#experience old age or something

[shiningnorthernlights]

the literary hub article about how many books you'll read in your lifetime is some of the worst existential crisis-inducing bullshit I've ever seen.

[spielzeugkaiser]

BEAR JASKIER MY MOST BELOVED 😍😍😍😭😭😭

when you forget to tell your daughter that you age a bit differently... bear!Jaskier my beloved too yessss. Thank you!!

[bitchslapblastoids]

I forgot!!! about how when dan tossed the fake grindr profile card it actually yeeted directly into phil and landed in his lap. and for some reason that felt so hilariously symbolic. that even fake horny san diego dan ends up hurtling into and quickly lands on top of phil fitting, no?

source

[incorrect-hs-quotes]

TG: do you think former president ronald reagan smacks rats

EB: sssmacks…rats?

TG: yah do you reckon he smacks rats

EB: oh yeah he TOTALLY smacks rodents—what in GOD’S NAME are we talking about

[quarks-pussy]

So I know we here at Startrekfandom love that "came back wrong but from the pov of the wrong" thing and apply it to many different characters and canon situations and I am far from trying to complain about it (I'm "came out wrong" trope myself so I was always gonna obsess over it) but having recently watched a very important episode (you'll know which one) for the first time I think there's a character who hits both tropes mentioned but llike, intertwined, opposite and subverted, and whom I wanna talk about.

Julian Bashir.

From his parents' pov he's "came out wrong but we got him help and he came back better" while from his own pov it's "came out 'insufficient', was destroyed for it, came back wrong and only later slowly came to terms with his new self tho never the process (justifiably so)" and it's heartbreaking because in a way, he's right! Jules Bashir died! His parents had an intellectually disabled child and decided to eugenics him! Julian is not the person he used to be and while I do love the person he is now, that doesn't bring back who he was! Part of me wishes we could've gotten to see Jules at least once and part of me hopes we never do because my heart would shatter.

This isn't a good comparison but nonetheless one I can't help drawing: it's giving similar vibes to anti-vaxxers. "I'd rather risk having a child who is dead than one who's autistic". Obviously this doesn't map over since Julian is still autistic and the procedure his parents subjected him to specifically targeted his intellectual disability and if any folks with id wanna comment on this I definitely recommend you listen to them over me, but it's a similarity I, as an autistic who has encountered anti-vaxxers again and again, can't help but point out. "Give me a normal child or give them death."

This may have been written about already but there needs to be stories about teenage Julian (after finding out and rediscovering who he was) practicing some good ol' recognition of the self through media. I need to hear about how he would encounter a story about someone who came back wrong (I'm gonna assume there's plenty of "wrong" pov stories floating around by the 24th century) and absolutely weep. I need to see Julian mourning Jules, taking years and years to process his feelings, experiencing guilt about how he, the imposter, didn't deserve to live Jules' life.

Came back wrong from the returned's pov but it wasn't an accident. It was done to you deliberately by the people who claim to love you. And now you are here, piloting the corpse of your predecessor.

Jules Bashir is dead. Long live Julian Bashir.

[captain-lovelace]

[danieyells]

I propose this idea: both Ritsu and Yuri make the mc do domestic/motherly things but for different reasons. Ritsu wants to see how his crush would be if they had children (he will need an heir to the legacy in some years!) (and to a certain point he wants to be cared for like when he was younger but it isn't his first reason shhh) on the other hand Yuri is stepping the line between wanting a mom and wanting to be babied and fed his favorite food and wanting a girlfriend and dealing with his romantic feelings like an adult (plus when jiro joins the mothering and mothered dynamic he acts like a child getting a sibling he didn't want for a little bit)

lmaooo i love that.

Ritsu frames it as little assistant work at first--he pays them for it, unlike everyone else who asks for their help cleaning their office and organizing things, so they're a little happier to do it. They've been working for Jin and Romeo so their cleaning skills are very good. Perhaps a little too good. They haven't been cleaning up crimes, have they?

Then he offhandedly asks if they know how to cook. They admit they haven't really cooked since they got to DW and mostly ate at the cafeteria or ate things others cooked for them or ate out. Ritsu chides them for their lack of self-sufficiency and reminds them they can use the kitchens at DW. He wanted to investigate something for a client, so it would be a good opportunity to try out cooking. You want to make sure you know where your nutrition is coming from! Their cooking is satisfactory, but it's definitely not a mother's level yet. They have time to improve. They don't really understand why he's being so critical about it, but they apologize anyway, wondering if maybe Sho or one of Jin's cooks could teach them a thing or two. It would be nice to be able to make food for their friends.

Then he asks about their work at Jabberwock, dealing with anomalous animals. They admit it's tough, but some of them are nice! They mention taking care of some of the younger animals after making sure the parents knew they meant no harm. So far nothing more than minor injuries! He nods in approval as they explain bottle feeding Peekaboo, and how cute it is when it's enjoying its food. Haru said they're a natural--Peekaboo didn't even throw up or bite them when they fed it for the first time! The younger anomalous animals seem to like them a lot!

Ritsu can't help but smile at that they seem to take well to caring for children. That's the most important thing. In the three years his firstborn son will have before he becomes a slave to the judicial system, he wants him to be loved and cared for by someone who will be able to give him the kind of love his mother gave him.

(Of course he would never force them to have a child. That would be against some law I'm sure, I'm not exactly up to date with the Japanese Penal Code. However, he wouldn't stay with them if they couldn't have children--he needs to have an heir, it's expected of him, so even if he wouldn't be happy with the result he would have to find someone else.)

(In the meantime though, he might indulge a little in being offered to try food as it gets closer and closer to tasting like what a mother's cooking should taste like. Even if he refuses, he still feels something like motherly love when they worry over him seeming to 'work too hard'. Being shown things he's not familiar with feels like motherly love, because he spent so much time with his mother seeing the wonders of the world. Perhaps the things they show him aren't as glamorous, but they still give a similar feeling of sharing a world outside of his own.)

Yuri, in stark contrast, is just a spoiled child about it sometimes. Although he tries not to be overt about it.

He finally decides he can go to sleep now after staying up like a week and a half researching, so "Come here. Your heartrate and breathing patterns are optimal for helping me sleep more quickly, so lie down with me for a little while. It--it's just so I can sleep and wake more efficiently! Do not question my methods, worm!" and then they have a grown ass man curled up against their chest(arms around their waist, it's not entirely childish--) and they aren't allowed to move until he's had his nap. He may or may not want a lullaby or bedtime story, but counting their heartrate is enough.

They decide to bring Jiro and Yuri something to eat and Yuri pouts and huffs over it not being their cooking. He still eats it though, because he's happy they brought him food. It's still a motherly gesture. Why'd they bring some for Jiro too though Jiro can't even eat solids what do you mean you had to make Jiro's nutrition shake yourself why didn't they hand make his food he is their--significant other! . . .Yes, Jiro is also their significant other, but that is besides the point!

(Jiro is quietly enjoying his meal in his shaker bottle. They're reminded of a child with a sippy cup with Yuri huffing next to him. He does not want to share his mama.)

Yes he is a mature adult but he's not good at addressing his feelings at all. When he does he does it awkwardly and accidentally, through freuden slips and things he wanted to keep to himself until he didn't feel like he was too busy for such concerns. N-not that he cares if they think it's strange he wants to call them 'mama' while clearly maintaining romantic (and professionally possessive) feelings! He's not worried about them finding this offputting at all!!! He knows they're honored to be his partner and. . .occasional source of maternal comforts and outlet regrets! Anyway he's going to hold their hand everywhere they go--because he is leading them where they need to go like a good researcher does, not because it fulfills his romantic and juvenile needs--

When he succeeds at something he wants to show them so they smile and tell him what a good job he is and how proud they are and how impressive he is. . .like his mother used to. Not that it's entirely that--of course he wants to impress his partner too, but. . .the projection is embarrassing, but comforting.

[good-to-drive]

I totally agree with the general consensus that Ringo provided a lot of emotional support and coolheadedness to the other beatles to the point where they'd have probably killed each other without him but I do also wonder sometimes how much of that is being supernaturally patient and easygoing and how much of it is Ringo just having a tumultuous and isolated childhood where he was never taught to recognize and assert his own emotional needs so he became a blank slate on which others could process their emotions

(And tbh I also wonder how an inability to access or assert his feelings may have contributed to his tendency to process pain by numbing himself and the pretty shitty way he treated women)

[shannonsketches]

something something foils moving in opposite directions Goku's always happy to seek and fight stronger opponents because he spent most of his life being the strongest guy in the room and Vegeta wants to be the strongest/is always exhausted to find stronger opponents because he spent most of his life having to navigate his survival around the whims of the strongest guy in the universe room and so Goku has a foundation of safety and stability and so spends his time craving challenge and adventure and Vegeta has a foundation of challenge and adventure and spends his time craving safety and stability and the overlaid section of their venn diagram is that the only way they know how acquire and maintain those things is through battle

[flufflecat]

Got to stolen century in my relisten and started tearing up at work because of magnus carving the duck. Just me in the back room, crying over the dish sink for normal reasons.

[tranakin-skywalker]

Not enough about the clones being children and adults at the same time. They're 10 years old. They're fully grown. They're still little kids. They never got to have a childhood at all. They're terrifying soldiers. They hardly know anything about the galaxy except how to fight and how to take orders.

I want clones that have this childish wonder at the world, but being terrified to show it. Clones with the sense of humor of 10 year old boys. Clones who don't really understand what death is, not really. Not until they're on a battlefield and dying in droves.

[chaiaurchaandni]

behind every hot girl is a deep history with the horror genre

[roseandgold137]

if I ever feel too happy I remember that some of the Easter rising leaders were literally 25 when they were executed and then boom I’m aware of how close I am to that age again

[bumblingbabooshka]

Tuvok’s Vulcan Facebook would just be plant growth progress reports, pictures of his kids and then massively reblogged Vulcan quotes like (picture of Surakian Texts) “This book will either keep you from illogic...or illogic will keep you from this book.”

[callixton]

WEIRD OLDER QUEERS I LOVE YOUUU

[dancedance-resolution]

i started a supercorp portrait of a lady on fire au like three years ago. i'm never going to finish it, but the writing style is pretty cool, so i want to share it. so um enjoy the prologue and a bit of chapter one?

---

Prologue. Bonnelles, France. 1786.

“First, my contours,” Kara said, her voice soft and level. She looked out upon the dozen or so young women, their eyes darting back and forth from their papers to Kara herself. “The outline,” she continued. The increasingly swift sound of scratching charcoal prompted Kara to further instruct, “Not too fast. Take time to look at me.” She paused. “See how my arms are placed.”

At that moment, Kara saw the painting.

She swallowed and took in a breath; she schooled her expression before letting out the air with a pathetically soft “My hands.” Her students’ gaze followed her verbal direction, now observing as Kara’s fingers curled with remembrance. Their own hands now began to sketch the slope of hers—the slope that had once coaxed breathy moans from a lover, the slope that had once created that very painting in all of its hollow longing.

Kara felt her heart rate accelerating, and her attempts at calming deep breaths only made her shoulders shake unsteadily. “Who brought that painting out?” Her eyes darted around, landing on each possible offender, as she tensed her core and adopted a stern countenance.

Every student dutifully turned to look at the work.

It was an especially young girl who finally lifted her hand. “I brought it. From the stock room. Should I have not?”

Kara’s “no” felt like a brick, its weight threatening to pry tears from her reddening eyes. So Kara took another swallow, a handful of blinks, a few more steadying breaths.

“Did you paint it?” the girl asked innocently. Nia, her name was? She stared at Kara, oblivious to the flood of sound overwhelming Kara’s mind and echoing in the cavern of her heart.

“Yes,” Kara uttered softly, the word barely audible as they fell from her lips. “A long time ago.”

Nia’s head snapped back to examine the painting once more. It stood on an old but sturdy easel, tattooed and scarred but still standing. The artwork itself was brooding, with a white sun bleeding into a dark vignette. Heavy clumps of clouds occupied the sky and caged some of the sun’s rays, so the fire burning behind the woman was bright enough in comparison to create a dragging shadow of her figure. The flames crawled up the back of her windswept dress, bringing sharp tension to an otherwise lulling, melancholy landscape.

“What’s the title?”

The sound of the sea began to swell in Kara’s head. Her lips trembled. Her body unwittingly swayed slightly. “Portrait of a Lady on Fire.”

---

Chapter I. The island of Brittany, France, and the surrounding sea. 1779.

Kara squinted into the distance, her face scrunching up a bit as she desperately tried to shield her eyes from the harsh glare of the sun on the water. For all its gorgeous teals and sparkling peaks, it certainly did make her wish for one of those brimmed hats the rowers were all wearing. With every one of their paced paddles, the cork-like little canoe bobbed haphazardly. Kara rather felt as if she were in the wine glass of a thoroughly drunken Marie Antoinette.

At least she wasn’t prone to seasickness.

She still felt quite unsteady, though, being thrown about and forced to pathetically grab onto the boat’s low walls. She leaned forward, trying to regain her balance and ground herself despite the absence of ground.

The wooden pallet holding her canvas was, apparently, as unstable as she was, and the next thing Kara knew, it had been lurched off of the boat like vomit from a drunkard. Kara watched helplessly as it thrashed among the choppy waves, the sea carrying it a few feet from the boat.

The chief rower met her desperate look with exhausted resignation; he ceased his paddling as Kara shed her overcoat and placed a precarious foot on the edge of the canoe.

With a strained creak from the boat’s wood, she jumped into the water, dress billowing behind her. Her first gasp for air upon emerging from the water was audible; she could feel the effort in her throat. Her arms moved in laborious little arcs as she slowly made her way towards the floating pallet and finally made a desperate reach for it. Kara’s fingers grasped onto a wooden board, and she pulled herself up onto it with a grunt.

---

The incessant wind upon the sea was certainly not helping Kara. Dripping wet, she wrapped herself up in her overcoat in a pitiful plea for warmth. She held the edges of the garment up to her lips, the sensation of the dry fabric bringing her some comfort as she closed her eyes and left herself to the mercy of the mighty sea.

But the interminable rocking of the feeble boat wouldn’t allow her any rest.

Kara wasn’t very religious, not anymore. Yet, the sight of the cliffs and coast of Brittany moved her to relieved prayer.

---

The sun had already begun to set as Kara trekked up the sandy coast. Her legs ached with every stumbling, unsure step—maybe she was a bit seasick after all—and her hands were tired of having to grip her full skirt to keep it out of her way.

She paused on the rocks, taking a moment to manually wring some of the water out of her skirt. She filled her lungs with an arduous breath before slinging the rope holding the pallet over her shoulder. Next came the fabric sling, which housed her trunk of personal items—she positioned it on her back with careful poise.

The journey up the cliffs and towards the trees was exhausting. Kara’s skirt required repositioning every few seconds, the rope was digging into her shoulder, and the pallet and trunk slammed into her back with each wobbling step. By the time she reached the straight path up to the residence, her breaths were heavy and pained, and the sun was nearly fully hidden beneath the horizon.

A soft light emanated from the windows above the mansion’s door, helping Kara feel a bit more secure as she knocked. A short blonde woman answered her summon and introduced herself with a flat “I’m Eve.” She opened the door a bit wider and gestured with her body for Kara to come in.

Eve held a small candle as she guided Kara up the stairs, the sounds of their shoes echoing through the grand yet starkly undecorated hallway. The walls of the stairwell were cement bricks, and the wrought iron bannister was rather plain and geometric.

They came to a stop in front of a similarly void room, bare save a few heavy curtains and a daybed. The raised panels along these walls matched the white-painted wood of the window frames, and they gave the chamber some elegant character.

While Eve entered the comparatively less intimidating room, Kara stayed back a moment, taking in the shafts of muted blue light from the windows and the contrasting warm glow of leaping flames from the central fireplace.

Eve crouched down to poke at the fire as Kara set down her belongings. “It was a reception room,” Eve explained. “Though I’ve never seen it used.”

The fire crackled pleasantly. “Have you been here long?” Kara inquired.

“Three years,” Eve answered, directing her attention back to the fire.

Kara peeled off her overcoat and draped it along the wainscoting. “Do you like it here?”

“Yes,” Eve said simply as she stood up. She turned to Kara, meeting her eyes now as her hands smoothed over her skirt. “I’ll let you get dry.” And with a nod, she was on her way.

Kara watched her every step.

Once the door closed, she hastily began removing her overskirt. It fell to the dark herringbone floor with an unglamorous thud.

---

There was no method or grace to the way Kara wrapped her hand around the rusting crowbar, but with a few jerks, she’d managed to successfully pry the top off of the pallet.

After setting down the wood cover, Kara extended her hand, letting it fall clumsily onto the slick canvas in front of her. It was still wet, and her hand’s small circular movement caused moisture to pool at her fingertips, as if her touch had beckoned the water. So her hand withdrew, and Kara slid the canvas out from its container. Her eyes danced over the surface as she considered how to dry it, holding it in front of herself like the Communion host of an evening Mass.

---

Kara decided to accompany her drying canvas, which was now positioned next to the fireplace. Stripped naked, she sat in front of the fire and pulled her legs towards herself—she was vulnerable, sitting there bare and in a new environment, and the action made her feel a bit more small, compact, and safe.

Kara set down her candle so she could light her tobacco pipe with the flames. Her large, smoky exhales grounded her, in a way, with the familiar sight and smell acting as a sort of sedative. And she stared forward, expression blank but unmistakably worn.

---

Kara walked barefoot along the cement floor, making her way through the hall and to the pantry room wrapped in nothing but her robe-like smock.