concrete heat

The Torture Murder of Sylvia Likens

In early 1965 a struggling housewife named Gertrude Baniszewski started advertising her home as a sort of flophouse for inconvenient children, where parents would pay her to look after their children while they searched for work. Baniszewski soon took in the oldest daughters of two circus workers, Sylvia and Jenny Likens, and agreed to accept $20 a week for their upkeep. It was a cramped situation between the family and the two guests, and Baniszewski began taking her anger out primarily on 16 -year-old Sylvia. Rumors spread at school that Sylvia stole food out of rubbish bins and had a boyfriend, and as punishment Baniszewski starved the girl, whipped her, slapped her around the face. Her sister Jenny was just twelve, and felt too powerless to act. Their caretaker’s rage peaked when their parents were late with the $20 payment; Baniszewski invited several neighborhood children over and encouraged them to mistreat Sylvia; and so her torture really began.

Sylvia was tied up in the basement for days on end, accused of imaginary slights and punished near continuously. She was beaten daily, often barefisted, and lit cigarettes were stubbed out on her body. Sylvia had to beg for food and was forced to soil the narrow bit of concrete she was confined to, and the kids Baniszewski befriended took turns stripping her naked and whipping her, yanking out tufts of her hair, burning her.

The autopsy of her body later revealed over two dozen impact injuries and Sylvia’s genital reason in particular was a center of massive trauma. She was also covered in a number of small cuts, burns, and rope burn injuries, and was severely malnourished. But the injury thst caught investigators eyes the most was the awful message scrawled childishly on the teenagers stomach in red welts: I’M A PROSTITUTE AND I LOVE IT!

Neighbors last heard Sylvia banging on the basement wall with a shovel, and then she seemed to disappear. Sylvia was, in fact, enduring her final round of torture at the hands of the sadistic housewife and her group of morally vapid children. As punishment for wetting herself earlier in the day, Sylvia was made to keep standing while her head was repeatedly punched into a wall. She was then flipped on the concrete while a boy heated a needle to write the grim exclamation on the poor girls abdomen. Sylvia was thrown on a bed to sleep, while her foster mother went upstairs and watched television.

The next day, Sylvia was delirious due to dehydration and internal bleeding. She could not stand or walk and lapsed in and out of consciousness. Her sister Jenny tried to sneak food to her, but it was too late; Sylvia Likens was dead, from a combination of malnutrition and internal injuries.

Baniszewski made the children swear to silence, but police visited the house to discuss Sylvia’s absence from school and were tipped off by Jenny as to what happened. Sylvia’s battered corpse was discovered in a bedroom, and it was immediately obvious she was the victim of horrendous abuse. The crime scene examiner called it the worst case of abuse he had ever seen in the state of Indiana. Baniszewski, her daughter, and several local children were arrested and put on trial. The unsmiling housewife was sentenced to life, her daughter to a maximum of ten years, the her accomplices recieved various reduced sentences when they gave evidence.

9

The Wonder Years - No Closer To Heaven | Weather References

Fic title: Daphne? Who the Hell is Daphne?, by RidinCastielInTheImpala (sayitinenochian.tumblr) and tfw_cas

@sayitinenochian

Rating: Explicit

Summary: A story in which we explore what might have happened to Castiel’s wife, Dean gets irrationally jealous, Sam can’t get out of there fast enough, and we find out that Castiel understands more than he lets on, he just has a very dry sense of humour.  

AO3

Cas walked down the stairs into the bunker, and into the library. Dean turned to look at him, a smile breaking across his face. “Hey Cas.”

“Hello Dean,” Cas replied, then turned to the younger Winchester, who was reading a weighty tome. “Hello Sam, can I assist you with your research?”

“Cas…hi,” said Sam, shaking his head. “It’s not research, I’m just reading.”

Dean snorted and said something under his breath that sounded like “nerd". Then, looking up at the angel, said “Where have you been, anyway? You should be resting after what happened the other day.”

Dean still couldn’t bring himself to admit that Cas had nearly died, and that he had been absolutely terrified of losing his best friend. He had had more than one nightmare where Crowley had not come back and saved Cas, and he had woken up sweating and calling out the angel’s name. Also, none of them had addressed the deathbed speech from Cas in which he said ‘I love you’. Dean did not really want to think too hard about who that had been aimed at.

“I was visiting Daphne.” Cas stated in a very deadpan manner.

Daphne? Who the hell is Daphne? Thought Dean, as an unpleasant knot started to form in his stomach. When he got his mouth to communicate with his brain, the words sounded much calmer than he was feeling. “Daphne?”

Cas let out a little sigh as he realised that he was going to have to explain. “Do you remember when you found me after you thought I had been killed by the Leviathans?”

Dean nodded.

“The woman I was living with. My wife, Daphne.”

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anonymous asked:

okay so werewolves ot4 where akaashi is younger than his boyfriends so he's still out of control during full moon and his boyfriends're trying to take care of him and control him and soothe his pain caused by shift into wolf. i just love werewolves,so can you write it, please? i love you so much, i will sacrafice my soul really, just please, could you write it for me? i will sing love songs for you or something

“I refuse.” Tsukishima growls, crossing his arms. “I won’t do it.”

“Kei.” Kuroo sighs, “Don’t you remember what it was like?”

I do. That’s why I refuse to chain him up like an animal.” Tsukishima glares.

“No.” Akaashi grunts, the change already causing his skin to sweat, and his eyes to burn, “I don’t…if I…if I hurt you guys…”

“There has to be another way.” Tsukishima watches Bokuto pull the chains tight, locking Akaashi against the radiator in their basement.

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The first time Gabriel suggested the rooftop Jack blushes up to his ears and can’t meet his eyes.

“But that’s out in the open!" 

"Honestly, when was the last time you looked up there? Do you even know how it looks like?" 

And after a month no one had really asked for the key (Jack shakes his head and mutters about ‘safety breaches’) or bothered them at all. Especially in the morning, with only the sound of birds and their voices and the airplne trails streaking the light blue sky.

Not so much of a good idea when the summer days start to get hotter.

Gabriel buries his face in the crook of Jack’s neck, spent and grunting at the burn of the sun-heated concrete on his knees. After a few seconds, he raises his head to look at Jack, and make sure his back isn’t flaying, but he doesn’t even get to open his mouth. 

The Gold Boy of the SEP lays arms outstretched and looking at the sky, completely spaced out and smiling. Undone strands of golden hair glittering in the sunlight, some sticking to his already sunkissed forehead. Contracted pupils on cerulean eyes reflecting the sky, blue on blue. He gleams and looks almost inhuman.

Gabriel leans forward towards Jack’s face and mindlessly whispers into the kiss.

"Apolo…”

When he hears the snicker, Gabriel curses the heat affecting his damn head.

“For real, Gabe?”

He grunts and gets up to sit next to shade of a vent. Jack follows, sitting next to him. Of course the sun still shines behind his hair, almost like a fucking halo. 

“So what does that make you? Daphne, Cassandra, Hyacinthus?” He’s having so much fun. 

“I don’t know what any of that means. Who knew the high school prom king was, in fact, a nerd.”

“I wasn’t-!” He huffs. “My mother is from Ilios. Though it’s dad the one that is into all that mythology stuff, apparently started as a way to impress her.”

Gabriel just stares at him.

“Am I meeting your parents already?” He laughs at Jack’s face. “Ilios though… Fitting.”

“Huh? What do you-?” Helios. “Oh, who’s the nerd now?”

Gabriel just replies by kissing him again and throwing Jack’s shirt at his face. 

“At least I know I n longer have to worry so much about your pasty self getting sunburnt.”

Still, he can’t keep himself from staring as he gets dressed. Standing there, against the morning light, with a crown of rays shining around his head he really looks like the sun. And at that very moment, unthinkingly, he almost welcomes the shade he’s casting.

-

Years later Gabriel will fall as the ground breaks under him, scorched face, flames lapping all around him and smoke filling his lungs. And he will crash hard against the concrete and it will hurt more than just red skinned knees. Debris and dust wll cover everything around him and an incandescent metal beam will fall on his back, searing his shoulders. With no air for last words, he will crack a dry laugh at his last thoughts being how Jack had forgotten someone back then.

Icarus.

(If he falls into the waves, he will at least make the sun set with him.)

2

1x08 // 2x09

That’s oddly romantic. And totally encouraging.

I have never been more attracted to you than I am right now.

dedicated to @0kbutmichaelclifford. Allie please don’t kill me


Like a church bell ringing out at noon, the sound makes Calum’s presence known. It’s light but carries a heavy tone; it’s like honey pouring over yogurt in the morning—sweet. It ripples through your bones as if it’s pretending to be like the vibrations of his bass on the dark concert stages. Calum’s laughter is home; it’s warm sunny days with the concrete radiating heat warm enough to melt ice cream. It made you feel like you were at home. Whether it be his head tilted back or his nose scrunched up and his eyes crinkled, his laughter would always dance around you. 

He’s with old friends kicking the football around, his head is tilted back as his friend trips over the ball. You come to the conclusion that Calum could make even an angel jealous. And you think he has because right in the moment of him doubled over in laughter, a crack of thunder rumbles through the sky as rain starts to pour down. You couldn’t believe he had the power to make an angel jealous, but then again his laughter could cure the most horrible illnesses. His giggle was the spoonful of sugar that Mary Poppins would sing about—you were sure of it. 

“Babe!” Calum calls, his laughter making him out of breath. “Babe, you’re—you’re getting soaked go—go inside!” 

It was like the rain didn’t even matter anymore. 

Like a church bell ringing out at noon, the sound makes your heart swell. It’s a sound that makes butterflies form in your stomach. Robert Frost had no power over what Calum’s laughter could do. It was the water that put out a fire, it was the music that brought a sinner to his knees. His laughter was the cup of tea on a summer day—sweet, soft, and full of love.

The Maze Runner: Newt - I Care.

A/N: Sorry for being inactive all weekend, I went away on holiday! But anyway, I have another one for you guys so I hope you like it. Sorry if the idea isn’t very original, I’ve got no requests at the moment. 


This is set before Newt has his limp and while he is still a Runner :-) 

“Greenie!” A voice calls, and you recognise it as Newt’s. You hear his footsteps come closer and closer. Of course he still calls me Greenie.

You roll your eyes, “You do know that there have been at least three other Greenies since me.”

“I am aware of that.” You hear the cockiness in his voice, see it in his eyes.

“Then why keep calling me Greenie?”

“Because I can. You’ll always be a Greenie to me.” He says this sweetly, but with a bit of a smirk tugging at his lips.

“Great.” You mutter, and keep yourself from rolling your eyes again. And then you suddenly remember that he probably called over at you for a reason. “So what do you want?”

He sighs, “I want many things, Y/N. And only one you can fulfil.” You’re already tired of his words, his joking.

“Seriously Newt, I’m busy.” You gesture to the piles of wood and tools around you, “So do you mind getting straight to your buggin’ point?” It’s not that you don’t like Newt, usually you’re thrilled to have his company, but it’s just been another drag of a week with Gally bossing you around and commenting on your every move. Being a Builder with Gally as the Keeper is worse than cleaning up klunk. It’s tiring.

“Well if you’re going to talk to me like a shank then maybe I won’t tell you the big news.” He huffs, crossing his arms over one another like a child.

You circle around one of your wood piles and choose a worthy plank, “Fine with me.”

A few seconds of silence passes by before Newt’s voice sounds out to you again. “Alright, alright, I’m sorry for being a slinthead,” he holds his hands up like he’s turning himself in. “Minho wants to talk to you about… Becoming your new Keeper.”

You chuck him a confused glance but your eyes soon widen with shock and you gasp, your hand covering your mouth. “No way!?”

Newt smiles cheerfully, his brown eyes squinting excitedly, “Yes way.”


“And that’s all you need to know about being a Runner, are you in?” Minho’s voice bounces off the walls, a slight grin tugging at his lips. You nod your head up and down enthusiastically and he claps your welcome along with all the other Runners that had gathered to hear the same news. Soon after your welcome, everyone gives you a slap on your back, and then Minho leads you over to a cupboard and opens it up: revealing boxes of shoes. “Now, I’m pretty sure all of these shoes are for men… So just take whatever fits best.”

You choose a black pair with a slight yellow tinge to the edges, they’re a bit dirty and only slightly worn in, and definitely not the best looking pair, but as Minho said, you take the pair that fits best. Then after you put your shoes on and tie the laces up, Minho hands you a plastic wristwatch. You look up at him, you’re eyebrows slightly lifted. “How else did you think we always got back into the Glade in time for those walls to close?” You clasp the watch around your wrist and only now just notice that it is digital. Quicker to read, I suppose. Once you stand up again, Minho leads you over to the other side of the room, “Here we have you a backpack.” He hands you the bag, “Inside that you’ll be keeping these.” He continues to hand you other things like a lunchbox and water bottles. “Then,” he hands you a few new t-shirts and shorts, “These are your running clothes.”

“No need for you to take a pair of our Runnie-undies.” Ben says, laughing hysterically. You see Newt crack a grin but Minho only rolls his eyes. Whatever the joke was seemed to be lame to him.

“Alright boys, keep yourselves calm about the undies.” Minho shakes his head as he chuckles, “Now we get to the serious stuff.” You follow Minho into a smaller room, after he removes a pile of boxes you see a secret door leading deep into the ground. A basement.

“What’s in there?” Your voice quivers slightly and Minho smiles amusedly at your nerves. But he doesn’t reply, instead he opens the trapdoor and gestures for you to follow him.

You hesitate at first but you think about it for a second, it’s only Minho, besides, by that wicked grin it means he’s just playing around. Hopefully. Inside is very dusty but a lot cooler than upstairs. The floor isn’t wooden like the Homestead but rather dirt, and only one light in the room to illuminate it. Shelves press against the walls of the room and a number of tables are scattered through, suddenly you feel very confused and only slightly afraid. “This is where we keep the weapons.”

“Weapons huh…” You say slowly, staring all around the room at the knives, swords and bows and arrows. Your arms grow goose-bumps and you hug them to keep from shivering. “What do you need all of these for?”

Minho looks around the room too, his hands resting on his hips, “Don’t really use them to be honest, but we Runners need the knives when we’re out in the Maze.”

You frown and itch the side of your cheek nervously, “Surely a few knives wouldn’t be able to kill… the Grievers?”

Minho sighs, “They can’t, unfortunately. But we do need them to leave ourselves a trail of vines otherwise we won’t be able to find our way back.” He shoves a thumb over in the direction of one of the walls.

So you grab yourself a few different knives, and within a couple of minutes you’re back out in the sunshine of the Glade. Newt’s blond head bobs up and down as he jogs over to the both of you and smiles, “All set?”

Minho chuckles, “Hold your horses shank, still gotta’ show Greenie here the Map Room.”

You frown, your eyebrows creased and your tone of voice irritated, “I’m not the Greenie anymore.”

Minho ignores you while Newt laughs at your annoyed state, you could easily give him a big whack on the back of his head but Minho is around and as a new Runner you don’t exactly want to cause a ruckus and embarrass yourself just yet. So you obediently follow Minho over to a concrete, boring building that seems to be locked very securely. He opens the strong, metal door and leads you inside the Map Room. Once you both are leaning over a table in the middle of the room, Minho doesn’t hesitate to jump into the explanation of the Maze. As he talks you wonder how this boy can store so much detailed information in his brain, if it were you, you would be pretty stressed out.

Soon after he’s finished pushing sequences of opening doors, closing doors, shifting walls and techniques that should be used, as well as some kind of ledge called the Cliff, he finishes up and you’re outside again. “Now,” Minho starts, “Before you go into the Maze, you’re going to be doing a little bit of training.”

“Training?”

“Need your leg muscles to be strong to endure a whole day out in that Maze otherwise you’ll collapse and be stuck in there a whole buggin’ night. Wouldn’t want that now would ya’.” Newt says, his face serious and his voice almost stern.

You turn to look at Minho expectantly but he looks over at Newt, “Newt here will be training you since I have some… other things to attend to.”

Newt makes a face at Minho but beckons you to come over anyway, “C'mon Greenie, gonna train ya til you drop.” A wicked grin spreads across his lips and you suddenly hope that he doesn’t end up killing your muscles.


“Run Greenie! Run!” You run from one part of the Glade, to the other. Your legs burning from the amount of exercise Newt has pushed upon you already. Your lungs struggling for oxygen, and your heart thumping so hard that you can hear it crawl up your throat into your ears.

“Faster!”

You push your legs faster, gaining even more speed. Your chest heaving up and down but you start to slow down as you reach the opposite wall of where you came from. You slap the sun-heated concrete and spin around, speeding up again to reach the point you began at. “C'mon Greenie, my Grandma could run faster than you!” You grunt frustratingly at Newt’s behaviour today, just because he gets to train you shouldn’t mean he’s free to insult you.

Suddenly he comes up alongside you, sweat beading at his forehead with his blond hair curling messily over the top of his head. He lazily wipes the sweat away from his forehead with the back of his hand and catches your stare. “I know it’s hard for you to tear those eyes away from this attractive face but you should probably concentrate on where you’re running.” You want to rip that damn smirk right off his face, why is he being such a shank today?

You’re about to reply, something quite witty too, but your feet get caught up on a pile of logs causing you to stumble and then fall onto your hands and knees. You groan and turn yourself over, inspecting your now bruised and slightly bloodied legs. “See? What did I tell ya?” His voice is full of amusement before he laughs, his crisp brown eyes playful.

“How about you just slim it already Newt.” You practically growl as you stand up from the dirt and wood, brushing wood chips and grass off your legs and shorts. “It’s no fun when you’re insulted and then laughed at for getting hurt.”

Newt’s eyebrows immediately turn into a frown, the side of his eyes crinkled with confusion, “This,” he says, gesturing to the whole of the Glade, “Isn’t supposed to be fun.”

You shake your head, “You’ve completely missed the point of what I was trying to say, do I have to spell it out for you?”

Newt crosses his muscly arms over his chest and leans back on his left leg, “Okay then, go ahead.” His voice is full of annoyance and you can see it plain in his eyes and the way he twists his mouth too.

“You’re not very encouraging when you scream at me, and when you insult me.” You brush away the fallen hairs from your ponytail away from your face, “I want to learn to become the best Runner I can be and as a trainer you should be more of a teacher rather than a complete slinthead.”

Newt shakes his head, “I was teaching you! You need to be faster than fast to survive out there!” His finger points to one of the openings in the Maze walls, “If you don’t come back you’re stuck in there for a whole night with the Grievers. No one survives a night out in the Maze, you know that.”

You throw Newt a menacing glare, “I know what the risks are Newt, I know what they are and I still want to become a Runner! I have to do this, Newt! I can’t stay around the Glade all day building crummy old tables when there’s a chance I could be out there really helping us!”

Newt’s chest rises angrily, "Knowing isn’t enough, a lot of us Runners know and a lot of us have come very damn close to becoming Griever meat anyway!”

You roll your eyes and wipe the sweat from your upper lip, your hands resting on both sides of your hips. “That doesn’t mean you have to push me so hard.”

Newt walks around in a circle for only a moment before he musters up enough courage to reply, after frustratingly kicking over a few planks of wood, “I’m pushing you because I don’t want to lose you, you slinthead!” His breathing is heavy and his chest moves rapidly, his firm brown eyes never leaving you.

For once in your life, around this blond headed boy, you’re lost for words. No witty comeback, not even a thank you, nothing. You just stare at him, a bit of the inside of your lip between your teeth. Thankfully though, you don’t have to say anything anyway because Newt comes over to you and rubs the side of your arm in comfort like he usually does when you’re stressed, but only now does it really calm you. “I know it doesn’t excuse me being a complete shank to you, and I’m sorry for insulting you and laughing at you. Sometimes I don’t know how to act around you because you always make me so buggin’ nervous…” His eyes flicker around your face nervously, to his feet for only a moment and then back up to your eyes. “And maybe… Maybe I shouldn’t push you as hard as I did but… When Minho told me about his choice, I’m not going to lie, I felt physically sick,” he pauses to chuckle light heartedly, “and with one side of me I knew you could do it but the other just kept on worrying and worrying, I didn’t know what to do. And of course I didn’t want to just straight out tell ya’ that you couldn’t become a Runner for no good reason because you definitely earned it, but I couldn’t just let you… go.” He takes your loose bits of hair into his fingers, stares at them for a moment, and then tucks them behind your ear, “So I somehow managed to convince Minho to let me train you…” He sighs, “Obviously it didn’t turn out the way I wanted.”

You can’t help but smile slightly, although your cheeks redden from his words. “I didn’t know you cared about me that much, being the usual shank you are.”

He too smiles, crookedly, and tilts his head to one side, “I guess I just have some kind of soft spot for you.”

“You know…” You look to your feet, twisting in the dirt. “I would have probably done the same to you.” Your voice is sort of shaky and not as confident as you usually hear but the words manage to tumble out without a stutter. “You are a shank but I care about you too.”

You’re completely engulfed in nerves when his hand finds its way around to the back of your head, and as he pulls you in closer before playfully but lovingly places a small kiss in the middle of your forehead. “Thanks Greenie.” He pulls your arm over his shoulders and takes your hand into his, “Now lets go get your legs cleaned up.”

A/N: Thank you for reading, and for 900 followers!! 

As usual, make sure you send me a request! 

A letter to.

For the stereotype America creates of Africans. United Kingdom. Europe.

I am African. I am not black. My ancestors were not enslaved. I do not ride a camel to school; nor do we trade women for cattle.

I play derbouka. I also play the tbel (tambourine). My rhythms catch you. They make you move like an African. Like a Berber. Like an Arab.

Rai. Chaibi. Kabyle.

I might see desert for days. I also see buildings. Sky scrapers. Sand alongside concrete. Heat married to cold. Snowy mountains whiter than any you’ll see on a ‘white Christmas day’ in the UK. This snow sticks. People ski. In the middle of the Sahara people ski.

We have cooling rivers. Chelif river. Mazafran river. Seybouse river. Sometimes there are droughts. Sometimes there aren’t. Our rivers have history. From Roman rule. Saint Augustine was the bishop of Hippo Regius. That’s present day Annaba, Algeria.

Algerian Arabic. Darija. Classical Arabic. French. Spanish. English. Kabyle. M'zab. Chaouia. Tamazight of Blida. There’s even Algerian sign language. Take your pick.

Yes, I am African.

I paint henna on my hands. A little circle on the palm. It welcomes in the new moon. I also dip my fingers in henna. My feet. Sometimes hair. Men do it too. Yes, we’re African.

Our skin colour ranges. Depending on the sun. Depending on your roots. Who cares.

Chorba. Rechta. Merguez. Chakhchouka. Berkoukes. D'am. You can call the last one cous-cous. We have over fiver names for it anyway.

Sometimes I’ll wear an abaya. Sometimes I’ll wear a jeba. Melhfa. Gandoura. Or just a t-shirt and jeans. Yes, still African.

Muslim. Christian. Jew.

Roman rule. Islamic rule. Ottoman rule. French rule. Independence. Well, independence is always questionable.

I am African. I am not black. My ancestors were not enslaved. I do not ride a camel to school; nor do we trade women for cattle. 

Naila Missous. 

With Tired Eyes, Tired Minds

“While she loves Tucker more than anything (and anyone) in the world, it sucks that her most personal secret is on display whenever they’re in public. People don’t know what she needs him for, but they see his vest, the words ‘Service Dog, Please Do Not Pet’ printed across his chest, and they know she is a little bit broken.” Modern AU.

Title comes from the song by Explosions in the Sky.

(Trigger warnings: PTSD, self-harm, depression, panic attacks)

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Happy Valentine’s Day, riseandshinedearie!

A Bellarke prom night au or in which Bellamy is a student teacher and Clarke’s been dumped on prom night

—-

She shivers, sticks her hands in her armpits. It doesn’t help as much as she wants it to, but it’s something, she supposes. She should have brought a jacket. Theoretically, it’s spring, but there’s still a bite to the air and there isn’t really enough fabric on her dress to count as anything other than ornamentation. Before, when she was getting ready with Octavia and Harper, perfume staining the air and laughter loud and bright, it had made her feel sexy, like someone other than boring, normal Clarke. Now she wishes she had been more practical. This is what she gets for trying to be romantic, she thinks. Goosebumps break out across her skin, but she refuses to go back inside. That would be admitting defeat, and if there’s one thing Clarke has always been, it’s stubborn.

A suit jacket is laid across her bare shoulders. Her hands come up to touch the warm fabric.

“What are you doing out here?” a voice asks, deep and achingly familiar.

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BrittanaCon Prompt Project - 13a

AUTHOR: leigh-kelly (FF ACCOUNT)

PROMPT: Brittana go to Pride and Santana surprises Brittany by wearing her Lebanese t-shirt she’s kept all these years.

RATED: T

TITLE: With Pride

—————————————————

With Pride

June is cool in New York City, unseasonably so, and Santana and Brittany are both thrilled to have some time after their sixth semester at NYU ends, and before the sweltering concrete trapped heat begins. They use the time for them. For city parks, for the Bronx Zoo, for day trips up the Hudson Valley, for a weekend trip to Long Island. And for what Brittany is most excited about, the event that they’d missed due to other commitments during their first two Junes together in the city. For the Pride March, and the myriad events that surround it.

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anonymous asked:

I also saw a mother dragging her barefoot son back onto the burning concrete in the 100°+ heat. His feet were very red and obviously in pain and he kept running to the shade when she let him go, but then she'd drag him back again. He looked about 2.

Palate

I, radical machinery
Conifer and concrete anatomy
Skylark motorcycle heat rising

I, triumph of barefoot wet streets
Mourning long hair and
Distant railway lines
Arched muscles
rapt quivering teeth

I, Rearviewer
queer queen
Silent speed musician
Bone spear scream