anonymous asked:

Hmmm. How well can you pull off "pitiful and in dire need of help"? Henry is a very empathetic person, and if you approach him in obvious distress, it'll at least slow him down enough to hear you out. If you're still possessing Margi, he doesn't have to know it's you right away. Paper Bendy might suspect, but he's too softhearted to attack unprovoked. They may even try to reason with you if they think such a thing can be done.

But… I mean…

Since I got her body… There’s gonna be so many questions about that…

I could… un-possess her right as we get up to Henry! That way she has to talk to him first! And I don’t have to! Heheheh~

And then when I’m ready I could take back control. She’d still be able to hear you guys through the portal too and stuff!

I think that’ll work? Right? It’s the best plan I got…

Merciful Night - Quiet Tension.

I’d not expected it to be busy.

Such is the time of year many find themselves… Wanting to visit family, or the like. Afore the Starlight season rolls in.

…Not that i’ve any to visit. None that don’t already live with me, in any case.

Still. Bar work is a pleasing change from my usual duties. I enjoy it.

You smile at Adellenne Hocoleux.

Bexy Amalaryssia: “All ready for another set of faces to serve, then?”

Adellenne Hocoleux offers a tired smile. “Good evening, Bexy. How have you been?”

Adellenne Hocoleux nods to you.

You shrug at Adellenne Hocoleux.

Bexy Amalaryssia: “…Work is tiresome. Meeting after meeting. I do wish she’d come back.”

Adellenne Hocoleux: “She will eventually. She will not stay away forever,”

Bexy Amalaryssia inclines her head, brow quirked. “You think so? I am not so hopeful.”

Adellenne Hocoleux: “I do. I spoke with her before I came back,”

Adellenne Hocoleux shrugs. “She has a duty here,”

Bexy Amalaryssia folds her arms, glancing aside with a faint bob of her head. “…She… Is happy there, then?”

Adellenne Hocoleux nods to you.

Adellenne Hocoleux: “She was…smiling,”

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okay nope, after that post, it’s time to go off some more.

as a parent, you have no right to announce your child’s disability to everyone. the only time you should mention their disability is when it is medically necessary. you need to stop and think about how this is going to affect your child before you do something like that.

growing up, every time my mother introduced me to someone, she’d say “this is my child who goes to the school for the blind” right after telling them my name. it was as if the most important thing about me was that I am disabled.

“but they don’t let it hold them back!” she’d say. yes, because I just live to be some abled person’s inspiration porn. I don’t let it hold me back from what? doing my schoolwork? joining a club? normal things that you would expect the average abled person to do?

it shows, when you tell everyone about your disabled child all the time, what you really think of people with disabilities. maybe it’s showing you see us as lesser. maybe it’s showing you think we can’t do anything on our own. maybe it’s showing you think we’re a burden. it never seems to be showing something good.

disclosing someone’s disability should be the disabled person’s decision. there are countless reasons why we wouldn’t want to disclose our disabilities to just anyone. oh, you don’t think it’s that big a deal? well, here’s a bit of it, then:

  • we don’t want anyone’s pity. we’re not “inspiring” for living our daily lives.
  • maybe we don’t want to disclose our disabilities because that person may have been offering a job to us. maybe we don’t want our application thrown out on the basis that we “can’t do it because we’re disabled”. we know when to discuss our disabilities with our employers.
  • maybe it’s that we don’t want everyone at school knowing. not every kid is your friend, and things can get a whole lot worse if they’re ableist.
  • maybe we don’t want to disclose it because of how ableist people are. haven’t you ever seen a parent pull their child away from an autistic child or refuse to vaccinate their child because they don’t want that child to “catch the autism”? well, I have.
  • have you ever had to take the “short bus”? no? well, I have. it’s an announcement to everyone that you’re disabled. to the ableists out there, it’s an announcement of a perceived weakness they can exploit.
  • have you ever had people avoid you because of your disability? well you’re abled, so I guess not. you can bet your ass I have, though.

TL;DR: the world is full of ableist people. you as a parent have no right to make that world even more difficult for your child by announcing their disability.

The Treasury

Joanie and Jamie come across the trunk of Claire’s gowns. 

by Mod Bonnie 

Thought of the Lallybroch attic always made Joan’s heart race wi’ panic, though she’d only set foot inside it the once. 

She and Mam and Da and Marsali had all been over for supper shortly after the weddin’, months back, and the big folk had kept talkin’ and talkin’ so late into the night like they’d never stop! Finally, she and Marsali had gotten so bored, they’d crept off to explore the house wi’ some of the other children, finding themselves at last up in the attic. The place was ghostly and drafty in the candlelight, and some of the boys had started tellin’ tales of spooks and ghouls and nuckelavees, sendin’ shivers down Joanie’s back. She’d nearly wet herself wi’ relief when the group all ran back down the steps into safety, giggling from the excitement of it. She’d giggled too, but never had she ever been so scairt in all her life. It had woken her, sometimes, the nightmares of bein’ trapped up there alone in the creaky darkness. 

Today, though, Da had held her hand as they went up the steps, and wi’ him beside her, the light of day shinin’ through the windows and cracks, Joan saw the place for what it was: a treasury, stacked all ‘round wi’ precious secret things just waitin’ to be discovered. She’d learnt that word in a book once, and always had loved the grand sound of it: the queen’s treasury.  

He and Mam had had a fight, that mornin’, a great stramash that had made all the rooms of the house echo. Joan had run out into the dooryard wi’ her hands over her ears. She hated when they did that: yelled at one another so. It was like havin’ Simon back in the house again. 

She bit her tongue the moment she’d thought such a thought, for Da wasna anything like Simon. Da never would beat them, and he was kind and funny— better than any man she’d ever met!  Well….for her and Marsali, at least. Mam didna seem to like him verra much. 

He’d stormed out of the door, startling her from where she sat. He’d gotten Baron saddled in a flash, and had just reined about to ride out to the road, when he’d spotted her. Though his face was red, still, from the yelling, he’d smiled at once, a real smile, and held out a hand. “Come wi’ me to Lallybroch, a leannan?” 

After takin’ tea wi’ Auntie Jenny and Uncle Ian, Da had wandered about through the house. It seemed he wasna in any rush to get back to Balriggan or Mam. Joan wasna either, if she were bein’ truthful. They’d been in the library, Da showin’ her this book and that, but then he took a notion after a particular book that he couldna seem to find on the shelves. And so, the two of them had ended up in the attic, rummagin’ to find a box of things from when Da was at university in Paris. 

“D’ye recall what sort of box it would be in, Da?” Joan asked, rubbing her nose, which was running from all the dust kicked up in the air. 

She didna take much heed of his answer, for just at that moment, she’d caught sight of a lovely, big trunk over in the corner by the window in the eaves. She made for it eagerly, catchin’ open the clasps and flippin’ open the lid. 

She gasped. TREASURE. 

“Joan? Are ye alright?” came Da’s voice at once. “Joanie, did ye hurt your—” 

“Da, LOOK!” she squealed as she lifted the item on the top: a gown as red and glistening as a jewel. The fabric was fine and rare, and Joanie knew for certain that this was the most grand thing she’d ever held in her two hands. She felt almost as though she were in kirk, such a thrill it brought over her. 

“Dinna touch those!” 

He was moving fast toward her and the look on his face made her spring up to her feet, jumping back. “I’m sorry,” she blurted, tears wellin’ up in her eyes at once. “I’m sorry, I willna touch it again— promise!” 

He didna say anythin’. He was crouched at the trunk, his eyes movin’ over the stuff inside in a crazed sort of way, as though he were afraid it would catch fire. That seemed to go on for long, long time, and Joan had to clamp her hands over her mouth to keep from burstin’ out into sobs. 

Please dinna hate me…. 

Then, he seemed to remember where he was. He looked up—were those tears in his eyes, too?— and his face went all soft, but sorry-like, as though he were ashamed. “Forgive me, Joanie,” he whispered, holding out his arms to her. “I shouldna have snapped at ye.” 

All trembly, her gullet tight and burnin’ from tryin’ not to cry, she took his hand and let him pull her into a hug that brought happiness all the way down to her toes. “I hadna seen those things in many years, and they gave me quite a turn…” His voice was scratchy as he said it. “But truly,” he whispered, planting a kiss at the top of her cap, “I’m sorry, lass. Can ye forgive me for it?” 

All felt right again as she nodded and hugged him back, sniffling into his shoulder and lettin’ herself be held, just for a while longer. 

“Where did these come from, Da?” she asked a bit later as she turned back toward the chest, curiosity too strong to ignore. “All of these gowns and fine things!” At his nod of permission, she gingerly picked up a pair of gloves, embroidered with golden thread. “I’ve never seen anything like it in all my life! Did a queen live here, once, then?” 

He laughed, and she gave him a stern “What?” for she hadn’t meant it as a jest. 

“Aye…she was a queen, of sorts.” He reached out a hand and traced his fingers across the crimson fabric, just like Joan had herself. His voice was very low and verra sad. “A lady who was verra special indeed.” He gently moved the red gown to the side to show the one beneath, and Joan heard him breathe out a wee smilin’ sound. 

“Why are they up here, though, Da?” she demanded, gingerly reachin’ out and strokin’ the lovely thing along wi’ him. It was greener than anythin’, even more than the grass in summer.  “Why does nobody wear them?”

“Can ye imagine your Auntie Jenny milking the goats in such a gown, then?” he said, laughin’ and makin’ her giggle too. “Nay, they’re from a different time, lass, before the Rising. No one’s quite the need of such finery anymore; not here, anyway.” 

“Oh…. that’s too bad.” Her heart was falling like stone. “They’re just so beautiful…” 

She’d always hoped that when she grew up, there would be beautiful gowns and pretty things. They werena necessary, she supposed, and it wasna so much that she cared overmuch for them herself, as Marsali did. But the notion had always been a secret dream in her mind: that even if things since the Rising —since before she was born—had been naught but hard and sad, someday there would be beautiful things in her life too. Hearing it from Da, now, that there was no place for them—it made her want to crawl into the chest and nestle in amongst the gowns and fall asleep among their beauty. She thought that their wonder would seep into her skin, that way, and keep forever in her dreams, if there they must stay. 

There was a tear on her cheek, then another, but Da was nudging her, eagerly. “Shall we see what they look like on another fine lady?” 

Before she could answer, he was standing her on her feet and movin’ across the room, comin’ back wi’ a wee looking glass, which he propped up against the lid of the trunk. 

“What, ME?” she squawked. “Try them ON?” 

“And why not? It’s no’ as though I’m a lady, aye?” 

She giggled.


Minutes later, she was sittin’ on Da’s lap, looking at her reflection and hardly believing her eyes. The golden gown was around her shoulders, puddled huge about her like a great pudding, a fine comb holding up her hair in place of the plain cap, and in her hand was the most beautiful fan she’d ever seen. It didna look like herself, in the glass. 

“Da, I canna wear this,” she said uneasily, trying to stand up and remove the gown. 

“But of course ye can,” he said at once, holding her firmly, and she could see his smile in the looking-glass as well as hear it in his voice.  

“But Marsali says,” she insisted, “I canna ever wear yellow, because of my hair. Red-heided lasses canna wear gold or yellow or pink or—” 

“Nonsense! They can wear whatever they like,” Da said. 

“Aye? Truly?” 

“I give ye my word upon it,” he said solemnly. 

“Oh….well….that’s good then,” she said, still nervous that Marsali would barge in and tease her. She sighed. “I wish I had hair like Mam and Marsali.” 

He snorted. “Well I dinna wish that.” 

That surprised her. “Do ye no’ think their hair is bonny?” 

“Oh, aye, it’s lovely… but red hair,” he said, runnin’ his fingers over the top of her head, “is my favorite.” 

“‘Cause you have it too?” she said, grinning. 

“Well, I’ve a longstanding personal partiality, to be sure,” he agreed with a grin as he let her tie a fine blue ribbon around his queue. “Besides,” he said, sounding dreamy as she finished the bow, “my own daug—” 

He stopped. 

“What, Da?” 

He stared at her for a moment, and she thought she’d never seen anyone with eyes so blue. “Only that your red hair is one of the things about ye that makes me happy, Joanie.” 

His voice was cracked and croakin’, and somethin’ in it made her lean forward and plant a kiss on his cheek. She felt his stubble tug against her lips as he smiled. 

“Besides—” He pulled her back onto his lap and tweaked the mirror so she could see the both of them in the glass. “Can ye no’ see for yourself how beautiful ye are?” 

And because he’d said it, she could. 

“What was her name?” she asked, her voice sounding like one in a dream, full of mystery, like the music of a priest’s prayer. 

“Her name?” 

“The queen-lady,” Joanie insisted. She had the the gowns and the fine things treasured up into her memory, now. All she needed was a name to finish the story in her mind. “What was she called?” 


Joanie watched his face as he tried to remember the tale. 

“Her name was Sorcha.” 


Prev /

“What have you been doing, Evelyn? You’re making us all late.”

Effie sighed and lifted her shoulders in a slight shrug at her grandmother’s questioning. “I’m sorry, grandmama. I was getting ready.”

“Well,” Beatrice sniffed, “I suppose I can’t reprimand you, really. You must be looking your best this evening if I’m to have you married before the decade is out.”

“You really ought to find yourself a hobby, Beatrice,” Céilí intoned, rolling her eyes for her daughter’s benefit. She touched Ellery’s arm. “Shall we?”

He turned to her, the warmth in his eyes spreading easily across his face as it had every time he’d looked at his wife in the months since she’d moved back to Enderby. “Yes,” he agreed as Céilí linked her arm through his own, and he clasped his hand over hers and squeezed her fingers. “Let’s go meet our guests.”

#18: Valkyrie x Reader

I just saw Thor: Ragnarok and I have so much inspiration for imagines! I’ll be writing more and don’t worry, I’m still doing requests! 

“Back already?” you asked Valkyrie as she joined you at the bar outside the gladiator cage. She had gone out today with a drink in her hand with no clear destination in mind, but you knew she’d be back.

“I found a contender for the Grandmaster,” she said with a smile and ordered a drink. 

“A good one?” 

“He better be. He’s a prince of Asgard.” 

“He’s Asgardian?” you asked with concern. You knew of Valkyrie’s history, and you didn’t know how seeing someone she had served in the past would make her feel. “Do you know what’s happening there right now, Valkyrie?”

“I’m not worried about it,” she said. “And you shouldn’t worry about me. He’s not my problem anymore, and neither is Asgard.”

“They’re your people, Val,” you said softly, taking her hand. “And saving them isn’t your problem. It’s your duty.”

“My only duty is to you now, Y/N,” she said firmly. “Now let’s finish our drinks and get out of here. The match is starting soon.” 

Part 2
Part 3

The Colour Of You

Ninth of my new Soulmate au stories.

Tag list: @rabidwrestlingfan @theprestigious0ne  @anonwriter-lady @somehow-lovable-trash @youngandbiitter @meowmeowp @waystobcwickcd @andy-blur @padfoot13 @fangeekkk @tardis1967

Warnings: None. I was a good girl.

Summary: Your eyes are the colour of your soulmate’s hair and when they dye it your eyes change colour.

Word Count: 3730


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more concept playlists

you’re going for a walk and it is late and everyone is beautiful. all you want to do is listen and watch- there are libraries lit up in gold and lovely empty parking lots. every so often you catch a glimpse of your old childhood friend who you thought lived halfway across the world. you find a bench and dream of deep water.

you’re waiting up late for someone you love because she promised she’d be back but you think the shadows ate her. it’s a possibility. you’re wondering what will become of you and you find you aren’t sure. the grandfather clock ticks on and, every so often, the neighbor’s car alarm goes off. after a while, you run out of things to do.

“everything is messy,” your new friend tells you, and you run together along the edge of a cliff at one am. you delete your news app from your phone and you have a million appointments to get to tomorrow but fuck that. your new friend tells you a sad story and you can’t really bring yourself to care but by two am you’re staring out at the sea and you’re desperately lonely. this won’t last.

yesterday you walked away from your claustrophobic small town home and now you’ve stayed up all night setting up your new abode and now you find yourself with your knees to your chest trying not to think about existential questions. you’re a little hungry, and you have dirt under your nails. are you even real now? will they remember you? who do you miss?

you live under fluorescent lighting and you’ve only just realized you’re sentient. maybe this is a dystopia. you aren’t sure, but you have a plan now and you’re going to make this a clean break, figure everything out as you go. when you finally start running, down a highway in the prairie, the wind fills you up.

reblogginhood  asked:

I've been in an angsty fic mood lately, esp with pining exes fic...write me some bellarke along those lines, pretty please? <3

Don’t blame me.  Blame Erin.

Clarke rolled over and looked at her clock.  Dim green numbers glared back at her.  1:28 am.  She was in for another sleepless night.  Another night pretending the bed didn’t feel empty; another night wishing she could take back everything she’d yelled at Bellamy.

She turned back to her side and squeezed her eyes shut, hoping that if she faked sleep long enough it would come.

She made it another ten minutes before she cracked.  She picked up her phone, chewing on her lower lip, and wondered.  He probably wouldn’t answer.  Not after she slammed the door behind her.

She called him anyway.

Clarke was just about to hang up when he answered.  The line was silent for so long she thought maybe the call had just dropped, but then he cleared his throat.  “Can’t sleep either, huh?” he said.

Tears welled in her eyes.  His voice was so rough, so familiar.  She wanted to curl up with her head on his chest and hear it rumble against her ear, his hands carding sleepily through her hair.  “Haven’t been able to,” she admitted.  “I— I miss you.”

Bellamy blew out a long, slow breath.  “I miss you too,” he said, and a sob caught in her throat.

“Did I break us?  Completely?” she asked, not sure she wanted to know the answer.

“I don’t know,” he said, and she could hear the pain in his voice.  “You might not have, but I might’ve.”

Clarke closed her eyes and shook her head before she realized he couldn’t see her.  “You didn’t,” she swore.  “But I—”

Bellamy sighed again.  “Let’s not do this tonight,” he said.  “We have to talk, but not now.  Not like this.  Did you want me to read to you?”

For the first time in three weeks, the vice around her heart loosened.  “Depends.  What are you reading?”

“Still working on that biography,” he said wryly.

Clarke grinned.  “Perfect.  “I’ll be asleep in no time.”

My North Star (pt 9)

Originally posted by chimchams

A/N: Thank you to all the readers who have requested part nine. Some of you guys have even checked up on me to make sure I was feeling well since I haven’t updated the series in such a long time. I’ve just had a lot going on in my life personally and academically and life’s been kind of shitty. But I’m glad to write more for you guys! Let me know what you think. Do you want part 10?

Genre: ok this part is just straight up angst not going to lie.

Pairing: Jin x Reader

Summary: you were in love with your best friend, the one constant in your life. But what happens when the new girls comes along? And a new man aims to win your heart. 

Previous Parts: Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8

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Goldenrod: encouragement, good fortune.

| Title: Goldenrod: encouragement, good fortune.  [Park Jihoon x reader]

Series: White Wolves, two.

Previous part: One, Ong Seongwoo

 Genre: fluff, werewolf! au; PJH x reader

 Summary: Can you hate your soul mate? No? I’m sure I hate that I love her.

Words Count: 1724 

Note: It took me so long to write this omg. I hope you enjoy it :)  Picture’s not mine, I found it in Pinterest. Credits to the owner. |

We were always competing. Ever since we met in middle school. We were friends, but we could as well had been enemies. We were extremely competitive: I wanted to be better than her, she wanted to beat me at everything.


As soon as the professor gave us our results back, she’d always go to my seat or I’d go to hers.



Her expression fell.

“How even-”

“I’m a genius, that’s it” I smirked.

“Yah, Park Jihoon, I hate you!” she growled, puffing her cheeks as she walked back to her seat.

“Feeling’s mutual, Y/n!”

Keep reading

frankchurchillsaysrelax  asked:

So I just watched the Sense & Sensibility BBC mini series and I was kind of shocked by how they portrayed Willoughby as, I don't know, almost predatory. I've always seen Willoughby as someone who is careless and self-serving but never cruel or calculating. Kind of the prep school boy who goes on vacation to hook up, get drunk, and spend his parents money type. This adaptation seemed to be painting him in a more Wickham light. At least that's how I saw it, was just curious what you thought.

I mean, I have a lot of issues with how that adaptation tried to Sex Things Up with the addition of the prologue with (FIFTEEN YEAR OLD) Eliza being seduced by Willoughby, but not because it happened at all, but because of how it’s portrayed. (Just never try to ‘sex up’ anything that involves exploiting a minor.)

Willoughby is predatory. Eliza is a vulnerable young girl, and even when this is pointed out to Willoughby, he treats her with contempt, because she is comparatively stupid enough to have trusted him. His defense of his actions largely consists of “um yeah okay what I did was bad but that doesn’t make her a saint! and consider it was colonel brandon who said all of this like obviously the guy just hates me and cannot give an unbiased account of what happened! and I didn’t know I’d forgotten to tell eliza where I was going when I abandoned her…”

His aunt would have forgiven him and given him back his inheritance if he’d done right by Eliza and married her–Willoughby preferred to take his chances with an heiress in London, abandoning Marianne, too. When Elinor asks him what he said to Marianne before leaving Barton Cottage to go and find his heiress to marry, he claims he can’t even remember. So much for his true love.

He’s just so selfish he can’t even be arsed to think of decent excuses or admit it when there is no excuse for his behaviour. It wasn’t a one-off affair. He hid away with Eliza for at least half a year before he wandered off and ‘forgot’ to tell her where he was going or when he’d be back, and by then she was pregnant and alone with no money or friends or way of living, and wrote to the Colonel in desperation, fully eight months after she’d disappeared without a trace and left everyone in a panic. (As Brandon finds her near her due-date, she must have gotten pregnant within a month or two of running off with Willoughby, and so when he left her she would have been at least four months along, and it’s highly unlikely he would not have known she was expecting.) Either Willoughby is seriously stupid, or he is that callous and cruel. Wickham at least got paid off to marry Lydia after many weeks. Willoughby was made a similar offer by his aunt, to marry Eliza, and refused, and seems content to let others worry about what happens to her and his own child.

Willoughby is, as written, worse than Wickham. Yes, he truly fell in love with Marianne for the first time and shocked himself, but he ruined so many lives due to his lack of principles or constancy. Wickham’s a douche, but you can negotiate with him. Willoughby is a loose cannon.

Re-reading a few passages of S&S just now to fact-check a couple of things, I was also struck by Willoughby’s attitude, and how it would have been a familiar one to Austen’s contemporaries. Of course we all know the sexual double-standard wherein men like Willoughby can fall from grace and recover their standing in the world in the space of five minutes, whereas a woman’s ruin is eternal and much more easy to accomplish. At the time there was this strange understanding of female sexuality that treated it as a kind of Pandora’s box–and once a woman had experienced any form of sexual contact, she was presumed to be an irredeemable wanton who would be a completely immoral nympho with any fellow that came within twenty feet of her. Whether it was seduction, ‘forced seduction’ (guess what that’s a terrible euphemism for,) or simply being caught in a compromising situation, the On/Off switch of the female libido would be considered Flipped, and there was no going back. She wants the D, now. Always. There are shades of this thinking in Willoughby’s defense of himself by blackening Eliza Jr. for her own ‘part’ in her allowing him to seduce her. (For a guy who is quick to point out that Colonel Brandon might be a biased and unreliable narrator in The Story of What Happened Between John Willoughby and Little Eliza, he doesn’t seem to realize that he, himself, is likely to be an even less reliable narrator after the shit has hit the fan.)

That she was silly enough to be persuaded by him seems to be his chief condemnation of her character, and he speaks as if this ought to be enough to exonerate him, as clearly Eliza has zero character and ought not to deserve anybody’s pity or support. All other elements of her circumstances don’t matter to him one bit, and Elinor and Brandon’s continuing sympathy for the girl despite all that’s happened seem to represent a more moderate way of understanding such a situation, which I take to be Austen’s own general view of such things. Humanity is not so starkly divided into good and evil as it often is in fiction or in popular sentiment, and Jane Austen knew this very well, perhaps in part due to her upbringing as a clergyman’s daughter, who might have borne witness to the varied crises of poor behaviour which occur in all communities. A measure of compassion for the complexity of a young single mother’s situation seems more rational than an outright condemnation of her, and chiefly/only her, as Willoughby would have it.

As Austen wrote in Emma, “Seldom, very seldom does complete truth belong to any human disclosure; seldom can it happen that something is not a little disguised, or a little mistaken…” and I think it indicative of her approach to human characters–perfection in our interactions is impossible, and a little flexibility and understanding serves us better than to go at things with rigid determination. Those characters who are most unwilling to change, bend, or accept the flaws in themselves are the unhappiest–and that includes the selfish, predatory, blame-everyone-but-me-because-ow-my-heart Willoughby.

anonymous asked:

I think it's awesome how little things like the opening flashback can show so much. Annie's words in particular are pretty telling. She equates telling your story/sins to seeking forgiveness. I know you see an alliance issue grounded in lack of trust there, but if Annie willingly gave up info and tried to establish that trust do you think she'd be given a chance, esp. if it had a condition (i.e.-SC's custody of Eren)? I'm assuming she's out and working somehow with the SC, but what do you think?

If everyone sat down and had an honest heart-to-heart talk, sure, things could happen. I just couldn’t see a way for them to get to that point. If Annie’s been in stasis, her last memory is of Armin lying to her and Eren defeating her. If she emerged from the crystal, it would be with those thoughts front and center - thoughts of when she’d was backed in a corner, frightened, and desperate to go home.

In the last four years, maybe they’ve found a way to safely communicate with her. I’d like to think the SC would give her a chance, like you said, if they could ensure everyone’s safety. The skills that make her a deadly enemy would make her an equally useful ally. Not just her strength, but her knowledge of Marley and it’s military.

The other thing going for Annie is her lack of political ideology. She’s ultimately on whatever side will get her home. If the SC can guarantee that, I don’t see her objecting.

I wouldn’t have agreed last month, but with the appearance of Mr. Leonhardt in this chapter, I share your opinion that Annie is alive and quite possibly working with the SC. 

What did I think happened? Tiffany thought. Did I think she’d come back for a packet of Jolly Sailor? Did I think she was still somehow walking the hills, looking after the sheep? Did I think she… was still here, watching for lost lambs?
Yes! I want that to be true. I don’t want to think she’s just… gone. Someone like Granny Aching can’t just… not be there anymore. And I want her back so much, because she didn’t know how to talk to me and I was too scared to talk to her, and so we never talked and we turned silence into something to share.

– on Granny Aching’s presence | Terry Pratchett, The Wee Free Men

Knocked Up.

Harry and the missus have a fight, Harry drinks it away before finding himself in the wrong bed before a month later finding out that he had knocked up someone other than the missus. x


“No, no, no.” You tugged at your hair as you got out of the car as you were parked on the side of the road and inspected the damage. It was one hell of a damage.
Besides it being damaged, you were more nervous about the fact that it wasn’t your car, it was Harry’s. And to make matters worse, it was Harry’s favorite car.

In your defense, you didn’t do anything wrong. The traffic light was red and you were waiting for it to go green when suddenly a car slammed into you from behind. You were fine but the car? Not so much. It looked like shit if you were to be honest. Whoever hit you had raced passed you, not stopping for a talk.
You were sure that Harry would get angry.

You managed to drive back home and parked the damaged car that squeaked on the way home. You locked the car once you were outside and took slow steps towards the door before unlocking it and entering.

You could hear the sound of cheering coming from the television and you guessed that Harry was watching football, with his feet against the table and a beer can in his hand. You were right.

You sat beside him on the couch, biting the inside of your cheek as you looked down on your lap. His head turned to look at you. “Hey.”

You nodded in reply. “What’s the matter?”

“You’ll get angry.” You muttered.

“What? I didn’t catch that.” He said as he lowered the television’s volume.

“I said you’ll get angry.”

“I’m sure it’s not something big. Tell me.” Harry sighed, turning his body to look at you.

“A car hit me. Hit the car, not me. Well I was the one driving the car but the other car didn’t exactly hit me physic-”

“Woah woah, slow down,” Harry chuckled, “Slowly. Tell me what happened, slowly.”

“Your car got hit, okay? I’m so sorry, I w-”

“What?!” Harry snapped, “What the fuck did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything, I swear! The traffic light was red and all of a sudden a car from behind hit me. I didn’t do anything!” You shook your head.

Harry stood up, shaking his head, “I knew I shouldn’t have given it to you.”

“Harry, I said I didn’t do anything. Hell, it could’ve happened to you.” You were starting to get frustrated. He didn’t even ask if you were fine and was blaming you for something that you had no choice in.

“But it didn’t! That’s your problem! You’re so- so careless sometimes! How fucking hard is it to come back with the car in one piece, huh?!” Harry shouted at you.

“You don’t even care that I came back in one piece!”

“Oh God, stop. Stop turning everything about you! You don’t get to whine right now and moan about me not caring! That-That’s my favorite car!” He motioned towards the door, his cold stare on you.

“I turn everything about me?! Really now?! I apologized, told you it wasn’t my fault! How the fuck was it my fault?!” You yelled back.

“I drive this car everyday. Can you see a fucking scratch on it?” Harry asked, walking closer to you, making you take a few steps back.

“Oh my God, you can easily get it fixed!” You reasoned, throwing your hands in the air in exaggeration.

“Oh so now I’m spoiled?” Harry crossed his arms across his chest.

“I didn’t even say that. What are you on?” You asked in disbelief, shaking your head at him.

“You tell me. You come here, tell me that you fucking damaged my car, call me spoiled and try to victimize yourself then you ask me what am I on.” Harry scoffed before shaking his head.

“Okay, you’re clearly upset about something else and now you’re just taking it out on m-”

“Stop fucking assuming!” Harry yelled. You flinched at his tone and stared at him in shock. He looked at you one more time before storming off towards the door, taking his car keys and walking out of the house after slamming the door shut behind him.

You looked at the door with confusion and shock before sitting on the couch with your head in your hands as you tried to calm down.


It was after his ninth drink when Harry felt like he didn’t exist; like a man with no identity. His heavy feet were stumbling on the club’s tiled floor, his hands on another woman’s body as her lips left stains on his neck. Getting into a taxi with her, Harry couldn’t remember how could his lips kiss any other woman other than his lover who was waiting for him back home at the early hours of the dawn.

Getting into the other woman’s bed was something Harry couldn’t remember the next day. Peeling her clothes and his, the sound of their smacking skin was something Harry couldn’t remember in the morning. It was when his eyes fluttered open, 6 hours after, did he realize.

His head immediately turned to look at the woman whose head was on his chest, thinking that maybe his fight with the missus was a dream. But it wasn’t. This wasn’t the missus’ hair. He immediately pushed her off and stood up, looking down his body when he felt the cold breeze, his eyes widening as he realized that he was naked.

The other woman’s eyes fluttered open, a tired smile on her lips as it made Harry feel sick before her eyebrows furrowed and she looked under the sheets and her eyes widened before looking at Harry and letting out a shriek. Harry immediately put his hands on his private part, looking at her in shock, “Did we…?” She stumbled.

Harry nodded, still in shock, “We did.”

“Oh my God.” The girl whispered to herself, “I’m going to get married in 2 months!”

“I cheated on my girlfriend, too.” Harry said before his mouth opened in shock, “I cheated on her.”


Your tired eyes moved towards the windows by the door once you heard a car’s sound, standing up quickly and almost giving yourself a whiplash before running towards the door and opening it.
It was 3 in the afternoon and Harry had just arrived after not reply to any of your phone calls or texts. He got out of the car and stumbled to the front door a little. Just as he was getting to the door, he hunched over and threw up on grass beside the steps leading to the door.

You cringed before rushing to his side and rubbing his back. “Leave.” He muttered out sickly.

You sighed, “Can we please do this some other time?”

“Love, please, ju-” He was interrupted by yet another round of him throwing up.

After helping him into the house and up the stairs, you ran the warm water for him before rushing to get him water and medicine. You walked back to the room and sat on the bed waiting for him. He came out in nothing but his boxers and went straight to find a t-shirt to put on. You watched him get dressed before he plopped on the bed and opened his arms for you.

You snuggled close to him after giving his chest a kiss. “I’m so sorry.” You said gently.

“I’m sorry too. So sorry.” He kissed your head before the both of you fell asleep in each other’s embrace.


It was a month after the fight. You were making breakfast while Harry was on his phone, scrolling through it. You put Harry’s hash browns on his plate before he held your waist and gave you a peck on your lips.
The door bell rang and you both looked towards it. “Pour the coffee, I’ll get the door.” You said, giving him a kiss on his cheek before walking towards the door.

You looked through the peep hole and furrowed your brows when you saw a young woman. “Hope it’s not a fan.” You thought as you opened the door. “Hello, how can I help you?” You asked nicely before noticing her tear stained cheeks, “Oh my God, are you hurt?”

“You’re his girlfriend, aren’t you?” The woman asked nervously, tears running down her face.

“I’m sorry?”

“Harry. You’re Harry’s girlfriend.” The woman explained.

“Yes? Is there anything I can help you with?” You asked.

“Love, who is it?” Harry asked before coming to stand behind you. You watched the woman’s cries become more audible as she looked at him and turned to see Harry, as pale as a ghost, his smile dropping. “What are you doing here?”

“Do you know her? Wait- Don’t answer. Come inside.” You told the woman but Harry stood his ground.

“No, she won’t.” Harry said coldly.

“Oh, fuck you too, Styles.” She said, wiping her tears.

“Okay, I’m so lost right now. Harry, let’s go inside. The neighbors are watching.” You said.

Harry reluctantly moved to the side to allow the woman and you to get inside, him closing the door as his heart began racing.

“Sit, please.” You instructed her.

She sat down and you sat on the same couch, keeping distance between you as Harry sat on the chair opposite to you, nervously shaking his leg. “Explain? Because I’m very lost.”

“You didn’t tell her?!” The woman snapped at Harry, “You are one asshole, Styles.”

“Hey! Get out of my business!” Harry snapped back.

“What business? Can you see her?! She’s a fucking angel!” She yelled back at him.


“Can anyone explain what is going on?!” You shouted, interrupting their yelling.

“Tell her, Styles.”

Harry’s jaw clenched as he looked at the ground, not speaking a word. “Alright then, I will.” She said.

“No, I-”

“Your boyfriend cheated on you with me. A month ago.” She said. “We were both so drunk and I was getting married next month but it’s called off because-because I-”

“Hold on, hold on,” You held out your hand for her to stop as tears threaten to fall from your eyes. You turned to look at Harry, the hurt on your face tearing him apart, “You cheated on me?”

“It was when we had a fight about the car but baby, I swear, I was drunk out of my mind and I-”

“And you knocked me up.” The woman interrupted.

“What?!” Both you and Harry screamed in unison, staring at her with wide eyes.

“You’re pregnant?” You cried out, staring at her and her stomach back and forth.

“I am. I missed my period and had tests.” She said, putting her head in her hands.

“You can’t be pregnant! Baby, baby, listen to me, please. I was drunk and I didn’t know what was I doing. You know I’d never do this to you if I-”

“If what, Harry! You got another woman pregnant because I damaged your fucking precious car! I was waiting for you! I was nervous, out of my mind because you didn’t pick up or return my texts! I didn’t sleep until you came back! And to top all that, I lived with a cheater for a whole month because you are a selfish coward who only cares about himself and his needs!” You screamed out, standing up from the couch. “What even is her name, Harry?” You asked in a small voice, gasping for air.

Harry stood up, approaching you slowly and putting his hands on your shoulders, “I-I don’t know. But you have to believe me, just this once, love. One more chance. We’ll fix all this mess.”

“There’s no we anymore, Harry.” You sniffled, shrugging his hands off.


“There’s no we. We’re done. Don’t ever try to contact me or come near me again or I’m getting a restraining order.” You sniffles again.

“No, no, please. Please, let’s talk about this, love. You can’t leave me, please.” Harry cried, trying to grab your arm.

“Watch me.” You said before shoving his hand away from you and turning back to the woman who sat on your couch, “Give me your phone.” She reluctantly gave you her phone after unlocking it, “Here’s my number. Call me if you need help.”

You took your phone from the coffee table and rushed outside of the house after taking your car keys. Harry ran after you, his bare feet against the pavement. “Please! One more chance, Y/N. I’ll make everything right.”

You turned to look at him, tears running running down both of your faces, “I really loved you, Harry. Fuck, I still do,” You chuckled bitterly to yourself, “But I’ll get over you one day. I’ll have someone get my stuff from here tomorrow.”

“Just-Just calm down and let’s talk like adults, yeah?” Harry spoke gently.

“I think I’ll pass on this one. But to give you reassurance, I’m not going to drink my ass off and fuck another man. I’m not that low.” And with that, you got in your car and drove off.


Aaahh, debating whether it’s a shitty ending or not but I just don’t really like it when someone gets back with the person who cheated on them like yes, it’s all Harry fiction but at least leave the making up for the third part or something. Hope you guys liked it though! xx

Breaking In, Ch 42 SNEAK PEEK

Author’s Note: A little BIn42 sneak peek, by request. Art by @the-notsoevil-queen

She’d slept well last night. Well, and long. They’d had that ice cream, and then she’d retreated upstairs, thrown a bath bomb in the tub, slathered her face in a hydrating mask, lit a couple of aromatherapy candles, and soaked until her fingers started to shrivel up like prunes. A quick rinse in the shower to wash her hair and send the colorful remnants of that bath bomb down the drain and she’d emerged feeling relaxed and refreshed.

Sleepy, even.

She’d considered popping a Sonata and just going straight to sleep, but she’d told the boys she’d be back down in a while, so she’d pulled on soft cotton sleep pants and a camisole instead and padded down to the living room.

They’d been hunkered down on the couch with a big bowl of popcorn between them, Henry bringing piece after piece to his mouth like a zombie, eyes riveted to the screen as Frodo was stabbed by one of the Nazgûl. How he could still be hungry had been beyond her – he’d had a second slim piece of lasagna, and a big bowl of ice cream, and then popcorn. But he’d worked hard all day (the toilet had been gleaming, the bathroom counters spotless, the floors swept if not scrubbed), and he’s a growing boy; she wasn’t going to fuss at him over one night of binging.

Robin had looked up when she’d walked in, giving her this soft smile that made her insides melt at all the affection it held, and then he’d nodded toward the empty stretch of sofa beside him in invitation.

He’d left space for her, she’d realized – parked himself in the middle of the cushions instead of on the opposite side of Henry. Regina had curled up in the empty space, pulling a throw from the back of the sofa over her tucked knees, her feet pressed to Robin’s thigh. When his hand had snuck beneath the blanket, she’d had a truly insane half-second of concern that he was going to try to get fresh with her while Henry was in the room, but he’d just found one of her feet and started to rub deep circles into her arches as best he could manage.

They’d been deliciously lulling, had had her eyelids drooping in short order, her head bobbing slightly where it had been propped against her fist. But her back had been twisted funny, her neck at an odder and odder angle the more relaxed she’d become, and she’d found herself squirming, shifting, trying to get more comfortable.

“You alright?” he’d rasped, fingers squeezing against her foot.

She’d nodded and uttered something about a kink in her neck, and Robin had given Henry a nudge with his elbow and insisted he, “Move to the floor; let your mum stretch out.”

Henry had gone without protest (taking the popcorn with him), and Robin had scooted over to the far side of the sofa. But when she’d moved to sink down lower into the cushions, he’d stopped her, urging her to turn and lay her head on his lap instead.

Regina had widened her eyes at him, looking pointedly at the back of Henry’s head with an expression that she’d hoped conveyed how utterly insane that suggestion was. If he’d thought her willingness to feel this out translated to a willingness to cuddle up on his lap in front of her son, boy, did she have news for him.

But Robin had just rolled his eyes and told her, “I’ll work on that kink in your neck for a bit.”

And that had sounded reasonable, innocent enough, so she’d nodded and shifted and settled down again with her head very near his knee. He’d rubbed his thumbs firmly along her neck, combed his fingers lightly through her damp waves, and Regina had been out cold before the fellowship left Rivendell.

She’d woken up in her own bed at quarter to ten this morning, disoriented, but very well rested.

For the first time in a while, she felt like herself. Her brain wasn’t pulsing with exhaustion or buzzing with anxiety, and aside from the prospect of seeing her father tomorrow when he came to pick up Henry, she didn’t have anything to dread for two whole days. And that wasn’t even dread, so much as a lingering anxiety over their last conversation – something she’s determined to put behind her as soon as she can manage.

She’s desperate for normalcy, for some kind of steady ground under her feet after a week spent with her foundations lurching to and fro. Thursday had helped, and last night had helped, and now that all the chores appear to be done, she can turn this weekend into one spent focused on that dedicated self-care Dr. Hopper wants her so badly to pick back up.

She starts with a run – she’s been too bone-tired for a proper one lately, but she spends this morning working up a good sweat, imagining all her stress, all her worries, pounding out through her sneakers every time they hit the belt. Out, and back, and off as it spins and spins beneath her feet.

It helps, it feels good. Her muscles feel looser, less itchy from too long without use. Her blood feels warm, pumping through her veins. She even revels in the sweat today, doesn’t quit until she’s beaded with it, feels it dripping down her spine, between her breasts, curling the hair at her temples.

Doesn’t stop until she feels alive, and awake, and free.

And then she doesn’t even bother with a shower. Just peels off her sweaty workout clothes and trades them for jean shorts and a threadbare tank top, throws on Daniel’s old Red Sox cap to cover her hair and heads out to do some work in her poorly neglected garden.

She’s three steps out the door when her good morning comes to a screeching halt.