GOSH MATT IS SO THE WEIRD EMOTIONAL ONE OF THIS GROUP WHO HAS FEELINGS AND EXPRESSES THEM AND LUKE AND JESS JUST DO NOT UNDERSTAND HOW TO DEAL WITH THIS why can’t you be emotionally stunted like a NORMAL PERSON matt
(Source: theavengers, via johanirae)
i realize i’m maybe like, the Nichest of markets here, but i really really really desperately want to watch further adventures of Diana Prince, Curator of Antiquities™
…like, imagine the interdepartmental meetings
Diana: we have recently acquired several exquisite pieces of very early minoan kamares ware. i feel a refresh of the gallery might encourage our visitors to–some marketing dipshit: look, we can’t get people in the door for pottery. we need another big show, like can you get a vermeer or–
Diana of Themiscrya, Amazon, God-Killer, Daughter of Hippolyta: pottery is important
some marketing dipshit, lightly pissing himself: i agree
Not only will I join you in the Nichest of Markets, but I am suddenly stricken by the dismay that can only come from a depressing awareness of how niche this market is. Does anyone…like…have fic?
“Here you are, Ms. Prince,” says the mail currier. He grabs the tablet from his back pocket, presenting it to her. “If you’ll just sign right there…”
“Of course,” says Diana. She scrawls her name, and the currier dutifully passes over the package. It is reasonably sized, stocky, with the words FRAGILE, HANDLE WITH CARE written along the edges of the Wayne Enterprises logo. “Same time next week?”
The currier laughs. “More than likely, I’d wager. Weird that Mr. Wayne has taken a sudden interest in supplementing the Louvre with his own private collection, but hey. Billionaires, right? Who knows what they’re thinking.”
Diana thinks of the museums in Gotham, filled to the brim with some of the world’s most beautiful antiquities and artifacts, and about Bruce Wayne who cares not a lick about any one them but takes ownership of them anyway for the sole purpose of having free exhibitions open to the general public five days a week. She smiles, agrees, and waves the currier off, until the next time.
She is examining the dish (Uruk period, likely kiln production, as it is a strange almost-blue tint that suggests a high-temperature controlled oven), when Isabell in charge of Eastern Eurasian arts knocks lightly on her half-open door and lets herself in.
“New delivery?” she asks, nodding to the dish.
“Yes.” Carefully, Diana puts the dish back in its box. She makes a note to have one of her assistants come by later to pick it up and send it down to the lab for testing. “The meeting?”
“Oh, uh.” Isabell in charge of Eastern Eurasian arts clears her throat and looks briefly at the floor, embarrassed. Diana lets her have a moment, used to the reaction. “Yeah. Want to walk together?”
Diana is already walking around her, throwing her disposable gloves in the garbage as she passes. “Sure,” she says anyway and waits for Isabell by the door. Isabell jolts when she realizes Diana is already ahead of her. Diana politely chooses to ignore that.
It’s only when she is seated besides Isabell in charge of Eastern Eurasian arts and Haruki in charge of philanthropic outreach that she remembers: Timothy in charge of corporate marketing is going to be at this meeting as well.
She nearly groans aloud, already anticipating his tirade on diminishing returns this financial quarter and his chart predicting a downward trend of attendance among younger visitors.
Timothy in charge of corporate marketing does not disappoint. After the heads of every department say their piece and give the customary updates, Timothy in charge of corporate marketing has an assistant hold out a poster board detailing their declining revenue and inability to attract attention. For nearly half the appointed time for the meeting, he speaks, pointing back to his poster board at regular intervals with frothing enthusiasm.
“Well,” says Diana, when Timothy in charge of corporate marketing finally allows the department heads to speak. “We have recently acquired several exquisite pieces of Early Minoan Kamares ware. I feel a refresh of the gallery might encourage our visitors to—”
“Ms. Prince,” Timothy in charge of corporate marketing interrupts. He is smiling, not unkindly, in the way a headmaster might at a particularly rambunctious child. Diana feels her fist curl, despite herself. “We can’t get people in the door for pottery.” He laughs. “No, no, we’d need something bigger. Grander, you understand. Something that will hold our visitors’ attention. Perhaps if you could get a Vermeer, yes? I hear you’ve been receiving packages from Bruce Wayne himself, and he has a lovely piece, if I do remember correctly. Maybe try asking—”
The way Timothy in charge of corporate marketing says asking, Diana knows that is far from what he actually means. She is about as likely to follow through with that as she is to ask Timothy for anything.
As calmly as she can, she places both hands atop the table and uncurls her fists. Below her fingers, a minuscule part of the grained wood chips. She extends her spine, sitting straight, and beside her, Isabell in charge of Eastern Eurasian arts swallows.
“Tim,” she cuts in. “For how many quarters have our returns, as you keep reminding us, diminished?”
Timothy in charge of corporate marketing blinks. He squints. “Well, I would say for nearly six quarters now.”
“Hm. And remind me, how long have you been with us here?”
The room has the same quality of quiet that Diana is intimately familiar with, bordering on dangerous.
“Nearly six quarters, if memory serves,” says Diana.
“Now, Ms. Prince,” Timothy in charge of corporate marketing blusters, “if you are implying that somehow I am responsible for the state of our returns—”
“I am not implying anything. Just perhaps that big shows and singular centerpieces are not the way for us to go. Isabell?”
Isabell in charge of Eastern Eurasian arts jolts and looks up at her, wide-eyed. “Yes?”
“Didn’t you recently acquire some newly discovered Jomon pieces?”
“Yes.”
“Of course, it’s a matter of opinion, but if we were to redesign the gallery to incorporate the different wares from different eras and locales, it might encourage our visitors to learn more about them and could even encourage repeat visits.”
“I suppose…” allows Timothy in charge of corporate marketing.
Diana stares at him, the same way she might have once stared down her own mother to let her leave Themyscira or even looked down on Ares as he tried to tempt her to his side. She stares at him, and remembers with a certainty that has been granted to her after years in man’s world that he is but a man and like any man, he is fragile and breakable, when she is not.
“Pottery is important, Tim,” she says.
Trembling, unable to meet her eye, Timothy in charge of corporate marketing agrees.
YOU DID THE THING
YOU WENT FORTH AND DID IT
I SALUTE YOU
!!!!!!!!!!!!!pottery is important, tim
(via ifeelbetterer)
singelisilverslippers asked: i don't even go here, but your fave borgias pairing (something with lucrezia maybe?) and 16. 'Do you trust me?'
It is past midnight in her brother’s rooms, and said brother is naked beneath her, his hands gripping her waist like she is the only thing tethering him to the universe, when the door bursts open.
Cesare jerks up, and she dives for a blanket–but it is only Micheletto. “His Holiness is on his way,” Micheletto says urgently, looking straight at Cesare. “He will not be stopped.”
Cesare swears, and Lucrezia looks frantically about the room–there are too many pieces of her toilette to possibly gather up in time–her chemise, her gold slippers, the purple gown and the sleeves she so recklessly tore off–there is no chance she can gather it up before her father gets here. She cannot leave her brother’s rooms half-dressed, either.
“Hide in the wardrobe,” Cesare orders, coming to the same conclusion. “I shall say I had a woman, that she has left, but will–return.”
Lucrezia shakes her head frantically–there is too much risk that her father will recognize the gown, which he gave her, the ruby-edged pearls she stupidly plucked from her hair and left in a careless pile on the floor, the net Giulia complimented her on only that morning.
“Do you trust me,” Micheletto says suddenly. He must be addressing Cesare, but he is looking at her, familiar, loyal Micheletto, his face white with some unknown emotion.
“We do,” Lucrezia answers him in a frightened whisper, and Micheletto gives her a jerky nod.
“Into the wardrobe, my lord,” he says, and then Lucrezia understands. Cesare rocks back like Micheletto has struck him–like a loyal dog has bit him–but there is no time.
“Go,” she begs, and Cesare goes, his jaw clenched tight.
Micheletto kicks off his boots and joins her in the bed. She tugs him down over her, so his weight covers her like a shield. She runs her fingers through his hair, tugs at his clothing so he will appear a little more debauched. Micheletto’s hands settle awkwardly on her forearms, and his eyes are grave and open only a few inches from hers.
She kisses him harshly, biting his lip so he will appear as kissed as she is, and worries. She will tell her father this is none of his affair. She will tell him Cesare has no idea, that Cesare spends the night with a mistress of his own. She will be outraged, then humiliated, then penitent. Her father will forgive her this, as he could never forgive her true sin.
She can hear footsteps in the corridor now, and it occurs to her all at once that Micheletto will not be forgiven. Her father will insist that Cesare dispose of him, one way or another. His hands tighten on her bare forearms.
“Trust us,” she whispers against Micheletto’s mouth just as the door bursts open, and what she means is we will protect you.
Anonymous asked: Cesare/Micheletto, "Do you trust me?" or "Either you know or you don't" 👍👍
It is a stupid risk, but Micheletto takes it anyway, follows a boy out from under his lord’s nose to an abandoned palace. What is he alive for, except for stupid risks like these. If he had wanted a safe life, he could have stayed in Forlí, and married Violetta the miller’s daughter.
It is a very pleasant interlude. The boy is a sweet, fine thing–finer than anything made for gutter trash like him, and almost unsettlingly tender.
He returns seamlessly to his lord’s side when the pleasure is done, and that evening reports some of the curiosities of da Vinci’s workshop, only himself left in Cesare Borgia’s war tent. Cesare listens to him for a while, sipping at Ludovico Sforza’s wine, and then abruptly he turns to Micheletto and says: “You fucked that boy.” It isn’t a question.
Micheletto freezes, utter dread and a strange, savage relief flooding him in dual measure. He has feared exactly this for so many years, and now it has happened. His lord knows the truth of him. There is nothing left to fear. He unbuckles his dagger and drops to his knees before his lord, pressing the point to his heart. “Kill me quickly,” he manages, offering Cesare the hilt. “Please.”
A hand joins his on the dagger’s hilt, Cesare’s fingers brushing his, and then Cesare is drawing it away from him, setting the blade aside. “There will be no killing,” his lord says quietly. “God’s wounds, Micheletto. Did you think I did not know?”
Micheletto raises his head sharply, and finds Cesare looking at him with the concentration he usually reserves for matters of state. His voice, when he can bring himself to speak, is hoarse. “You knew. How long have you known?”
Cesare shrugs, but doesn’t break their eye contact. “How long have you been in my service?”
Micheletto has trained himself too well to move, but he feels that like a blow. All these years. All the care, all the terror, and for nothing. “My lord wanted to know about the boy,” he says stupidly.
“Mm,” Cesare agrees. “I marked him. Machiavelli did, too. You must take greater care, my sweet assassin.”
The only answer Micheletto can make to that is a nod, stiff and humiliated.
Cesare tilts his head to the side, curiosity filling his face. “You will not see him again.” It isn’t a command, but it also is not a question. Micheletto shakes his head anyway. “And you have no lover in Rome.”
“Love is not–for men like me,” Micheletto says haltingly.
“Oh?” Cesare raises his eyebrows. “So you do not love me?”
He can make no answer to that, his tongue gone dry in his mouth. He is suddenly very conscious that he is still on his knees.
Cesare smiles at him. He sounds amused, but his eyes are sharp. “Either you know or you don’t.”
Micheletto finds his voice at last, swallowing hard. “I would need a heart for that, my lord.”
“Ah,” his lord says, drawing the word out. “Of course. I had forgotten.”
also about that comment on yeerks smothering each other: i’m pretty sure one of the really big social problems yeerks faced was that yeerks in their natural state cannot individually murder each other. they’re softbodied aquatic invertebrates. they have nothing to murder each other with.
killing a yeerk would be a group effort: they would either have to bury a yeerk in the silt of the bottom of the pool and guard him for days, or slowly push a rock on top of that yeerk until he’s crushed, or by group effort isolate and then shove the yeerk out of the pool on to dry land and keep him there until he dries out. these group efforts would be exhaustive and require extensive, determined coordination. basically, yeerks have only ever executed each other.
unfortunately, yeerks gain the capacity to murder people in the space of… a day. a week at the outside. monday: no yeerks had ever murdered anyone. friday: they’d shot like three andalites and were starting in on shooting each other.
yeerks are not emotionally equipped to understand murder. they understand death, and predators, and maybe even socially-mandated execution. but a species with no real form of organized warfare or interpersonal violence gets its hands on guns and spaceships and goes basically fucking nuts. think about it: humans know we can fuck each other up. all our cultures acknowledge and regulate our capacity— and our desire— to kill people we hate.
yeerks don’t have that. yeerks have never had that. they suddenly get that and they go fucking nuts. roughly fifty years later they are still fucking nuts, only even more so because they’ve locked themselves into this completely unnatural, artificial social situation— a highly regimented life of total war— and any yeerk with a host now has the capacity to kill. and they kill each other a lot. their whole ranking system boils down to ‘who is allowed to kill who’. esplin 9466 gets an andalite body but still has a yeerk’s mind, a yeerk’s total lack of… control, awareness, something, and he just fucking starts chopping heads off and never slows down.
the ultimate fridge horror of the animorphs, i think, is that the yeerks themselves are child soldiers: terribly young people in a terrible situation, born into a war they didn’t start, forced to use alien technologies that mutiliate their sense of self, their capacity for pain, their ability to relate to noncombatants, even their fellow combatants. the first victim of the yeerk empire was the yeerks themselves.
(via featherquillpen)
Vodka Tia Moran