#who am i to really say

[acemapleeh]

I posted 2,196 times in 2022

That's 2,001 more posts than 2021!

274 posts created (12%)

1,922 posts reblogged (88%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@kitaychan

@hetaari

@hetagrammy

I tagged 1,909 of my posts in 2022

Only 13% of my posts had no tags

#art - 774 posts

#hws england - 390 posts

#hws america - 346 posts

#hws canada - 325 posts

#hws france - 211 posts

#ace twaddles - 121 posts

#writing - 80 posts

#hws scotland - 75 posts

#hws netherlands - 57 posts

#hws russia - 55 posts

Longest Tag: 136 characters

#changing his knitting from alfred's sweater to matt but i bet even after everything matt will be able to tell it was not meant to be his

My Top Posts in 2022:

#5

Come Ashore for Rack and Ruin

Summary: In the midst of the Battle of the Somme, an ancient horror has decided to show its ugly face on the battlefield and Matthew is somewhere out in the fog. Alistair goes to find his nephew.

Characters: Scotland, Canada, France, England

Word Count: 5282

Warnings: Temporary Character Death, Graphic Description of Gore

Read on ao3

Late Summer of 1916, North-Central Somme, France

It felt like it didn’t even have to rain for the thick wool of Alistair’s kilt to be absolutely soaked and weigh an extra ton against his reddened, numbed thighs. The mud did a good enough job as well as the rain from days long gone still lingering deeply in the fibers.

It was a rare, silent evening and those were the ones that put Alistair on edge the most. Silent, apart from the moans of the plethora of wounded men, many of whom, Alistair would say have copped a blighty and should be on their way home. Gunfire had been shot earlier that day and the entirety of his Majesty’s empire of scattered corpses stretched across no man’s land and a thick fog was the only grave they were getting for the time being. He peered over the top of the trench, but it was as black as the Earl of Hell’s waistcoat. No one was certain what the Germans had in mind yet but men needed to be retrieved if any survivors had a chance at being saved. 

Matthew was out there somewhere.

The lad was lucky that he hadn’t been found by Gilbert or his brat of a brother.

Alistair wasn’t entirely sure if that was the case though and his stomach lurched at the thought. Earlier in the evening, he had gotten into a shouting match with his youngest brother. ‘ Matthew’s a grown man and will make his way back if he knows what’s good for him and the Empire . I know him, he wouldn’t allow himself capture. ’ He knew he couldn’t rest until he was certain the boy was brought back to the safety of their hellhole of a home, whether that meant dragging his corpse back or knowing for sure he had to come up with a plan to rescue him from the enemy. The latter would mean having to get Arthur furtherly involved which he wanted to avoid at all costs.

He was going to scout it out alone.

Securing his helmet on his matted red curls and kit firmly to his side, he climbed out of the ditch, his belly and out of regulation beard down in the detritus and rubble. 

Matthew was always hard to find in these situations.

Time and time again, Alistair had memorized how to find his kin. He knew the scent of death they all emitted, what their face-down forms looked like in the dark, and the sounds they made as life rushed suddenly back into their flesh and bone.

His brother’s children though? 

Even though he’d spent the most time with the young Canadian, he had only witnessed his death perhaps once or twice before and he couldn’t recall any useful details of how to go about locating his corpse. 

Arthur smelt of the sea and rain-soaked woodland.

Dylan, a hedgerow in spring and driftwood.

Morgan of seaside morning dew and buttery furze.

Himself, blooming heather and an ocean storm.

Matthew smelt like... he wanted to say evergreen pine. He wanted to say he smelt like winter. But he knew that couldn’t be right. There was a lack of smell in the cold, on those freezing, white mornings before he went hunting or hiking; his eyes felt keener, ears on edge for the slightest of sounds. 

The air felt heavy as he shifted through the scattered remains, feeling uneasy with every step until he eventually had to stop to get back into sorts.

Something was amiss in the deepest parts of the fog.

He spotted a shape in the dark and his grip tightened on the butt of his rifle. He would say the thing was at least fifty meters away if he wagered a guess. Squinting, he vaguely made out something large, something that appeared to be scraping in the mud. Just staring at it made him feel uneasy, and made him want to vomit up his sorry excuse for tea. 

He risked firing a flare into the sky, praying the rest of the world was asleep for just these few moments. He had to know what he was dealing with; what he had to fight if it meant bringing his nephew to safety.

A dim red light briefly lit up the night.

His breath stuck in his throat.

It took every muscle fiber to keep his arm raised, to not drop the flaregun and bolt the other direction.

See the full post

100 notes - Posted July 21, 2022

#4

Arthur Home Headcanons

Minimalism? What’s that? This man has stuff everywhere in his home. Cluttercore

He is entirely guilty of reusing containers that don’t match what’s inside. Have you see English tea tins? He has a cabinet dedicated to them but it’s anyone’s guess as to what’s actually inside. He has a separate cabinet that has actual tea and the works. This tin was the limited edition Christmas English breakfast from 1962, of course I can’t get rid of it. That was a gift from Matthew in 2003, he’d be devastated if I tossed it in the bin. He may not even remember the reason for one but thinks if he holds onto it, it’ll eventually come to him.

I’m not even touching his collection of teacups and mugs.

His house is in good, clean condition. I want to make that clear. He just has trouble when it comes to change. If something breaks, it may stay that way for a while because the manufacturer who made it isn’t around anymore. Arthur will attempt to fix it himself but he’s no expert. He’s ruined things in his attempts so he’ll leave them to gather dust. He’s had a bread cutter from before World War II that’s rusted and the cutting board desperately needs a cleaning but he hasn’t gotten around to it.

If he absolutely must swallow his pride, he’ll ask Alistair to fix something he’s particularly found of.

His home in London isn’t his original one from a few hundred years back. The townhouse that was a relic of the Victorian/ Georgian era was all blown the rubble in the Blitz. He’s moved to East London to try to stay a little in the time capsule that’s formed there.

Really losing his home in the war was something that took years to get past but really, he hasn’t. He had saved what he could but the armchair from 1754 that he’d replaced the cushions of numerous times, the entirety of the library, and things one man alone just couldn’t pull from the flames were all silently mourned for.

The newer residence is honestly far less of a death trap and perhaps losing the old one was a blessing in disguise.

Still very much has the “nice” living room for guests and more formal affairs and the much more lived in one where the clutter really has gotten out of hand. Aside from his study that is.

His main residence is that townhome in Spitalfields.

He hates purging. He’ll constantly say he’s in the process of it whenever company is over to excuse any clutter or mess. Sorting through books, seeing if any the shops or museum will take. Going through clothes again that fill the closet even though he rotates the same handful of things.

Has the same spoon he’s been stirring his tea with for over seventy years. The bottom is completely flat. He’s been gifted a new one but he hasn’t taken it out of the drawer quite yet.

Similarly, he was gifted an electric kettle one year but in a drunken state on pure muscle memory, he put it on the stovetop. He’s been gifted a new one and is much more mindful on where he keeps it.

Please stop giving this man new things for his kitchen.

You want to talk museum, you go to his centuries old countryside manor. The land was gifted to him in the 14th century during the Hundred Years War in Suffolk. Perfectly isolated. He’s owned homes and land before, mind you, but this was his first private manor that he’s built upon and had full control over.

The clutter did get out of control during his early archaeology days and he’s been very carefully going through things so they go to the proper place. He has returned things and is trying to make amends.

Some rooms, not all, have those ugly, Victorian wallpaper ceilings.

It’s a hodgepodge of just, so many different eras.

You never know what you’re going to find when you open just about anything. Books? He uses just about whatever was near him at the time as a bookmark. Drawer? Funeral lockets from his children and lovers. Some things haven’t been touched in ages and look like they’ll fall apart if you do so much as breath on them.

There are a lot of rooms here and each one of them of themed to his design. The rooms his children lived in still very much reflect that they were once a part of his home.

Used to throw very elaborate parties here as well as a funeral or five.

Please be careful because this house is not child friendly. All of his weapons and armor are proudly on display in the halls.

There’s little projects scattered around the house that you’ll find pieces of.

This is the house that has the majority of his more precious items. Between the first Great Fire of London and the Blitz, he moved whatever he could fit in that home.

His third home I’ll mention is a smaller cottage in the North Midlands. It’s simple, really meant for one or two people at the most. This is his get away from it all. 

Stunning garden and his absolute pride and joy. The fae watch over this one since he’s unable to tend to it most of the year. They get to reside in the home and take care of it even when he’s present.

Least modernized than a majority of his homes. Still has electricity and running water but no television for example.

The Victorian era really defined what his home would be like going forward. Of course, things were deadly so in his newer versions of the home, the authentic arsenic soaked wallpaper has been replaced with replicas.

121 notes - Posted January 8, 2022

#3

please enjoy this stupid compilation of instagram memes about our favorite dysfunctional anglo family

148 notes - Posted April 14, 2022

#2

Throughout Victorian England, mourning jewelry was used as a tribute or memento to remind the wearer about their love for the person they had lost. Hair was very commonly used in these pieces as it did not decay and represented a love everlasting.

Though Arthur knew his sons would return from death, there was still deep grief and sadness in times they were lost.

Featured here are two funeral lockets in his possession.

Select here for Charlie’s and Jack’s

The first is inscribed, ‘My dear son’s spirit hath fled the 17th of September 1862. Alfred Fortenay Jones.’

The lock of hair was acquired shortly after the Battle of Antietam in the American Civil War. Though the pair was not on speaking terms at this time, Arthur would still quietly mourn times he knew his eldest son had met with Death. He asked his second son, Matthew, that upon checking his brother, should he have perished in battle, to please bring home a lock of hair with him. Arthur wished for a keepsake of his son, to hold onto a hope he wouldn’t speak aloud for his son to live. But in case the war were to end in disaster, he would have something of Alfred’s he could hold onto if he were to return to the Earth.

The second reads, ‘My dear son fell asleep the 27th of April 1842. Matthew Marc Jean-Luc Williams.’

Disease is never an easy way to die. Arthur held Matthew’s hand as he succumbed to consumption, the first time the young man had a disease take him. Arthur would swear that his son never quite looked the same after this took place. His eyes always tired and sunken, skin pale, and just a little too thin. Perhaps he always looked this way and it wasn’t until after this wasting disease did he notice. He had almost lost his son a handful of times in the past to other illnesses but each time he would recover. Not even Arthur himself could escape this dreadfully romantic plague. How quiet Matthew was when he died, quieter still upon awakening. Arthur knew he would return, despite all the turmoil in Quebec some years ago- he had to believe his son would live to see another day.

171 notes - Posted March 15, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

Pls tell me more about your universe where nations are public and are public meanaces to society. I think it would be super funny,

I haven't really incorporated the idea in any fics or anything, but realistically speaking, nations have got to be known in the public eye. I know when I first started writing for the fandom, I read one fic where nations were considered top secret so I sort of followed in suit for the longest time. Now, the idea of them being very well known and figure heads is hilarious. It also makes more sense canon wise (but like who cares about following canon).

See the full post

549 notes - Posted November 6, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

[sparrowlucero]

The greatest injustice ever faced is that I almost certainly started the still thriving "clown husbandry" tag on here, but any discussion about it (from a know your meme page to a youtube video with 500k views) says it's a joke of "unknown origin" or credited to this post, likely bouncing off of mine (which was actively circulating at the time with like 30k notes):

This is a tragedy for many reasons, most of all because it wasn't just an offhand joke but actually a direct response to some of the funniest online hate I ever got:

They're erasing the truest history of tumblr: its desperate need to seethe and argue over every obvious joke with more than 10 notes.

anyways here is the canonical pet clown. according to me

[panstarry]

my final from last semester that i made into a zine. cooked this one up in a couple hours before the critique (the ink was still wet!), so it's very raw and kind of sloppy but the sentiment is there. i love you trans people of color. we are the backbone of this community 🌟

[ducktracy]

there are a lot of evil people in the world and a lot of darkness in the world and so it’s very important for me to stress that now more than ever is the time to spread kindness and compassion. combat the evil by not only not partaking in it, but actively refuting it. destroy the notion that being compassionate or generous or kind to someone is uncool or embarrassing or even scary. be the change you want to see. start a chain reaction. positivity only breeds more positivity. do an act of kindness for someone so that that person who is too afraid to do it themselves can see you, realize that they’re not alone, and perhaps sheepishly follow your example. and then the next person who is too afraid but sees that person can do the same. when bad news comes out about bad people or horrible atrocities in the world it’s such an easy impulse to despair, and obviously it’s important to feel what you need to feel. grieve. be angry. be sorrowful. be empathetic. but dust off your pants and get up and be a part of a chain reaction that, no matter how small the scale, and spread compassion and love and care. all the reasons why you might not—“it’s hard! it’s scary! people will make fun of me! it’s useless because there’s too much evil!” are all grade A arguments as to why you should. you have no idea how many people you could inspire to do the same. even if it doesn’t get you anyway far, you can at least say you have the nobility of trying. please choose love and please choose life. you are worth loving and you are worth inspiring others to love

[inkskinned]

this is just my opinion but i think any good media needs obsession behind it. it needs passion, the kind of passion that's no longer "gentle scented candle" and is now "oh shit the house caught on fire". it needs a creator that's biting the floorboards and gnawing the story off their skin. creators are supposed to be wild animals. they are supposed to want to tell a story with the ferocity of eating a good stone fruit while standing over the sink. the same protective, strange instinct as being 7 and making mud potions in pink teacups: you gotta get weird with it.

good media needs unhinged, googling-at-midnight kind of energy. it needs "what kind of seams are invented on this planet" energy and "im just gonna trust the audience to roll with me about this" energy. it needs one person (at least) screaming into the void with so much drive and energy that it forces the story to be real.

sometimes people are baffled when fanfic has some stunning jaw-dropping tattoo-it-on-you lines. and i'm like - well, i don't go here, but that makes sense to me. of fucking course people who have this amount of passion are going to create something good. they moved from a place of genuine love and enjoyment.

so yeah, duh! saturday cartoons have banger lines. random street art is sometimes the most precious heart-wrenching shit you've ever seen. someone singing on tiktok ends up creating your next favorite song. youtubers are giving us 5 hours of carefully researched content. all of this is the impossible equation to latestage capitalism. like, you can't force something to be good. AI cannot make it good. no amount of focus-group testing or market research. what makes a story worth listening to is that someone cares so much about telling it - through dance, art, music, whatever it takes - that they are just a little unhinged about it.

one time my friend told me he stayed up all night researching how many ways there are to peel an orange. he wrote me a poem that made me cry on public transportation. the love came through it like pith, you know? the words all came apart in my hands. it tasted like breakfast.

[aethersea]

I do think Blazing Saddles handled its one depiction of native americans very poorly, and the full extent of its representation of chinese workers on the railroad is they were literally just there. not even one single speaking line. unclear if this is worse or better than the redface.

it's fucking phenomenal at lampooning antiblack racism though. extremely blatant, extremely funny satire, which is constantly and loudly saying "racism is the philosophy of the terminally stupid at best and morally depraved at worst, and we should all be pointing and laughing at them 24/7"

plus the main character is a heroic black man who has to navigate a whole lot of bullshit but is constantly smirking at the extraordinarily stupid racists and inviting the audience into the joke. the one heroic white character is a guy who was suicidally depressed until he met the protagonist and they just instantly became buds, and he's firmly in a supporting role the whole time and happy to be there. the protagonist saves the day with the help of his black friends from the railroad, and uses the position of power he was given to uplift not only those friends, but all the railroad workers of other minorities too, in an explicit show of solidarity.

anyone saying "Blazing Saddles is racist" had better be talking about its treatment of non-black minorities. it had better not be such superficial takes as "oh but they say the n-word all the time" or "they have nazis and the kkk in there!" because goddamn if that's the full extent of your critique I very seriously suggest you read up on media analysis. there is too much going over your head, you need to learn to recognize satire.

[bacchuschucklefuck]

while teen while goblin while aroace while injured while doing your best

[bluegarners]

bruce and dick are both emotionally repressed but in kind of different but parallel ways. like, the repression that bruce experiences stems from never confronting trauma or any negative emotion, whereas dick's repression stems from needing to be the emotional support for an emotionally repressed man at the ripe age of 9 and so never being able to process any emotions associated with that responsibility

[a-most-beloved-fool]

makes me a little sad when star trek ignores IDIC. like. vulcans are logical. that is true. But 'logical', for vulcans, does not amount to 'without compassion,' and it definitely doesn't amount to 'racial superiority.' Belief in 'infinite diversity in infinite combinations' should NOT result in the weird racist/speciest stuff we're getting in some of the newer treks. It does make sense that some vulcans are discriminatory. They're still flawed. But that should not be common or expected, like it seems to be in SNW. If it is, then it's a race of hypocrites, which. doesn't seem very true to Star Trek's message.

I think TOS Spock does a pretty good job of embodying this. Not always, it was the 60s, after all, but mostly. He was often trying to find non-violent routes, and get by without killing - even if they were in danger or had already been attacked. (See: the mugato, and the horta (until Kirk was the one in danger, lmao. t'hy'la > IDIC), the Gorn ship). Kirk, in his eulogy, calls him the most human soul he's ever known, and I've always read that as Kirk calling out Spock's overwhelming compassion.

It's just so much more interesting when Vulcans get to be radically compassionate. I want them to believe that everything and everyone has value. I want them to respect all ways of being. I want them to find ways for even very non-humanoid aliens to exist unfettered in society. I want them to see hybrids and think that it's amazing. Also, like, disability rep. I want Vulcans to have The Most Accessible Planet and available resources because they want everyone to feel accepted and valued. It makes for better characters and more interesting stories.

[cosmicrhetoric]

my personal fave "luffy holds a mirror up to someone's soul" moments. aka the whole point i think

[jamesbranwen]

this is not me trying to defend nintendo's business practices or say that either of these games don't have flaws, but I think a lot of the comparisons people are making between breath of the wild and tears of the kingdom are a little unfair and don't really take into account that they are different games with different purposes.

"breath of the wild feels so empty compared to tears of the kingdom" ... yeah? with breath of the wild, one of the game's main themes was isolation. you wake up in the future far after the apocalypse you were trying to prevent has already settled. you have no memories, very little strength. just like hyrule, just like zelda, all you have is your will to continue. breath of the wild is the quiet moments, the secret spaces, the weight of the world that has continued to turn without you still resting on your shoulders.

tears of the kingdom is not like that. hyrule is no longer the wild. it is no longer quiet and lonely. there's community. every sidequest is intertwined. your friends fight alongside you. this isn't "fixing" breath of the wild, this is it's natural continuation. as time goes on the world continues to heal and rebuild. if breath of the wild was clawing hope, tears of the kingdom is direct action.

like yeah there are things tears is doing better and (imo) things breath of the wild did better. but i don't think either one is a replacement for the other.

[giantkillerjack]

Me: hm, I want something to put on the TV as background noise... Huh. Looks like YouTube is recommending something called The Last Unicorn. That's perfect, it's probably some old shitty animation that has aged poorly! I can watch it ironically!

Me, 2 hours later as the credits roll: *crying, cheering, buying the book, composing the songs*

Me, 2 weeks later: So I have compiled all of the quotes from the book that I think could make good tattoos, and also, HOW HAVE I NEVER LEARNED ABOUT HOW THE LAST UNICORN FUCKING SLAPS??? This gay-ass little fairytale fed my soul! Watered my crops! Transed my gender! Can't believe I heard of this story from youtube recommendations, of all places!!

[thepersonperson]

Sukuna is Peak Gap Moe. I’ll never be over this. This bastard talks tough, eats people, and kills like a woodchipper and yet…he is a poetic little sap. Getting mad over an improper haikus, the misidentification of flowers…and confessing his feelings to Gojo Satoru under several layers of wordplay no one except those well-versed in ancient Japanese would catch.

I've been over this in greater detail in Sukuna's Negative Rizz, but @tangsakura added more context in the replies to that post, making Sukuna's use of 凡夫 (bonpu) for Gojo even gayer.

In summary, 凡夫 (bonpu) can be translated as painfully ordinary or unenlightened. But in the individual kanji readings, 凡 is mediocre and 夫 is husband. You could read this as Sukuna calling Gojo his mediocre husband. And that's just the modern readings! The ancient readings...

So you can read this line from Sukuna as the following:

“You were born in an era without me and hailed as 'The Strongest'

1) And yet you turned out to be…painfully ordinary.”

2) And yet you turned out to be…unenlightened.”

3) And yet you turned out to be…a mediocre husband/wife/spouse.”

4) And yet you turned out to be…the ordinary one who could stand by my side.”

Sukuna seems to be saying these things all at once. (It’s no different than the Megumi Activities wordplay he uses with Enchain. Alt. link if the Twitter dies.) Gojo apparently makes him feel very conflicted. He’s boring, he can do better, he shouldn’t even call himself the Honored One, he’s his equal, they’re married. The irony here is that no one except Sukuna can understand this.

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Do you like sci-fi and indie animation? Check out Monkey Wrench!

[junewild]

Watching Sam & Brennan talk about the beauty of frivolity, of adults playing silly games just as seriously as they fight to survive, and... yeah. There are some things that keep us alive, and there are some things that make life worth living, and I think games are one of those things that fall into both categories. Games make our lives better and they make us better at being alive. I think that's pretty cool.

[inkskinned]

you were raised in comparison.

it wasn't always obvious (well. except for the times that it was), but you internalized it young. you had to eat what you didn't like, other people are going hungry, and you should be grateful. you had to suck it up and walk on the twisted ankle, it wasn't broken, you were just being a baby. you were never actually suffering, people obviously had it worse than you did.

you had a roof over your head - imagine! with the way you behaved, with how you talked back to your parents? you're lucky they didn't kick you out on your ass. they had friends who had to deal with that. hell, you have friends who had to deal with that. and how dare you imply your father isn't there for you - just because he doesn't ever actually talk to you and just because he's completely emotionally checked out of your life doesn't mean you're not fucking lucky. think about your cousins, who don't even get to speak to their dad. so what if yours has a mean streak; is aggressive and rude. at least you have a father to be rude to you.

you really think you're hurting? you were raised in a home! you had access to clean water! you never so much as came close to experiencing a real problem. sure, okay. you have this "mental illness" thing, but teenagers are always depressed, right. it's a phase, you'll move on with your life.

what do you mean you feel burnt out at work. what do you mean you mean you never "formed healthy coping mechanisms?" we raised you better than that. you were supposed to just shoulder through things. to hold yourself to high expectations. "burning out" is for people with real jobs and real stress. burnout is for people who have sick kids and people who have high-paying jobs and people who are actually experiencing something difficult. recently you almost cried because you couldn't find your fucking car keys. you just have lost your sense of gratitude, and honestly, we're kind of hurt. we tell you we love you, isn't that enough? if you want us to stick around, you need to be better about proving it. you need to shut up about how your mental health is ruined.

it could be worse! what if you were actually experiencing executive dysfunction. if you were really actually sick, would you even be able to look at things on the internet about it? you just spend too much time on webMD. you just like to freak yourself out and feel like you belong to something. you just like playing the victim. this is always how you have been - you've always been so fucking dramatic. you have no idea how good you have it - you're too fucking sensitive.

you were like, maybe too good of a kid. unwilling to make a real fuss. and the whole time - the little points, the little validations - they went unnoticed. it isn't that you were looking for love, specifically - more like you'd just wanted any one person to actually listen. that was all you'd really need. you just needed to be witnessed. it wasn't that you couldn't withstand the burden, but you did want to know that anyone was watching. these days, you are so accustomed to the idea of comparison - you don't even think you belong in your own communities. someone always fits better than you do. you're always the outlier. they made these places safe, and then you go in, and you are just not... quite the same way that would actually-fit.

you watch the little white ocean of your numbness lap at your ankles. the tide has been coming in for a while, you need to do something about it. what you want to do is take a nap. what you want to do is develop some kind of time machine - it's not like you want your life to stop, not completely, but it would really nice if you could just get everything to freeze, just for a little while, just until you're finished resting. but at least you're not the worst you've been. at least you have anything. you're so fucking lucky. do you have any concept of the amount of global suffering?

a little ant dies at the side of your kitchen sink. you look at its strange chitinous body and think - if you could just somehow convince yourself it is enough, it will finally be enough and you can be happy. no changes will have to be made. you just need to remember what you could lose. what is still precious to you.

you can't stop staring at the ant. you could be an ant instead of a person, that is how lucky you are. it's just - you didn't know the name of the ant, did you. it's just - ants spend their whole life working, and never complain. never pull the car over to weep.

it's just - when it died, it curled up into a tight little ball.

something kind of uncomfortable: you do that when you sleep.