#again is actually a misnomer

[theartistichuman]

perhaps if you were cringe it would solve the problem. or perhaps not but it’s way more fun

[thefreakandthehair]

I just wanna see that smile

wc: 1.1k | tags: canon-compliant injury/recovery, hospital setting, getting together, (brief and inferred mutual) pining, first kiss

a/n: happy (belated) birthday to my pal, @firefly-party! kei drew this piece last year and it was one of the first artworks we talked about when we became friends. this series has continued to live in my brain ever since, so I decided to write a little something in the universe!

Eddie woke up on March 26th, 1986 and Steve’s waited patiently for this moment ever since. 

Well, patient is a misnomer— he’d waited quietly to anyone not named Robin or Dustin. Robin, because she knows him too well and there’s no point in trying to hide anything from her and Dustin, because he’d apparently grown up overnight and pieced together that Steve sitting at Eddie’s bedside and holding his fucking hand every time he waltzed into the room meant something. 

Or maybe it was when Steve gave Eddie all of his rings back, sliding them carefully onto his shaking fingers with a comforting smile. 

Or maybe when Eddie sat up unassisted for the first time and Steve nearly hit the ceiling, bracing him in a panic as if all of his stitches and staples would burst with the tiny movement he’d been working toward in physical therapy. 

Hell, maybe it was Steve taking over some of Eddie’s care for himself, washing his hair and braiding it because the staff at Hawkins Memorial are doing nothing more than the bare minimum to make sure they don’t get sued, or even more frightening, reamed out by the new duo of Hopper and Wayne again. Either way, his hair was making Steve’s own scalp itchy. 

Dustin never tells Steve what it was exactly that tipped him off but whatever it was, it’s enough for Dustin to give Steve the floor when Eddie’s getting ready to discharge back home. And that’s how, exactly two months later to the day from Eddie waking up, Steve enters Eddie’s otherwise empty room armed with a special treat in the form of milkshakes to find Eddie pouring over an unfortunately familiar stack of papers. 

“NDA?” Steve asks, nodding at the papers in Eddie’s lap. He’s upright, fully dressed in the black sweatpants Jeff brought by and a cut off Metallica tee shirt, bandages around his stomach and neck. 

Eddie mutters as he reads under his breath, eyes flitting across the page. 

“How the fuck do they expect any of us common folk to understand a fucking word of this? Hereby? Wherein? Hitherto? What fucking year did I wake up in, man?”

“Yeah, I think the whole point is that you don’t read what you’re signing but I’ll let you in on a little secret.” Steve huffs a small laugh through his nose as he steps carefully around Eddie’s crutches. “You may as well just sign it because if you don’t, they’ll forge it anyway. Now finish signing your life rights away so you can have this milkshake with me.” 

Eddie perks up, looking away from the mess of papers and smiling up at Steve with a smile so genuine, it punches the air out of his lungs. He keeps looking at him like this, like Steve’s a breath of fresh air, like he's someone Eddie wants to have around. 

Steve isn’t sure what to do with that look yet, but he’s sure glad it’s there. 

“Celebration milkshakes? Is this a freedom gift?” Eddie signs the NDA quickly and sets the pen down on the bed next to him. 

“It sure is. Figured this could make up for all those lame popsicles from the cafeteria.” 

The mattress creaks as Steve sits down on the edge, just to the side of the railing, and hands Eddie the strawberry treat. Their fingers graze, Steve’s chilled and Eddie’s warm. His hand is still a little shaky, trembling as he takes hold of the cup, but they’re warm and warm means alive. 

Eddie’s hand can tremble for the rest of his goddamn life so long as it’s always warm. 

They each take a sip, smooth ice cream slurping up their straws, and after a moment, Eddie sighs.

“Is it weird that I’m actually sort of worried about leaving?” 

Steve’s eyebrows knit together, looking down at Eddie’s rings glinting beneath the offensive fluorescent lights above them.

“What are you worried about?”

“Uh, well, I did almost die. And the town still wishes I did. It’s a lot easier to make those dreams a reality outside of these walls, y’know? And I’m uh…” Steve watches as Eddie takes a breath and Steve suddenly misses the early days when Eddie was connected to the heart rate monitor. 

“You’re…?” Steve presses, sipping his milkshake again to appear casual. 

“I see you all the time here. Guess I just don’t want that to change.” 

Steve’s heart skips a beat, clattering in his chest and pounding at his ribs, desperately trying to crack him right open and run to the man who’s claimed it. Eddie watches him with cautious eyes, opens his mouth to say something else but Steve cuts him off before he can take it back. 

“Why do you think that’d change? Forest Hills is a lot closer than this shithole, and you won’t be kept under lock and key. And as for the first thing, well, Wayne and Nancy have a lot in common and I have a bat loaded up with nails in the trunk of my car.” Steve rests his free hand on Eddie’s knee. “No one's gonna fuck with you. Don’t worry about that.” 

“You sound a little cocky there, Stevie.” Eddie lifts one eyebrow, glancing from Steve’s hand up to his eyes. “Ready to fight for my honor or something?”

“Yep.” 

He hadn’t brought the milkshakes intending to use them as props, but he’s glad he has something to do to fill the space as Eddie watches him with questioning eyes. As he slurps through the straw, grating noise still preferable over the awkward silence, Eddie’s pinched expression turns softer, realization dawning between the stark white walls of the hospital and the pink ice cream in both of their hands. 

“You’re serious.” Eddie says. 

“Took you that long to figure that out?” Steve teases. 

“I’ve been a little busy with learning how to breathe and walk again. Y’know, just little things.” Eddie rolls his eyes with that same fond smile, free hand lacing its fingers through Steve’s. “So what you’re saying is that I’ll see you just as much outside of this prison as I have inside of it?” 

Steve shrugs. “Probably even more, honestly. There are no visiting hours at Wayne’s, and it’s not like I have a job to rush off to these days. You’re stuck with me, Ed. At least for as long as you want me around.” 

Eddie snorts, unceremoniously scoffing in Steve’s face as if in disbelief.

“Don’t make promises like that. What happens when I never want you to leave?” 

The air shifts, growing heavier as they find themselves leaning closer, two satellites orbiting one another by nothing but gravitational pull. 

Steve’s not sure who actually closes the gap, but he finds himself with his lips pressed against Eddie’s— sweet, chilled, a little chapped but smiling against his. Months of waiting, of hoping that he’d get this opportunity, come to a deafening crescendo and it takes all of his discipline to not push. Instead, they pull apart and Steve smiles, tucking loose hair behind Eddie’s ear. 

“That’s easy. I’d just never leave.”

fun fact: kei, I wrote your birthday down in my calendar as the 28th for some reason, a solid ten days late, so know that this was planned from the get-go but was just a tad bit late.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Drabble Roulette: Matt Murdock - Flowershop AU

Hey hey! This weekend (July 6 -7) I’m going to be playing drabble roulette! I’ve curated a list of characters, tropes, AUs, and kinks and I’m spinning the wheel! Hopefully I can do this once a month as a little writing exercise.

Character: Matt Murdock

Warnings: this drabble includes no blatant triggers. Please mind these warnings and take care.

Explicit, 18+.

You tend to tune the world out. Literally. Your overear headphones block out the noise of the street, not that there's very much going. It's early.  

You prefer to open. The atmosphere is placid and you can do things at your own pace. The shop owner turns up on time anyhow, often carried away at some thrift shop or estate sale. Zuzana is kind but a bit flighty. Besides, you won't complain for as long as you get a check. 

It isn't until you feel the change beneath your soles that you realise something’s amiss. You look up at the store window, the middle pane gone but for a few shards left in the frame. On the pavement are the remnants. 

You look down, careful as you step off the pile. Any of the jagged pieces could easily slice through your flats.  Your mind goes blank as your usual routine lays in ruin with the shop window. 

You stand and stare. A tapping slowly tapers up behind you. You ignore it, too concerned with the window. What are you going to tell Zuzana?  

Well, what exactly happened? Why did the culprit smash the store front? A robbery? Or vandalism? Are they still inside? 

"You should watch your step," a familiar voice girds as a shard is bounced against the brick.  

You turn to face Matt. He's a regular. He still his cane, holding it straight to the ground as he cranes his head behind his dark glasses, as if he can actually see the shattered window. 

"Someone had quite the night," he says. 

"Um, yeah..." you murmur. 

He's a regular. You suspect he comes in for the conversation more than the flowers. He's always friendly.  

"I should check inside," you utter. 

"No, you should stay out here," he grips his can and swings it back forth, "let me have a look..." he clucks, "you know what I mean." 

You don't know if it's a joke or a misnomer. He grins and it eases the tension.  

"Matt, you can't--" 

"Why? I'm blind, not weak." 

"I didn't--" 

"Give me your keys," he holds his hand out, "I'm good at finding things in the dark. Trust me." 

You sigh and fish in your bag. You hand over the keyring and he moves forward. He's braver than you. The thought of going inside makes you nervous but he doesn't hesitate. 

"Be careful," you call after him. 

He chuckles. He's entirely unbothered. You wait as he unlocks the door and taps inside. You hold your breath, inching closer. You hear more broken glass. 

The tension wraps around your throat. You yelp as Matt appears in the broken window. His head moves back and forth and he holds something up. 

"Do you know what this is?" He asks, extending his arm. 

You step around the glass and take the paper. You turn it one way then the other before you unfold it. There's jagged writing on the inside but the most startling part is your name. 

"Is it a receipt? It was on the counter. With this." 

He holds out a stuffed pink rabbit. You stare at it. You have a collection of rabbit figurines at home. It started as a child, a fan of Peter Rabbit and his friends.  

You look at the letter again. 

"What is it?" He asks. 

"There's no signature in the letter," you say numbly. "But it has my name on it." 

He's silent. He brings the toy back to feel the floppy ears. He hums. 

"Secret admirer?" He wonders.  

"I... don't know," you murmur. 

"Worse, considering," he raises the end of his cane to poke the empty window frame, "I'll stay while you call the cops. Whoever it is, I think they might come back." 

[oathkeeper-of-tarth]

Time for a long Aylin ramble, because I haven't indulged in a while.

I'm actually really invested in Aylin being an aasimar! I do not think it is a misnomer or mistake, as I've seen people suggest. She was referred to as a celestial explicitly in some older builds of the game, but this was changed at some point during development. And I noted aasimar enjoyer Oath, quelle surprise prefer it this way for a variety of reasons. Primarily, I think, because it lets her be larger than life, have a touch of that other-worldliness and otherness, while keeping her very much "of this world" still, very (physically and otherwise) present and part of the prime material plane, and ultimately far more human than I believe even she herself would sometimes like to be.

To bring up the most basic and rules/mechanics-bound "creature type" level of categorisation, as an aasimar she is a humanoid, and not a celestial - outsider. Her outsider status is absolutely there and a goldmine of things to explore, but that's a different post sitting in my drafts for far too long that I'll get around to one of these days (but for now you should read this post that I love). Yes, she is in a very real sense above it all, she will outlast everyone around her and whatever she gets involved with. We also get to see her dramatic poetic archaic speech idiosyncrasies (Ho!), her odd sense of the passage of time, and, of course, her oft-discussed and joked about apparent lack of filter or regard for current social graces.

(Endlessly amused at her just going: I'll do it when my mum tells me to.)

All things combined, Aylin feels more like a being of two worlds to me than a guest visiting this one, even as she is called the emissary of a goddess. She embodies a blending and an odd balancing act between the lofty divine and the mundane, duty and preordained purpose and personhood, and touches on the many ways this balance can be tipped. A classic D&D aasimar struggle, really, and a well I am happy to keep returning to.

Balthazar: She was a unique specimen even before I began my work. Aasimar. A god's blood united with mortal flesh.

She honestly isn't even that far from a regular aasimar stat- and ability-wise - Aylin does have several special abilities, but these are flavoured as blessings from her divine mother instead of an inherent property of her as a creature - though, notably, Aylin herself at one point claims she is always reborn because "it is [her] nature".

“Blessed with the favour of a goddess, Nightsong cannot be permanently killed. When unconscious, at the start of her turn she recovers 1 hit point.” “Nightsong will be resurrected by the powers of Selûne whenever she dies.”

Importantly, she does not get to reincarnate, or get a new body, or flit away to her "home plane" or anything like what celestials get to do. She is anchored to this one physical existence (again, very human of her), tied and limited to this one body as it painstakingly repairs itself over and over and over (to a sometimes extreme extent, e.g. the all but outright stated regrowing of amputated body parts in a frankly horrifying context), insistently and indomitably but ultimately imperfectly. And I think that's part of why the kintsugi design drives me utterly wild, why her immortality setup is more interesting to me than, say, a mutant healing factor, or something like the characters in The Old Guard. Her history is pretty literally engraved on her skin, and when she, in the role of a power-granting artefact and the object of a ritual sacrifice, tells you she will feel every wound you inflict upon her, it is so easy to believe her. And I'm not even that invested in physical suffering, just that it means it's all still very palpably there, forever, and she doesn't get to magically restart with a clean slate in this sense, nor does she get to forget past lifetimes as some creatures like devas do. It's just a flavour of immortality I personally find far more engaging than most.

(I mean, yes, I am also a known hurt/comfort sucker and if you're going there in order to set up a scene where she's, I dunno, getting doted on by Isobel who's invented new scar tissue pain relief massage techniques, you know I'm going to be all over that.)

I'm also not sure I'd say she can just pop over to Argentil to hang out with her mum at will. I mean, planeshifting is not that hard to achieve, and also she can just… ask Selûne, ultimately, I guess. But I wouldn't say she has spent much time there, and I think she takes her role as Selûne's champion and representative in the Realms too seriously and too much to heart to be away from them for very long.

Which also calls to mind the issue of the obvious and "simple" answer to Isobel's eventual death - namely that with Isobel picked up as a petitioner soul they'll all just go live out the better part of an eternity in Selûne's realm. Probably in some form they will - it's never guaranteed, but this time, yeah, probably something like that will happen, and there will be, as Melodia says, no loss, only temporary separation. But I'm really not into just handwaving or stripping away most of the mortal/immortal pairing issues inherent in the relationship. If we're going for the "hang out in a different plane of existence forever" option, I think at one point Aylin would have to "complete" her duties and lay down her sword, in a way, and pick between Faerûn and the Gates of the Moon - meaning she herself is effectively moving on to a completely new phase of her existence as well.

And while Selûne carving a lovely marble statue and bringing it to life and similar takes are fun and beautiful and interesting, I'm very invested in an Aylin who was born, raised, and had to actually grow up and learn and be trained. I have a ton of headcanons of Aylin being a weird glowy baby at some point (with all the Disney's Hercules jokes I've seen folks make, of course), being entrusted to a series of Selûnite enclaves and temples and cloisters, hounded by Shar and her agents pretty much all her life.

(Neither here nor there, but Aylin also comes off as a fairly "young" immortal to me - note that I am basing this on absolutely nothing but a general impression and there's no actual hint anywhere about how old she really is. Just vibes.)

To finish up, I'd like to shout out Isobel, and the big humanising factor she is presented as. For instance, a very concrete bit of motivation for Aylin to eventually "humanise" her perception of time, if nothing else.

Aylin without Isobel is horribly depressing to me mostly because she seems to distance herself from her humanity and err on the side of holy duty (see: her epilogue letter, ouch). And Isobel is definitely the person who (invaluably, imo) explicitly and consistently insists on Aylin's humanity and personhood, who cares for her as a woman and not a divine weapon, who actually treats her well-being as a priority, and who understands her so very well and so deeply. Who does acknowledge the gloriously resplendent Dame Aylin, daughter of the Moonmaiden herself in all her awe-inspiring presence and occasionally amusing foibles, but who never fails to look past the titles and fronts even Aylin herself is so keen to put up, and focus on what lies behind it all.

A moment that sticks out to me in particular is her bemoaning Aylin's disregard for her own safety, then actually getting very angry if you suggest Lorroakan can't hurt Aylin:

Isobel: Even after all she's been through, she thinks herself unstoppable - invincible. It all feels like recklessness to me. Player: Lorroakan can't harm her. Have faith. Isobel: He can harm her. Just as Ketheric did. She'll survive it, but she can suffer like any of us - and for longer.

Using Isobel's words verbatim is a good conclusion to my thoughts here, I think: the truth of Aylin being "singular among us all" coexisting with all the ways Aylin is "just like any of us".

And now I'll pay the cute Aylin screenshot tax one last time.

[frownyalfred]

You mentioned it briefly in an a previous ask and now im curious

To you, what's the difference between an alpha den and an omega nest? And why wouldn't an omega nest be in an alpha den?

I might be wrong, but generally in a/b/o fics they tend to be two discrete places that merge together upon mating, right? So an omega has their nest (usually a bed or room) and the alpha has their den (also usually a room, less focused on comfort, more of a territorial thing) and then once they mate/get married/move in together, the nest and den kind of merge into this dual entity. The nest-and-den. To the alpha character, it's their den; to the omega character, it's their nest. Sometimes they're actually two separate spaces, but usually I don't see that.

I mentioned in the other ask that I think making alphas to dens and omegas to nests is a bit of misnomer to me. Rather, I think omegas have nests as described (beds, rooms, places they go for symptom relief of heats and instincts, etc) and alphas are possessive of spaces that also happen to be the nest. It's not their space, it's the omega's space, but they're possessive of the things in it and the people in/nearby. They're possessive of the space and get twitchy if others aren't pack, but they don't have the same relationship with the nest that the omegas do. They'll ride their rut out in there and view it as theirs mid-rut, but the transfer of power doesn't magically happen just because of that. It doesn't become a den simply because an alpha rides out a rut in a nest. If that makes any sense?

But again, my whole a/b/o verse is an inversion of typical alpha dominance tropes, so the omegas owning and deciding rules on the nest/communal space definitely defies some traditional a/b/o writing on dens. This structure suggests that alphas and omegas use and define their spaces differently during ruts and heats, which I think is an interesting thing to explore since the den/nest duality traditionally suggests those spaces are similar and function equally, which we know they don't. And in my humble opinion, it's much more interesting to ask how and why those spaces are defined differently.

Like maybe an alpha in rut doesn't seek out a den, but some other kind of behavior. Maybe it's not a space thing, but a time thing, or a people thing. Behaviors. Traditional a/b/o suggests omegas return to nests for feelings of safety and security; in-rut alphas aren't looking to be safe and comforted. If we dip into biology, most animals in rut are out in the world trying to fuck, fight or both.

[spookberry]

One thing i think about from AGiT when it comes to ghostly purposes/obsessions is that Danny's powers just like... faded away. Like he just gets the option to became a normal human.

And like it makes sense, ive certainly seen the "if a ghost doesnt fulfill their obsession theyll fade away painfully" take. And it seems to me if his ghost half faded he'd still leave behind something considering humans dont just Fade Away- unrelated sidebar: i honestly think in general ghost lore outside dp fanon its supposed to be the other way around. You complete your obsession with the GOAL of getting to fade away, ya know? For some ghosts their obsession isnt accomplishable tho so they just stick around. Which is what had happened in agit. Danny didnt need to do anything to protect amity park anymore, he'd completed his purpose in a sense, so his ghost half started to fade.

But anyways i think it sorta answers the question of "if danny died all the way would he still become a ghost?" Like, yeah, he would(provided he hadnt completed his purpose yet). Cuz when his ghost fades he gets to chose to just be 100% human again.

Kinda implies Halfa is a misnomer, because he isnt actually 50% alive 50% dead. He is 100% dead and 100% alive at all times.

[hed-romancer]

FOR FUN! Part 9 of my MP100 AU where Teru is stronger than Mob! I've realized that Strength Swap AU is a misnomer because Teru and Mob don't actually swap strengths- Mob has his canon strength and Teru is just a little bit stronger.

Strength Swap AU Original idea Strength Swap Comic: part 1 previous part next part

image id under the cut!

image id:

panel one is mob, blank-faced, asking teru, "what do you like to do for fun, Hanazawa?"

Below that is a banner above three polaroid photos. The banner reads "things teru likes to do for fun". The first polaroid is of a first place trophy, labeled "cheat at football". The second polaroid is of a tv showing the movie title Flying Dead Pig, labeled "watch the same movie... again." The third polaroid is of teru smirking, labeled "organize his gang".

The second panel is of teru saying, "not much, you?"

the third panel is of mob saying "i like to run. would you like to run with me?"

the fourth panel is of teru smiling wide and saying, "sure!"

the fifth panel is of mob saying "i do like to run without my powers though."

the sixth panel is of mob and teru lying on the grass. both of them have x's for eyes, indicating they are dead from exhaustion. Mob has a small smile, teru's expression is completely flat. "that was nice. thanks for running with me, Hanazawa," says mob. "Sure no problem," replies Hanazawa, while internally he thinks to himself, "why did ie ver agree to that?!?"

end id

[mezz-merizing]

language, hypnotism, and you!

here in the Hypnokink Zone we tend to center our focus on inductions. and for good reason!! they're the purest form of hypnosis, the intentional induction of someone, an endeavour designed exclusively to take someone into trance. but what if we didn't want to do an induction, or even take someone into trance, but still have a hypnotic effect on them? as it turns out, this is extremely doable, and extremely cool!

if you've been here for a while now you might have seen this post from me, my first proper ramble about all this stuff, and you might remember that bit at the end, when i talk about just how hot i find the words "hypnotized" and "brainwashed" themselves, and how i sometimes just find myself repeating them over and over when i'm really feelin' it. i think that's a good representation of how just single words can fuck with our minds, and it's not just those two <3

so like, let's think for a second about what language actually is; we tend to take for granted the fact that we make air do silly tricks with our mouths and our throats in order to put ideas and concepts into other people's heads. really, a word isn't just a word- it's not just the funny shape that air takes on when you make just the right tongue movements, it's the idea that word actually is. and ideas are extremely powerful!! when you think of the word "brainwashed" you don't just think of the individual letters, you think of helpless subjects, spinning spirals, and complete, devoted obedience. and that has more effects on you than you might realise :3

sometimes people in the hypno sphere call this "neuro-linguistic programming" or "NLP" but that's kind of a misnomer, (actual NLP is a silly and weird pseudoscience largely invented by "pickup artists" to sell courses, so, y'know, i try and avoid the association) i prefer to just use "hypnotic language" because it's just as descriptive! the basis of hypnotic language is this: when you say words, you incept ideas into someone's head. if you have the skill, time, and familiarity with the person you're talking to, you can use this to control their thoughts nearly as effectively as if they were in trance!

a lot of this relies on what words mean the most to the individual you're talking to. let's take me as an example!! the word docile makes me fucking weak. it conjures up images of blank-face, calm-smile obedience, of gently nodding and going about the commands i'm given, of empty-headed servitude. the images it conjures in my head are vivid and hot as hell, and it's just a single word. use it a little bti around me, and you'll ensure i have all those thoughts swirling around in my head! thoughts of servitude. thoughts of enslavement. and so it comes naturally that i'd be easier to control <3

tone matters too! if you speak to someone authoritatively, they'll come to see you as an authority. even in tiny matters, insignificant ones, even in little ways- saying "hey, grab me a glass of water" is more authoritative than "hey, can you get me some water?" obviously, this is a double-edged sword! too much authority and you might give your intentions away, or just come off as kinda bossy, and that's more likely to make people actively resist you than let you in. once again, it's all about knowing your target! you gotta know what your subject's tolerances are for this kinda thing

take all this together, and you can have almost as much of a grip on someone's mind as you would if they were completely hypnotized :3 you break them down overtime, get them hanging on certain words, widen their tolerance for authority... and eventually, with a lot of effort and patience, they're yours. obedient to you- brainwashed, in all but process

can you imagine it? like, from the subject's perspective- being completely under someone's hypnotic control without ever having been hypnotized. maybe looking back at a long time ago and thinking "i sure acted different then", but not worrying about it at all. you're a thrall, and as far as you're concerned, that's just who you are!! that's just kind of how the world works

i dunno about you but i can't imagine a fate i'm more desperate for <3

[orcinus-veterinarius]

Had to mo I've always loved orcas and they remain my favorite animal but I've been finding myself having to avoid the comments on anything with orcas and esp natural behavior. Because for whatever reason there's always comments on how orcas are "bullies" or the a-holes of the sea simply for being apex predators.

It's odd though if it's a captive orca people are all out ready to release it back into the ocean. But if it's wild that's a different story although there's always a comment or two saying how the orca "deserves" to be in captivity anyway because again they're bullies for being predators.

Like is there a reason orcas seem to be getting this unfair label for what they're doing to survive? I actually don't really see these same comments on wolves or lions or even sharks. There's even more sharks aren't monsters for being apex predators so why are they doing the opposite for orcas?

If I had to speculate, I think it’s because of the extreme lengths to which orcas have been anthropomorphized. Pre-2000s SeaWorld Shamu shows characterized the whales as basically big cuddly pets, and even into the 2000s and 2010s they still presented them as almost-mystical apex predators with a magical bond with humans. And for a long time, that was the (western) public’s main introduction to killer whales. It was hard to imagine them ever being anything but friendly.

Nowadays, a lot of folks—even some scientists—have popularized the idea that orcas are basically people, equal to or even superior to humans in intelligence and the capacity to feel emotions. So when they do something that humans find distasteful (punt around harbor porpoises, hunt fellow cetaceans, commit infanticide), it’s a lot more tempting to assume they’re doing it out of cruelty or malice than if it were a “simple animal” like a shark. I see that sort of comment a lot with animals assumed to be more “human-like” (orcas, chimps, elephants) or who live closely with people (hence the “cats are evil jerks” misnomer).

So yeah, in short, serious anthropomorphism. Orcas hunt because they’re predators, not psychotic murderers (*stares down Blackfish*). And while we’re at it—dolphins use sexual coercion because that’s the reproductive strategy they developed, not because they’re evil rapists (I’m really sick of seeing that “fact” shared around).

No animal is evil, because evil is a human concept. We cannot ascribe our sense of morality to them, no matter how intelligent they are, because they are not humans.

Anyway, pitting dolphins against sharks is stupid. Just like when people pit cats against dogs. Why not both?

[overflowchute]

Q. By what mechanism is one who makes contact with an Old One driven insane?

A. "Driven insane" is a misnomer. We will answer this by means of metaphor.

When a human makes mental contact with another human, the intermixing can sometimes be complex. However, it is usually not extremely difficult to "see which puzzle pieces go where", so to speak. In close proximity, the identity components naturally bond their siblings, and so the average mental crossover does not cause major identification issues.

Indeed, the components of a mind are generally drawn together, and naturally reject other minds. While some visualize mental mixing as drops of water, limited human to human mental contact is like shuffling two jigsaw puzzles together. It may not be trivial to tell the pieces of either apart. But if their patterns are different enough, separating the components is relatively easy - it is simply a matter of time and effort. The pieces clearly indicate their source and have pieces identifying where they go.

Even when humans become irrevocably mentally mixed, the result is like taking two balls of differently colored play dough and mixing them together. Eventually the colors will overwhelm and become one, but you can still separate much of them if you want to until then.

The problem with humans contacting Old Ones is a matter of scale. We have avoided using water as a metaphor because it spreads readily and cannot be purified by hand. But it is a useful example in this specific case.

Imagine you have a dropper full of red food coloring and you release it into a lake. Would retrieving the red food coloring be possible? For all practical intents and purposes, the answer would be no. Why is this? Because the scale of the lake is much greater than the dropper. We mentioned that this water metaphor doesn't work very well with small scale interactions, because mixing even very small amounts of different coloring creates an inextricable mess. But it is a useful visualization in this case.

So, the dropper might have been emptied, but that doesn't mean it cannot hold water. Rather, if we immediately try to place our dropper back in the lake and fill it again, what we will retrieve will probably contain only a minuscule amount of the red food coloring we released. Now, because minds are more adhesive than water, it is likely that in the real scenario much more of a person's mind will be retained after contact. But this essentially shows the problem: after contact, what remains in their body tends to equalize towards the average weight.

If a dropper contains 1 mililiter of water, and you drop it into a container with 9 mililiters of water and mix it around, any random sample of the water will be 1/10ths the dropper's water and 9/10ths the container's water on average. Most of what returns is not human.

As stated, this is a simplistic metaphor - perhaps we could extend it by discussing how coloring can stain the insides of the dropper, and other coloring might stick to this stain. Another aspect is that intermixing continues over time - it doesn't simply "drop" in an instant. But eventually, if a human mind is allowed to remain in contact with an Old One for too long, and their sense of self is weak, then their mind will disperse into components scattered evenly across its expanse and their body will be nothing more than part of the amalgam.

I hope that despite this extremely wordy explanation, the actual concept remains easy to comprehend. Such is the hope behind the use of a human's metaphor.

[sisitrip]

"As Sweet and Soft"

Gallavich A.U.gust 2024

Smell her. She makes an event deadline on time lol.

For Gallavich A.U.gust @gallavichthings 'free week', I'm pulling out something a little different.

A/N and TW: The title of this story is a misnomer of sorts. This is a story that deals with themes of loss, regret, a retelling of an unaliving attempt, abandonment, and unburdening of harmful secrets. But, it also includes, above all, love of family, reconnection and the humorous ways we all try to overcome massive pain because there’s just no right way to do that. Here, there be comedy too (I hope) and moments so special (hoping again), I smiled the entire time I wrote it. 

So, lovely readers, the both of you lol, if the themes I mentioned will bring you harm in any way, feel free to skip this one and peruse other works that will keep you safe. Besides AO3, check out some other Tumblr accounts in the Gallavich fandom that might have offerings for you. This fandom is jammed with phenomenal creatives and I’m so happy they let me say “I go here.” 

With that, please enjoy "As Sweet and Soft."

--------------------------------

Ian walked him to the front and sat him down carefully as if settling a delicate piece of rice paper. With a kiss and a promise to be back after his ‘errand’, Ian left him alone and reeling.

Mickey sat in the loudest quiet he’s ever been unlucky enough to sit in. Churches, somehow more massive inside than out, always seem to bestow their attendees the power to hear the smallest sound; an apologetic peace offering for its chilly welcome.

Mickey flexed that bestowed power to catch a tiny sniffle. The scritch of nails on stockinged legs. A softly sobbed “42 is so young.” He hid behind this cataloging of sounds, all while wrinkling the most threadbare eulogy ever crafted. Panic rising, he stalled, cataloging absences too. His brothers were here, but his father was not. An aunt he’d never met was here, but Ian was not. 

His mother would never be anywhere again.  

“I’m sorry Mr. Milkovich, but we’ll need to get started. We have a wedding scheduled for later,” the priest murmured regretfully, having materialized like a ghost. He should be regretful. The celebration of death shouldn’t be rushed. 

At the lectern, he looked for Ian’s face in the small crowd, but he still wasn’t back. He needed Ian to keep the world from caving in. What errand could be more important than that? 

He smoothed out his speech on the polished, lemon scented wood. But, tears, fat and blinding, made it impossible to read. At sea, he crumpled the eulogy, struggling to articulate this tectonic cut into his life. He cleared his throat, blinking hard, and gave up on doing this justice. He’ll just do it his way.

“I don’t have a lifetime of memories with her to tell you about,” he began, talking to a pillar instead of the people watching him. 

“She left-” He swallowed hard. “She escaped when I was five. It wasn't as dramatic as that sounds. Her disappearance was actually kind of unremarkable, at first.” He gave a short, bitter laugh. “For something that rocked us hard, I somehow managed to miss it.”

He pressed his fingers into the wood, grounding himself. 

“It wasn’t until I hurt myself that it finally sank in. Like a lot of five year olds, I thought she’d feel it if I got hurt. Like physically feel my pain. Dumb, I know. But, she always used to magically appear to comfort me and bandage me up whenever I got hurt.”

He cleared his throat, fighting against the drain of tears building up. 

“When my cut went on bleeding and she didn't show up, I knew. I knew without a doubt that she wasn’t coming back. She couldn’t feel me anymore, I told my five year old self. So, I put a paper towel around the cut and I broke every toy car I had. That’s how I was able to let her go. I didn't know it would be harder to let her go this time.” 

A door opened somewhere and footsteps approached softly behind him. He refused to give the priest the benefit of his attention. He was almost done anyway.

“But, I didn’t let go of what I remembered about her. How she always smelled like dryer sheets and mercurochrome. How her blue eyes dilated to near black whenever she laughed too hard, which wasn’t often.”

He couldn’t see the pillar now and the soft sobbing from the attendees was wrecking his ability to get through this. He went on, nearly whispering as he fought his own sobs. 

“I didn’t let go of the memory of her sneaking up behind me, when I was drawing or coloring, and blowing kisses into the back of my neck to make me laugh. To make me feel like … somebody loved me.”

His eyes were streaming freely now and the pillar was a shapeless waterfall of gray. He doesn’t think he can finish. But, a small hand, bearing chipped, black nail polish squeezed his arm. 

Mandy. Beautiful, and here and here and here, filling the crater of his grief with her light and love. She gave him a curved smile through her tears. 

Weakened by surprise and gratitude, he leaned into her, pressing his forehead to hers. A pressing warmth on his other side was unmistakably Ian who held him up with an arm around his back. He could finish now. He could do anything. But, more than anything, he wanted to honor his mother. He took a deep breath.

“Like I said when I started, I don’t have a lifetime of memories to share with you about my mother. But, I have the ones I just told you about and I will treasure them until I die. When she could be m-my mother, she was everything.” 

He broke. His harsh, raw sobs escaped unchecked and the church saw fit to amplify them with heartbreaking clarity. Mandy and Ian pressed in close and helped him back to his seat where he couldn’t let go of their hands. Not even long enough to wipe his face of tears. Mandy took care of that. Face just as wet, she cleaned his cheeks without bothering to clean her own. That hadn’t changed in all the years they grew up together. Ian held his other hand between his own, sleeving it in safety and warmth.

The awful, anxiety ridden part is over. He did what he could to honor someone he’d lost a long time ago and he’s at peace with it. As at peace as anyone could be whose mother died. It’s a fitful kind of peace that settles uneasily like a misshapen shroud you never wanted to wear.

The rest of the service was quick and when Mandy inclined her head to the side door, he and Ian followed her, leaving the receiving line of strangers for the small, grassy graveyard out back. They sat amongst the sunshine and crooked tombstones, faces upturned to a cloudless sky the color of his mother’s eyes. 

“How’d you know?” he asked Mandy, taking in her shaggy black hair and pierced septum.

“Your hubby tracked me down a few days ago, bought me a ticket. Got me here to the church in record time.” She threw grass at Ian who just smiled softly at her. “He drives like a criminal.”

He caught Ian’s gaze, heart burning inside him. 

“Errand, huh?” he asked, chin trembling. He will never do anything better than marrying this man. 

Ian winked at him then turned to Mandy.

“You’re staying with us for a few days,” Ian said, cleaning grass off his pants. 

He and Mandy exchanged amused looks. Ian had used his “argue with me and find out” voice. 

“Eww, on the Westside? Do I need to get my shots before they let me in?” Mandy teased. 

Ian stood and yanked her to her feet with a smile. “No shots required for family,” he said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. His mother’s dark hair.

They laughed, easy and comfortable, as if no time had passed. He wished his mother could see this enduring friendship between his sister and the man she wouldn’t let him give up on. 

Ian and Mandy held out their hands to him and he squinted against the sun and their openly loving expressions, blinded by both. He’s going to remember this moment forever. His favorite people are smiling down at him and it was as sweet and soft as a kiss to the back of the neck. 

When he’s pulled to his feet, he can’t help the impulsive kiss to each of their cheeks, surprising them. He shrugs. It’s that kind of day. 

“You want to go to the repass?” Ian asked, arms around the both of them as they walk through the shrines of people who will keep his mother company. 

“No,” he said, looking at Mandy. “You?” 

She gave the graveyard a sad, final look. “No. Let’s just get out of here. We’re disturbing the sleepers.”

They found Iggy and Colin shuffling around in front of the church, looking uncomfortable in their ill fitting suits. He’d told them not to bother dressing up, and was touched that they hadn’t listened. When his brothers saw Mandy, they broke into twin grins. 

“Dickhead 1 and 2, what’s good?” Mandy called, grinning too. Before they answered, she dropped her purse and took a run at them, arms wide. If there was anything good to be had from this awful day, it was his brothers happiness at seeing their sister. 

Iggy and Colin caught her and lifted her between them in a hug that at first was full of smiles then descended into tears. Mandy wiped their faces with the sleeve of her jacket and they touched her hair, trying to smile through their tears. Another moment as sweet and soft as a kiss to the back of the neck.

“What’s this shag shit?” Iggy husked as she cleaned his face.  

“Wolf cut. Easier to take care of.” Mandy cleaned Colin’s face next as he flipped a hank of her hair. 

“Call it whatever you want. It’s a mullet,” Colin said fondly while very gently cleaning her face with his tie and pressing a kiss into her cheek. “You look butch. I like it.”

“Ian,” Mandy called, smiling at Colin. “Can I bring these two weepy little bitches?” 

Ian picked up Mandy’s bag and looked at him with a soft, questioning smile. He shrugged. It would feel good to have his siblings in the house tonight. 

“Alright, listen up. Anyone of you fart, and I mean one damn fart, and everybody is getting kicked out except Mickey and Mandy,” Ian warned with a smile, linking hands with him. 

At their place, Colin ordered a ton of UberEats from every restaurant within a mile and they got comfortable down to their t-shirts and boxers. He knows the circumstances are different, but it felt like it did when Terry left for long stretches and they’d buy fast food with the money they pooled together. It’s how they celebrated the gift of peaceful days and no fresh bruises.

He smiled when Mandy padded out of their bathroom wearing one of Ian’s shirts, looking adorable and small. With a burger in her mouth, she whipped out a bottle of black nail polish and shook it while eyeing her brothers meaningfully. He knows what’s coming and her habit, born out of a need to self soothe, is exactly what they need.

He and his brothers took off their socks and while they ate, laughed and drank, Mandy painted their toes. It broke his heart a little to see her shoulders relax with each painted toe, a reminder of how she used to cope.

Ian bounced questioning eyebrows at him while Mandy painted Iggy’s toes.

“Mandy would paint our toes when she was upset,” he explained. “Been doing it since she was like what, Col?

“Four?” Colin answered. 

“Three,” Iggy chimed in, pointing a drumstick at Mandy. “I had more paint in between my toes than my actual fucking toenails.”

Mandy threw a french fry at him.

“Better than what you got between your goblin toes now. Was that dryer lint in there?” she asked, moving on to start on Colin’s toes.

“Could be. Or it could be cat hair. I like the mystery.” Iggy wiggled his now black-painted toenails. “Speaking of mystery, what’s up with your bare toes? Never saw you go one day without painted toes when you were home.”

Mandy smiled. “Stopped needing to do it. That should tell you something about my level of peace, yeah?” She started painting Mickey’s toes next. “Who wants to play Dead Body?” 

Ian swallowed his bite of cheeseburger, eyes popped wide. “Dead body?” he parroted weakly.

“Yeah. When we were little, we used to compare the times we all saw a dead body,” Iggy said, eating a slice of pizza. 

“You did this, why?” Ian asked. 

“Because, it was better than comparing bruises,” Mickey murmured, forking into his burrito bowl, toenails painted coffin black now. He doesn’t hate it.

Ian gave him such a soft, sad look, Colin scoffed.

“Of all the brutal shit we endured, seeing a dead body was like getting hit in the face with a pillow. Don’t sweat it, Ian,” Colin dismissed. “I’m going first. Mattara, alley. Gut stuck.”

“My turn,” Iggy said. “Lipotzik, train tracks. Froze to death. They had to crack his ass in half.”

“Don’t know her name,” Mandy said, “But, the girl who OD’d in the massage parlor. I saw them taking her out.”

He wasn’t going to join this game, especially because he’d never told anyone about it. But, now that his mother was truly gone, it didn’t feel like telling someone else’s secret. Not anymore.

“I saw Mom dead once. I mean before this time. She died twice.” 

His quiet comment silenced the room. Poor Ian. His face crumpled when he realized that Mickey wasn’t joking. 

“What are you talking about?” Mandy asked, sticking the nail polish brush back in the bottle. 

He looked at his painted toes while he spoke. 

“I got up one night. Had to pee real bad. I used to hold it because even a toilet flushing would set off Terry if he was trying to outsleep a hangover.”

Mandy scooted closer. Iggy and Colin did the same, food forgotten. He went on, speaking from a place of surreal memory. 

“I couldn’t hold it though, so I went into the bathroom. The first thing I saw were her feet. They were pruney and blue looking. Wet too. She was all wet.”

Ian got up and sat behind him, tucking him into the vee of his legs. 

“She wasn’t moving and Terry was kissing her. Or, I thought it was kissing at the time. I realized later he was giving her, you know, mouth to mouth or whatever. See, he’d … he’d pulled her out of the tub where she’d drowned herself.” 

Of all the heavy things he’d wanted to lay to rest today, this secret had to be heaviest.

“Terry kept giving her mouth-to-mouth. He didn’t even notice me standing there. I … I pissed myself when I saw her face.” He inhaled shakily. “Her eyes were open and she wasn’t blinking. She was just … blue.”

Colin and Iggy exchanged grim looks, but said nothing. 

“I must’ve said something. Maybe called her name. Terry kept pressing on her chest and snarled at me to get out. I couldn’t leave so I kind of squatted down and grabbed her cold foot thinking I could help him. Maybe help her.” 

Ian entwined his arms around his waist, and leaned him back into his chest while he finished in a rush, wanting it out and over. 

“She eventually blinked, coughed up a shit ton of water and started breathing again. She saw me and the first thing she did was shove Terry away, told him to get out. When he did, she put me in the same water that she’d drowned herself in, crying the entire time she washed me. Later, Terry told me if I said anything about what happened, everyone would know it was my fault. I knew that wasn’t true, but it felt like it was. At the time. Eventually I didn’t have to say anything because she left a month after that.”

He didn’t cry with the memory. Maybe because it hadn’t felt like a memory at all. It was more like a dream. Blue, cold and unreal in all its horrible detail. 

Colin broke the hold the memory had on him. “Christ, if I could bring Terry back to beat him to death, I would.” 

Iggy took an emotional swig of the Jack Daniels he was clutching, face red and working. “Me first, you second. That fucking fuck.” 

Mandy tossed back the rest of her wine. “Me first and the two of you can hold him.” 

“I’m calling the roster,” Ian interrupted, squeezing Mickey tight. “Mickey gets the first punch, then Iggy and Colin can hold him after they’re done so Mandy can kick him in those two shriveled things he used to call his nuts.” Ian gave his temple a hard kiss. “Me last so I can be the one to wiggle my big, gay dick at him in farewell.”

His brothers and sister held their silence for a single beat before falling into wild laughter. But, instead of laughing himself, he gave Ian a soft, sad kiss of understanding. Ian looked a little pale despite his effort to joke. The story had affected him too. He can see it in the tightness around Ian’s eyes. His story was one of the horrible things they had in common - children of mothers who got a second chance after giving up completely, but who had to leave their children to survive.

“You okay?” he asked Ian, cupping his face. “I probably shouldn’t have brought that up. I wasn’t trying to trigger whatev-” 

Ian pulled him closer and kissed his forehead, his eyes and his mouth last. 

“There. That worry right there. That’s how I know I couldn’t have picked a better husband.” Ian kissed his nose. “I’m good, baby.”

The Milkovich siblings watched this exchange silently, but exploded into gagging noises when Mickey kissed Ian three times in succession, surprising him. Again, today was that kind of day.

“Death makes both of you literal pussies,” Iggy said, laying down to put his head on Mandy’s lap.

“Seeing as how all you do is chase and admire pussy, what you’re really saying is that you want what they have,” Mandy retorted, bouncing Iggy’s head. 

Iggy opened his mouth to argue, but shrugged instead and settled for stealing a fry off Mandy’s plate.

“He definitely wants what they got. But, it takes him twice as long to chase pussy, and when he finally gets some, he’s in that shit for like a minute,” Colin said, slapping Iggy’s foot. “One minute, motherfucker.”

That’s all it takes. Iggy’s up and wrestling Colin while Mandy laughs and picks up her wine to avoid its destruction. Ian calls out a foul hold every now and then, tucking Mickey into his chest to avoid the wild foot swings. 

He smiled, watching it all from the safety of Ian’s arms. This wasn’t a repass that anyone would find dignified and he doesn’t give a shit. This was healing. As healing as any monotone gathering where cookie cutter condolences just made you feel oily and ill at ease.

This was what his mother would’ve wanted. Food, laughter. Love. No eulogy could've honored her more than this.

They stayed up late enough to finish the booze and food. Mandy claimed the couch and the boys curled up on the armchair and floor in front of the fireplace. He checked on them a few times before letting himself be pulled to bed where he lay, eyes hot and unblinking. 

The story he’d told had shaken something loose inside him that he couldn’t quite knit back together. His mother was gone for real. No pruney toes. No gout of coughed up water. No tears as she cleaned him in the water of her death.

She was gone.

Ian settled close to him, and the small lump in his throat became a boulder. It forced him to cry to alleviate the pressure, or so he told his cowardly soul. His tears turned into sniffling. Soft sobs, helplessly cried into Ian’s chest, followed. The quiet crying became harsh barks of pain and he curled into Ian trying to escape it all. Ian took him in his arms and cupped the back of his head to murmur nonsensical sounds of comfort. If only it was as simple as that. Soft words and a firm hug to clear away the pain. God, he wished it was that easy.

A soft knock on their bedroom door preceded Mandy padding in. His crying must’ve called her. It always did. Even when it meant she might catch a beating, Mandy always slipped into his bed  and hugged him until he stopped crying.

She did the same thing now, climbing over Ian to lay on his other side. She put an arm around his waist and he cried harder. For her, for his mother. For all of them.

Another soft knock. Iggy and Colin padded in with pillows and blankets. They settled down on the floor on either side of the bed without saying a word. Ian, God bless him, just smiled into his hair and gave him a squeeze, letting him know it was alright. 

After everyone settled down, the room was quiet and filled with the blue-tinged light of the moon and their collective breathing. 

“I think it goes without saying that we expect y’all not to fuck while we’re in here,” Colin said quietly from the floor. 

Iggy snorted from the other side of the bed. Soon, they were all laughing. 

Ian leaned over, kissed Mandy on the cheek, leaned down over her to slap Iggy on the chest then leaned all the way back to slap Colin on the top of his head. When he settled back down, he gave Mickey the softest, sweetest kiss. It was exactly what he needed. This closeness is what they all needed. 

As he started to fall into sleep, a gentle, almost melodic fart rang out. The bed shook as he, Ian and Mandy struggled not to be the first to laugh aloud.

“I can still stay, right Ian?” Iggy whispered from the floor, his plea a confession. 

They all dissolved into giggles, hissed softly between teeth. It was cleansing, this infantile humor. It was also a way for motherless children to find comfort and laughter in the dark.

“Yeah,” Ian said, breathing soft laughter into Mickey’s hair. “You can stay.”

He hid his face in Ian’s neck to let the warm pulse there soothe him towards sleep. He faded to the sound of the occasional laugh from his family, glad he was surrounded by the people who love him. 

And he can’t be sure, but just as he made his final descent into sleep, he felt something that eased his pain enough for him to sink into unconsciousness. 

A kiss, soft and sweet, pressed into the back of his neck.

[grecoromanyaoi]

🔥 israeli food or jewish food in general

i think "israeli food" is a misnomer, n both zionists n antizionists dont understand that. a lot of the "israeli foods" r just foods eaten by jews that became common in israel, and arent "israeli" by definition. and on the other hand there a lot of times when i see ppl claiming "cultural appropriation" over "israeli foods" its just mizrahim.... existing? eating their own traditional foods that became popular? like is shawarma, which is literally originally turkish, "cultural appropriation"? is falafel, that when prepared by jews is often labeled 'yemenite falafel' cultural appropriation? its not "israeli food" but again, i dont think it counts as "cultural appropriation" bc its just the shit jews used to eat back home. and im gonna b controversial here n say whenever i see ppl call out "cultural appropriation" or "botching" of ~arab culture~ by israelis 90% of the time its just mizrahim minding their business. like i saw someone get mad over moroccans having a henna ceremony like girl. just admit u dont know what ur talking abt. and on the other other hand there r some dishes that have been adapted in israel like the popularization of chicken schnitzel over veal (bc chicken was much much cheaper) or the idea of stuffing a pita instead of using it to wrap (i actually dont know the history behind that one). but whether u decide to present that as "israeli food" is ig like deciding to present pizza as "american food". was it changed and adapted in america (which affected how its eaten in its original country)? absolutely. has it been popularized so its prepared and eaten by the larger american community, not a closed immigrant community? yeah. but is it "american food"? is tikka masala british? idk. anyways, my "unpopular opinion" turned into more of a rant, sorry.

Send me a “ 🔥 “ for an unpopular opinion.

[nsokolow]

Transformers One: Charoite

Chapter Two

“So, I guess you’re my new secretary, huh?” Sentinel crossed his legs. “Chariot, right?”

It was a misnomer Charoite often got and hated…who on Cybertron was named “Chariot,” anyway? However, this was Sentinel Prime! Not to mention she had something very important to ask of him. It was part of the reason she took the position. “Oh, Charoite! Common mistake.

“Oh, my bad.” Sentinel chuckled, “Anyway, I’d like to congratulate you. You’re actually my first secretary! I usually prefer organize things myself or ask Airachnid do it if she’s in a good mood, but there’s some political matters that are getting more intense, so I thought it best to lessen my workload.”

“Ha, politics, right?” Charoite remarked, trying to sound familiar.

“Haha, right.” Sentinel leaned forward and folded his hands. “So, I wouldn’t worry too much. Your job is kinda simple; you’ll be organizing my meetings, managing my schedule, and create agendas and time my meetings.”

“Okay! Wasn’t worried! Got it!” Charoite nodded.

“Great!” Sentinel stood up. “I’ll show you to your office and your room. I’m sure you’ll do great, and who knows? Maybe if I find I can trust you enough, I’ll let you come with us on one of our expeditions. Maybe you’ll witness the Matrix of Leadership finally being found!”

“That would be amazing!” Charoite exclaimed louder than she meant to. She nearly laughed at Sentinel’s brief stunned expression. “I’d be famous! And we’d have our energon back!”

“Pretty much, yeah! Then again, when you work for me, you’re pretty much famous automatically. Come on!” Sentinel bent his arm and held it down.

“Oh wow! Okay!” Charoite tried to hook her arm in his, though she barely succeeded, given how much taller Sentinel was than her.

“Oh, uh, okay!” Sentinel dropped his arm. “Follow me!”

Sentinel lead Charoite to an elevator. He pressed a button with a downward arrow and the doors immediately opened. “After you!”

Charoite leapt into the elevator, Sentinel followed, then the elevator dropped down two floors.

Sentinel introduced Charoite to her desk and chair. Both had the same stone-like pattern of blue and gold like the couches, but the predominate color on the couches were gold rather than blue.

Charoite’s room, which was a floor below, was about the size of her old apartment, but had a more luxurious appearance. The walls were golden, and her sleeping pod was as well. The floor however was the same rich blue as was on the couches and desk set—and Sentinel.

Charoite grinned and squealed. “This is amazing! Then again, you’re Sentinel Prime, so yeah! Honestly, I was hoping it would be at least a step up from my old place, given I took the trouble of moving out, but this is like, ten steps up from my old place!”

“Glad you like it!” Sentinel gave her shoulder a playful tap. “We’re kinda similar. We appreciate the finer things in life. Anyway, I’ll let you get familiar with the place. I’ll be back in an hour at the most to tell you the plan for tomorrow.”

“Oh! Okay, thank you!”

During the hour, Charoite didn’t only spend the time getting acquainted with her room, but also with the different floors of the building. On one of the lower floors, there was a room that had rows of sleeping pods she assumed were for Sentinel’s guards, which surprised her, considering those blank-faced, golden bots weren’t sentient beings like the transformers or miners. Just mere tools that could walk and fight. Then again, they likely had to recharge. The floor below the rows of pods had a bar and a row of game consoles. She was thrilled to discover none of them were coin-operated, but free!

After what didn’t feel like a long gaming session—on all five games, Charoite gasped and hoped it hadn’t yet been an hour. She spread her dark blue wings, which matched the trimming on her body, and zoomed up the staircase and back up to her room. She realized she should be grateful for this short opportunity to exercise her wings. She would hopefully use them for her dream very soon.

She was relieved to see Sentinel had just stepped off the elevator onto the floor.

“Ah! Charoite! Did some exploring, I see.” Sentinel smiled as he approached her.

“Yeah! I didn’t know you had free games and a bar!”

Sentinel burst out laughing. “Well, yeah! I mean, it’s a big building, and I am Sentinel Prime!”

Charoite felt a mild sting. As if he implied she was stupid. Eh, probably didn’t mean it that way. “Okay, good point!” She pointed a casual finger his way.

“So, I have to take a trip to the surface tomorrow. Another search for the Matrix. While I’m gone, I want you to allow in whoever’s face is on my roster, which is on your desk. Depending on what they want or say, arrange meetings that fit my schedule, which I also put on your desk. Should be pretty simple, since everybody’s gonna know I’m gone.”

“Consider it done!”

“Great!” Sentinel gave her a wink. “Well, I’ll see you hopefully soon!”

Tension rose in Charoite. She didn’t know how long Sentinel would be gone, and she was scared she wouldn’t get another opportunity to ask him her question.

“Wait!” Charoite called just as Sentinel turned around.

He turned back to her. “Yes?”

“There’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you.”

Sentinel smirked. “Really? Go on.”

“So…the Iacon 5000 is a few months away, and I had been practicing for it forever. It’s just…I was never able to get on the race roster because…”

Sentinel’s expression slightly loosened. “Why?”

Charoite sighed and rolled her eyes. “I take it you know who Darkwing is? Flying transforming bot, deep voice?”

Sentinel’s eyes shifted. “Yes…he’s one of my best racers. He also oversees the mines.”

Charoite didn’t expect to suddenly feel such an amount of dread. Why did I think it would be so easy to ask him? “Well, I was at this gym, and Darkwing was there. I knew who he was, given he was a racer, and I saw him around here and there. He left before I did, and when I was flying some loops, I looked out the window and saw Darkwing bump into some gray miner. When the miner tried to walk away, it looked like Darkwing was getting mad at him, which was stupid, considering he was the one who bumped into the miner. I couldn’t hear them, but it looked like the miner was trying to reason with him. He grabbed the miner and slammed him onto the ground, then punched him in the face.”

Sentinel’s eyes widened. “I see…”

“Something in me just snapped. I opened the window, flew out, then…basically did the same to Darkwing.”

“You tackled Darkwing and punched him in the face?” Sentinel doubled over with laughter. “I mean, it kinda sounds like he had it coming, but you’re just a little thing, even for a transforming bot!”

“Well…I probably caught him off-guard. I gotta say, it felt pretty good; I was protecting someone, and he always hogged the spaces at the gym. I was later embarrassed though, since a bunch of bots stared at me. Not to mention that what he did wasn’t illegal.”

Sentinel froze. He put his hand behind his head and looked off to the side. “Well, yeah; I’m…trying to work on some new laws that protect miners from getting treated like that by transformers.”

Charoite’s fear decreased more and more. Sentinel was being so understanding!

“The authorities saw it, and I got arrested and got probation. Somehow, the miner—I found out his name was D-16—testified against me!” Charoite rolled her eyes and threw her hands up. “Said I didn’t have a right to intervene, since he was his superior!” I have a charge on my record now, I’m not qualified to race anymore, so I almost gave up on my dream. Then I saw you accepted my application for the secretarial position, even when I mentioned I had a misdemeanor battery charge. I thought that maybe since you allowed me to work for you, maybe you’d make an exception for me so I could race? Or make the rules about having a criminal record a little looser?”

Sentinel’s eyes drifted off to the side. “Well, the criminal record rule is there to lessen the likelihood of cheaters being in the race; not to mention the cheating racers wouldn’t say a lot about me. However, if my own secretary can’t fly in the race, that would be…weird. It wouldn’t look good for me. Okay! I’ll tweak the rules, and you can race! Ha! You probably didn’t even dent Darkwing, anyway!”

“Are you serious? No way! Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!” Charoite darted over to Snetinel and gave him a tight squeeze. She gasped and backed away when she realized what she did.

“Don’t mention it. Besides, your misdemeanor is actually part of the reason I hired you! I need someone who’s willing to get their hands a little dirty. You’ll be more willing to help me with my work no matter what it takes!”

Charoite felt even less anxious now. Something however felt a bit off about his last statement. How exactly would she be getting her hands dirty?

“Well, I’ll gather Airachnid and my guards and take off now. I’m leaving a few guards here for your safety. Until next time, future legend!” Sentinel pointed at her with both hands before he flew down the staircase.

[plant-taxonomy-showdown]

Phylum Round 1

Moss vs The OG Green Algae

Bryophyta (mosses): Mosses are considered non-vascular plants, because they don't have water-bearing xylem, but this is a bit of a misnomer as they do actually have other forms of vascular tissue. Moss can survive dry periods by going dormant, then recovering when they get wet again. Some mosses have even been known to survive temperature highs of 100ºC when dried out, and lows of -272ºC.

Prasinodermophyta: Debatably a basal clade of Viridiplantae, in other words the first green algae to evolve. More here: https://www.nature.com/articles/s41559-020-1221-7 (for anyone who clicks through: Streptophyta is Charophyta + the land plants.)

[ahamkara-apologist]

For the sleeping asks, Athrys and Eramis, and one with Misraaks (your choice of partner)?

ERAMIS AND ATHRYS MY BELOVEDSSSS. Bc you didn't specify any one for them, I will do them all

Ask game

Who is a night owl:

-Athrys used to be an artisan and Eramis is obsessive, so I'd say that both of them were night owls. I like to think that they would work late into the night side-by-side on their projects as a means of enjoying each other's company, especially after they became mothers and their lives became super busy. And, because I like to headcanon that they often adopted more 'problem' children (as in, kids from the village that were special needs or too difficult/rowdy for their bioparents to keep tabs on- which is less of a cruel sentance when you remember that Eliksni rear their young communally) that were mixed indiscriminantly into their own clutches, this often ended up working out well for them bc lots of the fussy sleepers would always have at least one of their mothers already awake to tend to them. Either Athrys in her studio weaving baskets and sculpting architextural miniatures or Eramis poring over star charts, or them doing it side by side, it didn't matter- they'd always be there

Who is a morning person:

-Honestly, following that previous point I don't think either of them were morning people. Eramis likely is now bc of a combo of Drift-induced internal clock fuckery and PTSD-induced insomnia, but that's hardly by choice. And, if you got her back on a Riisian cycle, then she'd probably start reverting back to old habits

Are they cuddlers:

-Absoloutly. These crabs are SOOO snuggly. Whether they stay that way is the question: I feel like they'd be the type to start off snuggled up like cats and wake up with Athrys on her back with her limbs sprawled, and Eramis grabbing onto one of her limbs for dear life. They'll settle more if there's eggs or hatchlings between them bc the scent of either subconciously forces them to not move as much, but without that added stimulus, the nest is free real estate

Who is the big spoon and who is the little spoon:

-Common logic would dictate that Athrys would be the big spoon, given the fact that I hc her to be a big round gal, but it's actually Eramis, because she has the 'grabs and clings with all 6 limbs like she's dying' disease while sleeping, so she tends to end up the big spoon even if she starts off as the little spoon.

What is their favourite sleeping position:

-Starting off? Facing each other with Eramis curled up under Athrys's chin and Athrys curled around her as well, with their youngest hatchlings squished between them. If they're still in that position when they wake up or not is, again, entirely based on if their babies are there to activate the parental guarding instinct, but their favorite position to fall asleep together would be the facing each other grab-and-hold

Who steals all the blankets:

-Ironically given where she put her House, Eramis used to be the one who'd always complain about being too cold, so the blankets usually ended up wadded around her. This worked bc Athrys often ran on the warmer side, so she'd usually just toss them over Eramis after a mid-night wake-up anyways. Though I hc that Eramis usually ends up sleeping curled up into as tight of a circle as an Eliksni can get, so that paired with her smaller size means that 'hoarding' is kind of a misnomer

What they wear to bed:

-Honestly w/out seeing traditional Riisian garb, it's hard to say exactly how bedclothes would work, but since Riis appeared to have been a water world/much more wet or tropical climate than Earth with all the mentions of canal traversal in the Garden Way lorebook, I'd say loose robes in winter and nothing in summer. That would just mean more layers to trap humid, sticky heat, which is unbearable.

Who likes seeing the other wearing their t-shirt:

-T-shirts aren't applicable here bc these are alien bugs but I'm positive that 'dress tiny partner in your clothing' is a universal constant, so Athrys always got a kick out of seeing Eramis draped in her robes bc its cute. Eramis herself was fond of this in wintertime especially bc more fabric = warmer and also it smelled like wife

Who falls asleep mid-conversation:

-Athrys. Eramis takes her monologues VERY SERIOUSLY. If she's talking to you she WILL NOT STOP UNTIL HER POINT IS MADE. Athrys, on the other hand, was always perfectly content to just drift off to the sound of Eramis rambling about one thing or the other, which used to irritate Eramis tremendously when they were kids (I like to hc them as childhood friends to lovers)

Who wakes up in the middle of the night with nightmares:

-Both of them used to be pretty solid sleepers on Riis, but now? It's Eramis. I'm sure that if Athrys is still alive she gets them too, but Eramis's PTSD is...something else entirely :')

Who accidentally punched the other in their sleep:

-Athrys has done this more than once on accident while moving to her preferred sleeping position of Sprawled On Back. Eramis just clings like a burr. Though I DO love Shadow's hc of Eramis being an extremely rowdy, terrible sleeper lmfao

Who can’t keep their hands to themself:

-ERAMIS. Doesn't matter where you're placed in the nest- if you're warm, she will find you and fucking Get You. Though if we're talking turning sleepy petting into a lil something else...then Athrys is the one for that, lmao. Usually when Eramis was ranting before bed about something or the other and she got too sleepy-distracted by how nice her wife's voice was to just ask her to go to sleep and decided to get her to make other sounds instead

For Misraaks, I'm going to do one with Aeris and one with Taniks, bc I don't really ship him with anyone but him having crazy hookups is deeply funny to me

(M + A)Who is the big spoon and who is the little spoon:

-Aeris is the little spoon. He's a long lanky killing machine, but he loves being held, and Misraaks is capable of squeezing him nice and tight so he gets that sweet, sweet pressure therapy as well. He honestly likes it almost as much as he likes the sex, bc it knocks him the FUCK out and helps him sleep better than he normally would alone

(M + T): Who accidentally punched the other in their sleep:

-TANIKS. Taniks has a reduced need for sleep thanks to all the bullshit he's gone through, but he still needs to sleep, so he has this whole elaborate setup going on where he shifts his sensors on high alert and has his limbs go through an autofidget program to make it seem like he's lost in thought when he's really just knocked out. The one time that Misraaks slept with him, he didn't realize that Taniks was actually sleeping instead of just being zoned out, and got punched for his efforts. Thankfully not hard enough to cause permanant damage, but still not something that Misraaks wants to repeat anytime soon

[youcouldmakealife]

SOTM: Georgie, Holden; good talk

For the prompt: Georgie clocking Holden’s queer

Writing Georgie’s been slow going of late and I just realised that might be because I wrote 1700 words of him right here, whoops.

Massive spoilers for the latest part of cards on the table.

Georgie tends to pick up on it pretty quick, the teammates he has that aren’t straight. It’s not really a gaydar — he dislikes the term, and anyway, it’s a misnomer, but he can’t think of a term to replace it. Nothing quite fits, explains what it is he picks up on, and he doesn’t think it’s any one trait he’s noticing, that there’s one thing in particular that makes the difference.

Some of it’s probably body language, some of it’s noticing where people’s gazes rest, some of it’s what someone says or doesn’t say, some of it he can’t describe in any other way than ‘gut feeling’, doesn’t know how he knows.

He told David, back in the day, that he noticed when people were attracted to him, and that’s true, but it’s not a necessity — he’s pegged guys who’ve been entirely disinterested in him. Not Chaps, or, hell, Lourdey either, but there have been a couple, and even then he’s picking up something.

Some of it feels like it’s coming from him, almost, like subconsciously, his brain figuring out who’s safe, safe to know, safe to tell, though of course he’s had straight teammates who were safe, queer teammates he didn’t say a thing to, for some reason or another. He’s pretty sure James is something, but they haven’t exchanged a word about it, meanwhile Finn knows all about Georgie, at least the greatest hits and the lowest lows.

He doesn’t listen to his gut like it’s gospel or anything. Gut feelings are more a sign on when to pay attention than anything else, and they’ve been right so far, but that doesn’t mean they’ll always be. It’s easy to make assumptions, especially now that Georgie’s more than a decade older than the rookies, practically came up in a different league.

The younger guys grew up with Riley and Lapointe already out, gay relationships on the TV shows they were watching, listened to openly gay musicians, had classmates who were out and proud and unafraid that being out and proud would lead to getting the shit kicked out of them by the jocks, who may have even been the jocks —

It wasn’t the world Georgie grew up in. Holden either, he’s pretty sure — he’s a few years younger than Georgie, and those years are big ones, mean Holden was barely in high school when Riley got outed, but Georgie thinks Holden’s got a bit more in common with him than he does with the kids.

And again, he could be wrong. Some guys are just open, friendly, touchy, and it comes off different than they mean it to. And Georgie’s pretty sure a few people he fucked around with back in high school would describe themselves as straight, nowadays, and they wouldn’t be lying either, not even to themselves.

Holden reminds him of those guys, at first, but not for long. There’s a certain hesitation before he answers a question with, ‘My girlfriend says…’ that makes Georgie think that he doesn’t actually have one, and if he does, she deserves better. The way he holds himself. Not quite careful, Georgie doesn’t think he’d use that word, but very aware of how he is holding himself. If he sprawls, he meant to. If he’s annoying you, he’s trying to.

The only thing Georgie doesn’t think is on purpose is the way his knee bounces during the pregame speeches, lineup readings, any point he has to sit still for a minute, staccato impatience. It’s something Robbie would do when he was particularly wound up. If it’s the same with Holden, he’s wound up all the time.

Bits and pieces make it past, though, enough to form a picture.

He doesn’t engage at all with a homophobic joke, not before Georgie shuts that shit down. He gets a pass, boring married guy with kid, doesn’t get the ‘what, ring a little close?’ that James might if he does it, Finn, so Georgie never waits, lets the job fall to him so neither of them have to deal with the bullshit.

He tenses when Bryce Marcus’ name comes up, the same way Georgie felt himself tensing every time he heard Riley or Lapointe’s at the beginning, hoping it wasn’t going to be followed up on, that he wasn’t about to be asked something, end up betraying himself.

And tonight, at the bar after a shootout win against the Red Wings, Georgie’s been half on his phone, half idly watching the Caps in San Jose, the sliver that remains aware of Holden chatting with a guy at the bar, body language just off from friendly, landing on something else.

The guy leaves, and Georgie pays a bit more attention, enough to see Holden cut out five minutes later, after looking around like he’s trying to make sure no one’s paying attention, furtive look on his face, in a way Georgie recognizes. Dipping out for a hook up is something you loudly brag about doing unless there’s a reason you don’t want the others to know, and Holden says he’s got a girlfriend, sure, but that’s not the cheater’s slink. Georgie knows what it looks like. Holden looks furtive, maybe, but he doesn’t look ashamed, or even like someone who should be.

Who knows, maybe he’s left for other reasons, left because the guy has a hook up, off scoring something else, but Georgie doesn’t think so. He’s not usually wrong, not about this kind of thing. Maybe that’s what all this is. Just a simple matter of ‘takes one to know one’. That all these times he’s just been seeing reflections of his own face.

There was a lot of that shit in Cleveland, but Georgie didn’t touch it. That might be the only thing he’s proud of about his time there. Possibly the only reason his career didn’t end there. Georgie’s known plenty of guys who’ve washed out early, and some of them it’s because they couldn’t find that last gear, make the final jump, but more than a few of them got the money, the freedom, the brush with fame, and they let it get to their heads. In their heads. Some of them figured shit out. Most didn’t.

The only reason Georgie’s still in the show is that he was talented enough that even at rock bottom, it wasn’t a question of whether he was in the roster, just where. He was a disappointment, ‘waste of a first round pick’, but even then, he was an NHL player. If he hadn’t been, he doesn’t know what would have happened. Better not to think about it, probably.

Georgie’s heading to the bathroom when he runs into Ryan coming out.

“You seen Chaser?” Ryan asks. “Can’t find him anywhere.”

“Saw him by the bar about twenty minutes ago,” Georgie says, which is technically true, and sometimes a technical truth is all you need.

“If you see him let me know?” Ryan asks. “Guy bet me I couldn’t pull that move off in a real shootout, so now he owes me a drink or three.”

“Will do,” Georgie says, “But he may have slunk out to avoid paying up.”

Ryan snorts. “Wouldn’t put it past him,” he says.

He keeps asking after Holden all night, even though Georgie buys him a drink for the spin-o-rama move, and he’s pretty sure James does too — if it hadn’t worked James probably would be giving him the silent treatment for trying that shit in a real game, but he gives credit where credit’s due — and Georgie hopes he doesn’t keep on it after tonight.

Georgie’s grabbing a last call snack at the hotel bar — he has a love-hate relationship with the fries at this particular hotel, the hate part being that he can’t leave Detroit without eating them at least twice — when Holden walks into the hotel lobby.

“Chaser, c’mere,” Georgie says, and the way Holden’s feet get rooted, face going through a whole journey, before he visibly steels himself — that would have done it right there, even if Georgie hadn’t already known. The forced casualness in his gait as he walks over? Georgie recognizes that too.

“Up late, old man,” Chaser says, sitting down in the stool beside him.

“Fries?” Georgie asks, and Holden sits down, taking a couple, orders a beer just under the wire of the actual last call.

“Beanie says you owe him a drink or three,” Georgie says. “Was looking all over for you, wouldn’t let it go.”

“Shit, I forgot about that,” Holden says. “Who knew he had the balls, huh?”

“I told him you’d probably slunk out early to avoid paying,” Georgie says, and Holden looks hilariously offended for a moment, before Georgie keeps talking. “Guy was cute.”

Holden’s so still he’s practically vibrating. Which should be an oxymoron, but it isn’t, at least not right now.

“I didn’t mention it,” Georgie says. “I wouldn’t.”

“Okay,” Holden says.

“I had a boyfriend in college,” Georgie says, looking down at his fries, cold now, picked over. “It was pretty serious.”

“Then you hit the show,” Holden says, assumes, like it’s simple, and it isn’t, but maybe it isn’t that complicated either, or at least not as complicated as it’s always felt. Well, since Georgie made it complicated. Before that, he doesn’t think there’d ever been anything easier.

“Like I said, I’m not saying anything to anyone,” Georgie says, “but if you want to say anything to me, I’m here.”

“Okay,” Holden says, but he’s quiet. This is the quietest Georgie’s ever seen him, actually. He sips his beer, quick, like he lay a trap for himself by ordering it and now he’s trying to get himself out of it, and he doesn’t say a thing.

Georgie’s already paid his bill, and he figures he can put the poor guy out of his misery. “I’m going to head to bed,” he says. “Be safe, hey?”

Holden snorts. “Sure.”

“Better for you than pulling Cap’s pigtails anyway,” Georgie says, and by Holden’s splutter as he walks away, he worries he landed a little too close to the mark for anyone’s good.

Another thing he’ll have to keep an eye out for, then. Nobody tells you this shit when they offer you the A, but thinking back to Washington, he’s pretty sure team leadership knew more about what was going on than Georgie’s comfortable with to this day. So maybe he should have figured.

Georgie says a silent apology to the last of his fries, abandoned at the bottom of his basket. They’re good fucking fries — he hopes Holden doesn’t let them go to waste, but somehow he doubts he has much of an appetite right now.