Since there is Important Bee Discourse going on today, my favorite snippet about Napoleon’s use of bees as Imagery:
- during his first run as Emperor, Napoleon had a carpet in the Tuileries with bees embroidered on it -when he got chased out, women at the palace embroidered over the bees with little Bourbon lilies - when he came BACK during the 100 Days, other women picked out the lily embroidery so the bees were visible again - somehow all this made more sense than just throwing out the carpet
I love the Anastasia album, in it’s perfection, but I’m also a bit upset they didn’t record ‘Traveling Sequence’ (“the princess Anastasia - is running out of time/alive or dead, it’s up to you”) while the trio is running on foot to Paris that goes right into Still, did anyone else notice that? That part was hilarious and one of my favorite little snippets of the show.
It’s funny because the 2 songs that I thought probably would be my favorite.. we get snippets.. and I was right. :p When The World Was At War We Just Kept Dancing and Tomorrow Never Came.. I’m serious Tomorrow Never Came gives me goosebumps every single time.. like it makes me so nostalgic I could cry.
Sure thing!! I think these are supposed to be about my fics?? So hopefully I answer these correctly…
1. What is your favorite fic you have under your belt?
Definitely Fruitless! I haven’t worked so hard on a fic ever and it really paid off because over a year later and I’m still getting comments and kudos. It is my brain child
What is your favorite snippet of dialogue?
My favorite snippet of dialogue actually comes from a future chapter of my new BokuAka fic Untucking. It’s one of the quotes that I built the entire fic on and it just… makes my day. I’m not going to post it here because I don’t want it to be taken from me but it has to do with a pearl necklace ;)
4. do you prefer writing long or short fics?
Well considering I can’t write a short fic to save my life I’ll go with a long fic :-)))
What’s a fanfic idea you haven’t done yet?
I really love fake dating AUs and I would love to do one!!! I just don’t know what ship. Also I would love to do a fic where a character discovers their sexuality, whether they be gay, bi, pan, ace, etc etc
It’s funny because people attack Louis’ voice because they aren’t smart enough to hear how beautiful it is. He doesn’t sound like every other person out there, his voice is special, it’s unique, it stands out.
Voices like Louis’ are rare in the music world. His rasp, his gentle tone, his crystal clear diction, he has something that not a lot of other artists have. He’s distinguishable, once you know which one is his you can always pick him out.
He is kind, generous, sassy, precious, sweet, and a damn good vocalist. And anyone who thinks otherwise needs a hearing check and a MRI.
A couple of my favorite snippets. There are SO many.
This is during the scene about the size of Illyrian wings..
I blindly reached again….and dared to run a fingertip along some inner edge.
Rhysand shuddered, a soft groan slipping past my ear. “That,” he said tightly, “ is very sensitive.”
After they mated..
“She saved his sorry ass is more like it,” Mor said, filling her glass of wine. “Poor little Rhys got himself in a bind.”
I held out my own glass for Mor to fill. “ He does need unusual amounts of coddling.”. Azriel choked on his wine….
Think pink, and yellow, and stars. Think eyes like lightning, hair like gold. Think of her lips, think of her hips, of the way she looked so earnest when she said the word “forever”.
Think heat, and love.
Think of the girl she might’ve been, had the universe been cruel enough or kind enough to let her stay with him.
What’s left after war? What happens to the girl who sees them all?
She arrives in time for the battles, gun raised, heart heavy. She kills and she maims, charms with her wit and her smile – they can still think ‘innocence’ when they look at it, for some reason, can’t see the dust on her tongue, only the illusion of light that spills past her teeth.
She thinks of someone who might’ve noticed, once. He wouldn’t have said anything, of course, but he would have noticed – would have made her tea or taken her hand and they would’ve flown to Barcelona, danced around constellations, like nothing mattered except for them, because as far as they were concerned that’s exactly how it was.
What is left after the war is won?
It’s a trick question. There are no winners, she doesn’t think – only fame, only recognition, only songs and death soaking the streets. His eyes follow her from the shadows, and she can’t help but wonder what he’d think of her if he saw her now.
He’d probably be ill, she thinks, and keeps marching.
Shadows. Guilt. Rage. Some deep, trembling sadness. Like death, but not. Not entirely.
She feels so see-through, though; how can she not be dead? She walks like she’s on her way to the execution block, convinces herself that everyone can see it all, can see every piece of her. Every emotion, every sin, everything, everything, everything.
The blood under her fingernails turns her hands into lead. The sky over her head is boiling, such an angry shade of orange and red – like the gods themselves are condemning her. She craves comfort, craves home, craves a little-big wooden box spiraling through the vortex.
She craves the bed they used to share, snuggled up beneath the sheets with him wrapped around her. She craves his hands in her hair, his lips at her nape, murmuring things he’d never dare say out loud; not when he knows she’s awake and listening.
She’ll stay up in the middle of the night and cry, sometimes. She knows she’s nothing to feel sorry over. Plenty of people have it worse, and plenty more are a hell of a lot more innocent than she is. She knows. She’s seen it. She’s not nearly naïve enough to think that Hell isn’t real, not anymore.
She hears the more overly-religious inhabitants of Amea IX murmur about gods and angels.
“You want to be merciful,” one of them says, an old woman with rheumy eyes and good intentions, “I can see it in your eyes. You want to be merciful, my love.”
I want to be merciful, she thinks, and bites her cheek so hard it bleeds, to keep from laughing. It sounds nice. Righteous to the extreme, maybe – or valorous. Like she’s trying to justify to herself she’s more than she is, she’s better than what she’s showing the world. It sounds nice, like penance. Or absolution.
(honestly, it sounds like an excuse.)
She sees him on a torn-apart street in her proper universe, and the smile that comes to life on her lips is the truest thing she’s shown in four, five, six years in the making. Her legs move, converse slapping across the pavement, and looking at him, at the unbridled joy on his face, she can almost believe that this is where it can end.
She can believe they are more fairytale than myth; she can believe that this is the way it will close. Running and the swell of emotion, ending in collision – a hug, a kiss, right there in the middle of the end of the world.
Think of the swell of emotion in the center of her soul; think of the near-misses, countless years that have been lost to the ages, lost to even Torchwood, years of her crossing from one parallel into the next. Think of the way she must have felt when she sees him for the first time in a near-decade.
Think of the way she must’ve banked on forever, of the countless nights she’d spent staring at the sky, dreaming of the universe they used to share. Think of the future so tangible she could nearly taste it, the man so close she could almost touch him. Think of the Dalek. Think of green lights and gold lights, and a girl too good to be doing things so bad.
Think fingers, reaching.
Think yearning. Think of a woman who’d waded into countless wars, who’d fought to return to a world once lost. Think of that. Now think of the man she loved.
Think of him.
Think kisses and a wind-whipped beach. Think uncertainty. Think of broken hearts. Think stay. Think please.