these tears sustain me

For every whiny dude who is all in a huff about a woman being the Doctor and threatening to never watch the show again, there’s at least five women who are rejuvenated and excited by the news, who will come back to the show or who will finally start to watch it, there are ten little girls who will grow up wanting to be the Doctor and pretending to be the Doctor, dreaming big because they saw themselves in such an iconic and important role. And that’s worth it. So long butthurt dudes who are finally feeling even a fraction like women have felt for decades when we’re yet again not in the lead role, when we have to settle for the sidekick/girlfriend/one-off character table scraps. Suck it.


Hi folks!

1) Thank you all the people who reblogged my recent spate of comics and artwork, and cried tears in the tags – your tears sustain me.  I am like a hedgewitch, collecting fandom tears to brew more angst.  <3 <3 <3

2) Thank you to all the long time followers who still remember to check in despite my general lack of content, and who reply (!!!) to my most inane text posts.  To overextend my witch metaphor, you’re like my familiars, and I want to hug you close.  It’s rather too bad that tumblr doesn’t allow replies to replies but feel free to message me any time! <3 <3 <3

3) re: Bucky + foodstuffs:

yes, @ximen it’s Eliot Spencer with a metal arm.  Someone recently sent me a short thing that was Bucky basically being a fan of Eliot Spencer’s cooking. It was totes adorbs.

And … ngl, part of the reason I drew this was that sometimes I forget to eat food, too, and I’m not above emotionally manipulating myself via Bucky-glare.

In fact, I modded that image to have Chinese food…. and oh look, it’s vaguely cell-phone sized…

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Lambs and Lullabies

A/N: Again, I refuse to believe that “love sometimes isn’t enough” equates to “love doesn’t exist anymore.” No, it’s still there. You’re just aware that it can’t actually solve everything, that it isn’t a magical cure-all, that there are some things beyond your control.

This is not about those things. This is about the love that is still held between parent and child, and a moment when it is free to shine through.

For the Tracendence AU, and my personal little corner of headspace where the parents try their best, even though they know they aren’t truly part of their kids’ world any more.

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avroraelvalkyria  asked:

After the lastest post you made (I straight cried the fuck out after it...) I wonder, why do Mun never give up on Toffee and how Mun can accept him who he are inside or outside? How are their first met? Thank you and I will appreciated it very much.

((ONLY YOUR TEARS CAN SUSTAIN ME!!! Funny enough I am currently working on a small back ground story and reflecting on the relationship. But I must really warn you all….it is based off my childhood some what, and if you cried like lil wennie during goop boii au….then you guys will most likely create a new dead sea from all those tears I am gonna harvest afterwards from the origin story. Try all you will but I can assure resisting to cry is futile here…takes out bowl of onions and starts cutting them*))

anonymous asked:

Why is she approaching Robert? She was adamant she didn't want him involved and as far as she's aware, he doesn't want to be involved. I loved how she said they need to talk about "the future" and then had to correct herself and say "baby's future" because she realised that there isn't a future with her and Robert.

I bet it burned so bad when she found out Aaron took him back. I bet she was heartbroken that Robert wasn’t dumped and lonely an running back to her. I like to imagine it made her cry. Her tears sustain me.

bookhobbit  asked:

lavender, sunflower?

lavender: what is the most important thing to you as a writer?

making my readers cry honestly provoking some kind of an emotional response with whatever it is I’m writing your tears sustain me

sunflower: what is the best feedback/compliment you’ve ever received regarding your writing?

Top three:


“We’d like to offer you a contract, let’s discuss royalty arrangements.”

“oH NO.”

anonymous asked:

How about a 'message in a bottle' story?What if,when Jaime was missing Claire after she left,he wrote her a letter(maybe one for his unborn child too?),sealed it and left if somewhere where he thought if could be preserved for centuries for Claire to find?(maybe he left a note on it to open it in1948 and it was passed on in the family as curiosity and when her story makes it to the newspaper someone remembers the name on it?).What would he write?What would Claire do if she found out he survived?

Anonymous asked: Have you ever consider doing a prompt from 2 different writers with different points of view about the same subject? It could be interesting. Love what you do here. You have skills, ladies :)

And @imagineclaireandjamie said…. sure!  After a bit of discussion and a very intense coin-flip session to decide on a prompt:

We present for your amusement, each of our takes on the same prompt. A verra Happy Thanksgiving to all our readers who celebrate it! Here is our wee gift in thanks of all of you:

Gotham’s part:

It came with the afternoon post – tucked underneath bills and catalogues and the miscellanea of their move to Boston. The return address was marked Edinburgh, care of a solicitor’s office. Thinking it to be some papers Frank had requested for his book, Claire almost ignored it – but the baby chose that moment to kick. And she collapsed into the stiff dining room chair as soon as she slid the envelope from under the pile.

It was addressed to her. Or, rather, Claire Beauchamp Fraser Randall.

Claire’s hands trembled as she carefully slit open the envelope. Three items dropped out – a single typewritten sheet, an incredibly battered and fragile package – and a small wooden snake, with “Sawny” scratched on the underside.

No. It couldn’t be –

Quickly she scanned the solicitor’s letter. The two items had been discovered at the bottom of a trunk in a warehouse owned by a recently bankrupted Scottish bank. The envelope holding them had disintegrated when the collection agents touched it – but the name on the package had been enough for the solicitors to track her down.

Claire’s heart stopped as she recognized the careful, painstaking scrawl on the front.

Claire Beauchamp Fraser Randall – Oxfordshire – to be opened after 1945

Claire shook her head and gingerly unwound the twine holding the package together – and the paper unfolded like a musty flower. Five – no, ten sheets. All covered in Jamie’s distinctive handwriting.

She rested one hand on her belly – grounding herself – and gently picked up the top sheet.

Lallybroch, 1748

My dearest Wife –

As you can see from the Location and Date of this Missive, I am indeed Alive. Whether by the grace of God, or the stubbornness of my Sister, I endured the calamity on Culloden Moor and have lived on our Estate these two years past.

There is again a Price on my head, so I have chosen to live in the Cave behind the main house, where I remain close to my Family but am safe from Danger.

It is cold and quiet but I treasure the Solitude. I now write to pass the time and reflect. You are at the front of my mind at every moment of every Day, and I often find myself speaking aloud to you when the Silence becomes too much to bear.

Know that I love you with every ounce of my Being and long to feel you safe within my arms. But if you succeeded in crossing through the Stones – and the bairn was born healthy and strong – then I cannot regret any part of the choice we made. Seeing you in my Dreams will sustain me…

Claire’s vision blurred – and she realized tears had been silently streaming down her face. Her thumb traced the faded ink, longing so desperately to see him, touch him –

Find him. He was still alive. He had survived. And she could return to him, to Lallybroch. To her true life.

Strengthened with fresh determination, Claire carefully rose to her feet and hurried to Frank’s study. Those notes about the Jacobites and Culloden were in a manila folder on his desk…

Wheel’s bit:

“There was one more thing,” Roger said, watching Claire as her eyes drank in the scrawled handwriting on the pages laid before her.

“More?” she asked, looking up and blinking as though to bring herself back into the present.

“You’ll love it, Mama,” Brianna said, beaming at her.  “It’s wonderful!”

“It’s a wonder it exists,” Roger corrected.  “Someone must have put it aside or accidentally packed it away for it even to have survived.”

“Who cares HOW it came about?” Brianna asked, making Roger’s academic’s mind revolt slightly.  “It’s proof.  Absolute proof.  At least for anyone who knows her!”

Roger grinned at that.

Claire continued to sit, watching the pair of them spar as though at a tennis match.

Her right hand- that adorned with a silver ring given to her by a man 200 years older than she- rested lightly on the two handwritten pages before her as though, by touching them, she might touch the man who had written them.

“I beg your pardon,” Claire said politely, cutting across the pair now cheerfully arguing about the nature of ‘proof.’  “But what on Earth are you two on about?”

Brianna snatched a folder from the desk and held it out to her mother, a wide smile on her face.  “This, Mama.  Look at it!”

Claire complied, taking the folder from her daughter’s hands looking bemused.

She flipped open the cover of the folder to find a photocopy of a typewritten page.  She glanced up at her daughter and Roger to find them still watching her eagerly and bent to examine it closer.

Upon inspection, the page was not typed, but printed.  It looked like a practice page intended to test a new press or some enhancement or repair made to an old one.  There were phrases and sentences all down the page, mostly in Latin.

“Aquila non capit muscas,” she read, then glanced up at Roger and Bree again.

They both continued to look painfully excited, so she continued.

“Per ardua ad astra,” she continued.  She didn’t speak excellent Latin, so she skipped over a few she did not recognize.

“Timor mortis conturbat me,” she read, thinking how appropriate that was.

Suddenly her eyes stopped.  Her whole body seemed to still like a waxwork.

“Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ,” she whispered.

For that was what was printed on the page.  The last phrase on the test sheet.

Roger watched her with curiosity, wondering what she would say.  This, more than anything else, proved that it was her Jamie they had found.  This proved that he was there- that she could go back to him.

“You beastly great Scot,” she said, suddenly, and burst into tears.

Eloise’s piece:

As it often was when he returned, Lallybroch was silent; the bairns now fast asleep. As usual, he could see a faint light shining through the doorway – Jenny doing some chore or another to occupy herself as she waited up for him. 

Unusually, she didn’t look up as he walked in. She was writing a letter, and the candlelight caught a glint of wetness on her cheeks. Writing to Ian then. He’d been gone long this time – long enough to miss much of his wife’s pregnancy and his newest son’s birth – and Jenny was sorely worried about him, though she rarely let it show. Christ he knew that feeling all too well. 

The sight stirred something in him – a half-forgotten dream, perhaps, for it could not be a memory. It was an image of Claire, exactly as Jenny was now, though he hair was unbound, tumbling around her tear-streaked face, and the light was not that of a candle (where it came from exactly, he could not say, for it was unnaturally steady). The sorrow etched on her face came back to him with great clarity – was it her he was seeing, or just his own grief reflected back at him? 

He longed to know that she and the child were safe, as Ian would know that his wife and children were safe. As he dwelt on the dream, a thought came to him that shook him to the core. If they were safe, would Claire want to know the same of him? 

He may never know of them, but they could possibly know of him. If he were to write to Claire, was it possible that she would receive it? It was such a small thing, it seemed all too likely that it would be lost in the flow of the years, and she wouldn’t be looking for it. But if there was a chance…  

Over the subsequent weeks in his cave, he wrote to her, putting his love to letter as best he could. Yet a small voice reproached him with his own selfishness. He could not deny it, a substantial part of him was writing in the hope that Claire would to find the letter and realize he was alive. That she would then return to him, she and the child, and they would be a family again. 

Yet could he leave her with the horrible choice between returning to him despite the danger, and staying in her time, for the safety of their child? 

Yes. He had promised her honesty, and as such, he could not keep his survival a secret from her. 

What was more, he owed her the choice. He had left her no choice but to return to the future after Culloden, yet now the situation was vastly different. She alone was capable of knowing whether or not she and the bairn could safely return. 

The best he could do to protect them was to tell Claire of the hardships of the present, to make sure she knew as much as possible in order to make the best choice for their child. If there was a way that Claire and the child could return, she would find it. If this time was too dangerous for them to return to, then they would endure the separation. His choice was made. 

He tucked the letter into the inside breast pocket of his thin coat. It would not leave his person until he found a suitable place for it. 

Until then, it would be safe there - they would be safe.


Frank delicately laid the paper down, unable take his eyes off of it. It was so thin he could make out the wood grain of his desk through it - as ghost-like as the man who’d written it, and just as present. He’d felt Fraser lying between them since the moment Claire had returned, though he’d then believed the man had been from the present. And now? 

Claire using a historical figure to support her mad story was one thing; it could easily be believed that she’d run off with some man, and then he’d died and she’d gone mad. This, however; a historical figure supporting her story from across the veil of time… 

The rational side of him rejected it, but a small, niggling voice becoming louder by the minute argued that the description of her physique and manner were unsettlingly accurate, far too accurate to be a coincidence. And the reference to ‘her time’ was far to clear to be ignored.

The historian in him could not help but be excited. Yet the husband in him seethed, cursing his colleague for sending him the box of post-Uprising prison documents for his research, cursing the young, sentimental Ardsmuir guard who’d taken and saved the letter from the new inmate, and most of all cursing James Fraser for writing it.

A slow, creeping fear chilled him as he contemplated the letter. If Claire were to find this…

She’d come out of the horror of the war bolder and stronger than she’d entered it, but when she’d returned after having been missing for not quite three years, she’d been utterly broken. If she knew Fraser was still alive, he had a nasty suspicion that she would return to him. And if she returned, she would take his darling Brianna with her, destroying their family. 

His scholarly nature would not let him destroy the letter – the only proof the Claire’s story was true – but he could not risk her finding it. 

He locked it deep in one of his filing cabinets, in the file marked ‘1753’. Claire had never shown any interest in his work, and that hadn’t changed since her reappearance. 

It was safe there - they were safe.