
PSA
OMG! I love that LIMOUSINE MOUSE!
That’s a new one

PSA
OMG! I love that LIMOUSINE MOUSE!
That’s a new one
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.
IMAGINE HAVING A SUPER ARTISTIC SOULMATE WHO DRAWS FLOWERS AND DESIGNS AND REALLY BEAUTIFUL PATTERNS ALL OVER THEIR ARMS AND PERSON 2 JUST SITS THERE AND WATCHES THE LITTLE LINES APPEAR ON THEIR ARMS AND THEY CAN’T STOP SMILING AND IT’S THEIR FAVORITE PART OF THE DAY
IMAGINE PERSON 1 BEING SUPER FORGETFUL SO THEY SCRIBBLE DOWN ALL THE PLACES THEIR APPOINTMENTS ARE AND PERSON 2 TRIES TO DECIPHER THEM AND FIGURE OUT WHERE THEY’RE AT AND THEY MEET AND THEY SEE THEIR WRITING ON THEIR HAND FROM ACROSS THE WAITING ROOM/ COFFEE SHOP/ ETC. AND THEY SCRAMBLE TO FIND A PEN AND WRITE ‘FOUND YOU’ ON THE BACK OF THEIR HAND AND PERSON 1 SEES IT AND THEY LOCK EYES AND
WOW I LIKE THIS AU
okay but imagine just drawing dicks on your face while the other person is in the middle of an important interview
Canadian Pokémon emerge from the tall grass.
Edit: Added a bonus Canada Day evolution. 🙂
There’s a Michiru fanart on CDC I love A LOT but the author doesn’t have a tumblr, unfortunately. Guys, if you love Michiru I HIGHLY RECOMMEND. Here’s the link to the artwork, it’s by Sarah Ismail Elgendie, and it’s one of my favorite Michiru fanarts now.
The four horsemen of the apocalypse
This is an amazing idea and gifset. I love it.
But I’d also reorder it slightly.
War, yes, War suits Gryffindor well. Fighting and dying for beliefs; fighting and dying for nothing; drafted into bloodshed and fire by bravery or chivalry or neither. Some take joy in this; some are burdened beyond repair. There was a cause, somewhere; there was good, somewhere; there was a reason for all this, somewhere. Oh, you’d have to be brave to live through this. Red and gold. Gold like armor and glory; red like blood and reality.
But Famine and Hufflepuff? No. Famine is Ravenclaw, ever-hungry for knowledge, constantly starving for more and more and more, almost feral for fulfillment. Where is the wisdom in the world? The truth? Nothing is true; nothing is enough; all there is to devour is worthless scraps. Blue and bronze. Bronze like a set of scales tipping and found wanting; blue like the infinite that never satisfies… never gives the answers.
Thus Pestilence is not Ravenclaw. Pestilence is Slytherin, sick with clever plans and cunning potential and corrupting desire. Ambition spreads like a sickness, a plague of greed and an illness to the soul. Maybe some might call it cruel, but here among friends it’s simple cunning at work. Green and silver. Silver like the sheen of glazed eyes; green like the complexion of infection.
And so Death is not Slytherin. Death is Hufflepuff. It is a hard work; it is a work that is never done. But someone must do it, and do it fairly – do it justly – do it well… perhaps even kindly. Everyone is equal here – in the end – a bunch of duffers. Said Hufflepuff, “I’ll teach the lot… And treat them just the same.” Yellow and black. Black like loss of sight as the air leaves your lungs; yellow like the flowers that’ll grow over your grave.
So I’ve been fighting a huge uphill battle with writing these past few months, and this is the longest thing I’ve written in forever. I am AU trash and we all know this, so let’s entertain a Catholic Boarding School AU for a few moments–I don’t know whether I’ll do anything else with this, but it was fun and it felt good, for once, so I’m satisfied. 3.497 words.
The pink barrette in her hair was a concession to the constant
admonition that she needed to be more feminine. What defined femininity didn’t
make a lot of sense to Haruka, considering they had just finished studying an
entire book of the Bible where a woman commanded an army and another put a tent
peg through a man’s temple (Something she mused on often as she was being
lectured by Father Anthony), to say nothing of St. Joan of Arc and her men’s
clothing, but these protestations went ignored or explained away—God had a
certain way of denying Haruka pants—and so Haruka sat in the small chapel of
her dormitory, in a plaid skirt and knee socks, pink barrette in her hair.She looked up at the small statue of St. Joan in the corner, her
selected personal saint. She still remembered stuttering to the sisters about
why she had chosen her, something about the strength to be a soldier in the war
for our lord or something, but that wasn’t true. Joan was a reminder, a
reminder that even the nuns and priests had forgotten. Haruka was just fine the
way she was. God didn’t care if she wore pants. She was still good and noble
and an instrument of God, just the way she was made, and it was this thought
that made the medallion a comfort on her neck as she walked through the halls.Patroness of soldiers and France. Patroness of butch lesbians,
more like.