when the well has run dry

I'm legal b*tch.

I’m disabled and diagnosed with nerve damage, so I’m in pain all the time. Because of my young age of 22 my doctors didnt like me taking pain killer (i agreed) so i opted for a medical marijuana card.

Im a wake and bake, because of how much pain im in all the time at anytime of day you could catch me in my backyard smoking a bowl. I have animals and dont like smoking in the house. I have my designated smoking area thats shaded under our giant mesquite tree.

Ive lived in my house for 5 years and my neighbors and i dont talk, the most ive ever had a conversation with them is when the older man to our right asked me if i was okay after a hard day. The house on the left was empty for a few months at a time.

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Today’s Davenport discusses hypotheticals and hypotensions

[image description start! Three images featuring Davenport, a small mustached gnome, and Magnus, a burly human with large sideburns and a strawhat. They’re both dressed to be out in the sun and have red bandannas protecting their necks. Panel one, Magnus is holding a fruit basket shouting up to Davenport who is up in the tree grabbing fruits. Magnus says, “Hey Cap’nport if Barry ever brings me back as a Frankenstein can you make sure he keeps me buff?” Davenport replies, “Frankenstein is the scientist, Magnus.” Magnus says, “Oh. Okay then if Barry ever brings me back as a Bluejeans can you make sure he keeps me buff?”. The second panel moves next to Magnus looking up at Davenport’s feet as he moves to get off the branch. Davenport warns, “Coming down.” Magnus holds up the basket to catch some fruit Dav tosses down. Magnus says, “Gotcha! …Well?” Davenport replies, “Alright, but only if you promise to kill me if I become a vampire.” Magnus says, “That’s fair- wait” Panel three, Magnus has an arm raised that Davenport catches as he jumps out the tree. Magnus looks confused as he says, “"Why do I have to kill you? Couldn’t you just live on Goat’s blood or something?” Davenport swings and says, “But what if one day we run out and I try to bleed you dry when I’m hungry?” Magnus stares down at this tiny gnome man and says, “I. Don’t think we have to worry. I have plenty of blood, Cap'n.” End description!]

Prompt: “Zero fucks given. Next please.” + Harry/Ginny
Requested by @veronicasummersfelton

Harry blinks lazily at the clock high above the couch. It’s nearly 5 PM and he and Ginny must meet with Ron and Hermione at exactly 5 o’clock for an evening Hermione planned several months ago. A simple double-date now that the four of them have some free time.

“10 minutes, Gin!” Harry calls out. “You know how particular Hermione is about these things.”

“Oh yes,” Ginny calls back, laughter clear in her voice. “How can I forget about our first double-date~ Ron made us late by 15 minutes because he couldn’t find his tie.”

He chuckles. Watching Ron run around looking for that blasted tie had been amusing and often brought up during playful conversations.

“Well then,” he hears, “how do I look?”

When he looks up, Harry feels his throat dry up. Ginny has always been beautiful whether she was covered in sweat and dirt from being out of the Quidditch pitch all day or in a dress like she is now.

There’s a faint scar under her left eye that she never bothers to cover up. There’s one along the left side of her neck, more noticeable, that she doesn’t bother to hide either.

(“I refuse to cover my battle scars,” she told him a while back when she caught him staring.

“Are you just going to stand there?” Ginny crossed her arms over her chest and raises a perfectly plucked eyebrow.

“Gorgeous,” Harry manages.

Ginny laughs and moves towards him while bringing her arms up to gently take hold of his neck. His hands easily settle just above her hips.

“Thank you,” and she kisses him. It’s sweet, like many of their kisses, and it never seems to last long enough. “We’re going to a public place I wonder how the public will react when they see me hanging off your arm. I can see Skeeter’s articles now~”

“‘STILL IN IT FOR THE MONEY: How Expensive Is Her Dress?!’” Harry laughs.

“Potter’s Girlfriend Not Seen In Public for Days: Are the Pregnancy Rumors True?!” 

Coming down from his high, Harry briefly tightens his hands on her waist. “Does it bother you?”

Ginny presses another kiss against his lips and pulls away. There’s a sort of sparkle in her eyes. “Zero fucks given. Next please.” As always, her blunt statements and the way she speaks sends electricity throughout his body. He loves her so damn much.

“Allow me to get your coat, m’lady.” He pulls away.

“Such a gentleman,” Ginny replies.

He helps her put it on and leads her to the front door of their flat. Harry opens it and they step outside. A cool gust of wind passes by.

“Shall we?” He holds out his arm.

Ginny takes it with a smile. “We shall.”


Alistair cries when he’s alone, when he can finally rest the shield of smiles and laughter he wields around his heart. He’s the jester, the fool, the idiot. That’s me. Funnyman. He cries when there are no jokes left to make, when the curtains have fallen and the audience has gone home. But even in privacy, there’s something guilty in it and he hides his tears behind his hands. He’s shielded himself for far too long, always too long, and the result is an explosion of spittle and snot. His sobs leave him silently, but open-mouthed and with a force that wracks his already fragile foundation. But when the well of tears finally runs dry, despite how his entire body shakes, his mind finally stills and a sense of peace washes over him. He can’t keep doing this, but the fragility in his heart scares him and he doesn’t know how to stop.

Morrigan cries quickly and cleanly. Oh, fine, if I must, she scoffs at herself as she wipes the tears before they fall. She looks away and covers her trembling lips. She has better things to do than fuss and fret. Whatever the source–and how dare it–Morrigan refuses for this to be the one that breaks her. Survival is her blood and bones, and she’s been through worse. The moment is over quicker than it began. She rises with her chin held high, the only evidence of her weakness being the smear in her eye shadow and a single defiant sniff.

But Leliana, she weeps freely. Loudly enough for the Maker to hear her from His throne. Her hands clasp the holy symbol around her neck as her prayers leave her in desperate croaks. But the longer she cries, the more she questions. If the Maker truly had not abandoned the world, what is her suffering? What lessons does she have yet to learn? Rasping psalms and hymns in broken notes, haunting and raw, she seeks the warmth of His light once again, fumbling in a darkness too deep for her to see through.

Sten does not cry, but the hard line of his mouth crumbles into a trembling frown. His hands clench and shake until the blunt nails draw blood from his palms. But he reaches for his blade–his soul. Asala. His grip on his hilt has never been more steady. Sten of the Beresaad, a warrior unfaltering. He draws his weapon. Asit tal-eb. Maraas shokra. Anaan esaam Qun.

A younger Wynne once thought grief would get easier to deal with as she aged, but of course she had been naive. No, with age, the grief only piles up, and her old, frail body can hardly support itself beneath it all. When she finally cries, it’s like unplugging a stop. Her tears flow until they soak every inch of her. She wails–guttural, brutal, a primal noise coming from deep within her very soul. She wails until she runs out of breath, gasps, then again, and again, and again until her voice gives out and collapses on itself. Her body goes with it, taking her down to her hands and knees. Fingers clawing into the dirt, she roots herself, needing the strength of the very earth to support her else her form withers to nothing.

At first, Zevran laughs. Bitter, cutting, cold as ice with a snarl barely concealed beneath it. Alistair’s laughter is his shield, but Zevran’s? Zevran’s laugh is a weapon well-loved, sharper than any blade, more potent than any poison. When the laughter fades, there’s nothing at all. Hollow. Numb. Dead. Still, he smiles, and if only for a moment his broken spirit mends. But some fractures are too badly shattered to set, and only then do the tears well in his eyes. They do not fall–he has no right to let them–but his throat aches and cracks with dry sobs, and his breaths come and go in shuddering gasps that leave him quaking.

Oghren blubbers, snot bubbling and dribbling into his beard, moaning and bawling like a child might. He drinks until the tears stop. He drinks so he forgets he’s drinking. Then he drinks to keep the anguish away long enough for him to sleep. When he wakes, his body crusted from crying and sickness and his head throbbing, he finds the feelings haven’t left. He grabs another drink.

Shale cannot cry, but even if they could, they find the very act repulsive. The flesh bags are so moist and always leaking something. How does it stand such an existence? But if it is a friend, a word they do not use without immense care, Shale goes quiet. They have no words to say, but they will be there. And if it is lucky enough–and Shale means truly blessed, it may have a shoulder it can lean on.

Loghain fears many things. The ignorant and foolish may call it paranoia, but one thing he does not fear is crying. He is intimate with tragedy, the tear tracks on his cheeks smoothing his skin like a river and the land it carves through. Though his countrymen scorn him as a man without honor, it cannot be denied that he is a man of dignity. A general wears the face of his armies, and he is that and more–the Hero of River Dane, a living legend sang of in taverns and whispered in folklore. It is only in his office that he crumples, covering his face with hands folded together in prayer as his shoulders shake with muffled sobs. He doesn’t cover himself to hide from the world, but to hide the world from him. Time and time again, Loghain has proven to be the only one for him.

(inspired by a post that has nearly brought me to tears several times over)

I’ve always wanted to get bangs || tom holland x female!reader

A/N: I have literally been working on this since the live ended, couldn’t go to sleep without finishing it haha. ***I try not to mention physical appereances for reader inserts, but for the sake of this story Y/N has elbow length hair, (and no bangs obv) so our baby boy can cut it off❤️ ***

Summary: Tom is giving Harry a haircut on IG live and Y/N has always wanted to get bangs, basically.

Word Count: 1.7K

*English isn’t my first language so if you see any mistakes, feel free to correct me!


(GIF is from @thenelalila​ )

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FACT: you have written poems about me. FACT: i am not a good or soft thing in any of them. 

what i mean to say is, i am sorry that my sharp edges are the only parts of me worth remembering. what i mean to say is, i do not know how to be the wound you press for something wet when the well in the pit of your stomach runs dry. what i mean to say is, i stopped writing love poems months ago and i’m still not sure if that counts as bravery. 

anonymous asked:

Alright here we go I just asked @anarchetypal about this because I am on a Spree™ but I need your take on shithead Ryan. I'm pretty sure you've done this before but I've read all of your everything and I need m o r e

Not sure if you meant just generally or you actually wanted something specific but here we go~

  • Listen, any one of the Fakes would tell you Ryan’s mask is less about hiding his identity than it is about hiding the fact that he is nearly always laughing. It didn’t take him long to realise that with his reputation literally anything he does will be interpreted as threatening and even the most innocuous activities are treated as utterly unnerving. If people knew just how often Ryan was flat out messing with them there wouldn’t be nearly so many desperately worried discussions trying to unravel what depravity the Vagabond is getting up to with a bucket of paint and a dust-buster. 
  • While most of the others find accompanying Gavin as the muscle in a meeting somewhat monotonous and dry (there are exceptions of course, the contacts that Gavin plays ridiculous roles for, or the meetings that go south and kick off, but for the most part its a bit of posturing and trying not to tune out while Gavin does his thing) Ryan always has a ball. Ryan is just about the only Fake who could give Gavin a run for his money in regards to a flare for the unnecessarily dramatic, so when the two of them head off together they invariably go well and truely overboard. Whoever the pair meet with, no matter how well they’ve done their job or how many positive interactions they’ve previously had with Gavin alone will spend the entirety of their meeting tracking Ryan’s movements around the room, absolutely sure they’re about to die. 
  • After watching a few too many episodes of Brooklyn Nine-nine Ryan picks up the habit of making the occasional outrageously out of character confession just to watch people squirm with the realisation that no one will ever believe them if they tell. After all the unspeakable horrors Los Santos has witnessed from the Vagabond none are prepared to entertain for a single moment the possibility that he might also enjoy the Spice Girls, cry in Disney movies or hula-hoop at a competitive level. 
  • Any time the Fake’s accept a new member Ryan tends to silently shadow them everywhere they go for a couple of weeks in full Vagabond get up. Everyone assumes, quite reasonably and with no small amount of blind terror, that the Vagabond is protective, distrustful, and all too eagerly awaiting the chance to kill them off at the first sign of a slip up. In reality Ryan knows just how vetted anyone has to be before Geoff will let them into the family, and just really enjoys toying with their emotions while he can.
  • There’s a narrow window towards the back of the LSPD bullpen - a little unorthodox but the glass is thick and one-way tinted so security isn’t really a problem. What is a problem is the fact that every now and then a member of the force will swear up and down that they saw the Vagabond’s awful skull standing there leering at them through the glass. 
  • Ryan found out, through pure accident, that leaving his mask balanced atop of his hanging jacket is a surefire way to terrify Geoff in the middle of the night. Before it really sinks in he is woken on three seperate occasions by that all-too distinctive shriek; the first incident had the whole crew running guns drawn, the second was met with endless mockery and by the third Ryan just lays in bed, listening to the others thundering into the hallway, and grins. From that point on Ryan just gets more creative about where he leaves his spectre self; the bathroom, the pantry, and on one memorable occasion, suspended right outside Geoff’s door. 

anonymous asked:

for the bumbleby fic thing: "The tip of my tongue is sweet, whenever I say your name, typical conversations, the smallest feelings, I keep talking about them, about you"

“Hey,” Yang says suddenly from the other side of the table, interrupting an incredibly enthralling chapter of the book Weiss is reading. “Be honest with me for a second.” 

“As if I lie to you the rest of the time?” Weiss says, snarky in response. Well, fair, that’s one of the things Yang loves about her. 

“You know what I mean,” Yang says, all rolling eyes and sarcasm. She taps her fingers against the tabletop. “Do I talk about Blake too much? Do I talk to her too much? Am I, like, too subtle or just annoying?” 

Weiss sighs heavily to herself, gaze lifting and traversing boredly around the room until she spots her target. “Blake!” she calls, gestures her over with a wave of her hand. Yang snaps her mouth shut, stare darting in horror between the two of them. This is the first step to betrayal. This is war. This is–

“Weiss,” she hisses, “what are you doing–”

–Blake walking up to them, looking entirely too hot in their academy uniform,  stockings just below her knee, jacket hanging over the back of the chair she’d just vacated, tie loose around her neck. 

“Hey,” Blake says, and her eyes slip to Yang, smile curving automatically. “Hey, Yang.” 

“Hi, Blake,” Yang says, staring at her with too much breath left stranded in her lungs. There was something before her, Yang thinks, but can’t remember what it was; she was annoyed, maybe, afraid. 

“Yang has a few questions for you,” Weiss says, strained and polite; oh, yeah, that was it - she’s enjoying this, digging Yang her grave. Blake merely raises her eyebrows, shifting her weight between feet. 

“Oh?” she says, but Yang can’t manage to speak at all now that the time has come. It’s so predictable, so fitting. She runs her mouth incessantly until she doesn’t. 

“Yes,” Weiss says smoothly for her. “She was wondering if she talked both about you and to you too much, as well as if she was too subtle or just annoying. I was hoping you could help me answer.” 

Blake seems to process Weiss’s plight slowly, blinking perplexedly at her, but when she glances to Yang for confirmation she receives nothing but a swallow. 

“Um,” Yang says, tongue uncomfortably dry, parched earth long before rain. 

Blake’s smile disguises itself, plays arrogant, becomes a smirk. “I can probably do that,” she says, and slips onto the bench beside Yang. “No; not enough; not that subtle, but not annoying, either. To be honest, I’m better with blunt.” 

Her irises remind Yang theoretically of the sun, all its poetry and replications, something gold that glitters and gleams and warms. Well, all she’s ever needed to know is exactly where she stands. “In that case,” Yang says, “I can tie a cherry stem with my tongue.” 

“Prove it,” Blake says.

“I don’t actually like cherries,” Yang says conversationally, plucking one of from the bowl. “How about you?” 

“Love them,” Blake answers, her voice dropping low. 

Yang brings it to her lips, watches her mouth wrap around the fruit and suck, breaking from the stem. Her middle finger touches Blake’s bottom lip. Somewhere across from them, Weiss snaps her book shut and leaves. 

She takes the stem into her mouth, works on tying it into a knot, Blake’s eyes trained on her the entire time, anticipatory, predatory. She holds it between her teeth, slips it out, twirls it between her fingers. 

“How’s that for blunt?” she asks casually. 

When Blake kisses her, she isn’t really surprised. 

Hanzo will deny it vociferously, but he has a nigh crippling sweet tooth. In public, he demurs every sugary, fattening thing offered to him. Unhealthy, he says. Undignified, he thinks. He’s kept the secret since childhood.

But when no one’s watching, well, that’s a bit of a different story. Packages of chocolates seem to run dry a little sooner than normal, ice cream develops a strange habit of disappearing around the edges of the carton, even treats hidden at the back of the cabinets or disguised in boxes of protein powder seem to still fall victim. The only person unaffected seems to be McCree, because he snacks exclusively on beef jerky and the salty-spicy-sweet rellerindos.

Little mouse, Reinhardt calls it darkly. A little sugar fiend mouse sneaking in and stealing something sacred. When Winston’s Reese’s cups go missing wholesale, he starts an investigation, pulling security footage. There aren’t any cameras in the mess, but he’s certain he can reconstruct the comings and going of their thief.

There’s nothing damning, which honestly shouldn’t be a surprise. McCree says as much, as even their greenhorns are learning to intuit the lines of sight of the cameras and move between them. Athena had even been registering her disapproval. But the cowboy has a plan.

The brightly colored American hard candies had fallen out of fashion with the rest of the world years ago because the dyes had been suspected of causing ill health. In America, however, they remained with their formulas unchanged. After all, you can always tell an American, but you can’t tell him much.

The dyes, with their vivid, unnatural brightness, had a side effect that would be handy for their current cause. They dyed the mouth and teeth of anyone who ate them for hours afterwards, even under the most rigorous oral hygiene routine. The plan went: hide a package in the back of the spice cabinet, then sit back and wait for someone with neon teeth. Easy as pie.

Even McCree wouldn’t have anticipated such quick results. He’s procrastinating on an after action report in his bunk when Hanzo comes in.

“Howdy, darlin’,“ McCree says absently.

“Good afternoon,” Hanzo says. 

“How’d the sims go?”

Hanzo grunts. Middling, then. Either they need to change things up or get on the newjacks’ case about taking training seriously again. Probably both.

Hanzo drops onto the bed beside him, clearly angling to catch a quick cat nap curled up close. Hanzo’s sleeping habits are worse than Hana’s, McCree swears, and little Cottontail’s are bad.

McCree looks down at him, intending to tease him about needing a nap when he was out half the night, when he catches sight of Hanzo’s mouth.

It’s blue.

McCree can’t help the laughter that bubbles up. Hanzo, of all people, is the mouse. Hanzo scowls up at him.

“What?” he snaps. McCree can’t catch his breath. Hanzo looks incensed at being laughed at, and that just makes it funnier.

“What?” he snaps again, poking McCree in the side.

“Mirror, babe,” McCree wheezes. Hanzo gets up and stalks over to the bathroom, and McCree watches his whole posture shift into panic when he sees himself. He immediately tries to scrub his mouth, but he mostly just manages to make his fingers blue too.

“Didn’t know ya liked raspberry flavor, sweetness.”

loxxxlay  asked:

how do you characterize steve rogers in the avengers then? :O <3 (i love how u write steve so ur meta on this subject would be nice ^_^)

basically, I think a lot of the “lol Steve’s characterization in the Avengers was such character assassination, everything about it was wrong and dumb” is…I think an incredibly shallow reading of his portrayal in that movie. 

like, is there less space given to his character and development? yes, because it’s a team movie and fundamentally that means characters aren’t going to get as much space as they do in their own movies especially when Tony is there. That doesn’t mean Steve doesn’t have a character, or that his character is “oh he’s a total Boy Scout Good Boy.” Steve is introduced with a scene that shows his clear trauma and Lack of Dealing (he’s basically just destroying punching bags while having flashbacks), and when Fury comes to recruit him he’s short, terse, clearly unhappy. 

He’s not a perfect soldier following orders, whatever…I think it’s Tony? says. He pretty openly criticizes the direction the world has taken (”I woke up, they said we won. They didn’t say what we lost”) and openly criticizes SHIELD’s picking up the Tesseract (”you should’ve left it in the ocean”).  he goes AWOL (again, against orders) to go to New York.

he gets in Tony’s face when Tony starts needling him, which like. clearly he’s still got that “fight me” temper even though he reins it in, because Steve is responsible about his strength - he’s aware of the fact that he can’t act the same, in his new body, as he used to - because now he’d be the bully in most situations due to his extreme physical advantage. (I’ve written some about this before - the idea that Steve should act with exactly the same degree of belligerence as he does as Skinny Steve is just…it ignores the difference in context, there.) 

when Tony raises suspicions about SHIELD’s intentions, while to Tony’s face he argues, immediately after he goes to check things out for himself and confronts Fury with the evidence of their weaponizing the Tesseract, clearly pissed as hell about it. 

he has the same wry, dry sense of humor we see later (people read the “I see it runs on some kind of electricity” line as Steve being stupid as opposed to his being like “well I’ve never dealt with this before” frustration). 

and like. he’s clearly performing the Captain America role because it’s the option he’s given, and he doesn’t have much of another one. the deleted scene with the Depression Errands is…well, it is a deleted scene, but it’s there, and plenty of other deleted scenes get factored into understanding of canon. as seen in other movies, Steve feels like he doesn’t know what to do when he isn’t Captain America (his conversation with Sam in Winter Soldier, again in Age of Ultron). 

basically, I think a lot of people who act like Steve’s characterization in The Avengers was total out of character nonsense to be utterly disregarded are either a) doing a very shallow reading of the film, possibly out of a need to dismiss everything Joss Whedon has ever done as worthless (and I have problems with Whedon, but that attitude bothers me no end) or b) responding to fans who have done a very shallow reading of the film to inform their characterization of Steve.

both of those things are not the fault of the movie itself. 

anyway I have now written too much about this and discourse about this question is so five years ago now but since I still see it apparently I’m still annoyed about it

The Millennial Who Gave No Fucks: A Fairytale

Once upon a time there was a poor, starving millennial who lived in a great town on the edge of a fearsome forest. This millennial had once been rich in fucks, and given them freely and generously to both friends and strangers, but then a bunch of garbage happened and life is bullshit and the US election and have you even *seen* the job market these days, and now she had not a fuck to give left in the world. And this millennial decided one day to venture into the dark forest to seek her fortune, because might as well, why the fuck not, better than sitting at home scrolling endlessly through tumblr and failing to do laundry.

She had been walking a goodly while and she was kind of tired, but also her sleep cycle was all fucked to shit so who even fucking knows, when she came across a Wise Fairy at a crossroads in the woods.

“Hey you,” said the Wise Fairy, “come give a fuck about this thing over here.”

“Sorry,” said the millennial, “I have literally no fucks to give.”

“No, but have you seen this thing? You are societally obligated to give a fuck about it.”

“Look, I don’t know what to tell you, man,” the millennial said, “but the well of fucks has run dry. I got nothing.”

“Ahhh!” said the Wise Fairy, revealing herself in her true and radiant form, “Then you shall go on a great quest to the Mountains of Emotional Labour to find and placate the dryad of the Well of Fucks, so that the Well may flow freely with fucks once again.”

“Okay, first of all, that was a metaphor,” the millennial said, “I don’t know how you missed that. Second of all, I would honestly just settle for a job with benefits that didn’t require bullshit amounts of impossible-to-get experience, and maybe a  beer.”

Then the Wise Fairy waxed wroth. “For your apathy and lack of gumption, I hereby turn you into this loathsome toad!” she cried, and with a wave of her magic wand, the transformation was complete.

“Are you not ashamed?” the Wise Fairy demanded

“My dude,” said the millennial, “I feel like you fundamentally misunderstand the concept of not having any fucks to give,” and with that, she hopped down the road into the dark forest. 

The Days Without Writing

Sometimes there are days, weeks, months, without a word. Those are the times when we’re angriest at ourselves about our writing. It’s easy to place blame on our own shoulders for simply not doing enough even when we are able to recognize all the different factors at play that may have contributed to us falling out with our writing. From overworking ourselves to hectic lives to health challenges and more there are hundreds of possible reasons why we might come to a period where we’re not writing. And it’s important to accept that not every day, week, month, or year can see us pouring out words as though we have an endless supply.

Especially when there may be positive sides to the times we’re not writing as well. It’s important to acknowledge that not everything can grow year round. Writing, like many other things, has seasons. We may plant in the spring and tend and grow through the summer to harvest in the fall and come winter find ourselves barren. Our summer wells may run dry and disrupt our growth or our spring may start later than usual and back everything up. Our harvest may be small one year, but that doesn’t mean we can’t bounce back.

And during those times when our writing simply doesn’t work, whether it’s because of a dry summer or barren winter, we have an opportunity to harness. Actively or not every detail of our lives has an effect on our writing, so when we’re not writing we’re experiencing. We’re learning, we’re understanding. Every movie we watch, book we read, television show we binge, game we play, conversation we have, plays a part in teaching us what we need to know to bring our best works to life. It helps us to see what we do want in our writing, as well as what we don’t want in our writing. If we spend all of our time with our nose in whichever word processing program we prefer actively writing, then we don’t have the experience we need to write what we want to share with the world.

So when we can’t harness any of the tools we need to write - motivation, inspiration, dedication, determination, discipline, whatever - then we are left with two choices. To belittle ourselves for not being a better writer who writes X number of words in X number of hours every day and gets in at least three extra sentences any time they have a spare second. Or. We accept the fact that not every day, week, month, or even year, can be for writing and allow ourselves to experience and trust that the season will eventually end and we’ll be able to find our tools again. Because our writing will wait for us, however long it takes.

The more we hurt ourselves when we find that we’re unable to write - whatever our reason - the longer it takes to return to our words. Just like a physical injury healing takes time, and a period of rest is needed to help us get back in shape so we can write again. And like with a physical injury, the more you try to force yourself to be ready again before you actually are, the worse the dry spell is going to be.

Writing has no time limit. There is no stopwatch counting the moments you don’t write, no counter numbering the words that never reach the page. It will wait for you to come home to it and welcome you warmly when you’re ready. Even when the next few words are hard, your writing will forgive you for the time apart, however long that time is.


Simcoe doing what Simcoe does best, purring and rubbing on my hand while I pet her, remaining to be a snuggle bug even when she doesn’t feel 100%.

Poor boog is having a FHV flare-up, but luckily not too bad. Keeping the humidifier running, giving her plenty of wet food (she won’t always eat dry if she doesn’t feel well, it’s offered to her but she doesn’t always take it), and some vet-prescibed vitamin supplements to try and get her through this funk. And as always, I’m working with her in tandem with my veterinarian’s help, who has lead me through every step of properly giving Simcoe the care she needs, along with signs to look for when it gets severe. This is not me diagnosing her and treating her, this is working with my veterinarian’s diagnosis and treatment long term.

She’s a good girl and is definitely sweeter than she has any right to be. 💛

The Dark Man

They say every town has that one place with a certain reputation:  A run-down house, or an abandoned factory, or someplace that’s supposedly haunted.  Maybe something terrible happened there, or maybe it’s just been around out of the way for long enough.  But every town’s got one, that place that Girl Scouts tell campfire stories about, that place where teenagers go to be stupid.

In Wineland County, just past the Collier city limits, if you take 9-Mile Road up into the high hills, you want to drive about five minutes and then take a right onto Finn Road.  That one’s a dirt road with no sign, one of many; you have to know where you’re going.  Best to go with someone who’s been before; I don’t know where most of them dirt roads end up.  Now, you’re gonna be on Finn Road for a while, heading deep into the woods, around the sides of hills, down into valleys and back out again.  After a while, you’re gonna come to a big, rusty mailbox and a seashell driveway; take that turn.  The driveway’s in bad shape, good bit of it’s all washed out, but it’s only a half mile.  

That half mile will spit you out onto a cove at the head of a dark, narrow valley, and that’s where you’ll see it:  The James Fellowship Presbyterian Church, abandoned about thirty years back.

JF is a small building, and it’s built in the old style, a thick stockade of a building made from rough poplar logs on a stone foundation; it might stand another century, assuming nobody burns it down.  If you walk through the weed-choked field strewn with beer bottles that used to be a seashell parking lot, and head up the steps to where the front door used to be, and walk inside, you’ll see a fellowship hall with a few broken pews, more beer bottles, graffiti on the walls, and a badly sunken floor.  Take note of that floor; I wouldn’t walk on it if I was you.

The history of James Fellowship Presbyterian Church is hard to nail down, because there just isn’t much of it.  During its life, JF served as a house of worship for a few families in Wineland County, and as far as I can tell nothing noteworthy happened there.  Why it’s a place of interest, and why it was closed down, and why it’s still there sitting on land nobody wants, all has to do with that floor.

The first thing of note was when the well went dry.  It had been a fine wet season, and nobody else’s well was dry, so that was a bit odd, but nobody thought anything of it; sometimes wells run dry.  They made a note to have it drilled deeper once they had the money, and they carried on.

Now, most buildings in that style don’t have cellars, or even proper foundations. Your usual mountain cabin is kept up off the ground by a foundation of dry stone, just to keep the damp and the termites away from the wood, making a little crawl space.  The Fellowship Church, though, they did have a cellar, used it for storage space and whatnot, and about three days after the well run dry, the deacon went down to pull some stuff out of storage and had a nasty shock:  He reached the bottom of the cellar steps and almost walked into empty air.

The Appalachian Mountains are made o some fairly soft rock, and as such there are caves everywhere.  Folk up in Tennessee have said that you can walk from Knoxville to Jonesborough without ever seeing the sun; which is crap, of course, but you get the idea.  That cove–or at least that part of it–lacked a bottom, and the Presbyterians had built their church right over top of a great gaping wound in the earth, and they hadn’t even known it.  So the congregation found a new place to meet.  And the survey people determined that it was a whole cave system, and not really a sinkhole, and the county wasn’t about to waste money trying to fill it in.  So the empty church just sat there, sits there, on an acre of land nobody wants and that the forest is slowly taking back.

And about then would be when the stories started.

It’s the usual fare.  The most widely-told story is that the deacon actually did take that last step into the cellar, and fell, God knows how far, down into the earth, and his ghost still haunts the place, rising up outta the sagging floorboards to spook folks who happen to be pasin by.  I can confirm that one’s crap.  The deacon who found the hole died of a heart attack in 1999; I seent pictures of him on his grandkids’ Facebook pages.  But of course there are plenty of other stories.

They say there are strange sights and sounds around the church.  They say that sometimes the air feels heavy, like the air right before a thunderstorm, and you can hear the sound of rushing air, like a great set of lungs breathing in and out, in and out … and if you go inside the church, or stand next to the old well, you can feel it, ice-cold air, pulsing in and out, in and out …

And that much is true–I’ve gone there, and I’ve felt it–but there ain’t nuthin scary about that.  That’s just somethin caves do, if there’s a small opening over a real big package; cavers like to say, “If it blows, it goes,” ‘cause air moving in and out indicates a lot of empty space.

They also say that sometimes, if you go up to that old felled-in well and put your ear to it, you can hear a rumbling sound, low and deep, but quiet, as though far away.  There are dead trees here and there around the property, a lot more than is normal, and they don’t seem to rot, or to drop their leaves; the leaves just hang there, red and orange and brown like deep autumn.  Folks say that the place smells odd sometimes, and lots of people say that they’ve seen spook lights rising up over the cove at night, green and white balls of fire floating up and drifting away on the night wind like birthday balloons.

I can believe all that.  There’s been mining in these hills, or there was, long time ago, and they could’ve left anything behind.  Any old thing can cause spook lights–methane escaping from the old coal, for instance.  Couldn’t tell you more than that; I ain’t no geologist.

The most widely-told story, the one I heard in schoolyards and around campfires, that one don’t pull no punches:  They say that on the day the cellar dropped out, it dropped out real deep down, all the way down, down to Hell.  That far-away rumbling is all the screams of all the souls in perdition crying out at once, the spook lights are devils flying up into the world, and that air moving in and out is the Devil hisself beating his wings.  They say that if you go down into the cellar, the stairs don’t really end, they go sidewise, spiralling around the edges of the hole, going down, down, all the way down into the cold, dark belly of the earth, down to where it gets hot with the fires of perdition.

Urban myths and local legends about the secret gateway to Hell are more common than you might think.  Google it and you’ll find at least a dozen listicles, and they aren’t just repeating the same few spots.

My meemaw–who is the most superstitious person I’ve ever met, bless her heart, and believes all sorts of things–told me all these stories when I asked her about the church, and she laughed and said they were all foolishness.  But she did tell me another story, one I’d never heard before, one that makes me wonder, because it’s her own story.

The way Meemaw tells it, when she was a great deal younger she felt curious and took a notion to go to the James Fellowship Presbyterian Church and see what she could see, so she excused herself from Pawpaw and went and did that.  She got to the property roundabout noon, and she was all alone there (most of the curious folks and partying teenagers show up after dark), so she got out of her car to poke around, walking the lane between the church and the old well.  She saw that she wasn’t alone after all, there was a kid about 12 years old around the back of the church.  He was just standing there, facing away from Meemaw.

“Hey there, child,” Meemaw called, “is your mama and daddy here?”

The kid turned around, and Meemaw got that feeling like something weren’t quite right.  He shuffled over, looking down at his shoes, and said, “Yes, ma’am.  Well, my daddy is, anyway.”

The kid got a good bit closer, and looked up, and there was something … off about him that Meemaw couldn’t figure out, but it scared her.  The kid said, “Hey, did you drive here?  Will you give us a ride?”

That was when Meemaw figured out what was wrong with him:  The eyes.  The kid’s eyes were black.  No pupils or irises; just solid black.  She didn’t say nuthin, just clutched at the cross around her neck and started backing up.  The kid took one step forward, just one, and said, “Please?  We need to get out of here, and we can’t come with you unless you let us.”

At that, Meemaw turned around and plain ran back to her car.  When she got in and started it up, she glanced up to the big, dark doorway of the old church.  There was a man standing there, a tall man, too tall; the top of his big, wide hat almost touched the empty doorframe.  He was all in shadow, so she couldn’t see much of him, but she could feel his eyes on her, boring right through her.  She drove off, and swears she’ll never come back.

“That place is hainted, child,” she told me, “it is bad hainted, and there ain’t no need to make up no scare stories about the Devil; it’s hainted enough as is without his help.  Don’t you be goin there, Taylor McKay.”

I told her I wouldn’t, which wasn’t quite a lie–I’d already scoped it out before I asked her about it.

And what makes me wonder is this: Meemaw don’t tell lies.  All the wild shit she believes in, whenever she talks about it, she always starts with an “I heard” or an “I read.”  I’ve spent the past few months collecting all the stories about Wineland County I can find, and I’ve never heard a story anything like hers–and Meemaw don’t lie.


This is the best picture I’ve taken of Ella and Oliver.

They must have been watching an animal in the yard. These two freak out at just about anything, as Girl Scouts, UPS and FedEx drivers, and even neighbors can confirm. (I am well protected in my home.) But when a duck, rabbit, or squirrel is in the yard the Aussies stare quietly.

This morning we went to the Minnehaha dog park. For months the park has been a flooded, muddy mess. Recently someone told me the Mississippi river had receded, allowing the park to dry out. There’s river sand everywhere now. When dogs who have been swimming in a river run in sand they get a lot of it stuck in their coats. Which meant when back at home there was a ton of sand stuck in my bathtub, after the dreaded baths.

Tonight these two are quite unhappy with me. They hate baths. But that’s not why they were mad.

Did they get generic dog treats? No. My wife continues to spend a king’s ransom on foo foo treats. These are so tasty looking that if COVID really gets off the rails, and food supplies run short, I will make the dogs share with me.

Bob! What was it?

Here in Minnesota (and other states), despite being several weeks into spring, it’s cold outside. A weather app has been sending freeze warnings to my phone. The furnace has been kicking in over the last few days too. So tonight was a nice night to have a fire in the fireplace.

My Aussies hate fires. They’d rather have nails clipped or listen to the chirp of a dying smoke detector battery.

As they hid and pouted upstairs Sheila and I finished season 10 of Shameless. Adorable Fiona isn’t there anymore, but Debbie has done a good job filling the void. There will be an eleventh and final season sometime this year.

Tomorrow we’re going to the dog park again. Yay! More dog baths.

Biblichor, chapter 6

Your first thought upon waking is that someone is in your bed. Your second thought is that this is not your bed, and upon noticing the arms around you, things fall into place.

You had spent the night with Whilemina Venable. And all you did was sleep.  The thought alone makes you smile and laugh silently to yourself. The arms around you loosen, and the fingers interlaced with yours twitch slightly. You wonder if she is still asleep and manage to turn yourself around in her arms. She is certainly still sleeping as her face is more relaxed than you have ever seen it. She is even more beautiful like this, and you hate to disturb her, but you need to get going. Meade did say to get back to your own room before everyone else rose for the day. According to the clock on the bedside table, you had an hour.

You reach up to stroke her face, brushing your fingers across her cheek.

“Hey…time to get up.”

She mumbles something and her arms tighten around you, bringing you closer. You could definitely get used to waking up like this, but it will have to wait for another day.

“Come on honey, I need to go…”

You lightly run your fingers through her hair, toying with the ends as you press a kiss to her lips. She stirs, taking a deep breath and opening her eyes. Her eyes are still so sleepy, and  she is so damn cute it hurts. You smile at her. She returns your kiss, and  
murmurs against your lips.

“Am I dreaming?”

You can’t help the laugh that escapes you, and that wakes her up for real. Her eyes widen momentarily before she chuckles in return. She presses her lips to your cheek, then your mouth, pulling away a bit so she can sit up. You rest your head in your hand watching her. She takes your hand and kisses your knuckles. You can’t help but tease her, just a bit.  

“So you dream about me, huh?” You grin as she rolls her eyes. She leans in to kiss you deeply, then moves to stand up.

“I said nothing of the sort.”

She turns away from you to stand, and you flip over on your back beside her, tugging on her top.  “You didn’t have to, the fact that even asked if you were dreaming,” you point at her accusingly, “means that it has happened at least once before! Am I right?”

She genially smacks your hand away as she gets to her feet.  “Didn’t you say it was time for you to go?”

You flip over onto your stomach. “You know how you’re ignoring me? That is another indication that I’m right! You dream about me, just admit it! I’m your dream girl, aren’t I?”

She smiles down at you, leaning down as if to kiss you. Just before your lips meet she moves so she pecks your cheek instead. “Come on, dream girl. I will see you out.”

“Is that you admitting it?”  You laugh triumphantly as you get off of the bed to follow her. She meets you at the door. Her arm slides around your waist and you place your hands on her hips. She smiles slyly at you, backing you against the door. You feel slightly nervous at the predatory look in her eye. She moves so that your hands fall from her hips. She takes your hand and places it palm side down on the door. You do the same with your other hand, wondering what she is up to.

“Would it please you for me to admit it?”

You nod. Your earlier bravado has vanished, you’re not sure where it went but if you had to guess, it fled when she started looking at you like a cat that caught the canary.

“Very well…I suppose, on more than on occasion, you have been the subject of my dreams. Would you like to hear about it? Or,” she takes a step closer, pinning you to the door. She leans to whisper in your ear, “should I show you?”

“Yes, please…”

Your mouth has gone dry, you hear her chuckle next to your ear. She runs her tongue along your earlobe and you shudder. “There are rules, of course.”

This fact does not surprise you, but you still ask.

“And they are?”

She is pressing kisses to your neck and you move to put your hands on her. She  tugs on your ear lobe with her teeth. “No touching, if you disobey I will stop. Do you understand?”

“Yes.“ You hiss through your teeth, this dominant side of her is driving you crazy.

“Good girl.” She runs her hands slowly down your sides, coming to rest on your hips.

“I thought you said, no touching?”
She is trailing kisses from your ear down your neck. She places her tongue against the pounding pulse point in your neck and you groan.

“That only applies to you, darling.” she trails a hand back up your body, placing a finger under your chin. She tips your head up to look you in the eye.

“I can touch you however much I want.”

She kisses you, hard, and you curl your fingers against the door. The urge to touch her is overwhelming but you don’t want her to stop. One hand slides around your waist, effectively sandwiching you between the door and her body. She keeps hitting a spot on your neck that makes you squirm, and she seems to have figured it out. She places her mouth on you, just there, and swipes her tongue across it while pressing her body against yours fully. You tip your head back and moan, and you can feel her answering moan against the skin of your neck. Your hands are fists at your sides, and you are practically panting.

She pulls back to look at you, and though she looks as flustered as you do, she is still grinning like the Cheshire cat. She steps away from you and tilts her head.

“Such a shame you have to go, isn’t it?”

You laugh ruefully and cross your arms. “You are a horrible tease.”

She shrugs, grinning. “You asked a question, I gave you an answer, did I not?”

“Yes but–,” she shuts you up as she cups your cheek and kisses you long and slow. You return her kiss and promptly forget what you were going to say. She steps back and her hand falls to the pendant on your chest. You cover her hand with yours.

“I’ll miss you.”

She kisses your forehead, your cheek, and then your lips. As her lips pass over yours, she whispers against your mouth.

“And I you, darling. You really must go; I would take heed of Ms. Meade’s advice if we are to continue doing this.”

You slide an arm around her waist, pressing your lips to her neck, just below her ear. “Are you saying you want to spend the night together again soon?” You feel her laugh and run her fingers through your hair.

“Absolutely. Now go.”

She brings your lips together one last time. She motions for you to exit her room after she quickly checks the hallway. You slip out of the door and begin to make your way back to your quarters. While wondering if you have time for a cold shower, you turn the last corner on the way to your room. To your absolute mortification, you come face to face with Ms. Meade. She stops in your path.

There is a pregnant pause as you feel blood come rushing to your face. Neither one of you moves. You watch a knowing smirk cross her features. You hold her gaze and clasp your hands behind your back. She addresses you first.

“Miss Y/N. You’re up early.”

You clear your throat. “I uh, couldn’t sleep.” You decide to leave it at that.


She does not move. Neither do you. You feel like your face will burst into flames, when finally she nods and steps around you to continue her rounds. You release the breath you’d been holding and duck into the hallway leading to your quarters. You rub your face as you enter your room, flopping down on your bed to catch what shut eye you can before your alarm goes off. You sigh and smile to yourself.

What a night.

You manage to make it to the library on time, and your day goes by rather quickly. As you are attempting to fix the binding on a tattered copy of Charles Dickens, you notice one of the women from your area at your desk. She waves to you to catch your attention, and you walk over to help.

She hands you the book she wants, tapping her fingers on the desk as you take note of it. She looks around and leans down towards you.

“Did you hear what happened earlier?”

You don’t look up, making a note in your ledger. “I haven’t really seen anyone today, no. What happened?”

She takes the book from your hand as you look up.

“Well, I guess there was a perimeter breach or something, and they let this family in. I heard Venable had them shot. There was even a kid with them. Its sad but I’m not surprised. She’s an awful woman from what I’ve heard.”

You manage to keep your face impassive. You almost snap the pencil in your hand, but catch yourself and take a breath. “Whatever she did, she probably had a reason, you know? She never struck me as impulsive, just to shoot someone for nothing.”

The girl before you shrugs. “I dunno, I’ve heard some crazy stuff about her. She never bothered me any so long as I stay out of her way. I better get going, I can’t be late to press those dresses again! See you!”

She waves and heads out towards the entrance of the library. You are trying your hardest not to get mad, but it is proving difficult. You knew she ran this place with an iron fist, you knew she would dole out punishments to those who violated her rules. You accepted that long ago. Killing a family outright, however, was not something you expected of her.

The longer you thought about this, the more you could feel your blood pressure rising. How could she do that? You couldn’t rationalize this any way you tried. After glancing at the clock, you made a decision.

You left the library and made your way to the common area, where luckily no one was around to see you enter Venable’s office without knocking.

She was seated at her desk, files open in front of her as she made notes in the margins. She glanced up at you and pushed her chair back.

“As lovely as it is to see you, I really would prefer you knocked.” She notices that you are standing with your hands on your hips. She looks at your questioningly, her light tone changes.

“What is wrong?”

“I need you to answer something, truthfully. Will you do that?”

She nods, laying her pen down and folding her hands on the desk.

“People are talking, they are saying you killed a family today?”

She sighs, her forehead furrowing as she rubs her temple.

“Yes, it is true, however I killed no one. Ms. Meade was–,” she doesn’t finish her sentence as you cut her off.

“Meade only does what you tell her to do! Why would you order her to kill a family? What is wrong with you?”

You approach her desk, she speaks in a low tone.

“First, you will lower your voice. Do not come into my office in an attempt to cause some sort of scene. As for the events of this afternoon, I did what I had to do. I made the necessary call.”

You place your hands on her desk, your face is red and you can feel your hands shaking.

“It was necessary to kill a child? When things like this happen, you need to address them, rumors fly like wildfire here! At least explain what happened.”

She stands and looks at you, her expression sour.

“I have no need to justify my actions to anyone. Believe me when I say, I did them a favor. They were already dead, Y/N. There was no hope. That is one of the responsibilities that comes with being in charge. This discussion is over and I will speak  of it no more.”

You tsk, shaking your head. “If you need to rationalize killing a child to be a leader, I’m glad it isn’t me.”

She laughs sharply, taking her seat again. Her tone is icy. “Better that you aren’t; you haven’t the stomach for it.”

You grit your teeth and slap your hand on her desk. You don’t bother trying to hide the fury in your eyes. “At least I have a heart, Wilhemina.”

Her expression remains blank, you can feel tears gathering in the corners of your eyes. You both remain steadfast in your stare down, and finally you break the gaze. You refuse to let her see you cry like this. Without another word, you exit her office and return to your desk. You think how fortunate you are that you are alone as the first tear slides down your face.

After dinner that evening, Venabe calls a meeting. You had just returned to your room after your reading where she had made it a point to ignore you. You supposed you deserved the cold shoulder after barging into her office like that. That doesnt mean it still didn’t sting.  One of the other greys informed you that you were to all meet in the common area; no one had any other information.

Once all have assembled, Venable clears her throat, loud enough that the murmur in the room dies out. She begins to speak.

“It has come to my attention that there is some confusion regarding the perimeter breach earlier today. We are here to set the record straight. The alarm was caused by a family stumbling upon our grounds. Yes, there was a child with them. Due to the advanced radiation poisoning that they all suffered from, I made the decision to end their suffering.  I did what I had to do to keep this compound safe. As for those of you who think I am a monster…,” you feel your chest burn as she meets your eyes, “better that I am the monster you face than the ones outside.”

She raps her cane twice against the floor, dismissing the crowd without a word. You half expect her to come to you, but she disappears down the hallway alone.

You return to your room and attempt to relax. You manage to fall asleep quickly but are awoken by awful dreams.

You can only remember snippets:  a child screaming with a melting face, ears and eyes bleeding, fire licking at your heels as you run from them.

You clutch the necklace around your neck. You understand now how difficult things must be for her, and on a day when she probably needed you, you abandoned her.

You don’t bother changing from your sleep clothes. Slipping out your door and down the familiar pathway towards her room, you hope against hope that you don’t run into anyone. Luck must be on your side tonight because you make it to her door undiscovered. You knock sharply twice. There is a pause, a shuffling and the sound of her crossing the room.

“Who is it?”

You clear your throat. “It’s me.”

There is a pause and for a moment, you wonder if she will even open the door. Finally you hear the lock disengage and she opens the door to let you in.

You stand opposite each other. Her eyes are red and she look more tired than you had ever seen her. She crosses an arm across her abdomen, as if she were protecting herself.

“Are you here to insult me again?” Her cold tone belies the hurt look in her eyes.

You shake your head, taking a cautious step towards her. “I came to apologize. I let my emotions get the best of me. I never thought about the kinds of difficult decisions that you had to make. And…I know that you have a heart. I’m sorry.”

She says nothing for a long moment, she seems to be digesting your words. Finally she steps towards you, holding out her hand. You place your hand in hers and she pulls you towards her. She is looking into your eyes now.

“I’m sorry too. I shouldn’t have acted the way I did. And you are right, when things like that happen they need to be addressed before ridiculous rumors engulf this place. I never thought of it that way. Do you think you could forgive me?” She laces her fingers with yours, squeezing your hand.

“Only if you forgive me too.” You take your free hand and brush her cheek. She closes her eyes and you bring your lips to hers in a soft kiss. She whispers against your mouth.


Your relief must come through in the way that you kiss her because she chuckles gently when she pulls away. You practically pout. She brushes your cheek with her fingertips.

“Will you sit with me?”

She leads you to the couch and sits. She then places a pillow on her lap, motioning for you to lean back against her. You do so and to your delight this puts you in a prime position to place a few kisses against her neck. Her fingers tangle fully in your hair and she makes a contented noise in the back of her throat. You murmur against the soft skin of her neck and her arms slide around you.

“I missed you, all day.”

You recline in her lap, and she continues running her fingers through your hair, almost reverently. She leans down to kiss to you lazily. You spend a few unhurried minutes kissing one another before you both pull away. You have a broad smile plastered across your face. She is returning the soft look tenfold. You relax into her embrace, closing your eyes as she plays with your hair. You can’t remember being happier than this moment, right now. You take one of her hands in your own and lay it across your chest, above your heart.

“You make me incredibly happy.”  

She presses a kiss to your forehead. “The feeling is mutual, my darling.”

You sigh and smile, you feel your eyelids getting heavy. The last thing you remember before you both fall asleep is teasing her again.

“Darling? I thought I was your dream girl.”

She laughs, kissing you sweetly. “How about both?”

You nod, smiling broadly as you cradle her hand against you.

“Your dream darling…, yeah. I like the sound of that.”

anonymous asked:

coldatom, 20. “It’s 8:30, I have a hangover and you’re annoying me.”

combining this prompt with:

wadeypoo replied to your post “85 and 81, coldatom is possible ?”

i need the morning after conversation and KISS!


The next morning

Ray is standing in the communal ship’s bathroom, fresh from the shower, fighting with his hair. Usually it’s not such a problem, he can style his hair in his sleep. But he has a headache, he’s slightly nauseous, and he has a foggy recollection that he said or did something stupid last night.

None of that helps. He sighs, leaning forward to rest his head against the mirror. “It’s 8:30, I have a hangover, and you’re annoying me,” he says to his hair. 

“Having issues, Raymond?” Leonard drawls from the doorway, and Ray jumps, nearly dislodging the towel wrapped around his waist. That would’ve given the other man quite a show and…oh, no. 

Ray suddenly remembers last night, being dragged back onto the ship, asking Leonard for a kiss…He must turn bright red, because Leonard smirks and steps in, cocking his head to the side, considering Ray with a pinpoint focus. 

“Let me help,” Leonard says, stepping right up close to Ray and reaching his hands up to run through Ray’s hair. Ray can’t help but shiver at the touch. He knows Leonard feels it, but the other man doesn’t comment, just keeps finger-combing Ray’s damp hair into its usual neat style. 

Leonard’s face is so close to his own, and Ray is not awake enough for this. But he has to say something, he has to, because Leonard is right there, touching Ray, and Ray kind of wants to throw up but he also really wants to kiss Leonard.

“About last night,” he stammers out, but Leonard takes a hand out of Ray’s hair and puts it against Ray’s lips instead.

“Shh,” Leonard says, “I’m not done.”

Ray obeys, only because his head hurts. Definitely. Okay, he’s lying, he loves it when Leonard tries to boss him around. Sometimes, fighting back is fun. Sometimes, doing what he’s told is also fun. This is absolutely the latter.

After another minute or so, Leonard finishes up fixing Ray’s hair and runs his fingertips lightly down the not-quite-dry skin of Ray’s back. 

“Now I’m done,” Leonard says, resting his hands gently on Ray’s waist, his thumbs hooking in the edge of the towel. “What were you going to say?” he asks, his face barely an inch away from Ray’s. 

“I, um, well I was wondering, uh…” Ray is stammering again, but Leonard doesn’t look as annoyed as he usually does when Ray can’t get his words out. He has a smile playing across his lips, those lips that Ray just wants to lean forward and kiss… “Last night, you said we could talk if I remembered, and I remember, I remember our conversation, I remember asking you–”

“If you could kiss me?” Leonard finishes, his eyes glinting. “I did say that. And you are sober now.”

“I am,” Ray assures him. “I mean, I feel like death and I might throw up, but I’m definitely sober, and wow, that’s not sexy, I’m sor–”

Leonard kisses him. Ray’s astonished, how gentle it is: Leonard takes his time, moving his lips against Ray’s slowly, his hands firm on Ray’s waist. Ray’s hands move up, to clutch at the back of Leonard’s trademark navy blue sweater. Leonard tastes like coffee and he kisses with a preciseness and intensity that Ray thinks he should have expected from the other man. 

It’s exquisite, and Ray thinks he could just kiss Leonard for the rest of his life. 

Leonard pulls back, way too soon for Ray’s liking. Ray tries to follow his lips, to keep kissing him, but Leonard places a hand on Ray’s chest to hold him back. 

“The rest of our teammates are gonna come flooding in here soon, do you really want them to be privy to this?” Leonard asks, and Ray has to admit the man has a point. “Plus,” Leonard continues, “you should probably get dressed.”

Ray feels his face fall at that, but Leonard laughs at him.

“Pretty boy, it’s not even nine in the morning. I’m barely awake, and you’ve got one hell of a hangover. We can continue this when we both feel slightly more human, okay?”

That cheers Ray up, and he smiles brightly, noting that Leonard’s eyes widen at his grin. “So, tonight, then?” he asks, and Leonard nods.

“It’s a date, Raymond,” Leonard replies, leaning in to press a quick, light kiss against Ray’s lips before he turns and walks out. 

Ray watches him leave, holding a hand up to his lips. Things on the Waverider are going to get a lot more interesting…

i’m taking prompts for coldatom, goldenvibe, samaya, and timehex, and i will consider other ships

Polyurethane, Lacquer, Shellac, or Varnish? What do I use? What’s the difference?

Your woodworking project is done. And maybe you’ve stained it too. Now you need to protect it with a topcoat. What do you choose? Maybe this information guide can help you…

James King
King’s Fine Woodworking

Highlights: What are you looking for?

Fastest Drying Time:
Lacquer - 30 min
(Shellac - 1 hour
Waterborne polyurethane - 2 hrs
Standard Polyurethane - 24 hours)

Best for Crystal Clear Finish:
Waterborne polyurethane - close second place.

Easiest to Apply:
Wipe on polyurethane
Spray on poly from a can
Spray lacquer from a can
-All three are easy options

Easiest to Repair:
-Spraying on another coat partially dissolved the coat underneath, leading to perfect repairs.

Easiest to Clean Up:
Waterborne polyurethane
-Soap and warm water.

Most Durable:
or Lacquer (close 2nd place)

Best for Outdoors:
-Spar Urethane

-Detailed information on each Topcoat:-

Shellac is a natural product. It is made from the dried secretions of the female Lac beetle. Once they are dried, collected, and processed, you can dissolve them in a solvent such as alcohol. And then it can be used as a finish.

Shellac dries by the evaporation of it’s solvent.

Shellac first came into widespread use for a furniture topcoat sometime in the late 1500’s. Coincidentally this was a period in history when the profession of a ‘wood finisher’ called a “Varnisher” became a distinct class of work, separate from a woodworker.

Prior to the 1960s shellac was probably the most popular form of topcoat. Shellac is also popular because you can put a a color or a tint into it. And it holds that color very well.

Shellac is very beautiful and forms a reasonably durable finish that can be high gloss in nature.

It does have drawbacks however. If you place a hot mug or a hot pan onto a shellac finish, a white ring can develop under it. It is also soluble in alcohol. So if you spill an alcoholic beverage onto it, The finish will start to dissolve. For these reasons we don’t recommend shellac for table top surfaces.

Lacquer has been in use for almost 7000 years. And Chinese Lacquer-Ware has been found from the Neolithic Age. (Last part of the Stone Age) It was originally made from the sap of the “Toxicodendron vernicifluum” tree. Today it’s known as the Chinese lacquer tree

Modern lacquers however, were invented in the 1920’s and today are made via entirely synthetic means. It is extremely durable and one of the hardest of the topcoat finishes. It is stronger and better wearing than shellac and varnish. (Debatable as to whether or not it’s harder and more durable than polyurethane). Lacquer is also capable of producing an extreme high gloss finish. Lacquer is impervious to alcohol and most other common household liquids that might be spilled on it.

There are two classes of lacquer. Those that dry with solvent evaporation, (ie. the ones you buy in a big box home improvement store, such as Deft, Behlen, Rust-Oleum). And those that dry via a chemical reaction. These are called catalyzed lacquers. They are generally found at a specialty paint store, and have a very short shelf life.

Lacquer can be bought in all finishes; from matte to high gloss. It has the fastest drying time of any top coat, and thus it’s possible to achieve 3 - 4 coats in one afternoon.

Lacquer is the most forgiving of all topcoats. It’s easy to sand away a run. Or patch an area that got scuffed or simply didn’t get coated well. It is easy because application of a new coat partially re-dissolves the prior coat, and they adhere well and blend together perfectly.

Lacquer is the clearest of all topcoats. When you really want the beauty of the natural color of the wood to show through, it is ideal. However, on some species, lacquer can take away some of the depth and the 3D quality of the wood that is achieved with the amber-toned color warmth of polyurethane.

The very best way to apply lacquer is to spray it. This can be with a spray system. Or with aerosol cans. Brushing lacquer is available also. Note: brushing lacquer sprays on perfectly well! But, spray lacquer dries too fast to be brushed on.

There are drawbacks to lacquer however. Lacquer can discolor over a long time. Lacquer has a high VOC (volatile organic compound) content, which makes it dangerous to use without a respirator that has an organic vapor cartridge. A dust mask will not protect you from the vapors of lacquer.

Polyurethane is a totally man made set of synthetic organic compounds first invented in World War II. It is a polymer (poly = many, mer = part) made from the reaction of diisocyanate with a diol.

It is arguably the hardest & most durable of all topcoats. And in recent decades polyurethane, or poly (as I’ll call it for short), has become the go to topcoat finish for woodworkers everywhere. Nearly every finish & topcoat manufacturer has come up with a poly product for sale.

It can be bought in all finishes, from matte to gloss. And, it can be sprayed on, brushed on, or even wiped on. The wipe on is usually a thinner mix to allow for better leveling. If the Poly, is brushed on, a natural bristle brush is best to avoid bubbles that could form from a foam brush.

Polyurethane can come in two major forms. It can be oil based or it can be waterborne. The waterborne version of polyurethane is newer and has some advantages.

Waterborne polyurethane is made by combining microscopic particles of polyurethane small enough to maintain a colloidal suspension with water. It would be wrong to call this polyurethane water-based. The polyurethane’s base is still an organic solvent. It is just that this is carried by the water to make it easier in a number of ways. Waterborne polyurethane dries very quickly because as the water evaporates the microscopic particles of polyurethane are able to cure very fast.

Oil based Polyurethane has a slow dry time, usually about a day. It cures by a chemical reaction. And it must be sanded between coats to obtain a ‘tooth’ for the next coat to grab on to. The oil based poly gives a beautiful warm glow to the wood.

Waterborne poly has a quick dry time of about 2 hours. It also provides a clearer finish, it has a lower VOC, and it is easier to clean up. Just use soap and water.

Varnish is often used as a generic name for topcoats. But it is actually a very specific product. This terminology difficulty is actually exacerbated by manufacturers calling their products by the wrong name for the sake of marketing. Companies in the past have freely called, shellacs, lacquers, polyurethanes, & oils all by the name Varnish.

Varnish today is usually an alkyd resin mixed with a solvent that cures to dry via a cross-linking chemical reaction triggered by oxygen molecules. It is not a lacquer, and not a shellac.

Varnish is related to polyurethane, in that Poly is a type of Varnish. Poly is harder and more rigid however, and has less oil in it. Generic Varnish, has more oil in it, and is more flexible. Chemically speaking, they are distinct and separate things.

Varnish is excellent for outdoor use, and generally impervious to saltwater, heat, cold, and UV light. Also being a cross-linked resin compound that is high in oil, it is very flexible and it can expand and contract with the temperature making it ideally suited to all weather environments.

It is quite durable. But not as durable as polyurethane. It does impart a warm glow to the wood and could certainly be used on indoor furniture. But outside of bathroom furniture, where humidity might be high, it would be uncommon to see varnished pieces inside.

James King
King’s Fine Woodworking
February, 2018

Polymer Science Learning Center, University of Southern Mississippi.
Journal of Chemical Education 69
Ullmann’s Encyclopedia of Industrial Chemistry
Journal of Biological Macromolecules
Germ plasm Agricultural Research Service
Rust-Oleum News Blog

anonymous asked:

I would love to see a fic with Beka and Yurio going to an amusement park (Bekas idea lol) That morning, yurio wakes up feeling bad but doesn't say anything bc he knows Otabek is looking forward to the park. Yurio feels bad all day, but manages to make it through until Beka takes yurio on a roller coaster and Yurio pukes and then Otabek is like "awww poor thing got Motion sick" and then yurio has to explain that he has a stomach flu

I really love this scenario! Thanks for sending me a request!

Otabek glances fondly over at Yuri, who is sound asleep in the passenger seat, before he gently shakes him awake. “We’re here,” he announces.

Yuri blinks awake, groggy and disoriented, and slowly unbuckles his seat belt, moving to get out of the car. He’d woken up with an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach, but had hoped that a little more sleep would fix the problem. But there’s still nausea lingering in his belly as he and Otabek walk to the entrance of the amusement park.

They buy their tickets, and Yuri braces himself. He’s not about to let a little stomachache ruin this. He rarely gets to see his friend outside of skating competitions, so he’s determined to make the most of this outing. Otabek loves theme parks; he’s been talking excitedly about this trip for weeks.

Trying to give his stomach a chance to settle down, Yuri suggests that they wander around and get an idea of the layout of the park before going on any rides. Otabek agrees cheerfully, and they start to walk, occasionally getting sidetracked by one of the game booths or souvenir shops.

The pain in Yuri’s abdomen only continues to worsen as the day progresses. At one point it cramps so hard that he’s tempted to double over right there on the sidewalk; instead, he grits his teeth and forces himself to breathe evenly.

If Otabek has noticed that Yuri is unusually quiet this morning, he doesn’t mention it. He’s actually pretty talkative today, which spares Yuri the effort of trying to make conversation. He just nods along to what his friend is saying.

By mid morning, Yuri is barely holding it together. He’s swallowing convulsively now, and shivering, and sweating. Still, he insists on pressing on. But when Otabek comes to a sudden stop, staring at what is easily the largest roller coaster in the park, Yuri knows that he’s doomed.

He gets on line with Otabek anyway. By the time they reach the front, Yuri is having to muffle wet burps into his hand every few minutes. As he gets into one of the cars near the front (at Otabek’s insistence), he swallows hard. He’s the Ice Tiger of Russia. He won the Grand Prix Final in his senior debut, and he’s perfectly capable of riding a roller coaster without puking.

The ride starts up, and Yuri squeezes his eyes shut, focusing only on breathing and keeping his stomach in place. Each drop is jarring, every twist making him even more dizzy; he keeps himself from vomiting by sheer willpower alone. By the time they finish, Yuri can taste acid in his mouth. He knows that he’s going to lose it, but he refuses to throw up until they’re off the ride.

As soon as the safety belts are off, Yuri is up and stumbling out the exit. Otabek is trailing worriedly after him, but Yuri is too preoccupied to answer any of the questions his friend is asking. He searches desperately for the nearest trash can, but his stomach has other plans. They just make it past the start of line before Yuri’s stomach gives one final, ominous twist and he gags violently, spewing all over the ground.

He continues to heave for what feels like an eternity, until his stomach is well past empty. When he’s finally reduced to nothing but dry heaves, he notices that Otabek is crouched beside him, rubbing his back soothingly.

“Relax, Yura,” his friend urges. His dark eyes are full of worry.

Yuri spits one last time to get the taste out of his mouth, and runs a shaky hand across his lips to wipe away any residual vomit. Otabek takes this as a cue to help his friend carefully to his feet. “Sorry,” Yuri mumbles when he gets his breath back. Tears sting at his eyes from the embarrassment, and he determinedly blinks them away.

“I should be the one apologizing. I didn’t realize that you got motion sick. I never should have dragged you on that ride.” Otabek continues to ramble nervously before Yuri cuts him off.

“I don’t get motion sick,” he corrects Otabek, before sighing and deciding to own up to what’s been obvious all morning. “I wasn’t feeling well before we got on the ride.”

“Do you think that you’re sick?” Otabek asks, scrutinizing his younger friend carefully.

“Probably,” Yuri admits reluctantly, staring at his feet. “Sorry for ruining this for you.”

“Yuri.” Otabek lifts his chin so that their eyes meet. “Did you really think that I’d enjoy myself while you’re feeling miserable? Let’s get you home. You look terrible.”

“I’m sorry,” Yuri says again, feeling overwhelmingly guilty.

“Don’t be. It’s not your fault that you’re sick,” Otabek replies. Yuri shoots him a weak smile and follows him to the exit. He’s lucky to have such a great friend.


MM Anon

MM ANON …… megbots in crisis …… megs spotted on ISS…… megs searchers internet for archificial upgrade …… megs still breastfeeding …… frogcott staff witness meg and Harry in screaming row 😱……… meg accused of bugging KP……… meg and archbishop in risqué photo shoot …… Archbishop denies clergy gossip …… meg ,VF interview ‘ I hate my chicken legs ‘…… Harry in GQ interview, I want a divorce ‘…… GQ, shock ‘horror, Harry’s OK’…… meg pens, ‘confessions of my yachting years’. … $20 million advance.

💜💜💜🙏🏻🙏🏻THANK YOU MM ANON🙏🏻🙏🏻💜💜💜

December 6/2019 1150 hrs CST

Thanks to the wonderful 💜💜🙏🏻🙏🏻fortheheavenssake 🙏🏻🙏🏻💜💜who is documenting all my riddle interpretations, l apparently have used two numbers twice🤣🤣🤣🤣😂😂 so this is RIDDLE #135


megbots in crisis 

Madam has had zillions of ‘bots’ online to bolster or artificially , not archficially🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣😂😂😂, boost her numbers and popularity on social media and PR. The well is running dry,no new storyline , last uncle pulled out of the woodwork weeks ago, bots, they cost $$$$$#£££££££€€€€€, she is in serious overload and underfunded. The bots are sputtering, spinning, electrical charges sparking, powering down, all the things 🤖 robots do when system failure, permanent fatal error blue screen, does not cooommmmmppppuuuutttteee………….

megs spotted on ISS

Oh now she’s an astronaut??? Really on the International Space Station??🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣😂😂😂😂😂. Yes, like l said last week Sasquatch and Elvis hang out in my back yard! Has she gone there to get another moonbump direct from the source??🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣😂😂😂

megs searchers internet for archificial upgrade 

Oh my Jiminy Crickets!!🤣🤣🤣🤣😂😂😂, l just typed that! Well not the internet part. Yes at some point she’s going to have to show a child, growing bigger, however Archficial was already a big boy, they used to call them huggy l think. She is madly trying to find the cheapest price for the new model of archficial. Maybe retailmenot or some other sites like Rakuten has coupon codes!!

megs still breastfeeding

Is she now? Is she a card carrying member of the La Leche League? Breastfeeding until the child is 18 or wed! Yes, it’s a great excuse for privacy, because despite what her PR says, she definitely wants privacy, no pictures, no one talking about or to her, yet yammers because no one asks if she is ok! Pathetic instagram post, photoshopped photos, one year anniversary of Hubb kitchen visit. Talk about grasping at straws for attention, and using year old photoshopped photos😂😂😂😂🤣🤣🤣🤣😩😩😩😩.

frogcott staff witness meg and Harry in screaming row 😱

I do believe this was/is a story in one of the American gossip rags, could be wrong but everyone reads here so look for that headline next week if you’re into tabloids😂😂😂😂🤣🤣🤣.Interesting, there are no staff at FC, because NO ONE LIVES THERE! Perhaps an old spirit, but they take care of themselves! They have never lived there, every celebrity or article about who has visited there and held/fed/played with archficial are all liars, allegedly. 

meg accused of bugging KP

Not surprised at that, taking a page right out of MA’s playbook at SoHo. Secretly record, gather intel, blackmail=$$$$$$$$€€€€€€€£££££. I wonder what secrets she gathered! Add that to the charges, LG and Netty, Sirs! Please! Allegedly! 🙄🙄

meg and archbishop in risqué photo shoot 

There has been something odd about everything madam does/has done. One of the most bizarre is Justin Welby,  the A of C, he allegedly privately baptized her. He allegedly christened archficial, with one wee issue, he was hours from London at that time at a Church conference. Now he has come out defending her. So there is no confusion these are his exact words.

 💜💜Justin Welby, the Archbishop of Canterbury, defended the Duchess of Sussex against what he called the “totally undeserved” criticism she has received.

“She’s a person of profound humanity and deep concern for people, seeking to carry out her role with every ounce of her being, and I think she’s a remarkable person💜💜. 

What’s gone on here? Are you suggesting she has something on him so he has done these things under blackmail allegedly. Not a thing in this mess would surprise me one wit!

Archbishop denies clergy gossip

Parishioners talk, clergy members talk, they’re human, when things  don’t add up, it makes for lots of speculation and questioning. Is the A of C denying that other bishops or members of the clergy have been speculating and questioning some of the issue l typed above? This is all too weird. If we had a whole wall with every single odd event, altered facts, stories comments etc etc, it would be like string art we used to do way back when. Better still twist like Christmas lights, and trying to figure out which bulb is causing the whole string to not light up. I know most of you remember that, the good old days before prelit trees in weird colours that make noises and flash so rapidly you get a migraine. Jiminy Crickets, l sound like one of those two grumpy men in the balcony on the Muppets Show😂😂😂😂😂🤣🤣🤣🤣.

meg ,VF interview ‘ I hate my chicken legs 

Harry in GQ interview, I want a divorce ‘GQ, shock ‘horror, Harry’s OK’

Madam did the VF, wild about Harry, was all PR lies! I think in terms of madams legs millions would agree! Now now, is this how this is going to roll? Tit for tat, pun intended🤣🤣🤣🤣😂😂😂, is  Harry doing a GQ cover giving her the same treatment by shockingly wanting a divorce?? Oh please 🙄 JIMINY CRICKETS 🦗 l want ten copies!!!💜💜💜Please sir, l want some more! The first person who comments where that line is from gets a smile from me😁. 💜💜💜Imagine the worlds shock?! Oh MM ANON DON’T TEASE ME!🤣🤣🤣🤣😂😂😂 LG your brilliance is only surpassed by your loyalty and dedication to HMTQ Tip hat 🎩 Sir!

meg pens, ‘confessions of my yachting years $20 million advance.

During the weekend when madam went to help her Bestie SW completely lose the U.S.Open, they didn’t want her there, she went anyhow, didn’t she do a great job? Flirting grossly with SW husband, ignored by SW’s mum and graciously using the ‘Markle effect’ and SW lost soundly! She was summoned there, post haste allegedly to meet with backers and take a meeting with publishers. There have been rumblings and rumours of a book. Good luck fact checking that one, the poor ghost writer and editor🤣🤣🤣🤣😂😂😂.  I think she will have to forget a lot because the IRS apparently doesn’t like it if you do not declare income or not be truthful, allegedly. And also, law enforcement may have issues with some behaviours, in relation to those missing years. And a wee tiny issue of archficial fauxmegnancy,  not of the body. Trying to pass off a surrogate baby, not Harry’s child, all allegedly of course! As a blood royal baby!! Just a minor treason charge. Then there is the SoHo issue…….bugging, recordings, blackmail, all from the plot of a juicy film! As far as a $20,000,000 advance, if that happens, l will eat my hat! I don’t have one, got toques, might have to eat one then!! Who in their right mind would give her that cash advance? Unless it was not the right but the left, the leftists globalists backers….yep that l can see!!! Help us oh Lord🙏🏻🙏🏻 please, the light needs to be shone on the horrors that have been happening. Our beloved HMTQ, it just is breaking my heart, she is so beloved. 

1250 hrs CST



What fun!  Loved this.  Thank you MM Anon for the humorous riddle and PG your great interpretation! 😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜