i also made this in green

0sora-the-explora0  asked:

So, it seems as though McCree can only see if Mondai is touching him? That would explain why he could read the book, right? And "being his eyes" as his only job... I've noticed that when he has Mondai, his eyes are green. But when Mondai flies over to Hanzo is when his eyes went gray... Am I onto something at all?

(This is the weirdest post I´ve ever made.)

First things first: Mondai does not have to touch Mccree. Mccree sees the world through Mondais eyes 24/7 but if he is flying around playing with Hanzo he can also only see Hanzo and so he walked against the tree. 

To answer your second question honestly…. sometime I am lazy… and I forget to color the eyes brown… so they get grey sometimes but that actually is not connected to Mondai. There is this one time they got a little greenish… *tries to look normal but is definitley hiding something* THEY ARE TOTALLY RANDOM TOO.

4

Murdoc Niccals | Strobelite [2017]

yamitamiko  asked:

jolly ranchers or disassociation bears

So when i was like… Six? Seven?  My family and my Dad’s parents took a trip back to Iowa to see the family there and record a video of all the places Grandpa grew up.  Which resulted, at one point, in all of us hiking out to a cement slab int he middle of a cornfield and Grandpa saying “This is where the schoolhouse USED to be.”

The whole thing is pretty hazy becuase I was having heatstroke/carsickness most of the time but I remember the following:  

  • Grandma in the backseat with me and my sister, working on the HUGE catherdal window quilt she hand-stitched to pass the time.  It ended up being about 9ft by 12 ft when she was done, and we still have it at my parent’s house.
  • an ungodly amount of corn
  • which I realize everyone says about iowa, but the corn is one of the few thingsi recall with VIVID detail- the musty but very ALIVE smell of it photosynthesizing, the rouch texture of the leave and how my bare arms and legs got scratched up from hell to breakfast when i went wandering it.  The violently geometric rows that would snap back to noneuclidian madness- I could never get to where I intended if i tried to cut across fields- Always on the wrong side or too far past where I wanted to come out.  or on the wrong property, on one occasion.
  • You’re never alone in those fields, not really.  There’s a distinct Otherness about being three feet tall in the midst of six-foot corn, the closeness, with gaps where you can see forever and ever, the constant rustling like you’re being pursued.  I’m willing to chalk a lot up to paranoia but I know the Wolfdog has better senses than me and that when she growled at something, she meant business.
  • The one thing we did find in a field was a swan.
  • Just chilling, sitting in one of the troughs.  It was there with a bunch of Canada geese, hiding in the shade from the midday heat.  It let me get within arms length before putting it’s head up, looking me dead in the eye from a sitting position. It began a low, continuous buzz, like bagpipes right before they scream.  Mazel warned it with a low “Whurf” noise, and it stared her down for a minute, before it decided I had some kind of prior permission and decided I could stay.
  • I also found a small ceramic otter, half buried in the dirt.
  • That field used to be a lake, apparently.
  • I’d also never been anywhere with lightning bugs prior to that august, and didn’t believe them until one of the Iowa cousins caught one for me and showed me that it was, in fact a bug and not the lawn about to explode from swap gas.
  • Maybe I was just sweaty and prone to spilling punch on myself but they rather liked me, landing all over my skin and hair.  I felt lighter than air when they came, like I could float away with them into the night.
  • To the point where I went chasing them rather far into the woods until I ran into an old barb-wire fence, mostly rotted and easy to pass, covered in blackberries. I was about to cross when half a dozen turkeys came running full-tilt at and then past me, hardly chattering at all.  I decided to take their lack of words and went hack to the cabin.

So you have some context for the WEIRD part of the trip.

We’re driving around the county of I can’t remember I was six and Grandpa is driving, and he turns down what I’d assumed was another dirt road when Mom starts asking about “Uh, do you actually KNOW the people who live here?”  “Oh pshaw. it’ll be fine.” and I realized we were in some backwater Iowan’s DRIVEWAY, pulling up to a house, right about the time when the Bull charged the car.

“EDWIN THERE’S A BULL.”  Shrieked my grandma, grabbing both me and my sister and heroically yanking us out our seatbelts and to the other side of the car, behind the quilt, in hopes it would protect us from potential impalement.  Gandpa, Bless Him, stopped the fucking car and leaned out the window to look.

“Aren’t you handsome!” He laughed and the half-ton of angry pot roast stopped up short, blinking stupidly, before cautiously trotting up the rest of the way and attempting to stick his head in the car for skritches.  He was stopped by the fact that his horns didn’t fit in the damn window.

Grandpa proceeds to drive the rest of the way up to the house, bull following us, before casually… getting out of the car, walking right up to the front door and ringing the bell.  A Pair of the most American Gothic-looking people answer, looking bewildered at the elderly, plaid-covered man in front of them, offering them a ham of hand.

“My name’s Edwin, and I grew up on this farm- Did you ever meet the Fitzgerald’s?  I was hoping I could show my family around where I was a boy.”

“Oh my god.” Said my mother, burying her face in the seat. “He’s going to be shot.”

“OH WELL COME ON IN!” The Gothic Americans say, apparently thrilled. “WE’VE GOT PIE AND LEMONADE AND AIR CONDITIONING.”

“…Or not.”  mom shrugs, relived.  For the moment.

So the family piles out of the car and into this house, which while rustic and probably charming, is also crammed to the brink with more fucking memento mori than a dutch painting museum that got invaded by a Dia De Los muertos parade.  

I’m talking taxidermy animals, portraits where everyone is skeletons, mannequins covered in flowing cloaks, pinned insects and pressed flowers, tiny skeleton dolls sitting in corners,  a literal wall of scythes, a hall of livestock skulls and on the mantelpiece, in a glass bell jar, an actual human skull.  I, six years old and a weirdo, am immediately in love with this place. 

“That’s Great-Uncle Richard.” The lady says, fondly.  “He’s the one that your grandpa’s family sold the farm to!”

“COOL.” I say as Grandma takes out her rosary.

“COME ON IN FOR SOME PIE.” hollers the gentleman from the kitchen.  We go in and there is not one but like, SIX fucking pies on the table and milk and lemonade and whiskey and an angelfood cake and it’s all very Norman Rockwell except for the part where the kitchen is Not Immune and there’s a centerpiece pf chipmunks taxidermied to be drinking tea in the center.  I am DELIGHTED, my grandmother is praying harder.  My mom had decided she’s going to enjoy this encounter and sits down for a lemonade and a slice of apple pie while my Dad gently tell my two-year old sister to not lick the skeletons.

Everyone has a grand time sitting around the table with these people, Lucille and Barry, talking about the history of the farm and long-passed relatives and crop yields and whatnot.  Except for my grandmother, who is Too Catholic For This, and when my ADHD ass gets bored and asks to go look at the animals, says she’ll go with me, despite being decidedly non agrarian.

We go outside to find Mazel sitting in the water trough, becuase being part husky in Iowa in August is HARD, and sometimes one needs to get soaked up to the neck to cope.  The Bull is displeased by Strange Dogs sitting in his trough, but she leveled him with a look and low noise that was more rumble than growl to remind him she was Canis Lupis Decidedly-Less-Familiaris and she ate his cousins ground up for breakfast and he decided he had important Bull Business on the other side of the barn.

We get into the barn where there were about 20 dairy cattle having a nap in the shade that afternoon before milking, and I point up and shout ‘LOOK GRANDMA JUST LIKE CHURCH’.  Growing up agnostic had left me fuzzier on certain religious matters, and I naturally assumed that the gaunt, rather tortured looking figure hanging from the rafters was a crucified Jesus.

It was not.

It was, I would later learn, a sculpture of Great-Aunt Margret, wife of Richard-on-the-mantle, who had a wild sense of humor and had left instructions that she wanted to be strung up to watch over her beloved cows and also to terrify any would-be rustlers. Her family had the good sense to not leave an actual corpse hanging from the rafters, but whoever made that scultpure did a Damn Fine job capturing the pants-shitting terror Margret had been after.  Grandma attempted to haul me out of there but I was much more interested in the cows, and merrily fed them scattered bit of hay through the bars of the queuing area before the milking stall under Margret’s watchful eyeless sockets.

I also found a nest of pitch-black kittens, a white and very arthritic hound that managed to get up and follow me around the barn anyway, and a fat, green-black chicken that came up to my navel and wanted chin scratches.  There were various other odd  decorations scattered around the property- the large, wrought-iron sculpture in the middle of the duck pond was particularly choice.  It was constructed of several arches and a few curled spikes, so that when it was viewed with a reflection on a still day, it formed an eye.  It was a splendid afternoon.

When I got back to the car, grandma had added another seventeen cathedral windows to the quilt out of spite and was ready to wring my grandfather’s neck.  We hauled mazel out of the trough, patted the bull goodbye and left with some lovely family history and a furious grandmother.

Lucille and Barry passed away a while ago, but we always exchanged christmas cards, and I’m still Facebook friends with their daughter, Juliet.  She;s thinking about turning the farm into an eco-amusement park.

So to actually answer your question, Jolly Ranchers.

2

A spell for the anxious driver.

If you are like me, then unfortunately driving is not a fun experience and you are full of dread the whole drive. To help me with my driving anxiety (and anyone else who has this problem), I have made this spell. I hope it helps anyone who feels anxious while driving!

🔮 Lavender - for driving anxiety

🦇 Basil - for protection

🔮 Bay leaf - protection

🦇 Cinnamon - also for protection

🔮 Sage - long life and protection

🦇 Amethyst - for anxiety

🔮 Quartz - for protection

🦇 Rose quartz - for confidence while driving

🔮 I sealed it off with a yellow candle to represent happy thoughts while driving.

Then, I just hung it in a little bag in my car!

3


This Friday I had the happiness of playing cuphead and good is visually fanservice for the eyes, it is not as difficult as they say, it is difficult for the new generation but for those who grew up in the arcades where you had to spend the games with a coin is easy peasy (also if we play touhou XD), in general it is a masterpiece made by hand, you can see the love of the game by its creators.

 Have you played cuphead?, do you look difficult?.

Artist: Yatsu

3

#KatsuDekuWeek || Day Three: Swap

Colour Scheme Swap

tony at the end of every avengers mission talking to thor and steve all heart-eyes like “thor??? you’re staying right???? captain??? you’re also staying???? i’ll throw us a party. you’re staying right??? you’re staying. are you staying??? you should stay. right??? that seems like a good idea so you’re staying aren’t you???”

tony @ bruce like “literally come live with me i have ten floors of pure science to share and”

tony @ clint like “i already took care of your entire medical treatment and i called in a doctor straight from korea and also drink this green smoothie. my bots made it but i picked this lidded cup and straw personally”

tony @ natasha like “[blasting AC/DC] hello base this is Shellhead ™ did you miss me. over. no nat i do NOT sound like i’ve been crying i’m actually always Fine”

help me tony loves them

8

💚

Like you mean it 😘

Thank you, @cuppa-tea-eh for that prompt! :) It was so much fun! (and whenever ‘it was fun’ it turns into… well, 3k this time. Whoops!) I also posted it on AO3 if you prefer to read it there… :)


Cho Chang. Cho Chang? Really? Cho. Chang!!

“Draco, are you alright?” Pansy was waving a hand in front of his face, scrutinising him intently. She looked worried.

“Cho Chang,” Draco muttered for the umpteenth time. Pansy sighed, letting her hand drop to her side and leaning away again.

“Yes, Draco, Cho Chang. But she said no. She’s already going with someone else.”

Draco couldn’t help but sneer. Thank Merlin Chang was already going out with Diggory! But Potter seemed to fancy her nonetheless. Draco had caught him staring at the Ravenclaw in the Great Hall several times. It made him want to dump his porridge on Potter’s head.

When he saw Potter the next day, he noticed how tense his shoulders looked, how he was walking with his head bowed. Draco would have liked nothing more than to go over there and end Potter’s misery. There were only a few minor problems. Draco had a reputation to uphold. He couldn’t just walk over there and ask him to the Yule Ball. Besides, Potter didn’t even like him.

The more Draco thought about the impossibility of ever being with the stupid Gryffindor, the angrier he got. As he watched Potter cross the courtyard, he acted on impulse. He scooped up a handful of snow and threw it with as much force as he could. It hit Potter right in the back of his head.

“Ow!” He whirled around and narrowed his eyes when he saw Draco sneering at him.

“Potter!” Draco didn’t even have to force his voice to sound gleeful, it was an automatism. “Could you be any more pathetic?” He approached Potter with a smart pace, flashing his ‘Potter stinks’ badge before he came to a halt in front of him. “How does it feel, Potter, to realise you’re not everybody’s darling?” He cackled scornfully, jutting his chin forward. “The Boy Who Lived… can’t even find a date for the Yule Ball.”

Potter glowered at him and Draco felt almost embarrassed about how much he was enjoying it.

“Oh, because everybody is begging you to go with them?” Potter said in a mocking tone. Draco straightened himself, attempting to look as superior as possible.

“Unlike you, I get to pick and choose amongst my devoted admirers.”

Draco scowled when Potter snorted.

“Right. The one devoted admirer being Pansy Parkinson. And you call me pathetic.”

Draco struggled to keep his composure. But he wouldn’t let Potter win.

“Should I build you a snowwoman, so you won’t end up alone after all? At least she’d have as much charisma as you.”

“Don’t bother, Malfoy,” Potter said gruffly. “Worry about yourself. I bet you can’t find someone other than Pansy who’d want to go with you.”

Draco felt his cheeks burn up. He didn’t want to go with Pansy but had already made his peace with it, seeing as the person he really wanted to go with wasn’t an option.

“I already told you, I have lots of choices,” Draco fumed. It was an outright lie and he suspected Potter knew it. The Gryffindor crossed his arms in front of his chest and gave Draco a speculative glance.

“Alright, let’s make a bet then.”

Draco pressed his lips together to keep himself from gaping. He squared his shoulders and forced himself to smirk.

“Sure. But if- I mean when I turn up with my date, who won’t be Pansy, you’ll kneel in front of me and kiss my hand.” Draco chuckled inwardly.

“What? I won’t be kneeling-”

“Scared you’ll lose, Potter?” Draco said tauntingly. Potter gritted his teeth.

“Fine! Since you seem to be so sure of yourself, I’ll make it easy for you. If I win, you’ll kiss your date in front of everyone! Like you mean it.”

Draco bit his lip. Potter wasn’t playing fair. He knew Pansy had a thing for Draco and she would kill him if he went to the ball with somebody else and kissed them right in front of her. But he couldn’t back down now.

“You’ve got yourself a bet, Potter,” he growled and stalked off to the Slytherin common room. What had he gotten himself into? This was bound to end badly. He knew it from the second he had agreed to this stupid bet and was proven right again when he talked to Pansy.

“What do you mean, you can’t go to the ball with me?” she screeched. Draco sighed.

“I made a bet with Potter,” he said, plopping down in an armchair.

“And that bet excludes me as your date?” She was probably going to start throwing things any second now.

“It does,” Draco replied. “Just ask Blaise or something.” It was obviously the wrong thing to say. Pansy’s face was red and blotchy, her nostrils were flared and her eyes look murderous.

“I will kill Potter for this,” she yelled and stormed off into her dorm. Draco let his head fall back and tried not to think about how Pansy would react if he actually had to kiss someone in front of her. Like you mean it. Potter’s words echoed in his head. That would be a tough sell. The only person he could imagine kissing in earnest was the one he’d had to beat in this stupid bet.


Draco looked around the Great Hall and wrinkled his nose. Finding a date to the Yule Ball had turned out harder than he had anticipated. Every single person he had asked was already taken, or at least they said they were, and time was running out fast. The stupid ball was tomorrow. His only consolation was that Potter didn’t seem to have had much luck either.

He didn’t know why he did it, what idiocy drove him to provoke Potter further, but when Potions class was over, he strode over to the Gryffindor and casually leaned his hip against his desk.

“Time’s almost up, Potter. We can do a test run if you like, to familiarise your knees to being bent.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Granger and Weasley blinking at him.

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” Potter said, standing up. “You on the other hand should probably take better care of these.” Without warning, Potter’s thumb was brushing Draco’s lower lip. “They look a bit chapped. Wouldn’t want your date to cut themselves on your lip.”

Draco could only watch Potter and his friends, who were still gaping at Draco, leave the classroom while he stood there, dumbfounded and rooted to the spot. His heart was about to jump out his chest and his legs felt like he had been hit with the Jelly-Legs-Jinx.

He was still slightly swaying when he found Blaise in the library.

“Got a date yet?” he asked, putting down his quill. Draco groaned.

“No. And Potter is driving me insane!”

“Honestly, you should just ask him to be your date and be done with it,” Blaise suggested.

“You’re very helpful,” Draco barked.

“Seriously, Draco, I swear to Salazar, if you don’t do anything about it and I have to endure you talking about him every waking minute until we finish school, I will throw myself into the Great Lake.”

“You know very well I can’t do anything about it,” Draco huffed. “And I do not talk about him that much.”

Blaise gave him an exasperated look and sighed.

“Why do you even like him?”

Draco frowned.

“How should I know? I just… do.”

Shaking his head, Blaise took his quill and stuffed it into his bag.

Keep reading

My Game Of Thrones fan script
  • Styve, a young apprentice candlemaker: Hello, I'm here to start the first day of my apprenticeship?
  • [Styve is grabbed by Daiv, also known as The Lamp, also known as The Dreadlord Of Ostlebain, a 7-foot-tall mute who jumps out of the shadows. Tymme, the 80-year-old master candlemaker, appears from the side and puts a knife to Styve's throat.]
  • Tymme, whose wikipedia page is longer than that of some presidents: Why d'ye want to be a candlemaker, boy?
  • Styve, who has a talking falcon in the books but not in this: Because I saw my father torture my mother to death by pouring candlewax into her eyes until her head melted, and all I want is revenge.
  • Tymme: It's a hard life, boy. You'll never marry or own land. We cut three fingers off each hand so you make the wicks thinner. Every candlemaker must drown fifty puppies. It's been this way since Milfbred Of The Black Hammock, also known as The Green Wall, also known as The Knight Of The Seven Roosters, made the first candlemakers guild ten thousand years ago, and there hasn't been any progress since.
  • Styve: I promise I'll do anything as long as I get my revenge on my father who would be the same age as your estranged son who ran away a year before I was born.
  • [Tymme nods to Daiv, who is called The Bloody Clitoris in the books but the producers thought that was too much, and he drops Styve to the floor.]
  • Tymme: Making a candle ain't like squeezing a whore's tits, lad. It's a long road. Most die or are sexually assaulted. It's a deeply, deeply unpleasant job.
  • Styve, who dies very soon: I'm ready.
  • Tymme, who it should be mentioned had his dick cut off by a fairy: It begins.
  • [Smash cut to credits.]