red clogs

5 Tips For Clogging Your Drain To Keep Whatever Is Trying To Come Up Out Of It At Bay

When you’ve got something trying to claw its way out of your drain, sometimes it can be too expensive to pay someone to clog your sink for you. Try out some of these tips instead!

1. Only use red hair to clog your drain: The last thing you want to hear while you’re trying to brush your teeth in the morning is the sound of long talons incessantly tapping at the inside of your drain pipes, longing to escape from your walls so it can insert its eggs into your cat like a spider wasp. One simple solution to push back the abomination that keeps trying to pull itself up out of your drain is to go ahead and shove some red hair down your sink, but make sure you ONLY use red. The clump will naturally act as a barrier, and the growling thing down there seems to be afraid of red hair, while black hair does nothing, and blond hair gives it strength.

2. Yell down your sink for the beast to leave you alone: Sometimes the best way to clog your drain is with your voice. The unknowable nightmare in your sink may not understand English, but if you get your face right into your sink and sternly shout phrases like “I don’t like it when you live in my drain!” or “Please stop rattling the pipes when you reach your sexual climax in my plumbing!” it will understand from the tone of your voice that you are not playing around, which will hopefully lead it to shrink back to whatever hell it spawned from.

3. Try sacrificing a plumber into your sink: It’s hard to think about anything else when the beast under your sink keeps reaching its hand up to steal your toothbrush off the top of the sink then scurrying back down the drain. One easy solution is to invite a plumber over, slit their throat, and let their blood gush out into your sink. The little drain-dweller will hopefully take the blood of a plumber as a peace offering, and will realize that you are not an enemy but a follower. Upon that realization, maybe, it’ll respect you enough to stay on its own turf. This tip is extra-effective if your plumber is also an ordained priest.

4. Don’t shove any electronics down there because whatever’s down there has the intelligence to figure out how it works: You might think that throwing something down your drain that’s a little more durable, like earphones or even an old cell phone, would clog up your sink so bad that you wouldn’t hear another banshee howl from whatever the fuck is down there. But, this crawling gag reflex is not stupid. If you drop any kind of electronic down your drain, the creature in your sink will undergo the process of evolution so rapidly, it will develop inventions humankind could never fathom and use those to free itself from your sink and threaten life as we know it. So putting electronic devices down there: a big no-no!

5. Know when it’s time to just give up and move: Sometimes you can try as hard as you can, you can follow all the rules, but at the end of the day, the unquenchable thing in your sink ends up winning. There’s no shame in accepting defeat, packing up your things, and leaving your place. Hopefully, you won’t have the same problem in the next place you live!

Molecule of the Day - Haemoglobin

Haemoglobin is a macromolecule that comprises 96% of red blood cells’ dry weight, and is responsible for the transport of oxygen in our blood. It is a tetramer that consists of 4 protein subunits - 2 alpha-globin and 2 beta-globin molecules - which are each associated with a heme group.

Haemoglobin transports oxygen by allowing O2 molecules to reversibly bind to the iron centre of the heme group, assisted by a histidine residue in each globin subunit.

O2 and the histidine residue act as ligands that reversibly form coordinate bonds with the Fe2+ ion in the heme group. This causes the degenerate d orbitals of the Fe2+ ion to split into different energy levels, as the donated electrons from the ligands cause different levels of repulsion in the ion’s orbitals due to the difference in their proximity to the ligand.

Our perception of colour for transition metal complexes is due to the absorption of light corresponding to the energy gap between the energy levels when lower energy d electrons are excited to a higher energy level. As a result, the change in splitting of the orbitals due to the addition of the O2 ligand causes the perceived colour to change as well, which is why we perceive oxygenated blood as a brighter red than deoxygenated blood.

Haemoglobin also exhibits an interesting property called the cooperative binding of oxygen. When a molecule of oxygen binds to a subunit of haemoglobin, it undergoes a change in structure such that the other 3 subunits can bind to oxygen more easily. Similarly, when a molecule of oxygen detaches from a subunit, the haemoglobin molecule changes its conformation such that the other 3 molecules of oxygen are released more easily.

This allows the rapid loading and unloading of oxygen molecules in the lungs and tissues respectively to occur.

In people with the condition sickle cell anaemia, a mutated form of haemoglobin called HbS is produced instead. This form of haemoglobin has a point mutation in which a glutamic acid residue is replaced by a valine residue. As a result, in low-oxygen conditions, such as in capillaries, HbS undergoes a change in shape and sticks together to form long, brittle rod-like structures. This causes the red blood cells to elongate and form a sickle-like shape. These red blood cells can clog up capillaries easily, increasing the possibility of stroke.

These sickle-shaped red blood cells are also prone to haemolysis, causing them to be destroyed at a much faster rate than red blood cells; a normal red blood cell usually lasts for 90-120 days, as opposed to 10-20 for sickled red blood cells. Consequently, the body is unable to replenish the supply of red blood cells sufficiently, resulting in shortness of breath, dizziness, and high heart rate.

  • me: *takes a deep breath*
  • me: i lo-
  • anyone who has spent five seconds around me ever: yes, you love carolina, we know, you love carolina so much, they’re the light of your life, you love them so much, you just love carolina, we KNOW, you love carolina you fucking love carolina ok we know, we get it, YOU LOVE CAROLINA. WE GET IT.
Breathless

The air is thick with dust. It hangs in the cloying flight compartment like gritty red mist, coating every surface in a fine layer of sediment. The black lion is mired in it. Her delicate systems completely blocked with grit. She lays inert and half-buried amid a growing mountain of drifting sand. Nearby, the red lion lays almost completely buried. Only the top of her head is visible on the rippling surface of the drifting sand. Her inactive eyes glare defiantly into the perpetually raging sandstorm beating against both lions lacerated hulls.

Shiro coughs and rubs his gritty eyes, his tight chest laboring in the abrasive air. The oxygen mask in his flight suit failed three days ago when the circuitry became hopelessly clogged with red dust. His artificial arm has been slowly losing functionality as well. The cyber components that regulate balance and temperature are steadily failing, turning his arm into a shoulder wrenching dead weight.

The old scars bordering the graft site have also become blistered and swollen from the constant friction of heated metal rubbing against his damaged skin. He was finally able to get some relief by fashioning a makeshift sling out of the gauze padding and medical tape he found in Coran’s emergency supply pack, better to immobilize his arm completely than risk a dislocated shoulder from the paralyzed weight of it.

He coughs again, hacking up a clod of brick colored dust. He grimaces, wiping his hand on the grimy chest plate of his armor as he struggles to catch his breath. He’s not wearing his helmet. He knows it’s stupid, but it’s far too hot inside the black lion’s flight compartment. Through the sandstorm raging outside, a white-hot sun beats down on her like the baleful eye of a demon. The sweltering compartment feels like an oven, slowly roasting Shiro from the inside out. The need to escape it is overwhelming, but there’s literally no where to run.

He scrubs his sweaty face, smearing it with grime. He’s covered in the stuff. His hair is caked with it and his black flight suit is fraying in the exposed spaces between his armor from the abrasive film of grit covering it. He swallows, his throat scraped raw from breathing in caustic dust and hacking it up again. His head is splitting. Dehydration is making him dizzy and nauseous, but even with careful rationing, supplies are running low. Focus, he tells himself.

He grits his teeth and sits back on his heels, eyeing the two remaining foil packs of water. There isn’t enough to ration between them anymore. Shiro will have to start doing without. Keith needs the water more than he does.

He grabs the already opened pouch, the one that’s half-full, and unsteadily makes his way over to Keith laying curled up on his side in the coolest corner of the flight compartment Shiro could find. His arms and legs are pulled up tightly to his chest, as if making himself as small as possible might somehow make him disappear from this hellish place all together. He’s pulled off his helmet again. Shiro supposes it doesn’t really matter at this point. He listens to Keith struggling to breathe. An audible crackle and reed like railing accompanies each breath, a sure sign that his lungs are filling with fluid, and Shiro knows the damage is already done.

“Keith,” he rasps hoarsely and coughs, his voice sounds like it’s been shredded with sandpaper, he supposes in a way it has. “Keith,” he says again after catching his breath. He gently lays a hand on Keith’s mottled cheek and Keith flinches away from him, his breath hitching as if the slightest pressure on his inflamed skin is pure agony. Shiro guiltily snatches his hand away. “I’m sorry,” he whispers sheepishly.

Not long after they’d crashed, it became apparent that some element of the red dust was especially toxic to Keith. Shiro suspects it has something to do with his Galra DNA. He’d pulled Keith out of the red lion just before she’d been buried, but those few minutes of exposure to the storm as they’d retreated inside the black lion had taken a toll.

The dust they brought back in with them has only added to their misery. It’s settled over everything like a corrosive blanket. It’s impossible to remove or escape, and is relentlessly packing Keith’s lungs with noxious grit. He’s burning up and the skin around his eyes, nose and mouth is red and swollen as if it were burned with a particularly caustic poison.

Keith’s swollen eyes open to bleary violet slits. It takes a while, but eventually they settle on Shiro’s grime smeared face. “Hey,” Shiro says softly, a wan smile creasing his lips, “how’re you feeling?” Stupid question he knows. Keith doesn’t answer. He stopped talking a couple of days ago, as if both breathing and talking was too much to concentrate on at once. “You think you can try to drink some water for me?” Shiro asks.

Keith starts to nod then closes his eyes and coughs instead. It’s wet and painful sounding. His entire body seizes up as Shiro rubs his back and he finally hacks up a glob of gritty rust colored sputum onto the metal floor. He gasps a few times, as if his lungs have momentarily stopped working and he’s waiting for them to reset. Finally he draws in a shaky wheezing breath and Shiro starts breathing again himself.

Shiro brushes the plastered hair from Keith’s swollen eyes then grips the edge of the foil pack between his teeth and gingerly wraps his one functioning arm around Keith’s shoulders to ease him up into a sitting position. He kneels up on one knee and props Keith’s listless body between his other leg and his chest.

He plucks the foil pouch from his mouth and offers it to Keith. Keith’s heavy head lolls against Shiro’s chest. He squints at the attached plastic straw as Shiro guides it to his mouth. He’s pretty out of it. Shiro isn’t really sure Keith even understands what he’s saying, but he still makes a valiant effort to drink from the straw wedged between his swollen lips. He manages a few sluggish sips before he starts coughing again. Nothing comes up this time. Shiro doesn’t know whether that’s good or bad.

He drops the water pouch and eases Keith back down onto his side. “The others will find us soon.” Please let it be true, he thinks even as he’s saying the words. Keith shudders and coughs wetly. Shiro rubs his back, but nothing comes up. “I just need you to stay with me until they get here okay?” he says, impulsively running his fingers through Keith’s grime encrusted hair. Keith pulls his knees up to his chest, hugging himself in the abrasive air. He closes his eyes and Shiro lays down behind him, draping his arm over Keith’s railing chest. Keith curls up against him and Shiro grips one of his clammy hands in his. “Please, just stay with me,” he murmurs plaintively.

Shiro wakes with a start some time later, immediately sensing that something is wrong. He blinks trying to get his bearings. His headache is worse and has spread to his eyes. They’re so sore and dry, it feels like they’re pulsing inside their sockets in time with the throbbing inside his head. It’s noticeably darker inside the flight compartment. The sun must be at it’s lowest point in the sky. It never fully sets, just bakes the black lion from different angles. He can still hear the dust storm raging outside, but inside it’s eerily quiet. That’s what woke him. Keith isn’t breathing.

Shiro grabs him, his heart leaping into his throat as he rolls Keith onto his back. Keith’s eyes are wide open. His skin is ashen. He writhes on the floor struggling for air. His eyes focus on Shiro’s panicked face, silently pleading with him to do something as his grimy fingers scrabble at the armor covering Shiro’s chest. Shiro thinks there may be a plug of mucous blocking his airway, like a cork in a wine bottle. Rust colored tears start leaking from Keith’s eyes as they begin to lose focus. His lips are turning blue.

Shiro sits back on his heels and hauls Keith onto his lap one handed. It isn’t hard, Keith is small and light. He drapes Keith over his knees, laying him out on his stomach and extending his arms in front of him. He cups his hand and starts slapping Keith’s back. “Come on,” he begs him, “cough it up. Breathe Keith, breathe.”

Keith continues to struggle, his fingers scratching at the metal floor plates as Shiro thumps his back. Keith’s movements start to turn sluggish. His body grows heavier as his strength begins to drain. Shiro’s sharp slaps to his back turn more desperate. Keith’s feeble movements cease all together, his body going limp in Shiro’s lap. Please no, Shiro silently begs whatever gods may be listening.  

Keith twitches suddenly, his entire body shuddering with a deep hacking cough. “That’s it,” Shiro cries, weak with relief. He rubs Keith’s back, “Get it all out.” Keith sucks in a long wheezing breath and Shiro thinks it’s the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard. Keith sucks in another railing breath then another one after that. Shiro lifts him from his lap and cradles him against his chest, his reedy breaths becoming more shallow.

There’s blood on his face, slowly welling up from his mouth. “Shit,” Shiro whispers, eyeing the smear of blood and mucous staining the floor beside him. “Shit, no, please,” he pleads, screwing his aching eyes shut. He caresses Keith’s heavy head against his chest and plants a soft kiss on his sweaty forehead. “I’m so sorry Keith,” he says as sluggish tears begin to track greasy trails down his grubby cheeks, “I… this, thing we’re doing with Voltron, it’s my penance. This is where I have to be, but you don’t. You never asked for this. None of you did. I never should’ve dragged you into it.”

He opens his eyes when Keith’s clammy hand caresses his face. Shiro sniffs and tries to smile at him. “Takashi,” Keith whispers, then his eyes close. He sags in Shiro’s grip, his trembling hand slipping bonelessly from Shiro’s cheek.

Shiro swallows past the painful lump in his throat and presses his fingers to the pulse at Keith’s throat. It’s still beating, but it’s getting weaker. He’s going to die, and Shiro will watch it happen. There’s nothing he can do to stop it. Shiro will live though, because that’s what he does. He lives no matter the cost, no matter what he has to do to make sure he survives. He lives, even when there’s nothing left to live for.

The black lion shifts beneath him and Shiro startles, thinking it’s some sort of earthquake and they’re about to be swallowed up in an avalanche of sinking sand. She wobbles again. Shiro wraps his arm more tightly around Keith’s sagging body, drawing him in close. Keith remains unconscious. His shallow breathing hitches, turning even more irregular.

The black lion steadies and Shiro’s empty stomach bottoms out. The endless howling of the dust storm falls away as she slowly begins to rise through the planet’s atmosphere. The view screen is offline, so they’re flying blind, but Shiro thinks she may be in the grip of an extraction beam. The communications grid flickers and a static distorted voice murmurs something unintelligible before it goes dead again. Shiro can’t make out the words, but he recognizes the voice. Allura.The Castle has found them.

Shiro sags in exhausted relief. His arm is suddenly shaking. He shudders and hacks up more red dust as errant tears sting his gritty eyes. “Thank you,” he whispers. He’s so tired. He’s barely slept at all in the last seventy-two hours and his head is pounding. He lays down, still cradling Keith in the crook of his arm. Honestly, he’s afraid to let him go. He just lays there, listening to Keith’s unsteady breathing. “Just hang on for me for a few more minutes,” he tells him softly, caressing his pale face. “We’re almost home.” He closes his eyes…

…And opens them again inside a pod.

You know how Mark’ll just get really appreciative of things?

I wrote a lil’ fluffy MarkXReader blurb thing and Idk what to do with it so here :P

(never shared anything I’ve written before so this’ll be fun :D [i tried real gud] )

Keep reading

“Hit Me.” {Daryl x Reader}{The Walking Dead}.

Prompt: You are Daryl’s wife, and you end up getting punished for one of his crimes during the Negan line-up.

  Warning: SPOILERS FOR SEASON 7 AND MILD SPOILERS FOR SEASON 2!!!

  Words: 1856 {This got long, fuck}.

  Notes: I kind of hate the ending to this, but I’ve never been good with endings, so soz. Also, this was really fun to write. I love The Walking Dead so much. The fandom is so positive and hardly ever fights {unlike a lot of other fandoms I am a part of} so this felt kind of good to do. Please enjoy!

           

                                                    ——-


 The trouble you were in was beyond anything you or the group had ever encountered.

   You had been a hostage before. Of course you had. It was every other weekend you were on your knees in front of a stranger, pretending to plead for you life just to buy time for the group to arrive and save you. Often times, it was you diving in through a window to save somebody else. These trips would only last a good hour or so, including the scavenging you often insisted on doing afterwards.

   But this was different. This was so different.

   These weren’t just people you could dive headfirst at and kill in a few swings of your sword. You no longer had a sword, first of all. Your hair had fallen in your face, the dirt sinking into your ripped jeans and causing the skin underneath to crack at the dampness. There were injuries running up the left side of your face that throbbed, and you weren’t even sure what they were yet. You just knew they were there.

   Another small issue you had was the fact that the largest portion of the group were with you, and Carol and Morgan hadn’t been seen for a long time. Tara and Heath were gone on a hunt, meaning they were out of the picture. You were all completely defenceless.

   As soon as you saw Daryl, your heart fell into your stomach and you wanted to scream out. The hair that had fallen into your face – sweaty and dirt riddled – wasn’t enough to stop you from making eye contact with him. He looked so pale, being thrown into the dirt next to Rosita and Glenn, completely defenceless. He had a bloodied blanket wrapped around his shoulder, and when he fell to the ground he simply keeled over, spitting up too much blood for your liking.

   You didn’t scream out, though. Instead, you gave him a firm nod and turned back to the man in front of you – Negan. He had been talking for a while now, walking up and down the line with a baseball bat wrapped in electric wire swinging at his side. It didn’t seem threatening at first – baseball bats were nothing compared to your guns and knives, but the way this man wielded it, swinging it in front of your face like he wouldn’t even hesitate to put it into use, made it seem a lot more scary.

  And then he started to sing a nursery rhyme. You had faded out for a while, completely blocked by your own thoughts but you knew what this meant. The way he pointed the bat at each of you, saying the lines of the famous ‘pick and choose’ rhyme you always used to verse off as a kid to make your stupid decisions.

   He was saying them now, grinning as he did so. And then the nursery rhyme was over and everybody was yelling and Abraham was keeled over in the dirt with blood dripping from his red hair and everything was falling apart. You weren’t screaming. You weren’t flinching. You weren’t crying. You simply stared straight ahead with the tears rolling down your cheeks like the unwelcomed rain that had slammed against the caravan window only hours before. You would do anything to take those hours back if you had the chance now.

  “Suck….My….Nuts,” Abraham spat out. Negan laughed manically, commented on how Abraham was “Taking it like a champ!” and then brought the bat down on him all over again.

   There was an unfamiliar buzzing in your ears. It reminded you of those summer days where you and Daryl would march through the woods, hunting for the food needed to keep your people alive. The flies were always awful during them days, and now it sounded like they were there again, right by your ear, nibbling at your sweaty skin.

   You knew your brain was trying to distract you by handing you these memories, but the sound of skin being beaten in and bone being crushed and blood splattering was enough to make even the most happiest of memories seem dark.

   It was over in a moment, but the moment felt overdone. You close your eyes and before you can hold yourself up, you fall to the ground. Your hands mould into the wet dirt, your hair falling back into your face. You belch up the vile that was rising in your throat, letting it escape and splatter in the dirt before you.

   Carl rubs at your shoulder from the side of you, his hand shaking against the bones. You shrug his hand off of you, not wanting him to get in trouble for supporting the weak one.

   Negan’s attention was on you in seconds, sliding in front of you and gently placing the bat under your chin to tilt your head up.

   You look into his dark eyes, the sick and twisted tales of all of his murders being shone through them. Only there was no remorse. Not for the previous killings and certainly not for what he had just done to Abraham.

   “Have we got a sick one?” he asks. You spit on the floor at his feet. He simply smiles, revealing a set of surprisingly white teeth. “Oh, we do indeed. Do you not like a little blood and gore, little lady? Do you not find it amusing?”

   “Go to hell,” you croak out. The words send a jolt of pain to spiral up your stomach and you yell, falling to your elbows in the dirt. Being so close to the floor, you can smell the fresh scent of blood coming from Abrahams body. It makes tears erupt in your eyes and a sob escape your throat, your fingers digging into the dirt to grasp for some release, anything at all that will take you out of this hell but nothing works. Nothing works. Nothing works!

   “God, you certainly are a sight for fucking sore eyes,” Negan continues to jester, tapping the bat against your fingers. Blood sprouts from your knuckles where the barbed wire cuts into the skin. You only feel relief. “Sit up, girl. Let me look at you.”

   You do as he says, pulling yourself up onto your knees again with a wobble. He is in your face in seconds, grinning at you. And then he reaches forward, taking a clump of your hair in his hand and dragging you forward. You grunt in surprise, your feet flailing behind you. Carl tries to grab you but his lack of right eye and current situation makes it difficult for him to even pin point where you are.

   “No!” Daryl screams, throwing himself forward. “No! No, let go of her! No!”
   Negan freezes, your hair still in his hands. He chuckles darkly and you wince, feeling even more bile arising in your system. “Did you just – Is he your husband or something?”

   “Let go of her!” Daryl repeats.

   “God Daryl, just sit back!” you exclaim. Daryl’s eyes meet yours, eyes that once made your heart skip a thousand beats, made you sick with longing and desire. You see the time he first kissed you on the barn roof after Sophia had showed up dead. You see the first time you had given yourself to him that special night under the stars at the prison, when things seemed so peaceful. You see the time he proposed, so casually in bed in Alexandria, lying next to one another. He simply placed the ring on your stomach, grunted the question out and then smiled when you said yes. That was all you needed to know he loved you – a smile. He didn’t do it often enough.

   Now he looked broken, remembering the exact same things as you. You had once looked good – once had your hair straight and your eyes clear of any emotion. Alexandria had healed you of the memories of war for a little while, let you be a normal wife. Now, your hair was knotted with the blood of dead people and your hands were bleeding and your eyes were red with dust clogging them up.

    “This is fucking cute,” Negan says, suddenly letting your hair go. You fall into the dirt. “But it seems like your little lady doesn’t really want you to stand up for her, Daryl.” He spits your husbands name out like it’s a sort of disease. “I think I’d be doing her a favour with putting her out of her misery anyway. With a bug like that, she won’t last long.”

   And then Daryl springs forward and it is all a blur. His fist is hitting Negan in the face before you can even scream. He is being pinned to the floor by Negan’s quick men before you can even comprehend what just happened. Your eyes dart open, a yell escaping your mouth that sounds more like a grunt of disapproval than anything else. Your throat still burns from the bile.

   Negan swings forward, waving his bat around threateningly. All the while you are still laying in the dirt at his feet. “Oh, no, no, no, NO! We will not have any of that here in my place, do you understand? That was quite simply unacceptable. Quite simply, fucking insane.”

    “Daryl,” you whisper, cowering in the dirt. He scrambles up, tries to throw himself towards you again but the men are holding him back and he doesn’t dare scream out.

   Negan rubs at his bruising jaw and grins a tight lipped smile. “You know what else would be fucking insane? If I, as a respected leader, let that go unpunished. And he’s made it very clear what punishment would make him mad.”

   You know what he is saying. Of course you know what he is saying, and you oddly accept it. You close your eyes, letting your head hit the dirt as a sigh of relief escapes your lips. Not of relief that you’re going to die, that you will finally see the end of this god forsaken world, but that you will be the punishment – not anybody else.

   Daryl is screaming in front of you. You open your eyes, look up at the night sky for a minute before you raise your arm, making even Negan stop in his tracks. You pinch your fingers together, beckoning for the bearded villain to approach you.

   “At least take me to dinner first,” Negan grunts, waltzing over to your laid out figure.

   You look up into his dark eyes, grin and say, “Hit me.”

     The last thing you hear before the bat is being swung towards you is Daryl finally letting loose the scream he had been holding in since the moment you were dragged out in front of him. And then, nothing. Just the sweet, sweet feel of release.

3

[Image description: two full-length photos of a woman standing outdoors in front of a tall, leafy hedge, and one of her shoes seen from above. She is white and has dark brown hair, short on the sides and worn curly off to one side on top. She wears a blue maxi dress with flowers in white, orange, yellow, and blue that has a high waist and flutter sleeve, blue clogs, and red large-frame sunglasses.]

I’m in love with my new clogs, and went with my most seventies hippy dress for their inaugural wear.

Dress: New Look | Clogs: Sven

celestial ☆ jihoon

characterlee jihoon / woozi.
au ☆ guardian angel au.
genre ☆ fluff.
summary ☆ he’s the anomaly in your life of existing.
words ☆ 1260+ words.

weezy ☆ to be honest, this isn’t my favorite. i rushed the end a bit, but i hope it’s still okay. TT majority of the parts was actually … demonhoon, but i changed it so it’s angelhoon instead huhu.

every day’s morning to its night, you exist. wake up, eat, pass the time, eat, get ready for bed, sleep for a few hours less than what you should be receiving, and repeat. it is a repetitive cycle that you don’t mind reenacting each and every day, having gotten used to the bore of it all. it’s all the same now, how you pass the day becomes a memory merged with all the other days you existed in.

so when you open the door to a beautiful man whose height stands only a few inches above your own, blonde hair crowning his head like a pious halo of its own and hazel piercing eyes to match the slight frown looking like it was etched onto his facials, you believe this may just be another part of existing. that is what you believe until your eyes zero on the actual brightly glowing halo floating centimeters above his hair and the gigantic pair of beautiful, pure white wings attached to his back. you then realize that this is an anomaly in his repetitive cycle of existing, the one you never asked for but always hoped would come.

Keep reading

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[Image description: two photos of a woman standing outdoors in front of a tall, leafy hedge, one a full-length shot and the other three-quarters. She is white and has dark brown hair, short on the sides and worn curly off to one side on top. She wears tortoiseshell and pale pink-framed glasses. She wears a cross-bust sleeveless maxi dress with multi-colored stripes and red strappy clogs.]

This DRESS, y’all. THIS DRESS. That’s all.

Dress: eShakti | Shoes: Hasbeens for H&M

What if Ichigo had used Hichigo as his zanpakuto from the beginning?


As requested by anon. :)


Recently we learned that old man Zangetsu isn’t Ichigo’s zanpakuto spirit after all, but rather the manifestation of his Quincy powers. Ichigo’s real zanpakuto is Hichigo, ‘Course, Hichigo is also Ichigo’s hollow powers; the hollow and shinigami powers are blended. So let’s say that Ichigo was never deceived about the true identify of his zanpakuto. How would Bleach be different then?


1. It would be Hichigo who appeared to Ichigo in Urahara’s basement.

In canon Bleach, Urahara drops Ichigo into a pit and then waits to see if he manages to avoid turning into a hollow. This almost goes badly, but luckily Zangetsu appears at the last minute and helps Ichigo pull out his zanpakuto powers. In this new reality, Ichigo’s last-minute-savior would be Hichigo.

Ichigo: Um why am I in a sideways world all of the sudden?

Ichigo: Why am I being greeted by what looks like a psychotic version of myself?

Hichigo: King…..you’re turning into a hollow.

Hichigo: And I want you to know that I support your life choices.

Ichigo:

Hichigo: But if you wanna avoid it, you’d better find 'me’!

Ichigo: What?

Hichigo: Or, again, just go hollow. You might like it!

Hichigo: Hollows: super cool!

Ichigo: WOULD YOU PLEASE TRY BEING HELPFUL


2. Ichigo’s power would start out black not blue.

In canon Bleach, Ichigo’s power started off as a warm Quincy blue, only turning black when Hichigo started seizing the reins. So presumably if Hichigo were always in control, Ichigo’s power would always be a creepy black 'n’ red.

Ichigo: Hat 'n’ Clogs, be honest: does this spiritual pressure make me look evil?

Urahara: No it’s more the hollow mask you’re wearing.


3. Ichigo might worry a bit (more) about the state of his soul.

Not that Ichigo is the self-reflective type, really. But if he were…

Ichigo: Um, so, does a zanpakuto typically look exactly like the shinigami?

Urahara:

Ichigo: Only, you know, kinda evil looking?

Urahara:

Ichigo: And does it normally give a thumbs up to turning into a hollow?

Urahara:

Ichigo: Like, I don’t know what I expected from my zanpakuto spirit, but I don’t think this was it.

Urahara:

Urahara: Don’t worry you are totally normal!

Ichigo: Oh that’s good!


4. Ichigo would still fight Hichigo during his Kenpachi fight.

In canon Bleach, Ichigo gets defeated by Kenpachi, then goes to his soul world to fight Hichigo, then develops renewed strength and kicks Kenpachi’s butt. It’s a whole thing. In this reality, I think that would still happen, more or less. Hichigo would appear to Ichigo, drag Ichigo into his soul world, and then demand to fight him. While fake-Zangetsu watched.

Ichigo: Um who’s the old guy holding bandaids and watching us?

Hichigo: Just some guy who’s gonna stop your bleeding!

Hichigo: Think of him as your personal nurse

Hichigo: Then stop thinking about him.

Hichigo: And don’t make eye contact.

Ichigo: Um


5. Ichigo would wonder who the old dude in his soul world was.

The old dude who never said much. Just balanced on his sword and looked kinda sad.

Ichigo: It just seems weird that I have nurse powers.

Hichigo: I SAID NO EYE CONTACT


6. Ichigo would fight embodied Hichigo to achieve bankai.

Later, when Ichigo underwent bankai training with Yoruichi, it would be Hichigo and not fake-Zangetsu who became embodied.

Hichigo: These swords are all your weaknesses, king!

Hichigo: Just look at how much you suck!

Hichigo: It’s gonna be so cool when you fail here and I get your body!

Ichigo: I feel like you should be more supportive but I don’t know why.


7. Getting taken over by HIchigo would be much more confusing and hurtful.

Of course, just because Hichigo was Ichigo’s zanpakuto spirit, that doesn’t mean he wasn’t also Ichigo’s hollow powers with a penchant for seizing control of Ichigo’s body. So that “interruption” in Ichigo’s fight with Byakuya would still happen. It would just be that much more awkward.

Ichigo: D-dude, what are you doing?

Ichigo: Stop it!

Ichigo:  WHY IS MY ZANPAKUTO GIVING ME A HOLLOW MASK???

Byakuya: So do you guys need some time alone or…?


8. His visored training would have a different focus.

In canon Bleach, Ichigo’s visored training was focused on beating up that nasty hollow so that the nice, safe, “Zangetsu” could be in control again. But if Ichigo knew that Hichigo was actually his zanpakuto, then the training would mostly be about teaching his zanpakuto that using hollow powers to take over Ichigo’s body was just not okay.

Ichigo: And if I win here, then you have to let me fight my own damn battles, okay?

Hichigo: Sure, king. If you beat me, then we’ll do that.

Hichigo: Unless you die, of course.

Hichigo: I get your body if you die.

Ichigo: Sure like that’ll happen.


9. When Ichigo finally met Yhwach….he still wouldn’t get it.

Long in the future, Ichigo would finally meet Yhwach, coming face-to-face with an older version of that weird guy in his soul. But Ichigo still wouldn’t get it. Because Ichigo is just really bad at faces.

fake-Zangetsu: I think it’s time for us to finally talk…son.

Ichigo: Whoa! That Yhwach guy called me 'son’ too!

Ichigo: What a weird and inexplicable coincidence!

fake-Zangetsu:

fake-Zangetsu: Allow me to be less subtle.


10. Ichigo would be more powerful all along.

Fake-Zangetsu claimed that he was actively suppressing Ichigo’s real power in an attempt to keep him from becoming a true shinigami (yeah, bang-up job there, dude). So if Ichigo had Hichigo all along, then that means he’d just be that much more powerful. From the beginning.

Renji: You think you can take me? Well you are a hundred years too early, kid!!

Ichigo:

Ichigo: [swings sword]

Renji: GAAAAAAAAAH

Ichigo:

Ichigo: Rescuing Rukia is gonna be super easy.

After decapitation, the human head is believed to remain in a state of consciousness for one and one-half minutes.

In the heightened state of emotion, people speak at the rate of 160 words per minute.

Inspired by the intersection of these two seemingly unrelated concepts, Pulitzer Prize-winning author Robert Olen Butler wrote a book entitled Severence which depicted the final thoughts of famous victims of decapitation throughout history. 

This is his interpretation of Robespierre’s thoughts

Father dressed immaculately in his knee breeches his silk stockings his tailcoat Mother dead in the parlor her arms folded across her chest as he leans against the far all and I am trying to get my arms around Augustin and Charlotte and Henriette they seem like children to me now, my brother and my sisters, though I am myself only six years on this earth and I try to hold them my arms straining and inadequate and I know already that the ma leaning there is dead to us too and I am responsible and now the door shuts hard the knocker clangs and he has said nothing I follow quickly an strain at the door and he is gone his horse clatters away and he is gone the Bois de Boulogne is full of citizens dressed innocently in tricolor trousers and clogs and red caps I walk among them my hand at my side the summer daylight lingering and they look to me and I want to open my arms they are children and there are many who would harm them and I am in my room above the carpentry yard the sky incarnate with dawn m words prepared at last for the Convention and I dress in white silk stockings and knee breeches and floral waistcoat and black tailcoat and red cravat and my hair is powdered and on the cobbles a scaffold and the blade, dear father, for us all 

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[Image description: two photos of a woman standing outdoors in front of a tall, leafy hedge, one a full-length shot and the other three-quarters. She is white and has dark brown hair, short on the sides and worn curly off to one side on top. She wears tortoiseshell and pale pink-framed glasses. She wears a sleeveless floral dress and red, strappy clogs.]

Unexpected autumnal flash summer means my sundresses aren’t quite put away!

Dress: Made by me | Shoes: Hasbeens for H&M | Necklace: Madewell