#this was supposed to be short whoops

[chasingwhitebunnies]

Headcanon that Merlin keeps notebooks and writes down everything - everything - he wants to show and tell Arthur whenever he comes back

It starts off as a project. He writes down important moments, things he knows he will have to inform Arthur of if when he comes back, but one day, Gwen tells him a joke and he can’t help thinking it would have made Arthur laugh. It was a bittersweet realisation, so he wrote it down to share with Arthur whenever he saw him

Slowly, more jokes were added, and anecdotes, books he wanted to tell him about, plays and music he was sure Arthur would enjoy, and eventually films and shows

Sometimes, he writes when he particularly misses him

He keeps these notebooks on a large secondhand bookshelf, and tries to keep them in chronological order, although the earlier ones aren’t in the best condition after a thousand or so years, but he’s enchanted them to stay legible

It becomes a habit. He decides, subconsciously and superstitiously, that once he has filled the bookshelf, Arthur will return. Merlin does, and Arthur doesn’t. He buys a second bookshelf, and then a third

Finally, Arthur is back and Merlin excitedly showing him his collection and telling him there’s so much he has to share. Arthur is amazed, “you wrote all of this for me?”

Merlin realises suddenly how overwhelming it must seem. “It made it easier, not being able to share all these moments with you. It felt like I was sharing them with you in a way. It was like I was writing you a letter.” He shakes his head. “But you’re here now, it’s silly! You don’t have to read them at all. I can go over them and pick out the important parts, the things you’ll need to know and—”

Arthur stops him. They go through each book together. Merlin hadn’t realised how many good moments he had forgotten over time, and he gets to relive them with Arthur at his side, both chuckling along as Arthur asks questions, “you did what?”

They aren’t all nice stories. Merlin winces as they get to the wars. Arthur holds his hand as he recounts each loss of a friend, and Arthur hates to see Merlin grieve, but he’s glad that he made friends throughout his life because he couldn’t bear the thought of Merlin being entirely alone while he waited for him

But even if he wasn’t always alone, he was lonely. The notebooks proved as much, and sometimes Merlin still panicked if he woke up and Arthur wasn’t close. Eventually, Arthur slid into Merlin’s bed beside him, only to keep him calm. It was the best Merlin had slept since- well, he couldn’t remember

Sometimes one of them would wake up with nightmares of the wars and battles and deaths and wounds, and the other would hold them until they fell back to sleep. Merlin kissed Arthur’s forehead one night without meaning to and froze, but Arthur had only burrowed deeper and fallen asleep with a soft smile

“So that was the last book,” said Arthur as Merlin finished the final page

“Yes, I wrote that the night before you came back,” said Merlin

“I’m all caught up,” said Arthur. “There’s nothing more to say.”

“No, no more to say,” Merlin agreed absentmindedly

A silence fell over them. Who moved first, it was impossible to tell, as if they had both decided in the exact same moment that it had to be now, and they kissed, pulling each other close

“I love you,” said Merlin once they eventually parted

“I got that,” said Arthur, gesturing to the pile of notebooks surrounding them. “The longest love letter in history,” Merlin laughed before Arthur added, “I love you, too”

Edit to add: the last show Merlin wrote that they watched together was Heartstopper, thanks

[ouroperation]

saw a tumblr post just now about it and it's making me think,,

miguel o'hara and second chances

when miguel mentioned that he 'mouths off' his coworkers it wasn't just little remarks here and there. he would sometimes lay into his colleagues and not stop. he'd call them moronic or stupid — sometimes ugly or unattractive. he was an asshole and nearly all of his coworkers hated him (or simply disliked him) as a result. whether this was a front or façade or really a direct product of tyler stone's grooming and manipulation, it was never really explained. perhaps stone had 'reared' him up to act like that — to not ask for respect and just take it — and miguel was unable to deject his words. maybe miguel had subconsciously thought that if he was good enough at being a prick, stone would favour him more and continue praising him for his work.

either way, i wholly believe that his venomous tongue was not a true reflection of who miguel really was before the mutation. he was groomed and manipulated and was often a victim of racism. even if it was in the form of micro-aggressions, which are frequently overlooked, but one of the most common type that he experiences (i.e. being called mike instead of miguel no matter how many times he corrects the person). he's never had a single positive adult role model to look up to and learn from. george was abusive and, frankly, racist. conchata was absent and derisive. tyler solely wanted him for his intelligence and cared not for who miguel actually was but instead of how much use he could be. the two men practically took advantage of his precocious abilities and in turn had his entire life set out before he even became a pre-teen. his step-father and biological father exploited and took advantage of him and who miguel was before the mutation was the direct result. they'd dug the hole and thrown him in it.

this is why the ideologies of 'second chances' and 'being reborn' is such a crucial part of his story of becoming spider-man. his demeaning behaviour and egotistical inclinations (toward coworkers like aaron delgato) is what ultimately acts as the catalyst for his transformation. yes, he was roofied just hours before, but throughout his job at alchemax miguel wasn't a nice person. he was an asshole, simply put, and we — the readers — should believe when he admits that he is. he's not perfect, he's flawed, but he's also a symbol of second chances. he died in that machine, but he walked (or stumbled, better put) out with a new body. he was quite literally reborn. also, not to mention that his first instinct when he is shot at is not to attack but to run, and his first instinct when aaron falls is not to let him die but to try and save him. even with all the abuse — for lack of a better word — that miguel had thrown at the man while working on the raiders programme, he still rushes to try and save him. that's one of the first glimpses into who he really is as a person, down to his very morality.

returning to the theme of second chances... he does get a few of them. he becomes friends with xina again. he rebuilds his bond with gabriel. he tries to rebuild his relationship with his mother, conchata. he realises the state of the world that he's blocked out since adolescence and he attempts to help it, little by little. yes, the mutation and the process of becoming spider-man was not his choice — like how a lot of things were, ultimately, never out of his own free will. miguel didn't put on the suit because he wanted to, he put it on because he had to, but his rebirth was exactly what he needed to grow as a character. after all, the environment in which he lives in is an outward expression of him. when said environment suddenly changes, he does as well. for the first time in his life there's no path laid out before him, there's no decisions already made and directions of where to go.

for the first time in his life, miguel gets a second chance, and he takes it.

[aww-canon-no]

Let’s think about Chef Eddie who got into the hobby because his HoH boyfriend Steve has Meniere’s disease and can’t eat salt anymore so food makes him sad, and Eddie cannot stand the thought of Steve being sad.

So he spends months and months in the kitchen cooking up recipes to find ways that enhance flavors of all of Steve’s favorite food while reducing sodium so he has less dizzy days.

Steve tells everyone about how good Eddie’s cooking is, and one day after Benny’s re-opens, Steve sees a help wanted sign and he tells Eddie that while he supports however he wants to make money, he should share his talents with the rest of the world.

So Eddie goes to work there and suddenly he’s the town favorite of all the older people with blood pressure issues because they no longer have to eat flavorless mush, and Benny’s develops a whole new reputation, and all the old people around town call Eddie My Boy and That Nice Young Man instead of Freak or Murderer.

Old ladies pinch his cheeks and old men tell him to take care of that boyfriend of his because they all know what a piece of shit parents Steve comes from and how he’s always needed some TLC.

He gets random gifts like little knitted mittens and hats that he wears every winter along with his leather jacket, and Jonathon takes pics of him and Steve bundled up together in a handmade, too-long scarf with loose stitches and too many tassels.

Eddie hangs it up in the kitchen to look at whenever he’s on a double and missing Steve.

He comes home at night and finds Steve in bed all curled up under their blanket in the trailer that Eddie once thought Steve would rather be caught dead than setting foot inside.

Eddie smells like grease and bacon and liquid smoke and it’s not exactly nice, but Steve just curls into him and hums softly-a tone he can’t even really hear himself make anymore, but he knows it soothes Eddie.

And as Steve holds him he thinks about exactly what Eddie’s done for him and how much his life is different and how he no longer resembles the asshole he was in school and he can’t even imagine what it would be like to be that guy again.

He drifts off to the feeling of Eddie laying half-conscious, sweet kisses along his jaw.

[myymi]

happy holidays

[riptideac]

"all dragons are obsessed with treasure and hoard wealth" okay. fine. whatever. but have you considered that they are individuals. and they are extremely long lived if not immortal.

I propose that with all the time in the world spent hoarding that which captures their interest, dragons are very prone to developing HYPERFIXATIONS.

Hey so this was supposed to be a joke post but i blacked out and accidentally wrote a nearly 2,000 word emotional short story so uh hang in there i promise it’s worth it

================================================

A dragon takes notice that birds' wings are built differently from their own, wonders why, and spends the next millennia studying birds. Their lair is filled with colorful feathers. A region which has a known problem with trophy hunters and poachers killing exotic birds for their beautiful feathers suddenly sees a change in atmosphere when poachers who go into the woods stop coming back.

================================================

A group of adventurers are hired to confront a dragon that lives nearby a village. The dragon's presence has been known for a long time, and it has never caused issues in the past, but recently multiple farmers have reported large sections of their fields being destroyed in the night. Upon reaching the dragon's lair, they discover that the land outside its laid is filled with rows of fertile soil that look as if they have been tilled with giant claws, with sprouts and flowers growing out of them. They talk to the dragon and discover that it has recently taken up an interest in gardening. A deal is struck to provide the dragon with various plants and farming advice, granted it does not touch the village's food sources. The creature enthusiastically agrees.

================================================

A dragon who lives in the mountains is rumored to be an ancient among ancients, a million years old and more, one who has witnessed all of history with its own eyes and seen it become myth. One brave historian sets out to climb to its home with bags full of gifts in hopes of gaining the opportunity to speak with this living legend, if even only for a moment.

After a long, difficult journey, the historian finds the mouth of a grand cave buried in a crevice between two particularly craggy peaks, hidden from a casual glance by shadows and rough foliage. She creeps inside carefully, wondering if after the dozens of caves she has inspected, THIS may finally be the one she has been searching for. Glints of reflected light catch her eye - scattered around the cavern are various small piles of coins and gems. The woman's heart leaps. This is a dragon's lair!

But, hold on. There is far too little treasure here for it to truly be the home of an ancient great wyrm. Creeping deeper into the belly of the mountain, guided by sunlight filtering into the cave between the crags, she takes notice of more piles. Larger piles. But these piles are not of gold or jewels or treasure. They seem to be mountains comprised of thousands upon thousands of regular rocks. The smallest being mere pebbles, while some reached the size of her or even larger, but they were still just rocks. She hesitates for only a moment before inching towards the nearest of these mounds. The woman selects a stone, about the size of her fist and colored with bands of lighter and darker orangish tints. As she brings the stone up to her eyes, the small amount of light filtering into the space illuminates a less uniform face. Ridges twist and turn across the stone's smooth surface, forming an elegant pattern. No, not a pattern; a shape. An organic form. This stone contains the fossilized remains of some kind of rodent.

The light source which was illuminating this discovery suddenly goes out. The historian starts in surprise and twists towards the entrance. The light of the setting sun illuminates the silhouette of a winged creature in the doorway, staring directly at her with piercing eyes which seemed to breathe their own light, brighter than the sun far behind.

Dragons never stop growing. Their bodies will become larger and larger until they are one day defeated by the laws of the universe. The unknowably ancient, legendary creature standing before her, who had witnessed all of history and more, stood about eight to ten feet tall. This creature couldn't be much more than a century old, perhaps two.

The now curious historian drops to her knees and makes a display of peace. The dragon seems wary of her, but has not attacked yet; she must gain its favor to keep it that way. She proffers the gifts she had brought for the creature - gifts of treasure and knowledge and reverence - and keeps her head held down. The moments that follow stretch into an eternity. Rhythmic clicks echo throughout the expansive cave. With each step the wyrm takes, its claws scrape the ground. With her head held down, the woman struggles to contain her anxiety. A burst of warm air washes over her. Out of the peripherals of her eyes, a flash of movement. A scaled snout enters her view, covered with beautiful scales of a vibrant, shining blue, made to look green in some places by the reflected remnants of light from the setting sun. The mouth opens, revealing a sea of teeth. This is it. She has failed. She is going to be eaten.

But the mouth continues further into her view. Past her head, past her arms holding up her gift. To the ground. To the banded stone, which she had dropped at her feet in her fear. when the creature first arrived.

Gently, the opalescent beast picks up the stone, walks past her, and returns it to its place in the pile. Her stance broken, the historian watches in awe. With its back still to her, a presence pierces the woman's mind. A torrent of thoughts and feelings, images and visions pour into her, threatening to overwhelm her, before coalescing into a single, coherent voice that echoes throughout her skull.

Why have you come here?

The woman is motionless for a moment, and a moment further as she processes what just occurred. "I am a historian and researcher, from the college in the town of Arcturia, a few weeks north of here. My whole life I have heard tales of a legendary dragon, ancient beyond measure, who has witnessed history and seen it become myth. Since I was a child, I have longed to speak to this great being, to learn of what they know, to witness the wisdom of the millennia. I ask, could that story be of you?"

A low rolling noise emits from the wyrm's throat. With a shock, the woman realizes that it is reminiscent of laughter.

I knew that fool would tell others of my existence. When I was last visited by one of your kind a hundred years ago, I took something of a liking to him, and we spent some time exchanging stories. But my, it seems the stories he brought back have grown out of hand.

The great creature turned away from the pile of rocks. As it repositioned itself, the woman had to duck to avoid getting clipped by its tail, a cord of muscle and scale twenty feet long tipped by two large flaps of material similar to that which made up the dragon's wings. It swung its long neck towards her suddenly. She jumped in surprise again, but restrained herself from further reaction. For a moment, the creature regarded her, its brilliant jewels of eyes, wellsprings of deep blue mixed with tinges of green and slitted pupils which narrowed in focus. Then the creature shifted, tension gathering in its legs as its wings spread open, and jumped in a single explosive motion directly over her head. Craning her neck to follow its movement, the woman saw the gigantic wings snap downwards in one powerful stroke, and that single flap carried the creature upwards towards an outcrop of stone that overlooked the rest of the chamber, ten to fifteen feet off the ground. Landing heavily on the ledge, the dragon took a moment to align itself, then settled into a casual laying position with its front feet dangling over the ledge, its tail swaying gently in the air like the pendulum of a grandfather clock, and its head turned towards her. The creature blinked.

It's true that I know many things of many times. I have seen the distant past. I have seen things that have been and things that are, and I can guess things that may be. But the story you know of me is only a half truth. I am not ancient. I am not wise. I know much, but I have experienced little. I hatched less than two hundred years ago.

The historian attempted to calm her heart; the racing in her chest was nearly louder than the dragon's voice, and she couldn't afford to miss a single word. "Then, may I ask... how is it that you know so much? Humans tell many stories, and they are known to exaggerate, but even exaggerated stories whose truth is buried deep to have a truth. If you are so young, how do you know the past?"

The dragon's neck swung in an arc away from her, breaking eye contact. It turned to survey the inside of the cavern, casting its eye over the many piles of seemingly unremarkable rocks that filled it. You seem intelligent, as humans go. I believe you know that answer.

The woman turned her head towards the pile she had been inspecting before the creature's arrival. Her eyes caught the same stone she had picked up minutes before, placed carefully back onto the pile by its owner. A thought crossed her mind.

Her eyes darted throughout the chamber, to pile after pile. It was difficult to make out at a glance, but she began to notice them. They were everywhere. This cave was filled with rolling dunes of perfectly preserved fossils. It was a dragon's hoard.

You humans regard us with awe and wonder. Our existence fills your storybooks. You see us as mysterious and powerful. We are powerful. But that power is indeed a mystery, even to us.

Dragon magic is ancient, tied to the world itself, tied to things that have long been forgotten. From the moment of our birth we hold a flame within us. That flame can be shaped throughout our lives, and manifest in different forms. Every dragon has the ability of flight, and every dragon develops some primal breath of the elements. But every dragon also has something more. We do not understand or control it; many dragons spend centuries without discovering theirs. But it exists in us all.

Living beings do not simply exist without consequence. They are a part of the world. A part of our universe. And a part of time. Though they themselves are often not aware of it, they remember. No matter how much time passes, the imprint of a soul left behind when it dies will remember what it used to be. I do not know or understand it, but I can read these imprints. I can know them. I can see who, what, where, and when they used to be. This is how I know.

*********************

A great beast's shining eyes slowly open. The sun sets over the horizon, casting long shadows into its cave.

Slowly, the dragon stands up and straightens out. Its body stretches, its tail curls, its neck extends. It looks up to the roof of the cave, mere feet away. Straightened in this way, the creature stands over a hundred feet tall; it can hardly fit within its own home anymore.

The beast casts its gaze downwards once more. There, on the floor of the cave, sits a chunk of limestone it had brought back recently. Within the limestone, raised ridges form beautiful organic shapes of something that is not just rock.

A crystalline tear forms in the corner of the dragon's eye. the drop of water clings to its snout before breaking free, falling through the air, and finally hitting the floor of the cavern with a soft, echoing drip. The great dragon reaches down to pick up the chunk of limestone, and gently ferries it up to an outcrop of stone that overlooks the rest of the chamber. This one would not go with the rest. The stone was set down in a place of honor and importance, and the legendary dragon, ancient beyond measure, who has witnessed history and seen it become myth, let loose a roar that shook the earth and echoed across the valleys, one which was heard as far as the city of Arcturia weeks to the north, in mourning for the second human it had ever considered a friend.

[quotidianish]

do you ponder the manner of things? In the dark

the dark, the dark, the dark, the dark

[kemendin]

Eeeeee I did it I finished another BG3 fic

Not sure if it'll be posted tonight or not, but soon!

Hope you like Dhamari/Gale fluff :D

[jamiesfootball]

Please tell me more about gender flipped Jamie because that seems like So Many Thoughts that I would love to hear

I have so many thoughts and yet they are so ephemeral and unspecific and this has been languishing in my askbox and this isn't technically what you asked for but here's what I wrote instead:

Chelsea sent Roy into retirement the way you sent an aging dog to be euthanized. Slowly and gradually, an inescapable march towards a day you knew was coming. Roy's agent gently broke the news to him that they wouldn't be renewing his contract, but there was no gently breaking Roy.

The retirement itself was an underwhelming affair; he stayed numb throughout the presser, answered questions, and left the spotlight. No bang--not even a whimper.

That was months ago. Now Roy Kent, former Chelsea star, was daydrinking at a bar in Richmond at half-three in the afternoon, wondering if he could convince the matron of the house to change the fucking channel.

"Rough season our girls have had," the proprietor, Mae, explained in a tone befitting a bartender cleaning a pint. In reality, she'd joined Roy at the bar with her own glass of chardonnay. "Lot of shake ups. New owner, new gaffer. Still, it could be worse. This new coach of theirs might be from the States, but we're sitting higher up on the table than we have in years. Does your lot keep up with the Super League, then?"

It was one in a series of loaded questions. Roy couldn't imagine you could be a bartender in London without knowing who Roy Kent was. Sheer wasted optimism, he'd had, moving out of Chelsea and assuming anything short of leaving the country would get him away from the haunting specter of his own fucking jersey.

"Yeah," Roy answered reluctantly. "Yeah, some of us keep up. All the teams in the Premier have sister teams, don't we?" Except for Richmond. The one outlier--the only team in the league without a big brother to speak of.

"Mm. Then you heard about the scandal?"

Roy grunted. Of course he heard. Everyone knew about Rupert Mannion ages ago; it was about bloody time someone did something. Awful for his ex-wife that it'd fallen to her to do it.

Mae topped off his chardonnay before pouring the remainder of the bottle into her own glass. "This new gaffer though, he's one of the good ones. He hangs around here sometimes, and you can tell just by listening to him--he respects those girls."

Since retiring, Roy had gotten used to living in a fog. He spent time with his niece, met with the yoga mums, let old ladies in bars talk his ears off to their heart's content, but anything he did between those events was a drudgery--a slow painful effort to drag one foot in front of the other, metaphorically and physically.

So he couldn't have said what it was about Mae's offhand praise for the Richmond Whippet's new gaffer that rankled him into talking back.

"Is he any good though?"

"What was that?"

"Their new coach," Roy gestured with his wine glass at the television in the corner. "The American. Is he any good?"

Mae shrugged one shoulder. "He's gotten better."

"So not really then."

The look Mae gave him could've scoured paint from a wall. "Well, talent isn't everything. Is it, Mr. Kent?"

She left under the guise of check on the three men in the corner. Regulars, by the looks of it; and the three of them the only ones aside from Mae wearing supporting colors for the local team.

He hadn't watched a match in ages. Oh, he'd caught highlights--it was impossible not too--but the few times he'd tried, unfairness ballooned in his chest like an atom bomb, and he gave up.

He hadn't bothered to watch anything from the women's league either. What difference would it make to try watching a different league. Sure, he didn't know any of them the way he knew the men in the Premier League, but football was football and envy was envy.

From what little he'd seen so far, he didn't envy Richmond at all. Everton had them on the ropes.

Roy winced as Number 14 knocked one off the crossbar. It'd been a good attempt. A solid cross from Number 9 had put it in the path, but with no one else nearby she'd gone for a risky shot.

From what little he'd paid attention to, only 9 and 14 were making any actual progress on the pitch, with 9 working double time to cut up the field. Every time the ball dropped back down the center, Richmond lost possession. Every. Time.

It was Number 6 that was the problem. McNally, that was it. Red-head, center-mid, captain. Roy knew her by reputation. A tough, seasoned player, who'd gotten her fair collection of caps for England. She had the experience; it didn't make any fucking sense why she'd be the weak link.

Roy looked away. He took a gulp of his chardonnay and relished in the unpleasant way it stung his nose. It'd be masochism to keep watching.

He kept watching.

Within five minutes, he'd cracked it.

Number 6 refused to pass to Number 9.

The gameplay split off like a branching tree. Either 6 got possession, crossed to another player, and they lost it to Everton's deep defensive line; or 9 got it herself and took it up the field, at which point the entire Richmond side narrowed down to the actions of 9 and 14.

What the fuck was going on?

In the aerial cameras showed two Everton players marking Number 9. Number 6 crossed to Number 24, and 24 took it to the net only for a defender to block her out easily.

A close up lingered on Number 24. She couldn't have looked more upset with herself. Young thing. Good talent, bad nerves. Fixable with the right support.

Number 6 got into Number 9's face and shouted. So where's her fucking support?

The camera panned in on 6 and 9 as what looked like a shouting match took place between the teammates. There was McNally, red-haired and red-faced and openly swearing even if the mics couldn't pick it up, and then there was Number 9. A cut of a girl, strong featured and iron-jawed, with her forehead set down like she intended to ram McNally like a bull if the captain came any closer.

What a fucking mess.

The camera panned to the gaffer, who stood with his hands in his pockets and a frown under his mustache. He called neither player off.

The match went back into play and almost immediately Number 9 took a foul. A blatant hit, tackled before she could grab possession again. Everton had singled her out just as clearly as Roy had.

Number 6 stood off to the side while 14 and 24 argued with the ref. The captain watched in open annoyance as Number 9 levered herself off the ground with a wince, her left side stained with grass and a limp.

Some fucking captain.

Number 9 took position for a free kick, and her name finally flashed across the screen in a font large enough for Roy to read. Jamie Tartt. Tartt lined up for the kick, for all the good it would do when she was a good forty meters back--

Tartt walloped the ball cleanly into the net.

A frisson of electricity ran down Roy's spine.

The lads at the end of the bar broke into cheers.

Half of the Richmond Whippets descended on Tartt. The other half shuffled around in discontent.

Number 24--Obisanya--nodded at Tartt, who nodded back. They didn't hug.

Extricating herself from (half) of her teammates, Tartt threw an arm around the only person she'd passed to all night--14, Rojas. Heads pressed together, headband to matching headband, they looked furtive and serious in their two-person huddle.

The camera panned back to the gaffer. He clapped but he didn't celebrate.

The whole thing was bizarre.

No, Mae was right; talent wasn't everything. Because Richmond had talent--what a spectacular fucking goal--and they were a fucking mess, like nothing Roy had ever witnessed before in his career.

If Mae was willing to put up with him, he might have to come back for the next match. Who knew, maybe he'd try swinging by on an off-match day to catch their gaffer and give him a piece of his mind.

Finally, something to look forward to. His sister would be so proud.

[nonuggetshere]

@featherlouise this turned out looking kinda gay ngl

[underwhelmingalchemist]

It's 4:30AM. I have plans tomorrow that require me to be awake and moving in four hours. I have been writing incubus/missionary Stony angst/smut for the past [checks clock] five hours. Send help

[edwardteachswombtattoo]

Ed in Episode 6 is everything to me.

He's acting all collected and aloof, even flirting with Stede ("I only hang out with cool pirates"). But then Ned moves to torture Stede and the whole act dissipates so fucking fast. Ed wanting to protect Stede above all else, Ed putting himself between Stede and danger, the way Ed just loses his cool the second Stede is in physical danger from Ned.

If we assume the deleted scene from the trailer is canon (the scene of Ed throwing the knife at Izzy's head and the wall of tally marks) and the theory about Ned Lowe being Ed's original suicide plan, then I think the events of Episode 6 are what solidified Ed's decision to give up piracy. It's not just his neck on the line, it's Stede's too (and also the crew, their happy funtime party he paid for to make amends got ruined because of his baiting Ned Lowe).

Ed doesn't want his loved ones in danger because of him. Especially Stede. Keeping Stede safe has always been part of Ed's motivation. We see it more clearly in Episode 8, when Ed kills someone in a way similiar to how he killed his abusive dad to protect his mother. Because Ed had a panic attack and an auditory hallucination of Stede screaming for help.

I could write a whole essay on the parallels between Stede and Ed's mother, they are extensive. The Kraken was born from an act of protection and then reborn (in a new form) by another act of protection.

[clowningcrows]

little mister growing into his boyhood aka i just got my first pair of cargo shorts that i *will* be wearing in january in the colder temperatures while i walk to class

[ingo-ingoing-ingone]

Finally got this chapter out! Sorry it took a while, life has REALLY gotten in the way. The next chapter is almost completely done though too. But uh. Having massive wifi issues so I don't think it'll be out next weekend like I'd hoped :(

Hope this chapter is good though! The depot agents visit their beloved subway master.

Warnings include minor medical descriptions, ableism, and one line about Cloud's memory of Emmet's injuries.

Disclaimer in first reblog

[olivine-gal]

Our team developed a new machine learning algorithm that can observe a film and determine, within 97% accuracy, whether it passes the Bechdel test. It could watch all of The Godfather trilogy in an hour and point out each segment of dialogue where two women talked to one another. There wasn’t much practical use for it, but it did help to settle some of the edge cases where it wasn’t clear if they were talking about a man or not.

After we got our major findings in order for the publication, we started feeding it random videos for laughs - YTPs, nature documentaries, Katy fed it a video of her two dogs barking at each other. Todd decided to go the full mile and left it in his basement overnight - when it passed, we all burst out laughing and assumed it was a random error. We went through the analysis and found nothing but indistinguishable bits of background noise throughout the night - just patterns in the static.

Katy was the one who insisted on a repeat trial, to ensure we didn’t have an unexpected error in the algorithm. It produced another positive. A positive with nearly the exact same segments identified as passing dialogue. Todd was incredulous, especially when we accused him of fucking with us, and so I came over to set up a camera and record a full week’s worth of footage from his basement. It took all day to process the raw footage, but it passed again. There were multiple combined hours of dialogue identified - always at night.

The three of us were all disturbed at our findings, but we were certain of one thing: we HAD to know what was producing the results. Katy had a friend in the acoustics lab who was an expert at extracting auditory background noise at microsound levels. We sent him just the first night of footage, and waited. Two days later he comes up to our lab and gives her a lighthearted fuck-off at what he found, then saw nobody was laughing.

He pulled up the isolated, refined audio on the main computer. Two women were talking - though chanting would be more accurate of a verb. They spoke to one another - like a screaming match without ever raising their voices. The things they spoke about I can’t bear to write down, things I couldn’t imagine a human mind imagining: ultra-realistic descriptions of unnatural assassinations, life without death, and nightmares of the flesh. What I can say is that when they spoke, they certainly weren’t talking about a man.

[whatiswhump]

Cat Under the Dresser, short

CW: character death, cancer, PTSD, needles, forcibly committed. (Set during WW2)

This one is just... sad. Sorry

___

They didn’t tell him what was happening to her while he was gone.

They didn’t tell him about the bruises that formed over her legs.

They didn’t tell him how tired she became... nor the nosebleeds, nor the cough. At first, they thought it was a deficiency. Maybe they weren’t growing enough spinach in the garden…

But soon she no longer got out of bed at all. 

The doctor came then. The news wasn’t good, but they didn’t tell him. 

He was fighting a war, he didn’t need this too.

It went much faster than they all expected. First it was the pain in her bones, but quickly enough her chest felt like it was caving in. 

Chemotherapy wasn’t an option they said, she was too far along. Her little sister cried and hit her dolls, too much love to go nowhere. Her cat hissed and refused to come out from below the dresser in her room.

But they didn’t tell him. He couldn’t hear it in a letter after all. He surely be home soon.

… They couldn’t tell him. 

It only took four months. September was her last. The cat finally came out to lie on her chest, the coroner got bit trying to take her away. 

They thought they would tell him when he got home then. But shrapnel made a different decision for him. 

He ended up in a hospital across the ocean with a hole in his head until he was sent back to the US in the spring. They let him go home to Indiana… but they didn’t discharge him. They told him this was his new home. A hospital.

They told him this damage was too deep. That he wasn’t safe to be let out. That he wasn’t well anymore.

So they went to visit him. They brought a pie. 

Where was she? he asked. His mother cried. His father was silent.

It was quick, they said. Cancer of the blood, it was fast. 

He got in trouble after that. He was loud and angry and sad. This wasn’t safe they said. So he started staying in a small room with no furniture. 

In this room, they injected him with needles and he had no control. They said it was for his own good.

He thought the room might be a punishment, although they said it wasn’t. 

He didn’t get less sad. She was gone and it seemed so was he now.

His family came less often. They said the other sons returned home. They were sad sometimes but they got married and bought houses. 

He wasn’t allowed to do the same.

[khal-eventing]

Thoughts on Tokitae

Let me start by saying that I am not a professional in the field. I know many people who currently work or have worked at various SeaWorld parks. I know many people who have left the field and now have their own successful canine training business. I have had two internships in the field, and I am a current volunteer at a zoo with marine mammals where I’m practicing husbandry behaviors with lead trainers. I have done a ton of research on both sides, but I am by no means a professional. What I am about to say is purely my own opinion, however I am doing my absolute best to make my opinion based on factual evidence.

It was recently announced that Toki- better known by her stage name “Lolita”- is set to be returned to a sea pen in the pacific northwest where she was captured from over five decades ago. 

Personally, I do not believe this is in the best interests of Toki. 

I visited MSQ when I was down in Florida for college. As someone who grew up and had their passion for marine life inspired by visiting Seaworld, I can say in all fairness that MSQ is the first facility that I have gone to where I began to question the ethics of cetacean captivity. While I am a supporter of all AZA facilities and recognize the excellent work that they do for species conservation, and for the animals in their care, something about MSQ just felt very old school- and by that I mean very outdated facilities. I know there are so many permits to be obtained to start fixing things like outdated animal housing, but this brings up my first point.

The zoological community should absolutely have done something about Toki’s situation decades ago. It should never have gotten to this point. She needed a much larger facility, or to be moved, and that needed to be done years upon years ago. Mark Simmons said it best in one of the many podcasts he has been speaking on: The zoological community should be ashamed for letting it get to this point. Something should have been done. And it should have been done long, long ago. 

But now comes the issue of trying to release her- or move her to a sea pen to live out the remainder of her days (there seems to be confusion amongst the people funding this and those in charge over what the actual long term plan is). It is incredibly emotionally charged on both sides- from former trainers who want what is best for her, to individuals who have knowledge of wild orca but do not have experience with animals under human care and are not experts in behavior. Everyone wants what is best for her and no one wants to see her suffer. But there are issues with this particular plan, and I want to cover my own concerns (concerns that have been brought up by many other people as well)

Issue 1: This is a bureaucratic nightmare. I’m not even sure what all goes into this, but I know there’s a ton of permits that will be needed, a lot of things need to be mapped out and approved, it’s going to take time, it’s going to take money, and at any step in the process the whole thing could be scrapped for not being able to obtain one permit or another. 

Issue 2: She nearly died last year from a respiratory illness. She’s clearly a survivor, and while I do believe she would survive the transport, the fact is that she is not a healthy animal at this point. She is being treated with daily medication, and will be introduced to pathogens that she is unfamiliar with in a sea pen. With her current issues, this could easily pose a threat to her life. Along with this point, she could bring pathogens into an environment that is already threatened by pollutants.

Issue 3: She was captured when she was roughly 4 years old. Over five decades of her life she has had her humans as her family. She is very habituated to them, and as seen with Keiko (who can be deemed a success or not depending on your viewpoint of the situation, in my opinion the release itself was a failure but the story would have been a success if there was funding to be able to keep him healthy in a sea pen vs pushing for full “freedom”). There is a lot to be said about learned behavior, and I believe that Toki is a very poor candidate for release.

Issue 4: Toki will be going from a tiny pool to a large sea pen. That change can be unbelievably overwhelming. IF they are committed to trying this, they really need to entertain an interim solution: like Keiko’s tank in Oregon. Then Toki would be given the chance to become more fit, get used to swimming more and diving deeper, and maybe they can see if she would be able to adjust to that- if she isn’t able to, then the next step of a sea pen would be out of the question.

Issue 5: The cost of it all. And this is my BIGGEST issue with this. Again, Toki’s situation needs to improve, and should have been improved decades ago. But what frustrates me to no end is that people are willing to poor millions into a single whale. One whale. I’m not saying her life isn’t important, however the millions of dollars being poured into a “swim off into the sunset” fantasy could be going towards any number of other issues facing our oceans. Or even go directly to the endangered southern residents. 

So what’s a good solution then? I mean, I honestly don’t know and I hope something will be done. Nobody wants her to stay in her current situation. I would suggest moving her to SeaWorld Orlando, but the issue with that is I can bet SeaWorld won’t get involved. They won’t want to be directly in the line of fire of animal rights activists yet again. I can imagine they would steer clear of the situation. Using the money to build her a much larger facility on property would also be ideal. It’s a complicated situation and I truly understand everyone from both sides. The trainer’s are passionate and heartfelt about wanting to save this animal that they love so dearly. But the people who wish to see her returned to her pod have just as much passion, even if it can sometimes be misguided by anthropomorphic values. Toki’s situation is not a good one. It needs to change. But I don’t believe such a drastic answer of her “going home” and being “released” is the solution either. I wish something was done years ago. I really, really do. And I just hope that whatever happens next doesn’t cost Toki her life.