university bent


closed starter | @zukocrownprinceofthefirenation

“You transferred to my school this year and I have been showing you around for the past few weeks. We get along really well and my friends think you and I are dating… and I’m not against the idea.”

Katara Sulik was new in town— a point everyone at Western Pacific University was bent on remembering. The New Girl. The Hawaiin Girl. The Super Smart Girl. At every nickname, she’d turn around and snap, “Hawaii isn’t a foreign country and I have a name, Katara.

No one seemed to care about her reminders; the dorms were filled with whispers no matter what she said. 

‘I heard her mom was murdered.’ 
‘I heard she’s an orphan.’ 
‘I heard her brother went to jail.’ 
‘I heard…’

Fact would have it that her mother died in a hit and run. Her father was very much alive, but very much absent— two year tours in Iraq, six months home, a trip to Europe— grief did that a person. Her brother had never been to jail, not yet, but he was arrested last year for protesting at Pearl Harbor. That’d been the reason Katara moved. She couldn’t take it anymore. 

At only nineteen, she was the parent. She’d saved Sokka’s ass more times than she could count, carried the burdens of her friends for so long she’d forgotten her own needs, she’d been her mother. She was tired. She was bitter. She was being selfish. 

But on they went, I heard. I heard. I heard. 

Katara rolled her eyes for the thousandth time that day, dodging looks in the hall as she followed her companion to his single room.

Zuko Hiroku. She hardly knew him. He didn’t talk much. He blushed a lot, especially around her. Yet, she liked him. He’d been the only one to forget any assumptions about her and just let her be…. her. She could appreciate that. 

So, his statement made her cringe a little— rumors were the last reason she’d want to jump in a relationship with anyone, considering her last boyfriend and how long that’d drug on simply because everyone else thought they were meant for each other. 

“Who, exactly, are these friends of yours?” Katara tried to hide her annoyance, but she was likely failing. “And how stupid are they to just assume you’re dating ‘The New Girl’ when said girl has only been around for six weeks?”

Quiet; Prologue

Fandom: WWE

Pairing: Baron Corbin/Female Reader

Rating: Holy shit M.

AN: Happy Thirst Party Saturday, everyone! Been working on this prologue for a little bit. Tagging our usual suspects, @tox-moxley, @oraclegazes, @hardcorewwetrash and @writergrrrl29. Enjoy!

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Just let me appreciate Moffat’s book ends for a little longer

Still can’t get over how well Clara Oswald’s book ends were set up in Hell Bent. It could be tied back to all these:

  • 11th/Clara era’s:Run you clever boy and remember me.” (Asylum of the Daleks, The Snowman, The Bells of Saint John, The Name of the Doctor, Hell Bent)
  • 11th/Clara/12th era’s: “Be a Doctor.” (The Name of the Doctor, The Day of the Doctor, The Whole Series 8, Face the Raven, Heaven Sent, Hell Bent)
  • 12th/Clara era’s: “Just see me” / ”If I met her again, I would absolutely know.” (Deep Breath, Hell Bent)
  • 12th/Clara era’s: “Do you happen to know how to fly this thing? / Clara gets her own TARDIS and flies it like she is born to it. (The Time of the Doctor, Hell Bent)
  • 12th/Clara era’s: “I’m not your boyfriend.” / “I have a duty of care.” (Deep Breath, Hell Bent)
  • Clara Oswald: Short cut! / “Gallifrey, the long way round.” (The Snowman, Hell Bent)
  • Clara Oswald: “I don’t believe in ghosts.” / “Time isn’t healing. I am still frozen.” (The Bells of Saint John, Hell Bent)
  • Clara’s portraits (The Bells of Saint John, Face the Raven, Heaven Sent, Hell Bent)
  • Songs: Carmen, Clara’s theme. (Asylum of the Daleks, Hell Bent)
  • The Doctor is finding Clara: (The Snowman, The Bells of Saint John, Hell Bent)
  • The Doctor/Clara, the ultimate mirror-self: Stealing a TARDIS and running away.

Gender Bent Adrien magazine cover - Adriana


I seriously had to do this. xD Actually I would share it after I finish my AU (female Adrien with Ladybug powers and male Marinette with Chat Noir powers) but I needed to share earlier.
I’m so uncomfortable with her hairs. I drew them wrong and then I couldn’t correct it. Just like I couldn’t finish her trousers…
I’m planning to share the speed painting of it on my YT channel soon: alexiross
There will be more drawings from my AU xD

anonymous asked:

What do you think Jem's first thoughts were when he realised he wasn't a silent brother anymore?

It was pain at first. His nerves ached like every one had been set alight and left to burn down to blackened candle wicks. He lay in the dark and he hurt. He hadn’t hurt like this in a very long time. He shouldn’t hurt like this. His body couldn’t hurt like this. There had been heat or fire or light but a Silent Brother’s body wasn’t capable of this kind of pain. He shifted in the bed and the muscles shrieked. 

It was impossible. 

And yet, he ached and burned and hurt. 

He reached out in the dark for the flow of time and events that he had spent his first decades as a Silent Brother learning to understand. He had never been as good at it as the others but it had always been there: a river of things that had been, would be, were, all mixed up with intentions and questions of maybe, might be, could be. It didn’t matter that he couldn’t read it. It existed. 

It wasn’t there. 

There was nothing in his head but his own thoughts. 

He reached out again. Listening this time for the sparks of consciousness, the places where the fabric of the universe bent around the will of a living person full of ideas and thoughts and wants and needs. He couldn’t find anyone. No sparks. No river. He couldn’t find the pattern of the fabric itself. 

There was nothing there. 

Then he opened his eyes. 

Bright light shone through an open window and he shut his eyes against the glare on instinct then opened them again. 

Light. Sunlight. 

He ignored the pain, pushed it to the side and sat up. 

“Brother Zachariah, can you appraise us of your condition?” a voice whispered in his head. He couldn’t say who it was. Without the flow and fabric, without those extra senses, he couldn’t tell which of the Silent Brothers was sitting beside his bed, speaking to him the way they spoke to mortals with words and intention. His first instinct was to think the words back, to answer in the silent language of a silent order. 

That language was gone. 

He opened his mouth. He hummed a note. Just one. And he heard it. He hummed another and heard that one too, a little lower than the first. His fingers slid along the fabric of the blanket. For so long his senses had provided information but not sensation. He could feel the pull of a needle and know that he was performing a suture properly but it had been knowledge not sensation. How long ago had he lost the ability to truly feel things? How long had it been since Tessa’s touch had become a thing he understood but not a sensation? 


He reached for the flow of time and intention again not to scan his surroundings but to do what he wasn’t supposed to, what he pretended he did not do, what no one had ever accused him of doing though they must have known. He reached out to find the echo of her in that river just to remind himself that she was out there. 

There was nothing there. 

“Brother Zachariah, you have suffered an unusual injury, I would recommend you lie down,” the Silent Brother at his side said. 

He looked over at the man. At the parchment robes, at the scarred face and knew. He knew that what this person was, was not what he was. His skin hurt, his eyes watered in the bright light, he was confused and lost and more alone than he could find the words to express. Alone. So alone. He pushed that aside to sit with the pain until he could think on it, meditate on it, understand it. 


“I am-” he said in a voice that sounded cracked and worn but familiar. A long ago memory of when he had been someone else. He tried again, “I am alive.” 

“You have always been alive.” 

“Not like this, not for a very long time,” his voice was getting clearer. 

“Brother Zachariah-” the Silent Brother was whispering in his head again but he wasn’t paying attention. He was categorization aches and pains, empty chasms of emotions that he couldn’t name, not yet, they were there, calling out to him but he was out of practice. Was that anger or fear or love or grief that wanted to swallow him whole? He pushed it to the side. 


“Jem,” he said. 

That is who he had been. 

Before. That is who he was to Tessa, to Will, to Charlotte, to Jamie, to Lucie, to his mother, his father, people who had lived and loved and moved on without him. Tessa. He practiced saying her name inside his thoughts. He didn’t say the other names again. He didn’t say her name aloud. The emotion was there, the chasm of feeling that even a 130 years as a Silent Brother hadn’t been able to destroy. 

His heart was still there. His heart still beat. His heart still loved. 

Before. Before he was Brother Zachariah, before the river of things that were, would be, could be, might be, before the distance between the feeling and the sensation, before the sparks of living things moving in the darkness around him. 

Before all of that, he had been Jem Carstairs. 

He had been alive. Truly and completely alive. 

And he was alive again. 

It was all for Clara Oswald

In case it wasn’t clear enough before, we know now for a fact. 

Four and a half billion years of living in his own hell, punching a wall, burning himself up so he could live to do it again. And he didn’t do it to protect the secret of the hybrid. He didn’t do it to get to Gallifrey. He didn’t even do it for revenge. He fought against his own nightmare and a diamond wall just to get to the only place he knew could help him save her. And he did it willingly over and over. For Clara. 

That was his motivation for 4.5 billion years. Saving Clara Oswald. 

Laws of time and space crumble in comparison to how much he loves her. 

The Brain of Morbius Doctors obviously come before Hartnell’s incarnation, but the Doctor runs out of his regeneration cycle after Matt Smith’s incarnation, which seems to add up with Hartnell being first. The obvious explanation is that the NuWho Doctors are the Morbius faces. The “Last Great Time War” is one of the time wars from early in Gallifrey’s history, as mentioned in The Infinity Doctors and Mister Saldaamir.

The obvious critique is that we see Paul McGann regenerate into John Hurt. But we already know from The Infinity Doctors that Paul McGann is the Other, so this is really evidence for the theory!

More evidence: this also explains why Rassilon is still alive in The End of Time and Hell Bent. After Hell Bent, the Donald Sumpter Rassilon, thrown off of Gallifrey at the end of time, starts meditating on the past (since there’s no future) and becomes a monk, eventually growing a bear, repenting, dying, and joining the Matrix as the Matrix Lord Rassilon we see in the Classic DWM comics. This is more evidence proves that Classic Who is post-NuWho.

Now, the other critique is that the NuWho Doctors make references and know things the Doctor experienced in the Classic era. However, this is explained by another thing we learn in the Classic era: the Doctor is Merlin, who is also famous for aging backwards. As a result, the Doctor is aging backwards as well. This explains how Gallifrey got from the end of the universe in Hell Bent to the beginning in time for Classic Who, since The Day of the Doctor is actually the start of the Time War.

If you have any questions about this irrefutable and completely serious theory, let me know.

Miraculous March Day 21… or 23?

 It goes more to Day 23 but this got stuck in my head for gender swap, too. Marinette being in Adrien’s place and viceversa. I also realized it looks like a sister picture of this piece

I can’t with Adrien. He’s so precious in every way. And Mari looks so dreamy in Adrien’s eyes. 


What feminists can learn from anti-feminist Phyllis Schlafly

Phyllis Schlafly, who died Monday at the age of 92, was revered by social conservatives and reviled by liberals. She was a staunch anti-feminist and believer in the “traditional family” who helped shape the culture wars about family, community, identity, and equality we’re still having today. And she’s more responsible than anyone for the fact that the Constitution doesn’t have an Equal Rights Amendment in it today.

After she died, she was, predictably, revered and reviled in most of the expected places. But historian Kevin M. Kruse, who’s written about Schlafly’s era of conservative politics, found a way to illustrate Schlafly’s impact on American history while condemning her work: calling attention to the lessons her career held for political activists of every ideology.

Progressives can sometimes comfort themselves (and conservatives torment themselves) with the belief that any setbacks (or victories) are temporary, and social progress (or decline) is inevitable. But even if “the arc of the universe really does bend toward justice” on a cosmic scale — and it might not — it certainly doesn’t mean that progressives will win every moral battle, or even that society will inevitably get more progressive from one generation to the next.

Phyllis Schlafly stepped in, after it looked like the arc of the universe had already bent, and showed that there is no such thing as an inevitable political victory. Who wins a battle depends on who shows up to fight.

Any effective activist has learned that winning the fight isn’t just about dominating the airwaves or winning the debate. It’s about building coalition power. It’s about framing the debate advantageously. And it’s about relentless, individual lobbying at every level of government.