nose mythology

Norse myths:

  • Thyrm steals Thor’s hammer
  • Freyja has to marry Thyrm to get the hammer back
  • Freyja refuses, so Thor dresses up as Freyja to get the hammer

Magnus Chse and the Gods of Asgard:

  • Thyrm’s grandson, Thyrm, steals thor’s hammer
  • Sam has to marry Thyrm to get the hammer back
  • Sam can´t marry Thyrm, so Alex dresses up as Sam to get the hammer
  • *see's a puppy*
  • Me: PUPPY!!!!!11!111
  • *see's a grown dog*
  • Me: PUPPY!!!!!11!111
  • *see's an elder dog*
  • Me: PUPPY!!!!!11!111
  • *see's a coyote*
  • Me: PUPPY!!!!!11!111
  • *see's a wolf*
  • Me: PUPPY!!!!!11!111
  • *see's a direwolf*
  • Me: PUPPY!!!!!11!111
  • *see's a werewolf*
  • Me: PUPPY!!!!!11!111
  • *see's fenrir*
  • Me: PUPPY!!!!!11!111
2

EAST ASIAN MYTHOLOGY MEME:

[7/8] JAPANESE GODS AND GODDESSES | IZANAGI

Izanagi (recorded in the Kojiki as 伊邪那岐) is the god of the sky in Japanese Shinto mythology. Izanagi (“the male who invites”) is also a creation deity, who along with his spouse and sister Izanami (“the female who invites”), were given the task of creating the world.

Izanagi and Izanami produced numerous islands and deities. In the act of giving birth to the fire god Kagu-tsuchi, Izanami was fatally burned and went to Yomi-no-kuni, the underworld. Izanagi followed her there, hoping to retrieve her, but she had already eaten the food of that place, rendering her return impossible. Izanami compelled her husband not to look at her. However, he betrayed his promise and lit up a fire, only to behold in her monstrous and hellish state. To avenge her shame, she dispatched Raijin, the god of thunder, and Shikome, the “Ugly Woman of the Underworld,” to chase after him. Izanagi escaped, but the goddess promised to kill a thousand of his people everyday. Izanagi retorted that a thousand and five hundred would be born everyday.

Izanagi bathed in the sea to purify himself from contact with the dead. As he bathed, a number of deities came into being. The sun goddess Amaterasu was born from his left eye, the moon god Tsukuyomi was born from his right eye, and the storm god Susanoo was born from his nose.

Where the fuck do I even start with this bullshit?

First of all Thor cannot be a woman, wanna know why? Because Thor is a fucking name not a goddamn title! This is like killing off Lex Luthor and having him be replaced by a woman and the woman insists that everybody call her Lex Luthor. 

Thor is not a title anybody can have, it’s a name of an already existing character in nose mythology and there is only one Thor in the Marvel universe and that is Thor Odinson, you know the guy who’s still running around with a giant axe instead of a hammer? Yeah that’s Thor this unnamed woman is just running around in a Thor costume pretending to be something she’s not.

Also I don’t remember Lady Freyjia being a powerful authority figure in the Marvel universe. I understand what Jason Aaron is trying to do he’s trying to retcon shit by making Odin a sexist asshole even though Odin was never portrayed as a sexist asshole in the Marvel universe up until now.

And because Odin is now a sexist asshole Feryjia has to be portrayed as a weak willed housewife who’s stuck in a unhappy marriage because every Asgardian male who isn’t Thor is now a sexist asshole because Jason Aaron needs to score brownie points with feminists by pandering to them and only them.

This is what happens when you shove in a stupid ideology instead of telling a good story, your writing becomes really terrible and people end up calling you out on your crap on social media.

You look at shit like this and then you realize why nobody outside of feminists likes the new female feminist Thor because feminist Thor only appeals to feminists and feminists alone.

It’s really no shock that this book got cancelled because the writing is some of the worst fucking writing I’ve read in comics in a long time.

But don’t worry feminist Thor will probably get relaunched under a new title or will just start from square one again because there are tons of idiots who still think that owning a number one issue of a comic is worth something in this digital age.

And this is why comics are dying a slow and painful death because writers just don’t give a shit about telling good stories they just wanna shove in whatever stupid ideology they believe in and then call it a day.

flowerandfight  asked:

Okay last one: "you’ve been sleeping at mine because your house is being renovated and we aren’t even dating, yet every time you wake up to the baby crying and sigh, “i’ll go” i feel like we might as well be married"

[Ugh I love this prompt so much & you]

Bellamy Blake was a lot of things. He was a high school history teacher. He was a brother. He was a nerd about the Baroque period. He liked fast music and slow dancing. He was ridiculously good at crossword puzzles. He could cook a mean lasagna and he could also speak Tagalog.

Clarke Griffin was not attracted to any of these things, at all

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MAY WE MEET AGAIN

It’s been such a long time since I’ve written anything, but school was being a pain in my butt. Now I’m on fall break (YASSS), which will allow me to write a lot more *-*

To celebrate - here *throws fluff*

Tagging: @raven-wick @wetbellamyblake @blakesdoitbetter (you guys like fluff, right? Who am I kidding? EVERYONE LOVES FLUFF :D )

Description: It was no ordinary friendship: they seemed inseparable, then life tore them apart (or Clarke still remembers Bellamy Blake, but didn’t ever expect to run into him again now that he’s all muscle, charming smiles and sweetness)

Having lived in California her whole life, Clarke is usually completely dazzled by the feel of snowflakes that descend into her hair, getting caught within the golden waves; how they melt from the heat of her palm, and even the taste of them on her tongue. But tonight their beauty is oblivious to her, and she ignores them, pushing the glass door open. She is greeted by warmth that instantly starts to nurture her frozen cheeks; her eyes water at the change of temperature - not to forget the soothing smell of coffee that meets her nostrils.

There aren’t many other people in the shop - a fact that isn’t surprising considering how late it is: a couple of girls (fellow university students, she figures) are sitting at the corner table, which is also known as her favorite spot. Deciding on the second best option by the window, Clarke heads for the counter to order.

Immediately she notices that the man behind it must be a new employee, however can it be so? Because he seems so insanely familiar even with his face blocked from her view: olive skin, the messy, dark curls of his hair, a small scar at the back of his  - no, it’s too weird.

Finally, he shifts his attention to her with the polite: “What can I get you-?”

His voice cracks slightly as their eyes meet, just when her heart stops for a second actually. For a minute, she simply stands there dumbly without saying anything, because she suddenly has forgotten what she was about to order, although it’s always the same damn thing.

“… Irish coffee… Please,”

“On it,” with a nod, Clarke walks to her table to pull off her jacket and scarf, but finds herself sneaking another peek at the barista. God, it’s creepy how much that guy looks like… There’s no way it’s him, which eventually convinces her that distant memories must be messing with her.

Anyway, she forces her attention off of him to stare out of the window, looking at December’s utter darkness, as if there isn’t enough of that in her life already. The time drags as she waits, her fingers fidgeting with the sleeve of her sweater, trying to prevent flashbacks from taking over her empty mind; sometimes, she manages to fight back, but the grief only became worse once she returned to school, to this unfamiliar place that she has not yet succeeded in calling home.

Home is where the heart is. Lately though, Clarke’s beginning to realize that hers has sunk six feet underground.

Clenching her teeth, she calls out, desperate: “Bellamy, is my coffee ready?”

Oh shit. She did not just… Holy shit.

But the male barista whips around, confused for a second, probably unaware of who could possibly be calling his name when none of his co-workers are with him on shift tonight. Then, at last his gaze falls on Clarke, whose jaw has failed her, slacking.

“Irish coffee at your service, Princess,” he says, not entirely capable of masking his surprise as he places the cup in front of her. That nickname. Honestly, she feels like crying already, only managing to pull herself together enough to raise an eyebrow: “Princess?”

At her question, his eyes widen remarkably and his hand travels to the back of his neck, scratching like many guys tend to do when they get embarrassed. She would’ve found it cute if her nails had not been digging into the soft material of the seat, trying to keep more words from spilling over her lips.

“Oh - uh, I’m - I’m so sorry, you just remind me of someone.”

What it is, she’s not entirely sure, but something makes her take the chance: “Come on, Bellamy. Do I need to put on a hideous pink, flower-printed dress and pull my hair into a French braid for you to be certain?”

It’s amazing how quickly his lips form a grin, “Clarke,” not until then she’d paid much thought to how much deeper his voice is. Well, of course it is. He’s a grown man now, not the little boy, who had his nose buried in mythology books while she exclusively read her comics.

Blinking, she takes him in again: unbelievable, his hair has grown longer, he must be nearly a foot taller than her, and his t-shirt clings to the impressive muscles of his arms. Somehow, despite the countless differences, she had almost recognized him the moment she laid eyes on him.

Guess you never forget people that you once loved.

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