Jan. 4th, 2017

via http://ift.tt/2ixcXSV:magickedteacup replied to your photo “¦ why do my cat’s hindquarters smell like coffee?”

Wow lol



Mostly, of the two of us, i am the less-fastidious, but I don’t WIPE FOOD OFF MY FACE ONTO OUR CAT. I do not use our sweet precious fur baby as a goddamn napkin. Come on.

He does not deny it, which is possibly the worst part.
via http://ift.tt/2i89Wp6:aimmyarrowshigh replied to your post “aimmyarrowshigh replied to your post “aimmyarrowshigh replied to…”



OH WAIT although squick warning: towards the beginning he eats a scorpion (it’s teeny and you can’t really see anything) and a grasshopper taco (which you can see) so if you’re like, an IOTA more squeamish about insects than i am (which is HARD TO BE) then maybe don’t

OH MY GOD This interview is AMAZING. 

So the mescal I bought for my dude actually has a scorpion in it, and also the new taco place downtown offers crickets as a topping, so– I have not eaten them, but dude has (he says they just taste sort of weirdly crunchy), so that part didn’t bug me, except like holy shit he just LOADED that tortilla with grasshoppers, I had no idea you’d eat them in such quantity, I figured they were like a garnish but no, they were the entire contents of that tortilla.

Anyway. What a sweet funny contrary little fucker he is. (I keep jokingly talking about him being teeny but he isn’t that little! He’s like five ten, he’s not actually pocket-sized. I mean, I could probably carry him around bridal-style, but. I mean, I wouldn’t. Unless I suppose there were some pressing reason.)

I haven’t decided if I’d eat the crickets. I mean, I probably will at some point. I’m not a very squeamish person, except about some illogical things. It only just occurred to me yesterday that maybe I should have some alternate plan so that if people don’t want to read the excruciatingly detailed description of chicken evisceration in my next fic they can still get the plot points and skip the loving description of the textures of various organs. I was in, like, final edits when I put that bit of logic together. Riiiiiiight, that shit bothers people. (Mostly the part that still bothers me is the smell, so I was sort of thinking, like, eh, the smell won’t come through on the page, how could this be offensive? I forget how to person sometimes.)

My favorite part of the video though was when he was like, clearly nervous that she was going to just knock the mescal back without tasting it. It must have been pretty fancy. He was like can you even taste this. LOL. I have been there, my friend. Also now I want some of that!! My local enormous liquor store (biggest in NY State) only has like, four kinds of mescal.
via http://ift.tt/2ixot0H:
They treated her like a curious pet for the first few weeks. Something to be petted and fed scraps from the table, taken on walks through the warfront. (She made a good distraction; not even stormtroopers thought to question a woman and her child on their way to market, even when it was to meet with a weapons supplier.) Jerhon tried to brush her hair once—though Jyn had bitten his hand the minute he reached for one of her long plaits. 

He’d overreacted, in her opinion; screeching curses and demanding to know if humans were poisonous. “She’s a fighter, Jerhon,” Saw had laughed, and Jyn had smiled, just a little. “Don’t blame a manka cat for turning on you after you poke it with a stick.”

Afterwards, Saw made her a cup of l’allach to wash the salty taste of trandoshan blood out of her mouth. “My mother did my hair like this,” Jyn said quietly, when he placed the cup in front of her.

“I know, little cat,” Saw had said, and he had rested his huge hand on the top of her head. He kept it there, heavy and warm and solid, even when she started to cry.

After the first few weeks, they put a blaster in her hands, and that was the end of that.


She was the only one allowed to help Saw into his armor every morning. (She’d begged, and he’d agreed, smiling indulgently.) He was patient as her clumsy child’s hands struggled with the straps and catches—“Slow down, little cat,” he would say, his voice low and raspy, and Jyn would go hot, embarrassed. “I’m in no hurry. Take your good time.”

Jyn slept beside him for years, curved into the bulwark his body made against the darkness.


They didn’t call themselves the Partisans. They didn’t call themselves anything, really—Saw Gerrera’s people, maybe, when they had to pick a designation, differentiate themselves from the resistance movements they were supporting. It was everyone else who called them names, ‘Partisans’ being among the nicer of them. (Jyn had always liked ‘rebs’. She heard it in cantinas, once she was old enough to get into cantinas—a toast, to the rebs! slurred by Imperial officers who were still breaking in their boots, young and shockingly blind when it came to Jyn picking their pockets.

Of course by that point, she wasn’t a reb anymore, so what did it matter?)

If she had been older—though there’s an upper limit to how old Jyn Erso will get, the end of her life’s thread scorched with green fire—if she had been older, she would have pushed for something better than ‘partisan’. 

It wasn’t earthen enough, there wasn’t enough blood, not for Saw Gererra and his warrior band. ‘Partisan’ sounded like one of the grand old Republican parties, like the Trade Federation—not a handful of hungry hard-scrabble fighters, who could teach you how to short-circuit trooper speeders and rig transceivers out of spare wire; who had no qualms about torching distribution centers or firebombing Imperial officers’ quarters.

‘Partisans’ wouldn’t have sewn an infra-mapping chip into the lining of a little girl’s robe, and taught her how to cry on cue. They wouldn’t have sent her into a training base, thick with stormtroopers, to wander around sobbing for her father, taking advantage of soft-hearted Imps to fully map the facility.

(Jyn can’t imagine the vaunted Alliance doing that, at least until she meets Cassian. It stings, somehow, inexplicably. She’d thought that she was special.)

None of Saw’s people were ever going home again. She wasn’t even sure which worlds some of them called home, if they had planets to return to. (There were some questions you couldn’t ask.) None of them could afford politics, at least not in the way the Alliance could—Jyn had lost count of how many times she’d watched Saw through grimy cantina viewports, speaking to a handful of sentients around a table, all of them nodding, serious. 

The words she read off his lips weren’t ‘freedom’, or ‘democracy’.

She wasn’t old enough to question it, though. She was sixteen when Saw put a knife in her right hand and a blaster in her left, and looked at her for a long moment, like he was memorizing her face. But she had trusted him, and thought nothing of it, because—well, every time they parted was treated like the last. (A self-fulfilling prophecy: at some point, it would be.)

But she woke up alone the next morning. She wasn’t Saw Gerrera’s people anymore.


Sometimes, when she’s lying in her bunk in the prison camp, she shuts her eyes, pretends she’s back on—but that part doesn’t matter. Some backwater planet, a nameless moon. One of the wild places they’d stop for cover, under purple-green trees. Their bed rolls in a circle around the fire; Saw wheezing with laughter as Shyentha acted out a holodrama she’d seen five years before, forgetting what came next. Jerhon shouting out absurd suggestions, which got progressively filthier until Jyn was blushing and Cerarr told him to shut off. One of them would insult the other’s blood, and they would play-fight over it, laughing as they wrestled by the fireside. 

Falling asleep to Darent and Arddan’s voices, lifted in the half-song of prayer. Jyn never found out which religion. (There were things you couldn’t ask a soldier, even when you bled for them.)

Sometimes when she dreams, the flames are a pyre, but the scene does not change. “Dying is no sorrowful thing, little cat,” Saw had said, each time he found Jyn crouched by the ashes, her knees pulled to her chest and weeping. “They were warriors. They fought, and we honor them by seizing all the gladness we can in their place. It’s the living, Jyn. It’s about the living.”


“I don’t know what my father saw in you,” Jyn says sullenly, turning away. (She is fourteen. Everything out of her mouth is sullen.) 

Saw snorts. “What makes you think it was your father?”


She should have asked—


The first time she killed a man, she was eleven. 

It was some moon whose true name she still can’t pronounce—you really needed two mouths and an extra aperture in your vocal folds. But the Empire named it Imperial Moon 213-X, and so the Partisans had taken to calling it Ex, because that was as good as anything else. Saw had told her to go and amuse herself while he talked to the local resistance movement, and so she had, and—

It’s not a good story, in truth. A slaver in the marketplace who saw her as a perfect target, grabbing her by the braids and dragging her into an alley. Her scalp ached even as she dug into her pocket, and it kept aching—when she brought the knife up into the vulnerable underside of his jaw. She doesn’t remember how many times, when her stabs turned sloppy, and she managed to get his jugular. He never let go of her braid, even when he collapsed to the ground, his eyes unseeing. The weight of him brought her to her knees.

It was very quiet, in the aftermath, just a distant repetitive crackle, like a rush of static from a broken transceiver.

After a moment, she realized that was her, breathing.

“You changed your hair,” Saw said later that night, eyeing her from his seat at the table. He gestured, and she stepped closer, letting him inspect the hacked-off shortness, the messy ends. After a moment, he reached out and cupped her face in his hands. (He had just lost all the skin on his left side, due to a badly-timed blasting, and she remembers, he smelled of bacta and the particular metallic of meddroid’s touch.)

Jyn had shaken herself free, and met his gaze as coolly as she could. “Braids are for children,” she said.


She had Saw’s lectures all but memorized, at this point; enough to tune them out and glower at him silently as she watched his mouth move. But she must have slipped up that time, rolled her eyes, because Saw had drawn himself up to his full height and spat, “By the Force, Steela, I cannot believe—”

“Who’s Steela?” Jyn interrupted with a grin.

She’d never seen Saw blanch before, but all the blood rushed from his face, leaving him grey, his eyes white around his dark irises. “What?” he whispered, and Jyn’s smirk dropped away, her bravado gone cold at the expression on Saw’s face. 

“What did you say?” Saw repeated, more insistently. “Jyn, tell me—”

“You—you called me ‘Steela’.”

Saw had shut his eyes for a moment, his mouth a stiff, unforgiving line. When he opened them again, Jyn thought he might cry. The thought frightened her. “No one you need to concern yourself with,” he said, very gently. 

For the next few days, he couldn’t quite look at her, and Jyn had been—well. She hadn’t asked.


The first time she killed sentients on purpose, she was thirteen and Saw had crowed like a proud father, kissed her hair. The Partisans all chipped in to buy a dozen honey-cakes and she ate half of them herself, shoving them into her mouth like she was starving, trying to block out Saw’s voice, the glowing pride of all the others, with her own chewing and smacking.

When she stood, the whole world lurched, and Jyn barely had time to double over before she was sick on her own boots. 

She still can’t eat anything too sweet without feeling it again, honey-full and nauseous, the smell of blaster-charred flesh in her nose. (She’s never told that story to anyone. She would have told it to Cassian, but there wasn’t really any time, was there?)


Jyn had stayed in the safehouse on Salient for three standard months after Saw left her there, trying every secure frequency she could remember, and then just scrolling through comm channels. Pleading with ghosts and static.

Finally, she’d gathered her things together, tucking the knife into her boot and the blaster under her coat. It was cold that morning, and no one thought twice about the plume of smoke, rising up over the city.

She was already three systems over by the time they managed to put out the fire. 


She forgives him. She doesn’t forgive him. She’s never entirely sure.


“I had another nightmare,” Jyn whispers, as Saw’s hand comes to rest, heavy, on the crown of her head. He’s half-asleep, she knows; his eyes still shut, but he smiles a little into the dark.


She nods, because he can feel it with his hand there.

“Don’t be afraid,” Saw says, and his voice is deep, low, the sound Jyn imagines rocks make when they talk to one another. “I’ll keep you safe.”

“Promise?” Jyn whispers.

“I swear on the Force,” Saw says. “Always.”
via http://ift.tt/2j6Vu4L:Flooded with phone calls from voters, House GOP drops effort to gut ethics panel:


‘In an emergency conference meeting Tuesday morning, House Majority Leader Kevin McCarthy (R-CA) offered and the party approved a motion to restore the current OCE rules. The reversal came as members of Congress said their offices were flooded with calls from constituents angered by the decision.

‘“We have got just a tremendous number of calls to our office here and district offices concerned about this,” Rep. Walter Jones (R-NC) said, according to Bloomberg News.

‘After the secret vote Monday night, many people urged others on Twitter to call their members of Congress to find out how they voted. Lists of Congressional office phone numbers were retweeted thousands of times.’

Voters in red states or who have Republican representatives, I can’t even overstate how important you are right now.

You did this.  This incident reveals something about how deeply disorganized and vulnerable to constituent pressure the Republican congress is right now.  Keep it up.  Thank you.
via http://ift.tt/2hQ5Tgj:

Relevant post: http://ift.tt/2hFy2cN

The following is a copy-paste of the above linked post:

Tue, Dec. 27th, 2016, 11:53 pm
[LJ, DW, Admin] Why Now

I am hearing credible reports that:

• The LJ servers are now in Russia.

• There has been a massive uptick in migrations from Cyrillic users into Dreamwidth.

I am hearing unverified reports that:

• There is some sort of political purge of accounts happening in the Cyrillic side of LJ.


previous post

for sources, evidence.

I am aware that:

• LJ has been in financial trouble for a while.

I am concerned that:

• The LJ servers may now be under the legal jurisdiction of Russia, not the US.

• The Russian government may now have unfettered access to all LJ content, especially including friends-locked content.

• That LJ users in Russia are at risk of persecution and prosecution for content (e.g. LGBT content, pro-Ukraine content) posted under lock in the previous 10+ years.

• That LJ users around the world may find their accounts deleted and their access terminated because of their political sentiments.

• That non-state actors – i.e. criminals – in Russia may wind up with access to locked LJ content, in any a number of scenarios, ranging from “SUP sells our data to stay afloat” to “disgruntled employee decides to moonlight” to “government agent shares data got by the state with the Russian mafia for kicks/favors” to “hackers”.

• That the Kremlin will drive enough Russosphere users off LJ, that it will no longer be financially viable for SUP, and collapse economically, causing the lights to go out on LJ abruptly.

You now know what I know about the situation…


So yeah. Anyone who hasn’t migrated their LJ to DW might want to consider doing that. It sucks, some of us have been on LJ since the early oughties, but the shakier things get with Russia, the more that backing up to DW looks like a good idea. This post was made on my DW, btw. I have technically been crossposting over to LJ from DW since 2009.

You can also archive your LJ using LJarchive:


There, this is the most succinct explanation I’ve seen.
via http://ift.tt/2hRYU9S:

Here is what Cassian knows about death: it will come.

Cassian knows the face of death. He found his father’s corpse in the streets. Days after the Empire soldiers took him, and their marks still on his body. Cassian is six when he learns how death can come slow. It’s years before he stops imagining his own nails torn out every time he looks down at his hands.

In the rebellion they train spies to resist torture. The training to resist torture is torture. Cassian spits blood and a fragment of tooth. Rolls with punches. Thinks, shooting me would be kinder. He knows this much: die quick or die slow but never give up the secrets you carry.

It’s going to be okay, he murmurs, and steps in close, takes the shot quick up under the ribs. It’s kindness, of a sort. Better than the alternative. This isn’t the first time he’s done it. Not even the second. Never give up the secrets you carry.

He tried, once, explaining. Three drinks in, and the noise of the blaster shot ringing heavy in his ears. Can taste it like blood at the back of his throat. Drinking with pilots, and the horror in their eyes was clear. You shot your own-

No, he’d said. No, no, don’t mind me, I’m just-

It’s not like pilots have it easy. That’s the wrong thing to say, an unfair accusation. The life expectancy of Rebel pilots can be measured in months, if that, and every return to Yavin 4 has Cassian searching for faces that never appear. Oh, Iiaaya? She went out on the Illenium system run three months ago. It would be easier, perhaps, not to know. He still asks. Every time.

But. When a pilot goes out, it’s in a blaze, quick and hot. An explosion into the void of space, the wreckage of an X-Wing burning up in a bright funeral pyre. Cassian shouldn’t envy that, and yet-

Death will come, and it would be a blessing if it was quick. You shot your own.

He’d have died quicker if I’d taken the shot, he doesn’t say to Jyn Erso in the Imperial shuttle after. Rain on both their faces like tear tracks. A painless way to go. You think you know death? Here’s how it is, bleeding out from shrapnel. Your papá died slow and hurting. Was seeing him again worth that?

Perhaps it was. Perhaps Cassian might have hoped his own papá could hold on just one shuddering moment more, if he’d been able to say goodbye. He’ll never know. Just one more thing the Empire took.

Just shoot me, he thinks, broken in the depths of the Imperial archives, it would be kinder, and clings still to life by the fingernails the Empire failed after all to rip out. For what? For what? Do you think anyone is out there? Is anyone listening? Making the Empire give up its secrets, this unholy thing at the heart of it all, and he and Jyn will get their funeral pyre after all. The horizon burning up towards them.

Shh, she says. Falling to their knees together, and her hands are tender the way Cassian had been, once. Cradling his dead papá, and learning the face of death. Shh. It’s going to be okay.

He closes his eyes. Better than the alternative.
via http://ift.tt/2iP2iRk:

Some absolutely beautiful Maya-inspired Russian playing cards!
via http://ift.tt/2hSnd7x:lazaefair replied to your post “notcaycepollard: Here is what Cassian knows about death: it will…”


What? I’ve been here! C’mon, man, I wrote 2k last week about baby Poe learning about Bodhi Rook from Kes, doesn’t that count? I haven’t posted the Cassian backstory because it’s like 11k so far and I need to post the next Lost Kings chapter before I can slot Cassian into it but I’ve posted snippets! (Even a First Time Cassian Killed A Man snippet!) I even asked people to help me come up with a trope so I could do a fluffy A/U for Bodhi/Cassian, it’s not my fault I got 0 responses and have remained completely uninspired, I’m still trying but the fact that nobody’s exactly clamoring for it isn’t really moving it to the top of my queue; it’ll get written but I have a lot else going on.  I even–


oh you mean the OP. Yes, I’m excited that notcayepollard is into Rogue One too. 


And here I was getting toweringly indignant. 
via http://ift.tt/2hQUW2T:
lazaefair replied to your post: lazaefair replied to your post “notcaycepollard: …

Oh man, count this as a social media fail on my part too. I didn’t realize the comment would go into your notifications instead of notcaycepollard’s. Sorry for causing distress. I’ve been reading your Rogue One fic too!

LOL no it wasn’t distress, but it definitely made me extremely confused about my own perceptions of reality in this one particular issue. I get confused about stuff like that all the time, though, so no worries. 

And it was only as I was scrolling back that I was like… no, I… clearly I post about this shit all the time… so that’s… oh duh.
via http://ift.tt/2hQYayA:
Latergram from last night at La Tavola. This had loganberry in it but was really sour and I loved it.
via http://ift.tt/2hRCS8F:
Attempt at illustration: drawn from a sketch of a Maya weaving pattern. Isn’t he cute!
via http://ift.tt/2jaJZcN:



raccoons are good boys, even when they are bad boys

they snuck into my camp and ate my cake

I hope they liked it!

When I was a child they broke into our chicken coop and slaughtered my pet chickens.
via http://ift.tt/2hRDkyT:
Bought a pack of Pilot V7s and they took me back to the days of my high school doodling. What great pens those are.
via http://ift.tt/2hSlwsr:magickedteacup mentioned you in a photoset “diegolunagif: “I was in Budapest, shooting a different project. It…”

…I feel refreshed…” (x) @ bomberqueen17

This is maybe my favorite iteration of Diego Luna, Human Sunshine And Inveterate Noodge, because really! To cover up for himself so he could keep the secret of getting cast in Star Wars he told an elaborate lie about marital infidelity. That was the simplest thing he thought of. Like! !!! !!! 

This might seem controversial but really I think it beautifully illustrates how perfectly he was cast as Cassian Andor, because there’s a kinship there, and clearly he is not his character, of course– but it’s a great example of being pure and ruthless at the same time. 

And also he is the dude version of a Manic Pixie Dream Girl and I’m not backing down from that even though I can’t really articulate it.



September 2017

      1 2
3 4 5 6 7 8 9
10 11 12 13 14 15 16
17 18 19 20 21 2223

Most Popular Tags

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags

No cut tags
Page generated Sep. 23rd, 2017 05:40 am
Powered by Dreamwidth Studios