n. portland

Portland--good in the hood

not sharing the letter bc it’s too vicious and traumatising to repost but Good in the Hood’s 25th annual is coming up and white supremacists are threatening it.

from a friend:
“Clearly this goes far beyond a trigger warning. This letter directly threatens the organizer of Good in the Hood and his family. If you don’t know about Good in the Hood, it’s an amazing community building event and celebration organized by and for the black community and allies in N/NE portland. This month’s event is the 25th annual. It starts June 23rd. This letter was received yesterday. It’s not been picked up by the media yet, but has gone viral on social media within the black community. It’s being investigated at the highest levels. I have permission to share it (my work intersects with this horror), as it’s gone viral. I know it’s scary. I also know there can be no more pretending that white supremacy isn’t woven through our community. I’m imploring everyone to do something. Turning away at this point is being complicit. Please come to Good in the Hood to show your solidarity. donate to local organizations that support communities of color. interrupt the next racist comment you hear. read an article about the white supremacist history of portland. teach your children to normalize conversations about race and racism. think about what you’re willing to risk to create a city that is equally safe for all of us. all of the above. It’s time. We are in the middle of a contemporary civil rights crisis. Love and solidarity to friends of color. This is a heartbreaking time, again, in our community. I will always stand with you.”

she says law enforcement and the state are involved at this point.


TXT: { I don’t know if you know, but if you don’t, Stan vandalized one of my dads vehicles} 
{Scroll all the way through my blog if you really wanna see but} 

TXT: {I’m not mad}
{I mean like I’m MAD, he dragged my dad into whatever this shit is. Would’ve rather he fucked with me directly.} 
{But I fuckin’, I can deal with it in court, it’s not like he ruined my entire life} 
{You wanna come with me n’ my family t’ portland t’night? We’re gonna be out all night, dropped some money I saved on rentin’ a bowlin’ alley last minute.}

TXT: {We won’t be back till dawn though.}  

anonymous asked:

blurb where youre actually really badass and in a super grungey band and michael is totally head over heels for you but you're so intimidating omfg

Dude I love this

send me requests kids

*(y/b/n) is your band name

*note* there’s now a Part Two


“Mate,” Michael mumbled from his position next to Calum on their hotel bed, “She could kick me in the teeth and I would send her a thank you note and a box of chocolates.”

Calum snickered at his friend. “She would probably mix your blood with the chocolates and use them for a ritualistic sacrifice.” He paused, leaning in cheekily, and said “BuzzFeed thinks she may be the antichrist.”

Michael shoved him off, grinning. They were referring to his current lady of interest, (y/n). She was the lead singer and guitarist for up-and-coming grunge band, (y/b/n), based out of Portland. She was also known for her “fuck all” attitude and an affinity towards red eyeshadow.

“I really don’t understand your obsession with her mate. I mean, she’s kind of cute, in a way-” This earned Calum an elbow in the ribs-”Ow. What I mean is, she wears more black than you do, and she would probably stab you or something.”

Scoffing, Michael turned away from his friend. “You don’t see her like I do. She’s not all ‘Hot Topic’ clothing and glares. She’s brilliant.” He murmured. “What I wouldn’t give just to pick her mind.”

Calum snorted and rolled off the bed. “Well pick her whatever later, we’ve got shit to do.” Michael sighed, but followed behind his friend.


The group was just barely coming off-stage, sweat propelling down from foreheads to necks, from necks to chests. The raucous laughter of teenage boys lead the way ahead of them, bouncing off of walls and reverberating through the halls. They all went through the motions, done dozens of times before, of showering, changing clothes, making dinner plans.

“There’s a group of people meeting up at that pizza place we passed.” Ashton piped up, gauging the other boys’ reactions. All were more than willing, the promise of greasy, cheesy, wildly unhealthy food and the company of strangers inviting them in like moths to flames.

They arrived easily after an hour or so of snapping quick pictures and sneaking away in cars. The restaurant was simple, and if the boys were being honest, kind of dingy. Well, all the boys except one. Michael.

Because there, sitting with the only other group in the restaurant, was (y/n).

Calum glanced over at Michael curiously, also taking note of (y/n)’s presence. The pale boy swallowed, feeling his stomach suddenly, inexplicably, drop to somewhere between his knees. He went on with the boys, focusing on on not falling- “How do feet work again?” he thought to himself. They somehow made it over to the big table, Ashton trading handshakes and half-hugs with the men at the table, introducing them to Calum and Luke.

She was wearing a flannel so threadbare, it had probably been worn since the 90′s. Her converse were strips of canvas recklessly tied onto her feet, and her pants had enough holes to compete with Swiss cheese. She was turned away, but slowly, so slowly it was almost bored, her gaze slid over to Michael, steely eyes grazing his form up and down in such a way that could only be seen as evocative. Something glimmered deep in her eyes, some kind of recognition, but it flickered out as quickly as it came, and she looked away.

“…And this is (y/n).” Someone, ‘Andrew,’ Michael remembered distantly, said. Michael tore his eyes away, flashing a grin at the others. At some point, the others had brought an additional table over, and the boys were already situating themselves around it, leaving Michael with a spot next to her.

A few minutes passed in silence between the two, conversation seeming to completely diverge around them like oil in water. Finally, Michael turned to her abruptly, and said,

“‘Breed’ was the best album I’ve heard all year.”

She raised an eyebrow at the mention of her own album, but the surprise quickly morphed itself into contempt.

“I’m glad you think so. Rolling Stone certainly didn’t.” Her voice was soft, but not the feminine soft often associated with girls and all things gentle. It was a tired soft, the kind of voice that drifts over pillows and wakes you from even the deepest of slumbers.

Michael snorted, trying to play off his excitement at her words. “Rolling Stone has a fanbase of washed up ‘Pantera’ fanatics and 13 year-olds trying to seem mature.”

This made her laugh, a legitimate snort erupting from her previously serene face. It sent a chill up his spine, echoing around his skull, and he suddenly wanted nothing more than to make (y/n) laugh again.

“What about you then, Mikey? Living the rockstar life?” She took a drink of her water, mouth concealed, but eyes so alight they almost glowed.

Something fluttered inside him at the nickname, but he pushed it aside. “Oh, you know, the standard. Drink marijuanas, get into scandalous entanglements with beautiful women, the usual.” He grinned at her, voice teasing and light.

(Y/n) rolled her eyes. “I’m terribly sorry I don’t fit the ‘hot girl groupie’ quota you have set up,“ she mock-frowned, “And I was just beginning to like you, too.”

“You’re much better than any ‘hot groupie.’“ Michael said seriously, with so much sincerity that, in better lighting, you could see the blush that crept up along (y/n)’s cheeks.

“No no, I’m not, like, fishing for compliments,” she stumbled over her words, waving her hands around as if to dissipate the sudden tension. “I just mean, I’m not really traditionally beautiful. It’s not bad or anything, but it’s still true.” She shrugged slightly, hair bouncing with the movement.

“No. You’re definitely not ‘traditional,’“ Michael began, and, building up his courage, barreled on, “but I like that, and I like you, and I would like to like you while being on a date.”

(Y/n) stared at him for a moment, mouth just barely open, and some distant part of Michael was proud for actually rendering her speechless. Eventually, she nodded, saying, “Yeah. That would- yeah. Totally. Rad.”

Michael smiled, glancing around briefly, then leaned in, knocking their heads together like conspiring children. “Want to get out of here?”

She grinned back, equally as mischievous, and whispered, “There’s a burger joint a few blocks from here with milkshakes to die for.”

“Sounds good to me.”

“Want to just break for it?”

“As if there was any other way to exit. On the count of three?



“Three!” They exclaimed at the same time, vaulting themselves over their chairs, running in the opposite direction of their very confused friends’ shouts.

At some point, Michael slipped his hand into (y/n)’s.

At some later point, (y/n) stole Michael’s jacket.

But neither of them really ever points it out.