twenty thirty forty

I tried to record each moment, but time isn’t made of moments; it contains moments. There is more to it than moments.
So I tried to pay close attention to what seemed like empty time. I made my writing students sit silently for twenty, thirty, forty minutes. Then we all wrote about the almost nothing that had happened. I was always running between the classroom and the photocopier so we could read about the almost nothing that had just happened.
I wanted to comprehend my own position in time so I could use my evolving self as completely and usefully as possible. I didn’t want to go lurching around, half-awake, unaware of the work I owed the world, work I didn’t want to live without doing.
—  Sarah Manguso, Ongoingness
There is only one way to read, which is to browse in libraries and bookshops, picking up books that attract you, reading only those, dropping them when they bore you, skipping the parts that drag-and never, never reading anything because you feel you ought, or because it is part of a trend or a movement. Remember that the book which bores you when you are twenty or thirty will open doors for you when you are forty or fifty-and vise versa. Don’t read a book out of its right time for you.
—  Doris Lessing

Reach Up, Grab the Chain

Written for @chargetransfer, who asked for Foggy watching Matt at the gym.

Donate to the ACLU and get fic!

There was a smell at Fogwell’s that rubbed damply against the inside of the windows and lolled out of open doors like a tongue. Inside, the air had a sort of texture, like all the exhales made by all the fighters like Matt–grunts of exertion, cries of victory, sighs of defeat–never quite dissipated, but hung thickly around in the rafters.  

Foggy had a lever-arch binder open on his lap, a pen in one hand, and an empty paper coffee cup balanced on the face-down pages. He was before a judge in a measly three days, and his trial strategy amounted to little more than pointing at the rich douchebag suing their client, his former housecleaner, and saying, “asshole say what?” So while Matt hit the heavy-bag, Foggy did some legal heavy-lifting.

Foggy had a weird relationship with Matt’s gym time. On the one hand, it took him away from the office and made their respective workloads ever more imbalanced. There were days Foggy didn’t even go to the bathroom because the hits kept coming, and Matt somehow made time to exercise. On the other hand, it helped keep Matt alive when he was out on the streets. It was work–just not billable work.

On yet another (possibly mutant) hand, while it was good for Matt’s continued health and well-being, it was terrible for Foggy’s because it was 3D, surround sound, high-definition, hardcore porn.

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anonymous asked:

I'm a woman in my mid-twenties, and I've only really started questioning my sexuality in the last six months. I was raised in a house with a lot of talk about "the gay agenda", and the past 5 years has been a process of rejecting all the regressive stuff I was taught as a teen. I kind of worry that perhaps identifying as bisexual is just me overcompensating for being a bigot in the past? On the other hand, I have pretty clear physiological reactions to femslash fanfic, etc, so...

It’s okay if you didn’t start questioning your orientation until your twenties (or thirties… or forties, fifties, sixties). It shouldn’t make you more suspicious of yourself and you don’t need a reason that you assumed you were straight for x number of years. 

I was also raised on horror stories of The Gay Agenda and The Gay Lifestyle. It’s okay if you were raised with bigoted views and had to go through a painful process of deconstructing that worldview. I’ve been there and you shouldn’t feel guilty for believing that stuff as a child and teenager. We naturally trust our parents and accept what they teach us when we are growing up. 

I don’t think you are overcompensating. It’s hard to imagine someone tricking themselves into believing they are bisexual when we live in a culture where there is overwhelming pressure to believe you are straight. Very few straight people even question their orientation. I’ve never heard of a real-life straight person honestly tricking themselves into thinking they are not straight. What’s very common, however, is bi people internalizing messages that we aren’t real, can’t exist, and must be lying to others and ourselves. Bi self-doubt is very real and very common. And it sounds like you know what you’re attracted to. Trust yourself!

Fic: One Compass Guides [Pike/Vex]

[AO3 | FFNMore Fic]

In the aftermath of the Sunken Tomb, Pike knows there’s a conversation she and Vex still need to have. She’s not really sure what to say or how to say it, but she’ll be there, and she figures that’ll have to do for now.

One Compass Guides

There’s a strange energy about Vex, afterwards, a crackling wildfire of emotion that seems an awful lot like fear. Pike knows the feeling, a bit, so she’s been hanging around as much as she can. It’s not much help, but she figures it’ll have to do for now.

“You were brought back at the whim of the deity of second chances and redemption,” Vex says one day, a propos of nothing. “That seems about as poetically perfect as you could ever hope for.”

“Yeah,” Pike says, swallowing a giggle at the sheer weirdness of the situation—hanging back a little while their friends march on ahead so they can chat amiably about their more-than-near-death experiences. Just another totally normal day. “I mean, it makes sense. And I guess I did have a feeling through the whole thing that I just wasn’t done, you know? So I came back to do more. Which had its own set of problems, because I keep feeling like I haven’t done enough.”

Vex smiles, but she’s clearly distracted; Pike finds herself actually having to slow down to keep pace with her, which takes some doing. “Well, I can’t say I have that problem,” she says, in a tone of voice that seems about as brittle as a thin sheet of ice over some fathomless depth. “I don’t remember a thing about being dead. And it’s my understanding that I was brought back at the behest of the Raven Queen and… and Vesh, the horrific deity Kashaw’s terrified of. So that’s about ninety kinds of reassuring.”

“Was he really that frightened of her?”

Vex shrugs. “I had to corner Grog for the details because everybody else either changes the subject or changes the subject by leaving the room, so take it with a grain of salt and all, but apparently Kash almost didn’t carry out the ritual because of the potential consequences.”

Pike mulls that over, searching for an appropriate response, and finally settles on, “Yikes.”

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If the intellectuals in the plays of Chekhov who spent all their time guessing what would happen in twenty, thirty, or forty years had been told that in forty years interrogation by torture would be practiced in Russia; that prisoners would have their skulls squeezed within iron rings; that human beings would be lowered into acid baths; that they would be trussed up naked to be bitten by ants and bedbugs; that ramrods heated over primus stoves would be thrust up their anal canals (the “secret brand”); that a man’s genitals would be slowly crushed beneath the toe of a jackboot; and that in the luckiest possible circumstances, prisoners would be tortured by being kept from sleeping for a week, by thirst, and by being beaten to a bloody pulp, not one of Chekhov’s plays would have gotten to its end, because all the heroes would have gone off to insane asylums.

And not only Chekhov’s heroes — what normal Russian at the beginning of the century, including any member of the Russian Social Democratic Workers’ Party, would have believed, would have tolerated, such a slander against the bright future? What had been acceptable under Tsar Aleksei Mikhailovich in the seventeenth century, what had already been regarded as barbarism under Peter the Great, what might have been used against ten or twenty people in all during the time of Biron in the mid-eighteenth century, what had already become totally impossible under Catherine the Great, was all being practiced during the flowering of the glorious twentieth century — in a society based on socialist principles, and at a time when airplanes were flying and the radio and talking films had already appeared — not by one scoundrel alone in one secret place only, but by tens of thousands of specially trained human beasts standing over millions of defenseless victims.

Was it only that explosion of atavism now evasively called “the cult of personality” that was so horrible? Or was it even more horrible that during those same years, in 1937 itself, we celebrated Pushkin’s centennial? And that we shamelessly continued to stage those selfsame Chekhov plays, even though the answers to them had already come in? Is it not still more dreadful that we are now being told, thirty years later, “Don’t talk about it!”? If we start to recall the sufferings of millions, we are told, it will distort the historical perspective! If we doggedly seek out the essence of our morality, we are told it will darken our material progress! Let’s think rather about the blast furnaces, the rolling mills that were built, the canals that were dug. We can talk about anything, so long as we do it adroitly, so long as we glorify it.

It is really hard to see why we condemn the Inquisition. Wasn’t it true that beside the autos-da-fé, magnificent services were offered by the Almighty? It is hard to see why we are so down on serfdom. After all, no one forbade the peasants to work every day. And they could sing carols at Christmas, too. And for Trinity Day the girls wove wreaths …

—  The Gulag Archipelago, Alexander Solzhenitsyn

counting in french go like this

10 = ten
20 = twenty
30 = thirty
40 = forty
50 = fifty
60 = sixty
70 = sixty-ten
80 = four-twenties
90 = four-twenties-and-ten
100 = a hundred

and i think thats gay

Panic Attack


I stood a safe distance away from the crowd. Usually, I’d go with the boys when they met the fans, but I’d been feeling jittery all day and decided it was better if I sat this one out. Ashton would send me the occasional smile, but I didn’t mind being alone.

I’d been watching them for about twenty minutes when I decided I should go back inside. I sent Ashton a text to let him know where I was, before slipping back through the side door of the arena.

I started weaving my way through the maze of corridors, trying to get back to their dressing room. The longer I walked, the more I regretted coming in alone. I realised I was lost and began to panic, worried no one would know where I am. I felt my heart rate and breathing speed up, and I pressed my back against the wall. I slid down as the world began to spin. I press my eyes closed tight in an attempt to make it stop.

“Y/N?” A voice pierced through the ringing in my ears. “Y/N, it’s me. It’s Ashton.”

I open my eyes as his arm wraps around me, his hand rubbing soothing circles on my back.

“Hey baby.” He cooed. “Hey. It’s okay. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. I’ve got you, okay?”

His lips brushed my head as he talked, and I tucked my face into his neck.

“Match my breathing. In, out. In, out.” He whispered, his hand still rubbing circles.

I concentrated on the way his chest moved up and down, attempting to copy with my own breathing.

“That’s it. Well done baby, you can do it.”

We stayed like that for  a while; Ashton whispering encouragements, me matching his breathing. Finally, after what felt like far too long, I stopped shaking and my heart rate slowed back down.

“Thank you.” I whispered, clinging to him.

“It’s okay.” He replied, kissing my temple. “No problem.”


The pain in my chest tightened as the flight attendants began the safety talk. I closed my eyes but it did no good, the tightness worsening. When I’d agreed to go on tour with Michael and the boys, I hadn’t factored in what going on a plane might entail.

“This is so boring.” Michael yawned from beside me. “I mean who actually doesn’t know how to- Y/N? What’s wrong?”

Michael’s hand covered mine, which was gripping the arm rest in an attempt to distract me from the chest pain. His thumb dragged slowly across the back of my hand, his other hand moving up to move the hair out of my eyes.

“Look at me, focus on me.” He whispered, ignoring the looks people around us were giving throwing our way. “Your chest, is it tight again?”

I nodded, keeping my eyes squeezed shut.

“Okay. What colour is it?”


“The pain. What colour is it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well think about it. Pretend it’s a ball. What colour is the ball?”

I try to picture the pain as a ball in my chest, trying to work out what colour it is. I manage to get an image in my head of a red circle, surrounded by darkness.

“Red.” I stutter out.

“Red. Okay. Like my hair or darker?”

“Like your hair.”

“Do you think it always matches my hair?”


“The ball. Do you think it changes colour with my hair?”

“I don’t know.” I tell him, opening my eyes to see him smiling.

“Hey beautiful.” He grins. “Guess what?”


“We’re flying.”

My head snaps around to look out the window. Sure enough, we’re in the clouds. I turn back to see him still smiling at me.

“How’s the chest?”




No matter what I’d done that day, the nausea wouldn’t leave. I’d tried everything from listening to the soothing playlist on my phone to using the breathing exercise I knew, but it just wouldn’t go away. By the time evening rolled around, I’d started to feel dizzy too.

Luke had text me to let me know he was on his way, and I was getting out the plates for dinner when one slipped from my grip. It smashed on the floor as my hands trembled violently, my breathing hitching. I gripped the counter, but I could feel myself loosing control, reality slipping away.

“Hey love, what’s for…shit.” Luke strolled into the room, only to run across it when he saw me. “Y/N. Y/N, let go of the counter and grab my hand.”

I moved my gaze from my hands to his, slowly taking it and holding it in my palm.

“Squeeze.” He told me, my eyes drifting up to meet his. He smiled reassuringly. “Go on. Squeeze as hard as you can.”

I tightened my hands around his palm, my eyes still on his face.

“Keep going.” He nods. “Seven times table.”

I furrow my eyebrows in confusion, still squeezing Luke’s hand with mine.

“Tell me the seven times table.”

“Seven. Fourteen. Twenty-one.” I murmur, furrowing my eyebrows. “Twenty-eight. Thirty-five. Forty-two. Forty-nine. Fifty-six. Sixty-three. Seventy.”

“Well done. Count to ten in French.”

“Un. Deux. Trois. Quatre. Cinq. Six. Sept. Huit. Neuf. Dix.”

“Good girl.”

“That’s a terrible joke.”

“Got you to smile though.”

I smile in spite of myself, my grip on Luke’s hand loosening slightly.

“You’re going to be okay.” He grins, his free hand cupping my cheek. “Especially as I’ve decided we’re having Maccas for dinner.”


I clung onto Calum’s shirt as my heart rate and breathing continued to increase rapidly. I gasped as I felt I was choking, the now all too familiar feeling scaring me. He kept one arm around me, pulling me into his chest as he moved through the crowd.

“Move please! Out of the way!”

Someone was shouting from in front of us, although it was pointless compared to the screams that never seemed to stop.

“I’ve got you.” Calum’s lips brushed the shell of my ear as spoke, pulling me closer as he pushed past fans. “They won’t hurt you. I’ve got you.”

I pressed my face against his neck, the warmth from the exposed skin making me feel slightly better. He squeezed my hip with his hand, before lifting me slightly.

“Car.” He whispered, pushing me into the vehicle. He scrambled in beside me, pulling the door shut and muffling the screams. “It’s okay Y/N.”

His hands cupped my face, his thumbs slowly rubbing against my cheeks.

“On my eighth birthday, I fell and cut my knee.” He told me. “Thought it was the end of the world. That I was going to die. It wasn’t. Mum cleaned it, put a plaster on it and I was fine. Point is, things always seem worse in the moment. Just like this. You’re going to be okay. I promise.”

I nodded at his words, trying to focus on them rather than the choking feeling. He smiled, pulling me into his side and kissing the top of my head. He hummed an unfamiliar tune softly, his hands running up and down my arms. Slowly, my breathing matched his, and my throat returned to normal.

“See. You’re okay.” He whispered, his lips brushing my head.

I kiss his shoulder, and pull back, smiling shyly at him.

“Sorry.” I mumble, my eyes on my hands.

“You never need to apologise for that.” He tells me seriously, bringing my eyes back to him. “Never.”

idkwhattocallthisatm  asked:

You play Minecraft?! Yay!! (Sorry, it's just that people think it's so strange when they learn I play Minecraft, since I'm not a 9 year old boy. lol.

Dude I have an entire group of friends in their twenties and thirties and forties who love Minecraft. It’s a lot of fun. And for me it really helps me calm down when I’m upset or stressed out or anxious. It’s just so zen. I love it

Shout-out to everyone whose childhood was hell.

Shout out to everyone who can’t remember back to an idyllic childhood, because that time never existed for abused children.

Shout out to everyone for whom childhood was a never-ending hell with no refuge, anywhere, in sight.

Shout out to everyone who never experienced freedom until adulthood, or until becoming an emancipated minor.

Shout out to everyone whose ‘freedom’ in adulthood may have involved starving, living in filth, living under a bridge, but was still beautiful and still freedom and still ours because by all the gods, it was not the hell that is childhood.

Shout out to everyone who don’t have the option of moving back in with their families, no matter how bad it gets, because that would be worse.

Shout out to everyone who is making their own idyllic time of their life now, in their twenties, thirties, forties, and fifties.  Even if it’s really hard, and far from what everyone else would call idyllic, it’s idyllic to us, because it’s not like being an abused child with nowhere to turn.

Shout out to everyone who had to turn down at least some family support because it came with so many toxic strings attached that it would’ve eventually, literally, killed us.

Shout out to everyone who feels like working three jobs and barely making it is the most amazing feeling in the world, compared to being a child with no refuge in the world.  Because at least we’re making our own refuge.

Shout out to everyone who’s on SSI, welfare, or disability, and feels like they’re in paradise because this is our life, not someone else’s, even if we can’t eat at the end of the month and have to endure HUD inspections, social worker visits, and other indignities.

Shout out, in short, to everyone who never had an idyllic childhood and is doing their best to carve out a place for themselves in adulthood.  And for whom, no matter how hard it gets, it’s still light years beyond the utter and total hell that was childhood.

This is me.  This is my friends.  This is so many people I know.  I love you.  I care about you.  I’m proud of everything you’ve done, even if nobody else sees it as an achievement.  I wish our child selves could see our adult selves.  I wish they could see that even with the struggles, we are in general so much happier just for not being children anymore.  

More, I wish I could take my child self and put hir in a situation where sie could grow up without all the problems sie encountered.  But I can’t see an easy way to do that.  By the time the damage was done, it was self-perpetuating, and I lashed out even in good situations.  Perhaps especially, because I didn’t trust them.  I’m so lucky Laura took me under her wing, I’d be dead without her.  My parents meant well but they didn’t have the skills to parent the teenager I became.

But seriously.  Adulthood is the true refuge for so many abused and neglected children.  Adulthood with all its responsibilities is downright idyllic compared to never being safe anywhere.  You can still be an abused adult, unfortunately.  But lots of abused kids manage to make adulthood their place of refuge and I am no exception.  I have spent my entire adult life trying to create a life where I can be a happy person, a contributing person, a person who helps more than I hurt.  And I think I’m getting there.  And I watch my friends trying to do the same things, and getting too little credit for any of it.

So this is for all of us.

We’re doing really damn well.  Especially where we came from.

When you don’t know what safety is… creating safety for yourself can be a daunting task.  

So everyone trying to create safety, refuge, beauty, everything we didn’t have, or didn’t have enough of as kids:  You’re doing an amazing job, no matter what anyone says.  You’re doing one of the hardest things you can do, and you’re doing it with less support than you probably need.

Seriously I love you all.  I care about you more than I can say.  I watch you trying to do the same things I am trying to do.  And I hope you succeed.  Because if you succeed even a little, even hanging by the skin of your teeth, what you’re doing is amazing and probably much better than your childhood.  

I love you all so much.

Sorry, it’s a day late! Work came home with me last night. It looks like I won’t be able to catch up until this weekend, but hopefully that’s okay. And my apologies that this is short and only vaguely related to the prompt. I’m sure some of you were hoping for my lovely smut, but you’ll have to wait.

An installation of Find Me: FF | Ao3

Summary: Life brought them together, the law ripped them apart. Is finding her worth risking it all? A witness protection au, told through a series of present and past events.

@officialzutaramonth | Day 12 ( snowed in )
Inspiration: Die Trying by Michael

January 5, 2017

He decided drowning would be better than this. Or starving to death because he was snowed in. Affixation. Bleeding out. Blunt force trauma. Burning alive. Anything. Any death would be better than this complete rendering of his soul.

Of course, any destruction he imagined would also be reserved for the people responsible for Katara’s disappearance.

If she was hurt… if she was damaged… Zuko’s fingers twisted around the gear shift until his knuckles bled white.

“Where to?”

“Ren’s place,” June frowned, consulting her iPhone’s bright screen for a quick minute. “919 Bruce Way.”

Siri awakened seconds letter, the electronic voice barking out instructions to head west, then take the first left onto Main. He hit the gas, feeling the wheels spin on snowy asphalt before catching finally.

Normally, Zuko wouldn’t be so reckless, taking sharp turns and skidding across black ice, but everything so precariously hinged on time. The time she was taken. The time that’d passed. The time it took for him to find her. Zuko was too painfully aware of her chances dwindling and dwindling as the twelve hour mark neared.

Twelve. Twenty-four. Thirty-six. Until, forty-eight, and finding a missing person alive was no longer realistic.

His teeth grit together, his eyes catching the time as they jerked to a halt outside a small, colonial style home.

1:17 AM. He had time. She had time.

“Alright,” June captured his attention. She was sifting through her bag, her hair pulled up to a tight ponytail and her eyes wiped clean. Her hand came free of the backpack with a gold police badge in hand. “Come on.”

She slipped from the SUV, situating her coat and pinning the badge to her front.

“W—” He hurried after her, his own jacket flapping in the wind. “June, what are you planning to do?”

“Intimidate him. Maybe we can be invited in, have a look around.”

“Why? He’s asleep.”

They were halfway up Ren’s steps, where a bright red door stood against white wooden slats and darkened windows.

“Maybe. And maybe your girlfriend’s with him.”

“That doesn’t make sense!” He huffed exasperatedly, stopping her hand before the doorbell could be rang. “You said there were signs of a struggle!”

“Exactly!” June practically growled, and Zuko witnessed something like a dark history flicker through her eyes. “When a girl goes missing, It’s always the boyfriend.”

She wrenched free and the sound of a bell chimed inside.

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older black wlw who are just now figuring things out are super important.

it honestly doesn’t matter if it took you until your late twenties or thirties or forties or fifties - or even past that - to realize or accept that you experience same/similar gender attraction.

it’s really hard to simply exist as a black woman or a black person who aligns with womanhood in the world. realizing you’re not straight is scary and exciting and adds a whole different dimension to your experiences.

there’s no deadline to realize you’re a wlw. you’re welcome here and we’re so glad you exist.

anonymous asked:

End of lent BH&H smut?

your sin (my salvation)

The great stone edifice of the church rose high against the pale spring sunlight that shone down from above, it was an imposing structure of grey brick and stained glass that dwarfed all the smaller buildings crowded nearby. From the top of the bell tower came the ringing, the loud bong of each strike echoing clear across several city blocks and making his teeth ache. During Holy Week the bells were silenced, the only time all year that they did not call out to the faithful with their regular refrain, but now that the miracle of the Resurrection had been celebrated again they rang out, welcoming all to Mass to join in the worship and prayer.

Well, not all were truly welcome within the hallowed walls.

Killian Jones sat in his car, parked (illegally, of course) down the street from the cathedral. The little two-door sportscar was brand new, without so much as a single ding in the sleek black paint job or smudge on the darkly tinted windows. He waited patiently, one finger tapping lightly on the leather of the steering wheel with each piercing ring. Traffic had been light and he’d run every red light anyway, he’d arrived earlier than he’d expected. But after forty long days of waiting for her, what was forty more minutes?

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The signs as specific Mass Effect moments
  • cancer: veetor’s nervous bounce when you talk to him
  • virgo: that varren you can pet on Tuchanka, but the conversation never ends, so you get stuck in a loop petting it multiple times in a row because you can’t allow yourself to walk away and disappoint the precious frog dog
  • aries: managing to flip the m35 mako into a hilarious position, but the geth are still attacking you, so did you really win
  • aquarius: techno turian
  • scorpio: pushing over that drugged out Volus on Illium, yes this is the Paragon option
  • leo: you fought and killed the thresher maw on this planet so you thought you were safe but Shit There’s Another One
  • pisces: enemies caught in Pull, who are supposed to drift slowly towards you, but this one is floating up higher and higher. twenty (20), thirty (30), forty (40) feet into the air. look at her go, off to freedom
  • taurus: somebody just did the krogan fist pound animation, but they’re not a krogan
  • capricorn: you told your squadmate to go somewhere but they got stuck in a crate and now they won’t shut up about it
  • sagittarius: you are the one stuck in the crate
  • gemini: talking to Lorik Qui’in eighty-seven (87) times in order to max out your Renegade and Paragon scores
  • libra: headbutting the krogan on Tuchanka, even if you're playing a pure Paragon
Your Wish Is My Command ch. 6

no clue how you guys will feel about this from this point on BUT OH WELL HERE WE GO DONT HATE ME :D

Click Here for Ch. 1       Click Here for Ch. 4

Click Here for Ch. 2       Click Here for Ch. 5

Click Here for Ch. 3

“Dad, are you sure you need all this stuff?” Nico asked looking around their attic. He had to duck to keep from hitting his head on the ceiling, but Hazel and his father were sitting, making sure they’d put up all the Halloween decorations.

His father looked up and around the attic at all the things in cluttered boxes stacked throughout it. “I’m pretty sure. I mean otherwise I wouldn’t have put it up here.” Nico scoffed and shook his head. He hunched down and walked toward some boxes near the back.

He opened on and found some artifacts from Greece and Rome. He snorted and put it aside. Then he opened another and found Egyptian artifacts. “Dad, I’m 99 percent positive you don’t need an Egyptian nose hook!” he called.

“Ew, Dad!” he heard Hazel complain.

He moved the box and opened the next. This one was filled with Arabic artifacts.

“Nico, we found the boxes. Come help us put the decorations up!” he called.

“I’ll be right there! I’m invested in your boxes.”

“And you said I didn’t need them,” his dad answered. Nico smiled to himself as he rummaged through the box, pulling out old clothes and vases. Then he saw something that made him laugh out loud. A lamp, like the ones genies came out of.

He pulled it out by the handle, wondering how exactly this served as a lamp. It looked more like a fancy tea kettle. It had swooping curves and rusted engraved designs of Arabic letters and decorative swirls. Nico looked into the top hole and blew air into it, grimacing when a puff of dust greeted his face.

He set it aside and dug into the box some more, but his inner child was begging for him to do it. He bit his lip and looked back where the attic door had been left open. He grabbed the lap rubbed the side trying not to feel too ridiculous. When nothing happened, he shook his head and put it down. He moved the box and uncovered another box filled with Norse artifacts.

The lamp kept tugging at him, making him look back at it over and over. “Nico!” he heard Hazel call. She clambered up the steps into the attic. “What are you doing?”

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The Wanderer From Whom She Learned: Part I

A/N: This is this third part in a series about EXO, in which they are a wanderer, searching for their companion. I gained inspiration from the British television show Doctor Who. If you have seen the show, then some of the concepts will be familiar to you.

Kai (Pt. I & Pt. II)

Baekhyun (Pt. I & Pt. II)

New Orleans, 1957

“Ten…twenty…thirty…forty…fifty. There you go, kid. Spend it on something nice.” The club owner slapped the money in Chanyeol’s hand with a grin. The Wanderer towered over the bartender who barely reached his shoulder blade. Chanyeol’s body was much longer than he thought he’d ever had before, which made it easy for him to be spotted out by anyone. Thank God he wasn’t the type who enjoyed causing too much trouble.

“I’m going to put this money away with the rest. I plan on having my own shop soon.” His own shop. That’s all Chanyeol dreamt of since he’d awakened, cold and alone on the side of the street in the rising light of dawn. His fingers tingling with desire to run across eighty-eight keys. Since that day, he’d been saving every little penny he earned from playing in clubs and bars toward his own piano shop where he’d conduct lessons to other people with itchy fingers.

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Title: One Apology At a Time
Summary: Rhys and Jack’s house warming party didn’t go so well and now Jack owes Rhys an apology. Or two. Or ten.

Notes: Yet again, this was a product of anxiety and panic attacks. I needed something soft and easygoing and very fall, just all very comforting things. And I feel as though it worked to help pass the panic attacks and anxiety over. I wrote/posted this all from my phone so I haven’t proofread it or anything, apologies for any weird typos/mistakes.

I’ll post this on AO3 later.


The night was crisp and clear, the small breeze biting and bidding jackets to be worn against the cool air. The stars, Rhys had noted, looked much brighter than they had all year, perhaps even brighter than they were in January or February. It was all a stark contrast to the bonfire that crackled and roared warmly before the young man, his legs curled up onto a whittled and smooth stump in an attempt to hold onto whatever warmth he could.

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What a Ruined Childhood Memory Looks Like (Hint, It’s Not Ghostbusters)

Okay, I try not to overly engage on contentious issues any more. It’s not the mid-2000’s. But… well, there’s a thing that geek culture says (especially GenX geek culture, which is to say mine) that drives me absolutely spare.

That said, this is going to be unpleasant in places. Trigger warnings apply.

Ghostbusters is not killing (or doing any other kind of violent act) to your childhood. And I don’t mean in the way you think.

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Numbers - Numeri

So here’s a quick guide to the numbers 1-100 in Italian. Below I’ve also added a video by the brilliant ‘Rocket277’ on Youtube for if you’re unsure about the pronunciation of any of these.

As you’ll have noticed, there’s a pattern with the Italian numbers, hence why not every single digit has been listed up to 100. 

For the twenties, thirties, forties and so on you just have to add the number (e.g due) to the tens (e.g trenta) so that you get trentadue.

Top Tip: Make sure you don’t get confused between 60 (sessanta) and 70 (settanta) because the two are very easily confused.