$LAYYYTER
Noah Kahan
Jules of Nature
art blog(derogatory)
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
Discoholic 🪩
we're not kids anymore.
bliss lane
No title available
🩵 avery cochrane 🩵
taylor price
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her
if i look back, i am lost
Misplaced Lens Cap
Sade Olutola
Cosmic Funnies
d e v o n
ojovivo
Xuebing Du
blake kathryn
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Thailand
seen from Malaysia
seen from China
seen from Bulgaria
seen from United States
seen from India
seen from Colombia
seen from France
seen from Senegal
seen from Spain
seen from India
seen from Malaysia
seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from Italy
seen from Philippines
seen from Ukraine
seen from Portugal
@chaosisorderly
I would watch a whole sitcom of 'Teal'c's adventures in humanity'. Just let me witness this man encountering coupons for the first time. or Starbucks. or loading a washing machine
we need the stargate version of a beach episode
Teal'c vs a self checkout machine
You have just taken over a kingdom and intend to be a tyrant, so you hoard resources for yourself and give the people the scraps. What you don’t know is that those ‘scraps’ you are giving the people are actually life-saving and they now believe you to be the hero king of prophecy.
The Tyrant of Harmony
On the outer curve of the continent, where the sea sang with the land, lay the Isle of Harmony. A small peninsula kingdom, its people were few, its cities scattered, and its land modest compared to the sprawling empires that loomed to the east and west. But in this land of salt, wind, and art, a quiet fire had long been burning—one that would one day consume the throne. That fire was named Simeon.
Prince Simeon was born not of a royal marriage, but from lust and cruelty. His father, King Albrecht, a man of hollow grandeur and swollen pride, had forced House Elane—once a proud noble family—into ruin. Their sin was beauty. More precisely, the beauty of their eldest daughter, Serenya. To save her family, Serenya bowed her head and became the king’s concubine.
Simeon grew up in the shadow of his mother's broken grace. He saw the way people looked at her—half in pity, half in scorn—and he heard the whispers in the marble halls of the palace. "Concubine's son," they called him. He never said anything back, but Simeon listened. He watched. And he remembered.
Most believed Simeon's rise was sudden—a flash of ambition in a quiet son. But those close to him knew better. From his childhood, Simeon’s path was etched into his heart. He spent years crafting a web of loyalty and fear, slowly turning his father’s enemies into allies and his brothers’ allies into memories. He sowed doubt, whispered betrayal, and never hesitated to use the blade if silence was needed. By the time his eldest brother died in a mysterious "hunting accident," there were no voices left loud enough to object to Simeon being crowned king at the mere age of sixteen.
The coronation was cold, despite the summer sun. No cheers, only polite applause. That suited Simeon just fine. He had not taken the throne for glory. He had taken it for revenge.
Soon after his coronation, Simeon inherited the archives of the crown. Hidden in the back of a locked vault, beneath a tapestry of seagulls and pearls, he found it: the truth.
During the lowest tides of each moon cycle, the sea retreated from the cliffs along the southern coast, revealing caves where the finest pearls in the world were born.
For generations, the royal family had harvested these pearls in secret, selling them through shadow merchants to the empires, amassing quiet fortunes. While the people starved and artists begged for patronage, the kings lived like gods. It should have made Simeon angry. But it made him smile. He would use this secret treasure to destroy everything the crown had built.
Simeon publicly declared the truth of the pearls. The Kingdom of Harmony, long believed poor, was in fact rich beyond imagination. And then he did something no one expected—he hoarded it.
Lavish gold-plated halls rose in the palace. Simeon wore robes threaded with diamonds. He imported foreign delicacies so rare that even the cooks had to ask for instructions. He hired a thousand personal entertainers, some of whom didn’t even perform; they just looked pretty and clapped on cue. Ministers whispered of madness. Nobles grumbled. Simeon grinned.
But he didn’t stop there. As a twisted joke, he declared a "charity tithe"—a mere 10% of the pearl profits—would go to the people, to "appease their ignorance." It was, to him, rubbing salt into their wounds.
Hospitals appeared in villages that had never known a healer.
Simeon scoffed as he signed the orders. "Let the peasants have their bandages."
But those bandages turned into operating rooms. Midwives trained in the new clinics, and infant mortality plummeted. Elders lived long enough to annoy their children again. One man wrote Simeon a poem about how his gout no longer kept him bedridden. Simeon burned it.
Bread became affordable. Bakers stopped mixing sawdust into the flour. Clean water flowed into towns where disease once reigned. Roadways were repaved, connecting towns that hadn’t seen one another in years. Trade surged.
"If they want to trade chickens and clay pots, let them," he muttered.
But soon Harmony's pottery was praised across the continent. Their chickens became a culinary delicacy. The roads carried not just goods, but ideas, and the kingdom blossomed.
Homes were reinforced to withstand the ocean's cruel winds. Salt rot was no longer a yearly catastrophe. The arts, long dormant, flourished. Artists, poets, and sculptors no longer painted to survive—they painted to inspire.
Theater troupes toured freely, and local dialects were preserved in song. One boy from a backwater village sculpted a statue of Simeon entirely from driftwood and sea glass. It made the cover of three foreign art journals.
To the people of Harmony, the tyrant was a godsend. Their stomachs were full. Their children lived past infancy. They sang in the streets songs not of rebellion, but of reverence. "Simeon the Silver Flame," they called him. "The Hand of Renewal." "The Pearl King."
Simeon had intended to be the villain. He wanted riots. Street art of his face with devil horns. Effigies burned in public squares. Instead, they held festivals in his name. One traveling bard composed a hymn that included the line: He took our gold, he took our pride, he gave us joy and fish beside. Simeon nearly choked on his imported saffron lamb stew when he heard it.
Religious leaders, once divided by dogma, all began to agree on one thing: Simeon was the chosen one of prophecy.
A fishmonger wept openly when Simeon passed through the harbor one day.
"He cured my daughter with roads," the man sobbed.
"That’s not how medicine works," Simeon grumbled.
"He brings warmth to the winds!"
"It’s summer!"
But it didn’t matter.
At night, Simeon sat alone in his palace, surrounded by gold he no longer found amusing. A unicorn-shaped candlestick mocked him from the mantel. He read letters from mothers thanking him for saving their children. He saw buildings named after him: Simeon General Hospital. Simeon Public Library. The Simeon Soup Cooperative. ("Soup Cooperative? What does that even mean?") He once tried to raise taxes arbitrarily to spark revolt. The people thanked him for using the funds to build a coastal warning system.
His mother, Serenya, once a broken woman, now stood tall beside him, pride shining in her eyes.
"You’ve undone what your father destroyed," she whispered one evening. "You’ve healed this land."
He wanted to scream.
His siblings, who had once mocked him, now praised him.
"Thank the gods you took the throne," said one. "Or we’d all be lost."
Even the nobles, notorious for their venom, now begged for royal commissions and showered him with loyalty. Duke Vassil named his son Simeon and offered to host an opera about the king's life. (Simeon canceled it. Twice. It became a surprise hit on the underground circuit.)
He had wanted to burn it all. To expose the royal family for what it was—cruel, selfish, corrupt. He wanted the people to spit at his name, to curse the crown, to tear down the palace brick by brick. Instead, they sang his praises. Loudly.
As the years passed, Harmony only grew stronger. The roads gave way to canals. Trade routes expanded into the mountains. Art from the peninsula hung in the great halls of foreign courts. Students from distant empires came to study under Harmony’s scholars. Wars passed the kingdom by, for no one wished to harm a place that gave the world beauty.
And yet, with every passing year, Simeon's despair deepened. He devised ever more ridiculous schemes to sully his reputation, and every time, they were misconstrued as acts of genius or kindness.
When he shut down the old central market for "renovation"—a ploy meant to inconvenience and impoverish the local merchants—they simply moved operations to the new park he had ordered built months earlier as a joke. It had clean fountains, ample benches, and, regrettably, excellent foot traffic. Profits increased.
"Why do they thrive in my chaos?" Simeon groaned, head buried in his hands during one council meeting.
"Because your chaos is oddly functional," his advisor Maelen replied, sipping tea from a mug that read World's Worst Tyrant.
In another attempt, he outlawed the weekly fair held on Wednesdays, citing a royal superstition. The people responded by inventing a new event from Tuesdays to Thursdays. They called it the Harmony Squeeze, a three-day cultural festival of community and joy. The phrase "Squeezing the King" caught on, and no amount of proclamations could kill it.
He tried to impose a national hat tax. Unbeknownst to him, the money funded scholarships for orphans. He tripled import tariffs on cheese, hoping to enrage the dairy-loving port cities. The move led to a boom in local cheese-making, and within a year, Harmony became one of the premier destinations for goat cheese.
"Cheese has now become our fourth biggest export," Maelen noted one day, sliding a slice of "Royal Regret" across his desk.
"I hate how good this is," Simeon hissed.
One morning, a local playwright named approached him with a request: a royal portrait for her play The Flame of the Sea. It depicted Simeon as a reluctant hero destined to save the realm with a sword of song.
"Absolutely not," Simeon said. “You are not allowed to perform that play.”
"Too late," She replied. "We performed last week. Sold out. It got a standing ovation that lasted over thirty minutes."
By the twentieth year of his reign, even the empires that once ignored Harmony sought his wisdom. They sent him gifts—paintings, exotic animals, and one time, a golden harp that played itself and narrated Simeon's life story in verse.
"You are a symbol of enlightened monarchy," declared the Empress of Tharna during her state visit. "You must advise us."
"No," Simeon said. "I'm busy ruining my country."
"You don’t seem very good at that," she muttered, a confused look on her face.
In private, Simeon often raged. He threw his crown into the sea three times. Each time, it was returned by grateful fishermen who swore it brought them luck. He shut down the national ballet in a fit of pique. The dancers held street performances that drew even larger crowds.
When he replaced the palace wine with vinegar, claiming it a "cleansing tradition," nobles declared it an acquired taste and started buying barrels. Fruits that would have been discarded previously were now being used to make vinegar.
On his fiftieth birthday, the people erected a statue of Simeon atop the largest fountain in the capital. It depicted him lifting the nation with one hand while shielding children from the sea with the other.
He stared at it for an hour from his balcony. Then he whispered, "I give up."
The next morning, he called Maelen.
"Yes, Your Majesty?"
"I've decided to become a real tyrant. No more games. No more charity. I want fire and despair. Bread lines. Curfews."
Maelen raised an eyebrow. "Your Highness, yesterday you gave free spectacles to every scholar over sixty."
"An accident, I thought they would find it insulting."
"They’re planning to name the new wing of the university after you."
Simeon let out a strangled groan.
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
OH. MY. GOD.
Oh my god again.
“YOU MAN.” Played through a speaker?
Human.
“‘And you—what?’ I asked. ‘Just fly around looking for battles and rescuing victims?’
The being seemed to consider this. ‘Best invention of soil.’”
Running into danger to save people who need saving?
Yep.
That’s Earth’s best invention.
I love rebloging. It’s the adult equivalent of showing everyone the cool rock I just found.
If you see this on your dashboard, reblog this, NO MATTER WHAT and all your dreams and wishes will come true.
Oh hey! Haven’t seen this in forever! Didn’t reblog it when it came across me before, not gonna skip it this time, I need some good vibes.
as a chemist i would like to say BWAHAHAHAHAHA
Good naps will have you sleeping in poses usually reserved for dead insects
Love how tumblr has its own folk stories. Yeah the God of Arepo we’ve all heard the story and we all still cry about it. Yeah that one about the woman locked up for centuries finally getting free. That one about the witch who would marry anyone who could get her house key from her cat and it’s revealed she IS the cat after the narrator befriends the cat.
Might I add:
The defeat of the wizard who made people choose how they’d be to be executed
The woman who raised the changeling alongside her biological child
The human who died of radiation poisoning after repairing the spaceship
The adventures of a space roomba
Cinderella finding Araura (and falling in love)
I don’t know a snappy description but the my nemesis cynthia story certainly lives in my head
hilariously, these are almost all in my fic tag. so, a compiled list from the notes (and some extras):
The God of Arepo (graphic novel 1 / 2 / 3) (ebook)
The Monster of Sentan
The Witch’s Cat
Raise Both Children
Stabby the Roomba (honorable mention)
Cinderella Marries the Prince (comic)
My Arch Nemesis Cynthia
Pirates and Mermaid
Eindred and the Witch
The Demon King
The Cornerwitch
Grandmother Beetroot
Apocalypse Daycare Worker
Grandmother Accidentally Summons a Demon
New Year Saga
A Story About Changelings
Ranger in the King’s Forest
The Difference Between a Hare and a Rabbit
Goblin Men (Canines)
I am in love with you /p
Adding Faceblind Prince Charming and Cinderella
21. The human who died of radiation poisoning after repairing the spaceship
22. The defeat of the wizard who made people choose how they’d be to be executed
adding the Doctors Without Borders one
I LOVE tumblr storytime, so here’s a bunch more your weekend reading. Enjoy!
24. The Queen with Three Cursed Children
25. Tiny Dragon with one coin hoard
26. Haunted house
27. Shark hero was about to go rogue
28. Grandma lives in the woods comic
29. A Different Aftermath comic
30. Battery (microstory but I love it so much)
31. It’s A Date comic
32. Supervillian kidnaps rival’s kid and they want to stay
33. Narrative Town
34. I have been hired to clean the wizard tower comic
35. Robot Apocalypse
36. The Statues That Do Not Weather
37. Kushiel
38. Tooth Fairy
39. Alien abduction
40. Felonious wish-granting
41. When humans met actual space orcs
42. Space cousins
WAIT REBLOG THIS VERSION INSTEAD
HUGE shout out to purple for being the only color that has like no losers. Deep purple royal purple bluish purple redish purple pastel purple dusty purple lavender periwinkle violet like. Banger after banger after banger!!
look at these. there r all absolute fuckin stunners:
Astronauts are so funny man. Here's just a couple of things I've found hilarious from this past week of space stuff:
It's probably already been spread around here enough already, but in case anyone's missed it; 7 hours after launch, commander Reid Wiseman, dealing with tech issues, uttered the generational quote "I have two Microsoft Outlooks and neither one of those are working."
After fixing the issues that were afflicting the onboard toilet, mission specialist Christina Koch (who has quickly become my favourite of the four) laughingly said “I’m the space plumber, I’m proud to call myself the space plumber.”
On Easter Sunday, the Artemis II crew hosted a makeshift egg hunt, by hiding packets of dehydrated scrambled eggs around their Orion capsule.
The way the crew always makes sure to make it very clear they're in space when doing interviews. From stuff like Wiseman just hanging out floating sideways on screen or Koch letting her hair loose so it can freely span out flowing around her.
While in transit, the crew decided to record a parody of those bad 80s sitcom intros where everyone turns and smiles at the camera.
When the crew reached the furthest point from Earth in the mission, they jokingly clambored over each other in an effort to get to the far side of the capsule, so that they could individually claim to be the furthest person from earth.
At the same time, on the ISS which was at the time on the other side of earth, the 7 astronauts onboard had a light-hearted race to the far side of the station, making jokes about being the furthest humans from Artemis.
On the way back to earth, NASA actually managed to establish an audio call between the crews of the ISS and Artemis II (where they shared the above info), and Koch called one member of the ISS crew, Jessica Meir, her "astro-sister" as the two of them previously spacewalker together in 2019. Meir then responded I'm so happy that we are back in space together, even if we are a few miles apart" (a few here being 230,000).
While Jeremy Hansen was doing an interview, Wiseman and Koch were just in the background swatting the mission mascot (a little moon plush toy named Rise) back and forth between each other.
Okay, so according to this post, @staff says they're listening to us, so...
Sound off, Tumblr! How do you feel about the latest update to the reblog and notes?
Hate it. 👎
Like it. 👍
No nuance. Go ahead and reblog the crap out of this.
Icon, role model, and an absolute legend that we all must stan
I have a folder called Time is a Flat Circle in which I collect evidence of humanity. Here is most of them.
Okayokayokayokaybut "My hand will wear out but the inscription will remain" is kind of a power line BEFORE you factor in that it is, in fact, over a thousand years old.
It’s always good to spend a few moments, on a quiet day, looking through the Family album.
he's really having the time of his life 🥺 (insp)
