or what they're from

Can we take a minute and talk about how fantastic Harry’s voice sounds on this song?  It’s rich, it’s not strained, his technique is on point for rock.  his falsetto is clear and pure. The beginning in particular is clean and precise.    His belt at the end is open and fully supported.  His breath control is spot on.  And the little details like the way he transitions from chest voice to falsetto in the bridge on “will we ever learn?” is SO SMART.  He’s using such strong dynamics.  He has grown so much and I’m just so incredibly impressed.  And so incredibly proud.  


This animal tastes frightened.

Matt said yes guys, what a surprise, wow.

(Oldest post is here, and here’s the first content for the ship. I don’t know who picked the name “Techienician”, please tell me if you know! I’d love to credit them here :D).

170408 V chart awards // their varying levels of excitement lol kyungsoo looks like his soul has left his body

Your Move

The nine times Simon and Baz prank each other and the one time they don’t

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Epilogue

April 2


Waking up in Baz’s bed is too soft to describe.  Technically, I’m sure his bed is no softer than my own, but now there’s another level of soft, one that goes beyond a physical body-soft.  Soft like my entire soul is encased in cotton fluff. Heart-soft.


He doesn’t open his eyes, just smiles a little, and his sleepy smile has my heart skipping.  “Simon?”

Crowley, just hearing him say my name, and in a voice still heavy with sleep, is enough to have me swooning a little.

           “It’s April second.”

           “Yes it is.”

           “Do you still love me?”

           Baz pulls me closer and when he speaks his lips brush my forehead.  “Today, tomorrow, every day after that.”

           His shirt is my new favourite smell and I bury my nose in it.  “It’s funny, if you think about it?”


           “We both told the truth yesterday,” I muse.  “We pranked each other every day except April Fool’s Day.”

           He chuckles deep within his throat.  “We really are pathetic.”

           “Guess that makes us both April Fools, huh?”

           “Speak for yourself, love,” he laughs, and I’m so gone.


“So,” Simon murmurs after a few more moments of silent heaven, “is the game over?”

           I shrug with one shoulder.  “Who won?”


           “Really?” I raise an eyebrow.  “How?”

           “I’ve got you wrapped in my wings, Baz, it doesn’t get much better than this.”

           “I dunno,” I grin, “I think I definitely won.”

           Simon scoffs.  “As if.”

           “I’m wrapped in your wings.”

           “Well, I finally get to touch your hair.”

           “I can make you blush without even trying.”

           “I can shut you up by kissing you.”

           “Oh yeah?” I pull back far enough to meet his eye. “Care to demonstrate?”

           He’s laughing as he obliges me, kissing me gently like his lips are still sore from the seemingly endless kissing last night. I don’t remember having the strength to pull away long enough to climb back inside the room, or to change into our nightclothes, but at some point it must have happened.  Between toothpaste kisses and disbelieving grins.  I’d been a little afraid to suggest sharing a bed (I thought it might scare him away), but he’d climbed in beside me like he fit there, like the spot had been meant for him all along.  I don’t think we ever stopped kissing, just fell into place and stayed there until the dizziness turned into dreams.

           “Crowley,” I mumble against his lips, soft like rose petals.


           “Aleister Crowley.”

           He giggles.  “What, Baz?”

           “Do you still love me?”

           His eyes are a different blue every time I look at them, like the sky.  Right now they’re the horizon just after the orange leaks out of the sunrise.

           Simon kisses my forehead.  “Today…”

           Kisses my nose.  “Tomorrow…”

           Kisses my mouth, deep and long.  “Every day after that.”

           I’m so gone.

           “I’m living a charmed life.”

“Is Bruce in here?” Tim figured he might be— Bruce spent a lot of time in the children’s wing of Wayne Enterprises. There were a dozen or so kids in daycare most weekdays, and Bruce liked to hang out.

Tim liked to hang out too. They had nice snacks, and he’d known most of the kids since they were toddlers. And sometimes naps were mandatory.

“Conference call,” Damian told him. (For someone who claimed to hate naps, snackfood, kids, and humanity in general, Damian also spent a lot of time in the children’s wing.) “I don’t know where.” 

He went back to what he was doing, which was arranging a set of pewter soldiers into a complex model of a battlefield, presumably for the benefit of the preschooler sitting next to him. 

“What’s this?”

“The Battle of Issus, 333 BC.”

“Right, obviously.” Tim decided he was curious, so he settled down on the mats to watch.  Damian finished his model; he pulled a marker from the art table and used it as a pointer. 

“Okay. This is the Macedonian army, outnumbered but in the better tactical position, south of the Pinarus River. Their leader is Alexander the Great. And this—” He pointed to his enemy line. “—is the Achaemenid Empire. They’re about to lose.”

Damian tapped his marker on the Macedonian right. “This is the companion calvary, Alexander’s elite force, and they—” he cut off when he noticed his pupil digging in the toy bin, clearly distracted. The kid came up with a battered Transformer, which he set behind Damian’s lines. 

“Elliot. Alexander did not have robots.”

“But,” said Tim, rummaging through the box himself, “did he have wizards?” He pulled a bearded magician out of the tub and held it up for Damian to see. 

“You know he didn’t.”

Tim passed the wizard to Elliot. “But what if he did?”


“How would that go?”


“Abracadabra, Alexander!” Elliot yelled, gleefully smashing through Damian’s entire left flank.

“Damn it, Drake.” Damian sighed in frustration— not quite the rise Tim was hoping for, but still something. He dropped Elliot’s discarded robot back into the box.

“I don’t know what you were expecting,” Tim told him. “Elliot’s four. He’s too young for— what is this— military history?”

“He was doing fine before you showed up.” Damian started to re-erect his soldiers, but he gave it up after Elliot came in for a second pass. “Which is typical, isn’t it?”

“Good one.”

“Thank you.” Damian crossed his arms. “Fine. I’ll bite. When is he supposed to learn this kind of thing?”

“High school? Maybe never.”

“That can’t be right.”

“Have I ever lied to you?”

“Frequently.” Damian rolled his eyes. “I’m getting a second opinion.”

“I’ll wait.”

Damian checked the room for potential allies. “Thomas?” he called over his shoulder, “You learned military strategy as a kid, right?”

Duke looked up from the book he was reading to a pair of kindergardeners. “Just you, man.”

“Told you.” Tim fished a bag of plastic ninja from the toy box and arranged them pointedly into a row. “How are you still surprised by this kind of thing?”

Damian glared at him. “Okay, first of all? I’m not a— hold on a second. Elliot!”

Elliot froze with a large, plastic dinosaur held aloft over the battlefield. He drew it sheepishly back to his chest. “Sorry.”

“Not in the calvary wing,” Damian told him. “You’ll scare the horses.”

“Here?” Elliot pointed to the front of the phalanx.



“Aim for his center.” Damian turned back to Tim. “Anyway. Why are you still talking to me? I thought we had an agreement about unnecessary contact.”

Keep reading

Honestly, one of my major pet peeves is when the secular Yiddish revival movement pretends it’s single-handedly resurrecting a dead language or something, ignoring the fact that there are hundreds of thousands of native Yiddish speakers and that number is growing rapidly every day. And that continuity was never broken; for Chassidim, Yiddish never died.

Like I literally just saw a post saying there were only a “handful” of Yiddish speakers, and about how awesome it was that some secular Yiddish revivalists had created a Hebrew-English dictionary with modern words like “email,” as if there aren’t probably at least a hundred thousand people who are bilingual in Yiddish and English and use both in their daily lives, and certainly talk about emails.

So what’s the deal? Do secular Yiddish revivalists see Chassidim as too religious or “backwards” to count? I certainly hope not, but it sure seems that way.

And look, I get it. For most American Jews, there *was* a break in continuity regarding Yiddish. And the secular Yiddish culture of Eastern Europe *was* violently destroyed. You have every right to reclaim what was taken from you and it is a radical act to do so, but please stop pretending that Yiddish is not already a thriving living language.

ashinan  asked:


I always have enough time for Ulaz and Shiro. :3

“I’m going to kill him,” Shiro says. The effect is rather ruined by his enormous yawn.

“No, you will not,” Ulaz says, patiently. Shiro’s head is drooping down towards his chest again; he picks it up with an effort just in time. It’s fascinating to watch. “Who would pilot the Yellow Lion?”

“You could,” Shiro offers. Ulaz nudges his shoulder just slightly and tips Shiro down all the way onto the couch, lying prone. Shiro goes without complaint, curling up on his side. He must truly be out of it.

“He’s not - he’s - ” Shiro yawns again, cutting off his words. “ - Yellow would like you.”

“I do not need the approval of another space cat,” Ulaz says, glancing around. Humans prefer to be warm and covered when sleeping; ah. There’s a blanket over the back of the couch. Ulaz snags it with his long reach and spreads the thin but soft material over Shiro’s form. Shiro curls into it reflexively, scarcely aware of his own actions. “Yours is enough.”

“Hunk’s not allowed back in the kitchen until Coran labels every jar,” Shiro says.

Humans are so strange.

“They are labelled,” Ulaz reminds him, amused. “Merely in Altean.”

“Hunk’s not allowed back in the kitchen until he learns,” Shiro corrects, fiercely. It’s somewhat diminished by the slurring of his words, tumbling already towards sleep. What Hunk had innocently thought to be a different form of flavoring for lunch had turned out the complete opposite; Ulaz supposes they’re lucky only one of the Paladins had sampled the food as Hunk prepared it.

It is just unfortunate that it had been Shiro.

“Fear not,” Ulaz says instead. He slips off the edge of the couch, crouching instead to remain at Shiro’s eye level. Shiro cracks open a bleary eye with a supreme effort. “Your Blue paladin has offered to be your taste tester for all ‘surprise ingredients’ from this point on. In future, I highly suggest you take him up on the offer.”

Shiro’s quiet for so long Ulaz is afraid he really has fallen asleep. But no; the Black Paladin’s eyes are open, if a bit unfocused where he’s staring at Ulaz’s knee.

“‘m not really mad at him,” Shiro says, at last. His eyelids flutter again, drooping shut. He peels them back open. “‘m - ‘was an accident. ’m mad at me.”

Ulaz quirks a pale eyebrow. “You are mad at your body’s inability to remain conscious when subjected to an incredible dose of b’lire powder?”

“Had things to do,” Shiro murmurs. He’s glowering. It’s ruined by the fact that he can’t keep his eyes open. “The princess - still planet-side - can’t lead training. Things to do.”

Ah. Ulaz cannot exactly blame him. The responsibilities of leadership can hardly be set down even for accidents outside of one’s control. They have had this argument before.

“Rest,” Ulaz says. The blanket does not fully cover Shiro’s knee at this angle; Ulaz tugs it up, tucking the fabric in. Shiro hums, an unconscious sound from the back of his throat. “I will lead training for you this afternoon.”

“Hate drugs,” Shiro whines. It’s the only complaint he’s uttered since the entire mistake began.

The powder’s working fast, pulling him down despite all of Shiro’s efforts to fight it. If Ulaz hadn’t personally witnessed Hunk chuck the b’lire jar violently into the garbage chute, he’d throw the damn thing out himself.

“I know,” Ulaz begins.

A small chitter catches his attention; Ulaz’s ears twitch. The little blue mouse - Chulatt - perches carefully on the edge of the couch, waving a paw in his direction. Its two friends are helping the third and last mouse - the large one, Platt? - up onto the armrest by Shiro’s head. Chulatt mimes standing guard, striking a fierce pose and waving its tail dramatically.

What odd creatures. Still, Ulaz is grateful for them.

“You will not be alone,” Ulaz says, softly. Mission accomplished, the green mouse - Plachu, Ulaz recalls - slides down the armrest to tuck itself against Shiro’s neck; the red one, Chuchule, chatters something up at Platt. Platt yawns a little mouse-yawn from their content position in the corner of the couch. “Rest, Shiro. I will handle training. And I will be here when you wake.”

Chuchule curls up on Shiro’s shoulder, slipping just under the edge of the blanket. Shiro’s eyes drift shut.

“Make ‘em run laps,” Shiro mumbles with absolutely zero malice, and then he’s out.