ok ok listen i know a lot of people have been bringing up the fact that they dont like brooklyn nine nine because they feel like it’s a “pro-cop show” and it’s “idolizing a gross system” but like?? please try to understand that that is not the point of this show at all?? they have explicitly stated the problem with the police system in one of the episodes, where amy lists real concerns and holt puts up a poster that says “tell us how we can be better.” this is one of the very few shows who i see actually addressing real problems like gun control issues, homophobia, racism, and transphobia (it was just a mention, but still way more than any other show), while still being lighthearted and hilarious. just because this show is set in a cop setting does not mean they are praising anything?? please don’t diss an genuinely funny, good show so quickly because of that. it’s not perfect but it’s trying so much more than anything else on tv right now.
You’re sitting in the theatre. Everything is perfect. It’s accurate, it’s visually stunning, everyone is on point. It’s a perfect adaption. The title flies on screen.
Deep voice: Fullmetal Alchemist
Everyone in the theatre:(slightly different intonation) Fullmetal Alchemist.
we really need new skam content because everything in season 3 is being overanalyzed and we’re really getting on some Levels right now it’s time to stop before someone starts explaining how the thickness of jonas’ eyebrows symbolizes the love even and isak feel for each other
The fact that Eliza forgave for Alexander means so, so much.
He cheated on her, broke her trust, and still continued to think only about himself - ”[Teling everyone that he cheated on his wife] was an act of political sacrifice.”- Congratulations. - and yet, she forgives him.
They were both grieving, both could have reacted differently, and she forgives him. I believe it was some form of a coping method. Forgiving Alexander would make everything easier; they wouldn’t have to argue and they could learn to deal with everything together.
What I’m trying to say is: Eliza is a saint. If I were here, I would walk away from him and learn to cope with my sister, but she forgives him, lets him off for everything he had done.
She goes on to do so much more for him, even though he treated her awfully.
”I interview every soldier who fought by your side.” - She tries to get to know the other, war-version, side of Alex.
“I try to make sense if your thousands of pages of writing.” - She tries to understand his trail of thought. She wants to understand him. She loved him with all her heart. She still after he cheated; she still did after he treated her awfully; she still did after his death.
“I raise funds in D.C. for the Washington Monument.” - Washington felt like a father to Hamilton, even though the line “I’m not your son!” exists. You can not deny that they weren’t close. They were, and Eliza raises funds for him because of this.
“I speak out against slavery.” - This was something Alexander, and his other lover best friend, believed in strongly. This was something she believed in strongly. She fought against it for herself, for Alexander, for everyone’s freedom. She didn’t do all of this for Alexander; she did still have her own morals. She just tried to do the right thing, and that's one of the many reasons I love her.
“I established the first private orphanage in New York City.” - Alexander was an orphan, and she, obviously, knew that. She established this to help the kids, to stop children from having to deal with what Alexander went through. She knew how awful it was, she saw it in her husband, and she tries to help them through it.
She helps so many (”I help raise hundreds of children.”) and the main, probably reason, was for Alexander’s legacy, something he always wanted.
( Prompt: princess diaries style “I grew up not knowing I was royal and suddenly my royal grandparent showed up out of nowhere and told me I was so now I guess I’m the heir to the throne and you’re my crush from my pre-royal days but I still have a crush on you” AU )
A/N: Yeah, okay, I have had this fantasy playing out in my head. Picture it: me, a princess of some small and obscure island, and my long-lost grandmother tells me I’m a princess and I get married to Tom Holland AND WE ALL LIVE HAPPILY EVER AFTER. Okay, on a serious note - Princess diaries AU anyone? I watched the movie and it was great.
You drop your backpack on the floor inside your
front door. It’s the area that your mum not-so-fondly refers to as the ‘shoe
graveyard’ where everyone who comes in leaves their coats, shoes, umbrellas,
and in this case, a backpack and a soggy cherry-printed umbrella.
That you?” Your mum calls from the kitchen.
That’s odd. Mum doesn’t usually get home from
work until six o’clock. Shaking out your rain damp hair, you head down the
shadowy hallway and into the sleek, modern kitchen of steel and chrome. What
you see there makes you gasp.
Mum’s gotten out her best china, gold-rimmed and
floral, the ones she’d gotten as a wedding gift. She’s sitting and having tea
and fancy pastries with the strangest-looking woman you’ve ever seen. She has
pale skin, ruby red lips and hair piled up on her head in an elaborate bun.
Small and bird-like, with a stern expression on her wrinkled face, she’s
sitting ramrod straight, staring and assessing your every move. She’s dressed
in a black cashmere cardigan, and flowing jersey pants, her legs crossed
delicately at the ankles. On her feet are black Chanel ballet slippers.
“This is her?”
“Yes,” Your mum answers, glancing up at you with
a too-big smile. “This is my daughter, (Y/n).”
“Um,” You say intelligently, glancing at mum for
help. You want to ask the woman, Who are
you? But you think that might come across as being a little rude. “Um?”
“This is your Grandmother,” Your mother says,
waving you forwards. “Your father’s mother.”
“I thought he died.”
“He did, but now his
mother – your grandmother – wants to see you.”
“What, after years of total radio silence?” You snort, flinging
yourself down into an empty chair. You grab a small finger sandwich, making a
face when you realise you’ve grabbed a cucumber one. “What does she want from
us? Money? My left kidney?”
Lips pursed, voice clipped, the old lady says, “I can assure you,
I have no need for such frivolities.”
“Frivolities? Really? Who even says that anymore?”
“(M/n), if you do not
tell her, I shall,” Your grandmother says sharply, brandishing a butter knife
and heaping a large dollop of clotted cream onto a scone. “There is much to be
“(Y/n), the thing is .
. .” Your mum’s tripping over her words, and you tilt your head to the side as
you always do, saying nothing but willing her to continue. “You’re a princess, (Y/n).”
And grandmother nods sombrely along to every word, as though she has to give up her left kidney.
As for you? You take the news remarkably well.
You faint dead away, right then and there.
The worst part about this whole ‘princess’ thing, you think grimly
to yourself as you stomp down the hallway of Midtown High, is that you’ve been
forbidden from telling anyone. Not Ned Leeds, not Michelle Gonzales, and most
certainly not even your best friend, Peter Parker. You’ve just become princess
of a small island called Serangoon, have a queen for a grandmother, basically
have unlimited power and resources at your fingertips, and you’re not allowed
to talk about it. Grandmother had explained – rather impatiently, in your
opinion – that if you told your friends, the information would spread like
wildfire. You could – and would – be compromised,
assassinated like a character in Game of
Thrones. This was for your safety, she’d assured you.
You don’t even get a makeover like Taylor Swift in her You Belong With Me music video. You’re
still the same old (Y/n), with your frizzy
hair, less-than-ideal clothes and the acne scars on your face.
What you do get are
princess classes – Mondays to Fridays, 3pm to 7pm. History classes, etiquette lessons,
and basically whatever your grandmother saw fit to throw at you. You’d seen the
disdainful way she’d looked at you. Because of
course princesses had to be charming
and graceful, with impeccable manners.
You’d tried to tell her that you had homework, a social life, but
your pleas for mercy had fallen on deaf ears.
How is it that a freaking princess can be invisible, you think
grouchily, slamming your locker with a little more force than is strictly
necessary. The metal trembles violently, then stills, and you glower angrily at
“What did that locker ever do to you?” Peter demands laughingly, sidling
up to you, a soft, sweet smile on his face.
Instantly, your mind goes fuzzy, a big useless snowstorm. Your
mouth feels like it’s stuffed with cotton, and you gulp. That crush on Peter
hasn’t disappeared at all, has it? It’s almost amazing to consider – you’re a
princess, who will likely be married off to a prince/duke/king to provide heirs
to both kingdoms ( or maybe this is your Game of Thrones obsession shining through
), but you still feel awkward and small around a boy you’ve known ( and liked )
since middle school.
Of course, the only way he’d ever notice you was if you became as gorgeous and as popular as Liz Allen.
If only you could tell the press …
“Earth to (Y/n)!” Peter’s laughing now, waving a
hand in front of your face, his eyes bright and happy. “Did you hear what I
“Um. Um?” You shake your head to clear away the
fog. Your face feels far too warm for your liking. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Movie night? My place or yours? A new episode
of Star Wars came out, and you agreed that we’d watch it tonight.”
“Thanks a lot, grandmother,” You mutter, cursing
your grandmother out in your mind for scheduling princess classes on a Friday. “I
can’t, Peter. Not tonight. I’m sorry.”
Peter’s face falls, and you’re kicking yourself
for having to flake out on him and this time honoured tradition. For a moment,
you think about just caving and telling him – but the resulting earful you’ll
get from your grandmother is not
“I’ll make it up to you,” You say instead. “Promise.”
You glance anxiously at your watch. 3.12 pm. You’d
asked Stanley – your chauffer cum body guard – to pick you up three blocks away
from school, outside Hunan Kitchen, a dingy Chinese place, and you can
practically picture his stern, youthful face as he waits, the engine of the
Rolls Royce idling.
“Okay.” Peter’s smiling a little now, and that’s
worth something, at least. “As long as you promise.”
Why is the fandom so obsessed with making clones out to Actually Be Children™ as if they’re aren’t literally grown men with fly developer minds and bodies that just happened to grow faster than everyone else.
They’re gone through all the necessary emotional development to make them healthy young adults (as far as healthy can go in their situations). They’ve had fights and disagreements and probably even crushes on some of the drill sergeants. Can we please stop acting like they’re secretly all little kids at heart just because they’re 10-12 years old?
Any roughhousing or child-like actions would likely just be because their jobs are so stressful, and this is one of the least stressful ways to relax. They’re not going to be looking at the Jedi like they’re their parents or smthn jsyk. They’re adults. They’re grown.