#e003

[sailormoonrewatch]

One thing you appreciate more after rewatching it as an adult is how Sailor Moon's dad is the Babygirl CEO

[cogitxre]

the vintage silver mask, threaded through curls and tied with a navy ribbon, glints under the delicate light of the castle, reflecting a dull blue light off its surface. the cornflowers and cobalts of the waistcoat tie in to the rest of the outfit, dancing in a way that is the antithesis of the person wearing it. it is to be a night of glamour and disguise...you hope that this will be enough to hide in plain sight.

see more here . . .

[bisexualgarrusvakarian]

luna walking down the street talking to herself aloud… relatable queen!

[entamesubs]

Yu-Gi-Oh! Go Rush!! Episode 3 Sub Release

Torrent | Google Drive | Youtube (NEW!)

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Please make sure to read the FAQ if you have any questions.

Below are extended translation notes, so spoilers ahead.

We have just started uploading onto Youtube as well! Since stuff hasn’t been taken down yet, please support our releases by watching on YT rather than other third-party sites.

Thank you!

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Yakitori vs Yakiniku

Yakitori = grilled chicken Yakiniku = grilled meat (in general)

All throughout the episode, the characters specifically use yakitori and refer to chicken meat constantly.

This is just to clarify the difference between the two as I’m sure people will have questions coming from SEVENS.

炭素測定機 Carbon measuring machine

Manabu is back at it with his wordplay. This time, he specifically makes a reference to a “carbon measuring machine”... however, these don’t exist. There only exist carbon dioxide and carbon monoxide measuring machines. This has nothing to do with carbon dating, that’s a whole other beast.

We took his dialogue to mean that he’s surprised that Yuuhi remembers him, as surprised as he would be if there really was a carbon measuring machine. We’re not 100% on this line (initially, I took it like an insult), but this is the interpretation we agreed on that made the most sense considering his wordplay last episode as well.

[monhistoirc]

she hadn’t been able to see nearly anyone aside from her parents who had tasked her with a rather strenuous schedule. the men seemed to be getting rougher by the hour, but what was she supposed to do about it? it wasn’t as if she could say no, any ounce of hope she had for living to see another day depended on it. it was nearly nine at night and it was her third and last client of the day. there was enough time in between for her to find some scraps in the back of a grocer’s workplace, but the ache in her stomach persisted along with the headache that had been hurting her all day. 

éponine had the chance to wash off her face and wake herself up a bit more before meeting the stranger and allowing him to lead her to his preferred spot. it was always nerve wracking to meet new people in this way. most of the men she saw had returned time and time again, but something about this one seemed off. ever since she had begun her lessons with charles, all she could think about was how happy learning made her. it was like she was earning her worth, and she found herself distracting herself during sex by thinking about each letter of the alphabet or something of the sort to pass the time. 

he led her to a dark room which she assumed was his flat, and rough hands spared no time in grabbing her and forcing her clothes off. it wasn’t anything she wasn’t used to, and éponine learned that the sooner the better with these things.

he’d all but tore off her coat when something switched in him and a hand went straight to her throat as he slammed her on the wall. it didn’t hurt her too terribly at the time and she knew some men preferred it rough so she just stayed quiet though the worry was obvious in her eyes. his grip tightened though, and there were no other signs of him wanting to pleasure himself with her. eyes widened and she could only think to knee the man which gave her enough time to get out of his grasp but not enough time to escape. 

now angered, the way he grabbed her again made it clear that she was in trouble. the struggle lasted about five minutes but it felt like hours given the injuries he inflicted. her saving grace was the candle she burned him with, and though blood spilled from several deep cuts while her fractured bones and upcoming bruises made it hard to breath, she pushed herself to run. 

she ran for as long as she could before falling against a building and taking shelter in the front part of an alley to rest for a moment. éponine couldn’t go back -- not even to her parents who would surely hurt her further if they learned she hadn’t taken the money. so the girl just sat there on the floor -- still catching her breath and trying not to look down at the blood staining her clothes.

[charlene-hong]

date & time : post-blizzard, 10:30pm location : sanctuary, the bar  status : open

There was a soft murmur of bustle throughout the bar. Of course the bar would be popular in Sanctuary — who when faced with the end of the world wouldn’t seek out cotton for the ears, a blindfold for the brain, anything to numb the pounding noise of everything loud and ferocious? There were drunk women clinging to the necks of drunker men, friends sharing lager, and Charlene, sitting in the dark. And what was she doing? Trying to forget?

Charlene could try, but no degree of penance could erase the images from the run. Bodies stacked like cordwood stained her retinae: men with emaciated limbs propped against little skeletons wearing dirty baseball hats. And the flies? Everywhere. Charlene sipped the farmers’ moonshine slowly, letting the clear liquid burn her throat and diffuse into her gut. It was stupid. She wiped her mouth with her wrist. Everything about it was so goddamn stupid. 

The alcohol had long taken effect, and such was evident in the slow realization of a presence behind her. She heard them clear their throat, could practically feel them shifting their weight from one foot to the other. Her gaze dropped to her drink — her second of the night and nearly drained. "You can sit,” she slurred darkly, “I was just leaving.” 

[finalyahooaesthetic]

“I need Love Potion Ingredients, help please?”

MBMBAM Episode 03

Asked by Yahoo Answers user ‘c4tf00d’

[cogitxre]

post-event :: the veneration.

Milo is not a religious man.

It isn't the call of a higher power that finds him tracing an abnormal path up to the chapel of Blue Ivy. It isn't the hope of guidance that draws him to the rack of votive candles near the wall, and it isn't his faith in an omnipotent god that compels him to light the wick.

Milo Foss is not a religious man. He is, however, an educated one.

And he knows that throughout history, when times are hard, people in distress turn to their gods, their saints, their faith. And while these deities would likely not be able to (nor choose to) assist him, it isn't them he's attempting to send a message to now.

Both hands cup around the base of the candle as he walks to the altar in the middle of the floor. The flame sputters fiercely as the wind from his steps floods around it, but it does not extinguish. It is resilient. Like the person he attempts to reach now.

Head bows for a moment; deference to the customs of the worship he finds himself mirroring. Shifting and slipping into its skins, as if confession can save only a Catholic. The spirits of the dead cling heavy to his shoulders like a second skin; four in total, now—his parents, Renata, Vincent. The tally only continues to climb.

"If you're out there, Da," the words creak from his throat in a dry murmur, "duitse." The unfamiliar syllables wrap their way around his lips, broken word falling away as he does his best to copy the sounds he heard his father make all those years ago. Latin was always the language of academia, the one that required fluency, his mother's pride and joy. Irish was solely his father's; the language Milo heard stuffed into quiet corners of the household, hidden behind pillars or stuck in the grouted cracks of the marble. The phrases brief and far-between; no time dedicated towards its study the way he'd studied Latin.

That didn't mean he hadn't picked up some things.

Their ghosts have haunted him for long enough. He's gaining spectres of his own now; he doesn't need the years-old ball-and-chains in addition to the new weights on his soul. Something has to give.

It's been almost a decade. Let them go.

The candle burns silently in his hands for a moment longer before he sets it down on the altar. A second bow of his head, and he turns to leave. His footsteps echo on the cold tile, scrubbed freshly white from the tragedies it has so recently seen.

Milo Foss is not a religious man. But he is certainly one that remembers.

artwork.