loverlylittleimagines

blackfemalepresident:

a underaged girl could be wearing lingerie and shaking her ass in a grown man’s face begging him to take her and guess whaaat

hes still trash for fucking her

hes the adult. he has enough control and willpower to say no. he knows that fucking kids is wrong.

stop sympathizing with men and protecting them for falling “victim” to “teenage temptresses”

if you cant trust yourself to not fuck kids, even if they “tempt you” the problem is you, NOT the kid

superwholock-imagines

mattharv666:

skankmcmeow:

I see your shifting gaze, that disgusted glance. I know you’re questioning my parenting from across the elementary school assembly.

Let me tell you a little story about the kindergarten student with bright purple hair, my little Raven Marie…

A month before school started she decided to play hair stylist with the craft scissors, and to save what was left I had to opt for a pixie cut. She was absolutely devastated. It was about three hours before she stopped her harsh sobbing and hiccups.

Why?

She has thought that the length of a girls hair was what made her “girly”. I know I’ve personally had many hairstyles around her before, including a purple mohawk, which many people criticized as not being “girly” enough. Media, other children, other parents, and society made it worse. She would randomly burst in tears while out in public for the first week of her new style, screaming that she looked like a boy. That everyone would think she’s a boy.

At one point she took off her bow in her hair, threw it at a cashier and screamed, “I DON’T NEED THIS BOW TO TELL YOU THAT I’M NOT A BOY, BECAUSE I’M NOT”

Proudly stomping away in her blue jean overalls, head held high.

Once we edged closer to the first day of school she kept asking questions like, “Do you think the other kids will like me? Do you think they’ll be my friend? Will they think I’m a boy? Will they pick on me because I have boy hair?”

So I went to the grocery store, bought some dye, and spent the whole night transforming my bright blonde little girl into a plum punk rock fairy. I then assured her that if any of the kids didn’t like her, they were just jealous.

As for you, mothers and teachers with the wandering eyes filled with disgust and judgement, I’m in the business of raising a free spirit.

Here’s to you, Raven Marie. I love you.

Look at how fucking adorable that kid is holy fucking shit

I am so proud of this child omg

Part one: http://suchafreakingidjit.tumblr.com/post/94949179838/lose-control-open-imagine
Part two: http://suchafreakingidjit.tumblr.com/post/95050590843/part-two-of-this-open-imagine
Part three: http://suchafreakingidjit.tumblr.com/post/95520362858/part-one
Part four: http://suchafreakingidjit.tumblr.com/post/96918610283/read-part-one-here

Listen to this while you read: http://youtu.be/WUrStvfoqEY


********

You could see an angel.

You tossed and turned, your skin burning even as your bones slowly froze and turned to ice and dust. Your muscles ached, tugging on your tired bones and pressing against your bruised organs. Your teeth chattered, occasionally biting down on your lip, and you wondered how long it would take before you tasted blood. Your whole body shook with tremors, cowering and shivering as soft whimpers and ragged sighs dragged themselves from your burning, torn throat. You were dying, you were sure of it.

The angel came to you, running his blessedly cool hands over your burning skin, pressing soft, cold little kisses to your forehead and cheeks, whispering sweet promises to make you well again. His lips grazed your ear as he promised that he would take care of you for the rest of his life, because you were all he had and your care was his only purpose in this meaningless world. He poured bitter medicine into your mouth, passing small pills through your lips, urging you to swallow the unpleasant taste and get well. He would wrap you in blankets and take your hands in his and run his thumbs over the soft skin covering your wrists. He kept his word, and he took good care of you.

The angel even sang to you. He sat next to you and ran his fingers through your hair and let the soft notes fall from his lips, the most beautiful sound you had ever heard. He sang about love and loss, life and death, forgetfulness and moving on, the changing of the seasons. He sang the hallelujah, just for you. You loved his voice, craved it, longed to hear it again. But the angel rarely sang, and when he did it was quiet, so that only you could hear. His songs were like a secret, and you his trusted confident.

The angel filled your sleep, though you were delirious with fever and could not always tell when you were awake and when you were asleep. The lines between reality and dreams grew ever thinner. But as you lay back and let him hover above you, brushing kisses like soft feathers across your collarbones and up your neck, you knew that this was a dream. As he murmured sweet nothings against your lips, you knew that it was a work of fiction produced by your own mind. And as he held you against him in a stolen moment of intimacy, you knew that this could never be real, because you could never hold on to anything this sweet.

You weren’t sure if you were awake or dreaming when the angel gathered you into his arms, mumbling that it was time for the two of you to get out of here. You didn’t even remember where “here” was, but you knew that your sweet angel was taking you somewhere better. And so you snuggled into his chest, nuzzling your face into his neck and letting him carry you gently out of the dirty building and set you in a car. You whined when he withdrew his hands from you so that he could buckle you in and tuck blankets around you to keep you warm and safe. He chuckled and pressed a small, soft kiss to you forehead before getting out and going around to his side of the car.

The journey was a blur of long days and longer nights, of the angel singing along to the radio and changing the station every time that PSA about the missing girl came on. He would hold your hand sometimes, when your skin wasn’t too hot to touch. He made sure you got your medicine, because he wanted you to be healthy so he could see your beautiful smile again. He tried to get you to eat, even though you often refused any more than water and sometimes juice. You were losing weight, and it scared him. He wanted to take you to a hospital, but for obvious reasons that was out of the question.

Your fever broke on the fourth day of the indefinitely long road trip. He almost cried with relief. You were asleep when it happened, and continued to sleep for another six hours before you woke up, finally lucid for the first time in well over a week.

You were in a car and did not know how you came to be there. The only clothes you wore were your undergarments and a T-shirt that was much too big for you and smelled like smoke and rain and faintly of cologne. You were wrapped in several blankets, and when you looked over to the driver next to you you nearly jumped out of your skin before remembering. Before you got sick, you were taken.

"Where are we?" You demanded, sitting up in the seat and pushing some of the excess blankets into the floor. "Where did we get a car? What happened?!"

"You got sick." His voice was a whisper, his eyes glued to the road, not daring to look at you. "Really sick. I was so scared. I tried to take good care of you, but that apartment was making you worse, I think. I had to get you out of there." And he’s so confused, because he thinks this might be the first time he’s ever done something for someone besides himself.

"Where did you get the car?" Your voice was a soft, frightened whisper, unsavory possibilities running through your mind.

"This guy I know. He owed me a favor." His jaw clenched as he spoke, but you couldn’t leave it alone.

"He owed you a favor big enough that he have you his CAR when you were a fugitive from the law?! What did you do for him?"

"Let’s just say that what I did for him wasn’t entirely legal." He still stares at the road, anywhere but at you. "He was in a bit of trouble and I helped him out."

"So are your friends all criminals too, then?" You huffed, crossing your arms.

His hands tightened on the wheel, knuckles turning white. “Wouldn’t know. Never had any friends.”

"Of course you have friends." You clearly remembered how he was always hanging out with those kids who are popular, but not in the ‘in crowd’ way. These kids were more popular with the stoners and the punks and the drop-outs, and were notorious for their crazy, occasionally dangerous parties. "What about Jace and Eddy? Or Eileen and her little clique? Those girls were always following you around."

He wrinkled his nose. The two boys you had mentioned were punks, dumb as bricks, the kind who always wore wife beaters and leather jackets and spent most of school skipping class and smoking cigarettes out back, when they weren’t suspended for fighting. The group of girls you had brought up were almost worse, in his opinion: Nothing but a bunch of sluts who wore too much dark lipstick and too little clothing and had notoriously low standards when it came to who they would hook up with. Though he supposed that he wasn’t really any better than any of them. “They weren’t my friends. They just liked me because I went along with them and did whatever they wanted to do.”

You shrugged. “At least you weren’t alone.”

"Being alone would have been better." He spared a glance over at you, expression unreadable.

"That’s a lie." You leaned back in your seat, closing your eyes. "Nobody wants to be alone. Not really."

"I do. I hate people."

You opened your eyes, turning to face him with a curious gaze. “Then you just haven’t met the right ones yet.”