what I write

its already Lance’s birthday in some places so happy birthday to my wonderful son who i love!! who would have thought that in a little over a year i would have grown to love this boy so much. its amazing to me how in just two seasons this guy has become my world. im not sure how old he is now but i know he has an age and today he is older and that is definitely something to be celebrated. i am so proud of him for being such a brave, and intelligent, and witty, and beautiful, and kind young man. he’s growing up so fast right before my eyes and in such unexpected and interesting ways. i love this kid so much and im wishing him the happiest of birthdays!!!


Allow me to set the mood.

Imagine Woozi feeling at ease whenever Seungkwan’s around him because the younger always seem to calm him down.

anonymous asked:


So the last part of the Photographer and the Lonely Artist is driving me crazy. I’m taking a break from overthinking that by writing fluffy fluffy fluffy drabbles from the one word prompts some of you sent a while back!

AU/AH where Klaroline are neighbors. Longer than I planned it to be because, well, it’s me. Enjoy! 

Caroline jerked out of her sweet slumber to the sound of incessant knocking. One minute she was on her bed, snuggled between comfortable blankets and the second she’s on the floor, yelping as her elbow hit the floor.

“What the fuck?” She muttered, too sleepy to actually yell. “What’s going on?”

As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, another series of forceful knocks attempted to jolt her out of her sleepy state.

“You’re about to break the door, asshole.” Her voice was a little louder but still scratchy with sleep. And as if the intruder heard her, the doorbell rang the next moment instead of another knock.

“Fine.” She huffed. “I’m coming.”

Standing up quickly, Caroline ignored the way her head spun with the quick movement. She stomped towards the door, equal parts angry and annoyed which meant only one thing: Whoever was on the door was dead. All is fair when you wake Caroline so rudely.

“WHAT?” She yelled as she threw the door opened, only to stutter back on her feet.

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“Why do you always use my hair as a pillow!” She giggled. “And besides, shouldn’t you be the one who lets the lady have a little beauty rest first?” Ryuji refused to budge in his position holding that smirk as he pretended to be asleep. “Let’s go take a nap.” The blonde whispered finally raising his head off her shoulder for a short moment.


i think my problem is that i want to do a lot of things at once. like i want to write, read, study languages, study for my driving test, draw, try digital art, make gifs and more all at once. so it all clashes and in the end i do nothing. well i do some stuff, like thankfully im good at traditional art and i enjoy it, but i want to do more

James Jr. and Alexander Hamilton

We don’t know much about the relationship between the brothers, James and Alexander Hamilton, except they became very distant once Alexander made his way to the colonies. In this post, I’m briefly analyzing this relationship, and more specifically, the only letter we have between them.

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anonymous asked:

Is it just me or is anyone else so offended by Rebecca's character because she is such a pale shadow of female representation? I'm outraged that in the 21st century a woman can be not even a set of character traits, but literally a walking (nice dressed) uterus who bends in the wind. No agency whatsoever. Deplorable! Rebecca makes me miss the 90s and the riot grrrl movement. She makes me want to daub myself in blood and put on a baby doll dress and scream into the abyss. What were they thinking?

ah anon, you know i can’t resist a good rebecca ask. it’s my weakness.

and like… you’re really not wrong.

i mean, i don’t know if it offends me - well, yes, it does, but i think rebecca was brought in for a few specific narrative purposes and i guess that’s ok in and of itself, but they’ve never fleshed her out into much of a real character beyond those purposes so she exists in her current iteration as a supporting character and they don’t seem to have any desire to change that. which. just makes it uncomfortable, the more you think about it. and apparently I’ve thought about it a bunch.

i think the other thing is… those narrative purposes she has are mostly related to male characters. they’ve fleshed this out a little but mostly she’s been fairly irrelevant to every storyline - except one. there is one storyline in which she is completely necessary in her function and it is clearly entirely the reason why she was brought in in the first place.

what i’m saying is that rebecca white literally exists to develop robert sugden as a character and prop up his relationship with aaron.

(you could maybe argue that she is important to the white storylines but those have had very little long term affects beyond the ways that link robert to the whites. i want to go into this more but i need to actually rewatch her white storyline stuff first, so maybe i’ll change my mind, but tbh it feels more like… her relationship with her family is a by-product of bringing her in for her main purpose of affecting robert and robron. again, that’s for another post)

but that in turn leads to her being written like an inconsistent plot device. i think i’ve sort of developed enough of a fanwanky reasoning behind her actions so far, but it doesn’t work as well as i’d like. it does essentially boil down to her being in love with robert, though - she’s, i think, actually a very tragic character and i have a lot of sympathy for her - but it takes a hell of a lot of mental gymnastics constantly to bring me back to that place, because the show doesn’t care enough to do it for us. and it’s annoying. because i do think they could make her story so compelling if they wanted to.

but ultimately they wouldn’t, because robert is in many ways a villain in her story and the story they want to tell is more robert being a villain in his own story (and again, that’s another post all on its own). they’re not telling rebecca’s story. not at all.

anyway! basically. female character essentially being the tool the show uses to explore male character robert and his relationships. great. g r e a t.

and because what’s the point in making big sweeping contentious statements if you can’t back them up:

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actual texts between me and @loveisofthebody this afternoon:

um, whoops indeed

Self Fulfilling Prophecy: Self fulfilling prophecy, Zoe had called it when she’d heard, and ironic enough, Connor found himself laughing for the first time in months.

Mental Hospital!AU where the Murphy’s give up when Connor fails to kill himself and Heidi finds out Evan let go. The solution to both? A ‘short’ stay at the local mental hospital. Somehow, Connor always knew he’d end up here. Evan, not so much.


“What the hell are you so sad about?” Murphy asks, and really there’s a million different ways Evan could answer, but at least nine hundred and ninty-nine of them could end with Connor throwing him up against the wall, and that’s something he’d really like to avoid, so.

Evan glances down and begins to pick at the edge of the blue scrubs he’s been forced into, and the words get lost somewhere between his throat and his whirlwind of a mind, and so when he speaks it’s a command to his brain to focus - to not screw this one up, Hansen. Remember what Dr. Sherman said, just, be normal, be better - and the words come out coarse and stuttered on account of the fact that they are being ripped out unwillingly from inside him, but they come out nonetheless.

“I’m just- this just isn’t- isn’t where I thought I’d end up, I guess.”

The ’I thought I was getting better’ part goes unspoken between them, fitting nicely between the ‘I never knew it could get this bad’ and the ‘I don’t belong here’, but going by the vicious way Connor’s lips curl Evan knows he’s still heard them, and his mind begins to buzz even louder.

Connor smirks, fingers mindlessly itching over light blue material as he leans backwards, a violent attempt softened as his head thumps against light yellow cushion, and laughs a laugh bordering manic.

“Well, sucks for you then, Hansen. It feels like I’ve been waiting my whole fucking life to get here.”

Every Tattoo Gun has its Thorns

Another fic for the roseph discord, for @atlasisreal‘s beaut tattoo artist Joseph and Florist Robert au. The title is the work of @tunaboy2 because I am not that witty :’)  I hope you enjoy it! And beware, there is smut about halfway through.

Robert at least felt a little bit bad, he shouldn’t have had that drink and he knew it. The second one was definitely very bad not good and he felt guilty about letting Val down. But with the third one came the tipsiness and washing away of most of the guilt. At least until morning.

It wasn’t like he was drunk he just had a healthy buzz going.

But more importantly, it wasn’t like he was drinking alone in his house in the dark, which he was pretty sure had been the most concerning part about his habit. He was out at the bar, and not the seedy old place he used to hide at, a trendy new bar closer to the flower shop. There were actual people here instead of just the odd rodent and health violation.

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anonymous asked:

I'm vaguely scared of what you might do but Ed x Brooke (6 for the ask)

6. “You can’t die. Please don’t die.”

When Ed was twelve, his class had had to fill out some stupid worksheet about where they saw themselves in five years.


No one had taken it seriously. They were a group of rowdy twelve-year-old boys. They neither knew nor cared what they would be doing five days from then, let alone five years. But Ed Carter was a good, studious boy, and he had given it some thought - about ten minutes of thought, before he abandoned it in favor of more fun pastimes, like kicking a football around his room, or helping his parents with dinner, or doodling on his math assignment, or anything but this.

“God, please, no.”

In the end, Ed had slapped on some generic fluff about hanging with friends and making good grades and maybe having a job so he could have extra money to spend. It took all of five seconds and no heavy thinking, but it was still more than the rest of the class bothered with and he had received the highest grade on account of being one of two people to hand it back in the next day.

“Oh, my God.”

Were he to be completely honest, his answers were unlikely to change even if he had sat and really thought about it. After all, what does a twelve-year-old know about where he’ll be in five years. What does a twelve-year-old care?

“Oh my God, oh my God, ohmygod ohmygod omygod.”

And as it turned out, he would have been wrong anyway. How could he have predicted that the world would end? That his parents would die? That everyone’s parents, everyone’s older siblings, everyone who was supposed to know what to do in bad situations would all die? Or not die, and just. Hang around. How could he have predicted that he and all the other surviving kids would be spending their lives fighting the shambling, rotting, ravenous remains of their society?

“Please no, God. No no no nonono no, please no.”

And as it turned out, he would have been wrong anyway. But how could he have predicted that he didn’t have five years to imagine?

“You can’t die. Please don’t die.”

When Ed was sixteen, he had led a group of kids - children - into battle. A battle to the end, against the ravenous, rotting, murderous adults, who would stop at nothing to see them dead. Who had given up their sense of fear, had lost their sense of pain, had nothing to lose. How foolish they - children - had been to think they could win. To think they could do anything besides delay the inevitable.

“Ed, please, please, please, stay with me.”

Ed’s eyes rolled around, searching for the voice hovering somewhere above him. He couldn’t quite make out what it was saying, but it did not sound happy. Why? Where was he?

“Ed, oh my God. Okay. You’re going to be okay. Okay?”

It was a nice voice. Familiar. Relaxing in its familiarity. He may not recognize where he was, or know what he was doing, but at least this nice, familiar voice was here to keep him company.

“Ed, you have to be okay, please, don’t do this to me.”

Ed tried to remember, but it kept slipping away from him. It was hard to see, since his surroundings seemed to be so blurry and clouded, so he couldn’t garner any context clues from what he could see.

“Ed, okay, fuck. Just. Let’s get you up, okay? I’m going to pick you up.”

Something about a flag? Maybe? That sounded just south of right.

“God, God, God.”

What was their flag? Was it even about their flag? Was it even about a flag?


He remembered bodies. Lots of bodies. Moving around. A lot of people moving around. Was he at school? Where was Jack, was he not going to help him?

“Ed, don’t - fuck. What do I do? Oh my God, okay.”

No, Jack wasn’t here. There was some reason Jack wasn’t here. Was he sick today?


Was he at school?

“Help! Somebody! Please.”

Everyone was looking for someone, an adult - a teacher? - someone important. Was that it?

“C’mon, Ed, you’re doing great, just keep - just keep walking okay? You’re going to be okay, okay?”

The flag. A crowd. Some teacher? Was that it?

“Don’t - fuck, Ed, please, please move your feet, I can’t -”

St. George?

“Fuck - Ed!”

Without warning the ground gave way beneath him and he felt it suddenly rise up and slap him in the face, felt the pressure of it, felt where the pain would set in in his neck. He couldn’t feel his face.

“Ed, no, fuck, Ed, please”

He couldn’t feel a lot of things.

“Ed, look at me, please, I can’t”

The world rotated around him and then there was more pressure on his head, on his face. What was that?

“Okay, let me just - You’ve got - There’s blood, everywhere, fuck”

The pressure kept at his face and suddenly he could see but all he could see was light. It was a nice, sunny day. Maybe after everyone found that teacher, he could go check on Jack, see if he was up for some football.

“Ed? Ed, God, please”

He saw the voice. The voice was Brooke. That was odd, Brooke didn’t go to his school. Also, if Brooke was here, then Jack was dead. Jack was dead?


He tried to answer her, but something wasn’t right. He still couldn’t feel his face, among other essential body parts. His mouth didn’t seem to be working. Or maybe it was and his ears weren’t.


Was Brooke crying? Why was she crying? They should be looking for that adult, shouldn’t they? She didn’t really have time to be crying, they had to find St. George.

“Fuck, please.”

He was really tired, though, that kind of fatigued where you’re just completely out of it and woozy. Maybe he could take a raincheck on the whole find St. George thing. Someone else could do it probably. Maybe he’d go find Jack and they could chill. Maybe his mom would make them cookies.


Brooke put her face right in front of Ed. Now he couldn’t see the sky. Where was Jack?

She sobbed. Her chest hurt.

He wished Brooke wouldn’t cry. They had more important things to do, he was pretty sure. Also, he wasn’t very good at comforting crying girls.

Her voice cracked, her gasps scratching her throat.

He raised his hand to Brooke’s face. He was pretty sure he did. He didn’t feel his hand respond, but that was definitely his hand on her cheek.

If she had had the energy to scream, she might have done so, right there.

He stared at Brooke. His voice still didn’t seem to be working, or else his ears weren’t, so he tried to convey all he meant through his eyes alone. It was tough. What was he even trying to tell her?

She grabbed his hand, clinging desperately, capable of nothing more than gasping sobs.

I’m sorry.

She couldn’t breathe, her voice kept getting caught somewhere in her chest or her throat or her heart.

I love you.

She couldn’t do this again. She whimpered. She couldn’t do this again.

You’ll make it.

She hiccuped, worn out, thoroughly spent. She wouldn’t do this again. She didn’t want to.


(She screamed.)

Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry, my inbox is super weird and I didn’t see your message until just now. I hope you like this and it makes up for the wait!

Nick NEEDS to make a tongue in cheek tell all book about his time on GA (like Greg did w The Room and his book The Disaster Artist) AND THEN James Franco needs to adapt it into a movie…… 

pale clothes faded from the sun
light streaming in through windows
lying mirthlessly on my bedroom floor, time moving as slow as molasses
music streams into my ears, the same album on repeat
my fingers are restless, threading through the carpet beneath me
my brain moves lazily through different ideas, as if i were looking through a catalog
my breaths are deep, and i focus on them to recenter myself
the air is stale and smells faintly of lotion
to the left, the bracelet i lost months ago lays on the floor, and i snort out a laugh
laying in a sunspot, my skin feels warm
my heart feels heavy; it’s a little sad, but hopeful too