he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
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@avethepotatoshipper
So Top Gun is back in theaters for its 40th anniversary, and I’ve never actually seen it so I figured, yeah, danger zone, let’s go do this, love a morning movie.
…I have never watched a movie that was so insistent on its heterosexuality that it cycles right over to being one of the gayest movies that I’ve ever watched.
Maybe im delusional but I fully belive that if Obi Wan HAD KEPT HIS ASS ON THE DAMN SHIP Padmè would have been able to talk sense into Anakin
In the ROTS junior novel she thought she had reached him.
Revenge of the Sith junior novel
“I’m not against you. I’m against what you’ve done, and what you’re planning to do. “I don’t know you anymore,” she told him. Couldn’t he see what he was doing? Couldn’t he feel her heart breaking? “I’ll never stop loving you, but you are going down a path I cannot follow.” In despair, she reached for the connection they had had through the Force, for that one moment when she had known him completely even though they hadn’t been together.
But even a Jedi couldn’t create a Force connection just by trying, and Padmé was no Jedi. Desperate as she was, she could find only a faint thread of what they had shared, thinner than a strand of spider silk. It still joined her with a familiar trace of…goodness? Sensing that, she felt a stirring of hope. She spoke to that part of him, trying to call back the Anakin who was her husband, her lover, the father of their child. “Stop now,” she begged. “Come back! I love you.”
For a moment—for the barest instant—she thought she would succeed. Then Anakin’s expression changed. “Liar!” he cried.
He was staring at something behind her. Padmé turned, and saw Obi-Wan standing in the door of the skiff. He tricked me! “No!” she said, knowing that this new Anakin would never listen to her now.
while the rest of the party was locked in on adventuring toward an important tower.....i was writing a letter to an npc i flirted with in a bar in houston for twenty minutes.
who said i can't lock in
Productive DnD session
I was honorary tits.
my stage lighting contribution. mac auras
Just found out my school has an IMac G3 in one of the rooms and I’m not allowed to use it, this is so unfair.
Shout out to @avethepotatoshipper you feel my pain
Zoe and Mio Living Together Headcanons
- First, just for context for the rest of these headcanons, I will say they definitely did not get together immediately after the machine
- Girliepops speedran 6 months of emotional bonding they need some time to BREATHE
- That being said both of them are immediate fixtures in each others lives after that because neither of them really have anyone else
- Mio has her dad but he's in hospital and Zoe's family are in England so they naturally just gravitate to each other
- I headcanon Zoe moved to America not long before the whole Rader shebang to hope for better opportunities. I imagine that at the time of the Rader debacle she is living in a small apartment with 3 roommates who she doesn't know very well, and spends most of her time in her room alone. Mio, obviously having lived there for a while, has her own shitty 1 bed apartment, but it's hers and hers alone
- Anyway both of these girls are lonely and Zoe really wants to get out of the whole room share situation and Mio's like well I've not got a lot of space but you've been in my brain so we've definitely been closer
- So Mio manages to cram her desk into the living room and change the small office into a make shift bedroom and the girls are living together before the month is out
- Zoe sleeps on an air mattress for about two months and Mio feels bad about it and insists they swap beds every other day to avoid fucking up her back
- Zoe screams at the state of Mio's cupboards (girl is living on instant noodles and frozen pizza) and immediately goes to buy a bunch of stuff. They may be broke but Zoe can still make things like pasta and stir fries now they have two incomes. Mio will be eating a vegetable so help her god
- Neither of them can stick to a colour scheme. They keep finding cute decor and just buying it without thinking about the rest of the flat. When they get a house many years down the line the rooms have a loose theme but it's still mostly just chaos
- Mio has a nice squishy couch but prefers to lay on the floor. Similarly Zoe perches on the back of the couch like a heathen. The only time they sit normally on the couch is when their (limited unfortunately) friends come over
- Some of Rader's other victims asked to come over once to talk about what happened and both girls got so stressed that Mio locked herself in the bathroom for an hour panicking and Zoe stress-cleaned every room. Pretty on par for any visitors.
- Both had nightmares quite frequently after the Rader situation (duh). While they weren't quite bold enough to go crawling into each others beds they would still seek help. Every time Zoe insisted on having a 'sleepover' so they could be near each other.
- Speaking of sleepovers, Zoe once tried to have a proper 'girls night' with Mio. Unfortunately the face mask dropped on her lips and she licked it and proceeded to throw up. Kinda ruined the vibe.
- They still have 'girls night's though. Only Zoe's allowed to have a face mask though.
- Mio tries to get Zoe to watch horror films, then feels bad about Zoe hiding behind pillows for 30 mins and tries to change it. Zoe argues that she wants to see it through to the end. Both are too stubborn and then neither feel good at the end of it.
- They write on the same desk, whether it's their shared stories or separate stories. God forbid someone accidentally elbow the other because it'll end up in a pushing and shoving match with someone eventually getting wrestled under the other and bullied into submission.
- Zoe likes to tease Mio about being short by putting things up high. Mio is only a couple of centimetres shorter than Zoe but has shorter arms and consequently finds this extremely irritating. Zoe got her a step stool and Mio hid all her left socks for revenge.
- They have a wall calendar because neither of them can remember what they're meant to be doing. They then have alarms to remind them to put the stuff they need to do on the calendar because they forgot to do that as well.
- So. Many. Notebooks. Zoe refuses to do anything on a laptop and Mio's laptop is twenty years old and hanging on by spite alone. Entire bookshelves dedicated to notebooks.
you know i REALLY don't think that mio's actress got the memo that mio WASN'T supposed to be madly in love with zoe. i mean. c'mon.
what the fuck.
Thinking about how Mio's subconscious is full and active, while Zoe's is empty and crumbling. How the contents of Mio's are locked up and the environment will actively fight against you, meanwhile the contents of Zoe's are out in the open, on display if only you take the time to look.
Something something, Mio tries not to be what she is, while Zoe tries to be what she's not, something, Zoe neglects herself and can't face what's there, while Mio is overwhelmed and has to actively struggle to access anything, something something.
i actually really appreciate the generic-ness of split fiction's in-universe stories. like sure, they're complete genre cliches (and we can talk about the disdain for genre stories another time for sure), really milquetoast fantasy and sci-fi fare.
but then split fiction says, that's still better than anything rader's machine could ever come up with, and the most generic, cliche stories written by human beings are still worth saving from the maw of ai. because--well, they're written by human beings, with bits of those human lives seeping in.
mio's standard-fare cyberpunk future city with ninjas has a bunch of cars and motorbikes in it because her dad was a mechanic. it has beautiful screens and buildings and graffiti and also a game of hopscotch drawn in chalk on the ground because it comes from a childhood growing up in the city. her video-game-ass invade-the-secret-lab-after-everyone-else-gets-blown-up plot comes from her desire (and inability) to save her father.
zoe's extremely conflict-averse stories (one that's almost literally "saving stray cats in the alps") come from her desire to return to her childhood with her sister, to build gentler, happier endings for someone who didn't get one. the shapeshifting comes from a love of animals. the silly farting pigs come from a kid's imagination (and coping mechanism). and i mean, i don't care how cliche you think it is, dragons are just objectively cool always.
neither zoe nor mio are, perhaps, Good Writers or Talented Writers. but they are sincere writers, and that's worth everything.
if you know me you know i’ll never get to it but
can the fanfic writers PLEASE get on new atmosphere content………..only eight works in ao3 since aug 31……….
okay it’s come to my attention that absolutely NONE OF YOU know ANYTHING about how cutie marks work. let me say this simply. a cutie mark isn’t a job being assigned, it’s a special TALENT OR SKILL that the pony enjoys. Most of the time it has a directly transferable job for that skill, like if you enjoy baking and are super good at it WOW! baker. If you are really good at writing and telling stories, author. However, there are some cutie marks that could go multiple ways.
twilight sparkle has exceptional magic ability, so she became a scholar, but she could really do anything that required a good magic skill. same with rainbow dash, her weather controlling job isn’t directly linked to her cutie mark, but it does fit the bill for the job.
i was posed the question of what would a murderer pony’s cutie mark be and wouldn’t everyone know. NO. if somehow murder were to be a special skill, the cutie mark might be something like a knife or a shovel. other ponies might just assume you’re good a cooking or gardening. now with cutie marks like apple jacks, their family has a ‘green thumb’ kind of deal so obviously the cutie mark would be hereditary.
so, the reason i made this post. walter white pony’s cutie mark would NOT be blue crystals. it would be a CHEMISTRY FLASK.
i actually published a fanfic for once. insane, i know
https://archiveofourown.org/works/66616693
Temples are built for gods. Knowing this a farmer builds a small temple to see what kind of god turns up.
Arepo built a temple in his field, a humble thing, some stones stacked up to make a cairn, and two days later a god moved in.
“Hope you’re a harvest god,” Arepo said, and set up an altar and burnt two stalks of wheat. “It’d be nice, you know.” He looked down at the ash smeared on the stone, the rocks all laid askew, and coughed and scratched his head. “I know it’s not much,” he said, his straw hat in his hands. “But - I’ll do what I can. It’d be nice to think there’s a god looking after me.”
The next day he left a pair of figs, the day after that he spent ten minutes of his morning seated by the temple in prayer. On the third day, the god spoke up.
“You should go to a temple in the city,” the god said. Its voice was like the rustling of the wheat, like the squeaks of fieldmice running through the grass. “A real temple. A good one. Get some real gods to bless you. I’m no one much myself, but I might be able to put in a good word?” It plucked a leaf from a tree and sighed. “I mean, not to be rude. I like this temple. It’s cozy enough. The worship’s been nice. But you can’t honestly believe that any of this is going to bring you anything.”
“This is more than I was expecting when I built it,” Arepo said, laying down his scythe and lowering himself to the ground. “Tell me, what sort of god are you anyway?”
“I’m of the fallen leaves,” it said. “The worms that churn beneath the earth. The boundary of forest and of field. The first hint of frost before the first snow falls. The skin of an apple as it yields beneath your teeth. I’m a god of a dozen different nothings, scraps that lead to rot, momentary glimpses. A change in the air, and then it’s gone.”
The god heaved another sigh. “There’s no point in worship in that, not like War, or the Harvest, or the Storm. Save your prayers for the things beyond your control, good farmer. You’re so tiny in the world. So vulnerable. Best to pray to a greater thing than me.”
Arepo plucked a stalk of wheat and flattened it between his teeth. “I like this sort of worship fine,” he said. “So if you don’t mind, I think I’ll continue.”
“Do what you will,” said the god, and withdrew deeper into the stones. “But don’t say I never warned you otherwise.”
Arepo would say a prayer before the morning’s work, and he and the god contemplated the trees in silence. Days passed like that, and weeks, and then the Storm rolled in, black and bold and blustering. It flooded Arepo’s fields, shook the tiles from his roof, smote his olive tree and set it to cinder. The next day, Arepo and his sons walked among the wheat, salvaging what they could. The little temple had been strewn across the field, and so when the work was done for the day, Arepo gathered the stones and pieced them back together.
“Useless work,” the god whispered, but came creeping back inside the temple regardless. “There wasn’t a thing I could do to spare you this.”
“We’ll be fine,” Arepo said. “The storm’s blown over. We’ll rebuild. Don’t have much of an offering for today,” he said, and laid down some ruined wheat, “but I think I’ll shore up this thing’s foundations tomorrow, how about that?”
The god rattled around in the temple and sighed.
A year passed, and then another. The temple had layered walls of stones, a roof of woven twigs. Arepo’s neighbors chuckled as they passed it. Some of their children left fruit and flowers. And then the Harvest failed, the gods withdrew their bounty. In Arepo’s field the wheat sprouted thin and brittle. People wailed and tore their robes, slaughtered lambs and spilled their blood, looked upon the ground with haunted eyes and went to bed hungry. Arepo came and sat by the temple, the flowers wilted now, the fruit shriveled nubs, Arepo’s ribs showing through his chest, his hands still shaking, and murmured out a prayer.
“There is nothing here for you,” said the god, hudding in the dark. “There is nothing I can do. There is nothing to be done.” It shivered, and spat out its words. “What is this temple but another burden to you?”
“We -” Arepo said, and his voice wavered. “So it’s a lean year,” he said. “We’ve gone through this before, we’ll get through this again. So we’re hungry,” he said. “We’ve still got each other, don’t we? And a lot of people prayed to other gods, but it didn’t protect them from this. No,” he said, and shook his head, and laid down some shriveled weeds on the altar. “No, I think I like our arrangement fine.”
“There will come worse,” said the god, from the hollows of the stone. “And there will be nothing I can do to save you.”
The years passed. Arepo rested a wrinkled hand upon the temple of stone and some days spent an hour there, lost in contemplation with the god.
And one fateful day, from across the wine-dark seas, came War.
Arepo came stumbling to his temple now, his hand pressed against his gut, anointing the holy site with his blood. Behind him, his wheat fields burned, and the bones burned black in them. He came crawling on his knees to a temple of hewed stone, and the god rushed out to meet him.
“I could not save them,” said the god, its voice a low wail. “I am sorry. I am sorry. I am so so sorry.” The leaves fell burning from the trees, a soft slow rain of ash. “I have done nothing! All these years, and I have done nothing for you!”
“Shush,” Arepo said, tasting his own blood, his vision blurring. He propped himself up against the temple, forehead pressed against the stone in prayer. “Tell me,” he mumbled. “Tell me again. What sort of god are you?”
“I -” said the god, and reached out, cradling Arepo’s head, and closed its eyes and spoke.
“I’m of the fallen leaves,” it said, and conjured up the image of them. “The worms that churn beneath the earth. The boundary of forest and of field. The first hint of frost before the first snow falls. The skin of an apple as it yields beneath your teeth.” Arepo’s lips parted in a smile.
“I am the god of a dozen different nothings,” it said. “The petals in bloom that lead to rot, the momentary glimpses. A change in the air -” Its voice broke, and it wept. “Before it’s gone.”
“Beautiful,” Arepo said, his blood staining the stones, seeping into the earth. “All of them. They were all so beautiful.”
And as the fields burned and the smoke blotted out the sun, as men were trodden in the press and bloody War raged on, as the heavens let loose their wrath upon the earth, Arepo the sower lay down in his humble temple, his head sheltered by the stones, and returned home to his god.
Sora found the temple with the bones within it, the roof falling in upon them.
“Oh, poor god,” she said, “With no-one to bury your last priest.” Then she paused, because she was from far away. “Or is this how the dead are honored here?” The god roused from its contemplation.
“His name was Arepo,” it said, “He was a sower.”
Sora startled, a little, because she had never before heard the voice of a god. “How can I honor him?” She asked.
“Bury him,” the god said, “Beneath my altar.”
“All right,” Sora said, and went to fetch her shovel.
“Wait,” the god said when she got back and began collecting the bones from among the broken twigs and fallen leaves. She laid them out on a roll of undyed wool, the only cloth she had. “Wait,” the god said, “I cannot do anything for you. I am not a god of anything useful.”
Sora sat back on her heels and looked at the altar to listen to the god.
“When the Storm came and destroyed his wheat, I could not save it,” the god said, “When the Harvest failed and he was hungry, I could not feed him. When War came,” the god’s voice faltered. “When War came, I could not protect him. He came bleeding from the battle to die in my arms.” Sora looked down again at the bones.
“I think you are the god of something very useful,” she said.
“What?” the god asked.
Sora carefully lifted the skull onto the cloth. “You are the god of Arepo.”
Generations passed. The village recovered from its tragedies—homes rebuilt, gardens re-planted, wounds healed. The old man who once lived on the hill and spoke to stone and rubble had long since been forgotten, but the temple stood in his name. Most believed it to empty, as the god who resided there long ago had fallen silent. Yet, any who passed the decaying shrine felt an ache in their hearts, as though mourning for a lost friend. The cold that seeped from the temple entrance laid their spirits low, and warded off any potential visitors, save for the rare and especially oblivious children who would leave tiny clusters of pink and white flowers that they picked from the surrounding meadow.
The god sat in his peaceful home, staring out at the distant road, to pedestrians, workhorses, and carriages, raining leaves that swirled around bustling feet. How long had it been? The world had progressed without him, for he knew there was no help to be given. The world must be a cruel place, that even the useful gods have abandoned, if farms can flood, harvests can run barren, and homes can burn, he thought.
He had come to understand that humans are senseless creatures, who would pray to a god that cannot grant wishes or bless upon them good fortune. Who would maintain a temple and bring offerings with nothing in return. Who would share their company and meditate with such a fruitless deity. Who would bury a stranger without the hope for profit. What bizarre, futile kindness they had wasted on him. What wonderful, foolish, virtuous, hopeless creatures, humans were.
So he painted the sunset with yellow leaves, enticed the worms to dance in their soil, flourished the boundary between forest and field with blossoms and berries, christened the air with a biting cold before winter came, ripened the apples with crisp, red freckles to break under sinking teeth, and a dozen other nothings, in memory of the man who once praised the god’s work on his dying breath.
“Hello, God of Every Humble Beauty in the World,” called a familiar voice.
The squinting corners of the god’s eyes wept down onto curled lips. “Arepo,” he whispered, for his voice was hoarse from its hundred-year mutism.
“I am the god of devotion, of small kindnesses, of unbreakable bonds. I am the god of selfless, unconditional love, of everlasting friendships, and trust,” Arepo avowed, soothing the other with every word.
“That’s wonderful, Arepo,” he responded between tears, “I’m so happy for you—such a powerful figure will certainly need a grand temple. Will you leave to the city to gather more worshippers? You’ll be adored by all.”
“No,” Arepo smiled.
“Farther than that, to the capitol, then? Thank you for visiting here before your departure.”
“No, I will not go there, either,” Arepo shook his head and chuckled.
“Farther still? What ambitious goals, you must have. There is no doubt in my mind that you will succeed, though,” the elder god continued.
“Actually,” interrupted Arepo, “I’d like to stay here, if you’ll have me.”
The other god was struck speechless. “…. Why would you want to live here?”
“I am the god of unbreakable bonds and everlasting friendships. And you are the god of Arepo.”
I reblogged this once with the first story. Now the story has grown and I’m crying. This is gorgeous, guys. This is what dreams are made of.
This is amazing!
happy half-decade of average potato shop :0
and what if I told you nine was less afraid of love than ten. what then.
My Orpheus myth is that every time I watch Doomsday I think maybe Rose will be able to hold on to the lever this time.
