#shimothy

[miss-ute]

🥹🥹

[djxiao]

x

[suuho]

Hi! What do you think of Changmin (TVXQ)? Personally, I think he is one of the most talented and attractive men in kpop. I would love it if you could do a small write-up about him. No pressure, though.

this is honestly such a funny ask, because i am yunho biased and i always have been when it comes to tvxq. but!!! i love changmin, and i think he is hysterical, lmao. he really is someone who keeps it real, and i love that he is neither afraid to speak his mind, put people in their place, or just live his life the way he wants to. it helps that he has yunho by his side, for sure, who would probably burn down this entire planet and bend the earth in half if anyone were to actually give changmin shit, but the funniest thing about the fact that yunho will always support changmin is, that it has made changmin quite audacious. he really lets changmin do whatever and changmin has spent his entire career taking advantage of that. as he should, obv.

anyways, my thesis in defense of shimothy maximilian changmin.

i've talked briefly about him as a vocalist, so i will try to expand my thoughts here somewhat. first of all, changmin is in a duo in which his function is as the main vocal—and that position has remained unchanged since the foundation of tvxq, i might add—and by that, he de facto carries a lot of tvxq's vocals. yunho, of course, is insanely talented and has seamlessly filled the need for any other vocalist in the group in the past 10+ years, but changmin's voice sits way (WAY) higher than yunho's, so he is expected to fill the majority of high notes. which he does, of course! people love to claim that all he does is yell and scream when that is, in fact, not true. yes, changmin also has gone through a learning curve but he has always been a gifted vocalist with immense potential, and he has just grown into that talent and potential. contrary to what appears to be popular belief, changmin doesn't strain his vocals. at least not in the past years. he does mix his voice very high, though, which is fine considering how high the notes are that he sings. and at the end of the day, the voice is an instrument—just because a note is high doesn't mean it has to sound pretty. voices don't owe anyone to sound any way they want; changmin is a very talented vocalist and he uses his voice to create a distinct mood and sound in his songs for the purpose of the performance. not the pleasure of the listener.

he is very, very tonally solid and a very smart vocalist. his musicality is sooo good, you can hear it when he sings live and the choices he makes, which he can afford to make because he is insanely confident in his voice (as he should be). i love the way he conducts his riffs and the tiniest of vocal embellishments, you can tell he thinks about these things and has rehearsed them. and i'm obsessed with their killing voice just because it really shows off just how good changmin is. he intentionally adds effects to his voice (like a certain amount of vocal fry) to change the dimension and texture of their sound. that is part of his artistry and a personal choice, not a flaw. after 20 years, changmin and yunho are able to harmonize and blend their voices flawlessly; changmin, for as much of a brat as he can be (and certainly loves to exploit), is actually a very giving partner. he makes everyone around him sound better and yunho has benefitted from this the most.

it is actually mind boggling to me that people think this man cannot sing, or is a bad singer. like, that is simply not true. 😭 sure, he is not perfect, everyone has off days and everyone has flaws, but he is undoubtedly an incredibly talented and skilled vocalist. he knows how to conduct his sound in different environments, most recently in the benjamin button musical he is starring in, because he is aware that a musical demands different things vocally (often this is where idols stumble, or need an adjustment period, which is completely normal. i think jongdae and kyungsoo have a distinct musical sound to their voices, as do yoseob, jinho and eunkwang. there is a reason why an idol cast will always have to prove themselves in a musical, lol. not everyone got it).

the first time i watched the last minute of this fever performance, i couldn't fucking believe what i was hearing. he is so outrageous. taking those adlibs up the octave (and higher than the backing track) is just lunacy. showing off for the sake of it. as is his god given right after all the shit he had to endure.

[clara-teamrocket]

Edited 31/8/23

Please tag all interactions or discussions of me and my blog with #c.t.r so people can block the tag since not everyone wants to interact.

Im clara she/her, a logistics manager and field operative for team rocket. Im currently in Alola assisting test site 57.

I also have a part time at melemele shelter recently quit my part time job at melemele shelter due to stress. despite the loss of my job i do genuinely care about pokemon!

My team currently consists of,

Crazy fella (hitmonchan)

Toby (Magneton)

Talisman.

Patrol (a falinks consisting of Timmy, jimothy, gimme, shimothy, imothy and Fitzgerald)

Enjoy!

Lore stuff for C here and blog info below.

She's in the anime's universe but can interact with blogs from the games

She has no cannon age atm but is under 25.

Clara is in team rocket less for the money and more because she veiws team rocket as her family.

She constantly lies for fun so if she said it without reason assume it's a lie.

she is a trans woman but she's reluctant to publicly admit it.

She has the same mental conditions as me (autism and adhd) because i cannot write nerotypical people.

Blog stuff

I have no dni's for my blogs literally any type of account can interact with this blog and steel-legionnaire. However I'd like to avoid any sexual/suggestive content (relationships are ok)

Mod is under 18.

No magic anons unless specified.

Be relatively respectful in most cases.

dont threaten to kill her. Not the place for that.

im operating under the idea team rocket isn't some ultra evil 1920s mafia that kills for fun. They're evil but generally avoid harm to humans. No hate to those headcannons but not my thing.

I tend to avoid ooc posts/tags so if you need to ooc dm me here or on discord (@5ghg)

For in person rp https://www.tumblr.com/ctr-in-person?source=share

[levinson-mannion]

Path’s of Fate 7&8 have been posted!

From @anamarialujan’s prompt which you will find out at the end of chapter 8!

Ao3:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/32345089/chapters/80586526

FF.Net:

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13913350/7/Path-s-Of-Fate

[atearsarahjane]

Remember when Tim was tiny even next to Shelagh 😂

[topsyturvyturners-blog]

The Turner Tales - Chapter Three - Timothy’s Illness

She allowed the tips of her fingers to dance along the outside of Timothy's arm while he snoozed in her arms on his bed one afternoon, a soft smile on her lips as she was able to feel his warm breath beating against the side of her neck as he was snuggled into her side. It had been almost a week since her soon-to-be stepson had come down with a head cold and it had made her heart hurt to know that he was spending all day in the flat on his own while his father was at the surgery, hence the reason she had suggested to Patrick that she stayed in the flat with Tim in the day just in case he needed her.

Her fiance had been fully on board with her idea and so every day without fail - for the last six days - she had either been sat on a chair at Timothy's bedside or laying beside him as she held him in her arms. Her love for him was so deep and so pure - deeper than she had ever imagined it would be - and she knew that that love was just going to continue to get deeper and deeper as the years passed.

Turning her head in Tim's direction she gave his forehead a delicate kiss. 'I love you.' She allowed her lips to graze his skin as she spoke to him, the hand that was around his waist tightening its hold of him before she snugged him closer and allowed him to nuzzle further into her neck. There was something so perfect about knowing that he needed her; about knowing that he didn't want her to leave him. Even though the wedding was still far off she was already starting to feel like his mother.

She had always had a soft spot for him - even before she had been sent to the sanatorium to have the triple treatment. She had known that he and Patrick had drifted apart after Marianne's passing and she had been there for him, reassuring him that even if he felt as though he couldn't go to his father about something then he could always come to her. She supposed that that was why he found it so easy to approach her and ask her to cuddle him whenever he was upset about something now.

It was a few moments later when she felt him stir in her arms and she turned his head towards him again, a loving smile appearing on her lips as she ran her fingers through his hair to help him rouse slowly. 'Auntie Shelagh?' He mumbled as he curled his fingers into the thin fabric of her dress.

'I'm here, dearest.' She reassured him with a kiss to his temple. 'How are you feeling?'

'I have a headache.' He admitted. 'Can I have some more paracetamol now?'

She glanced over at the clock for a second before sweeping her hand through his hair one she was satisfied that it had been a number of hours since he had last taken the medication. 'Yes, darling, you can. Would you like to stay here while I go downstairs and get them for you?' Tim nodded while he looked up at her, the discomfort evident in his eyes when she stroked his cheek with the back of her hand and removed herself from his hold. 'I'll be back in two ticks, I promise.' She gave him a smile.

She then drew his quilt up to his chin before stepping out onto the landing and heading downstairs to find the paracetamol.

It wasn't long until she returned to his bedroom and saw that he was sitting up in bed while leaning against the headboard, his eyes half-lidded as he watched her approach him. 'Here you are, dearest.' She kept her voice soft as she tipped two pills out into the palm of her hand before offering them to him, Timothy accepting them from her before he popped them into his mouth and took a sip from the glass of water that sat atop his nightstand.

Once he had set his glass back down on the nightstand he shifted over on the bed, Shelagh feeling her heart swell as she knew that it was his silent request for her to sit with him once more. 'Auntie Shelagh?' She heard him say once she had joined him on the bed again and had let him settle in her arms, a quiet hum escaping her as she buried kisses in his hair. 'I like your cuddles.' He sighed softly.

'I'm glad.' She smiled against the top of his head. 'You know that I love you, don't you? I may not be your birth mother and I know that I'll never be able to replace her - not that I would want to - but I do love you, Timothy.' Tim tilted his head back on her chest before pressing a kiss onto her cheek.

'I love you too.' He told her before draping his arm across her stomach again. 'Thank you for saying that you'll marry my Dad; I've missed having a Mum.' Shelagh felt her heart flutter. Even though he hadn't called her "Mum" directly, he had just revealed to her in his own way that that was how he viewed her and it made her happier than she could explain. 'I know that you have to go back to the boarding house tonight, but will you come back again tomorrow? I want you to be here with me.'

'I'll come back every day until you're well again, sweetness.' She stroked his face. 'There is nowhere else I would rather be, I mean that with all my heart.' The two of them shared a smile then before Tim buried his head beneath her chin and pressed his face into her throat, Shelagh giving him a gentle squeeze before she felt him sigh in contentment against her skin.

Even though she hadn't carried him inside of her for nine months and hadn't been the one to push him into the world or to nurse him, she would never view him as anything other than her son.

As soon as she and Patrick had been pronounced husband and wife she would be Timothy's mother for the rest of her life and just the thought of that made her all the more impatient for her wedding.

She couldn't wait to hold him in her arms whenever he was ill and never have to leave him.

She couldn't wait to tuck him into bed and kiss him goodnight every evening.

But most of all, she couldn't wait to have the title of his Mum.

A title that she knew she was going to honour for the rest of her days.

I’m really enjoying writing these little one shots and I hope that you’re all enjoying reading them! Please let me know what you thought of this one with a comment if you have the time!

[cooldoyouhaveaflag]

Shimothy fluff! I took an angst break. Angst will return, but this felt happier to write. :) Hope you enjoy! 

I know the Mother’s Day theme has been done before, but it just fills my heart with so many feels and I wanted to write my version. :D 

[nunonabun]

Some Shimothy Thoughts

This has been kind of lingering in my brain for a bit, so forgive me if it’s only interesting to me. 

The day before Shelagh was due to become Timothy’s mum, Patrick’s promise to Tim’s mummy (to keep him safe) was broken, and then when Tim woke up, Shelagh was holding him (well, kind of holding his head). His first mum’s goal was to keep him safe. His second mum - on the day she was due to officially become his stepmother - started by helping him back to life and health when, inevitably, that safety was shattered. 

Also, the first scene where Shelagh/Sister Bernadette enters the Turner family picture is when she and Patrick are talking about Tim’s emotional wellbeing coming up on the first Christmas after his mummy’s death, and Sister Bernadette offers advice as someone who also lost her mother young. The start of her involvement with Tim onscreen is to (albeit indirectly) help when Tim is hurting. 

Third, the first scene Tim and Shelagh/Sister Bernadette actually have together was when she came over in clinic to tend to the scrape on his elbow and soothe the conflict with his father; again starting by helping him through his hurt.

Circling back to the first point, Shelagh helps Tim re-learn to walk after his bout with polio. She’s helping him do something his mummy must have done years ago, but again Shelagh’s involvement as his mum - in this very parental act to boot - starts via a painful event. 

I don’t know if these smaller moments of Shelagh stepping into the breach to help Tim through moments where he’s hurt were meant to be symbolic of their overall relationship - Shelagh becoming Tim’s mum after the painful loss of his mummy and Tim re-learning the mother-son dynamic with a new, different mum - but it just strikes me a very well written and played features of their relationship (one of the many). Shelagh’s the one to help Tim through the darker moments of life, back into happiness.

[bbcshipper]

30 Days of Domestic Fluff: Day 25

Just 5 more days to go!

Day 25: Keeping Plants

Shelagh was in the kitchen peeling the potatoes for dinner when she heard the muffled rustling from the other side of the front door. Wiping her hands and making her way to investigate, she heard the knob jiggling and another muffled scrape against the door before it finally swung open, banging against the wall with force.

“Timothy? Is that you? Whatever have you got there?” she asked the boy, her view of his face obstructed by a box full of tiny plants.

“Science experiment for school,” he said proudly as he swung his foot around to kick the door shut, earning him a stern glance from his mother. “Sorry,” he muttered, moving to place the box on the table.

“But why do you need quite so many plants?” Shelagh asked, taking a moment to examine the contents of the box before moving back into the kitchen to go back to her earlier task.

“That's the cool part - you and Dad get to take part in the experiment too!” he explained through the hatch as he unpacked the box, “everyone in the family is supposed to take care of a set of plants, then we compare what we did, where we placed them, and how well they grew.”

“I'm not sure your father is going to be as excited about this experiment as you are, but I'm glad to help with your schoolwork, you know that,” she smiled lovingly. “But clear that table off, we'll not want dirt in our dinner!”

Four weeks later, Tim gathered his carefully labeled plants back into the box, examining each one and taking note of its condition. His plants looked in decent enough shape - he'd given them plenty of sunlight and enough water, so they grew nicely.

Looking over the next batch of plants, he turned to Shelagh, “Mum, how did your plants grow so well? What's your secret?”

“Just sunlight and water, my dear,” she said simply, then adding as if the answer should be quite obvious, “and of course I sing to them.”

Turning finally to his father's, Tim had to stifle a laugh. “I think you might need to teach Dad a thing or two, his are practically dead!” One had clearly been forgotten, it's dried out leaves and stems testimony to the fact that it had never been watered. The others were in slightly better condition, but not by much.

Shelagh came to examine her husband's results. “I think, Timothy,” she said, tossing a grin over to Patrick, “this is quite clearly a case of failure to thrive. Best stick with practicing medicine, dear.”

[sincerelybluevase]

Fanfic Friday: Breathless, Chapter 10 [FINAL]

This chapter is longer than the other ones, but there was a lot to be resolved! I could’ve opted to split it into two chapters, but for structural reasons I wanted this fic to have ten chapters. I hope you guys will enjoy it; I certainly had a lot of fun writing it 😉.

A little disclaimer: everything I know about childbirth is through the internet and CtM.

The contractions started in the night. Shelagh felt them, decided they were probably Braxton Hicks, and forced herself to go back to sleep. When she woke again, Patrick had already left for work, leaving a hastily-scribbled note in his illegible handwriting.

Shelagh made breakfast for herself and Timothy, doing her best to ignore the pains in her lower back.

“Are you all right?” Timothy asked her, frowning. The way he knit his brows was exactly the same as Patrick’s.

“Yes. Don’t worry about me. You must go to school,” she said, giving him a tight smile.

“You look pale.”

“Yes, well, your little brother or sister is not giving me much time to sleep,” Shelagh said, patting her belly. “Baby keeps moving around an awful lot.”

“That’s good,” Timothy said, spooning the last of his porridge into his mouth. “And it’s normal, isn’t it? For babies to move around a lot in the last few months?”

“It’s perfectly ordinary,” Shelagh agreed. Another sharp twinge of pain sizzled along her nerves, robbing her of the breath she needed to say anything more. She bit the inside of her cheek so as not to make a sound.

What if these are real contractions?

She looked at her watch, counting the seconds to see how long the pain lasted.

Forty seconds. That’s not good.

“Do you mind… if I don’t walk you to school?” she asked. She hadn’t done it often, not in the last few months, but still…

“I’ll be fine, Mum,” Timothy said. He took his coat and bag, hesitated on the threshold, and turned back to give her a quick peck on the cheek. “You’ll call Dad if something is wrong, won’t you?”

“Of course, dearest,” she said, smiling that strange, tight smile again, keeping it up till Timothy was no longer in sight. Then, she let her mask slip, and went to the phone immediately, trying not to whimper as another stitch tore through her.

Five minutes since the last one. I need Patrick, she thought as she rung the surgery.

But Patrick was not there, and his assistant had no idea when he’d be back.

Don’t panic. You’re a midwife, for crying out loud, and these are probably just Braxton Hicks, she admonished herself.

She made herself another cup of tea and forced the sweet brew down. To calm herself, she took her Bible, and read some of her favourite passages, singing a hymn or two. There was a familiarity in the words, in the steady cadence of her own voice, even if she was rather short of breath these days.

She rested the heavy book on her bump, stroking the soft leather with one finger, her stretched flesh with another. The pain had eased a little. Shelagh smiled. “What’s all this fuss about hm?” she said, looking at her belly. She splayed her hand on her stomach . “It’s a bit early for you to come out, you know. Besides, you’re perfectly all right where you are. Not to say I don’t want to meet you, of course. Your father and big brother would like to meet you, too. Not yet, though.”

The baby kicked against her palm. She patted the spot softly. “I’ll tell you a little secret: I like having you so near me.” I can keep you safe.

Shelagh did not like admitting it, but she was terrified of giving birth. There were so many things that could go wrong, and she, in her capacity as a midwife, had seen almost all of the worst-case scenarios first hand.

Though a part of her ached to meet this child, this new soul that was part of her and part of Patrick and part of something all its own, there was another part that ached with the knowledge that this baby would have to be ripped from her body.

“Not yet, though,” she repeated.

She stood so she could clear the table. Something inside her popped, sounding like Timothy cracking his knuckles before sitting down to play the piano. Water gushed between her legs, soaking her socks and slippers. She stared at the glistening kitchen tiles in horror.

“I said not yet,” she whispered.

Another contraction rippled through her. She clutched the counter with white-knuckled hands, panting through it.

Every five minutes, and they last roughly a minute. There’s no denying it, Shelagh: these are not Braxton Hicks.

As soon as it was over, she wiped the amniotic fluid from the floor, then made her way to the phone again. She called Granny Parker first, asking the other woman if she could pick Timothy up from school; she could not have her stepson coming home whilst she was still trying to give birth.

Then, she called the surgery. Mrs. Feather, Patrick’s secretary, again told her that he was currently not available.

“Please tell Doctor Turner he has to come home as soon as possible,” Shelagh said, doing her best not to sound desperate. “I think I’ve gone into labour.”

She almost dropped the horn as she hung up. She pressed a hand against her mouth, and sobbed.

What was she to do? She could call for an ambulance to bring her to hospital, but what was the point? She was not in desperate need of that kind of medical attention; she would take up a precious bed that could be used for someone who really needed it. She could suffer through her confinement alone, waiting for Patrick, but what if something went wrong and she could not reach the phone in time?

There was only one thing she could do: call Nonnatus.

Shelagh picked the phone up with trembling hands. Who would answer? Did it matter?

But I can’t face them. They’ll judge me, and I…

A contraction spasmed through her, sending little shocks of pain through her system.

“All right, all right,” she murmured, patting her belly.

She dialled the number, trying to keep her voice steady so the operator would not hear how scared she was.

At least I know the people at Nonnatus. I wouldn’t want to go to hospital, to be treated by strangers. Though maybe anonymity is a blessing in my case.

But she didn’t believe that, not really.

The phone rang once, twice, three times.

“Be strong,” she told herself, glancing at her Bible. The book lay open on the kitchen table, sprawling like a sleeping child.

“Nonnatus house, midwife speaking.”

Shelagh pressed her forehead against the wall, doing her best not to cry. She could not prevent a sob from bubbling from her lungs as relief flooded her system.

“Sister Julienne? It’s Shelagh. My waters broke. I tried to call Patrick, but he’s on a case, and I… I’m so afraid…”

Silence.

“Sister?” she whispered.

“Don’t worry, my dear. I’m on my way.”

***

Shelagh had gone to the bedroom by the time Sister Julienne arrived, and changed into clothes not reeking of amniotic fluid. The nun knew where to find the spare key, and let herself in.

Shelagh burst into tears as soon as her former sister entered the room.

Sister Julienne hugged her, cupping her head and dropping a kiss on her temple.

Shelagh curled her hand in her sister’s habit, groaning as another contraction reduced her world to simple sensation. When it was done, Sister Julienne guided her to the bed. “How often?” she asked.

“Every five minutes for over an hour now,” Shelagh said. Suddenly shy, she looked at the pastel sheets on the bed, straightening a corner.

Sister Julienne took out her pinard, and carried out all necessary examinations. “Baby is doing well, Shelagh. He has a strong heartbeat.”

Thank God for small mercies, Shelagh thought.

Sister Julienne tucked her pinard back in her bag. “You’re not fully dilated, though. I think it’ll be a while yet.” She folded her hands and played with her ring, looking at the golden band.

Shelagh took her sister’s hand and squeezed it. “Sister, we must talk,” she said. They couldn’t sit in silence for hours, the air thick with things unsaid. In the end, their words would choke them, if the air didn’t become unbreathable first.

Sister Julienne looked at her with wet eyes, but didn’t speak, giving Shelagh the change to start.

Another contraction took her breath away. She did her best not to moan, but the pain was intense. When it was done, she was panting a little. “I need to move,” she murmured. To sit here, to have Sister Julienne stare at her, would not make it easier to speak.

“We could walk around the room, if you prefer,” Sister Julienne said. She helped Shelagh up, supporting her with a strong arm, holding her hand. They took small steps, circling the bed till they came upon the wall. Then, they had to turn around, and move in the opposite way, walking a horse-shoe pattern again and again as they spoke.

Shelagh wetted her lips with her tongue. “I’m not sorry for loving Patrick, Sister. Our love is… it’s beautiful, and I’m never ashamed to love.” Baby turned inside her. She stopped walking and inhaled deeply before continuing. “But I am sorry for all the heartache it caused. I never meant to smear Nonnatus’ reputation, but I fear I did.” She wiped her cheeks with her sleeve. “I never meant to cause a rift between us, either,” she whispered. She looked up, trying to read her sister’s face, but her glasses had misted over.

Sister Julienne plucked them from her face and placed them on the nightstand. “Best not wear them. They’ll only slide from your nose later on, and get smeared with all kinds of things if we’re not careful,” she murmured.

“Sister,” Shelagh pleaded.

Sister Julienne turned to her. Her face was vague, undefined, as if Shelagh was looking at it through a window splattered with rain. “I never doubted your love for him, Shelagh,” Sister Julienne said, “But…” She sighed, and rubbed her eyes with her free hand. They resumed their walking. “At the sanatorium, you told me you were a nun, yet you already had… improper relations with Doctor Turner.”

Just once, when we were both hurting so much, Shelagh thought.

They had to suspend their conversation till another contraction had passed. The pain was horrible, and left Shelagh sweating and trembling.

“I was a nun, Sister, I really was!” she said as soon as she could speak again, “But then I changed, and it became only a part of who I was, and no longer defined me entirely.” Confused, she shook her head. “I should not have broken my vow. It was not a decent thing to do.” And yet I feel as if it had become something almost inevitable. When she had gone to Patrick that night, when she was in his arms, it had not felt wrong, or sinful; it had felt as if that was the only proper place for her to be.

“The Lord works in mysterious ways,” Sister Julienne said, voice tremulous. “I know you would not have done what you did if it wasn’t for love, but I had hoped you would have come to your sisters for comfort. Why didn’t you?”

“Because I needed someone who wouldn’t talk about religion. His lack of faith in God made me understand my own belief in Him better than anything else could have done.”

Sister Julienne sighed. “Maybe that’s partly why I am hurt: my pride has been bruised. I thought you would always come to me, and you didn’t. I thought I knew everything about you, but I was wrong.”

“Nobody can ever know all there is to know about a person,” Shelagh said.

“I know that, now.”

They were silent for a moment, walking up and down the room. Shelagh moaned her way through another contraction, doing her best not to cry.

It is so bad already…

“There is pain relief I can give you,” Sister Julienne said.

“I know,” Shelagh said, loosening her grip on Sister Julienne’s hand. She stopped walking, and looked at her former sister. “I missed you terribly,” she confessed, the tears that had gathered during the contraction spilling from her eyes.

Sister Julienne swallowed audibly. “And I missed you, too.”

“I want us to be friends again, because… well, because I don’t think I can go through this if I don’t have a friend at my side.”

“Then rest assured, my dear girl, because I am your friend.”

Another contraction. Shelagh grabbed hold of the bed’s headboard as pain rippled through her. She sobbed. “I’m so afraid, Sister,” she confessed.

“I know. But you’ve been afraid before, and you always conquered it. Nevertheless, I shall get you some pethidine to help with the pain.” She studied Shelagh’s face. “But first some water. Your lips are chapped.”

She went to the kitchen. Shelagh sat down on the edge of the bed, rocking to make the pain bearable.

A loud bang shuddered through the house. Someone thundered up the stairs, taking them two or three a step judging by the sound. “Shelagh? Shelagh, please answer me!”

“Patrick?” she whispered.

Before she could raise her voice, Sister Julienne said: “Doctor Turner?”

Shelagh tried to get to her feet, but another contraction made her sink down and grit her teeth.

Her husband’s and ex-sister’s voices came closer, till they were just beyond the bedroom door.

“Please let me in, Sister Julienne! I know you don’t approve of husbands in the birthing room, but…”

“I’m not objecting to your presence, Doctor Turner, but I am objecting to you wearing soiled clothing in the presence of a patient,” Sister Julienne said.

Patrick fell quiet. Then, he said: “Oh. Right. I’ll put on something else, and wash my hands.”

Sister Julienne came back with a glass of water. Shelagh drank it greedily. She hadn’t realised how thirsty she was. “Will you let Patrick be here with me?” she asked.

“It is unusual,” Sister Julienne said.

“I need him by my side,” Shelagh said.

“I know.” Sister Julienne said, smiling a little. She took Shelagh’s hand and squeezed it. “I’ll give you some pethidine. I think you need that, too.” Sister Julienne was preparing the syringe when Shelagh’s womb contracted again. The pain made her turn her focus inwards. Her nightgown lay plastered against her back. Her hair was like damp fur in her neck. She combed a hand through it. Her fingers trembled.

But then, Patrick was by her side, holding her hand, rubbing her lower back. She rested her face in the crook of his neck, smelling his sweat and cigarettes and aftershave. When the contraction faded, she sighed, and squeezing his hand. His wedding ring bit in her skin.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured in her hair.

“You couldn’t know.”

“But still. You must’ve been so scared…”

“How could I be scared with Sister Julienne here?” Shelagh said, and smiled at her sister. “How could I be scared now that you are both here?”

It was true; she was no longer afraid. She patted her belly. “Time to meet Baby.”

***

The pain was still agony, but she had Patrick to hold on to, to ground her. Sister Julienne’s voice was clear as she gave encouragement after encouragement, instruction after instruction.

When it was time to push, Shelagh clung to Patrick, doing her best not to cry. “I’m so tired,” she murmured.

He kissed her brow. “I know, darling, but it’s almost over now.”

“It won’t be long, Shelagh, I promise. Now, you must push,” Sister Julienne said, patting her knee.

She bit her lip and forced herself to do what her former sister told her. After all, she could almost hold her baby, could almost see its face and determine how much it looked like the little face she’d dreamed up for herself. Excitement took hold of her, drowning her tiredness.

She did her best not to dig her nails in Patrick’s hand as she pushed, did her best not to grunt. He planted a kiss just below her ear.

“The head is born,” Sister Julienne said.

Thank God, Shelagh thought. She wanted to sink back, wanted to let Patrick’s thighs cradle her, his arms her blanket, his chest her pillow, but it wasn’t over yet.

“That’s my girl,” Patrick whispered. She smiled, and interlaced her fingers with his.

“Just one more,” Sister Julienne said.

Shelagh pushed, her toes curling into the sheets. Baby slithered out of her, its head cupped by Sister Julienne’s hand. “It’s a girl,” the nun said. The baby opened her mouth and cried.

“Can I hold her?” Shelagh asked, stretching her arms to her whimpering daughter.

Sister Julienne cut the cord, then handed her the baby. The child was slick and warm, her eyes the midnight blue of all new-borns. Patrick’s arms were heavy and warm around her. He stroked the baby’s head with his fingers.

“Hello. You were eager to meet us,” Shelagh whispered.

“We were eager to meet you, too,” Patrick said.

Shelagh leaned against him, cradling her daughter against her chest, dropping kisses against her damp, silken head. “All worth it,” she murmured. The pain, the heartbreak, the isolation…

“Placenta is out, all in one piece,” Sister Julienne said.

“Good.” Patrick kissed Shelagh’s face again. “Must give you a sponge bath, dear.”

“Not yet,” Shelagh said. She didn’t want this moment to end. Here, she was holding her child, was cradled by her husband, had Sister Julienne near. It felt like a spell that could be broken the way cobwebs could be brushed away.

“What are you going to call her?” Sister Julienne asked.

“Angela,” Shelagh said, “Angela Julienne.” She looked up. Her former sister’s face was tight with emotion, her eyes sparkling with unshed tears.

“Are you sure?”

“Completely,” Shelagh said, looking at her child again.

“She does look like an Angela,” Patrick quipped, tracing the gentle curve of his daughter’s skull with his thumb.

Shelagh twisted her head so she could kiss him. Ever since that fateful night at the surgery, she’d wanted to kiss him all the time. It was a desire that would never fade.

Love, she thought, the word becoming all consuming.

It’s because it’s love.

And now, I will forever realise how lucky I am.

I will be happy.

 Because my exams are drawing neigh, it is really quite possible that I won’t be able to write a fanfic every Friday from now on till about the first half of January. I’ll do my best and I’ll try to let you guys know in advance if there’s no fanfic for a week. Hopefully all will be back to normal after my exams are done!

[miss-ute]

...her boy...

[ikjun]

EPITATH MV TEASER TOHOSHINKI (2022)

[berrymeter]

okay this is not really a thoughts on ask but...your process of making OCs :D

oh wrow... 😳 very good question... i don’t know if i have a set process? sometimes i’ll think of a concept first (like with my warlock the concept was originally for makia tan-ji-ro & i to make two warlocks that kinda played off of each other? and i got the one who’s dark and brooding but has a celestial patron so he Has to do good. the design, race and etc all came afterwards, i’m still working on his design lmao), other times i’ll draw something because of a song or a prompt that inspired me and i end up liking it so i try to build their personality based on the vibes they give me! i can get inspiration from dreams, book characters that i steal and remake into my own lmao, songs, or just a random idea that comes to me for fun. i forgot what ocs i’ve posted on my art blog but uhhh under the uhhhhh

- the girl with the green hair would be a spoiler if i said something (not for u but like if i ever play her in a d&d campaign... tho if we played in one together then yea it would be spoilers for real HDFKSHGKJ) but i thought of her personality first. i really struggled with the design actually dfkjdhg

- pink hair girl with the axe was designed while i was listening to bbusyeo by oneus on a loop, she’s what came out of it and i love her very much

- blue hair girl with the rubber-looking jacket i initially designed her on a picrew that had nice options but she looked Very different then. i built her personality from that, although placing her in that universe that i based on a dream of mine inevitably affected her personality

- the dude in my header on my art blog ... is based on a face claim DHSKFHKJGH. pls do not try to guess who i’ve been trying to distance him from the face claim otherwise it’s awkward. the concept was just, i want a sweet babyface with a not so sweet babybody: angst edition, and i picked someone who fit that...

- specks? mr catboy? the wonderful the one and only? was created very abruptly. my good friend sea dirgeofthecicadas lost a player in their d&d campaign so he asked me if i wanted to join, and i said yes, so we kinda came up with him together, all i knew was that i wanted a catboy T_T sue me. he’s my most prized child

- i know i haven’t posted him bc i was worried ppl wouldn’t like him DHSKJFHDK but uhhh i have an oc whose concept was “overpowered mage who somehow came into this world and wants literally Nothing to do with being a mage. he’s a rockstar but more metal than rock btw. also he would probably be an anarchist” the appearance came later

- my doll gal that i haven’t posted either came from an inktober prompt back in 2015... i liked her so i did literally none of the other prompts and just focused on her 100% LMAO

- OH I ALMOST FORGOT about bob gerard bobbert & gerrymandering. these dudes literally just came from a dream. they don’t have official names as u can guess so i named them this as placeholders. the dream was that bob is a vigilante from another world but has amnesia bc why not, gerard is his friend who always ‘saves’ him from situations, but eventually it turns out gerard is the one who caused all the fucked up shit bob was trying to fix so he k words bob. however. at the same time in an alternate universe bobbert & gerrymandering are in a r&j situation where their families both pretty much execute them for being in love. bobbert wakes up in bob’s body, figures out what’s going on and k words gerard in his turn, and gerrymandering wakes up in gerard’s body. what happens next is very murky but i’m very attached to this concept <3

i’m just listing ocs to point out my ‘process’ which is pretty much nonexistent fnskjhsdkg it changes all the time :^( typical adhd momence

[1eedonghun]

HSJAJHSJJHSDJSHFDJSHDSJHDFSJDEFRUGBDEIB

[nunonabun]

The Family Look [2/2]

Tim washed the dishes as his parents put his little sister and brother to bed. These past couple of years he’d come to find the rhythm of washing the dishes with the radio on softly in the background rather calming. The repetitive task game him a chance to turn over the day’s troubles while occupying his hands, such that he didn’t just end up lying in bed tossing and turning.

The glass doors to the back yard always let through more sound than his parents remembered, so he’d overheard part of his parents’ conversation with Angela, and it lingered stubbornly in his mind. They were right that love made a family, it was something they’d raised him with that he firmly believed. But sometimes resemblance was all you had to remember someone by. He didn’t even have that. Everyone told him he was the spit of his father, expecting their comments would make him proud. Yet in spite of the ways he was proud to be like his father, he wished he was like Teddy, who took after his Mummy. He’d resisted thinking it at first. In spite of his Mum’s assurances, he still sometimes fell guilty when that old feeling of grief over his first mother welled up in him. He knew Mum would say he could love them both, and he did. But only one mother was permanently fixed in his earliest memories of what it was to be loved, and he had long ago forgotten what that love looked like on her face.

He was so deep in though he didn’t hear his mum coming up behind him.  

“You look quite melancholy, dear. Is something the matter?” She posed it as a question, but he knew she had already determined that he was feeling down.

“It’s not much. It’s late. You and Dad should go to sleep, I know you’ve both had a long day.” Though they’d talked about Mummy a lot when she and Dad first got engaged, and then periodically over the years, he now shied away from the conversation.

He should have know Mum would be determined not to send him to bed sad. She wrapped an arm around his waist, it had been many years since she was tall enough to reach his shoulders. “Tim, you know you can tell me about whatever is bothering you. And if not me, then your father. Don’t let this eat at you all night.”

He sighed and picked up another plate. “I overheard a bit of your conversation with Angela earlier, and it was just making me think about how much I look like Dad.” He admitted, knowing she would understand the meaning behind his words.

She did. “Oh Tim, you know you resemble your mother as well.”

He shook his head, unreasonably frustrated. “No I don’t. Everyone’s always saying I look like Dad, even you.”

Mum slid her arm away and picked up a drying towel, and for a moment he feared he’d hurt her. He waited for her to reply, knowing that even if he had, she would be thinking carefully about how to respond.

“Perhaps it was thoughtless of me, to always focus on your resemblance to your father. Others are more likely to compare the two of you because they see you together so often, and people often like to compare daughters to their mothers and sons to their fathers.” She paused to study his face, gauging something, though he wasn’t quite sure what. “It is also possible that they may worry - if they knew your Mummy - that reminding you of her would be painful.”

He thought on that a moment, fighting the lump in his throat as he carefully cleaned the teapot.

“It hurts more to forget her.” It was barely louder than a whisper, feeling childish, but a weight lifted from his shoulders as he said it. “I’ve spent as much of my life without her as with her and… I don’t remember what she looked like very well.”

He paused to gather himself, and was grateful that Mum let him. “I used to think I could remember what she looked like by looking in the mirror, and with photos, but now it’s like… she’s frozen. I don’t remember what it was like to see her laugh or break into a smile or look at me like you are now. And I can’t even find a rough idea of those things in the mirror, cause I look so much like Dad.”

“I think you may be looking at those photographs through the lenses of loss, Tim.” Mum remarked gently, taking the proffered teapot, but setting it down so she could cup his face. “I knew your mummy. Not well, but well enough that I can say you’ve got her colouring, and you certainly have her smile.”

Tim’s eyes blurred, but he smiled even as he sniffed and looked away, relief enveloping him like a blanket. The photo of his first birthday was the one he cherished most, for the very reason that her smile there seemed so familiar that he could convince himself he’d inherited it. To hear Mum tell him it wasn’t just him fooling himself meant a great deal to him.

Mum rubbed his shoulder reassuringly, but still looked concerned. “Dad would be able to tell you all the little ways you’re alike, sweetheart, why haven’t you raised this with him?”

“I just… didn’t know how. We moved forward after Mummy died, and I know we talked when you two got engaged - Dad and I, and you and I - but then… we moved forward.”

“Tim.” Mum had completely abandoned the drying now, all her attention focused on him. “We did move forward, but we never meant for you to feel you had to leave your Mummy behind. I didn’t realize how little we talked about her, and I’m sorry for it.”

“No, it’s okay.”  He didn’t quite know how to explain that it was both a good and a sad thing. He remembered Jack coming over once about half a year after Mummy had died. He things were still everywhere, and he’d remarked that it was like a ghost lived with them. “We were all trying to figure out so many things…”

“We were, and always will be.” Mum reminded him, “but now we know, and you and Dad should talk.”

She was right, and he told her so, resuming his evening chore and assuming the conversation was over. But a sudden question rose to the front of his mind, and he surprised them both by voicing it. “Did you talk about it with your dad, how your were like your mother?”

Mum paused, evidently taken aback by the question. “I… no. We didn’t talk about that. We didn’t always talk about much at all to be perfectly honest.” Tim was going to ask more about that, but Mum quickly moved on. “I do know I took after him more strongly in colouring, and that in many other ways I looked like his mother, though he resembled his father more.”

Mum seemed lost in memory and he didn’t want to interrupt, curious about this similarity they had, her side of which he knew only in little bits and pieces.

“Ma had green eyes and coppery hair, very different from mine.” She seemed sad about that, just as he had been. “We were about the same height. I do remember people commenting on that, though I remember her as a tall woman.” She let out a small almost-laugh, “but then, I was just a child; even smaller than I am now.”

“You do have some red in your hair though,” Tim pointed out, wanting to comfort her as she had him. “A kind of brownish-red. It shows up in the light.”

“Then I’m glad of it.” She paused, looking past the stars that shone dimly through the kitchen window. “But I think much as I’m glad to carry even a bit of her in my appearance, it��s the memory of being safe in her arms I treasure most. It’s the only one I have of her that I want to remember.” Tim didn’t know the exact details of his Mum’s mum’s death - his grandmother’s death, really - but he knew it was grim, and Mum avoided talking about it. He wondered if he should press her on it. She always encouraged him to speak about his feelings, surely it would help her too?

“Mum, if you’d like… if it would help, you could remember your mummy with me. The good moments… and the sad ones.” He couldn’t look at her while saying it, afraid he’d lose his nerve.

Mum was quiet for so long he worried he’d truly upset her, but just as he was about to apologize, she spoke.

“If it would help you, then of course I will.” Her words were measured.

Tim shut off the tap and turned his full attention to her, mimicking her own tactics. “You already help me with my grief, all the time. What I meant was that I’d do the same for you.”

The blank, distantness of her guarded expression softened instantly, and he made a conscious effort to etch the transition firmly in his mind, trying to capture the movement like a video. Mum wrapped her arms around him. “I love you very much, Tim.”

He tried to do the same with her embrace, fixing it in his sensory memory. How many of these moments had he already taken for granted with her and Dad, in spite of his experience with loss? “I love you too, Mum”

She finally broke away, rubbing his shoulders gently to offset the firmness of her words. “I’d prefer not to tell you about my mother’s death. It may sound strange, but I’d prefer that, as she was never able to meet her grandchildren, you three only know the happier parts of her life. Don’t worry that I’m keeping it bottled up,” she said, anticipating his protest, “I have talked to your father about it.” She searched his face, assessing his reaction. “But if you ever feel the need to know about it, do you promise you’ll ask?”

“I promise. And I do understand that,” he reassured her. “When people do talk about Mummy, they talk about her illness a lot, and I don’t want that to be all people remember of her.”

Mum stared past him for a moment, evidently coming up with a plan. He let a small smile slip onto his face. That was definitely a look he wouldn’t forget.

Plan concocted, Mum’s eyes refocused on his. “Would you like to start a little scrapbook about her? We can put all of the photos of her in there, and yours and Dad’s and Granny Parker’s memories of her.”

Tim’s vision blurred at the suggestion. “I’d like that.”

—

“Would you be alright with that?” Shelagh asked. She and Patrick lay abed, her relaying her conversation with Tim as he ran his fingers lazily up and down her spine.

“Of course.” He murmured into her hair. “That was a very clever suggestion, my Love.” He was always moved by her willingness to care for Marianne’s memory. It was a hard thing to do, he assumed, to engage with the memory of the woman who had once been in the same roles as you; who had been loved and lost by those you loved. Yet she never shied away from it. She was always there to support him and Timothy whenever that grief crept up on them. She did it out of love for them, yet he knew she did it for Marianne as well; for the woman who’d died young and lost so much. It was yet another way in which Shelagh was truly incredible. He didn’t think he would ever be able to express just how deeply he loved her big heart, though he’d often tried. Instead he just hugged her closer, knowing she would guess where his thoughts had wandered.

She squeezed back, communicating her understanding, but there was something else still on her mind.

“Patrick, do you think Angela will come to feel sad that she looks like us?” She asked quietly.

He was alarmed by her strange question. “Why would she?” Where did that come from?

She shifted on his chest, trying to gather her thoughts. “It’s only… Tim was sad that he couldn’t remember how he looked like his Mummy, and I’ve always been a bit sad I didn’t resemble mine more. What if Angela comes to wish she could look in the mirror and have a clearer idea of what her birth parents must have looked like, instead of seeing us reflected back at her? It is the only thing she has of them, after all.”

Patrick took his time answering. He was as new to this as she was, both having been raised by their own birth parents, and therefore in the dark as to Angela’s potential future feelings about her own family situation. Perhaps it was wishful thinking, but somehow he felt Shelagh’s fear might be unfounded.

“I think you may be comparing apples to oranges my love.” He said gently. “Angela may well want to know her birth parents, or at least her birth mother -“

“And we did say we would be supportive if she wanted to pursue that.” Shelagh interjected. “I’m not reneging that.”

Patrick traced broader patterns along her arms and back, knowing it soothed her. “Nor am I, Shelagh, I just meant that her connection to them is only biological. You and Tim, on the other hand, are longing for a connection to a mother you loved and lost. You both want to hold on to them however you can, and physical resemblance is one way to do that. The most obvious way, perhaps, especially for you, given how few ways you have to remember her.”

He felt the tension leave his wife’s body and knew he was right, or at least as right as they could currently know.

She pulled his face down to hers, kissing him deeply in thanks.

“I’m very glad we started talking, Patrick,” she said, breaking the kiss.

He chuckled, remembering the conversation they’d had when they finally overcame the pain of their lack of communication before the adoption interview that now seemed so long ago, but had altered their lives so profoundly. He’d been such a different man before he’d let her into every corner of his heart. “So am I, my love. I am so incredibly glad.”