two hundred and six

Me: Alrighty Brain! We spent 3 hours studying these last night so I know we can do them! So what kind of chemical reaction is this?

Brain: *banging pots and pans* vERONICA OPEN THE-OPEN THE DOOR PLEASE i’m nOt here FoR YOUU’d scribble stars oN the cUFfs of your jeans :3 NaOOoOOoooOomiIIII so itS like DRugs its BETTer than dRUgs jERemy ITS FR-MY CAAANDY STOOOOORE BUT -you-BuT-yoU-BUT -you-BUT-YOU MAKE mY BALls SO BLUUUUE You HUrt tHEm bad-BAd? HAS BEEN ROUGH.kiNKY and I AM MORE THAN YOU JAVEEer Im THe STROnger MAN BY FAAR aCROSS THE YELLOW FIELD I HEAR HIM CALLING: oNE DOLLAR TWO DOLLARS FIve HunDRED tweNTY FIVE ThOuSanD SIX HUNDRED mIIIIINUTES

Me: Oh it’s all so clear now thanks Brain!

randomthingsthatilike123  asked:

Just curious-what do you think would have happened in Star Ears if Padme had survived?

I think Yoda would still want to hide and separate the children. I think Padme would refuse, and I hope Obi Wan would help–

Because wouldn’t that be fun? Padme, who ruled a planet, who challenged a senate, who married a horror, who can pick her own locks while handcuffed in the middle of a gladiatorial arena– now on the run with her two infants and only a heartbroken Obi Wan to back her up. 

(And R2D2, of course.) 

Padme’s always been the practical sort, even when royal, so she knows how to change a diaper and feed a child. She also knows how to fly the stolen ships Obi Wan and R2D2 hack into, how to bargain in thirteen intergalactic languages,  how to spot a bounty hunter in a crowd, and how to shoot a blaster with deadly intent. 

Padme was in love with someone who maybe never even existed– maybe once, there had been a boy who wanted to help people, who risked his life and his pod racer for someone else’s story, who made a young girl laugh in a sand-worn mechanic’s shop. 

She had been chasing him for years, that once good heart, but now with these bruises purpling and fading around her neck, she stops waiting. She starts running. Every time Obi Wan force-moves something over the next few weeks, she has to bury a flinch. 

But Leia is growing in fits and spurts, eating greedily and crying loudly. She stays in a sling on Padme’s chest when they move, Luke held snug in a sling around Obi Wan’s. Luke gets a whole head of thick brown hair while Leia’s is still patchy and bald, but he never matches his sister’s powerful lungs. 

When Padme had been sitting in her high senatorial apartment on Corsucant, holding Anakin’s sweaty hand, she had never imagined she’d be murmuring desperately soothing noises to her fussy daughter while she shot around a corner at stormtroopers, while R2D2 meddles with a ship’s blast doors behind her. 

Luke starts teething on a hot jungle planet where they hunker down for three weeks, sleeping in an abandoned old temple and catching the local wildlife for dinner. Leia takes her first steps in the belly of a Corellian freighter they’ve stowed away on. She wobbles between Padme’s outstretched hands and Obi Wan’s knees and boxes of smuggled luxuries. When she falls down, Obi Wan surges forward, heart in his throat, but Leia laughs. 

Padme lost a husband, but Obi Wan lost a brother and his whole order– his world, his people, his family. 

(One day, Leia’s whole home planet will vaporize and die under Vader’s–Anakin’s–command, and Obi Wan will find himself in the wreckage of it, the place Alderaan used to be, and he will recognize the sorrow shrieking into the Force.) 

But for now– Padme watches Obi Wan win them funds in gambling halls, grin into the teeth of a good flyer chase, sleep with Leia strewn over his chest, and Padme wonders if he isn’t more heartbroken here over Anakin than she is. 

Luke learns to walk a whole few months after Leia, but he falls less. He moves around the rim on mechanic’s shops, freighter cargo holds, makeshift camps on green planets, holding onto stable things and frowning seriously. Leia tries to leap from walking to running with no lead up time at all. She is not without scraped knees and scabby heels of her palms for years. 

They manage to spend a whole eight months on a little Outer Rim planet in a sleepy agrarian settlement. Padme and Obi Wan repair farming droids while R2D2 plays nursemaid (both Leia and Luke will be fluent in droid by the time they’re six). Luke and Leia play rough-housing games in the dry dirt– this is the first time they’ve stayed anywhere long enough to learn other children’s names. On day two hundred and thirty six they hear reports of stormtroopers so they pack up and hop on a transport at the nearest spaceport, not even bothering to check where it’s going. 

When they fly their own ships, they strap Luke and Leia into the same passenger’s seat and Padme and Obi Wan narrate. “Here you’ve got to always turn off the compressor before you activate the initiator…” “See the flashy blue light? Gotta have all the blue lights flashing…”

They hear reports of the empire growing. They see it– stormtroopers in more and more distant outposts, imperial ships passing them in the skies. Obi Wan lost the Jedi cloak years ago. They plate R2D2 in matte grey paint. Padme cuts her hair short and dresses in many-varied-layers like any refugee– because that’s what she is now, she and her little family.

Obi Wan has two lightsabers. He thinks Padme doesn’t know– he has the one he fights with, holding back stormtroopers and reflecting bounty hunters’ blaster shots, but he also has another one, tucked into the bottom of his pack. 

“It’s Anakin’s, isn’t it?” Padme asks one late night, tucked in a stony sheltered hollow on a planet that storms warm rain thirty-eight hours out of the day’s forty-two. Obi Wan gives a soft laugh and puts his hand over his eyes as Padme goes on, “The saber you’re hiding from me.” 

He nods, slowly, lets his hand fall. “I took it from him, when I left him for dead.”

“Not dead enough,” says Padme. “You’re keeping it in case yours gets lost?”

“Yes,” he says slowly. “Or in case… we might need another light saber, some day.”

Luke is bouncing a X-wing fighter toy along the wet pebbles. Leia is beeping something at R2D2, giggling over the rainfall. 

“Hm,” says Padme. “We might need another two.” 

okay sO bradley jaden and alice fearn in wicked are sOmething ELSE 🙌🙌🙌

Three’s Company (Part 2): A Friend in Need

Title:  Three’s Company: A Friend in Need

Author:  Mimi @captain-rogers-beard

Summary: After breaking up with your fiance, you’re forced to move in with your twin brother, Bucky, and his best friend and roommate, Steve. Living with your brother is one thing. Living with the man you’ve harbored a crush on for the majority of your life is another. What could possibly go wrong?

Part 1

Characters: Steve Rogers, Female Reader (Y/N Barnes), James “Bucky” Barnes, Brock Rumlow

Word Count: 2355

Rating:  PG-13

Warnings: angst, mentions of cheating, drinking, canon typical violence

Author’s Notes:  This is my first Marvel series and AU. I write SPN on @deansdirtylittlesecretsblog. I drew inspiration from the television show “Three’s Company,”  the movie “What’s Your Number?” and a bunch of other things. Thank you to the amazing @mamapeterson and @climbthatmooselikeatree for helping me - beta work, bouncing ideas off of them, and overall encouraging me.

***My work is not to be posted on any other sites without my express written permission.***

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anonymous asked:

Imagine Claire tells Jamie that Frank cheated on her repeatedly.

A Hundred Lesser Faces: Thirteen 

  • Section One {A Hundred Lesser Faces} what if Voyager!Claire had gone first to Lallybroch instead of directly to the print shop in Edinburgh? :  [(One) (Two) (Three) (Four) (Five) (Six) (Seven)
  • Section Two {A Hundred More}, the aftermath of Claire and Jamie’s reunion, following their journey as they work to build a new life together [(Eight) (Nine) (Ten) (Eleven) (Twelve) ]

**Note that this installment draws from Frank and Claire’s marriage as depicted in the book, rather than the show. (namely they did keep having sex over the years, and they didn’t talk about the mistresses until the very end) 


That night 

The breath caught in his chest as she threw him onto his back and moved upon him, quick and mighty as lightning. It wasn’t his own bodily sensation that caused him to go mute, though the shocks coursing through his body were world-altering in their own right. It was the sheer look of her; the grace and power with which she moved in the fire’s glow on this last night in this sacred place; her, seeking her own pleasure above all, wild with it and unrelenting. 

She tilted her hips suddenly back, putting a hand down behind her as an anchor before moving anew. He moaned so sharply that she laughed at him as she spurred herself harder and faster, riding him.  Though he was more roused than he could imagine, his body vivid with pounding blood and heaving breath and more, more, God, please more, he found that with every punishing, glorious stroke, he grew more and more still, transfixed by the sight: woman, lost to her own pleasure. 

He himself was lost before he realized it, but didn’t make a sound or even a whisper as release took him. Awareness was a far away thing, barely lapping at the edges of his being.  There was only her. 

It was only the mighty tremors of Claire’s release, wringing him, that brought him back to his senses. A deep groaning sigh. The feel of sweat on his lip. The fact of utter satisfaction warm within her body, still pulsing hot and perfect around his cock. She didn’t move to extricate herself at once, and he ached with gratitude for it. She only moved her weight more securely onto her knees, closed her eyes and arched her back as she sighed into a massive smile of satisfaction. Those lovely hands moved through her hair and down her chest as she relished every wee aftershock, her breathing steadying slowly, slowly. Even now, she beamed with it, laughing, her closed eyes, her mouth, her brows alight, in a way he’d never seen before, he thought: or perhaps he had, and only forgotten the way of it. Not just happiness, nor mere physical satisfaction : surprise….. delight…. and something else….. something deep within.

That something called to him in his soul, reached out its tendrils, wanting to be known.  Very softly, he moved his hands from her legs to her hips, stroking in gentle response.

Her eyes opened and she smiled still wider, taking another great sighing breath. “Sorry, love, I just—just sort of lost myself to it, didn’t I?” Eyes blazing with mischief, she planted her hands on either side of his shoulders and moved her hips lewdly. “Don’t worry, though, we’ll get you to—”

“I did,” he assured her with an exhausted smile. 

“Oh?” She pushed promptly upward and extricated him experimentally. “Good Lord, yes you DID!” she laughed in astonishment, shooting a hand between her legs to spare the sheets as she trundled across and off the bed in search of a towel. “You were awfully quiet about it!”

“I got caught up in watching ye,” he said simply, watching her even now with that same awestruck need.   

She heard it, and turned from her ablutions at the washstand, bottom lip between her teeth, flushed with pleasure.

He couldn’t stop himself. Though his legs wobbled, right on the verge of complete refusal, he crossed to her and put his arms around her, reverently. “Ye moved so….so—” He leaned his cheek against her sweet, fragrant hair, the curves of her hips and back fitting against him so perfectly, even more than before, he thought. “I dinna even ken the words for it,” he admitted, his soft laugh sounding a little choked. “But I wouldna have disturbed ye for the world.”  

“I’m sorry I wasn’t more present,” she said, and there was true unease in her voice. “I should have—” 

“Nonsense,” he promised fervently, “Christ, it was—” by reflex he said the word in Gaelic as he kissed her neck, feeling the weight of her hair. 

“It was what?”

Breathtaking,” he translated a bit sheepishly. 

“Oh,” she breathed, grinning, then another ohhh as he flicked his tongue under her ear, bringing up gooseflesh and a shiver of latent pleasure. 

He held her close and savored the salt of her and the scents of their mingled satisfaction. “I couldna recall ever seeing such a focus come over ye so, during.”

She gave a nervous sort of laugh. “Yes, well…. twenty years will do that to a lass.” 

He started to ask ‘Oh? How so?’ but then stopped the foolish words from transgressing his lips. He himself had lived those same twenty years of wanting, had he not? Then again, perhaps not altogether the same. She had had far more in the way of marital pleasure than he, in that time. Hadn’t she? 

“Ye said—” he began, then hastily revised, turning her around to face him to buy a few moments. “Ye dinna have to answer this question, Claire. Say the word and I’ll never mention it again.” 

She looked wary, but nodded. “Go on, then.” 

A careful pause, then gently: “What is it that Frank did to ye?”

She blinked. “Did to me?”

“Ye said, before our first time here, that he didna force himself on you…. that he wouldna do such a thing….And yet,” he ran a knuckle down her cheek, seeking, trying not to wound, “ye did mention him, then, in that moment of fear and doubt, such that made ye nervous to—” 

“That was mostly deprivation speaking, that night, I think,” she said with an air of forced lightness, moving back toward the bed to carry on the same ruse. “That and simple nerves.” She gave him a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes as she got into the bed. “Don’t worry about Frank. It wasn’t him that had me upset. That was all me.” 

Still, that sense of wrongness at her words that night clouded his heart. He wasn’t sure if he could bear it, the thought of having there be parts of her closed off to him forever, no matter how painful they were to his own heart in the opening. 

“Tell me ‘no,’ Claire, if ye will,” he said, steeled and serious, standing in wait. “I’ll heed. But I shall ask all the same… May I know more about what it was? Between the two of ye?” 

She looked back at him, eyes sad and soft. At last, she beckoned him, and he went, letting her lift the quilts to welcome him into that place of warmth and trust next to her. She made no move to touch him, though. She lay on her back, a pillow clutched to her chest as she thought, prepared herself. 

“The truth is that…Frank and I were very seldom intimate. Less and less as the years went on; hardly ever, in those last five.”

Reactions to this warred violently in Jamie’s heart: from his own selfish, beastly joy to aching sadness for the emptiness in her voice, and back again to possessive pride and absurd rushes akin to victory. He hated himself for it, but he was a man after all, and he could hardly be deemed wicked for wanting more of his own wife than another man had gotten. Then again, he, too, had been in a cold marriage these past years, and knew it was nothing over which to rejoice, for what it did to a person.  

“Why was it so?” he said at last, the bitter gall of Balriggan allowing him to banish all but Claire’s heart from his mind.  

“Why indeed?” she murmured, training her gaze upon the rafters. “I suppose…. it was simply that we never recaptured it, what we’d been before.” A slight smile. “Glad you and I have managed it better, the recapturing.” 

He kissed her shoulder. Glad—Ecstatic—Flabbergasted—Blessed. “Was it that way from the first? Wi’ Frank?” 

“Well, it—Yes….Honestly, yes.” She closed her eyes, brows furrowed as though fighting off an ache. “We did try, both of us, particularly when Bree was very small… It tended to come in waves, though. Frank would put in an effort, and I would be cold to him. A time later, I would feel a period of tenderness for him, and try to reach out anew, but then I’d see only stone in his eyes.” She blinked a few times. “It was just too broken,” she said, resigned. “I’d hurt him too deeply, and kept hurting him: for being too lost in grief and wishing, enough that he knew he’d never be enough for me again.” 

Though he bore no love for the Englishman apart from gratitude for whatever protection he had provided them, Jamie could certainly understand the deep hurt such actions would inflict upon a man’s heart and pride. 

“When we came to one another,” she went on, “it was from desperate need, or, at our lowest points, in anger — never tenderness or gratitude or peace….The vase could never be unshattered, in the end.” 

Very softly, he lay his hand over where her two lay clenched together.

“Will ye perhaps forgive me…” he said after a time, “for admitting that I canna seem to settle which of the two would have been better, to my mind? That, or for all to have been well again wi’ him?” 

“I will.” She squeezed his hand. “I can’t settle that either, most days.”

“He was good to ye, though?” he asked carefully. “He never mistreated ye?” 

“He never beat me, and he was a wonderful father,” she agreed, “and at times he was supportive and caring of me in ways that I appreciated.” 

Jamie thought about making a dry wee jest about how she ought to put that in a sonnet, rhapsodic as it was. He held his tongue, though letting her speak. Aye, well— he let her speak until he realized what it was she was saying

“—besides the mistresses, really, and the–”

“The WHAT??” 

He bolted straight upright and looked down at her in horror, but she shrugged, as if it were no great thing. “Mistresses. Women he slept with besides me.” 

“I ken what they ARE, Claire, but who did the wicked shite think he was, Louis of France??”

“Well that’s a bit much, don’t you think?” She propped up on one forearm, face almost-defiant. “I’ll wager you can think of any number of people less grandiose than Louis of France that engage in extramarital—” 

“I CAN, but—”

“It can’t be altogether shocking to believe that a man should seek—”

“THE HELL it can’t! From the allegedly-honorable man with whom I entrusted MY wife and child, it can!!”

Damn her hide, she laughed, and collapsed onto the pillows with a casual sigh. 

“Claire, Jesus!” he snapped. “How can ye be so sanguine? Over the man that shamed ye so?” 

“Oughtn’t you to ask if it shamed me?” she asked, seeming curious rather than angry. He spluttered, but she took pity on him and answered seriously. “Of course it wasn’t flattering, love, nor was it something I’d have expected, ever. Still… I tried not to let it get to me, and it didn’t. Well, except for the odd boil-over day every several years.” 

YEARS. 

“Just how long did it go on?” he demanded. 

“Ten years or more, with several different women,” she said, with that same damnable detachment that made him want to shake her, but more so to find the bastard Randall and tear him limb from limb. “He thought he was discreet, and on the whole, he was. I’m certain that Bree never found out, thank God…. but I knew,” she said, a coldness of memory coming into her voice. “I wanted to end it with him so many times and let him make honest women of them. Hell, I had wanted him to divorce me immediately, when I returned, but I— ”

DIVOR—”

“And before you start in,” she snapped, eyes swiveling to his, already blazing, “YES, I would have been whispered about as a divorcée, but there was already gossip aplenty flying from being the faerie lady who’d come back from the supposed dead pregnant, and it wasn’t as though I had that much further to fall from ‘wanton whore’ or ‘raped’ which would have gotten me treated just about the same, of course. So, you’ll forgive me for thinking that I might have better done what was best for me and Bree and let the world judge as they bloody well would.”

She was angry, and so was he—Angry at her, angry at the English bastard, and perhaps above all, angry at himself for having sent her back to a man that would have done her false, treated her so. Still, his heart softened to see the wetness in the corners of her eyes. He’d scarcely thought about the specifics of what she’d have had to weather upon her immediate return. God, would they truly have called her a whore? Had they shamed her for it? ….Had Frank? 

“Did ye never call him out for it?” he croaked at last, not wanting to dwell upon the aftermath of Culloden. “The mistresses?” 

“Once,” she said, releasing the breath she’d been holding, “right before he died, but I never questioned his prerogative to seek out what and who he wanted.”

He groaned. “Why ever NOT, woman?”

“Maybe I felt I hadn’t any right to call the kettle black,” she said with no small irritation. “I had chosen you over him, after—” 

“That isna the same, Claire, and ye ken—” 

“I knowingly chose to stay with you while still under vows to him,” she said firmly. “The fact that the two of you could never run into one another in the supermarket hardly changes the similarity.” She threw up her hands. “Honestly, some days my genuine thought was ‘why the hell oughtn’t he find what happiness he can, since I can’t and won’t love him again?’”

“’Why the’—? Because you’re YOU, Claire!” he all but shouted. “Ye deserve to be treated better, DAMN YOU!” 

A soft reply. “That’s true. I did. I do.” She gave him a sad smile. “But would I have preferred to have him pine over me forever? Cast me long looks across the breakfast table, one decade after another….the weight of his wanting a constant shadow over me? Would that truly have been better? No,” she answered herself at once. “No, I don’t think I could have withstood that…that pressure on my heart; that obligation to pretend to want him in return—because I would have tried, I think. I’d have felt I owed it to him.” 

Owing. Pretending. Withstanding. 

“But most days….” Her voice had gone faint and eerie. “Some days it wasn’t about pots and kettles. It was a way to win.” Her gaze was fixed on a point unseen, intent, distant, that sinister chill in her whisper frightening and powerful. “Frank sleeping with other women made him someone I could ignore; someone I could be above; write off and focus on myself and Bree and my work and what I wanted. It felt…like justice…..If I’d done him wrong by loving another man, then the mistresses meant Frank was no better….That helped, some days, the spite of it; others, it…..”

She suddenly came back to an awareness of him, and her expression fell, shame creeping in. “I’ll wager you didn’t believe me….when I said I’d been a different person too, since we’ve been apart.” 

His heart had broken and softened long before she looked at him, but he took the invitation nonetheless, and lay down beside her, pulling her into his arms. “I can believe,” he said, tracing her with warm, smoothing caresses, “because I see the depths of those hurts and those griefs…but they’re no’ a mark upon ye, mo chridhe. They’re naught but memory, now.”

She exhaled and nodded. “I want to believe that, too.” 

He kissed a tear or two from her cheeks, then drew the quilts more snugly around them for sleep. They had a long journey to begin on the morrow, after all, and many nights of cold, rough sleeping with it. 

“Ye said….” 

“Yes?” 

“…Frank was the only person who shared your bed.” 

“He was.” 

“…Not that the thought would give me pleasure, mind….” He could barely hear his own voice in the dark. “Still…if Frank were seeking pleasure elsewhere—did it never occur to ye to do the same? Not to play him false, but perhaps only to find some small good thing for your own happiness?” He thought of Mary MacNabb as he said it. “To keep ye whole?”

“It did occur to me.” She ran her knuckles very softly down his hip. “….Maybe I was afraid that if I allowed myself to be open to small happinesses in that way…. I’d find another you.” 

“Me?” 

“Someone I could love. It was easier to forbid myself even to consider such a thing.” 

“Oh, lass,” he whispered, tears prickling in his eyes, “Had I truly died, I’d have wanted ye to have love in your life. Ye ken that, aye? Please tell me ye do.” 

“I know,” she whispered back, her own tears wet on his chest. “I let Bree be my love. I let it be my work. I didn’t want to love anything else; anyone else.” 

“And was it easier?” he asked, into the warmth at the top of her head. 

“Yes…But not complete. So far from that. All those long nights, I felt so—brittle…empty…and so often, I would have given anything just to have someone touch me.”

And so had he. 

“There will never be a day that we are alive together,” he said as sleep finally curled around them, warm and safe as a plaid, “that I shan’t touch you, mo nighean donn. I promise.” 

“Buried” (Chapter One)(Stony)

Welcome to the story! Non-powered AU here, going for something like an Indiana Jones/ Adventure Movie theme. Expect lots of snark between Steve and Tony, some really heartbreaking moments, guns and explosions and obligatory “sharing bodily heat” comments as they try to survive and escape the bad guys all while keeping their hair neat and having lots of sexy times.

LIKE AND REBLOG to be tagged in the upcoming chapters!

MASTERLIST HERE

Enjoy :) I can’t wait to hear what you all think of this!!
*********************************

Ten Years Ago

When Howard had suggested Tony “learn a little about the real world” after his sophomore year of college, Tony thought his dad meant something along the lines of “traveling through Europe” or maybe “Backpacking through New Zealand.”

He had not realized his dad meant “spend the summer working at some shitty dig site in South America that Stark Industries was helping fund.”

He hadn’t realized Howard was planning on dropping him in the middle of nowhere to work with other college kids at scraping dirt off of stone carvings and meticulously cataloguing things that Tony had no interest in.

It had never even crossed Tony’s mind that when Howard suggested he “learn about the world” it was simply code for “your mother and I are traveling all summer and don’t trust you to not burn the house down so here, build some character while digging in the dirt in a foreign country.”

In fact, if Tony had realized that Howard’s “suggestion” was actually a demand and that he actually had no say in the matter, he probably would have gone home with Rhodey for the summer and avoided all of this.

But by the time Tony had put all this together, it was too late and he had been dumped at the work site in some no name country by some no name river.

Stepping off the helicopter and onto the ground, Tony’s two hundred dollar sneakers had sunk into about two hundred inches of mud and were promptly ruined. The bottom six inches of his favorite jeans as well. The dig manager, Paul or Richard or some other name Tony promptly forgot, had laughed and pulled him free and shoved some cargo pants and work shirts and boots at him, directing him to a building at the back end of the clearing.

“Those are the bunks.” Paul–or Richard or whoever– had said, and slapped Tony on the back hard enough to make him stumble. “Go get changed and get back out here, we are setting a grid for a new area and need all the help we can get.”

Tony had been too much in shock and too busy slapping bugs away to bother arguing and next thing he knew he was on his knees in a marked off square in a grid carefully digging and sifting dirt and hating his life.

“You’re doing that wrong, honey.” Some one had crouched down next to Tony and took his tools right out of his hands. “Try it like this. And maybe no sunglasses, you’ll miss the small things because everything’s a little too dim.”

“These sunglasses cost more than your car.” Tony had retorted, and an easy laugh had caught him off guard.

“Spoiled brat, aren’t you?”

Excuse me?” Tony had ripped off his sunglasses and stared up–and up– into the bluest pair of eyes he had ever seen, set in a perfect face and followed by a smile bright enough to make him reconsider the sunglasses thing. “I mean– um–”

“Hey, it’s alright. I’m sure your sunglasses are worth a lot, but here all they are is a hindrance. Besides, why hide those pretty chocolate eyes, huh?”

“Um–chocolate…sure. What now?” Tony had forgotten how to talk, and tall blonde and beautiful had just smiled more, before showing him exactly how to do whatever the hell he was supposed to be doing with the spade and sifter and whatever else he was using. Strong hands had covered his own, broad shoulders brushing against him as they worked, and every time Tony managed to make his brain work enough to say something, he was rewarded with a gorgeous smile and every once in awhile a wink and a laugh.

And Tony had suddenly been thrilled that his dad had dumped him here.

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trk alternate ending for people who love pain
  • gansey is glendower. glendower was reincarnated in gansey when he died the first time, and that is why glendower is dead by the time his body is found
  • gansey is not dead; he is only sleeping
  • when cabeswater disappears, it takes gansey with it. it will reappear in a few centuries, when the next adventure is ready to begin.
  • artemus goes with him.
  • “richard gansey iii had forgotten how many times he had been told he was destined for greatness.” is the epitaph on his tombstone
  • because there’s no body, the gangsey and co. fill gansey’s coffin with his most gansey-like possessions: his journal, model of henrietta, boat shoes, camaro hubcap, glendower’s shield boss - essentially every item from their quest. 
  • blue leaves a half-finished yogurt with only the fruit left at the bottom
  • an article titled “what do you know about welsh kings?” appears in page seven of the local paper, detailing richard campbell gansey iii’s life and obsession. 
  • its mentions of the fantastical occurrences in henrietta, as well as some peculiar statements from a certain ronan lynch, inspires a cult following centralized in new england
  • gansey becomes a legend, a king of myth. after a century or two, people begin to doubt he ever existed.
  • epilogue: six-hundred years later - korea. the globe has shifted. two hundred years into the new dark ages, the north and south american continents are once more forgotten. nomads sit around fires in the evenings, telling the only story they know, the only story that has ever been told.
  • “depending on where you begin the story-” the replacement for ‘once upon a time’- “it’s about king gansey iii. he holds court at aglionby, with his trusted ravens at his side, wielding chainsaws and switchblades and robots and magic. he’s so averse to death, he has to be killed twice - and even then only a bee sting or true love’s kiss can stop his heart. there’s a place where the roses continue to grow in the dead of winter, where people live forever and hide inside trees, where a little girl with horse’s hooves speaks a forgotten tongue - here he’ll be waiting, waiting to be awakened.”
  • if our heroes cannot conquer death, how can we?

anonymous asked:

so i listened to be more chill for the first time and don't fully understand it. could u explain the plot??

Here’s script by the way: read here  I’ll go by songs to summarize it. Also this took me an hour to write up. That’s how much I love you guys.

Keep reading

anonymous asked:

Any chance of more a hundred lesser faces soon?

A Hundred Lesser Faces: Ten 

  • Section One {A Hundred Lesser Faces} what if Voyager!Claire had gone first to Lallybroch instead of directly to the print shop in Edinburgh? :  [(One) (Two) (Three) (Four) (Five) (Six) (Seven)
  • Section Two {A Hundred More}, the aftermath of Claire and Jamie’s reunion, following their journey as they work to build a new life together [(Eight) (Nine)]

“Mind yourself, laddie,” chided the cook from behind as she passed by the doorway. “Pay heed to that blade, or ye’ll be cuttin’ your throat along wi’ the beard!”

He answered with something lighthearted and offhand, for she was a kind woman and he greatly appreciative of her generosity. Whereas the innkeeper had shuffled sleepily off to bed as soon as he’d paid for their lodging, she—a lady of advanced years who bade him address him as Flora— had ushered him to her own chamber off the kitchens and settled him before the glass with soap, water, and razor, ‘at no charge, laddie, dinna fash yerself.’

Jamie saw to his surprise that the face in the reflection was nearly smooth. He’d been shaving mindlessly, it seemed, only the skill of long habit guiding his hand while his mind wandered—raced.

God in Heaven, did I not survive all those years of loneliness only by dreaming of being in Claire’s bed? And yet here he was, about to walk up the stairs and enter that very place, that sacred, hallowed place, and damn him, his hands were trembling.

Thank God they’d managed to exchange those few words after their hasty meal. She knew for certain now that he wanted her. That worry had weighed on them both, he thought; a natural insecurity given their age and long absence. But even as he’d left her standing there at the table, he’d known she was still hesitant, that something about the impending intimacy between them still troubled her. Damn his eyes, he ought not to have left her side until he’d discovered what it was, that nothing might be between them. As it was….all he could do was wonder. 

Did she take other men in our time apart? 

…Apart from Frank, he supposed he meant. She had gone to be the bastard’s wife again, after all, and certainly there would have come a day when they resumed—when they likely would have— Well, and they had loved one another before Claire had fallen into his own life, had they not?

But after the Englishman died? Did she seek out comfort in other lovers? Were they on her mind, tonight?

Though it made his blood heat and boil to consider it, he could hardly cast the first stone with regards to that possibility. He thought of Geneva, of Mary, and despite the accustomed pangs of shame, he couldn’t truly regret those nights, after all. Mary, in particular, had given him the gift of touch, something for which he’d starved himself for seven long years. Her tenderness, her softness with him had kept him feeling human for a long time after. If Claire had felt such emptiness in her time, if someone had offered her the same gift, that ounce of sanity, his most reasonable self (not to say the loudest of the voices in his mind) could hardly begrudge her for having taken it. 

If that’s indeed the case, though….what will she be thinking on, this night? About….how those other men were good to her? Or because they were cruel? Jesus, what if—

“I must say,” came Flora’s voice again as he finished and set the razor down, “we dinna often get folk hereabouts that care so verra much about how they look.” Glancing up at her in the mirror, he saw that she was examining him appreciatively—not lewdly, but as though taking genuine pleasure in the sight. 

He gave a gracious bow, grateful for the interruption from his uneasy thoughts. “Then I’m all the more grateful, Mistress Flora, that ye were able to accommodate the needs of a poor, vain wretch so down on his luck.”

She hummed graciously and dipped her head, wiping her hands on her apron. “Bound somewhere important in the mornin’, are ye?”

“Nay, it’s only that I’m here wi’—” He cleared his throat. “Wi’ my wife, this night.”

“The brown-haired lass? Well, an’ I should ha’ HOPED she was your wife, a ruiadh!” she snorted. “We’re no’ runnin’ a house of ill-repute!”

Jamie wondered what she would say were he to divulge that he was, technically, willfully engaging in bigamy. Technically only, thank God. “Aye, she’s my wife,” he said firmly, to reassure both Flora and himself. “We’re reunited, this day, after a long separation.”

Separation?” she repeated dubiously. 

“We…” He needn’t say anything at all, of course, for it was no one’s business but their own; but even despite his worries, he couldn’t help but grin (and feel the prickling of tears in his eyes) to share their news, even with a stranger. “We each thought the other dead for many years, and found each other again only hours ago.” 

“Oh, how GRAND!” Flora beamed, clapping her hands together, then coming over to clasp his own warmly. “And what a blessing! God was smilin’ upon ye, and no mistakin’ it.” 

With a startling flood of both affection and grief, he realized that it was Glenna Fitzgibbons she minded him of. Corpulent of body and cheery of feature, she moved with that same indomitable energy, certain of her domain and any that chose to enter it, and yet warm and lavish in showing love and care to those in her charge. 

She took a step back to look him over again, then gave a derisive pfft. “Well, in THAT case, a shave isna goin’ to be enough. I’ll draw ye some hot water so ye can wash up a bit wi’ a cloth. I’ll fetch some of my best chamomile soap for ye, too.”

“That’s most kind, Mistress Flora, I thank ye,” he said in genuine gratitude. With sudden inspiration, he asked, “Will ye offer the same to my wife? Not—” He flushed. “Take care that she doesna think I’m insinuating that she—ah—”

“She already requested a basin and got it, dinna fash, though I didna ken the grandeur of the occasion.” Flora was already bustling about, and he could hear the sounds of water being ladled into a ewer from the hearth. “We’ll reserve the insinuatin’ for comment on your own person. Beggin’ your pardon, a ruiadh, but ye stink to highest heaven and back.”

“Canna just say that you’re wrong,” he laughed.

A long-lost wife…restored….” Flora murmured contemplatively as she returned and walked about, gathering the bathing supplies. “All the more reason to scrub the road off ye, then, for as bonnie as ye are, I dinna think I’m wrong in observin’ that she’s a good sight fairer, even on yer best day.”

“Aye, she is certainly that,” he said, laughing at the spirit of Mrs. Fitz present here, that could make him feel warm and happy even while being fussed and picked over like an unruly bairn that’s fallen in the manure pile. 

Ten minutes later, he was wrapped in linen towels, shivering from the icy drafts of night air on his wet skin, but clean for the first time in weeks. Flora had left him be as he bathed, but as he was casting about for clothing, she reappeared, tsked, bade him ‘Be still, wee gomeral. You’re far from done,’ and plunked him down onto a stool with surprising force. A moment later, a warm, woolen rug settled around his shoulders and she took up a spot behind him, beginning to work through the snarls in his hair with a comb.

After a time of sitting tense and ramrod-straight, he closed his eyes and surrendered to the calm of it, to the soothing sensation of the tiny tugs at his scalp. His mother had brushed his hair just so, when he was a wee one prone to snarls from rough days at play. Years later, his Claire had done the same, her touch light and soft. She had always brought his face around, when she had finished, to kiss him, sometimes melting down into his lap and wrapping her arms around his neck…

God…

Claire. 

That very woman, his beloved wife….She was upstairs, waiting for him. He could still scarcely comprehend the joy of that simple truth. She was whole. She was here

She’s expecting me…

Expecting a man that can please her. 

And therein was the greater part of the worry that had caused his hands to shake. Jamie wanted so badly to give her pleasure as he used to, and yet he hadn’t satisfied a woman—not in that way, not to his knowledge—in over twenty years. With Mary, and then with Willie’s mother, it hadn’t felt the time or place for that kind of passion. With Laoghaire—God, how he’d tried, but with no success. Try as he might to justify himself by insisting that she had been cold long before they wed, and there naught HE could have done about it, the icy fingers of doubt gripped at him, now. 

I wasna able to please one wife. What if it wasna Laoghaire that was the problem at all? What if I canna—

There, laddie,” Flora interrupted with fond finality, smoothing the back of his head tenderly before moving to the table. “That’s much better, aye? And here’s the fresh shirt. Tis many years old, but clean and sturdy, and should fit ye well enough.”

“You’re verra kind, a nighean,” he said, touched by her care and not a little hoarse from it. He examined the shirt. “‘Tis extremely well-made,” he commented appreciatively, seeing the fine, strong stitches, the linen showing hardly any signs of wear.

“Made it for my youngest….Tàmhas,” she said, with a catch in her voice. “…Drumossie, ken?” He gripped her hand. He knew. 

A long time after she’d excused herself, Jamie stood before the mirror, staring at the man therein; and, unbidden, the vice around his heart eased, a calming peace flooding inward in its wake. 

Even if he made a grand mess of this, even if he couldn’t please her the way he used, or made himself to look a fool, this was still a day of miracles. Here he stood, in the garment of a man who had died on Culloden field—died as and where he himself should have died—and yet, he had his sight, his freedom, the use of his hands and legs, a home, and a living…and Claire had been restored to him, beyond all reason and all hope. 

He brought his hand up and kissed the scar at the base of his thumb, pressing it to his heart, as he had done for twenty years. It was theirs, now, this world, to do with as they wished, and though he didn’t know what those wishes might be, he knew there was no fear greater than the hope he had in his wife. In them

As she’d said herself only hours ago, ‘we’ll manage with the rest. All the rest.’


Come in,” came her startled answer.

The candlelight danced beautifully around the walls, bathing all in a warm, red glow. Claire was already underneath the blankets, but they fell away as he entered, showing that she’d a sheet wrapped around her, tucked under her oxters like a garment. “Sorry,” she mumbled as he stared at her bare, elegant shoulders framed by the dark curtain of her curls. Her cheeks reddened and she dropped her eyes. “I—didn’t have a shift or anything.”

“No, dinna be sorry,” he said hastily. Lord, there ought to be no sense of forwardness between them now. They were married, after all, and in fact, the very notion that she’d undressed for him made his heart lighten even more than it had downstairs. If he had had any doubts, still, that she truly wished him to—

“You shaved,” she said.  She was smiling, weakly, nervously, but with real happiness across the dim room. “Let me see?” 

He set his things on the table by the door and came to her, kneeling beside her on the mattress.  She came up on her knees before him and took his face between her hands, gasping a bit as she ran them up and down. “God…you’re just the same, too.”

“A bit worn ‘round the edges,” he murmured, following her touch with his cheek, savoring her.

“But beautiful,” she whispered. She traced the lines around his eyes, the crooked knot—yes, that would be new to her—that now shaped his nose.

They knelt there, knee to knee for a long time, clothed in their linen wrappings, just drinking in the sight of one another. 

She swayed precariously of a sudden and he reached out a hand to catch her round the middle but she fell backward onto her hand. Her eyes went wide with shock as she realized what she had done, and she covered her face with both hands, shaking. “Oh, Jesus…” 

It was almost like being back on the hill, that shock and hurt. “Mo ghraidh….?”

No, she hadn’t just fallen. She had recoiled from him.

“Mo ghraidh?” he implored, reaching out a hand but not daring to touch her. “Claire?” 

She was crying. He thought she wouldn’t reply, and she didn’t, but she did reach out blindly and grab onto his hand, hard. He clung to it, nudged closer and pressed it to his lips, then his heart.

“I’m sorry—” she was whispering, hanging her head. “I’m so—so sorry—”

“You’ve naught to be sorry over,” he said intently, keeping her hand pressed tight to his chest. “What is it, lass? Is it— same as was troubling ye below? Over…going to bed wi’ me?”

“I want this—” she gasped out, “I want it—Want to touch you—want you to touch me— but I’m so—just so—”

“…what, Claire?”

“—afraid,” she gasped out at last, her voice a strained whisper between quick, shallow breaths. “I’m so afraid.” 

He forced himself to speak softly. “….Of me?”

“NO!” she breathed at once, shaking her head, hard. “Jesus Christ, no….Just—Damn, I don’t—It’s just—FRANK, and—”

Fr—?” Jamie felt rage boil up within him, revising his conclusions from those earlier speculations and feeling them burning through his mind. “Did he hurt you, Claire? If the bastard forced—”

NO,” she moaned, vehemently, “NO, Frank would never do that. No. Not his fault. It’s me. My fault.”

His chest eased, but the thought of what else the bastard Englishman might have done to her for all those years—MUST have done to her to make her feel these things, to be ‘afraid’ in a man’s bed—was enough to make him wish to slash his way through the goddamn stones and kill him… were he not already dead.

“Claire, hear me,” Jamie said with decision, squeezing her hand in both his own. “We dinna have to do this, tonight. We shall—” 

“I’ve wanted you every day these last twenty years—” she interrupted, her eyes squeezed tight shut as she laid one hand on his chest. “And I want you now, Jamie, I do. God,” she moaned, “more than I can—” She took a deep, shuddering breath and trailed off. 

Mo chridhe… you can say anything to me. Anything. Ye ken that, aye?” 

“It’s just been so long,” she whispered, trying to keep the tears at bay. “Frank was the only man who touched me since you and I parted, and I—I can barely wrap my mind around what it’s supposed to be, anymore.” 

Christ, it shouldn’t matter to him—and he cursed himself roundly for a shameful, wretched hypocrite—but he silently rejoiced and shuddered in relief. Only Frank. 

“I don’t know the way, anymore, Jamie,” she was saying; so mournful and heartbroken, that voice. “Something—It took something from me, to be…to be without…to not…Damn…Fucking, fucking damn….

He remained kneeling beside her as her breaths stayed shrill and strained, waiting, trying to think. Frank hadn’t forced himself on her, and yet their intimacy had left her with fears and doubts, had her struggling to look him in the eye. 

Could it simply be that they never found the secret of one another after she returned? Just as Laoghaire and I did not? 

“It’s…maybe no’ precisely what ye mean, Claire…” he began slowly, very quietly, “…but I can say in truth that I havena felt— joy in a woman’s bed since ye went away…. Is it anything like that?”

She stilled and looked up at him, then nodded, whisky eyes glassy. “Yes.” 

A pulse of relief and love filled him and he grasped at it, reaching out and cupping her cheek, holding onto her lest she slip away again. “To be hungry and desperate?” he went on, holding her eye with such sadness in both their hearts, “and to get something of it, to crave it again and again because ye think that this time it will be better, but to always leave the bed all the emptier in your heart? And feel that emptiness hardening ye into someone ye scarce recognize?”

“Twenty years—of—” 

It was a long time before she could manage to finish. When she did so, it was so faint he couldn’t understand her.

Heat,” she repeated in a whisper as desolate as the winter wind outside, “without light.

…Heat without light….

Aye, that was just the way of it. Need and hunger and the fire rousing to slake it, but no accompanying brightness, no beam of light in which to bask and be soothed in one’s heart. No relief or comfort: just rippling scalding, choking air that suffocated, rather than sustained. 

“And it used to come so easily, with you, the heat and the light together,” she whispered, trying not to fall apart, “I need it again so badly, and yet I’m afraid… of what I’ll do if I can’t give you that same—” 

Sorcha.” 

The word fairly burst from him, breaking his face into a smile of pure joy without his bidding.

“W-what?” she croaked.

Sorcha,” he said again, brushing the hair from her eyes. “’Tis your name in Gaelic, mo chridhe. Did I never call ye that, before?”

“Not that I can recall.”

He’d thought of her by that name for so long a time: her very self in his own language. His forehead pressed against hers, he looked deep and long and lovingly. “It means ‘light.’”

She inhaled sharply and gasped out something like a laugh. “You’re making that up.”

“Even in English, the root of your name has to do wi’ light, or brightness, or clarity….Et en Français, aussi.” 

“Au clair de la lune….” she recited. By the light of the moon. 

“Aye, just so.” He had her face in both his hands now, and he thumbed away her tears, kissing the tracks left behind. “You are my light, Sassenach. Ye always have been, in name or no.’”

 Her lips trembled as she smiled. “And you’re mine.”

“Then we’ve everything we’ll ever need.” He kissed her. “We can love, and never fear.” 

Claire fell slowly into him, then, wrapping her arms around his neck, weeping, not in despair, but in the sweet surrender of trusting, of loving. 

“When we wed,” he whispered into her ear, kissing the dear, warm spot just behind, “we barely kent one another. Ye didna want me for your husband, that was clear enough, and I had resigned myself to what ye could and couldna give me…. And yet that light was upon us even that first day, aye? Even wi’out your willing it, ye felt it, that—that— rightness between us?”

“Yes.” She was nodding, hard, her hands gripped tightly in the back of his shirt, her lips softly caressing his neck. “I felt it.”

He held her tight, rocking them gently. “We didna earn or deserve it, that day. We hadna prepared for it or practiced it as to be ready or worthy. It was a GIFT, that joy and ease between us. I believe it shall be granted us again, just as freely.” 

And in saying it, he, too, believed, the last of his own fears and insecurities loosening their grip and floating away.

He kissed her neck, her hair, then tucked her to his chest and laid them down, holding close around her back as they lay facing one another. “Tell me what’s in your heart, Claire.”

“Thought I had been,” she sniffed, wiping her eyes, though he could hear the hint of a smile. 

“Nay, but if we were to stay just like this until morn, only sleeping in one another’s arms, and leaving the rest for another—”

She made a frustrated sound. “I’m not saying I don’t WANT—”

“I know,” he cut her off gently, half-laughing, “I ken, Sassenach, but there’s nay hurry, aye? There’s the two of us now, and I’ll not let ye go.” 

She touched his face and exhaled, trying to smile. 

“Aside from any fears, what is in your heart right at this moment?” 

“….Happiness….” she said at last. “…such unfathomable happiness.”

“Aye…” 

“I…I can hardly believe you’re here. That I’m here.” Her voice cracked. “I’m still reeling from relief and joy from the hill….and I’m…overjoyed….” She ran the back of her knuckles down his cheek, staring intently into his face. “…that you finally know about our daughter…that you’ve gotten to see her face and learn that she’s safe….. that I’ll have the rest of my life to tell you about her.” 

He kissed her hand, pressing it tight against his lips. She kept on, the sorrow and abating from her voice with every word, replaced with warmth and joy. “I’m grateful that I know about Laoghaire…and the girls….and William…. I want to know more, in time, but there are no secrets between us, now, and that’s—You are who you appear to be….as I remembered you to be…..And Jamie, I’m so happy you’re alive,” she choked out as she pressed her forehead to his, her voice trembling, “and I can’t believe we finally get to keep one another this time…. To have you and hold you… I couldn’t ask for anything more….Nothing.

“I have two hands,” Jamie said hoarsely as he held her, “and they’re yours…. I have a body, and it is yours….. Anything that I am, I give to ye freely again today, Claire Fraser.”  

At hearing her name, that name, she let out a tiny, broken sound and pulled him down to her mouth. Almost at once, the kiss changed, became harder, urgent. His mouth and his hands and his body responded to hers without conscious thought, seeking her with every movement, every breath. 

His arousal was strong, violent, but he forced himself to pull back enough to look into her eye…..and at last, there was no fear written there.  

With a ferocity that startled and ignited him, he captured her mouth and slid his hand beneath her head as she rolled onto her back. With the other, he untucked the sheet from beneath her arms and bared her, sliding his hand down her length. She moaned into his mouth as he cupped her boldly, felt the warm, wet fullness of her there between her thighs, and that sound was honey to his soul.

She moved with him, the two of them joined by the trailing of his fingers through the slick center of her; her gasps when he moved up toward that small, precious spot; the exquisite pain of her fingertips digging into his flesh as he circled and caressed it. Claire was coming alive for him, moving against his touch to double every sensation. He could have wept only to feel her rouse to him so, but to watch her face breaking again and again with that beauty, to hear against his neck the same sounds that he’d treasured in his heart all those lonely years—He felt as though he were running up a mountain and down it again all at once. “Claire,” he could only groan into her hair, her skin, scarcely aware of his own body, enthralled to hers, “Jesus, Claire….”

“Jamie—” She was mounting and gathering under his touch, her legs and hips moving languidly, her cries becoming more urgent and and more frantic with every stroke. 

“Aye, Sassenach,” he moaned, circling and pressing harder, feeling the throbbing wetness of her. “Now—please—”

Wait,” she panted, slipping out from beneath him and pushing him back onto the pillows. It didn’t cross his mind to question her. He obeyed by instinct, pulling off his shirt and emerging from the cloud of white to see her straddling him, poising her body—Jesus, her exquisite body—just above him. He was half-sitting, hard and aching for her. Her legs trembled with wanting, too, but she reached slowly forward to pull him up, to kiss him, to press herself against his chest and twine her fingers in his hair. Their eyes locked and the world vanished for a moment in a burst of breath and light as she sheathed him to her. 

He grasped her tight, hands gripping and holding as the two of them gasped and shuddered from the shock and wonder of being joined and naked; ONE. Her breasts were so full, begging for him to put his mouth on them, but he couldn’t look away from her face.  

“Jamie—Love—” she moaned, settling him still more deeply within her body. 

“Claire—” 

He could see tears gathering in her eyes even as her entire body trembled and shuddered with the growing tension. She gasped and rolled her hips, her hands shaking and her breath catching, eyes fluttering.  “I’m going—to—”

Please,” he begged, “please—let me feel you—” He moved within her, and she upon him— And almost instantly she cascaded around him, pulsing and rushing and crying out with that sound—THAT SOUND— “Sorcha,” he moaned, her release nearly taking him, too. He couldn’t hold her close enough, couldn’t treasure her deeply enough. “Mo sorcha….”

“More,” she moaned before he could say more, grabbing his face and moving along his length with a ferocity that tore from him a feral sound to match her own, “More.”

He lost all speech and all restraint. He plunged up into her, his mouth on her neck, her breasts; his hands raking across hips and thighs and arse. They moved together, he taking her and she, him, joined in a fury of need and love that had them both gasping and snarling and moaning and near-weeping.

At one pass, she thrust down upon him such a way that he nearly lost himself, and in a flash, he was throwing himself forward with a growl so that she was beneath him, his hands under her buttocks, pulling her to him fiercely with every movement. Claire cried out, a sound of both need and satisfaction that echoed around the room. They were on fire, the two of them, thrusting and seeking with such wild energy, it was like nothing he had ever felt before. Every inch of him burned for her.

But there WAS light along with the burning. Even as they raced and tore and pounded, her eyes were in his and she was shining, smiling even as she destroyed him. As they each neared the end, they were beaming, glowing with such the most glorious joy. The most glorious light

After it was over, after she had come around him and he within her, there had been no slumping of exhaustion, none of that immediate, selfish isolation of the mind and body in adapting to the altered state. He had pulled her at once back up and knelt; knelt so that she could hold him as much as he, her. She wrapped her arms around his neck and cupped his head in both hands, touching his hair, his face, saying his name again and again like a prayer, as he was hers. They were both crying, hard, but they were tears of joy, a cleansing of all fears and all sorrows. 

“Thank you,” he gasped out suddenly, broken with it, “for coming back for me.”

She had left everything. She had left EVERYTHING she knew, the entire life she had built, on the mere hope that he still needed her. He did need her. He always would.

She held him, body and soul. “I always will.”

anonymous asked:

Hi sweetie! You are so great and an absolute joy of the fandom! What picture is your favorite that you have made?

Hi there!  Thanks so much for your nice comment!

I just had a look through my folder, and it turns out I have well over six hundred images, and over two hundred gifs.  That makes this question really difficult!  I can tell you that there’s a few images I like for different reasons.

This one is a favourite because I have no idea why I thought of this idea, but it was in fact an idea.  I literally searched out for an image of someone skateboarding in a suit, put Lestrade’s face on it, added sunglasses, added a cat and put it over the NSY building.  It was intentionally bizarre, and I was funny to probably only me.  But that’s fine!

I love making logos, so making up this one for the fictitious band belonging to @finalproblem was particularly fun.

I had this one printed out and on my wall for about four years. It still makes me smile. 

And I am adding this one here because it got a ton of hits, mostly for the added stuff after the original image.  This one was pretty fun to make, required a lot of careful close cropping, and I thought it was really funny.

That’s it for now, I hope this works for you! 

“Heaven”

Boyfriend Shawn blurb with mild smut elements

Heaven Ashley. Yes, that was her real name.

It was the number one question she was asked multiple times a day. The follow up always, “Well how did you get that?”

Southern parents.

She managed to answer every time with a smile, letting her soft Tennessee accent through to charm them further. She’d tell them her mother named her Heaven because she swore Jesus Christ himself sent her down from heaven to bless her life. Hallelujah! Praise the Lord! Amen!

She’d save the eye rolls for her dressing room. Six years in the music industry and she’d heard it all. The first two years playing bars meant she had the luxury of hearing her favorite pick up line nightly. “Is your name Heaven cause you’re an angel?” At this point she felt like her eyes should be stuck in the back of her head from all the eye rolls. Thanks Mom and Dad.

The industry knew her as Heaven Ashley. Her friends knew her as Evan. He called her Ev.

Keep reading

Safe Space

“There is something we need to talk about.”

Alec looks up from his cup of coffee to Magnus who is staring at him from across the breakfast table with his “serious business” face. He tries not to wince, considering he had been looking forward to a full day without ‘serious business’. With the Institute in an uproar, it has been harder than ever to get a calm day with Magnus.

“Okay,” Alec says, “what’s wrong?”

Magnus chuckles slightly and reaches across the table to grab his hand, “nothing is wrong per say. Though it does say something amusing about the state of our lives if that is the first place your mind jumps to.”

Keep reading

A Hundred Lesser Faces: (Eight)
  • The first section of this story stems from the premise: what if Voyager!Claire had gone first to Lallybroch instead of directly to the print shop in Edinburgh?
  • The second section will explore the aftermath of Claire and Jamie’s reunion, following their journey as they work to build a new life together. 

Section Two: A Hundred More 

(Eight) 


So close,” that wretched, strangled voice kept choking out over and over again. “Claire—” He kept trying to hold her closer, wrap his body around hers still more completely, searching, searching for her, though he knew she was beneath him. “So—so close—

To losing her. He had come mere minutes, moments away from losing her forever, again, right before his eyes.

Shhhh, darling, I know,” she kept whispering into his hair, his neck, though she was sobbing as hard as he. “I know—It’s—It’s alright, love—” 

“Don’t go…” The snow-flecked dark seemed to spin and scream around him, throwing everything into a hellish whirl that he couldn’t grasp, about to throw him off the very face of the earth. “Claire, ye canna—Claire—don’t—go—” 

“I’m not going—anywhere—” she gasped out, clutching harder around his back. “It’s over, Jamie—All—over….”  She cupped his head so urgently, so tenderly as she cradled him and wept into his shoulder. “Shhhh, it’s alright, love…it’s alright…It’s all over….

He hadn’t let her out of his arms, not for one single moment.

Those minutes on the hill, his body, his heart, his MIND had all been on the verge of shattering from the terror that she was leaving him. The strength—the pure, desperate strength— it had taken to keep upright and to speak, to ask instead of screaming and lunging? Never, not even in battle, had he ever felt something like that: the absolute life of him being ripped apart before him, shred by shred, hope by hope, until he was no more than a bloodied, quivering plea. 

 

But then, she had run to him and he had become flesh again, breathing and needing, with arms that could hold and a soul that could feel joy, this joy, 

and the rest of world had gone still. 


It had been hours—or perhaps only moments—before he’d crumpled to the ground.  Utterly overcome, utterly dissolved in relief and love, in scarce-contained panic, he’d laid her down and covered her like a cloak with his body, surrounding her, trying to convince himself that she was real. 

There, on the frozen ground of the faerie hill, oblivious to the wind and the snow, they’d broken apart in one another’s arms, each kept from vanishing only by the other grasping them tight enough to bruise, from feeling their arms, hearing what words they could manage to gasp out; and it was both everything and scarcely anything at all compared to what they each felt, in those moments. 

“Claire….” 

She felt the same under his hands, exactly the same. It was the same voice—the same gentle hands—the same glorious spirit. She was Claire; and he was going to die from her. 

“Are you shaking from—” She had to stop and get her sobbing breath under control before she could finish. “—from—crying— or cold?”

He truly didn’t know. 

She pushed up his sleeve. “God, Jamie, you’re like ice,” she moaned. He felt her shifting and fumbling about. “Here, put—Take this—”

Though he was still shaking, still barely able to see through swollen eyes, he managed to pull the cloak out from beneath her and throw it over them both, heads and all. It was quite large, of good, thick wool, and a pocket of warmth instantly began to form around them. While he wouldn’t have thought the cold had been affecting him so very much, the change was like a dram of good brandy, rushing through his body from head to toe in an instant. His sobbing eased, his mind began to clear, his breathing slowing to something like a normal pace. He could hear hers doing the same, tapering and settling as the calm and the gentle pool of heat settled over them both. 

He had had both arms around her before they’d shifted, hands gripping her side and twined in her hair, needing in every muscle and fiber of him to hold her. Now, in utter darkness, without even the faint glow of the snow-clouds to illuminate her, he could only reach for her face, needing, paradoxically, to see her, to look into her eye. And the moment his palm came to rest on her cheek— so cold and slick with tears—she gave a little whimpering sound that might have been his name, and she was reaching up for his mouth. He couldn’t stop kissing her; tasting her; touching her; couldn’t stop moaning her name. All the years—All the years of longing for her, and she was here in his arms, sharing his breath. 

“I’m here,” she kept saying back against his lips, knowing that he needed to be told. “I’m here, Jamie….I’m here….”


“When I saw ye,” he said, a long time later, when the world had once more gone quiet, his hand pressed against her heart. “When I saw ye climbing up that hill, Claire—” 

Jamie had found the horse a mile or two back. It was one of the Lallybroch mares, a beast he’d broken himself and would have known anywhere. Terror had driven him all the way from the Lallybroch dooryard, or so he had thought. No, he had only felt the true, ripping claws of it when he had seen that riderless horse and known that he had come too late. The furious minutes of that last hellish gallop were a blank in his memory, but he remembered the ecstatic fury of seeing her up there in the distance; seeing her turning; and then the life dropping out of him once more as she began to sprint upward, away from him, toward the stones.

“What would you have done?” Claire whispered, stroking his face. “If I had kept running?”

“I’d have run faster,” he said with what voice he had left, “and pinned ye to the ground until ye listened to sense.”

She stiffened. “…You’d have stopped me by force?”

He forgot the complete darkness enshrouding them and gave her a look.  “If you’re asking ‘would I have done whatever I could to keep ye running off forever before ye kent all the truth’ you’re damned right, I would. I’d have tied ye hand and foot to a tree, if I had to.”

“You bloody man,” she muttered, and it was not said in fondness. “Nothing changed.”

Anger flared up in him, red-hot and blinding with panic, and he closed his hand tight around her wrist. “You were going to just leave, Claire,” he hissed. “Can ye honestly blame me? God, I’m still so furious that ye would have—Had I not—” He swore, shaking her. “You damnable, foolish wom—

“Oh, is that the way of things?” she snarled at him, her breath hot in his face. “So, when YOU sacrifice your own feelings and well-being for love, it’s noble and right, but when I do, I’m just a ‘foolish woman?’”

“That’s—Damn you, that isna at all—”

She yanked herself out of his grasp. “Can you honestly tell me, James Fraser, that if the circumstances were reversed—if you’d somehow found your way to 1968—found that I’d married someone new—heard I’d had a child by him and was by all accounts blissfully happy—you’d have just waltzed right in and thrown yourself at me? You’d truly have put me in that position?”

Jesus.

“No,” he moaned, defeated, as the true tragedy of what she’d been planning to do for his sake settle around him. “No, I….I couldna have put ye through such a choice.”

“Well, I bloody couldn’t do it to you, either,” she spat at him, sobs starting to shudder through her again in her rage. “No matter how much—much it tore me apart to—”  

“Oh, lass….” He felt her convulse and cover her face with both hands, as though she might hide from the terror of what they’d so nearly lost.  “No,” he moaned, gathering her tight against his chest, covering her again, the intimacy between them knitting together once more. “No, it was noble what ye meant to do, Claire. If what Jenny told ye had been true, it would have been right. I—Christ, that ye would have done that for my sake…Thank you.” 

‘”Jamie….”

“We’ve been lucky, Sassenach.” He rocked her softly, buried his face in her hair as she wept.  “God….we’ve been so lucky, today. We were in the right places at the precise right moments to find one another again.” He kissed her, softly hushing as she had done for him. “And now, it’s all over, just as ye said… We’ll never be parted again, I swear it, Claire.” He sealed the promise with a kiss in the hollow of her neck. 

Not ever.


“But what—what will we do?” she managed, voice taut with worry. “About Laoghaire? The girls?”

What will we do, indeed?

“I dinna ken….not precisely,” he admitted. 

“That doesn’t exactly inspire confidence,” she said, with a tremulous smile in her voice. 

Lovely wee smartarse. 

“We’ll find some arrangement that separates me from Laoghaire as honorably as can be managed. You and I are still man and wife, after all. That must count for something wi’ the law.” 

Wife. His wife. 

Lord have mercy upon his soul, WIVES. 

“It will be a tricky business, Claire, and I’ll no’ say it will be over quickly, but I will fight for it with everything that I have.”

“What if it can’t be managed honorably?”

He exhaled. “Then I shall find a way to reconcile wi’ dishonor.”

She choked out a laugh and held him tighter, sighing in deep relief. “Well, I’m glad to hear it. At least we’ll be in hell together, eh?”

“And a happy damnation t’will be.” 

A warm, pulsing happiness had pushed away the tears from their sanctuary, and he suddenly wondered how long he could keep his eyes open amid such peace. He’d slept scarce more than an hour at a time on the ride from Lallybroch, and only then when he could no longer stay upon the horse. Each and every time, he’d awoken in a dead-panic that he’d slept overlong, leapt right into the saddle, and repeated the harrowing process over and over, pushing himself to the very limits until he reached Craigh na Dun. 

It wasn’t merely the actual fatigue—it was the relief. Many a time in his life—from battlefields to his examinations in the Paris days—he had witnessed the body’s incredible stamina to push through lack of sleep, of food, and of physical strength. It will go to incredible lengths to complete the task at hand, to survive. When the deed is accomplished, though, it takes its own, and fairly well damns the consequences. Jamie was hungry, true, but that could wait. Sleep, though…No, that could wait as well. In the growing warmth of her body and his together, captured by the warm cloak, it was harder and harder by the minute; but he didn’t want to miss a single moment with her. Not one. 

“Will you tell me….” It was such a tiny voice that asked it; so tentative and careful. “…why Laoghaire?”

He stiffened, steadied himself with a breath. It was a fair question.

“She was…there,” he hazarded, “at the right time, when I was come back to Lallybroch. It was Jenny’s idea, ken?”

“Mm.” A great deal unsaid in that mm, perhaps having to do with the destructive nature of Jenny’s ideas of late.

“She seemed—sweet, I suppose. Eager, and—Wi’ the wee lassies to feed, she needed me; and I needed—I needed something, too.

Claire didn’t say a word.

“I am sorry, mo chridhe. I ken it’s—painful.” 

“Oh?” 

“Well, I certainly dinna delight in thinking of the men that have shared your bed.”

To his surprise, she bristled. “It’s not that she was another woman, Jamie. It’s that it was her.” 

“I do ken she was quite the jealous brat, all those years ago, at Leoch,” he said, carefully, at something of a loss. “But she was naught but a wee lassie at the time. Surely ye can forgive her a few youthful indiscretions?”

“Youthful ind—?” He heard her choke back whatever retort she had planned and instead breathe through her nose, calming herself. She was being careful, so careful, but there was true indignation, there, true hurt, kept in check for his sake.

“Say it, mo ghraidh.” He touched her face, bent down to kiss her. “Tell me what it is.”

“Wouldn’t it trouble you,” she said, very quietly, “if had chosen to marry someone who’d gone out of their way to have you hurt and killed?”

“Killed?” 

“Cranesmuir? Surely you remember that little episode?” 

He felt a jolt run through him. Then it walloped him over the head like a brick. “Laoghaire? She was—?”

“Jamie, she was the one who arranged for me to be taken with Geillis Duncan, that day, for Christ’s sake! You knew that! Surely we discussed it??”

“We certainly DID NOT. Sassenach! BELIEVE me, had I I known, I would never have taken her to wife. NEVER.” He gripped her tight, as though he could look into her eyes. “Had I KNOWN….Christ, the wicked wee bitch!

She laughed at that. “Well good, I’m—That’s a burden off my mind. I’d certainly have understood if you’d remarried. I did understand, until you mentioned her name. Lord,” she laughed, groaning. “Laoghaire bloody MacKenzie. Laoghaire….Fraser.” 

Lord forgive him, he had given Claire’s would-be murderess his name, shared her bed. “I’m—I’m truly so ashamed, Sassenach.” He felt as though he would vomit. “I’m so sorry for this. After what she did—” 

“Don’t be,” she said at once, and he heard the sincerity in her voice. “You didn’t know, and would have had no reason to ask. It’s water under the bridge. Though,” she said with good humor, “I do reserve my right to make snide comments from time to time, at her expense only, not yours.”  

“’Tis only your due,” he laughed weakly, grateful for the gift of levity, which did help the anxiety and shame abate. 

“Jamie, can I ask, does it….?”

More to do with Laoghaire, surely. 

“Does it what, mo nighean donn?”

“Does it frighten you? How—easy this is?” She touched his chest. “Like it was only yesterday we last saw each other?”

He released the breath he had been holding and touched her face. “It frightens me only insomuch as it makes my heart feel whole again; and it hasna been for a verra long time. It frightens me to feel that I must learn anew how to hold all these emotions in my heart, once more. But the comfort and the—us-ness between us? I couldna ever be frightened by that; no more than I could be frightened of my own voice.” He gently laid his palm flat against her breast. “Mo chridhe.” 

She traced the lines of his collarbone. “I very nearly went to Edinburgh first, you know.”

“Aye, ye said, in the…your letter.”

It was tucked away in his satchel, along with the PhotoGraphs; and he would keep it, always, but he wasn’t altogether sure he could bring himself to read it again. 

“All the way here from Lallybroch, after I spoke with your sister, I wondered if I ought to have gone there first.” She paused. “Do you think it would have been easier on us? If I had just appeared through your shop door?” 

“It would have given me back a hank of grey hairs that I’ve gained in the last week.”

She laughed, but was not to be dismissed. “What would you have done?” 

He’d have been toiling away at the presses, no doubt, with no notion of great happenings about to take place. Perhaps Fergus might have been present, but most days it was him alone in the shop. What would he have done, when he’d heard her voice with no warning? He’d likely have fainted, as he nearly did at Jenny’s news…but beyond that? What would he have done with Claire Beauchamp before him, alive and well and glowing like the June sun, ready and willing to spend the rest of her days with him? 

“I ken I wouldna have told ye all the truth…about Laoghaire and William.”

“Oh? Why should that have changed?” 

“Is it no’ clear? I’d have been so scairt that it would be too much to hear.” He shook his head in growing conviction. “For all the terror and the near-missing in the way things did come to pass, at least I was able to tell ye all, Claire, wi’ no hesitation. There was nothing more to be lost and so I was able to just say everything, some things I hadna ever once spoken aloud to everyone! It just—The truth was the only thing that could keep ye from going. And so while I canna say this is precisely how I’d have wished things to occur, everything is known between us, now, and that is right. Do ye see?” 

“It was a gift to both of us, in its way,” she whispered, “though I know it wasn’t easy.”

“No.” He squeezed her hand, feeling the fine bones and the unbearable silkiness of it. How he wished he could see her. “But if ye’d come upon me in Edinburgh, so far from home, from Laoghaire, wi’ me living under a false name already…. Lord, if you’d just arrived there before me? Handed me the moon and offered this miracle of which I’d vainly dreamed for so long? Could I have told ye I had a son? Could I have told ye was marrit and risked ye leaving at once?” He swallowed, ashamed of the truth, but knowing it was truth all the same. “No. I’d have kept it from ye as long as possible. Maybe forever.”

“No you wouldn’t,” she said with immediate, easy confidence. “You’re too much of a noble hero-type to have conscienced any such thing, Jamie Fraser, and you know it.”

God, does she truly believe that? 

A new terror gripped him and he felt his mouth go utterly dry. 

The man he had been these last years—James Fraser or Alexander Malcolm or whoever he might be when he was alone only with his thoughts—had been shaped so deeply by grief and bitterness. Crushed first in the loss of her and the bairn; then laid low by the years of hiding and imprisonment, the strain of clearances upon his family; then William, first the fear of him, then tentative joy, and then the loss, forever; and finally rushing up that crest of hope, that desperate hope that something good was to be found in marrying again, and the ache of crashing down onto the sharp realities below. 

Claire held in her arms a man bitter and broken. Was he one that she could love, really love, once the euphoria of reunion had worn away? Was the shattered man he had been merely a relic of loneliness that would now vanish with her presence? Or would traces remain? Perhaps the Jamie she had loved had ceased to be and could not be revived. In fact, he was certain that it was not so very far from the truth.

“I’m none so very noble as ye might wish to believe, Sassenach.”

He felt her stiffen. 

“Perhaps it’s that I’ve lost too much to honor, or….I’m…” He withdrew, trying to touch her as little as possible as he got the words out. “Ye must ken I’m not altogether the same man of twenty years ago, Claire.”

“You are.” 

“But I’m truly not, Claire. I wish to be, will endeavor to be, for your sake; but I have…. such fears.” 

The wind had ceased to wail outside their cloak shelter. He could hear every intake and exhale of her breaths. 

He suddenly felt her hand, cool and sure, touching his cheek, the other coming to rest on the curve of his breast. “Is your heart still mine?”

God, Claire. 

“Yours,” he croaked. “Yours, mo nighean donn. Never did it stop being so.”

“Then, we’ll manage with the rest. All the rest.” She cupped the back of his neck to pull him down closer. “I see what you fear, what you dread you are. Perhaps I couldn’t have seen it, if I’d found you in Edinburgh; but I’m here now, and I see you.” 

She saw him. Even in darkness, Claire saw him. 

I love you, Jamie Fraser.”

And though that was a point on which he had never held the faintest doubt, the hearing of it now, her declaration, his true name…. 

To be seen, and yet still be loved. 

Tears came, fast and many, and he made no move to halt them. She pulled him down to her breast, murmuring love over him again and again as sleep pressed itself upon him, her hands holding him. He could sleep, at last. Claire was watching over him.

Never Again

[title]: never again

[pairing]: shawn mendes x reader

[requested]: yes – (x)

[summary]: #54 | “i’m not good enough for you.”

[warnings]: swearing, a wee bit of violence, slut shaming

[author’s note]: okay, so i might have changed the prompt for this imagine just a lil bit because i had imagined how i’d write this in my head and i like the way this turned out haha

but i’m gettin’ back on that grind, y’all :D

Originally posted by mednes


Your surroundings were hazy.

Swaying bodies, a mixed aroma of liquor and sweat, blaring music, red solo cups littered in almost every crevice in the house.

Shawn and you had made your way to a high school party being thrown by one of your friends: Lauren Arendse. It was close to the end of the year and the both of you had discussed going out together, yet somehow came to the final decision of making an appearance at your friend’s party.

Although you weren’t the biggest fan of parties, you hadn’t been to one in a number of weeks, maybe months, being an upperclassman in high school. From the outside, Pickering might seem like a small, peaceful community (which it is), but when it comes to high schoolers throwing parties, things can get pretty intense; especially drinking parties.

“I’ll be right back. I’m going to go get us some drinks.” Is what Shawn had said to you almost fifteen minutes earlier.

Apparently for the past fifteen minutes, he had been “getting drinks” for the both of you, but as the minutes kept passing and passing, you weren’t so sure that was what he was up to.

For the past seven, however, you were starting to worry about your boyfriend.

Looking around for any glimpse of him, he was nowhere in sight, to your dismay.

Maybe I should go look for him? You questioned in your mind.

Nodding to yourself, you make your way around the spacious living room, avoiding bodies and trash littering the floor of the room.

Lauren’s parents must be loaded. You thought to yourself, admiring the features and different characteristics of the house you stood in. Her house was basically a mansion and a half. It was everything you could’ve wished for of your own, but you didn’t mind your own life, your parents making a healthy living for you and your family.

Staring at the beautiful chandelier hanging from the ceiling, your feet carry you straight, before forcing you clumsily forwards into a large wall-like figure.

“Hey, watch it!” A low male voice booms, a tall, broad frame turning to look you in the eye. A mean look is etched in his rather attractive facial features before realization finally hits the both of you.

“Y/N?” He asks, taking a better look at you.

“Drew?” You ask in return, your heart starting to flutter.

The blonde haired boy pulls you into a hug, picking you up and spinning you around before placing you down on the ground.

“Oh my God, Y/N,” he smiles, “I haven’t seen you in so long, how are you?”

You could smell a faint scent of alcohol on his breath, which meant he couldn’t have been that drunk, the majority sober, perhaps.

“I’m great! What are you doing here? I thought you were in Chicago!” You exclaim.

Andrew Cannon had been one of your closest friends growing up before you met Shawn until he moved away to the states in the ninth grade. You and him had always hung out, inseparable, until the day he had to leave. You tried to keep contact with him when he moved, but the time difference was significant and you both had different things going on in your lives. Therefore, you had lost most contact besides social media but you never really had the time to sit down and have a long conversation with him, which saddened you.

“I was, but I came back to visit my grandparents for the week and I heard our friend was having a party so I decided to pop in quickly.” He smiles.

“Why didn’t you tell me, you big bum?” You playfully punch his bicep, laughing. It was like punching stone.

“It totally slipped my mind, I swear.” He laughs along with a grin plastered on his face. “So how have you been? Who are you here with?”

“Good, for the most part. I missed you and hanging out with you.” You pout. “And I’m here with Shawn.”

“I missed you too, it’s been too long.” He says, offering you a sad smile. “And oh, mister ‘big shot’, huh?” He smirks, nudging you.

You laugh, shaking your head lightly. “That’s him.”

“I’ve heard lots about him and you. How are things with him? He’d better be treating my best friend right.” He says jokingly.

“Of course, I’m really happy with him, to be honest.” You reply. “Except, he told me he was going to get us drinks twenty minutes ago and he still hasn’t gotten back yet.”

“Sounds like a hell of a boyfriend to me.” He raises his eyebrows.

“Hey. He is, I swear. I just don’t know what happened.”

“I know, I know, I’m sure he is. I’m just jokin’ around with you.” Drew smiles.

Right before you had met Shawn at the near end of freshman year of high school, Drew had developed and had recently uncovered feelings he had for you. He had told you that he had those feelings for the longest time; since the day he met you.

That part of your time was filled with endless thoughts and feelings because you weren’t completely sure you liked Drew or not. A part of you did like Drew because you and him had known each other for the longest time and you’d gotten to know him so well. However, another part of you had a gut feeling that Drew just wasn’t the one for you and that your destiny awaited you in the future. 

You had to let Drew down gently, knowing that he was moving with or without you acceptance of a new blooming relationship. He told you that you could beat the wide six hundred mile distance between the two of you. As you rejected him, you knew he was sad even though he denied it, repeatedly saying he understood.

Then you met a charming boy named Shawn soon after. And that gut feeling was in fact correct.

“I just want to make sure you’re happy.”

Soon after Drew’s arrival in Chicago, he found out you had been hanging out with a new boy by the name of ‘Shawn Mendes’, which made him feel sad. He felt replaced, but no one could ever replace your best friend.

“Honestly, I haven’t felt this happy since you moved and it hasn’t really hit me until now that I’ve missed you so much, Drew.” You say, somberly, feeling yourself about to cry.

He pulls you into another hug, rocking back and forth to comfort you.

“Hey!” A voice all too familiar yells out, making you detach yourself from Drew. “What the fuck?!”

Standing there, all tall and mighty, Shawn stares you and Drew down from the other side of the room in the doorway, a mean scowl played on his lips.

“Shawn—” You start before he ignores your call, almost stomping over towards the two of you.

With your arms still around Drew’s middle, Shawn wraps his arms around your waist, ripping you away from your best friend, pulling you to the side.

“What are you doing?!” You exclaim, throwing your hands up.

“What the hell, Y/N?!” He shouts, drawing everyone’s attention to your situation. You could clearly smell the scent of beer in Shawn’s breath, much stronger than Drew, yet not drunk enough to be considered completely wasted. “I’m gone for ten fucking minutes and you take it upon yourself to go and flirt it up with some other damn guy?!”

Your eyes widen, taken aback as you look at Drew for an answer, his eyebrows scrunched together in confusion as well.

“What are you talking about, Shawn?”

“Oh, don’t play dumb with me, Y/N. I know you were all over him when I walked in the room, flirting up a fucking storm with him.” He snarls.

“I was not, Shawn. It’s called ‘enjoying someone’s company at a party’ instead of ‘leaving your girlfriend for a half an hour so she’s all by her lonesome at a party, not that you’d know the difference between them.” You shoot back.

He simply ignores you, turning to Drew. “Don’t ever touch her again.” Shawn warns.

“Shawn, he wasn’t doing anything—”

“Shut up!” He shouts, pointing a finger at you.

“Hey!” Drew yells abruptly, getting in Shawn’s face. “Don’t talk to her like that, man.”

“Drew…” You say, attempting to reason with the two boys.

“Stay out of this, Y/N. You’ve done enough.” Shawn says, focusing his eyes on Drew with a stone hard expression on his face. “I never, ever thought you’d be the one to become a slut.”

Your stomach drops at this remark.

“What the fuck did you just call her you dick?!” Drew roars, pulling you behind him.

Your head was spinning as this all went down; as the words processed in your mind.

“You fucking heard me. Now get out of my way!”

Shawn had never even thought about slut shaming you, never mind actually doing it. His words hurt; not like the sting of a simple bee, but a punch to the gut. A stab to the throat. A kick the the curb.

In the back of your mind, you knew it was more than likely the alcohol speaking, and that his conscience was put to rest at this time and place. Nonetheless, you caught your lip in between your teeth, trying to blink back tears desperately.

On the other hand, Drew had never been one for slut shaming. For any of his friends. He knew it made girls feel dirty and down on the inside and he wasn’t going to stand for that.

As Shawn started towards you, pushing past the broad figure standing in front of you protectively, Drew shoves Shawn back, shooting him a glare of pure hatred.

“Get the hell away from her, dude.” Drew says calmly.

Right then, you catch a glimpse of something in Shawn. His eyes. That chocolate, velvety shade of brown once glittering in his eyes was now a murky, hue of ebony and vile loathing. You’d never seen Shawn like this ever.

And then suddenly, both Drew and Shawn are on the ground, Shawn being the one who had tackled him to the floor. Your hand immediately shot up to cover your mouth in horror when Drew threw the first punch, his fist colliding with Shawn’s cheek. From there, all hell broke loose.

Punches, curses and name calling was exchanged as you stood to the side of the two boys. By the third hit directed at Drew’s jaw, a crowd had formed, all watching in awe of what was occurring in front of them. 

“Shawn!” You screamed. “Andrew!”

Tears were streaming down your face, your cheeks flushed a crimson red shade. There was no telling if there was an end to them or not. Sobs slipped past your lips as your eyes focused on the two guys on top of each other, beating the life out of one another.

“Stop it! Please!”

Your adrenaline finally kicking in, you lean down quickly to try to pry the two off of each other, only to be restrained at the waist by Ian Warburton.

“Let me go!” You scream, tears blurring your vision.

Shawn had never gotten into a fight, never mind drunk and with your old best friend. You’d never thought Shawn would involve himself in something like this. You had always thought he was civil and able to contain himself from getting himself into trouble. Must be the alcohol.

Ian placed you down on the ground, keeping a hand wrapped around your forearm so you don’t try to involve yourself with the fight again. You then turn to the crowd, their eyes fixated on the scene continuing to unravel in front of everyone.

“Someone, do something! Please!”

At last, three or four guys run in and barely detach the two guys, holding them back from each other.

The both of them are beat up pretty bad as they continued staring one another down. The tears flowing from your eyes were relentless.

Drew shakes his head, breaking from the two guys’ grip on him, beginning to walk towards the door of the house. Before he goes to open the door, he turns his head and looks directly at you before faintly saying, “I’m sorry, Y/N.” And with that, he disappeared through the door, making his way to his car and speeding off.

Everyone is silent. So quiet, you could hear a pin drop.

Shawn turns to you, making eye contact before you lost it. Your sobs, now at a softer tone escape your throat as you run for the front door, slamming it behind you.

Shawn shoves the two guys off of him, looking around at everyone with shocked looks on their faces. “All right, show’s over.” He bluntly states, running after you.

He followed you all the way to the car, somehow able to jump into the passenger’s seat. You were crying hysterically on the steering wheel, but you knew he was in the car right next to you. Shawn knew better, even intoxicated that you’re better off alone if you were upset; especially if he was the cause of it. He knew he fucked up real bad, this time.

Knowing that he was gonna attempt to try and talk to you, you turned the ignition on, backing out of the parking space you were in, speeding off for home.

The car ride was completely silent, except for a few small sniffles coming from you. The whole ride, Shawn focused his eyes on the passing houses, the trees and the pitch black scenery of the night outside. You on the other hand bit your lip as you focused on the road in front of you.

Ten minutes later, you were at Shawn’s house to drop him off. Parking in his driveway, you cross your arms over your chest, looking down at your tear-stained jeans.

Shawn licked his lips, beginning to feel himself sobering up a bit. He wasn’t that wasted. “Y/N…”

“Get out!” You yelled, your eyes glued to your jeans.

“Please, just listen to me.” Shawn pleads.

“I have nothing to say to you, Shawn.” You say calmly, tears threatening to spill again. “Now get out. Please.”

“No.” He simply replies. “I’m not getting out until you listen to me.”

You roll your eyes, refusing to look at him.

“Y/N.” He starts, looking you up and down with your hair covering your face as your eyes remain looking down. “I’m so sorry.”

“I know what I did was wrong, with the whole thing with Drew.” You don’t say anything “I’m sorry for every burden I’ve created.”

“It wasn’t just the thing with Drew. Even though that pissed me the hell off, it was everything!” You finally say, turning to him.

Shawn almost gasps at the amount of tears streaming down your face, the red tint of color in your cheeks were visible even in the faint light of Shawn’s lit porch light.

“You left me by myself for a half hour! I had no idea where you were or what you were doing, so when I decided to go and try to find you, I ran into Drew. You know he’s my old best friend so I decided to catch up with him. I know you were drunk, but you shouldn’t have falsely presumed that I was cheating on you! You know I would never do that to you! Then you called me a slut, caused a huge scene and went and beat the fucking shit out of him! I can’t believe you!”

Shawn sighs, looking down in guilt. “I know, I know. I’m stupid. I shouldn’t have just assumed that he was gonna make a move on you and that you were gonna cheat on me with him. I shouldn’t have left you for a half hour, I had found Lauren and I was catching up with her too and I lost track of the time—”

“See? What if I had walked in on you and Lauren casually chatting and I just assumed that you were gonna have sex with her right there and then, making a big scene?” You shoot back, along with a glare.

Shawn rubs his eyes with his hands, sighing. “It would’ve been bad, I know. I was stupid and I know it. I’m never fucking drinking again.”

You roll your eyes, knowing that was probably a lie.

“About the slut shaming thing… That I certainly, absolutely, one hundred percent didn’t mean that. I mean that. I would never say anything remotely like that to you ever, even if I was threatened to be killed if I didn’t say so. You know you’re the farthest thing from that and that I love you with all of my heart. I’m so, incredibly sorry, my love.”

You still weren’t completely convinced. “Shawn, I’ve never ever seen that side of you before. I saw darkness in your eyes. It was terrifying.” You say honestly, rubbing your arms.

Shawn looks down at his shoes, biting his lip. “I felt something inside of me too… Something that felt different. I never thought that jealousy or envy would drive me to feel so dark and desolate… I’m a monster.” He pauses, taking in a deep breath. “I’m so sorry—”

You turn your head to look at Shawn, sympathy beginning to fill you up. “Shawn…”

“—I don’t know who I was then… I’m not good enough for you…” He whispers, beginning to open the passenger door of the car.

You shake your head vigorously, knowing this wasn’t the right way to end all of this. You reach out and grab his wrist, pulling him towards you. He turns back to you, tears running down his face like yours.

Looking up and down his face, you finally pull him in for a kiss, putting so much passion into it, you could nearly feel the sparks. You could feel the wetness of his tears on his face as he kissed back, desperately trying to get the most out of this embrace between the two of you.

As you pull away, you look him in the eye, then pulling him into a tight hug.

“You’re better for me, you make my life complete.” You whisper in his ear.

“I’m so sorry I made you feel that way, baby.” He coos back. “Never again.”

“I love you so much, you jerk.” You smile.

“I love you more, my precious Y/N.”


guys this took so fucking long to write hahahaha

i think it’s alright, huh?

after like 9 months, here it is, anon!

i love you all :)

[ want more? → masterlist ]

— august 3rd, 2017

i can still see the sun [james potter]

second enstallment of i can feel the darkness coming

wanrings: Movie spoilers, language, death,

word count: 5730

italics= flashback 


One hundred and twenty-two thousand, six hundred and forty hours.

Five thousand, one hundred and ten days.

    Seven hundred and thirty weeks.

One hundred and sixty eight months.

Fourteen years.

    Fourteen years since you had last seen James and Lily after their demise.

    Fourteen years since you had last seen Sirius after he had been sent to Azkaban.

    Fourteen years since you had last seen Hogwarts.

    Now, you were stepping through the large, double doors, walking through the hallways with various memories washing over you. Turning your head from side to side, you reveled in the pure happiness of being back at the school. It had been so long since you had walked these pathways and marveled at the moving portraits. You were walking besides Remus, the both of you had acquired jobs at the school; both of you knowing that it would help you keep a closer eye on a certain chosen one. You also felt as though you owed yourself some kind of closure from James’ death, and what better place to find closure than the place you had last seen him?

    You and Remus stepped through the threshold of your new classroom, scanning the empty room for an idea of how you wanted to set things up. Placing your bags down on a chair by the door, you turned back to look at your old friend Remus.

    “Been awhile, eh?” You questioned.

    Remus chuckled under his breath before smiling softly, “Yes, yes it has.”

    You slowly turned in a circle to admire your surroundings as Remus watched. He admired the way that you smiled, knowing how long it had been since you had last let a smile grace your features. A sharp pang filtered through his heart at the thoughts, but Remus just pushed them aside and distracted himself with talking to you.

    “Do you remember the time that you and Sirius changed Peter’s quill into a rat’s tail in the middle of class during our fourth year?” Remus questioned with a fond smile on his face.

    By this point you had stopped spinning and instead turned to face Remus with a giggle escaping your lips, “Yes! That was bloody hilarious!”

    You turned to face the corner of the room, and recalled another memory, “Or the time that we made you go sit in the one chair that was in the corner because we turned it into mud.”

    Remus laughed and fell back against one of the other chairs in the room. His chest was rising and falling with every breath he took, joyous laughter escaping his lips, “I remember that! I was so mad because you and James pretended like you didn’t know how it happened!”

    You let yourself fall into the chair besides Remus and giggled once again, “James and I were brilliant actors, if I may say so myself.”

    “Brillant? You kept that bloody secret from me for two months!” Remus yelped. His eyebrows were raised in a hilarious expression of false betrayal, but his lips failed in keeping a smile off of his face.

His statement only caused you to laugh even harder, your ribs beginning to hurt with each intake of air.

Eventually, the two of you managed to calm your laughter and you both laid back to look up at the ceiling. The mood seemed much more lonesome and quiet after your fit of giggles. Intent on making the situation less sad, you spoke, “It feels weird, doesn’t it? Being here without James and Sirius- even Peter?”

Remus looked over at you with a sad smile gracing his lips, “Yeah, I guess it does. It’s definitely a lot quieter than it used to be.”

With a far away look in your eye, you turned your body to face the window across the room. You sighed when thoughts of your former best friends filled your mind. Letting out a sigh as a tear slowly dripped from the corner of your eye and onto your legs that were curled beneath you. The thought of James being killed without knowing that you forgave him, or the thought of leaving Sirius without talking to him haunted you. Knowing that you would never see either of them again after you had left them so abruptly was a horrid feeling.

It left you swamped with remorse and guilt.

Remus, sensing your thoughts, stood from his chair before moving swiftly to the foot of yours. He kneeled so that his head was level with your lowered one, before he grabbed your chin between two fingers and gently forced you to meet his eyes. His face held an unmeasurable amount of sympathy; the kind that you would only see on someone who had known you for a very long time.

Remus spoke to you gently, knowing that anything else would only cause the hole in your heart to be ripped open even wider.

“Hey,” he spoke, gently grasping one of your cheeks with his palm, “None of that- no crying. I know that you are upset about what happened, but this is not what they would have wanted. If James and Sirius were here they would tell you to that you should not be crying over them. They’d want you to be happy again, and Merlin knows that I have not seen you smile in so long. You have to know that they would not want you to be sad; those boys loved you more than anything in this world and if they were here right now, I know they would be telling you the exact same thing.”

By the end of Remus’ speech, the tears that had been previously soaking your face were now running down your cheeks like a ceaseless waterfall. The clear, salty drops littered your lap like rain did to the cement of the sidewalk before a storm. You were sniffing and huffing, both happy and sad about the words that had emitted from Remus’ mouth. Reaching forward, you clutched onto Remus as if he were your lifeline. The man clung to you just as tightly, both of you mourning your fallen and imprisoned friends one more time.

From the heavens, James Potter watched you hug James with a sad smile on his face. He watched as you cried over his demise with a heavy heart full of guilt and sadness. James regretted ever yelling at you that day in the bathroom. He regretted every word he had ever spoken to you that had hurt you. He regretted these things because the moment you left him, he realized how he truly felt. He was never in love with Lily, he was in love with you and he just refused to believe it. He refused to believe that he had fallen in love with one of his closest friends, so he covered it by believing that he was in love with another women. After you left him, he continued to stay with Lily, even if he was not love her as he loved you. When Harry was born, James knew his fate. He knew that he was to die, but his biggest regret was that he never told you that he loved you.


A few days after you were situated at Hogwarts, you were informed that Sirius Black had escaped Azkaban. Since you were in public and surrounded by other witches and wizards, you had to keep our excitement and relief to yourself.

You had known from the beginning that it was not Sirius who had revealed where James and Lily were hiding. No matter how mad Sirius was, he would have never ratted one of his best friends out to the Dark Lord. Because of this, you were led to believe that there was only one person that could have revealed that information to you-know-who: Peter Pettigrew.

Peter was the only other person besides Sirius and Remus to know where James and Lily were hiding, and there was absolutely no way that Moony or Padfoot would do such a thing. That left Wormtail.

Of course, you had always known something was a bit off with Peter; he was always secretive and nervous around the rest of the Marauders. After a certain point, you had stopped trusting him and planned to stay away because you were absolutely sure that something was up with him, and it was not something good.

Back in the present, you were standing besides Harry Potter as he explained the events that had occurred. You had met Harry on the train to Hogwarts, as you were staying in the same compartment as Remus when Harry and his friends walked in. When the train had mysteriously stopped and a Dementor made its way into the compartment, you’re Patronus had been the one to save Harry. Remus had later introduced himself and you as friends, not explaining who either of you really were to Harry. From then on, Harry had come to you and Remus for help on learning how to cast his own Patronus. It was a stag, just like his father. When you had seen the charm, you had left the room with tears in your eyes; leaving Harry to wonder what he had done wrong. Remus had gently told him that it was not Harry’s fault, he just reminded you of someone you had once known.

Being around Harry had served quite difficult in the beginning, seeing as he looked and acted so much like his father. Every time Harry was around you, you had to take a few deep breaths to prevent yourself from bursting into tears. You had eventually gotten over it, realizing that there was nothing you could do to bring James back, so you stopped imagining James when Harry was around. Instead you believed that James was somewhere above, watching as you helped take care of his son.

And James was watching from above, a permanent, radiant smile planted on his face as he observed how good you were with Harry. It made him wonder how life would have been if Harry had been your child instead of Lily’s.

While Harry explained what happened between Sirius escaping and the experience in the Shrieking Shack, he finally told you where Sirius was. Seconds after the words escaped Harry’s mouth, you were bolting away from the school. Taking off in the direction of the Whomping Willow, you scurried into the secret passage way and raced towards the Shrieking Shack. Harry had told you Sirius would not stay long because he was being hunted, so you pushed yourself to run faster.

When you reached the entrance to the shack, you pushed it open with strength you did not even know you had.

And standing in the middle of the room, was an old friend.

Sirius Black.

For a few moments, you had just stood at the entrance of the room, watching Sirius as he tried to contain a laugh.

“Well, hello Talon,” Sirius spoke, “Are you just going to stand there, or are you going to give an old friend a hug?”

Then you were running, launching yourself at Sirius and tackling him with a bone crushing hug. Sirius chuckled and squeezed you back just as hard. Both of you were crying tears of joy, happy that three of the five Marauders were still alive. Sirius had his face buried in your neck and you had your fingers buried in his long hair that had grown out while in prison. You felt a few tears dribble down your collarbone because of Sirius, but you did not care because Sirius’ shirt probably had a few of its own tears to worry about.

When you pulled away, you smiled through your tears, “I missed you so much, Padfoot.”

Sirius smiled happily, “And I missed you too, Talon.” He then pulled you back into another hug and mumbled something about hexing you if you ever decided to leave him and the others again.

For the next few hours, you and Sirius were constantly near each other. Having spent almost fifteen years apart led to the two of you needing some time to catch up. Sirius told you about James making him Harry’s Godfather, and you told him about the adventures you and Remus had taken after being reunited.

Later in the evening, Harry and Remus had gone to the Shrieking Shack to find you, seeing as it had been many hours since they had seen you. When they arrived, they found you and Sirius propped up against the window, talking and laughing about the old days.

Turning your head, you motioned for Remus to join the two of you, and he did. Harry watched from the sides as three of the five Marauders were happy once again, a sight that he did not get to see very often.


    After that day, you, Remus and Sirius joined the Order of the Phoenix. The three of you fled Hogwarts in fear of being found by the Dark Lord and took refuge in 12 Grimmauld Place, Sirius’ old home.

    A few weeks later, Harry was transported there to speak with the Order. You and Sirius had welcomed him, both receiving joyous hugs by Harry Potter himself. You and Harry had formed quite a close bond over the few months you had known him; you had practically become his mother figure.

    Now, Harry stood next to Sirius, admiring the pictures that Sirius had tacked up on his walls. They were old and wrinkle, but they obviously meant a lot to Sirius as they were the only photographs he had left of the original Marauders.

    Harry was walking around and looking closely at each picture before he got to one that confused him. It was a photograph of what looked like his dad standing next to you. He was behind you, his arms wrapped around your waist, both of you sporting giant smiles. It was something he never expected to see from you, a smile. He did not see them on you very often. A smile on you was like seeing Hagrid’s dog Fang, not cowardly.

    When Harry turned to question Sirius about the picture, a far away look appeared in his eyes; a clear sign that Sirius was remembering something from a long time ago.

    It was Christmas time; your favorite time of the year.

    You and the rest of the Marauders had decided to spend the holiday at Hogwarts as a present for Sirius. You all knew how much he hated his family, so you wanted to keep him company and he could have a happy holiday for once in his life.

    On Christmas morning, you had all gathered to open presents. After opening a few of them, you discovered that one of your muggle family members had sent you an old polaroid camera. The boys obviously had no idea what it was, but you had explained it to them. They had immediately wanted to take pictures together so you all rushed to put on thicker clothing. After doing so, the five of you hurried outside into the cold snow.

    The scenery was beautiful; the pristine, white snow falling down in sheets of cool snowflakes. You took a few moments to turn around in circles, just admiring the beauty of nature. When you heard the flash of a camera, you turned to face Sirius, who held your camera in his hands. He grinned happily as the picture came out; you turning in circles with a smile on your face. He pocketed the picture quickly, smiling as you whined.

    “I’m going to need something to remember you by when Remus finally decides to kill you for pranking him so much!” Sirius joked.

    You had giggled and nudged his shoulder, laughing when he almost fell into a pile of snow.

    The rest of the afternoon was spent playing in the snow and taking muggle photographs of each other. By the end of the day, you were exhausted, huffing and puffing breaths of cold air as you tried to catch your breath.

    As you tried to walk back towards the castle, you were grabbed from behind, the person dragging you into their arms.

    “You’re not going anywhere!” James shouted as he wrapped you in his arms. You giggled as you tried to escape, but James was to strong. You heard the shutter of the camera going off again, but you ignored it and instead continued to wrestle with James until the two of you got too tired.

    Later that evening, you found a picture placed on your bed. It was of earlier that evening, you and James playing in the snow with large smiles on your faces. You picked up the picture with a fond smile on your face before you placed it on your bedside table, content with how the day had turned out.

    Sirius shook his head with a laugh as he remembered the day. Harry turned to see Sirius smiling, so Harry turned back to the picture before speaking again, “Is that my dad?”

    Sirius nodded and told Harry that the girl in the photo was you. When Harry heard the words he was shocked; he thought that you were just a friend of Remus and Sirius, he had not know that you knew his father.

    “She knew my dad?” Harry questioned, confusion evident on his face.

    Sirius chuckled once again before responding, “Yes she did.”

“Who is she?” Harry asked, “I knew she was a friend of your’s and Remus’ but I did not know she knew my dad.”

    “Harry, my boy. That women knew your father before I did; she was the second Marauder. Her name was Talon because she was an animagus too. She could morph into an eagle; it was a magnificent sight to see,” Sirius spoke, memories resurfacing with each word.

    “So she was important to you and my dad?”

    “Yes, she was very important to us. In fact, she was- is- in love with your father. Always was, she could never stay too far away from him. They were practically inseparable for the longest time,” Sirius reminisce.

    “She was in love with my dad?” Harry pondered, “Did he love her back?”

    “Yes, yes he did.”

After the conversation, Sirius left the room to find you. Looking back at the wall, Harry pulled the picture from it’s spot and tucked it into his pocket, just to remember the man who was his father, and the women who should have been  his mother.


    Harry and the rest of his friends landed on their stomachs in the Department of Mysteries, the Prophecy shining brightly in Harry’s hands. He stands, along with the rest of his friends, his ears twitching when he hears the sound of whispering. When he turns, he is met with an archway, what looks like smoke is filtering inside of it. Harry takes a step closer to it, his gaze inquisitive.

    He can hear his friends speaking to him, but Harry continues to stare at the archway. He feels as though something bad was about to happen, and it had to do with the mysterious archway in the center of the room.

    Seconds later, Harry turns and shouts for his friends to get behind him, knowing the Death Eaters were about to arrive. Harry’s suspicions were confirmed when black smoke appeared from around him. It swirls around him, and Harry shuts his eyes, his hand gripping the Prophecy tightly.

    When the black smoke disappears, Harry opens his eyes to find that his friends are no longer beside him. Instead they have been grabbed, each of them being restrained by a Death Eater, wands pointed at their throats.

    Harry’s heart clenches as he worries about what is to come.

    From behind him, Harry hears a malicious chuckle, and he instantly knows the culprit.

    Lucius Malfoy.

    Harry turns to see Malfoy approaching, an evil glint in his eye. The platinum blonde male smirks as he knows that he was going to get the Prophecy from Harry.

“Did you really believe, or were you truly naive enough to think that you stood a chance against us?” Malfoy spits, his voice low and threatening. He takes a step closer to Harry, turning and pulling his palm up and open, “I’ll make this simple for you, Potter. Give me the Prophecy; or watch your friends die.”

Harry is silent for a few moments, pondering his next move. His gaze moves to Hermione, who struggles in the grip of the Death Eater behind her. The Death Eater is strong, however, and he continues to restrain the curly haired girl by holding onto the collar of her shirt, causing her to choke on the lack of air.

From next to Hermione, Neville Longbottom shouts out, “Don’t give it to him, Harry!”

He is silenced by Bellatrix Lestrange, who pulls on his shirt, closing the distance between his neck and her wand. Neville instantly quiets down, fearing his life.

Believing it was worse than watching his friends die, Harry hands over the Prophecy. The shining orb is placed into the hands of Lucius Malfoy, who grins in such a manner that shivers run down Harry’s spine.

Seconds after the orb is placed in Malfoy’s hands, a bright light appears from behind the blonde’s back.

“Get away from my Godson,” Sirius spits, before he reels his fist back and punches Malfoy straight in the nose.

The punch knocks Malfoy off of his feet, and he lands on the floor beneath him, the Prophecy falling from his hands and breaking against the hard rock. Malfoy stares at the broken orb for a few moments before he stands to face Harry and Sirius.

Before he can even utter a spell, he is knocked off his feet as you fire a spell in his direction. Smirking, you turn to face Sirius and Harry who are muttering quietly. Harry turns to you and you nod your head in a way that says both ‘hello’ and ‘please be careful.’ Harry nods back, his indicating the same words yours did before the three of you and turning to face Malfoy and two other Death Eaters who decided to join the party.

The rest of the Order had appeared by this point, and you scanned the room, quickly locking eyes with Remus and Tonks. You smiled at them and then responded with the same small smile before you both turned to face your opponents.

Dropping into a battle stance, you pulled your wand up so it was ready to defend against any spells fire your way. When Malfoy fired a curse at you, you brought your wand up to cover your face, blocking the curse. You fired back an immobilization charm, aiming not to kill because you did not want that kind of guilt on your conscious.

Curses, charms and spells were being fired back and forth before Harry managed to knock the wand out of the hand of the Death Eater he was fighting.

Expelliarmus,” Harry had shouted. The Death Eater fell back, falling off a ledge to the fight below, and you felt relief filling you as you knew that you would not have to deal with that Death Eater again.

From beside you, you heard Sirius shout out, “Nice one, James!”

At the mention of the name, you froze, losing the ability to focus. Harry had too, hearing the name of his father rendering him useless. The two of you simply stood and watched Sirius as he fired a spell at Malfoy, whose wand was knocked away before he flew back off the ledge.

Before you could do anything to protect yourself or Sirius, you heard two simple words being shouted from behind you, “Avada kedavra!”

The words came from the mouth of Bellatrix Lestrange, who had thrown her wand out at both you and Sirius.

You were unable to protect yourself from the killing curse as it hit your body, filling you with unimaginable pain. Screaming out, you closed your eyes before you heard the same curse being shouted. You heard Sirius’ cry of pain before the both of you were knocked back.

Harry watched with his eyes wide as you and Sirius were knocked into the archway that was beside them as they battled. Knowing what was to happen to you, you locked eyes with Harry and mouthed ‘goodbye.’

Harry’s eyes widened even more before he shifted his eyes to Sirius, watching for a few blissful moments.

Then the smoke in the archway turned and carried you and Sirius off into the unknown.

Harry stood silently for a few moments, his eyes locked on the arch in front of him, praying that you and Sirius would come back. He was hoping and praying with all his might that the mist in front of him did not just take part of the only family he had left.

When nothing happened, Harry made to take a step forward, his heart clenching in his chest. From behind, Remus quickly clutched Harry. He restrained the saddened boy with tears in his eyes. Harry struggled harshly, trying to find a way to escape and get to you and Sirius. Crying out in pain, Harry fell back into Remus. You and Sirius had become his only family. Sirius was like a father to him, and you, like a mother.

From behind Harry, Remus watched in shock as his last two friends perished. He watched as the last two people he could resort to, vanished. Remus cried out in pain of his own. The only people he ever trusted and loved were gone. He let a few tears fall from his eyes as he watched Harry cry out. Remus let out a strangled sob as he thought about how he was going to get through full moons. He would never be able to do it without you. You and Sirius were his best friends, the only people he had known for more then twenty years. His last two Marauders; his Padfoot and his Talon, were gone. Forever.

Harry continued to struggle and cry, tears escaping his eyes.

He cried for Sirius.

He cried for you.

He cried for Remus who had lost you both.

He cried for Tonks who had been one of your greatest friends.

He cried for everyone who had ever known you.


    From the Heavens, James Potter watched as you appeared next to Harry and Sirius. He smirked as he watched you throw Lucius to the ground, knowing you had never liked the man.

    “That’s my girl,” James muttered.

    He watched on as you made sure Harry was safe before going back to battling. His heart skipped a beat as he watched you treat his son with such care and gentleness.

    James watched with his heart in his stomach as you got distracted by his name. He pleaded for you to turn around and prepare for what was to come.

    “Talon, Talon please turn around. Talon, please,” He practically shouted.

    But you could not hear him.

    Of course you couldn’t.

    James cried out when Bellatrix Lestrange fired a killing curse at you. He cried out in pain as he watched you gravel in pain. James shouted out in rage as Sirius was hit with the same curse.

    James Potter let out a sob as you told his son goodbye.

    He cried as you fell back into the archway.

    He cried as Sirius Black followed immediately after.

    He cried as you disappeared from his view.

    Standing up from his previous kneeling position and took off running. He knew exactly where you would appear. He knew exactly where and he needed to get there before you did.

    Pushing his legs to move faster, he gained speed. His breath was choppy as he realized that he would finally see you again after so long. James’ chest tightened as he thought of you, and he moved faster.

    When he reached the position he wanted to be in, he skidded to a stop just as a bright light appeared from in front of him. He raised a hand to shield his eyes from the light, squinting his eyes. He waited for a few tense seconds before the light finally vanished.

    In its absence, it was replaced by a figure.

    It was a women.

    It was the women he loved.

    His heart fell from his chest and his eyes widened. The tears that had previously slowed to a stop arose once again. They began to fall from his eyes as he let out a sob. It was not one of sadness, nor was it one of grief. It was one of joy, one of relief.

    James took a step forward, his legs shaky and barely able to hold himself up.

    When your eyes finally focused, you were able to make out the figure in front of you.

    It was a man.

    It was the man you loved.

    Letting a tear fall from your eyes, you let out a sob. A sob of happiness.

    “James?” You managed to croak out through your tears.

    James nodded softly through his own tears and you let out another sob at his answer.

    After so long, you were finally seeing him again.

    Kicking off, you ran at full speed. You stretched your arms, James doing the same thing before you reached him. When you reached him, you jumped, throwing yourself at his body. James caught you with open arms, sobbing into your neck. He wrapped his arms around your waist, supporting your weight as you wrapped your legs around his waist and your arms around his neck. You cried out in happiness and buried your face in his fluffy, brown hair. James grasped you with strength that he did not know he had, you squeezing him back just as hard. Managing a smile through your tears, you pulled a hand through James’ hair. He sniffled against your neck, tears soaking the material of your shirt.

    Pulling back, you looked down at James once before you brought your lips down to connect with his. James smiled into the kiss, both of your lips tasting slightly salty from the tears leaking from your eyes. Your lips moved furiously against his, and James responded with just as much enthusiasm. He was finally kissing the one girl that he had been in love with for so long. Finally. James pushed his lips harder against yours and slipped his tongue into your mouth. You smiled even harder (if it was even possible) and kissed him back.

    Pulling away for a few seconds you mumbled out the words, “I love you, Prongs.”

    “I love you too, Talon.”

    And then James is kissing you once again.

    The moment is interrupted when a familiar voice calls out, “Hey losers! Stop bloody snogging and come hug me!”

    Turning, the two of you embrace Sirius in a hug, finally together once more.


    Harry Potter approaches the clearing with a heavy heart.

    He knows that if he goes any further, he is to die. But since he knew he would come back and it was to destroy Voldemort, he knew it had to be done.

    Holding up the Golden Snitch, the words I open at the close, appearing.

    Harry nods and confronts his fate, “I’m ready to die.”

    He brings the Snitch up to his mouth and kisses the golden casing. His eyes are closed, but when he opens them, he discovers that the Snitch is opening to reveal the Resurrection Stone.

    The one thing he needs to bring him back to life.

    He stares down at the small stone in amazement, his breath coming out in a small gasp. It levitates into the air and Harry gently opens his palm and allows it to fall into his hand. He closes his palm around it, his eyes still focused on his hand. He closes his eyes and imagines exactly who he wants to see in that moment, and when he opens them, he is met with exactly who he wanted to see.

    Remus, Sirius, James, and you.

    The four of you surround him, small smiles of happiness on your faces.

    When Harry turns to see you, he is met with a radiant smile as you cling to his father who is beside you. Harry smiles in joy when he sees that you have finally gotten what you wanted in life, his father.

    He approached you and James and reached out, you doing the same thing. When Harry’s hand disappears through yours, he sighs in disappointment.

    “You’ve been so brave, Harry,” You whisper, “I’ve missed you since I left.”

    Harry smiles softly before questioning, “Why are you here? All of you?”

    “We never left.”

    Harry turns to face Sirius before speaking, “Does it hurt? Dying?”

    Sirius shakes his head, “Quicker than falling asleep.”

    Harry nods before James speaks, “You’re nearly there, son”

    “I’m sorry; I never wanted any of you to die. And Remus- your son-” Harry tries.

    Remus cuts him off, “Others will tell him what his mother and father died for. One day, he’ll understand.”

    Harry nods softly before facing you and James, small smile still on your faces.

    “You’ll stay with me?” Harry questions.

    “Until the end.”

    He was ready. He was ready to join his family again.