Eventually, you stop crying yourself to sleep and the self-blame will dim. The questions as to why you weren’t good enough along with all that lost time spent in the shower retracing your last conversation will also stop too.
However, it will not be easy.
You are still going to wake up with them in your mind for weeks to come and similarly, they will be all you can think about before you sleep. Heartbreak is a bit like love in that respect, you think about them constantly except the thoughts are painful this time around.
Indeed, there are moments where you find shelter from these thoughts, a hot chocolate with a friend or an essay that requires your full attention. Your favourite song will come on but then that shuffled sad song will follow and trigger the thoughts all over again. This is inevitable so when it catches you off guard, let it all out. Do all you must to wash away the sadness. Call a friend, bake some cookies, go and lie on the floor with your dog and tell him you’re glad he wouldn’t ever hurt you like this.
Your heart will miss them so much it will use any excuse to search for them. The same model car they have will drive by while you are laughing away with your friends and suddenly you cannot breathe.
You might see someone with the same curly hair or the way the person sitting in front of you on the bus drums their fingers to a song will remind you of them. This too, is inevitable. Try to appreciate these small quirks because regardless of where you have ended up, these were once pieces of a puzzle that led to you falling in love and that is a beautiful thing.
Most importantly of all, you are going to want to run to them. You are going to want to share your day- whether it be good or bad- purely out of habit. You will miss the way they told you terrible jokes or sent you pictures of your favourite breed dog just to bring a smile to your face for the first time that day. You will miss how excited they got when you were excited- how happy they got when you were happy. Allow yourself to grieve this absence but remind yourself that they aren’t the only person who would be willing to devote so much effort to cheering you up. Let your loved ones know you’re sad and soak in the warmth of their kind words.
And then, suddenly, a few weeks have passed and you think of them for the first time in three days and you realise that you are healing. You start to fill your time with people and things that make you happy. You suddenly crave adventure and new experiences and anything that makes you feel alive again. You stop beating yourself up and start to defend your corner like you are your own best friend. You put your hands up and admit your contribution to the downfall of it all but the difference is, you refuse to defend them any longer. You validate your pain and tell yourself that it is okay to hurt and that you just need time- the art of healing requires the same patience as a few broken bones.
The bond with your friends will strengthen if you let them in- please let them in. Spend time with them and regularly express how much you appreciate them. Feel good about telling loved ones that you love them. Do not shy away from this term because your heart is broken. Please remind yourself that this is not the end for you. Do not console yourself with the whole there are other fish in the sea rubbish because I know that despite how much pain they have caused, you still want them and you will continue to want them for a very long time. Instead, console yourself with the thought that your heart may be in two right now but bones do that sometimes and with a little support, healing is inevitable.
My darling, to break may not be beautiful while you’re going through it but it is, don’t you see? Even a glow stick has to crack to shine; think of how proud you will be when one day you can smile at yourself in the mirror and mean it again.
Can I just talk about Anakin’s hair inconsistencies.
I love how Wookiepedia does even know: “Blond to brown”
I like to think it’s the sun that does it. Like when he was a kid, living under the double suns of Tatooine, his hair was lightened. And the inconsistent color we see in TCW is because he is hoping from planet to planet (and living under Coruscant’s wacky artificial climate). And sunlight would explain why in some episodes it looks like his hair is brown with blond highlights:
Like here he’s obviously gotten some sun:
And before the Kadavo episodes Anakin must have seen no sunlight at all:
But it’s also just the lighting (from the same episode):
THEN 30 SECONDS AFTER ^ THAT:
I don’t know man. Anakin’s hair is just as inconsistent and moody as he is. But I think we can pretend it’s the sun that changes his hair, just to have some rational explanation.
CAN WE HAVE A BLURB OF MISSUS SAYING TO HARRY THAT BEAU LOOKS LIKE HIS KID AND HE GET BLUSHY
“She looks like you, y’know.” Y/N mumbles absentmindedly, working her fingers carefully around the big silk bow on Harry’s shirt, slowly tying it in place.
The space between Harry’s eyebrows crinkles slightly as he looks down upon her, eyes focused on her actions as she loops the expensive white material of his shirt into shape. “Who?”
“Beau…” She murmurs softly, fluffing both sides of the huge bow. “She’s the spitting image of you— a proper cutie.”
He doesn’t know why, but his whole face flushes bright pink, his cheeks stinging as he purses his lips shyly. He chalks it up to the compliment and the way it tickles his ego.
Then, he glances over Y/N’s head to where the young girl is in her suit, which is identical to his, lounging around with some of her classmates and talking excitedly about the shoes Harry had gifted her. And, yeah, he can see it. Beau’s hair is the same shade of auburnish brown as his, she has the same lopsided smile, her brows frame her face the same way they furrow on his and she has the same little mole that he has on the corner of his mouth, but her’s is on the opposite side.
His gaze drifts back to his girlfriend, his tone being one of agreement. “Yeah, I guess I can see it.”
Every time I see black women post anywhere, the only celebrities they post are the same light/mixed women. Rihanna, Beyonce, Cardi (I think she said she wasn’t black at one point), Jhene Aiko. Zendaya, Amandla, Willow. Even the one’s who swear by the afro post the same recycled light skin, curly hair light eye women on their black fashion pages, black beauty pages. These women are all beautiful but they are not the only one’s.
And many more…
That’s why dark skin, brown skin women are torn these days. We love representing and putting on for our people but our people don’t do the same for us. And I’m not talking about just posting pictures of oiled up, small features, “acceptable” dark skin women, I’m talking about appreciating dark skin women all over, every type, from every corner of the planet.
Black women I’d never think I’d tell us we have to do better with representation with black women, I normally reserve those words for non-black people and black men, but black women WE TOO need to do better with our representation of black women.
Is there anything that you don’t like in imagines like stuff that would stop you reading it
When writers give the female character physical attributes and lessen the amount of people who can relate to and enjoy their work whilst also making people who don’t fit in with those attributes feel excluded.
Also when people write in Harry’s accent.
Listen I love Stephanie Beatriz as much as anyone possibly can, including in a Gay Way. But, America Chavez is an Afro-Latina teenager. She is darker than Stephanie, she is younger than Stephanie. My ultimate-don’t-even-have-any-secondary-picks choice is Vivian Lamolli. She’s perfect! She has the same naturally curly hair, almost the same skin tone, and she’s also badass. She is PERFECT for the role, I can’t imagine anyone but her to play America.
Because i’m impatient, bored, and not in the country for halloween week, i’m posting this now. Sorry guys! It’s also probably the wrong time to post but I won’t be able to rest until I do. My attempt at being slightly spooky. I hope it’s okay!
A special thank you to @xemmaloveskillianx for listening to me waffle on extensively. You’re amazing!
THE WAY HOME
SUMMARY: Emma’s routine patrol takes one night takes a dramatic turn… with chilling results.
Emma huffed and downed the last of her coffee while keeping her eye on the road. She’d only been deputy in Storybrooke for a month and while it definitely had its perks, one of the downsides were these late night patrols.
Maybe she’d become too used to city life but she really could not see the point of driving down endless stretches of creepy roads with nothing but forest to take in. It’s not as if she was going to come across anything other than some wild deer and possibly a couple foxes.
She let out another huff and noticed a slight frost to her breath. Winter was well and truly settling in and soon she was fiddling with the car’s heating and popping on the radio to keep her company on these dark, narrow country lanes.
Drumming her fingers idly on the steering wheel, the lights of the car suddenly landed on a figure in the road, trudging along the side of the dirt edge.
“Who the hell would be out walking at this time of night?”
She slowed the car and sounded the siren to alert the figure, flashing the patrol car lights for good measure.
The figure stopped and turned to take in the car.
The man looked dazed. His blue eyes shone bright from the beam of the headlights, skin pale and clothes smart yet seemingly ruffled.
Emma pulled up beside the man and lowered her window.
Sketchy doodle for today of a Gijinka Camelot (along with his brother and niece in the back) If you click the link its
Dan Stevens singing Evermore from the recent Beauty and the beast movie. Why? because Dan Stevens is my canon voice for Cam.
That’s right. Pretty boy has a pretty deepish voice.
(And for those who never saw before, but Michel J Fox is Ex’s voice, specifically his role as Milo Thatch from atlantis, while Vivi sounds like Lilo from lilo and stitch)
His dreams were filled with images of her. He didn’t know her name, knew nothing of her but her face. Her smile was engaging and her lips sweet and full. Her eyes were alluring, reflecting the golden colour of the whiskey in her glass.
Her hair was pinned up, revealing a long neck. At the nape of her neck, a few curls had managed escaped their confinement. He wanted to take the pins out and free her dark curls. He wanted to run his hands through those soft curls as his lips worked their way down the pale skin of her neck.
She visited his dreams ever so often, usually as an abstract image. Sometimes he imagined meeting her in the park or at a cafe. Sometimes he wondered if he had met her before.
Most nights the dreams of her were amorous. He had never heard her speak, only gasp and moan in the dark as their bodies came together again and again and again. He remembered the taste of sweat on her skin and how soft she felt in his grasp. He remembered the moonlight illuminating her fine bones.
Remembered. That was the operating word, was it not? He must have met her before, how otherwise could his image of her be so clear. He thought his mind could never have created so perfect a being from a blank sheet.
When Jamie woke from yet another such dream, frustrated as he once again realised that it wasn’t real, she wasn’t real, he came to the decision to put an end to this once and for all. His sister was right; he couldn’t keep chasing a twenty-year-old dream. He was longing to settle down with someone. He was longing for a family.
“Who was the first woman you dated?” asked Ian, not taking his eyes off the road. They were in the car on their way to Inverness.
Jamie rolled his eyes. “Ye ken who.”
“Oh, aye! It was that French girl. But that never went far, did it?”
“No.” It hadn’t. Jamie had been pining for Annalise a long time—long to a teenage boy, at least—before they finally started dating, and then it didn’t take long before she had left him for another.
“Why are ye asking me this anyway?”
“I remember who ye lost your virginity to,” said Ian, ignoring the question. “That was Mary MacNab. Did ye like her?”
“What? Of course I liked her. I wouldna go to bed wi’ a woman I didna even like. What kind of question is that?”
“I meant could ye see yourself dating her now?”
“I ken what ye’re doing. Ye’re still trying to find me a woman—based on whom I’ve dated in the past! That’s no the way of going about it. Besides, I had a realisation this morning.”
“Aye. I am going to find myself a woman, but I will do it my way, not yours and not Jenny’s. The pair of ye shouldna interfere in my love life.”
This was not the first time Jenny had tried to assist Jamie in finding a woman. She had once suggested—insisted—he date Laoghaire MacKenzie. That relationship, could it be called that, was brief and ended rather badly. They had been ill suited for one another, to say the least.
Jamie didn’t blame his sister for that failure of a relationship, but he was weary of her interference in his love life.
“Have ye heard about the art exhibition at the library?” Jamie asked, changing the subject. “I’d like to see it.”
“You’ll be going on yer own.”
“Excuse me,” came a soft English voice from behind him. “You don’t happen to speak Gaelic?”
Jamie turned around to tell the woman that he did, indeed, speak Gaelic, but the words stuck in his mouth.
He blinked, and then blinked again. He then had to stop himself before blinking a third time, lest she asked him whether he had something in his eye. He wasn’t entirely sure he didn’t, for surely his eyes weren’t seeing what he thought they were. He thought they must be deceiving him, either that or morphing fantasy with reality. Perhaps his brain was filling in the blanks of his fragmented memory with this woman before him.
But damn him if this wasn’t her. This had to be her. It was that same sweet smile, that same curly, brown hair, and those same whiskey-coloured eyes. How many people besides had he seen with eyes like hers?
“It’s only,” she added, when he didn’t answer, “I was wondering what this means.” She gestured towards the plaque beneath the painting before them. Tarbh-Nathrach, it read.
“Aye, I—I do speak Gaelic, lass,” Jamie said finally, internally cursing himself for taking so long to respond. He must’ve looked like an idiot. “How’d ye guess?”
She smiled—and what a beautiful smile it was, like the sun returning after a long darkness. ADhia! If Murtagh were here he surely would have hit him over the head. He was forty-five, not fifteen! What was he doing acting like a lovesick teenage boy?
“Your red hair,” she admitted. “I suppose it’s stereotypical, but I did think you rather looked like some … strong Scottish warrior.” Having said that, she blushed.
“Ah, maybe I would’ve been, had I been born in a different century.”
“So will you tell me what it means, or must I guess?”
“I’d be willing to make a bargain, Sassenach. You tell me your name and I tell you the name of the painting.”
A strange look flitted across her face. It was gone too soon for Jamie to figure out what it meant.
“That’s fair, I suppose. Though I would argue that a better bargain is I tell you my name, and you tell me yours and the name of the painting.”
“You’ve got a deal, Sassenach. For the first part of the bargain, it’s James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser.”
“Is that all?” she chuckled. “I’m Claire Randall.”
“Is that all?”
“No, that would be Claire Elizabeth Beauchamp Randall. I can’t say I usually give my full name to strangers, but since we did agree to play fair it seemed like the proper thing to do.”
“Well, Claire Elizabeth Beauchamp Randall, the painting you’re looking at is simply called Dragonfly.”
Claire regarded the painting for a moment. “It doesn’t look much like a dragonfly. It’s oddly smudged.”
“You’re not looking close enough. See there in the outer edge of the ‘smudge’, there’s your dragonfly, and that ‘smudge’ is supposed to be an amber.”
“How can you tell? You must be an art expert.”
“No, not at all. I just happen to know the artist of this one. Hugh Munro’s his name. I’m sure he’ll be happy to hear you referred to his amber as ‘smudge’.”
“That’s not how I meant it and you know it! Don’t tell him—”
“Dinna fash, Sassenach. I said the same thing when I saw it the first time,” he said with a wink—or rather, an attempt at winking, and an unsuccessful attempt based on the look Claire gave him, as though she was wondering whether he had something in his eye—apparently he didn’t escape giving her that impression after all.
“I don’t know if you’re just saying that to assuage my guilt. Either way, thank you. Anyway, I should probably get going. I promised I’d give my colleague a ring. It was nice to meet you, Mr Fraser.”
“Wait!” Way to go, James Fraser. You certainly don’t sound desperate … “Can I see you again?”
Despite his embarrassing himself, she gave him a warm smile. “That can be arranged.”
Request: can i get a lafxreader where they’re soulmate and have a one-night stand but don’t realize it until later? maybe she sees him again or something?
A/N: might be slightly cringy, tried my best with the prompt!
He pushed you against the wall, his breath hot on your neck. You moaned softly. Your hands frantically explored his body, trying to find an opening. You felt hair underneath your fingers, and pulled at the tie that kept his hair together. His teeth grazed your skin. You shivered, throwing your head back in ecstasy. He chuckled, his eyes moving back to yours.
It was dark in the room, and you couldn’t see much. His eyes were dark, full of want. His fingers found your bra, and tore through the fabric. You giggled, wrapping your arms around his waist. His mouth explored yours as he guided you through the rooms. You fell back onto the couch, his body right on top of yours. He traced his tongue on your lips, trailing down…
Warnings: angst feat. a pinch of fluff (but mostly angst)
Author’s Note: This month’s song (or technically last month… it’s for March) is Dirty Laundry by All Time Low. I’m so sorry this took a bit longer than planned, but I hope yall enjoy! The song is kinda about lying… (*coughs* Y/n? *coughs again*)so yeah, expect an argument about that :)