(( And my dad called just now
My Gran is sick, too.
I need prayer and love and help because I can’t. I just can’t. ))
Presented without comment. Except, you know, by saying I’m presenting it without comment, I’m commenting.
(( This is basically the best thing.
(( Haha yes! YEHEHESS Also: long post for Theta Sigma! ))
( I didn’t even think of the multiple meaning of TS when I posted it! I was just thinking TS = Tumblr Savior.
And you liking the post just now made me go look at it one more time and I started laughing at it all over again. I love the internet for things like that!
It’s kind of funny that you mention TS, though. I get checks from a thing with “Sterns” [or is it Stearns, I forget] in the name, and I get some from another thing with “Decker” in the name at work. The point is I always think of Potter!verse. )
(( “Thomas Stearns Decker” is my Ten’s favorite pseudonym, after Thomas Stearns Eliot and Deca for “Ten.” But “Sterns” is an acceptable homophone!
I love that people are still thinking about it. The thought does me wonders. I really do think it’s the greatest thing I’ll ever accomplish. Thank you! ))
(( I don’t. I just thought people could message me for my address?
I don’t have the slightest clue how to set up a Paypal or a donate button. This is all very unplanned. ))
(( Hey, guys.
It really bothers me to do this, but I have to at least give it a shot.
While my wife and I are hardly the most needy people— or the most deserving— we’re suddenly in something of a crunch. Nyssa’s aunt is now very sick and needs taking care of, and Nyssa’s car needs repairs that if we don’t fix it soon the engine’s going to go.
I’ve recently gotten a second job but it’s not pulling in enough hours, and I’m really not sure what we’re going to do.
So I wanted to put this out there for anyone who’s interested: I WILL WRITE ANYTHING IN RETURN FOR A DONATION. I WILL DRAMATICALLY READ ANYTHING IN RETURN FOR A DONATION. COMMISSIONS, AS THEY SAY, ARE OPEN. SAMPLES OF MY PROSE CAN BE SEEN ON MY BLOG’S MAIN PAGE, OTHER STYLES AVAILABLE ON REQUEST.
Word counts and so forth are something we can discuss, I’m still trying to figure this out.
I know storytellers and pleas for help are each a dime a thousand on this site, and I’m hardly the greatest, but writing and readings are my only gifts and if I can make a few extra dollars using my superpowers, then I will.
Hopefully, this’ll be the miracle that saves us.
If you can’t give or you’re not interested, then God bless you and keep you, please reblog this so more can see it.
Header image courtesy of the glorious rosegundays. Please show her some love. ))
"Take up thy weapon, Coward, and fight me with honor!"
He is, however, perhaps to his very great peril, not paying very much attention.
And his “weapon,” such as it is, is a sonokinetic multitool sufficiently damaged that he looks like he’s just lost a dear friend.
But surely The Doctor and Sif will get this misunderstanding sorted out before he loses a hand.
“Well, it was worth a shot.”
"Look, I can’t spoil major plot developments but it turns out the information in these secret files is crucial to the war effort.”
“—— And you know this how?”
From UNIT Archives that wind up at Torchwood Two and only survive on a BD-ROM after Great Britain sinks into The Atlantic in 2478.
(They fish it out a bit later, of course, Great Britain, Hell of a lot of mopping up.)
But in popping that BD-ROM into The TARDIS’ disc player, he’d learned that the information in these hard-copy files could have prevented terrible historical meddling— Sontarans, using their fiddly osmic-projection time travel —that had ultimately ignited World War Five.
For want of a nail, the kingdom was lost.
He can’t say any of this. Spoilers. Major plot developments. But it scarpers through his head.
Out loud, however: “I’m a scientific consultant with Department C19. All very hush-hush. Top boffins, eh-wot.”
"Lots of confidential paperwork."
Improved the Hawkeye poster for Avengers 2.
(( Not only is that onesie amazing, but this happened. ))
if u ship ur muse with my muse
PLEASE FUCKING TELL ME
because i might also ship it
but i would be sitting there like
welp, i would do this, but i don’t know if they like it
Ten Things About Boromir the Bold That Never Made It Into the Red Book of Westmarch
I. His strongest memory of his mother was the smell of the sea she carried in her hair; how dark and tall she stood, looking towards an east Boromir would ever only long for in her honor.
II. Boromir did not ever doubt that he was loved. He was the first son of Gondor, swaddled in a walled citadel and rocked in Pelennor’s arms. He did not question why his father’s love was like stone, nor why his brother looked to him like he was the highest point of the ramparts. They were a city, and how else was a city to love?
III. For Boromir’s fourteenth year, the master of hounds promised him a pup of his own—One of Huan’s own line, the man swore, As befits a prince. What Boromir received, however, was the runt of that spring’s litter, a wheezing, stumbling thing that Boromir stubbornly nursed with a cheesecloth dipped in milk, then fed meat from his own plate.
Bellas, he called it, and ignored any who dared laugh.
Bellas never grew taller than Boromir’s knees, but she was strong and stubborn and loyal—for three years, Boromir went nowhere without her shadow at his heels. Bellas slept at the end of his bed; waited patiently during Boromir’s lessons; loped after his horse when he went riding.
Boromir was seventeen when Bellas was killed, her neck broken by an orc who had stumbled into their hunting party. She had put herself between her young master and the terrible interloper, and afterwards, Boromir had carried her in his arms all the way back to Minas Tirith.
He buried her beneath a sapling tree on the slope of Mindolliun, and wept where no one could see him.
IV. Faramir looked east, and dreamt of great waves. Boromir watched him, heart heavy in his chest.
V. He had been in love with—well. He never said.
VI. Boromir was ill at ease in Elrond’s house, feeling too rough with travel, and heavy—all of Gondor on his shoulders, the knowledge that Faramir’s fine speech and strange visions might have meant something here, where Boromir, Protector of the City, did not. But he burned when they dismissed Gondor, his fingernails biting into his palms when the strength of Men was so questioned. (He had not seen any Elves come to Osgiliath’s defense, nor heard of any wizard-craft that kept the Corsairs from their brazen pillaging of Langstrand and Belfalas. What had these mighty peoples done to battle back the Shadow in the East except sit in their cool green palaces and speak in riddles?)
VII. He liked the Hobbits best, even after. They reminded him most of his own men, with their stubbornness and light-hearted complaints, their love of food and pipe-smoke and story. Three of them had left behind the whole of their world, to walk into darkness beside just one, and—yes, Boromir could respect such brotherhood.
VIII. (Aragorn remembered when Boromir was only a child, rosy-cheeked and happy to leave his mother’s side, to follow Thorongil around the citadel burbling in some tongue only Denethor and Finduilas could decipher. It was strange to meet the man that child became, to stand at a height with him, to wield a sword at his side, to listen to him speak of peace for Minas Tirith like other men spoke of lovers.
It made Aragorn feel very old, an ache deep in his bones that had not been there before. Careful, he wanted to caution the man, as he had once cautioned the child. Reach too high and you will fall.)
IX. One rainy night, when Boromir was keeping watch over the sleeping Fellowship, he sketched it out in his mind—the streets he would lead Aragorn through, the hidden corners of the palace he would show to Merry and Pippin, the great gates of the city whose craftsmanship he might justly boast of to Gimli. How Minas Tirith, that shining city, would chase the sorrow from the Fellowship’s faces, might shield them, might give them rest.
The rain dripped down his neck, cold, but he was gone to Minas Tirith—This is my home, he imagined himself saying to his companions, his brothers. This is home, may you always be welcome.
X. His last thought was of Faramir.
(Brother, little brother, I—)
oh my heart
“We were just children
Thrown into an adult war
And now we’re not kids
Anymore.” — (via armonyeiselstein)
Imagine your OTP sharing a coat together. Person A is taller than Person B and wears one of those really long, baggier trench coats. Person B, climbs in underneath and cuddles into Person A this way.