||ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴀʀɪᴏɴᴇᴛᴛɪsᴛ

@deadrisers-blog / deadrisers-blog.tumblr.com

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inkskinned

me looking at the person i like: i am enamored even with the way your fingers move, with the way the light plays on your skin, with your freckles and your smile and your laughter, with your voice, with how you get around the things you love, with your humor,  me aloud: what’s up asshole

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Nickname: Rae Gender: Female Zodiac sign: Virgo Hogwarts house: Gryffindor (?) Favorite color: Purple Time: 20:19 Average hours of sleep: 8, give or take Lucky number: 5 Last thing I googled: (Not particularly proud of this, haha) ‘Myles and Beckett Fowl’ Blankets I sleep with: 1-2. I’m a wimp, though, and have been known to sleep with 3 Favorite bands: Van Halen, Green Day, The Clash, The Doors,Original Cast Recording” Favorite kpop bands: I don’t know any Solo artist: Billy Joel but also Bruce Springsteen and Meatloaf, tho Dream trip: Road-trip up and down Italy (including Sicily) Wearing: Hard Rock Cafe t-shirt, pyjama bottoms, dressing gown Age of blog: 2 months, I think? Maybe a bit less? Following: 218 Posts: 698 What I post about: it’s a rp blog, but I haven’t had the time recently. tbh. When did my blog reach it’s peak: fuck knows.

URL: deadrisers

I tag: don’t have much time, so if you want to do the thing - feel free to tag me! <3

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reblogged
❝  Hugh told her story, too. Fiona was a   refugee   from Ireland, he said, where she’d been growing food   for the people in her village during the   famine   of the 1840s—until she was   accused of being a witch and chased out.                                           This is something Hugh had gleaned only after years of subtle,                                                  nonverbal communication with Fiona, who didn’t speak not because she                                          couldn’t,      Hugh said, but                     because the things she’d witnessed in the famine were so                            horrific they stole her voice away.  ❞
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So, my copy of the ‘Miss Peregrine’s’ art book arrived. I opened it, and I found this tucked in there:

Don’t fuckin sass me, Wordery

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   Alma,  in comparison to some of her fellow instructors, was quite lenient with such questionable behaviors. Detentions were much simpler  in the long run, nothing too STRENUOUS.  But goodness, there were times where she wished there were more creative punishments.    Perhaps she had to just do it herself.    Alma allowed herself a few moments to just carefully watch him, green eyes trained on his movements, as her expression only showed DISTASTE.  Finally, she spoke. Her tone laced with disapproval.
MISTER O’CONNOR,  would you please stay a few moments. It will not take long; I must…Inquire about some things. ”
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             A strained groan escaped him,   OhMUST you, Prof ?   Further attempts to mock her enunciation ( insofar as a heavy cockney accent allowed ) were abandoned. Hers were the words any self-respecting student DREADED hearing ; at this point, it seemed universally acknowledged that a teacher’s concept of time was — distinctly different to that of the rest of the human population’s. 

Feet planted stubbornly on the ground ; one brief look up at her expression ( more than ) enough for his demeanour to waver ( if only for a moment )  Whatever it is, can I just say I’m sorry now, and leave it at that ? —— Save time for us both ?   

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archatlas

Eva van Oosten is a Fine Art Photographer based in The Netherlands. For several years she’s been creating her own recognizable niche in photography, using (available) light and Photoshop as her main tools. Published internationally in The United States, Mexico and throughout Europe on book covers from small writers to Madeleine Roux and Nicci French. Her work appeared on cd covers, in magazines and blogs.

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