#mary oliver prompts

[thelibrarian1895]

Bat bio donors

So Catherine Todd, unfortunately, wasn't Jason's bio mom, even if she was his mom in every other way that matters. Embezzler, child trafficker, and Joker associate Shelia Haywood was his biological mother...probably.

There was no DNA test so I remain unconvinced.

That being said, I see no acceptable evidence that Willis Todd was Jason's bio father. (And if there is, shhh, don't care)

Yes Bruce could be his bio dad but boring, be more creative!

For example, someone else who's based in Gotham, who might have a fling and not follow up on it for very whatever reason, and who might be the namesake of our favorite gun wielding bat: Jason Bood. Yes Shelia, if she is the mother, may have put Willis on the birth certificate, but there's nothing to say that she didn't have an evening with a man with a charming accent, considerable experience, and a rather two faced nature.

Or perhaps someone who is a tiny bit less volatile such as David Cain.

Or honestly there's enough weirdness in Gotham that Jason's other bio donor was Nocturna, the woman who would later want to adopt him while he was Robin and she was, in fact, though she didn't know it, trying to get her own bio child.

Furthermore, Bruce as Tim Drake's bio donor, yes, good, understandable, likely even.

However, there are other options, for example:

Janet spends a great deal of time going around the world and with various artifacts, some of these artifacts could be magical in nature. That magic may have various effects on the average person and one of the more popular things that people in ancient times sought revolved around fertility control, to improve or prevent. Janet might trip over more than a few artifacts designed to improve fertility, let's say even to the point that some who might not normally be able to sire children might in fact be capable of doing so with Janet while she's still under the influence of such magic, such as:

Lady Shiva who admires Janet's ability to handle both a growing business and her academic pursuits.

Ra's Al Ghul who came by for an artifact and had a fling with the lady who found it mostly because why not? Yes if Tim ever found out, or Ra's ever found out, it would result in considerable mental distress, but it could also be hilarious. Flip a coin to decide if this would make Talia want Tim dead more or less than she already does.

Some ancient god who's essentially mortal at this point and has been clinging to existence by the thinnest thread and really the only reason their name is known at this point is because it was in a letter about very bad copper. Tim receives no benefits from this parent except above average endurance and healing which is how he's survived. He's also as stubborn as the nameless god that's hung on for four thousand or so years.

Gotham itself is Tim's bio donor and this is why tiny baby stalker Tim didn't die a thousand times over while he was taking pictures, Gotham was looking out for their son.

Then there's Cassandra, "one who is all" who may or may not be Shiva's daughter.

Honestly for Shiva and for Talia, given the danger they put themselves in and the stress that pregnancy can do to a body, plus the necessary time to heal properly afterwards, the canon where Damian is grown in a tube makes sense and I wouldn't be surprised if Shiva took a page from Talia's book.

Shiva as the mother of "one who is all" can make sense. The other bio donor, well, let's look at other options.

Slade perhaps? He's had quite a few remarkable children, and can handle none of them, but that wouldn't stop him from being a candidate.

If you're a fan of wuxia or xianxia novels, look for or make up some ancient cultivator that Shiva sought out for training perhaps and on that strength Cassandra can pick up cultivation and become that much more awesome, maybe even teach it to her brothers.

Sect Leader Cass o((>ω< ))o

Or someone can be related to or connected to a Lamont Crantson and see if they can step out of his Shadow.

Dick's bio parents were freakin' awesome so jumping over him and also leaving Duke's parentage alone though more distant ancestors for either of them, such as great-great grandmothers or grandfathers might be interesting. Dick has a Talon in the family tree but who else might be hanging around in there?

For example, Santa is real in the dc universe. Tim and his team could have witnessed the death of Dick's maternal great-great-great-great grandpa.

As for Duke, if his family has been in Gotham for longer than a generation, there've got to be some serious weirdos in his bloodline, maybe a lesser known Talon or Queen Mab.

Damian not being the son of Bruce and Talia would be a serious blow to the kid and not worth it. Giving him blood siblings is more fun. He already has a problem learning to share his dad with his adopted siblings, sharing with blood siblings would be good for him.

Stephanie? An additional dad option would probably give her some sort of mental crisis since she originally based her vigilante career on defeating her deadbeat, second rate rogue father. It would be interesting and honestly a little hilarious though if her mother had a fling with Oliver Queen.

[a-ramblinrose]

JOMP Book Photo Challenge || August 3 || Summer:

  “August of another summer, and once again    I am drinking the sun...”

[bobbole]

#3 for the Mary Oliver writing prompts! Choice of character/ship is up to you 😁

Hi! thanks for the ask, the prompt you chose inspired me to write a little corinthienne story, hope you like it :)

The kiss had been going on for 20 seconds already. Not that Lucienne had counted it, not at all, but since she was there she could not help but notice this smallness. Just as she noticed that the Corinthian's lips were soft against hers, and the fingers brushing her wrist as delicate as a feather.

Who could have thought that a Nightmare like him would had such a delicate touch!

She felt the fingers on her wrist close slightly, the Corinthian's thumb tracing small circles on the skin. A shiver ran through Lucienne's back. He felt it and his lips smiled in the kiss.

Thirty-five seconds. And then it was all over (like all good things, she thought absentmindedly).

- Well? - he asked with that cocky expression on his face. Lucienne was going to hit him with a book.

They both adjusted their glasses and she didn't know why but this made her smile.

- Well I can say that it wasn’t my language, but I understood enough -and before the Corinthian could even dare to say anything else, she grabbed his jacket and kissed him again.

mary oliver writing prompts 

[inafieldofdaisies]

How about 8, 9, 13, 19, and 44 for calahan/Mary may and Oliver/Oakley? :D

Questions from this post.

8. Who loves to pull pranks on the other? What type of pranks do they pull and do they pull their pranks off?

Absolutely Oliver, he'd try anything to rile her up, or does his best to make her smile, Oakley in turn is many steps ahead usually and isn't surprised but still deep down finds his cheeky side a lil endearing.

9. What is something small that they would randomly pick up for one another?

Oliver personally delivers her Peggies, it ain't small, but what can ya do.

Oakley: nothing particular comes to mind.

13. Who likes to jump into the other person’s arms?

Neither, but now I'm imagining Ollie trying a "trust jump" with her. 🤣

19. Who would win in a pillow fight?

Oliver would start it, get a couple of annoyed stares from her then Oakley would wipe the floor with him. ☠️ Every once in a while she might be good enough to let him win, but it's not guaranteed.

44. What do they love about each other the most?

Oliver: Her strangeness, how good she is with his doggo, Cosmo, how capable she is and quite frankly fearless. The danger/threats of harm if he oversteps also are his favorite.

Oakley: (Initially she's super annoyed by it), but she ends up loving how well he gets along with her only family. His jokes definitely rub off on her and she begins looking forward to whatever shenanigans his brain would come up with next.

8. Who loves to pull pranks on the other? What type of pranks do they pull and do they pull their pranks off?

Calahan (though Mary May would also sometimes find a way to get him back). Harmless type, all to see her smile, have a laugh/break from reality.

9. What is something small that they would randomly pick up for one another?

Calahan would definitely find some flowers to rip from a random person's garden and deliver them with a cheeky smile ("It's the thought that counts, plus there ain't no florists left in a cult occupied County...")

Mary May: something small... something small? Zorro? 🤣 Listen, his son loves being carried around like a human child.

13. Who likes to jump into the other person’s arms?

Neither, most likely to: Mary May.

19. Who would win in a pillow fight?

Calahan, and he's not afraid to play dirty.

44. What do they love about each other the most?

Calahan: how strong she is and how she manages to ground him.

Mary May: how protective he is, especially about her and the people he loves.

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Prompt: Poetry is...

Poetry is a life-cherishing force. For poems are not words, after all, but fires for the cold, ropes let down to the lost, something as necessary as bread in the pockets of the hungry.

Mary Oliver

[trans-xianxian]

a single log bridge til its dark is indeed not bad

stray italian greyhound, vienna teng / I hear a symphony, cody fry / agua viva, clarice lispector / handle with care, jodi picoult / summer, safia elhillo / pride and prejudice, jane austin / always, spellling / love like ghosts, lord huron / @/filmnoirsbian / the carnivorous lamb, agustín gomez-arcos / I'm not calling you a liar, florence and the machine / samson, regina spektor / jamie anderson / angnes, glass animals / the color of pomegranates, dir. sergei parajanov / turtles all the way down, sammy copley / the night we met, lord huron / mouth full of forevers, clementine von radics / the epic of gilgamesh, trans. herbert mason / caitlyn siehl / questions for ada, ijeoma umebinyuo / grief lessons: four plays by euripides, trans. anne carson / night lement in hergla, leila chatti / salma deera / love song, rainer maria rilke, trans. stephen mitchell / it's only time, the magnetic fields / your love finds its eay back, sierra demulder / art of style, jean cocteau / work song, hozier / the collected poetry 1968-1998, nikki giovanni / coffee and cigarettes, sade andria zabala / ticket taker, the low anthem / little dogs rhapsody in the night, mary oliver / giovanni's room, james baldwin / writing prompts for the broken hearted, eden robinson / essays in love, alain de botton / ono no komachi and izumi shikibu, translated by jane hirshfield and mariko aratani / my love love mine all mine, mitski / beast at every threshold, natalie wee / yves olade / @/ojibwa / last words from montmartre, qiu miaojin / I've been waiting for you, abba / the orange, wendy cope / george macdonald

[try-set-me-on-fire]

How about odd socks for the soft prompts?

Eddie tries to write his vows. Poem excerpts from E.E. Cummings’ [i carry your heart with me(i carry it in], Mary Oliver’s The Mango, and Pablo Neruda’s Finale. Plain text version on AO3 here and under the read more!

Dear Buck oh its not a letter

Buck

Evan Buckley (?)

From the day we met, I

I take thee to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do us part except I don’t want to stop loving you when either of us die. I don’t want to part. Till the glaciers have melted and the oceans have dried up, till Mount Whitney (the tallest mountain in California, I looked it up) is eroded to a molehill, till the heat death of the universe do us part. Maybe that will be enough time

I keep thinking about that time you wore those fucking socks to work and Bobby and everyone were trying to really gently asses if you were having a breakdown because we just see AND YOU’RE GOING TO DIE on your ankle and then you laughed and pulled up your pants and it said “GET LOST IN NATURE AND YOU’RE GOING TO DIE” which like I still think is kind of a fucked up thing to put on a sock but you just did one of your beautiful sunshine grins (we weren’t even together but god I still got light headed looking at you) and were like “I thought it would be neat to remind people the importance of safety in nature” and I was kind of teasing and annoyed and laughed about it and that was like three years ago Buck and I still feel guilty about it because if you were going through some kind of crisis I don’t ever want to be annoyed and laugh about it, I want to be there for you no matter what and I hope I’ve proven that to you over the years, that I don’t just love you on easy days, I love you every single day all the time even when everything’s fucked even if I can’t write wedding vows to save my life christ this is terrible

I love your nose and your birthmark and your eyebrows and your hair and your shoulders and the bends of your elbows, and your wrists and hands, and I love your nipples and hip bones and cock and ass and knees and your shin, I love the scars on your shin, I love every scar you have because none of them killed you

How about

i fear

no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want

no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)

and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant

and whatever a sun will always sing is you

Or

But this was a rich house, and clever too.

After salmon and salads,

mangoes for everyone appeared on blue plates,

each one cut in half and scored

and shoved forward from its rind, like an orange flower,

cubist and juicy.

When I began to eat

things happened.

Or

your head on the pillow,

your hands floating

in the light, in my light,

over my earth.

It was beautiful to live

when you lived

The world is bluer and of the earth

at night, when I sleep

enormous, within your small hands.

Before the ceremony I told Shannon “It’s going to be okay” and in the moment I believed it because I had her and I was scared but she was my best friend and up there in front of her parents and mine I said the regular vows but I think that first one was what counted even if it didn’t end up being true. Maybe I’ve been telling you my vows for years. You can have my back any day. There’s no one on earth I trust with my son - with our son - more than you. Every time I tell you I love you, isn’t that a promise?

I’ve been happy before in my life, despite everything I don’t think I was an unhappy man, not always, only sometimes, but you make me happier than I thought was possible. That kind of feeling when you laugh too hard and you’re not getting enough oxygen to your brain. Isn’t that romantic, you give me hypoxia

Here’s the thing you know I’m going to get up there and just start crying immediately so I don’t know why I’m trying so hard to find words I won’t even be able to get out

No hi this is me two hours later of course this is important you’re important you knowing how much I love you is so important to me and I will stand up there blubbering at you for hours if that’s what it takes

I trust you. I love you. I am happy with you. I want to wake up beside you always, Buck I’ve never seen anything more beautiful than you next to me first thing in the morning (or night or afternoon or whenever we’ve finished sleeping), touching your warm body with your lungs breathing and your heart beating and the solidity of you feels like a miracle

I’ll buy you socks so your feet don’t get cold and I’ll bring you fruit because you like to eat sweet things and wherever I live will be your home and I’ll be by your side as long as you do me the honor of wanting me there and everything I have and am is yours and I

[fandom-relapse]

Baby box

Prompt: Moments by Mary Oliver

Fandom: 911

Character / Pairing: Buck/Eddie

Time to write: 46 minutes

Rating: T

Eddie has spent years carefully tucking away his love for Buck. If it were just him, maybe he would have found the courage to say something about it. But nothing worth doing is without risk, and he can't take that risk for Chris.

But there are moments that cry out to be fulfilled; they can only be postponed for so long.

Eddie finally caves when the Buckley parents swing through town like a tornado, leaving everything untouched except a path of destruction directly through Buck.

He knows that some parents have a favorite child, but making it so obvious, displaying it so brutally? They're sat on his couch, Chris at school, and he flinches as Buck tells him about Maddie's baby box, and how he had asked about his own--"like an idiot," Buck says, eyes watery--and how there wasn't one. How he was made for spare parts. How he truly wasn't wanted. He wants to bundle Buck into his lap and hold him. He wants to tell Buck how much he loves him, how much he is wanted.

"I--," and he chokes around the words I want you, berating himself for his inability when Buck turns to him with the saddest puppy-dog eyes he's ever seen. "Wait here," he amends.

Later, he'll wonder what part of it was conscious, this perilous decision to show this to Buck, his grave accumulation of idiocies. He has berated himself over this for so long--creepy, weird, unnecessary, he has admonished himself in his darkest moments.

Nevertheless, he returns carrying a small cardboard box and hands it to Buck, who stares at it for a moment.

"W-what is this?" Buck asks, wobbly, adorably.

Eddie breathes. "Just look," because he can't say, "my heart."

So Buck looks, and Eddie stops breathing as he watches Buck sort through their life, Buck's-life-in-his: tickets to Us, the first movie they saw together alone; photobooth pictures from the pier, which Chris had insisted upon; the post-its they'd left in each others' lockers after they had lost their phones in a rescue (come over for dinner? -e; as long as you're not cooking -b); a program from each of Chris's school plays that Buck had insisted on attending with him (a lot). And more, so much more.

It was all there, Eddie's pathetic assemblage of life-tokens, because he wouldn't be okay if something happened to Buck and there wasn't anything left of him, because this stupid box was all that had gotten him through Buck's close calls. Because maybe their best-friendship could be enough for Eddie, but God did he want more.

He is pulled from his reverie by Buck's arms around him, and Buck's warm breath in his ear, as he whispers, "thank you." And Eddie breathes again.

Well, he's come this far, hasn't he?

His heart is still beating, isn't it?

He's not in chains, is he?

So he says, "I love you. You are wanted. Here." He offers a silent prayer that this doesn't break BuckandEddie into Buck and Eddie, because he's not sure his heart could handle that.

"I love you, too," Buck murmurs.

[shintaru]

characters I’ll write for + tags ~ prompt list

Who wants to be tagged for which characters when I post the finished project?

Fic REQUESTS CLOSED

Windbreaker:

Juwan Jang 🦈 TJ

Yumi

Kazuma Takeda

Sung kwon Monster @jesusownsme @cozyunderworld

Mahon Jo

Humming bird

Jo Jay @ankita607 @czyinlive

Junsu Lee / June Lee

Minu yoon

Shelly Scott Dom kang @cozyunderworld @samuelseowife

Sabbath

Hyuk Kwon @inosukehana Wooin yoo @cozyunderworld Vinny hong @ankita607Joker (Hajun) @cozyunderworld @inosukehana

Light Calvary

Owen knight @catsrkool @rossesnd Camilla Nelson

Harry shepherd

Chris D’ Char ~ @rossesnd @cozyunderworld @inosukehana

Noah Austin

League of street

Sangho Choi @cozyunderworld @koiiiiijiii Hwangyeon Choi @koiiiiijiii

Juwon ryu

Kazuma

Kenji ikusaba

Kaneshiro Takeda Ryohei Hachijō Hyōma Nagase

Lookism:

Daniel Park @koiiiiijiii Vasco @koiiiiijiii Jay Hong @koiiiiijiii Zack Lee @koiiiiijiii Jace Park @koiiiiijiii Jiho Park @koiiiiijiii Mary Kim Vin Jin @koiiiiijiii Jaegyeon Na @koiiiiijiii Samuel Seo @vynnyll @samuelseowife @koiiiiijiii @dessmq Eli Jang @koiiiiijiii Johan Seong Jong Gun @vynnyll @koiiiiijiii Joon Goo @koiiiiijiii Jake Kim @vynnyll @koiiiiijiii DG @eugueen @koiiiiijiii Eugene @koiiiiijiii Ryūhei/Nōmen @koiiiiijiii Magami kenta @koiiiiijiii Seonji Yukcho @koiiiiijiii Cho Yisu @koiiiiijiii Cheon taejin @koiiiiijiii gongseob ji @koiiiiijiii gapryong Kim @koiiiiijiii jinyeong park @koiiiiijiii

Jinx:

Jaekyung Kim dan Heesung Yoon gu Baek Junmin

Kuroko’s basketball:

Tetsuya Kuroko Taiga Kagami @cozyunderworld Junpei Hyūga Teppei Kiyoshi Ryōta Kise Yukio Kasamatsu Shintarō Midorima Kazunari Takao Daiki Aomine @cozyunderworld Shōichi Imayoshi Atsushi Murasakibara @cozyunderworld Tatsuya Himuro Seijūrō Akashi @wsknbfanaccnt Reo Mibuchi Makoto Hanamiya Kotarō Hayama Katsunori Harasawa  Chihiro Mayuzumj  momoi satsuki Alex Garcia 

Naruto:

Gaara @aishabbbb kankuro Sasuke @aishabbbb itachi @aishabbbb Kakashi hatake jiraiya Sai Pain sasori orachimaru

blue lock:

Michael Kaiser  shidou Ryusei Meguru Bachira  Rensuke Kunigami Yoichi Isagi  Ryosuke Kira Zantetsu Tsurugi  Reo Mikage  Seishiro Nagi Rin itoshi Sae itoshi Jinpachi Ego pablo cavazos ikki Niko Akira Endoji Jin Kiyora Jingo Raichi Oliver Aiku

one piece:

Luffy @ydkm00 Sanji @hi3431 Zoro Law @nah-idwin Eustass Kid Boa Hancock  Nami  Nico Robin Shanks  Portgas D’Ace  Vivi Nefertari  Crocodile  Smoker Donquixote Doflamingo  Paulie Dracule Mihawk Koby  Pell Hina  Sabo  Katekuri Koala Perona corazon

Bsd:

Osamu Dazai Chuya Nakahara Saigiku Jouno Atsushi Nakajima Doppo Kunikida Ranpo Edogawa Poe Bram Stoker Ryuunosuke Akutagawa

Hell’s paradise:

Gabimaru Aza chobe Aza Toma Yamada Asaemon Shugen Yamada Asaemon Sagiri Yamada Asaemon, Tenza Yamada Asaemon, Shion Yuzuriha

Haikyuu:

Miya atsumu @cozyunderworld Miya osamu Aran ojiro Semi Eita Suna Ushijima wakatoshi Tendou Oikawa toru Tanaka Mad dog kyotani Kentarou Kunimi Akira Bokuto Koutarou Akaashi Keiji daishou suguru Nishinoya Kuroo tetsuro Kenma Kageyama tobio Hinata shoyo Tsukkishima kei Terushima yuji Kita Hoshiumi Yamakoto Lev haiba Haiba Hiroo

jjk:

Gojo Choso Toji Yuta Sukuna Naoya that one hot guy with the mask Nanami

Hsr:

Boothill

Genshin:

Aether Childe ZHONGLI @wsknbfanaccnt scaramouche Kaveh alhaithum

Windbreaker anime:

Burning kabaddi:

@duaajpeg Tatsuya Yoigoshi Kei lura Masato ojo Shinji date Ren takaya Manabu Sakura Yu eikura Yuuki hitomi

Bleach:

Grimmjow Ichigo Renji

Black clover:

Langris vaude Leopald Julius Vangeance Yuno Nozel Asta Luck Magna Klaus Jack Zora

Outer banks:

Rafe JJ Pope

Batman:

Bruce Wayne (bale) Dr. crane (cillian)

Harry Potter:

Draco Voldemort Fred George Harry

Suicide Squad:

Joker (Leto) Harley (Margot)

Jojo’s bizarre adventure:

Dio

Narancia

Anasui

Giorinni

Josuke

[gentlebeardsbarngrill]

05/28-29/2024 Daily OFMD BTS

TLDR; Rhys Darby; Samba Schutte BTS; Nathan Foad; Vico Ortiz; Dominic Burgess; Tell Tale Awards; Upcoming Fuckeries; Watch party reminders; Schadenfreude; Fan Spotlight; MerMay; Love Notes; Daily Darby/Tonight's Taika.

== Rhys Darby ==

To 29 And Beyond is coming up fast and our dear Captain wanted to remind everyone that he'll be there! For tickets and more info, visit To29AndBeyond.com

Source: Rhys Darby's IG Stories

== Samba Schutte ==

More Season 2 BTS from the man who deserves all the things -- Samba Schutte!

Video 1: Roach Bobbing for Plums

Video 2: Fang + Samba Dance

== Nathan Foad ==

Source: Nathan Foad's Instagram Stories

== VIco Ortiz ==

Vico is going to be back at Them Fatale price this June 21st!

Source: Them Fatale's Instagram

Vico also wanted to send out the following resources for those looking to help with the situation in Gaza. Operation Olive Branch

Source: Vico Ortiz' Instagram Stories

== Dominic Burgess ==

Our precious Jeffrey Fettering is out and about in Los Angelos visiting the Queen Mary!

Source: Dominic Burgess' Twitter

= Reminder to Vote =

Our dear crewmates over at @saveofmdcrewmates put together a helpful guide for the Tell-Tale TV Awards! They've listed the queer shows related to OFMD in someway and are reminding us you can vote up to 3 times per category! Vote here.

Source: SaveOFMD Crew Instagram

More Under The Cut! Long Post is Long

== Watch Party Reminders ==

Our Flag Means Death Season 2 Dates: May 28-31 Times: 3:30 pm PT / 6:30pm ET / 11:30 pm BST Need access? We're doing a WP on the RhysDarbyFaction Discord server, feel free to hit me up on tumblr @gentlebeardsbarngrill or @ aspirantabby42 on Twitter for access.

== Upcoming Fuckeries ==

As you all have seen around, there's a fuckery planned for June 3rd! Which is approaching fast! Our friend @patchworkpiratebear made a nice graphic to remind us. Mark the date on your calendars if you want to join the fuckery!

Source: PatchworkPirateBear's Tumblr

== Schadenfreude ==

Just a nice ending to the day. June 3rd's shareholders meeting is coming fast WBD.

== Fan Spotlight ==

= Cast Cards =

More Cast cards tonight! Thank you @melvisik! The first, George Maunsell is listed as "Valet" in 'Calypso's Birthday' and Zach Douglas "is "Roderick," aka the Bluecoat rudely reading the love letter meant for Ed"

Source: @melvisik's Twitter

== Mermay ==

= Snejpowa =

Our friendly neighbourhood @snejpowa is back with another MerMay prompt, this time featuring the Republic of Pirates! I have to say, the Instagram liked by is a nice touch :P.

Day 29: Republic of Pirates

= Blueberreads =

Our fantastic friend @blueberreads has done it again with a Stede portrait this time! I am blown away by the detail of the hair and shirt. Just lovely!

Day 29: Republic of Pirates

= Eros The Artist =

Our darling @erostheartist has another Mermay submission for us-- to learn more about this prompt visit the link below! Day 24: Murder's a Natural Cause

= Spencer Does Artt =

Another Mermay day for @ SpencerDoesArtt on instagram! This time Day 29 is Republic of Pirates and they were kind enough to give us our favorite folks all gathered around.

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by spencer (@spencerdoesartt)

= Stjernegaupe =

More lovely vector art from @stjernegaupe for mermay! Ricky almost looks innocent in that first one! (Almost)

Day 13: Road to Moscow

Day 14: Orange

Day 15: Blind Man's Cove

Day 16: Kraken

== Love Notes ==

Hey lovelies. It's Wednesday here which means we're half way through the week. I hope it's treated you kindly. We could all use a little extra kindness these days. I'm not sure the following statements are going to make much sense, so apologies if not.

Tonight I wanted to mention a few things about changes. Sometimes change is something we can predict, and sometimes it hits us without warning.

Sometimes change makes things better for us and sometimes it can make things worse.

Sometimes change is the hardest thing in the world to do, and yet somehow the most important.

Change could be anything, a change in routine, in friends, in location, in attitude, in jobs, in weather, in boundaries-- it can be so very many things. Sometimes, the places we are, the people we're with, the jobs we have, the patterns we practice just aren't going to suit us forever. We as human beings are ever changing, ever evolving, ever moving. Situations and life styles we may have embraced previously may no longer serve us, and you know what?

That's okay.

Chang is part of the fun and wonder of life. Every day we learn new things about ourselves, and in doing so we evolve. This is a good thing, lovelies, you dont have to hate or love the things that came before or the things that come after-- you can look at where you are, where you want to be and where you've been and appreciate what came with those changes. Maybe you were in a terrible situation before, and now you're only in a mildly better one. Maybe you're worse off than before, but because of that you know exactly what you need/want to become.

Change can be a scary, unpredictable catalyst, but it can also be a very important tool that helps us reach the places we want to go. Sometimes changes take us back rather than forward, and sometimes they jump us ahead eons. Both are valid, and both are part of this life, and experiences we need to have. Don't be afraid of change lovelies, there's always more around the corner. It'll work itself out-- I know it will, because I know you're strong enough to brave it. You are so very wonderful and lovely the way you are, and you'll be wonderful and lovely when you're something new. Don't forget that. Rest up, new day tomorrow as always. I'm so glad you're still here with us.

== Daily Darby / Tonight's Taika ==

Tonight's theme is Floor Antics! Gifs courtesy of the brilliant @mxmollusca and @soapbubbles511!

[thlayli-ra]

Can you do the kissing away their tears with drew and punk

Since Bad Blood, I have had a few requests for another instalment of the Winner's Room AU, then @afterdarkprincess inspired me with her post and I had this perfect little prompt for my Trick or Treat event sitting in my askbox, so I've mashed the whole lot together to write the final chapter of the Winner's Room AU. Enjoy!

Treat - 'Kissing Away Their Tears'

Characters - CM Punk, Drew McIntyre

Rating - Mature

Warnings - Blood, angst, smut, religious imagery

They say that dogs often find a quiet place to be alone when they know they're going to die.

Perhaps that was why Drew wanted to be by himself right now. He may not have been literally dying but he felt like he was, the pain in his head and body so visceral he could hardly stand. But the greatest pain of all was in his chest, off-centre, slightly to the left. In his heart. For when his blood and sweat had run out of him in great gushing rivers, something else had left him too, a piece of his soul, leaving behind a black hole like a decayed crust.

He sat bunched up on the floor, the room around him pitch black and silent. Pulling his knees up tighter to his chest, he set his forehead upon them, wincing at the anguish that wailed from the gruesome gash on his crown and let out a fresh surge of tears, coating his already damp and sticky cheeks.

No, he may not literally be dying. Yet, it felt like the end.

He never heard the door opening or the shuffling of booted feet stepping into the room. It was only when the room around him became drenched in cold, hard light that he even realised his solitude had been shattered. He peeked through his intertwined arms, blue glassy eyes trailing up the black boots, past the black and white kick pads, over the black and white trunks with the single heart among the six-pointed stars, panels of white on either side mirroring the white checked panels on Drew's own trunks, all finished off with a decorative silver lining. Ring gear as filthy and as soiled as his own attire.

Drew's gaze did not venture any further. Not up past the black gothic writing arched over the naval, or the twisting skull and serpent tattoo, and certainly not up past the greying beard and the thin, harsh lips and the crooked nose and definitely not into those two cruel pools of olive green that shimmered whenever they hit the light.

He didn't want to see the look on Punk's face. He knew why he was here, had even hid in the desperate hope that he wouldn't come for him. These past months, he had discovered first hand the depths of cruelty that this man was capable of and in only the past hour had been the ill-fated victim of the worst of it. For nearly forty-five minutes he had been beaten and maimed and tortured, busted open and made to bleed like a blessed statue of the Virgin Mary.

But with Punk, it was always a given that he could raise his game up another level, and Drew trembled at the prospect of what the older man would do to him now that he had a solid victory under his belt and they were completely alone with no interference this time.

'Please don't hurt me,' his quivering lips uttered quietly.

A nasally sigh permeated the air and another soft shuffle of boots as Punk made his way towards him. The Scot drew his large legs in tighter, rolling up into himself like a frightened hedgehog who's spines had been torn out, one-by-one. Vaguely aware of the demon crouching down in front of him.

Craggy fingers teased their way under his chin and coaxed it back. Drew flinched at the tenderness of their touch, softly guiding his blurry gaze up, but the Scot would not be tricked and locked his eyes instead on the swirling pattern of waves across Punk's chest, boxed in on either side by a white towel draped over his shoulders.

Another sigh. Punk sounded tired, but not the kind of exhausted tired he had been last time. More like mentally tired, emotionally tired, like a man who had been on the run his entire life and was now getting sick of running.

'Look at me,' his voice was deeper than usual, raspier. Drew wondered if his brief stint with the oxygen mask had affected it. Or perhaps, something else...? Had he also been-?

Drew wanted so much, so very much to look up but he was too afraid of what he would find, or worse, not find.

'Ok...' Punk's fingers slipped out from under his chin again and the fear dug deeper into Drew's chest. His hand moved on its own accord, wrapping around Punk's wrist and snaring it tightly.

'Shhh, it's ok,' Punk placed his own fingers gently around Drew's, stroking them with a feathery touch. 'I'm here. I'm not going anywhere.'

That should have terrified him yet the thought of him leaving terrified him even more.

Drew watched Punk's other fist, the fight tape circling it dyed a rich red, almost hiding the pencilled-on stigmata in the centre of his palm, as it clumsily found the edge of his towel and unfurled it from around his neck. The Scot gasped as it was pressed down onto the top of his head, directly above the horrific crevice cutting through his skin. As Punk applied more pressure, Drew's entire six foot five frame gave an almighty shudder and his lips parted enough for a fragile whimper to escape.

'Yeah, it's a real bad one,' Punk hushed out. 'Must have caught the edge of the tool box or something. You'll need to see the medic afterwards to get it stitched up.'

His words offered no comfort to Drew who gritted his teeth and tried to fight off the pain in his skull. Another whine sounded in his throat.

'Shhh, I know, I know.' The older man gave a little tug on his wrist but Drew grunted and refused to release it. 'Can I have my hand back, please?' There was a slight joviality in his tone. It helped put some of Drew's fears to rest. Surely he wasn't going to hurt him that much if he was making jokes and tending to his wounds? Eventually his fingers unclamped, and Punk pulled his wrist free. The sudden loss of connection panicked the Scotsman and he fumbled around for another part of Punk to hold, finding a spot on the older man's thigh and curling his fingers into the muggy, moist seam of his knee pad.

'You're a mess,' Punk noted aloud, using his newly freed hand to pick up the corner of the towel and wipe at the bloodstains on Drew's face.

Something sparked inside of Drew, a knee-jerk reaction that he couldn't contain. 'Because of you,' he spat back at the other man, albeit feebly.

'I promised you I would make you bleed.'

'And you did.'

'I did.'

'And now it's-' Oh no! No, no, please. Not here, not right in front of him! But his gates had been kicked in by this very man until they were destroyed completely, hanging off of their hinges all warped and mangled. Drew could no longer hold back the welling tide inside of him. 'I-it's over!'

Huge, fat tears poured from his eyes. His shoulder began to quake, wracked with his heart-wrenching sobs. And Drew had nothing left, no energy or defences, however small, remaining to stop it. So he sobbed like a lost child, clenching his fingers even tighter around the edge of Punk's knee pad, not a single shred of light to help guide him through the suffocating darkness.

'Hey, now.' The towel was removed from his head and dropped to the floor. Now both sets of inked hands were cupping Drew's bearded cheeks and he gave no more resistance as his jaw was tilted back and finally, finally he looked up.

He looked at Punk.

The older man didn't just sound tired, he looked tired. The ever-present bags under his eyes were swollen and puffy, coloured a deep pink. His scruffy, silver-speckled cheeks were drawn, his hair a tangled mess and the area around his eye sockets sunken in.

But it was his eyes themselves that grasped Drew's heart and squeezed it mercilessly. The way they gently shimmered like the quiet ripples of a lake in the moonlight. The delicate tenderness in them that struck Drew as viciously as the heavy metal wrench had in the cell.

Punk's white lips parted slightly, a warm breeze ghosting on Drew's face.

'Please don't cry.'

Drew shook his head with despair. Defeated, and not because his shoulders had been pinned to the mat for the one, two, three. 'First, I lost our bracelet and now... now I'm losing you too.'

Punk sighed again, pulling in his bottom lip to rake it with his teeth. 'I was never yours, Drew,' he said at last, and the Scot eyes filled again, weighted by the pull of the concrete slab chained to his feet dragging him beneath the waves to drown. 'But...' a sliver of Punk's tongue appeared at the corner of his mouth, stroked timidly across his lips.

Drew blinked up expectantly.

'.. but for tonight, you are mine.'

He leaned in, placing those same lips on Drew's cheek. The Scotsman froze, paralysed by Punk's taser lips brushing his skin. Unable to do anything, not even breathe, as one-by-one Punk kissed away every single wet droplet trickling down his face. His kisses were tranquil and sweet, each one dropping a piece of serenity back into Drew's soul, helping to repair some of the fractures left by the brutality of their match.

After chasing away the last tear, Punk pulled back every so slightly, finding the crystal blues of Drew's eyes, pausing, thinking. Then mentally saying 'fuck it' and lunging in to capture Drew's lips. At first, the Scot didn't know what to do but when he felt Punk's tongue tease his own, a simmering tang bursting on his taste buds, he returned in kind. Both of their mouth opened up, allowing the other in and they enthusiastically explored one another, probing deep into each crevice and fold. Drew's tongue found the empty groove of Punk's missing molar and swirled in the gap until his lips curled with mirth and a thought suddenly popped into his head.

This is the first time we've ever kissed!

All the vile, cruel, sadistic crimes they had inflicted on one another and they'd never so much as shared a single kiss. It seemed bizarre under the circumstances.

But they were more than making up for lost time, growing greedy and sloppy with one another's lips until at last Punk let go, a misty look in his eyes and a lopsided smirk on his lips. Lifting himself up slightly on his knees, his blood-splattered fingers went to the waistband of his trunks and pulled out the knotted ties holding them up. Drew looked on as Punk slowly and deliberately untied the chords, savouring the show being played out for him, especially relishing the part when Punk hooked both of his thumbs in the slackened waistband and slipped them down his thighs, over his kick pads and off, leaving him naked from the knees up.

Punk's busy hands set to work, clutching at Drew's ankles to tempt his gigantic legs down in order to straddle the larger man's lap, then seized his wrists and guided Drew's hands to his hips. The Scot readily obeyed, holding his holy relic steady as he nudged in closer. Punk's own fingers were fiddling with the studded waistband of Drew's bloodied trunks, yanking it down enough to free the Scot's cock. He gasped loudly when Punk looped his fist around it and gave it several delicious strokes from root to tip.

Closing his eyes, the Scotsman tipped his head back against the frigid wall, every other sensation suddenly numbed bar the glorious one between his legs. This was an entirely new side to Punk that he had never imagined possible. This man, who had shown him nothing but hatred and spite all these months, all these years, was now being so loving, so affectionate, so gentle, caressing him with all the tenderness of an angel's wing. It was like a religious experience, a vision, a revelation, and suddenly he realised this this was all he'd ever wanted and had been so blind to it this whole time simply because he had no idea it even existed.

Somehow, some way, there was enough blood left in Drew for it all to rush south. Punk eyed the bulging appendage, mesmerised. His fingers found each side of Drew's head and delicately slid his foreskin back, lifting the veil to admire his blushing bride beneath. Drew let out a shaky breath, his cock bobbing with delight.

No more words needed to be said between them. They had put everything out there in the open, they had traded barbs on the mic, they had flogged the skin from one another's back, they had beaten each other until they had painted the canvas with their blood. There was nothing more to give.

Except one thing. One last gift that Punk had to offer Drew; and as he lifted himself up onto his knees and lined himself up with his throbbing cock, placing his forearms on Drew's broad shoulders to lock on tight to his gaze, he readily gave that gift.

His undying attention. At long last.

And Drew accepted it gleefully, never once wavering from his intense hazel stare as Punk pushed down onto him, piercing himself with the spear. His hole opened wide like a flower in the sun, welcoming Drew's warmth in and he slipped in easily. It was nothing at all like that time after Summerslam, in the showers. It felt right, as if it was their natural state, a habit, like putting on his wedding ring every morning. Or perhaps not, perhaps more like, when he used to put Punk's bracelet on, after the elastic had stretched loose to accommodate Drew's meatier wrist. Within only a couple of pushes, Punk had taken him in all the way to the hilt and it felt so incredible that Drew nearly cried again.

They began to move, Drew thrusting his eager hips into Punk while the older man squatted down onto him, both finding a perfect rhythm easily and settling into it. Both starting to blush and bead with sweat, the dried blood on their faces staining the dewdrops scarlet to look like fresh clots skimming off their brows. Both of them keeping their eyes trained on each other and only each other.

And in that moment, Drew saw the lines of blood on Punk's face, saw his short hair spiked out like a crown of thorns and as he bobbed up and down, he would catch the single light in the room directly behind him, and the Scot gasped aloud when the vision manifested into reality.

He had been wrong. Punk was not a succubus or a demon. He was a saint, with a halo shining around his head.

Punk's words from a week ago crashed into him. It had been more than a threat - it had been a prophecy. One that had come to fruition;

'You will look up,

and I will wipe the blood from your eyes so you see me,

And it's not a god you're praying to,

It's not the devil you're praying to.

You will be praying to

CM Punk!'

[mrchiipchrome]

Masterlist

Blurbs

UNC Less

Song Prompts 

Alessia Russo

Soft moments and mischievous activities

Trends and Kisses 

The '23 Bonnie & Clyde 

Sleepwalking 

Thirst Tweets 

Mothers

Cookie Clicker

Distracted

When Y/n Met Alessia

Potato

The Drunk Dial 

Knight In Shining Armor

Airport Dad

Sixth Sense

Butterscotch 

Glass Child 

The Mechanic

Mornings With You 

Softlaunch

Aitana Bonmatí

Work 

Alexia Putellas

Call Your Girlfriend

New Girlfriend 

Rain 

Ella Toone

Princess Treatment

Frida Maanum

The Olive Theory 

Freezing

Katie McCabe

Blessing In Disguise

Keira Walsh

Parents Family Liar, Liar, Pants On Fire

Valerie

Lucy Bronze

Parents Family Liar, Liar, Pants On Fire

Lauren Hemp

Need for Speed

Leah Williamson

Sunscreen

Nosebleed(s)

Helmet

Lia Wälti

The Museum

Mary Fowler

Once In A Lifetime 

Ona Batlle

The Best Kept Secrets…

Steph Catley

All Mine 

Arsenal Women

Misophonia

Series

10/10 

[witchmd13]

Domesticity as an expression of love.

edna st. vincent millay, letter to george dillon // merlin, the eye of the phoenix // merlin, the changeling // merlin, gwaine // edin robinson, writing prompts for the broken-hearted // mary oliver wild geese //merlin, another's sorrow // merlin, a remedy to cure all ills // alexandra bracken, the darkest legacy // louis de bernières, birds without wings // merlin, the wicked day // x // merlin, the lady of the lake // taylor swift, sweet nothings // merlin, the sorcerer's shadow.

[warrioreowynofrohan]

Elizabeth Gaskell - Mary Barton, North and South, and Wives and Daughters

Over the past year I’ve read Elizabeth Gaskell’s Mary Barton, North and South, and Wives and Daughters, and I wanted to try to pull together some of my thoughts about these books and how they relate to each other.

Elizabeth Gaskell was a rough contemporary of the Brontës (and a friend and biographer of Charlotte Brontë), but outlived them all. These three novels were published in 1848, 1855, and 1866 respectively; Wuthering Heights and Jane Eyre were published in 1847.

The three novels follow, in my opinion, a rough trajectory of decreasing radicalism, but (in some respects) increasing skill as a writer. Mary Barton is the most intensely socially conscious, and in my opinion Gaskell does a better job of writing a engaging novel on the behalf of the working class than Dickens often does - the writing is tighter and more engaging, and the working-class characters more nuanced and textured. (For context, all the Dickens I’ve read is A Christmas Carol, A Tale of Two Cities, Oliver Twist, and Great Expectations.) The book is scattered throughout with caveats - for example, that factory-owners feasting while workers starve may not be a fact, but that it is something workers can understandably feel to be true - that show how aware Gaskell was that it would be controversial. It was written before - but published during - the Revolutions of 1848 in Europe, and Gaskell even goes so far as the reference the revolutions in her preface to the book:

“To myself the idea which I have formed of the state of feeling among too many of the factory-people in Manchester, and which I endeavoured to represent in this tale (completed above a year ago), has received some confirmation from the events which have so recently occurred among a similar class on the Continent.

OCTOBER, 1848

(Charlotte Brontë appears to have been affected by the revolutions of 1848 in a very different way; her novel Shirley, published in 1849, is fairly strongly anti-worker and pro-factory-owner, portraying anyone who protests against the treatment of workers as a drunk or a troublemaker.)

While it has its meldoramatic elements, Mary Barton is on the whole a sympathetic depiction of a Manchester working-class family and their friends. In the opening chapters, some of the arguments of conservatives are dealt with deftly rather than by direct assault. The depiction of the two central families in comparatively better times shows what ‘luxuries’ were to working-class people - some slices of ham, a bit of butter, a bit of sugar, a dinner-party between friends, a handful of pretty objects around the house - in a way that undermines conservative claims that poverty was due to overspending in good times rather than saving for bad. There’s a varied cast of characters - some more idealized or archetypal in typical Victorian style, but most of them three-dimensional, human, and engaging. (Some of them - including both developed ones and archetypal ones - made me wonder if Gaskell ever read Les Misérables, and if so what she thought of it.)

This makes some elements of North and South frustrating by comparison. While working-class women in Mary Barton (at least some of them) are living, breathing people, the sole working-class woman in North and South is a Victorian archetype, a chronically ill girl who speaks in Bible verses and dies to prompt the redemption arcs of other characters. It’s evident that Gaskell got blowback for Mary Barton and was pressured to provide a more ‘balanced’ perspective in North and South - it’s telling that being ‘balanced’ meant reducing the humanity and complexity of working-class characters.

I will be blunt: I do not like John Thornton. He talks too much like a Calgary oilman resenting big government for daring to impose basic environmental and working standards. He makes a template of conservative arguments that endure to this day - that he’s a self-made-man and any working-class person could do what he did, if they had the grit and gumption. He’d rather go bankrupt than allow his workers to unionize. And he does not undergo a ‘redemption arc’ or change of heart on this - rather, the worker who supports unionization undergoes a ‘redemption arc’ to realize that unions are bad! What John Thornton does learn is that 1) using inexperienced imported scab workers rather than experienced and knowledgeable workers gets you a crappy product and 2) he can talk to his workers and plan out some basic reforms to improve their lives a little.

That said, one major improvement in North and South is that the relationship between Margaret Hale and John Thornton is much better written than the relationship of the title character in Mary Barton. Mary’s involves her abruptly (and unconvincingly) realizing she’s in love with a man who has been pursuing her throughout the book and whom she has been doing her utmost to discourage, and has never shown any interest in. Margaret and John’s is developed over time and with more complexity, and in a way that is far more compelling and convincing - probably what makes North and South more popular than the others.

Wives and Daughters is another sort of book entirely - gentler and less melodramatic (and with fewer major character deaths - though there’s a notable death toll among side characters), set in the countryside and in the past, and more a social comedy/dramedy with a side of romance. The class commentary as regards the working class is almost gone - the main characters are a combi ation of middle-class people and lower-level gentry. It is, in a sense, more Austenian in its gentle satire of the foibles of its cast of characters, interspersed with some more dramatic moments; or more like some of Lucy Maud Montgomery’s books that combine romance with poking gentle fun at the various characters of small-town life. But the characters are more nuanced and less archetypal, and the moral lessons mostly less pointed, than in the two previous books, and the main character’s challenges and struggles are of a more grounded nature. (There’s a side character, Cynthia, who particularly interests me and whom I might do a separate post on.) You can see the improvement in Gaskell’s writing; you can also see that she’s stepped away from politics. (The romance isn’t as good as North and South though.) The main theme that could be considered political is that good, solid, practical knowledge, hard work, courage, and honesty are preferable to any amount of upper-class ‘refinement’. The worst crime any major character commits is to be shallow and annoying.

Here’s one interesting case of a contrast between Wives and Daughters and Gaskell’s earlier work. In Mary Barton, Mary is pursued by - and actively interested in - a factory-owner’s son, a man outside of her own social class, and this is portrayed as a serious moral fault that precipitates some of the book’s major events. In Wives and Daughters, there is a much more socially unequal marriage between two side characters, and the lower-class woman is not treated as bad or faulty for it, but the plot gets into some of the complications of the match (the husband is afraid of disinheritance if he reveals the marriage to his father, and in that case would have no ability to support his wife abd child due to being gentry with no useful skills; the husband dies; there’s some personality and culture clash between the wife and his family in the aftermath, but ultimately it works out). In the more melodramatic Mary Barton, a woman accepting attentions from a mich higher-ranking man is a major issue of moral character; in the more grounded Wives and Daughters, it’s a matter of practical challenges entailed by the match.

(Gaskell died before finishing Wives and Daughters, but it’s close enough to finished that you can easily see the briad strokes of how everything’s going to wrap up.)

I’d recommend all the of the books; they’re all worth reading if you like 1800s literature. Though, being from the 1800s, they do all have some moments and sentiments that are jarring to the 21st-century reader.

[raina-at]

Breaking Dawn

It’s just breaking dawn. London awakens, slowly. Buses increase their frequency, traffic starts to flow into the city. Shutters go up, lights go on in bakeries and supermarkets. As the streetlights go out, the city slowly blinks awake, one window, one street, one person at a time.

Sherlock hasn’t slept, so he doesn’t have to blink himself awake. His eyes have stayed wide open for the entire night, but he’s not tired. Sleep, an unstable companion for most of his life at the best of times, has eluded him even more than usual lately.

A few days ago, he was still “dead”. Now he’s back, and the relentless pulse of the city makes it difficult for him to sleep. He has a hard time readjusting to his life, his clothes, the fact that nobody wants to kill him anymore. Nothing seems to quite fit anymore, from his too-loose shirts to the odd silent unlived-in feeling of their - his - flat.

He thought he’d just slip right back into it. Into his clothes, his bed, his flat, his life. John’s life.

And then he came back and found out that nothing is quite the way it was before.

And he has nobody to blame for this but himself. 

Honestly, his own stupidity surprises him sometimes. Did he honestly think he could make John watch him commit suicide and and then walk back into his life as if nothing happened?

He’ll never forget the look on John’s face when he realised that Sherlock was really there, was really back, had really betrayed him this deeply, this profoundly.

The bruise on Sherlock’s cheek still aches. His nose is still not quite healed. 

But yesterday, over a bomb, Sherlock apologised sincerely for maybe the first time in his entire life. 

And John forgave him. 

Sort of.

Now it’s dawning over the city, and Sherlock sits on the fire escape outside of John’s old room, smoking a cigarette and missing John like a severed limb. 

He’s holding his phone and he’s staring at the open text window, and he wonders. Is John already awake? Is he having breakfast with Mary? Is he already on his way to work?

If he texts John now, will he answer? Or will he ignore Sherlock and go back to his day, his job, his future wife?

Does he have the courage to find out? 

He swallows, stubs out his cigarette and types. Mrs Hudson didn’t do the shopping, I’m out of everything. Does the bakery at Montague St. still have the chocolate thingies? - SH

He pockets his phone to stop himself from staring at it. 

He nearly falls off the fire escape when it vibrates with an answer almost immediately. 

Closed a year ago. But the one round the corner of my surgery has them.

Sherlock’s breath catches. Is this… an invitation? Or just an information? Why does it mean so much, every word out of John’s mouth a small treasure, to be hoarded and held close and examined again and again?

His phone vibrates with another text. I often have breakfast there. 

Sherlock smiles. An invitation then, couched in the careful language of plausible deniability. A tentative olive branch. A toe placed on thin ice. 

With shaking hands, Sherlock texts back. I might drop by later. - SH

As the morning sunlight bathes his city in warmth, Sherlock feels the first stirrings of hope in his chest. Maybe, just maybe, all is not lost. 

It can’t be like it was before, he knows that now. But it can be something. And that’s going to have to be enough.

For the prompt "morning light" by @notjustamumj

Tagging @keirgreeneyes @mydogwatson @meetinginsamarra and whoever else wants to play!

[the-chosen-fanfiction]

Mother Mary | The Joys And Fears Of Motherhood | Platonic [Male Reader]

Dialogue prompt: "You did a good job with Him."

When Mary is uncertain whether she has been a good mother to her Son, you reassure her of her worth.

Requested by J Bart

The Mount of Olives is one of Mary’s favourite spots to retreat to nowadays. Although not present herself at the time of her Son’s ascension, she finds solace in standing here, gazing up at the sky with the knowledge that He will return one day, and that she is favoured by God Himself. The burden of being the mother of the Son of God was — and still is, in some way — heavy. Mary never truly understood the true meaning of Jesus’ ministry, the full picture of what had to happen, until the moment was there that He gave the Spirit and the days afterwards. Now that He has returned to heaven to sit at His Father’s right hand, she misses Him like a mother would miss her child under any other circumstance. Son of God or not, He had still been her boy, the One she birthed and raised, and somewhere deep down inside her heart, He would always be that, regardless of divinity.

Jesus had instructed John to take in Mary as if she were his own mother, and the son of Thunder hadn’t hesitated to take on his Master’s command. Whereas John the Beloved had become her son to look after her, she liked spending time with the rest of His followers, too, you included. “Will you walk with me?” she had asked you this morning on the threshold of your home. You hadn’t hesitated to join her on one of her routine walks to the place she liked to visit so much.

You’re carrying a bag containing lunch and water skins, not wanting to encumber Mary with the heavy items as you walk up the mount where Jesus had been taken into heaven. She’s walking next to you with that particular kind smile she usually wears. Even for a woman who suffered so much through the afflictions of her son, knowing she would lose Him one day, she remains strong and positive in the face of hardship. From your mother, you had learnt that parenthood was difficult in and of itself, so you’d reckon that being the mother of the Messiah would be even heavier to digest. 

Everything about this woman is admirable. You’d only be so lucky to have an ounce of her resilience. From what you have learnt over the past years of travelling at Jesus’ side, you know that these words are better to be said out loud to the person in question. Perhaps you’ll find a good moment to tell her.

The two of you veer off the beaten path and find the field where the Disciples had told you Jesus had ascended into heaven. Neither you nor Mary had borne witness to this event, but knowing that this was the place where it had happened brings some solace into your heart. Not that it would ultimately matter, for no place on Earth is as holy as the Son of Man Himself and the last thing you want is for the soil He stood on to become an idol in and of itself, but still you find peace in knowing His promise of return. Be it in a few months, years, perhaps even centuries. Another valuable lesson you have taken away is that God’s definition of ‘soon’ is not only variable, but also very different from what mortal men may consider ‘soon’. 

The sun is at its highest point and shines down on you with a ferocity that has you squint against the bright blue sky. Mary narrows her gaze a bit as she looks up, folding her hands on her back as she deeply inhales. “Thank you for coming with me, son.” she muses. 

“Of course.” you reply, “I like spending time with you. Makes me feel like I still have an eema in some way, even though John is like your son, now.” Mary gives you a gentle look as you mention your late mother. 

“Ah, I’d be happy to fill that role in some way, if only in listening to you.” 

“Just your presence and kind words are enough, really.” you admit. 

“Well, I’m glad to. And in a way, I feel a little like the mother of all of you.” 

Lightly chuckling, you reach into your bag to offer her a drink of water. She accepts it and takes a long swig from the waterskin. Something flashes inside her gaze, her eyes turning to the clouds, a bittersweet smile tugging at her lips as she takes another thoughtful sip.

She hands it back to you. 

“You must miss Him a lot.” 

Mary hums. “You have no idea.” There is a certain edge in her voice you’ve rarely heard on her. You put an arm around her, giving her a side-hug, which she reciprocates fondly.

“Some days are easier than others.” Mother Mary remains positive. “And there is no other woman who can say she gave birth to the Son of God.” 

“Changed His nappies, too.” 

Mary laughs at that a bit. “Son of God, yet fully human.” 

“Fully human indeed. I recall the stories you used to tell us around the fire. I’ve never seen Nathanael so horrified.” 

She laughs and rests a hand on her cheek as she sighs, turning her gaze to the sky again, almost as if she is expecting for her Son to come back for a few minutes just for her. “I know that I am greatly blessed.”

“You are. And I think I can speak for all of us when I say that we greatly admire you.”

Mary lets out a high pitched hum and gives you a gentle smile. “Hm. That’s very sweet of you to say, (Y/n). But you’re giving me too much credit. It is Jesus Who deserves all the praise.”

You sigh at her humble nature.

“Don’t be hard on yourself.” 

A brief silence. The soft look falls from her features and makes place for a frown instead as she stares at the grass below for a moment. “Sometimes… I just feel like I could have done better.” Mother Mary confesses, “I know I’m not perfect, no one is except Jesus Himself, but… Well, being His mother has added so much extra weight to my task.”

“I have yet to meet a mother who is perfect.” you say. “I know many mothers. I knew the eema of Peter and Andrew. She wasn’t perfect. And Salome, do you think she’s perfect? No, not even closely. My own eema, may she rest in peace, was full of flaws, too. Did I love her any less because of it? Of course not. Do James and John hold it against their mother that she sometimes runs her mouth? They love her just as much. Peter and Andrew only talk positively about their late eema.” 

Mary listens to your words, her uncertainty melting away. “You did a good job with Him. You brought Him up well. You have taken care of Him through it all, remained patient with Him, taught Him how to traverse life like the rest of us. And in the end — although this is not the end — He is right where He should be. He has done what He had been sent to do in the first place, done the will of the Father.” 

She mulls over your words for a moment, weighing their worth whilst digesting their truth. You were correct; Every choice she has ever made in her life regarding her Son has led to this very reality. And along the way, she has made it easier for Him. Mary remained a source of motherly comfort wherever she could, and maybe, just maybe, the thought of her has helped him reach Him the cross, too. After all, Jesus died and rose not for those who don’t know Him, but also to those closest to Him — even His own mother was in need of salvation after all, as she had sung in her joyous melody upon visiting her late aunt Elizabeth. 

Both of you cast your gazes upwards towards the skies as one being, where you knew Jesus had ascended into heaven to be with the Father, to return at a moment and time no one knew. It could be ten years, a hundred, a thousand. You have learnt during your time with Jesus, the meaning of soon can be different depending on the context as well as on the person in question uttering the term — patient or impatient, human or divine — and keeping that in mind you are well aware that in this lifetime, you might not see Him anymore, but beyond that. And what is this moment, this very life, compared to eternity itself?

Mary lets out a shivering sigh, a solemn edge to the sound. “I miss Him.” 

“I’m sure He misses you, too. Mary, you’ve been the best eema you could have been. You have completed an honourable task and I’m certain you will be elevated about it for ages to come. God sees your heart, knows your thoughts, your struggles. And He knows you did well. You did all you could, and you’ve done so splendidly.” 

A cloud drifts in front of the sun, casting a shadow over the two of you. It brings forth a cooler breeze. “I brought date cakes.” Mary says, referring to the paper-wrapped package she had given to you earlier to put inside the bag. “They’re likely melting away.” 

“Oh, they’ve got honey in them?” 

She nods and smiles, causing your stomach to involuntarily rumble. “You don’t need to tell me twice. Let’s sit for a while.” 

The sugary date cakes stick to your fingers as Mary hands you one. You thank her, saying a quick prayer over it before you dig in. The treat melts on your tongue and you hum. “These were one of Jesus’ favourite foods when He was a child.” Mary tells you, causing your interest to pique. 

“Really?” 

“Mh-mm. I was very surprised when He first tried them and immediately asked for more, seeing that He had a very strong dislike towards raisins.” 

“Raisins? Really? How come I’ve never known this? We had— Jesus sometimes ate raisins while on the road.” You snort a laugh. “I’m very confused right now.” 

Mary laughs and licks some honey from her lips before swallowing her bite of food. “Hm… I know that Jesus didn’t complain about any food while travelling. He knew it was scarce and if He had to eat it, of course He would do so without whimpering about it. But whenever I gave Him the choice between cakes with or without raisins, He always chose the latter. I won’t say that Jesus refused to eat them, I’m just trying to say that… He had preferences.” 

“As we all do.” you muse at the lighthearted story about Mary’s experiences with raising the Son of God. “Fully divine, yet fully human.” 

“Before He rose again, yes.” Mary sighs, smiling as she finishes the rest of her sweet treat. You take another bite of yours and observe the older woman as she rinses the stickiness from her hands with a bit of water. “Now, He has returned to His Father in full glory.” 

The clouds leave the sun alone again, drifting away to allow warm rays to cast over your faces. Mary closes her eyes, basking in it.

“I can’t wait to see Him again.” you confess suddenly. “And until then, we will praise Him. And spread the Word of God, as He commanded us to do. To go to the ends of the Earth to make it known.” 

Mary lets out a pleasant sound before turning to you again. “I wish I could still do more, but these old bones…” 

You give a small shake of your head, putting a hand on her shoulder.

“You have done enough. You have been working so hard for more than thirty years. I think it’s high time that you’ve earned your rest. Just be a witness of Him however you can. The students, all the believers, we will answer to our own calling. Take it easy, okay? You feel things as much as any other mother does, grief and wistfulness, and there is nothing wrong with that. Allow yourself time, and the rest will sort itself out, as long as we focus on Him.” 

You gesture at the sky, a movement that Mary follows with her eyes before she looks at you again. 

“You have wise words in you, (Y/n). I am certain that God will use you for His glory.”

A soft smile tugs at your lips. “I’m sure of it, too. Now, I was wondering…” Her eyes widen a bit as you lean closer to her, your smile turning into a grin. “Do you have any more of these lovely date cakes?” 

Mary laughs lightly and pats your shoulder, reaching for the package again. “Of course. You boys are always so hungry for seconds.” 

Gratefully, you dig into a second piece of cake as she fondly watches you enjoy the sweet treat. Mary knew she had to bring enough of it. It is a part of her motherly instinct that she will never quite lose, no matter how much time passes.