#stop damaging his brain

[annyankers]

for all the amicability in the whirlwind later on i think it's really important to never lose sight of why dru was turned and then why she in turn sired spike. she was tortured and turned for angelus' enjoyment, her continued suffering brings him pleasure. he owns her, she is a Thing to him and she has no way to escape this. she makes spike to be "her brave knight" a position that, especially in fairytales, means a very romantic man physically protects and serves a woman who is usually gonna end up being some kind of damsel in distress.

while yes dru is evil and a vampire she's still obviously very upset about what happened to her and those moments seem to be her times of lucidity, not delusion. not to mention that she's already been beaten out of the notion that she can escape angelus, she tried to as a human and it didn't work, it likely won't work now either, especially if darla sides with him. but with spike around there's someone who basically always takes her side and fights to keep angelus away from her. who is, at least, a buffer between her and her tormentor. he also takes care of her and validates her, something neither darla or angelus seem to be interested in doing at all.

i feel like people tend to intellectually remember what happened to her but forget that it you know, has long lasting consequences when say, they evaluate her behavior in late s2 when angelus comes back. like... yeah ofc she goes back to appeasing him and shit. spike's a wheelchair and she was beaten into shape to be "daddy's little girl" (gag) YEARS before she even MET spike. her abuser is back and her defender is out of commission not to mention her whole view of reality has been actively warped by the most narcissistic sleezoid around.

and all the reasons why people love spike or point to as why he's better with buffy or whatever.... dru was the one who saw those first and picked him because of those. like... it's wild to see people act like they spent a loveless century together and spike was just used the whole time when we SEE them literally in love, he states MULTIPLE times she means so much to him and we get an OUTSIDE SOURCE CONFIRM THEY HAVE "AFFECTION AND JEALOUSY FOR EACH OTHER". we have the spike we know of today because drusilla saw the hero in him and wanted him to rescue her. and ya know, he kinda did. multiple times. over a century of deep, mutual horrifying love. you only even GET spike and buffy in the same ROOM because he loved dru so much he saved her from a mob, traveled with her across a continent (maybe 2 depending on direction) and over an ocean for even a SHOT at a cure. like... cMON.

this got a little off topic into some of my pet peeves but also kinda not because just-- i don't think people always remember that dru is still a victim and a victim who was intentionally frozen the moment of maximum despair and internal destruction. then spent about 20 years being groomed by her tormentor before she ever had anyone care about her as a priority. i think people tend to forget that it was angelus who wanted to turn spike into a monster and drusilla who wanted him to be a hero. it's dru who gives him his swagger, his confidence, his love for life, who encouraged his romanticism and adored his poetics. it's not that she groomed or built him, but just that she saw all that potential already in there and facilitated it and nurtured it. sure in a fucked up vampire way but still.

[cozylittleartblog]

JUST GUYS BEIN' DOODS

redraw of the meme under the cut

original by @knightmarebug

[vaguely-concerned]

can't wait for adaar to come back to cassandra after a decade of being best friends with dorian 'thedas' nr 1 mortaboo necrostan' pavus and then hanging out with a bunch of mourn watchers through all of veilguard and embracing her like 'I love and support you more than anyone in this world and whatever you needed from them that you didn't get I'll wrestle dragons and fight gods to give you now, my love, my lighthouse, my safest place to stand. but I must regretfully report that your folks fucking ROCK actually I think dorian was right about this one'

[werewolves-are-real]

Time Travel Temeraire snippet

At first, Laurence assumes he's dead.

It's a natural conclusion. He remembers dying, after all.

He and Tenzing were at a function hosted by Wellesley. They were mostly there to support the dragons. Temeraire had long abandoned them to quarrel with Perscitia in the courtyard, with half a dozen ferals watching like it were a jousting match. Wellesley had laid out his grounds to allow room for dragons and men to mingle, but a good portion of the guests retreated inside to avoid the raised voices of the dragons.

Laurence wonders how Temeraire felt about that, later. About not seeing.

He was stabbed. He barely remembers it – just a quick pulse of pain in his chest, looking down. Red blooming over his coat.

Then he was on the floor. People screamed. Tenzing appeared, grappling with a tall and finely-dressed man; he used a dinner-knife to punch a hole in the stranger's throat, in a fantastic spray of blood, and dropped the body at once to kneel by Laurence's side.

He remembers Wellesley barking orders – bandages, water, a hot knife. Have to cauterize it, he'd shouted. Keep pressure -

But Tenzing never spoke. Just pressed down on Laurence's chest, over the wound, without particular panic. Laurence still remembers the grim resignation on his face; Tenzing knew what was coming. Laurence was glad to have him there when he died.

Then Laurence woke up.

The world sways in a familiar way, a rhythmic motion that Laurence registers on a soul-deep level. He's on a ship. But why? Where is Tenzing, Temeraire? Why would they put him on a ship?

“I think the fever's breaking,” says a voice. A naval doctor, disheveled and salt-stained, with long scars down his bared arms. “Oh, and awake too!”

“Well thank Christ,” says another man. One Laurence recognizes.

It's Captain Gerry Stuart – but he looks different, younger than the last time Laurence saw him, with smooth skin and dark curly hair.

Gerry died two years ago.

“Well, Lieutenant! You gave us a scare – how are you feeling?” Gerry asks.

“It's Admiral,” Laurence corrects rather than all the other things he does not dare ask. He hates the title foisted upon him; but it's at least more comprehensible than Lieutenant, and he clings to that rather than demand where did you come from.

Stuart throws back his head to cackle, though the concern doesn't leave his face. “Still perhaps a bit feverish, I think!”

“That might be the laudanum,” says the doctor, also amused. “Why don't you sleep a bit more, Lieutenant?”

“But where is Temeraire? Or Tenzing?”

“I can only assume you had some very vivid dreams,” Stuart chuckles. “You were babbling and babbling for Temeraire – isn't that a ship?”

“Perhaps the flagship of his fleet,” suggests the doctor, and Stuart laughs again. “Get some rest, Mr. Laurence. Holler if you need me.”

They both exit the sick-berth. Laurence stares blankly at the door.

What?

Laurence pats his chest. No wound. He looks down, startled by the pale thinness of his fingers, his youth-soft skin.

Well; not soft. Callouses cover his hands. But even these patterns are different – hard skin in places where he would hold a sword, or pulls ropes. His hands should be more wrinkled, yes; but these callouses faded years ago.

“Where am I?” he asks when the doctor returns. “And what is the year?”

“The year? 1793. You don't remember?”

1793. Laurence was 19 in 1793. A lieutenant for two years, on the Shorewise.

The doctor narrows his eyes. “What's my name, lad?”

Laurence swallows. His stomach churns; for the life of him he can't remember.

The doctor rushes off to retrieve the captain.

_____________________________

Laurence is diagnosed with brain fever, and partial amnesia. Gerry is horribly guilty about laughing, earlier; Laurence could not care less. He is given strict orders to stay on bed-rest for another week, in hope his strength will recover – and his mind.

Laurence doesn't think he'll have any issues working – he's forgotten many of the people around him, true, but he may never forget the way to run a ship. He's far more concerned with learning what happened.

From all appearances, it is indeed 1793. France is undergoing riots, and declared war against Britain in February. Temeraire has not hatched. Napoleon is probably a corporal or general himself, at this point. If he exists at all. God knows, perhaps Laurence is only mad.

But he doesn't feel mad. His memories are too vivid to be mere fever-dreams. A man cannot dream up twenty years of life!

But neither can a man go back to his youth, and live it all again.

I have a dragon, he thinks of saying. There is no war, because I captured Napoleon – an unknown man who makes himself emperor.

Mad. It sounds mad even to Laurence himself. But to imagine that Temeraire was a fever-ridden dream... Tenzing and Granby and China, all of it...

Laurence doesn't share his turmoil with anyone – not even with Gerry, who checks on him fretfully. After a week the doctor declares him well enough, physically. He's paired always with another lieutenant for the first few days on duty, and his shipmates watch him carefully for signs of permanent debilitation; but aside from a moment or two of hesitance, Laurence competently resumes his duties. The oversight lessens.

Laurence thinks about writing letters.

He thinks about writing to Tharkay's late father, who ought to still be alive, inquiring after his son. He thinks of writing to Prince Mianning, asking about the health of Lung Tien Qian. He thinks of writing to young Midshipman Granby, his unwed brother, his dead father...

Not all of them would reply. But he could ask questions. Could verify the truth of things. Unless this, instead, is the delusion.

Is he in 1793, imagining the future? Is he in the future, imagining the past? Or maybe he is already dead, and this is the reality of hell. He came here burning with fever, and now he burns with fear. Surely that is it's own form of torture.

Laurence is ironically given the task of tutoring the midshipman and lieutenant-hopefuls more than any other duty as the weeks pass; his crewmates still look askance, and the more eager of the midshipman become protective. Laurence remains perfectly capable of command; it is only that he can't help but be absent-minded, sometimes, staring at all the crewmen that pass him like they are nothing but moving paintings. Images of a world that no longer matters.

One evening the midshipmen drag him away to a meal with the other officers. It's a noisy crowd; Laurence would find the friendly bustle comforting in another life.

One of the senior officers, Lieutenant Moore, waves him down as Laurence enters. Evidently they used to be friends, given his notably concerned behavior of late. Laurence can't remember the man, and has a sneaking suspicion he died too soon to make a lasting impression.Moore jostles him when Laurence sits at the long table. “Will! Did you get any letters with the last batch?”

A patrolling gunboat brought a satchel of letters just this morning. “I did not,” Laurence says. He's grateful for the fact. He'd found a few pieces of correspondence in his quarters that he dutifully sent on; he cannot imagine writing a letter now, in this confused state.

“Then you've had no news! Robespierre has gone mad. Madder than before, I suppose.”

“Robespierre?” asks Laurence blankly.

Lieutenant Moore double-takes, as does everyone else around them. “Good lord, Will, please tell me you remember Robespierre?”

Right... Robespierre's reign was brief, but this is when he led France. Some of the things the papers published...

Well, at least Laurence has a well-worn excuse for his ignorance. He plays up his malady: “Yes. I think I recall he was... French?”

Groans of horror mixed with amusement echo around the table. “...Well you aren't wrong,” says Moore, looking pained. “He has styled himself the 'President' of their Assembly, which is some stupid way of being king; the French are all mad about removing and adding words right now. I don't know how they expect anyone to hold a conversation.”

“We should... probably educate Mr. Laurence about the war at some point,” some midshipman mutters. Laurence doesn't recall his name.

Moore sighs again. “Anyway. Robespierre is a tyrant, of course. But he's elected someone else to rule France! Barely more than a boy, too.”

Laurence frowns; he doesn't remember what Moore's talking about. “Why would he do that? Did they capture one of the Bourbons?” Declaring himself regent of a child-prince would at least make sense.

“Well, at least you remember them. No; it is some nobody, a young soldier. Not even French! I cannot fathom it.”

It feels like Laurence has been dunked in ice.

For a moment he can't respond. “What was his name? The soldier.”

“Napoleon Bonaparte. He has been chosen as head of their new heresy, the 'Cult of the Supreme Being,' they're calling it; and now de facto head of the government, too. Must be a priest? I don't know, nothing the French are doing makes sense. I expect his little group will be as short-lived as everything else about these riots.”

But Laurence doesn't think so. “...Excuse me; I'm feeling a bit poorly,” he says, rising on wavering legs.

“Yes, you look it! Go on, we'll tell you about the war later...”

Laurence flees.

[waters-and-the-wilde]

anyway new scenario i am cherishing as a treat for me is that the same night juno was using his coping skills to not drink away his feelings, nureyev got scooped at the spaceport and then subsequently dropped off at the lighthouse by ruby, and in the process of name reveal/family reunion/etc he lets buddy and vespa get him drunk (in what is probably the first time he's been actually intoxicated in lo these twenty odd years)

crucial elements: vespa is now capable of getting drunk, and buddy remains not capable of getting drunk, i don't think nureyev has worked his way up to the mortifying ordeal of both of them being sober while he is drunk and it's already mortifying enough that buddy's gonna interrogate him about his feelings which he is now working on acknowledging that he has. vespa is a.) in a secure and relaxed enough frame of mind to tolerate being drunk around nureyev, largely bc b.) buddy is sober and has the upper hand if they're actually wrong about him even now, c.) 'i don't wanna deal with your shit sober anyway'. and furthermore both of them are only going to be able to tolerate being impaired at all knowing that at least one person in the room has Got This because they are both thinking about ambushes at all times

(it takes him the entire rest of the next day to get to hyperion city and feeling presentable enough to go see juno bc his ass is NOT used to having a hangover)

[spotaus]

Fun awful doodle I did of New Age Nightmare and Error last night immediately after I posted their refs.

[baconcolacan]

I rag on Tord, but you know, Tom lowk also a trainwreck for choosing to kiss him

[binomech]

Hermann, to Newton:

There is no reason to minimize your qualifications to any extent; or, perhaps I should clarify—there is no reason to minimize your qualifications to any extent within the confines of this particular set of correspondences. I cannot speak to the intellectual climate you might encounter on the eastern seaboard of the United States. Socially, I am familiar with the concept of academic minimization. If I have to attend one more family gathering at which I am asked whether I am ‘still in school’ I refuse to be held responsible for my actions. I hear that in the States the anti-intellectual sentiment is more extreme than it is here. I’m not certain how true this might be—it seems that we are always hearing such things about the state of American science; perhaps it is just a story we tell ourselves to maintain a sense of psychological superiority.

Newton, to Hermann:

Are you seriously a graduate student? You do not seem like a graduate student to me—and I’ve mentored about [accuracy aside: where ‘about’=exactly] twelve of them by this point, so I speak with a reasonable amount of experience here. It’s not a raw intelligence thing (because obviously that’s no surrogate endpoint when it comes to successfully running a lab); it’s your attitude. You seem like a guy who should be allocating vast quantities of resources, not giving job talks. Is there a back-story here?

Hermann, to Newton:

You asked about my personal history. I assure you it is a nearly conventional story. I say nearly because my attendance at a Mathematisch-Naturwissenschaftliches Gymnasium was, perhaps, briefer than one might expect due to childhood illness combined with accelerated private tutoring. I matriculated early at University and then spent a year between University and my graduate studies pursuing an alternate career pathway that was ultimately not a viable choice for me due to physical requirements I was unable to meet. I ultimately settled on the pursuit of mathematics. [My father] wields considerable influence at TU Berlin, and while he is extremely interested in the biology and physical origins of Trespasser he is disinclined to see me hitch my personal career to an aberrant, sensationalistic event. He and I came to an agreement, of sorts, when I was seventeen. He agreed to financially support me while I pursued my choice of profession to the extent I was able to do so, sans any interference; but should I fail we agreed that I would attend TU Berlin. As I mentioned, I was ultimately rejected from the experimental aviation program I began at age seventeen, and so, true to my word, I enrolled at TU Berlin, where I have, thus far, been very well mentored by my thesis advisor who also happens to be a close friend of my father’s. It is only now that I am running into professional difficulty because of this association. I should have known better, but I must admit to not thinking entirely clearly at the time I matriculated at TU Berlin. So when I say that I am being opposed by my department, I do mean this, in as far as it goes, but I also mean that my department is in large part funded by a governmental branch that contains a member of my own family who has, ostensibly, my best wishes at heart and an unfortunate proclivity for interfering in my affairs.

Newton, to Hermann:

You’re going to have to parse this whole thing with your father and your department a little bit further for me because it’s extremely interesting and I am tempted to say all sorts of things that I will not actually say at this point, unenlightened as I am regarding the context into which all of this is taking place. I will say that this makes so much sense to me, and I will guess that you thought you might be able to tap into your department’s discretionary funding and circumvent a doomed grant proposal that no one will put their name on with you because of fear of political reprisal? From your father, no less? That sounds terrifying. That sounds like a really difficult position. That sounds like a total mess. That sounds like a thing that’s not your fault. (...) Experimental test pilot. Experimental test pilot? Do you realize—like, I seriously have the urge to yell in your face: ‘do you understand how dangerous that is?’ But I’m assuming you’ve heard this multiple times so I won’t do it. It’s hard for me. I’m always dispensing unnecessary life advice to graduate students. I will suppress the urge. This career option, aside from being ridiculously lethal also has a streak of badassery the width of a light year? I feel like I’m having a hard time putting together a complete picture that encompasses you, Thucydides, your uber-suave quantum field theorizing, and the experimental test pilot thing; who are you even? I don’t understand how you can get more interesting all the time; you’ll have to tell me how to do that; I, like almost all humans, definitely become less interesting with time; literally everyone agrees. Your mystique trajectory is skyrocketing. All this commentary probably seems wildly insensitive given the outcome of your initial career plans. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry that you had some kind of physical limitation placed on your personal/professional goals; that is the worst, that is so unfair, that should not be allowed, I hate being trapped by my genes on the level of the individual, the group, the society, the species. It’s such a striking biological insult; that locking of the conscious mind to a transient arrangement of carbon. Striking like a work of art, striking like a slap in the face. Like getting turned into sea foam as a consolation prize in the original version of The Little Mermaid. I can empathize. I can sympathize. I can feel your position at least a little bit. [Explanatory aside: my stupid brain has the habit of locking me into certain psychological states that may or may not be professionally and personally advantageous.] No one wants details, but gestalts are always pretty, with that smooth slide of a generalized edge; so, in that vein, sorry about the epic suckage of life, man; I resonate right on that frequency, I really do.

Out of Many Scattered Things by cleanwhiteroom

[martyrbat]

detective comics #484

[ID: college aged Dick Grayson, in his Robin costume, talking to Mr. Haly (the circus owner) after preventing a tragedy from occuring. Dick worriedly asks, “But what will you do now, Mr. Haly? With the damage caused by the fire you might have to sell out...” Mr. Haly reassures, “No, my boy, because for years I've been recoevin these checks — anonymously! Thanks to them, the Haly Circus will remain in my control!” He shows Dick the check, who instantly recognizes it! He thinks, ‘Hmmmm, that check comes from a bank where a certain Bruce (Batman) Wayne is a heavy depositor... What do you know!’ He tells Haly, “Well, you're still on top, Mr. Haly — and I have places to go!” END ID]

[catastrxblues]

—

[g0dtier]

my cat as i make my way through a narrow corridor at the end of which sits a wizard holding the map to the fountain of youth, 10 milion pounds of kibble and the remote to deactive the saw trap threatening to blow up this entire fucking pocket dimension: omg thats crazy girl fr fr whats that right in front of your feet tho. i need to see it. please holy shit can you hear me ma'am i need to inspect your toes

[hollow-vok]

Ohh im obssesed

[akkivee]

i have missed them so much lmao

[theboost]

All of the rocky movies are on Netflix so I’ve been skim watching them and I truly think the greatest flaw of the character rocky balboa is not taking his brother in law out back with a baseball bat and beating him with it until something turned into pulp

[jzixuans]

if i had a nickel. for every yellow character ive loved who died because an undead superhuman punched clean through their body and it made me cry like a fucking baby on the couch in my living room. i’d have two nickels which isn’t a lot but this cannot keep fucking happening.