I hate that I laughed at this
“Like a good neighbor, State Farm is there,” and another one appears. And dodges the downward sweep of claws, darting to the side, bouncing off the pentagram’s barriers, and tripping over the demon’s tail. “In the Vatican!” she cries out as she moves, using the State Farm Agent summoning charm to modify the situation as she was taught, and mentally thanking her trainer for expecting her to be fast enough to do it on the first incantation.
Most State Farm agents, when they run into trouble, have to get the customer to do the jingle a second time. That guy with the buffalo was lucky.
The magic takes hold, and she materializes in the aisle of St. Peter’s Basilica, still holding the demon by the tail, in the middle of Sunday morning Mass. The music clatters unprofessionally to a halt as laypeople, deacons, priests, monks, nuns, and the Pope all turn their attention to the surprised demon whose fifth course of dinner has turned, unaccountably, into a visit to one of his least favorite places on Earth.
There is chanting in Latin, and vaguely cross-shaped gestures, and clouds of incense, and the demon vanishes in a puff of smoke, whether from the efforts of the clergy or of his own volition no one can say. The Agent doesn’t wait, fleeing towards the doors and escaping in the confusion.
She gains the exit and walks, purposefully, toward Rome proper; there, she ducks into the nearest alley. A burner cell phone comes out of one of the less-used pockets of her purse, and she dials a number from memory.
“Allstate,” says a smooth masculine voice after three rings.
“State Farm,” she answers. “I’m calling in a favor.”
“Yeah?” Interest. “What sort?”
As she talks she’s pulling out her smartphone, keying an app that was activated by the summoning, and pulling up the policyholder data that enabled the incantation to work.
“Insurance fraud,” she said, and can almost hear teeth sharpening on the other end of the line. She gives him the name, the address, the policy number. “Someone needs some mayhem.”
“That’s my name,” the man says.
She smiles. “Someone needs all the mayhem.”
He chuckles. Slow. Evil. Even with the echoes of demonic laughter ringing in her ears, she’s impressed. “Don’t worry,” he says, almost purring.
“You’re in good hands.”
OH MY FUCKING GOD I just read insurance commercial fan fiction and it was so good, bless you, I’m going to remember this day forever.
IT COMES BACK TO ME! *preens*
Part 2:
It’s not too long later—State Farm will occasionally loan out their teleportation trick, though Heaven help anyone who tries to use it to compete with them—and the man they call Mayhem is squatting next to a demonic circle with tacky half-dried blood under the leather soles of his shoes. Whoever dispelled the circle didn’t do a good job of it; the ring is still faintly smoldering and Mayhem has already singed his fingers on the air above it. He’s in the basement of a house with a State Farm homeowner’s policy, waiting for his partner in, erm, crime, to show up.
“Oh, good heavens.” He smiles at the sound of someone hopping delicately back, then carefully tiptoeing through the mess. Demons are messy eaters, and Flo’s wearing all white.
She steps gingerly over what might be most of a femur, looks from circle to Mayhem to—is that half a skull on the floor? “Freaky. Whaddaya need?”
“Tech,” he says. “State Farm knows the homeowner summoned them, but the Agent reported at least five people present. Maybe six. She isn’t sure, what with being busy evading a demon inside a very small space with zappy walls.”
Flo’s already got a—where does she get those from anyway? a cardboard box in her hands. Mayhem watches as she unfolds it, refolds it, and ends up with something significantly bigger, shaped like a satellite dish. He tries to watch how she does it; they may be working together, but they’re still rivals and his own higher-ups will be very interested in the latest whatever-it-does that Progressive has come up with.
A blue glow lights up the concave side. Mayhem is pretty sure cardboard doesn’t work that way. Flo makes a pleased sound, and starts rattling off names, addresses, policy numbers.
Impressed, Mayhem asks, “How the fuck?” If Progressive is developing some sort of superspy technology, well, that’s kind of ominous.
Flo grins and looks embarrassed. “I, ah, have occasional dealings with a couple guys from That Other Insurance Company. One of them knows someone who knows someone who works in quality control for the Infernal Realms, and it turns out Hell monitors all their summoned manifestations for safety purposes. His contact got me the list of who was there.”
Mayhem nods. He’s had occasional encounters That Other Insurance Company himself. Bland, grey-suited, timid men who are even worse spies than they are insurance agents. “Wait, Hell has a quality control department?”
“And all other forms of administration,” Flo says. “I understand it’s to generate maximum paperwork. It is a place of punishment, after all.”
Mayhem actually winces. “That’s definitely hellish. All right. The Agent who called me in is flying back from Italy and should meet us in a few hours. Should give us plenty of time to plan an attack. Are they all State Farm customers?”
“Just the one,” Flo replies, folding her toy up, and Mayhem watches with vague envy as it becomes a giant sword. “One Allstate, one Progressive, one Geico, two Farmers. We gonna invite anyone else to the party?” She hopes so. Mayhem’s precision strikes on any sort of insurance fraud perpetrators are the stuff of legend, and the Farmers guys would bring in enough absurdity to make it a work of art.
Mayhem’s grin is something that ought to haunt her nightmares. Instead, she finds herself matching it. “Yes,” he says. “Let’s.”
Part 3:
The sun is just a suggestion behind the horizon, but the morning traffic jam is already clogging up the freeways by the time Mayhem and Flo leave the scene of the crime. Flo is driving, weaving her motorcycle expertly through the sea of zombie commuters, and already some jackass in a twenty-year-old Honda has rolled down his window to sneer at Mayhem for riding behind a woman and in the process taken his eyes off the road long enough to rear-end a state trooper.
By the time the sun is peeking over the edge of the world, the freeway has been exchanged for fast-food restaurants and traffic lights, and Mayhem is contemplating commercials. “I’m another motorist doing something you disapprove of” is warring with “I’m a state trooper,” and Mayhem is leaning toward the latter because it might give him an excuse to put on the uniform, when Flo erupts in giggles, jerking her head subtly to the right. Mayhem finds what she’s looking at and nearly pisses himself.
A van, the type that practically screams “covert surveillance,” is parked in the entrance to a Starbucks. Two men in bland gray suits and the sort of ties that give insult to all intelligent life are sitting in the front seat, coffee cups in hand. Mayhem sees the moment they set eyes on Flo—they both jerk upwards in their seats as if jabbed with a cattle prod—and then the moment where they realize who her passenger is. The one in the driver’s seat boggles and reflexively inhales half his coffee; the passenger reaches over to slap him on the back, sees Mayhem, and spills his own beverage all over the dashboard.
When Flo passes the driveway she gives a little wave to the men, and they both dive for cover. Mayhem would be surprised at the level of ineptitude That Other Insurance Company lets their agents display, but he’s seen one of them try to hide behind a stop sign. Surprise has long since left the station, leaving amusement and a hint of second-hand embarrassment which Mayhem relishes rather than winces at.
He’s jarred from his thoughts as Flo hits the brakes, neatly avoiding the SUV that has just moved into their lane without signaling on her way to the upcoming right-turn lane. The driver diverts attention from her cell phone long enough glare at Flo and stick a manicured middle finger in their general direction, and turns to the road just in time to watch as her car veers off the shoulder and makes intimate congress with a speed limit sign. And then the flashing lights come on from somewhere behind them and Mayhem’s faith in humanity is restored.
He revises. “I’m a middle-management commuter on a cell phone.”
Flo pulls over to let the cop car pass, and Mayhem sneaks a look back at the van. God have mercy, the one in the passenger seat has binoculars.
“Shall we lose them or let them follow us?” Flo’s voice interrupts his giggle-fit.
No question. Not like they’re a threat. “Let’s keep ‘em. They’re entertaining.”
Flo merges back into traffic and signals a move to the left lane. Since the lady in the SUV is still in view, glaring up at them as the police officer steps up to her window, Mayhem is extra gratified that she waits five whole blinks before merging into the next lane. It’s doubtless for the benefit of their pursuers, who otherwise might manage to keep with them if Mayhem draws a map and passes it to them at a stoplight, but his black and petty heart rejoices anyway.
It takes them awhile to get to the suburban park where Mayhem has arranged to meet the State Farm agent who called him in. Or rather, it takes them awhile to get there without losing their inept pursuers; twice, Flo has to double back and be found again, and once the van gets stuck behind a railroad crossing and Flo and Mayhem have to stop and pick up a box of donuts in order to still be there when the train finishes blocking the road. The park is a lovely little spot complete with playground equipment and a little waterfall, as completely removed from this business with demons and human sacrifice as a person could want. There’s one car in the lot already, a rental, and a figure in red shirt and khaki skirt standing beside it.
“Is that the Agent?” Flo asks, and Mayhem nods. The woman is short, dark, curvy—very pretty—and the two guys from That Other are in serious danger of twisting their heads off their shoulders as they drive past. Whether it’s for that reason, or because there’s now three insurance companies having a little meeting in a city park like some exceedingly bad spy thriller, Mayhem isn’t sure.
Flo parks the motorcycle and goes up to introduce herself; Mayhem stays put and watches the van make an awkward U-turn in the middle of the road and come back. The State Farm agent walks up to Mayhem and offers a hand, and he is distracted from the spectacle by a warm-toned “A pleasure to meet you” and a gaze and smile as predatory as a shark’s. It’s enough to distract his attention well and properly. This is the person to whom he’s promised vengeance, and this is the face of a person who has fought and outsmarted a demon.
Damn, he’s glad he picked up the phone.
“Pleasure’s all mine,” is what he says, and then Flo lets out a mirthful squeak. Mayhem and the Agent both follow her gaze, just in time to see the surveillance van leave the road, bouncing over the curb and smashing into a tree.
The Agent is staring, her lips curving into an amused smirk, and Mayhem composes another commercial. “I’m stupid, and I come in pairs.”
I’m so glad this has been updated. I love this story.
<3<3<3
Mayhem is perfect! I love him composing commercials in his head. And the Other Insurance Company was just adorable.
(via cthulhu-with-a-fez)
This weekend I was told a story which, although I’m kind of ashamed to admit it, because holy shit is it ever obvious, is kind of blowing my mind.
A friend of a friend won a free consultation with Clinton Kelly of What Not To Wear, and she was very excited, because she has a plus-size body, and wanted some tips on how to make the most of her wardrobe in a fashion culture which deliberately puts her body at a disadvantage.
Her first question for him was this: how do celebrities make a plain white t-shirt and a pair of weekend jeans look chic? She always assumed it was because so many celebrities have, by nature or by design, very slender frames, and because they can afford very expensive clothing. But when she watched What Not To Wear, she noticed that women of all sizes ended up in cute clothes that really fit their bodies and looked great. She had tried to apply some guidelines from the show into her own wardrobe, but with only mixed success. So - what gives?
His answer was that everything you will ever see on a celebrity’s body, including their outfits when they’re out and about and they just get caught by a paparazzo, has been tailored, and the same goes for everything on What Not To Wear. Jeans, blazers, dresses - everything right down to plain t-shirts and camisoles. He pointed out that historically, up until the last few generations, the vast majority of people either made their own clothing or had their clothing made by tailors and seamstresses. You had your clothing made to accommodate the measurements of your individual body, and then you moved the fuck on. Nothing on the show or in People magazine is off the rack and unaltered. He said that what they do is ignore the actual size numbers on the tags, find something that fits an individual’s widest place, and then have it completely altered to fit. That’s how celebrities have jeans that magically fit them all over, and the rest of us chumps can’t ever find a pair that doesn’t gape here or ride up or slouch down or have about four yards of extra fabric here and there.
I knew that having dresses and blazers altered was probably something they were doing, but to me, having alterations done generally means having my jeans hemmed and then simply living with the fact that I will always be adjusting my clothing while I’m wearing it because I have curves from here to ya-ya, some things don’t fit right, and the world is just unfair that way. I didn’t think that having everything tailored was something that people did.
It’s so obvious, I can’t believe I didn’t know this. But no one ever told me. I was told about bikini season and dieting and targeting your “problem areas” and avoiding horizontal stripes. No one told me that Jennifer Aniston is out there wearing a bigger size of Ralph Lauren t-shirt and having it altered to fit her.
I sat there after I was told this story, and I really thought about how hard I have worked not to care about the number or the letter on the tag of my clothes, how hard I have tried to just love my body the way it is, and where I’ve succeeded and failed. I thought about all the times I’ve stood in a fitting room and stared up at the lights and bit my lip so hard it bled, just to keep myself from crying about how nothing fits the way it’s supposed to. No one told me that it wasn’t supposed to. I guess I just didn’t know. I was too busy thinking that I was the one that didn’t fit.
I thought about that, and about all the other girls and women out there whose proportions are “wrong,” who can’t find a good pair of work trousers, who can’t fill a sweater, who feel excluded and freakish and sad and frustrated because they have to go up a size, when really the size doesn’t mean anything and it never, ever did, and this is just another bullshit thing thrown in your path to make you feel shitty about yourself.
I thought about all of that, and then I thought that in elementary school, there should be a class for girls where they sit you down and tell you this stuff before you waste years of your life feeling like someone put you together wrong.
So, I have to take that and sit with it for a while. But in the meantime, I thought perhaps I should post this, because maybe my friend, her friend, and I are the only clueless people who did not realise this, but maybe we’re not. Maybe some of you have tried to embrace the arbitrary size you are, but still couldn’t find a cute pair of jeans, and didn’t know why.
This post is one of those things that I will reblog every time it appears on my dash. This is so important, and no one ever tells you about it.
I almost didn’t read this but then I did and I’m really glad that I did.
(via clockwork-mockingbird)
Things I am extremely susceptible because my body temp runs low: heat stroke.
Things I am extremely terrible about remembering to watch out for: heat stroke.
Things I have had today for the second time in two weeks: heat stroke.
Prison was not good to Team Cap.
But prison was absolute hell for Wanda Maximoff.
Sam, Clint, and Scott were all a little beat up. A few cuts and bruises, a lot of anger. Some of that's the battle. Some of that's them being arrested and thrown into maximum security cells.
But Wanda?
Wanda’s in a straight jacket and a shock collar. Wanda’s collapsed on the floor, leaning against the wall, silent, white as a sheet, and barely moving.
Wanda wasn’t just arrested. Wanda was tortured by the government.
Because how do you get an all-powerful and uncooperative young woman into a straight jacket? You knock her out, probably shoot her full of tranquilizers until she stops struggling.
Because why put her in a shock collar if she’s already restrained? To keep her quiet and docile. Because they don’t understand her or her powers, what they do or how they work, so they’ve tried to cover all the bases.
Because why wouldn’t Wanda speak to Tony; why wouldn’t she snark and quip like Clint and Scott and Sam; why wouldn’t she spit and curse and scream? The last time she tried, she got shocked. The last time and every time before that, they shocked her. She was in constant pain from moving or speaking - because every time she did something, anything the guards thought she was trying to use her powers, trying to attack them - so she decided the best option was to sit still, keep quiet, and stop fighting. Don’t make any sudden movements; don’t make any movements at all.
She’s been in this situation before, with HYDRA. But even they didn’t restrain her. At least they let her move, let her speak, let her use her powers. At least they let her throw herself against the walls, let her scream, let her manipulate the fabric of the universe. (At least she still had her brother.) She knows what prison feels like - knows confinement and pain by heart - but this is worse.
When Steve comes to break her out, how much do you want to bet that she flinched at the sight of him? Moved into the corner when the door opened? Cringed when he tried to unbind her? Whined when he got close to the collar because she was afraid it would hurt him or her or both?
How screwed up do you think Wanda is after being tortured by people who say they’re doing it to protect the greater good?
How long before she tries to speak again? Is it just a whisper at first? Is she quieter than she used to be? Does it take her days before she’s willing to speak above a mumble, weeks before she shouts to be heard, months before she screams of her own volition?
How long does it take Wanda to let people touch her again? Does she throw Clint across the room the first time he places a hand on her shoulder to comfort her? Does she flinch at loud noises? Stops wearing necklaces because they make her feel collared? Refuses hugs because they make her feel restrained?
How much time goes by before Wanda dares to use her powers again? How long before she lets go of the fear of being shocked for something that’s a fundamental part of her? How long before she embraces the energy again?
How long before she stops being scared and starts being angry?
(via cthulhu-with-a-fez)
*rolls over, bares her tummy* yesssssssAlso NONE OF THIS makes Vader less vicious or violent out in the world. Sometimes this makes Vader MORE vicious and violent out in the world, in fact, because he figures out slightly quicker than Padmé exactly how much SHARPER she is with him when he’s gone farther than she wanted him to go. And it’s not even the sharpness he wants specifically–it’s the ATTENTION–but he’d never say no to it. When she figures THAT out … hah. Haaaaah. She doesn’t even have to fucking TOUCH him, when she figures that out.
She DOESN’T touch him when she figures that out. He goes fucking CRAZY with it; he falls the fuck APART with it. She doesn’t even look at him for a full week, not even when he goddamn BEGS her to. The Empire could probably have collapsed without either of them noticing, if the Senate hadn’t known exactly how dead they all would’ve been if it had.
Just–Padmé Amidala literally riding the FUCKING TIGER here, with the fine line of giving Vader enough Dark to be content with but not enough to damn himself with. As if that even matters, now. As if that COULD matter, now.
It matters even more, now.
But what Vader wants from her is so much tenderness, and so much terribleness, and so MUCH, and sometimes Padmé isn’t sure if she’s the bloody bite-mark smeared down his throat or the soft hand stroking through his sticky, sweat-soaked hair. Or worse–if she’s both. What is she, if she is both those things to someone?
What is she if she is both those things to the GALAXY?
@words-writ-in-starlight: honestly padme’s internal riding the whirlwind half-panic is so glorious and like i am SO HERE for vader who is so much her servant in every way and when she realizes that ah when she realizes that things change vader goes out and runs wild against her orders and returns with blood on his hands and she greets him with a cool nod and a cursory kiss to the cheek and then she goes back to her work and doesn’t say anything further except a brief reprimand for the wreckage and he is SO LOST in the absence of her grounding him vader goes out on another mission and follows her orders to the letter and when he returns padme makes herself smile and opens her arms and asks ‘what do you want tonight’ ‘what can i give you for making me so happy’ and he falls into her like she is a black hole and he is so far beyond the event horizon and padme holds him close and bites and kisses and bloodies him and he is drunk on it on HER and she is so so afraid of him of herself for the galaxy for her children I LOVE THIS AU SO MUCH
Like I would add more here but WHAT IS THERE TO ADD?? What. What could I even put here? Except maybe the part where Padmé realizes that even as she’s wrapping a tighter leash around Vader’s throat than anyone else ever has, he’s fucking THANKING her for it. He’s always had a leash or a collar or a slave chip, he’s always been OWNED by something or someone, and he’s always hated it. But HER leash, HER rules, HER orders–those aren’t like anyone else’s. He’s HAPPY under her, and all it took was a few thousand murders and betrayals, all it took was killing himself for her.
Vader doesn’t know how to be free, because the Force doesn’t expect him to be free and even Anakin never really knew how to be. Even though this is the MOST free that either of him has ever been. He could do anything he wanted, go anywhere he wanted, and all he wants is his Master.
Padmé realizes this. Padmé HATES this.
Padmé also rewards him when he obeys her, and punishes him when he doesn’t.
@words-writ-in-starlight: okay so vader’s relationship to the concept of ‘master’ here is super interesting because when he was young (when ANAKIN was young padme thinks but doesn’t say when it comes up) it was attached to pain and punishment and grief and tears and suffering and then it was about the jedi ‘master this’ he says 'master that’ and yet he was expected to care for them love the jedi ideal in the perfect courtly manner they expected in the perfect passionless jedi way and then it was about palpatine all manipulation and coercion and he could tell he knew he was being wielded but he was a thing for wielding wasn’t he? and then and then he realized that for the first time he had a choice three masters to choose from palpatine and obi-wan and padme and padme’s hand around his throat is sweet and electric and he is hungry for it and he probably tells her that at some point and she has to take a deep breath and let it out slowly without letting her hand in his hair go tense so that she doesn’t scream or cry or shove him away but she breathes and combs her fingers through his hair and murmurs that she is glad he chose her that he is so good for her so perfect for her and he rests his head against her knees and sighs
Absolutely. Absolutely and ENTIRELY. The only choices Anakin Skywalker ever really made were picking his master, picking the person to follow, to swear himself to, and he was never a good slave or a good Jedi or a good Sith, but he’ll be good for HER. Padmé is the only one who didn’t betray him or try to make him deny who he was, didn’t lie to him–Palpatine wanted him to think she had, but that was just more proof that Palpatine wasn’t the right master. The right master wouldn’t have needed to lie to get his loyalty.
The Jedi told him he couldn’t have attachments; they told him he couldn’t be Dark; they told him he couldn’t have HER. That he couldn’t GIVE himself to her.
But Padmé is his Master. The only worthy one he’s ever had.
(shut up, Obi-Wan, bastard, traitor, liar, you don’t know you refused to understand you would never have treated me like that if you REALLY–)
Padmé is Vader’s Master, so he gave her everything. His loyalty and an empire and the lives of every soldier in it, the lives of every Jedi who’d ever served beside Anakin Skywalker, the life of every other Master he’d ever sworn to. If he has to belong to someone–if he’s always going to be a slave, a servant, a tool, a possession–then at least he’s strong enough to pick who owns him, now. He’ll take all her orders, do everything she asks of him, make the GALAXY do anything she asks, and he will thank her for it every time. It’s better this way.
Sometimes he thinks it would’ve been better if it’d always been this way.
Inspired by various tumblr posts.
Humans quickly get a reputation among the interplanetry alliance and the reputation is this: when going somewhere dangerous, take a human.
Humans are tough. Humans can last days without food. Humans heal so fast they pierce holes in themselves or inject ink for fun. Humans will walk for days on broken bones in order to make it to safety. Humans will literally cut off bits of themselves if trapped by a disaster.
You would be amazed what humans will do to survive. Or to ensure the survival of others they feel responsible for.
That’s the other thing. Humans pack-bond, and they spill their pack-bonding instincts everywhere. Sure it’s weird when they talk sympathetically to broken spaceships or try to pet every lifeform that scans as non-toxic. It’s even a little weird that just existing in the same place as them for long enough seems to make them care about you. But if you’re hurt, if you’re trapped, if you need someone to fetch help?
You really want a human.
you know fantasy dragon soulbonding fic i want more of that where the humans are the dragons, like, we’re huge, we’re old, we’re scrappy as hell, and if you are small and cute enough we would be delighted to carry you around on our back
Oh god, now I’m imagining sapient species with lifetimes of, like, a year, and there’s one family that’s been attached to, like, a pirate since she rescued the doll-sized matriarch. She was 23 and just getting command of her first space cruiser, and because she rescued the matriach, the entire family regards her as their protector, they literally live in her bedroom until they reproduce too much (They have a litter every month), then they start traveling around her ship, and there’s entire societies all throughout the ship after, like, 5 years.
She goes down to the engine room for the first time in a decade because she has to find the head engineer for reasons, and there are literal little beasties down there who hail her as the “First guardian” and are so astonished to see her, and they want to come with her to the promised land, and she’s just like “Where?” They describe a luxurious land of softness, and she realizes they mean her bedroom.
So she starts making a habit of visiting every place on her ship multiple times a year, bringing the little buggers to see her room and bringing them home, and her legit crew thinks these guys are hilarious and adorable, and anyone with one of them in attendance has permission to visit her room, and long story short, after 20 years, she’s like a crazy cat lady, but with hundreds and hundreds of doll-sized little aliens who literally worship her.
Alternatively, what about the story where we’re the equivalent of the sentient cats? Like we’re small and kinda funny-looking and our lifespan isn’t that great, but we bond with other species like whoa, so most starships have a human as a mascot (the long haul freighters have an entire family, maybe even a village)
And mostly we’re just seen as the cute mascot. But then every now and then the shit hits the impeller. And that’s when you get stories like “he jammed our sonar, and he had a gun on us and we thought we were done for! But, I guess he’d forgotten how flexible humans are. Our ship’s human had crawled out of her nest and behind the console, you know, in that wiring gap? She jumped on his back and ripped his antennae out! With her bare hands! He threw her into the console and she just got right back up and kept fighting, smashed her upper joints into his flaps over and over again, and she didn’t stop until he quit moving, even though she was leaking everywhere and we could see a piece of her inner skeleton! We rushed her to the med techs but we were sure she was done for. But, did you know, humans can reattach their skeleton parts?? She gets around just fine now, says it doesn’t bother her. She saved all of us. She could have just stayed in her nest and been fine, but she defended us and saved the ship. I’m never serving on a crew without a human ever again.”
“Yeah, did you hear about the crew from over Ktl'ree way? They had a gas leak in the middle of that awful nebula they’ve got, took out everyone but their humans. Turns out, their humans rewired their wormhole drive so they could get the ship home in time to get everyone medical attention. Said they figured they’d either all survive or they’d all go together. Now that’s loyalty. Can you imagine?”
“I’ve heard they’re even more fierce about defending the ship if you have a bonded pair. We’ve just had the one, since we’re short haul, but we’re looking for another one after that incident. It’s hard to find one the right age who doesn’t have a ship, though, never mind one she likes. There was one attached to another ship, they actually did bond for a bit, and the other ship offered to pay for our search for a new pair if she’d come with them. We talked to her about it—but she refused to leave us. She said ‘girlfriends come and go but we’re family.’ Can you believe that?”
“They’re amazing. I don’t understand ships who don’t have at least one. I served on a luxury cruiser that had a whole bunch, five or six families. Have you seen their young? They’re so adorable!”
“I know, right? Ours has offspring-from-the-same-parents she talks to whenever we’re in port, and she shows us pictures of their young. We’d find the room if she wanted some, but she says no, she’s not ready—but maybe if we find another one she can bond with. We’re kind of hoping.”
Yesssssssssssssss. This is awesomeeeeeeeeeee!!!!!!!! I am INSPIRED.
… have you guys not read @seananmcguire’s stories featuring The Mice? CHEESE AND CAKE! CHEESE AND CAKE!
(via primarybufferpanel)
[video]
I feel like there needs to be some kind of post for MCU fans on How To Write About Africa because I feel like there’s a lot of people out there who want to write about Wakanda and T'Challa but are worried about being problematic and that makes me sad because there’s SO MUCH GREAT meta to be had about T'Challa and Wakanda but at the same time there’s a lot of legitimate concerns about perpetuating racist stereotypes and yeah.
T'Challa and Wakanda could be such a great way to introduce people to amazing sci-fi concepts that people should know
This is SO needed.
It’s so easy to be like ‘just try it!’ but the problem with this website is that people don’t think its okay for people to make mistakes. I’ve gotten messages from people who want to write about T’Challa/Wakanda but are nervous about how their work will be perceived and its so sad.
We really need to gather some people who’d be interested in writing a nice little info post!
I’ll start
Dark Matter (series) Good anthology series as an intro to afrofuturism
People please add to this if you can :P
Here’s something I’ve learned while writing about other cultures, don’t use the linked posts until AFTER you have your first draft. You are going to be too worried about getting things right that it’s going to affect your story. Make all the mistakes you have to, I’ve made a few of mistakes about my culture so it’s okay.
Take your time, get your first draft, preferably even get your second draft,and then you can worry about this, this is also when you can start looking for opinions.
Now there’s also @writingwithcolor they always have useful stuff, here’s their navigation page it’s got a lot of useful info, from books you can read to stereotypes and tropes to inspiration and description.
(via skymurdock)
[video]
