i like the old her better

anonymous asked:

hey there first of WTL is the best bleach fanfic i have ever read and i just finish reading chapter 28 and was wondering why dint Hisana trust Urahara even though she knew he is not a bad guy also i just watch the regai arc and also wondering how would you write it like who will fight regai Hisana and what will her reaction be seeing her double

The thing is, respecting someone and trusting them are two very different things. She doesn’t trust him because 1.) in the future, he was completely willing to sacrifice Rukia for the sake of his plans, 2.) because he was willing to have a fifteen year old undergo hollowfication for the purposes of turning him into a better weapon, which leads to point 3: he has a tendency to see people as semi-disposable pieces on a chessboard. She knows he has good intentions (for the most part) but she doesn’t trust his methods, and for good reason.

As for the reigai arc (which I am not planning to write), I actually think that Hisana would be like one of the only people not to end up with a double. Largely because I have no idea how the whole creating a reigai-with-memories-of-the-original method works, but with Inaba being unaware that all of Hisana’s experiences are based on memories of an entirely different life, I can’t help but think that any attempts to create a Hisana-reigai would fail.

“You know, it’s interesting,” Inaba mused, studying the panting form of the Fourth Division Lieutenant. Violet eyes narrowed. 

“What is?” She asked, glaring at him. 

“I was originally planning on replacing you with one of my own, but…” His voice trailed off. “You’re the only one I failed to replicate, did you know? I tried, believe me I tried, but there was always something missing.” He glanced at her, tilting his head to the side. “I don’t suppose you could tell me why that is?”

“Could I? Maybe. Whether or not I would is an entire story altogether,” she retorted, and wasn’t that curious? He’d dismissed his failure as an anomaly, but her answer implied that she at least had some idea why he hadn’t been able to produce a mod-soul for her. In fact, she didn’t seem at all surprised by his words.

“You’re going to lose, you know,” she added, bringing him out of his thoughts. 

“Oh? And why is that?” Inaba asked indulgently. “I believe I’ve already made it clear that my reigai are designed to be just as strong, if not stronger than their predecessors.” Kuchiki Hisana just shrugged, unconcerned.

“That may be. However, even with the reigai you’ve managed to produce successfully…” She paused for a moment. “Well, if your failure to create a copy of me has proved anything, it’s that there are some things you simply can’t replicate.” 


This ballerina’s mesmerizing dance video is going viral for a great reason

The ballerina in question, 15-year-old Lizzy Howell, has inspired people to dance after the mesmerizing clip of her fouetté took the internet by storm over the weekend. While Howell is grateful that she’s become a source of inspiration for so many, she has conflicting feelings about being called a “plus-sized dancer.” “I do not like when people say, ‘Oh my gosh I can’t believe she’s better than me!’ she told Daily Mail. "That implies that plus-sized people can’t dance.”

Okay something that’s been on my mind about Moana. 

I can’t name another film that romanticizes and older woman like this one. Grandma Tala was not just a wise old lady, she was a rounded character. She was lively and wasn’t confined in her actions to stay graceful. Her face was expressive, she was allowed to make funny faces and be a comic relief. She was just as much of the “rebellious princess” as Moana herself.

And better yet, she was wearing clothes that didn’t entirely cover her up. They exposed her back and limbs, and even animated her under-arm flab. She, and her age, were celebrated rather than diminished. I mean really, when’s the last time you saw an old lady with exposed skin, large/unapologetic tattoos, who had a bechdel-passing relationship with her granddaughter that glorified the unique bond between two women?

illuminate summary
  • Ruin: "do i ever croshh your mind" like 927927 times
  • Mercy: mershhy
  • Treat you better: woah, shawn, ur so confident
  • Three empty words: i'm worried about her little bro
  • Don't be a fool: running low 2.0
  • No promises: sex, but safe
  • Lights on: just more sex. no kid in love anymore.
  • Honest: brutal mendes
  • Patience: *cool guitar beat*
  • Bad reputation: AKA in love with slut
  • Understand: okay i'm proud
  • Hold on: just play it on my funeral
  • Roses: friendzone as holy fuck

anonymous asked:

*shyly whispers* do u think u could do another Greek Mythology story~

“Your tapestries are so fine,” the merchant says in wonder, “that you must be blessed by the goddess Athena.”

Arachne tosses her head, braided hair falling over her shoulder like an obsidian waterfall, “What’s Athena got to do with it? My hands wove these, not hers.”

The merchant blanches and looks to the sky, as if expecting Zeus himself to smite them for blasphemy. Personally, she thinks the king of the gods has better thing to do with his time. “Ah,” he says weakly, “I suppose.”

He pays her for her wares and she leaves, almost immediately bumping into a hunched old woman with grey eyes. “Do you not owe Athena thanks for your talent?” she croaks, gnarled hands curled over a cane.

Arachne is not stupid, but she is foolish. They will tell tales of it. She looks into those grey eyes and declares, “Athena should thank me, since my talents earn her so much praise.”

She pushes past her and keeps walking, ignoring the goddess in humans skin as she disappears into the crowd.

They will tell tales of her hubris. They will all be true.


The next day she bumps into the same old woman at the market. Everything goes downhill from there.

“Know your place, mortal,” Athena says, grey eyes narrowed. There is a crowd around them, and Arachne could save herself, could walk away unscathed, and all she has to do is say her weaving is inferior to that of a goddess.

She will not lie.

“I do,” she says coolly, “and in this matter, it is above you.”

She is not honest as a virtue, but as a vice.

Athena challengers her to a weaving contest. She accepts.


Gods are not so hard to find, if you know where to look.

“It’s a volcano,” the baker repeats, looking down at her coins, as if he feels guilty for taking money from someone who’s clearly not all there.

She grabs her bag of sweet breads and adds it to her pack before swinging it over her shoulders, “Yes, I know. Half a day’s walk, you said?”

“A volcano,” he insists, as if she did not hear him perfectly well the first dozen times.

“Thank you for your help,” she says. He’s shaking his head at her, but she knows what she’s doing.

She walks. She grows hungry, but does not touch the bread she paid for, and walks some more. The sun’s begun to set by the time she makes it to the base of the volcano. It’s tall, impossibly large, and for a moment the promise of defeat threatens to overwhelm her.

But Arachne does not believe in defeat, in loss. They will tell tales of her hubris. Those tales will be true.

She ties a scarf around her braids then hikes her skirt up and ties the material so it falls only to her thighs. She fits work roughened hands into the divots of cooled magma and begins her slow ascent.


The muscles in her legs and arms shake, and her hunger pains are almost as distracting. Her once white dress is dirt smeared and torn and sweat makes her itch as it covers her body and drips down her back.

“What are you doing?”

Arachne turns her head and bites back a scream, looking into one giant eye. The cyclops holds easily to the volcano’s edges, even though her hands are torn and bleeding. She swallows and says, “I heard you like honeyed bread. Is it true?”

The creature tilts his head to the side, baring his long fanged teeth at her. She thinks he might be smiling. “You’ve been climbing for hours. What do you want?”

“Is it true?” she repeats, refusing to flinch.

“Yes,” he says, looking at her the same way the baker had, “it’s true.”

“There’s some sweet bread in my pack, baked this morning,” she says, “it should still be soft.”

His hands are big enough and strong enough that it could probably squeeze her head like a grape. Instead he gently undoes her pack and reaches inside. The honey buns look comically small in his large hands, and he swallows half of them in one bite. He licks his fingers clean when he’s done, and his smile is just as terrifying the second time around. “I am Brontes. Why are you climbing my master’s volcano?”

“I’m the weaver Arachne,” she takes a deep breath, “I need your master’s help.”


They tell tales of Hephaestus’s ugliness.

They are not true.

He’s got a broad, angular face and short brown hair. His eyes are like amber set into his face, and his arms are huge, and he’s rippling muscle from the waist up. He has legs only to his knees. From there down his legs are bronze gears and golden wire, replacements for the legs destroyed when Hera threw him from Mount Olympus.

“Had your look, girl?” he asks, voice rough like he’s always a moment away from breaking into a coughing fit.

“Yes,” she says, and doesn’t turn away, keeps looking.

His lips quirk up at the corners, so it was the right move. The heat is even more oppressive inside the volcano, and all around him cyclopses work, forging oddly shaped metal that she can’t hope to understand. “You’ve gone to an awful lot of trouble to find me, girl. What do you want?”

She slides her pack off her shoulders and holds it out to the god, “I have a gift for your wife. I have woven her a cloak.”

He raises an eyebrow and doesn’t reach for the bag, “You believe something made with mortal hands could be worthy of the goddess of beauty?”

They will tell tales of her hubris.


They will all be true.

With a gust of wind the oppressive heat of the volcano is swept away, leaving her chilled. In its place stands a woman – more than a woman. Aphrodite has skin like the copper of her husband’s machines and hair dark and thick and long. Her eyes are deepest, richest brown, piercing in their intelligence. People don’t tell tales of Aphrodite’s cleverness. That is because people are stupid.

“Let’s see it then,” she says, reaching inside the pack and pulling the cloak from its depths.

It unrolls beautifully. It’s made from the finest silks, and it shimmers in the light from the forges. The hem of the cloak is sea foam, speaking of Aphrodite’s beginning, and up along the cloak is intricate patterns it tells of her life, of her marriage and her worshippers and escapades, all with the detail of the most experienced artist and the reverence of her most devoted followers.

Her lips part in surprise and she slides it on, twirling like a child. “Gorgeous,” Hephaestus says, though Arachne knows he does not speak of the cloak. She doesn’t take offense.

The goddess smiles and Arachne’s heart pounds in her chest. She does her best to ignore it – Aphrodite is the goddess of love, after all. It is only expected. “Very well,” the goddess says, “you have my attention.”

Arachne swallows. Aphrodite’s attention is a heavy thing. “I have offended Athena,” she says, “She has challenged me to a weaving contest.”

Their faces somber. Hephaestus rubs the edge of a sleeve between his fingers and says, “Athena will lose such a contest, if judged fairly. She does not take loss well.”

“I know,” she says, “you are friendly with Hades, are you not?”

There are no tales of their friendship. But she’s staking her life on its existence, because why wouldn’t it exist – both of them even tempered, both shunned by Olympus, both happily married.

Gods hate being made to feel lesser. It is why they say Persephone was kidnapped, why they say Aphrodite cheats with Ares. It is why Athena will crush her when Arachne wins the weaving contest.

“Clever girl,” Hephaestus says, smiling.

Aphrodite stares at her reflection in a convenient piece of polished silver. Arachne assumes Hephaestus left if lying there for that express purpose. “Very well!” the goddess says, not looking at her, “when Athena sends you to the underworld, we will entrench upon our uncle for your release.” She turns on her heel and points a finger at her. Arachne blushes for no reason she can think of. “In return, you will weave me a gown, one equal to my own beauty.”

A gown as exquisite as the goddess of beauty. An impossible task.

They will tell tales of her hubris.

“I accept.”

They will all be true.


The contest goes as expected. Athena’s tapestry is lovely, but Arachne’s is lovelier.

The goddess’s face goes red in rage, and her grey eyes narrow. Arachne stands tall, ready to accept the death blow coming for her.

The blow comes.

Death does not.


She is an insect. Even if she can make it back to Hephaestus’s volcano, even if they can help her, they will not know it is her. She has no hope left, no course of action, she should just give up. But –

She doesn’t believe in defeat, in loss.

It was a terribly long journey on foot, that first time. It is even longer this time, although now she has eight legs instead of two. She makes it to the volcano, and creeps in between crevices, until she finds out a hollowed room, one with a sliver of sunlight and plenty of bugs to keep her fed.

Athena’s cruel joke of allowing her to weave will be her downfall. Her silk comes out a golden yellow color – it will look exquisite against Aphrodite’s copper skin.


It takes seven years for her to complete it. She hasn’t left this room in the volcano in all that time, and as soon as it’s done she scurries out back toward the village. She’s a large insect, but not that large.

She arrives just as the sun begins to rise, and leaves before the first rays have even touched the earth, her prize tied to her back with her own silk.

Arachne doesn’t return to her room. Instead she goes to the more popular parts of the volcano, hurries and runs around terrifying stomping feet until she finds who she’s looking for and scurries up his leg and onto his shoulder.

“Huh,” Brontes looks onto his shoulder and blinks. “What on earth are you?”

She cautiously skitters down his arm, waiting. He bends closer and lightly touches her back. “Is – is that a piece of a honey bun?”

She looks up at him, waiting. It’s her only chance, if he doesn’t remember, if he doesn’t understand –

His face slowly fills with a cautious kind of wonder. “Arachne?”  She jumps in place, being unable to nod, and Brontes cautiously cradles her in his massive hands, “We must find the Master immediately!”

She jumps down, landing in front of him and running forward. “Wait!” he calls, and she makes sure he’s running after her before skittering back to her corner of the cave. It’s almost too small for him to enter but he squeezes inside and breathes, “Oh.” He stares for several moments, and Arachne climbs her web and waits. Brontes shakes himself out of his reverie and uses his powerful wings to bellow, “MISTRESS APHRODITE!”

There’s that same breeze and she’s in the crevice with them, “What was so important, Brontes, that you had to yell?”

Arachne sees the exact moment that the goddess sees the gown, golden yellow and glimmering, made entirely of spider silk. “Beautiful,” she says, reaching out a hand to brush down the bodice. Her head then snaps up, “Brontes, where’s Arachne?”

She warms at that, that Aphrodite knew it was her weaving even though she hasn’t been seen in seven years.

They’ve told tales of her hubris.

They are all true.

Brontes points at the web, and Aphrodite steps over and holds out her hands. Arachne crawls onto the goddess’s palms. “Athena is more powerful than I am, I cannot undo her work,” she says, “but I know someone who can.”

Then they are in front of a river. A handsome young man stands there waiting with a boat. “Goddess Aphrodite,” he says, “we weren’t expecting you.”

“Thanatos,” she returns, “I need to see Persephone.”

The man’s face stays cool, and for a moment Arachne fears they will be refused and she will be stuck in this form forever. Then he smiles and says, “My lady is of course available for her favored niece.” He holds out a hand to help her onto the boat, “Please come with me.”


Arachne weaves a dress for Hades’s wife as a thank you, and returns to her volcano.

“I can take you somewhere else,” Aphrodite says, “you don’t have to hide here.”

Arachne pauses at her loom. She has lived in this volcano for seven years. It’s her home. “Would you like me to leave?” she asks instead.

Aphrodite scoffs, “Of course not! How could I dress myself without you here?” She’s wearing the spider silk dress Arachne spun for her, and she’s working on another for the goddess now. Aphrodite runs a gentle finger down Arachne’s cheek and for a moment she forgets to breathe. “You are the finest weaver to ever exist.”

She looks up at the goddess, “Then as the god of crafts and goddess of beautiful things, where else would I belong besides with you and Hephaestus?”

To declare your company equal to that of gods is the height of arrogance and blasphemy.

They tell tales of her hubris.

“An excellent point,” Aphrodite murmurs, and tucks a stray braid behind Arachne’s ear.

They are all true.

gods and monsters series part iii

  • german duolingo lady: Er trinkt
  • me: i didnt hear this better click the Slow Pronunciation Turtle of Shame
  • german duolingo lady, now with intense judgment and hate in her voice, articulating like im 5 years old: ER..... TRINKT......

I love how Magnus Chase refers to people as ‘his’.

Like how Hearthstone is ‘his’ elf, and Otis is ‘his’ goat. And his buddies are ‘his’ family. And how gets so mad when anyone tries to hurt them.

Also, I love how he was so ready to defend Sam’s right to choose who she wanted to marry - but instantly backed down and then decided to completely support her when he found out she was not only okay with her arranged marriage, but wanted it very badly, because she’s loved Amir since she was 12 years old. And proceeds to think it’s cute every time Sam gets flustered when she thinks about Amir.

I love how he’s so supportive of his friends, and how he called Blitz the most wonderful, strong, and handsome dwarf ever. And how he hugs everyone. And cries a lot. And wants to bake cookies for Hearth and wrap him in a blanket to make him feel better - but recognizes that his friend wouldn’t like that, and so treats Hearth the way he wants to be treated, instead of forcing his own wants onto his friend.

I like how he asks for permission before touching anyone to heal them, instead of invading their personal space.

And how he doesn’t hold grudges.

And how even though he and Gunilla didn’t see eye to eye on many things, he was still very upset and affected by her death, and carried her body back to Valhalla for a proper burial.

And I love how the thoughts that give him strength are the ones about his mother, and about their summers together.

And how he thinks the Fadlans are the most important, most amazing people ever, because they showed him kindness and fed him while he was homeless.

Just…Magnus Chase. I love this kid.

I mean. I am against ABSOLUTELY everything Trumpkin is and represents. But I have sympathy for Melania. If I completely separate her from the entire situation, I would probably like her. She really is beautiful, and honestly she was just a person who wanted to come to a better country to get a sugar daddy, she didn’t ask for any of this. She just wanted to sleep with a gross old man, have a baby and get his money. And now she and her son (whom I’m REALLY going to assume the best of since he’s so young, seems to spend a lot of time with her, and hasn’t done anything… yet. I hope.) are stuck in the clutches of a megalomaniac with all this shit, who we know only married her because he objectified her amongst other ways he surely disrespects her. You can’t even blame her with, “She stayed after he said awful things, she’s racist and against women like he is.” Like her spouse is crazy and has obvious ties to Russia. She is being smart. Stay in line. Do what he says. She is Sansa to Trump’s Joffrey. She just wanted a comfortable lifestyle. She just wanted a sugar daddy. Free her.

people are probably offended by or bashing emma watson bc of what she said about batb being better than cinderella, but she’s not wrong??? 

batb’s female lead is not a damsel in distress like in cinderella. really, beast is the damsel in distress in this story, and belle is the heroine who comes to break the curse. while cinderella is a good old classic fairy tale, batb is much more modern and pro-women.


How to dad?

Don’t ask Theo because he obviously has no idea.

There are a couple of different portraits of Washington inspecting the first coin (riveting stuff!) and Eliza is in them!

I like her looking in like that.  She’s so into it!  Ham is also very interested in which one the ladies will choose. Washington isn’t even looking at the coin he’s holding.

Eliza chilling back with the boys. Her hat is good!

Anyway, I like these paintings that are pretty old but show the ladies there and involved! They do better than fandom does.

Also, it’s interesting that, like the Washington’s Farewell Address painting, Eliza is in pink.  I gather that’s because of her 1787 portrait, since that dress had a pink ribbon.


Anyone else notice that Yellow Diamonds outfit has changed? I don’t know if there is a possibility that she could have reformed or if the change was just due to Rebecca Sugar being the one who story-boarded the Blue and Yellow scene in “That will be all”. 

I feel like I keep seeing people drawing scenes from “That will be all” with Yellow in her old design. I don’t know if it is because they like the old design better or if it’s because they didn’t notice the new one. In any case I hope this helps other artists as reference! ^^

Bonus: I also think it is interesting that Blue and Yellow have different shaped gems. I guess I just assumed they would all have perfect diamond shaped gems.

It’s always a riot when I start my day off being linked to one of my older writing advice posts in IM and it’s literally someone arguing with me that actually, editors don’t do this and the resulting conversation is:

Are you an editor?

No but—

Okay. I am.

Yea but—

I am literally a trained professional.


For the last five+ years. There’s some 200 romance books out there with my name on them. As the editor. The person who very much does this thing which I am talking about. That doesn’t even include my freelance work.

Well I don’t like this post, it challenges how I see reality and in my reality I’m right >:(

Your reality in which you, the 19 year old college student who just started your English degree, knows better than me, the graduated linguistics major in her late 20s who has quite literally been doing this as a job for the last half decade.


Well okay then, I’m glad we cleared that up.

And then they start attacking my lack of grammar and spelling here on tumblr and how the number of typos I make makes me a shit editor like honey, I am not at work right now, just let me scream into the void in peace.

This is almost like that one time an American tried to correct me on Scottish culture, like my dudes, no.

I know everyone is excited about the new Breath of the Wild trailer, and I am too, but…

Is it too much to ask that Zelda not be constantly hurt and crying? Is it too much to ask that we don’t walk in on her bathing? Is it too much to ask that she be able to save herself?

To my Grandma and my Mom, I am sorry we live in a country where your struggles as a female have once again been undermined and ignored. I’m sorry that someone who was overly qualified was bashed continuously for being “a bitch”, “too old”, and “Clinton’s wife”…because God forbid a female be praised for being uncensored, unqualified, and uneducated like her opposing nominee. I have watched you both put so much passion into this election and I am so grateful to have your influences in my life. I am the woman I am today because of you both. You deserve better.

To my little Brothers, he is NOT a role model. Do NOT listen to him. He is a sexist, racist, classist, xenophobic, etc. hateful man. And he is not the only issue; all the people that supported him found reasons that they believed were qualified enough to put him in a position of power even after he proved to this country that he was dangerous. He is not what it means to be a man and I beg of you to remember that as you grow up these next four years. I’m sorry that you had no say. You deserve better.

To my fellow LGBTQ+ members, I love you. I love you. I love you. We are a family and I can not comprehend how after what happened in Florida to our community, how we could still lose such a vital state. I can not comprehend how someone who is supported by Pence, a man that openly supports gay conversion therapy, can win the Presidency. I can not comprehend this and I wish we had better answers. We deserve better.

To my fellow females, your strength motivates me. You are so powerful and it breaks my heart that something like this could be waved in our faces and then ripped away by yet another privileged man. I have watched and heard of so many women that shed tears during and after they voted because of the pure gratitude they had for the opportunity. We deserve better.

To all of my other minority groups and friends who are impacted in ways I am not, I am with you. I am here to support you. I am here to listen and I am here for protection. Your lives matters and regardless of who you love, where you came from, your gender, where your family came from, how old you are, your income, your religious beliefs, your citizenship, your abilities, etc. I stand with you. We deserve better.

We deserve better.

Imagine the boys being excited when you tell them you want to spent the Holidays with them.

“I’d ask why you’re grinning like that but- I’m really scared I won’t like the answer.” Sam mumbled with a smirk and narrowed eyes.

Dean gave him a small glare but the moment his eyes focused on his phone a grin spread on his face. He bit his lip as he typed a text back and set it down to look fully at his brother. If Sam didn’t know him any better he’d say he had met someone and had fallen in love, acting like twelve-year-old girl talking to her crush.

“Alright, first; it’s not porn if you’re thinking about that.” he gave him a smug grin as Sam rolled his eyes “And second-” he got up and walked towards his brother and the pie “-It’s something that will make you grin as well.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Sam narrowed his eyes, before rolling them as Dean dag down on the pie.

“Pack your stuff, Sammy.” he said through a mouth full, handing his brother his phone.

Sam’s eyes ran over the phone screen, reading the messages exchanged between his brother… and you. It didn’t bother him for long that you had decided to send the messages to his brother because his excitement got the best of him and a grin spread on his face.

“She-” he only spoke as he looked up at his brother who looked just as excited “-She wants to spend the holidays… with us?” he breathed out and Dean nodded his head with grin.

“Let’s get going Sammy!”


“Coming!” you shouted as you walked down the stairs and made your way to the door. You licked the frosting from your fingers. You knew you probably looked like a mess but important thing was that the cookies were all done and the only thing left was the pie… or most likely pies, seeing as you couldn’t decide on the flavor and only one didn’t seem enough.

You ran towards the door and the moment you opened it a wide grin spread on your face. A squeal left your lips when you saw Sam and Dean casually leaning against the doorframe.

“Oh my gosh!” you squeaked as you jumped in Dea’s arms first. You hugged him tightly, the man laughing as your legs wrapped around his waist and he had lifted you off the ground.

“D” you whispered in his ear and the older Winchester felt his heart swell in his chest. He gave you a squeeze as he kissed your cheek.

You had your face buried at the crook of his neck and when you pulled away you gave him a wide grin “You came.” you breathed out and he nodded his head with a charming grin.

“Hell yeah we did.” he breathed out and you kissed his cheek. He let you go, maybe a little reluctantly, from his arms so that you stood on your feet. You turned to face Sam was not-so-patiently waiting for you to hug him.

You grinned up at the giant and jumped straight in his arms “Sammy” you whispered in a tiny voice and Sam grinned to himself. There were only two people in this world that he let call him that way and it was you and his brother.

“You’re here so fast.” you breathed out, nuzzling your face at the crook of his neck and he squeezed you, lifting you of your feet as well.

“We weren’t going to miss this for anything in the world.” he whispered and you squeezed him as well when he kissed your forehead. You pulled away and kissed his cheek as well. He too reluctantly let go of you, setting you on your feet.

“Come on-” you said breathlessly with a grin “I have already made plenty of food!”

You patted them on the shoulders as you motioned for them to get it. They both had soft smiles on their faces and once they stepped foot into the house a feeling of safety ad peace settled in. This Christmas was going to be the best one ever… especially for the one that got to share a room with you. What could you do, there was only one guest room and the couch was not one for sleeping in.

  • Credence
  • SunnyAalisse

I knew a girl like you
She was 8 years old
She was bullied and locked up
Beause her magic was bold

She died on my hands
A couple months ago
I don’t want the same for you
My friend, oh no

Can I come closer
Can I sit beside you
I want to help you see
That there is power inside you

I want to help you use it
I want to help control it
You deserve to be saved
And I want you to know it

You deserve so much better
That being controled
You aren’t a weapon
And you aren’t alone

I want to help you see
That there is beauty inside you
So can I come closer
Can I sit beside you

There are so much better people than you already know
There are so much better places than here in New York
I wish you’d take my hand and just come with me
‘Cause MACUSA’s coming closer and they don’t want either of us here.

im pissed off


honestly why the fuck.

i have a few problems with this.

1. this isn’t confirmed but as far as we know, miles is 15-16 and gwen is 19-20. which is pretty gross, but marvel isn’t the best when it comes to age differences (ex. oro was 12 when she first lost her virginity to t’challa when he was 16-17). but it’s 2017???? do better.

2. after the events of civil war II and all the stress miles was put under, do you really think this is a good idea? like, i feel like…….. there are other things to focus on rather than implement a romance to the series. i’m really tired of authors throwing romances at their audience once they can’t figure out another story line for their character. its tiring. it’s old. and i’m sick of it.

3. i’m a little put off but black and white relationships in marvel because it seems to be the only ships they can come up with? i’m. tired of it actually. I can think of a number of other people who are poc to ship miles with. black and white relations are not the only form of interracial relationships.

honestly this isn’t confirmed as far as i know but i really just, hope. this isn’t….. real. i’m tired.

Qrow makes little yang feel better after being teased at school for her short hair.

“I don’t know why you’re upset. Now you look more like your cool uncle!”

“Hahaha, ewwww! I don’t want to look old!”

“Ow! Total Annihilation!” Qrow quoted his nieces favorite video game, feigning pain at her comment.

“Hehehehe!” Yang continued to giggle her tears away. “Uncle Qrow!” The little Xiao Long couldn’t help but smile.

“That’s the little spitfire I know. Come on, lets get some ice cream.”

Qrow and Yang moment. These two don’t get enough interaction. Sometimes you just need a cool, loving uncle to tell you jokes and make your crappy day better.

Yang beat the other kids at her school to a pulp. When Qrow picked her up from the school and stared at her cuts and bruises, she just said, “You should see the other kids.”