chapter sixty two

That scene where Mateo was lying in between Jane and Raf and Jane and Raf are texting so they can talk privately because their son is supposed to be falling asleep was great. Also, I want Jane and Raf and Petra to be a happy polyamorous family. 

Also, glad Jane had her fling with Fabian. And didn’t feel guilty about it. 

Also, she third wheeled her grandma and Jorge, lol.

Chapter Sixty-Two

I’m feeling nervous now. Anxious. Worried. Shivering a little and not from the cold. “What’s going on? Why are you here?”
Still nothing.
A tight breath.
“I want you to come with me.”
The world stops spinning.
“When I leave tomorrow,” he says. “I want you to come with me. I never had a chance to finish talking to you earlier and I thought asking you in the morning would be bad timing all around.”
“You want me to come with you.” I’m not sure I’m still breathing.
“You want me to run away with you.” This can’t possibly be happening.
A pause. “Yes.”
“I can’t believe it.” I’m shaking my head over and over and over again. “You really have lost your mind.”
I can almost hear him smile in the dark. “Where’s your face? I feel like I’m talking to a ghost.”
“I’m right here.”
I stand up. “I’m here.”
“I still can’t see you,” he says, but his voice is suddenly much closer than it was before. “Can you see me?”
“No,” I lie, and I’m trying to ignore the immediate tension, the electricity humming in the air between us.
I take a step back. 
I feel his hands on my arms, I feel his skin against my skin and I’m holding my breath. I don’t move an inch. I don’t say a word and his hands drop to my waist, to the thin material making a poor attempt to cover my body. His fingers graze the soft skin of my lower back, right underneath the hem of my shirt and I’m losing count of the number of times my heart skips a beat.
I”m struggling to get oxygen in my lungs.
I’m struggling to keep my hands to myself.
“Is it even possible,” he whispers, “that you can’t feel this fire between us?” His hands are traveling up my arms again, his touch so light, his fingers slipping under the straps of my shirt and it’s ripping me apart, it’s aching in my core, it’s a pulse beating in every inch of my body and I’m trying to convince myself not to lose my head when I feel the straps fall down and everything stops.
The air is still.
My skin is scared.
Even my thoughts are whispering.
6 seconds I forgot to breathe.

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Jane The Virgin “Chapter Sixty-Two” Extended promo.

One of the largely innocuous storytelling choices that I have been dying to make something out of for months is the way Isayama draws Historia’s tears.

For sixty-two chapters, whenever Kristoria has tears in her eyes, they do not leave her eyes. Even when she is, by most understandings of the term, sobbing over Ymir’s departure, her tears don’t escape to run down her face.

Isayama has drawn multiple characters crying. Dignity is not high on the priority list; if someone’s crying, the waterworks spread all over. Kristoria probably tears up more than any character in the series, but it has always been controlled.

62 breaks that pattern.

The first time Historia’s tears spill over comes after the first time someone says they’ve wanted her in their life. That’s what makes the dam break.

Chapter Sixty Five Part Two

A/N: I have to say, this chapter is emotional for me to post. I’ve been with Harry, Alex, and Emma for over a year and a half. They’re my babies. And this…is the moment I’ve been working toward for all of that time.

So to my readers, thank you for sticking with me and for loving Harry, Alex, and Emma.

And to my writer friends, thank you for supporting me every day. Especially Jo, who I would have never made it to this point without. Don’t even deny it Jo, you know it’s true :)

And with that, enjoy…


When Alex stepped from the car in front of Westminster Abbey, it was easily the most unbelievably surreal moment of her life. No matter how many times she had watched Will and Kate’s wedding, no matter how many times Kate had told her about this very moment, stepping out of the car in a one of a kind designer wedding dress, in front of one of the iconic churches in the world, to the roar of the crowds cheering – it felt like an incredible dream.

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Chapter Sixty Four

Two days before the wedding – May 13th, 2015

Harry shifted on the sofa, glancing from the TV and over to Alex for probably the twentieth time since they’d settled in there after sending Emma off with Alex’s parents for the night. The idea had been to give Alex and Harry a little bit of alone time before things got really crazy the next day, to give them a chance to take some peace and quiet and relaxation – the last they were going to get for a few days.

But Harry could tell that Alex wasn’t relaxing. The second she had sunk in next to him on the sofa, she had reached for her notebook and her iPod, popping in her headphones and flipping right to a page that she hadn’t turned from in the last half an hour. He didn’t know exactly what was running through her head, but he absolutely knew it was wedding related and that it was stressing her out.

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some of you may have noticed that i have been particularly quiet lately with posting on various social media. this is due in part because finals are an absolute bitch as a university senior and as usual i am pretty busy in december… but also because i’ve used one of the finals for my classes to format sixty-four into an actual goddamn book! like that can be printed out! and touched! ITS SO COOL! 

seeing all of my work over the past few years and being able to physically handle and flip through it is absolutely indescribable and i just wanted to share with you how fucking over the moon i am right now :0 i chose to format and print it particularly so i could discuss it as part of my senior portfolio review, but since we’re drawing chapter three to a close, it feels like the damn right time to finally bring sixty-four to a tangible stage. thanks to everyone who’s seen me through this far! so exciting!

Dear Peter Jackson; Regards, Eowyn.

Dear Peter Jackson,

Arwen asked me to say fuck you.

Between being a symbol for the woman
who single-handedly saved Middle Earth as we know it,
and allowed the most famous Man who ever lived to accomplish his God-given duty,
and tucking in her children after dinner,
she asked me to tell that you’re a misogynistic fuckwit.

Apparently she’s mad?

It’s something, she says, about the way she rides in on a white horse, gleaming,
and all you can notice is that she’s not wearing a bra. Something
about the way she speaks, the sighs that drip off the ends of words
like rain drops, the gasps that lilt between each word.
The way you asked her to speak in Elvish half the time,
because she’s so beautiful and untouchable, and feminine.
The way that after she saves Frodo from the Ringwraiths,
she falls to the ground, and weeps, and is never strong again.
The way she begs Aragorn to stay, and when he doesn’t, falls apart.
The way she waits, waits, waits for the end of the story.
The way she gives up her life for a boy. 

I’m sorry; these are her words. Not mine.
I know you were just adapting the books.
I know you were just taking a character who was in two chapters of sixty two
I know you were just trying to understand someone who has one line of dialogue,
I know you were just breathing life to an image, a symbol, an idea, not a woman,
not a person, blame Tolkien, not you. That’s okay. She’s angry, hysterical,
hormonal, nonsensical. We’re all on your side.


I mean, what do I have to complain about?
I’m Eowyn: a shieldmaiden, a daughter of Kings,
a child of Rohan. I grew up with a sword in my hand
and steel in my eyes. I ride into battle, I slay orcs, I destroy the fell beast.
I kill the Witch-king of Angmar.
The one that elves of old predicted could not be killed;
the one that destroyed men, children, cities.  
I scream, death, death, death,
and change the world.

I go home. I fall in love.
I marry a prince. I settle down.
I have his children. Disappear.

That’s what a princess is supposed to do.


Because all great stories end with a ring around my finger,
and a finger on my lips.  The women fade into the background,
and we’re left to remember the men on the battlefield,
not the women who changed it.

The frontline isn’t always where the war takes place, you know.
Sometimes it’s in the way their eyes trail me up and down,
the way you take my body in before my words,
the way you remember the boy I fancied for a week
and not the girl I was for a lifetime. The war is in the way
you put me on a screen, the way I’m an obstacle for the men
and not a truth for the people, the war is in the fight
we have to be remembered for our words, for our souls,
not our tits.

Because I know, Peter Jackson, I know:

I am no Man.

And you never let me forget that. 

Arwen and I say fuck you.

Chapter Sixty Six Part Two

A/N: Mature part to this chapter. It is their honeymoon, after all ;) Marked with an *M* and ends at the end of the chapter. As always, messages, comments, and your thoughts are encouraged and welcomed :)

“So you want to go into town today?” Harry asked Alex as he took a sip of coffee. They had woken up to the first day of their honeymoon not long before and were enjoying a light breakfast on deck. The sun was shining, the water was beautiful and the city of Corfu was spread out before them like a stunning canvas painting.

“Mhmmm,” Alex nodded as she took a bit of her pastry. “If that’s okay with you. I’d love to go into some of the local shops. It really looks like a beautiful town.”

“Of course that’s okay with me,” He grinned wide. “I’m here to make you happy.”

“Well, you’re doing an excellent job so far…” Her lips curled up and she leaned in, her voice dropping low. “You made me happy what was it…two times last night?”

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