• Alexander: If you repeat yourself again I'm gonna scream, honestly, please don't read-
  • Samuel: not your interest-
  • Alexander: NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO~!!!!!!!!!!
  • Burr: Alexander, please-

I’m currently reading Thud!

There is this talk between Vimes and Vetinari which is FULL of touching moments and ITS JUST SO BEAUTIFUL

“What would you do if I asked you an outright question, Vimes?”
“I’d tell you a downright lie, sir.”
“The I will not do so,” said Vetinari, smiling faintly.

Then they proceed to communicate through Looks which is
He gave Vetinari a look that said: If you take this any further, I will have to lie.
Vetinari returned one that said: I know.
“You yourself are not too badly injured?” the Patrician said aloud.
“Just a few scratches, sir,” said Vimes.
Vetinari gave him a look that said: Broken ribs, I’m certain of it.
Vimes returned one that said: Nothing.

And then Vetinari throws compliments at him left and right like “Sam Vimes once arrested a dragon. Sam Vimes once arrested two armies to stop a war. Sam Vimes once arrested ME. He is an arresting fellow. Sam Vimes cannot be bribed, cannot be corrupted, he keeps digging until he has the truth!”
Vimes is like ??
And Vetinari: “… that’s what the people out there are saying. This is why you need to find the murderer.”
Like, sure, Havelock.
It just becomes beautifully clear that Vetinari, in a way, ADMIRES Vimes. Definitely respects him.

Made even clearer by the next part:
“But if his death can be turned into a casus belli-” here Lord Vetinari looked at Vimes’s sleepy eyes and went on, “-that is, to a reason for war, then suddenly he is the most important dwarf in the world. When did you last get some proper sleep, Vimes?”
Vimes muttered something about ‘not long ago.’
“Go and have some more. And then find me the murderer. Quickly. Good day to you.”
Vetinari KNOWS Vimes can translate casus belli. But he sees that the man is dead on his feet and TRANSLATES IT out of CONSIDERATION
And then he is worried that he isn’t getting enough SLEEP


Every scene these two have together is BRILLIANT and BEAUTIFUL

(look at me, i typed practically the whole scene here lmfao
But literally all of it is SO! IMPORTANT!
I just need to have it on my blog I NEED EVERYONE TO SEE IT

5 Things We Need To Remember As Sisters in Christ
1. Encourage one another (1 Thessalonians 5:11)
Let’s encourage each other. If your sister in Christ is going through something in your life, take the time to send her text or give her a phone call. Let her know you are there. We don’t have to all be best friends, go to the same church, or come from the same background to encourage each other. What unifies us is not common interests or commonality in our stories, but what Christ has done in us. Let’s be encouragers.
2. Pray for each other (Matthew 5:44)
Even if you don’t hang out much and even if you don’t know the whole story of what she’s going through, pray for her. Sometimes it’s easier to pray for those we get along with the most or see everyday, but pray for everyone. Even the ones that have wronged you.
3. Be a friend…a REAL friend (Proverbs 18:24)
Some women will only be your friend because they’re trying to figure out who you’re dating, or what kind of money you make, or what you’re doing in your life. Some will only be your friend because they want something out of you. Let’s learn to be friends because of the love Christ has shown us and we want to share that love. ::
4. Don’t compare yourself to others (2 Corinthians 10:12)
It doesn’t matter what she’s wearing, how she’s wearing it, who she’s dating, and what her hair and makeup and body looks like or how much money she makes…Don’t compare yourself to her. It’s just not wise. If you start comparing now, in the future you’ll compare husbands, jobs, neighborhoods, and even your kids! Let’s be wise and appreciate each other without the comparing.
5. It’s not about appearance (1 Samuel 16:7)
If you read 1 Samuel 16, you will see that this verse refers to when Samuel thought he knew what a future king would look like, because he was basing everything on outward appearance and what seemed king-like. We do that. We have all these ideas about what a successful and beautiful person looks like. God isn’t focusing on that stuff, and we shouldn’t either.
Written by @morganhnichols for #QWCDevos

anonymous asked:

God is the father of Jesus. God impregnated Mary, not Joseph. What drew people to Jesus was his whiteness. It was very unusual and a miracle in itself to have a man with white skin, golden hair like a lion, and blue eyes walking around in the Middle East. Jesus was the direct descendent of King David. In I Samuel 16:12 it says "And he sent, and brought him in. Now he was ruddy…" In Webster’s dictionary, ruddy is defined as redness; akin to red; having a healthy reddish color. White people blush.

No, hun. Let me educate you.

God is the Father of Jesus, yes. He’s the Father of everything. We know he gave his only begotten Son in order to forgive us. But Joseph is Jesus’ actual biological father. The Bible tells us this. Jesus came into the flesh in order to save us from our sin. He became human.

Romans 8:3
“For what the law could not do, in that which it was weak through the flesh, God sending his own Son in the likeness of sinful flesh, and for sin, condemned sin in the flesh.”

Acts 13:23
“Of this man’s seed hath God, according to his promise, raised unto Israel a Saviour, Jesus.”

So from Joseph, through that bloodline of David, Jesus would be born. In greek the word for seed is “Sperma”. Through his sperm, Jesus was conceived.

Christ does not have “white skin, golden hair like a lion, and blue eyes.” You have been mislead like many by the agenda of the Roman Catholic Church. The man we all commonly mistake for Jesus Christ is Cesare Borgia, son of Pope Alexander VI. Feel free to look up images of him and see the similarities. This is the depiction of Christ according the scripture. The word of GOD and not false ideologies stemming from propaganda.

Revelations 1:14-15
“His head and his hairs were white like wool, as white as snow; and his eyes were as a flame of fire; And his feet like unto fine brass, as if they burned in a furnace; and his voice as the sound of many waters.”

Feet that resemble “Brass burned in a furnace” are something no White person has. Eyes that resemble fire aren’t blue. In fact, not only is Christ not white, so are the angels in Heaven and even The Most High himself.

Daniel 7:9
“I beheld till the thrones were cast down, and the Ancient of Days did sit, whose garment was white as snow, and the hair of His head like the pure of wool: His throne was like the fiery flame, and His wheels as burning fire.”

The “Ancient of Days” means God, the creator of all. “the hair of His head like the pure of wool.” Who do you know with hair resembling the texture of wool? I’ll wait….

Ezekiel 1:5-7
“Also out of the midst thereof came the likeness of four living creatures. And this was their appearance; they had the likeness of man. And every one had four faces, and every one had four wings. And their feet were straight feet; and the sole of their feet was like the sole of a calf’s foot: and they sparkled like the color of burnished brass.” This is the description of the Angels in Heaven.

Again with the “brass” comparison. White people do not resemble brass whatsoever. Brass has a red tone to it. Everyone has undertones to their skin, especially Black people and people of color or people who have a lot of melanin. I, for example, have a RED undertone. I wear makeup with RED undertones. If my skin is inflamed or irritated, it turns RED. When it’s cold outside, my nose and ears turn RED. White people blush, but so do everyone else. Including people of darker skin complexions. it’s just more difficult to see. Blushing is not unique to Whites… I don’t know where you got that from. Also, depending on which version of the Bible you are reading, 1 Samuel 16:12 has different diction and wording. For example, the King James Bible uses the term “ruddy” but the ISV says “He had a dark, healthy complexion, with beautiful eyes…” Here’s a link to all the different versions of that scripture so you understand what I mean. ( There’s quite a few translations that refer to him as DARK. So I think you’re using certain words to strengthen your point when in reality “ruddy” just means red in color relating to blood or health. If you’re going to refer to a scripture don’t cut it short to leave out information, lol.

Okay I think I’ve made my point. Hope this educated you and you learned more about Yashaya and what the truth really is.

Do the Deed

Summary: With a large assignment due in a few days, the reader is busy toiling away in the library, her roommate offering unwavering support by staying by her side. Who knew an amusing mistake and light-hearted banter could change so much?
Pairing: SamxReader
Words: 2765
Warning: Talking about sex? Lots of euphemisms… 
AN: This is my entry for @deansdirtylittlesecretsblog‘s Trope Challenge! My trope was a College AU, and I couldn’t help but make fun of my own stupid typos… so yeah, the essay in question is one I actually wrote, as is the mistake.
I honestly didn’t think I’d get this finished, but I’m glad I did! It was a lot of fun to write, but I may go over and re-edit it tomorrow… I’m not 100% sure I’m a fan of the ending. Enjoy!!!
Constructive Criticism Welcome!!!


You were pretty sure you’d never worked this hard in your life.

Sam would say that was a complete exaggeration, but considering he had no large assignment due in, you deigned his opinion obsolete as you flicked some of your pencil shavings at him across the library table, just for emphasis.

The lanky law-student rolled his eyes at the childish response, an amused smirk on his face as he quickly typed a response on his laptop.

-it’s not that bad. This time tomorrow, you could be free of it, and we can finally go watch that movie you’ve been ranting about.

You huffed and narrowed your eyes at him over the top of your laptop. How easy it was for him to say it wasn’t so bad…

In response, you chucked a pencil at him. Because you were nothing but mature when it came to venting your frustrations.

If you weren’t in the silent section of the library, you’d have laughed at the brief moment of shock as the pencil hit his cheek and bounced off, clattering onto the desk in front of him; his expression quickly replaced with one of his legendary bitchfaces. You had to make do with a stifled giggle and an innocent, wide-eyed look as he tried to stare you down.

Keep reading

So I promised you a Kingbury thing

Vaguely, Samuel Seabury remembered reading a philosophy book early in his education that talked about people who lived in a cave. What would the people experience, the book had contemplated, if they left the cave? How would they react?
Here, in this palace, Samuel thought he knew exactly how they would have felt—small, in awe, and utterly, hopelessly out-of-place. He didn’t know who to talk to—and worse, he kept getting lost. In fact, he probably couldn’t find his way back to the side door he’d been admitted through. Where was he staying again?
Suddenly the corridor he was walking down emerged onto a balcony walkway that wrapped around the walls of and looked down upon a first-floor dining hall. Sam felt like a small boy again. He clutched the balcony railing and marveled at the crystal chandelier, at how far away the first floor seemed, and how many floors there still were above him.
Suddenly a door on the far wall flew open and a man rushed out, giving an already nerve-wracked Sam Seabury no time to duck into one of the nearby unoccupied rooms.
The man was muttering frantically to himself and didn’t seem to have noticed Seabury, so the bishop crept backwards, feeling along the wall behind him for a doorknob.
“This is idiotic. Bloody ambassadors—as if I don’t have enough on my mind—” The man was dressed fancifully in obscenely expensive clothing, although he was certainly beautiful enough to look good in anything he wanted to wear—
Sam pushed that thought away forcefully.
The man stalked down the hallway, pausing only long enough to tear the powdered wig from his head (“The damn thing itches, and I refuse to wear it any longer!” he yelled back into the room he’d emerged from) exposing a head of pinned-up, wavy dark blonde hair, and eliciting a small gasp from Sam, who was somewhat appalled at such rough treatment of such a lovely wig.
Upon hearing Sam’s shocked noise, the man turned and spotted him across the overlook. “Perfect. You will do just fine,” he murmured, stalking around the balcony-corridor to the other side where Sam cowered, petrified.
“Sir,” he protested as the man grabbed Sam’s hand and yanked him into the nearest empty room. It could have been a sitting room, or a conference room, or a bedroom for all Samuel knew, because the next second he was pinned up against the neatly wallpapered plaster, and…being kissed?
Yes, his brain confirmed, that was exactly what was happening. That didn’t mean it made any sense, though.
The other man pressed his body against Sam’s with no explanation and roughly claimed his mouth, leaving him at a loss. It wasn’t very pleasant, but…it wasn’t really unpleasant, either. What was the etiquette for being suddenly kissed?
By the time Samuel’s brain caught up with his body (“Kiss him back, you’re supposed to do the kiss thing too, Sammy”), the man had pulled away, breathing heavily. Sam remained in his place against the wall, eyes wide, cheeks flushed, lips still slightly parted.
“Thank you for your service, sir,” the man said finally, and strode regally out the door.
“Um, sir—” Sam recovered his wits as best he could and followed him out, only managing to catch a glimpse of the blonde man as he turned down another hallway and disappeared.
Samuel stared after him, confused and discomforted, before turning to address one of the men—they, too, looked rich, he noted with trepidation—who were hovering around the entrance to the room from which the mysterious man had first emerged.
“Good sirs,” Samuel called across the overlook, “do you happen to know the name of that man who left his wig just there? Perhaps we should return it.”
Perfect, he congratulated himself. Very smooth.
The men collectively sneered at him, and he shrank back. Not smooth enough?
“Do you not recognize your King when you see him, colonial?”
Oh no.
Samuel Seabury gazed at the hall down which His Majesty King George the Third had disappeared, horror written across his face plainly.
Oh, dear.

@ask-sam-seabury Here’s the first draft of the thing. Should I post it to ao3? What say you? (mun or muse, or both, whatever strikes your fancy)

Whispering: Tommen Baratheon (Lyrics Belong To Ducan Sheik)

Warnings: Pregnancy. Possible sex joke, depending on how you take it. Heartbreak. Labor. Angst. Lots of Angst. Fluff. Happiness. Sadness. Mentions of breastfeeding. Near death experience. Knifes. Blood. Liquids.Though the shortest imagine ever it is somehow also the most emotional. AKA I need to be stopped.

Originally posted by ohdaenerys

“Whispering. Hear the ghosts in the moonlight. Sorrow doing a new dance. Through their bones. Though their skin.”

It was a mistake, yes, but a beautiful one.

It all started one night at a moonlight ball, which was not un-often in the everlasting summer of King’s Landing. We were both fourteen at the time and because this one was a masquerade ball, we both drew matching mask pairing us up for the night and I couldn’t help but fall for my partner’s smooth skin and gentle dancing. His words as well were elegant and I tried not to focus on looks but his eyes drew me. Before I knew it he was kissing me… And kissing me and kissing me. His lips never being said. It was all moving so fast, too fast. And that is when he took off his mask. I tried to run, when the face of Tommen Baratheon was reveled but I could go no where as he held me tight and, no surprise, pressed his sweet lips tasting of wine and lemon-cakes on my in a urgent matter.

That being said, I never expected him to be the person to lay with someone after knowing them for a few short hours. Nor did I expect me to be that girl, yet there we were. Skin to skin. Lips on lips. Me and the King.

“Listening to the souls in the fools night. Fumbling mutely with their rude hands. And there’s heartache, without end.”

Tommen and I were fine. He had loved me deeply and I him. Bliss was all you felt as you spent your days and nights around the boy. For weeks we lived in happiness and joy, though nothing pure about our love anymore, we were children and adults in love alike.

 Then his sister died.

Driven by grief, Tommen had changed.

His days he spent on the kingdom, his nights with me only in the later hours as he held me, kissing my back and refusing to meet my eyes. It was in one of these nights when he spoke to me.

“I am to marry Maragery Tyrell. You must leave by first-light.” He stood and didn’t bother to even look at you, “Forget me. You need to forget.”

It was my turn to cry as he stood as the t in light left his tongue and closed the door.

You didn’t wait.

You stole a horse and left as soon as you could stop crying.

Keep reading


In honor of my daughter lying in her bed, crying because she wants another song (after she’s had 2 stories and a song from Granddad and two songs from me already, and after she’s exhausted all of her usual stall tactics), here is Samuel L Jackson’s reading of the satirical book Go the Fuck to Sleep. 


The Mask Of Anarchy
by Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822)
Read by Samuel West

Written On The Occasion Of The Massacre At Manchester

As I lay asleep in Italy
There came a voice from over the Sea,
And with great power it forth led me
To walk in the visions of Poesy.

I met Murder on the way -
He had a mask like Castlereagh -
Very smooth he looked, yet grim;
Seven blood-hounds followed him:

All were fat; and well they might
Be in admirable plight,
For one by one, and two by two,
He tossed the human hearts to chew
Which from his wide cloak he drew.

Next came Fraud, and he had on,
Like Eldon, an ermined gown;
His big tears, for he wept well,
Turned to mill-stones as they fell.

And the little children, who
Round his feet played to and fro,
Thinking every tear a gem,
Had their brains knocked out by them.

Clothed with the Bible, as with light,
And the shadows of the night,
Like Sidmouth, next, Hypocrisy
On a crocodile rode by.

And many more Destructions played
In this ghastly masquerade,
All disguised, even to the eyes,
Like Bishops, lawyers, peers, or spies.

Last came Anarchy: he rode
On a white horse, splashed with blood;
He was pale even to the lips,
Like Death in the Apocalypse.

And he wore a kingly crown;
And in his grasp a sceptre shone;
On his brow this mark I saw -

With a pace stately and fast,
Over English land he passed,
Trampling to a mire of blood
The adoring multitude.

And a mighty troop around,
With their trampling shook the ground,
Waving each a bloody sword,
For the service of their Lord.

And with glorious triumph, they
Rode through England proud and gay,
Drunk as with intoxication
Of the wine of desolation.

O'er fields and towns, from sea to sea,
Passed the Pageant swift and free,
Tearing up, and trampling down;
Till they came to London town.

And each dweller, panic-stricken,
Felt his heart with terror sicken
Hearing the tempestuous cry
Of the triumph of Anarchy.

For with pomp to meet him came,
Clothed in arms like blood and flame,
The hired murderers, who did sing
'Thou art God, and Law, and King.

'We have waited, weak and lone
For thy coming, Mighty One!
Our Purses are empty, our swords are cold,
Give us glory, and blood, and gold.’

Lawyers and priests, a motley crowd,
To the earth their pale brows bowed;
Like a bad prayer not over loud,
Whispering - 'Thou art Law and God.’ -

Then all cried with one accord,
'Thou art King, and God and Lord;
Anarchy, to thee we bow,
Be thy name made holy now!’

And Anarchy, the skeleton,
Bowed and grinned to every one,
As well as if his education
Had cost ten millions to the nation.

For he knew the Palaces
Of our Kings were rightly his;
His the sceptre, crown and globe,
And the gold-inwoven robe.

So he sent his slaves before
To seize upon the Bank and Tower,
And was proceeding with intent
To meet his pensioned Parliament

When one fled past, a maniac maid,
And her name was Hope, she said:
But she looked more like Despair,
And she cried out in the air:

'My father Time is weak and gray
With waiting for a better day;
See how idiot-like he stands,
Fumbling with his palsied hands!

He has had child after child,
And the dust of death is piled
Over every one but me -
Misery, oh, Misery!’

Then she lay down in the street,
Right before the horses’ feet,
Expecting, with a patient eye,
Murder, Fraud, and Anarchy.

When between her and her foes
A mist, a light, an image rose,
Small at first, and weak, and frail
Like the vapour of a vale:

Till as clouds grow on the blast,
Like tower-crowned giants striding fast,
And glare with lightnings as they fly,
And speak in thunder to the sky,

It grew - a Shape arrayed in mail
Brighter than the viper’s scale,
And upborne on wings whose grain
Was as the light of sunny rain.

On its helm, seen far away,
A planet, like the Morning’s, lay;
And those plumes its light rained through
Like a shower of crimson dew.

With step as soft as wind it passed
O'er the heads of men - so fast
That they knew the presence there,
And looked, - but all was empty air.

As flowers beneath May’s footstep waken,
As stars from Night’s loose hair are shaken,
As waves arise when loud winds call,
Thoughts sprung where'er that step did fall.

And the prostrate multitude
Looked - and ankle-deep in blood,
Hope, that maiden most serene,
Was walking with a quiet mien:

And Anarchy, the ghastly birth,
Lay dead earth upon the earth;
The Horse of Death tameless as wind
Fled, and with his hoofs did grind
To dust the murderers thronged behind.

A rushing light of clouds and splendour,
A sense awakening and yet tender
Was heard and felt - and at its close
These words of joy and fear arose

As if their own indignant Earth
Which gave the sons of England birth
Had felt their blood upon her brow,
And shuddering with a mother’s throe

Had turned every drop of blood
By which her face had been bedewed
To an accent unwithstood, -
As if her heart had cried aloud:

'Men of England, heirs of Glory,
Heroes of unwritten story,
Nurslings of one mighty Mother,
Hopes of her, and one another;

'Rise like Lions after slumber
In unvanquishable number,
Shake your chains to earth like dew
Which in sleep had fallen on you -
Ye are many - they are few.

'What is Freedom? - ye can tell
That which slavery is, too well -
For its very name has grown
To an echo of your own.

'Tis to work and have such pay
As just keeps life from day to day
In your limbs, as in a cell
For the tyrants’ use to dwell,

'So that ye for them are made
Loom, and plough, and sword, and spade,
With or without your own will bent
To their defence and nourishment.

'Tis to see your children weak
With their mothers pine and peak,
When the winter winds are bleak, -
They are dying whilst I speak.

'Tis to hunger for such diet
As the rich man in his riot
Casts to the fat dogs that lie
Surfeiting beneath his eye;

'Tis to let the Ghost of Gold
Take from Toil a thousandfold
More that e'er its substance could
In the tyrannies of old.

'Paper coin - that forgery
Of the title-deeds, which ye
Hold to something of the worth
Of the inheritance of Earth.

'Tis to be a slave in soul
And to hold no strong control
Over your own wills, but be
All that others make of ye.

'And at length when ye complain
With a murmur weak and vain
'Tis to see the Tyrant’s crew
Ride over your wives and you -
Blood is on the grass like dew.

'Then it is to feel revenge
Fiercely thirsting to exchange
Blood for blood - and wrong for wrong -
Do not thus when ye are strong.

'Birds find rest, in narrow nest
When weary of their wingèd quest
Beasts find fare, in woody lair
When storm and snow are in the air.

'Asses, swine, have litter spread
And with fitting food are fed;
All things have a home but one -
Thou, Oh, Englishman, hast none!

'This is slavery - savage men
Or wild beasts within a den
Would endure not as ye do -
But such ills they never knew.

'What art thou Freedom? O! could slaves
Answer from their living graves
This demand - tyrants would flee
Like a dream’s dim imagery:

'Thou art not, as impostors say,
A shadow soon to pass away,
A superstition, and a name
Echoing from the cave of Fame.

'For the labourer thou art bread,
And a comely table spread
From his daily labour come
In a neat and happy home.

'Thou art clothes, and fire, and food
For the trampled multitude -
No - in countries that are free
Such starvation cannot be
As in England now we see.

'To the rich thou art a check,
When his foot is on the neck
Of his victim, thou dost make
That he treads upon a snake.

'Thou art Justice - ne'er for gold
May thy righteous laws be sold
As laws are in England - thou
Shield'st alike the high and low.

'Thou art Wisdom - Freemen never
Dream that God will damn for ever
All who think those things untrue
Of which Priests make such ado.

'Thou art Peace - never by thee
Would blood and treasure wasted be
As tyrants wasted them, when all
Leagued to quench thy flame in Gaul.

'What if English toil and blood
Was poured forth, even as a flood?
It availed, Oh, Liberty,
To dim, but not extinguish thee.

'Thou art Love - the rich have kissed
Thy feet, and like him following Christ,
Give their substance to the free
And through the rough world follow thee,

'Or turn their wealth to arms, and make
War for thy belovèd sake
On wealth, and war, and fraud - whence they
Drew the power which is their prey.

'Science, Poetry, and Thought
Are thy lamps; they make the lot
Of the dwellers in a cot
So serene, they curse it not.

'Spirit, Patience, Gentleness,
All that can adorn and bless
Art thou - let deeds, not words, express
Thine exceeding loveliness.

'Let a great Assembly be
Of the fearless and the free
On some spot of English ground
Where the plains stretch wide around.

'Let the blue sky overhead,
The green earth on which ye tread,
All that must eternal be
Witness the solemnity.

'From the corners uttermost
Of the bounds of English coast;
From every hut, village, and town
Where those who live and suffer moan,

'From the workhouse and the prison
Where pale as corpses newly risen,
Women, children, young and old
Groan for pain, and weep for cold -

'From the haunts of daily life
Where is waged the daily strife
With common wants and common cares
Which sows the human heart with tares -

'Lastly from the palaces
Where the murmur of distress
Echoes, like the distant sound
Of a wind alive around

'Those prison halls of wealth and fashion,
Where some few feel such compassion
For those who groan, and toil, and wail
As must make their brethren pale -

'Ye who suffer woes untold,
Or to feel, or to behold
Your lost country bought and sold
With a price of blood and gold -

'Let a vast assembly be,
And with great solemnity
Declare with measured words that ye
Are, as God has made ye, free -

'Be your strong and simple words
Keen to wound as sharpened swords,
And wide as targes let them be,
With their shade to cover ye.

'Let the tyrants pour around
With a quick and startling sound,
Like the loosening of a sea,
Troops of armed emblazonry.

Let the charged artillery drive
Till the dead air seems alive
With the clash of clanging wheels,
And the tramp of horses’ heels.

'Let the fixèd bayonet
Gleam with sharp desire to wet
Its bright point in English blood
Looking keen as one for food.

'Let the horsemen’s scimitars
Wheel and flash, like sphereless stars
Thirsting to eclipse their burning
In a sea of death and mourning.

'Stand ye calm and resolute,
Like a forest close and mute,
With folded arms and looks which are
Weapons of unvanquished war,

'And let Panic, who outspeeds
The career of armèd steeds
Pass, a disregarded shade
Through your phalanx undismayed.

'Let the laws of your own land,
Good or ill, between ye stand
Hand to hand, and foot to foot,
Arbiters of the dispute,

'The old laws of England - they
Whose reverend heads with age are gray,
Children of a wiser day;
And whose solemn voice must be
Thine own echo - Liberty!

'On those who first should violate
Such sacred heralds in their state
Rest the blood that must ensue,
And it will not rest on you.

'And if then the tyrants dare
Let them ride among you there,
Slash, and stab, and maim, and hew, -
What they like, that let them do.

'With folded arms and steady eyes,
And little fear, and less surprise,
Look upon them as they slay
Till their rage has died away.

'Then they will return with shame
To the place from which they came,
And the blood thus shed will speak
In hot blushes on their cheek.

'Every woman in the land
Will point at them as they stand -
They will hardly dare to greet
Their acquaintance in the street.

'And the bold, true warriors
Who have hugged Danger in wars
Will turn to those who would be free,
Ashamed of such base company.

'And that slaughter to the Nation
Shall steam up like inspiration,
Eloquent, oracular;
A volcano heard afar.

'And these words shall then become
Like Oppression’s thundered doom
Ringing through each heart and brain,
Heard again - again - again -

'Rise like Lions after slumber
In unvanquishable number -
Shake your chains to earth like dew
Which in sleep had fallen on you -
Ye are many - they are few.’

Sleep, dear - Samuel Seabury X reader

Originally posted by compasia

“ Luke 6:13,  Do to others as you would have them do to you.” 

Your husband, Samuel, read aloud to you as he laid next to you in your warm and comforting bed. He always read aloud to you from the bible on nights when you couldn’t fall asleep, tonight was one of them.

You stared into his beautiful eyes as they scanned the paper in front of him, his kissable lips moving in sync with them. His eyes turn to yours for a split second and he notices you watching him.

“Something wrong, Y/N?” He said, closing the book and setting it aside. You shake your head and he gives you a brilliant and warming smile. You return it when he wraps his strong arms around you and pulls you closer to him.

“Y/N, I don’t tell you how beautiful you are enough” He said, running his fingers through your hair. 

“You tell me every day, love” You laughed, leaning up and placing a light kiss to his perfect lips. 

“If it was possible, I would tell you every second of my life” He began pressing kisses all over your faces. You giggled as he mumbled words of love between every peck

“I love you,” He kissed you “ You’re so beautiful” He kissed you once again. 

“Sammy, if you keep this up I’m never going to get to sleep!” You said, nuzzling your face into his chest. You felt his hand rub down your back as you breathed in his calming scent of light chocolate and honey.

“Oh, I’ll get you to sleep alright~” He teased at you. He started gently massaging your back with one hand as the other began playing with your hair. You felt your eyes get heavy as his actions hypnotized you closer to sleep.

His scent intoxicated you as he held you close against his muscular chest. Though your mind tried fighting back, your body was growing closer to rest. 

“Samuel….” You mumbled sleepily and he chuckled. You listened closely to his calming heartbeat.

Lubdub His heart went as you felt your eyes close involuntarily on you, leaving your only sense to be the feeling of Sam lulling you into rest.

“I love you so much, Y/N” You heard his say as he kissed the top of your hair

“I love you too….” You yawned before surrendering to sleep, the sweet and comforting embrace Samuel brought never fading.

Ok guys so I have a theory on the blurryface album cover based on this tweet from blurryface. This might be crazy or far-fetched or whatever but just hear me out. So in this picture, the keypad looks an awful lot like the album cover… Which means the red circles are numbers 3 and 8. What does that mean? Given Tyler and Josh’s religious backgrounds, I looked into these numbers. The album cover has 9 circles. The 9th book in the Bible is 1 Samuel (keep reading, it gets good). 1 Samuel 3:8 is the story of how Samuel thought he was being called by Eli when he was sleeping, but Eli found out that it was actually God calling, so he told him to say, “Speak Lord, your servant is listening.” The fact that the circles on the album cover are arranged like the keypad of the iphone got me thinking… What if it represents “calling” for God or even just “calling” for help, and Blurryface is the one that “ends the call?”

I don’t know. Does anyone else have any theories? Message me or whatever idk

The Email (Part 3)

Word count: 1,800-ish

Sam X Reader

Reader’s closest friend was brutally murdered and there was only one person she could turn to, her best friend-Sam. But here’s the twist, she has never seen Sam. For 15 years now she has been writing and receiving letters/ Emails from her best friend without knowing what he does or even looks like. Does she like him? Maybe. But what happens when she finds herself falling for this other beautiful man she has just met?

Warning: Death, Angst, Sam fluff

A/N:Thank you so very much for all the messages, comments and asks! The response has been overwhelming. I love you guys, you are seriously the best. I have to thank my beautiful Beta @sdavid09 for putting up with me. (Lately I am starting to live for your comments on the drafts.) _

This Part is kind of the mid-season finale for the series. Only two more parts left for this mini-series to end. @coyotesmate​, thank you for pointing out a few obvious things in the last part, I sorted it out in this one. @grace-for-sale​ don’t kill me after reading this.

Catch up:  Part 1, Part 2

All the love, Ana :*

Ella was smiling at you, coaxing you to meet Sam after all. “Go on, call him,” she was saying. You were blushing furiously while looking down at your hands. All of a sudden there was a blood-curdling scream and you looked around to see Ella’s body lying on the floor, mutilated and mauled. But the one thing that was haunting you was the sheer terror in her dead eyes.

Keep reading

Coming Home for Christmas

Request: An idea for the holidays. The reader hates christmas because something bad happened last Christmas : friend died. Had to say goodbye to someone really close. Something really important was stolen. She was attacked and almost died.(sorry I love angst)

A/N: I regret nothing. The reader is like…early twenties. Italics are the readers thoughts.

Warning: Angst

25 Days of Holiday Tales

Dean x Daughter!Reader    Sam x Niece!Reader

You stood at the top of the bunker stairs taking in view; it had been exactly one year since you had stood in that same spot. Everything looked the same as it did that day. There were papers scattered along the war room map, a coffee cup sitting where someone, probably your uncle, had been doing research. The garland and holiday lights were still wrapped around the stair railing. It even smelled the same.

You slowly made your way down the stairs, listening to see if anyone was in the bunker. It was unlikely, nobody was expecting you to come home, not after what happened last year. Ugh last year.

Last Christmas had resulted in a fight between your father and yourself. You had done what Sam and him always wanted for you. You had gone to college. Been normal. However it wasn’t meant for you, it never was. You had always done it to make your family happy. You had decided last Christmas that you were done pretending to be someone you weren’t for your family and told your dad and uncle you wanted in.

Which resulted in the biggest blowout in Winchester family history; it was even bigger then when Sam left for Stanford.

The last words you had exchanged with your father was that he was a terrible father who pushed you to be someone you weren’t. The last thing he had told you was that you were too naive to understand and that he couldn’t wait until the day you came to him, telling him that he was right.

Letting out a sigh you continued your journey around the bunker.

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