thisisviridus:

silvermoon424:

Non-Disney Sailor Princesses by Drachea Rannak

Kia is Disney

iamyourhiro:

egobus:

i am ashamed

I actually understand this entirely.

shepherdthomas:

bannannibal:

let’s just pretend for a moment

FFUCK ‘okay grandpa’

(Source: daciio)

1,232,247 plays

feralcascade:

becausebirds:

An owl gets inside the house. The Owl Whisperer™ tries to get it back outside again. x

*Manly screams*

1,373,657 plays

vinegod:

Didn’t see that one coming by Thomas Sanders

nnaffettss:

omg the little wiggle 

(Source: youtube.com)

polytropic-liar:

tifferini:

a teen wolf au in which everyone is an android

"I think it’s kinda cute." Kate props a hand on her hip and peers through the observation glass at Sc077’s testing chamber. "Look at him with his big creepy robot eyes and his little bugs in the code. Adorable."

"This is more than bugs, Katherine." Allison’s executive processors start calculating escape routes whenever Dr. Gerard’s voice sounds like that. "Watch."

Sc077 asked her to call him Scott yesterday. Allison does, and wipes it from her memory before it’s logged as data. She carefully doesn’t think about why. Scott is entering the immersion program now, making his way towards his objective with careful, measured uses of his special enhancements for strength and speed. Allison likes watching him. She likes that her enhanced eyes are the only ones in the room that can track his movements.

The program wavers. In Scott’s path is a human child, injured. Allison’s eyes narrow. They’ve done this same experiment with her; she preformed adequately. She called emergency services for the child without slowing her pace.

Scott stops. He bends down, reaches out a hand to the child. She can sense him modulating his voice, soft and calm and with the motherhood harmonics from their sound templates. Allison glances at Gerard. That’s wrong. Scott has done something wrong.

Kate and Gerard turn away from the screen as the program terminates.

"I knew Alan’s stupid Synthetic Soul program was shit. This is why we should keep programmers within the family," Kate comments. "Is the other one fucking up too?"

"See for yourself." The other observation wall clears. This one’s call number is very long, St0186529374. Scot calls him Stiles. Allison doesn’t know why. He’s sitting at a terminal, plugged into a data field. Allison watches the screen; logic sets. Analysis, inference and synthesis. She performs well on those but after roughly 90 minutes finds her attention sort of…wandering.

Stiles is fast, faster than Allison is at least. His fingers dance over the input keys, check check clear, check check clear.

"Watch this." Gerard alters the program from his terminal. Allison catches a glimpse of it as it goes past, and cross-references with her web uplink. That’s not a logic set. Her processors don’t return an answer for it.

In the room, Stiles frowns. His fingers dance; hesitate; try again. Check. Check. Check check check check check check—

"Oh good, you broke it," Kate starts—

The center of Stiles’ left eye sparks, just a flash, and then the program dings. Clear.

"What the fuck?" Kate leans over the screen. "He doesn’t have the programming for that. Whatever that was."

"Insight. Lateral thinking. Inspiration.” Gerard’s voice is doing the thing again. Allison stands very still. “And the alpha model? Compassion. Empathy. Nurturing. This is more than mere bugs in the code, Katherine. We have two bona fide ghosts in the machine.”

As one, they turn to look at Allison. For some reason her homeostasis maintenance systems start functioning at heightened levels. She thinks she might be trying to sweat.

"May I be of service?" she asks, standard phrase, basic programming, no understanding of what is going on other than that she might be required.

Kate grins. “At least our Argent models are still working right.”

"Indeed." Gerard is still watching her. Allison meets his gaze with eyes she knows are flat and lifeless as any other machine’s, and very carefully doesn’t think about the roof of the facility, the wind in her hair, the clear ‘off-limits, you may not enter’ note in her programming. She tries very hard to keep out of her mind the knowledge that she has done what not even Scott and Stiles have yet managed to do:

Disobey.

nana-41175:

Presents from Qunhyskoa (part 2)

Sherlock doujinshi Heart Tree. Novel by Cainonly, illustrations by Wsly-cn

A beautiful 317-page volume in Chinese. I can hardly wait to read it (though my Chinese is rusty but heck! The practice will do me a world of good!!!). We’ve seen Wsly-cn’s gorgeous illustrations online, but man! the drawings in the volume, and the postcards are just drop-dead beautiful!

Thank you so much to Qunhyskoa for the lovely presents!!

foodeatsworld:

White Chocolate Berry Tart (Recipe)

foodeatsworld:

White Chocolate Berry Tart (Recipe)

sofapizza:

sosilvergreen:

Put That Ring Back Where It Came From Or So Help Me: A Trilogy

image

255,069 plays | by Mumford and Sons

epiteph:

dontprofoakme:

forthosebelowmyfeet:

ohwowlovelywow:

Mumford and Sons—Not in Nottingham (cover from the disney movie Robin Hood)

THE WHISTLING DEAR LORD HAVE MERCY

I didn’t know how bad I needed this until just now.

I would like to marry his voice.

Constant smile the entire time

potofsoup:

archeralli:

a weak and tortured bucky making sure steve gets to safety first

It’s because Bucky has a habit of letting Steve go first.

——-

1) Always let Steve go first up the stairs, so that you can keep an eye on him.  It’s easier to count Steve’s breaths and notice when Steve’s heart does that thing that makes him stop and shake.  Much easier to stop and pretend to tie your shoes while you wait, worried, than to realize 2 flights too late that Steve’s no longer with you. 

Later: Your limbs are sore and numb from being strapped to a table for 2 days and you’re pretty sure you haven’t eaten and the entire base might be exploding, but when Steve says “let’s go up,” you tell him to go first.

———-

2) Steve’s walk was mostly normal, though he swung his hips in a certain way to compensate for his scoliosis, and that put a special cadence to his stride that you unconsciously match. Even without Steve around you would twist your hip back before swinging your leg forward.  Twist, swing, twist, swing.

Later: Steve is leading the way through the forest, and you’re finally used to his height and broad shoulders and that dumb shield, but something still feels wrong.  Somehow your pace doesn’t quite match, and you can’t figure out why.

———-

3) Colors don’t work the same with Steve, so always describe unfamiliar objects by their shape and relative location, like that square window past the third door on the left, or the man wearing that unseasonably long coat standing in the corner by the garbage can.

Later: The boys are singing in the other room and you’re at the bar with Steve, trying very hard to get drunk because of course you’ll follow Steve into whatever but that doesn’t mean you have to do it sober.  “Steve,” you whisper, “Check out that lady by the door, next to that short thin guy who has his shirt open.”  Steve looks over.  “The one in the red dress?  That’s Miss Carter.”  You decide you need another drink.

———-

4) When walking down a narrow dark alleyway always stay on the right, because Steve’s bad ear makes the right side feel blind to him (though damn if Steve’d ever admit that).  On broad open streets, switch to Steve’s left side, so that Steve could hear you better through the noise.

Later: Dum-Dum gives you a weird look as you line up to charge into a Hydra base.  “Why won’t you take the left flank for a change?”  You start explaining Steve’s bad ear before you remember that he’s not that Steve any more, and that Captain America doesn’t have a bad ear.

———-

5) Stuff in your left pockets are for Steve: the asthma cigarettes that Steve could never afford, a dime for that popcorn that Steve likes, tickets for whatever shindig you’re trying to drag Steve along to. Sometimes you put things there for Steve and totally forget about it, like extra paper and a spare pencil in case Steve wants to doodle.  The left side always belongs to Steve.

Later: Steve is awfully quiet by the campfire.  You sit down by his good ear and reach into your left pocket.  “Hey,” you say, pulling out a news clipping about the war front that featured a lovely photo of Miss Carter.  “You read this yet?  They think Morita’s a Japanese defector, but the section on Dernier is priceless.”

———————-

Still later:

Report on the Winter Soldier reset procedures

After the latest test run, only the following anomalies remain:

A) The asset tends to hug the right walls and not the left, and hesitates for 30 microseconds before climbing stairs.  However, he does not hesitate when scaling walls or ladders.

B) When walking unopposed the asset has a characteristic and identifiable stride, which is dropped when he is making a covered approach.  

C) The asset communicates via relative locations, often omitting crucial color information.  However, he can be commanded to describe the colors of any object in impressive detail.

D) When dressing himself, the asset keeps his knives exclusively on his right side, and his left pockets are underutilized.  This may be an effect of continued unfamiliarity with the new left arm.

After extensive field testing, we have determined that these anomalies do not impede the asset from completing his missions, and declare the reset process complete.

—————————

[basically the textual partner to the colorblindness comic]

[The rest of my Captain America stuff]

rexuality:

I made a small change to my OKC profile

rexuality:

I made a small change to my OKC profile

zainclaw:

"You took me to the sheriff’s house." He scoffs, and it sounds just like Derek only smaller and Stiles can’t decide if it’s more discomforting or adorable. “I didn’t even know that Stilinski kid had an older brother.”

 ”Older—” Stiles blinks in disbelief. “You remember me?”

He’d been surprised by his father recognizing the young boy downstairs before realizing that Derek’s the same age as when the Hale fire happened. Just like Stiles himself remembers sixteen year-old Derek Hale getting pulled out of class seven years ago, the sheriff must remember delivering the bad news. But he never thought Derek even acknowledged him back then.

Derek studies him for a moment, confusion and uneasiness written all over his face. Stiles isn’t used to see this level of emotion in those hazel eyes, but he supposes that’s the point. This Derek is only a child, not yet aware of how cruel one’s life can be. Even less his own.

"I know you?" He asks, voice hesitant.

Stiles’ heart skips a beat at how that almost didn’t sound like a question.

"Yeah," he replies hoarsely. "Yeah, you do. We’re friends. Well," he huffs softly, "at least I like to think we are. Not sure you’d agree; we kinda argue a lot. It’s nice though. I’ve made you laugh at least once.” He smiles vaguely. “We make it work.”

There’s a faint frown on Derek’s face. “Why?”

Stiles pauses. “Because we’re pack,” he says.

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