#I don't even know what to say haha

[fragmentedblade]

I have so many screenshots of Kalpas' face I could reconstruct his face at this point, and I'm afraid to say I'm not sure his face is scarred

[destiny-islanders]

i get it now

[bumblingbabooshka]

Thinking about marriage/women's rights on Vulcan Some may think that T'Pring not being allowed to divorce Spock was because he was going through the pon farr but if she were allowed to divorce him at all she probably would have done that a long time ago, confirmed by T'Pol when she's speaking with Koss, who isn't suffering from the pon farr. She says that he can choose another mate (without invoking a fight it seems: note the difference between a 'mate' and a 'challenger') and after he makes it clear that nothing she says will change his mind about marrying her, she finally threatens to declare a kal-if-fee. It's clear that Vulcan women cannot divorce/refuse to marry a man they've been betrothed to under any circumstances if A) He himself doesn't consent to ending their marriage or B) She doesn't have someone else waiting in the wings to be given to in his stead. Though, if the challenger she selects fails to win the fight, she'll have to marry her betrothed anyway unless (again) he decides he doesn't want her after the challenge. That seems like an incredibly unfair system, heavily biased towards men. SNW is an alternate universe in many obvious respects but most egregiously in that T'Pring has a lot of non-canonical agency over her relationship with Spock. It's interesting to me that Vulcan society has women in many positions of power and treats women as equal to men from what I've seen despite these laws. We don't really see Vulcans exhibiting a misogynistic attitude towards women in general but in TOS (perhaps because of its general writing style but it's still interesting to note) both Sarek and Spock take on patriarchal attitudes specifically regarding wives. Amanda says that 'of course' Sarek commands her because "he is a Vulcan and I am his wife." It's worthwhile in my eyes to note that she specifies 'wife' instead of attributing this attitude to women as a whole. Again, with TOS' writing style it wouldn't be out of place for her to say "he is a man and I am a woman." Spock, while in a pon farr induced irritation, states that it's "undignified for a woman to play servant to a man that isn't hers" - again implying that there's something specific about being a Wife in Vulcan society which is different from being a woman in general and demands subservience to a husband. This could perhaps stem from the extreme sense of ownership that Vulcan law has permitted men to have over women. A woman legally cannot point blank refuse marriage. There is no option which guarantees she won't have to marry her betrothed other than death. When T'Pau speaks of T'Pring she refers to her as being 'property' and Stonn, before being interrupted, states he's made 'the ancient claim' - we don't know what this is because he gets cut off but it's obvious they're both using the language of Vulcan law. Men are permitted true freedom to choose. If a woman wants to choose someone else to be with there is no option available to her other than the kal-if-fee which might result in the death of the one she wants to be with. And, if her lover fails, her husband can still just decide he wants to marry her and she'll be forced to. T'Pring gives two scenarios: One where Spock 'frees' her and one where he doesn't - it's still ultimately his decision which is clear when he ends the conversation with "Stonn, she is yours." This again isn't just because of the pon farr as T'Pol also goes through this. Koss can choose another mate and when the option is talked about there's no implication that this would result in any sort of fight (both by the casualness of its mention and by the fact that there's no formal word for it unlike the kal-if-fee.) Also, the fact that Koss does eventually grant T'Pol a divorce and it's all fine means that T'Pol isn't lawfully required to have another man waiting if her HUSBAND doesn't want her. It's ONLY required if SHE doesn't want her husband. Tradition must take precedence over individual desire UNLESS!!! You're a man. Then it's fine. Like, your parents might not be happy but legally you're golden.

[stellaluna33]

Man, I miss the internet when you could just freely browse all sorts of niche blogs and fan sites without having to have an account anywhere... There was so much to explore! Now you need to have an account with Instagram and Tiktok before they'll let you see anything, or it's locked behind a paywall on someone's Patreon.

We used to "browse," like we were wandering free in a big pasture, and now it's a "feed," where someone keeps shoveling stuff into a trough in front of your face and you have to keep choking it down.

I miss "Free Range" internet is what I'm saying, I guess. Not this Content Factory Farming crap.

[subistaw]

:))) gone girl au

[vaguely-concerned]

lucanis truly has a near terminal case of burned out golden child syndrome. caterina fucked both of these kids over so incredibly bad with the dynamic she enforced there, with illario being labled the perpetual fuckup kid where lucanis 'could do no (would never be allowed to do) wrong'. the way he admits in the first coffee date scene that the only thing that happened when he showed he could carry the weight of expectation was that more weight was added makes me so sad. you can hear it in caterina's voice in his intro mission that she's incredibly proud of him, but this is clearly a leandra and hawke situation where that pride never translates into relief or resolution or unconditional warmth or understanding or anything that really helps.

[pokimoko]

Hello!! i just discovered your blog and firstly i wanna say that your art is gorgeous! <33 and secondly, if youre still taking requests could i get a lesbian/non binary cheetah? /nf

Thank you! Cheetahs be upon ye!

[azaracyy]

a lesson on good karma digimon survive week 2024 day 4: supporting characters

[feroluce]

“-and that's why I ain't allowed in Pier Point no more!” Boothill throws his head back and cackles, somehow completely comfortable on the bare floor of the archives. He's the very picture of ease, his arms behind his head, his legs bent and crossed.

Dan Heng barely looks up from his notebook, not much surprises him anymore after the first few tales of lawless exploits. “So they really have that many laws and restrictions there.” 

“And prob’ly a few more now that I've been through there! Heck, ya think they named any after me? I'm hopin’ so.” There's so much smug cockiness seeping through his voice Dan Heng could bottle it.

Silence settles in, stretches out. Dan Heng doodles pensive circles in the corner of his page.

He shouldn't ask. It's a private matter. It's none of his business. He of all people should know-

Something pokes his shoe, and when he looks up, Boothill has stretched one arm up to tap metallic fingertips against his foot. “Ain't like ya to hesitate.” With his head tipped back on the tiles and gazing at him upside down, Boothill's hair is out of his face and spooling out all over the floor, offering a rare view of his right side. His right eye is sealed over with a pitch-black patch, stark against his skin. Dan Heng wonders what he looks like behind it. “C'mon, then, out with it. Spill the beans, brother, just say it.”

“What does ‘Boothill’ mean?”

The man blinks at him, the crosshair in his cybernetic left eye flickering. Dan Heng shifts, smooths out his long coat. “I tried to look it up once. It's not in any database as a name...other than your wanted posters.” There's a thread beginning to fray near the hem, he should sew it up. “I couldn't find it anywhere.” 

He nearly takes it back, but- “Heh, ya that curious about me, darlin’?”

Dan Heng quickly levels his face into the most impassive, nonplussed expression he can muster, but Boothill has already turned away, head pillowed on his arms and face once again turned to the ceiling.

“But nah, ya wouldn't. Hah, like they'd allow any record of the language, fudgeheads.” One arm sweeps around blindly until it finds the edge of Boothill's hat, sets it back where it belongs on his head. Dan Heng shuffles around, scoots a little closer, but the brim is pulled too low to see his eyes anymore.

“It's ‘cause it's not a name. It's a noun.” All that's visible of his face is a sharp grin, pulled too tight at the edges.

“It's my people's word for a grave.”

Dan Heng's pencil stops.

“It's the kinda grave fer someone who died with their boots on. If ya catch my drift there.” Boothill's foot starts to bounce. “There was a war, and it got reeeeeal intense, yup. Folks started droppin’ like flies, ‘n’ there was bodies faster'n what we could bury ‘em.” A cooling fan kicks on somewhere. Dan Heng is pretty sure it's not any of the Express equipment.

“We lost some real good people there, real good. Mighty shame.” His hidden Vidyadhara ears detect a quiet metallic click, a whir, pressurized gas. Boothill's next words waft steam from his angry circuits into the air. “When I left, I decided to leave my name there, too. Didn't feel right otherwise. The life I lead now is a whole ‘nother existence.” And then Boothill turns his head, raises his hat, and Dan Heng suddenly feels pinned dead center, caught in that crosshair.

“Ya know what I mean, don'tcha?”

Dan Heng swallows.

Does Boothill know? Who he is and who came before him? There had been that moment in the Penacony Grand Theater, after he activated the Jade Abacus… Dan Heng had tried to shoo him out, keep him from seeing anything, but Boothill has the astounding ability to turn up exactly wherever people are trying to keep him away from.

If he did see, does he actually understand it? Does he know what a High Elder is? Does he know about the sedition of Imbibitor Lunae, the transmutation arcanum, everything Dan Feng had done and Dan Heng was punished for?

He doesn't want to explain it all. Not now. Possibly not ever, truth be told.

And it's not the same as Boothill leaving behind his old identity when whatever event happened that caused him to leave home. Not really. But…

But so far, Boothill has slid so easily into Dan Heng’s routine. His presence never feels like an intrusion. He's already figured out what he can push and when to back down. And even Dan Heng finds himself able to roll with whatever punches Boothill throws with baffling ease. They share too much in their methods and ideologies, and sometimes Dan Heng knows what Boothill will do seemingly before even Boothill himself knows.

“...Tell me about Talia and the Nailscrap Town.” Boothill must know he's avoiding the topic. He must. But the man just throws his head back and cackles, melting easily back into what they had been doing before, as he speaks fondly of a planet that Dan Heng has never visited.

Not today. But.

Dan Heng inches just a little closer, just enough to nudge his foot against a metal leg. Boothill doesn't pull away.

Maybe someday.

[rudnitskaia]

White Chrysanths for the Swallow

Rocky was waiting for her at the table at the Little Daisy, but this time he was especially eager. Even Ivy had stopped teasing him about the way he lighted up and hummed to himself as he waited for Mau to show up at the door of the café, and just smiled, refilling his coffee whenever it ran out. He almost daydreamed of handing Maura two tickets to tomorrow's musical: of her eyes sparkling, of her taking his hand and telling him he was the best in the world.

But time passed, and Mau wasn't coming.

In those few hours, Rocky had replayed the fantasy in his head hundreds of times, changing the lines and the scenery. At first, imaginary Maura was beaming with happiness, calling him affectionate names, melting in his arms like all those heroines on the stage of a musical theater in the arms of their beloved ones, but every time the fantasy became darker and darker. More disturbing. Mau no longer rejoiced, no longer smiled. Her bright lively figure was becoming more and more dim, and she more often sighed, frowned, did not accept the gift. She asked him to return the tickets, scolded him for wasting his money carelessly, told him some news, one worse than the other, and finally said she didn’t want to see him again. Never again.

It was getting unbearable to sit still, and Rocky abruptly moved away from the table, threw on his coat, and headed for the exit. Maybe a walk would clear his head a little…

“Miss Pepper, I have a very urgent task to attend to. If she shows up on the doorstep, don't let her out of here on any pretext. Lock the doors, board up the windows, show her every fashion magazine you can find, but don't let her leave here until I get back. I'm counting on your wit and exceptional charm.”

The way he looked intently into Ivy's eyes before he left looked almost threatening. He wasn't even aware of the desperation hiding behind that look. But Ivy saw it.

“Don't worry, I'm an expert at this,” she winked at him encouragingly.

The cold air blew across Rocky's face, and he shivered, pulling his scarf over his nose, the same funny skewed scarf Mau had knitted for him last Christmas. Sometimes, like now, Rocky thought he could still smell on it the very same scent of coffee and pastries that wafted from the Venza family's eatery. It didn't help distract him, though. Quite the opposite. After walking a few blocks in an attempt to escape his doubts, he spotted a small flower shop — Rocky's imagination immediately conjured up a lovely picture of Maura cradling a fresh spring bouquet on this cold, cloudy evening and he didn't notice himself stepping over the store’s doorstep. The frail old woman behind the counter put aside the newspaper and immediately chirped, offering him different flowers, and finally convinced him to take a few white chrysanthemums. She tied the flowers with a delicate pink ribbon and also wrapped them tightly in the newspaper she had read before.

“They mustn't be overfrozen. Or they won't last long,” she explained sternly.

Rocky walked back much more briskly. He was warmed by the thought that now he would be able to give Mau not one surprise, but two. Hiding the bouquet from a gust of cold wind, Rocky lowered his gaze to it and pressed the flowers closer to himself… when suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the headline of one of the newspaper articles.

“Shootout at the small Italian eatery Casa di Rondine shocked the residents… a bloody showdown in the neighborhood… occurred on the night… police identified the bodies of two…”

Rocky couldn't remember how he reached the familiar alleyway. How he threw the bouquet to the ground, swung over the barrier tape, and rushed to the entrance — a gaping hole instead of a small blue door. Shards of glass littered the floor, the formerly cozy, cramped hall was a real mess, the furniture was riddled with gunshots. Even the old tabletop radio was now on the floor, shattered to pieces.

“Stop right there!” a panting policeman grabbed him by the scruff of the neck. “What the hell are you doing breaking into a crime scene?”

“I… uh…” in his panic Rocky couldn't think straight, but nonetheless he blurted out: “I'm from a newspaper. Wanted to visit the crime scene myself.”

“A lousy reporter you are, then. Your buddies sniffed everything around here a long time ago.”

“I was just hired today and immediately assigned to this very intriguing case. So…”

“There's nothing intriguing about it. This Bianchi guy…”

“Who?”

“The renter, Augusto Bianchi, if that's his real name at all, apparently had a huge debt to pay someone. And for that, he got pinned down. There was a scuffle in the night, at least four assailants. The two guys we found here have a couple priors, but they're not in a condition to tell us who hired them. The amount of such cold cases we have…” the man hummed and passed his hand above his head. “We've already explained it all to your fellow scribblers this morning. And I highly doubt the landlord would want to tell the same story tenth times over to another newspaper weasel. The only thing he's interested in right now is getting money from the insurance company.”

“And the girl?”

“What girl?”

“The waitress. Who worked here. What about her?”

“Considering how much blood there is, they're probably both either in a ditch, scattered in pieces, or feeding fishes somewhere at the bottom of the Mississippi… both father and daughter, if you meant her,” boredly remarked the other officer, who had quietly approached them, lighting a cigarette. “There's nothing for you to do here, boy. Henry's right — there's absolutely nothing of interest in this case. People might have chattered about it in the morning, but the very next day they'll forget all about it. Go home, don't add to our workload. And quit the paper that sent you here. If your editor doesn't realize that news like this must be broken in the heat of the moment, believe me, their business will burn out faster than a short match.”

Rocky tried to get anything else out of them, at least a little bit, to look in the kitchen of the eatery, to slip upstairs to Mau’s and Augusto's apartment, but the policemen were adamant. On unsteady legs he made it to the nearest bench and collapsed on it, staring blankly into the dark November sky. He could have screamed, could have destroyed everything around him on a single painful impulse, but the emptiness that engulfed him was far more frightening.

His silence was more frightening.

Years would pass. Would flow, as before, from night to night. The world won’t notice his loss. The world won't notice any loss at all. In the place of his beloved swallow house, other birds will build a nest. Freckle and Ivy will eventually stop opening that wound with their questions. And one day, perhaps, he will stop gazing into the crowd, hoping to find among the unfamiliar faces the features dear to his heart, and stop flinching when he hears someone say amore mio. He knows how it happens — it was not the first time. All he has to do is smile and everything will work out. It'll wear off, getting back to the way it was. One day.

But the bouquet of chrysanths will still remain rotting on the cold ground.

[beargregor]

Chef greg delivery just for you. it's a wonder I hadn't bearified him yet, he's my fave greg too 🔪

gays literally only want one thing (to be chopped up and eaten by a depressed man) and it's fucking disgusting

[itsnobodysproblem]

Most Sherlock Holmes adaptations I've seen tend to place their Final Problem towards the mid point of the series (or even a bit earlier) - it's also in my opinion the best way of going about it, so you have time enough for the characters to adjust after the reunion but they know each other well enough for the events of Fina to be devastating.

Sherlock & Co is done with 20 of the adventures. How many are there? Fifty-something? Almost sixty? Let's say we'll be entering mid-point territory after the 25th story.

So let's pretend for a moment that we have 5 more stories until The Final Problem. Ok.

Estimating an adventure at 3 episodes each, that would mean little over 3 months - maybe 3 and a half? Starting, of course, from the end of Sign of Four, which will be somewhere in December.

So let's say 3, maybe 4 months into 2025. That would be, what? Late march, early april?

Early april?

John having to tell the listeners that Sherlock is dead, in early april?

Quick calendar search reveals what I was praying it would - the 1st of april will be on a Tuesday next year.

So what I'm saying

What I'm saying is Sherlock &Co has the opportunity to do the funniest fucking thing

[kk-cats]

They are dead, maybe. Not quite.

Dead in the head, dull and aching in a way that doesn't quite make sense. And it burns. Oh, how it burns. (A throbbing headache. Flame flickers at their fingertips. No, wait. Does it? They can't quite tell. The mental plane is so hard to tell apart from the physical world, sometimes. Not always. Sometimes.)

They are a shadow in Gotham's streets. A lithe little thing, armed with spray paint and a taser and abilities they can't quite comprehend. They don't have to.

All they need to is to listen. To see.

To hear the screech of hatred, to see the blueish yellows but not quite of cruelty. (Is it even a colour? Maybe. Somehow. How do you describe the colour of a sense?)

They just need to know.

So they follow the song of cruelty-desperation-pain along alleyways. Let their feet tap-tap-tap along the ground. (Nobody will hear them. Nobody will see them. Good. It's safer that way.)

Spray the criminal in the face. Taser before they can even realise they are being attacked.

Close their third eye because violence is terrifying and the intent to hurt is a burning thing against their skin.

(It never quite fades. They can't close it. It's not merely an eye, after all. Not a physical thing.)

They are a ghost in Gotham's streets.

Small and scared and silent.

Nobody will hear them.

Nobody will see them.

But that doesn't mean their actions aren't noticed.

A criminal distracted, blinded by paint. A cat helped out of a tree. Supplies taken from stores with coins left in their place. The little things. The not so little things. It builds. It adds up.

They are a ghost in Gotham's streets.

Please don't hear them.

Please don't see them.

(It's far too scary to be known.)

[buttercupshands]

wait a minute

stop.

stop it.

[fragmentedblade]

The "Dan Heng is Dan Feng" dogmatics annoy me a lot. It entirely brushes off one of the most interesting and prevalent questions posed by the game, incarnated by several characters and stories that give the question different hues with different potential answers, and a constant also in HI3, like a thread waving the two games together

[vaguely-concerned]

I just *clenches fist with tears in my eyes* love the grand necropolis so much