this movie still rules


Pairings: Tom Hiddleston x Reader

Style: One-Shot

Warnings: Some language and explicit sexual content. But overall, just pure fluff. :) 

Word Count: 1,370

Summary: You’ve got some explicit rules for watching Marvel movies with Tom, specifically ones that he’s in. But he has other plans.

A/N: Fun fluff that popped into my head while watching the Avengers a few days ago. Enjoy ;) (Not my gif!)

Originally posted by hiddelstonwife

“What are the rules?” You ask, shoving a handful of popcorn in your mouth as you plopped on the couch.

“Darling, I hardly think this is necessary.” Tom argued, dimming the lights from across the room. 

 “Ah, ah. Rules, Hiddleston.”

 Tom sighed. “No quoting the movie during the movie. No explaining how a scene was made during the movie. No watching of Y/N’s face during my favorite scenes to gauge a reaction.” 

 “Aaandddd…?” You sung out, reaching for another handful of popcorn. 

 “No talking during the movie.” Tom grumbled, finally getting comfortable next to you on the couch. You grinned. 

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Naruto Tries to Score Bolt a Date
  • Naruto: You know, Sasuke, Boruto likes Sarada.
  • Sasuke: ...
  • Naruto: A lot.
  • Sasuke: Hn.
  • Naruto: And I mean a lot, hehe!
  • Sasuke: And?
  • Naruto: -pokes Sasuke's face- Aaaaand.... I think you know where I'm going with this. -winks and grins-
  • Sasuke: Dobe, keep your son away from my precious daughter and he'll live a long, healthy life. There.
  • Naruto: You're so mean.

Homage to Diana Rigg

For those of you into the amazing television series Game of Thrones (I, being addicted to it as well from its inception) let me loan a bit of interesting ‘trivia’ to you about one of the actresses there in the show. She is so incredibly amazing, and yet she does not get the true coverage or tribute she deserves. That actress is none other than Dame Diana Rigg.

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I’m a horrible mom but at least my daughter laughs a lot with me…

We’re taking krav-maga classes together (she’ll turn 14 at the end of the month) and the teacher always shows the techniques we need to practice with the same guy, and of course things get handsy. I’ve been having dirty thoughts from the beginning, and tonight I went to my daughter and told her “So do you ship it yet?”, and we both dissolved in giggles and everybody looked at us like we were nuts (which, ngl, we kinda are).

I may have introduced her to the sinful world of shipping but at least she’s almost fluent in english at 14. That’s something, right?

i can’t help but imagine that the only reason Carlos is still alive is because of that simple horror movie rule we all know- that shit only happens to white people.

like after some horrifying event, Carlos makes its out almost unscathed while his fellow (white) colleagues are all suffering from injuries of some sort, and they just look at him and ask him ‘how are you not hurt? is it some sort of protection from the Voice of Night Vale?’ 

and Carlos would just shrug and say, “Nah, it’s because- scientifically speaking of course- that shit only happens to white people.” and you would hear Cecil in the distance screaming, “POC excellence”

Castle Fanfic: echoed on your skin 1/1

echoed on your skin

A Caskett AU for Castle Fanfic Monday

Based on the prompt:  Soulmate au where when you write something on your skin with pen/marker/whatever the hell you want, it will show up on your soul mates skin as well.

He’s eight years old the first time his Soul Marker shows up.

It happens on a Saturday in the middle of November and, at first, all he notices is that it is cold in his bedroom. The wind rattles the world outside, seeping through the gaps along the windows and under the doors to bring the chill inside. His mother does what she can for them, more than enough, but she can’t help that their apartment is drafty. So he doesn’t complain, he doesn’t whine in the early morning air, he just draws his blankets closer to his ears.

The dark smudge on his palm catches his attention then.

It isn’t large, definitely nothing impressive, just a smear of black on his hand. Like he had been playing in the dirt in the middle of the night. When he shows his mother later that morning, she just smiles and presses a wet kiss to his forehead.

Not content with that answer, Richard Rodgers swipes the affection from his skin and demands to know more.

Ever indulgent, Martha takes his hands, tickling the mark on his palm until he giggles.

“When babies are born, their handprints and footprints are taken. Congratulations, kiddo, your Soul Match has arrived in the world.”

He’s appalled; his Soul Match is a baby? There is no way.

For a moment, he considers the possibility that his mother is pulling his leg, playing a trick on him to get back at him for using her favorite bubble bath as dish soap, but there is only gentle humor in her eyes. Only relief.

Relief that he has a match.

Not everyone does, he knows. His mother doesn’t. There are times when she comes home from work and he swears he can see his own doodles on her skin, covered by layers of stage makeup, but it’s the bond of a parent to her child, not a true Soul Match.

He can’t help but wonder why he has one and she doesn’t.

The next Monday after school, he goes to the library and gathers as many books about Soul Matching as his thin arms will hold. He reads as many as he can before his mother comes to pick him up, checking out the rest and shoving them into his backpack. In the end, the entire idea makes a bit more sense. It’s something precious, something special, like being a superhero. Which doesn’t sound so bad really.

But still, a baby? He can’t be matched with a baby.

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“When the Dauphiness had been entirely undressed, in order that she might retain nothing belonging to a foreign Court (an etiquette always observed on such an occasion), the doors were opened; the young Princess came forward, looking round for the Comtesse de Noailles; then, rushing into her arms, she implored her, with tears in her eyes, and with heartfelt sincerity, to be her guide and support.” MADAME CAMPAN

Reference : Marie Antoinette 2006 ; Madame Campan Memoirs

So it’s extraordinary to see Lin-Manuel Miranda, a full two years before the show’s opening night, in the early moments of “Hamilton’s America.” The movie is an intoxicating documentary about the creation of “Hamilton,” and here’s Miranda, 33 years old, standing in the Washington Heights apartment that he and his pregnant wife have spent most of a year renovating (they still can’t move in), his life in total flux, talking about how much of “Hamilton” he has written so far: exactly one song. It’s not just that the show isn’t finished yet — or that no one, including him, has any idea of the phenomenon it will turn out to be. It’s that Miranda barely even knows what the show is. What he has is a vision, a feeling, an instinct that has come from the flash of lightning in his brain.


“Hamilton’s America,” in capturing that journey, turns out to be a thrillingly nimble and moving testament. The movie, which features enough of the show to let you relive it (or, if you haven’t seen it, to whet your appetite), will air on Oct. 21 as a PBS “Great Performances” documentary, and there’s every chance that it could set some sort of viewership record. But whether it does or not, there are many thousands of people who will find it immensely gratifying to see all the ways this film heightens and enhances their original experience of “Hamilton.” In a fleet and shapely 84 minutes, it manages to avoid every cliché pitfall of the standard behind-the-scenes making-of documentary.

The director, Alex Horwitz, was a college buddy of Miranda’s, which is why Miranda trusted him enough to give him access to the process. But if that makes it sound like the film might take too gauzy a view of its subject, what Horwitz has done is to craft a movie of privileged moments that reveals the creative process with stubborn insight. He shot 100 hours of footage over the course of three years, yet he had the discipline to whittle it all down to a film that includes (for instance) no rehearsal footage. Horwitz must have realized that when you’re watching people rehearse a musical in a studio, whatever the show happens to be, it always has the same “All That Jazz” backstage vibe of “five-six-seven-eight!” diligence.

In place of scenes like that, “Hamilton’s America” digs deep into “Hamilton” itself, and into what Miranda discovered as he was creating it. There’s an arresting diversity to the film’s interview subjects, with some of the interviews conducted by Miranda himself. He talks to Stephen Sondheim and John Weidman, whose political musicals (like “Assassins”) were door-opening inspirations to him, and also to Nas, and to President Obama, whose imperious joviality expresses his own slant on why the Founding Fathers still rule. Beyond that, the movie elicits fascinating testimony from artists like Questlove, who describes how he had to see “Hamilton” eight or nine times to absorb all its levels of meaning, and from political figures like Elizabeth Warren, who offers an exuberant pinpoint analysis of how Hamilton basically invented our financial system, and even George W. Bush, who comes across with more empathetic intelligence than I have ever seen him display.

“Hamilton’s America” captures every stage of how the show exploded as a cultural phenomenon: its triumphant move from the Public Theater to the Richard Rogers Theater on Broadway (where crowds pack the streets as if gawking at royalty), its entrance into popular culture with the aid of bedazzled fans like Jimmy Fallon, and its arrival at the White House, where Miranda and company give a plain-clothes performance heralded by a visibly ecstatic Michelle Obama. At every stage, we register how “Hamilton” is the rare musical that wasn’t just of its time but ahead of it. The casting of African-American and Latino actors to play historical characters we think of as lily-white was, of course, central to the musical’s mystique. Yet that gambit would have taken Miranda and company only so far if the show itself wasn’t embedded with so many head-spinning layers of the immigrant mythology of America. Those layers tingle with meaning as you watch “Hamilton’s America.” Hamilton himself was, of course, a besieged orphan who came from the Caribbean island of Nevis. Miranda’s father arrived from Puerto Rico (an American territory, but a different world), and Miranda himself was born and raised in New York City, growing up as a casually assimilated Latino-American — the proverbial happy ending to the eternal immigrant saga, right?

Except that wasn’t the ending. As an American, someone with the freedom to dream in new ways, Lin-Manuel Miranda immersed himself in two forms that, only 20 years ago, would have seemed oxymoronically dissimilar: the world of Broadway and the world of hip-hop. Rap was an African-American form until the Beastie Boys pranked their way inside it, followed by Eminem, who rose up to declare, for the first time, that a white dude could work in this form with a level of intensity and brilliance that rivaled that of its greatest artists. At that point, hip-hop still had its outlaw/rebel/street allure. But then along comes Miranda to say, in “Hamilton”: This is not a “street” form, or even a youth form — this is an American form, pure and simple. It retains its rebel fervor, in its every aggressive thrust and off-the-top-of-your-brain declaration, but that’s what makes it American; we were born as rebels. Hip-hop turned out to be the perfect form to channel the voice of the Founding Fathers because it already is their voice: an echo, down through the generations, of what it means to make up your destiny one line at a time. What Miranda did in “Hamilton” was to reclaim the way that Alexander Hamilton and company, before they were anything else, were writers — and (to a degree scarcely acknowledged by educators) that they were improvising. The brilliance of the show is that it uses the idiom of hip-hop to place the nuances of their thoughts center stage.

anonymous asked:

Prompt: Emma, Killy, Snow, David, Regina and Robin are watching Frozen because their children wanted to

(Oh gods, I love Frozen! So this will be kind of a “reaction to the movie fic”, I hope you don’t mind. I hope enjoy! Also, spoilers for those who haven’t seen frozen yet!)



With a sigh Emma placed her head on Killian’s shoulder, her eyes fixed on Henry who put the DVD into the player. She wondered why she had admitted to do what they were just about to do.

Probably because Liam had looked at her with those big blue eyes that looked so much like his father’s and she was unable to say no again.

She sighed again when Henry sat back on the floor, next to his five-year old half-brother Liam and his three-year old half-sister Reena who sat on Roland’s lap, Henry’s six-year old aunts sitting on the couch behind them next to their parents.

On the second couch sat Emma and Killian next to Regina and Robin.

Barely six years ago this constellation would have freaked her out but now it was an almost daily occurrence, it didn’t bother her at all.

And now they were about to watch Frozen together.

That would be quite an adventure.

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