the place i call my home

i had a dream last night, full of golden rays and wildflowers waiting to bloom. he was there, so bright he was glowing in his skin, and his arms were empty and in wait of me.

i ran to him – i jumped into his arms like it was the only place i’d ever called home (and in reality it is) and he took me and held me and breathed deep of the perfume in the secret places on my skin and said i have been waiting for you. when i kissed him it was at full crescendo and it was all soft petals and closed eyes and warmth like the last fire of a cold winter. i never knew hard white teeth and snarling lips and blood dripping from tongues like cherry wine for sacrifice.

he loved me like he meant it.

- abby // prompt for @itsabeautifulnightmare

anonymous asked:

The meeting people from home thing is crazy. My brother moved to Australia 7 years ago, and moved in with people who turned out to be former neighbours of an aunt of ours who lives 15 mins from us. He met his girlfriend, whose family live 20 minutes away, and they live with a couple from the next town over that neither of them knew before going to Oz. It's nuts

Back in the 80′s (I think) my mum went working on this absolutely fuck-tiny island in Turkey called Burgazada. Like the place is maybe 1.5km across in size. She didn’t speak a word of Turkish so the first time she heard someone speaking fluent English she ran to them just for the rush of being able to talk to someone. As it turns out it was two lads who lived not ten minutes up the road from her in Tooting. Couldn’t make it up.

I Was Born in the Desert

I am not certain why I wrote this. It has been buzzing about my pea brain for quite a while, and responding to @thesecondsealwrites earlier gave me the push I needed to finally type it out, I suppose. Anyways, here you go.


I was born in the desert.

Now, probably not the desert you are thinking of in your mind right now: there were no great rolling dunes of gold, no oases, no camels. I was a daughter of the smell of sagebrush and the howls of coyotes, in a place that so few people call home that the stars still shine clear and bright in the night sky, undiminished by the expanse of civilization.

I do not remember the desert as it was then, for when I was still too young to give name to my home, my family left, and I became a daughter of the sea. Not the sea you are probably imagining, with lazy stretches of white sand or beautiful people tanned and glowing in the warmth of an ocean sun. No, I was a daughter of the fierce and utterly unrepentant waves. The seagull’s call and the sea lion’s bark replaced the coyote and sage grouse, and as I grew I would run wild on the dark sands of my home, calling to the sea.

This too, was temporary.

Before I could read my first precious words, my family moved again, this time to the mountains of the south, and my mouth stumbled over unfamiliar names like Cascades and Siskiyous. But I grew to love the mountains, and they would embrace me for long years. I became a daughter of towering pines and dark hollows, and my ears keened to the screams of mountain lions and the curious hoots of owls. My feet grew rough and calloused as I ran feral and free in the forests as often as my mother would let me, and sometimes even when she would not, and there were seasons. Spring and summer and fall and winter, all in their time.

Time passed.

Now, I live in the great metropolis, the city. I attend parties and shows and sip exotic beers and revel in the opportunities afforded to me in my new home. I work and smile at the memories of the places I left behind.

But still, sometimes I dream. I dream of the desert, and the night skies so clear they could break my heart. And I dream of the sea, with the waves that crash like thunder on stone and sand. And I dream of the mountains, where mystery still whispers its promises amongst tree and stream and lake. I am still a daughter of them all.

And sometimes, I return.

Please Read and Repost 🌸

I don’t post much on here anymore, as I’m now studying full time. But I really need to share my thoughts about the enduring racism I see everyday, here in Australia, the place I call my ‘home’.

I’m going to share my feelings about the racism towards Indigenous Australians (the Aboriginal peoples), but I’m fully aware that EVERY race suffers from racism, it is not isolated to one ethnic group.

As an Indigenous Australian myself, I’m extremely passionate about the welfare of Indigenous Australians. For anyone who doesn’t know Aboriginal people have one of the oldest living cultures in the world, they were the FIRST people to live on Australian soil, but this has NEVER been recognised by the Australian government. The Australian government still stands by their claim that Australia was empty of any human life when the colonisers settled in 1787. Aboriginal people have been living in Australia for more than 40000 years. Which is a lot longer than the settlers have.

Not long after the colonisers arrived, Aboriginal people were slowly killed off and bred out. We went from making up 100% of the population, to now only representing 2.7% of the population.

In the early 1990’s Aboriginal children were forcibly removed from their families. They were put into orphanages and foster homes and were forced to live their lives as ‘English’ children. This was the government’s attempt at breeding out the remaining Aboriginal people. The government claimed that they were removing children because they were ‘at risk’, but that is a complete lie. To believe that tens of thousands of children were being neglected is absurd. Maybe a percentage of those children removed, were at risk. But the government has provided no contemporary evidence to back this up. This was attempted genocide.

Many of the stolen have never been reunited with their families. Many suffered abuse, neglect and have lived the remainder of their lives with the scars of being stolen.

It’s now 2017 and the survivors have received nothing. In 2008 the Prime Minister of Australia, Kevin Rudd, formally apologised to the Stolen Generation. Yet nothing has changed. No treaty has been signed, and Aboriginal people are still treated so horribly by many people who are living on their traditional land. These people do not understand the transgenerational effects of the Stolen Generation. Mental illnesses were formed during that time, and are now being passed down through the generations. Alcohol was used to numb the pain, and now alcoholism is also being inherited by younger generations.

This is a very sensitive topic for many Aboriginal people, I can guarantee that if you are Aboriginal you know someone who was affected by the Stolen Generation. My own Grandmother was removed from her family and placed into a boarding school for girls, she was whitewashed, and lost years of her childhood, but never received any compensation. When someone is wrongly convicted and serves time in jail for a period of time, we compensate them for that time they lost. Because they didn’t deserve to lose precious years of their life by being forced into a horrible environment. But when Stolen Generation survivors ask for compensation the people of Australia, ask 'why’? As if being stolen from your family, and forced to live with people you don’t know for years at a time wasn’t enough? What about the abuse many Aboriginal children endured? The neglect? The sexual abuse? Is that enough to deserve compensation? I know money doesn’t fix anything, but how do these people make up for the time they lost? Why do citizens of this country think they just need to move on and forget the past? Do we forget ANZAC Day, have we moved on from that? NO. We don’t forget these monumental times in our history, because they’re important to us.

Below I’m providing examples of the racist comments I see online EVERYDAY. These people think they’re educated on Aboriginal affairs because they lived next door to an Aboriginal once, or because they were friends with an Aboriginal person, but do you really think these people have any idea what it’s like to be Aboriginal? In reality they just think that our culture is a burden on them. As if it wasn’t their ancestors who invaded our land?

These comments in particular were about providing compensation to the survivors of the Stolen Generation. 

Just something to point out, almost all of these commenters are white males. I really don’t think any of them have any right to talk about something they know nothing about. 


Why are people so inherently racist towards Aboriginal peoples? Why do these people look at us as people who play the system to get free money? I’m a 19 year old University student studying a Bachelor of Criminology. I don’t receive any special treatment, and I’m not receiving anymore money than another white student would be. I live off of $152 a fortnight, which is supposed to cover my food, books, and utilities. I’m an Aboriginal person, doing the best I can and yet I still have to read shit like this online everyday? 

What have Aboriginal people actually done to receive this sort of treatment? 

I actually think that Australia is inherently racist. It’s obvious through the way many people treat the traditional peoples of this land, the way they also treat refugees and migrants, as if they’re ancestors weren’t the original migrants (invaders). 

I don’t know why I posted this but I really needed to share my thoughts. I’m so over the racism present in our society. Given the last few days events, you would think that these people would have more to worry about then spreading their vile opinions online. 

I honestly thank every person with an open heart. If you look at another race with no prejudice and no malice, then you are the future of this generation. 

The cameras make a habit of getting a LIL TOO CLOSE to Viktor and Yuuri because the mics sometimes pick up what they say to each other before skating or in the Kiss & Cry, and audiences eat that shit up. There are people who watch ISU events like it’s the Viktor&Yuuri Show, and the sports channels know it

TUNE IN FOR THE NIKIFOROV-KATSUKI VARIETY HOUR, the advertisements practically blare.

Viktor can often be heard composing what sounds like literal on-the-spot poetry. (”You are my sun and stars and I will love you until I’m in the ground–”) Much of this is to calm Yuuri down before he skates. Most viewers assume that he writes this shit down somewhere but people who know Viktor understand it to be just the shit that literally is always coming out of Viktor’s mouth.

“Oh,” Yuuri says while they’re waiting for Viktor’s scores one time. He hasn’t put his glasses back on yet and is kind of just staring, unfocused, into the nebulous distance. “I forgot to call Minako and wish her a happy birthday.”

(“YEAH YOU DID,” Minako growls at the television back in Hasetsu. Hiroko pats her back. She just turned fifty. She’s sensitive.)

“Well, you’re dead now,” Viktor says, picking fuzz off his costume. “It was nice knowing you. I’ll never forget you.”

“Will you move on from me?” Yuuri asks. All of this is completely deadpan as they squint at the scoreboard. Yakov is on Viktor’s other side, rolling his eyes.

“No. I’ll roam the halls of our empty home, wailing for my lost love. When I die, I’ll continue to haunt the place where I was once happy. They will call me the Silver Spectre. Once or twice a year, Americans will come and try to film me. I’ll scream into their camera equipment and carve the words triple axel into the hardwood.”

“Please not the hardwood, Vitya.”

They find out that most ISU programming isn’t actually put on a delay during the 2018 Worlds, when Viktor and Yuuri are congratulating each other on winning gold and silver and the cameras pick up Viktor saying, “When we get home, I’m going to bend you over the table and–”

“LOVING WORDS FROM VIKTOR NIKIFOROV-KATSUKI TO HIS HUSBAND,” screams the commentator, whose producer is currently bellowing abort abort into his left ear. “LET’S GO TO PAULA WHO’S TALKING TO BRONZE MEDALIST YURI PLIS–OKAY, NEVER MIND. HAHA, TECHNICAL DIFFICULTIES! WE’RE CUTTING TO COMMERCIAL.”

‘Technical difficulties’ is Yuri punting a tiger plush so hard towards Viktor that it knocks him backwards and into the backdrop for the Kiss & Cry.

“This used to be an ELEGANT SPORT,” Yakov growls. He looks to Lilia, whose expression is suspiciously toothy. “Are you laughing at this, Lilya?”

“How dare you accuse me of such a thing,” Lilia replies.

You Can’t Find My House

I just got off the phone with mom, and we came to the realization that my family has lived in a series of unplottable houses for a couple generations now.

-The First Unplottable House is on my dad’s side of the family, in Delphi, Iowa.  The directions to it are the stuff of Buried Treasure:  Turn off the county road with a fraction in it’s name, to the Named Dirt Road, then turn at The Discount Eggs Sign on to the Unnamed dirt road that takes a meandering path THROUGH a corn field, DO NOT take any forks on that road or the farmer will shoot your ass, then take the paved road that dead-ends on ALL the way to the end- No, farther, the road keeps going it’s not a cliff-The only indication that You Have Arrived At The Correct Driveway is that a fat gray pony will charge the car, screaming, then escort you the rest of the way there.

It’s on the side of an enormous river, they’ve owned the property since 1911, and that’s the ONLY route there.

-The Second Unplottable house is in Bedford, Ohio and belonged to my mother’s parents.  It’s at the corner of two side-streets, right across from the tiny Italian grocery store.  Due to strange development decisions, the house is about 30 feet above street level and rendered invisible by a chestnut tree so majestic Hyao Myazaki would probably put it in a movie.  The driveway, however, is VERY visible from any of the surrounding houses, the grocer, or the street.  

At least in theory and old photos, becuase if you actually GO there,  your eyes slide right past it to the neighbor’s lillac bush, or to the retro neons of the grocery store or up the Chestnut tree.  it is literally HARD to look at that driveway, all the world around it wants to pull you away.

-The Third Unplottable house is in Salinas, CA, home of my paternal grandparents.  It is the single most BORING house possible- like, if you were to ask a third-grader to draw a prototypical house, they would draw my grandparent’s house.  Utterly Unremarkable. 

Except for the part where my Grandfather, spurred by his success with the “non-fruiting” peach tree, decided to plant a California Redwood Tree, and it grew to approximately 150 feet over the course of a few short decades.  It is the tallest damn thing for miles around, and SOMEHOW deliveries keep being missed, mail is delivered to the neighbors, and any non-blood family that tried to visit would end up on the other side of town.

-The Fourth Unplottable House was the one I grew up in CA.  The Directions to it are as follows:  It’s the Bright Orange house Right Across From The School.  You know, the one with six flamingos and the Volunteer Avacado Tree.

SOMEHOW, we got everyone’s mail but OURS (we still wonder about the letter from Fort Knox for Mr. Thomas Saxophone), the other kids got lost trying to visit and ended up in Mr.Phan’s yard on the other end of the block.  Officer Brown, Mom and Dad’s friend, who had GPS back in the early 90′s becuase silicon valley, regularly got lost looking for our place.  The Flamingos did nothing.

-My parent’s current house is the second house on the right  after two right turns off the state highway that runs through town.  Sounds easy, right?  

Except that due to a couple small trees and a bend in the road, the house is invisible from the road.  I have to stand out in the road if i want my pizza delivered.  The Mailman is the only person who could reliably find the box, but he drives a subaru that’s older than my sister from the passenger side by leaning over, and delivers mail based on the aztec lunar calendar, so he’s probably not actually human.  I tried to host a party, tied rainbow balloons to the mailbox, and all nine friends had to be waved in from the street.

-My current apartment building Does Not Exist, according to my Bank, medicaid, Google, and City Hall which was a bit exciting when I first moved in and had to call everyone that yes, I was sitting in a building that really exists.   

Unless it’s my classmates, becuase they can apparently come to parties I don’t host. This Friday I had a friend telling me she had a great time at my place last Teusday… when I was home alone.  She assures me that I held a houseparty with “Those polish things you make” (I make great mini klatchky, but haven’t served them to her) and that “You were definitely there, we talked about Carvaggio and you drive me home”

Fran and Jock

by reddit user Pippinacious/ tumblr user muricanmagpie

I was the last in a long line of grandkids on both sides of the family. No one has ever said as much, but I’m pretty sure I was an “oops” baby; the result of one too many glasses of wine and a couple over forty who thought unplanned pregnancies were for teens.

Oops.

Keep reading

“I feel like I want to go somewhere,” she said, “like a place for me to call home.”

“Is it really a place,” I look at her,

“Or just a pair of arms?”

—  Lukas W. // Forgotten Words #134 // “What is your home?“

If people will be named after colors, I’ll call you purple. The kind of purple that melts in the sky when the sun is about to set and take a rest for awhile. The type of purple that makes my heart jumps a little and lits up the excitement in my eyes.

If people will be named after flowers, you’ll be my rose, no matter how painful your thorns. I’ll embrace you with my arms open wide and cage you in a warm tight hug. Even if it makes me bleed red that’ll surely tear my heart apart.

If people will be named after seasons, I’ll choose Summer among all of those four. You’ll be the sun that kisses my skin, and made my day goes lighter along the way. You’ll make me love the ocean more, and dance to groovy songs. You are the season which will never get tired of warming my heart when Winter tried to cool it with its cold breeze and snowy hands.

If people will be named after places, I’ll call you home. Not Paris, nor New York. You are the place that will always make my heart aches when I’m away—because I’ll surely miss you the moment we took our separate ways. You are the shelter that protects my heart, the one I will always run to no matter what I’m feeling. Happy, angry, sad, jolly, grateful or in love. Because you always understand and know the real me. You’ve seen me— on my ups and downs, and still accepts me— for who I am. I’ll name you after a place that doesn’t have a fancy name, yet will always be the one that will tell me that it’s okay to feel. That it’s okay to be me.

You will always remain in my heart no matter where I go.

And because people have identities, and so are things.

But you and your name will always be my favorite.

—  ma.c.a // Maybe I should Call You Mine

poedamerom  asked:

"I work as a florist and every day you walk in , buy one flower and give it to me" AU because yesterday I realised you were one of my favorite stucky writers!

Steve meets Bucky Barnes on Valentine’s Day, because God has a particularly cruel sense of humor.

— —

“You’re charging /how much/ for roses?” the man — later revealed as Bucky Barnes — asks.

“It’s Valentine’s Day,” Steve says as an explanation, then sighs as he rings the man up on the cash register. “Don’t worry, your sweetheart will like them anyway.”

The man snorts.

“What?” Steve asks.

“Not for my sweetheart, for my sister. She’s in high school, and this asshole guy’d been leading her on for months, and all we could do was watch while she pined after this little fuck. Meanwhile, this guy’s having her edit his essays, drive him places… You know, the shit that asshole high school guys do when they’re going on a power trip. Anyhow, yesterday he asks out this girl right in front of my sister, asks her if she’s happy for him, which of course she’s not. She gets home, my mom calls me, and we hang out and watch rom coms together, and that’s when we come up with the plan.”

“The plan?” Steve asks, leaning in a little closer.

The guy smiles, almost sheepishly. “Her math teacher is a friend of mine from undergrad, so I call him up. These flowers, a few cards, and a big ol’ box of chocolates are gonna be on her desk.”

“Lemme guess, the asshole sits next to her?”

He grins. “Indeed, he does.”

“She’s in on it, right?”

He nods. “‘Course, it’d be weird if she wasn’t. She’s gonna tell everyone that they’re from her overnight camp boyfriend or something, who has been begging to get back together with her. I dunno, she’s got the whole thing set up, but she promises me that it’s gonna make this jack ass jealous, and that’s the important thing.”

Steve laughs. “Yeah, it is,” he says. “Bet your girlfriend is jealous, too,” Steve asks, and okay. He’s fishing a bit.

The guy raises an eyebrow. “Actually, I’m single right now,” he says. “I’ve got all these grand romantic gestures stored up with no outlet. It’s a real problem.”

“What a problem to have,” Steve says. “I don’t think I’ve ever gotten flowers on Valentine’s Day, in any context. And that’ll be $42.88.”

“Ouch,” the guy says as he inserts his debit card into the chip reader. “I’m Bucky, by the way.”

“Steve,” Steve says, then adds, “but you probably could’ve gathered that from the name tag.”

Bucky chuckles. “Thanks Steve,” he says as he takes his card out and puts it in his wallet.

“No problem,” Steve says, handing the flowers over to Bucky. “And good luck with your grand gesture.”

“Thanks,” he says, taking the flowers. He pauses, and pulls a rose out of the bunch. “Here,” he says, handing it to Steve.

“What?” Steve asks.

Bucky moves it a little closer to Steve. “A flower. Happy Valentine’s Day, Steve.”

“Oh, uh…” Steve says, taking it. “Thanks,” he says, a little lost for words.

“You’re welcome,” Bucky says. “Though it’s not quite a grand romantic gesture.”

Steve shrugs, trying not to blush. “It’s sweet,” he says.

Bucky just smiles and leaves the store.

— —

He comes back in the next day. “One tulip,” he says, bringing a yellow tulip up to the counter.

“Sure thing,” Steve says, then asks, “How’d the gesture go?”

“Perfectly,” Bucky says. “By the end of the day, he was telling her that he regretted everything, and she was telling him that she’s too good for him.”

Steve can’t help but smile. “Good to know, and that’s $4.21.”

Bucky pays with his debit card. “Yeah, gotta focus my energies elsewhere now,” he says.

“Good luck with that,” Steve says, handing him the flower.

“Thanks,” Bucky says, then hands the tulip back to Steve. “Enjoy the flower!” he says, before leaving the store.

Steve stands there, eyebrows furrowed, looking at the flower in his hand. “What?” he mutters to himself.

— —

It keeps happening.

Bucky comes in, he buys a flower — a different one every day — and hands it to Steve. If he doesn’t come in, he orders one online with the direction “give to Steve, please.”

“This is ridiculous,” Steve says after a month.

“I’m supporting a local, independently-run business,” Bucky responds as he hands Steve an amaryllis. “It’s the right thing to do.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Steve amends, but he takes the flower anyway.

— —

He’s started keeping them in his apartment as a mismatched, ever-changing arrangement. When a flower starts to wilt, he presses one of the petals and keeps it in a little book.

He sort of loves it.

He also sort of loves Bucky, but that’s a different story.

— —

They get to know each other, even though they just talk for a few minutes a day. Bucky is an architect who lives a few blocks away and passes by the flower shop on the way to work. He spends a lot of time with his mom and his sister (his dad isn’t in the picture), and he likes cheesy movies but not cheese — he’s lactose intolerant.

“We have that in common,” Steve says.

“Then it’s a good thing that I’m giving you flowers and not chocolates,” Bucky says as he hands him a peony.

Steve takes it and gives it a sniff. He really does like the smell of peonies. “What’s your endgame here?” Steve asks. “It’s been four months.”

Bucky shrugs, smiling. “Dunno,” he says. “I honestly don’t. I just wanted you to have fun.” He pauses and shoves his hands in his pockets. “If it gets annoying—“

“It’s not,” Steve says, too quickly. “It’s not annoying,” he says.

Bucky looks up, smiling. “Alright then,” he says.

“See you tomorrow?” Steve asks.

Bucky nods. “See you tomorrow.”

— —

When Bucky walks into the shop on Valentine’s Day, his face lights up.

“Steve?” he asks, looking at the flower arrangement in the middle of the shop and the accompanying valentine, made from the dried petals of 365 flowers.

“I thought you could use a gesture,” Steve says. “And a date for tonight?” he adds on, hopeful.

“Are these…?” Bucky asks.

“The flowers, I saved a petal from each one.”

“Oh my God,” Bucky says, looking down and biting his bottom lip. “I’m gonna have to step up my game if we’re gonna start going out,” he says.

“So that’s a yes?” Steve asks.

Bucky nods. “Yeah,” he says. “That’s a yes.”

“Jack, you’re not going to make it. It’s okay,” Bitty stresses, trying to remain the calm one even though he’s not feeling that calm about it.

“No. I’ll get there, I—Shit! Ah, shit. Sorry, Bits, half ran a red there.”

“Jack!” Bitty groans, heart flipping over at the thought of Jack speeding home. He wouldn’t have called Jack in the first place if he’d known that was what was going on. This phone conversation can only be a distraction. “I’m serious. It’s fine.”

“It’s your birthday. I’m going to get there in time.”

“You’re crazy, and I’m honestly scared for your life right now.”

“Don’t be. There’s barely anyone on the roads, I’m fine,” Jack says dismissively.

“I am rolling my eyes at you,” Bitty tells Jack after having done so. “With love, but also because you’re an idiot.”

“And idiot who loves you.” How Jack manages to be sappy and romantic whilst seemingly in a one-man car chase is beyond Bitty. He’s appreciative anyway.

“Get here in one piece or this will be the worst birthday ever.”

“What about–”

“Yes, I am including the time we had to take Tater to hospital and I got blood all over my new shoes,” Bitty says somewhat hysterically.

“What’s the time?” Jack demands.

Bitty tips his head back from where he’s got it resting on the arm of the couch to look at the clock. “Eleven fifty-three.”

“Fuck yeah,” Jack yells, making it come out buzzed through Bitty’s phone. “Okay. Bits, Bud, I got this. Open the front door for me, I’m almost home.”

Bitty rolls his eyes again. This boy is way too eager for near midnight. “Okay, okay. I’m doing it.”

He opens the front door and steps out into the hallway. It’s quiet out there, and he can’t hear anything coming through on the phone either. Jack probably isn’t going to make it, and that’s fine with Bitty. It’ll be the first time in six years, but Bitty thinks that’s a pretty good track record.

The sound of footsteps pounding up the emergency exit gets clearer and clearer, and Bitty turns toward them. Jack bursts through, clearly flushed, but smiling happily, victorious, running toward Bitty holding a wrapped present.

Bitty hangs up his phone. “The elevator would’ve been–

Jack crashes into him and kisses him eagerly and messily, stopping Bitty mid word.

“Happy Birthday.” Jack pulls back, delight in his eyes, and hands over the present.

“You were right,” Bitty admits with relief. “You did make it, one piece and all.”

“Told you,” Jack says happily. “And it’s…” he checks his watch. “Eleven fifty-eight. Quick.”

“Jack!” Bitty shouts as Jack bends down to lift Bitty over his shoulder and carry him inside.

“No time to waste. You’ve gotta open that.”

“We could’ve done that in the hallway. You’re ridiculous.” Bitty repeats the sentiment from earlier.

“Okay, go go go.” Jack plops Bitty down on the couch and sits pressed up beside him. “One minute.”

Bitty holds his hand up in front of Jack. Jack grabs it and kisses it, then puts it on top of the present. By this stage, Bitty’s caught up in the manic energy Jack is radiating. He rips open the packaging, struggling some with the amount of sticky tape on the present. He throws it behind him once it’s off and stares down at the plain cardboard box.

“Open it,” Jack encourages.

Bitty does, pulling it out in wonder.

“Wow, Jack. It’s…” He gives it a shake. “Is that us?”

“Yeah.” Jack nods. “I had it custom made by one of Lardo’s friends. They said–”

This time, Bitty cuts Jack off with a kiss. “I love it.”

He looks at the snow globe, with the miniature glass work Jack and Bitty inside, kissing on an icy pond, surrounded by falling snow.

Jack throws an arm around Bitty’s shoulders and pulls him in. He kisses the top of Bitty’s head, and whispers, “Happy Birthday.”

It’s after midnight now, but Bitty’s not going to point that out.

Day One Hundred and Twenty-Two

-I approached the non-automated side doors to enter for my shift, only to find them open of their own accord when I drew near. Clearly, my overwhelming suave and powerful aura has a lot of pull here. Onlookers may believe this to have been the result of the strong winds, but I am confident that it was my aura.

-There will never be someone I respect more than a shopper in pajamas on a Tuesday afternoon.

-A couple in their seventies came through. As the man finished paying, the woman swooped in behind him with a fifty-dollar Bass Pro Shop gift card and a crisp Ulysses wrapped around it surreptitiously. The man, utterly caught off guard, questioned her about this, only to be told that she had found the fifty in her pocket and decided to surprise him. This is one of the sweetest moments to take place in front of this red counter I call home, and I am certain this has been a preview of the life and love I have before me.

-I looked out the front windows and noted a gaggle of middle schoolers gathered around the storefront, staging a large-scale photoshoot and taking turns acting as photographer. I respect their taste in both pastimes and backdrops.

-Once again, a distraught mother’s day has been saved by me sticking my tongue out at her child. I am beginning to consider offering this service at a charge; however, I cannot imagine the day where a giggling toddler with their tongue hanging out would not be payment enough.

aquaxixi  asked:

Hi, thank you for posting so many victuuri recs! Are there any rec lists where Victor proposes to Yuuri??

Thank you for these requests! I freakin’ love proposal fics! I read these all the time, so get ready for a lot of fics!

Originally posted by xx-kawaii-monster-xx


Proposal Fics


Round and Gold by oh_imintrouble, Gen, 1.4k
Yuuri wins the Grand Prix Final and gives Victor something round a gold. Victor gives him something else round and gold in return. One shot proposal fic. I’m totally not crying, there’s just something in my eye…

we’ll call this place our home by perennials, Gen, 1.3k
The Big Day approaches, and Viktor seeks advice from various members of the Katsuki family. SO CUTE!!!!

properly by Aimerz, Teen, 3.1k
In which Victor is shit at proposing, and Yuuri wants to do it all over again. Thumbs up!

A Beautiful Morning by Jawbones, Mature, 1k
Viktor pulls him even closer, moving to lie on top of him, burying his face into his chest. Yuuri looks down, is greeted by bright blue eyes and a smile. I’M SCREAMING THIS IS SO PERFECT

Settle Down by EttaMills, Teen, 2.7k
Yuuri remembers when Victor once said, during an interview, that if the marriage doesn’t work out, it is no big deal. Unfortunately, he remembers this during Victor’s proposal. It goes about as well as can be expected. Bonus clueless Victor!

5 Times Yuuri Tried to Kiss Victor + 1 Time he Did by kireiflora, Gen, 7.2k
Yuuri has always wanted to kiss Victor, and he has, many times since he burst into his life, but there are five attempts that stick out most. And the most important one that actually happened. SO FRICKIN’ CUTE OMG

Anything You Want by Flightless_Bird, Teen, 2.6k
Victor’s heart stung. He knew that he shouldn’t get annoyed when he was clearly in the wrong; but it still hurt to think that Yuuri believed a few flashing cameras were more important to Victor than him. This is a rollercoaster of emotions but there’s a happy ending, don’t worry!

Say Yes by CutesyMe, Gen, 1.5k
Victor asks for Yuri’s parents for approval! SO CUTE OMGG

Happy Valentine by katsudonfemmefatale, Explicit, 6.8k
Yuuri has forgotten a particular day he’s never had caused to celebrate… but his fiancé certainly hasn’t. I LOVE THIS SO MUCH

Etched in the Ice by SharkGirl, Teen, 1.5k
“Since when did you get so good at this sort of thing?” Yuuri reached for one of his hands, lacing their fingers and bringing them to his lips. “I learned from the best.” CAN YOU HEAR ME SCREAMING OMGOGM

Advent Calendar by sushicorps (Inclinant), Teen, 2.3k
“I’ll skate for you. Not for a medal, not for myself, but for you.” Yuuri gives Victor an advent calendar!

Language of Love by OrionsProdigy95, Gen, 694 words
Victor is going to propose to Yuuri, but he’s just not sure how. So what’s the harm in trying it in Russian? Yuuri couldn’t understand it anyways, right? LOVE!

lay us down (we’re in love) by chromyrose, Teen, 4.8k
It was Viktor’s love that taught Yuuri how to love himself. SO MANY FEELS

Hey Baby! I Think I Wanna Marry You! by Sandyclaws68, Gen, 1.3k
Viktor had hedged his bets in Barcelona by never specifying which gold medal would result in their marriage. The fluffiest!

Proposal by Aggie731, Teen, 3.1k
Yuuri won gold at the Grand Prix Final. Viktor surprises him. Love this!

Life and Love: Agape by makkachincrossing, Explicit, 5.2k
“Viktor…” he murmured as he pulled away gently from the kiss to cast his eyes up slightly, meeting mine again. “If I win gold at the Grand Prix final… will you marry me?” Definitely recommend!!

a thing to be shared by radialarch, Gen, 794 words
Two things happen in Barcelona. VERY sweet!

The Prince and His Servant by BigGhost, Teen, 1.8k
Victor likes to be dramatic. Yuri doesn’t realize exactly how dramatic. This is great!

to me, only you by katsukis, Gen, 3.2k
Despite the rings however, Viktor doesn’t know if they really are engaged or not. Tonight, Viktor is going to propose to him, properly, and he’s got it all planned out. *queue gross sobbing*

On Absence, Fondness, and Never Leaving his Side by BeautyButterBae, Teen, 12k
“Would you do me the great honor and marry me, Katsuki Yuuri?” Wow! This is a must-read!

Interlude by TheRavenLady, 3.5k
After they get back from the restaurant, after Viktor has decided and proclaimed to their closest friends that he intends to marry Yuuri, they go back to the hotel and have a little heart-to-heart about it. Lots of fluff!

Marry Me? by sergeantwinter, Gen, 322 words
Viktor smiled, moving the hair out of Yuuri’s face and leaning in to kiss him again. SUPER quick fic that gets your heart all fluttery!

3 AM on a Tuesday and instead of sleep, my heart demands more whiskey.
I am trying to erase this ghost of a feeling that wants nothing but to remember you at all times.
My ears long to hear your voice but I’ve already burned the bridge.
My Darling, I’m sorry I ended up being nothing like the person I promised you I would be.
I’m filled to the brim with guilt for not sticking by you as long as you would’ve let me.
You see, I’m not like the people who walk this earth only to love and love with all of their being and ask for nothing in return.
I still try to find constellations in your eyes and look for you in places even though I do not want to look at the love that I loved so dearly looking into the eyes of someone they call ‘home’.
You’ve occupied a lot of space in my heart and there’s nothing I could ever say or do to fall out of love with you but I hope, years from now, your name does not fill me with guilt but with sweet nostalgia that reminds me of a love that taught me how to live. A love that looked at all my scars and all my flaws but still chose to love me. A love that made sure I wasn’t fighting my battles alone. A love that held my hand in all my struggles and told me that there’s nothing in this world I couldn’t do. And most importantly, I hope, years from now, you forgive me.
But it’s 3 AM on a Tuesday and instead of sleep, my heart demands to forget you.
—  I tried so hard not to make this about you but you’re stuck in my head like a catchy beat on repeat. // Astha (via uponthisearth)

There is a door in the history department. It never looks the same twice and is always cracked open when it’s actually there. No one has ever returned through it.

There once was a chemistry major that went through the door. Their friend followed after.

One returned.

One did not.

The story did not begin there though. It began long, long ago, in the tales and songs of ancestors long gone; passed from mother to daughter and father to son. They did not fade through time, starting anew in each beating heart of the family line.

They reached a young girl with olive skin and hair like raven’s wings. Her dark eyes would shine as her grandmother wove the tales by the fireside.

She spoke to the girl of a woman with fiery hair and burning eyes, who spoke with flames and held infernos between her palms. Perhaps that sparked the love in her for all things she should not, and she strove to make the embers dance, like the one with fire in her hands.

Her grandmother knew in her old, wise bones that this child needed the tales more than most. Their family had always been aware, trusting their intuition had never led them wrong.

So when the girl came to Elsewhere, (For where else could she have gone?) Everyone steered clear (The school gave up on roommates before very long.)

Perhaps it was because of her reputation of playing with fire, or perhaps it was simply fate, but her chemistry professor paired her with a boy who loved to play with ice. They became unlikely friends, she with her burning salts and he with his liquid nitrogen.

“Call me Pyrra.” she said.

“Frozone.” He grinned, white teeth gleamed against his dark skin.

He told her of his girlfriend back in Louisiana who was pregnant with his child: “It’s too soon to know the gender yet.” And she would just smile.

She told him of her grandparents and their small, simple home that stood alone on the reservation and of the wild horses that would thunder by.

They knew what everyone would say, how unwise it was to share so much about themselves, but they were chemistry majors—those rarely got taken.

The two were closer then blood and they both forgot one very important fact— being Taken isn’t the only way to Vanish.

It had been an accident. Frozone hadn’t been paying attention. He had forgotten to count the doors, as he stumbled to his history class after a long night in the labs. No one probably would have known if a fellow student hadn’t seen him stepping through the door—too late to stop his fate.

Pyrra was the first one told, the RA’s decided to wait till the end of the term before notifying his family. They knew it was a futile hope, but anything beat having to make that call.

Pyrra wouldn’t accept this though. She gathered up her craft, and armed herself with salts to burn. She dressed herself in her tribe’s garments and war paint on her face—there is power in being claimed—and set off for the history building when the moonless night was at its darkest.

The door gave way before her and she crossed into when; not where, her friend had gone. She travelled far until she found where the Little People were gathered round. They vanished as she drew near, but she was unshaken by this or fear.

“I have come to bargain for my brother of heart.”

“What will you give?” They whispered in reply.

“A story like none other.” She called bravely into the night.

“There is no story to match his fate, for his return we will need something great.”

Pyrra paused before standing straight.

“Then I will take his place.”

“Is this your choice?”

She thought of her grandparents, sitting at home, they had only gotten electricity a few years ago.

She thought of Frozone’s sisters, all so young and alone thriving off their brother’s hope to give them a better home, on the income of the degree the scholarship would to them all. She thought about his girlfriend, who worked two jobs by day, and attended a community college to get her art degree by night. With that her mind was made.

“It is.”

Frozone stumbled in, lost and confused as if it had only been an hour instead of a day. He caught onto what had happened more than quick enough.

“Pyrra, you can’t do this! Please! It’s my mistake to pay.”

“Call my grandmother and ask for my name, give it to your daughter and your debt shall be paid.”

That was all the time they had, before he was gone and she had stayed. The Little Folk drew near her now; intent on Their new pet, but she held up her hand, she wasn’t Theirs quite yet.

“I have another bargain to make.”

“What now?” They grumbled, discontent and bored.

“My story for my freedom, I chose to stay, but not to be yours.”

“Fine.” they hissed “But the bargain is this: you must keep us entertained till dawn or to us you will belong.”

What choice was there left for her to make? The sky was at it darkest—the hour before dawn. But how that hour stretched on and on!

She dared not tell her family’s tales, or sing to Them their songs, so she told them what she had, her science close at hand.

She told them how a star was born and how precious gems became; all the while between her hands she wove the tales with flame.

When that never nearing dawn finally broke upon the sky, They praised her skills, and kept their deals; blessing her all the while.

Fire-tongue they called her; Flame-speaker, They would say. They kissed her eyes and painted her lips, dressing her in flame.

She smiled and simply said, “That is not my name.”

For she had a new name now, one that no one could ever Take, now that she had given her old name away.

Frozone made it back and tried to keep his word. He called her grandmother who patiently greeted him and told him Pyrra’s name, only requesting that in return he send her things and bring his daughter by some day. She waved him off when he explained that the baby was still too small to tell, whether it was female or male.

Years passed and soon it was time to graduate. Everyone assumed that Pyrra’s grandparents came for Frozone. No one expected Pyrra to appear and collect her diploma as if she had been there all along. Then again, no one mentioned how her eyes were embers now or how her hair had turned from raven black to crimson—so she very well may have been.

         A few decades later a new student comes—a chemistry major that loves to play with fire. She wears a white smile; which is near blinding against her dark skin. She claims she came to prove that her father paid his debt. She won’t say anymore than that. But sometimes she would leave the dorm shortly before dawn on moonless nights with a string of fireworks in her hands. She would always return the next morning, humming ancient songs as she wrote an email to her father.

         During her time a new tale whispers its way into campus lore.

It’s breathed into the ears of distraught students—those with the courage to try and reclaim the Taken Ones are the only ones to hear the advice.

“Come to the edge of the woods on a moonless night, just before dawn and set off fireworks of every color—then wait.”

The ones who listen return with tales about a woman in smoldering garments, blazing red hair, and glowing embers for eyes who would test their resolve. To those who passed she would gift them with words or song, depending on their need, she might even gift them with her fire.

Regardless of what you get, it is always enough to get them back.

Except no one can remember what it was she gave them. They could never remember the tale itself, just that she gave them one; the songs she granted would dance just beyond memory’s grasp; the image of a mesmerizing flame leaving a ghostly impression inside their eyelids. There was only one thing anyone remembers her saying.

“My name is Story—”

There is a door in the history department. It never looks the same twice and is always cracked open when it is there. No one has ever returned through it.

There once was a chemistry major that went through the door. His friend followed after.

He returned.

She did not.

“—and I create myself.”

A/N: I know the Gentry come off a little strange in this. It’s mostly because Pyrra is Navajo and thus the stories she knows are of the Little People; but at Elsewhere, the Gentry are for the most part from Great Britain, Ireland and thereabouts. I tried to blend these two cultures. I’m not gunna lie, I didn’t do great. I haven’t done much with Navajo mythology in a long while. I feel it came off pretty shoddy in this. I’m not trying to offend (I’m part native American myself). Also, I love Chemistry but I suck at it which is why I didn’t go as into depth as I would have liked. (My grammar sucks too, so apologies there as well.)

[x]

Lies and Family Ties

Dean X Reader; Mary tells Dean that the reader cheated on him to stop him finding out about her (Mary) stealing from Ramiel.

Originally posted by soluscheese

Knocking on the door of the bunker, you shift on your heels outside of the place you used to call home. Palms sweaty, heart racing and you’re sure that you can smell the nervousness radiating from you.

The door opens, your now ex-boyfriend looking anything but jolly to see you on his doorstep. “Sorry, I already gave all my change to the homeless guy down the street.”

“I’m just here to get the rest of my stuff, then you’ll be clear of me for good.” Standing up straight, arms crossed against your chest, you hold your head up high, refusing to feel belittled by the man who tossed you away so easily.

He runs his tongue across his bottom lip arrogantly, a sarcastic smile on his face as he pulls open the door, inviting you inside begrudgingly. “Make it quick. Don’t take anything you didn’t pay for.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” you spit, striding past him angrily, the ache in your soul becoming even more prominent from being this close to Dean, yet knowing he’s no longer yours.

You pass Sam and Castiel in the kitchen, ignoring their judgemental gazes as you head to Dean’s room, to a bed that used to hold two bodies, not one.

Pushing all the memories within these walls away, you grab your suitcase from under the bed, flipping back the lid and throwing your belongings inside. You wanted to be out of this place as swiftly as you could be, your presence clearly unwanted.

“I’m surprised you had the nerve to show up here.” You look back over your shoulder, Mary leaning smugly against the door frame, your attention moving back to your suitcase. She was the reason you were packing in the first place, the lies she told Dean being the very statements to sever the ribbons of your relationship.

“Yeah? I’m surprised you’ve got the nerve to still be here.” you hiss, a bubble of laughter leaving her lips as she pushes you closer and closer to the edge, anger bubbling inside you. “Aren’t you afraid your web of lies will unravel?”

“Don’t be silly, sweetheart, my webs are perfectly crafted. My son will always believe his dear mommy over some worthless bitch.” Now it’s your turn to laugh, not a slither of humour in your tone. You skim your fingers over the white frame on the beside, the besotted couple grinning at the camera.

If someone had told you then, that just months down the line Mary would be alive and kicking, and she would be the very thing to rip your lover from your arms, you would’ve laughed in their face.

“You know what,” you spin around, your glare harsh enough to wound as you stare at the poisonous bitch in front of you. “I hope your boys never find out who you really are. It’d break them to know their mother almost killed their best friend.”

“Not only are you working for the British, but you disturbed the Prince of Hell, stole from him and then stood in silence as Castiel’s life drained from his eyes.”

Her expression turns colder as you taunt her, her lip quivering in anger, not being able to take the truth you’re dealing out. She makes her way towards you, fists clenching, as you speak aloud all the damage that she’s done. “Shut your mouth.”

You shake your head, standing up against her, refusing to cower under her wrath. “If you were my mom, I’d be wishing you’d have stayed on the ceiling.”

Smack! Your head sharply twists to the side as her hand makes contact with your cheek, smugness running through your veins with the knowledge that your words have hit home. “If you ever tell anybody about me stealing from Ramiel, I’ll cut your heart out.”

“She doesn’t need to tell me anything.” Mary jumps at the sound of the voice, your fingers rubbing your cheek, trying to soothe the sting. Dean enters the room, coming to stand by your side, his mother lost for words.

“Sweetheart, let me explain…” She trails off, the level of vexation in Dean’s eyes enough to shut her up. Her eyes move to you as you watch the scene unfold. “You little bitch-”

Dean pushes her back as she lunges for you, his broad figure standing protectively in front of your own, your heart clenching, hoping that maybe there is something left to salvage.

“I want you out of here, now. Don’t bother coming back.” Dean warns, the ice chill in his voice something you’d been faced with a few minutes before. Mary weighs up her options, before backing out of the room resentfully, a vengeful twinkle in her eyes.

Once she’s gone, you turn back to the task at hand, shoving your final few things into your suitcase, ignoring Dean’s burning stare on your back. You move around in silence, him not being brave enough to break it, and you wanting to hear an apology before anything else.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” You freeze at the question, Dean’s voice timid as it should be. Throwing the shirt in your grasp onto the bed, you turn to face the older brother, not being able to believe his arrogance.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I don’t remember you giving me a chance to say anything when you believed your mom’s bullshit lies over me.” He looks down at the floor as you scold him, your eyes beginning to glaze over with due to frustration.

“I’m sorry-” you cut him off with a scoff, his emerald eyes as glassy as your own as he lifts them upwards to meet you. You want nothing more than to wrap your arms around him, tell him that everything is forgiven and you can go back to how it used to be.

“You weren’t sorry when you kicked me out in the pouring rain and called me a dirty whore.” The dam breaks, you cursing yourself as you turn your back on Dean, your fingers roughly swiping away the fallen tears.

You zip up your suitcase, thankful you’ll be alone in a few minutes and able to sob to your hearts content without prying eyes. “What are you doing? Don’t go.”

“What does it look like I’m doing, Dean?” you sniffle, grasping the handle of the case and holding the heavy object to your side. “I want you to be happy, and if that means me leaving, then so be it.”

You shove past the older Winchester, your chin quivering as you somehow hold in your cries. You let out a shaky breath as a hand grabs your arm, Dean’s warm touch stopping you in your tracks.

“Stay. All I want is for you to stay.” he pleads, his throat thick with emotion. You turn your head, his glassy eyes meeting your own, a desperate look on his face.

After what feels like hours of silence, you make your decision. “Five minutes. Let’s see how well you do.”

A/N - Thanks for all the support on my last Dean imagine, it was incredibleeeeeeee!!! Feel free to request :) now, gif before the imagine, or after??? Let me know! X