I made an X-Files picture book to give myself closure after watching the show for the first time.  Then they officially announced the revival. I should have known there would be no escape from all the feelings.


a decade since the airing of “rose” - happy 10 years, new who!

introducing the doctor + first “run” (text from “doctor who: the shooting scripts”)

Sweet daily routine (▰˘◡˘▰)
Dean will never get tired of it

so I just saw a post calling Dan and Phil “cash Cows”

oh so writing a book is making them cash cows. 

Writing a book for their FANS to read is them being cash cows.

Writing a book for their fans entertainment is them being cash cows

Them going on a tour to meet their fans in controlled conditions (not in a giant noisy hall) to entertain them is them being cash cows

Them wanting to just make their fans HAPPY and maybe idk just MAYBE trying to make themselves happy because writing a book is a dream of many people is making them cash cows



So I’ve finally got round to reading the new vader comics (which is up to issue #3 right now) & here’s a few things I’ve learned about Vader, without spoiling much of the plot:

(1) Nobody seems to be taking Vader seriously ( ಠ_ಠ ). Like at all.

Sidious then proceeded to call him an idiot who’s just a blunt instrument better fitted to be “wielded than to wield”.

“…always making things so difficult.” You can imagine how this pissed Vader off haha. He choked Jabba to shut him up for a bit *shudders*

Then there’s this guy. He later says stuff like: “In time you will understand I am the skilled hand you’ve been waiting for.” and make bad puns like: equating Vader & the then destroyed Death Star as assets to be used as ‘Force multipliers’ rather than focusing on them as individual assets. Yeah dude kinda has a deathwish

(2) Vader still has trust issues & sulks like Anakin. Serves you right Sidious. You created this monster with insecurities now you deal with him

Look at that glance over the shoulder.You can almost hear the sad whining.

(3) Vader still likes droids.

In #3 he went & got himself an ‘evil’ substitute for threepio and R2. No kidding.

(4) Still hates Tuskens.

(5) And lastly (but definitely not least), is actively participating in ridiculously unhealthy amounts of DENIAL

When inquired of his feelings for a secret mission on geonosis, his answer was that panel up there (which I think means a moment of silence heavily suffused with ALL THE EMOTIONS) followed by: “I have no feelings regarding Geonosis.” like yeah sure we totally buy that

Michael Imagine: You Go Blind

Author: Rhine


It’s blurry at first.

It’s nothing, really – the outline shirt blending into the background, the colour of his hair a little hazier.

But if you stood close enough, the picture of Michael was sharp in your vision – and he loved it.

He absolutely adored how close you stood – not just for your vision, but for the warmth. He loved how you were always two steps closer than the rest, how you automatically melted into his arms and stared at him with wide-eyed wonder.

You were drinking him in.

You knew and he knew and it was just a matter a time; just a matter of days before everything would melt into black.

And while the very thought of it left spikes of panic and fear for the unknown that was behind your eyes, it was nothing in comparison to the butterflies Michael’s touch left on you.

You savored every moment with him – hell, you savored everything.

The colour of the sky just before the sun rose. The details of a painting you love. The colour you loved so much on your favourite shirt. The way the waves of the ocean were an artist’s palette of blue and green and yellow and purple, all smudged with a paintbrush as the colours melded into each other with the sound of the ocean hitting the shore.

But most of all, you savored the sight of Michael.

The flecks of silver in his eyes when the moonlight shined on it. The pale marble white of his skin, the way it sloped and curved on his body. The shape of his lips and the exact shade of pink just after he wet them as he spoke. The black ink on his skin, the faded red of scars from bumping into doors and tripping up stairs. The multiple shades of his hair; how they glimmered differently in the sunlight than they did in the moonlight; how it spiked in chaotic directions in the morning and flattened after spending a day in a snapback you loved so much.

You tried to memorize him, tried to burn the picture of the boy you loved behind your eyelids.

Because if all you had left was black nothingness – if you were to focus your memory on one last thing for the rest of your life – it would be him.

You could soak up the picture of Michael next to you and paint him underneath your eyelids for you to return to, but the darkness always inches closer and closer, day by day.

You wake up every morning and you still see the colours and you still see the shapes – albeit blurry past recognition – but Michael is there, he’s always there.

You always wonder how many times you can still wake up and see this beautiful boy next to you.

You relish every day you wake up with the sunlight piercing your glassy eyes, because you know one day you’ll open your eyes and there’ll be nothing left.

And at that point, you can only hope to reach out and find Michael there, still smiling like he did in your memories.


You’re afraid.

You’re afraid because even though you saw it coming – even though you knew it for months, even though you quite literally saw it coming – or stopped seeing, slowly – nothing could prepare you for the moment the last bits of light left your eyes.

Nothing could prepare you for the moment everything comes crashing down on you, without a way for you to dodge it.

I’ll never be able to drive a car I’ll never be able to draw I won’t be able to see another sunset or the ocean or the forest or my parents or Michael and I won’t be able to see my children or –

And he tells you it’s okay, that it’ll be alright because he’s here – he’s here for you and he’s not the only one and he’ll guide you with gentle hands that will undoubtedly take you where you want to go.

With him.

But while his reassurances were soft, it couldn’t dull the ache you felt in your chest over the darkness the enveloped your vision.

I’ll be – I am a burden.

Because you know that you’ll spend more time fumbling around for doorknobs and shoes and socks and you’ll mix the shampoo with the soap and you’ll accidentally misplace a book or the remote and you’ll be constantly searching in the dark for something right in front of you.

And the thought of someone having to take care of you – to constantly have to hold your hand and walk with tiny steps to match your hesitant ones, to reach for things for you and read out what you no longer could see – it only sinks your heart down further with remorse.

You don’t want to be the body Michael has to drag, for him to be the crutch that you’ll need for the rest of your life.

He deserved better than that.

But he merely chuckled lightly in your ears and while you can’t see him, you can feel him behind you, his breath hot on the back of your neck.

He tells you you’re just as beautiful as you were before and if you miss his lips then he’ll settle for a collarbone kiss; if you trip he’ll carry you; if you wear his clothes instead of his then you can just keep it; if you can’t find the shampoo then he’ll just run his fingers through your hair with the soapy suds instead.

Michael tells you that if you can’t see, then he’ll tell.

He’ll tell you if your shirt is on backwards or if you’re holding a fork instead of a spoon; if your socks are mismatched or if you’re supposed to push the door instead of pull.

Quite honestly, he finds it rather cute.

How your cheeks are a faint pink when you say oh as you realize your little mix-up, how you need him a little more because he’ll always need you more than he can put into words and for once, maybe he can help out.

Michael doesn’t mind the extra few seconds it takes for him to guide you, for him to point out something you can’t see.

It gives him an excuse to hold you for a few seconds longer, for a millimeter closer.

He loves you all the same, and he makes sure you can feel it through the darkness.


You grow around the darkness, like a vine climbing up a wall and reaching the other side.

It’s a part of you – the nothingness behind your eyelids – but you find a way to carry on your days around it.

Your fingers discovered what your eyes couldn’t; your ears sensing what your eyes once missed.

Your steps become less hesitant, your touch less cautious. You know where things are; the height of the doorknob or where you should be facing; which shoe is which before putting it on your foot; where the last step of the stair should be.

Your fingers learn to identify things in your hands faster, and your mind remembers things clearer – where to put things back, where things once were.

Your ears learn to pick up the sound of closing doors and sighing winds and they learn to locate the sound of voices for you to identify the faces behind them that you once knew.

You find your way around, but it doesn’t stop you from holding Michael’s hands.

The first few days were a dizzying rush of fear and darkness – not knowing where you were or who was around you, and the vertigo feeling that possibly nothing existed at all in the vortex of blackness that you saw – and Michael was there.

He was there to remind you lightly where things were, to guide your hands around the tables and chairs, waiting patiently as you fumbled around with shapes and textures that you never noticed in your life before.

And while things are better now – while the details of your life that you never saw before, but simply felt now became clearer – you didn’t want to let go of him.

He’d describe things for you – the way the leaves changed colours and the city beneath the airplane, the flashing lights of a concert and the morning dew clinging onto the grass – the simple things that you missed, that you saw in your head thanks to Michael.

He painted out the life around you so, so well – and you always asked him for more.

My hair’s purple now!

What kind of purple?

Lilac, a little – a bit like the light purples of a summer sky during sunset. Some bits are lighter than others; like clouds wafting by.

But you think he asks you for more stories.

Because you see things a little differently now – your stories are different from his because he couldn’t see like you did.

It’s rather funny, you think.

But it’s your favourite time of the day – the moment where the two of you would crawl underneath the covers and he’ll tell you about lone cars on the highway at night and you’ll spin out stories of your day that he’d be so enraptured by.

How you can feel the fading paint of his guitar, the worn out places where his fingers pressed down – how you could tell what his favourite chord was from the indentations of the wood and the pressure of the string. How you could feel the worn bricks of your school and find the words engraved into the stone; how you could tell which walls were painted on by spray cans from the way your fingers ran across the dented surface. How you heard the rain falling in rhythms and the wind whispering in melodies; how you saw the world without really seeing it at all.

It always amazed him – you amazed him, with your whispered words and blinking eyes that would always be blank.

They’d be blank, but Michael knew you saw more, he knew that while your eyes couldn’t convey the messages he once read, your lips told him all the stories he needed and he’d find new ways of reading you with more than just his eyes.

It always shocked him; your uncanny ability to sense him in the room even with your back turned and his footsteps light. How you knew he was tired without him saying a word, with him merely walking into the room.

There’s something in your footsteps… I don’t know. I can just sort of – sort of feel it.

That’s just how it was. You felt things; with your fingers, with your heart.

And while Michael could see that your eyes were glassy and blank as they stared at him, he could feel the sincerity in your words when you said I love you, or the message your body sent him when you curled up to him at night.

And he knew you could feel the same when he did the same for you. The soft kisses. The lingering touches. The helpful hand; the horribly bad joke. The affection behind his words and the devotion in his touch.

You didn’t need to see to know that Michael Clifford loved you, that he’d always be there.

You just knew.


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Office Hours Part 4/5

[part one] [part two] [part three] [ao3]

There was this guy Atom who grew up down thestreet from Bellamy and Octavia when they were kids. He was a little bit younger than Bellamy and a little bit older than Octavia, and he didn’t have many other friends so most summers, he’d wind up with Octavia and Bellamy and his friends when they would play pick up baseball in the middle of the neighborhoods. He at first he was quiet and shy, and he stuck close to Octavia, because the older kids intimidated him, and nobody ever messed with Octavia because they knew that even if Bellamy didn’t catch them, Octavia would kick their asses herself.

Octavia had had a huge crush on Atom. He was older and he was nice to her, and not a lot of the older kids paid much attention to her, except Bellamy but he was her brother so she always told him that he didn’t count. Atom didn’t catch on right away, he wasn’t exceptionally perceptive. But once he did, everyone else started to notice too, and all the other boys would tease him, slip sly little comments his way when Bellamy wasn’t around and Octavia was too distracted to notice.

Eventually, Atom was tired of the teasing. He acted like he liked her back. He’d give her a hug when he saw her, he wouldn’t pull away if she reached for his hand. He rolled his eyes when the other boys shouted something his way, and then he’d turn to Octavia and ask her to run back home and grab something for him. Or he’d ask her to get Bellamy to do him a favor, or invite him out more. He spent two weeks milking her little crush for everything it was worth until one day he told her that she should just sit on the sidelines and cheer, and she punched him straight in the nose.

Later, she told Bellamy that she’d spent two weeks tugging her hand out of Atom’s every time he would ask her to do something, repeating the same thing over and over again every day for two weeks.

“Do I really have to?” she’d say to him. But Atom would just pat her hand and raise his eyebrows at her when he’d stare down at her, waiting for her to give in. Waiting for her to say yes and do whatever he wanted just because she felt like she had to, because she liked him and he was older and she thought that that was just how things worked.  

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i’m sorry but just for a second think about how dan, who gets insanely nervous about being perceived the wrong way or people hating him, must feel right now. if you don’t like this that’s totally fine and you’re entitled to that, but i assume you still care about them and how they must feel seeing such a negative reception so keep it civil