waif girls

Cillian Murphy should be the worst man to play Tommy Shelby but turns out to be the best. Do a search on Google Images and you’ll find Murphy a winsome waif with an indie-girl fringe. Yet for Peaky Blinders he seems to have found another face altogether: insolent, superior, the nastiness somehow intensified by the prettiness. His cheekbones sharp as the blades sewn into his cap. He looks beautiful and hateful, squalid and divine. (The Telegraph)

anonymous asked:

Am so pleased you loved Mad Max: Fury Road! I would love to hear your thoughts on how the female characters are portrayed compared with in Avengers: Age of Ultron. Also wonder if you have seen Anita Sarkeesian's tweets proclaiming that Mad Max isn't feminist, which I couldn't disagree with more.

There were a few different parts to your ask, anon, so this ended up turning into a loooooong reply.

The main appeal of Mad Max for me personally is that it’s an amazingly well made action movie without any of the—pardon my French—unselfconscious dickwaving that makes the majority of action movies alienating for me as a female viewer. In fact, the film very clearly addresses how destructive toxic masculinity is. I wish I could say ‘big whoop’, but unfortunately this level of self-conscious criticism in mainstream films is incredibly rare, especially in the action genre. So just off the top of my head, here’s some of the things I feel Mad Max does differently from Age of Ultron (and the majority of other action movies out there) with respect to women and gender. (Mild spoilers under the cut.)

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Explanation for Ayra Starks events in the last 2 episodes. Read it in jaqen h'ghar’s voice.“

"No one speaks for the Many-Faced God.
The kindly man is someone.
The waif is someone.
No one is no one.

A sweet girl has shown mercy.
A debt must be paid.
One life shall be taken.
Which life matters not.
A life is a life.
It is all the same to the Many-Faced God.

A smart girl knows she cannot beat the waif in simple combat.
A clever girl must deceive the waif.
A girl must play the game.
A girl knows an actress.
An actress knows the art of lying.
A lost girl has trained in the art of lying for two years.
An actress has given a sweet girl what she needs.
A girl has all the rest.

"You have very expressive eyes, wonderful eyebrows. Do you like pretending to be other people?”

A hunted girl must attract the attention of someone.
A hunted girl must stand openly where escape is easy.
The waif is someone.
The waif has desires.
An experienced girl knows the waif will want her to suffer.
A clever girl knows where the waif will stab her.

A lying girl must become a wounded girl.
A lying girl must act wounded when no one is watching.
For no one is watching.
A wounded girl must lead the waif into the darkness.
A girl has trained in complete darkness before.
The waif has not.
The waif is unprepared.
The waif has been tricked by a girl.
The waif believes she is after a wounded girl.
A girl is not a wounded girl.
A girl will deliver a life to the Many-Faced God.
A life is a life and the debt is paid.

A girl is not no one.
A girl will never be no one.
A girl is Arya Stark
and Arya Stark has many faces.

—  Found this on Facebook, someone posted on the GoT page and they got it from Reddit. Best explanation of Arya’s story I’ve found.
the affairs of a kingdom

basilton pitch is an icy statue, all raven hair and skin pale as paper, crystal crowns and languid sprawls across golden thrones. his eyes are dark, grey as the depths of the ocean, and they spark with intelligence.

“i can rule alone, father.”

he could, with an iron fist. 

“a land needs compassion, not just logic and reason.” it’s been far to long since there’s been a queen, he means. “find your humanity.”

and so there’s a ball.

ladies, resplendent in jewel bright ball gowns dripping with diamonds and emeralds, stream in from every corner of the world to win his hand. they’re accompanied by kings and queens and princesses and princes- a ball like this is not to be missed. even the daughters of their rival come, arriving in elegant carriages and escorted by a golden haired prince with suspicious blue eyes and a freckled hand ever-resting on the pommel of his sword.

basilton thinks it’s ridiculous. no matter what the outcome of the ridiculous ball, a queen will not be chosen- and his father knows it. hidden in his orders was a threat- it’s been too long since there was a queen, and there will be one. 

there will be.

he’s played the perfect little prince.

he’s danced, and kissed dainty gloved hands, and escorted ladies to their carriages. he’s made polite conversation. he’s scrutinized each princess that’s fallen under his gaze.


milky gold hair, silver doe eyes, skin as pale as his own. she knows how it is to put up a front- her smile is cold and her eyes are as calculating as his own.


she’s a pale waif of a girl, walking fairy-light in her green gown and golden slippers. she’s making eyes at the one in the lilac dress and wildly curling hair across the room, so baz leaves her alone. he knows how she feels. 


sharp as a whip, she’s engaged to a prince across the waters. baz doesn’t know why she’s here. they exchange suspicious looks across the ballroom. 


she’s overly eager, bouncing on the balls of her feet and practically radiating energy. she talks so much that baz wishes there was a way to make her voice disappear- he doesn’t say this out loud.

his manners are perfect.

he feels eyes boring into the back of his head, raking up his back, studying how he moves and who he’s talking to and how he looks when he’s standing alone, for once, with a glass of wine in the corner.

they fall in love with him, or they think they do.

he’s ice.

the snows are fire.

the pitches are fire, too, but they’re careful. they melt away problems, slowly, softly, so that no one notices.

the snows are snapping, licking flames, sudden and unexpected. they’re words that singe and they’re sparking tempers, and it takes only the smallest movement to fan the flames.

there are two girls, twins- rose and celeste, both with rosy cheeks and baby blue eyes. one has freckles bridging her nose.

their younger brother is their escort- prince simon. hair like spun gold and deep blue eyes and moles all over, dotting his cheeks and his neck and- he’s beautiful.

he hates baz. 

he has before he even met him- baz hates him too, on principal. but simon’s always hovering, like it’s his duty to protect baz from the poor girls dancing with him.

it’s not. baz is hardly likely to pounce. 

they end up talking. 

it’s rough, scraping, just like baz expected.



and then they wait, for the other to make a move. sizing each other up.

“you’re not getting my sisters.”

and baz nods. because he knows that. he’s fine with that.

he’s a prince, and snow’s a prince, but he still thinks snow is the most beautiful person at the ball.

maybe he wasn’t meant to have a queen.

he doesn’t tell his father.

they come together in a desperate clash.

they hate each other. they hate each other. they hate they hate they hate-

they have to.


baz isn’t getting simon’s sisters.

but he is getting frantic kisses, and pale golden fingers contrasting against his own papery ones.

he is getting solid blue stares into his own grey eyes.

he is getting embraces so tight he couldn’t wiggle out of them if he tried.

(he doesn’t try.)

basilton pitch is in love with simon snow.

and it’s eye contact across crowded ballroom floors.

it’s tearing jealousy when he’s dancing with someone else.

it’s being confused. it’s everything blurring together except when he’s with him. it’s two princes, gold against silver.

“don’t go.” pale words, whispered against a bronze neck. “please.”

“i have to. i’m sorry, i have to-”

it’s only been two weeks.

and baz hasn’t chosen a queen.

“celeste,” suggests simon. “marry celeste. we could see each other, then-”

“i thought you hated me.” baz hides his face in simon’s chest, hearing him breath.

“i do,” says simon, but his voice is uncertain. 

“i can’t marry celeste, that’s a horrible thing to do.”

“it’s just strategy. i thought that’s what you pitches are all about?”

“of course not,” says baz, voice gentle as butterfly wings. simon buries his face in baz’s hair and wishes, wishes, wishes-


just a little longer.

“celeste, would you marry the prince?”

“of course.” her eyes are wide, confused. “that’s what i’m here for, isn’t it?”

“no, i- if he didn’t love you back.”

“i never expected he would. i thought this was just business. why?”

“i can’t- celeste, i can’t tell you-”

 she examines him with shrewd eyes- his mussed hair, desperate eyes.

“is it his sister?”

“no! it’s-”

her eyes slide shut, and when she opens them again she looks impossibly sad. “is it him?”

simon freezes. “i-”


“how could you know that? i-” his head droops. “-will you?”

“of course i will, simon. you’re my baby brother. but- don’t let anyone know. you can’t let anyone know.”

“she said she would.”

what? you told her? snow, you can’t- we can’t-”

“no, she figured it out on her own- but you have to say yes, okay? please.”

“of course. of course i’ll say yes, of course, but- no one can know, okay? please. no one can know why.”

they’re married in blue and grey silk, and it’s a grand affair- the union of two kingdoms, warring for centuries. baz looks like a marble statue, all angles and chiseled cheekbones, while celeste is as soft and radiant as a rose.

they’re both so beautiful.

“i love you, i love you, i love you-”

it’s baz’s wedding night but he’s kissing another. he should feel guilty but he can’t- all he feels is love and terror, deep inside-

what if they’re caught? found out? separated?

they have tonight.

“i love you so much. i love you. i love you.”

Duty (Ablaze)

(Ao3 link)

“’For all his princely wits and wiles, masks are two years out of style.’ That wasn’t too hard—Severa could practically write these on the spot.”

For the tumblr kink meme prompts: “Severa eating Lucina out on her throne of the Exalt” and “Severa/Lucina, devotion”. Warning for nsfw, mentions of suicide ideation, and Severa’s shameful proclivities. ;(

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Maya and Krieg are out working on some job in a little run-down village somewhere one day and this tiny waif of a girl playing outside takes a shine to Krieg and follows them around all day

Since most people are intimidated by Krieg and give him a wide perimeter this little kid being utterly fascinated by him totally shocks Krieg and he’s kinda nervous because he’s scared he might accidentally hurt her or something but she doesn’t care how big and scary he is she just asks him all these questions as kids are wont to do and invites him to come play with her (she leads him away holding his hand but since his hand is so big and hers is so small she can only grab one of his fingers)

Maya ends up finishing the job alone but that’s okay because she goes to find Krieg and he’s buried under a pile of dolls and they’re having a good time. They have to go and she makes them promise to come back soon and play again. They could never say no to that

When their eyes met - a kind-of AoKaga short story

Fandom: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko’s Basketball

Characters: Aomine Daiki, Kuroko Tetsuya, Kagami Taiga

Rating: Mature, for some language and unpleasant situations

Notes: Master/Slave dynamics, Fantasy AU, pre-slash.

A/N: Oh hey, this little nugget of a story cropped up in my brain and won’t leave me be, so have some fantasy!AU AoKa. Inspired by the master/slave scenario that I’d discussed with saltdrops once, quite some time ago.

Daiki absolutely hated passing through the slave market.

It’s not that it’s dirty or anything; like everything in the capital, it was clean and neat and ordered. But even the pretty carved tiles decorating the streets didn’t hide the stench of fear and desperation that soured the air.

Unfortunately, the usual street leading to his mansion was apparently undergoing construction and was blocked off, so roundabout route through the slave market it was.

He would have honestly chosen to brave the twisting backalleys instead of having to walk even near the boundaries of the market, but Tetsu had shook his head and warned him that given recent events, it was a very bad idea for someone of his status to walk thorough places where an assassin might easily leap out of the shadows and stab him between the shoulderblades.

Not that Daiki was afraid of a fight—Goddess above, he would have welcomed it, after the utterly shitty week he had to endure—but one look at his earnest-faced and honestly too-frail companion, and Daiki resigned himself to listening to Tetsu’s request.

Daiki curled his lip in distaste as a burly man yanked a tiny waif of a girl out of her cage by the collar, and pushed her onto the stage as the auctioner yelled out her attributes, like she was a prize animal to be sold off.

Well, to the denizens in this city, these slaves were no better than animals. Toys to be played with and thrown away.

“Gross,” he muttered under his breath.

“I know how you feel,” Tetsu said quietly. His face, usually so calm, had hardened enough that there were visible furrows between his eyebrows. “But remember, milord, we’re only allowed here because we’re under the Emperor’s blessing and we’ve kept a low profile. Don’t start a fight.”

Daiki sighed and relunctantly dropped the hand that had curled around the hilt of his sword. “I hate it. Why can’t these people just hire help, like everyone else?”

“These are not slaves. They’re prisoners, and instead of letting them rot in cells, it’s better to use them as labor.” Tetsu shook his head. “Or that is the official stance on these people. A very pretty lie, used to maintain a centuries-old tradition in the face of growing disapproval from allied nations.”

“Gross,” Daiki repeated.

Tetsu said nothing but a soft “yes” in return.

The auctioner yelled out the winning bid; the girl was yanked away to a seperate pen, where apparently all the bought slaves go to. Daiki shuddered and turned away. Ugh. “Let’s just hurry up. I think I’m going to lose my appetite.”

Tetsu nodded, and silently followed Daiki’s steps as he hurried towards where he knew the nearest exit was.

A shout made him stop in his tracks, and he turned, wondering what that sound was from. It didn’t sound like the usual auction sounds.

His eyes caught sight of a large group of caravans. There were men in rough-spun labourer’s gear, and one of them was shouting. Ordering, he realised, as the men around him started herding a group of slaves into the caravans.

Except these slaves were different from the ones before. They look haggard, worn, eyes dead and vacant. Some of them even look mean, like hungry wolves. All of them wore heavy iron collars around their necks in addition to the cuffs that bound their wrists together.

“Well, fuck.” Daiki stared. “And what are these people for?”

Tetsu blinked, tilting his head. “Huh. I think these are salt mine slaves.”

“Say what?”

“If slaves fail to sell at the normal auctions after a certain period of time, they were cheaply sold off to work in mines.”

Daiki felt revulsion and horror crawl up his spine. He came from the south country, which didn’t have mines, but he’d heard plenty of stories about the salt mines from travellers. None of them were pretty. “Isn’t that a death sentence?”

“It’s as good as one.”

Poor bastards, Daiki thought, his eyes drifting over the assembled slaves. Hell’s teeth, he wouldn’t have let these people work the fields in his fiefdom, they looked that fragile.

The man who was shouting before let out a bellow again, and a couple of his men (Daiki assumed he was the leader, given how often he yelled) suddenly dived to the throng of slaves…


Daiki blinked as these men struggled to pull a slave out of the crowd. And struggled they did, with good reason. The slave was huge in a way the rest of them weren’t, tall and broad-shouldered, the tiny loincloth protecting his modesty failing to hide the buldging muscles of his chest, the thickness of his arms.

The slave was resisting them, Daiki realised. The slave had knelt down on his knees, using his large body to his advantage so that it was harder for the labourers to pull him. Smart, although ultimately futile, as they slowly dragged him inch by inch out of the huddled group of slaves.

And that wasn’t the only strange thing about him. The other slaves had their wrists bown in front of their bodies—this man’s wrists were bound up with his collar, which wasn’t so much of a collar as much as a thick yoke made of solid iron. And the man was actually muzzled, his face half covered by a metal plate that had several small holes in it to breathe through.

Who is this guy?

One of the labourers came too close; the slave reared back, and suddenly lurged forward, butting his head hard against the man’s groin. The labourer went down with a high-pitched scream, clutching at his balls.

Not the smartest of moves, Daiki thought, as the slave, distracted, didn’t notice another labourer move around to his back, and that moment allowed the labourer to swing a large wooden club to the back of the slave’s head.

The slave was sent sprawling forward with the force of it, hitting the ground face-first.

The leader was yelling something again; he looked even more irritated, scolding the other labourer for damaging the goods, probably.

Daiki watched as the slave shifted, and rolled over, a muffled groan coming out from beneath the mask. And somehow, in that moment, their eyes met.

The slave’s eyes burned. Fierce and hot with an inner fire that made Daiki want to instinctively step back, even though the slave was still in his iron restraints, and they were so far away that Daiki couldn’t even see the slave’s eye color properly.

The muzzle covered half the slave’s face, so Daiki couldn’t couldn’t see his expression, but he’s willing to bet his fortune that the man’s lips were pulled back in snarl.

Then one of the labourers yanked the slave up from the ground, and broke that eye-contact.

Daiki was abruptly aware of the prickle in his lungs, and he let out his breath in a whoosh. He hadn’t even realised that he was holding it.

He was suddenly reminded of a childhood memory, when he was once brought to a circus, and he’d seen a huge cat, so big that his head could easily fit in its mouth when it roared, covered in orange-brown fur with beautiful black stripes. The cat had paced within its enclosure, snarling at people who came too close. Every now and then it’ll throw itself at the metal bars, as if trying to break out with brute force.

The slave was like the cat in Daiki’s memory.

Vicious. Wild. Desperate to be free, even though it was impossible.

He felt a little prickle at the back of his mind, instincts clamoring for him to do something. He couldn’t do anything for that big cat back then, even though he’d wanted to.

But now…

“…hey. Tetsu.”

Tetsu, who’d remained still and silent beside him, watching the events unfold, looked up at Daiki. “Yes?”

“Can you help translate for me?”


Daiki huffed, wondering if it was a good idea, even as he knew that he’d commited himself to it. “I’m going to try and buy that slave.”

The Portal’s Opening

Danny took one look at his house and knew he was in big trouble.

The windows were smashed out, glass glinting all jagged and shark-teeth-like in the moonlight. His parent’s once-proud lawn was rotten. Weeds grew up out of the stonework, splitting the pavement. Ivy curled it’s many probing fingers through the holes in the windows. Spray paint was smeared across the front door, down the siding, and across the brick. All endearing notes. Stuff like: Fuck you, Demon Spawn, Hell Bringers, Satin Worshippers.

Danny winced a little at that last one. His sister would’ve been annoyed at their vandal’s lack of spelling skills if she was all here. Really, the least they could have done was insult them properly.

“Look, Jazz. We worship ribbons,” Danny tried to tell her, but the words fumbled around in his mouth as if he had forgotten how to speak. “Jazz,” he repeated, more to himself. The name was clumsy. It was also wasted, as Jazz hadn’t said a word to him since he had woken up, four hours ago, in the middle of a dingy alleyway, half starved and utterly confused.

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An incident at my school led me to take a long break from teaching. I have told no one until now.

(Credit to MrCantDo, via Reddit)

Earlier in my career, I was a teacher at a high school in Vancouver’s east side. When I was first hired there in the late nineties, one of my colleagues told me that it was “a jewel of a community” and “the best East End school you’d never heard of.” And she was right. I grew up in Vancouver but had never even heard of this school, but as I began my tenure there, the reasons for its relative anonymity became apparent. It’s near an area of our city affectionately called The Drive, which is known for its cultural vibrancy, social justice advocacy, and eccentric personalities. With a student body of less than a thousand students, cloistered in a tight-knit neighbourhood of old wood-framed houses dating back to the turn of the twentieth century, and quietly, humbly plodding through its history without feeling the need to trumpet its innumerable academic successes, its many charms drew me in like a siren’s song.

The school had been there since the late nineteen-twenties and was in need of some major repairs. Then, in 2001, a 6.6 magnitude earthquake hit our American sister city of Seattle. Its epicentre was two hundred and thirty kilometres away yet our building still swayed like a drunken sailor.

As you can imagine, that quake worsened the state of our structural disrepair, leaving a two-inch crack in the basement floor. I only know this because the custodian who cleaned my floor, Manny, confided in me after the quake, “We’re lucky this is an old wooden school. It absorbed everything. But our concrete took a beating downstairs.” Apparently, it also damaged a pipe causing water damage on the bottom floor. Manny was part of the crew charged with the clean-up.

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Girlfriend & Muse

Kate Moss [16.01.74]

Kate Moss is an English model and fashion designer. She is often associated with her waif appearance and poster girl for the mid-90s culture known as “heroin chic.” She has been modelling since the age of 14 and appeared on British Vogue over 30 times. W Magazine (where she has graced the cover 17 times) calls Moss its muse. Moss has appeared in many music videos, notably “Queenie Eye” by Paul McCartney, “Sex with Strangers” by Marianne Faithfull, “I Just Don’t Know What to Do with Myself” by The White Stripes, and “Something About the Way You Look Tonight” by Elton John

Moss started dating actor & musician Johnny Depp in 1994. They contributed together to OasisBe Here Now album; Moss playing tambourine and Depp playing guitar. Moss and Depp attended Frank Sinatra’s 80th birthday party where Moss reveals she kissed Sinatra and met Bob Dylan, although there was no romantic subtext. Moss’ other publicized relationship was with Pete Doherty, co-frontman of The Libertines. They met in 2005 at Moss’ birthday party and quickly became popular to the tabloids. The photos leaked of the couple’s drug usage, specifically cocaine, caused a scandal and put a dent in Moss’ modelling career. Since then she has cleared charges and is still modelling, happily married to Jamie Hince, guitarist of The Kills, with daughter Lila Grace Moss-Hack (fathered by Jefferson Hack). 

“People think your success is just a matter of having a pretty face. But it’s easy to be chewed up and spat out. You’ve got to stay ahead of the game to be able to stay in it.”











Textbook Examples of Plot Inconsistencies

Sansa in 6x04: A monster has taken our home and our brother. We have to go back and save them both.

Sansa in 6x09: Just kidding! I never thought we were going to be able to save Rickon.

Jon in 6x05: To take Winterfell we need more men.

Jon in 6x07 and 6x09: Eh, I don’t need no stinking men. I’ll take back Winterfell with my monosyllabic Giant and my tall Ginger friend who dabbles in bestiality.

Daenarys in 4x04: I will meet injustice with justice.

Daenarys in 6x09: I’m an angry short woman. I’m going to kill every single person, master or slave, in motherfucking Astopor and Yunkai because the masters have gotten on my last 5′1″ nerve.

Jaqen in 5x10 (after Arya kills Ser Meryn): A girl has cheated the Many Faced God. A name was given, the Thin Man’s. A girl cannot kill whoever she wants. Now go enjoy some blindness in the corner and think about what you did. 

Jaqen in 6x08 (after Arya kills the Waif): Oh a girl killed my Terminator intern even though the Many Faced God wanted her name? And a girl is going home? Dat’s coo! Do you, boo-boo, do you.

Seriously, wtf, D&D?