and her shin guards
Tobin Heath remains the magnificent enigma of the U.S. women's national team
Heath is usually content to let her game speak for itself. JERSEY CITY, N.J. – If Tobin Heath remains a magnificent enigma in her 10th year on the United States women’s national team, that’s less by design than indifference.

Unlike most of her fellow stars on the team, you won’t see much of her away from the field. She doesn’t do bikini shoots. She’s isn’t on magazine covers. The USWNT’s reigning Player of the Year has a habit of ignoring interview requests, actually.

“I’m not opposed to it,” she said in an interview with Yahoo Sports that she was somehow talked into doing. “I think I’m more traditional in how I do media. I want my brand to be about football. I’m a footballer through and through. It’s all I’ve ever wanted to be.”

She lives on Tobin Time, moving at her own speed. She isn’t sure what Tobin Time is when she’s asked about it – it’s a term used by some of those around her.

“It sounds like something fun is going to happen,” Heath said before she bursts out laughing. But she sort of gets it. “I definitely don’t abide by most rules.” More laughter. “I don’t ever know the schedule. I guess I do live on my own planet sometimes.”

There’s a reason her socks always have that signature sag. “Because I have big calves and I don’t like socks,” Heath said. “Plus, I get kicked on my ankles. You don’t get kicked high up on your leg.” So she likes her shin guards lower down. It’s mostly the sockophobia, though. It should be noted that, on a frigid day, she’s wearing flip-flops for our interview.

Christen Press thinks she's funny.

At the Sky Blue game last night, my friends and I were on the field near the stands trying to talk to the players and getting pictures with them. We were excitedly awaiting Christen Press, my sister’s favorite, who decided she would sit on the field and stretch and meditate or whatever she likes to do for forever. Most of the other players were already done signing and in the locker room when she finally starts signing for people at the stands. She seemed like she was in a good mood despite not getting the three points they were so close to winning. She gave her cleats and shin guards away and was being nice to everybody, so of course we went over to talk to her! She said the fans here at Sky Blue are the best because we all have her jerseys. That’s the greatest compliment I’ve ever heard. Christen Press thinks ~we’re~ the best fans! Put that on my tombstone! My sister said, “I have your jersey too!” So she signed her jersey and her World Cup Sports Illustrated. Then we asked for a picture, to which Press vaguely acknowledged but continued signing for everybody. Expert at politely ignoring us! Then she made her way to the locker room, still signing for fans along the way. But no way are we leaving without getting a picture with her…We had to try! She’s the best! We jokingly beg the security people to stop her so she can take a picture with us when they walk her out.

The Sky Blue guy who was about to escort her out laughed, said NEVER, and told us to go home. But I guess he had a change of heart, that kind kind man, and miraculously agreed! He said we could try taking a picture with her while she’s walking because she had to leave. Deal! We are on it!! He went to pick Press up from the locker room and walk her out and we saw them discussing something. Could this be for us?? Spoiler alert.. it was!! They walk onto the field and he says “Take your picture while she’s walking! She has to leave!” We all run over and are attempting to take a selfie with her, but we are a mess and can’t get organized around her while she’s walking. She was on the move! We basically looked like this:

We are all trying to keep up with her and pose for our selfie, when suddenly she stops short with no warning. I almost trampled her! It was almost like this:

But thank goodness for our quick cat-like reflexes that we were all able to stop before knocking her over, otherwise all of Tumblr would have our heads!! She stops and smiles for the camera but my friend keeps moving because he’s slightly in front of her trying to take the selfie and doesn’t notice she stopped. We yelled “Get back here. SHE STOPPED!” He comes running back, we all get lined up, and he’s just about to take the picture, when suddenly Christen laughs and starts moving again a split second before he takes it. We literally just lined ourselves up perfectly, which she can see in the camera, and then took off right before he could press the button!! Rude!! Exhibit A:

We yelled NOOO KEEP MOVING! SHES ON THE MOVE!! She is actually laughing to herself. Girl knows exactly what she did; she’s just messing with us! We continue to walk with her and managed to get a beautiful but blurry picture. Exhibit B:

Clearly Charitable Queen Press was concerned that we would be outshone by her beauty so she left at the last second to spare us the embarrassment. Thanks girl!

tl;dr Comedian Christen Press intentionally messed with us during our picture and laughed to herself as she walked away. I think she liked us!

anonymous asked:

Omg so tonight @klingenheath on ig I think gave Press a booklet full of positive comments and it was called comments for Christen and she live streamed about it and said press gave her shin guard to her and her cleats to some of her friends! And she was so sweet and thankful about it and she even said that chris went up the row of people and signed mostly everything for the fans, even if it wasn't her jersey or her sign. Like she signed random stuff for people! So take what you will from this

Cyb!!!!!! 💕💕💕💕💕

drgairyuki  asked:

Weiss would have an awkward talk with Ruby's mothers, Summer and Raven, as they kinda went through the same relationship like their daughter Ruby and her girlfriend while Ruby busy play with her and Weiss' daughter.

You lost me at while ruby busy playing with her and Weiss’s daughter. However I assume you mean something like this.

Penny: Now hold on Ruby. I do not want you falling off. *Penny smiled as she felt Ruby’s arms and legs around her tight.*

Ruby: Roger that, Penny! Now, TO INFINITY AND BEYOND! *Ruby cheered as she and Penny took off into the air and began to fly around, leaving Ruby’s mothers Summer and Raven alone with Weiss as all three watch The two spin in the air.*

Summer: Wooooow. I didn’t know Penny had a built in jet pack.

Raven: That actually reminds, Next time Qrow is over remind me to give in a hundred bucks for winning the bet.

Weiss: Bet?

Summer: What bet?

Raven: The bet for Ruby marrying a weapon and or robot.

Summer: Please stop making bets about our daughter’s love lives.

Weiss: Well You’re half right. *Weiss muttered as she sipped her coffee.*

Summer/Raven: Do tell? *The two older huntresses said together now focusing soly on Weiss.* 

Weiss: Uh, well, I mean…

Summer: Weiss. Is there something you’d like to tell us.

Weiss: NO! NO! I mean its just Penny has a soul so she isn’t just a robot is all.

Raven: Bet included that and I can tell that you’re lying.

Summer: It’s true. She can.

Weiss: I… It’s just… Ruby is kinda… in a relationship… Like… You two.

Summer: True.

Raven: Unless Penny has a dick… Wait… Jesus, Can Penny have a working dick? *Whack!*

Summer: Ow. Are you wearing shin guards? *Summer asked her wife as she rubs her foot after trying to kick Raven for being rude.*

Raven: Yes.

Weiss: Uh, No. True me. Penny does not have a dick. I checked. Although I wonder if we could get her one. *Weiss said with a blunt tone before thinking out loud, catching Summer and Raven now looking at her like she grow a second head.* … Sigh. What I meant is that Ruby and Penny are also… dating… me. Like you two are with Tai. *Weiss admitted.*

Summer: AAAAAAAAAAW!~ That is so cuuuuuuuuuute. I’m so proud of our little rose. *Summer smiled*

Raven: Yeah good for Rubes but that doesn’t make you three’s relationship like Ours.

Weiss: How so?

Raven: You’re not like me at all.

Summer/Weiss: Eh?

Raven: Look Penny would be the Tai. Ruby the Summer, Which leaves you to be like me and you are sure as hell not like me.

Weiss: And why is that?

Raven: You’re a bitch.

Weiss: EXCUSE ME!?!

Summer: Raven! That is rude! *Summer scolder her wife and added.* Plus, You were kinda a bitch to back around her age.*


Raven: Oh Summer dear. That is where you’re wrong. *Raven told her as she leaned over and gave her a kiss.* I was and will always be an asshole. Big difference.

Summer: Hehe, True but your our asshole and we love you, Also, your whole butt cause its so sexy.

Weiss: Oh my god it’s like watching Ruby and Penny Talking about weapon stuff.

Goblin kdrama fan fiction: A Night to Remember

Synopsis: What really happened after that hot make out between Shin and Eun-tak when they returned to Canada. An unforgettable hot night shared between two lovers who reunited and defied age, time, and the gods. 

  • Pairing: Kim Shin x Ji Eun-Tak
  • Word Count: 2,568
  • Genre/Triggers: Mature, NSFW, Uhhh what else do I say??? lol

Disclaimer: Please do not redistribute or repost my works without my permission.

Story under the cut incase for those who are sensitive to this genre ^^

Keep reading

onemanbellarmy  asked:

congrats on 1k!!! (for 1) i'd love to see bellarke as grudging co-captains of like debate or a sports team or something, always bickering but they actually work really well together. enemies to friends to lovers, high school or college verse maybe? thanks ❤

thank you isabelle!! =D 

your bellarke fic:

“What the fuck was that, Griffin?”

Clarke drops her glove onto the bench and swipes up her water bottle, popping the lid off as she whirls around.

“What the fuck was what,” she retorts, glaring up from underneath the rim of her cap.

Bellamy tosses aside his mask before roughly unsnapping the buckles of his dusty chest protector, a grunt of pure frustration escaping from his mouth. “You weren’t on your base. I told you to be ready.”

“And I told you not to try it,” she shoots back, wiping the back of her hand across her mouth after a few rushed gulps of water. “Emori was going for the bunt, I saw her.”

“And Aden’s too much of a chickenshit to go for a steal, like I said,” Bellamy gripes, somehow managing to get his gear hung up on the hook without taking his narrowed eyes off Clarke.

“Clarke’s up,” Monty announces idly. Neither Bellamy nor Clarke pay him any attention.

“It was two out,” she points out, turning her back on Bellamy to set the bottle down. “Throwing out the bunt was a safer bet.”

“We had a plan,” he snaps, yanking off his shin guards.

“Plans change,” she counters, whipping her batting gloves off the bench.

At the other end of the dugout, Raven collapses onto the bench, pinching at the front of her shirt to fan it against her perspiring skin. “Who says sports isn’t fun,” she comments to no one.

“You better get yourself on base,” Bellamy growls at Clarke as she passes him by.

“You better get me home,” she retorts, her favourite blue-streaked bat already in hand as she strides out of the dugout and into the batter’s circle.

“Oh, good,” Miller says, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “At least someone’s stepping up to bat.”

On the first pitch that comes her way, Clarke strikes a low grounder that zips right past the first baseman just along the foul line, forcing the right fielder just far enough out that she makes it to second base easily.

“Well,” Jasper remarks joyfully, elbows propped against the dugout fence, “she’s on base.”

Beside him, Harper snorts around a mouthful of Gatorade. “Not for much longer.”

Bellamy steps up to the plate and holds up a hand to the pitcher as he digs his feet into the dirt, sunlight glinting off his solid black bat.

Eighty-four feet across the field, Clarke rolls her eyes under her helmet. What a fucking drama queen.

Bellamy slugs the incoming fastball all the way out to deep left field with a satisfying thwack, the ball slicing a clean, level arc all the way past the scrambling outfielders.

Clarke makes it to the home plate with plenty of time to spare, slowly jogging off the diamond as she watches Bellamy charge right past second base, the outfielders still reaching frantically for the ball as it rolls out of their reach.

He spares a single glance behind him as he rounds third, and doesn’t look back as he races towards home, one foot landing on the plate with no more significance than any of the other steps he’s taken.

She rolls her eyes as he pulls up in front of her, his eyes flashing triumphantly even as he pants heavily.

“What a fucking drama queen,” she says, the others already flooding out of the dugout shouting excited cheers and thumping both of them on the back.

“Join the softball team, they said,” Bellamy says later, cracking two beer cans open. “It’ll be fun, they said.”

“Shut up,” Clarke tells him easily, grabbing a freshly opened beer off him as she passes him by.

“Your co-captain will be cooperative and pleasant to work with, they said.”

Clarke jabs a whiteboard marker in his direction. “First of all, no one’s ever said that. Ever. Second of all, I’m sorry if you don’t take much pleasure in winning. You know, like we just did? Today?”

“We could’ve prevented that run that came in,” Bellamy grumbles through swigs of beer. “From that centre fielder, remember?”

She rolls her eyes, turning to set her beer down on his desk. “Yeah, I can’t believe we won fourteen to two when it could’ve been fourteen to one. We should all probably just give up now. To avoid further embarrassment and all.”

“Winning isn’t about the score,” he argues heatedly, one hand on his hip. “It’s about—”

“—the game you play,” Clarke finishes, her eyes sparkling with amusement despite her bored tone. “Yes, thank you, captain. Are you done?”

He scowls, but the smile tugging at his lips betrays him. “All right, fine. What’s our plan for the next game?”

Clarke grins, pulling off the cap on the marker with a flourish. “Right,” she says, turning to the whiteboard tacked up on his wall, already covered in diagrams and player directions. “So here’s what I’m thinking…”

“Lemme guess,” Miller says the next day, when Bellamy shows up to their morning lecture, two minutes late and already yawning behind a hand. “You and Clarke stayed up half the night talking strategy. Again.”

“Shut up and send me today’s slides,” Bellamy grunts, folding himself into a seat beside Miller.

“This is insane,” Miller continues, shaking his head. “Will you two just fuckin’ kiss already? Playing in this goddamn tournament is stressful enough without having to watch you two run this eternal drill of love hotbox.”

Bellamy clears his throat. “So we were thinking about getting you to pitch a few more rise balls for the next game—”

“Slides are sent,” Miller says quickly, sitting up in his chair. “Yep, all done.”

They finally do kiss three weeks later.

It’s not exactly the most poetic kiss, or the prettiest. They’re both sweaty and grimy, each probably wearing about half the dirt off the diamond on their skin and clothes.

But when Bellamy leaps onto home plate to score their winning run and clinch them the championship, the entire team doesn’t even bother waiting for the umpire to call ‘safe’ before spilling out of the dugout.

It takes another few seconds for Clarke to fight her way through Jasper and Monty’s double hug, but when she finally does, she plants her hands firmly on each side of Bellamy’s face, and firmly pulls him down, her lips crashing into his.  

Bellamy blinks dazedly when she pulls back — but the cheers, smug ooh’s and aah’s, and the enthusiastic jostling of their surrounding teammates quickly jolts him back to alertness.

“First kiss in the wake of a hard-won victory,” he says, his hands finding the curve of her waist, his mouth curving with a smirk that ends up blooming into a full-blown grin. “Who’s the drama queen now?”

Clarke rolls her eyes, but the grin she’s wearing on her face is just as wide as his. 

“Shut up, captain,” she orders, already yanking him closer for another.

#SMCstreet member @wonderwomanisreal vs @sylviavale. #cosplay. #wonderwoman #Valkyrie

Regrann from @wonderwomanisreal - Marvel vs DC: The Battle of the Valkyries …who will win!
My conceptualized idea of what a Wonder Woman would look like if she ventured to live among the Vikings. Head to head against Marvel’s strong Valkyrie character
Marvel Valkyrie: @sylviavale costume totally made by her!! 👏🏻
#DC Viking Valkyrie Wonder Woman: @wonderwomanisreal leather headpiece, bracers, and belt by @12reign (you guys she is a true artist go to her with all of your leather needs) ; sword and shin guards by @wulfgarweapons ; skirt by @vivaww_cosplay
#wonderwomancosplay #viking #marvel #marvellegends #valkyrie #valkyriewonderwoman #valkyriecosplay #vikingwomen #tallgirls #amazons #mulhermaravilha #mujermaravilla #wunderfrau #cosplay #girlswholift #vikingcostume #fitgirl #models #dccomics #fb #tb
Visit for more cosplay

anonymous asked:

Last night at the game I gave Alex Morgan a letter to give to Chris. She said she would and stuck it in the back of her shorts with her shin guards. Here's to praying Chris reads it.

I can’t believe you just propelled chrislex into resurrection

anonymous asked:

Please tell us more about the DnD power GFs! Tempest and Jangles sound wonderful!

Already screenshot your ask for the post about the logistics of playing them in combat but I’m totally gonna spill about their backstory a smidge too.

Kenku often take mimicked sounds for names and non-kenku will use descriptive words of these sounds. Jangles (later nicknamed Maggie by a kid she befriends) actually pronounces her name as [jostling coins in a noble’s laden velvet coin purse]. Jangles hunts down rare treasures and their lore. One treasure she heard tell of belonged to an old religious-type enchanter who was presumed dead in his home. The place had already been looted twice over and there was STILL traps to work around, but she discovers a set of decorative armor that’s been hidden. It’s shiny. It’s important looking. She absolutely swipes it. It’s only when she starts trying to put it on later that the armor timidly asks her to “please not do that without asking,” and nearly gives the poor bird a heart attack.

This armor had been created as a guard for the local temple to Melora, but the shrine keepers only knew animated armor to be used for nefarious purposes and very insistently refused the donation. She was then brought back to the enchanter’s home and put in a display case where she fell dormant and forgotten for years. When she woke (to someone trying to shove their foot into her shin guards), she had no memory of her name (something Elvish?) or the man who made her–only the upsetting experience of the shrine keepers so vehemently rejecting her out of fear and misunderstanding. Because of this, she is afraid of going out into the world to explore as her thief immediately suggests.

Jangles then decides that the best option at hand is to wear her new friend around–as you do–so no one will know she’s a spooky ghost construct and she can see more of the world than just an old shrine and the inside of a glass box. The Anarmor agrees with some coaxing and Jangles decides to give her the new name of [sharp, explosive strike of nearby lightning] after the embroidered pattern she was sporting–or Tempest, after her goddess’ domain.


Roman Gladiator Shin Guards, 1st Century AD

From the Gladiator’s Barracks in Pompeii. These elaborately decorated shin guards depict a celebration procession of Bacchus. They show images of Bacchus’ tutor Silenus, masks of the god and the lion skin of Hercules. The lower portion depicts a stork fighting a snake to protect her children.

Kickin’ & Screamin’ // Chapter 1

Title: Kickin’ & Screamin’
Fandom: The 100
Pairing: Kabby
Tag/Warnings: Modern AU Setting, Kicking and Screaming AU, Kid!Delinquents
Chapter(s): 1/?
Read on: AO3

Summary: Meet the Lifesavers, the worst team in Arkadia’s U12 soccer league. In last place, they haven’t won a single game. Coach Griffin has a colorful selection of words for anyone who underestimates her team.

Meet the Assassins, the second to worst team in Arkadia’s U12 soccer league. With one win every year, they sit right above the Lifesavers in the standings, the only team they ever win against. Coach Kane likes to brag at least he wins a game. 

But can the two coaches put aside their rivalry when the time calls for them to combine teams and take their ten delinquents to the top?

Fate says no, but Coach Griffin has a few specific words in response to that. And hell, if their only win of the season is against the infamous Mount Weather, then so be it. Coach Kane will brag about it to his grave.

And how can they defeat fate? By using the secret weapon they both possess more than any other team: hope.

CHAPTER 1: There’s nothing wrong with being a loser, it just depends on how good you are at it

Ah, summer.

The smell of the freshly cut grass, the sun shining brightly in a clear sky, and the sound of kids cheerfully playing outside. No more staying up late to pack the kid’s lunch for school the next day because you forgot to earlier because that afternoon nap was needed after a long day at work. It was time to sit outside, have a nice glass of lemonade, and enjoy the summer.

And maybe Coach Griffin could enjoy it, only if the Lifesavers could win one goddamn game, just one.

Is that really too much to ask for? Apparently, it was.

Keep reading

anonymous asked:

hey ya can you please share some nice head canons about Marlene mckinnon? cause i see so many where people see her as a female version of sirius but polar opposites in looks. which is fine but he’s very screwed up and has major problems. He doesn’t like himself very much, so he shouldn’t be expected to like someone extremely similar to himself. If Sirius Black falls in love with anyone then that person should make him happy and laugh and be bright and funny.

  • There’s a fullness to Marlene McKinnon, even when she doesn’t see it, even when she grasps at flesh in the bathroom mirror or scribbles on the back of her hand with Muggle, fluorescent markers.
  • She’s her own person, even though her heart can feel unhinged and flighty and as though it’s not her own, and there are deep, fitful nights in the dormitory when she thinks she can feel herself slipping, and though there are times in the corridors when she thinks she sees her shadow pull and splinter from her fingers, she’s her own.
  • More often than not, she feels fragmented, she feels dull.
  • But Lily and Mary look at her and see light spilling from her, bleeding through the cracks, and they know that light is forged in her core.
  • The deepness, the intensity of the blood that thrums through the prominent veins on the back of her wrist, it’s more than a sum.
  • She might not be everything all at once, but she’s enough.
  • Marlene has the lyrics of scratchy vinyl records on her tongue.
  • As a kid, as a Muggle, there was heat rising up her back, the rush that belonged, that she could create and bend in her hold on her lacrosse stick, the netball, the hockey stick, the tennis racket, whatever.
  • Marlene McKinnon was sporty.
  • And Quidditch just isn’t the same.
  • There’s a difference to it, the rush of air, the sky that cleaves arcs in your chest, that it just won’t cut it.
  • On the ground, feeling her legs pumping against sweat-slicked shin guards, mud and grass beneath her cleats, her skin searing, was where she needed to be.
  • Marlene has a knack for giving presents.
  • Sure, Lily’s good at it, too, but she really thinks about it.
  • Marlene doesn’t have to do that.
  • In her aching fingertips is something to give, and it comes out in flippant gestures in Flourish and Blotts or Zonko’s; she knows exactly what to get Mary, Remus, Peter.
  • She’s not overly sentimental. But she knows.
  • Where Lily’s hands are covered in ink stains, Marlene’s are covered in paint.
  • She likes bright colours, but never wears them. Instead, rivulets of pink and green trickle from her hands.
  • She’s not good at painting, but she fills pieces of parchment with washes and smudges of colour, fills margins with straying, repetitive doodles.
  • She’s abstract.
  • Something that people forget is that Marlene can drink everyone under the table.
  • She likes the burn of alcohol in her throat, on her tongue. Apparently it’s not something to be proud of.
  • The Marauders disagree.
  • They like Marlene, they really do.
  • She doesn’t think she’s good at talking to people - she’s not particularly interested in talking to people.
  • But snark and bitterness rolls of her tongue like some ancient language.
  • It gives Remus the slip - Marlene’s cool.
  • James likes her ability to hold a conversation - she talks to him about sport.
  • Like, a lot.
  • Peter’s drawn to Marlene in a way that doesn’t make any sense.
  • But Peter likes anyone enthralling or sparky, which is what Marlene is, but she doesn’t live in the heavens, so when Peter reaches up from the dirt, her fingers brush his.
  • She doesn’t like him back. She wishes she did.
  • And Sirius loves her, but not like that.
  • Marlene is bright, burning, but it’s slow-going. She’s a dying star.
  • And iron is forged in the core of dying stars.
  • But Sirius is always on fire, spiked by gasoline, burning high into the air.
  • He doesn’t need iron.
  • He needs to be satiated by water, or an effervescent light.
  • Lily’s like light, and she goes hand-in-hand with Marlene’s metallics.
  • They weave their arms around each others’ shoulders and flick paint in each others’ hair and nick each others’ clothes.
  • Marlene likes sneakers and heavy car coats and fraying band t-shirts she thrifts at flea markets; Lily likes muddy converse and oversized, tag-lined t-shirts and floaty, floral dresses that flap around her legs.
  • And Marlene, who is ultimately unknown to us and potentially chivalrous in the House of red and gold, can be brave and wonderful and snarky, but she’s her own.
  • Because, so often, she’s not.
  • So often she’s Sirius’s, or Lily’s, or the Marauders’.
  • But Marlene McKinnon is her own.

anonymous asked:

Are her shin guards painted in that last gif where she is laughing?

They have some color so I’m assuming they’re painted but sadly it’s impossible to see them clearly

anonymous asked:

Where was that last gif set from with C taking off her shin guards and laughing at something? Because her shin guards look painted👀👀👀

Oooo idk

So this is very late, and I’m very sorry, but happy birthday Sophii! If there’s anything I know about you it’s that you’re trash for women’s soccer and the pjo women, so here’s both. I hope you like it

Piper is vaguely aware of the pull in her muscles and the sound of Annabeth leading the stretches. She diverts just towards Annabeth’s voice to follow the instructions she gives every minute or two, the rest is laser focused on the JV boy’s keeper as he runs through drills with his team. As much as she’d love to play it off as admiration of his skill, there’s absolutely more to it than that. Since that first practice the two teams had to share the field she’d been drawn to him.

Jason Grace is a common distraction for her, since the girl’s and boy’s JV teams are forced to share the same practice field. It doesn’t help that he’s six feet of athleticism and muscle, all topped off with cute, blond hair and electric blue eyes. She doesn’t get to talk to him often, much to her dismay, but she’s heard all about his skill on the field.

“Stretch left,” Annabeth calls and Piper mindlessly obeys, reaching out for her left cleat. “Stretch right.” Piper moves to reach towards her right, eyes still fixed on Jason. “Stand up.” Piper tucks her feet under her and stands, readying herself for the next stretch Annabeth is going to call for but her co-captain stays quiet. Piper finally tears her eyes from the keeper to find her entire team sitting on the grass grinning up at her.

Annabeth’s eyes shine with victory and there’s a knowing smirk on her lips, the rest of the girls look just as pleased with themselves. Piper quickly drops back down onto her butt, a burning feeling rising in her face.

“Screw all of you,” Piper snaps, pulling at a few strands of grass.

The team bursts into a fit of laughter, only making the burning feeling in her cheeks seep into her neck. Annabeth starts back on the stretches, Piper keeping her eyes fixed on the grass in front of her.

Keep reading


Can we just take a moment and notice this ship that is being made before our very eyes! and now by the male lead’s for that matter.

The way Eun Dae Goo remembers the words she said the night she first came over “Guys, I think I finally found something that makes my heart pound.”

The way Eun Dae Goo admitted that he liked her longer hair better.

The way he got defensive when Kim Shin Myung called her a b****. 

The expression he gives when Soo Sun shows affection or even touches someone from the opposite sex .

Can’t forget the way that he didn’t even care that Kim Shin Myung was his target. He pushed him aside and ran to Soo Sun side when he pushed her off of him and guarding her before Shin Myung’s body guards could lay a finger on her.

and of course lets not forget as much as he hates to go by Eo Soo Sun ways of doing things and he fights her  at every turn he eventually gives into her request and follows her.

This ship grows and grows by the episode!

Uh... Mrs. Winchester?

Dean imagine requested by anon! HEADS UP: There is self-inflicted bloodshed for a ritual mentioned early on in the imagine, but not for the sake of self-harm. The injuries are similar to those used to prove silver doesn’t hurt the boys or that one is not a Leviathan. This will not be an imagine glamourizing self-harm. This imagine has been edited for reposting, so I no longer have the original request, but the gist of it is as follows: “The procedure used to trap the goddess of love goes a bit off-kilter, binding Dean to the reader.” Hope you like it!

“The summoning ritual calls for rosemary, bones of a dove, rose petals, and the blood of two lovers. We’ve got everything… whenever you’re ready,” Sam sighed, lifting his face from the crumbling parchment, the paper crackling in his hands as he worked the ancient material into a tight roll. Sam stepped away from the motel’s kitchen table, heading off into the broom-cupboard of a bedroom to return the lore to its protective canister. Paper as old as the grocery list from Hell couldn’t be thrown into a bag without bulletproof armour. It wasn’t any help to hunters or historians if it was crushed to a fine powder from the jostling of your firearms. Dean was by your side, grinding the brittle bird bones with a mortar and pestle, his biceps flexing as he working the stones against each other, splintering the bird’s frame beneath his hand. His emerald eyes lifted to yours, his hardened jawline softening when he met your eyes, his lips parting to offer a gentle smile. You were nearly out of the woods with this hunt, thank God. You’d been searching for the lore necessary to kill the ever elusive goddess of love for weeks. If Sam hadn’t broken into that museum, you would’ve had to stand by as her pawns tore each other’s throats out with their teeth over petty love triangles better formed in the “Twilight” saga. Dean tipped his head, motioning for you to join him beside the gleaming silver bowl of wretched ingredients, dumping the crushed contents of his mortar atop the fragrant sprigs of rosemary. Dean brought a rose to his nose, wiggling his eyebrows dramatically before tearing the petals from the flower, desecrating his Valentine’s Day gift to you. In truth, the flowers had already begun to wilt, and were far past their prime, but the thought stung regardless. It broke your heart a little, your fingers plucking the soft, vibrant petals from the roses. Dean obviously went out of his way to present you with that coveted sliver of normalcy, and here you were throwing them to shit in a god-summoning ritual.

Stammering gusts of chilling air wafted into the suite from the various drafty windows, none of which were open but all of which produced enough breeze to ruffle the papers covering the table’s water-stained surface. Goose-flesh pimpled across your exposed arms, Dean’s palms smoothing over your skin, banishing the cold to be replaced by his delectable heat. He pressed a swift kiss to your cheek before shuffling over to the brim of the bowl, assessing the quantities with his eyes, his brow pinched in concentration, as his brother rejoined you, running an anxious hand through his hair. All members of the hunting party were eager to finish the job; you’d take the Impala’s upholstery over the questionably clean motel sheets without a second’s thought, and the evening was setting into the deep, rich darkness of night. The stars were pocketing what little clarity you could grasp of the sky, your eyes peering past the brilliant reach of the parking lot’s streetlamps. The hour was descending upon you, and you would all much rather have asphalt underfoot than spend a night nestled into a mattress reeking of some stranger’s body odor. Everything about your current predicament, despite the target of your hunt, was about as far from romantic as you cared to explore.

A metallic flick caught your attention, the parking lot’s lights reflecting off of the silver blade of Dean’s pocket knife. His eyes held yours, shouting apologies, fidgeting with the handle of his knife. He exhaled deeply, squaring his shoulders as he brought the blade to his palm, wincing at the shallow scrape he produced. He handed the knife to you, his eyes hardening as you grasped the hilt, his injured hand closed into a fist and held tight to his chest. His eyes were wary, cautious, concerned. He hated seeing you hurt, you knew that, but casting you in the vague, obscure ritual had his nerves frayed as severely as you’d ever seen them. You gave him a reassuring smile, twirling the knife until the point was aimed at your palm. You pricked your skin, blood blossoming in a small, crimson bubble. The pain was minimal. You weren’t about to sit through stitches just to summon a monster. You returned the knife to Dean, his eyes asking wordless questions about your pain, though you’d only pricked your skin. You could receive worse while sewing a quilt. Sam lit the two candles beside the bowl with a match, the smell of sparks and fire flooding the room, melding with the heady scent of roses and herbs, Greek words you couldn’t fathom the definitions of spilling from between his lips as if he’d grown up on the Mediterranean coast. On command, you shook your hand over the basin, a droplet of scarlet striking a rose petal, the pigments almost inseparable, Dean following suit. Dean held your gaze, most likely to convince himself that you were alright. His concern was unnecessary, but appreciated. Hopefully, this ritual would succeed in ensnaring Aphrodite, who had been systematically killing off heart-breakers, cheaters, prostitutes and those fallen out of love for weeks, among her petty games of the heart. You knew you couldn’t kill her, with so little information, but banishment for a good hundred years could be in the cards if you completed the ritual correctly. Anything to get you out of this motel would suffice.

Sam’s voice dropped to a whisper, another match striking above the flammable contents of the bowl, the wooden stick falling to the waiting bed of kindling. The herbs ignited, the flames licking at the ceiling producing a strange, off-putting (due to past experiences in summonings) yet inherently welcoming rosy light. Sam nodded his head in Dean’s direction, your boyfriend’s uninjured hand closing around your elbow, guiding you to the counter top. He ran your hand underneath the tap, patting over your insignificant little scratch with a wash towel before pressing a band-aid over your nick. Dean pressed a kiss to your palm, your eyes rolling at his exaggerated care, as he ran his own palm beneath the stream. The room began to shake, the crystalline rope of water running from the silvery tap trembling visibly before Dean turned the knobs and blocked the flow. He was in the process of tying a ripped shirtsleeve around his palm, securing it tightly with a knot, his arm winding around your waist, his silver-bladed pocketknife at the ready, though it would likely have no effect once the goddess showed her divine face to your motley crew. The floor shook you off-balance; if it hadn’t been for Dean, you would have stumbled to the floor (or worse, knocked the basin over as you struggled to catch yourself on something semi-stable), but his grip on your waist held you in a standing position. With a flash of blinding white light, she had appeared. When the glare had dissipated, you found yourselves staring at a scantily clad, voluptuous yet surprisingly baby-faced woman of about twenty five. She looked like a clean-cut Courtney Love, before plastic surgery. She wiped at an unseen tear with a perfectly manicured finger, swiping the invisible droplet of saltwater from her high cheekbones, her blonde ringlets bouncing lusciously. Her soft frame was hung with glowing linens, her rose-gold breastplate and shin guards shifting with the soft tinkling of jingle bells. She was straight out of legend, if your forgot the massacres. She was always rumoured to be the passive-aggressive goddess.

“Congratulations, darlings! Best wishes, eternal happiness, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. Long lives to you, a stretch for hunters, but I wish you every joy nonetheless!” She droned, her silken tone disrupted as she murmured your occupation, her lips screwing into a disgusted snarl. She parted her hair, wisping stray strands of golden curls from her forehead.

“Excuse me, bitch?” Dean’s voice growled,his shoulder shifting in front of yours, subtly placing his body between yours and the goddess’. Aphrodite practically purred, her eyes locked on the protective gesture. “Seems a bit off for you to be congratulating us on capturing you. Someone drank too much nectar up on Cloud Nine,” Dean crooned, his jaw clenching as he goddess smirked. He was clearly unhappy to find her in such a state of bliss. Prisoners were not meant to enjoy their shackles.

“Yes, my… situation is no cause for celebration. Your marriage, on the other hand… well, there are very few unhappy newlyweds!“ She drawled, her eyes shifting between your face and Dean’s, devouring your unmoving features, your locked stances, watching as her words sank under your skin.

This ritual was not as it seemed.

“Sam…” you squeaked, your eyes wild, the goddess giggling to herself as she toyed with one of her many golden bracelets, her eyes flitting to your face in glee. You turned to face Dean, frantic, his smile fading as his eyes found yours, discovering the stress within your irises. Why would he be smiling in a time like this? You’d just signed yourself off the market with a blood pact, just to invite some Victoria’s Secret model to dinner. Sam raced into the bedroom, returning with the canister containing the scroll. He unscrewed the lid of the plastic container, shaking the parchment into his hand, frantically flipping the page over, his eyes raking over the script. His search came to an abrupt halt, his eyes bugging out of his head as he flipped the paper over to show you the faded sketch of a man and woman at the very bottom of the page, the woman’s hair covered by the faint outline of a veil. Your cheeks burnt, heat prickling over your skin. That was not merely a lover. That was a bride. “Oh God.” You breathed, your throat closing around your words, Dean’s hand slipping from around your center.

“Gods, darling. There’s more than one of us. If it was just me, the world would be a much simpler place,” She flirted, her lips parting over perfect chicklet teeth, her eyelashes fluttering. "You can thank Aries for the Hell you call Earth. Everything else, you can pin on Zeus. Everyone does!” she mumbled, her focus now on the situation of her cuticles, her arched brows raised over rolling eyes. Dean’s fingers laced with yours, your uninjured hands pressed together as he pulled you in the direction of the door, parting from the goddess’ company without so much as a farewell to the woman who had overseen your unexpected matrimony.

“Sam, you take care of her,” He commanded, his voice gruff. There was an underlying tone of something deeper than aggravations… it was almost sad, broken. His emotions were detached from his form, his hand soft on yours despite his body’s rigid stance; he was determined to distance you from the woman who had all but forced you into a blind, but binding, relationship. The door swung open, Dean’s hand releasing yours as he stood aside, gesturing you out of the motel room, the entrance slamming in your wake, cutting off the angered Greek and tortured screams of your impromptu priest.

Dean’s hand found yours once again, pulling you into the center of the lot, your surroundings lit only by the street lamps above, your world thrown into harsh light and murky shadow. He spun you around, his hands holding your shoulders, your gaze locking on his eyes, on the discomfort and sadness you found there. His face was mere seconds from falling apart. His eyes burned holes into yours, hot with adoration, yet cooled by his sorrow. His palm, unbandaged, cradled your cheek, securing your gaze to his, his thumb rubbing over the plane of your cheekbone.

“Y/n, you need to tell me now whether or not you’re alright with this,“ he breathed, his voice low despite the privacy he had achieved in the vacant parking lot. His tone carried a sort of worried fervor to it, as if he wished you to say one thing, but dreaded the opposite answer. You froze, his hands dropping to your upper arms, holding you tightly, his hands kind against you, shaking you just so to realign your focus. You tried desperately to clear your head. Married. You’d just been married. To Dean. You were… God, you were married. Why wasn’t he freaking out? Him, of all people. Mr. Renegade himself was less than the firecracker you had assumed he would become. “Uh, Mrs. Winchester? I’m gonna need an answer here,” He prompted, chuckling nervously in an attempt to grasp your attention once more. You felt lightheaded.

"Dean, I don’t kn-” you started, your weak voice faltering.

“It’s okay, I get it. We’ll go sign some godly annulment, see if we can milk anything out of rom-com in there about cutting these chains off,” he rushed, his voice stable, but crumbling around the edges. He was as fragile as the parchment that had accidentally sealed your fate, but he was doing his damnedest not to show how wounded he was. He began walking back towards the motel room, clearing his throat to cover his breaking voice. You reached for him, tugging his arm, his body following suit.

“Dean, wait a second. I’m… I’m alright with it. This. I don’t mind the whole… marriage thing. Its actually kind of convenient, at least for me. I’m just a little overwhelmed,” You assured him, your breathing returning to normal as you voiced your concerns. “I just… you know, I thought this would go down a bit differently, but now that it’s over, I guess I can do without the diamond. It’s not like a have a list of possible bridesmaids at the ready either, so… I guess this is best,” Dean exhaled, his breath more laugh than anything, his face breaking into that of joy, happiness spilling from behind a steely facade. He pulled you to his chest, his hands tangling in your hair, his lips diving to your mouth. He smiled through his kiss, his tongue tracing the gentle swoop of your lower lip with spontaneous sincerity, his laughter filtering through the air with your every break from contact. His passion was tangible, his glee infectious. He spun you once, his hands on your waist as he threw your world off-balance, his hands drifting back to your face to return his lips to yours. When he pulled away, his teeth playfully hanging on to your lip longer than necessary, his eyes were glimmering with unadulterated joy.

“Thank God,” He grumbled, his smile growing wider as you pecked your lips to the corner of his mouth, giggling.

“Gods, darling.”