There is no way on earth that, unruly hair that only magic can fix, equals white. I have always read Hermione as black or mixed. The mentions of her big, unruly hair in every book makes it clear as crystals. Plus, she only tamed it once for the Yule Ball, that’s like black people straightening their hair once a year for a length check. And it took all day to do it; hellooo wash day!

(sad violin for the lost original link for this piece. i gave it an honest effort :-/ ~Taiga)

anonymous asked:

what did that joss whedon post mean? im confused?

Joss Whedon, back in the day when he was popular for his views on women with Buffy the Vampire Slayer, was considered a rather large feminist because of how he often portrayed women before Feminism was more well-known and when the bar for strong women characters were set extremely low.

Now-a-days, as Feminism has advanced and matured, Whedon still tries to express his views on women as being feminist when in all actuality, he is very sexist and very misogynistic.

While Feminism has advanced, Whedon has not and his views on women and the way he generally treats them in movies and in real life does not show the nature of Feminism at all. He sexualizes them. He puts them as love interests before he puts them as heroes. He thinks ‘Tragedy’ correlates to a woman’s worth physically and sexually to appease men rather than their worth mentally and the capabilities to function despite going through traumatic events. He uses traumatic events as break-down points for women to make them appear weak and fragile so they can be weaker than their male counter-parts.

He has also stated that cheating on his wife was justified because the women were all beautiful, needy and aggressive and that he basically couldn’t help himself.

Whedon is using his past fame, his past ‘Feminism’ as a coin card. Whedon is not a Feminist. He’s not even close. When people call him out for sexualizing, beating down female characters, making them the love interest, he can still play the card. The very nice “I’m a man feminist who is preaching hypocritical feminist views and there’s nothing you can do to stop me.”

TITLE: The Missing Dream


WARNINGS:  mentions of adoption, language

CHARACTERS:  Dean Winchester, Reader, Ericka (OFC)



The beautiful teenage girl, backpack slung over one shoulder, stood outside of local business. Her sparkling emerald eyes read the sign; Winchester Auto Shop spun proudly around at the top of the building.

Looking down at the piece of paper burning in her hand, written in her almost illegible handwriting, she sighed heavily. This was definitely the right place. Fear and trepidation bubbled in the pit of her stomach. She had been on this search since she was able to do most things on her own, and now that she was here it had scared the crap out of her. But she just adjusted her backpack and pushed herself forward.

“Hello,” she called out, walking into the garage of the auto shop, stopping behind a counter when she saw no one around. “Hello.”

Then sliding from under a cherry red 1996 Honda Civic, a man with bright green eyes appeared before her.

The man was surprised to see a girl her age in his shop, but he stood to his feet anyway. He was tall, medium build with sculpted arms. His dirty blond locks, with slightly greying edges, were spiked and cropped close to his head, while his five o’clock shadow gently caressed his strong jawline. He approached her with caution.

“Can I help you?” The man grunted, wiping his hands on an already greasy hand towel, before shoving it back into his back jean pockets.

“Hi,” the girl squeaked, then clearing her throat. “My name is Ericka, and I’m looking for a Dean Winchester.”

The man eyed the young girl suspiciously. “You’re looking at him. What can I do for you Ericka?”

The bright eyed girl, Ericka, stared at the man, who she just found out he was who she was looking for, nervously. “You don’t know who I am, do you?”

Dean raised an eyebrow in confusion. “Am I supposed to?”

That disappointed her. “Ok, this is awkward.” She whispered, before reaching into her backpack and pulled out another piece of paper that’s she’s held onto for nearly 6 years. It had been constantly folded over and over again. She unfolded it one last time, before sliding the paper across the counter to him. “Well, Mr. Winchester, according to this document,” she paused, trying to find the right words, but just thought to spit it out, “you’re my father.”

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