i wish she could live with me


I work in a decent sized, local, indie bookstore. It’s a great job 99% of the time and a lot of our customers are pretty neat people. Any who, middle of the day this little old lady comes up. She’s lovably kooky. She effuses how much she loves the store and how she wishes she could spend more time in it but her husband is waiting in the car (OH! I BETTER BUY HIM SOME CHOCOLATE!), she piles a bunch of art supplies on the counter and then stops and tells me how my bangs are beautiful and remind her of the ocean (“Wooooosh” she says, making a wave gesture with her hand)

Ok. I think to myself. Awesomely happy, weird little old ladies are my favorite kind of customer. They’re thrilled about everything and they’re comfortably bananas. I can have a good time with this one. So we chat and it’s nice.

Then this kid, who’s been up my counter a few times to gather his school textbooks, comes up in line behind her (we’re connected to a major university in the city so we have a lot of harried students pass through). She turns around to him and, out of nowhere, demands that he put his textbooks on the counter. He’s confused but she explains that she’s going to buy his textbooks.

He goes sheetrock white. He refuses and adamantly insists that she can’t do that. It’s like, $400 worth of textbooks. She, this tiny old woman, bodily takes them out of her hands, throws them on the counter and turns to me with a intense stare and tells me to put them on her bill. The kid at this point is practically in tears. He’s confused and shocked and grateful. Then she turns to him and says “you need chocolate.” She starts grabbing handfuls of chocolates and putting them in her pile.

He keeps asking her “why are you doing this?” She responds “Do you like Harry Potter?" and throws a copy of the new Cursed Child on the pile too.

Finally she’s done and I ring her up for a crazy amount of money. She pays and asks me to please give the kid a few bags for his stuff. While I’m bagging up her merchandise the kid hugs her. We’re both telling her how amazing she is and what an awesome thing she’s done. She turns to both of us and says probably one of the most profound, unscripted things I’ve ever had someone say:

"It’s important to be kind. You can’t know all the times that you’ve hurt people in tiny, significant ways. It’s easy to be cruel without meaning to be. There’s nothing you can do about that. But you can choose to be kind. Be kind.”

The kid thanks her again and leaves. I tell her again how awesome she is. She’s staring out the door after him and says to me: “My son is a homeless meth addict. I don’t know what I did. I see that boy and I see the man my son could have been if someone had chosen to be kind to him at just the right time.”

I’ve bagged up all her stuff and at this point am super awkward and feel like I should say something but I don’t know what. Then she turns to me and says: I wish I could have bangs like that but my darn hair is just too curly.“ And leaves.

And that is the story of the best customer I’ve ever had. Be kind to somebody today.


My little sister was in tears today because she was wearing her hair naturally to school. She told me that she didn’t want to because people at her school always made fun of her or laughed at her when she did (including her friends and teacher). She said that she hates her hair and that she wishes it wasnt like how it is. I tried telling her that people would kill to have hair like hers. She didn’t believe me and said that no one wants hair like hers and that she hates it. We live in a predominately white neighborhood, so shes used to seeing white girls with flowing hair. She feels as thought their hair is prettier than hers. I know this is a bit stupid and all but, could you guys reblog this and share some positivity so that I can show her that she is loved and that her hair is beautiful and she should never be ashamed?

Fanfiction - A Lifetime of Her (Part VI)

Part VI – “My kingdom for a kiss upon her shoulder”


She didn’t come back after that night – I knew she had gone back to Boston, to take control over her life. I waited. The phone never rang to give me news or an explanation, inexplicably silent even though I was certain she could find the number had she wished to. And I waited. My mailbox was painfully empty every day, while I dreamt of letters touched by her fingers, read aloud by her warm voice. And yet I waited.

I waited because I had no choice – I was meant to wait for her. Our lives were inextricably connected, vessels adrift on the sea with an intended destination written in the stars. I had tried to forget her before, to live pretending I wasn’t waiting – and that had hurt more than the hours I spent awake at night, looking at the spot where she once had laid by my side. But there was that small fraction of time, that heartbeat, just before I opened my eyes in the morning, where everything was possible – and I was happy.

Sometimes I would catch myself checking the weather in Boston, wanting to know if she could see the stars in clear skies – at least I could share that proximity with her. I wondered if she had drank coffee, dark and strong, while her eyes were still half-shut. If she had decided on a specialty yet. That was better than wondering about her marriage – every time I turned my thoughts to Frank, the idea of her being touched by him brought me to a blinding state of anger and fear. I would go outside in those occasions to run, as fast as I could for as long as I was able, until I had fled myself and was somewhat free.

I enjoyed teaching and found great solace in my students, curious and lively little fiends, always looking for trouble. I dedicated myself to the task of keeping their spirits sharp and their curiosity burning.

I had my old friends, with whom I shared whiskey glasses and laughs at the pub – keeping a respectful distance from the place I knew Laoghaire still frequented. They kept me grounded, even with their crudes jokes about my bachelor status. While I was laughing, it was easier to wait – I could almost push Claire to the back of my mind, where she would curl and sleep, satisfied.

Saturday was born in blazing glory, sun shining high in a cloudless sky like a treasure’s coin. I accepted the chance to spend the morning exploring the paths at Arthur’s Seat, pushing myself to the limit. I reached the summit with a delicious pain at each breath intake, the air fresh like crushed mint, filling my chest with the pulse of life.

Back at my apartment, I made plans to shower and spend a lazy afternoon reading and napping on the couch, while I stripped off my sweaty t-shirt, heading towards the bathroom.

That’s when the doorbell rang.

I opened it without thinking twice, expecting perhaps to see Angus or Willie, swinging by to challenge me to watch a rugby match or play a chess game.

Her hair was a bit shorter than the last time I had seen her, framing a face that was slightly flushed from sunlight and anticipation. She was wearing a white sundress and I realized I had been wrong – my memories would never be more than a pale comparison to the woman who stood before me. Her arms were bare, with no visible marks, her flawless skin resembling a painting.

“May I come in?” Claire asked softly, her eyes quickly tracing the lines of my exposed chest before she looked at my face, expectant.

“Of course.” I moved to the side, allowing her in. I brushed my hair with nervous fingers, desperately looking for an old t-shirt to dress. Eventually, I settled for the one I had been wearing, smelling faintly of sweat and crushed leaves.

“I wanted to come sooner.” She swallowed hard. “I’ve been in Scotland for a couple of days, but had to take care of some papers to start my surgical residency here and find somewhere to stay permanently.” Claire searched my eyes. “I’m moving back to Scotland.”

“Aye.” I said in a husky voice. “I’m glad to see ye, Claire.”

“I’m glad to see you too, Jamie.” She smiled, more confident. “These past two years, I -“

“Ye dinna have to explain anything to me.” I interrupted, feeling strangely hollow, fighting against anger which came with a sense of relief.

“I think I do.” Claire insisted, stepping closer to me. “I want you to know that I heard you, Jamie. I didn’t want to make promises until I truly meant them. I had to finish school and decide what I really wanted for my life.”

“And did ye?” I croaked, folding my arms in a defensive gesture, pre-emptively shielding myself from bad news.

“Yes.” She whispered. In that moment she reached out with her hand, offering it to me with her palm down – naked. Her wedding ring gone. “I divorced Frank more than a year ago – and never lived with him again after I was here.” Claire searched his eyes. “With you.”

“Then why did ye never wrote or called?” I asked, hurt creeping into my words. “Why did ye waited two years to show up again?”

“I had to be worthy of you.” Claire said simply, twisting her hands – her fingers touching the ghost of the ring that once had been there. “I had to make sure I was coming because it was the right thing – not because I was wrecked. You offered me everything and I wanted to have something to give back.”

“I missed ye.” I admitted in a whisper, as her hand touched my cheek – I closed my eyes, surrendering to her caress. “A Dhia, I thought I’d go mad with the idea of never seeing ye again.”

“I missed you too.” She gasped, her body so close to mine I could feel the swell of her breasts, the compelling heat coming from her skin. “I haven’t realized I could barely breathe until now.”

“Are ye here to stay then?” I asked serious, our eyes locking. We were gently swaying along some music we could both listen, too eager to stand still, too afraid to finally meet in quietness. “Because if ye’re not…”

She silenced me with her trembling fingers, touching my mouth, learning the shape of my lips. I almost moaned with the pleasure of her touch, so sincere and tender.

“I’m here to stay.” Claire assured me, tracing the line of my chin, where stubble prickled. “If you’ll have me.”

“I’ll have ye in any way I can.” I whispered, my voice almost breaking with emotion – and yet, stronger than ever before. “Always.”

“Jamie…” She sighed with a smile, her forehead leaning against mine. “May I kiss you?” I realized she didn’t wish to rob me another kiss, a thief taking something precious, covered in the night’s cloak.

“I thought ye’d never ask.” I gave her a lopsided smile and our lips finally met, a kiss eighteen years in the making, hesitant at first and then all-consuming.

We spent the afternoon discovering each other, laying in the living room’s rug, slowly and languidly displacing clothes in order to kiss another inch of skin, to draw shapes of desire with our fingertips.

I opened the first buttons of her dress, tracing with my tongue the curve of her breasts; she insinuated her hands on my shorts, caressing the fine copper hairs of my thighs. I nuzzled her neck, softly biting her until she moaned, so I could reward her with a soothing flicker of my tongue. She laughed and playfully clawed my back, making sure I too would wear medals of our war, marks of the victor. I marvelled with the roundness of her arse and the feel of her swollen lips, battered with kisses, ever-wanting. I was mightily aroused – that much was evident to us both – and yet I didn’t move to enter her. I didn’t wish to precipitate the voyage we had started together, to hasten something that would come naturally to us, as each one of our meetings through life had. I would finally get a lifetime of her and planned to savour each small conquest.

“Are ye hungry?” I asked eventually, kissing her shoulder. She looked dishevelled and wanton, pure lust and love in the shape of a woman – I’d never seen her more beautiful or desirable.

“I’m starved.” She laughed, nuzzling the hollow of my chest one final time. “Will you feed me then?”

“Ach, I’m too knackered to cook.” I admitted, playing with her curls – already sorely missing her lips on mine. “But there’s a fantastic Mexican place nearby – I’ll buy ye dinner.”

“If you’re planning to intoxicate me with Margaritas,” Claire sat up and started to compose her clothes. “I have to say it’ll probably work like a charm.”

We left the house walking hand in hand, like two loved up teenagers, giggling and teasing each other. I’d pull her against me once in a while to kiss her again, to the general amusement and surprise of people around us. I didn’t know such happiness was possible – I felt my chest so full that no space was left for regret or doubt.

We were talking about plans to spend Sunday together, when we heard the commotion. A loud crash, someone screaming – the air was thick with tension, harder to breathe in. I felt Claire gripping my hand one final time before she let go, prepared to face what was certainly coming around the corner.

A man with a black ski mask emerged from the sizable jewellery store, which had imposing diamond rings and golden necklaces peeking through the window displays. He carried a dark sports bag at his shoulder and in one hand sported a menacing revolver, while the other grabbed a shrieking shopkeeper by the hair. Blood dripped from the side of her head, where she had probably been pistol-whipped, her eyes blank with shock.

An alarm went off inside the store, an unnerving sound that made me shiver, the hairs on my arms erecting in fear.

The robber shouted something – a car was waiting near the curb, another masked man inside it. He forcefully pushed the woman against the sidewalk, her head bumping against the edge with a nauseating sound of crushed eggshells.

I think I screamed, trying to stop Claire from moving – I knew she would go. She had healed me times enough for me to know that she wasn’t capable of witnessing suffering without trying to interfere.

It happened in a second and yet I saw it in slow motion – how she kneeled next to the woman, trying to stabilize her neck, to evaluate her wounds, calling for her with the lips I just had kissed moments before. The man in the ski masked turned and looked at her, laughing at the sight of her unfruitful gestures – she held his gaze in defiance, insulting him with her sharp tongue.

I was already screaming before it happened – I could see it so clearly and yet I was powerless to stop it. The gunshot that announced the ending, loudest even than my heart breaking.

I ran to her, trying to catch her before she fell on her back. For a moment I thought he had missed her – but a drop of red appeared on the white of her dress, spreading quickly across her belly like a net of poison, a cloud of blood drenching the fabric.

She looked at me with her eyes wide open in painful shock. I sobbed and cried for help, trying to keep her with me through a stupor of despair, my hands pressing the wound as my heart’s blood left her body.

“Jamie.” Claire whispered weakly, searching my eyes. And I started to pray, as sirens wept around me.

Note: I know it’s angsty but - hey- it’s canon! :D

C: I went to a tea place with my white and Asian friends last week. The owner, an older Asian lady, was rude as hell to me and didn’t smile not once. The first thing she said to me was, “What do you want?” when I went up to order. She was however, very friendly with my friends. I really wish I lived in an area where I could venture out to more black businesses because honestly fuck all this universal anti-blackness. We gotta stop giving our money to people who aren’t afraid to show they hate us.

I wish my mother could live her life all over again. But instead of it being filled with all of the hurt and sadness she has felt, I wish she could live the life she has given me; one filled with unending happiness and love. May God bless her always and may I make her the proudest mother in the world. I may say I live for myself but I truly live and push forward for her.

I wish I could take all your pain away. I wish you could see how amazingly beautiful you are, and how much you’ve impacted the lives around you. I wish I could make you love yourself as much as I love you. I know I can’t do that but I will never stop trying. I will keep trying to show you how worthy you are of love and happiness until you tell me to stop.

So like that scene where Kara is telling Lena that she wishes she could talk to people that were gone. Lena looks so fucking sympathetic. Like “My poor baby, please let me hug you.” Like Lena realizing that this sweet ball of sunshine does have some skeletons in her closet and is holding a lot of weight. And she feels so bad for her friend, but she’s so unaccustomed to having friends that she doesn’t really know what to say or do, so she just lets her guard down and let her emotions show on her face. I’m living. 

                    ( THE BORGIAS —— SENTENCE STARTERS )

  • “All things are permissible in our dreams.”
  • “Ambition rules this family.”
  • “Am I so hard to love?”
  • “And yet, still, no matter which way I turn, I cannot seem to find that which would make me truly happy.“
  • “As women we control so little of our destiny.”
  • “Beauty can be deadly when well used.”
  • “But this is witchcraft!”
  • “Can one spill blood to rid the world of a greater evil?”
  • “Come back soon.”
  • “Could he/she make you laugh?”
  • “Do I look pleasing?”
  • “Don’t worry. If you’re not dead by now you’ll live.”
  • “Have you fallen for him/her?”
  • “He/she thought he/she could walk through fire.”
  • “He/she is heading as far away from you as possible.”
  • “I have wished him/her dead a thousand times.”
  • “I am afraid of hope.”
  • “I bend my knee to no man.”
  • “I don’t feel safe unless I know you’re nearby.”
  • “I do tend to win whatever battles I fight.”
  • “I will have blood for this.”
  • “If angels can fall from heaven into hell then so we can all.”
  • “If I married a thousand times it would always be the wrong choice.”
  • “Is it murder to defend your mother’s honour?”
  • “It was for the good of the family.”
  • “Know your enemy. Know him better than your friend.”
  • “My soul dies when I imagine never seeing you again.”
  • “Never let me go.”
  • “Not everyone can love like that.”
  • “Promise you’ll hold me.”
  • “Sometimes goodness needs the help of a little badness.”
  • “They can crumble to dust for all I care.”
  • “This world is what we make of it.”
  • “To have my blessing you would need my forgiveness first.”
  • “We’re dancing on your brother’s grave.”
  • “We are facing a battle for our very survival.”
  • “We are family, we love eachother.”
  • “We had no choice.”
  • “What happened to you? You were such a lovely child.”
  • “Whoever gets in the way of your happiness will meet my wrath.”
  • “Why can I not be happy?”
  • “Words can deceive, hearts can deceive but the eyes… we can trust.”
  • “Yes, I will marry him/her.”
  • “You had every choice!”
  • “You may kiss my ring.”
  • “You must cry for me. I have no more tears.”
  • “You will have your war.”

ive centred my whole life trying to compensate for the trauma my mom went through with getting married and having me. and it was the side effect of the abuse that she went through and the cultural mentality south asians have with children being their parents pride & support, where I felt guilted with the burden of redeeming her life by being successful and have her think that ‘yes everything I went through was worth it, my daughter proved that to me’.  the truth is no matter what I do or don’t do, nothing will ever make up for what she lived with because nothing can be equated to that. horrible experiences can’t just be negated with some happy outcome like I wish she could understand this that no matter what I do it won’t erase the pain she had to deal with 

Oh, man.

My mom is the biggest Zuko stan and it amuses me so much. We’re currently going through Avatar Book 2 right now, and we’ve met Azula (”I don’t understand why she’s so angry. She’s lived a very privileged life” “Mom, she’s a sociopath. She’s not angry, she’s ruthless”)

But every episode filled with Zukangst mom just gets in full mom-mode like “I just wish I could sit him down and have a chat about how life often seems very hard when you’re a teenager, but it will improve when you find your way in the world. And I just want him to know that he has people in his life who care about him like Mr. Iroh.”

“Mom, he’s going through a redemption arc.”

“Yes, but I still see him struggling and I want him to be able to enjoy life. I think he’s a good boy on the inside.”


Fall Harder // Yoongi

Drabble game request: Yoongi + “I wish I could hate you.” + from Undo series (read the original story here) | for anon(s)

Word count: 1,002 words

Character: Yoongi x reader / Yoongi’s POV

W: (implied?) smut.

Keep reading

there is a girl named @wednesdayshambles
and her poetry consistently rambles
and here is the thing
she likes stephen king
So her words go on through the pages of college-ruled three-hole punched notebook paper, and she doesn’t know that the things living in her attic have their very own notebook, where they only write Sarah Sarah Sarah Sarah Sarah over and over and over again with their inky tongue, temporarily forgetting they have their new camera which they could use in new obsessive wonderfully terrible ways; and even their tattoos know that we wish her words were more like Ramsey Campbell’s.

her poetry does not. i suppose this ended up more a king dig than anything else. again, if you want me to be horrible to you, message me.

Friends with the Witch

On the tenth day of fanfics steves–starsandstripes gave to me…

Characters: (Y/N), Steve, Wanda, Tony

Pairings: (Y/N) x Steve

Summary: Wanda helps you and Steve out

Warnings: Fluff

Word Count: 1165

Author’s Note: I wish I could be friends with Wanda, that would be so fun OML

Originally posted by chrisofevans

Originally posted by karlaxmena

*In Tony’s Kitchen at Stark Tower*

Steve watched as (Y/N) talked with Wanda in the living room of Stark Tower. Steve sipped his coffee, unaware that he had been staring for far longer than he should have.

“My god man, stare any longer and she’ll start to feel you burning holes in the back of her head!” Tony exclaimed with an exasperated sigh as he fixed himself a cup of coffee. The sudden outburst had caused Steve to snap out of it. “Just do it already, Spangles,” Tony said, taking a seat next to Steve at the breakfast bar.

“Do what?” Steve asked, reaching for a newspaper, browsing it nonchalantly.

“Ask (Y/N) out.” Steve choked slightly on his coffee.

“Ex-excuse me??” he said between coughs.

“Oh please Cap, it’s so blatantly obvious how much you like her. So much so that everytime I’m near you I nearly get sick to my stomach. Do it, or I will,” Tony threatened casually.

“You wouldn’t dare,” Steve said, glaring over his newspaper at him.

“Hmm, so sure about that? Would you risk it? I don’t see you as one to gamble Rogers. Ask her out, or I just might do it myself,” Tony finished, leaving the room, and the conversation, tense.

*In the living room*

“Do they still think you and I are just talking?” you asked Wanda quietly.

“Let me check,” she replied, moving her hands, which were hidden by the back of the couch, using her powers to read their minds. “They are talking about you. They don’t pay us any attention.”

“Did he say anything about me?” you blushed. Wanda had known for a long time that you had a crush on Steve, ever since she decided it would be fun to read everyone’s minds during their first encounter with the Maximoff twins.

“Tony told Steve to ask you out. Steve choked, pretending that he didn’t know what Tony was talking about. Steve is a horrible liar, so Tony saw right through that,” Wanda said, still tapping into their conversation. You nodded, laughing a little at just how true it was. Steve is the worst at lying, he’s too much of a good, honest man. “Now Steve has essentially admitted to liking you.”

“Really?!” you whisper-cheered. You had known, with Wanda’s help, that Steve felt the same, but you could never fully believe it. You were too afraid that she would be wrong and that your hope would be crushed.

“Yes. Now Tony has threatened to ask you out himself,” Wanda continued.

“What?!” you shouted in disbelief. Covering your mouth, you looked over to the two, praying that they hadn’t heard you yell. Fortunately, they were too deep in discussion to notice.

“Yes, but it’s not true. Tony doesn’t like you, he’s just saying that to get Steve to ask you and stop being a pansy about it.”

“Hey!” you exclaimed, smacking her playfully.

“Oh, you know it’s true. Because of Steve’s past he knows nothing about girls. It’s okay, this is why I help you two. If I don’t, no one will ever make a move. You’re a pansy too,” she giggled.

You were about to argue with her, even though she had a point, when Tony got up. You looked over there, seeing Steve reading his newspaper once more. He appeared angry and frustrated.

“Why’s he so mad?” you wondered out loud.

“Tony threatened to ask you out, Steve said he wouldn’t, and then Tony said Steve may not want to risk it.”

“Ah, makes sense now.”

Wanda gasped, still reading Steve’s mind.

“What?! What’d you see?”

Keep reading


Jules: Uncle Reid, why are you crying? 

Reid: It’s so beautiful!

Jules: Mommy and adult hum-daddy, getting married?

Reid: No who cares about that. Its the trees. There are so many trees and it’s so beautiful! I just feel the tree love in here. 

Jules: Trees?

Reid: Yes trees! Trees are love, tress are life. It’s treetacular! I wish I could live here. 

Jules: Is this why mommy says never to listen to your stories about nature. 

Reid: Why would she say that… she just doesn’t understand the beauty that is trees. Come let me tell you, in that tree other there. 

the eleventh doctor imagine | you argue and he apologises

warnings: none

words: 1011

in which you feel you can never live up to his former companions and he apologises for making you feel as though you’re not good enough.

Originally posted by fangirl-porn

“Rose would know,” he frowns, staring down at the TARDIS controls.
You gulp, feeling your stomach flip, wishing more than anything that you could help him—that you could prove yourself to him. You’re tired of living in the shadows of his previous companions, tired of never feeling good enough. You have even began to contemplate leaving him.
“Good old Rose,” you whisper, sitting down glumly. The Doctor barely even notices.
“Or Amy. If Amy was here, she’d know exactly what to do.”
You can’t help but snap after that. “Well, I’m sorry, Doctor. I’m sorry I’m not Rose, or Amy. I’m sorry I’m just me. I’m sorry I can’t help.”
You attempt to walk away to your room, but when he speaks, you can’t help but come to a halt again. “Well, that’s it, isn’t it? You can never help. Of all of the people I’ve picked…”
“What? Go on, say it.” By now you are doing everything you can to prevent yourself from crying.
The Doctor shakes his head firmly and starts to work on the TARDIS controls again. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me!” You shout. “If you don’t want me here, all you have to do is say. You can drop me off just as fast as you picked me up, if that’s what you really want.”
“I refuse to talk to you when you’re like this, [Y/N].” He adjusts his bow tie and glares at one of the computer screens. “You’re upsetting my TARDIS.”
“Oh, how rude of me.” You half-scoff, half-sob. A part of you wishes that he would react, so at least you know he cares, even if only a little bit. Instead, his face remains blank as he purses his lips.
You begin to walk off again, then turn back on your heel. “You know, there’s a reason you always end up alone. It’s because you’re selfish. You want people when it’s convenient for you, and then as soon as they can’t help you, you stop caring. One day you won’t even have me, and I hope maybe then you’ll realise that I—we—deserve better than this.”
You don’t wait to see his reaction; instead, you march off until you get to your room and then slam the door even though you know he will hardly be able to hear it from where he’s standing. It’s only then that you let your tears fall properly, but not for long; only a few moments later, you can hear The Doctor shuffling at the other side of the door.
“[Y/N]…” he calls hesitantly. “Did you mean what you said? Do you wish to go home?”
You don’t answer right away, and you can almost sense his impatience. “I don’t know anymore,” you say finally. “I thought I’d never want to give this up, but I’m tired.”
“I told you, you should sleep more often. That’s why there are beds, and pyjamas, and bedrooms. There’s even a bath somewhere.
“You know that’s not what I mean.” You slide down the door and tuck your knees under your chin, feeling as though your heart might burst out of its rib-cage at any moment. “I’m tired of you making me feel as though I’m not good enough. I’m tired of trying to meet impossible standards. If you wanted someone superhuman, someone good and strong, you shouldn’t have chosen me.”
“Do you really think that?” His voice, muffled by the door, is heavy with sadness.
You don’t answer, but you don’t need to. Something in his voice has changed; perhaps he’s finally realised the truth.
“[Y/N],” he almost whispers. “Open the door. Please.”
You blink the tears out of your eyes as best you can before you slowly stand up and do as he asks. You can barely look at him when you see his brown eyes so solemn, maybe even guilty.
“I’m sorry.”
You roll your eyes, feeling silly to have even made such a scene now that you have to look him in the eye.
“No,” he says and grabs your hand. “I am. I mean it. You are good and strong, and there are lots of times where I couldn’t have done what I do without you. I’m just a stupid, ignorant, old man, that’s all.” He attempts a smile, and you almost want to smile back, but you don’t. You can’t, not yet.
“It’s okay. I know I’m not like the others. I know I’m just normal. I just wish you didn’t have to bring it up so much.”
“I didn’t do it on purpose. I never want to make you feel like you’re any less fantastic than you are.” He cups your face in his hands then and you lower your eyes. “Because you are, [Y/N]. You are fantastic, and you are more than enough. Really. It’s me who’s not enough. You were right about what you said.”
“No. You’re too much.” A tear rolls down your cheek. “Are you going to take me home?”
“Only if that’s what you want.” His own eyes seem to glitter with tears that refuse to fall now.
“Is it what you want?” You question.
He shakes his head and lowers his hands away from you before shoving them in his pockets. “I never want you to leave, but it’s selfish of me to keep you here when you’re not happy. I want you to be happy. I promise that I’ll stop belittling you. I promise I’ll appreciate you the way you deserve. I promise, [Y/N], on both of my hearts, to be better.”
You think about it for a moment, knowing you should leave but not having the will power to do it. You can’t give up this, and you know now that the Doctor feels guilty for the way he’s treated you. Finally, you give him a small smile. “I don’t want to leave, not yet. Not as long as you want me.”
“You’ll be here a long time then,” he grins. “I can’t imagine ever not wanting you.”
He kisses your forehead without thinking and then blushes ever so slightly, but of course, not as much as you do.
“I suppose I just can’t get rid of you,” you say.



Erik deserved better.

Christine deserved better.

Raoul deserved better.

Everyone deserved so much better and it’s hurting me. Erik deserved to grow up loved and not hated for how he was born, and he didn’t deserve to hate himself, or to die from a literal broken heart(in the book, which made me cry) after not living long enough. Christine didn’t deserve to be stalked and put under so much stress that she could hardly focus on her singing, friends, or love anymore. Raoul didn’t deserve to be stuck in the middle of all of this conflict.

I just wish my children were happy.

«A century and a half ago, I lived with my people, the Mapuche. My sister was Pire. Our parents named her after the snow on the mountains because of her fair skin. […]

She came to me one day in secret and told me of the angel that found her in the woods, that visited her by night. I warned her. [..]

I could not save her. The child ripped his way free of her, and she died quickly, begging all the while that I would care for her Nahuel. Her dying wish—and I agreed. “He bit me, though, when I tried to lift him from her body. I crawled away into the jungle to die. I didn’t get far—the pain was too much. But he found me; the newborn child struggled through the underbrush to my side and waited for me. When the pain ended, he was curled against my side, sleeping.»

Breaking Dawn, Chapter 38. Power.

“Crazyhead” random thoughts

Okay no, good things about Crazyhead:

-very dark skinned black girl as a badass asskicking protagonist (Raquel!!)

-often called cute by everybody

-the other protagonist is also a girl and has a good character development and loves her bff so much it makes me cry

-It’s basically supernatural but poc have a personality and live for more than 1 episode and there are lots of girls

-In particular there’s one poc who never seems to die. Like, never (wink wink for who saw it) (ALSO SHE’S CLEOPATRA IN DOCTOR WHO)

-nice friendships between girls, no toxic fights and shit.


And not so good things:

-Main one and most painful cause it could be the perfect show: gays as the butt of way too many jokes. Really, it was so annoying, and… not funny at all??? Then why??? Ok I got it, y’all are straight, even when (spoiler alert) the 2 damn protagonists kiss. Okay, it’s straight. No need to clarify it with jokes against gay people don’t you think??

-”Oh she’s a girl? and he’s a boy!! immediate romantic attraction obviously!! And noow date.” I mean most of the relationships end up kinda fucked up in some way but still.

-In the first episode at some point I think Raquel gets sterotyped as a black angry woman? But I don’t understand why, cause that’s kinda the only time it happens. I mean, it happens another time but she says that it’s the quickest way to get rid of nosy people. Except for that she’s a complete character of her own with a great character development and great profoundity.

Conflicted about it cause it’s still a white man writing girls and black girls and making jokes about gay people and I’m afraid he fucked up even more than what I spotted but I liked it so much other than for the fuck ups I listed!!! So I’m trying to be the most critic I can about it, but like with Hamilton it kinda hurts because to me it’s so good and new in so many ways and I hate that it can’t be perfect for everybody and it has to be called out and idk. I had to let it all out somewhere, and Tumblr is my ventpit.

They’ve torn down the first house I ever lived in,
somewhere out in the suburbs of Memphis. I have no memories,
only photographs: My father, not bald yet, holding all 10 pounds of me
beneath our back yard oak tree. I was a springtime baby.  My mother,
the same age I am now. I do not know how she could care for me.
In the photos, she is laughing.
Now, she hangs her head. Cleans the countertops. Takes her time.

Last month was all heat and swamp, all alligators, empty lighters.
My mom said, “I should have known sooner.”
Said, “I wish I could have put these pills in your baby bottle.”
We blame hard water, sick oak trees,
that fact that she could not breast feed.
We blame the tides, the moon, my sign, my genes.
Maybe it’s a little of all of these things.

These days, I like to blame chemistry. The tornado
that birthed me. The house they tore down.
The ground I broke with the first sounds
I ever made. This is the poison. This is the way
these things tend to go.

Now, in a house 500 miles south of that first one,
I unload the gun. I have not known a home
in ages. Still, the truth is always evolving,
so I convince myself to stay alive
a while longer. Keep going.

My mother wishes she had known.
Our first home is gone,
and her daughter is a bulb that will not bloom.
My mother blames herself,
the fevers I had as a baby,
the hurricanes that raised me.

I blame the demolition crew, the summer heat.
I blame my body. I blame everything.

—  Zoloft In A Baby Bottle; Hannah Beth R.