#the internet is NO HELP THESE DAYS

[provincial-charmer]

As Boundless As The Sea

We'll be posting this in order directly from my AO3, so the first two chapters, then updating as more is added, so...

Fandom: Pirates of the Caribbean

When This Takes Place: After On Stranger Tides, but in the year 1742, due to the fact I really just couldn't stand how many time skips there were and wanted to just keep At World's End 10 year time-skip. There's another reason, but shh...

Rated: This chapter is E for Everyone, as it mostly sets the scene, but later chapters might not be! No warnings for this chapter, either!

Fic Summary: Marco Montero has, for the most part, lived a quiet life. Raised on a family fortune built by academia, he was sent many years ago to Venice, Italy in order to pursue the career of his dreams. However, these dreams would never come to fruition, as the death of his father would suddenly send him back home to Cádiz, Spain, in order to claim what remained of his family inheritance.

What a pity that inheritance also included a steep debt to the Spanish Royal Navy. Eighteen years later, it seemed to get no smaller, and Marco’s threadbare patience only grew thinner with time. That is, until one fateful day, when the work that nearly killed him brought him a strange map...

Chapter One: The Sun Rises Regardless

In which we are introduced to our protagonist, his daughter, his neighbors, and his schedule on his days off.

30th of November of 1742  Today, I dreamt of a storm. A storm too terrible to be natural, one that tossed rugged waves over the deck of the ship as sailors struggled to keep her afloat. The wind threatened to rip her sails apart. The water threatened to sweep her crew away. The only light that reached us came with the clash of lightning, which danced around us in flashes of blue and white.  I know not what I was doing aboard. Was I part of the crew, or an unwitting passenger? Was I a body, there to withstand punishment, or merely a ghost, only there to bear witness?  It didn’t matter. Whatever I was, I wasn’t staying there. With another crashing wave, a young man near me was swept off of his feet and over the side of the ship. The lightning showed me his face for only a moment.  He wasn’t much older than my daughter. His eyes were full of fear. I briefly imagined the grief of his mother, learning she would never see her little one again, his body lost to the unforgiving sea. To lose a man’s body at sea is to be expected, but to lose a child…  I couldn’t bear the thought. I dove after him.   It was strange, I thought, that I could see the storm better in the water than on the ship. However, I had neither the time nor the mind to question the reason behind it. My focus was on saving my fellow sailor. Luckily for me, he had not drifted far. His body, so light and so fragile, had been swept below the waves.  He lingered there, motionless. It wouldn’t be long before he drowned.  Quickly I swam down to him. I did my best to wrestle against the ocean’s conflicting currents, but she was a relentless beast, refusing to give way. However, I was equally stubborn, and so with unending determination, I made my way down.   But then, I saw something else. As I took hold of him, as I drew him under my arm, the lightning flashed again. And in the light that flashed through the dark ocean, I saw another face, looking up to me from deeper down. It was the face of a young man. One that was younger than me by many years, with long, dark hair tucked under a bandana, and sweet, sorrowful eyes.  Eyes that were open. Eyes that watched me. Eyes that were accompanied by other eyes, belonging to other faces in the deep.  I was staring at another crew, at another captain, on another ship. A ship that looked as if it sailed under the sea itself.  And then I woke up.

 As I laid my pen down, I turned to look out the window. Had the weather been warmer, I would have blamed the sun for my nightmare. I had forgotten to draw the curtains shut before retiring the previous evening, so it would not have been difficult for the radiant sunlight to disturb my slumber. Unfortunately, that was not the case, as the sunlight this morning had been far more welcoming against the cold.

 I was certain that whatever had troubled my sleep, I only had myself to blame. I couldn’t cast ill blame on the sun. I usually loved waking up to the sun on my face, whether I was watching it through my window or basking in it on my morning walks.

 Of course, that was on the days when I awoke at such hours by choice. This was not one of those days.

 But then there came a knock at my door. One that I knew by heart. As soon as I heard it, all ill thoughts fell away from my mind.

 “Papá?” That darling little voice called to me, “Papá, are you awake yet? I have breakfast!”

 I smiled. “I am now! Come in!”

 The door carefully creaked open, and in walked Perlita. Perlita was my daughter. Oh, she was just the sweetest little thing, with her strawberry blonde hair cut in short waves, her dark brown eyes shining, and her little blue dress bouncing with each happy step. She was planted on my doorstep around sixteen years ago by a late friend of mine, with only a note with her birth name - Toireasa - and a plea to care for her. How could I refuse?

 “Took you long enough!” She teased. “I was afraid you would sleep through the entire morning!”

 “Part of me wishes that I did!” I responded in earnest. Certainly, it would have taken precious time out of my day. But my sleep might have been more peaceful. “But the sun seemed to think that I had slept for long enough. I had a nightmare.”

 She paused as she was setting down the tray. “Oh, you did? What was it about?”

 “The ship in the storm.”

 “… Again?”

 “Again.”

 Perlita sighed. We were quite used to this. The same subject would repeat for some days, if not weeks, and then stop. Then I would have new, unique dreams until another recurrence happened. She was always very sympathetic. I was just glad that she never had to deal with them, for they sometimes granted me some truly cursed visions.

 “That’s the second time you’ve dreamt of that.” She went on to say. “I hope it doesn’t happen again. I can’t imagine what it could mean.”

 “I think it means I need to stop drinking cocoa before bed.” I set one hand on her shoulder to reassure her, “I'm certain it won’t happen again.”

 She frowned in a way that left me uncertain as to whether I had truly convinced her, but regardless, she dropped the subject, instead focusing on serving breakfast. She had always been like this. Worrying over her old man day and night. I was often endeared by it, in spite of how silly it felt at times. I was supposed to be taking care of her, after all!

 But then, some part of me couldn’t help but feel bad. Would she worry over me nearly as much if I could take better care of us? If I didn’t have to worry about paying off the Navy, what kind of life would we have? I thought I knew what hers might have been like – all the time in the world to talk to her friends, to learn medicine, to enjoy herself without judgement for who she was.

 So what would my life be like? If my father hadn’t fallen on that expedition, if I hadn’t been saddled with this debt, what would I be doing with my time?

 I didn’t know. All I knew was that the more I thought about it, the worse it would make me feel. So I pushed it aside. I had to focus on the life we had. Where we were, there and then.

 And I had places to be.

 Before I continue, allow me the courtesy of an introduction. I am Marco Montero, the last son of Lazzaro and Diamante Montero. At the time, I had spent eighteen long, loathsome years as a translator for the Spanish Royal Navy, with only occasional commission work for other customers. What free time I had was spent helping Perlita read, translating personal subjects in my study, or sitting at one of the local taverns at the docks to watch the world go by. Outside of that, I had very little else on my schedule.

 Now, my usual morning routine went as follows: I would wake up, grab a cup of coffee or cocoa, then head out on an early morning stroll. I would walk all throughout the quiet streets to the port, find my usual spot to rest, and watch the sun rise. I would greet whoever might acknowledge me in passing. Then, once the sun had risen fully from the gentle embrace of the sea, if I had nowhere else to be, I would walk back home and get to work.

 I had no such work that day. No one had commissioned me in some time, and the Navy had not bothered me for work for several weeks. So I was left with what I hoped was a significant amount of free time. Once I had gotten dressed, I took my cup of coffee, thanked Perlita for cooking with a kiss on her head, retrieved Orfeo from his cage, and headed down to the docks.

 Ah, that’s right!

 Orfeo!

 I haven’t introduced him yet!

 Orfeo was the family pet. A Macaw of proud stature who had been with the family for nearly twelve years at the time. He was a big bird, with feathers the color of sapphire, tall enough to stare down small children and playful enough to pull at their hair. But we taught him how to act and how to talk, so that he would behave himself in such situations. He only pulled on someone’s hair if they upset him, or if we gave him the secret signal to be a little troublemaker. And when he behaved well enough, we would reward him with treats. 

 He loved plátanos and mangos best.

 As I removed him from his enclosure for our morning routine, he greeted me as he always did, with a facsimile of Perlita’s voice. “¡Buenos días papá!”

 “Ah, buenos días, Orfeo! How did you sleep?”

 “How did you sleep?”

 I laughed. He was imitating me now. “No, no, I asked you first! How did you sleep, Orfeo?”

 He would do this sometimes, making circles out of conversations. But I was patient. I had to give him the chance to properly respond. He would know what I meant after a few rounds.

 Eventually, after some thoughtful bounces on his part, he finally gave me a different answer. “Like a baby! ”

 “Good boy!” I responded, holding out a small plátano piece for him. He took it with his beak so carefully, it was as if he was handling glass.

 I always tried to tell people he was smarter than he seemed. Sometimes, he would hold entire conversations with himself, in absence of me or my little pearl! I’ve caught him doing it! Sometimes, he would even come up with responses to conversations that I never taught him! Yes, surely he copied them from others, but the fact still remains that he learned to apply it!

 And yet our neighbors were insistent that he was nothing more than some “dumb tropical bird.”

 Pah!

 I took him with me on my morning walk, as I always did when the weather was fair enough for him. And it was off to the docks we went!

 The docks were easily one of my favorite parts of Cádiz. Second only to the beaches and bakeries, of course. Ever since I was little, I loved heading out at the earliest hours I could, just so I could watch them come to life. I watched the sails of returning ships billow in the breeze before they were doused, as men on the docks and on the boats prepared for the arrival of the other, voices calling out to one another, like seagulls coming home.

 They were always glad to see the land, too. There was never a sailor who came back who didn’t share some look of relief at the sight of the pier, or show a big smile when he undoubtedly saw someone he recognized waiting for him, to be answered with a cry of joy in return. For I watched as loved ones came out bright and early to see their ships return, tying their hair up as nicely as they could with pretty little ribbons of all colors, waving favors and hands to greet their jolly sailors.

 Today, a ship of particular pride was brought to port. Yes, new ships were always a sight,  but this one in particular was truly a sight to behold. One that caught my eyes as well as the eyes of any dock workers awake at that hour.

 The Pride of Venus.

 She was a ship of the line, and a fine example of her craft. No other ship present could compare. Elegant and lethal, she was fully rigged with three masts, three decks full of cannons, and three emblems of the Spanish Royal Navy hand-sewn upon her sails, with details of doves and dolphins on display anywhere they could be painted or carved. Her figurehead itself represented Venus in all her glory, rising from the waves with her arms outstretched in invitation. The sunlight warmed her painted skin so much, she looked like she was just as real as I was from a distance.

 She was a treasured gift to King Philip V from King Louis XV. Any Spaniard would have been proud to sail under her banner, making their way in the world with such beauty beneath them.

 I would have been proud of her too, if only she didn’t serve the Navy. But I could admire her fine craftsmanship without thinking of the blood she was stained with. The art of creating such beautiful vessels was slowly but surely falling out of public practice. Newer ships were being made with more cannons, more masts, and sleeker, simpler shapes, leaving little room for expressions of art such as this.

 It was such a shame. It was far easier to identify ships and their captains from afar when their ships were just as unique as they were. If they all started to look alike, I was afraid I wouldn’t enjoy watching them anymore. And one day, The Pride of Venus would fall out of my sight forever, into the endless blue sea.

 My only hope was that, perhaps if such creatures as merfolk existed, then they would appreciate such ships as her more than we ever could. That perhaps the fish in the sea would make a good home from her bones.

 Still, I could appreciate her while she stood. So I did. I slowly whittled away at my coffee, getting lost in dreamy ideas as to her adventures overseas while the world came to life around her. Dock workers helped tie her and other vessels down, while their crews filed out of their ships in orderly lines. The sailors maintained their professional airs while their captains addressed them, but once they were dismissed, they turned from men into boys once again. Those that had loved ones to reunite with did, running to them with much excitement, to be greeted with excitement in kind by those they left ashore.

 Some of them were taken into open arms, while others had their weary faces cradled in the hands of their other halves. A lucky few were painted in kisses from sweethearts that clearly missed them just as much, leaving colorful marks of affection wherever they could.

 I did my best to ignore that. Instead, I drank in the warmth of the sun, the songs of the gulls, and the smell of the sea, along with my coffee. Once my cup was empty, I wiped it clean, stowed it, and moved on.

 My next stop was the book store. Carrasco’s Book Shop, to be precise. Pearce was an old business associate of mine, having worked with my father long ago. Whenever I needed new paper, or was interested in the newest book release, he was the man I went to.

 Orfeo couldn’t come inside. This was due to a no-pets policy on Pearce’s part. An understandable rule, given the destruction any untrained animal could inflict upon those old bookshelves. Even my lovely bird was no exception, with beaks and talons that could make bedding out of any book’s pages. At my command, Orfeo flew up atop the sign for the shop and stayed there, well out of the reach of any would-be thieves. He was a very valuable bird, after all. Very pretty and bright.

 The bell above the door announced my arrival, prompting a look from Pearce behind the counter. He was a lean old man, as lithe and lax as an old cat, with just as fine of a face. What few scars he bore at his neck and arms told of his old life at sea, the life he said he had left behind for the comfort of the shore. He seemed to be finishing setting up shop for the morning, as I could see him putting a few things beneath the counter when I arrived. When he saw me, he smiled.

 “Good morning, Marco!” He greeted me, with a voice that creaked softly. “Normally you’re here before I’m open! Is it safe to assume that you slept in?”

 “Yes, sir,” I responded with a smile of my own, “but certainly not by choice.”

 “Is it ever by choice?” Said he. It was a tease, we both knew, so we shared a chuckle at the idea. Once he was finished putting things away, he then told me, “Your order arrived just this morning! If you’ll allow me to fetch it for you…”

 “Of course, sir! Take your time!”

 And so he disappeared into a room behind the counter, well out of sight. While I waited, I looked around. Hand-painted scenes on the wall depicted all kinds of adventurous moments, from a meeting of politicians to a crew of sailors heading out to sea. A fisherman had caught a mermaid on his line above one shelf, while another showed a procession of fairies walking through the woods, to the amazement of the children looking on from the bushes. Opposite of the sailors, a crew of pirates were burying their treasure, with their captain hiding a pistol behind his back.

 They had not been repainted in some time, so all their colors were worn. But in my mind, they were as bright as they were when I first walked into the shop, back when I was just a child. My father would happily chatter with Pearce while I looked through the shelves, only to stare at me in shock at the tower of books I came out with. My appetite for knowledge was insatiable.

 It still was. I just didn’t have as much desire to read as I used to. And most of it I had already read through countless times. I didn’t pick up too many books these days.

 “Here you are,” Pearce said as he came out, holding a wooden crate of fair size, “all blank pages, as requested! I have the paper for you to sign here…”

 I watched as he set the crate on the counter, waiting until he had fully released it before going to inspect it for damages. Sometimes, my shipments from overseas came in less… desirable condition. So it was always good to check.

 The crate itself looked to be intact, save for some residual dampness from the rain the night before. Upon prying the lid off, however, I was relieved to find all the paper inside to be completely untouched. Dry as sand, even. Perfect!

 He handed me the papers to confirm I had received my package, and I took them, and the quill, quite happily… only to stop.

 The name on the shipping order wasn’t mine.

 Instead of Marco Montero, it was addressed to Lazzaro Montero.

 My father.

 This happened sometimes. Mail for our house would come in with my father’s name, even though he had been dead for many years. It had been so long, in fact, that I had made the mistake of assuming these kinds of things would eventually stop.

 I was wrong. As usual.

 “... Marco?”

 I glanced up to Pearce.

 “Is everything alright?” He asked me. His oak-brown eyes were alight with concern behind his eyeglasses. “Is anything damaged?”

 “Oh, no,” I reassured him, “not at all! In fact, it’s all in remarkably good condition! It’s just… they put my father’s name on it again. See?”

 I showed him the paper, taking care to point out where his name was. Upon seeing it, his expression fell only further. “Oh, Marco, I’m so sorry… You would think they would learn to fix that by now!”

 “You would think… ”

 Regardless, I signed the paper with my name. When I handed the paper and quill back, Pearce reassured me, “I’ll correct them as soon as I’m able. This can not keep happening, it’s incredibly unprofessional…”

 He didn’t need to. Not because nothing would change, but because it didn’t bother me as much as it used to. It was just one small thing. An ant hill in a mountain of other, far more worrisome things. That, and I confess, I did still miss him. Sometimes, it was nice to think that perhaps that name wasn’t a mistake, and I would see him again when I went home.

 I would. But never in the flesh. I had long since accepted that.

 Holding the crate under one arm, I made my way to my next destination: a bakery. It was only a wooden crate full of parcels of paper, so it was no trouble for me to carry on my walk, even with Orfeo having returned to my shoulder. I walked slowly through the streets, letting the smell of firing ovens and baking bread delight my senses. If the coffee didn’t wake me up, this smell always would, without failure.

 I was most loyal to one bakery in particular. I could partake of the others whenever I liked, but my most devoted business was reserved for the Belmonte Family Bakery. It belonged to one of my dearest friends, Isabela.

 Isabela wasn’t the easiest friend to make, mind you. She was hard to crack open, with a harsh temper. To me, she was like one of those German nutcrackers, with a bite that could break bone and a stiff spine that no man could bend. In spite of it all, I knew that beneath that harsh exterior was a good heart. I wouldn’t hear anyone say otherwise.

 She was already dealing with a customer when I came in, so her greeting to me was brief. “Morning, búho!”

 “Morning, burra!”

 She finished packing up a loaf of bread for a young man she was dealing with, then spotted the crate under my arm and stopped. She tilted her head and frowned, a crooked frown that favored the right side of her face more than her left.

 “That’s funny, I don’t recall ordering any books.”

 “Ah, that’s because you didn’t. This order is mine. ”

 “So what are you doing bringing it into my shop, then?” She asked.

 I teased her and replied, “I figured you could use kindling for your oven. I don’t see any devils flying about to keep it alight, so I must assume you’re actually using your firewood, in which case you must be struggling.”

 She laughed. It was a loud sound, and a lovely one at that. “Ah, so you’ve noticed! Give it an hour or two, then you’ll see them, don’t you worry!”

 Once she had sent her customer on his merry way, she turned fully to me. She leaned against the counter with one arm as she asked, “Now, what do you need?”

 “I was wondering what your recommendation would be for us today.” I then told her, smiling. “I’m thinking Perlita and I could try something new!”

 Her proud brow-line lifted slowly. “New? You? Ha!” She scoffed loudly at this. “The day you try something new is the day Hell freezes over!”

 “Ah, but you were married to the Devil once,” I teased, “so you would know if Hell was cold today, wouldn’t you?”

 This got a good, long laugh out of her. This was because her former husband was a terrible, terrible man. One with a hard-earned reputation for putting past wives in the ground. He died several years ago, having apparently choked on his dinner.

 She insisted she had nothing to do with it. I pretended to believe her.

 When she could eventually speak again, she said to me, “Well, he was always complaining about having me around, so I figured I would give him some space. But the next time I go down to see him, I’ll check on him, just for you~”

 She then gestured for me to set my belongings aside with a wave of her hand, so while she perused what she had on display, I set the crate on the part of the counter farthest away from her work space.

 As I stood there waiting, I took the time to enjoy the atmosphere of the room. There was some comfort to be found in roasting wheat, in the smell of toasting almonds and slightly burned sugar. Isabela’s cooking always felt comforting. For all how harsh her exterior was, one could taste the truth in her mazapán, delicate and sweet. One could feel her comfort in the warmth of her bread, and find her kindness in the quiet tang of her mantecados.  

 But it wasn’t mantecados she brought me, or mazapán. Instead, what she brought up was a small woven basket, full of sugar-dusted pastries cut into familiar, fluffy squares. I would recognize them anywhere. My mother baked them every so often for my father when we were small.

 Beignets.

 My familiarity must have been obvious, for her typical biting commentary came more softly than before. “It’s been a while since you’ve had these, right?” She asked. “The man who ordered these threw me a fit, so he didn’t get them. I don’t know if you still like them or not, but…”

 Looking over to her, I only said this: “If ever I were to fall out of love with beignets, then I would no longer be myself. How much do you want?”

 “Don’t bother.” She slid the basket over to me. “It’s on the house.”

 Now, I hated to leave anyone unpaid for their services, and she knew this. But when I tried to object, as she no doubt knew I would have, she only snapped her fingers at me. “And you’re going to take it, or it’s going on the house, got it?”

 “But– you could still sell it to me–”

 “I’m not selling anything that isn’t hot and fresh.” She rolled her eyes and huffed. “ Please. At least I know you’ll eat them. Now take them and go, before another customer sees.”

 So I looped the basket over one of my arms, took up my shipment, and did just that. If Perlita somehow didn’t appreciate the treat, I knew that I would.

 Perlita was already gone by the time I had returned. She was apprenticed to Dr. De la Fuente, and so spent much of her afternoons with him, learning what she could on medicine and the human body. He was the only one willing to teach her, as no one else took her seriously when she told them she wanted to be a doctor.

 This was alright with me. I knew she would be safe there. And it gave me plenty of time to myself. I set all of my things aside, set the basket of beignets on the coffee table, then took my shipment of paper upstairs to my office. But not before putting Orfeo away.

 Once I was inside, I got to work sorting out my shipment. The parcels were sorted onto my paper shelf one by one, nestled in neat and orderly fashion with the rest of the blank paper I had. It kept them cleaner to leave them in their parcels, rather than removing them. Especially with a pet like Orfeo. As well as he behaved, he still could make a mess if I wasn’t careful!

 That, and my office didn’t have that much space. Compared to my bedchambers, it was much smaller, with only enough space for my writing desk, my work table for book binding, and some bookshelves for storage. The window to the room also wasn’t as big. My father’s personal study back at our old home was much larger, with more breathing room, more books, more seating…

 This office felt more fitting for a mouse. I could scarcely be satisfied with my sorting, when I didn’t have much room to store the new paper in the first place. This was the other reason they stayed in their parcels.

 Not wanting to get lost in my thoughts, I went back downstairs for the beignets. With no commission work currently available, no tasks from the Navy, and Perlita gone from the house, I was hoping to finally be able to relax. So I took a beignet for myself, seated myself in the nicest armchair in the reception room, and was just getting ready to take my first bite… when I heard it.

 A knock at the front door.

 This knock was also familiar to me. However, unlike Perlita’s knock, this was a knock I never looked forward to answering. Also unlike Perlita’s knock, this was a knock that I couldn’t turn down. With a great sigh, I rose from the chair I had just seated myself in. I took a bite of my beignet to comfort myself, then came to answer the door.

 When the door opened, I was greeted with a charming smile. One filled cheek to cheek with wolf’s teeth.

 For my own well-being, I chose to be polite. So I answered his smile with one of my own.

 “Ah. Good morning, Captain Gutiérrez.”

[starry-bi-sky]

yall ever think Shen Yuan went through like, internet withdrawal after being transmigrated into Shen Qingqiu? Like, he's canonically a NEET shut-in who did nothing but spend his time online, you can't tell me that for the first week or first few weeks of being SQQ he wasn't twitchy.

Like, reaching instinctively to his pockets for a phone that wasn't there, having an obsessive itch in the back of his mind that he should check and see if X or Y novel or webcomic has updated -- only to realize he can't anymore and being irritated by it. Wanting to go and see if there's new posts about this or that, but again realizing that he can't.

When he's bored or uncomfortable or just feels like wanting to escape he tries to go for his phone to distract himself, but oops! Not there anymore, and now he has to find a new and different way to distract himself from his feelings. And going through system notifications, quests, etc only does so much.

And there's that Tetris Effect too. SQQ makes a mistake while writing and instinctively goes to backspace on it except hey-ho that's not a keyboard and now he just dipped his pinkie into a bottle of ink or on a still-drying letter.

With him scrambling to fix his reputation and learn how to be a peak lord, I think his abrupt cold-turkey from all things internet would just be another straw on the camel's back that he promptly Ignores until it goes away on its own after he acclimates to his new surroundings.

[rubydubsnuby]

More of this

[freaky-wasatch-range]

"mormonism is american exceptionalism" has gotta be my least favorite anti-mormon take out there like you could talk about literally anything and THAT'S what you're going with????????? like you can talk about our weird relationship with manifest destiny and colonisation (extremely valid talking points!!!!!!) but to act like some kind of specific allegiance to the united states as an institution is inherent to our doctrine is so..... silence......

[rosieofcorona]

coping w/ my own trespasser replay like:

[milkandbrownies33]

he kills people? CRINGEEE3E EWW EWW DIE ISJEBSFAHBEXLOPLDENOW!!

[hplonesomeart]

Hehe this man is broken and severely emotionally distressed. Silly lovable guy but given self esteem issues because of the crushing weight of perfectionism. Not so funny if you think about it too long. But at least on the upside he cries pretty :))

No but seriously for all those who relate to Mr. Puzzles just want you to know your accomplishments alone do not define your value and worth as a person. Even when you’re a messy work in progress, you are loved and appreciated more than you may recognize. Thank you for being here. Don’t get me wrong it’s good to be idealistic and set goals, but don’t undermine yourself if you don’t get that perfect score….or if you start to fall behind compared to everyone else. Everyone goes through those moments of doubt or perceived failure. We need to fail every once in a while. And that’s okay

…a-anyways funny goofy dramatic TV guy we love him so much so silly so slay he lives in my head rent free yipeee. This animation is dedicated to him because if anyone in the cast deserved a feature length film it was definitely him, and he sure took up the spotlight in Puzzlevison and absolutely owned it. I’m excited for his future endeavors ✨

[sophsicle]

I AM A GROWN ADULT

[marlynnofmany]

My browser just updated without telling me. It's a tiny change, and I'm sure it'll even be useful, but still my automatic reaction is

Complaining about this on Tumblr seems like the correct response.

[autisticrosewilson]

So sick and tired of you bitches saying that Jason possibly being assaulted WHICH HAS BEEN IMPLIED MULTIPLE TIMES BOTH WHEN HE WAS ROBIN AND IN MODERN COMICS (not the Talia thing that was bullshit) WAS STOLEN FROM MIA!! DO YOU GUYS THINK THAT MIA IS THE ONLY CHARACTER EVER WHO HAS EVER HAD THIS SPECIFIC TRAUMA START BEING SERIOUS RN

[hawnks]

Logging out for a while, love you miss you <3

[thedoctor38927]

FUCK TRUMP AND FUCK YOU FOR VOTING FOR HIM

[box-is-real]

i have some closeted friends online, and one of them just had something bad happen (not going into any specifics at all because of privacy) but like... THAT is why KOSA scares me. how are they supposed to get help? how are they supposed to feel safe ever? if the government can so blatantly try and censor LGBTQ+ identities, and neurodivergent people, and FUCKING GENOCIDE what's next?

and i don't really have to be scared like others. even though i am neurodivergent, it is not super severe, and i am cis straight white dude, i have life on easy mode. i hate when people have to hide and i want to help but i can't. i can't even hug them. the closest i can get is typing on my screen and hoping it reaches them safely and that they haven't died.

im not scared of KOSA because of what it would do to me, but because of what it will do to my friends, and people who are suffering like my friends, and people who are suffering in ways i can't begin to fathom. it's a very hard feeling to describe.

now the government wants to take that link away from me, from my friends who supported me in my times of need, and, hopefully, who i supported well too. it is a feeling of desperation and depression and anger.

im really just typing at this point, and im probably not making a whole lot of sense, but it basically boils down to this, and im directing this at YOU Senators and Representatives of the U.S.A:

Stop KOSA, keep our friendships intact, and ACTUALLY do something to protect kids you fucking inept dumbasses.

sincerely, a minor KOSA will not be protecting.

[artfartt]

[blackknight-100]

The downside of trying to write fics about Post-Python Apollo in exile is that he needs to move. Because he tours all of Ancient Greece. And Ancient Greece is A Mess ™️.

I'm not joking when I say that well labelled Myceanean maps have been a nightmare to find. Add that to the dynamic mythological timeline and the many, many small clashes/battles and it's impossible to work anything out.

Like no seriously, how far is the Vale of Tempe from Central Thessaly? Is Thessaly united or is it broken into small kingdoms and principalities?Can a merchant cart pass from Thessaly to Smyrna via Tempe? Is that a viable economic route? How do I even find that out, I suck at both history and geography. At this point I'm half tempted to just make him hunker down in one place and only shift for the Branchus kiss.

[quins-makeshift-menagerie]

You know. I’ve been debating this for weeks now but I’m kind of upset with your decision to have a baby. You were one of my favorite Mewtwo artist but now it feels like you’re just throwing your fans to the side like we’re trash. Don’t we matter to you at all? We’re the reason you can even make anything on Patreon but now you’re going to leave us with an unfinished story? Way to make us fee appreciated and loved…

Anon do you like

Need a hug??? /gen