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…’
There are two types of people in the world: those who react to learning that you can use touch screens with your tongue with disgust and those who immediately go to lick their phones.
i’m gonna go ahead and assume that the reason this doesn’t have many notes is because you’re all too busy making out with your phones
WHY DID I LET YOU TALK ME INTO THIS, THERE IS NOTHING HERE BUT PAIN. I mean also that scene where Micheletto tells Paolo to tell him of love and claims to know nothing of it makes me really need to write some stuff for like the first season, BUT MY POINT STILL STANDS.
OH GOD I FORGOT ABOUT THE SCENE WHERE MICHELETTO AGGRESSIVELY ASKS PAOLO TO TELL HIM ABOUT LOVE. HE’S TRYING TO WEB MD HIS OWN EMOTIONS. I LOVE HIM SO MUCH
HOW IS MICHELETTO TELLING LUCREZIA THAT SHE DOESN’T NEED TO MURDER A PERSON BECAUSE HE, MICHELETTO, WOULD BE VERY HAPPY TO MURDER SOMEONE FOR HER, AND THAT MURDER WOULD BE FROM THE HEART
Me: *looking critically at what is supposed to be a pwp* The problem with this is it needs more set up.
Me: *drafts four pages of an outline for the setup*
Me: I love this I love this I love this
Me: *looking critically at the ending* Does it even NEED the porn
As much as I love mutual pining and using it for every ship ever, I really don’t picture it applying to young, pre-relationship Baze and Chirrut
Because I imagine it as Baze being completely lovesick, head over heels pining, “I would die if he found out how much I love him but also he keeps accidentally flirting with me and doesn’t he know it’s killing me?”
meanwhile Chirrut never feels like this because he’s under the impression they’re already dating
Chirrut can tell Baze loves him and he can also tell something is eating Baze alive but because he thinks they’re already dating (what do you mean, we didn’t actually have that conversation?) he doesn’t realize it’s unrequited love
so he keeps asking what’s wrong and Baze keeps saying “nothing,” and of course that’s a lie but there’s obvious pain and shame behind it, so Chirrut doesn’t want to push
finally Chirrut gets Baze alone and says “listen, I know something is bothering you and I think you need to talk about it. don’t worry that I’m going to judge you; you’re my boyfriend and I love you and I’m not going anywhere.”
it probably takes a good two-three minutes before Baze can say anything but “what” and he’s been cranky ever since
For your last anon, a quote from Buffering by Hannah Hart "If you're reading this and you think that maybe you love someone of the same gender (or nongender), all I have to say to you is this: Congratulation! You're perfect and wonderful and more alive than you ever knew. Be proud of who you are because you are already more than enough" <3
Thanks, babe! Hey, anon, one of my fabulous followers is here for you with an excellent quote.
Hey, honey, I know it can be scary to suddenly have your self-image change as drastically as something like this can. So first, take a deep breath and let it out. You’re the same person you were yesterday, a week ago, a year ago, you’re just learning something new about yourself. Discovering stuff like this isn’t about adding stuff you didn’t have before, it’s like pulling something out of the attic and dusting it off. It was always there, you’re just ready to look at it now.
Second of all, congratulations, honey! Not on being gay, although my queer ass welcomes you to the party. But it’s hard to acknowledge something like this, even to yourself, and I’m so, so proud of you for being that strong. I’m honored that you told me, that you felt like you could tell me, and I hope I live up to that honor.
And third of all: it’s okay. It’s okay to be gay, honey. I don’t know what your situation looks like, but I want that to be clear. This is a part of you, a part of your heart, and it’s okay. If you find that you’re bi, that you’re pan, that you’re just figuring shit out, that’s okay too. If anybody gives you shit for this, I’ll punch them in the fucking face for you.
There are always going to be people who want you to be ashamed of who you love, the color of your skin, the shape of your body, the quirks of your mind. And fuck them, honey. Fuck them, straight to hell.
I love ya, honey. I hope this was a little helpful for you.
Say there are over seven billion people in the world, at this moment. Say that there are three hundred twenty five million people in the United States of America alone, and that there are eight million people in New York City alone, all minding their own business, not counting the ones only passing by.
Now say there’s a woman out there, with warm brown eyes and a smile like the sun. Her hair’s pinned back, her touch is light, and her breath comes easy and tickles against tanned skin.
When you’re around I don’t
know how to hide my feelings. I count in
binary, in my head. zero one one zero
one one and you count clouds. (while you count clouds)
So it was going to be a stand-alone Vision/Wanda thing but then I started it after eight hours of researching WWI and??? Instead it’s an immediate prequel to the first Vision/Wanda fic I ever wrote, it’s mostly Natasha being smug, and Wanda doesn’t even appear, I don’t know what happened.
Natasha prided herself on being difficult to sneak up
on. It had served her well for their
brief stint in Wakanda, but now they were in America again, scattered up the
East Coast, and she was sitting on the roof of one of her less secret safehouses,
watching the sun go down. And any dense half-blind
idiot could see a six-foot bright red robot in a cape descending onto a roof in
Middle of Nowhere, Appalachia.
The only reason she didn’t immediately yank out the gun
she’d tucked away under the corner of her blanket was because Stark, Banner,
and Rhodes were all about as subtle as…well, a six-foot bright red robot in a
cape. She was confident that she’d
notice them coming, and if she didn’t they deserved
to cuff her.
• hyperfocus until u die
• unless u actually need to focus, in which case: no
• “if you cared, you’d remember”
• bounce bounce bounce bounce bounce
• “just write a note for yourself!”/“just get organized!”
• casual interests??? those aren’t real
• forgot to eat for three days oops
• time is a man-made construct and nothing is real
• when ur brain won’t shh so u can sleep
• “but ur so smart!!1” ok what’s ur point
• talking about a hyperfixation and ur very !!!!!! but ur audience seems uninterested and u get Sad™
•the cousin of forgetting to eat: my god I’m hungry all the time •why are you so loud? I DONT LIKE TO REPEAT MYSELF •could not tell thing you were trying to say for three minutes? It’s gone now. Doesn’t matter how important •song stuck in head has been there for 2 days, you do not even like this song •distraction distraction distraction and over focus over focus over focus •my brain got better connection on the task at hand than my internet got connection to my laptop
can u believe not more people talk abt podfic makers? like?? podfic makers you are amazing little stars in this cold night of a life ily you do amazing work
I adore one of tropes going around in Star Wars fandom: Obi-Wan knows about Anakin and Padme’s relationship, takes it upon himself to stage a diversion, and because of that he systematically entertains other Councilors with fancy dinners and conversations, lest they could start to search for Anakin.
However, behavior like that is a very direct political statement. Because, while Obi-Wan certainly doesn’t think about it in those terms and probably doesn’t even realize he’s doing it (a terrible misstep for a trained negotiator), he cultivates his contacts, courts his potential political cloud, and gathers allies.
For the outsider, it looks like he’s gunning for higher position.
So, I would really like to read something where Obi-Wan ends up as the Master of the Order by accidentally launching a successful political campaign, surprising absolutely no-one except for him and probably Anakin.
The sheer amount of scheming that everyone is managing to fit into individual letters here
Cesare and Lucrezia
This also covers the previous episode, but Lucrezia Borgia and Giulia Farnese, CEO and COO of Badass Ladies In Elaborately Elegant Dresses Incorporated (aka BLEED Inc)
Cesare and Sister Martha (I am SO PROUD of them for making the obvious Abelard and Heloise reference by the by)
Their gleeful advantage-taking of the fact that this particular French king was called Charles the Affable which is hilarious to me
Watching Cesare needle Della Rovere
Micheletto’s line “Then I am servant to a hostage, Your Eminence” I AM DEAD
17: I know your
weakness. It’s kisses. You are doomed. (Don’t worry. We’re all doomed eventually.)
How the galaxy fell to the Dark Side, one kiss at a
time. Or, an overview of the Sith Padmé
AU.
“Oh,” Padmé says in surprise as the Force
goes yesss in the back of her mind at
the sight of a young boy with hair like sunshine and a presence like the sun
itself. Her Jedi protectors are easily
as arrested by the boy’s presence, but she suspects for rather different
reasons. His power is spectacular,
certainly, but there’s more—a sharp click
as of a lock, and something in her core says that is mine.
The boy’s head snaps up and his eyes meet
hers and she hears, clear as day, his voice, as it says, An angel.
When she meets him properly, Anakin with his
sky-blue eyes and child’s voice, she offers her hand to shake. Instead, he takes it, reverent, and kisses
her knuckles.
“I’m going to marry you, someday,” he tells
her solemnly, still holding her hand, and she smiles.
