#and in the process really screwing over Pine-Needle

[aterriblerat]

Orris: I want you and Pine-Needle to stay together forever.

Birch-Tree: OK

Birch-Tree: *cheats on him and moves to the North Pole*

#Birch-Tree is in this headspace where he derives a lot of self-worth from what he gives to other people #right now FC needs him most so he's dropping everything to be with him #and in the process really screwing over Pine-Needle #which is why you shouldn't really base your entire self-worth on what you can do for other people #because having that kind of drive will make it harder for you to triage and act fairly to everyone #even Fish yelled at him about that one #(not that he turned down the offer of good dick because Fish has the moral compass of a sandfly)

[goodmorninglou]

Red Thing

this is from a request by @cheesy2mac and it’s kinda trashy but i also kinda love it !! :)) anyway hope you enjoy and stuff idk have fun

pairing: larry stylinson

warnings: oblivious!lou, pining!haz, pizza, mentions of a red thing ;)

word count: 1,791

rating: let’s say PG-13

~~~~~

When Harry steps into his flat, grocery bags weighing down his arms, keys in one hand and mask in the other, one of the last things he expects to see is his roommate sitting on the floor whispering to a box of pizza.

Quarantine has been long, okay. Harry understands that. He was getting nauseatingly tired of his same four walls, honestly, and even today’s excursion to the grocer’s felt like a cross-country adventure, something new and exciting. But he’s also got a whole myriad of books, and he bought a new pack of journals to scribble lyrics and entries into, and even took up knitting for fun. He’s halfway through his first quilt. The point is that he’s got stuff to do. And, at the end of the day, Harry’s a homebody. He loves his home.

Louis, on the other hand.

Not to say that Louis didn’t love their flat, he did, and Harry knew that. But after a roughly a thousand FIFA matches, four full run-throughs of Call of Duty: Modern Warfare, and a toaster fire that burnt down his house in the Sims 4, he’s. Well. He’s losing it a little.

Hence the pizza, apparently.

Louis’ eyes are bright and focused and ringed with bruise-colored bags as he lifts a piece out of the cardboard box. He’s wearing Harry’s shirt, swallowing his thin shoulders, and his legs are crossed beneath him. “Om nom nom,” he whispers, almost fanatically, messy hair forming a spiky halo around his skull. “Delicious.”

For a moment, Harry stares.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

Louis barely starts, azure eyes flashing up to glance into Harry’s stunned face for half a moment before returning to his pizza, folding it in half and biting into the end. “I ordered pizza.” He says, with a full mouth that Harry shouldn’t find endearing.

That’s the real problem with quarantine. Being around Louis. No escape.

Harry snorted softly and nudged Louis’ foot as he passed. “Come help me put these away, will you?” He asks fondly, tossing his keys on the counter and setting the groceries on the floor. Their kitchen is small, commonplace for a flat in London, but it’s nice. Homey, even. Harry doesn’t know if that’s because of his mom-like wall hangings and punny dish towels, or Louis’ dishes in the sink and the crude drawing he scribbled on the fridge whiteboard. Maybe a bit of both.

Louis abandons the rest of the pizza on the floor of the front room but keeps the half-eaten one with him, pinned precariously between his teeth as he shuffles into the kitchen and heaves himself onto the counter beside where Harry is washing his hands.

“How’s the outside world?” Louis asks, reaching over to wrap one of Harry’s curls around his finger. Harry tries not to jerk away from him.

“Quiet.” Harry answered honestly. And then, “But crazy, too. No hand sanitizer again.”

Louis pouted exaggeratedly, then hopped off the counter. Harry’s shirt flies up around his waist, and Harry looks away before he can glimpse the black of Louis’ boxers, the curve of his soft thighs. “Sad. Did you get chips?”

“Yes, Louis, you told me eight times.” Harry sighs, only half-seriously, shaking his head a little.

Louis bounds over to press a kiss to Harry’s cheek. “You’re fantastic.”

Harry doesn’t answer. Just turns to the bags and starts unloading.

That’s the problem with quarantine. He’s falling in love with his roommate.

=====

The next day, he comes home to Louis singing songs with Harry’s knitting needles speared through his hair and a massive notepad balanced on his knees. The paper is defaced with thick Sharpie drawing of exed smiley faces and penises.

Harry doesn’t ask.

He doesn’t ask, but his heart stutters, and he shuts himself in his bedroom until the next morning.

=====

“Let’s get a cat.”

“We’re not getting a cat.”

“Please!”

“No, Louis,” Harry mutters, shaking his head a little and tapping his pen against his knee. “Haven’t you seen all those stories about people getting pets in quarantine because they’re lonely, only to realize they have no idea how to care for pets? The poor things end up in pounds, and then...” Harry’s eyes go a little misty against his own will. “Well, you know what happens then.”

Louis pokes Harry’s thigh with his toes. “Being stuck inside has made you morbid.”

“Being stuck inside has made you crazy.”

Louis leaps on him, his journal falls to the floor, and the cat conversation is forgotten until they’re far too tired and giggly to bring it up again.

=====

Screw falling. Harry’s in love with his roommate. Full, tacky, gross, fantastic love. The kind that makes his tummy knot and his cheeks flush.

And Louis’ oblivious.

=====

It all comes to a head one day, when Harry awakes to find Louis standing on the countertop in only his pants, reaching precariously for the chips on top of the cabinet and nearly tumbling to the floor in the process. His back is slim and gold and stretched and the curve of his delicate thighs are right there and when he stretches again, the bottom of his pants rides up and the pale curve of his arse is on display and.

And.

Fucking hell.

“Jesus fucking Christ.” Harry mutters sharply, too sharply, startling Louis. Harry darts across the kitchen to grab onto his calf when he starts to slip, steadying him, and Louis makes a sound like “oh.” It’s pretty.

“Good morning, Haz.” Louis greets cheerfully, one hand splayed across the top of the cabinet, chips within reach. “How’d you sleep?”

“Why the fuck are you on the counter? What are you doing?”

Louis frowns. “Not well, I see.” He mutters. And then, holding out a hand, “Help me down.”

Harry slaps his hand away, grabs him by the hips, and lifts him down.

It’s a mistake. That much Harry knows the second he’s got Louis’ skin under his palms, warm and smooth and rolling with delicate muscle, body so small between his hands. So moveable. Louis’ hands fist in the front of his shirt, tight and unstable, and when he looks up, his cerulean eyes are wide. Shocked.

His mouth parts. Harry wants to kiss him.

“Thanks.” Louis whispers. His tongue darts between his teeth, wetting his pinkish lower lip, quick and nervous. His lashes cast shadows over his sharp cheekbones. Kiss him. Kiss him. He says again, “Thanks.”

“Crush.” Harry blurts.

The whole world goes quiet.

Louis blinks. “What?”

Harry’s going to have to start looking for flat listings.

“Crush.” He says again, flushing rose, and then crimson. “I have a crush on you. A big one. And, somehow, you going absolutely bananas during this quarantine has only made it worse.” Harry pauses. “You really have gone crazy, by the way.”

“I have not.”

“You told me you were going to start writing poems about the effectiveness of capitalism vs. communism on Wednesday.”

“Because someone has to do it!”

“No one has to do it—”

“Harry.”

He likes the way Louis says his name. It’s so soft.

“I just like you.” Harry murmured. “It was driving me crazy keeping it to myself. I tell you everything, anyway, so. Yeah. I have a crush.”

He’s still holding Louis’ hips. His hands are cold when he lets go, colder than they’ve ever felt before, and they hang uselessly at his sides like he’s forgotten how to work them. Maybe he has. Maybe his hands were made for holding onto Louis.

Louis watches him blankly, lips parted, pale eyes wide and thick with confusion. He inhales, like he’s going to say something, but nothing comes. Then, he does it again.

Harry takes a step back as his heart crumples inside his chest, like old paper. A step back is all he can take.

Louis steps forward.

“I never...” he starts, ever-so-quietly, as his gaze rakes up and down Harry’s body like he’s seeing something he never thought to look for before. He crosses his arms over his bare stomach, and then drops them. “I never thought about you like that.” He says. And then, “Before.”

“Before when?”

“Right now.”

And suddenly, his gaze sharpens, sliding with unabashed intrigue over Harry’s body, his shocked face, a smug confidence curling the edges of his mouth. His eyes glitter. Assessing. Like... like he’s deciding if Harry is good enough. If he’s interested.

This Louis, Harry knows.

It feels like years of silence before Louis laughs, gently, just a delicate sound from the base of his throat, and crosses his arms. His biceps bulge. “I’d say you have to take me on a date, but restaurants aren’t open.” He murmured.

Somewhere in Harry’s frozen chest, a heart starts beating again. “So...” he began, veins sharp and vibrating.

The smirk widens. “So, it might be in your best interest to replicate one in this kitchen. Tonight. At seven. Wear the tie I like.”

“Wear the red thing I like.” Harry shoots back, a grin breaking so far across his face that his cheeks begin to ache.

A pause. Then, “Only if you’re lucky.”

Harry grins and turns towards his room, fully prepared to sift through all of his nicest clothes and refuse to decide until he inevitably rings Niall and gets no help from him, when Louis’ hand wraps around his wrist.

They’re kissing before Harry can register the fact that he’s stopped moving.

Harry’s thought a lot about kissing Louis, clearly, considering he’s half in love and Louis is the most beautiful creature to ever walk the earth. But his fantasies did nothing to compare to this. This is rapture. This is Elysium. This is, over and over and over, the greatest moment of his life to date. This.

Louis’ mouth is hot and soft and wet and his hand is tight around Harry’s wrist, spasming like he isn’t entirely sure Harry isn’t going to run away. As if he could. He smells like lemon and baby powder. The whole expanse of his torso presses against Harry’s chest when Harry threads an arm around his waist, yanking him ever closer, shuddering and shivering, heart beating out of his chest. The whole world is on fire and Louis is right there and Harry’s brain is silent. His tongue brushes Harry’s lips. Parts them. Harry grabs onto his hip and squeezes. This is definitely what his hands were made for.

Louis is panting when he pulls away, one hand lying flat over Harry’s heart, like he likes the way it pounds, the other still clasped around his wrist.

Harry’s in love with him. One hundred percent.

Louis reaches up to pat his flushed cheek and grins.

“I’ll wear the red thing.”

Harry drags him in again.

#louis tomlinson #harry styles #larry stylinson #one direction #larry fic #fic request #:)) #be nice to me please

[heli0s-writes]

Ugly Christmas Sweater Party

Summary: Bucky (sort of) agrees to wear an ugly Christmas sweater, but what he ends up wearing is much worse. This is for @holy-captain‘s 1.2k writing challenge! Congratulations, Liv and thank you for hosting! I’m so sorry it’s late!! 

Pairing: Exasperated!Bucky x ChaoticDumbass!Reader

Warnings: Swearing Word Count: 1.8k

It’s supposed to be a fun and light-hearted thing—a season full of shiny-glowing-fantastic-twinkling excitement and ruddy red noses and misty breath in the chilled air. A season of joy and celebration, of spiked eggnog, fuzzy striped socks, and sliding down the compound hillsides on Steve’s shield.

And he’s screwed it all up.

It sinks in like the swollen marshmallows in his now cold cocoa, drooping to the bottom where the rest of the sediments lie. Outside, snowflakes gust and whip, blanketing the pine trees and skeletons of shrubbery in white flurries. Red holly berries peek out where they can and glare at him with their crimson eyes.

His phone lights up with picture messages of Steve and Sam, hurriedly trying on a cluster of sweaters in preparation. Horrid renderings of cats on ornaments. Oversized slouchy sleeves flecked with tinsel. Santa’s dreadful ass-crack peeking out of a chimney.

Bucky grumbles and turns his phone face-down, leaning back in his chair to stare at the Christmas tree in the corner. He wants to scream and put his leg through the damn thing.

Soft footsteps draw his attention to the hallway when you emerge, blinking slowly as you stifle a yawn from behind your hand until you see him. Then, you scoff and disappear back down the hall.

“Wait!” Bucky calls, leaping from his seat and nearly knocking the tepid mug from the table, “Damn it, wait!”

You’re gone. Stomped back to your room and even if he starts running now, he wouldn’t be quick enough—only getting the slamming door on his nose. He’ll try anyway.

Bucky slumps against the panel, pushing his chest against the cold metal of it and his cheek until his words come out smushed into his teeth.

“C’mon!” A pathetic whine of your name before he sticks his fingers underneath the slit of the door like a cat, wiggling the bent tip back and forth. Incredible. The Winter Soldier sprawled out all over a corridor, begging for forgiveness over this.

Only silence replies; you’re probably on the bed, thinking about scratching his eyes out. He can practically see you flicking him off with both hands. You’ve never been this upset before, and it deeply troubles him considering the dynamic of your very friendship spun on the axis of one single truth: Bucky’s the annoyed one. You’re the fuck up.

And now he has no idea what to do.

One week of it and he’s completely lost; the start of it all—December 1st when Tony announced: Ugly. Christmas. Sweater. Party.

Two days before Christmas, the team will be gathering in the common area for a white elephant gift exchange, and sweaters will be judged based on ugliness. What a stupid idea.

The winner will be awarded with “no team meetings for a month” and Tony’s personal stash of bourbon as long as no one touches his whiskey.

Upon the proclamation, you had clapped your hands together and grinned, “We’re gonna win this damn thing.”

And Bucky, being regular Bucky who ignores your half-witted ideas and short-sighted fixations, muttered, “Whatever,” and went back to thinking normal-person thoughts.

For the next several weeks, you dove into your knitting, the needles clicking together faster than he’s ever seen, weaving sparkling black and bright cherry red. The rows were tightly bound, looped and coiled expertly until he could finally make out the shape on the front of it.

He really did love your sick sense of humor—although he’d never admit it—funny, twisted, always brought him a bit of joy.

“Fuck no,” he had laughed at the image of a mutilated deer, antlers dangling silver ornaments showcasing his sigil. “I am not fuckin’ puttin’ that on. It looks like hell.”

“You agreed!” And then the needles and yarn hit him right in the nose.

On your way out, a low chuckle came from the corner of the living room where Steve sat sipping a cup of steaming chai. “You know Christmas is her favorite holiday?”

A snorting laugh bubbled the surface of Steve’s tea, “Good goin’, Buck.”

-

“Last Christmas” is on, blaring synth beats through the halls. George Michael croons sweetly, longingly, grieving an unrequited love before jingle bells ring in the scattered percussion.

Bucky hears your voice as you carol along to possibly the cheesiest song of all time—infuriated and baffled that you won’t speak more than two words to him but will sing your heart out to this crap. George Michael, Wham! and all of England can eat his whole ass.

He trudges from his room and into the den where the lights are dimmed and the table is set with snacks and a crock pot of hot chocolate. A dish of pine cones sits in the middle, flanked by a merry snowy village filled with little ceramic teddy bears and reindeer. On the edge is a deflated Santa Hat filled with paper scraps and pens for the voting process at the end of the night.

It is seven-thirty and you are standing next to Sam with bent elbows, wiggling your hips to the chorus, sliding back and forth on the polished floor in fuzzy socks. The two of you are facing the window, pointing at the flurry and a mountain of sludge that was previously a horrid misshapen lump of Snowman Steve.

Bucky squints a little, alert when he sees two matching sweaters—black on the back. Hell no, he thinks.

Sam turns around and Bucky’s worst holiday fears are confirmed. One innocuous “Oh hey, man,” and all the warmth drains from him.

On Wilson’s chest is that terrible disfigured deer you constructed, its antlers spearing out from its head to reach all the way up to his shoulders.

Bucky flies across the room and before either you or Sam can do anything about it, he’s peeling the hem of it over Sam’s head, kneeing him in the groin, and taking him down onto the floor. “What the hell!” Sam yells, struggling to get out of his grasp. “Shit—get off—Barnes!”

“A red star isn’t even your fucking symbol!” His hair is in his eyes along with Sam’s elbow, their limbs and joints knocking into each other in the wrestling bout. The sleeves and front are being stretched terribly, but neither of them seem to notice.

“Hey,” Your calm voice calls from above them—falling on four deaf ears. “Hey,” You try again, and when it doesn’t seem like two grown men can stop aggressively fondling each other over a damn pullover, you raise your hand and decisively land it across the back of Bucky’s head in a deafening crack.

A swell of multiple shocked gasps rises from behind you and when Sam and Bucky freeze, they see the rest of the compound’s inhabitants staring at the scene like a disfigured Nativity display. They also see your palm, at the end of your motion, resting next to your shoulder.

Bucky gingerly rubs his wound. “Ow,” He grumbles.

“Room… now.” You command, pointing your finger down the hall. Wilted, he shuffles away dutifully, saying nothing to the others as he passes. When he’s gone, you look scornfully at Sam and your beloved jersey, loosely hanging at the edge of his torso, pulled nearly apart.

“Voting starts in twenty, kid,” Tony mentions breezily.

“Yeah,” You reply through gritted teeth, “Don’t worry, we’ll be there.”

-

Steve coughs behind his hand awkwardly when Bucky steps back out, the once snugly-fitting sweater around Sam hanging collapsed and loose on Bucky’s right side. You’re close behind, bouncing on your heels and smiling as if nothing had gone wrong. Steve’s not sure which is worse: your wrath or glee.

“You, uh, you alright?” He calls quietly.

“Oh yeah, absolutely. Right, Buck?”

Bucky swallows, “Uh. Yeah.”

He has no fucking idea; when you shut the door behind him, the sweater in your hand was calmly unfolded and held up to his shoulders, damage assessed by a calculating mind. Bucky still has no clue what possessed you not to scratch his eyes out that very second.

Then, you looked him up and down and said, “Put it on, Barnes. Show’s about to start.”

And if he was a weaker man, he’d be shaking in his goddamn boots at how calm you are.

The team gathers around the tree, various colored pens and torn scraps in hand as they evaluate each other’s attire. Natasha is boldly displaying a patchwork kind of cardigan with what looks like the Michelin man ominously hovering behind a tree. Tony, of course, has custom-ordered a perfectly sized wreath knitted around his arc reactor heart. Steve has completely missed the Christmas memo (or is perhaps the politest Grinch on Earth) wears blue, the tiniest hint of gold tinsel woven through.

And Sam -- stupid, stupid Sam-- who didn’t plan on being robbed of a perfectly knitted sweater five minutes before the voting process, is out of the game.

Bucky is about to write your name down, because a medium part of him feels guilty for hurting your feelings while a much larger part of him feels apprehension about what exactly might happen if you lose, but you suddenly dig your hand into his pocket.

All five fingers shove deep until your fist is gripping tight and your knuckles stab his thigh.

“Hey! No hanky-panky during voting!” Tony is scandalized.

A vicious snap of his pocketknife swings open and before he knows it, your left hand is fisting the yarn on his chest and your right is ripping it straight through. The room falls silent when you do it a second time and Bucky’s at a loss for words until the breeze hits.

Chills.

A tendril of AC sneaks through the two open holes you’ve carved and goosebumps bloom all over his chest. Dread settles in his tummy.

His nipples are pebbled and exposed for everyone to see and with a quiet click of the blade retracting, you tuck it back into his pocket. 

“Let the voting begin.”

No one moves. No one makes a single sound and the whole place is quieter than a crypt until a shrill wheeze squeaks out of Sam’s nostrils. Through the choked snickering and the slowly building crescendo of everyone else’s laughter, Wilson admits, “They’re browner than I thought they’d be.”

There’d be no need for a voting process, Bucky knows. You’ve stolen the show – or rather, his nipples have stolen the show, and the once-worthy prize is now his Sisyphean burden to bear. He closes his eyes and counts to a million.

Screw exemptions from team meetings, Bucky thinks, praying desperately that when the bourbon is bestowed to him, by some miracle of sweet baby Jesus, he’d be able to get shitfaced again.

-

perm tags: @whothehellisbucky @serpentbaby @badassbaker @alagalaska @cake-writes​ @crist1216​ @star-spangled-man-with-a-plan​ @infinity-saga @jamesbarnesthighs​ @pinknerdpanda​ @xoxabs88xox​ @imsoft-barnes​ @momc95​ @typicalangel​ @wretchedgoddess​ @readeity​ @iwannasail​ @ya-lyublu-tebya​ @geeksareunique​ @wildefire​ @satanxklaus​ @jhangelface0523​ @wkemeup​

#marvel #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky x reader #bucky imagine #mcu #bag of tricks helios #Livs1.2KChallenge

[cherry-moonlight]

Life Could Be A Dream

{NOS4A2 - Charlie Manx x Reader}

{A/N - Also on AO3 under CherryMoonlight}  Hi! I have been obsessed with NOS4A2, and while I haven’t read the book yet (don’t judge me), the show is incredible. I haven’t written anything in a year or so, and I know I owe plenty of other stories, but this series came to me in a dream and I’m just so happy to be off hiatus and inspired again! That being said, this is a first person POV reader insert, and pretty much just not very canon but I’m having fun writing it and I hope you have fun reading it should you choose to!  PS — I’m crushing hard on Charlie Manx so definitely expect some of that at some point. (I know, how dare I considering the whole virgin thing- but really, how could I not?!)

Warnings: Abusive parents (verbal, physical, emotional), alcoholism, drug use.

Chapter One - Long Overdue

Snowflakes fell like ashes from the sky as I walked forward down a snowy road I’d seen many times before. Despite the chill in the air, my skin didn’t react to the bitter coldness. I wasn’t bothered by the gentle wind or the glistening ice. It was as though the cold could touch me, but I couldn’t feel it.

Deep green pine trees doused with pure white lined the road as far as the eye could see in every direction but up and down. My eyes searched for something— anything, that could tell me what was happening; why I kept being brought to this particular place. There had to be some kind of sign.. Some kind of message I was to receive. Everything had a reason in my mind, bad or good, and this dream was no exception.

Much further down the road, there were glittering lights that danced in a blurred haze on the horizon. But no matter how far or how long I walked, they never grew closer.

“{Y/N}!” I heard what sounded like a small child’s excited whisper, as though they were taunting me, rather than calling out to me.

This is new..

I turned around immediately, looking for the source of the disembodied voice as a slight pang of panic rose in my chest. Though I wasn’t sure what was happening, the fear began to manifest anyway, giving me some kind of indication that this might become a nightmare.

A faint giggle echoed from the other direction, and I turned to face it, too. With a shake of my head and a moment to steady my breathing, I reminded myself that I was in control..

Or was I?

I picked up the pace to a brisk walk, not wanting to will myself awake just yet. The lights ahead of me stayed exactly where they were, but the sweet scent of peppermint mixing with pine began to fill my nostrils. It was pleasant, almost addicting right from the first whiff.

Still, I lowered my eyes to the ground, almost afraid of what I might see if I looked around so carelessly.

Another reverberated giggle filled the air, but this time it was accompanied by my name again. When I looked up from the white ground beneath my feet, I saw a small figure dash across the road. Just beyond that, the lights in the distance began to grow clearer before me.

“I can see..” I mumbled under my breath a bit too happily as I began to run, not wanting to miss the opportunity to finally find out what was beyond the long road.

My hair whipped around my face, and I knew if I could feel the air around me, it would’ve stung my skin. My breath formed small white clouds around my mouth as I continued, and just when I thought I could make out what lay in front of me, I was grabbed by small hands from behind, the excruciating pain of a sharp bite digging into the back of my shoulder, until—

I jolted awake, sitting upright as my {E/C} eyes pried themselves open to absorb where I actually was. Everything felt foggy, and as I clutched the shirt I wore with a trembling hand, I tried my best to ground myself.

A record I had on a turntable spun in what seemed like endless circles at the end of the track list and everything was quiet, save for the static. Looking out towards the frosty window, the ice climbing around the edges like spiderwebs offered me a sense of comfort. The world was cold, but inside, everything was warm and cozy. I was safe, and this was only a dream I’d been having for years— even if a few things had suddenly changed.

I stood up, working on slowing my breathing as I lifted the needle from the record and set it in its place, turning the player off. My mind roamed back to the dream I’d just had. It was strange that out of all the time it plagued my sleep, something had finally been different. It felt stranger than usual as I mulled over the way I heard children and saw the lights come a bit more into focus this time. There was something about it that I couldn’t quite place. It reminded me of the holidays— my favorite time of year despite the way I grew up. Christmas was my favorite holiday, always allowing me to get lost in everyone else’s joy and excitement. Watching heartwarming films and seeing the way the community came together to decorate their homes.. It reminded me of what being a child should’ve felt like, even though there was never any indication that Christmas even existed in my house. For as long as I could remember, not a tree, nor a present ever graced my December’s.

As I moved to the vanity to fix my appearance, I came to the conclusion that I was just excited for Christmas’s arrival, and my dream was a reflection of that. This year, I wanted to buy a small tree for my room and decorate it the way I wanted. I was an adult now, and no one could tell me any different.

“{Y/N}!” I heard my mother scream from downstairs, eliciting an automatic eye roll from me. “Come down here, now!”

With a huff, I did as I was told, despite being eighteen, I still lived under her roof and had to abide by her insane rules.

My mother and I never quite got along. As a child, she consoled herself with prescription pills and alcohol, and I never really had a father. My older brother split with him the moment he walked out of the door when I was seven, which is when my only recollection of Christmas’s ended, leaving them like a far too distant memory to me.

My dad never bothered to take me with him, or even call me afterwards. Neither did my brother. I didn’t know what I did wrong, but as time moved on, I realized they’d simply abandoned me with her. I supposed that they assumed I’d end up the same way. Not able to blame them, I never bothered to reach out, either. I had my dad’s number, I stole it from a sticky note my mom had gotten from one of their mutual friends. But if they wanted to contact me, they would. Sometimes, when my mom had locked me in the closet for “being too happy,” or hit me for answering a question in a way she didn’t like, I really wished they would’ve.

Since then, I’ve had to learn to take care of myself. When she was passed out on the floor for what felt like days on end, I was in charge of things like food and getting myself to school. The microwave was my best friend early on, and unlike most other kids, I was glad I had school to escape to.

I’d never quite forgiven her for ruining my childhood. Sometimes, I’d see the other kids getting picked up by their parents; the care in their eyes, the love in their hearts. It was all very comforting to watch. I cried myself to sleep countless nights wondering why I couldn’t have parents who cared for me the same way.

When my mother was awake, it was constant belittling and berating. Being so young, I had no idea I could be such a mistake and a screw up so soon, if at all. But there was dear old mom, ready to remind me at a moment's notice. Something as simple as dropping a pencil on the floor earned me an ear full of being a klutz and completely worthless to the world. If I even looked at her in a way she didn’t like, I felt her wrath.

But as time went on, she gradually got worse. She built up more of a tolerance to whatever she was taking, making her perfectly functional to the rest of society, but twice as abusive to me. No matter how old I got, I remained the punching bag. I’d thought she took out the anger of losing my father and brother on me, but later I couldn’t help but think it felt like she just liked hurting me.

Before I exited my room, I looked at a small cedar chest with a heart shaped lock that sat atop my dresser. It was my saving grace these days, the only thing that kept me sane. It held money I’d been putting away to get my own place, and a few other things that were important to me, like the note with my dad’s number and a small locket I had been gifted as a child.

Soon. Soon I’d never have to hear her voice or see her face again.

My feet shuffled to the bottom of the stairs and I inhaled and counted to four, then exhaled and counted to four; a small tactic that I used to deal with her. Turning the corner into the kitchen, I saw her sitting at the wooden table, glass of whatever the day's poison was in hand, waiting for me with a crisp white sheet of paper in front of her.

“What is this?” she questioned, the annoyance thick in her voice already.

I peeked over her shoulder. It was paperwork from a therapy session a friend let me take from her almost a year ago. I hadn’t wanted to do it, but she insisted once I explained just a portion of my life to her.

“You went through my things?” Was all I could manage.

I was bubbling with anger, but trying my best not to fly off the handle.

She wasn’t worth it, I reminded myself.

“You went to therapy? After all I’ve done for you, you felt like you needed… Help?”

She spat the word “help” out as though it were venom on the tongue. I was still processing the fact that she felt as though she’d raised me well, or really even at all. How dare she think she was there for me at all.

“Well? Answer me, {Y/N}!”

Lost for words, I stammered a bit, unsure of what to say. The last thing I felt like doing was fighting with her, and in that moment, I had no idea where to begin to tell her off.

“I— Just.. There’s—“

“I know you’ve always been a little slow,” she snorted. “But you can’t even answer a question these days..”

“That’s it! I’m sick of you! How dare you—” I snapped, but before I even had time to finish another thought, she was up from the chair and her hand had roughly connected with my cheek.

Stunned from the stinging sensation, I stared at her blankly. Though it used to be a daily occurrence, it had been a long time since she’d hit me, and the act only dredged up memories that I thought I’d gotten over. I shook my head, and without another word, I went upstairs, slipped into my favorite combat boots, grabbed a jacket and my bag and placed my cedar chest in it before making my way to the front door in a rushed cloud of hurt and anger.

“If you walk out of this house, you’re not coming back! I’ll leave your shit on the curb and I’ll never see your ungrateful ass again!” she called out, her voice hoarse with crazed, manic emotion.

“I wouldn’t come back if this were the last place on earth,” was all I said, opening the door to leave.

I heard the rattling of a pill bottle being frantically emptied and breathed a quiet laugh of disbelief before slamming the door shut. There was no care to be had in my mind or heart anymore. Maybe it was wrong, but I had taken too much from that woman. I was done sticking around and pretending to care in the hopes that she’d change one day.

Looking out ahead of me for a moment, I slid into my jacket and slung my bag over my shoulder. Closing the door with the intention of never looking back should’ve been the best day of my life. Instead, I felt anxious beyond belief.

Leaving with no plan as to where I was going wasn’t how I wanted to end things. I’d managed to stick around for eighteen years, and almost felt silly for letting this small encounter become the straw that broke the camel's back.

At the same time, eighteen years is a long time to go on the way I did. It was overdue.

As I walked into the snow, I realized how alone I truly was. No parents, no siblings. No family. I couldn’t burden my friends to deal with the mess my life had become. I lived in what could be considered the middle of nowhere. It was freezing and I had nowhere to go. I raised myself for so long, I didn’t know if I was actually expecting to be able to take care of myself in a situation like this or not, should it happen. But as I reached the end of my driveway and looked down the road, I was reminded of my recurring dream. It looked the same— the trees and the glistening snow atop them. The only thing missing was the dazzling lights at the end of the stretch. How I never put it together that this scenery was near identical before, I wasn’t sure.

It was then that I wondered if this is what my dream had been trying to tell me all along..

That I’d be walking a cold, lonely road to nowhere.

#nos4a2 #charlie manx x reader #fanfiction #nos4a2 fanfiction #charlie manx #charlie manx fanfiction #fanfic #christmasland #series

[fictionalrambles]

Shadowhunters Fandom Story - Part Twelve

Submitted by notquiteascrazy

Five Favourite Stories

 The Stars Aligned series by @lecrit​

WHY I LOVE THIS FIC:  The only thing I knew for certain coming into this “picking faves process” was that there had to be something by Lecrit on this list. The way Lu writes Magnus & Alec enraptures me every single damn time and to narrow it down to just one was so hard. So I cheated & picked a series ;) It was one of the first Malec fics I read and just the whole AU is perfect.

I re-read it when Oscar Nominations are announced and on the day of the ceremony (I don’t even care about the Oscars). And probably 5 or 6 times throughout the year on top of that. The mutual pining is so strong to begin with, there’s some very light angst with some classic “bad guy” action by Camille and when they finally get their shit together, well, it’s just beautiful. Jace being an idiot, Izzy being the most supportive ever, nerd Simon… It’s got the works. If you haven’t already read it, why the hell not? Go. Now.

FAVORITE QUOTE: “I know we usually don’t thank our agents in these things,” he says, still scanning the room, “but my agent is also my PA and one of my best friends, and I just won an Oscar so I think I can do whatever I want tonight and he won’t hold it against me.” The audience laughs, as much in amusement as it is in surprise but Magnus doesn’t really notice, finally giving up. “Okay,” he exclaims in the mic, “I can’t find him. Has anyone seen Alec? Tall, dark, handsome and probably glued to his phone right now?” [Trying to cut this entire speech down into the best bit? Impossible but I decided to go with the start]

*

 2C by Oumy

WHY I LOVE THIS FIC:  I love the antagonism between Alec & Magnus to begin with and while the source of this is revealed in an additional fic later on, while reading 2C you can entirely predict what started it all. And within the main work itself, it doesn’t need saying because the way the characters are written subtly folds in all these personality traits that we know & love. Even before they finally get it together, they’re pushing each other & challenging each other to be the best versions of themselves. The way it builds from rivalry to romance is just *chefs kiss*

Plus, the mental image of Alec & Magnus as incredibly skilled musicians is Hot. We’ll ignore the slight “Magnus can’t play the charango and it’s awful every time he tries going near an instrument” thing… In this universe, they’re musical maestros!

FAVORITE QUOTE: Alec moved from the door, his long legs already eating up the distance to the entrance, and the competitive side of Magnus, the one that reluctantly thrived on their rivalry, refused to let him have the last word, so he blurted out at the retreating figure “Bite me, Lightwood” Alec turned around, walking backwards and spread his free hand, that perpetual half smile still etched on his face “Only if you ask nicely”

*

 Between the Lines by @msalexiscriss​

WHY I LOVE THIS FIC:  The plot is fantastic. The entire concept that Magnus is a criminal didn’t necessarily sit well with me at first but then as the story progresses and you realise why, it all starts to come together. And so much of their characteristics & traits are woven into it in a really fun way, e.g. Magnus’ love of glitter. From the very beginning the chemistry between them is so well written considering they’ve barely interacted in person. The way Magnus taunts Alec, the way they play this cat & mouse game. About halfway through I had this sudden fear that I would not enjoy the ending. I just couldn’t see a satisfying conclusion where no-one’s morals were compromised and they still got their happy ending but it really came together and did all the characters justice!

FAVORITE SCENE: The entire “first date” on the rooftop. The way Alec ends up there, the way Magnus has it all planned out. The conversation & the teasing from Magnus. The prying for information from Alec. The way they both dance around each other while enjoying the company & getting to know one another. 

  *

 Deeper Than the Truth by insieme

WHY I LOVE THIS FIC:  Can you really compile a list of favourite fics without including at least one coffee shop AU?! And this one is so much more than just a coffee shop AU. I love how Magnus’ unbridled passion & enthusiasm jumpstarts Alec. I love the slow burn that builds up between them & how their relationship develops. I love the quiet moments of their relationship that are interwoven with the bigger moments. I love the balance between Alec hating the lies he’s telling and knowing that he could hurt Magnus and the inner turmoil he goes through. I love that the reveal is realistically handled and not just swept under a rug but they actually talk about the communication issues. I just love it all.

FAVORITE QUOTE: “Well Alexander, I would love to continue this conversation at the present except I have a whole room of ladies with sharp sewing needles who are not going to be too pleased with me if I keep them waiting any longer. Perhaps if you’re here tomorrow, around the same time, we could bump into each other again, and you could tell me your ridiculous dislike for Mr. Archer over a cup of coffee?” Magnus looked at Alec confidently, like he had no reservations whatsoever that Alec wouldn’t accept his offer. He was right. “Tomorrow. Yeah, okay. I’ll be here.” Alec said, unable to stop the smile that crept onto his face. Magnus was already on his way out the store when Alec realized what Magnus had said. He called out after him, “My name is Alec!” Magnus just waved over his shoulder, calling out “See you tomorrow, Alexander!” He was so screwed. [What I have learnt about myself going through this exercise is the early moment of relationships in fics are my favourites. They set the tone of what’s to come & build the chemistry from there!]

  *

 Choose your weapon by @steakandvodka​

WHY I LOVE THIS FIC:  Clalec BROTP ftw. Honestly, this is just cute and shows such lovely character growth & their relationship develops so beautifully. Alec is shown as supportive & a good leader and very typically Alec in response to Clary. But it also shows a softer side & how him & Fray become friends.

Meanwhile, we see a struggle from Clary that isn’t shown in the show about how not being brought up in the shadow world means working harder to get up to scratch & her insecurities around it.

FAVORITE QUOTE: “Look, I know better than anyone how much pressure it can be to be perfect all the time. Especially when you have people doubting you — the drive to prove them wrong can overshadow every other responsibility in your life. But hard work isn’t always a good thing, not if you don’t go about it in a healthy way. It can set you back, and more importantly, you can get hurt” [Alec Lightwood finally embracing healthy work-life balance <3]

*

 Author Story

At first I felt a little bit like a fraud trying to write this. I’d hardly consider myself an author - I’ve barely really written anything (politely ignoring my terrible contributions to the HP fandom well over a decade ago)

I’d never really considered myself particularly creative, much happier to just absorb the fruits of other people’s creativity and be glad that there are so many talented people in the world writing stories and making art. Shadowhunters changed that for me. The characters have resonated with me and I found myself inspired on a couple of occasions to actually put pen to paper (Well, fingers to keyboard)

I still consider myself very creatively challenged but I’m enjoying exploring the little bursts of inspiration, even if I find myself wishing I’d paid more attention in English class! Reading has always been my escape from reality, writing is now giving me that opportunity to create my own escapes. So if there’s anyone else who’s new to this and nervous about trying to write/sharing their writing, I feel you! But if you have a story you want to tell - go for it! You might surprise yourself :)

#shadowhunters #shadowhunters fanfiction #fanfiction #fanfiction blog

[soul-music-is-life]

I have an emison prompt: Alsion and emily finding out they are having a boy the second time around Alison is pregnant. And they have a bet on what they are having.

I’m really not a big “holiday” person. But I do take stock of what I’m thankful for this time of year, and I’m more than thankful for my fans (it feels weird calling you ‘fans’ when I consider you friends). You have legitimately occupied my mind enough with the PLL/Emison stuff to where the loss of my mother isn’t constantly in the forefront of my mind so much that it makes me want to pull some “Thelma and Louise” cliff-dive. So from the bottom of my heart, thank you. Enjoy. Had to add a “read more” link cuz I prattle.

****

Emily’s eyes were closed in concentration. She delicatelymassaged her fingers against her wife’s exposed skin. Alison reached down andtucked her fingers underneath Emily’s chin, drawing her wife’s attention awayfrom her little protruding baby bump and up to her face.

Alison couldn’t help but smile at Emily’s dedication tomaking sure her pregnancy was as stress-free and relaxing as possible. That’show they’d ended up snuggled on the couch, Emily talking to their growing littleone. Emily had become very enamored in her conversation with their unborn babywhile she was trying to determine the sex. Emily rubbed her palm over Alison’sbelly and focused in on it in deep concentration.

“It’sa baby, Em. Not a magic 8-ball.” Alison laughed.

“Iknow.” Emily rubbed her belly again with a smile. She pressed her lips againstAlison’s exposed skin right below the midriff on her shirt. “Talk to me, littlenugget.”

“Again,a baby. Not gonna talk…” She was cut off when she felt movement, a kick.

Emilysmiled and looked up at Alison.

“Youwere saying?”

“Thatwas just a coincidence.”

“Oh,really?” Emily lifted her brow. “Kick your mommy’s bladder if you can hear me.”

“That’snot funny, Emily. I already practically pee myself every fifteen minutes as itis…”

“Sheloves you despite her complaining.” Emily assured the little fetus.

Alisonfelt movement, a reaction to Emily’s voice. Alison couldn’t help but smile.

“Okay,real important question here, peanut.” Emily spoke soothingly. “No pressure.”

“Youare ridiculous.” Alison laughed.

“Maybe.But my methods work. I have a sixth sense for this.”

“Ifthat’s true why didn’t you know we were having twins the last time?” Shemotioned to their twelve-year-old girls sitting across the living room playinga video game.

“Shh,I’m doing important work here.” Emily shushed her jokingly. “Okay, baby.” Emilyaddressed Alison’s stomach again. “Now, are you a little girl…”

Shewaited a few seconds. No motion. No movement. No kick.

“So,you’re a baby boy, then?”

Unbelievably,there was a kick.

“Fool-proofFields method.” Emily nodded. “My dad did it when my mom was pregnant with me,and he was right. So I’m casting my ballot. My vote is baby boy.” Emilygrinned, rubbing Alison’s stomach. “My little man.”

“God,if he is a boy he’s totally screwed. As if his mommies aren’t hormonal enough,he’s going to have to contend with two moody teenage sisters.”

“Youguys know we can hear you, right?” Grace looked up from the TV, a video gamecontroller in her hand.

“Ha!Suck it, Grace!” Lily took the opportunity to edge Grace out of the game theywere playing.

“Hey,no fair. I paused it for a reason…”

“Yeah,because you’re a sucker.” Lily grinned.

“Moms,she’s being mean to me…”

“She’sgloating. There’s a difference.” Emily shrugged.

“Punishher for gloating.” Grace demanded.

“Notmy fault that you can’t beat me.”

Grace’scheeks flushed red in anger. It wasn’t uncommon for them to fight every day,sometimes three to four times a day, about who was better at what. Grace hated to lose. When she was a toddlershe’d throw tantrums. Lily had beat her at Candyland once and Grace had yankedon her hair and stabbed her with a game piece. Everything was a competitionwith the two of them.

“Payup, loser.” Lily flipped her hand over, palm up. She gestured slightly with herfingers curling towards her body.

Gracelooked at her mothers and then at her sister, an idea suddenly coming to mind.She’d heard all the adults talking about whether her moms were going to be having aboy or a girl. They had even taken it as far as placing bets on it. Gracedecided she wanted in on the action.

“Howabout another game?” Grace asked.

“Comeon, I’ve already beat you three times. You really want to keep embarrassingyourself?”

“No. A different one. And the odds are 50-50. Gives us both a fair shot. But it’s along game.”

“I’mlistening.” Lily was intrigued.

“Soyou’re in?”

“Yeah.”

“Cool.Let’s take this pot and add a buy in of ten bucks for the new game. Fixed odds.Double or nothing,” Grace said.

“Whothe hell taught you gambling terms?” Alison frowned.

Grace’sand Lily’s eyes both flickered towards Emily. Emily glared back at them forthrowing her under the bus.

“Didyou teach our children to gamble?” Alison exclaimed.

“Teach is kind of a strong word. They may have stayed up late with me and thegirls for a few poker nights.”

Alison’sjaw dropped, but it had nothing to do with teaching their children how togamble. She was upset for another reason.

“Youplay poker without me?”

“Baby,you know I love you, but you give away too much with your tells.”

Themost ironic thing about Alison being one of the biggest liars in Rosewood whenshe was a kid was the fact that now that she was grown, she couldn’t bluff forshit anymore, especially not when shewas pregnant and emotional.

“Thatshouldn’t matter.” Alison sulked. “We’re supposed to be in this marriagetogether. Through better or worse, through wins and losses…”

“Iwon two grand the last time I played without you.” Emily interrupted her.

“Shuttingup.” Alison nodded.

“So,girls, you want in on the action of the baby pool?” Emily smiled at her twins.

Theywere just as mischievous and devious as she and Alison had been when they wereyounger.

“Yeah.” They replied in sync.

“Idunno. What do you think, Alison?” Emily asked with a teasing smile on herface.

“Ithink I gave birth to two suckers and it’s mean to let them practically give ustheir money.” Alison joked. “But they’ve got to learn somehow. Better at homethan at the tracks.”

“Soyou’ll let us play?” Lily smiled in excitement.

Emilynodded.

“Thereare three polls going, but only two big ones. The first is whether it’s a boyor a girl. And the second is the day you think your mom is going to givebirth.”

“What’sthe third one?” Grace asked curiously.

Emilylooked at Alison in amusement. Alison glared at her, warning her not to tellthe girls.

“Howmany times your mother swears in the delivery room.”

“Ohhh,I definitely want in on that one. Ifit’s anything like her road rage, I could clean up with my winnings of thatone.” Lily smiled.

“You’regrounded until you’re thirty-five.” Alison scowled at her eldest daughter.

After a few seconds a smile spread across her face and the two of them laughed.

Lilystood up and walked over to her moms. She looked over Alison’s stomach as if itwas a difficult word problem that needed to be solved. She flipped her tonguein between her teeth and tried to decide. Ever the scientist, she was lookingfor any factor that could steer her in the right direction. Also, gambling withher sister was serious business. She hadto win.

“Whenyou were pregnant with us did your belly stick up or hang low?”

Alisonlooked at Emily, and though she couldn’t say what she was thinking, Emily pickedup on her train of thought,

She makes it sound like adick.

Thenagain, maybe that was the point. Maybe it was part of her scientific process.Or maybe her mommies just had filthy minds.

“Icarried mostly in the middle with you girls. I started showing pretty early,but then again there were two of you.”

“AuntHanna suggested that it’s going to be twins again.” Grace smirked.

“You’renot allowed to hang out with your Aunt Hanna anymore,” Alison said dryly.

Godhelp them if they ended up with another set of twins. They loved Lily andGrace, but they couldn’t do two babies again. Not on top of the surly kids theyalready had.

Lilytook her mom’s answer into account and then her face tightened inconcentration. She looked a lot like Emily when she was trying to mentally worksomething out.

“Whatkind of cravings did you get with us?” Lily glanced at their half-eaten dinneron the coffee table.

“Sweet.Always sweet. I ate entire box of chocolates on Halloween.” Then she’d promptlypuked. “I also had a thing for dill pickle chips.”

“Yeah,and always at like two in the morning.” Emily scoffed.

“Soyou’re the reason I love pickles.” Grace nodded.

“Werethere any smells that made you nauseous?” Lily asked.

“Coffee.”

“Sobasically you couldn’t hang out with Aunt Spencer at all.” Lily laughed.“Anything else?”

“Pineneedles.”

“Oh,yeah.” Emily nodded. “Christmas was hell for you.”

Alisonhad insisted on letting Emily decorate a real tree even though it made her sickto her stomach. She knew how much Emily loved Christmas.

“Wasthere anything…”

“ForGod’s sake, Lily, just bet already!” Grace exclaimed impatiently.

Lilylooked at Grace with a snooty expression.

“Ithink mom is right.” Lily looked at Emily. “I think it’s a boy.”

“Andhow did you scientifically concludethat?” Grace snorted.

“Simple.”She walked over to her sister and plopped down next to her with a smile. “Momis always right.”

Emilygrinned. Alison hit her for gloating.

“Well,I think it’s a girl.” Grace disagreed.

“Why?”

“Idon’t have to tell you my methods.”

“You’rejust saying it’s a girl because I think it’s a boy.”

“No,I’m agreeing with mom.” She pointed to Alison. “She said the other day that thebaby was bitching at her. Girls dothat.”

“Youcurse in front of our children?” Emily looked at Alison with a smile on herface. “And you give me crap for letting them play poker.”

“Ah ha! You do let them play!” Alison pointed an accusatory finger at Emily.

Emily reached over and pinched Alison’s side where shewas ticklish and she almost leaped off of the couch. Alison glared at her, butthen laughed. Grace and Lily glanced at one another and rolled their eyes,because their moms were like so totally ridiculously mushy.

They went back to trash talking one another over their video game whileEmily and Alison watched. They didn’t have much else to do but wait. Becausethe new game they were playing was a long game. They had another three weeksbefore they knew whether they were going to have a baby brother or a babysister.

#Pretty Little Liars #Emison #Emily Fields #Alison DiLaurentis #PLL #Emisom prompt

[sserpente]

A/N: Request from anon and @jclements919. I had a sleepover with a friend yesterday, we re-watched The Night Manager and got drunk. Perfect combination to cry over how perfect Tom is.

Words: 2556 Warnings: violence

Being a female spy had one great advantage—you could flirt your target into believing he was safe and you were but an innocent and young girl, knowing nothing about all the red on his ledger. Over the years, it had proven to be the most effective way to gather information and on top of that, it was the least risky option. No man who fancied sex every now and then would suspect you to be the culprit when it came down to it. Not that you would sleep with those douchebags though. You always ended it before they tried luring you into their beds, using mischievous tricks to make them believe why it was better to wait.

You grinned at your own reflexion in the mirror, your red lips complementing your eyes. You would make him mad tonight. A private dinner party to which he had invited you as a close friend, an occasion you had bought a pretty black dress for. Attending there would be business partners of his, important allies whose names you sucked up like a sponge. Soon, you’d have enough information and proof to go to the FBI, they would take care of the rest. You didn’t get your hands dirty—ever. You were way too clever for that.

“Ah! My beloved (Y/N), there you are! My friends, this is Miss Johnson!” Miss Johnson was your fake last name. Protection was your most important tool, after all. Not even your clients knew your real name.

Several men turned to stare at you like prey, their greedy eyes resting on your gracious cleavage. Combined with a few glasses of champagne, this dress would loosen their tongues tonight so fast you almost felt sorry for them.

Most men were powerless when it came to the weapons of a woman. Manipulation was your middle name and you loved the attention. It made you all the more less suspicious.

“I’m so thrilled you invited me, Karl, thank you so much.” Smiling sweetly, you allowed him to place his hand on your hip and kiss your cheek to greet you. There was another man with him, silent, calm and watching your every move. You knew that kind of look. If you dropped a needle, he would notice. His inconspicuous staring was almost fascinating. Icy blue eyes boring into yours when your curious gaze met his.

“Darling, this is Mr Jonathan Pine. Right hand man of a very good friend of mine overseas—an awful lot of very profitable deals.”

Jonathan Pine. Was it his real name? Karl himself owned several passports, you had found them when prying into his personal stuff one night after he had fallen asleep completely drunk, believing you had slept together.

“Pleasure to meet you. I have heard a lot about you already.” He spoke sternly, offering you his hand. Oh, he was English too. What a cliché. But there was something about him that did not quite feel right. He didn’t fit into this whole… ambient. And much more importantly, you instantly decided that you did not trust him in the slightest. The feeling was mutual—you could tell when you locked eyes again.

“Excuse me for a moment, will you?” Karl kissed your cheek once more before reluctantly letting go of your hip to join one of his business partners. It urged you to stroll along and eavesdrop but right now, it would appear too suspicious. To Karl, you were but a silly young woman in desperate need of some attention and fame to become a popular actress.

“I was just wondering, what does a young actress do at a dinner party like this?” Damn it, you had let down your guard. You had barely noticed Jonathan still watching you intently. Still, you smiled when you looked at him. Your made up identity was so detailed you could write a novel—actually, you were working on one already. Your adventures, for that was what you called them, were way too precious to be forgotten. So you wrote them down. Each and every single one of them.

“I met Karl in his favourite movie theatre. We both went to see the new MARVEL movie. You take it from here, he is wonderful.” You lied, faking a lovely and innocent smile.

“Incredibly wealthy, you mean.”

“Oh, wow, I am not after his money, Mr Pine.” If that is your real name, mysterious Englishman.

Jonathan chuckled darkly. “I have met a lot of women like you. You’re all the same.”

Frowning, you gritted your teeth, lowering your voice when you replied.

“You know nothing about me. How dare you?”

He responded nothing to that, instead simply stared at you, thinking hard. Half a minute later, he turned away and accepted a glass of champagne from one of the waiters.

You missed your chance that night. Karl got drunk enough for you to lure him into his bedroom again. He passed out before you had to take off your dress to make him believe you were about to have sex. His office was right next door. You had found the key hidden in a box of condoms but when you tiptoed towards it with bare feet and your high heels in hand, you suddenly heard footsteps nearing the bedroom.

Jonathan Pine’s expression was all but surprised and regretful when he peeked through the half open door and spotted you standing on the carpet, frozen to the spot.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, I didn’t know you were… well.” Yes, you did. And you foiled my plan, you tea drinking moron. It was then you decided—you absolutely hated this strange man.

Forcing a fake smile, you clutched the key tighter and hid it behind your back. Fortunately, he could barely see it in the dimly lit room.

“We weren’t. I mean, we were going to but he had a little too much tonight. Bad luck for me…” You mused, making your way outside. Jonathan moved away only reluctantly, his blue eyes watching every step of yours until you found yourself in the empty hallway. The mansion Karl lived in was so big almost every guest had their own wing. You were completely undisturbed.

And therefore, it should not have surprised you when Jonathan suddenly grabbed your arm firmly, pulled you against him you stumbled and then pressed you against the wall, his body trapping yours. You could feel his muscles dancing against your covered skin, his blue eyes narrowed at you.

“Who do you work for?” He growled darkly, his tone threatening. Shit. You should have known better—trusted your gut feeling and kept an eye on him. Playing innocent now would only worsen the situation. Jonathan was way too smart for that.

Now what did they always say? Offence is the best defence.

“I could ask you the same question, Pine. If that is your real name, of course.”

Jonathan growled once more. The sound of it was almost hot. Or maybe that was just the excitement that came with confrontation. He might be attractive but he was the enemy—your opponent and maybe even a threat to your life.

“Yes. It is. I was sent in by an English organisation which works on bringing down Karl Decker and his cronies. That is all you need to know about me.”

A bitter smile crept up on your lips. “I knew there was something wrong about you. How did you know? That I am not who I pretend to be?”

“It was the way you reacted when I accused you of being with Decker because of his money. What are you really after?”

Snorting, you rolled your eyes. “That is none of your business. All you need to know is that I will bring him down.”

“And how successful were you with that thus far?” There was no amusement in his voice when he spoke, causing you to lift your chin and cross your arms. You had barely no room for the defiant movement, for he still had you pinned against the wall.

“Again—none of your business. Whoever you are, I am one step ahead of you.”

“Really? I got in without offering my cleavage as ransom, what’s your excuse?” Jonathan spat, glaring at you angrily.

“Oh, screw you.”

Fighting for composure, he took a deep breath.

“Look. We are both after the same thing. Given you are so keen on keeping your associates a secret I’m assuming you don’t have any. You work alone, taking private jobs and I bet most of what you do is illegal anyway.”

You opened your mouth to protest but he just kept on talking.

“Johnson is not your real name. You travelled here with a false passport but you never bothered to deregister your old one. (Y/L) (Y/L/N).” Shit. He was good—way too good. “You should be more careful. If I can get a hold of this information, Decker will be able to acquire it too.”

Hissing, you shoved him away from you. He only moved a couple of inches but it helped your growing rage when you started seeing red. “I don’t need your advice, Pine.”

“No,” he agreed darkly. “You don’t. You need my help. Decker trusts you. Keep him occupied and I will get us the information we need to tip him off.”

Now it was your time to scoff. “See, the reason I work alone is that I don’t like to share. I don’t even know you. And quite frankly, I don’t particularly like you.” I do think you are outrageously handsome—but that doesn’t count, you added silently.

“That is mutual.” Pine stated dryly, pursing his lips in the process. “Whoever hired you for this job, you will still get your money. I stay completely out of it.”

You could feel his hot breath on your lips when he spoke. By now, he was so close your faces were only inches apart, both of you whispering quietly.

You had to weigh your options. If you declined his offer, would he bust you? If he got the information—the papers—you were looking for first, you were screwed, your reputation, your safety and your money gone.

If he helped you… you could still claim you had worked alone and not mention him with a word.

“Fine,” you finally spat. “Let’s do it.”

Karl stirred. The bed sheets were rustling—you could hear him groan. Presuming he had simply turned in his sleep, you kept your eyes on Jonathan. Arrogant English bastard.

He nodded. “We have the same goal, (Y/N). I’m not your enemy.”

We’ll see about that.

The sheets rustled again, a body shifting on the bed. Rolling your eyes, you went back inside. If he woke up, Karl had to find you beside him. Jonathan let go of you when he realised but when you entered the bedroom again, the bed was empty.

Shit. Had he gone to the bathroom to throw up? The drawer was open—he might be looking for painkillers.

When you turned, you saw a swift movement from the corner of your eye. Putting on your fake smile, you watched a half-naked Karl approaching you so slowly you feared he was simply sleepwalking.

“I thought you fell asleep on me, baby.” You mused innocently.

Karl growled, his right arm twitching. Did he even hear you?

Only when Jonathan burst into the room, you realised you were in grave danger.

“(Y/N)… (Y/N), move away, he has a gun!”

Ripping your eyes open in fear, you were thrown to the ground right before a metal bullet collided with the wall behind you.

“The key, darling. Give me my fucking key and then, you will tell me who you are and what you want. You and your little friend right here. Tell me now and I might consider killing you both quickly.”

Karl was not joking. And Pine had distracted you long enough for him to wake up. He had most likely reached for his condoms to finish what he had started and then noticed that his key—and you—were gone.

Trembling with fear, you looked up at Jonathan, who still shielded you with his body. His blue eyes were boring into yours. Thanks to the darkness in the room, Karl could barely see you. Jonathan Pine had just saved your life. Maybe he was not so bad after all.

“And now what?” You whispered, looking up at him with fear.

“Hide downstairs, lock yourself in the bathroom. They will have heard the shot.”

“And you?”

Jonathan gave you a strange look, almost as if he was going to sacrifice himself—but you knew he wouldn’t. He was skilled and smart enough to survive this. If he was being witty about this, he’d even get away with the papers and without killing Karl.

“Just go. I will pick you up.”

You had no choice other than to trust him. So you did as you were told and started at the bathroom, locking it behind you just in time before Karl’s security turned around the corner. They were going to check on him… and instead would find Jonathan with him.

You had no idea for how long you cowered in the bathtub, listening to your own heartbeat and flinching at every footstep you heard outside. When did this happen? When had you started relying on this self-confident Englishman? You… hated him… or maybe you just pretended you did because he had done a better job than you had.

Don’t forget… he’d saved your life…

A knock on the door startled you. Biting your lower lip anxiously, you held your breath.

“(Y/N)… it’s me.” Jonathan. Relieved, you climbed out of the bathtub and snatched your high heels. No evidence. You couldn’t leave behind anything here—not if you wanted to stay out of whatever occurred after you were gone again, accepting a cheque.

You unlocked the door only to reveal him panting, his forehead sweaty and his shirt stained with blood—hopefully not his own.

“Are you alright?”

Blinking, you nodded. Why was he asking for your safety? Did he not hate you?

“We go through the back door.” He commanded, his voice gentler than it should probably be.

“Did you get the papers?”

Jonathan paused. Then, he nodded. “Yes. Let’s go.”

You gasped when he reached for your wrist and firmly dragged you with him, knowing you would follow him either way. He acted almost as if he was concerned for you and maybe… maybe he actually was.

“Jonathan?” Your voice was but a mere whisper when you finally left the house and silently closed the door behind you. There was a vehicle waiting for him. Would he take you with him? Or just leave you to yourself now?

The spy turned around, frowning as he waited for you to go on.

“Thank you.”

He only nodded in response, and then surprised you by shoving you towards the car. Only when you were both seated inside and the driver, a friend and co-worker of his, as you learned, started the engine and fled with you, you snapped, wrapping your arms around Jonathan’s body.

Sighing, he held you for a while until you had calmed enough, your shaking dying down ever so slowly. Yeah. He was not so bad after all.

A/N: If you liked this story, would you care to support me a little by buying me a cuppa? I would appreciate it so much! ko-fi.com/sserpente ♥

#jonathan pine #jonathan pine imagine #jonathan pine x you #jonathan pine x reader #the night manager #the night manager imagine #tom hiddleston #jack linden #thomas quince #andrew birch #bbc

[sliceannarbor]

Joseph Becker

Associate Curator of Architecture and Design San Francisco Museum of Modern Art San Francisco, California sfmoma.org

Photo by Matthew Millman

SPECIAL GUEST SERIES

Joseph Becker is associate curator of architecture and design at the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art. He has contributed to over twenty exhibitions at the Museum, including the curation of Tomás Saraceno: Stillness in Motion – Cloud Cities (2016-17), and Field Conditions (2012), as well as the co-curation of Nothing Stable Under Heaven (2018), Typeface to Interface: Graphic Design from the Collection (2016), and Lebbeus Woods, Architect (2013-14). During his 11-year tenure, Joseph has also been responsible for numerous major acquisitions for the Museum’s collection, as well as exhibition design and visual direction of many of its architecture and design exhibitions. He has served on architecture, design, and public art panels; been an invited juror at national architecture programs; led workshops on exhibition and experiential design; moderated public dialogue; and lectured internationally. Joseph earned both a bachelor of architecture and a masters of advanced architectural design (in design theory and critical practice) from the California College of the Arts, where he is currently a visiting professor. When Joseph is not working, you can find him sailing his 1979 Columbia 9.6 on the San Francisco Bay, or working on a slow remodel of his 1948 house in Bernal Heights.

FAVORITES

Book: I really avoid playing favorites, and I love books, so I’ll just say that Reyner Banham’s Los Angeles: The Architecture of Four Ecologies is always on my list of required reading, both because of my interest in architecture and as a native Angeleno. I don’t have much time to read for fun, so I’m currently picking at short stories by George Saunders. Just the right amount of weird.

Destination: Marfa. Worth the journey. I’ve been lucky to visit a handful of times over the past few years, doing research on Donald Judd’s furniture practice. The wide open sky of West Texas has a very special quality.

Motto: I once had a keychain that said “Screw it, Let’s do It.”

Prized possession: Right now I’m really excited about my 1953 O’Keefe and Merritt stove, which I just put into my kitchen. I have many small collections of really wonderful and quirky objects, but I love the four-inch pine needle basket that my mom wove for me at our family forestry-service cabin in the Sierras, where I am right now.

THE QUERY 

Where were you born?

At home in Los Angeles.

What were some of the passions and pastimes of your earlier years?

Certainly when I was a child I was a big Lego fan. But I also took art classes at Dorothy Cannon’s renown studio in North Hollywood, which exposed me to paint and clay and charcoal. She was an amazingly encouraging teacher.

What is your first memory of architecture as an experience?

When I was four, my parents bought their 1930s ranch house across the street from my mom’s sister, and worked with an architect to build an addition. I have early memories of exploring the house under construction, and especially sitting at the bottom of the empty swimming pool and marveling at the scale and curves and very different quality of space inside the concrete shell.

How did you begin to realize your intrigue with architecture and design?

I think I was always interested in building and making things, even as a child. My dad and I used to make model rockets, and we built my bedroom furniture to my designs when I was around 13. I also remember traveling with my parents in the UK when I was 14, and chose to take them to the Design Museum in London because of an ad I saw in the underground. It was a Verner Panton exhibition, and from then on I was hooked on the idea of total environment. The psychedelic aspect was pretty good, too.

Why does this form of artistic expression suit you?

I think I’m interested in the logic of design and architecture – the creative response to problem solving. But I really get excited when the boundaries break down, and the architecture or design response is an artistic critique of societal conditions, and perhaps a vision for an alternative future.

What led to your coming on board with the San Francisco Museum of Art?

I knew I wanted to study architecture, but not necessarily practice it. My interest in art led me to explore curatorial practice as a way to combine the two.

What is your greatest challenge in this role?

Each exhibition or program has unique challenges. Working with living artists is a really exciting challenge – pushing and pulling in a dialogue while keeping their vision pure. I think the greatest challenge is that I never feel like I have enough time for robust scholarship on any exhibition, no matter how far in advance I begin planning.

Is there a project along the way that has presented an important learning curve?

Each project is an opportunity for growth in a different arena. I think my very first project at SFMOMA, which was designing the giant walk-in freezer that housed the Olafur Eliasson ice-covered hydrogen powered race car chassis called Your mobile expectations, set a high bar. The car fit in the freight elevator by two inches and we had a pretty hard time calculating what it would weigh once laden with its frozen shell.

What exhibition remains most memorable, even today?

There are two exhibitions I have curated that I actually see as a continuation of a single idea. Field Conditions (2012) and Tomás Saraceno: Stillness in Motion – Cloud Cities (2017) each deal with pushing the boundaries of architecture as conceptual spatial practice, with foray into the hypothetical and visionary. I worked with some amazing artists in Field Conditions, and was very excited to put drawings by Lebbeus Woods on view that I had studied in undergraduate school. I acquired those drawings for the Museum collection, and then co-curated the first comprehensive survey of Woods’ work after his passing.

How would you describe your creative process?

As a curator, you’re always looking around for new artists and projects, and connecting them to explorations in the past. I think my process is really just about trying to see as much as possible and trusting my instinct when it comes to what I think is interesting, and want to share with the Museum’s audience.

What three tools of the trade can’t you live without?

I’m completely indebted to our museum library, and the ability to access hundreds of amazing publications. Obviously the internet is an indispensable research tool, but I try to not get mesmerized by it – you can get tangential quickly. And without my glasses I’d have a hard time doing anything, so I have to credit LA Eyeworks for keeping me bespectacled with their amazing frames.

How has your aesthetic evolved over the years?

I lean toward simple and beautiful things, often with history, or some sense of timelessness.

Is there an architect/designer living today that you admire most?

For many reasons, I tremendously admire Olafur Eliasson. His multivalent practice spans many of my interests, from complex geometry to color and light. Beyond sculpture, he works in architecture and design, as well as humanitarian and socially driven design work. And his studio culture is really quite incredible, revolving around food and collaboration.

What has been a pivotal period or moment in your life?

I lost the 1907 loft that I had lived in for a decade to a house fire in 2014. It was a 2,000 square foot unfolding architecture project that I had spent ten years building and rebuilding, and was the center of my world. A fire at the other side of the building ended up red-tagging the entire structure, and all the tenants were subsequently evicted. I spent the next few months in formative self reflection, and can attest to the power of pushing through.

Do you have a favorite artistic resource that you turn to?

I spin through a handful of different art, design, and architecture websites. I think biennials and triennials are amazing opportunities to see so many contemporary projects at once.

From where do you draw inspiration?

Inspiration is everywhere, if your eyes are really open.

What’s the best advice you’ve ever received?

Certainly to remain open to new ideas and experiences. Say ‘yes’ until you have to say ‘no.’ This can be problematic when you say ‘yes’ to too many exciting projects. Really, the best advice is to just show up, and see where it goes.

Is there a book or film that has changed you?

I have always been fascinated by Film Noir for its portrayal of architecture, and the city as a character that is laden with nefarious potential. I love the art of storytelling, whether in cinema, poetry, or history.

Who in your life would you like to thank, and for what?

I am in general incredibly grateful for so many people who have had a positive impact on my life, from family to friends and colleagues. Two people I would love to thank, but can’t, would be both of my grandmothers, who were each incredible artists in their own right and taught me how to look, and see, the creative potential inside me and in the world beyond.

What are you working on right now?

I just delivered a commencement address for the graduate programs at the California College of the Arts, so that was something that I had been focusing on until last week. I’m currently wrapping up the details on an exhibition catalogue that I am the co-author of, with my colleague Jennifer Dunlop Fletcher, on The Sea Ranch, which will launch when the show opens at the Museum in December. Next month I’ll open a small show of Steve Frykholm’s playful Summer Picnic Posters for Herman Miller, which he created from 1970 to 1989. And, in two months, I will be opening an exhibition that I am curating on the furniture practice of Donald Judd, which I am very excited about. We will have Judd-designed chairs outside the gallery that our visitors can sit in!

What drives you these days?

I’m coming out of an incredibly busy six months, with opening four exhibitions, teaching, and writing for various projects, so I’m just counting down days until I can take some time off in August.

#joseph becker #@sfmoma #curator #sanfrancisco #art #museum

[hasansonsuzceliktas]

Building a Temple...

Love = God The Anatolian Jam is over. Things are rocking, but nothing's happening. It's such a mess in my head that I just want to hide. I saw photos on Facebook. Some people built something called Topak in Cappadocia, and it's maybe the most beautiful settlement I've ever seen. It's like a mother's womb, and the people there, who smile pleasantly and look beautiful, are called the Obaruhu (the spirit of nomads). Then my life changed. I encountered a beautiful yet tough life after love. I had no energy left for anything else. But the Obaruhu then decided to come near us and help us. Bilge was also coming over, my dearest friend from senior high. Whenever Bilge is there, I laugh. I'm relaxed, and I can be as I am. I see, and I am seen. What's more, Bilge was going to see me in my new life, in my new home and my natural habitat. We were going to play with both the Obaruhu and Bilge, but it didn't happen. I had to leave, so we couldn't play. A year passed before I saw it on Facebook, and Bilge pushed me too. The Obaruhu had decided to build a temple for Topak. It was the most amazing production combination possible in this country. Melodi was coming as well, another darling from high school with the most incredible brain. She's the answer to the question of whether aliens exists, because they do, and Melodi is proof of it. Melodi cannot help but goof around, but I don't mind because of her positive attitude (which is every alien being's right) and her wonderful heart. Çağım might also come over. If Çağım is there, I will feel great, safe, and supported. I feel understood. In my opinion, Çağım is a cross between a squirrel and a mountain.

I was bedridden for a year, and every part of me ached from the immobility. I was creating new records for laziness and fixity. I longed to play with the Obaruhu, Bilge, Melodi, and Çağım, and this weighed on me more than anything else, so I enrolled weeks in advance. I went to Badem Han, where we would build the temple, the day before just so I could chat with my friends. We were reunited. We then sat with Burcu and did not shut up for at least five hours. If it were up to me, I would have talked for five million hours. On the day of the meeting, all the marvelous colors began to pour in. It was just as I had dreamed it: a parade of beautiful people, all unique to themselves and completing each other. We sat in a circle to introduce ourselves, and everyone first expressed their wishes before making small drawings with the colors and elements they wanted. I said the building was merely a vehicle. I was there to play, and I would endeavor to see the beauty in everyone rather than their flaws. I intended to share everything that I had learned, saw, and become. When I said I didn't like to work much, it triggered a few giggles. I drew my volcano, naturally in red where the fiery magma was, and sat back down. I wanted to say much nicer things, but I was so excited that this was all I could manage. Following the circle, we retrieved Bilge's tent, which the strong wind had blown away, and Melodi, Bilge, and I squeezed in it, compensating for the lost time with laughter. In the middle of the night, the only wish that I and Züriye held came true: Çağım, who everybody thought wouldn't be able to make it, joined us. Many people woke up and ran towards Çağım half-sleeping, some fell down as they ran and some hugged him, me among them. Every wise being loves Çağım immensely. It was like a festival itself in the middle of the night. I said to myself, “Okay, now we can truly build a temple of love and unity. You're going to work your ass off, Baraniko.” We woke up at six, Ernie's favorite number and a time I’m more used to going to bed at rather than waking up. Why? We were to play the earth game. The weather is so cold, and my ass felt like it would freeze off. We went to a cemetery shivering, and they covered our eyes. We began to walk in silence, holding on to the person before us. We walked barefoot among pine needles and pebbles on the ground. With the cold things stabbing at my feet, I decided to raise my arms and shout, “Dad! Why did you leave me?” but stopped myself rather than ruin the game. My disdain for being a spoilsport surpassed my urge to schmooze, and once this sweet agony had passed, they placed some earth in our palms. We said one word and put it in the bucket for later use when building the temple. When Burcu said, “Unity,” I leisurely said, “Let there be love.” Maybe you're a bit tired of hearing this, but I have no other issues. Let there be love, and the rest will be easy.

The first day was a warm up, and the building process went very slow. The next day we were flying, though. People were sieving soil, wheeling sand and earth in barrows, and mixing them with water. Others passed mixture-filled buckets from hand to hand in a human chain. Some emptied buckets into bags, while others took measurements or ferried water. A few even just shared their music. It was just like the movie Fight Club. The next day, we went to the shore to play the water game. We first listened to our story from the voice of beauties before heading into the sea and making a circle. We began to play our game of singing songs, all among the surprised but sweet looks of the dear inhabitants of Keşan. Lots of kids were in the sea laughing, playing, and singing. I don't know how to swim, so I wouldn't normally go in the cold sea. What kind of magicians were these Obaruhu? Yet I found myself laughing hysterically, splashing water, repeatedly jumping into the middle of the circle, and singing at the top of my voice. Scorpio–Cancer Baraniko seemed to be slowly finding his self. We continued raising our temple, helping each other out, listening to the stories, tolerating flaws, and sharing our food, drink, and tobacco. We worked in four shifts every day: before breakfast, after breakfast, under the midday sun, and until the sun went down. After lunch, people would offer gifts. Melodi explained sacred geometry one day, for instance. She's been telling me this stuff constantly for 15 years, and I always loved it, although I never really understood it. Until this workshop, I thought my primitive two-dimensional brain was to blame. But then I saw how Merve and Burcu also listened to her with eager eyes and open mouths. At one point, she was talking about something like rombotiko, and we lost a few people to brain hemorrhages. I thought, “Okay, it's not just me. Us mere mortals can only understand about a half of what our dear friend is saying.” One evening, we played the fire game. We first paired up and filled each other's plates with food. Without talking, we then fed each other in turn. Çağım and I, two hairy guys, fed each other in such elegance. My inner voice at first said, “We are so tired. Screw this stupid idea,” but I loved how it all flowed, and we laughed our heads off about it. They then lit the fire, and we all played around it for a while. Then, Aslı, a wonderful and genuine person who had spent a lot of time at Badem Han, began to play with fire and dance. Every time I watched the fire, I wanted to become the fire. As the temple rose up, we began to benefit from its shadow during the daytime, and we used it for shelter at night. Volkan also organized ceremonies inside at night, with many of us smirking in our sleeping bags. Of course, I wasn't active in any of the bedtime stories. I slept approximately three hours throughout the whole workshop. Finally, we played the air game, which involved closing your eyes and letting go of your body in one piece. The main objective was to learn to trust that the people around you would catch you. This was difficult for me. I bent my knees and so on, but I couldn't entirely let go of my body. Then Mukund, a boy from Bombay with a beautiful gaze, saw this Anatolian boy. Organizing the entire group into one circle, he then placed me in the middle. At first I thought, “Shit! I’m so exposed.” Then I said, “Screw it!” and completely let go of myself. To the left and right, to the front and back, I didn't bend any part of my body even a morsel. I didn't hesitate whatsoever. They caught me every time, no matter how many times I did it.

This is how we built the temple. We placed the hexagonal hood and the glass on the roof as well. We couldn't get enough hugs as we parted. We said farewell to everyone, but alas, the final coating was not complete yet. We stayed one more night as the Obaruhu and our high school threesome completed most of the coating. We embraced each and every one of Badem Han staff, especially Aykut, for feeding us, welcoming us as their guests, opening up their hearts to us, and even working alongside us. They finished the remainder of the coating after we left. Bless them. Our temple has two triangular doors, one symbolizing the female and the other the male. Each one of us came through those doors and transformed into something beautiful. From earth, sand, and water, we built something great, but we also built actual temples in each other's hearts, falling, laughing, playing, and crying in unity and in love. Let there be Love. And there is Love. Thank goodness. (For Obaruhu visit: www.obaruhu.org) Read the full article

#anatolia #experiences #goddess #sacred #soul

[thepeanutbutterwizard]

Precipice Chapter 2: Every Whim

Here we go!  In all of its un-betaed glory, Chapter 2! 

I’m really sorry for any major screw-ups in my portrayal of the hospital.  I have never needed to be taken to a hospital for anything worse than mild pneumonia, and Goggle can only get me so far.

Word count: 3281

Chapter 1  Chapter 3

Ford hated waiting.  Waiting meant doing nothing while someone else was working.  Waiting meant being fundamentally useless.  Ford despised the feeling of being useless.  But there was nothing he could do but wait.  So he paced a hole into the waiting room carpet, thinking of everything and nothing.  His gaze drifted around the room, seeing everyone and everything in it, but only half processing it. A thick numb fog clouded his thoughts, made every limb heavy even as he paced a hole into the visitor room carpet.     The clock on the wall ticked in time with his steps.

Dipper and Mabel had fallen asleep curled up together in the same chair in the waiting room, changed into the clean clothes the Corduroy girl had brought for them. Mabel had her head on Dipper's shoulder, and was using her unicorn plush as a cushion. Dipper was sleeping comfortably sitting up, his hat pulled over his face, and a large half finished sweater hanging off of Mabel's knitting needles was blanketed over both of them. Ford was amazed at her ability to knit with her arm in a sling. And the speed that she was able to knit intrigued Ford. It was almost enough to make him feel something other than shock.  Almost, but not quite.

Was it just him, or was the clock getting louder?

Ford stepped around the red headed teen- Wendy apparently- who was sitting cross-legged on the floor. She had procured an axe from somewhere, and was using it to create a growing army of intricate origami figures out of magazine pages.  Some of the figures were normal looking, horses and tigers and the like.  Some were more fantastical; Ford noticed several dragons, at least two Manotaurs, and what looked like a Gremloblin placed throughout the mass of origami.  He didn’t really care. And the clock got louder. The handyman, whom Ford had realized was actually named- Soos? Maybe?- had busied himself by dismantling several tables and chairs and putting them all together into some kind of furniture chimera.  Ford barely glanced at it. The constant tick-tock of the clock was deafening now. Ford stopped and glared at the offending time-piece.  It was as generic and bland as the room they were in.  Simple and round, it glinted in the florescent lights, taunting Ford with each second that passed.  Ford’s hand drifted towards his blaster, the tiniest spark of hate guiding his actions. “Stanford Pines family?”  A nurse walked into the waiting room, reading something off of a clipboard.  He almost dropped the clipboard when he looked up and saw the mess in the waiting room.   “Yes, that’s us.”  Ford stalked over to the frazzled nurse. The man dragged his gaze away from Soos and Wendys creations and met Ford's eyes.  The nurse gave him a quick once over, before extending a hand.  “Am I correct in assuming that you’re Stanford's twin?” Ford stopped short, his mind windmilling.  What was this nurse- oh right.  Stanley was still using Stanford's name.  This was...problematic to say the least.  What do I say?  Stanley is the one who's good at lying!  A small swell of annoyance rose again inside Ford, but it was quickly crushed down by panic and a touch of guilt.  Allright Stanford.  Think-no wait, don’t think!  Just do what Stan would do! “Yes! I am S-stanley.  Stanley Pines, the t-twin brother of Stanford Pines.  Your patient.  I’m his twin.  Stanley.”  Ford squared his shoulders and tucked his hands behind his back.  He sent a silent prayer up to each and every deity he had ever heard of in the multiverse that the nurse didn’t call Ford’s bluff. The nurse raised an eyebrow, but said nothing about Ford’s behavior.  “Well, if you would please follow me, your brother is out of surgery.” Fords heart jumped a little.  “Yes, of course.”  He turns and goes to the twins.  Ford placed his hand on Dipper's shoulder, the six-fingered appendage completely engulfing the boy's shoulder.  “Dipper, Mabel, it’s time to go see Stan.”  His voice is gentle as he softly jostled the two young twins awake.   Mabel was the first to respond.  Her uninjured hand rubbed at her face as she blearily looked up at Ford.  Her words were slurred with drowsiness, and her gaze was unfocused as she spoke.  “S-stan? Whasgoinon?” Ford paused, his heart clenching in his chest as the twins shifted in their seat, waking fully under the bright lights of the waiting room.  Ford’s throat constricted, and his eyes started to prickle for the first time in...he didn’t even know how many years.  Crying had only gotten Ford into trouble in his life, had only gotten him berated by his father for being weak.  Crying had only embarrassed Ford at college, when a particularly rough week of all-nighters had left him a sobbing wreck for Fiddleford to find, hidden in a back corner of the schools pitiable library.  Crying showed weakness, marked him as an easy target, and that was something he couldn’t afford when he was traveling the multiverse.  Ford honestly thought that he had completely lost the ability to cry by now, and yet, he felt it, the pressure building in his head, the difficulty breathing, and he didn’t even know why!   And besides all that, he couldn’t break down, not now, not when he needed to be strong for the kids.  They were only twelve, they shouldn’t have to deal with something as painful as this-this fiasco that they had gone through!  So Ford swallowed his tears, forcing them down and back.  He couldn’t have done anything to stop this from happening, but he could support his family now. “No Mabel dear, it’s Ford.”  He says, mostly keeping the tremor out of his voice. “Oh.  Sorry Grunkle Ford, I thought you were-well, y’know, you two look alot alike.”  Mabel and Dipper were both wide awake now.  A red mark ran across Mabels cheek from where her unicorn plush was pushing into it.  Dipper wiped a line of drool from the corner of his mouth that Ford pretended not to notice. “It’s fine.  I’m sorry to wake you, but Stan is out of surgery.  We can go and see him now.”  Ford hadn’t even finished what he was saying before his niblings had sprang to their feet, drowsiness forgotten.  Dipper swept the book and the unicorn toy up, and Mabel stuffed her knitting project into her sling.  Ford felt like he should tell her not to do that, but as someone who had used a broken arm in a sling to smuggle contraband items through interdimensional customs on multiple occasions and suffered no ill effects, he figured that some yarn and small aluminum tubes wouldn’t aggravate Mabels injury further. “Well, what are we standing around here for, Great-Uncle Ford? Lets go!”  Dipper grabbed Mabels uninjured hand with his good one and lead the way over to the nurse.  Ford realized with a start that Stan’s employees were already standing next to the man.  The only one they were waiting on was Ford.  He stood and joined the group. As they walked through the halls of the hospital, Ford stayed to the back of the group.  Wendy and Soos walked side by side directly ahead of him.  Soos was idly fiddling with one of his tools, and Wendy had that stack of books under her arm.  Ford was still wondering where she had gotten them, and why she even had them in the first place.  But then, Ford had never understood teenagers when he was a teenager himself.  He supposed it would be a challenge to understand a teenage girl for an old man like him.  Dipper and Mabel were walking instep with the nurse, the two young twins practically glued to each other as Mabel peppered the nurse with question after question. “How’s Grunkle Stan?  Is he in pain?  Where did he get hurt?  He isn’t hurt too bad, right?  Did he ask about us?  Oh, he must be so worried about us!  Ohmygoshyoutoldhimwewereokayrightyoudidbecauseifyoudidntthenhesprobablyfreakingoutishefreakingou-”  Mabel was cut off as the nurse came to a stop and she bumped into the mans leg.   Ford looked at where they were in the hospital-and felt his heart stop cold in its chest. They were in the intensive care unit. Oh no. “Now, this is all going to look a little strange, and you might be worried,”  the nurse said, grabbing the doorknob to the room they had stopped in front of  “I assure you, Stan is stable, but-”  the nurse hesitated “But what?”  Ford said, an edge in his voice, making it almost a growl. The nurse took a breath “But I regret to inform you that due to the injuries he sustained, Stanford is currently comatose.”  Then he pushed the door open, leading the way into Stan's hospital room.  Dipper and Mabel barely hesitated before following the nurse, and Stan’s employees were hot on their heels.  But as Ford stepped into the room, the sight his eyes fell upon made him freeze. A man was lying in the bed, wearing a thin hospital gown.  The sheets were pulled up to his armpits, but his arms were lying on top of the sheets, giving Ford a perfect view of the IV lines running into his arms.  The mans right arm was in a cast from shoulder to wrist, his right hip was in a brace, and bandages were wrapped tightly around his head. Bruises were spread across the right side of his face and neck, but those were obscured by the large amounts of bandages.  And was that- “What's in Grunkle Stan's mouth?”  Mabel was the quietest Ford had ever heard her.  He opened his mouth, but nothing came out but a rasping wheeze that was so quiet Ford didn’t know if he had imagined it or not.  The nurse turned toward the younger twins, a practiced look of care and pity on his face, but surprisingly Wendy beat him to it. “It’s called a breathing tube.”  The red head knelt in front of Ford's niblings, looking them directly in the eye.  Her face was pale, but calm, determined, and the depth of understanding in her eyes shocked Ford.  “Y’see, since Stan’s in a coma, he can’t breathe by himself right now.  That,”  Wendy pointed at the offending object that was sticking out of the mans mouth and trailed over to a machine “is gonna do the breathing for him until he wakes up.” “Oh.”  Mabel whispered.  She gripped her brothers hand tighter, and he squoze back.  Their clenched hands were trembling, and their knuckles were white and bloodless.  Impossibly, they got closer together, the two twins only filling enough space for one.  They’re so small, so young!  Ford longed to reach out, to comfort them, to pull them back into his arms and tell them don’t worry, don’t cry, I’m here, this will all be okay in the end, trust me, please but he couldn’t.  Ford was stuck, clutching the doorway with trembling hands, transfixed by the man lying in the hospital bed. “Hey,”  Wendy spoke again, one hand extending and coming to rest on Dipper's shoulder “I know that this is really scary.  I know that you two are worried, and you're probably feeling awful, right?”  Two silent nods answered her “But I promise, we're gonna get through this.  If there's one thing I’ve learned this summer it’s that when you two are together, you can do the impossible.”  Wendy gave a small sad smile “And I’m not gonna lie, it’s gonna feel like Stan waking up is impossible at first.  But -and if my dad asks I never said this- Stan is the toughest old guy I have ever met.  If anyone can pull through this, he can.” “How do you know?”  Dipper blurted out, almost cutting Wendy off  “How do you know that-all that-he’s gonna-how-” “Hey, hey, breath dude.  You don’t wanna pass out on us now, do you?”  Wendy said, squeezing Dipper's shoulder.  The boy took a deep, steadying breath, and Mabel leans even closer into him.  “And how do I know that Stan’s gonna be okay?”  She gives a small, sad chuckle  “I’m a lumberjack, and so are my brothers, and my dad and everyone in my family for as long as people have been cutting down trees.  I’ve got some...unfortunate firsthand experience with this stuff.”  She jerked her head in the direction of the hospital bed. “Hey Mr Dr Pines, are you okay dude?”  The handyman says to Ford.  But Ford barely hears him.  All he can do is stare at the man in the bed, the man that can’t be his brother, the man that is so still and so quiet and so broken and so small, too small to be Stanley, his brother, his twin who was always restless and larger than life and loud and indomitable and so, so, so Stanley, so unmistakably and unapologetically himself and he couldn’t see his brother in the room, he could only see the man, the broken man that had the same face as Stanley and Ford couldn’t- he couldn’t move he couldn’t think he couldn’t-his throat was tightening and his eyes were burning because Stanley was hurt and Ford couldn’t have stopped it, there was no way he could have stopped it and Stanley was hurt and he was full of tubes and coated in plaster like a poorly made piñata and- A thick hand clapped down on Fords shoulder “Dude?”  Ford jumped, his gaze snapping away from Stanley and locking on to Soos, his train of thought blessedly derailed. “Yes.  Yes, I’m fine.”  Ford finally released his grip on the door frame and entered the room, painfully aware of the fact that every eye in the room was on him.  Well, almost every- “Mr Pines?  I have to talk to you about your plan for paying for your brothers treatment.”  The nurse said, looking down at his clipboard. “Yes, what about it?”  Ford said, grounding himself further back into reality.  “And its Dr Pines.” “Well sir, I’ve looked through your brothers records, and he doesn’t have any health insurance.”  The nurse gave Ford a quizzical look, as if he expected Ford to know why Stanley had ignored common sense and sacrificed a few measly dollars a month to take care of himself in case of a major catastrophe like the one they were currently in the middle of.   “Ah.  I see.”  Ford clasped his hands behind his back “How large is the bill so far?” The nurse rattled off a number, and Ford felt his jaw drop involuntarily That’s more money than I’ve made in my entire life! Ford floundered for a moment, before the handyman spoke “Hey, I know where My Pines hides the emergency cash.  And the not-emergency cash.  And the I’m-just-hiding-this-to-feel-like-a-pirate cash.  I don’t know how much there is, but it should at least help.” Mabel gave a little gasp  “And I know for a fact that Grunkle Stan hides cash in a bunch of the attractions in the Shack!  Waddles pantsed the Sascrotch the other week and I found, like, three rolls of twenties stashed in the underpants!” “Really?”  Ford asked  “Stan has all that money hidden around the Shack?” “Dude, you don’t know the half of it!”  Soos said  “Mr Pines doesn’t trust the banks, like, at all dude.  I find money hidden everywhere when I’m fixin up stuff.”    Ford opened his mouth to respond, but the nurse spoke first “I’m sorry, but visiting hours are almost over.  I’m going to have to ask you all to leave.”    There was an outcry at the nurse's words.  No one wanted to leave Stanley alone in the hospital.      Ford spoke above the noise that the children-and the man-child- were making, pleading with the nurse to at least let him stay overnight.  He was, after all, Stan’s next of kin.  He should at least be allowed to do that.  The nurse eventually relented, much to the displeasure of his niblings.    “Grunkle Ford, we wanna stay too!”  Mabel protested  “What if Stan wakes up in the middle of the night and needs a Mabel hug, huh?  What are you going to do without me?”    “And if you don’t come back to the Shack, we can’t stay there by ourselves overnight since were minors.  That’s child endangerment!”  Dipper tacked on    Ford sighed “Look, kids, I know you want to stay here, but I’m sorry, you can’t.  And as for where you’ll spend the night…”  Ford fumbled for a minute before eyeing the handyman “would it be too much trouble for them to stay with you for the night?”    Soos hesitated for a moment, glancing down at the kids scowling faces and vigorously shaking heads, then looked past Ford to where Stan was lying.  The man-child's indecisive expression hardened into resigned determination  “As much as I hate to leave Mr Pines during this trying time, I know that he would want me to take care of the little dudes.  You have my word Mr Dr Pines that no further harm with befall these children while they are in my care.”  He ended his statement with stiff, odd salute.  Seeing such seriousness from the bumbling man-child caught Ford off guard.      Soos had just started to heard Ford’s grumbling niblings out of the hospital room before Wendy stopped the three of them.  “Here.”  She hands over half of the books she brought to Soos, keeping the four largest for herself  “I have the sections that talk about all this stuff-”  she gestures around the room “bookmarked and highlighted.  It’ll help you know more about what Stan’s going through, make it less scary and mysterious, y’know?”  Wendy hung back as Soos and the kids left, and offered the remaining books she had to Ford with a hard look.    Ford couldn’t hold back a scoff as he refused her offer.  “I have twelve PhD’s, I assure you that I don’t need any light reading material to know what's going on with my brother.”  Ford turned away, sinking into the chair the nurse had brought in for him.  He started as the books were dumped unceremoniously over his shoulder and into his lap.  Ford turned to look at Wendy and matched the angry teen glare for glare.    “Look Stan Two, I don’t know what kind of crazy junk you’ve seen and done over the years, and I don’t flippin’ care.  But, y’know, fyi, you aren’t the first and only person to have their own brother comatose after falling 50 feet and landing on their head!”  Wendy turned and stalked to the door, hands jammed into her pockets as she left a slightly stunned Ford behind her.  She paused in the doorway, looking past Ford and at Stanley, with a sad, hard scowl on her face.  Ford could see the first signs of tears in her eyes as she spoke again,  “Look, the books do help.  Just trust me on this.”  And then she left in a whirl of red hair and flannel.    Well.  This is not how I expected this day to end.  Ford thought as he looked back at his brother.  Slowly, gently, almost of its own accord, one of his hands reached out, hovering over Stan's hand, lying rough and wrinkled and scarred in contrast to the pristine, crisp newness of the hospital sheets.  Ford withdrew his hand before making contact, some tiny feeling deep in his gut pulling him back.  With a sigh, Ford flipped open the first book he grabbed, thumbing through the pages to find the first bookmarked section.  He shifted in his seat, getting comfortable and preparing for a long night.

#gravity falls #precipice #precipice au #stan pines #grunkle stan #ford pines #grunkle ford #dipper pines #mabel pines #soos ramirez #wendy corduroy

[imaginingcriminalminds]

Spontaneous Combustion

Title: Spontaneous Combustion Author: totalfanfreak Rating: Content is K+, T for language Prompt/Summary:  Main Character(s): Spencer Reid/ Reader Trigger Warning: None I am aware Word Count: 1500 Beta/Editor: Me Multishot: Probably not Author’s Notes: mentions of anxiety and Asperger’s Morgan arc spoilers?: No

“Spontaneous insanity is the real bliss! It’s sad that we are honored for playing sane, serious, safe, miserable and controlling in this poor world.”  ― Saurabh Sharma

You huffed as you gathered your things from security, you were already cursing yourself from being late, but you couldn’t really be mad since you had decided to come on a whim. Still, you were going to enter the room, and people were going to turn and look due to the interruption.

Doesn’t matter.

It didn’t matter, it was a common occurrence and you would deal with it. You had been stuck in your cave of an office for far too long, and now, looking back, it was sad, you had remained hidden for far too long and it was time to stop. So starting today you declared you were going to be more daring, spontaneous, which was why you were here at a book signing luncheon instead of your usual food truck. Yeah, it didn’t sound too adventurous, but the guest speakers beside the author were actual FBI agents. That was pretty freakin’ wild in itself. Taking a deep breath, you jammed a hand in your pocket, ready to count the items within, in case the attention made you anxious. Opening the door as quietly as you could you had no worries, whoever was at the podium had everyone’s eyes on them. And from the stuttering and microphone blare you understood why.

“H-hi, I a-am here today to talk to you about different paraphilia and how they relate to violent crimes. Can anyone tell me what dendrophilia is?”

Gif by criminalmindsmanic

Where a guy wants to screw a trees and shrubs.

“T-that’s right…a fetish for trees.”

You smiled, you liked him, the way he stuttered. He was a mess up there, but he was real. He wasn’t bad to look at either, though you didn’t know how he’s viewpoint on you would be. But you were here to do something different, and what was the worst that could happen? You’d try to talk to him and he’d say no? The thought of the rejection caused your heart to speed up, yeah, you liked solitude and yeah, you were awkward in speaking, but no one liked the brush off. But you had to say the hell with it, you’d count everything in your pocket and bag but you were tired of living in a shell.

Watching the man stumble and nearly face plant off the step, losing his papers in the process, you went to wait outside, you could at least say hello, and that you enjoyed his lecture. You could, you would, you’d scream later. And you’d cry if you wussed out so you were doing it. Trying to rev yourself up you went to get some water and sit on the bench in the lobby.

Your leg wouldn’t stop jittering, it was like it had a mind of its own right now. You closed your eyes and tried to take in the smells. Some places could overwhelm you, the overuse of perfume, hints of makeup and aftershave, leftover foods and the smell of gas from the cars outside, a lot could turn up your nose. But in here, there a subtlety to the smells, it was clean, with the scent of new clothing and pine needles, the actual kind of pine needles not artificial spray that would have you sneezing, and there was the unmistakable whiff of vanilla and you knew there had to be cupcakes or something nearby.

The banging of the double doors brought you back with a jump, and you were startled to see the reason for your lingering coming through them. Making your wobbly legs lift you up, you counted the coins in your pocket before heading in his direction.

“Um, Dr. R-reid?”

The man turned to look at you in surprise, obviously in his own world as well. You blushed now that his eyes were turned on you, taking note that they were a very nice shade of brown, matching the cropped hair, and jacket. Okay, stop.

“I wanted to say you were very good up there.”

His mouth quirked. “Thanks, it’s not very true, I was a disaster, but it’s very much appreciated.”

“You were a disaster because you were a human being up there?”

Oh, shit. Your mouth filter had broken for a second, and you saw his brows lift, oh, God, Y/N, you have to follow it up now.

“I mean that it’s natural to fumble a little bit, I…I would’ve been terrified up there, probably would’ve gotten sick on everyone.”

Like now, the acid in your stomach was bubbling rapidly, and you wanted to cover your mouth with your shirt.

“Thanks but I think you could probably handle it better than you think.”

“Thank you, uh, I liked the paraphilia, I may have a new list to go over now.”

“You like lists?”

“Yeah, I’m kind of weird that way.”

“It’s not weird at all!”

His jubilant tone had your eyes widen and you took a step back, though a smile came across your face.

“Sorry, I’m a tad weird too. Overly so, if you ask my friends.”

“I’m glad…I mean, I wouldn’t have had the courage to talk to you if you weren’t a little odd.”

He cocked his head. “Why not?”

“Come on, I told you I’m weird, it’ll be kind of obvious if you stand with me long enough. Not to mention the fact you’re in the FBI, us small town folk can’t compete.”

You meant it as a joke but from his change in expression you knew he didn’t take it like that.

“I would’ve talked to you regardless.”

“I’m sorry, I meant it to be –“

“I know, damn, I’m sorry I cut you off. I do that too much too.”

“It’s okay, so do I.”

“May I ask what it is you do, Miss Small Town?”

You face became even more red. “I’m a developer on the main floor plans at CyberKinetics.”

His brows rose to his hairline. “CyberKinetics? Aren’t you guys making smart sensors for artificial limbs?”

“It’s in the middle stages, yeah, we, um, with 3D printing and everything on the rise, we’re hoping we’ll be able to come out with prototypes by next fall.”

You could tell he was excited. “Weren’t you able to make a prototype of a hand for a veteran? It said in the article you were able to link it with the nerve endings and they could control it and feel it just as effectively as their actual limb.”

Yep, shirt collar over face now. You were having to hold your hands down, all the attention was becoming too much. “Yeah, but the chip inside went out in less than a month, we want something to last, not something that will need charging or a new chip implanted in it.”

“I understand, you want it to be as natural as possible.”

“Yeah, I’m saying that a lot sorry. I’m also not as big in the project as you’re thinking, I’m just an outliner, I stay in my office most days and everyone else actually tries to use and demonstrate the findings.”

“It’s a bigger job than you think; you’re going to change the world.”

You were tugging your collar with a hand. “A small footprint in the sand, what about you? You get to change the world all the time.”

“I guess my footprints are small too, it takes many feet to make a difference…that sounded cheesy didn’t it?”

You shrugged. “Probably, but I love cheese so…”

You tittered on your feet before your eyes darted back to his. “Look, I don’t do this, I’m not one for this but, uh, I know you probably need to be somewhere soon, but –“

You rummaged in your pocket before your fingers hit the edge of your card. “Um, if you ever wanted to go over lists, I’m more into phobias now, but we could always compare that to the different philias if you wanted. I just –“

“I’d love to, um, I mean, we could go now if you wanted.”

The hope in his eyes and the way his own hands fidgeted made your breath catch. “Now? Y-you don’t have to help sign books or something?”

He shook his head smiling. “Nope, I have to tell my colleague where I’m going so she won’t worry, but then I’m all yours.”

All mine?

He seemed to catch his words too, the tips of his ears beginning to scald.

“Do you like coffee? I, um, I like books and coffee and the library close to hear has a great selection of both if you want to that is.”

He grinned. “I adore both those things, Y/N.”

Your eyes widened. “I didn’t give you my name did I?”

He flashed the card. “It’s okay. I haven’t given you mine either. I prefer Spencer to Dr. Reid.”

You nodded, a smile playing on your lips. “Okay, Spencer I’ll be right here.”

“I won’t be far she’s talking to some people over there.”

You watched him sprint with his bag bobbing to the woman that was seated on stage with him. She was beautiful, were all FBI agents good looking? Was that a criteria? Being stuck in the office with a computer all the time your friends and colleagues were used to finding you with no make-up and unkempt clothes and hair. On more than one occasion staying all night and hitting a breakthrough into the afternoon with just your pajamas on. As Spencer came back towards you, you noticed the woman was looking at you now. Your shoulders squeezed, but lessened when she smiled, giving you a small wave. You waved back.

“Ready?”

You nodded, gathering your wits and bag as he steered you out the door. You both decided on a cab, and you regretted it as soon as you sat. The close proximity was too much and you finally buried your nose in your shirt, as your hand went to your pocket.

“You cold?”

You looked to him in your peripheral vision, and shook your head.

“I’m s-sorry. I should’ve said, but I was afraid you’d say no to coming, I get nervous easily, and I –“

“It’s okay I understand, i-it’s taken me a very long time to get to this point but I still have a lot of lapses and get anxious as well. And I interrupted you again, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, I’ll tally them up so I know how many times I can interject you.”

He grinned, but then his face turned serious. “Would it be okay if –?”

His hand came slowly towards your face, him trying to gently tug the fabric under your lips.

“I understand if you’re too nervous too, but you do have a very lovely face.”

He was going to have to stop or your eyes would pop out.

“Thank you, so do you.”

He grinned, and as you approached the stop he got out and came to open your door.

“A s-sweet talker and a gentleman.”

He shrugged timid. “I try.”

“So coffee or books first?”

“Either sounds good.”

You usually didn’t do it, but the staff had known you for so long they wouldn’t mind you browsing the stacks with some coffee. Settling on a dark roast you put some Splenda in as he began dumping sugar into his.

“Sweet tooth?”

“Oh, yeah, you could say that, I don’t care for the bitterness so I overcompensate with sugar.”

You chanced a laugh and seeing him smile you continued. “You could always get one of those dessert coffees.”

“No, thank you, I like them sweet, not diabetic coma sweet.”

Motioning for him to follow, you both began to get lost in the labyrinth of books.

“You must be a big shot here; I’ve never been able to go around a library with a drink in my hand.”

You shrugged it off. “I used to volunteer all the time here when I was younger. They know me well enough that I’ll be careful as well as anyone I bring in. You seem like someone who respects books.”

“I do.”

“What about e-books?”

“Oh, God.”

Exasperation was in his tone and you laughed again. “Good. I love my job but I’d much rather have a physical book in my hand than a tablet.”

“I’m so glad for that, we’re becoming a rarity.”

“We are, antiques.”

You both grinned at one another, before the stare became too intense and you looked away.

“So where are we exactly?”

“In one of my favorite sections.”

Holding out a book you pointed to the label, his brow arching.

“YA? You like young adult books?”

You placed a hand on your hip in mock anger. “Oh, so because I’m past the age I cannot enjoy them?”

“No, I didn’t mean it like that –“

“Have you ever read Neal Shusterman?”

“No.”

“Here you go then. And that’s one interjection to me now.”

He scanned the book you had given him, pursing his bottom lip before going to a chair. You watched as he flipped the book open and with his index finger guiding him began to turn the pages at an alarming speed.

“Oh, you’re one of those, are you?”

“One of those?”

“A speed demon, I’ve only met a few, but they always made me look bad during the summer programs here. Like three hundred books to my seventy-five bad.”

He grinned his eyes returning to the page. “That’s still impressive.”

“Thank you. I’ll let you revel in the awesomeness in peace.”

He watched you a moment, hoping you weren’t leaving, his eyes returning to the book when you settled with one of your own opposite him. You had only gotten a few chapters into a Lemony Snicket when he closed the book.

“So?”

“That was very interesting, it was sci-fi, but also a lot of current events.”

“So is interesting good or –“

“I really liked it, there’s more too, isn’t there?”

“Yep, they’re over there, I’m sure you could knock them out before we finish our coffee, then we can get more and debate.”

He grinned. “That sounds like a plan.”

As he went to collect the remaining books his phone started to beep, and you had to force down the reprimand of having it on in a library. You knew with his kind of job it had to be on, but the habit was there. His tone was slightly annoyed and he sighed as he hung up.

“I have to go.”

“Oh.”

“I really don’t want to.”

“I understand. Do you…are you going to take the books with you, at least?”

“Yeah, yes, that’d be good, then we can debate when we go out again.”

“Again, I haven’t scared you away?”

He laughed. “Not in the slightest. We’re rarities, remember, we have to stick together.”

“I suppose we do, um, I guess –“

“What?”

“Before I lose my nerve I guess I should –“

Standing on tiptoes, you brushed your lips along his cheek, taking in the smooth, warm texture.

Blushing, you covered your mouth again. He stared at you a long moment.

“Well, before I lose my nerve…”

He tugged the material down, swooping quickly and planting a chaste kiss on your lips.

You both stared at each other, and you wondered if he’d kiss you again, hell, you were about to go in yourself. But his phone started beeping again.

“Son of a bitch!”

You giggled, causing him to smile at you. “I’ll call you as soon as I can okay?”

“Okay. Be careful. Protect those books.”

“With my life. I’ll see you soon, Y/N.”

And with one last look behind him, he was out of view. Letting you take the opportunity to collapse back in a chair before you fainted.

#Criminal Minds #ICM #drabble submission #Reid #Spencer Reid #Reid ds #reader insert #totalfanfreak #t #anxiety #anxiety Reid #speech audience public speaking #speech audience public speaking Reid #submission

[thecoroutfitters]

Written by R. Ann Parris on The Prepper Journal.

Starting, expanding and maintaining a garden can be expensive, but it doesn’t have to be. From developing and increasing soil tilth and fertility to what we grow in and the tools we use, there are plenty of ways to save money. Some of them are handy for saving time, too.

Free Fertilizers

Leaf mold and compost can be done in any sized yard, just about, even without turning to keyhole gardens, worm towers, or tumbling bins that speed the process and keep it compact.

Mow over leaves or rake them up whole, stick them in a bag, and in 3-15 months there’s rich organic matter full of nutrients to serve as powerhouse amendments and mulch. Composting can also be done by digging a trench right in our gardens, covering it as we go.

There are still easier ways to boost our gardens.

We can add coffee and tea right to the surfaces of pots or planters or plants out in larger plots. Leftover brewer’s mash also works, although there’s a bit of a smell. Algae is a powerhouse of nutrients, and can also be collected and spread right on the surface around our plants.

Mulches

Mulching helps us in numerous ways, making soils, crops and our time much more productive. Different types of mulching accomplish different things, but there are freebie and lower-cost options available for almost anyone.

Cardboard from liquor and appliance stores or newspaper and shredded paper we source from recycling bins are excellent weed exclusion barriers for both rows or beds and for walkways.

Grass clippings can form dense mats that also function as a weed barrier. I typically only use them around perennials (I don’t love the decomp and they typically have seed heads by the time I mow). However, others very successfully use them in the garden.

Just poke them with a hay fork or run a weasel over the top (just enough to puncture, not really stirring it), because that mat solidifies much like shredded office paper, and can create a rain/irrigation barrier and anaerobic conditions.

If we’re after lowered irrigation and evaporation, or the ability to water faster, straw, leaves, pine needles, and chipped wood all work well.

If you’re buying either straw or bagged bark mulch, comparison shop locations, and check out alternatives such as shredded and flake animal bedding.

When our local Big Box and smaller stores put “real” bark mulch on sale, it’s typically four or five for $10, working out to be about $1-$1.25 per cubic foot (some are doing bags of 1.75 cu/ft instead of 2 cu/ft now, so watch that, too).

Tractor Supply, Fleet Mills Farm, and others all carry animal bedding at about $6-$8 for 8-10 cubic feet, working out to well under $1 cu/ft.

That pine bedding is less likely to have odd bits of painted furniture and big chunks left in it, too, and is typically heat treated and animal safe, making it a good option for people who worry over chemicals in their gardens.

It’s also light to carry and haul, even though it’s tight packed, is less messy to spread with less dust/mud in it, seems less attractive to slugs and ants, and eliminates the big chunks that poke holes in the bags.

Buying in loose “bulk” loads by the bucket, pickup bed, tarp-lined trunk, or dump-truck drop-off can also help lower costs if no DIY options are available.

They’ll all last differing amounts of time by climate and soil health (the happier and more active our soil biology, the faster our mulches get incorporated into the O layer).

Woody types and whole leaves last longest; green leaves and grass clippings the shortest. Newspaper and cardboard typically fall in the middle. The depth we use also affects lifespan – deeper layers last longer.

Tool Shopping

Depending on what we already have, tools can really add to the cost of setting up a garden shed. Buying secondhand can significantly reduce outlay.

Many pawn shops have sections with our basic construction tools (see if you can get a 7-10 day if not a 30-day return/exchange/credit guarantee on power tools). Some thrift stores will also periodically carry garden-oriented and basic household-yard management tools, but it’s usually worth calling instead of popping in to find out

Flea markets, yard sales, and estate sales are even more likely to yield everything from our rakes and spades to clippers and pruners.

While shopping for wheelbarrows or garden carts and cultivators or watering cans, repeatedly scan the full materials list for anything we’re building, and stay open to suggestion.

Pre-owned step ladders, carpenter’s squares, levels, and somebody’s can/jar of mixed nails or screws can seriously reduce our Lowes/ACE/Walmart bill. High-test fishing line and rotten electrical cords can form trellises and plant ties instead of screws/nails or cord, sheets can be slit for plant ties or used as frost blankets, loose-woven curtains become bug barriers, and old hoses work as row cover supports or drip irrigation lines, further reducing the cost of our builds, expansions, and upgrades.

Internet Hunting & Gathering

We can source all sorts of materials for gardens without paying a penny. Check classifieds for yard sales, too – near the end of the day and the next day, many become open to deep discounts and there’s a fair chance of curbside pickups.

All sorts of furniture comes apart to help us build beds or serve as stakes. In other cases there are blankets, curtains, or clothing that works as mulch, hoses and tubing we can repurpose, or specific tools for breaking ground, building, or maintaining our veggies.

Bed frames, old bikes, and mattress springs become trellises or fencing. Canoes, bathtubs, sinks, and totes can be planters or rain “barrels”. Laundry baskets, clothing and shoe organizers, lamp shades, cookie jars, bookcases, and even boots can also serve as planters. 

Baby pools, trampolines, buckets, and pallets have entire articles and whole websites devoted to their usefulness, many of which apply to the yard and garden.

Whatever we’re looking for, hit the internet to see if there’s a same-shaped item that can be had simply for detouring on our way to work or while we’re out shopping and running around anyway.

Trash to Tasty Treasures

While we’re poking around upcycling, don’t forget to eyeball recycling bins and broken goodies that can have a very different life. Hollow bed frames or busted lamps can the watering tubes for sub-irrigated planters, but so can plastic bottles. 

There’s a million and five ways to turn former food containers into both irrigation assists and small container gardens for herbs, companion flowers, strawberries, greens, and peas.

Everything from puppy-chewed wicker baskets to badly worn jeans can be planted in, and curtains, blankets, or badly stained and ripped towels or clothes all work as weed exclusion cloth in our gardens, or can be rigged to provide shade or frost protection, keep mosquitoes out of our water catchment, or serve as wicks and water sinks for our planters and beds.

Sticks & Saplings

If we don’t generate our own, chances are, somewhere nearby somebody is pruning trees or there’s a road verge, power line cut, or abandoned pasture in early stages of succession. Early succession means small saplings that are nice and straight, and pruning means smaller branches we can use to fill in around them.

With those offerings, we can build beds several different ways, provide supports for our plants, and fence it all in.

With smaller, supple sticks, we can also make squirrel and bird exclusions and frames to support netting around brassicas and berries, or form the hoops for season extenders.

(Bamboo is also a good one if you see any driving around somewhere – don’t plant it.)

Those freebie sticks can also be easily cobbled into frames for curbside pickup windows and storm door screens, creating cold frames and insect exclusions for beds and rows.

Cheap Out to Do More

There’s plenty to spend money on when it comes to preparedness. Starting, expanding, and maintaining gardens are only part of the draw on our finances and time. From our soil amendments to garden tools and equipment, taking a frugal route can alleviate some of the inputs required, so we can produce more groceries, faster, and with less stress to our budgets.

The “fugly” solutions can be of issue for some, although there’s usually a relatively inexpensive fix (just about anything can be painted and-or tied up in old Goodwill or yard sale sheets/curtains, or surrounded by old house paneling).

Sourcing lower-cost items and learning to see things anew has other advantages as well, especially for preppers. Both personal crises and national/international issues can upset usual supply lines. Training ourselves to accomplish our goals with whatever’s at hand is a pretty good life skill across the board, and even handier in tough times.

These are just a handful of ways we can apply that to our gardens, from secondhand shopping to freebies. Even just gardening, there are plenty of others. Before spending, run some searches to see how others are saving money on the same project.

Be sure to check out The Prepper Journal Store and follow The Prepper Journal on Facebook!

The post Survival Gardening: Cutting Costs appeared first on The Prepper Journal.

from The Prepper Journal Don't forget to visit the store and pick up some gear at The COR Outfitters. How prepared are you for emergencies? #SurvivalFirestarter #SurvivalBugOutBackpack #PrepperSurvivalPack #SHTFGear #SHTFBag

#SHTF #TEOTWAWKI #MARTIALLAW #BUGOUT #PREPPERBAG #USAF #USSOCOM #ARMY #NAVY #SurvivalFirestarter #Sur