Here is your card for Bad Things Happen Bingo. Happy writing!
I’m doing Bad Things Happen Bingo! Feel free to send me in a prompt from this card!
TVSTRANGERTHINGS
Sweet Seals For You, Always

❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
Game of Thrones Daily
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
No title available
will byers stan first human second
Cosmic Funnies
Monterey Bay Aquarium

shark vs the universe

祝日 / Permanent Vacation

Andulka
🪼
RMH
YOU ARE THE REASON
Stranger Things
Today's Document
DEAR READER

Origami Around
hello vonnie

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@istaricelebelasse
Here is your card for Bad Things Happen Bingo. Happy writing!
I’m doing Bad Things Happen Bingo! Feel free to send me in a prompt from this card!
Occasionally you do need to just let fantasy be fantasy. "Why are the mountains around Mordor in a square, mountain ranges don't work like that" well you see there's an evil god who lives there hope this helps
rb to bonk prev with an empty paper towel roll
Relevant XKCD: https://xkcd.com/2609/
theres ALWAYS a relevant XKCD for everything huh
"Baldur's Gate 3 is old news now lol that was three years ago"
Would you believe my favourite game of all time that I still regularly play is from 2009
Seriously though, the way some people treat liking media as if it has an expiration date is so weird to me. And three years is still so recent in the grand scheme of things anyway, actually!
My latest game updated! Yay!
(Ignores it) (game loading)
Badump. THUMP!
For the fic writer ask game: 8 [writer's choice for the fic!] and 9 please!
Thanks for the ask! 💜
8 ⧽. what part of [insert fic] is your favorite?
I’m going to cheat here and talk about two bc they are So Different and also hard to choose!
The first is in Dubious Life Lessons and honestly I love the scene where Celegorm saves Boromir! The hope and the faith and the fact that it works was just so great to write! It was one of the scenes I went into the fic knowing I just had to write.
Few, if any, of their rituals and rites had worked in Beleriand but they had continued them all the same. Hoping desperately that they would receive an answer or any type of signal their Lord was listening.
It was that same hope that dropped him to his knees. Perhaps it would work better in Middle Earth than Beleriand. Perhaps it would be allowed in a place where the Doom of Mandos was lessened, if not yet lifted.
The second is the very final scene of A Circlet of Weirwood. This partially bc it’s how I always wanted the war with the Others to end, (no I’m not still bitter how you could barely see anything in GoT) and partially bc I am still proud of the picture I painted there!
And then the most beautiful sight, a single streak of orange across the sky, brighter than flames, more lovely than a flower for what it represented. A colour that would be remembered by all those who had seen it for the sheer joy that it brought them, a colour that would soon be replicated and used by so many to decorate themselves and their living space in the hope of replicating that singular feeling.
But that would be in the future, and as the fighting died down, as wights collapsed to the ground, unaided by the swords of men, so too did more shades fill the sky, pinks and yellows and oranges of hues, so many it was impossible to name them all, until it seemed as though the sky itself was celebrating in its feast day best.
9 ⧽. tell us about a wip/idea that you're excited about!
I would gush here about my TRSB fic but I’m currently Not Allowed so instead I’m going to talk about my Sauron Wins WIP/idea that I’m pretty sure I posted an except from a while ago!
So the idea is that Frodo is captured in Mordor, Sam along with him, and the Ring finds its way to Sauron again. Naturally from this point everything Goes Wrong.
The armies at the Black Gate are overwhelmed entirely, and Gandalf makes a final stand allowing the last few to escape and spread the news of their loss, the better to enable people to flee or make ready the defences.
The Sons of Elrond are among those who escaped. One flies North, to his grandmother, to Loth Lorien and Mirkwood. If they are swift they may be able to retreat deeper into their forests, or else evacuate down the rivers to the Sea.
The other rides West, as swiftly as he is able. To Rivendell, first, to where his father and sister plan to make their final stand, to where they can hold out for a while. (For Rivendell had ever started life as a refugee camp, and it takes little to remind her valleys of that.)
Onwards again he is sent, to Cirdan. To Lindon that was, and the last of the Noldor on the shores of Middle Earth. There Cirdan makes the choice to send him across the water, a descendant of Earendil who had made such a plea before. They have no Silmaril to offer, save that which is already in the Sea.
But they can have hope.
I just really enjoy this WIP bc I can play around with themes of the first and second age and also think about the desperate measures that these characters would go to.
1 and 4?
1 ⧽. if you could sit down and finish any one of your wips without anything stopping you (time, tiredness, etc), which fic would you choose? tell us about it if you want!
Probably either Here We Go Again or Font of Mercy because both were started with such good intentions and yet both have languished in WIP status for way too long! I have so many part scenes written for them both and would quite like them to just finish themselves please and thank you!
4 ⧽. is there an au or trope that you haven't written before, but would want to try?
This one was really tricky to answer bc I have way too many fics. Maybe a different ‘break it in a new and fun way’ sort of fic? Or a ‘character lives’ one… it could be fun to write a Ned Lives but Robb is still King fic, and I don’t think I’ve written a time travel to the past Silm fic yet either…
✶ . ၄၃ . FIC WRITER ASK GAME !
any [insert __] is for the sender to fill in :)
1 ⧽. if you could sit down and finish any one of your wips without anything stopping you (time, tiredness, etc), which fic would you choose? tell us about it if you want!
2 ⧽. if you could sit down and finish any completely new fic without anything stopping you (time, tiredness, etc), what would you write? tell us about it if you want!
3 ⧽. what's something you like about your writing?
4 ⧽. is there an au or trope that you haven't written before, but would want to try?
5 ⧽. is there a certain kind of fic that feels the most satisfying to finish? any reason why?
6 ⧽. if you were to write a part two/sequel to a fic, what fic would you want to write it for?
7 ⧽. is there a fic you wish you received feedback on, but didn't get any/much? this ask game is asking someone else to then give feedback on said fic, pretty pretty please!!!
8 ⧽. what part of [insert fic] is your favorite?
9 ⧽. tell us about a wip/idea that you're excited about!
10 ⧽. what genre is generally the easiest or most enjoyable for you to write? which is the hardest?
11 ⧽. if you were to rewrite [insert fic] with [insert different character/ship] how do you think it might change?
12 ⧽. what's a song or two you associate with [insert fic]?
13 ⧽. do you have any writing projects/goals/plans you're working on/want to work on?
14 ⧽. is there anything outside of your normal content that you want to write?
15 ⧽. if you wrote a fic called [insert title] with [insert character/ship] what do you think it might be about?
16 ⧽. if you wrote a fic called [insert title] what character/ship would you want to write it for?
17 ⧽. are there any songs you want to write a songfic for?
18 ⧽. how do you want your writing to feel to your readers?
19 ⧽. give a hint/teaser about something you're writing without any context or explanation! tease us haha
20 ⧽. answer any one of the other questions that you want to!
a funny thing about having a Problematic Blorbo is that you'll periodically come across a post along the lines of "um let's not forget that [Blorbo] is a bad person..." listing their various crimes, and if you have a modicum of intellectual honesty you find yourself nodding along and saying yeah it's true... but it's the greyness of their character that makes them so compelling... At the same time though you have a little Saul Goodman in your ear going "your honor in their defense: who cares like omfgggg who caresssssss like come onnnnnn"
Anaire knew when her children died, one after the other, separated by century or decade. She knew when he husband died, the despair that came from him finally replaced by nothingness.
She did not know of her granddaughter, of her nephews and niece. Their fates were lost to her.
Only Arafinwë and Earwen, ever paler in sorrow and despair, told her of their fates. Only Nerdanel, quieter than ever she had been, was able to piece together when their lost family had faced some new horror.
Not an echo of their lamentations. Not a whisper of news for their families.
Not until a boy with Turukano’s nose and Elenwë’s eyes. Not until a girl with Olwë’s bearing. Not until two children cross the Sea bearing news and light.
Their tale hurts. It is cruel, difficult to hear, harder still for them to tell.
Anaire offers what kindness she can to her grandson. He is so young, barely more than a babe, yet speaks of having children of his own.
He left them behind. His Elwing left them behind. Anaire offers what hope she can, Maitimo ever was their first choice of babysitter. If he found the children then they will be safe.
She knows that it is bitter comfort. That were it not for her nephews, the grandchildren of her granddaughter would not have been left at all.
Arafinwë announces, to the relief of many of the Noldor left in Tirion, that they will be marching to Beleriand with the backing of the Valar and Vanyar. Earendil’s Silmaril has bought the Exiles an army.
Too late for most.
Too late for Anaire’s family.
Earwen will not go. She has been left to rule Tirion, to care for Findarato newly released from the Halls and so terribly fragile.
Nerdanel will not go. She fears to see what her sons have become. She fears that her face, so similar to that of her children, will spark distrust among those hurt by her sons.
Anaire does not speak of her choice at first. She returns to the home she has barely entered in centuries. Enters the chamber she had shared with her husband, and looks in the chest at the foot of their bed.
A sword lay within. Wrapped in linen, embellished with a star.
How she had hated it when Nolofinwe had brought it home! How she had despised the very thing! It had been pressed against his throat, been used to threaten his very life, and he had brought it into their bedchamber.
The last sword on the shores of Valinor forged by Fëanaro.
Anaire took it up, admired the gleam of the blade in the pale moonlight, and made her choice.
She would sail to Beleriand with the army. She would avenge her children and husband.
Findarato and Earendil had both spoken of Nolofinwe injuring Morgoth. Seven blows they said the songs spoke of.
With that hated sword in hand, she was sure she could do eight.
how rogue one probably goes in the rebel padmé/ galaxy's messiest divorce au
(commission info // tip jar!)
Oh, to be granted the power to speak to animals for just like 38 seconds, so that I could tell this pebble-brained feathery fuckass that nobody is impressed that he started singing earlier than anybody else. There's no bird pussy available at 2 am. The dames can sense your desperation. Stop screaming for at least three more hours.
how many times do you think celegorm's been woken up at 2am by a distraught brother asking him to tell the birds to shut up
how many times do you think celegorm has thought "There's no bird pussy available at 2 am. The dames can sense your desperation. Stop screaming for at least three more hours'" about Maglor?
love arranged marriage unfortunately. the idea of being married to a knight who's not even in the city, but away on the front lines. it's a benefit for your family, so they dont even question sending you to his home to await his return...
you meet him three months into the arrangement. He arrives after the sun has already set, his features set strong in the candlelight. His body is heavy with exhaustion and tension, his eyes dull and tired.
you've grown to hate this place, this castle gifted to him for war victories. The halls are barren, the garden yet to bloom. The maids are pleasant, but they keep their distance, as if you'll strike. Maybe your husband is the kind to hit. You wouldn't know.
When he looks at you, it's only in short bursts, his eyes suddenly low. There's a long stretch of silence between you and you consider introducing yourself, but decide against it. He knows who you are.
"The maid is drawing me a bath," he says suddenly and a sick feeling pours over you. This day was always coming, but you aren't sure you're ready to lay under a stranger.
"Am I expected to join?" you ask and his nose crinkles.
"No." He steps back and away. His departure is brisk and driven. You retire for the night by yourself and awake alone. Your husband is set to leave again in a few hours; a few soldiers have already gathered in the front garden.
"Don't you wish to give your new wife a goodbye?" one asks, unaware of your open window. "One night and you've already had your fill? Or has she been filled too much?"
"I refuse to believe she is real!" says another. "What kind of woman has worn down our brute and turned him into a family man? Should we expect a gaggle of children in the upcoming year?"
Your husband growls. "You will leave the poor lamb alone. She suffers enough."
That softens you. Just a bit. You rise from you bed and go to the window, leaning out enough to catch the men's attention.
"Until next time."
He watches you, expression caught between more emotions that you can count, then turns his gaze back to his mount. The two men share a look, wide, wide grins on their faces.
"Until next time," he repeats back.
In his absence, he sends gifts. They are tiny things, sweets and oiled combs and scented oils and a porcelain figure of a cat, aimless in their direction towards you. Just simple niceties he could give to any woman in the world. You imagine he sends one to the lovers he has in every city as well.
(he must have lovers, you imagine. He hasn't touched you; he must be getting his fill with women in other cities, maybe women he actually loves. these are trinkets to keep his wife amused while she wastes away.)
none of the gifts come with a note.
one day a bolt of fabric arrives, yellow and ornate. It's only a small amount, not enough to make a dress, but enough for you to unravel and admire. It's beautiful and clearly expensive, golden threads woven into flowers and vines. Your father was a silk merchant; while you never wore the silks, you can recognize their quality.
the following week, the delicious man rides up on his steeds and presents a letter. The handwriting is rough. Knights that come from the lower class do not have the schooling of highborns; as fair as you know, your husband was born a street rat and worked his way theough the ranks to glory.
-I have been told by my secund that I did not send you enuf fabric for a gown. I do not no these things.
The spelling mistakes screw a smile out of you.
"Wait a moment." You stop the boy before he can leave. "I wish to send something back."
You take your time and use your finest calligraphy, tucking your note in with a handkerchief you had spent the week on. It's fine work-- one that would please even the hardest of hearts.
-Dearest husband,
Please take this handkerchief as a sign of my thoughts.
Your patient and thoughtful wife
A second letter arrives within the week.
-are you cros with me? A scrap of fabric for a scrap of fabric?
The response is what makes you cross. The poor messenger boy has to stay the night while you percolate over a response.
-Dearest, sweetest husband,
A handkerchief is a traditional gesture of affection. I have embroidered the edges by hand, with your last name and your roses, and it smells of my perfume. It is a piece of me for you to carry. If you do not appreciate my kindness or if you think it will turn away your lovers, you may return it. I do not wish it wasted on you.
Your less than patient and less than adoring wife
The poor boy scatters off in the morning and returns a few days later.
tortured wife,
I wil cherish it. I am sory, pour lam. I wil do better.
your loving husband
If you have a fucked up sicknasty fanfic you've been thinking about sharing but are unsure, this post is your sign to run to AO3 and Just Do It: 1. Someone somewhere wants to read it. Even if it's only one person, that person matters
2. Your creativity matters and so does your ability to share it
3. Serial harassers in fandom spaces are beginning to express discomfort that sites like AO3 completely strip their ability to do anything about fic they don't like, sometimes going as far as leaving entire fandoms due to the influx of "problematic fiction without a chance for consequences to the author". Posting your fanworks to AO3 actively contributes to making harassers feel unsafe and powerless in fandom
4. Militant anti-fanfic content creators also cannot do anything about fic posted to AO3
5. You can post anonymously to AO3, with the ability to de-anonymize at any time
6. You can moderate comments before making them visible on your fic, restrict comments to logged-in users only, or turn off comments altogether, meaning you can post anonymously and completely turn off comments if you choose
I think knowing that Robert Jordan was a Vietnam veteran and had the nickname Iceman really puts a lot of the Wheel of time in new context. He was reportedly cool under pressure and didn't show much emotion so I wonder if he was like Rand just trying to make himself hard to the horrors that he witnessed there. How much of the internal turmoil is from personal experience.
I had two nicknames in 'Nam. First up was Ganesha, after the Hindu god called the Remover of Obstacles. He's the one with the elephant head. That one stuck with me, but I gained another that I didn't like so much. The Iceman.
One day, we had what the Aussies called a bit of a brass-up. Just our ship alone, but we caught an NVA battalion crossing a river, and wonder of wonders, we got permission to fire before they finished. The gunner had a round explode in the chamber, jamming his 60, and the fool had left his barrel bag, with spares, back in the revetment.
So while he was frantically rummaging under my seat for my barrel bag, it was over to me, young and crazy, standing on the skid, singing something by the Stones at the of my lungs with the mike keyed so the others could listen in, and Lord, Lord, I rode that 60. 3000 rounds, an empty ammo box, and a smoking barrel that I had burned out because I didn't want to take the time to change. We got ordered out right after I went dry, so the artillery could open up, and of course, the arty took credit for every body recovered, but we could count how many bodies were floating in the river when we pulled out.
The next day in the orderly room an officer with a literary bent announced my entrance with "Behold, the Iceman cometh." For those of you unfamiliar with Eugene O'Neil, the Iceman was Death. I hated that name, but I couldn't shake it. And, to tell you the truth, by that time maybe it fit.
I have, or used to have, a photo of a young man sitting on a log eating C-rations with a pair of chopsticks. There are three dead NVA laid out in a line just beside him. He didn't kill them. He didn't choose to sit there because of the bodies. It was just the most convenient place to sit. The bodies don't bother him. He doesn't care. They're just part of the landscape.
The young man is glancing at the camera, and you know in one look that you aren't going to take this guy home to meet your parents. Back in the world, you wouldn't want him in your neighborhood, because he is cold, cold, cold. I strangled that SOB, drove a stake through his heart, and buried him face down under a crossroad outside Saigon before coming home, because I knew that guy wasn't made to survive in a civilian environment.
I think he's gone. All of him. I hope so. I much prefer being remembered as Ganesha, the Remover of Obstacles.
Robert Jordan via Theoryland, 2001
#the things that most explain WoT are that its author 1) killed a lot of people in a very traumatic colonial war#and 2) went to a rigidly hierarchical single-sex military academy FULL of men sleeping with each other#and then was like. what if I write a book where women are in charge because men are cursed to destroy things and go mad#like...yeah#the author is dead but sometimes the author's trauma is not so much (via @sixth-light)
some elf bullshit happened
The Silmarillion Abridged
If Obi-Wan had actually stayed on Mandalore with Satine after the Civil War and left the Jedi Order, it would've made The Phantom Menace and Attack of the Clones peak comedy.
Like, Qui-Gon would still be sent to Naboo and end up on Tatooine, he'd still meet Anakin and take him back to the Temple. But, in this AU, he survives the battle on Theed and takes Anakin as his padawan. And the entire Order would be making jokes:
"Congrats on the new padawan! Hope he sticks around longer than the last one!" "We'll keep this one off the bodyguard missions, eh Qui-Gon?"
So one day little Anakin’s like "hey master, what happened to your last padawan?" And Qui-Gon's like "oh he ran off with a girl, yeah he's royalty in the Outer Rim now".
And it's all fine and dandy until Anakin’s nineteen and they get assigned to protect Padmé, and Qui-Gon takes one look at this kid's face and thinks "You've got to be fucking kidding me, this shit again??"
@muffinlance how dare you leave this gold in the tags
Reblogging for the best fucking thing anyone has ever added to the tags of one of my posts
MAYBE THE THIRD WILL BE MARRIED TO THE ORDER HMMM?
I am fucking HOWLING with laughter over here