pack to the gills


Below the cut, there are #114 textured gif icons of Neelam Gill. These gifs were made ALL by me, Anastasia. Don’t put these into other gif hunts or claim as your own, but you are welcome to edit them as you please! Please like or reblog if you find this helpful! TW; flashing lights

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Here are #39 gifs of the model Neelam Gill, all taken from her appearance on “Champions of Breakfast.” All of these gifs were made from scratch by me – feel free to use in any way you like, just don’t repost and claim as your own. All the gifs are 250x145, textless (save for the watermark), and HQ. Please like or reblog if this helped you!

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JIM MAHFOOD (Tank Girl, Clerks) debuts his first new creator-owned work in years with the glorious return of GRRL SCOUTS! Join Gwen, Daphne, and Rita as they reunite for a pulse-pounding psychedelic adventure through the streets of Freak City. This first issue is stuffed to the gills with an action-packed story, bonus art, soundtrack, sketchbook, and a behind-the-scenes comic thingy. Plus, a variant cover by the one and only SKOTTIE YOUNG! Pure fun! Pure flavor!

Strays (Baker’s Dozen verse)

For OQ Prompt Party Day 7: 118. Roland finds two kittens, they love Regina the most.

They’ve been trying to wear her down for weeks – months, even. Ever since Lydia turned two, Henry and Roland have been lobbying for a pet.

She’d forbidden a puppy point-blank. She doesn’t have the time, or the energy, to deal with an apartment full of chewed shoes and puddles of pee. Lydia is enough of a destroyer as it is, she doesn’t need an accomplice.

And kittens, well… She’s never really been a fan. They just seem too… prissy, too aloof. Self-sufficient, yes, that’s great, but… She’s just not a pet person.

In the end, though, the decision is made for her, on a muggy night in late August. They’ve left the baby to the capable hands of Belle and August, opting to take the boys to a dinner that doesn’t involve high chairs or Cheerios. Something more grown up as a final send-off to summer before school starts.

It was Henry’s turn to choose, and there hadn’t been a moment of hesitation: he wanted “Chinatown dumplings” – what he calls the pork soup dumplings that he and Emma often go stuff themselves with on their regular playdates. She always takes him to the same place—a little cash-only hole-in-the-wall down below Canal Street—and it’s apparently serious business.

They sit around a communal table, and Henry instructs them very carefully in the right way to eat their dumplings without spilling the soup or burning their tongues (Roland does both, but he doesn’t seem to mind), and by the time they leave, they’re all happy and packed to the gills with dumplings, and rice, and beef with string beans, and orange shrimp, and chicken lo mein.

They stroll down darkened streets together, Robin’s arm slung over her shoulder, the boys several paces ahead chattering away – close enough that it doesn’t feel unsafe but far enough that they feel like they have their freedom.

It’s been a good night. A wonderful night.

So when the boys stop near a small mountain of trash piled up by the curb, she doesn’t think much of it. She notices, sure, and grimaces, and says a prayer of thanks that she’d thrown a fresh bottle of hand sanitizer in her purse just yesterday. But she doesn’t call out to them until they’re bending down and reaching toward the pile.

Even then, it’s only a stern (but mild), “Stay out of the trash!”

Henry glances up and waves a hand fervently at them, beckoning them forward, but Roland’s attention is rapt.

When she and Robin catch up, it becomes immediately clear why.

One of the garbage bags has a hole in it, little bits of fish and sour liquid spilled out on the sidewalk, and there, making a meal of it, is a pair of calico kittens.

“Daddy, look!” Roland exclaims, reaching out and scooping up one of the mangy little things before Regina can stop him. It meows loudly, twisting in his grasp, and all Regina can think about is fleas. Fleas, and maybe rabies.

“I see, my boy,” Robin says, crouching down near the piles and saying, “But we should probably put him back where we found him, so his mummy and daddy can find him.”

“He doesn’t have a mummy and daddy,” Roland insists. “They’re all alone, and they’re hungry!” Regina is entirely unsurprised that he turns those big, dark eyes on her and pleads, “Can we take them home, Regina?”

She’s loath to break his tender heart, but still, “Absolutely not.”

She says it kindly, but she says it all the same.

“Mom, please.” It’s Henry this time. It’s not-so-little boy’s pleading eyes, and he’s scooping up the other kitten as she winces, cupping his scrawny body carefully, and saying, “Look how skinny they are! They’re starving, they’re eating garbage.”

“They’re covered in fleas,” Regina reasons gently. “And we don’t have anything for them – no food, no litter box, no—”

“We can get them!” Roland argues, cradling his yowling little dirtball against his shirt, and now he’s got fleas, too, hasn’t he?

“Yeah, Mom, it’s not that late,” Henry encourages. “We could get all that stuff. And we could give them a bath to get rid of any bugs. I don’t think they even have any!”

Regina narrows her eyes, bending close to get a good look at the little critters. They’re grubby, their white patches grayed with dirt; she can’t tell if the little black flecks she sees are more dirt or the dreaded fleas.

She glances toward Robin, and points out, “You’ve been suspiciously quiet over there.”

He just shrugs, stuffs his hands into the pockets of his jeans, and says, “I’m hearing out their arguments.”

“We can’t leave them,” Roland insists, petting the top of one little head. “What if they die out here? They wouldn’t die at our house, please, Regina? We need to save them. They’re only babies!”

He’s starting to get worked up, holding that squirming ball of fluff closer as his eyes start to well up with tears.

She’s going to regret it, she’s certain of it, but she knows that Roland is right. The kittens seem to be abandoned, they’re all skin and bones and dingy fur, and they’ll certainly suffer out here on their own. Suffer, and maybe die.

So she sighs, deeply, and relents, “Okay, we can bring them home,” earning a twin chorus of Yes! from the boys, and a dimpled grin from her husband.

And just like that, their family is two kittens larger.

They just barely make it to the pet store before closing, and make quick work of stocking up on “the essentials.” Which apparently include not only a bed (she insists on just one, it’s large enough for both kittens), a flea dip, a litter box, some kitten food, but also a pair of itty bitty collars with jingling bells, two packets of felt mice, a handful of catnip treats, a dangling feather…

They leave laden, the boys cradling the most precious cargo, Robin and Regina hefting all the rest, and as they make their way home, she asks, “So what will we name them?”

“I suppose we need to find out if they’re boy kittens or girl kittens first,” Robin reasons, but the boys heartily disagree.

“We can give them names that work for both!” Henry insists, and it’s decided that he and Roland get to name a kitten each.

Henry decides to give his kitten the apt moniker of Dumpling, in honor of when and where they were found.

“I’m gonna name mine after our dinner, too!” Roland insists, and Regina wonders if they’re going to end up with Shrimpy, or Orange. But in the end, kitten number two is christened Noodles.

“Not Noodle?” Regina asks, but Roland is adamant.

“Nope. Noodles.”

And so they are, Dumpling and Noodles.

Their first bath reveals that, yes, they most definitely have fleas, and a strong aversion to water. But they manage to get them cleaned up, and flea-dipped, and get their little bellies full of soggy kibble.

And Regina has to admit that they’re actually pretty cute. Those white patches are properly white, and their scrubbed fur is soft and surprisingly fluffy when it dries. They sleep curled up in that little bed together, purring happily, and Roland watches them adoringly, telling Regina again and again how happy they look, how they saved them, isn’t she glad they saved them.

And yes, she has to admit, she is.

She’s not thrilled at the prospect of their furniture (or their toddler) getting scratched all to hell, but she thinks that she’d have had a hard time not thinking about those little, purring bundles wandering the streets eating trash.

Lydia, as it turns out, loves the kittens. Loves them. Adores them – in an Elmira from Tiny Toons sort of way. Robin and Regina are constantly reminding her Gentle, gentle… We pet, we don’t squeeze…

They’re also constantly reminding the kittens (they’re a boy and a girl, it turns out) to scratch on their new post and not the kitchen chairs. To gnaw on, well, anything but Henry’s fingers or Regina’s hair. To not frolic all over Regina’s legs as she naps on the couch after dinner. They’re lively – damn near manic – when they descend upon their catnip toys.

But Regina has to admit, it’s nice to have company in the wee hours of the morning when she drags herself out of bed to shower and dress. She finds their insistent little mews as she fills their food bowls a cheerful welcome to the world of the waking, enjoys the soft brush of their furry bodies around her ankles as she readies herself for the day post-shower.

And okay, yes, they do make lovely, warm space heaters when they curl themselves into the bend of her knee at night, or crawl up and settle down on her chest, their steady rumbling echoing against her heart.

She catches Robin smiling at her one night, while she scratches Noodles behind his ears, Dumpling’s fluffy form stretched over her thigh.

“What?” she asks him, and Robin’s grin just widens.

“Not a pet person,” he mutters, a hint of mocking in his voice, and she realizes she’s somehow become a veritable cat lady, despite her hesitance to take in these silly little ruffians.

Regina just rolls her eyes, gives Noodles’ ears a little tug, and tells Robin through her grin, “Shut up.”


Put Another Coin in the Jukebox Baby (and dance with me)

Smutty Bartender!Killian AU.

Emma hates Valentine’s Day.

Has ever since she was a kid, always the new girl in school with the home haircut and the clothes that didn’t fit quite right and the chip on her shoulder. The other kids all trade the brightly coloured cards and candy hearts while she sits slumped in her seat and pretend that the few pity Valentines she gets (where her name was misspelled as Anna half the time) were from real friends who actually meant “Be mine” and “You stole my heart” and all the other pre-printed saccharine sayings and fairytale nonsense Hallmark packaged and sold in packs of five and ten.

But they never did.

Now she’s all grown up, long blonde hair in perfect curls and long legs in tight jeans that fit her very nicely indeed, but she still has a chip on her shoulder and hates this stupid fake holiday. She bypasses the romantic restaurants packed to the gills with doey-eyed couples and ignores the men selling sad-looking roses out of dirty buckets on the corner of every street and sits by herself on a stool in a dive bar, one with no prix-fixe three course menu or crepe-paper decorations, just cold beer served by a bartender with inky hair falling on his forehead and a large tattoo on the inside of his arm.

Well the tattoo is of a heart, but it’s pierced with a wicked-looking dagger and she gets the feeling that he’s probably not all that fond of Valentine’s Day either.

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anonymous asked:

are you taking drabble requests? if you are I think I want "If it didn't hurt enough now I have to see you flirt" with Pete Dunne? Or Tyler Bate? Whoever you feel more comfortable with. If you're not doing these yikes, sorry. Thanks!

Bless Bea for trying to obstruct your vision from seeing them.

She practically charged up with wild eyes, nearly spilling your solo cup full of beer, trying to keep you from seeing them. Will and Bea were throwing a housewarming party for their new place and it felt like everyone on the British Wrestling scene had shown up, the house packed to the gills with people. 

Including your ex.

Everyone had told you to stay far, far away from him. That who he was in the ring, cold and possessive and brutal and sadistic, was very close to who he was outside of the ring. That he’d use up everything good in you and then leave you a husk of yourself. 

They didn’t see what you did. They didn’t see the warm mornings wrapped in each other’s arms, the late night talks, the little things he would do to let you know you were cherished. Yes, he was gruff and downright brutish sometimes, but you never had any doubts about how he felt for you. 

And then it all ended three months, when you had made space for him in your bedroom closet. He was practically living in your place anyway, it just made sense. He had flipped out and you were left in tears as he stomped out of the front door.

The news had spread like wild fire. 

Bea was truly doing her best, chattering about something that you tuned out as soon as you saw them. 

He was pushing her hair back behind her ear, leaning in with a smirk to murmur something to her, his eyes making contact with yours from across the room. The six beers that had left you buzzing pleasantly felt like they had evaporated and you were left painfully sober. You pushed your beer roughly at your friend.

“I need some air.”

You skirted around a frozen Bea and quickly pushed through the crowd to the door to the backyard. For as packed as the house was, the porch was completely empty and you took a series of deep breaths, trying to relax and ignore what felt like a boulder in your chest.

“(Y/N)? You okay luv?”

Fury crawled up your spine and you whirled around with a snarl.

“Really? I was so close to being over you. I was doing my best to not go to places where I knew you were. I was doing just fine. And then you have to show up here, when you had to know I would be here.As if it didn’t hurt enough, now I have to see you flirt? Fuck you Pete.”

He gaped, mouth opening and closing several times in silence before you scoffed and tried to leave to go around him. One of his thick arms stopped you from getting to the door. 

“Please. Don’t go.”

Dex the Cryptid
  • Will’s family didn’t seem off to him until he began going to grade school
  • That’s when he realized most people don’t eat by catching fish with their bare hands, and can only hold their breath for a few minutes tops, not hours like him
  • Normal humans also don’t eat the entire fish? Including the bones? He always thought that was the best part though. Likes the crunch.
  • When he turned 6 his parents finally clued him in on what was up, at a very basic level though. They were what the government and conspiracist theorists named “North Eastern Beach Biters.” (NEBBs for short)
    • Humanoid Cryptids
    • Usually inhabit ocean towns or forests in North Eastern America
    • Have been known to leave large sea animals half shredded and eaten on beaches (sharks, large fish, whales)
    • Short tempered, very dangerous
    • “Biters” comes from their teeth; very sharp, and a lot of them. Use them to shred their prey, or a human that got too close or pissed them off
    • Long tongues that loll out of their mouths when they’re getting ready to attack
    • Eyes that either glow or reflect light
      • This is debated mostly because some pictures only show their eyes “glowling” from the front, while other show them glowing from the side
    • Pale skin
    • Loners
    • Enhanced Sight, night vision
    • Incredibly fast and agile, especially in the water
    • Taller than your average human, usually ranges from 6-8 feet
    • Reports of gills on their neck exist as well
    • Some say they have webbed feet and hands and fingers that extend into claws (theorized that is what they use to shred their bigger prey)
      • (spoiler it’s still their teeth)
    • First encounter surviving incidents often come away with severe bite wounds that will become infected quickly, but survivors usually only have one bite. 
      • Sometimes this happens in the water, and it’s a conspiracy whether it’s a shark bite or a Beach Biter bite. Happens enough where they were named after it.
    • There haven’t been many fatalities attributed to them, but ones that have been often have teeth marks on their bones that forensics aren’t able to identify
  • Will’s parents explain that while some of it is true (the teeth, the eyes, the skin to an extent, that they and their kind reside in the north east, that they sometimes eat large sea animals) and some of it is false (their eyes both glow and reflect light, it depends on how much time they’ve spent int he ocean recently, their kin actually reach 9 feet but they tend to live solely in the ocean once they’re that tall (only the larger have gills), they are pack/group beings)
  • But the important lesson from it, other than knowing his own anatomy, is that they aren’t human, they never will be, but they are trying their best to live among/aside them
  • They don’t explain that all when he’s 6, not all of it. He learns more and more about it over the next few years, how to hide his abnormalities and blend in well enough with the other kids. 
  • They give him the option to either reject human civilization and live as a cryptid his entire life OR continue to live with his family, who are attempting to blend into society

Read more because this is gonna be LONG (which option will Dex choose ooooooo?????) ((Edit: so this is….. like…. over 4k just warning but theres angst and comfort so like, def worth it ;)))

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it starts with an earthquake, pt 6

The world ends on a Thursday, comes crashing down in smoke and fire and ruin. And then it keeps going, and Vox Machina figures out how to make do in the aftermath. [ a post-apocalyptic au for cr ladies week ]

day six: pike 2.0 [previously: pike, vex, keyleth, allura, percy]


Percy visits them on the roof, sometimes.

He takes leave of the garage, folds his oil-stained towel on his workbench and climbs two flights of stairs to join them, shirt grimy and hair wild and fingers still dark with grease. He sits between them, between Vex (keeping watch on their surroundings) and Pike (keeping watch on Vex). Sometimes he greets them with a smile or a clever quip. Sometimes he sinks down between them and says little, allows Pike to wipe the stains from his fingers and curl their hands together. Often, Vex greets him with a kiss to the cheek. Sometimes they merely sit, all pressed together.

The details are unimportant. What matters is this: they sit there together, and for a little while the end of the world does not seem quite a terrible thing, not if this can come from it. Not if it means she gets them.

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ON THE RECORD: Dave Malloy’s Natasha, Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812

(originally posted on November 26th, 2013)

What, exactly, inspired the eccentric world of 19th-century Russia encapsulated within the lavish, pop-up supper club Kazino, resurrected on W. 45th Street? “Dave…” director Rachel Chavkin said to her collaborator, “[do] you want to tell the Café Margarita story?”

Dave Malloy — composer, lyricist, and orchestrator as well as former title character of Off-Broadway’s Natasha, Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812, the work inspired from a slice of the epic novel “War and Peace” by Leo Tolstoy — launched into a story about his trip to Russia a few years back.

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I found out from the newspaper that there’s a small, very old cemetery in the northern part of town I had no idea existed. It isn’t listed as a cemetery on Google maps, but a “cemetery society.” It appeared to be 3 or 4 small cemeteries on the same stretch of land, separated by hedges and gates. Half was designated Catholic, half was designated Jewish. The Jewish cemetery was entirely full, packed to the gills with stones, unfortunately due to a glitch none of those photos saved.

Both halves of the cemetery date back to the early 1800s when the city was founded.

drive away

I’m gonna drive away.

I’ve settled down, put in my time,
done the thing, toed the line,
said the words, been confined,
but I’m gonna drive away.

I finished school, got the degree,
prayed the prayers on bended knee,
I almost forgot what it was to be free
but I’m gonna drive away.

I got the job, paid the bills,
bought a house, packed to the gills
with too much stuff and needless frills
and I’m gonna drive away.

I’m taking the things I care about,
the ones I love, my beliefs, my doubt,
we’re selling the rest and picking a route







Are you participating in National Novel Writing Month, or are you just looking for something to keep your writing more organized? This handbook is just what you’re looking for!

This handbook features augmented template pages based off my original Novel Writing Templates, and I’ve packed this handbook to the gills with new templates and tools. There will be a writing journal and a productivity schedule, plot and overall story trackers, and a word tracker designed to keep you on schedule!

If you pre-order now for $10, you will receive a few template pages available as digital downloads. Enjoy these sneak peeks! The full handbook will be released on Friday, September 19th and after that, the price of the handbook will go up to $12.50.

woahwhatislife  asked:

Ohhhh, can you come up with some prompts for a busy train station?

-Cheap flower stands selling wilting roses.

-A man in a green jacket bumping into you and apologizing profusely.

-A group of businessmen and women hurrying past you and muttering about your lack of manners under their breath.

-The screeching of the train as it stops, a drawn out sound followed by the pop of the doors opening.

-“Is there any room in here?”


-Someone sleeping on the plastic bench, half covered by a raggedy old blanket.

-A couple saying their romantic farewells, just like it’s a movie, except that one half of the pair is already eying someone else near them.

-Someone handing out crumpled, yellow flyers for their comedy show.

-Someone talking about something private loud enough for the entire station to hear it.

-A child, sitting dangerously close to the tracks.

-Bright signs with chipping paint that aggressively warn people not to step out in front of the train.

-A sketchy convenience store juts out of the back wall and sells nothing but batteries and old candy.

-Someone talking on a flip phone.

-You getting squished between two unhygienic people on the bench.

-Opera music blasting from someone without headphones.

-A violinist playing for coins in their case.

-A parent with their child on a leash.

-Someone sashaying across the station like it’s not packed to the gills with people and they’re not hitting everyone.

-A teen with glassy eyes and a slack jaw slumped against the wall.

-Gum, grime, and other remnants of the people that had been to the station over the years are stuck to the floors and every other surface imaginable.

-Mod Twilla

All Hebe Hallow wants this weekend is to survive camping with her sister’s geeky rock band, to get a break from her boyfriend, and for two boys to kiss each other in her favourite TV show’s season finale.

Is that really too much to ask?

But this is Winterfest at Mandrake Sands, a music festival packed to the gills with student witches, powerful magic, obsessive fans, casual sex and an extreme lack of wi-fi. 

Friendship and coffee can fix everything, right? RIGHT?

My new novella, The Bromancers is available for pre-order now. It’s a sequel to Fake Geek Girl and Unmagical Boy Story, but each of the stories stands alone.


By now, I’m sure many of you have already taken in Lana Del Rey’s gorgeous new music video which seems to defy time as it pairs vintage aesthetics with futuristic cityscapes. The video is for smoky melancholic White Mustang from her Billboard topping album Lust For Life. There’s a hopeless beauty to the music video that matches the song’s romantic despondency. I caught Lana on her Lust For Life tour recently at the Bill Graham Civic Auditorium in San Francisco and I’d never seen the place as packed to the gills as I did that night. Sure, I’ve been to many sold out events there, but the floor was just a carpet of die hard fans who’d arrived hours ahead of time. Lana Del Rey’s set was immaculate, and I couldn’t have been happier to have caught her performance after we’ve staunchly championed her talent and grace since the Video Games and Blue Jeans days. 

After the End || Closed


It was kind of fitting that the Doctor found himself alone. After everything that had happened, Rose had gone home for some much needed time with Mickey and her mum. And maybe it was better that way. The Doctor wasn’t used to losing, and it was hard to see what had happened on Satellite 5 as anything but. Hundreds of people had died because of him, billions more would have… But the one that weighed most heavily on his hearts was Jack Harkness.

He’d been too brave, too selfless, too good… and the Doctor had never had the chance to tell him. Even the one kiss they shared was far to brief in his opinion. He’d been too surprised to even pour all his feelings into that moment of bliss. The Doctor had known it was a kiss goodbye. He should have pulled Jack back and kissed him again, given him some way to know…

Shaking his head, the Time Lord dispelled those unpleasant memories. Being alone was to be haunted by ghosts and mistakes made. Perhaps it would be a good idea for him to go find somewhere to not be alone. Somewhere busy, loud, loud enough to drown out his terrible thoughts. It seemed the TARDIS knew already where he needed to be, and the second he stepped up to the console, she was on her way.

The ship landed near a small asteroid bar. Small enough to be unnoticed, but popular enough that the establishment was packed to the gills with races from all over. The Doctor blended in well, broody and draped in heavy worn leather. He took a seat at the bar and was undisturbed except for the bartender, who took his order of a double No. 8.

The Young Punks of Disneyland

I’m standing in front of Space Mountain worrrying I won’t be able to find the Neverlanders Social Club. It’s an ordinary Sunday in Disneyland in November—sunny and beautiful in that Californian way and packed to the gills with tourists—and I’m concerned I’ll miss them in all the hubbub. They told me they’d be decked out in their Disney gear, but a lot of people here are wearing park-themed merchandise. Then I see them coming and realize there was no way I could have missed them.

There are more than 30 Neverlanders moving toward me as a pack, cutting a path through the crowd. They’re wearing handmade mouse ears and hats, and many of them are covered in tattoos—they look like one of the minor gangs from The Warriors, or some cult in a postapocalyptic wasteland where Mickey Mouse is worshiped as a deity. Each member has a patch of a character that represents his or her personality—the 30-something couple who founded the club, Angel and Cindy Mendoza, are Donald and Daisy Duck.

Everyone is staring as I walk with them to It’s a Small World, a boat ride at the tip of Fantasyland. As we round the Matterhorn Bobsleds, “regular” park-goers snap photos of the Neverlanders as if they’re celebrities. People point; parents tell their children to take note; jaws drop. Angel says with a shrug that they’re used to this commotion by now. When you’re the biggest Disneyland fans in the world and wear that love on your sleeve—literally—you’re bound to get some odd looks.


Future Content

Since I stopped playing Fallout 4, I’ve been getting back into Skyrim, and I’ve thought about posting screenshots of that instead.

But I might consider making a side-blog for the screenshots, since my main blog is packed to the gills with political and religious stuff.

I know my last attempt at an OC blog was a dud, and I would understand why people would just roll their eyes at me making another. But I’ve really only really had one Skyrim OC I’ve enjoyed playing since release, so it comes with an added level of certainty; that I won’t derail the entire blog four posts in.

Thoughts? Is Skyrim done to death by now, should I just shut up, or what?