a white girl standing in a field

anonymous asked:

Sense8 + All For The Game?

  • Neil’s still holding his mum’s hand tightly, her whispered “stay safe, Nathaniel.” circling around his head, when he hears a muttered “holy shit.”
  • he whips around, his gun already out and pointing at the small blonde guy standing behind him
  • they stand there in silence for what seems like an age, Neil trembling, the other guy standing casually, arms crossed. until he tuts and strolls around Neil, leaning down to look at his mum’s body through the car window
  • he checks the pulse, does a quick scan of the body, muttering to himself, “blood loss, probable internal bleeding.”
  • Neil snaps out of his shock, yells at him to get away from her or he’ll shoot
  • the guy laughs. “and draw attention to yourself? you’re not that stupid. you should probably figure out what you’re gonna do. sun’s coming up.”
  • Neil turns around to look at the horizon. when he turns back, he’s alone.
  • that’s the first time he meets Aaron

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I Wear Short Skirts, She Definitely Doesn't (Sasha x Valentina)-Luci

An: for the lovely anon who requested Sasha/Valentina, hope you like it! Also thanks to the aq brits who’ve had to deal with my writing meltdowns for the past week and my amazing beta!

The Glamazons, the cheer squad of Rupaul’s College for Girls, finally found out why the weirdo art student always watches them from the bleachers at every football game.

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Jaqen H'ghar being in your debt. 


“A girl should know better than to wonder in the dark by herself.”

Spinning around on your heel, you scanned the empty courtyard until your eyes traveled up the steps to the castle wall, finding the red and white haired man looking down at you with a knowing smile. 

“Jaqen, “ You sighed in relief. “Have I not said before that it’s rude to sneak up on people like that?”

“A man must ask forgiveness.” He said, his eyes following you as you walked up the stone steps to stand beside him, looking out into the open fields on the other side of the old castle wall. “This man did not mean to startle you.”

“You didn’t startle me.” You insisted, lifting your chin up in a authoritative manner. “What do you want?”

“A man has his debts. A man owes one.”

“One what?”

“Lovely girl,” He said, “You saved me, meaning you stole a life from the Red God. We have to give it back. Speak a single name and the man will do the rest.”

“I can name anyone and you’ll kill them?” 



HAPPY BIRTHDAY @chariotdunord 

The family computer is finally free so here’s your belated (ish?) present, hope you enjoy it! ^_^ 

Summary: Instinct is: 1-a natural or intuitive way of acting or thinking. 2- a natural propensity or skill of a specified kind. 3- The reason why Akko meet Diana. (Photographer!Akko, Modern Au)

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She starts having visions, revealing things as they happen that she plain shouldn’t know about. Its none of her business and she knows it. But by god, Maia Stilinski cannot get Derek Hale out of her head. OC/Derek.

READ HERE (X) sneak peak below c:

The field is covered in morning dew, the sprinklers only recently having been shut off, and all the girls pile out onto the field in their uniforms. Red and white shorts, a red and white jersey, white socks, black cleats, and many many pony-tails. Maia stood off to the side, not really friends or enemies with any of the girls beside her, doing her best to look bored.

All chatter comes to a halt as a sharp whistle penetrates the air, causing all the girls to cringe and clutch their ears.

Standing as just a silhouette in the morning sun, Coach Clapp blows his whistle insanely loud from the top of the bleachers. He always loved to make an entrance. A six foot five ex-professional soccer play, he’d retreated to Beacon Hills after his wife died of cancer. Other then that, they didn’t know much about him. Just that he didn’t take any shit, he hated people who were late, and he loved making an entrance. He also had some strange traditions. But that’s a whole different can of worms for another time.

“Ladies, ladies, ladies” he tuts as he very slowly plops from one step to another causing his long thick brown curls to bounce, making his way down the bleachers “can anyone tell me why I need a new captain this year?” Clapp bellows. His eyes are big and black, like a beatle, and they study everyone harshly. Except Maia.

“Because Dessy can’t play anymore?” one bird brain chirped.

Coach Clapp scoffed so loudly that a large bullet of spit shot off of his tongue and out of his mouth, splashing the bottom of the pavement as he exited the steps. He pauses, looking at it, before rolling his eyes and continuing on shamelessly.

“No not because Dessy can’t play anymore ” he mocks her voice all high pitched and girly before creating a jerking off motion with his hand that’s definitely considered inappropriate “because she spent the WHOLE LAST YEAR GIVING HAND MASSAGES TO EVERY LACROSSE PLAYER AT THE SCHOOL!”

Maia’s pretty sure half the school’s heard that, definitely Harris’ chemistry class, since the building is not far and last she saw his windows were open. She pursed her lips, trying not to frown. Okay maybe she had a very strong dislike and fear of Desirae Castro, but she didn’t think she deserved to be slut shamed like this. There were only a few rumors about her sleeping with the lacrosse players…Even if they were true, as Maia happened to bear witness at many parties in which she was draped across one red jersey wearing boy.

Man, when Desirae got back to school, she was gonna lose her shit. Probably. Maia definitely would if Coach Clapp was hollering across campus about her giving handjobs.

“And so, as you have probably figured out, we need a new team captain.”

“I nominate-” Emmy started.

Coach Clapp hit her in the face his pen. Among a few team members who disliked her, Maia included, giggles sounded off.

“Nobody cares who you nominate, Green Day. Starting today, Maia Stilinski is Senior Captain of the team. No if, buts, ands, about it. I don’t wanna hear a single complaint or whine, and if she tells you to do something, do it. And you!” he whirled around, pointing an accusatory finger at the girl herself.

The dark haired freckled teen cringed.

“You’re not gonna hit me with a pen too, right?”

Coach Clapp scoffed again. He did that a lot. Maybe it has to do with him being a chainsmoker. “No, but I will smack you with a jumbo sharpie IF you don’t get this team in shape. We need to win every game this year or the school will be budget cutting some of the sports teams. And I don’t know about anyone else, but I like the lacrosse boys and the swim girls a helluva lot more than I do you twits.”

Maia crossed her arms over her chest, ignoring the burning glares all centered on her “you can’t even bring sharpies on campus” she challenged him.

“No but I can’t beat students either and watch this.”


Emmy’s disgusting and pig like snorts filled the field as his large hand collided with the back of Maia’s head. KO. Her cheeks burned and even if her head didn’t hurt, her ego sure did. Leave it to Coach to do something embarrassing. Nothing new there.

Only when the back of his hand collided with her head, it was as if a feeling was being forced through her whole body. A cold feeling, no emotions, no sadness, no colors around her. A vanilla scent hits her nose and even though she knows it isn’t real, the strength of it all gives her goosebumps. Coach Clapp feels like death.

She dismisses it for the sake of her sanity.

This is the future we are forging: Where women and girls, no matter what they look like or where they are from, can live free from the fear of violence. A future where all girls know they can hold any job, run any company, and compete in any field. Today, we recommit ourselves to the belief that when everyone has the opportunity to go to school, explore their passions, and achieve their dreams, our communities are stronger, more resilient, and better positioned for peace and prosperity. Let us keep working to build a world that is more just and free – because nothing should stand in the way of strong girls with bold dreams.
I need you to understand that we are the women that marched from cotton fields into fields of medicine, politics, law, education, entertainment. We even found ourselves a way to march into the White House as the First Lady of The United States of America. And I say “WE” because it’s my belief that we do this together. And one woman’s achievement is an achievement for us all!
—  Jada Pinkett Smith

anonymous asked:

Klance - They told me you passed out. How do you feel?

here’s a high school au, because i haven’t done one before and i’ve been wanting to.

Keith hadn’t thought much of the crowd that had gathered out by the baseball field earlier that day before lunch. He’d only seen it through the window while he was out for a bathroom break, and his mind had been on the pop quiz he’d just taken that he’s pretty sure he failed. There’s nothing particularly unusual about seeing a crowd out by the baseball field. 

At least, he hadn’t thought so until he got to his next class. He sits near the front by the wall. He’s got his back leaned against the white painted cinderblock and is reading the sci-fi novel Shiro lent him when his ear catches a snippet of conversation behind him from two boys and a girl he’s never spoken to in his life. 

“That was scary. I hope nothing’s really wrong.”

“Yeah. What exactly happened, anyway? I was on the other side of the field. All I saw was people suddenly running over there.”

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The Lucky Ones

It’s still Christmas in Pacific Time so this is totally on time! Woo! 

Christmas Truce Fic for @myghostlywail​. Prompt was pretty open, so I went with a Kitty ghost story. Also I was given full permission to end it as I liked, hehehe. I hope this is satisfactory and that you enjoy reading it. Merry Christmas!!


* * * 

Highway 10 at 3 am, fifteen miles out.

On an ordinary night, darkness held sway over the hills and fields, punctuated every now and then by bright red pinpricks, the tail lights of some night traveler on the way to more populated areas. Tonight, light reigned. A christmas string of brake lights flickered as backed-up cars inched by through a single lane; neon blue and red flashed from police cars and fire trucks. Big floodlights set on tripods illuminated a long stretch of road, barred by the fallen hulk of an eighteen wheeler. Framed against it a big white van, front smashed, utterly engulfed in flame.

The fire licked at the gutted van, turning everything not made of metal into glowing ash. Heat waves shimmered on its red-hot surface. Tongues of fire darted up to the sky and sent bright orange sparks floating off in the breeze.

To the girl hovering fifty feet above the highway, the whole mess looked like a bright and festive carnival. Or maybe Christmas, especially with white snow blanketing the fields and people standing around bundled up in coats. She folded her arms inside her red leather jacket and watched.

Policemen picked their way through crumpled bits of car and took photos. Firemen zipped up black bags and loaded them onto stretchers. The van burned bright, as if it were a portal straight to hell.

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Sam X Reader: with Gabriel

Request: hi! can i get an imagine where the reader is an archangel and she and sam like each other but they’ve never said anything ((think destiel)). so gabriel puts them in a bunch of tv shows and won’t let them out until they confess their feelings. can gabe also be protective like “”if you hurt my sister i’ll kill you”” thank you so so much!!!

Request: A fic where gabe zaps the reader into Clara’s place in The Snowmen episode and the gabe forces the guys to watch the episode so they would see her die (I didn’t see this episode, so I’m basing it off of whatever Wikipedia can tell me.)

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Revolution is
Tiananmen Square brimming with bodies
June 4, 1988.

A protest
For freedom.
Chests throbbing with passion,
Clawing out of spirit and into flesh,
Into voice

Against time,
Creating change too slowly.
Without explosions, without fervor.

Revolution is
Small town peasants rejoicing
October 1, 1949

A protest
For equality.
Well, would you agree
Equality is poverty,
Equality, is death?

Against time,
Shortages during the Cultural Revolution
Boasts the highest death toll of any famine;
Comparable to life loss in World War Two.

Revolution is
Abstract expressionism
Surfing on political funds
Driven by egotism?

A protest
For superiority
In all fields:
Economy, technology, creativity.

Against time,
A race to the moon,
To the stars.

Revolution is
A lone man-boy standing in granulated black and white,
In front of a tank, one thousand times heavier

Revolution is
Women-girls, bare breasts,
Being dragged away by cops

Revolution is
Bob the Drag Queen
Sitting behind bars in dim

Revolution is
Gay men kissing on the street
And the ugly stares of Asian tourists.

Revolution is
Going from wearing silk slippers
To wearing no shoes
Hiding in barns away from daylight
And sneaking past trees in moonlight
Hung with drying body parts

Revolution is
Clinging to a wee fishing boat filling with seawater
As the clouds unleash their fury upon mankind
Dark trolls manifesting from water, hard like stone
Battering hopes to cross the Taiwan Straight

Revolution is
Your baby brother crying for water in the night
Telling him shh, at dawn, at dawn…
In your heart not knowing where water could be found.

Revolution is
Walking on a dirt road
With hunger, your old friend.
A man-skeleton is swaying in the field

Against time,
At dawn brother-child is gone.
Leaving only his stiffening husk.
And when you tell the story
You never say if you cried.

Against time
The scarecrow-man falls
But by the time you rush over
He has become just scarecrow, no man.

Revolution is
A protest
Against time.

Not next decade
Not next century,

Here’s the problem…well, here’s a problem with Tumblr - the slippery slope of suggestions. See, I love history, and followed a bunch of World War One blogs. Then Suggestions suggested World War Two blogs. Which is cool, it’s the more popular direct sequel, and it’s also interesting. But aparently if you like blogs about WWII, Tumblr thinks you’re a fucking Nazi, even though you think Nazis wouldn’t be hot on that shit since the war did not go well for them. The suggestions are just fucking “1488” “SS” “Down-with-ZOG” whatever the fuck to the point that it’s genuinely upsetting.

I’m not sure, but I think the Nazis must have Trojan-horsed me with what I assumed was an aesthetics blog. You know what I’m talking about, one of those gentle, unassuming blogs called european-beauty or whatever with pretty white girls with flower crowns and vaguely slavic dresses standing alone in fields of wheat. It’s not even sinister because it looks just like a Joanna Newsome cover.

They’re always going on about protecting white women but they always leave them alone in vast f i e l d s o f w h e a t

"You're the Quiet Girl Across from Bobby, that Dean Falls in Love with" One Shot
Author: Hailey

Original Imagine Link:

Warnings: death and illness of a relative


Nothing about that boy was normal. His clothes were always baggy, rolled up sleeves and draping plaids too big for his building frame. He walked with an arm dangling from his little brother’s shoulder. Their dad resembled a giant and got a kick out of honking his horn as he strode into Bobby’s driveway. It always made you fall out of that tree you sat in so often, no matter how old you got.

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After answering an anon or two about Alison/Courtney and Emily from the books vs. Alison and Emily in the TV series, I decided that I would do a short (ok, it’s not that short) post on color symbolism between the two of them on the show, though I focused more on Ali because we don’t need to question Emily’s motives.

All the information is coming straight out of my Cinematography III textbook and is 100% legit. I know that some (or all) of this is not going to come as a shock to you guys because you are TV diehard fans like I am, but it’s just a little overview explaining the evolution of Emison and why I firmly believe that Alison is being truthful – at least when she is alone with Emily. 

Without further ado, let’s get our color analysis on. We’re starting from season one because in order for me to really talk about what’s going on currently, I need to show you the contrasting “old Alison.”


The girls are hanging out at one of their sleepovers and everything seems relatively normal, blah blah blah. Alison and the rest of them are having a good time and giggling, trying on clothes. It almost makes you wonder why everyone hated her so much. She is wearing a light blue tank top that she quickly covers with a pale red/almost pink top:

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In another email I tell you I am hemming a blurred halo of lightness, I am on the perch of a primitive asepsis; I can see light – its plenary marginalia readying java plum trees into a legend of ziggurats. I have finally learned how to extract my past from my history. To treat each separately. I use the past as a scalpel sometimes, at other times it is a bandage. I know I am coming clean even if this hour in this day is visceral with intuition. When you linger as water on the edge of broken glass, I leave my ways of the melusine. I don’t want to grow old with you, instead I ask you to grow young with me. Take me to your boyhood home, rope and tire swings, a mason jar full of marbles, the first oak you carved your brief name’s lilt in. The first summer of bitter watermelon rinds, Jesus in the campervan, the rupestral verse of your first heartbreak. Build you backwards from the pollen of these fractals. In another conversation, I tell you that time has no footsteps, merely footprints. We are well to hope but never to expect. The path is a helpless phantasmagoria. Wheels within windmills. We are a book club of two. The first chapter achingly connotes the long winter in  a concentration camp & we each have marked the same passages on different phones. How easy the digital highway makes it to be transported into another’s sadness, to salve skin that is still porous for the rain of these daily rebellions.  To say I am cleaning myself for the safety of your hands. You who have made an occupation from palming fires. To say that everyone before you was an asylum, you are the first sanctuary. I have come willing - not dragged nor drugged, not humbled nor hunted; held open like a nerve under the nail. In a scatological crime series, a murdered couple’s body is hefted from the California coast; each had an anchor tied to their feet and their arms clasped around the other in a unkempt ampersand. Look how quickly the tether turns to a trap. What is umbilical, bridge-blooded can also garrote, says my aunt – a gynecologist, a mother. She knows, she lost one half of a twin. Something in me has always walked through each room of this house looking of a sibling, a stranger, a slaughter. Everything they tell you about your birth is a refugee’s diary. In the end, as a woman, I am always preparing for eventualities. You can thwart any grief if you consider that each word is a  wound in a state of transition. I want to live in a field as green as my wound. Sometimes my depression looks like a reversed diagram of human evolution. I go from the vertical discipline of a biped to foetal yoke.  A conspiracy of crows mutinying in in my balcony. The whole word absconding from my eye.  What strength it is to cry without shame. Once, on the floor, I watched a battalion of ants progress in a neat file as if a cavalcade of commas.  The white marble punctuated by their measured march. A field ant can carry upto 5000 times its own body weight. That is your sign, that is your gist, your geist. On days I have been saved it is not Zoloft, it is the story of a woman who adopted a pitbull puppy  minutes away from being euthanized. So I stand. Not on your shoulders but on your feet. How a little girl is first taught to walk. I call you Father. I call you Husband. The world is no longer spelled from the mouth of a war.

Scherezade Siobhan

Sister Knows Best

And this is what happens when I try to write drabbles. Perhaps just one or two paragraphs, thinks the oh-so-naive writer. One hour later this is what happens. Thanks for reading mates. I am caressing your faces lovingly/thankfully as you read. Cheers.

She wasn’t cold, though many believed she was. 

She wasn’t dangerous, even when people shied away from her.

She wasn’t a curse, despite what the whispered rumours might say.

Anna knew what others said and she knew better.

Anna had long learned that a simple inquiry as to what book her sister was reading could easily lead into a wild speech of the book’s many beauties, its flaws and the intricacies of how these qualities intertwined to make it perfection. She would listen, captivated by the flush upon porcelain skin, the gleam of excitement in those large blue eyes, the sway and fall of that slim body to emphasize certain points. 

On cold winter’s days when the wind serenaded the skies with a piercing melody, when the storm raged through the streets and alleys of Arendelle, they would sit by the hearth, a player and her audience. Wrapped in the warm embrace of a blanket, Anna would listen, on the edge of her seat as Elsa read aloud to her. A laugh would be teased from the younger girl as her sister imitated a dragon’s speech, white tendrils of smoke flowing from her lips for theatrical effect. 

How could anyone possibly think of her as cold?

When Anna retired from her lessons with the weapons master, she would pause by a secluded practice field to watch. Her form was beautiful, light reflecting off overlapping scales of ice that formed a mobile armour. Sometimes she would trip, hitting the dust hard, and Anna would start forward, itching to help and comfort before she caught herself. 

“Again!” barked the slim man standing by. “Your stance is sloppy. Do you call that a defense? Hah! You say you wish to defend and protect Arendelle and those you love. How will you do that when you can not even defend yourself? Again!”

And the routine would start anew, blunt arrows packed with red dust to mark a hit instead of sharp steel. They flew in from all sides, some finding their mark. Elsa would bite her lip to the bone, tossing up barriers of ice almost as fast as the arrows flew, hurling blunt-headed missiles to counter those hurtling at her, always careful now to hit the archers with her weapons. Later Anna would soothe the bruised skin with gentle caresses and loving kisses.

Would they still call her dangerous if they saw her then?

Early in the mornings, when all the world was asleep, Anna would sometimes awake. Clad in nightgown and slippers, she would trot down the hallways and head for the tallest tower of the palace. Once it was a gloomy place, strewn with dust and cobwebs, home of a fearsome monster that would snip off the noses of misbehaving children. 

The faintest creak would whisper in the air as Anna stood upon the landing in front of the door. Inhaling the faint scent of chocolate and peppermint in the air, she would push upon the oaken door to enter a room of light and beauty. 

Strands of ice woven thin as silk decked the walls, creating a faint halo about the room. The centrepiece of the room was a small-scale recreation of Arendelle and its surrounding waters, miniature inhabitants moving along the streets and in the houses. A tiny Elsa sat upon a bench reading while a tiny Anna built snowmen out on the snowy grounds.

Engrossed in her work, Elsa started as Anna touched her shoulder. She turned, greeting her sister with a tired but brilliant smile, gesturing at her masterpiece. Returning the smile, Anna pressed a kiss to the crown of her sister’s head. Turning her attention back to her creation, Elsa waved a hand over it, casting a gentle fall of snow over its turrets and towers, and stifled a yawn, her eyes drifting shut as she leaned back in the couch and began to snore gently.

Anna smiled, plopping down beside Elsa and covering the two of the them with a blanket. 

Why was such beauty considered a curse?

She was cold, because they didn’t see her passions and warmth.

She was dangerous, because she was their queen and guardian against all ill-wishers.

She was a curse, but only against those that dared harm those she loved.

Elsa mumbled in her sleep, curling into herself as a frown furrowed her brow. Anna smoothed the creased skin, cooing comforts into the girl’s ear as the tension in Elsa’s face eased away.

One day they would venture past their own fears to see the truth behind all those false rumours and terrors. But until then, Anna would keep these to herself, treasuring the kisses and smiles, the whispered words of love in the dark that belonged solely to her.

anonymous asked:

I love your writing! Can you right a long oneshot where Daryl has a dream of Beth and they finally get to kiss? Pretty please??

Thank you, sweetie! And I’ll try to do this prompt justice… 

There was that damn laugh again.

He shifted on his bed, laying sideways and staring at the wall through the darkness, one arm under his pillow. He glared at nothing. 

He couldn’t get it out of his head… that laugh.

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