jesus h christ no

in bruges colin farrell: a soft irish potato, round and smol. needs many hugs cuddling comfort love. moody, bad at maths, sad, deserved better. may or may not be dead. eyebrows. 

fright night colin farrell: what the fucking flying fuck happened here i mean jesus christ this dude t h i s  d u d e what the F U C K happened what the h e l l oh my god even ur grandma is blushing he smiles and u burst into flames the fuck is wrong with you my man why u rubbing apples on ur chest how did so much change in 3 years this is NOT OKAY im yellign the fuck ?? is happening fucking fuck time to fucking die holy hecking hell im sw e a ti n g aaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA-

The Undertale Fandom Needs To Chill (Rant)

Hi guys, I know I’m not on here much but I have something  to say about the Undertale fandom…

You guys need to fucking chill. As you may know, MatPat just uploaded a new Game Theory about the theory about W.D. Gaster which I’ve personally been looking for. In the beginning of this video he discussed his fears of making another Undertale video for the HATE he received from his first two videos about it. He said it crushed him, it hurt him that he had sleepless nights because of it. 

Does that make you guys happy? Does bullying an amazing content creator make you happy? Cause that’s what you fucking did, you cyberbullied MatPat because he made a video you didn’t like. You know those words at the end of every episode? “But hey, it’s JUST a theory.” FUCKING LISTEN TO THOSE WORDS. Like jesus h christ, calm down. And this is only one example of this.

When the game first came out, Markiplier started playing the game, but once again everyone got fucking mad at him for his voices. Who. Fucking. Cares. If it bothers you that much, don’t fucking watch it watch another YouTuber but chances are no voice will be as perfect as the voice you have in your head but fun fact; YOUTUBERS WILL DO WHAT THEY WANT AND WHAT THEY THINK IS FUN.

That’s why, when Markiplier did play Undertale again he played it how he wanted with Tyler and he had FUN. Imagine that.

Now, I love Undertale and this isn’t calling out all of the Undertale fandom I don’t believe for a second that all fans of the game are like this, trust me I come from a fandom that receives notorious hate (MLP) but there are a large majoirty of people in this fandom that are nothing more than cyber bullies. This game stands for mercy and love, and you’re being fucking assholes. Leave YouTubers alone, let them make the content they want, the way they want. Their channels are not here to listen to our every beck and call, they want to please us but at the end of the day: it’s still their channel and content. They will make what makes them happy.

All I want to say to end this is, please respect YouTubers. They put blood sweat and tears into content for us and the best thing we can do for them is support them. Not bully them into making what we want and slandering them when they make something we don’t like.

Respect YouTubers. 

“Trump & Clinton are equally bad!”

Translation: I don’t know how the U.S. Supreme Court works. 

Christmas Scenes (2 of 3)

Mod Bonnie : Flood my Mornings 

[Flash forward to December 8, 1950]

Claire’s face appeared over the top of his book—The Age of Electricity, tonight— and bent down, smiling, for a kiss. He let the book fall at once, and reached out to cup her buttocks. 

“I could kiss ye forever, Sassenach,” he said, unable to keep a smile from disrupting their kiss, “Warms me right to my toes.” 

“Oh, good! That’ll come in handy in a moment,” she said, nipping his neck before straightening and putting her hands briskly on her hips. “Will you help me get some things down from the attic?”

He followed her to the hallway between the bedrooms and watched as she reached upward to pull a wee chain he’d never noticed before, bringing down an equally surprising hatch door. 

“Jesus H. CHRIST,” she laughed as a freezing downdraft hit her. “I THINK it just might be winter!”

A ladder—cleverly hinged to fold in upon itself—came into view, and Claire hopped nimbly up the rungs, disappearing into the darkness beyond.  

“I didna even ken there was another room up here,” Jamie said, climbing up onto the third rung to peer into this unknown part of his home.  

Well,” Claire called, her voice emanating ghoulishly from a corner to his right, “I’d hardly call it a room, but it’s sufficient for keeping useful miscellany out of the way: off-season clothing…tools that won’t fit in the shed…” Jamie didn’t understand the next words she uttered, the sound muffled as she bent over facing away from him.

“What was the last, Sassenach?”

Her outline appeared from the gloom pushing a large box toward him. “I said, ‘and Christmas decorations!’” 

There were just four boxes in all, and not heavy ones, at that; it took no more than two minutes to get the lot down into the living room. Even this short exposure to the frigid attic space, though, had left her shivering. Jamie —firmly dissuading Claire from adjusting the Heating—quickly built up a fire in the hearth. It was nothing like a fire of his time, to be sure—this one, with its wee, store-bought pine logs, was meant to burn for only an hour or two—but they both sighed as the warmth flooded the room. 

“It smells nice,” Claire said, kneeling on the hearth next to him with mugs of tea and smiling a little wistfully. “I’ve missed it: the smell of woodsmoke.” 

“As have I.” They sat quietly for a time, holding hands, breathing in the quiet and the past and the memory. 

“What does one use, to decorate for Christmas, then?” Jamie asked to banish the ghosts of Lallybroch.

Most of this is garland for the front window boxes and railings,” she said, pulling out vast ropes of green Plastic fashioned to look like fir branches, festooned here and there with red flowers of the same material. 

“Very bonnie,” he said, though he felt a bit baffled by the notion, which seemed to entail a great deal of unnecessary work. What other (strange) things did Claire typically do for the Christmas holiday? He voiced this question. 

“Oh, well we…” She stopped and blinked, looking suddenly strange. “Nothing.” 


Her voice was halting. “I feel as though I…barely remember the last two Christmases.”

Jamie made a small sound, but said nothing, just waited for her in that way the two of them knew so well. Only when you’re ready. I’m listening, love. 

“The first one,” she said at last, “was only a month after Bree was born….I think listening to a Christmas record while breastfeeding was the full extent of my holiday festivities,” she said with a laugh that held more sorrow than mirth. 

“Ye didna have Penelope until earlier this year, aye?” At her nod, he said gently, “I canna say that I’d have had much desire for festivity, either, all alone wi’ a new bairn.”

She gave a small smile before continuing. “Then last year about a week before Christmas, a neighbor– but bear in mind, this was back on Fury Street, not here– knocked on my door and pointedly asked when my decorations would be up. She ‘didn’t want me to be embarrassed by being the odd one out’ (as if I weren’t already, the foul hag). So I caved and decorated the outside of the house enough to look presentable.” 

“Ah,’ he said, understanding, “ye dinna seem the type to take it to mind to affix wee baubies to the house wi’out sufficient reason.” 

“It was rather pretty,” she said, taking a sip of tea, “but I… I still wasn’t feeling in the spirit, really. Didn’t feel worth it to put up a tree, as it was just the two of us and Bree too small to pay much attention in any case…” Claire pulled her knees up to her chest and wrapped her free arm around them. “It just felt…” She shook her head, not taking her eyes from the fire. “…Sad. I knew I was supposed to make it some sort of magical Christmas world for her…knew that I ought to build the fantasy of it for her sake… but I just couldn’t seem to muster myself for it.”

Jamie set down his mug, reached across, and gently squeezed her knee. “Ye didna have such a thing yourself as a wean, aye?”

She looked up, surprised, then shook her head. “I barely remember ever having a proper Christmas. I suppose my parents might have, when I was small; but Christian holidays barely registered for Uncle Lamb. We were hardly Currier and Ives material spending Christmases sweltering in the desert.”

Jamie didn’t even try to guess what precisely she meant by that, but leaned in and kissed her, cupping her head in one hand, gently and comfortingly. “Does it make you sad, a nighean? Not to have had the ‘magical’ Christmas?”

“A little…” She made a scoffing sound in her throat. “And then I feel foolish for being sad over silly sentimental traditions.”

“It’s no’ foolish,” he said. “and it’s no’ wrong that ye didna have them the last few years. In fact, I think it’s even better that you didna do so.” 

“Why should that be, Jamie?” 

“Because we’ll be able to create our own silly, sentimental traditions, now,” Jamie said, smiling. “Everything will be brand-new for all three of us.”

“Oh…” she said, smiling back with at last her usual spark. “I hadn’t thought of it that way.” 

“I’ve few preconceived notions as to what a proper modern Christmas ought to be like,” he said, “but I’m in favor of as many foolish things as you like.”

She raised her eyebrows with a mischievous grin. “Will you dress up in a red suit and white beard and squeeze down the chimney with presents?”

Jamie laughed aloud. “If that’s what’s done, then yes: I will gladly play my part in carrying on wi’ the baffling nonsense of the season.”

They laughed and Jamie bent her head back gently, needing no warmth there before the fire, but letting her touch and the touch of her banish all traces of cold, present and remembered. His own holidays–his everydays–had been bleak, these last years, as well, had they not? Lonely? Hopeless? 

But everything is now new. Everything is now good. 

“I did make one gesture toward the season last year,” she said suddenly, pulling back from the kiss and turning to the last box (smaller than the others) and pulling out a parcel wrapped in brown paper and twine. She unwrapped it to reveal the colorful fabric within. “You’re meant to hang a stocking by the fire on Christmas Eve so Father Christmas can fill it with sweets and presents. ”

She handed him the parcel. While they would never do as serviceable garments, they were very lovely, made of colorful felted cloth, decorated with shimmering thread. One said “Brianna” on the cuff and showed three cheery men that Claire said were wee ginger biscuits customarily eaten for holidays; the other, “Claire” with an evergreen tree dotted with colored baubles.

“You made these?” he asked, surprised and impressed. She nodded, a little shyly. “They’re wonderful, mo chridhe. Very…fun!” he said, feeling foolish over using so flippant a word for something she had clearly put her heart into. He reverently traced the outlines of the whimsical patterns.

“I shall have to get started on one for you,” she said, glowing in the firelight. “A Fraser stag, maybe?”

“Do they eat venison at Christmas, then? Now, I mean?”

“No… but seven flying reindeer pull Father Christmas’s magical sleigh–-and those are rather like stags!”

He leveled his gaze at her. “For all your contentions that the twentieth century is less mystical than the eighteenth, my Claire,” he said, kissing the very tip of her nose, “I dinna believe it one bit.”


[the next FMM chapter will go back to August/September, 1950, but you can expect more about the Frasers’ first Christmas together when we get to December properly in the timeline :D]

Mod Gotham: Brian and Ellen AU

Six-year-old Faith Fraser took careful hold of her corner of the trapdoor.

“When I say heave,” their grandfather instructed, “yer Grannie and I will help ye. All right?”

Three-year-old Brianna Fraser nodded, her red curls bouncing in the light cast by the lantern.

“All right! One – two – three – heave!”

After a few moments the trapdoor opened. Brianna curiously peered over the edge into the gloom – and Ellen extended a careful arm to prevent Brianna from falling into the root cellar.

“It’s so dark! Why do we have to come out here when it’s so dark, Grannie?”

“Because it’s the only way we ken the Redcoats won’t be about.” Jamie set down his basket and handed the lantern to Brian, who held it above his head as he descended into the root cellar. Once Jamie had carefully stepped down almost past his shoulders, he effortlessly picked up a giggling Faith and hoisted her into the dark, then took the lantern from Brian.

“Here ye go – pick out enough potatoes to fill the basket, aye? There’s a good lass.”

Faith dutifully crossed to the far corner of the root cellar – full of shelves of dried fruit, dried meat, herbs, jars and jars of preserved vegetables, and enough potatoes and apples to feed all the hungry mouths of Lallybroch throughout the long winter.

“How are we doing, Jamie?” Brianna tugged on Ellen’s skirts, and she lifted her granddaughter to her hip, blessing her with a quick kiss to the forehead. “Will we need to try for another harvest?”

Brian stepped around his wife and held tight to the opened trapdoor as he carefully descended into the cellar, standing shoulder to shoulder with his son.

“We may have to,” he mused, glancing around at the half-full baskets. “Do ye think the ground is too hard to try at that softer patch?”

Jamie shook his head, keeping an eye on Faith as she carefully selected the potatoes.

“It’s been a bit warm these past few days – and we have to look, at least. Canna hurt. It’ll be a lot of onions and neeps and potatoes this year, but we should do well. And I may be able to bring home a stag or two, God willing.”

Brian silently slung an arm around his son’s shoulder – so proud. “It’s settled – we’ll take a look in the morning.”

“I’m done!” Faith piped up from the corner. “I canna lift the basket, Da – can ye help me?”

Brian crossed the packed-earth floor to examine his granddaughter’s work. “Good work, *a leannan*. Can ye help me wi’ a boost?”

“Watch yer back!” Ellen’s voice drifted from up above. “I dinna want ye throwing it out again.”

Brian sighed theatrically, and Faith giggled.

“That’s what ye gave me a son for, am I right? To help his puir Da in his auld age?”

Jamie stepped to Brian’s side, and together they hoisted the heavy basket of potatoes to their shoulders. Jamie pushed Faith in front of him and held out his free hand against her back as she negotiated the stairs to the surface.

“Auld age, my arse,” Brian muttered. “I’m fit as I ever was.”

“Mmphm. Keep telling yerself that, auld man.”

“Mama! We’re home!”

Faith tore through the door to the Laird’s bedroom and jumped up on the bed. Claire carefully settled one-month-old William Fraser against her shoulder and extended her other arm so that her eldest daughter could snuggle happily against her side.

“How did your little expedition go?”

“Well enough,” Jamie replied as he stepped into the room and closed the door, a sleepy Brianna nestled against his neck. “The stores are a bit low, but Da and Ian and I will go walk the potato fields tomorrow. We’re bound to fill up a basket at least – it’s been a while since we’ve been out.

Jamie stepped out of his boots, gently set down Brianna beside Faith, and stepped to the other side of the bed. Carefully he reached a tentative finger to stoke wee William’s brow, before bending to give his wife a kiss.

“How’s the wee lad, then?”

“He just finished his supper before you arrived. We’ll be good for a while.”

“Mmm. Move over a bit?”

Claire handed William to Jamie, then shifted over on the bed. Brianna and Faith took this as an invitation to crawl over their Mama so that they were safe between her and Da.

Jamie carefully lay William, swaddled in one of Claire’s spare arisaids, against a pillow, then slipped under the covers. In the dim light his arm crossed over his three children – and his fingers met and twined with Claire’s.

“Happy Christmas,” he whispered.

“It will be the happiest of Christmases, won’t it?” she replied.

“Will ye tell us a story, Mama? Maybe the one about mice?”

“There werena any mice, Bree! Remember, the mice were all sleeping?”

“Hush – that’s right, Faith. Not a creature was stirring – not even a mouse.”

“Can ye start from the beginning, then?” Jamie asked quietly, thumb tracing the bumps of Claire’s knuckles. “I want to hear it all again.”

The logs crackled in the fireplace. The wind picked up outside. The world was full of such uncertainty – but not here. Not in this room. Not on this night.

“Twas the night before Christmas…”

  • Cop: Here it is sir, over six tons worth of cocaine.
  • FBI Agent: They were expecting to smuggle all of this across the border and not get caught? Something isn't right. Let me see one of those bags.
  • Cop: *tosses agent a bag of coke*
  • FBI Agent: *slices bag open with his knife and sifts through the coke*
  • FBI Agent: Ah, just I thought. They weren't trying to smuggle coke. Look at this.
  • Cop: Jesus H. Christ.
  • FBI Agent: That's right. These bags of coke are all hiding millions of dollars worth of Jagex gold. Imagine if this got across the border. The Runescape economy would be ruined.
  • Cop: *gruff laughter* All those party hats I invested in would practically worthless.
  • FBI: Heh, save some of those party hats for the scumbags who were trying to smuggle this junk. They'll need one last party before they're doing 50 to life in prison for ATTEMPTED PREMEDITATED CYBER CRIMEZ. Also, smuggling cocaine... I guess.