solar

indie bnha rp oc. written by rachel.

[soundflare-deactivated20160725]

THIS IS MIO, COMIN’ AT YA’ LIVE FROM YUUEI HIGH!                                        ——  are you ready for me yet?

[sutoned-blog]

      this is too cute. she’s too cute. squeezes her hand a little bit. god, he’s dying inside. 

[solariad-blog]

squeezes his hand back. what a cute senpai! casually latches onto his arm.

[sutoned-blog]

   throws his head to the opposite side and covers his face with his hand. he’s too weak for this.

[solariad-blog]

swings their hands happily. she’s content to just remain in silence with him.

[solariad-blog]

sutoned replied to your post “hols her hand and swings it”

hold my hand too

❛ sure, ishi-kun! ❜ laces her fingers through his and squeezes his hand.

[solariad-blog]

hols her hand and swings it

❛ tama-chan! ❜ happily swings along with her.

[solariad-blog]

❛ aw, guys, leave him alone. it’s not nice to tease someone for their interests. ❜

[doxgooder-blog]

test post

test post

test post

test post

test post

test post

test post

test post

[vivibrant-blog]

❛ To be, or not to be- that is the question: Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, And by opposing end them. To die- to sleep- No more; and by a sleep to say we end The heartache, and the thousand natural shocks That flesh is heir to. ‘Tis a consummation Devoutly to be wish’d. To die- to sleep. To sleep- perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub! For in that sleep of death what dreams may come When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause. There’s the respect That makes calamity of so long life. For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, Th’ oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely, The pangs of despis’d love, the law’s delay,  The insolence of office, and the spurns That patient merit of th’ unworthy takes, When he himself might his quietus make With a bare bodkin? Who would these fardels bear, To grunt and sweat under a weary life, But that the dread of something after death- The undiscover’d country, from whose bourn No traveller returns- puzzles the will, And makes us rather bear those ills we have Than fly to others that we know not of? Thus conscience does make cowards of us all, And thus the native hue of resolution Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought, And enterprises of great pith and moment With this regard their currents turn awry And lose the name of action.- Soft you now! The fair Ophelia!- Nymph, in thy orisons Be all my sins rememb'red. ❜