#lets acknowledge the fact that root never ever wanted more from shaw than she was able to give #she never crossed shaw’s boundaries #she never wanted to make shaw uncomfortable etc #she just wanted HER and was willing to be patient until shaw was fully ready to go THERE #so root’s reactions to shaw’s more playful/intimate moments with her are the most precious cause you can tell shaw being that vulnerable catches her off guard #she never expected ANY confession of feelings so imagine how much root is internally screaming inside #shaw making it known that she indeed loves her back was all she ever wanted
[On whose death affected Oliver the most] “Well, the death of his father was one thing, but just speaking about the present day since we started the series and not just the flashbacks, I’d say Tommy.” - Stephen Amell
do you ever get in one of the moods were you just want to be held, and to be called babygirl and even just to be loved. like, sometimes i just get in this weird mood when all i want in the world is affection ugh
in the new run bts we basically watched them doing nothing but sitting around in fancy suits eating snacks and laughing their asses off while watching videos of themselves and I could literally do this all day wow
“What should we name him” Sansa asks as she stares at the perfectly round face of the newborn in her arms.
“I think the better question is who do we want him to be” Jon softly replies. Ever since the babe took his first series of breaths, Jon has been unable to tear his eyes away from him.
“I want him to be strong and honest” Sansa replies, smiling down at the child as he starts to squirm in her arms.
“He should be honorable…..like father” Jon solemnly replies. Though he learned long ago that Ned was not his true father he was still the only father he had ever known. Biology would never be able to erase the love he felt towards Ned. It would be a great honor to have his own son come up in his image.
Sansa smiles fondly at the thought. Her father was the most honorable man she had ever known and she missed him dearly. “Eddard Stark” she says in her head as she looks down at the child again. She liked it, but it didn’t feel right for the babe in her arms. There was something about the boy that told Sansa he would be a handful as he came up. He wouldn’t be as melancholy as his father and her father. As she brushes his raven locks from his face and shifts him in her arms, Sansa realizes exactly what she wants to name her son. Looking intently into his eyes she finally speaks again.
“Honor is important, but I have no doubt he will have plenty of it. He is of the blood of Jon Stark and Eddard Stark afterall” Sansa says with a fond smile. “I want him to be brave….like Robb” Sansa finally whispers, a hint of pain in her voice as she thinks about her brave older brother who marched against the crown for her family. She wanted her son to have that same fire and determination.
Robb was barely a man when he was tasked with avenging their father and guarding the north. He outsmarted the best war strategists in the realm and bravely won battle after battle. She knew if he had lived he would have rescued her and protected his family from the pain they would all end up suffering. Sansa wanted her son to be honest and strong and honorable but she wanted him to brave most of all, just like she wished she could be brave like Robb all those years ago.
“The young wolf” Sansa smiles as she brings her son’s soft forehead to her lips. Jon’s heart swells with happiness and a bit of sadness as he witnesses just how much the name means to her. Robb was his best friend, strong and brave and better at everything. He wanted nothing more than to have a son who was just like the man he knew as his brother.
“Robb Stark” Jon lets out as he lets his arm drape around Sansa’s waist to pull her into his chest. He gently kisses her on the crown of her head before he reaches out to grab his son’s tiny little fingers and brings them gently to his lips. “I hope you’re every bit of the man your namesake was” he whispers as the babe lets out a soft yawn and snuggles into his mother’s chest.
I wish I had the words to describe what it feels like to have The Followers come on. Brent first, followed by Spencer, and then Joe, and the crowd goes wild, explodes, erupts, but I hold my breath because no, no, that will not do, and the mic in the middle stands empty, and Joe’s already got his guitar wrapped around himself, and he strums a chord, flashing us a stunning smile and then we hear crash bang cymbal cymbal crash bang, and only then does the last quarter of The Followers arrive.
It’s funny when you first see a person you’ve only seen pictures of, and then, suddenly, they appear in front of you, flesh and blood and breathing, ten rows ahead and centre stage, a bony wrist lifted in an awkward hello. And I can’t look away. Ryan’s tall and too thin and wearing a smart suit and he’s clean shaven, but he’s scruffy, somehow he just is, like a rough diamond, and he sings the first line, monotonous and doomed, and he sounds like a prophet. The crowd loses it.
I don’t look away once.