quiet-and-beautiful

I don’t think I’ve ever met someone quite as beautiful as this young woman. Not just in her outer appearance but in her inner beauty as well. As cheesy as it sounds, we really do complete each other—my mother used to tell me you should never settle for less than you deserve and you should never settle for anything less than what’s meant to be. For us both, this is simply meant to be. We’re two peas in a pod and now, after so much heartache from both ends we’ve found our ways to each other. She’s beautiful not for just her looks but for being just as she is. She doesn’t try to be anyone or anything she isn’t and I find that to be one of the most beautiful things you can possibly be in this world–simply just yourself. She does not promote herself, meaning she doesn’t boast about her looks or how wonderful of a person she is–she simply knows who she is and keeps quiet. She’s beautiful for her peaceful, quiet, and gentle spirit. She isn’t competitive or vengeful, just graceful. She loves fiercely and loyally, she’s very tenacious and doesn’t give up. She’s stubborn and believes strongly in herself and her opinions but doesn’t push them onto others or make them believe that they have to believe the same thing she does. Most of all, she has what so many others don’t have–she has the grace and willpower to spread love to everyone she touches and meets. I knew from the moment I met her that my life was never going to be the same, in fact my brain was telling me “oh no, this one might be trouble. You better stay away.” but my heart was telling me “If you do, you’ll regret it for the rest of your life.” and I’m glad that I listened to my heart and not my brain that day. I’m rambling I feel but I just wanted her to know how much she is loved and appreciated. @itsblakebvtch

The Ones Who Walk Away From Omelas

From The Wind’s Twelve Quarters: Short Stories by Ursula Le Guin


With a clamor of bells that set the swallows soaring, the Festival of Summer came to the city Omelas, bright-towered by the sea. The rigging of the boats in harbor sparkled with flags. In the streets between houses with red roofs and painted walls, between old moss-grown gardens and under avenues of trees, past great parks and public buildings, processions moved. Some were decorous: old people in long stiff robes of mauve and grey, grave master workmen, quiet, merry women carrying their babies and chatting as they walked. In other streets the music beat faster, a shimmering of gong and tambourine, and the people went dancing, the procession was a dance. Children dodged in and out, their high calls rising like the swallows’ crossing flights, over the music and the singing. All the processions wound towards the north side of the city, where on the great water-meadow called the Green’ Fields boys and girls, naked in the bright air, with mudstained feet and ankles and long, lithe arms, exercised their restive horses before the race. The horses wore no gear at all but a halter without bit. Their manes were braided with streamers of silver, gold, and green. They flared their nostrils and pranced and boasted to one another; they were vastly excited, the horse being the only animal who has adopted our ceremonies as his own. Far off to the north and west the mountains stood up half encircling Omelas on her bay. The air of morning was so clear that the snow still crowning the Eighteen Peaks burned with white-gold fire across the miles of sunlit air, under the dark blue of the sky. There was just enough wind to make the banners that marked the racecourse snap and flutter now and then. In the silence of the broad green meadows one could hear the music winding through the city streets, farther and nearer and ever approaching, a cheerful faint sweetness of the air that from time to time trembled and gathered together and broke out into the great joyous clanging of the bells.

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Reasons Why Keith is #Relatable
  • Likes knives too much
  • Doesn’t know what he’s doing w/ his hair
  • Stutters when flustered
  • Ready to Fight™
  • Has never been straight
  • In love with Lance, probably 
  • Has a deep appreciation for Shiro’s existence 
  • Knows that Hunk is Very Good
  • Emo as hell but loves his friends always
  • Atrocious fashion sense but doesn’t care
  • Awkward
  • Would die for someone if they gave him a hug once
  • Usually a little irritated
  • Says jokes in a deadpan voice with a completely straight face
  • Worries too much
  • “I like it out here, it’s quiet.”
  • Too beautiful to be in this much pain
  • Mothman is his cryptid bf
they call her maid maleen

for the first few trembling years of her life, she is a princess. she is the daughter to the king, born of his beloved wife and of her visage. her dark eyes have the appearance of a smoky quarts and her mother carefully twists her mass of black hair into a hundred small braids down her back. she is a beautiful, quiet child, and for a while all is well. they call her princess maleen.

then her mother dies. it seems as if the king is determined to bury his love for his daughter along with his queen. he moves her to a different wing of the castle, and refuses to see her. her tutors are let go, and the nobles’ children are no longer allowed to play with her. only the maids look after her now.

the king remarries. the new queen gives birth to a son, and maleen is forgotten completely, banished from a home she still resides in and a life she can now only watch unfold.

the maids take care of her, braid her hair and kiss the blisters on her fingers, teach her to scrub at porcelain and polish silver, to clean a fireplace and mop polished marble floors.

they call her maid maleen.

~

the king has a son by his new wife, and then a daughter. they are pale and fair-haired like their mother, with only their dark eyes to show they are the king’s children. but they inherit none of their parents’ beauty, have faces that don’t look quite right and bodies that get stuck between gangly and chubby and never settle into one or the other. princess gisella and prince jan are privately regarded as unfortunate products of a lovely union.

maid maleen spends long hours working, and has neither the time nor funds for creams to soften her skin or oils to care for her hair, has never used face powder or lip color.

maid maleen is twenty three years old, and the most beautiful woman in the kingdom.

her braids are wrapped carefully atop her head, but when she lets them loose they hang past her hips. her dark skin is made even darker thanks to long hours working in the palace garden, and her eyes have never lost that same curious light. she walks straight and strong, years of hard labor giving her muscles and definition to her body that she never would have had as a princess. boys and girls give her long, considering looks and flirtatious smiles, and nobles have to double-take when she passes them by.

no one speaks of it anymore. but maid maleen looks ever more like her beautiful late mother, has the same eyes as her father, and dressing in ill-fitting cast offs and running her ragged can’t hide the truth.

maid maleen is the king’s daughter.

she has accepted her life as a maid in the palace she was one day set to inherit, and tries to see it as a gift. she sleeps with who she likes, may marry whichever of the charming boys from the city who’s smile she likes best. in the maids who raised her she has more mothers than she has fingers, and perhaps she longs for the days when she was a small princess, when she was the apple of her parents’ eye, when the whole of their nation was to be hers to inherit.

but then the blacksmith’s daughter lets her hands linger a little too long on her wrists, and maleen knows that she won’t be sleeping alone tonight. there are some things that worth more to her than a throne she was born to. she doesn’t miss the little girl she used to be.

until.

tensions have always run high between their kingdom and the neighboring one – too many squabbles over borders, over trade agreements, over patrols, over anything and everything the kings can find a reason to be upset about, it seems like. so when prince wolfgang is sent over, the whole palace is abuzz. the prince seems determined to inherit a peaceful land, and is coming over to talk with the king to do it.

maleen does not care for princes. nor for nobles of any rank, in fact. she remembers how they turned on her, she sees the small acts of pettiness and cruelty they thoughtlessly inflict on their servants, and she wants nothing to do with it. commoners may not be as educated as nobles, may not have as many objects to call their own, but maleen finds she prefers their company to that of lords. she’s uninterested in this prince, which is perhaps why she’s the one that gets sent to his rooms. her moms can trust that she at least won’t fawn over him.

“sir wolfgang,” she murmurs, pushing open his door and giving a low curtsy, keeping her eyes trained on his mud covered boots. “is there anything you require?”

silence. she can only stay bent in a curtsey so long before she loses patience. she’s almost given up on him, is about to cut her losses and call it a night when he says, hesitant, “queen sabine?”

her mother’s name is punch to her gut, and her head snaps up at the sound of it, the rolling fire of her temper bubbling just below her skin. “i am maid maleen,” she snaps, then tacks on “your highness,” after a moment’s consideration.

his cloak is half unbuttoned as he stares at her with a slack mouth. she supposes he would not look unhandsome if he were not currently doing his best to imitate a frog. he appears to be only a handful of years older than she is, and if she were not furious she would be impressed that he remembers her mother well enough to see sabine in her.

“maleen,” he repeats, and for a moment she wonders if he will recognize her as well, but he only says, “my apologies. if you would help me with my cloak, i would be much obliged.”

she’s instantly suspicious. she’s met nice nobles before, ones that were considerate and remembered her name and thanked her when she brought them wine. but she’s never met a nice prince before – they’re always of the worst sort. “yes, your highness,” she says, and the cloak is soaked through and clinging, it’s no wonder he’s struggling with it. once she’s gotten it off she hangs it to dry, then goes back to him. she slaps away his numb, struggling fingers and undoes the rest of the buckles and loops of his overly complicated clothing. she’s gotten down him down to an undershirt and pants when his hands grab hers. she blinks and looks up. he has freckles dusting across his nose.

“this is inappropriate,” he says, but honestly she’s stripped a lot of nobles, it wasn’t weird until he took her hands and looked at her like no one’s ever looked at her before.

“yes, your highness,” she agrees, and takes a step back. she places his clothes in front of a fire, curtsies, and leaves. she can feel the weight of his gaze on her all the way back to her room.

wolfgang continues his diplomatic agenda, having long meetings with the royal family. after, maleen goes and tends to him, setting out his food and taking care of his clothes, straightening up any mess that he’s made. at first he’s quiet, and he just watches her, but he quickly discovers that maleen has opinions and thoughts and isn’t afraid to share them. soon they’re debating the finer points of trade routes and arguing the effectiveness of a sliding tax scale, and maleen comes to cherish the evenings she spends with the prince, likes the way he speaks to her and looks at her, likes the shape of his smile.

weeks in she enters his room, dinner steaming in her hands and eager to continue their conversation about state funded orphanages versus a state funded foster system. he’s pacing and tense, shoulder stiff. “wolfgang,” she sets down the food and wipes her hands on her apron, “is something wrong?”

“is it true?” he asks, and he’s not looking at her. he’s always looked at her before.

“is what true?” she flinches away from his coldness, is already preparing to retreat and hide and beg someone else to watch over him.

he turns to her, and she’s baffled by the mixture of hope and anger on his face. “are you the king’s daughter? are you princess maleen?”

she takes a step back, “i am maid maleen.”

“please,” he follows her as she steps away from him, and her back hits the wall. he stops when he’s almost close enough to touch. “my father sent me here with the goal to seal our new treaty with a marriage. he expects me to marry princess gisella. but if you are the daughter of the king – then he will allow me to marry you instead!”

“who says i want to marry you?” she retorts, but he gets on bended knee and she freezes.

he holds a hand for her own, and against every bit of logic, she gives it to him. “maleen, i’ve never felt this way about anyone. i was willing enough to enter a loveless marriage before i knew what true love is, but now i do, and i can’t go back. marry me.”

she wants to. she thinks she loves him. she hadn’t been planning to fall in love with anyone. “i am the king’s daughter,” she tells him, “but i am no princess. i haven’t been a princess in a long time.”

he brings her hand to his mouth so he can kiss each one of her knuckles, “then we’ll have to change that.”

~

wolfgang goes to the king to make his case, to return maleen to her birthright and allow her to marry him.

it goes even worse than maleen had feared.

her father is furious. he’s so angry at the audacity of this request that prince wolfgang is thrown from the kingdom. so incensed is he, that guards drag maleen from her bed in the middle of the night and throw her into a tower. the door closes shut behind them, and she bangs on it and screams but no one comes for her.

there are no windows, and only one door with a sliding metal grate in the bottom. she’s high in the tower, she thinks, from the number of steps she’d been forced to climb, but she stands on a dirt floor. the room contains only the bare minimum needed for survival, and nothing more.

once a week food is slid through the slot in the door. she has to be careful, because if she eats it too fast they will not provide more, she will just starve. days turn to weeks turn to months, and she despairs of ever being let out of this tower. months turn to years, and she gives up hope entirely of leaving this tower. she considers refusing to eat, killing herself slowly through starvation, because death is preferable to life locked in this tower.

one night there’s a scuffle, and shouting, and for the first time since she was shoved inside the door opens. there’s a guard standing there, and princess gisella tentatively steps inside. “maid ma – i mean, maleen?”

maleen stares. this is the first time she’s seen another person in years, and suddenly for all the screaming she’d done she can’t find her voice. gisella takes another cautious step forward, “maleen, please – we don’t have much time.” she holds out her hand, “come with me.”

gisella is sixteen now. although she’ll never be a great beauty, she’s grown into many of the features that she was once mocked for. “where?” she asks, but takes gisella’s hand and lets her lead them down the twisting staircase. anyplace is better than the tower.

“i’m to be married in a week’s time to prince wolfgang.” maleen feels a sharp pain go through her chest. had wolfgang forgotten her? their farce of a romance was such a quick, shallow thing. she was a fool to fall for it in the first place. “i’m not going to show up. you are.”

she stares, “what?”

“wolfgang started a war over father locking you in the tower,” she explains, “but eventually it got to a point where neither could justify it, so our father and wolfgang’s decided our union would mean peace between our countries, as intended. but i don’t want to marry prince wolfgang, and he does not want to marry me.”

“i don’t understand,” she hadn’t paid much attention to the girl when they were in the palace together, and she’s regretting that now.

they finally reach the end of the tower. it’s the first time she’s breathed fresh air in years. she tries not to get distracted by it, and instead focuses on the carriage to her left, and the pure black mare laden like a pack mule on her right. “i’m leaving,” gisella says, “i don’t want to be wolfgang’s bride because i want to be klaus’s,” the guard smiles, and he must be klaus, the princess is rejecting a prince to run away with a commoner. “there’s a map and everything you need in the saddlebags. the wedding dress is waiting for you at the castle. no one will know you’re not me until wolfgang unveils you, and by then it will be too late. he will marry you, and i will be gone.”

“why are you doing this?” she asks.

gisella shrugs, “you’re my sister, and father is an idiot. i want you to be happy, and i want wolfgang to be happy, and i want to be happy too. this way we all get what we want. our brother will be waiting for you in wolfgang’s castle. he’ll help you.”

maleen is speechless. gisella grabs her in a quick hug – the only one they’ve ever shared – and then goes to the carriage with klaus trailing behind her. “i’ll see you again, princess maleen!”

she doesn’t have time for tears. she gets on the mare, and rides for the palace of the neighboring land.

~

she makes it just in time. she sneaks into the castle the night before the wedding, ducking around servants until she find her way to jan’s door. she knocks, tentative, wondering if this was a mistake and all one elaborate trap. but the door opens and his face slackens in relief, “finally!” he pulls her inside, and sits her down. there’s lukewarm water waiting for her so she can clean herself, and jan stands with his back to her the whole time, outlining the wedding and how it will go so she knows what to expect the next day. “father isn’t here,” he assures her, “he didn’t want to leave the kingdom, so i’m here in his stead.”

“won’t you miss your sister?” maleen finishes washing and wraps herself in a soft blanket.

“when i am king, gisella will return,” he says confidently, “she will come home and bring klaus, and you will rule here with wolfgang, and all will be well. our countries shall be great allies when it is me and wolfgang on the throne.”

he’s only a year older than gisella, just seventeen, and maleen feels oddly old next to them, feels old next to these children who know what they want and take it and don’t let anything stand in their way.

“we need to get your hair rebraided,” he says, “you should look perfect tomorrow. it’s your wedding day.”

she stares, aghast. “that will take all night!”

“i’ve brought help,” he says, and sends a servant down the hall. the servant returns with a half dozen of the maids who raised her, and who crowd forward and hug her and kiss her cheeks and say how much they’ve missed her. princess or not, bride or not, to them she will always be their little maid maleen.

~

it’s clear gisella picked her wedding dress with maleen in mind. it fits her for one thing, and is clinging and heavy, and it must have looked awful on gisella, but on her it’s perfect. her dress is accompanied by white silk gloves and a thick veil so that no one can see her, so that no one will know she’s not the daughter of the king they’re expecting to be there.

wolfgang is at the end of the aisle, looking like he’s going to an execution, and it takes more self control than maleen was anticipating not to go running to him. she turns to him, and he lifts her veil. he sees her and freezes, mouth sliding open. she winks at him, because they just need to keep it together until they’re married, he just has to keep his cool for a few minutes and they’ll have won it all. wolfgang closes his mouth and says nothing about how this is clearly not the bride he was supposed to marry. they turn so none of the guests can see them, and the priest gives maleen a confused look, but with a glare from wolfgang he continues on with the ceremony as if nothing is out of place.

“you may now kiss the bride,” the priest says, after what seems like an eternity.

wolfgang grabs her about the waist, dips her, and kisses her soundly on the mouth. her veil falls off and she can hear the horrified and shocked gasps of the guests, and under that jan’s laughter. when they break apart, foreheads still pressed together, she whispers, “hello, prince wolfgang.”

he kisses her again, quick and sweet, and does nothing at all to disguise the joy in his face. “hello, princess maleen.”

and they all lived happily ever after.


read more retold fairytales here

The Signs as Makeup 💄
  • Aries: Liquid eyeliner. Because it's fierce as hell but also makes u rage quit, both of which are common Aries pastimes
  • Taurus: nude eyeshadow. Because it seems too quiet and subtle to be beautiful but yet, here Taurus is... I mean nude eyeshadow.
  • Gemini: colorful mascara. Because why? But also, why not? Put it in your brows n push some limits, like a true Gemini.
  • Cancer: white eyeliner. A staple for when you cry but don't want people to know u just cried, much like a Cancer might do.
  • Leo: anything holographic. Because it steals the show and it shines, which Leo's r known to do.
  • Virgo: foundation. You know a good makeup look needs some. It smooths everything out, like a Virgo w bed sheets.
  • Libra: smokey eye. Classic, classy and adaptable, Libra approved.
  • Scorpio: graphic eyeliner. It's mysterious.Who has the time? Who has the patience? So many questions. It's also bold, like a Scorpio.
  • Sagittarius: "no makeup" makeup. So many steps. It's an adventure to get there. which is.... exactly where u started.... life is about the journey, the Sagittarius motto.
  • Capricorn: red lipstick. When you put that on you mean business, and that is something a Capricorn can respect.
  • Aquarius: hair glitter. Bet you didn't think of that. It's cool n unconventional, like an Aquarius.
  • Pisces: green lipstick. It's different. Almost the exact opposite color of what u expect. Pisces has thought about this. It's a statement.

anonymous asked:

I think the most important question of all time is if Derek prefers belly rubs, or is he the kind of 'clingy when cuddling' boyfriend so he just lays on top of Stiles and lets him rub his back (and sometimes his butt) ? My personal headcanon is that werewolves can get sort of stoned from their mate's scent and Derek once a month likes to climb into Stiles' lap and melt into his arms surrounded by his boyfriend's scent. Bonus pie points if Derek steals Stiles' shirts to wear when he's napping

You have no idea how much I just screamed over this ask. This is being filed under “favourites”, for sure. 

I think Derek is the type of guy who really, really likes cuddles and anything that involves getting to touch Stiles, but pretends he’s completely indifferent to it/does it only to “shut Stiles up”. Which, you know, is complete lies. The first time Stiles sleeps next to Derek in a bed, it’s painfully obvious Derek wants to cuddle but he just doesn’t know how to go about asking. Poor, awkward lamb. Stiles nearly makes a joke at Derek’s expense about how obvious it is because, well, but he refrains at the last minute upon seeing Derek’s face - Derek doesn’t just look nervous, he looks scared, like he might be rejected - and shaking his head (because this adorable asshole) Stiles shifts closer and hastily mumbles something about not having his pillow, “so you’ll have to do, big guy”.

Before they get together, it takes a while for Derek to get used to being tactile with Stiles. Derek is fine touching other people - he has the control that way - but he’s still not good with people touching him. Unfortunately, that’s not a great combination when you are a touch starved werewolf with trust issues, because it pretty much means the only kind of physical contact Derek ever receives is either in life or death situations or during (not so fun and friendly) pack training sessions. Not ideal. Of course, after a while, Stiles clocks this. 

Stiles has known about Derek’s touch issues since he first met him, but it’s better now (he thinks). So he tries small things: sitting next to Derek during pack movie nights and pressing his leg against his; letting himself fall asleep on Derek’s shoulder (desperately trying not to read too much into it when Derek doesn’t move away); and, a few times, hugging Derek goodbye and lingering longer than he should each time he does it. 

After a while, Derek starts touching Stiles back. One day, he just crawls through Stiles’ window and sits by Stiles’ bed until Stiles - very tired and not thinking things through too much - puts a hand on Derek’s shoulder and tells him in no uncertain terms “ to get up here for some Stilinski spooning time”. Derek grumbles at that but he’s in Stiles’ bed exactly twenty seconds later, which gives Stiles major pause for thought. 

Major.

And listen, this is how it goes on. They aren’t even together but Derek touching Stiles and being touched by him soon becomes A Thing. For both of them. A very important thing. The life of Derek Hale suddenly becomes about three things: the pack, Cora, and Stiles. 

Sometimes, Stiles sleeps over at the loft. Not for any reason other than the fact Stiles does a lot of late night research there, but after a while it kind of becomes apparent Stiles is there for “research times” and what he has come to call “Derek’s personal pillow times”. Derek’s person pillow times often involve Derek shyly (but somehow still grumpily) crawling into Stiles’ lap and (not so subtly) scenting him. Stiles asked about the scenting thing once and Derek stopped for three weeks, entirely embarrassed - Derek had looked so upset and torn about the whole thing (aka, he looked like a hurt five year old) that eventually Stiles had just marched into the loft, stuck Batman on, and told Derek to get his “fluffy butt in here. I mean it Derek, my neck is lonely now. Don’t leave a bro in need like this, it’s accustomed to your snout!” Stiles expected Derek to either throw him out or snark at him for that but instead, Derek shuffled - actually shuffled - into the room (still appearing out of nowhere, the creepy show off), holding himself rather tight, before crawling into Stiles’ lap and staying there for exactly 2.5 Batman movies, face buried in Stiles’ neck. (Stiles does not grin manically when he feels Derek’s whole body sag against him, like he hasn’t been able to settle without him.) 

During Stiles’ second year of college, they have their first kiss. Well, if a first kiss can be called a first kiss when the dude you are hard core crushing on puts a finger to your lips half way through your perfectly valid rant about why Princess Leia is The Best, stares into your eyes for a solid three minutes (and somehow makes it both awkward and the best fucking thing you have ever experienced when looking at someone), before placing a very soft and intimate kiss to your neck. Stiles has no idea what it even means until he eventually plucks up the courage to ask Cora who instantly threatens him with bodily harm if Stiles hurts her brother. (”So, uh, the neck thing was…..?” “My brother’s traditional, dorky way of telling you he loves you. Duh. Jesus Stiles, and you call yourself our Emissary?”)

From then on out, Derek’s attachment to touching Stiles just becomes more intense. In front of people and the pack he’ll settle for holding hands or being next to Stiles, but in private he becomes like a lazy cat. He gets very pouty when he wakes up and finds Stiles not in bed for morning cuddles; he loves being able to wash Stiles’ hair; back rubs and head rubs are his favourite, especially when he’s reading or they are watching movies (Derek’s introducing all the classics to Stiles, like Rebecca and The Breakfast Club; “no, Spider-man doesn’t count as a classic, Stiles” “says who?” “says me if you still want a blow job later” ). Mostly though, he just loves being in his old position of sitting in Stiles’ lap and burying his face in Stiles’ neck. 

Sometimes Stiles will talk about his day while Derek does this and it works for both of them because Derek is surrounded by Stiles’ scent, his voice, his whole being; and that calms him, settles him in a way he hasn’t been since before the fire. And in turn, having someone to listen to him - really, truly listen - while he’s talking, brings Stiles a kind of happiness he’s never experienced before. Sure, people hear him. They talk to him and hold conversations. But sooner or later Stiles always sees their eyes wander, sees the start of a yawn or is outright told to shut up. 

Stiles knows his attention isn’t anything to write home about but there is a difference between being unable to hold someone’s attention and someone just not wanting to hold your attention, specifically. Of course, Derek still tells Stiles to shut up, that’s never a thing that stopped between them, but now it usually ends in heated make out sessions or sex, so, Stiles really has no complaints. But in moments like these, with Derek in his lap, Derek just listens. He can sit for hours and never tires of Stiles. If Stiles is happy, he smiles into his neck, makes these little happy sounds; if he’s sad, he’ll kiss his neck, and murmur quiet things; angry, he’ll hold him tighter and let him vent, for as long as he likes. 

Some couples have hobbies, have things, but this is their ritual. Just this. Every other day, just having this quiet moment of peace and happiness. A bubble no one can penetrate. It’s a visible anchor, the place they always come back to. It’s a place they both need; the place Stiles needs when he’s feeling insecure and the place Derek needs when he’s feeling lonely. Nothing can touch them in it, no high is better. Especially to Derek who really can feel a little drunk off of Stiles’ scent, sometimes. It’s a kind of closeness both of them have always craved but never really gotten. It’s Derek’s way of saying I love you when he finds it difficult to say it. It’s Stiles’ way of knowing I’m needed when he doubts it. 

It’s just them, and even though it sometimes freaks Stiles out - the stillness, the fact he can be this still, for hours - it serves as a precious reminder that after all the chaos, after all the loss and heart break, that they found this: they found a small and quiet, beautiful thing. And they found it in each other, which is both the most baffling and the least surprising thing of all. 

This moment right here is absolutely INCREDIBLE and just another reason that I love The Walking Dead. Nabila, her character, her spirit, her quiet wisdom, this beautiful queen staying true to herself and her religion after the world has fallen. This image, the representation of this woman wearing a hijab on the biggest show on television is a subtle protest in the face of the hateful, harmful, ugly untruths and rhetoric 45, and his administration have been spreading about the Muslim faith. Representation matters and we all deserve to be represented properly to inspire all who tune into the show. Art is gripping. This creativity is hope in the face of evil and faith in the face of uncertainty, which parallels our struggle for true liberation in this life. Much respect to the TWD for not playing into false fears.

2

six locations [3/6] henrietta // the raven cycle

It was a sort of ferocious, quiet beauty, the sort that wouldn’t let you admire it. The sort of beauty that just always hurt.

“I’m trying to understand how I could have been so many places and yet this is the only place that feels like home. This is the only place I belong. And because I’m trying to understand how, if I belong here, it …”
“— hurts so much,” Blue finished.

@AlmaharelThese women never met till today and practiced this song online. Show them some love. #Icantkeepquiet #WomensMarch #WomensMarchOnWashington

So AMAZING!!!!!!! They need to be heard!!!!!

P.S. Credit to MILCK and Alma Har'el and all the singers

  • me: *sees dan on my dash*
  • me: yes bitch 👏🏾😩 mY dAD FUCk me The FuCk UP ainT HE BEAUTIFUL😍😍😍👏🏾👏🏾 a lil loud but Dats Fine ! Beauty at its finest !
  • me: *sees phil on my dash*
  • me: yes bitch 👏🏾😩 mY dAD FUCk me The FuCk UP ainT HE BEAUTIFUL😍😍😍👏🏾👏🏾 keeps the othEr One QUieT ! Beauty at its finest !