she's...not herself right now

Okay but do you realize that this shit has happened to Sana before? and that’s why her mother is so worried about her… It looks like Sana has been bullied before, in the school she went to before Nissen; since the flashing images of hate messages in the new clip was from people from that school. Honestly this explains so much of Sana’s behavior and her mother’s protectiveness over her and why she wants Sana to “have friends that are more like her”… she wanted to prevent Sana from getting bullied and hurt again.

3

The outer parapet came up to her chin, but along the inner edge of the walk was nothing, nothing but a long plunge to the bailey seventy or eighty feet below. All it would take was a shove, she told herself. He was standing right there, right there, smirking at her with those fat wormlips. 

You could do it, she told herself. You could. Do it right now. It wouldn’t even matter if she went over with him. It wouldn’t matter at all. – Sansa VI, A Game of Thrones

mum

Sirius Black had always traveled to King’s Cross with incredible joy in his heart knowing that he wouldn’t have to return to Grimmauld Place, 12 for several months and that he wouldn’t see his family for a very long time. This was the first time Sirius had trouble getting out of his bed on 1st of September. He didn’t know how to explain it but it felt like a hippogriff was sitting on his chest making it hard to breathe.

“Padfoot,” sighed James. “If you make me miss the train, I will steal all of Remus’ chocolate and blame it on you and he will believe me.”

“Idunwanowunintmmawf,” said Sirius into his pillow. 

“I’m sorry, what?”

“I don’t want to run into my mother,” he replied sitting up realising he didn’t have the strength to deal with James Potter at the moment. 

“We will move quickly and we won’t see even a string of her hair,” smiled James. “That’s a promise, Pads.”

“But she will see us Prongs,” mumbled Sirius looking like a lost puppy. “That bitch has her ways, she always finds me and Regulus in the crowd.”

“Don’t be fucking ridiculous and get out of the bed” ordered James in return as he attempted carrying his trunk down the stairs for a second. “MUUUUUM can I locomotor my trunk dooooownn?”

“NO,” said Euphemia sternly from downstairs. “You’ll carry it down James and so will Sirius.”

“But muuuum-”

“James, dear, you are sixteen years old,” explained his mum like she was talking to a small child to make sure he doesn’t set the house on fire. “Stop acting like you are four or that girl you like so much won’t even look your way let alone like you. Independent women like grown men, not needy children.”

Euphemia Potter had a way with her son, she knew where all of his buttons were and how to push them just right because James Potter and his trunk were downstairs the Muggle way in a minute after the pep talk she had given. 

The breakfast was calmer than usual with Fleamont being at work and Sirius acting like he is half dead. When they were completely ready to floo themselves to the train station, Euphemia put her hand softly on Sirius’ shoulder, a kind of touch he wasn’t still used to after almost two months.

“Sirius,” began Euphemia. “What’s wrong? You know you can talk to me.”

“I just really don’t want to run into my mother,” confessed Sirius. “I’m scared of what she might do to you.”

James shook his head in disbelief, he found it hard to understand the irrational fear Sirius had. He knew Walburga was one disturbed woman but he also knew his mother shouldn’t be underestimated.

“Walburga should be scared of running into me,” said Euphemia half jokingly but James knew what would happen if they were to run into that woman. “I can handle him dear.”

Sirius nodded as convincingly as he could before he grabbed floo powder from the porcelain bowl standing next to the marble fireplace.

“King’s Cross,” he said clearly and he was gone with the green flames in seconds.

It didn’t take long for James and his mum to come with the flames. They hurried towards the Platform 9 ¾ with their trolleys and James ran face first into the wall just to disappear into thin air and then Euphemia and Sirius ran to the other side of the wall as well. 

Hogwarts Express was standing with all it’s crimson glory waiting for the students to get in to take them to Hogwarts. The three of them walked hastily to where the Marauders’ compartment was. They stood in front of the door to say their goodbyes.

“Be good,” said Euphemia. “I don’t want any letters from Minerva this year James.”

“Mum, you know I can’t promise anything.”

“Where did I go wrong while raising you?” she asked curiously. “Don’t answer that.”

“Sirius, write to me whenever you feel like it,” she reminded. “I’ll be expecting you home for Christmas, alright?”

“Yes, mum,” said Sirius and choked on his words almost instantly as a warm smile formed on Euphemia’s lips and James’ eyes lit up like they were fairy lights.

“Tsk tsk, Sirius,” came Walburga’s cold voice behind them. “We shouldn’t call blood traitors who didn’t give birth to us ‘mum’.”

It seemed like Sirius had shrunk in size as Euphemia stepped in front of him protectively.

“Tsk tsk Walburga,” she repeated. “We shouldn’t eavesdrop on conversations that aren’t ours and give opinions that no one asked for. He can call me ‘mum’ whenever he wants to, seeing that his actual mother is not available at the moment.”

Walburga made an attempt to grab Sirius by the wrist but Euphemia was agile for her age and she was holding onto Sirius’ wrist like he would die if she let go.

“You won’t touch my son and I’m not talking about James.”

“I suggest you stay out of this Euphemia, this is none of your business.”

“Oh, you made it my business when this boy showed up in my living room, barely breathing,” shot back Euphemia with all the rage that had been building up in her. Sirius was hiding behind her, careful not to catch Walburga’s piercing eyes.

“You are exaggerating,” she replied. “Nothing wrong with a little tough love.”

“I know an Unforgivable Curse when I see one Walburga,” she hissed just loud enough for people around them to hear, Walburga was turning purple with anger. “If I could, I would take Regulus from you, too, before he ends up dead from your tough love.”

“How dare you speak to me like that?”

“The same way you dare torture your children Walburga,” she said without blinking. “Now let go of my wrist and stay away from my sons.”

Sirius was trembling behind Euphemia who was standing like she was the queen of the universe, she didn’t move until Walburga Black turned around and left. 

“I told you I could handle her,” she said with a reassuring smile and caressed Sirius’ cheek softly. Sirius noticed the marks on Euphemia’s wrist then, burn marks like the long boney fingers of his mother. “As long as you got me, she can never come close to you and know that there’s nothing wrong with you calling me mum. Anyone would be proud to have you as a son and I am, too.”

“I- I can heal that if y-you want m-mum,” said Sirius, his voice shaking with the weight he was feeling on his shoulders. “I’ve- I’ve gotten pretty g-good with h-healing charms.”

“No Sirius, I can fix it. You forget you are not allowed to practice magic outside of Hogwarts,” she reminded and laughed a little. “It’s funny that a woman of her age is unable to control her magic like a toddler.”

Sirius’ eyes were still fixed on Euphemia’s thin wrist, his eyes filling up with the anger and sadness he was feeling. He lifted his eyes just a little to give a guilty look to James and saw his best friend smiling warmly down at him, he didn’t hide his pity but he didn’t have to. James always found it rather unlucky that Sirius ended up in such a messy family and never lied about how he felt about that situation, his pity was because he cared.

“Mum’s a big girl mate,” he said like he knew Sirius was about to spiral down and he needed someone to say something, anything. “She can take care of herself.”

“He is right, love,” nodded Euphemia. “Now, off you go, we don’t want you to miss the train because of something as unimportant and miserable as Walburga.”

“Just call her a bitch, mum.”

“James Fleamont Potter,” began Euphemia as she jokingly flicked her son’s arm. “You kiss me with that mouth and you will stop saying that word, even though some people deserve it, or so help me Merlin I’ll ground you until the end of time.”

“Okay, okay,” surrendered James. “I’ll just call her a goblin.”

“That’s my boy,” she replied and the spark came back to Sirius’ grey eyes. Euphemia hugged both of them and gave them loud kisses before she pushed them towards the train. “Don’t forget to write to me when you get there.”

“Sure, mum,” said Sirius with a grin before he was dragged away by an over eager James.

thesun.co.uk
Harry Styles and Tess Ward 'aren't putting any labels' on relationship
HARRY Styles and Tess Ward “aren’t putting any labels” on their relationship and a currently keeping things casual. The former One Direction singer, 23, and food blogger Tess, 27, have enjoyed a st…

The former One Direction singer, 23, and food blogger Tess, 27, have enjoyed a string of dates, but friends of Harry insist that they aren’t yet serious.

Speaking exclusively to The Sun Online, a source said: “Harry and Tess really aren’t serious.

“They’ve been dating but that’s it, they haven’t gone as far to put a label on anything, they’re just keeping things really casual.”

In fact Harry hasn’t yet introduced Tess to those closest to him, including his mum Anne Twist.

The insider added: “Harry is usually keen to introduce love interests to his interests to his friends and family, she’s met a few friends, but no one in his close family yet.”

under the cut is the rest of the article, which is an old article rehash and contradicts the beginning. surprise.

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A Little More of This

Sometimes you just gotta write smutty bed sharing. You just gotta, because @alienor-woods prompts you too. Thanks bae, this is entirely dedicated to you <3

definitely nsfw. 


They get into a groove of it, push and pull and not that, I did it anyway, and somehow managing to make it all work. Well, “work.” Bellamy’s not sure they’re really getting any closer to saving everyone from the end of the world, but Clarke is so sure there’s a solution, so sure that if they just keep working, they’ll find something.

He loves that about her. Loves her certainty that borders on pigheadedness because underneath it, Clarke Griffin fundamentally refuses to give up on people. And there’s no way in the world Bellamy Blake can give up on Clarke Griffin. Not at this point. So he sticks with her, tries to help, tries to guide her and advise her and just support her when lack of sleep and heart crushing disappointment threaten to overwhelm her. And Clarke lets him, looks to him, leans on him.

Clarke’s habit of taking over his space hasn’t been lost on Bellamy. They’d picked right back where they had been in terms of their trust, their ability to get each other like no one else, their ability to listen to each other. But now, it’s more than quick shoulder squeezes and out of the blue hugs, Clarke a surprise in his arms. Clarke’s proximity isn’t to get his attention or to prove a point, not anymore.

He’s not sure what exactly pulls her into his orbit, right up close so that when he shifts his arms brushes her side, or that when she cranes her neck to look at him, she has to turn just a bit further because she’s so close. She touches him now, as if to reassure herself he’s right there, that she found her way home- home from the woods, home from the City of Light. She touches him like Bellamy is her only barometer of safety, like touching him reminds Clarke this isn’t a dream.

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Diana & Akko - Confidence VS Believing

Welp it’s still not the day I will shut up about episode 20, NOT YET.

Because I just want to talk about Diana a little more. How, up until now, she has always been nothing but confident and certain of what she is doing/saying.

Complete confidence in answering questions in class:

Complete confidence in her magic:

Complete confidence in her broom-riding skills:

Complete confidence in her negotiating skills:

In all of these instances (and others like them) we see the same image of Diana. Back straight, chin high, eyes closed. Of course maintaining proper posture is second nature to someone as serious as Diana, but the fact that she always has her eyes closed speaks volumes to just HOW confident she is in her own abilities. She doesn’t even need to look

Not even when she is WRITING:

Not even when she is WALKING:

Now you’d think she’d at LEAST need to open her eyes to walk and write.

Not Diana Cavendish. She emits an air of confidence and pride and surety all throughout the series, in everything she does (excluding the times when Akko flusters her), which is often misinterpreted by fans and characters alike as a “high-and-mighty” or “snobbish” attitude.

She conducts herself in a very strict, professional, and surefire manner.

That is until-

Yes, Akko strikes again! So passionate, so enthusiastic. 

Diana’s always been confident in herself, but right now - in the face of losing all she and her mother and ancestors have ever worked for - she doesn’t have the spirit for it. Her stance is reclusive, not straight. She’s taken aback. 

Diana is not confident in herself at all at this point. 

But Akko is.

Rather, Akko isn’t exactly confident in Diana. She BELIEVES in her. 

She believes in her enough to proclaim Diana would be able to go to school and be the family head. That’s an immense amount of responsibility all at once, but it’s something she knows Diana would proudly be able to handle. 

Diana just can’t see it for herself right now - that of COURSE she could be family head and attend school. She doesn’t realize it, but Akko does.

So to be in the face of Akko’s complete and utter belief in her, Diana doesn’t know HOW to react for once. She’s always been confident in herself, but now Akko is the one believing in her when Diana can’t do it herself.

Akko has SO MUCH FAITH in her. When Diana can’t be confident in herself, Akko does it for her. Akko believes in her.

And for a girl who always has enough confidence to have her eyes closed, Diana’s eyes have never gone wider than in this scene.

Essentially, Diana has always been confident in herself. But not quite in the same way Akko believes in her.

After all, being confident in your own abilities and knowing that someone else believes in you with all their heart and soul are two entirely different things. 

Being confident means there is some solidarity in what you’re doing. You have done this before. You know exactly what you are doing. You are confident you can do it again. You know you will succeed.

But believing is so much more abstract. “Belief” is based off something that isn’t necessarily concrete or tangible. “Belief” is much riskier. Believing you can do something doesn’t necessarily mean you will succeed.

That is the difference between being confident and believing. Diana has always been confident in herself, and confidence is based in solidarity and surety. 

But now, thanks to Akko, she’s learning to believe in herself. Which is a little less clear, a little shakier, a little less concrete. 

That’s why “believing” is so difficult for some people (like Diana). There are no guidelines. There is no surefire answer.

But that’s what makes believing so exciting to others (like Akko). (doki doki no waku waku!)

Final notes: Confidence matches Diana’s personality and upbringing just as perfectly as believing matches Akko’s. 

But now, Akko is finally allowing Diana to believe.

We Are Young: Chapter 4

Throne of Glass High School AU

Summary: Senior Rowan Whitethorn is new to town. It doesn’t take him long to get use to a new school, make new friends, even join the local hockey team. But it also doesn’t take him long to meet sophomore and figure skater Aelin Galathynius. And it doesn’t take him long to realize one thing; he can’t stand her.

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

——————–

Hometown pride was just as big as school pride when it came to hockey games in Rifthold.

The stadium was packed with the people. The bleachers on both sides of the ice were full, and Aelin was sure the whole town showed up to watch the first game on the season.

And what a game it was.

Second period was coming to an end, and both the Rifthold Royals and Skull Bay Pirates had yet to score a goal. Dorian was definitely living up to his nickname this game. But the Pirates’ goalie seemed to be just as good.

The tension in the arena was thick. Everyone was waiting for someone to score that first goal. And it only grew thicker every time the puck got close to a net.

But though the scoring was lacking, the fights and penalties definitely weren’t.

If Aelin didn’t know any better, she’d think the only reason Fenrys, Aedion, and Lorcan were on the team in the first place was to pick fights. They spent more time throwing punches and sitting in the penalty box than they did actually playing the game.

“If he wanted to throw punches all day long,” Lysandra watched with narrowed eyes as the referee broke up another fight between Aedion and one of the Pirates players. “He should have just joined wrestling.”

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For @falling-into-vacancies who had this brilliant idea about how the mind link between Tony and Bucky might subconsciously affect Bucky in his opinions on technology and certain people once he recovers from the brainwashing. I couldn’t resist. (All the luck with your assignment by the way!)


He Bucky frowns at the flat smartphone that looks oddly tiny in his metal hand. Fragile too, though it probably isn’t by normal human standards. Of course he isn’t a normal human anymore, is he?

It has taken a while–seven pointed comments, four in-depth conversations and seventy-six jokes–for that to sink in, to understand that Hydra hasn’t just turned him into a monster in the figurative sense. He has been turned into a dragon of all things. Half the time he Bucky is still convinced he is hallucinating.

A dragon. Just like Stevie. Would you look at that, apparently wishes do come true after all. And is the amount of bitterness contained in that thought really normal, like his sometimes-shrink Wilson insists?

“Why a phone?” he asks gruffly. It takes conscious effort to remember that he has to say the words out loud. Seems like such an unnecessary complication too.

Somewhere behind him Wilson snorts. He wonders whether the man knows that the phone is hard enough to kill him, should he decide to twist around and throw it at his head at full strength. Remembers that Bucky doesn’t think like that. Reminds himself that he is Bucky.

Steve is giving him a look that’s a cross between amusement and exasperation. “So the next time I’m ten minutes late from grocery shopping you don’t storm the supermarket in full battle gear,” he says.

Bucky scowls. He knows Steve is still far too happy about the fact that he’d come to his rescue–apparently a sign of the ‘old Buck’–to process that he had stormed a fucking supermarket, fully armed and in battle mentality. Sometimes he wonders who the crazy one between the two of them really is.

He stares down at the phone in his hand again. It’s a cheap one. The touch screen’s responsiveness is less than optimal, the battery doesn’t last half as long as the newest StarkPhone, screen quality is acceptable but not remarkable and the storage room is a nightmare. 

The knowledge filters so quickly and precisely through his mind that it takes a scandalised, “Bucky!” from Rog Steve for him to realise he has crushed the phone in his metal palm.

Bucky stares at the hopelessly twisted and cracked pieces expressionlessly for a long moment, before he slowly looks up to meet Steve’s confused gaze. 

“I don’t like it.”


It’s been two months since he’s first moved in with Steve and Sam and while Bucky is aware that he’s getting better, there is still much he isn’t sure about. The never silent voice in his head for one. The nature of Steve’s and Sam’s relationship for another.

The TV is running, but it hasn’t escaped his attention that Sam is more occupied with laughing at one of Steve’s stupid jokes, a fact that instantly makes him suspicious. Steve’s jokes are terrible. Yet there Sam is, laughing loudly, eyes twinkling.

Bucky is about to very purposefully ruin the mood when a comment from the TV makes him turn back around to watch a stocky, fair-haired man with thick-rimmed glasses and a terribly nasal voice that instantly grants on Bucky’s nerves blathering on and on. The guy’s–Justin Hammer, CEO of Hammer Industries, asshole–aura of self-importance is almost suffocating, even though he must be miles away. 

Bucky is so distracted by his instant dislike for the man, it takes him a moment to catch up with the conversation and realise Hammer is listing reasons for why the Iron Man tech is outdated and poses a needlessly risk to civilians, as proven by the two avoidable deaths in the latest fight against-

He doesn’t hear the rest. It’s kind of hard to, what with the way he has slammed his metal hand–and really, it’s starting to grow on him–straight through the smug bastard’s fucking face with an enraged snarl.

“Bucky?” Steve’s voice filters through his fury after a moment. 

When Bucky manages to turn his head, it is to find both Steve and Sam warily watching him in clear preparation of another Winter Soldier episode. He blinks. Tries to shrug, which isn’t as easy as it sounds, what with Sam’s precious TV dangling on his arm. Awkwardly tries to put the intense wave of dislike, disgust, hatred he can’t explain into proper words.

“I really don’t like him.”

“I’ll say,” Sam will mutter after a couple of seconds. Followed by “You owe me another TV, Rogers.”

I’m sure it really probably comes down to logistics or something why Nikohl wasn’t in the last scene BUT I really like that she wasn’t.

I wanted this to feel like a decision Kat was making FOR KAT. Like Adena said, she needed to do that for herself. She needed to dive back into work and examine the decision she made by not going. Ask herself what’s important to her right now? I really feel they did a great job there. Yes, she wants to be with Adena but it’s not just that, in general, they’ve made it a point that she’s unfulfilled professionally and really feeling stuck.

That Kat got off the plane and simply looked at her surroundings and smiled and looked genuinely happy to just be abroad spoke volumes. If Adena were there and she saw her when she got off the plane and smiled, I think it would’ve shifted the message a bit to being that this was all about Adena and that isn’t the whole picture here with what she was going through (”the way traveling makes her feel and makes her think”, “I feel like I wanna get out of here!” and how she would’ve seen getting laid off as an opportunity to do something else -these are points that have nothing to do with romance).

Bless Sarah for confirming that Kadena are together, though. We didn’t see them reunite so the reassurance that that wasn’t a question or a cliffhanger is nice, especially if Freeform musty asses don’t renew it.

Kiss me, I'm Irish ☘

Just a little smutty Friends to Lovers (with no pining!) fun for this holiday, dedicated to @swallowedsong for various reasons. Sláinte! (rated M, 3000 words, AO3)


She almost choked on her green beer as her best friend’s feet came up off the ground as the burly, flanneled lumberjack (well, big guy in flannel shirt) at the bar planted a smacking kiss right on those unsuspecting lips. She’d told Killian what would happen if we wore that shirt, but he didn’t listen. Emma’s laughter is lost in the packed pub filled to the brim with St. Patrick’s Day revelers, but she knows Killian hears it, his telltale eyebrow lifting as Paul Bunyan releases him and gives him a jovial pat on the back.

“You had to know that would happen at some point, lad.”

“Aye, mate…sláinte!”

Emma shakes her head at Killian’s seemingly unflappable facade, watching as he shares a big grin and a toast with his kissing buddy at the end of the bar. But as he makes his way back to her she can see the signs of his mild embarrassment in the red glow of his pointy ears to the sheen of sweat at the hollow of his throat.

“Regretting that shirt yet?”

“Why Swan? That was the best kiss I’ve had all night.”

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Anything, Everything (1/2)

Summary: If she could be anything she ever wanted, it would be the one he loved. [Request] Part 1 of 2.

Word Count: 849

A/N: To the anon, I’m sorry it took me literally 4 weeks (yikes). 

PART 2


Everyone says that we fall in love with people we can’t have. She knew she’s already lost him and it’s selfish, really. Because watching her best friend fall in love with someone else wasn’t exactly easy and Y/N struggled.

It’s been nearly three months and she’s managed to get used to it. She hates how naive he was. It was frustrating, to say the least considering that Michele and Ned were actually able to figure it out themselves. He couldn’t take a hint but sometimes, his actions would say otherwise.

Y/N had to watch him adore her from afar. She was everything he ever wanted. To Peter, Liz always seemed to light up the room. But he was Y/N’s sun. He was her moon and her stars. God, she was merely anything to him anymore and it was horrible. 

Here she is right now, pouring herself a drink on one corner of the high school gym transformed with fancy lights and a stage at the other end of the venue.

“Why are you all alone on a night like this?”

She turns around wishing it was Peter by her side only to see Flash Thompson. Y/N manages to stop her eyes from rolling, sending him a tight lipped smile instead.

She takes another swig from the plastic cup before shrugging her shoulders. “It’s not really my thing.”

“Well if you don’t mind,” Flash says while inserting his hands in the pockets of his trousers. “I’d really like to dance with you.”

“Yeah.” Y/N couldn’t help but smile for the sake of distracting herself. “That would be nice.”

What she doesn’t notice is Peter staring from a distance. There’s sadness in his eyes, slowly feeling her slip through his fingers. Her hair flows past her shoulders in a loose braid with her dress perfectly hugging her body. She was art in its purest form.

He’d fallen in love with her a long time ago and it angered him because it took Y/N being held in someone else’s arms to realize it.

It’s stupid of her to use him as some sort of rebound, but she hasn’t seen Peter since he arrived with Liz so it must’ve helped at some point.

Of course, she spoke too soon. 

“Excuse me.” Interfering the pair, Peter sends Flash a look. “Can I talk to her for a minute?” He pulls her out of the crowd before giving him the chance to answer.

“Peter?” Dumbfounded, she lets go of his grip. “What’s going on?”

“What the hell, Y/N?” He hissed. “Out of everyone in the whole school, you take him?”

“It was just one dance, come on—”

Peter was fuming, balling his fists on his sides in an attempt to compose himself. ”And you agreed? I thought you were better than that.“

“I’m sorry? Why does it matter to you?” Her voice was rising by the minute, catching the attention of some students nearby.

“You can’t— Not him—”  

“Because it’s none of your business.” She grits her teeth, eyes flashing and muscles tensing as she held her purse in a tight grip.

“I love you, Y/N.”

This was all she ever wanted. This was all she ever wanted to hear but it was making her nauseous.

“Talk to me. Please.” He’s practically begging, hot on her heels. “He doesn’t deserve you.”

Y/N crosses her arms. “I’m going home.“

“Are you dating him now?” He spoke softly in disbelief, voice almost breaking as he throws his arms up in despair. His voice echoes in the dark corridor, she’s not sure if she heard him right, her mind is hazy and she stops walking before she can get through the door, scanning his disheveled figure.

“God, no! It’s you, Peter. It’s always been you!” She’s choking back her tears, hands quivering as she desperately tries to hold herself together. “I’ve loved you for so long. I wanted to move on and when I finally decide to do something about it, you start running after me.“

There’s silence between the two, a blank expression appearing on Peter’s face yet she could see right through him. He was confused. Lost.  

“Was it the attention? Did you love knowing that you could break my heart?” It’s unfair but anger was flowing right through her, unable to control the words coming out of her. His mouth dries up, heart rate suddenly increasing. “I didn’t know, I never wanted to—“

“You already have.”

It felt like the wind was knocked out of his lungs, he wasn’t aware of the pain he’s caused but it was too late. Peter was blinded for so long because everything he was looking for was standing in front of him.

Watching him love someone else.

“I’m sorry, Y/N.”

Footsteps started approaching and Liz’s voice echoes across the hall. “Hey, I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” She says with a smile across her face. Peter nods, muffling a soft apology.

And when he turns back his head, Y/N was already gone leaving nothing but an empty hallway.


Requests

Masterlist 

anonymous asked:

Matty had a girl??? and he ate her??

Omggg yess he did.. sweet baby Bethanyyyy with her mouth corners. Lmao she was actually a bitch and everyone hated her. 

He dated her for a few months.. long story short she wasn’t very nice to Zero which didn’t sit well with Matt and so he went into the relationship with ulterior motives. He made sure he was the perfect boyfriend and did all the things she asked to the point where she fell in love with him and that’s when he went in for the kill. To everyone else (even Jaide and Zero) it looked like they were really happy and that he loved her back but he was wearing a mask the entire time.

It was wild because at that time Matt was really transitioning through becoming a Wendigo and was completely unhinged. Like he barely has self-control now but it was really bad that first month. He wasn’t telling anyone what was happening to him and instead would run off and disappear into the woods to deal with it alone. So when Jaide came home to see Bethany in a dismantled mess with Matt nowhere to be found she screamed her head off because it was like??????? She searched everywhere and when she found him bloody and unconscious not too far off campus she had to drag him back home before anyone could notice. Lol a lot of people went missing that month ;-;

But Dupree had always sensed something was off about Matt and so she tried to keep him on a tight leash but it never worked. Through all of that Jaide had to cover Matt’s ass countless times and basically became his babysitter. 

THE GUARDIAN: St. Vincent: ‘I’m in deep nun mode’

For years, the Grammy winner was best known for her experimental music. Then dating Cara Delevingne put her in the spotlight. What’s next, asks Tom Lamont?

Saturday 19 August 2017 06.00 EDT

The musician St Vincent, a 34-year-old Texan whose real name is Annie Clark, is talking about body piercings. Though her outfit today includes such exotic items as a leopardskin onesie and a pink blazer made of some sort of wetsuit fabric, Clark doesn’t have any outlandish piercings herself; she just has droll and strong opinions about them, as she has droll and strong opinions about a lot of things.

“Didn’t it always make you laugh,” Clark says, already laughing, softly, in the museum in London where we meet one summer afternoon, “how people in the 90s who had, like, tongue rings? How they’d always make some sort of comment, intimating that it made them, like, better at oral sex? That was the whole wink-wink thing, right? That a tongue ring meant they were kinda kinky? But then, I guess the challenge – because they were constantly fidgeting with this gross thing in their mouth! I guess the challenge became: no one wanted to get head from them.” She hoots with amusement, just loud enough to turn heads in the hushed museum.

Conversation with Clark is like this: a bit unexpected, a bit arch, a bit sexy. She sometimes speaks so slowly and carefully it’s as if she’s reviewing individual words before committing to them. But, as with the lyrics of the songs she writes as St Vincent – always inventive, always making disarming leaps between ideas – you can never predict where her thinking will travel next. Quickly the chat about oral sex gives way to the matter of her own death, and her expectations of a brisk cremation. Before I know quite how, she’s got me talking about an irrational fear of being buried alive. “Get cremated!” she urges.

I ask Clark – who will soon release her fifth solo album, a follow-up to 2014’s self-titled St Vincent – why she suggested we meet in London’s Wellcome Collection, to combine our interview with a tour around the museum’s collection of antique medical equipment. Clark peers with interest at a display of old enema syringes and explains that in every unfamiliar city, “you should try to see something real and strange”. It was something the Talking Heads frontman David Byrne once advised her about touring the world, and she’s stuck to it ever since.

So far I’ve enjoyed the kind of success where I might get a free appetiser sent to my table. But it’s never a main That phrase – “real and strange” – describes Clark’s appeal as a musician. She is a generational talent on guitar, one of those poised, unperspiring types who can do the manually ludicrous while hardly appearing to try. Seen live, Clark’s fingers flit over the strings of her instrument with utmost precision – that’s the real in her. The strange comes via the writing and the composition, which on her four St Vincent albums since 2007 have tended towards the experimental and jagged-edged. Lyrically, she might choose a thing (prostitution, CCTV surveillance, prescription drugs) and then chew it over in repetitive, often anguished ways, before elevating the mood with a sudden joke. “Oh, what an ordinary day!” she sang on a track from her last album. “Take out the garbage… Masturbate.”

Genre labels won’t stick to her. Song to song, Clark might channel Björk then Iron Maiden, then belt out a disco number before pretending to be a fey, shoe-gazing whisper-singer. In the manner of FKA twigs or Héloïse “Christine and the Queens” Letissier, she is a performance artist as much as she is a performer; last year Clark played a gig dressed as a toilet, complete with cistern, protruding bowl and flush. And like twigs, who for many years has been in a relationship with the Twilight actor Robert Pattinson, Clark has managed to cultivate a shadowy, unknowable persona while at the same time dating a wildly high-profile superstar. For 18 months or so, until a break-up made public last summer, Clark was going out with Cara Delevingne, arguably the best-known model in the world.

St Vincent and Glass Animals play in London, February 2014. Photograph: London News Pictures/Rex

In the museum, while leaning over a glass display of clay death masks and shrunken human heads, we discuss Clark’s scaling achievements as St Vincent. From album to album, over a decade, her sales as well as her reviews have improved in happy tandem. The most recent album, 2014’s St Vincent, was her best to date, a wild, raucous thing, written in part during Ambien-soaked nights on tour, that eventually won her a Grammy. “It sounds like a very Pollyanna-ish thing to say,” Clark says, “but my ethos has always been to just make the music that I hear in my head. And I’ve been incredibly lucky, so far, that that’s seemed to correspond to external progress.”

Where does she place herself right now in the music industry? “So far I’ve enjoyed the kind of success where I might get, like, a free appetiser sent to my table,” Clark says. “And that’s awesome, I’m thrilled by that.” She fixes a level gaze before adding: “But it’s never a main.”

A word about her hair. Three years ago, while touring and promoting that self-titled record, Clark had a fantastic and unforgettable do – a triangular mountain of silver-bleached curls that made her look, in her own words, “like a scary cult leader”. I half-expected her to show up that way today, under the same teetering pile of silver, but Clark says the bleach killed off that haircut years back. She had to shear off her frazzled curls, “and then my look was less cult leader, more ‘Why do you have a rodent on your head?’”

She has a flair for naming her own haircuts, having cycled through such past constructions as “the Audrey Hepburn with anger issues” and “the Nick Cave minus the receding hairline”, and when I ask about the straightened black parting she has today, Clark decides: “I want to call this one… the Lara-Flynn-Boyle-in-the-90s.”

She isn’t quite such a speedy creator of names for her albums. The new LP still doesn’t have a title. I’ve heard about two-thirds of it and it’s superb – the same appealing, enigmatic, genre-spliced collision of ideas and influences that St Vincent fans cherish, only this time with a sleeker, more accessible through-line that ought to further expand her listenership. Some of the tracks, such as the scratchy, stirring Hang On Me, would work as well over the titles of a grand HBO drama as played through fizzing speakers in a dive bar. There are moments of peculiar, wonderful poetry. “Sometimes I feel like an inland ocean,” Clark sings, on a track called Smoking Section. “Too big to be a lake, too small to be an attraction.”

A number of the songs certainly sound as though they pick over the end of a serious relationship, in particular an astonishing meta-epic she has written called LA, which seems to be about a break-up (“How can anybody have you and lose you and not lose their mind, too?”), while at the same time being about a fiercely avant garde musician’s reluctance to do anything as obvious as write about a break-up. “I guess that’s just me, honey, I guess that’s how I’m built,” Clark sings, “I try to write you a love song but it comes out in a melt.”

Delevingne would be the most likely identity of “honey” here. But Clark is far too cool in person – and too determinedly non-specific as a lyricist – to admit to anything like that. “I don’t love it when musicians speak about their records being ‘diaries’ or ‘therapy’,” she says. “It removes that level of deep instinct and imagination that is necessary in order to make something that transcends.” She adds that such ways of talking too often become “erroneously gendered, in the sense that the assumption from the culture at large is that women only know how to write things autobiographically, or diaristically, which is a sexist way of implying that they lack imagination.”

This being said, Clark concedes, “my whole life is in this record. And this is one of the first interviews I’ve done about it. And I guess I haven’t 100% figured out how to talk about it. I mean…” She laughs suddenly, a brilliant, solemnity-shattering hoot. Clark is aware there will be an assumption that a lot of her new songs are about her ex. “I’ve really got to figure this out, right? If I’m going to ever be able to talk about the record?”

As is her custom whenever she’s finalising an album, Clark has currently placed herself in what she calls “deep nun mode”. Single. Work-focused. “Completely monastic. Sober, celibate – full nun.” I’m pretty sure she’s joking when she adds, in her slow, funny, unpredictable way, “I mean there are always sex plans. But none for, like, a month.”

Photograph: Arcin Sagdic for the Guardian

Clark was born in 1982, briefly an Oklahoman before her parents separated and Clark relocated with her mother and two older sisters to a suburb of Dallas, Texas. “My mom was a social worker. She dedicated her life to doing very admirable things. One of my sisters more or less followed on that path, making the world a better place. But I did not.” Though Clark would see her father during school holidays, she describes her teenage years as “matri-focal”. She was surrounded mostly by women. “And Mom’s mantra was: ‘We girls can do anything.’ She didn’t explicitly call it feminism, but it was baked into our DNA.” Her mother had a quirky, creative streak.

Once, after she’d accidentally crashed the family car, she was so intrigued by the aesthetics of the wreck, she climbed out to take photographs of it. “There was probably a picture taken of me and my sisters every day of our childhood. Have I seen any of those pictures? No. Has she gotten them developed? Mostly not. It was just her way of feeling safe, I guess, as if things would last for ever because she had documentation of it.”

Is Clark the same in her songwriting? Documenting and so holding on to vanishing events and feelings? “I’m trying to get rid of things,” Clark laughs. “I’m trying to expel them.”

We walk to Regent’s Park, where the warm weather and an outdoor art show have drawn a milling crowd. A sculpture installed by the park entrance resembles a tall pile of replica footballs. Fitting, as Clark was quite a player when she was young, soccer one of an eclectic assembly of high-school interests. “I was probably insufferable. I was the president of the theatre club, the kid who put Bertrand Russell quotes on their wall.” When I ask who her friends were at the time, she does not hesitate: “Oh, the sluts and the weirdos.”

Clothes from a selection, garethpughstudio.com. Styling: Priscilla Kwateng. Stylist’s assistant: Stanislava Sihelska. Hair: Stephen Beaver at Artists & Company. Makeup: Dele Olo. Photograph: Arcin Sagdic for the Guardian

Music was her main obsession. “I was a 10-year-old fan of Pearl Jam and Nirvana, and I would’ve got into a fistfight defending them. Art mattered.” Her maternal uncle, Tuck Andress, was a touring musician, half of a jazz duo called Tuck & Patti, and during the summer Clark graduated from high school he gave her a job assisting his band on tour. Clark enrolled at a music college in Boston after that and lasted a couple of years before dropping out and heading back out on the road, this time as a musician in her own right. She toured successfully as part of the expansive, experimental band the Polyphonic Spree and later as a guitarist for Sufjan Stevens.

She’s always been a political liberal – these days, one in mourning over last November’s election (“I feel like we watched America vote on their daddy issues”) as well as the reign of President Trump, a man she refers to as “a cartoon yeast infection”. As early as her teenage years, Clark had to get accustomed to the fact that a great many political and social norms, predominant in the suburbs where she grew up, were not her norms.

She believes in the essential fluidity of sexuality and of gender. (“Boys!” she sings on a new track called Sugarboy, “I am a lot like you. Girls! I am a lot like you.”) “The mutability of gender and sexuality, as you can probably imagine – that was not a prevalent subject in the suburbs of Dallas when I was growing up. Not even a little bit! And no shade on it now. I love Texas, I’m there all the time seeing family. But I was always gonna get out of there. It felt imperative that I get out of there.”

I can only write about my life, and dating Cara was a big part of my life In her 20s she moved to New York, borrowing the name St Vincent from one of the city’s hospitals, by way of its mention in a Nick Cave song. (St Vincent’s hospital was where “Dylan Thomas died drunk”, as Cave sang in There She Goes, My Beautiful World.) She released a debut record called Marry Me in 2007 and toured it through Europe to dispiritingly inattentive audiences, carrying away from London a special memory of “playing in a pub where you definitely couldn’t hear me over the crowd”. Between her next couple of records, Actor (2009) and Strange Mercy (2011), her career really started to take off. She performed on US chatshows; wrote and wrote; founded an influential creative relationship with Byrne, after he approached her at one of her gigs. “I was kind of stunned,” Byrne later said, of seeing Clark play guitar for the first time. The pair would collaborate on a celebrated 2012 album, Love This Giant.

By the time her 2014 album won the Grammy for best alternative album, Clark was entitled to ask, as she did ask: “Alternative to what?” Prince came to one of her shows, and she was invited to guest-guitar for the surviving members of Nirvana, later for Taylor Swift. As an award nominee at the Brits in spring 2015, Clark came and went on the arm of Delevingne – and pretty much overnight her public persona became a curious, split thing. As St Vincent, she was a fiercely respected musician, patiently fattening a fanbase in the most honourable way, by writing and recording and touring hard. As the “secret girlfriend” (Metro) who was “secretly dating” (Mirror) Delevingne, she was tabloid feed. Clark saw first-hand what it was like for somebody she cared about to be “hounded, hassled, hacked – all of that stuff”.

‘Certain levels of fame are unenviable’: with Talking Heads’ David Byrne

“Having seen certain levels of fame,” Clark tells me, “having been, y’know, fame adjacent… That in and of itself seems very hectic to me. If it’s a natural byproduct of doing what it is you love? Then great. But there are certain levels of fame that I’ve seen, just by proxy, that are unenviable.”

If the upward trend of her music continues, she might find herself in a similar place, whether willed or not. Clark shrugs. “I can’t control any of that stuff. So what am I gonna do? I’m just gonna keep making music. I know this is another Pollyanna answer, but it’s about the music. Did I write better songs than on the last album? Did I sing them better? Did I play better guitar? Did I connect?”

Maybe it was that I heard a low-quality version of the track, but on a new-album song called Pills there was a minor failure to connect. I misheard the song as having a lyric about somebody being “defamed by fame”, something I took to refer to Clark’s 18-month stretch in a celebrity relationship and all the demeaning wrangling with paparazzi and gossip bloggers that must have entailed. Clark looks panicked and says, no, the lyric was about someone being “de-fanged by fame… What I was referring to was that people’s art sometimes suffers when they get into that too-big-to-fail mindset. How things get really boring when people get too risk-averse, or too comfortable, or when they have overheads that are too high.” She can’t seem to get my mishearing of the lyric out of her head, though. “Oh!” she says eventually. “Maybe ‘defamed by fame’ is better?”

For a moment she seems to be wondering how quickly she can sprint to Heathrow from here, and fly back to America to rerecord it. In the end she decides she’ll let listeners hear what they want to hear. “There is no way to control how people perceive a song. And if you try to, my God, are you in for a sisyphean task.”

In the park we walk up a promenade between neatly manicured flowerbeds. When we settle on a bench, Clark seems overawed. “This is so beautiful,” she says. “I love this. Do you know how hard we’d have to work, in the States, to keep something this beautiful this beautiful?”

With former partner Cara Delevingne in September 2015. Photograph: Dave Benett/Getty Images for Burberry

She’s now ready to address the Delevingne quandary. When the new record is out, reference to her ex will be exhaustively scoured for – it’s already started to happen, as when Clark released a single called New York in June, and Vice responded with a think-piece: “Is St Vincent’s new track a love song for Cara Delevingne?” Nobody trawled through her past writing about CCTV surveillance, or masturbation, in quite that way. “Nuh uh,” Clark says.

She takes a breath. “Right! Um. I’ve always kept my writing close to the vest. And by that I mean I’m always gonna write about my life. Sometimes, in the past, I did that way more obliquely than now. But it’s almost like an involuntary reflex. I can’t help but be living and also taking notes on what’s going on, always trying to figure out how to put that into a song. And that does not mean there’s literal truth in every lyric on the way. Of course not. But I can only write about my life, and that – dating Cara – was a big part of my life. I wouldn’t take it off-limits, just because my songs might get extra scrutiny. People would read into them what they would, and you know what? Whatever they thought they found there would be absolutely right. And at the same time it would be absolutely wrong.”

Clark looks out across the park. “A song that means something very specific to me, a song in which I might be obliquely or otherwise exploring some really dark things, is a song that another person might hear and go: ‘Wow, this one really puts a smile on my face.’ I’m thrilled by that. I’m thrilled that people might take my songs into their life and make whatever suits them out of it.”

Clark nods: done. She lets her gaze travel over the park, over the sculptures in the distance, a couple of which look like giant ice-cream cones.

Earlier, she said that she’d got to a point in her career where strangers would send over free starters. If this new album does as well it should, I start to say… “I know, right?” Clark interrupts. “If I play my cards right? With this album? I might – get dessert.” She hoots.

• St Vincent’s new single, New York, is out now through Loma Vista/Caroline International.

• Opening photograph by Arcin Sagdic for The Guardian

[ Source ]

TITLE: You Know What They Say About Love and Hate….

IMAGINE: Steve and (Y/N) hated each other when they first met. But it’s been three years, did feelings develop or do they still hate each other? You know what they say about love and hate…

[gif is not mine. requests are open. this one shot was heavily influenced by dan and blair’s relationship from gg -some quotes are directly from there, see if you can spot it]. 

warnings: swear word, mention of the word slut. 

word count: 2.4k+


‘…Because when we open our heart we can explore a world of love. And be pleasantly surprised by the people already in our life…’ gg 3x18

(Y/N) walked down the stairs, the train of her dress flowing nicely behind her. She felt like she was in a movie. ‘I feel like a goddess right now,’ she thought. She smiled to herself imagining her date’s face as she came down. Her smile however dropped as soon as she saw that it wasn’t Nick. “Rogers, what the hell are you doing here?”

Steve turned and saw her at the bottom of the stairs, he swallowed the gasp that would have escaped out of his mouth because of her beauty. He put on the facial expression that he often wore around her -indifference and anger.

“Trust me, I don’t want to be here either but there was a change.”

“What kind of change?”

“Tony,” (Y/N) rolled her eyes, sighed and crossed her arms. “Look (Y/L/N), we need to do this, for him.”

“We’ve tried everything, Rogers. I mean there’s nothing on the guy.” The guy in question was Pepper’s new paramour. Of course nothing was happening between Pepper and the new guy but that didn’t stop Tony from wanting to rip him to shreds. Tony, being Tony of course wanted intense background research on the new guy, trying to find out his deepest, darkest secrets.

“I know, but he wants us to try one more time.” Steve walked towards her, standing in front of her but not close enough to touch her if he extended his arms.

“He’s pathetic.”

This time Steve rolled his eyes. “He’s your best friend.”

She shrugged, “Gives me more reason to call him pathetic.” (Y/N) started walking to the door, Steve couldn’t help but watch as her arse sway. “Coming Rogers? Or are you too busy staring?”

Steve shook himself out of it and followed her.

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Regret Me [Draco x Reader, Four]

A/N: okay its exactly 4 AM so this sucks but its fluff but its bad fluff sorrrryyyy

Word Count: 1,598

Summary: Part Four to Break Me

Warnings: Angst, forgiveness, like one curse word

Tags: @fandomlover03 @tiny-strawberry- @i-wished-upon-a-star-one-night @1amorales1 @missidontknowwhatimdoing @weasleyswizardwheezs @canadianbirdie @all-theesee-fandoms

Chapter One / Chapter Two / Chapter Three / Chapter Five

Masterlist



Originally posted by nellaey

It was not happening again. 

It was not. 

At least, that’s what she tried to tell herself. 

There she watched from afar, heart clenching and nerves wracking. Her stomach felt queasy, as if someone had dropped pounds of steel in it. 

Her boyfriend of a month and a half blushed and smiled happily with another. 

A stunning girl, really. Her figure was slim and athletic and her face held an innocent smile yet a sense of maturity to it. Her hair was a familiar shade of red, a typical Weasley trait. 

(Name) knew her. 

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X-Files fic: Philadelphia

Mulder and Scully drive to Philadelphia after her mother’s death. A missing scene for “Home Again.”

Rated R

With thanks, as ever, to @agoldenpalace

*

i walked the avenue ‘til my legs felt like stone

i heard the voice of friends vanished and gone

at night i could hear the blood in my veins

just as black and whispering as the rain

on the streets of Philadelphia

-Bruce Springsteen, “Streets of Philadelphia

*

“Mulder, let’s drive to Philadelphia,” she says, gripping at his shirt with the same hand that clutches the mystery her mother has left her. Her fingernails work for traction on the slippery material, and she throws her body up against him, half begging and half demanding. “I need to work.”

“No,” he says. “No, no, no.”

“Yes. Right now.”

“No, I get it, Scully, I do. But not right now.”

She remembers, for a moment, the night his mother died. The night he asked her to cut Teena open. No, she had said, no, no, no. But she couldn’t refuse him anything, not even that, when he was so full of raw need. She would have cut herself open to soothe him.

“Mulder, right now,” she says, picking up her briefcase, putting an end to the conversation. “I need to work right now.”

She walks out of the hospital. She doesn’t look back because she knows he will follow. He’d never refuse her anything either.

*

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