Best of favorite dance moves 💃🕺 via @ Ed People on Youtube https://twitter.com/TansuYegen/status/1560874626380857344

Fucking DELIGHTFUL.

When you're writing and you suddenly realize you don't know what happens next

When you’re writing and you suddenly realise you DO know what happens next

When you’re writing and you realise you have to write what happens next

When you’ve waited for so long to write that forgot what happened next

Her name is Laetitia Ky and she’s only 23! 😍😍 I’ve already seen a white girl steal her idea so let’s promote tf out of the OG.

Her IG

Canon: and so they never met

Fanfic: here’s a funny story

Canon: There was tension and pining, but they never even kissed.

Fanfic: Actually,

Canon: Torture the cinnamon roll.

Fanfic: Torture the cinnamon roll.

Canon: When they traveled they stayed in separate rooms

Fanfic: AND. THERE. WAS. ONLY. ONE. BED!!!!!

Canon: … and they were roommates.

Fanfic: oh my god, they were roommates…

Canon: They were international assassins who assassinated assassins.

Fanfic: But hot DAMN wait till you hear about this cafe they opened

Canon: They had a coffeeshop

Fanfic: but they were ASSASSINS

Canon: they were mortal enemies and attempted to murder each other on multiple occasions

Fanfic: bUT THEY GOT MARRIED AND ADOPTED CHILDREN

Everytime I reblog this has a new addition and it’s the best

Canon: They were straight

Fanfic: Lol

Canon: Horrible things happened and they must move on.

Fanfic: Haha, hold my beer. *climbs in time machine*

Canon: Hurt

Fanfic: Hurt, but THEN COMFORT 

Canon: Separation

Fanfic: Omg they started living together!

Fanfic Writers:

Canon: Horrible things happened but there wasn’t any real emotional fallout

Fanfic: 100,000 WORDS OF ANGST

This is a young adult novel, someone write it.

“Hey, can I, uh…hire you?”

I splayed my fingers over the notebook page in front of me. It was blank, save for a few doodles populating the margins. They weren’t good, but at least they were recognizable. Wonder Woman. Daphne from Scooby-Doo. A poorly rendered Katara.

I twisted in my seat, back cracking like a glow stick. Tyler stood behind me, hands stuffed into the pockets of his shorts. His grin was a little crooked in the way that I knew most girls at school liked. I guess it was pleasant enough, if you took the time to consider it.

“My going rate is five dollars,” I said, shifting my elbow on my desk so it covered my notebook. The barest suggestion of heat filled my cheeks at the mere thought of getting caught drawing Daphne in my notebook. I’d drawn little hearts around her head and everything.

Tyler pulled a crumpled up five dollar bill from his pocket, smoothing it out as best he could before extending it to me. It still retained most of its original crinkles, looking more like crumpled tissue paper than money. 

Snatching it from his hands, I tugged on the bill, holding it up to the disgusting fluorescents that schools were so fond of. I didn’t know what I was looking for, exactly, but I’d seen my dad hold up $100 bills to lamps. And besides—it made me look official.

I folded the five in half and tucked it into the breast pocket of my old flannel shirt. “Who’s it for?”

I didn’t have to specify exactly what Tyler was hiring me for. All of the boys in school knew about my “service,” as it were: I wrote love poems for them to give to their girlfriends. They were never more than a few lines long, and rarely specific, unless the boys gave me something they wanted to say. 

I got the feeling Tyler wasn’t going to give me any specifics, the way he kept aiming that stupid grin at me. I kept my expression impassive as I blinked at him, waiting for an answer.

“Keira Haggerty.”

It was truly a struggle to keep my expression tame. I’d written poem upon poem before, for dozens of boys about dozens of girls. But I’d never written one for someone like Keira before. Unlike Tyler, she wasn’t super popular, but she was super pretty. She had these brown eyes that somehow looked good in the bright hospital lighting of our middle school classrooms, and her curly hair was the color of cinnamon. And her lips—

I had to stop. My heart felt caught in my throat as I pushed my feelings down, down, down. “I didn’t know you two were dating,” I managed, casting a glance across the classroom where Keira sat bent over her notebook, scribbling away. Throughout the school, she was known for her art skills—she’d even gotten an award from the art department last year.

“We’re not,” Tyler said. He bit down on his lower lip quickly, tossing a look at Keira. “Yet,” he added, the word spat out faster than the others. “I hope this poem will be a good way to ask her out.”

“So you want me to write a poem asking her out?”

Tyler nodded, his floppy blond hair dropping over his eyes. He tossed his head almost violently to the side, clearing the strands from his face. It was a classic popular-guy move. Was it meant to show how nice their hair was? I don’t know. It wasn’t the same as when Keira twirled a curl around her pencil.

“Sure,” I said. “I’ll give it to you at lunch, ‘kay?”

Tyler nodded and spun on his heels, bouncing to his group in the back of the class. He fist bumped with one of his cronies and tossed himself into his chair with reckless abandon. The teacher began her lesson on the Civil War, but I wasn’t planning on listening to any of it.

I’d never admitted this to anyone, but I’ve had a crush on Keira since fifth grade. I didn’t even know it was a crush, at first—I’d admired her art, the way she colored the lips, the way the freckles dotted her portraits, how she knew exactly where the light was supposed to be. And I liked watching her get better over the years. She put my superhero doodles to shame.

At some point—and I don’t know what point—I looked at Keira’s drawings less and looked at Keira more. I liked the way she had graphite smudged across her fingertips, or clay still stuck under her nails. I liked the brown of her skin, how it seemed warm no matter what season it was. I liked the sound of her laugh from across the library, and the giggles that followed after the librarian shushed her and her other art friends.

It was easy to write Tyler’s poem. I talked about her art, her callused hands, how she captured images of people so well and I wished she could capture me, too. Just…not on paper. I wanted her to capture me in her arms and hold me and kiss me and stroke my hair and dot paint on my nose.

When I finished, I smoothed my hands across my notebook sheet and carefully tore it on the perforated line, making sure the rip wasn’t perfect like a boy’s wouldn’t have been. It was a last ditch effort, because the poem was written in my handwriting. Usually I made some attempt to obscure my scrawl and make it more chaotic, harder to read, but I’d gotten…distracted. It was a common theme with me, I’d noticed. Always distracted, always thinking about life like it was dipped in rosewater and colored pink. 

The tinny bell dismissing us to lunch rang throughout the classroom. The teacher clapped her hands together, thanking God that it was lunch because she was hungrier than “heck.” As if we’d never heard a swear before.

I stuffed my notebook into my backpack, slinging it over my shoulder as I watched Keira. She tossed her head back and gave one of her friends a glowing smile. The ticking of the clock even seemed slower, the world stopping to wait as she gathered her things. She tucked her sketchbook into her book bag and crossed it over her body, its canvas body slapping against her ink-stained jeans. 

At lunch, Tyler was easy to find. He sat perched on top of the lunch table as one of the cafeteria monitors snapped at him to get down. One of his friends clapped his leg good-naturedly as he slipped down from his perch. I caught his eye and jerked my head at the water fountain.

I went myself to get a drink, leaving the folded-up piece of looseleaf on the back of it, safe from water splashes. After taking a quick drink, I walked away, my back turned as Tyler approached the fountain in my stead. Careful eyes might have caught him pocketing the note, but it went largely unnoticed. I kept my gaze on Keira, but she wasn’t even looking at Tyler. It’s like he wasn’t even on her radar. 

I sat down at the corner of my little lunch table. I sat with my “friends,” but we were all bookworms. We just pulled out our latest novels to read while we ate. Some did homework. No one spoke. It was a bookclub of sorts, and none of us minded the lack of conversation. 

I pulled my book from my bag as I settled into my seat, facing the rest of the student body so I could watch as it all went down. Tyler twiddled the note in his fingers, shaking it like it was burning. It was a sharp contrast to his confident stride as he walked right up to Keira and the rest of the art kids. 

He handed her the note, his hand not even trembling, that irritating crooked smile on his face. Carefully, Keira took it from him. She pinched it between her paint-stained fingers as she unfolded it, brows furrowed.

I didn’t want to stay attached. It wasn’t very business-like; I was supposed to watch the girls, write the poetry, and clean my hands of it. And sometimes I did, even if I looked at the girl a little bit later. But I had already been looking at Keira, and the poem just gave me a chance to really say what I’d been dying to. Tyler hadn’t even read it—he’d just taken it with the confidence that I’d written something good. That feeling glowed in my chest.

Something wasn’t right, though. Usually, the girls would say something like, “Did you write this?” It looked like Keira was following the script—but Tyler wasn’t. Because he pointed at me. 

I slammed my book shut in front of me. I hadn’t even been reading it, but it didn’t matter now. Nothing mattered now.

Stuffing it into my bag, I rose quickly from my table and ducked out into the hallway. I hadn’t heard any laughter, but it would only be a matter of time. 

It was always just a matter of time.

I should have known better than to trust Tyler. The school’s so-called pretty boy, Mr. Popular, Mr. Perfect. Boys like him weren’t nice to girls like me; they were cruel. Every single movie I’d ever seen had told me that. Tyler lived up to expectations. Expectations I should have had.

I pressed my back against the cinderblock wall, the painted white bricks only sort of rough through the fabric of my hoodie. Slowly, dramatically, I sank down until I was crouched in a little ball. Burning tears stung my eyes. No matter how quickly I wiped them away, more came.

The cafeteria door swung open. A flash of sound rose through the open door and cut off just as quickly. I didn’t look to see who it was. Hopefully they’d just go to the bathroom and not say anything.

“Hey.”

I froze. 

It was Keira’s voice. 

Crap. Crap. Crap. I wiped my eyes one final time, catching my nose on the sleeve of my sweatshirt as I turned to look up at her. The fluorescent was hidden behind her head, casting her unruly mane of hair in a halo of light. The note was held loosely between trembling fingers.

She squatted down, then thought better of her position and twisted until her back was pressed up against the wall, too. “You wrote this?”

It was the same old script I’d heard a hundred times. I sniffled, opening my mouth a bit to reply, but the words turned to dust on my tongue. I nodded instead.

“It’s, uh…it’s really good. Like, scary good.” Her words were tinted with a smile, and I blinked through the tears until I could see that she held no malice in her gaze. Just awe, and kindness. “I wish I could make something like this.”

I laughed. It was short, like a bark, and echoed down the cavernous school hallway. “What are you talking about? Did you even read the poem? Your art is insane! It’s the best I’ve ever seen. I mean it.” It was more words than I usually said to anyone. And they were quick, like a river, and just as energetic. Maybe not as smooth.

Keira grinned at me and set the note on the ground between us. “And you meant it all?”

I nodded again. I couldn’t have another river pouring out of my mouth. That was possibly even more embarrassing than being caught crying on the hallway floor.

There wasn’t even time to blink. Keira’s mouth pressed against mine. For the brief moment we touch, my lips burned. She’d caught them on fire—poured gasoline on me, lit a match, and I was ablaze.

I was alive.

It was over as quick as it had come, as though she was afraid someone would see. Shouldn’t I have been afraid, too? That’s why I’d come out here, after all. To hide from people who would hiss the words at me: Lesbian. Homo. Dyke.

But Keira didn’t say any of that stuff. She didn’t swear, or hiss, or spit. She’d kissed me. “You meant it all,” she repeated.

“I already said yes,” I replied.

There was a pause. It lingered on her lips. I thought lips were supposed to be ripe and red from kissing, but her’s weren’t. I guess a kiss has to last for more than a second to make them all pink and stuff. But I couldn’t stop looking at them. 

“…Even the part about asking me out? You meant that?”

My gaze drifted from her lips up to her eyes, and it was clear that she was serious. I pinched the bottom of my hoodie. “I-I mean, I was asking for Tyler, but—”

“Tyler doesn’t want to ask me out, though,” she said. “Tyler wanted you to ask me out.”

“I—he did?”

Keira nodded. Her arm fell as she let her fingers drift across the folded up note, ripped poorly but penned in my hand. And I’m glad I hadn’t changed my handwriting. I’m glad it wasn’t perfect, but that it was mine. 

“So what do you say?” Keira asked. “Will you go out with me?”

I could even answer. I just dipped my head in towards hers, quicker than anything, striking like an asp with my lips. This press lasted longer than the first, and my hand drifted up to brush one of her curls away like I’d seen in movies. I ended up losing my balance a bit and falling into her. 

The kiss broke, and we both descended into laughter. It was bright, brighter than the school bells. 

“Yes, Keira Haggerty. I’ll go out with you.”

I got real petty over on the Facebook page and IT WAS GLORIOUS.

This is me, going to check out Legendary Books now…

Publisher: We think that the way the fantasy genre treats women is problematic so we’re going to try and do better

A Fool: If you don’t like it why don’t you make your own!

Publisher: That

That is literally what we just said we are doing

GUESS WHO’S BACK, BIGOTED FUCKWADS?

BOY it feels good to be back in this particular saddle!

AHAHAHAHAHA we have a winner for today!

*Snort*

@princessjellyfishie

if anybody like me a) lol’d and b) wanted to get my hands on that book series, here’s the link

This is magically what I’m looking for right now.

Hi Legendary Books, I’ll take one of everything.

Happy to oblige!

https://underrealm.net/books

<3

I literally don’t have the space for any more physical books, but I’ve downloaded every Underrealm book on Kindle. I read The Alchemist’s Touch specifically because of this post and I seriously can’t recommend the Underrealm books enough. they are absolutely fantastic.

I don’t really read anymore, not like i used to. And of i get a masters this year like i am planning to then that isn’t going to change. But hell yes I’m going to go and buy these books because THIS is exactly the kind of thing that i want to support!

YISSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

One day I will have a job and a bank account and I will have money from the job in the bank account and I will use some of the money to purchase these books

Hey did you

did you know

did you know we have a podcast now and you can literally listen to the books for free.

(You probably didn’t. That’s okay because it’s very new).

It’s slower than buying and reading them, but it’s great if you have no book budget but you do have some listening time!

At 18, everyone receive a superpower. Your childhood friend got a power-absorption, your best friends got time control, and they quickly rise into top 100 most powerful superheroes. You got a mediocre superpower, but somehow got into the top 10. Today they visit you asking how you did it.

“Power absorption?” you ask him over your pasta, which you are currently absorbing powerfully. in the background, a tv is reading out what the Phoenix extremeist group has done recently. bodies, stacking.

tim nods, pushing his salad around. “it’s kind of annoying.” he’s gone vegan ever since he could talk to animals. his cheeks are sallow. “yesterday i absorbed static and i can’t stop shocking myself.”

“you don’t know what from,” shay is detangling her hair at the table, even though it’s not polite. about a second ago, her hair was perfect, which implies she’s been somewhere in the inbetween. “try millions of multiverses that your powers conflict with.” 

“did we die in the last one?” you grin and she grins and tim grins but nobody answers the question.

now she has a cut over her left eye and her hair is shorter. she looks tired and tim looks tired and you look down at your 18-year-old hands, which are nothing. 

they ship out tomorrow. they go out to the frontlines or wherever it is that superheroes go to fight supervillains; the cream of the crop. the starlight banner kids. 

“you both are trying too hard,” you tell them, “couldn’t you have been, like, really good at surfing?”

“god,” shay groans, “what i’d give to only be in the olympics.”

xxx in the night, tim is asleep. on the way home, he absorbed telekinesis, and hates it too. 

shay looks at you. “i’m scared,” she says.

you must not have died recently, because she looks the same she did at dinner, cut healing slowly over her eye the way it’s supposed to, not the hyper-quickness of a timejump. just shay, living in the moment when the moment is something everyone lives in. her eyes are wide and dark the way brown eyes can be, that swelling fullness that feels so familiar and warm, that piercing darkness that feels like a stone at the back of your tongue.

“you should be,” you say.

her nose wrinkles, she opens her mouth, but you plow on.

“they’re going to take one look at you and be like, ‘gross, shay? no thanks. you’re too pretty. it’s bringing down like, morale, and things’. then they’ll kick you out and i’ll live with you in a box and we’ll sell stolen cans of ravioli.”

she’s grinning. “like chef boyardee or like store brand?”

“store brand but we print out chef boyardee labels and tape them over the can so we can mark up the price.”

“where do we get the tape?” 

“we, uh,” you look into those endless dark eyes, so much like the night, so much like a good hot chocolate, so much like every sleepover you’ve had with the two of your best friends, and you say, “it’s actually just your hair. i tie your hair around the cans to keep the label on.”

she throws a pillow at you. 

you both spend a night planning what you’ll do in the morning when shay is kicked out of Squadron 8, Division 1; top rankers that are all young. you’ll both run away to the beach and tim will be your intel and you’ll burn down the whole thing. you’re both going to open a bakery where you will do the baking and she’ll use her time abilities to just, like, speed things up so you don’t have to wake up at dawn. you’re both going to become wedding planners that only do really extreme weddings.

she falls asleep on your shoulder. you do not sleep at all.

in the morning, they are gone.

xxx

squadron 434678, Division 23467 is basically “civilian status.” you still have to know what to expect and all that stuff. you’re glad that you’re taking extra classes at college; you’re kind of bored re-learning the stuff you were already taught in high school. there are a lot of people who need help, and you’re good at that, so you help them. 

tim and shay check in from time to time, but they’re busy saving the world, so you don’t fault them for it. in the meantime, you put your head down and work, and when your work is done, you help the people who can’t finish their work. and it kind of feels good. kind of.

xxx

at twenty, squadron 340067, division 2346 feels like a good fit. tim and you go out for ice cream in a new place that rebuilt after the Phoenix group burned it down. you’ve chosen nurse-practitioner as your civilian job, because it seems to fit, but you’re not released for full status as civilian until you’re thirty, so it’s been a lot of office work.

tim’s been on the fritz a lot lately, overloading. you’re worried they’ll try to force him out on the field. he’s so young to be like this.

“i feel,” he says, “like it all comes down to this puzzle. like i’m never my own. i steal from other people’s boxes.”

you wrap your hand around his. “sometimes,” you say, “we love a river because it is a reflection.”

he’s quiet a long time after that. a spurt of flame licks from under his eyes.

“i wish,” he says, “i could believe that.”

xxx

twenty three has you in squad 4637, division 18. really you’ve just gotten here because you’re good at making connections. you know someone who knows someone who knows you as a good kid. you helped a woman onto a bus and she told her neighbor who told his friend. you’re mostly in the filing department, but you like watching the real superheroes come in, get to know some of them. at this level, people have good powers but not dangerous ones. you learn how to help an 18 year old who is a loaded weapon by shifting him into a non-violent front. you get those with pstd home where they belong. you put your head down and work, which is what you’re good at. 

long nights and long days and no vacations is fine until everyone is out of the office for candlenights eve. you’re the only one who didn’t mind staying, just in case someone showed up needing something. 

the door blows open. when you look up, he’s bleeding. you jump to your feet. 

“oh,” you say, because you recognize the burning bird insignia on his chest, “I think you have the wrong office.”

“i just need,” he spits onto the ground, sways, collapses. 

well, okay. so, that’s, not, like. great. “uh,” you say, and you miss shay desperately, “okay.”

you find the source of the bleeding, stabilize him for when the shock sets in, get him set up on a desk, sew him shut. two hours later, you’ve gotten him a candlenights present and stabilized his vitals. you’ve also filed him into a separate folder (it’s good to be organized) and found him a home, far from the warfront.

when he wakes up, you give him hot chocolate (god, how you miss shay), and he doesn’t smile. he doesn’t smile at the gift you’ve gotten him (a better bulletproof vest, one without the Phoenix on it), or the stitches. that’s okay. you tell him to take the right medications, hand them over to him, suggest a doctor’s input. and then you hand over his folder with a new identity in it and a new house and civilian status. you take a deep breath. 

he opens it and bursts into tears. he doesn’t say anything. he just leaves and you have to clean up the blood, which isn’t very nice of him. but it’s candlenights. so whatever. hopefully he’ll learn to like his gift.

xxx

squadron 3046, division 2356 is incredibly high for a person like you to fit. but still, you fit, because you’re good at organization and at hard work, and at knowing how to hold on when other people don’t see a handhold.

shay is home. you’re still close, the two of you, even though she feels like she exists on another planet. the more security you’re privy to, the more she can tell you. 

you brush her hair as she speaks about the endless man who never dies, and how they had to split him up and hide him throughout the planet. she cries when she talks about how much pain he must be in.

“can you imagine?” she whispers, “i mean, i know he’s phoenix, but can you imagine?” 

“one time i had to work retail on black friday,” you say.

she sniffles.

“one time my boss put his butt directly on my hand by accident and i couldn’t say anything so i spent a whole meeting with my hand directly up his ass,” you say.

her eyes are so brown, and filling, and there are scars on her you’ve never noticed that might be new or very, very, very old; and neither of you know exactly how much time she’s actually been alive for. 

“i mean,” you say, “yeah that might hurt but one time i said goodbye to someone but they were walking in the same direction. i mean can you imagine.”

she laughs, finally, even though it’s weakly, and says, “one time even though i can manipulate time i slept in and forgot to go to work even though i was leading a presentation and i had to look them in the face later to tell them that.”

“you’re a compete animal,” you tell her, and look into those eyes, so sad and full of timelines you’ll never witness, “you should be kicked out completely.”

she wipes her face. “find me in a box,” she croaks, “selling discount ravioli.”

xxx

you don’t know how it happens. but you guess the word gets around. you don’t think you like being known to them as someone they can go to, but it’s not like they’ve got a lot of options. many of them just want to be out of it, so you get them out, you guess.

you explain to them multiple times you haven’t done a residency yet and you really only know what an emt would, but they still swing by. every time they show up at your office, you feel your heart in your chest: this is it, this is how you die, this is how it ends. 

“so, like, this group” you say, trying to work the system’s loopholes to find her a way out of it, “from ashes come all things, or whatever?”

she shrugs. you can tell by looking at her that she’s dangerous. “it’s corny,” she says. another shrug. “i didn’t mean to wind up a criminal.”

you don’t tell her that you sort of don’t know how one accidentally becomes a criminal, since you kind-of-sort-of help criminals out, accidentally. 

“i don’t believe any of that stuff,” she tells you, “none of that whole… burn it down to start it over.” she swallows. “stuff just happens. and happens. and you wake up and it’s still happening, even though you wish it wasn’t.”

you think about shay, and how she’s covered in scars, and her crying late at night because of things nobody else ever saw.

“yeah,” you say, and print out a form, “i get that.”

and you find a dangerous woman a normal home.

xxx

“you’re squadron 905?” 

“division 34754,” you tell him. watch him look down at your ID and certification and read your superpower on the card and then look back up to you and then back down to the card and then back up at you, and so on. he licks his chapped lips and stands in the cold.

this happens a lot. but you smile. the gatekeeper is frowning, but then hanson walks by. “oh shit,” he says, “it’s you! come right on in!” he gives you a hug through your rolled-down window.

the gatekeeper is in a stiff salute now. gulping in terror. hanson is one of the strongest people in this sector, and he just hugged you.

the gate opens. hanson swaggers through. you shrug to the gatekeeper. “i helped him out one time.” 

inside they’re debriefing. someone has shifted sides, someone powerful, someone wild. it’s not something you’re allowed to know about, but you know it’s bad. so you put your head down, and you work, because that’s what you’re good at, after all. you find out the gatekeeper’s name and send him a thank-you card and also handmade chapstick and some good earmuffs.

shay messages you that night. i have to go somewhere, she says, i can’t explain it, but there’s a mission and i might be gone a long time.

you stare at the screen for a long time. your fingers type out three words. you erase them. you instead write where could possibly better than stealing chef boyardee with me?

she doesn’t read it. you close the tab. 

and you put your head down. and work.

xxx

it’s in a chili’s. like, you don’t even like chili’s? chili’s sucks, but the boss ordered it so you’re here to pick it up, wondering if he gave you enough money to cover. things have been bad recently. thousands dying. whoever switched sides is too powerful to stop. they destroy anyone and anything, no matter the cost.

the phoenix fire smells like pistachios, you realize. you feel at once part of yourself and very far. it happens so quickly, but you feel it slowly. you wonder if shay is involved, but know she is not.

the doors burst in. there’s screaming. those in the area try their powers to defend themselves, but everyone is civilian division. the smell of pistachios is cloying. 

then they see you. and you see them. and you put your hands on your hips.

“excuse me, tris,” you say, “what are you doing?”

there’s tears in her eyes. “i need the money,” she croaks.

“From a chili’s?” you want to know, “who in their right mind robs a chili’s? what are you going to do, steal their mozzarella sticks?”

“it’s connected to a bank on the east wall,” she explains, “but i thought it was stupid too.”

you shake your head. you pull out your personal checkbook. you ask her how much she needs, and you see her crying. you promise her the rest when you get your paycheck.

someone bursts into the room. shouts things. demands they start killing. 

but you’re standing in the way, and none of them will kill you or hurt you, because they all know you, and you helped them at some point or another, or helped their friend, or helped their children.

tris takes the money, everyone leaves. by the time the heroes show up, you’ve gotten everyone out of the building.

the next time you see tris, she’s marrying a beautiful woman, and living happily, having sent her cancer running. you’re a bridesmaid at the wedding.

xxx

“you just,” the director wants to know now, “sent them running?” 

hanson stands between her and you, although you don’t need the protection.

“no,” you say again, for the millionth time, “i just gave her the money she needed and told her to stop it.”

“the phoenix group,” the director of squadron 300 has a vein showing, “does not just stop it.”

you don’t mention the social issues which confound to make criminal activity a necessity for some people, or how certain stereotypes forced people into negative roles to begin with, or how an uneven balance of power punished those with any neurodivergence. instead you say, “yeah, they do.”

“i’m telling you,” hanson says, “we brought her out a few times. it happens every time. they won’t hurt her. we need her on our team.”

your spine is stiff. “i don’t do well as a weapon,” you say, voice low, knowing these two people could obliterate you if they wished. but you won’t use people’s trust against them, not for anything. besides, it’s not like trust is your superpower. you’re just a normal person.

hanson snorts. “no,” he says, “but i like that when you show up, the fighting just… stops. that’s pretty nice, kid.”

“do you know… what we are dealing with…. since agent 25… shifted….?” the director’s voice is thin.

“yeah,” hanson says, “that’s why i think she’d be useful, you know? add some peace to things.”

the director sits down. sighs. waves her hand. “whatever,” she croaks, “do what you want. reassign her.”

hanson leads you out. over your shoulder, you see her put her head in her hands. later, you get her a homemade spa kit, and make sure to help her out by making her a real dinner from time to time, something she’s too busy for, mostly.

at night, you write shay messages you don’t send. telling her things you cannot manage.

one morning you wake up to a terrible message: shay is gone. never to be seen again.

xxx

you’re eating ice cream when you find him.

behind you, the city is burning. hundreds dead, if not thousands.

he’s staring at the river. maybe half-crying. it’s hard to tell, his body is shifting, seemingly caught between all things and being nothing.

“ooh buddy,” you say, passing him a cone-in-a-cup, the way he likes it, “talk about a night on the town.”

the bench is burning beside him, so you put your jacket down and snuff it out. it’s hard sitting next to him. he emits so much.

“hey tim?” you say. 

“yeah?” his voice is a million voices, a million powers, a terrible curse. 

“can i help?” you ask.

he eats a spoonful of ice cream. 

“yeah,” he says eventually. “i think i give up.”

xxx

later, when they praise you for defeating him, you won’t smile. they try to put you in the media; an all-time hero. you decline every interview and press conference. you attend his funeral with a veil over your head.

the box goes into the ground. you can’t stop crying.

you’re the only one left at the site. it’s dark now, the subtle night.

you feel her at your side and something in your heart stops hurting. a healing you didn’t know you needed. her hands find yours.

“they wanted me to kill him,” she says, “they thought i’d be the only one who could.” her hands are warm. you aren’t breathing.

“beat you to it,” you say. 

“i see that,” she tells you. 

you both stand there. crickets nestle the silence.

“you know,” she says eventually, “i have no idea which side is the good one.”

“i think that’s the point of a good metaphor about power and control,” you say, “it reflects the human spirit. no tool or talent is good or bad.”

“just useful,” she whispers. after a long time, she wonders, “so what does that make us?”

xxx

it’s a long trek up into the mountains. shay seems better every day. more solid. less like she’s on another plane.

“heard you’re a top ten,” she tells me, her breath coming out in a fog. you’ve reclassed her to civilian. it took calling in a few favors, but you’ve got a lot. 

“yeah,” you say, “invulnerable.”

“oh, is that your superpower?” she laughs. she knows it’s not.

“that’s what they’re calling it,” you tell her, out of breath the way she is not, “it’s how they explain a person like me at the top.”

“if that means ‘nobody wants to kill me’, i think i’m the opposite.” but she’s laughing, in a light way, a way that’s been missing from her.

the cabin is around the corner. the lights are already on. 

“somebody’s home,” i grin.

tim, just tim, tim who isn’t forced into war and a million reflections, opens the door. “come on in.” xxx squadron one, division three. a picture of shay in a wedding dress is on my desk. she looks radiant, even though she’s marrying little old me.

what do i do? just what i’m best at. what’s not a superpower. what anyone is capable of: just plain old helping.

Written art. Beautiful. Better than most movies. Please read and share.

Lmfao

This post honestly keeps getting better

cinderella marries the prince

and it’s… fine. The prince is great! They’re in love, he’s very sweet and passionate, writing her poems and songs, giving her anything she wants. The time she spends with her husband is great.

but cinderella is not royalty, her family was noble but she never spent time in those circles. She’s used to being busy, she’s used to cooking and cleaning and mending. There are hours, days, where she has nothing to do.

time passes. cinderella learns the fancy lady type of needlework. Learns to ride horses. Reads a lot.

as is normal for royalty at the time, they travel and are hosted by nobles or stay at castles owned by the king. But even that variety begins to become routine. The prince is distracted, there’s a lot of young women living and working on their route. Daughters of nobles. Younger and prettier with soft hands that have never done a day’s work.

cinderella needs something to spend her time on, and there’s a part of her thinking a couple-only trip might get her husband’s attention again, so she suggests making an old castle that’s fallen into disrepair their “project.” It was built in the time when castles were made to be defensible, so it’s quite sturdy, but it’s overgrown and secluded. The prince doesn’t know why his family stopped living there either. A hundred years ago it was their summer home.

so they go. And they work. And for a while it’s great! But when they leave for winter cinderella’s husband forgets her once again. cinderella resolves to make the best of her life and stop worrying about a man who has gotten what he wanted from her.

summer comes again and this time cinderella goes alone to the old castle (minus staff, of course, but cinderella manages to narrow it down to only repair workers and one maid). She can cook and clean and mend again, but this time it’s her own choice. She is happy.

this summer they make more progress on repairs. The workers say that most of it can be salvaged, except one tower that’s been completely overgrown with vines and briars. It will have to come down, eventually, but for now it can be safely ignored.

cinderella has more free time now. The old castle has a surprisingly untouched library, though time and moisture have damaged many of the books. Behind a collection of greek poetry cinderella finds an old diary. Very old, in fact, at least a hundred years. It’s rude to read a diary, of course, but whoever wrote this is long dead, and cinderella is bored, so…

from the description of activities the author looks to have been nobility. Maybe even a princess. She’s sensitive and sweet and smarter than she seems to realize. If circumstances had been different cinderella wishes they could have been friends…

after the summer ends cinderella returns to her husband. He’s spending a lot of time with a young musician and cinderella can’t even work up the energy to care. She does some research about the castle and the family she’s married into, finds out the name of the princess who wrote the diary.

aurora. Cursed and forgotten. She died young, they say, in a plague that also took out the castle staff and her own parents. Luckily they avoided a succession crisis, but not so lucky for the dead.

time passes. cinderella goes to the old castle again and again, even out of season. Soon enough all that remains to be done is the old tower, and the builders say they should tear it down and fill the gaps before it gets cold.

one night cinderella is restless. The princess from the diary had been fond of that tower, and cinderella is far more attached to a dead woman than she ought to be. She gets out of bed, reads by candlelight, and finally goes to walk the empty halls.

she finds herself going to the tower. Pushing past the vines that don’t seem so troublesome really. They almost part before her. The stairs are perfectly intact, the door at the top is already cracked open. As if she should have done this years ago, cinderella steps into aurora’s bedroom.

she’s as beautiful as the stories say. And sitting under her hands, crossed across her stomach as it rises and falls, is a book of greek poetry.

years later, people will tell the story of cinderella as a cautionary one. Don’t seek above your station. Don’t marry for prestige. After all, a girl who grew up as a servant once married the crown prince, and disappeared after only three years. She ran away, they say, she couldn’t handle the lifestyle.

two old women who run a bookshop together agree with the lesson. Marrying for the wrong reasons never ends well. It’s best to wait for someone you have things in common with, shared interests.

or, failing that, the more linguistic of the two says, wait a decade or ten for someone to fall in love with you from your diary.

her partner laughs and hits her with the socks she is mending.

Story time!

Where were stories like this when I was a kid???? This is GORGEOUS! I actually felt a little heart-lurch when the name Aurora came up like, “IS THIS GONNA HAPPEN????’ and it DID!

big muscle lesbians you are so fucking valid

this goes double for big muscle trans lesbians

@roseliatea

Failed Prank

I like how that cat obviously avoided the tape on sheer autopilot and it’s wondering what the fuck just happened

That was a “Wait, what?” if ever I saw one.

Cosplayer Kiera Please!

IG: kieraplease

This should have way more notes she murdered these 😍

I can’t deal with how kickass these cosplays are.

some others:

and Merida, holy shit:

ignore my swooning over the last one omg

Im

Im so amazed. This is so awesomei

get ready to be gay², folks

holy fuck this is talent.

Going off-topic today to share what I’ve been working on at my day job! It’s tangential to what I usually talk about here, so I figured y’all might enjoy it.

I’m a librarian in the Washington DC area, and for years, my library has been working on a project to preserve our collection of VHS tapes. This week, we finished digitizing the last videotape on-site for a total of 2250 videos that we can make available to our patrons again.

We have a collection of over 8000 VHS tapes, including lots of documentaries and educational films. For obvious reasons, our patrons can’t access them anymore. VHS is undergoing what has been called “degralescence” – degradation and obsolescence. The tapes are deteriorating, and the format is becoming more obsolete. Fewer new TVs even have the video inputs for VHS players.

For the most part, these tapes aren’t unique. They’re commercial videotapes, which means compared to one-of-a-kind video collections, they’re a low priority to digitize. But if we don’t do it, who will? If not now, when? So we did it.

Under Section 108© of US copyright law, libraries are allowed to make a reproduction of a copyrighted work, as long as 1) there are no new replacements for sale and 2) the original format is degrading, damaged, or obsolete. There’s more to it than that, but basically, as far as VHS is concerned, if it’s not being sold anymore, we can digitize it!

With lots of help from our student staff, we audited the collection and found that we had about 4000 videos that qualified. A huge chunk of those were being kept in off-site storage. The remaining 2200+ were on-site, and that’s what we finished digitizing this week.

It took a lot of time. VHS digitization happens in real-time, so an hour-long tape takes one hour to capture.

In total, that comes out to 37 TB of video, compressed! Here’s our storage arrays:

This is a big achievement for us, and it hasn’t been an automatic process. Preservation takes work. There’s a lot of human labor involved, especially in A/V preservation, with manual processing and attention needed for individual videos. We listened to experts and found how to make it work in our time and budget.

The project is still ongoing. In addition to everything we have to digitize from off-site storage, we have to keep maintaining the digital video collection. Digital storage is volatile, and we have to ensure we have backups and that we keep it in an accessible format. Preservation is never in the past tense. A thing is never preserved. We’re always preserving.

This has been a huge team effort across the library. These projects don’t happen alone, and I want to stress how much the whole library contributed to this!

absolutely incredible you funky little archivists

@sassypagefriend @allofthefeelings

*releases pack of dads into home depot* go……be free

invasive species encroach on lesbian territory

This is a common misconception because they’re such similar environments, but you should be aware that dads are native to Home Depot, while lesbians are actually native to Lowe’s. At this point, however, both dads and lesbians have made themselves at home in both Home Depot and Lowe’s to the point that trying to separate them back into their original ranges would probably do more harm than good to the delicate ecosystem of large chain hardware stores.

A properly raised and socialized Dad will be perfectly comfortable cohabiting with Lesbians. Its not really “encroaching on another’s territory”. You wouldn’t say that about foxes in a forest that also homes bobcats, would you? No. It’s just two different species that have both evolved to live in similar/the same environment. As long as they recognize each other as equals, Dads and Lesbians are more than capable of cohabitation.

Now, if you were to release a pack of Lumberjacks into a Lowes or Home Depot, that’s where chaos will reign. Being adapted to a far harsher and more demanding environment, the Lumberjacks would simply push Dads and Lesbians both out and also consume far more than a sustainable amount of resources. It would be like releasing bears at a country club.

As a former timber-harvester… I feel this is potentially accurate in theory. But highly improbable in actuality.

Lumberjacks, like most megafauna species generally require more space than the average hardware store, even a big box store could provide. The misconception is that Lumberjacks are a social species because of how they often work and live together.

This is a matter of necessity, not preference, and a survival technique for thriving under the LogBoss.

A “pack” of Lumberjacks, if not under the environmental pressure of a LogBoss will naturally disperse until they each have a wide territory.

Lumberjacks rarely fight for territory.

One on one, a Lumberjack could drive out a Dad or Lesbian, however the latter tend to travel in social packs.

Lumberjacks will passively retreat on the presence of large numbers of people. Kind of like Sasquatch.

Getting a “pack” of Lumberjacks assembled would be hard enough unless they were forced into a Hardware Store by a LogBoss. In that case, they would already be in a heightened and potentially agitated state far above their natural behavior. This artificial scenario can be likened to a circus animal running amok. If it had been in the wild, the incident would not have occurred.

Free-roaming Lumberjacks are the cryptids of the Hardware ecosystem. They are surprisingly quiet and unobtrusive.

Please stop labeling Lumberjacks as dangerous roving social predators. They are intermediate level omnivores and remarkably peaceful unless threatened.

As a hardware store worker I can say that this is all 100% accurate.