Headcanon time: Keith eats nothing but garbage food on Earth.

  • You might be thinking “oh, he eats tons of fast food then?” or maybe, depending on your tastes “I bet he likes pineapple on his pizza haha.” No.
    • Keith was making chicken noodle soup once, and he put mashed avocado in it “for flavour”.
    • Keith takes tortilla chips, but instead of dipping them in salsa or ranch like a normal and functional human being, he dips them in fish gravy.
    • Making lime jello? Reasonable. But you bet your sweet left cheek that there’s going to be sliced up sausage somewhere in there. 
    • Keith makes a grilled cheese sandwich with tomato and onions, grills it, then pours goddamn maple syrup right on top of it.
  •  So needless to say, when Keith offers to make dinner for team voltron as celebration for their latest mission, Shiro is absolutely mortified. But the rest of them are none the wiser, and he doesn’t want to be rude, so he lets Keith do it. 
  • Turns out, the reason for Keith’s strange tastes is because his galra genes modify his pallet for non-earth food, so with “alien ingredients” the food Keith makes tastes just fine. Delicious even.
  • Even Lance, who is a reasonably good cook, swallows his pride and gives Keith a genuine complement.
  • Shiro is shook.

She has no throne. Girls without thrones should not have knights, but hers won’t go. Princess Zelda – the girl who killed Calamity – would love to fade into legend, but Link’s bought a house, he’s fighting off monsters, and he’s selling giant horses to strangely familiar Gerudo men. She’ll never have any peace now. (ao3)  

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Gakuen Bungou Stray Dogs - Translations!! Part THREE

Gakuen Bungou Stray Dogs is a school AU that the official anime Twitter came up with!

Have the third and final round! Translations were made by my awesome friend Maya @erochuya (Twitter) and yours truly! Enjoy~!

The question for part three is: Describe what you had for dinner tonight.

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What Once Was Lost


Captain Swan, Captain Cobra

Summary: Short one shot. Henry and Lucy look for Killian, the one person that will always find Emma Swan. (headcanon for season 7) 

Also on AO3

Thanks to @spartanguard for taking a quick look through. You are the best!


Killian Jones sat on the park bench near the bay of his small town, Fairy Trails, for lunch, just like he did every day since he could remember. He had picked up his lunch from the small diner in town, Ruby’s, and then made the short walk here. He looked out over the water, and let out a breath. He wasn’t entirely sure why the water always seemed to calm him, but it did.

He opened the styrofoam takeout container, and smiled wistfully at the contents, a grilled cheese and onion rings. It wasn’t his favorite meal; he actually preferred the lasagna. But it had been her favorite meal. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. There was no reason to get misty eyed right now. It had been…well, a long time since he had lost her, his wife, in the horrible accident. He couldn’t even remember most of it. One moment they were together, and the next it was almost like an explosion and he woke up being told that she and his left hand were gone.

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anonymous asked:

hi!! can you give me a quick summary of hook and emma from beginning to most current? thanks love !!

Once upon a time there was a lonely cupcake Savior who had walls miles high, and after dangers untold and hardships unnumbered- oops, detoured to The Labyrinth, my bad. Anyway, our Lonely Cupcake discovered she was the Lost Princess of Misthaven and broke a curse with TLK with her son, found her family, fell thru a portal, met her pirate soulmate, kissed him so hard in Neverland she helped him move past his vengeance and gave him something more to live for, but then they got cursed again and she lost her memories because FUCKING PETER PAN, she and Henry (her son) lived in New York for a year, was found by her pirate soulmate and brought back home…

*takes a deep breath* Fell thru another portal, but not just any portal, a TIME portal, accidentally messed up her parents meeting, met her pirate soulmate’s past self and made his present self JEALOUS (tee-hee), danced at ball and was swept off her feet by said pirate soulmate, fixed what she done fucked up, came back home aND FOUND OUT PIRATE SOULMATE TRADED HIS SHIP FOR HER BECAUSE LE TRUE LOVE (BUT WE WON’T DISCOVER THAT’S TRUE TIL SEASON FIIIIIIVE).

There was domestic bliss for six weeks and the best relationship development to ever develop (DON’T YOU KNOW, EMMA??? IT’S YOU), also grilled cheese and onion rings, I can’t even talk about it. Then some dumb ass author showed up and wrote an AU, but we should say thanks, I guess, because we got to watch CS meet for the first time AGAIN and Killian was shy and awestruck and drank goat’s milk and Emma was hearteyez AF and eyelash fluttery, also the Gods of ABC blessed us with “muscle memory” aka one of the greatest scenes OF. ALL.TIME. Sorry Taylor Swift, OF. ALL. TIME. And then Killian died to protect Emma and she admitted that sHE LOVED HIM SO HARD STAB ME IN THE EYE OH MY GOD. Then she done helped fix the author’s fuck up and everything went back to normal and then she saw Killian and tackle-hugged him to the bed (OH MY GOD PUNCH ME) and said she needed to tell him something (spoiler alert, it was, “I love you”) and Killian was like, “MMHMM. YES, SWAN. I AM LISTENING, WHAT IS IT, I KNOW BUT TELL ME PLEASE BECAUSE REASONS.” But then Emma chickened out and didn’t say it and she smooshed her forehead to his instead. T-T *takes another deep breath* And then Emma took on The DarknessTM but not before telling Killian she loved him HAHAHAH It was painfully awesome.

Then came the birth of Dark SwanTM and Dark HookTM with a bunch of CUTE AF CS SCENES OH MY GOD IT WAS DISGUSTINGLY AMAZING SERIOUSLY CAMELOT WAS SO GOOD TO US. Hook sacrificed himself to Save EmmaTM and then Emma was like, FUCK THAT NOISE I WILL DO ANYTHING TO PROTECT MY HUSBAND, and then she went to the Underworld to Save KillianTM. Hades was a dick and things we’re looking pretty bad for CS and there was this awful goodbye scene at the elevator where Killian made Emma go back without him because there was no way for him to leave, and when I say awful, it was the best thing to ever happen to me. Anyway, Zeus pardoned Killian and returned him to where he belonged – with Emma :’)))) HAHAHAH I KNOW, IT’S TOO MUCH PERFECTION.

Now CS is living together and they are continuing to fight for each other and their Happy Ending, oh and Killian wants to propose, AND EMMA GON SAY YIS AND WE GON HAVE A MUSICAL WEDDING. The End. And ofc they’re going to live Happily Ever After, FIGHT ME.

His Brightest Star Was You - a missing Wish!Realm scene

AN: This wouldn’t leave my brain so I had to write it. For @acrobat-elle who I love a lot. I’ve been wanting to write you something forever and this is a gift for keeping it real about this episode and just generally being awesome and lovely. I hope you like it darling.

Word Count: 1198 



Even if the man sprawled, open mouthed and snoring on the bed before her was only barely recognizable, a grim shadow of the man she knew, Emma took comfort in the fact that his home was for the most part unchanged. He always took impeccable care of his ship, even if the same couldn’t always be said of himself.

There were new books lining the mantle, a few things replaced or slightly off from the Jolly she knew, but the feel of the vessel, the warmth and care shown on the spotlessly clean deck, in the tidy and efficient cabin, everything arranged just so, was exactly the same.

Emma laid his sword carefully on the table, and looked around, finally feeling some measure of peace in the day’s recent chaos. The palace she had called home here wasn’t a world she knew, the years of growing up there, of her marriage, and raising her son in the endless echoing corridors, elaborate balls and parties, were familiar in the way dreams are, intangible, fleeting, curling and fading around the edges with every moment after the dawn.

This ship however, she knew this ship.

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Flour or Wheat - Wentworth Miller

I’ve been coming here a long time, to this strip mall hole-in-the-wall Mexican restaurant off the freeway, with the chicken quesadillas I decided somewhere in my mid-20s (without much research, admittedly) were the best in Los Angeles.

In 199-something it was a small chain with franchise dreams and few locations, one of which was near-ish my apartment. When it closed I started commuting to a location that was not near-ish. It was far-ish. And when I brought someone along they would inevitably pronounce, between bites, that it wasn’t worth the gas.

I paid them no mind.

I have a history of mental health issues and routine is important to me. Also consistency. Which might be why, once I started coming, I didn’t stop. Why in the hundreds of times I’ve approached the counter I’ve always ordered the same thing.


One chicken quesadilla on a flour tortilla with guacamole. Rice and beans on the side. Plus chips.

Seriously. I’ve never tried anything else on the menu. For all I know the shrimp tacos make men weep. I don’t care. They’re not on my radar.

Yet somehow, despite getting the same meal about twice a month maybe ten months a year for almost fifteen years, the guy behind the counter never remembers my order.


Or, by extension, it would seem to follow, me.

This isn’t “Cheers.” Nobody knows my name. And if anyone’s glad I came, they’re keeping it to themselves.

Eventually I learned not to expect the guy behind the counter to know my order. What I could expect was a set mouth and a flat stare. Free of charge.

And that’s been a relief.

At times.

At times I have deeply appreciated being made to feel anonymous. No one approaches me here. No one asks for a photo. No one seizes an opportunity to go full koala around my waist while a friend repeatedly fails to take a picture on their smartphone.

Other times, vacuum-sealed in my LA existence, moving from apartment to car to freeway and back, the luxury of not having to touch or be touched by another human being mine to indulge, I have very much wanted the guy behind the counter to know my order without me telling him first.

But no. Every time I walk in we have essentially the same exchange we’ve been having lo these many years:

Him: Upward nod and/or raised eyebrows with a split second of eye contact to signal I have his attention.

Me: “Chicken quesadilla, please.”

Him: “Flour or wheat?” They’ve got two kinds of tortillas to choose from.

Me: “Flour.” Let’s not go crazy.

Him: “Rice and beans?”

Me: “Rice and beans.”

He spreads a flour tortilla on the stovetop, sprinkles it with cheese while I pay at the register then get my salsa from the salsa bar. Unless I get my salsa from the salsa bar first then pay after. That part changes depending how fast the lady at the register rings me up. (I think of this as my chance to practice being flexible.)

When my tortilla is done browning and the cheese melting, the guy takes it off the stovetop and says, “Chicken or steak?” Even if I am the only customer in there, mine the only order being juggled, I will be asked to repeat my choice of protein.

Me: “Chicken.”

Him: “Rice and beans?”

To be fair, I don’t know his name or order either (assuming he eats there too). To be fair, I’m sure it’s no picnic chopping onions and grilling carnitas for a living. I spent a summer scraping uneaten refried beans off plates at a Mexican restaurant in Phoenix. An outdoor restaurant. In Phoenix. In summer. So while I don’t/won’t insult the guy behind the counter by pretending to understand the depth/breadth of his experience, I feel like I can imagine it. At least a little bit.

Or maybe not. Maybe I’m just a spoiled jerk with a sense of entitlement. Maybe the guy’s having an off decade. Maybe his dog ran away and never came back. Maybe he needs some sweet understanding. Maybe I should cool it with the judgments and projections. Maybe it shouldn’t matter to me that he can’t (won’t?) remember my order.

But it does.

Whatever. I don’t come for the service. I come for the quesadilla. Which, most likely, is average. But which, drawn to ritual as I am, I’ve eaten enough times to become sentimental about. Ditto the 90-minute drive there and back, the smell of the hand soap in the bathroom, the validation stamp with the red ink they stamp on my parking stub that gets on my fingers if I touch it before it dries. This is my spot. My joint. My Cheers. Even if nobody knows or cares what my name/order is. This (most likely average) quesadilla is threaded through my LA history, this city I’ve liked and hated (almost) equally, a place I came to because it’s “where the work is” and, now that the work is taking me away, I’m thrilled to leave. A town that has never felt like home, even if it was where I chose to lay my head.

As the poet said, #notmyvibenotmytribe.

Which is why, on the eve of my permanent departure, about to begin a new job in a new city in a new country, as I ready myself for a set of experiences that promise change and growth and shift and all the things that used to frighten me but which today I recognize and embrace as gift and gold, it’s only fitting that I make the drive to my little Mexican restaurant one last time, for one last chicken quesadilla on a flour tortilla. And by doing so honor all the other times I came here to enjoy “my last quesadilla.” Not because I was leaving town but because I was going to go home and kill myself.

Of my close friends, I’ve known Depression the longest.

By 10 we were well-acquainted. He was there for my first attempt, at 15, for my second, freshman year at Princeton, and for the multiple dress rehearsals and close calls that followed. He was there as recently as four years ago, seated in the front row for what was in some ways my most serious breakdown since college. When all I wanted was to die. When Depression had me convinced - deep down, on a cellular level - that I Would Always Feel This Way and that There Were No Other Versions Of Me/Life On Offer.

That was before I realized Depression is a Liar.

That was before the daily meditation, the prayer, the affirmations. Before the therapy, the men’s work, the move from isolation into community. Before the self-expression via writing (privately, professionally) and coming out (publicly). Before the gentle (and sometimes not-so-gentle) letting go of the people, habits, and belief systems that knocked me out of my body, lowered my frequency, and robbed me of a good night’s rest. Before the gradual conclusion that I did not come into this world preprogrammed to self-destruct. (That upgrade/virus came later, courtesy of outside influences.) Before the understanding (remembering?) that my birthright is joy. But joy won’t just come when I call it. I have to invite it. Gently. With intention. Building a connection, a trust, over time.

But I digress. Where was I? Oh yes. Chicken quesadillas.

Over the years, on a handful of dark days, I would determine that my final meal would be my favorite and when it was finished, I would exit this earth. Because I couldn’t imagine feeling better. Because I couldn’t imagine a different, vastly improved state of existence.

Which, obviously, represents a colossal failure of my imagination.

That was another tool in Depression’s toolbelt: the limits of what I could and could not imagine.

The man I was then couldn’t have pictured the man I am now, moving (more) consciously and (more) thoughtfully through the world, (more) alert to the people, habits, and belief systems that invite peace and purpose into my life on a daily basis. A man departing (escaping) Los Angeles with a plateful of things to look forward to.

The man I was then wouldn’t have believed any of this was possible. But it was. Is.

And to celebrate, I’m treating myself to one last chicken quesadilla on a flour tortilla before I go. Because it’s f-cking earned. If I do say so myself.

I park my car in the underground lot, get my parking stub, enter the restaurant. I walk past the guy behind the counter and into the bathroom to wash my hands. Emerging, I get my tray, approach the counter, and see that for the first time in the near fifth of a century I’ve been frequenting this chain, on what is potentially and very probably my final visit to this strip mall hole-in-the-wall, this totally unexceptional restaurant I’ve spent years patronizing and a not inconsiderable amount of gas money getting to from various apartments, the guy behind the counter has already got a tortilla heating on the stovetop for me. Flour.

Eyes down, he sprinkles it with cheese, says to me or himself or to both of us, “Chicken quesadilla.”

It is a statement. Not a question.

I say, “Yes. Please.”

And “Thank you.”