#is correct in explicating that

[asurrogateblog]

yes it is very funny how nick is inexplicably the main character of live at pompeii but I also genuinely do love that it gives him the chance to show off his skills. I feel like even he himself downplays how good of a drummer he is, but man does he kill it

[misqnon]

dratchet ship bullshit i did for a non-tf fan friend who asked about them ✨️

[lolochaponnay]

Après une soirée très arrosé, un homme rentre chez lui après s'être vomis dessus. Sa femme, qui l'attendait, lui demande des explications : - Chérie, il m'est arrivé une histoire incroyable, je buvais un café au bar avec des copains, quand un type complètement bourrer est entré et m'a gerbé dessus... Remarque, il a quand même été correct, il m'a donné 20€ pour le pressing. .. Le lendemain matin, sa femme le réveille : - Dis-moi, le type qui t'as gerbé dessus, tu le connais ? Tu vas le revoir ? - Oui, pourquoi ? - Tu lui diras de te donner 20€ de plus parce qu'il a aussi chié dans ton slip !

[phoenixkaptain]

I really want to explore Tim “rich kid” Drake spending time with his friends and them just slowly realizing that Robin is even weirder than they thought.

Like, Arrowette complains about some press event or something that her mom wants her to go to and Robin just starts listing off advice and unspoken rules and tells her to absolutely avoid the shrimp cocktails unless she wants an early out, in which case the correct amount to eat is one and a half shrimp with only a bit of cocktail sauce, which will be enough to change her complexion and convince people she doesn’t feel well and allow her to escape to the restroom, then she just needs to slip out one of the windows-

Or Wonder Girl commenting on, like, a science fair project or something and he just goes “Science fairs are the worst. Everyone wants to buy your services to make them something, not understanding that you’re richer than they are and that an insult to you could lead to you buying their parents’ companies if they don’t shut up. They’re lucky I have an even temper…” WG: “…wat.”

Superboy is like “man, Superman’s trying to convince me to clean my room. What should I do?” and Tim just stares blankly at him because nobody has ever told him to clean his room before and he’s never cleaned his room before and he had no idea Clark was so cruel and-

Impulse: “Hey, Rob, pass me a can opener.”

Robin, staring into the drawer, fifteen can openers right in front of his eyes: “We don’t have one.”

I just want Tim to inexplicably not know some things because he’s never had to know them. I want him to explicably know things because he had to know them. I want the things he does know and the things he doesn’t to be totally backwards to everyone, who are all wondering why Robin knows how to hotwire a car but does not know how to work a vacuum cleaner.

[oceantornadoo]

got lovesick all over my bed (samira mohan x jack abbot sick fic)

Someone's knocking on her forehead.

No, that can't be right. Samira turns her brain on and tries valiantly to unstick her eyelids as she forcibly blinks them open. Once they are, cloudy but mostly functional, she takes in her living room looking exactly like how she left it. No TV, because she doesn't want to pay for cable and doesn't have time for it anyway. Stacks of medical journals, mostly neat, on the coffee table she got for $30 on Facebook Marketplace, scratched from lugging it up her stairs when her elevator was out of order, again. Marshmallow curled around himself in the corner, a reminder of her resolution to get a life, and a cat, after McKay's comment after the shift from hell 6 months ago.

Someone knocks again, but not on her forehead.

It's her door, an equally foreign object that rarely gets visitors except for the odd package delivery courier who is very, very lost. Samira runs a full body scan and is not surprised to find she fell asleep in her scrubs on her couch instead of taking the six steps into her bedroom and ensuite. What is surprising is the headache making itself known, along with congestion in every nasal passage she owns. Another slow blink reveals sinus pressure behind her eyes and cheeks and would you look at that, Samira Mohan has a sinus infection. A month before her fellowship applications are due.

And there's still someone pounding at her door.

She swings her legs off her couch, groaning as the soreness from working a double shift sinks into her bones. After a hefty grunt, Samira is fully vertical, her scrubs creased but thankfully bodily fluid-less. Maybe Mel came to check up on her? But she can't imagine her friend knocking in anything other than her usual pattern (two short, one long). Perhaps Dana, who was making comments the entire shift about how Samira looked like shit and should "go home before I write you up." Or, Samira shudders as she turns the lock to open, it's her mother, come to collect after three missed calls this week. She resolves herself to this most likely scenario, steeling her spine as she opens her door to-

Jack Abbot.

Dr. Abbot, she corrects herself, who is standing with one fist raised while the other clutches what looks like a takeout order from her favorite sushi place. A closer glimpse reveals a tub of miso soup, and her stomach grumbles in anticipation. It's a feat, but she draws her head up from the warm beacon of food to look at the man in front of her.

"Dana said you were sick." He states. Samira blinks molasses slow, and some part of her wonders if this is the flu and not a sinus infection. She must be hallucinating, because Dr. Abbot is wearing glasses that she has never, ever, seen before. If she had, the dreams she's been trying to ignore for a year would have made them a feature. They're rectangle-framed, the black color of plastic stark against his salt-and-pepper curls. An explicable breath of fondness bubbles up in her throat, and she has to slow it before it escapes.

"You're wearing glasses." Definitely the flu.

Abbot doesn't say anything, walking forward until she gets the message and lets him in. "Shoes," she murmurs, and he complies silently, kicking them off as she mentally kicks herself, because his prosthetic is probably less stable without a shoe. A chill wracks through her body, and all thoughts leave her head.

"Jesus, Samira." She blinks and he's there in front of her, the soup on her counter. He checks her forehead, her lymph nodes, and then brushes a finger against her cheek. It must be some field technique he knows, and she tries to remember to ask him if he has a case study to go along with it.

"Dr. Abbot..." She trails off, unsure of what she's going to say. An unlikely occurrence when she's usually always preparing a defense of her methods to Robby or an order to ask the upper floors, for the thirtieth time, if they have a free bed. "Jack." He orders and she swallows down a nod, which makes her throat ache. "Do you want to change out of your scrubs? A shower?" Pajamas. Shower. These are things she wants, but she nearly stumbles again when another wave of fatigue hits. Her spine curls and Dr. Abbot Jack catches her with a warm hand on her shoulder and another around her waist. It's instantly steadying as she resists the urge to curl into him.

"I need help showering. I don't think I can stand." Blood rushes in her ears as Jack takes a sharp breath. Tears prick her eyes, and she gets a flashback of her bathroom breakdown after Pittfest. The pure incompetency of her own body, one that performs its duties every day without fail, suddenly won't let her stand for more than a minute before giving up. "I could call Dr. King or maybe Dr. Collins..." He trails off, and she nearly laughs at how those are the only two people he could list because she doesn't have anyone else. But Mel is working and Heather is visiting her sister in California. And Samira's mom is a few hundred miles away in New Jersey, and god, Samira doesn't have anyone.

She realizes a second later she said that out loud.

"You have me." Jack murmurs. The hand at her waist starts pushing, moving her towards her bedroom with the strong weight of him at her back. Then it's into the bathroom, where Jack sits her on the closed toilet seat and squats in front of her.

"Your leg." She protests faintly, and it's like he didn't even hear her.

"We have a few options, Mohan. I've got some baby wipes you can use, but the shower steam is going to help more. Your shower is too small for me to put that chair I saw in the kitchen in there. What do you want to do?" The impossibility that Jack is standing in her bathroom has suddenly hit. Jack, who has been sending her medical journals at all hours for a year now. Jack, who became a temporary day shift attending for a week after Robby took leave. Jack, who took her out for breakfast after a particularly rough night shift that she was only covering because it was Langdon's first visit with his kids. Jack, who's started bringing her lavender oat milk lattes after they went to an artisan cafe and all she could talk about was getting an attending salary to pay for a $7 latte.

Jack.

"Dr. Mohan."

She jerks her head up, which had fallen down as fatigue hit again. He's making that concentrated look where his eyes disappear into a dark color she can't name. "Can you help me shower?" He closes his eyes for a second, inhaling deeply, before opening them and nodding.

Jack does not help her shower. Dr. Abbot does. They start the water so it has time to warm up, then methodically strip Samira down. Well, he strips her while she holds onto the wall, try not to let her body collapse. Thankfully, her curls are somehow still in her claw clip, because if she had to wash her hair, she would simply shave it off. His eyes are on hers the entire time, never taking more than a perfunctory glimpse at her skin as more gets revealed. A cloud of steam hits her when she steps into the shower, one hand on Dr. Abbot's strong forearm as she attempts to stand straight. The shower curtain is partially open enough for his hand, but they agreed that she would wash her body.

It's clinical, like she's watching from outside herself as she swipes soap up and down. More recently, she's tried longer showers to do a "body check in", something the meditation app Ellis recommended told her to do. This time, her left hand swipes over the most important parts as her right hand clings to Jack's. It's the kind of grip she imagines he gave back in his army days; fingers curled around each other's forearms and wrists. After the soap washes away the mess of the Pitt and she can breathe a bit easier, she steadies her free hand against the tiled wall.

"Everything okay?" His voice comes out muffled, concern etched into his vowels. "Just need a second." She squeezes his arm and he squeezes back. She wonders if his glasses are fogged. Samira takes another greedy gulp of steam before shutting off the water, the bathroom falling silent.

Her blue towel floats before her as Jack valiantly tries to hand it over without pulling back the shower curtain. She lets herself smile before grabbing it, dropping his grip so she can properly wrap it around herself. Once secure, she tugs back the shower curtain (a light pink flower design she fished out of a clearance bin) and comes face to face with Jack Abbot and his glasses. Fogged.

Samira Mohan is delirious. She has a new variant of the flu that will unfortunately transfer to half of the country with the lack of NIH funding they're facing. This is the only reason for her to reach out and hook her finger under the bridge of Jack's glasses, pushing them up until they're nestled into his curls and his face is free from obstruction.

Jack must've caught the flu too, because he lets her.

He guides her with a hand on her back out of the bathroom and into the bedroom. He forces her to sit onto her (blessedly made) bed, ignoring how Marshmallow has made himself at home on one of her pillows. "Pajamas?" She points to a dresser, letting him pick out a ratty Michigan tee that she's had for almost twenty years now, along with a pair of black shorts that he puts on the bed. Jack knows she went to Pitt for undergrad. Jack also knows her father went to Michigan on full scholarship from the Math department, a feat for an international student from India. A fact she revealed during Shen's birthday drinks while they watched the Michigan v Penn State game in a sports bar. Samira stays quiet.

"Do you need help changing?" He asks, no judgement in his voice. The shower has made her limbs temporarily stronger, so she shakes her head. "I'm going to make sure the soup is hot. I'll come back in ten." She sits there, slightly dripping in her towel with her comfort shirt next to her, and watches Jack scoop Marshmallow into his arms, murmuring about getting him dinner. Despite the steam, something chokes Samira's throat as she watches him close her bedroom door, sending her a half-grin over his shoulder.

Samira dresses slowly, one hand on her mattress to steady herself. Clothes on, she finds enough strength to dig out the cold & flu medicine under her bathroom sink, taking the medicine before trudging back to her bed. She sinks into bed, finding the phone that she had left on her bed table before her double. That should've been the first sign.

12 hours ago:

Dr. Jack Abbot ATTENDING: Racial Disparities in Neurological Surgery Outcomes.pdf

Dr. Jack Abbot ATTENDING: Methods might be helpful for your fellowship app.

10 hours ago:

Mel King: How was your double? Looking forward to pizza with Becca on Saturday!

4 hours ago:

Dr. Jack Abbot ATTENDING: Dana said you weren't feeling well after your shift. Can I pick you up anything?

3 hours ago:

Amma: Priti's wedding is in August. Can you take off 2 weeks to go to India?

1 hour ago:

Dr. Jack Abbot ATTENDING: Samira?

30 minutes ago:

Dr. Jack Abbot ATTENDING: I'm coming over.

Samira types out a quick confirmation to Mel, then "I'll have to check" to her mom. And then she stares at her chat with Jack, his final message blinking back at her. He's only seen her apartment once when he drove her home from breakfast a month ago, and he had insisted on street directions rather than GPS. He didn't have her unit number either, and it's not on her mailbox. She thinks of her emergency info in the hospital records and blinks rapidly.

He knocks at her bedroom door, gentler than he did her front. "Decent?" She nods before realizing he can't see, and makes a noise of assent. It's only when he steps through does she realize what he's wearing. Scrubs. Scrubs and it's 8pm and she worked day shift today (left an hour early when Dana forced her to) which means he was supposed to work night. But he's here.

"Were you supposed to work tonight?" She murmurs, throat too sore to raise her voice. Jack shrugs, setting down a bowl of soup on her bedside table before checking her temperature with a forehead thermometer that must've been in his go-bag. "Shen covered for me." He doesn't show her her temperature, just sets down the device and grabs the bowl. "But- Jack. You should be working. I'm fine now, you can go. I'm sure they need you." He doesn't answer, raising a spoonful of soup to her mouth, shoulders only dropping from their tense height when she swallows. "He owed me. I fed that ball of fur you call a cat, so it's your turn." She takes another spoonful, warmth spreading in her belly. Due to the soup, obviously.

"Marshmallow is a very respectable cat." She replies once her mouth finally doesn't feel like cotton. Jack snorts, leaning his knee into the mattress as he insists on standing and feeding her soup. She knows his leg must be killing him, and scoots over until he has enough room to take some weight off his prosthetic. "He's a lazy excuse for a cat. Only opened his eyes when I put his food in his bowl." She smiles as she swallows, which she immediately imagines to look horrific paired with her red rimmed eyes and snotty nose. Jack just winks.

Jack talks about the journal he sent her that she didn't get a chance to read as she eats. It's nicer than silence, makes her feel almost human again as she falls into the comforting blanket of medicine. The spoon clinks against the empty bowl and her eyes flutter open at the noise. "I'll bring you some liquids to keep by you when you sleep." He says absentmindedly, his eyes on her lips as she licks the last of the broth off. They flick down onto the empty bowl, and the bed is suddenly cold as he leaves to do exactly what he said.

When he comes back, Samira is tucked in under the covers, eyes barely open. He places a water bottle and a bottle of Gatorade on the bedstand, then steps back and crosses his arms against his chest like he's analyzing a case. "Thank you, Jack." Samira whispers. He swallows hard and nods, that ever-present stare of his on her. "Are you going back to the hospital?" She asks, suddenly not wanting him to go. To wake up and have this be a dream.

"Shen's covering. I've got the next four days off, something about working too much." She grins from her nest of warmth, knowing it's exactly something she would complain about too. Then, Samira Mohan gathers all the courage she can in her infection-torn body.

"Will you stay?"

Jack nods.

-

Samira sleeps for 13 hours. Jack counts.

He wipes down the couch and makes it his fortress, taking off his prosthetic and grabbing a nearby journal from a few months ago. He can't sleep, his body too used to this being his normal work hours. Instead, he listens to Samira's sleeping breaths and occasional snores, her bedroom door open as he insisted on.

9 hours in, his eyes flutter closed. He takes a cat nap, wary of the actual cat who stares at him from the other end of the very beaten-up couch he couldn't imagine Samira buying for herself. After a few dreamless hours, he makes tea as quiet as possible, double-checking every move and being very thankful Samira Mohan owns an electric kettle. The sun is already streaming through the living room curtains, but she's still sleeping, and he'll stay here as long as he can.

In Samira Mohan's apartment.

In the few dreams he has, he's been here in a thousand iterations. A studio with lilac walls, a four-bedroom apartment with roommates they had to keep quiet from, a house passed down from her grandparents. He's invented so many thoughts of where she lives, and even after driving her home that one time, her vanilla scent permeating his memories for days, he never imagined a cat.

She's never mentioned one. And Jack Abbot likes to consider himself a bit of an expert on Samira Mohan.

Samira's latte from Lotus Creations costs $7.49. Samira's mother calls when she's working, like she doesn't know Samira's schedule. Samira has pizza nights with Dr. King and her sister once or twice a month and always comes into shift change smiling after. Samira reads journals on anything and everything. Samira is applying for a PTMC fellowship, but also a Stanford and UIC and Washington one. Samira has a little crinkle by her eye when faced with a tough case. Samira doesn't have time for dating, which she told Parker during a rare night shift three months and five days ago.

Apparently, Samira Mohan has a white cat named Marshmallow.

That's what he's contemplating, a mug of chamomile tea growing cold in front of him, when Samira Mohan herself appears in front of him. Her curls are frizzy and encircle her head like a halo, and while Jack Abbot doesn't consider himself a poet, she makes it pretty damn easy for him to think like one. Her shirt creases match the ones on her cheek, which he hopes means she slept well. Her fingers, capable ones he's seen do thousands of procedures, fiddle with the hem of her shirt.

"You're still here." She croaks. He pushes the lukewarm tea towards her, chest loosening when she takes a sip and closes her eyes contentedly. "Told you I'd stay." He reminds her, taking the easy way out. Selfishly, he wanted as much time as he could with her like this, unguarded and willing to accept help for once. Which makes him think of the shower, and he cuts off that train of thought.

He lets her use the thermometer, satisfied when her temperature is lower than the 100.1 it was when he got here. She takes the barstool next to his, leaving them both to stare at the stove as she sips on her tea. It's time for her to take another dose of medicine, but the silence feels sacred.

Until Marshmallow jumps into his lap.

Jack jolts, age old reflexes keeping his knee from jerking against the counter. Samira just laughs, reaching over to scratch the cat behind the ears. Her hand is six inches above Jack's lap, something he never thought would happen, nevermind the cat in the way.

"Never told me you had a cat." Is the first thing that comes to his mind. Samira hums, scratching Marshmallow under the chin now. "It felt like a cliche." She answers. Jack's brows furrow as he turns his head towards her, tired of ignoring the magnetic pull of her smile. "Of what, exactly?" Samira drops her hand to go back to her tea, and for once Jack and Marshmallow are on the same side of disappointment. "Single workaholic woman gets a cat so she has someone to come back to at the end of her day. Pretty sure that's in a 2000s movie somewhere." He knew, in some remote way, that Samira was like him. That the job wasn't just the job but a lifeline, some portal to transform old wrongs into new rights. But it's different to watch her be embarrassed by it, to see her cheeks warm and a little cough emit from her throat that he's sure wasn't there five seconds ago.

"It's your day off, Abbot. You should go home. I'm fine now." She spits it out like a script, someone puppeteering her from behind. The switch from Jack to Abbot is another shot to the heart, but he powers through. Despite himself (and the memories of the evil cat his mother had until it died at age 15, the bastard), Jack pets Marshmallow. The thing purrs, and he can't help but think about the ghost of his ex-wife exclaiming in excitement that he's finally showing care for a living thing with four legs. He watches, always watching, as Samira tucks a curl behind her ear and locks eyes with his hand petting her cat.

He can't even think about that sentiment either.

"You're not cured overnight, Samira. IV fluids and observation." Her brows furrow as her finger traces a circle around the lip of her mug. "So what, you're going to stay here for however long it takes for me to get better? Be serious." He is serious, but she doesn't know that. For how intelligent (and capable and beautiful and strong and-) she is, it's clear she doesn't feel the same sense of knowing he does. He can tell when she enters a trauma room by the snap of her gloves or when she's two hours past when she's supposed to clock out by the tilt of the clip in her hair. Jack Abbot knows Samira Mohan. And that's enough. It's fine if she doesn't know him back. He can take that. Deal with it like the laundry list of things his therapist has written down in that green notebook of his. It's fine.

(It hasn't been fine for a year now).

"I need to make sure my best resident lives to see another day." An evasion, but he keeps his eyes on her face so it's not obvious how much he cannot answer her question. Her brows furrow and that crinkle near her eye comes out again.

"Jack." Samira Mohan doesn't plead. She defends to Robby or she calmly explains to a patient or she argues with a resident who would rather call a Pysch consult than ask what chemicals an overworked immigrant mom deals with at her manufacturing job. She doesn't plead, but something in those brown eyes of hers is pleading.

"Samira." Jack turns his body on the barstool and she mirrors him, their knees scraping against each other. "You wouldn't stay four days just because I'm sick. Say it." He can't. He's never lied to her and he won't start now. "I would. I am, if you'll let me." She stutters over whatever response she was going to give, then sneezes rapidly into the crook of her elbow. Jack moves to grab a tissue, but she stops him with a hand on his knee. The knee connected to a full leg, where the weighty warmth of her is overwhelming to the point of full mental disfunction.

"Why?" She asks, small. So unlike herself.

"Because I want to, Samira. There's nowhere else I'd rather be." It's a bit too much. He's going to scare her and then realize these were all veiled attempts to get him to leave, not the curtain on his feelings slowly being pulled back. "You don't have anything better to do? Anyone waiting and wondering why the hell you're here with-" She cuts herself off, but the last word was clear. Me. Here with me. Her hand drops from his knee.

"There's no one else waiting for me, Samira." Her nostrils flare at the word 'else'. She swallows hard, and he's proud to notice it goes down easier now that she's had some fluids and meds and rest under his care.

"Ask me, Samira." She blinks twice, then meets his gaze.

"Why do you send me journals at 2am? Why do you get me a latte, when I know that stupid overpriced place is ten minutes out of your way to work? Why did you have Shen cover?" It's his turn to initiate contact. To toe the line, to run his thumb over the skin stretched tight on her knuckle as she grips her mug hard.

"Sometimes, after a long shift when I'm staring at my ceiling fan, I'll open up my voicemail. Then I click on Samira Mohan from January 12th, 2 minutes and 38 seconds. I knock out within a minute, right after you switch from reframing patient satisfaction methods to asking if we can get breakfast again, because those French toast cinnamon rolls looked really good, but you didn't want to pay $25 for a bad meal after losing ten patients in that black ice MCI. And then you apologize for overstepping, and I go to sleep dreaming of how many French toast cinnamon rolls I would buy you before you'd stop me. I think you'd draw the line at seven, but I'd happily lose that bet."

He's been focused on her hand this whole time, watching it tense under the sweeping motions of his thumb. When he finds her face, inevitably drawn as always, her eyes are watery and she's shaking slightly. "Samira, honey. I can go if I've read this wrong and we never have to bring this up again. I'll be okay." She shakes her sternly like she's correcting a biased intern.

"Jack Abbot, don't you dare go." Her hands go to the waistband of his scrubs and she yanks gently until he stands in the cradle of her thighs, one hand sweeping the skin under eye and the other cradling her jaw. "Is this okay?" He murmurs, grinning to himself when she nods again. "I want to kiss you, but I don't want to get you sick." She admits, eyes wide like she's stunned by her own admission.

Jack makes the decision for her.

She opens immediately for him, warm and pliant as he tilts her head up slightly. Samira sighs a little into his mouth and a shudder carves its way into his heart, marking the memory in stone. She tastes like chamomile and sleep and the mint of the toothpaste he saw in her bathroom. Her hands fist his scrubs to pull him closer, and Jack eagerly ignores the strain in his neck. It's starts hot and impatient, months years of yearning spilling into her mouth like honey, golden and sticky. He wills himself to calm down as she chases to catch up, pulling back slightly to give little pecks. Jack catches her bottom lip and pulls it down before releasing, doing it again when Samira whimpers sweetly.

"I can't dehydrate you." He warns as he leaves her lips, kissing her cheek and running his nose along the length of her jaw. "Run me an IV and it won't be a problem." She debates, letting him laugh into the crook of her neck. Jack kisses the smooth brown skin there, smiling when she hisses in shock.

"Let me take care of you." He grips her jaw with two fingers to make his intention clear. Samira tenses, ready to defend like the knight she is, but then suddenly softens in his grip.

"Okay."

"Okay."

Marshmallow meows his agreement from the ground somewhere, and that's that.

[internetgiraffekid1673]

I saw your trek post about your dad and I can wholeheartedly say that he is in fact wrong. But not entirely. When Roddenberry wrote star trek, he explicity wrote Kirk to be the physical embodiment of heart, Spock as mind, and McCoy to be the balance between the two. His idea for the trio was that they had to function as a team: Spock and Kirk would balance one another out, and McCoy would be there to settle things when they were both being idiots. Additionally, Roddenberry canonicaly stated in Star Trek: The Motion Picture's novelization that Kirk is Spock's t'hy'la- a Vulcan term meaning people who are mentally completely bonded, often lovers, occasionally best friends, and essentially soulmates. Add onto that the entirety of s3 episode 9 of TOS (Tholian Web) beimg entirely about how Spock and McCoy can't function without Kirk to keep them from bickering, but the need to get him back and their love for him help them work together, and how in S1 episode 28, we literally see Kirk and Spock travel back in time, completely uncertain, with no resources or idea of what they're doing, to get McCoy. That's gay. (Also in this episode a vharacter quite literally tells Spock and Kirk that they belong at each others sides, as they always have been and always will be) Spock and Kirk (like I said earlier) balance each other out and get along well enough, but Kirk feels far too deeply to leave a friend behind, and Spock is there to rationally help him achieve that. Kirk's emotions overpower his logic, Spock's need for logic overpowers his emotions, McCoy's balance of both makes him capable of talking either of them down from various self destructive actions. To further my thesis, the first episode of season one, Spock's Brain, follows Kirk and McCoy trhing to retrieve spock from a life-threatening predicament. Plot wise a train wreck of an episode. But it does display Kirk and McCoy's cooperative skills, and their ability to successfully work towards a goal (once again, Kirk is overcome by the emotional aspect of things, and McCoy is there to keep him out of harm's way and make sure things run smoothly. There are plenty more episodes like this, but overall the idea that is both shown and intended by Geme Roddenberry is that the Triumvirate are a team, one who can work apart but works best together, and one which can't be separated. In short: McSpirk. Spirk is correct (t'hy'la) and so is McKirk (besties), but Spones is just as important to mention (rivalry is so fuckin gay). They are a set do not separate

Anyways. Theres my dissertation on Star Trek Shipping

(Star trek post in question).

This is wonderful, thank you for providing me with this we all laughed so hard and were very tickled that someone humored me. My father defers to your expertise, seeing as how you can actually name episodes.

My MOTHER has now gotten involved and has a single correction: they're not a triumvirate, they are a trium-bro-vate.

(They informed me this was required information in my response).

[cobragardens]

My Favorite Good Omens Moment:

An Essay on Why It Is Cool and Rad (Part 1)

There's this moment in Good Omens that makes me cackle every time I see it and leaves me full of warmth, so here's an essay on its context and meaning, because explication and analysis are how I show love. I will try to keep my thoughts as tight as possible, but they do have a tendency to spiral outwards, and I am very stoned. Come, sistren, and get nerdy with me.

My favorite moment in the series so far occurs in 1601. To approach it we will first need an assload of context. There's a TL;DR in bold at the end of the Context if you don't fancy reading the whole assload. Key arguments are in italics and bold throughout.

David Tennant gives Crowley a very consistent facial expression every time Aziraphale says something so outlandish Crowley can't quite believe he's hearing it. It's this one:

Chronologically, we see the Eyebrows of Disbelief twice before my fave moment in 1601: once (above left) in that scene on the Garden Wall that familiarizes the audience with Crowley's face before adding the dark glasses, when Aziraphale admits he's given away his sword; once when Aziraphale tells Bildad the Shuhite that he, Aziraphale, has Fallen because he lied to the angels to save Job's children.

The Eyebows of Disbelief always signal surprise and amusement with something Aziraphale has said or done. This amusement is sometimes at Aziraphale's expense and sometimes not.

In the gifs above, Crowley is laughing because what Aziraphale has just admitted to doing is fantastic and unexpected and frankly pretty gd punk rock. He's not laughing at Aziraphale, he's laughing because he is delighted with him. The only record we have thus far of Crowley laughing at Aziraphale is this one:

Crowley laughs when Aziraphale informs him--him, a demon who has personally been through the process of Falling--that Aziraphale is Fallen and must be a demon now. As though of the two of them Aziraphale is the expert on how and under what circumstances this occurs.

And yet when Crowley sees Aziraphale's distress--not his fear of being taken to Hell, but his heartbreak and lostness over the fact that his conscience has diverged from God's stated will--Crowley stops laughing, and instead he acts very kindly towards Aziraphale. He validates the gravity of what Aziraphale has done and assures him he won't turn him in. He sits with him so Aziraphale isn't totally alone (like Crowley probably was) as he goes through the loneliest moments of his existence to that point and picks himself up newly weighted with the secret he must now bear.

And after this scene (in canon as it stands thus far), we don't see Crowley laugh at anything Aziraphale says or does again.

And he really has to work for it sometimes. We talk a lot about the things Michael Sheen is able to convey with his face in Good Omens, and absolutely rightly so; David Tennant earns a chunk of his paycheck in this regard as well. If you haven't given yourself the treat yet, rewatch the scene in Will Goldstone's magic shop in 1941 and focus on Crowley's reactions:

Tennant takes great care to show, with precision, that Crowley is expending effort not to react to Aziraphale's nervous chaos Muppetry and lack of self-awareness. Crowley is self- and socially and contextually aware enough that he knows (better than Aziraphale, at least, which is not a high bar to clear) what's cringe, what's funny, what's ridiculous, how to behave. But whenever Aziraphale crosses a boundary of normalcy, or even sanity, and there is opportunity to laugh at him, Crowley very carefully doesn't react. He doesn't interrupt him, he doesn't try to correct him, he doesn't make fun of him, he doesn't even smirk; he just watches him, as stone-faced as he can manage, no matter how bizarre Aziraphale becomes.

We should be reading this lack of reaction to Aziraphale's social and rational transgressions as powerful positive action. Go watch the Doctor Who episode "Human Nature," or literally any episode of The Inbetweeners, or read or watch Regeneration, and reflect on what it shows you about English masculinity; then consider again the depth of significance in how English- and male-coded character Crowley treats English- and male-coded character Aziraphale in an England created by an English and male-codedpresenting author based off a book written by himself and another male-presenting author. Within its context of English masculinity, Crowley's lack of reaction is not a neutral stance; it is a very fucking loud show of support.

This is not even an inference; it's stated outright in the show. Crowley himself puts it into words 422 years after my favorite moment:

You know how Crowley calls Aziraphale "angel" because the factuality of the descriptor offers him plausible deniability to any Heavenly or Infernal agents who might be listening? Remember how Crowley is a great equivocator? Crowley is equivocating here, too: he's using the cover of what Maggie and Nina will take as a disparaging joke at Aziraphale's expense in order to make a perfectly sincere statement. This is his genuine perception of one of the relationship dynamics he has with Aziraphale and how he feels about that dynamic. Crowley thinks he himself is quite witty (an accurate assessment), Crowley thinks Aziraphale isn't sufficiently self- or contextually aware to hide how strange he is and therefore frequently says and does mad things (also an accurate assessment), and Crowley is Into. That. Shit.

Okay. Now let's look at 1601.

Chronologically it's been almost 1,000 years since we last saw Aziraphale and Crowley. In 537, Aziraphale isn't willing even to consider a labor-saving working arrangement with Crowley of fucking off home out of the damp of Arthurian Wessex; but by 1601, he's worked (and met, and Arranged) with Crowley "dozens of times now," Crowley says, and Azirapahle does not correct him.

In that millienium, Aziraphale has grown to care deeply about Crowley:

In fact he may be somewhat smitten with him:

Seriously, go back and watch Aziraphale here as Crowley approaches and starts speaking to him: he doesn't start smiling until he recognizes that the person speaking to him is Crowley (but he only smiles at Crowley while Crowley's not looking at him).

And Crowley is definitely become smitten with Aziraphale:

Our man(-shaped entity) is so allergic to work he sets up a meeting to weasel, cajole, or (as it happens) cheat a coin toss to get Aziraphale to do an easy temptation for him in Edinburgh, and then in the same conversation agrees to miracle a play into success because Aziraphale gives him a single hopeful look. Crowley's got it bad.

TL;DR: The Eyebrows of Disbelief happen when Crowley is surprised and amused by something Aziraphale has said or done. Sometimes that amusement is delight with Aziraphale; sometimes it is at Aziraphale's expense. Crowley is aware of this distinction, and when his amusement is at Aziraphale's expense, he suppresses it, even when it takes some effort on his own part, and remains stocially composed. This is equivocation on his part: to Celestial/Infernal operatives lacking knowledge of the intricacies of human behavior, this non-reaction would seem like neutrality; to Aziraphale, who shares with Crowley and the audience the contextual knowledge of English masculinity's utter viciousness, this non-reaction is a profound show of support; and in the safety of support from Crowley, Aziraphale lets his weirdness blossom.

As another meta points out [link if I find it again], we also see in Aziraphale's wordless request about Hamlet and Crowley's immediate understanding of it that by 1601 Aziraphale and Crowley have developed an unspoken, coded method of communication with each other.

Now that we have all of that in mind, here's my favorite moment in Good Omens:

Ixi of Fuck Yeah Good Omens has even kindly archived a closeup of the aftermath, for Crowley, of "Buck up!" In gif 4, above, you can see that the tiny smile is an involuntary reaction that happens as Crowley's eyes widen: for a fraction of a second, he's caught off-guard. In the closeup it's easier to see that he suppresses the smile and gives a tiny shake of his head, Eyebrows of Disbelief heading for his hairline.

There are a number of things Crowley's reaction could mean and what messages it could communicate (we'll get to that in a sec), but regardless, his reaction is, unquestionably, one of surprise and suppressed amusement. This is an aspect of Crowley and Aziraphale's relationship and characters that I like very much, viz., that one of the reasons Crowley likes Aziraphale (though Aziraphale is judgy and occasionally, unintentionally, horrifyingly cruel) is that in addition to being one of the kindest and most courageous beings in existence, Aziraphale is mad as a bag of frogs. Crowley does not know what is going to come out of Aziraphale's lovely mouth next, but Crowley does know there's a good chance he will struggle to believe he's hearing it, and Crowley likes that.

That's what makes this my favorite moment. What makes this moment so cool and rad, though, is its ineffability. We know from the Eyebrows of Disbelief that Crowley is surprised and amused, but any of several things could be read in that almost imperceptible headshake. Like:

What are you doing? or

Why are you like this? or

How can you be aware that you say these things out loud and yet still say them out loud? or

How has my existence come to this? this moment of listening to such insanity?

each of which is a fair and just feeling to have/message to communicate to a man(-shaped entity) who is yelling "Buck up!" at Hamlet.

But that's only if we read Crowley's amusement as being at Aziraphale's expense. And I don't think we should. Because watch Aziraphale here:

He's doing it on purpose. He is shouting a hilariously inappropriate, 100% authentic Aziraphale-brand thing over arguably the gloomiest passage of Shakespeare's famously gloomy play--right after Crowley complains about its gloominess--and he is watching Crowley as he does it. Look at his smile! He knows he's being Deeply Uncool, and he is doing it literally right into Crowley's face.

Remember that we just talked about how by this point in the chronology Crowley and Aziraphale have learned to communicate with each other nonverbally through facial expression? So what does it mean when Aziraphale responds to Crowley's grumbling about Hamlet's gloominess by smiling his minxious Mona Lisa Aziraphale smile, looking right into Crowley's face, and yelling at Hamlet to buck up? Aziraphale, in a carefully coded, carefully Aziraphale way, is joking with Crowley. His silliness in this moment is for Crowley.

So with aaaaaaallllll of this essay in mind, what does it mean that Crowley's reaction to "Come on, Hamlet! Buck up!" is widening eyes, an involuntary twitch of his mouth toward a smile, and then, his eyebrows still showing surprise and amusement, a tiny shake of his head?

Once more, with inferences:

I do propose, y'all, on the basis of this web of evidence I submit for consideration, that what we are seeing here in my favorite moment of Good Omens is the ineffable equivalent of Aziraphale and Crowley sharing a laugh.

Crowley's amusement here isn't at Aziraphale, because Aziraphale is eliciting that amusement consciously and deliberately. Aziraphale, in good spirits and happy to see Crowley, uses his Aziraphaleness to offers Crowley not only an opportunity for amusement, but the opportunity to be in agreement with him about what in this situation is funny. They're on the same side of this joke.

And his humor lands just as he wants it to: Crowley, just for a moment, is caught off-guard, and tickled--

But remember, Crowley is worried in this scene about being surveilled ("I thought you said we'd be inconspicuous here"), and he worries about audio surveillance a lot ("Walls have ears"; "Don't say that. If my lot hear [etc.]," etc.), so he's very limited in what reactions he can show or voice. Aziraphale knows Crowley must be perceived by anyone watching or listening to disapprove of his, Aziraphale's, behavior (just as he must be perceived to disapprove vociferously of Crowley's). Both of them know this.

--so Crowley suppresses the smile almost successfully, and shakes his head at Aziraphale, minutely, to say Stop. What you're doing is working, you're close to making me laugh, and if I show how much you have just delighted me, it will blow our cover of "just an Arrangement."

I offer three final data points in advancing my argument that what we see in my favorite Good Omens moment is Aziraphale successfully attempting to joke with Crowley and Crowley recognizing that overture from Aziraphale and being momentarily surprised into a reaction of genuine delight before pulling his face back under control and indicating to Aziraphale that he must stop:

Datum 1. Nothing going on with Crowley's face in this moment is accidental. We know for sure we're not seeing David Tennant react to Michael Sheen here not only because of literally every other point of Tennant's and Sheen's performances in the show, but because Tennant is wearing opaque contacts and sunglasses under film lighting and therefore cannot be reacting to anything more compelling than a level-10-lift blur because Tennant cannot see shit. Crowley's reaction is a deliberate and careful performance choice on Tennant's part, and it's underscored by director Douglas Mackinnon's choice to film Tennant in 1/2 profile to keep Crowley's eyes visible and face readable to the audience. This reaction is supposed to be there and supposed to be meaningful.

Datum 2. The husbands in 1601 is not the only moment in Good Omens when we may be seeing an angel and a demon communicate the message Stop doing that, it makes us look too familiar between themselves with a little headshake:

Datum 3: There is another moment in Good Omens when Aziraphale offers Crowley the opportunity to enjoy a joke with him. There, too, his humor lands just as he intends, so we can use this other moment as a comparison to our 1601 moment. I don't have gifs for it, but go back and watch it, S1E6 49:27-42. Snips below.

Aziraphale says something that surprises and amuses Crowley (he asked Hell for a rubber duck while he was sloshing around in the holy water)--

--but what Aziraphale says makes Crowley smile long before it makes him laugh.

In fact, his laugh, though a genuine cackle, is quite delayed, and he laughs only after Aziraphale starts laughing too.

In other words, Crowley's reaction to Aziraphale offering him amusement they're both on the same side of is exactly the same as his reaction to "Come on, Hamlet! Buck up!" right up until he laughs instead of shaking his head. Here, after Armageddidn't, Crowley doesn't have to suppress his reaction, so he can let the smile bloom; he doesn't have to control his response, so, although it takes him a few extra seconds, he lets the smile turn into a laugh.

But in 1601, it's not safe to laugh at Aziraphale's humor. It's not safe even to smile at him. A single piece of evidence or eye/earwitness testimony that he and Crowley have anything more friendly than the most passing and acrimonious of professional relationships could mean death to either or both of them, and depending on what Falling is like, maybe something worse than death for Aziraphale.

But Aziraphale is so funny, so effervescent for Crowley, at Crowley, that it catches Crowley just for a moment. Crowley's eyes widen and the corner of his mouth twitches toward a smile.

And that's dangerous. If Aziraphale keeps acting so charmingly mad, Crowley is going to laugh, and they can't afford that risk, so he shakes his head at Aziraphale. Stop, or I won't be able to keep a straight face around you.

And Aziraphale apparently receives that message, because he immediately eases off. Less than 60 seconds later we learn that he's deeply concerned for Crowley's safety--and that it's not so much that Aziraphale has Crowley wrapped around his little finger as it is that Crowley has wrapped himself around Aziraphale's little finger like a snake arranging itself on the tree branch it calls home.

UPDATE 14/10/23: HOLY SHIT Y'ALL IT GETS EVEN BETTER! THERE IS A SEQUEL!

[venusdayo]

The gender of the person that Teru likes and the wrong translation in this scene, a really small analysis:

(Reuploaded here bc a month ago I uploaded it to Twitter and no one saw it... )

Okay, all of this investigation started bc I asked myself “what if teru actually likes aoi (girl)” And this scene came to my mind, i didn’t remember what he exactly said (about if was a girl) so i rewatched it after. If you want the short answer is no, teru doesn’t mention gender.

If you want the explication, read this post (pls this took me like two hours to investigate )

Let’s begin with the dubbed scene, where he says “her” referencing that hes crush is a girl. I almost added the subtitled scene but I didn’t bc it says the same lol

So, I went to the manga, if i was correct, i remembered that he never said the gender/ pronouns, and I was right

I could have confirmed that, but I wasn't convinced. What if the MANGA was poorly translated?

So, i went to the raws panels.

“But Venus! I don’t speak Japanese, what says there?” If you translate ぃ僕 好きな子が ぃるんだ on google, the first option is “there’s a girl I like” but ALSO shows up the option “there’s someone I like”

"but it is implied that is a girl, otherwise It would give the option of "there is a boy that I like"" be patient my little friend, let me explain you:

I started to investigate deeply the kanjis, conjugations and things like that, after a while I learned what I am going to tell you and now I understand why it is simplified to the feminine gender

The translation of ぃ僕 好きな子が ぃるんだ depends on the context and the tone of the phrase. In general, it can be translated as “there’s a girl I like” or “there’s someone I like”, but it can also have other meanings

According to the DeepL dictionary, “ 僕”is an informal and affectionate way of saying “I” or “me”, which is mainly used by young men. 好きな子 means “child/person I like”, and does not specify the gender of the person.

ぃるんだ is a colloquial way of saying “there is” or “there are”, which expresses emphasis or confession.

Therefore, the phrase could express the feeling of a boy who likes a girl, or a girl who likes a boy, or a person who likes another person regardless of gender

So, in the translation (anime dub and sub) it refers to a girl bc the "僕" (mostly used by young men,who teru is ) and the 好きな子 which refers to liking someone, it can be assumed that it refers to a girl because of the assumed heterosexuality, you know lol

it is never confirmed that “them” is a GIRL, the gender is never mentioned, so there are chances that the person he likes is not a girl. Obviously them could be one, I don't deny it, but it also doesn't rule out the possibility that Teru being queer.

Conclusion: the manga in English is well translated but not the anime, the person Teru likes can be either a boy or a girl. End of explication.

And if you're wondering, could I find the answer to the initial question? Well no, but it reduces the options for Aoi to be who he likes, since it doesn't boil down to her just being a girl, which leaves other options.

But then who could be the person Teru likes? Well, I don't know, but I could make a thread theorizing about it.

*cought* *cought* 𝒶𝓀𝒶𝓃𝑒 *cought* *cought*

[turtleblogatlast]

after finding out he's trans from Draxum, Leo drops the news to his family with a joke and zero explication. The family wants to be a supportive as possible, but misunderstand and think that Leo just came out as transfem. The fact they didn't even consider Leo is biofem is surprisingly validating.

“Guess who just gave a new meaning to to word trans-portation!”

This is the first thing Leo says to everyone after going off with Draxum to who-knows-where for who-knows-what.

“Normally, I unfortunately understand the flow of logic for Leo’s puns, but I admit that I am blanking here.” Donnie says, looking at Leo with narrowed eyes.

Leo laughs - maybe a bit hysterically - as he saunters on over to the rest of his family. “Eh, just a little joke about my awesome portal powers mixed with- uh-“ He coughs into his fist, finding it difficult to keep his regular act up. “-a fab new finding about myself. Turns out I was born…a female turtle……?”

There’s silence for a moment.

Then- “Omigosh! Leo!” An orange blur rockets its way into Leo’s arms, making the slider let out and “oof” before steading both he and Mikey. “Thank you for telling us! Wait, is it still Leo? Or Lea now, maybe?”

The shock wheels its way out of Raph’s form as he comes over, eyes shiny, “I’m glad you told us, little sis.”

Leo blinks at them. “Wait-“

“Please note that if any of our enemies or allies refers to you incorrectly I can and will use deadly force to correct them.” Donnie states, with a grin that looked a little too excited about the idea.

“Same here!” April states, pounding one hand into another, “And- it’s cool to have another girl around.”

Leo thinks something got lost in translation. “Uh, guys-“

Splinter comes up to his side, patting his arm gently. “Oh, my Baby Blue, I’m so proud of you, my daught-“

“Okay, no, no, you guys got it wrong.” Leo laughs again, more uncomfortably than hysterically this time. “I’m- I’m not, like, a girl. I was-“ He looks away, feeling way too embarrassed about all this for his comfort, “I was born as a female turtle. Biologically.”

A beat.

“Oh.” Raph blinks down at him, surprise on his face, “Oh we may have jumped the gun there.”

“Well, this is embarrassing, though my offer of violence stands.” Donnie states.

Mikey rubs the back of his head sheepishly, “So…still Leo? Our brother?”

Leo gives a fond grin, “Yeah, yeah, still your brother.”

(April makes a noise of amusement, elbowing Splinter as everyone turns to her, “Hey, y’know what Splints? I think your DNA may have accidentally became some kinda HRT for Leo.”

Donnie thinks, “It does make sense, if a female red eared slider were to become mutated with a male human’s DNA then hypothetically it could create a mutant that takes on a more masculine outer appearance while retaining the female make up that was used as the base-“

Leo cuts in, “Okay, okay, no science-ing my gender, bro, let’s just order some pizza.”)

[baeddel]

I think the purely in-game reading of gwyndolin betrays the out-of-game reading which is an obvious 'trap' situation, that is to say, a trans woman written by someone who either doesn't know what a trans woman is or has reasons to avoid the concept. Out of all the unreliable narrators of dark souls, miyazaki is but one of them.

see my previous post for why i don't agree with your interpretation of the "purely in-game reading"

i also really find this perspective quite shocking; what about Gwyndolin strikes you as insensitive or ignorant? just because she has an identity that isn't exactly yours? i feel like this is binarist at least... it's similar to how people say that GGACR's Brigitte and Testament were transmisogynist stereotypes and were corrected in Strive; that is the transmisogynist position...

also just look at how Dark Souls is written. virtually nothing in it is assumed from our world; everything that enters its cell of meaning is subjected to complex critical assessement. it is demanded of everything that it be fully explicable in terms of the world of Lordran and not in terms of earth. even the existence of a glaive, which we have in our world as a common weapon and would not startle any player more than a sword or shield, is rigorously explained as arising from Gwyn's knights' conflict with the Izalith demons, demanding special weapons that can stand up to large enemies. of course in this setting you won't just get a normal transgender woman with the same relationship to gender as us. the demand it makes of us is to interpret gender in light of Lordran's own system of meaning, and locate Gwyndolin within it.

the games have gender and hormones sliders ffs XD

because calling it a gender slider ASSUMED TOO MUCH! so in the next game they called it a HORMONE SLIDER!

no one was ever that careful with their game!!

by the way, on Miyazaki, let me defend him a little bit: i won't be able to find it too easily (translations kept getting made and hosted on some google doc that later disappeared) but there was an interview with him on some kind of gaming show that had twitch-like viewer comments that they'd respond to. the topic came up that everyone was saying who their waifu would be (and they all hade cute bynames for their favourites). Miyazaki acts embarassed: 'i didn't know i made this type of game...' then he's looking at the chat and he reads it out: 'otokonoko... otokonoko... who do they mean?' the interviewer explains that they mean Gwyndolin. he says: 'i don't understand, Gwyndolin is clearly male... he has a male voice actor...'

this line has fascinated me so much, for over ten years... look at it... he can't be an otokonoko, says Miyazaki. because he has a male voice. what did he MEAN!!!!!!!!!!

i've started to think that he was actually joking, like playing dumb. as if he didn't even know what an otokonoko was and thought they were pretty young girls :) i'm not sure... i would have to hear the tone of his delivery, etc... in effect learn Japanese (because i'll never trust someone else to tell me!)... maybe one day i'll understand. in any case, Miyazaki's views are probably strange and complicated. we do not know how we got Gwyndolin out of them; but we did, and that makes all the difference.

[mmavverickk]

Pjo hadcanon, - demigods don't really suffer from PTSD, they can't suffer emotionally at all or are as blunted as possible.

They are disconnected from their feelings/emotions and cannot react to bad things Like ordinary people.

They are frighteningly indifferent to any pain, mental or physical - the pain from physical injuries or something emotional lingers for a maximum of a couple of weeks and then disappears into oblivion like a morning mist. grief passes easily and quickly, fear disappeared in a few minutes, the risk of pleasant waves of adrenaline warming the blood.

And they are prone to sadism and any enjoyment of any kind of violence.

It doesn't matter if it's over yourself, a monster, a mortal, or another demigod.

They are always happy to use weapons or hands/abilities.

These children learn to hold weapons, wear armor and be able to cause serious harm, as soon as they enter the camp, do not expect anything normal/correct or at least explicable from them.

They are not human, they - living weapons, expertly crafted from golden divine blood and mortal flesh.

They were born to fight and die in battle with a blissful smile on their lips.

They were born with broken souls and sick minds.

It's just that someone is bigger, someone is smaller.

this is a fun headcanon, but i want to put a bit of an angstier spin on it:

these children are human, but only partly. they can suffer PTSD. they know what's happened to them, what's been done to them, is wrong. they can suffer flashbacks and repressed memories and trouble sleeping and nightmares and intrusive thoughts and panic attacks and depression and apathy. they do suffer it. but they always get back up. there's surety in their recovery, and there's tragedy in it. they can't stop, can't falter, can't take time to process, can't slow down enough to work through their trauma before the next terrible thing happens.

these demigods are too inhuman to move at a normal pace. they have too much mythical strength in their bones and their blood to stop for any amount of time and heal. they throw themselves at each threat that comes their way like a battering ram with terrifying speed and strength and awareness. it just builds, and builds, and builds until they die or they break.

(sometimes, they think the ones who do die are the lucky ones.)

maybe it's the ever-growing trauma. maybe it's the divinity in their veins. maybe it's something entirely new, entirely too human to be godly, but too godly to be human. maybe they've just finally snapped.

some slowly feel their grasp on reality slipping. what time is it? did they sleep through a whole day again? when did they get to the lava wall? how did they reach the top, and is that a real burn on their hand? it doesn't hurt. is that a camper, or a monster? did the border fail? are those heavy footsteps outside the cabin real? are they really still alive, or is this their eternal punishment for failing succeeding?

some watch as their moral code slips through their fingers like sand. they'll fight as hard as they have to to save their siblings and their allies. they'll kill any monsters that come their way. maybe, they'll kill any demigods, too. maybe even humans. maybe they couldn't save someone, but the battle was still a victory. maybe that sacrifice was necessary to win. maybe sacrifices are okay, to minimize the damage. maybe damage is okay, so long as the enemy dies. maybe, just maybe, a pyrrhic victory is worth it, no matter who was lost, so long as they're still standing at the end of it all.

some stop feeling. it starts as depression. is winning wars worth it if they couldn't save everyone? their sibling died, their friends and lover died, and the world still turns on, cold and unfeeling. maybe cold and unfeeling is the way to go. maybe joy is unnecessary in the long run. maybe sadness is, too. maybe it will make things better. they pick themselves up, resume their routine. everything is normal. archery practice. lava wall. weapon smithing. capture the flag. everything is normal. everything is numb. why should the gods care when their children can't even manage it?

some turn violent. they grew up in war, training endlessly, fighting battle after battle, the only thing standing between the world and its doom. what is there to do now that the war is over, is won, than train more? practice weapons they've never tried, master moves they've never managed. kill in ways they've never thought of. they grew up in war. what good are they without it? what good is a weapon, just sitting around, gathering dust? maybe hurting people isn't right, but if it makes them feel something, isn't it worth it?

it's a cold world. it's not meant for children, human children. those children evolve to survive, and what they turn into barely resembles their mortal parentage. it's a dog eat dog world, survival of the fittest, and the unlucky ones? the ones that didn't die? the ones stuck in their trauma and PTSD and broken minds? they have to figure out how to live in it.

[grimmcodes]

Tutoriel Installation 🛠️⚙️🔧

Je vois que certaines personnes galèrent avec la mise en place du thème que j'ai partagé (notamment pour héberger le css). Alors voici un tutoriel d'installation pas à pas, avec captures d'écran, pour vous permettre de le mettre en place correctement 💗 ⚠️ Pour rappel, le Blank Theme dispose de ses propres explications, que vous retrouverez juste ici. ⚠️ Veillez à bien avoir configuré votre forum comme l'indique le Blank Theme juste ici. ⚠️ Le forum doit impérativement être en version ModernBB.

1️⃣Pour mettre en place tes templates.

Nous allons commencer par copier les templates depuis le github. Ici, ce sont les différentes parties d'HTML qui nous intéressent.

Nous allons progressivement les coller dans les diverses sections de forumactif (voir screen ci-dessous). 📌Exemple ici avec le template images_list que je vais copier depuis le github : 📁HTML (templates) > 📁general >📄images_list.

Et coller dans le template images_list de forumactif (qui s'obtient en allant décocher l'utilisation des blogs au préalable)

Les noms des HTML sont exactement les mêmes du github vers forumactif donc vous ne pouvez pas vous tromper. Vous avez juste à copier d'un côté et coller de l'autre, en n'oubliant pas à chaque fois de sauvegarder à droite en cliquant sur le symbole disquette💾(ouais, j'vais rentrer dans les détails à ce point).

Quand l'ensemble de tes HTML ont été copiés et collés correctement (général, poster & messages privés, profil), tu vas pouvoir passer à l'hébergement de tes divers CSS.

2️⃣Pour enregistrer ton css afin de l'héberger.

Je t'invite à aller sur le github mais dans la section CSS cette fois-ci. L'ensemble des CSS devront être enregistrés sur ton ordinateur puis hébergés en dehors de forumactif car ils sont trop longs. 📁 CSS > 📄CSS_global

Tu peux copier le code et le coller dans un logiciel qui permet d'éditer du code. Pour moi, ce logiciel sera Notepad++, parce que j'aime me faire du mal, mais sachez qu'il existe aussi SublimeText. Ces logiciels sont gratuits ✅ et indispensables pour pouvoir enregistrer vos feuilles en format .css (comme on le ferait pour une image en format .png ou .jpg quoi).

Quand j'ai copié mon css depuis github et que je l'ai collé dans mon logiciel d'édition de code, je n'ai plus qu'à lui donner un petit nom en sauvegardant (chez moi ça sera CSS_global) et à l'enregistrer en .css (Cascade Style Sheets File).

3️⃣Pour héberger ton css en dehors de forumactif après l'avoir enregistré sur ton ordinateur.

Ca y est, à cette étape, tu as normalement l'ensemble de tes CSS (global, instagram, messenger, page d'accueil etc...) d'enregistrés individuellement sur ton ordinateur. Tu peux désormais aller les héberger en dehors de forumactif. Pour cela, j'utilise personnellement Archive Host (parce que j'aime vraiment me faire du mal) mais, tu peux très bien utiliser Dropbox. Il te suffit juste de créer ton compte. Tu arriveras ensuite sur une page où tu pourras ajouter tes fichiers et les stocker dans un dossier. J'aime que mes documents soient rangés donc, je te conseille de créer un répertoire et de l'appeler par le nom de ton forum (comme ça, si t'en as plusieurs, impossible de te tromper !).

C'est ici que je vais y ranger mes feuilles de CSS préalablement enregistrées. Je clique sur ➕Ajouter des fichiers puis sur ⬆️Démarrer l'envoi quand j'y ai ajouté ceux que je voulais.

Ca y est ! Ta feuille de CSS est désormais hébergée. Mais ce n'est pas terminé. Il faut maintenant relier ton forum à cette feuille. Et pour cela, rien de plus simple :

En survolant ta feuille de CSS avec ta souris, une flèche va apparaître en haut à droite ⬇️, clique dessus puis sur 🟦 Informations et Codes.

Cette fenêtre va s'ouvrir. Je t'invite à cliquer sur l'URL à côté de Principal et de la copier. C'est le lien de ta feuille depuis Archive Host. Tu vas ensuite aller la coller dans ton overall_header sur forumactif. Mais pas n'importe où !

Ici, les URL vers mes feuilles de CSS sont collées les unes après les autres juste en dessous de <!-- CSS Externes -- > ET sous cette forme : <link href="URL ARCHIVE HOST ICI" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css" charset="utf-8"> Il faut absolument que ces feuilles se trouvent avant la balise </head>. Tu verras, dans le code HTML de l'overall_header (à la ligne 20) j'ai laissé cet endroit vide, tu auras juste à les coller en dessous.

N'oublies pas de sauvegarder ! Et voilà. C'est tout. Rien de plus simple 💗 Cela te demande juste d'installer un logiciel d'éditeur de code (gratuit) et de te faire un compte sur Archive Host ou Dropbox (gratuit aussi). Si là encore vous êtes paumés.és (parce que ce n'est pas impossible malgré les screens et explications pas à pas), n'hésitez pas à m'envoyer un petit mp. 🌈

[lolochaponnay]

Après une soirée très arrosé, un homme rentre chez lui après s'être vomis dessus. Sa femme, qui l'attendait, lui demande des explications : - Chérie, il m'est arrivé une histoire incroyable, je buvais un café au bar avec des copains, quand un type complètement bourrer est entré et m'a gerbé dessus... Remarque, il a quand même été correct, il m'a donné 20€ pour le pressing. .. Le lendemain matin, sa femme le réveille : - Dis-moi, le type qui t'as gerbé dessus, tu le connais ? Tu vas le revoir ? - Oui, pourquoi ? - Tu lui diras de te donner 20€ de plus parce qu'il a aussi chié dans ton slip !

[mizaryrottmnt]

"My Dear Puppet"

FR: Un bon début

(you can use thé internet translation, I simplified my language)

✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ 

Unity laisse échapper un soupire long alors qu'elle est seule dans une petite pièce qui ressemble a une chambre a coucher. Un matelas au sol plutôt propre avec des draps couleur saumon aussi propre. une petite boite en bois qui fait office de table de lit avec une vieille petite lampe de chevet. Étonnant quand on sait où elle se trouve. Dans le repaire de la famille Hamato, les égouts plus précisément.

On lui a préparé spécialement cette petite couche pour qu'elle puisse dormir correctement et cela se voit. C'est plus propre que ce qu'elle avait pu imaginer avant d'y être. La jeune femme fait quelques pas en avant, regarde autour d'elle. Il y a des tags aux murs, mais pas ceux grossiers trouvés dans les rues que les tagueurs utilisés pour marquer leur présence contre un mur, mais des dessins vraiment artistiques. De beaux motifs qui semblent exprimer plus qu'une simple signature. Ça change encore de l'idée qu'elle se faisait d'un mur d'égouts. Puis l'odeur, il n'y en a pas. Pas d'odeur de fosse septique qui remonte a ses narines, pas d'odeur de putréfaction quelconque ou d'eau croupie là depuis des mois. L'air est bon.

- C'est propre.

Surprenant.

Alors qu'elle zone, sa mémoire retrace la journée qu'elle vient de vivre.

Se faire remarquer par le fils au bandeau bleu Hamato était facile, elle avait le panel parfait pour attirer son attention. Une Yokai licorne. Il était donc simple d'amorcer un premier contact. Mais elle n'avait pas pensé qu'il n'allait pas juste aller lui parler mais complètement la kidnapper en lui laissant a peine le temps de dire "bonjour". Et peu importe si elle avait des protestations, la tortue avait déjà décider de la ramener a peine avait-elle posé les yeux sur lui. En y repensant, si elle n'avait pas accepté de rester pour que la famille fasse pardonner le geste de leur frère, on aurait pu croire a une prise d'otage. Mais même si elle était devenue une otage, le but était d'arriver ici, et elle avait réussi. Il faut juste qu'elle retienne ce nom d'emprunt qu'elle s'est donné : "Unity". Étonnant qu'ils n'aient pas réagi à un nom aussi singulier.

Drrrring drrrring!

Dans sa pose, son téléphone sonne. Un petit appareil à clapet violet lavande avec un porte-clé en forme d'atome. Vieux, usé et quelque peu rayé.

-Oui... Oui je suis bien arrivée. Bien sûr.

-Je suis impressionnée de te voir réussir aussi facilement alors que mes autres petits laqués n'avaient même pas pu suivre l'un d'eux.

-Que voulez-vous Madame, je... suis juste meilleure qu'eux. Répond Unity avec un ton sans joie ni même fierté.

-Ah ah ah! Bien sûr! C'est certain maintenant que je te vois en action. je ne regrette plus du tout mon choix. Peut être l'un des plus judicieux depuis longtemps. Je compte beaucoup sur toi à présent~

Malgré les mots doux et mielleux, la Yokai a une petite grimace devant cette fausse confiance que lui donne la personne à l'autre bout du fil.

-Bien sur. Je vous les amènerais sur un plateau d'argent, soyez en sûr. Juste le temps de gagner leur confiance et de les sédater.

-Efficace. Mais, il semblerait que je n'ai pas pu suivre ton signal une fois passée une certaine zone, large. As-tu une explication ?

Unity fait silence, se remémore la journée, les détails. Les quelques objets qu'il l'entouraient sur sa route avant de passer par ce portail bleu.

-Je pense, que le traceur a été brouillé par un boîte noire.

-Oh! Ce doit être le fait de cette jeune tortue violette.

-Donatello Hamato?

-Oui c'est bien lui. Gagne sa confiance et trouve le moyen de désactiver son brouilleur. C'est ta mission première.

Gagner la confiance de quelqu'un. Quelque chose qui la fait déglutir d'anticipation. Est-ce qu'elle va y arriver? Est-ce possible ? Même s'ils ont l'air ouverts dans cette famille et... Généreux, celui au bandeau violet lui semble bien plus fermé. Son rythme cardiaque s'intensifie alors qu'elle réfléchit a comment faire alors qu'elle est toujours au téléphone avec sa commanditaire.

-.... Me suis-je bien faite comprendre ?

-O-Oui Madame.

-D'ici là, je te permet un budget illimité, carte blanche pour que la mission réussi et si tu as besoin de quoi que ce soit. Mais j'attendrai des résultats. Je les veux tous face à moi, y compris Lou jitsu, et complètement a ma merci, annonce froidement la voix de l'interlocutrice à travers le téléphone. Faisant grincer des dents la Yokai licorne.

...

-Je ne le ferai pas, Big Mama.

Unity déglutit, et raccroche une fois la discussion close par sa patronne. Elle fixe son téléphone, puis regarde le matelas et jette d'un geste ample son appareil sur le lit avant de retirer son poncho et de se poser sur le lit a son tour. Un long soupire quitte ses lèvres, une pression disparaît avec, mais une autre persiste. Une grosse tension sur ses épaules, une épée de Damoclès.

Je ne veux pas y retourner, je ne veux pas y retourner. Je dois y arriver. Si ça marche, alors je pourrai enfin...

Soupire. Elle s'affale sur le lit, les bras tendu et regarde le plafond. Le sommeil ne devrait pas tarder à la prendre, pourtant quelque chose la dérange. Le manque de bruit. Elle a l'habitude a d'un brouhaha constant autour d'elle, des gens qui parlent, qui crient, qui se battent. C'est trop calme pour elle.

....

Demain, je commencerai par celui au bandeau orange. Il semble plus simplet que les autres. Je dois en profiter.

C'est demain que tout commence.

"TBC"

[fdelopera]

Welcome to the 39th installment of 15 Weeks of Phantom, where I post all 68 sections of Le Fantôme de l’Opéra, as they were first printed in Le Gaulois newspaper 115 yeas ago.

In today’s installment, we have Part VII of Chapter 14, “La Lyre d’Apollon” (“Apollo’s Lyre”), and Part I of Chapter 15, “Un Coup de maître de l’amateur de trappes” (“A Masterstroke of the Trapdoor Lover”).

This section was first printed on Tuesday, 23 November, 1909.

For anyone following along in David Coward's translation of the First Edition of Phantom of the Opera (either in paperback, or Kindle, or from another vendor -- the ISBN-13 is: 978-0199694570), the text starts in Chapter 13 with, “'Christine,' said Raoul as he got to his feet, 'you say you love me but it was only a matter of hours after you were free again that you went back to him',” and goes to Chapter 14, “Then she rushed out in a state of near-panic, still pulling and smoothing her fingers as if she thought the ring would somehow mysteriously reappear of its own accord.”

There are some differences between the Gaulois text and the First Edition. In this section, these include (highlighted in red above):

1) Chapter XV was printed as Chapter XVI. This numbering error was made in Chapter VII, and was not corrected, so it was propagated throughout the Gaulois publication.

2) Chapter 15 in the Gaulois text is Chapter 14 in the First Edition, etc.

3) Compare the Gaulois text:

… vous dites que vous m'aimez et quelques heures à peine s'étaient écoulées depuis que vous aviez recouvé votre liberté, que déjà vous retourniez auprès d'Erik !…

Translation:

“… you say that you love me and yet scarcely a few hours had passed since you had regained your liberty, and you were already going back to Erik!…”)

To the First Edition:

… vous dites que vous m'aimez, mais quelques heures à peine s'étaient écoulées, depuis que vous aviez recouvé votre liberté, que déjà vous retourniez auprès d'Erik !…

Translation:

“… you say that you love me, but scarcely a few hours had passed since you had regained your liberty, and you were already going back to Erik!…”

4) This passage was added to the First Edition (indicated by the red arrow above), and does not appear in the Gaulois:

Soudain une silhouette bizarre se dressa devant les jeunes gens, leur barrant le chemin :

« Non ! pas par ici ! »

Et la silhouette leur indiqua un autre couloir par lequel ils devaient gagner les coulisses.

Raoul voulait s’arrêter, demander des explications.

« Allez ! allez vite !… commanda cette forme vague, dissimulée dans une sorte de houppelande et coiffée d’un bonnet pointu.*

Christine entraînait déjà Raoul, le forçait à courir encore :

« Mais qui est-ce ? Mais qui est-ce, celui-là ? » demandait le jeune homme.

Et Christine répondait :

« C’est Le Persan !…

– Qu’est-ce qu’il fait là…

– On n’en sait rien !… Il est toujours dans l’Opéra !

Translation:

Suddenly, a strange silhouette loomed before the two youths, blocking their path:

“No! Not this way!”

And the silhouette pointed to another corridor by which they must reach the wings.

Raoul wanted to stop, to ask for an explanation.

“Go! Go quickly!…” ordered this shadowy figure, enshrouded in a sort of houppelande and capped with a pointed hat.*

Christine was already dragging Raoul away, forcing him to run again:

“But who is that? Who is that man?” asked the young man.

And Christine replied:

“That is The Persian!…”

“What is he doing here?…”

“No one knows!… He is always at the Opera!”

* NOTE: Leroux's character of "The Persian" was based on an actual French historical figure, the Persian gentleman and expat, Mohammed Ismaël Khan. This image below depicts the houppelande coat and Astrakhan cap that Leroux was likely imagining when he was writing his novel.

This image is from Les Célébrités de la rue, by Charles Yriarte, published in 1864, a book that listed notable figures in Paris in the early to mid 1800s. It was published during Mohammed Ismaël Khan's lifetime, as M. Khan passed away in 1868.

It is worth noting that the Opera House that M. Khan frequented was the Salle Le Peletier, which was destroyed in a fire in 1873 (five years after M. Khan's death). Two years later in 1875, the Paris Opera was moved to the newly opened Palais Garnier (aka Erik's Opera House). So, contrary to Leroux's narrative, M. Khan never actually frequented the Palais Garnier. This is an example of faction (fact+fiction), one of Leroux's favorite literary devices, which Leroux used throughout Le Fantôme de l'Opéra to build a feeling of verisimilitude into his fictionalized narrative.

5) Compare the Gaulois text:

C'était Erik. Il avait les yeux de braise dont vous m'avez parlé. J'aurais dû le clouer sur la lyre d'Apollon…

Translation:

“That was Erik. He had the fiery eyes that you told me about. I should have nailed him to Apollo’s Lyre…”

To the First Edition:

Si vraiment nous avons aperçu Erik j'aurais dû le clouer sur la lyre d'Apollon…

Translation:

“If that truly was Erik that we saw, I should have nailed him to Apollo’s Lyre…”

6) Compare the Gaulois text (this was likely an error on Leroux’s part, since earlier, Raoul agreed to be in Christine’s dressing room at midnight sharp):

… à minuit et demi ! fit le jeune homme …

Translation:

“… at half past midnight!” said the young man …

To the First Edition:

… à minuit je serai dans votre loge, fit le jeune homme …

Translation:

“… at midnight I shall be in your dressing room,” said the young man

7) Compare the Gaulois text:

Jamais ! répondit-elle avec énergie. Je la renverrai à Erik en la déposant dans la loge du fantôme. Il faut qu'Erik puisse rentrer tranquillement chez lui le soir…

Translation:

“Never!” she replied forcefully. “I shall return it [the key] to Erik by leaving it in the Phantom’s box. Erik must be able to return calmly to his house in the evening…”

To the First Edition:

Jamais ! répondit-elle avec énergie. Ce serait une trahison !

Translation:

“Never!” she replied forcefully. “That would be a betrayal!”

8) Minor differences in punctuation.

Click here to see the entire edition of Le Gaulois from 23 November, 1909. This link brings you to page 3 of the newspaper — Le Fantôme is at the bottom of the page in the feuilleton section. Click on the arrow buttons at the bottom of the screen to turn the pages of the newspaper, and click on the Zoom button at the bottom left to magnify the text.

[riseofthecommonwoodpile]

I’m reading John Ganz’s When the Clock Broke (which is outstanding btw) and there’s a passage he has about William H Parker (the chief of the LAPD during the Watts riots, and mentor to Daryl Gates, police chief during the Rodney King riots) that i think is fascinating and illustrative of why attempts to use ~facts and logic~ against reactionaries can be so ineffective:

In Parker’s opinion, any tool to maintain control and order was justified, including racial profiling. “At the present time, race, color, and creed are useful statistical and tactical devices…If persons of Mexican, Negro, or Anglo-Saxon ancestry, for some reason, contribute heavily to other forms of crime, police deployment must take that into account. From an ethnological point-of-view, Negro, Mexican, and Anglo-Saxon are unscientific breakdowns; they are a fiction. From a police point-of-view, they are useful fictions and should be used as long as they remain useful.”

although i cannot get an exact date on that quote (Ganz cites a recent book partly about Parker as his source and I do not have access to that book currently to cite their citation), it is worthwhile to note it had to have been said in 1966 or earlier, as Parker died in 1966. that would mean it was 20-ish years before that icon of “respectable conservative” thought, National Review, would uncritically publish a book review by Joe Sobran that called scientific arguments against the reality of race ridiculous, a view echoed by William F Buckley. Parker states in the 1960’s, significantly ahead of his political allies and even many of his enemies, the (obviously correct) view that race is an ethnological fiction– a social construct, if you will– but that had zero impact on his actions. These fictions are useful in maintaining hierarchies and the status quo, and thus will remain in place for as long as they serve those purposes.

The material reality of these things is less significant than their use and the worldview underpinning them; they need these things to be true, and so they must act upon them as if they are true regardless. Reminds me a great deal of Milton Friedman’s The Methodology of Positive Economics, or much of Leo Strauss. The maintenance or (re)introduction of hierarchy to social systems requires the maintenance or (re)introduction of structuring fictions and mythologies.

I don’t point out this right wing tendency toward a sort of solipsistic idealism to say that explications of material reality are useless; rather, it should not be a surprise that the reactionary will take and leave the world as it is whenever needed in order to maintain the world as they believe it should be, and any attempt to combat them that focuses primarily on debunking is often just punching smoke.

(The right are not the only ones who do this, of course, and ideology is necessary in one way or another to interpret anything politically, but I do find this specific prioritization of myth to be far more common and explicit in reactionary political theory)

all of you know that though so there’s no real point to this post. just talking out loud about a book i’m reading i guess