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A Young Girl Reaching up to Pluck a Branch (unfinished) Henry Raeburn (1756–1823) (attributed to) National Trust, Montacute House

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I think it would be really fucking funny to write a piece of fiction set entirely in real life but using lazy fantasy worldbuilding talk. I gather coin* for the road west** - I will need it to enter the Capital.***

* two quarters and two dimes

** Interstate 64

*** Richmond, Virginia

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NEW QUEER TRAILER 2ND QUEER TRAILER THIS IS NOT A DRILL

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The best answer 😎

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I love getting "post without tags?" on my stupidest ever posts. oh my god sorry tumblr how could i forget. #dust mite #wet nurse

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i was actually born 9 months premature. they had to give me to a dust mite as a wet nurse.

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Cats in ancient Greek vase paintings

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Willkommen, bienvenue, welcome Fremde, étranger, stranger Glücklich zu sehen, je suis enchanté Happy to see you Bleibe, reste, stay

CABARET (1972) dir. Bob Fosse.

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wormless behavior from some of you. absolute lack of dirt and burrowing. rethink 

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Timothée Chalamet for Rolling Stones

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@littledozerbaby and i always come up with weirdly specific modern AUs, and we'd been throwing around gamer bros geta and caracalla for a while when i was suddenly like, hey what if marcus acacius was also in this but as the john c. reilly cop character from magnolia, with that exact terrible decision romance plotline. SO UH WE RAN WITH THAT and i'll never have a full fic for it but i managed a little scene-setting opening, based on his flawless sketch of them. HERE THEY ARE FOR YOUR ENJOYMENT!!!!

The din was, to be frank, appalling. He was surprised nobody had called it in sooner. Maybe they had, and been forgotten by a bored clerk manning the phones after midnight. Or maybe they just suffered in silence for the sake of keeping the peace.

Marcus could hear the bass throbbing from the dingy foyer. He took the stairwell up one, two, three flights, and tried to find some melody in the beat. Nothing. Thrash metal? Dubstep, maybe. He could respect metal, at least. 

The third floor corridor was like stepping into a rave.

Dubstep, he deduced gloomily. 

He knocked. He could hear, under the noise, a sort of strained yelling, as if someone were shouting at him through a tin can telephone. That god-awful music all hours of the night, the caller had said, but also: some kind of domestic disturbance, I don’t know, could be the TV, could be those assholes getting their rocks off to some fucked up porno, I don’t goddamn know. Some kinda disturbance, okay?

He knocked again, harder.

Then, he kicked the door to see if that was louder. 

The noise did not dim, but he heard a voice - voices, a back-and-forth volley, though he couldn’t make a word of it out. 

Marcus kicked the door a final time, and put his fingertips to his holster.

But it was alright. It opened.

A boy opened it. The sort of boy that might be a young man, but, dressed in a logo t-shirt and a moth-eaten cardigan that went down to his palms, Marcus couldn’t guess at his age right away. Eighteen, nineteen. Twenty-six. Who could say? His hair was three quarters strawberry blonde, and mousy brown at the roots. He had acne scars on his temple and chin. His eyes were very wide and bright and he breathed through his half-smiling mouth, and that caught Marcus off-kilter. He was so used to faces shutting themselves down when they clocked his uniform, his radio, his demeanour. Any neighbourly welcome immediately transfiguring into wary distrust. But not this kid. A face like the bright side of the moon, full and open.

“Hi,” he said, panting slightly. “Oh, I mean. Hi. Good evening, officer.”

“Evening,” Marcus said. He flashed his badge. “What’s your name, son?”

He expected the usual what’s it to you? - the crossed arms, the body blocking the doorway - but this kid was half way out into the corridor, utterly unguarded. “Oh, my name’s Caracalla, sir.”

“Cara–?”

“Right, Caracalla, hah-hah–” He laughed like he was actually saying the words, hah! hah! “My dad loved ancient Rome, right, Mom always said it was the one thing he’d talk about for hours, so she called us Caracalla and Geta,” he jerked a thumb backwards to indicate someone else in the apartment, “although she must’ve not been listening to Dad very much because actually they weren’t even twins, not like us, and they hated each other, not even a bit like us. Caracalla had his brother murdered, you know,” his eyes widened on the word, like he was imparting some recent and relevant gossip. “Not like us! Hah-hah-hah!”

The kid likes to talk, Marcus thought. Maybe that was his way in.

But he wasn’t done yet. “Your name’s kinda Roman too,” he was saying, “Marcus. Ma-r-cus.” He’d spotted that from a second-long flash of the badge? “The Praetorian Guard. Cohortes Praetoriae. Hah!”

“You know, I can barely hear you with all that racket,” Marcus said mildly.

Once again, his eyes bulged and widened. Marcus wondered if he was high, and inhaled surreptitiously through his nose. But he smelled nothing except the dank musk of boyhood sweat, and that dry, toasted smell of dust nestling in overheated electronics. The apartment was a hell of a health hazard.

“Oh! Hah, that’s just G-man, that’s Geta, he likes to be in the zone, you know?”

“--Do you know what time it is, son?”

“Mmm?”

“It’s three am,” Marcus informed him. “Three o’clock in the morning. Don’t you think that’s a little much for three o’clock in the morning?”

“Oh!” he said again. Every piece of information seemed to him revelatory. “I guess so! Hold on, hold on one sec, I’ll see if he can–” 

And without finishing his sentence, he vanished into the apartment, not even closing the door.

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i am a man of science. i don't believe in astrology or religion. however i did go to see a wise man who diagnosed me with Inscrutable Type and now i know i am fundamentally Inscrutable. Inscrutable Types and Scrutable Types do not get along or understand each other. sometimes an Inscrutable person can understand another Inscrutable person, but often we are just fundamentally Inscrutable. Scrutable people however experience instant familiarity with each other, and they find all tasks easy to complete. this is because they were born with an intrinsic Understanding, perhaps due to a special enzyme. meanwhile, Inscrutable people were born missing the enzyme which allows them to complete tasks the same way as Scrutable type. perhaps this missing enzyme is the cause of their fundamental unknowability. the wise men are still working on this. however, no matter the cause of my Inscrutability, i understand that i have this moral failing, i was born with it, and i need to find the magic amulet that will help me become more knowable.

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fun thing about discussing misogyny in media and in fancom on tumblr is, if you ever say "hey what about a show about women? what if we focused on women? what if this character was a woman?" you will get some guy who apparently has a first grade understanding of feminism jump in and tell you "i would focus on MEN because im a GAY TRANS MAN and i love MEN" like congrats buddy enjoy The Society We All Have To Live In, it is catered to people who want to center men and manhood

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i love that hickey's immediate defense mechanism to anything bad happening to him ever is to break out in the most scuffed patrick bateman type smile imaginable while he stalls for time to come up with a more sane response than either spitting vitriol or taking a chunk out of someone with his teeth.

his bitch wife having the gall to divorce HIM (god's greatest gift to bottoms and a known catch)? sniles. being unjustly flogged bloody in front of the crew after his genius 1000 iq plan doesn't pan out and land him an irish dilf? sniles so sneetly. telling goodsir to butcher billy, getting called out for killing his miserable ex-wife himself for din-din but reasonably drawing the line at meat processing, being clocked as growing up BROKE, and hearing "no" from a man he thought was a doormat?? i know in my heart that when he's sitting there for a moment with his rictus grin, his internal monologue is just incoherent violence like

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'Ghostly Wood' Jar and Cover, from Josiah Wedgwood and Sons, 1916-32

From the Victoria & Albert Museum

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The funniest one star review of Wicked I've seen so far