colour-experiments with a cropped Chrome, for an icon :)

why must it always be so hard?

gracie-and-her-wonderland:

suburbanfuckingscum:

you-should-see-me-in-a-crown:

captainnerdfighter:

vinsanityraw:

A little backstory to this clip before you watch it:

Will Smith’s father abandoned him and his mother when he was a child, and when Will was finally getting into show business and making a name for himself, he tried to sneak his way back into his life like nothing happened. Will co-wrote this episode, and James Avery (Uncle Phil) said “this scene was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to shoot in my life. Every emotion, every word.. that was Will”

Will was actually supposed to play it off and then walk away, and there was originally an alternate scene that was supposed to happen, but he actually completely cut out what was supposed to be said, and did all of his own dialogue. The hug at the end of this scene is completely genuine, and this was a stepping stone in Will’s career where he started to take on the “do what feels, sounds, and looks right” approach to his acting.

This has me crying.

Seriously, this man needs to go back to making movies. It’s been four years since his last movies and I still have to wait a week for MIB3.

This scene gets me every time. Especially the hug. I can’t even watch it anymore. And now that I know it was all improvised, I just… I can’t. He is an incredible actor and I love him.

God dammit not this video again. It makes me so very sad :c

Reblogging again because it still makes me cry D:

Oh wow, that really made me tear up. Thanks for the back story :’)

“To the first man, who I met by the Eiffel Tower my second week in Paris, when I didn’t know better. Who took me out four times, who waved little red flags that I tried to ignore. Like asking me outright if I was a virgin on the first date, like calling me five different pet names when I’d asked him not to throughout the second, like saying he’d heard that feminists were not real women during the third, like disappearing for a week and a half after the fourth. Who, as it turns out, was not the bullet, but the careening fourteen-wheeler that I narrowly managed to dodge. Who admitted that he hit the young woman that his mother was trying to force him to marry. Who didn’t want to marry her because he believes in romantic love. Who doesn’t see the contradiction in those two sentences. To the guy in my medieval literature class, who lent me one of Camus’ plays and showed me around the library. Who wants to use his French education not to escape to the West, but to go back to his developing nation to teach at its eight-year-old university. Who I admired until he asked me what my American boyfriend had thought about me coming to Paris, until he demanded to know why I didn’t have one (a boyfriend, that is), until he asked if it was required that I marry an American. Who reached out and touched my earrings, without asking, the next time he saw me. Who won’t take a hint. To the PhD student who tried to take me up to his apartment after a five minute conversation, when I had just wanted to get lunch, who said there’s a first time for everything. Who told me that we were university students, living in a 21st century democracy, and that relations between men and women were different now, so what was I so scared of? Who recoiled in shock when I told him that I had friends who’d been raped, and by other university students, at that. Who does not have to think about rape on a daily basis. Who insisted on paying for my lunch, because “it was a matter of honor.” Who then physically prevented me from handing my money to the cashier, when I was trying to make it clear that this was not a date. Who didn’t believe me when I said I didn’t want a boyfriend, five times. Whose number I blocked the moment I stepped on the metro. Who has called me three times since. Who told me he wants to go into Senegalese politics. Who, I can only hope, will listen to the women of his country better than he listened to me. To the delivery guy on the red motorcycle idling outside of the apartments on Avenue de Porte de Vanves, the ones I walk past every day, who said bonsoir and who, because I said it in return to be polite, followed me to the metro as I walked, head twisted down, pretending that I didn’t understand the language I’ve studied for eight years. To the two men Thursday night in le Marais, swaggering drunk toward me, ignoring the male friend standing by my side, who leered at my chest and slurred, “Bonsoir, comme tu es mignonne,” as I shoved past them, trying to sound angry, not afraid. Who left me feeling fidgety and panicked, so when I took the night bus in the wrong direction and found myself alone with two other strange men at a bus stop at 2:30 A.M., I let the cab driver fleece me out of 25 euro just to take a taxi home. To the group of teenage boys loitering on the corner by my apartment, who decided to sound a siren at my approach because I was wearing a knee-length dress and a bulky sweater. Who made me regret forgoing tights because I had wanted to feel the spring air on my calves for once. Who will never have to wear an itchy pair of pantyhose in their entire lives. To whom I said nothing, because I still have to walk past that corner twice a day for the next three-and-a-half months, because there were five of them and one of me. To the three men standing on the corner of the periphery five minutes later when I was crossing the street. To the one who motioned for his friends to turn and look at me, quick, and then left his wolf-whistle ringing in my ears, shame like sunburn covering my face. Who didn’t care that it was broad daylight. Who made me wish that I could swear a blue streak back in French, without my accent betraying that I am American, which is another word for “easy” here. To the two men at sunset on the bridge by Saint Michel, in the middle of tourist central, who made skeeting noises at me, like a pair of sputtering mosquitoes, to get my attention. Who laughed when I flipped them off, and who kept hissing at me anyway. Who forced me to keep checking over my shoulder, all the way to the metro, to make sure that I wasn’t being followed. But also to the French friend who blamed my problems with French men on my university in the northern suburbs, a Parisian synonym for emeutes, gang violence, and immigration. Who insisted that if he brought me to his upper-crust private (white) university—where the French elite reproduces itself into perpetuity—I would meet nicer French guys. Who forced me to defend the men who’d harassed me against his barely-veiled, racist critique. And also to the American friend at home who nearly rolled his eyes as he half-listened to my stories, who said, “Oh god, it’s hard being so attractive, isn’t it?” as if I was being vain. Who laughs and does not understand why I always duck out of the frame of photographs, who knows nothing of what my body means to me. And that’s just two months in Paris. To all the Italian men who made me wish I had dyed my hair black before studying in Florence, who kept me from going out dancing because I got sick of feeling them creeping up behind me, sneaking their hands around my waist (and lower) when I’d already said NO three times. To the six-foot-something Georgetown student who prided himself on protecting the girls from being groped on the dance floor. Who chose to write about the rape of the Sabine woman for that week’s assignment. Who described the way her breast slipped free of her tunic when she fell, as if he was writing a porno, not a rape scene, who had the woman fall in love with her Roman rapist the next morning, after he spun her a tale of the coming glory of his country. Who said “in a fit of passion, she thrust herself upon his member” and was not joking. Who ended the story with the titular character saying to her children that she had been raped, but only at first. To the seventh-grade boy who told my younger sister that he could rape her, if he wanted to. To the gang of twenty-five year-olds in the Jeep who hollered at her as they drove past, leering at her thirteen-year-old body dressed in sweat pants and a tank top. Who made my sister, fearless on the soccer field and in the classroom and in the karate studio, run home crying. Who were the reason she became afraid to walk the dog by herself in our “safe, suburban” neighborhood. To my father, who said, “What white male privilege?” who was not being ironic.”

—

Julia Maddera (via colporteur)

These stories are so important, so terrible, so true. I want to show these to everyone who’s ever rolled their eyes and told me that street harassment is “not a big deal, oh my god, it’s flattering!” These are the sorts of testimonials that I need to be able to point at and say, See? This. This is our lives, each time someone doesn’t understand our lived experience of misogyny, that day-to-day fear of simply trying to be a person who exists in the world. These are the things so many men do, and those daily transgressions build and they build, and you never know when they might lead to something even worse, but the accumulation of all these daily violations is bad enough. We should not have to live this way when all we are doing is living while being women. 

(via dalek-in-heels)

This is the reason why I proclaim myself a fickle misanthropist and, at the moment, very asexual.

I remember only wearing a skirt twice during secondary school because when I did, that was the only time people suddenly started paying a lot of attention to me when I walked past. and it was very uncomfortable. Because girls who did so daily, always had boys walking a precise few steps below them on the stairs. And when summer came by, the boys would take off their ties and just snap it at their bare legs whenever. I remember always wearing a one of my brother’s oversized shirts to avoid such attention - and still have boys plucking at my bra straps from the back like there was nothing wrong with that. To repeatedly have boys come up to you and ask about fingering and dates, just because all the other guys were doing it and they thought they were being cool. I remember them thinking nought of the girls’ feelings and their walking away to a group of other jeering guys. And the other girls just casually dismissing it, treating it like any other everyday occurrence. 

Because it was.

(Source: thelittlekneesofbees, via illumipel)

nina-en-wonderland:

amiefawkes:

excuse me let me just die over here about how fucking AMAZING Chrome is

she will always be amazing

She’s not weak in any sense. She isn’t indecisive and she’s very firm on her actions, and she does what she believes is the right thing to do. When she loves somebody she’ll do her best to protect them and what makes them happy too. Sure, she’s weak in her knees and maybe a little bit physically but that was only because she didn’t have the energy to create her own organs.

But look at this bamf ok. She has gotten into a freaking car accident and was hit head on, losing an eye and her organs and almost her life. She even would have lost her life. But you know what happened? She didn’t because she fought for it. She made a deal with Mukuro because she had nothing else to lose at that moment, and now that she was given another chance to live, she’s doing the best she can to protect everyone that matters to her. To make sure that they don’t lose their lives too. Because, really, she’s the only one who has truly escaped death. Saved by a “corpse” if you must put it literally. She didn’t need any dying will stuff that Tsuna goes through. She doesn’t get shot in the head only to be revived, no. Tsuna has probably died like, what, 100 times already but that was just the dying will and he knew he’d be okay. Chrome has died once and she isn’t about to let it happen again. Her resolve is strong.

It’s not like she’s submissive or anything. She absolutely refuses any help from Mukuro at all now. She doesn’t owe him anything and refuses to. She is standing up on her own two feet despite having nothing to hold her up. She’s going to fight for what she loves because she’s gone through death once and I’m sure that, because she was given another chance to live, she’s willing to die again if it means she can save someone’s life.

I mean, she’s always been like that. The reason she even had died in the very beginning was because she wanted to save a poor little cat’s life. And even then she had nothing to lose; she had no friends, her mother didn’t care about her enough, and her father probably wasn’t around enough to matter. I suppose she just loved cats, and so to risk her life saving one shows that she was strong from the very beginning. Her character has always been clear — she isn’t weak at all. She’s not a damsel in distress.

And then when she was given another chance at life, she was given a family. Likely, M.M. and Ken hadn’t appeared to accept her, calling her names and such. But she still called them her family and likes them because maybe, she would have given anything to be scolded by her mother or father or be called names and not ignored by other kids when she was still Nagi. She was given friends, her boss, and just a whole reason to live because she found all these things that were simply worth fighting for.

And to top it off, she’s so freaking adorable. Sure the hairdo is silly and I think a lot of people would agree, but regardless. She’s petite and quiet and small and I guess nobody really expected her to be such a strong character. But the thing is, from the very moment she showed up, she was there to fight. Amano really has done a good job making Chrome a fighter.

I’ll forever love Chrome.

fuck FUCK FUCK you just summed perfectly why I not only love dearly but obsess over this character. Chrome may not have an in-your-face strength and will, like Hibari (to say) - but she does, most definitely have both. The part about her and death, holy cow I applaud you.

You are giving me more and more possible-headcanons and what-if story plotbunnies.  

Maybe, with such a close brush with death, she is permanently in the rift between. Dancing with death, to say. That could explain her paleness and her physical ineptitude - besides from the fact that her forte is illusions, and that before the discovery/nurturing of her powers by Mukuro, she was simply an ordinary Japanese girl.

Maybe that’s why Bermuda is so interested in her. Maybe she can actually relate with the creepy zombie/undead!Vindice.

Not that it wasn’t before, but damn my imaginations getting cracky. 

Their expressions are just like - not only how Chrome views them - but they her.

There’s the Vongola, grouped together in this emphasis of family: with Tsuna’s upturned, wide eyes and almost vulnerable face, Reborn’s shady but assertive hat-slanted-over-his-eyes presence and the others just spread out further behind as if to beckon and welcome her into their fold. C’mon, look at Hibari still peeking back. Yamamoto’s half-turn, as if wholly expecting her to be coming along. Gokudera’s casual hand-on-hip and Ryohei and Lambo jumping up, arms outstretched as if cheering or for a hug.

The Kokuyos are all split up individually, divided in their opinions. Chikusa looks distant, eyes not meeting hers, but by shaded aura about him, almost comforting - or at least, the most accepting of her. Well, asides from Fran, who seems to be casually dismissive - but in a childish, harmless way. Ken is very direct, with a partly mischievious expression and confusingly furrowed brows. M.M. looks bitchy and condescending enough personally- but there’s a subtle note of analytical suspicion and a more scathing version of uncertainty. The way she’s tilting away but still looking forward, almost confrontational yet. 

Damn, Amano’s a really good artist.

(Source: nina-en-wonderland)

nina-en-wonderland:

One day, when I was little, I ran away and hid in a cave. That’s where I met them.

They were blind, just like me, so we understood each other. I was able to learn Earthbending; not just as a martial art, but as an extension of my senses. For them, the original Earthbenders, it wasn’t just about fighting. It was their way of interacting with the world.

Just look how sweet and innocent my poor baby was. You can tell how much she changed, how much confidence and courage she must have had to grow into, to be her own person, to be proud of herself.

It must have been so hard for her before, so helpless and with a such limited perspective of the world. It must have been so confusing for her - and this one accident, when she’s feeling her most emotional and vulnerable, these badger-moles whom she’d no idea of, cannot even understand, open up an infinite of possibilities and teach her to.

Just look at the initial fear and uncertainty of her expression in those panels, and then surprise and unbridled joy in her laugh at the affection. At her  graveness as she learns. Such concentration. She looks so delicate, childlike and girlish, but her seriousness in that last panel.

And then Aang and Gaang helped her with that final step, of her development, into her growth towards such freedom.

I suddenly have a headcanon of Toph adopting some badgermoles when she’s older and the confusion met when she treats them with deference and respect.

colouring practice with a very, very old WIP and my new promarkers. I have no idea how to use the blender one haha :D

#Paradise #Coldplay #Lyrics

All is me. Yep.

(Source: Flickr / -pisces, via nuagenoir)

An Easter piece I’d been working on all holiday, and will probably not finish for a very long time as I have to go back to uni now.

Damn.

should I keep the shipper eggs or just go with traditional/decorative ones? 

Chraracters: TYL!Chrome Dokuro, TYE!I-Pin.

Was that…?

“Ipin-chan?” she called out.

The little round-headed doll-like person tottering down the street a few feet from her turned around. It took a few moments but she did recognize her, eyes thin and narrow, her round head tilting to one side.

Chrome was confused. Why was her friend suddenly her five year old self?

Kneeling down carefully - for she was in a knee-length pencil skirt and heels - and tucking her legs beneath her, she held out her arms slightly. “Ipin-chan?” she asked again, gently.

The little Chinese girl seemed pleasantly surprised by the gesture as, after a moment’s pause, she ran forward to return it. Her thin lips curved into a smile.

Ah, she must have come from a time before she’d befriended her, the thirteen-year old her. 

At the tiny, warm hands grasping her own, barely the size of it, the now twenty-three year old woman resisted a fond laugh.

Explanations (and the meeting she herself had just been heading for) be damned, for the young Ipin had been just so unbearably adorable.

Lifting up her best friend - if a bit de-aged - she smiled.

“Do you want to go get some ice cream, Ipin-chan?”

Sailor Moon —-> Tsukino Usagi/Princess Serenity

The heroine of my childhood.

Strong yet delicate, and beautiful.

(Source: animefrik, via bluequartz)

Ouran Koukou Host Club ——> Haninozuka “Honey” Mitsukuni

Another favourite character

goes shota-con for this eighteen-year-old

(Source: akiseru, via teaprince)

teen Chrome & I-pin sistermance; “morning routine/hair”

This was meant to be a personal headcanon of mine, where every morning they help eachother to prepare for school. Chrome, who’s growing out her hair and hasn’t styled it into her signature tuft yet, helps I-pin with her longer locks.

I-pin’s school uniform is a sailor fuku - which brings up conflicting memories/feelings for Chrome (but that’s a whole other headcanon) - whilst Chrome’s is a shirt, tie and skirt, that is very similar to her mafia uniform. Chrome also wears a bandage eyepatch, to fit in with her “civilian” surroundings - but changes to skull-patch otherwise. They are in middle and high school, respectively.

-facepalms- I totally forgot they have a eight year difference between them, and before I knew it, I drew both in their teens. Let’s just pretend Chrome got hit by the bazooka and they just carried on routine, shall we?

Drawn with (bad quality) sketchbook paper and colouring pencils, and cleaned up a bit with Photoshop. 

One of the first KHR fanarts I’ve done, this one has a special place in my heart.

Who is that girl I see
Staring straight
Back at me?
Why is my reflection someone
I don’t know?

Forever favourite movie.

Maybe a fictional crush on her too, I never thought of that before

(Source: asamies, via teaprince)