Yoooo I’m going to have my son tomorrow so I can’t actually join the March that Nashville is doing. I was just going to donate money but this is great too!
On some real shit, I do not fuck with people who ride those boat things at the carnival. People who get on those do not give a fuck about life, they don’t care about you, ya mama or your kids. They literally have nothing to lose. You don’t care about life so there’s no need for me to fight you because you’re not going to give a damn about my face.
THIS JOINT!!!!
BITCHHHHHHH. I got on this shit when I was 12. Wasn’t no bar, no protection, nothing in that shit. I didn’t realize until it was too late. You couldn’t pay me to ever get on this shit ever again in my life. We were in Landover, this shit almost smooth flipped my ass to Baltimore. No. Never again.
12? I got on this bitch when I was 21 and had my head in my ex’s shoulder the ENTIRE time. Screaming like a bih too. Nope. Never again. I was praying to the gravity gods the entire time.
?????? All it does is swing back and forth???? I don’t understand the concern??????
centrifugal force keeps you in your seat.
Centrifugal force isn’t keeping me from crying tho
Sunny tell them about the cages
most of ours have a cage on both ends for those feeling extra brave, you just stand there on your feet, hold on to he bars and scream as you get completely lifted off the ground when it comes down at full speed
I’m just imaging an AU where Padme’s pregnancy didn’t have to be a secret and Anakin is trying to pick out names for the baby so he asks his men for ideas, and the clones, of course, throw out names like
“Zapper!”
“Sling!”
“Bomber!”
“Kickback!”
Anakin is internally screaming, but he doesn’t want to insult them by saying those are terrible names so he’s just like, “…thanks, guys.”
even better is if after the kids are born, there are still clones around for security and such and when they’re old enough to talk they know they were given names by their parents, but clones see those names as like. your technical/official ID. not as your actual personal name. so they talk to these little kids who of course love preposterous names and that’s how leia is also named POWERFIST
I’ve reblogged this before but imagine Luke being dubbed “Cinnamon Roll” by the clones
Powerfist and Cinnamon Roll Skywalker. Deal.
OH MY GOD so i was just gonna tagspiral about this but I have Too Many Thoughts so i’m gonna actually write real text for once
So: here we have Powerfist Leia Skywalker and Cinnamon Roll Luke Skywalker. They probably spend a lot of time with the clones, right? Because if Padme and Anakin aren’t in a Secret Relationship then Anakin probably doesn’t fall, so the war doesn’t end the way it does in canon - actually, shit, I forgot about 66. So let’s say Palps tries to recruit Anakin anyway because he’s super-powerful and Palps wants that on his side, but Anakin betrays him to the Council and Order 66 doesn’t happen.
But just because Palpatine tripped and fell into about a dozen lightsabers on his way to his jail cell doesn’t mean the war’s over. The Separatists are fucked, they can’t exactly claim that Sidious made them do it, so they’re going to try their hardest not to lose. So Anakin’s still spending a lot of time out in the field, and Padme’s still got Senate stuff to do. And they probably both already had serious business security details, since somebody needs to be around whenever Anakin decides to do something really fucking stupid without backup (he usually manages without backup, but Obi-Wan, Padme and every clone friend of Anakin’s agree that they’d rather have someone on him anyway), and Padme’s a significant target for the Separatists because a) she’s pretty well-connected in the Senate and b) Palps was hoping he could kill her off to get Anakin to fall. Which would’ve ended pretty badly for him but Palpatine clearly doesn’t understand love so he wouldn’t have realised that.
SO. Anakin gets called off to spearhead some campaign somewhere, Padme has to go to the Senate, and who’s left to look after Powerfist and Cinnamon Roll? (Padme finds these names hilarious.) It’s the clones.
“Okay,” Rex says, no longer quite so angry about being grounded while his blaster wound heals. “Watch carefully. This is how you hold a blaster, okay?”
Luke and Leia are fascinated.
Padme, who entered politics at a frankly ridiculous age and was embroiled in her first war at the age of fourteen, isn’t all that upset when she finds out. Okay, she’d prefer it if the weaponry lessons waited until the kids were older, but considering who their parents are, they’re pretty tempting kidnap targets so she’d rather they knew how to look after themselves. And they’re so cute doing their unarmed combat lessons!
Anakin - Anakin is very protective of his tiny children. HE’S SEEN SOME SHITTY STUFF IN THE GALAXY, OKAY, HE JUST WANTS TO WRAP THEM IN COTTON WOOL AND HIDE THEM SOMEWHERE UNTIL THEY’RE EIGHTEEN. He is not impressed when he finds out. Every stupid, dangerous thing he ever did as a child is running through his head on a loop. He did so many stupid things.
“Not that many,” Padme says, patting his shoulder.
“Pod races,” Anakin says hoarsely. “Blowing up Trade Federation droid ships. Racing speeders. Sticking my hands into droid innards.”
“That isn’t that dangerous,” Padme says, frowning.
“What if I’d electrocuted myself?” Anakin demands. “I could have died so many ways, Padme, why did I pass this on to my children, oh god.”
Padme looks over at Rex for support.
“He’s never told you any of the really wild war stories, has he,” Rex says, deadpan. “They’re too short to fly fighters, but we can start them on acrobatics soon, they’ll have an easier time if they’ve already had practice not throwing up the first time one of them decides to spin the ship they’re flying.”
“I’ll take that into consideration,” Padme says, wondering what Anakin’s stories are if they aren’t the wild ones.
Somewhere, Obi-Wan Kenobi just broke a rib laughing.
It’s canon (or was) that as a child Leia had a fluorescent pink alien kitten-type animal named All-Terrain Attack Vehicle, so I can see her being totally on board with the awesome names.
Now consider: regular OT universe, lots of the clones went AWOL after Order 66 and many of them found their way into the Rebellion. The Rebellion was thus influenced by their culture, including this habit of giving out names like this.
Clones around Leia Organa when she’s growing up.
Clones teaching her to shoot, to fight, to fall, to fly. One of them finds her crying over some momentary childhood upsetness at age five and cheers her up by teaching her to hold a blaster. And then to shoot it. And then to hit what she’s aiming at.
At six, she gets into her first fistfight with another child, a spoiled brat of Alderaan’s nobility, and comes out of it with a bloody nose and a couple broken knickles because she doesn’t know how to punch correctly. Bail gives her a scathing lecture on deportment and courtesy and keeping her temper and how a princess must behave, given edge with his own terror that she’s taking after her other father. The clone who finds her, sulking in the mechanics bay, stung and furious, teaches her how to fight.
At eight, she wants to learn to fly, and Bail, visions of Anakin dancing in his head, dissuades her. It’s the most natural thing in the world to go to the clones and ask to be taught.
At ten she announces that she doesn’t want to go into politics, she wants to be a clone. When her mother points out, gently, that she is the Crown Princess and has responsibilities, she suggests they find girls who look like her to be the Princess for her when she’s busy. She has no idea why both her parents go white at the suggestion.
At eleven, fresh out of another fight–she wants to go help the Rebellion directly, she wants to fight, she wants to go places, be out in the thick of things, and her parents want her to study and do princess things, they want to keep her safe–she goes to the clones with several years of pent-up questions.
The clones are ones who spent years fighting beside Anakin Skywalker, and almost as much time spent running interference for, and pretending not to know about, Anakin’s secret relationship with Padmé Amidala. They didn’t know she was pregnant, but between the piloting skills and the temper and the recklessness and the elder Organas’ reaction to her decoy idea, they can guess.
One of them brings out a medkit and they run a genetic test on a drop of Leia’s blood. They’ve seen the readout of Anakin’s displayed so many times they’ve practically committed it to memory, and the relationship is obvious even to those not medic-trained. Now Leia has a second set of parents, and a host of stories about them, and the personal loyalty of every clone trooper in the Rebellion–General Skywalker’s daughter.
When she’s twelve, a thought occurs to her, and it’s the clones, not her parents, that she asks, “if my father was a Jedi, am I Force-sensitive too?”
Some clone out working support for the Rebellion’s secret operatives gets in touch with Fulcrum for her.
A couple days after Leia’s thirteenth birthday, Ahsoka Tano makes planetfall on Alderaan and is snuck by the clones (”Good to see you, Commander,”) into the mechanics bay to meet Leia. By the time Bail and Breha figure out what Leia’s disappearing for this time, Leia’s already made her first lightsaber and is working on her second.
When Darth Vader tracks down Ahsoka Tano, Ahsoka Tano is not alone.
“Who are you?” he asks, confused by the presence of this fierce child–his grand-apprentice, as it were, glaring at him from behind two lightsabers (blue, for her father, and green, for her teacher) like he’d offended her grievously in the past. (He’s never really met Princess Leia Organa, beyond an occasional presence at the same Imperial event, but she knows quite a lot about him. She isn’t going to run for Senate, but she is going to rebel. She does her research.)
“Killshot,” is what she says.
Darth Vader was Anakin Skywalker, and Anakin Skywalker knows clone naming customs when he hears them. “A Force-sensitive clone?” is what he asks. (The name was gifted to her at nine, when she beat the combat flight simulator on its highest mode eleven times in a row.)
Leia beams. It’s the best compliment anyone could give her. “Yes,” she says, and brings up her blades.
MY G O D IT WAS A BLESSING AND A GIFT UNTO US ALL.
In all seriousness, though, I loved it. It couldn’t have been better designed for me if they tried. Brutal honesty about Doing What Needs To Be Done, desperate people fighting desperate wars, shouting matches between allies with laser-targeted accusations and grief-driven sharp tongues, bloody hands and buried sins.
Basically, look, okay, here: if you read and liked the entire Animorphs series, this will be your jam. If you prefer your heroes to be unsullied and clean (which, no judgement), maybe not. But seriously, give it a try.
A couple other things:
“Fiercely competent anti-fascist space Latinx with a robot best friend” is my new favorite weirdly specific trope, see also: Poe Dameron
Jyn Erso grows so much over the movie she’s my daughter and I love her
I want to wrap Bodhi Rook in blankets and put him down in front of Fantasia and cuddle him and feed him chocolate until he’s Happy, I’m a simple woman with simple needs
Darth Vader is so hilariously Extra
Krennic’s cape is a fucking tragedy
“Welcome home” *bawls*
Baze and Chirrut are married and have been for like thirty years, sorry I don’t make the rules
I really want a science fiction story where aliens come to invade earth and effortlessly wipe out humanity, only to be fought off by the wildlife.
They were expecting military resistance. They weren’t counting on bears.
Imagine coming to a hostile alien world and being attacked by a horde of creatures that can weigh up to 3 tons, run at 30 km/h (19 mph), and bite with a force of 8,100 newtons (1,800 lbf).
By the time you realise that they can traverse water, it’s too late. The surviving members of your unit manage to make it back by shedding their excess gear and running for their lives; the slower ones were crushed to death within minutes.
You later describe the creature to one of the humans you captured, wanting to know the name of the monstrosity that will haunt your nightmares for cycles to come.
The human smiles as it speaks a single word, slowly and distinctly, in its barbaric tongue.
“Hippopotamus.”
This is giving me the biggest, creepiest grin I might have ever grinned
Imagine being the next crew to go down to earth and thinking “it’s fine, we got this. We have the weapons and equipment necessary to deal with bears and *shudders* hippopotamuses. We’ll be fine.”
And at first you are, you’ve learned how to dodge. You’ve learned where their territories are. You know how to defend yourself.
But then one night you are sleeping in your shelter. You’re in a tree covered temperate part of earth. It seems benign. There are been no sightings of the dreaded “hippos” around. Not even any bears. But there is a slight rustle of the undergrowth. You try and ignore it telling yourself it is just the wind.
Then you hear the rustle again. closer this time.
You peer out into the darkness but see nothing amongst the trees.
The rustle again and now you realise you can smell something. It’s musky and slightly foul. It’s the smell of an omen, a warning. But what of? Where is this smell coming from.
You sit up, but it’s too late. The foul smelling creature is on you. You are hit with 17kg of coarse fur and vicious bites. Long dark claws tear in to you and you are pinned down white the striped creature tries to bite your throat.
It takes some doing but you manage to wrestle free. Blood drips from your wounds and already they itch with the sign of infection. The creature has a bloodied snout, rust rad, mingling with the black and white hairs. It lets out a terrifying growl from the back of its throat and looks to attack again. It’s between you and your knife, so your only choice is to back away.
Eventually the creature gives up and snuffles off in to the undergrowth, down a hole near your shelter you hadn’t noticed before.
When you make it back to your base you once again consult the captive human.
“Badger.” they say, with a solemn nod.
One word: Moose
“Our vehicles are far superior to the local human models, in range, speed, armament, and any other metric you care to name! Nothing could possibly-”
BAMrumblerumblethumpcrash!!!
“That’s called a moose.”
“We should be free of the threat of the ‘moose’ here on our new floating accommodation”
*humans start sniggering*
“… they can swim, can’t they”
*humans start laughing louder*
….
*mid-winter*
‘I DON’T KNOW WHAT HAPPENED! K’T'SURKIK WENT OUTSIDE AND A MOUND OF SNOW ROSE UP AND ATE HIM’
“What is this ‘wolverine’ you speak of?”
Tell me the story of the unpleasantly surprised alien invaders and their captive human remnant, getting more smug the more the aliens fail at basic scouting…
I know we’re all talking the big smash-‘em-up type animals, but what about the little ones? Are aliens prepared for spiders? Mosquitoes? Fleas? Ticks? Even humans get sick or die from some of those, who knows what the fuck they’d do to an unprepared alien.
Nobody expects the mosquitoes
Radio: “We seem to have located a colony-based life form. Primary scans seem to indicate that their dwelling consists mainly of wax and a calorically high substance suitable for our consumption. Since food reserves are minimal due the nature of this mission, we’ve elected to attempt harvest. Requesting that alpha base interrogate the captives as to the nature of this find.”
Aliens: “The captives seem to recognize the life form as… What was it, again?”
Human: “Bees! :-)”
Alien: *With somewhat resolved tone* “…Bees.”
Radio: *Nothing but screaming and the word: “BEES!!!”*
BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEESSS
War of the Worlds 2: The Eukaryotes Awaken
What sort of barbaric planet is this??
Unit: “We seem to have stumbled into a ‘desert’ area, but it also seems that there is vegetation in small patches. Advise.”
Alien: “Well, human?”
Human: “…Savannah, I think.”
Alien: “A ‘Savannah’, according to the human. Is there anything else?”
Unit: “There appears to be another feral creature, similar to the ‘house cat’. It is watching from afar. Our scan indicates that it is most likely male.”
Human: “Is it a cheetah? I think it’s a cheetah.”
Alien: “It is called a ‘cheetah’. Proceed with caution.”
Unit: “Wait, it’s moving towards us - it’s much faster than we thoUAAGH-” The radio then cuts out, shortly followed by faint screams denoting many more cheetahs attacking the unit in sudden and quick succession.
I keep reblogging this, and every installment is better than the last
Alfie had planned on spending his life aiding in marine animal conservation. A quiet life. When the aliens invaded America, well… he did nothing, because he was just an ordinary Irish citizen. When they came to Europe, well… It wasn’t ideal, but mostly they let the humans carry on with whatever they were doing that they didn’t understand. Marine zoology research was one of those things. Alfie stayed in his lab and kept working. For a few months.
Until a man in a long brown coat and black glasses somehow made his way to Alfie’s work station.
“Our information tells us your locating beacons are still online.”
That was a rather cold greeting, but whatever.
“Sure they are” said Alfie.
“I work for … a certain organization … we have intrests in your work.”
subtle, Alfie thought.
“The Aliens are setting out for Iceland in a few days. We have a…collegue… acting as a guide on board.”
“So?”
The strange man grinned
“I need access to the real-time coordiates of every orca pod in the northern Atlantic”
Alfie picked up a small device from his desk and threw it at the surprised man.
“Been making this in the last months, since, y’know, no government grants to tell me what I should be doing. You have access to data for orcas, whales, even some polar bears. Sea lions. That sort of stuff. Have fun.”
The look on the Resistance man’s face was well worth the effort he’d put into that device.
i literally procrastinate talking to my friends like it hits me “oh shit i havent talked to that friend in a while” and im like “yeah ill have to do that later” and then i dont
then i feel really guilty about it and [AVOIDANCE INTENSIFIES]
Then it’s like a month later, and I’m just sitting there like, if I never speak to them maybe they’ll just forget I ever existed.
Periodic reminder when this kind of post comes up that being my friend means never having to say “sorry i dropped off the face of the earth for a few weeks/months/years” there. I get it. I promise. I vanish sometimes too and then get all avoidant about it. I’ll understand if you need to do the same, and I’ll be here when you come back. Team Weird Avoidant People Who Are Sort of Terrible At Friendship But Trying Really Hard needs to stick together.
The Greeks had this word, right, we have no idea where it came from, it just kinda popped up out of nowhere, and it could mean either apples, cheeks, or boobs. Problem is it looked and sounded *exactly* like another, unrelated word which could mean sheep, goat, or any animal in general really, which must have got confusing if you were a farmer talking about your livestock, but anyway…
Then the Romans, having stolen practically everything else from the Greeks, thought they’d nick this word too, because Latin isn’t confusing enough without throwing in a bunch of loan words. And they adopted it to mean a pumpkin.
Then the English came along and were all like “when in Rome”, and stole it, where it became our word ‘melon’. Which has now come back to mean boobs.
do you guys think that queen breha organa, dukesa of house antilles, prinsesa of aldera, jewel of the core, exiled from court the first (the only) minister to refer to leia as “not her daughter”
because I definitely think that happened, and everyone in the beautiful pearl-silvered city of aldera has heard the story of his total and abect disgrace, and no one since has dared refer to leia as anything but the daughter of queen breha organa, dukesa of house antilles, prinsesa of aldera, jewel of the core—
even legislation isn’t referred to as “adopted” anymore.
So this is the girl who lost her dog. We finally found her today. Completely by accident and all I can think is at least one thing has gone right this year.
one thing that’s always bothered me about most people’s depiction of Holmes’s usage of cocaine is that most people in Victorian England were only just beginning to realize how badly it affected people???
like tbh I feel like a better modern equivalent would just be Holmes dumping a five hour energy into his fifth cup of coffee while Watson, a trained medical professional, stares at him in horror
All I can think of is some kind of reincarnation AU where, like, Sherlock and John have been getting reincarnated for a few centuries now and for a few lifetimes finding each other was a struggle because, A, no internet, and, B, “Do you know how many people are named John, John, this is absurd, please keep your birth name even if you like John better.” But now it’s the modern day so one day this guy just starting med school rolled out of bed and was like “Well that’s different, also I’m changing my name” and immediately sat down at his computer and googled Sherlock Holmes because Sherlock is a bit of a dramatic prick and there’s no way he kept a bland modern name instead of Sherlock.
So they find each other on the internet and meet up and John’s happy, of course, because Sherlock is his soulmate whether you ship it romantically or not. But also he’s a bit wary. Because every lifetime has come with some sort of attached stimulant addiction, usually cocaine or something similar, and he’s worried that Sherlock is going to get them both arrested. On the other hand, John’s made something of a career out of proving that, whatever the stimulant of the day is, it’s dangerous, so Sherlock has unknowingly been involved in a lot of medical revelations and John knows that there’s about a 97% chance that whatever Sherlock’s drug of choice is will probably be revealed as something very dangerous by their next lifetime.
John, a med student who in his last year of undergrad was Known for that one time he finished out finals period at a total of eight days with twenty hours of sleep all told, fueled by Monster and willpower, feels his heart sink a little when Sherlock orders a seven-shot coffee and admits that he drinks at least two a day.
The other thing about the word “queer” is that almost everyone I’ve seen opposed to it have been cis, binary gays and lesbians. Not wanting it applied to yourself is fine, but I think people underestimate the appeal of vague, inclusive terminology when they already have language to easily and non-invasively describe themselves.
Saying “I’m gay/lesbian/bi” is pretty simple. Just about everyone knows what you mean, and you quickly establish yourself as a member of a community. Saying “I’m a trans nonbinary bi woman who’s celibate due to dysphoria and possibly on the ace spectrum”… not so much. You’re lucky to find anyone who understands even half of that, and explaining it requires revealing a ton of personal information. The appeal of “queer” is being able to identify yourself without profiling yourself. It’s welcoming and functional terminology to those who do not have the luxury of simplified language and occupy complicated identities. *That’s* why people use it - there are currently not alternatives to express the same sentiment.
It’s not people “oppressing themselves” or naively and irresponsibly using a word with loaded history. It’s easy to dismiss it as bad or unnecessary if you already have the luxury of language to comfortably describe yourself.
There’s another dimension that always, always gets overlooked in contemporary discussions about the word “queer:” class. The last paragraph here reminds me of a old quote: “rich lesbians are ‘sapphic,’ poor lesbians are ‘dykes’.”
The reclaiming of the slur “queer” was an intensely political process, and people who came up during the 90s, or who came up mostly around people who did so, were divided on class and political lines on questions of assimilation into straight capitalist society.
Bourgeois gays and lesbians already had “the luxury of language” to describe themselves - normalized through struggle, thanks to groups like the Gay Liberation Front.
Everyone else, from poor gays and lesbians to bi and trans people and so on, had no such language. These people were the ones for whom social/economic assimilation was not an option.
The only language left, the only word which united this particular underclass, was “queer.” “Queer” came to mean an opposition to assimilation - to straight culture, capitalism, patriarchy, and to upper class gays and lesbians who wanted to throw the rest of us under the bus for a seat at that table - and a solidarity among those marginalized for their sexuality/gender id/presentation.
(Groups which reclaimed “queer,” like Queer Patrol (armed against homophobic violence), (Queers) Bash Back! (action and theory against fascism, homophobia, and transphobia), and Queerbomb (in response to corporate/state co-optation of mainstream Gay Pride), were “ultraleft,” working-class, anti-capitalist, and functioned around solidarity and direct action.)
The contemporary discourse around “queer” as a reclaimed-or-not slur both ignores and reproduces this history. The most marginalized among us, as OP notes, need this language. The ones who have problems with it are, generally, among those who have language - or “community,” or social/economic/political support - of their own.
Aliens arrive at our solar system and start scanning earth for threat. They find that one of the species happily carries around huge amounts(as per aliens) of Lithium without any concerns. Aliens freak out.
“What do you mean ‘they’re armed at all times’?”
“Sir, the local high intelligence are always armed with Lithium Power!”
“How? Lithium is to rare and unstable to sustain in non-council containers.”
“Well sir, they seem to have us beat there, their containment units have it down to the size of their palms.”
“Dear Maker. Why haven’t they found us before?”
“The good news, Sir, is that they seem to only be able to make it to their orbital body.”
OKAY BUT THE REAL QUESTION IS what does the marriage look like from the side of the elves when they realize "man our weird cheesy prince actually landed quite a catch"
It’s a VERY SLOW realization on all parts okay, I can tell you that.
Well. No. That’s not quite true. It takes about three weeks for the dwarves to realize that Legolas is actually…nice. Which is weird. Like, he’s an elf. Elves are not nice. Elves are dicks (there are a few people who make this generalization in Gimli’s hearing and he gets very defensive of the Lady of Lorien and also of his favorite asshole elf), but more to the point, elves are serious. And Legolas…is not. Sure, he can pull it together when he needs to and comport himself like a stiff unsmiling statue, but Gimli stubbornly drags him to Durin’s Day and blatantly ignores every disapproving eye as he teaches Legolas one of the old circle dances.
And like. There’s no rules that say only dwarves can know the circle dances, not like Khuzdul (”Better not tell them about that yet, amrâlime,” Gimli says, grinning up at Legolas), but there’s sort of an expectation. And Legolas picks it up quickly but the circle dances are all stomping feet and clapping hands and smiles and laughter and shouting, and it’s just WRONG to see an elf doing that. It’s weird. It’s so weird that everyone in Erebor is too in shock to actually protest. But it does do wonders for proving that Legolas, while kind of an asshole (”’I am going to find the sun,’ remember that?” Gimli asks, arching an eyebrow, and Legolas smirks), is also kind of a puppy.
But the elves. The ELVES. Listen.
Listen.
I have many elves I adore with my whole heart, including but not limited to:
The Lady Galadriel, the Eldritch Being of Light Middle-Earth Needs
The Lord Celeborn, her loving house husband
Elrond, who has survived approximately one billion horror movies and deserves a goddamn Rest
Arwen Undomiel, the love of my life who I will defend with my last breath
Elladan and Elrohir, her brothers who probably don’t give Aragorn a shovel-talk so much as “good luck buddy if you fuck up she’ll end you”
Lindir, Elrond’s steward who, wow, puts up with so much
Celebrimbor, the previous elf who had a dwarf buddy and who was also probably considered very weird because he liked smith-work
But the majority of the elves who see Gimli and Legolas wandering around largely respond with “Oh dear Eru Legolas we know you’re weird but you’re going to marry THAT” and Legloas kind of fidgets and their eyes get really big and they go “YOU ALREADY MARRIED THAT?” (Fun fact: Tolkien elves get married by having sex, the ceremony of a wedding is entirely decorative, and they can tell from the way someone walks if they’re married or not. And also elf hypermonogamy is a thing, which is 200% my jam.) And then Legolas gets really angry and protective because HOW DARE YOU INSULT GIMLI, ONE OF THE NINE WALKERS, WARRIOR OF EREBOR. And Gimli pinches the bridge of his nose and wonders if elf wine is really as strong as Legolas claims it is, and, if so, how much it would take to get him drunk. But I digress.
It takes the elves a while to figure out that Gimli is, by dwarvish standards, the Ultimate Catch, is my point here.
Years. It takes a couple years. Maybe two. Three. For the really dense and/or bigoted ones, it might take a decade or more.
Thranduil gets hate mail, basically, before he understands why he’s getting the hate mail other than the fact that He Is An Elf. It’s mostly to the tune of “CONTROL YOUR OFFSPRING” and Thranduil sighs and slugs back another goblet of wine (”My Lord, it’s not even noon,” reinstated-as-captain Tauriel says, very flat, and Thranduil glares blearily at her and holds out his goblet because children marrying dwarves justifies many things) because he wishes he had that option.
And then there’s a diplomatic negotiation that comprises the Greenwood and Erebor nobility, and it’s the first time Erebor dwarves have been peacefully invited to Eryn Lasgalen in…ever, maybe. Certainly in living memory. And of course Legolas and Gimli are expected to be there, not just because they’re a symbol of the new intensely awkward truce, but also because they have an incredible amount of status themselves by this point–Legolas is a prince and Gimli is Lord of Aglarond, two of the Nine Walkers and the Three Hunters, warriors of renown from the Battle of the Black Gate, trusted advisers and dear friends of the King of Gondor and Arnor…
And there’s Legolas, dressed in silks and an elegant cloak and a crown and a dwarvish clasp in his hair and a cloakpin from the Lady of Lorien herself, and all of Eryn Lasgalen pats themselves on the back because hey, their weird prince did grow up pretty well even if his taste in life partners leaves something to be desired.
And then there’s the life partner in question, several steps behind Legolas because they’re representing their homelands rather than their marriage and this is Eryn Lasgalen and Legolas is still the King’s son. And Gimli is dressed in the finery of a dwarf lord, with a crown on his red curls and his beard braided intricately and gold clasps in his hair, with the Lady’s clasp on his cloak and the lines of his tattoos and scars clear on his bare arms, with a finely-worded compliment on his tongue for even Thranduil himself and a laugh that lightens the sky–
“Yavanna save me,” mutters one of Thranduil’s entourage. “I want one.”
i really, really hope that whenever we actually get to space for real, like past mars, the universe turns out to be exactly as goddamn weird as we have all been expecting all this time. like, space whales past jupiter. palaces of methane ice on pluto. old gods lurking around in the asteroid belt. the ghost of ancient vengeful alien sailors crewing their ghost ships in eternal loops through the oort cloud and sirens off alpha centauri. in a hundred years i want one of my great grandkids to unfurl a holographic map, and look at the little notation hovering a hundred light years past vega that says here there be dragons (no really) and smile, and set sail.
look i am already in the car with the keys in the ignition i am so here for this
Since you can’t add comments underneath chat posts, I’m making a whole new post for @cadesama‘s tags underneath that “give me your hairdryer” incorrect quote:
Because this made me crave an Anakin/Padme/Bail team up in the worst way. Imagine all three of them send on some diplomatic mission that goes south. Padme and Anakin instantly enter into Battle Couple mode, with Bail trailing bewildered after them.
Anakin, readying his lightsaber: We’ve got a problem, better take out your blasters.
Bail: What?
Padme: *takes out her blaster*
Bail: What?
Anakin, confused: Bail, did you forget your blaster?
Bail: I don’t take a blaster to a peaceful negotiations!
Padme, taking out a second blaster: Don’t worry, you can borrow mine.
Student: “Miss, my little brother in your 4th grader class says you speak seven languages. Is that true?”
Me: “Yes.”
Student: “He says you speak Mongolian. Is that true?”
Me: “Yes.”
Student: “Can you say something”
Me: *explains, in Mongolian, that although I speak Mongolian, being that this is an English school, I am supposed to teach classes in English, so I have to speak English, sorry*
Collective Students: “Wow! Amazing!!!” *cheering*
One student slowly raises hand: “Miss, does that mean that you can…understand us when we speak Mongolian?”
Me:*Slowly leans over desk and puts on an evil grin. Single nod*
But what if like exchanging different foods is how you get married on ALL desert planets in the Star Wars universe? Who does Anakin accidentally marry? Who does Shmi accidentally marry? Who does Luke accidentally marry?
Anakin and Padmé have literally been married since they were nine and fourteen; he’s VERY confused when she insists they have to get married AGAIN, but maybe that’s a Naboo thing?
-
“I’m sorry, I thought–you’re not already married, are you?” Cliegg asks worriedly, and Shmi gets a brief, wistful look on her face, thinking of a long-ago dinner table and the long, long-gone man who’d eaten her food and taken her Ani to a better life, who’d left her an empty house and half a box of rations from some far-off planet she will never see.
“No, he … he’s passed on, now,” she replies quietly. “And anyway, it wasn’t his people’s way.”
-
“Um,” Luke says, turning bright red. Lando gives him a puzzled look in return, wagging the mug of space hot chocolate he’s holding out to him.
“Yes or no, kid?” he asks, raising a pointed eyebrow.
“Yes!” Luke blurts, then looks horrified at himself, grabs the hot chocolate, and leaves. He comes back twenty minutes later with a triumphant, glowing expression and a bottle of Lando’s favorite space wine, which–odd, kind of, but Lando is NOT complaining.
prompt: B, ship: E/R. Also I am reading things we lost in the fire and it's wonderful! Thank you for sharing!
2: At my worst, I worry you’ll realize you deserve
better. At my best, I worry you won’t.
(I’ve never been better.)
Modern AU motherfuckers.
Behold, I have written fluff. And thank you so much, I’m so glad you’re liking ‘things we lost in the fire,’ <3
Grantaire tugged at the cuff of his blazer, trying
to resist the urge to pick at his outfit with nervous fingers. Eponine and Bahorel had selected it for him,
and although Bahorel wasn’t particularly menacing, Eponine had a key to
Grantaire’s apartment, a Sharpie, a switchblade, and even odds on using either
one—he wasn’t in a rush to disobey her.
So, nice jeans, a graphic t-shirt, and a blazer it was. It didn’t mask the fact that he still looked
semi-exhausted, but Cosette had informed him, in her sweetest and most
anxiety-reducing tone, that as long as he wore a thin layer of stubble, he
looked much more the lovelorn artist than the over-caffeinated grad student.
He was pretty sure she’d only said it to make
him stop hyperventilating, but it was a nice sentiment.
“R!” Enjolras shouted from down the
hall. “You’re going to be late!”
“Fashionably late is a thing that exists,
Apollo,” Grantaire said, giving one more nervous tug to the blazer before he stepped
away from the mirror. “How do I look?”
he asked Enjolras, holding out his arms and trying to look Enjolras in the eye
instead of letting his gaze wander to a safe corner of the ceiling. “Ridiculous?”
“Shut up, you look incredible,” Enjolras
said. “And fashionably late may be a
thing that exists, but not when you’re going to your own thing.”
“Sure it is,” Grantaire said, dragging his
eyes away from the ceiling with difficulty and flicking a glance at
Enjolras. “You really don’t have to
come, it’s not a big deal.”
Enjolras shot him a Look and knocked one foot
against the floor, not quite a stomp, but enough to make the sole of his shot
thud loudly as he plucked pointedly at the lapel of his red coat. “It’s your first gallery opening. If you think I’m not going, you have another one
coming.”
“It’s not really, Cosette’s father–”
“Don’t care!” Enjolras interrupted, sharp and
bright and grinning. He stepped over and
pressed a kiss to the corner of Grantaire’s mouth. “R, love, it’s going to be fine,” he murmured,
taking Grantaire’s hand. “You didn’t get
this because Valjean knows the gallery owner, you got this because your
paintings are incredible, and you’re
going to go let a bunch of people with a lot of money tell you so.”
“Yeah,” Grantaire breathed, and offered
Enjolras a shaky smile. “I don’t deserve
you.”
“I strongly disagree.”
“I know.
I hope you never realize you’re wrong,” Grantaire said, and his smile
was more earnest this time.
“Are you ready?”
“Never better, Apollo,” Grantaire said,
breathless, and let Enjolras steer him out the door.
God the degree to which Bail Organa can Get It is honestly very distracting to me right now, and I imagine the Rebellion felt the same considering their vastly improved success rate after he died, which was, don’t get them, a tragedy, a heinous grief that helped fuel them, but also like……have you seen Jimmy Smits. Look at him. Now you can’t think thoughts, and I’m sorry, but now there’s no thinking room. How are you supposed to plan a rebellion
Marinette keeping the pics of Adrien up on her wall becuase she cant bring herself to throw them out, but adding pictures of her other friends as well so it’s less weird. Suddenly it’s Adrien and Alya and Nino and Rose and Kim and everyone at school who’s plastered against her walls. She adds pics of her parents, her neighbors, her Aikido instructor, and all the little kids she babysits. She even asks the regular patrons at the bakery if they’d mind posing for a portrait. (which of course they do because she’d always been so sweet and sunny and who could resist those blue eyes.)
then one day Adrien gets invited back to her house. maybe to study, maybe for video games, the reason isn’t important. what is important is the fact he climbs up into her room and just marvels at all the friends Marinette has. The sheer volume of people she knows is staggering, he thinks, and he spends a good ten minutes looking at every single picture.
Some wonderful things to keep in mind for this scenario:
Adrien spots himself amongst her collection, and while he’s not-so-lowkey ecstatic over the fact someone cares enough about him to hang his picture on their walls, he’s also a bit glum that the only shots she has are from magazines. everyone else gets candid shots or laughing selfies, things that show their personality, but all his photos are fabricated and retouched. Impersonal. He gently brings this to Marinette’s attention, and suggests she take some new pictures of him. Pictures just for her.(cue Marinette dying)
Adrien also happens to spot another familiar feline face on the walls, and just barely swallows down his pleased smirk (’cool it, you’re not in costume’) to find a dozen pics of Chat Noir scattered across Marinette’s room. Most of them he recognizes from the Ladyblog, but there’s one or two that seem to be candid captures of him on patrol. (which yeah, should probably freak him out but damn if Marinette’s photography skills dont make him look heroic as fuck under the moonlight.) He asks- very super casually -if she’s a fan, and is not at all emotionally prepared when Marinette launches into a speech about how Chat Noir is one of the most selfless, kind, and underappreciated people in all of Paris, and how he deserves just as much recognition as Ladybug for keeping the city safe. “Everyone needs to remember, his destruction is what balances Ladybug’s creation. Without each other, they’d be nothing,” Marinette prattles on. (Adrien nods mutely, desperately trying and failing not to fall in love.)
Speaking of Ladybug… she’s noticeably absent from the walls. When asked about it, Marinette grows vague, saying something about how she’s waiting for the right picture or what not. something unique. something that isnt already on the walls of every Ladybug fan in Paris. ‘Something unique…’ Adrien muses, asking Marinette if he might barrow her camera for the night, ‘I might just be able to do that…’
