when he says thanks man

before he sells the beans to jack, he is born in a house that smells of ceder.

his name is Tiffany. a bold bright name. a stardust name. a girl name. but he is not a girl. he knows this, even if others don’t. his mother puts him in dresses, teaches him how to sew, chastises him when he lets his voice get low.

“my great-aunt’s friend’s sister,” says his mother, with her red lips tight, “once knew these girls that spoke and diamonds came out of their mouths. you know what happened to the nasty one? she got toads. that’s your future if you don’t figure out how to be a nice little girl.”

so he speaks gently. but the whole time he is wondering: who gave them the language of gems. who gave them the language that rolled out of them. it must be magic. and if there is magic, maybe there is hope for him.

he takes off in a dark night. a sad night. one where the fire was too low and he was sick of mirrors. he leaves his mother a note: gone to find where the gems grow. 

in the black woods, he cuts off his hair. wears his father’s clothes. feels, at last, whole. runs and runs and runs until his air comes out in a wheeze. walks for weeks and weeks.

he finds the old woman carrying water. she is ugly, her mouth all twisted angry. but she carries the water alone. 

the boy does not have much. but he has shoulders. a good back. hands that work. when he takes her burden, she says, “thank you, young man.” and he smiles at her, but doesn’t say anything.

her house is damp. she feeds him stew, apologizes. says she used to make lovely foods but the price of milk and eggs got far too high. she says: if you carry my water for five weeks, i will give you something special. and he agrees.

she talks for him. spends a lot of time telling him of people he never met. girls with lips blood red. girls with white fairy dresses. boys who fell in love with swans. 

the boy says little. just nods. sleeps on the floor of her empty barn. when she’s not looking, he darns her clothes for her, keeps the floors swept, fills the lanterns with oil, makes her a blanket for the coming winter. 

on the end of the fifth week, she gives him the beans. tells him that they have been passed down in her family, that this was her portion. she says that she is too old now for such adventures. that she hears the beans will bring treasure. fortune. all the things of greed. she says: i will give them to you, for what you have done to me.

in the morning, he takes off. he feels the weight of them in his pocket. he thinks of the old woman and the stories and the sight of her tired hands. he stands in the market for a long time, unspeaking, simply staring at the cobblestones beneath him.

jack’s voice is the last call in the evening. a beautiful cow, young and thick and healthy. 

the boy has no money. he bounces the magic bean in his pocket, and thinks of treasures. 

“wait,” he says. 

jack turns. 

transaction complete: one cow for a handful of magic beans. the boy walks the cow home to the old woman, gets there in the morning. they are both very tired. he falls asleep beside the beast in the hay. dreams of the foods the old woman can cook now that she can get milk.

when he wakes up, he is changed. it is as if he simply turned into who he was made to be. not a new body. familiar. the body he could always see.

the old woman stands at the door of his barn. she says, “good morning,” and then she says a new word. a word he’s never heard. a name. his name. a boy name. 

he repeats it. it is a jewel in his mouth, so he says it again. another diamond.

“time to fetch water,” she says, winking. the whole way, he whispers his name. it never quite tastes the same, always beautiful, always a fine thing, always his. the something special he was lacking.

in the back of his pocket, there is one last magic bean. he will fetch the water and plant it. and he will carry that old woman to the castles she has never seen.

nursey week day 3 - challenge

He sees him every morning, when he somehow manages to drag his ass out of bed at 5-o’clock in the morning to run. He was there the first morning, jogging with his dog, and he may have been at least half of Derek’s motivation to go the second morning. And the third morning. And every morning since. His dog is cute.

And he’s hot. Tall, blonde, and built like a tank. Just exactly Derek’s type.

It doesn’t matter what Derek’s motives for running are, anyway.

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anonymous asked:

Not saying he would, but what if he just acts the same as he has been and how he was when Another Man came out? He didn't say anything, didn't thank people for their support, didn't talk about the content of the magazine, there was just very very little conveyed outside of the actual magazine. I want to hear every thought he had while putting this album together but I just worry that's never going to happen anymore.

This is about to slightly miss the point but I’m always utterly floored about how people act like he HAS to thank fans… What, are you his 80 year old grandmother??? It just rubs me the wrong way when people essentially demand gratitude on their terms.

Which…the few times Harry has taken to social media recently it’s almost always been to thank fans?? Like he actually does that quite a lot?? I’ve never doubted that he loves and appreciates us?? He’s not obligated to do so the same way that other people do, and if that’s a deal breaker for you then…let it be one.

Anyway. Harry does not have to conduct his public life/how he talks about his work to the approval of some of his fans. It’s OK if you disagree with that. If it gets in the way of you enjoying his work maybe you don’t have to be as dedicated a fan as you were in the past. That would be more productive for everyone involved, if people knew when to step back from celebrities they’ve outgrown or who have changed their styles (and that goes for ALL the boys). Like, if all you’re going to do day in and day out is bemoan what a celebrity ISNT doing to please you, I think it is very much worth reevaluating why you’re spending so much energy on something that’s come to upset you.

manacats  asked:

pirate au with pharmercy B) ?

“They call her the Mercy of the seas,” the man says to her, a taciturn old fellow who would only give her the name Jack. “It’s a bit ironic considering her profession, but she makes a point of protecting women sailors, healing the sick, and never taking a life.“

“Between her piracy?” Fareeha asks, eyebrows rising.

Jack grunts assent. “Can’t deny her success. Her crew will follow her anywhere, and if your ship’s taken over, you can be assured you’ll live to see another day, even if she takes all of your fortune with her.” The old man appraises her silently, looking her up and down, and he says, “Thinkin’ of going out to join her? You wouldn’t be the first.”

“I heard she offers safe refuge for women,” Fareeha says, very, very cognizant of the bruises decorating her skin. She thinks back to the day before when Jesse had gleefully beaten her up while Gabriel looked on, exasperated, but she had to look the part to secure passage on her target’s ship. “Do you know where I could find her?”

Jack grunts again, beckoning her closer, and he takes out a scrap of paper and a square of charcoal to scribble a date and place upon the parchment. He passes it to her as a folded square, and she tucks it up her sleeve as he says, “Try not to get yourself killed out there.”

“Thanks, old man,” Fareeha says, smiling slightly when he huffed a laugh, and she waited until she had turned a corner before checking to see what he had written.

The Laughing Maid. Eight in the evening. Find the woman named Satya and order a Nightingale’s Wish.

The Laughing Maid was a tavern close to the ports, and Fareeha read through it once more before shredding the thing to pieces. To think the place to go had been right under her nose, and she took a moment to check over her belongings before setting off. This hadn’t been exactly what she’d had in mind when she had joined the military in hopes of cleaning crime off of the street, but she would not fail.

She would bring Mercy to justice. This is her task, and she will see it through to the end.

> from here <

[please do not send in any more prompts - thank you!]

i needed fluff this child is so adorable ;.;


by @Queenie 

She can always tell when a plane is going to fall. It has only happened once. She was young. Younger. And it managed to catch itself before it fell too far, just enough to give everyone a scare. But she had known. In the same way a bird knows to go south or how her sister knew when a lightning storm was coming; in the way the bones ached.

I’ve been on nine planes this summer, she admits to the old man next to her. He hadn’t offered conversation but she hadn’t he hadn’t seemed against it either. And he was probably just humoring her, a child by comparison (and how old was he? Seventy? Eighty?). Though she was no longer that young. A recent change.

And I have a good feeling about this one.
I’m glad.
Me, too.

The plane began to move and she thinks about time. On the intercom, a man reminds them the airport cares for the. She thinks about how young she is, especially now. Dressed all in white like a child playing at being a bride.

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No, thank YOU!