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tchaikowsky donating his skull to the royal shakespeare company in the hopes of becoming yorick is the most dramatic ass dark academia shit ever and you can’t convince me otherwise 

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maybe growing up is just becoming who you were at 14 again but learning how to love her this time

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SOPHIE TURNER as SANSA STARK Game of Thrones S07E01: Dragonstone

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Clawing my way through the next FOIML chapter. I promise it's coming soon(ish).

Here an unpolished of a sneak peek to get you through the drought.

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The sheets smell like bleach and starch and just a little bit like Sansa. The scent calms Margaery’s overwrought mind. Along with sensation of long even breaths softly straining the sheets with every inhale; the sight of her whenever she blinks heavy eyes open.

Sansa’s still pale. So, so very pale, worryingly pale, but the sharpness of her features has softened out during the night. Everything about her looks soft in the first rays of the morning sun.

Margaery has her head rested on folded up arms and clings to sight for as long as her heavy eyes allow. It’s been too long since she saw her like this, asleep, at the crack of dawn and it’s so wonderfully simple to drift off like this, knowing her close, knowing her okay.

“Hey.”

The croaked word has Margaery’s eyes flutter open. Sansa still lies there like she’s sleeping, and for a few seconds only the slight curve of her lips gives away she’s awake.

She blinks slowly, like it’s a tremendous physical effort. Margaery smiles, without moving and grants herself a moment to rejoice the sight of hazy blue eyes looking back at her. It feels like waking up together for the first time in way too long, and even the slightest movement might destroy the illusion.

Last night in the bathroom, waiting the eternity it took for the ambulance to arrive, holding Sansa, pleading for Sansa to look at her over and over again, the fear that she’d never might never again, that she’d never see those blue eyes shine with excitement, sparkling with joy again, darkening with lust ever again, had petrified her.

Seeing her in the middle of the night, the blue of her eyes had been swallowed up by the darkness of the room. Now, with soft light filtering in through the windows it’s still a little subdued, like fog slowly dispersing over the sea, but it’s there.

Fingers play with the tip of a curl, and Sansa quirks her brows almost coyly. “’d you sleep here?”

“Not quite, no.”

She hasn’t slept yet.

It took her until the wee morning hours, and every cleaning agent Sansa ever dragged to her place to get the last traces of blood off tiles and surfaces, off herself. 

She curled up in bed, dead tired, but the images wouldn’t settle. Neither would the scent.

The scent most of all. Metallic and sickly-sweet; it got a little stronger every time she closed her eyes.

A hint of it lingers even now, in these sterile, clean surroundings. It’s like a chemical she breathed in for too long, that’s now etched into the lining of her nose; like a pungent taste that overlays everything else.

Her attempt to escape it, a walk in the freezing morning air, led her back here. She lied her way in, telling the ward nurse that she couldn’t make the regular visitation hours in the afternoon.

“What time is it?”

“Around half seven.”

Sansa takes the answer with a breath sawing in and out of her, a slight frown appearing on her forehead, like as much as a deep inhale causes her discomfort.

Margaery presses a kiss to fingertips that lack coordination tracing her face. “How are you feeling?”

A thin smile stretches dry lips, as she traces the line of her jaw. “Okay. I think.”

She doesn’t sound okay. She doesn’t look okay either. But the meds must still run high enough to not be able to tell the difference.

“What are you doing here, Margaery?”

Margaery smiles tiredly and props her head up on one hand. “As usual, my burning longing for you stole my sleep. I just had to see you.”

The shake of her head is only perceptible by the soft rustle of the pillowcase. “I mean here,” she licks dry lips. “Back here.”

“I just had to see you,” Margaery repeats, shrugging a shoulder.

“And Lorath?”

“As it turns out, my presence isn’t as quintessential for the outcome of the revolution as I perceived it to be.”

Sansa looks at her in a way that silently pleads her to be serious and Margaery kisses knuckles that feel too cold to belong to Sansa. Sansa’s hands are always warm, now they’re so cool Margaery wishes she could stuff them in mittens and clamp them up against her body. At the lack of an alternative she presses one against her cheek.

“I couldn’t go,” she says, and dropping her fake levity, her voice sounds like she’s the one who had a tube shoved down her throat a couple of hours ago. “I stood on that pier, ready to board the ferry and I… I couldn’t bear missing you a second longer.”

A regretful smile spreads of Sansa’s lips. “I’m sorry.”

With a quick shake of her head, Margaery kisses the edge of her palm. “I’m not.”

She’d be dead if she’d gone to Lorath.

Through the course of the last night, Margaery played that thought through in all its devastation more times than she can count. She scrubbed tiles and wondered what would have happened if she hadn’t changed her mind. If she had boarded that ferry. How long it would have taken for someone to find Sansa.

“There’s no place in the world I’d rather be than right here,” Margaery promises, “with you.”

Sansa tucks a strand of hair behind Margaery’s ear. She cups her face for a moment, then her hand drops to the bed like that small motion cost her the last of her strength. “I can think of better places.”

Margaery hums. “All in good time, darling. We have time.”

“I know,” Sansa breathes and closes her eyes. “Finally we do.”

The tranquil expression on her face seems more at peace than Margaery has seen her in their most blissful, intimate moments. She looks so content, satisfied almost and that feels most unbecoming given she’s in a hospital bed, given all that it took to get them here.

Margaery forbids herself to dwell on it. Sansa is okay, and that’s all that matters.

A nurse comes and brings a tray with breakfast. Margaery stands by, her arms slung around herself, while the nurse fluffs up Sansa’s pillow. She bates her breath along with Sansa when the nurse brings her into a semi-upright position. Seeing her in pain, lets her wish that unbecoming content expression would return at once.

It doesn’t. Sitting up, Sansa looks a wider shade of pale, her are hands twisted into the blanket on either side of her.  The nurse appears unfazed by the obvious discomfort and shakes out a folded bib as if she was a butler, offering up a cloth napkin to their master.

She smiles encouragingly at Sansa while tying the strings around her neck, and tells her to try and eat at least a little. In passing she brushes a hand over Margaery’s arm. “Don’t worry. We’ll have your sister back up on her feet in no time.”

A hint of amusement shines in Sansa’s pale features when the nurse closes the door behind her. “Sister?”

Breathing against the tightness of her chest, Margaery takes a resolute step closer. “The admission form didn’t have a tick box for lesbian mistress.”

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this made me cackle for how fitting it describes their (lack of) chemistry.

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i am so pro abortion it actually makes me mad when a character in a show is revealed to be pregnant & she immediately doesn't get an abortion

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The thing that sucks about being the author? You only get one story and I feel that's a tragedy that isn't talked about enough.

foreshadowing done well makes me go feral like there’s NOTHING better than getting to the end a book or an important storyline moment and realising that the author laced information so intricately into their writing that weren’t noticeable upon first read but when you read back sections they’re light giant red flags like wow writing is amazing

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If ANY of yall EVER do this shit to me, im deleting every single fic out of spite.

If I ever catch one of yall doing this to another author and I know youre a follower of my work I will block you personally on every platform

None of yall are the fic police. I DESPISE genai. I think its an insult to art, humanity, and the planet itself. But aint not a single fucking person here qualified to pick apart a strangers fic looking for a gotcha moment to make yourselves feel superior. If you think something is ai you can ask the author (most are proud of the ai use and will just tell you straight up) if they say yes you have your answer and can warn people. If they say no and you dont believe them you block and quietly keep it between you and maybe a close group of friends. Spreading misinformation is DANGEROUS. And NONE of you doing this shit are anywhere near qualified to do it.

THIS GOES DOUBLY FOR ARTISTS.

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I need to keep you safe. So you’re gonna go and... and stay with Mama Sue now. I’ve got to go away. I’m so sorry. I love you so much, Kel. Never, ever forget that. Bye, Kelly.

Sophie Turner as Joan Hannington in ㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤJOAN (2024), episode 6.

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reblog if you want a lesbian in her mid thirties to boss you around and take you clothes shopping

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Spent my afternoon watching The Hunting Wives. I was genuinely more entertained than I expected to be.

But for the love of all plot holes this brought along, I need to rant about the one they didn't even try to explain: those bloody nails.

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Amanda Seyfried as Sophie Sheridan – Mamma Mia! (2008)