The Chariot represents conquest, a battle to be won through righteousness.

Reversed, it suggests loss of control over one’s life, being at the mercy of fate.

fucking hell jack the man just wants to bathe leave him be for a moment and be a nerd about your lame tats later

Michael Imagine: He Doesn’t Share Your Feelings Part 2

Author: Rhine

Part 1


You’re blinded by him.

By his charming words, by his steady gaze, by the attention you craved from him for so long –

By the love you fooled yourself into believing he had for you.

You’ve set yourself up for an inevitable fall, letting his words of I love you and I’ve been thinking of you all day fool you; the silly, naïve little girl who was just too eager to love and to be loved in return.

You should’ve known better.

Michael had completely ignored you for the past few months, despite his claims of having you on his mind the whole entire time – because the absent phone calls and missing text messages and overall silence on his part meant you were the only thing he could think of.

Strike one.

Ashton coming up to you that day, telling you to be careful with Michael, advising you to forget about him because of who he was now, warning you against loving Michael in hopes of protecting your flyaway heart.

Strike two.

The media and every social media platform buzzing with photos and statements about the various girls pictured with Michael with more friendliness than just another fan, or even another friend. He didn’t agree, but he also didn’t disagree – and the sources and the personal statements were too well-put and cohesive to be just another cheap tabloid rumour.

Strike three.

When were you going to see that everything about the boy screamed trouble – and not the exhilarating, thrilling trouble – the trouble that would leave you crying on the floor at three in the morning that led to a numb heartache that would last for weeks.

When were you going to see that Michael didn’t love you?

That when he looked at you, he wasn’t lost in your eyes – he was lost in how he was reflected in your wide eyes.

That when he touched you, he wasn’t absorbing the love that radiated from your pores – he was testing your reaction with calculated brushes to see just what he could get from you.

That when he said I love you, there wasn’t any sincerity in his voice, in his eyes – he was saying the words that he said to everyone else that caught his eye for more than a minute, and he was using those three words to trap you in him for as long as he needed you.

But the thing is, Michael didn’t need you. He wanted you. He wanted to play with you, to toy with your heart like some plaything that a conniving boy like him would dissect before leaving the pieces lying around as he jumped to his next interest.

Michael loved toys and he loved games and your heart was the toy you handed so willingly over to him to take and your mind was a game that you released for him to play.

You gave him your heart and you gave him your head and in doing so, you gave him every opportunity to break you just the way he wanted to.

And the best part?

You’d come back, over and over again, back to his arms and back to the love you harboured for him – you silly stupid foolish girl – and he’d just break you all over again.

The best toy, really.

But like everything Michael Clifford plays with, he’ll get bored.

He’ll get tired of stringing you along and he’ll drop you without a warning; already looking for the next new game to play.

But you don’t think of this. You don’t think of any of these things despite the clear three strikes and the strange absurdity of his sudden profession of love towards you; you don’t think about Michael and the rumours or Ashton and his warning and you don’t think of anything except Michael saying yes I love you too after years of dreaming of those words to leave his lips.

You’ve always hung on to that hope, to that chance that Michael might love you back the way you loved him; that the beautiful Michael might love the plain you just like how you loved him when he was just plain Michael too.

And it’s that hope – that hope that you carried through the darkest silences – that hope is what will bring you down.

Because that’s what let you believe you had a chance, that blinded you with the possibility when any rational person could see the indifference in Michael’s eyes as clearly as they could see the infatutation in yours.

But of course, you couldn’t see it yourself.

You were too busy staring at him.

You were blinded.


It breaks his heart.

It breaks Ashton’s heart to see you at his doorway at five in the morning, the hazy beginnings of twilight starting to break through the darkness of night, making the tears on your cheeks glisten brightly.

It breaks his heart to see your helpless eyes breaking into a fresh wave of tears, your shoulders wracking with choked sobs, the words you were right leaving your lips in disjointed fragments with your cries and hiccups.

And he was right, of course – didn’t he try to tell you, didn’t he try to tell you that Michael Clifford would only break your heart?

Shouldn’t you have tried to listen?

But now you’ve paid the price in tears and heartbreak and you’re crying into Ashton’s broad shoulders, unintelligible words leaving your lips, muffled in his shirt and accented by sharp intakes of breath that don’t seem to help.

He was – I-I saw him – she was there and he saw m-me and – he just kept on – t-the whole entire time – you were right.

Your words come out as a wail and Ashton’s holding you tightly, stroking your hair and rubbing your back and hushing you softly and being right left the most bitter, acidic taste in his mouth.

Because being right didn’t mean being happy, and your broken form told him that much.

He said he loved me.

You almost want to laugh because of how juvenile and whiny your voice sounds, but you can’t help the pathetic squeak of your words when they leave your mouth in between your shaking.

I’m sorry dear, but he –

He didn’t mean it. He lied. About everything. I know. I know. I know that now and god, I wish I knew that earlier because now I just feel so stupid for believing everything he told me and I –

Your words are too thick with tears at this point, and Ashton merely shushes you and holds your head to his shoulder as your bury your eyes into his worn shirt, feeling the sturdiness of your best friend around you; the only thing still holding the remaining fragments of you up.

The pieces of you that Michael didn’t play with, the pieces that he perhaps chose to let you keep, knowing that those were the jagged edges that wouldn’t fit anywhere else.

You were just a broken girl made up of shattered half-finished jigsaw pieces that you’ll never be able to find; he made sure of that. That was his game.

And you can’t believe that this is Michael – you have to train yourself from saying your Michael because he was never yours even when he claimed otherwise with fancy words like my heart is yours even when you knew they were a guise from keeping you from realizing it was the other way around – and you just can’t believe that the boy you used to call a friend would become the smirking epitome of trouble.

People changed, you knew. You saw Michael change with every song he wrong, with every season as he started to discover himself more and more – he talent at the guitar, the colours that showcased his mood, the ink that represented something to him – he was changing, but not once did you ever think the bashful Michael you once knew would become the reason for your uncontrollable, cracked tears.

You didn’t want to.

You wanted to hold on to the image of the thin boy in oversized hoodies, the boy who only played games on a console, the boy who didn’t have any luck with talking to other girls.

You wanted to cling on to the boy that you loved, believing he was inside this new person with white-blue hair and cocky grin.

You wanted to believe that maybe if you loved him enough, the love from the old Michael hidden somewhere in this new person would come back. That it would come back and love you, too.

But the tears don’t stop and you think the boy you loved is gone, living only in your memory.

He couldn’t live in the Michael you wanted; your heartbreak proving that much.

The betrayal cuts through you like a knife; that not only did Michael not return your feelings, but that he would string you out like he did, that he would make you suffer tenfold more than you had to. That you would have to undergo humiliation and heartache and grief all at once just to learn your lesson.

And perhaps that bit was your fault.

You should’ve learned faster, when there was already one strike. You should’ve picked it up by strike two. You should’ve told him to leave the field when it was strike three.

But you stubbornly refused to leave and you stayed in Michael’s game, and my god, was he quite the player.

But you’ve left the field with your head hung low and pieces of your heart trailing behind you and this is the price for playing, for losing, for believing.

You had learned the hard way for such an easy lesson.

He just didn’t love you.


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tbh there are a lot of disagreements in the HP fandom. Ship disagreements. Disagreements over interpretations. Disagreements between book purists and movie canon. Everything.

But if there’s one thing every single fan agrees on, it’s that Dame Maggie Smith was a killer Minerva McGonagall. 

                                                James Potter + Appearance

James was a tall, thin man with hazel eyes and untidy black hair that stuck up at the back. His son, Harry, was constantly noted to look very much like him, having the same untidy hair and eyesight, but the shape and colour of Harry’s eyes were identical to those of his mother Lily’s.”


kalinda sharma + personality tests