#unrooted

[ghostfire-kill]

Chill bitsy painting (ik the ear bit is swapped I forgot)

[shalmonsgamons]

Sunday Perusin' 08/04/24

[unrootedshop]

My own brand of therapy is making these items. It brings me peace. Support my peace, maybe?

[judgingbooksbycovers]

Unrooted: Botany, Motherhood, and the Fight to Save an Old Science

By Erin Zimmerman.

[sleepsucks]

[logicallyblind]

sorry where is my ‘love actually’ bagginshield au??

i’m talking Thorin is the prime minister and Bilbo is natalie, The Company is the other characters (more on that later)

- the initial meeting being a complete c*ckup

- Thorin “oh no. that is so inconvenient” Oakenshield realising he is love struck over his new assistant while trying to run a country (erebor)

- the mutual pining

- the House Estate Scene where Thorin is going from Hobbit Hole to Hobbit Hole trying to find Bilbo because he couldn’t remember the way to Bag End cause his sense of direction is terrible

if literally anyone else has any interest in this i have so much more to say on this oh my god

[leham-n-daavocado]

Just finished the third season of Bridgerton (it was an incredibly frustrating watch)...People have said that Penelope is named as such because of her nickname Pen and her being a writer... but has anyone thought of the reference to the Odyssey and Penelope being the wife of Odysseus? You know, she had to be loyal for 20 years while Odysseus gallivanted across the globe and was distracted/cheating on her Circe? I feel like it goes with the whole Polin narrative too. She's the one who had to wait for him to get a clue. And if you've read the Penguin version of the Odyssey, you know everyone is like omg! Odysseus, so amazing, the sacker of cities etc. Which parallels Colin's "glow up". Totally think it's more of a literary reference since the two of them are writers...

[dearorphic]

open starter, 3/5

[...] " Well, " onyx curled head shakes, and his distant look is curtailed into that of mirth. The lord Arryn was deft footing in any stance that wasn't his own, yet he was glad to have made the trip down the Vale, all the same. A goblet of Dornish red in hand, lingering close to the walls does an offhanded remark slip from imbibed tongue, " I love weddings. "

[demonstars]

i love how clay is like the most american name ever and george is such a british name. and dream is from florida and george is from london 😭 like they are so incredibly american and british respectively but they met and basically melded into one person, dream randomly says britishisms sometimes and george is practically american now ☹️ my dnfies

this is awesome. so close that the (nationality) lines blur

[bougiebutchbitch]

Nobody:

Absolutely nobody:

Me: gives Izzy all my disorders and associated comorbidities. To cope.

[deadgodjess]

you wouldn't think a 6 year old would require the jaws of life to move over enough to give me space enough in a full sized bed to sleep comfortably but you'd be wrong.

[quercussp]

as of today, i am officially a homeowner 😊

[so-much-for-subtlety]

[danrenouf]

Every part of Cale is cold. Fingers. Ears. Ankles. Even his hair. He’s on night watch, stationed above deck, the wind coming off the water cutting through his layers of clothes. He can still feel his hands, at least, which is good - he needs them to adjust the hydrophone. 

He loves night watch. Wind or no wind, pervasive damp, salt crust on his skin, in his hair - there’s something about the dark heave of the ocean, the endless spill of night sky. When the sky is clear, the stars themselves are worth the cold. When the night is overcast or foggy, with no line to differentiate the sea and the sky, Cale can pretend it’s just him in the world, him and the crew of Puck Luck, and below them, the whales they’re trying to triangulate.

Finding the whales has proven difficult. They’ve been off the coast of Labrador for weeks, as spring has settled across the mainland, sweeping the depths with the hydrophone, listening for the telltale clicks and creaks of Physeter macrocephalus. Sweeping the surface with their eyes, watching for the telltale spout, tail slap, breach. Documenting endlessly the crew’s coordinates, the time, the weather, the depth of the equipment. The ocean’s never quiet, but the hydrophone never yields what they’ve been waiting for: sighting the Sperm Whale pod they know must be nearby.

The wind picks up, somehow, slingshots itself right down the back of Cale’s neck. He curls his hands around the deck rail, stares into the water. If he could just look hard enough, he might see something, he might --

“No moon tonight,” someone says, behind him.

Cale jerks back from the rail. “Fuck, Willy. You scared the shit out of me.”

Willy just smiles, unrepentant, all teeth and hair curling out from under his toque, and holds out a cup in offering. “Brought you some tea.”

“Thanks.” Cale takes it, cradles the hot cup in his hands. He turns back against the rail, so he can keep looking over the water. Willy plants himself right next to him. “How much of this is whiskey?”

“Eh,” Willy evades. “Enough.” He shivers and shifts closer to Cale. “Maybe not enough, actually. It’s fucking cold out here. I don’t know how you do it.”

The tea is almost all whiskey, turns out. It’s hot, though, and the combination of tea and whiskey gets to work right away. Willy shivers again, and Cale hands him the cup. “Here. Take some of your own medicine.”

Willy makes a face. “I hate Jameson.” He drinks, though, and hands it back. “Gross. Who made this shit?”

He doesn’t bother to answer. Willy sneaks a little bit closer, like Cale’s going to give off enough heat to offset the bitter wind. He doesn’t mind. If there were a way to get Willy even closer, he’d take it. Maybe, like, Willy would want to be under his arm. Maybe he’d want to be in Cale’s tiny bunk, damp layers peeled away. Maybe skin to skin --

“Anything good tonight?” Willy steals the cup out of his hand to take another sip. The boat rolls under their feet, and Cale braces himself so that he doesn’t make too much contact.

“Not so far.” Cale takes the tea back. It’s going to be gone soon, and Willy with it. He takes a big drink anyway. Willy will pout if he doesn’t. “Just, you know.” He waves the cup out over the rail. “The sea. So much sea. And wind.”

“Yeah.”

Willy’s quiet for a minute, and Cale is, too. Willy’s chatter has become background noise, almost, in the weeks they’ve been sailing together - like the sea birds, like the thumps and squeals from the hydrophone, like the rhythmic click click click --

“Holy shit.” Willy spins to face him, grabbing at the sleeve of Cale’s coat. His eyes are so wide. “Is that -?”

The clicking stops. Starts. Gets louder. “Holy shit,” Cale says. “I think it is.” He clocks the time - 10:21 p.m. He starts to push off the rail, away from Willy. He has to get to the hydrophone, get the readings - depth, decibels, frequency, intervals. Willy hangs onto his coat, though, keeping him in place. 

“Look,” he says, all breathless. He’s pointing down at the water, which is roiling; it’s always roiling, but this is different, it’s different. Cale is holding his breath. Willy is holding his coat. A shape looms just under the water, massive and white. A plume of spray erupts into the air. “Holy shit,” Willy chokes out. “Holy shit.”

The whale doesn’t breach, not fully. It lingers at the surface for long enough for Cale to start breathing again, for his fingers to go numb from clutching the rail, the cup. Then it dives, gone, tail slapping at the surface, too far away for the spray from its dive to hit them.

Cale exhales, shuddery and loud. He peels his hand off the rail. Willy’s still hanging onto him, staring out over the water like he doesn’t know what might happen next. “We should go get Dr. Pluman,” he says. They have actual data to record, now, so much data --

Willy laughs, light and wild, and lets him go. “Holy shit,” he says, again, and presses his hands to his face. “We just saw that. We actually just saw that, holy shit, Cale.” 

Giddiness bubbles up in Cale’s chest, unexpected, warmer than any combination of whiskey and tea. “Yeah, we did.” He lets himself stay there for a few more seconds. Rocked by the water, bit through by the wind. Caught in Willy’s joy like the gentlest of orbits. He grabs Willy’s sleeve and pulls on it, because he can - because he doesn’t have words for this kind of moment. No latitude or longitude to describe it. 

“Okay,” Willy says, and takes a step closer, so they’re toe to toe. A smile traces over the edge of his mouth. “You can kiss me, and then we’ll go do all the research stuff, okay?”

“What?” Cale doesn’t move. He can’t. Willy’s got him pinned with those wide eyes again.

Willy smiles all the way this time. They’re the same height, more or less, so he doesn’t exactly lean up, but he digs his fingers into the front of Cale’s coat and leans in. “First you’re going to kiss me, and then we’ll go do the very important science things. Like scientists do.” He’s so close, his breath is lapping at Cale’s face, tea and whiskey and salt-sea air.

It’s not - it’s not what they should be doing, probably. But Cale’s always been a good listener. Probably why he’s good at his job. So leans in the rest of the way, and kisses Willy. On the rolling deck of the boat, in the middle of the night, in the middle of nowhere. Willy sighs against him and sticks his tongue in Cale’s mouth, and the hydrophone click click clicks. They can take a minute, now. He’ll have time later to tell Willy about his idea with the small bunk and the peeling off of layers. They’ll have plenty of time.

[milkconfetti]

my linearis is thriving so i’m hoping giving it actual window space will really make it explode this summer

[heatcaged]

early dean is just soo much fun to write like why is that baby boy