Anonymous asked: y;know i was intrigued and kinda interested in reading them but then i was like 'yeah but it's 50+ books you're gonna have to go to the library to pick up and you got shit to do buddy" but then. but then you added that link. and now. here i am. about to descend into this madness
Anonymous asked: They gave me feelings about a vice-principal... That's not faaaaaaaaaaaaair
“I was used to being alone” rip me
This???? Is the single greatest thing that Tumblr has ever done for me???? I mean, besides resurrecting my bone-deep adoration for this series upon the discovery of the fandom (did you know it’s actually possible to implode from enthusiasm, because I did that), but like, this is the greatest thing I’ve ever experienced on this blue hellsite.
But anyway, in order: YEAH MAN LISTEN MY EMOTIONS ABOUT CHAPMAN ARE COMPLICATED™ BUT LIKE HE JUST WANTS TO TAKE CARE OF HIS DAUGHTER? I’M? VERY EMOTIONAL ABOUT THAT SCENE WHERE HE REQUESTS CONTROL OF HIS BODY? ALSO HERE’S AN UNSOLICITED PLUG FOR MY OWN FIC, THIS ONE’S ABOUT MELISSA BEING IN LOVE WITH RACHEL.
AND YEAH, NO, LISTEN, TOBIAS WAS MY FAVORITE CHARACTER AS A KID AND HE’S MY FAVORITE CHARACTER NOW (to be fair, dead tied with Rachel) AND HONESTLY READING ANY OF HIS BOOKS MAKES ME KIND OF NEED TO SCREAM A LOT FOREVER AND ALWAYS.
Anonymous asked: JESUS CHRIST. *Frantically googling if Tobias ever gets turned back into a human* I should've known better than to take books recommendation from strangers on the internet. Now I've got to read all of... this *gestures to 54 (?!) books* I hope you're proud of yourself.
HONESTLY? PRETTY FUCKING DELIGHTED, YEAH.
WELCOME TO THE TRAGEDY CLUB.
Honestly the Animorphs fandom on Tumblr is like 50% schadenfreude and 50% mutual weeping so please, my friend, my buddy, keep me posted on your progress.
I feel like I’ve achieved something great here my dude, never be afraid to talk to me about Animorphs, and any time you want to hear someone weep AT LENGTH about The Best Sad Bird Boy HIT ME UP BECAUSE THAT IS WHAT I’M ON THE INTERNET FOR.
Anonymous asked: *swoops in* your enthusiasm has convinced me. in what order do i read this imperial radch. how much crying must i prepare for.
GOOD WELCOME TO THE PARTY
Imperial Radch starts with Ancillary Justice, followed by Ancillary Sword and closing with Ancillary Mercy. You can buy it on Amazon or presumably any bookstore. It is the elaborately constructed AI-with-feelings-and-revolutionary-intent space opera of your dreams. I don’t know about crying but a couple times I had to get up and walk around and scream quietly for a while in order to, like, exorcise my feelings.
YOU KNOW A BOOK IS GOOD WHEN YOU HAVE TO WALK IT OFF OKAY
Anonymous asked: Gosh, you like a lot of the same things as me and seeing all your stuff about everything makes me happy! Hellboy and his cat fam are one of my favorite things about the movie, also when he's talking to the dead guy he brought back.
LISTEN BUDDY I know you didn’t ask for headcanons about Hellboy but also no one ever talks to me about Hellboy so here are some headcanons about Hellboy (and Liz and Abe).
A: what I think realistically
Let me tell you the story of how a firestarter first met a demon
Liz is an eleven-year-old girl fresh off the accidental incineration of a square block and the accidental manslaughter of thirty-two people. BPRD swoops in to grab her out of the foster system because she tells one person—the very first firefighter on scene—that it was her, that the fire just exploded out of her and she couldn’t stop it. The firefighter writes her off as a scared, traumatized kid, but the arson report is inexplicable and BPRD can’t, in good conscience, take the chance that the incident might happen a second time.
Their concerns are immediately confirmed when an agent, unused to working with children, brusquely informs Liz of the deaths of her grandmother, her parents, and her baby brother. The agent gets away with only second-degree burns, by dint of one of his comrades tackling Liz with a fire retardant blanket.
Liz, on her own insistence, is placed alone in a fireproof room, and she refuses point-blank to allow anyone else inside.
“Well,” Hellboy says, absolutely unconcerned, when one of the agents guarding the door tells him all of this. “Lucky I’m fireproof then.”
It takes him three months and fifteen occasions of having some part of his clothing scorched away while he sprints back to Liz’s fireproof room with her tucked close to his chest, but by December, Liz sits at the table for Christmas dinner. She’s a tiny little slip of a thing in Hellboy’s hulking shadow, but she stays glued to him the whole night, murmuring responses to his deep voice. The handful of agents invited by the Professor are shocked to learn that their silent, grave charge can actually smile.
B: what I think is fucking hilarious
There is a HANDSOME betting pool on how long every new agent will last, with a timer that is helpfully started by the agent at the reception desk the moment a new recruit comes through the door. The record is fourteen seconds from entry to end of bet, so fast that no one even had time to put money down—the floor started to move, and the young man hurled himself off the platform, landing sprawled on the marble while the agent gave him a disdainful look. As new agents last longer, the pool grows, and while reupping one’s bet IS allowed, the catch is that only one person at a time is allowed to bet that the agent will stay. Generally it requires a round or two of reupping before someone’s ballsy enough to put money on a permanent assignment, but there have been one or two times that someone (…often Hellboy) has been reckless and it’s paid off.
Some highlights of the pool include Liz’s uncanny ability to predict (and precipitate—for some reason it’s more unnerving to watch an otherwise normal person burn down a building than to see a visibly strange person do visibly strange things) exact departure times, Hellboy’s tendency to either bet ‘five minutes’ or ‘they’ll stick around’ with no discrimination whatsoever, and the fact that Abe isn’t allowed to bet anymore since he placed a bet over the comms exactly three minutes before an agent quit.
C: what is heart-crushing and awful but fun to inflict on friends
Hellboy learns when he’s three years old that people don’t just die in battle. Sometimes they just die. He lives on a military base, he knows that death happens, he just. It comes as a shock that it can just happen, even though he knows it in theory. One of the administrators suffers an unexpected heart attack and Hellboy—about the equivalent of an eight-year-old, and already standing as tall as his father’s shoulder—clings to Professor Bruttenholm’s sleeve throughout the funeral, in a way that he hasn’t done in almost a year.
“Father,” Hellboy says afterward, unusually subdued. “Will you die someday too?”
“Yes, my boy,” Trevor says, because he doesn’t believe in lying to children. “But not for a long time, I hope.”
Hellboy nods quietly to himself and sits there in silence for a few minutes before he speaks again.
“Will I?”
“We don’t know,” Trevor says, bending to kiss Hellboy’s forehead. “Maybe. Maybe not.”
Almost sixty years later, Hellboy is sitting at his father’s grave, kneeling on the ground in the pose of someone praying, one hand clenched tight around his father’s rosary and the other tracing the words on the stone. And I shall fear no evil, reads the simple inscription. Trevor Bruttenholm, Beloved Father and Mentor.
It has been over ten years since Hellboy noticed any sign of aging in himself. Even if he did die, of old age or of injury, he knows where his father’s soul is now, and he doesn’t know if he’d even be allowed in the front gates.
D: what would never work with canon but the canon is shit so I believe it anyway
Oh, I don’t know…I mean, the great thing about the fantasy noir style of the Hellboy universe is that you can justify a lot. But one crossover I haven’t seen but would really enjoy the hell out of would be a crossover between the Wonder Woman movie and Hellboy. Diana hears stories about some supernatural shenanigans happening during World War II, but she’s neck deep in struggling to do something, anything to stem the tide of bodies so she’s not around. A couple decades later, she almost walks straight into a huge man with horns and bright red skin and a friendly smile at an archeological excavation, and Hellboy tries real hard not to blurt out “Oh my God, you’re Wonder Woman!”
They hang out. It’s good. They never meet up on purpose, but they run into each other every few years, despite Diana’s firm refusal to get involved with BPRD or any other official government organization, and Diana is delighted to meet Liz when she’s just Hellboy’s shy, quiet teammate and even more delighted to meet her when she’s Hellboy’s fiancée. Also, Abe likes Diana because she can think in a bunch of different languages and teach them to him rapid-fire.
Also I’m still really enthusiastic about that one Animorphs/BPRD crossover I came up with one time?
Anonymous asked: what the fuckening knuck is a second derivative it sounds so evil
okay so you know how you take a derivative normally? now take the derivative of that derivative.
if you really want to Suffer™, you can continue taking derivatives until you’re out of exponents or until you burst into tears too heavy to read the equations.
Anonymous asked: thank you for responding!! yes it was on there haha. i hope you feel better soon, sending all the puppies your way ❤
Thank you, dear anon! I’m hoping to have some headcanons up soon!
Anonymous asked: hi! hope this doesn't come off as pressure-y, im not at all trying to be like that, but how about long does it usually take you to respond to a (headcanon? request? headcanon request? idk what to call it) ask? i ask bc i worried that it got eaten but im also,,,rlly rlly shy lol. (i hope you're having a good day!)
Hey, anon, don’t worry about it! And as far as the average time to finish an ask…um, this isn’t going to be the answer you want to hear, but it varies. Everything from how busy my life in the wider world is to how many asks I have to how well my brain box is treating me that day can delay finishing an ask. Fic prompts that I don’t have inspiration for can linger in my inbox for weeks or months until I feel sufficiently interested in it, or I might never feel sufficiently interested. Even stuff I want to write can sit idle for a long time depending on my mental state–some days I just don’t have the spoons to…like…think and interact with the world. I try to answer actual personal asks (people looking for advice, etc) as soon as possible, based on how urgent the ask seems to be and/or how strongly I feel about the situation–I think the fastest I ever answered a personal ask was this one BDSM situation.
If your request isn’t here, it probably got eaten.
And on that subject, I’m tired and in pain so I’m gonna write some headcanons to make myself feel better. Peace.
Anonymous asked: You did Nyota for the headcanon ask meme, can you do Bones?
Headcanon meme. Bones is my one true saltmate, okay, it’s like a soulmate but with bitterness about the world. Also, this is a little bit gonna be the Jim & Bones Friendship Hour.
A: what I think realistically
Bones actually has a very real phobia of space. Like, he manages it. He does a good job managing it. But.
Listen.
In order to successfully graduate Starfleet Academy, every student must take and pass a shuttle piloting class. In case of emergency. Pass proficiently, not just scrape by on a wing and a prayer. Bones fails twice and scrapes that pass the third time and honestly he’s thinking about just giving up. He knows all the settings and controls—Jim drilled him silly after that first fail—but getting into the simulator and seeing all that black, and the pressure, he just. He locks up. It’s all he can do to control his breathing, never mind controlling the shuttle. He can’t go back to Georgia and he can’t do this and where does that leave him?
Jim finds Bones in a tiny-ass little bar the day before his fourth retest date and drags him protesting out the door, about eight whiskeys down, and bundles him into bed and listens to him mumble about how he’s never going to pass and he’s never going to graduate and honestly fucking good because space is the worst and Jim’s crazy for wanting to go there but also Jim’s going to go into space without him and Bones doesn’t have anywhere else to go and it’s all just really awful, you know what I mean, Jimmy?
“Sure, buddy,” Jim says, propping Bones up and pushing a glass of water into his hands. “Drink something, okay?”
The next day, at 1500 hours, Bones stumbles into the simulator room with—well, not the worst hangover of his life, but probably top ten. And lo and fucking behold, instead of the usual gaggle of students looking to (re)test, there’s James Goddamn Kirk, hands stuffed in his pockets and a sunny-ass smile on his smart-ass face. James Goddamn Kirk, who passed his pilot’s test with glowing scores on the first try.
James Goddamn Kirk, who somehow lied and cheated his way in here so that he could sit in the simulator while Bones sweats his way through a passing grade.
It doesn’t cure his phobia, obviously, but the first time Bones does actually have to pilot a shuttle, it’s James Goddamn Kirk bleeding out in the copilot’s seat and Bones barely even notices his heart race.
B: what I think is fucking hilarious
Leonard McCoy, day one of his term at the Academy as he stumbles, shaking and panting, off the shuttle, swears to himself that he’s going to pry this blue-eyed limpet off him on the spot and also sedate anyone who addresses him as Bones.
Day one of his second year at the Academy, Bones McCoy gets half-tackled by Jim, who’s already talking about this badass new Tactics class they’re offering, I’m gonna take it and I’m gonna destroy everyone, it’s gonna be awesome and he has no idea how this happened.
What would have been day one of his fourth year, Bones is fuck knows how far into the black of space, listening to his crew tattle on Jim’s delinquent ass.
“Doc, I don’t think he’s taken an off shift in, like, a couple days maybe,” Sulu says as he passes through for an antihistamine.
“I’ll work on it,” Bones says, and jabs Sulu with a hypo. “Stop poking plants you don’t recognize.”
“Doctor McCoy, Alpha shift told me to tell you that the captain forgot to eat today,” Chekov reports, sticking his head inside. “Can I get another screen?”
“I’ll deal with that,” Bones says, and waves the kid in. “Stop sleeping with people you don’t know.”
“Doctor, I would appreciate it if you intervened in the Captain’s opinion that holodeck safety protocols are optional,” Spock says evenly as Chapel checks him for broken ribs.
“I’ll do my best,” Bones says, and gives Spock a bitter wave with the medical tricorder. “Stop getting in fistfights, you have a damn phaser.”
“Doctor,” Uhura starts as Bones sprints past her. “I think the Captain might be allergic–”
“I’m on my way!” he yells back over his shoulder. “Stop Spock from causing a diplomatic incident!”
“Doc,” Scotty starts, leaning into the medbay and squinting painfully.
“I don’t want to hear it,” Bones snarls, and gives Scotty a vengeful jab with a hangover hypo (actually a calibrated mix of thiamine, folic acid, and magnesium sulfate, but listen, it’s a hangover hypo) as he marches past toward the bridge.
Bones has Regrets.
C: what is heart-crushing and awful but fun to inflict on friends
Bones keeps expecting to get to a point where he’s…like…past being horrified and shocked when one of the crew rolls in, near death or already dead.
It wears on his soul like acid, every time. He decides very early that he’s going to leave Starfleet when Jim dies. The longer he spends on the Enterprise, the more names he adds to that list (when Spock dies, when Uhura dies, when Chekov-Sulu-Scotty dies).
Bones is a doctor, not an adventurer. He’s not built to outlive these people. When they are gone, he will never leave orbit again.
D: what would never work with canon but the canon is shit so I believe it anyway
Read an AU once where Bones was a humanitarian aid volunteer at like 21/22 who went to Tarsus IV and met furious, half-starved, 13-year-old, fresh-off-a-genocide JT Kirk and it was my favorite thing. It was also abandoned after like two chapters. But like. Any intersection of my infinite feelings about Tarsus IV and my infinite feelings about Bones & Jim (& Spock) friendship is My Favorite Thing and I believe in my heart that this is true. Bones didn’t recognize him at the time and it takes him years to connect the emaciated murderous kid with the electric blue eyes to his buoyantly brilliant best friend, but he does, eventually. He asks Jim straight up, very late one night, and they have one single conversation about it before they vow to never discuss it again.
Anonymous asked: 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?
Here are five headcanons about Death and Sephie the gay barista! (…are they headcanons if it’s my own stuff?)
ONE
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…”
Vodka Tia Moran