Maniacal cackling. This would be/might actually someday be the title of the Fic We Shall Not Speak Of, previously discussed here. I’m literally going to copy-paste because I’m so pleased with that summary.
Padme Naberrie-not-yet-Amidala is three when the Force comes to her, as strong as one of the great storms that close down all of Naboo, four when the Jedi turn her away for being too old, five when she begins teaching the Force to herself.
Surely emotion is not wicked at its core, young Padme says, surely not, and she reaches out, learns to shape the Force with her passions and her loves and her rages and her laughs, and it is warm and rich and wild and vicious and everything (and surely this cannot be the Dark Side).
When she stands on the Tatooine sand and meets a boy who shines like a sun, some part of her mind (the part that’s seen people die because their vaunted politicians took too long to see them suffering, the part that’s seen wars start over petty arguments and diplomatic differences, the part that looks around Tattooine and thinks look at all these suffering people, if only I had the power to save them) says yesssss. And she reaches out and she takes his hand and she stays in touch and she assures him that no, emotion is not wrong, love is not wrong, Attachment is not wrong, he is not wrong.
One day…oh, one day he comes to her, wild-eyed, with the words of another person on his tongue and talk about Sith, and she does her research and she thinks look at all these suffering people, if only I had the power, and…
Well. Padme only wants to help. Surely the ends justify the means. Surely this cannot be Dark, if it’s to save starving children and wounded soldiers and slaves.
And the Empire rises under the command of its Empress and her iron fist, Darth Vader.
For the fic titles prompt: the word that breathed the world (Librarians? Maybe?)
For the record, I have no idea if this is legitimate and/or refuted by an episode I haven’t seen (desperately, desperately behind), but S T I L L. This fic would be the story of the Library’s favorites through the millennia (she is a library, after all–her favorites are wordsmiths and silver-tongued diplomats, world-changers and storytellers).
The Library is sentient. This is not a commonly known fact–sometimes Librarians go their whole career without even realizing it. She does not particularly mind this.
(Sometimes, in the netherspace where she has a shape that is more woman than building, she meets with others like herself. A waif of a boy, the thirteenth of his kind, whose eyes crackle with purple lightning, tells wild stories of heroics and villany and…goo? A slender willow-wand fae dressed in ragged white and trailing glittering dust in her wake complains of her lovesick king and the mortal girl who defeated him. The boy is young, only centuries old. The willow-wand is ancient, even older than the Library. There are others, but these are the eldest and the youngest, the bookends of their kind.)
The vital thing about a sentient being is that sentient beings have favorites–it’s unavoidable. The Library being rather fickle, not all of her favorites are Librarians.
Galahad is sheltered in her Annex on the merits of his old friends, more so than on his own. Merlin asked, and she loved him, so she did as requested. Merlin isn’t quite like her, but he’s not quite human either, and sometimes, very occasionally, she will sense the touch of a hand on one of her many doors as Merlin passes by.
Greek and Rome were riddled with poets and philosophers–the others like her had varying opinions on them. She was fond of Catullus with his filthy sense of humor, and of Plato with his unusually good grasp of the netherworld, but, oh, Sappho she loved.
Sun Tzu was too warlike to be a Librarian, too much a tactician and not enough of a dreamer, but she would slip him secrets of long-dead armies in his dreams to bolster his writing.
Poe and Shelley and Byron and Keats–she did love the Romantics. They were her favored for years, brilliant comets that burned out so fast. The willow-wand shook her head at the Library for it, remarking on the merits of immortal citizenry.
But William–William was her best beloved, her most cherished mortal favorite. She would be hard-pressed to find someone to stand beside him and his golden words and dirty jokes and impossible wisdom. Not even the willow-wand could hold that against her, her immortal faerie residents drawn to his starlight words like moths to a flame.
(When Prospero first stepped into her walls, she had a moment of blind hope that maybe, somehow, her dear Shakespeare had returned to her.)
Hey Moran! Have you ever pulled a double all nighter? Like stayed up for 2 full consecutive nights?
Okay, so on the one hand: if you mean no sleep for two full nights, no. To date, I’m pretty sure the longest I’ve been awake at a stretch was around 40 hours. I’m weird enough all day, every day, there’s no need to add truly crippling sleep deprivation to that. I generally try to sleep at least two hours a night because it keeps me just this side of functionality.
On the other hand, fun story. If you were around in April, you may recall me making this post about Organic Chemistry pickup lines. Now, other than the fact that I’m still delighted with that last one on there, the reason I bring this up is because (ha) I made that post on a Monday night. I’d already been running on little-to-no sleep by then. By the following Saturday night, I had gone eight days on twenty-four hours of sleep total. I wrote two papers, did a problem set, and took an Organic Chemistry exam, among other things. I got all my work done on time (although the last day or so is kind of a blur) and this is why, in case you’re curious, @twistedangelsays calls me Hamilton.
the other night i tried to make a curry and i got chilli burns all over my face, so i thought to myself ‘hang on, doesn’t milk soothe chilli burns? it does’ and i couldn’t google because i couldn’t see so i just had to blindly feel my way to the fridge and pour out a bowl of milk, and then plant my face in the bowl of milk, anyway at that point the rice cooker went off and triggered a power surge which turned my electricity off, which i didn’t notice at first because i had my face in a bowl of milk and when i did emerge from the dairy prison i thought i had gone blind with chilli burns. so no i don’t really cook much.
Tbh all of these fake stories going around and they’re so obvious but if any of them said “so I work in retail” id be “okay yeah” because the weirdest shit goes down when you work retail. It could say “so I work in retail and today Jesus came in and turned all our water bottles into wine” and I’d be like “shit that’s wild what’d your manager do”
Random Headcanon: That Federation vessels in Star Trek seem to experience bizarre malfunctions with such overwhelming frequency isn’t just an artefact of the television serial format. Rather, it’s because the Federation as a culture are a bunch of deranged hyper-neophiles,
tooling around in ships packed full of beyond-cutting-edge tech they
don’t really understand. Endlessly frustrating if you have to fight
them, because they can pull an effectively unlimited number of bullshit
space-magic countermeasures out of their arses - but they’re as likely
as not to give themselves a lethal five-dimensional wedgie in the
process. All those rampant holograms and warp core malfunctions and
accidentally-traveling-back-in-time incidents? That doesn’t actually
happen to anyone else; it’s literally just Federation vessels that go off the rails like that. And they do so on a fairly regular basis.
So to everyone else in the galaxy, all humans are basically Doc Brown.
Aliens who have seen the Back to the Future movies literally don’t realise that Doc Brown is meant to be funny. They’re just like “yes, that is exactly what all human scientists are like in my experience”.
THE ONLY REASON SCOTTY IS CHIEF ENGINEER INSTEAD OF SOMEONE FROM A SPECIES WITH A HIGHER TECHNOLOGICAL APTITUDE IS BECAUSE EVERYONE FROM THOSE SPECIES TOOK ONE LOOK AT THE ENTERPRISE’S ENGINE ROOM AND RAN AWAY SCREAMING
vulcan science academy: why do you need another warp core
humans: we’re going to plug two of them together and see if we go twice as fast
vsa: last time we gave you a warp core you threw it into a sun to see if the sun would go twice as fast
humans: hahaha yeah
humans: it did tho
vsa: IT EXPLODED
humans: it exploded twice as fast
I love this. Especially because of how well it plays with my headcanon that the Federation does so much better against the Borg than anyone else because beating the Borg with military tactics is nigh-impossible, but beating them with wacky superscience shenanigans works as long as they’re unique wacky superscience shenanigans.
Yeah, I love this.
Reminds me of the thing I wrote a while back about Humans in high fantasy realms - they’re basically Team Fuck It Hold My Beer I Got This.
Impulsive, passionate to a fault, the social structures they build to try and regulate this hotheadedness ironically creates even greater levels of sheer bull-headedness. Even their “cooler” heads take action in months or weeks.
All their great heroes of the past were impossibly rash by galactic standards. Humans Just Go With It, which is their great flaw but also their greatest strength.
klingons: okay we don’t get it
vulcan science academy: get what
klingons: you vulcans are a bunch of stuffy prisses but you’re also tougher, stronger, and smarter than humans in every single way
klingons: why do you let them run your federation
vulcan science academy: look
vulcan science academy: this is a species where if you give them two warp cores they don’t do experiments on one and save the other for if the first one blows up
vulcan science academy: this is a species where if you give them two warp cores, they will ask for a third one, immediately plug all three into each other, punch a hole into an alternate universe where humans subscribe to an even more destructive ideological system, fight everyone in it because they’re offended by that, steal their warp cores, plug those together, punch their way back here, then try to turn a nearby sun into a torus because that was what their initial scientific experiment was for and they didn’t want to waste a trip.
vulcan science academy: they did that last week. we have the write-up right here. it’s getting published in about six hundred scientific journals across two hundred different disciplines because of how many established theories their ridiculous little expedition has just called into question. also, they did turn that sun into a torus, and no one actually knows how.
vulcan science academy: this is why we let them do whatever the hell they want.
klingons: …. can we be a part of your federation
Come to think of it, I mean. Look at the “first human warp drive” thing in the movie. That was… Not how Vulcans would have done it.
you know what the best evidence for this is? Deep Space 9 almost never broke down. minor malfunctions that irritated O’Brien to hell and back, sure, but almost none of the truly weird shit that befell Voyager and all the starships Enterprise. what was the weirdest malfunction DS9 ever had? the senior staff getting trapped as holosuite characters in Our Man Bashir, and that was because a human decided to just dump the transporter buffer into the station’s core memory and hope everything would work out somehow, which is a bit like swapping your computer’s hard drive out for a memory card from a PlayStation 2 and expecting to be able to play a game of Spyro the Dragon with your keyboard and mouse.
you know what, I’m not done with this post. let’s talk about the Pegasus. the USS Fucking Pegasus,
testbed for the first Starfleet cloaking device. here we have a handful
of humans working in secret to develop a cloaking device in violation
of a treaty with the Romulans. they’re playing catchup trying to develop
a technology other species have had for a century. and what do they do?
do they decide to duplicate a Romulan cloaking device precisely, just
see if they can match what other species have? nope. they decide, hey,
while we’re at it, while we’re building our very first one of these things, just to find out if this is possible, let’s see if we can make this thing phase us out of normal space so we can fly through planets while we’re invisible.
“but why” said the one Vulcan in the room.
“because that would fucking rule” said the humans, high-fiving each other and slamming cans of 24th-century Red Bull.
there
must be like twenty different counselling groups for non-human
engineering students at Starfleet Academy, and every week in every
single one of them someone walks in and starts up with a story like “our
assignment was to repair a phaser emitter and my one human classmate
built a chronometric-flux toaster that toasts bread after you’ve eaten
it.”
Humans get mildly offended by the way they are presented in non-human media.
Like: “Guys, we totally wouldn’t do that!” But this always fails to get much traction, because the authors can always say: “You totally did.”
“That was ONE TIME.”
There’s that movie where humans invented vaccines by just testing them on people. Or the one about those two humans who invented powered flight by crashing a bunch of prototypes. Or the one about electricity.
And human historians go, “Oh, uh, this is historically accurate, but also kind of boring.” To which the producers respond: “How is doing THIS CRAZY THING boring????????”
There are entire serieses of horror movies where the premise is “We stopped paying attention to the human and ey found the technology.”
reblog for new meta.
RE that last line: McGuyver.
“MacGuyver” is the equivalent of Vulcan vintage human horror television.
for the random fic titles: "spring will be here soon"
Since you didn’t specify a fandom….this is the story of the girl Jaylah.
Her people are from a high tundra part of their world–even after she forgets the name of her planet, the name of her people, the name of her family, she will remember this. The shimmer of the sun at midnight, the dance of stars at pitch-black noon, and the song of the wind over the snow-layered ground will stay in her dreams all her life, a tiny scrap of peace. Winter on the high tundra is dangerous, even in the cities-and-starships age, and Jaylah’s people never quite managed to forget their heritage of cold nights and terror. The promise of new life, of melted snow and living things, is the hope their people holds up to get through the days of unbroken night, the vow they make in the darkest moments of their life to fight on.
As a little girl wondering if the sun will ever come back, Jaylah’s mother strokes her hair back from her face and whisper that spring would come soon, so soon that Jaylah wouldn’t even believe it.
In Krall’s dungeons, as Jaylah sobs silently, hands pressed to her mouth so hard that her teeth draw blue bruises on the white skin, her father hugs her to his side. “Spring will be here soon, you’ll see, precious girl,” he whispers–a lie, but the familiar words soothe her tears and make her mother, bleeding out slowly from a gash to the leg, and her mama, pressing her hands to her wife’s skin, smile faintly.
When her mama is taken, still smudged blue with her mother’s blood, she kisses Jaylah forehead and her cheeks and promises, “Spring will be here soon, little snowflake, little darling.” A lie, but a warm and gentle one, bittersweet.
When her father dies, and she runs until she can’t breathe for tears, she curls up in a mountain cave, far too close to the search parties scouring for her, and she lies to herself, “Spring will be here soon, Jaylah. You just have to stand up.” And she scrubs her face with her palms and pulls herself upright.
She tells the lie a thousand times, a hundred thousand times, every time a new circuit breaks or she hasn’t eaten in twelve days or she is run off from a precious salvage or she can’t stand the loneliness any longer. Spring will be here soon, Jaylah. Get up and meet it on your feet.
Years from now, she’ll be an ensign sitting cross-legged on a chair in the Enterprise mess hall, surrounded by the bridge crew and Montgomery Scotty and Doctor Bones, her red Operations uniform a bright contrast to her white hair and a glass of scotch from Montgomery Scotty’s illicit still in her hand. (She will know, by then, what a nickname is, but she will insist on her old names for them, at times like this, when they are together and laughing.) Captain James T will smile at her, and Montgomery Scotty will clap her on the back as he tells them about how she repaired the replicators and stopped them from turning all the food purple, and she will think that perhaps she was not lying to herself all along after all.
the funniest thing in the entire pirates of the caribbean series is definitely that one scene in At World’s End where they have parlay but davy jones is part of it, and rather than have him stand in the shallows or something they get a big bucket of water and have in stand on it on shore
who thought of that idea? who thought “put davy jones in a bucket of water” and had the guts to suggest it aloud? and then who went “hey that sounds like a great idea!”
at some point someone told davy jones their idea was for him to stand in a bucket of water and he agreed to it
ok but notice the trail of buckets behind him meaning he walked from the ocean through three other buckets of water before he got into the one hes standing in
It’s even funnier when you consider how he must have figured all this out in the first place.
Some folks are asking “well, if he can avoid the no-dry-land curse simply by standing in a bucket, doesn’t that ruin his whole motivation?”, but he’s not on dry land here.
The parley takes place on a sandbar - which, for the unfamiliar, is a temporary “island” of sand deposited by breaking waves, unconnected with the shore, that spends most of its time submerged, being exposed only at low tide.
What Jones is doing here is rules-lawyering his curse. Can you imagine the trial and error he must have gone through in order to determine that this would actually work?
“Okay, do islands count as dry land? How about parts of the shore below the high tide mark? Reefs? Shoals? What if I stand in a pool of water on a shoal? Does it have to be seawater, or will any water do? Does it have to be a natural tidepool, or can it be something artificial, like a bucket?”
What I am saying is that there must have been a process.
Pretty sure that this implies that the reverse - a bucket of sand, floating on the water (big bucket with just a bit of sand), would qualify as dry land. That’s absurd, so I’m pretty sure that his lawyer pulled a fast one over the curse governor.
It may be absurd, but the text of the film bears it out. Davy Jones can sense the presence of his heart while it’s at sea, but not while it’s on land (indeed, that’s why he buried it on land in the first place: to break his connection with it) - yet placing the heart in a simple jar of dirt conceals it from Jones’ awareness just as surely as burial on land does, even if the jar is on a boat at the time. Suitably prepared vessels filled with dirt absolutely count as dry land for the purpose of Jones’ curse.
Then the reverse should also be true. If he buried it in a jar of water, no matter how far inland it is, he would be able to sense it. So by this logic, any container of seawater counts as not dry land, ergo, the bucket is a perfectly viable loophole.
Not necessarily. It’s traditionally a lot easier to accidentally get whammied by a curse than it is to weasel around it - I figure that’s why he’s using multiple layers of indirection here. He’s forbidden to set foot on dry land, but it’s technically not dry land (it’s a sandbar, a non-permanent landform exposed only at low tide) and he technically didn’t set foot on it (he’s standing in a bucket of water). It’s entirely possible that either one of those things alone wouldn’t make the grade.
okay but this all raises one further, very important question: if it’s specifically “dry land” he’s forbidden from, what about wetlands.
can Davy Jones fight you in salt marshes? can he throw down in a peat bog?Swamp Battle?
Today one of my students threw a stuffed animal across the room and it landed directly in a plate filled with paint
And I had it narrowed down to a few kids but no one would confess so I made them all put their toys away and have five minutes of quiet time to Reflect on Their Behavior
During that five minutes of relative silence, this group of three year olds INVENTED A NEW CLASSMATE, named him, and unanimously blamed him for throwing the toy across the room
There was not a single weak link, they were all ride or die
pssssst talk to me about Schuyler sisters in reincarnation AU. or more Alex/John whatever. rolls away.
The Schuyler sisters! My queens! The rest of the AU is here!
Alicia Laramie is seven years old when she remembers. Her parents bring home a little girl, and she
looks different from the olive-wood skin and tumbling black curls of Alicia and
her parents and her little sister Maggie—this girl all gold-tinged ivory skin
and silky dark hair framing solemn black eyes.
She’s a year younger than Alicia and her parents haven’t even gotten out
“This is Lisa Tian” before she’s rushing forward to enfold the girl in her
arms.
“Eliza,” Angelica whispers into the girl’s long dark hair. Bemused, the girl hugs her back, and Angelica
says, “I’ll take care of you, Eliza. You’re
the best thing in my life, I’ll choose your happiness every time.” The girl is confused when Angelica stands
back, but she gives a smile, the same sweet smile Angelica remembers, and it’s
good.
***
When the fifth grade class goes
to the Grange for a field trip, Lisa spends three hours in semi-hysterical sobs,
refusing to go through the front door, and the terrified tour guide calls the
first emergency number on her phone. Twenty
minutes later, a sixth-grader spills out of a cab and swoops down on her like a
hurricane in rose and gold, and Eliza clings to Angelica like the last lifeboat
on a sinking ship.
“It’s okay, Lizzie,” Angelica soothes.
“Angelica, I—I–”
“I know,” Angelica sighs, stroking her hair. “Take a couple deep breaths, ‘Liza, it’ll
pass.”
“I miss him,” Eliza whispers into Angelica’s hip, and the stroking doesn’t
pause.
“I know,” Angelica says. She
gives a small, rueful smile. “That part
won’t pass.”
Eliza laughs a little at that, muffled by Angelica’s jacket, and her
grip tightens.
***
So…when Maggie Laramie is fourteen their house gets robbed. She gets caught and held at gunpoint, and she
barely manages to not say “My father
has gone to raise the Minutemen.”
Instead she steadily states that he’s called the police, and when the
three guys in black scramble like their lives depend on it, she smiles at her
sisters.
“Maggie, that was amazing,” Mrs. Laramie says breathlessly.
“Peggy,” she corrects, and Angelica and Eliza glow.
I am totally normal and would never murder a person without a GOOD REASON for doing so, that being said, I’m having this problem where the corpse I stored under my floorboards is making a weird heartbeat sound and was wondering if anyone else is having this problem and if you know any tips, tricks, quick fixes etc for this because it’s inconvenient and very annoying thank you and God Bless
is this website possessed by the neglected ghost of edgar allan poe now
“So it’s a necklace,” Ezekiel said,
frowning. “What’s it going to do for us
again?”
“It’s not just
a necklace,” Jake said, pushing Ezekiel out of the way. “It’s the last relic of the Romanov
family. Story goes,” he added in a
hushed tone, reaching out to touch the small ruby pendant with a reverent gloved
finger, “that this was that saved Anastasia Romanova’s life.”
“It’s a ruby the size of a penny,” Eve
observed, leaning against the desk with an eye on the door of the Annex. “I don’t see that thing blocking any bullets
any time soon.”
“Right, because logic matters so much here,”
Ezekiel muttered, and Jake laughed. Jenkins,
at his desk poring over a text that appeared to be in a dialect of English that
had passed out of use some time before the Renaissance, made an annoyed sound.
in happier news I had a student answer the question “what is in the room” with “a pretty professor” and spent the next twenty seconds incapable of speech as I tried not to inhale coffee and die, so there’s a good language professor/student au for yall
when ur like “im gettin a gay vibe” and your straight friend is like “uhhh idk that seems….forced….” and u gotta pull out your fuckin phd from gay college and your private gay detective license and your federal bureau of investigaytion badge like sit fuckin down buddy i got credentials and also an opinion the truth is out there my guy
Chat Noir beginning to suspect his Lady’s identity through frequent visits to Marinette’s balcony
She gives him delicious baked goods, blankets when he accidentally ends up sleeping over, an ear to listen, a shoulder to cry on, and eventually (she swears she’s only doing it to shut him up) gentle fingers to scratch at the spot behind his ears that makes him slump into a pile of blissful goo.
And by observing her, her infectious smile, the freckles lightly dusting the bridge of her nose, the midnight hair framing those impossibly familiar blue eyes…Chat’s resolve crumbles.
She’s too much like her, like his Lady, for it to be anyone else. Her voice - so clear and confident, her bravery when standing up to Chloe’s bullying, her sharp wit that only seems to come out when he’s facing her behind the guise of an alley cat…
Not to mention he catches a glimpse of a small red thing flitting around her head every now and then, and with his enhanced hearing, can hear it talking to her.
Marinette’s a miraculous holder, and Adrien’s in love.
But he’s not sure if she feels the same way…on either side of the mask. And it scares him. Ladybug simply rolls her eyes at Chat’s advances, and Adrien seems to make Marinette rather uncomfortable.
He’s lost his mother, his father’s never there for him, and he can’t lose his best friend and first love, too.
So he dials back on visits to his princess, not only to protect himself from rejection but also so that he can’t kiss her like he desperately wants to; he stops kissing Ladybug’s hand in greeting, and keeps his distance.
His friendship with her is one of the most precious things life’s ever given him, and he refuses to let his love for her get in the way of ruining it.
Till a particularly rainy day arrives, and Adrien finds himself unable to stop the tide pulling him ever closer to her.
Chloe’s talking about Chat Noir, and he snaps out of his mid-afternoon daze.
“I personally don’t see why Ladybug needs him. She’s quite capable of saving the city without him. All he does is get in her way,” she remarks absently, inspecting her perfect manicure, Sabrina nodding in agreement.
Something in Adrien deflates, and he pretends he hadn’t heard that.
“He doesn’t deserve to be called a hero, remember that time he completely destroyed my room-”
“Don’t you dare say that about him.”
Everyone listening looks over in shock, and Marinette’s standing with Alya in the doorway, brows furrowed in a way that makes her the spitting image of Ladybug facing an akuma.
Adrien’s heart is beating so fast he wonders whether it’s going to stop any minute. He can’t look away or pretend he isn’t listening anymore.
Chloe smirks and opens her mouth to retort, but his Lady cuts her off once again.
“He’s loyal to Ladybug, and he’s unbelievably kind. He’s devoted to saving Paris just as much as she is, and without him on her side, she wouldn’t be here today!”
If Adrien’s blush could get any redder, it’d be worse than Nathanael’s hair right about now.
“He’s just as important and heroic as she is, and he deserves every good thing in the world. So don’t talk crap about people you barely know, or about people who do a heck of a lot more for the world than you do!”
Chloe’s stunned at the girl’s ferocious defense of the black cat, but she sneers even though she’s cornered. “It sounds like you have a bit of a crush on him, Marinette. Careful, wouldn’t want a dirty street cat like him to hear. He’s nobody’s hero. He hasn’t even been seen in some time.”
Marinette fixes her with a glare, but her voice softens. “He’s my hero,” she says simply. “And I’m willing to bet there are many others who’d say the same. He’s my hero, he’s Ladybug’s hero, and he’s…he’s someone I miss very much right now.” Her voice seems to break then, and she turns on her heel to walk out the door, leaving Chloe and the others gaping after her.
Adrien is utterly floored. Completely, irreversibly floored, and he can’t muster any coherent thought except to find Marinette as soon as possible.
His head is buzzing. Marinette…Ladybug, she’s missed him. Missed him while he tried to give her space and keep his distance, when all she’d wanted was for him to be right next to her.
She’d sounded so passionate and sincere when she defended him that perhaps, perhaps she might love him, too.
It’s still raining when evening arrives, and she finds her drenched kitty shivering on her balcony, after such a long time.
It’s still raining when he presses his lips to hers right then and there, and she lets him kiss her the way he’s wanted to for so, so long. She’s warm and sweet and strong against him, and they melt into each other.
It’s still raining when they reluctantly break apart, Marinette pressed up against him, drenched from head to toe just like he is, chests heaving and cheeks flushing.
His miraculous beeps a warning-Plagg hates the rain- and he moves away to hide his face as he detransforms. What if he, Adrien, isn’t enough?
She cups his cheeks and meets his gaze. “Minou, I’ll love you no matter who you are underneath that mask. Please, please don’t go away again,” she implores, as if she’d read his thoughts.
He doesn’t deny her, knows that he can’t ever deny her anything, and he breathes out a promise.
Donald Trump is exactly the kind of person that Jesus would have thrown out of the temple and beaten with a stick, and the fact that so many self-identified Christians want to put him in office tells you pretty everything wrong with white American Christianity.
Because Jesus had authority at temples and beat people.
I 100% can’t tell if you’re joking here but he actually did chase people out of a temple at least once for using religion for their own selfish gains, complete with literal table flipping and improvised whips
So really it’s not that he would have trump thrown out as much as he would storm in and accuse him of turning his father’s house into a den of thieves before upending a table on his head
Dude, Jesus not only chased them out, he broke stuff they were selling, let loose all of their animals, and fucking flipped all the money-changing tables.
Jesus 100% would have been chasing Trump out with a table leg.
My freshmen year roommate was a complete fucking disaster but he would throw parties and everyone would pass out in our living room and every morning I left for class at 7am I would just get little choruses of “have fun at class, good luck” from hungover stoners and let me tell you, as someone who thrives off attention and positive reinforcement, this setup really worked for me
So i’m moving out on my own soon and my dad wants to make sure i know how to cook and he just called me downstairs and threw an apron at me and was like “WELCOME TO CHOPPED”
Ok my mystery ingredients are: canned potatoes, frozen spinach, frozen green beans, and tilapia
And he shoved them all under a cake platter so he could do a dramatic reveal
He keeps referring to himself as Tim Allen and idk if he’s trying to be funny or if he is just confused as to what Ted Allen’s name is
HE JUST YELLED “SUDDEN DEATH” AND PULLED A BAG OF WALNUTS OUT JFC DAD TED ALLEN WOULD NEVER DO THIS TO ME
Alright so we’re doing Walnut Crusted Tilapia on a Bed of Spinach with a side of Microwaved Green Beans and Canned Potatoes. Gourmet cooking at its finest.
He has been narrating everything I’ve done and whenever I’m about to fuck up he runs to the kitchen table and pretends to be a judge like “Interesting choice preheating the oven to 300°…I’d do it to 350°”
My dad told me I only have three minutes left but I think he said that three minutes ago so idk if he’s serious? IDKIDKIDK EVERYTHING IS A BLUR RN AND I HAVENT EVEN PLATED WHAT AM I DOING ON TUMBLR
Ok so apparently “throwing things on the plate in a panic” isn’t plating, but it tasted really good. Also, I didn’t get chopped, but my dog did because she wouldn’t stop barking at the neighbor.
I feel so accomplished and idk I think I’m ready for the actual show keep an eye out for me, guys
Psst John and Alexander meeting in your Hamilton Reincarnation fic series?
WOO, I am literal Laurens/Hamilton garbage, tell your friends. All In One Spot AU
John has been at Columbia for a year and, honestly, he’s starting to
think that he was wrong, that no one else is here. He walks past the law center every chance he
gets, and he doubles the time of the walk from his dorm to the natural sciences
building every single day to pass Hamilton Hall. The statue is…reassuring, somehow,
Alexander’s fine-drawn face cast in bronze and a quill in his clever
fingers. When John’s tired, or he’s had
a bad night, full of nightmares with bayonets jumbled in with cars, the cinch
of a noose tangled with the static of a television, he’ll stop and look at the
statue until he can breathe again.
It’s not all bad. John is in New
York City, and he finally gets where Alexander was coming from all those years
ago, this might legitimately be the greatest city in the world. It sure beats South Carolina, hell and
gone. He’s introduced himself to
everyone as John, here, and even admitted to a handful of people that he was a
soldier in the Revolution. He doesn’t
have any close friends, but he doesn’t have any enemies, either, and the handful
of familiar faces who see him when he quietly attends a Pride parade don’t say
a word. He’s taken a handful of
prerequisites for a biochem degree, in the pre-med track—he always wanted to be
a physician last time, and his father is too distant to fight him this
time.
He spends a little money on a sketchbook or two, on a set of pencils,
and draws old faces, tries to imagine them in the modern world. Lafayette, eyes bright and smiling, dressed
in a suit. General Washington, hands
folded behind his back—no matter how many times John tries to give him a modern
military uniform, his long heavy coat takes shape. Aides and friends and soldiers whose faces he
half-recalls, in t-shirts and jeans and flannels. And Alexander, a thousand times Alexander,
Alexander in modern clothes, in his Continental Army uniform, in shirtsleeves,
in the coat he wears in the statue. A
few times, in the safety of his locked single room, John carefully sketches
Alexander stretched out in their cabin at Valley Forge, lit in candle-flame and
all smooth planes of muscle and skin, smiling at John, soft and sated. An entire sketchbook fills itself with
Alexander, over John’s first year at Columbia.
my fav trope is like, nonhuman characters not understanding human needs/customs but still being super supportive of their human companion
“look what I found while exploring this planet’s surface!” “kilrak please I’m trying to sleep” “ah yes your human circadian rhythm. *stage whispering* I am supposed to be quiet during this time in your rhythm, yes?”
“the book I purchased on ragnok V says humans require physical touch when upset. therefore, I shall engage in a ‘hug’ with you.” *supremely awkward five-armed hug ensues*
*human sneezes* “OH MY GOD SIL'EEN GET THE MEDIC OUR HUMAN IS DYING”
“this pamphlet I received recently says that humans require companions and packmates in the form of small earth creatures. you should have told me this before we departed earth, but it is no worry. we will have to stop at the next trade planet to get you one of these ‘cats’ or ‘dogs’.”
imagine the aliens really purchasing a kitten for one of their rough and world-weary scifi badass human companions and watching in helpless wonderment what ensues
“she’s been cuddling that small animal for the past fifteen minutes just going ‘kitty, kitty’. did we - did we break our human?”
a more seasoned alien puts one of their tentacles around the younger one as the rest of the team gathers to watch their human make kissy noises.
“no, kilrak,” the alien says. “we did good.”
“Human-Steve! I have heard that today is the anniversary of your hatching! According to my human culture pamphlet, it is customary to set a sugary pastry on fire while chanting your species’ growth incantation and presenting sacrifices wrapped in shiny paper. I am afraid to ask, in case this ritual is sacred and this request therefor insensitive… but may I be allowed to participate? It sounds much more fascinating than molting.”
