulls his hand and covers it back, and immediately wipes his tears. You can see he cringes when he does so. The rough fabric must’ve come in contact with the scars.

“Two large mugs of cocoa, and fresh baked Christmas cookie. Enjoy!” Josh says as he places down your orders. So that’s why he makes the sudden movement.

You lift one of the mugs and place it in front of him. Credence looks at you, and you smile.

“It’s for you. My treat, it’s almost Christmas too,”

“W-Why are you so kind to me…?” he asks, slowly touching the handle on the mug as if it’s the most delicate thing.

“I… I don’t know myself, to be honest,” you start. He looks at you in fear, also with worry. “I just think… That you’ve always looked so sad… And so lonely… And all I want to do is to help you,” you continue. He hesitantly looks up at you. “But being me, I have no idea how to help you. So I just do my own thing. Does that sound weird?”

He shakes his head.

“You… You have helped me in some way…” he says. Then, he smiles.

Even though it’s a tiny smile, you know it’s that kind of smile, the rare one, which pulls the strings in your heart in a cruel way. Which empty your stomach and fills it with butterflies. The one that blocks your airway, hitching your breath in your throat.

He is beautiful.

The smile on your face widens, and you can hear your heartbeat going faster. You make a mental note to see him more often.

“U-Um! Anyway! Let’s drink the cocoa b-before it gets cold! Haha!” you stutter. His smile caught you off guard, and it breaks the image you’re holding in front of him.

“Yes… Let us,” he says.

Credence sips the cocoa, and you see his eyes widen at the taste. It’s something he has never tasted before. A sweet sensation that fills his whole mouth. A joy he has never felt before.

“Is it good?” you ask excitedly.

He nods at you and sips a little more, getting addicted to the taste. But then, in the back of his mind, he knows that this, this, little joy you give to him is only temporary. And that he shouldn’t get used to the feeling.

Because at the end of the day, you will be gone. And he will go back to the hellhole he calls home.


After the both of you finish up the cocoa and the cookies, you paid the bill and walk out of the café with Credence. You can tell he feels bad for not paying what he bought, because he keeps saying ‘Thank you’ and ‘I’m sorry’ the whole time you’re in the café after your little chitchat.

“It’s okay Credence, besides, you walked me home last week. So it really is okay,” you said.

He insists on walking you home, but you decline his offer, thinking it would be trouble if his mother finds out about this. After you say that, he looks sad, yet understands your reasoning.

“If you want, let’s meet up every Friday here, Credence,” you say. He looks up and his eyes give a glint of anticipation.

“B-But… I don’t want you to waste your money on me…”

“Oh it’s okay! We don’t have to always buy things! I’ll make some and bring it here, how about it?”

He hesitates about your offer, but he reluctantly nods.

“Great! Now, off you go Credence, be careful,” you say as you walk up to him.

Gathering your courage, you give him a peck on the cheek. Yours and his face turns bright red, and you giggle at his reaction. You skip away from him, before turning around and say one last thing:

“Please be happy.” 

tbh I should just tell people at Starbuck’s that my name is “Al” bc a) I wanna try out a more non-feminine name and b) they always misspell my name as having one L instead of two anyways

And not a single star in the sky shines because a person has told it to. It shines because that is what stars do. Stop asking for permission for what you were born to do.
—  Nikita Gill, Take a Lesson From the Stars
Grow (Suga Smut?)



“How many times do I have to tell you to not call me by my stage name?”

“Not enough because I still do it.”

“You love to test me, don’t you?”

“Of course.” You smiled and he scoffed at you. Yoongi, the love of your life and your lovely husband. You were newlyweds but you two already act like an old married couple.


“What is it, woman?”

“Oh, Yoongi, don’t be so cold with me~”

“You still haven’t told me what you wanted?”

“Let’s go to the beach.”

“Let’s not.”


“Y/N.” He mocked and you stared him down, not going to stand down from your ground. He was just as stubborn as you were, and you two stood there eyeing each other.

“Give up.”

“Why don’t you do it?”

“Because I’m not giving into you.”

“Neither am I.”

“Yoongi. You’re horrible.” You broke eye contact with him, getting back into bed and he climbed next to you. You touched his hair, the green faded out and left a grey in his hair.

“Now you really are a grandpa.”

“Well that makes you a grandma.”

“A grandma with no children?”

“Then let’s make some.” His tone was serious which scared you because this is children you were talking about. There were times where you would coo at your friend’s daughter or your cousin’s son and Yoongi would just awkwardly smile before leaving the room.


“You don’t want kids?”

“I want them, it’s just..”

“I’ll slow down. Just come here.” You shuffled closer to him, his arms now around you. His chin rested on your head, it made him happy that you were shorter than him even though it annoys you.



“Do you wonder about our kids would look like?”

“They’ll look gorgeous with my genes.”

“And what about me? It takes two to tango, you know.”

“Mean, angry and little. That’s what they get from you.”

“Min Yoongi!” You hit his chest, him laughing at his own little joke as if it was funny. You turned over, your back now facing him and he spoons you.

“Our kids would be perfect.”


“Of course they’re coming from you. The most perfect woman in the world.” You turn back over, looking into his eyes as he spoke. His eyes and voice never wavered and you smiled.

He kissed you, your hands around his neck and he got on top of you somehow. He stopped, silently asking for permission to proceed and the next kiss was his confirmation. It was more heated than the last.

His tongue explore every corner of your mouth, wanting to taste the inside. He tasted your tongue before pulling away. He touched your body, just his fingers touching the outlines that made your shape.

“So fucking sexy.” You were wearing just a robe over your underwear, the robe hung loose on you to reveal more skin.

He slipped it off you, kissing your shoulder and along your arm. His lips lightly brush against your neck, his hot breath leaving goosebumps across your skin. He starts, leaving a hickey wherever his lip touch on your neck.

“Y-Yoongi.” He slipped down your bra straps, freeing your breasts and his hands grabbed them. He kneaded them slowly, which his tongue licked your collarbone.

“I love you.” He mumbled against your skin as his lips continued the assault on your body. They kissed your breasts, your nipples, your torso, your thighs. He left no place untouched and his hands hook onto your panties, gliding it down your legs.

“Spread them for me, honey.”

You obliged, his eyes focusing on the wet pussy in front of him. He moved down, his face just centimetres away from your crotch. You knew not to push him, knowing he wants to savour you this time.

“You like this, honey? My fingers touching every curve and edge of your perfect little body. Tell me what you want, honey.”

“You know what I want.”

“That’s not how we do things, Y/N. Tell me.” He plunged two fingers into you, thrusted them into you at a furious pace. You moaned loudly and he still wanted to hear those words escape your lips in desperation.

“I-I want-a-ahh-y-your tongue.”

“Was that so hard?” You cursed under your breath as he finally added his tongue in your pussy. He eased up on you, his licks slow and sensual. His fingers reached deeper inside you, forgetting its fast pace.

“Mm.” You bite your lip, fearing that you were being too loud but he loved it. Knowing that your body couldn’t deny the pleasure he was giving you, your voice in a cycle of moaning, cursing and his name escaping your lips breathlessly.

It never failed to turn him on.

“I-I’m gonna-” He felt your pussy tighten and release, his fingers slipping out of you. He licked your juices off his fingers, you always tastes like sweet nectar.

“Ready, honey?”

“How could I say no?” He just slipped off his boxers, his length taunting you. He pumped himself a little before sliding his cock against your pussy.

“Yoongi-” He slid into you without warning, his entire length inside you. He kissed you, your loud moans muffled by his lips.

He pulled away, his hips working against yours. He focused more on reaching your g-spot than pounding relentlessly into you. You looked at him, the sweat on his face and his hair a tattered mess.

He looked at you, seeing you a moaning mess under him. Your hair was sticking to your skin, sweat glistens your skin and your voice was nonstop.

“Fuck, honey.” You came, his cock still buried deep inside you and you felt him cum inside you. Your heavy breathing was all you could hear, he lied next to you.

His hand was rubbing your stomach, a tired smile on his face.

“I can feel it growing.”

Request: A Massive Idiot

Request: Can you write one where dean wants to leave you for your safety but tells you it’s because he doesn’t love u anymore and you try to tell him ur pregnant but he doesn’t hear you and just go from there

Word Count: 1,656

Sure thing, here it is. I hope you like it!<3

“Y/N? You in here?” Dean pokes his head into your shared bedroom, stomach knotting with worry and pre-emptive regret. Upon finding the room empty, he frowns, and is about to back away from the room when you appear at his side.

“Hey, there.” You say – where your usually chipper tone would be, something akin to worry replaces it. You’re paler than usual, a nervous pallor to your skin – he, under any other circumstances, would look further into it, but at this moment in time he has another awful task on his mind.

He smiles – it’s painful to do so and it comes out as more of a grimace, but he manages anyway – “You need a bell put on you.” He says, but the amusement is gone. His tone is flat and grey.

“Is everything okay?”

“Ye- actually…” He pauses, taking a deep breath, “We need to talk.”

“Sure.” You offer a light smile. You wrap your arms around yourself as if there’s a draught and head into the bedroom, offering him a beckoning glance. He follows, closing the door behind you – he’s been dreading this all morning, but after last week, he knows it’s what he has to do.

You’d come so close to dying and it was his fault. He can’t let that continue. Not anymore.

“Listen, Y/N…” He takes you in – these last moments when he can call you his, when he can pretend there’s a bright future for the two of you to share – “I… we need to stop this.”

“Stop what?” You ask, genuinely oblivious. Dean fights and rails against the tears threatening his eyes and he shakes his head violently.

“Us.” He watches as your expression shatters into a million shards, the hurt clouding your eyes over.

“I-I- don’t- Dean?” You stammer, watching him closely and silently begging for him to start laughing, for this all to be a cruel joke. You can tell from his expression, however, that it isn’t.

“This isn’t your fault,” He says quickly, “Please don’t think that it is. I just… I don’t love you anymore.” He chokes out. You stare at him incredulously, your eyes filling up with tears. You shuffle away from him, trying to get your head around what he’s saying.

“I don’t… what happened?” You whisper, clenching your hands together as if you’re trying to hold your relationship whole, “Did I-?”

“No, Y/N, I swear it isn’t you.” He forces out, each word stabbing a new dagger into his heart, “I’m sorry.”

“B-but… Dean…” You whisper, shaking your head, “You can’t.”

“I’m sorry.” He says pitifully, watching the tears fall freely down your face, “I am.”

This is the last thing he’s ever wanted to do – the only girl he’s ever really loved. He knows that it’s best for you, though, if he’s not in the picture – he only ever brings death and pain and misery and he doesn’t want that for you. You deserve so much more than he can ever give you.

“You don’t understand.” You breathe as he stands up, “You can’t go.”

“I have to.”

“You don’t! You can’t!” You stand up too, following him to the door, “Please, just hear me out – Dean!” You cry as he pulls away from you, pausing on the door, “Dean, please? You can’t, because- because-”

He takes one last look at the horrible, broken look on your face, and leaves. You watch as the door closes behind him and a sob escapes you as you whisper the last two words of your explanation.

“I’m pregnant.”


“Sammy?” Dean asks, looking up at his brother. Dawn light has once again begun to streak through the narrow windows high up on the kitchen wall. The younger Winchester looks down at his older brother – eyes red-rimmed and bottle still in hand, he’s obviously been awake all night.

“Not again.” Sam says softly. He carefully confiscates the whiskey and fixes his brother some toast and coffee, watching him as he forces it down his raw throat, “Dean, you need to go and find her.”

“I can’t.” Dean whispers, “I can’t do that to her.”

“She needs you, too.” Sam admits. Dean stares at him harshly, grass-green eyes frosting over.

“How the hell do you know what she wants, huh? She’s fine without me! Better off!”

“No, she isn’t.” Sam says calmly, sitting down across from his brother, “Trust me.”

“What, are you still talking to her? She cut off all contact, remember? Left all her phones here.” Dean says sardonically, “She hates us. You can’t possibly have been talking to her.”

Sam’s expression flickers for a moment and something jumps, rearing up deep inside of Dean. He stares with wide eyes, eyes darting to Sam’s phone.

“You’re talking to her.”

“She called me first.”

“How long ago?”

“The day after she left.” He admits, closing his eyes, “She thinks you don’t love her anymore, Dean. I didn’t tell her about you and I didn’t tell you about her. We had an agreement.”

“She called you,” Dean breathes, “Is she okay? Where is she?”

“She’s alive,” Sam reveals, “Not hunting.”

“Really?!” Dean grins, “That’s awe-“ The façade fades away as soon as it was placed on his face – your apple-pie life was supposed to be with him.

Sam raises an eyebrow at his brother, “She’s still single. I know you’re wondering.”

“It’s been nearly seven months, Sam. You know her, there’ll be someone.” Dean finds himself tearing up again.

“She said there wasn’t.” Sam shrugs, “You eat up, then get some sleep. See you around noon.”

Sam stands up and is about to leave the room when Dean stops him.

“Wait-“ He pauses, almost reluctant, “Where is she?”

“I promised her I wouldn’t tell you.” Sam says softly. Dean pulls a face, making his brother smile slightly.

“I need her, Sammy.” Dean admits. Sam nods.

“I know. Get your stuff, c’mon.” He says gently, offering a rueful smile as Dean almost flips the table to get out of there.


There’s a knock at your door – funny, you weren’t expecting anyone today. You’ve made a few friends in the neighbourhood – maybe it’s one of them, coming to see you. You pointedly ignore the painting that conceals a small shelf housing a few essentials as you make your way to the door.

The house was an incredible find – someone had died there, knocking the price right down. You’d checked for EMF and it was completely clear, so you snatched it up. You managed to get a little job working with little kids in a crèche at a local office, and so far, you’re managing just fine.

You thought that the love for your child could fill the hole that Dean left, but all it’s done is surrounded it. You love your baby more than words could express, but there’s still a seemingly permanent void in your heart.

You open the door without looking through the peephole, and nearly fall straight over from the sight before you.

“Sam!” You exclaim, throwing yourself at him in a tight hug, “Oh my gosh, hey! How are you?” You ask, suddenly filled with joy at seeing him. He grins brightly, hugging you back carefully.

“I’m great, thanks. How are you?” He asks softly. You pull away slightly, shrugging.

“We’re doing pretty well.”

You glance behind the younger Winchester and see the figure there – partially blocked from view, Dean stands awkwardly. His eyes are on the floor and he can’t seem to bear to look at you.

“See, Sam. I told you there was someone else – we should just-“

“There isn’t.” You say sharply – more so than you’d intended. Dean looks up and you peer past Sam, who apparently hasn’t moved.

“You said we.”

“It’s not another guy, you idiot.” You say, pushing past Sam. Once you’re in full view of Dean, he balks, his eyes widening like saucers. He takes a horrified step backwards, unable to comprehend what he’s seeing.

“Y-you’re- you’re-“ He stammers, and you find yourself laughing, despite everything.

“Yeah, I know. I did try to tell you.” You say softly, “It’ll be eight months this weekend.”

“Eight- ei- oh God,” He whispers, taking a cautious step towards you, “Y/N, I’m so… I’m so sorry. How could I-? I’m sorry.” He says again, staring incredulously at you, “I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t know.” You say softly – you don’t know whether this is forgiveness or hormones, but you’re tearing up like god-knows-what. You advance towards him, putting out your hand. Dean cautiously places his hand atop yours and in turn, you press his hand to your bump.

“Y/N…” Dean whispers, and you hush him, waiting in silence. It takes a moment, but your baby kicks, and a wide smile spreads over his features.

“Do you know-?” He asks, but you shake your head.

“I wanted a surprise.” You admit, before pulling away, “You guys want to come in?”

You let them both in and find some drinks – you don’t have any alcohol in the house, since you haven’t had need for it yet, but you fix some coffee. Sam goes off with the excuse of exploring, letting you and Dean sit in the living room and chat.


“Dean, don’t.” You stop him quickly, “Don’t feel obliged to hang around. We don’t need you, I can cope. If you don’t want to be here, don’t bother.”

“I do!” He insists, reaching out and taking your hands in his, “More than anything, Y/N. I love you. I always have and I always will. I want to have a family with you and be a father and be together. I’m just a massive idiot. ”

He watches as your eyes fill up once more, a small smile spreading onto your face.

“Tell me something I don’t know.” You say softly, and Dean laughs aloud. He leans in and then stops, as if asking permission. You close the gap, pressing your lips to his. The familiarity of it runs through you in waves of warmth and you know, you’re home.

Fellow witchlings!


Your path is YOURS to create. The only “rules” the general community asks that you follow are:

1. Be respectful of other’s experiences and practice.

2. Do not appropriate practices from cultures you are not a part of and have not been explicitly invited to join - Closed Cultures! You don’t just decide that your interest in their methods and spiritual connections trump their wishes on who gets to participate. It’s closed for a reason - and they don’t owe you an explanation for why.

That’s it.

Basically - don’t be a dick and leave closed cultures alone.

Everything else is all about how your soul connects to the world around you.

You aren’t bound to correspondence lists or pre-written spells.

Just be safe. Educate yourself before jumping into things. Ask questions… But take everything with a grain of salt.

Your path is yours to create.

Self discovery is a long process. Enjoy every moment of it.


anonymous asked:

Do you have any headcanons about James's mother and Sirius? You covered his relashionship with James's father in that wonderful meta I hope you'll someday continue, but that Harry and Molly hug scene answer just made me curious.

Do I ever. These are all going into my baby marauders fic, but I don’t mind sharing them.

Mrs. Potter heard Sirius Black’s name from her son’s very first letter home. While she was happy that he was growing up, it was bittersweet, because she missed him; she pored over ever letter until she had them all memorized. She was glad he was making friends, but she didn’t care for his last name. She knew it was hypocritical, but the wizarding world was a small community and she knew of the Blacks, of their fanaticism, and she wasn’t comfortable with James associating with their lot–more specifically, those politics, distant family or not. He was in Gryffindor, however, which was, according to James, a big act of rebellion against his family. The tenor of James’s letters hadn’t alarmed her-he’d told her of some of Sirius’ politics, but only with a sense of revulsion. He was so taken with Sirius, she decided to reserve judgment until she’d at least met the boy.

At Christmas, Mrs. Potter learned even more from James because he talked non-stop about his best mate. Sirius this and me and Sirius that and but Sirius doesn’t… He was excited to be home–he’d missed them as much as they’d missed him–and he tried not to show it, but he was miserable without Sirius around. He exhausted his owl sending multiple letters to and from Grimmuald Place. Three days into break, when he exhausted her owl as well, she decided that it was time to intervene. She took James into Diagon Alley and bought him a set of two-way mirrors. They owled the other mirror, along with instructions and, from Mrs. Potter, a Merry Christmas tin of caramel shortbreads, Sirius’ favorite, and an open invitation to visit the Potters any time any time he’d like, it’d be no trouble, they would be delighted to receive him.

She wasn’t surprised to receive an owl in response. It was a formal, polite sort of letter thanking her for the biscuits, perfect handwriting–the sort of thing she made James send after each birthday. When she turned the card over, however, she saw that he’d scrawled out another message–apparently where his mother wouldn’t see–and it won her over: “Mrs. P. Thanks for the biscuits, they were brilliant. You’re welcome to send more any time you like, it’d be no trouble, I would be delighted to receive them.”

Mrs. Potter received a distressed letter from James two days into the second term. He didn’t say everything, but between the lines was enough for Mrs. Potter to get the general idea of the misery Sirius had endured; it hadn’t been a pleasant holiday break. Mrs. Potter sent her assurances, what explanations she could make as to why the Blacks would believe the things they believe, best as she could in a letter.

She started sending a tin of biscuits for Sirius, along with her usual package for James.

During his first summer home, James was morose, worried for his mate. Mrs. Potter took action in the third week in and called upon Walburga at #12. She didn’t relish the visit, but she thought that if an invitation for Sirius to spend a week at the Potters was to have any chance at success, it had best be delivered in person. Grimmuald Place was just as creepy and macabre as she’d remembered from her childhood visits. It was an unpleasant three hour exercise in biting her tongue and polite nodding, but she left with an acceptance, albeit a reluctant one.

Sirius came two weeks later. He didn’t explain what his home life was like, but he didn’t have to. She saw it anyway, and the little realizations broke her heart. He was so clearly uncomfortable with the easy, open affection they shared with James and she realized he must not receive any spontaneous hugs or kisses at home. He grew wide eyed that first night and mouthed to James we’re allowed to talk? at the supper table. He only responded to her in yes ma’am with eyes averted to the floor. He told James over and over again how lucky he was to have such a brilliant home, and she knew it had nothing to do with the number of rooms or the large garden out back. She overheard the quiet conversations he had with her husband, and she realized he’d been brainwashed with purist garbage and dark arts worship from infancy. Mostly, she saw that he was just as taken with James, how very alike they were, how they’d already adopted each other’s mannerisms, and how alive they were in each other’s company, and it was sealed: Mrs. Potter had two sons. She just had to convince him of that.

She started writing letters during their second term: one letter per week, directly to Sirius, rather than through James. She kept them short. She made inquiries about his school work, his family, if he’d gotten up to any good mischief lately. She shared little tidbits about her life, her activities, and ended every letter with her open invitation to visit them any time. He didn’t generally trust adults, and for good reason, but he slowly, very slowly, let his guard down. It was the small victories that made her smile. He stopped calling her ma’am every other sentence. He let his handwriting slip into something less formal. He started sharing his own stories, rather than just politely replying to her inquiries. He ended every letter thanking her for the cookies, and asking her to send more. When he signed affectionately, Sirius rather than respectfully, Sirius O Black she didn’t bother wiping the tear that slipped down her cheek.

That fall, she arranged for an out of town trip to France for the Christmas holidays. She endured another horrid tea at Grimmauld Place, this one worse than the one before, to secure an acceptance to her invitation for Sirius to join them. It was a decidedly warmer visit than the first, now that they were more comfortable with one another, that they had something to talk about. She made his favorite food for Christmas morning. She pretended not to see the hurt in his eyes when he didn’t receive a note from his parents, along with the broom he’d received. For her part, she bought both boys tickets to four matches for the following summer and signed jerseys from their respective favourite teams. She pretended to be confused when they were outraged that they’d received the wrong jerseys. She just smiled and explained that it must have been a slip up, but they all knew she’d done it on purpose, for no other reason than to tease them. They rolled their eyes and exchanged shirts. After James stood to hug his parents, Sirius did, too. It was a quick affair, barely two seconds, but it meant the world to both of them.

During third year, all four boys spent an entire month at their house during the summer holidays. It was exhausting, completely exhausting, but it was, to borrow her boys’ favorite word, a brilliant kind of exhaustion. She taught them cleaning and repairing charms so they could clean up after whatever havoc they’d created. She and her husband took them to Quidditch matches, all the ones she’d reserved tickets for the previous December, plus a few more. It was different, now, seeing Sirius thrive in the company of these boys. They were inseparable, these boys, and she loved it. She loved them. Sirius was openly affectionate with her now, but it was a tender kind of affection. He gave her pats on the shoulder and a kiss on her cheek when he came in for breakfast. She ruffed his hair, same as James, and laughed when he shook it back into place. He stopped asking for permission to do everything, and helped himself, same as James. She taught him–them, but mostly him–how to make caramel shortbreads.

She and her husband realized one day in during the boys’ fourth year that they referred to the boys and their sons rather than their son or James when writing to Minerva, or talking between themselves. It had happened so naturally that neither of them could pinpoint the shift had occurred.

She put a stocking for Sirius on the mantle that Christmas.

She also took him shopping. She explained that it wasn’t fitting to refer to it as the guest room anymore, when it was really his room, and he ought to be able to decorate it as he saw fit. They spent the afternoon at both muggle and wizarding shops, purchasing everything from bed linens to posters. She wasn’t surprised when it was more or less a carbon copy of James’s own room, but it was important for her to give him autonomy over the project anyway.

During the Easter holidays, she caught the boys with a bottle of firewhiskey. They flinched, bracing for their scolding, so were shocked when she conjured a third shot glass, poured the liquor into all three, and told them to drink up. If they were going to be bested by an elderly woman, they had no business drinking, but if they could match her, she told them, they were welcome to it. Devious, darling, devious, her husband had told her the next morning when both boys were still in bed recovering. They enjoyed a quiet, pleasant day to themselves. Her boys didn’t touch the liquor cabinet for another year.

Sirius wasn’t allowed to come over the Potters’ at all during the summer between fourth and fifth year. She made her annual pilgrimage to Grimmuald Place and bit her tongue as Mrs. Black made her feelings on the Potters and their influence over her son quite clear. Something inside Mrs. Potter snapped when Walburga said her son in that possessive way, as if she actually gave a damn about his well being, and every harsh word she’d been holding back for four years spilled out.  It didn’t end well. Sirius would not be coming to Potter Manor that summer, or, if Walburga had her way, ever again. He ran away anyway, two weeks later. He thumbed the dark circles under his eyes and made him some biscuits. She wasn’t surprised when Orion turned up and threatened them with legal action. They were forced to send him back, and it nearly broke her to do it. She didn’t bother to hide her tears when she wrapped him into a tight hug and whispered up into his ear–he was taller than her now–to keep his head down, to keep his mouth shut, that she loved him, and that she was so, so sorry. He’d arranged his face into a stony, blank face by the time she had to pull away, but her shoulder was wet and she knew he’d been crying. She tried not to flinch when Orion put an iron grip on Sirius’ shoulder. She cried for two days, and the ball of worry in her gut didn’t abate until September 1st when he was safely back at Hogwarts.

He wrote that term, but it wasn’t as frequent, and it wasn’t as warm. There was something broken about him, and her ball of worry returned.  When she got an owl from about what had happened-the whomping willow, and Snape, that boy they got into so much trouble with, her heart broke. It was she, not Walburga, who went and spoke with Dumbledore about her boys. It was she who went to the Hospital Wing to find a broken, repentant Sirius, a shaken James, a torn Peter, and a livid, embarrassed Remus. Her boys, who she talked to separately, who she mended back together with her words and hugs, best as she could, before heading back home.

He showed up on their doorstep during Christmas break, bruised and limping, two trunks and a broken broomstick in tow. He took two steps into the foyer and he yelled at them, at her, I’m not going back. He was all defiance, shouting, daring them to contradict him. His arm was hanging limply at his side, it’d obviously been hurt, but his hand was clenched around his wand; it was shaking. He was feral, really, a wild animal, cornered, not quite sure if he’d escaped yet or not. It scared James, it scared her husband, but she took two steps forward and put her hands on his cheeks. My darling boy, you’ll never have to back there again. We’ll protect you, we’ll keep you safe, alright? You’re safe now. And they did have to fight-to keep him, but they bribed the right official and were able to delay the hearings until he turned seventeen. She found out snippets of what had happened from James, but she knew he was sparing her the details. 

(This got away from me. I’m sorry it’s so long. I had to stop here because sixth/seventh year Sirius living with the Potters, and the war, and them getting sick and dying is an entirely different post. The other post anon was talking about is here.)

If you want to live a great life …

1. Stop asking everyone else for permission.
2. Stop seeking to live up to other people’s expectations.
3. Listen to your head, and your feelings, and your heart.
4. Be willing to take risks and to try what interests you.
5. Don’t give up too early – and don’t assume you’ll fail.
6. Give yourself permission to always be yourself, to be genuine with others, and to carve out your own path.

Could you do a smut with dom!cal where he teases her (ya know) and she is frisky back and he “punishes” her? And then fluff afterwards and he calls her princess and love?? Thatd be bomb af

AN so these aren’t gonna be as long as most of my other imagines simply bc it is pure smut - there won’t be any guidelines to how long it’ll be im just gonna write my little heart out really :D

Kinks: dom!cal

You were sitting on the couch in the living room, sipping a hot cup of tea while reading whatever you were scrolling through on your phone. When there was a sharp knock on your door, it scared the shit out of you, considering you weren’t expecting anyone. In that time, you had managed to spill the tea on your pants. “Aw, fuck,” you muttered to yourself.

You went to open the door, stopping short when you saw it was your next door neighbor, Calum. You guys had gotten along while you lived there, always smiling and nodding to each other in the hallway, always polite ‘have a nice day’s and ‘see you later’s. Little does anyone know you secretly want to fuck his brains out.

He was perfect in every sense of the world. Curly dark brown hair, cherub cheeks, dark puppy brown eyes, tall and muscular. He was everything you wanted. So when he showed up out of the blue with a sorry look on his face while you had hot tea scalding your leg, it did come as a shock.

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