face in dirt

Lucien’s at his desk when he hears Elain call him from the foyer.

“In here, dove!” He replies, straightening papers.

Elain bursts through the door with a wide grin on her face and a smear of dirt on her chin, holding something. “Look what I found! We’re keeping him.”

She holds out her arms and in them is something moving, something with reddish fur—

“He was all alone, poor thing.”

The baby fox raises its head, nose working and big dark eyes blinking as it sniffs the air.

Lucien laughs. “Elain, angel, that’s a wild animal, I don’t think it belongs indoors.“

“But look how cute he is,” she coos, and the fox yawns contently as though to emphasize her point.

“Well, that’s trouble,” Lucien says, as Elain pets it, “I’m afraid I can’t handle competition for best-looking fox in your life.”

Elain giggles. “Don’t worry, you’re still my favorite.”

Lucien really should fight her harder on this, but if anyone can successfully domesticate a fox, it’s Elain. She’s already done it once, after all.

He rises from the desk, comes around to get a better look at the little rascal, who’s squirming in Elain’s arms. “What’s his name?”

Elain smiles. “Lucien Junior. Because he’s just like you.”

“Because he’s a handsome redhead?”

“No,” Elain says blissfully, extending a finger to the fox, who gnaws harmlessly at it. “Because he likes to bite me.”

How to apply beauty products to maximise their power

Skin tip: Did you know that the products you use and how you apply them go hand in hand in maximising their efficacy?

Also, never underestimate the power of a good facial massage. When done right, it increases blood flow and helps give you a healthy glow. Check out how to apply the various skincare products you may already have in your arsenal but never knew how to use right!

To make sure you reap the benefits of your skincare products, always apply them on a clean canvas. This means a freshly washed face free from dirt, make-up and dead skin so the products can be absorbed easily, Make sure your finger tips are clean too.

peculiar children as those weird children you’ve probably babysat
  • Emma: stares at a pack of matches and whispers "everything is prettier when its on fire" to seemingly nothing
  • Hugh: Eats bugs, just grabs a bunch and sticks them in his face even though he's allergic to everything.
  • Millard: goes missing all of the time, one second he's right beside you, the next second he's ran away and you'll probably never find him again.
  • Horace: says "you're ugly" with complete earnest, and then cries when you say you don't like his shoes.
  • Enoch: instead of stuffed animals he has a bunch of taxidermic animals. his bedroom is the worst place you have ever been. makes you feel uncomfortable on purpose.
  • Jacob: gets into fights with everything. he'll fight you, he'll fight that dog, he'll fight a car, he'll fight himself.
  • Fiona: sticks arms under ground as far as they can go and then lies face down in the dirt.
Flirting Attempt
  • Newt: Hi, Y/N. *Leans against a tree and tries to look cool*
  • Y/N: *Raises eyebrows* Hey, Newt.
  • Newt: How's it going? *Tries to give a sexy look but ends up looking like he's having a stroke*
  • Y/N: Fine... are... are you okay?
  • Newt: Absolutely, now that I'm near you. *Tries to come closer but trips and falls face-first onto dirt*
  • Y/N: *Kneels down and helps Newt up* Oh my god are you alright?
  • Newt: *With a bleeding nose and a twisted finger and muffling a scream* Fine.
  • Y/N: Newt, you really need to get your nose checked out by the medjacks and I think your finger is broken.
  • Newt: *His nose gushing now and finger dangling 270 degrees* I'm fine.
  • Newt: *Falls over again and lands on his face*
  • Y/N: Oh god.
getting past the filter

I’ve been reading right-wing media - not all the time, because the point of the exercise is understanding and past a point it just breeds exhaustion. But my impression is that the way right-wing media interprets the protests and the outrage and the fear and anger at Trump’s presidency is something like this:

The left won a lot of battles in a row, and they got used to winning every fight they got into, so they picked fights that they couldn’t possibly really care about, just to grind our faces in the dirt. And then they lost! And we won! And they are handling this with immature hysteria and obstructionism and riots, and we basically have to wade through them to put the country back on the rails, and where we fail it’s their fault and where we succeed it proves that they’re ineffectual and intellectually bankrupt and have no tactics beyond crying and complaining and calling people racist. And they’re complaining about things they were fine with under Obama so they’re not actually sincere anyway. And they still have a stranglehold nearly everywhere, but maybe now people’ll start to see through them and we’ll have a chance to roll it back.)

(Some examples of fights we ‘couldn’t possibly really care about’: making employers cover health care plans that included contraception coverage, making bakers bake wedding cakes for gay people, letting trans people use restrooms of their choice.)

And the presence of the narrative imposes a sort of filter, where things you do that make sense within it, or reinforce it, don’t get seen by half the country. Sometimes that doesn’t matter. But sometimes it really does; sometimes I want to be able to talk to the people who voted for Trump and be heard and be understood to be saying what I’m actually saying and not just ‘blah blah liberals won and won and won and can’t handle losing and are going to call you racist no matter what racist racist racist’.

So, obviously, I think this narrative is unfair in many, many ways. But what I’m really interested in right now is, what could a person do or say in order to slip past the narrative? Because it’s, well, encompassing - narratives usually are. Peaceful protests fit into the ‘the left is all bluster and whining’ arm of it and violent protests fit into ‘the left is a danger’ arm of it and no protests fit into the ‘we are the silent majority’ arm of it. And there are battles which really are worth fighting but which are trivial and silly to people sufficiently removed from them, like fights over letting trans people use public restrooms. 

But narratives are not all-encompassing - the vocal opposition of Senator McCain to Trump’s conduct doesn’t fit into it at all, the conservative judges overturning Trump’s executive orders doesn’t fit into it very well, the testimony of veterans about why their translators saved their lives and deserve the opportunity to live here which they were promised doesn’t fit into it.

Those are, of course, all examples of conservatives who can challenge the narrative by already having credibility within it. I can’t think of a great way for a liberal to establish that credibility - emphasizing that you understand why they believe the things they believe was tried very loudly during the campaign, and I think it mostly totally failed (both at establishing that, and at going from ‘we understand each other’ to ‘the filter you’re seeing me through isn’t capturing what I want and what I actually want is reasonable and comprehensible and human’.)

I feel like one important project of the next few months is figuring out how to communicate past the filter, how to say things that aren’t easily sorted into the narrative, and how to build from there enough trust that our concerns and fear and anger are heard as concern and fear and anger, instead of being easy to round off as ‘they lost and they’re sore losers’. I want past the filter. I want to be able to make myself understood. And I do still think that there’s some way that can be achieved.


Scene from my fave FFVII fic

Counter Crisis

Things You Didn’t Say At All.

Rick’s hands are shaky. His hair is dripping with sweat. He wipes at his face, clearing the blood and dirt from his eyes. He stares at the wall ahead of him, his eyes wide and crazy. He hums a little as he breathes in and out, feeling a slight vibration in his chest. Another fractured rib, he supposes. But he refuses to leave her side. Maggie is still pacing outside the door, her voice raising as she tries and fails to keep Carl in line.


“Carl, calm down!”


“You don’t fucking get it Maggie!” Carl screams, tears streaming down his delicate face.


“Don’t talk to me like that Carl, I swear to God!”


“That’s two!” He raises his fingers to emphasize his point as Enid lowers her head, her face breaking as the emotion comes, “That’s two fucking mothers that I’ve lost!” He sobs.


“Shut up!” Maggie screams, desperation dripping through her words, “Just shup up! She’ll be fine! Do you hear me? She’ll make it! She’s, she’s strong. She’ll make it.”


Rick drops his head as their words float through the thin walls. He blinks toward her, humming again as pain rips through his body. She’s here because of him. A bargaining chip, Negan announced as he dragged her away from Alexandria. Rick did everything he could, bowed down deeper and harder than before, to try and keep her safe. But to no avail. Negan felt as though Rick still didn’t get it.


“Fucking hell Rick! I didn’t want to have to do this, I really didn’t.” Negan boomed, smiling all the while, “But, you’ve left me no choice. The quickest way to a man’s heart, is through his pussy.”


Now he’s covered in her blood as she lays motionless on the bed in front of him. There’s a soft beep from some sort of machine that the doctor has her hooked up to, but that’s about it. He always thought they had time, you know? Yeah, sure, they were living in the middle of an apocalypse but finding her was nothing short of a miracle. She gave him hope. So, his mind began to wander, creating days and months and years of them together in his psyche. Always just thinking she’d be there.


He never told her he loves her. Although he is consumed with emotion and feelings for her. He never told her how she makes him feel. How happy she’s made him in such a short time; the happiest he’s been in only God knows how long. He never told her that he needs her like the sun, like water, like food. He never told her he loved her because he thought he had time.


And now he may never have the chance. So, he sits quietly, internally kicking himself as he runs his lips over the backs of her fingers, willing her to wake up. He can’t even speak up now, not even in this moment, not even as she fights for her life. He can’t even tell her all he wants to say. It took Lori’s death to finally get him to admit how he truly felt. How he loved her. How he wanted to put it back together. Here he is again. Losing yet another member of his family and he can’t even spit it out.


He hangs his head low, lower than ever before, letting the tears drip onto the bed below him. He shakes his head slowly, still rubbing his lips along the backs of her warm fingers. He wants to say it, to tell her everything, but he can only find three words.


“Please don’t die.”                                                                                        

Knight Without Honor

Word Count: 340 out of idk yet
Warnings: Death, Evil Stepmothers…, Princesses? I’m not good at these
Pairings: Bucky x Reader 
Summary: Royalty; It was in your blood. Your family had been ruling for generations. Your mother passed before she could birth a son, but your father remarried in hopes of having one more chance. Life is an adventure, especially when you’re a rebellious princess with an evil stepmother. 

Originally posted by kareynolds

Your dress swished around your ankles as you ran down the long corridor, your stepmother’s screams echoing off the walls around you, sending chills down your spine.

“Come back here! Come back here this instant!” She screeched, and you held your breath, trying to keep as quiet as possible.

But a yelp of surprise tore its way from your throat when you were sent flying to the floor, the material of your gown getting caught on your heel. The pain that bloomed in your knees and hands was enough to have tears clouding your vision.

The shrieking behind you grew louder and you scrambled to your feet, propelling yourself forward even though you were exhausted.

“Princess,” You heard someone whisper and your breath caught in your throat, “Princess!” And suddenly, there he was jogging toward you, always your knight in shining armor. His clothes were tattered and yellowing, his face matted with soot and dirt, but you still saw his beauty.

“Bucky,” you breathed, clinging to his arms to steady yourself.

You nearly jumped out of your skin at your stepmother’s next words, “I will find you, girl!”

You turned back to Bucky with wide, fearful eyes. He glared down the corridor before pulling you along.

“This way,” he said as he tugged you into the servants’ quarters, plunging the two of you into darkness. You blinked heavily to adjust to the lack of light, wondering if it was always this dark. “She won’t find you here,” he whispered to you, lips nearly grazing your ear.

“Bucky, don’t leave me, please.” You urged, frantically grabbing at his thin shirt.

He stilled your shaking hands by encasing them in his own, “I won’t leave you, I promise.”

He led you down the dark tunnel, guiding you this way and that, warning you of hidden stairs or holes in the floor.

“We must leave,” you panted, “I cannot stay here. She’ll kill me.”

“I won’t let that happen.” He grunted, eyes narrowing with determination before pulling you forward at a quicker pace.