#we need to re-appropriate her

[jesncin]

It's Lois Lane and Jimmy Olsen! Been itching to do a take on them.

[savechivasfemenil]

kind of sad about anette and jayjay leaving i cant lie

[hexhomos]

The 'Talis' hypothesis

So I think the S2 trailer confirms something central about Arcane I've wondered for a while. This has plot bearings to it, namely what nebulous purpose 'Magic' serves in the story -- how they're changing the role Hextech has in the game lore, incl. its power system & ruleset -- and what kind of hubris is associated with it historically. But it also answers something that has always nagged at me: why the fuck did they change Jayce's name?

So let's talk about this picture. And I'm going to give you the rosetta stone in 5 seconds:

This is Hextech now. Like that is just an incredibly concise and complete descriptor of Hextech-in-Arcane, right. It 'harms' Jinx, it 'protects' Jayce in the snowstorm, it 'heals' Viktor to a degree. It is installed permanently in architecture; the Hexgates ARE the brand.

First off, we have this fucker carrying around a talisman from back when he was 7, and the cinematography of the show agonizes over showing you this throughout all of ep2:

Jayce's bracelet is a bang-on definition of a historical talisman. The way hextech *functions* in the show is inextricable from the promises and rites associated with talismans, a word appropriated/popularized by the French - which I'm going to conservatively argue Fortiche would be familiar with;

Which brings me to the subject of what Hextech is, and how Hextech was changed for the tv show (and what its possibly being retconned to in the game)

Hex'tech' is not technology. The name is a carryover from a bygone era of leagueoflegends speak; Hextech in Arcane, and presumably in expanded lore going forward (given Skarner's rework and other things) - is the study, development, and the building of an industry around the craft of practical Talismans. If you want to understand how this shit works you need to promptly abandon the assumption that it is 'manufactured' magic -- its pure magic. It's raw magic. The tech part is a red herring misnomer.

The beliefs around this already cover links to 'the Arcane' as another, ethereal destination realm with Inhabitants that learn and change, ontop of rune-carving as magical instruction;

This also covers Viktor's impending transformation and the changes made to his character.

IN MY OPINION, via the content released so far and what we've already witnessed in S1, Viktor has been shifted away from becoming 'the machine herald' and re-positioned to become the Herald of Divine Rune Alchemy or whichever name they end up using.

I don't doubt that he'll get the armor at some point, because that's a recognizable visual and as much fanservice as they owe his decade-long fans, but... I would temper my expectations around the thought of machine evolution. It's not what this Viktor does, and it's not what he (or the narrative,) is interested in -- My guess is that the armor comes into play as a secondary way to AVOID overusing limited magical power, as we've seen runes can be depleted, and the hexcore tends to kill things in exchange.

Now that we've established all that, here is the bridge that I'm going to sell you.

Now, for today's homework, I expect you to run off to do something useful and homoerotic with this information.

[goldsbitch]

Our wedding

Y/N and Lando probably went a little too overboard when planning their wedding. She finally looses it when his friend suggests a product placement bucket hat.

A dream wedding.

Distant palazzo, with acres of private lands to roam around at night. Lavish dress, designed to fit perfectly and re-done three times. Coordinators, who made sure everyone who needed to be invited actually was. And also took care about almost anything one can imagine.

A perfect wedding, that's what they both wanted. Go big or go home. Combining romance, with generously giving everyone they loved, or deemed important, the time of their life. To say that this event was supposed to be extra would be an understatement.

Lando said yes to all of Y/N's wished regarding flower arrangements, menu items and rooming lists. She said yes to all of this ideas about the music, sound systems set up in each part of the venue (because heaven would turn upside down if there had been one quiet spot with no music, according to Lando) and drinks choices. They could not agree on the photographer - so Lando just booked his, and hers option as well. Saving money was not on the table. He knew that the amount of good PR and brand deals the Quadrant team managed to get together was going to pay out in the long run. Everyone loves a wedding.

That's where the first issues started - the amount of people invited grew into higher hundreds. She voiced her point few times, but Lando quickly shut those off with a promise to book a private charter for all friends and family who were coming from her homeland. She caved in and agreed to just few more CEO's she'd never met, as long as they did not share their table.

It was the final two months before the wedding and things could not be more hectic. They had to plan the wedding around Lando's race schedule, so summer break between races it was. Y/N had to juggle her job with all of this planning, so she attended less races than she usually would. Most of the calls she shared with Lando were wedding related and it seemed like his best friend Max took it upon himself to speak on behalf of Lando - so sometimes it felt like she was marrying Max rather than her fiancé. After a total break down she had few days ago, which resulted in her crying on the phone to Lando at 4 am his local time, they agreed she absolutely had to come over to the next race so that they could find some down time.

//

Having to endure a tiring overnight flight, she finally stepped into the hotel where Lando was staying at. Exhausted, jet-lagged and generally in a bad mood were the main ingredients in the perfect cocktail of "you should just avoid me" Y/N. She finally opened the door to his room and let out a groan. Traveling to see him used to be her favorite thing. A bombastic cherry on top was that she immediately recognized Max's voice coming from the living room. Was this guy staying in the same room as them now?

"Y/N, is that you?" she heard, desperately hoping he hadn't heard her enter in. She felt like a bitch for wishing that, but he was the last person she wanted to see at that point. Her hopes of jumping in the bed and cuddling Lando the first thing coming here dissolved like cotton candy, leaving tooth aches behind.

"Yes, Max, it's me," she said, not even bothering adjusting her tone to something more socially appropriate.

"Great, just on time. Can you come in here? We have some decisions that are becoming pressing matters," he said dryly and added his own frustrated comment quietly "...since someone does not feel like answering emails." She heard that, bit her lip and swallowed all her comments, otherwise she would explode.

"What's up?" she asked, entering the living space. There were dozens of baseball caps and buckets hats laid down on the coffee table with Max and some random young guy towering over them.

"We need you to pick out one of these which you'll be wearing after the reception. I have a great brand deal on the table which I need to close today. So, go ahead - pick one." She could not believe the words coming out of Max's mouth. Was he for real?

"May I ask when did I agree to wearing a baseball cap with my dress right after my wedding?"

Max glanced at her and then rolled his eyes. "Can you just pick one? Lando is on board with this, he'll be wearing this green one," he pointed to objectively very nice stylish item of clothing - but still, it was a bucket hat. Rage levels shot up in Y/N blood steam.

"Max, I'm suppose to be wearing my wedding dress until the evening, that's also in some deal you guys made," she proclaimed, hoping this would finally make him get some sense. "The dress is very classical, I don't think this would fit the vibe."

"Oh, come, we agreed to sticking to the Quadrant Athletes color palette and all of these check that. We want to break the classical vibe up with this."

"I'm sorry, who exactly is we in this scenario? And who the fuck are you?!" she pointed at the guy standing next to Max.

"I'm...I'm the product placement controller," he said in a shy voice.

Her eyes just went wide at that point.

"Y/N, no need to freak out again, you need to create a viral moment to make the brand grow," Max said, as if he was talking about a new merch launch.

And that was the final straw. "I'm getting sick of you guys making my wedding into a Quadrant PR stunt. You need to realize this is my wedding, not yours! The whole event is already dripping with brand deals and promotions, is there nothing out of line to you? Will my mom also have to wear one of these hats? Will force the officiant to wear sneakers? Where will you stop?"

Max stared at her, his own cup finally also full. But unlike her, he spoke calmly - again, giving strong business vibes. "Oh, I'm sorry - I'm sorry I am pulling heaven and Earth to make sure your wedding does not ruin your future husband! I apologize that I seem to be more stressed about this wedding than you are. Sorry for caring and trying to uphold some standard."

"Max, this is all too much! I feel like I'm suffocating," she tried to reason with him once more.

He just had enough at that point. So many little moments of mutual disagreement finally grew on him.

"Yeah, well maybe you're just not suited for this world."

Before she could even take a breath to respond, a familiar voice cut them both off.

"Guys, that's enough I'd say," Lando said as he slowly stepped out the same corridor Y/N had entered moments ago. Both Max and Y/N turned around, knowing they'd have spoken way differently had they known he was there as well.

Max gulped, knowing he stepped over a line and immediately started to apologize. "Mate, I'm sorry, we just sort of lost it. I'm sorry."

Lando glanced at him, his face suddenly hard to read for both his friend and his fiancée. He quickly flashed Y/N a look, seeing the obvious distress finally on his own, in a way the camera on a phone just does not capture. It pained him to see them two fighting, but it pained him more to see her on the verge of crying.

She couldn't find words to apologize to Max. In fact she could barely even see him, as Lando took all of her attention.

"Can you guys leave us for now? I think we need to talk alone," Lando said in a tone so serious that Max hardly remembered last time he'd heard it.

"Yeah, mate. Of course," he said shyly, gesturing to his companion to quickly exit with him.

Once the door finally clicked, Y/N felt like she could get out of her frozen state.

"My god. Lando, I knew it would be a challenge these few months, but I did not expect to grow so far away from you," she said, as the words flew out of her mouth without her being able to control it.

He was more careful with his words, but brave nevertheless. "It's true. I don't think we've even been so distant."

Him acknowledging it just made it real and hurt more.

"Right. At least we have that in common."

There was an awkward silence, something these two hadn't experienced in months.

"Why is Max involved so much?" she asked, hoping that she would not hear anything that would make her biggest fear come true - Lando's lack of desire to marry her.

He took a moment to get his point in the right order. "He's my best friend. This is our wedding. I can't stop focusing on racing, but I want it to be perfect. I'd say not giving him any credit sometimes."

Of course, he was defending him. She wondered if he defended her in front of Max sometimes.

All card on the table. She gulped before uttering the next sentence. "I'm scared that I don't want to go to my own wedding anymore. I feel like an unwanted guest."

They shared a look full of hidden pain. It was impossible to tell, but Lando was scared as never before. "What are you saying...Do you want to call it of??"

She looked back at him, praying that he would understand. "God no, that's the last thing I want to do," she sighed and put her head in her hands. How did it got to a place where he could even assume that? "Marrying you, the love of my life, is my dream. In fact, I'd just like to jump to the moment where I can finally say yes to you."

The air still felt really heavy. "Then let's do just that."

"What do you mean?"

Lando took few steps closer to her, missing her close proximity for the past few weeks. He desperately needed to fix them. "Let's book a wedding for next week in Monaco, just you me and any other people required by the law."

The idea of that seemed silly at first. But the more she thought about it, the more she craved that idea. "So, you want to call the actual wedding off?"

Lando chuckled at the image of them cancelling that at last minute and all the hustle that would bring. "No, silly, not unless you really want to. But who says we can't have a fake ceremony there, celebrate with everyone, while already being married at that point? We don't need to tell anyone, keep the magic for them. We can have two weddings."

It was her time to laugh now. "So because we find organizing one wedding hard, we're going to be doing two now?"

"We are anything but conventional. And if this is news for you then, well...That would mean I'm marrying the queen of delulu. Twice."

The weight of the past weeks was lifted.

"Does this mean I can say "No." at the big wedding?" she teased him, closing the distance between them and holding his hand.

"Not if I'll say "No." first," he winked and quickly gave her a kiss on the cheek.

"I'm not wearing a bucket hat. Just stating that now."

"Oh come, at least one of our weddings," he said as he ruffled her hair. "Wow, I think you need a post airport shower, my love."

"Do not try and change the topic - no bucket hats!" she mumbles as she tried to fix her hair.

"Fine, I'll just get you drunk. You'll wear a bucket hat at one of our weddings one way or another."

It felt so good to just banter with him, like they always did before they got caught up in all the stress. A shot of guilt went through her system, as she flashed back at the whole process so far.

"I should probably apologize to Max," she uttered, avoiding his eye contact once again.

He finally hugged her. "Yeah probably. But...let him rot in his feelings for a moment. I hate when someone makes you upset. Apart from me, of course."

"What makes me upset right now is the alarming amount clothes you're wearing."

"That's my girl!"

//

They got legally married the following weekend, Lando bribing anyone he could in order for them to skip few spots that were unavailable. The first wedding was secret and full of inappropriate, but honest kisses. The second one was fake, but they slayed it together, as newly married couple. Without the stress of actually getting married, they really enjoyed their wedding. The little secret stayed with them - and Max of course, because he just had to get involved with everything.

[universalitgirlsblog2]

💗🐰CREATION IS FINISHED🐰💗

💗This post is inspired by Edward art - " Why “Creation Is Finished” May Be The Most Important Understanding Of All" post on reddit. To read the full post by Edward on Reddit - click me !

🐰There are a truly infinite amount of versions. Only within consciousness is it able to hold all the infinite versions. In order to even be able to grow, we need consciousness and these versions. They are not separate beings but One. The person you are now, is the only version that exists physically as far as I am aware. However, within your consciousness exist an infinite amount of versions. These versions can be so similar in detail that we may not notice any change. For example, there may be a version of you where you are now but instead the color of your shirt is different, or one single hair is in a different spot. If you can conceptualize it, it must exist. These are so minute in detail that we will never truly question the nature of our reality.

💗Maybe you are 18 years old, maybe 48, it does not matter. Go back one year and realize that one year ago, the Version you are now, existed when you were 17 or 47 years old. Did you not have the freedom to be a different version? If so, do you not have that same freedom now? You always have the freedom to be a different version regardless of your age.

🐰We move from these Versions of ourselves through Consciousness by the action of Awareness.

💗Prayer is when you just decide to appropriate and become Aware of Being the version you wish to be .It is not a petition, it is an acceptance of the fact that you are NOW this other Version of YOURSELF. There is no “Being” you must ask to receive . These are all different versions of yourself, so they are yours truly. Don't beg for something that is yours. It is like you bought a cake with your money and asked someone from the sky If you could eat it. It is almost madness to ask for. There is nothing to ask, nothing to work for .You do not have to be perfect or have some physical achievements in order to become Aware of Being a different Version. Use your imagination to grow and raise yourself to version you want to be.

🐰it should be important to note that we are not regressing but progressing. When we alter our past in Consciousness, we are altering it to change our future. There has to be a Version of yourself that did not make that certain mistake, that did not say those words, that did not experience that pain etc. If you can conceptualize a different past, just as you can conceptualize a different future, it must exist. So, if you are consistently repeating the past, it is because you are dwelling on it.

💗There is no " future " or " past " , don't confuse with the only time you can experience which is Now. We can only experience Consciousness. When we dwell on a past mistake, we are essentially becoming Re-Aware of Being that Version in the Now.

🐰What we experience NOW, is what we are Aware of Being, which Version we are Aware of Being. What we are Aware of Being, manifests.

💗For Example ( from the Neville's lecture “The Art Of Dying March 23, 1959,”) A lady who burned her hand and then "unburned" it. She poured boiling water on her hand. She lay on the couch and tried to undo mentally what had been done. It was difficult because of the pain but she kept trying. She redid the scene and poured the boiling water on the tea and brewed it and then she drank the tea. She did it over and over and finally in the act of thus making the tea she fell asleep. When she awoke some hours later there was no trace of the burn. She wrote: "You would have thought I should go right to the hospital, but now there is not even a sign of the burn." The past and present are one in a greater moment.” Mary decided to go into the only reality, and rearrange the past. Since she is in consciousness, she is not in the past but in reality. She became Aware of Being this other Mary and then this rearrangement of the memory altered her future.

🐰If we are not receiving our desire, there are several factors for why we are not, but the one that we all share is that we are not Aware of Being that Version that has those desires. For whatever reason, misunderstanding, unbelief, doubting its fulfillment etc. We should not focus why we are not receiving but instead becoming Aware of Being of the Version of Yourself that has received.

💗Whenever you have an unlovely thought or I am experiencing something you do not wish, you reassure myself that there is a Version of you that is thinking a lovelier thought and is experiencing a lovelier experience. Then you simply assume that you are that Version of yourself.I have to be because you are Aware and it is YOU.

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

OH GOD YOUR REQS R OPEN, i would rlly like to request something, could you write an one shot of price with a little daugther reader? just like, him coming home and spending some time with his little girl, she tells him about her school, he tells her some funny stories that happened while he was at work, he cooks her favorite meal, just a big fluff, i love this man more than anything and i just need some paternal love LMAO, feel totally free to deny! do everything in your time and remember to take good care of urself!

Memories of Youth

Pairing: Father!John Price x F!Daughter!Reader

Synopsis: It was hard being away from his little girl, but warm mornings spent in each other's company were blessings - even if they were far and few in between. It didn't matter the form.

Word Count: 4.5k (short and sweet)

Warnings: Angst (just a little cuz I can't help myself), a lotta fluff, banter, just good platonic/paternal relationship in general, etc.

A/N: Didn't specify if the reader was adopted or blood-related, so that's really up to you! Enjoy, Anon!

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

He got the call at the halfway point of crossing the English Channel, Northern France behind him and Southern England just on the horizon line as the sun began to spread its orange glow over the waves. Sitting high above the water in a slick black Heli, John Price’s hand snaps to his side pocket, fingers deftly peeling back the layers as the overwhelming sound of helicopter blades shakes the hull. 

The rest of Task Force 141 watch with varying interest, only Gaz taking notice of the sudden frown that mars his Captain’s face; the furrowed brow, and the spark of concern in his eyes. A call was unusual. The Sargeant tries not to intrude, but can’t help the way his body lightly shifts so he can have a better view.

John doesn't bother to look at the contact when he takes the device out, rapidly pressing the answer button and slotting the phone at his ear, tilting his head so his opposite rests at the junction of his shoulder. It only stops a fraction of the noise, even so, it would have to do for now. But with how his ears were already straining to find a sound over the line, he may not need to force out the jarring racket after all. 

Inside his chest, John’s heart is racing – confusion laces his mind. This was abnormal. 

I told her only to call if it was an emergency. What could she have gotten herself into now? I said to stay out of trouble…

“Where are you?!” The Brit has to shout down the line, his familiar deep accent loud and guttural. 

His mind flies through every possibility. An intruder had broken into the house, you had broken your arm falling down the stairs again, or a fire had broken out in the kitchen. Fuck…he was too far away to help if anything bad had happened. John’s jaw clenches, eyes looking out over the water as the bucket hat on his head flops in the wind. It was only a product of his job that made him think like that; years of intuition and thinking on the fly leading to his mind making up the worst scenarios. 

Especially when you called on a secure line when he told you it was only appropriate for life-and-death situations. Especially when it was his little girl.

I told ‘er about the Pistol in my office, yeah? The Captain asks himself with a steel-like resolve. And gave her Laswell’s number?

John’s fingers tighten over the phone when he hears your breath over the line, a shuffling of clothes, and a deep exhale.

“Sunshine!” He tries again, sitting up straighter as his pulse gets faster. Why isn’t she answering me? “Where are you right–”

“We don’t have anything for breakfast.” Your voice is heavy with sleep; fatigue drowning the syllables and holding them under the very waves that rage under John only separated by thin sheets of metal. 

The Brit stops. His body freezes, and as the tense minutes go by his panic falls away and leaves a thick stain of annoyance resting behind his eyelids. Of course. John brings two fingers to his nose bridge, digging into the skin until tiny crescent moons are left behind; he has to take a deep breath before answering, but his tone leaves nothing to the imagination.

“...Breakfast…?”

“Yeah, Old Man, you need me to spell it for you? B-R-E-A-K-F-A–”

“Enough!” John barks stiffly and has to hold back his anger as you laugh from the other side. Ever the jokester – did you not realize how serious this was? How fast your father’s heart was racing with adrenaline? 

Fuck, he had just about been ready to radio the cockpit and force the pilots to fly faster.

Across the way, Ghost locks eyes with the man, and with a tilt of his head and a loud call he asks, “That the Mutt?”

The Captain’s eyes slip back into a firm blank slate.

“Affirm.” John tilts the phone away from his mouth, ignoring your sarcastic comments to catch his sanity for a moment and respond to his Lieutenant.

Simon blinks as Johnny perks up at his side, looking in from the view in favor of the Captain with newfound interest. A bright smile forms over his scruffy cheeks

“She all good?” The skeletal man asks, and Gaz smirks lazily tapping his fingers over his knee, immediately noticing your shenanigans and the way the Cap was so worked up. 

But anyone would be when they had a daughter thousands of miles away.

John simply nods once with an exasperated expression to Ghost. MacTavish snorts out a laugh, knowing the context of the situation without having to think hard.

“Is that Uncle Simon?” You ask, and with a scratch at his beard, your father hums in confirmation, letting the sound of your voice put him more at ease. She’s just fine. “Tell him I want him to come over and play Mario Cart with Gaz, Johnny, and me again! He wiped the floor with ‘em last time!” 

There’s a clinking of pots and pans as you move throughout the house. 

“Sweetheart,” Your father grumbles, sighing through the call. His voice takes on the authoritative tone that works for both soldiers and teenagers – but it rarely works on you, despite that fact. Took after your dad too much, is what John would say. Never listened until it was absolutely necessary. “What did I tell you about callin’ this phone when I’m away from the house?”

He hears your scoff and raises a warning eyebrow, though you can’t see it. You know your dad enough to know he’s doing it despite being separated. It was pretty common.  

“Not to, unless it’s an emergency…But I’d say food is a big enough reason, y’know? Unless you want me to eat the leftover cake for breakfast – which I haven’t thrown out as a possibility yet, honestly.”

“You’re not eatin’ bloody cake for breakfast. You’ll get sick.” Gaz snickers, turning his face away to hide the amusement at the comment. 

It hadn’t been a surprise that the Captain’s daughter was such a familiar creature – they saw traits reflected every time the two were together. Everyone had expected her to take after her old man in nearly everything, and when she had they had bumped fists and prayed for the brown-bearded man. But it was funny nonetheless, considering they got along better than most fathers and daughters; practically reading each other's minds when everyone was playing poker. Johnny was still pretty ticked off about that – he’s a good deal deep into the sweets debt he owes you because Price helps you win. But where they really shined was with the shared deadpan attitudes, bottom-of-the-barrel sarcasm, and knowing how to command a room without even trying. Safe to assume that the rest of the team would do anything for you.

“Will not.” You grumble in retaliation, and John’s lips threaten to tilt into a grumpy smile when he hears you put the cake plate back into the counter. 

Letting the tension fall from his shoulders, the brown-haired man takes a glance outside, watching the waves go bright orange as they lap and writhe like great sea serpents. 

“How long have you been up, eh? The sun’s barely risen. Thought Sunday was when you always slept in?” 

There’s a pause in what John believed were fingers digging through a cupboard, and he narrows his eyes in confusion as the silence grows long. He frowns when you speak again, words so quiet he has to place a hand over his other ear to hear properly. Having half a mind to go and tell the pilots to hurry up and go faster so he can just talk to his little girl in person, he refrains, knowing that’s not how this works. But something was wrong – it had been laced in your previous words, as tiny and unnoticeable as it may have been. Only a father would notice it.

“You said you were gonna be home last night. I stayed up.” It takes a moment of halted breathing before John’s eyes widen, blues full of realization.

Oh. 

…Damn it. He lets out the tense breath of air from his lips, shifting in his seat as the gear around his body weighs him down. His gun digs into his chest. 

He hadn't seen you for over a week – leaving you in the care of a close and trusted neighbor, Mrs. Lilly, just as he always had when he needed to leave for work on short notice. But seeing as you were older now, it became apparent that, with your learned independence, staying at the house by yourself was alright as long as you checked in with the neighbor every morning and night. You had been waiting for him to come home. All alone. In the dark. 

Fucken’ hell, John thinks in a deep layer of guilt as wrinkles overtake his forehead, I did tell her I’d be back yesterday. I forgot to call and tell ‘er. Shit! He didn’t want to imagine the stress that had been put on your shoulders. God, what’ve I done?

Not checking in was something he had never missed before – he always told you when he was about to come back. What had gone wrong this time? How had something that important just slipped his mind? Sure the Op had been tedious, but he was trained to handle it. It was no excuse. 

“Sweetheart,” John starts and then pauses the soft and gentle endearment, knowing that an apology didn’t fit into what you were looking for. You didn’t want an ‘I’m sorry’ right now, you wanted your father. Flattening his lips into a line, he continues, wishing he was with you more than ever so he can press a kiss to your forehead. “...I should be back before 1200. How about when I get back I’ll cook you up somethin’ myself, yeah? Or we can go to that Cafe you like down on Newman Street and I’ll get you whatever you want.”

“...When do you have to go back?” You don’t answer his question, and yours makes his heart hurt. 

John clears his throat.

“None of that, now. We’ll talk more when I get back, Darling, alright?” You don’t respond, but he hears you sigh and quietly scoff under your breath. “Alright?” He tries again, head tilting forward and eyebrows rising as if you could see him. Maybe you could.

“Fine. But you better make me pancakes. I don’t care if it’ll be noon.” 

“Pancakes it is.” The Captain looks up in time to see Johnny mouthing words to him, and with a blank face and stiff lip, your father mutters with a grunt, “Johnny says ‘hello.’” 

Your shocked snort makes him feel better, but a layer of guilt still stays. You were awake all night waiting for him, and he never showed up. Did you sleep on the couch? Damnit, he hoped you didn’t…but in his rattling chest knew you had. He found you like that every time he came back from a long stay away. Huddled under blankets, no pillow under your head. Sometimes you steal one of his shirts and hold it like a stuffed bear to your chest, shoving your face into it. 

How could I forget to fucken’ call her?

Your voice takes him out of his growing self-resentment. 

“Tell him to watch his back – I’m getting better at Rainbow Road. Soon enough I’ll be able to beat him in a 1V1!” John can’t help the slow chuckle that bounces in his throat, mind, for the moment, at ease as long as you continue to speak to him.

“I’ll be sure to pass it along. But, eh,” The Brit makes sure he speaks slowly, letting you hear every syllable of his next words. “Promise me you’ll stay at the house until I get there. No goin’ out with friends, yeah? You know how I worry.” John ignores the teasing look from Gaz and peeks out again to see how close they were to the mainland with narrowed lids. “‘Specially when I’m not there.”

Getting back to the Base wasn’t the problem, it was the damn reports coming in that would wring his neck before he could get out the door. But he’d push it off for however long he could; call in favors from Laswell to get him more time with his little girl so he can fix his mistake. As a dad, the only thing that counted was seeing his daughter after a seemingly unending Op that he didn’t want to relive. The hardest part wasn’t the blood or the guts – it was being away from you. Nothing would ever change that, even if he was the one on the ground gritting his teeth at the bite of a bullet.

“Scout’s honor, Old Man.” The happiness in your voice makes him smile to himself. 

“Stop calling me that, Muppet.” John grumbles affectionately, rolling his eyes, “I’ll give you a call when back I’m in town, Sunshine. Make sure the door’s locked–”

“--Locked, the windows too, plus, if someone knocks on the door I need to look through the peephole and if I don’t recognize them don’t open it…Am I missing anything?”

“Mind yourself, now you’re just being cheeky, you are.” John teases, scoffing, but proud that you remembered his rules. It made all of this just a bit more manageable.

“Who do you think I got it from?” You laugh, but it tapers off sullenly, “Just…get home safe, okay, Dad?”

John’s beard pulls back into a soft close-lipped grin, eyes crinkling as his heart warms. He so desperately wanted to ruffle your hair. 

“Of course, Hun. But, eh, take a nap. It’s still early, and I know you’ve got schoolwork to do later. You sound like you’re about to keel over where you stand.” You scoff before agreeing with a muttered grumble, most likely already stumbling to the living room couch, and then the line goes silent and is replaced once more by the whirring of the helicopter blades. 

The man peels back the phone and pockets it, hand unconsciously brushing his breast pouch where a picture of the two of you always sits. It was a baby picture, with your little form held in his grip delicately; looking down at you with soft eyes and an easy smile on his lips that always formed when he was with you. From under a soft blanket, your tiny hand reaches out to try and brush his stubbily cheek. 

It never failed to bring him ease when he realized the photo was there. A reminder that if everything else in his life went horribly wrong, you would still be looking up at him with those eyes of yours. At the very least, he had managed to do one thing right.

“She’ll be fine. She’s a good kid.” Gaz calls at him, and John spares him a glance out of the side of his eye with a raised brow.

“I know she is. I’m the one who raised her.”

—

You remember eating a piece of toast before you made your way over to the couch, throwing your phone to the coffee table haphazardly before tossing yourself onto the cushions. Still in your pajamas, you can’t find it in you to go and grab the homework in your backpack this early. The sun had only just risen, and the bags under your eyes reminded you how late you stayed up last night. 

But your father had never shown up.

Frantic was too light a word to describe the feeling you had when your eyelids had peeled back to the empty living room and the TV still playing. It had been second nature to snatch your phone and call the secure line – half of you had said it was better to call Laswell, just in case, but your adolescent brain had wanted nothing more than to hear your father’s voice.

He would make it better. But you needed to hear his voice. 

Dad, you remembered pleading to yourself as the sound of the dial tone echoed in your ear, please answer the phone. Please. Answer the fucking phone. 

Your heart was pounding; hands shaking. He never just didn’t show up when he said he was going to. Never. Your dad was punctual – always on time no matter what – and he had ingrained the same sentiment in you as well. 

When his deep voice finally bounced in your eardrums you nearly started to cry, missing the first hurried and concern-filled inquiry of where you were. Hearing his voice put you at ease, and after a week of missing your father’s strong presence and his warm hugs, it was hard not to take a shaky inhale when he seemed so close.

You just wanted him home; you wanted him to make you pancakes and help you with your schoolwork. You wanted him to read a book to you on this couch like you were a toddler again while his old record player was on in the background. 

It was childish, getting so worked up about it, but your dad meant the world to you. Not having him here felt wrong. 

Sighing, you rub at your eyes and revel in the darkness before letting out a strained yawn, grabbing the blanket from the back of the couch and pulling it over your body. It didn’t take long before your eyes were flickering shut, a calm quiet settling over the house as cars passed by outside in the street. You pull the blanket closer and breathe, inhaling pine needles and ash. 

You don’t know how long you were there, twitching in your sleep before the scent woke you up – it makes your nose scrunch, eyelids blinking away fuzz. There was a pillow under your head, the blanket wrapped tight around your neck to keep out the London chill, and a clanking of pans in the kitchen. Scraping spatula over cast iron, you knew, the sizzling of batter. 

The haze of that in-between state, sleep and consciousness fighting in the back of your skull and under your hairline, stays even as you try to force it away. It was like a wave – it constantly pulled you under when you thought you were getting to the surface. Your eyes would blink open and closed; comforted back into sleep by the deep humming, the waver of an old record player. Feet over hardwood and the smell of fresh pancakes. 

Dad’s home. 

A delirious smile slides over your sleep-hot face. That was why you were so content. This was what home sounded and smelled like. 

Dad’s home. You repeat it once more, nuzzling farther into your father's travel pillow he brings to and from Base. Pine needles. Ash. Cigar smoke.

Dad’s home! Your eyes snap open wildly, your body shooting up from the cushions as the blanket falls to the floor. Angling your head to the separated kitchen, you swipe the drool from your mouth with a heavy hand and listen. 

Your dreams had tricked you before, but no. Not this time. 

He was humming along to some old tune under his breath that mirrored the record player behind the couch; the antique turned low so it wouldn’t wake you. Blinking in shock, your mouth morphs into a rich smile instantaneously. 

Throwing yourself off the couch, your feet slam to the floor, rushing and almost tripping over the blanket on the floor as your body slants forward. Giggling, you push on, righting yourself with no second thought other than welcoming your dad home the same as you always did. Zipping around the corner, a shadow is already turning your way, a plate of pancakes ready to be put on the table and devoured. 

“Dad!” You yell loudly and launch yourself at him, hearing his chest let out a grunt and his hands splay around you so he won’t drop breakfast food all over the floor. 

A velvety chuckle is wrung from his body, and his free digits go to rest heavily on your head as you shove yourself into his hold. Gripping his shirt tight between your fingers, you try not to cry when that scent that had been fading from the house comes back tenfold. Your eyes burn, but you only let one tear out when your dad’s finger begins stroking your hair just like he did when you were little.

You had been so worried. 

“There’s my girl,” His voice whispers out, “I’m here, Sunshine. Easy now.” 

“I thought you died,” You can’t help the helpless gasp that rips from you. Your father’s hand freezes; body going rigid around your smaller, desperately grasping frame. The atmosphere of the room flips. Digging into the fabric of his shirt the full flood of tears finally comes forward. “W-when I woke up and you weren’t here I… I thought you were never coming back home, and that I would have to go and live with the neighbors and I’d have to bury you in the cemetery. I don’t-don’t wanna have to put you in the ground.” You’re rambling, but you can’t stop the words. “I don’t want you to leave me alone, Dad. Please don’t leave me alone.” 

At some point, the plate of pancakes had been tossed to the counter without care for if the porcelain cracked from the force, and both of your father's arms hand scooped you into his hold effortlessly. Your breath was hiccuping violently, tears making his shirt wet and sticking to his skin. 

But John didn’t care. 

He wrapped his arms around you and curled his body in, taking you into a hold so warm and tight you couldn’t leave it even if you tried.

What’ve I done? The man feels his lips tense, blinking down at your shaking body with guilt as you sob. Oh, my Little Girl, I’m so sorry. What’ve I done to you? 

Had he never noticed the toll that this job was taking on you? John asked himself this in disgust as he pressed his lips to the crown of your head, whispering words into your hair under his shaky breath. He hated when you cried because of him.

“I’m not going anywhere, Love, alright? Look at me.” You don’t move your bruising grip, face still held away from sight as you gasp down frantic breaths. John’s voice gets firmer, “Sweetheart, I need you to look at me, yeah?”

Your tight fingers stutter, and your head barely shifts to the side, one red eye peeking up as he looks down at you with all the love he can muster without looking incredibly broken. He never wanted to see you cry again but knew that would be an impossible feat to accomplish – but he’d do his damndest to try.

“There she is.” John’s hand goes to your cheek, brushing away the saltwater with a calloused thumb as you sniffle. “Just keep those eyes on me, Little One.”

“...M’ not little anymore.” You grumble out, your cheeks heating even as your pulse slows as you focus on your dad's eyes. So soft the edges were nearly liquid; water that held your attention as they lapped across your form. 

“To me, you’ll always be little. Can’t change that I’m afraid.” The man grunts out, tilting his head down at you and letting his eyes travel from concern to comfort. But that doesn’t change the present. 

“I’m so sorry, Love,” Your father mutters, eyes flickering away from yours in guilt so rarely shown to others. He always prided himself on being strong, you knew, bearing the brunt of the weight. Apologies weren’t often verbally said until it truly mattered. “I should have called you. That’s all on me, that is. Bloody stupid to forget about, knowin’ how you wait up for me.” 

Your lips thin to mimic your dad's, brows pulling close. But in your chest, your heart couldn’t be larger. You didn’t hold it against him, but you wished he could be here more often; not put himself in dangerous situations. Knowing as little as you did about your dad's actual job, you still knew it wasn’t entirely safe. 

Maybe the two of you protected each other from the things unseen. 

Your chest aches.

“...You’re funny lookin’ when you have to apologize. Like a kicked bear.” Pulling back your lips, a tiny smile lighting your face, and you look up at your dad with a sniffle in your nose. 

His visage snaps to yours, eyebrows going high on his head in surprise, and hooded blue eyes widening. It takes a moment, but a smirk pushes back his beard when he sees the tears have stopped falling. 

“Yeah?” John asks you, a grumble reverberating in his chest, “Now, y’know, that is just bloody rude, Sunshine. Thought I raised you better…And after I made you pancakes.” 

Laughing, you pull back, stomach rumbling and nose twitching at the prospect of the nearly forgotten food. Slithering past your father, you snatch the plate and fork before rushing into the living room. Jumping on the couch you begin to cut into the carbs, piling pieces into your mouth and smiling at the taste. No one else could make them as your dad could. 

The Brit comes not seconds later, a cup of tea held in his hand before he sits down next to you with a groan, stretching out and laying his socked feet on the coffee table next to your tossed phone from hours earlier. You giggle, suddenly leaning to his large frame and hearing him grunt in retaliation. 

“Tell me a funny story,” You demand, listening to him sip his drink in the mid-morning glow that spreads outside the house and leaks in through the opened curtains. Birds sing outside, heard from the street. 

Your dad hums, his beard tickling your scalp as he leans into you in turn, making you chuckle before he nuzzles against you kissing your head; leading to a larger exclamation of glee before you elbow his gut. 

He laughs and answers with a smile in his voice.

“Hm, did I tell you ‘bout the time Gaz fell out of the Heli?” 

You laugh, eating the rest of the pancake remnants; feeling incredibly happy and warm. There were many memories you loved of your dad and his recounting of stories fit many of them. He always kept out the gory bits – promising himself that he would never lead you down that path no matter what – and always opted for the many downright hilarious situations the rest of the 141 always seemed to get into.

“Yes, but tell me again. It’s funny, especially when you describe his face afterward! Like he–”

“Like he had shit his pants and didn’t want to tell me,” John chuckles, eyes squinted, looking down at you as you snuggle into his side. He wraps an arm over your shoulders, taking your empty plate with one hand and putting it on the side table before pulling you close and making sure his tea won’t spill. He feels your tiny, bird-like, heartbeat on his ribcage and knows that nothing could ever take you away from him. You would always be his little girl.  “Yeah, Love, I remember that one. Now, let me start from the beginning…”

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[am-i-the-asshole-official]

AITA for not saying please/thank you?

So this is an ongoing argument with my roommate. I (22nb) am autistic, and T (55f) has ADHD.

Now to get this out of the way, i do say thank you. I was always taught to wait a moment after receiving something, take a bite or appreciate what you were given for a breath, before thanking someone so that you could add something more to it. My roommate and I both agree that i do say thank you the vast majority of the time, but the problem for her is that i do not say it fast enough.

T often gives me a "tHaNk yOu" while the item in question is still being passed. This seems ridiculous to me as i haven't even been fully given it yet.

In addition, i have the dishes as my household chore, and i do them daily, despite almost never making any dishes myself. I do this to both support T and her diet, as well as contribute to the household that i live in.

T thanks me near daily for doing the dishes. This always seems weird and unnecessary to me, as it is my responsibility. I have told her this. I dont expect to be thanked for doing my own laundry, after all. In return, T gets upset that i dont notice and thank her for taking out the garbage/recycling/compost, to which she is the main contributor to and is under her responsibilities.

As for please: i do say this much more rarely. I think it feels overly preformative and fake, and i typical choose more "would you mind closing my door for me" "if its not too much of a hassle, could you toss me my waterbottle" "id appreciate it if you could preheat the oven while you're in the kitchen"

I think that these work perfectly fine as a replacement. Please just has always felt wrong and fake. No one else in my entire life has ever commented on this before.

Thirdly; T has been upset that i don't respond to her apologies appropriately. After she is snappy at me (due to her emotional disregulation from ADHD) (last time it was because i asked if she was using the oven instead of asking if i could use the oven myself, for reference) there is a 50/50 shot that she will come and apologize.

I dont often accept apologies. Apologies are for the person saying them to get it off their chests, or to make you put it behind them. Usually, ill say something like "it was just one of those days, y'know?" Or "its alright, water under the bridge"

Because i was always taught that apologies came with a promise of change, and T can't (or won't) change how she re-directs her frustration at unrelated things to things ive done "wrong". When she told me the correct response was "i forgive you", i decided to not engage instead of telling her directly that i didnt forgive her (because i am certain she will do it again). (I usually dont engage with her when shes irritated: she never notices and just wants to say her piece so im not being rude here)

She said that i was being disrespectful, "like always", and when i suggested it may be more difficult for me due to my autism, she said that we made plenty of accommodations for me (which i think is false), and that i just needed to do this for her comfort. That please/thank yous were something she needed to feel appreciated and i should be making more accommodations for her.

To me, i feel like she is getting really caught up on semantics and is being a little controlling about it. But maybe its just a boundary? I dont know if i could commit to changing my language for her though, i feel like i will just start forgetting after awhile because it feels so fake. Shouldn't it be better for me to say things genuinely than just for her approval?

AITA for not saying please/thank you?

[genericpuff]

All That Glitters is Not Feminism - An Analysis of LO's Brand of "Feminism" and What Remains of its Fanbase (A Prologue)

So I referenced a certain article in a recent reblog/ask response and I just need to talk about it because what the actual fuck-

This has to have been written by either a bot or a hater who's reached peak god tier level at playing the long con sarcasm game because NOTHING about this feels sincere or even factual. Much of it almost has to be read in a mocking tone for it to make any real sense.

It says "Lore Olympus" (literally in quotations) in just about every single paragraph over and over again and every single talking point revolves EXCLUSIVELY around Persephone, which I suppose comes as no surprise considering that seems to be all the comic - and its fanbase - cares about at this point.

I really love (/s) how Persephone's "evolution" is being naive and then 'blossoming' into an independent woman who relies entirely on the rich man who groomed her to solve all her problems.

Also all she's done since becoming Queen of the Underworld is abuse lower class people. That's the stuff feminist dreams are made of <3

While we're talking about the main leads, "poster child" is definitely a word for Hades, I think a more appropriate term would be "literal child". And boy howdy, 'god of consent' sure is a title to give the guy who ripped out a lower class satyr's eyeball and beat him half to death.

This man owns slaves, btw. And both he and his "powerful wife" are equally horrible to lower class people, especially women.

This is hands-down the funniest section of the article and we're only three bullet points in.

Thetis and Persephone have never even so much as spoken one word to each other outside of the courtroom that Thetis technically put her in after plotting against her for an entire season.

Eros is a man. Nothing wrong with that but it comes with the unintentional icky hilarity of implying that because Eros is the gay best friend, that means he's a woman.

They literally don't read this fucking comic-

Everyone always relies on this weird talking point of Demeter not being able to "let Persephone go"... y'all, she just didn't want Persephone to outright move to Olympus, she wanted her to commute. That was it! That was literally the only problem! She wasn't preventing Persephone from pursuing a higher education or telling her she wasn't allowed to work, she literally fucking encouraged it! And with the added later context of Persephone killing a bunch of mortals - and, ironically, the fact that Persephone was assaulted/put in harm's way by TWO SEPARATE MEN in the first two days of her time in Olympus - yeah, I don't blame Demeter for not wanting her daughter to move cold turkey actually LOL

Also hilarious that they claim Rachel has turned "tradition" into "innovation" when the only thing she's managed to do is set back modern feminism in her young adult readers by 80 years and re-establish misogynist brainwashing in her adult ones. Rachel, your fanbase was literally shipping a victim of abuse with her abuser just a few days ago.

oh boy this is uh

this is some cult shit ngl

and the "rewriting the script of Greek mythology" part is VERY concerning knowing what we know about Lore Olympus and who it was written by. This is literally cultural appropriation, full stop, and it exists because Lore Olympus - and works like it, made by people like Rachel - exists.

I can't even commit to the original theory that this was written by a bot because it all feels very pointed and intenetional. This is being written by someone who, at the very least, REALLY sucks at media analysis and writing, because the entire article is just "Lore Olympus, buzzword, Lore Olympus, buzzword, buzzword, Lore Olympus", it's like a white knight incantation for guilty virtue signallers who have zero clue what they're talking about. And at worst, yes, it's appropriation from someone who doesn't mind taking a culture's stories and myths and promoting their erasure by people outside of the culture like Rachel.

And that's it, that's literally the article lmao

*EDIT: There was a section here before addressing the writer of the article from a very opinionated POV that, while isn't unusual for what I do here, did feel necessary to remove after I was contacted by the article writer who addressed the flaws in their original article and is now seeking to correct them with revisions/an article rewrite. So I felt it only fair as a compromise to at least remove that section as it really doesn't have a whole lot to do with this post as a whole and can be removed without entirely ruining the flow of this analysis. If/when that article is rewritten, I'll be revisiting this post and my overall analysis !

And honestly, it's all really telling, because this does accurately reflect the state of the LO fanbase.

Not only do many of the people who defend this comic like it's their job not pick up on the blatant misogynist tones that are going on in its narrative (I can't even call them "undertones" anymore, they're no longer that subtle) but whether or not they even read the comic at all is up for debate with how much stuff they tend to get wrong in their own arguments and justifications. And this is something that's VERY regularly seen in the fanbase discussions, readers will constantly be unaware of things that happened because they skimmed through it at lightning speed just to see if Hades and Persephone kiss and so they can get the top comment on Webtoons so they can be "ahead of the fanbase". It's no wonder that Rachel has gotten used to getting away with retconning things because her fanbase didn't even read what she established the first time.

Rachel's fanbase was literally defending the romance ship of an abuser and his victim on the newest FP episode preview. When that FP episode came out two nights ago and Hera said, point blank, that he didn't love her but abused her, I could only think of that portion of the fanbase who was very audibly simping over Kronos in the IG comment section. Are they actually having their moment of shameful clarity now? Or are they just gonna move the goalposts and pretend that didn't happen?

I don't want to say anything bad about Shelby here because she really seems like she's fighting for her life on this site that she's trying to get off the ground, but a lot of her other articles also come across as very one-note while being peppered with buzzwords that make it seem like what she's talking about is "progressive" when it really isn't. Case in point, Lessons in Chemistry has been commonly criticized for not actually appealing to the demographic that its Mary Sue-ish main character is supposed to represent - women in STEM career fields.

I've said it before, and I'll say it again: Lore Olympus is not 'feminism', it's white feminism that is designed to appeal to predominantly heterocis white women who think the solution to misogyny is to willingly submit to it and accept the status quo - that it's "empowering" if the woman is smiling and having all her needs paid for by a man. Sure, I can accept that different women will be looking for different relationship dynamics, some women genuinely are happy being in a relationship where they support their husbands first and foremost. But can that truly be called feminism? Or is the real feminism the choices we make along the way that we should be given the freedom to make?

It says a lot about the folks who tend to regularly prop up LO on a pedestal like this as some "revolution in feminism" despite the contrary after spending more than just 30 seconds skimming the attention-grabbing art, and Shelby is just one of many. She's not the worst of the bunch, though.

That goes to someone else who I want to give proper light to in their own essay. Someone who definitely earned a good stern talking-to this past week and has, thankfully, had consequences dished out to her for her horrible actions towards queer POC writers.

If you know, you know. If you don't, buckle up.

[mothiir]

Captain Sevatar’s 100% Legitimate Advice on Handling a Human Female

this is so dumb why am i writing this instead of something useful. anyway, here is sevatar’s response — comes after fulgrim’s first letter. i love sevatar so very much, and the only background bit of lore you need to know for this is that back on his home planet sev fed the crows because the sound of their wing beats calmed his psyker headaches.

—

Father,

Delivered the crows as per your request. Have her feed them to a schedule — they will quickly bond with her.

Will defer to Uncle Fulgrim’s advice re: names though unsure what the issue with my suggestions was. Names should be practical and indicate the purpose of the thing. War Sage. Terminator. Cocksleeve. All clear and easy to understand. Still. Your choice.

-S

—

Father,

Glad to hear crows settling in. Apologies, did not think to warn you of territorial nature, assumed you would have one of your visions and therefore know.

If they are used to her giving them food they will defend her. I am sure the wounds will heal swiftly, and it seems they did not get you in the eyes. Suggest goggles until they acclimatise to your presence. Would advise against culling the flock. Crows are not humans. They have personalities and are not easily replaceable.

-S

—

Father,

Why can’t you just ask one of the household staff to do this it is not remotely my job

I am the First Captain I am tasked with flaying our enemies not babysitting my own father

Have sought out tailor and provided appropriate measurements. Are you sure you want it in linen, not in a nice tanned skin? She’d suit the Chapter’s aesthetic far better if she was wearing the freshly harvested hide of a foe.

-S

—

Father,

Two weeks is more than enough time for her to become accustomed to her new station. If she is still crying at night try removing her tongue. We do this with the whinier serfs and it doesn’t seem to affect their job performance.

-S

—

Father,

Quick note to follow up the last one — given the duties you want her to fulfil best she keep her tongue. Suggest removing something less useful, like a toe or a finger.

-S

—

Father,

Fulgrim knows best, I am sure, though it does sound like he is suggesting you spoil her rotten. A lost digit or two is not going to kill a human.

Regarding the other point. See no reason why you should wait. Just take care. Humans are breakable. Have you ever tried to put a chain sword into a sheath too small for it? Same principle. Happy to provide demonstration on how to do it correctly if you would like - best way to learn is through observation. Promise to leave her in one piece for you more or less.

Your adoring and faithful son,

Sevatar

[zukosdualdao]

something i was thinking about regarding the parallels of aang and zuko accidentally burning toph and katara, respectively, is the similarity in their reactions in the immediate aftermath, but the way their reactions diverge afterward, re: apologies.

Aang tosses it into the air and spreads his arms out. For a second, he has a smile on his face, but it vanishes as he accidentally burns Katara's hands. Katara shrieks in pain. Aang: Katara! I'm so sorry! Sokka comes running to Katara's side. Sokka: [Concerned.] Katara, what's wrong? [Angrily.] What did you do?! Aang: It was an accident! I was, uh... Katara, I'm so-- Sokka furiously tackles Aang. Sokka: [Enraged.] I told you we shouldn't mess around with this! Look what you did! You burned my sister! [Katara runs away.]

Zuko: Who's there? Stay back! [Whips fire.] Toph: It's me! [Throws up an earth shield, but steps back into Zuko's fire blast.] Ow! You burned my feet! Zuko: I'm sorry, it was a mistake! [Comes toward her, but she begins to crawl away.] Toph: Get away from me! [As Toph crawls away, she grabs the earth under her and throws it backward at Zuko.] Zuko: Let me help you! [Dodges another rock.] I'm sorry! [Tries to grab her.] Toph: Get off me, get off me! [Brings up some earth which sends Zuko flying back.]

both of them try to immediately apologize as soon as they realize what they've done, and while that's understandable and they both do feel genuine remorse, the kinds of apologies being made in these contexts are inherently a little selfish. an apology should be for the other person, and neither katara or toph is in a place to process it, as both are in immediate pain and both are panicking. aang and zuko also both try to repeat the apology - aang only doesn't get all the way through his because sokka tackles him and interrupts - in the moment when it's become very clear that it's not going to be appropriate or helpful at the time.

where i think they diverge, though, is that while aang continues to feel remorse, he doesn't offer another apology now that tensions have lowered and she might be in a better place to receive it. instead, it becomes about his own guilt, and katara having to comfort him, telling him it doesn't matter because she was able to heal herself.

Katara enters the cottage to find Aang sulking. Aang: Jeong Jeong tried to tell me that I wasn't ready. I wouldn't listen. I'm never going to firebend again. Katara: You'll have to eventually. Aang: No, never again. Katara: It's okay, Aang. I'm healed.

he also learns the wrong lesson from it. and to be clear, i'm not criticizing that as a writing choice - i think it's very realistic. but instead of resolving to do better in the future and learn discipline, he declares his intent to avoid firebending instead of committing to the responsibility of controlling it. (which, as katara rightly points out, is just not going to work.)

whereas, despite his lapse in wallowing in his own guilt - why am i so bad at being good? - by the next day, zuko is able to apologize to toph in a setting where tensions are lower and she's better able to process it, as her feet might not be completely healed but are healing and she's in significantly less pain and a clearer mindset. he gives the explanation of it being an accident without excusing it, instead affirming that he knows he has a responsibility to be more careful and resolving to do better.

Zuko: [To Toph.] I'm sorry for what I did to you. [Bows to her.] It was an accident. Fire can be dangerous and wild, so as a firebender, I need to be more careful and control my bending, so I don't hurt people unintentionally.

i think the reason zuko is able to work past this and not keep wallowing in shame and guilt is because part of his journey has been learning (with help from iroh) that the guilt and shame he was made to feel for his 'wrongdoings' in ozai's eyes never actually helped anything, and he has finally started to internalize that. so he's able to say "i did a wrong thing and i'm sorry and i will do better" without either trying to completely justify himself or debasing himself, and that's powerful and important.

[cator99]

(Re: previous post about my home) with all that said yes i did finally snap and admit that the stress of this situation has been affecting me and pointed directly towards how PG and new girl have irresponsibly conducted themselves and pushed an unstable situation onto all of us which I did not appreciate considering how hard I've worked to reach a point of relative housing stability. They must have assumed I wasn't home because I heard the two of them reacting in a very real ie messy way (I seriously respect that they were just being real about it for once instead of putting up a front like nothings wrong and using instagram infographics speak to slough off taking responsibility for their actions and guilt people into placating their poor behaviour ykwim) like really just cackling about how I brought up the overall flippant attitude that the situation has been treated with, and that [new girl] may think the house is in an unlivable condition (she brings this up constantly as though this is a reason to approach all of this with utter disregard) just because it's not the suburbs but for some of us who grew up without shit this place is a godsend and honestly there's not that much wrong with it at all, so please try not to jeopardize our ability to live here for the people who really need it just because it means nothing to you. Grow up. That was what comprised my (now deleted) message. They were having real fun in the kitchen laughing at how seriously I was taking everything. Fair enough. Their issue at that point wasn't that I was somehow wrong but rather that I care at all enough to get butthurt about it and to say all of this. Then they got to the real issue: how to respond to it? I came out of my room and assured them that there was no need to. Doesn't seem like there's a conversation to be had. New girl ran off and hid behind the corner while PG sat there and shifted back into her can-do-no-wrong sjw mode and asked me if I wanted to talk about it. I leaned against the stove on the far opposite side of the room from them and told new girl that if she really didnt care about all this at all then she should say so to my face. Everyone else has to live with the consequences of what seems to just be a joke to you, so why do you get to hide? I was entirely calm about this for the record so this didn't seem to be a fear thing it's just that she'd just been caught acting shifty lol. She just kept hiding silently around the corner in the living room. PG tried to come at me with the "to be honest, you're Causing Harm by singling out [new girl]'s attitude towards the situation." I told her that overstating harm isn't appropriate here (again, these words exactly. I'm not here tweaking acting out or losing my mind I'm just calmly telling them what I think but I got the impression that it would've made no difference either way) and assured her that the particular statement about Attitude was directed at how everyone involved has handled this. We talked about the minutiae of my language and I reiterated that I was addressing the Overall Attitude that people have taken towards the issue. "But you're singling her out." I don't find that unreasonable. We went back and forth about language until she told me: "if you take issue with the way someone is conducting themselves then you need to tell them." I said she was right! She was absolutely right. So I invited new girl to peek her head around the corner. She brought herself into view. "I think that you are careless and irresponsible. You've made decisions that put people's housing at risk. And yes, you have a shit attitude." They stared at me.

[bijoumikhawal]

Planning a Mallory Grace cosplay: The Ironwood Tree Dress, but more medivaler

This came about for two reasons: one, recently I've been making fabric flower corsages, mostly to wear on my head, and two, I was reminded of the imagery of green clad young women from medieval times.

If you know Mallory, you probably know this image. We have a few more useful images as well, but we won't be sticking to them; they'll just be inspiration.

From there four images we get the details that

the dress is mostly white with deep green accents

it has the princess cuffs over the back of the hands on the under sleeves

the over sleeves are angel sleeves

Mallory's hair is in a little ribbon cage with two silver flower pins

there may be a subtle flower brocade on the skirt

The skirt has two tiers of bottom ruffles and a border above them with three stripes

There appears to be a white underdress peaking out of the sleeves and skirt

I loved this dress design as a kid, but I think the bodice is actually rather unflattering. It reminds me of some armor breast plates, which is cool, but doing what's basically a paned sleeve as a bodice... makes me think of a pumpkin. This artistic difference led to me sketching a new design

This design is a houppelande underneath a boat necked cotehardie/kirtle with a shortened hem. I did another pass on the cotehardie design (see the left). I'm going to do the embroidery with silver clon cord and beetlewings I already have from another project. The neck is going to be cut even lower, and I'll make a lattice pattern out of ribbons or fabric strips over a sheer fabric to stabilize it. The embroidery isn't period, but it covering the bodice is inspired by some miniatures depicting that composition.

I also needed to scrap the ruffle on the houppelande- the fabric I wanted to use is an old dark green Ralph Lauren flat sheet with a rose jacquard pattern, and I don't have enough of it for a houppelande already. My solution to this is that I'll be color blocking the houppelande, and making up the difference with a complementary green fabric. The houppelande will be working with the circle theory.

I planned to use silver curtains I already had for the overdress, but it has this evil rubber backing fused on so it won't behave for this. I'll be in the hunt for an appropriate silvery fabric.

The original dress has no clear and specific historical source imo, other than it does resemble a boat necked cotehardie a bit. The hair, however, is clearly a coazzone. The most well known depictions of this are from 1490s Italy. However, in Spain it was worn at least between the 1360s and the 1530s. There are multiple theories about what exactly these were, including a veil that's been wrapped around a braid or ponytail with ribbons. I'd probably make a "fixed" version, so I wouldn't have to re-wrap the ribbons every time.

However, the cotehardies and houppelandes i was looking at were moreso mid to late 1300s. While the coazzone does fit that time in Spain, it has a late "feel". So I kind of want to make a bycocket in addition to a coazzone and flower corsages, to give me options for headgear. The bycocket is also called the "Robin Hood" hat, and it was worn by people hunting, traveling, hawking, etc. It seems to me like it functioned to protect the eyes and direct rain away from the face. I think it fits because the dwarves had a sword in with Mallory, which to me indicates some respect for her running about as a fencer. Additionally, one analysis of women depicted as wearing this hat by R. L. Pisetzky (Storia del Costume in Italia, vol. II, 1964-69) referred to it as a "rude oddity", "masculine/ambiguous", and that women wearing it had a "diabolic essence". The place I found it said this was too harsh, but I find it funny and it reminds me of the reaction the Pooka had to Mallory.

I may make a foam sword for photos/if I ever wear this to a con, but it's not pressing to me right now (this project will probably take awhile). I do want to make this as wearable as possible so various elements can be worn on their own or in combination with other things, which is why I didn't plan to make a single dress that just looks like two layered on top of each other, and why the over dress with be silver and not white (also I hate sewing white fabrics).

[maddiethedogstories]

The Floor Routine

Inspiration struck Erica while watching the Olympics cuddled up with Mads. Snug in her soggy nighttime diaper and favorite Winnie the Pooh two-piece pajama set, she stared up at her boyfriend. Erica had been living her best life since Mads had agreed to be her boyfriend and caregiver. Only one issue had cropped up.

As time went on, Erica could tell Mads was losing respect for her as an adult. That loss of respect was expected when someone was tasked with changing your messy diapers everyday, but that didn't mean it didn't hurt. Erica still wanted to be seen as the sexy, intimidating, and mature woman Mads used to see her as, if only just occasionally.

That's where gymnastics came in. In high school, Erica had been a gymnast. However, like with many youthful endeavors, age, injury, time, and resources cut her gymnastic career short. But, the Olympics reminded Erica how strong, powerful, intimidating, and sexy the sport was.

Two days later, Erica stood just inside the door to her nursery, dressed in the sexiest leotard she could find, ready to surprise Mads.

"Are you ready, Daddy?" She called out flirtatiously.

"Yes, baby," Mads responded.

Erica stepped out from behind the door, revealing her sexy body wrapped in spandex that barely covered her naughty bits. Mads looked at her, appreciating the view. Erica grinned as his eyes lingered on her ass.

"Sweetie, you aren't even wearing a pull-up?! You're going to ruin your cute outfit!" Mads said.

Erica could have screamed. She almost did. She resisted though. Tonight, she was a big girl. She wasn't going to throw a tantrum. Instead, she walked up to her boyfriend and grabbed his crotch.

"I'm only worried about needing protection from this!" She said, kissing Mads as she stroked his cock through his pants.

After what Erica deemed an appropriately long make-out session, she pulled away.

"Are you ready to see some of my special skills, Daddy?" Erica asked huskily. Mads just grinned.

"Other than being the world's cutest pamper packer?" He asked, squeezing her mostly exposed ass.

Erica did stomp her foot at that.

"Daaaddddy!"

Mads tussled her hair before saying, "I know, baby, I'm sorry. Let me grab your diaper bag and we can go."

Erica huffed again, but knew from experience there was no getting Mads to go anywhere with her without her diaper bag.

The couple reached their destination in 20 minutes: the Little City Gymnastics Center. Erica led Mads into the building with all of the energy of a toddler dragging their caregiver into a toy store, excited to show off her moves and re-establish herself as a capable woman to her boyfriend.

Once inside, they were greeted by a beautiful, younger woman at the front desk. Her name tag identified her as Sammy. As Erica looked at her, a familiar sensation struck her stomach and bowels. Not concerned, Erica dismissed the feeling as butterflies.

Sammy spoke cheerily, "You must be Erica? You rented out the whole gym for an hour? Come this way, let's get you where you want to go!"

Sammy led the couple down a hallway and into the main gym. A large, springy floor for floor routine was surrounded by various other gymnastics apparatus, pads, and training devices. Erica's eyes went wide as she walked in, and the sensation she was calling butterflies intensified. It was beautiful.

"Here you go, have fun! I'll be in the corner if you need anything," Sammy said, grabbing her cellphone and leaning against a wall.

Erica grabbed Mads hand as she turned and looked at him seductively. "Are you ready to see how much of a 'big girl,' I can be?" She said as she dragged him towards the space for practicing floor routine in the center of the room. Erica didn't even notice her other hand subconsciously rubbing her stomach as she walked.

"Of course, baby," Mads said with a smile.

Erica moved to the center of the floor and prepared for her first move, a standing back flip. She hadn't done one since high school, but she was sure that didn't matter.

Making eye contact with Mads, Erica squatted down, threw her arms back, and launched. The world blurred for a moment before Erica realized she had screwed up.

Erica undershot her landing, leaving her feet splayed out behind her as she belly-flopped into the hard floor. Failing to land wasn't the worst thing to happen though. As she hit the floor, Erica lost control of the cramps she had chalked up to nerves. With a trumpeting sound, her bowels released themselves, forcing Erica to push out a lumpy brown mess into the back of her leotard.

Mads quickly ran to Erica's side, diaper bag in tow. "Oh, baby, did you have a little accident?" He said as he hugged her.

Erica couldn't form words. She just sobbed as she felt her mess squish in her leotard.

With deft hands, Mads quickly undressed and diapered Erica. Sammy also appeared, holding a new, much less sexy, pink leotard that looked suspiciously like an infant's onesie. Mads quickly dressed Erica in that as well.

Staring at Erica, now dressed in the pink onesie with a substantial diaper bulge at her waist, Sammy pressed her finger to her lips.

"You know, sweetie, I don't think this room's for you," she said, grabbing Erica's hand. She led the waddling woman out of the room and into another one, a gym clearly meant for a toddler tumbling class. "This place seems much more your speed!"

Erica blushed as Mads came up from behind her, placed his hand on the small of her back, urging her to go play. "Go on, little one, enjoy your time! Show Daddy what you can do!"

Erica toddled into the middle of the room and released her bladder, soaking her diaper in shame. Standing in the middle of the glorified daycare in a wet diaper and onesie, Erica knew she was precisely where she belonged.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This is my entry for a little, friendly competition with @baby-erica! I may have lost, but she is still the bigger baby.

[genderkoolaid]

I remember at one point seeing a cis woman on here talking about how she dodnt like being called Mx (as opposed to Miss or Ms) because as a kid she had bullies degender her for being fat and queer.

And like that's a perfectly reasonable request, and as far as I saw people were very respectful of it (though there might have been backlash i missed) but i think a lot of the same people who see "denying a girl access to womanhood because of her weight can be traumatizing" don't extend the same compassion to men being denied access to manhood

(re: men not wanting to be called princess being labeled toxic masculinity, also that one TikTok about using they for trans men who specifically use he)

"but i think a lot of the same people who see "denying a girl access to womanhood because of her weight can be traumatizing" don't extend the same compassion to men being denied access to manhood"

Yes!!! Yes!!!!!!!

I've been thinking a lot about "gender wounds" which is just what I've been calling trauma that comes from gender-based cruelty, whether its degrading you for your gender or forcibly alienating you from it. Gender is an important part of a lot of people's identity and having that attacked can be really traumatizing. So many men experience this but its also so normalized. Like you said, a lot of people can understand how being denied access to your womanhood is traumatizing, even when you are cis, but don't see it the same with men. "Fragile masculinity" is so often said with such lack of compassion, but being terrified of having your gender revoked for the slightest misstep is traumatizing.

The appropriate response is not "don't be a baby, just embrace being feminine!" because honestly, that's not much better than "don't be a baby, just be more masculine!", and doesn't do much to actually help (esp cis) men understand how they are being negatively impacted by the patriarchy.

To quote Jennifer Coates:

"Have you noticed, when a product is marketed in an unnecessarily gendered way, that the blame shifts depending on the gender? That a pink pen made “for women” is (and this is, of course, true) the work of idiotic cynical marketing people trying insultingly to pander to what they imagine women want? But when they make yogurt “for men” it is suddenly about how hilarious and fragile masculinity is — how men can’t eat yogurt unless their poor widdle bwains can be sure it doesn’t make them gay? #MasculinitySoFragile is aimed, with smug malice, at men—not marketers."

When we see things like Yogurt For Men, we should respond with "isn't it fucked up that the patriarchy makes men feel like every single aspect of their lives needs to be appropriately manly or else they are failures?" because that's actually pointing to the systematic source of the problem.

[cyren-myadd]

Do you have any thoughts on the fact that in first scenario Spider was supposed be from Mexico and his name was Javier?

I don't think we ever had any real confirmation of original-Spider's ethnicity or nationality, but when his name was first announced as "Javier Socorro" a lot of people assumed he would be Latino Hispanic (from a Latin American country) instead of White Hispanic (from Spain) like he ended up being. That meant he very well could've been Mexican, or at least half-Mexican on his mom's side since I think he was always intended to be Quaritch's son. I believe they changed his first name to "Miles" to make the connection to Quaritch more obvious.

If Spider had been Mexican, it wouldn't have really changed anything in The Way of Water. He's still a human, and being a different color wouldn't change the way the other characters perceive him. The only thing that would've been different is that he wouldn't have had the nickname "monkey boy/monkey mascot," since having Sigourney Weaver and Stephen Lang calling a Hispanic kid monkey would NOT have gone over well.

Even though making him a different ethnicity wouldn't have changed the movie itself, I actually think it might've changed the way he was perceived by the audience.

This is a thought I've had in the back of my head for a long time, and this question finally gave me a reason to type it all out. But before I get into it, I do want to say that I am white and American, so I'm speaking from the perspective of a white American when I make this analysis of Spider's character and how he was perceived by American audiences. Now let's get into it:

Spider was a pretty controversial character. A lot of people hated him, but there was also a minority of people who really loved him too (me lol). Some people hated him because they felt like Neteyam's death was his fault or because they didn't like that he saved Quaritch in the end, which are reasons that wouldn't change because of his ethnicity, but there were also people who hated him because of his appearance. Spider was often described as "feeling out of place" and off-putting to some viewers. After I saw the Way of Water with my cousins, one of them (he is also white) told me that he hated Spider. When I asked him why, he shrugged and said, "he's a white boy with dreadlocks!" like that was the only reason he needed.

Now I'm just speculating here, but I think a small part of the reason why so many people can't stand Spider might be because he is white. Not because of racism against white people, but because of the context in which Spider exists as a white person. The Na'vi are very obvious allegories for indigenous American, African, and Maori people, and the RDA is a very obvious allegory for European colonizers and US corporations that exploited those groups. I can't speak for the rest of the world, but in America there are social controversies over white American people taking items that are culturally significant to other groups and wearing them as costumes. I know there's a lot of controversy over what is and isn't cultural appropriation, but when it comes to specifically white people wearing specifically Native American clothing, it's generally regarded negatively since most Native American people have said it's disrespectful because the clothing has cultural and spiritual significance.

And then we have Spider, who is not only white, but is also the son of two people who actively harmed the Na'vi, and he wears Na'vi clothing.

In the context of the Avatar movies, it makes perfect sense that Spider would dress and act the way that he does. He was raised alongside the Na'vi so it's all he knows. If you were going to fit Spider into the greater allegory of Avatar, he is similar to the historical figure, Olive Oatman. When Oatman was a child in the 1800s, her family was killed by a group of Native Americans, and she and her sister ended up being taken in by the Mohave people. She lived with them for several years before returning to a white settlement, and during that time she was assimilated into the Mohave tribe, wearing their clothing and receiving traditional tattoos. (Her story is super interesting, you should totally read more about it!). Spider is like a sci-fi version of Oatman, since his parents were killed by natives and he ended up being taken in by them and assimilating into their culture. In the context of modern day culture, a white woman getting Mohave tattoos would be considered appropriation, but in the context of Oatman's situation, it makes sense. Same thing with Spider. In-universe, adopting Omaticaya culture makes sense.

However, if you look at Spider through the lens of modern American cultural context, he looks an awful lot like a white kid dressing up in the traditional clothing of a culture his people harmed. If Spider had been raised on earth and was actively benefiting from the RDA's exploitation of Pandora, then what he's doing would be considered appropriation. But he wasn't. Even though that's not what Spider is, the association is still there. So when people see this "white boy with dreadlocks" as my cousin put it, they feel like there's something wrong with what they're looking at because they associate his appearance with cultural appropriation. I think if Spider had been cast as Latino, he might have been received a bit more favorably by the audience.

Once again, this is all just speculation, I don't really know if Spider's perception would've been different if he'd been a different ethnicity, and I acknowledge that most of the hate Spider received had to do with his character actions. However, I do believe that American audiences may have been partly influenced by the concept of cultural appropriation, which is where that feeling of Spider being "off-putting" comes from. I think it's definitely where my cousin's dislike of him comes from, since it's not about anything he did, but rather how he looks like.

[leohtttbriar]

star trek fic recommendations

(small Note: i don't read a lot of fic and don't seek it out very often, so i am one hundred percent sure there is a lot more beautifully written star trek fics out there and if anyone has any recommendations for me i am very happy to take them!)

+ piercing music played with bloodied fingers - by 1nterlaced @firstroseofspring

T'Pring takes her fill.

This fic blew out the little we get of T'Pring in the show and created this fascinating person with history and perspective in both a convincing way and with this underlying theme of the value of "choice" in personhood--which not only springs off from canon but enriches it in such a way that I really think this should be published into the ongoing canon of this character. The language is considered and interesting and really engages with the conceit of Vulcan aliens. The craft of this whole fic is truly gorgeous and makes the ending, the climax of choice and interest and attention all established so beautifully in T'Pring as the story progresses, all the more intense in resolution and feeling.

Quote: "One week into her arrival, the sky is cloudy and starless and has been nothing else. Despite the heavy pollution on the planet, the sight is beautiful- emerald green with a constant blanket of thick white clouds. The storms in the area are incessant, roiling and loud. She’d taken a trip to the coast the day before and found that the seaside was much of the same- a ferry trip she'd planned to take to a small island was forced to re-accommodate to be taken by a safer mode of transport, and she’d watched the turbulent waters through the glass instead of feeling the water under her feet."

+ say it soft, and it's almost like praying - by @daemonologywrites

In space, she is simply Lieutenant Uhura. (Or: isn't it a little fucked up that Uhura's first name doesn't get canonized until 2009?)

An incredibly sensual and sensitive examination of Uhura's name and the intimate nature of names and language in general. Absolutely adored it as a framing for how Uhura perceives a varied universe and how she feels perceived by it in turn. The attention paid to details of sound and phrase is reflected by the language of the fic itself, which is beautifully and artfully written. Since it's canon that Uhura translates poetry in her free time (and speaks significantly about moonlight), this fic reads as exactly the sort voice needed to describe her relationship with words and with others.

Quote: "The issue being: that no matter how Uhura thows herself into the fires of dialect and idiom, there are yet those phonemes too fine to be heard by human ears, too harsh to be uttered by a human tongue. Her universal translator can analyze the sound waves and synthesize the appropriate components, but woman-to-woman, alien-to-alien, her heart skips a beat and that fine name worthy of study and finesse (she'd only heard it once in its entirety but the tune of it had lingered oh-so-long) becomes simply—'T'Pring.'"

+ Cut the Strings - by @lostyesterday

During an attempt to secure dilithium from a seemingly abandoned refinery, a terrifyingly powerful and perceptive artificial intelligence takes control of Seven’s body and holds B’Elanna hostage. B’Elanna must rely on her engineering skills and her wits to save both Seven and herself.

This fic was fascinating--it could really be one of the truly memorable Star Trek episodes. The questions coming from its story and characters and writing were all of a sci-fi short story quality and the conceit underlying the plot sticks with you. It's also a particularly good story for the character B'Elanna, capturing the things that arouse B'Elanna's sympathies and showing so movingly how she controls those sympathies and uses them to react and to think and to protect and to just be B'Elanna. The touch of real intimacy between the characters works so well at the end of the story, the way they both wanted to reach out to the other, in a way that finally overcame the tension between them, was really lovely.

Quote: “I had a body once, you know,” Lady Aria whispered. B’Elanna’s eyes flew open. The expression on Seven’s face had turned soft and wistful. “It was fully mechanical – not partially organic as this body is. But they destroyed it.”

+ Simulacra - by TheonlyDan

Philippa Georgiou will always fall into Michael’s arms. You kiss her. She angles her face just in time so your lips land on her cheek, not her mouth. So there’s your last kiss.

This fic portrays a tension between Michael and Georgiou so completely; Michael's yearning, her rationalizing, her acceptance, her non-acceptance--it's all laid out in sparse intimate moments, with evocative figurative language, arguing really well that there is both horror and comfort in being something significant to someone else.

Quote: "Georgiou is fixated on being everything to you, everything and a little extra. So there’s love."

+ patience - by @trillscienceofficer

“I thought eating azna would be enough to calm me down, but I was wrong.” Lenara didn’t hold Jadzia’s gaze for very long, like she was ashamed of something. “I’ve been missing home— I mean Trill, terribly lately.” Jadzia frowned. She’d had no idea. Jadzia and Lenara share a meal (and some feelings) at the replimat.

Everytime I think about this fic I ache. It shows precisely what it is that Lenara left for in "Rejoined," while still being a story about her staying. Lenara's distinct loneliness in this is almost difficult to read because in the moment in the fic there truly is no solution to it except (as Jadzia says in this) to grow comfortable with the discomfort. Jadzia and Lenara, in both dialogue and interpersonal interaction, are so real in this, acting and speaking as any person does about things so beyond their control. And the details in the world-building are both so interesting and lend their choices and their regrets so much depth. When Jadzia remarks that she hasn't ever been to a particular Trill festival, not in any of her lives except one (who remembers it differently), the weight of all the memories that Jadzia and Lenara carry is felt, which is so important I think to both the characters and any version of how their romance plays out.

Quote: “Depths,” she said, hiding her face behind her hands. “It’s really too late now, isn’t it? I can’t bring you the festival, not now and not ever.” She met Jadzia’s eyes, stricken, and Jadzia’s chest constricted painfully. Lenara continued: “The stupid part is, I never really cared for it before. I don’t like the smoke, or the spiced cider, or freezing outside while the fire runs out. And yet now it feels like I’ve lost this— big part of my life. It doesn’t make sense,” she finished forcefully.

+ words for the way you live - by Mirekat

The Dax symbiont, in the wilderness

There's something so special in the idea of exploring the perspective of the symbiont itself and this fic delves so beautifully into what that personhood would feel like; memory and sensation and what it means to be beloved parasite or to have a parasite, the ineffable relationship between symbiont and host. The language in this fic implies a person of deep feeling and attachment and (I might just be inferring this for my own interpretation--it's a very rich fic) makes the argument that part of the Trill conceit to gain vast experiences is sourced in the symbiont itself for the symbiont loves (in a complicated way) each body it is and mourns and continues, inevitably.

Quote: you will know symbiont. you will know parasite. you will know that you can think, and that because you can think you can choose, and that it is right for you to choose symbiont and not parasite, to choose bodies with words and long memories 

+ When Janeway met Tuvok - by mystery_ink

Janeway appears in front of three admirals after what she thought was a successful mission.

This take on Janeway is so inspired and so fascinating, I wanted to live with Lieutenant Janeway for several long years. The tension in the story unfolds so well and the realism inherent in the situation makes the characters feel so real. The indignation on both sides, the change that will happen to them both (only artfully hinted at), and the way it's not a large action that Janeway takes to concede something to Tuvok at the end but it's nonetheless significant: it's all compelling.

Quote: “Lieutenant,” Aates said gently. “We’d like to hear your side of the story.” - “What story?” Densa asked. “This is real life we’re talking about here.”

+ Speech - by raven (singlecrow)

Five languages she learned to speak, and one she already knew.

I found this fic in a crazed fit, desperate for Uhura content, by basically blocking every male character tag and relationship on ao3, and then some. It was very worth the effort. This is so creative and so interesting and so fun and so moving and exactly what I want to see explored more and more and more. The ideas of different languages described in this are delightful and watching a character encounter them and seek, determinedly, to understand them was even more so. I want whole books dedicated to the morphological constructions of the smell-language. Actually, all of them. I want a book for all of them.

Quote: The people of the Light worked with their hands. Their world was made of chromium and glass, wood and stone, smoothed with saltwater, and time. Nyota had told Spock about their intricate art, their solidity of tradition, and the elegiac sparseness of their poetry. She had talked with her hands over breakfast, about cultural continuity and fluidity, and how a world never recorded was never objective, described and experienced in flux.