#no age no name nothing

[starreo]

why do yall make a tumblr acc if yall arent gonna reblog

[heartorbit]

find another role, carry on the show

[demaparbat-hp]

Oh, Lala...

[kittyoperas]

i just want to put these two in a room and see what happens

[lovecolibri]

It was never more clear than in last night's episode that KR truly only thought of Buck as "big dumb pretty boy" who was around to be the hot guy on the arm of literally whatever woman they could find so long as it was a woman.

Season 7 has some sins to atone for, but I have tried somewhat to offer it the grace I give season 4 for being a short season shot on a last-minute time crunch and under covid restrictions. We didn't see much of Buck in season 7 and most of what we saw was internal, not a lot of emergencies, though the ones we did get felt more balanced and purposeful to moving the main characters along than we had seen in awhile.

But 8x01? 8x01 was Firefighter Buckley at his absolute best and GOD I have missed him! He was silly, he was spouting off bee facts, he was thinking outside the box and saving lives with his ideas, he was gently communing with the bees, he was gently bullying his work husband partner into being a honey trap for bees, he was having an RSD episode and acting out against the injustice of how everyone is being treated because they're supposed to be a family, he got reprimanded for his ideas but didn't let it stop him from doing it again and again because he KNOWS he can save people!! I just- Firefighter Buckley!!!! 😭😭😭

There is a reason Buck was a fan favorite and we got to see everything this week from his giant kid energy, to his deep anger at injustice, to his stalwart co-parent energy with Eddie and having his back, to his ADHD brain coming up with fun facts and useful solutions.

He wasn't dumbed down for the sake of a joke (fully incorrect info on sperm donation after saying he did tons of research (that the writers clearly did not do) so they could get some cheap masturbation jokes), he wasn't the butt of the joke (lightning killing me gave me math powers because he-he i'm dumb and they don't have a plot for me to deal with it in a meaningful way, we're waiting for a LI to "fix" me, I'm calling every woman I slept with to see if I satisfied them) he was SMART, and CARING, and FRUSTRATED he can't save his family from the abuses they are suffering from and it all just felt so GOOD, and RIGHT, and true to who the Buck the audience fell in love with is. No wonder Oliver said it was the best episode they have done in years. I might have to agree.

[yarpharp]

I think one of the key things to consider when discussing Solas as a character is that his life is heavily... Conceptual?

The Elvhen Empire had a language where meaning was extremely interpretive based on every set conversation. They lived side by side with Spirits and Demons, so they reflected an equally fluid yet painfully rigid world. Solas bears a name that means Pride, with plenty of referenced or hinted at evidence that he was once a Spirit of Wisdom turned from his purpose. Specifically by Mythal, in fact.

But the thing is about this... What if naming him Pride was actually far more complex? Pride in what, exactly? Pride in having a body, pride in knowledge and skill, pride to the point of actionable hubris? Maybe that is part of it.

Yet what is Pride for someone who never was allowed Personal Pride? Or more specifically, embodied pride in service? He HAD been tattooed with vallaslin like the rest of Mythal 's slaves. He had been drawn to form a tangible body to serve her. He must have accomplished so many things for her, in wars, advising, political ploys. Was he named Pride for being so proud to serve the one whom he viewed as "the best" of the Gods?

Ironically, it still suits him even when he decides to reject it. He burns off the vallaslin and slightly scars his face, but isn't he truly proud now? Proud and clean-faced, an individual who serves no one now but himself?

Idk I'm just ruminating on that simple little name of his. It makes him such a conceptual fellow. It leaves me endlessly contemplating the layers.

[cinnamontoads]

i had a dream last night that i met jerma985 and he hated me he was so mean to me i was like omg hi jerma! and we shook hands and then he went dont fucking touch me

[caernua]

He's killed Farrier. One of my best agents. And knows where the others are. You know what must be done. Make it clean. Painless, if you can. We were friends, once.

[websitewizard2005]

the posthuman war more like the posthuman WARRIOR CATS

closeups under the cut:

[codacheetah]

My take on Rauru and Sonia's very unnamed and unmentioned probable daughter

[kenisle]

are there any fics about the existential/body horror and everyday idiosyncrasies of being wolverine — indestructible heavy metal skeleton, knife hands, healing factor, amnesia, and eternally chained to this mortal plane cursed to watch everyone around you age and die except this one really weird guy you can’t fucking stand who also happens to be from canada — with maybe a dash of homoeroticism? or at least just minimal heterosexuality? is that too tall an order?

[cable-salamder]

Can’t wait for Roby to show up only for him to be

A. A very minor role who gets like three voice lines total

Or

B. Far older than we thought and thus make everyone who was making fanart of him and Wyldfyre as a pair mildly scrambling (because of the whole. “Wyldfyre gets a bf” and people assuming that will be Roby)

[simcardiac-arrested]

hopefully NOT broken this time……. the moment you’ve all been waiting for…….. tumblr user simcardiac dash arrested posting the local group (tm)!!!

[creekfiend]

How did you/your family choose the dogs' names? And decide which kinds of dogs to get? I love all of them, please wish Moishe a happy birthday!

oh well it is different for each dog. Ella is from a private foster, Blue is from a breeder, Glimmer is from a breeder, Maisy is from a shelter/rescue, and Moses wound up on our property at ~7 weeks old after walking all the way across a huge cow pasture and fording a creek because he heard my mom and Lambchop in our pasture making noises. he's also from a breeder technically lol

[vassothmercar]

You are telling me SOLAS called his base house the Lighthouse?

[spiritsong]

day one: name, part one

#Veilguard30 by @pavus · rook dev prompt

word count: 1.5k What follows is my attempt to weave together my pre-established backstory for my mortalitasi Rook with the Mourn Watch backstory — that of the child found in a tomb. It got pretty long, so I'm splitting in two parts; part two will come tomorrow. read part two here!

In 9:13 Dragon, the fortress of Bownammar falls. It is the beginning.

The most vigilant of dwarven scholars warn that it is a sign. Some people cast the scholars’ worries aside with a wave of their hand. The fortress has fallen to the darkspawn before and reclaimed just as often.

Others heed their warnings. Their people understood what it was to live amidst perpetual threat. To brush it off with no great concern was tantamount to opening your home to the great evil standing on the doorstep.

Still, the most privileged and powerful amongst them were shielded in the safety of their enduring thaigs, unwilling to face the truth when there were always more pressing issues in closer proximity.

As for the surface races, as for the human societies that reigned in the land above, well… they were not even afforded such warnings. They never cared to hear them.

It takes several months for the news to reach the cult. 

The omen traveled across the Waking Sea to the streets of Cumberland, a city swollen with life. It cut its way through plains both fertile and dead. The omen breezes past ears and passes through lips, at times in hushed whispers, often fearful, often disbelieving. 

For all the power of a message set on the wind, it must eventually peter out and find its end, but not before the omen is finally breathed with the relief one feels at the arrival of something long awaited.

The Maker would grant them mercy at last.

The cult never stayed in one place for too long. 

In the beginning, their numbers were few and this made them invisible. The early resurgence of a cult is a vulnerable thing, and so they clung to the shadows for protection. Still, His Word must be made to take root in any who were receptive. 

It was a delicate balance, but often, they needed to do little more than hold their arms out, and the wretched and downtrodden would walk into the fold. Suffering was always open and wanting. 

They welcomed the destitute, the grieving, the indentured and enslaved, the lost and misguided; any who were broken or alone or homesick for something they had never known. 

The dwarves and elves and humans were nearly equal in number. The humans, for all the power they held on the surface, were unwilling to share their good fortunes with the lowest of their kind. 

The elves were certainly no strangers to suffering, forced to live atop one another in the most squalid corners of the human cities, their numbers whittled down by their oppressors as had been done countless times before. 

The dwarves came from those who were forced upon the surface, either in recent memory or generations before. They were exiles from their ancestral homes, unwanted by their kin and unwanted by the Stone. 

There were some who were neither poor or despairing or powerless; they only craved more power and thought to find it through the cult. They were ambitious would-be magisters, mostly. Some were Nevarran death mages who had lost their path. 

There was even a pair of Grey Wardens — one whose head swam with the Song in nearly all his waking hours, and another who was new to the order, but did not take to it. She was looking for a way out, though she did not know it. 

The others did not know what to make of the Wardens. Did the Maker lift them above all else? They were granted with the gift, and yet, did they not affront the generosity of the Maker when they refused to let the Blessing spread through every corner of their bodies and every corner of the land? 

The rest of the cult kept the Wardens at a distance nonetheless; set apart, either as guide or pariah.

The cult traveled and the cult grew and the cult waited. The waiting was what they did best of all. But it was different this time, to know what once seemed unreachable was now portended. 

As time passed, the patience of devotees transformed into the patience of desperate fanatics. And as the organism grew and the meager shadows of the surface world refused to hold them any longer, they descended.

Perhaps this is where it all went wrong. Some argued it was too soon — why would they jeopardize what had been centuries in the making by allowing themselves such temptation?

And yet others asked if there were any greater than them who deserved to be the first to give offering to their Maker. 

But it was preached that there was no such thing as deserving — there was only the void, the darkness, the abyss. There was only the Blight.

For amongst the Maker’s gifts was plague and pestilence, but none so sacred as the gift of the Blight. 

It was not selective nor prejudiced; it was indiscriminate and undiscerning. If there was to be a question of worth, then it should be centered on their inherent unworthiness. 

They were nothing. They were Empty.

The Maker had turned His gaze from them. The masses played at falsities, pretending as though their existences were anything but cold and meaningless without the Maker’s love.

His gift was a wave of endings to wash upon an undeserving world. 

But as the cult traversed the tunnels that snaked through soil and stone, as they anxiously pressed up against the ceiling of the earth as they waited and waited and waited—

—the Wardens grew restless.

And the others grew frenzied.

The Song, the Song, the Song! It was all the Wardens spoke of, and all the humility and piety of the world could not hold under the weight of longing for the end of all things.

It began with the flesh.

If one took in the flesh of the Maker’s gift often enough, His Song slips through the earth, seeking His most devoted.

To feel His breath upon the ear, to hear His voice at last… it was enough to bring them to their knees, tears falling as their arms raised high, grasping for their God.

They scavenged for the flesh where they could, but they grew greedy. It wasn’t enough. 

Then one ran off into the darkness, and another, and another — they ran into the arms of the Maker’s army; the vessels through which his Gift is spread.

It was too early, the wiser amongst them said, but few listened.

And one day they drew too close. 

The Child remembered little. 

There was perhaps a Mother and a Father, though the Child knew them by no such names. Their faces were long lost, but their vague outlines stood against the shadows that overtook most of the Child’s memories.

Sometimes, the not-Mother and the not-Father brought the shadows. The Child would rather not remember those.

The Child remembered a time when the sun touched their back. Sometimes it was itchy, and sometimes it was so warm and welcome, the Child wished to press back against the heat.

The Child remembered light. They remembered something that was not stone beneath their feet. Grass, soft and forgiving. Dirt, packed and easy to walk upon. Mud that tried to eat the Child. Sand, a little like the mud in that it was uneager to let go, though not as yucky and uncomfortable.

The Child remembered the things that they lacked. A plush bear, its worn and weathered arm held tenderly in the grip of a Girl, face similarly dirtied as the Child’s own. 

The Girl had a Mother and a Father, and there were other children, too. Brother. Sister. This was called a family, the Child knew.

There was something else the Girl had and the Child didn’t, though the Child floundered for the language to describe it, snatching each word as it flew by, letting them go when they didn’t fit.

“What is that?” the Child asked the not-Mother. 

They stood on the edge of the busy city street. There was stone beneath their feet then, too, but this stone was flat and similarly shaped and all nestled against each other.

The Child pointed at the Girl. “That’s like… that’s like the sun…” 

The Child’s hand waved through the air, fingers opening and closing as they struggled to explain. 

The Child’s nubby fingers pressed against the rough fabric at their chest, the movements akin to that of clawing. “And this, this isn’t like the sun. This is like at night, when it’s cold and the sun is sleeping.”

The not-Mother’s lips crooked up into something like a smile, though her eyes reflected the same feeling the Child was trying to describe — that is, they reflected nothing at all.

“That’s called being empty,” the not-Mother said. “That is what you are. Empty.”