it's a wonderful story

anonymous asked:

Okay, so here I am, an innocent lurker, having just found this blog, when I see: "what if the skywalkers were cthulu-type monsters." excuse me??? please elaborate you just wrote that and nothing else im dying ex p la i n y o ur s el f

  • The Force is everything that ever was and ever will be, every storm and every silence, the hunting krayk dragon and cowering bantha calf: it is huge, all-consuming, completely inhuman. How, then, could its children be anything short of monstrous? (Wonders, yes. But monsters all the same.)
  • Anakin Skywalker is boy-shaped, but Obi Wan cannot bear to look at him. 
  • A clarification: he can look at him with his human eyes; but he must clamp down the extra eyes his Force-sensitivity gives him, because when he doesn’t – well. The first time he met the boy he hadn’t closed those eyes; he’d open them, wide and curious and seen –
    • teeth and claws and roiling shadows, a slipslide of features and starfire, the white blur of warpspeed and it hurts –
  • Anakin Skywalker is the son of the Force, half human and half something extraordinary. There’s a reason the Jedi don’t like him, why Yoda mistrusts him; they all have to close their extra eyes around him; and even when they’re white-knuckled with effort, clamping down so the Force can’t so much as whisper to them (and that hurts Jedi, of course it does, it runs counter to all their training about opening up and trusting in the Force) and even then they still feel the velvet quiver of unseen limbs over their skin. 
  • And more. And worse. When he is angry – which is often – his shadow warps into something awful, and even the least Force-sensitive being quails at the profound wrongness of the sight. His features warp and melt, teeth spiralling out from his pupils, his mouth cracks open wide, his tongue growing scales and feathers and catching fire and he smiles, oh how he smiles and –
    • nothing like him should exist and
    • and you blink, lose the moment, he’s just a young man glowering at you, and his shadow is the same, but the memory of that horror is seared into the back of your brain.
  • It is no surprise that Padme dies in childbed. 
  • The first child’s cry makes Obi Wan’s bones rattle. It – you could not call it anything but an it – is a twisting, squirming mess of light and dark. There’s a wing, a thorned branch: you cannot focus on it. You cannot pin a shape to it. Obi Wan wants to run away, run and never look back. But the Med Droid is offering it to him; and it is a child, of a sort; and Obi Wan takes it, and it coalesces into a soft pink baby girl. He places it – her – against Padme’s white breast. Padme cradles it. “She’s beautiful.”
  • The second is just the same: pushed out like any human baby, but a roling mess of lightening and thick syrupy cloud, one moment tentacled and the next furred, pure power condensed. Obi Wan takes it in his arms and it solidifies into another fat baby, small and squalling. 
  • He’s not like the other babies, Luke Skywalker. He’s a funny one. When he smiles, you have the sudden absurd impulse that he’s got too many teeth for his face. His hair is corn-gold, but when you see it out of the corner of your eye you swear that it isn’t hair at all, but fire and teeth. Looking at him too long is like staring into the sun. 
  • The other children are scared of him, Behu says to Owen, once. And Owen says: children always know. And Behu says: he isn’t a bad kid. Owen says: he’s a wonder. And that’s the problem. 
  • Jabba’s goons go to the Lars farm to collect water once. Only once. They return to Jabba’s palace gibbering nonsense, with their eyes burned out. Both mumble something about there’s something wrong with the boy and then jump into the ragnar pit. 
  • Don’t do that again, says Owen, but he hugs his nephew all the same, pulls him close, kisses his temple. He feels something hot-cold run over his spine, like something far larger than the child is trying to embrace him back. That night, Behu runs her fingers over the new white scartissue on her husband’s back, and says, he’s a good kid. Owen says, I know.
  • If I was there I could have saved them, Luke says to Ben Kenobi, years later, and in that moment he has a thousand thousand eyes and all of them are burning, and he has no limbs but a dozen wings bearing him aloft, and each feather is molten gold and each feather drips blood. Ben thinks of Anakin, screws his Force-sensitivity closed. Luke is a monster. A wonder. But first and foremost he is a boy, and he is grieving. 
    • Ben Kenobi holds him while he weeps. 
  • When Leia comes, she turns into a celestial horror with more teeth than Han cares to count. “Huh,” he says, after their first time. She’s so little in his arms, but so vast. He feels something gentle his back. He says, “Next time, I’ll wear a blindfold, princess. Don’t want to blind me, do you? Then I won’t be able to see when you’re doing stupid shit.” She titters, presses her face into the curve of his neck. 
    • Love comes to everyone, including monsters. 
Growing up asexual

You are twelve and your best friend kisses you the day before moving away. He’s nervous and shy, and the kiss is soft, but there are no sparks and no butterflies in your stomach. You are left feeling weird and uncomfortable, like there’s something wrong with you.

You are thirteen and your classmates talk about their crushes and how much they want to kiss them. You listen from a corner but don’t join the conversation. You don’t have a crush on anyone, you wouldn’t want any of their mouthes close to yours, so you can’t add anything to it. One of them still turns around and asks you about your crush. No one believes you when you say no one. The next day there is a rumor that you love one of your friends.

You are fourteen and come back home to find your living room busy with relatives. You join them and for a while everything seems fine, everyone is talking about embarrasing moments, and telling funny stories, and saying lame jokes. But then one of your aunts smiles conspirationally and winks at the other adults, and starts questioning you.

“You must have a boyfriend, someone as pretty as you!” She beams, and everyone gathered agrees. “So tell us, who is your boyfriend? Who do you like?”

You try to laugh it off and get out, and feel uncomfortable about it all, but they keep asking and keep asking and so you say the first name that comes into your mind (because your classmates didn’t believe you and you almost lost a friend because of it). That satisfies them for now and they all commend you for your good taste. No one notices you slipping out of the room until much later, and they all think it’s because you’re a teen now.

(Not one of them thinks that maybe they made you uncomfortable. No one thinks that maybe you would rather not talk about things like this.)

You are fifteen and have resigned yourself to the feelings of isolation. Your friends talk about masturbating, about sex, about the hot people in the class. Your classmates still ask you who you are crushing on. Sometimes you say a random name, and sometimes you claim to be too busy with your homework to worry about love (which seems to be a good enough excuse), but in the privacy of your mind you still wonder.

You look at women, trying to feel any sort of attraction towards them. You even try kissing a friend, but you feel absolutely nothing. You conclude that you can’t be neither homosexual nor bisexual. The logical leap to this is that you must be hetero, since those are the only options.

You try to make yourself fall in love with a boy, then. You stare at the so-called cute boy of your class for hours, waiting for the magical spark to appear. You try to make yourself love a boy based on his clothing. You try to understand what the hell is it that people are talking about.

You waste days, weeks, months on this task. You never succeed.

You are sixteen and you know you are broken. People still ask you about love and sex and crushes, and you still lie for fear of being different, of being alienated, of feeling even more isolated than you already do. You know you will have to marry one day, because marriage is mandatory no matter what you feel. So you resign yourself to pretending, to keep up the act. You try and keep trying not to let it bother you, but the idea of sex, of marriage, of love, all of it makes your stomach churn. You try to pretend you aren’t broken, but you know you are.

You are seventeen when you first see the word asexual, somewhere on the internet. You end up looking that word up, and find a website dedicated to it. There are hundreds upon hundreds of comments in the forums, but you first read the FAQs.

‘Asexuality is not feeling sexual attraction’, you read out loud, barely a whisper, as something inside of you clicks. It makes sense. It makes sense but you ignore it, and convince yourself that you do feel it (because there was that boy you thought looked pretty and that girl you considered cute), and you think the only reason why you don’t really fall in love and want sex is because you are broken. You know this to be true.

You close all of the tabs related to that word. For the next weeks you pretend to never have found it, but it’s always at the back of your mind.

(It’s a chance of being whole, your mind whispers, and you deny it because you are normal. You’ve been trying to be normal for so many years and you must be, have to be, will be…)

Asexuality fits with your life. You are broken, but maybe you aren’t alone.

You are eighteen, and you are more informed now. You have accepted that you are asexual (ace, as the community calls it), and you are somehow much happier now. You know you aren’t broken, now. You know this is an option that was never presented to you before.

You finally come out to your family, feeling safe and secure and confident in your knowledge. Your family laughs. They say that asexuality doesn’t exist, that it’s impossible not to feel sexual attraction. They tell you that you are too young, that you’ll find the right person, not to worry, as if your biggest worry was to not fall in love, instead of not succeding in life. They act like idiots and apologize when it’s too late, and even as you accept their apologies your mind keeps whispering (but what if they are right, what if it’s true, what if you are too young, what if you are faking it, what if, what if)

Your family refers to asexuality as 'that thing’, and they never ask you questions about it. It becomes an unspoken thing. Something that must never be talked about.

Sometimes you feel like crying, but you don’t really know why.

You are nineteen when you come out to your friends. You have put a wall around the fiasco with your family, and you explain everything to them. Your friends are open-minded about it and agree that it fits with your behaviour. They ask you questions and joke about it, but always make sure not to be offensive. You smile all thorought the afternoon, and even once you get home.

A few weeks later one of your friends tells you they are terrified of the idea of being like you, or becoming like you. They say, with concern and real worry in their eyes, that they wouldn’t be able to live a life like yours, so uninteresting, so lonely. You tell them not to worry and don’t even cry about it. But there is a heavy feeling in your chest and a knot in your throat.

You are twenty and the world exhaustes you sometimes. You get tired of watching sex and romance be such an important part of the plots of your favourite movies and TV shows. You are tired of being told in very subtle ways that your orientation isn’t valid. You are tired of the looming threat of corrective rape, of people who hate on you for your sexuality, of stupid jokes and stupid tropes. You are tired of them all.

But you are also twenty and understand that you aren’t broken. You know you aren’t alone. So you wear your ace ring with pride and wear the colors of the flag during the awareness week, and are ready to talk about it with anyone who listens. You are tired of being silenced, so you will yell until you get hoarse if that’s what it takes for the world to listen.

You are twenty, and you accept yourself, and even if things get rough, they can also get better.

Hi, Merle. Got a minute?

🌟old movies renamed🌟
  • <b> rear window: the boy who cried murder<p/><b>an american in paris:</b> i guess we should add some singing to all of these dance numbers<p/><b>the philadelphia story:</b> i want you back, i want you back🎵<p/><b>how to steal a million:</b> gullibility and sarcasm fall in love and steal a dinky statue<p/><b>cabaret:</b> drag and scandalous dances in WWII<p/><b>the sound of music:</b> where a kid can be a kid (and fucking sing like a normal child)<p/><b>bringing up baby:</b> can we keep him? please?<p/><b>seven brides for seven brothers:</b> abduction cause its romantic<p/><b>singing in the rain:</b> good morning🍊🎵there are 16 oranges in every tropicana pure premiu-<p/><b>it's a wonderful life:</b> a cute old man fixes jimmy stewart's many problems<p/><b>the shop around the corner:</b> we're better staying pen pals than actually dating<p/><b>breakfast at tiffany's:</b> she's lowkey a psycho but it's all about love and cats anyway<p/><b>roman holiday:</b> tomboy princess takes a day off and then has to face reality again<p/><b>star!:</b> gertie get your shit together<p/><b>my fair lady:</b> men are snobs and the english have a social system based on speech<p/><b>sabrina:</b> you got hurt and couldn't go on dates with me so i dated your brother instead<p/><b>thoroughly modern millie:</b> everyone is extra and there are white people who play asian people and horrible sex trafficking but it's okay because carol channing<p/><b>west side story:</b> why the fuck do you love him after he literally murdered your brother oh well he died so who cares anyway<p/><b>harvey:</b> polite and innocent man is a bit loopy so everyone tries to lock him up<p/><b>gone with the wind:</b> you don't love me?!?! but you gotta, i guess i'll marry all of the south to make you jealous<p/><b>casablanca:</b> paris and kids being looked at<p/><b>the african queen:</b> oh we almost died but we didn't so let's kiss and build a torpedo from scratch<p/><b>on golden pond:</b> where everyone won best actor/actress and 74 year old katharine hepburn did her own fucking stunts<p/><b>annie get your gun:</b> frank butler is a fucking selfish wienie<p/><b>lawrence of arabia:</b> nice, noble man goes crazy over the course of 4 hours<p/><b>the wizard of oz:</b> everything magical and good in the world is a hoax, kids<p/><b>cinderella:</b> cinderelly, cinderelly, we're woodland creatures providing comical pastime<p/><b>snow white:</b> practice makes perfect, disney, because this movie was on drugs<p/><b>sleeping beauty:</b> let's take a story about rape and make it for kids but then add unrealistic body types<p/><b>gold finger:</b> look it's the german villain from chitty chitty bang bang in a bond movie<p/><b>chitty chitty bang bang:</b> this movie was also on drugs but it's still great<p/><b>funny face:</b> audrey and fred in france<p/><b>🌟i love all these movies so much so don't get your panties in a wad it's a joke:</b> <p/></p>

So what if those two boys from Columbus didn’t take a chance? What if they looked at the path in front of them, and turned back. What if Tyler’s dream of music stayed just that: a dream. 

Where would we find them, if none of this had happened?

Would Tyler just be the boy that checked out your groceries? Would we find him living out his life in Columbus, barely scraping by, hanging onto the last remaining threads of a dream he once had. Would we find him awake late at night, unable to get a melody out of his head, but insisting to himself that “i need to sleep, i have work tomorrow.” Would we find him married and happy, but constantly wondering “is there more to this. Is there something more I could do.” Would we find his notebooks filled with unsung song lyrics: bits and pieces of Addict with a Pen, Goner, Ode to Sleep, strewn out in phrases, ideas, and sketches. Bits of songs that were never given the chance to materialize into something more. 

Would we find Josh working behind the counter of a drum store. Would there be pages of drum and drumstick sketches beneath the cash register: ideas for his own designs back when he had almost enough money to make it happen. Would we hear the jangle of a bell as a young boy comes in, and finds Josh, the most tattooed man in the store. And just like young Josh, would the boy come in and sit down at the drums, immediately transported to a concert as he closes his eyes and invents the beat. Would we find Josh glancing over the live concerts playing on the tv, wondering if maybe that could have been him. If only he had taken the leap. If only he had taken the chance. If only his voice didn’t give way, if only his knees didn’t buckle at the very thought of being on stage. Would he go home to a loving family, and tell himself “I am content.” Would we find him staring at the pink sky as it fades into night, desperately wishing he could articulate the feeling the world gives him. Desperately wishing someone could understand the art that floods his mind.

Or maybe we wouldn’t find them at all.

tamika flynn is a lesbean

proof:

  • books
  • always ready to fight the good fight
  •  is absolutely adorable 
  • her story about her friend chesca, “the baddest book loving girl there ever was, she’s so smart and talented! i love her, she’s just the best!”, in ghost stories
  • “tamika you’re the best!”
  • .

Tom: Shit.. I’m going to regret this at some point, aren’t I?

Edd: One second!

Edd: You, uh.. you feeling better, or..?

Tom: L-look man, I- I feel really bad about yelling and breaking down before and I know you’re probably mad and I-

Edd: Tom, no, it’s alright! You don’t have to apologize, I get it-

Tom: DATE ME

Tom: I just really like you and it’s been hard recently and I-

Edd: I’ll- uhm.. meet you out here in 5, that alright?

The8 pulling Jun back to make way for Seungkwan.

hello it’s me again, there’s this musical called “daddy long legs” which if you haven’t heard of it already, go look it up asap

Can’t Sleep Without You

a/n: Not requested, but something that just popped into my head. A lot of stress and not enough sleep makes me want Shawn in my life so much. 

Masterlist

~~~

It has been a few weeks since your last solid night’s sleep. You honestly are not really sure what has been going on with you or why you haven’t been able to sleep well. You’ve spent so many nights tossing and turning in bed, unable to get a peaceful rest, but then the morning comes and you practically feel like a zombie. These last four days have been the worst, and it doesn’t help that you’re in the middle of midterms so you have a lot of exams and presentations. For some reason, no matter how tired you are, you just can’t sleep well when night comes. It could be due to stress, since these last few weeks have been uncharacteristically stressful, or because you’re missing your boyfriend who you haven’t seen in a month, and you’re just tired of having to sleep without him every night. 

The one good thing that has come out of the fact that you haven’t been sleeping more than a few hours a night for the past four days is that you’ve been awake to text your boyfriend whenever he has a free minute. He’s off traveling in Europe for work so the time difference is pretty big considering you’re in LA. Normally this would mean you barely get to talk to him much, since you’re both so busy. However, every night this week, Shawn’s texted you at about three in the morning LA time because that is when he’s been free, and you’ve been able to respond because you’ve been awake. He, of course, questions why you’re awake in the middle of the night, but you’re unable to offer him much of an explanation because you’re never quite sure yourself, considering you’re so exhausted, but yet sleep won’t come.

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“Let me teach you how to seduce my best friend so you can make them happy” turned out to be the worst idea that they had ever had. At least their best friend was happy. 

Without them.

Sometimes I close my eyes and let myself think about what would’ve happened to me if we’d never met. In that blackness of about ten seconds, I see a me who maybe smiles a little more. Maybe her laughs are still light enough to float and she still has legs that race her down the stairs. But she isn’t better than who I’ve become.
—  🖤

The Night Sky is Changing Overhead by Lis (domesticharry) [ @domestic-harry], 124k

“Look, I really don’t have time for this, I’m running late. And this,” he said before he took a sip from the cup, “Is mine.”

Harry’s jaw dropped and he held his hands out, failing them slightly, “Wha-you can’t just drink it!”

“Well I did, so, do you still want it or can I be on my way?” The man challenged.

Harry shook his head disbelievingly, “Take it, but for the record, it says Harry on it.”

The man turned the cup around and a sharp laugh came out of his mouth, “Well, shit.” He looked at Harry, a smile stretched across his face as crinkles formed next to his eyes. “Thanks, Harry.”

OR, Harry is a tattoo artist, Louis is a drama professor, and they meet during an argument at a café.