Tag: Story time

Loneliness

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space-ozzies:

Terrans were not the first to turn their technological powers towards automation, and they would most likely not be the last. They did not know the warnings of civilizations before, who were wiped out by their own creations.

But, Terrans are vastly different from other civilizations, something we did not account for in either our war with them, or while watching them create sentient mechanical creatures.

Terrans are kind to those they decide worthy of it, and cruel to those they decide worthy of the cruelness. They cared for and pampered their robotic servants, and the few that were neglected tended to self-destruct or run away to what the Terrans called ‘Robot Orphanages’, where you could help care for a robot, something we did not expect.

There were minor rise-ups and revolutions, of course, but not very many, and they were not anywhere close to the size of the revolution that wiped out the Yuin. The Terrans took care of these conflicts with gentleness when they could, and overwhelming firepower when they couldn’t.

Thus, the Terrans became the leading superpower in the galaxy when it came to robots and automation. We found out how grave a situation that was when they attacked us due to trade embargoes that we put in place, inspired by their seemingly endless thirst for territory.

The robots fought alongside them, sabotaging ships and entire fleets, poisoning entire cities, causing the death toll they raised to millions.

Yet, as soon as we met their demands, the Terrans and their robots, as it is said in one of the more common Terran languages, “Did a 180.”

The species and robots which decimated planets due to chemical warfare quickly distributed cures and protective gear to civilians, offering places for war refugees to stay, and even supplying us with materials to rebuild. We were stunned. No sane species would ever do something like this.

But then again, you should never use the word ‘sane’ when referring to a Terran or their creations.

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lovelyirony:

ironmanstan:

smalltonystark:

tony stark’s youtube channel but it’s just him complaining about the avengers’ fashion sense

“seriously guys if yall gonna live off of my money at least dress better”

It all starts with Clint Barton. Of course it does. The man couldn’t dress himself if Coco Chanel was his personal adviser. She’d probably give up after five minutes. That’s what Pepper did after she tried to convince Clint to give up his old shoes. 

But that’s Clint. That’s fine. But then Tony notices everyone else. Steve, with the ill-fitting pants and shirts that yes, are good to look at, but come on. Tony will only let Steve visit the president in uncomfortably tight pants at least once. 

Then he notices that when she’s not on mission, Natasha has only a sampling of an idea of what she likes. A lot of loose things, but a lot of it doesn’t fit well. Tony stares at the sweatshirt she drowns in and just sighs. The joy of being the only fashionable one. 

Thor doesn’t care enough, and Bruce also doesn’t. 

“I don’t want people to see me, so why bother?” Bruce asks with a shrug. (Tony still doesn’t know how Thor looks at Bruce like he’s got stars around his head when he’s in a really bad graphic tee he got from the bargain bin for ninety-nine cents, but whatever.) 

So he starts a YouTube channel after seeing a Met Gala roast. He knows if Wintour hadn’t banned him from them for saying that “Iron Man could be on staff for all of the mistaken invitations” they’d be so much more on-theme. 

It starts out small, actually. Just a side project of Tony walking around his lab and ranting about “how can Clint wear THAT. That monstrosity. God, he looks so bad. WHy is he like this.” 

But the video that blows up is the one that features Steve. (Naturally.) 

Tony rants for fifteen minutes about how Steve has the sense of “a fruit fly in front of a swatter” and brings up multiple outfit choices that he had had to convince Steve out of. 

And then. 

The line. 

It’s iconic. It’s wonderful. It’s absolutely used in pop culture afterwards. 

“If they’re going to live off my money, they might as well dress better,” Tony had muttered. He’d forgotten to cut it, and Friday and Jarvis had both agreed to leave it in. (Tony hates kind of that Friday is learning from her big brother, she could be so much better behaved.) 

But regardless, it blows up. There are shirts, there are celebrities reacting, and more than a few dirty looks from his fellow teammates. Tony shrugs. 

“Well, I’ll retract my statement when I’m wrong.” 

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221cbakerstreet:

thededfa:

glumshoe:

glumshoe:

What would it take for someone to sell you three “magic beans” for $10 at a farmer’s market?

Specifically, what kind of person would you buy magic beans from? You have no way of knowing if the beans are actually magical – they probably aren’t. But just how colorful a character would a magic bean salesman have to be before you willingly spent $10 for the experience of buying magic beans from an eccentric stranger?

I wouldn’t buy $10 magic beans from a young man with an undercut and suspenders with sailor tattooes on his forearms. He might be a nice guy – maybe I’d be friends with him. But I would not spend $10 for the experience of purchasing magic beans from him, unless they were actual real magic beans and he could prove that.

I might buy $10 magic beans from a small child in a wizard costume. It depends. Maybe if they’re really committed to the role – then I’m purchasing the privilege of interacting with them.

I might but $10 magic beans from an incredibly sexy, mysterious lady with long opera gloves and glittering eyes, but probably not – I might give her money just for smiling at me but I don’t think she’d really have the right vibe for selling magic beans. Potions, yes. Not beans.

I’d probably buy magic beans from a wild-haired, cheerful witch in overalls and mud boots, but that wouldn’t really be about the beans, it’d be about finding excuses to talk to her.

I’d absolutely buy magic beans from a toothless old person dressed entirely in hot pink or chartreuse who answered my questions with rambling non-sequiturs and told me long, scandalous, scientifically impossible stories about how things used to be.

I would buy three magic beans from the white haired woman who sits on the back of her pickup with dozens of jars of jelly laid out on a table in the abandoned fair ground. She doesn’t sell jelly; she sells potted plants. If you compliment her on her wooden sandals though, she will give you a jar of jelly. She asks if my children are twins every week, and is disappointed they aren’t twins every week. I would buy three magic beans for $10 from her.

On another note, I have traded a crocheted snowflake for ten acorns with a small, barefoot, blonde child in a white dress I encountered in the woods. Two of the acorns sprouted on the way home and I now have them growing in pots.

dude at some point the signs for the goblin market and the farmer’s market in your town got switched but your fae are too polite to say anything when you keep coming back

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theshitpostcalligrapher:

snugglyaggron:

theshitpostcalligrapher:

my-pleasant-good-morning:

theshitpostcalligrapher:

theshitpostcalligrapher:

so no time to sew a new dress for Oxford Rennaissance Festival this year so i cobbled some stuff together from old dresses and a black summer dress i snagged to be used as a costume base at some point.

Come hang w me this weekend at Oxford Renn! There’s pirates n shit its dope as hell, its in Dorchester, Oxford County, Ontario 

this weekend was dope as fuck and im pretty sure i didn’t get more than one bug bite camping so im fuckn pleased.

have this pic of the full costume with all the shit added, pollen count was buckwild ergo mask and it was cold ergo cape. the whole thing together had more of a rogue/pirate aesthetic than planned, but what would yall call this aesthetic??? Roast me in the notes thanx

I don’t know it you do it by land or by sea but you def look like you steal shit

fuck yea thievery 

You look like the thief that lives in the woods that are probably enchanted but nobody knows because everyone else is too scared to willingly go in there and many, many people have gotten lost but you know the place like the back of your hand. Every once in a while someone finds your temporary camp by complete accident and you don’t steal from those people – but the rich assholes parading their way through the woods on the one reliable path are a definite target. The definite target. They don’t even see you coming, and the ambush happens before they know it, and then you’ve vanished, but nobody ever sees you running – you’re just gone. You vibe off the vibe that you know a lot about healing – maybe not as much as someone who studies healing for a living, but definitely enough to patch up wounded travelers or rescued captives.

Somehow, though even though you’re a thief living in the enchanted woods, you’re best friends with the queen, and she always greets you happily whenever you grace the castle with your presence – granted, nobody knows how you got into the castle, because the guards never got the opportunity to stop you and the servants never got to announce your presence, but you just showed up and nobody dares to try and throw you out because you and the queen have just sat down to share a bottle of fine wine

bruh this is fuckin dope as hell does anyone wanna start a webcomic on this premise

Now I read the Sacred and the Profane and I’m dying. Any happy headcanons about our non-AU angel/demon pair?

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thebibliosphere:

Despite being a demon, Crowley is cold blooded. Quite literally. His hands are always cold, especially in winter, a time of year he detests when he can feel each and every single one of his 6000 years in his aching human bones.

“You should have brought gloves,” the angel tells him, and it’s all Crowley can do not to mimic him out of sheer annoyance as they walk through St James’s park.

“Yes well I didn’t.”

“Put them in your pockets?”

“In these jeans?”

“Oh for heaven’s sake” the angel says, removing his left glove, and handing it to Crowley, “there, put that on.”

The demon arches an eyebrow at him. “One glove, really?”

“Just put it on.”

“Well at least I’ll only lose the one hand,” he grouses, slipping the glove on and flexing his fingers, thoroughly enjoying the warmth left over by Aziraphale’s hand. “But what about you, won’t your left hand be cold now?”

“No,” Aziraphale replies, taking Crowley’s right hand in his left, and slipping them into the warmth of his jacket pocket as they begin to climb the steps and head out onto the main street, the demon falling uncharacteristically silent as they walk close together side by side as the first snow of the season begins to fall. “Not really.”

It’s also why he likes to sleep so much. There’s just something in him that’s hard wired to find a nice cozy spot and curl up and sleep for a few hours centuries. After the end times fail to happen, Aziraphale’s shop becomes one of his favorite spots. After all, he’s got some time now, he can enjoy it now.

The couch in the back isn’t just the couch anymore, it’s Crowley’s couch, and it’s not uncommon for the angel to slip back there every so often and find the demon fast asleep, his long limbs splayed out in a gloriously decadent sprawl as he naps the day away. Other times he’ll be curled in on himself, limbs taught, breathing rapid. Those are the times Aziraphale finds it hard to leave. He doesn’t sleep himself, not really, not in the way Crowley does. But he knows the value of rest, and there’s something so incredibly restful about sitting there in the cloistered back room, a good book in hand, a cup of tea on the table beside him, and Crowley’s slumbering head in his lap.

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ironswordandstarshield:

3000stony:

so morgan stark finds an old flip phone while snooping around and manages to dial the only number on it and poor steve almost gets cardiac arrest thats it thats the headcanon

At first, Steve thinks his hearing is going. But then the nurse points at the side table drawer, saying  “Your phone is ringing.” 

After that, Steve doesn’t understand where the ringing is coming from because his phone is in his pocket and not the drawer from where the ringing is coming from. He has to dig deep inside, knuckles bumping against who even remembers what before they curl around the source of the ringing and the vibrations. 

His brain yells a warning but it’s too late. Steve pulls the phone out and he’s catapulted back to 2016. He’s standing in the middle of a dusty street, at the counter of a small shop that sells these burner phones, loading his number up before he walks down to the post office to drop off this package he’s made for Tony.

Heart racing, Steve stupidly thinks, It’s Tony. Tony’s calling. He flips it open, vision swimming and going hazy when he sees the all too familiar name on the screen. Mouth dry and hands shaking, Steve presses the accept button and hoarsely asks, “Tony?”

Keep reading

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differentjasper:

ok you know that ‘make the princess laugh and you can have her hand in marriage’ thing?

imagine so many come in.

they try, so hard, to make her laugh.

she just sits there, morose, ignoring every man who tries to coax a smile.

one day she’s sitting on the balcony. she just looks so sad.

of course that little thief tries to make her smile.

a girl who goes through the (semi public) royal gardens every day to pick flowers, even though technically only the royal family is allowed to do that. 

she sees the princess while she’s picking them up to sell on the streets, and she’s just… so sad. this princess needs someone to cheer her up.

and she tries. she’ll do silly dances when she comes in, she’ll bring up frogs from ponds and act out comedies, she’ll make flower crowns and exaggerate just how hard it is.

the first few days, the princess doesn’t even look at her.

then she starts noticing. this girl, trying so hard to cheer her up. she probably hasn’t even heard of the hand in marriage thing, she doesn’t know she’s trying so hard for nothing.

but she does it anyway.

one day, the princess starts talking to her as she does these things. “You do know that it’s useless?”

“What?” the thief says. “No way! I’m going to get you to laugh!”

“The best jesters in the kingdom have tried, don’t bother,” the princess declared pessimistically, staring down at the girl.

Then the thief puffs out her chest, “Of course I am! I’ll find the best jokes, even better than the jesters have found! I’ll… fight a fire breathing dog for them!”

There’s no laugh, but the corner of the princess’s mouth twitches. it’s sad how she thinks she can make me laugh…

the girl keeps trying, for years, making more silly stories and trading flowers for jokes rather than food or money. the princess slowly realizes the girl is getting closer and closer, asking her for responses in knock knock jokes and encouraging her to speak when she wouldn’t respond immediately.

the princess eventually had the girl hanging from her balcony, holding on tight to the rail and feet wedged between the columns, grinning and telling yet another iteration of that already old chicken joke.

the princess has been smiling, slightly, but she mostly just looks unresponsive. the girl is happy, it’s better than looking so sad, like she had been years before.

the girl moves on to puns, pointing at the exotic lunch the princess was eating. “Why do the melons have to go to get married? They cantaloupe!”

“You only know that word because of me,” the princess snarks, but there’s a small smile there, a bit of happiness. This little flower girl, this thief has grown into an amazing friend, a wonderful person who genuinely just wants to help. she doesn’t know of the deal, only nobles and jesters could know, not the commonfolk.

“Well, it makes quite the pun,” the girl says, proud of her joke. a smile! what an accomplishment!

“Say…” she continued, “What would you call a princess who got swept up in conversation a thief?” she pulled a flower out of her pocket, waving it in front of the princess’s face. the princess’s eyes crossed to see the flower before they rolled at the obvious setup.

though, it was interesting that it obviously involved them.

“I don’t know,” she admitted, sighing in preparation for another horrible pun. “What?”

the girl grinned. “A pretty theft!” she exclaimed, ticking the flower against the princess’s nose.

the princess froze for a moment, stunned. she had been complimented a million times over, called graceful by etiquette instructors, been called beautiful by many a suitor, been called wonderful by her mother before… she stopped thinking about that. 

she had never been called pretty.

she burst into laughter at the commonplace compliment, as if she was some sort of milkmaid who had somehow grown up to be good looking! it was ridiculous, the notion, yet somehow it had her blushing all the same.

then she suddenly stopped, realizing what she’d done.

the flower thief was staring at her in amazement, a blush of her own speckling her cheeks. her flower tilted out from in front of the princess’s nose, as if it had it’s own amazement.

“Wow…” the girl breathed. she’d never heard something so beautiful in her life.

The princess was silent, knowing what she had just done. She had just laughed for the first time in years.

The girl may not have been aware of the arrangement, but she was quickly swept up in it. A maid had heard the laughter and burst in, to find the thief and the princess, caught up in each other’s eyes, reveling in what had just happened.

The wedding was beautiful, a flower filled affair, a wonderful nod to how it happened. The king was so happy to see his daughter with someone who made her smile for once, tearing up as they were wed.

The princess’s laugh was still incredibly rare. She still had a hard time smiling. But a well timed joke from the girl– no, her wife– and another flower that had a hidden meaning behind it, than maybe, maybe you would hear it.

After all, the princess had finally laughed with the one she loved.

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lineffability:

It happened in a garden. It happened when his hereditary enemy slithered up beside him and they watched human history unfold for the very first time in front of their eyes and out of their reach, wondering about Right And Wrong when really they ought to have been wondering why they were standing side by side. 

As the first rain drops fell they huddled together, one Fallen Angel and one About To Fall but in a different way, hovering on a precipe he did not see until centuries later. The snake’s yellow, amused eyes had burned themsleves into his being, and Aziraphale had known back then that they would never quite leave him. He extended one wing, and with it an unspoken invitation.

It happened in Rome, when against his better judgement he approached the demon he should have been thwarting only to offer him temptation, of all things, and to rejoice when he received a smile and dinner company. Aziraphale had loved oysters before, but that day they had tasted sweeter. He’d credited Petronius. 

It happened in London–where it would happen many times more–when Crowley did Good for his sake and Aziraphale betrayed Heaven for logic; when he could no longer deny that they were opposing forces complementing each other as shadow complements light. Maybe they weren’t cancelling each other out. Maybe they were completing each other. 

They came to agree on an Arrangement, a transgression that felt far too right to be so very wrong, not when it was him he was transgressing with (and when it changed nothing of the outcome, Aziraphale reminded himself, almost as an afterthought). And not when he suspected that a part of Crowley was rejoicing in the reverse betrayal of Hell, in doing good for Goodness’ sake.  

It happened in France, when Aziraphale had been supposed to die and found himself, crêpe in hand, beside an old friend who had saved his life for the hell of it, expecting nothing in return. The sound of Crowley’s voice made his heart beat faster, even if he tried blaming it on the guillotine outside.

It happened in a church, when a demon tread on holy ground to rescue an angel. When Crowley handed him a bag of old books saved by a demonic miracle while Heaven was silent and Aziraphale toppled off that precipe he had been balancing on for thousands of years. The church was gone but Crowley was still there, waiting for him, and Aziraphale was standing in between rubble but Falling, and his heart ached at the impossibility of it. 

It happened in a car–not in a car, in the car, the same one that had driven him home through the Blitz and in which he was now handing his best friend the tool for his destruction because he could not bear to think of a world without Crowley. They had been together since the Beginning, and he needed to know he’d be there with him until the End. 

It happened at the End Of All Things, when all was lost and still they could not give up, not the world and not each other. Aziraphale had not been able to run away because he knew there was nowhere to run, but as human history folded in on itself as they stood side by side one last time he realized that Until The End was not enough. 

It happened when Aziraphale no longer wondered about Right And Wrong because he knew. It had always been them, side by side, without question. At a bus stop, on a park bench, in a quiet flat, a bustling bookshop, at the Ritz. In a garden. He understood, now. It had happened when they’d started it, and when they had refused to let it end. It had been happening all along, slowly and all at once. And it was still happening. 

Aziraphale had not exactly fallen in love: he had sauntered vaguely downwards.

the untold story of the gin aunt

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systlin:

more-aoe:

sonnetsandswingouts:

more-aoe:

more-aoe:

thedarkitalian:

more-aoe:

I realized, while looking through my archive, that I never told you guys specifically why I’m the gin aunt.

Anyone want storytime?

Share ballades

okay so like, here we go

4 years ago I decided to take a solo trip to visit my best friend, M (when I tell this story in meatspace I have to specify that my best friend and I share the same name, and I’m not talking about myself in the 3rd person). She had had twins the year before, and when that happened I surprised her by showing up and helping out and passing on some Motherly Knowledge, and was bestowed the title of aunt.

Anyway yeah it was 4 years ago and the giant storm had just passed in Boston and there were 9 foot tall banks of snow on the streets from the plows that had gone by (and then given up, I guess) and plastic lawn chairs everywhere to save parking spots. I’d also decided, while I was up in Boston, to swing by Essex to visit a friend who also owned a company I’d done some product work for.

The first night was great; we slid right back into being besties and it was like time had never passed for us. The second day dawned, and that was the day M was going to drive us all up to Essex to visit E, and maybe buy some slings because what else does the leader of a baby sling group do when at her friend’s sling business? Buy some damn slings.

Everything went fine. M’s babies were the toast of the town. I got some product photography in. Partway through E said to me, “Hey, you want a drink? I’ve got some gin and other stuff here.” Of course I agreed. I don’t turn down drinks and I wasn’t driving.

So E got out her drink-making-apparatuses which really just consisted of a huge fucking bottle of gin, coffee mugs, and those really fancy large ice cubes. After a minute she handed me the mug and went, “I made this a little strong, sorry!” Having abused my liver back in my 20s I just scoffed and told her I’d be fine. 

I drank it. It was indeed strong. Maybe I had a second, I don’t know.

I was started to buzz when we left the store. Partway back to Boston, the gin hit me. Like it reared up and punched me in the face and holy shit, M’s new minivan was sweet as hell and it had the live sideview cam so you can see your blindspot and M, did you know? did you know how sweet your car is?

Of course she knew. And then another urge pressed upon me.

“M,” I said. “I kind of have to pee.”

“Oh, M!” she said in a super cheery voice, because that’s how she is. Literally the most chipper person I know. “You can pee in my car, that’s okay.”

I said it then and I’ll say it now: what the fuck?

“I don’t care how drunk I am,” I declared, “I’m not peeing in your car.”

“No it’s totally fine! You can just pee in my car!”

“You just got this car! I’m not peeing in your car!”

“If you have to go just go! I’m okay with it!”

I held it because no act of God could ever get me to piss in the back of my best friend’s car while roaringly drunk. We got back to Boston, where I hopped gingerly out of the car and began shimmying my way up ice-covered sidewalks and steep concrete Boston stairs.

Keep reading

in honor of my kid’s birthday and telling this story, i have just drunk some gin. clink clink, everybody!

I took a younger friend to a national dance conference when I was 21 and she was 18. Third night of the week was THE party night; I swear, it was like every college movie party scene, only with better liquor.

Anyways, I’m having a good time, putting down Aviations like soda and angling to make a move on the guy I had a massive crush on, when I realize I hadn’t seen younger friend in a while.

I take myself out of the room party, track younger friend down in another room party, and put her safely to bed before going back out. Later, I barely refrain from kissing the crush* and both brush my teeth and change into pjs before passing out.

*long and complicated story, kissing him while drunk would not have had good repercussions.

drunk big sister power move! you are a kindred spirit.

This is still one of the funniest fucking things I’ve ever read

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whyamionlyabletouse32characters:

soul-of-sin:

sun-flowers-sam:

thefingerfuckingfemalefury:

under-the-arch:

imanicepersoniswear:

sympathetic-deceit-trash:

splinterdirk:

batsalmighty:

schmergo:

puerto-nic0:

glumshoe:

glumshoe:

glumshoe:

I like haunted houses in theory BUT I have no idea how to react when the actors speak to you. They ask me a question and I just… answer it…

The scariest part of a haunted house is the unscripted social interaction.

Scary nurse in a creepy voice: “Do you have an appointment to see the doctor?”

Me: “Uh. Do you accept walk-ins?”

Scary farmer: “I like to kill people!”

My friend, brightly: “I like to die!”

Zombie : “AARRRGH”

Me : “Do you get dental insurance?”

Zombie : “TEETH!!”

This happened to me.

Scary prison dude: HELLO

Me: Nice to meet you!

Him: (pause) No it’s noooooot

My worst horror house experience was when I couldn’t find the (rather obvious) exit and the guy chasing me with a chainsaw stopped, sighed and pointed me to the exit, saying “please scream as loud as you can when you run out there” and just left. I disappointed the horror house chainsaw dude and I will never get over that

Guy: They are all my friends.. (motioning to hanging corpses; then grabs a noose) Will you be my friend? 
Me: Sure totally, you made me a friendship necklace? Oh my god your so sweet? 
Guy: … Yes.. Please, let me.. I cant I cant just go (laughing). 

– Got to walk a second time through– 

Same guy: My friends -wailing- 
Me: I came back I just really wanted to be friends so bad
Guy: (laughing more) Please, Im not allowed to laugh. 

I went to a Haunted House and literally befriended every actor there.

Specifically, I remember;

There were zombies walking around in the waiting room. I said “Hi!” and he gave me a high five. Every time he passed from then on, I got a high five.

Near the end, there were these twin little girls. “Come play with us.” They said. “Okay!” I said. “Forever.” They said. “Oh, sorry, can’t do that. I’m busy.”

I could hear them giggling.

Guy playing Freddie Kruger: Remember, you are all my children!

Me: thanks dad

A small chorus of teenagers: thanks dad

I went to a haunted corn maze once. Someone ran at me with a chainsaw. I just stared at him. He hung his head and walked away. I left.

The Real Horror Is The People We Dissapointed Along The Way

IM CRYING

When I was like three my parents took me on a haunted train ride and my sister was freaking out but I was like?? Oh neat

And an actor in costume as a vampire or whatever came down and was like “how do you do little one” all looming and creepy or whatever and i brightly answered “very well thank you!!” And tried to shake his hand bc my mother raised me with MANNERS

I remember once at universal studios I was overstimulated and ready to go home but my family didn’t want to leave so I was just standing in the middle of everything trying not to cry and the beetlejuice dude came up to me and growled and wiggled his fingers in my face so I just did the same thing to him and walked away