things that 15 year old me did sophomore year that my southern-bred god-fearing conservative christian teachers Did Not Like
teacher refused to let me sit backwards in chairs. i made a point to sit backwards in chairs until she told me to stop, and then id manspread as much as possible. (semester one.)
teacher got onto my friend and gave her a panic attack over her newly dyed hair. i told her my friend putting red streaks in her hair was no different than her removing the grey streaks from her hair. got sent outside. (semester one)
teacher told me my bra strap was showing. took my bra off in class and put it in bag. was sent to principal’s office. mother was called, although she only muffled her laughter over the telephone. (semester two)
[to homophobic teacher who disliked my mothers] “what language is gaelic from? gayland?” “that’s where my moms are from, ma’am.”
teacher claimed i was lying about moving to uruguay and tried to force me into sitting in a personal meeting about my future classes and goals. told her to “sign me the fuck up for underwater basket weaving” and got sent outside. (semester two)
was told by teacher that “ladies should not say they have to pee. try ‘can i use the restroom’ instead” replied with “alright. i gotta piss like a racehorse. can i use the restroom?“ (got sent outside. again. semester two)
was told to “smile, you’ll look nicer” by a 6′0″ male coach i did not know. when he blocked my entrance out of the classroom until i smiled for him, i said “shove it straight up your ass,” before elbowing him in the ribcage, ducking under his arm, and running for it. skipped class in that building for a week. (semester two)
hopped a fence to catch my bus and flipped off an ancient male history teacher when he shouted at me to come back. he threatened to find me again. he never found me.
“Teacher told me my bra strap was showing. took my bra off in class and put it in bag.”
Oh my god that sounds amazing!! This is great haha
I really want a science fiction story where aliens come to invade earth and effortlessly wipe out humanity, only to be fought off by the wildlife.
They were expecting military resistance. They weren’t counting on bears.
Imagine coming to a hostile alien world and being attacked by a horde of creatures that can weigh up to 3 tons, run at 30 km/h (19 mph), and bite with a force of 8,100 newtons (1,800 lbf).
By the time you realise that they can traverse water, it’s too late. The surviving members of your unit manage to make it back by shedding their excess gear and running for their lives; the slower ones were crushed to death within minutes.
You later describe the creature to one of the humans you captured, wanting to know the name of the monstrosity that will haunt your nightmares for cycles to come.
The human smiles as it speaks a single word, slowly and distinctly, in its barbaric tongue.
“Hippopotamus.”
This is giving me the biggest, creepiest grin I might have ever grinned
Imagine being the next crew to go down to earth and thinking “it’s fine, we got this. We have the weapons and equipment necessary to deal with bears and *shudders* hippopotamuses. We’ll be fine.”
And at first you are, you’ve learned how to dodge. You’ve learned where their territories are. You know how to defend yourself.
But then one night you are sleeping in your shelter. You’re in a tree covered temperate part of earth. It seems benign. There are been no sightings of the dreaded “hippos” around. Not even any bears. But there is a slight rustle of the undergrowth. You try and ignore it telling yourself it is just the wind.
Then you hear the rustle again. closer this time.
You peer out into the darkness but see nothing amongst the trees.
The rustle again and now you realise you can smell something. It’s musky and slightly foul. It’s the smell of an omen, a warning. But what of? Where is this smell coming from.
You sit up, but it’s too late. The foul smelling creature is on you. You are hit with 17kg of coarse fur and vicious bites. Long dark claws tear in to you and you are pinned down white the striped creature tries to bite your throat.
It takes some doing but you manage to wrestle free. Blood drips from your wounds and already they itch with the sign of infection. The creature has a bloodied snout, rust rad, mingling with the black and white hairs. It lets out a terrifying growl from the back of its throat and looks to attack again. It’s between you and your knife, so your only choice is to back away.
Eventually the creature gives up and snuffles off in to the undergrowth, down a hole near your shelter you hadn’t noticed before.
When you make it back to your base you once again consult the captive human.
“Badger.” they say, with a solemn nod.
One word: Moose
“Our vehicles are far superior to the local human models, in range, speed, armament, and any other metric you care to name! Nothing could possibly-”
BAMrumblerumblethumpcrash!!!
“That’s called a moose.”
Wolverines.
Also.. dolphins.
The invasion is going slowly. The humans have caught on and are actively destroying information on the planet’s flora and fauna before Intelligence can capture and process it. All that they have are survivors’ accounts. Bears. Hippos. Badgers. Moose. It is becoming obvious this mudball planet is a full-on Death World to the unprepared, and you are so very unprepared.
You lost Jaxurn to a plant. Not even a mobile or carnivorous plant, just one that caused a vicious allergic reaction on contact that killed him in less than a rai'kor. Commander Vura'ko died to an insect bite, a tiny local pest that sucked a tiny bit of her blood and apparently replaced it with a bit of its last meal, which was full of disease. Backwash. She died to bug backwash. And yet you honestly envy them after that… thing you encountered…
When you got back to base the quarantine officer refused to let you inside. They had to roll a containment tank outside to put you in, because you all knew there would be no chance of eliminating the smell if it got into the ship’s air ducts. Smell. You wonder if your nasal slit will ever recover from this stench.
And the smell would. Not. Leave. After incinerating your gear the Q.O. had you use every cleansing agent they could think of, including a few janitorial ones, and still everyone fled the stench if they were downwind of your tank. Desperate to protect everyone’s nasal slits from the smell the quarantine officer interrogated the humans. From them, a glimmer of hope: there was a cure. Somehow the juice of a certain fruit on this mudball was the only thing that could break up the chemicals in the little horror’s spray. Immediately the Q.O. sent a team to recover buckets of the stuff and made you bathe in it. That was hours ago and it didn’t seem to be working, though. All it was doing was turning your blue skin an interesting shade of purple.
Sighing in frustration you wave the med-assist on duty over, who only approaches after checking the wind direction. Annoyed, you flip on the tank`s vox speaker.
“The humans did say it was “grape” juice that removed “skunk” stench, right?“
Every night.
It came for someone almost every night.
Any soldier alone was a viable target for this native monster that moved unseen by any but the security viewers, usually only spotted in hindsight. They were taken as silently as this earth-monster moved. Sometimes they’d find the remains in the morning taken up a tree and hung there, mostly eaten, as if it were a grisly reminder that the monster was still there, waiting unseen, to strike again.
What little they saw of the monster on the vidfeed showed true horror. Yellow eyes that shone with all the light it could gather. It had fangs as long as his grasping digits. Claws half that size formed curved hooks that allowed it to climb up their fortifications with impunity. And in the underbrush, its spots made it almost impossible to see clearly in the undergrowth, if it could be seen at all.
Even the native sentients, the humans, had a healthy respect and fear for it.
The earth natives called the monster a leopard.
It was a constant fear that muddied the senses, and let the monster hunt even more effectively as the soldiers were always on edge. Sleep deprived with fear, it made them even better targets for the monster.
But rumor was that there was worse on this planet. Rumors of a monster like a leopard but larger, and bigger in every imaginable sense. Stripped instead of spotted, which leaped from the underbrush with a sound.
A sound that burst eardrums, paralyzed entire units, and let the monster kill with impunity. While the Leopard wrestled soldiers down and ripped their throats out. This other monster, the Tiger, killed with its pounce alone.
“We’ve been through this,” Group Leader 455 snapped. “The dissection of an Earth life form will help the scientists make weapons to combat the rest of this planet’s hellbeasts. And these are domesticated. Harmless.”
The troops were not-quite-looking at her in the way troops do when they don’t want to be seen to contradict a ranking officer, but can’t quite muster a correct Expression of Enthusiastic Assent. “The name of this species,” she pointed out, “is synonymous with dullness and slowness in the language of the Earth barbarians.” Well, one language out of several thousand—these creatures needed Imperial guidance more than any other world on record—but there was no point in confusing the rank and file.
More not-quite-looking. 455 bubbled a sigh and consulted her scanner. “That one,” she decided. “Alone in the separate pasture. Scans suggest that it’s a male, which means it’s probably weaker. Possibly it’s kept isolated so that the females don’t eat it before mating season. And yes, I know some of you are here on punishment detail, but you’re still soldiers of the Imperium. This squad is perfectly capable of handling a lone, helpless, pathetic male cow.”
I’m enjoying this immensely. Wait until the aliens try Australia for size…
I have one word, which I would speak with utter pleasure to invading alien forces.
i think about the fact that eliot’s counterpart for the “anti leverage” team was a woman a lot. and by eliot’s counterpart, i mean their team’s brute. their hitter. the one who beats up and attacks anyone who threatens the team’s plan. and eliot isn’t like “oh she’s a woman” even tho hardison was like “u weren’t gonna hit a girl.” and he was like “she killed a man with a mop.” he was scared of her. he respected her. he never once thought he could get the upper hand just because she was a woman.
The real tragedy about the barricade is that we don’t know how much is true. Victor Hugo was there at the June Rebellion, so what is fact and what is fiction? That question gives me chills because we’ll never know.
Charles Jeanne (who I think is probably actual real life Enjolras) wrote an in-detail account of the ACTUAL barricades in a letter to his sister after the fact
I’m so glad somebody asked this, because the answer is: when they finally ran out of ammunition, Charles Jeanne rounded up everyone who was still standing, went, “look, if we’re going to die, we might as well die fighting,” and led a suicidal ten-man charge against an entire flippin’ infantry column, armed with nothing but bayonets. The first few ranks of soldiers were so unprepared for such a spectacularly insane attack that they were too surprised to shoot. They crossed bayonets and tried to hold the insurgents off in hand-to-hand combat, but Jeanne’s swordsmanship was apparently aces, because he held off a bunch of them at once and covered his friends as they tried to breach the ranks. And once they were in, nobody could shoot them for fear of taking out their own guys.
So the last stand that the insurgents had intended as a noble suicide ended in them breaking through the ranks entirely and winding up in the next street over, outside the combat zone, going “well shit, what do we do now?” (I’m guessing the infantry column wasn’t very deep; central Paris at that point was a rabbit warren of narrow twisty streets, and assembling troops en masse for an organized attack was a logistical nightmare.) Unlike the National Guard, the army weren’t total chumps and got themselves turned around to give chase and start shooting once they weren’t at risk of friendly fire any longer… and that’s when all the civilians holed up in their houses went “no way, you’re not getting your hands on these crazy bastards” and started hurling furniture and crockery down on the soldiers’ heads. Jeanne was understandably distracted at the time, but afterwards somebody informed him that the barrage of unlikely projectiles included a piano. A piano. That is some straight-up Looney Tunes slapstick right there. No wonder Hugo went for the heroic death scene instead; if he’d stuck to real life, he probably would’ve gotten complaints that he’d wrecked his readers’ suspension of disbelief.
Anyway, someone opened an alley gate for them to shelter in and take stock of the casualties—most of them survived(!!!), but a few were pretty nastily wounded. Their host then had to lock Charles Jeanne in to keep him from charging right back out and taking on the whole goddamn army singlehanded. He probably would’ve broken down the door if the poor man hadn’t pointed out that going back out would give away his wounded comrades’ hiding place and the identities of the people sheltering them. They sat there listening to the gunfire gradually slow and go silent, and then in the middle of the night the ones who could still walk were allowed to slip away one by one at long intervals from each other. Charles Jeanne went straight home, slept like the dead for a few hours, was woken up at five in the morning with a warning that he’d been denounced and the building was surrounded, and then slipped out in disguise and managed to evade the police for four months before a former comrade ratted him out and he was arrested.
And this, ladies and gentlemen, is why Charles Jeanne’s letter is an absolute treasure that deserves to be available to anyone in Les Mis fandom who wants to read it. Incidentally, “how Actual Historical Enjolras survived the barricades by being too good at his suicide mission” is also one of the stories I tell when anyone asks me what the hell is so interesting about researching people nobody’s ever heard of from an obscure chapter of French history.
#charles jeanne#what a BAMF#and then he managed to derail the whole trial with impassioned noble speeches and dramatic gestures worthy of a Hugo play#while visibly dying of consumption#seriously how was this dude even real#saint merry#june rebellion#à cinq heures nous serons tous morts#1832#history geeking ahoy
If you’re adopted internationally into the United States, BY adoption LAWS you’re legally a citizen, but you still have to apply for documentation and if it’s not done by the age of 18 you have to pay over $500 and get a judge to reopen your adoption case.
Even More Fun Fact: No one actually tells adoptive families, this so many find out after they’re 18 when their kid needs to get a passport, wants to apply for financial aid, get certain jobs, vote or some other shit that requires proof of citizenship and now it’s too late because they’re 18 or over.
AND EVEN MORE FUN FACT! You can sometimes even be deported because you can be considered foreign-born, non-citizens!
Oh and they won’t accept adoption papers or a birth certificate as proof.
Do it now! Seriously. Even if you think you are safe. Do it.
Many people are finding that even a birth certificate is not valid proof anymore. Texas birth certificates are notorious. So notorious that I have 3 friends who can’t use them to get passports! Don’t think everything is hunky dory. You must nail down your citizenship.
Plus the cost for your citizenship certificate is almost doubling this fall.
SIGNAL BOOST.
Some Naturalization/Citizenship Certificate tips from me, the person who front-end processes these forms for half the country: the passport people are absolute garbage at sending your Naturalization Certificate back to you. Unfortunately, they also require it for you to get a passport. If you don’t get it back, whine at them about it and they will probably cover the cost of the replacement.
Also! It takes up to 12 months to get a replacement certificate. If you urgently need your Natz Cert to visit your dying relative in another country, the word you want to use is ‘Expedite’. Not ‘ASAP’. Not ‘rush’. Expedite. Write a letter explaining why you need it expedited, if you do. Otherwise the USCIS data-entry grunts (me!) aren’t allowed to throw it into the expedite line and it gets relegated to the Backlog Crypts.
Also! You need to get a new Naturalization Certificate if your name and/or gender legally changes, because a lot of places want your proof of citizenship for things like Social Security and student loans and Medicaid/EBT/welfare benefits and drivers’ licenses.
ALSO ALSO both the N600 ($600) that you use to apply for your Naturalization Certificate in the first place and N565 ($345) that you use to apply for a replacement certificate are eligible for FEE WAIVERS. It’s called an I912. Learn it, love it, use it.
Please for your sake make sure you are using the current version of the form. The most common reason I have to reject an N565 is because someone sent me something that expired in 2013. The current one is seven pages long. Please send the government all seven of them.
okay do me a favor and reblog this with your favorite song in the tags that’s really…soft. like, i’m talking “first day of my life” by bright eyes, “falling in love at a coffee shop” by landon pigg kind of stuff. i wanna make a playlist
She’d get to know each individual senator as a person, find some area where they weren’t shitty human beings, and talk them across party lines.
Her partnerships were deemed so successful … that Karl Rove, according to a source close to him, sent word last year to halt Republican cooperation with her—an edict that has been ignored.
As the atmosphere in Washington has deteriorated, Clinton has emerged within the Senate as the unlikeliest of figures: she, not George W. Bush, has turned out to be a uniter, not a divider.
She walks softly but carries the biggest sticks. This is going to be great”
Why I would pull my hair in frustration every time a Bernie voter pointed out that she was friendly with or supported by a bigot or republican. You do realize that Republicans are basically your -coworkers- when you’re in the senate, right?
That leaders of bigoted special interest groups have an impact on our country whether someone meets with them & tries to reel them in or just leaves them to their own hateful devices.
Hillary Clinton would AT LEAST meet up with these people to let them know she had her eye on them, and at most to get them to do the most progressive thing they were capable of.
people who complain about dinosaurs “not being scary anymore” because its been discovered they have feathers and are closely related to/ancestors of birds are so bizarre like
its not about how scary they are, they are/were real life animals and what matters is learning more about them, not how well they fit into your science fiction horror film lol
can you imagine a 13 foot chicken running at you with full intent to eat you??? thats fucking terrifying holy shit
peacocks are synonymous with vain, frivolous beauty and they will attack cars. they will attack you while you try to get to your car. they’re like six feet of useless feathers and they will destroy you. imagine if they were carnivorous and had functional spurs.
a t-rex could look like a gay disco ball and i guarantee that you would fucking book it if it had a problem with you
listen
listen
have you ever met a swan
if anything the birdier they get the scarier they are
Australia literally fought a war against giant birds AND FUCKING LOST
With the casting of Zendaya as Mary-Jane Watson in the upcoming Spider-Man film, I’ve noticed some tension and controversy surrounding this topic, and I just want you all to know…
WE COMIN FOR ALL YOUR REDHEADS!
WE TOOK MARY JANE
WE TOOK IRIS WEST
WE TOOK WALLY WEST
WE TOOK JIMMY OLSEN
WE COMIN FOR JEAN GREY NEXT
WE’LL MAKE BLACK WIDOW A MUTHAFUCKIN BLACK WIDOW
All right hear me out here, this is coming from a DEVOTED X-men geek: Please do a POC Jean Grey. South Indian Jean Grey. Nigerian Jean Grey. Latina Jean Grey. YO YOU KNOW WHAT I COULD GET BEHIND? MOTHERFUCKING IRANIAN JEAN GREY OR SOMETHING FROM THAT AREA, YES OR YES.
I mean the others are good too but I love Jean, I am obsessed and I can think of like five AMAZING actresses I would love to see crush it as Jean Grey.
when someone breaks into your house it is not your fault
I don’t care if your house had alcohol in it
I don’t care if your doors were unlocked
I don’t care if you had a welcome mat outfront
I don’t care if you were having a party
I don’t care if you weren’t even home
I don’t care if you had beautiful short shutters on the outside
If someone enters your house without your permission it is not your fault
when someone breaks into your real house the police don’t say “your curtains provoked the intruder”
They don’t say “well you had a welcome mat outfront so I can see why the intruder decided to come in. I think you were asking for it.”
They don’t say that. Because a house break in is never your fault.
Nobody is allowed to enter your house without your permission.
I don’t care what color your house is
Or where your house is located
Or whose been in your house before
If you’re not letting them in, they don’t get to force their way in
It is Your house. your house belongs to you.
It is not your fault.
Don’t do that to yourself. Yes, You can take steps and set up different systems to do what you can to prevent another break in but ultimately you can only control so much. no matter what, if someone breaks into your house it is not your fault. Period.
**** I wish lawyers all over the world would use this analogy in rape cases so the jury and spectators can get a real glimpse and have some sort of earthly idea what an invasion of your body is like. to take them mentally to their safe place, their home, and describe an invasion of their house and then have someone try to make up some excuse as to why it’s their fault. They would be appalled.
The same goes for your body. the same goes for every human out there. an invasion isn’t your fault. Rape isn’t your fault. Sexual assault isn’t your fault. incest isn’t your fault. none of it is your fault!! Ever!!! So don’t let anyone tell you it is.
because it’s your house, Not Theirs!
Your house belongs to you!
YOUR body is YOUR house!
It feels like it’s been forever since I wrote this. It was almost 3 in the morning 2 years ago, and my heart was crying. my soul was broken. And my peace of mind was shattered. This was the only way to explain how I felt. Every now and then I still need this reminder. And that’s ok.
“You will suffer. But you will survive. And that’s what makes all the difference.”
For some of the boys out there who are feeling insecure about their bodies, I want you to look at some Olympic athletes:
Mo Farah, 10000m gold medal winner. He’s quite small and doesn’t have huge muscles. But he’s still a champion
Lasha Talakhadze, weightlifting gold medal winner. He’s not skinny; he clearly has body fat and a rounded face. But he’s still a champion
Kōhei Uchimura, gymnastics gold medal winner. He’s muscular, but is only 1.61m tall (5ft 3″). But he’s still a champion
So what I’m trying to say is that men and boys are often given expectations to be muscular, thin and tall - the diversity in male Olympics athletes shows that you absolutely do not need to be all/any of those things to be valid. You and your body are valid no matter what.
Look at me. Look me in the eye. On November the 8th, 2016, one of two things will happen: Hillary Clinton will become president, or Donald Trump will become president. These are the only two possibilities. The superdelegates aren’t going to switch. An indictment isn’t coming. There is no third possibility. There is no space between the spaces where you can hide. Every vote for Donald Trump requires two Hilary Clinton votes to overcome. A Hillary Clinton vote can only be overcome by two Donald Trump votes. If you stay home, a Donald Trump vote doubles its power. This is the real, actual reality of the situation. There is not one other option.
And there’s no ctrl-alt-del for the election. Read up on 2000 if you doubt this.
And to those of us who supported Bernie, he WANTS you to vote for Hillary. If you believe in him and his mission you will follow his advice. He knows that writing his name in, or voting for anyone else besides Clinton, is effectively voting for Trump.
Refusing to vote for Hillary is a vote for Trump, no matter how much you scream and say how it’s not. And if you’re standing by to do nothing in regards to taking down Trump, then you ARE grouped along with the rest of the people in this country that ruin things for everybody else.
No, seriously, go read about the presidential election in 2000.
If you weren’t old enough to remember and/or understand the ramifications of the 2000 election, I WILL TELL YOU.
Do not let Trump win. Please. I beg you. I went to grad school with people who voted for Nader in 2000 and my FB feed is full of them begging others not to make the same mistake they did. Bernie has his priorities straight, and the priority is stopping Trump.
And if that doesn’t do it for you, this is the Republican platform 2016. It calls for:
Conversion therapy for queer kids.Let me repeat that. CONVERSION THERAPY FOR QUEER KIDS. Some members of the RNC even wanted to endorse it more explicitly than they did.
When Zev Shofar, a 14-year-old from Takoma Park, started going to Jewish summer camp seven years ago, the children all learned the Hebrew words to introduce themselves. “Chanich” means a male camper; “chanichah” means a female camper.
But what if Zev didn’t feel male or female — neither a chanich nor a chanichah?
Zev’s camp didn’t have a word that worked for Zev. In fact, the Hebrew language doesn’t have any words. Like many other languages — Spanish, French and Russian, for example — Hebrew assigns each noun a gender.
In Israel, or anywhere else that Hebrew is spoken, there’s no linguistic solution, either. But now there is at camp. Zev is a chanichol.
The seven Habonim Dror camps, spread across North America, are pioneering a new gender-neutral form of Hebrew this summer. They hope to set an example that Hebrew-speakers worldwide might someday follow.
…
Those cheers have had to be rewritten this summer to fit the new gender-neutral Hebrew. Plural masculine nouns in Hebrew — including any group of people that includes at least one man — typically end in im, while feminine nouns end in ot. At Camp Moshava, all groups of both boys and girls now end in a blend: imot.
…
In Israel, some LGBT communities have adopted the –imot plural, but few seem to have decided on a non-binary singular.
…
So Habonim Dror decided on its own that –ol would be its singular non-binary ending, based on the word kol, which means “all.”
i want spock to give someone the vulcan salute and have that person misunderstand and give him a jubilous high five and spock just stares at his hand in confusion as an awkward silence ensues
What if that’s part of the basic sexual harassment training Starfleet gives at the academy like “do not highfive the Vulcans. Don’t do it. They look like they want highfives. They do not want highfives.”
the professor looking directly at student!kirk like “are you listening to this lecture today sir? because you strike me as the person who is going to need to remember this”
To the followers who don’t say much: having you there still means a lot. Even if you never send in an ask or anything, I don’t care. I appreciate that you still follow me anyways. And it’s nice to see you there liking and reblogging my stuff.
To the followers who buzz like bees: When you reblog 17 of my posts or send my multiple asks in a row, you aren’t being irritating. You’re making me feel like I’m doing something right as a blogger. Thank you.
To the shy anons: I don’t know if you follow me or not, but regardless of why you sent in that ask, I’m just happy to be hearing from you. You aren’t a bother. You make me feel awesome.
To all of my followers whoever you are: Thank you for hitting that button. Thank you for sticking with me. If you ever need a shoulder to cry on or someone to celebrate with you, I’m here for you! If you ever need something explained, I’ll answer as best I can.
After cosette introduced her dad to them les amis de l'abc accepted jean valjean as their dad weirdly fast and as did valjean like over the course of a week Jean Valjean had unexpectedly adopted 11 college students and 1 ten year old and they all look up to him as a fatherly figure and randomly call him for advice and he is pretty sure that over half of them have him as their emergency contact now. Sometimes the call him and give him life updates like enjolras excitedly calling him one night: “GRANTAIRE ASKED ME OUT TO GET COFFEE TOMORROW!!! Wait what am i supposed to do?” Then proceeded to slightly panic while valjean gave him dating advice and told him to be himself (yesterday grantaire had called him for advice on how to ask out enjolras) and every time they tell him about one of their latest achievements in life he gets this swell of pride in his heart.
He goes to gavroches soccer/football games, grantaires art shows, courfeyracs plays or musicals, every protest he can go to, and every big event that matters to them because even though they arent actually his kids they practically are at this point
I just wanna take a vote, how many fanfic authors would actually enjoy someone live blogging their fics?
what kind of question is this I would COMMIT CRIMES for this.
SAME AF
That sounds like literally the most validating and amazing experience ever. Like I am legit going to start doing this in fic comments for people because holy shit.
Okay, so he’s got a girly face, and he wears tights and some high boots. Sure.
But check out that noble steed. That’s one ready-to-kick-ass-and-take-names steed.
While other princesses just run away and leave nothing, Philip gets AN INVITE TO HER HOUSE. He gets a song, a dance, and a first date.
He comes home, just to tell his dad he’s not going to marry the princess because he’s in love.
No. Other. Reason. He rides in and is just like, “I met the girl I’m going to marry. Now I’ve got a birthday party to be at. Bye Dad.”
Now how much do you think his dad weighs? That short fat little man? Probably pretty heavy.Not a problem for Prince Philip.
And then he gets jumped by goblins, both hands tied behind his back
But that’s not enough to stop Prince Philip.Oh no.
He breaks his hands free and starts chuckinggoblins.
Look at that face. That face. The “BITCH JUST YOU WAIT” face. He may be tied down by a dozen goblins but he’s not gonna take no shit from this witch.
In fact, he’s so strong, she ends up keeping him chained to the wall, but he still fights back.
Now when he finally does get free–
He’s ready to go into battle UNARMED. He don’t need no shield or sword, he’s going to go punch Maleficent’s face in with his fist. If Flora didn’t stop him, he probably would have, too.
Backed up against a cliff edge, nowhere to go. Fighting off goblins. But there’s so many and just one Philip.
NBD I’LL JUST JUMP AND SLIDE DOWN THE ROCK PILE IN MY SKIN-TIGHT TIGHTS.
Gate closing?
who gives a fuck? certainly not prince philip.
Lighting hitting rocks around me?
NBD BRO
Giant forest of thorns?
Bitch, get out of my way. I’ve got a princess to save.
I’ll never not be amused by the fact that I can drop the words “crucifix nail nipples” into a conversation and some of you who have been with me since the livejournal days will join me in the flashbacks, screaming and crying all the way.
I require context. Because this is a very interesting start of a story, and now I need the rest of it. Could I get a link, or a summary, or something? Pretty please?
All right buckle the fuck up kids, it’s the year 2012 and I’ve just been handed what should be an easy editing gig by my senior editor. It’s a vampire erotica story because one of the final Twilight movies is about to come out, and everything is vampires. Everything. I haven’t edited a single thing in months which isn’t about vampires. I am ready, I can do this. So I open the file and notice there’s a typo in the title, which really should have been my first inkling that something horrendous was about to go down, but you see I’m not quite dead inside yet so I carry on, bushy tailed and bright eyed with my faith in humanity intact. It’ll be dead by page 24, but I don’t know that yet. I’m just editing one more vampire boner fest.
The MC is a girl who we’ll call Sue. Sue is a Good Girl™, Sue is Not Like Other Girls™, she is pale and awkward and a virgin and has somehow managed to find herself a Bad Boy™ for a boyfriend. We’ll call him Dickhead.
Now Dickhead as previously stated is a bit of dick, he tries to pressure Sue into sex because he knows she is The One™ but he loves her really so it’s okay. Except it’s not okay because Sue is a Good Girl™ and holding out till marriage which he’s fine with except he’s got such a bad case of blue balls that one night walking home an attractive stranger lures him into an alley with the words “hey stud” and he follows, dick out before she’s even finished her sentence. Well turns out that was a mistake for Dickhead because she’s a vampire, but not just any vampire, a Dick Biting Vampire. So what started out as a skeevy blow job behind a club that he’ll feel bad about in the morning, turns into him being bitten on the dick and drained of his life essence and left for dead. Except DBV fucked up and now he’s a vampire. Are you still with me? Good, cause it’s about to get weirder.
Realizing he is now an abomination, Dickhead flees, becoming a creature of the night and feeding on animals rather than humans to repent for being such an asshole in life. Sue meanwhile is heartbroken, but carries on valiantly with her life and goes to bed each night crying for the loss of her One True Love™ who she would do anything to bring back. Well guess what Sue, Dickhead never really left you! He’s been “instinctively protecting her from rapists” by hiding out on her roof and fighting hobos who try to get to her open window via the fire escape for months now. Because that’s not fucking terrifying at all.
Upon learning of his predicament and how it happened, Sue can do nothing but blame herself. Oh if only she’d let him touch her secret places, then perhaps all of this could be avoided! Meanwhile Dickhead is having another dilemma of his own, realizing too late that his vampire powers have given him super senses and now he can smell her blood and he can’t decide whether he wants to get with her or eat her. And I don’t mean in the French sense. But he is strong! And over comes his base manly vampire instincts and neither rapes not kills her. Hurrah! And this is so romantic that Sue gives it up, but not before she launches into a theory about how in all fairy tales, True Love saves the day, so maybe her magical pure vagina that has never been touched by anyone, not even her, can bring him back to life. So Dickhead being a dickhead agrees and rips her clothes off, but not before he takes one last moment to marvel at the beauty of her purity, because he will never again look on her again and know she is Pure.
If you’ve only vomited once by now, I applaud your resolve.
So they hop on the good foot and do the nasty, except she is literally so pure in spirit, her flesh burns his. And I quote you from memory because these words are burned into my soul: “her breasts bit into his hands, like crucifix nail nipples tearing at
his flesh, but he did not care because he loved her so and couldn’t
stop”
This phrase haunts me. I dread that it will be the last thing I think about on my death bed and my last words will literally be “god fucking dammit” as I die, carrying that mental image with me into the afterlife. My own solace is in knowing that I inflicted it on other people too, like @ahzuri who is somehow still with me after all these years.
When the magical burning sex fails to heal him and leaves her bruised, battered and broken with “a dainty blue bells of bruises around her secret flower” (I am genuinely quoting this, I could never make something as horrendous as this up without being on acid) Dickhead leaves. Yeah. Off he fucks, leaving her to the mercy of the hobos at her window, and into the night to be the true monster he really is. But wait, there’s more. Remember the dick biting vampire? Well turns out she has figured out she made him into a vampire and has also been stalking HIM and is totally jealous of Sue, so tries to kill her. But again Sues Purity saves her, because sex before marriage which was done out of True Love is not a sin, so she is still a spiritual virgin and I’ll be honest, I started drinking heavily at this point and it’s all a bit of a blur.
A fight ensues some pages later after Dickhead returns, realizing the mistake he has made. And he rescues Sue from the Dick Biter, but not before he assaults Dick Biter, and calls her a slut for luring innocent men into alleys cuts her heart out by cutting her breasts off, at which point i screamed “THAT’S NOT HOW YOU REACH THE HEART” and my brain short circuited completely and I have no idea how it ends because I realized there was 30 pages left and my soul couldn’t take it. I emailed the chief editor like ?????!!!!!!????!!!!!! and the book was immediately pulled from the work line and the author dismissed from the publishing house. Turns out she was a friend of a friend and that was how she got the manuscript past our entry levels for requirement.
And that’s the story of how an author sent me death threats for over a month because I stopped her shitty vampire porn from ever seeing the light of day. You’re all fucking WELCOME.
Sorry to bring this searing back into your lives fam, but I feel it’s worth noting that people are tagging this as an “ancient relic” of tumblr text posts and how they’re so happy they see this every year and like guys, I hate to tell you this, but uh, this post is only six months old. I posted in on March 3rd 2016.
It only seems like years because every time you see it you age five years.
I really want a science fiction story where aliens come to invade earth and effortlessly wipe out humanity, only to be fought off by the wildlife.
They were expecting military resistance. They weren’t counting on bears.
Imagine coming to a hostile alien world and being attacked by a horde of creatures that can weigh up to 3 tons, run at 30 km/h (19 mph), and bite with a force of 8,100 newtons (1,800 lbf).
By the time you realise that they can traverse water, it’s too late. The surviving members of your unit manage to make it back by shedding their excess gear and running for their lives; the slower ones were crushed to death within minutes.
You later describe the creature to one of the humans you captured, wanting to know the name of the monstrosity that will haunt your nightmares for cycles to come.
The human smiles as it speaks a single word, slowly and distinctly, in its barbaric tongue.
“Hippopotamus.”
This is giving me the biggest, creepiest grin I might have ever grinned
Imagine being the next crew to go down to earth and thinking “it’s fine, we got this. We have the weapons and equipment necessary to deal with bears and *shudders* hippopotamuses. We’ll be fine.”
And at first you are, you’ve learned how to dodge. You’ve learned where their territories are. You know how to defend yourself.
But then one night you are sleeping in your shelter. You’re in a tree covered temperate part of earth. It seems benign. There are been no sightings of the dreaded “hippos” around. Not even any bears. But there is a slight rustle of the undergrowth. You try and ignore it telling yourself it is just the wind.
Then you hear the rustle again. closer this time.
You peer out into the darkness but see nothing amongst the trees.
The rustle again and now you realise you can smell something. It’s musky and slightly foul. It’s the smell of an omen, a warning. But what of? Where is this smell coming from.
You sit up, but it’s too late. The foul smelling creature is on you. You are hit with 17kg of coarse fur and vicious bites. Long dark claws tear in to you and you are pinned down white the striped creature tries to bite your throat.
It takes some doing but you manage to wrestle free. Blood drips from your wounds and already they itch with the sign of infection. The creature has a bloodied snout, rust rad, mingling with the black and white hairs. It lets out a terrifying growl from the back of its throat and looks to attack again. It’s between you and your knife, so your only choice is to back away.
Eventually the creature gives up and snuffles off in to the undergrowth, down a hole near your shelter you hadn’t noticed before.
When you make it back to your base you once again consult the captive human.
“Badger.” they say, with a solemn nod.
One word: Moose
“Our vehicles are far superior to the local human models, in range, speed, armament, and any other metric you care to name! Nothing could possibly-”
BAMrumblerumblethumpcrash!!!
“That’s called a moose.”
“We should be free of the threat of the ‘moose’ here on our new floating accommodation”
*humans start sniggering*
“… they can swim, can’t they”
*humans start laughing louder*
….
*mid-winter*
‘I DON’T KNOW WHAT HAPPENED! K’T'SURKIK WENT OUTSIDE AND A MOUND OF SNOW ROSE UP AND ATE HIM’
“What is this ‘wolverine’ you speak of?”
Tell me the story of the unpleasantly surprised alien invaders and their captive human remnant, getting more smug the more the aliens fail at basic scouting…
I know we’re all talking the big smash-‘em-up type animals, but what about the little ones? Are aliens prepared for spiders? Mosquitoes? Fleas? Ticks? Even humans get sick or die from some of those, who knows what the fuck they’d do to an unprepared alien.
Nobody expects the mosquitoes
Radio: “We seem to have located a colony-based life form. Primary scans seem to indicate that their dwelling consists mainly of wax and a calorically high substance suitable for our consumption. Since food reserves are minimal due the nature of this mission, we’ve elected to attempt harvest. Requesting that alpha base interrogate the captives as to the nature of this find.”
there’s a lot of people pushing back against “write what you know” as advice for aspiring authors and i would like to speak up in its defence for a moment because i just finished reading a mystery book where the murder weapon was a vicious fighting dog, and in the scene where it was finally revealed we found out that a) the person who had stolen it and was using it to kill people it had been keeping it secret from the police by locking it in his car boot, b) it was an irish wolfhound, c) once freed, it attacked the hardboiled detective across the yard instead of the gormless idiot who had been repeatedly stuffing it in a car boot, and d) its way of attacking the detective in this very dramatic finale was via mighty swipes of its sharp claws, which slashed through his skin like knives
i don’t think this author has seen a dog in his life. i think he might have confused them with lions? write what you know: if you’re writing an animal, be fairly confident that you could point to one in a small child’s pop-up book
hey so i think tumblr maybe ate my ask or it went to you when you were in the middle of moving/conferencing, but i find myself kept awake at night by a pressing question: What (whom) did Jaylah eat all those years she was living in the wrecked spaceship by herself?
Her house tries its best to feed her, but the foodbox is missing a piece.
Sometimes after eating, with the ugly ache still in her belly, Jaylah will thumb through the foodbox settings, just to see what she could have eaten, on some other world, in some other time. The options light up in dull orange: taquitos. Caesar salad. Pizza of pepperoni.
“What is taquitos,” she asks her house, carefully, in its tongue. Her house tells her it is meat in rolled dough, fried in oil. It has been a long time since Jaylah has eaten dough. No nuts grow here, to grind to flour. No axeroot powder to leaven it, should she find some.
“Give me taquitos,” Jaylah says wistfully, and listens to the gears of her house whir and grind, trying to obey an order it is too damaged to fulfill.
“What is the meat,” she asks her house, when she tires of the sound of it trying and failing her.
The house tells her it comes from a cow.
“What is a cow,” Jaylah asks.
The house tells her it is an alien animal which lives on a world far away, bred for milk and slaughter. On her world, no beast lives for slaughter alone. The custom strikes her as barbaric.
The fist in Jaylah’s belly tightens, and for weeks she dreams of cows, their big eyes, their funny spots, their slow, fat bodies, designed for violence.
*
For a year, she survives on these things:
Whistling leaves, boiled down to soft coils in pale green water.
Salt sucked straight from mountain rocks.
She finds a strange artifact in the house, a box full of many thin leaves, covered in markings. The house says it is a book, but Jaylah knows books, and they are not these things to be held in the hand, to smell of dust and distantly of plants. She eats the pages of the book, one yellowed leaf at a time, and has the house tell her of its provenance: Around The World In Eighty Days, by Jules Verne. A story of an incredible voyage, to a primitive species.
There are fish in the river, when she dares go to the river. It is hard to make herself do it, though, and she is too rigid with fear to stay for long, so often her catches are small and scant, hardly worth the risk.
The yellow beetles, ground into paste. They are more palatable if she can wait and let them dry into powder, but often she is too hungry, and licks the yellow slick right off the pestle.
Thin-winged lizards, dumb enough to fly into her traps. They are mere mouthfuls the size of her first, full of bones, and stink of sulfur, but meat is meat. Jaylah plugs her nose to cook them, and tries not to breathe while eating. She spits the sucked-clean bones into a pile, and boils them the next day for broth.
A bee who falls from the sky, body and ship too badly damaged to fly home to Krall. She drags the bee two terrifying miles to her house, flinching at shadows, but no one comes to collect it. Under the shelter of her house’s cloak, she separates the meat from the metal, and tries to tell herself that the waste should go in the ground. But her belly hurts, and the meat is not soured, and there are only the beetles to eat that night.
*
There are other flesh-eaters Jaylah knows of, besides the men of Krall, who do not eat the meat of others but devour them whole, body and spirit both. She has had to avoid ending up in the cookpots of fellow survivors more than once. Jaylah is not like these people. Jaylah is smarter, stronger, better protected. She has not forgotten her father, her planet, herself. Yes, she is eating the meat of a dead man, wrapped in the leaf of a dead book to mimic the dough she does not have, but Jaylah did not kill this man to eat. It’s a distinction she feels is important.
She brings the rest of her meal to the captain’s seat, and puts her legs up on the arm of the chair. The meat is delicious, lean and good.
“Tell me again about cows, house,” she orders, rejuvenated despite herself, the animal pleasure of being fed making her dumb body glad. “Tell me what food can be had of cows.”
The house obediently recites the byproducts which should be available in its foodbox: butter, hamburger, steak, stew, half-and-half, cream, milkshake.
“I don’t know what is a milkshake,” Jaylah says, although she does–the house has explained before, that it is ice cream made soft, to be drunk through a straw. That ice cream is milk made cold, made sweet, and milk flows from a mother cow to her calf, a willing gift.
The house tells her about milkshakes again, and tells her to program 987 into the replicator should she wish one.
“You can’t give it to me,” Jaylah says, and takes a savage bite of her meat. “So no. I don’t wish one.”
The house sighs itself into perfect silence, until the only sound is Jaylah herself, chewing, swallowing.
“Play me some music, house,” she says hoarsely, and the house gives her beats and shouting.
*
Ten days after eating Krall’s man, Jaylah cannibalizes the fallen bee’s secondary systems–nothing that could help her fly, or reinforce the shields. Just the air temperature and the sound in the pod. She finds a little metal construct that lights up a connection in the back of her mind, although she has never seen it before.
The part slots perfectly into her house’s foodbox.
Her hands shake too badly to install the part that day. She ends up leaving the work undone for a full week, until the next time she finds a lizard in her trap. It isn’t yet dead, when she comes for it, only one wing broken, the wound reeking of sulfur. It mewls in pain when she reaches for it, and Jaylah finds herself crying wildly over the poor stupid lizard, crying harder than she did for her own father.
She can’t let it go–it would only end up food for someone else, unable to fly.
She splints the lizard’s wing–a reckless, foolish indulgence. She fixes the foodbox, and feeds the ill-tempered hissing thing little crumbs of taquitos, little saucers of milk.
*
When the lizard is healed, Jaylah grabs it up in her hands, and carries it to the roof of her house. It bites the pad of her thumb, drawing blood.
“Fuck you too, lizard,” Jaylah tells it, and throws the small thing into the sky. The lizard wavers briefly in the air, testing its wounded wing, and then lets out a joyful trill and soars over the cliff, leaving the protection of Jaylah’s house for the uncertain freedom of the dark.
Jaylah stands there looking over the cliff for a long time, sick with envy over the little lizard’s escape.
“I am leaving this place,” she swears to herself, and although she has eaten well for weeks, she feels a familiar twist her gut, the hollow ache of hunger.
Re: Erik--Thank you :) That was very helpful as someone not super familiar with the canon. It's so interesting how relevant the Charles vs. Erik poles can be. They should be the new angel and devil on my shoulders :P
Hey, I’m glad you liked it! I’ve basically been waiting to have an appropriate forum to ramble about the X-Men since always, it was a lot of fun to write. And of course Erik is just such a train wreck of a person, I love poking around in the moral and psychological implications of his situation. …I’m weird, just go with it.
if you ever try to befriend me and you expect to be in frequent contact with me i am so sorry. i do that with maybe two people and even then i often go days or weeks without saying anything before talking daily for a while.
the point is if we dont talk that doesnt mean i dont like u and think about u a lot im just terrible at maintaining close relationships
