…………………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
(Source: daddariom, via just-french-me-up)
Anonymous asked: DID YOU WATCH SPIRIT: STALLION OF THE CIMARRON BECAUSE THAT MOVIE AND BALTO WERE MY CHILDHOOD
Okay…so.
My relationship with a lot of movies I watched as a little kid is messy. Spirit being one of them. On the one hand, I think I recall liking it quite a lot. On the other hand, I watched it with my cousins, which is pretty much a knee-jerk hate response because my cousins took their mother and grandmother’s perspective on me. There’s a lot of movies that fall into this category, or, alternatively, the category of “I was too fucked up to deal with this movie as a kid” like for example Spirited Away. It’s a pretty benign movie that I inexplicably had screaming nightmares about. All of these movies fall into the much larger category of ‘very vaguely recalled because they were casualties of memory repression.’
So…I guess the end result is: yeah, I watched it, but like…it’s complicated and I’ll probably rewatch it now that I’m an adult on the other side of some therapy and get a lot more out of it. Sorry this got kind of weirdly personal rather than being a response to the movie.
Men of Skyhold: Krem
I must reiterate my burning need to romance Krem. Drawing this pic has only made it worse.
5k Thanks for all the support this year! <3 <3 <3 <3
(via clockwork-mockingbird)
alternate dragon age subtitles
Dragon Age: Oh You Want to Romance a Dwarf? Well, Uh, Maybe Later
Dragon Age: If You’re Tired of Fancypants Tolkienian Elves That Have Everything Handed to Them on a Silver Leafy Platter, Have We Got a Story For You
Dragon Age: Sing-Along With Mother Giselle!
Dragon Age: We Put the Eyyyyyyy in Morally Grey
Dragon Age: Every Ancient Order of Honorable Warriors Is Probably Corrupt and/or Keeping More Secrets Than Your Entire Party Put Together
Dragon Age: Those Barriers Can Totally Be Broken Without Magic of the Opposing Type, We Lied (Oops)
Dragon Age: How the FUCK Are You Swinging That 8-Foot Sword
Dragon Age: There’s Either a Billion Dragons That Are a Mild Nuisance Or Ten That Will Violently Destroy You, There Is No Middle Ground
Dragon Age: Chances Are Flemeth Will Never Die, Ever
Dragon Age: If Joan of Arc Got a Little Out of Hand
Dragon Age: Every Time We Tell You Somewhere Is Terrible It Probably Isn’t That Bad (Except Maybe Kirkwall)
Dragon Age: Being an Elf Means You’ll Never Ever Be Happy and Literally No One Cares (Except Possibly Someone Who’d Just as Soon Destroy All of the World, So, Good Luck with That)
Dragon Age: The Myths Are Mostly True and The History Mostly Isn’t
Dragon Age: Magic Is Evil and Terrible and Will Make You a Monster Unless You’re the One Doing It (Or You’re Friends With the One With the Fancy Title)
Dragon Age: Generally Speaking, Everything You Thought Was True Is Probably a Huge Lie Spread By People In Power So They Could Stay That Way
Dragon Age: If You Thought the Real Church Was Fucked Up…
and last but not least
Dragon Age: If You Think You’re in Control, There is Probably a Mage Among Your Friends Who’s Scheming Something That Will Make You an Accessory to Murder and/or World-Destruction But Hasn’t Told You Yet (Sorry)
These are all true.
(via scarhoax)
skymurdock asked: whispers 17, either Alex/Eliza or Anakin/Padmé.
17: I know your weakness. It’s kisses. You are doomed. (Don’t worry. We’re all doomed eventually.)
How the galaxy fell to the Dark Side, one kiss at a time. Or, an overview of the Sith Padmé AU.
“Oh,” Padmé says in surprise as the Force goes yesss in the back of her mind at the sight of a young boy with hair like sunshine and a presence like the sun itself. Her Jedi protectors are easily as arrested by the boy’s presence, but she suspects for rather different reasons. His power is spectacular, certainly, but there’s more—a sharp click as of a lock, and something in her core says that is mine.
The boy’s head snaps up and his eyes meet hers and she hears, clear as day, his voice, as it says, An angel.
When she meets him properly, Anakin with his sky-blue eyes and child’s voice, she offers her hand to shake. Instead, he takes it, reverent, and kisses her knuckles.
“I’m going to marry you, someday,” he tells her solemnly, still holding her hand, and she smiles.
“I know.”
Anonymous asked: Hello friend, I just wanted to ask if you were ever going to update your R avatar fic... not to rush you or pressure you or whatever. I know you are super busy and such but I just wanted to ask because I like it and just wanted to know ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
MY BUDDY, MY DUDE, SORRY FOR THE DELAY ON ANSWERING THIS ASK BUT NOT THAT SORRY BECAUSE HERE, I FINALLY FUCKING GOT MY SHIT TOGETHER
CHAPTER SEVEN OF THINGS WE LOST IN THE FIRE, THE AVATAR GRANTAIRE AU THAT I CAN’T BELIEVE PEOPLE ARE STILL READING
*THROWS SELF ON GROUND AND GROVELS FOR TAKING TWO MONTHS TO UPDATE*
(hey just be grateful it’s not my Eponine Reincarnation fic, that one is actively on hiatus because the chapters are so long, I’m the worst)
Clint’s perspective of meeting Natasha in that one soulmate AU, for @littlestartopaz.
Clint’s soulmark curves under the line of his collarbone, in tiny, precise handwriting. And it’s…interesting. It’s in Russian, he learns that real quick as a kid, and when he’s seven, still living at home with his parents and his brother, he finds out that one of his teachers speaks the language. He rushes up to her the very next day and explains, hasty and stammered, and she smiles kindly, offering to translate it for him.
He pulls down the collar of his shirt—he sees her eyes drag on the hand-shaped bruise on his wrist, but she doesn’t say anything—and she leans down to read his words.
“Let’s see,” she says, and reads out the Russian words. Clint tries to memorize the sound of it, so that he’ll know his soulmate when they meet him. “Oh,” the teacher says quietly, and smooths his shirt back over his mark. “Listen, baby, I don’t think it’s anything you need to worry about just yet, okay?”
“What does it say?”
She gives him a smile, sort of grim and sad and confused, and says, “I’m sorry, baby, I’m not going to tell you. You don’t need that on your conscience today.”
Anonymous asked: 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.
Deorum (Of Gods)
RIGHT, sorry for the delay, I forgot this was a thing. Here is Part V, set about six days after the last bit. Parts I, II, III, and IV are also available
It was a Friday morning again when Jack woke himself up from a dream with shouting in a language he didn’t immediately recognize. This would have alarmed him more if he hadn’t discovered, over the past several days, a native speaker’s knowledge of German, Japanese, Welsh, Spanish, and Slovakian, as well as passable fluency in a handful of other tongues—including, to Anansi’s supreme satisfaction, Akan. The shouting was new, though, and as his brain caught up to the adrenaline in his veins, he vaguely recognized it as Russian, diphthong vowels dripping from hard consonants.
Jack tried to recapture the sound of his words, as if he could collect the echoes from where they had settled in corners of the room and hollows of the blankets, reassemble them into speech. He opened his mouth and let his lips move to form the syllables he had heard.
“Something meshok moi,” he said aloud. “Popast’v meshok moi.”
Hillary Clinton won the first debate and it wasn’t even close
That sound you hear is the entire Democratic Party exhaling. Hillary Clinton commanded the first debate by letting Trump shoot himself in the foot over and over again, keeping her cool as he repeatedly interrupted her and continued to lie about his past positions. A representative exchange came about midway through the debate, when Clinton turned to Trump’s history as a businessman.
