Anonymous asked: what is your thesis about that youre blogging about baron von steuben and america's first pantsless party with flaming shots???? and tagging your history information???????? inquiring minds need to know!!!

Ha, okay, sorry buddy, the thesis I just finished was about the history of battlefield medicine, and you can find both my thesis updates and stuff about medical history under the tag ‘only mostly dead’!  The pantless party thing is unrelated, I’m just a fucking nerd about the American Revolution and am practically brimming over with inane facts about the time period.  

On a related note, no one ever asks me for historical era Hamilton fic but my historical era Hamilton fic is, A, MY FAVORITE THING, and, B, obsessively researched.

Anonymous asked: *gasp* i logged on to find more of the aios au this is //wonderful// thank you

THANK YOU VERY MUCH I CAN’T BELIEVE PEOPLE ARE STILL READING THAT AFTER MY SIX MONTHS OF LIVING AT THE BOTTOM OF A HOLE.

FOR THOSE OF YOU WHO ARE INTERESTED

Anonymous asked: Natasha Romanoff B and D

I’m gonna do them all, I’m sorry, I am.  For this ask meme.

A: what I think realistically

Natasha didn’t just wake up one day clean and free to wander into the arms of SHIELD.  She doesn’t have the scar from it anymore–it was a long time ago, and a woman in her line of work has to get some laser treatments–but Clint shot her through the shoulder when he caught up with her, and it was her response that saved her life.

He couldn’t kill someone who stared him in the eye and said, plain as day, “Go ahead and do it then.  Save all those people from me.”  Pause.  Bitter laugh.  “Save me from me.”

Natasha beat him to a bloody pulp the first time they sparred, for disobeying.

B: what I think is fucking hilarious

Natasha, most of the Avengers believe at first, is effortlessly classy, humorless, and overall terrifying.

They are wildly unprepared for Natasha’s prankster streak–through a combination of dizzying logic and sweet-talking, she gets JARVIS on her side and convinces him to kill all the systems in the Avengers Tower.  While Tony is hammering away at his keyboard, trying to find the problem, JARVIS asks, totally deadpan, “Would you like to play a game?”  Tony shrieks.  Natasha gets it all on camera.

They are likewise unprepared for the first time Natasha and Clint actually stay there for an extended period of time, which includes Natasha, dressed in a shirt she stole from Clint and comfy leggings, sitting crosslegged on the floor and eating cereal at 2 AM while watching old Burn Notice reruns and critiquing the spy shenanigans out loud, regardless of who’s in the room.

It doesn’t come as a shock to them when Natasha goes through an entire week of addressing Clint by increasingly elaborately incorrect codenames.  At first it’s “Duck-guy” or “Crow-man” or “Goose-face,” but by day six she’s calling for “Ruby Throated Hummingbird” over the comms.  He walks into the debrief and sits down next to her and goes “Hey, Tarantula” and genuinely fears for his life for the next forty-eight hours.

C: what is heart-crushing and awful but fun to inflict on friends

The Red Room recruiting nine or ten year olds?  Nah.  Natasha–Natalia–neither of those then, but Natasha-Natalia-Anja-Laurel-Cara-Kristen-Hana-Jessamine and a hundred other bloodstained girls all the same–was four years old when her family’s home burned to the ground.  She killed for the first time at five.  She was pitted against another child, then, and a knife was put in the room, and whoever lived, left.  She went on a mission for the first time at fourteen.  Failed.  Accidentally killed the target before extracting information.  Punished.  Another mission a year later.  Perfection.  

First wiped at sixteen.

Natasha believes she was wiped perhaps twelve times–not after every mission, like the teacher she barely remembers (blue eyes and hard jaw and numbness–Yakov? she doesn’t know), but often enough to keep her controlled.  Her last mission, before she was brought into SHIELD, was supposed to be a routine recon to a hospital in Sao Paolo which was thought to be funneling drugs.  A children’s hospital.  Competition for a major contributor to the Red Room.

It was far worse.  Natasha-Natalia-Mila couldn’t leave those children–some of them barely alive anymore, some of them twisted by experiments into…desperate things–to their fate.  She knew about desperate things.  She made sure they all died cleanly before she burned the building to the ground.

D: what would never work with canon but the canon is shit so I believe it anyway

Natasha is in love with Clint Barton, her hypercompetent loser of a partner who lives in Bed-Stuy with a dog and his…trainee?  Sidekick?  Mini-me?  Don’t bring no AOU nonsense into my house.

In all seriousness, comic ‘canon’ is such a moving target that you can justify almost anything, and I basically abandon MCU canon whenever it suits me.  That being said, heADCANON THAT NATASHA BELIEVES SHE’S A MONSTER BECAUSE SHE FUCKING MURDERED A LOT OF PEOPLE AND NOT BECAUSE SHE’S INFERTILE WHAT THE F U C K.

Nope, nope, I swear to Christ, I’m going to come up with something that’s not about AOU, I am, I promise, oh my god, um.

Natasha and Vision are good buddies because Natasha had to fumble her way through how to have Genuine Human Emotions a little bit at first (not how to have them, just how to…deal?) and is happy to explain to Vision when he’s confused.

Anonymous asked: Can you do John Wick for that headcanon post you reblogged?

You’re darn right I can do John Wick!  For THIS meme!

A: what I think realistically

John didn’t get into trouble as a kid.  John was a well-behaved student, known for being intelligent and quiet and unremarkable.  John never got into fights and no one ever questioned where he got bruises, because no one ever noticed.  When John left high school, he joined the military and did a four year tour with very little action.  And then he fell off the fucking map.  He still has living family.  They believe he’s dead.

B: what I think is fucking hilarious

John definitely calls in, like, life debts to get people to watch his dog while Shit’s Going Down.

“I need a favor.”

“John,” the smiling English assassin says, “after that time in Bulgaria you know you only need to ask.”

“I need you to watch my dog.”

There’s a long pause, but the assassin’s smile doesn’t crack.  “Does he have a name?”

“…no.”

“Okay.”  John is a weird dude, even as assassins go.  The English assassin rolls with it like a champ.

C: what is heart-crushing and awful but fun to inflict on friends

For the record, I don’t have any friends who have seen John Wick except for the people who have asked me about it on here.  

That being said: John hasn’t been to visit his wife’s grave since he buried her.  At first it was because he physically couldn’t make himself do it.  Those first weeks were such a grey haze of…weight, more than anything else–even the air seemed too heavy to breathe–that he couldn’t leave the house.  Even with Daisy, it was all he could do to get up and take care of her.  Going to the cemetery…no way.

And then once Daisy was dead…John was busy.  John was fighting.  John was killing.  John had a purpose and damned if he was going to turn away from it.  

He was planning to go see his wife’s tombstone the morning after he got home.  Instead his house gets blown up and he loses everything of hers that he still owned.

D: what would never work in canon but the canon is shit so I believe it anyway

You’ll never tell me that John’s wife wasn’t a world-class thief.  Like, she is to the thief world what John is to the assassin world.  They called her the Wraith, and her Interpol file is almost as thick as his, but instead of being a trail of mercilessly efficient kills it’s a laundry list of precious paintings and jewels and artifacts stolen from uncrackable safes and impenetrable museums.

They met while she was stealing a Picasso from one of John’s targets.  A classic story: girl meets boy, boy murders target, girl takes painting, girl breaks into boy’s safehouse with champagne.  “To celebrate our mutual successes,” she says, and John is gone.

Instead of making a deal with the Devil, she stole the most cherished statue owned by a leading member of her own High Council, and ransomed her freedom back with it.  She would have been free for all her natural life–and, John supposes, she was.

It’s just they both expected her natural life to be a lot longer, is all.

Anonymous asked: I told my dad that I'm nonbinary and now he won't stop saying shit like"I raised you better than this"and"where's my little girl gone"and"you were supposed to be the normal child" (i was adopted because my parents wanted a successful child and my sister has asbergers and my brother has a reading disability and a stutter) and he keeps making comments about God when he has been divorced twice and I dont even believe and I don't know what to do and this has been going on for months and I'm so tired

Oh, honey, I’m so sorry.  I wish there was something I could do to fix the situation for you–there’s nothing more insidious than people who are supposed to care unconditionally telling you that you’re guilty of the crime of existing.  It sits in your heart and eats at you, like something living, more than any other cruelty I’m familiar with.  Combined with the idea that you’re supposed to be in some way ‘better’ than the people around you–more intelligent, more socially adept, more well-spoken, more normal, whatever–it’s toxic like nothing else.  I know that it probably feels like everything you do and everything you are is a personal failing of your willpower and your strength, right now, and I want you to take me seriously when I say it is not.  

It’s not.  You are not failing the test of being human because of your looks, because of your gender, because of who you love or what you enjoy, because of what you do or don’t believe.  No matter what kind of abuse the people who claim to care about you heap on your shoulders, they are wrong about this.  Your brother and your sister aren’t failures because their brains are wired up differently than the ‘norm’, and you’re not a failure because you’re nonbinary, or because of the way you present.

And because I know a thing or two about being the family failure while also being touted as the family genius, let me add: you’re not responsible for why your parents adopted you.  You aren’t beholden to their idea of a ‘successful’ child, and nor are you selfish or monstrous because your parents were arrogant enough to write your siblings off.  You are, ultimately, far more the person you choose to be than the person your parents make you, and your parents cannot force you to become like them.

And it’s hard to remember these things.  I’m not going to lie to you.  You said you were tired–oh, sweetheart, this globe-sprawling clan of people who have come out of terrible families, we’re all tired.  But we’re none of us failures because we’re tired.  We’re none of us weak, or broken, or monsters because we’re tired.  We’re alive, and goddamn, some days that is good enough.

It’s taken me years to settle on this, and trust me, there are a ton of days where I still struggle with it, but here is my one piece of advice I can offer you–and a weak and paltry thing it is, in the face of a situation like yours, but it’s all I have for you, my dear one.  The world is not an exam.  No one can give you a pass or a failure on this, no matter who you are or what you do or how your brain works or whatever.  You are succeeding by the mere fact of being alive.

Anonymous asked: i am here to ask about these legion john wick feelings. your timer begins now. do not disappoint.

Listen, I know they’re making a third one to close the trilogy and I’m pumped as fuck for it but that being said I’m going to be spectacularly disappointed if it doesn’t end with John as the manager of the Continental.

I have a lot of disjointed half-thoughts about this, but it basically sums up as: BUT THAT’S HOW STORIES WORK.  John breaks the ONLY LAW in the underworld when he kills someone on Continental ground, he renders himself an outlaw among this community of outlaws, and like.  Outlaws and kings are members of the same category, those who are not bound by the rules, IDK man I didn’t take a class about homo sacer but my roommate did and I absorbed a lot of it by exposure?  @lathori be proud of me.  Basically what I’m saying here is please make it a thing that, in the process of being a badass and saving his own life, John reveals that Manager Wednesday (I think his name is actually Winston but my feelings about American Gods have intersected with my feelings about John Wick and therefore he is Manager Wednesday, an inveterate con artist and liar who low-key has supernatural abilities and enjoys the Absolute Belief that his people have in his authority and power) is forging Krugerrands or whatever and takes over.  OR, arguably even better, Manager Wednesday either dies (good! kill everyone John cares about, I want to see him suffer, Keanu Reeves does a good Suffer) or just…retires.  Like, the only way to retire is if you just disappear and the only way to just disappear is if you have the power to make it happen.  

Or, arguably THE BEST, Manager Wednesday owes John an old favor for saving his life and just kind of promotes him.  I am JUST SAYING that it would be a really quality twist to have the end of the movie be a brief conversation between John and Manager Wednesday about how much John sacrificed to Get Out and how much he’s right back where he started, and then Manager Wednesday leaves and John watches him go and sighs and starts to stand…and stops.  There’s a Continental key card left on the table, with a single gold Krugerrand on top of it.  John takes it to the front desk and asks which room it gets him into, and he’s simply told “top floor”, and he takes the elevator up, battered and exhausted but alive and he’s going to find one more answer before he sleeps for a million years.  The elevator doors open and John (plus his dog, kept safe by friends who Did This For John when he asked) walks to the only door in the antechamber, and opens it with the key card.  It’s Manager Wednesday’s penthouse suite, impeccably made up and cleared out of all personal possessions, and there’s a piece of stationary laid on the pillow under another Krugerrand.

John, the note says, no one ever really talks about what makes a manager, so I’ll tell you.  We’re the ones who can manage, no matter what goes wrong.  

I’ve cleared it with the others.  Welcome to your new life.

Anonymous asked: so uh this is gonna sound like a loaded question but i'm genuinely curious: how are you okay w the incest in borgias?

Um…you’re correct, that is a loaded question, and ultimately my answer boils down to ‘because I’m confident in my own ability to tell right from wrong in the real world’ but sure, we can do this.

First of all, I don’t have any personal issues centered around incest, which, like, I tend to think is the important part of this?  Obviously, if you’re uncomfortable with a relationship in a piece of media, please choose to take care of yourself and not engage with it.  Ex: I have the show Rick & Morty comprehensively blacklisted because I can’t deal with it.  I don’t have any of those issues with the Borgias so…thus, I watch it.

Second of all, it’s history.  Like, okay, I know this is a pretty fragile argument, but it’s pretty much accepted historical fact that there were some…interesting familial dynamics happening with the Borgia family, as with many of the powerful families in Italy at the time.  And I generally believe that if you’re doing a messy part of history, you need to deal with the fact that it was messy.  

Third of all, I just care a lot more about whether a fictional relationship is interesting than whether it’s the picture of mental health and moral purity.  Like, I’m sorry, I just do.  The Purity Olympics that this blue hellsite likes to get into exhaust me, I have unfollowed people for it when I got too tired of watching the discourse scroll down my dash.  I care infinitely more about how interesting and complicated the relationship and the emotions are.  Even the ships that are genuinely pretty good and harmless, I generally care about them in terms of complications.  Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley is my jam, but I would be WAY less interested if they weren’t both child generals in a war they were born into and victims of possession and traumatized and scared and courageous and forced to fight separately in order to win.  The very first thing I said about Diana/Steve Trevor was “why are we even here if he’s not torturing himself with guilt for staining the purest soul he’s ever known with war”.  I’ve always been someone who loves stories for their messiness, because it makes the characters and their relationships more interesting.  And by far the most interesting available permutation of Cesare Borgia and Lucrezia Borgia’s relationship is the one in the show, where they’re so bent and misshapen by the pressures and demands of their father’s nation-spanning chess game that the only way they really know how to love is with each other.

Fourth and finally, this is the kind of complicated morally graphite stuff I grew up on.  The five other people on the internet who’ve read the Kencyrath know what I’m talking about, but more than that, this is always the kind of story I’ve loved.  For all else that it is, Harry Potter is a story about a profoundly traumatized kid and the grim reality that sometimes there is no one else to fight except for you.  The Hero and the Crown is a story about how sometimes being good at something won’t change the fact that you’re not good at the right thing and you might have to beat that into people.  Jesus Christ, Animorphs brings up the question of whether or not it’s morally okay to commit a war crime.  A lot.  The characters commit war crimes.  A LOT.

Basically, I’m an adult with the ability to make my own decisions about right and wrong who enjoys grim and messy relationships because honestly life is grim and messy.  If you yourself, anon, are not comfortable with the incest in the Borgias, then you are more than welcome to not engage with it.

Anonymous asked: okay, favourite city in alleirat and what the street food is like there

Oh my god, let me talk to you about my very favorite Alleirat city: Dase, the city of stone, called by her own people and all those with sense the jewel of the east.

Perched on the easternmost coast of the Alleirai continent, Dase (pronounced dah-SEH) is the biggest city in terms of population if not physical size, and presides over the finest harbor in the world (the southern coast, with their sprawling river delta, politely begs to differ, but look, they’re wrong, okay, good talk).  Beyond her size, Dase’s claim to fame is her towering four-hundred-foot coastal cliffs, and the semispherical harbor the ancient citizenry excavated straight into the stone wall with a combination of magic, explosives, and sheer determination.  The harbor is massive, able to comfortably house even the tallest ship without scraping the mast along the ceiling and protect quite a number of vessels in the event of a storm.  The city itself was originally built almost entirely out of the excess stone removed from the harbor, and as further expansions have been executed under the eye of the city stone workers, the buildings have been expanded since then with the same material, either taken from expansions to the harbor or knocked off another part of the cliff.  Dase mostly gets expanded up rather than out, since it’s approximately a half-circle facing against the cliffs on one side and there’s a city wall hemming it in along the curve, but it’s still sizable, about three miles in radius.  It’s also the place where Crispin and Brenneth grew up and lived until things went badly–Brenneth used to own a smithy on the blacksmith’s row that’s still standing, and her old sword is mounted in the audience chamber of the gothkenla (like a city hall crossed with a citadel, literally ‘city center’).

Because I have no impulse control, here’s a brief excerpt of Brenneth and Crispin returning: 

“Welcome back to Dase, the jewel of the East,” Crispin said, switching fluidly back to Alleirai and raising his bound hands as if presenting me a gift.  I turned, and looked, and all my exasperation with Crispin drained away to be replaced by the sun-warm, dizzy ecstasy of being back.

Dase was less beautiful and more striking—all its beauty was in strong lines and hard angles, like the cliffs it commanded. It was tall, about three or four stories on average, and built almost entirely out of the hard silver-grey stone of the cliffs, with wide windows cut into the walls and the sun turning it into a labyrinth of brilliant light and impenetrably dark shadows.  The air smelled of salt at the cliff face, but the city wind itself could change on a dime, bringing the scent of the farmlands from the inland fields.   From our angle were the places where Kal Dase—Dase Below, the subcity of tunnels—could be accessed were invisible, but we could see where the stone was ragged enough to be scaled to the eaves of the roof level. Shadows moved, quick as starlings, overhead, thieves about their business in Lai Dase, Dase Above.  

…From above, the city would look like a ragged half-circle, butting right up against the edge of the cliffs with an absolute disregard for the potential drop on the other side.  At what would be the center of the circle, if it were complete, was the gothkenla, the city center—the citadel building where the gothed lived, received audiences, passed judgement, and completed all their other duties.  City-side of the kenla was a sprawl of empty space that spread all the way to the cliff, serving as the central marketplace and, occasionally, execution grounds.  The ten major streets radiated out from the city square, a nest of alleyways interconnecting them, and led all the way to the city limits. Every sector had its own markets, its own hierarchies and systems—the city in miniature, divided up by class.  The path to the cage, sardonically marked Drop Alley with a wooden sign, butted up against one of the major throughways, the one that ran immediately cliff-side. Unless they had moved everything around rather a lot, which I imagined would be a challenge, the kenla was about an hour walk from where we stood, depending on foot traffic.  

But so, as you might imagine, food in Dase tends toward fish for meat and depends on her protectorate lands for kestho (the main grain grown in Alleirat, a very hardy, adaptable plant that produces dense breads that taste sort of like…rye?) and other farm products.  The ten city sectors often have smaller markets to service day-to-day needs, with the large market outside the gothkenla being a once-or-twice-a-week thing for more variety, but that’s, like, raw cooking material.  

Since street food is generally stuff that can be acquired and cooked with a minimum of effort and expense on the vendor’s part, I’m guessing that smoked meats (maybe venison/other wild-hunted meats in seasons where they’re plentiful and therefore cheaper, chicken/beef if a vendor could get a good deal, most commonly fish) play a big part.  I’m kind of thinking of a kabob-like situation, with chunks of smoked meat served on a skewer with whatever suitable vegetables are in season.  Spices and seasoning would be easy, it’s a trade city and you can make spices last a long time if you know what you’re doing, so please assume that all of these are very flavorful.  

Straight-up fruit vendors are also a pretty common thing, especially in the richer parts of the city where the fruit is nicer and possibly imported (maybe from the west where apples do better, or the south where everything does great, or even the Outrigger Islands where more tropical stuff can be found).  Fruit vendors also do phenomenally well in the hostel district where there are always sailors who miss real fresh stuff and are willing to shell out of their wages accordingly.  Like, the fruit vendors in the hostel district charge more than they maybe ethically should but the sailors don’t care enough to try to change it.  

Oh, and bread stuff, that should fill out the basics.  Since kestho grain doesn’t easily grind down into really fine flour and tends to be very dense, fluffy pastries aren’t really a thing like they are here, but miniature loaves of bread (like, the size of two fists) with various things baked into them are a hit.  You can go with meat/veggies for savory or (often dried) fruits for sweet–they’re often baked as an easily transported ration, too, although not so elaborately.  Kestho loaves with meat and hot Island spices do a booming business on the training grounds and as a traveling ration for the city guard, because they’re quick and easy to eat with protein and carbs for energy and a good kick.  That specific combination is actually called a soldier’s meal, because they were the original kestho loaf cooked by soldiers during the ancient pre-unification wars.

I wrote this on a bus with no dinner in sight and now I’m ravenous and I could murder a soldier’s meal with like some strawberries after, Jesus this was a bad idea.

Anonymous asked: tell me... the most loopholey bit of alleirai law

You, my dear anon, are a gift and a godsend.

Right, so, the absolute MOST loopholey bit of law in Alleirat is based on the ongoing detente between the two criminal organizations in most major cities and the lathan, the city guards.  The way the major cities (there are four) and some of the smaller cities (to a lesser degree) operate is that there’s an undercity (Kal [city name], as in Kal Dase) in sewer tunnels or foundations and an overcity (Lai [city name], as in Lai Dase) on rooftops and abandoned balconies/etc.  There’s generally a boss of Kal and Lai sub-cities, with ‘Below’ criminals specializing in more rough-and-tumble crimes and ‘Above’ criminals having a more cat burgler rep.  Now, in order to prevent any gang-vs-law wars that might risk the Streets (the civilians between Kal and Lai), the lathan have a deal, and the deal goes something like this.

Any criminal from Above or Below is at jeopardy for the crimes they have committed for a given amount of time, and during that time capture by the lathan can result in trial and sentencing, which can range from labor to execution.  However, the lathan cannot trespass onto Kal or Lai subcities without a writ for the arrest of a criminal and proof of their identity.  If one of the lathan does enter the subcities without a writ, no crime committed against them in that location can be charged against any individual.  On the other hand, the latha cannot be charged for any actions they take in self-defense.

The balance is extremely delicate and largely predicated on the fact that Kal and Lai operate on a certain code of honor.  Other situations, like the ongoing bandit problem in the most rural areas and the White Touch, do not so much have that code, although the Touch has their own rules.

Anonymous asked: i just watched ww and. goddamn the look in steve's eyes as he closes the door behind him, because she is too good for him, he has blood on his hands, liar murderer smuggler, she is too pure and too perfect for his darkness to taint-- he heard what hippolyta said. they do not deserve her.

Listen, talk to me FOREVER about Steve’s guilt, about the way he dreams, that one night they spend together, that he wakes up and sees Diana’s perfect unmarred skin smudged with fresh wet blood, left there by his own stained hands.  About the way that he sees her run toward the man who lost his leg to a mortar shell and he feels something crack in his chest, his heart breaking at her horror.  About ‘what kind of weapon kills innocents’ and that ugly moment of silence where Steve wishes he could tell her something else, anything else, before he faces the truth and admits ‘in this war, every kind’.  About how it feels like killing something, when he looks away from the crying woman and looks back to Diana and says ‘this is not what we came here to do’, and how it feels like being reborn–bright and painful and awful and new–when he watches her charge No Man’s Land, alone and powerful and pure and divine.  About how Steve lost any belief he had in any god the world had to offer a long time ago, torn away in blood and mud and fire and the grey-green waves of gas, and having to acknowledge that he believes in her hurts, not because she doesn’t deserve it, but because she does, she is good and he is the one who will be remembered as bringing her down into this world from her paradise. 

About the way his hands shake and he feels his throat close as he struggles to tell her that they’re all to blame, even him, everyone is at fault because people are nor always good and she is innocent of this terrible thing, she is the only innocent left in this war, and it is because of him that she is losing that innocence one day at a time, and forget the war, forget the people Steve has killed and the crimes that he has committed and the things he has allowed to happen, this is the thing that he will never wash from his soul.  This is his greatest sin.  This is the worst thing he has ever done, taking Diana’s pure and honest faith in humanity and breaking it with his bare hands.

It makes all of this much worse, somehow, to know that she doesn’t blame him at all.