not tagging all the installments

i know we’d all love to think neil would have a pretty good diet to the point that kevin probably bitches at him the least, but nah man. neil constantly forgets to eat, will have an entire bag of cheeto puffs before a run and not throw up (how does he do that??? no one knows), he’ll eat like 5 cookies then have 3 grapes and be like “#health”

like half of it is just to annoy kevin and the other half is he’s shit at self care (but mostly its to annoy kevin)

gitwrecked  asked:

Microfill prompt! Keith + Shiro, Star Wars AU, reunited after a long time apart

this is not the fic fill i think you were looking for ;)


“You’re still alive.”

“Hello to you too,” Shiro says, dropping his bag down by the door. Keith doesn’t get up to greet him, but that’s no surprise; his ankle’s still heavily bandaged, propped up on the low table by their couch. “No need to sound so surprised. How’s the ankle?”

“Slow,” Keith grumbles. Force-healing isn’t exactly his specialty, a fact Shiro’s sure Keith’s been lamenting for the entire last week. “And I am surprised. Lance didn’t kill you?”

Shiro rolls his eyes fondly, stepping over to check their two little plants. Both are alive and flourishing. They’ve done well under Keith’s care. “He’s not that bad. We actually have another mission assignment in a few days. How were things here?”

Keith’s eyes widen with surprise and - relief? Or is that hope, brightening up his previously sour expression? “A mission assignment? We do?”


“Sorry,” Shiro corrects, sheepishly. “You’re still on medical leave. I’ll do the next one with Lance again.”

Keith drops his data pad. “No.”

Shiro blinks. “He’s fine, Keith. It went well.”

“I’m your missions partner,” Keith says, flatly. The scowl’s back, full force.

Shiro raises one eyebrow, amused despite himself. “You also can’t walk.”

Keith grabs at the crutches leaning against the back of the couch. “I can walk by next week.”

“Keith,” Shiro begins, shifting around the furniture to help. Keith glowers at him; Shiro holds his hands up in empty placation.

“Don’t start,” Keith says, levering himself off the couch with the help of the sticks. If he leans heavily on the crutches, Shiro doesn’t exactly think now is the time to comment on it.

“I was only going to say that this is probably not your best idea,” Shiro says, meekly.

“Watch me,” Keith snaps.

(Loosely takes place after this, in the middle of this, and right before this)


I will.


I was tagged by @eatkookiie to a tag game.
I didn’t knew what tag was so i just copied her hdiqjsoakdpaJd
I rarely take a picture, so i taked it just now to complete the tag.
My face everybody!

I tag @kths @kthspjm @jikook-love @jikook-love @jikookdetails @jeonify @jimiyoong @jiminrolls @gotmeolk @heyhosam @bidisha7 @mochi-nochu @sosjimin @minpuffs @minblush @minblooms @jimintensify @taengerinee @bs-ent @jinchims @caughtinjimin @mimibtsghost @gottalove95z @chimminnie
If you already do it or don’t want to do it, it’s alright, no problem!

Thank u so much @eatkookiie for always tag me in these games kfowkdpakd, it’s really fun to do it, luv u sweetie~ \(≧▽≦) (*´ω`*)/

What Goes Around...  (Part 1)

This is PART 1 of a story that is being told in segments by twenty-six different authors, campfire-style. Each author will take over the story with no prior planning and then pass it on after putting their own spin on it! Expect the unexpected! :)  You can check our vmhq campfire tale tag for all of the previous installments or read the story as it develops on AO3.

Part 1 is written by @bryrosea

Three shrill beeps, then a pause. Three shrill beeps then a pause. Three shrill beeps…

God, won’t someone make that stop?

Veronica Mars slowly struggles toward consciousness. The bed underneath her is hard, the lamp is too bright and her face feels tight.

Three shrill beeps, then a pause.

Turn off the alarm. Please just turn it off. I can’t…

Three shrill…wait. They’re not beeps. It’s not an alarm. It’s…a bird?

Three shrill cheeps, then a pause.

A fucking bird.

Veronica pries her eyes open, blinking against what she suddenly realizes is blinding sun. She lifts her head and the cheeping pattern is disrupted as somewhere behind her a flurry of wings erupts and nature’s most annoying alarm clock finally snoozes.

Sitting up, she curls one hand into the drying green-brown grass she is apparently lying on and looks around warily. She’s in a small meadow — surrounded by patchy grass, scattered, scraggly strands of wild mustard and ghostly globes of dandelion seedheads.  Clumps of eucalyptus trees ring the empty field.

It’s nowhere she’s ever seen before…that she can remember, but somehow she doesn’t feel especially anxious. Am I in shock? How did I get here? What…happened?

She puts a hand to her head. An orange ladybug, lazily making its way up her arm, is disturbed and flutters off into the nearby grasses. How long have I been lying here?

Veronica inhales shakily and automatically looks around for clues. There’s an old frisbee lying about a foot from her head—a dirty, sun-baked white, its plastic warped and curled under from what must be long exposure. Nothing to do with her, probably. A few feet away in the other direction the grass looks crunched and dented. 

She crouch-crawls over for a closer look. Tire tracks—a truck, most likely from the wide wheel bed and the treads she can see dug into the soft, dry dirt.

Brushing dried grass off of her hands and her jeans, she stands, slowly, taking stock of her physical situation as she does. Her head doesn’t hurt, not really. She’s a little lightheaded, a little…spacey—like that empty floaty feeling that’s left behind when you get off a plane and long-clogged ears pop—but otherwise steady. Nothing broken–she shakes out both legs and arms—nothing sprained.

Shading her eyes with her hand, Veronica traces the line of the tire tracks, which look relatively fresh. They seem to come into the meadow from the east—past a large jumble of rocks that block her view of the lay of the land beyond—and then arc through the grassy area where she was laying in a smooth parabola—no marks to indicate that anyone stopped—and continue out past the trees in the distance.

Okay, what about it, Veronica? Can’t stand here all day. See where the truck came from, follow after it, or head away from them entirely?

As she squints down the tracks, a dark lump a few feet away catches her eye. She takes a few steps toward it and…YES! Her shoulder bag. Thank God.

It’s sprawled out in a woody clump of chaparral, strap tangled in one tough branch, a full, sweating plastic water bottle weighing down a branch a few inches away.

She hauls the bag out of the brush, grunting a little in surprise at its unaccustomed weight. Fishing around in its interior, she bypasses a tangle of metal she can’t immediately identify and pulls out two more full water bottles. Popping the cap on one, she guzzles a quick mouthful, chasing out some of the cotton-fuzziness on her tongue, and then continues to hunt through her bag. 

Her fingers scrabble over a pair of tough tan work gloves, the familiar shape of her taser, something boxy and electronic that feels vaguely familiar, and a small journal with a blue suede cover that she doesn’t recognize. Quickly, she extracts the journal and fans through its creamy pages—they’re empty except for a random string of numbers on the last page that appears meaningless at first glance. She drops the mysterious journal back in the bag and fishes deeper hoping for…

DOUBLE YES. Her phone. No signal, natch, because why make things easy, but at least I can check… 

She opens up her recent photos to see if anything triggers a memory — clears some of this weird mental fog she’s fighting through.

“Veronica!” A voice rings out across the meadow, startling another cluster of small birds. She looks up, dropping the phone back in her bag.

A familiar figure peers out of the farthest clump of trees, waving frantically, and some of the fog lifts.

“Veronica! There you are…come on!”

Want to find out what happens next? Check back next Saturday for the next installment written by… @happilyshanghaied. Tag, you’re it! Make sure to submit your segment to by Wednesday, May 3rd. 

Meet the Authors: Episode 18

It’s time once again for “Meet the Authors!” As usual, this is the sentence where we remind you that you can find all the installments of this series on the tag.

Episode 18: Jo

Today we’re introducing Jo, the author of episode 18.

Read Episode 18: “C is for Murder” here!

Jo ( @toparisbytrain on tumblr, honeyandvodka on ffnet/Twitter) is an Australian fangirl whose first fandom love was Buffy. She’s married and has a daughter, and writing has taken quite the backseat since her daughter arrived. With the second one on the way, she doesn’t foresee a lot of writing time in her immediate future though wouldn’t go so far as to say she has retired. She has high hopes that her incomplete will one day be finished. But no promises!

Jo was perusing youtube (pre child, back when she had more time, obviously!) and came across a handful of Castle clips that included the various Firefly jokes - that was the first she’d ever really heard of Castle, and so she downloaded the first episode and watched it, first by herself, and then again with her husband. They proceeded to watch and catch up - they started watching in early September 2012 and the first episode she watched with the rest of the world was Swan Song. (Incidentally, that’s one of the few that she both loves, but can’t watch, because the handheld camera makes her dizzy.)

Next thing Jo know, she was writing fanfic. Better yet, she was betaing fanfic, and through a fluke of good fortune met some amazing people who in these post Castle days remain friends with whom she chat’s on a daily basis.

Seriously: Best. Fandom. Ever.

Jo is a librarian in her day job, currently in a law library but she has worked in publics before. She has also visited both the main branch and the Mid-Manhattan branch of the New York Public Library - being able to visualise the spaces the characters visit is always fun. There were two things she wanted to achieve with her episode “C is for Murder” - have it be fun and character driven rather than case heavy, and she wanted Castle to have the opportunity to exclaim that it was the worst case ever, rather than his usual ‘best case ever’ statements!

Read Jo’s other fanfic on ffnet, here.

Thanks for reading. We’ll have one more Meet the Authors post, coming up this weekend.

Is This Real Life

True Fluff Series
Summary: Dean wakes up to a shocking reality.
 Word Count: 1585
Warnings: A curse word or two, character injury. Possibility you’ll want to smack me (or worse) by the end of this.

Your name: submit What is this?

Keep reading


I feel like I’ll need to format my computer soon ( ̄  ̄|||)
So I’m saving the settings for my current brushes, just in case.

If anyone is interested, these are the ones I use most.

New Adventures

True Fluff Series
Word Count: 600
Summary: The reader reaches out to Jess to help with Dean’s Christmas gift.
A/N: A little Jess and Sam fluff for you, too! 

Keep reading

What Goes Around... (Part 2)

This is PART 2 of a story that is being told in segments by twenty-six different authors, campfire-style. Each author will take over the story with no prior planning and then pass it on after putting their own spin on it! Expect the unexpected! :)  You can check our vmhq campfire tale tag for all of the previous installments or read the story as it develops on AO3. — Part 2 is written by @happilyshanghaied

[Part 1]

A blur of blue sequins and synthetic blonde hair rushes toward Veronica, like a shimmering, psychedelic peacock. “Finally! I thought you’d never wake up.”

Ruby Jetson?

She hasn’t seen the other woman in months, not since that time Ruby popped into Mars Investigations looking for help locating her stolen car (turns out, it wasn’t stolen, Ruby had just been looking on the wrong floor of a shopping mall’s multi-level parking garage).

There is no conceivable scenario where Veronica would be out socializing with Ruby, so her presence here must be somehow case-related. Or a coincidence? No. They’re in the middle of nowhere and Veronica doesn’t believe in coincidences. “Where are we?”

Ruby toddles awkwardly in a circle as she surveys the area, her five-inch platform heels threatening her balance with each step. “Rural?”

“Yeah, no shit Ruby. Where in ‘rural’ are we?” Veronica stares at her like she’s the one who just got tossed from a moving truck, then reminds herself that it’s actually a keen possibility.

“Well, God Veronica! Excuse me for not being familiar with places that lack electricity and glitter.” Ruby rolls her eyes and adjusts the studded, leather bag on her shoulder.

“Sorry, I’m just—” Veronica’s gaze instinctively drops down to her own bag, an exact copy. She shakes her head —no time to kick over that disturbing rock— and combs a hand through her tangled hair, happy for once she doesn’t own a pocket mirror. “How did we get here?”

“I cycled” —Ruby points to a mangled, pink carcass of scrap metal, lying useless on the side of the dirt road— “because I care about the size of my carbon footprint. You got here in the flatbed of some guy’s truck after last call at Thunderballs.”

“Thunderballs? The gay karaoke bar down by the marina?” At this point, Veronica is starting to question whether this whole thing is just a hallucination from sleep-deprivation. “And you followed me here?”

“I’ve already had one of my dearest high school friends get murdered and I won’t stand by and watch another one get picked off like chum,” she says, hand clutched to her breast, as though she’s delivering the Scarlet O’Hara hunger monologue to a black box theater audience. “Though, I want you to know that if you did get murdered, I would do everything in my power to make sure Logan got through it, okay?”

Shit. I never made it home last night. Logan probably already has Norris cornered in his office.

“That's—” Ruby’s botched rescue attempt strikes Veronica as equal parts creepy and sweet, but she’s in no position to kick a gift horse in the mouth - even if that horse is emotionally unstable. Better to focus on the facts. “What were you doing at Thunderballs?”

“I go there every Friday night. I’m, like, kind of a celebrity there?” Ruby picks an invisible piece of lint off the front of her dress, not too unlike the one Veronica wore to a Navy benefit last month. “You were there with a tall drink of water, looked pretty cozy too. You and Logan aren’t having problems, are you?” She asks, sweetly, in a way that fails spectacularly at coming across as casual.

A wave of nausea ripples through Veronica. Ruby’s account of the night is like listening to the details of somebody else’s life. The thought of not knowing who she was with, or what she was doing, last night has Veronica struggling to breathe.

Stop panicking and focus!

The only way she’s going to get through this is to concentrate on the clues. “What was I doing with this guy when you saw me?”

“Just talking. Oh, and then you got up and sang ‘Goldfinger’. No judgment, but it was a little pitchy and off-key.”



It jogs something in Veronica’s memory that sends her fumbling for her satchel. She empties the contents out onto the grass and sifts through it. There, amongst her things, is that strange piece of metal she felt earlier: an ornate, gold key.

She holds the item to the light - it’s undoubtedly an antique, too small for a door but larger than one for a jewelry box - and inspects its delicate filigree for clues. “Did you see the guy who grabbed me?”

“A really big Chinese guy in a bowler hat…at least I think it was a guy, but I don’t really like to jump to conclusions about people’s genders based on their external physical traits, because that’s not the kind of person I am.” Ruby crosses her arms, looking bored. “Actually, he might’ve been Korean. Or Thai. Definitely some kind of large Asian person.”

“‘Some kind of large Asian person’, probably male and wearing a bowler hat threw me into the flatbed of his truck and dumped me here?” Was I kidnapped by Oddjob? “Was he alone?”

“You know, I was a little busy getting run over to get a good look.” Ruby sighs dramatically as she gestures toward her totaled bicycle again. “P.S. You owe me a bike.”

“Yeah, thanks for coming after me,” Veronica says, begrudgingly. In all honesty, she isn’t sure if she’s better or worse off with Ruby as her plus one in this colossal clusterfuck of a morning, but it certainly makes waking up with short-term amnesia a little less scary. Sadly, she knows from experience what it’s like to do this when you’re alone.

“Of course!” Ruby lights up at the praise. “You know, this is fun, in a weird, Mad Max kind of way. I’m kind of like your sidekick, right?”

“Yeah, you’re a regular Cheedo the Fragile.” Veronica shoves everything but the key back into her bag and climbs to her feet. They should probably follow the tracks back to the main road and then hitch a ride from there, but something about the area feels strangely familiar to her.

Want to find out what happens next? Check back next Saturday for the next installment written by… @elliebear75. Tag, you’re it! Make sure to submit your segment to by Wednesday, May 10th 

Best Kind Of Liar

Dean imagine requested by kayleemiller492! This imagine has been edited for reposting. The first installment of a four-part series, all other installments will be listed on the “The Story Continues…” page once reposted. Minions on mobile can search the ‘best kind of liar’ tag as well as my URL tag to find all installments. Hope you like it!

You hit the concrete foundation of the house, forehead smacking into the hardened surface before your hands could slow your body’s momentum, coughing crimson droplets of blood onto the floor, your head ringing like someone assigned a bible thumper to ring the cathedral bells in your mind (and Lord, they were not disappointing). Every inch of your body ached from the massive beat-down this bitch was dealing out to both you and your boyfriend Dean, swatting away your advances as if your attacks were as trifle as a fruit fly’s descent onto her dinner. You two were some of the best hunters, and she was wailing on you like she was doing no more than lifting her pinky finger while your muscles strained, your skin bruising and swollen. You struggled to your feet, pushing off from the ground with scratched and bloody palms, raw skin holding tight to the dust that covered the floor from the many places the plaster had been broken with your bodies, shallow wounds stinging. As you regained your balance, swiping the backside of your hand across your bleeding lip, a body knocked you back on your ass, the wind rushing from your lungs as the weight of your boyfriend crushed your lungs into organ pancakes.

“Son of a bitch!” Dean shouted from above you, his voice weary, aching, a soundtrack to match your every movement. You groaned under his weight, pushing him from you, air flooding your no longer constricted lungs as he stumbled to his feet.

“She threw you at me. She threw you.” You moan as Dean extended his hand, yanking you to your feet. You tried to brush your hair away from your face, attempting to clear your vision, but the strands obstructing your open view had matted around the wound on your temple, a token from when little miss avenging spirit smashed your face into, or through, the drywall.

Dean was driving punches into the spirit’s core, mostly receiving similar attacks from the ghost, every successful hook of his matched instantly by four of the spirit’s, her form apparating about him, coming in from all angles, dissipating before he could land a solid mark. You tried to join him in his mauling, but the spirit held you in place from across the room, fingers held in your direction as if she were a crossing guard warning children not to cross a dangerous road. The phantom’s cracked lips separated over broken teeth, a sinister smile playing across her ashen face.

“I specialize in the deceitful. The world has a surplus, I take it upon myself to get rid of the excess. Dean here hasn’t been completely honest with you, Y/n.” The spirit kicked him in the stomach, his body curling around her foot, a grunt piercing the air as he fell to his knees, winded. You screamed every profanity you could think of at her, your vulgarity falling on deaf ears. No one laid a finger on someone who meant the world to you without getting the chance to hold their own intestines. You struggled against her iron hold, your thrashing in vain. She flicked her wrist and sent you both to the walls, your bodies hanging limply in the air opposite each other. You could see Dean squirming about, mirroring you in your movements, your every intention to break free. She was a whole new level of awful, rendering both hunters practically immobile, your feet dangling inches from the floor. “Don’t you want to tell her where you’ve been before you die? It’s best to get it off the chest.” The spirit licked her lips, glassy eyes alight with hunger.

Dean turned his face away, veins in his neck protruding in his efforts to cut loose of the intangible grasp. With another gesture from the spirit, he was facing you, his eyes desperate.

“Y/n, I love you. You know I love you, so don’t list-” before he could utter another word, he was cut off by his own muffled screams, his jaw clenching against the agonizing shouts. You thrashed and swore, blood dripping from your lips, but the spirit only laughed at your fury.

“He wasn’t hunting last weekend. He was lying to you. He was getting a-” the spirit gasped, erupting in flames, cinders scorching the concrete as her form faded to ash. Sam must’ve found the remains and put a torch to the bones. You fell to the ground in the same second Dean did, both of you panting, your exertion thieving your ability to move, or at least without great effort.

Dean limped to you, spitting blood in a stream as he hobbled, holding a stitch in his side. He touched your cheek, turning your face in the light, checking you over with as much scrutinizing attention as a medical professional.

“Are you alright? Can you walk?” He asked, looking into your eyes, his own emerald irises molten with his concern. “Jesus, your head. Do you feel dizzy?” He hissed, probing along your skull with gentle fingers. You turned away from him, his hand falling to his side, a tear running down your cheek, cleansing a streak on your skin of grime and gore.

“Where were you last weekend?” You whispered, facing the wall your head had busted. Dean went quiet, your pulse pounding a rhythm to your uncertainty. He sighed. You turned your face to make eye contact with him, repeating the question without breaking his gaze. He blinked, staring at the ceiling in frustration, clicking his tongue before bringing his eyes back to yours.

“She’s right, I lied,” he exhaled, shaking his head. “I wasn’t hunting, but I wasn’t doing anything wrong. I was getting… well…” he reached into the pocket of his denim legwear with a smile, fingers fishing around for a second before his form went rigid, his face draining of all colour. He checked his other pocket. “Son of a bitch…” he breathed, limping away from you, his eyes scanning the floor.

“Dean? What are you…” you trailed off as he squatted to pick something minuscule from the rubble the hunt had created, pinching whatever it was between his thumb and forefinger. He returned to you, and when he was an inch away, he held the object between your faces, grinning as you gasped in shock.

“I was getting this ring,” he said, a teasing smirk on his face, the diamond glittering in the harsh basement lighting. “She damn near ruined the surprise, too.” He slowly worked himself to a kneeling position, joints popping and face scrunching up in pain as he lowered himself. You giggled at his determination to remain traditional despite his injuries. “Y/n, will you marry me?” He asked, voice hopeful, the fire behind his eyes burning low with passion. You nodded, words escaping you, caught in your throat as they were, sobs and laughter mingling. He slid the small diamond onto your left hand, smiling to see the band resting comfortably before your knuckle, leaning on your body for support as he stumbled to his feet, crushing his lips to yours in victory, his kiss tasting of blood and iron and sweat and… Dean.

BBC Worldwide is currently investigating a security issue around Doctor Who Series 8 where unfinished material has inadvertently been made public. We deeply regret this and apologise to all the show’s fans, the BBC and the cast and crew who have worked tirelessly making the series.

We would like to make a plea to anyone who might have any of this material and spoilers associated with it not to share it with a wider audience so that everyone can enjoy the show as it should be seen on 23rd August. We know only too well that Doctor Who fans are the best in the world and we thank them for their help with this and their continued loyalty.

Hullo there, Doctor Who Tumblr here… *deep breath* Ideally no one should really know anything about the next season of Doctor Who (that hasn’t been purposefully put out by the BBC) until it premieres on August 23rd, but unfortunately some people do.

While it might be tempting to look, it turns out that a lot of people don’t want to know anything at all until the new episodes premiere. Avoiding spoilers is incredibly important to many Whovians - some fans have already started a #KeepMeSpoilerFree campaign on Twitter and Tumblr. Of course, no Doctor Who fan would put themselves in a situation where they had something that they DEFINITELY weren’t supposed to have, and no fan would EVER save material or spoilers to their computers…but if they HAD done that, we would suggest: Option 1: *cyberman voice* DELETE. Spoilers spoil! Option 2: Take those spoilers and put them in a special folder titled “Do not open until these episodes premiere!”  Since we started running the Doctor Who Tumblr, nothing has made us happier than seeing the worldwide fandom come together to celebrate Doctor Who. Today we’re a bigger, more global fandom than ever before and Doctor Who is the most exciting it’s ever been. Wouldn’t it be amazing if we could all experience the new series, unspoiled, when it airs on television for the first time, together as a community?  While on Tumblr, we would suggest that you avoid spoilers by tagging all spoiler-y posts with “DW Spoilers” and “Spoilers” and to then install either Tumblr Savior or XKit and block those tags. With XKit you’ll have to install the “Blacklist” extension and add the tag from there. 

With either of those installed and the hashtag blocked, posts that pop up on your dash using that hashtag will be hidden - with XKit you can block the posts from appearing entirely. Both of the websites linked above have detailed instruction on how to install and you can definitely ask around on Tumblr if you run into any problems. Let’s do our best as Whovians to protect ourselves and each other from unwanted spoilers. 

Spoilers. They can really creep up on you.

You may have noticed our announcement that for the next seven spectacular days, we’ll be posting Orphan Black Season Two premiere sneak peeks. But maybe you are a person with a MASSIVE amount of self-control, who never reads spoilers and never watches anything in advance ever. (How do you do it? Your restraint is admirable. Teach us your ways.) So out of respect for those who wish to remain unspoiled, we’ll be tagging all of our spoiler-heavy posts with #OBSpoilers.

We suggest either installing Tumblr Savior or XKit and blocking the tag #OBSpoilers. With XKit you’ll have to install the “Blacklist” extension and add the word from there.

With either of those installed and the hashtag blocked, whenever a post pops up on your dash with that tag, the post will be hidden. You’ll have the option of clicking on it to read it if you’d like, and with XKit you can block the posts from appearing entirely. Both of those websites linked above have detailed instructions on how to install and you can definitely ask around Tumblr if you run into any problems.


endless list of favorite ships

Matt Murdock & Claire Temple | Daredevil

“You know, the only thing I remember from Sunday school is the martyrs… the saints, the saviors… they all end up the same way. Bloody and alone.”

“I never said I was any of those.”

You didn’t have to.

what they say: i’m fine

what they mean: why did bioware introduce some of the strongest characters in the Mass Effect series in 2 and then treat them as minor filler characters in 3, scrapping any potential they had, to make room for characters they didn’t flesh out nearly as much? why couldn’t they have made a larger team, or more cross interactions, or ways to choose and/or switch up your team selections instead of throwing them to the side to be irrelevant? why do so many of the characters that they introduce in each game not have solid, continuous content for the next game or previous game? think about how much development we’re missing behind the dlc scenes. really, only the teammates that die in 3 are treated as important or ‘mandatory’ to save, while the rest save the galaxy doing their own thing. now on one hand, that’s great, because they are capable, independent characters who don’t need Shepard with them every second and having a solid autonomy without being near the protagonist is a good concept. on the other hand, they’re often treated as barely anything more than collateral for war assets, making them feel like two dimensional forms of their ME2 selves. it’s true that they all have the potential of dying at the end of 2, and this makes the game branches very hard to keep track of and execute correctly, but surely there had to be a better option. what’s the point of saving anyone at all in 2 when they are easily replaced and their content is cut 90%? they have more content if you romanced them in 2, yes, but this just further pushes the idea that bioware equates romance to be the ultimate form of relationships. in the end, there are barely any consequences for your actions since someone else will just take the place of character X, and only very minute, specific things feel like they matter in a 100+hr play through of the series, even though you have to do everything to a T in order to get the “best” ending.

Take me to the docks,

there’s a ship without name there

and it’s sailing to the middle of the sea

the water there is deeper than anything you have ever seen

jump right in and swim until you’re f r e e

Can Tumblr finally add a comment section for posts? I know there’s the reply thing, but sometimes I want to chime in on something for everyone to see, but I don’t necessarily want it to be part of the post for people to reblog. So everyone’s solution is to use tags.

I just installed XKit and now I can see all the tags people add to my posts and holy shit… It’s like a whole new comment section I never knew about!

Also, a legit messaging system that’s not as clunky as fan-mail.

Add ‘’ to the New X-Kit blacklist

Want to thank @withawhisperlikeafeather for this tip!

Guys, if you’re hating all the spam on popular tags lately, just install New X-Kit and then the Blacklist extension within that. Add ‘’ to it and, under options, enable the Mini UI mode too. Now, instead of all that awful spam, you’ll just see a greyed out box with the message that the post has been blocked!