Do you have a favorite rebelcaptain fic? or maybe a rec list??
This is an excellent question! I am straight The Worst™ when it comes to keeping track of fics for this fandom, I think because it’s so large. So this is a very unscientific list mainly pulled from my ao3 bookmarks and things that popped up off the top of my head. I’m positive I’ve left a bunch out, and for that I’m sorry!
Honestly, if you love Jyn/Cassian, read absolutely everything by Meg. Everything. She really gets them, and her prose is fantastic. This is a fave (bedsharing!) but I selected it somewhat randomly because I couldn’t afford to devote five hours to rereading everything and making an informed decision about which is truly my favorite.
What do you usually eat for breakfast? You mentioned you don't eat meat.
It’s a hard question for me to answer, actually. Being nocturnal, I am generally going to bed around the time that normal people are eating breakfast. :) Also, I don’t tend to eat large meals, if left to my own devices. I have metabolic issues, so it’s easier on my system to eat a bunch of snack-sized “meals” throughout the day rather than large meals three times a day. And I’ve never really understood the need to assign certain foods to certain times of day. If I want pancakes at dinnertime, that’s what I’ll eat. If I want a nice curry at breakfast-time, that’s what I’ll eat.
But yes, I am vegan (because it’s easier on my FUBARed metabolism, for one thing), so no meat, dairy, or eggs for me, which pretty much eliminates the “standard” breakfast foods aside from cereals or pancakes made with non-dairy milk and such. I eat a lot of rice, beans, potatoes, avocados, and pretty much any veggie you can think of, usually in the form of Indian or Mexican recipes, plus a little fruit and dabs of tofu here and there. And lots of cashew-milk ice cream; it’s my vice. I hate salads, though, which is what people seem to think vegans eat all the time. *eye roll* As far as “standard” breakfast food…Not much, really. I don’t really like what I call “horse feed” cereals – the non-sugary “healthy” kind like granolas and flakes and stuff – but I will snack on Froot Loops! (Dry, because I’ve never liked cereal with milk, non-dairy or otherwise.) And I like berries and other fruits mixed with non-dairy yogurt. I just make a big bowl of berries and/or cut-up fruit and dump a couple containers of yogurt on it and eat it. (Thank God I don’t have blood sugar issues! :) ) It’s my version of a smoothie, which I don’t really like because I’m not a fan of drinking my food. :) My husband (also vegan) likes to make vegan pancakes and “bacon” made with tempeh, which is really good, but he doesn’t always have the time.
want to write a long text post regarding a bunch of mean things I did and said out of insecurity several years ago as a means to help me let go and forgive myself, but I am afraid of people giving me hate and making me feel like a bad person. I am not a bad person. A while back I did horrible things, but I have learned and all involved have moved on, and I am trying, but I still cannot fully forgive myself. I also have this fear of it all coming back to bite me.
Warnings: Smoking, drinking, gambling (this is a Grim Fandango fic, what do you expect?), violence, broken bones.
lucky wins at poker, Manny finds himself in a very unlucky situation. He
quickly learns why you don’t meddle in the affairs of desperate souls
in Rubacava… and they learn why you don’t mess with Manny.
Notes: Wanted to write a thing that takes place while Manny and Glottis are in Rubacava. and it’s like 2:45 in the morning i am so tired
Warning: In one hour, Crash Test Dummies hour will begin. In it, I will reblog a bunch of posts related to the Canadian band Crash Test Dummies and @ the Tumblr staff, as response to Safe Mode being a thing.
If you do not want to see said posts, either blacklist “ctd hour” or unfollow me until 12:00 AM PST.
Thanks. For those who just followed and are expecting corruptions/CD-i/Jouta posts, I am so sorry for what you’re about to witness.
A man sneezes while five other men are talking over him. You know exactly which one sneezed.
Your brain is now unsure if someone has actually said this or if you can hear their voice in your head.
There is a cult for an editor. We are all members of said cult. We all bring our hands together above our heads. We worship this editor. PE/\KE. SPE/\K. P E /\ K E S P E /\ K
There is an infinite number of Adams.
You click on a video that is 10 minutes long. You black out and come to hours later, watching a different, but similar video.
You are called a shizno and you feel insulted. You do not know what this word means, but you are insulted.
All your money is disappearing. You don’t know where it’s going, nor do you remember spending it, but merchandise keeps showing up on your doorstep. You have so much merchandise. Your room is covered with so many posters that they cover the windows. No way in. No way out. You only wear merchandise now.
One man is constantly constantly shirtless and this is not questioned.
You wanted to watch a silly show about soldiers in a canyon. You didn’t know what you were signing up for. It wasn’t this. Anything but this.
There are two pairs of Joel and Adams and no one ever knows which one a person is referring to.
There are screencaps of tweets on tumblr before the staff has even tweeted it.
Another hypothetical situation has been discussed. They must have hundreds of millions of dollars at this point.
A man is impregnated with an alien child, but this is fine. This is perfectly normal. This child grows up and plays on the basketball team. This is perfectly normal.
You feel the strange compulsion to add “as dicks” to everything you say.
There have been terrible, terrible things done For The Kids.
For some reason the dynamite is kind.
Certain state names make you cry.
One man is simultaneously the dumbest and smartest person alive. You do not question this.
A different man is at once a murderous dark god, a loving husband, and a gigantic nerd. This, too, is never questioned.
There are four of the exact same person. Not cloned, however. The clones are a different story we must never speak of.
Everything is also a gun.
You must pick a team in the great battle of red versus blue. Friendships have been ruined over picking the wrong team. There is no remaining neutral.
No one thinks twice about giving a child access to weapon gun hybrids, nor do they reconsider letting them fight the monsters of the world. Clearly, a man has made many, many mistakes.
You do not know who this drunk man declaring that he is the cheese master is, but you accept his mastery of cheese.
We wonder why we’re here. We see it as one of life’s greatest mysteries.
A lot of people have expressed a desire for an update on President Donald J. Trump’s health since his inauguration. I have been the personal physician of President Donald J. Trump since 1980 and I am here to say that Mr. Trump’s health is absolutely better than ever.
Since being sworn in, Donald Trump has lost 50 pounds and gained 17 inches of height. He’s the longest president who has ever lived. His livers are both functioning flawlessly. His blood sets an all-time record for the state of New York for “most” and his blood pressure was rated “excellent” by seven different Fox News Twitter polls. He doesn’t even have one cholesterol.
I can say this unequivocally: Donald Trump has the most bones. Scientists estimate that he now has around 900 bones in his body and more are being discovered every day. Some of those bones have never been seen before. They allow him to be really good at presidential things like signing executive orders and making love nightly to his wife who wants him to.
Mr. Trump’s test results have been astonishingly excellent. He actually has a blood type we’ve never seen before: “All.” It’s both the universal donor and universal recipient, and sprinkling it on your penis makes your penis bigger. Mr. Trump’s blood is gorgeous. It has a rich color that’s hard to describe, but if I had to put it into words, I might call it “red.”
President Donald Trump has no family history of cancer, diabetes, or death. The president’s family members are immortal beings that walk the earth without end, craving the sweet release of death that will never come unless they make a deal with a cool witch. Donald Trump will never die, he will just keep growing vertically forever until he lives in space. It’s really astonishing.
His physical strength is extraordinary. He can lift as much as a mother whose child is trapped under a car, but he’s more attractive than that mother and he hasn’t let himself go like she has. Have you seen the way she dresses lately? The hypothetical mother in this simile is a total chunk. 4 at best. As the famous doctor Hippocrates once said, “Would not hit.”
Since the Inauguration, Mr. Trump has kept an extremely active lifestyle. He starts every morning by walking straight up into the sky and then walking down again. He also visits me regularly for checkups. Mr. Trump doesn’t let me touch him because of gay, so I just eyeball it and give him a once over. I can usually tell just by looking how much blood is in him that day or which liver has taken the lead, so it’s not a super intensive process.
Mr. Trump is not only the healthiest president that has ever served, but also the most handsome. I usually want to kiss President Trump when I see him, but I would never break the doctor-patient trust, so instead I kiss the portrait of him I drew on my little note pad. There have been no presidents that even come close to President Trump in terms of overall health and hotness. Franklin Pierce was pretty hot, but his body wasn’t great. James Garfield was more cute than hot. President Trump is the total package. I know this because of my stethoscope.
Just to give a little more background on me, I’ve been a doctor for years. I got into medicine the same way a lot of doctors do: I once took an unmarked pill that I found under a toilet in a public restroom, and the next thing I knew, I was blacked out doing surgery on a man on a Benihana table with the big knives they got over there. I flipped this guy’s appendix right into my hat. And that’s when I caught the bug, for surgery and for tetanus!
Now, I want to address some of the slanderous things that have been said about me. It’s just like these coastal elites to say I’m not qualified as a physician. They think you need fancy things, like a diploma from Harvard Med School or a diploma from a med school or a GED or a car or medicine or clean hands. You don’t need those to be a doctor! All you need is the right attitude and a good sense of humor and to be Jewish and a blank death certificate just in case!
This is America. We’re not “fancy” here. You’re supposed to be able to pull yourself up by your bootstraps and put a bunch of clamps in a guy and see what tubes you can clamp up without making him sleep forever. My grandfather was a blue-collar worker, and so was my father. I am a red-collar worker because my collar is always covered in spurting blood. I may not know art or science or what a “lung” is, but I do know that I love America and am a lung-doctor!
Because of my love of America and Donald Trump, it is an honor to be his physician. Donald Trump could teach us all a thing or two about health. Not only is he the healthiest human ever, but also the healthiest dog, house and Faberge Egg. I wish him luck as he continues on his endless journey.
“Doctor” Harold N. Bornstein, M.D. (Mostly Doctor)
One of the best things in the world is guessing on a bunch of questions on a test and actually getting them all right. On another note, I’ve been having a crisis over how I’m paying for college. I could probably sell a kidney or two.
I am bored of nationalism and I’m bored of racism. It’s over. Nationalism, religion, all these regressive things, they’re over. We can’t carry on in the way that we’re carrying on…
We’re from Manchester, right, and where we used to hang out, the actual place that we used to hang out, someone put a bomb in there tonight and then killed a bunch of kids, who were going to a fucking show in Manchester.
I don’t need to be educated on fucking anything to say that, that is fucking bullshit and I don’t know what it’s in the name of so I apologize if it’s not in name of religion or nationalism but these are the things that keep happening and I am fucking pissed off about it, and I am sorry.
Ok so I love the idea of divination by throwing things about, and lithomancy is stone divination.
Now, you can use your lovely crystals or tumbled stones for this but a. I’m cheap so I don’t have too many and b. I am not gonna be throwing around my precious gem babies. Nooope.
So, what to do?
Go outside and grab a bunch of small to medium stones that appeal to you, you should need about 10-15 depending on what you wanna put on them. Give them a wash and dry.
Take paint or use markers (I used gold and silver markers) to add symbols of meaning to each one. Common themes include the planets and elements along with some tarot influence.
Next, take a spare piece of paper and figure out what categories you want, 8 in total. I did:
Self, love, money, work, friends, home, magic and health. Now you should make a circle with whatever you can that looks like the below, and place your categories in the 8 sections. Still with me? Cool.
Now here’s the fun part! Shake up your stones and (not too hard) cast them over the circle. They will scatter about and maybe bounce a little. Stones that lie outside the circle or lines are irrelevant and should be put back in the storage while you read. Depending on which section they land in, the stones will have a message about that topic. Stones in the centre circle show past/current events, the middle ring shows things to come and the outer is for future possibilities.
This is super fun, inexpensive and actually pretty accurate so if you get the chance, go do it!!
I am posting this on here, Tumblr, because I really think a bunch need to learn what the word RESPECT means
This is also regarding for something a bunch of people ask me before; “do you know what happened to UltimaAlmighty?”, and what happened to him after his mistake was awful, and all thanks to people treating him with HATE, a way to disrespect someone as a human,
instead of ignore him or block him. If you don’t like someone (including me) don’t waste your time, keep living and block the people you don’t like, like ignoring someone in school. The same with Felix AKA PewDiePie, JonTron and MORE, hope they are doing super ok.
Jokes are not defining people, our actions in real life defining us, don’t follow someones post with a hate, or some news on the internet, no no, look at what people do in real life, or just ignore and keep living!
I really hope a bunch of you learn from someone really nice, Markiplier.. I hope this video teaches you something, maybe a little thing, but something good.
“Treat people the way you want to be treated”
Everyone, have a really nice day.
and sorry, again, for not posting drawings, I am still working on this animation WITH JOKES, the most scary thing for everyone!!
I am reading a lot of Humans are weird things recently you know the things about Aliens and Humans. One strange thing is I haven’t noticed that anyone has mentioned anything about how Humans have a lot of extra “Stuff” like we have extra teeth that don’t fit in our jaw and often have to be removed. We have a bunch of useless body parts that we don’t even know what they do like the appendix that CAN just suddenly be like:
“nah fuck you I’m gonna get inflamed and you will die if you don’t remove me”.
We can also survive with only one lung
or kidney just fine. Humans are super weird when it comes to a biological stand point I feel bad for Alien doctors imagine them finding out about human’s appendix, we don’t even know what it does and we can live fine with out it and he can potentially kill us how do we just don’t remove it by standard before it becomes a problem
“I am Groot,” Peter said dutifully. He felt like an idiot, but there were only a limited number of ways to while away quiet nights on the ship when neither of them could sleep. If it was him and Gamora, or him and Drax, they could spar, but he’d only tried sparring with Rocket once. It took weeks for the bite marks to heal.
Rocket’s oddly expressive – for a raccoon – face wrinkled in an expression of disgust. “Do you even hear yourself? That is nothing like what I just said.”
“Dude, that is exactly what you just said.”
“No, I said ‘I am Groot’ and you said ‘I am Groot’.”
“Which is … the same?”
Rocket stared at him for a long moment, then pointed at his snout. “Read my lips: I am Groot.”
“Was I supposed to repeat that, or …”
Rocket showed some teeth. Peter shut up. There was a moment of silence and Peter was just about to put his earbuds back in and quit with the language lessons when Rocket said suddenly, “Quill, if I say, 'I am Groot,’ just like that, what do you hear?”
“Is this a trick question? Especially the kind of trick question that’s gonna end in you pissing on my bed?”
“That was only once, and you had it coming –”
“No, for the love o’ cheese, it’s not a trick question. Just say 'I am Groot’.”
“I am Groot,” Peter said. “I feel like a complete jackass right now, in case that was your intent – hey, where are you going?”
“Jus’ need to get a thing!” Rocket’s voice trailed behind him.
Peter flopped back down in the chair in the mess and put his earbuds in. He was actually getting sleepy, and considering going back to bed, when Rocket jumped up onto the table in front of him with something clutched in his paws.
“What’s that?” Peter asked, sitting up. He palmed off the Zune and took off the earpieces. He had to hand it to Earth tech: the new music player was a lot more convenient to carry around than his late, lamented Walkman.
Rocket’s device was a thin, flat screen about the size of a hardback book; he had it clutched with a paw on each side while readouts rippled quickly across it.
“Okay, now say 'I am Groot’,” Rocket declared, studying the screen.
“Come on, man, do we really have to go through this again?”
Peter sighed and slouched in his chair. “I am Groot.”
Rocket’s ears pricked forward. “I am Groot,” he said, and tapped the display with his paw, causing the tiny, scrolling lines and numbers to freeze. “Did that sound the same to you?”
“Well … yeah?”
The flat pads of Rocket’s fingers danced across the display, and he laid the screen on the table between them. “Know what you’re lookin’ at?”
“Squiggly lines,” Peter said automatically.
“Did your mama drop you on the head a lot as a baby, Quill?”
“No, but Yondu did occasionally.” Peter rested his elbow on the table and his chin in his hand. As much fun as it was to mess with Rocket, he did actually think he knew what the raccoon was getting at. “That wiggly line is some kind of … uh … noise – wiggle – curve, right?”
“That’s real precise.”
“I was abducted from Earth before we got to algebra in school. Cut me some slack here.”
“Excuses, excuses. I was raised in a cage and my mother had an IQ of 3.” Rocket touched the display, zooming in on it. “Point is, I don’t think it’s just that all a’ you two-legged bunch is too obtuse to understand perfectly clear speech –”
“– like I used to think. It’s more like, my ears hear at higher and lower frequencies than yours do, so I get different overtones. Put simply for the simple, I can hear things you can’t.”
Peter leaned forward, intrigued. “So, wait – you mean all this time, all his 'I am Groot’s sound different to you?”
He realized what he’d said as soon as the words left his mouth, and got the flat 'I am dealing with morons’ look from Rocket that he’d instantly realized he had coming. “How am I supposed to understand him if they don’t, Quill, I ask you?”
“Okay – point – but … so why does it sound like 'I am Groot’ to the rest of us?”
“It sounds like 'I am Groot’ to me too.” When Peter glowered at him, Rocket held up a paw. “No, I ain’t messin’ with ya. This time. No, that’s what the translation unit picks up, 'cause it ain’t so smart about some of the less humanoid languages. It’s just, I hear it like …” He hesitated and waggled his paw. “It’s like your music, right? All those up and down tones at the same time. Groot can do that. Your throat, my throat, can’t.”
“Singing?” Peter said after a minute. “Groot’s singing?”
“I refer you back to the part about bein’ dropped on your head.” Rocket pursed his lips and let out a sharp whistle, making Peter jump – there was still some part of him that couldn’t quite hear whistling and not expect a death arrow to follow an instant later. And he might not be the only one, because Rocket stopped abruptly, closed his mouth, and then said, “Quill, do this,” and hummed softly.
It wasn’t really a tune. “You just want me to hum?” Peter asked. “Like, generic humming?”
Rocket curled his lip and the hum became more of a snarl.
“Right, humming,” Peter said hastily.
The funny thing was, the instant his soft hum of response hit the right harmonics with the note Rocket was humming (and the raccoon did have a good sense of pitch; Peter had always suspected so) he understood exactly what Rocket was getting at.
“Ohhhhh. When Groot talks, it’s like a symphony. Is that what you mean? And the 'I am Groot’ part is the part in the human audible range.”
Rocket’s ears and tail went up cheerfully. “Yeah, ezzactly. He’s tryin’ to communicate, it’s just he didn’t get any farther than 'I am Groot’ when he was learning. It’s as hard for him to do the talkin’ part for the translators as it is for you and me to do his kind of talk. He can hear us just fine, though. Actually to him, understanding our talk is dead easy.”
“So how do we understand him?” Peter asked. “Can you, I dunno, juice up the translator so it picks up a higher range of frequencies, or something?”
“I dunno. That’s not a bad idea.” Rocket tapped his claw against his teeth before picking up the screen thing and hopping off the table. “Have to think on it. Don’t wanna explode your heads or anything.”
“Yeah, well, on that lovely note, I’m goin’ to bed.” He actually was tired enough now to fall asleep in spite of the inevitable nightmares (the bitter cold and darkness of space; Ego’s face dissolving in his hands; his friends crushed by rocks or blown apart). The music helped as it always had, a melodic bulwark against the dark, wrapped gently around his heart – but it could only do so much.
Rocket grunted absently as he trotted off, already engrossed in figuring out the problem.
The thought occurred to Peter as he wandered back to his quarters, thumbing idly through the songs on the Zune, that these sorts of mechanical puzzles served the same purpose for Rocket as his music did for him: something to make his mind go quiet.
The music did that … and so did letting Gamora beat the stuffing out of him in the ship’s small exercise area. Or getting language lessons from Rocket. Or –
“I am Groot?”
Peter jumped as small hands grabbed hold of his pants leg. Groot shimmied quickly up to perch on his shoulder.
“Hey, little buddy.” Peter opened the door to his quarters and left it open so Groot could come and go as he wanted. Or so he could hear if anybody got into a fight or whatever. He flopped wearily on his unmade bed, careful not to dislodge Groot. “You know, I’m not sure how much of this you can understand right now, but Rocket’s teaching me to speak your language.”
“I am Groot?”
“Well, to understand you more than speak it, I guess I should say.” He was lying on his back now and he couldn’t really see Groot except out of the corner of his eye, but he could feel the little tree shifting around in the hollow where the collar of his sweatshirt rested against his neck.
“I am Groot,” Groot said insistently, almost in his ear. Small hands patted at the side of his face and his earlobe.
“Yeah, yeah.” Peter pinched one earbud between two fingers and held it where Groot could get at it. The little hands took it out of his fingers. Peter settled himself comfortably as Groot squirmed somewhat ticklishly against his neck, and sorted through the songs. “How 'bout Elton John tonight, buddy?”
“I am Groot,” came the sleepy answer.
“You know, little guy,” Peter murmured, as the first strains of the music began to play and Groot snuggled comfortably against his neck, “whether or not Rocket can get his new gadget working, I think we understand each other just fine, don’t we?”
Ran with the notorious Deadlock Gang as a teenager, a gang so strong it had lasted nearly a century and needed to be taken care of by Blackwatch. Trained under Gabriel Reyes at 17, joining Blackwatch where they only accept the best of the best. Extremely skilled with a gun, fires a revolver as if it were a sniper, and can lock onto targets with deadly accuracy without any known enhancements (see: a tactical visor, prosthetic, cybernetic eye) and in the dark as well. Can sit atop a train moving 640 kilometers per hour with ease, and has a bounty on his head bigger than both Junkrat and Roadhog's combined.
"wow gee oh golly darling i'm making a whole mess of myself what a complete shame ive absolutely retired and am completely useless in even the most basic maneuvers because of how rusty i am wow partners it's a sure good thing im gay and married to hanners and say a bunch of cutesy phrases and make lots of cowboy jokes along with m' hat otherwise there's no real tactical advantage in keeping a liability around. lovable and useless, can't even hold my own in combat but that archer sure as hell ain't ugly"
I don’t know if you know about what happened on Friday. I woke up early to get the bus to get there “On time” like many others might’ve. Since the line up for your signing wasn’t supposed to be until a hour and a half before as a bunch of people said and in the past the cap was at 200 people. I got there around 9:32 AM just about. We rushed down to the Queue Room as fast as we could go.
When we got there we discovered that they gave out tickets at 8 am and they were gone by 8:30 am because the Center opened a hour early for some reason. We tried to bargain, we tried to sneak (like a few I know had done who ended up seeing you), we tried so many things to no avail. It felt so unfair that me along with so many others were kicked out because the line up time wasn’t correct for meeting you.
I was heartbroken, devastated even knowing I could never meet you. I promised so many good friends I’d ask things since they couldn’t go. I had letters, art even one from @simpleagle that I printed out to give you. But I failed my promises. I failed my friends. I failed to be a messenger. I began to sob as I sorted through the pile of things I had printed for you my stuff I drew, wrote and other things my friends made. My face was so red from crying I felt like a idiot in front of all those people waiting for you.
After I came back from getting food my mom was there following the line saying a Enforcer let her in but another came to get out or we’d be flagged to even going near you he sounded almost cheerful saying it. They made us give them our gifts to them because “he wouldn’t care/he won’t even look at it” that hit me with a sinking feeling of dread.
I don’t know if you will see this @markiplier but hopefully you will. Hopefully others will share this so you can see the mess that happened.