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[lazylittledragon]

so uhhhhhhhh. not to be cryptic and bitchy on main but congratulations to everyone in my messages for like 5 months on being right i guess

[english-history-trip]

Some of the beautiful illustrations by S.D. Schindler from Brother Hugo and the Bear by Katy Beebe.

The book is based on two real medieval figures: Hugo, a scribe who added a self-portrait (pictured above) to the end of his copy of Jerome's Commentaries on Isaiah, and a bear who appears in a letter from the abbot of Cluny Abbey to a neighboring abbot asking to borrow a copy of The Letters of St. Augustine, "for a large part of ours has been accidentally eaten by a bear."

[who-always-pays-their-taxes]

And I think it’s so funny how it’s a known fact that the Robin costume is inspired by Dick’s past as a trapeze artist but every modern iteration will show the Flying Graysons outfit and it won’t resemble the Robin outfit at all (more often than not, giving Dick much more coverage than the original Robin outfit) and while yes it’s obviously DC changing things up and being silly,,, it does prompt the idea that when Bruce was like “uh no u can’t wear underwear to fight crime” Dick immediately said “but im an orphan” and lied because he liked the fit

[andaniellight]

Ethan's absolute hatred and disgust towards AI that can mimic and duplicate human mannerism because the Entity tricked and almost lured him to his demise by using Benji's voice, someone he'd trust and trail after blindly to the end of the world

VS

Ethan having to stop every now and then as he goes on with his days because he's so used to being reminded by Luther about things he'd often forget, little things that'd slipped from his mind as his head injuries and age finally catch up with him, slowly realizing that perhaps one day, although he did promise that he'll continue living while dragging Benji along with him no matter what, now isn't so sure if he wants to actually live long enough to forget the sound of his old friends voice

[miraofhearts2point0]

EKKO IS TALKING ABOHT JINX (TO JINX) AND SHES LEAVING POWDER BEHIND BUT ALSO ACCEPTING THAT PART OF HERSELF.

AMANDA OVERTON TOLD US THAT S2 WOULD BE ABOUT ACCEPTANCE SO JINX IS ACCEPTING POWDER AS HERSELF AS SEEN FROM GETTING RID OF THE "X" ON HER OUTFIT.

SHE GREW OUT HER HAIR BC SHES LATCHING ONTO POWDER AND IN CUTTING IT SHES LETTING GO. SHES ACCEPTING WHAT HAPPENED AND WHO SHE IS AS BOTH POWDER AND JINX.

[vanglaggle]

throws them at you like a grenade . kyle is like nervous at all times and strudel is chill at all times so they kinda balance out

nervous about going shirtless at da beach ... (strudel calms him down afterwards)

[fatehbaz]

weekly navel-gazing update: this week is most consequential event in long time. keyword search: "scared" "is it ok to be scared" "beaten and tortured by the ogre"

[longroadtome]

Helly R truly had the worst thirty minutes of any innie ever. Just imagine, you finally kiss your crush knowing you might never see him again, then you come to outside of work, realize you’re an Eagan, realize you’re being used as a fucking prop to promote this thing that’s been done to you that you fucking hate, start giving a speech about how everything is awful for you, get cut off. Wake up again, you’re fucking freezing, and wet, and outside, Irving is cradling you to his chest and was obviously the one holding you underwater, nobody is telling you what’s going on. Milchick sends Irving away and essentially kills him. Presumably you pretty quickly get put back under. You wake up in the elevator. There’s a thirteen year old there

[nellasbookplanet]

Mentioning Tusk Love and the potential of other independent stories set in Exandria reminded me of an old discord conversation about how they could Fix the courting of the crick for publishing (seeing as it's canonically a Bad Book due to being super dry and also racist towards drow) without breaking canon:

Rename it 'The Courting of the Kryn - a Reimagining of the Classic Story, by Jester Lavorre'

Present it as an in-universe fanfic-ish rewrite. There's a foreword where 'Jester' elaborates on the inaccuracies of the original, the impact the story had on her, and the importance of Dynasty-Empire relations. There's an acknowledgement section where she thanks Caleb and Beau as 'consultants on Empire culture', as well as an unnamed/under fake name/clearly Essek as an 'expert on the Luxon, dunamancy and Dynasty culture'. All his information on spy networks is eerily accurate and has his former co-workers scrambling. (He makes her keep all the dry historical accounts, but now it's accurate (with added dick-related puns)). She mentions that she reached out to the Bright Queen who reluctantly (after 5 messages in a row) gave some pointers. In her frantic research she possibly made some breakthroughs on the nature on the Luxon that has Essek reeling (there's a 'further reading' section where she lists the academic paper he wrote building on her discoveries and an entire list of the sources her consultants used).

For extra fun and meta-ness, include footnotes where she comments on things she changed/removed from the original and why, how various scenes may have been inspired by a real life couple or events, etc. Some of the footnotes are written by her consultants. Caleb and Essek get into arguments on dunamancy theory which is actually thinly veiled flirting. There's anatomically accurate drow sex (it's unclear whether the consultant was Essek or Caleb or possibly a certain brother, who was also consulted on Dynasty military practices).

[gaspexclamationpoint]

Marble hornets x Slendermansion AU but instead of Hoodie and Masky being proxies they also live in a small cabin in the same woods and are constantly trying to sabotage the creeps plans. Hoodie learns Jeff is supposed to kill some random family and follows him there to purposely set the home security system off and Masky jumps out of the closet and tackles Jeff. They all run away to their own homes afterwards when the cops are called. The Operator/Slenderman could put a stop to it if he so pleased, but finds the shenanigans amusing.

[b1adie]

yanqing should taste and rate different kinds of cheese and crackers

yanqing: ok this is brie on a garlic parmesan crisp. (hompf) wow, pretty good! Not as good as swords however, which i like & enjoy very much,

(yunli fuming in the middle of typing a comment abt how he doesnt deserve his swords bc he cares abt cheese and crackers more than them but then he says that before she can hit send)

[ihatebrainstorm]

[Layers..?]

Minimus and Ravage read "Warrior" "Layers" together

I made this so long ago that I forgot the reasoning behind it whoops

[utterlyazriel]

i was talking not long ago to @djarinova about how if i were to write a mando series what would it be about and then i rewatched tangled (2010) and then i braindumped and said it would go a little like....

you’re a quarry. not even a particularly unique quarry — you’re the wife of some lord, maybe he’s empire, maybe he’s not, but one thing is for sure; he’s got credits.

enough to lure in even the mandalorian who usually despises a hunt so pitiful as tracking down some spoiled wife who’s grown bored of her rich husband and decided to escape away with her affair.

he’s done this song and dance a thousand times, each wife dramatic in the way they complain of how their rich lord husband doesn’t love them, but din knows life is about choices & living with them — stars forbid the worst choice these women make are marrying a heartless man for his coin. he has little sympathy.

you are different from the get-go, first being that you’re alone. in the days he tails you, it’s clear you have no one watching your back, no other partner in the picture that you’re running off to elope with.

he’s been given strict instructions to bring you in alive, as usual when retrieving pesky wives, but you fight like you’ve truly got nothing to lose, managing to make your fingernails bleed with how you fight him.

he wins easily. and then you’re silent as you’re lugged back to the ship, not complaining, not moaning and groaning but just quiet, your eyes taking in everything around you as if it’s the last time you’ll see it.

it’s only as you’re settled down in the ship, bound hands between your knees that you speak — “i can get you three times your reward.”

and just as he’s beginning to think you’re different, like clockwork the bargaining begins.

“you’re not in any position to negotiate.”

you shake your head as though he misunderstands, “no, i don’t— you can still complete your bounty. but if you-” you inhale catches, as you choose your words carefully, “if you delay it, pretend i was harder to find than in actuality, i can make sure he pays you handsomely."

and that gets din’s attention, his body language betraying nothing, his helmet tilting to the side just an inch. “what’s in it for you?”

you laugh mirthlessly as you stare at your bound hands, aware of how ironic what you’re about to say is. “a few more weeks of freedom.”

this, din doesn’t buy. you married this man by your own choice— he knows because he did his research. he’s not in the business of tracking down slave brides or anything of the like. your marriage is completely legitimate.

he says as much, not sure why he’s even giving this conversation time of day— he should be taking off right now, setting course for your home planet, back into the arms of your waiting husband.

yet, he says, “you had your freedom. you chose this marriage.”

you deflate at his words and somehow din doesn’t feel like he’s won the conversation at all. he turns, prepared to head for the cockpit when you speak once more, “i didn’t know.” din stops. he doesn’t turn, doesn’t even tilt his head but that’s enough for you to keep talking, “i— he knew my father, they were friends. i knew him as a child and he used to teach me writing when he came to the house.” something heavy sinks into the bottom of din’s stomach at your words, somehow knowing where this is heading. surely, your father wouldn’t have allowed it.

but din’s seen the galaxy’s worst and knows very well that he would’ve. “i didn’t know what i was signing, i didn’t even know i was signing anything,” you say, voice tight. “just two weeks, please, it’s all i ask.”

it had already taken a week to find you. three weeks to track a bounty with no ability to fight would tarnish his reputation no doubt. but… he believed you.

“i can give you a week,” he says and doesn’t wait to hear your thank you, trudging up to the cockpit, wondering what the fuck he was going to do with an extra passenger for a week.

then you have a classic star wars montage — din decides his best course is to keep visiting new planets as if he’s hunting and you’re more than happy about that.

it takes a bit of back and forth before you convince him you do need your hands free to feed yourself — unless he wants to?— and he snaps the cuffs off you with a curt reminder that there’s nowhere you can hide from him. the threat doesn’t land because you’re too struck by the new planet, a landscape you’ve never seen before.

you tag along to the market and despite coming from a wealthy family, it’s as though you’ve never been outside before. you touch everything, fingers feeling every fabric and texture, and din has to step in when a vendor gets too angry at your lingering, pleasantly surprised when you snip back in the local language.

as you wander, din can’t keep his curiosity tamped down, asking how you learnt the language when you clearly haven’t travelled much— and you respond that, despite its glamorous appearance, there’s little to do as a lords wife and you’ve spent your years in the library, practising different dialects.

“su cuy’gar,” (hello) you say, turning back to him with a smile and din literally stumbles in surprise, hearing the mando’a roll off your tongue. he can’t think of a response so he just strolls past you silently, heading back for the ship.

you think you’ve upset him, maybe offended his culture, but as you walk half a step behind him, he holds out an offering of food, clearly only for you, given the helmet situation. he doesn’t put the cuffs back on you when you get back to the crest.

it’s only a week but it feels like a lifetime — for the both of you. you get to drink in every type of planet, frozen ones, scorched ones, ones bursting with plants and ones crawling with lava.

after the third one, maybe you imagine it but you can’t help but feel like din’s adjusting his choices, sticking to the leafy planets with hot springs to swim in and fruits galore to gorge on. his initial condition of only giving you strict rations is broken quickly and you wonder if he’s letting himself be selfish, indulging in things he normally wouldn’t just for your sake.

when you travel, you stick close for the sake of safety and the two of you murmur in manda’o when you need to be discrete and only once do you save his ass, stepping in front of a flung blade that buries into your thigh. he scolds you vehemently as he patches it up and you let him, too shocked that he’s insisting on doing it despite your two free hands.

he saves your ass ten times over, always managing to pull you back from heated discussions and bar brawls, din having an instinct that you’re barely beginning to form on your own and maker, you had no idea people killed each other this much out in the world.

you insist on cleaning a nasty gash on his arm, almost tucked beneath his pauldron and you never, never even ask about seeing his face.

even though you wish it never would, the week still ends.

“home time,” you say, trying to keep the glumness out of your tone. you have no intention of stalling or guilting the mandalorian who kept his side of the deal. your month on the run was only ever going to be a brief reprieve from the reality of your life.

the mandalorian gets quiet in your last day and as he sets the coordinates to your home planet, he doesn’t say a word. he’s suddenly the same mandalorian who hunted you down a week ago again, steely and cold as his armour.

the flight is short and in a manner of hours, you’re walking down the ramp back into the mouth of your home that begs to swallow you whole.

you keep your end of the deal, conjuring up some story of how the reason it took so long was you were hours away from being sold off into some of the human markets and mando is the reason you weren’t.

“he deserves handsome reward”, you whisper, almost embarrassed by the role you play with your husband now that it’s being observed by the ever silent mandalorian, his visor unmoving. “don’t punish him for my foolish decisions, my lord.”

your husband, thankfully, falls into your words easily and agrees to the high payment, triple what had been promised. you ask only to thank the mandalorian who saved you life as you leave, stepping closer and murmuring

“vor entye, mando,” (thank you) your eyes on his dark visor, for once, wishing you could see beneath it. he doesn’t say anything and you think that’ll will be all, the final words of the best week of your life forgotten from hours ago.

then…

“din.”

you halt, unsure of what it is he’s said.

“my name is din.”

you take the last gift from the world, the name of your hunter who showed you mercy, and watch the crest rise and leave the skies — certain you’ll be content with the memories of the week.

it’s not contentness that finds you though; it’s torture, knowing what’s outside, right out of your reach.

you don’t slide back into your old life at all, you’ve outgrown your mould and discomfort prickles at every severance of your autonomy.

your husband increases the guards around you ten-fold, til you don’t have a single moment alone. you reside in the library and leaf through the books on mandalore, finding more comfort in them than you ever had before.

it’s a quiet evening and you’re absentmindedly drawing circles on the page before you, dreading the upcoming banquet with your husband when you hear a fizzle outside, quickly following by a rapid succession of hits.

a thud hits the ground and you scramble to your feet, knowing with a sinking feeling that it’s your guards, not the intruder, who’s taken the fall.

you hit one of the bookcases as you back up and turn, hiding behind it as the door opens— and you recognise the glint of armour in a moment. it’s second nature to step forward, towards him.

his visor catches the motion and he goes rigid. for a moment, you both just stare at each other, barely processing that he’s come back.

he came back, for you.

“do you want to stay here?” he asks, modulator not hiding the strain in his voice. its not from lack of breath though.

“no,” you answer truthfully, taking another step forward.

“do you want to leave?” he says. “with me?”

you’re nodding before he’s finished his sentence. “yes.”

and then you’re following him through the halls, sticking close like you learnt to do, your heart thumping din, din, din, because never in your life has someone done this—come back and made it your choice.

you manage to make it out the boundaries of the property, your heart rising in your chest at the sight of the razor chest over the ridge when something catches around din’s knee and he crumples with a grunt.

you stop in an instant, dropping to your knees and hands fluttering as you try to tug him to his feet, horror twisting in your stomach at the sight of the arrow through the back of his knee, between his shields of armour—

“din— din, you have to get up,” you say, voice wobbling.

you don’t even get a chance to hear his reply, arms circling you and tugging you back, the guards of your husband having caught back up. and then you’re fighting, twisting in the ridiculous gown you’re in, yowling and scratching in that way that din has only heard once before, the day he found you himself.

as din himself is hauled sluggishly to his feet, it’s with the realisation that something coats the arrow still in his flesh, some poison that’s weaving into his blood.

he’s hauled to his feet and dragged back with you, forced to endure the torture of your cries, the endless no’s that leave your lips. it’s only as he drags his helmeted head up, eyes begging to see you, does he realise your cries are not for yourself— you’re still fighting, not tugging away from your captors, you’re tugging towards him.

you’re both brought before your husband, forced to your knees as he glares down at you, fury engraved upon his face.

“the very man i pay to return my wife is the next to steal her from me?”

the lie surges up within you easily. “no! no, it was a plan of my design. i… i tempted him with credits to help me escape.”

and if din wasn’t already captivated by you before, the very notions of your words that shield him, even when he brought you back to this monster— his heart stirs in his chest.

and what’s worse is that it works.

your husband turns his wicked anger and focuses it on you, stalking forward with a promise of vengeance— “escape? you cannot escape from what you have chosen. what you signed, what you promised to me.”

din seethes beneath his helmet, watching how you shudder and bow beneath the words, til you’re only a shadow of the self he saw in that one week. “yes. you’re right. i should have known better.”

din surges forward with a new wave of strength, blatantly ignoring the awful singing of the wound in his leg— the poison is weighing him down but it’s not enough to dull his senses.

he headbutts the guard behind him, holding his shoulders and takes out the three surrounding him in quick succession— but a sharp ping against his shoulder, a blaster shot, sends him to the ground again with a loud groan. you know instantly what poison coats the arrow in his leg, what you’ve watched killed a hundred trespassers over the years.

“stop it!” you plead, stepping forward to try to reach him, your movements futile as your husband’s hand snares in your hair, ripping you backward.

“stop,” he snarls. “trying to get away from me,”

“no!” you cry, twisting and clawing at his arm, gleeful when he shouts and releases his tight hold. you drop square on your ass and scramble back, putting yourself between the barrel of your husbands blaster and your mandalorian.

“i won’t stop. i will never stop trying to get away from you for every minute of every day, for the rest of my life,” you pant. your husbands face grows more gnarled with every word but all you can hear is the faint breath of din behind you, growing weaker with every breath.

“but,” you begin.

“no,” din’s voice comes from behind you, reedy and weaker than you’ve ever heard it.

“if you let me give him the antidote,” you voice trembles. you’re running out of time. “i will stay with you. i will never try to leave, never try to escape—”

“no,” din says again, barely a pained murmur. you continue on, chest heaving as you stare down your husband. “i will be your wife, just like you want, i promise. just let me heal him.”

the blaster wavers before your face and you hold your breath, waiting judgement before finally it’s lowered an inch— your husbands hand sneaking into his pocket to steal a vial of the antidote. he tosses it into the sand before you with a sneer and turns his attention to his remaining guards. “cuff him.”

you’re snatching up the vial before he’s even finishing speaking, turning with a speed that makes your hands blurry. you scramble to din’s weakening form, hands fussing as you realise you need to find some bare skin to puncture.

apologies garble out your mouth as you yank up the flight suit on his arm, putting the vial between your teeth to pop off the end, revealing the needle. you can hear how laboured din’s breathing is even though his modulator and you hurriedly line the needle up, preparing to push— when his arm sways back, away from the needle.

“no,” he says once more, breathless. “not… for your freedom.”

you make a noise that might be a sob, grabbing his arm and pulling it forward, shaking your head.

“i’m not worth dying for.” you counter, voice trembling, and you jab it into his arm before he can argue, a pained groan threaded through his modulator as the antidote spreads rapidly.

your chest heaves, the finality of what you’ve done sinking in, especially as the guards step forward, cuffs out and ready. your husband drawls your name, casual and snide, as though he hasn’t just terrorised you and nearly killed your closest attempt to a saviour.

“goodbye, din,” you whisper softly, you lean back, drawing a deep breath, prepared to relent, to submit— when din’s gloved hand reaches out, catching your arm with an alarmingly strong grip.

you barely get a moment of confusion before he’s murmuring, “get down,” and cocking his wrist, something blue lighting up.

you fold in an instant, trusting him completely, and din’s hand tugs you forward so you’re upon him, his hand shifting up to cup back of your neck. something whistling dangerously close to your ear and you screw your eyes closed, hearing several yells and thuds.

din’s body rolls, tucking you beneath him as the loud shot of a blaster goes off, burying in the dirt beside your head. another follows it and there’s another thud, a crumpled body hitting the ground.

the silence rings out, deafening in the rush of your emotions and the ebbing sounds of the fight. your eyes spring open and you stare up at the dark visor in disbelief, unable to grasp the hope rising in your chest. is he alive? are you alive? is… this real? are you free?

“breathe, mesh’la,” din commands softly.

you realise you’re holding your breath and you deflate as it rushes out of you — then din’s shifting back, groaning as he lowers himself to the ground. you realise there’s blood beneath you and you follow it in a panic to his leg, still leaking blood around the arrow wound.

“your leg—“

din waves you off, already pushing to his knees with a woozy balance. “i’ll deal with it at the ship. c’mon.”

he stands like it’s no big deal to have an arrowhead still stored in his flesh and you rush to your feet, only just then looking around at the bodies littered at your feet. a dozen guards or so and… your husband.

he isn’t moving but something sudden seizes at your throat and you reach out to grab din’s blaster, unloading several shots into your husbands body for good.

din’s gaze is on you when you stop pulling the trigger and for a moment, you wonder what he’ll think, then he nods, a minuscule motion, and holds out his hand for the blaster.

you hand it over and he holsters it, hand hovering for a moment as he assesses the distance between here and the ship. you take the pause and gently reach for his arm, slipping beneath it to take some of his weight, hearing the surprised inhale from under his helmet. together,

the two of your straggle back to the crest, trailing blood but lighter with the knowledge you never have to return — that your mandalorian trusts you enough to patch his leg up and then asks you, gruff and low, where it is you want to go next.

your choice.

[pixelshiftexe]

In a modern universe, Cersei Lannister would get sent to one of those fancy private rehabs/psych hospitals (she doesn't want to go but Jaime booked her in after her latest breakdown and convinces her that actually it's super trendy these days for rich white women to go on "mental health retreats") and immediately tries to convince her psych team that she's totally fine and actually doesn't need to be here only to promptly be diagnosed with Bipolar and put on an ungodly amount of Seroquel.

Every single meeting she's forced to attend, she sits in her chair huffing up a storm while everyone else speaks, and when it's her turn goes on a fifteen minute rant alternating between insisting that everything wrong with her isn't actually her fault, insulting everyone else at the meeting because can't BELIEVE people actually fall for this psychobabble therapy nonsense, and sobbing uncontrollably over how her life has turned out.

After she's done she goes back to ignoring everyone.

Would absolutely look down on the people in there for narcotic addictions despite the fact that she's spent roughly the equivalent of the GDP of a small country on cocaine over the years.

Also freely admits to her therapist to having had an incestuous relationship with Jaime during childhood and adolescence but insists it doesn't matter anymore because they "grew out of it" after Jaime went to military school and she realised it would've been social suicide for her modelling career if anyone got photos of them together while she was dating various other celebrity guys, and remains completely oblivious to the ongoing emotional incest and codependency that's running through her entire family.

She emphatically insists that the only problem with Tywin's parenting was that he didn't send Tyrion away at birth and that he got Jaime a spot at Harvard Business School even though he didn't actually WANT to go and SHE did.

If this sounds like I'm bashing her, I promise I'm not. These are simply things I know to be true.

[lunar-wandering]

saw people suggesting to get off tumblr for a day/leave tumblr to make them not roll out the collapsing reblog chain, and im just gonna say this now, but like...that's not gonna work.

people did actually leave, back when the Ban happened, as a form of protest. very obviously did not work.

y'know what did work?? everybody reblogging staff's post, or making their own posts LOUDLY protesting the "swap to an algorithm", which made staff literally have to make a post to tell us that no, they're not doing that, actually.

they heard us then, why would they not hear us if we did the same thing now???

just post about it. get it trending. message them through the tumblr support box. THAT is the only thing that could possibly work in this scenario.