be-bear-aware

One More Thing

(SO I HAD AN IDEA)

[HAMILTON:]
Gentlemen of the jury, I’m curious, bear with me
Are you aware that we’re making hist'ry?
This is the first murder trial of our brand-new nation
The liberty behind deliberation

[ENSEMBLE:]
Non-stop!

[HAMILTON:]
I intend to prove beyond a shadow of a doubt
With my assistant counsel

[BURR:]
Co-counsel
Hamilton, sit down
Our client Levi Weeks is innocent
Call your first witness
That’s all you had to say!

[HAMILTON:]
Okay!

[UNCLE:]
ONE MORE THING!

Okay time for another Burr-and-Hamilton’s-tragic-friendship meta analysis because apparently I cannot stop seeing these things.

Someone pointed out in a post a little while ago (that unfortunately I can’t find, or else I would link to it) the genius of the musical themes of Hamilton, and specifically how it applied to Alexander and Eliza’s relationship. It focused on how Alexander was never quite singing the same tune or matching Eliza’s style until “It’s Quiet Uptown.” Another meta-post along the same vein mentioned how Angelica was instantly on Hamilton’s level in the underlying musical sense when they first met: you see it in Satisfied, when he says “Alexander Hamilton,” she replies in the exact same tune, “Where’s your family from?” and then he shoots back also in the same tune, “Unimportant, there’s a million things I haven’t done.” They’re matching each other musically for the entire conversation, just as Angelica describes, even though throughout the show they both have their own distinct styles and themes.

The one other person who has a very different singing style than Hamilton, but specifically matches Hamilton when he wants to, and the only other person that Hamilton as well makes a specific effort to match in various songs, is Burr. The first one that I noticed was one of my favorite exchanges in the whole show, the Levi Weeks case in Non-Stop:

Gentlemen of the jury, I’m curious, bear with me.
Are you aware that we’re making history?
This is the first murder trial of our brand new nation,
The liberty behind deliberation!
I intend to prove beyond a shadow of a doubt with my assistant counsel—

Co counsel! Hamilton, sit down!
Our client Levi Weeks is innocent, call your first witness.
That’s all you had to say!

Hamilton is shooting off at the mouth, and Burr matches him word for word, the same speed, the same style, which absolutely no one else is able to do, at least not when Hamilton is on a long angry rant. This moment highlights the underlying fact that Burr isn’t just some jealous villain, he’s a true foil to Hamilton. He was a genius, he applied to Princeton at eleven, applied again and got in when he was thirteen. That “graduated in two”? Yeah. That happened when he was thirteen to sixteen, let that sink in.

Burr can match Hamilton completely when he chooses to, he just rarely chooses to. In fact, the irony of the exchange in Non-Stop is that Burr gets frustrated enough with Hamilton and Hamilton’s inability to shut up inadvertently insulting him (assistant counsel? assistant? seriously Hamilton?) that he is pushed to act more like Hamilton, and in acting more like Hamilton, succeeds in shutting Hamilton up. Which is pretty much exactly how and why the duel happens.

But no, in my opinion, the more tragic are the times when Hamilton matches Burr. Allow me to direct you to “Story of Tonight (Reprise)”:

Congrats again, Alexander.
Smile more.
I’ll see you on the other side of the war.

I will never understand you.

Hamilton emulates Burr’s tone and tune exactly to tell him, “I will never understand you.” Because that’s Hamilton trying to understand Burr, that’s Hamilton on the underlying musical level making the effort to sing as Burr sings, to speak as Burr speaks, he’s asking Burr to let him in. *Let me* understand you. Burr being Burr keeps his cards close to his chest, and walks away. The effort was there, the invitation was there, that is the first time in the show, arguably, that Hamilton actively changes his style to match someone else’s. And Burr walks away, because Burr is terrified about people caring about him. In “Wait For It,” he’s perfectly fine admitting that he has feelings about Theodosia, but he devotes an entire verse to “what in the world is the reason that I am at her side and that she cares about me when there are a whole bunch of other people who have tried too.” Burr isn’t scared about loving people, he’s scared of them loving him, he doesn’t understand why or how it happens. The line isn’t “everyone I love has died”, it’s “everyone who loves me has died.”

Burr walks away because the possibility of Hamilton caring about him is more than he wants to deal with. Goodbye I have disintegrated into a puddle of tears. 

But no, that’s not even the worst part! The worst part is how Hamilton argues with people. The precedent is set in “Farmer Refuted.” Hamilton takes a very specific tone and rhythm as a counterpoint to someone singing.

Allow me to direct you to “Your Obedient Servant.” Burr begins the song by singing his letters, and Hamilton practically speaks his letters back. He takes a different tone, he employs a different rhythm, because that’s how he confronts people. He only matches Burr back when it’s utterly dripping in sarcasm: I have the honor to be your obedient servant, A. Ham. Burr keeps singing back (“Careful how you proceed, good man—“) as he keeps just trying to ask for an apology, and Hamilton keeps his own infuriated style at least musically in replying (“Burr, your grievance is legitimate, I stand by what I said, every bit of it”) and it’s Burr that has to match Hamilton—when Burr finally challenges Hamilton to the duel, Burr is speaking, not singing:

Then stand, Alexander,
Weehawken. Dawn.
Guns drawn.

(Although even then, it’s not ~perfectly~ matching Hamilton: the words are slow, they all have weight, they’re carefully pronounced, they’re well thought-out and well chosen. Succinct, persuasive indeed. But Burr is speaking, he’s not singing anymore, he’s taking this down to Hamilton’s level, which is the “fight me” level.)

And then, one last time, Alexander matches Burr perfectly:

You’re on.

The Pack Survives

About 1800 words.  This shipfic takes place between S06E09 and S06E10.  I may write more but consider this a one-shot to be safe.  Beware spoilers.


Jon Snow lay in his bunk, staring into the wall.  A fire still crackled and popped behind him, casting shadows around the bare room. He’d learned long ago not to watch the flames when trying to sleep, instead to focus on the darkest patch of brickwork he could find.  Even so, he was restless in spite of the slate-gray mortared bricks filling his vision.

Jon was exhausted. Fighting and killing Bolton men days before had worn him down to where he could barely stand, much less ride a horse or direct the reclaiming and rebuilding of Winterfell.  Sansa had taken up those responsibilities while he recovered, for which he had been grateful.  It was just as well; the rightful Lady of Winterfell should be the one to lead those efforts, not Ned Stark’s bastard.

So here he lay, the small room quiet except for the hearth’s deliberations.  Jon wished he could sleep and frowned, stone-faced, at the difficulty such pursuit warranted.  They had joked at the Wall that men would sleep when they were dead.  In Jon’s experience, that was a lie.

A demure knocking interrupted the quiet.  Jon started beneath the furs piled on top of him and reflexively reached for the dragonglass dagger Sam had left him; Longclaw was out of reach, so he kept the crude blade at his bedside.  It was a better weapon for the tight confines of his quarters than the hand-and-a-half sword.

In better days, Jon would not keep any killing tools by his bedside.  But the faces of dead men were still too clear in his thoughts, and he’d been caught with his guard down before.

He lurched from bed and stumbled, but settled his weight and stalked to the door.  He unfastened the lock and drew it open, careful to stay clear of the gap.

Jon swallowed and asked the darkness, “Who’s there?”

“It’s me,” a woman’s voice answered, haltingly.  “Sansa.”

Jon’s brow furrowed and he opened the door a little wider.  “You haven’t got a lantern?”

“I don’t need it.  Not here.  Could I come in?”

Confused, he stood aside and gingerly placed the dagger on a shelf.  Sansa did not notice it as she strode inside, or at least pretended not to. Jon shut the door, set the lock, and turned.

There was no mistaking her in the light.  Sansa stood taller than him, auburn hair braided loosely and thrown over a shoulder. She had no lantern, but carried a clay pitcher with both hands.  Jon waited patiently for her to speak as she turned her eyes to him.

“I can’t sleep,” she said slowly, “not here.  Not yet.”

Jon nodded cautiously. He’d thought Sansa would need time to get comfortable in Winterfell again, after all she had endured here.  But he had good sense not to ask her about it, figuring she would mention the problem when she was ready.

“Neither can I,” Jon admitted.  He crossed the room, careful to step aside Sansa’s skirts, and stoked the fire. “Want it built back up?”

“I would.”

Sansa’s eyes were dull and her mouth set in a thin line, so Jon busied himself with reviving the hearth. “Set that pitcher on the desk, if you like.  What’s in it?”  He added a dried log to the fireplace but, unsatisfied with its progress, broke up a peat brick and tossed it into the coals.

Sansa stepped next to where he crouched by the fire and offered a cup.  “Mulled wine.  The kitchens are short on spices, but it’s passable.”

Jon politely tilted his cup back and savored it.  “Best I’ve had in years.”  Jon stood and surveyed the earthenware cup in contemplation.  “The Old Bear loved it, but never shared with me.  Guess he thought it was a perk of command.”

“The Old Bear?”

Suddenly aware that Sansa was still standing, Jon hurriedly moved the room’s lone stool from its place at his desk for her to sit by the fire.  He talked as he worked.

“Lord Commander Mormont. Lady Mormont’s grandfather.  He was Lord Commander before me, I was his steward.”

“His steward?” Sansa asked inquisitively, and for the first time Jon looked hard at her.  She wore the wolf-hide cloak that was twin to the one she’d gifted him over her nightgowns.  As always her face drew his attention and he tried not to stare, but for the moment her mask had slipped.  A thin dark eyebrow rose in surprise and her mouth quirked with the beginnings of a smile that threatened to reach her eyes.  “You served the Lord Commander his meals?”

Jon smiled wanly in remembrance.  Hers was contagious.  “Aye, and fetched hot water for his bath.”  He gestured at the warming hearth.  “And kept a fire burning in his chambers, changed his sheets and blankets, and everything else the Lord Commander asked of me.”  Jon sunk to the floor near Sansa’s seat and stretched his legs out before the fire.

She drank and leaned forward, resting her free hand on her knee and cupping her chin.  Sansa’s blue eyes pierced into Jon over the rim of her cup. “That all seems beneath you.”

“I was a man of the Watch,” Jon explained, “I did my duty.  Then I died. Now I’m here.”

Sansa’s eyes flashed. “Is that how you got that?”  She traced the scar that crossed Jon’s eye with a finger drawn across her own brow.

“No, that was an eagle.”

“You’re joking.”

“I wish I were. Damned thing hurt.”

Sansa sipped her wine, not deigning to respond.  Minutes passed in silence before she spoke again.  “I hope your Old Bear had better wine than ale.”

Jon grinned at the memory of Sansa choking down the filth at Castle Black.  “I’m sure he did.”

“Was he kind to you?”

Jon thought before answering.  “He was patient.  I was too proud, then.  But he saved my life and I his, once.  Then I avenged him.  And he was kind, in his way,” Jon turned and gestured at his sword, which stood in its scabbard in a corner, ruby wolf-eyes glinting in the dark.  Sansa followed his gaze as he talked, “he gave me Longclaw. House Mormont’s Valyrian steel.”

“Do you think Lyanna wants it back?”

A pained expression crossed Jon’s face.  “I haven’t asked,” he sheepishly admitted.

Sansa gently shoved his shoulder.  “You’re terrible.”

“You’ve always said that,” Jon laughed, looking away and smiling.  “Remember when Arya and I threw snowballs at you?”

“Which time?”

“When Father rode off to White Harbor and Karhold with Robb, to show him the seas.”

Sansa nodded in recognition, teeth flashing in a brief grin.  “Jeyne and I had spent all morning practicing Southron braids, and you two just ruined our work.”  Her face stilled and darkened.  “Father thought the next Warden of the North should know the limits of his domain.”

“He did,” Jon said quietly.

Sansa still hadn’t moved her hand from his shoulder, and he found himself leaning into it.

Her voice was firm. “He would be proud of us.”  She squeezed his shoulder in punctuation.

Jon’s voice was guarded. “Have you been down to the crypts yet?”

“I haven’t.”

“I had fresh torches sent down this morning.  The Boltons let them burn out.”

“That’s good of you.”

Sansa straightened and held her cup with both hands, leaning again towards the fire.  They endured the awkward silence until it became comfortable again.

“You really should make an offer to Lyanna,” Sansa appealed.

Jon sighed.  “It’s on my list.”

“It’s a terrible dishonor, for a family to lose its Valyrian steel.  The Lannisters took ours and melted it down.”

That got Jon’s attention. “They destroyed Ice?”

“Tywin Lannister had it reforged,” Sansa said, “it was enough steel for two swords.  He gave one to Joffrey and its twin to the Kingslayer. Lady Brienne has one of them, now.”

“Maybe we should ask for it back.”

Sansa rolled her eyes. “So I can wield it?”

“Maybe,” Jon replied quickly.  Sansa did not answer that so he turned to look at her again, catching her in a rare state of surprise.  He shrugged beneath her stare and explained, “Winter is here, and the enemy is marching. We’ll need every bit of Valyrian steel we’ve got.”

Sansa sniffed.  “The sword would be in better use in Brienne’s hands,” she paused to draw breath, then added evenly, “but if you think I should learn some skill at arms, you will teach me.”

It was Jon’s turn to be surprised.  “Me?”

“Yes,” Sansa answered confidently, “we have no master-at-arms, and you were always Ser Rodrick’s best student.  He said so.”

“When did he tell you that?”

“He visited mother’s sewing circle often.  She wanted to know how you boys’ education progressed.

“But as Lady of Winterfell,” Sansa sped on smoothly, not letting Jon respond, “you are a guest in my home.  You’ve taken my bread and salt, Jon, and I expect you’ll honor me.”

“Always.”  Jon drew his legs up and leaned on his knees, but did not meet her gaze.

Sansa took their empty cups and set them aside, then hung her cloak on an iron hook in the wall next to Jon’s.

She moved the stool and sat next to him on the floor, crossing her long legs.  He carefully turned to meet her eyes.

“Hey,” she said quietly, “we’re home.”  She took his hand in her own.

Sansa was convincing someone, but Jon knew it wasn’t him.  His fingers felt warm against hers, and initially he kept his locked tight together.  But she gently – insistently – threaded hers through his, and they sat there a while together, watching the sparks dance in the hearth.

Jon’s throat was drier than he’d felt in a lifetime, but he soldiered through it.  He stubbornly looked away from her.  “You can rest here tonight.  The bed is yours.”

Sansa’s grip tightened gratefully.  “I’d like that.”

“I’ll stay here by the fire, just give me one of the furs.”  His speech was hurried.

“You’ll be comfortable?”

Jon nodded, his mind in a cave beneath the Wall.  “I’ve stayed in worse.”

Sansa exhaled and stood, loosening her hold on him.  He didn’t move as she stepped to the bed and returned with a thick blanket, setting it around his shoulders.  She retired to the bed and reclined beneath its layered furs.  The sensations of it felt more like home than in her own quarters: the warmth where Jon had lain earlier, the soft, combed furs, and the faint scent of juniper berries.  This was their home.  There were Starks again in Winterfell.

She watched him sprawl before the fire beneath the blanket, a wolf’s shape in the dark. “Thank you, Jon. Good night.”

“Good night, Sansa. I’ll be here.”

What A Day

Hey guys! Okay, well, no one asked for this, but it’s happening anyway because I thought it was funny. Turns out my sense of humor sucks. I promise that I’m actually working on requests, but I also have to get this out of my brain before I can do anything else. Hope you enjoy!

Pairing: Draco Malfoy x Reader

Requested: No 

Warnings: Swearing 


Honestly, you weren’t a violent person, but Draco ‘I’m better than you’ Malfoy just inspired a certain feeling in you. One that made you want to punch him until he cried. Usually, you kept yourself fairly well restrained. You put up with his bullshit comments by gritting your teeth. Not today. No. Today, you were in a bad mood. Nothing was going the way it should have. 

It all started with Hermione’s damn cat shredding your homework. Picture this, waking up bright and early on a Friday morning to see a demon cat clawing hours worth of work apart. To make matters worse, Hermione went on and on about how it was your fault. God for-fucking-bid that her precious cat do anything wrong. On your way down to breakfast, you missed the fucking staircase and had to take the long way. By the time you got there, breakfast was almost halfway over. Ron proceeded to spill whatever the hell he’d been drinking on you literally the second you sat down. You got shoved around in the hallway. Some jerk off of a Slytherin dumped ink down the front of you. When you finally hit potions, you could have screamed.  

You hated potions. You’d hated potions from the very first class back when you were eleven years old. It wasn’t that you were bad a potions, no, you were excellent. It was that you had to deal with Snape and Malfoy in one block. On bad days, the thought alone was enough to make you want to throttle someone. Of course, you had to explain to Snape that Hermione’s demon destroyed your work and, of course, he gave you detention. He then sat you next to Malfoy, claiming that he might be a good influence on you. 

“What an excuse, (L/N),” He said around a cold smile, “I would have expected something more creative from you.” 

“Shut your whore mouth, Malfoy,” You snarled. He blinked in surprise, though your harshness only put him off for a moment. The smirk came back full force as he leaned over your shoulder to see what you were doing to your potion. 

“You’re doing it wrong,” He said. Your eye twitched. 

“No, I’m not,” You said. 

“Fine. I hope you enjoy rearranging ingredients tonight.” You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from slapping him. 

“I’m not in the mood,” You snapped. Bringing a hand to his chest, he gave you a mock seductive look. You made an attempt to ignore him. 

“I could put you in the mood,” He purred.

“Get the hell away from me,” You grumbled, shuffling away from him. It was quiet for a minute or so. 

“I’m beginning to think that you don’t have the faintest idea what you’re doing with that potion,” He teased. You snapped your head to look at him. The smugness in his face was infuriating. 

“Are you deaf or just stupid?” You asked, tossing a handful of rose thorns into your Amortentia. True to your luck for the day, one of them got stuck. 

“Ah, I see now, you’re doing just fine,” Draco said. 

“Fucking fuck, shit, motherfucker, that hurts,” You hissed, plucking the thorn from your palm. 

“Such foul language,” He hummed. You glared at him. 

“Is there a particular reason you’re speaking to me?” You asked. He simply smiled at you. 

“I’m just enjoying this,” He said. 

“My pain?” Nodding, he turned back to his own potion. Your fists clenched and unclenched, just itching to hit him. That wasn’t an uncommon feeling for you. You always wanted to whack the little shit, but never like today. Today you might actually do it. 


After potions, you had the chance to walk around the lake and gather your thoughts. You’d already come to terms with the fact that it had been a shit day, but you were sure that it was going to get worse. And you were right. 

“Ah, (L/N), I see you’re spending time with all of your friends,” Draco called as he and his entourage approached you. 

“Lord, give me the strength to not smack a bitch,” You whispered. You kept walking as though you hadn’t heard him at all. You didn’t get very far before you felt a warm pair of hands grab you. 

“It’s considered rude to ignore someone,” Draco said, glaring at you. 

“It’s considered rude to put your hands on a lady without permission,” You snapped, trying to shake him off. 

“It’s a good thing I haven’t put my hands on a lady. I believe I’m touching you,” He said. You began to ask other deities to keep you from knocking the annoying blonde on his ass. 

“Hilarious,” You deadpanned. 

“I thought so.” You stared at him, wondering when he was going to let go of your robes. As though he read your mind, he did just that. In the form of shoving you into the fucking lake. 

Sputtering, you coughed on the water that had so rudely invaded your lungs. You sat in the freezing water for a minute to get your bearings, dimly aware of Draco and his friends laughing at you. You shivered. It was late autumn and it had been plenty cold without getting wet. Standing up, you began to slog through the water. It was almost impressive how far he’d managed to throw you without trying. Then again, you weren’t that big. 

You said nothing as you walked up to the laughing blonde. The entire courtyard had gone eerily silent, save for his laughing. Pressing your lips into a thin line, you stood in front of him. Then you smiled. A soft, sweet smile that you generally reserved for your friends. 

“Thank you,” You said, sweetly. 

“I figured you needed to cool off,” Draco responded. 

“You’re entirely right.” Your voice was soft and melodic as you spoke. The tone must have triggered warning bells in his head because he stopped laughing. 

“What’s wrong with you?” He asked. You tipped your head to the side as a violent shiver ran through you. 

“Aside from being drenched and freezing, nothing,” You said. 

“Shouldn’t you be acting like Weasley when he loses a Quidditch match?” He asked, raising an eyebrow. You shook your head, laughing softly. 

Before either of you realized that you were reaching for him, you’d wrapped your frozen fingers around the front of his robes and dragged him into the lake. A shrill squeal left his lips as he hit the cold water. Nothing had ever felt so good. Not sex. Not a massage. Nothing. Pulling him into a freezing cold lake had been the highlight of your life. A laugh bubbled out of you.

“My father will…” 

“Hear about this. Yeah, yeah, no one cares.” 

And then, against literally all odds, both of you were laughing. Everyone was staring at you. What a sight it must have been. (Y/N) (L/N) and Draco Malfoy standing knee deep in the lake shaking and howling with laughter. You leaned into him, hoping that he’d support you. He didn’t. Both of you fell back into the water, still unable to stop laughing. Your sides ached and you weren’t sure if you couldn’t breathe because it was so damn cold or how hard you were laughing. His arms wrapped around you as you both stumbled out of the water. Collapsing on land, your fit of giggles began to subside.

“You look like a wet cat,” You snorted, glancing at Draco, who seemed to becoming aware of the fact that he was wet. 

“And I still look better than you,” He snapped. You stifled a giggle. 

“I call bullshit.” You closed your eyes for a moment, grinning at the sky. When you opened them again, you were being offered a pale hand. You looked up to it’s owner, seeing Draco looking down at you with a ghost of a smile. You took it and hauled yourself up. 

“Go on the next Hogsmeade trip with me,” He said. 

“Only if you promise not to push me in the lake again,” You quipped. 

“Deal.” You let go of his hand and made your way back to the castle to change your cloths. As soon as you had done that and you were on your way to Snape’s for detention, something hit you. 

“Did I agree to go on a date with, Malfoy?” 

anonymous asked:

can we get some Volibear?

He’s big. And fluffy. Sure. But he’s also an enormous BEAR GUY. He’s not violent out of the Rift unless you REALLY piss him off, but he’s still pretty damn intimidating.

Once you can get over your nerves, he’s actually very easy to approach. He’s polite and intelligent, albeit a little old-fashioned in his ways. Should you just confess your feelings directly to him, he’s going to listen carefully to every word you say before responding with: “Why?” He’s not being sarcastic, he just purely doesn’t quite understand what it is you’d find so interesting about him.

Once that’s done and over with, he’ll probably be more than happy to keep chatting for a bit. Once you part ways, he’ll let you know very quickly if he’s interested by abruptly knocking on your door the next day. With flowers. And probably chocolates. He’s all about strategy, so he’s researched human courting rituals. It’s very sweet.

On an actual date, he’s going to try and keep cool, but he doesn’t really know what the hell to do on a date. All of his research wasn’t very specific about the actual date itself. Look forward to seeing the poor dear unraveling at the seams once he realizes his plans aren’t working out. You’ll have to reassure him that things are fine and that you’re enjoying your time with him before he’ll actually chill out and be himself. All dates will end with a romantic head bump and a bear hug, possibly followed by a bear smooch.

Please be aware that use of an anti-static fabric softener is recommended.

anonymous asked:

sorry if this sounds rude or ignorant but wouldn't genderbends and trans hcs be different? since genderbending is reimagining the character as the opposite biological sex and trans hcs are an equally complex reimagining of the character not aligning with biological sex because of certain factors like how brains are "wired" differently between said sexes?

(^^^regarding a post I reblogged the other day)

Aye, genderbends and trans HCs are different for pretty much that reason! And depending on your stance it’s cool to have a preference for either, but the preference for trans HCs highlighted in the post I reblogged comes from my own views as a trans person.

Tbh I’m bad with words so it’s kinda hard to describe, but it mostly comes down to a case of “If we present X male character with female body parts they’re a woman” (genderbends) vs “If we present X male character with female body parts then they’re still a man” (Trans HCs)– and vice versa. Like I say, there isn’t a real problem with genderbending as far as I’m aware??– but bearing this in mind, it is important to understand why genderbends can be kind of a major bummer to trans people depending on the presentation. (especially considering their popularity compared to trans HCs sometimes, gotta love that 10 outta 10 representation lol)

613linkshot  asked:

psst, if you're headed up north, take my dad with you. i'd rather not hear him swearing at hockey and he'd rather take photos of birds. (in all seriousness I'm new to your blog but I hope you have a great time!)

Lol does he have First Aid, polar bear awareness training and a gun license? If so he can come :P 

Alpha/Alpha Verse, with Lotor’s first speaking role in a fic, time for notes on alien species!


The Galra don’t have Alphas & Omegas or males and females for that matter. They are a aggressive hermaphroditic race with mating cycles. They only have one sex, and everyone is capable of both bearing and siring children. From a human perspective they all look, smell, and act like Alpha males. Yes, this means Keith’s father fell in love with what he thought was another Alpha male. He was very shocked to discover that Keith’s mother was capable of bearing children.

Galra are aware that other species have more than one sex. Though things like why Alpha females and Omega males aren’t considered the same sex can be a little lost on them, but they are aware that species with those sexes consider them different.

Also, the Galra have quite a few ‘Captain Kirks’ within their ranks. Being attracted to aliens isn’t considered a deviance, and while half-breeds are still rare, pretty much everyone has met and known one personally. Galra diversity is at least partially because of this tendency to add alien genes to the gene pool.


The Alteans do have Alphas and Omegas plus males and females. Their sex distribution was much more even than humans, with each sex making up about a quarter of the population each. Interesting effect of this is their Alphas are much less likely to be bi (attracted to both Alphas and Omegas) than human Alphas are.


Things about our favorite half-breeds. 

Lotor is a Galra-Altean hybrid. In the context of his Altean half he considers himself an Alpha male, though he has inherited the genitalia of his Galra half. Yep, Lotor can both sire and bear children, though he isn’t interested in raising any right now. When Keith met him, Lotor looked, smelled, and acted like an Alpha male to him.

Keith is a Human-Galra hybrid. His humans genes are very very dominant. He considers himself an Alpha male and all his parts are of human Alpha males. He can sire children but he can’t bear them.  While he may be insecure about his Alphaness, Keith is within the normal physical range for human Alpha males. He’s just short with a sprinter’s build comparing himself to Shiro. The build he might be able to blame on his mother, but the being short is just him getting screwed by the genetic lottery. Though, he is very very young by Galra standards, he might actually have another growth spurt in him a couple years down the line.

The Five Right Practices

•Right Mindfulness

•Right Understanding

•Right Thought

•Right Effort

•Right Concentration

Right Mindfulness is observation without reaction, it’s about being aware and bearing witness to what is happening.

Right Understanding is remembering that everything we perceive is the Divine, the Dharmakaya, which we call Amida.

Right Thought is submission and acceptance that everything is as it should be, that everything happens for a reason, that this is our destiny, this is the way it is for now, and it is what it is!

Right Effort is being content. Contentment isn’t just a reaction to how things are going. It’s an action supported by effort, one can make a decision and try to be content. “Contentment is the greatest wealth, Desire is the cause of suffering. Be content, Be happy!”

Right Concentration is stillness and quietness of the mind. This arises as a result of contentment and acceptance, when the mind is relaxed and not over-thinking.



NB - These five practices are 5 out of the 8 in the traditional Noble Eightfold Path of Theravada Buddhism, the other three being Right Speach, Action and Livelihood. The principles of these three are actually covered by our Precepts and Virtues.

anonymous asked:

Dating Hercules head cannons

Tailored to your wishes my lovely anon

Dating Hercules HCs:

• I just want you to be aware that you’re dating a teddy bear.

• Are you aware of this?

• Because you need to be.

• Herc refuses to let you buy clothes, because he wants to make all of them for you, free of charge (which you force him to take the money for)

• Herc is all about forehead kisses, he loves to sneak up on you and plant them right on your hairline

• Loves it when you watch him sew. Anybody else, and he gets a it too self conscious. He’s even tried to teach you to see before.

• You tend to steal his beanie. And by tend, I mean all the time. The HamilSquad will always make stupid comments about it when he is seen without it.

• Herc often becomes your human pillow or blanket, his teddy bear features making him perfect for it.

• You both switch off making dinner, trying to surprise the other. Herc is a surprisingly good cook.

• Herc also loves it when you read aloud when you two are cuddling (which he loves to do). He loves the way your voice sounds, and how you give voices to different characters. (Especially when you read the Harry Potter series aloud. That was a roller coaster of voices)

• Herc loves giving you his shirts to wear around the house because you not only look utterly adorable to him, but you also look like the shirt has eaten you with how big it is

• Whenever you come home upset or stressed, Herc will instantly whip up a cup of hot chocolate and bring you a blanket, and he will start asking you about your day as he makes your favorite food while you sit at the counter and rant

• You two will often play hide and seek around the house. You’re more often the hider than the seeker because he always hides in the same spots.