chitrasfoodbook

[ganonfan1995]

Burnt out

[gaycrittercentral]

I realized I make a lot of spelling mistakes, damn you autism!

Anywho can we see more of the virtues? I would love to see kindness more, like him on the couch like how you described

Sfhfhshsjhd y’know what’s funny, my autism does the opposite bc I’m a nerd whose special interest is spelling and grammar 😂 but yeah I completely feel that no worries bud

Oh and HELL yeah I love my guy Kindness!! and so it is my great pleasure to reveal to you all this, my first fully colored comic in probably years because uh. welp y'all know how art block be lmao

also since this is based on a scene I sorta wrote out in a previous post, I've included that snippet under the comic! And here's a link to the original post, where I detailed everything about the virtues.

and then he immediately pops out of existence lmaoooooo

Max tells him to sit on the couch and relax while he grabs some snacks and coffee. The whole time, he has to keep insisting that Kindness stay seated instead of jumping back up to help. Eventually he grabs Kindness by the shoulders to explain that having his partner as, essentially, a self-offered indentured servant is funny and all, but it’s making him uncomfortable. They work so well together because they’ve always been equal, and as high and mighty as Max likes to act sometimes, it feels bad to just keep taking everything from his best friend and to be unable to give anything back. In a dreadfully ironic twist, preventing Max (and others, by extension) from doing anything for him is sort of unkind in and of itself. “So just keep your ass seated and let me do what I need to do, okay? You’re stressing me out. Eat your donut and calm down already.” And Kindness, maybe a little starry-eyed, finally concedes and allows Max to grab a blanket and finish making them some coffee. Once that’s done they sit on the couch together under the blanket for a minute and watch some junk TV while they eat a much-needed snack. After a few minutes of that, Max ventures, “Sooo…can I get that heart now, or…?” “Aw, buddy. You know you already have it.” And with a final little side hug, which Max finally returns with only a little grumbling about how sappy it is, he poofs out of existence.

[doctorbrown]

DOCTOBER '24 ⸺ 「 1 / 31 * RED-LETTER DATE 」

“Hey Doc? I wanna ask you something.” 

Emmett doesn’t pop his head through the doorway to acknowledge his friend, too focused on topping off one of the mugs of hot chocolate with a generous helping of marshmallows, but he does shout, “Of course, Marty,” into the air. “You know you don’t have to ask. Let me bring Verne his cup and then you’ll have my undivided attention.”

Marty makes a vague noise that many years of friendship has taught Emmett means sure thing, Doc, and it takes him barely three minutes to drop off the hot chocolate to Verne, who smiled like it was Christmas morning when he saw the mountain of marshmallows floating at the top, and join Marty in the living room, carrying the tray with their own drinks. He passes one of them off to Marty who accepts with a smile and a nod and then takes a seat opposite him, fixing him with an expectant look.

“So, what did you want to ask me?”

Marty’s eyes immediately drift to the shelf, where Emmett and Clara’s small assortment of family photos sit, arranged in elegant wooden frames. In the centre is a black and white photo that has started to yellow around the edges, looking paradoxically fragile and yet able to withstand even the most rigorous tests of time, holding onto that frozen memory for all eternity. Emmett turns his head to follow Marty’s attention, his eyes alighting on the single photo he expects will be the topic of their conversation.

Ah. Out of all of them, there is only one Marty was never able to be present for.

For once, Emmett manages to look perfectly natural in a photograph, even dressed to the nines in a sharp suit. His smile stretches from ear-to-ear, making him look at least ten years younger, and though his face is angled away from the camera, his eyes are bright and alive, brimming with love and warmth. Marty could even imagine the photographer trying to get Emmett’s attention, demanding he look at him for the photo, only for every single word to go in one ear and straight out the other when Clara was standing beside him, smiling, the picture of radiance as she regards her husband with the same fond warmth. Her wedding dress was no more intricate than any of the outfits Marty had seen her wear during his few days in the Nineteenth Century, yet it seemed to be made for her and her alone, perfectly tailored and somehow able to put even the outfits of royalty to shame.

If Clara was the sun, Emmett was the moon that revolved around her. In that single moment, forever frozen in time, they were the only two people on Earth. 

“I had been wanting to ask for a while, but–”

“No, no, of course. You didn’t get the chance to see it, and I’m sorry for that, so I’d be happy to fill you in on the details.”

Marty curls his fingers around the warm mug, shuffling somewhat in his seat, and Emmett waits patiently, noting each one of Marty’s nervous habits as they arise. There are a hundred and one things Marty wants to say, Emmett can see them written across his body, written into every small movement, and, equal and opposite, there are a thousand things Emmett wants to say in return, things he makes an effort to hold back until Marty speaks first.

“I’m happy for you two, Doc–really, I am. Clara’s–well, Clara’s amazing. And I’ve never seen you so happy before. I was afraid that–” Marty shakes his head, his eyes focused on the photographs. “When I first saw the picture, I was…” He forces a laugh, but there’s no humour in it and Emmett would know that self-depreciatory tone anywhere. 

“It’s stupid, I know. I didn’t realise it at first, but I was jealous. Can you believe that, Doc? My best friend is happy, he’s got a family for Christ’s sake, and I was too busy at first being afraid that now you’re–you’re just gonna forget me because you’ve got Clara and the boys and the house and there wouldn’t be a place for me.”

Emmett’s eyes widen despite knowing the blow was coming and before he can open his mouth, allow the words that have been building up on his tongue to break free, Marty shakes his head and continues, reinforcing the wall and keeping the words at bay just a little longer.

“I know what you’re gonna say, Doc. I already said I know it’s stupid but I couldn’t help feeling that way. And I should have asked you about your wedding and everything a lot longer ago but I-I just couldn’t. And that’s fucking stupid, right? I want to know because I couldn’t be there for you and you’ve always been there for me.”

Marty’s words are a blade driven straight through his chest, each word twisting that razor-sharp blade a little more. He can’t help the pang of guilt he feels echoing in his ribcage, scraping against the bars of a prison he will not allow it to escape from, not now. This conversation was a long time coming–he’d almost expected it sooner rather than later, but he knew better than to push, knowing Marty would open up when he was ready–but no amount of anticipation could have prepared him for the blow that hearing it put to words would strike.

The Time Machine’s destruction had not been an accident. Everything had been carefully orchestrated to prevent any further corruption of the timestream, to spare himself the temptation–the broken heart–of trying to go back against all rational, scientific thought.

Ultimately, Marty couldn’t stay in the Nineteenth Century, not if he wanted to live a normal life, not if he wanted to be happy. And he couldn’t allow Marty to become another unsolved disappearance, leaving the McFlys to wonder and agonise over their youngest son who vanished from the face of the Earth without a trace.

Emmett may not have planned to stay, but even he couldn’t predict Clara’s intervention. 

Life had to go on, even under extreme or difficult circumstances. There was only one choice available, then.

Still, Emmett doesn’t hesitate.

“Marty, I could never forget you. Whether we’re in the same time period or separated across the timestream, you will always be my best friend. And I will never stop caring about you. I know things have been busy lately, both for you and for me, what with your college courses and the boys’ schooling and Clara’s acclimation to the Twentieth Century and making the necessary repairs on the house–” Emmett stops himself before he runs off the entire list of seemingly infinitely-growing projects on his list. 

“The point is, nothing is going to change that. And I’m sorry if I’ve made you feel neglected or unwanted at any point, because that couldn’t be further from the truth.”

Marty nods, finally pulling his eyes away from the photo to take a good long look at his best friend. 

“I know, Doc. God, I know. You must think I’m an asshole.” 

“You’re not an asshole. Far from it.”

Marty actually smiles at that, swirling his hot chocolate carefully in the cup. “So… You’ll still tell me about your wedding day?”

“Of course I will, Marty.” Emmett pauses for a moment, a thoughtful expression working its way over his face. Then, he smiles, almost conspiratorially as he recalls something of particular note. “The minister certainly wasn’t pleased when we changed until death do us part to something a little more fitting–until the end of time—”

@bttfdoctober

[wonder-worker]

"[Elizabeth Woodville's] piety as queen seems to have been broadly conventional for a fifteenth-century royal, encompassing pilgrimages, membership of various fraternities, a particular devotion to her name saint, notable generosity to the Carthusians, and the foundation of a chantry at Westminster after her son was born there. ['On other occasions she supported planned religious foundations in London, […] made generous gifts to Eton College, and petitioned the pope to extend the circumstances in which indulgences could be acquired by observing the feast of the Visitation']. One possible indicator of a more personal, and more sophisticated, thread in her piety is a book of Hours of the Guardian Angel which Sutton and Visser-Fuchs have argued was commissioned for her, very possibly at her request."

-J.L. Laynesmith, "Elizabeth Woodville: The Knight's Widow", "Later Plantagenet and Wars of the Roses Consorts: Power, Influence, Dynasty"

[astriiformes]

Sometimes you just have to have a little cry in the middle of a bunch of 500 year-old books, and that's okay. I am telling myself it's okay.

[lovelaceisntdead]

literally so fucked up I had one day outside with a friend and I've been suffering for a MONTH. chronic illness go die forever.

[sangfielle]

i need to write a proper backstory for my pathfinder character beyond the basic stuff laid out before the campaign started and answer dm questions about her... and i need to make a character for the new 5e campaign i'm in... busy busy...

[matt-w-blogging]

Reasons why I frequently make my friends and family baked goods/confections:

So they'll never feel desperate enough to betray me for turkish delight

Love I guess

[burnsopale]

Childermass & Segundus - it sounds very well

So one day the York Society of Magicians receives a new member, and Childermass is like okay, no big deal, those guys never do anything interesting anyway.

But then, right, then the new guy and one of the old guys writes to Mr Norrell and asks if they may have the pleasure of waiting on him sometime, and Mr Norrell is like "No" but Childermass is like "Actually yes" because he's intrigued, or because the cards have told him something is about to happen, or because Mr Norrell is years overdue to go to London and revive English magic and Childermass figures this might jostle him into doing something. We don't know what exactly happened, but it seems likely that it was Childermass who made the visit possible, because the idea of Mr Norrell ever wanting visitors is impossible to accept.

So these two theoretical magicians come to Hurtfew Abbey, and Childermass is in the library waiting for the visit to end and Norrell to show up and tell him what the men wanted, but instead, when the door opens, there they are, the visitors, having been invited to see the library and what the fuck did they say to old Gilbert to make that happen?? Not that it matters, they're not gonna remember anything by the time they get home, the enchantments will see to that.

Mr Norrell introduces Childermass, and the new guy gives him a look like Childermass facinates him, but Childermass is used to that. He figures he'll just hang out until they leave.

Except the new guy, who is a dark, timid-looking little man named John Segundus, keeps looking around like he can sense the spells lighting the room, keeps looking out the window like he's not happy with the orientation of the walls, keeps blinking like the magic is making him a little dizzy. John Segundus is clearly magic sensitive. No one in the York Society is magic sensitive, Childermass knows that for a fact. This is suddenly intriguing.

So Childermass ends up keeping half an eye on Mr Segundus as he explores, until Mr Segundus notices, sensitive as he is, and their eyes meet. Childermass reads longing, need, delight and confusion on the man's face, but Childermass is without pity; by the time Mr Segundus gets home, he won't remember what he's seen. It doesn't matter; no one in the York Society ever did anything interesting anyway.

But then later, the letter from Dr Foxcastle comes, and Mr Norrell is Upset and Offended, and Childermass realises that the Revival is about to start at last. And because Mr Norrell is fearful and Childermass is pitiless, they send a lawyer with their demands.

Mr Robinson the lawyer returns to Hurtfew a little perplexed. Oh yes, they all signed, just like you said they would, every one of them ... except ... except one. Childermass is a little surprised to discover that the timid little man had a spine after all. Mr Norrell wants Mr Robinson to go back and demand the last signature, but Childermass says "Wait". And at this point, we do not know what he is thinking. Perhaps he simply thinks that they will need someone to write to London once the miracle has been done, and Mr Segundus is more likely to be amiable if he has not just been deprived of his calling. But then, Mr Honeyfoot, the other visitor, would definitely be happy to write, even though he WILL be deprived of that same calling. Perhaps, Childermass thinks that this is a strangely fateful twist, that the one member of the York Society who has an actual talent for magic is the one person who refused to give it up. Maybe he remembers a time when he himself was full of longing for magic, when he could sense it all around him but was unable to grasp it, when he too would get dizzy in Mr Norrell's library. He may not feel pity, but he can be intrigued. He convinces Mr Norrell to let Mr Segundus be.

Childermass laughs inside when John Segundus doesn't recognise him outside the cathedral, but then startles when the man almost recalls after all. He is not supposed to be able to break the enchantment. Thankfully, the moment passes, and after the magic is done, Mr Segundus turns out to be exactly as easy to manipulate as Childermass thought he would be. The polite ones are easy, especially when they are full of need and longing, and keep looking at Childermass like he has the answers they are searching for. Maybe Childermass uses a little bit of magic to persuade the man to write to London, or maybe he just smiles, and waits, and lets John Segundus come to him of his own accord.

Childermass returns to Hurtfew Abbey and says to his master "Go to London. Go now." and because Childermass knows about these things, they go.

And nine years pass in London.

But occasionally during those nine years, Childermass turns his attention to York, to see what timid little John Segundus is up to. Mostly it's not much.

Until Jonathan Strange happens. That he happens at all is rather extraordinary, but how interesting that he should come to seek Mr Norrell on the advice of John Segundus? For sure there are many people with an affinity for magic in England, but how many of them are magicians? Too few, thinks Childermass. How likely is it that two of them should meet at random? He wonders if this is another fated twist.

So he continues to keep half an eye on York, just in case Mr Segundus should discover how to actually grasp the magic that surrounds him. But when Strange returns from the war in Spain, his conversation tells Childermass that even with the learning, even with actual spells to hand, their timid little man in York cannot make the magic work.

John Segundus begins taking on pupils. Childermass keeps it from Mr Norrell. Childermass has been the instrument of many a theoretical magician's destruction, Childermass reads the hearts of men and feels no pity for them, and yet Childermass keeps John Segundus hidden from Mr Norrell. Maybe, just maybe, John Childermass is beginning to feel a little bit of pity after all. He was once the one longing to master the powers that often overpowered him. He too loves magic so much, enough to endure servitude and secrecy to be near it.

But then John Segundus wants to start a school. Well, if he is going to be that silly, then Childermass cannot help him. Mr Norrell finds out, Mr Norrell panics, and he dispatches Childermass to York to put a stop to this evil plan. Business as usual in other words.

Childermass sits quite comfortably on the steps of Starecross when John Segundus comes home. Childermass delivers his message.

"You know me, Sir," he says, completely forgetting that while he has always had half an eye on John Segundus, John Segundus has not seen Childermass for nine years. Maybe, just maybe, Childermass is a little embarrassed at his mistake. But the errand is completed, and Mr Segundus is easy to manipulate, because he is so very gentle and polite.

Childermass may or may not have noticed that he has been manipulated in turn, because he, who has no pity for any man, lets Mr Segundus know that he regrets that the school cannot be, and he is willing to do what he can to keep Mr Segundus' dream from failing entirely. Although of course, he knows that a regular school is not at all the same as a school of magic.

Childermass knows what it's like to long, but he has found, if not the answers to his questions, then at least the tools by which to hunt them down. He can do the magic.

Then Mr Strange and Mr Norrell quarrel.

And then Lady Pole tries to shoot Mr Norrel. The lady walks with one foot in Faerie and one in London, and for a while, so does Childermass. Something is not right with the lady, but Mr Norrell won't tell him what magic he employed to bring her back from the dead. She'll be sent away somewhere where Childermass will have no chance to discover the truth. Unless of course he decides where she goes. Perhaps for instance to one whom Childermass knows will feel the Faerie winds blowing about the lady, someone who will be able to carry on the search for the truth, whether he knows that he's doing Childermass' work or not. Mr Segundus is easy to manipulate.

Childermass recommends to Sir Walter that he send his wife to Starecross in Yorkshire. How fortuitous that the master of that hall has just decided to open a madhouse there. Surely the visions that gave him the idea were entirely coincidental.

Mr Norrell and Childermass quarrel.

Jonathan Strange Returns magic to England. The Raven King returns to England and rewrites his book.

Mr Norrell and Mr Strange disappear into Faerie.

Suddenly, Childermass is the most experienced magician in England. No one has read as much, has practiced as much, or knows the spells he knows.

But he thinks that there is one man who will not be far behind him in achieving similar results. And maybe Childermass wonders sometimes if it was not all meant to be this way, that it was fate, that he himself was meant to come out on the other side as a student of the two great modern magicians of the age, and that he was meant to bring with him, sheltered under his wing, a dark, timid little man with an extraordinary sensitivity to magic. The books may be gone, but through his instruments, the Raven King has made sure that the new generation of magicians are both capable of and eager to read the magic written on the sky. It will take sensitive men, full of longing, and isn't it fortuitous then, that all those years ago, in the library at Hurtfew Abbey, Childermass recognised another like himself in John Segundus, and decided to keep half an eye on him.

[tortoisesshells]

five lines meme: “the multitudinous seas incarnadine,” for bill malloy?

Bill Malloy didn’t say one way or the other whether Jimmy Lord’s promotion was permanent, only that the Caroline Anne needed a second and Burke Devlin was staring down the barrel of ten years in Shawshank. He didn’t trust the kid like he’d trusted Devlin, but it didn’t matter – Devlin would be acquitted or he wouldn’t, and then Lord would shape up, or not. A kid – Lord wasn’t a kid – had two of his own – a wife with weak lungs and a roof like a sieve. Bill scrubbed at his face like he could get rid of the long days, the years, the smell of rotting fish viscera that dogged Collinsport at all tides. A man got old in a place like this while he was chasing after other things.

Send me a character/pairing and a title to get five lines of an imaginary fic.

[yaoifortresstwo]

breakups are so fucking weird. three years and just like that it's gone. huh

[frumfrumfroo]

So Reylos are now freaking out over episode 4 of Ahsoka cause Anakin showed up in what appears to be the wbw. I have not watched Ahsoka and don't plan to. I personally think that nothing will come out of this in regards to Ben Solos return. People think Leia sacrificed herself to send Ben there? If she sacrificed herself to save him then he wouldn't have gone anywhere he would have been alive.

Anyone who thinks there was planning or thought behind anything in tros is delusional.

Thinking they're setting up Ben's resurrection is almost as removed from reality.

[wonder-worker]

[Edward IV] had two healthy young sons and died peacefully, in the belief that, with his enemies dead or compromised and his family loyalties assured, they would survive to adulthood, securing the future of the House of York. That this proved not to be the case should add a note of pathos to his history which has, in fact, been conspicuously absent.

Andrew Robert Whittle, “The Historical Reputation of Edward IV 1461-1725”

[aro-culture-is]

aro culture is taylor swift's midnight rain

.

[britneyshakespeare]

Also wasn't the 2020 election so miserable with how we were all waiting for results for literal fucking days??? Oh my God...

[unma]

Had WhatsApp open on this phone since I was waiting for a reply from my dad, as I mentioned earlier (I literally never open it otherwise) and I saw my pfp and remembered this really funny call I had around my birthday.

I got a lot of birthday wishes on WhatsApp, but a combination of it being my move in week to uni + me never opening WhatsApp and being bad at replying meant I never responded to most of them. I did take one phone call from an aunt tho, which went nice and fine until she asked me who the character in my pfp was.

Folks. I had changed my pfp a couple months beforehand for Pride Month. It was Astolfo.

I spent the next 5 minutes trying to dodge the question, saved by my cousin (wrongly) thinking she knew who it was. She thought my pfp was Anya, and while I assured her she was wrong, I provided no answer myself. I did not want to give her a name to look up, and thankfully I got away without having to do so.

This was extra funny because friends who did know who Astolfo was (and a bit about my whole deal with liking femboys) were like "Don't you think your parents might recognize your pfp and realize a few things?" Obviously I thought not, because my parents know jack shit about anime on account of knowing jack shit about any of my interests, but I did not expect any of my (adult) relatives to have even some passing knowledge of it, given the one uncle who did like anime became a pastor.