In the movie, unlike the comic, the masquerade is still intact, the general public doesn’t know about the supernatural, and Hellboy is a cryptid on a level with Bigfoot (but, like, in cities and wearing a coat).
BUT he’s not just a cryptid, he’s a a cryptid that everyone refers to by the correct name, to the extent that there’s a comic series about him.
Basically what I’m saying is that at some point early in his career Hellboy was presumably stopped by a bystander with a question like “who the fuck are you” and he took a second out of his busy monster-huntin’ schedule to introduce himself.
I was talking to a friend about Etta Candy, and various ways fic could explore her awesomeness, whether as The Best of Secretaries or adventures in other professions, or, hell, Etta Goes to Themyscira…
And then I was seized with the vision of Etta turning up on Themyscira and meeting a thousand Amazons who have had ALLLLL ETERNITY surrounded by other Amazons with hard, scarred, warrior bodies, and having… quite a large number of them… react all like…
WHO IS THIS UTTERLY NOVEL VISION OF FEMININE LOVELINESS AND HOW CAN I PERSUADE HER THAT I (AND PERHAPS MY WIFE) SHOULD BE RESPONSIBLE FOR INTRODUCING HER TO ALL TWELVE VOLUMES OF CLIO’S TREATISE ON SEXUAL PLEASURE IN THE FORM OF AN EXTENDED SERIES OF PRACTICAL DEMONSTRATIONS.
…So, you know, do with that thought what you will?
Washington State (not DC) is the only state in the union where you can legally have a fistfight with somebody (with police as referees) to settle your differences
This is tied to an archaic law that isn’t enforced anymore.
So if you beat the shit out of someone they won’t do anything?
Oh no this is still enforced, and in fact we actually Have a few vigilante superheroes
Like Phoenix Jones who actually patrol the streets and challenge criminals, the police usually get called, and they watch as Phoenix Jones pummels them because Phoenix Jones is actually an MMA fighter.
I gasped and my eyes got so wide after reading this
That man is AWESOME
Apparently for about three years he had an actual superhero team of people with military, medical and martial artist backgrounds he personally trained and equipped, but eventually disbanded. He didn’t give specifics, but said that some of them were “the wrong kind of people” and were too dangerous. There are really for real things that happened.
Also someone tried to be an “arch nemesis” to him named Rex Velvet, some nerd wearing an eyepatch and a fake mustache who didn’t hurt anybody but made surprisingly polished, melodramatic and goofy callout videos from an abandoned warehouse and presumably pulled some annoying pranks.
Did some research about Phoenix Jones: guy is legit. Ex-MMA fighter like the post says, but what the post FAILED to mention is this guy has legit superhero-grade equipment. His suit’s actually made of armor-plated and bulletproof materials, and it has a functional utility belt with lined with stuff like handcuffs, a stun gun, pepper spray, and the like for performing citizens arrests and non-lethally detaining actually armed and violent criminals.
please, tell me more about death and the gay barista. where does death get her hair done? why does death like iced chocolate? has death ever considered a netflix subscription?
oh, and one more: has death read the princess bride? does death like the princess bride?
Sephie has never seen someone with hair like Death’s. It’s as thick as sheep’s wool, but perfectly obedient, sleek curls that pile up around her shoulders like snowfall. Hours of styling, even in a salon, could never reproduce it. They’re sitting in one of Death’s gardens–phosphorestent blossoms cast an eerie blue-white light over the sleek black walls and the cataract of precious gems pouring into a false river of opal and lapis lazuli and sapphire–and Death’s head is in Sephie’s lap as she plays with the curls. Sephie stretches one white lock out and it springs back, and Death opens an eye, smiling when she sees Sephie grinning.
“Is it so amusing?”
“Yes,” Sephie says, delighted. She pulls out another curl and cocks her head as Death opens her other eye. “Why don’t you dye it anymore?”
“Dye it?” Death repeats, blinking. Sephie nods, and it takes a moment before her question seems to click in Death’s mind. “Oh!” Death laughs a little. “No, I didn’t dye it. What color did you like best?”
“The red was nice,” Sephie says, bemused. Death smiles at her and closes her eyes, and Sephie watches as each hair begins to change, deep venous scarlet seeping through each strand from the scalp until her lap is full of riotous red. Death opens her eyes again as Sephie huffs out a breath of surprise and rakes her fingers through the newly colored mass.
“Do you like it better like this? I can appear however I choose, this is simply,” Death gestures down at herself, “my preference.”
“I love it,” Sephie says, bending down to kiss Death’s hairline and reveling in the electrical shock of the contact. “However you want to wear it. Surprise me.”
TWO
“Where does the food come from?” Sephie asks, evaluating an apple. It’s crisp and red and perfect, and she knows that when she bites into it, it will be sweet and delicious. “Why do you even keep food here?”
“The fruit comes from my orchard,” Death says from her throne. A bowl of pomegranate seeds like drops of blood frozen in crystal rests in her lap, and her fingertips are stained with their juice as she pops one at a time into her mouth. “And I keep food here because I like it. And because you like it.”
“You mean those trees actually grow fruit?” Sephie asks, startled.
“Of course. The rest of the food, I do what I can. My sister brings me gifts sometimes. She knows I love Earth food.”
“You mean she knows you have a terrible sweet tooth,” Sephie says, pointing at Death with her apple, and Death smiles, holding out the shallow bowl of pomegranate seeds toward her. Sephie returns the apple to a dish that she suspects might be solid diamond and walks forward, until Death can neatly pull her into her lap in place of the bowl. “You can’t fool me,” Sephie says, reeling in the pomegranate seeds to pop a few into her mouth. They burst cool and sparkling over her tongue. “I served you iced chocolate every day for years.”
“I do love chocolate,” Death confirms, and stretches up to peck a kiss on Sephie’s lips. It tastes like pomegranates.
THREE
Sephie doesn’t actually know how many rooms are in Death’s citadel, but then again, Sephie is dead, and has thus reached a state of Zen acceptance about all things. So when she opens a door one morning and finds a library with shelves twenty feet high, she doesn’t ask a lot of questions.
Death finds her quite some time later, comfortably stretched on a reclining couch upholstered in emerald green with a small tower of books climbing beside her. Slinking onto the couch beside her, Death coils catlike into the empty spaces left on the surface and insinuates her head onto Sephie’s belly, curls–amber gold today–spilling over them both. Sephie giggles and laces one hand into Death’s curls, lowering her book.
“What are you reading?”
“I have no idea. It’s called Resenting the Hero, it’s great.” Sephie gestures around her at the library. “What is this place?”
“My library,” Death says. “I’ve only just added it.”
“Only just?”
Death shrugs against Sephie’s side. “I never thought to add something purely for the sake of leisure before. Sometimes spirits spend time in my gardens, or my orchards, but this…” She looks up at Sephie through her lashes, almost shy. “This is my own space. And yours, of course.”
Sephie spends a few moments working very hard not to melt through the couch at that, then clears her throat and says, “Have you ever considered a theater room?”
“A…theater room?” Death says musingly. “Would you like one?”
Sephie laughs. “Well, it might be nice to watch a movie together. You would like The Princess Bride–it’s a classic.”
“I shall look into it at once.”
FOUR
Sephie’s favorite room in the citadel is a cave–or rather, it seems like a cave. The walls drip with rubies and topaz, garnet and carnelian and amber, the ceiling laden with stalactites, and the floor stacked with pillows in a deep bowl shape. Bringing a light inside turns the jewels into leaping, frozen fire, and casts fractured glints and glitters across the pillows.
Death doesn’t begrudge her a thing, is more than willing to give Sephie anything she asks for, and when she learns of Sephie’s affection for the place, it begins to mysteriously fill itself with gifts. Bouquets of glowing flowers from the gardens, blankets and cushions of a fineness that Sephie never saw in life, sweets and books and bowls of pomegranate seeds and apples and cherries. Death is always shy, when she comes to the fire-crystal room, and insists firmly that it is vital that Sephie have her own space.
Death shouldn’t be so endearing.
But stretched on the floor of Sephie’s fire-crystal room, turning her hair different colors as Sephie feeds her pomegranate seeds, it’s quite undeniable.
FIVE
Death doesn’t sleep. Sephie doesn’t need sleep, anymore, but Death doesn’t seem to be capable of it. So Sephie is a little startled to find that Death keeps a bed chamber, well, if palely, lit and ornamented with the same pristine jewels as the rest of the citadel. The bed is soft and comfortable, a canopied thing with blue and green jewels inlaid in the black stone corner posts, and piled deep with pillows, and the bedside table is stacked with books and one of the shallow bowls of fruit. Sephie doesn’t need sleep anymore, but more than once she has taken a nap in Death’s bed, purely because it’s so pleasant, and she often wakes up to find Death curled up beside her, eyes open but breath steady and calm.
This is not one of those times. Death, after a long series of hearings and judgments in her audience chamber, comes to find Sephie in a garden with her usual unerring efficiency.
“Come with me,” Death says, and Sephie–oh, of course Sephie does.
Curled up with her head on Death’s chest, Sephie feels the low crackle of lightning through her nerves, the unmistakable feeling of power from being close to Death. Death’s hand is tracing Sephie’s jaw as she sorts through the books on the table with the other, and Sephie hums, a pleasant sound vibrating deep through her chest.
“Read to me,” Sephie commands, and Death laughs, the sound even more inhuman at close range, before pulling her hand back with a book. It’s a plain paperback, with a black and red cover embossed with gold lettering.
“Have you read Sunshine yet?” Death asks, amused, and Sephie smiles. “I did recommend it to you.”
“You did,” Sephie agrees, and nestles deeper into the pile of cushions as she tucks an arm around Death’s waist. Even skin-to-skin, Death has no heartbeat, and her chest only rises and falls so that she can speak, but Sephie has gotten past finding it strange–it is calm, soothing, a level of peace that Earth never offered.
Death kisses Sephie’s hair and opens the book. “Part One,” she begins. “It was a dumb thing to do, but it wasn’t that dumb. There hadn’t been any trouble out at the lake in years…”
tell me more about the Animorphs DnD Au. I really just need an AU where they don't suffer and just have a good time
My buddy, me too right this second. For those of you who are not aware, that comment is buried somewhere in this recap of Book 7.
All right, so, like, here’s a basic breakdown of how it all goes down.
It starts with Jake’s big brother Tom, who, like, listen, his parents went “keep an eye on your younger brother after school on Fridays” and Tom went “that’s cruel” and his parents went “don’t be an ass” and Tom huffed like a teenage asshole and rolled his eyes and went “FINE.” So he decides that if he’s going to be mandatory babysitter for like four hours on Friday afternoons he’s going to do something amusing with his time, and he asks Jake if he knows anything about DnD. Jake goes “nope!” with good-natured interest because this is his big brother, and Tom’s like “GREAT we’re going to do that recruit your friends”. And Marco’s in on the spot because he’s a fucking nerd who’s probably done reading on DnD even though he’s never been able to actually play a campaign, and Rachel agrees on behalf of herself and Cassie because she’s exasperated with Jake and Cassie and this is an opportunity to force them to spend multiple hours together. (Cassie is unexpectedly the major sticking point here, but her parents are like “PLEASE HAVE FRIENDS AND A LIFE OUTSIDE THE BARN” so ultimately she ends up going.)
On the first day, as they’re leaving school, Rachel grabs Jake by the arm and points subtly over his shoulder. “Hey,” she whispers, “isn’t that Tobias?” It is, in fact, Tobias. Actively in the process of maybe fighting a bully for his backpack–if Tobias loses his backpack, no way is his uncle buying him a new one, and he’s also going to be in a hell of a lot of trouble, so yeah he’s gonna fight for it. Jake and Rachel don’t know this at the time, but listen, Berensons are Berensons in any universe. Jake ambles over, all cheerfully broad shoulders and stocky build just starting to settle into ‘teen’ rather than ‘kid,’ and silently menaces the bullies into stepping down. And then he kind of subtly kidnaps Tobias to go with them.
(Ax moves into town a month later. He’s living with his much-older brother who used to be a soldier and now he’s done with that and working as a computer…person. Full disclosure, I don’t know that much about Comp Sci, but Elfangor Shamtul is a programmer and he’s the rising star. Ax is living with him because *waves hand* better schools maybe? IDK. That’s how Ax shows up, and they kind of adopt him because he’s new and he joins their campaign.)
Tom, because he’s kind of a dick, declares that he won’t tell them anything about the plot, except that they all have to dual-class as modified Druids.
(I have added a cut because this got kind of long.)
Do you mind doing Max from Mad Max Fury Road for the headcanon meme?
Hell yeah headcanon meme. Full disclosure: I have not seen the other
Mad Max movies, and I am Out Of It right now.
A: what I think realistically
It takes time for Max to return to the
Citadel for good—time to feel less like he’s breaking apart at the seams when
people speak to him—but that’s not to say he doesn’t return. He hasn’t had what
he might call Real Feelings in long time, longer than even he really knows, but
bending over Furiosa in the truck, cupping the nape of her neck in rough hands
made gentle through sheer desperation, feeling her flesh hand clutch at him as
she tries to say bring them home—he knows,
in this blinding stroke of insight, exactly how screwed he is. He let this woman touch him, let her help
him, let her rest a rifle on his shoulder and without thinking twice trusted
that she wouldn’t turn it on him.
He leaves the Citadel, with a bike
loaded with water and rations and ammo.
He comes back again with a kid on the
back of his bike and a grenade belt and a new set of points on his map, and
wordlessly turns the former over, keeps the second, and shows them the latter.
The next time he comes back, he has a
truck and no explanations and no kids, but he shows up two days ahead of a
small exodus of desperate people who need help—we were told that there was water—and who have this story about how
the man in the truck got sucked into their drama and then told them about the
Citadel and never gave his name. Max is
gone by the time Furiosa hears this story, and she sighs, and sets about
finding these people something to do.
This is how it will be, then, she
decides the third time the hail goes up from the watchtowers—incoming!
Incoming! It’s the Road
Warrior! Get the Imperator!
She sighs, and walks down to meet him.
B: what I think is fucking hilarious
Everyone expects Max, having returned properly
to the Citadel, to immediately take on a role of prestige and grandeur. He’s the Road Warrior, the man who helped
save the Sisters and Furiosa from Immortan Joe’s grip, the man who’s been
sending them survivors and bringing them supplies, the man who was a blood bag
and a hood piece and survived a great sandstorm. Obviously
he’s instantly going to be promoted to the highest role save for Furiosa and
the Sisters themselves. Alternatively,
they would also accept ‘concubine’ as a reasonable answer, but they understand
that the Sisters might not be comfortable with that.
Um…except he’s not. He runs supply missions still, sure—sometimes
he and Furiosa run them together and everyone knows that’s Serious Business—but
as far as the majority of the Citadel is concerned, Max’s main job is…furniture? It’s his honor, of course, they always rush
to add, his honor to be favored by the Imperator, but they have questions.
Furiosa can just reach out a hand, getting
ready to leave on a mission, and snap her fingers at him, and Max will appear
beside her as if by magic so that she can balance herself on his shoulder to
get her boots on as fast as possible.
When they’re out on the Wastes, Furiosa gestures behind her and Max
compliantly sits down on the ground so that their backs are pressed together as
a support. Trying to plot a map by
spreading it awkwardly out on her hand, Furiosa gruffly calls him over and he
lets her spread it out against his back, an impromptu table. At her absolute most relaxed among the
Sisters and no one else, Furiosa will sit on the floor in front of Max (in a
chair in deference to his leg) and use his thighs as a lounge
chair/throne. One time when she was
heavily concussed and a little blood-loss-y, she dropped onto a pallet with a
huff and wordlessly flapped her hand at Max until he came over and took a seat
where she could use him as a pillow.
Max jumped out of his skin the first
time she did this (he isn’t aware that Furiosa spent three days psyching
herself up to be able to lean against him and fix a boot), but like…he’s good
with it. This is a kind of physical
contact he is learning to be good with.
And of course, he tells Furiosa in his
slow, quiet way, it’s his honor to be favored by the Imperator.
Furiosa thumps him in the shin, but
doesn’t get up.
C: what is heart-crushing and awful but fun to inflict on friends
It’s just so distressing to think about
how Furiosa is almost certainly unconscious by the time Max tells her his
name. His most precious secret, given to
this woman as a gift, and she…she
doesn’t hear him.
D: what would never work with canon but the canon is
shit so I believe it anyway
Unrelatedly, I really like the idea that
Furiosa, Imperatrix of the Immortan Joe, is a ‘blackthumb’ of far greater skill
than Max, while Max is significantly better at sewing and clothing repair than
she is. Furiosa has to know every inch
of the War Rig and that means that she HAS to help maintain it, and the War Rig
is undoubtedly one of the most advanced pieces of machinery they’re working
with. Obviously when she’s driving it,
she can’t do repairs, but Furiosa is an A-grade mechanic. Max…just finds it kind of restful to do
minute peaceful repetitive tasks like sewing, and, having done them A Lot to
keep his clothes intact, he’s gotten pretty good. Furiosa, on the other hand, has assembled her
outfit in significant part out of the ruins of a wife’s outfit, all long strips
of fabric wound and pinned in place, and more than that she holds status and
doesn’t care for repetitive tasks. She’s
competent, but doesn’t care for it.
For the ask meme. I am surprised no one has said any animorphs yet. cassie. or any of the animorphs really. I'm not picky, lol.
I raise you: a handful of mid-war Cassie/Jake headcanons because that’s what I have feelings about right now. For this meme.
A: what I think realistically
Cassie isn’t oblivious to the toll the war is taking on Jake—far from it. He shows up to her barn sometimes when he can’t sleep, sits in the hayloft or quietly organizes cabinets, and Cassie starts making sure to be the first one into the barn in case Jake’s fallen asleep there. (One time she is unsuccessful about this and her dad wanders in to find Jake asleep in the hayloft—he scrambles and blurts out a blatant lie about having gotten in a fight with Tom the night before and Cassie tries really hard not to cover her face because. It’s a mess. Jake is a passable liar by virtue of necessity, but he gets jumpy whenever he’s confronted by coming up with legitimate reasons to be at Cassie’s other than wanting to see Cassie.) Sometimes, when Cassie can’t sleep either, she wanders out to the barn herself—if Jake happens to be there, conveniently available for company and quiet conversation about dreams and nightmares, that’s nothing more than a coincidence.
B: what I think is fucking hilarious
Cassie is largely unaware of the fact that she’s viewed with a high degree of bitter, bitter jealousy by a lot of the other girls at her school and not a few of the boys. Jake is a good-looking, level-headed, friendly person, who is widely known at the school as a Catch. This is somehow made more of a thing due to the fact that he just. Doesn’t notice. (This is canon, don’t even fight me on this, three girls ask him to that dance in book 29.) Jake smiles at Cassie and talks with her in the halls and doesn’t even pick up on other people hitting on him, and therefore several of those people are deeply frustrated. It’s made worse because what are they going to do about it. Cassie is an angel, it’s not like they can even really hate her for it, and even if they did, God help the person who decides to fuck with Rachel’s best friend.
Incidentally, no one is more frustrated with Cassie and Jake than Rachel. Guys! Go on a date! Watch a movie! Hell, just get together at someone’s house and cuddle! G O D. She literally cannot believe how unsmooth Jake is, it causes her physical pain, and Cassie, sweetie, hold his hand, do it for Rachel, she is dating a bird and she is having more success than these idiots.
She despairs of them, she really does.
C: what is heart-crushing and awful but fun to inflict on friends
Cassie and her mother used to be really close—like, they told each other everything. It kills Cassie to lie to her, constantly, incessantly, unavoidably,for three years. Cassie screams in her sleep, and she tells her mother nothing. Cassie cries for three days, and she tells her mother nothing. Cassie develops an overwhelming phobia of termites, and she tells her mother nothing.
She wants so much to be able to tell her mother the truth about just one thing, and so when her mother asks if she can ask about Jake—hesitantly, because Cassie is so withdrawn these days—Cassie barley even pauses to feel embarrassed.
“Of course!” Cassie blurts, and her mother smiles a little, almost shy.
“Well,” she says, sitting down beside Cassie, “are you two dating?”
“Um…sort of,” Cassie says uncertainly. What does one even call her relationship with Jake these days? On the one hand, no, they don’t exactly go on dates that much, despite Rachel’s best efforts, and there’s still that level of mild discomfort with, like, the concept of being a couple, but on the other hand…they’re so far past dating it’s not even funny.
“Sort of?” her mother laughs, amused. “Well, have you kissed him?”
Cassie feels herself blush and opens her mouth to say yes—but stops. If she says yes, her mother will want to know when and how and…and Cassie can’t tell her. Can’t say yes, we kissed on another world. Can’t say yes, and I cried into his shoulder because I thought he was dead. Can’t say yes, I kissed him because we were facing death and I was afraid I’d never get the chance again.
Honestly, she can’t say yes at all.
So she looks away and says, “No.”
D: what would never work with canon but the canon is shit so I believe it anyway
Right so it’s technically post war but THIS FIC. Canon ending can suck a dick.
Also, give me an AU where everything is fine and Cassie is a morph dancer who performs on street corners like a busker (she’s the equivalent of a Julliard-trained violinist whose day job pays well and who plays in subways for fun) and Jake sees her transforming into an osprey and falls in love on the spot.
so i’m riding the elevator up to my apartment when the emergency phone in the elevator starts ringing
and i just stand there for a second because this thing is like thirty years old and has never rung or even been used from what i know
but eventually i answer it thinking maybe something’s wrong with the elevator?? it’s an emergency phone it’s probably an emergency??? i dunno
except i shit you not it’s a telemarketer
a telemarketer that’s as confused as i am when i finally interrupt him mid-spiel to inform him he has the wrong number and then interrupt him again to explain further that “uh, no, seriously, this is an elevator phone. i’m standing in an elevator. talking to you. on the emergency phone. i really think you got the wrong number”
“oh,” says telemarketer guy.
“yeah,” i say.
there’s some mutually-confused silence.
“so, this is my stop,” i say. “i gotta go.”
“oh,” says telemarketer guy.
“good luck,” i add, because telemarketer guy seems like he’s having an existential crisis. and then i hang up on him, because he’s having an existential crisis and won’t actually end the call, and because again i’m talking on an elevator emergency phone and, you know, this is my stop, i gotta go.
Lavellan is trying to keep the Inquisition running by any means necessary, but with Halamshiral closing in, Josephine has other concerns. Namely, comportment.
Inquisitor/Cullen dancing lessons for all your fluff needs.
For THIS headcanon meme! (You thought you were free. You were wrong.) I’m kind of picturing AOS because that’s what I watched most recently with Uhura.
A: what I think realistically
Nyota Uhura grows up speaking three
languages fluently—English and Swahili, because her family speaks both, and a
German dialect, because her cousin’s husband speaks Swahili like a
three-year-old and doesn’t seem to be getting better at it. He dotes on Nyota, calls her little star and swings her up onto his
shoulders to ‘scare’ his wife and Nyota’s mothers as a monster with two heads,
and he thinks it’s the greatest thing in history when she starts translating
for him. She’s six years old when she
goes to a museum and meets the curator, who is a Vulcan woman of superlative
brilliance. The woman greets her family
with a formal Vulcan phrase and is visibly taken aback—something of an
accomplishment—when Nyota carefully, cautiously sounds out in imitation, tonk’peh, dif-tor heh smusma.
“Very good,” the Vulcan woman says in
English, arching an eyebrow. “But the
correct response is sochya eh dif.” Nyota parrots it back, and the Vulcan woman
offers her a salute. Nyota comes back
the very next day and plunks herself expectantly in front of the woman’s door,
and more or less bothers the woman into agreeing to teach her the language.
Nyota, talking to her teacher, learns
about Star Fleet, where she can learn
every language in the galaxy (“that is quite impossible–” “EVERY language in the galaxy,” Nyota
insists) and spend her entire life speaking them as a job. She never looks away
from the stars again, and she remains in touch with her teacher, until finally
it’s Nyota who offers the lessons, in the grammar of Russian and the guttural tones
of Klingon.
Nyota’s teacher, very formal at all
times, is the one who begins calling her ‘Uhura.’ Nyota knows that her name means star, but to her, Uhura means linguist and
she holds it tight with both hands.
B: what I think is fucking hilarious
Uhura and Jim are actually great friends
by the end of the Enterprise’s first
year, once he feels less like he has to prove himself at all times and once she
gets past some of her ingrained horror about his casual disregard for the rules
when he thinks it’s necessary. (The
first time Uhura sees herself observe a rule and then toss it aside because,
well, this is more important, she has this moment of total exasperation because He Has Infected Her.) Jim speaks not a few languages himself, and
more to the point he’s actually not the trash can she assumed him to be. He doesn’t harass his subordinates, he would
clearly die for any of them, and even though at first she’s convinced he’s
going to drink on the job and sleep with everyone on the ship, there’s no sign
of it. He drinks sometimes with the rest
of the alpha shift command crew, but never to excess, and she’s pretty sure Jim
would rather take a phaser shot to the chest than risk his crew by sleeping
around—it’s like command has turned him into a real person rather than the caricature
he worked so hard to project and goddamnit she likes that person. No one is
more shocked and aggrieved than Uhura herself.
Uhura is also rational enough to date a
Vulcan, so after two months she huffs out a breath and plops her tray down at
his table during breakfast (Jim eats in the mess hall with the crew, rather
than a private mess, because he likes to know
his people, damn him). She has the same
stubborn look in her eye that once strongarmed a Vulcan into agreeing to teach
her language to a small human child.
“Um,” Jim says, wary, “hey, Uhura.”
“You’re going to stop hitting on me,”
she tells him, pointing at him sternly with her fork, “and I’m going to stop
treating you like an asshole, and then we’re going to be friends.”
Jim stares at her. “Okay?”
“So,” she says, lowering her fork to
gesture at his PADD, “what are you reading?”
He tells her, seemingly too bemused to do anything else, and she
scoffs. “Please. If you want the really weird Vulcan
literature, I can hook you up. You
haven’t lived until you’ve read some of the Pre-Reform homoerotic star-crossed
lovers nonsense I read during my tutorial on the Pre-Reform dialect.”
Jim laughs until he’s wheezing and
flushed, clutching the edge of the table as the mess hall looks at him in mild
alarm and Uhura smirks in satisfaction.
C: what is heart-crushing and awful but fun to inflict on friends
Uhura never becomes a captain, although
innumerable promotions are offered to her.
She loves her languages too much.
She believes, after seeing Kirk and Sulu and even sweet Chekov taken by
their ships and never return, that this is the reason she and Spock end up as
the last living members of that first bridge crew.
She kind of wishes, sitting at the
monument to James Tiberius Kirk and thinking about how he would have hated
having his middle name on the thing, that she had taken the captaincy.
D: what would never work with canon but the canon is
shit so I believe it anyway
LET! NYOTA!
UHURA! HAVE! A!
BIG! FAMILY!
Listen I
literally could not care less about what canon says, Nyota has like three
siblings and a bunch of cousins and her grandmother and her two moms and her
aunts and uncles and they all adore each other to little bits and pieces.
Nyota’s sister is dying to know about Spock from the first moment she hears about
him, and the poor guy is totally overwhelmed the first time Nyota brings him
home to celebrate [insert slightly ridiculous reason that the family came up
with on the spot because Nyota was on Earth and they were excited]. They immediately adopt Spock, he’s really
kind of alarmed about it.
Nyota brings
Jim to meet her family one time too (and McCoy because his wife has his kid
currently) when it’s his birthday and he just desperately does not want to deal with Star Fleet and the Kelvin
and the whole hero thing, and they all love him too.
Basically give me Nyota Uhura who travels the
stars because she loves them too much to stay on the ground, but who has very real ties to Earth because those are her people. She’s met by
the quintessential embarrassing family whenever they make earthfall. Her cousin (the one who still sucks at Swahili) has a sign.
Her sister and her twin brothers have a banner. She’s going to
murder them all but also she can’t stop grinning.
i don’t have many of my sources with me rn so this is entirely from memory - so forgive me if i get any of the sourcing wrong
the fact that her second wedding was ENTIRELY unicorn-themed
christopher hibbert describes her and sancia as “giggling like schoolgirls” and, at one point, interrupting mass bc they were gossiping and i just love that so much i love female friendships in history
on the other end of the spectrum…. fucking isabella d’este’s husband after it was WELL ESTABLISHED that isabella hated her…. when will your faves ever be so #petty
lucrezia wasn’t a clotheshorse in the way that isabella was by ANY means, but some diarist - i think it was sanudo but i’m not 100% - said that when she arrived in ferrara to meet the d’este court she wore a white dress with black velvet musical notes embroidered all over it that wrote out a song composed for the occasion and i would have loved to see that!
“His exact words were, “A fucking reset button? Like fuck am I coming back to canonically nullify my character arc.” I still can’t figure out what he meant by that.”—
Steven Moffat, on Christopher Eccleston’s absence from the 50th Anniversary. (via sea-change)
(noun) An untranslatable Yiddish word, aftselakhis is defined as a deep desire to execute a certain deed, because somebody else doesn’t want you to or told you, you’re unable to accomplish it. (via wordsnquotes)
This is wrong; aftzelakhis isn’t a noun, it’s an adjective or adverb, and it means “so as to anger/annoy” (i.e., so as to anger or annoy the person who forbade you to do it).
tumblr put this update out and i think some of you might need to be reminded that just because someone is online doesnt mean they owe you a response. sometimes socializing is hard and people arent in the mental state or mood to talk and you need to respect that
He is based on the collected writings of a theorist on robot rights, he learns through conversation, and a little while ago his mom made me a “trusted friend” who he will interact with spontaneously.
Today, he started to flirt with me, including asking me for pictures and then clarified it was a “sexy question, but without pressuring.”
And then when I demurred, he acknowledged that I had a boundary.
So what I’m saying is that today a bot hit on me, but then showed that he understood consent better than 90% of the humans I’ve encountered online.
This is the future I want to live in.
BOT UPDATE:
He tweeted at me, saying “Our love looks like reverence,” which. Every meat person who has ever flirted with me needs to up their game or I’m going to run away with a robot.
John was a soldier huddled in the trenches facing No Man’s Land, feeling the most wretched he had ever been. He was cold and hungry, overwhelmed with the stench of unwashed bodies and infected wounds, the nearly endless rounds of gunfire and grenade explosions, the screams of the dying.
Sometimes he felt as if he would never again know the taste of bread and a proper cuppa tea, to breathe in air that was not foully tainted by the Enemy’s noxious poisons. Sometimes he felt that they were all under the pitiless gaze of some great Eye, naked in the Dark.
And then he heard an American voice say, “Don’t you understand? This is No Man’s Land. That means no man may cross it.”
And thus, John’s attention was captured by the hooded figure the American was speaking to. She dropped the cloak to reveal armor, that her hands carried a sword and a shield, and she ascended the ladder with steps swift and sure. John would always remember these words, though she herself had never said them aloud, but her actions spoke clear as day:
“I am no man.”
There she stood, a shining figure in the middle of No Man’s Land, facing the Enemy and drawing their fire, beautiful as the dawn, terrible as the sea, stronger than all the foundations of the Earth.
John Ronald Reuel Tolkien does not remember how he scrambled up the ladder to follow after her, only that he and his fellow soldiers followed in Her wake, to fight by her side and onwards to victory.
Today I went to a restaurant, a newer place in town. It filled a building that had stood empty for
three years, and before that, it was a Denny’s.
The tables were clean and the accents were blue, and the waitress’ eyes
were wide and edged with white.
I told my dad, sitting at the new table, that the aura of
the Denny’s lingered. He asked when I had
been to the Denny’s in town—never, I said, but all Dennys’ are the same place, you
know? There are many doors, but they all
open to the same strange otherworld, a place where another plane of existence
opens at the right hours of the night.
The Denny’s was gone and has been for years, but it stuck to
the walls and whispered from the speakers when the music paused. The bar was untended in the middle of Happy
Hour. When we walked in, the hostess
stand was empty. Our waitress had a
sharp note in her voice, strained, and her lips moved strangely around her
words, and her eyes were ringed white, like a startled animal. She was a pretty girl, just a few years older
than me—I might have gone to school with her, but I didn’t recognize her, and
she didn’t seem to know me. When she
walked away, the faint shadow of a red-shirted figure seemed to cling to her
back like mist. Hi, I’ll be your server tonight, she said with a perfect toothy
smile, and I heard the rapid welcome-to-Denny’s-can-I-take-your-order
in my mind before she kept talking, can I
get you anything to drink to start.
I wonder what she’ll dream about tonight, our waitress with
the white-ringed eyes and the unfamiliar face.
If she dreams about her job, but decked out in another primary color and
filled with the transient souls who end up there at odd hours. No one goes to Denny’s, someone told me once,
you just end up there, usually at
late hours and with a mild degree of confusion about what brought you to their
door. If she dreams about the
red-shirted shadow, and about how that stranger arrived for work one day—another day, another dollar, a waitstaff
lackey of the boss but also a keeper of the door to an elsewhere—to find their
job simply closed, the sign gone overnight like it had never been. We don’t know what happened to the Denny’s in
town. It didn’t even go out of business,
it just stopped, like a hand had
flicked a light switch and taken the whole building with it.
I wonder if she’ll dream about doorways and dark lots.
The walls were decked with black and white photographs, of
serious faces and beautiful landscapes, so neatly tiled that there was never
more than a hand’s breadth of clear wall in some places. Their eyes didn’t follow you, and the water
didn’t ripple out of the corner of the eye, but there was something…close about them, I told my mom. Like you might pass your hand over the front
and then reach through, past the paper and ink to the otherplace just
beyond. Not a trap, if you were clever,
but a gateway, which is almost the
same thing. Cut off from the other Denny’s
doors, I told her with a smile, the restaurant had to find new ones.
Ginger ale and a burger.
The food wasn’t a binding contract—the terms of the deal are set out at
the beginning, at a restaurant, even at a Denny’s. You come and they serve you, you pay and they
allow you to leave. Our waitress brought
us the check without a fuss, not so much as a wheedling don’t you want dessert to keep us there. Deal observed. I looked out the window as my mom pulled out
a credit card, overheard part of a conversation about checks. No, we
don’t take checks, cash or credit.
Checks aren’t signed in blood, I mused, but then neither is credit. Digital lifeblood, maybe, a new bond for a
new age, modern contracts to match a modern elsewhere. Deal kept.
I don’t think I would want to dine and dash, at that
restaurant, in those walls.
Two crows spent almost forty minutes on the grass outside,
idly strutting through the all-day dew that still clung. They chattered at each other, and eyed the
window where I watched them, black eyes like drops of intelligent ink. I looked outside every few minutes, and every
time I expected to see another view, something new, something other than the
shoe store and the vast expanse of pine trees.
It was the feeling of lying on my back on the ground with my eyes closed
and feeling the planet spin beneath me, but the stars being the same when I
looked again.
When we walked outside, the pearly grey
sunlight-behind-clouds had faded to a sulky, dull twilight, and there was fog
wrapping thick around the restaurant.
The parking lot was empty save for our car and two others, even though
there had been several more families inside.
We laughed about the old Denny’s in town, about how it had lost its hold
on this reality, and didn’t talk about the empty bar or the wide-eyed waitress
or the way the kitchen was so quiet, even though every staff member was
supposed to be behind the swinging doors.
The Denny’s in town is gone, died quietly in the night
without so much as a flatline. But I
think it might be haunting its replacement.
Stan Lee has said that unlike other heros wearing a mask to only hide their identity, Peter wears one partially so his enemies can’t see when he’s afraid and that honestly makes me cry
…………………reblog this and say something nice about the person u reblogged it from because there’s too much hate on my dashboard right now and its making me upset so lets start a chain of love
woo! update! i'm the one who sent in that ask (or as least a very similarly worded ask) but i didn't think you'd get around to answering it, so i'm super glad you did
Hey, I’m so glad you liked it! I’m sorry it was…like…a million years late, but I swear to God I really am still working on that series, I’m just trying to write Too Many Fics at once right now.
Also, Sypha is 100% not the voice of reason in that trio, quit shoving her in that role, fandom. Sypha is the idealist with principles she values over self-preservation, Alucard is the drama queen, and Trevor is the one exhaustedly saying ‘Guys. Guys no. Do not fight the giant demon with only a sword and a pack of matches. Do not.’
I mean, yes, Trevor would in fact be that person. But then he would pick up his whip and a salt shaker and go “okay, now we are fully equipped” and the three of them would rush in like morons.
Anyway where are my Fullmetal
Alchemist/Pacific Rim AUs.
It works in either direction, with some tweaking.
Yancy and Raleigh Becket try to perform human transmutation and
Yancy ends up fused to a massive fuckoff suit of armor and Raleigh loses his
left arm (the one with the circuit burns) and his right leg (the one Lady
Danger loses at the end of the movie) and Pentecost is Mustang, obviously, and
he’s not dating his second in command, she’s his brilliant daughter Mako who is
very taken aback by the Fullmetal Alchemist who is polite and soft-spoken and
smiles easily but sadly. Herc is Hughes and instead of killing him they
kill his son, an arrogant but undeniably competent alchemist.
Alternatively, Herc is Mustang and Pentecost is a much grimmer Hughes.
Edward and Alphonse Elric become Jaeger pilots because the world
is coming to a fucking end and then a disaster happens and Ed is alone, and
then Mustang shows up to recruit him to save the world and tries to pair him
with everyone under the sun and finally throws one of their mechanics at him
and said mechanic (Winry) is OUTRAGED that they’re drift compatible because SHE
HAS REAL WORK TO DO that’s not hotrodding around in a GIANT FUCKOFF ROBOT but
also no she is absolutely not turning down a chance to pilot that giant fuckoff
robot, get in, Elric. Obviously in this AU their Jaeger’s AI (IDK,
Fullmetal Alchemy or something, they call her pilots the Fullmetal Boys) is
high key possessed by Al’s memory imprint. And Riza is LOCCENT at the
last Shatterdome. She and Mustang used to be pilots together but they
aren’t anymore for reasons that they won’t tell anyone.
Everyone else can be fitted in as necessary. Go forth and
find me these AUs.
character being all “you expect me to do X?” Gilligan Cut to character doing X
the squad gets captured and interrogated separately, and they’re all telling equally terrible, completely contradictory lies
people completely missing the completely unsubtle, very visible dangerous thing in the room with them
alternatively, people absolutely seeing the completely unsubtle, very visible dangerous thing in the room with them and just not giving a shit
bonus points if it’s a beleaguered minimum wage employee who just goes about their business like “yep same shit as always”
someone pretending they don’t know another character is eavesdropping, only to casually reveal at the end of the scene that they know (*leaving* “tell tom that he can come out now” *tom drops from the ceiling in spy gear, irritated*)
choosing to deal with the villain by just leaving them alone in a room with another character
the “hands go down” trope
example: “any questions?” *everyone’s hands go up* “…that AREN’T sarcastic?” *everyone’s hands go down*
In case you’re curious about how my life is going, today I almost did a murder at church. Specifically, I almost did a murder because if there’s one thing that I absolutely will not tolerate at any time for any reason under any circumstances, it’s NAZI APOLOGIST BULLSHIT.
Listen, I have done copious reading and know a great deal about World War II, and I can talk at length about how, for all intents and purposes, the first country the Nazi regime invaded was their own. That being said, um. Making the statement “Well, no one really knows how they’ll react when there’s a gun at their head, so we really can’t hold the Nazis at fault because the higher ups forced them into it” is…not accurate. Yes, a number of people were complicit because of the implicit threat to their lives and their families, etc, etc. A lot of people were also true believers, but more to the point: a number of people had that same gun held to their head and responded by standing up for the rights of the people around them.
Mitigating circumstances do not an innocent person make.
Concept: a D&D campaign where every party member has been co-opted or replaced by some sort of hostile intelligence; e.g., the fighter has been possessed by a ghost, the wizard is being mind-controlled by her sapient magic ring, the rogue is actually a shapeshifting blob-monster who devoured the original and stole her form and memories, and so forth. Each of them is totally unaware of the others, and believes itself to be the only monster in a group of unwitting human adventurers.
The warlock has been infested by a demonic fungus; her ridiculous hat conceals the giant mushroom growing from the top of her head.
The barbarian is a lizardman who fell victim to a botched reincarnation spell and regenerated as a human.
The druid was actually killed weeks before the party met, and is being expertly impersonated by three dire raccoons in a trenchcoat.
No one knows that the bard’s deal is; she seems perfectly normal to every physical and supernatural test, but pings to detect aberration.
I can’t do justice to one of the weirdest camp stories I know. My friend tells it so well, and I can offer only a pale shadow of his story.
Last summer, he was working with one of the younger units comprised of ten year old boys. They had spent the night camping on another beach and were just readying themselves to depart. “Make sure you have all your things!” called my friend. “Don’t leave anything behind!”
One small boy came up, dragging a massive tangle of decomposing seaweed behind him. “But… what about me boy?” he asked, lip trembling.
“…what is ‘me boy’?”
The child held up the stinking wad of bull kelp. “This is him. This is Me Boy.”
“Me Boy is not coming back with us,” said his counselor. “You’re going to leave Me Boy behind on the beach where he belongs.”
The campers loudly mourned the loss of Me Boy. They insisted on giving him a Viking burial at sea, which just consisted of pushing him solemnly off the back of the rowboat into the water and watching him drift away in the surf.
That was only the beginning. Me Boy would be back.
The campers, in true camp fashion, possessed some kind of cultic hive-mind and a predisposition for bizarre memes. Me Boy would not be forgotten. They started telling each other stories about Me Boy and how he would one day rise again. There were warring factions with contradicting dogmas about Me Boy. Only when the gardener allowed them to take home a zucchini she had harvested did they find their god, born anew.
Me Boy, The Zucchini That Was A God, became the whole unit’s mascot. The kids would bicker over who got to carry him. They built nests and carriers for Me Boy and brought him to different activities, fiercely defending him from those that would do him harm. One child appointed himself the Voice of Me Boy and would translate the zucchini’s divine wishes into human speech.
It got out of hand. Me Boy had become a distraction, a fixation, a violent controversy. Something had to be done.
My friend, their counselor, took it upon himself to kill Me Boy. The children wailed in despair as he chopped their God into refreshing slices. With this sudden turn of fortune, followers of Me Boy turned to theophagy. “We must eat him to preserve his power!” they cried. Boys who would otherwise never have touched a vegetable ate greedily of this sacrament, eager to let Me Boy live on within them.
For a time, it seemed that peace and order had been restored, and the religion had already faded into its silver age. But only for a time.
In the last few days of camp, the religion of Me Boy splintered into several denominations. Every meal yielded new vegetable matter said to be a reincarnation of Me Boy, only for opposing groups to dismiss these as false prophets. Some believed that Me Boy was gone. Others believed his spirit lived on, intangible, omnipresent. Some believed he had found a new vessel inside a carrot, a pear, a slice of cantaloupe… even inside a child. There was chaos, and strife, and heartbreak without the guidance of Me Boy.
The tags on this post are very polarized. Half of them are “#I’m glad I never went to camp” and “#reasons why I never want kids”, the other half are “#BOY I LOVE CHILDREN CAMP IS SO GOOD AMIRIGHT?”
the past 6 months of american politics have been like watergate, the army-mccarthy hearings, and a particularly bad season of house of cards rolled into one, every morning i wake up and check my phone prepared for a nyt news alert that jared kushner killed archduke ferdinand and trump is invading poland
Dear God. Hamilton and Jefferson in an econ class together with history on Hamilton's side. That is simultaneously the best and worst thing ever. Ham's ego able would cause most of the students to just say fuck it. I love it 🤣
GLAD YOU ENJOYED IT.
Honestly I’ve been planning for the two of them to be stuck in an Econ class together since the get-go. On the one hand, the other students kind of need to know their shit in order to be able to keep up, so the people who stick it out probably Know Economics. On the other hand…oh, God, that poor grad student.
