#the other half of his superpower is the ability to locate coffee anywhere #which is how he knew what direction to start walking when he was in afghanistan #‘the nearest pot of coffee is 23 miles east’ #and then he started walking through the desert #honestly that’d be kind of a fun plot device #somebody write it I’m too lazy (via @buckykingofmemes)
There is a reason Tony never mentions that he’s a mutant. It’s not that he’s ashamed, or even that he’s afraid of the negative impact the news would have on the Stark name and his business.
It’s that he got such a fucking lame power.
The X-men can fly, control the weather, shoot lasers from their eyes, and make things go boom. Tony? Tony get’s the amazing ability to metabolize caffeine extra well (okay, on a level that would kill ten average people) and sense it for miles.
He’s one of those mutants whose powers fall into a category all their own. teeeechnically, he’s actually an alpha level mutant, given the complex way his body processes caffeine and the nearly fifty mile range on the sensor aspect of his talent, plus the degree of sensitivity. But in practice? The few people in the know mostly consider him to be a beta mutant, since his power isn’t really applicable as a defence or offense.
At any given moment he can tell you with pinpoint accuracy what things within a block of him have caffeine and what they are, even managing to differentiate between different kinds of coffee. He can even tell you who made it, if he’s met the person.
(He tries to explain it to Pepper and Rhodey, once. Tries to explain that it’s not that he’s measuring the level of caffeine in a pot of coffee really, it’s that everyone makes coffee differently. If he focuses, he can tell that the pot of coffee down in the accounting break room was made by Margery, not Cole, or Clarke, or Franchesca, because it feels like her. Numbers and irritation and impatience coupled with the peppermint sticks she likes to swirl in a cup of black. He knows he doesn’t manage it well when all he gets are indulgently confused smiles from his two friends.
Charles Xavier prattled a bit about possible subconscious empathic or telepathic impressions, but honestly Tony doesn’t really care. He just does what he does. It’s not like the mechanics really matter with a useless power like his. He doesn’t stay at Xavier’s long. Hanging with the X-men makes him feel like a toaster hanging out with sports cars.)
It’s not until he’s kneeling in scorchingly hot sand, an unforgivingly bright sun high in the sky above him and bits of scattered metal around him, that he’s thankful for the power evolution gave him. Because when he reaches out with that strange other sense of his, he can feel all the distant pinpricks of sensation that mean, ‘Here! There be coffee here!’. Most carry the notes of people who feel like the land around him, but one….. Smiling grimly, he heaves himself to his feet and looks east, towards the distant call that carries with it a taste of foreigntiredordersyessirdutythiscoffeeSUCKSman that tells him there are american soldiers that-a-way.
dragons don’t ever really leave their princesses (and their princesses never really want them to go)
The first thing she remembers is the warmth of scales beneath her hand, a voice crooning a lullaby that she feels in her bones as much as she hears. The first thing her watery, stinging eyes behold are a loose circle of shining claws and the translucent dome of blue wings blocking out the rest of the overwhelming world. A shining blue nose, deep as sapphires, leans down and nudges her gently.
:Wake, little hatchling.: Warm, feminine, loving; it rings with will-not-be-harmed and safe-under-wings. She can’t make herself be afraid. A forked tongue gently touches her cheek and she smiles, giggles, puts a hand out to gently push it away.
There is something she ought to be worried about, but it runs from her thoughts when she tries to remember. The world has narrowed to the warm safety of the circle, the fires burning in bright yellow eyes. The dragon nudges her again before ever-so-delicately picking up a loaf of bread in her long white teeth and depositing it in her lap.
:Hatchling must eat. Lady-who-burns left food.: She obediently begins to eat, leaning back against blue scales and smiling brightly up at her guardian. There is only one word her limited memory can assign to this giant being, and as she finishes her bread and snuggles up to a warm claw before falling asleep again she whispers it-
“Mama.”
x-x-x-x-x
When she wakes again, it’s to a much smaller version of the blue snout- this time in red- peering into her face. She jumps back; he jumps back. She tilts her head; he tilts his head and snorts, confused.
A laughing rumble comes from the mother dragon curled around them both.
:Red-hatchling, meet Human-hatchling. She is one-of-us. Play nice, do not bite-claw-harm. She has no scale-coat.: Images as much as words, like before. The red hatchling snorts again and shakes himself, small wings thumping on the ground, before squawking in a rather undignified way and jumping up.
:Come play pounce-and-pin!: He dashes away, looking over his shoulder, and Mother nudges her towards him with another amused chuckle.
Tentatively at first but then with more confidence, she chases after the red hatchling to play a rough game of tackling and wrestling. The red plays fair and does not use his talons or teeth, as Mother warned, but he is larger and stronger than her and she ends up on the ground much more often than she manages to pin him. Nevertheless, the old castle hall is filled with the sounds of human and draconic laughter as the blue watches on with happiness shining in her eyes.
x-x-x-x-x
Time passes. Her memories slowly come back, of a place where “mother” means a tall blonde woman, her smiles always forced and distant and her voice always ready to scold. Where “brother” means cruel laughter and taunts made by a man who looms tall over her, solid boots ready to crush unwary little fingers.
She stops missing them after a few days.
Her time is filled with laughter as she and the red hatchling invent games for themselves through the castle’s abandoned halls and gone-to-seed courtyards. They gorge themselves on sweet berries from bushes long gone wild, they hunt for rabbits that Mother will cook for them, they mock-duel with her holding a stick and he pretending to flame her.
She teaches him to read, from what she remembers, curled side-by-side in the dusty library. He tells her the stories Mother has told him, how when he breathes his first fire he will earn his name and become a true dragon. And at night they sit by Mother’s side and listen to her sing as they fall asleep, safe under her wings and warmed by the fire inside her.
Sometimes other humans come to search the castle. She and Brother hide while Mother scornfully tosses them aside. One day Mother gently herds a terrified horse into one of the large inner courtyards, and once he has adjusted to his new neighbors she teaches herself to ride the rather placid gelding.
She teaches herself to sew, eventually, and makes herself clothes from the cloth brought each month by the strange woman who is the only other human Mother will tolerate. One day she begins to gather the scales Brother and Mother shed and sews them into tough cloth for armor; the interlocking patterns of blue and red entertain her for hours, and the extra protection gives Brother more leeway with his growing claws when they wrestle.
The first time she uses the scales to deflect her brother’s full-force blows successfully, Mother’s pride can be felt from across the room.
x-x-x-x-x
Brother earns the name :Heart-of-Burning-Star: when he breathes his first flame; she sings along with Mother to honor him, her heart bursting with pride.
Mother takes her flying, perched securely on her shoulders and Brother frolicking alongside, to see the mountains and the marshlands and the ocean and the forests. She teaches them how to tell hungry predators from those who are well-fed, how to sneak up on unsuspecting prey, how best to avoid the sword striking for their hearts. At night she tells them of magic, of the world’s mysteries, of how a dragon can change their shape if their need is great.
When at last she bids them farewell they let her go with sorrow but not despair; she has taught them well how to fend for themselves, and the girl will not be alone. Brother will never leave her while she has no wings of her own.
Before she leaves, she touches her nose to the girl’s forehead. :Adopted-child. You will not breathe flame, but you are grown, with a dragon’s heart; I name you Lover-of-Life. Honor and love and wind for your wings, my hatchling-now-grown.:
Their lives continue as they always have among the ruins of the castle; supplying for themselves, and needing no luxuries but the warmth of their sibling by their sides.
x-x-x-x-x
Though Brother fights valiantly when the men come again, he is smaller than Mother and not quite as wise; he is young, and proud, and easily drawn out of his defenses by their taunts. She screams as fireproofed ropes encircle his proud limbs and he is dragged to earth, easy prey for their blades.
One of the men catches hold of her as she tries to run to his side.
“Easy, easy fair maid!” She flinches from the sound of words spoken to ears, not to heart. How can they speak truly to one another when their words are so flat and depthless?
“We shall rescue you from this beast which holds you captive here. Only look away a moment and it shall trouble you no more.”
Rescue? Rescue? From what?!
She cannot form the words on her lips to make them understand, and none of them hear when she reaches for their hearts. She screams and cries, fighting with all the muscle she gained wrestling a young dragon, as they drag her away from her brother. It is still not enough to stop them. Her brother lies still on the ground with dirty men laughing over his helpless body. She cannot take the indignity to the noblest, best friend she has ever known, and fights all the fiercer.
Eventually they force some bitter drink down her resisting throat, and it makes her sight grow dark. She screams for Brother one last time as she drops down into unconsciousness, and she hears him call back with desperation,
:Will come find you! Sister-of-my-heart…:
He keens as the men drag her away, before the sound abruptly chokes to nothing. Her tears burn as they fall.
x-x-x-x-x
The world has changed to something she doesn’t understand.
She is surrounded by humans, women clucking at her in concerned tones, men speaking over her head as if she doesn’t exist, little children stopping to point and stare and whisper. The world is a mass of noises she only barely comprehends, missing the touch of heart on heart that made all emotions seem real.
They take away her scale armor; she later finds and rescues it from the dung of the stable midden, crying as she cleans each scale and remembers what she has lost. The too-soft fabrics tie her up and trip her. Her bed seems cold, no matter how many hot bricks they add, with no warm heartbeat beside her. They make her sit all day, surrounded by chattering women, and she fidgets with the need to roam, to stalk, to ride, to fly. She thinks with longing of her quiet castle and Brother’s uncomplicated love.
At night she creeps out the window- the chiseled stone is hatchling’s play to climb- to run through the gardens and smell air that isn’t perfumed to cover the human stink. Even that brings her little joy; the gardens are all carefully cultivated patches of life with sterility in between, and there are no rabbits to chase or berries to pick. All too soon, though, her guards come grumbling to seize her arms and drag her in, back to where even the cleanest dirt is not tolerated against her skin and her own scent is washed away under the gagging stink of dying flowers.
She wilts, day by day, her eyes losing their sparkle and her bright gold hair losing its shine. Food tastes like ash in her mouth, her sleep is fitful. Her not-mother pretends to fret over her when people are looking, her not-brother makes snide comments about her appearance. She barely hears them anymore. Mother would not recognize her now; there is no love of life in her heart.
She paces her chambers like a beast in a too-small cage, claws removed and fangs filed to nubs, and stares out the window with dull, lifeless eyes.
x-x-x-x-x
She is wakened from fitful sleep by a calloused hand pressing over her mouth. Only a moment’s panic crosses her mind before her heart begins to sing; she’d know that amber-eyed gaze anywhere!
:Sister-mine!: She throws her arms around her brother and weeps, silently, reaching out for the only being who feels real in this land of perfumed, empty words.
:Thought you were dead, saw you fall! Saw so much blood…: He shudders, and she feels scars across his back, only recently healed.
:Wing-torn, lost much blood, but not yet dead. Men grew bored, left. Was able to stop bleeding, heal. Searched for heart-sister, found you, could not reach you. Reached for magic to be human. Climbed wall.: He huffed and stroked her hair. :Humans not guard well from other humans.:
She lets out a broken, teary laugh and wipes her face with her sleeve. :Looking for me-escaping, not you-entering. Won’t be easy to leave.:
He grins, all teeth and dragon’s fire.
:Easy not fun.:
x-x-x-x-x
They sneak their way upwards, towards the castle walls. He can only hold this form until daylight, as young as he is, and it’s fast approaching dawn; the plan is for her to ride on his shoulders away from the castle as dawn takes back his human form.
They’re caught halfway up, by a knight sneaking back from a maid’s room; she takes him down with a swift slash of a stolen knife, but not before his yell alerts the castle.
The warriors bring them to bay on the parapets just as light crests the horizon; her brother is forced to leap from the walls as he loses human form and hovers just out of bow-shot, desperately calling her.
She cannot reach him…. But she refuses to be taken again.
Her eyes locked on her brother and her scale armor turning gold in the morning light, she leaps from the wall. She ignores the screams of the humans, listening instead to the despairing heart-call of her brother who cannot reach her in time.
Her mind flashes back to a lesson of Mother’s; “a dragon may change shape if their need is great.”
Mother had named her a dragon at heart.
Her roar splits the air as her armor grows, turning into golden scales the color of morning sun, and her wings cut the air like butter.
The golden dragon joins her brother in the sky, crying out her joy as they circle one another, and as the humans gape they turn to the mountains with their wings nearly touching as they fly.
From that day forth, the armor coat became her dragon-skin; when she wore it, she would be the golden dragon her heart knew her to be, and when she removed it (as she did only rarely) she would be the human woman she was born.
The armor’s scales all stayed golden, even after she removed it; all except two, that is. They rested directly over her heart, one a gorgeous sapphire-blue and the other a deep, fierce red; for no matter how much you change your shape, you keep your true family close to your heart.
All the gods of myth and legend are real, but having your prayers answered depends on discovering which god can hear you. You figured out which god is listening to your prayers, but they’re not what you expected.
Suzy
was dissapointed. Most people her age had discovered their deity so
far, and she was starting to think she was godless. She turned the
next page of McBayers’ Little Book of Deities,
and tried reading their names aloud to see if she’d get a reaction.
It had taken her weeks just to get through Chinese spirits and
deities, and had finally reached the first page of Egyptian
Gods and you.
“Ammit?
Amun? Anhur?” Nothing. Her heart slowly sank again.Three
more tries, and she’d stop for now.
“Anubis?”
The
ground shook. The lights in Suzy’s room flickered and went out. A
single flame hovered in the middle of the room, and as it grew to a
blaze it changed form. Within the blink of an eye, there was a tall
figure standing in Suzy’s room. The body of a man, and the head of a
jackal. His eyes shone bright as he peered at her.
WHAT
IS IT, SUZY OF THE HOUSE MILLER?
“You’re
the deity that answers my prayers?”
INDEED.
I, ANUBIS, WHO RULES OVER THE LAND OF THE DEAD, IS HERE TO ANSWER
YOUR REQUESTS.
Suzy
thought for a moment. “O great and mighty Anubis who rules over the
afterlife, can I please have a puppy?”
Anubis
seemed taken aback.
IN
THE CENTURIES THAT I HAVE BEEN PRAYED TO, THIS IS THE FIRST TIME I
HAVE BEEN REQUESTED SOMETHING LIKE THIS. CHILD, HOW OLD ARE YOU?
“I’m
eight and a half. My mommy says that if I can take care of a puppy, I
can keep it.”
ARE
YOU CERTAIN YOU DO NOT WISH FOR ME TO BRING PLAGUES UPON YOUR ENEMIES
OR WEIGH A SOUL FOR YOU?
Suzy
shook her head. “I want a puppy.”
CHILD,
IN TRUTH THIS WISH I CANNOT GRANT. MY JOB HAS BEEN TO BRING PEACE AND
LEAD SOULS INTO THE AFTERLIFE, NOTHING MORE. IF I WERE TO CREATE A
HOUND FOR YOU, IT WOULD BE FORMED OF BONE AND SOUL ALONE.
Suzy
thought for a second. She would have liked to have a nice fluffy
puppy, but then she remembered how Aunt Marge’s Sphinx cat was still
nice, even without fur.
“No
fur is fine, as long as they don’t bite and make a mess.”
Anubis
nodded, and raised a hand. Underneath his palm an intricate symbol
appeared on the floor. It glowed bright, and the floorboards burst
apart. Up sprang a massive skeletal dog, bigger than suzy herself.
Its eye sockets held blue flame, and its jaw hang partly open in a
perpetual grin. It slowly walked over to Suzy and nuzzled her.
“What
does it eat?”
IT
WILL NOT NEED SUSTENANCE, AND WANTS NOTHING MORE THAN TO SERVE ITS
NEW MASTER. I HOPE THIS WILL SUFFICE.”
“I
love it. Thank you, Anubis.”
Anubis
looked slightly taken aback, but nodded peacefully.
FAREWELL
FOR NOW, SUZY OF THE MILLERS. IF YOU EVER NEED ANYTHING ELSE YOU HAVE
BUT TO ASK ME.
Suzy
nodded, and ran over to her parents’ room to show them her new dog.
She was pretty sure they couldn’t object to this pet.
HOW CAN I PICK JUST FIVE, DADVANS, HE IS LIKE, A CRYPTID THAT JUST WANTS TO SHOW YOU PICTURES OF HIS BEAUTIFUL HUSBAND AND ADORABLE DOG. WHO PROBABLY DON’T EXIST. HE PROBABLY BOUGHT OUT SOME DUDE’S STOCK OF MODELING PHOTOS. THERE’S NO WAY A DUDE THAT CUTE EXISTS IN THIS TOWN, WE’D KNOW ABOUT IT.
“okay you know that guy who comes in, the russian one that tips well?” “wait, the one that’s always talking about his husband and their dog?” “yeah, that guy! he came in with cupcakes he said his husband made, they’re in the break room.”
“so we had this girl being harassed, and like, this super gay dude just sat down beside her, whipped out an ipad, and started showing her pictures of his husband and their dog like he’d known her for years, and the guy trying to hit on her tried to tell him they were talking, and the super gay dude says, in this super Russian accent ‘don’t be stupid, nobody would want to talk to you. go away. we’re looking at pictures of my husband’.” “LMAO that’s My Husband, he’s always here when his husband is travelling.”
“this guy came in to get an actual fucking blue rinse on his hair and spent the entire time talking about how his husband learned how to knit and made him a scarf and he went on and on about how talented he was” “was the scarf good” “lmao it looked like someone threw yarn against a wall and picked it up all tangled” “what did you say?” “what do you think I said, he tipped me 40% and took ten cards.”
“I think My Husband is catfishing us, because I looked at the pictures he has of My Husband and lmao that’s like, Yuri Katsuki the skater.” “what, really?” “I mean, My Husband is hot or whatever, but can you imagine being married to him?” “lmao he probably downloaded the pictures and built this entire imaginary life about him and Katsuki, poor dude.”
“GUYS. GUYS, THIS IS NOT A DRILL. ALERT. ALERT. GUYS. MY HUSBAND’S HUSBAND IS AT THE BAR, AND HE HAS OUR DOG WITH HIM. ALERT. ALERT. MY HUSBAND’S HUSBAND AND OUR DOG ARE REAL, AND THEY’RE SITTING AT THE BAR. ACT CALM.” “holy shit it’s actually yuri katsuki.” “are you fucking kidding me.”
Me on an ordinary day: Albus Dumbledore is a dynamic and complex character who was crucial to the victory against Voldemort and spent practically a century tirelessly fighting the prejudice and evil in his society. However, he is also flawed, and there is great value in analyzing his morality and his relationship with the concept of “the greater good.” In his youth, he made wrong choices with dire consequences and consciously avoided the corrupting influence of power thereafter, which, in terms of narrative, serves to prove he was not omniscient or infallible. That revelation in Deathly Hallows also contributes to an underlying message in the Harry Potter series about the importance of questioning established authorities, including our heroes.
Me when someone ignores the insights about humanity to be gained from analyzing Dumbledore’s character and instead paints him as a self-serving, manipulative asshole:
Finn does a lot of reading, when he wakes up. He burns through article after article of history, of linguistics, of culture. He may be strapped down to a bed and fresh from a bacta tank, but he wants to learn more about what it means to be human, and more about what it means to be this human. About the choices he’s made.
In the first 48 hours, Finn comes to learn two particularly important things.
One: that surnames mean where you come from, mean legacy.
Two: that there was a man called Bodhi Rook, and that he was very, very brave.
Later, after he’s finally discharged from med bay, he has to fill out paperwork. Registration, medical history, next-of-kin sort of stuff. Most of it he has to leave blank. He hovers over one little box in particular. Family name. He hesitates. Poe has already offered him his. The admin assistant leans over the desk, nonplussed expression on their face, and suggests he just pick one at random. Neither feels quite right. Neither feels like a history, or like a legacy.
He takes a breath, puts pen to paper, and writes Finn Rook in a wobbly but determined script.
When Harry gets his first place after Hogwarts that actually has more than one floor, he comes home after getting a load of boxes to find Hermione using a sledgehammer on the drywall beneath the stairs. And Ron’s like, “Look, mate, I borrowed this stuff from my dad, I’ve got a DRILL and a - what’s it called again, Hermione?” “A stud finder.” “Right, one of those, and we’re going to fix your stairs.” Harry’s like, “But there’s nothing wrong with them.” “Yes, Harry, there is.” Harry’s just sort of standing there in total bewilderment while Hermione totally demolishes the wall. “We couldn’t have done that with magic?” “No, Harry, this is personal. You two take this mess out to the skip.” And then Harry stands around a while longer and Hermione puts in support beams in the appropriate places so the stairs don’t fall in, and Ron’s very excited about using the stud finder even though Hermione won’t let him use the drill. When they’re finished, Harry has this set of shelves. So he says, still completely confused, “I thought we picked this place because it had loads of storage.” And Hermione says, “Go get some of my books. I know it’s just shelves, but it’s not a bloody cupboard.”
And every time Harry moves for the rest of his life, Ron and Hermione are there on moving day and they knock out anything under the stairs, even if it’s just a wall. Hermione reads a lot of books. Ron learns to use a miter saw and a carpenter’s square and practices the nail hammering spell until he can do it perfectly on the first try. And sometimes it isn’t very practical but it looks nice…
And sometimes, when they all get older and have children, it’s cozy and has a purpose…
And eventually Hermione gets the trick of there being nothing under the stairs at all…
Which is the story of how Harry Potter never lived in a house with a cupboard under the stairs again for the entire rest of his life.
sometimes you fight, not because you think you can win, but because you need to be able to look back later and say, “i fought.”
“In King Lear (III:vii) there is a man who is such a minor
character that Shakespeare has not given him even a name: he is merely
“First Servant.” All the characters around him – Regan, Cornwall, and
Edmund – have fine long-term plans. They think they know how the story
is going to end, and they are quite wrong. The servant has no such
delusions. He has no notion of how the play is going to go. But he
understands the present scene. He sees an abomination (the blinding of
old Gloucester) taking place. He will not stand it.
His sword is out and pointed at his master’s breast in a
moment: then Regan stabs him dead from behind. That is his whole part:
eight lines all told. But if it were real life and not a play, that is
the part it would be best to have acted.”
