#but sometimes history is just about the joy of a good waffle

[kissmefriendly]

Okay, the little “History is…” talk in the new Amelia Project is making me emotional. Because, as a history buff, my absolute favourite part of history IS the people and the individual stories! One of my favourite things is to read the correspondences of people who never thought that their stories would ever be worth telling or would be important to the historical record.

“History is just wars and dates.”

“No. It’s people! It’s like… it’s like… what is it like? It’s like reading sci-fi but instead of the future it’s the past. But it’s still all stories and cultures and people and they’re different and you never really meet any of them-“

It’s such a lovely way of putting it. And, as Kozlowski points out, the past is still tangible and still impacts and exists in our modern world. Even if it bears little resemblance to what it once was 100 or even 500 years ago. Wars and dates are how we categorise the past, what we define eras by. But it does not give an accurate representation of the living, human parts of the world. How people still played practical jokes, how cultures were evolving or clinging to stay alive, or how for all of time people have always been here just as we are now. Just in different settings. And you know what, that’s beautiful.

The past is horrific and brutal and ugly. It’s also inspiring and worth remembering the stories that make it all up, the threads in the tapestry that is continuing to be woven. It’s about significant names such as Moliere and his death but it SIMULTANEOUSLY about the joy of that one day you found the perfect waffle.

[docholligay]

Tracer/Emily “on a scar”

Talk about stuff I've meant to write for ages, this moment is finally out in the world. ANYWAY THANK YOU 1600ish words, all of my OW universe is here.

Tracer kissed her shoulder.

It should have felt good. She wanted it to feel good. She was incredibly attracted to Tracer, who had been a perfect lady over the past few weeks. Tracer, who was handsome and charming and gallant, who had treated her to dinner and walks in the park and made her laugh with all her stories, brought her flowers and told her she looked wonderful in purple, who had never invited herself up even though her eyes clearly wanted to be invited up.

But instead, there was a sort of deep grim that lapped at the corner of her mind. Emily was not good with women. She wasn’t good with anyone really, over the age of six, she thought, quiet and shy and awkward, the way she’s been all of her life. She wanted this, and she was afraid of it. She was not a casual person. Sometimes she wished she were.

The hard part, for Emily, was knowing when to tell someone. When she had been younger, it had been easy to blame her being trans for every ounce of hesitation she felt in a public setting, for every stumble through a conversation, and every bad date where her calls were never returned. It some ways, it had made things easier, to know that there was an immutable reason for such things, but life is rarely so kind, and she had met so many other women like her who glittered and had full dance cards, who lived life loudly.

So her own hated timidness had to, at least in some capacity, be an organic consequence of being Emily McNair, rather than anything else. It was disappointing.

But because she was Emily McNair, and because she had no idea of what it meant to be casual, and because she, like the silly fool that she was, was dangerously close to being truly in love with Tracer, she had to tell her. She wanted to tell her. Because if she was going to love Tracer, she had to know that Tracer could love all of her, even her history.

She tried not to expect too much of people in that vein.

“Em?” Tracer pulled away from her, ‘Can’t ‘elp but notice you don’t seem particularly engaged. You,” she seemed disappointed, “you not want to?”

“Oh, Lena, I do, but it’s only..” She tucked her hair behind her ear, “I have to speak to you, first.”

Her eyes darted around the room. “What ‘ave I done? Or not done?”

“No, no, of course no. It’s only me.”

“Alright. All ears.”

Emily was sure there had to be a perfect way of doing this, but over the twenty odd years of her life, she had never quite found it. Words were, most people would agree, not Emily’s strong suit, and generally she was as content to listen to others talk as they were. The handful of times she had gotten far enough to want to tell someone, it had never come out the way she’d imagined, and as Tracer looked at her, she realized that new and better speech she kept planning wasn’t going to reveal itself this time either.

“I’m trans. I just--thought you should know, before.” She swallowed and looked off to the side, waiting.

Tracer rocked back on her heels and looked at Emily.

“Is that all? Doesn’t matter, I don’t care about that,” she stopped for a moment, “Sorry. You know,” she tilted her head quickly and leaned forward, trying to put herself back into Emily’s gaze, “it’s just now occurred to me why me Dad put it that way when I told ‘im I was gay, can’t really think of a better way to say it--suppose it didn’t urt that ‘e wasn’t the slightest bit surprised by the news--but wasn’t helpful to me then either.” She took Emily’s hand. “Thank you for telling me. I feel all the same about you as I did. I think you are absolutely beautiful, and I cannot believe me luck, sitting on the sofa with you. You ‘ave no reason to be shy with me. Still buzzing about being invited up, love.”

Emily let her shoulders relax a little. “I’m shy with everyone.”

“I ‘ope sincerely that it’s not that people ‘ave been cruel to you.”

“Not, I think I’m just a bit awkward, I mean,” Emily shook her head. “Most people haven’t known since I left school. But I don’t much,” she fiddled with the strap of her dress, “you know, see women.”

Tracer smiled. “Right. Let me show you something.”

She slipped her shirt off under her CA with a speed and grace Emily would not have guessed was possible, leaving only her CA and a sports bra. The first thing she noticed were the bright toucans on Tracer’s bra. The second thing she noticed was that Tracer was as spectacularly toned as she might have guessed given her quick strength, and she blushed.

The third thing she noticed were two deep and heavily puckered scars, right at the edge of her rib cage. Her eyes widened and she brought a hand to her mouth, without thinking, and then immediately realized Tracer must be seeing her, after being so kind to Emily, showing shock, and she might think it was disgust--

But Tracer gave that loud peal of a laugh that Emily loved so much. “I know! Terrible, innit? Man shot me.” She scowled a moment. “Thought ‘e was me friend, once upon a time, but ‘e did disabuse me of that notion, as Fareeha put it, you know, love, for all the times she pretends she doesn’t understand a bloody thing I’m saying she manages to put up quite the English vocabulary when it suits her, right? Right, absolute tosh--listen to me waffling on, me Dad always said I could talk for England--what I mean is, love, you ain’t the only one with a thing or two unusual. Say nothing about the machinery. I’m loads of things to get used to, right? So you and I are of a kind. Me more than you, even, ‘ave no doubt you look better with your clothes off than me, if you don’t mind me saying so, right? So you never need be shy with me, for I’ll always do me best. I ‘ave no doubt that I will say or do something unbelievably bloody stupid, and when that happens, I want you to say, ‘Lena, you bloody stupid cunt,” Emily laughed and shook her head, “--No love, I’m being very serious just now--Lena, don’t do that” and then I won’t.”

Emily looked at her. Tracer’s eyes were bright and sparkling, but full of sincerity. Even now, she had that little resting smile on her face that Emily had come to realize just sat there, as unhappiness did on others. There was something about Tracer that drew Emily in, that made her feel safe, and suddenly it felt true, that someone like Tracer could not mind. Suddenly it seemed silly to Emily that anyone had ever minded at all. She had so many explanations planned out, ways to make it okay for Tracer and assure her that there wasn’t much different about Emily, but it all seemed completely unnecessary in the moment.

She had been honest, when she said she didn’t care.

Emily reached her hand out and brushed her fingertips against the deep crater on Tracer’s stomach, and Tracer did not flinch away from her touch, even for a moment.

“It must have hurt terribly.”

Tracer shook her head. “You know, actually, I lost a great deal of blood very quickly, which doesn’t necessarily recommend itself but I will say made the pain a bit of a non-issue.” She laughed again. “Honestly, Winston’s more traumatized by it than I am, I only remember little bits of the thing. Lost some of me liver though, and I am sore about that, as I make quite a bit of use of it,” she looked down, “ as you can see by the fact that I lack a bit in the definition department.”

“You’re very handsome, Lena.” Emily said, still looking at the scar, unable to look Tracer in the eye when she said it.

“Well, you’re kind to say so.” Tracer put her hand on top of Emily’s. “I still am keen to root about the cabbages, so to speak, and I want you to know I won’t be put off so easily in future,” she grinned, “but if you’d rather not tonight, I understand that, as well.”

“Oh, but I don’t want you to go!”

Tracer took Emily by the shoulders. “I can stay then, love. ‘Appy to ‘ear it. Can stay all night, if you like. But we don’t ‘ave to do nothing.”

Emily leaned forward and put her head on Tracer’s shoulder, letting herself fall into her embrace. Tracer kissed her forehead.

“We can stay just like this, love.”

I love you, she wanted to say, I love you, and I feel excited and happy and utterly terrified at the fact. But, she reasoned, she had tripped over her own tongue enough for one evening, and in this moment, she thought she would have plenty of other chances. Tracer would stay. She kissed Tracer’s cheek and settled into her arms as Tracer laid back against the couch.

“You know, the scars aren’t even the worst of it, with me. ‘Ardware neither.”

“Oh?”

“Right, there’s the entirety of me personality to deal with, as well. Messy. Can’t pay attention to save me own life, sometimes quite literally, depending on who you ask. Touch of P--well, honestly, just ask Fareeha, when you meet her, she’s got a list of me negative qualities, I think. Probably alphabetized. Maybe categorical.”

Emily felt herself melt into Tracer and allowed herself the joy of a laugh.

The cool wind of October shook the trees outside, and litter blew along the street next to her shabby little London flat, and Emily had never been happier.

[septiembrre]

I'm a little late but I just saw your post from a year ago about latinx rep in good girls and its sad reflecting back on it and how the show could've done better. Rio was just another stereotype, I hate how he was ambitiously latino and there was just no connection to his culture. Was he first, 2nd, or 3rd Gen? If he was 1st Gen it didn't make sense to have the family speak English. One thing that always annoyed me is how OOC he was at times and how the writers purposely made him out to be like some brown aggressive misogynistic man. They didn't bother making him complex. In a way I'm glad the show got canceled. As a Mexican woman the way Rio was written was racist.

Wah, I’ve been sitting on answering your ask. I wanted to tease your ask apart and respond to it sentence by sentence. But... my brain kept rechazandolo, so now I have feelings dump instead.

Since Good Girls ended, I have been parsing through how I feel about S4 and GG overall — sometimes more positively, sometimes more negatively. Then, I flip to reminding myself it’s not that serious (it's just tv! this is supposed to be my leisure activity!). Then, I waffle back to reflecting.

So, no textual analysis just feels and whining under the cut. I know folks are still mourning the end of the show and I don't want to yuck anyone's yum. Tagging with #ggnegativity.

My short answer is that Good Girls is my beloved, sometimes joyful, sometimes hurtful, complicated little show. Even now that we’re no longer getting new episodes I’m wary of sifting through the information we have about Rio because it’s a mess and it seems like a lot of his character was poorly thought out (ahem, all those dumb messages from Bill Krebs confirming multiple instances of lack of intentionality or care!).

I say this because I was tempted to start responding to you by riffing off of your comment with, “y'know, now that you say that, I think he’s third or fourth gen…”, pero who cares? And the point was never specifically about what gen he is, or even more specifically about... lol, I was going to say it doesn't matter what nationality he was, they just needed to pick one. Ugh, but the wording of that is too glib. The lack of intentionality behind these details feels sanitized to me, it feels very white gaze, it feels lazy.

However, I could have forgiven a lot of this weak character construction if his baseline, plot-related characterization on-screen was more consistent. But, Rio was often used as a plot device in a way that often fell flat for me, a weekly recurring bogeyman whether his antagonism made sense or not. On one hand, I feel for the creative team, because I think they were in a hard place, trying to avoid romanticizing Rio, and trying to seemingly backtrack the sexualization of him in Season 2, but... Idk, it's complicated.

Retrospectively, it’s sitting with me how much Good Girls is rooted in whiteness. While it's something I discerned before (lol, most obviously with 2x13 and in S3 with Lucy's disposability), you know how some shows get to their third or fourth season and finally start investing in their marginalized characters? It’s a crappy thing to hold out hope for, they're crumbs! But, I was. And we did get some Rio worldbuilding. But, ultimately, it felt weak to me -- under-conceptualized or under-worked.

For example, I liked Nick as a Bigger Bad who drove Rio and Beth together. I also thought that Nick's non-existent moral code was a lovely foil to Rio's, and that this contrast humanized Rio in a way that he needed. It also cast a new light on Rio's behavior of the earlier seasons, outside of Beth's perception in a way that I thought was healthy and needed. Great, meaty stuff! However, Nick and Rio's relationship came across as shallow to me. There really did not seem to be a lived-in quality to their scenes. The show really struggled with that element overall -- even with the three lead protagonists (their decades-long history with each other and interactions between their families being largely absent). I wonder why they made that choice.

It's strange because on the flip side we got a hefty amount of contextualization for MLM guy Vance and Annie's bf Kevin... Even that cop who Mick killed! All white men, too.

Me da pena.

Or maybe the thing that bothers me is that those scenes between Nick and Rio didn't center Rio's perspective effectively? Despite the one-on-one scenes being outside of Beth's framing (Rio being a secondary character typically tethered to Beth's story arc), there still was a lot of distance between Rio and the viewer? Like I think of Vance in his kitchen with his wife and child, and the way we as viewers were brought into that to empathize with him, and I think of the distance of Nick+Rio boxing scene or the scenes at the bar. Argh! It's hard to pinpoint without the textual analysis I feel too grumpy to do. It was such a narrative choice to keep Rio aloof and I side-eye it.

Anyway --

Overall, the writing room/show creators/decision-makers didn't seem to consider Latine/x/a/o viewers throughout the crafting of Good Girls and that sucks. It really feels like I'm being told to conform to the white gaze in watching the show, and after 2x13 that makes me feel prickly and defensive. A part of me yearns to do a rewatch to map Rio’s character (and inconsistencies) but I still yield joy from Good Girls — it’s been my main comfort story during the pandemic. I also rendered joy from Season 4 specifically — some of those scenes between the leads at the end were phenom!!

I am leaning into what's bringing me joy right now, so I feel hesitant to stew in critique, even while I also feel some sort of need to make sense of the hurtful racializations. I have a compulsion to write them all down on the same post or list -- somewhere where I can see them all at once and understand. But, at the moment, it’s not a use of my time and energy that feels good. Opting into fics and writing is bringing me a lot of joy during hard times.

I have to close with one final whine, that I am SO fatigued with television options right now. I find myself desperately wishing for more TV out there whose priority audience isn't only white folks. Good Girls isn't alone in its treatment of Latinx characters, or alone in mishandling characters of color or gay characters, or prioritization of empathy for white het male characters, but certainly, creating something more thoughtful shouldn't be so hard.

[aphrodites-law]

A Bit of Clarity 🍂 (10/?) The visions had started last autumn, a year ago now. It had caused a bit of chaos for some, a bit of clarity for others. Two days ago, Clarke Griffin had been perfectly fine managing both her Café and her stress. But now she was curious - so deeply curious about the vision of herself entwined with the aloof Lexa Woods that it was leading her to complete distraction. (ao3)

[part 1] [part 2] [part 3] [part 4] [part 5] [part 6] [part 7] [part 8] [part 9]

The play wasn't horrible by any stretch of the imagination. It was the most fun Clarke had had in a long time. She laughed so hard at parts that tears sprung to her eyes and her cheeks started to hurt by the end of it. The 1920s décor and costumes were stunning, the performances captivating, and the story the perfect balance between humor and social commentary. Even Lexa, who already knew the jokes and twists, still laughed loudly.

Clarke took as much joy from the sound as she did the play. When the curtain fell for the last time and the lights fully came on, she looked over at Lexa and found herself captivated. Lexa was still clapping for her cousin’s success, her face beaming with pride, and Clarke couldn’t really explain why it made her adore this woman so much more.

"Are you hungry?" Lexa asked her.

Clarke nodded mutely, unsure what to do with the intensity of her feelings. She let Lexa take her hand and lead her out of the theater, where the crowd spilled out of the great glass doors.

Cocoa Street was the longest street in Costial, cutting through the city in a curving fashion. Clarke's favorite part was the food trucks; rows of them on both sides with their own specialties and flair. You could very well order duck à l'orange with mashed pumpkin at one truck and a burger with fries at the next one. The Italian ice cream truck was between the rival crab cake trucks and the Noodle Brothers were right next to the Pizza Sisters. There were lines wherever you went, sometimes even street performers to soften the blow of the waiting time. It was absurd and it was wonderful.

They ate Chicago-style hot dogs and curly fries, slowly walking down the street as they laughed about the play. Lincoln had relied on alternate history to weave the visions into his tale, using them for comedic effect in the more dramatic beats. A secondary character had one in the middle of a monologue, suddenly passing out while a crowd rushed over to him. The visions were reenacted with tricks of light and masked characters, reminiscent of interpretive dances.

"Okay, I have to ask," Clarke brought up while they meandered down the street. "The castle on the hill - that's the Polis Hotel, right?"

Lexa nodded. "Lincoln has a complicated relationship with his heritage, to say the least. He's keenly aware growing up in a luxury hotel was a great privilege, but it also messed with his head. He basically shared a home with thousands of strangers for eighteen years."

"I'd always admired Polis from afar, but I can't imagine growing up there. Don't get me wrong, that was one hell of a party, but-"

"It's not a place for a kid," Lexa finished, in agreement.  

Clarke ate the last bite of her chocolate waffle and threw the paper in the trash. “You must be pretty familiar with it.”

Lexa glanced at her and smiled. "The cat and I go back."

"Right. That night was a bit intense, even for you."

Lexa let out a laugh, looking away with a hum. "You know, you make me sound quite strange."

Clarke bumped her shoulder. "You pinned me against the staircase - you are strange."

"I didn't… pin you," Lexa replied with a huff. "I was drunk, high off an excellent game of poker… and I saw you. And I needed to be close to you."

Clarke stopped them in the street, grateful they'd left the busy part. "And the Gazette?"

“What about it?”

"You offered me a side job. Just like that."

"Oh," Lexa remembered. "I genuinely thought you'd be good at it. Still do. Your style would be perfect."

That was surprising, but Clarke wasn't convinced. "It wasn't because of your vision?"

"It was a way to talk to you, yes, but I meant it. I know the visions were… well, the reason for this, that they nudged us together, but I'd noticed you drawing before."

They walked a bit further before Clarke took a small breath. "I, uh, may have looked at the pages in older prints."

Lexa glanced at her. "And?"

"It could be fun. I'm just not sure-" Clarke scrunched her nose. "I'm just so rusty. Art is what I got into college for, but then I took up business classes and… I don't know, it just felt so much easier. Don't get me wrong, managing the café kicks my ass every day, but I like the challenges. With drawings, paintings, whatever… it feels like putting your heart on the line each time. And nine times out of ten, your heart ends up getting trampled."

Lexa took her hand to stop her. "I would never suggest you do something that makes you uncomfortable. If it's truly just a hobby to you, a way to pass the time, you should keep it that way."

It wasn't like Clarke hadn't considered it. Drawing, sketching; it came as naturally as breathing. She'd done it since she could hold a pencil and she still did it whenever the world became too loud. It was an escape; a different way of thinking. Her own little world. Illustrating short stories could be a welcome breath of fresh air. A way for her brain to snap away from bills, calls, deliveries, and the hundreds of post-its in her tiny office.

"And for the record," Lexa added as she stepped closer, her voice impossibly soft, "I would very much stand in the way of whoever or whatever would try to trample you."

Clarke grinned, very much aware that, not so long ago, these were not words she could have ever imagined Lexa Woods telling her.  

* * *

As she had the last time, Lexa insisted that she walk Clarke back to her apartment. After a night full of laughs, great food, and Lexa's hand in hers, Clarke still didn't have her fill and so didn't tease Lexa too much for also wanting to enjoy every last second. When they made it to her door, Clarke turned around and leaned against it. Tonight couldn't end here.

"By the way, you were wrong earlier. My vision isn't the reason for this." Clarke waited a beat before playing her last hand: "It's not the vision I thought about that night after the rooftop."

Lexa's mouth parted open and she glanced at Clarke's lips.

"I was going to," Clarke continued, "but it didn't hold a candle to how you made me feel when you grabbed my hand."

Lexa swallowed when Clarke reached for her jacket to tug her closer. "How did I make you feel?"  

Clarke pulled her in until their foreheads touched. "Warm. Dizzy."

"Dizzy on a rooftop? That's a safety hazard."

"Are you trying to turn me on or are you trying to make me laugh?"

"They're not mutually exclusive."

They broke into laughter anyway. Lexa leaned in to kiss her, only to stop just as their lips brushed.

"You never told me about your vision," Lexa pointed out. "Not… not exactly."

Clarke smiled, smug. "Oh you want details, hm?"

"I'm a journalist. A thorough account would be nice, yes."

Clarke narrowed her eyes at her before crushing their lips together, unbelievably pleased when Lexa moaned and wrapped her arms around her waist.

"Shut up, journo," Clarke husked between kisses.

Lexa kissed her with little restraint then, moving until Clarke was pressed against the door. Each one of Lexa's kisses felt like something special; like finally she'd shed her old fears. Clarke didn't even want to think of not being close to Lexa right now. The night couldn't end - not like this. She pulled back and gazed at Lexa, trying to catch her breath.

This close, Clarke could commit to memory every detail of her face. She'd always thought she got a good look at Lexa at the café, even with the counter between them, but it was nothing compared to this. Lexa's lips were full and at their most tempting when slightly parted, betraying her own desire. Her eyes were hooded now, longing, and Clarke had little doubt hers reflected the same want. She threw caution to the wind:

"Come inside?"

Lexa hesitated, visibly torn.

"We don't have to do anything. I have a nice wine we can try. Some of Gus's tartlets left over. We can even sit with the box between us. I just… I don't want tonight to be over yet."

* * *

It was not what she'd had in mind. She swore it. Nevertheless, when Clarke found herself straddling Lexa on her living room couch with the box of tartlets discarded on the floor (the tartlets well finished by then), she couldn't remember why the hell not.

Maybe the air had already been too charged by the time she wiped her thumb over Lexa's lip to catch a crumb there, and maybe Clarke had liked playing with fire, but now she was well on her way to being burned. Lexa's hands palmed her ass while they kissed, but it was the boldest she allowed herself to be and Clarke was quickly reaching her breaking point.

"Touch me," she pleaded between kisses.

Lexa let out a choked moan when Clarke reached for her hand and guided it to her breasts. She paused, looking up. The green in her eyes had darkened, especially in the dim light, and she breathed deeply.

"Clarke…"

"I know, I know, just - something. Anything." Clarke leaned her forehead against Lexa's. "I feel like a fucking teenager."

Lexa let out a small laugh before kissing her sweetly, slowly. It had the soothing effect she had intended, and before Clarke realized it, Lexa had lied her down on her back. She hovered over her, then looked down at her cleavage and pressed her lips against the exposed skin.

"Is that better?" She asked.

"Close…"

Lexa let out a hum against her skin, pressing another kiss lower. Clarke brushed her fingers in Lexa's thick hair, digging just slightly in her scalp, surprised when Lexa let out a small moan and then froze with wide eyes, like Clarke had just found her secret.

"Oh," Clarke breathed out, her smile widening. She repeated the gesture, pressing her fingers just a bit harder.

Lexa immediately grabbed her hands and pinned them down on each side of Clarke's head.

"Don't do that," she warned her, breathless.

Clarke smirked. "I think I will."

"It was just a reflex," Lexa blushed. "It's been a while."

Clarke couldn't help but laugh, happiness bubbling in her chest at how comfortable she felt with Lexa's body slotted between her legs. "Well, I'm very happy to find out whatever draws out those sounds from you."

Lexa seemed to realize just how close they were, locked together with their fingers entwined. And just like the rooftop when she'd suddenly grabbed her hand, her expression changed. Confident. Eager.

She sat back, eyes trailing down Clarke's body before she let go of her hands to touch her thighs.

"You like control, don't you, Clarke?" She asked. She ran her hands up her thighs, caressing them slowly. "But not now."

Clarke nearly lost her breath, not expecting the way Lexa had shifted so quickly from embarrassed to self-assured. She watched as Lexa drank her in, from her bunched up dress to the fast rise and fall of her chest.

"Touch yourself," Lexa told her, and then leaned down to brush her lips against hers. "The way you did after the rooftop."

"Lexa-"

"I want to watch you."

Clarke nodded, her hand trailing down her own body to the bottom of her dress. Lexa watched as she reached beneath the fabric, eager to follow her command. She slid her hand beneath her tights, beneath her underwear, moaning at the relief when she finally touched herself. She knew Lexa could feel her heat; knew they were both reaching a point of no return. It had started when Lexa had kissed her at the start of their date, but Lexa's hands on her ass while they'd kissed had awakened her completely.

Lexa briefly glanced between their bodies, groaning when she saw Clarke's hand moving.

"Is this how you did it?" She asked. "Two fingers?"

Clarke let out an obscene moan, too far gone to care. "Three," she whimpered.

Lexa's jaw clenched, but her control was remarkable. "Did you imagine it on the rooftop? Me inside you against that wall?"

Clarke's eyes squeezed shut as she bit down on her lip. "Yes. Fuck."

She swiped her fingers over her clit, but the angle and her tights restricted most of her movements. She was fairly certain Lexa knew it. Lexa leaned down again, kissing her neck.

"How did I fuck you?" She asked by her ear, one hand reaching up to lightly brush against her breast.

Clarke panted, fighting the unbearable need to penetrate herself. She needed release, and fast, but a part of her was too stubborn to give in just yet.

"You pressed me against the wall," she revealed, burying her face in Lexa's neck. With her free hand, she dug her nails in Lexa's ass, feeling a thrill when Lexa bucked against her. "And then- I… I needed more. I needed you deeper."

"So I turned you around," Lexa guessed, squeezing her nipple over the fabric of her dress.

"I- oh, fuck, I couldn't stop thinking about you inside me; how well you'd fill me," Clarke said, her middle finger trembling from the angle, desperate to inch inside herself.

"Jesus, Clarke," Lexa breathed out in the space between her neck and shoulder. Her lips felt like heaven against her skin. Clarke couldn't get enough.

"Clarke," Lexa repeated, raising her head. "Look at me." It was softer then, more of a plea.

Clarke opened her eyes and felt her movements slow down. It was like experiencing déjà-vu, except of course that was impossible. They'd never done this. But she suddenly realized it had all started here. She'd had her vision on this very couch and here she was - not fulfilling it, exactly, but close. Yet what she'd seen and even felt had never been like this. It had been purely physical - an erotic thrill in her otherwise predictable life. But she hadn't felt her heart beating out of her chest. She'd had a sense it was more intimate than what she was used to, but hadn't been able to quite grasp what that meant. She knew now. Their intensity wasn't so much physical as it was emotional.

She felt safe with Lexa. They still had so much to learn about each other, but she felt safe. And Clarke had never realized the importance of it. Lexa had trusted her with her pain and her heart - that wasn't something Clarke took lightly. It was a feeling not even her vision could have conveyed.

"Fuck, wait, wait, stop," she abruptly panted, pulling her hand out of her underwear.

Lexa backed away immediately, but Clarke sat up to stop her from moving off the couch.

"Lexa, I… I want to be with you," she said, as if remembering her vision had suddenly clarified everything. "When you're ready, I want to be with you completely."

"I want that too." Lexa still seemed confused, or maybe surprised Clarke had done the equivalent of dunking ice cold water atop her own head.

“Right. And - this is fun. I-” Clarke’s eyes briefly closed as she bit her lip. “Fuck I really want to get off-”

Lexa smiled.

“-but not like this.” Clarke reached out to cup her cheeks. “Not without you.” She kissed Lexa briefly, barely a brush of lips, and watched as her eyes followed her every move so tenderly. “Not if I don’t get to touch you too.”

"Clarke…"

Clarke shook her head, kissing her way down Lexa's jaw and neck. "Not if I can't see all of you. Can't hear you moan my name." She licked over Lexa's pulse, enjoying the way her hips bucked against her. "Not if I can't taste you while you come undone."

Lexa pulled back and brushed away some of Clarke's wild strands of hair. "Such words… You should be a journalist."

"I hear they have egos."

"Oh yes, terrible."

"I'm glad I found one that's not so bad then."

They smiled at each other, then took a breath.

"Sorry," Clarke sighed. "I feel like I'm the one giving you whiplash now."

"No, it's only fair. If anything I admire your restraint."

Clarke leaned back against the arm of the couch. "Maybe you'll just have to work harder next time."

Lexa smirked. "I can do that." She glanced at her breasts. "At least I made new friends."

Clarke let out a laugh, enamored. "Alright, well, you and my tits can pick up this conversation another time. I need a shower and if you're not gone in two minutes, I'm definitely dragging you in with me."

Lexa hummed in agreement.

After Clarke walked her to the entrance and watched Lexa put on her shoes and jacket, they lingered in the doorway.

"Thank you for tonight," Clarke said. She had never felt like this before - a part of her desperate to find a way for Lexa to stay. A way to prolong the conversation. To ward off the night so that Lexa and her could just live in this moment a while longer. "The play, the food, this… Everything."

She hoped Lexa felt the same.

"Trust me, it was my pleasure," Lexa replied, her face still slightly flushed.

"You've set the bar high."

"You took me to a secret hike. I was just trying to catch up."

At Clarke's smile, Lexa bit her lip and toyed with the button of her jacket. "Anya used to say I reacted to everything with either fight or flight. I didn't prove her wrong when I left for Costial, but I don't want to run away again."

Clarke nodded in understanding.

“It just… creeps up on me sometimes,” Lexa continued. “I could be having the time of my life one second and the next my chest gets tighter and the world gets smaller. Suffocating.” She gave her a resolute look. “When I meant slow, I meant… I just need to be sure that feeling won’t come between us again." She glanced at her lips. "But… It also means that once we do cross that line, I intend to make up for lost time.”

Clarke swallowed, fighting the urge to drag Lexa back inside. "I'm a patient woman."

Lexa smiled. "Goodnight, Clarke."

"Mm. Text me when you get home?"

"I will."

-

[part eleven]

[soldrawss]

Does Big Bro!Mikey AU have an april or no? I think it would be nice for Mikey to have a bff april!!

April is a part of this au, yes! She started out as just a classmate of Mikey’s, they had the same homeroom in high school before Mikey dropped out the summer before his Junior year. They hadn’t really kept in contact, mostly because she only knew him by proxy (Mikey was nice and friendly to everyone, April of course included, but they didn’t have much in common, and their main friend groups were different, so they didn’t hang out much) and when Mikey all but disappeared without an explanation, she kinda just figured he moved or something, and left it at that, not giving him any thought for the next three years.

That is, until she meets him again, in the halls of Hunter College, looking like he was gonna collapse at any minute, which he kinda does, into an empty bench at the schools outside cafe and lounge area. April waffles for a few seconds, because ‘holy shit is that Mike Hamato?’ before biting the bullet and making her way over to say, “Hey, Michael right? Hi, it’s been a while. It’s April, we had homeroom together freshman and sophomore year. I haven’t seen you since Savanti Romero’s pool party. How are you?” And his smile is a slow, automatic thing at first, more out of common politeness than anything else, but then it grows into something much more genuine and glacier melting when he responds back, “April, hey, yeah, hi! Wow, has it really been that long? Man, it seems like just yesterday you were fishing Mondo and me out of the pool after one too many chicken fights. It’s good to see you!”

And catching up seemed so easy, April was almost surprised they hadn’t been better friends in high school. Though, she suspected that was mostly due to Mikey’s incredibly easy charm and naturally inviting warmth. (Dude could make friends with just about anyone)

He was a little different than how she remembered, a little more weather-worn and tired, a kinda weariness that hung off his shoulders like heavyweights. But there was still a bright shine to those penny-colored eyes, and when he smiled, it was with all the dimples and joy that she remembers so clearly from when she was 15. Holding back a laugh at the Hamato kid that was preforming springing handstands across the cafeteria just to draw attention away from the impending fight between two of their more hotheaded classmates and ease the tension out of the air in a ridiculous but effective manner.

She doesn’t ask why he left high school, it doesn’t really occur to her to ask, but after 2 hours of talking (April not even realizing she was missing her history class because she was so caught up in their catching up) he offers the information anyway.

His dad died. When he was barely 16, and he was left alone with 3 baby brothers and no other family that could help take care of them, and oh my god, he just dropped out of school to get his GED like it was the most common thing in the world and he went to work, what, 2, sometimes 3 jobs just to make enough money to support them all and April didn’t mean for tears to start pooling up because that so wasn’t fair to Mikey at all, if anyone should be crying, it should be him, but Mikey just looks a little shy and bashful about it all. “It was hard, but we got through it. And hey, now I’m working at like, this really prestigious Italian restaurant, super classy and everything! And they pay me more than I’m probably worth, but I’ll get my culinary degree in like a year, and then after that, a lot of things will change,” He says like everything in the world is just that easy, handing April a few tissues from his book bag and giving her one of those genuine, if not a little crooked, smiles of his.

Mikey promises to have lunch with her again (because April absolutely refuses to let this dandelion haired lunatic walk away from her life a second time and practically demands that they hang out again) since they both have the same free time before their respective classes at the college, and makes a show of saving her number with probably a few too many emojis as a contact name just to make her smile.

And what turned into a promise for another lunch date turned into almost a daily routine, them having lunch together on the bench, talking about classes and teachers and jobs and April’s problematic little kitten she affectionately named Mayhem and Mikey’s little brothers who are probably equally as problematic but he doesn’t have a say in what their names are, and things are fun and casual between Hamato and her.

That is, until two months later, when April gets a call from Mikey at 5pm on a Saturday.

“Donnie’s sick,” Mikey says almost breathlessly, and even without the context, April was already springing to her feet just at the sheer tension and concern in Mikey’s voice, like a taught wire about to snap. “I can’t get off work for another few hours, but I don’t want to leave him by himself with a fever. And I know this is like, putting you on the spot and really awkward and you can totally say no if you want to, but I don’t know who else to call and,-”

“Mike, it’s ok. Breathe hun,” April is saying, not unkindly pushing Mayhem off her lap and reaching for her backpack off the floor in her dorm room, stuffing a few random things in it before grabbing her jacket and her car keys off the counter. “Text me your address. I’ll be over there in 5 minutes tops.”

And it’s more of a promise than a fact, because his building is technically 20 minutes away from hers, but April makes it in 10 just by spite alone (and maybe driving a little recklessly downtown) and knocks on the door of the little apartment on the 6th floor, unit 404.

It takes a hesitant second, but then the door lock clicks open and April is greeted by warm brown eyes and a freckled face that reminds April so much of Mikey that it takes her almost a full 10 seconds before she introduces herself with an automatic smile. “Hi sweetheart, I’m April. I’m a friend of your older brother Mikey.”

Raphael, if April remembered Mikey’s brothers correctly, didn’t really need much convincing to let April in after she mentioned he was a friend of Mikey's, and doesn’t hesitate to pull her into their little apartment, leading her to the bedroom that the twins share with a small but tight little fist around hers.

“Mikey called and said you were coming. Leo’s atah sleepover, but Donnie’s in here. His head’s still hot and his voice is all scratchy, even though I made sure that he took the medicine Mikey left out. And he won’t eat anything I give him,” the 7-year-old reports diligently, much more mature than April had expected from the young child. 

April’s been babysitting since she was 11, and considering how all the neighborhood kids around her block adore her, she likes to think that she’s got a pretty solid Ph.D. in knowing how to take care of a sick pre-teen who wants nothing to do with her. So the heavy-lidded and red-eyed glare that Donatello shoots at her from under his covers is duly noted but otherwise ignored as she gently knocks on the door and slowly follows a much less hesitant Raphael into the bedroom.

It takes a while, a long while, for Donatello, no, Donnie, to warm up to her, but he gets there eventually, with the help of Raphael, Raph, who’s hanging off of Aprils shoulders, having warmed up to her almost immediately simply because ‘any friend of Mikey’s is a friend of ours Dee! Don’t be mean and eat some soup!’

After realizing that Donnie just had a little cold, and was in no real danger even with a fever, Raph seemed to cheer up immensely, and was more than willing to help answer all of April’s questions about what medicine Donnie had taken, any allergies, the last time he ate, and even helped her make some egg drop soup since they didn’t have enough ingredients of chicken noodle, which Donnie put up a fight about, but eventually took after one look of Raph’s puppy dog eyes.

Donnie was out like a light 15 minutes later, after taking some night time cough medicine and April sent a reassuring text to Mikey two hours later when his fever finally broke, to which Mikey replied with an explosion of heart emoji’s that April couldn’t rightly decipher other than he was happy about it.

Mikey got home at 11 that night, and April had to flag him down quietly from where she sat trapped under a sleeping, pj clad Raph on the couch; a Jupiter Jim movie marathon playing on the tv. 

“Thank you so much, April,” Mikey said to her in the kitchen 20 minutes later, handing her a cup of hot tea. He had efficiently plucked Raph off of April’s lap like a pro with years of experience, putting him into his own bed before checking on a still sleeping Donnie, whose face was no longer a burnt red from his fever earlier. “I don’t know what I would have done without you. I don’t get my paycheck till next week, so I can’t really pay you right now, but I brought home some chocolate mousse cake from my work that you can have until I can-” “You didn’t tell me you worked at Huesso’s!” April didn’t shout, because there were two kids sleeping down the hallway, as she grabbed the bag Mikey had offered to her. “Dude, their deserts are like, crazy good! I love their cheesecake, but they’re stupid expensive and you have to get a reservation like, 4 months in advance to get in.” And April uses the change in topics as a distraction because there was no way she’d let Mikey try to pay her for helping out, she didn’t even want that to be an option. April didn’t do this for the money. She wanted to help out Mikey out. She liked Mikey. She thought he was funny and charming and had a heart big enough to cradle the entire world if he was as big as all the love he has. And she adored being around his baby brothers.

April grins at Mikey when she opens the box, and slides her finger over the glossy frosting of the cake and licks her fingers of the chocolatey goodness before she says, “Listen, if I could convince you to bring me home deserts from this place, then I’ll hang out with the boys anytime you want me too. You have my number, literally call me anytime, for any reason, and I’m here.”

[brooklynislandgirl]

☼ ♀

Munday Munday ||Accepting {{also @mynameisanakin <333 for the same question}}

☼: Which tropes do you find overused/boring?

Inherently, I don’t think any single trope is bad/overused/boring. I think it really depends on how it’s utilised, what spin you put on it, how you choose to incorporate it into your canon. Sometimes, depending on the involved muses, it’s just enough to see it played legit straight off the page.

I think aspects bother me though, like... I am never going to shame someone for their craft or how they find joy in their hobby but sometimes...sometimes... my eyes cannot roll further back into my skull without threat of my retinas detaching. So without further ado, allow me to give you a curated list of shit that drives me up the fricken wall:

1. Child characters that are written waaaaay younger than their age, or way older than their age. By that I mean 5+year olds who still baby-talk and can’t construct sentences that are developmentally common for 2/3 year olds. Ten+ year olds who act/talk like 70 Year Old Viet Nam veterans, chain smoking and drinking more than anyone I know in real life.

Children who are perpetual little shits and snark-monsters. Like I do not advocate violence against children at all, and I certainly didn’t spank my kid after around the age of six or so, because I discovered it was far more effective to have Rabbit give her Lectures, but goddamn. Kids on tv but especially in written RP... I am surprised someone else hasn’t punched them dead in the face for being snotty little assholes.

2. Unrealistic family dynamics Your parents had 2861 children. Your muse is 26 years old and has 23863 children, just to one up Mom and Dad. I mean yes, eventually your muses might want kids, but in this day and age there’s not a lot of call to compete with Octo-mom. And also, while my muse loves children and babies, and all things soft and cute, please understand I would prefer to remove my own spleen with a can opener and a rusty spork than play it out in real time, thread after thread, after thread...

Also, yes. In real life, parents are shitty people, and a lot of writers come from abusive homes or broken ones, or a combination of both. This has long ranging ramifications psychologically speaking, but also remember...there’s good parents out there too.  If your muse is gonna be an asshole because of their upbringing, well that’s up to you. But show, don��t tell. Show how their trauma affects them, what they do {and maybe fail at} to overcome these difficulties.

3. Always knowing EVERYTHING your partner-muse is thinking/feeling/doing. This is by-far my biggest pet-fucking-peeve in literally 30 years of rping/collaborating with  partners.

Especially on Tumblr, there’s a lot of internal monologue; the muse’s feelings and thoughts about things happening in any particular scene. These are not spoken aloud, though body language might be used to indicate the muse’s emotional or mental status. Sometimes a character is injured, hungry, horny, you name it. And they might exhibit behaviour that indicates this to be happening.

However, if the person you’re playing with always knows everything your muse is feeling and thinking and doesn’t try to work that out in an in-character way...it becomes flat, unimportant, and you’ve wasted minutes, hours or even days crafting a response. It’s just not fucking polite. For example...

Beth is aware there’s a Spectre hanging out in her closet judging her wardrobe choices, because she used spirit sight to check out the hotel space as one does when one is a Mage, but doesn’t say anything to Alan, who’s tagging along for the ride. Alan is just a normal human being, unaware of the supernatural. Beth chooses to maybe Ward the door while Alan is out getting food from the Waffle House that is right next door, and doesn’t leave any evidence of having done so. Instead, she’s lounging around on the bed, because she’s exhausted. Alan then comes in with the food, and asks her if she’s going to deal with the spook in the closet who may or may not be parading around in her especially pretty underwear, or if it’s cool with her. That is a case of meta-gaming. DO NOT DO IT.

4. Muses that have no fear of anything, at all, ever. A lot of people show NO kind of FEAR in RP because nothing can be done to them without consent. But come on, it’s not even remotely realistic, and really takes a reader or partner out of a scene. 

You are facing an enormous Garou {werewolf/lycan for most people} who is dripping blood from his jaw and trying to nail your face with bloody claws the size of butcher knives. What would you do in real life? Checking your phone and leering at him before winking at the Garou and say “Hey, what’s up?” Or are you dead scared and running away like a teenager caught at Camp Crystal Lake? Or pissing yourself and cowering in terror.... Or....

Your muse may be very brave and try to fight back but there should still be fear or at least a massive amount of respect for his Lord Mighty Scariness. Substitute the word Garou with Alien, God, Immortal, etc.  Please, please, please make an effort in your RP to work with others. I mean, I know EVERYONE likes to win, but what’s better than winning? Good, intensive, intriguing RP. 

♀: What is an AU, you really want to play with your muse?

Not EVEN gonna lie, I miss my villains Antiheroes from the DC universe: Lex Luther and John Constantine. But also the Endless, which also rightfully belong to DC from the Vertigo days. I am terrified that once Netflix releases their Sandman mini-series that people are going to flock to the Endless and muck about the stories without having experienced Neil Gaiman’s lush, evocative and dark fantasy prose.

I would specifically with YOU want to write more of the Fae backstory, and history that leads up to Immortal and Reiltin/Mael Muire/Beth and Lorcan, with its insane cast of characters, and delve more into the mythology of your muses.

And I dunno. I think I may love to see a verse somewhere....where Beth is the one that joined the military, and Andy was the one who went to Med school.

[tsar3na]

Sunrise and Dusk

Fandom: Festival di Sanremo RPF (Amadello) Words: 1682 Notes: This was a fanfic I’ve been working on for a while and debating whether or not to post about it on Tumblr. But I guess I’ve done this sort of thing before so I bit the bullet and did it anyway. It was supposed to be a one-shot but my planning decided to go to more than ten chapters so there’s that. For now, I’ll post the first chapter here then the rest on Archive of Our Own so please support me there, thank you. Ao3 link: [here]

i - Mattina

Days have been a blur for years. Things had a harmonious monotony to them. Fiorello will wake up at 6am, always on time, by an old flip-phone. Take time to say his morning prayers. Clean his body and think of the day ahead. When he doesn’t have a service in the morning, a hot coffee and bread roll can rejuvenate him until lunch. After cleaning his plates, he chooses from a selection of plain polo shirts or turtlenecks paired with smart trousers and shoes. 

A small brown and white cat would leap onto his balcony at the dot and of course, Fiorello will take a can of tuna and give it all to her. Once done, he cycles to the church, passing by the numerous buildings, towards the open market closeby. He’s usually the first to arrive so he’s responsible for opening the church and doing light cleaning inside and out. He is not quite a priest - all he does is officework from paperwork to phone calls asking for visits. Yet he’s an integral part of the church, going around the community and volunteering just for a simple “Grazie”.

Around the afternoon, he goes gets ingredients for dinner and catches up to fellow friends along the way. Then he heads home, looking back at the sun crack its warm tones around the sky as it starts to settle. His food is also simple, perhaps saving some for the next day. For entertainment, he opens an old TV and catches up on current affairs. At exactly half past 10 is he ready for bed, ready to wake up the next day and do this all over again.

Rarely does this ever change.

He never suspects a surprise package, or a phone call from a stranger announcing a journey he has been requested to join. His family hasn’t spoken to him for years, not even knowing of the new leaf he has turned. In his youth, he has fallen in love but he’d never reciprocate the feelings in return, so unlikely that he’ll suddenly fall in love again. Was it boring? He didn’t think so. But sometimes, when he looks out, he sees life in people’s windows. Of family, of joy, of tears, of life. Yet he can’t complain, he thinks, as others have had it worse. He has had it worse. Compared to what had used to happen, this was just but a dream. Now in his growing ages, perhaps a man was ready to settle down. Still, he can’t always escape the past he had buried and lied about, a past in which no one knew his name. If only something had happened, something breathtaking that was fresh, unexpected, beyond something that will challenge his whole philosophy.

Nevertheless the alarm rings at 6am.

Thursday morning was looking to be cloudy but break skies before noon. His radio played classic tunes from his childhood as the cat purred on his patio table. Fiorello wanted to change something hence buying a new brand of tuna for her. The cat didn’t have any markings relating to an owner, so he baptised her with the name Ciuri. Sometimes he would joke to himself that she is more akin to a partner or a child, masking some sort of looming insecurity. His phone rang. That was odd - there was barely anyone that he had given his number to. Must be serious.

“Hello? This is Rosario speaking.” he answered.

“Ah, I’m glad I got the right one this time.” the voice on the other line cheered, “Listen it’s Roberto. I’m calling you because there seemed to be a leak in the church. Small leak. Very small. It’s flooding the floor. Okay, big leak. Very large.”

“Oh my goodness, really? Are you okay? Is everything safe?”

“Yes, yes, we saved the important bits. And don’t worry, your area isn’t affected. But the altar and nave are badly flooded so I had to close the church for a while.”

“Oh dear…”

“Emergency closing, I do not know when it will be open again.”

He paced up and down his small kitchen, his anxiety growing, “When will it be fixed? Do we have the funds? Last time I checked, we might but I don’t know if this one we can handle.”

“Don’t worry about all this, I’ve talked to the local offices and they should help us. Listen all you need to do is relax for a few days, get some sun. You’ll know when everything will be back to normal.”

The anxiety immediately turned into panic; “Wait, hold on, what do you mean? I don’t know what to do!”

Beep.

Suddenly his plans have been ruined. Fiorello was about to cycle to work but I guess he has no work to even go to now. This sort of disruption never once came into his mind. Since taking on the job, he refuses to take days off. Even when ill, he would try to march in at least before being sent back to rest. He had never prepared what he might do for a day of just himself. “Okay relax, we can do this.” he thought and very much not relaxing. Ciuri meowed for food. At least this he knew what to do.

He moved from Catania around 25, 26 years ago yet only a handful of times has he really travelled around the village. He had to stay in Sicily, there was no chance he would return and work in the cities further on. The place had a charm to it, powered by the people around. Its history of medieval architecture made it a hotbed for tourists, but during the colder months they were little to none. When he first settled in, he had made a crude list of places he would have liked to go to but never did. Today, he grabs that paper from the cupboard he refuses to touch and was thankful his list was fairly short:

Meet and befriend a stranger

Do something new

That’s it

Even looking at two simple tasks, he was already discouraged. Obviously he has done it before with colleagues and neighbours, but it’s been years since he has made a connection with someone brand new. The rest seemed like dreamy bullshit he thought of as a teen when he decided he wanted to get married to his 3rd highschool sweetheart.

No time is best to break his normal life than now. He waved Ciuri goodbye and headed off with his trusted bike.

To start this new thought of life, he veered from his typical path and into the idyllic green landscape. The views were always spectacular from his window but it was a whole other feeling viewing it from below. Waves of flora stretched as far as the eye can see, scattered with farm animals and a fence or two. The air was getting warmer as the morning began to settle in. He felt the breeze through his body, whispering to him thoughts of change. Maybe tomorrow he will cycle through that path, or he can slow down there and see what was inside the tree. It never felt so good making these small and insignificant choices. Or even trying to make sure his bicycle does not suddenly collide with the parked car just metres ahead of him. If his eyes were closed at the moment, he would be doing one impressive front flip and crashing down onto the dirt. Thankfully screaming seemed to have alerted Fiorello and prevented any sort of trip to the hospital from happening. The man near the car seemed worried, no surprise, and kept asking if he was okay.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry!” Fiorello kept yelling out. “I just, I usually don’t expect cars here, and I was not paying proper attention so I nearly dented your car.”

“Ahh well nothing you can do about it. This old thing has been through so much not even a hammer can stop it from moving.” the stranger boasted.

This man was someone he had never seen before. His clothing screamed tryhard to look younger than he is and the hat casted a nice shadow over it. Without being rude, all Fiorello can tell was his large nose and fox-like eyes. Seemed to be around his age too, albeit maybe showing more signs of wear and tear. As he kept waffling on about his car, all he could look at was how he had a certain smile on his face. It was mesmerising to say the least.

“Anyway so I got lost and tried to find some signal but couldn’t and then you nearly got killed. And now we’re talking.” Wait was he dazing off. He didn’t notice how he kept going on. “Mind giving me some help then? Hotel or something similar. You can hop in if you point to me around.”

“Of course, I don’t mind. What about my bicycle?” he asked, getting back into reality.

“You can just throw that in the back, I don’t care.” They both got in the car as the man started to ignite the engine and Fiorello tried his best to shove the wheels in as best as he could.

“By the way, I haven’t caught your name. Are you a local?”

“I’m Rosario Fiorello. And you?”

He shook his hand briefly. “Amedeo Sebastiani. Most people just call me Amadeus. Intercontinental reporter.” and started to drive.

“A reporter? Nothing that interesting ever happens around here. Nothing that you could notice from the outside anyway. So, what is your intention?”

“I’m mainly here on holiday. I run a travel blog and I’m just wanting to tell my readers some quaint spots around Sicily. It’s kind of embarrassing, I’m a traveller that gets lost a lot so you can see why I say I’m a reporter first. Anyways...”

“That’s interesting.” he glanced then looked out the window. Amadeus did not stop talking for the whole ride. Only now came in his mind why he let himself in a stranger's car. But he guessed, considering the man’s excitement, he’ll be staying around for a while.

[omgjasminesimone]

Tequila Sunrise Epilogue

Previous Part: Part IV

Bonus Part: Soap Box Derby

Logan x MC

Author’s Note: Couldn’t stop myself from writing an epilogue. I just can’t let go of Ride or Die. And we all know Logan would do the most as a Dad. Like, just completely over the top.

Summary: Logan and Ellie have a baby.

Word Count:  1900

“Un pez” Logan turns the page,  “dos peces…”, turns another, “pez rojo….pez azul…..”

Ellie rolls her eyes and tries to tune him out,  grabbing the remote from the nightstand and turning up the volume on the Real Housewives of Orange County. She shifts a little, trying to find a comfortable position in bed. Logan continues to read the Spanish children’s book quietly to her full-term baby bump as she turns onto her side. He hopes this early exposure will make their son bilingual.

Logan has really taken to this whole fatherhood thing. He’s read every parenting book available from the LA library system, refusing to buy the books since he’s also really into saving money for the college fund he’s already started for their son. He cooks for her daily, making sure she gets all the nutrients necessary for the baby. He won’t let her have caffeine, since he read somewhere it’s bad for the baby. She thinks this is overkill, and drinks caffeine at her dad’s house while Logan is at work.

After taking the plea deal and arriving in Los Angeles three months ago. it had been difficult for Logan to get a job. Disclosing his felon status on job applications resulted in almost no calls for interviews. He settled for construction work at first so they wouldn’t be completely dependent on their savings, but Logan knew he needed something with health insurance benefits for his very pregnant wife. A month ago, he had finally landed a full-time position as a used car salesman. He works for commission, but the job comes with health insurance. And with his charm and knowledge about cars, he’s doing very well commission wise.

Now with more time on his hands without having to job search, he’s thrown himself even more so into the baby. And honestly, it’s starting to get on Ellie’s nerves. She especially hates when he reads to her stomach. Ellie loathes being pregnant. She constantly feels sick, she has to pee all the time, and she despises how every time she goes anywhere everyone wants to rub her belly. She feels like an incubator. Sometimes, Ellie just wants to be alone. But Logan is constantly all over her, well not her really, all over the baby which just so happens to be inside of her. She can’t help but think all the attention he lavishes on the baby is part of the reason he refuses to come out. She’s two weeks past her due date and she wants this baby out more than she’s ever wanted anything.

She’s hormonal and irritated, and that makes her want to snap at Logan when he’s being annoying, like right now. She takes a deep breath, reining in her irritation and reminding herself where all this is coming from with Logan. He had a really shitty childhood. Mom in jail, unknown father, bouncing from foster home to foster home before he ran away at twelve. Forced to turn to crime just to get by. His life was the opposite of the kind of perfect he’s trying to build for their child. No one would have even thought to read to him while he was in his mother’s belly. No one loved him, wanted him, like he loves and wants this child.

“…en cualquier lugar.” Logan finishes the story, kissing her bump after setting the book aside. His stubble tickles, but she stops herself from complaining. “Te quiero.” He promises, kissing her belly again. He reaches for the pregnancy belly headphones, one of his only financial splurges over the last couple of months, turning on classical music and placing them on.

“And you…” He scoots up to the bed until they are face to face. “Te quiero.” A kiss to her neck. “Te adoro.” A kiss to her forehead. “Te amo.” He captures her lips, deepening the kiss after a moment and tugging at her sleep shorts.

She pulls away, rolling onto her back. “I don’t understand how you could possibly want to have sex with me right now. I look like a beached whale.”

“I think you’re glowing. You’re so beautiful Ellie.” Logan insists.

Ellie rolls her eyes. “Liar.”

“Hey.” He grips her hand, gently tugging her back onto her side so they’re facing each other. “I told you in that underground casino, no more lies.”

Ellie smiles, kissing him softly before pulling away again. “Sorry, I know it’s been a while…but I’m just not in the mood. I’m so ready to not be pregnant.”

“No worries, I can wait. But sex can induce labor, you know.”

Ellie contemplates that. She’s tried basically everything else at this point. Spicy food, exercising, acupuncture, the list goes on. “Well, trying can’t hurt.” She admits. Logan grins, slipping a hand into her panties.

“You’re so wet babe.” Logan observes. His brow furrows. “Like….really wet.”

Ellie sits up, shifting over in bed. A dark puddle is revealed where she had been lying. “I think my water broke.” She sounds calmer than she feels.

Logan immediately springs into action, leaping from the bed and changing from his pajamas into jeans and a t-shirt.  “Okay, time to follow our birth plan. Babe, where’s the birth plan? I gave you the binder, right?”

He had written up a 100-page document, even going as far as laminating the pages. Ellie had promised to read it, but had accidentally left it at Riya’s house 2 months ago and forgot to pick it back up. She had wanted to show Riya how out of control Logan was, but her best friend just thought it was cute.

“Oh that, I think I left that at Riya’s.” She confesses.

Logan frowns, “You read it though, right?” Her guilty look must answer his question, because he looks very disappointed. “That’s fine.” He mutters, going to the closet for the hospital bag he packed a month ago.

“Logan.” Ellie calls after him.

He returns with the bag. “What?”

She takes his face in her hands, stretching up on her tip toes to kiss him. “Calm down. Everything is going to be fine.” She assures when she pulls away.

Logan pulls her into a soft hug, kissing the top of her head. “Let’s go have a baby.”

…

..

.

“Logan, you’re driving so slow.” Ellie complains, sitting in the backseat with their newborn. She gently traces a finger over Gage’s soft cheek as the baby continues to slumber peacefully in his car seat. Logan had spent a full hour strapping him in before being convinced that the straps were comfortable, but tight enough.

“These maniacs are driving way too fast. I’m in the slow lane.” Logan counters, ignoring the car honking behind them.

“You’re going 30 miles per hour. On the freeway. I think it’s actually illegal to drive this slow. You’re disrupting the flow of traffic.” Ellie explains. This is quite the 180 degree change from how he drove her to the hospital, dangerously weaving through traffic at speeds averaging 90 miles per hour in his familiar Devore GT.

Logan speeds up to 50 miles per hour. “Happy?” He asks.

Ellie smiles at Gage as he gurgles. “Very.”

Eventually, they pull up to their apartment complex. Ellie spots her dad’s car in the parking lot. He had met them at the hospital, excited to witness his baby having a baby. Detective Wheeler insists on staying with them for the first week of Gage’s life, helping the helpless first-time parents. Logan isn’t thrilled about it. The relationship between the two is still awkward, with too much bad history. They tolerate each other for Ellie’s sake, and now for Gage’s sake too.

The Wheelers (Logan took Ellie’s last name when they eloped in Las Vegas three months ago. It’s untraditional, but his own last name didn’t mean much to him. This feels like a fresh start. Like a new family, a real family. Plus, Detective Wheeler seems to be happy that the baby will carry on the Wheeler name and Logan needs every point he can get with his father-in-law.) enter their apartment for the first time as a family of three.

“Dad?” Ellie calls out, knowing her dad knows where the spare key is hidden and likely let himself in. He appears from the kitchen, tossing an apron off as he immediately reaches for his grandson. Logan hands their son over, and Detective Wheeler beams as he coos at the small bundle of joy. Ellie smiles at the sight, her heart so full of joy. She turns to kiss her husband, but Logan turns his head, causing her kiss to land on his cheek. She frowns. He’s always super weird about being affectionate with her in front of her dad. Maybe it’s because the last time Detective Wheeler saw them kissing, he pulled a gun on Logan.

“I made the Ellie special honey. I figured you might be hungry for real food after all those hours of labor.”

Ellie’s mouth immediately begins watering, rushing into the kitchen for the waffles she craves. That leaves the Wheeler men, all three of them now, alone.

Logan shifts uncomfortably, itching to follow Ellie out of the room. “He looks like you.” Detective Wheeler comments, examining his grandson before looking at his son-in-law.

“Really? I see Ellie.” Logan replies, looking at Gage’s features.

“He’s got Ellie’s eyes, but the rest of him is all you.” Detective Wheeler insists. There’s a moment of silence before Detective Wheeler continues. “You know Logan, you’ve proven me wrong.”

“Huh?” Logan asks.

“When Ellie told me that she was pregnant, and that you were the father, I told her she’d be better off without you. That you couldn’t take care of her, or the baby. That a criminal can’t really go straight. That it would never work.” Detective Wheeler had been looking at Gage, but now he looks at Logan. “But you’ve got a good, legitimate job. You were so attentive during the pregnancy. I can tell how much you love my daughter, and now my grandson. You’re a good man Logan, and I’m proud to call you my son-in-law.”

Logan stands, stunned. Completely unused to any type of paternal praise. He clears his throat, and when he finally speaks it is full of emotion. “Thank you. I hope to never let you down, to never let Ellie or Gage down.”

Detective Wheeler smirks. “You won’t.” He pauses for a second before continuing, bouncing his grandson lightly in his arms.  “But if you ever do, you’ll have a lot harder time hiding from me than you did from the FBI.”  

…

..

.

Gage’s crying comes through the baby monitor, waking Ellie from the light slumber she has just managed to fall into. She groans. She feels like she has gotten maybe 5 hours of sleep in the two weeks since Gage was born. She nudges Logan roughly. “It’s your turn.” She informs him.

Logan groans, slowly forcing himself out of bed. He sleepily searches for his slippers, dragging his feet down the hall to the nursery.

The crying quiets, and Ellie can hear Logan speaking quietly to their son through the baby monitor.

“I didn’t know I could love somebody this much…this fatherly love is really something else. It makes Mommy’s dad pulling a gun on me make so much sense.” Ellie chuckles a little at that, starting to drift back to sleep. “Makes me wonder how any parent could let their kid go into the foster care system.” Logan pauses, as if composing his thoughts. “I wouldn’t give you up for anything Gage. I’ll always be here for you. And for your mother. I promise.”

…

..

.

Taglist: @choicesarehard @ifyouseekheart @brightpinkpeppercorn @powdesiree0816 @regina-and-happiness @choicelogansbitch @flyawayboo @fairydustandsarcasm @alesana45 @umiumichan @maxwellsquidsuit @professorortegasstudent @god-save-the-keen @mrsmckenziesworld @paisleylovergirl @iplaydrake @sinclaire-made-me-sin @sibella-plays-choices @hazah 

[artificialqueens]

Washed in the Tide of Her Breathing 4/4 (Branjie)--athena2

A/N: I just wanted to wrap this up with a short epilogue. This has become one of my favorite fics I’ve done, and I hope you all enjoyed reading it as much as I did writing it. One last thank you to Writ, for supporting this, brainstorming with me, beating, and helping me do the best I could on this. 

“There’s a hat?Vanessa squeals. “You mean I coulda seen how adorable you look in that hat all this time and you didn’t tell me?”

Brooke groans as she stands in front of Vanessa, buttoning the keeper coat and adjusting the matching navy cap on her head. 

“Adorable makes me sound like a kitten,” Brooke says. “I was going for, like, dignified or something.” 

Vanessa smooths out the lapels and puts her hands on Brooke’s shoulders. “A very dignified kitten.” She presses her lips to Brooke’s in a soft kiss, sweet and sticky with syrup from the waffles they’d made together that morning.

Brooke pulls away reluctantly, hands restlessly working through a piece of rope. “You’re sure it looks okay? I just want things to go well.”

“It’s gonna be fine, baby. I know it will. You got your fancy little coat on, and you know everything you need to about the lighthouse. I’ll be with you the whole time.”

“You’re right,” Brooke agrees. 

“Hey, maybe I’ll even wear a white sheet and make scary noises in the tower to freak people out.” Vanessa cackles. 

“Ness.” Brooke swats at her playfully, the nickname she nervously used on Vanessa one day slipping out now without thought, her heart tugging when Vanessa smiles like she always does. 

“I bet you can come up with a real good ghost story to tell about me,” Vanessa continues. “I want drama, baby! Secret lovers and all that stuff. And pirates!”

“I’ll get right on it.”

Brooke smiles as Vanessa massages her shoulders, her hands taking away all the tension, reminding Brooke she is loved. It’s something she’s reminded of often these days, in all the kisses and words but also in putting her head in Vanessa’s lap at night while Vanessa plays with her hair, in Vanessa coming home with a book she thought Brooke would like the same day Brooke came home with flowers she thought Vanessa would like. 

“Really though, you sure you don’t mind? You didn’t have to take off work for me,” Brooke says. A’keria had hired Vanessa on the spot to work in the boutique with her, and Vanessa loves it. Brooke is happy she’s found her own little place on Main Street, a place to really be herself and laugh with A’keria. She even does displays in the store, sprawling out on the living room floor and sketching designs while Brooke reads, both sipping hot chocolate and enjoying each other’s company without even needing words. 

“I wanted to,” Vanessa insists. She points out the window with a smile on her face. “Hey, look how pretty the sun is. My mom used to say nothin’ bad could happen on a day this sunny.”

The sun is pretty, soft golden light bathing their faces, and Brooke lets herself be comforted, lets herself appreciate that Vanessa is here for her, a change from her solitude. There’s been a lot of changes in Brooke’s life since her relationship with Vanessa, but she’s learning to sail with them, instead of resisting. She’s starting to learn that not all changes are bad. 

Like rolling over in bed and having Vanessa there, legs always tangled in Brooke’s, snuggling closer when she wanted warmth. Like Vanessa coming over to the cart with a Jenga tower of ice cream cartons in the grocery store, and Brooke seeing that she didn’t have to ask Vanessa to get her favorite peanut butter swirl flavor, because Vanessa already did. Like Vanessa leaving the door open a crack when she showers, just enough for Brooke to sit outside and hear her raspy voice work through Rihanna, or, strangely enough, “Country Roads” from Whisper of the Heart, each moment stamped on Brooke’s heart. 

They walk on the beach together at night, talking about everything and nothing, and all Brooke can think is how pretty Vanessa looks in the sunset, how grateful she is to have this woman at her side.

Vanessa is sure to give her all the space she needs, telling her to take their walk by herself when she knows Brooke needs the alone time, and holding her extra tight when Brooke needs the comfort. 

It’s been wonderful, every day safe and warm and full of all the things she dreamed of, hands brushing in the bag of buttery movie popcorn, baking cakes and talking about their childhoods, helping each other share in their pasts while appreciating the present and dreaming of the future. Sometimes she can’t stop staring as Vanessa plans displays with her tongue out in concentration, and she thanks every force in the universe that the waves carried Vanessa to her shore, because she finally has someone to move through life with her. The loneliness that once preyed on her without her even knowing is gone in the wake of Vanessa and the happiness she brings to Brooke’s life, a breathless joy she never thought she’d experience again. 

“I’m really proud of you, okay?” Vanessa pulls Brooke down beside her on the bed, placing a hand on her back, its weight anchoring her to Vanessa, to their life together. “I know how hard you worked for this.”

Brooke blinks back tears, because no one has told her that in years, and she needs it more than ever today, when they’re facing one of the biggest changes they’ve had: the very first lighthouse tour. 

Opening three days a week for summer tours had taken a lot of thinking and conversations between Brooke and Vanessa. Vanessa was sure to tell Brooke she shouldn’t feel like she had to do this if she didn’t want to. But the more Brooke thought about it, the more it became something she wanted to do, for herself and for them both. 

For so long, it was just her in this lighthouse. She built herself up with the same storm-battered bricks of the tower, keeping everyone and everything out like the tower keeps out wind and rain. Like it keeps out all the bad things. 

But lighthouses also let things in. They let ships in their light to get home. Sometimes, they even let in shipwrecked sirens, who slip through the bricks sheltering a broken heart and turn that heart into a home for them both.  

And after a lot of thought, Brooke decided that she wanted to let people in, wanted them to share in the history of the lighthouse, wanted the spirit of the tower and her grandfather to live on, while knowing she doesn’t have to surrender her home or safety. 

Vanessa had helped with the planning and held her hand through all the phone calls with the historical society. Dr. Ganache had talked through all her fears and helped her get used to the idea. Even Nina got in on the act, spreading the word and keeping the pancakes coming when Brooke and Vanessa planned things over their Wednesday morning breakfasts. 

Brooke is as ready as she’ll ever be, and she exchanges the rope for Vanessa’s hands, letting her fingers run across skin as smooth as the sea, pressing gentle kisses to each knuckle. 

“What time is the history lady coming?” Vanessa asks. 

“In about half an hour.” Just saying it makes her heart speed up, because it’s real, it’s happening, and people will be here soon to learn about the lighthouse, to look out those windows like Brooke did every day, to take in the view she’s only ever shared with two people. 

“Hey,” Vanessa says softly, stroking Brooke’s back until whatever is squeezing her chest releases. “It’s okay to be scared. But you can do this. It’s gonna be good. Just like that thing you said about the sky last night.”

Brooke nods. She can do this. She spent months preparing, and she has Vanessa with her. She doesn’t want to get too superstitious, but there had been a red sky last night, and in the saying, a red sky at night is a sailor’s delight, meaning the seas would be safe and welcoming and the skies would be clear.

“Tell me a story before she gets here,” Vanessa says, pulling Brooke out of her thoughts. 

“Which one?”

Vanessa winks. “You know which one.”

“You’re sure you’re not sick of it?” Brooke asks.

“Never, baby. Never. Just like I’ll never get sick of you, or stop loving you.”

Brooke nods gratefully at how Vanessa always takes the time to reassure her that she loves her and will always be here. Even when Brooke had a bad day a few months ago, Vanessa was there, wrapping her in blankets, making hot chocolate, and sitting by the couch to read a story from one of Brooke’s myth books, her voice rough and choppy like quick waves dashing into the rocks, yet still soothing the buzzing in Brooke’s mind. 

Brooke squeezes Vanessa’s hand, knowing that today will be okay, that they’ll always have each other, and clears her throat. 

“Once upon a time, a brave, bold, and beautiful siren washed up on the shore of a lighthouse, where there lived a lonely lighthouse keeper…”

[lighthouseroleplay]

JUDE  CARTER

                          ( 23 ,  cis man , he/him )

♪♫ currently listening  ⧸⧸  10 am, gare du nord by keaton henson

paint under fingernails, big mugs filled with green tea, hair tied up and out of the way, impatient, tapping feet. bunches of lavender tied up with string, denim jackets covered with patches, binging netflix with subtitles on, ivy crawling up stone. waking up every morning just to see the sun rise in all its red-gold glory, a favorite color that changes every day. margins covered in sprawling sketches, hummingbirds at a window, a furrowed, concerned brow.

    •  lind-carter was an addition to your family that you’d never expected. you and your father were fine on your own, you always had been, and this sudden youngest sister was never something you'd wanted. it was odd, to be suddenly thrown into a family like that, and while she'd seemed fine, you had little interest in the role of an older sibling. it was andrea who talked you into befriending her, in the end, and the rest is history: a sister you'd die for, and a pretty great one at that. she's more driven than you are, though, and sometimes you think she'll do far better than you ever could. most days, you're excited at the prospect of it.

    •  ramirez had a passion for music that rivaled your own passion for art. it was an inspiration to you, and it drew you two closer together over the years. with them, there was no sneers or laughter, no comments about wasting your life on art. there was only constant support from them. one of your doodles were inked permanently on their body, and you listened to every new song that was quickly scribbled on a napkin or in the middle of notes for class. you were glad that someone understood your need to create, and you were happy that they had fallen into your life.

taken by katie  ⧸⧸  nick robinson .

cw: death, car accident

one. 

Nowadays, his childhood bedroom is practically a shrine to every dream he’d ever had. There’s doodles across post-it-notes and the margins of old, wide ruled notebooks he can’t bring himself to discard. There’s the clay pot he made in second grade ceramics, decorated with gold paint and glitter. From middle school, there’s imitations of paintings by all of the well-knowns; his use of color has improved, though his lines are still shaky. Up on the bookshelf, there are graphic novels he illustrated for his friends; he was actually popular among them for making their superhero and goblin and troll fantasies come to life. Beside them, there are Ramirez’s albums, album art done up by him, and the few others by artists associated with Ramirez who wanted covers done by him too. The portraits he did in his senior year, some black and white, most painted, are tucked away in a corner (though Andy Clare’s remains hidden under his bed). There are figurines from when he tried his hand at sculpturing, a box or two from when he considered woodworking. The mailbox outside is painted by him, and there’s a few of the neighbors too, who requested a Jude Carter original on their front lawn when they saw his handiwork. Up on his wall are designs for murals sketched onto copy paper, plans that seemed all too important at one point; half of them haven’t moved an inch in years. 

It is all of him, and yet, it is none of him too.

two. 

His mother died on her way home from work when Jude was five years old. He remembers the waiting in the living room for her to come home, hours later than he ever had before, his father pacing in the room behind him on the phone with every relative and friend they knew. When the news finally came, he cried, a mix of anger and grief and confusion. His parents had gotten into a fight over how safe their cars were. How could she have died in one? 

His mother was an artist too, or so he deduced in the years before his father was ready to tell him about it. There were sketches all over the house, handmade quilts on all the beds, and in a box that never quite got unpacked after they move, there’s  handmade jewelry, all dainty metal and twisting wires. He was thirteen years old and decided she must have had a dream; she must have given it up to settle for a boring life in Olympia, Washington. She must have died with regrets.

When his father found him in the attic, crying over a box of wire jewelry, he rang a different tune. She was happy. She chose to move to a small house in a cul-de-sac and have Jude. She didn’t sacrifice anything she didn’t want to. 

He wore his favorite piece out of the box around his neck for the years that followed, and gave his second favorite to Andrea for Valentine’s Day. Hadley had a few too, and it made his heart swell every time he saw her wearing one. If she died with any regrets, Jude decided, he wouldn’t let her rest with them. Her art should be as loved as she was. 

three.

George Carter grew up in Tenebrin, and he was certain that it was the place to raise his son and heal. They moved at the end of Jude’s first grade year into an old house just up the road from where his father lived for twenty years. It didn’t feel like home at first, just a rickety wooden house with furniture and pictures in smiling faces he hardly recognized. But, slowly they dusted off the surfaces and old wounds, and it grew into something. His father bought the movie theater he worked at in high school from the owner with his mother’s life insurance money, and Jude spent entire summers running around and pestering customers in the years before he was old enough for his father to put him to work. By the time he was in middle school, though pieces still feel missing, Tenebrin finally might’ve been the comfortable spot home was supposed to be.

four. 

In the most confusing parts of his life, art is the only thing that makes sense in his world. It became clear early on that any bit of creativity brought him more joy than any accomplishment through traditional means. Studying books bores him; he’d rather spend hours creating something, even if it turns out terrible and unfinished. Art becomes his sole passion before he can help it, and before long, it defines every bit of the way he is. His style and tastes may change over time and he may not know what he loves most, but most days he figures it doesn’t matter. 

He wants to be an artist, but why does that mean he has to pick just one kind of artist to be?

five. 

He’d never been the kind that fit in easily. In elementary school, it was easy to just call him shy, but by high school it was clear that there was just not a clique with whom he really belonged. 

He was no athlete or jock. Popular kids didn’t give him a second glance in the hall, and he couldn’t blame them. A B-student on a good day, he wasn’t smart enough for the nerds; he appreciated the creativity of the artists, but he’ was not nearly wild enough a spirit to keep up with them. 

But, eventually, he found a peace in not belonging. 

The geeks appreciated his creative mind and invited him to D&D games, and when they saw his doodles, they managed to get him to illustrate graphic novels they pen. They helped Jude with his homework without complaint in the meantime, and those among them in the AV club spent hours picking Jude’s brain with all his knowledge of ancient movie equipment. 

In the artists, he found those who appreciate and rival his creative spirit, and though they all weren’t so compatible, there were some who appreciate his nature. With them, he had opportunities to spread and pursue art, and places to go after dark  if he ever so chose. 

six. 

The first time Jude’s father brought up the woman who owned the bakery, Jude laughed. His father’s stern disappointment and rare anger that day told him that a day he thought would never come was upon them: his dad was moving on from his mother. 

And he hated it. 

But, before he could blink, it seemed like Gen and her daughter, Hadley, were moving into their house. Pictures of his mother were taken down to put up pictures of them; his mother’s decorations removed to make place for the decorating style of a woman he was to call step-mother. The anger at her, the resentment at his father for doing this to him when they were fine and happy and didn’t need them, was difficult to ignore or hide. 

But, it wasn’t his father’s attempts to warm him up to the idea of their new family with gifts and father-son fishing trips that finally convinced him of wonderful they could be as a family, but rather Gen herself. 

She’d invited him to the bakery one morning, forcing him in a room full of baking cookies and flour-dusted surfaces to have the conversation that he’d managed to dodge until now. Jude must have said awful things to her then, accusing of her trying to replace his mother, of destroying the family he’d been perfectly content with. But, she didn’t get angry in return, and when he started to cry, she held him until he stopped.

The next morning, she made him chocolate chips waffles with a smile, and somehow, they were family.

The very concept of a sister, though, was more difficult for him to grasp. He’d gone from the only person in a house to having to share his space and a bathroom with a teenage girl. Maybe she was fine, but for most of those first few years, he wasn’t interested in getting to know her. That was until Andrea Clare entered (and reentered) their lives at the same time, and somehow in her ever charming ways, made him fall in love with the idea of having a sister.  

By the time Jude had graduated high school, he called Gen “mom” regularly, and it felt like Hadley was a sister that had been around his entire life. They were family, just as much as his father and just as important too.

seven.  

After graduation, the community college in Olympia seemed like the best and only option. Unlike so many of his peers, he didn’t have a grand plan figured out. All he knew was what he liked and didn’t like; beyond that he’d decided he needed time to decipher what the universe was telling him. Or something. 

With every passing class though, Jude got no closer to the answers he sought. The world seemed just as, no, more complicated than before. All he wanted to do was draw and watch movies and bask in the art of the world he surrounded himself with. 

Art it was. He wanted to be an artist. For real.

There were small chances here and there to consider it a realistic pursuit. Still, he didn’t know how to define the art that he wanted to do, and he had no idea how to make that a reality. 

So, he kept going through the motions, and he kept making that hour drive three days a week to school. 

eight.  

The September after Andy disappeared, he returned to school as if nothing ever happened. He made it a month pretending like that might be world he actually lived in before he found himself back at home full-time, officially a community college dropout with no real life plan. His parents did their best, he supposed, assuring him that that didn’t need to be the path he took. 

(There were a few shouting matches in the early days. He insisted that they just wanted labor for their businesses, a diligent, dutiful son to wake up early and frost cookies and stay late to kick bums out of the theater. They insisted that they wanted him to be happy; they even pushed him to pursue art. It always ended with them asking what he wanted It always ended with him crying about Andy.)

Eventually a rhythm was found, sound and comfortable: opening the bakery with Gen, working the theater through the afternoon, going out to draw and live at night. At some point, his father helped him move into the attic above the movie theater as a makeshift studio, and the place grew from dusty to clean to littered with paper and paints. For, eventually, only when he was  at peace, did he dare to dream again. He painted murals across the city, decorated banners for town holidays, commissioned portraits for extra cash, made a drive occasionally to sell art at markets and festivals. 

Still, the scariest question lingers, one he can’t push himself to answer. It is the same one his parents pushed on him time and time again after he moved back home. What do you want, Jude? He’s been saving up for years to leave Tenbrin and be a real artist, but truth be told, he still hardly knows what means. He doesn’t really know what he’d do if he moved away; he doesn’t know who he’d be as an artist out in the real world. 

Something keeps him in place, and often it feels as if the town itself isn’t allowing him to move away and move on. Part of him seems to belong to the city now, to the waves that crash upon its shores. Sometimes, if he puts his ears to the water and listens, it sounds too much like the way Andy Clare used to say his name. 

[bethsblog-languageandnewmed-blog]

The History of Emoji’s

Ah, emojis. Known by many names, ideograms, pictograms (yes, apparently people do actually call them these) smileys, emoticons and emojis, if you aren’t familiar with these little extensions of every day language then get ready, because I’m about to take you on a comprehensive historical journey from their creation (which is a lot longer ago than you would have thought) to our current day use of the little characters.

The word “emoji” can roughly be translated to “image character” which, I would say is pretty accurate...

Emojis were actually created out of something much more boring than the bright, inclusive and much-loved collection we use today: punctuation. 

In 1881, the first evidence of emojis were printed in a magazine. These “emojis” consisted of punctuation marks such as brackets, colons, semi colons and hyphens to create facial expressions to demonstrate the following emotions: joy, melancholy, indifference, and astonishment.So... pretty different to the hundreds of emojis we have now, that I would say has got your back providing an emoji for every emotion there is. (Although, maybe not melancholy...)

In 1999, just over one hundred years later, a Japanese man, Shigetaka Kunita, who was working for a company called Docomo at the time, created the first widely-used emoji, the classic love heart. Unfortunately, due to lack of a reliable coding system, recipients weren’t guaranteed to receive this to their pagers (kind of like our present day version of having an old iOS software installed on our iPhones which results in receiving a question mark in a box) until trusty Google stepped in. 

Fortunately, with help from Google and the subsequent constant development of coding and emoji software with new characters coming out on a rapid basis, the emojis we know and love today exist. To some, these little characters are nothing more than an annoyance and just another example of what a bitter old man would call “millennial rubbish”, others credit this little invention for their contextualisation. Lack of contextualisation is a hugely discussed and criticised aspect of online communication, as many believe that with a lack of social cues such as vocal quality, facial expressions and tone of voice, we can never be sure of the real meaning that the sender of a message intended to portray - but do you think emojis eradicate this criticism? I think that whilst emojis help to unpick sometimes pretty vague messages and really brighten up an otherwise pretty dull and blunt sounding message and so do help with contextualisation, sometimes, they can actually create more confusion. Whilst a lot of emojis have a clear meaning - others... not so much. Take this one, for example:

I’ve had an iPhone for about five years now, and have used this emoji countless times as a praying symbol, maybe after passing an exam or praying that the essay I’ve just submitted will get me a good grade. So, they can be pretty subjective.

Much like how emojis were originally created, my first memories of emojis were also through using punctuation to create facial expressions and other small pictures. I hope you all remember the days of secondary school, when every evening we sat in that room of your house donned the “computer room” with a huge leather desk chair, dell desktop computer and we spent our evenings on MSN (if you know, you know). This is where our knowledge of keyboard shortcuts such as (8) for the music note emoji, of course - one of my favourites which allowed me to regularly update everyone on my current music favourites, was born. If you don’t remember, here’s a little something to jog your memory:

Due to the highly popular and somewhat influential nature of emojis, which is as a result of their prevalence in all communication platforms (Facebook has their own emoji board, as does Microsoft, Android...) it is increasingly important that their designs are constantly updated and developed to ensure representation. As internet communication and social media networks hold such a huge presence in the everyday lives of so many people, as 1.52 billion people* on average log onto Facebook daily and are considered daily active users suggesting that aspects of these communicative methods and platforms are increasingly important, and some may say, influential. 

To add to a list of long-awaited emojis which in the past has included ginger-haired emojis, the new set of emojis, Emoji 12.0, which was approved on February 5, 2019 with 230 new additions to the existing collection, will be coming to Apple and all major communication platforms this year. Within these 230 new emojis, there are menstrual cycle emojis, an otter, an ice cube, and a waffle. 

However, you’d think with the sheer number of emojis that we already have and for how long the things have been around, that emojis would be inclusive, right?Wrong. With every new update this criticism of emojis is squashed further and further and this update is no different, with more hotly anticipated and well overdue additions including interracial couples, disabled and accessible emojis such as a blind person, bionic arm, and a person in a wheelchair. Some may argue that it isn’t a big deal if there aren’t inclusive emoji, but this quote eliminates that pretty narrow-minded idea perfectly:

“If you enhance opportunities for people to represent their experience in the world, the possible negative impacts of that disability are diminished, similar to how a functional crosswalk can lessen the challenge of crossing the street if you’re visually impaired. Being able to represent the non-typical bodily state can be not only empowering, but a way in which people can communicate their experiences.” *

So, even though they’re “just emojis”, I think they are a small representation of a much bigger picture. Internet communication is at the heart of so many daily activities and has such a huge influence on the way we work, live and learn. As a result of this, small aspects of this online world do actually have a great effect in peoples perception and experiences. I would say this influence is particularly important when focusing on young people and the huge presence social media has in their lives, as growing up on the internet, the representation around you is a really important thing, as these create and reinforce societal standards, thus effecting a young persons self esteem. So, taking all this into account, if inclusive emojis are something that makes fitting in a little bit easier for someone, even if that does seem like a silly and insignificant thing to someone else, then I’m all for it. 

NBC News. (2019). From interracial couples to people with disabilities: Why inclusive emojis matter. [online] Available at: https://www.nbcnews.com/better/lifestyle/interracial-couples-people-disabilities-new-inclusive-emojis-are-their-way-ncna969331 [Accessed 14 Feb. 2019]. 

Zephoria.com. (2019). [online] Available at: https://zephoria.com/top-15-valuable-facebook-statistics/ [Accessed 14 Feb. 2019].

[fate-grandorder-imagines]

Headcanons for Arthur as your husband please!! Thank you so much I really love your blog ^_^❤

Arthur Pendragon marriage headcanons

A/n: It might haven’t been my best idea to re-read ‘Gone Girl’ right before starting to work on this request haha, but unlike this disaster of a marriage Arthur would never disappoint or hurt you. King of Knights? More like King of Husbands!

Requested by: anonymous

this probably didn’t have to be mentioned, but by all laws of nature Arthur is nothing but the best husband in the history of husbands

being your boyfriend had already filled his heart with so much joy and happiness but now that he could call himself your husband there was barely anything that could make him even happier than he already was and he would thank God every day for the gift of waking up to every day

well of course the same applied to you, but this doesn’t mean that Arthur would ever slacken off in his ‘duties’ as your husband, his love and devotion for you only growing with each day passing by

Once a Knight, always a Knight

but of course he wouldn’t stop the occasional teases too, like deliberately placing or holding books and cups out of your reach and watch you huff and pout when you try to grasp them with a good-natured laugh escaping his throat

he loves you dearly and not a day passes where he doesn’t prove it to you with little gestures, like waffles and pancakes in bed on lazy Sundays, car drives to work on busy Mondays and wine and cooking together on late Fridays

and just look at his face lighting up like the morning sun whenever you refer to him as your husband in front of other people, there’s nothing that could be better proof of his love and adoration for you when he gets this bright happy smile on his face whenever he hears you referring to him as your husband

having learned from his past disastrous marriage, he also wouldn’t ever let you go to sleep alone when you’ve been having an argument

No matter how small or huge it was, no matter how petty or important, he would want to talk it out with you instead of letting the angry atmosphere suffocating the both of you which can be sometimes frustrating if you just want to be left alone for a while to cool off, but he only means well

Arthur also takes your anniversaries very serious, never forgetting about any of them or treating them as if they were just another day

It’s not like either of you would expect something extravagant but a nice dinner and small, meaningful presents to remind yourselves of the blessings that come with being married are a must for him 

and even if you’ve been married for 50 years now and have long passes the prime of life there won’t be a single day where he doesn’t greet you with a ‘good morning love’ and a soft kiss pressed to your nose before you start the day~

- Mod Silver

[a-lbeit]

2018: a year in review

rang in the new year with really good people actually watching the ball drop for the first time in a few years. it always makes me sad in a happy way.

had my friend (from california) i met while studying in berlin come to visit!!! but there was a giant (relatively speaking) snowstorm that came through, so we had to rearrange a couple things we had planned on doing. but most things worked out, especially since i didn’t have to go to work for like 5 days lmfao. we did a ghost tour, went to a few historical sites, and even drove to savannah for a day.

went to waffle house with a few people the night before i left for my last semester at american university and....tbh....started feeling some things about someone again (but it’s gone away lmao)

returned to dc for the last time for a while

actually started booking things for the best goddamn spring break -- a trip to western south dakota to visit badlands national park and everything around it

saw the devil makes three

started an internship with rock creek park, my own door into the nps

went to the bars on u street for the first time for my friend’s birthday. almost got projectile vomited on during the pregame lmfaooooo

saw arlo guthrie

got moviepass at the height of it. i saw many films with it, some of my favorites being lean on pete, three billboards outside ebbing, missouri, and bad times at the el royale. however, the company obviously went downhill. i was all right with only being able to see 3 movies a month, because for 10 bucks, that’s still not bad. but then showtimes started disappearing and i finally gave up hope. it was nice while it lasted. 

took my german midterm and skrrted right out of dc to embark on one of the greatest journeys of my life. i’d had this spring break in mind for a year and a half, and i feel so grateful that i could actually accomplish virtually everything i had dreamed of:

drove to dayton, ohio, then waterloo, iowa, then wall, south dakota, my final destination. along the way, i saw a zoo that was my window to a west i had only ever heard about, a statue of abraham lincoln right next to the mississippi, the world’s largest truck stop, a hobo memorial, an intricate and delicate and intriguing grotto, a tri-state marker, a corn palace, the goddamn missouri river, and all the farmland and life that make up the heartland of the united states. i was mesmerized and i had barely started.

reached my motel in the evening with a backdrop of the sunset over the badlands, got nervous by a group of men wearing camo and carrying what seemed to be hunting or fishing gear, went to dairy queen, and came back to a once-again empty motel parking lot. i felt better.

spent the next day in the national park. it was the off season, so the entrance i went through was unmanned. i saw countless sheep and prairie dogs, sometimes within a few feet of me, and admired the bright, layered colors in the rock. i played springsteen’s “badlands” with nobody in sight, miles of land in every direction that seemed both right there and unreachable at the same time. the visitor’s center had information and nice people. the cliff shelf trail was a small introduction to my hiking in the park. the notch trail was fun and gave me a bruise and let me see the badlands as they are meant to be seen -- you get to climb a ladder and get into the formations. there is an astonishing view, but if you go a bit further than most people do, it’s even more incredible. i lay down backwards and looked at everything upside down. i drove back the way i came and stopped to admire the sunset over the jagged and far-off edges. it was still the beginning.

(got an email saying i was accepted into the disney college program lmfao)

with the next day came a further destination. in belle fourche, sd, there is the true geographical center of the us. you go down a gravel road for around 8 miles. it’s scary when the fog doesn’t let you see more than 200 feet in front of you and the farms on either side of you are encased in snow. but the mysticism surrounding the decor -- a homemade cross, a simple “the true center of the nation” declaration, and various hiking boots stuck in the fence -- especially when you seem to be the only person for miles, is surreal. i left there and finally found my way out of the fog and went on into wyoming to see devils tower. the sky was a piercing blue and i was blinded by the light, but snow is always on the ground that time of the year, i guess, and i hiked knee-deep through 2 miles of it. i dropped to my knees in happiness like a weakling when i saw my car again, but i felt like cheryl strayed. people feed the prairie dogs so much there that they come right up to you. the squeaks were unending and cute. i drove the 2 or 2.5 hours back, mostly in the dark, my feet water-logged but my heart full.

i drove to mount rushmore the next day. it’s strange always knowing of something and finally seeing it in person. i love the sculpture and i don’t know how people are able to do things like that. i wish i could have hiked closer to it, but the trails were still closed for winter. then, through the black hills i continued, coming up to the crazy horse memorial and reluctantly paying the admission fee, although i know it helps their progress. i know i probably won’t be alive when (and if) it’s completed, but it’s nice to see at least part of it. i wish i could go up to it. maybe one day. wind cave national park came after, and i saw bison munching on grass 10 feet away from me. i wish i could have gone into the cave. maybe one day. i walked along the grassland without a jacket on. i couldn’t believe it. i left and took the backroads to return to mount rushmore to see it at night. it was scary, especially navigating the never-ending curves in the black of the unpopulated areas, but coming closer to the monument, i passed through one-car tunnels that framed the sculpture perfectly. 

the next day was my second time around at the badlands. i hiked half of the castle trail and climbed some of the formations, able to admire all i could see from a throne made of crumbly rock. there was fog in the morning which lifted to another sunny day. there were cacti and deer and even phone lines. the shadows in the creases of the hills kill me with their nonchalant elegance. i went back to my motel and came back into the park at night. i had never seen so many stars, although it was so goddamn frightening being in a parking lot unable to see 5 feet in front of me that i left after a few minutes.

my last day, i was supposed to go to jewel cave national monument, but it snowed and caused some of the roads to close. instead, i walked through the storm to wall drug store and meandered around the kitschiness. i want to bring people there to show them how incredible it is. 

i drove back to washington over the next 3 days, stopping at the now snow-covered badlands for one last look, the green giant in minnesota, effigy mounds national monument, dubuque, and everywhere in between along the way.

native american history around all of the places i have mentioned is rich and cannot be underestimated. i didn’t talk about it, but these places are of course sacred to the tribes of the region and it is paramount to respect that. i think the nps tries to educate, but it could do more.

i went about 4,200 miles on that trip. i miss the days of driving with my playlist that took months to create. 

i came back to washington and didn’t really talk about my journey except for a mention of it when discussing what we had done over spring break in german class. i love to recount this 10 day period, but i don’t do so very much because i feel inarticulate and i don’t want to minimize the effect it has had on me. 

saw langhorne slim, don mclean, and george ezra (on 3 separate occasions)

was a part of park rx day with rock creek park

saw old crow medicine show (which has become a yearly tradition i guess lmfao)

went to the graduation happy hour for the library circulation desk. that night was something i’ll never forget. i miss that place so much.

the next day, drove to clemson to see melissa graduate! what a time in our lives. then promptly drove back to dc for my own graduation

but the night before my ceremony, i saw david byrne. it was wild but not as great as i had hoped, mostly because i couldn’t see too well.

graduated from american university, but continued to be on its campus a few days a week until mid-august because i couldn’t bear the thought of leaving the library or the campus. i love that place more than i thought i ever would. 

saw shakey graves 2 days in a row, as you do

saw pussy riot thanks to a recommendation from my german professor

visited my work friend’s farm just outside of baltimore

saw pauly d dj at a club lmfaoooooo

found a shark’s tooth at calvert cliffs state park

went to new york for a day to visit brandon before he moved to san francisco! i got in around 5:30am and had the first part of the day to myself. i went to staten island and all the nps sites downtown, then met him at his brother’s apartment a couple blocks from central park (???!!!!). we went to greenwich village, ate lunch at the white horse tavern, and then had a second lunch from mcdonald’s in washington square park. he had to go after a while, but i walked over to the high line to see the sunset. i walked ~45k steps that day but the joy is remembered more than the pain in the end.

i worked and flirted with a nice guy. i might visit him in california in may. 

went to nashville to see paul simon with my friend callie. we rocked and enjoyed trashy nashy. that same day, paul simon announced his final show in queens was to be in september. i thought about how i could attend. 

we came back to charleston through the smokies and went swimming in the rain. the beauty of that area is unlike anything else. then we met lauren for lunch and it was so goddamn nice. i wish it could have been for longer. 

saw harry styles bc i love myself ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ 

had a couple friends visit and we did the touristy stuff of dc. it was nice to do that with people for once. 

had a couple more friends visit and we went to asbury park for the fourth of july. it was atmospheric and i couldn’t believe i was in springsteen’s stomping ground, especially as one of his song’s namesakes. 

saw southside johnny and the asbury jukes

saw a ship belonging to the spanish navy when it docked in charleston for a couple days

started my second long trip of the year

drove from dc to cleveland, first of all. i spent as much time as i could in the rock and roll hall of fame. i saw all the stuff i had learned about in my rock and roll history class and stuff i had grown up with and everything else i didn’t know about. “bruce juice,” pete seeger’s banjo head, and a couple free games of pinball were memorable moments. then, i went on to the cleveland museum of art, where i took a photo i wasn’t supposed to and recognized a couple pieces from my art class sophomore year. i loved cleveland way more than i thought i would and saw myself as a resident there.

went to cuyahoga valley national park the next morning, admiring the only national park in ohio with its waterfalls and greenery, and continued on to bowling green, kentucky. on the way, i went to kent state (which affected me more than i thought -- the military is too often a disgusting institution).

took a 4 hour tour deep into mammoth cave and saw things i couldn’t have even fathomed before. i couldn’t really wrap my head around the fact that we were underground where it is always dark yet still teeming with life. the change in humidity when coming back outside made my camera fog up for a good few minutes. it was funny, really. afterwards, i took advantage of the parts of mammoth cave national park that light does touch -- i got soaked in a rainstorm but seeing the green river and having a butterfly land on my finger were things i will always remember. wet and cold, i went on a second tour of a different part of the cave by lantern light in the evening. we saw cave graffiti and even a bat.

i left that area and moved on to the cumberland gap. it was the day before my 22nd birthday and i was in 3 states at once (for the second time this year). “salt seeking buffalo, moccasin clad warriors, dreaming pioneer, battling civil war soldiers. each was here in the historic cumberland gap, and now so are you.” [punctuation added] has got to be one of my favorite signs i’ve ever seen. it conveys the history in simple terms, which is the way i like things. it’s endlessly meaningful without being pretentious. 

on my birthday, i toured the forbidden caverns near the smokies, then hiked some of the alum cave bluffs trail. i wish i could have done the whole thing, but i was short on time, as i wanted to be back in charleston by the evening to celebrate my birthday with my parents. 

the day after, i slept in for once, went to the angel oak with melissa, and saw brian wilson and the gang perform all of pet sounds with callie. it was nice but there were so many empty seats that it was a little sad. 

started my travels again, going back to the smokies area but stopping in blowing rock first and then going down the blue ridge parkway. the next day, i went to pigeon forge and rode an alpine coaster and finally did a somewhat substantial hike in the smokies -- charlies bunion. i saw a mother bear and her 2 babies and was alone on the trail with a beautiful deer. after that hike, i did the tail of the dragon drive and went to fontana dam, where the fog along the water made for an otherworldly feeling in my heart. 

came back to charleston once again, but not before swimming around looking glass falls and feeling that this is what summer should look like. also made a stop at the carl sandburg home nhs.

started my drive back to dc for the last time, but took the scenic route -- south of the border, luray caverns, and the hardest hike i’ve ever done over in shenandoah. the famed old rag. it was a rainy tuesday, and the rocks were slippery. i didn’t see a single other person. i clutched those rocks for dear life at times, but i made that 10 mile hike and it was invigorating. i miss getting grimy in the forest. 

that whole trip took me 3,755 miles around the eastern us with my ipod, 60s on 6, and phlash phelps’s voice in the morning as my soundtrack. 

acknowledged in my head that it was nearly time to the leave the library, a home of mine for the past three and a half years. i told people the date of my departure and it inched closer despite my desire for time to stop progressing. 

had a tour of the towers of the national cathedral. it’s not something many people have done and i’m glad to have seen the not-so-showy parts of the structure, along with a closer-up look at the showy parts we know and love. 

had a visit from lauren -- we went to nando’s, the portrait gallery, and thrift shops with paige. i wish it would have lasted longer. 

went to six flags with my friend from work, where we rode every ride we wanted to. it was carefree, even though my pants ripped. 

my final day at the library inevitably came and went. instagram follows and facebook friends increased as i knew this was now the only way to see the people i had known for so long. i got choked up, and i’m choked up even writing this. to say i miss it is to put it very insignificantly. i have left some of myself there. 

went back to new york for a few days, where i met up with my father so that we could see a concert in central park celebrating the greenwich village folk scene of the 60s. the mc was richard barone, who we’d met 2 years prior when he gave us a tour of greenwich village. on that trip, i saw theodore roosevelt’s birthplace (thank god for him, sincerely), the cloisters, staten island again, the seinfeld restaurant, and even coney island. we took the bus back to dc and drove my ‘97 ford escort back to charleston.

for the few days i had in charleston before moving to orlando to work for disney, i hung out with people like old times. trivia, the beach, apartments. the circuit. 

i really fuckin moved to orlando, i guess. i moved in with 7 other people. we resort-hopped before we got our entrance passes to the parks. i felt mostly unmoved by the orientations that they try so hard to brainwash us with. i took a huge paycut coming here. 

i started working at the food and wine festival. goddamn, i miss working at epcot. i saw the groovin alps play their bavarian percussion music and i poured beer and served lobster rolls and korma chicken and lentil stew and everything in between. i met dozens of beautiful people, some of whom are gone back now to from where they came. but i’m still here. 

i mentioned earlier that paul simon announced back in june that his final concert would be in queens in late september. i bought a ticket the day they went on sale and was determined to find a way to attend. i did. i flew to new york for a few days -- came into penn station from newark, walked around to greenwich village and the brooklyn bridge and went to the museum of the moving image late in the evening on a friday when it was free. the next day, i visited the queens museum in flushing-meadows corona park (where the concert was also being held) and was in line for the show by 11:30am. i waited for like 8 hours in all, but i was front row. that final paul simon show (which we all know isn’t really the final one, but it did have a certain finality to it) was transformative for me, paul, and everyone else in the audience. i saw lorde, jimmy fallon, and john mulaney. i cried and was recorded and tapped along and admired the performances of “the cool, cool river” and “the obvious child” and every other goddamn song he played. i stuck around as long as i could. the next day, i flew back to orlando and returned to work, but i felt different. 

lived the typical life of a college program participant: work, go to the parks, work, go to the parks, sleep. 

voted somewhere along the way and was overjoyed that democrats took back the house. 

went to st augustine with sarah

eventually, the food and wine festival ended and i was transferred to port orleans riverside, where i currently am. it’s awful but i’m alive. 

spent thanksgiving, christmas, and every other holiday at work. it wasn’t really a big deal but it was obviously depressing. 

at the beginning of december, broke down and bought a plane ticket back to dc. i had to pick up a poster from the anthem (a music venue), anyway. i stayed with paige and saw my old work friends and just had a good time. goddamn, it was cold, but it was worth it. i finally was able to tour the department of the interior and and i went to theodore roosevelt island for the first time since like freshman year. we even saw zoo lights and went to the christmas pop-up bar on 7th street again. 

played basketball one time lmao

played jackbox countless times with my roommates and we made a few trips to jellyrolls, one of the best parts of disney world. i love to go there and sing and hear the piano.

spent new year’s eve at jellyrolls, coincidentally, where i stole a noisemaker and we all wore hats and sang “auld lang syne” when the clock struck midnight, just as you’re supposed to do. 

laughed and cried while going through so many large life changes but still understanding that there is always some sort of constant in your life

drove more than i think i ever have before

went to several of the concerts they had for the food and wine festival -- saw people like air supply, starship, and the plain white t’s

listened to countless hours of music -- i think my most listened-to artists were springsteen, dylan, paul simon, maybe david cassidy, old crow medicine show, and lorde. 

song of the year: “fare thee well (dink’s song),” marcus mumford and oscar isaac (from inside llewyn davis). it’s an incredible song to travel to.

was always conflicted about working for disney, but really became disgusted with the corporation the more i worked here. i will be happy to not work for them anymore when the time comes because it makes me so uncomfortable to be employed by an entity that doesn’t give a shit about its employees and milks every single fucking penny that it can out of its customers, all under the guise of being giving and magical by using terminology such as “interactions,” “magical moments,” and “guests”

considered my options after this is all over

loved the national park service and even wrote a capstone on it

2018 was the most eventful year of my life. i am not in school for the first time that i can remember; i have a degree. i travelled to more of the us than i ever knew really existed, i saw incredible concerts, and i met some truly wonderful people. but of course, the difficult moves that come along with a year like this were depressing. i knew i would be completely heartbroken when i had to leave the library back in august, but i didn’t realize how sorry i would also be to see my roommates go back to their homes at the end of their tenure at disney. it’s been 2 days, but i miss being able to hang out with them. to gain all the life experience i did, it was necessary to lose some really great parts of my old life. and that blew. but you get over it. 

this year in review has taken me so long to write because i had so much to include that it seemed overwhelming to try to articulate it all. i think back to when i would wait until the night before a paper was due to start it, and i feel the same way. but the power in finishing it and having something tangible that points to a certain time in your life and explains the way you felt at that moment is like nothing else. even if the paper you write is shit, it never seems as bad (at least, to me) when you return to read through it a year or two later. it’s your thoughts set in stone, frozen in time. it’s a nice reminder. and i really enjoy writing these posts and i generally like what i write and how i say things, despite the inevitable procrastination in doing so.

i always think of “auld lang syne” when i do a year in review. sure, it’s a standard song for the new year and these year in reviews are written on or around the new year. but to write this, i have to think back to days gone by, before the year even started. and i get this feeling in my stomach of nostalgia and wistfulness (i’ve written about it before, i know) reflecting on the good ol days of these past 365 days and the times before them. we live in strange times right now, especially during what has become a two-week long (and counting!) partial government shutdown, but the memories of the warm past and the dreams of a better future are always going to be around to steady your head. without the abstract, how would we get to the concrete?

“we all cherish our children’s futures. and we are all mortal.”

[yoiotdfics]

Fic Recs for April 2017

Music of the Heart by rk_rl

A chance at fame. Potential love. Realizing he’s your soulmate. It’s a chance Yuuri can’t resist. Life and love. Fickle. Opportunities Only last so long. Loosing cannot, will not stop him. Salvation, as always, comes in the form of Victor Nikiforov.

want by insidetwizzles

Summary:

On nights like this, when he’s cold and alone and wants nothing more than to fuck the heat out of Yuuri, Viktor imagines.

i wanna be (the best you’ve ever known) by notcaycepollard

Summary:

All Viktor actually wants is to spoil Yuuri.

Apparently, he’s not able to spoil Yuuri so much as he seems able to spoil things with Yuuri. It is terribly unfair. Perhaps the universe actually has it out for him.

The Gifts of Friendship by  Whisper132

Summary:

Yuri and Otabek’s relationship blooms as they learn the art of giving, receiving, and documenting everything online to show off.

Puppy Love by  Phyona

Summary:

When Yuuri gets turned into a dog, the last place he expects to end up is Victor Nikiforov’s apartment. He learns quickly that the only thing worse than being his idol’s pet, is watching him pine for someone else.

Warning: Makkachin has recently passed away at the start of this story.

There’s a Difference Between Sleight of Hand and Misdirection by  GordandV

Summary:

Guang Hong doesn’t reply: it certainly doesn’t seem like one of his best programs considering the score.

American Pie (Friends Don’t Let Friends Eat Pancakes) by  youaremarvelous

Summary:

Yurio takes his drunk dads to Waffle House and fun times are had by all

Something Sweet by  AmericanCanada

Summary:

All Yuuri wanted to do was bake some cookies…….

all my friends and all the loose ends by  Anonymous

Summary:

There’s a box on Phichit’s bedside table, marked with the days of the week. Clear blue, the distinct shape of medication hazy and lumpy underneath the covers. He’d tried to hide it, at first, but he forgot to take them if he couldn’t see them, and maybe, just maybe, Yuuri wouldn’t judge.

Private Theatricals by  Watergaw

Summary:

Some unmitigated historical fluff as a gift for my dear Yunitsa on this auspicious occasion. In which I commit acts of petty larceny on the works of Jane Austen and set the whole thing in 1865 for reasons of insufferable pedantry. I hope it makes you smile.

Mr Victor Nikiforov, rich, handsome, accomplished, and quite the most eligible bachelor in four counties, has a problem. His friend Giacometti has a solution.

Exhibition by  stella_polaris

Summary:

Yuri needs a special look for his exhibition piece but he struggles with perfecting it himself. It’s good that he has Mila to help him.

Fandom Bicycle, Case 1: Sara Crispino by ineptshieldmaid

Summary:

Sara folds her arms and examines Chris. ‘You flirt with everyone,’ she says.

‘Most people,’ Chris concedes.

‘How do you manage it?’

—

(Series: tumblr prompt challenge-to-self, an attempt to test just how many characters can be paired with Chris Giacometti)

critical hit by  reptilianraven

Summary:

”Victor is certainly an incredible player, but his opponent might just give him a run for his money.”

”I totally agree. Victor’s opponent, seventeen year old Yuuri Katsuki representing Japan, is one of the most interesting players this championship has ever seen.”

-

Yuuri brings a Pachirisu to the Pokemon Video Game World Championship Finals and rocks Victor’s world.

Maslenitsa by  spare

Summary:

“It’s the week when we get to eat pancakes,” Victor explains. “Lots and lots of pancakes.” … Or the terribly inaccurate, shamelessly self-indulgent, fluff-for-fluff’s-sake fic where Victor and Yuuri celebrate Maslenitsa in St. Petersburg.

Like a Fairytale

lucycamui

Summary:

In which Prince Victor gets swept off his feet at a royal banquet and will go to any length to find his ‘Cinderella’ Yuuri. (And Phichit is the fairy godmother who has no idea what he’s doing).

“The crown prince of the Nikiforov kingdom, infatuated with a mystery pastry chef he’s only just met. This is exactly the kind of scandalous love story my life has been missing… So, what’s he look like? What exactly is Prince Victor’s type?”

“…Sweet.”

“Well, he does make pastries.“

I can be your devil or your angel, baby

hinatella

Summary:

Yuuri Katsuki didn’t ask for any of this, and he’s starting to question all of his life choices that lead up to this cursed moment.

Reason in Madness

Gigi_Sinclair

Summary:

“Yuri is only fifteen, but Lilia can already see the danger that’s gathering around him, the jackals that are licking their chops and beckoning. Men, women, alcohol, drugs. Scandals that lose sponsors, mistakes that ruin lives. There’s a world of tempting trouble out there, and it’s up to them to keep Yuri out of it, just as they did for Victor.”

UTC plus nine

anirondack

Summary:

Yuuri leans against the low wall, then sits on it. He rolls one ankle, and then the other. A light breeze plays along his face. His phone buzzes in his jacket pocket. He digs it out and sees a text from Victor, so he swipes it open and then drops his phone on the ground.

Victor is the master of nudes. Yuuri is easy.

Not Quite in the History Books

Black_Tailed_Gull (ExpatGirl)

Summary:

Viktor recounts his rather…unique…version of a housewarming ritual.

Small Bundles Of Joy Come With Big Bills

iamthefacebehindthemask

Summary:

Victor did what?

Aka, Victor is always extra, even as he is about to become a parent, and Yuuri tries to deal.

Toucan Play At That Game

whalefairyfandom12

Summary:

“Hey Seung-Gil.”

“Yes?”

The Korean skater had always intimidated Phichit a little. Talented and quiet some would call him antisocial, but deep down Phichit was sure they could be good friends. And what better way to break the ice than with a joke?

“What do you call memory loss in a parrot?”

Batter Up!

Shadow_sensei

Summary:

Victor and Yuuri are celebrating their birthdays together and decide to bake their own cakes, competing against each other to see which of their cakes will be the one to win over the party. Neither have baked a cake in years.

Laundry Day

cryingoverspilledvodka

,

lucycamui

Summary:

The Katsuki-Nikiforov household takes a morning off to do laundry. Living together, it’s not just the bed that needs breaking in.

Duckling

missmichellebelle

Summary:

The ballet classes are, inevitably, Victor’s idea.

something for the first time

copperwings

Summary:

Post-canon life in St. Petersburg, aka the ficlet in which Victor reads Cosmo for relationship advice and Yuuri disapproves.

Basically this is just humor and fluff.

Damage Control

aeriamamaduck

Summary:

Victor wakes up after a night of drinking with Yuuri and remembers taking a selfie.

minty coffee and sugary kisses

phylocalist

Summary:

A breath in, a breath out. Sara walks to the table she saw Mila sit on with a coffee in one hand and plate with the muffin in the other. It’s not like they’re short on staff and, in reality, she shouldn’t be doing this, this isn’t her work, but. She wants to.

(God, she’s so weak for pretty girls. Always has been.)

Or: Five times Sara makes a coffee for Mila in a coffee shop as an acquiantance, one time she makes a coffee for Mila in her apartment as her girlfriend.

5 things about the Yuri!! on Ice Cinderella AU

LLitchi

Summary:

The search is a campaign of low grade sexual harassment as all men and women in the country bemusedly allow Viktor to molest everything below their ankles, as respectfully as he can while still being a huge pervert.

Phichit the Brave

icandrawamoth

Summary:

Guang Hong, Leo, and Phichit go camping, and Phichit saves his boyfriends from the terrors of the woods at night

Wax or Shave?

FujoshiFluff

Summary:

A little bit of both.

(Yuuri and Viktor banter, deals are made, and Viktor chokes once or twice)

Homesickness

Clairianne

Summary:

With all his love for America, Guang Hong sometimes feels homesick.

calling all romantics

cyanoscarlet

Summary:

Contrary to popular opinion, Yakov Feltsman was a true romantic at heart.

A Family Portrait

kat_hale

Summary:

The Katsuki-Nikiforov-Plisetsky family naps.

OR

Nikolai Plisetsky is in the hospital and Yuuri and Viktor take care of their son.

Birthday in Bed

FeelsandFandoms

Summary:

Phichit never cared much for celebrating his birthday, but that might change this year with Leo and Guang-Hong spending it with him.

[hedaswolf]

your favorite stupid-cute family goes on vacation

(part 22 of the clexa eleven au)

You press your forehead to the window even though everything around you is rattling.

The whirring sound gets louder and louder and you have to grip the armrests to keep from sitting back in your seat. The last time you talked to Mike he explained the science of it to you -- something about force and velocity -- but you never imaged it would feel so clunky. Like riding a bike with a few loose screws.

Just when you’re about to turn around to ask your moms if this is normal, the rattling abates and your stomach swoops in a weird, pleasant kind of way. But you hardly notice, because the ground is rapidly retreating below you.

Soon cars and buildings look more like wind-up toys and building blocks, and the city streets become a checkerboard grid.

The last thing you see before climbing above the clouds is a slate gray lake. It’s not yours, you don’t think, but you imagine that it is. There’s a tiny fleck in the center and it takes you a moment to realize it’s a boat. It’s weird to think that there’s a person on there -- someone with plans and dreams and worries -- who you’ll never meet, who doesn’t even know you exist.

You hope they’re having a good day.

Dense fog obscures the view and you finally sit back in your seat. You wait to feel afraid, but if there’s any fear in you it can’t get past your brazen, astonishing joy.

You’re flying.

***

You wouldn’t have thought a foster kid could even get a passport, but it didn’t turn out to be too much trouble.

At least, that’s what your moms said. You didn’t find out about the trip until the passport came in the mail. Suddenly you understood why, a few weeks earlier, Clarke took you to CVS, where a teenage employee told you not to smile before taking your photo in front of a white screen.

When you opened the little blue booklet and saw your confused, unsmiling face looking back at you, you let out this high-pitched squeak and threw your arms around your moms waists.

Lexa laughed. “You don’t even know where we’re going yet,” she said, tousling your hair.

“I don’t care,” you replied, and you meant it. You could be going nowhere and you’d be happy just to have something that meant you could travel anywhere, if you wanted.

Clarke grinned. “Good. Because we’re not telling you.”

And they wouldn’t, no matter how much you pleaded.

Your moms were acting strangely, though. They spoke in these fancy accents while making dinner, but eventually had to stop because Lexa couldn’t stop giggling at how bad Clarke’s was. After dinner, instead of dessert you had milky tea and cookies, which your moms inexplicably called “biscuits.”

On your way upstairs to get ready for bed Clarke kept telling you to “mind the gap,” and when you came out of the bathroom after brushing your teeth Lexa placed a plastic tiara on your head.

You put a hand on your hip and sighed, trying to hide your smile. “Will you just tell me?”

“One more clue,” Clarke said, nodding toward your room. “Go and see.”

Waffles had discovered the clue first. The three of you burst out laughing as you watched him roll around on bed, scattering a bunch of multicolored slips of paper across your duvet. Lexa shooed him up near your pillows and gathered the final clues into a neat stack before handing them to you.

Not only were they different colors -- green and orange and blue -- they were different sizes. They had numbers on them -- 5, 10, and 20 -- and a symbol that kinda looked like a cursive “L.”

“It’s money…” you said. Your moms nodded, but didn’t offer any help. Clarke was bouncing on her toes in anticipation.

You laid the bills down on the bed and slowly turned them over. There were several old fashioned-looking people on them, but you noticed that they all had the same woman on one side. She was wearing a tiara, too.

No, not a tiara -- a crown.

Then you could’ve smacked yourself, because you saw they all said “Bank of England” in loopy writing at the top.

“Oh my gosh,” you whispered. “England??”

“Yes, well done!” Lexa said in that weird accent from earlier. “The capital of England.”

She was waiting for you to answer, but Clarke -- who was practically dancing in place -- couldn’t contain herself.

“London!” she cried, taking your hand and giving you a twirl. “A client referred me to a friend who wants to meet in person. They’re paying for my flight and hotel room, and the trip falls on a long weekend, so the stars aligned for a family holiday.”

London. Half of the stuff that you read about in history class happened in London. Mary Poppins lived in London. Peter Pan took place in London!

You put your hand over your heart, blinking back tears. You got that familiar feeling that this was happening to someone else. Since you started living here so many impossible things have become possible. It makes you ache, sometimes.

Lexa tucked a strand of hair behind your ear and began singing "Chim Chim Cher-ee" in a soft voice. Clarke joined in, then you, and the ache in your chest expanded until it popped.

By the time you reached “on the rooftops of London” your moms’ arms were around you and, for an instant, nothing seemed impossible anymore.

***

Clarke’s client paid for a black cab to take you from the airport to your hotel. You slept for most of the flight (only waking up once you landed, which was a little disappointing) so you were wide awake for the ride through the suburbs and into central London.

You and Lexa had read up on the neighborhood you’re staying in, which happens to be where Clarke studied abroad during college. You learned that it’s near a big park with a “small” palace (an oxymoron, you think), has rows upon rows of historic, white buildings, and is home to many “posh” people.

You don’t quite get what “posh” means, so Clarke has been pointing out posh things to help you get the idea. When the cab arrives at the hotel and a doorman loads your luggage onto a “trolley” Clarke whispers, “Doormen? Posh.”

The hotel isn’t like the big chains you’ve seen in the US. In fact, you wouldn’t know this was a hotel at all if you didn’t look closely -- it blends with the other white buildings on either side of it, aside from a flag and a small sign by the door.

Clarke beams at you and follows the doorman inside, but Lexa hesitates. You take her hand and squeeze it, hoping to convey that all of this “poshness” makes you a little nervous, too.

She squeezes your hand back. “If they could see us now.”

(You love when she uses the plural “they” like that, and you love that she knows you know exactly who she means.)

You’re both standing a little taller when you follow Clarke inside.

Once you’re checked in the receptionist directs you to your “flat,” which Clarke explains is a “suite,” which makes you shrug because neither word means anything to you. Aside from the inn you spent the night in for Lincoln and Octavia’s wedding, you never stayed in a hotel before. And this one is nothing like the inn or any of the hotels you’ve seen in movies.

It has two bedrooms, a sparkling bathroom with a deep tub, a sitting area with a sofa and TV, and a small kitchen, stocked with food that is both familiar and very different.

It says “crisps” on bags of potato chips and “Walkers” where it should say “Lays.” There’s a carton of eggs on the counter, which also strikes you as odd. You open the narrow refrigerator to put them where they belong but are quickly distracted by what’s inside.

“Look at this milk carton!” you say, holding up the oddly-shaped container. “What’s ‘semi-skimmed’ mean? Will it taste the same as 2%?”

Clarke grins and pulls out her phone to snap a photo of you and the milk. Lexa takes three glasses out of the cupboard.

“Only one way to find out,” she says.

***

Your moms didn’t sleep much on the plane and are feeling pretty “jetlagged” (your mind is spinning with all these new words!) so you stick close to the flat today. Clarke leads you on a walking tour of her old stomping grounds, and, while she hasn’t been back since college, she has no trouble finding her way.

“Something like that really makes an impression on you,” she says when you mention it. “Everything was so different it was like my brain freed up this extra space to store it all. Besides, I must’ve walked every street in this neighborhood ten times over talking on the phone to your Mum that semester.”

Lexa smiles and loops her arm through Clarke’s. She looks sleepy. You can’t imagine her and Clarke willingly spending that much time apart.

“Why didn’t you both go?”

“I couldn’t afford it,” Lexa says.

“Weren’t you lonely?”

“Yes,” they say in unison. Clarke kisses Lexa’s temple.

“We hadn’t met when I signed up,” she says. “I wanted to back out as soon as we got together, but--”

“I wouldn’t let her,” Lexa says, coming to a stop at a quiet intersection. “Didn’t want her to pass up that experience for me.” Her lashes flutter and she traces one of the buttons on Clarke’s denim jacket. “And we pinky swore that we’d come back one day, together.”

Clarke’s face lights up with a soft smile. She takes a step closer and gently moves Lexa’s hand away from her jacket so she can link their pinkies together.

“Took a little longer than I’d hoped, but here we are.”

She kisses the end of their joined hands like she’s sealing a promise rather than fulfilling one. You smirk and wait for Lexa to roll her eyes, but her gaze never leaves Clarke’s face. She kisses her hand, too, and then steps in to meet Clarke’s lips.

A man and a woman walk past you and smile at each other when they see your moms. The man kisses the woman’s cheek as they hurry by.

Maybe the jetlag is hitting you because you get a strange sensation, like this moment is dislodged from time. Your moms are still wrapped up in each other like they’ve just reunited after a semester apart, and you wonder, in a sense, who’s to say they haven’t?

Once they break away they each take one of your hands before continuing on down the street.

“Gross,” you mutter, because you can’t say the other stuff.

“Oh, please.” Lexa bumps you with her hip. “You don’t think we’re gross.”

(You don’t.)

As you approach the curb Clarke murmurs, “look right,” just like she’s done at every street you’ve crossed so far, just like she’ll do at every intersection for the rest of the trip.

***

On the first day -- the jetlag day -- Clarke brought you to her old “uni” flat, her favorite cafe, and the “newsagent” where she bought overpriced American magazines when she felt homesick.

You stopped at Sainsbury’s -- a grocery store -- last. You helped your moms fill a shopping “trolley” with more familiar-yet-different foods.

(Clarke said you’ll cook most meals at the flat because English food is bland, and you don’t mention that the restaurants you’ve passed have smelled delicious.)

(You try to pay for the groceries with your pounds, but your moms won’t let you.)

Clarke has meetings for all of the next day, but she leaves you and Lexa with a detailed handwritten itinerary, complete with cute little maps and sketches of landmarks. You and Lexa follow them to the T and take a million photos to show Clarke, which turns into a sort of mission, adding an extra level of adventure to the day.

You feel really brave when you follow other children climbing the monument in Trafalgar Square so Lexa can snap a pic of you atop one of the giant bronze lions. And your sides ache from laughing after you try to get a photo of Lexa holding up Big Ben as if it’s the Leaning Tower of Pisa.

The third day in London is your first real day of sightseeing as a family. You’re still in awe of Clarke, who seems to remember several of the bus routes and “Tube” lines. The buses are your favorite -- especially the red double deckers when you get to sit in the front seat up top.

You check out a market in Notting Hill and watch the street performers on Southbank and hide behind your hands as Clarke makes funny faces at the Buckingham Palace guards, who she swears she got to smile once.

You don’t go inside anywhere that has an admission fee and your feet are sore at the end of the day, but you wouldn’t change a minute of it. Every so often you catch Clarke eyeing a tour bus when it drives by and you want to tell her you like your tour a million times better.

“I feel sorry for them,” you say instead.

Clarke raises an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? How come?”

You bite your lip, not having thought that far. “They’re seeing the tourist’s London,” you try. “We’re seeing the real London. You’re showing us the city as it really is.”

She smiles and pinches your cheek. “Quite right,” she says in her silly accent. Lexa laughs right on cue.

***

The fourth day is your last full day and you luxuriate in it.

You start off at a hole-in-the-wall tea shop for “Devon cream tea,” which sounded kinda yucky, but turns out to be delicious. You hum to yourself as you slather a warm scone with cream and jam, taking large bites between sips of sweet, milky tea. You don’t even notice your moms are recording you (or that you have jam on your cheek) (or that you’re holding the teacup with your pinky pointing out) until they show you the video afterwards.

After that you go inside the palace in the park near your flat. Even the admission ticket looks fancy. You got in for the child’s price and your moms said they were students, but it must’ve cost a lot, so you resolve to take in as much as you possibly can.

The part of the palace that you’re in is more of a museum -- not the home of any royalty -- but that doesn’t make it any less spectacular. You linger in every room, memorizing details about the palace’s history, following the brush strokes on the paintings, and imagining former monarchs living in the reconstructed rooms.

The last exhibit is full of gowns that belonged to a princess who died. In the photographs that line the walls she’s elegant and beautiful and young -- not much older than your moms.

They’re not far away, but you need to be closer. They make a space for you between them and drape their arms across your shoulders.

It’s weird to think that these dresses were made for a real person -- with hopes and dreams and worries -- who you’ll never meet, who no longer exists.

Just like your birth mother.

Clarke presses a soft kiss to the top of your head and Lexa smooths her thumb over the nape of your neck.

You wait for the tears to come. They don’t.

***

After the palace you finally venture into the park, or -- as they call it -- gardens. It’s bigger than any park you’ve ever seen. There are miles of tree-lined paths, a pond teaming with swans, and hidden treasures at nearly every turn.

Best of all, Clarke lets you lead the way.

“Whenever I called your mom that semester, I always wound up here,” she says. “Never with a destination in mind -- just wandered.”

Lexa reaches out and takes her hand. “I loved hearing where you wound up.”

As soon as you turn down one of the smaller pathways you understand why Clarke was drawn to this place. This is a major park in a city that’s home to millions, yet you three are the only ones on this quiet, shady path. For a few precious moments it seems like it’s all here just for you.

You try to channel younger-Clarke and walk aimlessly. You stumble upon a number of statues, a carousel, and a tiny art gallery. In one corner you come across a playground dedicated to the princess who died. It’s full of shrieking children, and you’re not sure why, but you think she’d like it.

Eventually you find another lake, lined with reeds and lily pads. You follow the path that runs along the shore and discover a statue where there’s no reason for one to be. And you think that’s the point.

The base is a swirling scene of animals and children and pirates and fairies chasing each other ‘round and ‘round. And at the top, looking out toward the water, is Peter Pan himself.

He looks a little different from the Peter in the Disney movie. You know that was based on a play that was based on a book, and you know it’s just a statue, but your heart is racing like it’s something more.

You glance over at your moms and think they might feel it, too. Lexa gets this dreamy look on her face as she leans into Clarke, arm slung low around her waist. Lexa’s eyes are on the statue, but Clarke’s are on you. She just smiles at you and nods and you get the impression that, somehow, this spot was the destination all along.

You nod back as you step closer to the statue. There’s so much to see at eye-level, but first you stand at the bottom and look up at Peter’s face.

He’s holding a horn to his lips, and you know it’s silly, but you close your eyes to see if you can hear it. There’s only the wind in the trees, the melody of songbirds, and the gentle murmurs of your moms, but you think there’s still magic in that.

The day seems brighter when you open your eyes. Your thoughts wander back to time and distance and how they overlap.

You think of Lost Boys and movie nights, of Neverland and trick-or-treating, of gold glitter that Clarke swears will never come out of the carpet.

The trees must’ve been a bit thinner, a bit shorter when Clarke wandered these same paths, talking on a heavy flip phone -- one she now uses as a paperweight -- to a girl an ocean away. You can just picture Lexa sitting on the floor of her dorm room, head tilted back and eyes closed, trying to imagine this city while Clarke described it to her.

You tear your eyes away from Peter Pan to look back at them. They’re standing to the side of the path, hip to hip, with their arms around each other. Clarke’s lips brush Lexa’s earlobe as she whispers something to her. You can’t hear, but you imagine they’re talking about time lost and found.

When you turn back to the statue it hits you that Peter is propped up by everything going on below him -- the whirring torrent of Neverland elevating him higher and higher.

Maybe that’s how time works. Seconds and minutes and hours and months and years build up, one on top of the other, until you get to where you need to be.

Before you met your moms your life seemed aimless, but maybe, somehow, this family was your destination all along.

***

You sit in the middle seat on the flight home. You hold your moms’ hands as you take off, but not because you’re scared.

Traveling together makes you feel closer to them, which makes you want to be closer to them. They lean in toward you, and when the plane levels off they each rest a cheek on your temples.

Once the flight attendants clear away the dinner trays (another flying perk you can’t wait to tell Mike) your moms have you choose a movie and Clarke counts down -- “3, 2, 1, play!” -- so that it starts on all three of your seat-back screens at the same time.

Your moms put their earbuds in and snuggle in close, watching your middle screen even though you jumped the gun and pressed play too soon. You guess they don’t care that their sound is slightly off.

***

You last until the interactive map says you’re two hours away from landing. A part of you thought you’d wait until you got home, but who are you kidding? You’re not good at keeping secrets anymore.

Your backpack is wedged under the seat in front of you and Lexa has to help you free it. When it’s finally in your lap your moms are looking at you with amused, questioning smiles.

“This trip is the best thing I’ve ever done... that’s ever happened to me,” you tell them as you unzip your backpack, eyes trained on your fingers. “I wanted to give you something to say thank you.”

When you get the courage to look up at them they look genuinely surprised and you’re so pleased. You didn’t think they noticed the times you slipped away, but you couldn’t be sure.

“This trip was our gift to you, El,” Lexa says. “You didn’t have to get us anything.”

“I know.” You shrug. “But I wanted to.”

The gifts are “wrapped” in plastic bags from the palace shop, but your moms’ eyes light up as if they’re decked out in glitter and ribbons. Clarke’s eyes get even wider as she pulls out the cream and turquoise letter set and traces her fingers over the embossed design on the top card.

“Aw, kiddo!” She pouts and pulls you in for a hug so tight your seatbelt digs into your side. “These are gorgeous. Posh, even. The only problem is I’m not going to want to send them to anyone -- they’re too nice.”

“Well, I was kinda thinking they could just be for us,” you say, feeling your cheeks heat up. “If you go on another business trip and we can’t come, you can write us.”

She presses her hand to her chest and makes sad eyes at Lexa, which isn’t all that unusual. What is strange, though, is Lexa giving her the same pouty look back.

Your mind goes to Clarke’s clunky old flip phone and the stack of yellowing letters beneath it. Glancing between your moms you realize you’ve stumbled onto something, here. Maybe that’s why those envelopes are smattered with so many stamps.

Clarke gently cups your chin ducks to kiss your forehead. When she pulls away you smile up at her and wait for her trademark over-the-top reaction. Instead, she slowly shakes her head.

“How did we get so lucky?”

Her voice is soft and it makes you nervous. Or excited. Or something in between. You’re not sure how to answer, or if the question is even directed at you, so you reach into your backpack for Lexa’s gift.

Or, more accurately, gifts.

You watch as she pulls them out one by one. The first is a little tin sign that says “Look Right” -- a Portobello Market find that draws a laugh from Clarke. You relax at the sound, the weight of her question slipping off your shoulders.

Next Lexa takes out a brass keychain shaped just like the unicorn on the palace gates. Anyone else might think it’s a boring gift, but there’s a significance to keys for foster kids, and judging by how she’s smiling at you you know she gets it.

The last gift in the bag is wrapped in tissues and fits in the palm of Lexa’s hand.

“It’s for both of you,” you blurt. “Well, all of us.”

You feel Clarke lean forward as Lexa pulls back the layers until three small, gray stones are revealed. They don’t make any sense without an explanation, but it takes you a second to find the words.

“They’re from the gardens. By Peter Pan,” you say. “One for each of us. To remember that we were all there, at the same time.”

It’s not exactly what you mean, but it’s close.

Lexa chooses the darkest stone, Clarke takes the lightest, and you’re left with the one that’s marbled and swirley.

“You’re so thoughtful,” Lexa says. She tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. “Your Ma’s right about us lucking out with you.”

You grin and turn to Clarke to find her holding her stone up to the overhead light.

“These could’ve been there since I did study abroad,” she says. She looks at you with a kind of awe as you nod.

It’s funny that they think they’re the lucky ones. For your whole life people have found you strange, but somehow you managed to find two people who accept and love and get you without even trying. If that's not luck, what is?

***

When the plane touches down you still feel like you're flying.

[meeedeee]

http://ift.tt/2rqlXx8

Ice cream has come a long way since the Good Humor truck. There’s nothing wrong with a simple cup or cone, but these days, you’re just as likely to find the ultimate creamy-cold treat rolled, sandwiched, flash-frozen or cloaked inches-thick in toppings right before before your eyes.

Bay Area scoop shops are leading some high-concept trends these days, and the variety of bold, Instagram-worthy creations is enough to give you brain-freeze — in a good way. As it turns out, the history of American ice cream has always been tied to a sense of innovation, says Amy Ettinger, ice cream historian and author of the new book, “Sweet Spot: An Ice Cream Binge Across America (Dutton, $26).

Smitten Ice Cream’s Brrr machine churns creamy ice cream before your eyes. (Photo: Audrey Ma) 

In the book, the Santa Cruz-based author delves into the legacy of extreme ice cream, starting with our Founding Fathers, who fancied oyster ice cream (yes, really), to the post-Prohibition novelty boom that gave birth to Eskimo Pies and Polar Cream Wafers, and on to Ben & Jerry’s, with its signature swirls and mix-ins.

“There’s always been this element of showmanship when it comes to ice cream,” Ettinger says. “It’s not just something you eat, it’s something you experience.”

Perhaps no Bay Area scoop shop is more synonymous with invention than San Francisco-based Smitten Ice Cream. To churn the ultimate from-scratch, made-to-order ice cream, founder Robyn Sue Fisher teamed up with a retired aerospace engineer to build a machine that flash-freezes ice cream at the time of sale using liquid nitrogen.

Today, Fisher’s Brrr machines and their signature fog fill seven shops in the Bay Area, including outposts in Lafayette, Oakland and San Jose, and yield ice cream with an ultra-rich, creamy texture — every time. Because Fisher believes that ice cream should be pure and made only from high-quality ingredients, she works with local and organic farms and purveyors to source everything.

“Ice cream should embody the definition of taste and wholesomeness,” she says. “That’s why we hand-churn every batch, so it’s fresh and we know exactly what’s in it.”

The Thai rolled ice cream craze has swept the Bay Area. (Nhat V. Meyer/Bay Area News Group)

But even discerning foodies can’t deny the joy that comes with a smattering of rainbow sprinkles or the Benihana-like show that goes on at Icicles’ five Bay Area locations. Icicles specializes in Thai-style rolled ice cream that is mixed by hand on large ice pans, then flattened into strips and rolled into cylinders in front of you. Toppings — everything from sugary cereal to gummies — are free and limitless, a perk that contributes to the shop’s mega popularity.

Like Icicles, the soft-serve giant Milkcow is also a cultural export — this time, from South Korea, where the popular franchise originated. At the busy Fremont and Castro Valley shops, co-owners and brothers Alex and Gordon Lai top the signature soft, milk-flavored ice cream with fantastical sweets, including raw honeycomb, cotton candy and the giant, wafflelike egg puffs that they remember as a popular street food item during their childhood years in Hong Kong.

“The quality and taste of our products are of the utmost importance, but our mission is also to create fond memories and bring smiles to people’s faces,” Gordon Lai says.

Especially when it reminds you of being a kid.

“At the end of the day, people can say whatever they want about purity and ingredients, but ice cream is about being transported to childhood,” Ettinger says. “Sometimes that means having something unexpected like a celery sorbet or being able to put whatever you want on your scoop of ice cream, because that’s what you did with your family —  or it’s what you longed to do.”

Whether you fancy savory organic ice cream or wacky soft-serve, here are 12 ice cream shops where you can find sweet and innovative treats this summer.

Churned-to-order

1. Smitten Ice Cream

These small, brightly-lit scoop shops specialize in ultra-premium ice cream that is made to order using founder Robyn Sue Fisher’s liquid nitrogen Brrr machine. Due to the smaller-sized crystals achieved with liquid nitrogen, Smitten’s ice cream has a super-creamy, smooth texture. Flavors have a culinary focus, change seasonally and are often gourmet updates on classics, including Brown Sugar with Cinnamon Shortbread, Blueberry Lavender and Strawberry White Balsmatic.

Must-order: Chocolate ($5-$6) may sound simple, but it’s actually a decadently rich ganache made with TCHO’s 60 percent cacao chocolate.

Details: Seven Bay Area locations, including 3545 Mt. Diablo Blvd., Lafayette, and 3055 Olin Ave., San Jose; http://ift.tt/1eMhsfb

2. Crafts Creamery

This brightly lit shop opened two years ago and offers a variety of made-to-order (via liquid nitrogen) options: organic ice cream made with the good stuff from Straus Family Creamery, coconut-based nondairy frozen dessert and granitas. Choose your flavor — there are over 20, including matcha green tea, caramel latte and mint chocolate chip — and any mix-ins and watch as they pop it into a blender-meets-metal-bowl device, squirt it with liquid nitrogen and freeze it in minutes. Complain about the high-ish prices ($5.36-$9.69 plus toppings) all you want, but this place has lots of seating and accommodates birthday groups at no extra charge. Just give them a few days’ notice, so they can round up extra chairs.

Details: 100 Railroad Ave., Suite D, Danville; http://ift.tt/2qLXdwL

Must-order: Burnt sugar tastes like the top of creme brulee — but thick and cold.

Rolled

3. Icicles

At Icicles, ice cream is rolled into tight cylinders, then topped with cream. (Nhat V. Meyer/Bay Area News Group)

Thailand’s rolled ice cream has hit the Bay Area, beginning at Icicles’ flagship shop in San Jose’s Willow Glen neighborhood. Choose from 11 flavors, including PB&J or Bravocado, or ask the staff to create your favorite combo by mixing the original custard base (made from farm-fresh eggs, milk, sugar and cream) with your favorite toppings. They’ll chop and flatten everything before your eyes on large ice pans, then scrape it off into pretty, finished 3-inch rolls. Unlimited toppings add to the fun. Also available: dairy-free “fruit roll ups.”

Must-order: Try Nutella and Chill ($6.50), custard base blended with bananas, graham cracker and hazelnut-chocolate spread.

Details: Five Bay Area locations including 222 E. Third Ave., San Mateo, and 600 Main St., Suite F, Pleasanton; http://ift.tt/2rejoPJ

4. Freezing Point Creamery

An unassuming shop tucked inside Chinatown, Freezing Point Creamery is a tiny, cash-only joint where you can choose from five rolled ice cream flavors: strawberry, mango, purple yam, red bean, cookies and cream, or matcha. They also offer housemade ice cream in several nontraditional flavors, including wasabi, durian and ginger. Toppings also available.

Must-order: Try the purple yam ($7), made with real bits of yam. Enjoy it with a cup of the warming — and popular — ginger milk tea ($4.95), made with organic whole milk and ginger juice.

Details: 349 Seventh St., Oakland

Soft-serve, with a twist

5. Milkcow

This South Korean export boasts creamy, not-too-sweet milk-flavored soft ice cream. Its facility in Southern California sources milk from free-range cows that are fed Italian ryegrass. Drizzles include various syrups, such as pistachio and honey — sourced from Marshall’s Farm in American Canyon — and fanciful toppings, like locally made macarons, waffle-sized egg puffs, and housemade cotton candy.

Must-order: Raw honeycomb with honey drizzle ($4-$6) offers the sweetness and slight crumble of real honey, the perfect complement to this ultra-creamy, milky soft ice cream.

Details: 5657 Auto Mall Parkway, Fremont, and 3223 Castro Valley Blvd., Castro Valley; coming soon to Pleasanton; www.milkcowusa.com

6. Curbside Creamery

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Now in its third year, Tori Wentworth’s Temescal Alley scoop shop is an all-inclusive ice cream lover’s paradise. It specializes in gourmet versions of classic flavors (hello, Creamsicle) available in both traditional dairy and cashew-based vegan options. But it’s the soft-serve that we melted over — especially the smooth Thai iced tea and a slightly nutty vanilla that was thick and delicious, without even one icy crystal to bum us out. Soft-serve flavors change on Thursdays.

Must-order: Both the Salted Caramel and Bicycle Coffee Co. ($3.25-$5.75) make us swoon. Dairy-free folks: Get your hands on the vegan chocolate or vegan earl grey tea.

Details: 482 49th St., Oakland; http://ift.tt/VispTl

Extreme pops

7. Gelati Creation

This two-year-old Alameda ice-cream-on-a-stick shop specializes in housemade gelato and sorbetto pops ($3.65-$3.80 plus toppings). The sorbetto is made in-house from fresh or pureed fruit (everything from guava and passion fruit to mango and peach), water and sugar while the gelato base comes from a supplier and includes whole milk and sugar. The pops are not too sweet, which allows for layering drizzles — milk, white or dark chocolate — and toppings, such as ground nuts, chocolate chips, coconut flakes or rainbow sprinkles.

Must-order: These creations are very personal, but we’re partial to the coffee gelato pop with milk chocolate drizzle and crushed almonds.

Details: 222 B South Shore Center, Alameda; http://ift.tt/2dZ4aEN

8. Milk and Wood

The concept at this kiosk inside downtown San Jose’s hip SoFA Market is similar: Choose your flavor, your drizzle — in addition to the chocolate drizzles, they also offer sweetened condensed milk — and your toppings, and stand back as the artists make your dream a sugar-laden reality. Milk and Wood handcrafts the pops daily in up to 25 flavors, including chocolate hazelnut, mango strawberry, and cookies and cream, and offers crushed pretzels and chocolate shavings among other toppings. Everything’s made in small batches, so they often run out by evening, especially on weekends.

Must-order: Customers swear by the Green Tea Kit Kat or Mint Oreo with drizzles and toppings galore ($4-$5).

Details: 387 S. First St., San Jose; coming soon to Santa Cruz; www.milkandwood.com

Sandwiched

9. Maven’s Creamery

These macaron ice cream sandwiches are as beautiful as they are delicious. Available in cold cases at multiple locations around the Bay Area, Maven’s Creamery macarons are made with almonds, egg whites, milk and other ingredients, and come in six flavors, including bright purple Ube Macapuno, Coffee Hazelnut and speckled Rainbow Crunch. The ice cream’s thick, creamy consistency is the perfect complement to the cake-y macaron.

Details: Available at 12 Bay Area locations, including Poki Bowl in Palo Alto and San Jose, and Hang Ten Broiler in Hayward and Alameda; http://ift.tt/2jXnsN5

Must-order: The best-selling Cookies ‘n’ Cream ($6) packs all the creamy-delicious nostalgia of childhood between pretty blue macarons.

10. Cream

This ice cream sammie shop first opened in Berkeley in 2010 and has since exploded in the Bay Area. You can’t deny the variety. Gluten-free cookies? Check. Dairy-free ice cream? Yup. And the always-premium ingredients are custom-sandwiched to your specifications. Choose from 20-plus ice cream flavors and 10 fresh-baked cookies, including toffee nut, chocolate chip and oatmeal raisin plus brownie ice cream sandwiches, the Cream Taco and Do’sant — ice cream between two glazed donuts.

Must-order: We’re partial to the Caramel Cinnamon Chill ice cream, sandwiched between snickerdoodles, but it’s all good.

Details: 12 Bay Area locations including 2070 Salvio St., Concord and 2399 Telegraph Ave., Berkeley; http://creamnation.com

Eclectic flavors

11. Tara’s Organic Ice Cream

Tara Esperanza focuses on broadening your ice cream horizons. Her ice cream is made in small batches of two to four gallons at a time, using organic cane sugar and organic seasonal fruit, dairy and herbs sourced from local farms. The inventive flavors are like none you’ve likely tasted: Avocado and Baobab, for example, Butternut Curry, Chinese Five Spice, Orange Cardamom, Mocha and Lemon Verbena. For old-school purists, she also makes a killer chocolate chip ice cream.

Must-order: We love the saffron ice cream and, when available, any stone fruit flavor, including nectarine or white peach.

Details: 4731 Telegraph Ave., Oakland, and 3173 College Ave., Berkeley; www.tarasorganic.com

12. Salt and Straw

Sure, there are a lot of creameries in the Bay Area doing unique flavors, but we’d be remiss if we didn’t include this Portland export, which is already drawing 45-minute waits outside its new (and first) San Francisco scoop shop. Salt and Straw partners with local purveyors to create seasonal and unusual flavors that are OMG-good, like Arbequina Olive Oil, Pear and Blue Cheese, Avocado and Strawberry Sherbet, and Green Apple and Wasabi Flowers.

Talk about extreme: This month, Salt and Straw is featuring limited-edition ice creams made from food waste in San Francisco. Flavors include The Roxie Road (made with leftover popcorn from the Mission’s Roxie Theatre) and Roasted Sunchoke Mock Apple Pie (made with organic but misshapen sunchokes from San Francisco’s Imperfect Produce).

Must-order: Tough call. Seriously. We can’t help you. We dream of the Woodblock Chocolate at the SF shop, but the Olive Oil and Lemon Custard is also off-the-charts good.

Details: 2201 Fillmore St., San Francisco; http://saltandstraw.com