little boys made of

what if medusa was a real woman. i mean: what if the woman with snakes in her hair was once a tiny girl with beautiful braids in her black hair.

what if the stories came from her smooth hands. when she was six she could make pottery that looked like flowers blooming in your palms. could carefully create replicas of any plant she saw.

and medusa was smart. ran from home, tucked up her hair so it looked short, made herself into a little boy. besides, they liked pretty boys. medusa at school with top grades, sending her unknowable stares at the other men. because the whole time she’s learning the planes of their faces, the way they look while they’re thinking, the slight twist of their hand that meant they were lying. 

medusa going home to sketch every little figure. comes to school in the morning with her hands caked in pottery clay. medusa learns. scrubs dirt on her face to mimic their planes. tilts her head the right way when she’s thinking. doesn’t twist her hand when she’s lying.

in her back yard, a little garden grows. statues of ceramic boys only three feet tall. at first, she can’t quite get the faces right. men are not the same as plants. there is something weird about the proportions she uses. medusa frowns.

she starts making animals instead for a bit, annoyed and disheartened. she’d always just been naturally good at it, and the fact she couldn’t just make something felt as if she’d lost her gift.

she makes cats and dogs and her neighbor’s birds and keeps going.

the snake wasn’t her favorite. he just wouldn’t leave her alone, so she gave up and let him sleep on her in the cold nights. besides, he was a small garden snake, couldn’t even bite her hard, just wanted a place of warmth. she let him rest on the angles of her shoulders, right near her neck, even if he sometimes forgot and held her too hard. that was okay. when she was little, she forgot too, sometimes, and shattered the slim walls of her pottery. the snake had a lot of growing up to do.

she loved no one. not because she was cold-hearted. just because it wasn’t something she wanted. she was busy with her artwork.

she chose an apprenticeship under a master craftsman. his sculptures made her breath stop. she was careful in the workshop, kept her things simple, kept her mouth shut. he called her stupid often. she would duck her head. sometimes she would make mistakes on purpose. all the while he only made sculptures of men. said there was no beauty in women. often made savage remarks about those they saw in the market.

and all the while, she watched him. she watched him and she went home and sketched. this is how his hands were when he made a vine. this is how they were when shaping a nose.

and her back yard garden would grow. little boys became her master, over and over and over, until she could get his jaw right. ceramic became sculpture.

he was who took her to athena’s temple. who shouted at her about how beautiful the statues were against her own. every week he’d come back and shame her. asked how the women there were smarter than the man she was supposed to be. medusa ducked her head and grit her teeth.

in her back yard, she made them. she made every god and goddess she’d seen in the city. her favorite was athena. she ached over her features. had spent so long in the world of men, was blinded by the beauty of women.

it was a black night. and medusa thought her master had left the temple before her. she loosened all the bindings that kept her from breathing. took her hair out. worshiped in peace. placed on athena’s alter a small and beautiful thing. the goddess, head tilted, thinking.

when he found medusa, what made him angry was not her small frame. it was the statute. a delicate thing. much better than the ones he had ever made.

he took it and snapped it in half. threw it deep in the temple’s well to rot. pulled her by her hair. demanded to know where it had come from.

medusa, angry, tired of hiding, tired of late nights and being a boy and pretending: medusa, athena-mad, spat on him. “I did it,” her voice is strong and full of hatred, “A woman made something better than a man could.”

He meant to kill her. To bash her head into the temple steps, claim it was an accident - or better yet, the spite of a god made flesh.

when he grabs her hair, the goddess bites back. athena, patron of creators, patron of the arts, patron of girls and those who are smart - she turns medusa’s hair into snakes. 

it is a quick little thing, darts out and draws blood, almost falls from her hair as a result. she catches the creature and runs, runs until she feels numb.

and what if - while her master is making up a story about poseidon and athena’s rage, explaining medusa’s back yard full of frozen men as being evidence of her evilness - what if medusa finds friends in blind women. and they teach her how to feel what she is seeing. how to use her hands with her eyes closed to make maps of whatever she holds. she starts with plants again. her snake is big now, and has babies. she moves on to their little wiggling forms, amused when they make tiny rings around her fingers. she does not live in a cave. she dresses as a man again, goes to market, sells her roses and vines and beautiful (simple) things. buys herself and the women a nice house out beyond all the noise of it. fills their garden with frozen men.

when the men come to kill her - because now her name is known, it is whispered, sticks in the throat - they don’t find her. they find a tall man who tells them: look in the mountains. when they don’t come back, it’s no fault of medusa’s. frankly, she thinks they should have brought more supplies than their swords into the deep woods. she’s not cruel. when they leave, she makes a statue of them, as her version of a memorial.

but one man is not like the others. he finds her with her hair down, humming, dancing around a marble stone. her snakes are warming in the sun.

medusa? he asks her. it’s a name she hasn’t heard in a long while.

she is tired of being hunted. she just wants to make art. she waits for the sword point. but he hesitates. looks at her full in her face.

strikes a bargain. if she makes him a head for his shield, he will tell the others that she is good and dead. and he will sell her art to better patrons when he could - although he suggests at least hiding the signature she has with maybe a little less snake-like scrawl - he would make her name known.

but medusa knows men. knows they will chomp down on a horror story faster than that of the artist. she is already permanent. she says: no, here’s what happens.

after many months, he has his shield. she wouldn’t let him leave with the first nine hundred versions, always found something wrong with them. he grows fond of her in this time, agrees to her terms. even he can’t really look at the shield head-on. she has captured a scream, a rage, too much. it is so utterly human and at once not that it makes his skin crawl.

where medusa’s blood drops, serpents sprawl. or at least, that’s the code she uses. when he finds little girls who can make art, he sends them to her. 

medusa does not expect to be known for the school that she starts. she is a women artist in a time of men, and her name is already dead to them. but i know medusa. i know her. she is known for her work.

after all, who can speak about medusa without mentioning how she froze the world?

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THE FACE HE MAKES WHEN HE’S GOING TO LAUGH (ノ◕ヮ◕)ノ*:・゚✧

What your favourite Double Dare song says about you!

Hawaii (Stay Awake): You ship Gawsten
Gloom Boys: You ship Gawsten
Stupid For You: You ship Gawsten
Royal: You ship Gawsten
Take Her To The Moon: You ship Gawsten
Made In America: You ship Gawsten
Dizzy: You ship Gawsten
Powerless: You ship Gawsten
Little Violence: You ship Gawsten
21 Questions: You ship Gawsten
It Follows: You ship Gawsten
Plum Island: You ship Gawsten
I’ll Always Be Around: You ship Gawsten

luv me some gay space robots………

I really hate the way people talk about ADD/ADHD like it’s made-up and is just hyper little white boys screaming in their elementary school classrooms and shit like that.
It’s really, really hard to live with as an adult.
You can’t follow or remember schedules well, not matter how hard you try. You can’t organize your things or your to-do lists no matter how many methods you use. But adults are supposed to be organized, punctual, responsible people. They shouldn’t have to write things on their hands and arms because that’s the only way to even maybe remember it.
You can’t focus when you need to, and you end up so frustrated with yourself because you know you could do the work if you could just stop getting distracted every five seconds. But adults are supposed to be settled down and calm and focused by now. They shouldn’t be on the verge of tears because it’s taking three hours to read ten pages of a book for class.
You can’t stop tapping your fingers, doodling in your notebooks when you need to be taking notes, and making little noises to occupy your brain. But people just tell you to shut up and stop being annoying, and be mature for once.
You forget your meds one day and you can just feel how annoying you’re being but you can’t stop and you’re begging yourself inside to just stop but you can’t control it and you’re acting like a child and people get annoyed with you and don’t mince words to tell you that.
You scramble to appear like every other person around you who seems to have their life together, but you’re just not an adult in the way that everyone thinks adults should be and it’s so frustrating and draining and disappointing.
And then you see people claiming ADD/ADHD isn’t real, and kids who have it are a burden to their parents and teachers, and that you just outgrow it and by college you should be functional in the way that most people or functional. And you just feel broken and less-than and like you’re ten steps behind everyone else, just because you’re wired a little differently. And it’s so hard to be like that but no one takes you seriously. No one gets that it’s an actual developmental disability. No one gets how much you end up hating yourself because you aren’t what you’ve been told someone your age should be.
It’s just frustrating and difficult and no one seems to care or understand.

The Signs as Monster Factory Quotes
  • Aries: Take it to the bank, boys. This one's just like Bart.
  • Taurus: He looks like seven pterodactyls.
  • Gemini: Backpack. For. His. Applesauce. Backpack where he keeps his applesauce!
  • Cancer: Hello Metal Husband.
  • Leo: I'm DAZ! I ventilate through my SCALP!
  • Virgo: What is up with this weird rat baby we made?
  • Libra: I thought we'd created Heaven, Justin, but I'm starting to think it's the other place, the hot one.
  • Scorpio: Grandpa Piss is unconscious.
  • Saggitarius: Nasty. Crime. Boy. Has. Come. To. Town.
  • Capricorn: Hi, I'm Dark Vader, and I'm a Star Wars.
  • Aquarius: Take it up with the Arby's witch.
  • Pisces: Made myself a little McDonald's Playplace of boys!

Am I the only one that reads sambucky/Samsteve fic and get that feeling that it’s always the writer’s love for Bucky bleeding through Sam?

Don’t get me wrong, I like Bucky I do, but I feel like all the fics are about how amazing, and funny, good looking and smart Bucky Barnes is, and how Sam never ever had a chance of resisting it, and understanding it all. How Steve is amazing and bright and holds the whole world on his shoulder, blá blá blá.

Just once, just THIS fucking once I want to read a fic about how amazing Samuel Thomas Wilson is.

How good looking, and caring, smart and funny he is, how even tho he doesn’t have white boy’s hair, his hair is well kept and soft, how he smells nice, how his cheekbones are sharp because hell they are. How capable of fighting he is, because he is the guy who took a knife to a gun fight.

He’s a guy capable enough to hold Captain America’s shield; strong enough to question his authority becase he doesn’t follow blindly; smart enough to point out the best tatical way of dealing with the enemy; human enough to see more than the all american hero, to see the men behind the shield. Badass enough to deadpan and snark a king and well trainned assassin.

For once just this once I would love to read Bucky or Steve talking about how important and amazing Sam is, and not the other way around. See them apologizing and swallowing their feelings, see them blushing and stammering because Sam outshines the Sun itself.

See the writers understand that yes you write for yourself, for free but if you share it you also want us to like, and writing for a interracial ship, maybe just maybe it’s important for the people of color who read it feel like the character of color is getting the love he sure as fucking hell deserves.

7

      Bex just gave a calm smile as if she’d known this moment was coming ever since the day the Blackthorne Boys walked through the front doors—like it was inevitable that the Gallagher Girls would eventually bring at least one of them to their knees.

youtube

my life is complete now. this cover of schuyler sisters by little boys literally made my evening. 

@alexanderhamllton @manuelmirandamn @friendlyneighborhoodwhatever 

(aka some of my fave ham tumblrs)

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I look at Yoongi crying and think…

So this is what it must be like to reach something you worked so hard for.

This is what it must be like to want something so bad and finally achieve it.

From being mocked and looked down on..

From long nights of having little rest and little to eat..

Our Daegu boy has made it and he made it BIG!

Dreaming and hoping can result to this.

Passion and hard work can result to this.


© mine

Wanted to try out the new pencils I got for my birthday today, so I ended up sketching this. Our favorite children with our favorite little girl. They boys decided she needed a birthday party, so Mike made her an eggo-birthday cake.

Hope you’re all having a great day! I know I am 😌🍰