unknown pressures

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Today we are going to look at an amusing historical fact: The time that beloved poets Oscar Wilde and Walt Whitman met, got drunk, and slept together.

(Closed Captioning coming soon) 

Transcript Below:

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TOP TIP: Waiting for your exam results? Worried you might not have the grades you wanted? Console yourself with the knowledge that no matter how bad things may look, you’re not a grown adult writing a letter to a newspaper calling children pathetic for feeling stress.

(with many thanks to @helloserotonin right here on Tumblr for this one!)

Chapter Three

Life with Milo was certainly interesting, with the many disasters and destruction that Murphy’s Law involved. Luckily their landlord, Mr. ‘I didn’t fight in five wars to have to deal with you’ Phillips, absolutely adored Milo.

They had told Mr. Phillips what they knew of Murphy’s Law, and how Milo’s family had been forced by, an as of yet unknown pressure, to leave Milo in their care. Mr. Phillips had sworn that he wouldn’t allow anyone to so much as harm a hair of Milo’s head if he could help it.

Cavendish and Dakota took turns selling pistachios from their cart, one of them always staying with Milo to take care of him the best they could. Mr. Phillips’ great granddaughter, Veronica occasionally babysat for Milo on weekends. She proved a very able baby sitter, seemingly prepared for anything, and Milo absolutely adored her.

Veronica was quick to give Cavendish and Dakota a brown backpack with caution stripes on an outside pocket. 'This will be very useful in emergencies, keep it close by.’

The backpack soon proved invaluable, often holding exactly the item needed in any emergency.

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so lately i’ve been seeing all these comments/posts/etc about how when things seem shaky/unknown/pressured etc its usually because you’re on the brink of something/something’s shifting/etc and like, maybe (likely) in ways you can’t predict or anticipate so just be open to it… i drew runes and did a tarot reading last night and both told me the exact same thing about my current state. like, it’s foggy/cloudy and we can’t see what’s coming up next but it’s not what you expect sort of vibe so don’t get too high on your own plans here. so i’m taking this in stride and genuinely feeling a bit more excited for it being unknown rather than the result of hours of my micro-managing and planning. whatever rolls in will be more interesting than the parameters i’ve tried to etch out for myself and us. i really feel we’re finally at the point where we can take this leap and adventure out in life; i’m so glad for it, we’re so ready for it mentally & emotionally. like i just know that the person returning from tennessee in three weeks is going to be in a really different state of mind than i’ve been in for months and i’m so here for her

Process of me stanning Janelle Monae

Me fully inspired, working with my creative passions and talents after being inspired by Janelle Monae


Me, frustrated. I have been listening to the same albums, collaborations and singles by Janelle over and over again. It’s been four years, where is the next chapter of Electro Phit Betas?


Me, sippin on that lipton as Jane hints at a new album and does that one photo shoot in honor of Prince



Me, content and listening to unknown collaborations like Pressure off and Call the Law also mapping out Cindi Mayweather’s story and creating fandroids.


Me, discovering Janelle has changed her Instagram bio back to the Arch Android signaling there will be a NEW RELEASE SOON I’M FREAKINGEVSJSJSJSJEJEEJJ


And finally, me performing. Janelle Monae sees this we become well aquainted and she is my mentor who guides me and pushes me to opportunities

Creepypasta #739: My Girlfriend Grinds Her Teeth

Length: Super long

My girlfriend grinds her teeth at night.

Big deal, you say. “I can hear my brother snoring from his room down the hall. My mother wakes me up with her coughing fits. My boyfriend hogs all of the blankets.” The point being: there are worse things to deal with than someone who grinds their teeth at night. “If you love her, you’ll get over it.”

“Christ Amy!” I’d hissed at her one night, my back to her as it normally was, “I can’t fucking deal with this any more!”

The grinding stopped.

To be honest, it wasn’t just that. You know when you start to dislike someone, how every little thing they do becomes extremely annoying? I read once that the reason relationships often end is because the things that you found cute or enticing at the beginning lose their appeal once you get over the first-blush period. Those quirks you just adored about them? They’re now embarrassing, or exasperating, or irritating.

It was like that with me and Amy. She was so quiet. I’d liked that about her; it was nice to be around someone who didn’t feel the need to make pointless conversation, or fill the silence with gossip. I remember telling my friend how real she was, how no-bullshit. Now whenever we argued, (or, I argued) she just stood there, tight lipped, refusing to give me a word. I never knew what was bothering her, though something clearly was and no matter what I did, nothing I did seemed to help. Whenever I tried to ask her, she would just stare at me, eyes wide, jaw tight, grinding her teeth.

When we first started dating, she was quiet, sure, but when she did speak, I was always reminded why I liked her so much. She was funny. She saw the world like no one I’d ever known. She could reduce me to giggles with no more than a murmed, sarcastic line. We went to plays, to galleries, and whenever I least expected it, she’d hit me with some biting comment at the most inappropriate time, and I would end up snorting loudly and disturbing everyone around.

Things were good, is what I’m saying. We were close. Unbeatable together.

But as time went on, she just got more and more quiet. Her charm was feted by some unknown pressure, a weight that was deflating her. Her cheeks grew sallow, her hair started to thin. I was beyond worried. Out of my mind at what was happening to my wonderful girl. Whenever I held her hands and begged her to tell me, she just shook her head, telling me she was fine, that everything was alright.

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Reunion

Prompt from @theravenofwynter : how’s the morning after after Garrus and Shepard’s second time together?

I had a lot of fun writing this. Despite the fact that I happened to get stuck a couple of times, I think it turned out pretty great, and I would really love to tell you about their morning after… Enjoy. ;)


She remembered falling asleep, giggling about something he’d said to her, as he nibbled at her ear gently. Emma couldn’t really remember what it was now, and it upset her a bit. Though the only thing that upset her more was the prospect of having to move from her comfortable, warm spot in bed, right next to him.

After a few moments, she cracked her eyes open, only to be met with the leathery skin of a certain turian boyfriend’s neck. She hummed and stretched forward just an inch or two to lightly place her lips on the skin. Her chest was pressed firmly against his, aware of how different the textures of their bodies were once again and enjoying the sensation it brought. She had one leg hooked around his hollowed hip while the other was seemingly trapped between his at the knee, somehow finding the position comfortable to her, despite the ever-present aching in her back. Her arms and his were wrapped around each other just enough to breathe but not enough to leave without waking the other. Tangled up was not what she would have used to describe this morning. No, it was more like a very intimate embrace between two lovers who hadn’t seen each other in years. In their case, it was only a matter of 6 months, give or take.

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He closed his eyes, surrendering himself to her, body and mind, conscious of nothing in the world but the dark pressure of her softly parting lips. They pressed upon his brain as upon his lips as though they were the vehicle of vague speech; and between them he felt an unknown and timid pressure, darker than the swoon of sin, softer than sound or odor.
—  James Joyce, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man

I wrote a poem.

Young, hopeful, determined, smiling,
failing, learning, drifting, blinded.
Sleeping, waiting, coping, faking,
hurting, yearning, loving, hating.

Trying, flying, misplaced, frightened,
rush of pride, suspense, excitement.
Flashing, crashing, crawling, mornings.
Family, friends, friends?Employment.

Brothers, together, warmth- as one,
Away from home, complete unknown.
Pressure, press, camera, phone,
Presenter, sex, talent gone.

Earning trust, commercial, lust,
Sold off, unplugged, scared, unjust.
Initial dreams, distant past,
Freedom, mind, Forever trapped.

anonymous asked:

Can you (or someone) do a fic where Killian goes back in time and meets young emma like her in the orphanage? That would be so cute because he could be like "we are going to fall in love in the future"

A/N: Killian briefly ends up in the past and meets a young Emma at an orphanage; a little nonsense time-travelling fluff and side-angst.

~

Bloody, buggering, monstrous time-travelling. 

Time travel.

Again.

Although, the first time had been rather fun for Killian. His first accidental trip to the past; fixing one tiny, but rather significant, event in the Enchanted Forest. Guaranteed danger and possible changing of an important timeline – right, only happened to be pairing up the parents of the woman Killian loved more than anything in all realms - however, Emma’s presence brought an element of excitement and adventure that fortunately ended with a smooth return journey and no surprises.

Apart from one.

And a bloody huge one at that, he thought with a grumble, coughing once as he attempted to move. Upon finding that his ribs and stomach still ached from the rough landing, Killian waited another moment. 

Elsa had been an unexpected surprise, of course, but she was a one that favoured the Storybrooke residences. If at all accidental, the young woman had appeared disoriented and confused by her new surroundings, seeking answers from the very person who had held her captive in an urn in his strange vault; Rumplestilskin. Or The Dark One. Mr. Gold. Whatever his moniker, he’d determined Elsa’s cause for arrival. 

Damn, this hurts. 

Muttering another curse, Killian let out a frustrated growl as he stood, unfamiliar to the strange grey stone beneath his feet. He blinked once, and then again. 

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