who ever wants to reply


windona  asked:

I saw your answer to someone's 'Obi-Wan raising Luke' prompt, and that just got me thinking; Anakin probably makes sure not to raise his kids like Jedi at all in universes he never went Sith. Just thinking from the worldbuilding I did for my sandswept timeline/verse, but I always picture Anakin as initially rebuilding himself after Empire Day, and maybe teaching the kids about their powers but teaching Jedi philosophy more like we teach Kant or Nietzsche than a way of life.

Yeah, completely agreed.

The thing is, I honestly can’t imagine any scenario where Anakin could reject the Dark Side without also rejecting the Jedi.

Maybe that sounds strange - certainly it would sound strange to a Jedi, especially a True Believer like Obi-Wan, who sees the Jedi and the Dark Side as fundamentally opposite, so much so that I think he’d have a very hard time imagining anyone rejecting one without simultaneously choosing the other.

But for Anakin it’s very different.

If we’re imagining a world where Anakin never fell to the Dark Side, then really what we’re imagining is a world where Anakin found healthy ways of coping with and integrating his emotions and his trauma.

And I don’t think there’s any way he could do that as a Jedi. In fact being a Jedi is actively detrimental to his ability to do that.

But if we assume that he did find some way of achieving wholeness, then that means not only that he’s probably left the Jedi, but also that he must have realized how damaging the Jedi philosophy was for him.

So yeah. I can’t imagine an Anakin who didn’t turn to the Dark Side ever raising his kids with the traditions of the Jedi Order.

Teaching them about the Force? Sure. Even teaching them to defend themselves (especially if this is an AU where Anakin didn’t turn but the Empire still happened). But teaching them to be Jedi, in any sense that Yoda or Mace Windu or Obi-Wan would understand? No, definitely not.

anonymous asked:

I might be delusional [glares at last anon] but I feel like most of the people rooting for a s4/movie are Hannigram shippers, or at least people that aren't anti-Hannigram and/or enjoy their interactions. Part of me can't believe that Bryan and Co. would alienate such a huge part of their fanbase by doing away with Will for Clarice. Plus, show!Hannibal is WAY more invested in Will than book/movie!Hannibal was w/ Clarice, imo. I just don't see him getting over Will and moving on in this universe.

I don’t think Hannibal would get over Will very easily either. I mean, we’ve seen repeatedly Hannibal’s reaction to losing Will in different situations. 

When Hannibal thought Tobias killed Will, Hannibal was faced with genuine feelings and realizations of oh boy I actually care for that man more than I thought and went on to release his inner murderator with a little more rage than he was prepared to have. (should we say, passion?) And the aftermath? Where Will ends up being alive? Hannibal reacts with genuine vulnerability. His future-boyfriend is alive and he’s never felt this sort of relief wash over him in his life.

When Will was imprisoned for longer than Hannibal had planned, Hannibal was decidedly depressed about it and looked at Will with the the kind of pleading a sad puppy does after eating their owner’s favorite shoe and really just wants him to love him again.

When Hannibal guts Will? This attempt at scrubbing the slate clean, leaving it all, an attempted goodbye? Hannibal is crying. He’s crying and he cradles Will to him and his plan has backfired to all hell and he still loves this dog-nerd.

Mason about to take Will’s face. His face. His beautiful Will face. Hannibal goes on what will be known as a protective rampage because no pig like Mason gets to touch a single damn hair on Will’s head. Fuck that noise. And then he carries his bride boyfriend murder-buddy love of his life through the freezing snow and puts him to bed like the best kind of husband ever. And of course Will being Will has to make things difficult and reject Hannibal while looking like the coziest and fluffiest puppy ever, making Hannibal look like his heart has literally been ripped in two.

Then we have Hannibal waiting for three goddamn years, having to deal with his ex-girlfriend and Chilton. Hell, in other words.

And when Dolarhyde is supposedly dead? And Will has no reason to keep coming to see Hannibal? Hannibal doesn’t even bother trying to hide how vulnerable he is, how much he wants Will to think of him after this.

Hannibal without Will is a sad cannibal.

Interaction Call

I always went to send people memes and random asks but I never know if it’s ok, so by liking/replying to this you’re letting me

  • send you memes
  • send you asks
  • tag you in posts/memes
  • send you IMs
  • make you moodboards/graphics
  • basically whatever and whenever
.text // Anonymous
  • LT: I've been thinking, and I've decided I want a kid.

anonymous asked:

Minho is so beautiful. i'm suffering




Originally posted by mintokkies






maybe it’s

just me

maybe ://

anonymous asked:

You are making sans suffer. How dare you. He won't ever trust you to not reset now no matter what.

i am fully aware of this…

pyrrhiccomedy  asked:

Can you explain the symbolism in that the-advisors-as-Renaissance-paintings fan art?


Okay we are talking about this DAI fanart right here, for those of you playing along at home. Caution: this got humiliatingly long.


The artist says they were inspired by an angel in a fresco, which lines up ideally with Leliana’s position as the left hand of the Divine. Like angels in the Christian tradition, she is an unseen presence, a messenger and eyes upon the earth, but her hands are clasped, as opposed to the more common angelic gesture of the hands crossed over the breast in humility and acceptance. Here Leliana holds an attitude of searching prayer, pensive, her gaze turned inward. Her pose denotes spiritual action, not spiritual submission, and her peacock wings drive the point home.

Thanks in large part to classical influence, many angels (including the archangel Michael) were often depicted with the feathers of a peacock. This served two symbolic functions: first, the “eyes” remind us of God’s plan and foresight, and reassure us that what is meant to be will be. We will become what we were meant to become. For Leliana, this is simultaneously a promise and a threat, and may be why the skeletal hands at the bottom of the frame seem especially interested in her wings. There’s a tension in that: the bodies wouldn’t be there if it weren’t for her; and surely she wouldn’t have put them there if she wasn’t the person she thinks she is.

The second function of the peacock feathers is to call back to particularly medieval beliefs about the bird. Both Augustine and Pliny describe the peacock’s flesh as being resistant to decay, and difficult to chew. They found a moral in this: wisdom (and the minds of those who have worked to attain it) isn’t easily destroyed. Leliana’s knowledge didn’t come to her easily, and she often suffered as a result of her relationships with her mentors. But the lessons she learned weren’t in vain, and like the medieval peacock, even fire and boiling water won’t take them from her.

The flowers in her hands are trumpet lilies, and the pale pink probably symbolises devotion; the roses at her back are a convenient Renaissance shorthand for the world itself, guided by God, watched over by two of her ravens. Arrows in her palms represent quick action, clarity of thought, and you know. A woman who’s good at killing things with arrows.


Easily the most overtly religious of the bunch, despite our angel Leliana. He’s given to us as a warrior, and one who’s seen victory, thanks to the laurel leaves crowning his halo, but his sword is at rest, propped against his arm. This isn’t an attitude we would see in a Renaissance portrait of a soldier, but the hilt of the sword points us in a spiritual direction. Only a fraction of the blade is in the picture, leaving us with the crossbar, and the templar sigil on his forearm, draped over it. There’s a suggestion of crucifixion in this gesture, much like we find in images of saints, as holy men and women indicate the instruments of their pain. It asks us to imagine the commander as a man suffering, although not outwardly.

But there’s hope, thanks to the reappearance of the roses. There are fewer of them, more vines than blooms, but symbolically speaking, despite his separation from the Templars, there’s still a divine presence in Cullen’s life, one with a plan.

The lyrium is the center of this picture, however, and the attribute with the clearest connotations. Because yes, it’s absolutely lyrium, the weight on Cullen’s back that’s dragging him down. But in the context of the Italian Renaissance, it’s also water, living water, one of the most powerful symbols in all western art. In the gospel of John, Jesus tells the Samaritan woman at the well that whoever drinks the water inside will thirst again, but she has only to look to him for water that will quench her forever. The promise of lyrium has held the templars captive for centuries, and it’s their curse that they’re always parched for more. Here we see Cullen refusing that fate, possibly for something that will finally satisfy his soul, if he can just step forward and accept it.


The only one where I recognize the source. Parts of it are almost certainly inspired by Bronzino’s Venus, Cupid, Folly and Time, a weird-ass painting about…something, no one can agree what. Still, the elements that made it into this image are perfect for Josie.

The roses are back again, completing the triptych, and creating a clear line through each of the advisors to the sacred mission of the Inquisition. Josie’s roses, however, are practically hidden, obscured by the cloaks and hoods and shadows of the people standing behind her. Bronzino’s painting raises questions of deceit in appearances, and how time itself can change a story as completely as any lie. No one knows this better than Josie, who sits gazing directly out of the frame, poised and at perfect ease, despite the knife at her back. She’s the only one unmasked, which places her not as a naif, but as a woman who can leave off her pretenses at will. Her disguise is intended for a masquerade, not a carnival; she doesn’t become someone else, she simply hides herself in a room full of others who are doing the same.

But the mask is not her primary attribute in this picture. It’s her quill. Pens were made of goose feathers throughout the Middle Ages and well into the Renaissance, and despite the goose’s modern reputation as kind of an idiot, Josie’s use of one of its feathers speaks volumes. Seventh century scholar and saint Isidore of Seville described the goose as the most prudent of all birds, whose keen sense of smell guards the flock from danger. They were creatures of community, in both medieval and Renaissance thought, who looked out for their fellows with sagacity and a keen instinct for a man’s bad reputation. A goose knows when you fuck up. A goose hears about it. Sound familiar?

So yeah. In closing, I am so goddamn impressed by this artist I want to get on a plane, go to their house, knock on the door and shake their hand. Nice work.

Whereabouts Unknown || Closed Starter

He was ready as he will ever be. The Mirran Greatsword was sharpened, the lightning-imbued rapier hung on his belt next to his dirk, and his old round shield was gripped loosely in Samuel’s left hand. The shield was discarded and left in the shop for a long time now; the Mirran relied on his speed and fire to protect him from blows, but now he can not afford to take chances. A mistake or death could cost him days, days he could not lose.

They were leaving this evening, and Samuel knew that the time to depart was near. Staring out towards the setting sun, he tested a few practice swings with the familiar blade before securing it on his back. His wounds have mostly healed thanks to the fire and Rosalind’s handy work; the cuts on his back were gone, and the gash on his arm was now only a thin scar. Perhaps it would have healed more if he stayed at the bonfire, but Samuel had to prepare for the trip, packing his bag with lifegems, bow and arrows, torches, and some food and poison moss. They were heading into unknown territory, and he had to be ready for anything. Samuel already took mental notes of where Marie could have been taken. She couldn’t have been taken towards the Wharf, as I would have seen her, and so would have Rosalind if she was taken towards the Copse because that’s where she said Jarrod and her was the night she was attacked. All that’s left is towards Tseldora and Majula’s Pit. It has to be Tseldora and the Forked Path unless she was thrown down; and then….

The Mirran broke his train of thought as he heard footsteps behind him. Turning to face the pair, Samuel gave them a blank stare, devoid of the strong cocktail of emotions that he was displaying only a few hours before. “We should leave now if we want at least some daylight.”

Trouble With The Help (3/3)

Tenth Doctor, Rose Tyler
After Rose is rejected by her first love, she avoids going home, instead finding her own place in the world and society.  But when illness brings her back home, she faces a very different John Smith.
Based on this prompt by the lovely kaynibbler16 (via her Doctor x Rose blog)—with a few adjustments.
Thanks bunches to lotsofthinkythoughts for looking this over for me.
Catch up here or on AO3

Rose ordered Adam back to London the day after the party at the Reynolds. She promised it had nothing to do with John or Adam’s apparent lack of concern for her welfare, just that she had decided to take the prescription for rest seriously.  He still seemed doubtful; in truth, Rose wasn’t entirely sure of her own words, but stayed firm, telling him to get back to his job and friends and that she’d call him when she was back in town and feeling better.

John made an absurdly insincere attempt at sympathy when she shared this news with the family.

“Probably for the best,” he claimed.  "After all, I’m sure his classmates at secondary were missing him.“

Rose rolled her eyes at his unapologetic grin while her father choked on his soup.

Despite this, she and John reached a tenuous sort of truce.  She stopped actively avoiding him, because it actually seemed to take more energy than she had, and although things weren’t easy between them like they’d been years ago, they at least managed to be civil most of the time.  After half a decade apart, she reasoned that this was probably the best she could hope for. And she was fine with that… So long as she could keep herself from thinking about how concerned and protective he’d been at the party, or how good his arm had felt around her in the car afterwards.

Keep reading

duchessblack  asked:

Hannibal is a top billed burlesque performer at a high class but still seedy social club and Will is beat cop who's obsessed with him. :)

There was a ghost on stage. It was draped from crown to toes in thin sheets of something pale and thin. Silk, maybe. The lower edges of it shifted in the warm currents of air from the footlights.

Will and his partner had been called in to deal with a young woman caught dealing in the club toilets. Friday night, and it was their tenth callout in two hours. But he paused as he followed them out to the squad car, his attention caught by the eerie effect of the figure on stage. Burlesque was supposed to involve more lace and boas and arch looks, he was sure. Instead, there was a blank-faced apparition lit by a single dramatic beam. Head, arms, torso, everything was covered.

The figure on stage moved, suddenly, furiously, a pirouette and a vast leap, and then launched into dance. The layers of silk flattened against wide shoulders and a flat chest, the taut curve of a thigh, the line of a penis. Will realised the point of the silk. It covered everything but hid nothing. Secrecy was maintained behind a mask so thin it was almost not there.

He lost track of time, watching the man move. Each twist and turn held the promise of brutal power, and it drew him. Fleetingly, he saw a slice of bare skin as a sheet of silk lifted, ribs strong and moulded. He stepped closer, unthinking.

“You need any more help, officer?” One of the bouncers formed a wall at his elbow.

“No. Who’s the performer?”

“That’s the owner,” the man said. “Mr Lecter.” He wore a lemon yellow suit and an air of weariness, and topped Will by a shock of curly hair. “Used to be a ballet dancer, I heard, with some big-name troupe in Europe.”

“You heard? So you don’t know?”

“He’s a private man. He doesn’t do chitchat. You going to need to talk to him?”

“Maybe,” Will lied, his gaze pulled back to the dance. The audience was silent, voices hushed. They were as wound up in it as Will.

“He’s dancing every night for seven nights.”

Will could hear the scuff and faint thud of Lecter’s steps on the stage, the only clue to his exertion. “Do the veils ever come off?”

“Who knows? Do you want them to?”

Will couldn’t reply. He knew the answer to his own question. The veils would come off. First the feet, then the thighs, torso, arms, and finally the head. He knew it instinctively. The man on stage would finally be naked.

They’d caution the girl for a minor infraction. Will didn’t need to come back. But he already knew he would.