#letRomapeoplelive

#letRomapeoplelive

SPEAK UP AGAINST THIS BULLSHIT

It’s 2017 and the Hungarian government is legitimately taking about putting us in “camps”. I never want to hear another gadjekane fuck tell me that our people don’t suffer in Europe and all over the world.

Top 15 Death Note Episodes: Masterpost

(each of these are a link to the original post for each episode with screenshots and analysis)

#1: Silence

#2: New World

#3: Wager

#4: Father

#5: Revival

#6: Malice

#7: Assault

#8: Overcast

#9: Ally

#10: Love

#11: Confrontation

#12: 1.28

#13: Transfer

#14: Doubt

#15: Makeshift

Jeankasa?

TFW you do a ship meme entirely for the opportunity to talk about Jeankasa.

1. My take on their canon relationship: Jean has a crush on Mikasa that preserved through their training years together; he’s attracted to her but he still respects her talents without feeling emasculated by them. Jean sees situations for what they are, and right from the start it is clear that Mikasa prioritizes Eren. Yet Jean doesn’t resent her for this. He admires her, worries about her more than she does herself, doesn’t think Eren appreciates her as much as he should. Despite his feelings, he doesn’t hesitate to give her the business when he has to (which speaks more to Jean’s character than Jeankasa per say). Where we last saw them in the story, I think Mikasa grew to respect and trust Jean as a comrade. She doesn’t reciprocate his feelings (but I still have hope).

2. Do I ship them: Hi I’m Stasia and Jeankasa destroyed my life (yes).

3. Reasons why I do/don’t ship them: I just…  love how Jean adores her in canon. Like.. he acknowledges that she surpasses him in badassery by about 100% but it only contributes to how he feels about her. Additionally I think Jean could be the exact type of family Mikasa is looking for. He’s such a softy and I don’t think a day would pass where he wouldn’t do anything and everything he could to make her happy. Everything about the two of them makes me want to implode. 

4. Headcanon, if any: Even if Mikasa wasn’t so clearly about Eren, I don’t think canon Jean would make a move on her. I headcanon him to view her as the type of person he’d never have a shot with.

5. How much do I ship: I actively ship these two. Fanart, fanfics, you name it, I’m on it.

Heather Nesheim  -  https://www.etsy.com/es/people/heddarsketch  -  https://twitter.com/heddarsketch

Okay, so I just saw this and I couldn’t help but ANGST (because old-looking photographs make me sad, OKAY??)

Suffer Enjoy

Roy was sitting down at his table. First day of work, after, well, everything. He took in the view of his office and started to feel it’s emptiness and size. There were so many memories laid upon the shelves of this room, yet he recalls none. He looked down at his table, noticing the cup of coffee that was seated upon it. Must be Fuery, that caffeine-addicted comrade. Roy took a sip, only to notice (maybe for the first time in forever) how bitter and unpleasant is the taste of coffee. He added some sugar. It didn’t help. Even if Hawkeye was never making his coffee, Roy had to admit that without her it will never taste the same. Whatever she was adding into it is gone forever, gone with her. It was an understatement to say that Mustang was not feeling well. Because ‘not feeling well’ is not something you say to a person that feels emotionally torn over a cup of coffee. Coffee was the colour of her eyes. Coffee was the colour of the dirt she was shot on. Roy could see it as a vision, her pale face, filled with pain and defiled with her blood. That memory was all that was left of her. He spilled the coffee in the bin next to his table and got up. As he was putting on his coat he decided to leave the Headquarters. The alchemist prepared an excuse of being sick, but he knew his subordinates would pardon him anyway. After all, he was terminally ill with loss. He got up, proposing to himself to drown the sorrow with something stronger than coffee. Mustang will never know what was the volume that would fill the emptiness because, at that moment, his friend came trough the door. His friend Maes Hughes was looking worried, which made Roy straighten up a bit. Hughes knew very well what his friend was doing. He also knew there was no way talking about it would make this easier for Roy now, would it? Instead, he fumbled around his pockets and decided to get to the point:

“I have something for you… I found it in some old files. It’s, well, it won’t fix anything, Roy. But I feel like you’re the person that should have it. Like you’re entitled to it.”

Hughes handed him a white piece of paper, no wait, it was a photograph. Roy looked at it and felt his heart shake. On the photograph was none other than Riza Hawkeye. Her ocean-like uniform was covered with less medals than Roy had remembered or, at least, less than she deserved. He looked at her posture, as proud as always; he looked at her hair, as golden as always. For a split second he felt her being there with him and the image of her lying on the ground, soulless, became non-existent. Because for that split second, he looked at her face.

“It’s perfect.”

He could feel his eyes letting go of the tears that were pilling up.

“Thank you.”

His gratitude could not be heard from his tone, because these words were said in a rushed voice that tried to outrun the emotions, the kind of emotions that make people unable to speak.

Maes silently looked at his friend, with an expression one could find humorous. Roy was never the crying type. Maes was sure that his friend didn’t even have tearducts. He always joked that if he ever saw Roy cry, Maes would be prepared to get up, even from his grave to witness it. Now that he actually convinced himself of Roy’s humanity, the soldier felt that he had seen something incredibly private, and therefore felt the need to get going. He simply walked away knowing that Roy wouldn’t mind his bad manners.

The Hero of Ishval was still looking at the Hawk’s eye he held in his hands. He was able to remember her again, properly. Her voice, her walk. Her smell, her strength. Her virtues, her faults. No this was not the woman he saw bleed out in pain. This was an angel. An angel that gave everything for him. How can an angel promise to follow him into hell? He took the photograph and held it close to his heart. He held it gently because he didn’t know how frail this Riza was. And he didn’t feel like losing her again. After a few moments he stopped with his emotional episode to proceed with the intention of leaving Headquarters. But now he didn’t have alcohol in mind. Now he found the strength to move on. He, no, They had a dream. A dream worth fighting and dying for. Just like she did. Just like he will.

Thank you for reading,

I don’t feel like polishing or editing this so please forgive me gramatic errors, repetitive wording and the lack of well-educated vocabulary. This was something I thought spontaneously and so spontaneously written it shall be. Thank you again!

“Let’s just make a quick drawing to cheer ourselves up”

*Me, three hours later* “Fuck.”

Yesterday I was looking at the FMA artbooks by Arakawa (I desperately want to buy the 3rd one but the shipping is so expensive to Chile T_T ) and there’s one photo with Riza and a huge smile? I was like “Bless this picture forever” like, we don’t get to see her smiling that much, most of the time she’s serious.

Also, I thought that maybe Hughes was carrying around a camera to take photos and he was the one who took some of them. (It’s very plausible, I mean, look at all the photos he has of Elycia)

Bless her smile.

B always wondered what the numbers meant.

It seemed only natural that everyone else saw them too.  That is, until his small voice quipped after them one day and all he received in return were blank stares.  He felt different and strange after that.

He never spoke of them again.

But still… he wondered.

They were everywhere and held no meaning to him.  He tried not to look at them. 

But one night in particular, he couldn’t help but notice that A’s numbers were especially small.  Nearly ran out.

A, his best friend.  His brother in every sense of the word, save in blood.  The small, freckled boy with the bright eyes and the charming tooth gap.  The quiet, brilliant child with a laugh only B himself could genuinely initiate.

And how B loved to make him laugh.  When he wasn’t with B, A bore a timid countenance.  Almost frightened. 

B found him once, sitting and hugging his knees on the windowsill behind the heavy curtains.  He was crying.  When B climbed up to sit with him, A quickly wiped the tears from his red, round face.  B looked at him through strands of messy, black hair that always hung in his dark eyes.  They sat for a moment in awkward silence.  Then, B reached out and his long slender fingers closed around the especially small, freckled hand of his friend.  He candidly spoke only a few simple words and A’s tear-streaked face brightened into a toothy grin.

And that was B to A.  The carefree spirit to his small, burdened shoulders.  The wild laughter to his quiet reservation.

But the numbers kept getting smaller. 

And on that night- the night the numbers were smallest of all- A hugged B.  He held him close and whispered, “Thank you.“  And B tousled his friend’s hair and laughed as he always did and asked, "What for?"  But A didn’t answer.  He squeezed tightly one more time and turned to go into his room, shutting the door behind him.

And the next morning, Roger came and sat down slowly on B’s bedside.  He spoke softly and sadly.

And the numbers finally made sense.