Jar of Thoughts

andrewducote:

This gif set is absurdly accurate to my year of marriage with Hali.

via andrewducote · originally by shawnphunters
via kitkatkadee · originally by funnymushroom

neverrlaand:

"It makes my faces!" (x)

duuudee thats definitely the one i met in january. he’s such a fox

via kitkatkadee · originally by evergreenring
artificialities:

shayvaalski:

ink-splotch:

Wendy Darling believed in fairies all her life.
This was based in kindness, not faith. It was a fearful thing. Sometimes she woke in the middle of the night panicked at the thought she might stop one day. What a world, to place the life of even as flawed a person as a Tinkerbell in the hands of child’s ability to believe. 
Coming back, Wendy expected to miss the magic, the beauty, the feel of the wind in her unpinned hair. She expected to miss Peter, and she did. But she didn’t expect to miss the exhausting task of being the Lost Boy’s young mother.
And she didn’t miss it, not exactly. Wendy missed being useful, and she missed being listened to.
But she told her brothers stories, at night, still. She watched the light grow in their eyes and felt powerful for the first time since Neverland.
Michael came home from school crying one day. A boy on the playground had said fairies were stupid and fake.  The teachers thought it was exhaustion or the disappointed hopes of a child who still believed his big sister’s bedtime stories.  When father laughed at him at table, John hesitated for a moment and then joined in. Wendy pled an upset stomach and fled to her room.
Michael had nightmares for a week of a shining tiny person breathing their last on a Neverland forest floor.
Shaken awake in her own room, Wendy padded down the hall and creaked open his door. She gathered her smallest brother in her arms and said, “We’ll believe enough for all of them, every one. You and me, Michael, we’ll save them all.”
In the other bed John, pretending to sleep, squeezed his eyes shut. He wanted so badly to be grown.
His father had always told them true men protected people who needed it. John sat up. “I do believe in fairies,” he said, and his siblings chorused, “I do, I do.” Michael stopped crying. John started.
Wendy often asked herself why they had come back. The question surfaced over particularly tedious chores, or when her father came home drawn after a long day and picked apart her every flaw over the blandest supper Wendy’d ever tasted. But it surfaced also when she was happy, fetching sweets from the dime store, when Michael raced through the halls, hollering, an old shirt hoisted on a broom as a conquering flag.
Once, she had known how to fly. She remembered and it ached.
They tried to settle back in, all three of them, to shake lost boys and pirates from their heads. A year after leaving Neverland, Wendy’s mother asked why Wendy never brought nice girls home to play with. It took effort not to laugh. 
Wendy didn’t say, “Nice girls? Tink tried to get the Lost Boys to shoot me out of the sky, tried to blow up her own home on the off chance she might get me, too.”
She didn’t tell her, “The mermaids would have liked to drown me, too, babbling away in those dolphin sounds that Peter could understand but that just gave me shivers.”
“All I want to be is a mother,” Wendy said instead, and meant, all I want is to be of use, to have people need me as much as they did. I want someone to believe my stories as much as Peter did. 
She didn’t say, “And what could those girls offer me? I fought pirates. I touched the very stars.”
“I have all the friends I need in John and Michael,” Wendy offered. At mother’s frown, she added, “I’ll try harder.”
She joined a club against her own wishes. The club girls talked about dresses and Wendy thought about swords and crocodiles.
Wendy thought, these silly young things never heard that tick tock and shaken in their boots. They’ve never seen the stars up close.
They talked longingly of their mothers’ lipstick, of debutantes and growing up, and Wendy thought, How many fairies have you killed?
The years rolled on. Wendy fell in love with boys who needed her, who fascinated her, a long line of sharp-boned muses who forgot to eat their vegetables for weeks.
These boys only knew one kind of woman. They expected mothers, all of them, women childless or not, beautiful women with strength and graces pressed into their souls. If they had ever found Wendy crying over a thimble, they would not have known what to do with this alien fragile thing.
So they did not find her so. Wendy Darling was well versed in being the thing people needed her to be. Even to the most magical place she knew, Wendy had been brought for one reason. Peter’s boys had needed a mother.
That thought sat rancid in her stomach for days, but then she remembered: Peter had lingered at her window all those nights not because he needed soup or love or tucking in. He had loved her stories.
She had taken the wild boy, the lost bird, the starcatcher, and had stolen his breath away with words of her own making. On the other side of years and years, Wendy caught her own breath.
She started carrying a thimble in her pocket. When Wendy felt powerless, like a thing and not a person, she slipped a finger against the chill shape. It was a slip of puckered metal, an odd knick knack of women’s work. But once, Wendy had named it something else, given it power.
Boys boasted around her, of jumping fences and wrestling, of stealing kisses. Wendy thought, you think you know the power of a kiss? I once defeated death with a thimble, because I gave it a name. I believed. Words are power, and the words are mine.
One day, someone did find her crying. Wendy was in the girl’s lavatory. It had been a little thing, John snapping at her over breakfast, and then some boy in the yard saying something careless. Wendy had thought, I once knew how to fly, and suddenly everything seemed too dirty and too confining to stand. She hid in the furthest stall from the door, and cried angrily about every speck of magic she had lost in her life.
There was a light knock on the door and some wispy little thing from the club Wendy’d been calling her penance peeked in.
“My grandma died last year,” the girl said. “I was crying in the next stall over.” The girl sat up on the edge of the sink and said, “Do you want to hear a story about her?”
At the next club meeting, Wendy listened. A grinning redhead always used the past tense when she spoke of her father. Another girl, wan, flinched at loud sounds. They knew the sound of the ticking clock, these young women, some of them better than she ever had. Wendy had walked away from one beautiful world and into another. They had lost one, or many; or wished they could fly away the way she had gotten to, once.
Wendy stopped crying in bathrooms, mostly. She started checking them, quietly, and offering shoulders and stories of a magical land to the people she found there.
Wendy listened. One of the club girls was obsessed with trains, the way they take you away, the way they come back on schedule, the sound of them. Wendy asked, and she listened. A young woman whose hands folded in her lap like a wayward haystack stared out the window, entranced by a world only she could see.
Wendy thought, you’ve never seen the stars up close. She thought, maybe I can show you.
She dragged them all out one night, late, when they were out in the country for a school trip. They snuck out of their lodgings and got in terrible trouble for it, but that night the moon was missing and the sky was dusted with more blazing stars than they had ever seen, except for Wendy.
None of them but one odd duck knew the boys’ parts, but they did their best to dance there beneath them, to pretend they could catch starlight on their outstretched tongues. 
Wendy wondered what the mermaids would have said, if she had ever learned their tongue. She wondered what stories Tinkerbell could have told her. She wondered if Tiger Lily would have taught her how to dance.
She wondered why none of the women in Neverland had been able to speak to her. She wondered why she hadn’t tried. 
Michael sprouted inches and inches, his voice dropping to an alien depth. He stopped planting broomsticks tied with old red shirts on the dining room table and declaring the room claimed for Neverland.
Michael buried himself in books instead, as though that might be a way out. He started scribbling in journals, for all John teased him about it. Wendy was sure that those messy lines were not all poetry about the chin of the girl down the street, sure some of them were the adventures Michael was having still, somewhere inside. She was sure. She hoped with every ounce of herself, hoped like it was the kind of faith that makes children fly.
John buried himself in books, too, but all his joy in it was wrapped up in how they helped him win: win grades, and commendations, pats on the shoulders from their learned teachers, their father’s nod at supper. Wendy’s father had always terrified her, his hooked rage, the way he ran from meeting to appointment, pursued by the tick of the clock on his heels.
John joined debate, cricket, an honors society or two, a young businessmen’s club for boys. Wendy told him once, in a quiet moment alone, that she could hear the tick tock at his heels, too, these days.
John squeezed her hand. “Me, too, but it’s okay Wendy. C’mon, I always wanted to be a pirate.” He squeezed her hand again. “I’ll be better than he ever was, Wendy. I’ll be good.”
In their nursery room games, years ago now, John had always played Hook. Michael had played Peter.
Wendy had always been the narrator, the storyteller, the minstrel. She thought she rather liked it that way. 
Wendy grew into a young woman. She went out dancing with her friends, whispered a pretend background for every eligible young bachelor who watched them, and listened to her friends’ laughter make those stories true.
They talked about dresses over light lunches, about boys and babies, about industrialism and pollution, about Plato and Darwin, the epiphanies and practicalities of falling in love. They talked Eleanor, the wispy girl from the bathroom, through her parents’ disappointment as she pursued a life as a legal secretary. Wendy dictated stories to give Ellie something interesting to practice on.
Another friend taught Wendy how to crochet. They made piles of socks for a charity drive, meeting up in the afternoons to sit in a sunlit window and crochet and talk the light away.
Wendy ran her hands over the heaps of warm socks when they were done. She was a girl who believed in magic, and this took her breath away, how patterns and patience could lead to this, could build something so good and solid.
Wendy woke and slept, told stories, kept a thimble in her pocket, breathed.
She wondered what she was building.
No child ever grows up. They grow out. They grow down and deep, textured and heavy. They grow.
One day, decades later, Peter lighted on her old windowsill, chasing down a runaway shadow. 
He thought she was her daughter. Wendy watched Jane stare up at this fey creature. Wendy could feel the weight of all the years between her daughter’s anxious gawky adolescent age and her own taller years, the backaches and the tragedy, the things her hands had built. Peter would never know them. Wendy wanted to weep as hard as she once had, at fifteen, over a thimble. 
Wendy went downstairs, made a bag of sandwiches that she put in a backpack with some sturdy clothes and a pair of good shoes. Her daughter would not be going on any adventures clad only in a nightgown.
When she got back, Jane was flying. Wendy’s heart was breaking, was singing, was soaring. Peter was laughing. His shadow was watching her.  It knew more than it told and always had.
Wendy pulled her daughter back to earth. She gave Jane the backpack and said, “You be brave. You be good. Remember to talk to the mermaids. Ask them to sing to you. Tell them your stories.”  

"She wondered why none of the women in Neverland had been able to speak to her."
You know how sometimes you hear a thing and it shakes you?

Oh.  Oh, yes.  This is gorgeous.

artificialities:

shayvaalski:

ink-splotch:

Wendy Darling believed in fairies all her life.

This was based in kindness, not faith. It was a fearful thing. Sometimes she woke in the middle of the night panicked at the thought she might stop one day. What a world, to place the life of even as flawed a person as a Tinkerbell in the hands of child’s ability to believe. 

Coming back, Wendy expected to miss the magic, the beauty, the feel of the wind in her unpinned hair. She expected to miss Peter, and she did. But she didn’t expect to miss the exhausting task of being the Lost Boy’s young mother.

And she didn’t miss it, not exactly. Wendy missed being useful, and she missed being listened to.

But she told her brothers stories, at night, still. She watched the light grow in their eyes and felt powerful for the first time since Neverland.

Michael came home from school crying one day. A boy on the playground had said fairies were stupid and fake.  The teachers thought it was exhaustion or the disappointed hopes of a child who still believed his big sister’s bedtime stories.  When father laughed at him at table, John hesitated for a moment and then joined in. Wendy pled an upset stomach and fled to her room.

Michael had nightmares for a week of a shining tiny person breathing their last on a Neverland forest floor.

Shaken awake in her own room, Wendy padded down the hall and creaked open his door. She gathered her smallest brother in her arms and said, “We’ll believe enough for all of them, every one. You and me, Michael, we’ll save them all.”

In the other bed John, pretending to sleep, squeezed his eyes shut. He wanted so badly to be grown.

His father had always told them true men protected people who needed it. John sat up. “I do believe in fairies,” he said, and his siblings chorused, “I do, I do.” Michael stopped crying. John started.

Wendy often asked herself why they had come back. The question surfaced over particularly tedious chores, or when her father came home drawn after a long day and picked apart her every flaw over the blandest supper Wendy’d ever tasted. But it surfaced also when she was happy, fetching sweets from the dime store, when Michael raced through the halls, hollering, an old shirt hoisted on a broom as a conquering flag.

Once, she had known how to fly. She remembered and it ached.

They tried to settle back in, all three of them, to shake lost boys and pirates from their heads. A year after leaving Neverland, Wendy’s mother asked why Wendy never brought nice girls home to play with. It took effort not to laugh. 

Wendy didn’t say, “Nice girls? Tink tried to get the Lost Boys to shoot me out of the sky, tried to blow up her own home on the off chance she might get me, too.”

She didn’t tell her, “The mermaids would have liked to drown me, too, babbling away in those dolphin sounds that Peter could understand but that just gave me shivers.”

“All I want to be is a mother,” Wendy said instead, and meant, all I want is to be of use, to have people need me as much as they did. I want someone to believe my stories as much as Peter did. 

She didn’t say, “And what could those girls offer me? I fought pirates. I touched the very stars.”

“I have all the friends I need in John and Michael,” Wendy offered. At mother’s frown, she added, “I’ll try harder.”

She joined a club against her own wishes. The club girls talked about dresses and Wendy thought about swords and crocodiles.

Wendy thought, these silly young things never heard that tick tock and shaken in their boots. They’ve never seen the stars up close.

They talked longingly of their mothers’ lipstick, of debutantes and growing up, and Wendy thought, How many fairies have you killed?

The years rolled on. Wendy fell in love with boys who needed her, who fascinated her, a long line of sharp-boned muses who forgot to eat their vegetables for weeks.

These boys only knew one kind of woman. They expected mothers, all of them, women childless or not, beautiful women with strength and graces pressed into their souls. If they had ever found Wendy crying over a thimble, they would not have known what to do with this alien fragile thing.

So they did not find her so. Wendy Darling was well versed in being the thing people needed her to be. Even to the most magical place she knew, Wendy had been brought for one reason. Peter’s boys had needed a mother.

That thought sat rancid in her stomach for days, but then she remembered: Peter had lingered at her window all those nights not because he needed soup or love or tucking in. He had loved her stories.

She had taken the wild boy, the lost bird, the starcatcher, and had stolen his breath away with words of her own making. On the other side of years and years, Wendy caught her own breath.

She started carrying a thimble in her pocket. When Wendy felt powerless, like a thing and not a person, she slipped a finger against the chill shape. It was a slip of puckered metal, an odd knick knack of women’s work. But once, Wendy had named it something else, given it power.

Boys boasted around her, of jumping fences and wrestling, of stealing kisses. Wendy thought, you think you know the power of a kiss? I once defeated death with a thimble, because I gave it a name. I believed. Words are power, and the words are mine.

One day, someone did find her crying. Wendy was in the girl’s lavatory. It had been a little thing, John snapping at her over breakfast, and then some boy in the yard saying something careless. Wendy had thought, I once knew how to fly, and suddenly everything seemed too dirty and too confining to stand. She hid in the furthest stall from the door, and cried angrily about every speck of magic she had lost in her life.

There was a light knock on the door and some wispy little thing from the club Wendy’d been calling her penance peeked in.

“My grandma died last year,” the girl said. “I was crying in the next stall over.” The girl sat up on the edge of the sink and said, “Do you want to hear a story about her?”

At the next club meeting, Wendy listened. A grinning redhead always used the past tense when she spoke of her father. Another girl, wan, flinched at loud sounds. They knew the sound of the ticking clock, these young women, some of them better than she ever had. Wendy had walked away from one beautiful world and into another. They had lost one, or many; or wished they could fly away the way she had gotten to, once.

Wendy stopped crying in bathrooms, mostly. She started checking them, quietly, and offering shoulders and stories of a magical land to the people she found there.

Wendy listened. One of the club girls was obsessed with trains, the way they take you away, the way they come back on schedule, the sound of them. Wendy asked, and she listened. A young woman whose hands folded in her lap like a wayward haystack stared out the window, entranced by a world only she could see.

Wendy thought, you’ve never seen the stars up close. She thought, maybe I can show you.

She dragged them all out one night, late, when they were out in the country for a school trip. They snuck out of their lodgings and got in terrible trouble for it, but that night the moon was missing and the sky was dusted with more blazing stars than they had ever seen, except for Wendy.

None of them but one odd duck knew the boys’ parts, but they did their best to dance there beneath them, to pretend they could catch starlight on their outstretched tongues. 

Wendy wondered what the mermaids would have said, if she had ever learned their tongue. She wondered what stories Tinkerbell could have told her. She wondered if Tiger Lily would have taught her how to dance.

She wondered why none of the women in Neverland had been able to speak to her. She wondered why she hadn’t tried. 

Michael sprouted inches and inches, his voice dropping to an alien depth. He stopped planting broomsticks tied with old red shirts on the dining room table and declaring the room claimed for Neverland.

Michael buried himself in books instead, as though that might be a way out. He started scribbling in journals, for all John teased him about it. Wendy was sure that those messy lines were not all poetry about the chin of the girl down the street, sure some of them were the adventures Michael was having still, somewhere inside. She was sure. She hoped with every ounce of herself, hoped like it was the kind of faith that makes children fly.

John buried himself in books, too, but all his joy in it was wrapped up in how they helped him win: win grades, and commendations, pats on the shoulders from their learned teachers, their father’s nod at supper. Wendy’s father had always terrified her, his hooked rage, the way he ran from meeting to appointment, pursued by the tick of the clock on his heels.

John joined debate, cricket, an honors society or two, a young businessmen’s club for boys. Wendy told him once, in a quiet moment alone, that she could hear the tick tock at his heels, too, these days.

John squeezed her hand. “Me, too, but it’s okay Wendy. C’mon, I always wanted to be a pirate.” He squeezed her hand again. “I’ll be better than he ever was, Wendy. I’ll be good.”

In their nursery room games, years ago now, John had always played Hook. Michael had played Peter.

Wendy had always been the narrator, the storyteller, the minstrel. She thought she rather liked it that way. 

Wendy grew into a young woman. She went out dancing with her friends, whispered a pretend background for every eligible young bachelor who watched them, and listened to her friends’ laughter make those stories true.

They talked about dresses over light lunches, about boys and babies, about industrialism and pollution, about Plato and Darwin, the epiphanies and practicalities of falling in love. They talked Eleanor, the wispy girl from the bathroom, through her parents’ disappointment as she pursued a life as a legal secretary. Wendy dictated stories to give Ellie something interesting to practice on.

Another friend taught Wendy how to crochet. They made piles of socks for a charity drive, meeting up in the afternoons to sit in a sunlit window and crochet and talk the light away.

Wendy ran her hands over the heaps of warm socks when they were done. She was a girl who believed in magic, and this took her breath away, how patterns and patience could lead to this, could build something so good and solid.

Wendy woke and slept, told stories, kept a thimble in her pocket, breathed.

She wondered what she was building.

No child ever grows up. They grow out. They grow down and deep, textured and heavy. They grow.

One day, decades later, Peter lighted on her old windowsill, chasing down a runaway shadow.

He thought she was her daughter. Wendy watched Jane stare up at this fey creature. Wendy could feel the weight of all the years between her daughter’s anxious gawky adolescent age and her own taller years, the backaches and the tragedy, the things her hands had built. Peter would never know them. Wendy wanted to weep as hard as she once had, at fifteen, over a thimble.

Wendy went downstairs, made a bag of sandwiches that she put in a backpack with some sturdy clothes and a pair of good shoes. Her daughter would not be going on any adventures clad only in a nightgown.

When she got back, Jane was flying. Wendy’s heart was breaking, was singing, was soaring. Peter was laughing. His shadow was watching her.  It knew more than it told and always had.

Wendy pulled her daughter back to earth. She gave Jane the backpack and said, “You be brave. You be good. Remember to talk to the mermaids. Ask them to sing to you. Tell them your stories.”  

"She wondered why none of the women in Neverland had been able to speak to her."

You know how sometimes you hear a thing and it shakes you?

Oh.  Oh, yes.  This is gorgeous.

via superwholockianlady · originally by captnshane

pixieneverland:

Peter pan quotes by Joanna Suttonpart 1/2

via cassjaytuck · originally by pixieneverland
Hot Topic is Stealing My Designs

briannacherrygarcia:

magicalribbons:

Now I know there are a lot of other Disney Inspired Bow makers out there that make their own original designs. And I also know there are bow makers out there who steal my designs. I don’t care how simple you think a design is, my designs are solely my creations. I take every thought and idea and knowledge of materials to make my designs. I do my research and figure out the perfect shape, size, and placement of materials. 

Now what has come to my attention is that Hot Topic, or whomever Hot Topic is buying the bows from, is stealing some of my designs, and others as well. Selling them as crappier, cheaper versions and slapping a Disney logo on them.

THIS IS NOT OK. They did not come up with the designs themselves. They are STEALING OUR CREATIVITY AND WORK. My work is Disney inspired, but I put no copyrighted images or logos on them, I do not try to fool my customers into thinking they are officially a Disney product.

What it appears is happening is that Hot Topic is googling “Disney hair bows”, seeing a design they like and then trying to recreate it for their own profit. They never contacted me to discuss buying my design and selling it in their own stores.. There is also a little thing called a Derivative Work which means you can not take the original design from the owner, make one or more changes and call it your own without the owner’s knowledge and express permission. 

You don’t have to get a copyright registered to make it yours. When you make it and show it to the world as something you created from your own mind, its legally yours. If you have any questions about this, google Copyrights, Derivative works and Arts and Crafts Copyrights. I have done my research on these subjects.

So now onto the designs in question.

Back in December I was shown this:

This is Hot Topic’s Little Mermaid Bow with the description online: “Alligator clasp black, white and blue hair bow - just like Ariel’s”

image

Yes it may be based off the bow Ariel wears in the movie but, this is the bow she wears:

image

Its just a simple light blue bow.

This is Magical Ribbons’s Kiss the Girl Ariel Bow, that I designed and created over 2 YEARS ago.

image

WIth my design I wanted to bring her whole dress into it, factoring shades of colors, proportions of colors, placement of colors, the shape of the bow, how I wanted the tails…. and then a little added touch of rhinestones on the corners to add some sparkle to express the magic of the moment.

That is not so simple of a design and idea, that ANYONE could just think it up off the top of their head. In fact a lot of my designs are based off necessity. What materials can I actually find in stores, what do I have on hand already so I don’t have to buy a new material. 

So now people are buying this inferiorly made by machine, stolen design, that another company is making a profit off of when it was not their idea. 

I strive to make sure that each one of my creations that I sell looks top notch and is of good quality, so that people see Magical Ribbons as a excellent original designer and shop. 

Hot Topic is practically mutilating my design. These bows are my babies, and they are stealing them from me. If I ever see one in person, I might be sick because its like the stole and sold a part of me. Something I was so proud of to say I created. And so overjoyed to see someone else enjoy, who knew and appreciated that it was a child of my brain.

On to the next thing. they have now come out with 2 more bows.

Peter Pan, and Snow White. The Snow White one is not of my design, but it belongs to another bow maker, because I have seen it before.

Hot Topic’s Peter Pan Bow

image

Magical Ribbon’s Peter Pan Inspired Bow (Created over 2 years ago):

image

As for the Peter Pan one. that is one of the most copied bows from me. And I see it all the time, and I will be taking action on those other bow makers out there who copy me. IT IS ILLEGAL what you are doing.

But Hot Topic has made a Derivative Work of my Peter Pan bow. They changed the color in one place, and have a different shade of green on the back. And no, once again its not so simple that everyone comes up with that idea first thing when they want to make a Peter Pan bow.

Let me point out one thing that the Peter Pan bow is different from then most of my bows…. The color balancing. My Peter Pan bow has a dark green background with a light green on top. But if I wanted to color proportion it correctly as to his character, then those tones of greens would be switched as it is his shirt color that comes to mind first as a Peter Pan main color. My design was specifically this: A bow version of his hat (so thats why its a darker green background) with the feather, but with the rest of his color scheme put in there too. That is why it is backwards with the color scheme. I also chose the shape for a reason, because its a more masculine shape, because Peter is a boy. 

These are all the things I think about when creating a bow. I get told so often that I cannot take ownership because its too simple. There are companies out there who take ownership of a certain COLOR hue. 

So the thing that may be on your mind next is, well Magical Ribbon’s wait is so long, or they are too expensive for me that I am going to go buy a knock off. That does not make it right. It is EXACTLY like buying a knock off purse, or jeans, or shoes. My prices are what they are for a reason, just because someone else can make it cheaper and faster does not mean I can. What you get from me is quality and service, and the handmade care of the design and product.

And many people do understand this, and this is why the wait for my products can get long. Its an everlasting battle to try to get my service even better for the customer, but there are restrictions on what I can do.

There are so many individual artists and small businesses starting everyday thanks to the internet, but the internet is not a free for all to take what you want and do what you want with it. More and more I hear about large companies stealing the individual’s designs, or their fan art. In todays culture you can see how much the entertainment industry inspires our lives, with conventions, fan art, cosplay, fanfiction, homemade music and videos based off of those movies, shows, books, etc. And then arts and crafts as well. Unknowns have gotten paid by the company to use their drawing or whatever they were inspired to make. But the company itself did not think up that idea or design on their own, someone else did, and they deserve proper payment for that design. 

So please do not buy these bows from Hot Topic, please spread the word. Do not let corporate companies who steal individual artist’s designs get away with it just because they are big. But I urge as well, don’t go into the stores and complain to the employees about it, they cannot do anything and it would be mean to yell at them about the issue.

I thank you for your support on this issue, it makes a big deal to how well my business does.

Signal boost.

via briannacherrygarcia · originally by magicalribbons

OUAT AU ♔ Chloe Moretz as fem!Peter and Katie McGrath as fem!hook"Ahoy, Captain! I feel like I should warn you that adults aren’t welcome in Neverland.""Is that so? It’s a good thing I don’t take orders from little girls then.""I’m no little girl. I’m the Queen of Neverland and this is MY island. Everything on Neverland is under my control, and that now includes you, pirate."
OUAT AU ♔ Chloe Moretz as fem!Peter and Katie McGrath as fem!hook
"Ahoy, Captain! I feel like I should warn you that adults aren’t welcome in Neverland."
"Is that so? It’s a good thing I don’t take orders from little girls then."
"I’m no little girl. I’m the Queen of Neverland and this is MY island. Everything on Neverland is under my control, and that now includes you, pirate."

via superwholockianlady · originally by hookfire

oh, the cleverness of me; an instrumental fanmix about the boy who refused to grow up to the point that it drove him insane.

listen | download

"neverland is a place for children to visit in their dreams, not a place for them to live. you were the first to try and stay."

via sixbluemarbles · originally by ladylannster
via southerncalcosette · originally by bellecs