7 Study Moods

So you wanna study, but somehow the mood just isn’t right. Maybe try these? Pick your favorite, or do one each day of the week!

  • The Classy: Green tea, classical string quartets, reading articles in a park.
    • Great for when you need to read 120 pages of something. It’s way nicer to read when you’re in a nice place!
  • The Hipster: Coffee, jazz, writing summaries of the material in a coffee shop.
    • You’ll look very cosmopolitan, with all your notes in front of you. Make sure your summaries are coherent though, and you’re not too busy looking great to study well.
  • The Grad Student: Wine/sparkling cider, Adele, writing papers, curled up in blankets in bed.
    • Papers are easiest for me to write when I’m comfortable. If I feel a little fancy at the same time, so much the better.
  • The Focuser: Cold water, nature sounds, taking practice tests in a sunlight place.
    • The best way to study for a test is to take a test. The best way to kill test-anxiety is to take a practice test and feel calm while you do it. This is a great way to feel calm and prepared when you do a practice test, and that leads to a better actual test.
  • The Party-er: Energy drink, dubstep, drilling flashcards on the floor.
    • Flashcards for me are a speed thing. If I’m drilling them, my goal is to know those definitions as fast as possible. Caffeine and fast music raise my heart rate, and sitting on the floor gives me room to spread out the cards however I need to.
  • The Morning Person: Orange juice, early American hymns, transcribing notes at your desk.
    • Not necessarily done during the morning! Orange juice helps keep you alert without making you open to distraction, and old American hymns just make me feel happy, so putting them together helps make transcribing a better time.
  • The Finals Prepper: Black tea, folk music, interleaving any/all of the above, at the library.
    • This can be done whenever, and is especially useful for just keeping yourself up to speed.

Don’t worry about doing any of these exactly, these are just moods! Mix and match parts of them, make your own, whatever. I’d recommend choosing one or two moods that work really well for you and then doing them consistently, just to really get in the habit.

Good luck!

Seven more study moods


Princess of Mischeif

Pairing/Characters: Reader x Loki (Dad/Daughter Relationship), OFC (Candice – Mother) x Loki, Thor, Bruce Banner, Natasha Romanoff, Steve Rogers, Sam Wilson, Tony Stark (mentioned), Romanogers (If you squint),

Warnings: Mentions of past abuse, swearing, violence, blood, death,

Summary: During a raid in a HYDRA Base, the team finds a teenage girl beaten up and clearly weak. They bring her back to the facility only to realise that she and Thor, share a certain family member. He comes back to fight the people who caused you pain and he’s not letting down.

Word Count: 2,449

Originally posted by luvn-loki

Keep reading

I can just imagine an ancient woman writing this in 1890 not having a clue just how much the english language would change.
Or even better, she did.
Found in an old Mormon childrens hymns book.

Alice Angel headcanons

1. Angels are either glorified mailmen or guardians/ babysitters to humans.

2. Alice is both cause cartoon logic, but she eventually does become a singer in a club called pub-atory *thats a play on words my boys for purgatory in case it flew way over your head*

3. Alice is a big music lover, and you can thank bendy for that.

4. In heaven, they only sang old traditional hymns and call anything else ‘devil music’

5. Alice plays the harp…or she try’s to. (I mean cmon, there to many damn strings on this thing HAVE YOU SEEN HER HANDS?!)

6. Alice is actually pretty good with puzzles and complex traps: she uses this against bendy in prank wars.

7. Speaking of the devil, OH THE PRANK WARS!

8. Bendy replaced Alice’s cake frosting with toothpaste and it WAS ON BOY OH BOY WAS SHE MAD!!

9. She has gotten revenge on bendy more times then anyone. So much that Boris has a list he pulls out when bendy gets cocky, it spills outta his hand and goes around the world and back and keeps on trucking.

10. However if Alice and bendy team up, the world promptly ends in fire and brimstone…also pie.

11. Did I mention, Alice loves cake?


13. Really anything bendy makes dessert wise. His meatloaf leaves something to be desired.

14. Whenever Boris has something he’s questioning himself over, a little devil bendy and angel Alice appear on his shoulders. They give bad advice.

15. Bendy loves when Alice gets feisty, the amount of sass coming from someone so sweet and innocent makes his non existent soul sing!

16. Alice has two wings: two slightly smaller ones up top that are meant to appear small. The other pair are these massive ones located at her hips. THOSE are for intimidation and flight. Mainly to make some jerk pee his pants!

17. Alice is very much a badass. Remember when bubbles from powderpuff girls lost her shit…yea.

That’s all I got so far, FEEL FREE TO ADD ON! I love reading head canons about these guys!!!

anonymous asked:

What do the gasters find comforting?


- Warmth and light
- Blankets and sweaters fresh out of the dryer
- Intimate physical contact, any display of affection or care
- Jasmine tea
- Petting fuzzy animals, particularly cats
- Chocolate, strawberries, sweets
- Pale green and pink


- The scent of cinnamon and the taste of rosemary
- Soft piano music
- Memories of his little brother, though they’ve gone fuzzy with age
- Silk sheets
- Poetry
- Forehead kisses (this is a deep, dark secret that only his S/O or closest friend will ever learn)


- Gregorian chants & old, forgotten hymns
- The smell of well-worn books
- Darkness, silence, solitude
- The weight of a heavy velvet cloak on his shoulders
- Spoken Latin, though he almost never gets to hear it anymore
- Enclosed spaces
- Stone, moss, shallow water


- The stars, obviously
- Open fields under night skies
- Wind chimes
- Varied textures, like that of gravel
- New clothes (they lose their charm once he’s worn them a few times)
- Music from his homeworld
- Big cities, busy and bustling at all hours of the day
- Amber eyes


- Sunlight filtered through waves
- Whale songs
- Communicating with sign
- Dozing off with his head in a trusted friend or lover’s lap
- Discovery, exploration, sating his curiosity
- Striped patterns
- Being stroked right below the gills on his neck

Where now the horse and the rider? Where is the horn that was blowing?
Where is the helm and the hauberk, and the bright hair flowing?
Where is the hand on the harpstring, and the red fire glowing?
Where is the spring and the harvest and the tall corn growing?
They have passed like rain on the mountain, like a wind in the meadow;
The days have gone down in the West behind the hills into shadow.
Who shall gather the smoke of the dead wood burning,
Or behold the flowing years from the Sea returning?
—  An old hymn about Eorl The Young, founder of the House of Eorl and ancestor of Rohan’s royal family. Sung by Aragorn in Rohirric to his companions on the way to Edoras. Lord Of The Rings, The Two Towers, The King Of The Golden Hall.
Faith is a real struggle.

I want to address something which is sometimes considered a taboo in Christian circles. Christians struggle with faith! More specifically I struggle with my faith often, in an increasingly bad world it can be hard to see God in the darkness. A few weeks back I was in charge of our Church service, as I was planning the service hoping to be inspired with great ideas that could help capture the imagination of the congregation and bring them closer to God, I was struck with nothing. That’s right absolutely nothing, not an ounce of inspiration and I felt completely flat. I hadn’t stopped believing in God, I wasn’t angry with God, I just wasn’t passionate about God, I felt completely indifferent to God. It’s in those moments that God can sometimes speak the loudest, that’s exactly what he did. My Mum helped me to plan the service, when I had no ideas she had lots, Mum was probably just doing her job as a parent by supporting me but as I reflect I feel as though Mum’s faith was the driving force behind me and the service.

The service went well and things were starting to improve between myself and God although for me it was still a struggle. I then received a text from a very close friend which couldn’t have had more resonance with me.

The first thing my friend sent me was some lyrics from an old hymn called Come, Thou Fount of Every Blessing. I normally despise older Hymns due to the fact I don’t think we sing them to their orginal tunes, for example how can a song about the joy of the Lord have such a depressing tune? That might be an issue for another blog, although I might not be a fan of the tunes the lyrics can sometimes be beautiful and in this case relevant.

“Prone to wander, Lord I feel it, Prone to leave the God I love, Here’s my heart, Lord, take and seal it, Seal it for thy courts above”    WOW!

The second thing my friend sent me was a post written by another Christian somewhere on the internet. It’s at the end of this blog. It summed up everything that I had been feeling. My relationship with God is back on track but I will always have my struggles. I may not be the most eloquent writer but I hope you find some encouragement in knowing you are not alone in faith struggles. When times like these strike and you don’t feel like reaching for your Bible or praying to God, those are the moments that you absolutely should. Share with people that you are struggling, I can guarentee other people will be too. Don’t let human pride get in the way, I’m as guilty for this as anyone. Remember whether you’re mad at God,singing his praises or completely indifferent to God right now, let him know your feelings even if you just want to rant at him, because he will listen because he cares for you.

“Cast all your anxiety on him because he cares for you.” (1 Peter 5 verse 7)

Below are the words taken from another blog, these are not my own words:

“There are days or weeks or even months when I read the Bible and there are no grand epiphanies.

There are whole seasons of Sundays when I sing praise and feel nothing.

There are times of prayer where the silence kills me.

There are great Christian books and podcasts that I eat up which don’t budge my spiritual life.

There are too many times when I doubt the very existence of God and the sending of His son. It can all feel like a crazy lie.

I’m probably being too honest- but I’ve found that I’m not the only one who feels this way.

It’s in those times that I ask myself "Am I out of love with God somehow? Am I losing my faith here? How do I get back to where I used to be?”

But I keep reading my Bible. I keep singing on Sundays. I keep praying. I soak in books and sermons. I serve. I enjoy the company of mature Christians. I enjoy the fellowship of the broken.

And you know what? Sometimes the clouds part and God comes through and his love squeezes my heart and I fall to my knees remebering how good He is. Then I read scripture and I can’t stop weeping and I turn on Christian songs in my car full blast and sing loud enough to scare the traffic. I serve with shaking hands and get convicted by those sermons and soak in God’s goodness all over again.

So I’ve learned over time: I wasn’t really out of love with God. I’m just a fragile human being who changes as much as the weather. I was setting a ridiculous standard for myself that can’t be defined by self-pressuring parameters. I was tricked by the enemy into judging my flesh. My faith is based on His grace and not my feelings. And I think I need to relax.“

Dionysus I call, Divine and Thunderous, God of Ecstasy, a two-fold shape is Thine.
I celebrate Thy names, First-Born, Thrice-Begotten, Bacchic King,
Rural, Pure, Ineffable, Obscure, Two-Horned, Ivy-Crowned,
Bull-Faced and Martial, Bearer of the Vine,
Wise Counselor, Triennial,
Whom the leaves of vines adorn, divinely dorn of the Underworld’s Queen,
Immortal Dionysus, hear the voice of Thy supplicants,
Give us joy and blameless plenty,
And with Thy court of wild Maenads, graciously listen to our mystic prayer.
—  Orpheus

anonymous asked:

Hmm… let's say Noctis's s/o had a nightmare/just can't sleep. What does he do to try and lull them to sleep?

When Noct finds his lover covered in sweat and almost in hysterics during the middle of the night he is immediately in agony. He hates seeing those he loves in a place of fear or panic. 

Noctis is extremely understanding when it comes to night terrors and trouble sleeping. He understands the fears that dreams can bring.

Noctis mimics his mother’s remedies for a nightmare. 

  • When Noctis notices the fear within his lover he immediately pulls them into an embrace. A way to signify protection and empathy to another. 
  • Following, he places a kiss on their forehead and brings their head to his chest. The sound of a heartbeat is the most soothing bass to accompany a melody of a still night.
  • That melody would have a hum of an old hymn of Eos to complete it. While he lacks the vocal range and softness his mother once carried, he always does this to soothe his lover and to honor his mother.

Noct has a bit of trouble articulating his emotions. Sometimes he’ll just trace his fingers along the ridges of their spine and the muscles on their back. A way to show his adoration of their beauty.

On the lucky days, where there’s no nightmares and his lover is only having trouble sleeping Noctis always lies down next to them, he doesn’t do anything, but he understands human warmth is comforting. He knows this from the loneliness he felt growing up.

On a cold night, he’ll brush his cheek against their arm, he loves the feeling of goosebumps tickling his cheek and the warmth they can create together.

On happier days, he’ll smile and spoon his partner. Sometimes just a simple touch is enough to emphasize how much he cares and the joy his lover brings him. 

On the nights both he and his lover awake from night terrors, he places a hand upon his lover’s cheek. A reminder to himself that you are real and the reassurance that he is safe and no longer alone.

On the hardest days, where he aches from battle and is worn from depressive episodes and he witnesses his lover experience a nightmare, he’ll break from his solidarity and cry. Never loudly. Never making a scene. Never saying a word. But he’ll cry and hug them. He wants to be strong, he wants to protect them, he wants to help, but this is all he can offer. He hopes it’s enough. He always hopes.

-Love, Admin Swan


Take a closer look at the details behind the inspiration of the Haute Couture Autumn Winter 2016-17 collection, which explores the contrast of nature and industry skyscraper heights and human streets. Iconic architectural structures from New York city are embroidered, beaded and printed upon gentle yet generous forms whilst birds light across the collection. Viewed from the outside toward the city skyline or from within looking up to the dramatich heights and bright lights, each angle speaks of positive modernisim in a hymn to old New York.

Woc Series: O Mary Don’t You Weep AU

Hey guys!! This is a requested imagine where Harry and Y/N are together during segregation.  There will be multiple parts to this imagine, and this first one is really just setting up the background info so that the next few parts have more drama in them.  I do want to warn you guys that there is mentioning of violence and one usage of the n word.  I’m definitely not a proponent of that word; however, it is used in context of the time and the particular event that happens in this imagine.  As always, comment, give feedback, and ask questions! But most of all, enjoy!! Xoxo


*1957 in the South*

 “O Mary don’t you weep, don’t you mourn…. O Mary don’t you weep, don’t you mourn…. Pharaoh’s army got drowned…. O Mary don’t you weep…”

The boisterous voices of the choir reverberated through the church as one solid echo, the old hymn being sung with unrequited emotion.  The humidity present within the space sapped up the notes and Mrs. Patty May’s shrill voice punctuated the air, setting herself apart from the rest.  You watched from your place in the second pew as your father nodded his head along to the old spiritual, his eyes closed and his foot tapping, keeping beat.

You wiped at the back of your neck, collecting small droplets of sweat with your handkerchief; the church didn’t have air conditioning and it was stifling despite it being late morning—it was early summer and already it was sweltering enough to force the townspeople to sit on their shaded porches in the afternoons.

As the choir’s voices faded out and the hymn came to an end, your dad stood up and walked over to his pulpit.  You felt your kid sister pinch your arm gingerly, causing you to flinch slightly before looking over at her with a scowl.

“Can I have another peppermint?” She whispered, her eyes wide as she asked.  You huffed lightly, but reached into your pocket for the last piece of candy before giving it to her.  “Don’t suck on it loudly, Daddy’s about to start preaching again…” you warned her quietly before turning back to listen to your father.

“Amen,” the deep baritone of your father’s voice resonated through the church, and he grinned when the church folk echoed him.

“God is good ain’t he? He allowed us to wake up today, so please can I get another loud Amen?”  Your dad wiped at his forehead with his handkerchief as people—old and young alike—raised their hands skyward and yelled “Amen!”

You clapped softly before nudging your friend, Robert, to do the same.  He had a bad tendency of falling asleep or forgetting to clap at the appropriate times, and you often helped him out.

“You wanna go to Mr. Johnson’s to get ice cream after this?” He nudged you back as he asked you quietly. You smiled before nodding, “sure.”


It was only an hour after church ended, and yet the air was humming with a heat that induced sluggishness. You watched, amused, as Robert kicked a small rock down the middle of the vacant street.  You licked lazily at the ice cream in your hand and hummed to yourself lightly.

“Have you heard from your brother?”  Robert looked back at you as he asked, his rock kicked a few steps ahead of him. You nodded, smiling faintly at the thought of your older brother.

“Harlem’s treating him just fine…. He’s trying to convince Daddy to let me come visit,” you gave Robert a tight-lipped smile, thinking of how stubborn your father could be.  You took another lick of your ice cream, the frozen treat acting as a perfect contrast to the sweltering heat that stuck firmly to your dark skin.

You heard Robert chuckle as he shook his head, “The day you go to Harlem… a southern gal like you…. that be the day them white folks catch me,” Robert looked back at you with a grin. Hating when he talked like that, you kicked one of the rocks in abundance in the road at the back of his shoes in defiance.

“Ayeee not my nice church shoes, woman!”  Robert grimaced before turning to walk backwards so that he could see you, forgetting about his kicking rock.  

“You know I hate when you talk like that..” you grumbled before taking another lazy lick at your ice cream; it was low enough in the cone so that it didn’t drip down your fingers, something that always happened to your kid sister.

“You know it’s just a joke, Y/N. They won’t touch me on this side of the tracks…” you watched as Robert stuck his hands into his pockets, his suit jacket slung over his broad shoulder and getting dirtied by the dust that the two of you were kicking up.  You narrowed your eyes at him and he made an annoyed face at you that caused you to roll your eyes.

“Still, it ain’t right to be talking like that… You ain’t got no reason to even say that tomfoolery,” you reprimanded him, your tone riddled with worry.  Robert had a habit of making offhand comments about white folks doing something to him, and it deeply troubled you.

The rest of the walk back to your home, right next to your father’s church, was quiet which was mainly your fault.  Robert had tried to lighten the mood and hold a conversation with you, but his words deeply stirred something inside of you that you couldn’t let go of.

You were so stuck in your head that you didn’t register that the two of you were standing at the steps to the house’s porch until Robert placed a hand delicately on your upper arm.

“Y/N…… I’m sorry, truly. I ain’t mean to make you like this. You look—well—you look like you seen a ghost.  Nearly as pale as a moon rock, woman.”  

You bit at your lip, trying to hide your grimace, before looking up at Robert.  The brown skin of his face had darkened from working on his father’s tobacco farm, his eyes a deep brown that matched his skin with a nice broad nose and full lips.  His hands were rough and calloused, and more than anything you wished you could see a future with him; that your summers would always involve going to Mr. Johnson’s for ice cream, and nudging each other at church.  You wished that you wanted him to be yours, so that you wouldn’t have to have nightmares about his foolish words.  But reality was harsh, and you knew that you’d never really belong to him.

Before you could stop yourself, you flung yourself into his arms and hugged him impossibly close. His muscled back flexed from underneath your small hands as he hugged you back immediately.  You breathed in the scent of him, a musky scent tainted by the tobacco, before pulling away.

“Thank you, Robert…. I’ll see you tomorrow…” you whispered before turning around and walking up the three concrete steps to the porch.  You turned to give him one last fleeting smile before you made your way inside the house; a dark premonition rooting itself deep in your belly.


It was past midnight by a few hours, and you were becoming nervous.

You were sitting on the ledge of your bedroom window.  The moonlight filtered in through the open window, allowing the cacophony of night critter sounds to waft inside your small room along with hot, humid air and the sweet scent of the tall country grass.  

You were staring off into the darkness, just barely able to distinguish where the sky met the earth, and as you worried your bottom lip between your teeth, your mind wandered with garish possibilities of what could have caused such a prolonged delay.

He was never late before.

You breathed in the humid air before trying to cover up a cough when it got stuck in your lungs. You furrowed your brows, willing for the signal to appear from across the horizon; you desperately needed it to especially after your mind had taken a dark turn because of Robert’s careless words.

You didn’t know how long you continued to wait, but the night critters’ songs turned to background noise and goosebumps were beginning to arise on your bare arms when you finally heard a promising sound, the low roar of his truck’s motor accompanied by the signal: headlights flashing twice before going dark.

With barely a passing glance aimed behind you, you excitedly jumped off the ledge and forward into the grass below.  Your house dress shifted around your ankles as you quickly made your way from the side of the house, diagonal through the tall grass—occasionally swatting at offending bugs—and towards your boyfriend of three months.

The trek to him always seemed impossibly long; a small path was worn into the grass from dozens of nights of doing the same thing, and yet the five hundred meters to get to the road, to him, felt like five hundred miles.

You picked up your pace when you saw him exit the old truck to lean against the driver’s side.  You knew his eyes were watching you; whenever he looked at you your skin livened and buzzed as if electricity ran through your veins.  As you got closer you could make out his short hair and straight, pointed nose, and his muscled arms crossed against his chest.

And then you were only a mere ten steps away, and you could make out the green of his eyes, sparkling emeralds that reflected the stars, and his skin, an even paler white in the moonlight.

“Harry,” you breathed his name like a secret caress, watching as he stepped forward and uncrossed his arms.

Before he could respond, you dashed into his arms, jumping slightly into his embrace.  You felt his muscles flex as he held you so that your face was a hair higher than his own.  You felt a genuine smile grace your face as you breathed him in.  His eyes were sparkling and slightly crinkled on the sides as he smiled up at you.

“Hey, darlin,” the deep huskiness of his voice was so familiar and comforting.

Smiling down at him, you lowered your face to his before capturing his lips with your own. You would never get used to the shock of kissing him for the first time in days—the way that his lips, so supple and soft, seemed to electrify and zap your own in a comfortable burn.  Or the way you could hear the unsteady thumping of your heart in your ears, drowning out the ragged breaths that the both of you took.  The sweet taste of Harry and his wet tongue seemed to bombard your senses almost as much as the nectarous scent that he emitted, and as he gripped the back of your head with a large hand to deepen the kiss, you completely surrendered yourself to him.

Eventually you pulled away slightly, gasping for air as Harry set you down.

“I missed you,” you whispered, bringing up a hand to caress his cheek.  You fixed him with a small smile when his eyes softened, his green orbs roving over your face as if he was committing it to memory.

“I missed you more,” he told you earnestly causing your smile to deepen.

You placed your hand on his other cheek before standing on your tiptoes to place a peck on his lips. You smiled as you pulled away. Harry grasped both of your arms in his hands as his eyes bore into your own.

“You okay, Haz?” There was something akin to sadness in his eyes for some reason.

You watched as he blinked rapidly as if he was trying to rid of it before he nodded at you slowly, his lips pursed slightly.  You were about to question him about it more when he breathed in deeply before giving you your favorite dimpled smile that lit up his whole face.

“Let’s go for a drive,” he offered pleasantly; he squeezed your arms lightly as he asked you and you nodded your head as you answered, “sure.”

Harry, always a gentleman, helped you into the truck, and you scooted to the passenger side, watching Harry’s lean, tall figure follow you into the old vehicle.  You adjusted yourself so that you were up against Harry, his warmth a steady presence.

He started up the engine, keeping the headlights off precautionarily before pulling off from the side of the road and back onto the right side.

“Can we go onto your side of the tracks tonight?” You wondered aloud as you looked at Harry’s side profile, his eyes intently on the road.  However, when you asked, his eyes darted towards you quickly and flashed with something like fright before he turned back towards the road.

The truck was moving at a lackadaisical pace in the direction that took you further into your part of town causing you to furrow your brows slightly.

“Haz…” you murmured before reaching out for his arm.  The windows were down and slight breezes rustled loose tendrils about your face, his own hair whipping around.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, darlin…” Harry muttered, his tone off.  You pouted slightly, sensing that he was keeping something from you.

“Why not?” You pushed for an answer before laying your head against his shoulder, watching as Mr. Johnson’s general store passed by in the rearview mirror.

“It’s just… not that safe over there right now,” Harry peeked down at you for a beat, watching as you bit at your bottom lip.

“Ok,” you murmured.  A long moment of silence passed before you reached for the truck’s stereo to turn it on.

Immediately, the husky voice of Billie Holiday crooned softly as it invaded the compacted space.

“It cost me a lot, but there’s one thing that I’ve got….. It’s my man….”

A smile instantly graced your face as you heard the song.

“I can’t believe they’re playing this song.  It’s so old!” You exclaimed happily; it was your favorite Billie Holiday song; one that you owned on vinyl and listened to often.

You hummed along to the melody and closed your eyes before breathing in the musky scent of Harry’s truck; he had worked in his family’s bakery earning enough to eventually buy the old truck.  Sometimes the motor lagged, but it was all his and he was extremely proud of it.

You felt as Harry decreased his speed and pulled onto the side of the road again.  You opened your eyes when he drove carefully into the grass, the rougher terrain causing you to rock slightly in your seat.  He drove his usual one hundred yards or so into the open field, far enough away from the main road and anyone who would be out at this time of night.

You watched Harry turn off the engine with tense movements, and you frowned slightly when the two of you were thrown into silence.

“Haz,” you murmured, your tone coming out worried as you brought your other hand to rest on his arm. “Tell me what’s going on,” you cooed.

“I just love you so damn much, Y/N…” Harry grimaced lightly, his voice coming out gruff.  You felt your heart skip a beat as it always did whenever he expressed his love for you.

“I love you too,” you whispered, your heart melting as he turned towards you, his light eyes glistening.

“And I mean it, too. I ain’t gonna ever stop feeling this way, darlin….”  You smiled lightly at his words, rubbing his arm in soothing gestures.

“We’ll be okay, Harry,” you whispered, trying your best to ease his mind with your words.

You pursed your lips when he took in a shaky breath and furrowed your brows when he removed his hands from the steering wheel, noticing that they were shaking softly.

Harry sniffed lightly before turning his head to look out his window, hiding his pained expression from you.

“Everytime we sneak out we run the risk of getting caught… No one will care that we are in love. They’ll just see a white man and a negro woman….” Harry’s voice was hoarse, his words putting a chill in your spine.  You took a deep, steadying breath as your eyes began to sting with the beginning stages of tears.  You hadn’t had this conversation with him for weeks, but it always lingered over the two of you, weighing the both of you down.

With a careful hand, you reached up to run your fingers through his hair affectionately.  You felt the silkiness of it, so different from your own, and you fixed him with a watery smile when he turned towards you again, his face distraught.

“We’ll figure it out, Haz,” you whispered to him, completely believing your words.

With wide, earnest eyes you watched as Harry brought a trembling hand to the apple of your cheek, rubbing his thumb against your soft skin.

You leaned into his hand before moving towards him to lay your head on his chest.  Even through his shirt, you could hear the steady beating of his heart; a sound that you loved more than anything in the world.  Harry began to rub your back in large circular motions, and you placed a chaste kiss to the base of his throat lovingly.

“We’ll be ok,” you breathed as you closed your eyes, surrendering yourself to the calm feelings that took over you.  You listened to Harry’s breathing as it steadied.

There was something so enchanting about being with him in the silence of the truck.  The way in which time seemed to stop and the warm air wafted through the windows, bringing with it the sounds of nighttime critters and the sweet scents of summertime.  If you opened your eyes you would be able to see the stars, grouped in sparkling constellations.  You felt the calming rise and fall of Harry’s chest as he breathed from underneath your cheek, and every few minutes he would drop a kiss to the top of your head, his warm lips causing small grins to play across your face.  Rarely did the world ever feel perfect, but in these moments it felt irrevocably right.

You didn’t know how long the two of you stayed liked that, perfectly content with being in each other’s arms, but you opened your eyes and frowned lightly after some time when you heard the loud roar of multiple engines.  

You looked out through Harry’s window to see the far off flashes of headlights on the main road. Immediately a cold dose of fear ran up your spine to kiss the back of your hairline.  You quickly looked up at Harry to find his face pulled down in a frown. He sat up, his eyes trained on the empty road, the roar of the motors getting louder, the headlights illuminating the black of the road.

“We’re far enough off the road, right?” You whispered, highly concerned.  This wasn’t the first time that something like this happened, but the motors seemed louder, and you were always put on edge despite the proximity.

Harry’s eyes were trained on the road and he hushed you softly, his brows pulling in.  Your breathing halted, your chest beginning to burn from the lack of oxygen, and yet you didn’t dare make a sound.  Needing to feel safe, you grabbed Harry’s hand in the dark, squeezing it lightly and finding a small ounce of comfort in the warmth and sizeable nature of his hand.

With wide, frightened eyes, you watched the side of Harry’s face, at his downturned lips and the way his green eyes narrowed with focus.  His breathing was shallow, so shallow that your dark eyes dropped to his chest to see if he was even breathing.

However, your eyes shot up to the road when the roaring engines got closer—so close that you could have sworn the heat from them reached the cab of the truck—and you watched as three old trucks zoomed by, completely oblivious, they’re headlights barely having time to illuminate what was in front of them.

Your breath came out shaky as they passed and their motors died out.  Your eyes swung back up to Harry.  He looked like he had seen a ghost—his skin was clammy and pale, and his eyes held a wild look in them—you had never seen him like this before.

Quickly reaching out to place the back of your hand against the small space of his forehead, you proceeded to repeatedly asked him if he was alright.

It took a minute for him to respond to you, and his words came out tumbling over each other.

“Harry,” you called out his name, your voice quivering.  Something was not right and you were beginning to become scared.

“I need to get you home, Y/N,” His deep voice usually deep and steady came out frantic.

“What we’ve barely had time to even be in each other’s company…”

“Goddammit, Y/N!  I knew I shouldn’t have come to get you!” Harry’s outburst made you jump.  Blinking quickly, surprised, you grew confused.

“Harry,” your voice came out steadier than you felt.  “What is going on?” You asked again, your voice barely a whisper.

“They killed a boy,” Harry breathed out, his voice broken.  “They killed him.” He lowered his head to the steering wheel, his chest heaving in a broken sob.

Your blood immediately ran cold, your mind becoming light as if you were no longer controlling it.

“Who?” You asked quietly, your voice still remarkably unshaken.

“I don’t know, but apparently he’s been with a white girl from town.  Joseph, Billy, everybody went nigger hunting tonight and found him on our side and he was touching her… Jesus Christ.  They attacked him and lynched him,” Harry’s voice came out breathy and muffled but you heard every word that he uttered; each one was like a knife to your soul.

With shaking fingers you felt your wet cheeks, your body somehow frozen with the information that he presented you with.  You tried your best to take in a deep breath of air, but you choked slightly and wheezed, trying to regain your breath.

You didn’t know how long you stared at Harry with wide eyes and a gaping mouth but the tears on your cheeks eventually began to dry leaving white paths on your cheeks, and your breathing returned to normal.  You looked away from Harry for a split second before turning back towards him, your body just going through the motions.  He was beginning to breathe normally again but he was still leaned over the steering wheel.

Stiffly, you reached out to him and pulled him back, finding little resistance from his body.  Your face softened as you took in his red-rimmed eyes and his damp cheeks.  His eyes were distraught and you vaguely felt a pang in your heart.

Slowly, you leaned over to him before leaving a closed-mouth kiss on his lips, tasting the saltiness on his lips.  You pulled back before he returned the kiss, and breathed out a ragged breath.

“Can you drive?” You cleared your throat as you eyed Harry.  He looked so detached, but he eventually nodded at you, his eyes fixed on his lap.

“Can you please take me home?” You whispered as you felt tears begin to swim in your eyes again. You fiddled with the fingers that were in your lap, feeling like your body was being ripped apart but not feeling a thing.

Harry didn’t respond, but he started the old engine before accelerating slowly to get back onto the road. You tried to do your best to breathe in the saccharine sweet air, but each breeze that entered the cab chilled you and the critters sang acheful songs.

You watched, blankly, as Harry drove up on your house, only to feel the sharp pang of fright to run through your bloodstream once more.  The trucks you had seen were all parked in the church’s front lawn haphazardly.

You barely made out your mother’s figure as she turned around, alerted by the sound of the vehicle, her face tormented.

“Y/N!!” She shrieked, her eyes wide with something akin to distress.

Without thinking, you opened the door of the truck and jumped out, sprinting to your mother.  Her dark face was tired and hysterical, and you quickly urged her away from the direction of the truck so that she wouldn’t see Harry.

“Where have you been? Whose truck is that?” Her voice came out frenzied, her eyes glistening with unshed tears.  You quickly looked over your shoulder to see that Harry was gone, and you let out a breath that you had been holding since he told you what happened earlier.

“Mamma, what happened? Why are all these people at the church?” You looked around her and saw most of the men of the town coming together in a large group.  Their faces were dark with anger.  Your eyes searched for Robert, and you breathed lightly when you saw that he wasn’t there.  You prayed that he was home watching over his mother; she was older and needed assistance during the days and nights.

“Something terrible has happened..” Your mother cried out as she tried to push you towards the house.

“There’s been a lynching,” she continued gravely.  “They going to get the body and bring him home to his mamma.”

You felt chills erupt across your whole body.

“Jesus,” you murmured, your words shaky.

“But, Y/N.  There’s something else…”  Your mother sat you down on the steps of the porch, her voice fighting to be as comforting as possible.

Your mind was so fuzzy that you simply nodded up at her, your eyes wide, taking her in.

“I don’t want you to hear this from anybody else.  I’m so sorry, baby….” You looked at your mother, your mind muddled and being splayed as confusion on your face.

You watched as your mother’s face broke down and a few tears escaped from her dark eyes.

“Y/N…. it was Robert. He’s dead.”

Before you could react, your body lurched and you blacked out, your head hitting the hard concrete of the porch steps.

I have feelings, here let me inflict them on you. 

Baze calls Jyn ‘little sister’. But how often has he done that? How often has Baze followed Chirrut’s steps into a situation and walked out with a few strays following him like a chicks following their mother duck? How often does he just adopt those broken souls they encounter and keep them and give them family and somewhere safe to just be. Because this is my headcanon. That Baze, with his vicious face scar and a blaster that needs a warm up its so big and powerful and heavy that it changes his centre of gravity into a solid and thumping walk where every step is a measured strategic move, Baze is the one who slowly bends down creaking a little with age and a roll of his eyes that says ‘can you believe the nerve of my old bones’ that draws a quick twitch of smile from the poor young thing they’ve rescued. Chirrut stands a little away, in the carnage, with a soft smile as he settles his weight against his staff because he may offer words of comfort and of the future but Baze is the guiding star that brings people out of the dark in the first place. Baze is the shield and Chirrut the sword. Baze is the one he coaxes the frightened children out from their hiding place because he is both scary and tough looking like an old leather hide but soft too, there’s an air about him that says to someone ‘I can protect you from the knife at your back but I also keep you warm on the coldest nights when the loneliness and fear get to much’. You expect him to have that smell of warm fires and a good broth that warms your core as much as feeds you. Baze is the temple guardian that mother’s left their children with, even when his faith failed him and their order crumbled, Baze was still the protector. Some of Chirrut’s favourite memories are the nights where Baze would sit on the floor bracketed by Chirrut’s legs and sing the old hymns in his broken voice, rough and deep and nearly a whisper as Chirrut removed the braids the little girls and boys would tangle his hair into. The frayed silky strands of ribbon and cloth coming loose easily enough from their child made knots and wrapped around Baze’s wrist for the next day. Baze calls Jyn little sister and gives her family again when everything is about to go to hell in hand basket. Baze gives her a home and Chirrut gives her hope as much as Bodhi and Cassain do but Baze gives her a family again and that’s what he always does and its why Chirrut loves him because he’s the hearth and home and the solid promise that keeps everyone standing and getting back up. You can be the dreamer watching the clouds when the ground is solid and sure beneath your feet after all. 

How our name can mean both ancestor And enemy.
Your body begins in four directions. 

 Here, one calendar takes eighteen years. I am three.
One day is an eyelash. 

 Your body is a segment of prehistoric road,
A buried stairwell with only the top stair obvious.

We are alluvial, obsidian. 
Sometimes the ground swells 

 With disappointment; sometimes we know our mountains
Will be renamed after foreign saints.
 We sing nine-hundred-year-old hymns 

That instruct us in how to sit still
 For forty-nine years Through a fifty-year drought.
We climb down through the hole anyway, 

And agree to the arrangement.

Mother Church No. 3, Robin Coste Lewis

Shooting Stars

When I was still a small boy, my Lolo would let me accompany him whenever he took our horse for a bath down the river. This constituted mostly of waking up every four o'clock in the morning when the sky is still submerged in deep black and littered with stars. Growing up as a kid in a small barrio, I got used to the crackling of the early morning chickens, my Lola singing an old visayan church hymn while preparing breakfast and the early morning smell of damp earth and grasses wet with morning dew. It was then during these trips with my Lolo, that I saw my first shooting star. And with all the innocence and childishness that a kid could muster, I closed my eyes and wished that I could become a superhero like Superman. Hoping against hope that maybe that star, that one piece of rogue celestial rock too unfortunate enough to reach earth might grant me my wish and let me fly, have super strength or an x-ray or heat vision. I don’t know if Lolo noticed, maybe he did, or maybe he did not. Mornings with him were like this, dreamy, unhurried, and simple. While he bathes our horse down the river, I would look at him from the banks or play by the river’s shallow parts. We would come home after that, just on time for early morning breakfasts that Lola would prepare. Life was much more simpler back then. Me and my cousins shared mornings like these, quite and simple.

As days bled into months and months into years. As people grew older and wither. As me and my cousins all grew up to the individuals that we would become. Life took us and it took us mercilessly, without warning nor consent. As it distracted us with growing up and with our individual lives. We forgot the kids that we once were and the people whom we shared it with, our grandparents. Death came for them and it came in our absence. We failed to notice that they have become fragile and easily broken. They saw us grow up but we never saw them grow old. You see, the painful truth about nostalgia is that it allows you to remember things of the past and betrays you to the even more painful realization of the things that you missed and took for granted and of the memories that you could’ve created with people, especially of those that matter.

Life happens and it happens fast, today’s moments become tomorrow’s memories and then, without even knowing it, without caution nor doubt, it culminates into a fateful ending like shooting stars dissipating into thin air, against the black of the night. But like shooting stars we also come to appreciate its beauty despite its imperfections and realities, no matter how short lived it may be. And as fleeting as it could be we have to live in the moment and make memories with people that truly matter. Memories that you’ll be thankful for one day.

And so despite the regrets and the forsaken moments, I am truly thankful for early morning horseback rides and breakfasts, and for late night stories and lullabies, for these things, these small, finite and seemingly unimportant moments that litter our lives, are the invincible ties that bind us, even beyond death.

 old war hymns and stardust. 

{ and together we’ll save the world } 

for the reality warper and the girl who grew up far to fast. 

for fights and bickering, and the quiet sense of gratitude in between the bombs and explosions ; 

for the times spent saving each other’s lives and the lives of their teammates,

and for the slow realization that perhaps, they’re one step closer to being something like friends.

for wanda maximoff and anne marie. 

listen ]  

i. boats & birds gregory and the hawk ii. lament mount moriah iii. stood up a fine frenzy iv. a berry bursts twin hidden  v. corpse roads keaton henson  vi. wolf first aid kit vii. satellite heart anya marina viii. war young yeller ix. slow life grizzly bear x. girl in the war  josh ritter xi. hearing damage thom yorke xii. stay alive jose gonzalez xiii. everlasting light the black keys xiv. sticks and stones  cara delevigne  xv. woodland  the paper kites.  

anonymous asked:

Hey what about tailgate thinking cyclonus is asleep and singing old hymns to him softly as to not wake him but the big softie is secretly totally awake.



you can’t hear me cause this is on a computer but I am doing muted squealing irl because that is super cute and sweet and i’m dying it’s so lovely bless u anon

if driving fast cars you like, if low bars you like, if old hymns you like, if bare limbs you like, if May West you like or me undressed you like nobody will oppose!

I’m on this lonely petition called “Kurt Should Have Sang Anything Goes” and the only other thing on the petition with me is a hump of trash because that is what I am.