mousegirl gf who had to hire a Warhammer player to do her wedding makeup because that's the only person who could paint that small

“I gotta go home. I am not staying here.”

*Hawk Screams*

“Are you okay little hawk?”

*Hawk Screams*

I would lose my mind.

And possibly also the tip of my nose/an eyeball from sitting too close to the screen

Teenaged hawk: '"Is this the voiceover studio? Someone hired me to play a bald eagle."

Offcamera, high pitched cheeping: "That's still not funny, Karl."

SOUND ON

the results are in

can i be real with u for a second. i can't believe tjere's a real fandom for stuff like genshin impact. imagine if half your dash was posting about raid shadow legends. you'd think it was astroturf

it's like if people blorboposted about the white slot machine pharaoh

I've gotta be real, while the person who created these comics wasn't religious, this still eats. When I was a young trans person, I never thought religion in general could accept me, and this changed my life to see, and seeing it reposted by religious folks was so comforting. While not all religions aren't the same, I was so afraid of rejection

there is no 'base accent' so like all of this is entirely subjective tbc, just based on what people around you say and how you think you sound

pick whichever language you want to answer in if you're multi-lingual

TOTK - Eternal (part 1)

part 2 here

TOTK - Eternal (part 2)

part 1 here

Every time you put yourself out there, despite the possibility of rejection, you validate your courage and willingness to take risks. Embrace rejection as a form of empowerment. Your journey is one of hope, not self-shame.

you're letting your childhood trauma affect how you feel about a perfectly sane individual such as myself

it literally drives me insane that so many companies refuse to send rejection emails like it’s disgraceful tbh. you put so much time and effort into putting together an application and they can’t even be bothered tell you via some measly automated message that you didn’t get the job. you’re expected to just infer

nietzsche joe

Humanity has finally reached the stars and found out why no one had contacted us. The universe is in a sad state. As such, Doctors without Borders, Red Cross, and many othe charities go intergalactic.

The thing the recruiters don’t tell you about space battles is that you die slowly.

Ships don’t blow up cleanly in flashes and sparks.  Oh, if you’re in the engine room, you’ll probably die instantly, but away from that?  In the computer core, or the communications hub?  You just lose power.  And have to sit, air going stale and room slowly cooling, while you wait to find out if the battle is won or lost.

If it’s lost, nobody comes for you.

It had been about half a day (that’s a Raithar day, probably a bit shorter than yours) and Kvala and I were pretty sure we had lost.  Kvala was injured, Traav and I were dehydrated and exhausted, and Louv was dead, hit by shrapnel when the conduits blew.

Most fleets give you something, of course.  For Raithari, it’s essence of windgrass.  I looked at the vial.

“It’s too soon,” Traav said.

Kvala gestured negation, shakily.  She had been burned when conduits blew, and her feathers were charred, and her leftmost eye was bubbly and blind now.  Even if we were rescued, she probably wouldn’t survive.  “You know we’re losing the war.”

They couldn’t deny that.  “It doesn’t mean we lost the battle.”

“Doesn’t it?  The Chreee have better technology.  Better resources.  And they have their warrior code.  They don’t care if they die.”

“We can’t give up!” Traav protested.  They were young, a young and reckless thar who had listened to a recruiting officer and still believed scraps of what they had been told.  “Any heartbeat now—”

There was a clunk.  Something had docked with our fragment of the ship.

“You see?!” Traav crowed triumphantly.

Kvala exchanged glances with me.  The Chreee never bothered to hunt down survivors.  What was the point, after all?

The Aushkune did.

There weren’t supposed to be Aushkune here.  They were supposed to hide in nebulas.

But if there were—

If there were, we were too late.  The windgrass couldn’t possibly destroy our nervous systems in time to stop the corpse-reviving implants, and once you were implanted, it was over—or it would never be over, depending on how you looked at it and whether Aushkune drones were aware of anything—

Footsteps.

Bipedal.  The Aushkune were supposed to be bipedal.

And then the blast door opened, and a figure stood in it.  My first thought was, robot?  That’s almost worse than Aushkune . . .  But no, it was a being in some sort of suit.

Who wore suits?

“Friendly contact,” the suit’s sound system blared, as the being moved over to Kvala.  “Urgent treatment.  Evacuation.”

“Who are you?”  Kvala struggled upright.

Despite the primitive suit, the blocky being was using up-to-date medical scanners.  “Low frequency right angle shape,” it explained—or maybe didn’t explain.  Two more figures came into the room and put Kvala firmly onto a stretcher.

“You’re with the Chreee, aren’t you?”  Kvala was not at all happy to be on a stretcher.

“Not Chreee,” the sound system said.  “You Man.  Soil Starship Nichols.”  The being hesitated.  “Rescue Chreee as well.  On ship.  Will separate.”

“You what?” I said faintly.  Who would do that?

“Oath,” the being explained.

“What kind of oath?  To what deity?”

The shoulders of the being moved up and down.  “Several different.  Also none.  For me, none.  Just—oath.”

I exchanged glances with Traav, who looked as unsettled as I was.  I had never, ever heard of groups cooperating when they couldn’t even swear to or by the same power.

The being scanned me.  “Have water,” it said.  “Recommend.”

Raithari have fast metabolisms.  I could—would—die of thirst quickly, and painfully.

“Where will you take us,” Traav asked, “after you give us water?”

“Raithari to Raithar.  Chreee to Chreeeholm.”

“Chreeeholm would kill them for failing,” Traav remarked.

The being hesitated, and then said, “War news sometimes bad.  Sometimes lie.”

We had learned long ago not to believe the recruiting officers, but what did that have to do with anything?

“And you—what?” I asked.  “Just fly around looking for battles and rescuing victims?”

The being seemed to consider this.  “Best invention of soil,” it said finally.

Most of what it was saying didn’t make any sense.  Did it worship soil?  But it had said that it had sworn to no deity . . .

Madness.

On the other hand—war was a deliberate, rational act by deliberate, rational people, and I wanted no more of it.  So why not embrace madness and see what happened?

“Soil Starship—Rrikkol?” I asked, stumbling over the word.

“Yes.  Soil Starship Nichols.”

I followed the being in the suit.

Took me well over a minute to realize "low frequency right angle shape" was Red Cross.

I love how this shows the weirdness both of language and of culture. Excellent writing!

"Soil Starship Nichols"

This is what took me a moment.

Earth Starship [Nichelle] Nichols

Excellent writing! I loved this!! (I caught the Nichelle Nichols’s not but was lost by the Red Cross one 😂😂)

This is so ...so what I want my fiction to be. Great work.

you’re doomed, there’s nothing I can do 

100k notes on kiss you stupid. thanks for making my ocs immortal 😊