#one of them only knows bc she just happened to be there while i was telling the other dkfnlxnd

[extremely-judgemental]

People like to argue that Cassian showed his love through actions, not words, in ACOSF, so no 'I love you' is fine. But, if actions over words is the theme of ACOSF, then what about Nesta's actions from like, acomaf onwards? Even her encouragement of Feyre to be with the man/fae she loves, and to do what she thinks is right, in ACOTAR, right before under the mountain? I suppose none of that matters then. Oh, also what about Rhysand's actions in prostituting Nesta to Eris, or keeping the pregnancy from Feyre, or laughing at Nesta being punished for something Feyre forgave her for pretty much instantly? Some sjm fans need to get their heads out of their asses.

That’s a lot to address! You just pointed out everything I hate about SF and this fandom. (I’m trying so hard not to rant but sorry😅)

People like to argue that Cassian showed his love through actions, not words, in ACOSF, so no 'I love you' is fine.

It’s interesting how they instantly came up with this justification when these books are romances. The entire plot leading up to that one ‘I love you’ in the end is the point of a romance. When half of the plot is sex and their attraction to each other, how can one accept the MC not saying the three words to the FC (which most of them are imprinting on) even once? These reasons are similar to abuse victim talk, ‘X doesn’t say it but he takes care of me’, ‘X can be a bit rude but at least he doesn’t hit me’, ‘We don’t get along much but at least he doesn’t leave me cold at nights’. This is what Nesta is doing at the end of SF, and also the BC of HOSAF with Ember (I haven’t read it, so fact check that). If throughout the book, Cassian had supported her, took her side, cared for her, been gentle and kind with her, okay, no words are needed, but he openly flamed her insecurities with ‘I don’t know how anyone could love you’. It’s pivotal moment in Nesta’s journey and their relationship which is completely dismissed. Nesta is grovelling for his affection while Cassian is declaring his love for Rhysand instead. I’m sorry, that only happens if the guy comes out and says he’s gay for his bff. Also, let’s not forget this is a guy who is supposed to be emotionally adept and expressive. (I have so many thoughts on this and Cassian’s behaviour but I want to keep this answer about Nesta.)

But, if actions over words is the theme of ACOSF, then what about Nesta's actions from like, acomaf onwards?

I completely agree with you. ‘Action speaks louder than words’ apply to Nesta more than anyone else in the story. Even Feyre does most of the sacrificial acts because of her trauma response. Ignoring the new details added in SF because stans argue those were only included to uplift Nesta, there are many moments to prove this.

1. Nesta takes care of the household. It’s her duty but she has no resentment towards her sisters for not helping her. She even dotes on Elain and that takes a lot of strength for a child.

2. She starves herself to force her father into being a parent. It’s not a selfish act to get burdens off her shoulders, it’s her way of getting her father’s attention so her sisters don’t starve to death.

3. She has a terrible encounter with a mercenary in the past and still lurks close to Feyre afraid to leave her alone with one when she could have bolted.

4. She throws herself in front of Elain when the beast shows up in the hovel.

5. She goes to the Wall looking for Feyre alone with a mercenary (whom she doesn’t trust). At this point, Elain and her father are under the glamour. If she’d died, no one would know how or why.

6. She broke off her relationship because Tomas wouldn’t care for Elain or look for Feyre with her. She puts her family first.

7. The first thing she does when Feyre returns from SC is apologise to her. She’s the one to make the first move to fix their relationship. Knowing Feyre loves to paint, she asks her to teach her. She could have suggested reading or dancing which she enjoys but she puts her sister’s interests first.

8. She encourages Feyre to pursue a life and love with Tamlin knowing her sister isn’t happy in the mortal lands anymore.

9. Her only request in exchange for helping Feyre/IC is to protect Elain. After they are transformed, she sacrifices her own healing to care for her sister and ensuring no one traumatises her more.

10. High Lords meeting, scrying was all so Elain was left out of the war. She wants revenge on Hybern because he hurt Elain and destroyed her life. She isn’t even thinking of what was done to her.

11. She abandons the plan of getting to the Cauldron because she sensed Cassian is in danger, also exposing her location to Hybern who’s been looking for her.

12. She throws herself over Cassian knowing she’ll be killed but still does it anyway. ‘I’d rather die with you than see you die’ (Like come on! You have to be blind not to see this and still take the man child’s side.)

13. She leaves River House because she doesn’t want to burden her sisters. It’s what Feyre always wanted, her exact words in ACOTAR were ‘another mouth to feed’ which is what Nesta is trying to avoid.

14. She scries again when she’s afraid of her powers so that Elain can stay away from the Cauldron.

15. She stands up against anyone who disrespects Cassian, Elain or Feyre.

16. She saves Emerie and Gwyneth in the Blood Rite knowing she’ll probably die.

17. Her love for Cassian is so strong that when she believes he died, she unleashes her powers which she kept hidden until then. (Her powers are new too and this woman never lost control and hurt anyone unlike Rhysand, Tamlin, Feyre.)

18. She sacrifices her powers to save Feyre and her child—a power she stole as a vengeance, a power that’s part of her—because her sister is worth more than all that. For this, she makes a bargain with the Cauldron which she has spited more than once and is afraid of.

These are her specific acts of love and not ‘it’s the right thing to do’ or ‘my sister wants it’. If there’s anyone who’s proved their love in healthy way in this series, it’s Nesta. There’s no condition for her love or limits. She’s unapologetic and fiercely protective of the ones she truly cares about. Also, despite being reserved, she expresses her love and admits her mistakes in words—with Feyre, Cassian, her friends.

Oh, also what about Rhysand's actions in prostituting Nesta to Eris, or keeping the pregnancy from Feyre, or laughing at Nesta being punished for something Feyre forgave her for pretty much instantly?

These stans don’t even hide their hypocrisy. When Rhysand/Feyre/IC do something, their ‘reasons’ count and so their actions can be overlooked. When it’s anyone else, they should be judged on their acts alone. Pick a fucking side already. Nesta considers selling her body for money to care for her sisters—that’s gross. Rhysand sells Nesta to Eris without even hinting at it to anyone, not Feyre, not the WOMAN INVOLVED—feminist king giving power to women. Rhysand endangers Feyre with pregnancy—‘he cares about her!’ Is he the one going to labour? Is it his body growing a killer spawn inside? Is it his body going to tear itself apart to let that child out or bleed to death? ‘Oh, but he didn’t want to put pressure on her’ More than finding out the child is going to kill her when the hormones are riding high and she’s on the brink of labour?

And Nesta being punished is ridiculous. Who is Feyre to forgive Nesta in the first place when it was Nesta making meals for her and doing chores? All Feyre did was hunt and paint, she says so herself. Anyone who hunts knows you can’t and shouldn’t do it everyday as it’s not good for kill. So Feyre was doing nothing on some days and still didn’t know how to do chores? If Nesta deserves Feyre’s forgiveness, Feyre should apologise too and make up for treating her sisters like maids.

AND why does Nesta need Rhysand’s forgiveness? I have sisters too and we have broken up with guys for far less than this shit. It’s not romantic. It’s a red flag and a sign of immaturity, manipulation and abuse. It shows the guy is incapable of seeing perspectives and understanding others who aren’t directly related to him or beneficial to him. That he might very well isolate you from the ones who truly and deeply know you so that you’re left with no one else but him. No woman will sit around and watch her sister get punished by a man for something that happened between them unless she hates her sister and is indirectly feeding off of it.

This fandom is toxic af. If they sat down with their grandmothers, mothers, aunts, sisters, girl friends and had an honest talk, they will see how similar all these are to the ABUSE they live with. Nesta’s story is very close to my heart even if I hate to admit it. Not because I loved the book or even Nesta, but it’s the story of the women in my family and the one my cousins and my sisters are trying to avoid. Whenever anyone romanticises Nessian relationship, it’s hard to hate/be angry with these girls when I know some of them will live this and that’s when they will face the harsh reality. It doesn’t matter how hot Cassian is, how hot their sex is, none of it matters when he doesn’t care or even respect a woman for than her body.

[teddybeartoji]

o wait before i start posting any pics.. i was thinking that maybe.. you guys could help me liquify this gender some more by switching up what you call me.... DON'T GET ME WRONG I LOVE . LOVE LOVE LOVE WHEN YOU USE HE/HIM AND JUST OVERALL LIKE MORE MASC STUFF THAT'S SOOO MMMMMMMMMSO FUCKING GOOD like i don't get to feel that irl at all so it really does make me so happy but i've just been thinking abt TRYING to switch it up more yk? does this even make sense...... . hhhh anyway i might won't even like it and i'll want to just go back to hehim but i wanna try... JUST TO SWITCH IT UP.

[bitchthefuck1]

you know what, I actually will talk about this because it's bothering me. The issue with focussing so heavily on syd and carmy's potential for a romantic relationship isn't that there's something inherently unintellectual about romance or whatever, it's that a lot of people seem incapable of doing that without immediately flattening the story and ignoring or intentionally misreading any and all nuance for the sake of that romance. Every scene suddenly becomes about how it impacts their relationship, every analysis is done through a romantic lens, every frame or line of dialogue becomes about finding some easter egg or hint that "proves" these people should start dating. Their dynamic is absolutely a fundamental part of this show, but if you can only see it as a will-they-won't-they, you miss so much of what the story is actually trying to say with these two.

There are good versions of this story where their relationship is romantic and there are good versions of this story where it isn't, but as soon as you decide them being together is "the point," you lose the ability to actually judge the story for what it is, not what you want it to be.

[napstabl00k]

Those sonic prime gjinkas from my day out today

[fleshdyk3]

god i fucking hate my dad

[ehlnofay]

It’s not until she hears Sissel’s knees hit the floor that Efri is jolted back into her body.

She blinks, whipping her head around. Sissel is kneeling, bracing a palm on the ancient stone pavement, at the barrier – no, the barrier’s gone, it’s just Sissel on the floor. She lifts her head and meets Efri’s eyes; her hair is wispy and wild, the little plaits meant to keep it neat come loose and tumbling, her eyes wide. The barrier's gone, but still, her pale face is lit up blue.

“Are you okay?” she asks. She doesn’t speak loudly, but it echoes in the great stone chamber.

Nine, Efri doesn’t know.

She blinks again, looks down at her hands, clinging to the metal stick so fiercely that her joints ache. (Her own stick, her nice wooden one, is still on the floor somewhere, where it slipped out of her grasp when she hit the wall.) The lumpy heavy end of it, the clobbering end, is still resting on –

Not on. It’s in the thing’s head, fitted neatly in the opening of its dented helmet, the horns spiralling over the floor. There’s a tooth, perfectly preserved, by Efri’s foot.

One by one, she unwraps her gloved fingers from the handle of the metal stick, letting it drop to the floor with a clang so loud it makes her wince. Kazari is nosing at her side. (When did they let go of it? When did they get so close? She must have missed that. She feels out of the loop. Her heart is juddering like fish on a line, battering like some frightened trapped thing at her ribcage, and her breath is coming fast and heavy.) Absentmindedly bringing up a hand to press over her sore shoulder, she says, “’M fine. Not too – barely touched me.”

Kazari turns and spits on the floor. Efri blinks. She does it again, tongue lolling out of her mouth, face very disgruntled – and oh, Efri gets it. She does not glance down at the thing at her feet; she doesn’t need to, she knows what its arm looks like, chewed almost to pieces even through its banded armour. (If she hadn’t been so busy being scared of it, that sight might have made her a bit scared of Kazari. But not now, when they’re trying to hack and spit the taste of dead man arm out of their mouth.)

Efri unclips her canteen from her belt and holds it out. “Here,” she says. Her voice is rough. Her heart is racing too much to let constructing sentences be easy. “Not much, but –”

Kazari stands still while Efri tips half of the remaining water onto her tongue, and then Efri watches her swilling it around in her mouth, trying to bathe all of her teeth in it, before she spits it again on the floor at the dead thing’s feet.

The water is still clear. That’s something, at least; the dead man was too old to still have blood in him. Or maybe he was embalmed, drained of it hundreds of years ago, thousands.

“Are you okay?” Efri asks Kazari when they’re done, because they were the one doing most of the fighting, who was closest. They tip their head, shift their weight – wince when they put weight on one foot. Their lips peel back from their teeth. Their clothes on that side are singed.

Efri points it out. “Your robe,” she says, which makes it sound much fancier than it is. She’s too tired to think of a better word. She rubs a hand over her face, pushing the hair back over her forehead, says, “I’ll reinforce it for you when we get out.”

Kazari noses at Efri’s shoulder – the shredded fabric of her dress, the fraying edges stained with blood. Efri says, “I know. I’ll have to sew that up too.” Over her shoulder, she calls, “Kazari’s leg’s hurt, I think.”

“There’s blood on you,” Sissel replies. She peels her hand off the floor and leans back on her heels.

Efri touches her shoulder again. “’S fine,” she says. “Just a scrape. The blood’s drying already.”

It’s really sore, actually – the flesh abraded and tender, an ache sinking deep into the muscle – but it’s normal sore, the kind of sore you really should be after being thrown into a wall. It doesn’t feel sprained or dislocated or anything like that.  Just like it will be bruised a whole rainbow of colours come tomorrow.

Kazari noses at it again. She leans too far forward and falters on her maybe-hurt leg – rights herself, wincing, and rolls her shoulder. It gleams, just for a moment, and she nearly stumbles again. Efri puts out a hand to steady her. (It doesn’t really accomplish anything – Efri’s strong, but she’s not that strong – but it’s the principle of it.) “What was that spell?”

“Pain relief,” Sissel says from behind her. “I think. Doesn’t actually fix anything, but.”

“You’ll be okay ‘til we find someone?” Efri asks, and Kazari nods. She presses a hand against their shoulder and nods back.

They both turn to look at Sissel, then, who’s just kneeling on the floor, sitting on her heels.

“You all right?” Efri asks her.

“All right,” Sissel confirms. She doesn’t look at them. “Didn’t even come near me.”

She’s staring.

Efri crosses the floor to stand with her. (She needs to lean on Kazari – her legs are too wobbly, and she doesn’t want to touch the dead thing’s stick, doesn’t want to look for her own. Kazari limps a little on their sore front leg.) There’s a moment of total, humming silence – all of them still and staring, necks craned back, looking up at the thing.

Whatever it is.

It’s a ball. Big and blue and shimmering, it floats above a wide crystalline dish set into the floor, spinning on an axis. Just spinning and spinning and spinning, endless motion. Its smooth surface is cut through with dark wavering lines, etched with lettering, and it doesn’t quite glow but it doesn’t not glow, either, the light moving across it silkily, like clouds in a blue sky. It looks like something that should be humming – a low pitch in their ears, an eerie shiver dancing over their skin – but it’s silent. Inert, maybe, but for the spinning.

“What is it?” Efri asks. Her voice cracks as she speaks. She looks down at Sissel’s face, staring as though mesmerised, illuminated by the room’s dim lighting – the fires that should not still be burning down here, the luminous not-glow of the ball.

Sissel says, “I don’t know. Something important.”

Hovering above the dish, it spins, and spins, and spins.

“Is it what the ghost was talking about?” Efri asks. She tilts her head and squints at it. It doesn’t – well, it looks strange and unearthly and powerful, but it isn’t doing anything. And it hadn’t been clear what the ghost was talking about, exactly, according to Sissel, just that it was something important – but what else could it be?

Sissel, still watching it, shrugs. “I don’t know,” she says. “I think so.”

Efri watches it with her, brushing a bit more hair out of her face. It’s sticking to her sweaty forehead. She feels a drip of not-dry blood running down her arm under her sleeve.

Kazari is staring at it too – just as confounded as the rest of them. Efri sees the light in their irises shifting as the ball spins.

They’re not learning anything from staring, the ball staying strange and mysterious as ever, so Efri raps her knuckles against her sternum to steady her breathing (it’s slowed a bit – not normal, but closer to it) and climbs up onto the stone rimming of the dish. Kazari, behind her, lows in consternation; Sissel catches her breath, a noise like a creaking door. “Careful,” she says.

“Promise,” Efri replies, and places her feet very, very carefully on the glassy blue flooring. Nothing happens. She doesn’t step on the dark curved lines as she treads toward the ball in the centre, slow and wary as if she were approaching a skittish animal. Nothing happens.

She reaches out, and, with just the tips of her fingers, she grazes the ball’s surface.

Nothing happens.

It’s cool to the touch, and smooth, like polished metal or not-frozen ice or delicate glasswork. It continues to spin gently under her fingers, warming her glove with friction, no smudges left on its clouded face.

 It really feels like there should at least be a tingle running up her arm, a strange and unfamiliar current, a spark. But it’s just Efri, standing with an arm outstretched, pressing her hand to a ball.

“It’s not doing anything,” she reports, and Sissel clambers up onto the dish with her, fitting her palm to its gently hovering underside. Kazari balks, begins pacing agitatedly. Efri frowns. “Why isn’t it doing anything? Shouldn’t it be doing something?”

“It’s important,” Sissel says definitively. There’s ancient dust on her fingers, but none of it seems to transfer. “It’s something really special, I think.”

Efri shifts restlessly. She shifts her grip and tries to grab onto the dark ridged curves ringing its surface, but they slip easily away from her grasp as though her touch was no barrier at all. “But what does it do?”

Sissel shrugs.

Behind them, Kazari lows.

Efri drops her hand and grabs Sissel’s wrist. “C’mon,” she says, and when Sissel frowns at her, “We’re not going to learn anything about it this way. We have to look for clues!”

Kazari makes a more impatient noise. (Efri thinks she found a clue.)

Sissel gives the ball one last searching look and lets Efri tug her away, off the weird blue dish and down to where Kazari stands on the stone floor, at the head of the table where the dead man sat. Efri sniffs loudly and tries not to think about it too much. The table is smooth polished stone, worn a little away with time; Efri trails a gloved finger over the edge and directs her attention to where Kazari points with their chin.

There’s something carved into the surface, the edges blunted and shapes softened by however many years it must have been since it was put there. Efri squints, trying to make it out. She has to stand right up on her tiptoes to get the right angle to see much of it in full.

“That’s not letters,” she says eventually, frowning. She’s pretty sure she knows her alphabet well enough by now to know that. “Is it magic?”

Sissel shakes her head. “I don’t know what it is. It’s not like magical writing I’ve ever seen.”

Efri looks at Kazari, who also shakes her head. “Maybe it’s a different sort of lettering,” she theorises. It must have been written a long time ago, if it’s from back when the city had people. Onmund’s been reading all about it for ages, and he’s told her a bit – Saarthal was the city of Atmorans, populated by proto-Nordic people. All complicated history stuff. But they weren’t quite the same as Nords today, he said, so it stands to reason they had different writing, too. They’re supposed to be uncovering and cataloguing artifacts (at the thought, Efri glances back at the hovering ball and swallows an inane bubble of laughter) so she suggests, “Maybe you can copy it and we can show it to someone. I’m sure there’ll be someone at the College what knows what it is.”

Sissel, also standing on her toes, nods dutifully. “What will you do?”

The chamber they’re in is cavernous, and about empty but for the ball in the dish, the altar and chair, the body on the ground. “I’ll check him,” she says, and points. “See if he has anything on him that’s special.”

Sissel follows her finger and grimaces.

She digs out her note-paper and her stick of char, and Efri assumes it’s clues time, but when she turns she feels a hand grip her elbow. She looks back over her tattered shoulder at Sissel’s face, her furrowed brow.

“Promise you’re really okay?” she says, voice anxious and solemn.

“Promise,” Efri says, twisting her arm to touch her friend’s hand. Sissel presses her lips together and lets go of her arm.

Kazari trails after Efri to look at the dead man.

First thing is the metal stick. It’s magic someway, Efri knows – he waved it and threw her into a wall, flung spells with it – but she’s not sure how. Doesn’t know enough about enchantments. Didn’t need to, to use it; when Kazari clamped down on his arm she just ripped it from his grasp and –

She doesn’t quite exactly remember, actually, except for the bitter tang of adrenaline in her mouth and nose, the horrible grunting and scuffling sounds, the heft of the stick in her hands. Impact, over and over and over, against something that had a little more give each time.

Efri scrubs a hand over her mouth and grips the handle of the stick. It takes effort to wrest it out of the thing’s face, caught as it is by the edges of the helmet, and when it’s finally yanked free it’s – actually not as bad as she might have expected. There’s no blood, and the corpse was so desiccated it already didn’t even really look like a person anymore, so it registers less as someone with horrible violence done to it and more as a really gross art piece. It’s not nice. She doesn’t like the twisted, gaping mouth, teeth embedded wrong-ways in its tissue and scattered like coins over the floor. And one of the eyes, which had glowed unearthly blue, is now a dull, rotten black, squished like a plum in its socket.

It's worse the more she looks. She sniffs and turns away.

“This is magic, right?” she asks Kazari, testing the weight of it in her hands, the cool surface of the metal, and they nod. “A good artifact?” she adds, and they nod again, emphatically. Efri sets the stick aside and kneels.

It wasn’t wearing any clothes, really – or if it was, they rotted away. She touches the rusted armour gingerly, tries to avoid brushing her gloves against the shrivelled skin at all. Whoever it was had expensive taste, it seems – there’s jewellery in a shockingly well-preserved beard, pendants around the neck, armbands. Efri asks Kazari if each thing is enchanted. No to the armbands, no to the beard-ring, and then, pressed against the wizened chest where the flesh contours to the ribs, she finds some kind of necklace, sharp-edged and thrumming. Kazari nods to that, and, face scrunched up like an old fruit, Efri reaches around the ancient neck to slip it off.

She tucks it into a belt pocket with the tripwire necklace they found at the weird wall.

“Done,” Sissel says. She folds her paper and slips it into her own pouch. Her footfalls on the echo-y stone floor as she approaches the body for the first time are almost silent. “Did you find anything?”

“Necklace,” Efri replies, watching Sissel’s face pinch at the sight of him. “And – stick.” She scoops up the metal stick and holds it out. “He did spells with it.”

Sissel looks at it warily. “Is he a draugr?” she asks, glancing back down at his mashed-up face.

“I mean,” Efri says, “he’s got to be, right?” She’s certainly never seen a draugr before, but what else could it be?

(Calling it a draugr makes her shiver, the set of her shoulders quaking. She’ll stick to dead man.)

Sissel shudders. She reaches out to grip the handle of the stick, and Efri’s not sure if she’s taking it or just trying to keep herself upright. “I can’t believe that happened,” she says. Her voice sounds, suddenly, fragile. “I can’t believe we’re alive.”

“Me neither,” Efri says. She presses the tip of the stick into the ground so Sissel can lean on it, stands a little unsteadily.

Kazari, with a hushed murmur, telegraphs something. Efri recognises the head incline of understanding – she’s familiar with that word, that idea – and, after a moment, the flickering ear of doubt.

“They’ll have to believe us,” she says with conviction, because she means it. “We’ll show them. They’ll see for themselves.”

Kazari presses their nose to her head.

Efri clasps her hands together. “We’ll go tell someone now,” she declares – though it’s easier said than done; they were lost in the ruins ages before they even found the crumbling wall, the halls, this horrible wonderful chamber. But they’ll get un-lost eventually. They’ll get out eventually. Surely. They have practice enough with walking. “But first – help me find my stick.”

[possamble]

Question to a fanfic writer: do you think that, in Marcille’s research ways *And* her love for romance novels… would result in her writing some in-universe fanfics of her own? Like, maybe she hypes herself up on something and get disappointed, or maybe she finds some character decision isn’t as ideal as she thinks it could be? Or it’s as simple as she wants to play around with the characters and see what happens?

I can’t help but imagine a scenario where she’s struggling with some romantic trouble irl and she’s struggling with deciding on what to do, but then the answer slaps itself upside her head when she rediscovers her fanfics and how she LITERALLY made a character or two do the exact romantic decision she needs to do? It would so silly but yet I can’t help but find it so charming. Hell, just the imagery of her writing romance fanfics of her own At All is just… delightful to me hehehe.

you know I've been rotating this in my head since I saw it this morning and. I went through a wild journey of opinions before I realized... Marcille wouldn't think about fanfiction like we think about it. In the modern age, yeah, she'd be a complete tumblrina -- but we're talking about a 17th century-ish fantasy setting.

Writing before the digital age was a physical commitment to investing ink and paper into your thoughts -- and this is even before mass production can make pens and notebooks kind of whatever to buy and use on a regular basis. I'm sure the situation wasn't dire, but I really can't see Marcille, perfect honor student, using her allotted supply of stationery at the academy on super frivolous things.

Fanfiction has been normalized incredibly fast in the past few decades. Think about now normal and popular D&D is nowadays compared to how much people looked down on it 20-30 years ago. Fanfiction was a freakass nerd thing to do until relatively recent history, something that was even considered offensive to the original creators.

Remember, we've already seen Marcille react to adaptations with disgust. She's kind of a hater and an elitist fan. She also considers herself a Reputable Academic. In a setting where a digitized culture hasn't reframed fanfiction as an act of appreciation and creativity, she would absoluuuuuuuutely think that fanfiction was complete loser shit.

If she did write anything about her favourite books... She'd. She'd be one of those assholes who writes huge scathing reviews of Dal Clan translations into Common. She'd be the fantasy equivalent of those Weebs/Japanese elitists on twitter tearing through every single localization choice in anime and JRPGs and being so so annoying about it.

If we're being charitable, we could say she'd be able to appreciate non-faithful translation choices that still do a good job of carrying over the original spirit of what was said. But I think we also have to acknowledge the possibility that, at her worst, she'd really really be like those guys who were malding about the Unicorn Overlord localizations so hard the (correction: Final Fantasy Tactics Creator, not the Unicorn Overlord devs) had to step forward and ratio them. (The silver lining is that she'd never get published in the arts review newspapers/journals that she submits her essays to. those poor editors just have to deal with her being persistent.)

[froggods]

still thinking about how pike is a way better love interest than angel (and spike) and should have followed buffy to sunnydale.... mentally rewriting buffy season 1

[hellaverse-critical-confessions]

(from this video)

[onrainynights]

I'm about to be so annoying btw

[hella1975]

some people really still treat drugs like it's a fun little thing and im trying SO hard not to get mad about it

[juniestar]

Oh my god one last thing my ex took me to outside lands and when we tried to watch lana del rey he laid down on the grass and had a “panic attack” (this was after months of him talking about how he didn’t like her) so we went to see foo fighters after a bit and he was FINE

[chussy]

just realized that my dad actually basically attempted to kidnap me the summer before 7th grade and I didn't even interpret it as such until now because it was so in line with his general shittiness that it didn't even stand out

[non-un-topo]

Why does instagram keep giving me videos about grandparents like does it want me to fall on the floor sobbing today

[sugarsugarmp3]

i turn 21 on monday and i just know im not going to enjoy this weekend at all...

[pentaghast]

if im honest i like king alistair w a warden queen! theyre happy ur honor!!!