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#if you've got ideas........ :
janearts · 5 months
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I am not at all a medical professional, so please excuse any inaccuracies. In any case, Roisia would 100% be trying to puzzle out the logistics of a vampire bite.
[Logistics 1] [Logistics 2] (Her conclusion? She trusts her needle more.)
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itsthislake · 3 months
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“The Summer Day” by Mary Oliver.
HAPPY LATE BIRTHDAY ACE!!
Support me on ko-fi! ♥
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thelaurenshippen · 1 year
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a remake of "you've got mail" called "you've got kudos" about two fic writers who make flirty comments on each other's fics, only to realize that they already know each other because they used to be on opposite sides of a fandom war when they were teenagers under different usernames
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kami-ships-it · 15 days
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When your tank is in the wash, remember to...
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yourbuckies · 1 year
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— Excuses For Why We Failed At Love, Warsan Shire
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the-force-awakens · 1 month
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Still not used to this life or death situation stuff. That's good, 'cause I'm not either. You never get used to it.
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marsti · 1 month
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Hello and happy 10th Aromantic Spectrum Awareness Week to all from your local robot! Be aware of me.
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buwheal · 2 months
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Woowzers —🧶
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jj-akim0ri · 11 months
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some skit shenanigans for this AU - yuji is an enjoyer of sukuna's bedroom sex asmr noises - "how to romance your lover with french phrases"-
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taikanyohou · 1 year
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“Let me ask you something ...” BETWEEN US (2022) - Episode 2.
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alovesongtheywrote · 5 months
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Nightmare Academia | Spencer Reid x Reader
♥ Summary:  Have you ever seen the tiktok where that guy brings a typewriter to his class because his prof doesn't allow laptops? Yeah, it's that, but you are the source of the typewriters. In other words, you're Reid's worst nightmare. [Prof!Spencer Reid x GN-Prof!Reader]
♥ Warnings:  Descriptions of emotional vulnerability from a student to a professor, reminders that the world sucks and Gen-Z is fucked when it comes to housing. The reader is. Kind of Mean to Spencer, but I won't say he doesn't deserve it. Enemies to Lovers, but they're just Enemies right now.
♥ A/N: a couple things about this fic. 1) i have no clue when this takes place in the criminal minds timeline???? i just know reid took a some kind of leave from the bau, and this is what he's doing with it 2) reid isn't actually in this one that much. my bad. 3) i've got no clue what university these two teach at. i researched typewriters extensively for this, but i didn't bother googling universities.
♥ Word count:  2371
Series Masterlist
♥♥♥
“Alright, my little chilli babies, that’s about it for today. If you have any questions, office hours start now, and please remember there’s an exam next week. It makes me sad when you forget. Got it? Got it. Cool.”
Your students immediately began to stand and file out of the room. They left in groups. Some of them chatted amongst themselves softly, and some called out a farewell to you, but most of them were silent. One or two lingered behind to ask about the administration process of the PCL-R, but that was about it.
Except for this one girl.  
You were pretty sure her name was Opal. She sat near the back of the room in the second to last row. She got good grades and performed well on tests and projects- although she was a touch shy during the one presentation project you assigned during the semester.
Usually, Opal was one of the first to leave, practically running from the room, but today she just sat there, staring straight ahead. You watched her for a second, vaguely assuming that she had a question or something. She didn’t get up to ask, though. She just sat still, staring at her laptop.  You paid her no mind.  Sometimes your students just needed a second, and that was usually nothing to worry about.
You were just about to pack up your own things and head for your office when you heard a sob. You looked up again to see Opal just sobbing into her computer. You winced. A pang of sympathy hit you dead in the chest. University was just like that sometimes- and she wasn’t the first or last student to cry on campus.  
Shit, you cried on campus. Like, all the time. As a professor.  The previous Tuesday you thought about the two-headed calf poem too hard and you ended up sobbing in your office.  
You headed for the back of the room, leaning a hip against the back of the seat beside her. She didn’t seem to notice your presence. Her laptop screen was covered with detailed notes- it was honestly an impressive collection.  
You crossed your arms, raising an eyebrow, “Everything okay over here?”
Opal gasped, looking up at you with wide eyes, “I-I’m- I-” she sobbed again, “I’m so sorrrrrry.”
“Sorry? What do you have to be sorry for?”
“I’m crying in your classroom, and I’m so overwhelmed, and my next assignment is going to be late, and I’m so sorrrrry.”
The poor thing put her face in her hands and hunched over in her seat. You pulled out the chair next to her and sat down.
“You have nothing to be sorry for. University is stressful. It’s easy to get overwhelmed and crying can provide a cathartic release from that.”
“I- I know. It’s just so- so embarrassing.”
“Again, don’t worry about it. I literally cried in here last week.”
“R-really?”
“Mhmm. Now, if it helps, I can provide an extension on that assignment. Your feedback might be a little less in-depth, but that’s really nothing to worry about. Your work has always met a high standard.”
Her eyes somehow got even wider, “Are you- are you sure, professor?”
“Absolutely. It’s not a big deal- it might not fix your whole problem though,” you pulled your legs up onto the chair, sitting criss-cross facing your student, “If you’re feeling overwhelmed, the school provides free counselling services. They can help you feel less… whelmed.”  
Opal nodded, wiping her eyes, “It’s really just- just this one class I’m in. Our professor doesn’t allow laptops so I have to take notes by hand. But my- my writing is really messy, so then I have to figure out what I wrote, and-”
She was working herself back into a frenzy. You had to intervene. 
“Hey, hey, it’s okay. Which prof is it, maybe we can ask about getting an accommodation made?”
“It’s-” she sobbed, “It’s Professor Reid.”
You froze. Opal continued to sob as a dark, heavy storm cloud rolled into your brain.  
“That fucking bastard,” you hissed, effectively shocking Opal out of her stupor.
“Wh-what?”
“This isn’t the first time he’s- okay, come on, follow me, we’re going to my office.”
Wordlessly, Opal put her things in her bag. You ran to your desk to do the same, snatching your keys and water bottle before heading out into the hallway. Opal followed diligently, but she struggled to keep up with your purposeful strides. Her face was still tear-stained, but now, instead of sorrow, her expression was the ultimate picture of confusion. When you reached your office, you swung the door open wide and ushered the girl inside.
In all honesty, you were quite proud of the space you had created. It was warmly lit, a necessary contrast from the harsh white lights of the hallway (you fucking hated those lights). The walls were decorated with your doctorates and neat little art pieces you found in various places. It was colourful and pleasant, and now was not the time to focus on your choice of decor because you were on a mission.
Opal remained near the door, watching as you rounded your desk and reached for something below it. With a slight groan of effort, you quickly emerged with your prize.
A vintage typewriter.
A heavy vintage typewriter.
You placed the thing down on your desk as delicately as you could. Opal stared at you in confusion as you beamed at the fine piece of machinery.
“Which room is his class in, I’ll have someone bring this to you.”
“Professor-?”
“You use it for one class, just one, and I guarantee he’ll let you use your laptop. Damn, technophobe.”
“I don’t know how to use a typewriter.”
You placed your hands on the desk, leaning forward on it, “Okay, come here then, I’ll show you.”
Opal timidly made her way towards you. You made sure to leave her lots of space as you ran through the tech tutorial. She picked up on it quickly, being the good student that she was. When you were done, you collapsed back in your chair, another bright smile on your face. Opal looked significantly less distraught, but still vaguely confused.
“Can I ask why you’re doing this for me? You- you didn’t even have to give me an extension. Why are you-?”
“Because you aren’t the first student to have this problem.”
It was true. This was the seventh sobbing-student-style complaint you’d had about him in as many months- and Reid had only been there for seven months.  You’d received emails, phone calls, and office hour meetings where desperate and devastated students would explain to you that they were falling behind. It broke your heart a little bit- and it pissed you right off.  
It was ironic that Doctor Reid had come straight here from the FBI- his technophobic nature was slowly but surely murdering your students, and now, you were going to murder him.
“Now about that extension, does five days sound good?”
Opal handed in the assignment two days into her extension. You smiled as you looked over her incredible paper. Your little scheme had worked. You hoped that Reid was pissed.
He was! Kind of. Not really.  It was a bit of a disappointment to be honest.
You had only known Doctor Spencer Reid for the seven months he’d been teaching alongside you, and boy howdy were you starting to hate his fucking guts. At first, everything was fine. He’d seemed sweet, and polite, and you were willing to overlook the whole FBI profiler thing to maintain the peace.
Then one of your students passed out during class.  
Thanks to his high expectations and fear of computers, there was a lot of shit for his students to cope with. The worst part was, you agreed with some of his policies- of course, you didn’t agree with the tech thing, that was stupid- but there was other stuff that you liked. He taught your students things that could help them improve- but at what cost.
Your formerly dim-eyed and sleepy students (let’s be real, they were never going to be bright-eyed nor bushy-tailed, they’re fucking college students) were now going through life in a state of anxiety that was not good for their long-term health. That was enough to make you hate Spencer Reid.  
And then one night, over a very full glass of wine you looked up his FBI career. You learned that the BAU used a private jet.
A private. Fucking. Jet.
They didn’t need to use the private jet. They could’ve used trains and it would’ve done the same thing. Shit, they didn’t even have to leave Quantico. They could’ve done their job from their main office. Most profilers do their job from their main office.  Instead, Reid’s team had dumped fucking jet fuel into the damn atmosphere because they fucking felt like it.  Not to mention just. FBI. Ew.
So, yeah. Fuck Reid’s three PhD’s, and fuck his ability to teach. You didn’t give a shit about any of that. You hated the man. You wanted to eat his heart in the main atrium, and given your way, you would.
Taking all that into consideration, it was only natural for the expression on your face to morph into one of absolute joy when Reid came to your office with the typewriter in his arms, and his tail between his legs.
“Doctor Reid,” your smile was a plastic thing, a false beauty with venom hiding beneath it, “What can I help you with.”
“Please stop sending that typewriter to my class.”
You opened your eyes a little wider, playing dumb just to fuck with him, “Typewriter? Whatever do you mean? I can’t imagine anyone in this century would even own a little antique typewriter like that thing there.”
“Little? That thing has to be over a hundred pounds- and it’s not antique, it’s-”
“It is literally thirty-three pounds.”
“Oh, okay,” he nodded. It was very clearly a ruse, “But how would you know that unless you own the typewriter?”
“I do a lot of research. That’s a 1960s Vintage Royal Empress Typewriter measuring about twelve inches in width and weighing thirty-three pounds and eight ounces. Y’know, now that you mention it, I’ve actually been in the market for a vintage typewriter.”
You put your elbows together on the desk and placed your face in your hands, “You wouldn’t know where I could get one would you?”
“Dr. (L/N), this is your typewriter.  Please stop sending it to my classes.”
“Hm, I guess it doesn’t pay tuition, that’s not fair to the other students,” you opened your laptop, “What class do you teach again? I’ll sign it up and pay the price in full.”
Doctor Reid let out the most exasperated sigh you had ever heard in your life- and that was impressive. You taught college kids.
“Why are you like this?” he mumbled.
“Pardon?”
“I said-” he at least had the decency to look embarrassed, “I said, ‘Why are you like this?’”
Your smile split your face from ear to ear. You emerged from behind your desk slowly, carefully, like a predator eyeing up its prey.
“Why am I like this, Dr. Reid? I’m like this because in the past seven months, I have had to deal with seven emotionally wrecked students, and what did they all have in common? Was it personal tragedies? The pure state of the world and everything in it? The knowledge that very few of the students at this school will be able to afford houses once they enter the working world?  No, Dr. Reid. The thing they had in common was you.”
“What are you implying?”
“Implying- what are you implying, he asks me,” you muttered, “I’m saying that your fear of computers is fucking over your students.”
“Studies have shown that handwritten notes-”
“No, no, stop. You don’t get to talk.  I’m talking now. Handwritten notes might be better for long-term memory retention, but not everyone writes as fast as you talk. Most of these kids don’t have time to switch their notes to a digital format! And that doesn’t account for shit getting lost, or students who get sick and miss class. Look, I get that computers might be scary for you, but in a climate where most of your students are full-time students, who take a mind-numbing amount of courses that cover incredibly difficult material, go home and struggle with the steaming pile of shit that is reality, and then head out for their part-time jobs- or, in some cases, their full-time jobs- you might want to have a degree of sympathy.”
Reid stared at you. He seemed unaffected. You wondered if that was because you were like, an entire foot shorter than him. You pulled up a chair and stood on it.
“Let your students use their laptops, or I swear to god, I will never stop sending the typewriter to class.  You will hear the incessant sound of keys clicking in your nightmares, got it?” 
He paused, his eyes darting across your face from your lips to your eyes and back.
“How old are you?”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re standing on a chair like a child. How old are you?”
“Twenty-seven. Now get out of my office.”
He did as you asked. You could see a small smirk on his lips as he shut the door behind him. The sight of it made your blood boil, and there and then, you decided you were gonna keep sending the typewriter anyway because fuck that guy.
Still, over the next few months, you never heard another complaint about Spencer Reid and his technophobic habits. Your students went from extreme emotional agony to regular, day-to-day emotional agony. He’d stopped making them take notes by hand.
You were still gonna kill him just… maybe a little bit less.
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sivvan · 4 months
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@userdramas event 12: loss
↳ seventeen songs to listen to when you're feeling a loss of hope or direction ♡ cr: x
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ignatiusteto · 3 months
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valerith, the red swan
#dungeons and dragons#dnd#dnd 5e#ttrpg#dnd oc#digital art#sketch#dnd art#dnd oc art#original character#original character art#can i tag her as bg3 bc I've imagined her in the bg3 setting besides just fr#guys you have no idea how much brain rot I've had about her in the last few days. it's extensive#i may even need to see a brain rot specialist if it continues#if you've been here u may remember regular valerith but as I've been playing bg3 I was like. wait a minute#dnd valerith. she's already a demon let's make her a proper devil. a lot of her backstory is the same just dnd'ified#verchiel was a im going with planetar that served lathander bc actual angel verchiel fits lathander's stuff pretty well#her goodness and honestly got her into some deep shit she considered as a possibility but very very very very unlikely of happening#lathander was like man well. cant just let this slide. also why not use it as an example sorry#so she was cursed to become a devil and her angel s/o followed her after trying to interfere and be like um no??? this is bs#so now theyre in the hells and still love each other but also are extremely conflicting bc while valerith SHOULD be lawful evil she's not#she's on a fine line between chaotic good and neutral.#if valerith were an npc in anything she'd have a quest after trusting whoever enough being like. hey. so. i don't want to be a devil anymor#i'm tired of it. i heard about this ritual that might be able to fix it but it's dangerous in both getting the supplies and performing it#and if anything goes wrong i could very well suffer significantly in multiple ways for it.#her s/o doesnt like this just as much as she doesn't like the idea of them wanting to overthrow fierna in the 4th circle of hell where#they reside so. theyre kind of at a conflicting neutral state. they love each other but they also dont talk about those things in a good wa#anyway valerith i think would have a chance to become a quasi-deity being that's true neutral#and i have a design in mind but :>#if you read all of this youre actually insane.
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cerealboxlore · 10 months
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Smoooooth Operatorrrrr
Listen up, Y'all, listen to mama
So. Y'all know about Captain Marvel and his patrons/gods that gifted him his powers through the living lighting via the Wizard Shazam, right? Of course you do, why else would you be reading a post about DC Captain Marvel by this weirdo typing it out right now at 1 AM? Anyways, his powers can do quite a lot, and when used in the right way can extend themselves to unique situations for a better outcome.
However. Billy Batson himself, the vessel for Captain Marvel, is like 10 years old. A small boy. So with that in mind, there's probably a lot of ways he can use the powers of the gods for other purposes without abusing them. As an education major, let me tell you, kids will find a way no matter what. Think they won't do something? They will. They will push the limits to human possibilities and audacity whenever they feel like it.
So imagine this lovely situation:
Billy Batson, young radio show host to Whiz Radio and known pretty well locally with some fame to his name, does a special Valentine's Day segment where he let's callers propose on the air to their partners and it's all so sweet. It's different from his usual program and schedule of talking about deep and complex conversations from the perspective of a child, but it's cute.
That is, until, a couple ends up getting into a fight on the air for everyone to hear, and Billy has to be the one to calm things down, unable to stop the broadcast for whatever reason.
Summoning up just a tiny portion of the Wisdom of Solomon, Billy does his best to get through the awkward situation. During the whole ordeal, Billy ends up getting through to the couple and talks to them about what's going on. He tries to mediate and pushes for a healthier method of communication between them instead of yelling. Despite being a child, Billy's in depth conversation with them about relationships and their dynamics have them stunned, and very apologetic in the end. The couple starts to understand each other better and their boundaries, while completely forgetting that the entire ordeal was aired live.
Word spreads like wildfire and soon Billy has a line of callers calling in for his legendary relationship advice, saying that he was so incredibly wise beyond his years. Little did they know that Billy was now snacking himself on the head for using the Wisdom of Solomon for dating advice!....oh well, he's just glad he didn't go to Zeus for help.
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anghraine · 5 months
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I'm usually irritated by the people sneering about fanfic insisting it is just intrinsically inferior to early modern writers raiding Ovid or Chaucer or the news or each other or whomever. I've never seen anyone have a decent rationale beyond early modern writing is intrinsically Art and fanfic is intrinsically Not Art, because of reasons (the artistic purity of working within early modern patronage and censorship, I guess?).
I'm not talking Shakespeare specifically (though Lear <3). He was by no means alone in borrowing characters and plots from previous sources and then doing his own thing with them. A lot of my favorite plays of the time re-purpose established stories in this way.
But also, it comes around to kind of funny when people are not only insisting that fanfic is definitionally Not Art and in some way totally different from the usual kind of borrowing that goes back millennia, but also that fanfic is somehow morally degenerate and harmful and unhinged in a new and shocking way.
Because if early modern English literature is defined by anything, it's being absolutely fucking unhinged.
I mean! The Revenger's Tragedy?? The White Devil (borrowed directly from the murder headlines)??? My best beloved 'Tis Pity She's a Whore (pretty obviously a spin on Romeo and Juliet But Now With Incest and Even More Murder)? These things are batshit. And fantastic! I love them! But holding them up on some pedestal of artistic and moral purity is just bizarre IMO.
There are differences between what they did and contemporary fanfic because we live in different eras and cultures, in some ways radically so, because copyright and intellectual property work so differently now and have affected storytelling so much, because of the effects of things like genre romance and the Internet and AO3, because patronage and censorship now work very differently in a lot of ways, because educations and literary norms are so different, and so on.
But is fanfic in some way uniquely trashy and shocking by contrast to what those men were thinking up? Nah.
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katabay · 4 months
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The Annotated Arabian Nights: Tales from 1001 Nights, edited with an introduction and notes by Paulo Lemos Horta, translated by Yasmine Seale
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