I have often imagined the paths your life might take, but your chosen future is more noble than I ever fathomed.
Please accept this contribution to your virtuous cause.
I do look forward to thanking you in person someday…
However long it takes
THIS IS NOT OKAY !
I’M NOT OKAY !
I’M CRYING TO DEATH
They were fighting again. Honestly, it was harder to catch them not arguing, yelling being more natural to their dynamic than whispering: insults and snide remarks flying back and forth constantly, no truce or white banners to even be considered as the tension mounted between them.
“You’re such an asshole!” Clarke shrieked, a refrain so familiar it now seemed to bounce right off his (unfairly) solid chest.
“That’s rich, coming from the spoiled princess!” Bellamy would shoot back.
At some point screaming subsided into glaring, both of them trying to slow their breathing while anger and frustration and tension solidified in the space between them. Gradually the two of them would inch closer and closer together, almost unconsciously, until she shoved him against the wall or he tackled her onto the bed, hands in each other’s hair and mouths crashing together to cut themselves off before they said something they couldn’t take back.
“I hate you,” Bellamy would mutter as he slammed the door on his way out afterward, while Clarke stormed into her art studio, slamming her own door in response.
“I love you,” Bellamy would murmur when he returned a few hours later, holding out an apology bouquet or a new set of nice charcoals (or both, if it had been an especially vicious fight). After a moment, Clarke would accept the gift and let him inside, curling up against him on the sofa as he scrolled through Netflix, pausing on some feel-good romcom that he pretended he only tolerated for her.
This was their status quo, passionate break-ups and make-ups. While it wasn’t perfect, it was them, and neither of them believed in fixing something that wasn’t really broken. The right side of rock bottom, Bellamy had written on more than one note — he wrote a lot of those, sometimes left on Clarke’s bedside table for her to wake up to when he had an early morning, sometimes accompanying a just-saw-this-and-thought-of-you gift delivered to her student PO box. (In another lifetime, he could’ve been a poet, famed for epic love letters, as Clarke told him so frequently.)
Yesterday I decided that it’s unfair that there are so many wonderful VM fanfics which unfortunately don’t have covers. In some kind it “turns me on” when a great story is pretty “outside” too. Huge appreciation to lilamadison11 for her covers, because thanks to her works my Ibook doesn’t look like plain Jane. Still, as I’ve already said, there are too much great stories which unfortunately still are coverless. Honestly, yesterday was my first time working with Photoshop, but I really tried hard to make my best. Know that my covers are far from the best, but still it’s my way to somehow appreciate your work my dear authors and say thanks for your time and talent. Oh, and sorry for mistakes, english is far from my first language)))
Rules: answer the questions with the first letter of your name then tag 10 ppl. If the person who tagged you has the same initial, you have to use different answers. You cannot use the same word twice
what’s your name? - Elisa
a four letter word?- epic
A boy’s name- Emanuel
An occupation- editor
Something you wear- extremely oversized sweaters (haha idk sry)
A colour- emerald
A food- enchiladas
a place- Edinburgh
Something you shout- ewww!!
A movie title- ET
something you drink- earl grey (tea)
an animal- elephant
a type of car- Effedi (Italian)
Title of a song- Eugene by Sufjan Stevens
*whispers* Les Amis platonic anonymous love letters
Because this definitely starts with Enjolras writing a letter to Feuilly when Feuilly is having a bad week at work, saying how much he admires him and how wonderful Feuilly is and how he embodies all the ideals Enjolras believes in, etc. etc., and then because Enjolras thinks he’s clever he signs it “Un Ami” and Feuilly says a general thank you to everyone at the next meeting. Even though he recognizes Enjolras’s handwriting and tendency to do things like that, if Enjolras is going to try to be anonymous Feuilly will allow it.
And it becomes a thing.
Joly packs lunches for them all for a protest, individualized lunches with individual notes, and signs them all “Un Ami.”
Bahorel writes a truly epic friend love letter to Joly in return, complete with fashion advice.
Courfeyrac notices Grantaire is having a bad day and writes to him about something silly he saw on the streets of Paris.
Feuilly thanks Combeferre for a big intellectual conversation they have after one meeting, even though it’s barely anonymous.
Marius writes to Courfeyrac every week faithfully but does not understand why these all have to be anonymous. Courfeyrac is helplessly endeared that each and every one of these notes starts with “Dear Courfeyrac, Hello! How are you? I’m fine.”
Everyone can tell which notes come from Bossuet because he inevitably spills something on them. They also always contain no less than three puns, but honestly, that’s kind of epidemic among Les Amis.
Cosette writes Bahorel a letter that makes him cry.
Grantaire manages to write one to Enjolras that even comes across platonic, and as a result it’s the one letter whose sender Enjolras never manages to identify (especially since Grantaire also made a point of sending one in his usual flowery style).
Eponine’s notes tend to be short but honest and treasured all the more for that.
Combeferre’s often contain little pressed flowers or cool rocks or book recommendations that made him think of whoever he’s sending one to.
Eventually, they have to set up special mailboxes for each of them because they run out of sneaky ways to get them into one another’s possession.
I’m a shipper. Yes, I belong to that very common, yet way too underestimated category of people who take a sick delight in getting their hearts deluded, crushed, ripped apart and scattered on the ground like a myriad of rainbow confetti.
I’ve been in The Good Wife fandom since the very beginning, since those good old days when my sanity was still intact. At least in appearance. I can proudly define myself as one of those die-hard, faithful, unbreakable viewers of your show. I consecrated my heart to Alicia on day one and it’s still like that, five years, oceans of tears, and a bunch of heart attacks later. No matter what she does, no matter how many times I yell at her in frustration, she always gets my unconditional love, which I’m sure is totally unhealthy. But still… What I couldn’t predict back then – oh my naiveté - was that slowly, inexorably, unconsciously, my love for Will would come along, growing episode after episode as I started to know him through Alicia’s eyes. Those beautiful mossy eyes… sorry, I was wandering off.
Back to the point, when I realized that I had a ship, it was too late. Damage done, sheep escaped, dyke cracked… You got the point.
Oh, Mr. King, sometimes I wonder if you knew, five years ago, what you would cause to the audience. And by audience, I feel the need to make clear what I mean. Audience is not who comes and goes, then comes back again – or maybe never looks back – following the blow of the wind. Audience is not who watches the story for a ship and ignores everything else, leaving when waters are rough, abandoning the sinking ship and coming back when the lifeboat gets in sight. Nope, Robert (can I call you Robert, can’t I?). Real audience is who stays, faithful like a guide dog, through storms and sunshine, never afraid to laugh, to cry, to scream colorful curses at the screen, to shout at our loved characters, loudly, very loudly, because we want to make sure they hear us from inside that bewitched box called TV. Never afraid to feel. Even when feel gets a twisted sense and turns against us, leaving us bleeding – metaphorically at least for us – and we wish we never felt. To feel becomes the resound of shots from afar, it becomes the shocked faces of Diane and Kalinda and we suddenly think “Oh, fuck, this is not happening!”
It was Sunday 23rd March, 2014. The day our fandom flipped out. The day oceans gained gallons of salt water from all the tears shed. The day you killed William Paul Gardner and our whole world collapsed. We are talking about a fictional character? Yes, we are not yet insane to the point of not knowing that Will is very much fictional. Fictional for our minds, real for our distraught hearts. You sent a whole fandom – with a few heartless exceptions – in mourning. You think I’m kidding, Robert? (If I have to go back to a detached Mr. King, it’s okay, just say it and I will.) I won’t blame you for his death, you did your job. But you might have underestimated the impact of such a loss on those who love him – I mean loved, sometimes I forget he’s gone. Sigh.
I’ve been grieving ever since and trust me when I tell you that I’m not alone. Actually I am grateful that I’m not alone, since it means I’m not completely crazy.
I could start from the grieving symptoms, which don’t seem to fade away. Here is the list:
- Lack of appetite (for which I should actually thank you, this year I won’t fail the bathing suit test!)
- Insomnia (three straight days, cost of sleeping pills on day 4: $ 24.00)
- Random fits of tears in the most unexpected moments of the day and of the night (you go and explain my boss while I spent my Monday crying instead of working)
- Swinging moods, worse than a pregnant lady, shifting from laughter to hysterical sobs in a nanosecond.
Just so you are not unprepared, I am gathering the bills of our shrinks, you should get them by registered mail very soon (we are waiting one more week so we can add the ones that will still come after next episode, of course) and you are expected to refund them or we’ll start a class action. We are generous and give you three days to decide :D
As cherry on top, can we discuss all the lethally emotional flashbacks you gave us in the last two seasons? So many nice moments that I’ll personally be unable to watch without crying for the rest of my life. That hot balcony sex that from now on will be the-happiest-Alicia-has-ever-been-and-will-never-be-again-because-Will-is-dead. Memory: erased. Their first kiss in Will’s office, with the snow falling silently outside his window; so romantic, wasn’t it? From now on it will be Oh-the-first-kiss-with-the-love-of-her-life-who-will-be-dead-in-four-years-from-now. Memory: erased. And what about the EPIC (capital letters needed) elevator ride to the presidential suite? You even felt the need to give us flashbacks from inside the room only a few weeks ago. It was such a nice gesture to remind us how hot and sweet they were together. Just before killing him.
And it’s still okay. You are telling your story, for the sake of Alicia’s education, it was better to have him shot than to send him away. It’s the earthquake that will change her life forever. Again.
After all of this, one would assume that such proof of courage and strength should be awarded; with appreciative words – “Our audience is the best!” – or with coherence – “Alicia and Kalinda are the core relationship of the show!” (Still waiting for that day and I start to suspect it’ll never come) – but no, apparently we are not. In your eyes the audience is probably a mass of random idiots who take what they’re being given and never complain. Ding! Ding! NOPE! Sorry dear, but we are not. We have a dignity and we expect respect in return. Nothing more than respect.
This time, Robert, you took a false step. A giant one. Let me show you exactly where…
“We wanted to give the audience the expectation that near the end of the year they could get back together.”
You wanted what?
“We wanted to give the audience the expectation that near the end of the year they could get back together.”
Oh. So I got it right.
I am a bit confused by the above quote (which I take the liberty to remind you that they are words you spoke during the latest panel.) Maybe I’m taking it a bit personally, but after grieving four days – and still far from being over – for the death of Will, I found it a bit rude, maybe even cruel. Let’s tell it clear, it was a slap in the face of who, like me, has been faithful since the very beginning. I’m sure you could have done better than to trick the audience. I’m sure you could have killed our beloved Will and still come out as a winner. You could… but you didn’t. You broke our hearts and instead of saying sorry you threw them in the shifting sands.
Even deprived of my heart, I will still be here, every Sunday, with a careful eye on Alicia. I will be here to watch her grieving, crying inconsolably for the loss of the man she loved, finding the strength to move on (and please, I said move on, not move back) because she’s my girl, because I’m protective of her as I would of a real human being. For this I bow down to you, Robert, you made me love her unconditionally.
If I’ll never leave it’s thanks to the greatness of her character. Even if it hurts, even if it kills, even if it frustrates me and makes me curse every now and then.
In my heart, still drowning in the sands, Alicia and Will’s love will never die.