#million ants

[dirty-bear-rick-sanchez]

I think Air Force Wong’s handling of Unity’s gender is even more disappointing when you consider the Vindicators short about Million Ants. It was, what, 2 minutes long? If that? But yet it had a very clear and interesting exploration of gender for an entity composed of many beings. Even if they didn’t actually explore Unity’s gender in detail, it would’ve been nice for them to stick to the original it/its pronouns - or at least they/them.

[rickandmortyscreenshots]

[ricks-and-mortys]

RICK AND MORTY 3.04 - Vindicators 3: The Return of Worldender

[18baal]

[pluviatrix]

a sad little eddie i drew 4 warmups b4 comishes :). i was listening to view between villages and the 03/cos melancholy hit me like a box truck. loz followers i would like to extend a formal apology for now

[tswwwit]

One of the neat things about demon flirting versus human flirting is the opportunity for jealousy. Weird jealousy.

Bill complains to Dipper about a lot of things. How his day was going. About any plans that were foiled, if any. How dumb other beings are. But if, say, Bill started going on about this one real pest he's had hanging around lately, and how they're so irritating and getting in his way...

It is said that husbands gain a sixth sense upon becoming married. In Bill's case, it was actually his thirteenth - but when he notices Dipper’s gone oddly quiet, he hears the alarm bells ringing.

Oh, so this person, huh. Really irritating, Bill says. A thorn in his side, maybe? How annoying, exactly? Now Bill’s sweating as Dipper’s own annoyance rises. What, are they, like a new *nemesis* or something?

Now Bill’s on damage control duty as he reassures Dipper - entirely truthfully! - that he’s soooo infuriating and definitely the Worst Thing that's ever happened to him.

[bugmuncherr]

You know the drill, reblog for wider poll range

[nihilisticraccoon]

“fuck the stars” you’re not gonna believe this…

rick and morty ask game :)

(btw you can do one or many of these because some of them take a long time to answer)

1. top 5 episodes and why!

2. least favorite episode(s) and why!

3. moments that make you insane

4. your favorite lines

6. rick headcanons

7. morty headcanons

8. general family headcanons

9. prime hcs

10. emorty hcs

11. opinions on bethcest / mortycest (prime and emorty) / prickcest (prime and c-137)

12. favorite rick and morty pair that ISNT c-137 and prime

13. theories!!!

14. songs that you think relate to them

15. wild card!!

[anoant-haikyuu-dump]

I think I like Fukutora so much because Fukunaga absolutely matches Tora's enthusiasm, even if it doesnt seem like he would. Just cause he's not talkative doesn't mean he's shy or the quiet voice-of-reason, he's equally energetic and arguably the bigger menace between the two of them. Together they're this horribly obnoxious pair running around causing problems because Tora's stupid and overzealous while Fukunaga's the worst enabler of all time. Like if Tora has a bad idea Fukunaga encourages him wholeheartedly despite knowing how poorly it'll turn out. Why? It's funny.

or basically this clip from Haisute https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eQgMGV7lxY4

[landwriter]

Picnic | Dream/Hob | 1.7K | G light and happy fluff, Hob loves springtime, Matthew hates giving dating advice, and the only pining is Dream pining for an A+ in dating, a thing that is both normal to want and possible to achieve

for Domaystic Drabbles, Day 4: Packed Lunch ty to @softest-punk for twigging me to the sweet @domaystic prompts. It got a little out of hand!

----

Hob had seen several thousand fine spring days. He’d seen keen snowdrops surfacing in February, a hundred congregations of crocuses bursting forth to greet the turning of the seasons, and entire delegations of wild daffodils lancing through leaf-fall and trumpeting their blossoms with an attitude that suggested they knew themselves to be the first and only creatures to master the colour yellow. He’d watched six centuries of human habitation dusted with the same fine pollen as alder and birch unfurled their catkins like festival garlands, and he’d— he’d gotten distracted again.

He blinked at the paper in front of him. He’d forgotten it was there. Or that he was meant to be grading it.

That, too: six centuries of the wild joy of spring distracting him from whatever passed for worthy toil at the time. Six centuries of the whiff of warm breeze setting off some yet-unexplained chemical reaction in his brain that made him want to dash outside and not come back in for weeks. Six centuries of him becoming temporarily mad and cheerfully insufferable to all those around him with the joy of it. He’d never get used to it, and Christ help him if he let anyone around him get used to it either.

“What a gorgeous day,” he remarked, to the untouched stack of student work.

It said nothing back, but he beamed down at it anyway, and then, sighing in the manner of a man happy to be defeated, turned his office chair to face the cracked-open window and watch the house martins build their newest nest.

---

“Matthew.”

“Yeah, boss?”

“I require your counsel. For a human matter.” Dream’s brow was furrowed, his manner grave. Hob, then.

Matthew inclined his head and hopped sideways in what he’d decided was the corvid equivalent of girding his loins.

“Hob keeps commenting on the weather on our outings.” He sounded anguished.

“The weather?” he repeated dumbly. Thank fuck. Two days ago it had been the number of orgasms human males required. Daily. Which, good for the two of them, but c’mon. Matthew had really not needed that knowledge about the kind of refractory period and appetite you acquire after half a millenia of boning. Hob, unfortunately, was Dream’s first human boyfriend, and the boss was setting about his new function with all the usual terrifying intensity and insane demands of perfection. In service of this, Matthew (unilaterally and undemocratically, he might add) had been named Arbiter Of All Things Men, which seemed kind of like a reach considering he was a bird, and one who’d been only, like, a little bisexual in his human life. The Corinthian was always skulking around. He wasn’t human either, but at least he’d fucked dudes. He’d have tips. Or Loosh! Loosh knew everything. She could give Dream books and send him off. Instead of Matthew trying to remember how the fuck dating worked.

“-time we’ve met this week.”

“Right,” said Matthew vaguely.

“What does he mean by it? He knows I cannot change the weather in the Waking. He asks nothing of me, and yet it is incessant.”

“Complaining about it, huh? Humans love to complain, boss.”

“No,” said Dream, looking wretched. “Worse. Earnest, ceaseless praise.”

“Oh. Sure. Of course.” What?

Dream was pacing the throne room like he was auditioning for community theater. “At the National Gallery, he daydreamed of the city park outside while feigning to contemplate a Pesellino. I took him to a production of Macbeth at the Globe, and afterwards, he said that even after centuries, it was never less than marvelous to watch. He was referring to the swifts feeding above us in the third act. Naturally.”

Matthew made a sympathetic noise. If he didn’t know when to keep his mouth - er, beak - shut, he’d say that Dream sounded like an insecure lover. Jealous, as best he could tell, of the change of seasons for stealing away some of Hob’s uncannily boundless affections.

“Well?” Dream stared at him in askance.

“Uh.” He floundered. Spring shit, spring shit. “You could take him on a picnic.” Yeah. Chicks loved picnics.

---

Dream had appeared in his office with a wicker basket that looked stolen from a Beatrix Potter story. A delicate gingham square peeked from the lid. It looked big enough to set up a naughty rabbit for life. He set it on Hob’s desk and then primly folded his hands behind his back.

“Hullo, you.” Hob stood and kissed him on the cheek. “What’s the occasion?” He suspected that there was none. Dream had been taking dating him very seriously. It was delightful.

“Matthew has suggested you require a picnic,” said Dream. Except he said it the way someone else might say The doctor has suggested it’s terminal.

Dream had been taking dating him very seriously. It was also, sometimes, awful.

“Oh, darling. That’s so sweet. But I don’t require anything special, you know. Just you, when you’ve got time to drop in. We could do something else.”

“We shall not. I have packed us lunch.”

“Alright, you stubborn creature. Maybe I do require a picnic.” He offered his arm to Dream. “Come on, I know a place.”

---

Lunch was too piddling a word for the spread Dream had packed. Lunch was a crust of bread and ale, or pottage. Lunch was a Sainsbury’s Egg & Cress Sandwich wolfed down with the last of the morning’s flask of Yorkshire Tea. This was a feast. A temple offering. For Hob. His chest twinged a little with affection. God, he was in love.

“This pleases you,” said Dream, who was looking unfairly elegant for someone sat on a gingham blanket with a bit of clotted cream on the side of his mouth.

Hob kissed it away. “Oh, yes.”

“More than our other...dates.”

“Oh,” said Hob, who was sometimes slow on the uptake, but after several centuries, didn’t miss much at all. “I’ve loved all of them. But this-” he gestured sweepingly around at Primrose Hill, the green ash shading them, the pleasant urban pastoral of joggers and families and dogs and other love-struck couples, all breathing in the same warm afternoon air, “-is exactly where I want to be, today. Outside, among all the life. In the thick of spring. It’s perfect.”

Dream followed Hob’s gaze, and studied the tableau. “There is nothing exceptional about this weather or setting.” He sounded as nonplussed as creature with nearly infinite age and knowledge could sound.

Hob laced his fingers through Dream’s, and tried to see what he saw. No great stories, really. Pedestrian daydreams of food and sun and sex, probably, of pay raises and summer vacations to Mallorca and Ibiza. Humanity being predictable, and life doing the same thing it did every year, to Dream’s uncountable thousands.

“No, I suppose not, but that’s why I love it, too. It’s familiar. Constant. Centuries, and it catches me out each time. It’s always arrived, no matter how bad things were for me. Always been there to celebrate with me when they’re wonderful. Like now.”

Dream looked sidelong at Hob. “Like now,” he echoed. Unsure, and stubbornly unwilling to make a question of it. The ache in Hob’s chest redoubled itself.

“Like now,” he promised. “It reminds me of you, too, you know. We always met in June, Dream. In 1789, watching the first trees budding nearly drove me mad with anticipation. Ninety-nine years and nine months. And you were always heralded by the same signs.” He traced circles on Dream’s pale palm, imagining it sun-kissed. “In 1989, when spring turned all the way into summer and you were still gone, I think my heart broke a little. I’d hoped, until then. That you were just late. With the swifts,” he said, quiet.

“Hob.” Dream had moved across the picnic blanket in his preternaturally fast way, and was now more or less in his lap, gripping Hob’s shoulders.

“Sorry,” he said, grimacing. “I’m being horrifically soppy. Must’ve been the scones. It’s alright. You’re here now. All that matters.”

“Robert Gadling,” said Dream. Hob blinked at that. He’d only ever gotten the full name treatment when Dream was still his Stranger, and only then when he’d disappointed him. “If you dare apologize for such a fine expression of your sentiment, I will be wroth with you.”

“Sorry,” he said again, smiling this time.

“I am honoured you associate me with the season you most adore. I would have it that you never pass another Spring waiting for me. If you wished such a thing.”

It sounded a little like a marriage proposal, which was something his heart really could not cope with the full size of at the minute. Not with so much love already around. Not if Dream didn’t intend to say it like that. He went for levity instead.

“Even though it’s driven me to distraction every time you’ve taken me out this week? Even if all I want to do for weeks is lie around outdoors and hold hands?”

Nearby, a baby started wailing. Dream, to his credit, didn’t even glance away. “Yes,” he said, perfectly solemn, perfectly certain. “Even then.”

“Well, that’s alright then,” said Hob, fighting an urge to start crying a little as well. “I would, as a matter of fact. Wish such a thing.”

They looked at each other, besotted, while the wailing continued.

“Only,” murmured Dream, “must it be in Anthropocene?”

“What?”

“Lie down, lover.” Hob did, a delighted suspicion creeping over him as Dream reached into his jacket pocket. Dream stretched over him, and spoke it low into his ear: “And I will take you to a Spring no man has seen.”

---

Matthew was eating scone crumbs and congratulating himself on his good sense to suggest a picnic. Birds loved picnics too. He hadn’t realized how much until this moment. Jesus. Picnics were a great idea. He was going to tell Dream that human men required them weekly during courtship.

“Thanks for bringing home leftovers, boss,” he said, spraying crumbs all over Dream’s shoulder.

Dream was too preoccupied to mind, or even notice. He waved an imperious hand. “It’s nothing. We absconded from the Waking shortly after we arrived. I have finally given Hob a worthy date. I showed him the virtues of picnicking in a Dreaming Spring.” Oh my god. Dream actually had been jealous of the weather. Because he hadn’t made it for Hob.

“What, no ants?” he offered.

“Hardly so prosaic,” said Dream. He glowed with satisfaction. “The very first.”

[bbgatile]

theyre lovely

[cramenjoyer]

imagine a beautiful world where spn only lasted three seasons BUT s3 follows sam actually getting worse and worse and doing more and more terrible things in an effort to save dean. he leans hard into his powers, even without ruby's influence, and starts drinking demon blood to get stronger. in the end, he learns that killing lilith won't free dean from his deal, and he does the only thing he can think of to do.

he walks into the devil's gate, drunk on lilith's blood and brandishing her little child-sized head, and declares himself the new king of hell. his first order of business is to save his brother. his second is to ensure there's no one strong enough to stop him.

it ends with dean in the cemetery, talking to the air, telling someone he doesn't think he's strong enough to live without sam. when sam climbs back out of hell to meet him, they close the doors to hell together and dean removes the colt from the lock. he looks toward where he'd been standing earlier and the audience finally sees john's ghost, and sam follows his gaze. he isn't looking at his brother. dean raises the gun... it cuts to black. bang. you never find out which of the three of them he aims for.

[rickandmortyscreenshots]

[ricks-and-mortys]

RICK AND MORTY 3.04 - Vindicators 3: The Return of Worldender

[rogdona]

grasshoppa

[spiribia]

im crying about how antscanada had an open air fire ant setup (pictured below - nothing over top of it keeping it enclosed) and now apparently his house is flooded with flying fire ant alates. why did he do that.