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White - AustraliaxReader (Request)White. That was all she could see.
The colour of purity, of virtue, of chastity. The colour of infinity, of renewal, of a clean slate; of newly fallen snow and of a blank canvas left unpainted. The colour of beauty and of youth, and sometimes, of love: the colour of a bride’s dress, of the veil concealing her face. The colour of the feathers of a dove, flying free into the cloudless blue sky, perhaps never to be seen again. The colour of freedom, of choice, of independence, of light against dark and good against evil. The colour of possibilities, of hope, a prospect in what was otherwise oblivion. Such a beautiful colour, white, so serene and harmonious – and yet it could just as easily go the other way.
It was the colour of hydrangeas, the flowers of a withdrawn, hard-hearted, frigid disposition. It was not only the other half, the contrasting associate, of black, but its companion, its cohort, its partner in crime. It was the colour of mourning, of loss, of a body left va
Forever - NorwayxReaderThey were seated together under the shelter of the maple trees. The leaves, lush green in the spring, swayed overhead in the soft breeze, a few stray leaves taking flight to unknown destinations, others descending and performing a frenzied dance on the footpath below. Dappled light, shining through the gaps in the foliage above, created patterns of light and shade on their faces. The melodic chirping of birds – robins, perhaps – filled the air, along with the euphoric squeals of playing children, barking dogs, and the never-ending, incessant stream of chatter. To most bystanders, the crowds of people were viewed as a disturbance to the otherwise tranquil, placid atmosphere of the park around them.
The couple under the trees, however, had an entirely different interpretation. It was as if they were surrounded by their own perfect little sphere of serenity, oblivious to the world outside yet somehow a part of it at the same time. Her hand lay in his as they watched it all unf
England x Street Artist!Reader (RQ)It’s easy enough to see how you wonder for her and think of her presence, despite your steady belief you are a fellow fixed in his ways of life and his own mind.
Even the first time you meet, and despite your cold stare and your hurried burying of your hands in your pockets for lack of sensible words, you don’t ignore her when she bids you a good morning. You don’t simply walk on like the rest, and leave her in the gutter with her wet chalk and her beautiful, yet hopeless dreams of a worldly canvas. Even though you stumble at her soft inquiries, you allow yourself to spend that precious minute with her, watching what she draws with her filthy, blackened hands. You tell her you care, and with sincerity you think her drawings lovely, and she smiles at you. Who knows, maybe you even return it.
You watch her at her work even as the rain falls, when the Heavens open and you cannot see beyond your apartment for the frosted glass and spiralling fog. But looking down at her,
Noose (Bushranger!Australia x Reader)Although most would not have believed him if he said so, Jack always did think himself a decent, reasonably collected sort of man.
On most nights of summer, he would enact the exact same routine and the same systematic way of life, waiting by the side of the red-dusted path in eager anticipation, patiently standing there in wait for a gentleman of some sort that might have been called a victim or otherwise a player in the great game he referred to as his very existence. Most nights he would wait there until came the startling blaze of dawn and the birds, when past came the horses and their raucous, cocky riders, accompanied commonly by the roars of early morning calls and the gentle thuds of come-morning hooves. It was in those moments that he dared retreat, although more often than not he would return ever and again to once more take up his still and erect post by gates, and in the dense shadows of eucalypts and spinifex as he shuffled his feet in the dirt and held tight to his
Dead Man's SwitchIn control, then not -
Sudden loss of grip.
Headlong to where?
Details lost, smudged, streaked.
Careening; no system of
No dead man's switch,
On a fast track -
With or without a god?
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Lilyas has dedicated herself to making our community a brighter place with her vibrant artwork and infectious enthusiasm for interacting with others in our community. It has certainly paid off, as many deviants flock to her page on a daily basis to let her know how much of an inspiration she is. We absolutely agree, and couldn't let all that hard work go without recognition, so it's with great pride that we bestow the Deviousness Award for March 2014, to ... Read More