All The Feels - Blog Posts

“X bodily fluid is just filtered blood!” buddy I hate to break it to you but ALL of the fluids in your body are filtered blood. Your circulatory system is how water gets around your body. It all comes out of the blood (or lymph, which is just filtered blood).

Words don’t even. 🏳️‍🌈 I am emotionally drained but oh my god. I have never been more rapid if someone ever. Just. Wow. ❤️🧡💛💚💙💜

i have a teacher kinda like this and i feel like she’s under appreciated

To the hero professors

So, I’m taking U.S. History one and two over the summer at my community college, and the professor is this older white man. Naturally, this is history, and my first assumption walking in to the class is that I’m gonna be stuck listening to this guy drone on for two months of boredom. Great.

Within the first five minutes I knew I was wrong. So, so wrong.

“I don’t want you to be stuck memorizing dates,” he says. “I want you to know the story, the people, the conditions and reactions so that maybe we can all learn from past mistakes.” I was baffled. A history class that doesn’t require you to be able to rattle off dates? Not only that, there’s no homework and we don’t have to read the text book. The only things that are going to be on the test are things that come straight out of his mouth during class. He introduces himself, and proceeds to go around the room and greets every person one at a time. He will do this every day for the rest of the summer one and two semesters.

Then the lecture begins. I say lecture, but it feels more like story time in kindergarten. He begins to speak with such prose and personality that I forget this is a college course. He’s taken something that has so much potential to be mundane and turned it in to a book that I can’t put down. You bibliophiles know what I’m talking about. And then this glorious fucker ends the class in a mid-sentence cliffhanger.

Every class he carries on this way. It feels as if I’m there. Signing the Declaration, fighting against brothers in the Civil War, listening to FDR’s fireside chats, storming the beaches of Normandy… And he remains unbiased. He wants to make sure we see there’s two sides to every story; understand the conditions that lead to those reactions.

We took a test today, a week from our final exam. He goes around the room in his usual affable fashion, but rather than just ask how we’re doing, today he asks if there’s anything he can do for us. Most folks like myself say something along the lines of nothing, or I’m good. This girl next to me jokingly says, “You can buy me a coffee.”

“How much is it?” He asks.

“About five dollars.” She answers.

And without hesitation, this professor, this wonderful man with a love of teaching, and a love of his students, pulls out a fucking twenty dollar bill, hands it to her and just says “Go get your coffee, and bring me the change.” Then continues on his way like it’s nothing.

And it may be nothing. Maybe I’m blowing something small out of proportion. But in a world where it feels as if every class is just dragging you along in the gravel behind it, and the professors seem to just be going through the motions; to see someone actually do something kind and ask nothing in return is so refreshing and uplifting.

I don’t know. Maybe this is just a boring shit post, but I really needed to share my appreciation for this hero of a teacher. A teacher who after over 30 years of teaching is still happy with what he does.

tl;dr: Some teachers leave a long lasting impact on your life; change the way you think, the way you see the world. Appreciate them for what they are. The unsung heroes of a failing education system.

This scene hurt me so much and I feel like I’m sure Omega wasn’t thrilled about it when all she wants is her brother back (he may be an ass to her but he’s proved he’s willing to save her too).

When crosshair saw the rest of the Batch pointing their weapons at him after he saved Omega and Azi.

They will never trust him again. What a brutal moment.

Your right, time is precious. Nothing you do can get you more time, death is inevitable. All the more reason to live while you can.

Like Gandalf said,                                                                                              “All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us.”

As I write my Aralas fic I keep trying to come up with ways for Aragorn to become immortal. Even though my fic is set 60+ years before FOTR, and Aragorn won't die in cannon for another 190 years, I am forced to deal with his mortality compared to the elves. 210 years is a VERY long time, but when it is compared to an elf who has already lived over a millennium, it's basically moments.

I've tried to come up with loopholes, like Eru made Tuor immortal, couldn't he do that for Aragorn? Couldn't Legolas sneak him into the undying lands like he did with Gimli in cannon? Aragorn is technically part of Elros's bloodline, so theoretically shouldn't he be able to choose between mortality and immortality like Arwen?

But in the end I keep coming back to the same place. Yes, there are plenty of ways I can make him immortal, but maybe I don't have to. Maybe in the end Aragorn dies and he and Legolas don't get to be together in the undying lands, and maybe that's okay.

When characters constantly cheat death it cheapens it, it takes away its meaning. Aragorn, and the rest of the men for that matter, were given the gift of mortality, a precious, precious gift in the eyes of Eru. Why should he give that up?

Nothing can last forever, not in life and not in fiction. Shouldn't it be enough just to enjoy it while we have it?

Out of love.

Why say goodbye when you dont mean it ?

Why did I do what I have done ?

Why did I cry Infront of you, begging you to come back and you let me go once again.

And I was left on my own, for the hundredth time.

With love left in my heart for you.

And as I waited for us ,

I ran out of love for you.

Sad + Fluff = 💙

Sparrow

For @dinchenrockt, who imagined Sam and Kaidan having pancakes on a nice day. I just added a little drama, because this is Sam we're talking about. Read on Ao3

The second batch of pancakes is starting to bubble when Kaidan’s skin tingles in the presence of Shepard’s biotic field. Shepard himself peers at Kaidan suspiciously from behind the archway into the kitchen, like he’s doing recon and Kaidan is an unknown element.

 “Hey, you,” Kaidan says with an amused smile. “Good morning.”

“It is morning by my standards. It is ass o’clock by your standards. Why are you awake?”

Kaidan gestures towards the open window, where sunrise hasn’t quite surrendered to daytime and some enterprising birds are getting a jump on things. “It’s a beautiful morning. Thought I’d spoil you with a nice breakfast.” 

Technically true, on both counts, even if it doesn’t really answer the question. Shepard narrows his eyes, perhaps suspecting there’s more to it, but Kaidan heads off further questions by plucking a piece of bacon off a plate and holding it up.

“Burnt it just for you.”

Shepard makes an interested sound and fully enters the kitchen, snatching the Distraction Bacon and popping it in his mouth. Bacon shouldn’t crunch like that unless it’s in a salad, but relationships require compromise.

“So, bacon. Pancakes.”

“Bacon in the pancakes. With bacon garnish.”

“Fancy.”

“Also blueberries,” Kaidan says, gesturing to a bowl. “And, uh, I was going to make some eggs but I accidentally just made more pancakes.”

“True to your nature.” He kisses Kaidan on the temple. “I’ll get plates.”

“One step ahead of you. We’re eating outside.”

Another suspicious look.

“It’s nice outside, remember?”

“I will concede it is tolerable outside, because I love you. But breakfast made, table set, and it’s what time? How long have you been up?”

Kaidan shrugs a nonchalant shoulder. “I said I wanted to spoil you.”

Still not an answer, but he hands Shepard the blueberries to give him something else to focus on and flips the remaining pancakes onto a platter, next to the pile of bacon, all nestled onto a blue and yellow tray that had been gathering dust in the back of a curio until Kaidan stumbled upon it last week looking for decorative pitcher his mother had asked about. After flipping the griddle off, he leads them to the front porch and sets the trays down on the small table next to the porch swing.

Shepard observes the spread. “Orange juice. Cloth napkins. The ‘good’ silverware. By the way, I still do not understand the silverware hierarchy.”

“My mother will happily show you next time she visits.”

Shepard snickers as he takes a seat. “Well, whatever. You pulled out all the stops. You are spoiling me.”

Kaidan makes a pleased sound as they fill their plates. They’re the same blue and yellow as the platter, with a sunflower in the center and a painted band around the edges. He’d forgotten about them completely until finding the platter. His father used to break them out when they had big breakfasts in the summer. He traces a chip in the paint. Where had they even come from in the first place? His mother? Were they just inherited with the house when his mother took it over from Kaidan’s grandparents? He’d never asked. Maybe she knows.

“Look at all this burnt bacon, just for me,” Shepard says, with a soft smile.

“Just for you.”

No reason to mention that it got burned because Kaidan was too locked in his own head to notice until he damn near set off the smoke detector.

But the pancakes are good, quite frankly. The blueberries are ripe, picked from the bushes out behind the barn just yesterday. The breeze is cool but not cold, the sun pooling at the edge of the porch steps, warm and waiting.

A far cry from the days that weren’t beautiful.

He releases a long breath and forces his mind back to the present, where Shepard is drowning his pancakes in maple syrup because moderation is not a concept he has ever developed a relationship with.

Echo whinnies from the field down the hill, head raised, ears pricked, looking right at them, as though now that she’s noticed their presence she’s offended she wasn’t invited to breakfast.

“Later,” Shepard hollers back at her. “I’m getting spoiled.”

Kaidan rests an elbow on the table – his mother would be so aghast – and chuckles into his hand.

When had he stopped getting up in the mornings for those breakfasts his father cooked? Breakfast had been his forte. The only way he outshined Kaidan’s mother in the kitchen. But that last summer before BAaT he’d stopped getting out of bed for them.

Should have gotten out of bed.

Shepard’s eye is on him again, as he saws into his pancakes and fails to spear a piece of bacon along with his next bite because it’s so brittle it just breaks under the tines of his fork. Once he’s subdued the bacon he nudges Kaidan’s knee.

“You’re awfully quiet for someone who just put out such a magnificent spread.”

Kaidan waggles an eyebrow. “Resting on my laurels.”

Shepard knee stays at rest against his, and Kaidan leans a little more into it. The weight of it, the presence is…reassuring.

The sparrow that wings in from the roof and alights on Shepard’s stack of pancakes is less reassuring.

Read the rest on Ao3

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Rain makes it all look pretty.

closing lines of a 4th-c. woman’s epitaph to her husband:

Now with all these things wrenched away I am a mourning spouse: happy, if the gods had left me a living husband; but happy nonetheless, because I am yours & was yours & after death, soon, I will be yours.

***

Parking lot was a disaster. Sam managed to get his truck into a spot -- didn't double park in the pick-up lane, unlike some people -- but he hopes whoever's in the Toyota next to him doesn't have a passenger, or if they do that the passenger's pretty thin. Like, model-thin. Now it's the hallways, milling adults looking lost, kids rolling their eyes and tugging on hands, lockers decorated with Welcome, Parents! in carefully printed bubble letters.

"Da-aad."

"Yeah, coming," Sam says, and Dean rolls his eyes, like every other kid. Sam tries not to let it bother him. Every kid goes through this phase. He did, at least. He doesn't have a lot of experience, otherwise.

Dean leads the way, confident, and polite at least to other parents when they have to squeeze past. How Sam knows he isn't fucking this up completely. He slips through a gap that only a fourth grader could manage, though, and Sam's left to dance politely around a rotund couple he doesn't recognize, scolding some older twin boys under their breath. The wife finally notices him and looks up and then up, blinking, and Sam takes the look he's used to. "God, sorry!" she says, sticking out an arm and shuffling her kids out of the way to make a space. "Like a cattle call in here, huh?"

"Moo," Sam says, which makes her laugh too hard, which makes her husband frown, but then he's past, where Dean's bouncing in his light-up sneakers, annoyed. Sam pushes his hand through Dean's hair before he can duck away. "What?"

"Moo?" Another eyeroll. Sam should maybe tell him the lie about getting stuck that way. "You are so weird. And we're gonna be late."

"When have we ever been late?"

Dean does actually grab Sam's hand, yanking. Sam lets himself be pulled, enjoying at least that his kid's deigning to hold Dad's hand after being far too old for it, at least as Sam's been told. "Last year? Mrs. McMorrow made us reschedule!"

"I think getting in a car accident was a decent excuse," Sam says, mild, and Dean groans and says, "Come on," stomping ahead down past the 5th grade classrooms to where Ms. Valdez is, see, just saying goodbye to the previous couple. Sarah Gold's parents, given that Sarah's waiting on the little blue plastic chair outside, reading a library book, making Dean halt in his tracks and making Sam almost run into the back of him. He's heard a lot about how Sarah's very, very annoying. Most annoying girl in school. Somehow she always gets an invitation to Dean's birthday parties, anyway.

Sam fits a hand around Dean's little shoulder. Small bones. Always makes him feel like a giant and also not big enough, like he needs to be planet-sized to protect this kid from all that could be. Still. A girl's not that scary. "See, on time," he says, easy, and Dean's blushing deeply when he shrugs.

Ms. Valdez is a good teacher, Sam thinks. She's in her late twenties, which Sam knows is plenty old enough but still makes her feel like a kid to him. If he does the math she really could be his kid. She's nice but not saccharine, complimentary but not a suck-up. Dean seems to be doing okay. He likes math and science, loves P.E., suffers through his music and art specials, does the reading but insists he doesn't like the 'girl books'. "I think he's overcompensating," Ms. Valdez says, and laughs lightly, and Sam's hit with this strange weird flush that makes him queasy, for a second. His throat closing.

She blinks at him. "Mr. Winchester?" Then, uncertain: "I didn't mean--"

"No," he says. An effort to smile but he does it anyway. "I think you're right. It's important to look tough in front of the right people, if you know what I mean."

She smiles back, relieved. She is young. "Maybe he'll grow out of it. Although, maybe not. Some boys never do."

"No," he says, "they don't."

She shows him the units they'll be going through for the rest of the term. Egyptian mythology, with art components and a small writing assignment and a research paper, just to get the kids used to what sources mean, writing in paragraphs instead of often-incomplete sentences. She leans close. Smells like jasmine. He realizes only when the twenty minutes of the conference are about up that she's been flirting, the whole time. Her smile small and her eyes softly dark, telling him that Dean's a good kid, and if it's not rude to say she thinks he's done very well, since the divorce, and he seems to be adjusting. She was sorry not to see Mrs. Winchester, this evening.

"She never actually took my name," Sam says, and Ms. Valdez -- Marisol, he remembers -- lets her mouth form a small moue, like -- he doesn't know. Some implication he should pick up, if he were looking to do so, but he isn't. She is pretty. Long dark hair she sweeps into a messy bun, full mouth, elegant hands with bitten nails. Apparently has a thing for older men. But--

He comes out into the hall where Dean's sitting on the little plastic chair the lovely Sarah has vacated, eating a cupcake. "Hey, where'd you get that?" Sam says. He has a sense of having dodged a bullet.

Dean shrugs. "Honors Society kids having a bake sale," he says, garbled.

"Don't talk with your mouth full," Sam says, and Dean raises his eyebrows and chews like a cow, exaggerated. "Well, I want one. Lead the way, buddy."

They make their way out to what this school thinks is a playground. The 2030s have really just taken away all of the possible edges from being a kid. They sit on a bench under a tree and Sam bites into his cupcake while Dean mows through his second. Awful, storebought, chemical-tasting frosting. Cake. They don't have it very often.

It's a pretty night. Warm, for the time of year. The moon up, nearly full, past all the school lights, and Sam thinks that after this they'll go pick up a pizza, maybe, and they'll go back to the house, and he'll let Dean watch an episode of that new Star Trek cartoon -- or is it Wars? he can never remember -- and then he'll have to insist about bedtime and Dean will whine but he'll go because despite the eyerolling he is a good kid, confirmed, the best thing Sam's got in his life at this point, and from how things have gone the best thing he'll have, from the end of that place that was and where he'll never be again, until...

"Da-ad."

He blinks. Dean's sitting crosslegged on the bench, looking at him, eyebrows high. "What?"

"You were on Planet Dad again," Dean says. No eyeroll. "Did you run into any Cardassians? Or like, a big Andorian cruiser?"

"Yeah," Sam says. "Fought 'em off with my lightsaber."

"Da-ad, you know that's Star Wars," Dean says, genuinely offended, and Sam huffs, cups the side of his head. His face that's entirely his own, some mix of his parents that ended up not looking much like either of them somehow, but his expression, sometimes. Something around the eyes.

"I'll get it one day, buddy," Sam says.

"Sure," Dean says, doubtful, and slides off the bench, bouncing on his toes, ready for pizza. They get pizza and they watch the show -- Trek, who knew -- and Sam puts him to bed with the exact amount of whining he knew he'd get and turns out the light -- knows Dean will read comics by flashlight, with the flashlight that always has fresh batteries in his bedside table -- and he looks at the small lump in the blankets through the crack in the door for a solid minute, standing in the hallway of the house he never wanted. Then he goes downstairs and pours himself a drink, and sits on the porch where the night's getting cold, and he sits on the deck chair that he really ought to repaint and he thinks, god. God.

Then he goes inside, and goes to bed, and there's the next day to get through, after that.

“Do what you can, but nothing will take your pain away when you realize you're not truly loved by anyone.”

You can’t see me, can you? You look at me and you can’t see me. Do you have any idea what that’s like? I’m not on the phone. I’m right here. Standing in front of you. Please. Just… Just see me

Hello. I have come to tell you, that I tried something. I wrote a sonamy!boom (ofc it's that universe) oneshot! :3 It's not long, doesn't have any dialogue, but has a lot of feels! :3

Enjoy! While I go and draw the comic. ^-^ Let me know what you think!

***

That feeling he has... it started a while after he met her. At first it wasn't noticeable, but after another while the feeling started to grow. He tried to ignore it. He was successful, at first, but once it appeared, it didn't leave him alone. It is hard to ignore now. How his heart would start pounding, squeezing his chest, until he's having trouble breathing. His heart demanding his attention to the feeling. He would sometimes feel his blood flow to his muzzle, turning more and more red. He would avert his eyes from her, so he could calm his heart and breath. If he didn't, he would explode. He would sometimes just observe her, watching how she played volleyball with their team, how she moved her hands while she cooked, and he watched her smile. Once he catches a glimpse of it, he can't turn away. It's so mesmerizing, he would sometimes forget what he was doing. He forgot his surroundings and who is there, and give his focus only to her smile. It happens so often now, he once got interrupted with a ball on his face. They were playing volleyball with their team. They didn't let him live that down for a looong time. After he fell on the sand, he didn't get up for ten minutes, simply because he was embarrassed. And his nose ached. It wasn't really a big deal, he has gotten worse punches on his face before. But she, Amy, worried about him regardless. She has an interesting name. It's different from anyone's on the island. He likes it. He even got her a nickname. He would often call her by it. Ames is her nickname. No one else calls her that. It makes him feel special, like he has some sort of privilege. He hopes it makes her feel special too.

He knows what that feeling is. He knows.

But... he doesn't know, if she feels the same. Sure, when they met, she didn't leave him alone for five minutes, always chasing him for a hug or a kiss. But now, she has grown, has matured, she became smarter, even smarter than him. Her fighting skills have improved, her tactical and fast thinking too. He loves to train with her. She tells him her secrets, her secret moves and tactics, even though he sometimes forgets them, because they are too difficult for his brain to process. He likes to move on impulse, on his instincts, always improvising on the way. She sometimes would call him out on that. She would laugh at his lame jokes, sometimes she wouldn't, but he knows she is laughing silently. 'Cuz his jokes are the best. And she knows it. Well, maybe they are not as funny as Comedy Chimp's, but she likes them. He appreciates her for that. He appreciates her for many things. She's awesome, like that. He wonders if he will someday tell her that. When he will.

Comfort. 😢

OMGD guys i just can’t OMG😭😭😭♥️♥️🙌🏻🙌🏻🙌🏻🙌🏻

** Permission to post it was granted by the artist. Do not repost/edit the art without permission Please, support the artist on their pages too **

Artist : MAGO (pixiv / twitter)

Source

@emotionaldisaster909 your art is so perfect and beautifully illustrated for this story it brings tears to my eyes in the best way💙😭🤍 @ardenrabbit masterpiece of a story food for the heart and soul I cannot express my love enough for this work🙌🏻💙🤍🥰

“He sits down on the dressing stool and stares at his hands. He stares for a long time.

(…)

He finally realizes that there are cool tears on his face.”

-

The Silver Wall

For “A Long and Slow Recovery” by @ardenrabbit on ao3

Just saw the Logan trailer. I´m crying now!!