#userrowan

akk x ayan + hopeful sunset requested by @sollucets

Warner never appears to take pleasure in food. For him, food is fuel— necessary and, most of the time, annoying— in that his body requires it to function.

“He’d been nine and Jordie thirteen when they’d first arrived in the city, a check from the sale of their father’s farm sewn safely into the inner pocket of Jordie’s old coat. Kaz could see himself as he was then, walking the Stave with dazzled eyes, hand tucked into Jordie’s so he wouldn’t be swept away by the crowd. He hated the boys they’d been, two stupid     p i g e o n s    waiting to be plucked. But those boys were long gone, and only Pekka Rollins was left to punish.”

we’re zowa, she would say to jesper as she made a flower bloom with a flick of her fingers. you and me.

Wylan clutched his middle, still snorting laughter, and pointed downward. Trailing behind them was a banner, caught in the tank's treads. Despite the smears of mud and gunpowder burns, Inej could still make out the words: STRYMAKT FJERDAN. Fjerdan might.

RB: I remember when The Princess and the Frog came out, and there was a special about how Tiana was the first African-American Disney princess, and I was like, “What?! The first African-American princess?” I have, like, 12 princesses to choose from who look like me. I remember it being a shift. As a white person, I never had to think about representation because I always saw myself as a Disney princess. The thing about privilege is, oftentimes you don’t even have to think about the inequality when you don’t have to face it...I started thinking about the feminism I was initially being sold, which was basically that boys and girls should be equal. But there are intersections, and a lot of reasons why it is easier for me to achieve that equality than it is for some of my friends... I am figuring this out just as much as you are. I am constantly trying to check my privilege. 

A memory returned to Wylan: his mother standing at an easel in the back garden of the house on Geldstraat, the smell of linseed oil, clean brushes in an empty glass, her thoughtful gaze assessing the lines of the boathouse and the canal beyond. “She paints,” Wylan said flatly. “All the time,” the nurse said cheerily. “Quite the artist is our Marya.”

@sixofcrowsnet heist → F J E R D A