sheer audacity

anonymous asked:

I know it's fashionable to hate shakespeare for being a white cis male shitlord but calling his work trashy just displays your ignorance. there are reasons he still gets studied in school hundreds of years later. the man basically invented the english language as we speak it today.

I don’t hate Shakespeare. 

I love Shakespeare. 

In my opinion, the greatest disservice anyone can do to his work is to elevate it to some kind of highbrow high art literary thing. The reason he’s studied today is that his plays endured (plus or minus some changes in fashion over the centuries), and the reason his plays endured is because they were popular, and the reason his plays were popular is because he crammed them full of stuff that people wanted; i.e., lots of jokes focusing on the less refined features of the human anatomy and the things they get up to.

Perhaps you’ve had it explained to you that Hamlet’s talk of “country matters” was an uncouth pun, and his reply in the same conversation of “nothing” was a similar reference. Did you think that was a one-off thing? 

If you’re aware that “nothing” was a euphemism for the vulva in Shakespeare’s England, have you ever stopped to marvel at the sheer audacity, the sheer brass somethings that a man would have to have to name a play Much Ado About Nothing?

Translate that into modern-modern English, and you’d get something like Everybody’s Up In Arms About Pussy. Though you’d lose the pun on “nothing/noting” in doing so… yes, that’s how far from highbrow Shakespeare is. He made the title of his play a triple pun.

And yes, Much Ado is not one of the Bard’s more serious works to begin with… but then, what is? We divide Shakespeare’s plays up into tragedies and comedies based on the dramatic convention of which ones have a happy ending versus a sad one, but they are all comedies in the modern sense of “things you go to expecting to laugh”. The country/nothing lines come from Hamlet. Heck, Hamlet is hilarious throughout. Any scene with Polonius in it is guaranteed to be comedy gold. 

Of course, the people who want to call Shakespeare highbrow are probably the people who quote him in all blustering sincerity when he says “to thine own self be true”… or funnier still, when they paraphrase him as saying that “brevity is the soul of wit”.

Of course, hands down, my favorite bit in Hamlet is when he’s giving instructions to the players that basically amount to William Shakespeare pre-emptively bringing up every stereotype of Serious Shakespearean Acting we have today and saying, “This. This thing. Do not do this thing.”

Anyway, let’s talk about the idea that he “invented the English language”; e.g., he created so many hundreds of new words. Okay, well, first of all, we don’t know how many he invented. We just know there are words and usages of words for which the texts of his plays are the earliest surviving example. The thing is, all those words evidently made sense to his audience.

There’s a post that goes around Tumblr listing some of the words credited to Shakespeare, and one of them is “elbow”. The commentary attached to this post basically boggles over the idea that nobody in the English world had a name for “the bendy part of an arm” until an actor gets up on stage and says “elbow”, and everybody’s like, “Oh, yeah, that’s what it is.”

Except it didn’t happen like that. The noun elbow isn’t what is attributed to Shakespeare; the verb to elbow (as in “elbowing someone aside”) is. His character took a noun and used it to describe an action. That’s not a highbrow creation of language as some sort of received wisdom handed down from authority. That’s naturalistic language use. 

Even if he was the first person to describe the act of “elbowing someone”, it caught on because it worked, because it made sense to vernacular speakers of English. 

So many of his words fit this model: they are butchered foreign words, they are slangy applications of English words, they are colorful metaphors or synecdoches. In short, he was writing in what we call “Buffyspeak”. If he had an unusual talent for doing it memorably, it still ultimately worked because it reflected the language of the time.

“Sucker Punch is literally designed to be a sucker punch. If you look back at when the film was getting ready to come out, the media and build-up around it were trawling for nerd dudes hard. Various magazines and media coverage were going bonkers over it because “holy shit look at these hot girls in sexy outfits and katanas its like my anime come to life. But don’t worry its totally feminist because they’re Strong Female Characters!” Snyder was banking on that. Everything about the films marketing was designed to convince you that it was a Whedon-esque action film about hot girls doing flips. Then the film comes out and aggressively compares that Whedon brand of post-feminism with lobotomy, rape, and the destruction of agency. That’s one of the reasons why the reaction to it was so visceral.

While I think it could’ve been executed a bit better, I am still in awe at the sheer audacity of spending $80 million to yell at nerds for two hours.”

China Cup: A Summary
  • Phichit: I fucking love this movie IT'S MY MOVIE
  • Guang-Hong: What a beautiful, delicate flower am I
  • Leo: I want everyone to be happy and I'm actual sunshine
  • Christophe: We're all having sex on this ice all of us
  • Yuuri: Victor is mine bitches lemme drink those tears u cry
The Rise and Fall of Steve Uchiha

I do not remember the exact year, but it wasn’t as many years ago as one would think. I used to be in this Naruto RP forum (because Naruto RP was and probably still is freakin’ fun) that was one of those rare places that, while not exactly ideal, was still pretty damn good. Sure, the mods had some stinking ego that passed over to the IC end of things, lamentably, but they were tame and could have been leagues worse.

I was a Jounin in charge of a team of three Chuunin, and this forum had a system of subforums that was used to go on “adventures” with your team. It was pretty fun! The Jounin would basically come up with a plot for the mission and the Chuunin had to work their way through the mission, and it allowed for character development, hardships, fire-forged friendships or rivalries, perhaps even conflict (yum!), etc. It was considered extremely rude to post in an Adventure thread, as you were basically hijacking the thread. Long story short, I was going on the planned adventure with my three disciples (and I must mention that the three of them are very good writers) when, out of quite literally nowhere, he appears.

A post by a username we don’t know updates our thread, so we go check it and all we see is one line of crudely written text saying:

“where is my brother sasuke tell me and i wont kill you”

The username was steveuchiha. I was laughing already because it was quite clear that this person had no idea what he was doing, but I actually had to call the NASA base in Houston after checking his character page because my sides reached orbit instantly. thIS KID HAD THE CRUDEST CHARACTER PAGE, IT BASICALLY READ LIKE:

Name: steve uchiha
Clan: uchiha
Age: 13
Abilities: kamehameha rasengan chidori


So I can’t stop laughing like a freaking hyena when one of the Chuunin, irked OOC and infuriated IC (since his character was temperamental), tells him both OOC and IC to piss off.

Those were his famous last words because Steve Uchiha had other plans. In a tad-too-fast response, Steve writes a fULL FREAKING PARAGRAPH OF CRUDE BEATDOWNS, SOMETHING LIKE:

“i grab u and punch u in the face then i throw u into the air and i jump after you and kick u in the tummy then i put you in a special hold and slam u against a tree and then i charge up a rasengan and hit u with it in the face where is my brother sasuke”



“User steveuchiha, this is your first warning: Your character page is insufficient, your character is not approved and you just interrupted an Adventure thread, something that is heavily against the rules. Delete your posts and fix your page or we will delete the posts for you and count it against your tally.”

This, my friends, is where any tale would have ended. It’s where a user would have thought “hey, maybe I should have read the etiquette guidelines”, this is where our homo sapiens sapiens kicks in and we stop fucking up.

But this is not any tale, this is the tale of Steve Uchiha, and he was having none of this bullshit.

So what does Steve Uchiha do?

Why, open a can of whoopass on the admin, of course.


“where is my brother sasuke”

The admin gave Steve Uchiha a 2nd warning.

It was met with yet another whirlwind of combos.

A 3rd warning came and…

This is as far as I am willing to tell you. The rest of the story is better left unheard. The ending is exactly what you all predict, but I think we can all be happier thinking that, even to this day, Steve Uchiha keeps pummeling random people, ever searching for the truth, never giving up on his brother Sasuke.

Here’s one for you, Steve Uchiha. May you find your brother Sasuke.

The best part? There was no Sasuke. This was an AU Naruto setting.

"Did Cora-san let you in?"

Prompt; Law is sick and chooses to stay at his adopted parent’s; Corazon. Luffy arrives to support Law  

“Ah,” Rosinante falters at the door.

There’s a young kid, perhaps fifteen or so, staring imploringly up at him, huge black eyes and a scar resting upon his left cheek. A mess of hair sticking out from beneath a worn strawhat, strands that looks as if they have the same consistency as charcoal cut in a jagged halo around the boy’s face.

He has no idea who this kid is.

Keep reading


If he had to give a specific time, Stanford would have guessed it started the day after the apocalypse ended. It started off as a small voice at the back of his head, something that was easily ignored and brushed off. Over time, however, it developed. What had started as a stray thought caused by a nightmare slowly grew into something worse. Ford could still vividly remember what the nightmare had been about. It had been the first of many variations of the same dream: he had been standing out in the woods, watching as the sky above him was torn open and all sorts of unholy monstrosities came flooding out, their ringleader being none other than Bill himself. Once the demon had gained a physical form, Ford knew the world was doomed.

The demon had the horrifying ability to manipulate time, matter, the universe itself, something he had taken great pleasure in. Heck, he had disassembled each individual molecule in Ford’s body, shot them across the room and reassembled them in perfect order on the opposite side of the penthouse suite. The demon had repaired Ford to almost perfect health on several occasions, only to slowly beat him down again.

In the dream, it hadn’t been Ford being beaten to a pulp. No, it had been the kids. Bill had the twins chained up as he slashed them, hit them, burned them, drowned them, beat them, crushed them and suffocated them. Ford had been locked into place by tight chains, his head forcibly turned towards the kids at all times. Bill had made him watch as he tortured the children. Ford had screamed and screamed, constantly trying to sacrifice himself to save the children. He knew exactly what the dream meant: the kids were almost tortured and it was all Ford’s fault.

Ford still remembered the utter dread that shot through him when Bill suggested torturing the kids to get the information he wanted. Ford had been terrified, his cry of horror being cut short as Bill turned his body into solid gold. Dear God had Ford been relieved, when he’d been unfrozen, to see the children alive and almost unharmed. He remembered hugging them, and then hugging his old college partner Fiddleford. Ford felt a twinge of guilt as he realised he’d never hugged his brother Stanley. He had barely paid any attention to his brother during the apocalypse. He’d refused to thank Stanley for saving his life until the world depended on it. Even then, he’d had to point out the grammatical mistake in what his brother had said, which resulted in he and Stan having a fight. The whole plan to defeat Bill was ruined. Ford had made a mistake and the plan was thrown out the window.

Ford seemed to have made a lot of mistakes.

As time went on, Ford seemed to dwell more and more on all of the mistakes he’d made in the past. The most catastrophic one seemed to be building the portal. He’d endangered the universe with that thing, and yet he had still refused to listen to reason. Fiddleford had warned him time and time again about the dangers of such a machine, but Ford, blinded by his own selfish desires of fame and fortune, had ignored him. The guilt in the pit of his stomach swelled the more he thought about all of his transgressions.

Eventually, Ford stopped turning up in the kitchen whenever the rest of the Pines family were eating. For a while he’d forced himself to eat, even though he was only eating small portions. As he thought more and more about his past, he recounted all the times Stanley had paid for his mistakes, in a monetary sense or otherwise. He couldn’t bring himself to eat the food Stan was providing, knowing it was just costing his brother more money. He was a grown adult - he had no excuse to live off his brother’s earnings. The children had an excuse - they’d been staying at the Shack for months and were too young to be employed. They’d helped out at Stanley’s gift shop, anyway, which had more than earned their keep. What had Ford done to earn his? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. He’d spent the majority of the time before Weirdmageddon in the basement, working and dismantling the portal. He’d done nothing but make his brother’s life more difficult. And then, to top it all off, Ford had the sheer audacity to tell Stanley to hit the road as soon as summer was over. He’d never apologised for that, and the guilt continued to eat him away.

As the guilt continued to press down on him, he’d been having nightmares more frequently. He’d barely slept in weeks - not since the kids had gone home. He’d barely seen his brother since then. For the first few days, he’d worked up the courage to get something to eat and sit down in the kitchen with Stan. Then he’d been reduced to getting food and, if he was alone, sitting down to eat or, if Stan was there, taking his food back to his room to eat by himself. He’d only been able to keep that up for two days, after which he’d only get food in the middle of the night, when he knew his brother was asleep. One night, Ford had accidentally tripped and dropped a plate, causing a loud crash. Stanley had been woken up and burst into the kitchen with a shotgun, pointing it at the man he thought was an intruder. The look of sheer irritation on Stan’s face after having been woken up was enough to stop Ford getting food even when Stanley was asleep. He couldn’t risk causing his brother to lose any more sleep.

By now, it had been a week since Ford had last eaten anything and the hunger was starting to become unbearable. It gnawed away at him constantly, making him feel nauseous and lightheaded. It prevented him from getting any sleep. Ford rolled over on the couch and checked his watch. 2:11 A.M. Surely Stanley couldn’t be awake at this hour of the night? It couldn’t hurt just to get a little something to eat, could it? Part of Ford’s mind told him to stay in bed, where he couldn’t make any noise to wake his brother up. His stomach growled furiously, demanding that Ford get out of bed and get something to eat. Despite the guilt still pressing down heavily on his shoulders, Ford swung his legs over the edge of the bed, put his glasses on and forced himself to his feet. The floorboards creaked underneath his weight and the man froze. He waited. Waited for any sign of movement upstairs, indicating his brother was awake. After a solid three minutes, Ford determined that the sound had gone unnoticed and he took a slow, gentle step towards his bedroom door. He was dressed in a red turtleneck and dark brown trousers - he didn’t have any sensible night clothes. As he got to the door, he slipped his boots back on.

Reaching out a hand for the doorknob, Ford paused, his hand outstretched in front of him. In the moonlight streaming in through the window, his six fingers were almost underneath a spotlight. He held his hand closer to his face and spread his fingers out. He counted them over and over again. He’d done this so many times throughout his childhood and adolescent years, always with the slightest hope that he had normal hands. Every time he counted, there were always six. There had always been six and there would always be six. Ford remembered that, as a young child, he had sometimes had dreams where his hands only had five fingers. In these dreams, he was not bullied at school. He was not pitied by the teachers. He was not given any sort of the special treatment that one might give to a child with a learning difficulty or a mental disability. He was treated just as a normal child. Those dreams had been wonderful. He finally fit in at school. He was popular, even. All of the kids who used to pick on him were suddenly his friends and he was happy. Those dreams always ended, however, and Ford was forced back to face the cold reality of his birth defect. He’d eventually come to realise and accept the fact that he was never going to be normal, no matter how hard he prayed.

Ford bit his lip and shook the thoughts from his head, reaching out and turning the doorknob. The door swung open with a creak, one Ford was sure his brother had heard. Again, he paused and waited for any indication that his brother had heard him. Nothing. The house was utterly silent. Releasing a breath he didn’t realise he had been holding, he stepped forward into the hallway. Occasionally, a floorboard groaned quietly beneath his feet, but it wasn’t anything loud enough to warrant any concern. Soon, he turned a corner and entered the kitchen, nearly tripping up on a stray empty can of Pitt cola. Ford rolled his eyes. Even now, aged sixty-something, Stan still couldn’t be bothered to throw his rubbish in the bin. The man knelt down and picked the can up, gently placing it into the recycling bin by the door.

Ford tiptoed over to the fridge and pulled the door open. The bottles of milk, ketchup and soda rattled in the door loudly. He cringed and bit his lip. After a minute, when he’d heard nothing from upstairs, he quickly grabbed a slice of bread and the butter and closed the fridge. Getting a blunt knife out of the drawer and a plate from the cupboard, Ford set the bread down on the plate and started spreading it with butter. He cut the slice in half and pressed the two buttered halves together. He didn’t want to put anything between the halves of the slice - he didn’t want to use up too much of whatever food Stanley had left. Taking a bite of the bread, Ford only just then realised the extent of his hunger. Within a minute, the slice was gone and Ford was debating taking another. He shook his head and scolded himself.

You can’t waste any more, the voice in the back of his mind told him. He’s already given up so much for you. Don’t make him hate you even more.

With a quiet sigh, Ford put the butter back in the fridge and turned to put his plate in the dishwasher. His hand knocked against it and it was knocked from the counter. A loud crash echoed through the otherwise silent house and Ford swore. Damnit. He’d done it again. As he was bending down to pick up the pieces of broken plate, he heard someone else enter the kitchen. He froze in place, feeling the barrel of a gun being placed against his temple.

“Get up.” His brother barked.

Ford did as he was told, horror flooding his mind. His brother was having another memory lapse and seemed to have forgotten that he had a twin brother. This meant that there was a strong possibility Stan would shoot him if he made any wrong moves. Slowly getting to his feet and putting his hands up where Stanley could easily see them, he chewed his lip.

His brother cocked the gun. “Who are you and what are you doing in my house?”

Ford took a deep breath, his hands shaking. “Stanley, I’m your brother, Ford. Don’t… don’t you remember me?”

Stanley only narrowed his eyes. “I don’t have a brother. Stanley Pines died in a car crash thirty years ago. I’m Stanford.”

Ford flinched. Hearing his brother call himself by that name never got any easier. “No, y-you’re not. You’re Stanley. You took your brother’s name - my name - when I went missing. You’re Stanley. You faked your own death.”

Stanley scoffed and pressed the barrel of the gun against Ford’s chest. “Yeah, right. What sort of bullshit are you making up?”

“It’s not bullshit!” Ford exclaimed. He flinched and inhaled a sharp breath as Stanley pressed the gun harder against his chest.

“Yes it is.” Stan snapped. “Now, I want you to leave my property and never come back, otherwise I’m going to shoot you. Do I make myself clear?”

Ford swallowed hard. “B-but-”

In a flash, Stan fired a warning shot at Ford’s left shoulder. The bullet clipped the top of his shoulder, leaving a small wound in his flesh. Ford let out a sharp cry and clamped his right hand down on the wound, stumbling backwards. He looked up to see the barrel of the gun pointed directly at his face. “I said, do I make myself clear?” Stanley growled.

Ford nodded quickly. Stanley grabbed his arm and dragged him towards the back door to the house. He unlocked the door and shoved Ford outside. Ford stumbled and nearly fell over. He turned around just in time to see Stanley slam the door shut and lock it behind him. Ford felt a lump in his throat, making it difficult for him to breathe. He saw Stanley in the window and quickly rushed off into the woods before his brother had the idea to shoot him again.

Ford didn’t get very far, maybe half a mile, before it became too difficult for him to breathe. His shoulder throbbed in agony and the cold night air was making him shiver. He sat down beneath a particularly large pine tree and carefully pulled his hand away from his shoulder. His palm was red and slick with blood. Hands trembling violently, Ford slowly began to tear the bloodied sleeve from his turtleneck. He tied the sleeve around his shoulder as well as he could, letting out a sharp hiss of pain as the wound made contact with the fabric. Gritting his teeth, Ford pulled the fabric tight against the wound and tied a knot with the two loose ends. He leaned back against the tree, taking deep breaths. The effects of the blood loss were starting to get to him. He felt tired and lightheaded. Surely it wouldn’t hurt to just take a quick nap?

Ford dismissed the thought and forced himself to get back up, his head spinning wildly. He groaned, placing his right hand against the trunk of the tree to stop himself toppling over. Taking shuddering breaths, he continued towards the main road. Maybe he could walk up the road to find a phone to call a doctor, since he’d never quite got to grips with those ‘cell phone’ things. As he walked, however, his breath became more and more laboured, his vision beginning to swim. His feet began to trip and stumble over the rough earth.

His left foot got caught amongst some particularly large tree roots and he lost his balance. Ford toppled to the ground, his hands barely cushioning his fall. He tried in vain to get back up. His strength left him. Ford lay on the cold, damp earth, breathing ragged and the occasional cough making him shudder. He couldn’t find it within him to get up. He was far too tired. Stanley didn’t remember him, he couldn’t go into town - everyone there still resented him after what he’d done - and he could barely get off the ground.

The lump in his throat returned and Ford choked on a sob. He couldn’t help but feel as though he deserved this. All he’d ever done was make mistakes and hurt people. It was his own fault that Stanley didn’t remember him. He’d erased his brother’s mind to defeat that demon. He figured he deserved to be kicked out. He deserved this treatment. He screwed his eyes shut and gave in to the fatigue. Darkness clouded his mind and his whole body relaxed as sleep took over.


Stanley grunted, locking the gun back up in the cabinet in his room. He muttered under his breath. He eased himself down onto his bed, his back cracking and popping. He was about to lay down again when a photo in a wooden frame on his nightstand caught his attention. It was a photo of himself as a teenager, wearing boxing gloves and playfully punching someone else. The other person in the photo bore a strong resemblance to both himself and the man he’d kicked out of the house a moment ago. Picking up the photo, Stan looked over it. The photo was old and faded, but still clear. He was getting some serious déjà vu vibes just from looking at it.

The words the man had said earlier rang through his mind.

“Stanley, I’m your brother, Ford. Don’t… don’t you remember me?”

Something akin to a bolt of lightning shot through his mind and he gasped. His brother! That was his brother in the photo. His brother… the same brother who had been in the kitchen a moment ago. The same brother he’d …

Oh God.

“Ford!” Stanley leapt up from the bed and wrenched some shoes onto his feet. He tugged a jacket on and grabbed a torch before rushing downstairs and out of the back door. He turned the torch on and ran into the woods. He waved the light around, looking for any sign of his brother. The air outside was freezing, and if Ford had been shot … Stan had to hurry.

“FORD!” Stan called again, his eyes frantically scanning for any sign of Ford. “STANFORD!”

Something glistened against the bark of a tree and Stan shone the light at it. His stomach churned as he instantly recognised the slick, red substance. Blood. That was bad. Picking up the pace and wheezing, Stan kept running. “FORD!!”

A few hundred yards ahead, he came across something lying in the grass. Once the light was on it and he approached, Stan could have sworn he felt his heart skip a beat. His brother was lying face down in the dirt, practically motionless. Stan rushed over. “FORD!”

Stan fell to his knees by his brother’s side, rolling him onto his back. His eyes widened as he saw the blood soaking through the makeshift bandage on his brother’s shoulder. Ford was out cold. Stan’s hands were shaking. “F-Ford…?” He put two fingers to Ford’s neck, searching for a pulse. He breathed a small sigh of relief finding that his brother’s heart was still beating. It was slightly weaker and slower than normal, but it was there. Stan shook Ford’s shoulder, trying to rouse him. “Ford, c’mon, wake up!”

Ford only twitched slightly. Stan swallowed, noticing how horrifically pale his brother looked. Taking a deep breath, he lifted his brother up off the ground and carried him bridal-style back towards the house as fast as he could. He was surprised at how light Ford was - he’d expected his brother to weigh more than that. Part of him wondered if he was underweight, but right now that was a blessing in disguise. It made it easier for Stanley to carry him - meaning he could therefore get him to the hospital faster. Ford’s head lay against Stan’s shoulder, the older twin’s mouth open slightly and his glasses resting crooked on his face. His breathing was getting shallower by the minute.

After what seemed like an eternity, Stan arrived back at the house. He set Ford down on the ground beside his car and rushed inside to get his keys. Car keys in hand, he ran back outside and unlocked the car, before heaving Ford up into the passenger seat. Clipping the belt on around his brother, Stan jumped into the driver’s side and jammed the keys into the ignition. He pulled his own seatbelt on with one hand and steered the car with the other, driving out onto the main road and heading towards the hospital.


Ford was met with bright lights the next time he opened his eyes. At first, he thought he was dead. There could have been no other explanation for the sheer whiteness of everything around him. As his senses began to come back into focus, however, he became aware of a repetitive, steady beeping sound emanating from somewhere above his left shoulder. He also became aware of the fact that the area where he’d been shot was rather numb. His head was throbbing slightly and felt as though it was full of cotton wool. He wiggled his toes, managing to regain some of the sensation back into his legs. Something was pricking the inside of his right elbow. He felt as though he were laying down in a bed somewhere. He gripped the blankets, rubbing the soft fabric between his fingertips.


“Ngh…” Ford fought to keep his eyes open, his hands clenching the blankets. He realised that his glasses were no longer on his face - his surroundings were blurred out of focus. “W-who…?”

A grey and pink shape moved into his field of vision. “Ford? You with me bro?” It was his brother, Stanley.

Ford squinted, trying to get his eyes to focus. “S-Stan…?”

He felt his brother hold Ford’s hand between both of his own. “Yeah, I’m right here Poindexter. How do you feel?”

Ford avoided his brother’s gaze, turning his head away. “‘M fine… why are you here?”

Stanley frowned. “What do you mean, ‘why am I here’? You were injured, Stanford, where else would I be?”

Ford shrugged, wincing slightly as he shifted his injured shoulder. “Anywhere else. There’s a hundred places better to be than here, with … with me…”

Stan ran a hand through his hair. “Ford, what on Earth is bugging you so much? You’ve barely talked to me in weeks. You never said goodbye to the kids, you avoid Soos and Wendy like they’re the plague, heck, you won’t even look at me. What’s eatin’ ya?”

Ford tensed up, clenching his eyes shut. “It’s nothing important, Stanley. You have a shack to run, customers to sell merchandise to, don’t worry about me.”

“Soos is watching the Shack,” Stan waved a hand around. “I’m not going anywhere. Now, seriously, tell me what’s wrong?”

Ford was silent for a moment, before letting out a quiet, bitter laugh. “What isn’t wrong? Half the town’s still a wreck, a good few people were severely injured, you lost your memories and it’s all my fault. I ruined everything.”

Stan frowned. “What are you talking about?”

Ford laughed again, his voice full of self-loathing. “I ruined the whole summer. I ruined the kids’ lives. I ruined Fiddleford’s life. I ruined your life, Stanley.” Ford’s voice cracked, tears stinging his eyes. “I just wrecked everything. I always thought that you were the screw-up twin, when it was me all along.”

“Ford, you’re not a screw-up,”

“Stanley,” Ford heaved a sigh. “All I’ve ever done is hurt people and use others for my own benefit. I summoned a dangerous monster just so I could built a portal that would make me famous. I guess Dad was always wrong about who the worthless twin was. It was never you. It was me, they just never realised it.”

“Ford!” Stanley grabbed his brother’s hand. “Cut it out! I didn’t bring you back just for you to beat yourself up!”

“You shouldn’t have brought me back at all!” Ford snapped, tears slowly forcing their way from the corner of his eyes. “I’m nothing but a monster. I caused the apocalypse! I’ve hurt people! Bill should have just killed me while he had the chance. It would have been better for everyone.”

“Stanford Filbrick Pines you stop right there!” Stan shouted. “You are not worthless. You are not a monster. You are not better off dead!”

“Give me one reason why I’m not!” Ford spat. “Give me one good reason as to why I’m not a worthless piece of shit!”

Stan felt his heart skip a beat. Did… did Ford really think all this about himself? “Ford, listen to me. You are not a worthless piece of shit, you understand? You know why? Because even though you messed up, you tried to fix it. You tried to correct the mistakes you made. You helped us defeat Bill. We would have all died if it hadn’t been for you.”

“I brought Bill to Gravity Falls in the first place,” Ford muttered, turning his head away. “I made the biggest mistake of my life and the whole world nearly paid the price.”

“Ford.” Stan’s voice was stern. He gripped his brother’s hand in both of his own. “You didn’t know what Bill was, or what he was capable of.”

“I should have seen him for what he was!” Ford cried “I was an idiot! Anyone with half a brain could have seen that he was lying! I was too blinded by my own selfishness to see that.”

Stan’s brow knitted together, his gaze softening. “Oh, Poindexter.”

Ford let out a quiet, choked sob. “I’m so sorry Stanley…I never wanted to hurt you. Please, just go. Go home, before I hurt you again,”

Stanley briefly considered getting up and leaving, but shook the thought away as soon as it appeared. “No, I’m not going anywhere. You wanna know what really hurts me? Seeing my brother, my twin, beat himself up and tear himself down like this. Yeah, you made mistakes, we all have, but that’s no reason to believe you’re worthless, Stanford.”

Ford bit his lip and cursed himself, feeling tears trickle down his face and drop onto the pillow beneath his head. “Then why did I make so many mistakes? Why did I turn my back on you when you got kicked out? Why did I ignore you for ten years? Why did I punch you after you wasted thirty damn years bringing me back?”

“Wasted? Ford, you’re my twin brother, there was no way in Hell I was gonna leave you in there,” Stanley ran his thumb back and forth across the back of Ford’s hand. “You didn’t deserve to suffer like that,”

Ford turned his head around to look at his brother, attempting to lift his free hand to wipe the tears away. Pain flared up in his shoulder and he let out a sharp hiss. Stanley pulled his own sleeve down and wiped the fabric across Ford’s eyes, drying the tears from them. Ford’s eyes flickered away, but he kept his head turned towards his brother. He felt Stanley run his fingers through his hair soothingly. Ford couldn’t help but shut his eyes. It was calming - it relieved some of the pressure from his throbbing head. He must have looked downright pathetic - a sixty-something year old man being coddled and comforted like a young child - but right now he couldn’t care less. He was tired and in pain.

Stanley couldn’t keep the soft smile off his face. “I love you, ya know that, right? I know you must think I hate you, but I don’t, honest.”

Ford swallowed and opened his eyes. ‘I love you’ was not something anyone had said to him in decades. Well, aside from the twins, of course. He looked at his brother, studying his expression. There was no hint of mockery behind his eyes. Stanley was being genuine. Ford let a soft smile of his own play onto his face. “I love you too, you knucklehead,”

Stan grinned and ruffled Ford’s hair lightly. “That’s better. Now, will you try and get some damn sleep? That bullet did a real number on you,”

Ford’s gaze shifted from his brother’s face to the wound on his shoulder, the smile dropping. “I guess it did, yeah,”

Stanley frowned. “Ford, I’m really sorry,”

Ford waved the concern off, turning back to look at him. “It’s okay. You didn’t mean it. You were having a memory lapse and had no idea who I was. I understand it must have been rather shocking for you,”

Stanley ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah, but still, I shot you, Ford.”

“It’s okay, I’ve endured far worse with no hospital treatment whatsoever.” Ford took hold of his brother’s hand again, giving it a gentle squeeze. “It’s alright, Lee,”

Stan grinned at the nickname. “Alright, if you say so. Seriously, though, would you please get some sleep? You look like crap.”

“Gee, thanks,” Ford deadpanned, a playful smirk on his face.

Stanley snorted. “Just saying it like it is, Poindexter. Get some sleep, it’ll do you good.”

“‘M not tired,” Ford said. He bit back a yawn, although he was sure Stan noticed.

Evidently he did, as the younger twin crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow. “Oh really? Well, then, why not just shut your eyes for a bit? These damn lights must be hurting them.”

Ford allowed his eyes to slide shut, trying to focus on the sounds and sensations around him to keep him awake. After a short while, everything began to blur together and he felt himself drifting off. He didn’t bother fighting it. His whole body relaxed as he succumbed to unconsciousness. His facial features relaxed, making him look much younger. The heart monitor continued to beep steadily above his head.

Stanley rolled his eyes. Ford had barely had his eyes shut a minute before falling asleep. He made a move to get up from the uncomfortable plastic chair he’d been sitting in, but stopped. He didn’t want to leave Ford alone, not yet. Not while his state of mind was still rather unstable. And, if he was honest with himself, Stan didn’t want to leave. Ford was hurt and his brotherly instincts were kicking in, making him want to stay by his brother’s side until he recovered. Stan settled back into the chair, already knowing he’d wake up with terrible back ache, before he too allowed himself to fall asleep. Not once did he release his gentle, yet firm grip on his brother’s hand.


Another fic for @skaleigha  ‘s Guilty Ford AU. I can’t get this idea out of my head! This one’s probably more angst-y than it should be, but I guess I got carried away  ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

My other Guilty Ford fic, Forgiveness, can be found here

Plot holes, typos, errors, blah blah blah. Let me know and I’ll fix ‘em.

Sirius x Reader / Good Friends

(Some helpful background info: I went ahead and gave the reader a last name to add “depth” and also describe her as having curly hair. I’m trying to write for a diverse audience because I see a lot of fics where the reader is white but I think I can be progressive. If anyone has tips though I’d accept them quite gratefully.)

You are super cool and tight with Sirius but Lucius Malfoy is a lusty little nuisance which will come later in… Part Two!

He knew very little about her. Only that she was incredibly intelligent, top of the class and every professor’s favorite student. Clever as hell with a reputation for standing up for the little first through fourth years who got stomped on by the older Slytherins. She was very beautiful, her family was very old, therefore very rich and Lucius Malfoy was very interested.

Keep reading

anonymous asked:

did... did that dude just describe himself as a "desperate lonely" person just wanting some attention? His toned average white pics are on my dash every .5 seconds

Bitch my eyes rolled so fucking far into my skull that I saw God shaking his damn head at that mess.

Like, there is something to be said about gays that solely post nudes of themselves constantly and have a following built around that who feel lonely. Being viewed solely as a piece of meat isn’t a good feeling.

However, when you put yourself in that position and you start blaming other people for your own self-inflicted problems, that’s when I tell you to sit the fuck down and shut up.

We’re talking about a white, fit gay who clearly has a large following, who is not left for wanting notes because every fucking selfie and gif he posts breaks 1k, who has the audacity, the sheer gall to blame gays in relationships for no one wanting to get to know him?? That is your fucking problem, bitch. You brought that shit on yourself. Ain’t nobody else at fault for your failure to be more than a two-dimensional slab of meat on a platform that practically hands you everything on a silver platter just for making a stank face at the camera.

So, to theonlylivingfuckboyinnewyork,


Prompt: Could I request PolyHamilsquad with a s/o from an abusive background who’s very insecure and constantly judging themself and worrying what others think? But if you don’t feel comfortable writing this kind of thing its fine just forget it.
Pairing: Poly!Hamilsquad X Reader
TW: mentions of abuse, abusive parents, language, anxiety, insecure reader, mentions self harm, throwing up, crying, fluff, it’s fluff
A/N: hey! Thank you for your patience! This was a difficult one to write because I wanted to convey that the reader was insecure, but I also wanted her to stand up for herself. I wanted to show that she had changed since her previous situation! I hope this is what you were looking for! I banked on personal experience minus the caring boyfriends for this piece, so I hope y'all can relate! If you ever need someone to talk to, I’m always here! If you want me to tag something, please tell me! I want you to feel safe when reading my work! Please enjoy!
Word Count: 1509

You stared at yourself in the mirror. You smoothed your hair one more time, smoothed your shirt. You fiddled with the hem, trying to get it to lay just perfectly across your jeans. You fiddled with the bracelets on your wrist, trying to get them to lie parallel with each other. You wanted everything to be perfect. Pristine.
“Y/N? You ready to go?” Alex called, and you nodded to yourself in the mirror before you joined him in the bedroom.
He gave you a once over and smiled. “Stunning.”
You rolled your eyes at him, and he took your hand. He was in casual jeans and a hoodie. He looked so effortless and cute. You felt like you looked frumpy.
The others were already waiting in the living room, each casually dressed and still looking like angels. How did you even get these four? You tugged on the hem of your shirt anxiously. What if they thought you were frumpy?
“Ready, mon chou?” Laf asked as he took your hand in his and kissed it. You nodded bashfully before they led you out. You got in the back seat of the Range Rover with Alex and John, who kept complimenting how cute you were, and they would brush their fingers over your cheek or pat your knee. They knew how self conscious you could get. They understood.
Herc drove to the Brick House, your favorite pizzeria, and he parked. Y'all got out of the car, Alex helping you down, and you immediately adjusted your shirt. He took your hand and led you into the restaurant with the boys.
They were loud, which put you a little on edge. Whenever you had gone to dinner with your family, it was quiet, regal. No one raised their voice. It was quiet chatter about how blue the sky was. Well, that, and it was interrogation time to see how well you were doing in school. Anything less than an A was intolerable. Other than that, you were expected to keep your head down. “Children are meant to be seen and not heard.”
“Y/N? What would you like to drink?” John gently asked you, and you looked up to see the waiter waiting for your answer. Everyone was staring at you expectantly. You had been too engrossed in your childhood stroll down memory lane.
“Uhh, water?” You ordered softly, eyes downcast. You were always told to speak softly and to be withdrawn. If you spoke up, someone else might notice you. You didn’t want that.
You bit your lip as the waiter walked off and John took your hand. You looked over at him, and he gave you a kind, dimpled grin. “You doing okay?”
You nodded, “Yeah. I’m just, uh, thinking about stuff.”
John squeezed your hand. “Well, I’m always here to talk if you want.”
You blushed, “Thank you.” You squeezed his hand, then went back to blankly staring at your menu.
“-and he says, are you ready for this? I don’t think you’re ready! He opens his fat mouth to say some shit! He goes, ‘Mr. Washington, I’m sure Alexander thinks he knows the solution, just like he thinks that’s a good fashion choice. Just because he thinks, doesn’t mean he knows, do you get what I mean?’ He said that! HE HAD THE SHEER AUDACITY!” Alex began shouting, and John rolled his eyes.
“He’s full of it, Alex. All that comes out of his mouth is shit-” John’s voice began to fade out as you were drawn back into a spiral.
When you were thirteen, you were friends with the neighbors across the street and a house down. They loved to play with you, and their parents loved talking to you. One day, one of the boys you’d hang out with asked about your dad. He said that some nights, he could hear your father screaming at you from all the way to his house. You tried to blow it off, so he asked your sister, who told your father you’d been telling people about how he screamed and got in your face and belittled you. He’d always said, “What goes on at home, stays at home.” You swore, up and down, on the pizza that had just come to your table in the upscale pizzeria he took your family to, that you didn’t tell him anything, but he refused to listen. He’d shouted, “All that comes out of your mouth is shit!” And he’d stormed from the restaurant, making a scene. You cried so hard you threw up in the bathroom, and your mom dragged you to the car. It was a tense car ride home. You still have scars from where you dug your nails into yourself from the anxiety.
“That’s unfair,” you whispered. Then you cleared your throat, “Th…That’s not true. You don’t even know what… what they say when you aren’t around… you… you can’t possibly know… you aren’t there… they’re… they’re more than a pile of shit, okay?”
Your voice was wobbly, and you had to pause to take breaths. You felt like you couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t look at any of them. What if you offended them? Why’d you have to go and open your mouth? Why couldn’t you just keep quiet?
John squeezed your hand, “Hey, hey,” he murmured as you trembled, and you looked over at him, biting your lip. “It’s okay. I’m sorry; you’re right. I didn’t mean to trigger you. Are you okay? Do you need something?”
You looked over and grabbed your water from the table, taking small sips from it while John rubbed your back.
“Sorry, I’ve just been on edge lately. Bad day,” you elaborated, and John nodded in understanding. The boys kept their voices down after that, and you sipped your water. John kept rubbing your back as the dinner progressed.
When the food came out, you had asked for a cup of ranch to dip your pizza in, but the waiter forgot. You weren’t going to say anything; it wasn’t a big deal. You didn’t want to make it a big deal. But John reminded the waiter for you, since he knew you hated confrontation of any degree.
You lightly conversed with the boys as you ate, John making a consistent effort to pull you into conversation. John understood your situation better than the other boys. He related more.
Once, when you had first started dating, you had admitted to him that you felt out of place. “I feel like it’s me. I just, I feel like the bad things that happen are my fault. Like, I’m the bad thing. It doesn’t matter that I’m not at my house anymore… it doesn’t matter that my dad isn’t here… it’s my fault. It follows me. I’m a screw up… I… I don’t deserve you…” you had started crying, waiting for John to leave, but he didn’t. He had crouched on the floor in front of you, and he gently grabbed your shoulders. “Look at me, Y/N. That’s not true, okay? You did not deserve to get screamed at. Have any of us screamed at you? Have I ever screamed at you? No. It’s because you don’t deserve that. You deserve better. What your dad did to you was not your fault. You are not a bad person. I’ve known you for a while, and I see a loving, kind, generous, good person. I’ve never seen you do a thing that would make you bad. Even if you did, I would still love you. We would all still love you. You aren’t perfect, and that’s okay. You don’t have to be perfect. You are not a doll on a shelf. Messing up, not getting pristine grades, being late to an occasion, it happens, but it doesn’t make you a bad person. You are a person. A person is a person. No matter where you’ve been or what you’ve done, you are valid, and you deserve to be treated like a person, like a human with rights. Always.”
He understood when you were triggered or stressed, just like you understood when he was on edge or aloof. You got each other. Birds of a feather, flock together.
The boys knew, to an extent, how to help. They knew how to hold you and whisper to you after a nightmare since they’d practiced with John. They knew how patient they sometimes had to be when you were having a bad day. They knew the words you needed to hear so you didn’t devour yourself. They knew, and they did whatever they could to help.
When you got home from the dinner, they held you close, reassured you of how much they loved you, how perfect you were. They loved you a lot, you knew that, but it was still really nice and helpful to hear it. When they kissed your cheek, you knew that you’d be okay. They’d take care of you, they’d love you, they’d never leave you, and you would be okay.

anonymous asked:

I love your Chancellor Jinn fics. Could you write the public finding out about Qui/Obi but being surprisingly supportive? Maybe it messes with Palpatine's plans somehow.

He’s a bloody mess, his hair is disheveled and he’s limping and the last time Qui-Gon saw him, he was falling of the landing platform but he’s alive, supported by his padawan but alive and that’s all that matters as the Chancellor jerks from the security and medical squad, the graze on his arm long since treated.

The Chancellor has only one thought in mind now. His love is alive.

“Chancellor Jinn, are you al-”

Qui-Gon cups the others face in his hands. “You utter reckless fool.” He whispered harshly before pulling him into a kiss, hands trembling on the others face as he felt Obi-Wan stiffen from surprise before melting into the kiss with a quiet whimper.

There were reasons for not doing this, especially not in public with reporters taking pictures but for the life of him, Qui-Gon couldn’t remember the reason as he felt Obi-Wan pulse and heart beat.

There was a clearing of the throat and Qui-Gon pulled back to look at Anakin, the boy staring at them worriedly before glancing around. “That was…not wise…and master needs medical attention.” The blond said awkwardly.

Obi-Wan blinked several times, his face still caught in Qui-Gon’s hands before he paled several shades as reality set in, eyes flickering to the security entourage, the medical team and the team of paparazzi who had arrived like vultures the moment news of the fifth assassination attempt this year on the Chancellor had reached them.

“Oh Force.” He rasped out.

It would be all over the Republic by the hour.

He paled another shade.

“Obi-Wan.” Qui-Gon whispered, regret filling him at his hasty action. Three years of hiding and sneaking around… all for a hasty moment that could ruin them both.

The Jedi swallowed heavily and looked at him, eyes wide. “Everyone is going to know…”

“…Then let them know. I don’t regret you.” Qui-Gon said firmly before taking the Jedi by the upper arm and pulling him over to the medical team. “Now you’re injured, let them look to them. Padawan Skywalker, are you injured?” He turned to him as the medic obediently took care of the Jedi Knight.

“Only bruises Chancellor sir.” Anakin glanced worriedly at his too pale master and then back up at the Chancellor.

One action throwing three lives into uncertainty with the ability to snowball so much further then anyone could expect.

Qui-Gon swallowed even as he kept his face as blank as he could.

And then he quietly sat down beside Obi-Wan, taking his uninjured hand in his to press a soft kiss to the knuckles. “I don’t regret you.” He whispered. “Regardless what my careless actions makes happen today…I don’t regret you.” Qui-Gon affirmed for the others sake.

Obi-Wan looked away from where the medic was cleaning to look at Qui-Gon, staring at him for a long moment before he lifted the large hand to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to the back. “And I will never regret you Qui-Gon Jinn.” He smiled softly and laced their fingers together, clinging to the hand that had given him comfort for so long.


“…The Jedi Council is summoning me.” Obi-Wan whispered, staring at his bandaged hands as he sat on the Chancellor’s couch in the office, Anakin pressed against his uninjured side. “I…I need to answer the summoning.” He got out, throat tight.

Qui-Gon paused where he was pouring himself whiskey at his refreshment cabinet and set the bottle down, moving to his lover instead to kneel down and take his hands. “Do you want me to go with you?”

That got a breathless laugh out of Obi-Wan. “Force do I but it wouldn’t be a wise thing.” The paper crane seemed to hang heavily around Obi-Wan’s neck.

“Its already been exposed. What’s another point of evidence now Obi-Wan?” Qui-Gon stroked the knuckles.

“It may be best to not flaunt our relationship in the Council’s face Qui-Gon.” Obi-Wan sighed and pulled on the other until he could wrap his arms around him, Qui-Gon quick to bury his face in the pale neck of his Jedi. “And right now I need their leniency.” He murmured and Qui-Gon understood the unspoken thing that had lingered between them for years.


Obi-Wan had responsibilities he wouldn’t just abandon.

“Whatever happens, whatever they say or do…know I love you Obi-Wan.” Qui-Gon whispered.

“And I love you Qui-Gon.” Obi-Wan squeezed the others to him tightly, a little desperately, wondering if this was his last moment with the Chancellor.

He then stood, stepping away from the man and holding his hand out to Anakin. “Alright then, time to face the music.” He smiled shakily.

Watching the man he loved, Qui-Gon moved to his chair and pulled his cape off it. “Wait, your robe was ruined and its cold Obi-Wan.” He moved to him, draping the cape around the other man, closing the clasp before looking into the others eyes. There were so many things he wanted to say, so many things he needed to say but for both their sake he didn’t if this was the last goodbye before Obi-Wan was shipped away somewhere far into the galaxy by the Jedi Order to separate them.

Anakin clung to his master’s hand, watching the two before Obi-Wan gave a tired sigh and nodded. “Back to the temple Anakin…”

Once both are gone Qui-Gon can’t help but collapse into his chair at his desk, feeling bereft as he stares at the polished wood. His heart just went out t

he door and he’s not sure its coming back and he only has himself to blame.


Their disappointment feels like swallowing burning ashes yet Obi-Wan can’t bring himself to look away, can’t bring himself to renounce what he had with Qui-Gon, can’t find any ounce of shame for loving the man. How can something that feels so right and wonderful and pure be wrong in any galaxy?

So he meets their eyes as he explains that yes, he’s been the Chancellor’s lover for the past three years, yes, he was the one to give the much speculated on marigold that often decorated Qui-Gon’s hair and yes, Qui-Gon had given him the paper crane around his neck.

The council seems torn between the sheer audacity of Obi-Wan going at it with the Chancellor, though they had suspected it without any proof and disbelief that he would risk his padawan like so.

“If you would punish me for love, for compassion, then do so. But my padawan has done no wrong as he has only ever followed my order. I request that any punishment you find suitable will not be inflicted on him unless you intend to remove me as his master.” Obi-Wan swallowed.

When did he turn so selfish?

He was willing to give Anakin, fragile in his training as he was, over to someone else.

All for Qui-Gon.

Qui-Gon’s cape was around him, smelled of him. Qui-Gon who would stroke his hair away and tease his freckles. Qui-Gon who had tense back muscles and needed a massage to keep the knots and stress at ease, Qui-Gon who preferred dark red tea and tarter treats then Obi-Wan.

‘…They can’t take that away from me. I don’t need to be a Jedi to do good. I don’t need to be a Jedi to be a peace keeper… but it would rip my heart in shards if I let go of Qui-Gon.’

Every tense line in Obi-Wan’s body eased at that realization.

‘I will not be an empty shell floating through the galaxy.’

The realization is a revelation and a benediction all at once. He knows what he’s doing now and he bows, feeling the rich fabric around him as he does of Qui-Gon’s cloak as he is dismissed so the council can debate on further action.

His walk to his quarters is barely worth a note, whispers following him.

Everyone knows.

But no one stops him.

What does stop him however is Anakin watching the viewscreen, the scene from the landing platform playing. Him and Anakin coming limping into view, Qui-Gon’s face, the sheer desperation and relief playing over the Chancellor’s face as he marches towards Obi-Wan with the medic who had been bandaging him desperately trying to reach for the man.

And then they’re kissing.

Familiar and desperate and Obi-Wan remembers the taste of blood on his lips as Qui-Gon had managed to split his lip a bit.

“And in a massive show of compassion, the public has thrown its support to the Chancellor’s love affair with Jedi Knight Kenobi, more on this later.”

‘Wait…what?’ Obi-Wan blinked, hand coming up to close around the pedant hanging at the hollow of his throat.
Breaking News: We Found Pharah! An interview by Sombra and Mercy
Carolina Ravassa and Lucie Pohl interview Jen Cohn. Had she really been living under a rock?!

Everything in this video is iconic: 

 "Hispanglosaxon news" 

 Being able to see Jen’s reflection before she’s actually on screen and seeing her laugh at the Staten Island joke 

 Lucie’s beautiful hair 

 The movie editor glitter effect when Jen appears 

“No paparazzi please" 

 Carolina trying to help in French 

 The sheer audacity these women have by being able to speak so many languages, like how even? 

 The microphones 

 The woman with the pink umbrella in the background when they found Jen 

The Grade A sign  

 Lucie’s gentle nod when Carolina is speaking 

 Jen’s iconic sunglasses 

 Lucie’s face after Jen says she’s been in an egg 

 The inevitable egg memes that will come 

 Carolina’s eyebrows after "I’ve got you on my radar" 

 The faces of mockery during "did somebody call a doctor?” “

Everything must go” frowny face 

 The camera pans around Jen

Haylen is too damn loyal for her own good.

That’s one downside of learning from Danse. He inspires the kind of personal loyalty that isn’t good for a Brotherhood soldier, something that goes beyond loyalty to your commander. The moment Danse was discovered to be a synth, he stopped being a Paladin and Haylen’s commanding officer. And yet Haylen remained loyal to him, loyal to Danse the individual, not Danse the commanding officer or Danse the brother-in-arms.

Rhys doesn’t understand how she can do it. Not only did she risk her own neck helping Danse escape, she’s still risking her neck sneaking messages to and from him. She thinks Rhys doesn’t notice, hasn’t noticed the holotapes that she opens on the terminals and then wipes immediately after, typing in her own message on the freshly-blanked holotape before ejecting it hastily and sliding it in her boot.

She doesn’t trust Rhys enough to tell him. Or maybe she’s just trying to keep him safe from the secret. If he doesn’t know, he can’t be implicated too. That seems a little more like Haylen, actually, but she also hears Rhys unflinchingly speak curses with his fellow soldiers when the topic of Danse comes up. He snarls his disgust the same way they do, disbelief at the synth could slip between the cracks, for so long.

He hates himself for saying it. But he can’t really leave the Brotherhood, can he? What else does he have? What else does Danse have, for that matter? It’s a thought that haunts Rhys, knowing that Danse’s world revolved around the Brotherhood as much as his own does. The new knight-turned-paladin, the de facto replacement for Danse (even though nobody says it, nobody makes any official change for the commander of Recon Squad Gladius) is taking care of him, as far as he can tell from the sneaking glances he’s gotten from Haylen’s exchanged holotapes.

Haylen’s going to get herself killed if she keeps that up. What the hell is Rhys supposed to do then?

Someone catches on, eventually.

Rhys is in the vicinity by sheer accident, actually, as Haylen’s arm is grabbed and she makes a panicked grab for the holotape yanked out of her hands. At first Rhys is furious at the sheer audacity that anyone, much less one of their own, would lay their hands on her like that, but his anger turns to terror as he realizes what’s going on. The knight gripping her arm doesn’t see Rhys from this angle.

It’s almost too easy to shove the knight off of Haylen and put himself between her and the knight. He can’t grab at the holotape in the other knight’s hand, but his own barked demand as to what they think they’re doing is enough to give them pause.

“She aided the synth that infiltrated our ranks.

Rhys has never been exactly all that gifted in the art of bullshitting. Haylen can’t see his face when he goes very still and she seems to think that Rhys is about to turn on her too; she begs Rhys to let her explain, but the knights in front of him already can tell that Rhys doesn’t need an explanation.

It’s definitely too easy when he takes a swing at the knight holding the holotape.

“Nobody saw anything, but we need to get off the Prydwen now.”

“We can’t take a vertibird down,” Haylen says, the panic rising in her voice. “Rhys- they’ll ask us why, they won’t just let us leave.”

“Then we find another way down,” he replies, wracking his brain for a different plan. He wishes that Kells had positioned the Prydwen a little bit closer to the water rather than directly over the airport, because even at this height maybe they could have jumped into the water and suffered a broken leg or two instead of completely disintegrating against the concrete.

Jumping into the water wouldn’t have worked anyway. The only way down is through a vertibird or jumping.


“We need a suit of power armor for you,” Rhys says suddenly. “The paladin’s suit is always on the Prydwen, it hardly ever gets used. It’s not a perfect fit, but-”

“What? Oh my god, we’re not fighting our way through the ship,” Haylen answers, on the verge of tears.

“We aren’t fighting. We’re getting off the ship.”

“What? What do you mean-”

Rhys doesn’t wait to explain. He drags her along immediately, knowing that every moment they stall is a moment longer for someone to set off the alarm. He has his own power armor, and getting into that isn’t exactly suspicious, but Haylen getting into the paladin’s armor? Very much so.

“Get in, and if anyone says anything just run,” Rhys whispers in her ear. He climbs into his own armor easily enough but Haylen takes a moment to make sure she’s not pinching or catching any of herself in the locking mechanisms.

An aspirant starts to walk in their direction.

Rhys grabs for Haylen’s armored arm.

“What are you doing with-”

He starts to run.

He feels somewhat bad for blindsiding a scribe in his haste to get the fuck out, but this is a little more important. Someone yells for them to stop, but Rhys doesn’t hear the words at all. Haylen’s legs aren’t doing a great job keeping up while encased in the heavy metal but she’s keeping up without tripping.

They make it to the back of the ship with at least four people hot on their heels. A pistol gets drawn from behind them and Rhys sees the laser fly past his head.

“Haylen, JUMP!”

Haylen doesn’t even bother trying to climb over the railing; she takes an enormous leap over the railing with both feet, and Rhys watches her plunge just before he does the same.

Rhys swears softly to himself, and wonders if he’s fucked up his leg beyond repair somehow considering that the pain in it won’t go away.

Haylen is doing her best to support his weight but it’s exhausting to walk and have someone lean on you at the same time. Rhys tries to keep his weight off of her, but she keeps pulling him closer whenever he starts to drift. Damn the hydraulics on his power armor, they had to fail the one time he needed them to hold up. Without it Rhys knows he would have shattered both of his legs, but it’s still irritating him that it didn’t work the way it was supposed to. And now he’s stuck with this limp that Haylen has to help him with.

“Almost there,” she tells him. The sun is starting to dip lower into the sky, somewhere beyond the broken buildings of the Commonwealth.

In the distance, Rhys can see the stone walls of Fort Independence. The Castle, everyone calls it now though, and while it’s not quite the regal fortress that the word brings to mind, it’s still impressive. The walls look like they could probably take some very strong hits, maybe even a few missiles.

They’re close enough now that Rhys can make out the forms of people, somewhat obscured by the dimming sun and the mist from the ocean. The light in the lookout tower in front of the Castle’s land-facing entrance flickers on, and someone’s shadowy form hurries down the outside steps and dashes to meet them.

Danse looks much different without the Brotherhood uniform. Now he wears the same clothing that the other Minutemen do, including the hat that he’s removed at the moment. There’s a crude-looking laser weapon strapped to his back, something that looks suspiciously like someone took apart a laser pistol and attached some wood parts to it.

“Haylen? Rhys?” he asks in disbelief. “You’re injured, what happened-?”

“We may or may not have jumped off of the Prydwen in power armor, sir,” Rhys admits immediately. Danse’s face blanches, probably at the jumping part but also at the “sir” part. Rhys reminds himself not to call Danse that anymore.

“I was caught,” Haylen adds, trying to shift the blame off of Rhys. “We couldn’t get down with a vertibird.”

“You need a doctor,” Danse says. “Here.”

He easily lifts Rhys up into his arms, and Rhys suppresses the undignified squawk that almost leaves his throat.

“It’s not that bad,” he protests, but Danse doesn’t let him down and he’s already being carried toward the doors. A few Minutemen question them, but Danse only replies with a curt “they’re with me” and the questions stop.

“It’s good to see you again,” Rhys says. He buries the old habit of “sir” somewhere deep, and replaces it with something more personal. “Danse.”

“It’s good to see you again too, Rhys,” Danse replies, and his grip tightens for just a moment.

anonymous asked:

How do you think they will get passed the fact that a female doctor was unheard of in the old days?

I don’t know, dear anon. How have we also managed to get past the radical notion of women having jobs, women having the vote, women becoming doctors and teachers and lawyers, and women being political leaders? 

I mean, women doing things. What a crazy idea.

like we’re stars in a movie, beautiful | jae [oneshot]

The situation is this: you need a fake boyfriend for a thing. But maybe only one of you is pretending?

1. Sungjin | 2. Jae | 3. Brian | 4. Wonpil | 5. Dowoon
day6 | au | 1129 words

In theory, it should be easy. But execution is a different beast. One with sharp, massive, triple layered teeth, and the kind that smells your fear and snarls and snaps at your heels.

Keep reading

the fact that neil abram josten just picked up the cigarette after andrew threw it off the roof in the king’s men and put it in his mouth never ceases to astound me. this boy is such a drama queen that he cannot stop even when he can literally barely move??? and he thinks some shit after he does andrew’s little two-finger salute thing about how it feels like a win to him??????? who is he honestly he just puts the cigarette in his mouth and is like yep go neil ten points to #10 suck my dick andrew bc your cigarette is in my fucking mouth now. take that! i can’t BELIEVE the audacity, the sheer unadulterated lack of fucks this boy has. amazing

To pray is to be spiritually brave; to have faith in a power that operates beyond our basic senses. A force is created when the energy of words and emotions are combined with the intention of reaching out to God. We participate in this remarkably daring and courageous act because we believe prayer matters.

To pray is a brazen spiritual act; to pray is to suggest that God desires our prayers, perhaps even needs them. It is to have faith that our words have an impact on worlds, the world of heaven and the world of earth. To pray is to declare that our words can ascend to reach divine realms and that they will be heard. Nothing short of sheer audacity.

This is the only promise of Jewish prayer: that God hears us. Perhaps, at first, it seems like a narrow promise. Simply that we will be heard.

God witnesses our lives. God witnesses our joys and sorrows. The eternal divine Soul of the universe bears witness to our brief time on earth. Even our suffering. This is a spot where it is easy to fall into a trap. ‘Hearing’ and ‘answering’ are not the same.

When we share our deepest desires with God, we offer a kind of praise. It’s the praise of desire to be in relationship. It’s the praise of knowing – or at least wanting – God’s loving presence. When we share our heartbreaks with God, God offers us a profound blessing: the blessing of being heard.

Perhaps this is the only reason to pray through a wall of grief.

Pray bravely. To be heard.  

—  Alden Solovy

Okay so I know we pretty much all agree that Krypto in the pod (anything else in the pod really) would’ve been better than what we got but hear me out:

What if instead of using a dog to test if the pod would work, Jor-El used another common animal on Krypton?

Like…a dragon.

Imagine Kara opening the pod and finding this little newborn dragon and for a long moment, Kara is stunned at having something that is solely unique to her home planet back with her. She never thought she would see these creatures again and didn’t get the chance to have her own before Krypton was destroyed. And she understands the sheer audacity of having a dragon here on Earth but Kara’s carrying her and has already named her Dhoia (elegance) and she’ll deal with whatever the consequences are.

And J'onn is just internally screaming because a DRAGON??? A real live FIRE-breathing dragon!? The DEO is not properly equipped to house a dragon. But one look at Kara’s face and he knows that’s going to have to change because Kara’s holding the small thing to her, speaking softly in her native tongue.

Alex remembering how a young Kara used to tell her that dragons were the only way they could fly on Krypton and Kara promising that Alex can experience that one day as well.

James, Maggie, and Winn just freaking out every time they see her because yeah, they’re used to aliens, but for some reason seeing a dragon just never gets old.

And Lena, terrified the first time she sees her but not admitting it, until Kara squeezes her trembling hand and then guides it over the wings, thrilled when Dhoia extends them and shivering when Kara leans in to whisper “she really likes you”.

Anyways the adventures of Kara Zor-El and her dragon.