One is in her early fifties. She was once married to a man, and even had a daughter with him. I don’t know when she discovered she is a lesbian, but she started living as a lesbian with a girlfriend almost halfway though her life. She told me she was a lesbian shyly, as if she had to prove herself.
One is thirteen years old. I babysit her, and she came out as lesbian to everyone she knows this week. She is taking a girl to her school dance, and she hopes that they will start dating.
They are both true and real lesbians. They discovered their lesbianism in vastly different times of their lives, and their experiences of coming out are very different. But one is not more “real” than the other because of age differences and the timelines of their lives.
All lesbians are true and real, no matter when they discover they are lesbians, whether they’ve dated or married men, or when/if they come out.
okay but i kinda had an inkling coming into the episode that lucifer might be put in a situation where he thought that what he had with chloe was just fake/all a trick by dad/something of the sort, and still have to choose to go to hell to save her anyway (i originally thought it would have to be proved that it was real, and then that happened and then yes the end, but i kinda guessed that was where it might end up when they kept talking about the whole real/not real thing)
and i kind of love it that that’s what happened? he’s not going because he expects to get anything out of it, in fact he’s actively convinced there’s nothing there to save because it was all an illusion, and yet he’s going to have to DO this completely selfless thing and risk hell for her anyway, and we saw how he went in 0.2 seconds from angry and betrayed to “oh no she’s bleeding what do i do”
but because lucifer is, as noted, a dense motherfucker, it’s gonna take some doing for him to figure it out. that he is doing this thing in a situation where there is (apparently) no conceivable benefit for him whatsoever, where the only thing that is at stake is chloe’s life, and he just knows and acts right away that nope, he’s not letting her die, end of story.
and he has to learn that that is love, that is the exact essence of what he thinks is just a dream, and that it was his choice to do that and save her, and anyway yes just leave me here.
I need that moment when Jon meets Gendry, and his face lights up when he realises that this boy kept Arya Stark safe.
I need that moment when he realises Arya survived King’s Landing, and he desperately asks Gendry to describe her to him, his beloved baby sister.
I need Gendry to tell Jon that she hid herself as a boy, and see Jon smirk and look not surprised, affection across his face.
I need Gendry to tell Jon that she carried this thin sword, a child’s sword really, and that she was never parted from it - that she clung to it, always, as though her life depended on it.
I need Jon to hear this and whisper, “Needle,” in disbelief, as he realises that after all this time and all these years, strong, brave Arya Stark held onto the gift he gave her. She never forgot.
I need Gendry to look at Jon, this bastard born son who is a King, who is Arya Stark’s brother, and realise that when Arya said, “I can be your family” she meant it. I need Gendry to see Jon and see that being a bastard really truly means nothing to Arya.
I need Jon and Gendry to realise they are the two bastard boys beloved to their beloved Arya Stark.
And I need the two bastard boys beloved to Arya Stark to come back to her, together, and shower her in the love and warmth that she has lived without for so long.
She wishes it didn’t happen like this, but it did, and it has, and there’s nothing she can do to change it now.
“In another world,” he whispers into her hair, words spilling over her temple and brushing her eyes shut, “in another universe, with a different you and a different me, we would have been together.”
In this life, though, her entire existence has been racing towards this point.
And there’s no changing it now.
His name is Stiles Stilinski, which is probably the weirdest name she’s ever heard in her life, but somehow it suits him.
They’re in the third grade and he’s moved into the house behind hers, and as she’s swinging in her backyard he climbs the tree overhanging their shared fence. His jeans are too baggy and he tears his shirt on a branch and doesn’t even seem to notice.
“What’s your name?” he asks, perched above her.
She kicks harder so that she can swing to his eye level. “Lydia.” Kick, swing. “Lydia Martin.”
“Lydia Martin,” he repeats, tasting her name on his tongue. “That’s a nice name.”
“Better than Stiles,” she says smugly, testing him.