im joining the war on gross disgusting pornographic content on the side of gross disgusting pornographic content
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Mike Driver

izzy's playlists!
occasionally subtle
Show & Tell
d e v o n
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NASA

titsay
Cosimo Galluzzi
Xuebing Du
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Monterey Bay Aquarium
I'd rather be in outer space đ¸
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oozey mess

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macklin celebrini has autism
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dirt enthusiast
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@hyponychthemeron
im joining the war on gross disgusting pornographic content on the side of gross disgusting pornographic content
Not gonna lie guys, at this rate weâre never going to become the new PDF
hot take: Pippin is the only one of the hobbits who is âteam Arwenâ in the âwho is the most beautiful woman in the worldâ argument
Pippin, after being formally introduced to Arwen for the first time: hey Merry. do you think if I asked nicely enough sheâd marry me instead?
Merry: Pippin. *lays a comforting hand on his shoulder*
Merry: I think it is worth a shot.
Pippin: got it *wanders away*
Frodo: why would you do that
Merry: I want to see if heâll really try it
#PIPPIN: IF I BEAT STRIDER IN ROCK PAPER SCISSORS CAN I MARRY YOU INSTEAD? #ARWEN: UHHHHHHH #PIPPIN: GREAT! BRB
Aragorn accepts the challenge knowing full well that, as he can literally read minds, it is impossible to beat him at rock paper scissors.
Arenât you forgetting the minor detail that Pippin would likely never think of which one he will throw?
consider: Aragorn accepts the challenge assuming heâll win easily. Pippin wins immediately.
Arwen: well, now I must marry him. we ageed.
Pippin: :D
Aragorn: Arwen please
Arwen: I love my tiny fiance
I love it
Elrond: I donât like it either but you agreed that if he beat you in fair combat then he could marry Arwen
Elrond: so now my daughter must marry this hobbit
Arwen: Iâm comfortable with that
Aragorn: please this isnât funny
Arwen: you should have thought of that before you accepted the challenge, Iâm engaged to Pippin now.
Pippin: listen I know this isnât actually going to end with me marrying you but this is still the best day of my life so far
@thedronesneedyou you should see this too
when they finally kiss after 65k words
âЧоŃŃ ĐżĐžĐ´ĐľŃи, Ń ĐśĐľ СайŃĐť ŃĐľĐłĐžĐ´Đ˝Ń ĐˇĐ°ĐžŃаŃŃ Đ˛ ŃŃи ŃаŃа нОŃи!ââŚ
Well, shoot! I forgot to yell at three in the morning today
The âtalking mirrorâ trope from fairy tales probably originated when a careless time-traveler was seen using a Smart phone or a tablet.
fellas, is it gay
it better be
I'm gonna check the notes of this good, completely harmless, but slightly controversial post. Oh look! Free block list!
overdosing on minecraft by playing minecraft for 8 hours a day
thanks for that Tango
you heard it here first folks
writers can have a little italicised oh. as a treat
The Witch Who Spoke to the Wind
Sequel to Eindred and the Witch
In which Severin, the golden eyed witch, learns that his greatest enemy and truest love is fated to kill him.
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Dealing in prophecies is a dubious work. Anyone who knows anything will tell you as much.
âThink of all of time as a grand tapestry,â his great-grandmother had said, elbow deep in scalding water. Her hands were tomato red, and Severin watched with wide golden eyes as she kneaded and stretched pale curds in the basin. âYou might be so privileged to understand a single weave, but unless you go following all surrounding threads, and the threads around those threads, and so on - which, mind you, no human can do - youâll never understand the picture.â
Severin, who was ten years old and had never seen a grand tapestry, looked at the cheese in the basin and asked if his great-grandmother could make the analogy about that instead.
âNo,â she replied. âTime is a tapestry. Cheese is just cheese.â
And that was that.
By fifteen, Severin who was all arms, legs, and untamable black hair, decided he hated prophecies more than anything in the world. He occupied himself instead with long walks atop the white bluffs well beyond his familyâs home. Outside, he could look at birds, and talk to the wind, and not think about the terrible prophecy which followed him like a shadow.
His second eldest sister had revealed it - accidentally, of course. Severin lived in a warm and bustling house with his great-grandmother, grandmother, mother, two aunts, and three sisters. All of whom were generously gifted in the art of foretelling (a messy business, each would say if asked), and every one of them had seen Severinâs same bleak thread.
He would die. Willingly stabbed through the heart by his greatest enemy and truest love.
Willingly. That was the worst part, he thought.
Severin, who had no talent in the way of prophecies, but plenty of talent in the realm of wind and sky, marched along the well-worn trail, static sparking around his fingertips as the brackish sea breeze nipped consolingly at his face and hair.
I will protect you if you ask me to, it blustered, and Severin was comforted.
He didnât care who this foretold stranger was. When this enemy-lover appeared, Severin would ask the wind to pick them up and take them far, far away. Far enough that they could never harm him. The wind whistled in agreement. And so it was settled.
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âMay you have a life of safety and peaceâ, said the witch, cursing the bloodthirsty warrior.
The words of the slain hold tremendous power.
Itâs why any sensible warrior is a master of swift endings. Such as an arrow through the eye or a clean separation of head from shoulders. In a pinch, a slit throat will do. Though it really is best to avoid giving your enemy the chance to make even garbled curses out of their last bloody breaths. For even those without the slightest touch of magic have been known to make a curse stick if itâs uttered on the cold brink of death.
Eindred the Bloody collected curses in the same way that other warriors collected scars. Even in the wild chaos of battle, he was known to take a knee, pressing his ear to a felled enemyâs laboring lips.
May your every loved one die screaming in pain.
I hope you die with your eyes stabbed out and your heart in your hands.
You will never know happiness.
Your existence will be suffering.
May your greatest enemy rise from the grave and never leave you alone.
The last was his most recent curse, and Eindred wondered if it meant some great murdered brute was tracing his steps, waiting to catch him while he slept.
Eindred crossed the peninsula with a company of barbaric warriors, gaining a new curse from every enemy he felled. Not all of them would stick, he knew. But some undoubtedly would. And he would deserve every one.
Others in his company treated him with to wary, sidelong glances, because surely it was dangerous to travel with one so cursed as he. But Eindred was a force in battle, relentless and unstoppable as an icy winter gale, and so they swallowed their complaints, and contented themselves with leaving a wide berth on either side of his scarred, patchwork arms.
Eindred was marching at the back of the company when they came upon the village. It was a collection of squat, wooden homes tucked beneath a snow capped mountainside. From thatched rooftops, wisps of smoke from cooking fires rose, painting the blue sky in pale, meandering strokes.Â
This company tended to leave such settlements alone, and Eindred was glad for it. No warriors would be found in tiny mountainside villages, and though he might live to fight, he had no interest in wholesale slaughter.Â
This time, however, the company leader - a silent, brutish man, held up a hand.
Their company was running low on food, it turned out, and even from a distance, the warriors could see the villageâs sheep - a trail of white spots on the green hillside.
Eindred was disappointed when, ultimately, violence erupted in the quiet village, though he did not lay down his thick handled blade.
The shepherd boy had refused to give up his masterâs sheep, and when he shouted, a blacksmith had burst from his home, wielding a great hammer in his hand.Â
The battle was short.Â
When all was done, four lay dead. The shepherd, the blacksmith, and two young men whoâd foolishly taken up crude wooden spears. The rest of the villagers huddled, terrified in their homes. The warriors expected to slaughter the sheep with no further trouble, but when they turned back to the field, an individual stood blocking their way.
His hair was dark - as the hair in these parts tended to be, and his face was sharp, both nose and cheeks splattered with freckles. Golden eyes beheld the warriors, and he watched them with a steady, measured gaze. Without the slightest hint of fear, he stood before them, his simple robe fluttering in the icy mountainâs breath, and said: âThese are simple people. They have little in way of money or goods. It wasnât for nothing that the shepherd, blacksmith, and teenagers died. They need these sheep. And I cannot allow you to take them.â
The other warriors in the company laughed at the young manâs foolishness - for that was what it looked like to them. Eindred did not laugh, however. Though the strangerâs voice was light, the air stirred around him.Â
It was rare to encounter one who commanded magics. Rare - but not impossible. And so Eindred alone was unsurprised when the young man turned his golden eyes to the heavens and summoned great branches of lightning which cleaved the skies above them. The world erupted and the men around Eindred screamed.
Eindred, whoâd expected something like this, had already begun running.Â
Later, he would think it odd that the witch hadnât bothered to move. But in the heat of battle, with lightning splitting the field at his back, Eindredâs attention had narrowed to the rough point of his blade - and then, the crimson place where it pierced the witchâs chest.
The skies silenced as Eindred pulled the wet, crimson blade free of its target.Â
It took just a moment for the witch to fall, but in that single, infinite moment, Eindred was subjected to the full weight of that golden gaze.
Legs folding beneath him, the witch crumpled, collapsing back onto the wild, wet grass. Eindred knelt beside him, grimly eager to hear the curse and be done with it. Surely a curse at the lips of one so powerful as this would finally bring an end to things?Â
To take oneâs own life was an unspeakably shameful end for a warrior such as he. But a curse? Well, one couldnât help how the wrong curse might speed things along.
The witchâs black hair was damp from the dew in the grass, and when he turned, it stuck to the side of his face and neck. His mouth opened and closed. Holding his breath, Eindred leaned in.
â-my hutâŚitâs just pastâŚthe next hill over,â the witch whispered. âIn it, I keep medicines and herbs. For the villagers. And travelers who pass.â
Eindred shook his head. He didnât understand.
Impossibly, the witch smiled. When he lifted a hand, Eindred twitched, expecting to be struck.
The witchâs bloodied finger, however, did nothing more than tap his chest. And then, in a wet, rattling breath, the witch, with his great power finally spoke his curse.Â
âMay you live a life of safety and peace.âÂ
Eindred sat, his thick, scarred knuckles braced in the dirt as the cold mountain wind whistled down the hillside at his back.
âWhat?â he whispered.Â
But the young manâs golden eyes were blank and empty, and the other warriors lay dead in the field. Only the relentless wind snapped and whistled in answer.
Eindred left.
Within a month, heâd joined up with another company. And it soon became clear the witchâs death rattle had been a curse of great power indeed. For wherever Eindred traveled, peace inevitably followed. Enemy warriors surrendered and when they didnât, members within Eindredâs own company had sudden changes of heart. As for Eindred himself, not a single person would raise a blade against him, and Eindred had never been the sort who could raise his own blade against one who had no wish to fight.
And so for another month he wandered, hapless, without even the dark purpose of collecting curses which had driven him for the last several years.Â
Heâd been raised with a sword in his hand, brought up knowing full well that his job in life would be to cut short the existence of any who stood against him. Not even thirty, and his soul was exhausted, worn ragged by such an life. And so, heâd sought a way out if it. Eindred had accumulated a terrifying number of curses - curses which would surely have felled lesser men than he. Before everything had gone wrong in the tiny village, heâd been sure it was only a matter of time before they overcame him.
But now, the witchâs single curse had overpowered them all.
Eindred was safer than heâd ever been in his life. Heâd never known such a quiet, terrible peace.Â
After another month, he returned to the mountainside village. He didnât have any good reason to return - other than perhaps the distant hope that a villagerâs rage might be enough to overcome the curse. As he climbed the grassy hillside, he resigned himself to potential death by club or rake.
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With all the inappropriate jokes the Hermits have been making, soon we will restore Hermitcraft to its former glory:
A Star Trek idea: A comedy sitcom where instead of a Vulcan on a mostly human ship it is a human on a mostly Vulcan ship
All the Vulcans are fiercely protective of the âfragile, illogical, prone-to-danger, smart, reckless little humanâ.
To make the human feel more accepted (as it is only logical) the Vulcans try to include aspects of terran culture in the shipâs day-to-day life, failing spectacularly at it.
The human loves them even more for it.
Theyâll get better at celebrating the humanâs birthday next year. Itâs the thought that counts.
@jvlianbashirâ THATâS A GOOD END TO THAT EPISODE THOUGH⌠the vulcans put together awful, bland decorations. they make a cake because itâs of âsignificant importanceâ. they go through the process of putting together this party and Studying this Human Ritual and the entire episode is setting up to what you KNOW will be a horrible result. they do a bad job!! then when the humanâs birthday comes, and they reveal the off-the-mark, underwhelming looking birthday bash, the human just. starts crying. because they had no idea their crew would go through all this trouble to celebrate their birthday, and even put up DECORATIONS, or make a CAKE, and thereâs a birthday card with extremely polite impersonal messages written and a hundred perfectly tidy signatures. and the vulcans are just standing around like âyou appear upset. the Birthday Party was unsatisfactoryâ.
I would watch the fuck out of that
âHumans require regular physical contact to remain healthy. We have a weekly rotation for The Daily Shoulder Pat. Please inform us if this is insufficient contact, either in frequency, magnitude, or duration.â
Okay, I reblogged this because of how adorable it is, but then I started picturing McCoy as the sole human.
Oh my fucking God.
honestly this is why when a series spans multiple works some of those works should be different genres, because come the fuck on this would make a great comedy
Given how all the Vulcans we see on human ships are considered to be the emotional mavericks of their species, it would be even better if said sole human is more on the stoic and logical side and yet everyone else treats them like a wild party animal.
Once, they showed confusion followed by annoyance and everyone commented on it.