Jake made a deal with Fenestre–as long as he was inside his own house, he was safe from retribution.
Rachel knows that there are some things that only she and her cousin can do, and this is one of them.
We all know who did the arson at the end of Book 16.
Alternatively, the one where Jake and Rachel do terrible things because who else would be able to?
Which is honestly a genre of Animorphs fic I feel to be sadly lacking, but I digress.
Reason #1537 scientists are the worst great:
There is a word meaning “the tendency of nature to try to evolve a crab.” Someone noticed that a bunch of unrelated species independently arrived at “crab” as their destination, so clearly that is such a fabulous structural design that nature just occasionally looks at Thing With Shell and goes “ehhhhh fuck it, let’s make another crab.” And that person decided that there needed to be a word for this very specific thing. And thus: carcinisation.
Anonymous asked: I've been doing a lot of reading on the Borgias but I don't actually know how to pronounce "Borgia- would you know?
So…I pronounce it the way they say it in the show, which is BOHR-jya (or something like -zhya if you like your IPA pronunciations I guess). It’s with a soft G, kind of slurred. Like the last G in ‘garage.’
Anonymous asked: ♫ Enjolras/Grantaire
RIGHT, so I got Third Eye by Florence + the Machine (also I super love this meme and more people should do it.) I ain’t even a little sorry. Canon era, motherfuckers, because I can.
Grantaire was arguing with him again. Most of Enjolras’ mind was occupied with ripping down the other man’s case, almost enjoying the familiar pattern, but that quiet part at the base of his skull, the part that had been getting louder of late, was distracted. It was discomfiting and foreign, as if he no longer quite knew himself. It did little to inhibit his argument—they were second nature by now, he could spare that scrap of attention—but he was bothered by its persistence. Just when Enjolras believed he had shaken off the strange abstraction, Grantaire would tip his head back and laugh at something Joly had said, his wild curls falling back from the line of his throat, and it would return with a vengeance.
He’s brilliant, the quiet voice noted now. It was true, something Enjolras had noticed before. For all that he dulled its edge with wine and other, stronger spirits, Grantaire’s mind was as keen as the edge of broken glass, quick and incisive, and he soaked up information as effortlessly as he did liquor. Grantaire claimed to know nothing—nothing but love and liberty, he had said—but he could hold his ground against Enjolras, and quote Greek and Roman writings without so much as a pause to recall. He spoke rapidly, as if the thoughts piled up behind his tongue and pressed to be first through his lips, and was prone to winding, tangential thinking, but his points were good and clear and glittering.
Reblog for the daytime crowd.
lathori asked: ♫ Billy/Colin (it didn't say it couldn't be one of YOUR ships)
You are correct, I did not say that. But you realize that now I have to EXPLAIN this shit, right?
Okay, so, Billy Johr and Colin Ramsey are from my novel Falls the Shadow, which is the 350 page monstrosity I wrote during sophomore year and which I am now editing to be sent out to an agent. Short version: Sam Lightworth, their pseudo-adopted daughter (they’re the two Witnesses), is the Antichrist and Horseman of Death, and her brother Oz, their pseudo-adopted son, is the Horseman of Pestilence. War and Famine are kicking around too, but they don’t really matter as much here. The POINT is that Billy and Colin accidentally raised an Antichrist and the world barely missed ending. That’s it, that’s the book. And then…well. Billy and Colin. They are canonically in love, and have been since they hunted together as twenty-somethings and thirty-somethings. Billy, now sixty-three and no longer spry enough to hunt himself, is an archivist and weaponeer for every hunter of supernatural things. And the now-sixty Colin…well, Colin’s a Catholic priest…so…they’re not together and they never will be. And Adler is never going to forgive me for that. I’m sorry. Please don’t hunt me with torches.
I put my music on shuffle and got I’m So Sorry by Imagine Dragons and…um…yeah, actually, this is a snippet from while the Almostpocalypse was happening. I’m…so sorry.
“Preacher,” Billy said quietly, and Colin didn’t look at him, still standing at the edge of the porch and staring down the road. He didn’t need to look to know that Billy would step forward, stand next to him until their shoulders pressed together, the once-red hair steely in the corner of his vision. Billy was a broad, solid warmth at his side, half a head taller and steady as ages, and Colin let their shoulders bump together, acknowledgement that he was there.
“Did you hear it?” he asked, barely more than a murmur, and Billy nodded slowly beside him, looking out in the same direction—south, to Nevada, to where the Horsemen were, miles and hours away. The scream had come from nowhere, from everywhere, like standing directly beneath a roll of thunder, but the voice had been Sam’s. “The others,” Colin said, almost blank.
Vodka Tia Moran