So, okay, fun fact. When I was a freshman in high school… let me preface by saying my dad sent me to a private school and, like a bad organ transplant, it didn’t take. I was miserable, the student body hated me, I hated them, it was awful.
Okay, so, freshman year, I’m deep in my “everything sucks and I’m stuck with these assholes” mentality. My English teacher was a notorious hard-ass, let’s call him Mr. Hargrove. He was the guy every student prayed they didn’t get. And, on top of ALL OF THE SHIT I WAS ALREADY DEALING WITH, I had him for English.
One of the laborious assignments he gave us was to keep a daily journal. Daily! Not monthly or weekly. Fucking daily. Handwritten. And we had to turn it in every quarter and he fucking graded us. He graded us on a fucking journal.
All of my classmates wrote shit like what they did that day or whatever. But, I did not. No, sir. I decided to give the ol’ middle finger to the assignment and do my own shit.
So, for my daily journal entries, over the course of an entire year, I wrote a serialized story about a horde of man-eating slugs that invaded a small mining town. It was graphic, it was ridiculous, it was an epic feat of rebellion.
And Mr. Hargrove loved it.
It wasn’t just the journal. Every assignment he gave us, I tried to shit all over it. Every reading assignment, everyone gushed about how good it was, but I always had a negative take. Every writing assignment, people wrote boring prose, but I wrote cheesy limericks or pulp horror stories.
Then, one day, he read one of my essays to the class as an example of good writing. When a fellow student asked who wrote it, he said, “Some pipsqueak.”
And that’s when I had a revelation. He wanted to fight. And since all the other students were trying to kiss his ass, I was his only challenger.
Mr. Hargrove and I went head-to-head on every assignment, every conversation, every fucking thing. And he ate it up. And so did I.
One day, he read us a column from the Washington Post and asked the class what was wrong with it. Everyone chimed in with their dumbass takes, but I was the one who landed on Mr. Hargrove’s complaint: The reporter had BRAZENLY added the suffix “ize” to a verb.
That night I wrote a jokey letter to the reporter calling him out on the offense in which I added “ize” to every single verb. I gave it to Mr. Hargrove, who by then had become a friendly adversary, for a chuckle and he SENT IT TO THE REPORTER.
And, people… The reporter wrote back. And he said I was an exceptional student. Mr. Hargrove and I had a giggle about that because we both knew I was just being an asshole, but he and the reporter acknowledged I had a point.
And that was it. That was the moment. Not THAT EXACT moment, but that year with Mr. Hargrove taught me I had a knack for writing. And that knack was based in saying “fuck you” to authority. (The irony that someone in a position of authority helped me realize that is not lost on me.)
So, I can say without qualification that Mr. Hargrove is the reason I am now a professional writer. Yes, I do it for a living. And most of my stuff takes authorities of one kind or another to task.
Mr. Hargrove showed me my dissent was valid, my rebellion was righteous, and that killer slugs could bring a city to its knees. Someone just needs to write it.
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.
I love this post but it always frustrated me just a little because I can’t even afford to buy new clothes let alone get the clothes I have tailored. But then I remembered that a lot of things are easier to do than you think they will be, so here’s some resources on how to alter your own clothes!
#one weird counterintuitive aspect of being asexual #is that im more open to kinky or weird shit #im not HAVING kinky or weird sex it's all theoretical
Hey @rosierugosa I hope it’s okay that I stole your tags because YES.
Because sexual desire is so weird and alien to me, personally, I find myself more accepting of weird and alien sex: I’m definitely not a monsterfucker in that I don’t wanna fuck the monster, but I fully accept and respect all monsterfucking because hey, sex in general -- straight, gay, or otherwise! -- is already so weird to me. Wanting to fuck Chad McDude down the street is just as strange to me as wanting to fuck the mothman. So my attitude is...go for it, I guess! Here’s a water bottle.
Same here, I'm not afraid to admit I've written a couple of filthy what if fanfics about the evil demon bad guy who totally is a giant dragon looking thing and the OC ninja chick totally getting it on that one time. That's kind of hot. Wouldn't it be weird if they fricked? Three times? Because he wants her soul for some blood ritual and enemies to lovers?
But yeah agreed. Sex is weird, I'm weird about it, whatever.
Do non-americans realize that the United States is literally just a bunch of countries in a trench coat that agreed to be semi-nice to each other in order to sneak into the Big Boy Club? Because let’s be honest that’s just what the USA is
The rest of the world: So… you’re a big country?
The states, standing on each other’s shoulders: Y- yes,,,
I love how everyone who’s reblogged this hasn’t added anything on or tagged anything on it. They’re all just like “Yeah. That’s it. That’s the entire United States summed up in one post-”
I moved to another state. 30 minutes away. My family acts like I betrayed them and can’t understand my life choices. It’s completely different way of life, especially during covid. Completely different country.
every single fucking time one of those articles of “things europeans find weird about america” complains that sales tax isn’t included
states set the sales tax!!! it’s literally different across state lines!!! american retailers can’t add it bc they’d have to account for 50 different prices!!!!!!!
It gets even more insane! California’s clean air standards for cars and other such things are so much higher than everyone else’s! So if a car manufacturer in Detroit wants to sell their damn cars in California, they need to build their cars to California clean air standards. But retooling an assembly line and car design to have some cars meet California clean air standards, while building others to other clean air standards is a lot of work, so car manufacturers all over the country have to build all their cars to California clean air standards.
Which is why California went into an uproar earlier this year when the Federal Government tried to argue that states can’t set their own environmental guidelines! “Fuck you!” says California, “we remember Los Angeles in the 80s, how bad the smog gets, go pollute your own damn air over in your own damn state where there isn’t a thermal inversion layer to trap all the smog down near ground level!”
“But you’re making it soooo haaaaaard to sell our cars everywhere else!” they whine.
“Fuck you!” California shouts. “And while we’re at it, we don’t give a shit what you say, Mister President, we’re gonna open our damn states when we’re good and ready, and our friends Nevada, Oregon, Colorado, and Washington State agree! Also, we’ve decided to legalize weed!”
“But the Federal Government says it’s illegal!” shouts the other states.
“Fuck you, we make the drug laws in our state, and we say toke up!”
“Now, hang on!” shouts the Federal government. “You can legalize weed in your state, but all banks are federal agencies, so if your weed dispensaries set up bank accounts, those accounts have money from illegal practices in it and are subject to seizure by the federal government!”
“FINE!” shouts California. “Hey, weed guys, you can keep selling weed, but you can only deal in cash!”
“How the fuck is that supposed to work!?”
“I DON’T FUCKING KNOW, TAKE IT UP WITH DC!”
“By the way, if you’re gay married elsewhere, we won’t recognize it,” mutters Texas.
*gestures at Florida*
Oh also, the reason Florida is “so weird” is only PARTIALLY because people who live here are bonkers – it’s also because Florida state laws around privacy do not include the details of arrests! So in other states, when you’re arrested, it can just show up in the registrar like “25 yo man arrested 04/30/20” but in Florida they can (and do) print the details of why they were arrested: “25 yo man arrested 4/30/20 for riding an alligator through town while naked and smoking weed.” I promises you the other states have PLENTY of weirdos, they just don’t get their dirty laundry gleefully aired in the local news.
I grew up in one state, my parents are in adjacent state now, and I live on other side of the country. My manager grew up in state also adjacent to state A so correctly associates me as being from state A and got really confused when I went to visit my parents.
hi! is there any chance of you writing a series/more snippets around the cinderella telling you posted a bit ago? i really loved it!
Continuing from this post.
---
The prince is sitting on the steps, his eyes aren't quite focused and he's turning over the glass slipper in his hands. What the hell was that? He's trying to place her face in his memory but everything’s just... fffft. Gone. Blank. He remembers what she said. But even the pitch is weird--it could be any voice.
“Your highness?”
The prince glances over his shoulder at the Captain of the Royal Guard.
“Oh--hey---” the prince blinks a few times.
“...awfully odd, that girl,” the Captain folds his arms.
“I--” the prince draws a breath in through his teeth, “ I need to find her.”
“Understood,” the captain of the guard nods, “I’ll send guard details on every road leading out of the palace.”
“What?! No--that’s insane! She’s going to think I’m--No, I can’t approve of that...” the Prince is pressing his fingertips to his forehead, his other hand still gripping the slipper.
“I gotcha,” the guard captain says with a wink, “’Don’t’ send horsemen after her.”
“Did you just--Brad--don’t--no. I said no. No winks. Don’t send any guards after her, I’ll look psychotic.”
“Eh. Little late for that.” Brad the guard captain shrugs.
“What?”
“Well she and her whole carriage slipped past security somehow, and she got into the ball without even being announced by the Master of Ceremonies. That’s a security risk. And she seemed suspiciously chummy with the waitstaff. And if she ditched the party in this much of a hurry, she might’ve taken state secrets or something. So, obviously, I sent the horsemen...” he checks his pocket watch, “3 minutes ago.”
The prince pales. “She just--she said she needed to get home before midnight. I think she has a messed-up family situation, if I make things worse for her...”
“Or maybe she needs to reach a drop off point for whatever she’s stolen.”
“You don’t know if anything’s missing!”
“Not yet, we don’t.”
“Brad!”
“It’s protocol.”
“Protocol!? I’m the goddamned crown prince! And you’re sending armed guards after the love of my life!”
Brad blinks at him, not really sure how to process that. “Uh...”
“Ig-ignore that. Don’t tell my dad I said that,” the prince pinches the bridge of his nose, “Brad I swear to god, don’t tell my dad I said that. I was panicking and--and--You know how weird he gets about this stuff.”
“Yeah--no--totally, your highness,” Brad looks out over the palace gardens, “Look, we can just say we wanted to make sure she got home safely.... when we catch up with her, I mean.”
“Send a messenger pigeon telling them to hang back from her actual house--but get her address--maybe I can find a way to--to explain things... figure out what’s going on...” He’s wrapped both hands around the shoe again.
“That hers?” Brad nods at the slipper.
“...yeah...”
“Love of your life, huh?”
“I dunno... she makes clothes for rats. She’s funny. I like her.”
“..Your Highness, did she slip anything into your drink?”
“No! She’s--look, if you talked to her, you’d know. She’s amazing.”
---
Several miles away a massive pumpkin hurtles forward in a stream of sparkles at roughly 25 miles an hour, smacks against the dirt road, once in a burst of sparkles, twice in a smaller burst of sparkles, then three times (no sparkles), and explodes, sending a girl in rags, a dog, and a handful of rats and lizards painfully bouncing across the dirt road in the woods, sticky shards of pumpkin shell tumbling along with them. Cinderella rolls to a stop and moans on the ground, curled protectively around her one remaining slipper.
“Woah!! Woah--woah! Coming in hot!” the fairy godmother zips in in a flash of sparkles, she looks around, “Everyone okay? No one dead?
Several of the lizards are already slinking into the bush, and the dog and rats are now gently nosing at Cinderella, still curled up, stringy bits of pumpkin and seeds hanging off of her, her eyes squeezed shut.
“Kiddo--” the Fairy godmother drops to one knee and touches her shoulder, “Anything broken?”
Cinderella opens one eye, then glances up, “Godmother?”
“You know you’re really not supposed to be moving at full speed when the spell comes undone...” the fairy godmother bites her thumbnail.
Cinderella just looks at the slipper in her hands. “...I lost one of the slippers,” she whimpers, “I’m sorry.”
“Look--don’t worry about that,” the fairy godmother picks a piece of pumpkin out of Cindy’s hair, “Do you have a concussion?”
“I... I don’t think so? How would I know?”
“Oh boy--Okay--You know what? We’re just gonna get a good look at you. we’re sitting up--sitting up--” the fairy godmother helps her to a seated-up position, “Okay--anything broken? Feeling dizzy at all?”
A spackling of dirt and pumpkin juice is sticking all over one side of Cinderella’s face, but she looks down at herself, “N-no--I’m a little bruised but--” she suddenly gags hard, “Oh god--” she slaps her free hand over her mouth and stumbles up to her feet, rushing over to the side of the road and bracing her free hand against a tree to puke.
“Oh shit concussion--” the fairy godmother rushes up next to her and holds her hair back as she keeps puking. The rats and dog trot over, almost as if to offer emotional support as well.
“It’s not--” Cinderella pukes again, “It’s not a con--” she pukes again. “I just--” she pukes again.
“...too much champagne?” the fairy godmother guesses.
“Oh GOD why did I eat so much?!” Cinderella manages before puking again, now entering that point of puking where you’re half-crying on reflex.
“...no champagne?” the Fairy godmother blinks. Cinderella pukes again. “Woof. Okay that is a lot.”
Cinderella is panting when she finally brings herself up to her full height again, her godmother withdrawing her hands from her hair. “I’m--” She gags and swallows thickly, “I’m good.” She sniffles a little.
“...your body’s not used to that kind of food if you’ve been living on porridge and table scraps, kid,”
Cinderella sniffles again. “Yeah--I just--It tasted so good and--”she scoffs, ripping off a piece of her skirt to wipe off her mouth and try and smear some of the pumpkin juice-dirt mixture off of her face, “It’s stupid but...” she sighs, “I think I was scared of them taking it away.”
“Kiddo--that’s not stupid. You’re not stupid. I should have been more responsible but I wanted you to have a good night and I was overcompensating for not getting to you sooner, and I ended up kicking you into the deep end and--” The fairy godmother catches herself at the sound of hoofbeats. “Oh shit--hide!”
Cinderella rushes into the road, scoops up her rats in her arms, and whistles to the dog to call him to her side. They all slip into the brush on the side of the road and crouch in the shadows, staying deathly silent as moonlit dapple grays rush past. They wait a minute or two, and another couple horses rush past, their hoofbeats carelessly knocking the pumpkin chunks in the road away. They wait in silence another two minutes.
“Welp. I guess it’s not a magical night unless you run from the cops at least once,” the Fairy Godmother shrugs.
“The prince...” Cinderella says under her breath.
“The prince--? As in the prince-prince?” the Fairy Godmother perks up.
“I didn’t know he was the prince! I can’t believe how stupid I was! I--” she runs a hand through her hair with distress, “He doesn’t look like his portrait! He doesn’t have a chin in his portrait! And--and now I’ve caused an international incident?? Or something??”
“Nah, he’s in your country, so it’s just a national incident,” the fairy godmother kicks away a broken bit of pumpkin, “Ooh! Did you slap him? Throw your drink on him?”
“What? No--He’s wonderful. He’s kind of shy but he like... tries to play it off, you know? And he’s such a good dancer--like, he made me look like I knew what I was doing, and I really didn’t-- And when he laughs he--” she notices the way her Fairy Godmother is beaming and the way the rats are gently nuzzling against her neck, occasionally picking pumpkin seeds out of her hair to nibble on. Even the dog is staring up at her with those big wet eyes. The night is almost over, she’s covered in rags and bits of pumpkin, and hope is dangerous again. She catches herself and forces a laugh, “I--um...We should get home.”
“Yeah, looks like the coast is clear,” says the Fairy Godmother.
They walk, briskly and silently at first. There don’t seem to be many other carriages on the road--they must be questioning the guests back at the ball.
“Why don’t you fly?” Cinderella asks.
“I told you, I used up a lot of juice on the dress and the carriage--and making the shoes---shoe--corporeal. I could fly to get myself back, but I don’t have enough juice to get you back. And someone’s gotta get you home safe.”
“Thank you,” Cindy smiles. She pauses. “You said something about... overcompensating, earlier?”
“I just.. wish I helped you sooner,” the fairy godmother fidgets with one of the catkins in her hair.
“...is there a reason why you didn’t?” Cinderella asks, but then she catches herself, “Sorry--I mean, I really am grateful for--”
The fairy godmother flails her hand with a, ‘don’t worry about that’ motion. “Well.. to be honest it took me a long time to... uh... be? Like don’t get me wrong, a hazel tree fed by the tears of a pure-hearted orphan? That’s good magic--that’s powerful magic. But tree magic is... slow. And once I was enough of a ‘me’ to able to see what was going on--I--I wanted to hurt them. The tree was to protect you, you know? So I used to do all the wicked fairy stuff--I’d turn their butter rancid and tie knots in their hair and turn into moths to eat their clothes--but that would just make them treat you worse and give you more work. And I couldn’t do that to you... not when it was your tears that made me. I asked some other fairies for help but and that’s how I got to godmother status but uh... there were some misunderstandings and technically I’m still on probation and--yeah--don’t worry about that--Anyway, after tonight I have to go back into the tree and” she makes a raspberry sound, “Recharge.” She sighs. “And I don’t know how long it’s going to take. I’ve never used this much magic before.”
“Should-should I cry on the tree more? Would that help?’ Cinderella asks a little blankly as they walk. Two of the rats are perched on either shoulder and she’s holding the third almost like an infant. The fourth is on her head, contentedly nibbling a pumpkin seed.
“Oh, no--kid, you can’t force it--Those tears came from grief--from a form of true love--if you did it just for me, that would be transactional and--it’s complicated. Tear magic is very specific.” the fairy godmother huffs a little, “Nah. The tree is strong enough on its own. But bless your heart. I mean you can cry on it if you need to. That’s what it’s there for--but be sure you’re doing it for you and for your mom, okay?”
The lights of Cinderella’s family estate are coming into view.
“Thank you,” Cinderella says again, still turning the glass slipper over in her hands, “This really was the best night of my life.”
“Even with the crash and the puking and the cops coming after us?”
“Mm-hmm.” Cinderella stoops and kisses her fairy godmother on the cheek.
“I knew I liked you,” The fairy godmother smiles, rubbing her cheek. “You hang in there, okay, kid? You’re gonna make it out of this. I just know it.” She gives Cindy a loving little punch on the arm.
“Nngh!” Cinderella’s hand goes over one of her bruises.
I have always been partial to stories which feature the removal of many layers of clothing as an important plot element. One of my favorite Scandinavian folktales is about a queen who, through some magical conception mishap, gives birth to twins. The younger twin is beautiful and normal in every way, but the older twin is just. Y’know. A big horrible snake with arms.
When the younger twin grows up and wants to get married, the lindworm returns and insists that he, as the elder prince, must be married first. When a massive horrible snake with arms lays down the law like that there isn’t really any room for disagreement, but it turns out to be awfully hard to find a bride willing to marry him. The king and queen search far and wide for a woman who will take a husband who is 50 feet long, doesn’t have legs, and may or may not eat his would-be wives when they are appalled by him, but eventually they find a local shepherd’s daughter who is either coerced, a monsterfucker, or just very open-minded and agrees to marry the lindworm.
Depending on the version, the bride either seeks out the advice of a witch or comes up with the idea all by herself, and goes to the bedchamber on her wedding night dressed in many layers of dresses. Her big horrible snake with arms husband is waiting for her and bids her to disrobe, but she asks him to shed a skin as well. Her sexy Russian nesting doll cosplay has so many layers that by the time she is naked, he has shed all of his skins and is 1.) either a sexy naked human dude underneath or 2.) is this meaty blob of helpless worm meat that must be whipped and bathed in chemicals before he transforms into a sexy naked human dude. Either way, they presumably live happily ever after and the younger prince can finally get married.
I’d like to know how the elder prince adjusted to having a human body. He was born a lindworm and lived his entire life slithering around—he’s never worn pants! He’s never had to sit on a toilet! What’s he gonna do now that he’s a sexy 20-something heir to the throne? Is it a shock for him when he looks down and he’s just got one sexual organ? His butt is in the back now, he’s got to shave, he’s got to eat with a fork and a knife and chew his food instead of unhinging his jaw and swallowing it whole.... is it weird for him? Is his honeymoon spent learning to walk on two legs? Is his instinct to crawl out of bed and drag himself across the floor by his arms? Does he roll onto his back and play dead when he gets scared? Does he wrap his torso around his lunch and attempt to constrict it? Is his wife... into this?
as much as i love vader getting to fuck palpatine over, as much as i think it’s the best thing, and as much as i love AUs where everyone gets together to curbstomp the emperor, i always wanted to see an AU where palpatine dies unexpectedly from the complications of being a bitch just because:
palpatine never intended to die, in my mind, he just aimed to prolong his life through sith bullshit ad infinitum, so i don’t think he ever officially established a successor or even a method of transitioning power. i think everyone collectively assumes vader is his heir, on account of vader being the only person with the horrendous job of actually having to talk to the emperor directly all the time. but there’s not anything binding except for the fact that if darth vader wants the imperial throne, he can crush the litany of people who would like to stop him like bugs, and i think everyone would assume in turn that vader - a guy who is famous for his frothing at the mouth about the empire’s Divine Vision For The Galaxy - would want the throne.
this is, categorically, false, because every single time he’s thought about killing palpatine, he had someone else he wanted to hand the throne. this is an awkward situation in which everyone is waiting for vader to stake his claim on the throne in the immediate aftermath of palpatine’s death, and vader’s like [automated breath] i….. have…… rebels…. to kill……… but i think, as horrific at diplomacy as vader is, he’s at least savvy enough to know that the second he corrects everyone and tries to cede the throne, the infighting as everyone makes a play for the throne would cause a ridiculous amount of unrest. so he can’t just cede the throne, but he’s next to incapable of being functional without serving His Imperial Majesty’s Divine Vision, and he needs to choose a successor as fast as possible and then he can possibly consider finding a ditch to lay down in because his one last attachment to the mortal plane died.
i know it’d be more reasonable for vader to kick punt someone like tarkin at the throne, but consider that vader is, fundamentally, unreasonable. and at this point in time, he’s also famous for being kind of a religious zealot, and he would absolutely choose this particular time of all the times to trust in the force. so he meditates, considers the sane options, but the force keeps lingering on senator leia organa from alderaan - and it’s doing that because she’s secretly his daughter, but he doesn’t know that, and theoretically this is enough ahead of ANH that he doesn’t even have an inclination that she’s a rebel spy. but if the force wills it.
so leia, all of eighteen years old, is named empress by darth vader and he doesn’t have the grace to tell her he’s going to name her empress first, he just kind of goes in front of the imperial senate and does it. i think it would be utterly hilarious if vader handed the empire over to the rebels without knowing it, handed the empire over to his daughter without knowing it, and now leia has to figure out how to safely un-empire an empire while being empress without causing too much chaos.
which is not a job made easier by the wheezing war criminal who keeps kneeling in front of her and asking, “what is thy bidding, my master,” because leia has unknowingly inherited the weirdest position in relation to vader anyone could have, and he’s kind of relying on tradition to cope. i really just want you to imagine an ongoing bit where one of vader’s cybernetic arms gets wrecked while he’s suppressing a coup organized against the new empress, and he leaves it like that for weeks because palpatine always had to clear off significant changes like replacement prosthetics, and he keeps waiting for leia to do it. she finally snaps at him to just go and get it fixed, and vader’s thrown into an array of distress because that is NOT how this works!!! his MASTER clears off his medical procedures, it ALWAYS works like that, and leia’s confusion is bone-deep, because obviously that only makes sense to vader.
wouldn’t vader notice the empire getting un-empired by the new secretly-a-rebel empress, you wonder. i would say that he probably wouldn’t, because as horrific as palpatine was, he was also all of vader’s will to live, up until the moment leia shows him a singular basic courtesy - like not being weirdly involved in the process of vader getting a new arm - and vader decides that he is going to froth at the mouth about Her Imperial Majesty’s Divine Vision, instead, until she sees fit to grant him death.
i just think it would be really funny if leia had to deal with learning that vader, on top of being omnicidal and a war criminal, is also just really ridiculous as a person, and very annoying but in a sad way.
#in which vader projects his rock bottom expectations in bosses on leia like an IMAX theater#bail organa loses his fucking mind in every scene he’s in#and obi-wan kenobi has a subplot where he trains luke to kill the guy who he thinks killed his dad#chauffeurs them both to imperial center#and then there’s a four way show down where only absolute idiocy reigns#luke: my name is luke skywalker and you killed my father. prepare to die!#obi-wan: oh shit wait a second i didn’t think you would INTRODUCE yourself -#and this all happens in like. the equivalent of leia’s new dining room
turnnoffyourmind
titsay
dailybridgerton
stormborns
theartofmadeline
kianamaiart
vaporwave
