#they work i tellya!!!

[variousqueerthings]

the abarat tag exists! it has posts on it! (woo!)

anyway shuffles in here with the rarepair (I assume) of christopher carrion/finnegan hob

no they haven't actually interacted, but listen:

canonically hopeless romantics in ways that have hurt them so so much, and made them afraid of loving again, but also they can't help themselves...

were both duped and manipulated by the same woman in the exact same way (boa really played them like cheap kazoos huh)

the themes of night-and-day as something that need to be reconciled carried within both of them

specifically the whole fairytale element of "marriage to heal the kingdom" type story, first subverted with boa dying and then again by her resurrecting and being evil....... then possibly deconstructed by being very gay? (well, that and maybe the fact that it isn't a marriage that was really needed to heal the abarat, so much as candy's different perspective, so they can just do it without all that pressure on them)

finnegan is a fixer and carrion is a fucking mess

also finnegan needing to fix things/be Heroic is something to unpack as well, considering these books are continuously flipping character Types on their heads and I think carrion might like being supportive as a way of building some form of selfhood/finnegan learning to be cared for...

smthinsmthin on that above note carrion could conceivably save finnegan's life right now, considering finnegan is basically boa's hostage and carrion is trying to learn how to do right/interesting reversed damsel in distress tropes?

pretty boys -- I understand that mr clive barker's illustrations and descriptions of carrion have not been giving us pretty boy, but he's got that pathetic goth boy swag to finnegan's jock-hero type pretty

both flamboyant and performative

they hate each other on principle, simply because their stories have had boa in the middle up until a certain point, but she's been deliberately stoking up that enmity/manipulating that story, so now the scales have fallen from their eyes, what better way to counter that than by realising that they... quite like each other when they actually meet, perhaps even-

barker has yet to give us as much queerness in this text as in his other ones, and it's been enough years that I think he could get away with it more in a YA than back in 2003

also as an extra, both of them retiring out of the idea of kingdom/prince type shit, because neither of them have seen that sort of setup have good results (although of course, abarat wasn't really feudal by the time candy came along, so much as just... the idea of an aristocracy as something still to be respected? anyway, tear that down, especially now that most of the aristocracy is just straight up dead), and just retiring to one of the islands

wonders which time would suit them.... feel like a dawn-or-dusk would be their preference...

[fishthegenderwitch]

EATING.

So I’ve been struggling to make/follow some sort of an eating routine for about 20 years. I’ve researched this topic til my eyes bled [not literally], and I’ve tried many different [usually too complicated] ways of eating ‘enough food’. Last year I started the process again, only this time, I wrote out a list of food I actually like eating. Then, I figured out (this week) what groups those foods fall into, and how many of each I have to eat to just... be healthy and feel good.

Once I figured that out, I learned what a serving portion is, because LEMME TELLYA, I have not been doing that correctly. A serving size, for me, was however much I could stuff in til I didn’t have any left.

Going back to all those years of trying, I made SO MANY CHARTS. I tried like 5 different apps, doing different things, and generally not really feeling like I was doing it for me; I was reporting to some faceless AI that kept trying to get money from me. I’d make these beautiful charts with precise lines and pretty fonts and wonderfully artful crafted images... and not much of it worked.

Tonight I said  Fuck this, and I scribbled out this thing

I got my fruits, veg, fortified soy, grains, water, and weekly proteins on there. I filled in what I ate today (I’ve since had 2 more cups of water). I’ve eaten more today than I’ve been eating daily for the past 4 YEARS AT LEAST... and I still haven’t made it up there. Baby steps. I’m not sure if/how I’m going to keep track of when I succeed at having all the food and water I should be in a day, but for now, I am doing Something. IDK if this will stick, IDK if this will WORK. But for now I’m trying and this seems the closest to succeeding.

I think I gotta set myself a goal. Like... 90% of my daily food intake for a month or something to start with. I’ll work on that later.

Even if it’s just like this for the next forever. I’m gonna be okay.

[tripstitan]

A Little AAoMM Update

TLDR: Electronics givin' me probs Bobs 'n' Bobettes. Tech issues galore! My main PC was acting funky, and I just couldn't diagnose it for the life of me. Whether it was monitor, GPU, HDMI slot(s), HDMI cord, HDMI slots on the monitor, Power Supply, Power Cord, my UPS... none of it seemed to be the right thing, but the issue kept happening. I wasn't even going to entertain the idea that it was the mobo. Anyway, long story short, my main PC is sitting in the livingroom now, and I switched to my VR Rig as my new main computer. Huff... Guess what? Yeahhhh more tech issues. After a long time, this one turned out that the GPU wasn't fully seated properly, which isn't too hard of a fix, but it's one of the last things I try to do, because taking out a GPU, especially one this heavy, can tend to break stuff. Case in point, the little lock-in-snap-joint at the back of the PCI (E? X?) slot, is now broken, or already was, in the first place, because the GPU weighs about as much as a gallon of milk. That's a lot of force sitting on those tiny pins over time! It should have a harness or something. Anyway... that wasn't even the only tech issue with the VR rig. Windows 11 had its big preview update, which borked and broke a bunch of things on my pc, including my mouse now double-clicking about 35% of the time when I click or drag. This is INFURIATING to try to work around. I click a lot. My right hand is on my mouse 99.9% of my waking hours that I'm not specifically typing AAoMM. Now, it could be the mouse, but it didn't happen, until the windows update/restart. So I tried to roll back windows (which borked/broke a bunch MORE things, because everything was now pointing to new registry entries and whatever crap that didn't exist,) aaaannnnd the mouse is still borked. I spent the last two'ish weeks repairing my software from that nonsense. The only other diagnostic solution offered online is to reinstall windows entirely. I'm not friggin' doing that, especially because then I'd have to reinstall all this software, and probably go through the exact same friggin' thing when windows updates again. Blarghydoodle!

I'm not even finished with the software repairs yet. I've got a few other big things to reconfigure and reinstall. Phooph. Been a long couple weeks, lemme tellya.

Oh, but hey, good news, first ever dentist appointment in my life, and I've only got one cavity they want to fill, and three they want to put mineralizing paste on. This is decades without dental insurance or care. Yay to not drinking soda or coffee, or smoking, or using tobacco, or... most things that most people do. I am scheduled for two cleanings, and the drilling/filling of the one cavity for this year, which is going to tap out my yearly dental coverage in like a single month, and set me back like a grand or so on top of that. Wish me luck on making ends meet and/or surviving my first cleanings in a few weeks. Thankfully, don't have anyone relying on me on the holidays anymore... ... Uh, that got depressing/dark. Later all.

[catpeachnoodles]

[thisonesatellite]

everybody knows -- CH 5

SUMMARY :  In Killian’s world there are neither heroes nor villains.

There are only those who give and those who take, and you better not be the former.

He’s a taker, has spent his entire life being a taker, because if you’re a taker, there is never a price to pay.

Until there is.

AKA: The paths towards love and the meaning of life are twisted and tangled and full of detours, and some of those roads aren���t paved.

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| AO3 | CH1 | CH2 | CH3 | CH4 |

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A/N:  Oh - my dears. This chapter. i tellya. This one nearly killed me.

i wrote the first half no less than three times, trying to get the plot AND the mood AND the character development right, wrote the rest of it, polished, excised, re-worked, rewrote, edited, wrote some more, and cut thousands of words along the way. Every time i thought i had a handle on it, something would feel off, and i'd pull a tiny little thread just to watch the whole damn thing unravel, and anyway, it was A Lot. 😂

So, guys - here is where you find out some Stuff(TM) and get some answers, wrapped up in a growing connection and a lot of softness and yes, all the bedsharing i teased you with (and more), so please enjoy. (Also, at nearly 6K - it's a beast. i hope it makes up for the endless waiting i put you through.)

Because if you listen real close you can hear a faint whistling in the air, such as heralds a falling object.

Like a hammer.

But not yet. Fluff and a bit of catharsis first, my loves. 💖

All the thanks MUST go to @profdanglaisstuff - who went through this FOUR TIMES, FOUR, including a lightning round today. Babe - you're my hero. HERO.

AND THANK YOU ALL SO MUCH FOR YOUR PATIENCE AND ENCOURAGMENT. It means everything to me, everything.

i DO NOT DESERVE YOU GUYS.

(BUT i LOVE YOU A LOT. SERIOUSLY. SO MUCH. NO, i WILL NOT STOP YELLING. 💕💕💕)

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i’m using the regular tag list.  Please let me know if you want to be added or removed.

@mariakov81 @stahlop @thejollyroger-writer @captainsjedi @ohmightydevviepuu @toomanyfandomstochoosefrom @snowbellewells @xarandomdreamx @tiganasummertree @sals86 @karenfrommisthaven @kmomof4 @kday426 @superchocovian @jennjenn615 @facesiousbutton82 @suwya @spartanguard @capnjay21 @shardminds @carpedzem @girl-in-a-tiny-box @ilovemesomekillianjones @lfh1226-linda @artistic-writer @teamhook @katie-dub @shireness-says @qualitycoffeethings @cluttermind @fragilebeautifulchaos @optomisticgirl @klynn-stormz @winterbaby89 @etheral-madness @scientificapricot @anxioussquirrel @killianjones-twopointoh @captain-emmajones @xsajx

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CHAPTER 5

Emma can’t sleep.

She can’t sleep and she can’t stop thinking of his face. She can’t tell what’s real and what’s contrived anymore, probably no more than he can. It’s hard to tell who is the frog and who is the scorpion. But when she left him in the living room he looked sad.

Purely and only sad. That she knows.

Somehow he has carved out a place in her life, within just these few days, and it’s not just the sumptuous food and the dry wit and the dancing eyebrows. He hasn’t changed from the slick hustler he was back at the bar and yet he is different. Or at the very least, he is more. There is a human being inside the persona after all, a person with a real past, and real emotions, and a real life, even if he keeps it under lock and key. A person who can feel pain.

She keeps seeing his face.

And then she makes a decision.

With a sigh she gets up and walks out into the living room. The lights are off, but the TV is running, muted, turned to the weather channel. It throws an eerie glow onto the couch where he sits, upright, curled up in a corner, under the blanket. His shoulders are rigid as he turns towards her and promptly reaches for the remote.

“I’m sorry Emma, is the TV keeping you---”

“No,” she says and sits down on the coffee table to face him. “No, Killian, the TV didn’t bother me at all.”

His hand lowers but his posture stays tense and guarded and Emma sighs. There is only one peace offering she can make here.

She takes a deep breath and looks at him, coiled like a spring, and dives into the deep end.

“When I was twelve I was placed with a foster family right outside of Boston,” she says, her voice quiet and low. “The mother was a bipolar alcoholic, but they fudged their application because they needed the money. As you know it’s not uncommon.”

“More like the rule.” His voice is a whisper.

“Yeah.” It’s a sigh into the past. She has to be careful. But he’s still sitting there, huddled, defensive, tension rolling off of him in waves, and he deserves a piece of something real as much as she did. “They had a closed off porch at the back of the house and they would lock us in for punishment. It was sweltering in the summer, so hot you couldn’t breathe, but in the winter---” She swallows hard. “Boston winters are nothing to scoff at.”

The way he looks at her. Like he knows cold.

“She used to drag us out there by the hair.” Emma can still feel it, the pull, the dull ache at the back of her skull, the frantic stumbling and trying to keep up with her steps, keep the pain down, keep the panic at bay while literally running towards your demise. Her eyes are fixed on the wall, but she doesn’t see it, can only see the hallway stretching to a dirty white back door. “It was her favorite method of punishment. Not her husband’s though. He preferred a belt.”

Killian gasps and Emma’s gaze snaps to his. His eyes are wide and shiny.

“One day though, the husband caught me sneaking a jar of peanut butter--- i used to keep peanut butter under my bed. I loved that shit.” She shakes her head, tries to keep the memory loose, impersonal. “Anyway, he caught me and started to drag me to the porch - by the hair, just like the wife - but he wasn’t used to it and I just--- I don’t know what happened. I wasn’t even scared, I was angry. Just--- furious, you know?” Her eyes are once again glued to the wall behind Killian’s left shoulder, but in her peripheral vision she can see him nod.

“Anyway, I punched him, and he went down, and the wife saw it and pulled me out to the porch and they left me there all night. In November.” I thought I was going to die out there, she doesn’t say. Fall asleep and wake up frozen solid. She takes a deep breath. “So that’s what I dreamt about. You know, earlier.” She shakes her head, straightens her spine, pulls back her shoulders. “It’s fine, by the way. This is all ancient history and I have dealt with it and put it to rest and it can’t hurt me anymore. I don’t dream of it often.”

He looks shellshocked. Shellshocked and yet entirely unsurprised.

“Scars?” he whispers. “Did they leave any scars?”

Oh god. He does know. She is sure of it now.

Scars are the measure of survival. They are the markers of endurance and perseverance. They are the signs of shame and failure and defiance, the badges of courage and the price of grit and mettle. It is important to remember them and even more important to forget. He knows.

“Some.” She nods. “Not all.”

“How do you mean?”

She takes another deep breath. “I don’t remember anything before that family. When I first got there I fell out of a top bunk and hit my head really hard on the concrete floor and they think that’s why I can’t remember.” She shrugs. “I don’t remember the fall either, so I don’t know, and it doesn’t matter anyway. And I know it’s not their fault - at least the fall isn’t. I know that. But I blame them. It’s like they took away a piece of me, the first piece of me, and I’ll never get it back and I---” she almost sobs, but swallows it down--- “I hate them so much for it.”

He’s silent for endless moments, his eyes large and immeasurably sad.

And then he sighs. “I’m so sorry, love.” His voice is low and raw. “So sorry.”

And he gets up and wraps his arms around her and she lets him.

Minutes later he pulls back and in the dim light of the television she watches him sit back down on the edge of the couch, their knees almost touching. Like he can’t bring himself to put distance between them. She is glad for it. It seems whoever they are during the day dissolves at night, like the darkness strips them down to their core, like they become versions of themselves they don’t even know. It’s enough to make her head hurt and her mind spin and she doesn’t want to think anymore.

“I don’t know what to do with you,” she whispers.

He leans forward and takes her hand. His fingers are warm. “Do with me?”

She laughs, helpless. “You just--- I know who you are. I know what you are. I should just kick you out and tell you not to come back and never think of you again.” His breath hitches and--- is that fear in his eyes? She shakes her head. “But I can’t.” It’s a whisper.

His breathing is ragged. It takes him a long time to get it under control enough to answer, and when he finally does, it sounds broken. Not like him at all.

“I know,” he says. “And I don’t understand it.” There are tears in his eyes. “You and I are---”

His voice cuts out and he squeezes her hand. She is holding her breath. The weather channel flickers light across his hopeless, defeated expression and it makes her ache.

She gets up and pulls him with her. And then she marches them towards her bedroom, their hands still entwined, and it takes him until they’re almost through the door to stop her.

“Emma, no,” he whispers. “This is not how I---”

“Shhhhhhh,” she says, turning around. “Please, Killian. Just lie down with me. I’m too tired to fight. I’m too tired to think.” She shrugs. “I just--- I just want to sleep.” I just want to lie down and not be alone for a night. She doesn’t say it, but he hears it anyway.

“OK,” he breathes. “I can do that.”

-/-

She wakes up with Killian’s arm heavy across her middle and his nose buried in the hair at her neck. He is making soft, sleepy sounds and his breathing is even and deep and she feels more peaceful and rested than she has in months. Years, possibly. He shifts his weight and his arm tightens for a moment, but he doesn’t wake up, and Emma doesn’t move.

It’s Saturday. There is no schedule on Saturdays. Nothing to do except that which you feel like. And Emma feels like lying here, in her warm, comfortable bed, with a warm, comfortable Killian at her back, not thinking about a damn thing, least of all the man in her bed.

She doesn’t have to analyse this.

She doesn’t have to pick the pieces of the previous night, of this morning, of them apart and examine them from all angles until they’re hopelessly distorted and impossible to fit back together.

She can just lie here, warm and comfortable, and enjoy it while it lasts.

She closes her eyes and puts her hand on Killian’s across her belly. His fingers tighten reflexively. She falls back asleep.

She wakes up a second time from a sudden influx of cold and the absence of weight next to her. He has gotten up. He walks around the bed as she blinks her eyes open and even half asleep she knows---

this is the moment.

This moment, the first moment they are both awake, will determine the rest of their interaction. Forever.

He looks at her, sleepy and disheveled, sees she is awake and kneels down next to her side of the bed.

“Hey,” he says. His voice is soft and there is no shame in it, no awkwardness. “Did you sleep OK?”

She smiles. She’s grateful. He sounds relaxed and at ease and she is just so grateful. A small voice at the back of her head is trying to ask how many women he has woken up next to, for him to be so at ease with the situation, and she silences it.

Because the smile he returns is languid and real.

“Better than I have in ages,” she says, and he nods.

“Yeah,” he whispers. “Me too.”

Then he gets up. “Coffee?”

She nods.

“Stay put,” he says. “I’ll call you when it’s ready.”

And Emma stretches and allows herself to imagine what it would be like if this were real.

-/-

“How on earth did you manage this?” He looks up at her over the rim of his cup while she shovels a truly gigantic piece of waffle into her mouth. God, his waffles are amazing. “I don’t have a waffle iron.”

He smiles that same languid, easy smile. “I brought mine.”

“From your place?”

His brow furrows. “I went home yesterday to check on my apartment. It will definitely take another week.” He looks up. “Is that still all right with you?”

Emma cuts off another enormous piece, dripping with syrup, and says, “How could I possibly say no to these? I need you to make these every morning. Actually, I’m fine if you make nothing but waffles for the entire rest of the time you stay here.”

“I cannot condone that. You will have to ingest the occasional vitamin.”

“Fine. I can snack on celery and peanut butter at work. Will that do?”

Killian rolls his eyes. “Absolutely not and you know it. Besides, there are several countries we have not yet explored. You know-- from a culinary standpoint.”

“Do those countries have waffles?”

“You’re impossible.”

Emma grins. “Don’t tell me you don’t love a challenge.”

And just like that his face falls, and for a moment he looks like he’s in pain. Actual pain. The silence that follows is heavy and sad. He shakes his head and looks down and Emma can’t think of a single thing to say to break them out of this moment.

“I’m sorry,” he finally says. “I didn’t mean to ruin the mood.”

Emma bites her lip. “Are you all right?”

“Am I----” He barks a laugh, bitter and helpless. “Am I all right? Yes, Emma. I am perfectly fine.” It’s a lie. It’s the first outright lie he has told her. “And yes. I do love a challenge.” That is not a lie. It is the absolute truth, and as heavy and sad as the silence that still lingers.

With an effort he straightens up and smiles a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Do you have any plans for today?”

“No,” she says. “I don’t do field work, so I usually get the weekend.”

“Perfect,” he grins and oh--- the difference between that grin and all the empty smiles before it. “In that case, Emma Nolan, I think it is high time you realized that there is a farmer’s market less than two blocks from here every Saturday.”

“How do you know what goes on in my neighborhood on weekends?”

He looks at her gravely. “There is a new thing out now, called the internet.”

She grins. “Smartass. And how do you know I don’t already know about this market?”

He laughs out loud and looks at her in mock consternation until she rolls her eyes and concedes that she had no idea farmers markets were a thing at all.

“Would you like to accompany me?” His eyebrows dance. His eyes shine. He’s nearly bouncing on the balls of his feet. She laughs again and nods. He leans forward and gives her a smacking kiss on the cheek and then disappears into the kitchen to take stock of their supplies and make a list, and Emma leans back into the couch and just lets herself believe all of this is real.

-/-

The market is loud and crowded, two things Emma does not enjoy in abundance, but half an hour in even she concedes that this is the most fun she’s had in months. Not counting the pitch meeting at the café. Killian reminds her of an overexcited puppy, checking out the stalls, looking at fruit and vegetables and cheeses and jars of herbs and spices she has never heard of, and talking to all the vendors as if they were his best friends. A thought surfaces unbidden from their first night at the diner, about the nature of his line of work and the lack of friendship it brings, and this, here, these casual interactions with vendors who don’t know him and won’t remember him -- this is so obviously where he can connect with the world, if only for a moment, it makes something inside her hurt.

“Look, Emma--- they have girolles!” He points to a tub of yellow-brown mushrooms that look like trumpets and licks his lips. “Half a pound,” Killian says to the burly man behind the stand as he pulls out his wallet, “and at least six or seven shallots.” He turns to Emma. “Just you wait.”

Emma shakes her head to hide her grin and Killian pays the man and then says, “Coffee?”

And Emma sighs. “Oh god, yes. So much yes.”

He pulls her by the wrist to a stand with ‘the best coffee on the eastern seaboard’ and they settle on a bus bench. He puts the bags down with an audible exhale.

“Heavy?” She smiles sweetly.

“Not at all,” he says, rubbing his shoulder.

“Remember how I offered to help you carry and you scoffed?”

He rubs his shoulder again. “I am a stupid, stupid man. Misguided notions of chivalry and all that.”

“Yeah, well, turns out twelfth-century code of conduct will give you scoliosis.”

He laughs out loud. “You really are impossible.”

“It’s part of my charm.”

She smiles and he looks at her, with that open expression that has not left his face for days now. “It certainly is.” He loosely wraps an arm around her shoulders and that’s when she feels it.

It’s like an instinct of danger and foreboding, a frisson of fear and a spike of fight or flight. And then a shadow falls across her face and she hears his voice, cold and sharp, “Hello, Emma.”

Every muscle in her body tenses, coils like a spring. She can feel Killian next to her sit up straight and go on high alert.

“Emma,” he says. “Who is this?”

She tries to remember how to breathe. It takes her three failed attempts to get her voice to work before she rasps, “Someone who’s not allowed within 100 feet of me.”

Killian gets up and puts himself between Emma and the man in one swift, smooth motion. Emma stares up at Killian’s back, stiff and solid before her, and listens as he says, “I think you’d best be off. Mate.”

This must be another remnant of a childhood spent on another continent. The a in Mate is soft and stretched and entirely un-American, but more than that, it is menacing.

“It’s a public place,” the man says. “There was no way I could have known she was here.”

Emma can almost hear the answering glare Killian is giving him, and the man sighs like a put-upon diva.

“Fine,” he huffs. “I’ll go.” There’s a moment of silence and then the man’s voice rings out one more time, a little further away. “Good luck with that, by the way.” Everyone in a 10 foot radius knows who he means by ‘that’. “Fucking duckling.”

Emma just feels numb.

“Hey.” Killian’s voice is soft and very calm and Emma feels him take the paper cup from her hand. “Can you get up for me, love?”

She gets up slowly, because none of this is real, and feels him heft their bags on one shoulder. He wraps his other arm around her and steers her past laughing vendors and screaming children and animated conversation until they end up at Emma’s front door, and then there is an elevator, and a hallway, and her apartment door, and he simply leads her to the couch and sits down next to her.

He doesn’t ask if she’s all right.

He doesn’t talk at all.

He just sits there, next to her, holding her hand and softly rubbing his thumb across her knuckles.

Finally Emma shakes her head and looks up at him. His eyes are large and worried and still so blue and so close, she has to look away again.

“His name is Walsh,” she says. “And we are never talking about him. Ever.”

She looks up again and his brow is furrowed.

“Ever,” she repeats. “You know how we didn’t talk about your brother?”

He nods.

“That’s how much we’re not talking about Walsh.”

He nods again and squeezes her fingers and says, “Whatever you need, love.”

And Emma starts to cry.

She doesn’t even really know why. Tears just start to roll down her face like she’s a fucking kid whose bike got stolen. Not that Emma’s ever had a bike. She just sits there, drops running down her cheeks and she can’t stop it, can’t rein herself in, and worse-- she doesn’t want to, because he’s just sitting there in silence, completely without judgment, and it feels horribly, awfully, terrifyingly right.

Then he opens his arms and pulls her in and she starts to sob in earnest and he lets her, rubs her back and lets her be, and she cries and cries and cries until she falls asleep.

-/-

She wakes up lying on the couch, her head on Killian’s shoulder, his arm around her. He’s fast asleep, his breathing slow and easy, just like it was this morning, in her bed. It does seem like they sleep well in each other’s presence. She leans back a little and feels his hand tighten on her waist as his eyes flutter open.

“Hey.” It’s a whisper.

“Hey,” she whispers back.

He smiles at her, his thumb rubbing lazy circles across her hip bone, and then on impulse she simply leans forward and presses her lips to his. It’s the most natural move in the world. His mouth is soft and he kisses her back, languid and slow as his hand runs up her side, and then his breath catches and he pulls back.

“Emma,” he says, and then stops. Looks at her. His eyes are soft, and uncertain. “Do you know what you’re doing?”

She meets his gaze. “Do you?”

He barks a helpless laugh. “Not at all. You defy every rulebook.”

He’s looking at her, joy and apprehension warring on his face, like he doesn’t understand what is happening any more than she does. And she is so tired of second-guessing everything, of fighting herself, fighting him; of constantly feeling out of her depth.

It’s time to know.

“Killian,” she whispers. “Tell me if this is a game.” She props herself up on one elbow and swallows hard. “It’s OK if it is. I won’t turn you out. I will go back to my bedroom and you can stay the rest of the week and we can simply part ways, no hard feelings. But I need you to tell me.”

He closes his eyes. The hand on her hip shakes a bit and then tightens, almost painfully.

“You get one chance.” His eyes are still squeezed shut and he’s talking to himself, his voice so low she can barely hear it. “One chance if you’re lucky.” His voice trails off and he is silent for another long, long moment. Then his eyes open, and he looks at her. With longing.

Longing.

There are tears in his eyes.

He shakes his head and then sits up and pulls her with him, into his lap, his right hand anchoring her, holding on tightly, fingers digging into her skin. He cups her cheek with his left, sighs, and brushes his lips past hers. “You are not a trick, Emma. I swear. I swear on everything I have left to----”

His breath catches. He swallows hard, but doesn’t blink, and doesn’t look away. When he speaks again, his voice is quiet. And raw.

“I swear on my brother,” he says. His thumb brushes her jawline and his expression is naked and he’s not lying at all, so Emma leans forward and presses her lips to his and he kisses her back. With abandon. His arms wrap around her and hold on tight, so tight it’s almost getting hard to breathe, and he pulls back, leans their foreheads together, and exhales a shuddering breath.

“I didn’t plan any of this when I took you up on your offer to stay here, I swear,” he says. “I swear it just happened.” He lifts her chin, forces her to look at him. “Say you believe me. Promise me.”

How can she say no? How can she not believe him when he’s looking at her with this mess of confusion and hope and fear and dread all warring on his face? This new, exposed, open face of his?

She nods and he surges forward, kisses her fiercely, thoroughly, wraps his hand into the hair at the back of her neck and pulls her close,

closer

closer----

And then Emma moves. She can feel him as she straddles his lap, so hard against her, and she rocks her hips forward. He groans as if he’s in pain, breaks the kiss, breathless, and buries his face in her hair.

“Stop,” he rasps. “Just for a second.”

She looks at him, the red lips, the ragged breathing, and when he opens his eyes they’re blown black, his pupils big as saucers, and she grins an evil grin and rocks her hips again, right there.

“Emm-mm-a,” he stutters and then pushes himself off the couch with Emma wrapped around him like a vine and he nearly loses his balance, just manages to catch them against the backrest, and then his arm wraps around her waist like a band of iron and he nearly runs to the bedroom, harsh panting in her ear while she nips at his jaw, his ear, his pulse point---

his knees buckle for a moment and his hand wraps around the door frame, as he moans her name like a promise, a promise---

and then they fall onto her bed together, breathless, laughing, and Emma feels wild with something so good, so perfect, so right it takes her breath away and gives her superpowers

and makes her vulnerable

and invincible

and complete .

-/-

For the third time in a row Emma wakes up with Killian wrapped around her, but this time he’s awake. He’s just looking at her, his eyes soft. His smile is happy and a bit unsure until she smiles back at him and it becomes blinding. He pulls her close and buries his nose in her hair and holds her until she can feel his heartbeat.

“Good morning,” he whispers after long, long minutes of just nuzzling her hair and breathing her in, and his voice sounds gravelly and hungry and he’s not actually talking about the morning at all, good or otherwise. He shifts his weight, pushes a leg between hers, and Emma lets her hand wander down, feels him shudder and gasp and when she wraps her hand around him, harder than he was even last night, he rasps out an “oh god!” that goes straight to her core.

He wraps a hand around her neck and kisses her with ferocity, but then she strokes and his movements stutter as his hips buck and he whines low in his throat and closes his eyes and finally groans, “oh god, Emma---”, and then he flips them, looks at her, eyes wide as he scrambles to pull down her pajamas, his pajamas (still with those ridiculous anchors, he has a whole set of them), and stills for a moment.

She just stares at him.

His entire body is vibrating with the tension of keeping still, his expression open, hungry, needy---- needy for her, for her, Emma, not just because she is here, and they’re naked, and she’s available, convenient, next to him, but her, just her.

“Emma?” he breathes.

And then she nods and wraps her legs around his waist and pulls him in and he enters her in one long stroke, and she nearly sobs because she is so ready, for him, him, just him, and then it’s pushing and pulling and rhythm and motion and pressure

and pressure

and pressure

and then

finally

finally

finally

release.

-/-

“Can I ask you a question, love?”

They’re sitting curled up on the couch, wrapped up in each other under a cosy blanket, their coffee mugs within easy reach, and she pulls back to look at him. His tone has become serious again, his eyes are somber. His hand is lazily rubbing the back of her neck, and he bends down to kiss her before he takes another sip of coffee.

“You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”

She nods. “What is it?”

“I know you said you won’t talk about that man back at the farmers market---” she stiffens and he squeezes her shoulder and pulls her close--- “and I respect that, love. You don’t have to say anything you don’t want to.” He waits for a moment, kisses her hair, rubs her back, and she tells herself to relax.

“Go on,” she says, but he waits until her shoulders unclench before he says, “What did he mean by ‘duckling’?”

Emma sighs.

“You don’t have to tell me,” he repeats, and she knows it’s true. She can just shut down the conversation right here, right now, and he’ll never bring it up again.

“I’ll make you a deal,” she says. “I’ll tell you this bit, and you tell me one thing about your brother.” It’s his turn to go rigid, and she kisses the underside of his jaw, before she pulls back and says, “Fair?”

He exhales slowly, lets some of the stiffness bleed out, and nods.

“Yes,” he says. “That’s more than fair.”

“OK.” Emma takes a deep breath, and his hand comes down, twines his fingers with hers, rubs his thumb across hers. “Honestly, there’s not that much to tell. Walsh is a mistake I wanted to make.”

She takes another deep breath. He remains perfectly still.

“I was always the ugly duckling, everywhere I went. Not just because I was a horribly late bloomer and spent my teenage years being ridiculously funny-looking.” His fingers squeeze hers once more, but he doesn’t say a word. “No, it’s true,” she goes on. “I was the ugly duckling. And then I had all those gaps in my memory, all those odd bits and pieces, places I could have sworn I’d seen before, things I knew I should know, but didn’t, and it made me the odd one out, even among foster kids. Like I was even more broken than they were. And you know how kids deal with those among them who are different.”

His grip on her fingers becomes almost painful. She is grateful for it, for the way it grounds her to the here and now. This Emma she is conjuring up from the past has no place in the present, and the pressure of Killian’s hand reminds her of that.

“So I kept hoping to ‘turn into the swan’, but of course I never did, and then I decided to make my own fate even if it meant making mistakes.” She sighs. It seems so foolish now, but it’s part of her journey, part of her, no matter what. “He first hit on me at a bar.” Killian gasps and Emma pats his shoulder. “Not like you at all, don’t worry. He made it very clear exactly what he wanted from me, right from the start. So I said, ‘why would you want the ugly duckling when you could have all this’ and pointed at the dozens of gorgeous women along the bar, and he said, ‘because you’re a sure thing’. And I was. I totally was. He started calling me duckling after that, just to remind me of my place, I think. He was a bastard, and I knew he was a bastard, and I did it anyway, because I was very busy punishing myself for my own shortcomings, see, and Walsh was a very efficient punishment.” Killian next to her has stopped breathing. Emma shoves the whole mess back into its box and her voice is perfectly neutral as she says, “Long story short, he finally allowed me to learn my lesson and I no longer need to punish myself and he doesn’t get to stand within a hundred feet of me.” She shrugs. “Thanks, by the way.” Her voice is still perfectly neutral and she is very proud of it. “For yesterday. Sometimes I lose my bearings.”

She looks up. There are tears in his eyes.

Tears.

And then he pulls her close, close, closer, hugs her hard and tight, with force, with conviction, and buries his nose in her hair, nuzzling her neck, and doesn’t let go for what feels like hours.

When he finally releases her she stays burrowed into his shoulder and he leans down to brush his lips gently across her cheek.

“I know you don’t need it,” he says. “I know you don’t need my empathy and certainly not my pity, but---”

He grasps her chin, forces Emma to look at him.

“For what it’s worth, I am sorry.”

And if there ever was a measure of ultimate, absolute truth, it is how Killian says the word am. He kisses her again, and takes a deep breath, and before she can brace herself it just bursts forth in one long rush.

“My mother died when I was nine,” he says.. “My dad moved us to Wilmington. He worked the docks, and it’s a large port city, and the company he worked for in Bristol actually facilitated the move. There was nothing for him back in England after my mother was gone, so we went.” He sits up straight, tension coils, and Emma puts her hand on his arm, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He’s staring at a spot on the wall behind her. “Turns out there was nothing for him in Wilmington either, because he managed to drink himself to death by the time I was twelve and my brother and I went into the system.” He breathes a long, shaky exhale. “They separated us right from the start. Said it was impossible to place two kids in the same household. But Liam was already sixteen and he would come find me, wherever I was. He’d find the schools I was at and just wait outside and take me away for the day. Once we ended up in a dive bar at the docks and nobody even cared that we were kids. Well, nobody at the bar cared. The system people cared a lot.”

Killian’s voice grows wistful and far away and Emma realizes that he is no longer in the room. He is a teenager on foreign ground and she knows the feeling like the back of her hand.

“Liam would tell me stories of how we’d beat the system, how he would start to make money the moment he aged out and come and get me away from all this and I believed him. And then he turned 18 and disappeared.” He snaps back to the present in a sudden, jerky movement, and adds, “He OD’d in Boston a few years later. My parole officer told me.” He shrugs. “As you can see I was already firmly on my way to a life outside the system at the time. Any system.” He looks at her, and his eyes go soft. “I realize I may have to change that, Emma Nolan.” His voice is a whisper. “But can my line of work please be a problem for another day?”

She laughs, and it feels good.

“Fuck yes,” she says with conviction, and smiles. “Aren’t we just the poster children for good adjustment. If we were superheroes these would be some fucking origin stories.”

He laughs out loud, releases all tension, and hugs her again.

“You’re impossible,” he says, and then pulls her up off the couch. “Screw this baggage. Let’s go get a drink.”

“It’s noon.”

“That means It’s five o’clock in Britain right now, and we have earned it.”

She can’t help but laugh and agree.

They find a dive bar of their own, dark and quiet and cosy, and have two beers and two shots of whisky each, and then go to the diner and devour a truly huge portion of grilled cheese and onion rings, and they laugh often, and touch often, and Killian holds her hand and sneaks kisses whenever he can and they don’t talk about their pasts at all.

When they get home Emma sinks down on the couch and Killian pulls off her shoes and throws her the comforter and kisses her thoroughly, and then asks which movie she wants to watch and Emma smiles and says Some Like It Hot, because it’s time to show him the best comedy in the history of ever.

And they laugh and cuddle and kiss more than they watch the movie and then they fall into bed and Killian wraps himself around Emma and everything is warm and languid and perfect and she falls asleep with a smile on her face.

And at 2:27 AM Killian’s phone beeps.

There’s a message.

One line. From Neal.

Meet now.

.

.

Thank you all for reading!

[callivich]

✨🌸 hello calli! 🌸✨ i need to come properly gush about your banner art for sweetpea, instead of just keysmashing in the tags lol. when you posted it, i swear my heart did a huge "!!!", and then "???", and then circled back to "!!!" etc.

because it's so pretty! the ripped edges to go with the more organic flow of it! the overall colors! cat mick lurking right smack dab in the middle, and yet when i finally saw him it was another round of "!!!" in my heart lmao. obv im obsessed with how these two look in this courthouse scene, so the fact that you used it for them is just......so chef's kiss - i can't even begin to tellya.

ah! you're so kind. i appreciate you so much and thank you thank you thank you for both thinking about the fic and supporting it with your big brain! you're the best ✨🌸💗✨

Hi Ray!!! ❤️❤️❤️ I’m so glad you like it!!! I wasn’t sure if you’d mind me surprising you with a banner like that. I just adore your fic so much - such a cool, interesting concept that you are writing so brilliantly - like I can picture cat Mickey in the flowers so so clearly, as well as the way he shifts and changes! (I also love all your writing in general, you are very talented and I just enjoy your work so much!) I can’t wait to read the rest of the story and any and all future stories you share! 💖💖💖💖

[recentanimenews]

To Your Eternity – 02 – I Don’t Don’t Wanna Grow Up

I’ll tellya, you can have Tsuda Kenjirou read the friggin’ phone book paired with an epic Kawasaki Ryou score and I’ll be entertained, but TYE gives the man far more stirring things to say. It manages to achieve what the doomed poor boy whose form he assumed could not: escape the tundra and reach a lush, fertile land.

It doesn’t do so without incident, dying six times by starvation, exhaustion, or infection, and a seventh when it’s eaten by a giant white bear. But as Tsuda’s smooth, smoky voice proclaims: It died again…but that was not a problem. With each death, It regenerates faster and faster. It learns.

The episode becomes far more conventional than the first, by dint of featuring more than one character speaking. It’s also not a self-contained mini-film but the first part of an arc in this new green setting. Neither of these differences are bad things, mind you. In fact, it feels like Peak Ghibli a la Princess Mononoke.

A large part of that is due to March, the vivacious, instantly endearing heroine of this arc. Voiced by Hikisaka Rie with a nice balance of cutesiness and precociousness, March has a “family” of eight stuffed animal “children” with her “spouse” and big-sis figure Parona. But March wants to grow up ASAP so she can be a real mother.

Her village could use more mothers, too: she’s one of only three children, which makes her fate that much more maddening. One day, March hears a clanging bell, and Parona grabs her and runs off. They’re caught by an menacing, matter-of-fact warrior priest named Hayase and four guards who hide their faces with Beefeater hats.

Parona and March’s village has been chosen (I assume by the elders) to provide the next offering to Oniguma-sama, a god-beast who lives atop the nearby mountain and demands an untarnished female sacrifice every damn year. Seems like a bad idea if you, I dunno, don’t want to die out as a people.

March makes clear this is bullshit and she doesn’t want to die, because that means she’ll never grow up or be a mom. But both her reasonable words and her tiny punches fail to move Hayase from her absolute devotion to tradition. Hayase warns March that if she runs, Lalah will be killed in her place. If Lalah runs, they’ll use her infant sister. Real piece of work, this Hayase!

The preparations proceed, and while March’s parents hid their despair upon learning their daughter would be chosen, they don’t spare their grief and anguish when her procession commences its climb to the sacrificial altar atop the mountain.

Parona stood with the other villagers looking helpless, but that was only an act. While she is absolutely terrible at archery, one of her wayward arrows manages to smack Hayashitbag right on her haughty nose, and Parona uses the opening to tackle her. At the same time, March runs off as fast as her little legs can carry her, and is eventually aided by gravity.

She ends up face down in a pond, where she encounters It. It is also face down, and dead, and a mangled, decomposed corpse. But while Hayase’s pursuing guards turn tail upon seeing his grotesque form, March stands fast and watches with wonder as the husk of a boy reconstructs itself. March washes off the ink on her face—which in her village is done when a girl officially becomes a woman—and follows the wordless white-haired boy.

She grows increasingly frustrated with his complete lack of communication, but soon their speaking the same language: rumbling bellies. March climbs a tree and grabs him a fruit, which he proceeds to eat like he did when he was a wolf: ravenously and greedily. Every fruit March picks for herself ends up in his stomach until he’s had his fill and curls up to sleep.

After she eats and falls asleep beside her, March dreams of coming home, only to learn that Lalah and her baby sister Lisa were sacrificed to Oniguma-sama in her stead, and then, because this is To Your Eternity, we are shown the small child and infant being eaten by the great bearlike beast.

Upon waking, March presses on, though whether she’s headed away from or towards her village to save the other kids remains to be seen. All that’s clear is that It knows to stay close to her if it wants an easy meal, so he follows her like a lost puppy.

Despite all the suffering and duress she’s had to endure the last few days, March can still maintain a sense of humor about things, turning around, flashing a gentle smile, and telling It “I’m not your mommy!” But she’s wrong: she is It’s mother. She became quite by accident what she’d always dreamed of becoming. How long will it last? Hopefully, as long as it can.

By: magicalchurlsukui

[amplexi]

Kid, lemme tellya...

I've seen some shit-I-have-survived lists, but none of them go back far enough, so here's my quick (not exhaustive) list of things/events that haven’t killed me yet:

1957 Flu Death of Pius XII Measles (2 kinds) Roseola Impetigo Mumps Chicken Pox Didn't get polio - got the early vaccines Cuban Missile Crisis Death of John XXIII JFK Assassination LBJ's "Great Society" (ongoing...) Apollo 1 DDT Every flu that ever came through town Horrible sunburns before "SPF" lotions Psychotic teachers Cyclamates Riding a bike without a helmet Playing outside without supervision Cutting class Aerosol sprays Carter era inflation Rope swing / swimming in the river That stomach flu in 1978 that tried to kill me Death of Paul VI and John Paul I Alar Working with asbestos Mad Cow Disease Nuclear annihilation (didn't happen) W. J. Clinton tax increases Loma Prieta Earthquake Y2K Mom's sudden death 2000 SARS Death of John Paul II Dad's cancer and death 2005 HSN1 Bird Flu 1:58:xx Half Marathon in 2006 (!) H1N1 Swine Flu Obamacare (ongoing...) 12/12/2012 Ebola There's probably other stuff I've forgotten Covid-19 (ongoing...)

[foxingpeculiar]

A fun and absolutely true story

I’ve been reflective lately, thinking about the various weird shit that’s happened to and around me and I remembered a story that always makes me laugh, so I figured I’d try briefly writing it out. Bear with me.

This was spring 2007, I think. I was working on my second of three attempts at getting my undergrad degree at a college in Denver, CO and was, at the time, living with 2/3 of a psychobilly band in what I would describe as a punk house (more of a punk apartment, but you know). If you’ve never lived in a punk house, lemme tellya, it can be an interesting environment. I once pulled a dislodged tooth out of someone’s arm, or woke up to two naked dudes in full mohawks making out on my coffee table, and that kind of thing was just a normal Tuesday. 

I’m not outwardly that much of a punk and was a little older than the other inhabitants and their friends (who were like 18-19) so in addition to kind of being house mom, I kept to myself a lot anyway, but one week I got sick. It was some kind of stomach virus, I suppose, I’m not really sure, which I’ve definitely gotten before, but never to this degree. I could not eat ANYTHING. After a couple of days, I couldn’t even keep down liquid water. I was surviving by basically sucking ice cubes in bed and, during my fleeting hours of consciousness, reading the Walking Dead comic (to this day, zombies still make me a little nauseated). My roommates knew I was ill, but were both very busy and, like I said, I tried to stay out of their way a lot of the time anyway, so they weren’t overly worried, but after about a week, my condition was... not great. I don’t know exactly what trouble they’d gotten into--they got into a lot of it, as you might imagine. But one afternoon, someone came to our door in an official capacity looking for one or both of them when they were out. Whoever was at the door--it might’ve been a cop, or a landlord, I’m really not sure--could see that someone was there, though, and was not about to be dissuaded. Each knock was ringing through my entire brain and body so eventually I managed to haul my ass out of bed and made it to the front door, fully intending to tell them to fuck off and leave me in quiet darkness. Never got the chance, though, because that walk was the most physical effort I’d put into anything in days and as soon as I opened the door, my body gave up and I passed out.

I guess they must have called 911, because the next thing I remember, I’m on a stretcher, being carried down the stairs to a waiting ambulance. This part’s a little fuzzy, but I distinctly remember the EMT telling me that they’d pushed twice the amount of fluids they were supposed to give someone and my body was still sucking it up. I get shuttled into the ER and seen by an attending--have no idea what they actually said, but the gist was that they hooked me up to separate IVs of glucose and saline, told me to rest for a while and I’d be fine. I was in an open ward at this point, not a hospital room per se, with maybe a dozen beds in one big area, separated by curtains. Several of the other people were there for detox and the guy on one side of me--after VERY loudly refusing a catheter and hollering at anyone who would listen--started flirting with the lady on the other side of me. They compared OD stories and, even though they couldn’t see one another, made a date to meetup after they got out of their respective, court-ordered rehabs. I kind of doubt it, but the romantic in me wants to believe they kept that date, cos that’s a helluva meet-cute, innit?

Anyway, several hours later, my body has absorbed the water and the sugar and, aside from being completely worn the fuck out and VERY VERY hungry, I feel better than I have in a week, so after the attending comes by one more time, I get discharged. Trouble is, I was still relatively new to the area and didn’t have a car, so I didn’t really know the city much beyond my immediate neighborhood and had absolutely no idea where the fuck I was. Add to that, I’m in my pajamas with no ID, no money, no shoes, no underwear even, and there’s absolutely no way on God’s green Earth I’m getting home on my own. But it was late enough in the evening at that point that I knew my roommate with a car would be home, so I called him from one of the nurse’s stations and he immediately agreed to come pick me up and buy me dinner (for as crazy as they were, they were very nice kids).  Thing is, you have to remember these are psychobilly kids. So, a little bit later I’m standing outside the discharge area, shoeless and deathly pale, when a giant, black hearse comes pulling up in the hospital loop. This occasioned more than a few glances. I say “that’s my ride!” to no on in particular and basically skip down the steps like some demented cryptid to hop in the passenger seat. We got some takeout and it’s some of the best food I’ve ever eaten.  And that’s the story of how I once rode in an ambulance and a hearse on the same day. 

[carnivale-clown-blog]

💭 ?

“ Y’knows, y’ may be a bit on the quiet side, but hey socialisin’ ain’t for everyone. But from what I can tell yous’re a swell fella, plus youse works are pretty nice. Y’gotta show me how takin care of flowers works, I’ve tried before on my own, but hooo boy, lemme tellya, the results were less than what I was hopin for, most definitely for sure, honk. “

[withoutcomedy]

:/ The human has arrived. A little paper scrap rests between their fingers and they hold it up to their face to read out; "Karma: Gettin' what y'give. If y'mean, y'get bad karma -bad things will happen. If y'nice, y'get good karma -good things will happen. Example: When I tried t'a spit on the ol'lady's hair an' it didn't work, I got bad karma. But when I helped yo' bro pick up yo' sock from th' floor, I got good karma." He stares at Sans expectantly, the deadpan slowly curving into a smirk.

The skeleton has been laying on the couch up until now; peacefully, undisturbed, a jokebook in his hands and only one lonely slipper covering his feet. A moment of bliss before the storm. A few blinks of an eye before Steel suddenly marches up to him, a scrap of paper in their tiny fingers and a deadpan expression on their face. 

With puffed out chest, they begin to read, and the more they read out, the further they get in their badly written lecture, the more Sans perception of the other warps from a heartfelt "kinda cute" into a downright impressed "kinda sneaky", until finally they are done and a smirk starts curling on their lips while they wait for the monster's reaction. 

Disappointment is, however, what they gain, as Sans merely casts a lazy look at them, lowering his book to then offer a sly wink and a few lackadaisical words of praise - or mockery - in return: 

"thanks, kid. i could've never picked up that sock on my own. it's become a real problem between my bro and me, y'know. we almost ran outta post-its. and, uh, who knows what would've happened then." He snickers, as he wiggles his covered foot a little. "tellya what, kid. one good deed means one good karma, right? so, two good deeds..." He drops his slipper "accidentally" and smirks at Steel. 

"means twice as much good karma, dontcha agree? so, uh, will ya be good and help me out here? thanks a bunch, buddy."

@timckillcr

[pembrokewkorgi]

@potoobrigham‘s Juniper is best poke-bird.  She’s a spicy chicken, lemme tellya’.

Kiwi is also super adorable and I couldn’t resist drawing her too.  I’d give her a million hugs.

Regardless, I love @potoobrigham‘s art style.  Keep up the good work, pal.

[elementalheroeggwichman]

Get to know the Blogger

Tagged by @to-the-window-to-the-waluigi

Sorry I’m late on this, I’ve honestly been working up the effort to do this and now I have it so here we go~

Rules: Answer the questions in a new post and tag 10 blogs you would like to get to know better.

——

Age: 21
Birthplace: uhhhpstate New York
Current time: 2:59am
Drink you last had: regular - Arizona green tea, alcoholic - some lemonade thing with vodka? It’s at Applebee’s 
Easiest person to talk to: pretty much anyone in my friend group
Favorite song: right now, probably Suckers by Reel Big Fish
Grossest memory: when I was really sick like probably close to 9 years ago, I coughed so hard I sick shat myself
Hogwarts House: Hufflepuff, not even denying it anymore
In love: excuse me whom
Jealous of people: different features, sure, but not a lot
Killed someone: don’t know if I ever really could. I can’t even be mean in a video game
Love at first sight or should I walk by you again: physical attraction? Sure, but yeet on everything else, I gotta get to know a person first
Middle name: Tyler
Number of siblings: just the one
One wish: to truly and actually be happy with who I am
Person you called last: my pal Robert
Question you are always asked: Yo man, you up?
Reasons to smile: mostly dumb dad jokes, but also that noise that bobby makes when trying to surprise people
Song you sang last: the third intro theme for Sgt. Frog. Very badly, and mostly mumbling, possibly racist?
Time you woke up: I’m pretty sure like 1:20ish pm
Underwear color: gray? Green? I can act like I dress myself all I want
Worst habit: procrastination until it’s way too late to recover from it
X-rays: I think the most I’ve done is the dentist, like nothing really dangerous has happened where I’ve had to get that checked
Your favorite food: it fluctuates, but 4/5 times it’s some buffalo wings lemme tellya 
Zodiac sign: Pisces

As for extra people?

@ashleys-burning-miracles

@patillojack

@grojbandfan

@queenscoronet

@mcdolans

That’s all I got I can’t really think of any more oops

[catpeachnoodles]

[dasgigler]

things i love about this: dina calling this guy bob are they or are they not jersey tomatoes? does anyone rly know? dina’s enormous necklace teresa not being trusted to say anything beyond “hey nice flowers”  ...and she still looks like she wandered in on accident ”lemme tellya somethin” just everything about caroline, this bitch is so extra: her intentionally tilted posture, doin-the-most neck wiggles, paired with a confident delivery. all in all, simply outstanding work and finally, the slow confusing wink that ties it all together

what a fucking masterpiece

[godswalkwithher]

Get a Little Witchy Questionnaire

Thanks @dandelion-witch for tagging me! (I remembered being tagged for once! Yay!)

1. Are you a religious witch? Which religion? Eeeeeeehhhhhh.... Every once in a while the Norse gods stick their noses into my witchcraft, but like 95-ish% of the time my witchcraft is secular.

2. What is your preferred herb? Depends on what I’m doing, now, doesn’t it? (Unless coffee counts as an herb, because... coffee...)  Seriously, though, I spend a lot of time in the kitchen doing kitchen-y things. My witchcraft has taken over a lot of that, too. It didn’t happen on purpose. It just happened. 

3. What is your preferred gem? Demantoid, though since they can be hard to get, my current ring is a blood garnet. (Like... so dark it looks almost black and I love it.)

4. Do you do divination? Which kind? I have done tarot for longer than a bunch of my followers have been alive. LOL... I’ve also played around with “junk drawer divination” and a few other things. That said, I don’t do divination often unless I’m offering readings for sale. Or unless the mood strikes.

5. Favorite Tarot card? All of them?

6. To Curse or not to Curse? I am Cursey McCurserton. There has never been ANY question about that. Not since I was aged in single digits.  Before anybody gets rolling with that whole threefold law thing, lemme tellya: It has never caused any backlash except the one time I did it wrong. (And that made me learn quick and compensate.) Any troubles and woes and bla bla bla that have come on my shoulders have either been my own bad decisions, or the decisions of others that have spilled over into my life.

7. Do you have a familiar? No, but I have wanderers.

8. Favorite candle color? Wax? I honestly don’t get the whole colored candle thing. 

9. Favorite rune? I don’t have one, but Sowilo really seems to like me.

10. Do you celebrate the solstices, full moons, etc? pfft.... nah. Why would I want to keep track of all that stuff, when I’ve got my own life to deal with? Seriously... I started carrying around a calendar so that I could keep track of doctor’s appointments, interviews, and deadlines, not so that I could track the lunar calendar and where the earth is on its trip around the sun.

11. Do you wear a pentacle? Not my do. 

12. Do you have a broom? Of course! I have areas of the apartment that need swept. I also have a mop and a vaccuum. None of them are used in my practice, though.

13. Do you have a pendulum? Not my do.

14. Do you have an athame? Definitely not my do. Like, seriously... Why would I go out and buy all these “nice” tools and such for “ritual purposes” in a tradition I don’t follow (read: essentially useless wallhanger art for use like twice a year mostly used by people in another religion) when I have a full set of perfectly serviceable, daily-use kitchen knives? Or scissors? Or things that actually do the job well? Now if that’s something you all have, that’s great... but it makes no sense to me.

15. How often do you meditate? ahahahahahahahehehheeheheheheee.... meditate....

16. Do you do yoga? ahahahahahahahahehehehehhehehe..... yoga.... I did pretty recently take up tai chi, though. I have a genetic disorder where one of the main symptoms is hyperflexibility. Since yoga holds the possibility of literally dislocating nearly every joint in my body, it’s not an option, but tai chi does not have the same dangers for me and does the same type of energy movement.

17. Whats your favorite herbal tea? eeeehhhh... Depends on what I need it for. (Unless coffee counts as an herbal tea. Because coffee.)

18. Do you support manipulation magic? As in taking somebody else’s free will? As in rapey “love spells”? As in the manipulation of the atmosphere, or the general energy in a room? Literally everything a witch does manipulates something. Or somebody. I really try to avoid taking somebody’s will away, even when cursing. It’s a lot more fun to set up some choices and watch them fall face-first based on their own actions.

19. How many altars do you have? Not a single one. I would just neglect them, and the gods know that, and are ok with it.

20. Do you do magic outside often? I do magic without thinking about it, no matter where I am. I’m one of those witches that has been doing witchy things for so long that it’s as instinctual as breathing. 

21. Can you read palms, or tea leaves? Can I? Yes, the tea leaves. Do I? Nah... It’s messy, and I don’t like doing it.

23. Is your third eye open? You mean that thing that was appropriated from Hindu culture? That thing? Right there? That I don’t deal with, since it was appropriated from Hindu culture?

24. Do you like Astrology? Whats your sign? I like to laugh at it. It’s just amusing to me, and generally so far off base that it’s worth looking at. Yeah, it can be accurate for some people, but somebody’s also got to be that difficult one. Dat me. Oh... and it depends on which astrological system you’re talking about. Western astrology I’m a capricorn.

25. Favorite flower? Or Tree? Depends on the day.

26. Do you have an animal guide? Why? Why would I want one? I’ve already got literally thousands of humanoid spirits all poking at me, I don’t need to add the critter factor in. (Although it has been jokingly said that a rabid squirrel on crack might be appropriate...)

27. Whats your favorite kind of magic? I don’t have one. Since there’s magic in pretty much everything I do, and all aspects of my life are pretty important to me, and my favorite part of the day/activity changes with each day (and sometimes every hour, if not more quickly), stating something is a favorite doesn’t do justice to everything else.

28. What time do you feel most like a witch? All day, every day?

29. Are you out of the broom closet? If people know what to look for, or ask, they know. Otherwise... Well, it’s fun to track the rumors.

30. Are you a hereditary witch? Or self discovered? IMO, claiming hereditary is a crock of crap. It smells too much like Aryanism, or “I have royal blood” or “I’m 1/16th Cherokee” or a hundred other elitist excuses to exclude other people from taking part in something. 

31. Are you in a coven? Or solitary? Solitary. Always.

32. Do you want to be in a coven? How big? Never.

33. When did you become a witch? Well, I can remember doing things when in the single digit age bracket, so.... Since pretty much forever? I want to say when I was like 5 or so makes sense, thinking about it?

34. Do you make your own spells? Oh yeah. And then never write them down. LOL... That said, the ones made up on the fly tend to have the most impact for me, personally. There are a lot of people who work better with a pre-written spell or rituals or whatever, but I’m one of those “let’s throw this shit in a pot and stir” types.

35. Do you make your own sigils? Nope. They don’t work well for me.

36. Why did you choose this path? Well, I decided Catholicism was not right for me the day I got chased out of catechism. Screaming. After injuring somebody pretty badly in an act of self-defense. (His actions were sanctioned by the church at the time, mine were not.) It was embarrassing for everybody in the family except me. I was proud of that moment. Then again, I was 8. From that point on it was just exploring options until I found something that fit. Honestly, I didn’t even know I was doing witchcraft until I was in my 20s. Then the interwebs came into wider use, and I found a group of people who shared some experiences, and found out that witchcraft was the name of this thing. 

37. Whats your favorite element? Neon. Oh... uh... earth, probably? Though not by much. They’re all kind of equal.

38. Do you do any misc. magic? All the time!

39. Magic or things you will never do? Never is too specific, dearie.

40. Strangest way a spell backfired? Exploding pressure cooker. (It wasn’t mine... Friend asked for a “little extra kick” in her canned salsa. Too much kick added. Oops.)

I’ll tag… whoever wants to play along because I’m a slacker and have forgotten... like... everybody? uh... @breelandwalker, @wodneswynn, @montanaheathen maybe? IDK