#was the hill she wanted to die on

[angry-kid-with-no-money]

"Nora doesn't know anything about the things she writes about" "aftg is terrible queer rep" "the queer characters in aftg are so problematic"

Idk guys maybe the book series abt problematic ppl set in 2006 and written in the mid 2010s shouldn't be expected to hold up against scrutiny of what we consider to be moral and correct now, in 2024

Idk tho, idk

[polin-bridgerton]

This author believes that all of man's greatest inventions are nothing more than a distraction from what is most natural to us. Our instincts. The innate animal impulse that is inside even the most sophisticated of us. For when all is said and done, our nature will always win out...For in the battle between man and nature, it is quite clear that the battle is, in fact, between man and himself.

[dootznbootz]

Penelope is also Athena's pet/blorbo/special little mortal/etc. and if you think otherwise you're straight up wrong.

You're also wrong if you think Athena only likes Penelope because of Odysseus and/or Telemachus. As if Athena didn't see a young Penelope pull some shit and immediately think "Oh! Another mind to mold! C'mere you! Let's do some riddles and weaving!". Athena was happy that two of her favorite pets have met and fell in love!

[a-dumb-sarcastic-bisexual]

Nimona headcanons I wrote instead of sleeping

Sometimes the boys forget that Nimona isn’t human 

Like they’re used to the shifting into animals aspect of Nimona because she does it as often as she breathes

But sometimes she’ll do some really creepy shit like make her arms longer to reach something when she’s too lazy to get up

One time they shifted just their neck to be like an owl so they could turn their head 180 degrees instead of just turning around cause that was “too boring” 

Or he’ll mimic people’s voices without realizing it 

Sometimes he’ll tell a story and suddenly he’s using Bal’s voice 

The first time she did this Bal searched the whole house cause he was convinced that Todd has snuck in

Or she’ll grow an extra arm to hold more shit and they take a moment to realize “oh yeah we adopted a little weirdo” 

They get used to it after a while and the arguments surrounding it are always funny because both the boys will complain and say “I don’t sound like that” and they have to be told “No love you do you really do” 

You know those videos of babies reacting to their parents shaving their facial hair or putting on glasses 

That’s Nimona's reaction every single time the boys change their appearance even the smallest bit they cant shave or wear their reading glasses because if they do he freaks out 

Talking some “help me Nemesis I heard bosses voice but I can’t find him” while Bal was standing right in front of them 

It was the first time he shaved his face in years and he’s never doing it again 

Mostly cause Ambrosius kept telling him he looked like a teenager and it was freaking him out 

I feel like Bal and Ambrosius are those kinds of people who will tell people about the little injuries but neglect the big ones 

Like Bal mentioned that he thinks he sprained his ankle during the fight at the institute but he won’t mention that he’s pretty sure he got a concussion 

(BECAUSE THIS MAN HEAD-BUTTED TWO PEOPLE WHEN HE HAS A METAL ARM) 

(I’m bout to wrap this man in bubble wrap and give him a helmet because wtf) 

Ambrosius will complain the whole day about the fact that he has a paper cut

But will completely neglect to inform his doctors “Oh yeah I can’t move my left arm higher than my waist without pain and I can’t see that well out of my left eye or hear that well out of my left ear do you think that’ll be a problem?” 

It isn’t until Nimona makes an off handed comment about how this super weird that the laser did basically nothing to him that he told both of them

They literally dragged him to the ER because “Who thinks those symptoms are normal Nemesis what is wrong in that pretty little head of yours!!” 

When Bal tells Nimona she’s being a bit of a hypocrite (cause who refers to an arrow as a splinter?) she turns to him and says “I know you’re not saying something Mr. Human battering ram” 

It took literally everything in Ambrosius not to break down laughing

After that she forces them to have frequent checkups with the doctor because these dorks wouldn’t go otherwise

Honestly I'm fully convinced that some people in the kingdom don't know who Nimona is and are constantly confused why they let this little weirdo follow them around 

And finally the curiosity will eat away at them and they’ll finally ask 

Sometimes the boys will give some “normal” answers like “Oh that’s Nimona” and they won’t elaborate at all

Sometimes they’ll give funnier answers like “Oh that’s a raccoon we found in the garage who turned into a person one day” “I don’t know they just showed up in our living room” and their personal best “You see her too?” 

And their favorite that they only started using a couple of years down the line “Oh that’s our kid”

[mitsuki91]

Unpopular opinion about tbosas: I think that Coriolanus Snow loves Lucy Gray Baird.

A more unpopular opinion: I think that Lucy Gray Baird loves Coriolanus Snow.

That's the real tragedy. Their feelings were true. Always.

[prismatic-ink]

what if Lizzie didn't die?

nobody's ever fallen out of the void before, so no participant has ever come back to tell the tale of what that's like. the communicator says she's eliminated, and everyone shrugs and carries on, because for all they know, she is. Maybe there is a ground to hit down there, or some monster that swoops in and kills in a single blow.

but the thing is - there's no end in a void. it just continues forever. and ever. and ever. it's simple physics; a void/vacuum is a blank space, a complete and total absence of anything at all. there's nothing there that could have killed Lizzie because, by definition, nothing is in the void at all. not even time could have gotten her.

now imagine being condemned to a place (or as close to a place as the void can get) where you will never see anything again, hear anything again, falling falling falling, towards a ground that will never appear. a place where you can never look into anyone's eyes ever again. eventually, a green streak in brown hair is the only memory you have of another human existing that hasn't been lost to the millennia you've spent falling. this place where you will be the only thing that exists, the only thing that will exist, and the only thing that has ever existed, slipping through the cracks of time, eternally in solitude.

wouldn't that be a fitting place for a woman who spent all her time on solid ground alone, with almost nobody to care for her? falling so far out of the bounds of reality even the watchers don't know she's still alive? so beyond the reach of anybody that nobody will ever hear her calls for them to come to her, let alone heed them? and let's be honest, if they could hear her, would they even come?

and who knows, maybe when the next season rolls around, for some strange, inexplicable reason, the watchers can't find Lizzie. It's no trouble, they can construct a new Lizzie from her memory, even if it's one season behind. and maybe this time, Lizzie has better luck and lots of friends. she doesn't really get why Scar is so apologetic, or Joel so clingy, or even why she constantly feels like she's teetering on the edge of a precipice, about to fall. but that's just her being silly, right?

all the while the original Lizzie falls forever. forgotten again.

[quillkiller]

all im saying is ive never seen someone criticize those marylily or dorlily fanart/fics where they’re harrys mothers and theres no james in sight

[hikaruchen]

I believe the king of Wessex cares for you.

[cupophrogs]

I honestly dont trust Ollie either. I do wonder if he’s tried to tell drew to not trust daddy or pops. Cause like poppy Ollie seems to not care of the bigger bodies die or live.

“Poppy ain’t perfect, but trust me when I tell you that she cares. But you’re right about one thing, I don’t trust Ollie worth a shit.”

(This is a joke, please do not take this seriously! I thought it was funny)

[pumpkinrootbeer]

i do think it is legitimately very funny whenever someone tries to make the claim that lavabending is inherently a very slow subbending and therefore not good in a fight. specifically when using that argument against Bolin's skill as a bender.

Sure, I feel like in very specific instances with Ghazan that could be a fair argument to make. It takes him a moment to destabilize the Ba Sing Se wall and for him to kick up enough lava to destroy the airbending temple. (to the point I would argue that if Bolin had been versed in lavabending like he was in s4 he would have swept the ground with Ghazan), but in moments where he's actually in a fight his lava is incredibly quick.

Just the lava frisbee on its own is an incredibly quick move

But making that argument with Bolin in particular is absolutely batshit when outside of lavabending he is an incredibly quick fighter. I would say it is one of, if not the, most defining things about his fighting style. He moves very, very quickly and uncharacteristically agile for a earthbender. This is a known thing. Like

I am not the first person to say this but no other earthbender does backflips like he does. And THEN with lavabending he is just as quick if not more so

Bolin since season 1 has had an uncanny knack for bending incredibly fast, and his lavabending is no exception to that rule. It's honestly something that haunts my brain all the time because how quick he is with it low-key breaks the balancing? a little?? Like earthbending was always shown to be very strong but in turn it was slower than other types of bending, but with Bolin that doesn't really seem to be a hangup he has.

[lesbians4yoohyeon]

does anyone else ever cry at the fact that max was the first and only person to wipe el's nose after it bled? this small action may seem so insignificant and unnecessary, but it probably meant so much to el, with how she was so affection starved growing up, even after the lab. no one ever treats her like a normal human, just a superhero... no one ever cares for her like the young girl she is. it's so sad how it's rare for others to show her love and affection, hugging her and whatnot. this scene just really shows how much she means to max and how max truly does care for her and her well-being (even with how she noticed the injury on her neck from billy and was worried, asking el if it still hurt to see if she was still in pain) and her not being afraid to be touchy and affectionate with el really means a lot (on purpose or not).

[mattsmithisweirdlyhot]

I've been seeing a lot of shitty takes so I'd like to remind everyone that Daemon canonically loved and supported both his daughters unconditionally.

[queenlucythevaliant]

Tell Your Dad You Love Him

A retelling of "Meat Loves Salt"/"Cap O'Rushes" for the @inklings-challenge Four Loves event

An old king had three daughters. When his health began to fail, he summoned them, and they came.

Gordonia and Rowan were already waiting in the hallway when Coriander arrived. They were leaned up against the wall opposite the king’s office with an air of affected casualness. “I wonder what the old war horse wants today?” Rowan was saying. “More about next year’s political appointments, I shouldn’t wonder.”

“The older he gets, the more he micromanages,” Gordonia groused fondly. “A thousand dollars says this meeting could’ve been an email.”

They filed in single-file like they’d so often done as children: Gordonia first, then Rowan, and Coriander last of all. The king had placed three chairs in front of his desk all in a row. His daughters murmured their greetings, and one by one they sat down. 

“I have divided everything I have in three,” the king said. “I am old now, and it’s time. Today, I will pass my kingdom on to you, my daughters.”

A short gasp came from Gordonia. None of them could have imagined that their father would give up running his kingdom while he still lived. 

The king went on. “I know you will deal wisely with that which I leave in your care. But before we begin, I have one request.”

“Yes father?” said Rowan.

“Tell me how much you love me.”

An awkward silence fell. Although there was no shortage of love between the king and his daughters, theirs was not a family which spoke of such things. They were rich and blue-blooded: a soldier and the daughters of a soldier, a king and his three court-reared princesses. The royal family had always shown their affection through double meanings and hot cups of coffee.

Gordonia recovered herself first. She leaned forward over the desk and clasped her father’s hands in her own. “Father,” she said, “I love you more than I can say.” A pause. “I don’t think there’s ever been a family so happy in love as we have been. You’re a good dad.”

The old king smiled and patted her hand. “Thank you, Gordonia. We have been very happy, haven’t we? Here is your inheritance. Cherish it, as I cherish you.”

Rowan spoke next; the words came tumbling out.  “Father! There’s not a thing in my life which you didn’t give me, and all the joy in the world beside. Come now, Gordonia, there’s no need to understate the matter. I love you more than—why, more than life itself!”

The king laughed, and rose to embrace his second daughter. “How you delight me, Rowan. All of this will be yours.”

Only Coriander remained. As her sisters had spoken, she’d wrung her hands in her lap, unsure of what to say. Did her father really mean for flattery to be the price of her inheritance? That just wasn’t like him. For all that he was a politician, he’d been a soldier first. He liked it when people told the truth.

When the king’s eyes came to rest on her, Coriander raised her own to meet them. “Do you really want to hear what you already know?” 

“I do.”

She searched for a metaphor that could carry the weight of her love without unnecessary adornment. At last she found one, and nodded, satisfied. “Dad, you’re like—like salt in my food.”

“Like salt?”

“Well—yes.”

The king’s broad shoulders seemed to droop. For a moment, Coriander almost took back her words. Her father was the strongest man in the world, even now, at eighty. She’d watched him argue with foreign rulers and wage wars all her life. Nothing could hurt him. Could he really be upset? 

But no. Coriander held her father’s gaze. She had spoken true. What harm could be in that?

“I don’t know why you’re even here, Cor,” her father said.

Now, Coriander shifted slightly in her seat, unnerved. “What? Father—”

“It would be best if—you should go,” said the old king.

“Father, you can’t really mean–”

“Leave us, Coriander.”

So she left the king’s court that very hour.

 .

It had been a long time since she’d gone anywhere without a chauffeur to drive her, but Coriander’s thoughts were flying apart too fast for her to be afraid. She didn’t know where she would go, but she would make do, and maybe someday her father would puzzle out her metaphor and call her home to him. Coriander had to hope for that, at least. The loss of her inheritance didn’t feel real yet, but her father—how could he not know that she loved him? She’d said it every day.

She’d played in the hall outside that same office as a child. She’d told him her secrets and her fears and sent him pictures on random Tuesdays when they were in different cities just because. She had watched him triumph in conference rooms and on the battlefield and she’d wanted so badly to be like him. 

If her father doubted her love, then maybe he’d never noticed any of it. Maybe the love had been an unnoticed phantasm, a shadow, a song sung to a deaf man. Maybe all that love had been nothing at all.  

A storm was on the horizon, and it reached her just as she made it onto the highway. Lightning flashed and thunder rolled. Rain poured down and flooded the road. Before long, Coriander was hydroplaning. Frantically, she tried to remember what you were supposed to do when that happened. Pump the brakes? She tried. No use. Wasn’t there something different you did if the car had antilock brakes? Or was that for snow? What else, what else–

With a sickening crunch, her car hit the guardrail. No matter. Coriander’s thoughts were all frenzied and distant. She climbed out of the car and just started walking.

Coriander wandered beneath an angry sky on the great white plains of her father’s kingdom. The rain beat down hard, and within seconds she was soaked to the skin. The storm buffeted her long hair around her head. It tangled together into long, matted cords that hung limp down her back. Mud soiled her fine dress and splattered onto her face and hands. There was water in her lungs and it hurt to breathe. Oh, let me die here, Coriander thought. There’s nothing left for me, nothing at all. She kept walking.

 .

When she opened her eyes, Coriander found herself in a dank gray loft. She was lying on a strange feather mattress.

She remained there a while, looking up at the rafters and wondering where she could be. She thought and felt, as it seemed, through a heavy and impenetrable mist; she was aware only of hunger and weakness and a dreadful chill (though she was all wrapped in blankets). She knew that a long time must have passed since she was fully aware, though she had a confused memory of wandering beside the highway in a thunderstorm, slowly going mad because—because— oh, there’d been something terrible in her dreams. Her father, shoulders drooping at his desk, and her sisters happily come into their inheritance, and she cast into exile—

She shuddered and sat up dizzily. “Oh, mercy,” she murmured. She hadn’t been dreaming.

She stumbled out of the loft down a narrow flight of stairs and came into a strange little room with a single window and a few shabby chairs. Still clinging to the rail, she heard a ruckus from nearby and then footsteps. A plump woman came running to her from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron and softly clucking at the state of her guest’s matted, tangled hair.

“Dear, dear,” said the woman. “Here’s my hand, if you’re still unsteady. That’s good, good. Don’t be afraid, child. I’m Katherine, and my husband is Folke. He found you collapsed by the goose-pond night before last. I’m she who dressed you—your fine gown was ruined, I’m afraid. Would you like some breakfast? There’s coffee on the counter, and we’ll have porridge in a minute if you’re patient.”

“Thank you,” Coriander rasped.

“Will you tell me your name, my dear?”

“I have no name. There’s nothing to tell.”

Katherine clicked her tongue. “That’s alright, no need to worry. Folke and I’ve been calling you Rush on account of your poor hair. I don’t know if you’ve seen yourself, but it looks a lot like river rushes. No, don’t get up. Here’s your breakfast, dear.”

There was indeed porridge, as Katherine had promised, served with cream and berries from the garden. Coriander ate hungrily and tasted very little. Then, when she was finished, the goodwife ushered her over to a sofa by the window and put a pillow beneath her head. Coriander thanked her, and promptly fell asleep.

 .

She woke again around noon, with the pounding in her head much subsided. She woke feeling herself again, to visions of her father inches away and the sound of his voice cracking across her name.

Katherine was outside in the garden; Coriander could see her through the clouded window above her. She rose and, upon finding herself still in a borrowed nightgown, wrapped herself in a blanket to venture outside.

“Feeling better?” Katherine was kneeling in a patch of lavender, but she half rose when she heard the cottage door open.

“Much. Thank you, ma’am.

“No thanks necessary. Folke and I are ministers, of a kind. We keep this cottage for lost and wandering souls. You’re free to remain here with us for as long as you need.”

“Oh,” was all Coriander could think to say. 

“You’ve been through a tempest, haven’t you? Are you well enough to tell me where you came from?”

Coriander shifted uncomfortably. “I’m from nowhere,” she said. “I have nothing.”

“You don’t owe me your story, child. I should like to hear it, but it will keep till you’re ready. Now, why don’t you put on some proper clothes and come help me with this weeding.”

 .

Coriander remained at the cottage with Katherine and her husband Folke for a week, then a fortnight. She slept in the loft and rose with the sun to help Folke herd the geese to the pond. After, Coriander would return and see what needed doing around the cottage. She liked helping Katherine in the garden.

The grass turned gold and the geese’s thick winter down began to come in. Coriander’s river-rush hair proved itself unsalvageable. She spent hours trying to untangle it, first with a hairbrush, then with a fine-tooth comb and a bottle of conditioner, and eventually even with honey and olive oil (a home remedy that Folke said his mother used to use). So, at last, Coriander surrendered to the inevitable and gave Katherine permission to cut it off. One night, by the yellow light of the bare bulb that hung over the kitchen table, Katherine draped a towel over Coriander’s shoulders and tufts of gold went falling to the floor all round her.

“I’m here because I failed at love,” she managed to tell the couple at last, when her sorrows began to feel more distant. “I loved my father, and he knew it not.”

Folke and Katherine still called her Rush. She didn’t correct them. Coriander was the name her parents gave her. It was the name her father had called her when she was six and racing down the stairs to meet him when he came home from Europe, and at ten when she showed him the new song she’d learned to play on the harp. She’d been Cor when she brought her first boyfriend home and Cori the first time she shadowed him at court. Coriander, Coriander, when she came home from college the first time and he’d hugged her with bruising strength. Her strong, powerful father.

As she seasoned a pot of soup for supper, she wondered if he understood yet what she’d meant when she called him salt in her food. 

 .

Coriander had been living with Katherine and Folke for two years, and it was a morning just like any other. She was in the kitchen brewing a pot of coffee when Folke tossed the newspaper on the table and started rummaging in the fridge for his orange juice. “Looks like the old king’s sick again,” he commented casually. Coriander froze.

She raced to the table and seized hold of the paper. There, above the fold, big black letters said, KING ADMITTED TO HOSPITAL FOR EMERGENCY TREATMENT. There was a picture of her father, looking older than she’d ever seen him. Her knees went wobbly and then suddenly the room was sideways.

Strong arms caught her and hauled her upright. “What’s wrong, Rush?”

“What if he dies,” she choked out. “What if he dies and I never got to tell him?”

She looked up into Folke’s puzzled face, and then the whole sorry story came tumbling out.

When she was through, Katherine (who had come downstairs sometime between salt and the storm) took hold of her hand and kissed it. “Bless you, dear,” she said. “I never would have guessed. Maybe it’s best that you’ve both had some time to think things over.”

Katherine shook her head. “But don’t you think…?”

“Yes?”

“Well, don’t you think he should have known that I loved him? I shouldn’t have needed to say it. He’s my father. He’s the king.”

Katherine replied briskly, as though the answer should have been obvious. “He’s only human, child, for all that he might wear a crown; he’s not omniscient. Why didn’t you tell your father what he wanted to hear?”

“I didn’t want to flatter him,” said Coriander. “That was all. I wanted to be right in what I said.”

The goodwife clucked softly. “Oh dear. Don’t you know that sometimes, it’s more important to be kind than to be right?”

.

In her leave-taking, Coriander tried to tell Katherine and Folke how grateful she was to them, but they wouldn’t let her. They bought her a bus ticket and sent her on her way towards King’s City with plenty of provisions. Two days later, Coriander stood on the back steps of one of the palace outbuildings with her little carpetbag clutched in her hands. 

Stuffing down the fear of being recognized, Coriander squared her shoulders and hoped they looked as strong as her father’s. She rapped on the door, and presently a maid came and opened it. The maid glanced Coriander up and down, but after a moment it was clear that her disguise held. With all her long hair shorn off, she must have looked like any other girl come in off the street.

“I’m here about a job,” said Coriander. “My name’s Rush.”

 .

The king's chambers were half-lit when Coriander brought him his supper, dressed in her servants’ apparel. He grunted when she knocked and gestured with a cane towards his bedside table. His hair was snow-white and he was sitting in bed with his work spread across a lap-desk. His motions were very slow.

Coriander wanted to cry, seeing her father like that. Yet somehow, she managed to school her face. Like he would, she kept telling herself. Stoically, she put down the supper tray, then stepped back out into the hallway. 

It was several minutes more before the king was ready to eat. Coriander heard papers being shuffled, probably filed in those same manilla folders her father had always used. In the hall, Coriander felt the seconds lengthen. She steeled herself for the moment she knew was coming, when the king would call out in irritation, “Girl! What's the matter with my food? Why hasn’t it got any taste?”

When that moment came, all would be made right. Coriander would go into the room and taste his food. “Why,” she would say, with a look of complete innocence, “It seems the kitchen forgot to salt it!” She imagined how her father’s face would change when he finally understood. My daughter always loved me, he would say. 

Soon, soon. It would happen soon. Any second now. 

The moment never came. Instead, the floor creaked, followed by the rough sound of a cane striking the floor. The door opened, and then the king was there, his mighty shoulders shaking. “Coriander,” he whispered. 

“Dad. You know me?”

“Of course.”

“Then you understand now?”

The king’s wrinkled brow knit. “Understand about the salt? Of course, I do. It wasn't such a clever riddle. There was surely no need to ruin my supper with a demonstration.”

Coriander gaped at him. She'd expected questions, explanations, maybe apologies for sending her away. She'd never imagined this.

She wanted very badly to seize her father and demand answers, but then she looked, really looked, at the way he was leaning on his cane. The king was barely upright; his white head was bent low. Her questions would hold until she'd helped her father back into his room. 

“If you knew what I meant–by saying you were like salt in my food– then why did you tell me to go?” she asked once they were situated back in the royal quarters. 

Idly, the king picked at his unseasoned food. “I shouldn’t have done that. Forgive me, Coriander. My anger and hurt got the better of me, and it has brought me much grief. I never expected you to stay away for so long.”

Coriander nodded slowly. Her father's words had always carried such fierce authority. She'd never thought to question if he really meant what he’d said to her. 

“As for the salt,” continued the king, "Is it so wrong that an old man should want to hear his daughters say ‘I love you' before he dies?” 

Coriander rolled the words around in her head, trying to make sense of them. Then, with a sudden mewling sound from her throat, she managed to say, “That's really all you wanted?”  

“That's all. I am old, Cor, and we've spoken too little of love in our house.” He took another bite of his unsalted supper. His hand shook. “That was my failing, I suppose. Perhaps if I’d said it, you girls would have thought to say it back.”

“But father!” gasped Coriander, “That’s not right. We've always known we loved one another! We've shown it a thousand ways. Why, I've spent the last year cataloging them in my head, and I've still not even scratched the surface!”

The king sighed. “Perhaps you will understand when your time comes. I knew, and yet I didn't. What can you really call a thing you’ve never named? How do you know it exists? Perhaps all the love I thought I knew was only a figment.”

“But that’s what I’ve been afraid of all this time,” Coriander bit back. “How could you doubt? If it was real at all– how could you doubt?”

The king’s weathered face grew still. His eyes fell shut and he squeezed them. “Death is close to me, child. A small measure of reassurance is not so very much to ask.”

.

Coriander slept in her old rooms that night. None of it had changed. When she woke the next morning, for a moment she remembered nothing of the last two years. 

She breakfasted in the garden with her father, who came down the steps in a chair-lift. “Coriander,” he murmured. “I half-thought I dreamed you last night.”

“I’m here, Dad,” she replied. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Slowly, the king reached out with one withered hand and caressed Coriander's cheek. Then, his fingers drifted up to what remained of her hair. He ruffled it, then gently tugged on a tuft the way he'd used to playfully tug her long braid when she was a girl. 

“I love you,” he said.

“That was always an I love you, wasn’t it?” replied Coriander. “My hair.”

The king nodded. “Yes, I think it was.”

So Coriander reached out and gently tugged the white hairs of his beard. “You too,” she whispered.

.

“Why salt?” The king was sitting by the fire in his rooms wrapped in two blankets. Coriander was with him, enduring the sweltering heat of the room without complaint. 

She frowned. “You like honesty. We have that in common. I was trying to be honest–accurate–to avoid false flattery.”

The king tugged at the outer blanket, saying nothing. His lips thinned and his eyes dropped to his lap. Coriander wished they wouldn’t. She wished they would hold to hers, steely and ready for combat as they always used to be.

“Would it really have been false?” the king said at last. “Was there no other honest way to say it? Only salt?”

Coriander wanted to deny it, to give speech to the depth and breadth of her love, but once again words failed her. “It was my fault,” she said. “I didn’t know how to heave my heart into my throat.” She still didn’t, for all she wanted to. 

.

When the doctor left, the king was almost too tired to talk. His words came slowly, slurred at the edges and disconnected, like drops of water from a leaky faucet. 

Still, Coriander could tell that he had something to say. She waited patiently as his lips and tongue struggled to form the words. “Love you… so… much… You… and… your sisters… Don’t… worry… if you… can’t…say…how…much. I… know.” 

It was all effort. The king sat back when he was finished. Something was still spasming in his throat, and Coriander wanted to cry.

“I’m glad you know,” she said. “I’m glad. But I still want to tell you.”

Love was effort. If her father wanted words, she would give him words. True words. Kind words. She would try… 

“I love you like salt in my food. You're desperately important to me, and you've always been there, and I don't know what I'll do without you. I don’t want to lose you. And I love you like the soil in a garden. Like rain in the spring. Like a hero. You have the strongest shoulders of anyone I know, and all I ever wanted was to be like you…”

A warm smile spread across the old king’s face. His eyes drifted shut.

[aflawedfashion]

The more David Tennant doctors who exist, the more strongly I believe that a virtual Matt Smith doctor can end up in the library with virtual River

[cleverheroine]

Friendly reminder that the fact a couple is LGBT doesn't erase abuse. You can still be a victim of serious abuse, by a monster, and need to escape your abuser and find your voice, freedom, and independence away from them. And the fact they are your same gender doesn't mean you should endure that abuse. An abusive relationship is never better than being single. No matter what the circumstances surrounding.

Ty Lee was a victim of abuse by Azula. Ty Lee didn't want to be there. Azula FORCED Ty Lee to come. Ty Lee was terrified of Azula and at the first sign that Mai was brave enough to stand up to her, Ty Lee finally felt strong enough to.

It's not enough to say "but ty lee was bright and bubbly and acted like she cared about Azula."

Yeah. And Ty Lee didn't want to even travel with her. Ty Lee was brought away from her life where she was *happy* because Azula felt like she wanted company and Ty Lee was her personal property.

You want to ship her with a girl? Go nuts. Idc. Ship her with one of the girls giggling on the beach at Zuko for all I care.

But shipping her with Azula is fucked up. And yes I will die on this hill.

Abuse is abuse no matter the gender.

In short: #justiceforTyLee #downwithshippingsomeonewiththeirabuser

[letstrywritingmaybe]

I had a kaishi / shinshi concept, an idea but I can't write it or draw it properly but goes something like ...

Context? Idk, take a guess

Haha, interesting! I’m curious as to what your take is. I have very strong opinions about kaishi vs shinshi. I probably won’t be swayed, but I encourage all ideas! Plus I love your art! 🩵