#here's something new

[irishsaints]

every day i learn something new on tumblr.

here’s what i learned today:

the x-files fandom is freaking the fuck out

[deandoesthingstome]

Anime discussion.

Moots who also watch anime (or anyone anime-watchers who see this):

Tell ne your thoughts about opening credits for series.

Please. I'm so intrigued.

[win-cr-die]

continued from HERE with @missandei-of-naath.

                                loyalty. it was a trait that was rarely come by, though it was something that the mother of dragons had found so effortlessly behind the chocolate curls of missandei. she was one who was gentle in nature; kind and sweet without a bad bone in her body. daenerys sometimes wondered if others looked at her in the same light. she knew the chances were slim, given that the grey masters of merreen wanted so desperately to be rid of her. as much as she did not want to, she understood it a way. somebody new had come along to change the ways in which they had lived for hundreds of years … but sometimes, people needed to adapt to change. slavery was something that was outdated. she had never seen it in the free city of braavos, during her time there as a child and being sold to a dothraki warrior as a bride was something that had only shaped her dislike for being condemned to a life full of orders from somebody above you. there was no question about it, daenerys did not want to stop the wheel. she wanted to BREAK it and with the help of people that she had previously freed from the treachery they lived in. missandei was only one of these people, but she was somebody who the rightful queen of the seven kingdoms trusted dearly. by now, they were fully acquainted –– though there were still aspects of one another that they were learning.

“it is called humour, missandei. since i met you, i have looked up to you –– physically and emotionally. has anybody ever told you how tall you are? i suppose it is something that people find attractive. i have noticed the way that greyworm looks at you, but i don’t think it is simply to do with your height.” daenerys smiled, almost suppressing a chuckle as the robe that clung to her body glistened against the candles that her translator had previously lit in preparation for her bath. although daenerys could not be burnt and did not need to wait for the steam to dissipate, it had almost become a ritual to talk whilst the mother of dragons was readying herself for her bath. and it seemed as though her children had become a part of that too, enjoying the warmth from the steam. viserion on the other hand had grown into the habit of dipping into the water, creating small pebble stones of splashes in an attempt to occupy himself whilst his brothers slept. sitting beside her advisor and turning her back so that missandei could tug her hair free from the braids that she had only plaited earlier on in the day, daenerys let out a small sigh –– tiresome eyes glazing upon her sleeping dragons as viserion landed on her lap, wanting attention. “you do not owe me anything, so please. do not think of it that way. you are my friend, not a slave here. what i do require though, is some advice. daario seems to think that i should declare war upon them and burn them to the ground, but i cannot do that without killing hundreds of innocent people. all of your life, you have grown up around men like this. how do their minds work?”

[containerstore]

Here's something new

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[wren-likethe-bird]

Traditionally

For @agendercombeferre 

Merry Christmas

The Les Amis Christmas Party is always the event of the year.  It is also often the only event of the year where not one single member gets arrested, though there have been a few “special cases”.  

           It happens the same way each year.  They all congregate at the Musain and raise glasses of eggnog instead of their fists, exchange presents, get tipsy or drunk and simply enjoy each other’s company.  It’s refreshing to just be friends rather than revolutionaries for a change.

           While Enjolras isn’t the most festive of men, he always attends and refrains from standing on any tables for one night only. He takes part in the Secret Santa exchange and drowns himself in eggnog with the best of them, but he usually is one of the first to leave, bidding his friends goodnight and strolling home to the subtle melody of Paris, snowflakes catching on his eyelashes.

           This year, he has allowed Courfeyrac to coerce him into donning an ugly Christmas sweater (“Only you could make an ugly sweater look dignified, Enj,”) and a Santa hat.  As much as he detests the commercial reign of Christmas, there is only one day a year that he will put up with wearing such a ridiculous getup. Besides, Courf says that the hat looks fantastic with his curls pouring out from underneath, and red is admittedly his colour.

           He walks to the Musain with his roommates, Courfeyrac and Combferre, who are of course wearing a matching set of Christmas sweaters and swinging their joined hands back and forth between them. Enjolras rolls his eyes at the sight of them, but he smiles to himself.  Normally the sight of couples makes him gag, but when it’s Courf and ‘Ferre, Enjolras can actually understand the attraction.

           The party is already underway when they arrive. Musichetta is passing out her signature gingerbread lattes, and she thrusts one straight into Enjolras’s hand the second he steps through the door.  The fragrant steam rolls from the drink and he is instantly warmer.  There’s corny old Christmas music coming from the speakers in the ceiling and Enjolras feels a smile spread across his face.  This is him.  This is his friends.  This is home.

           It doesn’t take long for him to find himself in a corner simply observing while sipping his latte.  Courfeyrac has already dragged Combeferre onto the tiny dance floor, and they’re attempting to swing dance to “Jingle Bell Rock”, which has ‘Ferre blushing (“I told you I’m no dancer,”) but they both look like they’re having the time of their lives.  Bossuet and Joly are following Musichetta around like adoring puppies, probably hoping to snag another drink when she isn’t looking.  Eponine and Montparnasse are both by the bar, nursing something a little stronger than a gingerbread latte.  They appear to be in the middle of a conversation, but Enjolras notices that Montparnasse’s gaze keeps flickering elsewhere, past Eponine and to the red-haired poet chatting with Feuilly and Bahorel.  Enjolras smiles a little.  Montparnasse is the toughest person he knows, but he turns to mush when it comes to gentle Jehan.  The irony is simply delicious.

           Enjolras takes another sip of his drink when he feels the burn of a gaze boring into him.  He turns to see dark eyes peering at him from the bar, and he looks away again almost immediately.  Grantaire is always doing that to him, watching from afar, leaving Enjolras’s stomach in little knots of things that he can’t quite identify.  It’s even worse if Grantaire is close up, because then he really has to meet those eyes, and for some reason Grantaire’s eyes make Enjolras feel like he’s drowning.

           Which is obviously a bad thing, Enjolras tells himself, and I should probably avoid him.

           But now Grantaire is coming toward Enjolras, sauntering steadily, leaving Enjolras to wonder if the man is drunk yet or not.

           Enjolras tries to act like he doesn’t see Grantaire, and he focuses his gaze on Marius and Cosette, who are swaying back and forth in another corner, treating every dance like a slow dance.

           “You look lonely,” comes a voice from right next to Enjolras, and he reluctantly turns to look at Grantaire, who is fixing him with a curious expression, one eyebrow raised.

           “I’m not,” Enjolras assures him.

           Grantaire smirks.  “Has nobody taken you up on your invitation yet?”

           Enjolras’s brow pulls together in confusion.  “I don’t understand.”

           Grantaire’s gaze flickers up and back down to Enjolras, who follows the glance.  His face heats up.  Somehow he has managed to position himself directly under a mistletoe.  The one and only mistletoe in the room.

           “I assure you,” he stammers, “it’s purely a coincidence.”

           “Doesn’t matter,” Grantaire grins, “you know the rules. Someone has to kiss you.”  His voice gets a bit quieter.  “Traditionally, someone who is also standing under the mistletoe.”  Enjolras’s heart quickens as Grantaire takes a deliberate step closer, not breaking his gaze.

           A million thoughts are racing through Enjolras’s head at once.  Is he drunk?  He doesn’t sound like it.  Does he want this?  Do I want this?  Do I run or let him do this?  Why is my heart pounding like that?

           He doesn’t know.  He doesn’t know the answer to any of these questions.

           But Grantaire glances down at Enjolras’s mouth, and Enjolras finds himself doing the exact same thing.

           And before he can decide anything, Grantaire upholds tradition.

           In the split second that their lips are together, Enjolras notices that there’s only the faintest taste of alcohol on Grantaire’s breath, and that his mouth is soft, even though Enjolras has always seen the man as hard.  Tough. Solid lines and right angles. Except for his mouth.

           When they break apart, Enjolras has to remember to breathe, and there are more knots in his stomach than ever before.

           And the thing that surprises him the most is that the knots are the most incredible feeling in the world right now, and it’s all he can do when he meets Grantaire’s eyes not to pull him back.

           But there’s a silent understanding between the two, one of shock and realization, one that they both know is the start of something.

           Over the course of the party, Enjolras and Grantaire find themselves in various nooks and crannies, acting like there’s a mistletoe over their heads, all the knots in Enjolras’s stomach coming undone.  

[maddie-lives]

Unfinished Painting of an Unusual Bird I only sleep good in your company and when I wake my arms shout yes! and my legs shout yes! filled for coffee and ready to wilt I think about the singular when I think about you and the goodness of my sleep I think about being quite at a still place I think about rocks and the goodness of their sleep but it does not compare what is sleep without bad breath and birds and light and egg sandwiches? Shout yes! every morning when I do say ok to bacon what is sleep without dreaming of good mornings? I have been sleeping on sandbags but they pay me no mind I have good luck in every finger that prayed to God to touch your side as it softly feathers me up and down what a spectacle what a little bird you are oh and I think I will sleep good tonight as well and in the morning,

Chris Herrmann

[gods-favorite-person]

they should make a horror movie where pricks leave some city and go live in Williamsburg and a snow storm happens with a major blackout and everybody dies cause a maniac is slitting throats in the dark from the first floor to the fourth of an old brownstone apartment in a near abandoned warehouse street district. 4th floor. no cops. no phones. no electricity. just flash lights, no keys to the roof, and the basement cause someone thought the fuses were blown.your welcome. you're welcome* not my welcome. or your welcoming welcome.