ok think

2

so heres my theory on what happened to ahsoka

someone: i like B.A.P but I don’t love their slower songs like happy birthday-

me: screencapped and emailed to my lawyer. She will have filed charges by tomorrow afternoon. By law We must allow you 48 hours to remove the offending material. If not, you will be charged with defamation of character, libel, and criminal mischief, all misdemeanors. You will face a judge trial.

You know? People will try to call me fat as an insult??? And I just laugh. Mostly bc its rlly unoriginal, but because its funny trying to insult someone witha trait thats not even??? Insulting?? Yeah I’m chubby, I got stretch marks, I got a little fat under my chin, but I’m still cute as hell. I’m fun, I’m creative, I’m romantic, and I have a lot of passion to give. And I am all this, and fat. Thats ok. It definitely does not make me ugly and I’m coming to terms with that. Fat girls are lovely and wonderful. If you can’t see that, then you are missing out on some of the best people you could ever meet. Just think about that I guess

anonymous asked:

Silverflint drabble 59, please? I miss those two already

#59 “Wow”

———

Silver shut the door to the cabin of the Walrus, flinging rain off his hands and wiping his hair from his face.

They had been out on a hunting trip and had had minor success with capturing a couple of large French sloops before a very slow-moving summer storm had caught up to them, dropping bucket-loads of rain but hardly any wind, thunder, or lightning.

“Still raining cats and dogs I see,” drawled out Flint from behind his desk. Silver thumped his way over to him and took a seat, looking more fatigued from the crutch than usual.

“And this bloody thing,” he said, leaning it against the desk, “is so saturated I’m going to need a new one.”

“I told you not to get it wet,” replied Flint with a hint of I-told-you-so in his voice.

Silver scoffed. “An impossible feat on this ship.”

“No, not impossible, if you would stay put out of the rain.”

Silver raised his hands and looked around them, indicating the room, before looking back at Flint.

“And so here I am,” he said dramatically.

That earned him a lop-sided smile from under a ruddy beard.

They sat and talked about nothing in particular for a while before–as always–returning to the matter of the return to Nassau in two weeks’ time. At some point during their conversation Silver noticed the men’s voices from outside and silence from the skies above. He leaned forward to peek out the porthole and saw the rain had stopped and the sun was coming out.

“Ah, at last,” he said. Something blindingly bright glinted out of the corner of his eye. He blinked and followed the light to the edge of Flint’s small bookcase. There, hanging from a stuck-out nail, was some sort of…necklace? 

“What is that?” he asked. He rose and moved toward it. He needed to stand anyway; the weather played havoc with the knee to his bad leg and it ached a little. Flint followed his movement.

“Ah, that’s just some trinket of Billy’s he did not want,” he said quickly, getting up and making it to the bookcase ahead of Silver. But Silver caught the sudden anxiety in his step. His dark eyes flicked from Flint’s to the object in question. He plucked it off the nail.

It was a simple thing; just a piece of thick metal cut into a three-dimensional square attached to a black cord.

“It was just something I was going to see if you wanted before I threw it away.”

Silver held the necklace up between them.

“Billy gave this to you?” he asked in the most disbelieving tone Flint had ever heard him use.

“He did not give it to me, I asked for it,” he said indignantly. 

Silver blinked, brows drawing up.

“I knew you had started wearing them,” Flint now mumbled, eyes going to the floor. “I just thought–offhandedly, of course–you might…like it,” he finished. To Silver it sounded as though Flint had just spoken with glass shards in this throat, as though the admission were torture.

He pursed his lips heavily under his mustache and tried not to smile. He left Flint’s words hanging in the air between them as he silently dragged the necklace down over his head and to his neck. He had to pull up his wet rag of hair for it to properly settle. 

He caught Flint staring at him intensely as he did so, letting his hair flop back down and suddenly feeling quite humble under that jade stare.

“Thank you,” he said softly–too softly?–and offered a small smile. “I do like it.”

***

anonymous asked:

Had plastique bag hid in closet of spare room for very long time, so good to chew and eat leetle pieces of and then do lots of pukes in the house! Finished eat big piece of bag but still much to chew! But human FIND THE BAG and PUT IN TRASH. Human gets mad when I brake her things but thinks it ok to throw away cat very important BAG? 🙀

rip bag 😿

.

alienliaru  asked:

What to do when you feel like your story is a total nonsense?

Get a second opinion. You can either let someone read it, or, if you’re concerned about basics like the concept or plot line, just talk it out with someone. You don’t even have to say you’ve written it yet, maybe start with “I had this idea for a story. I was thinking (yadda yadda). Does that sound OK? What do you think?” 

If that’s not possible: Print it out, and highlight the sections you think are a problem. Maybe you’ll see it isn’t so “total” at all. Or you’ll start to see a pattern, like you have unnecessary scenes or you need to work on the dialogue or there’s too much dialogue. Learning to see and diagnose your own problems is a crucial skill to cultivate – though it’s usually what you should be doing on a second draft/edit. But if you’re trying to decide whether to continue with this work or not, just make sure you’re far enough along with the story and you aren’t letting your inner critic have its way and preemptively editing out its heart and soul.

Or, fuckall and keep writing and just let your mind go wild. Maybe a wild rampage is what you need. Maybe your story is too restrained and not nonsense at all. 

If none of those options produce results, then put your story away for a while and write something else. If you find you can’t get away from it, go back and see it with fresh eyes. 

Remember, all first drafts are crap. They’re supposed to be. 

– mod Aliya

THIS WAS SUCH A CUTE SCENE OMG

D’YOU SEE HOW HAPPY SHE IS?! DO YOU?

WEDDING PLANNING AND LIKE SNOW’S BEEN THINKING LIKE OK THIS ONE MOMENT I WILL NOT MISS. THIS MOMENT I WILL MAKE SURE MY DAUGHTER GETS EVERYTHING SHE WANTS AND NEEDS AND DREAMS OF

AND I FUCKING LOVE HOW EMMA STARTS OUT AMUSED BECAUSE LOL YES, THAT BOOK IS EXCESSIVE

BUT THEN IT’S LIKE DAMN IT SOMEONE CARES ENOUGH ABOUT HER TO MAKE THIS HUGE FUCKING BOOK AND WANT TO GIVE HER THE PERFECT WEDDING LIKE

AND SNOW KINDA STARTS DEFENSIVE BECAUSE SHE KNOWS IT’S A LOT BUT LIKE SHE LOVES HER KID AND SHE JUST WANTS TO BE A PART OF THIS MOMENT FOR HER

AND EMMA WANTS HER TO BE A PART OF IT TOO LIKE GUYS IDK IF YOU’VE NOTICED

BUT EMMA SWAN HAS A FAMILY SHE LOVES WITH EVERYTHING SHE HAS IN HER

AND THEY LOVE HER BACK JUST AS MUCH.

AND IT KILLS ME SO MUCH BECAUSE I AM SO FUCKING HAPPY SHE HAS THIS.

A conversation with visitors today reminded me of our history, so I decided to repurpose that for some more Bodhi backstory. Just because. (Also I didn’t even give this a second glance so there may be typos. Just needed to get it all out.)


There’s a loud banging on the door. Bodhi’s head snaps up.

“Go,” his mother says. “Nivi, take him.”

He knows what to do but Nivi pushes him into his room anyways. The door is locked, they stay still. Silent.

His heart is pounding so loud he swears the neighbours can hear it. He presses his ear against the door and listens. 

Their front door creaks open. 

“What do you want?” his mother snaps. Bodhi can picture her, regal and imposing, her cool gaze flickering over their visitors. She’s probably leaning casually in the doorway, not showing any fear as she cuts off their line of sight, keeping her children out of view. They are not Imperials, or she would’ve used the more polite version you. But she doesn’t call for Nivi, so it must be rebels. 

“We need a place to hide, madam. They’re looking for us.” The voice is gruff, but whoever it is is using their titles. Nivi’s eyebrows shoot up in interest. 

“I don’t have to let you in. You know that.” Their mother’s voice is calm, but Bodhi recognizes it as the voice she uses when Nivi gets into big-time trouble. 

There’s a slight click, the rustle of metal against fabric. Bodhi’s eyes go wide. 

“You’re Rook’s wife, aren’t you? Then you should be welcoming us in with open arms.” 

“I should be yelling right now. Be thankful I haven’t turned you in.”

“You wouldn’t do that. You’re the wife of a martyr.” Another voice, who’s unfamiliar tongue stumbles over the last word. Bodhi sniffs. 

“That’s exactly why I shouldn’t let you in. I already lost my shohar to your cause. I’ve spent all the years since trying to be in their good eyes. Not everyone can run off waving blasters in the air like you rogues. Some of us have mouths to feed.”

“Like we don’t? Madam, we are no foreigners, and that’s why we asked your permission before entering. But if you won’t co-operate, then…” The click is more defined. 

Bodhi can’t see it, but knows his mother’s chin is raised high in defiance, even when her words are gentle, conceding. “Fine. But you stay exactly where I tell you to, understand?”

“Yes ma’am.” The rebel’s voice sounds like a reprimanded child, and Bodhi stifles a giggle. Nivi shushes him. 

“Aao.” Bodhi hears three pairs of boots on the floor - Ammi will not be happy about them tracking mud in - and then the sound of carpet dragging along dust, a creaking door opening. The thuds of boots down old stairs, then the door creaking shut. 

It’s barely five minutes before there is a rap at the door again. The entire process repeats, but this time their mother is far more formal, submissive in tone, terms of respect thrown on haphazardly at the end of every sentence. No sir, I did not see any rebels. Yes sir, I know who my husband was. No sir, I did not agree with him

“Are you scared?”  Nivi asks, the words barely discernible from her breathing.

Bodhi shakes his head, despite the pounding in his chest. He forces a smile. “Not when you’re with me.” 

It feels like an eternity before the front door slams shut. Bodhi doesn’t see the shake in his mother’s shoulders, the way she steadies her breathing before opening the hidden door. 

It’s another eternity before the rebels leave - one asks, very respectfully, for a glass of water. She pours one out, slowly and steadily, and hands it to him. 

Bodhi lets out the breath he was holding only when he hears the sound of the empty glass being set on the countertop, a polite thank you, madam, sorry for the inconvenience, as the front door opens and shuts. 

A few more minutes pass before she calls. “Nivi?” 

Nivi’s muscles relax visibly as she tugs the door open, pulling Bodhi along with them.

“Did we do it right, ammi?” Nivi asks. 

Their mother nods.