I’m to lazy to write anything except the true loves kiss scene below, but if you find some inspiration, then go ahead and tag me when you make something!
Adrien is Anna
Felix is Elsa
Lila is Hans
Marinette is Kristoff (but here she’s the bakers daughter and she is friends with felix and she herd that people were going after him to kill him so she figured the only chance at saving him would be going with Adrien so she goes after him, and she has more experience so she finds him in a ditch or whatever, and yea they start their journey)
Plagg is Svein
Tikki is Marinettes dog
Olaf is Olaf
Alya and Nino are trolls (???)
Master Fu is the old troll
Chloe is Weaselton
True love’s kiss scene:
Lila kisses Adrien, but nothing happens. “oh…” Her sad frown transformes to an evil grin. “I guess loving your crown doesn’t count.”
“W-what?”
Lila shook her head pitifully. “Oh, Adrien… I come from a kingdom ruled by my parents, the kingdom is small, and they are young. A long time will pass until I get to wear the crown. Another kingdom was very preferable.” Lila pinched out the lights around Adrien, he tried to stop her, but he could barely move.
“The plan was very simple; I would marry a king and a little accident would set me up for the crown.” Lila chuckled as Adrien fell from the sofa in his attempt to stop her from opening the window.
“Sit put dear, you’ll only hurt yourself.” She opened the window with a flick of her delicate hand. Adrien curled up on the floor as a gust of cold wind blew over him.
“For a while I wondered if I could win over your dear brother, but he’s cold as ice! I would never be able to get to him! But you, sweetie, you had been ignored your entire life. It was so easy to get into your heart, you basically pushed me!”
“Then it was the matter of Felix, but he screwed that up for himself and now this! Your ruling was so messed up, the kingdom has fallen into my hands.” The fire sizzled out as Lila emptied a water mug over it. Adrien whimpered.
“The king has become a villain. Now, the dear prince, the country’s sweetheart dies in my loving arms and the only royal person the kingdom could turn to would be…”
“You-” Adrien gasped, lifting his hand to grab her skirt. “You will never get away with this!”
Lila kicked his hand off with a sigh. “Sweetie, I already have.”
Seated at the dining room table, I gazed at the happy chaos around me. Aunts, uncles, cousins, nieces, and nephews were enjoying the food and being together at our family reunion. I was enjoying it all, too. But one thought pierced my heart: You’re the only woman here with no children, with no family to call your own.
Many single women like me have similar experiences. In my culture, an Asian culture where marriage and children are highly valued, not having a family of one’s own can bring a sense of incompleteness. It can feel like you’re lacking something that defines who you are and makes you whole.
That’s why the truth of God being my “portion” is so comforting to me (Psalm 73:26). When the tribes of Israel were given their allotments of land, the priestly tribe of Levi was assigned none. Instead, God promised that He Himself would be their portion and inheritance (Deuteronomy 10:9). They could find complete satisfaction in Him and trust Him to supply their every need.
For some of us, the sense of lack may have nothing to do with family. Perhaps we yearn for a better job or higher academic achievement. Regardless of our circumstances, we can embrace God as our portion. He makes us whole. In Him, we have no lack.
My husband’s job primarily employs adult men but there is one (1) teenage girl and my husband said originally he worried she might be a bit of an outcast but instead every man on the crew was like “huh guess I am a dad/older brother now.”
She was in a car crash on the way to work one morning and called my husband to let him know she’d be late and he was like wtf guess I’m gonna be late too because I’m coming to pick you up and then he told his team and they were like I think you mean WE are coming.
Imagine you are a teenage girl probably rushing to get to work and you crash your probably new car and feel absolutely miserable and now you’ll be late to work but then suddenly in the distance a car full of all the adult men you work with just pulls up and is like “we came all the way here to pick you up” the mental image right now is fr.
Apparently she tried to call her dad but it was 3am and he was obviously sleeping so she called my husband and he not only came to find her but fished her glasses out of the hood of the car (she’d dropped them while looking inside), drove her to the hospital, and told her to take the day off. She insisted on coming back to work so he used his lunch break to watch TV with her to make sure she didn’t doze off (concussion risk).
You’ve heard of the Mom friend but my husband is very much the Dad friend. He said when he answered the phone she said “hey please don’t be mad” and he’s never felt such powerful Fatherhood energy in his life.
Yes, I love the part of 6oc where the Crows comes barreling down the hills in a tank, I do. But the banner "Strymakt Fjerdan" bothers meee! It's sort of norwegian but not gramatically correct
How easy it is to not give a shit when you're young, but as you grow older you seem to care more? It feels like you should have cared more when you were younger and made more mistakes, but you just don't. We're not born to be aware of ourselves in that way... viewing ourselves in the eyes of others.
I find it difficult to circle back to the idea of being myself unapoligetically. Of wearing flowery dresses or weird pants and mismatched colours that makes me feel like me, without thinking about what everyone else thinks.
Realistically I know they don't care. Those who care have already accepted me for who I am, and if there are those who dissaprove, I really don't come in contact with them often. Nor does it really bring me down... So why do I care?
Writing tips that I think about every time I type:
Make a new paragraph everytime- someone speaks/the feeling of the story changes/the place changes.
Don't forget to fill in the background when someone speaks, or else the reader will only imagine them speaking in a blank room.
Don't cram all the description of the characters together, let it flow through the beginning of the text, blending and curling with the dialoge. Let some parts be up to the reader, they will fill in the blanks that you chose to lay bare.
Don't just describe what you see, though that is important. Describe the feeling of the place! You walk in to a cellar. Yes it is dark and scary but what else? What does it smell like? Is it musty/old/rotten? how is the air? Is there moisture? What do you hear? Is something dripping far away? Does the sand crunch under your feet?
A/N: The AO3 version is here, and as I write there, this might turn into a series, but I’m not certain. Drop a comment if you like it!
She can’t remember how they got separated. She remembers the last night, when they smiled and cried and rested in the truth they had discovered. She remembers the horror of discovering who was behind it all. She remembers the murder, the assassination, and a black cat on the run. She remembers the akuma spreading, not stopping. She remembers the fires and the living dead in the streets. She remembers the impossibility of finding the first victim.
But she can’t remember the moment when she realized he was gone.
He was so different before the change.
A young man carefree and happy and oh so very innocent. They both were, at that time.
And when they meet it is for not the first time, but it is all the same, for they are both hardened by death and by fear. In that way they are strangers as much as anyone else.
She is leaving a mall she has never been to before, tucking supplies in her backpack and not entirely aware of her surroundings as she lifts a pack of painkillers.
The metal cylinder against the back of her head is cold, but not very surprising.
A small smile plays at her lips against her better judgement because this is it. This is how she escapes. This is the reunion she has been waiting for, and she pauses, awaiting with a shivering eager, to meet the collector of souls once again.
But the bullet never comes. Only a voice.
“Marinette-”, it is gasping, the way he says it, as if the entire world stands before him, and in some ways it does. The gun clatters to the gravel beneath their feet, and his arms wrap around her from behind.
For a split second she thinks he is trying to strangle her, and she rolls her eyes because that is the worst attempt at murder she has ever-
But then she realizes.
That familiar voice… is one she has imagined on countless lonely nights and she turns around slowly because she dares not hope, the disappointment would surely crush her.
Then tears spring to her eyes and lets out a sob willingly for the first time in years because it’s him, it’s him, it’s really, truly him.
He sniffs loudly and she laughs, and he joins her unevenly. The sun is dripping, and the sand is warm as they sink to their knees. She has her hand buried in his hair, his ring is cold against her lower back and she melts into him, sobs wrecking their bodies and the only thing she can think is Adrien, Adrien, Adrien.
For the first time in two years, she is not alone.
It’s not like she hasn’t seen life in two years of course. There are settlements. But she’s lost… everyone. And she doesn’t trust others. She can’t help but think that something will go wrong and she… At least she can’t stab herself in the back.
But Adrien, soft, warm, beautiful Adrien… him she does trust. She doesn’t know if it’s buried feelings, the distinct notion of home or the remains of something that could have been, but she can’t help it.
It isn’t until they’ve been sitting in silence for some time, hours or maybe minutes, that she understands. She hears dragging footsteps crunching in the sand behind her, and sighs, because she doesn’t want to do this, not now. But then a shot goes off, and she flinches because it wasn’t hers. But when she looks around it’s him, gun lifted, hand around her and something dark flickers in his eyes.
That is when she sees him. The light stubble across his jaw, the pierced ears, the long hair, the furrowed brows.
Oh, she thinks, because this... this is different.
They were children when they were separated, and now they are adults. Reflections of what they once had been. Ghosts, in a way, and she wonders if this is what it’s like to meet a loved one in hell.
But then he smiles, and she shakes off the idea. His smile could never belong in a place like that.
“They probably heard that”, she whispers, a little afraid to ruin the moment. But he nods and smiles and kisses her cheek, so she thinks maybe it’s not really a moment and maybe it can’t be ruined at all.
His clothes are different too. She sees them when they finally stand, and when she cocks her head to look at him, he either doesn’t notice or he doesn’t care. Too distracted by looking at her to point out her admiring the worn leather jacket around his shoulders, the black cargo pants, and the combat boots.
She likes it.
After a second Marinette wipes her cheeks dry, probably smudging dirt over her face, but he is just watching her, happy and content, so she turns to him and wipes his cheeks as well.
They move her things to his car since hers has just broken down. They are both used to working quickly, under pressure, but it all seems a little imaginary and floating when they do it together, so they are done before they notice.
He drives off when they see the first dead’s round a corner, and she laughs as the motor roars under her feet, turning around to wave them goodbye. He laughs with her.
They can’t seem to stop touching each other. They have been together for a few hours, but she finds herself checking with even intervals.
A finger gliding over his knuckles as he rests his hand on the gear stick, a hand on her knee, her fingertips placing a strand of hair behind his ear. Just checking, just to make sure. Because waking up from a dream like this would crush her.
“Are you sure you’re real?” she asks, when the wind is ruffling her hair pleasantly, and she smiles towards the sun. He chuckles beside her, and she sees his eyes flicker to her once or twice before he answers.
“I really hope you are”, he says, answering a different question entirely, and she stretches, grins, her hands playing in the wind above her. Watching them feels almost like a memory.
He has a base a few hours away, in the middle of the desert where he can see someone coming from miles away. Though it’s not the tactic she would have chosen, preferring to stay hidden and constantly on the move… Well she can admit it’s smart, probably smarter than her idea of safe, and he gets a little cocky, so she punches his arm as he smirks.
It’s an old gas station, still somehow smelling like greasy burgers and Adrien opens the door with a little fanfare to make her laugh. He tells her there’s a diesel generator, and it’s not like he’s running out of that so... There’s also a homemade shower and hot water for the first time in so long, she almost cries again.
When she’s done, he has made soup. They eat in silence, looking at each other sometimes, and smiling, and Marinette blushes because she suddenly remembers how impossible she was around him when they were younger.
Then she’s sleepy and she remembers the sleeping bag in the car. With a heavy sigh, she heads to the entrance, but then Adrien is there, hands on her shoulders, telling her she can sleep in his bed and she is too tired to protest. Too exhausted to realize what he is offering.
She doesn’t think about it until he is walking towards the cold stone floor on the other side of the room while she is nestled in his pillows and blankets, and she rolls her eyes, grabs his arm and yanks him into the bed with her.
“Self-sacrificing kitty”, she murmurs affectionately, and falls asleep as he shrugs under the blankets, soft puffs of breath to the crook of his neck, his skin warm against her nose.
They don’t talk about everything. Not about the fires, the death, the virus. They don’t talk about his father or of what they discovered before it all happened. They don’t talk about the kiss. They will, one day, but not right now. Simply because there, as she lies in the warmth of his arms, she feels at home.
So, you can all thank Halsey for this. I was listening to Young God and it made me think of Punkcup and then this whole stupid AU idea was born, as if I don’t have enough AUs on the go. *cries*
I’ve used this technique for about a year, and I can safely say that it has efficiently transformed my sleeping habits from several hours of struggle to fall asleep, to passing out in a matter of minutes.
It’s a form of Alexander Technique. It’s a technique that was designed for actors to keep their body in ready working condition and give it the best way to perform. This is the method used to calm, and center the body. Once the body is at that point it can perform anything you want it to.
Reblogging for later reference after I tried it earlier today to try to calm down. It actually does help a lot, not just for sleep but if you have problems with anxiety.
My default mental setting is “vibrating intensely in the background.” After doing this, I felt noticeably calm and relaxed - I wasn’t as fixated on my breathing, I wasn’t tense, my movements weren’t jerky and I didn’t feel like I had to be as tense as possible to be under control. 10/10 would recommend.
Playing 'among us' while switching between different parts of the world is the funniest shit i have experienced in a long time
Europe:
where why who, and how can we trust you. Would rather skip than kill someone innocent but will also team up with the killer 4 no reason
North America:
what, what? No response. Calls meetings for no reason without explaining, will kill someone just to check just cause they're not the loudest in the chat, ends up staring at eachother for 15 min just cause they're suspicious
Asia:
blue: RED KILLED GREEN INFRONT OF ME red: no fck urself, *blue is floated*
vegans will pretend not to hear when natives tell them their agave products are unsustainable because they have whimsical feelings about, and i cannot stress this enough, the freedom of hive insects
I have not seen any evidence tonsugges they are harmed or die in the process of production. They do regurgitate the nectar as part of the process to concentrate it into honey (an interesting process) but they do not suffer any injury during this process. If they did, the cost to produce honey, which is done naturally as a measure to survive over winter and through times of lower availability, would outweigh the benefits. If you kill several bees to produce enough honey to make one more bee, It makes no sense. Any animal that did that would die, even with human intervention.
Do you have any sources which suggest otherwise? I’d be interested to hear of this (relatively publicly available) information was false or misunderstood.
Bee farmers use whats called a honey maker. It’s a crude devices. It similar to a meat grinder. They force the bees in and grind them up. What comes out is a paste. That paste is later filtered into what we know as honey
they might be falsely thinking about a honey extractor machine. but all these do is you place the beehive frames inside and a motor rotates it at a speed that removes the honey, which is then tapped through a tap at the bottom.
Vegans coming after beekeepers is one of my major teeth grinding annoyances. For many reasons, because there’s so many lies. And to go one step further because it’s such a waste. You see, the strongest vegan argument is that they don’t want to exploit animals or take from them without their consent.
… but… Bees consent. NO. I’M NOT KIDDING.
How? Bee hives aren’t kept on leashes. They’re outside, the bees can travel miles every day. They follow their queen. Who is also outside, not on a leash, and can travel miles every day. If she doesn’t like the hive for any reason - for example: it got too hot, too cold, too messy, too filled with sugary stuff and they need more space… then the queen leaves. And with her the hive.
The queen stays in the hive because the hive is the best place to live. Period. Done. End of. If the hive is staying with the beekeeper it’s because the keeper is doing their job correctly and keeping them happy because the bees can, and do, leave bad beekeepers.
Of all the animals we have domesticated as livestock, bees are the ones you can most easily argue are consenting participants in their keeping.
This is a map of Asia. North Americans, you may notice this map is not solely comprised of Japan, Korea, China and Thailand. People in the UK, you may notice India is not a continent. That is, if those of you who generalize entire continents can even pinpoint India on a map. Indians are Asian, gasp! And not all brown skinned people are Indian, also, gasp! There are an alarming amount of people, of all ages, from all backgrounds, who seem to be unable to process this.
I’m ethnically Asian. Since Asia is an extremely large continent, I could be from any number of countries. I am neither from India, China, Korea, Japan or Pakistan, yet not so surprisingly, I am still Asian.
Yes, there are commonalities across regions, through the conflation of cultures, colonialism, globalization, transnationalism and movement of diasporas. Sometimes these are all the same thing. Rickshaws, rice and curry can be found across the continent. But let’s not overgeneralize. You can also find Buddhists, Catholics, Muslims and Hindus across Asia. Cantonese Speaking Chinese Muslims! English Speaking Indian Jews!
No, we are not all the same. Orientalism? (Please look up Edward Said for basic concepts) No thank you.
What’s cool about Iran is that it falls in 3 different regions of Asia so depending on what part of Iran you’re in, you can kind of get culture shocked a bit. The central and western part of the country is West Asia, the north east is Central Asia, and the southeast is in South Asia.
To the folks wondering about Russia being included, I want to mention that the cultural debates and angst about that has been going on for CENTURIES. While France has been pretty fetishized all the way back from Peter the Great, there is no question that we are not Europe, even with that influence showing really obviously in historical seats of power like St. Petersburg. Nonetheless, the whole country was under control of the Mongols (The Golden Horde) from roughly 1242 to 1480, and that left an enormous Mongolian and Tatar heritage that remains to this day. The ancient Scythians are huge in the cultural imagination as well. And besides… look at the Russians who are outside the standard “Kievan Rus” phenotype (which most folks assume is how all Russians look.)
Here are three of the 30 distinct ethnic groups in Siberia alone:
And that’s why sometimes you’ll see a person with curly black hair, pale skin, and hazel-green eyes (my grand-father’s sister) who turn out to be Chinese. Mad recessive genes game at play, I swear. Mongols, they really got around.
