betraying themselves

Okay, Hear Me Out

We’ve all seen this shit ‘ere where Lotor like smooth talks Lance “We’ll be powerful, your friends dont need you, come to the dark side, etc”

And so, they’re on a mission, and Lotor talks to Sweet BoyTM and Lance pulls an Anakin Skywalker on his pals. And so he and Lotor bond, and he becomes a trusted right hand man to the prince.

Meanwhile the others feel totes betrayed, and they blame themselves, but they also get angry at Lance because he turned on them.

And they meet him on the battlefield, and they ask him to come back, ask him why he would do this to them. He doesn’t answer, just steps behind Lotor slightly, head bowed. There’s a bruise on his face, they think, and he looks thinner than normal, but he wont look at them, so they don’t know what to say.

Time passes, and they learn to function without him. Their missions don’t go as smoothly, and they get injured far more frequently, and they realize how much they needed Lance. But they carry on.

And they prepare for their final battle, battlefield littered with different species, everyone that the Galra had victimized rising up. Allura, who took the place as the blue pilot, feels Lance’s loss more than ever.

The battle begins. They fight hard. Lives are lost, so many lives. Lotor is has grown so much stronger, so much more ruthless, more prepared than Zarkon ever was. The galra army is bearing down on them, closing in for the kill.

Shiro and Pidge are unconscious. Allura went missing among the soldiers. Keith is injured, Hunk is trying to protect them. The castle, Coran, has gone silent. The end is near, they are going to die. The Galra are going to win.

They see the ion cannons charging, hear the hum that signals their firing squad. They see the lights as they prepare to fire.

And then it all shuts down.

The purple lights that represented their fear go out. The Galra ships crash to the surface of the moon that they were fighting on. The mother ship that had ordered their massacre settled to the ground, slowly opening.

Two figures stepped out. Clearly visible, was Lotor, a knife to his throat. The second, who held the knife, was shorter, and shielded from view.

Hunk and Keith watched the slow, long march Lotor and his captor took towards them. Hunk raised his weapon, but Keith weakly put a hand on his arm. “Wait.” His voice was the only sound in the otherwise deafening silence.

As the two neared, Keith recognized the messy brown hair, the cocky grin that never seemed to leave.

“Lance,” he breathed.

“What?!” Hunk asked.

“Look. It’s Lance.”

Hunk thought Keith was delirious with pain, but as the two approached, he too recognized hthe blue lion’s true pilot.

Lotor was forced to his knees several feet away from them, Keith’s knife still at his throat. Lance smiled tiredly at them. “Sorry I took so long. I cant read Galra,” he said sheepishly.

How to Be a Pirate (You will be remembered, my dear)
  1. If it is the ocean that sings to you, or the thrill of Aztec treasure, or other kingdom’s riches, know that you cannot go back. Once you set sail, the saltwater will haunt you even if you retire to a desert. There will never be enough golden coins or golden islands that will satisfy you. The life of a pirate is a thirsting life, and it is common knowledge that saltwater does not quench.
  2. Kiss your mother and father’s graves goodbye before you set sail. If the ocean will not be your grave, the gallows are too far from the churchyard to comfort your spirit. Keep your farewells frugal. Better yet, disappear without a word. Legends are not borne out of nostalgia.
  3. Turn a blind eye to the third mate whose hair is bunched into their hat and keeps their chest wrapped tightly under their bleached tunic. Her hands may be small, but they will build callouses just like yours once she scrubs the deck long enough. Bad luck is not the fault of a stowaway woman, and the storms are not her doing—after all, the crew had thrown Jonah into the sea to calm it. You’d be better off watching out for the storm that is the woman. She will put you to shame when she sets fire to your enemies to fight tooth and nail for the freedom she earned.
  4. Treat a mermaid gently if one accidentally gets tangled in your fishing net—comb the hooks out of his hair and don’t curse if he bites your fingers. Offer him your hat to shield his eyes from the sun and answer his questions when he asks in panic why his fingers are wrinkling. If you must chuckle, try to do so silently, so that he does not think are laughing at him. Mermaids are born singers—their egos are easily bruised.
  5. When a man goes overboard in the midst of a storm, throw the rope to him. If he cannot cling onto it, lower yourself in a rowboat to help him from the bobbing waves. But remember to never jump in after him, if he turns away and rides the waves into the deep. Do not blame yourself. You could hold your breath forever and still cannot rescue a drowning man who swims away from a lifesaver.
  6. Whistle while you work. The songs that your mother used to sing you to sleep with are not a curse just because it is from the past. And melodic tales about purple mountains and golden cornfields will stun your mermaid guest—he will ask you again and again how fast horses run, and how do flowers smell like. He will test your patience, but even pirates enjoy basking in Scheherazade’s glory. We all like to be heard other times than when we’re shouting orders.
  7. There is little use in envying your legendary predecessors. Madame Ching and Blackbeard’s skin peeled under the sun just like yours. Legends never feel like legends when their shoulders ache.
  8. You will lose your hand along the way. Some lose their eye, others their foot, others aren’t as lucky and lose their hope. It is all part of chasing the impossible. When the time comes—and it will come, when you are least prepared—there is no shame in weeping. There will never be enough saltwater. Let your mermaid guest dress your wound and see your tears. He will miss your tender palms, and you will miss that sense of safety. But let him treat you; his fingers are nimble and cool to the touch.
  9. When he sings to you the songs of his world and people, do not be overwhelmed—there will always be a part of the ocean that you will never see. The greatest pirates will never know what lies beneath their hull. Most hurl a mermaid out of their sight for fear of deception, and never lit a candle for him to see a dancing flame for the first time, cautioning him to keep his hands to themselves.
  10. Keep your plank short and sturdy—no one wants to walk to their death with shaky knees. No captain can avoid a mutiny, but that does not mean that you did not do something wrong. Which is why without a doubt, when your second mate plunges blindfolded into the sea, your heart will sink right down with him. But a captain is expected to root out betrayal and never betray themselves. Careful—if you catch yourself calling him name when you call all hands on deck, your crew might suspect that you regret it.
  11. Buried gold can afford bejeweled, decadent hooks for where your hand had once been. The richest of pirates can afford hooks of pure gold and a diamond cuff whose reflection can almost replace the spark in your dulled eyes. But they will only ever be hooks, and your mermaid will gasp in pain every time you cut his skin, even if you try to be gentle. He knows that you can’t help it, but don’t get cross if he shies away from you when you come too close. Mermaids are not quite used to love which makes them bleed.
  12. Pirates are not heroes. They kill in order to avoid the gallows. They maroon rather than forgive. All who sail past you will assume the worst of you, and point their cannons at your sails without consideration. It may be easier to live up to their expectations and take up your sword. It is far more exhausting fighting for your nobility.
  13. Your mermaid guest cannot stay for long. The sun scorches his skin, shrivels his scales, cracks his voice. The explosions of your ship’s cannons and your musket rounds piercing the Royal Navy shake him to their core. You can beg all you want, but your hook only hurts him when you try to hold on to him. He will wait until it is nighttime to quietly throw himself overboard. Two of your mates will hold you back from diving after him. They know that they could not save you if you did.
  14. Do not be alarmed when you find yourself under the starlight missing home. Any captain of a loyal crew will be desperately lonely when sailing alone in the wide, treacherous expanse that is one’s own head. I’m afraid, however, that it is too late now to turn back. Your lost hand, or cold, nimble fingers would not be there home waiting for you even if it wasn’t.
  15. Understand that you will never be remembered. Even if your name is emblazoned with fear in every queen’s heart, even if the tales of your terror make every captain shudder. They will not remember the songs you hummed under the moonlight. They will not remember your careful fingers loosening hooks from their hair. Legends are not borne out of love.  

Pre-Rescue Winn, James, and Lucy (Coping)

He’s in mode all day.

He’s in mode and he doesn’t eat and he doesn’t sleep.

Until, that is, James forces him to.

“Dude, I get it, but Alex is in trouble, I’m not gonna just – ”

“Winn. Man. You’re not gonna be any help to Alex if you don’t put something in your body. And just thirty minutes. You can nap for thirty minutes. That’s all. Let your programs run… something, I don’t know. Doesn’t it take them time to run analyses, anyway?”

Winn scowls and he moans, but he chomps down the food James brought him.

He hadn’t realized he was hungry.

“Who’s taking care of you, Olsen?” Vasquez wants to know as James watches Winn eat, his brow furrowed in concern, his eyes red with the weight of sheer refusal to panic.

“I can take care of myself alright,” he offers, and she knows he can, but she also knows that right now, it’s a lie.

“I’ve got a call in for you,” she tells him, and she puts a phone in his hands and walks away without explanation. He stares after her for a moment before putting the phone to his ear.

“Hello?”

“Jimmy. I heard about Alex, I’m getting on the next flight out. Are you alright? Is Kara okay? Oh god, she must be a wreck – ”

“Lucy, what – what are you – ”

“Vasquez called me, James, what do you think I – it doesn’t matter. Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m… I’m good, I just… you’re right, Kara’s a wreck, and Winn hasn’t eaten or slept since she’s been taken, and – ”

“And you haven’t either, I bet.”

James sighs and he can practically hear Lucy’s reprimand.

“Jimmy. Please eat something. I know you can’t sleep when you’re terrified like this – and don’t deny that you’re terrified, James Olsen, don’t you dare do it – but please at least eat something. I don’t know, steal half of whatever you got for Winn or something.”

“We have to stop stealing food from that man.”

“Yeah, we really do. But it got you to laugh.”

There’s a pause, a silence, and it feels comfortable. It feels safe. It feels like maybe Alex will be okay after all.

“You’re on your way?”

“Of course I’m on my way. She’ll be alright, Jimmy. She’s tougher than nails, Alex Danvers.”

James grins, because god, he knows.

“Yeah. Yeah, she is.” His voice threatens to crack, and someone else might not have heard it, but this is Lucy, and Lucy does.

“She’s gonna be alright, Jimmy. I promise you. This is Alex Danvers. She’s going to be alright.”

It’s Lucy’s voice that trembles this time, but James knows better than to comment. Lucy needs to get here in one piece, and calling attention to the cracks in her armor isn’t going to help her do that.

“Yeah. Yeah, she is,” he repeats. “Fly safe, Lucy, okay?”

“Yeah. See you soon, Jimmy. Eat!”

“Yeah.”

He gives the phone back to Vasquez and plops down next to Winn.

“Feeling better?” he asks.

“I’m not gonna feel better until that girl is back here and that guy is six feet under.” James raises his eyebrows, because this is not how Winn Schott talks.

Winn notices, and he grimaces.

“I’m sorry, I just… it’s Alex, you know?”

James nods, because god, does he know. When his eyes find Winn’s next, they’re exactly as bloodshot as he imagines his own are.

“We’re going to find her, Winn.”

“But what if we’re too late?” he asks, his voice broken. His voice something like it must have sounded when they took his father away to prison. When they yelled at him in foster home after foster home after foster home. When Lyra repeated the pattern and he threw up his hands because Winn is braver than he knows, but he has terrors that only betray themselves in the defensive raising of his hands, the soft cracking of his voice, the wildly calm look in his eyes.

James puts his hand on Winn’s thigh, and the touch seems to calm him. To soothe him.

Both of them, if James is being honest.

“We won’t be. I promise. We won’t be.”

Winn nods and forces the rest of his sandwich into James’s hands. “I’m not the only one who has to keep up his strength,” he tells him, and he claps a hand on his shoulder as he stands.

“Thank you, James.”

“You’re the one doing all the work, brother.”

“I’m just playing with computers. Keeping us all together? That’s the real work, man. And you’re amazing at it.”

James sighs and he nods and he forces himself to eat.

Because Alex will never let him hear the end of it if he passes out from hunger and exhaustion when she gets back.

When.

Not if.

Because she is coming back.

Alive.


Bad Like Me
by Courtney Love
The following appeared in Bust Magazine in 1996.


I was born bad.
My biological dad is a bad man, so mama simply thought,
“Ooh, she’s got that bad blood seed in her.”
At heart, home, hearth and boyfriend,
I am a full-on good girl prude
-but don’t tell anyone-
When you’re a bad girl, people are terrified of you.
You don’t get mugged or raped because you don’t have any victim energy
(I’m sure it has happened, just not as often).
It’s bad if you’re a famous one, though, because the boys all wanna fuck you, but then you get all girl-gooey and they
go, “Oooh,”
because they thought you were gonna spank them.
Duh, asshole.
When you’re a bad girl, everyone does what you want.
You have room to grow.
Bad girls are kinder than good girls
and they are better to other girls, mostly,
unless said other girls are boy-pleasin’ users
who want a little bad girl spice rubbed off on ‘em
like so much perfume.
Bad girls are also more spiritual
and less prone to drug addiction, or, if they have it,
when they quit they quit.
Bad girls know genius before the other dumb good girls do.
They get the hot guys first
'cause they aren’t looking for that big stamp of popularity approval.
In Amadeus, Soliari says Mozart is ugly;
the Soprano (a naughty bad girl) replies,
“A woman of taste only thinks of genius.”
Bad girls love boy flesh that has an astronomical IQ.
Most bad girls are not as libidinous as good girls.
Sex is intrigue, not looks; it’s build-up and mind-warping.
Bad girls love like lions
and kill those who fuck with their kin.
Good girls steal bad girls’ boys.
Bad girls fuck your boyfriends, yeah,
but we feel shitty about it,
sort of.
You’re there to take care of the dog, to have the BBQs.
We’re there to fly in to New York or L.A. or Paris and lock up in a four-star for three days while your boyfriend
and us do things you’ll never know about
and he’d never dare do to you.
We feel a little guilty.
Bad girls are “femmenists;”
we like our dark Nars lipstick and LaPerla panties,
but we hate sexism,
even if we do fuck your husbands/boyfriends.
We understand men, we love them,
us hetero/bi bad girls.
We are not psycho bad girls;
those are evil and in a class of their own.
Maybe BUST will do an “evil girl” issue
then we can out them all.
They are usually considered good girls by the community
(e.g. Mary Lou Lord in her high quaky voice and “widdle gurl” act. How could she be capable of severing the head of a kitty and putting it on your front porch with a syringe in it’s cornea? No, not that widdle good gurl!)
Bad girls will get obsessed if you dump us nasty,
but instead of resorting to evil good girl tactics
we will do things like:
make your band open for us someday;
send all your mail to a Der Wienerschnitzel in Watts;
get a guitar for revenge;
do genius comics and be a genius
such as my favorite NYC bad girl, Dame Darcy, goddess supreme.
We met on the one day I’d uttered her name in a foreign country.
She is a bad girl;
she’s friends with Lisa Suckdog who has that great zine Rollerderby.
Lisa tries to be a bad girl, crawlin’ around nekkid and stuff,
but I think she wasn’t born with it.
Hey, I could be totally wrong.
Darby from Ben is Dead is a bad girl.
She makes fun of me but bad girls do that to each other,
unfortunately.
Shouldn’t we all be piling up on Juliana or something?
Cristina Martinez of Boss Hogg is a hot babe bad girl
-some day she’ll lose that Spencer guy and come into her own fabulousness.
She’s got a swinging bad girl Puerto Rican booty.
Man, you don’t wanna get on the wrong end of her rattail comb.
See, bad girls get fucked up, like me or Cristina or Inger Lorre-
she’s a natural star and the baddest girl of us all.
We just cannot cross the line from bad girl to evil girl,
leave that for the…
no point in naming names.
Alanis Morrisette just won a bunch of Grammys
and she went to the Grammys.
No bad girl would go to the Grammys.
Don’t dump a bad girl
'cause one day you’ll have to come back and grovel for something;
watch it, man
-hell hath no fury like a bad girl dumped ill-
Bad girls can deal with a little infidelity;
good girls will leave you on “principle.”
Bad girls can be as classy as Jackie O.,
who was a bad girl, she just didn’t think it was our business to know that.
My sister Ms. Barrymore is a way bad girl.
We are going to wear acid-wash to the Academy Awards.
Of course bad girls go to the Academy Award parties
-only if you get nominated are you busy-
Good girls live in a state of sulking or gloating,
'cause they are getting their butts kissed
or having to kiss butt.
But my friend-who’s a good boy outside,
but a very bad boy inside-
told me that there’s a middle state wherein, like if you go to the Academy Awards you are going out of your way to get your butt kissed,
that’s lame.
We can be total media whores,
but we can also be completely mysterious.
All bad girls in the NYC and LA areas have slept with other girls
just because
Bad girls love like no one else.
Bad girls swallow
-it is sooo rude to spit, but don’t do it the first time.
I don’t know why I think that, I just think the good girl part of the bad girl says they know you give good head,
so make the worms wait.
If you’re a single girl on the make, I suggest power.
You have to work hard to acquire it, and no one will help you.
You will gain many girl enemies.
That’s 'cause you eventually wind up playing the wife of a huge publisher -who is alive and happens to like you-in some big movie and all the lame-o’s that work at his magazines you could have chopped but you won’t 'cause
BAD GIRLS DO NOT EVER ABUSE POWER
once they have acquired it,
except occasionally for sexual purposes only.
Bad girls do not fake orgasms,
or they betray only themselves.
Bad girls have bad boy boyfriends
but mostly good boy boyfriends
'cause the sweet-faced angelboy is really horrid
and Mr. Gnarly is a big wimp who wants to know what sweater to wear onstage tonight;
blechhh!
Bad girls sometimes wimp out and call,
though that’s separating the wheat from the chaff;
the men from the wimps. If you can’t be friends with him forget it.
If he doesn’t know how to actually get you to shut the fuck up, it’s not worth that much.
Fuck the phone game; other games are way funner.
I’m a loser at the phone game.
If you want to be a femme fatale, go for it and never call back, tally up, etc.
The good ones do not even get the phone game.
It’s hard to believe but true.
Cat and mouse is for Elizabethans and Victorians.
Bad girls will always give you the shirt off their backs.
Bad girls are vulgar,
but we have the potential for total class.


Did you ever hear the tragedy of Monk Martin Luther the Reformer? I thought not. It’s not a story the Catholics would tell you. It’s a Protestant legend. Luther was a faithful monk of the Christian faith, so wise and so faithful he could use the faith to influence the people to create Reformation… He had such a knowledge of the bible that he could even keep the ones he cared about from buying indulgences. The reformed side of the Faith is a pathway to many bonds with Jesus some consider to be heterodox. He became so influential… the only thing he was afraid of was losing his influence, which eventually, of course, he did. Unfortunately, he taught his followers everything he knew, then his followers betrayed him and formed different denominations. Ironic. He could save others from betraying themselves, but not betraying him.

4

“He is the closest person to me in this whole world. He is the man I will always forgive, always trust. The one man I would never, ever lie to.“

Latibær in trouble, ch. 1

sooooo i started translating the book because why not. and im gonna share my progress here, cos i think it’d be good to have at least some kind of a translation around so that everyone can enjoy the story! here’s a link to the original one (w pictures!)

this won’t be perfect of course, since i dont actually know icelandic but im gonna do this as well as i can. (possible criticism is appreciated!)

translation notes are marked [like this]

Keep reading

startin to realize that a lot of ppl who claim to “love” animals constantly anthropomorphize them until they’re unrecognizable as what they actually are

in other words ppl only love the idea they have in their head of certain animals, not the animals themselves. they love their human ideals impressed on animals

anonymous asked:

What about a fic where Junkrat realizes he's in love with a friend? I just. I just love this filthy little bab I don't-- he's cute.

No judgement here, Anon. He can be a real sweetheart, when he’s not blowing people up.


Roadhog made a good listener.

Or well, Junkrat thought he was listening. In reality, he could have been ignoring him entirely, but Junkrat was pretty sure he was listening. He usually paid attention when Junkrat was even more jittery than usual.

See, Junkrat had a problem. He’d been okay since they’d joined these Overwatch guys, since they let him blow things up, and he had wanted to go legit. He’d even been tolerating the Omnics, and that was because of -well, that brought him back to his real problem.

You.

You were his problem. You’d been as wary as anyone when the Junkers had first arrived, but you’d been the one to volunteer to give them a tour of the base, to have them on your team during training, to show them around the towns close to WPG. You’d been putting a lot of energy into helping them -and Junkrat was stuck waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

Which was kinda sad. You’d be good company, if you weren’t making them owe you.

As Roadhog watched Jamieson rant about your possible ulterior motives, he remembered that Jamieson had no memories from before the wasteland. He had no concept of altruism, even though he’d shown himself capable of it on rare occasions. Rarely experienced someone being kind simply because it was the right thing to do.

Admittedly, Roadhog only had the vaguest memories of people doing that. The ones who’d tried to help had been amongst the first to die after the Omnium exploded -those that had survived the fallout were betrayed or sacrificed themselves. Idiots, Roadhog had thought. But the rules were different here.

As Jamieson ran out of steam, Roadhog explained that you probably weren’t expecting anything from them. That you probably just wanted to be friends.

“Oh,” he said. 


The rest of the world was different from the wasteland. Junkrat had figured that out even in Sydney. People weren’t as accepting of things like shooting anyone who touched your stuff -no, they had proper ways to deal with that. But there were always people looking to take advantage of others. They were just more sneaky about it here.

And that’s how he ended up yelling at the stupid cowboy, because where Jamie was from he was putting out dangerous signals and aiming for you.

It’s just because he doesn’t want to feel like he owed you, he assured himself. Because while you might expect nothing from him, he still hates feeling like he’s in debt. But all he did was make more work for you, pulling him away and explaining that Jesse was just kidding around. 

Jesse took it well, gives him a smile showing a few too many teeth for his liking and waves away the whole incident. 

“No worries. I got into fights over less when I first joined,” Jesse said after Jamie gave him an awkward apology. That’s another thing he doesn’t get about this place -how easily slights are forgiven.

You took off sometime during his talk with Jesse. A pit formed in his stomach, one he couldn’t explain away by claiming he just owes you. 

For all he was outgoing, Jamie was reserved in his own way. He didn’t like being vulnerable, didn’t like how it made him feel. Jamie had been alone, relied on himself, for years. Things were different now, had been for a few years. But Roadhog, at least, he could say was just in it for the money when the idea of anything deeper was too stressful. You didn’t have that excuse.

He had to find Roadhog, Roadhog knew things about how things worked here. Roadhog could help.

But Roadhog was busy.

“He’s just been acting strange lately. Is he alright?”

Junkrat threw himself into the wall before he could turn the corner, nearly knocking himself out in his haste to hide. It was you, talking to Roadhog. It was almost comical, you two standing next to each other. Roadhog appeared impassive as a statue while you wrung your hands together.

“He’s fine.”

“Then is he upset or something? I know being here must be difficult for him.” There was concern in your voice, genuine concern, and he pushed away the warmth he felt in favour of being pissed that you’d go behind his back.

Just before he built up the courage to round the corner, Roadhog spoke.

“Why do you care?”

Junkrat stopped short, leg bouncing with unspent energy. He tried to get it to shut up, worried he’d make some noise and alert you, but it didn’t listen to him so he flattened himself against the wall and hoped for the best.

“I- it’s the right thing to do,” you said simply, and Roadhog snorted, a rare expression of amusement that didn’t sound totally sincere.

“Don’t lie.” The order was flatly delivered. No threat accompanied it, but there was something about the way he spoke that implied it. Junkrat’s leg jiggling grew worse.

Either not noticing his tone or ignoring it, you groaned in frustration. “I just want to help out a friend, alright?”

“Friend,” Roadhog repeated, doubtful. Which was weird, because Roadhog had been the one to say you wanted to be friends in the first place, so why was he questioning you on that? Without realising it, Junkrat had started chewing on his nails, a habit he’d been told was dirty by the doctor ever since he got here.

“What are you-” A sigh, defeated and annoyed. “Whatever else I feel, I want to do right by him first, okay?”

The urge to run in nearly overwhelmed Jamie, but he needed to hear what happened next. He didn’t like eavesdropping -it felt too wimpy, too much like the shitty tactics suits used- but they were talking about him, so it was fair, right?

Roadhog grunted, and in the silence that followed Jamie knew what was happening. Roadie was staring at you, silent, a tower of judgement or terror. It had worked with a hundred bank tellers, junkers, and fast food workers. 

And apparently, it worked on you.

“I like him, okay? But that’s not-”

“I RECKON I LIKE YOU TOO!” Jamie yelled, bursting around the corner without taking another moment to consider the consequences. He stared at you, mouth still hanging open from whatever you were about to say. You stared at him, shock freezing you. Roadhog looked between the both of you, and then lumbered off, leaving you alone.

Jamie’s hands clenched and unclenched into fists, as he tried not to panic, to think about what this meant -how this could turn Overwatch into more than just a temporary job, how this could make him stay, make you expect things of him-

“Jamie-” 

He shook his head, cutting you off, mind racing -trying to figure out where to go from here, what he should do. He didn’t realise he’d taken a step back until you took a short one forward.

“Nothing has to change right now,” you told him quietly.

Jamie’s mind re-focused on the present, almost to a painful point -trying to analyse your expression, your words, think up a response and figure out what he wanted all at once.

In the end, all he could manage was, “In all those movies-”

“Jesse’s movies aren’t the most realistic,” you said, still using a gentle tone. You took another step forward, and when he didn’t flinch away, continued until you were standing just outside of his personal space. “You can go away and think about this, alright? You don’t have to decide what you want right now.”

Jamie couldn’t hide his sigh of relief. You smiled to see him relax, if only a bit.

“…Thanks, mate,” he mumbled. Or his version of mumbling, anyway, which still wasn’t very quiet, but got the point across. 

“Take all the time you need,” you assured him, waiting for him to bridge the distance -which he did, with an awkward pat of the shoulder, a stark contrast to his usual disregard for personal space. Then his wild grin returned.

“I know what’ll help me think!” he declared, turning and running off metal leg jangling all the way.

“Keep the explosions to the training rooms!” you called after him.

He laughed, the sound echoing down the hallway. 

anonymous asked:

Different anon. On the subject of Dorne, how exactly were they able to hold put while the Targaryens were burning their infrastructure and their arable land? Didn't their troops hiding in the desert ever run out of supplies? And why was their loyalty to the Martells so strong that no one considered betraying them to save themselves and their families?

1. Through one of the fundamental rules of guerrilla warfare: being willing to accept more casualties than your opponents.

2. Yes, they probably did.

3. It wasn’t their loyalty to the Martells, it was their loyalty to Dorne. 

ƘELPIES ~✳~ (Scottish mythological creatures)

Kelpie, or water kelpie (derived from the Gaelic calpa or cailpeach, meaning “heifer” or “colt”), is the Scots name given to a shape-shifting water spirit inhabiting the lochs and pools of Scotland.

Tough it is able to adopt human form (in which guise they betray themselves by the presence of water weeds in their hair), the mythological kelpie is usually described as a powerful and beautiful black horse preying on any humans it encounters. One of the kelpie’s common identifying characteristics is that its hooves are reversed as compared to those of a normal horse.

The creature’s nature was described as “useful”, “hurtful”, or seeking “human companionship”; in some cases, kelpies take their victims into the water, devour them, and throw the entrails to the water’s edge. 

In its equine form the kelpie is able to extend the length of its back to carry many riders together into the depths.

When a kelpie appeared in its equine persona without any tack, it could be captured using a halter stamped with the sign of a cross, and its strength could then be harnessed in tasks such as the transportation of heavy mill stones. Some kelpies were said to be equipped with a bridle and sometimes a saddle, and appeared invitingly ready to ride, but if mounted they would run off and drown their riders. A bridle taken from a kelpie was endowed with magical properties, and if brandished towards someone, was able to transform that person into a horse.

“Wheη thowes ɗissolve the sηawƴ hoorɗ

Aη’ ƒloat the jiηgliη icƴ ɓoorɗ

Theη, water-kelρies hauηt the ƒoorɗ

Ɓy your ɗirectioη

Aη’ ηighteɗ trav’llers are allur’ɗ

To their ɗestructioη”

Asian-Americans experience, in disorienting moments, the shock of the mirror’s reflection. They see they are not like everyone else around them, but somehow they embody the rise of the East in the fall of the West. Non-withstanding a family resemblance to other Asians, they boast cultural affinities to other Americans.

When they travel to an ancestral homeland as a tourist, their senses conflict. Their eyes register that everyone looks like them. Their ears hear, as soon as they try to communicate in the language that is assumed to be in the blood, that they betray themselves as foreigners or idiots (if there is any meaningful distinction between the categories). They belong only until they try to make themselves understood and then they are instantly fakers. Others are embarrassed for them for having lost their heritage, as if it could be misplaced like a childhood forgotten toy.

Returning home to where the hearth is, their self-perception and others’ perceptions conflict. They forget that they cannot be part of the crowd however carefully they follow the fads. They can be invisible to others on the street, but they can becomes conspicuous at the wrong moment. At best they are greeted as diplomatic dignitaries from ancient civilization and at worst they are marked as inept social climbers. The more successful they are, the more threatening they are as the Yellow Peril.

Whoever they may wish to be and whatever they aspire to become, they share set of stories. The Asian American condition is to lack control over one’s own identity.

—  Frank H Wu (Foreward in “Looking for Asian America by Wing Young Huie)
Men of profound sadness betray themselves when they are happy: they have a way of embracing happiness as if they wanted to crush and suffocate it, from jealousy: alas, they know only too well that it will flee.
—  Friedrich Nietzsche, Beyond Good and Evil, 279
Escapee || Amelia & Rabastan

Mass Breakout from Azkaban!

The headline screamed from the front of the Daily Prophet, taunting Amelia further with pictures of those who’d escaped. It was unheard of; a breakout this size shouldn’t be possible. You didn’t just break out of Azkaban en masse and waltz back into society. Not without help. 

Sharp heels clicked across the pavement as Amelia walked out of the Ministry to go home. Her head ached, temples pounding in time with her steps. Shoving her cold hands into her pockets, she wrapped one around the handle of her wand even as she scolded herself for being paranoid. She glared at the ground as she walked, again dismissing the idea of apparating. A very hot bath would be nice but she needed the extra time to unwind from the day and consider her next move. The Minister had made his statements to the public and the press but they weren’t doing a whole lot of good. The Ministry needed to be seen making headway or there was going to be panic. Hell, the people were right to panic. 

Her mind wandered to several of the prisoners who’d escaped, people she’d known in an entirely different context before they had revealed their true colors. Like the Lestrange brothers. If you’d asked Amelia when she was sixteen if those two would betray her and themselves and side with an murderous dictator intent on purifying the magical world, she would have laughed and immediately denounced it as impossible. And yet… 

She made it back to her house far too quickly, but there was a heavy rumble in the air. Rain threatened and wind blustered, mother nature itself was apparently conspiring to keep her off the street today. Even so, she considered grabbing an umbrella and continuing. If she went inside, even to change shoes, would she come back out? Rather than go in or continue on, she leaned against her door and closed her eyes, hoping she wouldn’t have to make any more decisions today.

TRUST IN ME || masterlist

Request(s): Ok but like imagine a Ben Solo AU that’s like Mad Max where Ben tries to help some sex slaves escape from their oppressor but he accidentally falls in love with one of them (AKA the reader :3) + Anything Ben solo related!!!! (Maybe he rescues a girl from slavery and she’s super scared of everyone but him. And they fall in love as she learns to trust people…..)

A/N: Since I’ve only seen Mad Max once, I had to change it up a bit (you’ll see). Thank you to the two anons for the requests, enjoy! Requests are open :)

Warning: Mentions of abuse 

Word Count: 4.3K+


The world you had found yourself living in was something your younger self would never have imagined to be at such age. You were so young, had a full life ahead, but then the First Order murdered your parents and you were left to save yourself. It was a rough path you trudged on, everyone you had every trusted betraying you for themselves–or, for worse–for money. It was only recently you had hit the second decade of your life, twenty years. If you knew that at the age of twenty, you would’ve been sold to be a sex slave (because someone you trusted with your life preferred money over your well being), you wouldn’t have trusted anyone in the beginning.

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