Reblog In 5 Seconds For Good Luck

Are we sure he doesn’t have mommy issues

Fell

i’ve been in love with this man from the second he crashed blake’s party and literally everything he does reinforces that love. he’s so funny and such a piece of shit and every time he shows up my depression goes away. i fucking adore his dynamic with blake and i hope to god he gets to kick conquest in the dick

(reminder: spoilers get you fed to the hyena)

I FEEL LIKE THE INLY REAL LIMITATION IS WHETHER OR NOT IT COUNTD AS AN ARACHNID DUE TI BEING FROM ANOTHER PLANET

COULD TAYLOR CONTROL THE SAND WORMS FROM DUNE?

THEY SEEM TOO LARGE TO HAVE THE INCREDIBLY SIMPLE NERVOUS SYSTEM THAT HER POWER EXPLOITS EVEN IF IT'S SIMPLE RELATIVE TO THEIR SCALE SO I FEEL LIKE NO BUT I WOULD BE OPEN TO ARGUMENTS OTHERWISE

Milo Songetay

Are there any blue roses? Like real ones. Or do they just take the white, green, or red ones then paint them as blue?

no, blue roses don't occur in nature- but they're easy to make artificially. just place a cut white rose into blue-dyed water and wait a bit, and eventually the rose will be blue. also why did you ask me this

Yeah I feel Alexandria would probably win if only because she actually knows how to fight and has the whole Thinker thing going on

I enjoy The Boys but one major problem I have with it is that it’s so hard to compare strengths to other settings, like we never see Homelander challenged so we have no clue how’d he fair against others which I get is maybe sorta the point with it being like him as a medium fish on a small pond but it’s still annoying

The Deities of Human Thought

ok so @lewd-plants doesnt have a submission box and this was way too long to send in an ask, but i got inspired and created a full pantheon of what im calling “Human Thought” deities. I didn’t make the names based on US government agencies b/c i didnt want to look them all up lol. O’sha and Epa became either regional names for major pantheon members or minor deities. I kept all the descriptions short because jeez there’s a lot. Feel free to expand them, or add more members to the pantheon!! JUST LET ME KNOW I WANNA SEE THEM TOO!!!!!

First, there was Rogess (Progress). She is the spirit of humanities need to move forward, and she was created with the first idea. She is accompanied by two birds, the Raven Bacloo (Looks Back) and the Owl Inven (Invention) given to her by her mother Nesec (Necessity), in order to help her with her duties.  The Raven is eager and cunning, and looks forward create a better future. The Owl is cautious and wise, and seeks to understand the lesson of the past to avoid their mistakes. The Owl and the Raven are both extensions of Rogess, and Rogess’s children are, in turn, extensions of them.

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I was cleaning out my computer and I found a bunch of screenshots of text posts from 2013-2014. The golden age of tumblr.

I take no credit for these posts.

TMA Encore #1

Hoping I get around to continuing this. Had it rattling around in my head ever since halfway through season 3, and suddenly the finale inadvertently validated it as a possibility. Christmas came early!

Edit: I am continuing it! And I’m gonna reshade this page to match later pages, so look forward to that.

Next

Here’s a story about changelings: 

Mary was a beautiful baby, sweet and affectionate, but by the time she’s three she’s turned difficult and strange, with fey moods and a stubborn mouth that screams and bites but never says mama. But her mother’s well-used to hard work with little thanks, and when the village gossips wag their tongues she just shrugs, and pulls her difficult child away from their precious, perfect blossoms, before the bites draw blood. Mary’s mother doesn’t drown her in a bucket of saltwater, and she doesn’t take up the silver knife the wife of the village priest leaves out for her one Sunday brunch. 

She gives her daughter yarn, instead, and instead of a rowan stake through her inhuman heart she gives her a child’s first loom, oak and ash. She lets her vicious, uncooperative fairy daughter entertain herself with games of her own devising, in as much peace and comfort as either of them can manage.

Mary grows up strangely, as a strange child would, learning everything in all the wrong order, and biting a great deal more than she should. But she also learns to weave, and takes to it with a grand passion. Soon enough she knows more than her mother–which isn’t all that much–and is striking out into unknown territory, turning out odd new knots and weaves, patterns as complex as spiderwebs and spellrings. 

“Aren’t you clever,” her mother says, of her work, and leaves her to her wool and flax and whatnot. Mary’s not biting anymore, and she smiles more than she frowns, and that’s about as much, her mother figures, as anyone should hope for from their child. 

Mary still cries sometimes, when the other girls reject her for her strange graces, her odd slow way of talking, her restless reaching fluttering hands that have learned to spin but never to settle. The other girls call her freak, witchblood, hobgoblin.

“I don’t remember girls being quite so stupid when I was that age,” her mother says, brushing Mary’s hair smooth and steady like they’ve both learned to enjoy, smooth as a skein of silk. “Time was, you knew not to insult anyone you might need to flatter later. ‘Specially when you don’t know if they’re going to grow wings or horns or whatnot. Serve ‘em all right if you ever figure out curses.”

“I want to go back,” Mary says. “I want to go home, to where I came from, where there’s people like me. If I’m a fairy’s child I should be in fairyland, and no one would call me a freak.”

“Aye, well, I’d miss you though,” her mother says. “And I expect there’s stupid folk everywhere, even in fairyland. Cruel folk, too. You just have to make the best of things where you are, being my child instead.”

Mary learns to read well enough, in between the weaving, especially when her mother tracks down the traveling booktraders and comes home with slim, precious manuals on dyes and stains and mordants, on pigments and patterns, diagrams too arcane for her own eyes but which make her daughter’s eyes shine.

“We need an herb garden,” her daughter says, hands busy, flipping from page to page, pulling on her hair, twisting in her skirt, itching for a project. “Yarrow, and madder, and woad and weld…”

“Well, start digging,” her mother says. “Won’t do you a harm to get out of the house now’n then.”

Mary doesn’t like dirt but she’s learned determination well enough from her mother. She digs and digs, and plants what she’s given, and the first year doesn’t turn out so well but the second’s better, and by the third a cauldron’s always simmering something over the fire, and Mary’s taking in orders from girls five years older or more, turning out vivid bolts and spools and skeins of red and gold and blue, restless fingers dancing like they’ve summoned down the rainbow. Her mother figures she probably has.

“Just as well you never got the hang of curses,” she says, admiring her bright new skirts. “I like this sort of trick a lot better.”

Mary smiles, rocking back and forth on her heels, fingers already fluttering to find the next project.

She finally grows up tall and fair, if a bit stooped and squinty, and time and age seem to calm her unhappy mouth about as well as it does for human children. Word gets around she never lies or breaks a bargain, and if the first seems odd for a fairy’s child then the second one seems fit enough. The undyed stacks of taken orders grow taller, the dyed lots of filled orders grow brighter, the loom in the corner for Mary’s own creations grows stranger and more complex. Mary’s hands callus just like her mother’s, become as strong and tough and smooth as the oak and ash of her needles and frames, though they never fall still.

“Do you ever wonder what your real daughter would be like?” the priest’s wife asks, once.

Mary’s mother snorts. “She wouldn’t be worth a damn at weaving,” she says. “Lord knows I never was. No, I’ll keep what I’ve been given and thank the givers kindly. It was a fair enough trade for me. Good day, ma’am.”

Mary brings her mother sweet chamomile tea, that night, and a warm shawl in all the colors of a garden, and a hairbrush. In the morning, the priest’s son comes round, with payment for his mother’s pretty new dress and a shy smile just for Mary. He thinks her hair is nice, and her hands are even nicer, vibrant in their strength and skill and endless motion.  

They all live happily ever after.

*

Here’s another story: 

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or read Twig

every post attempting to find 'plural' subtext in ward is just another grim reminder of how few wildbow fans have read pact