i can't ever see moments like this without hearing in the back of my mind

Hey guys! I’ve told you before that I’m a writer so this is a hella long post because it’s track-by-track. Unapologetically so. Hope you guys enjoy x 


 This song is a battlecry. The thumping bass brings to mind the heavy thud of wolves paws as they race towards their prey, seeking the trail left by a girl who used to leave her heart open and on her sleeve, ready to be snatched at any moment in a snap of their jaws. But no more. From the moment she clears her throat, we learn this battle will be on Taylor’s terms. It is her fight to win.

This is the first love song she’s released and had complete artistic ownership of in three years. It is no coincidence then that there’s reference to the tortured passions of Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton. They were a couple hopelessly and dangerously in love with many scars carved on their hearts by the other’s knife. This reference is a throwaway to the long list of ex lovers the girl who bathes in diamonds has had but also a reference to the flickers of hope Taylor feels for longevity no matter what with Joe. Their road may be complicated at times but they will get  there because the game is hers. The constant question of ready for it and in response baby let the games begin is so obviously a call of warning to Joe for what lies ahead but perhaps more subtly it is the call of Taylor’s inner voices and heart to her razor sharp self awareness. Is she ready for the games to begin? Is she ready to open her heart and give Joe a chance to be a better man?

TRACK 2: “END GAME” ft. Ed Sheeran & Future:

This song starts off with Taylor’s declaration that she wants to find a forever. It sounds sincere, gentle, wearied, the tone of the too often heartbroken. But then it shifts, it’s like the rose coloured glasses have come off and she’s reminded of her reputation. Then it’s all tongue in cheek sarcastic satire to keep the smile in place so that we don’t see how much it hurts. She has to weigh up every interaction in the context of her reputation. The addition of Ed & Future speaks volumes; one is a time trusted friend who has finally found a bright love of his own but that was not without heartbreak and the other gives her an edgier attitude that makes her self awareness all the more powerful.

There has been a further loss of innocence in this sharpening of her self awareness, gone are the wistful days of “say you’ll remember me”, that’s all I want. Now it’s all “I don’t wanna touch you, I don’t wanna be just another ex love you don’t wanna see.” She can see the fall right from the start but this time she opts out and says unless I’m your end game… because I don’t want to pick up any more pieces of my broken heart.

Also: Shoutout to Ed for his Cherry inspired verse. It made me feel many emotions too. SWEERAN THRIVES.


The girl with the long list of ex lovers is back. However with the casually explicit twist, this narrative seems layered with perceptions and recognition of self-worth, “If a man talks shit, I owe him nothing.” This is drip-feeding the media exactly what they want, she’s stoking the fire herself. But in feeding the fire herself, she’s sending the burning embers back at them. Did you really think the girl who you used as an international rod for slut shaming would stay quiet forever? Nope. She doesn’t care if you burn her like a witch at the stake because she’s already done it. She’s burnt away all of the misplaced guilt and is now revelling in how good they felt in the moment. In fact, watch out she’s blazing with all the fire of a phoenix reborn and you might just get turned to ash.


This & “I Did Something Bad” sound like sister tracks. The girl who jetsets around the world collecting men isn’t quite finished with her tale yet. She reminds us that defining her relationships by their headlines and paparazzi shots is a foolish move because those things are  one-dimensional. Taylor believes in love and this is her way of reminding us that there was love in every escapade of her heart up until now, at least at some point. She’s talking about the heady rushes head spinning intoxication of first glances and hands on skin and it doesn’t matter what the media says about the way she handles relationships because they forget love and that makes you crazy. Maybe in their minds the drug she refers to is not a singular identity but a collective “baby” and to them love will always be something she “uses”. But the heart wants what it wants and Taylor knows that so it doesn’t really matter.


This is the kind of song that happens when you cut the cord that is the boy crazy perception of yourself. You step back into the shadows and disappear so that they can’t find you. You close your heart, lock your doors and rebuild. And then he shows up. This is a cautionary songpp because Taylor can obviously feel sparks but… she’s just started to rebuild and if they find out the wolf hunt begins again. With delicate disbelieving vocals, we see Taylor start to realise that he can’t possibly want to gain anything from her reputation because it’s so bad… The wheels turn in her head. I imagine the realisation, “Wait so he must like me for me?” With the beat drop comes hope. Details are slowly given and then he stays. He doesn’t run so Taylor gives him pieces of herself; confessions thoughts and then her brain catches up with her mouth and the wheels come to a grinding halt: Her inner monologue screams it was too much too fast. We’ve all been there. It’s too delicate. No going back now. It’ll break and I’ll be left alone. Maybe one day I’ll find someone who doesn’t walk away, one day too.


The world tore a girl to shreds, made her play the fool on tilted stages. She retreated and rebuilt. Now the fool is dead. From here on out, she only trusts her army. With high heeled boots, red lips and words as sharp as daggers, she’s cutting herself a path. She is taking no prisoners and she’s accompanied by a savage snake because she and her army will always be better at the game. When she’s finished hunting down your asses, she’ll sit back on her throne with a high pitched giggle and say, “oh look what you made me do.”


When people are watching, you have to be careful. Cover your tracks. Taylor doesn’t leave her heart open or on display anymore. But then they leave. The door shuts. You lock it with a key and the crashing chemistry you’ve been trying to deny slams into your ribs, knocking the breath out of you. It’s stolen kisses, careless touches, reckless chasing of the high. Body language is a fluency all its own. But a quick reminder before you unlock the door and venture out again; wash the lipstick off your face. *clears throat* you got a little caught up in the moment and you don’t want to blow your cover!


 The childish proclamation of the title to begin this next glimpse into Reputation  is hinting at the satirical inner monologue that this song is , reminiscent of the times you write your crush’s  last name instead of your own to see how it fits. It’s all giggles and late night phone calls, the kind Taylor most likely had with Abigail where they talked real slow because it was late and their mamas didn’t know (: However, it could also serve as a projection of the runaway daydream that fills Taylor’s mind from that very first night when she stumbles home alone to her cats, of what a possible future might look like (with kids one day) The lazy liquor loosened rhythms of Taylor’s thoughts tell us things she hasn’t admitted fully yet but will soon on nights at 4am staring at her reflection  in the bathroom mirror, telling herself the bravest thing she ever did was run - that this gorgeous  swoonworthy British boy with his careless touches and drawling accent has awakened the possibility of something better. This realisation rattles Taylor as she contemplates the gaps in her current relationship. *cue wistful sighs of frustration and enchantment, set to the dialogue of every teenage movie where the girl thinks the boy is just too good looking, how unfair is that?


The thing about any movie that has a getaway car scene is that they inevitably crash…. And that’s exactly what happens here. Except, the carnage is human hearts. She was running. There was a person she crashed into. It gets all blurred and tangled, she thinks she’s free but the thing about those movies is that the thing you ran from in the getaway car catches up to you particularly if there’s a track you can follow. Oceans of distance weren’t enough, darling. You needed to disappear. And I think she realises that  but she tries to pretend innocence and will the sunset closer. Unfortunately  the only real  way to untangle yourself is to disappear crying in the back of a getaway car in the dead of night. Without a word. That must have hurt a lot.


This song happens in tandem with Delicate. She’d sworn off love. Joe turned up. The British boy with the heart of gold who made his American queen believe. He made behind closed doors a paradise of rooftop nights. Before she knows it, he is every love story Taylor has ever daydreamed of. The line “is this the end to all the endings” made my heart swell because it’s clear Taylor hopes he’s the one. Please let there be no more heartbreak.


Dancing is supposed to be a joyous thing and maybe it was in the beginning. You can reassure with every beat. Sometimes your gut instinct shouldn’t be ignored though  because it does raise red flags. The door only needs to be fractionally ajar for the hunters to find a way in and set your paradise aflame. It sometimes doesn’t matter how much you dance to escape the flames, they will catch you. You will get tired. Dancing is a bliss that is euphoria swimmimg through your veins if the beat enters your bloodstream in the right moment; you feel like you could live forever. And in the end no matter how much it might hurt to walk away again, you would still dance for just another kick of that rush.


Taylor’s caught up in the chemical rush. Every syllable drips with lust and the glory of the high when your hearts crash into each other, slamming the breath from between your ribs. It’s hands in hair and I don’t care what they think. It’s seeing the worst (hi bleachella) and still wanting. It’s realising you made mistakes before this and why didn’t you just do this from the beginning because it feels so good now you can’t ever have imagined wanting anything else. But every mistake is a marker in the roadmap and you woke up just in time to find where you needed to be.


I think everyone’s been in this situation, right? Someone burns you and it hurts but in the fun of a party, you click and connect again and it all starts to feel like water under the bridge. Maybe there was over-reacting happening. You throw them a second chance. Redemption. You’re the nice girl and you make excuses. But then they do it again, maybe it takes a couple of things and suddenly it’s too much. You lock the gate for your own safety. But they still expect you not to care. To flash a smile and forgive. I’m sorry. That’s not happening. You get hurt when I push back. I guess I should forgive you because we both threw stones. But… that would require me to mean it. Whoops, *laughs manaically* I can’t even say it with a straight face!!!

PS: It’s not too obvious I have personal experience with this song is it? Thanks KS x.


This song is difficult for me to process because I never thought it would actually happen. I seem to remember somewhere along the way, a couple of years back, Taylor expressing frustration that she couldn’t seem to write happy songs about being in love like Ed Sheeran could. Well, I wish you could go back Taylor and tell yourself what you know now.

This song is a three minute ode to happy love. It’s smiles so wide you might split your face in half at the thought of that person. It’s blushing and shy giggles and bursts of song and twirls and all caps texts from your girls as they collectively lose their minds over how happy you are. This is every love story and fairytale Taylor has ever wanted but the wolves are always waiting, not so easy to outrun. 

Taylor says it herself in the  opening lines. She was done. The castle had crumbled. The bricks left bruises blooming on her exposed skin. People were tearing her down and she was hurting. Her heart had been shattered but so had her soul, again and again, relentlessly. And then she retreated, went silent and rebuilt. What she didn’t count on was love. A man who saw all the bruises and broken pieces and said it’s OK, I can still find the real you under all that. Taylor like so many of us looked in the mirror and saw all the danger for herself and for Joe, tried to push him away, keep him safe. That’s a very noble action but breaking your own heart so it doesn’t hurt as much when you feel like the other shoe is going to drop requires apathy from the other person. And Joe, god bless you, you didn’t let her push you away. You broke down her walls and showed you that starlight love does still exist. You loved her for Taylor. The person. You got her to give love a chance when she swore never again so thank you so much for that. I can’t really express how much that means to all of us. 

 This is an anthem of hope for every person who has ever been broken and is in the process of putting pieces back together. It can be done. We will find love. We will be radiantly happy again. We will be the strongest we’ve ever been. 

PS: *leans over to whisper in Taylor’s ear*

I think you’re finally clean…


Piano on the final track… This is an ode of pure hope and happiness, a fitting final chapter to a remarkable story. Everyone wants the glory of the midnights and the lover who will be in their bloodstream like the party. But what we all hope for is someone who stays long enough to help us clean up the bottles on New Years Day. Someone who makes us feel like the messy unfiltered parts look like a highlight reel. Good times and bad times and all in between. They won’t leave. You found him. Forever.

This album is fucking brilliant Taylor. I love you. Proud x.

@taylorswift @taylornation @brian-mansfield

Hate That You Know Me (So Well)


Adrien and Marinette discuss Chat Noir.

Can also be found on FF.net and AO3.

“Can I ask you a question?”

She was lying face down on his carpet so he was left to interpret the muffled “yrsfh”. She hadn’t said no to him yet so he gave in to precedence.

“Does Chat Noir know?”

Marinette didn’t answer him right away so he leaned over the side of the couch to look down at her.  She turned her face so it was no longer buried in his rug and one very blue, very wary eye peeked up at him.

“No,” She whispered.  “No one was supposed to know.”

It had been like this for an hour now. 

She seemed to still be coming out of shock.  After all, it wasn’t every day your classmate stumbles upon your biggest secret. Adrien wished, not for the first time, that he had chosen any other alley, if only to spare her whatever she was feeling right now.

“I’m sorry,” He said, again.

She turned her face back into the carpet.  “Snrt yr fawl.”

And, really, it wasn’t.

Not when he considered the increase in akuma attacks over the past few months or the fact that he and Marinette had been circling each other for over a year.  In fact, Adrien was surprised that they hadn’t stumbled upon each other transforming sooner.

It really was obvious now that he knew.

Of course Ladybug was Marinette.  There was no one else in Paris like her.

And if, after the warm, pink light faded, her startled eyes met his with anything but absolute despair he wouldn’t have hesitated pulling her to him.

As it was, he had still been reeling from the gunshock that was watching his beautiful classmate (had she really been so close) transform into his beautiful partner, when she crumpled in on herself shaking no, no, no, no.

And when Adrien finally did realize what was happening and started to move forward she was already up, fragile and broken and strong.

“Don’t say a word.”

Caught in the steel of her eyes he could only nod before she threw her yoyo up and out, vanishing from the alleyway.

There was, after all, an akuma.

Keep reading

waiting here for catastrophe

aka that buzz.feed unsolved serial killer!shane fic i only mentioned writing to like two people, no one is here for this but i’m posting it anyway
pairing: lowkey shane/ryan
rating: probably T? maybe M? there’s a severed head involved but no graphic descriptions of violence
content: mentions of murder, like i said there’s an instance of a severed head, this gets a lot more comedic than you’d expect, shane eats cocoa puffs 
on ao3

Ryan.” Shane breaks off and sits down again, slides his chair closer to Ryan’s, stares him down. “God, fuck, look at me, okay, I did this. I did this, this is my case, this is mine, everything you’re talking about—”

Ryan can’t help it: he laughs. It comes out a little anxiously, but it’s a laugh all the same, because Shane can’t really expect him to buy into this, right?

And Shane looks—well, murderous is either the wrong word or the right one. “I’m not kidding.”

“You really want me to believe—”

“You entertain all possible theories, right?” Shane says, exasperated and angry, and Ryan notices it’s the first time he’s ever said that seriously. “That’s what this stupid show is—that’s what you do. So entertain this one.”

All at once, it stops being funny. Something the size of a golf ball seems to lodge itself high in Ryan’s throat. He realizes it’s alarm, fear, a caged bird thrashing against the bars inside himself. He’s waiting for Shane to break, to burst into laughter, to say it’s all a stupid joke, but it doesn’t happen.

“What the fuck,” he croaks out.

Keep reading


quick Reddie oneshot because I’m in love with these two and can’t stop thinking about how quick Richie was to comfort Eddie during the big attack scene. like, he’d obviously done it before. just saying.

which inspired this, enjoy!

Keep reading

This fic has been on my chest for days and I’m so glad that it’s finally done!

Anyway, this is based on @kaxpha‘s lost lance au and I was so excited to write this, the au has taken over my life no kidding. It also has a second part and you can find it here on @bleusarcelle‘s blog.

I’m very proud of how this came out(for now at least) :’)

I hope you’ll like it! <3

Keith hears the moment when Shiro takes in a shaky breath as the two of them and the rest of the guests watch Allura walks down the aisle. She stands tall and proud, a big smile on her face but when she meets Keith’s eyes for a few moments, he can see the storm of emotions that they hide.

He gives her an encouraging smile before her eyes move on to Shiro. The moments their gazes lock it’s like something shifts in the room: the mood, the quiet, the air. Keith isn’t sure what changes, but it feels like a relieved sigh. It feels like Allura is saying you’re here, like Shiro is agreeing iIm here, it feels like both of them are realizing we’re here and this is happening and i’ve never been more happy before.

Keep reading

A Hundred Lesser Faces: (Seven)

Notes from Mod Bonnie

  • This story stems from the premise: what if Voyager!Claire had gone first to Lallybroch instead of directly to the print shop in Edinburgh?

Many a red-headed man I’d passed on the long road from Lallybroch. Every single time, my stupid, desperate heart had leapt with joy; and every time, I cursed myself for the fool that I was. For Christ’s SAKE, why the bloody hell should he be on the road from Inverness, Beauchamp? Jamie Fraser is south, in Edinburgh, with his wife. With his daughters. Happy. So, pull yourself together. 

So deep had been my longing, though, that my traitorous eyes had tried over and over to convince me that it might be, it MIGHT be this time! (even when the actual travelers hadn’t looked remotely like Jamie). Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ, one had been a very tall boy no more than twelve, and I still had had to see his face from ten feet before I would allow my heart to quiet. Not him. Not him. 

Blind hope, indeed. 

But this time, as I whirled and fell on the hillside, heart exploding, in a single moment, I was certain. Even from a great distance, even two decades later, even not yet able to see his face through the snow-flecked gloom, even had he not been screaming my name, yes, I’d know the shape of that man anywhere. It was Jamie, tearing toward me on horseback, riding like the hounds of hell were at his heels. And the SIGHT of him? A relief and a love smashed through me, so deep and so visceral that I staggered downward; not running, not even making my way down the hill;  just slipping, pulled toward his orbit. 

Alive. I had known for months, believed, had confirmation from Jenny herself, and yet the proof was now there before my eyes. Not under a stone on Culloden Moor; that nightmare was now banished forever. Jamie Fraser was ALIVE.

I saw him kick hard, spurring the horse to an even more astonishing pace—how loudly must he have been screaming that I had been able to hear him from so far away?—and found myself bursting out with joyous laughter at the way his shirt flapped like a sail in the wind. Nothing changed, then, if the ridiculous man had ridden without a coat or a cloak against the wind and the sn—




Please….please, no.

This changes absolutely nothing, Beauchamp. This ends with you going through those stones, sooner or later. Make it sooner. 

But he came for me—Jamie came! He’s HERE.

He’s happy. He may have come, but he’s happy.  Don’t make him suffer by forcing this impossible choice. 

Just let me say goodbye.


Let me hold him, just for —


Can you honestly do what needs to be done if you have to look him in the eye and pull yourself out of his arms?

“CLAIRE!—What are ye—? S T O P !”

I was running up the hill, stumbling and tripping, going as fast as I could. I couldn’t stop. If I looked at him—If I touched him…

Everything seemed to slow to single frames, impressions:

The slow shrill cry of my breaths,

the grass suddenly inches from my nose as I staggered low over a boulder.

Hoofbeats, closer, louder.

I’m running for my life through quicksand,

every footfall sinking me deeper, and slower, as the monster gets closer and closer and—

A fierce whinny, a curse.

A voice— my voice—screaming. “STAY AWAY!”

Boots hitting the ground,


Running, both of us running,  

and I couldn’t stop.

I must not st—

Time smashed into its normal pace again as I fell, mere yards from the crest of the hill, and cried out in pain.

“CLAIRE!” God, he was so close, pounding up the hill behind me, no more than thirty—

Don’t!” I shouted as I scrambled to my feet. 


“DO—NOT—TOUCH—ME!”  I screamed it over my shoulder with all the violence I possessed, a feral beast, cornered and ready to go for the throat as it went down.

Silence fell on the faerie hill. Stillness, and absolute silence.

When human thought returned, I was on my feet at the very top of the hill, the stones screaming their evil song behind me. My body was slung sideways, both arms raised in defense; my head hung at an improbable angle so as to look nowhere, see nothing: not the stones, not him. It was elemental in my body, in that moment: the absolute imperative not to look at him. If I could keep from looking, keep from getting trapped in those eyes, everything would be alright.

It was a ridiculous logic, I knew; somewhere in the recesses of my consciousness, that was obvious. Jamie Fraser was HERE. He wouldn’t simply let me walk away unacknowledged; but such was the depth of my panic and hysteria that I couldn’t move. I was bare millimeters from completely falling apart, abandoning all my noble resolve, and flinging myself into his arms, begging him to choose me  take me and damn the fucking consequences.

But it still wouldn’t change a bloody thing, the rational half of my mind whimpered. He would still be married. He would still have his children. We still could not be together, or at least not under any circumstances that honor would permit. I still could not force him to make that choice. 

Hold yourself together, Beauchamp. No tears, remember? You said you could do the same for him; could be calm and sure for him. Now, do it. Stand strong.

“….Mo nighean donn?”

That flower-stem snap.

That voice—Jamie’s sweet, clear voice; my very heart speaking aloud, quietly, but with every ounce of pain and longing that I felt in my own breast. 

Look at me, mo nighean donn.”

Stand. strong.

My mouth was dry and my entire body was shaking, each word an effort. “— Can't—”

A sudden, vicious snarl. “LOOK at me!”

I half-growled, half screamed, “I—CANT!” 

Desperate. So desperate, that ‘can’t’. I was shaking. Going into shock, in fact. Could feel the darkness and the manic energy and the absolute inability to retrieve words or actions closing—

Claire Elizabeth Beauchamp.” 

He said it like he always said his own name: low and distinct, with honor in every syllable.  


“I have ridden,” he said, in a voice so quiet and deep and measured, “night and day for nigh on a week, terrified that—terrified th—*Please,*” His calm vanished and the words were tumbling out of him in a frantic rush. “Please, for the love ye bear me, for the love that brought ye to find meTURN.”


God, but I can’t stand.

“By everything that is holy…” A whispered moan. “Let me see your face, mo ghraidh.

….and damn my weak, foolish heart, I turned. I looked.

Day and night for a week, he’d said, and I believed it. Even at a distance of twenty feet down the hill, I could see just how bloodshot his eyes were, wide and wild. He was pale, underneath the red of wind and exertion, paler than I remembered. That glorious hair was now worn long. If it had been tied back, the ride and the wind had undone it. It was wild and tangled, whipping about his face, his chin covered in stubble that nearly amounted to a beard. His clothes—nothing but shirt, breeks and boots— were filthy and torn and splattered with mud. He looked, quite simply, dead on his feet.

He was the most beautiful sight I’d ever beheld.

God, you’re so like her, I wanted to moan. I’d known it, had had my heart broken every day to see the proof of him in our daughter, and yet seeing him now before me, I was absolutely run through to find her broad, good-humored face there, the same dark blue eyes aslant the high, flat cheekbones and wide mouth. 

He’d aged, of course, as had I. The lines around eyes and mouth were deeper, the skin more weathered and coarse, but it was still him. His nose had been broken, at some point. It made him look fiercer, though perhaps that was simply fatigue and the vast waves of emotion obviously rushing through him, through us both. 

Jamie had staggered back a pace or two back as he stared up at me, nearly toppling down the steep incline. “Jesus….Christ…” he whispered. The back of his hand was pressed to his mouth as though to stifle a cry, “You’re….You….” The hand became a fist and he shook his head as a gasping smile broke from him. “Claire—God, Claire, mo chridhe!” He moved, about to sprint up the hill. 

I jumped backward. Raised my arms against him. No.

Hurt. Betrayal. Pain. It was as though I had shot him at point-blank range…And something deeper shone beneath it all: some blazing intensity I couldn’t quite identify. He looked as though he would bleed out there on the spot, from this newest wound. 

So will I, my love. 

But he heeded me, standing completely still. His hands shook, half-raised before him. He simply didn’t know what to do with them—I knew because I didn’t know what to do with mine. His mouth worked as he tried to speak, to ask, to say something, but failing. Those eyes held everything, though. Pleading.

Silence on the hill. Silence and screaming. 

“You—survived,” I managed at last, weakly, with something like a laugh.

“Aye—” He exhaled in a huge rush, clearly grateful that I’d broken the stalemate. “It was a verra close thing.” He spoke fast and frantically, babbling, even, as though terrified to let silence fall again. “I should have died in the battle, or from the firing squads after, or of my wounds festering, but— Aye, I—I was—spared.”

“Thank God,” I whispered, and his eyes lit with such hope and relief that I could have cut my bloody tongue out at the root.

STOP this instant, Beauchamp. Nothing has changed.

Jamie was the one to break the silence, this time. “Your letter,” he gasped out.

“You read it, then?” A stupid thing to say. He’d obviously read it, but I clung to conversation just as he had. The stupid words were something, something to keep from falling off the edge of this insanity. “When?”

“By providence, I arrived at Lallybroch the same day you’d left, and….Oh, God, CLAIRE….”

Oh, God, Jamie. 

Each time my name left him, it seemed to tear a piece out of both of us. I could only look down at him, waiting.

“When I saw your hand on that letter,” he said, voice shaking uncontrollably, “the print of your ring in the wax, I …”

He shook his head, at a loss, mouthing it over and over. I…I….

Through the snow, though darkness was creeping steadily around us, I could see the first tear sliding down his cheek. “….I felt as though I were dying.”

So did I. So do I.

“To know you’d survived—that you’d come back, and—and,” his eyes lit up. “Brianna.”

From his lips, our daughter’s name sounded like strange music from another world, and I wanted to listen to it forever.

“It would have been enough—more than enough—only to ken our bairn had lived, that the both of ye had lived and been cared for, but to….Claire, I simply couldna believe my eyes.” He shook his head, violently. “To see…to SEE the lass…our daughter.” Jamie released his sobbing breath and closed his eyes, holding out his hands before him, tears streamed down his cheeks. “Her entire life, there before me… and she so happy and so braw and bonny and—God, it tore out my beating heart.” He heaved a breath and smiled up at me, beaming with love and joy, though it was difficult for him to get out the words. “She’s—more wonderful than I ever could have imagined, mo ghraidh….Our Brianna.”

I forced a smile and choked down a sob. “I’m so honored,” I whispered, so haltingly, so carefully, so, so carefully, “to have been able—to bring her to you, in some way.”

My love.

My own love.

Nothing has changed.

I know. 

I took a step, two steps, backward toward the stones. This was the part where I was to be strong. 

Jamie’s eyes snapped into laser-focus, a predator’s, and that unknown intensity I’d seen earlier flamed now into life. It was anger

“Why would ye just GO?” His voice was still wretched with pain but he was snarling, stammering, growling in mounting fury. “Ye—ye came for me and—Ye came all the way from your time through the stones and then meant to go back and leave forever wi’out even—Damn ye, woman, ye didna even—If I hadna come just in time—Foolish—wretched, FOOLISH—” He hurled the demand toward me with his entire body. “WHY?”

“You *know* why.” It was all but a moan. 

He growled again. “Ye dinna ken —” 

“I know that you’re married,” I got out, moving sideways around the rim of the hill, countering his advance. “I know you have children. Jenny told me everything—how hap—”

“No, Claire, ye dinna understand!” Something had shifted in his eyes — relief? — and he was once again still, though scarcely fifteen feet in front of me down the hill. “Jenny lied. She lied, Claire,” he insisted, the words falling out of him. “She lied and made ye think I was—”

You’re not  ??”

Jenny lied! Thank the bloody stars above, the horrible bitch LIED!!! Jesus H— 

My smile broke through like the dawn, a blaze of glorious, raging happiness as I gasped out, “Then, you’re not married?”

And I watched as that hope shriveled and vanished to dust. His eyes dropped to the ground. “I am marrit.”

I swayed, eyes closed. I couldn’t bear this any longer, couldn’t take this agony raging in my heart, both the emotional and the physical heart. I felt light-headed, felt pain in my limbs. I couldn’t be strong. I couldn’t.

Just a little while longer. Say your farewell, and be gone. It will be alright, Beauchamp. 

“Then she didn’t lie,” I said, simply, my throat burning with the effort not to wail. “You have a wife and two beautiful daughters.” I caught my breath and opened my eyes, managing to smile, though I was so very near the brink. “I meant what I wrote in the letter. Every single word. I want you to be happy—and I’m glad that you are. I’m glad that you have a family and that they have made you happy.”

His brows were drawn up, making him look absolutely crazed. He mouthed the word like he’d never heard it before. Happy?

“But I—” Somehow, I kept up the smile as I whispered through wooden lips and burning throat and the tears. “—but it means—that I have—to go, now— before—”

“NO,” he snarled, springing with sudden force. I staggered still further away around the hill as he bellowed, “You’ll NOT—”

“BE STILL!” I bellowed back.

And once again, he heeded me. 

“For God’s fucking SAKE, you bloody — Scot!” I shouted down at him, suddenly just as furious as he. “Have you NO notion of what — Don’t you understand? I’m giving you up! I’m letting you go!” I gestured wildly behind me to the stones, choking on my tears. “I’m leaving so you don’t have to choose! Do you think I’m so arrogant as to believe I’m worth upending your happy—”

“DAMN YOU, woman, I havena been HAPPY in TWENTY YEARS!”

Silence on the faerie hill. Silence and screaming. 

When he spoke again, it was once more in that quiet, aching whisper.

“Jenny led ye to believe otherwise and may she be damned for it.” He took a step forward, pointing.  “But in that letter, ye renewed a promise to me; and I’ll give ye the same, now.” Another step. 

I stepped back. 

He surrendered, went to his knees, hands clenched in the posture of oath-taking. “No lies, Claire.” His eyes blazed into mine. “Nor secrets. Not ever. Not now. I swear it on Brianna’s life.”

God, my heart…

“Will ye hear what I have to tell?” 

…it simply couldn’t take this.

But I nodded. 

“I left Laoghaire more than a year past.”


The outburst was so violent, so loud and so shrill in the wake of my long silence, that it startled us both. Jamie had to put a hand out to steady himself as he jumped, and the acute panic of a fresh hell showed across his face.  “She—Jenny didna—?”

“No, she BLOODY well DIDN’T!”

“Aye, well—ah …ehm…Claire?” 

He was peering leerily up at me, and little wonder, for I was laughing—actually, CACKLING with laughter, hands clutched to my belly as I doubled over with it. 

“No, Jenny didn’t tell me who,” I sighed, when I had calmed down (marginally). “The only detail your darling sister deigned to divulge about your wife—” 

Of all people. Of ALL the marriageable women in all the bleeding Highlands. He had married —had had children with—loved—

All levity, all scorn dropped out of me, and my voice cracked, a whispering shell. “—was that you were happier with her than she’d ever seen you….And that you had two little girls that call you Da.”

“But they’re not mine, Claire. They’re not mine,” Jamie said again more urgently as I stared. He gritted his teeth. “And I shall wring my sister’s neck for a wicked liar when next I see her, for she kens fine that I’ve not had ninety-nine happy minutes in that marriage since it began.”

I was so cold. Frozen, in every cell. 

“Two years ago, we wed,” he began carefully. “She was marrit before, twice, and found herself a widow wi’ two bairns to feed just as I was newly come back from England.” 

His words were running together, a bit. There was so much warring within him, so much he clearly wished to say, but cold and fatigue and emotion were taking their devastating toll.  

“I’m fond of her lassies—Marsali and Joan. They’re aged fifteen and twelve and have had a cruel, rough way of it, in lives so short. Wi’ all that they’ve endured, I was glad—honored, even— for them to take me into their hearts as a father, but hear me, Claire.” He held my eye. “I’ve shared scarce more wi’ them than what loving gentleness I could offer, and a scant few months of meals shared ‘round the same table. No more.” He shook his head with a sound of shame and regret. “Christ, I sound an unfeeling wretch. I do care for them, I do.

But they weren’t born of his love; nor had he had a hand in raising them.

“Their mother…She…”


“I did have hope, at the beginning; hope that perhaps there could be some — tenderness between us. Nothing like—” He make a vain gesture up at me and closed his eyes, as though he couldn’t bear it. “—like what I kent it could be between a husband and wife, but something good to keep me sane; keep me alive….Can ye see?…Have ye kent that same hope, Claire?…. Only she couldna; or I couldna. I’ll accept the blame in full, but in the end, the ‘why’ and ‘who’ dinna matter. It was a broken thing within months, and I knew that if I’d stayed….” 

He hung his head, and for the first time, I could truly see the twenty years that had gone from his life. 

“I left for Edinburgh; have been there ever since. I provide for them, but I havena called Balriggan home for over a year…nor shared her bed since long before that.”  

The wind whistled between us. What he was saying…

I was numb. I was…It was like I was underwater, with news being shouted to me from dry land as I slowly drowned. 

“I’ve lain wi’ three women, since you’ve been gone,” he blurted suddenly, urgently against my silence, his voice so miserable, his eyes imploring. “Laoghaire, and two single-night encounters, and from one of those—From one of those nights…”

Oh, Jesus…

“William,” he whispered, nodding in confirmation, his eyes absolutely wretched but shining with the need to confess. “He’s a — a bastard, in England, and I shall never see him again. I’ve never told anyone of him, not even Jenny or Ian. His mother, his putative father—they’re both dead. He’s highborn, in the care of a man I trust. John will give him a good life; better than ever a convicted traitor could.” 

He closed his eyes and I could see his mouth working furiously as he tried both to form words and to hold back his weeping. “But he’s my son,” he whispered. “My only son, alive in the world because of me, and he’s bonny and canty and strong, just like Brianna, and there are days when I canna seem to live wi’out seeing him, holding him, or —” And he went silent, hiding his face in his hands until he could manage to speak. “Nor can I regret that he lives, for those years I had near Willie were the closest thing I’ve had to—to — And that only a shell of what….”

He raised a hand up as though he would cup my cheek across the chasm between us; then dropped it. Both hands lay on his thighs, aimless. 

“No. Happiness has not been granted me, Claire.” He stared at his palms, speaking in the barest, broken murmur. “My heart left wi’ you and the bairn; and while it is my duty to go on, to care for those under my protection, as I shall do, I’ve had little joy save the knowledge that at the end, I’d die and be able to find ye, just as I promised. Two hundred years, I said I’d wait. I’ve been counting.”

The snowflakes danced around us in the near-night, oblivious to desperation or to miraculous sparks catching in dark, deep places. 

“And to then learn in a moment that you’d come back…”

I tried to speak; but I was shaking so hard that I couldn’t open my mouth. I clenched it tight, feeling the tears slipping over my lips. 

“Claire?” he moaned, reaching out a hand. “…Lass?…Love?…I feel as if I shall die if I canna touch ye….Please.”

My knees had locked — everything within me had locked, between Jamie and the cold— and as I tried to adjust my footing, I accidentally stumbled backward a pace.

Despair escaped out of him and he jumped up as though to run to me, but he thought better of it, and came back down to his knees.

“Twice, I brought ye here to send ye away, mo nighean donn, because I knew a better life awaited ye on the other side of those accursed stones. Perhaps it does, this day, as well, but this time, I shall beg. Don’t go.” 

He raised both clawed hands to me. The tears were flowing so violently and his face was so deeply contorted so as to be barely recognizable. 

“Don’t go. Stay wi’ me. Stay. I canna…I canna do it…Please.*please*….”  

I was paralyzed, completely immobilized by — by —

“Is it too much to forgive, Claire?” came the cracked moan of my heart through the darkness that had suddenly hidden him from me entirely. “Laoghaire and—and William? Do… do ye not want me?”

God, Jamie…” I whispered, so softly that surely only the grass and the snow could hear. 

It was the first time I had said his name aloud to him.

“….you’re all I want.”

“Then  what   else   matters?”


Nothing else mattered.

And I was flying down to him, and he was flying off his knees to catch me, and the feeling of his arms around me, of Jamie’s arms around me at last was —

Like lightning, striking upon the sand. A flash of light, of power, instantly transforming the hundreds of tiny fragments— the millions of shards weathered to all but nothing by time—into a single, molten one. A whole. 


knives78  asked:

You get this shot of Dany reaching for Jon but Jon does not take it her hand. Instead he chooses to go after the NK all on his own. This is significant because it tells you that if Jon could end this without the help of Dany he would, Beric showed him a different way and he really tried but failed. This if anything reinforced the notion in his mind that he can't do it without Dany.

Hi there! Thanks for the ask!

I apologize I’m just replying now. Thought I’d hold off on judging this shot until the finale aired so I could discuss it in full. Because it is a super interesting thought!

D@ny reaching for Jon was one of those 706 details I missed the first time around but it is curious upon rewatch. I don’t particularly think they telegraphed WHY Jon turned around all that well. It’s pretty chaotic with a lot happening all at once. My original assumption was that Jon realized the team needed him to provide cover to support the mission and in the process of fighting, just got cut off from them. If they wanted to telegraph that Jon intended to fight the NK, IMO, they needed more shots of closeup NK and Jon a la Jon vs Ramsey in BotB.

But thematically, it’s an interesting shot right? That D@ny offers her extended hand and Jon reaches up with clenched knuckles but then decides against taking it. That he turns away, goes in the opposite direction to be a hero on his own, still denying her help even after she flies in there with those colossal war machines. That says a whole lot. It also is another breadcrumb pointing to Viserion’s death as the gamechanger for Jon because he knows what the NK will do with a dead dragon. So fastforward to the boat, Jon realizes they are fucked without her dragons, that there is no time to waste, and he does the very un-Jon-like move of grabbing D@ny’s hand. 

For D@ny, there’s also a potent tragic metaphor in this shot: Jon Snow always just out of her reach. She extends her hand whole heartedly to him. Jon reaches half-heartedly with a clenched fist before turning away to protect others. 

The finale underscored this metaphor IMO. I believe we’re seeing undercover!Jon, so it makes me feel for her in a way. She really does spend most of the episode being influenced by him. Despite riding into the pit on a dragon (and that visual itself is its own doozy of a metaphor, flying into a dragon trap?!), she really lacks agency the whole hour. She offers her personal thoughts and feelings to Jon. He offers up nothing personal in return but she doesn’t seem to notice. When he lays out a travel plan that threatens her safety and makes her advisors nervous, she doesn’t question his motives in the plan. She buys his flimpsy excuse of sending “a better message” as Tyrion and Jorah watch Jon’s growing influence with worry. And then boatbang, she doesn’t notice Jon all weirdly stressed and panic-y on top of her? I’m honestly lowkey concerned for her lack of self-awareness and judgment of others. It makes me want to go all girlfriend on her and take her aside like, GIRL OPEN UP YOUR EYES. 

But this isn’t an out of nowhere trait. D@ny has had a long history of trusting people that are playing her. Off the top of my head, Mirri Maz, Doreah, and Jorah had all played her with varying degrees of malice, before the second book/season closed. And she was clueless until evidence came out proving their treachery. I guess the argument could be made that she’s learned since…but I’m not sure she has? She became less trusting but nothing showed us she ever worked to correct this weakness or ever got better at reading people’s intentions. She states in ACOK that she is “neither deaf nor blind”. Stannis also proclaims “I am not blind”. Both state so with lack of self-awareness to their own actual blindness.

D@ny does have a moment of realization in ADWD:

If I look back, I am doomed, D@ny told herself … but how could she not look back? I should have seen it coming. Was I so blind, or did I close my eyes willfully, so I would not have to see the price of power?

— Daenerys II, ADWD

But it is short-lived. She basically buries this, deciding to be a conqueror and leave Meeren for Westeros.

I’m particularly fascinated by that “if I look back” part because she repeats it over and over across the years. She fears looking back and feeling lost. But that’s exactly what she needs to do to gain some self-awareness and grow some discernment skills. She resists it and thus goes down a path that wasn’t her own. One that will most likely end in tragedy.

This counters Jon pretty sharply, who does nothing but observe. That’s a specific Jon talent GRRM highlights from the very beginning of the series. Bran’s climbing habit seems to be an extension of wanting to, like Jon, see things others did not.

Bran’s first chapter compares Jon’s discernment skills with Robb’s:

The deserter died bravely,” Robb said. He was big and broad and growing every day, with his mother’s coloring, the fair skin, red-brown hair, and blue eyes of the Tullys of Riverrun. “He had courage, at the least.”

“No,” Jon Snow said quietly. “It was not courage. This one was dead of fear. You could see it in his eyes, Stark.” Jon’s eyes were a grey so dark they seemed almost black, but there was little they did not see.

— Bran I, AGOT

This awareness is underscored a couple pages later when Jon discovers Ghost:

Halfway across the bridge, Jon pulled up suddenly. 

“What is it, Jon?” their lord father asked. 

“Can’t you hear it?” 

Bran could hear the wind in the trees, the clatter of their hooves on the ironwood planks, the whimpering of his hungry pup, but Jon was listening to something else. 

“There,” Jon said. He swung his horse around and galloped back across the bridge. They watched him dismount where the direwolf lay dead in the snow, watched him kneel. A moment later he was riding back to them, smiling. 

“He must have crawled away from the others,” Jon said. 

“Or been driven away,” their father said, looking at the sixth pup. His fur was white, where the rest of the litter was grey. His eyes were as red as the blood of the ragged man who had died that morning. Bran thought it curious that this pup alone would have opened his eyes while the others were still blind.

— Bran I, AGOT

Jon hears what neither Ned nor Robb nor Bran nor Theon can hear. As a consequence, he finds Ghost, the only pup of the litter with his eyes wide open.

This is barely 13 pages in. It’s akin to an establishing shot for the character.

There’s been some good takes lately on Jon physically losing his sight (at least partially) in the future. Ever since I learned Jonnel Stark (who married Sansa Stark) was a One-Eyed Lord of Winterfell, I’ve joked about a plot twist that Jon loses an eye in the war against the Dead. 

So it’s worth noting that Sam explains how Maester Aemon, though physically blind, “sees things no one else sees” (Jon VIII, AGOT). 

Arya learns through actually losing her sight that one can become hyperaware of surroundings by relying on other senses, gaining skills of discernment that others with sight ignore.

And because this is a Jonsa blog, I cannot resist adding this passage of Ned’s about Sansa:

It was queer how sometimes a child’s innocent eyes can see things that grown men are blind to. Someday, when Sansa was grown, he would have to tell her how she had made it all come clear for him.

— Eddard XII, AGOT

Of course, here, Sansa had no idea she was helping Ned. And in fact, helping him piece together the puzzle of Joffrey’s parentage actually contributed to his death. She’s still a child and her skills of discernment take some time to evolve—most notably, while she poses as a bastard in the Vale. But it’s a curious connection nonetheless.

The only other people who are said to “see things” in the series have magical connections, Thoros and Melisandre. They both are said to “see things in the flames”. In the case of Melisandre, what she saw was ultimately misleading. Thoros explains to Arya that although the flames do not lie, he can misinterpret them (“sometimes I read them wrongly, blind fool that I am”; Arya VIII, ASOS).

At the heart of the Undercover!Jon theory is the narrative need for Jon to do better than Ned and avoid his mistakes. I’ve been reviewing Ned’s chapters since S7. His words as he sits in the KL dungeon for treason are relevant:

He damned them all: Littlefinger, Janos Slynt and his gold cloaks, the queen, the Kingslayer, Pycelle and Varys and Ser Barristan, even Lord Renly, Robert’s own blood, who had run when he was needed most. Yet in the end he blamed himself. 

“Fool,” he cried to the darkness, “thrice-damned blind fool.” 

Cersei Lannister’s face seemed to float before him in the darkness. Her hair was full of sunlight, but there was mockery in her smile. “When you play the game of thrones, you win or you die,” she whispered. 

Ned had played and lost, and his men had paid the price of his folly with their life’s blood.

— Eddard XV, AGOT

This is Ned taking full stock of the consequences of his actions and owning up to them fully.

He calls himself out as a fool. A blind fool.

That connects pretty nicely with Jon up on that cliff in 703 lamenting being a Northern fool.

But if it was Ned’s blindness that made him foolish, trusting LF and underestimating Cersei, causing his death—then Jon should be uniquely positioned to prevent history from repeating itself. Indeed, if the finale is any indication, he’ll get back to Winterfell. He’ll succeed were Ned and Brandon and Rickon failed. And he’s returning having completed his original goal: to secure powerful allies and their resources to take on the NK.

So I do feel bad for D@ny. If S7 is any indication, Jon will always be just out of her reach. She has her years long resistance to looking back and fear of being lost to thank for it. No boatbangs will change that. But I can see Kit’s satisfaction with Jon this season. If the Undercover!Jon theory is correct, it’s a character move six years in the making with a hell of a potential payoff. It would pair with the R+L=J reveal, that Ned played everyone for 18+ years, spectatularly. 

somuchbetterthanthat  asked:

I can't choooose. Okay. um. What about after that first time Grantaire hears Enjolras while out with Bossuet? The "people lie all the time" one?

HI THIS IS A MILLION YEARS LATE because I was very stuck on what to write. Hopefully this counts as slightly belated birthday fic, even if I’m not quite sure it’s what you’d want. An attempt was made???

This directly follows the original ficlet

Lesgle, gregarious and charming as ever, waves the boy over to their table as soon as he has finished speaking. Grantaire has already forgotten his name, and is almost annoyed when Bossuet ruins his blissful ignorance with an introduction.

“Enjolras, this is my dear friend Grantaire; he fancies himself a skeptic, but I have undertaken to transform him from a Pyrrho to a Brutus.”

The pretty young man eyes Grantaire gravely. It’s an uncomfortable sensation, and one he intensely dislikes. He feels a childish urge to stick his tongue out and only barely restrains himself. “Have you political opinions?” the child– man–  Enjolras asks.

“None at all,” says Grantaire cheerfully, “or perhaps too many at once, which is much the same thing. Why, have you?”

Enjolras is so studiously impassive that Grantaire cannot tell whether the barb hit. Still, he feels compelled to add, “No, you needn’t answer; I suspect you are the worst sort of snakeoil salesman – one who drinks from his own stock.”

That coaxes the slightest hint of a frown from Enjolras’ eerily perfect, porcelain face. Lesgle throws an arm around Enjolras’ shoulder as though he were a normal drinking companion and not some strange fey creature come to disturb Grantaire’s peace of mind. “Allow me to translate for my friend; he has a deathly fear of appearing sincere and hides it as best he can. He is unconvinced of the veracity of many of our present company, no matter their professed beliefs, but he judges you to be truthful and to speak your opinions with candor.”

“I see,” says Enjolras. There’s no suggestion of emotion in his voice, but Grantaire fancies he can see traces of ice in his eyes. “I confess it, then. I could not speak so without true belief. I lack those skills of rhetoric that allow a man to say other than what he means.”

This last feels directed at Grantaire, somehow, though this man has scarcely known him five minutes. So he shrugs and says, casually, “I imagine you could say whatever you like and find crowds gathered beneath your windows for the privilege of hearing you speak. There is no special virtue in your subject to compels your listeners; I myself and the past hour I’ve spent here can attest to that.”

“Grantaire means to say that while he has found other speakers dull and unpersuasive, he is astonished at the fact that he actually listened to you, despite his best efforts,” translates Lesgle, with unfortunate accuracy. “He is brimming with praise today; you have effected a minor miracle.”

Grantaire grunts irritably and lets Lesgle take that as he will.

“I cannot stay,” Enjolras tells Lesgle. “There are others I must speak with. But I am glad to have seen you. You will come, tomorrow?”

“Of course, my friend,” Lesgle replies.

Grantaire assumes that will be it, but then Enjolras turns the full force of his gaze back onto Grantaire, and for a moment it’s as though the whole world stops turning. He was wrong before to think he saw ice in Enjolras’ eyes; the hottest fires burn bluer than the coldest ice. “I hope to see you again as well. I trust Laigle’s judgment. The Republic needs every one of her sons.” He nods solemnly, and then he’s gone, and Grantaire can breathe again.

“A damned nuisance,” he grumbles. “As though I didn’t have family troubles enough without a fellow like that declaring me his brother. It’d serve him right if I did go to his damned meetings, not that I intend to.”

Lesgle beamed. “I knew you’d like him.”

queen-max  asked:

You know I can't resist your writing. I'm going to go with the obvious. Silver and Flint for 34.

@ellelan asked for the same. :)

“It’s not like I missed you or anything.”

The knock on his door had come out of the blue, but Flint would have been lying if he said he hadn’t spent many long hours picturing this exact moment in excruciating detail, in infinite forms, hoping for it and then trying his best to keep those hopes small and tempered. And yet, here they were: Flint stepping aside as his former quartermaster hopped past him into his dingy little hallway, as though not a day had passed since they had shared a cabin and a ship and a crew. Silver looked almost unchanged from the last time Flint had seen him. A little cleaner, perhaps, and more well-groomed, just, but looking as though he had simply stepped out of Flint’s memories like a ghost of a past life. Flint wondered, just briefly, whether he might be having some sort of funny turn after all, and what it might suggest that this is what his mind had chosen to conjure. But then Silver stopped and turned to face him, and Flint could see the faint smattering of freckles on his nose, and could smell the salt air clinging to his clothes, and he knew that those were vivid details beyond the capacity of even his wild imagination.

“You look different,” Silver said, at exactly the same moment that Flint said, “You look the same.”

Keep reading

anonymous asked:

people aren't seeing the worst in robert, he IS being the worst atm, the robron dynamic has become chrobert 2.0, this is literally happening on screen right now, we're not making this up! it's too awful to watch right now and it's understandable?? good on you if you can stomach this but you don't have to be condescending to those who can't

I’m not being condescending. That would imply that I understand that POV. I literally do not see it. I just don’t. I don’t think the circumstance, Robert’s actual struggle as a character or them as a couple are anything alike to Chrissie and Robert. Is Robert being written stupidly? Sure. But it does not for me for a FUCKING moment negate everything he has done before this. That’s not how life fucking works is it? If I were a person who’d changed for the better but something happened where I made some bad decisions and fell back on habits, would that literally make me a bad person? My growth would then mean nothing?

Because they are showing Robert freaking out but they are clearly showing why and it is all about Aaron. People forget that he was a mess. People forget that he was drunk. People forget that he was going to tell the truth. People aren’t taking into account how he is the only thing Aaron can rely on and Robert knows that. Or if they dont forget apparently its not important enough to take into consideration in regards to his motivation. BUT I’m not making THAT up. The show has CLEARLY shown their love. And that fear of losing that is the motivation.

Not because of fucking money or power or wanting to keep up appearances. Not because Robert wants to keep fucking Bex, he clearly does not, and have Aaron at home. He wants to be at home with Aaron. This isn’t a fucking thrill for Robert. The man is miserable and terrified. He isn’t even thinking ahead. He has no idea what he is doing. This is so fucking far removed from the affair that it’s a joke except for the lying. He is lying but his reasons? Not in any way the same. And Robert hates himself for it.

But it doesn’t matter because some have already made up their minds long before this or they don’t get the motivation. I could list why it is different in detail but I find at this point it’s not even worth the bother.

And that is on them. I don’t even mean that in any sort of critical way really. Personal experience or lack of experiences color people’s perception. They see one way or don’t another. It is what it is.

I’m not going to pretend I understand and on my space I’m going to call out what I don’t understand or like. I’m also not going to on to attack them on their space where they can say what they want to say bc that’s what their blog is there for.

But I am going to, after months of hearing how Robert is the worst and this couple is ruined, put my foot down and say I’ve had enough.

I do not like the Robert hate. I do not like that people, not the show mind you, BECAUSE THEY ACTUALLY ARE NOT SAYING THIS, keep negating the person he now is. I hate that Robert is not allowed to fuck up ever without it destroying him as a character apparently. I am pretty sick and tired of the negativity.

It’s not the show that is driving me away. It is literally the fandom.

You obviously can and do feel whatever way you do. (Thanks BTW for giving me permission to do the same. Really.) I don’t have to agree, like it or even understand it. I simply have to respect you enough to leave you to YOUR space to feel that way.

Appreciate the same.

Pharmercy - >800 words

The first time Angela sees it, Fareeha is doing pull ups, the muscles on her back contracting around her shoulder blades, the skin crinkling, distorting it.

Angela is so distracted, so unabashedly intent on her skin and the form in which she moves, she forgets to ask.

Honestly, she forgets quite a few things. When she retreats, brushing past Zarya in her haste, she does so with a blush that feels a bit ridiculous.

She is not entirely sure that Fareeha ever knew she was there. She is too ashamed to tell her. (She does not know that Zarya mentioned it, that Fareeha - grinning like a goofball - was particularly happy to hear that Angela had apparently been blushing.)


The second time Angela sees it, it is summer, the sweltering heat has made everyone lethargic. Angela has traded her lab coat for a tank top and loose pants.

She finds Fareeha in the courtyard, laying on her stomach in the grass, reading. If Angela is dressed liberally, Fareeha has dressed in abandon because she is only wearing a sports bra and basketball shorts.

Angela spends a moment tracing the lines of her calves, the dimples above the curve of her rear, the muscle of her shoulder blades (which Angela has a certain fascination with) and then stops on the tattoo between them, and remembers the question from before.

She approaches her, sits down beside her. Fareeha turns her head to the side to regard Angela through bright eyes, her chin tucked into the curve of her elbow. The book is laid out in the grass in front of her but Fareeha closes it when Angela sits down and Angela can see that it is poetry which is not entirely something that she expected, honestly.

“Hello,” Fareeha says, lifts her head up and smiles. Angela returns it easily, stretches her legs out in front of her, falls back on the palm of her hands.

“Hello there,” she replies.

“How are you?” Fareeha asks, “I feel like it has been awhile since I have seen you.”

It has been. Angela has been locked up in her lab, baking under fluorescent bulbs, for the better part of a month and her contact has been minimal. Fareeha had stopped by occasionally to drop off food and remind her to sleep (which Angela had done, begrudgingly). But in that setting, that frame of mind, it was hard for her to connect with her surroundings, and so Fareeha had come and gone and come again and Angela’s nose had been buried in reports and monitors so the visits were never casual and often very quick.

“Better, now,” Angela confesses. “I’m glad for the fresh air.”

“You picked a good day,” Fareeha tells her. Angela tends to agree, she has no complaints about the company.

For a long while they are silent as birds chirp and Fareeha goes back to her poetry. Angela’s glad just to be relieved of her responsibilities, to feel free as she so rarely does these days.

She looks around idly, sees the tattoo again on Fareeha’s back, and this time doesn’t stop herself from reaching for it, brushing her fingertips over the hot skin (warmed by the afternoon sun). It’s simple, geometrical even, made of dots and lines in white ink the shape of an arrow pointing up Fareeha’s spine until it stops at the the base of her neck.

Fareeha shivers below her touch as she draws over the lines.

“It’s very pretty,” Angela tells her, sincerely.

“Thank you,” Fareeha says, “it was my first tattoo.”

This piques Angela’s interest. Angela had always assumed that the one on her face had come first. It does not occur to her that there might have been others before, or others at all.

“Is there a story?” Angela asks. Fareeha grins, Angela can’t see it, but she can hear it her voice.

“Only vaguely. It’s a reminder, to always reach higher and to achieve greater things.”

“If it is a reminder, why the back?”

“Because that is where we carry things,” Fareeha tells her simply.

Angela cannot know Fareeha’s dreams of literally going higher, to touch with her own hands the stratosphere and to spend eternity in the vacuum of space, if possible. Those great wonders which inspire imagination, which had inthralled Fareeha as a kid. Maybe she will one day; maybe the conversation will come up again and she will talk at length about how she has always wanted to escape.

Angela hums in understanding, contemplative for a minute, and then she leans forward, places an open mouthed kiss above the arrowhead. Fareeha’s skin is warm and salty with the light sheen of sweat; Angela feels protective, responsible in someway for the burdens Fareeha carries. This leads her up the column of her neck and then to her cheek and then to her lips.

Fareeha kisses her back without complaint, though clearly perplexed.

“Very pretty,” Angela repeats and has the sense she is talking about more than just the tattoo this time.

fight or flight

kirigakure saizo x mc (unnamed)

a/n: alright so an anon requested prompt 2 “please don’t leave me,” and i had this partial one-shot lying around and thought ‘well, that could fit nicely.’ and then it just. kept getting longer. and longer. and here we are. it’s a monstrosity i’m sorry.

@jemchew @demon-princess-anastasia @naerial @pasunny

Not her, he thinks, desperately, his consciousness clawing to regain itself. Not her. Anyone but her.

There’s blood running down his arms, his legs, his face—there’s blood between his fingers and in his eyelashes and it’s still dripping, slow rivers winding down his skin.

He pulls himself to his feet, reminding himself that if he dies, nobody remains to protect her, nobody remains to keep her from dying.

She’s strong, but she can’t possibly stand alone against an entire army.

He spits blood and starts running. He’s good at running. No matter how far she is, he’ll reach her.

The wind is hollow in his ears, but he reminds himself that the sooner he gets there, the sooner he can assure himself that she’s safe.

The sooner he can admit to himself just what it is that’s sending him flying this way.

Keep reading

The last of her

Pairing: Sirius x Marlene
Word count: 802
Summary: They’re loosing this war. Everyone knows it. One night, Sirius just wants to escape it all, and maybe Marlene could help him. Maybe she could just drag him down.
Rating: K

London was dark tonight, clouds hanging low over the sleeping city. But Sirius wasn’t asleep. He was sitting on the roof of his flat, watching the city. It seemed to slow down at night, seemed to breath slower. The late September air bit at his cheek. Two years ago, they’d have been sitting here together, the four of them. They were young then, careless. Now, they were falling, helplessly. Fighting a losing battle.

Something moved behind him and Sirius flinched, turning on the spot. He was always prepared that at any moment someone would find him, creep up behind him without him hearing it. Then, as Marlene’s head peered up from the fire stairs, he drew a breath of relief. Maybe he shouldn’t have, they hadn’t ended things on great terms the last time they saw each other, but at this point anyone who didn’t straight up want to kill him was to prefer over someone who did. 

“Hi.” He looked from her, to the ground. The small stone square was littered with cigarettes, most of them his, so when she reached him one, he naturally took it. 

“Hi.” She took a drag at the cigarette. 

“How did you know…?”

Keep reading

Temple of Worship

Chapter Two: Revealing Our Truths

Lucy’s hands found their way to a thin chain necklace she had purchased and gripped the broken key that she threaded onto the golden woven chain. Natsu’s eyes dropped as he watched Lucy grip something in between her cleavage under her black tank top. He had seen the chain draped from her neck before under her clothing, but never paid it much thought. Only that it could possibly get in the way whenever she fought.

Teardrops continued to fall from Lucy’s eyes and cheeks into her lap. Slowly she pulled the chain out from under her tank top, ready to reveal the secret that she has kept for far too long. She pulled her head away from his, holding the broken key in front of her in her palms.

Natsu’s eyes widen, his pupils shrinking when he seen the broken golden key. He didn’t recognize the symbol on it however, and was unsure what the broken key truly meant. None the less he had a better understanding as to why she was so upset. Something happened during their battle with Tartarus that he had been clueless to before. Was it when he was separated from her? He remembers it so clearly. The walls and floors around them warping and threatening to consume them whole. Their fingertips touching only for the floor to separate and pull them apart. Afterwards his mind is blank until he was released mysteriously. It was then he followed Lucy’s scent, finding her to be surrounded by four of the nine demon gates. Was it during the blank period that the key was broken?

Did the broken key mean she was no longer able to summon one of the celestial spirits? He knew she treasured all of her spirits and thought of them as her dear friends. Not as tools as some believe them to be.

“Tell me. Tell me why one of your keys is broken.” Natsu’s eyes remained on the broken key. He knew it was already too late to take revenge against whoever was the demon that broke one of her golden keys. It was something that was precious and dear to her, and it was one of the reasons why the anger growing in the pit of his stomach wouldn’t stop. However, there was nothing around for him to lash and unleash his rage onto. His jaws clenched as he gritted his teeth. Perhaps it was fortunate for the demons of Tartarus to no be longer drawing breath, as he wouldn’t their ashes behind.

Lucy clasped her hands over the key. She drew in a breath in an attempt to calm herself. Natsu’s words were strangely comforting to her. She could hear the underlying anger in his words, along with the heat rising in the room. She knew he was always weak when it came to her tears. She quickly hid the broken key back under tank top. While she carried it as a reminder of the decision, the sacrifice she and Aquarius both came to together. Looking at the key caused the wounds still fresh and raw on her heart to ache. For a year everyone else was able to move on but her. For a year she has carried the broken key. A weight she was finally ready to release and come to terms with.

Keep reading

anonymous asked:

Oh god I live for Steve and Bucky acting like the 20somthing they are together, loving junk food, and doing stupid things (like the time they made a sex tape and mistakenly shared it with all the avengers... and by mistakenly I mean totally on purpose because Bucky's probably a bit of an exhibitionist too, like "LOOK, LOOK AT MY BABYDOLL, ISN'T HE GORGEOUS? AND HE'S ALL MINE, NO YOU CAN'T HAVE HIM HAHAHA")


“Look, I don’t fucking know, it’s just broken – sorry,” Cap says, catching himself. “God. Just take a look at it for me, okay? And don’t make any jokes.” 

“Oh, don’t worry, I won’t. It’s simply because my cup runneth over, you understand. I mean, I won’t because I can’t choose between the one about your uncommonly massive hamburger-hands being unable to handle – hah – my delicate technology –” 

“Stark –” 

“And the most obvious, classic choice; aged like fine bourbon, or, come to think of it, you yourself, the one about how –” 

“The one about how I’m a fossil, got it. You do know I’m actually twenty-six, right?” 

Tony ignores this, flipping Cap’s phone around in his hand. Romanoff agrees with him that the old man jokes are funny, and really, isn’t that all that matters? “So did you try turning it off and then –” 

“Fuck you.” 

“One more time? What was that? Did I hear a thank you? Thank you for both your rapier wit and your superior technological capabilities?” 

“Thanks,” Cap says, grinding his teeth. “Thank you, Stark.” 

“Hey, it’s no problem; I aim to help. I’ll give you a ring when it’s done, shouldn’t take long.” 

“I do appreciate it, you know.” 

“I know.” 

Tony flips the StarkTech device around in his hand, plugs it in to the display, and distantly hears Cap walk away.

Keep reading

Too Far Gone

Description: I’m a fly that’s trapped in a web but I’m thinking that my spiders dead

Genre: Angst

Pairing:Kim Jongin x reader

Word Count:1.4k

A/N: I put so much effort into writing and being able to post this one, like this made me physically, mentally, and spiritually exhausted,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,, but enjoy

Originally posted by ilovminseok

Jongin handed the cashier a twenty and in return received a bouquet of roses and various bags of candy.

Tonight wasn’t a special occasion or anything. It was just that things between him and and his girlfriend were the worst they’d ever been. They rarely ever exchanged anything along of the lines of glances or words, but if they did it was only to pick a fight with the other. Here lately, he’d spent all his time, outside of work, at home drinking anything he could get his hands on. That also meant he was alone way into the early hours of the morning, not that he ever really stayed up past ten thirty, because “I can’t stand being around you when you’re like this.”

As the frequency of the occurrence rose, Jongin couldn’t ignore the ache that coursed through him every morning. On his bedside table always sat a bottle of pain pills and a small scrap of paper. The note on the paper was always the same, never failing to tug at his heartstrings. “One day we’ll be alright again, I love you Jongin” Although what hurts him most is that it’d been weeks since the last time he received one of those notes.

Jongin climbed into the driver’s seat of his car. In the back seat sat a pink gift bag, he moved the candy into that bag with the diamond necklace he had bought earlier that day. It was a certain necklace that Y/n had been wanting for years, but Jongin couldn’t afford it until now. He figured now was the perfect time to buy it for her. It wasn’t some elaborate scheme to make Y/n fall into his arms, however he wanted to start off with this.

When, he didn’t want to think ‘if’, things went back to normal between them, Jongin wanted Y/n to have reminders than yeah he messed up but he was willing to do anything to fix whatever he screwed up.

He pressed shuffle on his phone and dropped it back into his lap. He didn’t pay attention to not one song that played on his drive home. Jongin’s mind was racing beyond belief. He missed her, missed her more than he would ever admit to anyone. Not only that, but he missed coming home and knowing that he was living the best life he could with the person he loved the most. Although in complete honesty, the divide had been caused by Jongin’s inability to take responsibility for his actions.

Y/n wasn’t a saint, but anyone could tell you that they often argued because Jongin loved to point the blame to anyone but himself.

He hesitantly pulled the key from the ignition. Jongin was very nervous, especially now that he was a few minutes away from hopefully changing everything. With one more deep breath, he cautiously bundled all the items he’d just bought into his arms. Jongin tried the knob to the front door only to find it locked. He knew Y/n was home because he could hear music blaring from the sound system in their bedroom. Before he fished out his keys from his pocket, he took another deep breath. “Everything’ll be okay man, don’t worry so much.” He mumbled under his breath as he unlocked and swung open the door.

“Y/n I’m home.” He shouted, shutting the door behind him as he entered. No response. He assumed that she hadn’t heard him, so he made his way to the bedroom. Jongin adjusted the volume of the music. A small smile graced his lips as he crossed the room to find his girlfriend. The song that played was one that at one point or another, Y/n swore up and down she hated, but throughout their relationship Jongin would catch her listening to it.

“Hi.” She whispered, noticing Jongin in the doorway. Y/n sat on the toilet seat, towel coiled tightly around her wet body. Her dark colored hair fell against her skin in gentle waves. Seeing her in such a simple state left Jongin damn near speechless.

This was the first time in a long time Y/n and Jongin were together and they weren’t arguing or had no intent on arguing. And it was because of this moment, him being able to admire Y/n, that he finally gained the confidence to talk to her about fixing their relationship. “I got you a few of your favorites.” He began, slowly walking over and revealing what he’d hidden behind his back. Y/n wordlessly accepted the bag. She peeked inside while grasping the bunch of roses with her other hand. “There are a few things I need to say.”

He paused anxiously, temporarily letting his nerves get the best of him. “One of the worst mistakes I’ve ever made in my life was letting us drift like we did and still are. Another mistake was waiting months to do something about it. I’m difficult. I’m hard headed. I’m extremely stubborn and because of that I get into moods where I only care about myself and block everyone out, even the people I care about most. I’m so so so sorry baby.  You deserve to be treated like a fucking queen and I’ve been too much of a dick to remember that. I know that a few flowers, some necklace, and chocolate won’t fix everything but it’s a small start.”

Jongin waited for Y/n to say something, anything. He stared at her with hopeful eyes, ready for her to express just how much she desired everything to return back to normal. But she didn’t, and silence overtook the bathroom. Instead of speaking Y/n dug through the contents of the bag. Piece by piece she took everything out and sat it on the side of the bathtub. She finally got to the necklace, and gasped as well as dropping the bag on the floor. “Jongin,” Was all she could manage. Y/n sat dumbfounded, unable to form any sort of coherent language. “Jongin,” She tried again. “You got it. You actually got it.”

He nodded. “I promised you I would.” He stepped closer to her. “Turn around and I’ll put it on for you.” It took her a moment to register his words, but she slowly turned, letting the diamond necklace slip from her fingers and into Jongin’s.

Y/n walked over to the mirror. The necklace looked even better than she’d imagined all those years. She turned back around to face Jongin. The eagerness in his eyes were met with tears. “I… don’t think I can keep this.” His slight smile weakened and eventually melted away completely. “Why not? I bought this for you, because you deserve it along with much much more.” Y/n wiped at the few tears that had started to fall, without even looking at Jongin she continued to get dressed. “I just… I can't… I… ” She couldn’t quite find the words she was looking for. “I didn’t just sit around, moping and waiting for you to change, for everything to change.” She burst out suddenly. Her words shocked Jongin but it her Y/n more to finally admit what she’d been doing the past few months. “It obviously hurt seeing things so fucked up between us. It was like you had became a completely different person, someone different than the man I fell in love with and very different from the one person I thought cared about me more than anything else in the world.” Jongin couldn’t quite grasp what she say was on about. “Baby what are you saying?” Y/n sighed. “I’ve f-found someone that I know does care about me Jongin and not after months of him supposedly acting like he didn’t.”

Jongin’s chest tightened at her words, slowly putting the puzzle pieces in front of him together. “And you’re getting ready to go see him right now, aren’t you.” It wasn’t a question, it was more like a realization. She nodded. In that moment Jongin swore he felt his heart break, shattering into smaller bits and pieces as the seconds ticked by. He’d waited way too long to try and fix things. “So that’s it for us?” He deadpanned, trying to hold back his own rush of tears. “Can you promise me that what happened the last half year won’t happen again?” She asked, voice stern and unwavering despite how she actually felt. “I… don’t know if I can.”

“Then I guess this is the end.”


More stress-writing. I actually cut this into two separate scenes, but I’m starting my new job in the morning, so I’m too wound up to wait and post both parts together.

Anyway, here’s Gil, being Gil-like.

When Gil happened to catch brawl time at Mamma Gkika’s, he liked to sit on the bar. He knew it was obnoxious. It gave him an excellent view of the carnage, but it also presented the rest of the patrons with a nearly irresistible target that almost none of them would attempt to hit. He did it anyway.

He liked the noise. It did nothing to clear his head, but he found it soothing. So he sat there on the bar, an island of apparent calm amid the chaos, and he struggled to make sense of the strange turns his life had taken.

Even a year ago, he would have balked at the idea of a night spent in Tarvek’s private bedroom. He would have worried that Agatha would disapprove. And he would have scoffed at the idea that he could feel at peace there in Tarvek’s arms, in Tarvek’s bed. That Tarvek would allow so dangerous a creature in his room at all.

Keep reading