@natvanlis: Getting ready to smile with pride this weekend, with the help of @Crest who I will be marching with at the #TorontoPride parade tomorrow, rain or shine! One of the things that makes me smile the most is listening to, and reading, your stories of how you live your truth. I am so proud to be a member of such a brave community. What makes you smile with pride?! #CrestSmileWithPride #LGBTQIAPlus#Pride2017 #NatashaNegovanlis#Sponsored
The only time anyone sees Spider-Man with a cape is when he's wearing the trans flag as one while swinging from building to building.
peter is a dipshit and makes the cape too long and is tripping over it all day, but he’s determined to wear it. and he swings into time square and is like “HAPPY PRIDE FROM YOUR FRIENDLY NEIGHBORHOOD TRANS”
and some people around him kinda stare awkwardly until one uncomfortable hot dog vendor walks up and is like “um spidey, pride parade isn’t until tomorrow” and spider-man apologizes and shuffles away embarrassed
then the next day during the actual pride parade spidey jumps into times square and yells “HAPPY PRIDE FROM YOUR LOCAL NEIGHBORHOOD TRANS” and off to the side the same hot dog vendor shakes his head and mutters “doesn’t have the same impact that it did yesterday, he screwed it up, what a moron”
So if you blog about the following, please reblog this. Also if you ship/reblog any f// ships reblog this
Supergirl (Supercorp, Sanvers) Carmilla Wynonna Earp (Wayhaught) Arrow The Flash Legends of Tomorrow Harlivy (Harley Quinn x Poison Ivy) Paily USWNT Mayday Parade Game of Thrones Lesbian Ships Orphan Black Marvel/DC Wolves WWE (wrestling) All for One Couple-ish
She said “tomorrow, when you go to the parade or the fair. say shabbat shalom....”
So, I was raised in a lesbian household. My birth mom is Jewish, my other mom is Catholic. I grew up Jewish and we attended a very lesbian congregation. Our rabbi is a lesbian herself. When I was around 10 or 11, a little before gay marriage would be legalized in NYC, she gave us a dvar torah the day before pride. She said “tomorrow, when you go to the parade or the fair. say shabbat shalom. just go up to someone, if they seem jewish or not and say it. You may find someone who has been struggling with their religion. Someone who feels that they cannot be Jewish and gay at the same time. And you will touch them. You will teach them there is a place for them in this community. That being Jewish and gay is possible and there is a place for them. When I was a young girl, it would’ve meant the world to me.” To this day her words touch me. I came out as bisexual when I was 14. As I’ve grown older I’ve begun wondering if I may be a lesbian, or at least only situationally heterosexual. I’m not sure at this point and that’s fine. What’s important was that I was given this community. My moms got married under a huppah, whose fabric we ended up using to make the tallis for my Bat Mitzvah. Jewish life and gay life have always been intertwined for me and I’m so glad that I had that established at such a young age. I can be both, you can be both. Being religious and loving your heritage is not something exclusive for straight people. I am as proud a Jewish woman as I am a queer woman and I hope I can one day say “shabbat shalom” to someone else, and make them know what I know.
anonymous asked: I love Joe!!! I would love to see more of him in Modern Glasgow or any other idea that strikes any of y'alls fancy. I think he is truly the only good friend Claire ever had (beyond Jamie, naturally) and I wished the books had even more Joe and Claire moments!
something to be said for the peculiar hour of the blue-morning, when a
hospital beeps into quiet life. The rattle of death behind drawn curtains, expletives hissed over set bones and shots taken in the thigh. It
is not like Jamie’s Grampian refuge, which springs forth naturally from the earth. Instead, Boston GH scars the landscape, numbing loneliness through morphine drips and the tug of sheer necessity.
It is during this gradual reawakening, that Claire hides in a closet, imagines the pink, wet sacs of her lungs contract and expand. She counts her breaths—one, two,
three, one, two, three—to release the night’s chaos, still lodged in her throat.
During the wild evening hours, Claire sees only what exists outside her body. Such an easy thing to do as a doctor, this sudden corporeal separation: leap into the procedural
dance, embrace the temporary loss of yourself to the staunching of blood and the
sewing of sutures.
But eventually, the window of calm arrives, and the wall of dissociation begins to crumble. Claire, in her closet sanctuary, returns to her body once more, the sight of her arms and her hands like four old friends, reacquainted.
Claire hunkers down between two shelves, and relief travels from foot to torso,
settling somewhere inside her gut. As always, she has brought her medical bag—a gift
from her husband, CER embossed in golden filigree—and rummages through it. As always, she finds the folder and flicks it open, seeking the page that is stowed inside. She is forever tethered to its final sentence, which launches a fresh rip of longing straight to her chest.
And as always, she goes back to the beginning, following the words. Fingers like greedy sponges, text absorbing into skin.
NEW YORK CITY, 11:30AM - The diner hushes when the bell tinkles, announcing the
arrival of literary darling James Fraser. He is a giant in more ways than one: six-feet tall, wide-set shoulders, and a critically-acclaimed author with legions of fans. But for all his inches and his clout, Fraser is blissfully unaware of the eyes on his back. When he sits opposite me and shakes my hand, I, like the rest of the world, find him to be impulsively likable.
Sporting one month’s growth of beard and a wrinkled v-neck,
it doesn’t take long for Fraser’s roguish charm to earn a free meal. He is quick to thank the waitress, and for not the first time, one
has to wonder how the man could possibly be single. Surely his good looks, his talent, and Reformed Bad Boy reputation draws the ladies in?
Point proven: our waitress lingers, hungry for Fraser’s attention, but
he closes his menu after ordering a glass of lemonade. (An odd choice, but then our writing heroes are full of idiosyncrasies, aren’t they?) I almost leap to console the girl, that poor thing, as she runs a self-conscious hand down her apron.
Alas, one gets the impression that it isn’t pickiness keeping Fraser romantically unattached. Nor is it misogyny or closeted homosexuality (despite what those tabloid vipers
spit). James Fraser simply enjoys his place in the lonely hearts club—and is perfectly content to stay there, sipping ice-cold lemonade.
Frank’s ring glides across the lines, pauses over “single”. Such a different life, so removed from Claire’s, though here it thrums beneath her hands. Suddenly, her head grows heavier, weighted by the chain draped around her neck. Jamie’s thistle ring dangles there, cold as death against her. Forever tucked inside her shirts, a secret between her breasts. (Frank lets her wear it, just as she lets him wear his stained button-downs, other women smiling from the collars.)
Fraser’s second and latest novel, Two Centuries in Purgatory, released just last month to stellar reviews. Hailed as a “modern classic” by TheNew York Times (and truly, it is), Purgatory has found a comfortable seat at the top of the bestseller lists, and shows no signs of losing momentum. Now touring
the U.S., Fraser seems nonplussed by the bustle of the Big Apple, his eighth time to our concrete jungle (“I’ve a parade of publisher meetings and interviews tomorrow,” he grumbles). Though he’s a longtime resident of both
Edinburgh and Glasgow, he says no city feels like home nowadays. “Where is home then?” I ask him, and in traditional Fraser fashion, he deadpans:
For all his fame and glory, there is something decidedly melancholy about James Fraser. But of course, we all know why. We’ve read his books, haven’t we? We know his story.
Gillian Edgars: Are you enjoying your lemonade, Mr. Fraser?
James Fraser: Aye, verra much so. Lemonade in Scotland doesna taste like this.
GE: Mmmm, exploring the pleasures of America. I like it. Now, shall we begin? Let’s start with Two Centuries in Purgatory.
brings the page a few inches closer. This is not the first time she has read the
article, its edges worn to yellowing curls.
A familiar anger sinks its claws into her side, as this reproduction of Jamie staggers into a flickering half-life. Gillian Edgars thinks she knows the man behind the book jacket. The entire world, for that matter, believes they can claim the bold-faced names on their hardbacks: James Fraser.
But, Claire seethes, do these people know that Jamie smiles in his sleep? That he’s prone to seasicknesses, could not wink at the waitress even if he tried? No. Only Claire knows these smaller, intimate truths—but still, they are not enough. Jamie, no longer only hers, but a communal being disseminated and shared amongst millions. Strangers have molded her Jamie into something new, into hollow casts of their false impressions.
the closet door swings open and Joe Abnernathy leans in. “Knew I’d find you in here,” he says, but he draws up short. His smile falters when he sees Claire on the ground. Falters further still when he reads the headline, “Scotland’s Newest Literary
Hero.” on the page and on her face.
“Lady Jane, why do you do this to yourself? We’re working, I know, but can’t you try to be merry? It’s officially Christmas Eve!”
Joe kneels down,
and levels his gaze with hers—the gentle but silent disappointment of an older brother. Claire holds firm when he pries the clipping from her
grasp, the paper snagging the skin of her palm. It glides over and up, a shallow curve that splits into fine, shining rubies. A jeweled J, just at the base of her thumb.
presses the wound to her teeth, tastes the heady, metallic taste of herself.
(Later, she will trace the cut with reverence, grateful to be marred, at the
very least, by a shade of Jamie.) Joe tsks and reaches for a shelf, bringing back the first aid kit.
“Perks of hiding
in a hospital supply closet. Bandages, everywhere. Take this.”
“It’s fine, Joe,” Claire assures him but accepts the bandaid anyways (Later, she will paste it on before she leaves, for the J should be hidden. Hers alone). “I’m fine—just a bad day and a scratch. See? No significant blood loss.”
“Phew. Thought I’d witnessed the first fatal paper cut,” Joe says, but then continues,
more softly, “LJ, I thought you’d given this up. That Frank made you
promise you’d stop.”
“He did,” Claire
replies. “And I did too, for a while.”
turns as the memory resurfaces: her husband, feeding the shredder a feast of papers. The machine’s tight-lipped and fanged smile, destroying Claire’s collection of articles, her glimpses of Jamie. Frank had held her as the teeth had chewed, tightened his grip when she repeated his words back to him, “Time to leave the past behind.” And afterwards, once the beast’s belly had emptied into the trash, Frank had dragged the bag of shreds to the curb. Claire had looked on, standing in the doorway. A soldier’s wife already in mourning.
(That evening, she almost snuck outside to piece the words together, for old habits die hard and a planet will always yearn for her sun. But then Frank’s arm had
risen in the darkness, flopped sleepily across her waist. The weight of it had held
her there, and so she’d stayed, picturing the night creatures stealing Jamie
away, piece by piece.)
to see what people were saying. About his new book.” She sighs. “I know I’m being ridiculous. But – it’s just that…”
everywhere, ain’t he? In the papers, on TV. Saw they’re making a Lifetime adaptation of A Blade of Grass. Jesus.”
Claire nods. “Must say, I’m steering clear of that one.” (But she
won’t, of course. Claire will want to see herself and Jamie on that screen, their better, manufactured
selves broadcasted in technicolor.)
“You’re really gonna
let me down like that, Lady Jane? I thought we’d drink cheap Scotch, put the
movie on mute, and invent the dialogue ourselves. Next weekend, the two of us. Drunk and vengeful. Whaddya say?”
“A hard pass,
Joe. We’ll be in Oxford for the
holidays, anyways. Visiting Frank’s family.”
“Well, la-di-dah. I’ll be on this side of Atlantic throwing popcorn at my TV.” Joe leaps to his feet when his pager beeps. As he walks out the door, his hand flies to
his coat pocket and he withdraws a shabby paperback. “Before I forget—a Christmas gift, for the Lady. If you’re gonna scramble your brain
with nonsense, let it be the fault of Tessa’s ‘membrane of innocence’. Not ‘Scotland’s Newest Literary Hero.’”
and flips through The Impetuous
Pirate, inhaling its smell of antiseptic and mildew, the vestiges of long-ago fingerprints. A Harlequin,
taken from the hospital waiting room. “Aye aye, captain. But if it’s all the
same to you, I’ll stay here in Davy Jones’ Locker for a while longer.”
jokes, turning swiftly on his heel. She hears his cry boom down the hallway. “Operating room, ahoy!”
Claire tucks The Impetuous Pirate
inside her bag, picks up the discarded article from the floor. For the first
time, she notices its publication date, October 20th, was her
31st birthday. She cannot remember the details of the occasion—did Frank take her to a concert, or to a movie? Buy her flowers or chocolates?—and yet a foreign scene plays so clearly
in her mind. Something cut from the script of her life, the stagehand’s hook
pulling her to the wings before she has a chance to speak. Cast in the closet’s dim spotlight, it unfolds as the playact that could have been but never was:
the New York diner, drinking lemonade. Condensation like dew drops, rolling down the pitcher. A young girl, in Gillian Edgars’ place, singing a high soprano. And Claire, beside her, blowing out candles in a single huff.
As she slices the birthday cake, Claire nicks her finger on the knife’s blade. “Kiss to make it better!” the young girl cries, and Jamie does, his lips on the sting and then Claire’s mouth. He tastes of citrus, of yellow and sunshine, a marigold paradise in a city of dying autumn leaves. “Does it still hurt, Sassenach?” he asks her. “Not anymore,” she says. And when the little girl giggles, watching them, it is something sacred. She licks the frosting from the candles. “So what’d you wish for, Mama?” she asks, not knowing that, in a moments like these, there is no need for wishes.
Claire’s pager rings, rearranging her memories. Now she remembers
her 31st birthday—and knows it did not happen in that diner. On that day, there was no little
girl, no citrus kisses in a molting New York. (But in a parallel land, perhaps, where the lemonade is phosphorescent and you can eat the stars.) Instead, Frank had taken Claire to the opera house, a
drawn-out affair they had both fidgeted through. He’d led her to the bedroom, with its king-sized bed, and slipped off her dress while she kept her chain on. “Talk
to me,” he’d panted, silver thistles against her chest. And when she came, it was not
Frank’s body that drew her cries. It was not Frank’s name that rose from her lips.
Claire scans the
article, skipping again to the final paragraphs. Here lies the line she
reads over and over, the very reason she shells $20 for subscriptions, scavenges in bins for scraps. Anything to discover some evidence of herself, some proof that she still lives in the peripheries of Jamie’s life. And whenever she finds it, it pours into her and lingers, like wine.
GE: Your debut was quite impressive—an instant
bestseller, an Oprah Book Club pick, an upcoming TV movie. I’m sure you’ve been
asked this before…but allow me to be a hack, for just one moment.
Let me ask the nosy questions. Let me pry.
JF: I dinna have a fear of rats [SMILES]. Get on wi’ it then.
I appreciate it, Mr. Fraser, I do [LAUGHS]. The protagonist’s struggles in A Blade of Grass—the financial woes, the criminal record, the years of solitude—they
seem to mirror your own. Is it accurate to say that the book is
voice calls from outside the closet. “Randall, are you in there? Mr. Duncan in
Room #18 needs to be—”
“Prepped for surgery, I
know!” Claire finishes. Her voice is shrill, rising with her goosebumps as she
nears the interview’s end. “I’ll be out in a second, Dr. Hildegarde!”
some respects, aye, A Blade of Grass is
autobiographical. Mind, I made a lot of it up myself. Embellished a few things.
yes, certainly! But even without your
embellishments, your life does make for such an interesting tale. In a way, your struggles are what made you a literary sensation. But still, I do wonder—do you regret any of it? The gamble, the
money, the arrest?
[LAUGHS QUIETLY] I thank ye for the compliment, Ms. Edgars, but I hope my
sins are no’ responsible for the book’s success. And for the record, they were
largely exaggerated by the press.
Ah, right. We rats are despicable creatures, always making bread from crumbs.
But it never rises in the oven, not really.
Have ye tried poetry before, Ms. Edgars? You’ve a knack for it [LOOKS AWAY]. But nay, it isna the crimes themselves that I
regret most. Whether they were exaggerated or no.
Really? There’s something else [LEANS
FORWARD]? Will you tell me then, your
life’s biggest regret? Or will you keep me and your readers in the dark, forever wondering what keeps our beloved James Fraser up at night?
closes her hand into a fist, forces herself to bleed out from that thin,
half-mooned J. She imagines Jamie’s face, inscrutable to Gillian Edgars, but
fixed in an expression that she, and only she, can read. And if Claire had been there on that October afternoon, sitting in the diner’s vinyl booth, she would
have understood. Would’ve known already what Jamie regretted most, what he would
and could not say aloud. For within this precious, final line—their spoken and
biggest regret? I let the story
should have loved her better—God! I should have loved her better.)
Summary: You work at the MI6 Headquarters for Lady Smallwood. You love your job, but one day someone shows up and things get a little bit weird.
Pairing: Sherlock x Reader / Mycroft x Lady Smallwood
Word count: 1.548
A/N: Even though it was really hard to write, I think I made justice to the plot. Enjoy
*not my gif
MI6 Headquarters, London
It was Monday, all the staff returned to the daily routine and you did it too. Working for the MI6 was tiring, yet it was the best job you could have ever gotten. You’ve been looking for it for a long time.
You worked as Lady Smallwood’s assistant every time she was visiting the establishment. According to you, Lady Elizabeth ‘Alicia’ Smallwood was a confident, powerful woman, and she was not easily shaken. Smallwood was extremely professional in her job, and that was why you admired her. Elizabeth never gave up. Even when her husband cheated on her and then committed suicide, she was still strong and determinate. She was like a role model to you.
“Lady Smallwood, Mr. Holmes is arriving,” you informed her boss after hanging up a call.
“Thank you, Y/N,” she smiled to you as she kept walking towards her office.
“Could you make me a favour?”
“Yes, of course,” you nodded.
“Tell him to come into the office as soon as he arrives. This is serious,” she stated as she turned towards her office.
“Of course, Lady Smallwood.”
What was the matter? What was going on? Was the country in danger or it was all about their strange relationship?
Mycroft Holmes, the ‘British government’, was her new interest. It was a very strange relationship. She tried her best to flirt with him, but he seemed not to notice it. Anyway, she kept trying.
But who were you to judge their relationship? After all, your love life was not normal either. That was something that you had to accept a long time ago. However, you were happy and that was all that mattered. Wasn’t it?
You were sitting by your desk doing classified paperwork when the door eventually opened and a tall man in a suit came up. He headed towards you and you quickly rose from your chair to greet him.
“Mr. Holmes, thank you for coming. Lady Smallwood wants to see you as soon as possible,” you gestured with your hands to your boss’ office.
“Thank you…” he raised and eyebrow trying to remember your name.
“Y/N Y/S, sir,” you said.
“Y/N,” he frowned. “Oh, yes, Y/N,” you smiled shyly. “Alright, excuse me,” he said politely and walked towards the office.
The door shut and silence reigned the room again. You sat down on your chair and resumed your work. It was not hard but boring. It’s been a while since Mycroft Holmes entered the office, it was surely an important matter to discuss. Anyway, it was none of your concern. You should be working, not thinking about other’s matters. Therefore you focused again on the big amount of paperwork placed on your desk. But you knew that as long as nobody disturbed you, you would finish quickly.
It had been three hours since you started doing your paperwork. It was almost finished and you were excited. There were just five files left to classify. Everything was going according your plan until a tall man entered the room. You decided to ignore him so you could finish your work but suddenly the man came and leaned against your desk. You turned your gaze up and saw him. A tall man with curly hair, crystal blue eyes, sharp cheekbones, wearing a dinner jacket, a black coat and a blue scarf. It was definitely Sherlock Holmes.
“That’s mine,” he said as he took the last file you had to classify.
“Sherlock, what are you doing here?” You exclaimed alarmed.
“Shhh…” he shushed you and frowned “they can hear us.”
“What are you doing here?!” You whispered angrily.
“Why do you think I am here?” He asked you with a ‘you know why I’m here’ look on his face. Then, you rose from your chair and faced him.
“Sherlock, they can fire me,” you whispered angrily.
“Mmhh…” he tilted his head and pursed his lips as he looked away. “Don’t think so.”
“There are security cameras all around the building and they will arrest us because of this stupid parade. So, I beg you, leave. I’ll see tomorrow.”
“The cameras are not working anymore,” you frowned “Someone owed me a favour,” he smiled. You tried not to but couldn’t resist it.
“Please,” you begged.
“Didn’t you miss me?” He asked playfully.
“Stop it!” You exclaimed as you giggled. “Seriously, what are you doing here?” You calmed yourself down and asked him.
“Take a guess,” Sherlock whispered in your ear.
“Please,” you said and he came back to his previous position. “I miss you too, but I have to work now,” you sighed.
“Since when you like working?” You rolled her eyes and grinned.
“Go back to work, bastard mine,” she said and touched his nose his her finger.
He chuckled and then kissed you on your cheek. You couldn’t resist it, he was so sweet so you had to do it. You put your arms around Sherlock’s neck and kissed him tenderly.
“Better?” You asked him and then bit your inferior lip as you looked him in his eyes. He nodded and then kissed you again.
Suddenly Lady Smallwood and Mycroft left the office. As soon as Mycroft saw his dear brother kissing you, he sighed. Elizabeth, who was closing her office heard someone giggling. She looked over her shoulder and saw the young couple. She glanced at Mycroft, who had now a palm on his face.
“Is that he?” She asked him.
“The one and only,” he sighed.
“So…” she said.
“What?” She turned to her raising an eyebrow.
She tilted with her head to them. Mycroft took a deep breath and then cleared his throat. Instantly, you released Sherlock. They both opened their eyes at the same time and looked at each other in the eyes. You were worried but Sherlock…Sherlock was irritated.
“Unwise decision, brother mine.”
Sherlock closed his eyes and pursed his lips. He sighed and looked at you.
“Mycroft.” he said calmly and turned around to face his annoying brother.
“Sherlock, could you please behave for once in your life? This…this is…” he gestured with his hands
“Inacceptable? Inappropriate? Impolite? Rude? Against the rules?” He scoffed.
“Unexpected.” Lady Smallwood finished the sentence and all of them turned to her. “This is unbelievable, I never thought this could happen.”
“I…I can explain this,” you intervened.
“No, you can’t,” Sherlock stopped you.
“Sherlock, this is disappointing,” Mycroft scolded.
“Disappointing? Really?” He scoffed. “That’s the best you can do?”
“So what would you call this? Making fun of us? Kissing a stranger?”
“She’s not a stranger,” he replied sharply.
“So what is she?” He asked smirking.
“She’s my girlfriend,” he said as a you began smiling.
“You? A girlfriend? How…how can be that possible?” Mycroft laughed.
“Well, I should be asking you the same,” Sherlock glanced at Lady Smallwood.
“Whatever you are thinking, dear little brother, is not true,” Mycroft denied firmly.
“Oh, I see. So you’ve never noticed about when Lady Smallwood flirts with you,” he smirked as Elizabeth’s eyes and mouth were open. “Look at you, brother mine. Funny, isn’t it?”
“Sherlock Holmes, we were here to talk about the security of the British nation.”
“Security?” He asked and raised an eyebrow.
“Actually, it was all about your sister, Mr. Holmes,” Elizabeth added.
“Euros?” You asked him; you were confused.
“I bet she doesn’t know anything about Euros. Don’t you…”
“Y/N,” Sherlock finished his brother’s sentence. “She knows everything about Euros.”
“It’s a private matter,” Mycroft scolded.
“Well…it’s not anymore,” he replied to him.
“This is family,” he whispered sharply.
“She is family!” He yelled as his brother. Both locked eyes for a moment.
“Sherlock, don’t,” you whispered.
“You are family as well as John, Mary and Rosie.”
Sherlock looked over his shoulder as he pronounced those meaningful words. You smiled and so did he.
“Mr. Holmes,” Elizabeth interrupted.
“Yes?” Mycroft and Sherlock turned to her and said simultaneously. Then, they exchanged gazes.
“I think we had enough,” she said politely.
“Sorry?” Mycroft asked her.
“Didn’t you hear her? This is enough. You should stop and walk away,” you stated and glanced at Lady Smallwood, who grinned.
“But…” Sherlock pouted.
“Sherlock, please,” You asked him calmly.
“Fine. I’ll let you keep working,” he said as he headed to the exit.
“Sherlock, wait!” You shouted as you ran towards him. You got closer and turned his collar up, and grinned. “There you go.”
“What? Why?” He asked.
“It makes you more…you,” you looked each other in the eyes. “Tomorrow, I promise. I’ll be there,” she whispered.
“Tomorrow,” you nodded and give him a quick but sweet kiss. Sherlock chuckled.
“Ok,” he exclaimed. “Goodbye, blood,” he greeted as he walked out of the room.
Elizabeth stared at you proudly. Even though you broke the rules, you knew how to ask a man to do something for you in a confident and gentle way.
Mycroft glanced at you and then turned his gaze at Lady Smallwood. He raised an eyebrow and then nodded. Both ladies could see him exiting the room.
Once the Holmes siblings were gone, both of you looked at each other and chuckled.
“Men,” Lady Smallwood stated as she headed to her office. Then, she looked over her shoulder at you.
i really hate to spam yall but i am literally like $30 short for my ticket to nyc to march in the thanksgiving parade and i need to buy it by tomorrow
my family needs to eat this month so we literally dont have 30 to spare.
you guys have helped me out so much already its unbelievable i cant thank u enough..
im so so close if you could spare anything at all my paypal is paypal.me/nhara19 and please reblog