#you que fight

[bakingmoomins]

grading full grown adults and them trying to get into fights with you over your feedback in the Google classroom comment section

[aj-lenoire]

y'know i was kind of expecting the portal to close around the demon thing and bisect him or whatever, but this is so much cooler

[swagging-back-to]

nah literally nothing will convince me anyone has had a worse lifetime of birthdays than i have

[theglassbeads]

outfits veraniegos de amelia, scarlett, bertha, jane, jihae & keira. (+ algunas de sus cosas)

[spacelesscowboy]

AND ANOTHER THING. saying that the latinos who voted for trump aren’t “real latinos” overlooks the fact that a lot of latinos (ESPECIALLY 2nd gen and immigrants. undocumented or not) are conservative.

this doesn’t make them less latino. being latino does not mean being progressive, or liberal, or socialist or etc. it just means you’re from latinamerica.

denying them their identity doesn’t make them exempt from anything. it just ignores the issues in our community of colorism, classism, queerphobia, and xenophobia. just because you’re latino (just because you’re not white) does not mean you’re not complicit. it doesn’t absolve you of anything.

[crashandswirl]

What kind of tragedy are you?

Written in the stars: Luther West, Alf Warner, Joseph Frost, Terri Morales, Bruce McGivern, Nica Pierce, Tiffany Valentine.

It had to end this way. We all know it. Only you were unaware. You had hope. Hope, of course, only makes it hurt all the more. We all knew you would look back, oh love, there's no other version of the story. And yet, alongside you, we still had hope. We believed in you, even though we knew you couldn't win. And you believed in yourself till the last moment. It isn't fair, is it? You didn't know you were doomed.

Self-inflcited: Cassandra Dimitrescu, Ana Lucía Cortez, Katarin, Jill Valentine.

You were given the chance to live, a thousand times over, and yet you never chose it. Not intentionally, oh no, you didn't know it was a grave you were digging. But with every turn, you were twisting the knife deeper. Every decision doomed you more. Had it been anyone else, they would have made it. But you? You are so perfectly you, there was no escaping it. The true tragedy of it all was how preventable it was.

Doomed from the start: Inéz Diaco, Camila Salgado Díaz, M, Angela Miller, Vance Drew.

There was no way of winning, and you knew it too. But you still tried. You tried again and again and again to change it. You fought tooth and claw to change your fate, but she cannot be easily manipulated. It's not your fault. The game was always rigged against you. From the moment you entered the narrative, your fate was sealed. You didn't stand a chance.

Wrong place, wrong time: J.D. Salinas, Letty Ortiz.

It shouldn't have been you. Oh my love, you should have lived. If only. If only you had made a right instead of a left. If only your friend hadn't had so much to drink. If only it hadn't rained last night. Then everything would be fine. A butterfly could have flapped its wings at another time and you would have been fine. Safety was so close, and yet so far. But alas, the stars just had to align.

Tagged by: @pretty-isnt-pretty-enough (thanks for the tag! I was only gonna do like, four muses, but today is not a productive day lol)

Tagging: @torntruth, @tootyfuckingfruity, @mould-girl, @v-jestica / @slxver-scrxm, @bcrntalive, @bullet-x, + anyone else who wants to do it :P

[error404vnotfound]

my mother, for some reason: i will throw out all the pedagogical material my late husband produced as a math and science teacher for almost 40 years. yes! even tho my child is studying mathematics looking into becoming a teacher too

[sweetiepotatofry]

I'd like to formally thank the Walt Disney corporation, and the ghost of Waltimore Disney himself, for funding and supporting my Tokyo revengers binge watching habits. that of which I will be partaking in tonight.

[binghe-malewife-goals]

[laying here] AU where Jayce escapes to the Undercity from Renata's plans and seeks safety with the only person he knows could possibly help him; Viktor

[quillheel]

@playedbetter // lyric starters; without mythologies by the weakerthans.

Maybe the scariest part of seeing Kim with a fever, hot-cold all the time and aching, was less about the fever itself; it was about seeing how that sickness pried back the composure on him like skinning a beetle of its shell, it was less the times he was asleep and more when he was awake; often irritated beneath a reluctance to engage at all and murmuring barely there mostly through the breath of wheezing, it was more about the times he murmured at all.

The Lieutenant's apartment is clean, and maybe it would've reminded you of the Pox if not for the fact you were allowed within it's walls where many weren't, and the various small details that filled itself in on it's own lived in qualities. Clean but imperfect, and unable to escape from the fact of the city you both lived in ━ Revachol whispering on the paint cracked window-sills as summer heat leaked in through them, on the smell of maybe something rotten. gasoline. vaguely something plantlike, like trees bending their leaves up to break up the noise.

There are exactly 11 trees along Kim's street. Maybe you would've noticed in the way here, or maybe not, since Kim invited Harry over after struggling; frustratingly inattentive; throughout the day on a case, and the first time Kim had handed over his place at the wheel of the Kineema so willingly since the beginning of it's service at the station ( it might've been the station's vehicle, one he was lucky to have been able to take with him when transferring over to station 41 after a major amount of string-pulling, ass kissing, and excuses about repairs, but in the end it was always Kim's baby ) to Harry. ━ so naturally, there were many other things to notice when one is entrusted with the golden ticket of a sick man almost begging him not to crash the damn thing than the amount of trees on Kim's street. But there are still 11 trees, and one way or another, you'd gotten home.

And in this home, Kim lays on his back on his couch, glasses removed and eyes covered with a cool wet cloth as a radio plays some random station quietly enough to be unintrusive but still filling a white noise ━ something classical, or at the very least, instrumental. the voices of the piece if you focused on it no more than a distant kind of cloud that wasps over hazily on compressed air waves ━ and occasionally he murmurs to himself, quiet and voice shot. this was the scary part, what he'd say. what it'd tell you. this was the scary part, to hear him through the softest electrical hum...

" si je pouvais, je ferais de toi une rivière déchaînée avec des rapides en colère alimentés en pluie, pour que tu puisses toujours serpenter et pouvoir toujours t'enfuir… " ━ breathe in. ( if i could, i would make you a raging river with angry rapids supplied with rain, so you could always meander, and forever be able to run away��� )

sings to himself, rather, here. sings to you? the language hangs on his tongue, syllable after syllable.

" sans lutter… contre les mythes mal interprétés, contre la douleur… " ━ breathe out. ( without contending… with myths wrongly interpreted, with pain… )

he does, sing to you. the only person you can remember who would, regardless of intention. he breathes with the music, and with it comes over with the terror of an honesty so grandiose it becomes small again; marble-like; like an unfulfilled wish he offers out, downy feathered, anyways, because the sentiment matters more than whatever it is now. maybe he doesn't even realize he says it out loud to begin with, but he does, whispers in the gentle shuffle of the apartment's small spaces, composure a dream he hasn't woken into, rarely; rarely, a heart on his sleeve. ( like speaking in your sleep. like honesty when you don't realize it, laid back on the worn cushioning of a couch, allowing himself not to see, allowing himself to merely be, be there. to drive him home. trusting. trusting you. )

[renah]

*sees non-brazilians talking shit about the Brazil's NT and making fun of 7x1*

me: shut the fuck up you fucking gringo, do you even know what is it like to win one, let alone five world cups, fuck you

*sees other brazilians talking shit about the women's NT*

me: VAI TOMAR NO SEU CU FILHO DA PUTA, OS MARMANJOS LEVARAM SETE NO CU E NÃO HONRARAM AS PORRA DAS CINCO ESTRELAS JOGANDO EM CASA, O TIPO DE DESGOSTO QUE AS MENINAS NUNCA VÃO DAR, VAI SE FUDER SEU BOSTINHA

[celibibratty]

💥

[thesparkthatlightsthemoe]

That’s a mean right hook. Dang...

Also that’s frickin’ cool.

[michelle-jacksons-art-blog]

Was wondering why tf my lil 31 minutos designs had a small burst of reach overnight and thank goodness I've found the tumblr latino sexyman contest and by god is it a mess

[hauntingblue]

Eleanor and max reunion.... the girls are fighting....

[muffinlance]

The feral cat gator of a 13 year old freshly scarred Zuko being forcibly adopted by the foggy swamp tribe! Bonus points if they willfully ignore the fact he's a firebender and treat him as a very strange waterbender bending-wise

It was Earth Kingdom ships that drove the metal one onto the reefs, so when the little thing came crawling up through the marsh spitting and hissing and dressed in red, they knew it weren’t no earthbender. No matter how much mud it had tripped in, trying to find where the ground stopped sucking at its feet.

“Wow-ee,” said Old Earl, “that sure is one way of keepin’ off the ‘squito-chiggers.”

And they all watched from Big Earl’s porch, sitting or rocking, as them bugs came for the all-you-can-eat and ended up on the bar-b-que.

“Sure is some weird bending,” said Little Earl, who was taller than Big Earl, but when they'd been twelve and they’d wrestled for the title it hadn't been Little Earl who’d won.

The little thing looked maybe twelve, too. And he was little little. But he had that same look like he was going to shove someone’s face in the mud until they said otherwise, as he stood there all panting and dripping and just realizing they’d been watching him this whole time.

“It’s firebending,” the one-kid mud-wrestler said, as bugs kept pop-snapping into flames around him.

Old Earl cupped a hand over his ear, like he couldn’t hear. And he kept doing it, while the kid got louder and louder about that bending of his, but quieter and quieter about looking at them like they were his next bugs.

“Oh, firebending,” Old Earl said, nodding like he’d only just got it, when the kid had stomped straight up to his chair. “Right, right, Old Jane’s got fire-water-bending, too. Why don’t you take him to her, boys.”

“It’s not-- ugh,” shouted the kid, but maybe he only had the one volume. Certainly only had the one volume for stomping, even though stomping was what got a fellow’s shoes shoved down so deep in the mud they’d be seeing them again as mole-shrimp hats. Not that the kid had shoes. Neither did Earl, Earl, or Earl. ‘Cept for Fancy Earl, but he’d gone off to Ba-Singing-Se, to be fancy.

Anyway, Old Jane was the best at turning anything and everything into fire water, which was the kind of thing a fellow called his or her liquor when they wanted fancy folk to keep right on walking. Was really good for making shouty little firebrands take their naps, too, which let Old Jane get her glowing mitts all over that fresh burn of his. And the love-bites from the shark-wrasses that had probably been half the reason the kid had come a-shore all a-shouting in the first place.

“Nope,” diagnosed Old Jane, when the kid woke back up. “That’s just how he talks. Mother was a screamer-bird, I’d say.”

“You take that back about my mother,” screamed their screamer-bird, who had pretty good hearing for someone who’s ear had lost the same fight as his eye. Anyway, Old Jane had done the best she could about both, and nothing was on fire that shouldn’t be, and she had that extra quilt she’d been working on that needed a body under it

And the waves and the shark-wrasses had all the rest of the kid’s crew

So sure enough they set their little screamer-bird up with a nest and let him cry loud as he wanted.

Anyway, if there was one thing Earl Earl Earl and Jane knew, it was how to make a joke so good the other person didn’t even know it were a joke.

“Firebending,” their little fledgling shouted, and waved his arms around, like all that fire pointed at no one was going to get them startled off.

“A-yep,” nodded Old Earl. “That there is some fire-water-bending. Just like Old Jane.”

Old Jane wasn’t the kind of gal who showed off, but she wasn’t the kind who missed no cue, either. She swirled a lick o’ liquor out of her latest barrel and twirled it ‘round and straight into her mouth, and when she spit it out, it looked so much like the little bird’s breath-o’-fire that he didn’t even notice the spark rocks she kept on her fingers as jewelry. No one did, ‘til they’d seen the trick a few times.

The kid’s mouth hung open so low and so long, a moth-tick flew in. That was some kind of life lesson, that was. The swamp was good at sending those.

The Earth Kingdom sent troops a-stompin’ through, losing boots and scaring catigators out of their sunning spots left and right, askin’ all rumbly about those fires they’d spotted, and if anyone from that shipwreck had made it on shore, and talkin’ about how there’d be money in it for them if they made that last answer a “yes,” sounding like Fancy Earl and all his talk about commerce and living standards.

“Got a few parts of them ship people in the lagoon,” Big Earl said. “Probably still floatin’ if you want ‘em. But we better bring the shrimp-minnow nets, ‘cuase they’ll just slosh on through the turtle-sturgeon ones.”

“...No thank you,” the head stomper said, like sayin’ polite words made a fellow a polite man. He’d tracked those boots of his right up onto their porch without so much as a scuff on their mud rug. Even the kid had used the mud rug. “And the fire?”

“Oh,” said Little Earl, with a grin, “that was Old Jane.”

And she did her trick again, only less tricky, so they could see the spark rocks real good. “You boys want some fire water?” she offered. “It ain’t blinded no one who wasn’t already headed that way.”

They didn’t want any, which was grand, ‘cause she hadn’t really been offering.

When the last of them had gone stomping off back to the kind of land that let people stomp it, it took them two whole hours to lure out the catigators from under the porch. And their little screamer bird, too.

“...Why didn’t you turn me in?”

“What?” asked Old Earl, cupping his ear.

“Why—”

“What?”

“—didn’t—”

“WHAT?”

“—you—”

“Speak up, boy,” Old Earl said. “I never heard such a quiet child.”

And boy, did that set their bird back to singing.