“The morning after Orlando, we hang our heads half-staff. My love shrugs my arm off of their shoulder and reminds me where we are: we’re at a rest stop, we’re somewhere in the Midwest. The shooter’s father said his son opened up the chest of that nightclub and undid its pulse because he saw two men kissing in the street. I try to kiss my love in the street. Even after, I have a hard time believing anyone would want me to die for this.”
Me and my gf. She’s in the closet but risked being outed so that we could make our statement. I love her so much. She’s my inspiration to be a better person. To get out of my bubble and fight for my rights. Thank you my nasty beautiful woman. @somewherein-alderaan.
I feel like something just got lost something’s missing from somewhere in here I feel like something just got lost there is a hole in my soul I can feel the air blow through the place where you used to be
Close your eyes to the cold world Lie on your bed Block both your ears Yesterday is today, and today is yesterday You’re just full of overdue blame WE WILL TAKE IT SLOW (BABY BABY) WE’LL TAKE IT SLOW As if we’re in the same dream A familiar song calls out to me I’m finally connected You should accept me HATE is on me Even if every day is a repeat of itself I’m okay I walk above a depth of darkness And look at the real truth that’s hidden here OPEN YOUR EYES Quietly open your eyes (echoed) OPEN YOUR EYES Now, OPEN YOUR EYES (echoed) OPEN YOUR EYES Quietly open your eyes Quietly open your eyes (echoed OPEN YOUR EYES Now open your eyes Hatred that I haven’t thrown away And dreams that torment me (this dream) The clock goes on without an error as if to mock me (oh yeah) I’m a wreck, even I don’t know myself The future has been painted dark I struggle It (the future) paints this night more pitch black (woo yeah) Close your eyes to the cold world Lie on your bed Block both your ears Yesterday is today, and today is yesterday You’re just full of overdue blame WE WILL TAKE IT SLOW (BABY BABY) WE’LL TAKE IT SLOW As if we’re in the same dream A familiar song calls out to me (you do) I’m finally connected (you want) As usual I’m headed somewhere In districts I don’t know the name of To a hall without a name Even if I sleep for some (consecutive) nights I get no comfort No matter where I go (at that place) I’m mostly an Explorer passing my time Uh and that’s a long ass ride I go wandering in a trance and eventually I close my eyes The spaces between now and my dreams I am suspicious of them again I still have something I need to confirm Right now, with you (uh) OPEN YOUR EYES Quietly open your eyes (echoed) OPEN YOUR EYES Now open your eyes (echoed) OPEN YOUR EYES Quietly open your eyes (echoed) OPEN YOUR EYES Now open your eyes Inside harmed irregularity (inside) The story I’ve hidden really deep Opens Its eyes Through this song Your dreams can be read (dream) My seventh sense Is awoken from a deep sleep (Oh) Come here by my side as the night unfolds Now another dream approaches, little by little I understand [your dreams] as if they are my own OPEN YOUR EYES See the truth open your eyes OPEN YOUR EYES (echoed) I’m not alone
Translated by: @LTY_Int/ @withtaeyong Please Take out with full and proper credits. Please do not use to sub without my permission
Liper doesn’t conform to any kind of common relationship dynamics that makes people ship two people together regardless of the lack of interaction and chemistry
(ex. Leyna and Caleo’s “Hot And Cold” dynamic). Except for the fact their parents are Hephaestus and Aphrodite, they clash together in a way that it is not compatible in terms of their past and personalitiesand yet they found a way to be friends.
How people portray Leo and Piper’s relationship is that they’re always joking, making fun of each other, pulling pranks, etc. And that’s one of the things that connected them together, if not the only thing that people make a connection with. But have you ever wondered how they became friends in the first place? Their pre-The Lost Hero characterization makes them unlikely to be friends, it makes you wonder how they became close.
I get that people like Leo and Piper only as friends or siblings, but adding a statement where romance or any form of levelling up their relationship will destroy their friendship just doesn’t make sense to me. And the most ironic thing is sometimes the people who say this, seriously ship the most shallow pairings together who barely interacted in canon. It’s just natural for best friends to be together isn’t it? They’ll make the relationship work. I love them as friends but I also love them as a couple or just a pair of zucchinis together.
Their relationship development is so natural and realistic compared to every other ship in this series, especially in The Lost Hero. The helicopter scene gives us a really short but meaningful conversation between the characters. While there are several one-on-one scenes with other characters, this doesn’t involve about battle strategies, their quests, their own insecurities, or talking about someone else, this one is about themselves. And it’s not about a conversation where they reassure that their relationship is doing okay and not going one step backward, it’s them moving two steps forward.
One of the worst offenses in this series is that Rick Riordan tells us that the characters have strong bonds with each other (especially among the girls in the series), but he doesn’t show it, and it just makes artificial for me, which is a huge waste of everything. (Like Rick forgot to write a chapter about the development between two characters he wrote simple sentences about the state of their relationship to make up for it and stuck somewherein someone’s POV.) I did not feel the connection that Leo and Piper have with other friendships and relationships.
TL;DR I ship Liper because it’s one of the most natural things in the series. It’s been five years since I first started shipping it and I am so heavily invested in this ship there is no more escape for me from this self-inflicted hell. save yourselves before this ship pulls you in
Won’t you tell, please just tell me how all of this should work Please tell me exactly Who’s inside of me
I am broken, I’m so broken Amidst this hateful world You laugh and smile with me But you’re blind to everything
I’ve broken down, and i’m suffering now, but I just hold my breath And I can’t be, unraveled, I can’t see the truth that lies underneath… freeze
I’m breakable, unbreakable, i’m shakeable, unshakeable I’ll come to find you soon somewhere
In this shaken world that’ll always hate me I’m becoming transparent and I’ll never be seen Again so please don’t bother looking for me Don’t look at me I don’t want to hurt you so keep your distance This world came from someone’s imagination I’m begging you please remember the old me As vivid as I was
My true being is spreading fast, this solitude won’t let me back The memories of when I laugh My innocence comes crawling back I cannot move, I cannot move, etc.
Unravelling the world
I have changed, I can’t return to being who I was before No matter if we intertwine, we’ll perish and be left behind
I’m breakable, unbreakable, I’m shakeable, unshakeable I can’t let this happen to you too
In this twisted world that’ll always hate me I’m becoming transparent and I’ll never be seen Again so please don’t bother looking for me. Don’t stare at me Someone set this trap for me to fall right into, and bring forth the unraveling of my solitude I’m begging you please, remember the old me.
it is the year 24547107450915476 all writing utensils have vanished the population is reduced to scratching numbers and letters into papers with their nails, ragged and torn with the stress. drops of dried crimson can be found on many documents, signs of a nail finally giving up the ghost. it is said that somewhere in some deep, mystical temple there is one last pen known as the mythical “last pilot” after many months of desperate searching after many treks across the stereotypical plains of africa and jungles of the amazon and mountains of wherever the fuck this trope puts them our straight white male protagonist who is somehow “special” and “unique” has found it carefully slowly with your adverb of choice he makes his way to the cracked stone door pale grey with streaks of black running down the granite and he sees an indentation that somehow perfectly fits his hand he reaches up places his palm into the rock it glows blue, starting dim at first, but quickly reaching an intensity like a phone screen at 2am in a dark bedroom the black streaks are glowing blue as well, reflected in miniscule crystals embedded in the rock chunks littering the ground the rock begins to tremble the protagonist who swears hes fearless steps back, clutching his hand to his chest, about to piss his pants in terror the cracks in the stone widen with the trembling bits and pieces of the rock break away, steady streams of granite gravel rushing down to meet the earth when the dust has cleared away the protagonist is still standing the door is gone, a massive slab of stone now crumbled across the ground a soft blue glow shines out of the hole carefully slowly with the same adverb of choice as before in an attempt to be smart and use fancy literary devices like repetition the protagonist steps through the doorway he is in a tunnel the same granite, grey with streaks of overly poetic midnight surrounds him the streaks are glowing, the source of the light he walks through the tunnel, confident now that he is in no danger of being crushed by magical granite even though he’s literally entombed in it after a long time a few minutes? an hour? a day? time doesnt exist when you’re a straight white male protagonist in a cool cave who knows who cares he comes into a large chamber the walls are covered in cans he thinks he’s seen the designs in a history textbook was it…coke? no, pepsi. pepsi hated coke. there was a war over it in 213028, if he correctly remembers a fact his third grade history teacher had offhandedly mentioned because when you’re a straight white male protagonist you remember weird shit that is somehow relevant later. there are turtles everywhere why are there turtles this makes no sense to him they arent even real turtles they are drawings and plushies and the occasional figurine and is that a dude dressed up as a turtle? he isnt a straight white male so he must be the villain of whatever he was from sound reasoning, the straight white male protagonist who definitely isnt racist thinks to himself. now that he isnt stomping through a tunnel, he can hear a quiet scratching fill the air. looking around, he realizes its coming from a desk in the corner. it looks like a corpse is hunched over it. maybe the scratching is magical mice (not rats rats are nasty and only belong in gay postapocalyptic manga) who would lead him through the caves to the mythical “last pilot” that he is searching for. he quietly sneaks through the chamber, sticking close to the blue cans lining the walls and stepping over the occasional not-white-probably-villain-turtle-guy figurine. finally he reaches the desk and sees that what he thought was a corpse is a living person, muttering to himself. “hey” the straight white male protagonist calls “do you know where the last pilot is” he looks up it is not a he it is a she with a beanie and she is not a straight white male protagonist so she must be the evil beast that protects the last pilot he drops into a fighting stance that is totally legit and looks badass she sighs leans back in her chair “dude” she says with a tone that shakes the walls of the cavern a pepsi can falls down he thinks he might actually piss his pants this time “i AM the last pilot” his mouth drops but the mythical “last pilot” was supposed to be a pen? she continues “and i HAVE the last pilots” pilots? pilotS? “all of them” “an infinite supply” “and if you dont mind” “i need to finish this novel” “so kindly fuck off” “go back to goose quills” “(im telling you guys people could write before they had proper modern utensils how is your dystopian society looking over such a basic fact and what about computers how is this a logical situation at all)” “and buy this when its finished” and with that she turns back to her desk and now he sees that she has an open notebook and a cup full of pens and one is clutched in her hand, now continuing from the line of dark ink where she left off (ink) (hed never thought he would one day see real ink) but she had refused to give him the “last pilot” so resolute like the straight white male protagonist he was he squared his shoulders marched up and yanked the pen out of her hand she turned around a scowl on her face and fucking decked him he woke up much much later again time doesnt matter when youre a straight white male protagonist in the middle of fucking nowhere with a note stuck to his chest he peeled it off and held it up to his gaze it read in many colors of ink “USE A DAMN QUILL YOU FUCK” and underneath the harsh phrase was a phone number and underneath the phone number was smaller text “support group for other straight white male protagonists who wanted a pen” and that is the story of the “last pilot” and now i really need to work on my secret santa fic
Pilot: That was a fucking RIDE dude, this just got dropped in my inbox totally unsolicited and its epic. Fucking suck a dick straight white male protagonist im BUSY HOMIE
i wanted to try doing a new thing with my writing, but i honestly don’t know if it worked out. oh well.
all poems ARE NOT MINE. they belong to my friend wesley, who is incredibly talented and you should 100% check him out. he is super sweet and his poetry has a direct line to my heart. thank you for letting me use your poems, and i CANNOT WAIT FOR YOUR BOOK! <3
i hope you guys like it.
The thing is, before the fire, Derek used to love words. He loved writing them, or reading them, or watching someone recite them and appreciating the way the words would flow fluidly from one to the other, rolling off people’s tongues with soft voices and gentle expressions.
When he was 14, Laura gifted him with the entire works of Edgar Allan Poe and while he would never admit it out loud, there were some tears shed.
There was just something so beautiful about how a series of letters strung together could move someone to anger, or sadness, or lust, or love.
And yet, when Derek lost his family, he also lost his library, his carefully cultivated anthologies and first edition books, and, watching Beacon Hills disappear into the distance through the side-mirror as he sat numbly in the passenger seat of the Camaro next to Laura, Derek swore he’d never enjoy a single poem ever again.
Then he met Stiles. Stiles, whose eyes were like burnt whiskey and his mouth formed soft shapes over sharp words, and for the first time in years, Derek felt his palms itch for a pen and paper to dedicate to Stiles, let the words flow through the cracks in the boy’s skin and show him just how much Derek could love, if given the right chance.
And that night, that first night, when everything started. When it all started with a returned inhaler, and for hours afterwards, Derek could see Stiles’ face staring at him as if it had been imprinted behind his eyelids. And still, he did not write.
Words were no longer his closest friends. They were fleeting, so like everything else Derek had ever known, and he could no longer deal with them.
He left, after the shitstorm of the Alphas, and honestly didn’t expect to come back, allowed himself to be content with seeing Stiles in his dreams. He tried so hard to forget the haunted look on a pale face speckled with moles, the eyes that shone with unshed tears and the hopeless expression of someone so far in over his head.
But he had come back, minus one, because Cora deserved to go to a high school she liked, in a community she was comfortable in, without having to worry about kanimas, and deranged hunters, or power-hungry Alphas. Cora was a good kid, and she was going to do great things one day, and Derek knew that he owed the family that, at least. He came back, alone, just like when Laura had died, except this time, he was expecting to have people there, that he’d know people who had his back.
He didn’t find any of that.
What he found was a darker town, a less optimistic Scott, a quieter Lydia, Allison who no longer glared hostilely at him, instead choosing to blankly stare out into space. Isaac was no longer cautiously hopeful, Deaton frustratingly more bizarre and even Peter had decided to skip town. But the worst one was Stiles. Loud, obnoxiously smart Stiles was quieter, the bags under his eyes emphasizing the way they were dull and defeated. He’d lost so much weight, his skin was stretched tight over his bones and his clothes, already usually baggy, hung off his body like they were rags. The look on his face alone made Derek’s heart clench.
And that was before he found the poems.
Derek finding out was a complete accident. He’d gone into Stiles’ room just to check up, and stumbled over a small black notebook open on Stiles’ bedroom floor. He’d just bent down to pick the book up and he’d read the first line:
Even More Things I Need From Dragon Age Inquisition
Please let Dorian be a virgin. A complete, total, Barely-Even-Kissed-A-Guy-Shut-Up-Decimus-That-Time-At-Malvernis’-Party-Totally-Counted virgin. He can flirt like crazy and give everyone he meets sex tips for all I care, but when it gets down to the long awaited romance scene I’d love for him to have no fucking idea what he’s doing and be utterly unashamed of it.
Sera doodling on Cullens maps; stuff like ‘Lost Treasure of Hooter McBigdick’ and 'Where I First Kissed A Girl’ in huge black letters, and then snorting like a loon when he spots it during strategy meetings.
Josephine having terrible handwriting that is the bane of her existence- she may be Queen of Diplomats, Lady of Social Graces, Undisputed Empress of The Inquisitorial Purse, but her letters look like they’ve been written by a drunken spider sellotaped to a fireplace poker.
Can we have somewherein the Fade that isn’t kinda blurry pale greenish greyish yellow? Since it’s meant to be formless and at the whim of the spirits that live there, why not have it, y'know, changing. You’re walking along and suddenly a forest springs up to get you lost and disorientated, or turning a corner that takes you straight back to where you started- come on, the possibilities are endless! I don’t care if it looks like they ripped it right out of Dante’s Inferno, just don’t let it be boring.
Iron Bull collecting ceramic farm animals. He has a special pouch to carry them in because he travels so much and he doesn’t want to damage them, but when he moves into Skyhold he lines them all up on his windowsill so they can see out. Every one of them has a name and when he’s not there Sandal sneaks in to play with them.
Show me Sten as the new Arishok, and let me have the chance to give him cookies for the good of Thedas. Please. Let me solve a diplomatic crisis by giving Sten cookies.
The shadows sit comfortably in the rocking chairs on the porch and though I could flip on the porch light I’d rather not insult the fireflies who show such diligence in their mating glow so I’ll stand by the rail and let the darkness come slow knowing somewhere in all her feminine finery a woman’s heart keeps blinking on and off for me.